Land. Ha, ha! the lads always call him Prince. He has just won the prize
in the shooting-match, and they are taking him home in triumph.

Beau. Him! and who's Mr. Him?

Land. Who should he be but the pride of the village,
Claude Melnotte?--Of course you have heard of Claude Melnotte?

Gla. [giving back the bill of fare.] Never had that honor.
Soup--ragout of hare--roast chicken, and, in short, all you have!

Beau. The son of old Alelnotte, the gardener?

Land. Exactly so--a wonderful young man.

Beau. How, wonderful?--Are his cabbages better than other people's

Land. Nay, he don't garden any more; his father left him well off.
He's only a genus.

Gla. A what?

Land. A genus!--a man who can do everything in life except anything
that's useful--that's a genus.

Beau. You raise my curiosity;--proceed.

Land. Well, then, about four years ago, old Melnotte died, and left
his son well to do in the world. We then all observed that a great
change came over young Claude: he took to reading and Latin,