John Paul Jones

Judging by his achievements, his written projects, and the admiration of the accomplished men who knew him best, John Paul Jones was transcendently able as a sailor and man of action; yet frustration and disappointment waited at the end of almost every energetic movement, every daring plan. He never lost a battle, yielded in any naval contest, or failed in an errand; yet defeat, with light but repeated strokes, hacked his energy to pieces and eventually broke him down. He was like a prizefighter who, though unmarked and having wind and muscle unimpaired, suddenly falls heavily in his corner, his face clearly reflecting his astonishment and unbelief.

Like most men who have a touch of what is called genius, he was consumed by a desire for the unattainable. The walls of his imagination were painted with the artist's dream of perfection. He was haunted by the chimera of a Great Squadron which, sailing in perfect line, he was one day to lead across glittering seas into the harbor of the Minotaur and gloriously sink him and his combined fleet. He was a compound of Tom Sawyer, Don Quixote, Alexander the Great, and Sandy McPhairson.

As human being he suffered from the common malady of a "split personality." He could not harmonize his own warring elements or coerdinate his contending faculties. The hardy man of action was frequently halted by the intuitive artist. The sea captain was checked by the musing, undeveloped poet.

The man of resolution was in conflict with the sentimentalist. Only at moments of supreme excitement or crisis could his active talents function clearly; but even then the climb into the heights was often followed by exhaustion and desolating reaction. He was ridden by a daimon which would not permit either body or imagination to rest. His interest was too hot. He lacked an immovable something, a sense of mastering composure, an ability to withdraw himself and wait. He saw results, not as the logical outcome of a chain of processes, but as something to be immediately fought and struggled for. Without motion he fretted himself to ribbons. He bloodied his head against the wall of passing circumstance. His unchanneled restlessness made people uncomfortable. If they could not quiet him, they unconsciously sought to be rid of him. He had the genius to do, but lacked the genius not to do. He had the positive gift, but not enough of the negative. He could not gain the blessed relief of alternation from pole to pole, realizing that each phase - positive and negative - has its function and reason for being.