THE MAGAZINE OF ART (1884) & MEMORIES
& PORTRAITS (1887)
A PENNY PLAIN AND TWOPENCE
COLOURED
by Robert Louis Stevenson
THESE words will be familiar to all students of Skelt's Juvenile Drama.
That national monument, after having changed its name to Park's, to Webb's, to
Redington's, and last of all to Pollock's, has now become, for the most part, a
memory. Some of its pillars, like Stonehenge, are still afoot, the rest clean
vanished. It may be the Museum numbers a full set; and Mr. Ionides perhaps, or
else her gracious Majesty, may boast their great collections; but to the plain
private person they are become, like Raphaels, unattainable. I have, at
different times, possessed ALADDIN, THE RED ROVER, THE BLIND BOY, THE OLD OAK
CHEST, THE WOOD DAEMON, JACK SHEPPARD, THE MILLER AND HIS MEN, DER FREISCHUTZ,
THE SMUGGLER, THE FOREST OF BONDY, ROBIN HOOD, THE WATERMAN, RICHARD I., MY
POLL AND MY PARTNER JOE, THE INCHCAPE BELL (imperfect), and THREE-FINGERED
JACK, THE TERROR OF JAMAICA; and I have assisted others in the illumination of
MAID OF THE INN and THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. In this roll-call of stirring names
you read the evidences of a happy childhood; and though not half of them are
still to be procured of any living stationer, in the mind of their once happy
owner all survive, kaleidoscopes of changing pictures, echoes of the past.
There stands, I fancy, to this day (but now how fallen!) a certain
stationer's shop at a corner of the wide thoroughfare that joins the city of my
childhood with the sea. When, upon any Saturday, we made a party to behold the
ships, we passed that corner; and since in those days I loved a ship as a man
loves Burgundy or daybreak, this of itself had been enough to hallow it. But
there was more than that. In the Leith Walk window, all the year round, there
stood displayed a theatre in working order, with a "forest set," a
"combat," and a few "robbers carousing" in the slides; and
below and about, dearer tenfold to me! the plays themselves, those budgets of
romance, lay tumbled one upon another. Long and often have I lingered there
with empty pockets. One figure, we shall say, was visible in the first plate of
characters, bearded, pistol in hand, or drawing to his ear the clothyard arrow;
I would spell the name: was it Macaire, or Long Tom Coffin, or Grindoff, 2d
dress? O, how I would long to see the rest! how - if the name by chance were
hidden - I would wonder in what play he figured, and what immortal legend
justified his attitude and strange apparel! And then to go within, to announce
yourself as an intending purchaser, and, closely watched, be suffered to undo
those bundles and breathlessly devour those pages of gesticulating villains,
epileptic combats, bosky forests, palaces and war-ships, frowning fortresses
and prison vaults - it was a giddy joy. That shop, which was dark and smelt of
Bibles, was a loadstone rock for all that bore the name of boy. They could not
pass it by, nor, having entered, leave it. It was a place besieged; the
shopmen, like the Jews rebuilding Salem, had a double task. They kept us at the
stick's end, frowned us down, snatched each play out of our hand ere we were
trusted with another, and, increditable as it may sound, used to demand of us
upon our entrance, like banditti, if we came with money or with empty hand. Old
Mr. Smith himself, worn out with my eternal vacillation, once swept the
treasures from before me, with the cry: "I do not believe, child, that you
are an intending purchaser at all!" These were the dragons of the garden;
but for such joys of paradise we could have faced the Terror of Jamaica
himself. Every sheet we fingered was another lightning glance into obscure,
delicious story; it was like wallowing in the raw stuff of story-books. I know
nothing to compare with it save now and then in dreams, when I am privileged to
read in certain unwrit stories of adventure, from which I awake to find the
world all vanity. The CRUX of Buridan's donkey was as nothing to the
uncertainty of the boy as he handled and lingered and doated on these bundles
of delight; there was a physical pleasure in the sight and touch of them which
he would jealously prolong; and when at length the deed was done, the play
selected, and the impatient shopman had brushed the rest into the gray
portfolio, and the boy was forth again, a little late for dinner, the lamps
springing into light in the blue winter's even, and THE MILLER, or THE ROVER,
or some kindred drama clutched against his side - on what gay feet he ran, and
how he laughed aloud in exultation! I can hear that laughter still. Out of all
the years of my life, I can recall but one home-coming to compare with these,
and that was on the night when I brought back with me the ARABIAN
ENTERTAINMENTS in the fat, old, double-columned volume with the prints. I was
just well into the story of the Hunchback, I remember, when my clergyman-
grandfather (a man we counted pretty stiff) came in behind me. I grew blind
with terror. But instead of ordering the book away, he said he envied me. Ah,
well he might!
The purchase and the first half-hour at home, that was the summit.
Thenceforth the interest declined by little and little. The fable, as set forth
in the play-book, proved to be not worthy of the scenes and characters: what
fable would not? Such passages as: "Scene 6. The Hermitage. Night set
scene. Place back of scene 1, No. 2, at back of stage and hermitage, Fig. 2,
out of set piece, R. H. in a slanting direction" - such passages, I say,
though very practical, are hardly to be called good reading. Indeed, as
literature, these dramas did not much appeal to me. I forget the very outline
of the plots. Of THE BLIND BOY, beyond the fact that he was a most injured
prince and once, I think, abducted, I know nothing. And THE OLD OAK CHEST, what
was it all about? that proscript (1st dress), that prodigious number of
banditti, that old woman with the broom, and the magnificent kitchen in the
third act (was it in the third?) - they are all fallen in a deliquium, swim
faintly in my brain, and mix and vanish.
I cannot deny that joy attended the illumination; nor can I quite forget
that child who, wilfully foregoing pleasure, stoops to "twopence
coloured." With crimson lake (hark to the sound of it - crimson lake! -
the horns of elf-land are not richer on the ear) - with crimson lake and
Prussian blue a certain purple is to be compounded which, for cloaks
especially, Titian could not equal.
The latter colour with gamboge, a hated name although an exquisite
pigment, supplied a green 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
calender that I still at times recall, like 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 of
fresh antiquity. I will not insist upon the art of Skelt's purveyors. These
wonderful characters that once so thrilled our soul with their bold attitude,
array of deadly engines and incomparable costume, to-day look somewhat
pallidly; the extreme hard favour of the heroine strikes me, I had almost said
with pain; the villain's scowl no longer thrills me like a trumpet; and the
scenes themselves, those once unparalleled landscapes, seem the efforts of a
prentice hand. So much of fault we find; but on the other side the impartial
critic rejoices to remark the presence of a great unity of gusto; of those
direct clap-trap appeals, which a man is dead and buriable when he fails to
answer; of the footlight glamour, the ready-made, bare-faced, transpontine
picturesque, a thing not one with cold reality, but how much dearer to the
mind!
The scenery of Skeltdom - or, shall we say, the kingdom of Transpontus? -
had a prevailing character. Whether it set forth Poland as in THE BLIND BOY, or
Bohemia with THE MILLER AND HIS MEN, or Italy with THE OLD OAK CHEST, still it
was Transpontus. A botanist could tell it by the plants. The hollyhock was all
pervasive, running wild in deserts; the dock was common, and the bending reed;
and overshadowing these were poplar, palm, potato tree, and QUERCUS SKELTICA -
brave growths. The caves were all embowelled in the Surreyside formation; the
soil was all betrodden by the light pump of T. P. Cooke. Skelt, to be sure, had
yet another, an oriental string: he held the gorgeous east in fee; and in the
new quarter of Hyeres, say, in the garden of the Hotel des Iles d'Or, you may
behold these blessed visions realised. But on these I will not dwell; they were
an outwork; it was in the accidental scenery that Skelt was all himself. It had
a strong flavour of England; it was a sort of indigestion of England and
drop-scenes, and I am bound to say was charming. How the roads wander, how the
castle sits upon the hill, how the sun eradiates from behind the cloud, and how
the congregated clouds themselves up-roll, as stiff as bolsters! Here is the
cottage interior, the usual first flat, with the cloak upon the nail, the
rosaries of onions, the gun and powder-horn and corner-cupboard; here is the
inn (this drama must be nautical, I foresee Captain Luff and Bold Bob Bowsprit)
with the red curtain, pipes, spittoons, and eight-day clock; and there again is
that impressive dungeon with the chains, which was so dull to colour. England,
the hedgerow elms, the thin brick houses, windmills, glimpses of the navigable
Thames - England, when at last I came to visit it, was only Skelt made evident:
to cross the border was, for the Scotsman, to come home to Skelt; there was the
inn-sign and there the horse-trough, all foreshadowed in the faithful Skelt.
If, at the ripe age of fourteen years, I bought a certain cudgel, got a friend
to load it, and thenceforward walked the tame ways of the earth my own ideal,
radiating pure romance - still I was but a puppet in the hand of Skelt; the
original of that regretted bludgeon, and surely the antitype of all the
bludgeon kind, greatly improved from Cruikshank, had adorned the hand of
Jonathan Wild, pl. I. "This is mastering me," as Whitman cries, upon
some lesser provocation. What am I? what are life, art, letters, the world, but
what my Skelt has made them? He stamped himself upon my immaturity. The world
was plain before I knew him, a poor penny world; but soon it was all coloured
with romance. If I go to the theatre to see a good old melodrama, 'tis but
Skelt a little faded. If I visit a bold scene in nature, Skelt would have been
bolder; there had been certainly a castle on that mountain, and the hollow tree
- that set piece - I seem to miss it in the foreground. Indeed, out of this
cut-and-dry, dull, swaggering, obtrusive, and infantile art, I seem to have
learned the very spirit of my life's enjoyment; met there the shadows of the
characters I was to read about and love in a late future; got the romance of
DER FREISCHUTZ long ere I was to hear of Weber or the mighty Formes; acquired a
gallery of scenes and characters with which, in the silent theatre of the
brain, I might enact all novels and romances; and took from these rude cuts an
enduring and transforming pleasure. Reader - and yourself?
A word of moral: it appears that B. Pollock, late J. Redington, No. 73
Hoxton Street, not only publishes twenty-three of these old stage favourites,
but owns the necessary plates and displays a modest readiness to issue other
thirty-three. If you love art, folly, or the bright eyes of children, speed to
Pollock's, or to Clarke's of Garrick Street. In Pollock's list of publicanda I
perceive a pair of my ancient aspirations: WRECK ASHORE and SIXTEEN-STRING
JACK; and I cherish the belief that when these shall see once more the light of
day, B. Pollock will remember this apologist. But, indeed, I have a dream at
times that is not all a dream. I seem to myself to wander in a ghostly street -
E. W., I think, the postal district - close below the fool's-cap of St. Paul's,
and yet within easy hearing of the echo of the Abbey bridge. There in a dim
shop, low in the roof and smelling strong of glue and footlights, I find myself
in quaking treaty with great Skelt himself, the aboriginal all dusty from the
tomb. I buy, with what a choking heart - I buy them all, all but the
pantomimes; I pay my mental money, and go forth; and lo! the packets are dust.