illages, so although he toiled not neither did he spin,
yet he was well clothed and always fed. But my lord Napier was not
immortal, for he died, and was buried; and over his grave they erected a
monument, and on it are these words: "He was the friend of the
oppressed."

The records of literature, so far as I know, show no such moving force in
a simple poem as the re-birth of the village of Auburn. No man can live
in a village and illuminate it by his genius. His fellow townsmen and
neighbors are not to be influenced by his eloquence except in a very
limited way. His presence creates an opposition, for the "personal touch"
repels as well as attracts. Dying, seven cities may contend for the honor
of his birthplace; or after his departure, knowledge of his fame may
travel back across the scenes that he has known, and move to better
things.

The years went by and the Napier estate got into a bad way and was sold.
Captain Hogan became the owner of the site of the village of Lissoy. Now,
Captain Hogan was a poet in feeling, and he set about to replace the
village that Goldsmith had loved and immortalized. He adopted the name
that Goldsmith supplied, and Auburn it is even unto this day.

In the village-green is the original spreading hawthorn-tree, all
enclosed in a stone wall to preserve it. And on the wall is a sign
requesting you not to break off branches.

Around the trees are seats. I sat there one evening with "talking age"
and "whispering lovers." The mirth that night was of a quiet sort, and I
listened to an old man who recited all "The Deserted Village" to the
little group that was present. It cost me sixpence, but was cheap for the
money, for the brogue was very choice. I was the only stranger present,
and quickly guessed that the entertainment was for my sole benefit, as I
saw that I was being furtively watched to see how I took my medicine.

A young fellow sitting near me offered a little Goldsmith information,
then a woman on the other side did the same, and the old man who had
recited suggested that we go over and see the alehouse "where the justly
celebhrated Docther Goldsmith so often played his harp so feelin'ly." So
we adjourned to The Three Jolly Pigeons--a dozen of us, including the
lovers, whom I personally invited.

"And did Oliver Goldsmith really play his harp in this very room?" I
asked.

"Aye, indade he did, yer honor, an' ef ye don't belave it, ye kin sit in
the same chair that was his."