rever, cramped, curdled,
blistered into a single disappointment.

"But," said Talbot, who had in vain attempted to arrest the criticisms
of the painter (who, very deaf at all times, was, at that time in
particular, engrossed by the self-satisfaction always enjoyed by one
expatiating on his favourite topic),--"but," said Talbot, in a louder
voice, "you own there is great genius in the design?"

"Certainly, there is genius," replied Sir Joshua, in a tone of calm and
complacent good-nature; "but what is genius without culture? You say
the artist is young, very young; let him take time: I do not say let
him attempt a humbler walk; let him persevere in the lofty one he has
chosen, but let him first retrace every step he has taken; let him
devote days, months, years, to the most diligent study of the immortal
masters of the divine art, before he attempts (to exhibit, at least)
another historical picture. He has mistaken altogether the nature of
invention: a fine invention is nothing more than a fine deviation
from, or enlargement on, a fine model: imitation, if noble and general,
insures the best hope of originality. Above all, let your young friend,
if he can afford it, visit Italy."

"He shall afford it," said Talbot, kindly, "for he shall have
whatever advantages I can procure him; but you see the picture is only
half-completed: he could alter it!"

"He had better burn it!" replied the painter, with a gentle smile.

And Talbot, in benevolent despair, hurried his visitor out of the room.
He soon returned to seek and console the artist, but the artist was
gone; the despised, the fatal picture, the blessing and curse of so many
anxious and wasted hours, had vanished also with its creator.

CHAPTER XXIV.

What is this soul, then? Whence
Came it?--It does not seem my own, and I
Have no self-passion or identity!
Some fearful end must be--
......
There never lived a mortal man, who bent
His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
But starved and died.--KEATS: Endymion.

On entering his home, Warner pushed aside, for the first time in his
life with disrespect, his aged and kindly relation, who, as if in
mockery of the unfortunate artist stood prepared to welcome and
congratulate his return. Bearing his picture in his arms, he rushed
upstairs, hurried into his room, and locked the door. Hastily he tore
aside the cloth which had been drawn over the picture; hastily and
tremblingly he placed it upon the