the smoky mass of
London, and listened to the distant sound of its population, and pitied
the poor sons of earth toiling in its bowels, like Gnomes in "the dark
gold mine."

People may say what they please about Cockney pastorals; but after all,
there is a vast deal of rural beauty about the western vicinity of
London; and any one that has looked down upon the valley of Westend,
with its soft bosom of green pasturage, lying open to the south, and
dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hempstead rising among rich groves
on the brow of the hill, and the learned height of Harrow in the
distance; will confess that never has he seen a more absolutely rural
landscape in the vicinity of a great metropolis.

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.