"The
pleasures of spring" - "the pleasures of solitude" - "the pleasures of
tranquillity" - "the pleasures of sentiment" - nothing but pleasures; and
I had the painful experience of "the pleasures of melancholy" too
strongly in my recollection to be beguiled by them.
Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently in my ramblings
loitered about Hempstead Hill; which is a kind of Parnassus of the
metropolis. At such times I occasionally took my dinner at Jack Straw's
Castle. It is a country inn so named. The very spot where that
notorious rebel and his followers held their council of war. It is a
favorite resort of citizens when rurally inclined, as it commands fine
fresh air and a good view of the city.
I sat one day in the public room of this inn, ruminating over a
beefsteak and a pint of port, when my imagination kindled up with
ancient and heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero; both
suddenly broke upon my mind; I determined to write a poem on the
history of Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject that I was fearful
of being anticipated. I wondered that none of the poets of the day, in
their researches after ruffian heroes, had ever thought of Jack Straw.
I went to work pell-mell, blotted several sheets of paper with choice
floating thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be ready at a
moment's warning. In a few days' time I sketched out the skeleton of my
poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it flesh and blood.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 135 of 433
Words from 36049 to 36320
of 115667
