a truth before your eyes. . . Masson, X, p. 270.
that swallowed up abysses. . . Masson, X, p. 416.
for more than twenty years. . . Recollections, p. 169.
in substance, what I have been all my life. . . Hartley Coleridge (ed.), Specimens of the Table Talk of the Late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, London: John Murray, 1835, II, p. 71.
we should flee for refuge from them. . . ‘A Prefatory Observation on Modern Biography’, The Friend, Number 21, 1810, p. 337.
to be made at an unreasonable time. . . Middle Years, pt 1, p. 397.
in the cottage style. . . Griggs, III, p. 273.
we are all glad. . . his friends as possible. . . Middle Years, pt 1, pp. 398–9. criminal negligence. . . Recollections, p. 271.
lively gushing thought-employing . . . people. . . Beth Darlington (ed.), The Love Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, London: Chatto and Windus, 1982, p. 59.
end of time. . . Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 48.
kiss the words a thousand times! . . . Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 42.
whole frame. . . depth of affection. . . Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 210.
William used many . . . been very angry. . . Middle Years, pt 1, pp. 488–9.
so murderous of domestic comfort. . . Curry (ed.), New Letters of Robert Southey, I, p. 448.
whirled about without a centre. . . Coburn (ed.), Notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, III, p. 3991.
suddenness of a flash of lightning. . . Griggs, III, p. 389.
never-closing . . . Wound. . . Griggs, III, p. 338.
like nobody in my looks and appearance. . . Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 35.
the Misses De Quincey have just called. . . Moorman, Later Years, p. 114.
your sweet country. . . ever-green corner. . . Japp, II, p. 79.
and all for the sake . . . set by that orchard. . . Coburn, pp. 36–7.
storm in the apple orchard. . . Jordan, p. 219.
inhuman arrogance. . . usurpations. . . Recollections, pp. 375–6.
little cottage was Wordsworth’s. . . Recollections, pp. 122–3.
I have been ill-used. . . Recollections, p. 377.
a strange sort of contradictory life. . . Recollections, p. 381.
reads the newspapers standing . . . his company. . . Coburn, pp. 37–8.
Chapter 10: Residence in London and Grasmere
over the face of the land . . . ‘Mail-Coach’, p. 192.
never rested. . . part of vagrants. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 98.
No circumstances which did not concern me. . . ‘On Murder’, p. xi.
he had in his pocket fourteen shillings . . . John Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Life, Death and Interment of John Williams, the Supposed Murderer of the Families of Marr and Williamson, and Self Destroyer, John Fairburn, Blackfriars, 1812, p. 6.
an unseemly exhibition. . . see P. D. James and Thomas A. Critchley, The Maul and the Peartree, London: Faber, 1986.
what is the effect?. . . Payne Collier, Seven Lectures on Shakespeare and Milton, introductory preface, p. 142.
comparatively dim. . .aversion to action. . . Payne Collier, Seven Lectures, introductory preface, pp. 141–2.
proceeded from the hands of a friend. . . Recollections, p. 380.
in great indignation. . . Alan G. Hill (ed.), William and Dorothy Wordsworth: A Supplement of New Letters, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993, p. 63.
lower classes of the community . . . all parts of the globe. . . John Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Inhuman Murder of Mr and Mrs Williamson and Their Woman Servant at the King’s Arms, New Gravel Lane, Ratcliffe Highway, on Thursday Night, 19 Dec 1811, John Fairburn, Blackfriars, 1812, p. 3.
Whether he was in his native country. . . remorse. . . Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Life, Death and Interment of John Williams, p. 3.
conduct of the two formed. . . untimely end. . . Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Life, Death and Interment of John Williams, p. 4.
apprehended on suspicion. . . Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Life, Death and Interment of John Williams, p. 5.
accomplices remains to be discovered. . . Fairburn, Fairburn’s Account of the Life, Death and Interment of John Williams, p. 7.
the late murders. . . butchered like so many brute beasts! . . . Rev. G. Williams, ‘The Substance of a Sermon on the Horrid Murders in Ratcliffe Highway and Gravel Lane, which was Preached on Sunday December 29th, 1811, at the Chapel of the Rev. Rowland Hill’, London: Fairburn, 1811, p. 2.
determination to confront. . . Knight (ed.), Letters, II, p. 3.
Recollect, Gentlemen . . . Andro Linklater, Why Spencer Perceval Had to Die: The Assassination of a British Prime Minister, London, Bloomsbury, 2012, p. 130.
These were the very words . . . Linklater, Spencer Perceval, p. 38.
The country is no doubt in a most alarming situation. . . Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 148.
I am grieved to the heart . . . Knight (ed.), Letters, II, p. 9.
more affected than the father. . . Jordan, p. 210.
puling and womanly weakness. . . Morrison, p. 159.
Nobody. . . can judge. . . dear lips again. . . Jordan, p. 265.
idle gazers. . . Jordan, p. 266.
Oh that I could have died for her. . . Jordan, pp. 270–1.
The grounds for this fiction. . . Hogg, p. 23.
early dawn . . . fountain of life. . . Recollections, p. 372.
obscure and little heard of . . . Recollections, p. 369.
for more than two months running. . . Recollections, p. 372.
life could not be borne . . . Recollections, p. 373.
peculiar sensation . . . wrenched. . . Recollections, p. 374.
nympholepsy. . . Recollections, p. 374.
despairing nympholepsy . . . Recollections, p. 272.
which had seized upon me. . . Recollections, p. 119.
sublime attractions of the grave . . . De Quincey made the word his own, but he was not the only writer to use it. Byron wrote of ‘The nympholepsy of some fond despair’, and Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who called it ‘the saddening for a spirit that the world knows not’, believed ‘nympholepsy’ to be ‘the most common disease to genius’. In a letter to Ruskin, Elizabeth Barrett Browning confessed that ‘we are all nympholepts in running after our ideas’, and George Moore, in Memoirs of My Dead Life, described it as ‘a disease that every one would like to catch’.
foolish, selfish and ignorant. . . Recollections, p. 377.
Any real friend of mine. . . Recollections, p. 378.
sate down half-contentedly. . . this wrong. . . Recollections, p. 379.
Pray come to us as you can. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 173.
Chapter 11: The Recluse
a theatre seemed suddenly opened . . . Nilotic mud . . . instinct with life. . . ‘Confessions’, pp. 76–82.
whether his lungs. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 60.
He can do nothing . . . Master tires. . . Middle Years, pt 2, p. 665.
I was the last person . . . cheerless silence. . . Moorman, Later Years, p. 230.
up-rouzing of the Bats and the Owls. . . Middle Years, pt 2, p. 372.
walked to De Quincey’s. . . Lindop, p. 209.
‘gave up the ghost’. . . Japp, II, p. 162.
pedantry and high-flown sentimentality. . . Lindop, p. 210.
Quince has gone off to Edinburgh. . . Coburn, p. 88.
extraordinary, as if it came from dreamland . . . melody. . . R. P. Gillies, Memoirs of a Literary Veteran, London: Richard Bentley, 1851, II, p. 220.
Hout, me’em . . . where are they?. . . Miller, Electric Shepherd, p. 104.
the sexual intercourse of things. . . James Hogg, The Poetical Works of James Hogg, Edinburgh: Constable, 1822, III, p. 142.
It drove me crazy then. . . Jordan, pp. 226–67.
made his bed before she ascended it. . . William Maginn, ‘Humbugs of the Age, No 1 – The Opium Eater
’, 1, John Bull Magazine and Literary Recorder (1824), 21–3.
stupid heavy girl. . . Middle Years, pt 2, p. 372.
Quince was often tipsy . . . Coburn, p. 88.
distant, solemn, saintly. . . Recollections, p. 332.
Dark Interpreter. . . visionary companions. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 162.
So I have found you at last. . . ‘Confessions’, pp. 84–5.
a fit of solitude. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 192.
a nonentity, you have no being. . . Hogg, pp. 78–9.
his situation internally . . . distance. . . Recollections, p. 326.
enough to kill three dragoons. . . ran “a-muck” . . . ‘Confessions’, pp. 62–3.
an unfortunate acquaintance with a woman. . . Lindop, p. 218.
an exact and most faithful portraiture. . . Griggs, III, p. 495.
person on business from Porlock. . . S. T. Coleridge, Christabel, Kubla Khan, The Pains of Sleep, London: John Murray, 1815, p. 53.
the fruits of philosophy. . . Hill (ed.), Supplement of New Letters, p. 162.
Mr De Quincey is married. . . Middle Years, pt 2, p. 372.
I am very sorry for Mr De Quincey. . . E. V. Lucas (ed.), The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, VI, pp. 506–7.
lively gushing thought-employing . . .’ Darlington (ed.), Love Letters, p. 89.
hand locked in hand . . . Recollections, p. 288.
mere football of reproach. . . Recollections, p. 240.
invisible in bed. . . J. A. Froude, Thomas Carlyle: A History of the First Forty Years of his Life, 1795–1835, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011, p. 427.
I will sleep no more . . . ‘Confessions’, p. 78.
no more sudden death!. . . ‘Mail-Coach’, pp. 240–1, 244.
Candles at four o’clock . . . ‘Confessions’, pp. 65–6.
would not take tea with the new mistress of Dove Cottage. . . Mary Wordsworth was similarly horrified when, in 1819, her brother George also married his pregnant servant, who was also called Margaret.
irretrievable confusion. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 74.
rage, horror, despair, anguish, and ghastly smile. . . Westmorland Gazette, 30 Jan 1819.
Do you think there was no pleasure in murdering her?. . . ‘Extracts from Gosschen’s Diary’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, No. XVII, Aug 1818, I, p. 596.
cost the Editor a whole day’s labour . . . Westmorland Gazette, 23 Jan 1819.
The Editor of the Gazette differs in many points. . . Westmorland Gazette, 9 Jan 1819.
great fork of flames. . . Westmorland Gazette, 30 Jan 1819.
reason with the sea, or a railway train. . . Masson, I, p. 6.
more than once. . . Arabia Felix for instance. . . Westmorland Gazette, 23 Jan 1819.
more burning logic. . . Masson, I, p. 6.
A newspaper is not like a book . . . Westmorland Gazette, 26 Dec 1818.
Mr De Quincey’s Books . . . Coburn, p. 209.
always blinded. . . Eaton, p. 294.
second accumulation of books. . . Coburn, p. 209.
some chamber of that same humble cottage. . . Recollections, p. 298.
squabash, bam and balaam. . . Miller, Electric Shepherd, p. 158.
abuse Wordsworth anonymously . . . Miller, Electric Shepherd, p. 131.
the atlas of the magazine . . . further trouble. . . Morrison, pp. 199–200.
most licentious personal abuse. . . Patrick O’Leary, Regency Editor: Life of John Scott, Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1983, p. 146.
must be a dead man . . . no chance. . . Hogg, pp. xix, 8.
I am burning for vengeance. . . O’Leary, Regency Editor, p. 148.
To speak conscientiously . . . Morrison, p. 202.
the very midsummer madness of affection. . . Masson, II, p. 389.
Wilson might be the man. . . Hogg, p. 18.
these things Wilson can never forgive. . . Hogg, p. 18.
true hero. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 86.
Everyone who noticed the magazine. . . Morrison, p. 211.
Devil’s own drug. . . David Alec Wilson, Carlyle till Marriage, 1785–1826, London: Kegan Paul, 1923, p. 250.
more delight than I know how to express. . . Japp, II, p. 238.
a boast of what. . . Coleridge’s diseased egotism. . . Morrison, p. 211.
Witches and other Night Fears. . . London Magazine, Oct 1821, p. 387.
Autobiography. . . One of the earliest appearances of the word ‘autobiography’ was in 1807 when Southey announced in a review ‘an epidemical rage for auto-biography’. In the December edition of the London Magazine, De Quincey described himself as an ‘auto-biographer’.
Egotism is the spirit of the age. . . London Museum, 28 (1822), p. 44.
personality should be avoided. . . O’Leary, Regency Editor, p. 112.
The entire ‘Confessions’. . . Letter to the London Magazine, Dec 1821.
the sensation which had made De Quincey a slave to it. . . Curry (ed.), New Letters of Robert Southey, II, p. 450.
Did I teach wine-drinking?. . . Alethea Hayter, Opium and the Romantic Imagination, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California, 1968, p. 107.
De Quincey was not so much breaking a taboo. . . Mike Jay, The London Review of Books, Vol. 32, No. 9, May 2010. I am greatly indebted to the ideas explored by Mike Jay in this brilliant article.
So too was his response to Wordsworth. . . The relationship between the Confessions and The Prelude has been investigated by several De Quincey scholars. See in particular Jordan, De Quincey to Wordsworth, pp. 358–64; V. A. De Luca in both ‘“The Type of a Mighty Mind”, Mutual Influence in Wordsworth and De Quincey’, Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 13. 2 (Summer, 1971), and Thomas De Quincey, The Prose of Vision, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1980; D. D. Devlin, De Quincey, Wordsworth, and the Art of Prose, London, Macmillan, 1983.
when, for many reasons, the whole will be published. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 3.
Meantime, I am again in London. . . nineteen years ago. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 41.
Why, pretty well, I thank you, reader. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 57.
I was astonished at the depth and reality. . . Hogg, p. 73.
conventicle appearance. . . Hogg, p. 76.
before he could have written such a ballad. . . Hogg, p. 93.
slithered over the sleeping surfaces. . . than at anybody else. . . Masson, V, p. 246.
Pray, is it true, my dear Laudanum. . . Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, Oct 1823, pp. 485–6.
certain places & events. . . profanation of a temple. . . Hogg, pp. 88–9.
Confessions of an English Glutton. . . Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, Jan 1823, p. 87.
Chapter 12: Imagination, Impaired and Restored
buying a thing and yet not paying for it. . . Morrison, p. 263.
infantine feebleness. . . ‘Confessions’, p. 71.
aggravated the misery. . . Eaton, p. 295.
overspread with a dark frenzy . . . Hayter, Opium and the Romantic Imagination, p. 115.
Why am I now in London? . . . Eaton, p. 292.
never entered a great library. . . madness. . . ‘Letter to a young Man whose Education has been Neglected’, London Magazine, Vol. 7, Mar 1823, pp. 327–9.
murder running through their blood. . . Masson, XI, p. 347.
Mr. Hazlitt must permit me to smile. . . ‘To the Editor of the London Magazine’, 4 Nov 1823.
reflected back to the murder a peculiar awfulness . . . ‘On Knocking’, pp. 3–4.
The murderers, and the murder, must be insulated . . . passion. . . ‘On Knocking’, p. 6.
a pageantry in the clouds. . . ‘On Knocking’, p. 7.
a hell within him. . . ‘On Knocking’, p. 5.
genius of Mr Williams. . . ‘On Knocking’, p. 4.
Jack the Ripper. . . In ‘Homicidal Mania’, Fortnightly Review, 1888, George H. Savage suggested that the Whitechapel Murders were committed by ‘one worthy
to join De Quincey’s students of murder as a fine art’.
the lineaments of human beings. . . Eric R. Watson, The Trial of Thurtell and Hunt, Edinburgh: William Hodge, 1920, pp. 3, 49.
The gloomy cottage itself became a tourist site. . . Four years later Sir Walter Scott visited Gill’s Hill cottage, finding it, as he recorded in his diary, down ‘a labyrinth of intricate lanes, which seemed made on purpose to afford strangers the full benefit of a dark night and a drunk driver. . . The garden has been dismantled, though a few laurels and flowering shrubs, run wild, continue to mark the spot. The fatal pond is now only a green swamp, but so near the house, that one cannot conceive how it was ever chosen as a place of temporary concealment for the murdered body.’
I have been presented by the Press . . . debauchery. . . ‘An Account of a Late Trial at Hertford’, London Magazine, Feb 1824, p. 180.
worked himself up into a great actor. . . London Magazine, Feb 1824, p. 189.
what a Gentleman. . . see Judith Flanders, The Invention of Murder: How the Victorians Revelled in Death and Detection, London: HarperCollins, 2011, p. 40.
the murder is a good one, as you observe. . . unpublished letter in the British Library, BL MS 37, 215: see A. S. Plumtree, ‘The Artist as Murderer, De Quincey’s Essay “On Murder Considered As One of the Fine Arts”,’ in Robert Snyder, ed., Thomas De Quincey, Bicentenary Studies, University of Oklahoma Press, 1986.
‘Tims on Thurtell!!’ . . . I hae laucht so muckle. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Vol. 15, Apr 1824, p. 376.
the sensations. . . Edgar Allan Poe, ‘How to Write a Blackwood Article’, Thirty-Two Stories, p. 70.
We are certainly a blood-thirsty people. . . in all his glory. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Apr 1824, pp. 377–9.
Humbug of the Age. . . William Maginn, ‘Humbugs of the Age: No 1 – The Opium Eater’.
after the fashion of poor Savage the poet. . . Charles MacFarlane, Reminiscences of a Literary Life, New York: Charles Scribners, 1917, p. 83.
studied for himself in the fields. . . singular. . . Morrison, p. 239.
amongst the most remarkable. . . guilty darkness of this transaction. . . ‘Peter Anthony Fonk’, in Morrison (ed.), On Murder, pp. 144–54.
To fence with illness . . . Gordon, Memoir of John Wilson, II, p. 80.
Pain and Fuss. . . Thomas Sadler (ed.), Diary, Reminiscence and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, London: Macmillan, 1869, II, p. 9.
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