THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST JAMES'S CHRONICLE, APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JUNE, MDCCLXVII. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one' by the ingenious Mr Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr Percy be any, I The Friar of Orders Gray. " Reliq. of Anc. Poetry,» vol. 1. book 2. No. 18. some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good-humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult «The Life of Dr Goldsmith,» under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD. « TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, « For here forlorn and lost I tread, " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, << To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. << Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, « Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; VOL. II. My rushy couch and frugal fare, « No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: . But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. « Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below, Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And spread his vegetable store, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, « And whence, unhappy youth,» he cried, « The sorrows of thy breast? << From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, « Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. |