Part 4
Long ago in Sweet September, Oh! the day I well remember, I was playing on the Links against the winsomest of maids; In a "cup" my ball was lying, And the "divots" round were flying, And with eyes-a-dance she said to me, "Your iron's the King of Spades!"
Now a foe, on such occasion, Of the feminine persuasion, Fair and twenty to the game a sort of subtlety imparts; And I felt its potent glamour, And I answered with a stammer Shy and nervous, "It was rash of me to play the Queen of Hearts!"
Any further explanation Of my inward admiration Very likely had exposed me to the deadliest of snubs! But a snigger from behind me Just in time came to remind me Of the presence of my caddie--and I blessed the Knave of Clubs!
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GOLF AND GOOD FORM
(_By the Expert Wrinkler_)
Is it good form to golf? That is a question I have been so repeatedly asked of late by correspondents that I can no longer postpone my answer. Now to begin with, I fear there is no doubt that golf is a little on the down grade--socially. Golf is no longer the monopoly of the best set, and I am told that artisans' clubs have actually been started in certain districts. The other day, as I was travelling in Lancashire, a man in the same compartment--with the most shockingly ill-cut trousers I ever saw--said to a friend, "I like 'Oylake, it's 'ealthy, and it's 'andy and within 'ail of 'ome." And it turned out that the chief attraction to him at Hoylake was the golf. Such an incident as this speaks volumes. But I always try to see both sides of every question, and there is unquestionably a great deal to be said in favour of golf. It was undoubtedly played by kings in the past, and at the present moment is patronised by grand dukes, dukes, peers and premiers.
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GOLF AND DRESS.
But the real and abiding attraction of golf is that it mercifully gives more opportunities to the dressy man than any other pastime. Football and cricket reduce everyone to a dead level in dress, but in golf there is any amount of scope for individuality in costume. Take the case of colour alone. The other day at Finsbury Park station I met a friend on his way home from a day's golfing, and I noticed that he was sporting the colours of no fewer than five different clubs. On his cap was the badge of the Camberwell Crusaders; his tie proved his membership of the Bickley Authentics; his blazer was that of the Tulse Hill Nondescripts; his brass waistcoat buttons bore the monogram of the Gipsy Hill Zingari; the roll of his knickerbocker stockings was embroidered with the crest of the Kilburn Incogs. The effect of the whole was, if I may be allowed the word, spicy in the extreme. Of course it is not everyone who can carry off such a combination, or who can afford to belong to so many first-class clubs. But my friend is a very handsome man, and has a handicap of _plus_ two at Tooting Bec.
KNICKERBOCKERS OR TROUSERS.
The burning question which divides golfers into two hostile camps is the choice between knickerbockers and trousers. Personally I favour the latter, but it is only right to explain that ever since I was gaffed in the leg by my friend Viscount ---- when out cub-sticking with the Cottesmore I have never donned knickers again. To a man with a really well-turned calf and neat ankles I should say, wear knickerbockers whenever you get a chance. The late Lord Septimus Boulger, who had very thick legs, and calves that seemed to begin just above the ankles, used to wear knickerbockers because he said it put his opponent off his play. If I may say so without offence, he was a real funny chap, though a careless dresser, and I am told that his father, old Lord Spalding, has never been the same man since his death.
STOCKINGS AND CALVES.
Another advantage of knickerbockers is the scope they afford for the display of stylish stockings. A very good effect is produced by having a little red tuft, which should appear under the roll which surmounts the calf. The roll itself, which should always have a smart pattern, is very useful in conveying the impression that the calf is more fully developed than it really is. I noticed the other day at Hanger Hill that Sir Arlington Ball was playing in a pair of very full knickers, almost of the Dutch cut, and that his stockings--of a plain brown colour--had no roll such as I have described. Then of course Sir Arlington has an exceptionally well-modelled calf, and when in addition a man has £30,000 a year he may be allowed a certain latitude in his dress and his conduct generally.
BOOTS AND SHOES.
The question of footwear at golf is one of considerable difficulty, but there is a general feeling in favour of shoes. My friend the Tooting Bec _plusser_ affects a very showy sort of shoe with a wide welt and a sort of fringe of narrow strips of porpoise hide, which fall over the instep in a miniature cataract. As regards the rival merits of india rubber studs on the soles and of nails, I compromise by a judicious mixture of both. If a waistcoat be worn it should be of the brightest possible colour. I saw Lord Dunching the other day at Wimbledon Park in a charming waistcoat. The groundwork was a rich spinach green with discs of Pompeian red, and the buttons were of brass with his monogram in blue and white enamel in the centre. As it was a cold day he wore a mustard-coloured Harris tweed Norfolk jacket and a sealskin cap. Quite a large crowd followed him, and I heard afterwards that he had raised the record for the links to 193.
QUALIFICATIONS FOR A VALET.
One thing is certain--and that is we cannot all be first-class players. Personally, owing to the accident I have already referred to, I hardly ever play at all, but I always make it a point, if I am going on a visit to any place in the country where I know there are no golf links, to take a few niblicks with me. A bag for clubs only costs a few shillings, and it looks well amongst your other paraphernalia on a journey. In engaging a valet again, always remember to ascertain whether he knows the rules of the "royal and ancient game." I shall never forget my humiliation when down at Lord Springvale's. As I was taking part in a foursome with the Hon. Agrippa Bramble, Lady Horace Hilton, and the second Mrs. Bunkeray, I got stuck in a furze-bush and my man handed me a putter. I could have cried with vexation.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
CAVENDISH, CHATSWORTH.--As to the treatment of divots, different methods are recommended by different authorities. My plan, and I am not aware of a better, is to put them in my pocket when the caddie is not looking. When thoroughly dried they form an excellent peat for burning, or can be used for bedding out rhododendrons.
"NIL DESPERANDUM," BECKENHAM.--The best stimulant during match play is a beaten-up egg in a claret glass of sloe gin. The eggs are best carried in the pocket of your club-bag.
A. FLUBB, WOKING.--No, it is not good form to pay your caddie in stamps.
ALCIBIADES, WEMBLEY PARK.--If you must play golf on Sunday, I call it nothing short of hypocritical to go down to the links in a tall hat.
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LAYS FROM THE LINKS
I.--THE HISTORY OF A MATCH.
Let A be the Links where I went down to stay, And B the man whom I challenged to play:--
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C was the Caddie no golfer's without, D was the Driver I used going "out": E was the Extra loud "Fore!" we both holloa-ed, F was the Foozle which commonly followed: G was the Green which I longed to approach, H was the Hazard which upset the coach: I was B's Iron-shot (he's good for a younker), J was his Joy when I pitched in the bunker. K was the Kodak, that mischief-contriver, L was B's Likeness--on smashing his driver: M was the Moment he found out 'twas taken. N was his Niblick around my head shaken: O was the Oil poured on waters so stormy, P was the Putt which, next hole, made me dormy. Q was the Quality--crowds came to look on: R the Result they were making their book on: S was the Stymie I managed to lay, T was Two more, which it forced him to play; U was the Usual bad work he let fly, V was the Vengeance he took in the bye.
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W the Whisky that night: I must own X was its quantity--wholly unknown; Y were the Yarns which hot whisky combine with, Z was the Zest which we sang "_Auld Lang Syne_".
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II.--A TOAST.
Fill up your glasses! Bumpers round Of Scotland's mountain dew! With triple clink my toast you'll drink, The Links I pledge with you: The Links that bind a million hearts, There's magic in their name, The Links that lie 'neath every sky, And the Royal and Ancient Game!
A health to all who "miss the globe," The special "stars" who don't; May thousands thrive to tee and drive As Jehu's self was wont! No tee without a caddie--then The caddies will acclaim! A health, I say, to all who play The Royal and Ancient Game!
Long life to all who face the foe, And on the green "lie dead"!-- An envied lot, as all men wot, For gallant "lads in red": Where balls fly fast and iron-shots plough Win medals, trophies, fame; Your watchword "Fore!" One cheer--two more-- For the Royal and Ancient Game!
Then "_toe_ and _heel_ it" on the green (You'll make your partner swear), But I'll be bound your dance, a round, With luck will end all square Win, lose, or halve the match--what odds? We love our round the same; Though luck take wing, "the play's the thing," The Royal and Ancient Game!
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Then, Royal and Ancient Game, accept This tribute lay from me; From me then take, for old sake's sake, This toast--Long life to thee! A long, long life to thee, old friend-- None worthier the name-- With three times three, long life to thee, O Royal and Ancient Game!
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GOLF-LAND--HOLE BY HOLE
_Match for a suit of oil-skins between Sunny Jack and Dismal Jimmy._
"The rain has beaten all records."--_Daily Papers._
"Play the game."--_Modern motto._
_Hole 1._--Halved in 28. D.J. gets into the current with his 16th (a beauty) and is rescued by life-boat.
_Hole 2._--Abandoned. A green-finder with a divining-rod, which is convertible into an umbrella, states that Primitive Baptists are using the green for purposes of total immersion.
_Hole 3._--Abandoned. A regatta is found to be taking place in the big bunker.
_Hole 4._--Halved in 23. S.J. discovered with life-belt round him which he has stolen from the flag. Reported death of a green-keeper, lost in trying to rescue two caddies from the bunker going to the 11th hole.
_Hole 5._--Abandoned out of sympathy with the green-keeper.
_Hole 6._--Abandoned. S.J. gets his driver mixed in his life-belt, with the result that his braces burst. D.J. claims hole on the ground that no player may look for a button for more than two minutes. Mr. Vardon, umpiring from balloon, disallows claim. Both players take to canoes.
_Hole 7._--D.J.'s canoe upset by body of drowned sheep as he is holing short put. Mr. Vardon decides that corpses are rubs on the green.
_Hole 8._--Abandoned, owing to a fight for life-belt.
_Hole 9._--Halved in 303, Mr. Vardon keeping the score.
_Hole 10._--D.J. saves S.J.'s life. Hole awarded to S.J. by Mr. Vardon out of sympathy. S.J. one up.
_Hole 11._--S.J. saves D.J.'s life and receives the Humane Society's monthly medal and the hole from Mr. Vardon as a reward of courage. S.J. two up.
_Hole 12._--Abandoned. Collection made for the widows of drowned golfers, which realises ninepence. S.J. subsequently returns from a long, low dive.
_Holes 13 and 14._--Won by D.J. in the absence of S.J., who attends funeral water-games in honour of the green-keeper. All square.
_Holes 15 and 16._--Abandoned by mutual consent, whisky being given away by the Society of Free-drinkers. Instant reappearance of the green-keeper.
_Holes 17 and 18._--Unrecorded. Mr. Vardon declares the match halved.
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A LESSON IN GOLF
"You won't dare!" said I.
"There is nothing else for it," said Amanda sternly. "You know perfectly well that we must practise every minute of the time, if we expect to have the least chance of winning. If she _will_ come just now--well!" Amanda cocked her pretty chin in the air, and looked defiant.
"But--_Aunt Susannah!_" said I.
"It's quite time for you to go and meet her," said Amanda, cutting short my remonstrances; and she rose with an air of finality.
My wife, within her limitations, is a very clever woman. She is prompt: she is resolute: she has the utmost confidence in her own generalship. Yet, looking at Aunt Susannah, as she sat--gaunt, upright, and formidable--beside me in the dogcart, I did not believe even Amanda capable of the stupendous task which she had undertaken. She would never dare----
I misjudged her. Aunt Susannah had barely sat down--was, in fact, only just embarking on her first scone--when Amanda rushed incontinently in where I, for one, should have feared to tread.
"Dear Aunt Susannah," she said, beaming hospitably, "I'm sure you will never guess how we mean to amuse you while you are here!"
"Nothing very formidable, I hope?" said Aunt Susannah grimly.
"You'll never, never guess!" said Amanda; and her manner was so unnaturally sprightly that I knew she was inwardly quaking. "We want to teach you--what do you think?"
"I think that I'm a trifle old to learn anything new, my dear," said Aunt Susannah.
I should have been stricken dumb by such a snub. Not so, however, my courageous wife.
"Well--golf!" she cried, with overdone cheerfulness.
Aunt Susannah started. Recovering herself, she eyed us with a stony glare which froze me where I sat.
"There is really nothing else to do in these wilds, you know," Amanda pursued gallantly, though even she was beginning to look frightened. "And it is such a lovely game. You'll like it immensely."
"_What_ do you say it is called?" asked Aunt Susannah in awful tones.
"Golf," Amanda repeated meekly; and for the first time her voice shook.
"Spell it!" commanded Aunt Susannah.
Amanda obeyed, with increasing meekness.
"Why do you call it 'goff' if there's an 'l' in it?" asked Aunt Susannah.
"I--I'm afraid I don't know," said Amanda faintly.
Aunt Susannah sniffed disparagingly. She condescended, however, to inquire into the nature of the game, and Amanda gave an elaborate explanation in faltering accents. She glanced imploringly at me; but I would not meet her eye.
"Then you just try to get a little ball into a little hole?" inquired my relative.
"And in the fewest possible strokes," Amanda reminded her, gasping.
"And--is that all?" asked Aunt Susannah.
"Y--yes," said Amanda.
"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah.
A game described in cold blood sounds singularly insignificant. We both fell into sudden silence and depression.
"Well, it doesn't sound _difficult_" said Aunt Susannah. "Oh, yes, I'll come and play at ball with you if you like, my dears."
"_Dear_ Auntie!" said Amanda affectionately. She did not seem so much overjoyed at her success, however, as might have been expected. As for me, I saw a whole sea of breakers ahead; but then I had seen them all the time.
We drove out to the Links next day. We were both very silent. Aunt Susannah, however, was in good spirits, and deeply interested in our clubs.
"What in the world do you want so many sticks for, child?" she inquired of Amanda.
"Oh, they are for--for different sorts of ground," Amanda explained feebly; and she cast an agonised glance at our driver, who had obviously overheard, and was chuckling in an offensive manner.
We both looked hastily and furtively round us when we arrived. We were early, however, and fortune was kind to us; there was no one else there.
"Perhaps you would like to watch us a little first, just to see how the game goes?" Amanda suggested sweetly.
"Not at all!" was Aunt Susannah's brisk rejoinder. I've come here to play, not to look on. Which stick----?"
"_Club_--they are called clubs," said Amanda.
"Why?" inquired Aunt Susannah.
"I--I don't know," faltered Amanda. "Do you Laurence?"
I did not know, and said so.
"Then I shall certainly call them sticks," said Aunt Susannah decisively. "They are not in the least like clubs."
"Shall I drive off?" I inquired desperately of Amanda.
"Drive off? Where to? Why are you going away?" asked Aunt Susannah. "Besides, you can't go--the carriage is out of sight."
"The way you begin is called driving off," I explained laboriously. "Like this." I drove nervously, because I felt her eye upon me. The ball went some dozen yards.
"That seems easy enough," said Aunt Susannah. "Give me a stick, child."
"Not that end--the _other_ end!" cried Amanda, as our relative prepared to make her stroke with the butt-end.
"Dear me! Isn't that the handle?" she remarked cheerfully; and she reversed her club, swung it, and chopped a large piece out of the links. "Where is it gone? Where is it gone?" she exclaimed, looking wildly round.
"It--it isn't gone," said Amanda nervously, and pointed to the ball still lying at her feet.
"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Aunt Susannah; and she made another attempt, with a precisely similar result. "Give me another stick!" she demanded. "Here, let me choose for myself--this one doesn't suit me. I'll have that flat thing."
"But that's a putter," Amanda explained agonisedly.
"What's a putter? You said just now that they were all clubs," said Aunt Susannah, pausing.
"They are all clubs," I explained patiently. "But each has a different name."
"You don't mean to say you give them names like a little girl with her dolls?" cried Aunt Susannah. "Why, what a babyish game it is!" She laughed very heartily. "At any rate," she continued, with that determination which some of her friends call by another name, "I am sure that this will be easier to play with!" She grasped the putter, and in some miraculous way drove the ball to a considerable distance.
"Oh, splendid!" cried Amanda. Her troubled brow cleared a little, and she followed suit, with mediocre success. Aunt Susannah pointed out that her ball had gone farther than either of ours, and grasped her putter tenaciously.
"It's a better game than I expected from your description," she conceded. "Oh, I daresay I shall get to like it. I must come and practise every day." We glanced at each other in a silent horror of despair, and Aunt Susannah after a few quite decent strokes, triumphantly holed out. "What next?" said she.
I hastily arranged her ball on the second tee: but the luck of golf is proverbially capricious. She swung her club, and hit nothing. She swung it again, and hit the ground.
"_Why_ can't I do it?" she demanded, turning fiercely upon me.
"You keep losing your feet," I explained deferentially.
"Spare me your detestable slang terms, Laurence, at least!" she cried, turning on me again like a whirlwind. "If you think I have lost my temper--which is absurd!--you might have the courage to say so in plain English!"
"Oh, no, Aunt Susannah!" I said. "You don't understand----"
"Or want to," she snapped. "Of all silly games----"
"I mean you misunderstood me," I pursued, trembling. "Your foot slipped, and that spoilt your stroke. You should have nails in your boots, as we have."
"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah, only half pacified. But she succeeded in dislodging her ball at last, and driving it into a bunker. At the same moment, Amanda suddenly clutched me by the arm. "Oh, Laurence!" she said in a bloodcurdling whisper. "_What_ shall we do? Here is Colonel Bartlemy!"
The worst had happened. The hottest-tempered man in the club, the oldest member, the best player, the greatest stickler for etiquette, was hard upon our track; and Aunt Susannah, with a red and determined countenance, was urging her ball up the bunker, and watching it roll back again.
"Dear Auntie," said Amanda, in her sweetest voice, "you had much better take it out."
"Is that allowed?" inquired our relative suspiciously.
"Oh, you may always do that and lose a stroke!" I assured her eagerly.