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offended him。 But his hand seems to have lost its cunning。 Both
of his attempts were complete failures； and in 1844； being
thoroughly dissatisfied with Tasmanian society； he presented a
memorial to the governor of the settlement； Sir John Eardley
Wilmot； praying for a ticket…of…leave。 In it he speaks of himself
as being 'tormented by ideas struggling for outward form and
realisation； barred up from increase of knowledge； and deprived of
the exercise of profitable or even of decorous speech。' His
request； however； was refused； and the associate of Coleridge
consoled himself by making those marvellous PARADIS ARTIFICIELS
whose secret is only known to the eaters of opium。 In 1852 he died
of apoplexy； his sole living companion being a cat； for which he
had evinced at extraordinary affection。
His crimes seem to have had an important effect upon his art。 They
gave a strong personality to his style； a quality that his early
work certainly lacked。 In a note to the LIFE OF DICKENS； Forster
mentions that in 1847 Lady Blessington received from her brother；
Major Power； who held a military appointment at Hobart Town； an oil
portrait of a young lady from his clever brush； and it is said that
'he had contrived to put the expression of his own wickedness into
the portrait of a nice； kind…hearted girl。' M。 Zola； in one of his
novels； tells us of a young man who； having committed a murder；
takes to art； and paints greenish impressionist portraits of
perfectly respectable people； all of which bear a curious
resemblance to his victim。 The development of Mr。 Wainewright's
style seems to me far more subtle and suggestive。 One can fancy an
intense personality being created out of sin。
This strange and fascinating figure that for a few years dazzled
literary London； and made so brilliant a DEBUT in life and letters；
is undoubtedly a most interesting study。 Mr。 W。 Carew Hazlitt； his
latest biographer； to whom I am indebted for many of the facts
contained in this memoir； and whose little book is； indeed； quite
invaluable in its way； is of opinion that his love of art and
nature was a mere pretence and assumption； and others have denied
to him all literary power。 This seems to me a shallow； or at least
a mistaken； view。 The fact of a man being a poisoner is nothing
against his prose。 The domestic virtues are not the true basis of
art； though they may serve as an excellent advertisement for
second…rate artists。 It is possible that De Quincey exaggerated
his critical powers； and I cannot help saying again that there is
much in his published works that is too familiar； too common； too
journalistic； in the bad sense of that bad word。 Here and there he
is distinctly vulgar in expression； and he is always lacking in the
self…restraint of the true artist。 But for some of his faults we
must blame the time in which he lived； and； after all； prose that
Charles Lamb thought 'capital' has no small historic interest。
That he had a sincere love of art and nature seems to me quite
certain。 There is no essential incongruity between crime and
culture。 We cannot re…write the whole of history for the purpose
of gratifying our moral sense of what should be。
Of course； he is far too close to our own time for us to be able to
form any purely artistic judgment about him。 It is impossible not
to feel a strong prejudice against a man who might have poisoned
Lord Tennyson； or Mr。 Gladstone； or the Master of Balliol。 But had
the man worn a costume and spoken a language different from our
own； had he lived in imperial Rome； or at the time of the Italian
Renaissance； or in Spain in the seventeenth century； or in any land
or any century but this century and this land； we would be quite
able to arrive at a perfectly unprejudiced estimate of his position
and value。 I know that there are many historians； or at least
writers on historical subjects； who still think it necessary to
apply moral judgments to history； and who distribute their praise
or blame with the solemn complacency of a successful schoolmaster。
This； however； is a foolish habit； and merely shows that the moral
instinct can be brought to such a pitch of perfection that it will
make its appearance wherever it is not required。 Nobody with the
true historical sense ever dreams of blaming Nero； or scolding
Tiberius； or censuring Caesar Borgia。 These personages have become
like the puppets of a play。 They may fill us with terror； or
horror； or wonder； but they do not harm us。 They are not in
immediate relation to us。 We have nothing to fear from them。 They
have passed into the sphere of art and science； and neither art nor
science knows anything of moral approval or disapproval。 And so it
may be some day with Charles Lamb's friend。 At present I feel that
he is just a little too modern to be treated in that fine spirit of
disinterested curiosity to which we owe so many charming studies of
the great criminals of the Italian Renaissance from the pens of Mr。
John Addington Symonds； Miss A。 Mary F。 Robinson； Miss Vernon Lee；
and other distinguished writers。 However； Art has not forgotten
him。 He is the hero of Dickens's HUNTED DOWN； the Varney of
Bulwer's LUCRETIA； and it is gratifying to note that fiction has
paid some homage to one who was so powerful with 'pen； pencil and
poison。' To be suggestive for fiction is to be of more importance
than a fact。