ABSTRACT
Some of its pillars, like Stonehenge, are still afoot, the rest clean vanished. It may be the Museum numbers a full set; and Mr. lonides perhaps, or else her gracious Majesty, may boast their great collections; but to the plain private person they are become, like Raphaels, unattainable. The latter colour with gamboge, a hated name although an exquisite pigment, supplied a green of such a savoury greenness that today the author heart regrets it. 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. There in a dim shop, low in the roof and smelling strong of glue and footlights, the author find himself in quaking treaty with great Skelt, the aboriginal. all dusty from the tomb.
