
PREFACE
As some
prefatory explanation may reasonably be expected as to how I became
acquainted with the subject of the following narrative,—‘A Golfing
Idyll,’ I have had the presumption to call it,—I may inform the reader
that circumstances induced me, a lady medical student, at present
studying in London, to take my Autumn holiday in St Andrews. I know the
old place well, and have many acquaintances there. As to Golf I can, I
think, hold my own with most of the Golfing sisterhood, and am well up
in the jargon of the Links and game. One day found me, sketch-book in
hand, sitting on the brae-side by the butts, behind the Club. As I sat,
listlessly toying with my pencil, and quietly enjoying the scene before
me, I remarked a man, whom I had not previously observed, also sitting,
a few yards off, on the slope towards the sea. On closer inspection I
recognised him to be an old Caddie, well known to most frequenters of
the Links, but not very creditably, I am sorry to say, as he was one of
the sad victims of the vice that has cut off so many poor fellows of his
class. I noticed at the same time that he now looked very decent and
respectable, was neatly dressed in blue serge, a bit of blue ribbon
apparent on the lapel of his coat, and that altogether he had the
appearance of a person well cared for. He seemed to be engaged in an
agreeable conversation with himself. As he sat, smiling and muttering,
he was shortly joined by another man, a stranger to me, a ruddy-faced
jolly-looking personage, with a free and easy manner, who proved also to
be a Caddie. As to how the latter accosted his old friend, and what
followed, is all described in the ‘Idyll'.
As I was only
a few yards distant from them, I could hear distinctly every word they
uttered. The old man did not seem to mind my presence in the least.
Before commencing his tale he looked round, saw me, and, with a back
toss of his head which seemed to say to his friend, ‘ Oh, it is only a
lassie,’ proceeded with his story. Throughout the narrative he was
exceedingly animated—rising, sitting down, and gesticulating, as if
under the influence of considerable excitement and emotion, evidently
earnestly intent on impressing on the listener the truth of what he was
relating. The latter listened open-eyed and open-mouthed, uttering
occasional ejaculations, such as, Oh Lord! Gude sake! Ay man! etc.
The Skipper
delivered himself of what he had to say in pure Scotch Doric, more or
less, but occasionally broke out into good English, showing himself to
be a man of better education than I believed him to be. This idea was
strengthened by his reference to Bunyan ; and the extravagant vision at
the ‘ end hole,’ with all its bathos and absurdity, suggested some
acquaintance with Milton.
I listened
most attentively. I have a good memory, and when I got home I committed
to paper all that I remembered, most carefully. Moreover, I had several
interviews with the old gentleman, and have done my best to convey to
the reader, as accurately as I could, his version of his extraordinary
adventure.
As to my
reason for weaving the story into rhyming doggerel, I hold myself
excused in that I did it for my own amusement, influenced also by a
belief that it might possibly prove more readable and attractive in that
shape to the persons I chiefly wished to peruse it, viz., my friends of
the Caddie fraternity.
VIOLET FLINT.
TORRINGTON MANSIONS,
London.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION
Since I
penned the first prefatory lines to this trifling work, I regret to
inform my readers nonresident in St Andrews, that my interesting old
friend the Skipper is no more. He died at the ripe age of 75. Peace to
his memory! Some time before his death, I had what proved to be a final
interview with him, when he rehearsed his queer weird story, adding some
curious reminiscences of his early days in connection with the Links of
St Andrews and his favourite pastime. As they may be interesting to some
of my older golfing friends, I have interpolated them into the rugged
doggerel of the text from the notes I took at the time. He also at the
same time pathetically deplored the unreasoning and obstinate
incredulity of friends who persisted in disbelieving his story, and
suggested, with a view to convincing and converting them, that I should
have some of the more striking incidents in the story illustrated. I
have done so, but alas ! his old eyes will never look upon them and
acknowledge the credit due to Mr Bannerman, the clever draughtsman.
At the close
of our interview, he also alluded to his precious breeks with which, in
his opinion, rest the onus probandi of his adventure. It was his
intention, he told me, to have them framed and glazed, with the fateful
mark prominently displayed— the date, incident, etc., carefully
printed—to be made over at his death to the local Museum, and safe
custody of Mr Couttes. It was not every man, he proudly asserted, who
could receive and survive a skelp o’ the Deil’s tail!
V. F.
Torrington Mansions,
London.
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