all laws? Are we not the most despotic of kings? Nay, more than the
kings of earth, are we not the kings of Fairyland itself? Do we not
realize the golden dreams of the old rhymers, luxurious dogs that they
were? Who would not cry out,--

'Blest silent groves! Oh, may ye be
Forever Mirth's best nursery!
May pure Contents
Forever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains.'"

Uttering this notable extract from the thrice-honoured Sir Henry
Wotton, King Cole turned abruptly from the common, entered the wood
which skirted it, and, only attended by his guest and his minister
Mim, came suddenly, by an unexpected and picturesque opening in the
trees, upon one of those itinerant vehicles termed caravans, he
ascended the few steps which led to the entrance, opened the door, and
was instantly in the arms of a pretty and young woman. On seeing our
hero (for such we fear the youth is likely to become), she drew back
with a blush not often found upon regal cheeks.

"Pooh," said King Cole, half tauntingly, half fondly, "pooh, Lucy,
blushes are garden flowers, and ought never to be found wild in the
woods:" then changing his tone, he said, "come, put some fresh straw
in the corner, this stranger honours our palace to-night; Mim, unload
thyself of our royal treasures; watch without and vanish from within!"

Depositing on his majesty's floor the appurtenances of the regal
supper-table, Mim made his respectful adieus and disappeared;
meanwhile the queen scattered some fresh straw over a mattress in the