“Guten Morgen, Wilhelm!” said I, as I entered the chamber of my fellow student. “How are you this morning? You look better—your eyes are brighter, and your cheek possesses more colour than usual.”

“I am better, mein Freund,” observed the youth, raising himself up from the bed till his back rested upon the pillows. “But what have you there?”

“A fresh supply of flowers for you, Wilhelm,” I replied; “and I bought them of the prettiest MÄdchen I ever saw in the market place.”

“Ich danke Ihnen fÜr das Geschenk,” murmured the grateful student. “You know I love flowers better than any thing upon earth. They always fill me with ideas of beauty and purity and splendour, above all other earthly things; and I love them because they are so impartial in bestowing their favours: they confer their fragrance and their loveliness with equal liberality on all who venture within their influence. Put them in the vase, mein freund, and let me again thank you for so welcome a gift.”

“And now let us converse, Wilhelm, if you feel strong enough;” I exclaimed, as I took a seat by the bedside of the invalid. “Has the physician been this morning? And what said he.”

“He preceded you but a few minutes, mein freund,” replied Wilhelm, “and he said nothing. He shook his head, however, when he looked at me, which I considered a bad sign.”

“There’s nothing in it, be assured,” said I, earnestly.

“In the head, or in the sign?” inquired my fellow student, with a look of mock gravity.

“In both,” cried I, laughing; “in both, no doubt. But I am glad to see you so cheerful. Your appearance this morning makes me entertain hopes of your speedy recovery, and I can almost convince myself, that in a few days we shall be together pursuing our studies and our ramblings, as we have so often and so happily done.”

“I have been entertaining a similar idea, mein freund,” observed Wilhelm; “I feel more cheerful than I have felt for a long time past; and I was beginning to flatter myself into a belief, that the insidious disease was about evacuating its territory. I shall roam among the walls of old GÖttingen again. I shall associate with my ancient comrades—shall I not?”

“’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished by others as well as myself,” said I; “but how liked you the book I lent you?”

“’Tis a brilliant production,” replied my friend; “and of that class of works which affords me most pleasure. ‘Give me the enjoyment of perusing a succession of new works from the graceful pen of CrÉbillon, and I shall have no other want,’ said Gray. I exclaim, ‘Give me the gratification of reading the finest productions in the imaginative literature of every civilised nation, and there will be little left for me to wish for.’ Nothing elevates and delights me so much as the best of these works, especially if they be tinged with a tone of high romantic feeling. What can be so charming as this mingling of the ideal and the natural? What can take a firmer hold of the mind and of the heart?”

“They certainly do, when ably written, create very powerful impressions;” I observed.

“I have read a considerable portion of the imaginative literature of almost every European nation,” said Wilhelm; “and an extraordinary power of genius it evinces. The prose fictions of the present age produced in Germany and England are wonderfully excellent and abundant. I think the English exceed all others in the combination of judgment with imagination, as seen in the best efforts of Scott, Bulwer, and Godwin. After them come the Germans, and we can proudly boast of GÖthe, Lafontaine, Novalis, and Hoffmann. The French have much imagination and very little judgment, as exhibited in the writings of Victor Hugo, MÉrimÉe, Paul de Kock, and Balzac, and are usually distinguished by their sins against good taste. Of Italian imaginative literature, the works I have met with that rise above mediocrity, are, ‘I Promessi Sposi,’ of Manzoni, ‘Ettore Fieramosca,’ of Massino D’Azeglio, and ‘Franco Allegri,’ which do not soar very high. Of the modern fictions of Spain, Portugal, and Holland, I know nothing; nor do I believe that there is any thing to know; but I have seen one or two romantic novels from Russia that possess considerable merit. What I object to in works of this nature, written at the present time, is the too apparent satisfaction of their authors in remaining in the beaten track. A vast majority fill their volumes with characters that have been a thousand times repeated, and with incidents and situations that are familiar to every reader.”

“What would you have them do?” I inquired.

“I would have them strike out a bolder class of subjects,” replied the student. “Instead of being satisfied with attempting illustrations of historical periods, or of an existing state of society, suppose they attempt to describe an imaginary time as well as imaginary characters. If a man possess a powerful imagination, let him conceive the state of the world a thousand years hence, or at any other time remote from the present. I do not mean that he should merely delineate a state of society, or of any section of society; I mean that he should take the most important portions of the civilised world, and picture, as well as he is able, the changes they may undergo, and the state of their peoples, governments, religions, and philosophy.”

“I am afraid that such a work would be considered too serious for the novel reader;” I observed.

“Impossible, mein freund!” replied the student. “Always, in works of imagination, the ideal and the matter of fact should be so blended as to make an interesting and amusing whole; and it matters not whether the time sought to be illustrated be of the past, of the present, or of the future: each may be made equally laughable, equally pathetic, and equally philosophical.”

“But the idea is too comprehensive to be done well;” said I. “To draw an imaginary state of the world in any thing like consonance with probability, requires more than ordinary talent in the draughtsman; but to add to it pictures of an imaginary state of its inhabitants, and an imaginary state of their philosophy, presents difficulties which I should think are not to be overcome.”

“The imagination can conquer any difficulty;” exclaimed my companion. “There is no power beneath heaven like imagination. It can dive into the uttermost corners of the ocean, or ascend through the trackless fields of air. It can fly where the eagle dare not move its wing, and amid Alpine obstacles outclimb the chamois. It can pass the great desert at a bound, and bear the four corners of the world in the hollow of its eye. It seeth all things that nature showeth; and after disclosing these, can show many things that nature never beheld. It pierces into the most hidden things. It flingeth a shining light into the most utter darkness. Locks, bolts, or bars, cannot keep it out—laws, walls and chains cannot keep it in: it is the only thing belonging to human life that is perfectly free. There is nothing imagination cannot do; no matter whether it be good or evil, reasonable or absurd, to it all things are alike easy. And as for wealth or power or dignity, or aught of which the world thinks highly, where is the greatness, and where are the riches that exceed those of the imagination? Mechanics are proud of their engines, and think them wonderful: they are mere playthings compared with the imagination. Cannot imagination make the sea dry land, and the earth ocean? Archimedes boasted that he would move the world, could he place it in a convenient situation. Let imagination put forth its powers, and the world becomes obedient to its law, moves when required, crumbles into dust, and is re-created with increased glory. Cannot it break the rock like a reed, and snap the gnarled oak of many centuries like a rotten thread? Cannot it build cities on the plain, and form a garden in the wilderness? Cannot it people the solitude and confer happiness on the desolate? Cannot it make the sands of the sea-shore glittering with gold; and of the leaves of the forest create treasures far outvaluing the riches of the earth and sea? And more than this, it can make the dead live and the living die; it can raise the earthquake and the pestilence; it can fight battles and win kingdoms; it can float upon the whirlwind like a leaf upon the breeze; and pass through a consuming fire unscathed by a single flame.

“These are the powers of the imagination; and what are its pleasures? Let the most luxurious seeker after enjoyment take all the delights reality will give him. Let him wrap himself up in roses; lie in baths of milk; taste all that is delicious to the appetite; be loved by the most lovely and the most loving of women; and pass not a minute in which his soul is not lapped in ecstacy; and his enjoyments will bear no comparison with those of the imagination. Imagination can concentrate in a single moment the pleasures of a thousand years: it possesses all the delights the world may produce, in addition to raptures more exquisite of worlds of its own: it can create forms clothed with a beauty far excelling the rarest of those who have glorified the earth with their presence; its sunshine pales the light of heaven; its flowers alone can bloom with a perpetual fragrance.”

“Wilhelm, you must not excite yourself so;” said I, observing him fall back exhausted against the pillow, from which he had raised himself, and a violent fit of coughing follow.

“O du ewige GÜte?” exclaimed the student, gasping for breath.

“Ah! I was afraid of this; you are too weak to allow yourself to be carried away by the impetuosity of your feelings. Here! take some of this drink. It will allay the irritation of the cough.”

“I am better now—I am better, mein freund,” murmured the grateful Wilhelm; “and now let us resume our conversation.”

“I am almost afraid, Wilhelm, for I see it excites you so much;” I observed.

“It has passed away. It is nothing:” replied my companion.

“Supposing then, that the idea you mentioned was attempted to be worked out to its full extent, how is it possible to convey any thing like a natural picture of the state of existing nations at so remote a time?” I inquired.

“By a reference to what is already known of the growth, maturity and decay of nations,” said the student. “Every thing has its age. The tree cannot flourish beyond a certain time—nor can a country. Time passes his scythe over the verdant world, and wherever it glides, the crop is cut down; and after the field has been left wild a sufficient period, the seed is again sown, the produce is again abundant, and the mower is again at work. Thus it has been from the creation of the world; thus it will be for everlasting. How long was the growth of Babylon, of Nineveh, of Tyre and Sidon, of Thebes and Carthage? They had their season. Then came Pompeii, Etruria, Athens, Rome, and Constantinople. How long did they last? Then came Venice and Genoa, the Moorish kingdom of Grenada, and the Arabian empire at Jerusalem; they had their day. After these came the omnipotence of Popish Rome, the magnificence of Madrid, and the splendour of Lisbon: they have departed. And now we have the glories of London and Paris, and Berlin and Vienna, and these will exist their period, and then gradually fall into decay. It must be evident to any observer, that Spain and Portugal, once the two greatest nations in Europe, in opulence, power, and intelligence, are descending to the lowest degradation of poverty, insignificance, and ignorance. The Roman empire in Italy, having passed into a number of independent states, each of which has attained a considerable degree of greatness, lies now prostrate at the foot of the great European powers. Greece, the intellectual and the free, having for many centuries been plunged in ignorance and slavery up to the lips, shews signs of a regeneration. And the barbarians of the North are making rapid approaches towards pre-eminence.”

“But the superior civilisation we enjoy, must prevent our retrograding,” said I. “Think of our steam-engines, our rail-roads, our wonderful discoveries in science and mechanics, and our extraordinary advancement in intelligence; we are rising, and we shall continue to rise.”

“We cannot rise above the top, mein freund,” observed my fellow student with a smile; “and after that we must go down. There is a point beyond which no nation advances, and to that point we are tending. As for our superior civilisation, that remains to be proved. Boast as we may of our machinery, we could neither raise such monuments as were frequent among the Egyptians, or have we any tools that can make an impression upon the stone out of which they were sculptured. The gunpowder upon the discovery of which we pride ourselves, has not been so destructive as the Greek fire, of the composition of which we know nothing. In art, we are far from excelling the ancients, and in learning we are obliged to acknowledge our obligations to them.”

“But how far the intelligence of the multitude at the present day exceeds that of any preceding time!” I observed.

“I am not convinced of that,” replied Wilhelm. “With the exception of Germany, particularly Prussia, the education of the people, has not been attempted on a plan likely to confer on them much advantage, and the only sure way of judging of a superiority of intelligence is by comparing the state of the public morals in different countries. If it can be proved that the Greeks or the Romans were a less moral people than are the English or the French, then are the latter the most intellectual; but if, taking the amount of population, it could be ascertained that a less amount of crime was committed by the ancients, then must the moderns be considered the least civilised.”

“I am afraid the philosophical character of such a work would not be appreciated by the general reader, who takes up a book merely for amusement,” said I.

“You are mistaken, mein freund,” replied the student; “there is nothing which may be made so amusing as philosophy. Every good book is philosophical; and the idle reader is continually being made familiar with philosophy without knowing it, just as the worthy gentleman in MoliÈre’s comedy talked prose all his life, in perfect ignorance of having done so.”

“Well, I can only say, I should like exceedingly to read such a book,” I observed.

“You see that ebony chest there, upon that pile of books;” said Wilhelm, pointing in the direction to which he had alluded. “Take it. In it you will find a MS. It is a work such as I have described to you, and I wrote it at intervals, whenever I could find time for the employment.”

“You write such a work, Wilhelm!” exclaimed I with surprise. “I am aware how much you have devoted yourself to study. I know that you have completely ruined your health by your severe application in the pursuit of knowledge; but I had no conception of your attempting a production of such a character, upon a subject beset by so many difficulties.”

“I have been ambitious,” replied my companion. “I was desirous of attempting something out of the common path—I yearned for literary distinction. Take and read it, mein freund, and let me know if you think it worthy of publication. I have endeavoured to make the story full of a deep and pleasing interest. The characters introduced I have sought to create in a sufficient variety, and of various shades, from the humblest in intelligence to the most exalted. The incidents I have strived to make striking and powerful, and vividly drawn; and the opinions you will there find expressed, while I wished to make them natural and true, I have been anxious that they should possess a claim to originality. It has been my aim to combine wit, humour, pathos, and philosophy in such a manner as I hope cannot fail of being thought at once amusing and instructive, and if I live to see realised the aspirations I have entertained, if I can but behold the work I have laboured to produce, in popular estimation, I do not care how soon this feeble frame dissolves into its parent dust. I must live to see that! mein freund; I must live to see that!”

“I have not a doubt but what you will, Wilhelm;” I replied. “The genius I know you to possess has only to exhibit itself fairly before the public, to be considered a public property, and become an object of general estimation. The learning you have laboured so diligently to obtain, will then stand you in good service; and the liberality of your sentiments, your deep love of virtuous principle, and your earnest desire for the diffusion of truth, then cannot long remain without exciting the admiration you covet.”

He made no reply.

“Look!” I exclaimed. “There are Gerhard Kramer, and Hugo Messingen, smoking their meerschaums out of the opposite window.”

He did not move.

“Are you asleep, Wilhelm?” said I, advancing from the window to the bedside, and gazing in the face of my now silent companion. His head was sunk in the pillow, with his light hair falling in waving curls around it. There lay the calm blue eyes, the fair smooth cheek, the delicate moustache, and the mouth so exquisitely small, half open, giving a glimpse of the white teeth within it.

“Are you asleep, Wilhelm?” I repeated, taking the hand that rested outside the bed clothes.

He was asleep: and from that sleep he never awoke. He now lies in the left hand corner of GÖttingen churchyard—a familiar place to me; for while he was the most studious, he was the most amiable of all my fellow students. He had become a martyr to his love of study, and the world closed upon him just as he exhibited those signs of extraordinary merit, which in time would have made him one of its most distinguished ornaments. That his death was quite unexpected by himself was evident, but in the progress of his illness he had drawn up a will, in which he had made me his executor, and in it expressed his desire that I should prepare his manuscript for the press. I have done so, and the result is before the reader. I have left the first chapter as I found it, giving notes to illustrate a few phrases that required explanation; but imagining that these phrases, though perfectly characteristic, might perplex the reader in his progress with the story, I made such alterations in the rest of the MS. as I thought would bring the work nearer to the taste of the time.

EUREKA;
A PROPHECY OF THE FUTURE.