THE FOLLOWING LETTER,

ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE SAINT 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 be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me,

The Friar of Orders Gray.' Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243.

78

with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare 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 scarce 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, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE HERMIT.1

TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

For here, forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'

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, I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose.

1 See the Vicar of Wakefield, cap. viii.

'No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn :2
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:
3 Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'

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
The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And strangers led astray!

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care.

2 This imperfect rhyme is the only defect in this sweet and simple poem, with the exception perhaps of fault' and 'sought,' as rhyming sounds in a following stanza.

3. Man wants but little, nor that little long.' Young's Night 4th.