"Yes," said my friend, "because they mistake the Hall of Fantasy for
actual brick and mortar, and its purple atmosphere for
unsophisticated sunshine. But the poet knows his whereabout, and
therefore is less likely to make a fool of himself in real life."

"Here again," observed I, as we advanced a little farther, "we see
another order of dreamers, peculiarly characteristic, too, of the
genius of our country."

These were the inventors of fantastic machines. Models of their
contrivances were placed against some of the pillars of the hall,
and afforded good emblems of the result generally to be anticipated
from an attempt to reduce day-dreams to practice. The analogy may
hold in morals as well as physics; for instance, here was the model
of a railroad through the air and a tunnel under the sea. Here was
a machine--stolen, I believe--for the distillation of heat from
moonshine; and another for the condensation of morning mist into
square blocks of granite, wherewith it was proposed to rebuild the
entire Hall of Fantasy. One man exhibited a sort of lens whereby he
had succeeded in making sunshine out of a lady's smile; and it was
his purpose wholly to irradiate the earth by means of this wonderful
invention.

"It is nothing new," said I; "for most of our sunshine comes from
woman's smile already."

"True," answered the inventor; "but my machine will secure a
constant supply for domestic use; whereas hitherto it has been very
precarious."