had wrought some happy change in my organization--given a firmer tension
to my nerves--carried off some dull obstruction? I had often read of
such effects--in 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
believed--I 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 place--Venice, 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