my being an agent of the “Overland,” when, to my great delight, a swarthy rascal exploded with a loud “Fi, fi!” (Fee, fee! it is—it is,) and assured me that he had “spoken” a solitary dromedarian bearing before him a burden like that I had described (he omitted to add that he had carefully overhauled it), and that, as he had taken a course far south of the usual track, and was going steadily towards No. 4 Station, I should probably find him there awaiting me. This was good news indeed, and the old doorkeeper having returned, I decided to start forthwith. The Bedaweens saddled and bridled for me the now recruited Arab, and amid a shower of good wishes, I galloped off from the relai. Nor did I draw bridle until I had reached the one solitary tree under whose leafless branches Napoleon and Bourrienne made their famous desert picnic. Giving it good lee-way, for this singular prodigy of vegetation now bears a ragged and not particularly well-scented fruit,[1] I approached the centre station, of which I could now see the lights, evening having closed in during my ten-mile ride. The dogs and live-stock round and about the place had already become aware of the approach of a stranger, and my arrival was heralded by a babel of bark and cackle that was thoroughly cheering after my forced solitude.
So I discharged my carbine to add to the general uproar, and in half-an-hour afterwards was amusing myself with one of the most noisy of the turkey-cocks in the company of the faithful Selim and my carpet-bag.
A GOLF TOURNAMENT IN SCOTLAND.
Will the reader permit me to assume first that he is an Englishman? If he refuses me this small favour there is an end of the matter. But if he does not, and if he agrees to be an Englishman, why should not he be my old Harrow friend Norman, who is here, paying Scotland a visit for the first time? Now that this is all amicably settled, I shall not ask any leave for my remaining assumptions, as you must be quite aware, Norman, that you are utterly ignorant of our national game of golf, and also you must admit to a sneaking desire to see what it is like. You are a good cricketer, and I have no doubt, if you devoted yourself to golf, that you would play that game well, too. I am taking you to-day to a place where you will see golf in perfection. I know that, if I left you to your own devices, you would get yourself up in a terrific pair of football boots for the purpose of breaking your adversaries’ shins, as I never could get you to understand that the game did not consist in violent running, and pushing, and hitting, and kicking.
Here we are at last, after a three hours’ journey on the worst line in the kingdom. The day, be it known, is the 30th of September; the hour 11.30 a.m.; the place St. Andrews, Fifeshire, N.B.
I dare say you never heard of the place before, yet its name is dear in the ears of the Scottish gentleman—not on account of its historical associations,—not on account of its ancient haunts of learning,—but because it is here that the Scottish gentleman, in his hours of leisure, may play at the game that he loves from morn till eve, and bet his habitual half-crowns, and smoke unlimited pipes, and talk never-ending shop.
Not equally dear is it in the ears of the Scottish gentleman’s spouse and daughters; and that for manifold good reasons. All that you can get them to say about it is, that the air is very bracing, &c. &c. The reason is this, the presence of a female is repugnant to the game of golf. No sooner does an unlucky woman stray on to the course than,—like the Derby dog,—she is hooted at and bellowed to, and told to go one way by one person and another by another; all which induces a most piteous state of vacillation, in the midst of which the ball whizzes past her at a pace which would inevitably prove fatal were it to hit her. It is needless to say that the unprotected female does not often repeat the mistake of straying on the pleasure-grounds of the golfer. Then her husband is perpetually bringing some fellow-golfer home, without notice, to lunch or dinner, and the two sit talking about their eternal golf, and not a word on any other subject is to be got out of them. The place itself, with the exception of golf, is dull enough, but not through any fault of its own. It would be the same at the most fashionable watering-place, if a conscription were levied on all the male inhabitants to fill the ranks of the noble army of golfers.
St. Andrews is not without merits of its own, irrespective of the attractions of golf:—a university, the remains of a gigantic cathedral; wide, clean-looking, handsome streets; and other architectural advantages. But I really decline to act as guide-book to you; you must devote an hour or two to-morrow to seeing the lions.
The present week is the only time in the year at which ladies at all like St. Andrews, or have any attention, besides that of the nature aforementioned, shown them. This week corresponds, in regard to golf, to the Canterbury week in the annals of cricket. This day is the medal-day; the day on which all the best gentlemen-players assemble to compete for the blue riband of the golf course. To-night there is going to be a large dinner of the Golf Club. To-morrow night a ball—hence the multitude of ladies and non-golfing gentlemen, this being the only time when the latter are tolerated here. All the houses in the neighbourhood are filled, and so the place is really rather gay.
The station which we have just come into is what you would expect, in comfort and splendour, as the terminus of a line like that we have left. Did you ever see such a collection of ragamuffin boys of all ages, rushing about, bustling, and jostling?
Ah! would you like to know what that bundle of queer-looking sticks, like coach-whips, is which that urchin has just snatched from the young fellow who was in the carriage with us? Know, Saxon, these are the weapons with which the Scot avenges Flodden. They are golf-sticks, or clubs,- ↑ Those among the poor who pass this tree on their pilgrimage to Mecca, hang among its branches, as votive offerings, some portion of their garments.
