George, (drawlingly.) Or father. Governor is a term made use of by us in the city,--it is synonymous with the word father, but more expressive; father being too old-fogyish for us of the city to admire.

Dame. Why, George, it strikes me that the term governor is an irreverent one.

George. Not at all, not at all. We of the city have a very high idea of the excellence of family ties; but we are progressive father is ancient, so we discard the term for one more expressive of goaheaditiveness.

How

Ellen, (L.; boys and girls are ranged behind.) altered you are in appearance, brother, you do not look as healthy as you were before you left us.

George. Aw, sis.,-excuse my abbreviation of the term; it is a fashion in vogue with us of the city -you are quite mistaken: I was never better in all my life, I assure you! 'pon honor. But what can it be that operates so intensely upon my sense of smell since my arrival? The odor of a barn-yard seems to pervade the entire atmosphere. (Applying his handkerchief to his nose.)

Far. Why, boy, I suppose you have been so used to the delicate air of a fashionable store, that ours is too healthy for your endurance. But, now that I look at you again, I perceive a marked change in your appearance,—you look weak, and-nay! that can not be as if suffering from the effects of dissipation and late hours.

George. Well, to tell the truth, I have been somewhat nocturnal in my pleasures. We find but little time during the day for participation in the sports going on, so we take night. Quite natural, you know, and the way with city folks. Dame.

Alas! alas!

George. Halloo! how's this? you seem to look upon me as if there was something wrong. What is it, eh? Tell me, sis., what's the matter with the governor, and the old woman?

Ellen. George, George, I am ashamed of you! That you should speak so irreverently of those to whom you are bound by the strongest ties of relationship; of those whom you should love and reverence, fills me with wonder. It is wrong, George, wrong!

George. Another lecturer in feminine attire. Sis., your education has been neglected; you should come to the city, leave these vulgar people, and mingle with those who are refined.

Ellen. Vulgar people! why, our neighbors are all respectable, honest tillers of the soil-men of intelligence, and women of worth: what would you more?

George. Well, there is a certain air that is only to be acquired by intercourse with us of the city. It is impossible for people who do nothing but dig in the ground, cut grass, hoe potatoes and corn, and participate in such other laborious and plebeian occupations, to acquire the manner distingué, as the French say to become like us people of the ton.

--

Far. Do you not see, George, that your young friends wonder to hear such sentiments advanced by one who was born and reared amongst those whom he now affects to despise!

George. Why, yes, gov.—I mean father- they do certainly seem somewhat surprised; but then it's the way with us of the city never to notice any thing of the kind. They are, of course, ignorant of the rules that govern good society, and I can, therefore, excuse them.

Dame. I am afraid, my son, that your education in the ways of the city has hardened your heart-done evil to its former virtues.

Far. (apologetically.) Nay, nay, Dame, our boy is merely playing upon his friends. It can not be that one single year could change him from a warm-hearted boy to one familiar with worldliness. Are you so changed, my boy?

Ellen. Say no, my brother. Tell us that this singular

conduct is foreign to your nature; that the sentiments you utter are equally so, to the ones you really hold.

George. Why, what a fuss you are kicking up, to be sure, merely because I wear the appearance of a man of fashion, and have independence enough to differ with my friends and acquaintances as to the pleasure of a country life—the expediency of the course I have taken for success in the future. (Ellen throws her arms around his neck.) I beg your pardon, sis., but if you'll take the trouble to look, you'll find that you are disarranging my linen, by your plebeian manner of embracing. Pray, have some feeling for my laundress.

Far. Leave him, Ellen, leave him; the caresses of a sister are dear to him no more. Come with your mother and me, for our nightly rendering of thanks to the Power that preserves us is yet to be made. George, as you were about

to leave us, I placed in your hand a copy of God's Holy Bible-much, I fear, my son, you have not read it.

George. Why, as to that, I think I have looked into it on several occasions; but it's not the book for us of the city; so, in fact, I—I have not perused it very extensively.

Ellen. Those, George, who speak as you have spoken, must be strangers to the lessons taught them in that book of books, which you speak so lightly of. Deeply, brother, do I deplore that you ever left your quiet country home, to mingle with those to whom virtue is a jest—the debased, to whom purity is unknown,- the worldly-minded, the wicked, who, forgetful of their duty to man, to Heaven, spurn the teachings of religion; and so doing, prove themselves foolish, even to the destruction of their souls.

George. You are certainly right, sis., but I can't, as I'm alive, discover the reason for this singular conversation. Make yourself comfortable, sis., I shan't come either to the prison or the gallows, but I must be allowed to remark that your observations are certainly ancient and out of keeping with the

spirit of the age. (Ellen is going R.) You are going, eh? Well, au revoir, sis.

Far. George, the day is indeed fraught with sorrow. The prodigal son has returned, but not repentant. Dame, Ellen, come our family circle must not be forgotten, nor in our prayers, will be my wayward son.

(Exeunt Dame, Farmer, and Ellen, R.) George. What antiquated beings they are! Well, boys and girls, here I am at last. I've come like a good missionary, to clear your benighted minds-to show you a sample of "Young America."

1st Boy. Why, what a fine gentleman you have got to be? 2d Boy, (aside to the others.) Yes, "fine feathers,” they say, "make fine birds."

1st Boy. Tell us something about the city, George.

George. Listen, then. (Places a chair c., and stands upon it.) Be this my rostrum. Fellow citizens, though you live in the country, removed from the center of civilization, I think you have sense enough to comprehend what I am about to say. In the first place, then, you must know that man was made for society; and it is a false feeling, the offspring of necessity alone, that binds him to inhabit where solitude is the monarch where there is nothing to be seen but fields and woods, nothing to be heard save the lowing of cattle, the cackling of hens, or the squealing of hogs. What, my friends, are the advantages of a city life? I will tell you. There you can study man and manners-obtain a knowledge of the great world—there you have a chance of becoming famous, for progress is the word! Young America there plumes himself for a returnless flight. So, hurrah for the city! (All shout except 2d Boy.)

2d Boy, (aside.)

"How much a dunce that has been sent to Rome,

Excels a dunce that has been kept at home."

George.
1st Boy.

That is right--and now I move we adjourn.
Yes let's adjourn.

George. Well said, my little one. I suppose the governor is anxious to have some talk with me, and as I do not wish to rouse the old gent.'s prejudices, I must allow him the opportunity.

All. Right, so good-night.

George. Or, as we say in the city, "bon soir." (All exit L.) Ha, ha, ha! my return has kicked up considerable of a dust, and no mistake. If the governor knew the liabilities I have to pay, I should not escape a huge torrent of parental exhortation. However, this is too dull for me; to-morrow, and ho! for the city again! (Exit R.)

ACT III.

SCENE. Same as in the last Act. Enter ELLEN, reading a letter, R.

Ellen. How shall I break the news to my poor parents? Oh, George! brother so much loved, son so dear, how could you thus destroy all the hopes that have so clung around. your career? (Reads.) "Dear Sister:-I have brought disgrace upon you all; I am now a criminal, fleeing before the officers of justice. In an evil hour, tempted beyond forbearance, I abstracted from my employer's till a small sum of money. The crime was soon discovered, and I, the criminal, forced to flee in shame and disgrace from the sight of those who knew me!"

Enter JOHN, L.

John. Oh, Miss Ellen, such news!

Old Deacon Perry