Scott,the editor of the LONDON MAGAZINE,struck by the young man's genius,or under the influence of the strange fascination that he exercised on every one who knew him,invited him to write a series of articles on artistic subjects,and under a series of fanciful pseudonym he began to contribute to the literature of his day.
JANUS WEATHERCOCK,EGOMET BONMOT,and VAN VINKVOOMS,were some of the grotesque masks under which he choose to hide his seriousness or to reveal his levity.A mask tells us more than a face.These disguises intensified his personality.In an incredibly short time he seems to have made his mark.Charles Lamb speaks of 'kind,light-hearted Wainewright,'whose prose is 'capital.'We hear of him entertaining Macready,John Forster,Maginn,Talfourd,Sir Wentworth Dilke,the poet John Clare,and others,at A PETIT-DINER.
Like Disraeli,he determined to startle the town as a dandy,and his beautiful rings,his antique cameo breast-pin,and his pale lemon-coloured kid gloves,were well known,and indeed were regarded by Hazlitt as being the signs of a new manner in literature:while his rich curly hair,fine eyes,and exquisite white hands gave him the dangerous and delightful distinction of being different from others.There was something in him of Balzac's Lucien de Rubempre.At times he reminds us of Julien Sorel.De Quincey saw him once.It was at a dinner at Charles Lamb's.'Amongst the company,all literary men,sat a murderer,'he tells us,and he goes on to describe how on that day he had been ill,and had hated the face of man and woman,and yet found himself looking with intellectual interest across the table at the young writer beneath whose affectations of manner there seemed to him to lie so much unaffected sensibility,and speculates on 'what sudden growth of another interest'would have changed his mood,had he known of what terrible sin the guest to whom Lamb paid so much attention was even then guilty.
His life-work falls naturally under the three heads suggested by Mr.Swinburne,and it may be partly admitted that,if we set aside his achievements in the sphere of poison,what he has actually left to us hardly justifies his reputation.
But then it is only the Philistine who seeks to estimate a personality by the vulgar test of production.This young dandy sought to be somebody,rather than to do something.He recognised that Life itself is in art,and has its modes of style no less than the arts that seek to express it.Nor is his work without interest.We hear of William Blake stopping in the Royal Academy before one of his pictures and pronouncing it to be 'very fine.'
His essays are prefiguring of much that has since been realised.
He seems to have anticipated some of those accidents of modern culture that are regarded by many as true essentials.He writes about La Gioconda,and early French poets and the Italian Renaissance.He loves Greek gems,and Persian carpets,and Elizabethan translations of CUPID AND PSYCHE,and the HYPNEROTOMACHIA,and book-binding and early editions,and wide-margined proofs.He is keenly sensitive to the value of beautiful surroundings,and never wearies of describing to us the rooms in which he lived,or would have liked to live.He had that curious love of green,which in individuals is always the sign of a subtle artistic temperament,and in nations is said to denote a laxity,if not a decadence of morals.Like Baudelaire he was extremely fond of cats,and with Gautier,he was fascinated by that 'sweet marble monster'of both sexes that we can still see at Florence and in the Louvre.
There is of course much in his deions,and his suggestions for decoration,that shows that he did not entirely free himself from the false taste of his time.But it is clear that he was one of the first to recognise what is,indeed,the very keynote of aesthetic eclecticism,I mean the true harmony of all really beautiful things irrespective of age or place,of school or manner.
He saw that in decorating a room,which is to be,not a room for show,but a room to live in,we should never aim at any archaeological reconstruction of the past,nor burden ourselves with any fanciful necessity for historical accuracy.In this artistic perception he was perfectly right.All beautiful things belong to the same age.
And so,in his own library,as he describes it,we find the delicate fictile vase of the Greek,with its exquisitely painted figures and the faint [Greek text which cannot be reproduced]finely traced upon its side,and behind it hangs an engraving of the 'Delphic Sibyl'of Michael Angelo,or of the 'Pastoral'of Giorgione.Here is a bit of Florentine majolica,and here a rude lamp from some old Roman tomb.On the table lies a book of Hours,'cased in a cover of solid silver gilt,wrought with quaint devices and studded with small brilliants and rubies,'and close by it 'squats a little ugly monster,a Lar,perhaps,dug up in the sunny fields of corn-bearing Sicily.'Some dark antique bronzes contrast with the pale gleam of two noble CHRISTI CRUCIFIXI,one carved in ivory,the other moulded in wax.'He has his trays of Tassie's gems,his tiny Louis-Quatorze BONBONNIERE with a miniature by Petitot,his highly prized 'brown-biscuit teapots,filagree-worked,'his citron morocco letter-case,and his 'pomona-green'chair.
