favour in the enterprise. But though the Great Cham accepted the compliment he did not modify his views. What he thought of the old ballads themselves is shown by his crushing judgment upon one of the most famous of them : "In 'Chevy Chase' there is not much of either bombast or affectation, but there is chill and lifeless imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression upon the mind." 1 And if he was thus contemptuous of all such "barbarous productions of unpolished ages (as even Percy himself called them), still more contemptuous was he of the mania for balladwriting which infected many of the versifiers of his time. Boswell records an occasion on which the conversation having turned on modern imitations of ancient ballads, and some one having praised their simplicity, he treated them with the ridicule which he always displayed when that subject was mentioned"; while twice, as we know, he discharged his feelings regarding them in the form of clever impromptu burlesque, as thus:

I put my hat upon my head,
And walked into the Strand;
And there I met another man
With his hat in his hand.2

And again :

"Life of Addison." Cp. his satirical account of a club of antiquaries in "The Rambler," No. 177.

The particular poem here parodied was Percy's "Hermit of Warkworth," which he damned with faint praise as "pretty enough."

The tender infant, meek and mild,
Fell down upon the stone;

The nurse took up the squealing child,
But still the child squeal'd on.

In the naïveté of the old ballads, which
modern writers were now attempting, not very
happily, to reproduce, Johnson indeed could
see nothing but crudeness and absurdity, and
to him the growing interest in such things was
evidence only of a strange perversity of taste.
Goldsmith, on the other hand, despite the
hampering influences of his Classical prejudices,
felt a certain instinctive sympathy with this
kind of poetry. While the "Reliques" were
in preparation he and Percy talked much about
it, and it was by these discussions that his own
experiment in the ballad-type of composition
was inspired; though it is significant of the
tyranny of the prevailing fashion that he was
very anxious to have it understood that his
poem was not to be treated too seriously:
"We both," he declared, with reference to Percy
and himself, "considered these things as trifles
at best." 1
As an experiment "Edwin and
Angelina" is not entirely successful, for its
manner is a little too sophisticated for its
matter; and, as is the case with all eighteenth-
century imitations of the ballad style, its
simplicity savours of artifice. But if we place
it back in the literature of its time we can
recognize that it was at least an effort in the

Letter to the "St James's Chronicle" (June 1767) on the subject of the alleged plagiarism.

right direction. The comments with which Mr Burchell prefaces it show that Goldsmith clearly perceived the disastrous effect of the "false taste " for rhetorical ornament in contemporary poetry: "English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection-a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; and, indeed, I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned.'' 1 Then follows the poem.

EDWIN AND ANGELINA

"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 dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

1 "The Vicar of Wakefield," chap. viii.

"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 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 forgo;
All earth-born cares are wrong:

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 neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;

The door just op'ning with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguil’d.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied, With answ'ring care oppress'd: “And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?