'told,' says a letter-writer of the day, that Doctor Goldsmith now generally lives with his countryman Lord 'Clare, who has lost his only son, Colonel Nugent.' He was not without occasional mortifications, however, such as his host could not protect him from; and one of them was related by himself. In his 'diverting simplicity,' says Boswell, speaking with his own much more diverting air of patronage, Goldsmith complained one day, in a mixed company, of Lord Camden. 'I met him,' he said, 'at Lord 'Clare's house in the country; and he took no more notice ' of me than if I had been an ordinary man.' At this, according to Boswell, himself and the company laughed heartily; whereupon Johnson stood forth in defence of his friend. Nay, gentlemen, Doctor Goldsmith is in the right. 'A nobleman ought to have made up to such a man as 'Goldsmith; and I think it is much against Lord Cam'den that he neglected him.'

It was doubtless much for Lord Clare that he did not. By that simple means, he would seem to have lessened many griefs, and added to many an enjoyment. Attentions are cheaply rendered that win such sympathy as a true heart returns; and if, from the spacious avenues of Gosfield park, Lord Clare had sent an entire buck every season to his friend's humble chambers in the Temple, the single Haunch of Venison which Goldsmith sent him back would richly have repaid him. The charming verses which bear that name were written this year, and seem to have been written for Lord Clare alone; nor was it till two

years after their writer's death that they obtained a wider audience than his circle of friends. Yet, written with no higher aim than of private pleasantry, a more delightful piece of humour, or a more finished piece of style, has probably been seldom written. There is not a word to spare, every word is in its right place, the most boisterous animal spirits are controlled by the most charming good taste, and an indescribable airy elegance pervades and encircles all. Its very incidents seem of right to claim a place here, so naturally do they fall within the drama of Goldsmith's life.

Allusions in the lines fix their date to the early months of 1771; and it was probably on his return from the visit to which reference has just been made, that Lord Clare's side of venison had reached him.

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter:

The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

The white was so white and the red was so ruddy.

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-80,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.

But these witty fancies yield to more practical views as he contemplates the delicate luxury; and he bethinks him of the appetites most likely to do it justice.

To go on with my tale. . as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose . .

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's..

But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when:
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,

I think they love venison.. I know they love beef!

Ah! he had excellent reason to know it. These were four of his poor poet-pensioners, three of whom, in the first uncorrected copy of the poem, stood undisguisedly as

Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and Hiff;' but Hiffernan is alone recognisable now. (Monroe was Lord Townshend's Dorothy, to whose charms he devoted his verse.)

But hang it. to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them! it would look like a flirt,
Like sending 'em ruffles when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me.

This is the hero of the poem; and sketched so vividly, with a humour so life-like and droll, that he was probably a veritable person. In the first published copy, indeed, which contains touches I prefer to the corrected version, he is described as 'a fine spoken Custom-house officer he.' In what follows, the leading notion is founded on one of Boileau's satires, but the comedy is both more rich and more delicate. The visitor ascertains that the venison is really Goldsmith's.

If that be the case then,' cried he, very gay,
'I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words.. I insist on't.. precisely at three.
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.

What say you.

..

a pasty it shall, and it must;

And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.

Here, porter!.. this venison with me to Mile-end ;
No stirring, I beg.. my dear friend.. my dear friend !'
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And nobody with me at sea but myself,'

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd 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 the Duke of Cumberland had said in those love-letters to Lady Grosvenor with which the newspapers were now making mirth for the town) 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, and was redoubling anti-whig efforts (in hope of a bishopric very probably), as 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, who has this day charged 'the Duke of Portland 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 this 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.'

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; 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