The Fairies who came to my Christening provided me with a large
collection of toys, implements, and other articles. There was a heart,
a tender one, a pen of gold, a set of Golf-clubs, a bat, wickets, and
a ball, oars and a boat, boxing gloves, foils, guns, rifles, books,
everything, except ready money, that heart could desire. Unluckily
one Fairy, who was old, deaf, plain, and who had not been invited,
observed, "It is all very well, my child, but not one of these
articles shall you be able to use satisfactorily." This awful curse
has hung heavy on my doom. With a restless desire to shine and excel,
at Lord's, on the river, on the Moors, in the forests, in Society,
on the Links, bitter personal experience and the remarks of candid
friends, tell me that the doom has come upon me. I am "an all-round
Duffer," as my youngest nephew, _ætat._ XI., freely informed me, when
I served twice out of court (once into the conservatory, the other
time through the study window). I was a Duffer at marbles, also
at tops, and my personal efforts in these kinds were constantly in
liquidation. But what are marbles and tops! The first regular game I
was entered at was Golf. Five is not too early to begin, and I began
at five by being knocked down with a club which another small boy was
brandishing. This naturally gave me an extreme zeal for the sport
of MARY STUART, the Great Marquis of MONTROSE, CHARLES EDWARD (who
introduced Golf into Italy), DUNCAN FORBES of Culloden, Mr. HORACE
HUTCHINSON, and other eminent historical characters.
[Illustration]
Almost everybody now knows that Golf is not Hockey. Nobody _runs_
after the ball except young ladies at W--m--n! The object is to put
a very small ball into a very tiny and remotely distant hole, with
engines singularly ill adapted for the purpose. There are many
engines. First there is the Driver, a long club, wherewith the ball
is supposed to be propelled from the tee, a little patch of sand.
The Tee and the Caddie have nothing to do with each other; nobody
but a flippant Cockney sees any fun in plays upon words which, in
themselves, are only too serious. Then there is a weapon called a
Brassey. It is like unto a club, but is shod with brass, and is used
for hitting a ball in "a bad lie" among long grass or heather. A small
tomahawk, styled a Cleek, is employed when you don't know what else to
play with. The same remark applies to an Iron, which is very good for
missing the ball with, also for hitting to square leg when you meant
to go straight. A "Mashy" is a smaller "iron." The skilful use these
when the ball lies in sand, in gorse, or when they wish to make the
ball soar for a short distance and then fall dead. A Putter is a short
thickish club used for jogging the ball into the hole with. There are
plenty of other kinds of clubs, also spoons, but _these_ are enough to
break the heart of any Duffer.
I am an old player, of forty years' standing, but, like _Parolles_ I
was "made for every man to breathe himself on." When my form is espied
near the links, the players shirk off as if I were a leper. They are
afraid I may want to make a match with them, and there is no falsehood
from which they will shrink, in their desire to escape me. Even
Ladies,--but this is a delicate theme. Beginners breathe themselves on
me, and give me odds after two or three engagements.
Yet I don't know why I am so bad. True, I am short-sighted, never see
the flag at the hole, play in the wrong direction, and talk a good
deal on topics of academic interest during the round. The Golfer's
mind should be a blank, and generally is "blank enough," like _Sir
Tor's_ shield. My mind is, perhaps, too active--that may be what
is the matter with me. It is the same thing at whist--but of this
hereafter. My Caddie, or arm-bearer, has his own views about the
causes of my incompetence.
"Ye're no standing richt. Ye haud yer hands wrang. Ye tak' yer ee off
the ba'. Ye're ower quick up. Ye're ower slow doun. Ye dinna swing.
Ye fa' back. Ye haud ower ticht wi' yer richt hand. Ye dinna let your
arms gang easy. Ye whiles tap, and whiles slice, and whiles heel, or
ye hit her aff the tae. Ye're hooking her. Ye're no thinking o' what
ye're doing. Ye'll never be a Gowfer. Lord! ony man can lairn Greek,
but Gowf needs a heid."
Here are fifteen ways of going wrong, and there is only one way of
going right! Fifteen things to think of, every time you take a driver
in hand. And, remember, that is not nearly all. These fifteen fatal
errors apply to long driving. You may (or at least _I_ may, and do)
make plenty of other blunders with the other weapons. Say the ball
lies in sand--"a bunker," technically. If you hit it whack on the top,
it disappears in a foot-mark. If you "tak' plenty o' sand," why, you
_get_ plenty of sand in your mouth, your eyes, down the back of your
neck, and the ball is no forwarder. If you strike her quite clean,
she goes like a bullet against the face of the bunker, soars in the
air, falls on your head, and you lose the hole! Oh, Golf is full of
bitterness!
Suppose we play a round. The ball is neatly "tee'd" on a patch of
sand. I approach, I shuffle with my feet for a secure footing, I
waggle my club in an airy manner. Then I take it up and whack it down.
A variety of things _may_ occur. I may smite the top of the hall, when
it runs on for twenty yards and lies in a rut on the road. I may hit
her on the heel of the club, when she spins, with much "cut" on, into
the sea. I may hit her with the toe of the club, when she soars to
square leg, and perhaps breaks a window. I used to try running in at
the ball, as if it were a half-volley at Cricket, but that way lies
madness. However, suppose that, in a lucid interval (as will happen),
I hit her clean. She soars away, and falls within forty yards of a
meandering burn. The hole, the haven where one would be, is beyond the
burn.
I seize a cleek or an iron, it turns in my hand, cuts up the turf, and
the ball rolls half a dozen feet. My opponent has crossed the burn.
I try again; a fearful misdirected shot; the ball soars over the
burn and lands in a road behind the hole. There is no hitting out of
this road, or, if one does hit a desperate blow, the ball lands in
an eccentric sand-hole, called the Scholar's Bunker. We start for
the next hole. _Même jeu!_ Now we are in the gorse, now among the
Station Master's potatoes, now in the railway, where all hope may be
abandoned, now in bunkers many, now missing the ball altogether, when
you feel as if your arms had flown off. As for "putting" the short
strokes on the green, near the hole, if I hit sharp, the ball runs
over the hole yards and yards beyond, or if I hit mild, it stops with
an air of plaintive resignation, after dribbling for a foot or two.
And the worst of it is that, sometimes, you will play as well as
another for half-a-dozen holes. Then one thinks one has The Secret!
But it falls from us, vanishes, we are topping and slicing, and
heeling, and missing again as sorrily as ever.
The beauty of Golf is that there are so many ways of going wrong, and
so many things to think of. A person of very moderately active mind
has his ideas diverted by the landscape, the sea, the blossom on the
gorse, the larks singing overhead, not to mention the whole system
of the universe. He forgets to keep his eye on the ball, in devoting
his energy to holding tight with his left, and being slow up. Or
he remembers to keep his eye on the ball, and forgets the other
essentials. Then an awful moment comes when he loses his temper.
Thereby all is lost, honour (not to mention "the honour,") and
everything. People in front, old people, are so provoking. They potter
tardily along, pass ten minutes in considering a putt, shout and swear
if you hit into them, and are not pleased if you sit down and smoke
while you wait. The only entity that I don't lose my temper with is my
partner. The worse he plays, the better am I pleased to have a brother
in adversity. The subjective Golfer, however, is certainly a bore. He
is "put off" by every simple circumstance, by his opponent wearing an
unbecoming cap and the like. Afterwards, he will hold forth for hours
on all his sorrows and all the sins of others. The Duffer is more
modest and less apologetic. He is kept always playing (as I said)
by the diabolical circumstance that he has lucid intervals, though
rarely, when he plays like other people for three or four holes.
I once, myself did the long hole in--but never mind. Nobody would
believe me. The most amiable of Duffers was he who, after ten strokes
in a bunker, cut his ball into three parts. "I am bringing it out," he
said, "in penny numbers."
The born Duffer, I speak feelingly, is incurable. No amount of odds
will put him on the level even of Scotch Professors. For the learned
have divided Golf into several categories. There is Professional
Golf, the best Amateur Golf, Enthusiasts' Golf, Golf, Beginners'
Golf, Ladies' Golf, Infant Golf, Parlour Golf, the Golf of Scotch
Professors. But the true Duffer's Golf is far, far below that. A
Duffer like me is too bad for hanging. He should be condemned to play
for life at Chorley Wood, or to bush-whack at Bungay.
* * * * *
FREE AND EASY THEATRES.--We have no sympathy whatever with the idea of
a Théâtre Libre or with a Free-and-Easy Theatre, but we shall be very
glad when all Theatres are made Easy, Easy, that is, as to sitting
accommodation, and Easy of egress and ingress. But if the space is
to be enlarged, will not the prices have to be enlarged too? 'Tis
a problem in the discussion of which _The Players_, which is a new
journal, solely devoted to things Dramatic and Theatrical, would find
congenial employment.
* * * * *