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his passion for games, invented chess, whose design was "to admonish kings that they are strong only in the strength of their subjects." As was expected, this game became a great favorite. The courtier was rewarded with the highest honors, and the king having discovered the moral of the game, was taught a lesson of humility. Let us for a moment examine this wonderful invention of the courtier, (if to him the honor of the discovery is due,) and observe how perfectly adapted it was to the accomplishment of his purpose.

The game of chess is the representation of an oriental contest. The scene is chosen from the battle-field; the actors are two kings with their respective armies, and the entire plot carries out the system of war. In the center of his army, stands the king, by his side the "vizier," on either hand their attendants or "runners;" next in order come the knights on horseback, and finally the whole army is flanked by the ponderous warchariots. These are seldom brought into action till late in the game, when they can sweep across the board unobstructed by the smaller pieces. In this, they preserve a perfect analogy to nature. For the scythe chariots of the ancients were found most effective in an open field, when they did not interfere with the movements of the light troops, and consequently were most used at the close of the battle. In front of this long array of nobility, are arranged the footmen or peasants. Their strength and efficiency, like the rank and file of an army, depends much on the closeness of their lines. When unprotected, they fall an easy prey to the major pieces; but arranged in close order, mutually supporting one another, they become formidable opponents to the highest dignitaries of the board. All expert chess-players value the little pawns. Quiet and unobtrusive, they often insinuate themselves into the enemy's king-row. and win back, by the sacrifice of their own lives, even the "vizier" himself. But the author of this game was not satisfied with an accurate representation of the characters of war, but has faithfully carried out its principles in the play. That party is almost surely victorious who combines the highest skill with the greatest celerity of movement. And until one can learn to calculate the time, which the accomplishment of his plans will require, he cannot become a successful player. As in war, moreover, it is important that no part of the forces should be in the way of another part, that each should have plenty of room to move, and be so stationed as to protect as many points as possible. The weak points of the enemy should especially be made the objects of attack, and if found pregnable, the advantage thus gained should be vigorously followed up before he has time to recover. We might trace the analogy still far

ther, but enough has been shown for our present purpose. The design of the author is manifest, and that design has been admirably carried

out.

We find the king surrounded by powerful warriors, but has little power himself. His strength is the strength of his subjects. Whether the myth respecting the courtier is true or not, this is evidently the moral of chess.

"What may be."

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

"Brutus and Cæsar: What should there be in that Cæsar?"

"Memineris te virum esse."

SHALL the hours be bright before us!

Life's arched span yet looks high,
And the golden sun is yet to climb
A dark or cloudless sky.
Here-here we stand in footsteps
From which the flight of time,
The merest minutes, bore away
Men who are now sublime.

There it stretches out beyond us,
Life, with its hopes and fears,
In sunny shapes and darkhued shapes,
Through the vista of long years.
There is many a winding valley,
There are slopes all bright and green,
And further onward rounding hills
With crystal brooks between.

There is many a spring of pleasure,
And many a shady bower,
With dreamy foliage drooping down

To charm away the hour.
And distant cliffs all rugged,
Loom wildly to the view,
But higher, golden mountains
Bathe in the liquid blue.

E. S. T.

SHAKS.

IB.

SALLUST.

And oh the heart that's swelling
The bright pathway to pursue,
Let it grasp the iron maxim,"
"First to yourself be true."

Leap forth on the bright morning,

Sweep through sunlight and through shade, And with hope glowing on you,

Grasp and wield the goodly blade;

For in the Arcadian story,

Though full many a dream we feel,
There are battles and stern glory,
Won with arms and hearts of steel!

Then let fifty years—your sunrise
And sunset-a mere rhyme
In the great poetic volume

The eternal book of time

Let those fifty years roll onward,

And then lift up the veil,

And where are they whose murmured hopes
Still breathe down on the gale!

The host who dreamed in spring-time,
Ah! they have passed away,
And in another dream-land

Rest through eternal day—
You watch their graves with sorrow,
And number them all o'er,

And ah! you number too the hopes
That were, but are no more.

Some lingering there about them
In their sunset too are seen,
Who in a mournful retrospect

Think of what might have been.
Thus the world goes: its history
Would be this on every page,
Save for the strong willed hero
Who gilded o'er his age.

Where is he? In years now faded,

He saw his gloried name
In brilliant letters graven high
Upon the shaft of Fame.
"Twas written there with Honor,

With Bravery, with Truth,
And there had manhood realized

The dazzling dreams of youth.

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A JOLLY set they were in the good old time,-sturdy tosspots who drained beakers easier than Skald or Viking in Valhalla; palmy days of yore, when good Queen Bess,

"In maiden meditation fancy free,"

and equally free with firkins of stout Berkshire ale, ruled her happy isle; when sturdy Drake, that sea-fighter so "stiff in stowre," and debonair Raleigh lived; when, above all, that jovial crew of staunch topers used to meet at the Devil's Heart in Fleet Street, where famous Simon held out, hero of the stave.

Sing old Sir Simon the king,

Sing old Sir Simon the king,

With his ale-dropt hose,

And his malmsey nose,

Sing bey, ding, ding, a ding ding;

or still oftener, protected by the "Leges Conviviales," at the Mermaid tavern in Friday Street. Here "rare old Ben. Jonson," Will. Shakspere, Cotton, Beaumont, Fletcher, and Elderton,-peerless Elderton, whose deathless thirst some crabbed poetaster has celebrated in the Epitaph

Hic situs est sitiens, atque ebrius Eldertonus.
Quid dico? Hic situs est hic potius sitis est.

a villainous pun, and none the better for being on a dead man in a dead language here, I say, these good fellows were wont to congregate, noble disciples of Pantagruel, genuine Bon Gaultiers, every mother's son of them. What conversations, what ana, were there! Would that some phlegmatic Boswell or Jocelin of Brakelonde had sat in a corner, and with busy pen retailed us a modicum of those quirks and happy hits, so lovingly remembered by Beaumont.

Blessed be the man, said Sancho Panza, who invented sleep; thrice blessed, say we, be generous King Cambrinus, stout old northman Yarl, who first brewed malt, potent, disposer to sleep. We are Saxons; and let every Saxon know that Dryasdust reports the first Saxon words ever historically known to have been uttered, were drinkheil and washeil. Ever since then Saxons have been always dry; they have possessed an avidity as inappeasable as Sahara deserts or Danaidean seives. So thought that crusty curmudgeon Johannes Havillius, Sancti Alban Monachus, who surlily said of us Saxons in distasteful Latin,

Jamque vagante scypho, distincto gutture, washeil,
Ingeminant, washeil: labor est plus perdere vini,

Quam sitis: exhaurire merum vehementius ardent,
Quam exhaurire sitim.

But Lauriger Horatius knew a great deal more than Johannes, when he said,

Qui Musas amat impares,

Ternos ter cyathos attonitus petet ;

Better than any

and if Johannes had had a little burnt sack or heady metheglin down, methinks his verses would have had more readers. monk do I like that queer joker and good Christian withal, Walter of Mapes, Archdeacon of Oxford,

Right jolly old elf, with a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed like a bowl of good jelly;

and it shook often, and shook long in many a bout and many a deep carouse, in diem protractum. He it was, says genial Camden, that "filled all England with his merriments, and confessed his love to good liquor, with the causes, in this wise :"

Mihi est propositum in tabernâ mori,
Vinum sit appositum morientis ori;

Ut dicant, cum venerint, angelorum chori,
Deus sit propitius, huic potatori;

etc., etc.

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