“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.”
“Well, sir,” continued I, “I have visited Waltham Abbey, and Chinkford Church, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploits there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he used to conceal himself. You must know,” added I, “that I am a sort of amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing, daring fellows; the last apologies that we had for the knight errants of yore. Ah, sir! the country has been sinking gradually into tameness and commonplace. We are losing the old English spirit. The bold knights of the post have all dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneaking pick-pockets. There’s no such thing as a dashing gentlemanlike robbery committed now-a-days on the king’s highway. A man may roll from one end of England to the other in a drowsy coach or jingling post-chaise without any other adventure than that of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner.