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TOM has frequently appeared
in the pages of
Punch, and the article which we quote describes
him acting as an eminent Scotch physician the
Head of the Faculty.
"Bulger was no cricketer, no tennis-player,
no sportsman in fact. But his doctor recommended exercise and fresh air. ' And I'm
thinking, sir,' he added, ' that you cannot do
better than just take yourself down to St Andrews
and put yourself under Tom Morris.' ' Is he
a great Scotch physician? ' asked Bulger; ' I
don't seem to have heard of him.' ' The Head
of the Faculty, sir,' said the medical man ' the
Head of the Faculty in those parts.'
"Bulger packed his effects, and in process
of time he arrived at Leuchars. Here he
observed some venerable towers within a short
walk, and fancied that he would presently arrive
at St Andrews. In this he was reckoning
without the railway system he was compelled
to wait at Leuchars for no inconsiderable time,
which he occupied in extracting statistics about
the consumption of whisky from the young
lady who ministered to travellers. The revelations now communicated convinced Bulger that
either Dr Morris was not on the lines of Sir
Andrew Clark, or, as an alternative, that his
counsels were not listened to by travellers on
that line.
"Arriving in the dusk, Bulger went to his
inn, and next morning inquired as to the address
of the Head of the Faculty. ' I didna ken,``
said an elderly person to whom he appealed,
'that the professors had made' Tom a doctor,
though it's a sair and sad oversicht, and a
disgrace to the country, that they ha'ena done sae lang syne. But I jalouse that your doctor
was jist making a gowk o' ye.' ' What! ' said
Bulger. ' Jist playin' a plisky on ye, and he
meant that Tom wad pit ye in the way o'
becoming a player. Mon, ye 're a bull-neckit,
bow-leggit chief, and ye'd shape fine for a
gowfer! Here's Tom.' And, with this brief
introduction, the old man strolled away.
'Bulger now found himself in the presence
of Mr Morris, whose courtesy soon put him on a
footing of friendliness and confidence. He
purchased, by his mentor's advice, a driver, a
cleek, a putter, a brassey, an iron, a niblick, and
a mashie. Armed with thor implements, which
were 'carried by an orphan boy,' and under the guidance of the Head of the Faculty himself,
Bulger set forth on his first round. His first
two strokes were dealt on the yielding air; his
third carried no inconsiderable parcel of real
property to some distance; but his fourth hit
the ball and drove it across the road. ' As
gude as a better`` quoth the orphan boy, and bade Bulger propel the tiny
sphere in the direction of a neighbouring rivulet. Into this affluent
of the main Bulger finally hit the ball; but an
adroit lad of nine stamped it into the mud
while pretending to look for it, and Bulger had
to put down another. When he got within
putting range he hit his ball, careering back
and forward over the hole, and, ' Eh, man,'
quoth the orphan boy, ' if you could only drive
as you putt! '
"In some fifteen strokes he accomplished
his task of holing out; and now, weary and
desponding (for he had fancied golf to be an
easy game), he would have desisted for the day.
But the Head of the Faculty pressed on him
the necessity of ' the daily round, the common
task.' So his ball was teed, and he lammed it
into the Scholar's Bunker, at a distance of
nearly thirty yards. A niblick was now placed
in his grasp, and he was exhorted to 'Take
plenty sand.' Presently a kind of simoom was
observed to rage in the Scholar's Bunker, out
of which emerged the head of the niblick, the
ball, and, finally, Bulger himself. His next
hit, however, was a fine one, over the wall, where,
as the ball was lost, Bulger deposited a new one.
This he, somehow, drove within a few feet of
the hole, when he at once conceived an intense
enthusiasm for the pastime. ' It was a fine
drive ' said the Head of the Faculty. ' Mr
Blackwell never hit a finer.' Thus inflamed
with ardour, Bulger persevered. He learned
to waggle his club in a knowing way. He
listened intently when he was bidden to ' keep
his eye on the ba',' and to be ' slow up.' True
he now missed the globe and all that it inhabits,
but soon he hit a prodigious swipe, well over
cover-point's head or, rather, in the direction where cover-point would have been.
'We're awfu' bad in the whims,' said the orphan
boy; and, indeed, Bulger's next strokes were
played in distressing circumstances. The
spikes of the gorse ran into his person he could
only see a small part of the ball, and, in a few
minutes, he had made a useful clearing of about
a quarter of an acre.
'It is unnecessary to follow
his later achievements in detail. He returned a worn and weary
man, having accomplished the round in about 180, but in possession of an appetite which
astonished him and those with whom he lunched.
In the afternoon, the luck of beginners attending
him, he joined a foursome of professors, and
triumphantly brought in his partner an easy
victor. In a day or two he was drinking beer
(which he would previously have rejected as
poison), was sleeping like a top, and was laying
down the law on stymie and other ' mysteries
more than Eleusinian.' True, after the first
three days, his play entirely deserted Bulger,
and even professors gave him a wide berth in
making up a match. But by steady perseverance, reading Sir Walter Simpson, taking
out a professional, and practising his iron in an
adjacent field, Bulger soon developed to such
an extent that few third-rate players could give him a stroke a hole. He had
been in considerable danger of ' a stroke ' of quite a different
character before he left London and the delights
of the Bar. But he returned to the capital in
rude health, and may now often be seen and
heard topping into the Pond at Wimbledon,
and talking in a fine Fifeshire accent. It must
be acknowledged that his story about his drive
at the second hole, ' equal to Blackwell himself,
Tom Morris himself told me as much,' has
become rather a source of diversion to his intimates; but we have all our failings, and Bulger
never dreams, when anyone says, ' What is
the record drive? ' that he is being drawn for
the entertainment of the sceptical and unfeeling.
Bulger will never, indeed, be a player; but,
if his handicap remains at 24, he may some day
carry off the monthly medal. With this great
aim before him, and the consequent purchase
of a red coat and gilt buttons, Bulger has a new
purpose in existence ' something to live for,
something to do.' May this brief but accurate
history convey a moral to the pessimist, and
encourage those who take a more radiant view
of the possibilities of life! "
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