foolish fellow's brain? The Revolution,

I suppose? Land. Yes-the revolution that turns us all topsy-turvy-the revolution of Love. Beau. Romantic young Corydon! And with whom he is in love?

Land. Why-but it is a secret, gentle

men.

Beau. Oh! certainly.

Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, good soul! that it is no less a person than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Deschappelles.

Beau. and Glavis. Ha, ha!-Capital! Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as I stand here.

Beau. And what does the Beauty of Lyons say to his suit?

Land. Lord, sir, she never even condescended to look at him, though when he was a boy he worked in her father's garden.

Beau. Are you sure of that? Land. His mother says that Mademoiselle does not know him by sight. Beau. (Taking Glavis aside.) I have hit it, I have it; here is our revenge! Here is a prince for our haughty damsel! Do you take me? Gla. Deuce take me if I do! Beau. Blockhead!-it's as clear as a map. What if we could make this elegant clown pass himself off as a foreign prince?-lend him money, clothes, equipage for the purpose?-make him propose to Pauline?—marry Pauline? Would it not be delicious?

Gla. Ha, ha!-excellent! But how shall we support the necessary expenses of his highness?

Beau. Pshaw! Revenge is worth a much larger sacrifice than a few hundred louis;

-as for details, my valet is the trustiest fellow 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.2 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 him 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 3. The interior of Melnotte's cottage; flowers placed here and there; a guitar on an oaken table, with a portfolio, &c.; a picture on an easel, covered by a curtain; fencing-foils crossed over the mantelpiece; an attempt at refinement in spite of the homeliness of the furniture, &c.; 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 won't 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!

Ah!

Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prisoner see them shine into his dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from their lustre? Even so from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget my chains.-(Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain.) See, this is her image-painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs her! (Takes up the brush and throws it aside.) I shall never be a painter! I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above all art. I would turn soldierFrance needs soldiers! But to leave the air that Pauline breathes! What is the hour?-so late? I will tell thee a secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I have sent every day the rarest flowers to Pauline?-she wears them. I have seen them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled with odors! I have now grown more bold-I have poured my worship into poetry-I have sent the verses to Pauline I have signed them with my own name. My messenger ought to be back by this time. I bade him wait for the answer.

Widow. And what answer do you expect, Claude?

Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre

sent to the poor troubadour:-"Let me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful!" She will admit me. I shall hear her speak-I shall meet her eyesI shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate themselves into blushes. Then-then, oh, then-she may forget that I am the peasant's son! Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude?

Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that desert is the true rank. She will give me a badge-a flower-a glove! Oh rapture! I shall join the armies of the republic-I shall rise-I shall win a name that beauty will not blush to hear. I shall return with the right to say to her "See, how love does not level the proud, but raise the humble!" Oh, how my heart swells within me!-Oh, what glorious prophets of the future are youth and hope!

(Knock at the door.)

man? where is the letter? (Gaspar gives him one.) This! This is mine, the one I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it?

Gaspar. Yes, I left it.

Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else?

Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honored. For thy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no Frenchman can bear without disgrace.

Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace? Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey to lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for. Mel. It reached her, then;-you are sure of that? It reached her,-well, well! Gaspar. It reached her, and was returned to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte? with blows! Death! are we slaves still, that we are to be thus dealt with, we peasants?

Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no; not blows!

Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame to bear them. The lackey who tossed thy letter into the mire swore that his lady and her mother never were so insulted. What could thy letter contain, Claude?

Mel. (Looking over the letter.)

Not a line that a serf might not have written to an empress. No, not one.

Gaspar. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if thou wilt pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude? Mel. (Wringing Gaspar's hand.) Forgive me, the fault was mine, I have brought this on thee; I will not forget it; thou shalt be avenged! The heartless insolence!

Gaspar. Thou are moved, Melnotte; think not of me; I would go through fire and water to serve thee; but,-a blow! It is not the bruise that galls,-it is the blush, Melnotte.

Mel. Say, what message?-How insulted! -Wherefore-What the offence?

Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter of the rich merchant?

Mel. Well?

Gaspar. And are you not a peasant-a gardener's son?-that was the offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen, blows!

(Exit.)

Widow. Now you are cured, Claude!

(Enter Servant from the Inn.) Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. Mel. A letter! from her perhaps—who sent thee?

Servant. Why, Monsieur-I mean Citizen -Beauseant, who stops to dine at the Golden Lion, on his way to his château. Mel. Beauseant!-(Reads.) "Young man, I know thy secret-thou lovest above thy station: if thou hast wit, courage, and discretion, I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes; and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serious-if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of this letter to thy friend and patron,-CHARLES BEAUSEANT."

Mel. Can I believe my eyes? Are our

own passions the sorcerers that raise up
for us spirits of good or evil? I will go
instantly.

Widow. What is this, Claude?
Mel. "Marry her whom thou lovest"-

"bear her to thine own home."—Oh, re-
venge and love; which of you is the
stronger?-(Gazing on the picture.)
Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the
canvas: weak fool that I am, do I then
love her still? No, it is the vision of my
own romance that I have worshiped: it
is the reality to which I bring scorn for

scorn. Adieu, mother: I will return anon. My brain reels-the earth swims before me.-(Looks again at the letter.) No, it is not a mockery; I do not dream! (Exit.)

ACT II.

SCENE 1. The gardens of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons-the house seen at the back of the stage.

(Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) Beau. Well, what think you of my plot? . Has it not succeeded to a miracle? The instant that I introduced his Highness the Prince of Como to the pompous mother and the scornful daughter, it was all over with them: he came he sawhe conquered: and, though it is not many days since he arrived, they have already promised him the hand of Pauline.

Gla. It is lucky, though, that you told them his highness travelled incognito, for fear the Directory (who are not very fond of princes) should lay him by the heels; for he has a wonderful wish to keep up his rank, and scatters our gold about with as much coolness as if he were watering his own flower-pots. Beau. True, he is damnably extravagant; I think the sly dog does it out of malice. However, it must be owned that he reflects credit on his loyal subjects, and makes a very pretty figure in his fine clothes, with my diamond snuff-box. Gla. And my diamond ring! But do you think he will be firm to the last? I fancy I see symptoms of relenting: he will never keep up his rank, if he once let out his conscience.

Beau. His oath binds him! he cannot re

tract without being forsworn, and those low fellows are always superstitious! But, as it is, I tremble lest he be discovered: that bluff Colonel Damas (Madame Deschappelles' cousin) evidently suspects him: we must make haste and conclude the farce: I have thought of a plan to end it this very day. Gla. This very day! Poor Pauline: her dream will be soon over.

Beau. Yes, this day they shall be married; this evening, according to his oath, he shall carry his bride to the Golden Lion, and then pomp, equipage, retinue, and title, all shall vanish at once; and her Highness the Princess shall find that she

has refused the son of a Marquis, to marry the son of the gardener.-Oh, Pauline, once loved, now hated, yet still not relinquished, thou shalt drain the cup to the dregs,-thou shalt know what it is to be humbled!

(Enter from the house, Melnotte, as the Prince of Como, leading in Pauline; Madame Deschappelles, fanning herself; and Colonel Damas.) (Beauseant and Glavis bow respectfully. Pauline and Melnotte walk apart.) Mme. Deschap. Good morning, gentlemen; really I am so fatigued with laughter; the dear Prince is so entertaining. What wit he has! Any one may see that he has spent his whole life in courts. Damas. And what the deuce do you know about courts, cousin Deschiappelles?

You women regard men just as you buy books-you never care about what is in them, but how they are bound and lettered. 'Sdeath, I don't think you would even look at your Bible if it had not a title to it.

Mrs. Deschap. How coarse you are, cousin Damas!-quite the manners of a barrack -you don't deserve to be one of our family; really we must drop your acquaintance when Pauline marries. I cannot patronize any relations that would discredit my future son-in-law, the Prince of Como.

Mel. (Advancing.) These are beautiful gardens, madame, (Beauseant and Glavis retire.)-who planned them?

Mme. Deschap. A gardener named Melnotte, your highness-an honest man who knew his station. I can't say as much for his son-a presuming fellow, whoha ha! actually wrote verses-such doggerel!-to my daughter.

Pauline. Yes, how you would have laughed at them, Prince!-you, who write such beautiful verses!

Mel. This Melnotte must be a monstrous impudent person!

Damas. Is he good-looking?

Mme. Deschap. I never notice such canaille an ugly, mean-looking clown, if I remember right.

Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he was wonderfully like his highness. Mel. (Taking snuff.) You are complimentary.

Mme. Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas! -like the Prince, indeed!

Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our

beautiful prince! I'll never speak to you again, cousin Damas.,

Mel. (Aside.) Humph!-rank is a great beautifier! I never passed for an Apollo while I was a peasant; if I am so handsome as a prince, what should I be as an emperor! (Aloud.) Monsieur Beau- ! seant, will you honor me?

(Offers snuff.)

Beau. No, your highness; I have no small vices.

Mel. Nay, if it were a vice, you'd be sure to have it, Monsieur Beauseant. Mme. Deschap. Ha! ha!-how very severe!-what wit!

Beau. (In a rage and aside.) Curse his impertinence!

Mme. Deschap. What a superb snuff-box! Pauline. And what a beautiful ring! Mel. You like the box-a trifle-interesting perhaps from associations—a present from Louis XIV. to my great-greatgrandmother. Honor by accept

me

ing it. Beau. (Plucking him by the sleeve.) How!-what the devil! My box-are you mad? It is worth five hundred louis.

Mel. (Unheeding him, and turning to Pauline.) And you like this ring? Ah, it has, indeed, a lustre since your eyes have shone on it. (Placing it on her finger.) Henceforth hold me, sweet enchantress, the Slave of the Ring. Gla. (Pulling him.) Stay, stay-what are you about? My maiden aunt's legacy-a diamond of the first water. You shall be hanged for swindling, sir. Mel. (Pretending not to hear.) It is curious, this ring; it is the one with which my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, married the Adriatic!

(Madame and Pauline examine the ring.) Mel. (To Beauseant and Glavis.) Fie, gentlemen! princes must be generous?— (Turns to Damas, who watches them closely.) These kind friends have my interest so much at heart, that they are as careful of my property as if it were their own!