quite as much honoured at this day as when the Roman conqueror bent
his knee to you among the mountains of Taunus; and a vast number of
little round subjects of yours are constantly carried about by the rich,
and pined after with hopeless adoration by the poor. But, begging your
Majesty's pardon, may I ask what has become of your cousin, the King
of the Golden Mines? I know very well that he has no dominion in these
valleys, and do not therefore wonder at his absence from your court this
night; but I see so little of his subjects on earth that I should fear
his empire was well nigh at an end, if I did not recognize everywhere
the most servile homage paid to a power now become almost invisible."

The King of the Silver Mines fetched a deep sigh. "Alas, prince," said
he, "too well do you divine the expiration of my cousin's empire. So
many of his subjects have from time to time gone forth to the world,
pressed into military service and never returning, that his kingdom is
nearly depopulated. And he lives far off in the distant parts of the
earth, in a state of melancholy seclusion; the age of gold has passed,
the age of paper has commenced."

"Paper," said Nymphalin, who was still somewhat of a
_precieuse_,--"paper is a wonderful thing. What pretty books the human
people write upon it!"

"Ah! that's what I design to convey," said the silver king. "It is the
age less of paper money than paper government: the Press is the true
bank." The lord treasurer of the English fairies pricked up his ears
at the word "bank;" for he was the Attwood of the fairies: he had a
favourite plan of making money out of bulrushes, and had written four
large bees'-wings full upon the true nature of capital.

While they were thus conversing, a sudden sound as of some rustic and
rude music broke along the air, and closing its wild burden, they heard
the following song:--

THE COMPLAINT OF THE LAST FAUN.

I. The moon on the Latmos mountain Her pining vigil keeps;
And ever the silver fountain In the Dorian valley weeps.
But gone are Endymion's dreams; And the crystal lymph
Bewails the nymph
Whose beauty sleeked the streams!

II. Round Arcady's oak its green The Bromian ivy weaves;
But no more is the satyr seen Laughing out from the glossy leaves.
Hushed is the Lycian lute, Still grows the seed
Of the Moenale reed,
But the pipe of Pan is mute!

III. The leaves in the noon-day quiver; The vines on the mountains wave;
An