The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 05, No. 32, June, 1860

SALVIO GAMBIT. (Preserved from the Portuguese by Salvio, 1604.)

1. P. to K. 4th. 1. P. to K. 4th. 2. P. to K.B. 4th. 2. P. takes P. 3. K.Kt. to B. 3d. 3. P. to K.Kt. 4th. 4. K.B. to Q.B. 4th. 4. P. to K.Kt. 5th. 5. Kt. to K. 5th. 5. Q.to K.R.'s 5th. (ch.) 6. K. to B. Sq. 6. K.Kt. to B. 3d.

FRENCH GAME.

1. P. to K. 4th. 1. P. to K. 3d.

These gambits may be classed under what are, in common phrase, termed "open" or "close" games; an open game being where the pieces are brought out into more immediate engagement,—a close game where the pawns interlock, and the pieces can less easily issue to the attack. An instance of the former may be found in the Allgaier,—of the latter in Philidor's Defence. These two kinds of games are found in chess-play because they are found in human temperament; as there are brilliant and daring Napoleons, and cautious, pertinacious Washingtons in war, so are there in chess Philidor and La Bourdonnais, Staunton and Morphy. In examining Mr. Staunton's play, for example, one is struck with the French tact of M. St. Amant's remark, made many years ago: "M. Staunton has the solidity of iron, but neither the purity of gold nor the brilliancy of the diamond." However much Mr. Staunton's ignoble evasion of the match with Morphy—after bringing him, by his letter, all the way from New Orleans to London, a voyage which would scarcely have been taken otherwise—may have stained his reputation as a courageous and honorable chess-player, we cannot be blind to the fact, that he is the strongest master of the game in Europe. With a fine mathematical head, (more at home, however, in the Calculus than in Algebra,)—with an immense power of reserve and masterly repose,—able to hold an almost incredible number of threads without getting them entangled,—he has all the qualities which bear that glorious flower, success. But he is never brilliant; he has outwearied many a deeper man by his indefatigable evenness and persistance; he is Giant Despair to the brilliant young men. Mr. Morphy is just the otherest from Staunton. Like him only in sustained and quiet power, he brings to the board that demon of his, Memory,—such a memory, too, as no other chess-player has ever possessed: add to this wonderful analytic power and you have the secret of this Chess-King. Patient practice, ambition, and leisure have done the rest. He has thus the lustre du diamant, which St. Amant missed in Mr. Staunton; and we know that the brilliant diamond is hard enough also to make its mark upon the "solid iron."

Amongst other great living players who incline to the "close game," we may mention Mr. Harrwitz, whose match with Morphy furnished not one brilliant game; also Messrs. Slous, Horwitz, Bledow, Szen, and others. But the tendency has been, ever since the celebrated and magnificent matches of the two greatest chess geniuses which England and France have ever known, McDonnel and De la Bourdonnais, to cultivate the bolder and more exciting open gambits. And under the lead of Paul Morphy this tendency is likely to be inaugurated as the rule of modern chess. Professor Anderssen, Mayet, Lange, and Von der Lasa, in Germany,—Dubois and Centurini, at Rome,—St. Amant, Laroche, and Lécrivain, of Paris,—Löwenthal, Perigal, Kipping, Owen, Mengredien, etc., of London,—are all players of the heroic sort, and the games recently played by some of them with Morphy are perhaps the finest on record. And certainly, whatever may be said of their tendency to promote careless and reckless play, the open and daring games are at once more interesting, more brief, and more conducive to the mental drill which has been claimed as a sufficient compensation for the outlay of thought and time demanded by chess.

We have already given some specimens of the Poetry of Chess. The Chess Philosophy itself has penetrated every direction of literature. From the time that Miranda is "discovered playing chess with Ferdinand" in Prospero's cell, (an early instance of "discovered mate,") the numberless Mirandas of Romance have played for and been played for mates. Chess has even its Mythology,—Caïssa being now, we believe, generally received at the Olympian Feasts. True, some one has been wicked enough to observe that all chess-stories are divisible into two classes,—in one a man plays for his own soul with the Devil, in the other the hero plays and wins a wife,—and to beg for a chess-story minus wives and devils; but such grumblers are worthless baggage, and ought to be checked. The Chess Library has now become an important collection. Time was, when, if one man had Staunton's "Handbook," Sarratt, Philidor, Walker's "Thousand Games," and Lewis on "The Game of Chess," he was regarded as uniting the character of a chess-scholar with that of the antiquary. But now we hear of Bledow of Berlin with eight hundred volumes on chess; and Professor George Allen, of the University of Pennsylvania, with more than a thousand! Such a literature has Chess collected about it since Paolo Boi, "the great Syracusan," as he was called, wrote what perhaps was the first work on chess, in the middle of the sixteenth century.

But such numbers of works on chess are very rare, and when the reader hears of an enormous chess library, he may be safe in recalling the story of Walker, whose friend turned chess author; seven years after, he boasted to Walker of the extent of his chess library, which, he affirmed consisted of one thousand volumes minus eighteen! It turned out that eighteen copies of his work had been sold, the rest of the edition remaining on his hands.

Though these old works are like galleries of old and valuable pictures to the chess enthusiast, they contain very little that is valuable to the general reader. Their terms and signs are to the uninitiated suggestive of a doctor's prescription. But the anecdotes of the game are, many of them, remarkable; and we believe they are known to have less of the mythical about them than those told in other departments. One who knows the game will feel that it is sufficiently absorbing to be woven in with the textures of government, of history, and of biography. It is of the nature of chess gradually to gather up all the senses and faculties of the player, so that for the time being he is an automaton chess-player, to whom life and death are abstractions.

How seriously, even religiously, the game has always been regarded by both Church and State may be judged by the account given by old Carrera of one whom we have already named as probably the earliest chess author, as he certainly is one of the greatest players known to fame. "In the time of our fathers," says this ancient enthusiast, "we had many famous players, of whom Paolo Boi, Sicilian, of the city of Syracuse, and commonly called the Syracusan, was considered the best. He was born in Syracuse of a rich and good family. When a boy, he made considerable progress in literature, for he had a very quick apprehension. He had a wonderful talent for the game of Chess; and having in a short time beaten all the players of the city, he resolved to go to Spain, where he heard there were famous players, honored and rewarded not only by noblemen, but also by Philip II., who took no small delight in the game. He first beat with ease all the players of Sicily, and was very superior in playing without seeing the board; for, playing at once three games blindfold, he conversed with others on different subjects. Before going into Spain, he travelled over all Italy, playing with the best players, amongst others with the Pultino, who was of equal force; they are therefore called by Salvio the light and glory of chess. He was the favorite of many Italian Princes, and particularly of the Duke of Urbino, and of several Cardinals, and even of Pope Pius V. himself, who would have given him a considerable benefice, if he would have become a clergyman; but this he declined, that he might follow his own inclinations. He afterward went to Venice, where a circumstance happened which had never occurred before: he played with a person and lost. Having afterward by himself examined the games with great care, and finding that he ought to have won, he was astonished that his adversary should have gained contrary to all reason, and suspected that he had used some secret art whereby he was prevented from seeing clearly; and as he was very devout, and was possessed of a rosary rich with many relics of saints, he resolved to play again with his antagonist, armed not only with the rosary, but strengthened by having previously received the sacrament: by these means he conquered his adversary, who, after his defeat, said to him these words,—'Thine is more potent than mine.'"

Some of the earliest writers on chess have given their idea of the all-absorbing nature of the game in the pleasant legend, that it was invented by the two Grecian brothers Ledo and Tyrrheno to alleviate the pangs of hunger with which they were pressed, and that, whilst playing it, they lived weeks without considering that they had eaten nothing.

But we need not any mythical proof of its competency in this direction. Hyde, in his History of the Saracens, relates with authenticity, that Al Amin, the Caliph of Bagdad, was engaged at chess with his freedman Kuthar, at the time when Al Mamun's forces were carrying on the siege of the city with a vigor which promised him success. When one rushed in to inform the Caliph of his danger, he cried,—"Let me alone, for I see checkmate against Kuthar!" Charles I. was at chess when he was informed of the decision of the Scots to sell him to the English, but only paused from his game long enough to receive the intelligence. King John was at chess when the deputies from Rouen came to inform him that Philip Augustus had besieged their city; but he would not hear them until he had finished the game. An old English MS. gives in the following sentence no very handsome picture of the chess-play of King John of England:—"John, son of King Henry, and Fulco felle at variance at Chestes, and John brake Fulco's head with the Chest-borde; and then Fulco gave him such a blow that he almost killed him." The laws of chess do not now permit the king such free range of the board. Dr. Robertson, in his History of Charles V., relates that John Frederic, Elector of Saxony, whilst he was playing with Ernest, Duke of Brunswick, was told that the Emperor had sentenced him to be beheaded before the gate of Wittenberg; he with great composure proceeded with the game, and, having beaten, expressed the usual satisfaction of a victor. He was not executed, however, but set at liberty, after five years' confinement, on petition of Mauritius. Sir Walter Raleigh said, "I wish to live no longer than I can play at chess." Rousseau speaks of himself as forcené des échecs, "mad after chess." Voltaire called it "the one, of all games, which does most honor to the human mind."

"When an Eastern guest was asked if he knew anything in the universe more beautiful than the gardens of his host, which lay, an ocean of green, broad, brilliant, enchanting, upon the flowery margin of the Euphrates, he replied,—'Yes, the chess-playing of El-Zuli.'" Surely, the compliment, though Oriental, is not without its strict truth. When Nature rises up to her culmination, the human brain, and there reveals her potencies of insight, foresight, analysis, memory, we are touched with a mystic beauty; the profile on the mountain-top is sublimer than the mountain. But we must heed well Mr. Morphy's advice, and not suffer this fascinating game to be more than a porter at the gate of the fairer garden. Only when it secures, not when it usurps the day, can it be regarded as a friend. There is a myriad-move problem, of which Society is the Sphinx, given us to solve.

He who masters chess without being mastered by it will find that it discovers essential principles. In the world he will see a larger chess-field, and one also shaped by the severest mathematics: the world is so because the brain of man is so,—motive and move, motive and move: they sum up life, all life,—from the aspen-leaf turning its back to the wind, to the ecstasy of a saint. See the array of pawns (forces, as the Hindoo calls them): the bodily presence and abilities, power of persistence, endurance, nerve, the eye, the larynx, the tongue, the senses. Do they not exist in life as on the board, to cut the way for royal or nobler pieces? Does not the Imperial Mind win its experiences, its insight, through the wear and tear of its physical twin? Is not the perfect soul "perfect through sufferings" for evermore? For every coin reason gets from Nature, the heart must leave a red drop impawned, the face must bear its scar. See, then, the powers of the human arena: here Castle, Knight, Bishop are Passion, Love, Hope; and above all, the sacred Queen of each man, his specialty, his strength, by which he must win the day, if he win at all. Here is the Idea with reference to which each man is planned; it preexisted in the universe, and was born when he was born; it is King on the board,—that lost, life's game is lost. By his side stands the special Strength into whose keeping it is given, making, in Goethe's words, "every man strong enough to enforce his conviction,"—his conviction, mark! Pawns and pieces form themselves about that Queen; they are all to perish, to perish one by one,—even the specialty,—that the King may triumph. Over our largest, sublimest individualities the eternal tide flows on, and the grandest personal strides are merged in the general success. The old author dreamed that the heroes of the Trojan War were changed by Zeus into the warriors of the mimic strife in order that such renowned exploits should be perpetuated among men forever: rather must we reverse the dream, and apotheosize the powers of the board, that they may appear in the sieges, heroisms, and victories of life.

* * * * *

SPRING-SONG

Creep slowly up the willow-wand,Young leaves! and, in your lightness,Teach us that spirits which despondMay wear their own pure brightness.Into new sweetness slowly dip,O May!—advance; yet linger:Nor let the ring too swiftly slipDown that new-plighted finger.Thy bursting blooms, O spring, retard!While thus thy raptures press on,How many a joy is lost, or marredHow many a lovely lesson!For each new sweet thou giv'st us, thoseWhich first we loved are taken:In death their eyes must violets closeBefore the rose can waken.Ye woods, with ice-threads tingling late,Where late was heard the robin,Your chants that hour but antedateWhen autumn winds are sobbing!Ye gummy buds, in silken sheathHang back, content to glisten!Hold in, O earth, thy charmèd breath!Thou air, be still, and listen!* * * * *

MODEL LODGING-HOUSES IN BOSTON

The present sanitary condition of our great cities is a reproach to our intelligence not less than to our humanity. Our system of self-government, so far as regards the protection of the mass of the dwellers in cities from the worst physical evils, is now on trial. The tests to which it is exposed are severe. We may boast as we like of our national prosperity, of the rapidity of our material progress,—we may take pride in liberty, in wide extent of territory, in the welcome to our shores of the exiled and the poor of all other lands, or in whatsoever matter of self-gratulation we choose,—but by the side of all these satisfactions stands the fact, that in our chief cities the duration of life is diminishing and the suffering from disease increasing. The question inevitably arises, Is this a consequence of our political system? and if so, is political liberty worth having, are democratic principles worth establishing, if the price to be paid for them is increased insecurity of life and greater wretchedness among the poor? If the origin of these evils is to be found in the incompetency of the government or the inefficiency of individuals in a democracy, a remedy must be applied, or the whole system must be changed.

The intimate connection between physical misery and moral degradation is plain and generally acknowledged. We are startled from time to time at the rapid growth of crime in our cities; but it is the natural result of preexisting physical evils. These evils have become more apparent during the last twenty years than before, and it has been the fashion to attribute their increase, with their frightful consequences, mainly to the enormous Irish immigration, which for a time crowded our streets with poor, foreign in origin, and degraded, not only by hereditary poverty, but by centuries of civil and religious oppression. This view is no doubt in part correct; but the larger share of the evils in our cities is due to causes unconnected in any necessary relation with the immigration,—causes contemporaneous with it in their development, and brought into fuller action by it, rather than consequent upon it.

More than half the sickness and more than half the deaths in New York (and probably the same holds true of our other cities) are due to causes which may be prevented,—in other words, which are the result of individual or municipal neglect, of carelessness or indifference in regard to the known and established laws of life. More than half the children who are born in New York (and the proportion is over forty per cent. in Boston) die before they are five years old. Much is implied in these statements,—among other things, much criminal recklessness and wanton waste of the sources of wealth and strength in a state.

In Paris, in London, and in other European cities, the average mortality has been gradually diminishing during the last fifty years. In New York, on the contrary, it has increased with frightful rapidity; and in Boston, though the increase has not been so alarming, it has been steady and rapid.5

But more and worse than this is the fact, that in these two cities the average duration of life (and this means the material prosperity of the people) has of late terribly decreased. While out of every hundred people more die than was the case ten, twenty, thirty years ago, those who die have lived a shorter time. Life is not now to be reckoned by its "threescore years and ten." Its average duration in Boston is little above twenty years; in New York it is less than twenty years.6 Is the diminution of the length of life to go on from year to year?

This needless sacrifice and shortening of life, this accumulating amount of ill health, causes an annual loss, in each of our great cities, of productive capacity to the value of millions of dollars, as well as an unnatural expense of millions more. This is no figure of speech. The community is poorer by millions of dollars each year through the waste which it allows of health and life. Leaving out of view all humane considerations, all thought of the misery, social and moral, which accompanies this physical degradation, and looking simply at its economical effects, we find that it increases our taxes, diminishes our means of paying them, creates permanent public burdens, and lessens the value of property. An outlay of a million of dollars a year to reduce and to remove the causes of these evils would be the cheapest and most profitable expenditure of the public money by the municipal government. The principal would soon be returned to the general treasury with all arrears of interest.

The main causes of this great and growing misery are patent. The remedies for them are scarcely less plain. The chief sources of that disease and death which may be prevented by the action of the community are, first, the filthy and poisonous houses into which a large part of the people are crowded; second, the imperfect ventilation of portions of the city,—its narrow and dirty streets, lanes, and yards; and, third, the want of sufficient house and street drainage and sewerage. It is important to note in relation to these sources of evil, that, while the poverty of our poor is generally not such complete destitution as that of many of the poor in foreign cities, their average condition is worse. The increase of disease and mortality is a result not so much of poverty as of condition. "The pith and burden of the whole matter is, that the great mass of the poor are compelled to live in tenements that are unfit for human beings, and under circumstances in which it is impossible to preserve health and life."

To improve the dwellings of the poor, to make them decent and wholesome, is, then, the first step to be taken in checking the causes of preventable disease and death in our cities. This work implies, if it be done thoroughly, the securing of proper ventilation, sewerage, and drainage.

Most of the houses which the poor occupy are the property of persons who receive from them a rent very large in proportion to their value. No other class of houses gives, on an average, a larger return upon the capital invested in it. The rents which the poor pay, though paid in small sums, are usually enormous in comparison with the accommodation afforded. The houses are crowded from top to bottom. Many of them are built without reference to the comfort or health of their occupants, but with the sole object of getting the largest return for the smallest outlay. They are hotbeds of disease, and exposed to constant peril from fire. Now it seems plain that here is an occasion for the interposition of municipal authority. In spite of the jealousy (proper within certain limits) with which governmental interference with private property is regarded in this country, it is a manifest dereliction of duty on the part of our city authorities not to exercise a strict supervision over these houses. The interests which are chiefly affected by their condition are not private, but public interests. There are legal means for abating nuisances; and there is no reason why houses which affect the health of whole districts should not be treated in the same way as nuisances which are more obtrusive, though less pernicious. In some of the cities of Europe, in Nuremberg, for instance, there is a public architect, to whom all plans for new buildings are submitted for approval or rejection according as they correspond or not with the style of building suitable for the city. What is done abroad to secure the beauty of a city might well be done here to secure its health. Again, by legal enactment, we have prevented the overcrowding of our emigrant ships: the same thing should be done in our cities, to prevent the overcrowding of our tenement-houses. No house should be allowed to receive more than a fixed maximum of dwellers in proportion to its size and accommodations. These are simple propositions, but, if properly carried out by enactment, they would secure an incalculable good.7

In Massachusetts, statutes have existed for some years, giving to the Boards of Health of the different cities or towns powers of a similar nature to those granted by the bill proposed for New York, but of far too limited scope. By Chapter 26, § 11, of the General Statutes, which are to go into operation this year, the Boards of Health are authorized to remove the occupants of any tenement, occupied as a dwelling-place, which is unfit for the purpose, and a cause of nuisance or sickness either to the occupants or the public,—and may require the premises, previously to their reoccupation, to be properly cleansed at the expense of the owner. But the penalty for a violation of this article is too light, being a fine of not less than ten nor more than fifty dollars. To secure any essential good from this law, it must be energetically enforced, with a disregard of personal consequences, and an enlightened view of public and private rights and necessities, scarcely to be expected from Boards of Health as commonly constituted. We require a law upon this subject conveying far ampler powers, enforced by far heavier penalties. It should embrace oversight of the construction as well as of the condition of the dwellings of the poor. Until we obtain such a law, the community is bound to insist upon a rigid enforcement of the present imperfect statute.

[The bill above alluded to by our correspondent has since been rejected by the Legislature of New York.—EDS. ATLANTIC.]]

Still, however much may be done by public authority, the condition of the dwellings of the poor must be determined chiefly by the interest and the legal responsibility of their individual owners. That men may be found willing to make fortunes for themselves by grinding the faces of the poor is certain; but there are, on the other hand, many who would be willing to use some portion, at least, of their means to provide suitable homes for the destitute, could they be assured of receiving a fair return upon the property invested. It has been a matter of doubt whether proper houses could be built for the dwellings of the lower classes, with all necessary accommodations for health and comfort, at such a cost that the rents could be kept as low as those paid for the common wretched tenements, and at the same time be sufficient to afford a reasonable interest upon the investment. Toward the solution of this doubt, an experiment which has been tried in Boston during the last five years has afforded important results.