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PEN； PENCIL AND POISON … A STUDY IN GREEN
It has constantly been made a subject of reproach against artists
and men of letters that they are lacking in wholeness and
completeness of nature。 As a rule this must necessarily be so。
That very concentration of vision and intensity of purpose which is
the characteristic of the artistic temperament is in itself a mode
of limitation。 To those who are preoccupied with the beauty of
form nothing else seems of much importance。 Yet there are many
exceptions to this rule。 Rubens served as ambassador； and Goethe
as state councillor； and Milton as Latin secretary to Cromwell。
Sophocles held civic office in his own city； the humourists；
essayists； and novelists of modern America seem to desire nothing
better than to become the diplomatic representatives of their
country； and Charles Lamb's friend； Thomas Griffiths Wainewright；
the subject of this brief memoir； though of an extremely artistic
temperament； followed many masters other than art； being not merely
a poet and a painter； an art…critic； an antiquarian； and a writer
of prose； an amateur of beautiful things； and a dilettante of
things delightful； but also a forger of no mean or ordinary
capabilities； and as a subtle and secret poisoner almost without
rival in this or any age。
This remarkable man； so powerful with 'pen； pencil and poison；' as
a great poet of our own day has finely said of him； was born at
Chiswick； in 1794。 His father was the son of a distinguished
solicitor of Gray's Inn and Hatton Garden。 His mother was the
daughter of the celebrated Dr。 Griffiths； the editor and founder of
the MONTHLY REVIEW； the partner in another literary speculation of
Thomas Davis； that famous bookseller of whom Johnson said that he
was not a bookseller； but 'a gentleman who dealt in books；' the
friend of Goldsmith and Wedgwood； and one of the most well…known
men of his day。 Mrs。 Wainewright died； in giving him birth； at the
early age of twenty…one； and an obituary notice in the GENTLEMAN'S
MAGAZINE tells us of her 'amiable disposition and numerous
accomplishments；' and adds somewhat quaintly that 'she is supposed
to have understood the writings of Mr。 Locke as well as perhaps any
person of either sex now living。' His father did not long survive
his young wife； and the little child seems to have been brought up
by his grandfather； and； on the death of the latter in 1803； by his
uncle George Edward Griffiths； whom he subsequently poisoned。 His
boyhood was passed at Linden House； Turnham Green； one of those
many fine Georgian mansions that have unfortunately disappeared
before the inroads of the suburban builder； and to its lovely
gardens and well…timbered park he owed that simple and impassioned
love of nature which never left him all through his life； and which
made him so peculiarly susceptible to the spiritual influences of
Wordsworth's poetry。 He went to school at Charles Burney's academy
at Hammersmith。 Mr。 Burney was the son of the historian of music；
and the near kinsman of the artistic lad who was destined to turn
out his most remarkable pupil。 He seems to have been a man of a
good deal of culture； and in after years Mr。 Wainewright often
spoke of him with much affection as a philosopher； an
archaeologist； and an admirable teacher who； while he valued the
intellectual side of education； did not forget the importance of
early moral training。 It was under Mr。 Burney that he first
developed his talent as an artist； and Mr。 Hazlitt tells us that a
drawing…book which he used at school is still extant； and displays
great talent and natural feeling。 Indeed； painting was the first
art that fascinated him。 It was not till much later that he sought
to find expression by pen or poison。
Before this； however； he seems to have been carried away by boyish
dreams of the romance and chivalry of a soldier's life； and to have
become a young guardsman。 But the reckless dissipated life of his
companions failed to satisfy the refined artistic temperament of
one who was made for other things。 In a short time he wearied of
the service。 'Art；' he tells us； in words that still move many by
their ardent sincerity and strange fervour； 'Art touched her
renegade； by her pure and high influence the noisome mists were
purged； my feelings； parched； hot； and tarnished； were renovated
with cool； fresh bloom； simple； beautiful to the simple…hearted。'
But Art was not the only cause of the change。 'The writings of
Wordsworth；' he goes on to say； 'did much towards calming the
confusing whirl necessarily incident to sudden mutations。 I wept
over them tears of happiness and gratitude。' He accordingly left
the army； with its rough barrack…life and coarse mess…room tittle…
tattle； and returned to Linden House； full of this new…born
enthusiasm for culture。 A severe illness； in which； to use his own
words； he was 'broken like a vessel of clay；' prostrated him for a
time。 His delicately strung organisation； however indifferent it
might have been to inflicting pain on others； was itself most
keenly sensitive to pain。 He shrank from suffering as a thing that
mars and maims human life； and seems to have wandered through that
terrible valley of melancholia from which so many great； perhaps
greater； spirits have never emerged。 But he was young … only
twenty…five years of age … and he soon passed out of the 'dead
black waters；' as he called them； into the larger air of humanistic
culture。 As he was recovering from the illness that had led him
almost to the gates of death； he conceived the idea of taking up
literature as an art。 'I said with John Woodvil；' he cries； 'it
were a life of gods to dwell in such an element；' to see and hear
and write brave things：…
'These high and gusty relishes of life
Have no allayings of mortality。'
It is impossible not to feel that in this passage we have the
utterance of a man who had a true passion for letters。 'To see and
hear and write brave things；' this was his aim。
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
ab