He fell in victory’s fierce pursuit, Holed through and through with shot, A sabre sweep had hacked him deep Twixt neck and shoulderknot ... The potman cannot well recall, The ostler never knew, Whether his day was Malplaquet, The Boyne or Waterloo. But there he hangs for tavern sign, With foolish bold regard For cock and hen and loitering men And wagons down the yard. Raised high above the hayseed world He smokes his painted pipe, And now surveys the orchard ways, The damsons clustering ripe. He sees the churchyard slabs beyond, Where country neighbours lie, Their brief renown set lowly down; _His_ name assaults the sky. He grips the tankard of brown ale That spills a generous foam: Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks At drunk men lurching home. No upstart hero may usurp That honoured swinging seat; His seasons pass with pipe and glass Until the tale’s complete. And paint shall keep his buttons bright Though all the world’s forgot Whether he died for England’s pride By battle, or by pot. And this is the letter: “April, 1921. “_My dear Mr. Graves_,-- “Friday, I had the pleasure of reading your lines to “The General Elliott” in _The Spectator_. Yesterday afternoon, about sunset, on returning across fields to Oxford from a visit to Boar’s Hill, to my delight and surprise I found myself suddenly confronted with the General Elliott himself, or rather the duplicate presentment of him--nailed to a tree. But could it be the same, I asked. He did not grip the tankard of brown ale that spills a generous foam--nor did his seasons seem to pass with pipe and glass--and alas, nor did paint keep his tarnished buttons bright. In spite of your assertion, is the general’s tale not already complete? Was he not (like me) but a “temporory officer”? Or have I perhaps seen a spurious General Elliott? He _should_ not die; the post from which he views the world is all too lonely for his eyes to be permitted to close upon that scene, albeit the churchyard slabs do not come within the range.... May _I_ help to restore him? “Sincerely, “J---- B---- “Lt. Col. U. S. A.” To which letter I would reply, if I had his address:-- _My dear Colonel B_---- ... The poet very seldom writes about what he is observing at the moment. Usually a poem that has been for a long while maturing unsuspected in the unconscious mind, is brought to birth by an outside shock, often quite a trivial one, but one which--as midwives would say--leaves a distinct and peculiar birthmark on the child. The inn which you saw at Hinksey is the only “General Elliott” I know, but I do not remember ever noticing a picture of him. I remember only a board