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."