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.
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