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.