“No dark imagery can paint the encompassing horrors of those nights of torment that belonged to the last two months of my twelve months’ morphia addiction. Not one hour that I passed in bed between midnight and noon did I know normal sleep. In dreams that seemed more vivid than reality, I entered gloomy caves, and walked for hours over rotten cadavers, sometimes forced to step on them and be overwhelmed with loathsome odors. I saw faces in the weird darkness, sometimes a thousand at once, and each was made of blood-red flame; they flashed and went out. My nightmared brain was chased and haunted by everything that can exist in a vast hell of phantoms.” Apropos, the following from Moore’s “Veiled Prophet of Khorassan”:— “Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, The stony look of horror and despair, Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon that mocking Fiend, whose veil, now raised, Showed them, as in death’s agony they gazed, Not the long-promised light, the brow whose beaming Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, But features horribler than Hell e’er traced On its own brood; no Demon of the Waste, No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light Of the blessed sun, e’er blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows: ‘There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star, Ye _would_ be dupes and victims, and ye _are_. Is it enough? Or must I, while a thrill Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?’” Thus it is, pursued to the very grave-edge, these victims loathe the drug they once loved. Business is gone, family broken, friends lost, moral sense blunted or destroyed, mind incapable of healthy action, body wrecked, and they see no hope here or hereafter. They will lie and steal, do almost anything to obtain the drug with which and without which they are finally in a veritable hell. The face becomes sallow and soggy, the eyes bleared and expressionless, and the final result is either death or insanity. Some persons go on using these drugs for years before the symptoms here described supervene; some are thus affected in a few months. Having reached this stage they cannot arouse themselves from their terrible infatuation. Gloomy and hopeless, the world and the people in it no longer interest them. A patient whom I saw some years ago, a young Spaniard, was suffering from insanity from the use of morphine. Hour by hour he would sit folding, refolding and cutting paper into small bits with an old lancet. He would speak to no one, notice no one. This went on for months. He was sent to an insane asylum finally, and on searching his trunk some two score morphine bottles, as well as the greater part of the trunk, was filled with these minute scraps of paper. I have never been able to learn what became of him.