It has happened to me， on various occasions， to findmyself in a certain edifice， which would appear to havesome of the characteristics of a public exchange. Itsinterior is a spacious hall， with a pavement of whitemarble. Overhead is a lofty dome， supported by long rowsof pillars， of fantastic architecture， the idea of which wasprobably taken from the Moorish ruins of the Alhambra，or perhaps from some enchanted edifice in the ArabianTales. The windows of this hall have a breadth andgrandeur of design， and an elaborateness of workmanship，that have nowhere been equalled， except in the Gothiccathedrals of the old world. Like their prototypes， too，they admit the light of heaven only through stained andpictured glass， thus filling the hall with many-coloredradiance， and painting its marble floor with beautiful orgrotesque designs； so that its inmates breathe， as it were，a visionary atmosphere， and tread upon the fantasies ofpoetic minds. These peculiarities， combining a wildermixture of styles than even an American architect usuallyrecognizes as allowable—Grecian， Gothic， Oriental，and nondescript—cause the whole edifice to give theimpression of a dream， which might be dissipated andshattered to fragments， by merely stamping the foot uponthe pave meet. Yet， with such modifications and repairsas successive ages demand， the Hall of Fantasy is likelyto endure longer than the most substantial structure thatever cumbered the earth.
It is not at all times that one can gain admittance intothis edifice； although most persons enter it at some periodor other of their lives—if not in their waking moments，then by the universal passport of a dream. At my last visit，I wandered thither unawares， while my mind was busywith an idle tale， and was startled by the throng of peoplewho seemed suddenly to rise up around me.
“Bless me！ Where am I？” cried I， with but a dimrecognition of the place.
“You are in a spot，” said a friend， who chanced to be nearat hand， “which occupies， in the world of fancy， the sameposition which the Bourse， the Rialto， and the Exchange，do in the commercial world. All who have affairs in thatmystic region， which lies above， below， or beyond theActual， may here meet， and talk over the business of theirdreams.”
“It is a noble hall，” observed I.
“Yes，” he replied. “Yet we see but a small portion ofthe edifice. In its upper stories are said to be apartments，where the inhabitants of earth may hold converse withthose of the moon. And beneath our feet are gloomy cells，which communicate with the infernal regions， and wheremonsters and chimeras are kept in confinement， and fedwith all unwholesomeness.”
In niches and on pedestals， around about the hall，stood the statues or busts of men， who， in every age， havebeen rulers and demi-gods in the realms of imagination，and its kindred regions. The grand old countenance ofHomer； the shrunken and decrepit form， but vivid faceof Aesop； the dark presence of Dante； the wild Ariosto；Rabelais’s smile of deep-wrought mirth； the profound，pathetic humor of Cervantes； the all-glorious Shakespeare；Spenser， meet guest for an allegoric structure； the severedivinity of Milton； and Bunyan， moulded of homeliestclay， but instinct with celestial fire—were those thatchiefly attracted my eye. Fielding， Richardson， and Scott，occupied conspicuous pedestals. In an obscure andshadowy niche was reposited the bust of our countryman，the author of Arthur Mervyn.
“Besides these indestructible memorials of real genius，”
remarked my companion， “each century has erectedstatues of its own ephemeral favorites， in wood.”
“I observe a few crumbling relics of such，” said I. “Butever and anon， I suppose， Oblivion comes with her hugebroom， and sweeps them all from the marble floor. Butsuch will never be the fate of this fine statue of Goethe.”
“Nor of that next to it—Emanuel Swedenborg，” said he.
“Were ever two men of transcendent imagination moreunlike？”
In the centre of the hall springs an ornamental fountain，the water of which continually throws itself into newshapes， and snatches tile most diversified hues fromthe stained atmosphere around. It is impossible toconceive what a strange vivacity is imparted to the sceneby the magic dance of this fountain， with its endlesstransformations， in which the imaginative beholder maydiscern what form he will. The water is supposed by someto flow from the same source as the Castalian spring， andis extolled by others as uniting the virtues of the Fountainof Youth with those of many other enchanted wells， longcelebrated in tale and song. Having never tasted it， I canbear no testimony to its quality.
“Did you ever drink this water？” I inquired of my friend.
“A few sips， now and then，” answered he. “But there aremen here who make it their constant beverage—or， atleast， have the credit of doing so. In some instances， it isknown to have intoxicating qualities.”
“Pray let us look at these water-drinkers，” said I.
So we passed among the fantastic pillars， till we came toa spot where a number of persons were clustered together，in the light of one of the great stained windows， whichseemed to glorify the whole group， as well as the marblethat they trod on. Most of them were men of broadforeheads， meditative countenances， and thoughtful，inward eyes； yet it required but a trifle to summon upmirth， peeping out from the very midst of grave and loftymusings. Some strode about， or leaned against the pillarsof the hall， alone and in silence； their faces wore a raptexpression， as if sweet music were in the air around them，or as if their inmost souls were about to float away in song.
One or two， perhaps， stole a glance at the bystanders， towatch if their poetic absorption were observed. Othersstood talking in groups， with a liveliness of expression，a ready smile， and a light， intellectual laughter， whichshowed how rapidly the shafts of wit were glancing toand-fro among them.