An equal femblance ftill to keep, And here my fimile almost tript, Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; Being each as great a thief as he : Shall lend my fimile affistance. B DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR's BED CHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each paffing stranger that can pay; With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was fcor'd, THE HERMIT. LETTER. To the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle. SIR, June, 1767. As there is nothing I diflike so much as news paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concife as poffible in informing a correfpondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good and I think fo fill. I faid, I was told by the bookfeller that it was then first published; but in that, it feems, I was mifinformed, and my reading was not extenfive enough to fet me right. one; Another correfpondent of yours accufes me of having taken a ballad, I published fome time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great refemblance between the two pieces in queftion.-If there be any, his bailad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, fome years ago; and he (as we both confidered thefe things as trifles at beft) told me, with his usual *The Friar of Orders Gray." Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. I p. 243. good humour, the next time I faw 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 fo call it, and I highly approved it.-Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the bufy difpofition of fome 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. A BALLAD. TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, "And guide my lonely way, "To where yon taper cheers the vale, "For here forlorn and loft I tread, "Forbear, my fon," the Herinit cries, "Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; "And tho' my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. "Then turn to night, and freely fhare "Whate'er my cell beftows; My rufhy couch and frugal fare, "My bieffing and repofe. "No |