thence in five days aboard the Susan, sentenced to
Life in a land (to him) a moral sepulchre. As a
ground for your mercy he submits with great
deference his foregone condition of life during 43
years of freedom. A descent, deduced, through
family tradition and Edmondson's Heraldry, from a
stock not the least honoured in Cambria. Nurtured
with all appliances of ease and comfort— schooled
by his relative, the well-known philologer and
bibliomaniac, Chas. Burney, D.D., brother to Mdme.
D'Arblay, and the companion of COOKE. Lastly,
such a modest competence as afforded the mental
necessaries of Literature, Archaeology, Music and
the Plastic Arts; while his pen and brush introduced
him to the notice and friendship of men whose fame
is European. The Catalogues of Somerset House
Exhibitions, the Literary Pocket-Book, indicate
his earlier pursuits, and the MS. left behind in
Paris, attest at least his industry. Their titles
imply the objects to which he has, to this date,
directed all his energies:—" A Philosophical Theory
of Design, as concerned with the Loftier Emotions,
showing its deep action on Society, drawn from the
Phidean-Greek and early Florentine Schools" (the
result of seventeen years' study), illustrated with
numerous plates, executed with conscientious
accuracy, in one vol. atlas folio. " An Aesthetic and
Psychological Treatise on the Beautiful; or the Analogies
of Imagination and Fancy, as exerted in Poësy,
whether Verse, Painting, Sculpture, Music, or
Architecture;" to form four vols. folio, with a profusion of
engravings by the first artists of Paris, Munich,
Berlin, Dresden, and Wien. "An Art-Novel," in
three vols., and a collection of " Fantasie, Critical
Sketches, &c., selected partly from Blackwood, the
Foreign Review, and the London Magazine." All
these were nearly ready for, one actually at press.
Deign, your Excellency! to figure to yourself my
actual condition during seven years; without friends,
good name (the breath of life) or art (the fuel to it
with me), tormented at once by memory and 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.
Take pity, your Excellency! and grant me the
power to shelter my eyes from Vice in her most
revolting and sordid phase, and my ears from a jargon
of filth and blasphemy that would outrage the
cynism (sic) of Paray himself. Perhaps this clinging
to the lees of a vapid life may seem as base, unmanly,
arguing rather a plebeian, than a liberal and gentle
descent. But, your Excellency! the wretched Exile
has a child! — and Vanity (sprung from the praise of
Flaxman, Charles Lamb, Stothard, Rd. Westall,
Delaroche, Cornelius, Lawrence, and the god of his
worship, FUSELI) whispers that the follower of the
Ideal might even yet achieve another reputation than
that of a Faussaire. Seven years of steady
demeanour may in some degree promise that no
indulgence shall ever be abused by your Excellency's
miserable petitioner,             T. G. WAINEWRIGHT."

Discharged from the hospital, the elegant-
mannered poisoner, his dress with no style at
all about it now, his spelling ratber
wandering, and his bearing less refined than it used
to be, set up as an artist at Hobart Town, where
sketches by him still exist. His conversation to
lady-sitters was often indelicate. A writer in a
Melbourne paper, 6th July, 1841, says of this
dangerous and abandoned wretch (we must use
plain, words for him now): "He rarely looked you
in the face. His conversation and manners were
winning in the extreme; he was never
intemperate, but nevertheless of grossly sensual
habit, and an opium-eater. As to moral
character, he was a man of the very lowest stamp.
He seemed to be possessed by an ingrained
malignity of disposition, which kept him
constantly on the very confines of murder, and he
took a perverse pleasure in traducing persons
who had befriended him. There is a terrible
story told of his savage malignity towards
a fellow-patient in the hospital, a convict,
against whom he bore a grudge. The man was in
a state of collapse — his extremities were already
growing cold. Death had him by the throat.
Wainewright's snakish eyes kindled with
unearthly fire. He saw at once the fatal sign. He
stole softly as a cat to the man's pallet, and
hissed his exultation into his dying ear:

"' You are a dead man, you——In four-and-
twenty hours your soul will be in hell, and my
arms will be up to that (touching his elbow)
in your body, dissecting you.'"

Such was the ingrained and satanic wickedness
of this triple murderer. Twice this
delight of society attempted to poison people who
had become obnoxious to him. Even in that
polluted corner of the world the man was dreaded,
hated, and shunned. No chance homicide
had imbrued his hands, but a subtle series of
cowardly and atrocious crimes. His sole friend
and companion was a cat, for which he evinced an
extraordinary and sentimental affection. He had
always been fond of cats. In 1852, this gentlemanly
and specious monster was struck down
in a moment, as with a thunderbolt, by apoplexy.
He had survived his victims sixteen years.

Perhaps no blacker soul ever passed from a
body than passed the day that Wainewright the
poisoner went to his account. Well says Mr.
Serjeant Talfourd:

"Surely no contrast presented in the wildest
romance between a gay cavalier, fascinating
Naples or Palermo, and the same hero detected
as the bandit or demon of the forest, equals
that which time has unveiled between what Mr.
Wainewright seemed and what he was."

It is this monster whom Lord Lytton has
immortalised in his powerful novel of Lucretia.

BEDS.

ONE of the best riddles in the English
language is on a bed:

     Form'd long ago, yet made to-day,
          I'm most in use whilst others sleep;
     What few would wish to give away,
          But fewer still would wish to keep.

Whilst all people enjoy their beds, and look
forward to them every evening of their lives as a
rest after the toils of the day, as a refuge in
sickness, a comfort in health, a place to be born
in, and a place to die in, how various are
beds —how much do people of different habits
and different nations differ in their notions of
what constitutes a comfortable bed! In our