Far—far as Arcturus—be it from us to dissipate the mist of theory that
envelops the so-called royal and undeniably ancient game, or to diminish
by one the methods of its madness. The more the merrier, as Noah remarked
when he led the way to the Ark. The fairway is wide, and we had as soon
knock a ball through it in one style as another; variety spices the
journey, and wards off monotony. It is only when, approaching the green,
we require accuracy in direction, that we dismiss theory and resort to
the primitive expedient of striking the ball with the club-face at right
angles to the line o’ flight—in other words, returning the club-face
to the position it was in when the ball was addressed. The trick is so
simple, when the mind is disburdened of all other consideration, that
we are a little ashamed of the inevitable result; it is so much more
interesting to try to reach the pin by the most complicated method,
involving a nice consideration of stance and grip, division of labor
between the hands, pronation, concentration, pausation, and what not. If
every stroke in golf were reduced to its lowest terms, what would the
pundits do for an audience?