The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne
      being, as they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor,
      wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, been
      eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more
      than their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the poetic
      crown) with the wreath of victory in the footrace—a wreath which
      it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next
      Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance. Footnotes—Four Beasts

      (*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was
      sung by the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic
      war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of
      the enemy. THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE


  What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
  himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
  _all_ conjecture. —_Sir Thomas Browne._

      The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
      themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
      them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things,
      that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
      possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man
      exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as
      call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that
      moral activity which _disentangles._ He derives pleasure from
      even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics;
      exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which
      appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results,
      brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in
      truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
      mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
      which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde
      operations, has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for
      example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows
      that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is
      greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
      simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations
      very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
      that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
      decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of
      draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
      latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_ motions,
      with various and variable values, what is only complex is
      mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
      _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for
      an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or
      defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute,
      the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases
      out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more
      acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where
      the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, the
      probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere
      attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
      are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_. To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the
      pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
      oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory
      can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
      _recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
      intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
      himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
      therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
      methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
      seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation. Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
      the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
      have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
      it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is
      nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of
      analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little
      more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist
      implies capacity for success in all those more important
      undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
      proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
      comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage
      may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and
      lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
      to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
      remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player
      will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves
      based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and
      generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to
      proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum
      total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of
      mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in
      silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do
      his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
      information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
      inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
      knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines
      himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he
      reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines
      the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that
      of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
      cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
      honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
      gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
      expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the
      person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what
      is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown
      upon the table.