So sings the poet. Destiny _did_ prove kind to Mr. Staunton when he played his match in Paris with St. Amant. The Englishman made the most of it, and achieved a splendid triumph. At the great Chess Tournament in 1851 destiny was not quite so obliging. The champion from whom we expected so much had a head-wind against him, and he was beaten. I saw much of Mr. Staunton at that time. I believe--in all justice let it be said--that he was thoroughly unnerved, that he was utterly unequal to an arduous contest, and that his great merits ought not to be gauged by his play upon the occasion alluded to. He deserved (he did not receive, for he had never given the same to others) every sympathy under circumstances which were intensely mortifying to himself personally, and to us nationally. Since 1851 it has been pretty generally understood that Mr. Staunton's irritability has not diminished, and that his literary responsibilities have the rather multiplied. Consequently we had no right to expect, nationally, that he would again be our champion, and contend with the young American, whose reputation ran before him to Europe, and has accompanied him ever since his arrival from the United States. We had no right, I say, to expect this, _but for one reason_. That reason is to be found in the chess department of the _Illustrated London News_, of which Mr. S. is the acknowledged editor. It has been there constantly implied--nay, it has been over and over again unequivocally stated--during the last eight years, that the vanquisher of St. Amant is still the English champion; that as such he has a right to dictate his own terms, and that if any one is prepared to accede to those terms, he (Mr. Staunton) is prepared for the encounter. It matters not whether the correspondents to whom these implications are made are real or (as is generally supposed) imaginary. It is sufficient that certain statements are made with the intention of conveying a false impression to the public as regards Mr. Staunton's desire to play and capability of playing. This is where he is so greatly to blame; this is the point on which he has alienated from himself during the last few years so many of his warmest friends. No one blames Mr. Staunton for not playing with Mr. Morphy; but every one has a right to blame Mr. Staunton if, week after week, he implies in his own organ that there is a chance of a match, if all that time he knows that there is no chance of a match whatever. This, I affirm deliberately, and with great pain, is what Mr. Staunton has done. It has been done times out of number, and this in ways which have been hardly noticed. If the editor of the chess department of the _Illustrated London News_ merely states as a piece of news that Mr.