THE FOLLOWING

LETTER,

ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE

APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JUNE, 1767.

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

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

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 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 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.

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 length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang'rous 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.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that Pow'r that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy

A guiltless feast I bring;

side

A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring.

Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n 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 neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir❜d a master's care;

The wicket, op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To take their ev❜ning rest,

The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil❜d; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguil❜d.