twice in a century or so.  As a matter of fact—­it is probably due to some flaw in the theory of probability—­the same problem has a way of turning up in different publications several times in a month or so.  It may be, of course, that, after all, quite “sound” problems are limited in number, and that we keep on inventing and reinventing them; that, if a record were kept, the whole system, up to four or five moves, might be classified, and placed on record in the course of a few score years.  Indeed, if we were to eliminate those with conspicuously bad moves, it may be we should find the number of reasonable games was limited enough, and that even our brilliant Lasker is but repeating the inspirations of some long-buried Persian, some mute inglorious Hindoo, dead and forgotten ages since.  It may be over every game there watches the forgotten forerunners of the players, and that chess is indeed a dead game, a haunted game, played out centuries ago, even, as beyond all cavil, is the game of draughts.

The artistic temperament, the gay irresponsible cast of mind, does what it can to lighten the gravity of this too intellectual game.  To a mortal there is something indescribably horrible in these champions with their four moves an hour—­the bare thought of the mental operations of the fifteen minutes gives one a touch of headache.  Compulsory quick moving is the thing for gaiety, and that is why, though we revere Steinitz and Lasker, it is Bird we love.  His victories glitter, his errors are magnificent.  The true sweetness of chess, if it ever can be sweet, is to see a victory snatched, by some happy impertinence, out of the shadow of apparently irrevocable disaster.  And talking of cheerfulness reminds me of Lowson’s historical game of chess.  Lowson said he had been cheerful sometimes—­but, drunk!  Perish the thought!  Challenged, he would have proved it by some petty tests of pronunciation, some Good Templar’s shibboleths.  He offered to walk along the kerb, to work any problem in mathematics we could devise, finally to play MacBryde at chess.  The other gentleman was appointed judge, and after putting the antimacassar over his head ("jush wigsh”) immediately went to sleep in a disorderly heap on the sofa.  The game was begun very solemnly, so I am told.  MacBryde, in describing it to me afterwards, swayed his hands about with the fingers twiddling in a weird kind of way, and said the board went like that.  The game was fierce but brief.  It was presently discovered that both kings had been taken.  Lowson was hard to convince, but this came home to him.  “Man,” he is reported to have said to MacBryde, “I’m just drunk.  There’s no doubt in the matter.  I’m feeling very ashamed of myself.”  It was accordingly decided to declare the game drawn.  The position, as I found it next morning, is an interesting one.  Lowson’s Queen was at K Kt 6, his Bishop at Q B 3, he had several Pawns, and his Knight occupied a commanding position at the intersection