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.