Far. My hoy, my boy! Your brother, Ellen!

Far. (weeping.) Too much, too much! I have just seen Deacon Perry, and — alas! that these old eyes should ever dim in weeping over a son's downfall.

Ellen. But he has repented, father.

Far. What repentance can restore to him the feelings of his youth, ere lured from home? He left us to fall, fall, fall! (Weeps.)

Dame. What letter have you there, Ellen?

Ellen. 'Tis from George.

Far. From George! give it me.

(Takes letter and

reads.) Poor misguided youth! we must go to him; he shall again return to his home! Tell John to get the wagon ready. Dame, you are too much exhausted, I fear, to accompany me. I will, alone, go and seek my misguided boy.

(Ellen exit L.)

I could not remain be

Dame. No, I will go with you. hind, suffering from the suspense that I now feel.

Re-enter ELLEn, l.

Ellen. Surely, mother, you need some refreshment ere you depart--some rest.

Far. Rest! rest for this old body, while a loved son is trembling on the verge of a precipice, whose frowning brow loɔks ever over a gulf of sorrow, woe, despair? No rest for me, until George is again restored to us. Come, Dame, hand in hand, trusting to Heaven for strength, together let us on. (Exeunt Farmer and Dame, L.) Ellen. Poor father, poor mother! would I could alleviate their sorrows. I can but weep with them.

(Exit R.)

John, (entering L.) Miss Ellen! Miss Ellen! (calling.) Where can she be gone to? (Looks off L.)

a straggler in the yard; I must look to him. o vigilance is my duty.

Halloo! there's

Master is gone,

(Exit L)

Ellen, (entering R.) I thought I leard John's voice. 1 must send for Deacon Perry, and learn from him how my poor brother seemed. I'll write a note to him, and John shall carry it. (Exit R.)

Enter GEORGE, L., looking sick, and dressed in tattered

clothes.

George. No one here to welcome me -me, the houseless wanderer, the young in years, the old in sin and folly Could I have foreseen my fate, how gladly would I have availed myself of the privileges a rural life affords, instead of wasting time within the cramped confines of a city. I am sick-sick in body, sick in heart. Oh, home, home! sweet, sweet home! The prospect of my parents' forgiveness, the hope that, forgetful of my past follies, I may be permitted to pass my future years amid the hallowed scenes of childhood, conspire to give me strength, to keep me from falling. A heart-crushed beggar, upon the hearth-stone of my father's house the home of that mother, whose prayers have so often gone up to heaven in behalf of her erring son— that sister, whose pure love I slighted in my pride, but which now I feel will be a solace beyond price. (Enter Ellen, R.) Sister!

Ellen. George! (They rush into each other's arms.)

George. Ay, George! the prodigal son, the erring brother, returned to seek forgiveness of those he has so doeply wronged. to die, if needs be, where the music of a mother's voice is heard in softly whispered words of comfort—where familiar scenes grow more beautiful. more dear as life, fleeting on its journey, bids adieu to the clay-cold tenement it joys to leave.

Ellen. Nay, brother, cheer. There is one who can forgive—to him appeal, and all your sorrows shall be forgotten. Happiness will weave for you her amaranthine chaplet — fond friends will smile upon yor-your own heart made joyous

will exult in the bliss it possesses, and all, henceforward, will be bright and beautiful.

George. My sweet sister! Oh, how I have wronged the love of those to whom I am so much indebted.

Ellen. Our parents, George!

--

George. John, whom I met just ere I came in, told me of their errand. I immediately dispatched him to inform them of my arrival. They will soon be here - too soon, if the dread I have of meeting them should prove prophetic. Ellen. Fear not, 't will be to them ecstacy to pronounce your forgiveness.

George. Let me regain their love, and years, years of devotion to all that is good, all that will yield them pleasure, shall repay them for their kindness and love. The son hath sorrowed for his sins; "the lost is truly found!"

Far. (outside, ..) Where, where is my boy? (Enters L., followed by the Dame.)

George. Father! mother! (Rushing to, and embracing them.)

Far. My son! my son!

Dame, (embracing him.) My darling! Repentant, too! Oh, yes, yes! I read it in your countenance !

George, (c.) Is it possible that you can forgive me!

Far. (R.) The culprit upon the cross appealed not in vain to his Heavenly Father. Shall I, an earthly one, hesitate to follow my Master's example. Come to my arms, for thou art forgiven.

Enter JOHN, L.

John. Here come George's friends. I could n't keep 'em back.

Enter the boys and girls. They shake hands with George.

George. How can I thank you, friends, for your generous kindness, better than by owning the error of my ways? Henceforth, in the calm pursuit of one who tills the soil, I

will rest my happiness, and (taking out the Bible from his breast,) from this book, too long neglected, will I learn the true duty of man to his God, and his fellows. Therefore, oh my father, and you, my mother! bless the prodigal son who now kneels to thee a penitent, resolved to be henceforth worthy thy love. (Kneels c., Dame on one side, Ellen on the other; behind them the Farmer, with his hands raised in blessing; the others ranged at back.)

Disposition of Characters at fall of Curtain:

BOYS AND GIRLS.

FARMER.

BOYS AND GIRLA.

DAME. GEORGE. ELLEN. JOHN.

In school exhibitions, it will be sufficient if the speakers are dressed in suits of black, frock coats, pants, etc.

No. 1.

HAMLET AND THE GHOST.

REMARKS. The character of Hamlet, in Shakspeare's sublime tragedy of that name, is that of a philosopher devoid of resolution. He can conceive but not execute. At one instant he is determined, the next vacillating. Imaginative and studious, he can reason, yet, in a inoment, doubts the justness of his conclusions. Naturally of a melancholy temperament, he takes no pleasure in the allurements of royalty. "The glass of fashion and the mould of form," he is content to forsake the court for the "academic hall," and is only prevented therefrom by the entreaties of his mother. Urged to avenge the murder of a parent by the appeal of that parent, who is permitted to assume the form in which the "Majesty of buried Denmark did sometimes walk," that he may tell the fearful story of his death, he vows that, at once, he will rid the world of the fratricide, his uncle, then "palls in resolution." assumes an antic disposition," and allows himself to become the very slave of circumstances. Not until, through the means of poison, intended for himself by the king, he sees his mother fall a corpse at his feet, and maddened by the consciousness that in his own system rankles a deadly poison, drawn from the envenomed sword of his adversary,