SCENE. A kitchen in Farmer Content's house. Supper table set: on one side is seated the Farmer, Ellen and George on the other, Mrs. Content at the head.

Farmer. (L.) Well, wife, once again- thanks to the bounty of that Providence to which we are sc much indebted! we are seated around our family board with appetites sharpened by honest labor. It is given us to partake; and with grateful hearts, thinking of those, who, being poor, have not the means of satisfying their hunger; of the sick who pine in their dreary chambers, let us now thankfully attack the viands which your skill has made so tempting.

*A year is supposed to elapse between each Act.

Ellen. (R.) Dear father, you are so happy always that it seems impossible for you to be otherwise. Tell us, father, how is it that you are so?

Far. I will tell you. I would have George listen, too; for if possible, I would have him overcome the desire he has to become a resident of the metropolis, rather than remain upon the farm.

George. (R.) I confess, father, that I am tired of the country; it is so dull.

you;

Far. My son, years ago, I was a youth like but unlike you, I had no happy home,-no mother, father or sister to take an interest in my welfare. I had no friend, save the hope of youth, nothing to trust to, save a will that scorned all opposition. Lacking in education, then we knew not, as the children of this generation know, the blessings of a system of instruction favoring equally the wealthy and proud, the poor and humble,-I worked. There was ahead of me a star whose light lured me on to struggle, and I did struggle. I have ever been a hard-working man; but I have also been a happy man. To the labor of these hands am I indebted for the comforts that now, in my age, surround me. To be an honest, independent farmer, was my desire; and the summit. of my ambition being attained, why should I not be happy! You, George, know what comforts surround the industrious farmer; you know that his pursuit is an honorable one; and yet, on this evening, you leave us to tempt the dangers of a sphere of life with which you are entirely unacquianted.

George. What you say is true, father; but a farmer's life is too much of an every-day affair. I want something exciting. Far. Well, George, I have said upon the subject all that I think necessary. If you are determined to forsake the parental roof in the vague hope of acquiring riches, you must e'en take your own course. But remember the honor of the name you bear. No stains rest on that your father proudly

writes, and should you, yielding to the numerous temptation that will doubtless assail you, bring disgrace upon it, you will have planted a thorn in your parent's heart, that to eradicate I fear would be impossible.

Dame Content. And, George, don't, as you value the blessings of Heaven, forget the lessons your mother has taught you. You have been a child of many prayers, forget not that.

George. I will not, mother:

Enter JOHN, L.

John. Master, what are we to do with that old brindle? she's been playing her tricks with the fence again. That's the worst old cow I ever did see!

Far. We'll attend to her soon, John.

John. So, master George, you are going to the city, eh! George. When the stage arrives I shall start.

John. Well, every one to his taste; but I would rather stay in the country and breathe the fresh air, than be cooped up in the dusty city.

Far. I fear John, nothing but painful experience will turn him to your way of thinking; yet should the trials for which he may be destined show him how fallacious are the hopes of man, they will be blessed to a useful end.

(Exit L.)

Ellen. Your trunks are in the hall, are they not, George? George. Yes; when the stage arrives, John will assist me to carry them out to the road, will you not, John? John. Certainly, master George. Far. (all rise and come forward.) Now, George, as you are determined not to listen to my advice in this matter,— though you are proceeding contrary to what I could desire,-yet would I say that which it behooves a son to listen to as coming from a father, and a father to speak, when parting from one who will soon be surrounded by other associations than those to which he has been accustomed.

Dame. (L.) I hope George will continue virtuous, for the sake of his old mother.

Far. (R. C.) And for the sake of that feeling which accompanies the practice of virtue.

George, (R.) But why, father, do you fear for me? I have never yet failed in filial duty, in loving those who are bound to me by the ties of kindred and affection.

Far. Very true, my son; yet you are but young, and youth is impressible. Town vices are gaily gilt, rank in growth.

George. But, there are thousands in our large cities whe deserve respect for their virtue, for all the qualities that enrich, ennoble man.

Far Ay, were it not so, what would save our towns and cities from the fate of the now silent Dead Sea city? There are many benevolent, Christian residents in our cities; but the majority of their population is composed of those who regard not the laws of morality as strictly as they should. It is the example of the bad that is to be feared, for evil is ever present. Our natures, debased originally, seek that excitement in the pursuit of worldly pleasures which, indulged in to an undue extent, is too apt to claim alliance with wickedness.

George. Well, father, your forebodings with respect to my career will prove groundless. I will ever remain worthy your regard.

Far. Fervently do I hope so. To see you become a good man, a worthy citizen, has been, and will continue to be, my never ceasing prayer. If the expectations thus formed should. be disappointed, the hope of years will be extinguished. Enter JOHN, L.

John. The stage is in sight.

Far. Well, John, get the trunks out to the road: George will be ready in a few minutes. (Exit John, L.)

Dame. Oh, I wish you would give up this idea, George, Now that you are about to say "farewell," I feel how hard it is for a mother to part from her child. But you will not, I am sure, forget us, you will write often- tell us everything; but, above all, be a good boy. When tempted to wrong, let your thoughts turn to us;-think of your mother, father, sister!

George. There, there, don't take on so! I will, as you desire, be all that a respectable young man should be.

Ellen. (L. c.) That I am sure he will! George can never forget us, for where will he find others to love him half as fervently as we do!

George. I will strive, sister, to follow good; but you must not blame me for desiring to leave the country. I do not feel that I am qualified for a farmer's life, and I am certain that mercantile pursuits will prove more consonant with the abilities I possess.

Far. My son, ere you leave us I have one thing more to say to you: "Virtue is its own reward." Remember that-practice the lesson it teaches-and the fears I have expressed relative to your welfare will certainly prove ground less. Now, take with you a father's blessing, and this "Holy Book." (Giving Bible.) The Bible, well studied, will furnish you with infallible rules of conduct—its contents, my son, fell from the lips of God, or those of his inspired prophets and apostles. Study them, then. Let no day or night pass without a few minutes' perusal of its pages-adhere strictly to the teachings therein contained, and you will be proof against the assaults of evil. Value it as your parents' gift; but more, in that it contains the exposition of your Creator's holy will.

John, (entering L.) The stage is waiting.

Far. Farewell, boy, farewell! and may heaven be with you! (Shakes his hand, then retires ur.)