Copyright December. 1921 By Louis Albert Morphy (All Rights Reserved) From The Press of the Louisiana Printing Company. Ltd. New Orleans PS ~ There is an onward trend of affairs, which leads always to an inevitable conclusion. "Rather like a flash from out of the sky, I trust," (p. 37) VERSE INDEX. (First lines are given, when there is no title. ) Page. He plucked it. 1 To Her. 2 Why? 3 Profundity. 4 His Dream. 5 I, too, have watched the evening sky. 6 The Inspiration of Genius. 7 His Window. 8 My Model. 9 Afterwards. 1 A Box of Paper. 1 1 His Queen. 1 2 Another. 1 3 She hath crushed the bloom. 14 On Re-visiting a Mountain Torrent. 1 5 On a Second Time being shown, etc. 16 To the Children of Thought. 1 7 The Benediction. 1 8 The Deceiver. 1 9 Suggested by a line of The Kasidah. 20 The Bard of Grasmere. 2 1 A Reflection. 22 The Fires. 23 I am a Traveler, but not Alone. 24 Inferiors. 25 I lie in the hammock. 26 The Chase. 27 Love s Sleep. 28 Her Motherhood. 29 The Lover. 30 The Pines. 31 The Summit. 32 Meditation. 33 Page. Soul. 34 The Dancer. 35 An Autumn Night. 36 Rather like a flash from out the sky, I trust. 37 A woman loved with a man s strong faith. 38 With Apologies, etc. 39 My Boy. 41 Who can paint the things, though real? 42 On Catching the Refrain of Distant Music. 43 Regret is Vain. 44 The Fickle Wind. 45 I travel in a maze of conflict. 46 The Thinker s Rest. 47 The world is wondrous beautiful. 48 A Refrain. 49 To Hernando de Soto and His Bride. 50 PROSE INDEX. Page. In Introduction. 53 Teddy, My Dog; Tabs, My Cat; and I. 55 Suggested by "An Unpublished Letter of Lord Byron". 58 By the Way. 61 Dad s Sleep. 63 A Prose Idyl. 68 The Stranger, Again! 69 The Swan Song. 77 A Biographical Memoir of Paul Charles Morphy. 78 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page. Frontispiece. The Swan Song. 52 Paul Charles Morphy. 78 Birthplace of Morphy. 90 Morphy Home. 1 02 Courtyard of Morphy Home. 1 1 4 He plucked it, A wee, blushing thing, Its eyes half-ope d in the morning dew, Glad to be alive, A rose-bud. The noon-day came, And wide apart its petals fell, Still radiant with the babe-like pink, Could any one have thought it? A worm, within! One TO HER. You asked me to write a verse to you. It can not be done, my Heart. In the thought of an English poet, The stomach, when surcharged with food, it starves. Mayhap, in time, when the famished soul Has had its fill, and beats with human pulse again, Its throbs will echo to the face, the heart, The limb, the mind, the love, Of Her, who called it back to life. Two WHY? Strange comment on Nature s work, That Woman should always be painted The central figure, about which Man s lust must move, His passion, quickened, or love be stirred. Why, no tales of Man, With Woman s lust or passion fired, Or love aroused, that Man inspires? Why, not? Pray, tell me. Three PROFUNDITY. I shall never seem profound. An atom of Soil grows into Manhood s state. The Poet mind looks on, And prates of Birth and Immortality; The Infinite Being, Like unto Something that is lost In Man s Confusion, and reflects naught But finite gropings and colorless nothings. But, -what is Profundity? Four HIS DREAM. The outcast sleeps in his phantom hut, By the side of the palm-fringed sea, While the moonbeams prance, To the ripples dance, Like the play of a silken phantasy. Sleep on, poor soul, in thy dream of dreams, And sleep th* everlasting night; For, the soul that thrills, In thy drunken sleep, Hath passed from the dreams of day. The cry of Virtue calls, a Life s uplift, And drowns the age-fool call of Love, That rose in tatters, Born from out Love s myth, The love of the Unworthy. Knowest thou not, thou drunken pate, That Love durst live where Virtue hates? And so, away! Fast to thy Fate! There s nothing now, that s not too late, E en to thy death. Five I, too, have watched the evening sky; Have known the glory of the morning; Have seen the blood-red moon of love, And heard the kissing of the sea. Six THE INSPIRATION OF GENIUS. I rise above the fires of love, The drivelling touch of flesh, And love s caresses; The maddened eyes, And clinging arms, Of trust, forsaken. I wed me now To one yon star, That beckons on To glory and renown, Twin steeds That draw the chariot of life. So, list , fond Soul, To the song of old, In the hearts Of the men of earth; For, I fly to the sky, Where none durst try, Who dare not travel alone. Seven HIS WINDOW. The leaves are playing about my window-front, In the soft caress of a twilight breeze, While the clouds hang high, In tangled banks of white, O er dozing moor and mountain-tops, beyond. A shadow flits across my window-pane, Like the cast of a shawl before a glass, And I behold a shepherd, Like a silhouette against the sky. With staff upraised, he speaks and points, To a woman, by his side, Who listens, with disheveled hair, And the sparkle of upturned eye. Only the somb rer shadows of starlight, now, And that silhouette in my eye, The man and woman against the sky; And the dreamy thought of men, With but one window for an eye! Eight MY MODEL. With thee upon the dais, I paint, in words, The things that sometimes make the heart beat fast, And stir within the fire of that which I call Love, But some call Passion. Thou art nude, of course; So, are models expected to be. The touch of flesh is there. I see the curve of limb, And follow thy splendid torso. Thine arms have just let slip the drapery, at thy feet. Thy knee bends in tender grace, Not knowing next just what to do. Thy loosened hair lies at thy back, listlessly. Nature s wealth is all thou hast, And thou art rich. Thou smilest, And thine eyes would seem to read mine own. Brush hath painted oft the luring lines of body, And the lingering claims of face. Stone hath fixed the forms of beauty, And left to mind the beauty of its grace. With thee, I have thy mind, and face, and body. So, I call thee model of my heart and eye. Nine AFTERWARDS. The glad rain falls without my room, And helps to cool my fevered thought, That burns with strife and longings unfulfilled, In quest of life. Man is mortal; the night must fall; And then must come the answer for the past. "Tis the spirit only that lives, or ought, And the body but its helpmate is, or grave. "Stranger", that sittest alone, within the night, "What is the answer, that thou hast?" "None, that I can give, "That thou wouldst deem an answer. Put without the laws, in search of life, "By human act, that turns a life adrift, "I sought, again, the springs of thought and love, "And found myself an outcast. "Still, I bear no hate against these laws, "Nor those that make them, "Nor e en the ones that did me wrong. "I ne er hold them in contempt, save in the form, "E en though they treat me so. "But they have bound me hand and foot, "Listening, I know, to a spirit s call, "And what I deemed my life s uplift." "And, why?" you ask, with questioning face. "Ah, well! I can not answer that." "And, now, they say to me, Thou, foolish one , "Or blind , or whate er else it be, "Thy spirit s jailed: thy day is done: "Except, thy spirit mayst live alone, "Until the evening of thy day." "Dost wonder, stranger, why I listen "To the rain without my window, "And watch its trickle on the pane?" Ten A BOX OF PAPER. Nothing romantic about a box of paper, of course; Even though the softest -white, With the narrowest of lavender border, and gilt edges, And tied with ribbon, neither lavender nor blue! To me, however, it is almost like a rose, With its velvety touch and gentle perfume. I think of all the thoughts, these sheets could bear. I read the toilsome "trip", of the beginner; The "wee-note" to the "daddy", or "mother"; The "prattle-home", of the school-girl; The "growing dignity", of youth; The lover s missives, with the first ring of passion; The deeper fires of manhood, With the acknowledgments of virtue; The sweep and balance of maturer years, With the glowing answers of womanhood; The mother to the child; The mother to the proud son, and he to her; The calm dignity of a father s lines; The missives of declining years, With the finger pointed at the things to come; The partings, the broken romances, the farewells; The wishes of the dead. I do not know whether the box of paper Makes me think of a white rose, a red one, The shell-pink, or a golden-centred cream. Eleven HIS QUEEN. My Beauty, with thy Titian hair, That walks the ball-room floor, With face and grace, That makes men stare, And women feel the gentle pulse of jealousy, I know that thou art mine. Tis Love s gift to them, that see, And the crown of a woman s life. Twelve ANOTHER. I sing the song of another Soul, Hid in the quiet of lawn and tree, A frail and delicate woman, With her son. True to the forms, that govern men, Save in the form that gave "him" birth, She now holds on her firm, predestined way, Star of a fixed righteousness. Hail, to thee too, thou tender Queen, Strong in thy resolve; And, may the star, that fell with "him" to earth. Shine on, in everlasting call to thee, Twin light and companion of thine own! Thirteen She hath crushed the bloom, That grew from just a bud, I know not why. The perfumed air, That I have breathed, Seems now but suffused heat, And noxious vapors, Stifling my lungs, And making me sick. The winds will blow again, I know; And, with their gentle play And fresh delight, Bring forth again The rose-bloom from the sky: And so, I lay me down to sleep, Until the night is past. Fourteen ON RE-VISITING A MOUNTAIN TORRENT, AFTER AN ABSENCE OF MANY YEARS. Proud Stream, that bursts thy way, Where unrelenting Nature would seem thy way to try to stay, I love thy thought! Thy chasms narrow, the rocks pile high, Within the very bed that Nature had thee run, And make thee surge, and burst, and twist, and writhe, Until thou toss st the madness of thy broken wave and leaping spray, Like an insult into Nature s grinning face. Thou smilest at the end, with victory won; And, thus, doth Nature vindicate itself. Fifteen ON A SECOND TIME BEING SHOWN THE DESPAIR- ING RHYMES OF A POET-FRIEND. I turn again to the rythmic verse, And the picture of things, "beyond"; Of prayers and dreams, and visions rare, And things that live and float in air, But never can be real. My heart turns sick at the foolish thought, At the tricks of the mind, that fool the heart; And the prate, prate, prate. Love is real; lips are sweet; The panting breast is not a dream; Still less, the touch of limb. So, I list to your foolish cries and myths, And smile at your broken fight and faith, In the thought of the things, though real, you ve missed, As I hand you back your rhyme. Sixteen TO THE CHILDREN OF THOUGHT. Grim Poverty, I wed thee! Knowing that Thou art near, I have no distractions. Fortunately, I want nothing. I have enough to eat, And a bed on which to rest. A kindly roof shields me from the rain and sun. My body is strong. My mind is good. With Thee, my Wife, And Work that must be done, Perhaps the Children will not be Poor. Seventeen THE BENEDICTION. Out upon the altar of the mountain s side, With starry night its cover, A man and woman kneel in silent prayer. The sound of distant waters Peals Nature s anthem from the Wood. The prayer is short; the reverence, deep. Tis the homeward journey ended, And the shaggy flock asleep; And the daily tribute Of the Shepherd and his Wife, In Love, That ends with Death. Eighteen THE DECEIVER. Thou hurtest thyself, e en more than me. Thou must have loved and wished me, Else thou wouldst not have soughtst me, as thou didst. I believed in thee, and thoughtest thee, What thou saidst thou wert, and what thou seemest. Thou brought est me joy, fresh hope, and inward peace. These, thou canst not now take from me. Perhaps thou, too, art purified. For, thou hast seen again the stars, That first brought forth the mockery of thine eyes, And held them since. Another Soul may see the Heavenly lustre, that I miss. I wish it thee, and him. Nineteen SUGGESTED BY A LINE OF THE KASIDAH. ("And thus the Immortal Being* rose".) "God is merciful and just", The Worshipper ever cries. The "Immortal Being" rose from out the Dust, Admitted born of Human Lust. "God is merciful and just", The Worshipper ever cries; "Has always known, and ever all will know, E en to the smallest thing". "God is merciful and just", The Worshipper ever cries. Twenty THE BARD OF GRASMERE. Musing and mumbling, His head bent low, and shoulders stooped, He strolls his way, as if without a mind, Along the road, that leads about a lake. He stops to pick a twig, as natives pass him by, Whom he neither sees, nor hears; And then he passes, musing, on his way again, - Wordsworth. Twenty-one A REFLECTION. Face to face "with Death, I see the meaning of Life: Work well done; No more sorrow to others, Than necessary; No days lost, That might reasonably have been saved; No flinching; Not the easiest way, always; Forgetfulness of self, But not self-effacement; Teaching, by example; Joy, but not hilariousness ; Preparation at all time, But hoping the mission fulfilled; A name, perhaps, But not necessarily, Nor exactly when; The smile of fruition, at the close. I see but one contest, When the World, habit-formed, Says, "This"; And a Conscience, mind-enlightened, Says, "That". The answer comes in time. I can not say just when, or how. Twenty-two THE FIRES. The Fires of Birth; The Fires of Youth; The Fires of Hate; The Fires of Love; The Fires of Ambition; The Fires of Pride; The Fires of Jealousy; The Fires of Greed; The Fires of Envy; The Fires of Battle; The Fires of Sorrow; The Fires of Success; The Fires of Genius; The Fires of Deceit; The Fires of Truth; The Fires of Disappointment; The Fires of Retrieve , The Fires of Passion; The Fires, that burn with the Sunlight; The Fires, that flare through the Night; The Fires, Un-named; The Rain is Death. Twenty-three I am a Traveler, but not Alone, And in Life s middle, Knowing whence I came, and why, But not whither I go, nor why. Twenty-Jour INFERIORS. Loud-mouthed, imperious, and coarse, I hear thy voice, Battered back against the vulgar face of thine opponent; Quarrelsome, and hearing nothing, save each his own. Fools, that waste thy time together, And seek to accomplish aught, in such a plight, save in a fight! Walk off, my friend, And prove thy Wisdom. Twenty-five I lie in the hammock, And in the perfume of the flowers. Through the pomegranate and the climbing rose, I see the Evening Star, That beckons to the Night. Ticenty-six THE CHASE. Away, my Love, to the mountain-tips, And the azure sky, beyond; The spring, unfound, in the tangled fern, And the pool, where the wild birds drink! Through thicket and fen, we ll make the chase, To the rainbow s play in the silken mist Of the cascade s rock-bound dance. Thy raiment shall blow, like rifts of snow, As we hurtle through the brush, Till tatters flit in a witches night, That saves thy body s milk-white blush For love s enraptured eye, And ravishing embrace. Twenty-seven LOVE S SLEEP. Upon thine arm, And gainst thy cheek, Wet with the unintentioned stab of love, That brought the tears, Love s lips would kiss away, Sweetheart, I lay my head. The day is done. Toil has sunk to its accustomed rest. So, my Love, Love falls asleep in love s embrace. Twenty-eight HER MOTHERHOOD. I lie upon the couch, where first I took thy love, And hear again the watching clock, That ticked its unison, with the beating of our hearts. With eyes half-closed, but mind alert, I see the distant scene, with thee in childbirth. Ministering hands, I know, are all about, Guiding thy body, and waiting for the life to come. May the Power that brought thee forth, and brought thy love, And brought the love that childbirth means, Stand now in unremitting care o er thee, And those that do His work, About thee. Twenty-nine THE LOVER. I think of your limbs and skin, my Heart; Of your lips and laughing eyes; Your breasts, and hair, and arms, and tread, And the toss of your teasing head. Oh, Love is a terrible, terrible thing, When linked to a Passion s fire: It knows naught else, nor cares, But the quest of its own desires. It eats, it burns, it twists, it hurts, It lifts, and drops, and tosses, and sways, Till nothing counts but it, Most so, when it burns and quakes, in adversity s way. Yet, there is nothing that lifts from Earth, And works at the Soul, and brings forth Life, But the blood-red Passion of killing Love, Strange as it sounds. But the bloom, that dies, must first put forth its bloom, E en though it knows it dies. So, the Love that kills, before it kills, Leads on to heights, that soberer Love can never reach. Your wild-eyed Lover, with his piercing glance and stare, Rushes on to die, but tears himself apart, meanwhile, And ope s the veins and arteries of his ghastly, bleeding Life, On which you, and all, can look; and, looking, ponder. So, pity me not, my Heart, But hang about my neck, while I die. Thirty THE PINES. Brown-trunked, crested spire of the straw-strewn Wood, Nude, save for thyself, I salute thee! I hear thy long, soft whisperings, of sun-kissed day, And the weird, lifting sighs, of wild night. I see the wounds, slow bleeding of the heart, That yields its sobbing wealth to woodman s axe, Plying fast thy death, with sickening thud, Until the crash of awkward limb, Outstretched in plea of everlasting green, Sounds thy quieting knell, Thy wretched stump, sole monument of thy past! Thirty-one THE SUMMIT. The strings of the harp are broken, And fall in confusion about its base, And I have none with which to mend it. The song seems ended, For I can not sing without its voice. Tis not the morn of sorrow, Nor the darkness of deception, Nor yet the loss of misplaced trust, Nor the end of hope. Tis the end of the touch of a quivering flesh, And the thrill, that it brings. The summit reached, "Midst chance and dare and love s devotion, A stern world calls for love s last sacrifice; And so, I turn to stone, but end the song withal; And men seem not to care. Thirty-two MEDITATION. But, why the end of dreams, made real, And why the starless night and blight, With body left to fight, And soul to live, And years of life? Thou canst not know, my questioner, I m sure. Thou, too, thinkest only of the spirit, as I. Hast thou forgot the man-made laws, Children of expediency, That bind and gild us all about? But, thou are right in this, my stranger-friend, That spirit soars o er matter s mortal mold, Helpmate, though the body is, And expression of spirit s soul; But yielding if, and when, it must, In dying tribute to a spirit s goal. Life s race is won, or lost, When it is run, and not before. So, stars and sky and boundless deeps, Sun and moon, and birds and winds, And all that keeps the ever onward march Of mind and faith and hope, Lead, thou, me on again, As thou hast led before. I love thee, for thyself, And what thou sayest, without end, Even to my tired mind, as it thinks. Thirty-three SOUL. That highest gift to Man, Born of things indefinable, That spreads in mystic touch From man to man, and race to race: A language of thine own, more like music, Whose limit is but the wealth of self, Reflecting, too, Man s wisdom of the ages: Thus, dost thou take on thine Immortality. Thirty-four THE DANCER. Bring on the dance; And let the woman be naked, Or girt with just enough To glut at first the quickening lust Of those that wait, with heavy eye, And thick, or thickening, lip, From whomso er descended. Whirling, twisting, bending, Writhing, wild-eyed; Slippery eel, evasive; Then, creeping sinuousness of snake; Slimy, gripping, relentless; Blood-arousing to jaws, apart; The prey enmeshes more the brutes, It keeps in wait. Stealing, hiding, crouching, But not yet! Outstretched, helpless, naked, now, Willing, breathing, panting food, To Beasts! Thirty-five AN AUTUMN NIGHT. Like a newly-minted coin of gold, The Moon steals slowly o er a sleeping world, As I watch it through the tracery of the trees, Soft whispering to each other, In the first, low sighs of Winter s herald. I hear the stealing rustle of leaves, That, seared and shriveled, Fall, helplessly, to earth. Beyond, the black abyss of distance, Lit by the silver sentinels of night, Fresh -bathed in Autumn air, Waiting for the Moon to pass. I gaze, with eyes apart; Then dream, with eyes half-closed; Then linger, still, in the glory of night s story. Each Soul must be the kindler of its fire, Taking its spark from sources ever old. Thirty-six Rather like a flash from out the sky, I trust, That brings the eye to look from out the dust; And, looking, yearn e er more and more, For minds and souls, that soar. Thirty-seven A woman loved with a man s strong faith, And a man loved her with a broken faith, That longed to be healed. What nights they spent, what kisses, Bewilderments of embrace, beyond expression, The delirium of sex, That lifts from Earth, To make of Earth, High Heaven! Thirty-eight WITH APOLOGIES to DARWIN, NEWTON, FRANKLIN, and "THE SACRED HOST" OF THINKERS. So small a thing Truth sometimes is, Or hid so far away, Man knows it not about. A single eye observes, Within a starless night, What eyes, as yet, have missed. Unerring Nature then, with Human Hand, Guides on the steady flight; And, soon, the first faint star, That broke into the night, Fades fast from sight, Within the glory of a dawn. But, what of thee, thyself, Most wondrous Mind, Creature and Creator, at once? Thou mayst check thyself Against the forms of growth and gravitation; The lightning s flash across the sky, That, harnessed, girds a world; Thou mayst check against the forms of heat, And the steady roll of season; But, canst thou check against thyself, and how, Creator, Arbiter, and, so, Creation, all in one? I see no difference, Save in the form, and form of growth. For, there the single spires must likewise rise, That toll the bells of thought, Which bring a world, in time, If not at once, nor all together, To worship at thy shrine, Save sanctuaries, yet unfound, And always so, but to the sacred few. Thirty-nine Hard, long, and dreary! Tempestuous night, or one that stays Beyond its rightful time, perhaps, About the spires that first must rear their heads Into the height of black, or unbreathed, sky, And toll against the mind, that sleeps, or hates, Or lies within the call, or calm, of bells, unbroken, As yet, the unacknowledged relics of the Past! Such, however, ( I call Thee, Universal Mind), Seems thy predestined way, Growing in wisdom, courage, and sense of right, Nature s tool, or checking consciously, in thy growing might, Against the facts and history of thyself, In single man, and race, and past, Or catching genius unchecked note, The peal must ever lift and spread, Taking the toll from the spires, below, Unto thine end, Long, slow toll, and requiem, at once, Of thine own creation, From the First unto the Last. Forty MY BOY. Wonderful Eyes! Sweet-tempered Boy, That smiles joy into loneliness, Where hast thou come from? I wonder! The soup drips from the climbing spoon, Which mounts, with faltering hand, To lips, that wait, apart, Outstretched o er plate, To sip the drop, that s left. Never mind the suit, nor cloth! There s soap and water by, And ready hands, And kisses! Forty-one Who can paint the things, though real, That seem to live in air, Like incense, rare, Or perfume of the rose, Or soul, that grows? Such, I say, is evanescent love, That makes me think of flight of dove, Or star-dust, from above; The trail of whispers through a distant cove, Or rainbow-rays about a maiden wove. And yet, the Lover knows that love is real, Stronger, Heaven knows, than hoops of steel. Forty-two ON CATCHING THE REFRAIN OF DISTANT MUSIC. I hear of music, to soothe a savage breast; Likewise, to lead a \varrior on to war. Hast thou heard of music, That stills sorrow, Brings chastened thoughts of peace; Leads the mind to think of children, And the help, that s needed, By those who think not for themselves? Forty-three REGRET IS VAIN. Regret is vain, And yet it may be well directed; As, for example, in the wish for form, That might direct attention to truth, Which, otherwise, might go unseen. Tis not the prophet one would wish to be, Nor find fulfilment of ambition s goal. Tis the truth, that, in the single mind, Like budding Nature, longs to come to life, When, and whereso er, it be, That truth be helped on just that bit. Tis the onward, almost unfelt, march of thought, itself, Seeking outlet, or aperture, for expression, That men may find some further way to grow. So, regret is vain, In wishing for the form that will not come, Though Nature may be better tending there its needs, than men. Tis not vain, to wish; Nor vain, perhaps, in bringing men to see, and listen, In sympathy with the wish. Forty-four THE FICKLE WIND. Blow, thou fool spirit of the night, Blow thy head off, Who cares? Thou earnest yesterday, soft as a woman s love, Warming the cheeks of her lover; And, now, thou dost churl and sour, Like a dyspeptic s stomach, Mad with thyself, and raving like a lunatic. So, blow thy head off, I hardly hear thee. To-morrow, or the morrow after, Sails will be atop again, clean and whole, Forgetful of thy fool antics, And smiling at thy rage. Fair, and on all thy quarters, Have I sailed, and far, And know too well thy tricks, half -human. So, blow, blow, blow! Blow thy head off, Who cares? Forty-five I travel in a maze of conflict, The call of duty, the spur of thought, The wilder promptings of the brute, Yet, crowned with Nature s primal need, Perpetuation of the race. Perhaps, tis best: And, still, he suffers most, Who takes its route; Not road, for tis not beat; Not wood, for tis not green, nor sweet; More like an ocean s deeps, t would seem, Surging with the tides, slow rolling; Cloud tossed, in anger s heat; Calm as infant sleep, some other day; Lit by moon and stars, at play; Like me, knowing nothing, but to have its way. Forty-six THE THINKER S REST. Her arms about his tired head, Her lips upon his brow; Her eyes, that look on his, instead, As the fires come, and go. How tenderly he breathes, Upon her nurturing breast, That she to him in virtue gives, A weary soul s first harbinger of rest. Awake, my love, to Morn s delight, That sweeps away the lingering mists, Which hung through thy long night! Awake, and take Proud Woman s gifts! Forty-seven The world is wondrous beautiful, Sweetheart, to thee and me. Not thought of stars, nor golden moon, Nor sunlight s glint upon an ocean s green, Nor fairy whisperings in bursting buds, Nor chattering lilt of woodland stream, Though these; But, in the glow of soul, the wealth of mind, The eyes* uplift towards Human goal, The kiss, that seals a spirit s bond, Union of two waifs of God: In such, thou art beautiful to me, And I am beautiful to thee. Forty-eight A REFRAIN. "The world is wondrous beautiful," I have said. I have not said, " Tis wondrous deep," Though such it is. We sing of Man s abstractions, And seek to put the flesh away; To cry aloft the virtues of the mind, And hate the promptings of the flesh; Man s deepest thought. Tis fool; tis foul; nor, is there need. That Power, that gave the mind, Hath given the body, too. The cry is not denial, To cramp, or twist, a spirit s growth. That Great Unknown hath made the form To take aloft the spirit s life, Born to unseen greatness. I hate the cry of fool s sacrifice. I love the cry of mind s uplift, That builds, in sacredness, that human Destiny, for which the flesh exists. Forty-nine TO HERNANDO de SOTO AND HIS BRIDE. As still as the midnight hour, As soft as the rose-tipped bower, My Love waits through the years for me, Scanning the ships at sea. As still as that death-like hour, Cold-wrapped in the shroud they lower, Soul, say, lifts to the blackened sky, Wafted beyond Love s eye. As still as dreams that are over, Now seared, like a frost-killed flower, My Love dies in the thought of me, Peering across the sea. Fifty On the edge of the harbor of Havana, still in a state of per fect preservation, is the venerable fortress of La Fuerza, built by Hernando de Soto, then the Spanish Governor of Cuba, in 1538, and, to-day, the oldest regularly inhabited building in the Western Hemisphere. From its little tower, overlooking the sea, de Soto s young bride, who had come with him from Spain, to share the mingled dangers and romance of the New World, waved her last farewells to her spouse and his fleet, as it sailed away in the month of May, 1 5 39, for the Land of Flowers, which was to be the gateway of de Soto s explorations into that then almost unbroken wilderness, beyond; and where he was to reign, as Marquis, over the territory he was to discover and reduce to con quest. For four years, Dona Isabel awaited the return of that fleet, and its gaily bedecked members, offering her prayers daily for the safety of her spouse, against sickness, Indians, and the perils of such an expedition. As the time drew near for his return, and passed, each day she scanned the distant horizon, ever more and more anxiously, for any signs of his fleet. After four years, a remnant of this expedition, as tragic in its ending as it was bril liant in its inception, and considered the most magnificent and complete of all the expeditions ever attempting the exploration of the New World, found its way back to Havana. From these survivors, Dona Isabel learned the full story of that voyage and its ending, the fever, that took her husband, from which he died, and his silent burial at night in the muddy waters of the Missis sippi. It is stated that she lived but four days after. Fifty-one The business of Life is to plant the seed where it shall always grow. Fifty-three TEDDY, MY DOG; TABS, MY CAT; AND I. "I am an old man. I was a boy once, all old men sometimes are. Then, I climbed the slopes of Italy, and watched the snow melt into the val leys. My parents were simple people, and pos sibly what you would call poor. I developed a taste for art. They indulged me to the extent of their means. I do not know why I left home, the Wanderlust , I suppose. In the old country , we then all dreamed of the new-found land of the West. Gold seemed to be had for the asking in America. I did not care for the gold. It was not that. There was a halo about the name, vir gin forests, Indians, wild animals; men, we thought, still had to fight there for a living. It seemed the place where any artist could paint, and live, and, shall I say, grow great. I suppose that is why I left. "I remember the partings, no need to de tail them. Anyone can imagine them, father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends, earlier hopes, all left behind, the land of a new birth, ahead. That was nearly forty years ago, You can see now, why the gray hairs, and the step that is not quite as firm as it once was. I settled here. The marks of time are not often to be seen in a new world ; but I saw them, scattered here and there, in some of your buildings. The French and Spanish and Italian had its familiar sound to me. Some of your pavements seemed natural to my tread. In youth, I had walked in corri dors, not unlike some I saw here. Many windows Fifty-five and balustrades, your iron grilles, an old park, or two, made me feel not quite so strange; and they gather about the fancies of an artist s mind. I made a little money. Some few came to see me. Some praised my work. Not many bought. I had not thought of this in a new country, where men were still having to work, mainly to live, and still thinking mainly of this. Art, of course, I see now, doesn t belong to an entirely new world. As a young man, it is easy to think almost any thing possible. We can even change it, if necessary, we think. Sometimes we do; but old age not uncommonly supplies the corrective. "It is not necessary to finish the story. You see my pictures all about. I painted them: it was my only way of talking. They are, to me, the pages of the past. I can not part with them for that which most are willing to pay. One can not give his best away. So, we still talk to each other. At my death, they can pass to those who choose, paid for as they wish, unless I should destroy them. Possibly we should die together: we have lived together. Except, there might be someone to love them, maybe more than I know. All have not seen them. They, too, might like to live. I think so. I don t think I will destroy them. "You must pardon me. Each man has but one life. Youth must bear just a little with age. We will check up in time, and you would be sur prised to know what pleasure you have given us in the meanwhile. "We shall go to the gate with you, except Tabs, who never hears his name except at meal time. No, Teddy, this way; the back-way, when we go to market. Fifty-six "Drop in whenever you wish, whenever you see the door open: that means we are at home." Fifty-seven SUGGESTED BY "AN UNPUBLISHED LETTER OF LORD BYRON." My Dear Judge: I accept your verdict. This is no defense, since I do not know my crime. The blow is greater than I realized, because I can not re cover yet. A day and a night, of realizing all that these three weeks have meant to me, have left me physically weak. I have walked without seeing, anywhere, anywhere, to get some grip on myself. I have just left the Cathedral, as I hoped that some reflection from the worship of others might give a false sense of peace. But you have waked me with one of the great est shocks I have ever felt, and my life has been one series of shocks. Not so many years ago, I accepted shattered ideals, and tried to fit in, as one has to live, and there is so much in life if one can only find it. And now, after half a life-time, you give me a glimpse of what all my life I have been seeking, at the same time that you shut the door to what might have been. I have been so hungry, always, for something to fill me; and, in despair, I took any crumbs that came my way. You see I am not strong, like you, who have never been satisfied except with the ideal you erect, and who will not accept the substitute. I came here in a spirit of desperation, thinking that, in a strange city, I might get away from the rut I was in, and still find some breathing-space, in \ Fifty-eight which to live something more of life. I came with all left behind me, with an open mind, and to test alone what life had made me, or, rather, what I had done with life. It takes so long to learn to live in a fine way, when there is nothing to guide one but idealized stories from books; and that is about where I have had to learn, since my everyday life has been sheltered and commonplace. Always, I have tried to live the best that was in me, and have found nothing too hard that would make me bigger, but you have found some stain in me, that I do not realize my self. Hereafter, there will be only the best in me, for my self s satisfaction, since I know now that there is really someone in the world, who be lieves in the highest. I could be all you hinted at, to you. It would be the fulfilment of all my dreams and unconscious efforts toward an un known greatness, which I never seemed to realize. You have so much strength, that I was content to be here with you, passively waiting to know you, giving you myself, as you demanded, and not dreaming that it would mean so much to me. It is best that the break comes now, since it would have been only a matter of time when the wrench would come, and I do not think I would ever have recovered. My life and respon sibilities are waiting for me, and I know I must go on. I shall not stay much longer in your city, since it means but a closed book to me now, and my period of relaxation is over once more. There is much hard work before me, and very little joy; but, I have always been strong enough to face things, with smiles and courage. I want to thank you for all you have giv en me. The bitterness lies in the hurt that I have Fifty-nine so unwillingly and unknowingly dealt you, and the fact that you, the one strong person in my world, have sent me away with a tainted memory of me, behind. Every one, I have ever known, has so far been happier for knowing me, though each has left little, or no, change in me. Can not you find some pleasant image of me in this so short a companionship? Perhaps, the thought that you have brought me back to a sense of the finest may help a little, though it can do noth ing to ease your mind of its problems. To-mor row, I am going to find work in a factory here, until I make enough to go away. I have abso lutely nothing, and my pride will not let me be sent home. I will try no more work where per sonality counts, while here, since this city means to me simply a setting for you. I do not know how you will think of this effort to talk to you, but, since I never expect to see you again, it is my only way of telling you, "Good-bye". Lerscha. You will find the key, that I had, in the drawer of the library-table. Sixty Blind nature selects. Why not, human beings? Sixty-one DAD S SLEEP. The snow flecked against the half -sheltered window-panes, while the wind whistled through the forest. It was a wonderful night, in some ways. There was no moon, of course; nor the twinkling welcome of the silver star. 1 1 was more a wild night, as though some demon-like spirits, in a mixture of devilish glee and " don t-care", were seeing what mischief they could do, with no thought of the "little hearts," that could see nothing but disappointment on the morrow, not old enough yet to know how quickly and how unexpectedly calms and storms follow each other, as with life, husband and wife, children, everything, in fact, that thinks, supposed to. The little hut seemed almost to tremble, as the wind raised, The tree-sighs carried through the hollows and over the hill-tops, and the snow began to pile. The yellow warmth of a lamp shone dimly through the spotted window. The broken lines of a child s figure traveled, in jerks, across the glass. At times, one caught the lift ing laugh of the child, then the mellow tones of a woman s voice: once, or twice, the stifled "grunt", as it were, of a dog. "You had better go to bed, don t you think, sweetheart? It is late, and you must be sleepy. And, how is Santa Claus going to get in, if you stay awake?" "Baby not sleepy, mother." "Yes, but you are; and the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa Claus will come. Don t you know that?" Sixty-three "All right," his style, though four years old. Clothes were soon off, and laid away: the outline of a tiny form beneath a "crazy-quilt", a picture-face and head, showing. Sweet dreams! Only he knew. The fire flickers. Pine-sparks jump about, but do no harm in that huge hearth. They seem to make merry, in their own delight, with the whistling winds and the snow, outside. A tired "heart", but not too tired, the line that comes only of tender reflection over sweet memories, unredeemable, in a beautiful face, falls asleep in her chair, some man s handiwork, the shaggy dog at her feet. Strange place for a young woman and her child, alone, with those delicate features, the soft voice, the small foot, her lips ; and his face, as he sleeps! Not another house within half a mile; no farm of their own : signs of flowering bushes and vines, but nothing to eat! A dog barked in the distance. The one on the hearth looked up, but went back to sleep. So, did "she". Like life, did we say, the storm broke. Hard ly a flake, now. Lighter clouds, with their sil ver fringes showing. A rift here, and the tip of a silver crescent. Low, sweet sighings, the tempest past. The winds would ask forgiveness, as it were, for even frightening children. The mother still dreams. Gentle, almost even, flickerings of the fire, and the warmth of embers. "It seems a pretty poor time, love, for an artist to be working, but I think I can catch just what I want. I am after the jutting laurel and the snow, together, against the rocky cliffs of old Whitesides. It will make a wonderful pic- > ture. Sixty-four "But, heart, how can you work in such weather? It s enough to give you pneumonia besides, sitting there in such weather. I would rather you wouldn t try it." "I ll make it all right. I want the picture for a Christmas present for you and myself, as it were. It has been hanging in my mind all Fall, and there is just about the right amount of snow there now to get my last effects. I ll show it to you when it s finished. Don t worry. I m bundled all right." Kisses, and he was off. "Mommy, is Dad back yet?" "Not yet, sweetheart. He said he wanted to finish a picture, that we were all going to be proud of. It is quite a walk back, and, though he didn t tell me, the night is so bad, he may stay, I m sure, at one of the farmhouses in the neigh borhood, over-night, especially if he hasn t been able to finish before dark. If he doesn t come pretty soon, though, we ll go to bed, and look for him to-morrow. Mother s not worried." They must have been as they called each other, "heart" and "love", and the sparkle was in the child s eye. He was an artist, and she was a fit wife. They had come to this mountain- spot for some of his work. As a youth, he had roamed through these mountains, his "pack" on his back, drinking in the perfume of the woods, and catching the thread-like streams through the hemlock. He sketched a little then, just be ginning. Now, he was further on, but love was still fresh, and the trees swayed, and the birds sang, with some one else, at his side. She knew it ; and so, why shouldn t they both be happy. The "touch" was in his work. No, they were not care-free. They were just beautifully balanced, Sixty-five and the "lilt" from day to day never ended. The scent of the wild flowers was there, and they smelled it. The drone of the bumble-bee circled through the day, and they heard it. The tinkle of the cow-bell, through the hollow, was like the call to supper, with the first faint ray of the evening star, when "he" might not be catching the rose-tints of sunset. And so, the dream, made real, went on, and the child s merry laugh fit in. Morning came: no Dad. Evening came: no Dad. They found him the next day, at the foot of the cliff. School-starting time will come in a few years, and the little figure will not then flit any longer across the window-panes, flecked with the snow sometimes; letting in sun s rays at other times; letting the mother look sometimes at the moon and the stars, and the silver sheen of the snow-banks, as she listens to the crackle of the pine on the hearth. In the meanwhile, Daddy sleeps on the hillside, by the rhododendron and the laurel, with a huge boulder at his head. The colors change all about him, with the Spring, and the Summer, and the Autumn; and, in the Winter, the squirrels sometimes leap past him. "She", and "he", that is yet hardly able to know, are near. Flowers and vines are still tend ed. Fortunately, they have enough for this. When school-time comes, he will start. His future, now, is here. Daddy will still sleep just where he is. He loved it so. What is it that brings wealth of mind? "Why, I didn t dream I had slept so long! I will never have the things ready for the baby, and his little friends. Hurry, I should say! I see the sun breaking now." Sixty-six They are all happy, now. The spirit of Christmas is awake. The winds have quit. The snow is there, but the sun, too. Baby prattle and noises are all about, with so many "thanks", to the kind "lady", who thinks of others, as well as her own. Two, or three, baskets of fruits, vege tables, farm-things, honey, eggs, are near-by, sim ple presents, appreciated by a delicate mind. The scene will probably be repeated for a few years. As much happiness to all? Let us hope so. Some will probably always celebrate just such a Holiday; possibly all of them, except the life that must grow into Dad s place. Sixty-seven A PROSE IDYL. The human body is so beautiful! The Maker of All Things has shaped the body of a man and of a woman. The man is strong and sinewy. His limbs are lithe and straight. His head should stand erect, and his vision be clear. At his side, is the figure of the woman. Her skin is soft. Her breasts are full and true. Her limbs invite the admiration of her consort. Her eyes are pleading. As yet, she lives in and through him. Her body is his inspiration. Is that all? Not yet. She has a soul, as he has. She speaks, as he speaks. She loves, as he loves. They both love. A light comes into their eyes, a holy light, the light of love, which no one, who never loves, can see. For him, for her, a halo comes about the figure, of the man and of the woman, each of the other. It is the soul of the body. The soul steals more and more from the body, but gives, also. The new lights come about the body. The body can never live alone, again. Sixty-eight THE STRANGER, AGAIN! "Why, you here again? You mustn t do that. We, old men, as I told you, will talk, and youth isn t always impolite, as you, yourself, prove." "But, I came here this evening for two things; one, I am going to tell you, and the other, I am not going to tell you, possibly." "That s interesting. Well, let s have it." "First, I want to know why it is that you live here with a dog and a cat. You ve never of fered to tell me, and so I have to ask." "Is that the thing you were going to tell me?" t\r > Yes. "Interesting way of telling me something." "I did get it a little twisted. Didn t I?" "Well, I would say slightly." "But you don t mind telling me, do you?" "Not at all. It is a pretty good joke on my self; and, considering you are a woman, you have gone about getting it out of me just about the natural way. Where shall I begin?" "At the start." "Oh, no! That s too far back." ;;But, I d rather." "Well, we ll get over the first part quickly, then." "Just so you don t skip anything." "Very good. We start. "As a young man, I didn t wish to marry at all. What does a young man wish to marry for? If an ordinary mortal, he gets tired. If he is not ordinary, then everybody tells him he will Sixty-nine never settle down to the humdrum of married life. How many writers or artists, that you know of, ever amounted to anything in marriage? I mean the fellows that stand out through the past. Peculiar, isn t it? And yet, it s so. Well, I would never admit I was an ordinary mortal; and, if I was, why, according to my friends, and what I could see of it myself, I was bound to get tired, if I did marry. So, what was the use, in either case? I didn t marry. "Oh, I had lots of fun. We, boys, have lots of fun. I had a glorious time. Nothing ever do ing, that I didn t know about it, and generally get into it, good or bad, most of the time, bad. I was keeping up my painting, working, I thought, for a future. Fine thought now, isn t it? I was supposed to do pretty fair work. I did pretty fair work. That s it, pretty fair. Nothing wonderful. I woke up one day, to find myself forty-five years of age, with nothing very much done; and I was considered, in my youth, to have talent. I remember the day the thought struck me. I felt like a school-boy. I do not see, even now, how I can smile at the recollection. Probably, grown hard; and then, there is another thought. Humor and pathos run such a close race, in life, that we never know just which one is ahead. I don t know now. I suppose that is why I am laughing. You are still too young. "I sat in front of this fire-place, one night, where you are sitting now. I rehearsed to my self that whole miserable past of mine. My par ents were dead. I had had a sister, but she was dead, leaving a daughter, who subsequently married, but of whom I never knew very much, anyhow. I never kept in touch with anybody, as you can imagine. As I thought over the situation, Seventy I said to myself, it s not too late yet. Things have been done by men of your age, but you had better not waste any more time. I had unmis takable talent, I m sure, but I had never led the life that could be expected to bring any possible depth to my work. A person may paint pretty pictures, just as many may write fairly pretty stories, pleasing, if you will, but, ultimately, of a more or less superficial character, no depth, as I said. To do fine things, you ve got to have ability, of course, but you ve got to have character, too. I am sure that I had very much more than ordi nary ability. I didn t have the character. Very simple! So, the man of forty-five started to build it up. Rather humorous in itself, isn t it? "That past hadn t been quite so bad for years back, but right then I closed it like a book. I took a sea-trip. I watched the porpoises play about the vessel, so many days. At night, I stayed on the deck to watch the moon and the stars, and to hear the swish of the water against the vessel s side, the striking of the ship s bell, and the worthy beat of the engines, below. It did me a world of good. Started me on the right track again. I can recall the satisfied spirit, with which I stepped ashore, buttoning my coat on the gang-plank, for further protection, I suppose. You smile. I made it; but too late for any outsider to admit. The brand was indelible. I could see the improvement in my work; but others, of course, wore their old spectacles. So, my conquest was for my own purposes, solely. That is why you see so many of my pictures, good, bad, and indifferent, about me. They be long to different states of my mind, different periods, but they are all catalogued substantially Seventy-one alike, the reflections of my poorer work. Still, I m not sorry. I did right. "I think I said I would get over this first part of my story quickly. Rather slow speed , isn t it? But, I am old," with a laugh. "We come to your part, now. I advertised one day for a housekeeper. I was over fifty then. I had continued to fight my battle alone, and only for the satisfaction it gave me. I had an old colored woman helping me generally about the place, getting up my meals, also, when I wished them at home. I didn t have Teddy and Tabs then. I bought them later. I was beginning to feel lonely, though I hardly knew it by that name. If one is by himself, but has enough work to keep him busy, he can get along pretty well without exactly experiencing loneliness. If he has the social instinct, he gets on fairly well, too. If he wastes his time, he thinks he gets on very well. I was coming late in life to have the thoughts, that were a little late in arriving. As an artist, my future, I then came to see beyond a doubt, like my past, was practically set. I thought some woman would bring a touch into my home, that I longed for. "I was right. I was always right in the con clusions, wrong in the choice. A young woman came one day, answering the advertisement, say ing she needed work. I was rather surprised at a person of her apparent position, applying for work of this character; nothing degrading, of course, but it seemed rather unusual to find a young woman of her type seeking domestic em ployment. I thought I would ask no questions, and I took her in. It was the first time I had ever been brought into such close contact with a woman of her delicacy, and, after a while, I be- Seventy-two gan to feel it. I mean that seriously. I did not pay very much attention to it for a long time, I think I could say ; and then it finally began to dawn on me that this young woman was becoming some thing very peculiar. I never cared very much for the use of the word, love . I have never known just what it meant. I was only beginning to know that my home was coming to mean something for me, very different from the knockabout place I had known. You see, I had not even dreamed very much about a home. Really, didn t think much about it. Too busy with other things. "Time grew, and the strain grew. Sometimes I could not resist touching her hair. She let me do this. The next step was sometimes seeing her through the night, when I would be alone. The thought was sweet. It was harmless, too. One day I asked her to marry me. I can see it so well. I have to laugh now. The child seemed thunder struck. She wasn t even able to answer. Her si lence awoke me. I wasn t a fool. I had just mere ly temporarily gotten out of my mind, as it were. "Pardon me, I said, after a moment s awkward silence, I am all right again, now. You must forgive me. I promise not to let it happen again. You must take my hand in token of for giveness. She did. "Nothing more was ever said, or done, but I had spoiled everything. I was then fifty-five, proposing to her, a girl of twenty-two, as I recall her age. How selfish, if nothing else! The harm never could be undone. I could still not suppress myself entirely. I could not begin to restore orig inal conditions. She could not forget what I had been willing to say, and do. There could be but one ending to this. She had to leave me. It wasn t fair for her to stay around me, after that. I told Seventy-three her she must go. I was glad she took it as sweetly as she did. She kissed me good-bye. I have never seen her since. She wanted to write me sometime, she said, but I told her, no, she mustn t do it: that she must forget all about this place, except some day to make for some man the home I knew she could, and which I had never tried for, until I had become an old fool , I believe I said. Sometimes, I think I would be interested to know just what did become of her. Of course, I have passed out of her mind, as it was nearly five years ago, that she left here. The old colored woman is back. She, Teddy, Tabs, and I now make up the household : I suppose, for the rest of the time, until one, or the other, checks in , shall I say? That is the story of the old man of sixty years, now. Not much of a life, is it? If some of us live for others, and some for ourselves, then some, for what? Do not take this as pes simism, please. I am just thinking, myself." "Do you remember the name of this young woman, that worked for you?" "Why, a simple name: I think it was Ruth. I forget the family-name. I always called her, Ruth." "Her name wasn t Ruth Sorensen, was it?" "No, no. The first name was Ruth, but I am sure the last name was not Sorensen. Why do you ask?" "Because I knew a Ruth Sorensen; in fact, I know her now, and I thought she told me she had done some work for you once; and it is my recollection she said it was housekeeping." "No. I m sure of that. She, or you, must be mistaken." "I am going to bring her to-morrow, if you don t mind; because, if she is a fib-teller , I want Seventy-four to know it, and I have reasons for wanting to know." "I certainly haven t any objections, I m sure, provided you do not embarrass me in the matter, whatever your idea may be." "I ll promise not to embarrass you." "That is sufficient in this mystery, shall I call it? Am I to learn the meaning finally?" * v " You may. The door closed, and the old man was be fore the fire again, Teddy, at his feet, asleep; Tabs in his usual place, on the lounge. In a little while, smoke curled from a pipe, and, soon, all three were asleep. ***** "Can I introduce Ruth Sorensen to you? And this is her husband." "Interesting disclosures! What is the mean ing of all this?" "Very simple. You are the victim." from Ruth Sorensen. "This is my husband, as sister told you. Some months ago, mother died, and sister came here for work. Father died some years ago. Sis ter knew of my having kept house for you, and so, she came to see you. We did not know she was doing it, until the other day, when she wrote us. Last night, we got a telephone message from her to come up here to-day, and she insisted that I bring Mr. Sorensen with me. When we get here, we are told about you, and sister told me the story of last night. She thinks she has found a solution. Will is the general manager of the lum ber mills, just below here; and sister doesn t see why we can t keep house for you, you contrib uting the house, and we paying for everything Seventy-five else. See what a business woman I ve gotten to be; and I think we can afford to keep your old servant, Dinah, too." "What is sister going to do, as you term her, my stranger?" "She insists on staying where she is. She thinks she is an old maid." "Well, old maids and old bachelors ought to get on fairly well together, and I think two of them will have to try." Mr. Sorensen smiled. The old man has never known very much of moisture about the eyes. He smiles too much. His remark was, "I think I will have some comforts in my old age. Teddy, these are your new mistress and master." Seventy-six THE SWAN SONG. I am listening to the strains of the Swan Song. The beautiful, harmless bird, that would otherwise float so gracefully about, for men to look upon, and even now floats so gracefully about, is wounded unto death. "Why should I be wounded," it seems to say, "I, that harm no one?" A faint streak of blood trickles down its snow-white neck. It tries proudly to hold its head up. It succeeds for a while, but the wound is mortal. It floats a little. There is a slight move ment of its body, as it struggles, still, to keep alive. Slowly, the life-blood ebbs away. The wound is fatal. A last pleading look, even at the huntsman that has wounded it! "I have not harmed you;" it seems to say again, and with pity, not hate, "but it is done, nevertheless." The head drops, and then the neck falls across the body, and then into the water. The harmless, snow-white swan is dead. Seventy-seven PAUL CHARLES MORPHY. A Study of His Person. * "On a beautiful sunshiny day in June, 1858, I was talking to the late Mr. Barnes, of Simp son s Divan, when the door opened, and Paul Morphy entered the room. Unlike some other notabilities, he did not immediately unbonnet himself to display his capacious forehead, nor did he pause and look around to attract and grat ify his admirers, but quietly and unobtrusively walked up the room to the place where we were sitting, and, having shaken hands with my com panion, sat down to play him a game of chess. He was, literally speaking, canopied with a huge, broad, Panama hat, and wore a light suit of clothes, seemingly of fine grey linen; he was neat in his dress and gentlemanly in demeanor. Upon taking his seat at the board, he doffed his hat and revealed to my sight a large and well proportioned head. His brow was remarkably fine and massive, broad, as well as lofty. His eyes were dark, neither prominent nor deeply set, but very luminous, and, better still, very pleasant in expression. Just above them rose those bumps which are supposed to betoken the possession of the calculating faculty. The lower part of the face, and particularly the firmly set jaw, indi cated, if not, obstinacy, considerable determina tion of character. His smile was delightful; it seemed to kindle up the brain-fuel that fed his eyes with light, and it made them shoot forth most brilliant rays. Morphy was short of stature, but well, and even gracefully, proportioned, Seventy-eight Paul Charles Morphy. save that his hands and feet were preternatur- ally small, the former being very white and well shaped." "Although, like Buckle, Morphy generally kept his eyes fixed intently upon the board whilst he was playing, yet, like that gentle man, he always looked up from it as soon as he had a winning game, but never with an exulting or triumphant gaze. He seldom, in fact, in my presence never, expended more than a minute or two over his best and deepest combinations. He never seemed to exert himself, much less to cudgel his brains, but played with consummate ease, as though his moves were the result of in spiration. I fancy he always discerned the right move at a glance, and only paused before ma king it, partly out of respect for his antagonist and partly to certify himself of its correctness, to make assurance doubly sure, and to accustom himself to sobriety of demeanor in all circum stances." *Note. The above description of Morphy s general appearance and style of play is taken from a book, entitled "Chess Life- Pictures", written by G. A. MacDonnll, and published in London in 1883. As the observations are Mr. MacDonnell s personal ones, and are couched in such graceful style, the writer has concluded he could not do better, than to quote the extracts, in full. It is desired, therefore, to acknowledge distinctly the indebtedness to Mr. Mac Donnell s work. Seventy^nine PAUL CHARLES MORPHY. A Biographical Memoir. The subject of this sketch was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, on June 22nd, 1837, and he died in that city on the afternoon of July 10th, 1884, in the bath-room of the "House," now known as No. 4 1 7 Royal Street, which had been the family home for very many years, having been bought by Morphy s father in 1 84 1 . From a death-notice of July 1 1 th, 1 884, it appears that Morphy died about half-past two o clock in the afternoon, of the 10th. It is assumed by the writer that this was fixed on as the approximate time of Morphy s death, as far as such could be determined under the precise circumstances of his death. It had been Morphy s daily custom for many years to take the walk from his home, up Royal Street to Canal Street, and then about Canal Street and the vicinity, and then back home again, down Royal Street; and he some times did this several times during one day. Most of those, who recalled Morphy in the later years of his life, almost always thought of him taking this walk, scrupulously dressed, and his only companion his slender walking-stick. It was ap proximately in the neighborhood of two o clock, on July 10th, when Morphy returned from one of these walks, and, being very warm, he impru dently went to the bath-room, for a cold bath. As he remained there longer than seemed nat ural to his mother, she became alarmed. Going to the bath-room, she called to her son, from whom she received no answer. Finding the door Eighty locked, she then hurried to one of the neighbors for assistance. The door of the bath-room was forced, and Morphy was found in the tub, dead. The death is generally attributed to a congestion, thought produced by Morphy s taking this bath too soon after this walk, in his overheated con dition.* Morphy was born in the residence, now known as No. 1113 Chartres Street, which sub sequently acquired additional distinction as the home of General Beauregard, one of the more distinguished generals of the Confederacy, in the Civil War. This house can still be seen. It sits directly opposite the original Convent, erected for the order of the Ursuline Nuns, of which they took possession in the year 1734, and in which they remained until the middle of the year 1824. It shortly after became the official resi dence of the Roman Catholic Archbishop, stationed at New Orleans, or, as it is termed, the Archbishopric of this territory, which it con tinued to be until a few years ago. It is now per manently attached to St. Mary s Roman Cath olic Church, adjoining. It was in this building that the Nuns prayed for the defeat of the Brit ish in the year 1815, when the Battle of New Orleans was being fought only a few miles away, between the British troops and the Americans, under "old" Andrew Jackson, helped by some of the "tiger-like" fighters of the pirate band of *For the benefit of the curiously Inclined, the writer obtained the reports of the Weather Bureau for that day, July 10th, 1884. These reports showed a temperature, under Observatory conditions, that is, not in the sun, of 90 degrees at 3 p. m., the nearest period of observation at that time, with the sky then partly cloudy. The reports also showed two thunderstorms during the day, one in the morning and one in the evening, both attended by rainfall, indicat ing the presence of much humidity in the atmosphere throughout the day. Eighty-one Jean Lafitte, whom Jackson had "pardoned", as it were, for the purpose of this battle. It is said that the bravery of these pirates, in this battle, so impressed Jackson, whose admiration for a fighter was characteristic, that he never failed to stop and chat with any one of them, that he might come upon. Two facts, in passing, con nected with this battle, not invariably known, might be interesting to the reader. One is, that the American troops did not fight in the Battle of New Orleans from behind cotton bales, some current supposition, a little romance, and some "history", to the contrary. A few bales of cotton were used originally in places, supposedly to strengthen parts of the earthworks, hurriedly thrown up by the Americans, about a mile long, but the fire of the British soon set these aflame, and the troops quickly threw the bales aside, as evident sources of danger rather than protection, finding, as we regret to have to comment, from experiences only too recent, that "terra firma" was the real protection. The paraphernalia of the battle was the usual "fodder", men, weapons, horses, possibly some mules, an embankment, in which, as stated, a few bales of cotton had orig inally been placed, but which were soon taken out, the open field, and some trees. The use of the few bales started the romances, together with the pictures, even, where the guns protrude from be tween, and behind, cotton bales, and men are engaged in mortal combat on their tops. The other observation, to which the histories do not always specifically direct attention, is that the battle was actually fought about two weeks after the Treaty of Peace had been signed by Great Britain and the United States, the news not actually reaching Jackson until February Eighty-two 1 3th, 1815, over a month after the fighting of the battle, and a month and a half after the actual signing of the Articles of Peace, an interesting testimonial to the speed with which news trav eled in those days, as compared with the pres ent. The house, in which Morphy died, is, of course, directly opposite the building, known as the New Courthouse. Among other public uses, to which the building is put, is that of "housing" the Supreme Court of the State, the building, in this way, becoming the State s "Temple of Justice." Morphy s birth, therefore, from its "religious setting," as it were, passes, in the thought of the house in which he died, to the "judicial setting," with but one distinction, ap parent to the observer, that the building, in which Morphy had his birth, sits opposite, and on a substantial level with, the religious edifice it faces, while the house, in which he died, also sits opposite, but rather in the "shadow", as it were, of the "Temple of Justice." Paul Charles Morphy, who is known al most everywhere merely as Paul Morphy, on his father s side, came of Spanish descent, traced originally from Irish sources, the original name appearing, from the family coat of arms, to have been O Murphu, next O Murphy, and then the familiar Murphy, simply. Sometime during the eighteenth century, the writer could not state positively the exact date, but undoubtedly after the accession to the English throne of the first of the Hanoverian dynasty, and following the fall of the House of Stuart, Morphy s more immediate ancestors emigrated from Ireland, being, no doubt, among those self-exiles, whose emigration starts, substantially, with the downfall of the House of Stuart, and continues throughout the Eighty-three rebellious movements, that have subsequently marked Ireland s career. Many of these exiles, or refugees, whichever they might be, went to France and Spain, as is well known; and it is as a resident of Madrid, Spain, that we come upon Don Diego Morphy, Sr., Paul s grandfather. The Spaniards, having found the "u", of Murphy, troublesome to pronounce, changed it into the letter, "o", pronouncing the name as though spelled "Morfee." That is the history of the pres ent name, Morphy. The Irish associations of Morphy s grandfather are still more clearly indicated by the name of his first wife, Mollie Creagh, which would lead to an easy inference that Morphy s grandfather, with that particular wife, were the actual persons to leave Ireland, which would place that emigration somewhere in the middle of the eighteenth century, which the writer learns, on such data as can be found, to be supposedly the approximate time of this emi gration. In 1 793, Morphy s grandfather appears a resident of Cape Francis, Santo Domingo; and, from there again, with his first wife, Mollie Creagh, he was driven out by the well known "San Domingo revolt", contemporaneous with the French Revolution of 1 793. This wife escaped from the Island by going aboard an English vessel, lying in the harbor, disguised as a seller of vege tables, with her infant son, Don Diego, Jr., hid den in the basket, which appeared filled with cabbages. The two sailed, with the vessel, to Philadelphia; and mother and son were later joined there by the father, Don Diego Morphy, Sr., who escaped from the Island on a vessel bound for Charleston. From Philadelphia, Don Diego Morphy, Sr., moved, with his first wife and their child, to Charleston, South Carolina, Eighty-four where the first wife died. Don Diego Morphy, Sr., then married Louise Peire, whom he met in Char leston, who was, herself, the descendant of a French Huguenot. By this second marriage, four children were born, and one of these children, Alonzo Michael Morphy, known generally as Alonzo Morphy, simply, became the father of Paul, the subject of this sketch. From Charleston, Don Diego Morphy, Sr., came to New Orleans, with his family, which included, at this time, Paul s father, then very young. Some of the vicis situdes of fate, therefore, as well as the funda mentally rebellious character of the "stock", from which Paul sprung, appear on the horizon at the very beginning of our first definite knowl edge of his ancestry. This is added to in Paul s mother, whom Paul s father, Alonzo, met and married in New Orleans. She was of French de scent, and her family had come to the United States by way of the West Indies, also. Her name, which is as sacred as that of the father, was Thelcide Louise Le Carpentier. The "geographical drift", as it were, of Morphy s ancestry, on his father s side, is very clearly indicated by the father s name, Alonzo Michael Morphy, in the Spanish "Alonzo", a "given" name, the Irish "Michael", and the family-name, "O Murphu", next "O Murphy", and subsequently "Murphy", with its Spanish pervert, "Morphy". After reading law under Edward Livingston, one of Louisiana s most fa mous jurists, and later entering the practice of that profession, Alonzo Morphy, himself, at tained to distinction in the State, twice becom ing a member of the legislature, also attorney- general of the State, and finally a member of the Supreme Court of the State of Louisiana. He Eighty-five died in the year 1 856, just a little too early to see his son reach really to "fame" in the chess world, which might be said to begin with the son s ap pearance in the American Chess Congress, con vened in New York in October, of 1857. It was the father, who, first noticing the son s singular in terest in the game, and, gradually, his precocious powers for it, then seriously began to teach his son the moves of the game and the comparative value of the pieces. It might be interesting to ask whether he would have done so, had he been able to foresee his son s entire career, assuming, more particularly, that the unpremeditated "diver sion", as so intended, of chess, turned Morphy s entire career, bringing, after the transitory flight of "chess-genius", the long years of gloom to Morphy, ending, according to the writer s judg ment, in such ultimate impairment of Morphy s mind, as did appear. In the light of all Morphy s history, would a Solomon have decided this, in advance? And, who would undertake to decide such a question now? Do you suppose the in dividual could decide it? There is another thought to which the father is entitled, before we leave him for the son. Decided rightly or wrongly, and by premeditation or accident, he did not see, as we have indicated, anything but practically faint forebodings of powers in his son, which, in the fondest dreams of a parent, he could hardly have felt were to lead where they did, and whose development must certainly largely be attributed to the father, through his early personal encour agement, another of those ironical workings of fate, as common as they are sometimes inevita ble, and almost a proper introduction to Mor phy s own life. To Reality, the Thought is every thing: the Individual, nothing. Eighty-six Paul Charles Morphy was given the usual educational advantages of his period, and he came to speak four languages fluently, French, English, Spanish, and German. He was first sent to a local institution, in New Orleans, and then to St. Joseph s College, at Spring Hill, Ala bama, where he was graduated, with the high est honors, in 1854. He remained one year after that, however, during which time his attention was given almost exclusively to the study of law and mathematics, an interesting combination, even to the casual observer, and full of meaning to those familiar with his life. Morphy was gradu ated from the law department of the University of Louisiana in 1857, and was subsequently ad mitted to practice. In this way, that is, by his graduation in law and his entry in the American Chess Congress at New York, both in 1857, and within a few months of each other, Morphy launched himself, as it were, at one and the same time, into those two warring destinies of his life. Who can say whether he made the choice, or that Unseen Hand of Fate, which seems to guide the destinies of the Great, more particularly? Was that the unsuspected parting of the ways? It was. After finishing this sketch, the reader might like to ask himself what would have been his decision in such a situation. Turning now more particularly to the his tory of his chess development and career, we find the father, as we have previously suggested, teaching the son the moves and general prin ciples of the game, when the boy was but ten years of age. At twelve and thirteen years of age, he had already defeated some of the strongest players of the United States, and also Lowenthal, one of the chess masters of Europe, who at that Eighty-seven time happened to be in New Orleans on a visit ; though Lowenthal not then being well, undue emphasis was not placed on this victory. Lowen thal was, of course, subsequently defeated, when "in form", in the European tour of Morphy, nine years later, as with all other opponents, most decisively; and one accepts, without much dif ficulty, the "budding genius" of Morphy, reflect ed in this first defeat of Lowenthal, who became, in time, one of the most eloquent commentators on Morphy s game and genius. In 1857, when twenty years of age, Morphy went to New York, to attend the first American Chess Congress. In summing up Morphy s accomplishment at that Congress, the chess expert would undoubtedly use stronger language than the writer of this sketch. Of 97 "even" games played by Morphy, that is, without giving his opponents "odds", and ex cluding the consultation game, Morphy lost 4, "drew" 8, and won 85. As would be gathered, the victory was so complete and brilliant that the former opponents would have nothing but that the victor, over them, must at once invade that stronghold of chess, the Old World, or Europe, and conquer the masters of that hemisphere in the same way that he had vanquished the play ers of America; and they seemed to have no doubt whatever that he would. And so, he did. A curious spectacle, this youth of twenty- one presented, starting to Europe in the last days of May, 1 858, after having spent the inter val between the closing of the Chess Congress in New York and this departure for Europe, in New Orleans. As remarked by some observer, the thought of a chess champion from America at that time was fundamentally ludicrous, and such suggestion would undoubtedly have pro- Eighty-eight voked outright derision in the European chess firmament, were it not for the earnestness with which the claims for Morphy were put forward, and the most unbelievable character of these claims. As it developed, it is interesting to read the rather delicate and graceful references, on most sides, to Morphy s anticipated coming, and the growth of criticism as Morphy s play opened out. Under the pressure of fellow-players, there fore, admiring friends and relatives, with the distinct purpose of meeting Staunton, the Eng lish player, who had declined to come to America to meet him, and with the avowed object of de feating the "old" masters of Europe, the young knight, not like, but exactly, entering a tourna ment, (with no "play" on the word), starts for the Old World, to do battle, his plume only fresh ly waving, and unheralded, as remarked sub stantially by one of the English journals, except by "fugitive paragraphs" from the American press and the unbelievable claims of ardent ad mirers. Morphy seemed to have no doubt, him self, that he would succeed, though he advanced the thought to those more intimate with him in his characteristically modest way. The writer feels that it takes almost a genius, himself, to understand this situation, and Morphy s atti tude towards it. Lowenthal says that this European triumph could be described in three words, the celebrated Latin, of the Roman Conqueror, "Veni, vidi, vici", ("I came, I saw, I conquered"), and that it could end there. Certainly, it would express fully the accomplishment. The "tournament" was an "interesting" one, and it wound up by all of the knights "of old", except one, who was never able to get into action, except with a companion, Eighty-nine when he was twice defeated, (Mr. Staunton), taking off their helmets, as they got down from their steeds, and saluting the victor, who was still on his, a most gracious ending to a situation, se rious, as it were, while it lasted. The more gener ous ones, and they were much in the ascendancy, vied in the glowing character of their tributes to Morphy. The press, as might be gathered from a quotation later in this sketch, was outspoken in the recognition of Morphy s genius. The French enthusiasm wound up in a testimonial celebration, at which a bust of Morphy, the work of the sculptor Lequesne, himself a player, was crowned by the French players with laurel. In the midst of all this, contemporary publica tions, in England and on the Continent, found it possible to speak of any sting of defeat as being lessened by the youthful dignity, simplic ity, and charm of manner, of the vanquisher. Can the writer stop to pay merited tribute to parentage, rearing, and education, and to one of the attributes of genius itself? This last thought is struck by Mr. Edge, Morphy s secre tary throughout the European tour, from another side, as it were, in a sentence used by Mr. Edge in another connection, his and Morphy s first sight of Paris and the Seine, supposedly the Mecca of all Frenchmen away from there, "Mor phy is never betrayed into rhapsody, and what he felt he didn t speak", a thought worth dwelling on, and characteristic of many other periods of Morphy s life. The writer supposes he is safe in saying that Anderssen, the German expert, was the strongest of the opponents Morphy met on his European tour, and possibly the strongest opponent Mor phy ever met. Not being himself a player of the Ninety p, 3 * game, he attempts to qualify the statement, in a measure, but, he takes it, he is substantially cor rect. If this be true, it accords with the wonder fully generous character of Anderssen in defeat. We shall later make an extract from one of Anderssen s letters, referring to Morphy, of a more or less serious nature. For this reason, in part, the writer feels more at liberty to quote some of the humorous incidents, connected with the encounters between Anderssen and Morphy, not only as bits of pleasantry in themselves, but also as the proverbial true words, spoken in jest, strikingly illustrating Anderssen s conception of the strength of Morphy s play. "You are not playing anything like as well as with Dufresne", remarked one individual, who had been somewhat skeptical of Morphy s super iority from the beginning. "No", replied Anderssen, "Morphy won t let me". He then added, with that rapid turn to the serious, of which almost every fine mind is somehow capable," It is no use struggling against him ; he is like a piece of machinery, which is sure to come to a certain conclusion". At another time, he remarked, "Nobody can hope to gain more than a game, now and then, from him". To those, who offered Anderssen a consola tion in defeat, for which he did not ask, telling him that he "should" have won, not an uncom mon remark to the defeated, Mr. Edge says that he has seen Anderssen smilingly answer, time and again, "Tell that to Mr. Morphy". And, at another time, after defeating Harrwitz, who was one of the few to hold a "sore spot" after be ing defeated by Morphy, and who practically thereafter avoided him, Anderssen, on being complimented upon this victory as he was about Ninety-one to leave Paris, after being himself defeated by Morphy, remarked, "Oh, there is but one Mor- phy in the world". These were some of An- derssen s tributes to the subject of this sketch, as true, as they were generous in character. Journod spoke of Morphy s games as "dis gustingly correct". Boden spoke of Morphy s "diabolical stead iness", substantially the same thing. One of Lowenthal s tributes to Morphy s European tour was this: "The triumph of the young master did not produce any feeling of jeal ousy. His superiority was so evident, that all idea of rivalry was at once felt absurd". With every chess master of Europe defeated, except Staunton, the English player, who declin ed individual competition with Morphy, pla cing it on the ground of temporary unfitness, which literary pre-occcupation prevented his at tempting to remedy, until the defense and the deferrings of a meeting with Morphy riled the press of even his own country, but whom Morphy did beat in two consultation games, the only ones played with him, and, knowing the spirit in which Morphy had started upon this European tour, is it any wonder that Mr. Edge, Morphy s secretary throughout this tour, in writing of the contemplated departure of Morphy and him self from Europe on Morphy s long delayed re turn "home" to enter the practice of law, should have been able to remark, Morphy then seemed to develop a "positive distaste" for the game? It was natural. The challenge must have been a mixture of friends, relatives, admirers, some French and Spanish pride, not forgetful, either, of Irish traits, all in a youth in addition; un doubtedly also the spurrings of genius, and, Ninety-two specifically, besides, the meeting of Staunton ; in effect, a test of accomplishment, practically a feat of mind. It might be added, more particular ly for the lay reader, that it is conceded, practi cally beyond dispute, that Morphy would have defeated Staunton in individual contest, as he had defeated him in two consultation games. Among other things, Staunton had met more or less decisive defeat at the hands of some, decisively defeated by Morphy, notably Anders- sen, as in the International Chess Tournament of 1851. The general character of the play of the two men, however, as substantially testified to by Mr. MacDonnell, an English chess critic, writing in 1883, who writes of both Staunton and Morphy, and where he speaks of Morphy as "the greatest king that ever swayed the sceptre of chess" and as "Perpetual President of Our world- wide Republic", ought in itself to be, as it is generally considered, sufficient evidence of the relative strength of the two players and of what would have been the re sult of a contest, in individual play, between Staunton and Morphy, with Staunton at his best. Morphy realized more clearly than ever in Europe, the stronghold of chess, that, as illustri ous a game as it was, and as exacting in its re quirements as it was, the game, even there, as was sometimes demonstrated by the difficulty in arranging matches, was a gentleman s "avoca tion", and that it was not, and undoubtedly, to his mind, should not be made, one s vocation, or life s work. This had been passed on by him, so he thought, in taking up the study of law, and had been stamped, as it were, by his attainment to the qualifications for practice. He was, therefore, determined to get back "home", and start upon Ninety-three his profession. Those, familiar with the difficulty Mr. Edge had in holding Morphy in Europe un til after the closing games with Anderssen and Mongredieu, and the almost absurd things to which Mr. Edge had to resort until after these closing games had been played, will know Mor phy s attitude towards returning to New Or leans. When Edge remarked that Morphy would "not" go without playing the games, more par ticularly with Anderssen, and Morphy asked what would prevent him, Edge answered, "all the clubs in Europe". Morphy s answer was, that he would then be "stronger than all Europe". "Bravo", said Edge, "that s spirited, at all events". This led to Edge s subterfuges, openly admitted by him, to "dilly-dally" Morphy along, as it were, until the meeting with Anderssen could be had, in which Edge finally succeeded. This "contest" between himself and Molrphy is taken up in a chapter of his work, headed, in the thought of the fight between them, "Morphy gets beaten". The reference is made here only to show Morphy s attitude towards chess, after the defeat of the European masters, and his attitude towards his profession after that time. The ex tent, to which Mr. Edge went in his subter fuge, is reflected in his having an attending physician advise Morphy it would be dan gerous for him, in his supposed condition of health, to cross the ocean in the Winter months, in which Mr. Edge took advantage of a transi tory condition. Another was to interest Morphy more intimately in the social life of Paris, par ticularly in music, which Mr. Edge himself knew to be one of the things for which Morphy was particularly fond, Morphy, for this purpose, being brought into the intimacy of one of the Ninety-four more celebrated "salons" of Paris. These remarks are inserted to show how bent Morphy was upon returning to New Orleans and entering upon the practice of his profession, and as showing his settled determination that law, and not chess, was to be his serious work in life. Where genius has decided for, or against, anything, strik ingly illustrated by Morphy s final attitude to wards chess, only genius, possibly, can know what that decision means. We will, therefore, merely recall the tri umphal departure of Morphy from Paris on April 9th, 1 859, after the crowning of his bust at the celebration on April 4th; his departure from England on April 30th; and his arrival in New York on May 10th, where he was publicly re- ceiwd and acclaimed, and where he was pre- sent^d, at a gathering in the city of New York, with what is said to have been the most expen sive chess set ever made up to that time, (the writer does not know of the "present aspect" of this situation), the pieces being of gold and sil ver, and the board being of rosewood, inlaid with cornelian. At Boston, a banquet was tendered Morphy, at which were present, among other notables, Holmes, Longfellow, Lowell, and Agas- siz, who are reported, as could be imagined, to have offered Morphy their warmest felicitations and congratulations. The youth of twenty-two then wore the unquestioned "crown" of the chess firmament. As a mere matter of figures, Morphy s record in his European play, in individual com petition, played "even", that is, without giving his opponents any "odds", as compiled by Mr. Edge, his secretary, was: lost 20, "drew" 14, and won 1 1 8. This was the record against those, pre- termitting Staunton, who were admittedly the Ninety-five chess masters of the world, up to Morphy s com ing. Following the close of his receptions in the North, Morphy started for New Orleans, with the thought of chess undoubtedly left more and more behind, as he neared "home". Here, our story turns. In 1859, in writing to Lasa, a fellow chess expert, Anderssen, in offering an appreciation of Morphy s play and the impression this play crea ted on his mind, wrote the following: "I can not better describe the impression that Morphy made on me, than by saying that he treats chess with the earnestness and con scientiousness of an artist. With us, the exertion that a game requires is only a matter of distrac tion, and lasts only as long as the game gives us pleasure; with him, it is a sacred duty. Never is a game of chess a mere pastime for him, but always a work of vocation, always as if an act by which he fulfills part of his mission". The Illustrated News, published in London, had this to say of Morphy, about the time of his leaving England for New York, on April 30th, 1859 ;< "Reasons, we believe, still more cogent, (that is, than the vanquishment of the European players, with the exception of Staunton, whose roll we have already noticed), pressed him, (Morphy) , to leave Europe. Mr. Morphy, as we have shown, does not look upon chess as an em ployment, but as an amusement, (this last word is probably a proper subject for some qualifica tion); and he is desirous of applying his intel lectual powers to the profession he has adopted. Let us hope that in such sphere he may become as widely known and as generally esteemed as he is in what passes under the description of the Ninety-six world of chess . His success in that sphere is without a parallel. It is little more than twelve months since he embarked at New York for Eng land. Never was a reputation so soon and so sol idly established. He came among us with a local, and returns with an universal, fame. His move ments in America were recorded in fugitive paragraphs: his marvelous exploits in Europe will become matter of history. If, to the renown he has achieved as a chess player, he can add the future reputation of a great lawyer, he will sup ply one of the most curious and suggestive il lustrations of the exceptional versatility of gen ius that humanity has produced. We have firm belief that a career of more than national use fulness is open to Paul Morphy". Could the writer convey to the reader in a moment all the facts of Morphy s life, he would then refer the reader to the quotation that is first given, from Anderssen, in the letter to Lasa, and, next, ask a careful reading of the quotation from the English journal. He would then ask a deep pondering over those two extracts, in the light of the facts that he has, in truth, not been able to convey to the reader, with reference to Morphy s life. With the combination possible, the writer feels no more satisfactory explanation of the partial impairment, in time, of Morphy s mind could be forthcoming. The analysis of the thought is this. Anderssen s extract breathes, in Morphy s attitude, the "holy fire" that "genius" always breathes, though, in Anderssen s reference, the play of this rare faculty, as would be suspected, is limited to its expression in the game of chess. What the writer wishes to emphasize, in the thought under discussion, is the "fire", in Mor- Ninety-seven phy s life, rather than the particular branch of its expression. The extract from the Illustrated News clearly holds the "index finger" to that which never left Morphy s mind from earlier years, even, and the thing that became the cen tral thought of that mind, more particularly with the vanquishing of the chess masters of Europe, the practice of his profession of law. Morphy, with all his genius, was also human, and he must certainly have looked forward, with ra tional and orderly contemplation, to the pros pect, romantic if it then was, of in time a home, children, and his ultimate adjustment to the nor mal station of life. He did not expect to become a Burns or Byron, nor, from another point of view, a Paul Gauguin, with the other outlet chess, nor did he in fact attempt it, which is an observation substantially noted by some English critics, in commending his habits; and at the same time he undoubtedly admired the grace and charm of a woman s life, and what it means, rightfully used, in Nature s scheme. His so-called "admiration" for women, "empty love", whatever its character in fact, often mentioned more particularly in con nection with his later life, was undoubtedly the forced reflection of the sincerer attitude of his nature. Returning now to our original suggestion, combine the absorbing fire of genius, for such it always is, with the conscious recognition of its own power and its yearning for expression, equally always present, with what were now un doubtedly the absorbing hopes and aspirations of his life ; then bring in disappointment, coming at first, no doubt, very slowly; next, a slight waking-up, as it were, to possibilities, not yet ac cepted, or acceptable, the "fires" of genius un doubtedly still burning; next, a growing sense of Ninety-eight reality, on Morphy s part, of actual conditions; some physical ailment, but not of the mind; de pendence upon relatives; the present, in daily contrast with the past, reflected in the very faces, words, conscious or unconscious, and the developing careers, of others, many no doubt known to him, whether intimately or not; his prospects of anything worthy the name of love, home, children, and a place of "position", as he might have thought it, among his fellow-men steadily and irretrievably going, if not already gone; carried unremittingly and unrelentlessly in Morphy s thought for not less than fifteen years, and, undoubtedly, longer : and the writer asks whether the reader is still looking for the things that could have impaired Morphy s mind, to whatever degree in fact it might have been im paired, without entirely destroying his body. It is told, as a "joke" substantially, that Mor- phy "cared" for one Creole "girl", in New Or leans, but that she rejected him because he was "only a chess-player", though it is added that they were probably not congenial, in any case. It could seem certainly true that they would not have been congenial if the woman could make such a remark. But, there could be thought many women who might make that remark, even if differently phrased, or not phrased at all, especially as was the case here, where there must remain the question of support for a wife and children, and home generally, which "genius" alone can not provide for, and for which it often shows, rightfully or wrongfully, a kind of contempt. Women, who would find an alliance with Morphy, under the circumstances, impracticable, would not be, and could not be, thought irrational, whether their yearning, un- Ninety-nine der analysis, might run further in the direction of worldly attainment, or not. The writer can imagine that there were women, whose attitude towards such matters might have been different; in fact, he is quite sure that there must always be such, and women that would even work, themselves, in support of unmistakable genius. Such, however, is not the common thought, nor probably should it be. Such a thought would be galling, in the ex treme, to any sensitive male mind, and, there fore, most so to any true genius; and would be calculated to impair the very efficiency of gen ius itself, unless that bodily impairment, which so incessantly reminds us of the mutual depend ency of mind and matter, could be the only ex planation. The "situation" may change some day, but the writer is not that much of a prophet. As he still sees things, the male mind might suf fer alone, and let its body starve, if need be, but it would not consciously bring upon others any share of that suffering or any deprivation of their ordinarily accepted rights and claims; and, still less so, where there could be, in fact, any se rious prospect that, in time, under the ordinary criteria of human conduct, such individual, for mere bodily support, might be expected, or called on, to accept a pittance of others, or accept, generously if possible, the more grateful gift of friend or relatives. For this reason, undoubtedly in the main, Morphy never knew the real mean ing of a woman s love, nor the meaning of his own children, nor of his own home, with the pictures, undoubtedly, that he must have built of such, and living for how long a time no one can tell, in other words, at his death, he was, as he had been forced to be, a bachelor. One Hundred The local public, also, could think of Mor- phy as "only a chess-player", like the sweet heart. By a poetic metaphor, the World, proba bly, would be charged with this attitude towards him in his chosen career. As a matter of fact, of course, the charge can be laid only at the door of his own community, and, probably with equal truth, at the very doors of some who spoke of his chess greatness, and, in that connection, were glad to claim such acquaintance as he could be thought to extend any one. The repudiation, however, to Morphy, was complete, and it ac complished, undoubtedly, its unconscious pur pose. With no intention of injuring Morphy, un questionably, but with that ever present con scious and sub-conscious regard for the individ ual interest, sometimes intelligently, and some times unintelligently, determined, the commun ity ever more and more definitely repudiated Morphy as a lawyer. It did not, in fact, give Mor phy an opportunity to prove whether he could have developed into a successful lawyer, or not, pretermitting any question of his rising to emi nence. In Europe, Morphy s chess attainments would undoubtedly not have affected his prac tical outlook for life, in the least: rather, would they probably have brought him position, leav ing it to him to prove his ability, or general fit ness for the practice of law. The extract from the English journal, given earlier in this sketch, very clearly reflects this attitude; and such was, of course, the general European attitude towards those accomplished in chess, as representative of a rather distinctly high type of mind. Such, how ever, one must regret to say, was not the attitude adopted towards Morphy by his own community, which now proudly calls his name as a chess- One Hundred One player, which was made to become the limit of his attainment. How much fairer it would have been, both to itself and to Morphy, had at least the opportunity been offered! At the same time, there would have been presented one of those splendid openings for a demonstration of the pos sible versatility of genius, also suggested by the extract from the English journal, which are sel dom presented, especially in genius of the magni tude of Morphy s chess-genius. Morphy came slowly to recognize this growing isolation, and, in time, his complete divorce, substantially, from the practical affairs of life. Somewhat like his bust, which had been crowned with laurel, in Paris, by his enthusiastic fellow-players, Mor phy, himself, was being placed on a pedestal, whether the "players" around him so contem plated, or not, where he must be content to re main, and, in this way, become in effect a name, particularly so, in the light of the fact that he had conclusively defeated the entire chess world, if we will be spared any unnecessary reference to Staunton. From Morphy s point of view, there fore, he was to become substantially an idler in the practical affairs of life, and a failure, living on a name. Could anyone be expected to accept this situation, especially a youth with the fire of genius within him, which, while it may burn more brightly in one direction, possibly, than in another, certainly must never burn, as an impel ling force at least, only in that direction? Morphy, himself, undoubtedly recognized this, and all that it means. As substantially stated in the extract from the Illustrated News, Morphy had wished, more particularly as a youth, and in his youth, for supremacy in the world of chess; and, certainly, no one could then One Hundred Two MHf have harbored the thought, that even complete supremacy in the chess world was to close the door to practical aspiration, as it might be term ed. Such was not the world s general attitude towards the avocation of chess, more particu larly, and neither Morphy, nor anyone else, would have so figured it. From the point of view of age, Morphy was then only twenty-one years old, and it would seem that even a year, and at the outset Morphy had expected it to be not more than one-half that time, given to this as piration to meet the world at chess, could hardly have any appreciable effect upon the beginning of his professional career. It must have been re garded as a mere "tour de force", as it were, to Morphy and all affiliated with him, or interested in him, before starting on his serious work of life, and to have no bearing, either in time or in effect, upon his subsequent career. How little any one realized what the actual price would be, whether Morphy would have been willing to pay it, or not! Morphy s complete wish, and uppermost wish, was for successful attainment in the world of practical affairs, and a worthy following in the footsteps of his father. There is a spiritual body, but there is, likewise, a material body, and hu man beings can never be expected to overlook the claims of each. It may be one of the considera tions of genius to reconcile the two. It is not in consistent with a conception of genius, that the thought to do so might exist, nor even that the at tempt might be made. It is a part of the work of thought to reconcile the two. Poets, priests of mind, and thinkers, generally, are the indefati gable workers in that sublime trend; but, the thought must be stopped here. Without any in tended disparagement of the spiritual aspects of One Hundred Three the practical phases of life, the more purely spiritual, or, probably better phrased, aesthet ic, side of Morphy s genius, as it were, had reached in his contemplation, if not in fact, its ascendancy, as testified to by all, completely satis fying his yearnings, or ambition, in that direc tion; so that he not only no longer craved suc cess in chess, but positively developed an aver sion for the game. The work of life, to him, was to become law, and the attainment, through the practice of that profession, of a success which is, and which he desired to be, fundamentally worldly in character. The futility of undying ef fort in this life-quest, while effort remained pos sible, more strictly in the psychological sense, brought disaster. In the world of chess, the mind knew nothing but its own limitations. In law, there were other conditions over which Morphy had no control, conditions precedent to his suc cess, as in every career where the opportunities for success must, substantially, be offered by others, not necessarily recognizant, as it were, of the individual potentiality. Is it any wonder that the delicate organism, expanding unre strictedly and in its brilliancy in the first field of endeavor, where it practically measures its own power, should bring about its own impairment in the second, striving there, undoubtedly too, with a sacred fire, which must have sought to fulfill a mission, but which is repudiated at every turn! A brooding, uncommunicative melancholy, bor dering almost, if not actually, on a feeling of per secution, to express it best to the lay mind, was the substantial character of that ultimate im pairment, a silent reflection, itself, of the char acter of the struggle. Is it not natural, therefore, that no one can One Hundred Four say, as is universally conceded, just exactly when Morphy s mind might be thought to begin to take on such impairment as did come, more especially when the lay mind, making the ob servation, is called on to depend upon more or less vulgar manifestations of the supposed im pairment? Whatever the situation, however, it is certain the supposed impairment was long after the year 1869, when Morphy, throwing down his last defiance to fate, played deliberately his last game of chess with his friend, Charles A. de Maurian; and Morphy never again played a game of chess, which he stated to be his intention when the game was played. It was then, finally, law, and not chess: and, from the early part of the year 1859, which marked the conclusion of the European tour, to the time at which Morphy played this last game, he played comparatively little chess, and then only with persons who would certainly not have considered they were taxing his mind, if any play could ever be thought to have taxed his mind, including his "blindfold" play, which has since been repeatedly exceeded in the number of boards simultaneously at play, by others. The blindfold game was then, of course, comparatively novel, and, in this way, attracted uncommon attention. Morphy s play during this period was substantially casual. Some of it was probably consciously played by him as an outlet, such as it might be, from his growing despond ency; and some of it, almost unconsciously, in the spirit of any man, fired with his spirit, who was "hoping" and "drifting", as it were, at the same time. Think of such contemplations from day to day, over years, to a mind of his type! So far as any play might be thought to have taxed Morphy s mind, one of the very few remarks ever One Hundred Five passed by Morphy about himself, which might be deemed to border the least on egotism, was one he made in the intimacy and privacy of conver sation with his friend, Mr. de Maurian, and, for this reason, it could certainly be considered privileged. That remark, made by Morphy on his return from Europe, was, that he considered he played very poorly, because he played in an imprudent manner; yet, his adversaries, (Jour- nod, Boden, and Anderssen have been quoted to that effect), spoke of the machine-like pre cision of his play. Morphy assigned as a reason for his having played in the manner he did, that, had he not done so, his opponents would not have been able to make the showing they did. It is evident the remark was not intended as pure egotism, from the fact that Morphy was more or less familiar with the games of all his opponents, and that, from this, he concluded he could be, perhaps, somewhat daring, as it were. It was shown that he was correct, and some of the posi tions from which he extricated himself, resulting sometimes in a "drawing", and sometimes in his ultimate winning, whether through " counter- play", or not, rather corroborates Morphy s esti mate of his play, as a whole, as astounding as the conclusions appear. Morphy s criticism of his play to de Maurian is substantially confirmed by the observation of Boden, undoubtedly one of the strongest of Morphy s opponents, and so considered, the writer understands, by Morphy himself. The remark of this player was, that the possibilities of Morphy s genius had never been half revealed, because only a very limited exer tion of its powers had always been sufficient to ensure victory. One Hundred Six Morphy s estimate of his European play was passed at the height, and, as it develops, at the close of his chess career, in 1859, after the very hardest of his chess-work, if such it could be called, was over. From that time, until the end of the year 1869, when Morphy played his last game, the play was entirely casual, as has been suggested, and no one, during that period, or at its close, would have considered for a moment Morphy was not in entire possession of his mental faculties. This statement, alone, should be suffici ent to end the supposition that Morphy s mind was impaired, still less "lost", playing chess. As suggested, his mind undoubtedly did lose some of its original efficiency, though how much no one, including the writer, can, or should, attempt, to say. The fact, that his mind was to some extent impaired, coupled with the general ignorance of actual conditions on the part of outsiders, more particularly, added to the universally known fact that Morphy "played chess", was the "world s champion", as it were, using our mod ern well-known expression, has undoubtedly led to this very easy deduction for the outsider, with whom generally rests the reputation, that Morphy, first, "lost" his mind, and, next, that he "lost" it, "playing chess". As a matter of fact, the ease with which the thought could be constructed by the casual observer, and by those attracted by "romance", as it were, is so evident, that, as often happens in such situations, the ultimate conclusion develops in inverse ratio, . very largely, to the truth. Mr. de Maurian, pos sibly the most intimate of Morphy s friends, and the one with whom Morphy, as we have men tioned, played his last game of chess, always re sented, so the writer is informed, the statement One Hundred Seven that Morphy s mind became impaired by chess- playing, denying the statement, first, purely on his own knowledge of fact, and, next, on the im possibility of such a thing from the number of games played by Morphy in his entire life, actually less, undoubtedly, than hundreds of players have played. One could not conceive of a serious suggestion, that Morphy s play, being of the character it was, might be thought to have taxed his mind: first, because it is too perfectly clear, on the facts, that it did not tax his mind, which ought to be enough; and, next, because on his own observation of his play, pretermitting the criticisms of others, some of which have been given, play, to Morphy, was not hard; and, final ly, because such a conclusion would be absolute ly illogical, in the light of the facts, to common scientific observation, of the most ordinary character. The writer almost dislikes to digress so much on this subject, but the popular impres sion, that Morphy "lost his mind", and, next, that he "lost" it "playing chess", is so strong and so widespread, that, unless it is to be permitted to go on its way forever, unchallenged, and gath ering undoubtedly additional strength, with those able to contradict such statements ever more rapidly themselves passing away, the writer, at the risk of tiring the reader s attention, has de cided to combat this impression, somewhat as Morphy himself probably would have thought, it is hoped, to a "mate". If the "pursuit" is tire some to the reader, he may "skip", until he wishes to get back into the reading. The reader may be familiar with the life of Amiel, the Genevese "professor". If so, the reader is familiar with the tragedy, one might One Hundred Eight aptly term it, of that life, one of the most singular, if not the most singular, illustration of the effects of what, adopting M. Scherer s phrase, the writer has always since wished to call "the sterility of genius". With a capacity for thought, that no reader can fail to notice, this man yet did substantially nothing, beyond the routine of his teaching, other than to transcribe, from day to day, the flitting impressions, or obser vations, of his mind, ranging over almost the entire field of literature and thought. His contri bution to the world of literature, therefore, is substantially only a "wonderful diary" of thoughts. Amiel offers his own explanation of his sterility in effort, but the upshot of the matter is that his mind produced so little, and that practically casual, when his mind was remark ably rich. One could speak of his genius, except that his actual accomplishment would probably not be thought to permit of so broad a term. There is enough in Amiel, however, to give a full meaning to the phrase, "sterility of genius", and the conception itself, irrespective of any partic ularly illustrative life, should be possible. Amiel s mind never left him, but many years before his death, which occurred at fifty-nine, with the last seven years spent practically in a struggle to preserve life, he gave up the fight for concen trated, or systematic, expression even in the field of thought, definitely contenting himself with these transitory expositions, as it were, of his personality, recorded from day to day. One must read this story of Amiel s life to know what it can mean to genius, or near-genius, to see time and life going by, and nothing accomplished. There is a mission to the world in genius, as well as to the individuality itself, an insatiable "urge", One Hundred Nine as it were, which possibly only genius, itself, can feel. In Amiel s case, this "urge", or "wrestling" for expression, in the absence of any better phraseology for the thought, did not cause Amiel to lose his mind, nor is the writer advancing the argument that such conditions must necessarily bring about a derangement of the mind. He is simply stating that such conditions can bring about an impairment of the mind, particularly, as was the case with Morphy, where the physique is fundamentally frail, and more or less inroad has also been made by sickness. Even in Amiel s case, however, and with his death coming at fifty-nine, the latter years of his life bear clear evidences of the disintegrating processes at work. With Morphy, this disintegration went further. Morphy was not a near-genius, but a genius, and, though he did not find an outlet in literary expression, he was a genius of probably what could be safely termed the literary type of mind, except that his undoubted faculty for mathemat ical combination might be thought to indicate a peculiarly sensitively balanced organism, in some aspects, somewhat distinguishable from the more purely literary type; and Morphy s mind certainly represented the very highest type of individual refinement. Morphy may not have thought of the phrase, "sterility of genius", over the period of his life, beginning in the year 1 859, but, whatever the exact way in which the thought may have been phrased to him, he came to know the meaning of such a concept. That is the same thing, in practical operation, which, with an original melancholy in Amiel, did ulti mately impair Amiel s mind, breaking most seri ously, as with Morphy, the general faculty of will, rather than volition, though not affecting, One Hundred Ten in Amiel s case, as seriously as with Morphy, certain other more specific faculties of the mind. A careful reading of the diary, or Journal Intime, as it is ordinarily called, for the corresponding period of Amiel s life, will show rather clearly what was happening in Amiel s mind. Even as it was, however inadequate, Amiel did find some expression for himself, and he had, also, the prac tical outlet of his teaching, such as that was. Beginning with the close of his chess career, in 1 859, and down to the very close of his life, Mor phy had absolutely no outlet for his energies, or the "wrestling" thoughts of genius. Chess, he came to hate, as an impediment to his normal accomplishment. In an article, written in 1879, it is stated that Morphy utterly "repudiates chess", and that, when he is addressed on the subject, he either flies into a passion or denies that he knows, or ever did know, anything of the game : that, occasionally, he can be heard to ud- mit having played chess some, but not enough to justify persons in attaching notoriety to him. Mr. Edge, the secretary of Morphy throughout the European tour, states that Morphy seemed to develop a positive distaste for the game immedi ately following the close of the European play, in 1859. This "hatred" of chess on Morphy s part, for such it became, especially towards the latter years of his life, is further confirmed to the writer by the personal observation of individuals still living; and it is stated that Morphy even went to the extreme of issuing a challenge to a party, to fight a duel, as a result of a discussion starting with a reference to chess, which, even though anti quated in principle in Morphy s time, was not quite so remote a method of settling disputes, as it now is. What more homely, and better, illus- One Hundred Eleven tration could one have, of what had been going on in Morphy s mind during this fight, in his life, between chess and his establishment of him self in his chosen profession of law, with its promptings and concurrent claims, than this final attitude towards chess? One observer, in commenting to the writer on this attitude of Morphy towards chess finally, also remarked that Morphy seemed to have "sufficient control" over himself to avoid references to his chess- playing, apparently realizing such references "excited" him, using the observer s own word; and this same observer, in the course of the con versation with the writer, had, himself, indulged in the popular phrase of Morphy s having "lost his mind", apparently unconscious of the rather loose connection, in some degree at least, of his two observations. A gross mind might get over the practical difficulty in which Morphy found himself, but a gross mind would never be in such a situation. Turn to other pursuits, would one suggest? That would be to give up the fight. Some minds might do that, but would one think of that in Morphy? Simply as an accomplishment, of course, that is, as something that could theoretically be done, it was obviously possible; but, does the reader think this would have reflected the mind that moved to the chess-mastery of the world? It is not a matter of pride ; the workings of the proc esses are too subtle. It is a combination. That mind holds on ; some may call it pride, some may call it conscious power : it may be a combination of both. But here, we are in the human domain again, more particularly, in which, if we are to argue there, Morphy undoubtedly felt that he could make a good lawyer, and that he was mere- One Hundred Twelve ly being penalized by his community, more par ticularly, for having been too great a chess player. With him only the ordinary player, the public attitude would undoubtedly have been different; and hence his decision in 1869 to play his last game of chess, and take up the very last glove of the public, when blind genius, now, must have failed to recognize that the harm, in this direction, had undoubtedly already been done. Following the human thought, however, Morphy was at that time only thirty-two years of age, and he no doubt still thought, and one ex perienced in the lawyer s career would say with reason, in which he may have been confirmed by relatives, if not friends, or business-minds, that he still had time in which to make good at law; and so, the fight, because that is what it was to him, not merely hope, continued. Some time after that, no one can tell exactly when, the mind begins to realize its fate, and then to go in to itself, practically to live alone, and finally the position comes to be accepted, not Morphy, but the mind whipped. After that, or rather with it, in a substantially correct psychological sense, not merely volition, but truly the will, becomes impaired, and we then have the dreary wait to the end, a correct scientific statement, a mind impaired, but undoubtedly not lost, and with no one able to say exactly how much im paired. The writer will not indulge in "literature", yet. The same mind, which might be willing to admit, as it would have to do, that a human mind can be, and has been known to be, deranged by a single shock to that mind, not by an acci dent to the body, might be willing to deny that it could conceive of a situation, in which, not One Hundred Thirteen shocks, or a single shock, but steady pressure applied to the mind, of a knowingly depressing character, over long periods of time, particularly if we must be quasi-scientific, in a more or less frail body, or "physique", would produce any mental derangement. If such person could be thought of, the insult to the reader s intelligence would be no greater than to his own. The slow dripping of water, which wears away even stone, certainly finds its parallel in the steady waste of mind, brooding over irretrievable disappoint ment; and, in Morphy s case, it is known that the body itself showed the emaciation of these years. A newspaper clipping, the work of a local correspondent, dating in 1 879, bears general trib ute to this wasting process going on in Mor phy s mind for so many years, but its "discolor ation", in other respects, generally to be ex pected in such transitory reports, despite their own suggestions, if not statements, to the con trary, makes the article of doubtful value on the main issues of the situation. It bears unmistak able testimony, however, to this wasting process, the mind s slow feeding on itself, which is the writer s fundamental explanation of the impair ment of Morphy s mind, and is also the explana tion as to why it must always be difficult to hazard an opinion as to when this impairment could be thought to have begun. The next question would be, as to how far Morphy s mind was actually impaired. There are some, who would take the extreme position that they considered Morphy s "peculiarities", as it were, merely intensified in later life, and that his mind was never at any time really impaired. This would appear, from such information as the wri ter has been able to obtain, the other extreme. One Hundred Fourteen Morphy was always "peculiar", as these idiosyn crasies are popularly phrased; and he was never a "mixer", to use an expressive phrase of the day, which carries a more or less hidden, as well as obvious, meaning. He talked very, very little to others at all times of his life, and practically not at all to others at the close of his life. He was al ways susceptible of striking charm of manner, when the occasion demanded it, as could be gathered from remarks that have gone before in this sketch, and this grace of manner had not left him during the years of his supposed im pairment; but, fundamentally, he always lived alone, as it were, just as he used to be seen, walk ing the streets, "seul, toujours seul", in the French phrase, ("alone, always alone"), save for the one object that was always with him, his slender walking-cane. With a gathering in the house, he was still always more or less off to him self. So, he was at college, when a youth, at Spring Hill. This trait, as could be supposed, never did leave Morphy, and it never does leave genius ; for the very simple reason that genius, in its essence, is originality, and originality is fun damentally, and necessarily, single, or exclusive; and, if a further reason were wished, though the genius can be polite, and, even in this work-a-day world, take time to be so with others, yet it is un deniable that constant association with the com mon, used in no disrespectful, but merely generic, sense, would, and must, have a positively deter iorating effect upon any mind, living in the un common, or moving out into the novel. The aloofness of genius, therefore, is no affected attri bute of the truly great, but an absolutely true re flection of the fundamental character of genius, working true to itself. This was one of Morphy s One Hundred Fifteen most distinctive traits, and, in the common mind, more particularly coupled with some of his minor "idiosnycracies", as, for example, his disincli nation to be interrupted, or in any way annoyed by anybody, when his mind was occupied, which he then showed very unmistakably, hardly illog ical, with others, less directly personal in their character, easily led to his acquiring a reputation for being "peculiar", which reputation grew stronger, as one might imagine, as the years went on, with a steadily growing inclination to be more alone, if such were possible. In this way, it became, and remains, a difficult proposition, more especially, to say, first, how far Morphy s mind could be considered affected; and next, for this reason, as also for the reason previously sta ted, namely, the slow character of the process, it becomes particularly difficult to attempt to say when this impairment might be thought to begin. He had, as suggested, very, very little to do with any one for many years before his death, beyond the most casual greetings, as also pre viously stated, the development of a life-habit, and it would have been a difficult thing, even then, for an observer to gather how far Morphy s mind might be thought impaired, if it then was. Nor could it be said that he guarded this sup posed condition, except as reflected in his fixed determination not to discuss chess, or finally have anything whatever to do with chess. This trait of isolation, becoming more and more in tense as the years went on, presents an insuper able difficulty to any intelligent determination as to how far Morphy s mind was actually im paired. This situation has not always been clear ly kept in mind; and, in this way, as has hereto fore been suggested, some can be found, even yet One Hundred Sixteen alive, who consider that Morphy never did suf fer any appreciable impairment of mind, and that the later years of his life marked only an intensifying of his "peculiarities". The other pole is, as already stated, that he "lost" his mind, which, in any reasonable concept of the word, "lost", is likewise untrue. Morphy s thinking went, first, directly to chess. His best thinking therefore, in the early part of his life was on this subject. When he put chess aside, which he sub stantially did in 1 859, and not even in 1 869, Mor- phy s thinking centred on his professional career, at law. It would be untrue to say that chess in any way occupied Morphy s mind after the mid dle of 1859, though he did play casual chess af ter that; and any supposed connection of Mor phy s chess-playing with his ultimate mental im pairment would unquestionably be considered, from a scientific point of view, entirely too re mote to have had any connection with that ulti mate impairment. He undoubtedly continued to think some of chess, but more, and most, begin ning with the close of his chess career in 1 859, of his practical future, and that was what then be gan to worry him, to use a very homely phrase. These reflections grew, and they led to unceas ing thought and concern, with the growing real ization of the sterility of his life, to his mind, (and who shall say him entirely wrong?), in the face of what he must have felt his claims and powers. That struggle can not go on forever, with out doing some damage; and a frail body does not help in retarding natural consequences, it must be evident. That is the explanation of Mor phy s ultimate mental impairment, such as it was, leading to the very emaciation, as was to be expected, of the body, itself, a very human ex- One Hundred Seventeen planation of Morphy s ultimate condition, which should take its seat on the pedestal of truth, at the same time that it crawls out from under the altar of romance. A fairly accurate statement of Morphy s mental condition, towards the end of his life, would be to say that he was substantially in com plete possession of all his faculties, in their sim pler manifestations. They showed impairment in their co-ordinated workings, and, more partic ularly, in the higher processes of reasoning, pure ly as such, and in memory and constructive im agination. In other words, just as one should ex pect, and indulging in lay criticism, the mind showed evidence of the wearing-down process, years of conscious exercise, fruitlessly directed, and self-contained, in other words, years of feeding on itself. Will, therefore, in its more strictly psychological sense, as representative of the healthful working of substantially all the faculties of the mind, in co-ordination, and as distinguished from the more independent concept of volition, was likewise, and necessarily, im paired. In simpler words still, the thought could be substantially stated by saying that the general efficiency of Morphy s mind was impaired, more particularly observable as the higher ranges of thought could be considered attempted. The word, "attempted", is used, because, as a matter of fact, it is impossible to say exactly how far the mind could be thought actually impaired in these higher ranges ; for the simple reason, that, begin ning with the period of Morphy s gradual isola tion, the exercise of the mind in these ranges grew less and less frequent, the mind finally clo sing itself practically to observation by the out sider, in these respects, through Morphy s grow- One Hundred Eighteen ing habit of limiting his relations with others to the most casual affairs, ultimately passing into substantially no relations at all. It, therefore, never can be said how far Morphy s mind was actually impaired, except as a pure matter of guess-work, insusceptible of intelligent corrobo- ration. No professional diagnosis of Morphy s sup posed condition of mind was ever at any time made, whatever such diagnosis might have been considered worth in Morphy s case. Once, the writer is informed, well-meaning relatives ac tually took Morphy to one of the institutions for the insane. When the door of the institution was reached, and Morphy, for the first time, became apprised of what was being attempted, he "a- woke", as he could when he wished, and an argu ment followed right there with those in charge, who, evidently concluding Morphy was not in sane, and that the institution was possibly being made an unconscious party to some conspiracy, themselves became more or less alarmed, and re fused to take Morphy into the institution. No effort was ever after made towards incarcerating him, or anything bordering on that; and, throughout the remainder of his life, as he had always done, he attended entirely to his own wants and the care of his person, in the fullest sense of the words. The "records" on this whole question of the impairment of Morphy s mind lie practically in the parol statements of contempo rary lay observers, and, when a judgment of sup posed impairment rests in the verdict of such minds, however honest they may be, when the person was admittedly not crazy, but rather, using the word of many of these observers themselves, "peculiar", and such person was al- One Hundred Nineteen ways regarded by everybody, as "peculiar", and admittedly had very, very little to do with anyone at all times, the writer, while not dis crediting the observation in toto, at the same time accepts it cautiously. Observers sometimes spoke of Morphy "mumbling" to himself, in later years more particularly, as he took his walks. The writer learns, to be more exact, that it was not strictly mumbling, that is, the emission of sound, but rather slight movements of the lips, apparently more or less unconsciously made; and that was, substantially, as far as Morphy s supposed "mumbling" went. An intensive mind, absolute ly uncommunicative to others, and thinking in cessantly to itself, could easily, and in fact undoubtedly would, sometimes fall into just such unconscious movements, except that they might not be entirely unconscious, and the writer would not regard this as an evidence, necessarily, of in sanity, which is a statement that hardly needs argument for its support. As a matter of passing observation, it may interest the reader to know that Wordsworth, the poet, did exactly this same thing, day after day, walking along the roads of the English lake-country, in which he lived, which is a thought that the writer has attempted to commemorate in one of the poems of this vol ume, except that Wordsworth actually "mum bled"; and he did even more, he had a regular habit of stooping to pick up peculiarly shaped twigs, and the like, from the road, or elsewhere, which he would continue to hold in his hand, and with which he would appear to converse, as he continued on his walk. Fortunately for literature, he was not deemed insane, nor was any attempt made to incarcerate him. The natives, however, One Hundred Twenty always thought of him as "peculiar"; and, to them, no doubt he was, as well as to some of high er station. Had he not found literary expression and reputation, one might hazard a guess as to the estimate of his life, indulged in by observers. It is well to recall that Morphy s life knew prac tically no expression, beginning with the close of his chess career, in 1 859. In other words, Morphy , mentally, practically began to die, beginning with the year 1 859, which is not too strong a way to put it ; and he lingered, genius that he was, in the observation of this death ever thereafter, and in steadily increasing intensity, until the mind, in part, repudiates, as it were, itself. Capacity for the contemplation of the thought will explain its terribleness, and what must be its natural con sequence, whether working to that conclusion in the individual case, or not, and irrespective of the extent of the working. A "sardonic grin" is also sometimes spoken of, as at times to be seen on Morphy s face; and one writer then adds, apparently unconscious of the possible import of his words, that this "sar donic grin" always appeared to pass" into an air of reflection". This observation, intended to show derangement, was indulged in by the writer, in question, almost at the very close of his paper, which is undoubtedly a most sincere literary ef fort, prepared to be read, as it was; and, under such circumstances, the writer can often be par doned, if such is in fact due, the exact character of one s language, or even the thought. Coldly criticised, a"sardonic grin", followed by an "air of reflection", could be one of the sanest acts in the world, particularly if accompanied, as this writer testifies was the case, by the slight "mum bling", often, or movement of the lips, that has One Hundred Twenty-one been noticed. The danger of such habits, as ap parently borne out in this instance, is the possi bility of creating in the popular mind a belief of mental derangement, particularly when the in dividual is generally regarded as "peculiar", and holds himself aloof from practically all, giving the observer little, or no, opportunity for the ap plication of corrective thoughts. Fact is relative, and contemplates, therefore, most intimately the mental character of the observer. How impor tant it is, for this reason, in working from second hand data, to know the mental traits, or capacity, of the interpreting mind, in establishing the sup posed fact! Simply as a "pen-picture", to be forgotten, if necessary to avoid sullying the gilded shield of fame, and only mindful of the material claims of life, somewhat in the same spirit that Morphy s "air of reflection" could be thought to follow his "sardonic grin", which it was always said to fol low, the writer constructs a picture, which the reader can easily see is gathered from Morphy s own career. He sees a chess-board, representing the chequered career of life. On one side is seated Morphy, youthful, full of hope, and filled with the fires of genius. On the other side sits Fate. The game begins. Almost at the start, Fate finds it self "mated". Morphy looks up, smiling, but not exultingly, as he always did, when he saw the game won. "We must play over", says Fate, reaching for the pieces, "You took me unawares", as Morphy seemed always, in his chess, to do. Morphy smiles, and the game starts over. They fight many years through this game. Morphy knows this time that the stakes are Life. He is "mated". There had to be a "grin" at the end of One Hundred Twenty-two that game, and it could be only a "sardonic grin". It could also have been worn by both Morphy and Fate, merciless Thing that we picture Fate. If Morphy did wear it, viewing life in its human aspects, which was the way in which Morphy did view life while that long second game went on, not from day to day, but year to year, for no tell ing how many years, could the "sardonic grin" be thought the expression of a rational mind ; or, must such a person be irrational? A "sardonic grin" always, and alone, might prove trouble some in argument; but, followed by an "air of reflection", the burden of proof seems to shift. The thought may be regarded as a "pen-picture", if it is wished. To the writer, it is not entirely such. Summing up, it would seem that the efficien cy of Morphy s mind towards the close of his life was reduced, and that his mind was more or less impaired in the higher ranges of activity, which, it is believed, is a comparatively simple way of stating the situation. He did not lose his mind. How far the impairment might be thought to ex tend, is largely a matter of deduction from com paratively small data, because Morphy s life long habits, more and more intensified as the years went on, kept him always aloof from others. The most casual greetings were substantially all that he finally came to have with anyone. It will never, therefore, be possible to do more than hazard opinions as to how far Morphy s mind was actually impaired in effective operation, or in contemplation of such. The phrase, however, as popularly used, that he "lost his mind", and, likewise, that he "lost it playing chess", must either indicate the user s unconscious ignorance of the true facts, or must evidence a rather un- One Hundred Twenty-three pardonable carelessness of language, unfair to one, able to offer nothing in his defense, and whose habits, possibly unsuspected by himself, have contributed to an exaggerated statement, and belief generally, of his true condition. There is not much more to be said, unless it is to call attention to one distinctive, and more or less curious, feature, attendant upon Morphy s genius. Upon the assumption that Morphy is the "genius" of the chess firmament, and mean ing by the word, "genius", here, substantially the "outstanding mind" of the chess world, and pre- termitting, as unnecessary to the issue, any dis cussion of the merits of the so-called "old" and "modern" schools of chess, to neither of which, in fact, Morphy would belong, there is this one thing, that can be said about Morphy, and in which his genius would appear to be unique. Ta king the words, but not the exact thought at the time, of the Illustrated News, of London, which has been quoted earlier in this sketch, Morphy, if the "genius", or "outstanding mind", of the chess firmament, both past and present, and the writer thinks, in this application of the word, "genius", the claim for Morphy would not be disputed, Morphy has then, in the words of the Illustrated News, acquired a "universal fame", that, the writer now adds, confirmed, in a measure, by Mr. MacDonnell s observations, previously quoted in this sketch, no other single individual in the world, if our hypothesis is correct, has attained. The distinguishing trait is this. Pretermitting anything bordering on the religious, which, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, "human", as hereafter used in con nection with the phrase, "human activity" or "human endeavor", would be expected to be ex- One Hundred Twenty-four eluded, there is not another single human being, as the writer can recall the situation, in the world of art, letters, science, and invention, who has been, or would be, recognized as the " out standing mind", or "genius", as the writer has de fined the term, of that particular branch, line, or department of human endeavor, or activity, the world over, without regard to language, nation ality, or race, and since the complete ascendancy of such genius. This is a wonderful tribute, not only to Morphy, but to mind, itself. The next question would be as to the degree of that great ness. This, in its final analysis, can be deter mined only by complete comparison, extending over, and throughout, the ascendancy of that mind, up to, and if ever, its eclipse. If Morphy is the "outstanding", or supreme, mind of chess, the world over, and up to the present time, and it is assumed, in the sense of our definition, that he is, then his "genius" shines without a competi tor, which can not be said, the writer thinks it can be safely ventured, as to any other life in any other department of human activity. The contemplation by the reader of a claim of un questioned superiority for any particular in dividuality in any other line of human endeavor, as gathered from the arts and letters, science, or invention, or human endeavor, generally, the world over, will show the uniqueness of the dis tinction, applicable to Morphy s genius. There is not a name, that could be mentioned, including even the military genius, not previously specif ically suggested, where the naming would not provoke a discussion, if not within that individ ual s own language, nationality, or race, then as the line might be imagined, crossed. The dis tinction seems, first, peculiar to the chess firma- One Hundred Twenty-Jive ment, itself; and, next, within that sphere, as peculiar to Morphy, as representing the only instance of the ascendancy of a single mind to universal pre-eminence. His successor, therefore, if, and when, he does come, must attain likewise to that singular distinction, as yet a most unique honor, in the world, and as curious, possibly, as it is unique. Single Star, That shines in everlasting light, Bereft of all, Save that which Genius left, Take, thou, The tribute of all humble minds, That kneel in awe and reverence, At the workings of Fate. 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