The following article, which appeared in a London periodical, shows the
effect of Goldsmith's poem in renovating the fortunes of Lissoy.
"About three miles from Ballymahon, a very central town in the sister
kingdom, is the mansion and village of Auburn, so called by their present
possessor, Captain Hogan. Through the taste and improvement of this
gentleman, it is now a beautiful spot, although fifteen years since it
presented a very bare and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a
cause which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion that Goldsmith had
this scene in view when he wrote his poem of The Deserted Village. The then
possessor, General Napier, turned all his tenants out of their farms that
he might inclose them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of
the general, stands not far off, a complete emblem of the desolating spirit
lamented by the poet, dilapidated and converted into a barrack.
"The chief object of attraction is Lissoy, once the parsonage house of
Henry Goldsmith, that brother to whom the poet dedicated his Traveler, and
who is represented as the village pastor,
"'Passing rich with forty pounds a year.'
"When I was in the country, the lower chambers were inhabited by pigs and
sheep, and the drawing-rooms by oats. Captain Hogan, however, has, I
believe, got it since into his possession, and has, of course, improved its
condition.
"Though at first strongly inclined to dispute the identity of Auburn,
Lissoy House overcame my scruples. As I clambered over the rotten gate, and
crossed the grass-grown lawn or court, the tide of association became too
strong for casuistry; here the poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts
fondly recurred when composing his Traveler in a foreign land. Yonder was
the decent church, that literally 'topped the neighboring hill.' Before me
lay the little hill of Knockrue, on which he declares, in one of his
letters, he had rather sit with a book in hand than mingle in the proudest
assemblies. And, above all, startlingly true, beneath my feet was
"'Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild.'
"A painting from the life could not be more exact. 'The stubborn
currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank grass, and the proud hollyhock
flaunts where its sisters of the flower-knot are no more.
"In the middle of the village stands the old 'hawthorn-tree,' built up with
masonry to distinguish and preserve it; it is old and stunted, and suffers
much from the depredations of post-chaise travelers, who generally stop to
procure a twig. Opposite to it is the village alehouse, over the door of
which swings 'The Three Jolly Pigeons.' Within everything is arranged
according to the letter:
'The whitewash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door:
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.'
"Captain Hogan, I have heard, found great difficulty in obtaining 'the
twelve good rules,' but at length purchased them at some London bookstall
to adorn the whitewashed parlor of 'The Three Jolly Pigeons.' However
laudable this may be, nothing shook my faith in the reality of Auburn so
much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of being got up for
the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is the quondam habitation of
the schoolmaster,
"'There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule.'
"It is surrounded with fragrant proofs of identity in
"'The blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay.'
"There is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into the hands of
its present possessors at the wreck of the parsonage-house; they have
frequently refused large offers of purchase; but more, I daresay, for the
sake of drawing contributions from the curious than from any reverence for
the bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which precluded
all hopes of a secret drawer, like that lately discovered in Gay's. There
is no fear of its being worn out by the devout earnestness of sitters--as
the cocks and hens have usurped undisputed possession of it, and protest
most clamorously against all attempts to get it cleansed or to seat one's
self.
"The controversy concerning the identity of this Auburn was formerly a
standing theme of discussion among the learned of the neighborhood; but,
since the pros and cons have been all ascertained, the argument has died
away. Its abettors plead the singular agreement between the local history
of the place and the Auburn of the poem, and the exactness with which the
scenery of the one answers to the description of the other. To this is
opposed the mention of the nightingale,
"'And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made';
there being no such bird in the island. The objection is slighted, on the
other hand, by considering the passage as a mere poetical license.
'Besides,' say they, 'the robin is the Irish nightingale.' And if it be
hinted how unlikely it was that Goldsmith should have laid the scene in a
place from which he was and had been so long absent, the rejoinder is
always, 'Pray, sir, was Milton in hell when he built Pandemonium?'
"The line is naturally drawn between; there can be no doubt that the poet
intended England by
"'The land to hast'ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay.'
"But it is very natural to suppose that, at the same time, his imagination
had in view the scenes of his youth, which give such strong features of
resemblance to the picture."
* * * * *
Best, an Irish clergyman, told Davis, the traveler in America, that the
hawthorn-bush mentioned in the poem was still remarkably large. "I was
riding once," said he, "with Brady, titular Bishop of Ardagh, when he
observed to me, 'Ma foy, Best, this huge overgrown bush is mightily in the
way. I will order it to be cut down.' 'What, sir!' replied I, 'cut down the
bush that supplies so beautiful an image in The Deserted Village?'--'Ma
foy!' exclaimed the bishop, 'is that the hawthorn-bush? Then let it be
sacred from the edge of the ax, and evil be to him that should cut off a
branch.' "--The hawthorn-bush, however, has long since been cut up, root
and branch, in furnishing relics to literary pilgrims.