fact—was solid gold. While playing, a dispute
arose. Berthelot insulted Regnault, and, in
pugilistic phrase, tapped his claret. Regnault,
smarting with the blow, seized the chess-board,
and with it felled him to the ground, stone-
dead. This little incident gave rise to one of
the intestine wars which form the staple both of
middle-age fiction and history.

Gustavus Selenus (the pseudonym of the
Duke of Brunswick, who published his treatise
in 1616) records the legend that O'Karius's
son, at Pepin's court, used frequently to play
chess with the king's son; but, as he often
won, the young prince, losing temper, gave him
a blow on the temple which killed him.

John Huss (died 1415) blames not only the evil
passions engendered by, but also the time lost at,
chess. Louis the Ninth (called Saint Louis),
prohibited chess, under pain of a fine; because
the game is too serious, and enervates the
body by the excessive mental application it
requires. Montaigne, in his Essays, says: "I hate
chess, and avoid it; because it is not play enough,
but amuses us too seriously. I am ashamed to
bestow on it an amount of attention which
might serve for something useful." Dr.
Navarre regarded chess as the most impertinent of
games; because, of all games, it is the least
diverting. Jean Petit de Sarisbéry, bishop of
Chartres (died 1182), considers chess a pernicious
game. He holds that there is nothing
more wretched than to weary oneself for a
thing which gives no profit, and that the time
bestowed on it might be much better
employed.

To play well at chess—"Cavendish" opines
—is too hard work. It is making a toil of a
pleasure. We resort to games as a relief,
when we have already experienced enough—
perhaps more than enough—brain excitement.
Under those circumstances, we do not desire
severe mental exertion, but rather repose of
mind, which is not promoted by engaging in a
contest of pure skill. To take up chess, as an
amusement, after mental labour, is to jump out
of the frying-pan into the fire. Chess, well
played, is no relaxation, and ought not to be
regarded as a game at all. It is not a game
with first-rate performers, but the business of
their lives. Chess is their real work; ordinary
engagements are their relief. Sarah Battle
"unbent" over a book.

But for what is all this intellectual tension,
this toil and trouble, this stretch of thought?
Simply to fill an otherwise, unoccupied portion
of human life. "Labour for labour's sake,"
says Locke, "is against nature. The
understanding, which, as well as the other faculties,
chooses always the shortest way to its end,
would presently obtain the knowledge it is
about, and then set upon some new inquiry."
But chess affords no information, leads to no
purpose, effects no result, leaves no trace. It
is a beautiful piece of mechanism, conducing
to nothing. When the number of known
combinations, problems, and solutions, shall have
been increased a hundred-fold, the world will
not be a jot the happier, the wiser, the better,
or the richer. Those who like thus to
occupy their leisure, have a perfect right so
to do. If their striving and straining do no
good, at least it does no harm. But it is difficult
not to say to one's self that the total
amount of effort bestowed on chess, say only
within the last hundred years, might have
sufficed to gird the world with trans-oceanic
telegraphs, or to work out the means of aërial
locomotion.

CONCERNING THE CHEAPNESS OF PLEASURE.

IT is the greatest mistake in the world to
suppose that pleasure is a costly article, yet it
is a mistake that the wisest of us are constantly
committing. Many of us are accustomed to
regard pleasures of the highest kind, as we regard
diamonds—in the light of rare jewels of the first
water, which are only to be obtained by a lavish
outlay of money. With this idea, we are all
more or less envious of wealth, believing that
its possession enables an individual to compass
the whole round of human enjoyments. There
was once a little boy who wished he were a
king, that he might be able to swing on a gate
all day. That boy had a very modest idea of
enjoyment, but if his wish had been granted, he
would soon have been as weary of swinging on
a gate, as Tithonus was of being immortal. It
is a pity that we cannot learn this lesson in a
more practical way; that we cannot have our
wish occasionally, and be convinced by
experience that true happiness does not lie in being
either rich or great. There are many accepted
pieces of verbal wisdom inculcating contentment,
by pointing out the evils of riches and
the cares of greatness. We subscribe to these,
and, as a matter of abstract faith, believe in
them; but practically they do not guide us.
We sigh for riches and greatness all the
same, still clinging to the notion that wealth
and position can purchase enjoyment. Well,
as we cannot be kings and millionnaires for an
hour just to see what it is like to wear a crown
and have an endless supply of money, let us try
the only practical test that is possible. Let
us inquire from our own humble experience
in what our pleasure consists, and compare it,
as well as we can, with the pleasure of those
who have more means than, but the same tastes
and appetites as, ourselves. Let us, in fact,
give proverbial wisdom on this subject the
benefit of a little practical illustration.

I will say, for example, that you are a working
man, earning a pound or two a week, and that
I am an independent person with an income of
ten thousand a year. I will not take the example
of a king, because I apprehend few persons in
their senses would aspire to that uncomfortable
position. Well, then, we are both men, with
the same senses and the same appetites. As
regards our animal natures, you eat, drink, and
sleep; I can do no more. Provided we both