n of
such a savoury greenness that to-day my heart regrets it. Nor can I
recall without a tender weakness the very aspect of the water where I
dipped my brush. Yes, there was pleasure in the painting. But when all
was painted, it is needless to deny it, all was spoiled. You might,
indeed, set up a scene or two to look at; but to cut the figures out was
simply sacrilege; nor could any child twice court the tedium, the worry,
and the long-drawn disenchantment of an actual performance. Two days
after the purchase the honey had been sucked. Parents used to complain;
they thought I wearied of my play. It was not so: no more than a person
can be said to have wearied of his dinner when he leaves the bones and
dishes; I had got the marrow of it and said grace.

Then was the time to turn to the back of the play-book and to study that
enticing double file of names where poetry, for the true child of Skelt,
reigned happy and glorious like her Majesty the Queen. Much as I have
travelled in these realms of gold, I have yet seen, upon that map or
abstract, names of El Dorados that still haunt the ear of memory, and
are still but names. _The_ _Floating Beacon_--why was that denied me?
or _The Wreck Ashore? Sixteen-String Jack_, whom I did not even guess to
be a highwayman, troubled me awake and haunted my slumbers; and there is
one sequence of three from that enchanted calendar that I still at times
recall, liked a loved verse of poetry: _Lodoiska_, _Silver Palace_,
_Echo of Westminster Bridge_. Names, bare names, are surely more to
children than we poor, grown-up, obliterated fools remember.

The name of Skelt itself has always seemed a part and parcel of the
charm of his productions. It may be different with the rose, but the
attraction of this paper drama sensibly declined when Webb had crept
into the rubric: a poor cuckoo, flaunting in Skelt's nest. And now we
have reached Pollock, sounding deeper gulfs. Indeed, this name of Skelt
appears so stagey and piratic, that I will adopt it boldly to design
these qualities. Skeltery, then, is a quality of much art. It is even to
be found, with reverence be it said, among the works of nature. The
stagey is its generic name; but it is an old, insular, home-bred
staginess; not French, domestically British; not of to-day, but smacking
of O. Smith, Fitzball, and the great age of melodrama; a peculiar
fragrance haunting it; uttering its unimportant message in a tone of
voice that has the charm