among the simple
"properties" of his little spectacle, are common to so many places
that there are several competitors for the honor of having furnished
them. The cocks, ploughmen, herds and owls cannot, of course, at this
late day be identified. Gray could not have done it himself. He
drew from general memory, in his closet, and not bit by bit on
his thumb-nail from chance-met objects as he went along. Had
his conception and rendering of the theme been due to the direct
impression upon his mind of its several aspects and constituents,
he would have more thoroughly appreciated his work. He could not
understand its popularity, any more than Campbell could that of _Ye
Mariners of England_, which he pronounced "d----d drum-and-trumpet
verses." Gray used to say, "with a good deal of acrimony," that the
_Elegy_ "owed its popularity entirely to the subject, and the public
would have received it as well had it been written entirely in prose."
Had it been written in prose or in the inventory style of poetry, it
would have been forgotten long ago, like so much else of that kind.

[Illustration: GRAY.]

Not far hence is Beaconsfield, which gave a home to Burke and a title
to the wife of Disraeli, the nearest approach to a peerage that the
haughty Israelite, soured by a life of struggle against peers and
their prejudices, would deign to accept. We know it will be objected
to this remark that Disraeli is, and has been for most of his career,
associated with Toryism. But that was part of his game. A man of
culture, thought and fastidious taste, he would, had he been of the
_sangre azul_, have been the steadiest and sincerest of Conservatives.
Privilege would have been his gospel. As it is, it has only been his
weapon, to use in fighting for himself. "The time will come when you
shall listen to me," were his words when he was first coughed down.
The time has come. The most cynical of premiers, he governs England,
and he scorns to take a place among those who ruled her before him.

Extending our divergence farther west toward "Cliefden's proud alcove,
the bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love," we find ourselves in a
luxuriant rolling country, rural and slumberous. Cookham parish,
which we should traverse, claims quite loudly American kinship on
the strength of its including an estate once the property of Henry
Washington, who is alleged, without sufficient ground, to have been
a relative of the general. But we are within the purlie