He was evidently of a strong poetical turn.
"Sir," said he, filling my glass at the same time, "our poets don't
look at home. I don't see why we need go out of old England for robbers
and rebels to write about. I like your Jack Straw, sir. He's a
home-made hero. I like him, sir. I like him exceedingly. He's English
to the back bone, damme. Give me honest old England, after all; them's
my sentiments, sir!"
"I honor your sentiments," cried I zealously. "They are exactly my own.
An English ruffian for poetry is as good a ruffian for poetry as any in
Italy or Germany, or the Archipelago; but it is hard to make our poets
think so."
"More shame for them!" replied the man in green. "What a plague would
they have?" What have we to do with their Archipelagos of Italy and
Germany? Haven't we heaths and commons and high-ways on our own little
island? Aye, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too? Come,
sir, my service to you - I agree with you perfectly."
"Poets in old times had right notions on this subject," continued I;
"witness the fine old ballads about Robin Hood, Allen A'Dale, and other
staunch blades of yore."
"Right, sir, right," interrupted he. "Robin Hood!
