THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JULY, M.DCC.LXVII. 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 some years ago; and he (as we both 1 The Friar of Orders Gray.'- Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243. 56 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 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 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, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. EDWIN AND ANGELINA.1 'TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 6 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 1 See the Vicar of Wakefield, cap. viii. 'No flocks that range the valley free Taught by that Power that pities me, 'But from the mountain's grassy side A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 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, No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir❜d a master's care: 2"The running brook, the herbs of the field, can amply satisfy nature; man wants but little, nor that little long." The Citizen of the World, Letter lxvii.-P. C. 'Man wants but little, nor that little long.' |