I had now some greater hopes of him, and told the housekeeper to do what she could to aid me in my efforts. Two days afterwards I called, and met the old woman at the door. She shook her head ominously as I passed her. I opened the door, and went in. On a chair opposite to his picture sat the artist, with his pallet in his left hand--the brush had fallen from his right--his head was hung over the back of the chair, and his cravatless neck bent almost to breaking. Beside him sat a bottle empty; there was no glass beside it. I took up the vessel, and smelled it. It had been filled with whisky. I now looked at the picture. It was destroyed. His burin had been drawn over it like a mop, and dashed backwards and forwards, as if he had taken a spite at it, and been determined to put an end in one moment to the work of six months! There was now no occasion for a doctor; a drunkard fairly broken out is far beyond our help or care. I left him, and told the housekeeper to call and tell me when the fit was over. She did so; and I called again. I found him sitting on the same chair, perfectly sober, but so thin and wan, that he seemed like one taken from that place "where one inheriteth creeping things, and beasts, and worms." His languid bloodshot eye was fixed on the picture, and tears were stealing down his white cheeks. When I entered, he held his hands up to his face, to cover the shame that mantled on his cheek, and deep sobs heaved his bosom. I was moved, and sat down beside him without speaking a word. "O God!" he exclaimed, "what am I to do with myself? Is there no remedy against this vice?--has the great Author of our being thus left us with an inheritance of reason, and a power that sits like a cockatrice on our brains, and laughs at the God-sent gift? See--see the fruit of six months' hard labour! I expected fame from that, and money. I would have got both. The fiend has triumphed. When I awoke from my dream, I heard his laugh behind the canvas. I am undone." And he wrung his hands like a demented person, and sobbed bitterly. I was still silent; for any words I could have uttered would have destroyed the impressiveness of the scene before me. When I had allowed the sensation of remorse to sink deeper into him, I spoke:-- "I am glad that you have wrought this destruction," said I. "You have produced an antidote to your own poison--let it work. I have no medicines in my laboratory that have half the efficacy of that once splendid emanation of your genius--now the monument of your folly, and to be, as I hope, the prophylactic to save you from ruin and death." "Ah, God help me! it is a dear medicine," groaned he. "I feel that I never can produce such a work again." And he hung down his head, as if the blackest cloud that covers hope had thrown over him its dark shadow. I again observed silence, and he remained with his head on his breast for several minutes, without exhibiting a symptom of life beyond the deep sigh that raised his ribs.