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

THE GENERAL ELLIOTT.
MORRELL’S ALES AND STOUT.

and have never even had a drink there; but once I asked a man working in the garden who this General Elliott was, and he answered that really he didn’t know; he reckoned he was a fine soldier and killed somewhere long ago in a big battle. As a matter of fact, I find now that Elliott was the great defender of Gibraltar from 1779 to 1783, who survived to become Lord Heathfield; but that doesn’t affect the poem. Some months after this conversation I passed the sign board again and suddenly a whole lot of floating material crystallized in my mind and the following verse came into my head—more or less as I quote it:—

“Was it Schellenberg, General Elliott,
Or Minden or Waterloo
Where the bullet struck your shoulderknot,
And the sabre shore your arm,
And the bayonet ran you through?”

On which lines a poem resulted which seemed unsatisfactory, even after five drafts. I rewrote in a different style a few days later and after several more drafts the poem stood as it now stands. There appear to be more than one set of conflicting emotions reconciled in this poem. In the false start referred to, the 1. A. idea was not properly balanced by 1. B. and 1. C., which necessitated reconstruction of the whole scheme; tinkering wouldn’t answer. I analyze the final version as follows:—

1.A. Admiration for a real old-fashioned General beloved by his wholedivision, killed in France (1915) while trying to make a brokenregiment return to the attack. He was directing operations from thefront line, an unusual place for a divisional commander in modernwarfare.
B. Disgust for the incompetence and folly of several other generalsunder whom I served; their ambition and jealousy, theirrecklessness of the lives of others.
C. Affection, poised between scorn and admiration, for anextraordinary thick-headed, kind-hearted militia Colonel, who wasfond enough of the bottle, and in private life a big farmer. He wasvery ignorant of military matters but somehow got through his jobsurprisingly well.
2.A. My hope of settling down to a real country life in the sort ofsurroundings that the two Hinkseys afford, sick of nearly fiveyears soldiering. It occurred to me that the inn must have beenfounded by an old soldier who felt much as I did then. PossiblyGeneral Elliott himself, when he was dying, had longed to be backin these very parts with his pipe and glass and a view of theorchard. It would have been a kind thought to paint a signboard ofhim so, like one I saw once (was it in Somerset or Dorset?)—“TheJolly Drinker” and not like the usual grim, military scowl of“General Wellington’s” and “General Wolfe’s.”
B. I ought to have known who Elliott was because, I used once topride myself as an authority on military history. The names ofSchellenberg, Minden, Malplaquet, The Boyne (though only the twomiddle battles appear on the colours as battle honours) areimperishable glories for the Royal Welch Fusilier. And the finestColonel this regiment ever had, Ellis, was killed at Waterloo; hehad apparently on his own initiative moved his battalion from thereserves into a gap in the first line.
3.A. My own faith in the excellent qualities of our nationalbeverage.
B. A warning inscription on a tomb at Winchester over a privatesoldier who died of drink. But his comrades had added acouplet—“An honest soldier ne’er shall be forgot, Whether he diedby musket or by pot.”

There are all sorts of other sentiments mixed up, which still elude me, but this seems enough for an answer....

Yours sincerely,