ever forget the pleasure experienced on the first perusal, and
on every subsequent reading of these fascinating productions? They
are such as all, imbued with even a moderate degree of taste and
feeling, must respond to. But there is another poem of Gray's, less
read, perhaps, than these, but which, from its humor and arch playful
style, is apt to make a strong and lasting impression on an
enthusiastic juvenile mind. It opens so abruptly and oddly, that
attention is bespoke from the first line. It is entitled "A Long
Story."

In Britain's isle--no matter where--
An ancient pile of building stands:
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employed the power of fairy hands
To raise the ceilings fretted height,
Each panel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows, that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.

This poem, teeming with quaint humor, contains one hundred and
forty-four lines, beside, _as it says_, "two thousand which are lost!"

Extreme admiration of the poems of Gray had been excited in the
writer's mind even when a schoolboy. In after years, whilst occupying
chambers in the Temple, he first became aware that the scenery so
exquisitely described in the Elegy, and the "ancient pile" of
building, so graphically delineated in the Long Story, were both
within a few hours' ride of London, and adjoining each other.

Until about the year 1815 he had constantly supposed that the Country
Church-yard was altogether an imaginary conception, and that the
ancient mansion of the Huntingdons was far away, somewhere in the
midland counties; but when fully aware of the true localities, he was
almost mad with impatience, until, on a Saturday afternoon, _he_ could
get relieved from the turmoil of business, to fly to scenes hallowed
by recollections of the halcyon days of youthful aspirations of hope,
and love, and innocence--and sweetly and fresh do such reminiscences
still float in his memory.

About the period in question, there was a club in London, formed of
about twenty or thirty of the most aristocratic of the young nobility,
possessed of more wealth than wisdom. They gave themselves the name of
the Whip Club, because each member drove his own team of four horses.
The chief tutor of these titled Jehu's in the art and mystery of
driving, was no less a personage than the celebrated Tom Moody, driver
of the Windsor Coach, and by that crack coach it was intended to
proceed as far