the realms of imagination and its kindred regions. The grand old
countenance of Homer; the shrunken and decrepit form but vivid face
of 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 severe divinity of Milton; and Bunyan,
moulded of homeliest clay, but instinct with celestial fire,--were
those that chiefly attracted my eye. Fielding, Richardson, and
Scott occupied conspicuous pedestals. In an obscure and shadowy
niche was deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of Arthur
Mervyn.

"Besides these indestructible memorials of real genius," remarked my
companion, "each century has erected statues of its own ephemeral
favorites in wood."

"I observe a few crumbling relics of such," said I. "But ever and
anon, I suppose, Oblivion comes with her huge broom and sweeps them
all from the marble floor. But such 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 more unlike?"

In the centre of the hall springs an ornamental fountain, the water
of which continually throws itself into new shapes and snatches the
most diversified lines from the stained atmosphere around. It is
impossible to conceive what a strange vivacity is imparted to the
scene by the magic dance of this fountain, with its endless
transformations, in which the imaginative beholder may discern what