Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next Day in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

Sad is the disappointment. He had better have remained (as, in those love-letters with which the newspapers were now making mirth for the town, the Duke of Cumberland had said to Lady Grosvenor), with "nobody with him at sea but himself." Johnson and Burke can't come. The one is at Thrale's, and the other at that horrible House of Commons. But never mind, says the host; you shall see somebody quite as good. And here Goldsmith remembered his former visitor, Parson Scott, who had just now got his fat Northumberland livings in return for his Anti-Sejanus letters, and was redoubling anti-whig efforts through the same channel of the Public Advertiser, in hope of a bishopric very probably, with the signatures of Panurge and Cinna. "There is a "villain who writes under the signature of Panurge," exclaimed the impetuous Barré, from his seat on the 12th of March, "a noted "ministerial scribbler undoubtedly supported by government. He "has this day published the grossest abuse upon the Duke of "Portland, charging him with robbing Sir James Lowther; yet "this dirty scoundrel is suffered to go unpunished." Not wholly; for Goldsmith, to whom Burke had probably talked of the matter at the club, now ran his polished rapier through the political parson. Never mind for Burke and Johnson, repeats his host; I've provided capital substitutes.

For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party,
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They're both of them merry, and authors like you.
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.

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The only hope left is the pasty; though it looks somewhat alarming when dinner is served, and no pasty appears. There is fried liver and bacon at the top, tripe at the bottom; there is spinach at the sides, with "pudding made hot ;" and in the middle a place where the pasty was-not." Now Goldsmith can't eat bacon or tripe; and even more odious to him than either is the ravenous literary Scot, and the talk of the chocolate-cheeked scribe of a Jew (who likes "these here dinners so pretty and "small"): but still there's the pasty promised, with Kitty's famous crust; and of this a rumour goes gradually round the table, till the Scot, though already replete with tripe and bacon, announces

a corner for thot ;" and "we'll all keep a corner," is the general resolve, and on the pasty everything is concentrated: when the terrified maid brings in, not the pasty, but the catastrophe, in the shape of terrible news from the baker. To him had the pasty been carried, crust and all :

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.

And having thus described the first important manifestation of that power of easy, witty, sarcastic verse which, just as life was closing on Goldsmith, began to be a formidable weapon in his hands, here may be the fitting occasion to connect with the Haunch of Venison a poem of which the date and circumstances attending its composition are unknown; which has never been publicly ascribed to him until now, and would seem, for some unaccountable reason, to have failed to find its way into print; yet which I cannot hesitate to call his, not simply because the manuscript is undoubtedly his handwriting, but for the better reason that what it contains is not unworthy of his genius. In the absence of certain information I shall forbear to speculate on the probable circumstances which led to the selection of such a subject as an exercise in verse, and content myself with presenting a very brief outline of Vida's Game of Chess in the English heroic metre, as it has been found transcribed in the writing of Oliver Goldsmith by my friend Mr. Bolton Corney, whose property it is and who kindly permits my use of it.

It is a small quarto manuscript of thirty-four pages, containing 679 lines, to which a fly-leaf is appended, in which Goldsmith notes the differences of nomenclature between Vida's chessmen and our own. It has occasional interlineations and corrections, but rather such as would occur in transcription, than in a first or original copy. Sometimes, indeed, choice appears to have been made (as at page 29) between two words equally suitable to the sense and verse, as "to" for "toward;" but the insertions and erasures refer almost wholly to words or lines accidentally omitted and replaced. The triplet is always carefully marked; and though it is seldom found in any other of Goldsmith's poems, I am disposed to regard its frequent recurrence here, as even helping in some degree to explain the motive which had led him to the trial of an experiment in rhyme comparatively new to him. If we suppose

him, half consciously it may be, taking up the manner of the great master of translation, Dryden, who was at all times so much a favourite with him, he would certainly be less apt to fall short in so marked a peculiarity, than to err perhaps a little on the side of

excess.

Though I am far from thinking such to be the result in

the present instance. The effect of the whole translation is really very pleasing, and the mock heroic effect appears to be not a little assisted by the reiterated use of the triplet and alexandrine. As to any evidences of authorship derivable from the appearance of the manuscript, it is only necessary to add another word. The lines in the translation have been carefully counted, and the number is marked in Goldsmith's hand at the close of his transcription. Such a fact is of course only to be taken in aid of other proof; but a man is not generally at the pains of counting,—still less, I should say, in such a case as Goldsmith's, of elaborately transcribing,—lines which are not his own.

What student

Of Vida himself there is little occasion to speak. of literature does not know the gay, courtly, scholarly priest, the favourite of Leo the magnificent, whom the seventh Clement invested with the mitre of Alba, and who was crowned with a laurel unfading as his wit by that great English poet, in whose fancy even the ancient glories of Italy seemed to linger still, while A Raffaelle painted and a Vida sung. Immortal Vida! on whose honoured brow The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

Yet when those lines appeared, in the most marvellous youthful poem of our language (the Essay of Criticism, written at the age of 20), Pope's greatest debt to Vida was still to be incurred. The Game of Chess enriched the Rape of the Lock with the delightful Game at Ombre. Nor would it be possible better to express, to a reader unacquainted with the original, that charm in Vida's poem which appears to have amused and attracted Goldsmith's imagination, than by referring to the close exactness in the movements of the game between the Baron and Belinda, on which Pope has lavished such exquisite fancy, and wit so delicate and masterly. With all this, Vida has combined in a yet greater degree the subtle play of satire implied in the elevation of his theme to the epic rank. The machinery employed, and the similes used, are those in which the epic poets claim a peculiar property. Yet, at the same time, so closely are the most intricate and masterly moves of chess expressed in the various fortunes of the combatants, in the penalties which await their rashness or the success which attends their stratagems, that Pope Leo thought the ignorant might derive a knowledge of the game from Vida's hexameters alone.

Whether or not Goldsmith had any personal skill at chess, I have not been able to discover; but that he was not entirely ignorant of it may be presumed from the facility and elegance of his paraphrase. When Mr. George Jeffreys translated the same

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poem (one of seven versions of it made in English), and asked Pope's opinion of its execution, the poet thought it unbecoming to deliver his opinion upon a subject to which he is a stranger; but perhaps this was the civil avoidance of a disagreeable request, for what knowledge of the subject, more than Vida himself possessed, should his translator, or the critic of his translator, require? Nevertheless, there may be enough in Pope's remark to favour the presumption of some acquaintance with the game in any one who should undertake such a labour of love connected with it; and this is strengthened by the confidence and freedom of Goldsmith's verse. There is even something in the note he appends to the conclusion of his labour that might appear as if written by one familiar with chess. 66 Archers," ," he says, referring to Vida's verse, "are what we call Bishops; Horse are what we call Knights; "Elephants are what we call Tow'rs, Castles, or Rooks. Apollo "has the white men, Mercury the black."

But before these Deities of the strife are introduced, let a few of the opening lines marshal in due precedence the opposing forces.

So mov'd the boxen hosts, each double-lin'd,
Their diff'rent colours floating in the wind:

As if an army of the Gauls should go,

With their white standards o'er the Alpine snow

To meet in rigid fight on scorching sands

The sun-burnt Moors and Memnon's swarthy bands.

The forces being brought into the field, the order of the fray is next shown, and the stated laws by which their several weapons of assault or defence are subject to be controlled. Here is seen the elegant and easy art, not of the poet simply, but of the master of the laws of the game.

To lead the fight, the Kings from all their bands

Choose whom they please to bear their great commands.
Should a black Hero first to battel go,

Instant a white one guards against the blow;

But only one at once can charge or shun the foe.

But the great Indian beasts, whose backs sustain
Vast turrets arm'd, when on the redd'ning plain
They join in all the terrour of the fight,

Forward or backward, to the left or right

Run furious, and impatient of confine

Scour through the field, and threat the farthest line.

Yet must they ne'er obliquely aim their blows;

That only manner is allowed to those

Whom Mars has favour'd most, who bend the stubborn bows.

These glancing sidewards in a straight career,

Yet each confin'd to their respective sphere

Or white or black, can send th' unerring dart

Wing'd with swift death to pierce through ev'ry part.

The fiery steed, regardless of the reins,
Comes prancing on; but sullenly disdains
The path direct, and boldly wheeling round,
Leaps o'er a double space at ev'ry bound:

And shifts from white or black to diff'rent colour'd ground.
But the fierce Queen, whom dangers ne'er dismay,

The strength and terrour of the bloody day,

In a straight line spreads her destruction wide,
To left or right, before, behind, aside, &c.

The Gods survey

The divine machinery is now set in motion. the forces in array, and, with their usual desire to enliven the dullness of Olympus, are anxious to engage along with them; but Jove checks and forbids them to take part on either side, and, summoning Mercury and Apollo, places the dark warriors under command of Hermes and the white under that of Phœbus, restricting the divine interference to these two, and limiting their power by the expressed regulations of the contest.

Then call'd he Phoebus from among the Pow'rs,
And subtle Hermes, whom in softer hours
Fair Maia bore: Youth wanton'd in their face,
Both in life's bloom, both shone with equal gracc.
Hermes as yet had never wing'd his feet;
As yet Apollo in his radiant seat

Had never driv'n his chariot through the air,
Known by his bow alone and golden hair.

These Jove commissioned to attempt the fray,

And rule the sportive military day.

And now, as the fray proceeds under these respective leaders, it becomes the pleasant art of the poet to show you how superior in such a conflict are the sly resources of stratagem and deceit over those of a more generous and manly nature. The first advantage falls to Mercury, and Apollo can only relieve his King at great sacrifice and loss.

Apollo sigh'd, and hast'ning to relieve

The straighten'd Monarch, griev'd that he must leave
His martial elephant exposed to fate,

And view'd with pitying eyes his dang❜rous state.

First in his thoughts however was his care

To save his King, whom to the neighb'ring square

On the right hand, he snatcht with trembling flight ;

At this with fury springs the sable Knight,
Drew his keen sword, and rising to the blow,
Sent the great Indian brute to shades below.

O fatal loss for none except the Queen
Spreads such a terrour through the bloody scene.
Yet shall you ne'er unpunisht boast your prize,
The Delian God with stern resentment cries;

And wedg'd him round with foot, and pour'd in fresh supplies.