The Sun.
London, England, 1866-10-15 00:00:00

Lord Lytton's Varney in "Lucretia."

Some curious particulars are given in Notes and
Queries concerning the last years of the notorious
Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the " Janus Weather-
cock" of the London Magazine to which Hazlitt and
Lamb contributed. It is pretty generally known that
this man—whose art criticisms in the periodical in
question, flippant as they were, attracted attention
by the dash, animation, and picturesqueness of their
style—was transported for having forged the signa-
ture of his wife's trustee, and that he lay under
heavy suspicion of having poisoned more than one
person whose lives he had insured. His subsequent
career in Van Diemen's Land, where he arrived in
1836, is not so well known. He became, about the
year 1842, an artist in Hobart Town, where, it is
said, he twice attempted to poison people to whom
he had taken a distaste. As a consequence, he was
" dreaded, disliked, and shunned by everybody."
A gentleman who knew him well describes him as a
man with a massive head, indicating the possession
of a large amount of brain ; a square, solid jaw,
deeply-set eyes, and " a snake-like expression which
was at once repulsive and fascinating. He rarely
looked you iu the face. his conversation and man-
ners were winning in the extreme ; he was never
intemperate, but nevertheless of grossly sensual
habit, and an opium eater." He was " constantly
, on the very confines of murder," and on one occa-
sion acted towards a fellow-convict, against whom
he bore a grudge, with hideous malignity. The con-
vict was brought in a dying state into the Hobart
Town Hospital, where Wainewright was at that time
an inmate. The latter "at a glance detected the

fatal premonitory indications, and, gliding to his
bedside with cat-like steps, he hissed into the dying
man's ear—' You are a dead man. In four-and-
twenty hours your soul will be in hell, and my arm
will be buried up to that (touching his elbow) in
your body, dissecting it.' " This is equal to some
of the horrible fancies of Edgar Allan Poe. While
in the hospital, Wainewright sent a petition to the
governor of the colony, Sir Eardley Wilmot, for a
ticket-of-leave, which was refused. In this docu-
ment—a strange piece of egotism and rambling talk
—he speaks of his writings, and begs his Excellency
to " grant him the power to shelter his eyes from
Vice in her most revolting and sordid phase, and
his ears from a jargon of filth and blasphemy that
would outrage the cynicism (sic) of Parny himself."
To his other vices it is clear that Wainewright added
I hypocrisy. lie died about the year 1852.

FRENCH-ENGLISH ! --An amusing illustration of
the sort of blunders which Frenchmen make in
writing or speaking English, is afforded by the Interna-
tional, a journal which, being published in London as well
as in Paris, ought to be exempt from such peculiarities.
Among the spectacles de Londres, it announces this week
" My Husband Ghost" at the Haymarket, " Nursery Chick-
weed" at the Lyceum, " A sheep in Woslf's Clothing" at
the Adelphi, and weeharts and Wives" at Sadler's Wells.
After this, the " divine Williams" ought no longer to sur-

prise us.
A HEART OF STONE NOT TO BE CHISELLED.—The
following tragi-comic incident is related by a Paris
paper. In the street of Cherche-Midi there exists a little
eating-house, known under the name of " Cabaret de la
Mere Rigault," and much frequented by engravers and
sculptors. It is kept by an amiable young widow, who
received, a few days ago, from one of her customers, a
sculptor, named Auguste R., the following curious letter :
" Divine Pebble,—Were you not harder than porphyry
or agate, the chisel of my love, guided by the mallet of my
fidelity, would have made some impression upon you. I,
who have given every form to the roughest materials, had
hoped that with the compass of reason, the saw of con-
stancy, the fine file of friendship, and the polish of my
words I should have made of you one of the prettiest
statues in the world. But, alas ! you are but an insensible
stone ; and yet you fire my soul, yourself remaining cold as
marble. Have pity on me. Ino longer know what I say
or do. When I have a dragon to sculpture it is Cupid that
rises under my chisel. Dear column of my hopes, pedestal
of my happiness, cornice of my j 3y, if you make me
happy I will raise to you statues and pyramids. To-
morrow I will call for your answer.—AUGUSTE." The
widow laughed heartily at what she took for a witty joke,
and showed the letter to•all her customers. Yesterday
Auguste R. entered the establishment and was immediately
a mark for a shower of compliments on the originality of his
letter. Fixing a strange gaze on his friends, he exclaimed,
" You make a jest of my sufferings, of my love !" And,
becoming suddenly furious, he abused the widow for her
perfidy and threatened to kill her. The police had to be
NIA for. The poor sculptor preyed to be out of his mind