inds, while all
around danced flowers and streams and queer little Japanese cherry-trees
in pots! They were followed by jovial Pan with green hair and jewelled
sandals, and by his side--I could scarcely believe my eyes!--walked a
modest nun counting her beads. At a little distance were seen three
dancers arm-in-arm, a lean, starved platitude, a rosy, dimpled joke, and
a steel-ribbed sermon on predestination. Close upon them came a whole
string of Nights with wind-blown hair and Days with faggots on their
backs. All at once I saw the ample figure of Life rise above the
whirling mass holding a naked child in one hand and in the other a
gleaming sword. A bear crouched at her feet, and all about her swirled
and glowed a multitudinous host of tiny atoms which sang all together,
"We are the will of God." Atom wedded atom, and chemical married
chemical, and the cosmic dance went on in changing, changeless measure,
until my head sang like a buzz-saw.

Just as I was thinking I would leave this scene of phantoms and take a
stroll in the quiet groves of Slumber I noticed a commotion near one of
the entrances to my enchanted palace. It was evident from the whispering
and buzzing that went round that more celebrities had arrived. The first
personage I saw was Homer, blind no more, leading by a golden chain the
white-beaked ships of the Achaians bobbing their heads and squawking
like so many white swans. Plato and Mother Goose with the numerous
children of the shoe came next. Simple Simon, Jill, and Jack who had had
his head mended, and the cat that fell into the cream--all these danced
in a giddy reel, while Plato solemnly discoursed on the laws of
Topsyturvy Land. Then followed grim-visaged Calvin and "violet-crowned,
sweet-smiling Sappho" who danced a Schottische. Aristophanes and Moliere
joined for a measure, both talking at once, Moliere in Greek and
Aristophanes in German. I thought this odd, because it occurred to me
that German was a dead language before Aristophanes was born.
Bright-eyed Shelley brought in a fluttering lark which burst into the
song of Chaucer's chanticleer. Henry Esmond gave his hand in a stately
minuet to Diana of the Crossways. He evidently did not understand her
nineteenth century wit; for he did not laugh. Perhaps he had lost his
taste for clever women. Anon Dante and Swedenborg came together
conversing earnestly about things remote and mystical. Swedenborg said
it was very warm. Dante replied that it m