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.  “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!  He was the lad to cry stand! to a man, and never flinch.”

“Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of robbers in the good old times.  Those were glorious poetical days.  The merry crew of Sherwood Forest, who led such a roving picturesque life, ’under the greenwood tree.’  I have often wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the Clough, and Sir William of Coudeslie.”

“Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “we have had several very pretty gangs since their day.  Those gallant dogs that kept about the great heaths in the neighborhood of London; about Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Black Heath, for instance—­come, sir, my service to you.  You don’t drink.”

“I suppose,” said I, emptying my glass—­“I suppose you have heard of the famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of Hempstead, and who used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hundred years since.”

“Have I?” cried he—­“to be sure I have!  A hearty old blade that; sound as pitch.  Old Turpentine!—­as we used to call him.  A famous fine fellow, sir.”