I Used To
Take My Manuscript And Stroll About Caen Wood, And Read Aloud; And
Would Dine At The Castle, By Way Of Keeping Up The Vein Of Thought.
I was taking a meal there, one day, at a rather late hour, in the
public room.
There was no other company but one man, who sat enjoying
his pint of port at a window, and noticing the passers-by. He was
dressed in a green shooting coat. His countenance was strongly marked.
He had a hooked nose, a romantic eye, excepting that it had something
of a squint; and altogether, as I thought, a poetical style of head. I
was quite taken with the man, for you must know I am a little of a
physiognomist: I set him down at once for either a poet or a
philosopher.
As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every man a volume of
human nature, I soon fell into conversation with the stranger, who, I
was pleased to find, was by no means difficult of access. After I had
dined, I joined him at the window, and we became so sociable that I
proposed a bottle of wine together; to which he most cheerfully
assented.
I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the subject, and began
to talk about the origin of the tavern, and the history of Jack Straw.
I found my new acquaintance to be perfectly at home on the topic, and
to jump exactly with my humor in every respect.
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