The
haymakers were at work in the fields, and the perfume of the new-mown
hay brought with it the recollection of my native fields. So instead of
remaining in my room to write, I went wandering about Primrose Hill and
Hempstead Heights and Shepherd's Field, and all those Arcadian scenes
so celebrated by London bards. I cannot tell you how many delicious
hours I have passed lying on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasant
slopes of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields,
while the summer fly buzzed above me, or the grasshopper leaped into my
bosom, and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the smoky mass of
London, and listened to the distant sound of its population, and pitied
the poor sons of earth toiling in its bowels, like Gnomes in "the dark
gold mine."
People may say what they please about Cockney pastorals; but after all,
there is a vast deal of rural beauty about the western vicinity of
London; and any one that has looked down upon the valley of Westend,
with its soft bosom of green pasturage, lying open to the south, and
dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hempstead rising among rich groves
on the brow of the hill, and the learned height of Harrow in the
distance; will confess that never has he seen a more absolutely rural
landscape in the vicinity of a great metropolis.
Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for my
frequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover that in
literature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, "a rolling stone
gathers no moss."
The tranquil beauty of the country played the very vengeance with me. I
could not mount my fancy into the termagant vein. I could not conceive,
amidst the smiling landscape, a scene of blood and murder; and the smug
citizens in breeches and gaiters, put all ideas of heroes and bandits
out of my brain. I could think of nothing but dulcet subjects. "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. 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. I became elevated by
the wine and the conversation. In the fullness of an author's feelings,
I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some passages; and he was
in raptures. 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.
