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see it anywhere。 Or； to return again to the past； take as another
instance the ancient Greeks。 Do you think that Greek art ever tells
us what the Greek people were like？ Do you believe that the
Athenian women were like the stately dignified figures of the
Parthenon frieze； or like those marvellous goddesses who sat in the
triangular pediments of the same building？ If you judge from the
art； they certainly were so。 But read an authority； like
Aristophanes； for instance。 You will find that the Athenian ladies
laced tightly； wore high…heeled shoes； dyed their hair yellow；
painted and rouged their faces； and were exactly like any silly
fashionable or fallen creature of our own day。 The fact is that we
look back on the ages entirely through the medium of art； and art；
very fortunately； has never once told us the truth。The Decay of
Lying
THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINEWRIGHT
He was taken back to Newgate； preparatory to his removal to the
colonies。 In a fanciful passage in one of his early essays he had
fancied himself 'lying in Horsemonger Gaol under sentence of death'
for having been unable to resist the temptation of stealing some
Marc Antonios from the British Museum in order to complete his
collection。 The sentence now passed on him was to a man of his
culture a form of death。 He complained bitterly of it to his
friends； and pointed out； with a good deal of reason； some people
may fancy； that the money was practically his own； having come to
him from his mother； and that the forgery； such as it was； had been
committed thirteen years before； which； to use his own phrase； was
at least a circonstance attenuante。 The permanence of personality
is a very subtle metaphysical problem； and certainly the English law
solves the question in an extremely rough…and…ready manner。 There
is； however； something dramatic in the fact that this heavy
punishment was inflicted on him for what； if we remember his fatal
influence on the prose of modern journalism； was certainly not the
worst of all his sins。
While he was in gaol； Dickens； Macready； and Hablot Browne came
across him by chance。 They had been going over the prisons of
London； searching for artistic effects； and in Newgate they suddenly
caught sight of Wainewright。 He met them with a defiant stare；
Forster tells us； but Macready was 'horrified to recognise a man
familiarly known to him in former years； and at whose table he had
dined。'
Others had more curiosity； and his cell was for some time a kind of
fashionable lounge。 Many men of letters went down to visit their
old literary comrade。 But he was no longer the kind light…hearted
Janus whom Charles Lamb admired。 He seems to have grown quite
cynical。
To the agent of an insurance company who was visiting him one
afternoon； and thought he would improve the occasion by pointing out
that； after all； crime was a bad speculation； he replied： 'Sir； you
City men enter on your speculations； and take the chances of them。
Some of your speculations succeed； some fail。 Mine happen to have
failed； yours happen to have succeeded。 That is the only
difference； sir； between my visitor and me。 But； sir； I will tell
you one thing in which I have succeeded to the last。 I have been
determined through life to hold the position of a gentleman。 I have
always done so。 I do so still。 It is the custom of this place that
each of the inmates of a cell shall take his morning's turn of
sweeping it out。 I occupy a cell with a bricklayer and a sweep； but
they never offer me the broom！' When a friend reproached him with
the murder of Helen Abercrombie he shrugged his shoulders and said；
'Yes； it was a dreadful thing to do； but she had very thick
ankles。'Pen； Pencil and Poison
WAINEWRIGHT AT HOBART TOWN
His love of art； however； never deserted him。 At Hobart Town he
started a studio； and returned to sketching and portrait…painting；
and his conversation and manners seem not to have lost their charm。
Nor did he give up his habit of poisoning； and there are two cases
on record in which he tried to make away with people who had
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。Pen； Pencil and
Poison
CARDINAL NEWMAN AND THE AUTOBIOGRAPHIERS
In literature mere egotism is delightful。 It is what fascinates us
in the letters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac；
Flaubert and Berlioz； Byron and Madame de Sevigne。 Whenever we come
across it； and； strangely enough； it is rather rare； we cannot but
welcome it； and do not easily forget it。 Humanity will always love
Rousseau for having confessed his sins； not to a priest； but to the
world； and the couchant nymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for
the castle of King Francis； the green and gold Perseus； even； that
in the open Loggia at Florence shows the moon the dead terror that
once turned life to stone； have not given it more pleasure than has
that autobiography in which the supreme scoundrel of the Renaissance
relates the story of his splendour and his shame。 The opinions； the
character； the achievements of the man； matter very little。 He may
be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne； or a saint like the
bitter son of Monica； but when he tells us his own secrets he can
always charm our ears to listening and our lips to silence。 The
mode of thought that Cardinal Newman representedif that can be
called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual problems
by a denial of the supremacy of the intellectmay not； cannot； I
think； survive。 But the world will never weary of watching that
troubled soul in its progress from darkness to darkness。 The lonely
church at Littlemore； where 'the breath of the morning is damp； and
worshippers are few；' will always be dear to it； and whenever men
see the yellow snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they
will think of that gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower's
sure recurrence a prophecy that he would abide for ever with the
Benign Mother of his daysa prophecy that Faith； in her wisdom or
her folly； suffered not to be fulfilled。 Yes； autobiography is
irresistible。The Critic as Artist
ROBERT BROWNING
Taken as a whole the man was great。 He did not belong to the
Olympians； and had all the incompleteness of the Titan。 He did not
survey； and it was but rarely that he could sing。 His work is
marred by struggle； violence and effort； and he passed not from
emotion to form； but from thought to chaos。 Still； he was great。
He has been called a thinker； and was certainly a man who was always
thinking； and always thinking aloud； but it was not thought that
fascinated him； but rather the processes by which thought moves。 It
was the machine he loved； not what the machine makes。 The method by
which the fool arrives at his folly was as dear to him as the
ultimate wisdom of the wise。 So much； indeed； did the subtle
mechanism of mind fascinate him that he despised language； or looked
upon it as an incomplete instrument of expression。 Rhyme； that
exquisite echo which in the Muse's hollow hill creates and answers
its own voice； rhyme； which in the hands of the real artist becomes
not merely a material element of metric