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 one1 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 'The Friar of Orders Gray. No. 18. " Reliq. of Anc. Poetry,» vol. 1. book 2. 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, To where yon taper cheers the vale « For here forlorn and lost I tread, « Here to the houseless child of want And though my portion is but scant, << Then turn to-night, and freely share VOL. II. My rushy couch and frugal fare, 2 « 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; 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, |