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of a people doomed to live on in the stale repetition of memories； like
deposed and superannuated kings in their regal gold…inwoven tatters。
The city looked so thirsty that the broad river seemed to me a sheet of
metal； and the blackened statues； as I passed under their blank gaze； along
the unending bridge； with their ancient garments and their saintly crowns；
seemed to me the real inhabitants and owners of this place； while the busy；
trivial men and women； hurrying to and fro； were a swarm of ephemeral
visitants infesting it for a day。 It is such grim； stony beings as these； I
thought； who are the fathers of ancient faded children； in those tanned
time…fretted dwellings that crowd the steep before me； who pay their court
in the worn and crumbling pomp of the palace which stretches its
monotonous length on the height； who worship wearily in the stifling air
of the churches； urged by no fear or hope； but pelled by their doom to
be ever old and undying； to live on in the rigidity of habit； as they live on
in perpetual midday； without the repose of night or the new birth of
morning。
A stunning clang of metal suddenly thrilled through me； and I became
conscious of the objects in my room again： one of the fire… irons had
fallen as Pierre opened the door to bring me my draught。 My heart was
palpitating violently； and I begged Pierre to leave my draught beside me； I
would take it presently。
As soon as I was alone again； I began to ask myself whether I had
been sleeping。 Was this a dreamthis wonderfully distinct vision… …
minute in its distinctness down to a patch of rainbow light on the
pavement； transmitted through a coloured lamp in the shape of a starof a
strange city； quite unfamiliar to my imagination？ I had seen no picture of
Prague： it lay in my mind as a mere name； with vaguely…remembered
historical associationsill…defined memories of imperial grandeur and
religious wars。
Nothing of this sort had ever occurred in my dreaming experience
before； for I had often been humiliated because my dreams were only
saved from being utterly disjointed and monplace by the frequent
terrors of nightmare。 But I could not believe that I had been asleep； for I
remembered distinctly the gradual breaking…in of the vision upon me； like
the new images in a dissolving view； or the growing distinctness of the
landscape as the sun lifts up the veil of the morning mist。 And while I
was conscious of this incipient vision； I was also conscious that Pierre
came to tell my father Mr。 Filmore was waiting for him； and that my father
hurried out of the room。 No； it was not a dream； was itthe thought was
full of tremulous exultationwas it the poet's nature in me； hitherto only a
troubled yearning sensibility； now manifesting itself suddenly as
spontaneous creation？ Surely it was in this way that Homer saw the
plain of Troy； that Dante saw the abodes of the departed； that Milton saw
the earthward flight of the Tempter。 Was it that my illness had wrought
some happy change in my organizationgiven a firmer tension to my
nervescarried off some dull obstruction？ I had often read of such
effectsin works of fiction at least。 Nay； in genuine biographies I had
read of the subtilizing or exalting influence of some diseases on the mental
powers。 Did not Novalis feel his inspiration intensified under the
progress of consumption？
When my mind had dwelt for some time on this blissful idea； it
seemed to me that I might perhaps test it by an exertion of my will。 The
vision had begun when my father was speaking of our going to Prague。 I
did not for a moment believe it was really a representation of that city； I
believedI hoped it was a picture that my newly liberated genius had
painted in fiery haste； with the colours snatched from lazy memory。
Suppose I were to fix my mind on some other placeVenice； for example；
which was far more familiar to my imagination than Prague： perhaps the
same sort of result would follow。 I concentrated my thoughts on Venice；
I stimulated my imagination with poetic memories； and strove to feel
myself present in Venice； as I had felt myself present in Prague。 But in
vain。 I was only colouring the Canaletto engravings that hung in my old
bedroom at home； the picture was a shifting one； my mind wandering
uncertainly in search of more vivid images； I could see no accident of
form or shadow without conscious labour after the necessary conditions。
It was all prosaic effort； not rapt passivity； such as I had experienced half
an hour before。 I was discouraged； but I remembered that inspiration
was fitful。
For several days I was in a state of excited expectation； watching for a
recurrence of my new gift。 I sent my thoughts ranging over my world of
knowledge； in the hope that they would find some object which would
send a reawakening vibration through my slumbering genius。 But no； my
world remained as dim as ever； and that flash of strange light refused to
e again； though I watched for it with palpitating eagerness。
My father acpanied me every day in a drive； and a graduall