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in Covent Garden。 His sitting…room was on the ground floor； and he
prudently kept the blinds down for fear of being seen。 Thirteen
years before； when he was making his fine collection of majolica
and Marc Antonios； he had forged the names of his trustees to a
power of attorney； which enabled him to get possession of some of
the money which he had inherited from his mother； and had brought
into marriage settlement。 He knew that this forgery had been
discovered； and that by returning to England he was imperilling his
life。 Yet he returned。 Should one wonder？ It was said that the
woman was very beautiful。 Besides； she did not love him。
It was by a mere accident that he was discovered。 A noise in the
street attracted his attention； and； in his artistic interest in
modern life； he pushed aside the blind for a moment。 Some one
outside called out； 'That's Wainewright； the Bank…forger。' It was
Forrester； the Bow Street runner。
On the 5th of July he was brought up at the Old Bailey。 The
following report of the proceedings appeared in the TIMES：…
Before Mr。 Justice Vaughan and Mr。 Baron Alderson； Thomas Griffiths
Wainewright； aged forty…two； a man of gentlemanly appearance；
wearing mustachios； was indicted for forging and uttering a certain
power of attorney for 2259 pounds； with intent to defraud the
Governor and Company of the Bank of England。
There were five indictments against the prisoner； to all of which
he pleaded not guilty； when he was arraigned before Mr。 Serjeant
Arabin in the course of the morning。 On being brought before the
judges； however； he begged to be allowed to withdraw the former
plea； and then pleaded guilty to two of the indictments which were
not of a capital nature。
The counsel for the Bank having explained that there were three
other indictments； but that the Bank did not desire to shed blood；
the plea of guilty on the two minor charges was recorded； and the
prisoner at the close of the session sentenced by the Recorder to
transportation for life。
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。'
From Newgate he was brought to the hulks at Portsmouth； and sent
from there in the SUSAN to Van Diemen's Land along with three
hundred other convicts。 The voyage seems to have been most
distasteful to him； and in a letter written to a friend he spoke
bitterly about the ignominy of 'the companion of poets and artists'
being compelled to associate with 'country bumpkins。' The phrase
that he applies to his companions need not surprise us。 Crime in
England is rarely the result of sin。 It is nearly always the
result of starvation。 There was probably no one on board in whom
he would have found a sympathetic listener； or even a
psychologically interesting nature。
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。
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