Oliver Goldsmith | Page 4

possession. A huge misshapen hobgoblin used to
bestride the house every evening with an immense pair of jack-boots,
which, in his efforts at hard riding, he would thrust through the roof,
kicking to pieces all the work of the preceding day. The house was
therefore left to its fate, and went to ruin.
Such is the popular tradition about Goldsmith's birthplace. About two
years after his birth a change came over the circumstances of his father.
By the death of his wife's uncle he succeeded to the rectory of Kilkenny
West; and, abandoning the old goblin mansion, he removed to Lissoy,
in the county of Westmeath, where he occupied a farm of seventy acres,
situated on the skirts of that pretty little village.
This was the scene of Goldsmith's boyhood, the little world whence he
drew many of those pictures, rural and domestic, whimsical and
touching, which abound throughout his works, and which appeal so
eloquently both to the fancy and the heart. Lissoy is confidently cited
as the original of his "Auburn" in the Deserted Village; his father's
establishment, a mixture of farm and parsonage, furnished hints, it is
said, for the rural economy of the Vicar of Wakefield; and his father
himself, with his learned simplicity, his guileless wisdom, his amiable
piety, and utter ignorance of the world, has been exquisitely portrayed
in the worthy Dr. Primrose. Let us pause for a moment, and draw from
Goldsmith's writings one or two of those pictures which, under feigned
names, represent his father and his family, and the happy fireside of his
childish days.
"My father," says the "Man in Black," who, in some respects, is a
counterpart of Goldsmith himself, "my father, the younger son of a
good family, was possessed of a small living in the church. His
education was above his fortune, and his generosity greater than his
education. Poor as he was, he had his flatterers poorer than himself; for
every dinner he gave them, they returned him an equivalent in praise;
and this was all he wanted. The same ambition that actuates a monarch
at the head of his army influenced my father at the head of his table: he
told the story of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated the
jest of the two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company

laughed at that; but the story of Taffy in the sedan chair was sure to set
the table in a roar. Thus his pleasure increased in proportion to the
pleasure he gave; he loved all the world, and he fancied all the world
loved him.
"As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the very extent of it; he
had no intention of leaving his children money, for that was dross; he
resolved they should have learning, for learning, he used to observe,
was better than silver or gold. For this purpose he undertook to instruct
us himself, and took as much care to form our morals as to improve our
understanding. We were told that universal benevolence was what first
cemented society; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind
as our own; to regard the human face divine with affection and esteem;
he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable
of withstanding the slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious
distress. In a word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving
away thousands before we were taught the necessary qualifications of
getting a farthing."
In the Deserted Village we have another picture of his father and his
father's fireside:
"His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their
wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was
his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; The ruin'd
spendthrift, now no longer proud Claim'd kindred there, and had his
claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by his fire,
and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow
done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased
with his guests, the good man learned to glow And quite forgot their
vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity
gave ere charity began."
The family of the worthy pastor consisted of five sons and three
daughters. Henry, the eldest, was the good man's pride and hope, and
he tasked his slender means to the utmost in educating him for a
learned and distinguished career. Oliver was the second son, and seven
years younger than Henry, who was the guide and protector of his

childhood, and to whom he was most tenderly attached throughout life.
Oliver's education began when he was about three years old; that is to
say,