The weekly Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1861, 1860-05-23
Sweet Auburn.

| ooon the deserted Vlllage came In sight, |
and sure enough, yonder in the dim distance |
appeared the "decent church thst topped
the neighboring HILL" standing in grove
of pleasant trees, and making as fair q sight
to-day as when little Goldsmith used to ad
mire his fathers church mile and q halt
from the parsonage. The one referred to
in the poem, is now old and shattered; in
fact, nothing remains of it but the tower,
and that we mistook, in the distance, for the
remains of castle. 1t stands near the
pretty modern church, and is a striking OBJ.
ject as you approach the village.
When Goldsmith was boy, and his fa-
ther curate of the village, the place was call
ed Lishoy, and that name it still bears in
the mouths of many Of the peasants of the
neighborhood; but that by which the tourist
asks after it in Atblone, is Auburn, the name
which Goldsmith's fancy gave il in the po.
EN-. 1t is not much OF village; it is still
deserted and stragg ling; even around the
"decent church" there is no collection of
houses, and all than marks it is that little
more frequently that on the common road,
you will find in the neighborhood of Auburn
the thatched novels of the poor. Miserable
homes they are. have become quite inter.
ested in many OF these little huts in tn 9
southern and eastern parts of Ireland; but
here in Godsmith's early home they are
squalid and filthy. They have not even the
, appearance Of external neatness. On the
top of one the grass was growing, not pref
; tiIy, as the ivy ciings to old walls, but thin
and scraggy, as the hair which sometimes
crowns the head of b 4ld man. Before some
was cow.yard, and the manure was reeking
not six feet from the cabin doors. Before
some the pigs were basking in the sun, and
as looked in, could see nothing but filth
and wretchedness. Dirty children, who were
never clean in their lives, could be spied in
= the dimness Of the novels, and women at the
= doors crouchng around an iron pot, looking
SO old and wrinkled that one would think
= that Death had tried them in vain and given
d them up to live. Some were cosed-the
s. men, women and children being away har
Is vesting. A deserted village, surely TIL
Is poorest, dirtest place that we have seen du
ring our stay in Ireland.
After driving along through sights like
these, the carman stopped in front Of large
P building utterly ruined, the roof wholly
u gone, and tall chimney rising disdainfuIly
e among the stones and mortar, as who should
d say."I still live." This was the vii iage
Inn, known in G1ldsmith's days, and evel
" since by the neighbors as, "Tne Three
y Jolly Pigeons 1t was in this house that
al the pewter basins used to glitter on thu
&c shelf like silver; it was here that the com
Y pleX "bed by night and chest Of drawers bJ
g. day" used to stand, and within these ruined
walls, and with the glare from the peat fr'
r of that same tall chimney on their faces
o. that
a. "viage statesmen talked, with looks profound, +,
D. While news much older than the ale went round.
e; While sat on the car and took a sketc
M Of the ruined Village Tavern, the drive
he shouted to boorish looking fellow leanin
we against fence, that here was a gentlema
er all the way from America to see this. IT
,ur see what!" asked the man with kind Of
,ut savage grin. "These ruins" answered m
no civil driver. "They are nothing but a het
asst of stones, and there's plenty of them wit
as. out comm out here to see 'em," retorted til
md tiler of the earth. "Did you never hear c
hat Oliver Goldsmith !" | asked looking |
al from my work. "Can't say that ever di
ind yer honor" answered the fellow. "The
ow come to America" said |, sand you wi
re. find hundred thousand people who take q
ind much interest in this village of yours as "
,ou do who were born in it and have lived in
The all your days" "D1ubtless yer honor
lev right answered the man in toIerable got
ple nature.
Close by grows the hawthorn, which m
he not be the very one of which the poet sun
h;o ssThe hawthorn tree with soats beneath sha
For talking age and whispering lovers made.''
And yet am sure, from the size OF th
from which took bit as a remembrance
''V that it was a tree in Goldsmith's time; a
'"1 ' it stands SO near the public house. that il
W. in high degree probable that it was u
Sn as a protection against the sun long ye
ago. Hard by this plucked bit of fur;
mentioned in the poem, the most plentii
crop ofthe whole region.
lug Riding along little further, an iron g.
'eF' appeared, and through the gate lane son
nee ten rods long, and at the end the ruins o.
large house. did not need to be told tn
she this was the parsonage. The car pass
Dr." through the gateway and up to the desert
ina. mansion. 1t was sad indeed. All roof1e
ong windowess, doorless, itstood. and every wi
lge, heaven whisted through the house whe
lus; Goldsmith was nursed and bred, and whe
am the original OF the Vicar Of Wakefield, I
. of Rev. Charles Goldsmith, that good and 81
lrly pie man, reared his large family. But
be. desecration within! The parlor is now Us
!" as potato patch, and the tops were green
in the very spot where good man used to 9
nc. tertain his selectest friends. The cows b
i'm. taken possession Of the kitchen and stud
and had to carefully pick path to
this chimney place in the latter. There w