There are few writers for whom the reader feels such personal kindness as
for Oliver Goldsmith, for few have so eminently possessed the magic gift of
identifying themselves with their writings. We read his character in every
page, and grow into familiar intimacy with him as we read. The artless
benevolence that beams throughout his works; the whimsical, yet amiable
views of human life and human nature; the unforced humor, blending so
happily with good feeling and good sense, and singularly dashed at times
with a pleasing melancholy; even the very nature of his mellow, and
flowing, and softly-tinted style, all seem to bespeak his moral as well as
his intellectual qualities, and make us love the man at the same time that
we admire the author. While the productions of writers of loftier
pretension and more sounding names are suffered to moulder on our shelves,
those of Goldsmith are cherished and laid in our bosoms. We do not quote
them with ostentation, but they mingle with our minds, sweeten our tempers,
and harmonize our thoughts; they put us in good humor with ourselves and
with the world, and in so doing they make us happier and better men.

An acquaintance with the private biography of Goldsmith lets us into the
secret of his gifted pages. We there discover them to be little more than
transcripts of his own heart and picturings of his fortunes. There he shows
himself the same kind, artless, good-humored, excursive, sensible,
whimsical, intelligent being that he appears in his writings. Scarcely an
adventure or character is given in his works that may not be traced to his
own party-colored story. Many of his most ludicrous scenes and ridiculous
incidents have been drawn from his own blunders and mischances, and he
seems really to have been buffeted into almost every maxim imparted by him
for the instruction of his reader.

Oliver Goldsmith was born on the 10th of November, 1728, at the hamlet of