in the world,
and shall have the appointment of his highness's establishment. Let's go
to him at once, and see if he be really this Admirable Crichton.

Gla. With all my heart;--but the dinner?

Beau. Always thinking of dinner! Hark ye, landlord; how far is it to
young Melnotte's cottage? I should like to see such a prodigy.

Land. Turn down the lane,--then strike across the common,--and you will
see his mother's cottage.

Beau. True, he lives with his mother.--[Aside.] We will not trust to an
old woman's discretion; better send for him hither. I'll just step in
and write a note. Come, Glavis.

Gla. Yes,--Beauseant, Glavis, and Co., manufacturers of princes,
wholesale and retail,--an uncommonly genteel line of business. But why
so grave?

Beau. You think only of the sport,--I of the revenge. [Exeunt within the
Inn.

SCENE III.

The interior of MELNOTTE'S cottage; flowers placed here and there; a
guitar on an oaken table, with a portfolio, etc.; a picture on an easel,
covered by a curtain; fencing foils crossed over the mantelpiece; an
attempt at refinement in site of the homeliness of the furniture, etc.;
a staircase to the right conducts to the upper story.

[Shout without]. "Long live Claude Melnotte!" "Long live the Prince!"

The Widow Mel. Hark!--there's my dear son;--carried off the prize, I'm
sure; and now he'll want to treat them all.

Claude Mel. [opening the door]. What! you will not come in, my friends!
Well, well, there's a trifle to make merry elsewhere. Good day to you
all,--good day!

[Shout]. "Hurrah! Long live Prince Claude!"

Enter CLAUDE MELNOTTE, with a rifle in his hand.

Mel. Give me joy, dear mother!--I've won the prize!--never missed one
shot! Is it not handsome, this gun?

Widow. Humph!--Well, what is it worth, Claude?

Mel. Worth! What is a riband worth to a soldier? Worth! everything!
Glory is priceless!

Widow. Leave glory to great folks. Ah! Claude, Claude, castles in the
air cost a vast deal to keep up! How is all this to end? What good does
it do thee to learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on the guitar, and
fence, and dance, and paint pictures? All very fine; but what does it
bring in?

Mel. Wealth! wealth, my mother! Wealth to the mind--wealth to the
heart--high thoughts--bright dreams--the hope of fame--the ambition to
be worthier to love Pauline.

Widow. My poor son!--The young lady will never think of thee.

Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prison