—A Handsome Parlor.

MARIE discovered reclining on a sofa, R. H.

  [Looking at a note .] What can possibly detain St. Clare? According to this note he should have been here a fortnight ago. [Noise of carriage without.] I do believe he has come at last.

  Mamma! [Throws her arms around MARIE'S neck, and kisses her.]

  That will do—take care, child—don't you make my head ache! [Kisses her languidly.

  Well, my dear Marie, here we are at last. The wanderers have arrived, you see. Allow me to present my cousin, Miss Ophelia, who is about to undertake the office of our housekeeper.

  [Rising to a sitting posture.] I am delighted to see you. How do you like the appearance of our city?

  [Running to OPHELIA.] Oh! is it not beautiful? My own darling home!—is it not beautiful?

  Yes, it is a pretty place, though it looks rather old and heathenish to me.

  Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you?

  Yes, mas'r, it looks about the right thing.

  See here, Marie, I've brought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he is a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you wish. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I'm gone.

  I know he'll get drunk.

  Oh! no he won't. He's warranted a pious and sober article.

  Well, I hope he may turn out well; it's more than I expect, though.

  Have you no curiosity to learn how and where I picked up Tom?

  Uncle Tom papa; that's his name.

  Right, my little sunbeam!

  Please, mas'r, that ain't no 'casion to say nothing bout me.

  You are too modest, my modern Hannibal. Do you know, Marie, that our little Eva took a fancy to Uncle Tom—whom we met on board the steamboat—and persuaded me to buy him.

  Ah! she is so odd.

  As we approached the landing, a sudden rush of the passengers precipitated Eva into the water—

  Gracious heavens!

  A man leaped into the river, and, as she rose to the surface of the water, grasped her in his arms, and held her up until she could be drawn on the boat again. Who was that man, Eva?

  Uncle Tom! [Runs to him.—He lifts her in his arms.—She kisses him.]

  The dear soul!

  [Astonished.] How shiftless!

  [Overhearing her .] What's the matter now, pray?

  Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't have anything hurt, but as to kissing—

  Niggers! that you're not up to, hey?

  Yes, that's it—how can she?

  Oh! bless you, it's nothing when you are used to it!

  I could never be so shiftless!

  Come with me, Uncle Tom, and I will show you about the house.

  Can I go mas'r?

  Yes, Tom; she is your little mistress—your only duty will be to attend to her! [TOM bows and exits, R. 1 E.]

  Eva, my dear!

  Well, mamma?

  Do not exert yourself too much!

  No, mamma! [Runs out, R. H.]

  [Lifting up her hands.] How shiftless!

  Well, what do you think of Uncle Tom, Marie?

  He is a perfect behemoth!

  Come, now, Marie, be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow!

  You've been gone a fortnight beyond the time!

  Well, you know I wrote you the reason.

  Such a short, cold letter!

  Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing.

  That's just the way; always something to make your journeys long and letters short!

  Look at this. [Takes an elegant velvet case from his pocket.] Here's a present I got for you in New York—a Daguerreotype of Eva and myself.

  [Looks at it with a dissatisfied air.] What made you sit in such an awkward position?

  Well, the position may be a matter of opinion, but what do you think of the likeness?

  [Closing the case snappishly.] If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you wouldn't in another.

  [Sententiously, aside.] How shiftless!

  Hang the woman! Come, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be nonsensical now.

  It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare, to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I've been lying all day with the sick headache, and there's been such a tumult made ever since you came. I'm half dead!

  You're subject to the sick headache, ma'am?

  Yes, I'm a perfect martyr to it!

  Juniper-berry tea is good for sick head-ache; at least, Molly, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife, used to say so; and she was a great nurse.

  I'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the lake brought in for that especial purpose. Come, cousin, let us take a stroll in the garden. Will you join us, Marie?

  I wonder how you can ask such a question, when you know how fragile I am. I shall retire to my chamber, and repose till dinner time. [Exit R. 2. E.]

  [Looking after her.] How shiftless!

  Come, cousin!

  Babies under foot! How shiftless! [Exeunt L. 1 E.]

—A Garden.

TOM discovered, seated on a bank, R. U. E. with EVA on his knee—his button holes are filled with flowers, and EVA is hanging a wreath around his neck. Music at opening of scene. Enter ST. CLARE and OPHELIA L. U. E., observing.

  Oh, Tom! you look so funny.

  [Sees ST. CLARE and puts EVA down.] I begs pardon, mas'r, but the young missis would do it. Look yer, I'm like the ox, mentioned in the good book, dressed for the sacrifice.

  I say, what do you think, Pussy? Which do you like the best—to live as they do at your uncle's, up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do?

  Oh! of course our way is the pleasantest.

  [Patting her head .] Why so?

  Because it makes so many more round you to love, you know.

  Now, that's just like Eva—just one of her odd speeches.

  Is it an odd speech, papa?

  Rather, as this world goes, Pussy. But where has my little Eva been?

  Oh! I've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing.

  Hearing Tom sing, hey?

  Oh, yes! he sings such beautiful things, about the new Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan.

  I dare say; it's better than the opera, isn't it?

  Yes; and he's going to teach them to me.

  Singing lessons, hey? You are coming on.

  Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible, and he explains what it means. Come, Tom. [She takes his hand and they exit R. U. E.]

  [Aside.] Oh, Evangeline! Rightly named; hath not heaven made thee an evangel to me?

  How shiftless! How can you let her?

  Why not?

  Why, I don't know; it seems so dreadful.

  You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog even if he was black; but a creature that can think, reason and feel, and is immortal, you shudder at. Confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of you Northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not having it, but custom with us does what Christianity ought to do: obliterates the feelings of personal prejudice. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused but you don't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. Isn't that it?

  Well, cousin, there may be some truth in this.

  What would the poor and lowly do without children? Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, now, is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes; his songs and Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little bits of trash in his pockets a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any other kind.

  It's strange, cousin; one might almost think you was a professor, to hear you talk.

  A professor?

  Yes, a professor of religion.

  Not at all; not a professor as you town folks have it, and, what is worse, I'm afraid, not a practicer, either.

  What makes you talk so, then?

  Nothing is easier than talking. My forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing. And speaking of that puts me in mind that I have made a purchase for your department. There's the article now. Here, Topsy! [Whistles.

[TOPSY runs on, L. U. E., down C.]

  Good gracious! what a heathenish, shiftless looking object! St. Clare, what in the world have you brought that thing here for?

  For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she should go. I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the Jim

  [Paralyzed.] Well, of all things! If I ever saw the like!

  [Smothering a laugh .] Topsy, this is your new mistress—I'm going to give you up to her. See now that you behave yourself.

  Yes, mas'r.

  You're going to be good, Topsy, you understand?

  Oh, yes, mas'r.

  Now, St. Clare, what upon earth is this for? Your house is so full of these plagues now, that a body can't set down their foot without treading on 'em. I get up in the morning and find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head poking out from under the table—one lying on the door mat, and they are moping and mowing and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the kitchen floor! What on earth did you want to bring this one for?

  For you to educate—didn't I tell you? You're always preaching about educating, I thought I would make you a present of a fresh caught specimen, and let you try your hand on her and bring her up in the way she should go.

  I don't want her, I am sure; I have more to do with 'em now than I want to.

  That's you Christians, all over. You'll get up a society, and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among just such heathen; but let me see one of you that would take one into your house with you, and take the labor of their conversion upon yourselves.

  Well, I didn't think of it in that light. It might be a real missionary work. Well, I'll do what I can. [Advances to TOPSY.] She's dreadful dirty and shiftless! How old are you, Topsy?

  Dunno, missis.

  How shiftless! Don't know how old you are? Didn't anybody ever tell you? Who was your mother?

  [Grinning.] Never had none.

  Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where was you born?

  Never was born.

  You musn't answer me in that way. I'm not playing with you. Tell me where you was born, and who your father and mother were?

  Never was born, tell you; never had no father, nor mother, nor nothin'. I war raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car on us.

  She speaks the truth, cousin. Speculators buy them up cheap, when they are little, and get them raised for the market.

  How long have you lived with your master and mistress?

  Dunno, missis.

  How shiftless! Is it a year, or more, or less?

  Dunno, missis.

  She does not know what a year is; she don't even know her own age.

  Have you ever heard anything about heaven, Topsy?

  Nobody, as I knows on, he, he, he! I spect I growed. Don't think nobody never made me.

  The shiftless heathen! What can you do? What did you do for your master and mistress?

  Fetch water—and wash dishes—and rub knives—and wait on folks—and dance breakdowns.

  I shall break down, I'm afraid, in trying to make anything of you, you shiftless mortal!

  You find virgin soil there, cousin; put in your own ideas—you won't find many to pull up. [Exit, laughing R. 1 E.

  [Takes out her handkerchief.—A pair of gloves falls.—TOPSY picks them up slyly and puts them in her sleeve .] Follow me, you benighted innocent!

  Yes, missis.

  What's this? You naughty, wicked girl, you've been stealing this?

  Laws! why, that ar's missis' ribbon, a'nt it? How could it got caught in my sleeve?

  Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie—you stole that ribbon!

  Missis, I declare for't, I didn't—never seed it till dis yer blessed minnit.

  Topsy, don't you know it's wicked to tell lies?

  I never tells no lies, missis; it's just de truth I've been telling now and nothing else.

  Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so.

  Laws missis, if you's to whip all day, couldn't say no other way. I never seed dat ar—it must a got caught in my sleeve. [Blubbers.

  [Seizes her by the shoulders.] Don't you tell me that again, you barefaced fibber!

  No, missis; stole de gloves, but didn't steal de ribbon. It was permiskus.

  Why, you young reprobate!

  Yes—I's knows I's wicked!

  Then you know you ought to be punished.

  He, he, he! De Lord, missus; dat wouldn't kill a 'skeeter. [Runs off laughing, R. U. E. OPHELIA follows indignantly, R. U. E.

—The Tavern by the River.—Table and chairs.—Jug and glasses on table.—On flat is a printed placard, headed:—“Four Hundred Dollars Reward—Runaway—George Harris!”

PHINEAS is discovered, seated at table.

  So yer I am; and a pretty business I've undertook to do. Find the husband of the gal that crossed the river on the ice two or three days ago. Ruth said I must do it, and I'll be teetotally chawed up if I don't do it. I see they've offered a reward for him, dead or alive. How in creation am I to find the varmint? He isn't likely to go round looking natural, with a full description of his hide and figure staring him in the face.

  I say, stranger, how are ye?

[Rises and comes forward R..]

  Well, I reckon.

  Any news? [Takes out plug and knife.

  Not that I know of.

  [Cutting a piece of tobacco and offering it.] Chaw?

  No, thank ye—it don't agree with me.

  Don't, eh?

  [Sees placard.] What's that?

  Nigger advertised. [Advances towards it and spits on it.] There's my mind upon that.

  Why, now, stranger, what's that for?

  I'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was here. Any man that owns a boy like that, and can't find any better way of treating him, than branding him on the hand with the letter H, as that paper states, deserves to lose him. Such papers as this ar' a shame to old Kaintuck! that's my mind right out, if anybody wants to know.

  Well, now, that's a fact.

  I used to have a gang of boys, sir—that was before I fell in love— and I just told em:—“Boys,” says I, “run now! Dig! put! jest when you want to. I never shall come to look after you!” That's the way I kept mine. Let 'em know they are free to run any time, and it jest stops their wanting to. It stands to reason it should. Treat 'em like men, and you'll have men's work.

  I think you are altogether right, friend, and this man described here is a fine fellow—no mistake about that. He worked for me some half dozen years in my bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too; he invented a machine for the cleaning of hemp—a really valuable affair; it's gone into use in several factories. His master holds the patent of it.

  I'll warrant ye; holds it, and makes money out of it, and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand! If I had a fair chance, I'd mark him, I reckon, so that he'd carry it one while!

  [Speaking as he enters.] Jim, see to the trunks. [Sees Wilson.] Ah! Mr. Wilson here?

  Bless my soul, can it be?

  [Advances and grasps his hand.] Mr. Wilson, I see you remember me—Mr. Butler, of Oaklands. Shelby county.

  Ye—yes—yes—sir.

  Holloa! there's a screw loose here somewhere. That old gentlemen seems to be struck into a pretty considerable heap of astonishment. May I be teetotally chawed up! if I don't believe that's the identical man I'm arter. [Crosses to GEORGE.] How are ye, George Harris?

  [Starting back and thrusting his hands into his breast.] You know me?

  Ha, ha, ha! I rather conclude I do; but don't get riled, I an't a bloodhound in disguise.

  How did you discover me?

  By a teetotal smart guess. You're the very man I want to see. Do you know I was sent after you?

  Ah! by my master?

  No; by your wife.

  My wife! Where is she?

  She's stopping with a Quaker family over on the Ohio side.

  Then she is safe?

  Teetotally!

  Conduct me to her.

  Just wait a brace of shakes and I'll do it. I've got to go and get the boat ready. 'Twon't take me but a minute—make yourself comfortable till I get back. Chaw me up! but this is what I call doing things in short order. [Exit L. 1 E.]

  George!

  Yes, George!

  I couldn't have thought it!

  I am pretty well disguised, I fancy; you see I don't answer to the advertisment at all.

  George, this is a dangerous game you are playing; I could not have advised you to it.

  I can do it on my own responsibility.

  Well, George, I suppose you're running away—leaving your lawful master, George, (I don't wonder at it) at the same time, I'm sorry, George, yes, decidedly. I think I must say that it's my duty to tell you so.

  Why are you sorry, sir?

  Why to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the laws of your country.

  My country! What country have I, but the grave? And I would to heaven that I was laid there!

  George, you've got a hard master, in fact he is—well, he conducts himself reprehensibly—I can't pretend to defend him. I'm

  I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all your life hoeing corn for them, if you'd think it your duty to abide in the condition in which you were called? I rather imagine that you'd think the first stray horse you could find an indication of providence, shouldn't you?

  Really, George, putting the case in that somewhat peculiar light— I don't know—under those circumstances—but what I might. But it seems to me you are running an awful risk. You can't hope to carry it out. If you're taken it will be worse with you than ever; they'll only abuse you, and half kill you, and sell you down river.

  Mr. Wilson, I know all this. I do run a risk, but—[Throws open coat and shows pistols and knife in his belt.] There! I'm ready for them. Down South I never will go! no, if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil—the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky!

  Why, George, this state of mind is awful—it's getting really desperate. I'm concerned. Going to break the laws of your country?

  My country again! Sir, I haven't any country any more than I have any father. I don't want anything of your country, except to be left alone—to go peaceably out of it; but if any man tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate. I'll fight for my liberty, to the last breath I breathe! You say your fathers did it, if it was right for them, it is right for me!

  [Walking up and down and fanning his face with a large yellow silk handkerchief.] Blast 'em all! Haven't I always said so—the infernal old cusses! Bless me! I hope I an't swearing now! Well, go ahead, George, go ahead. But be careful, my boy; don't shoot anybody, unless—well, you'd better not shoot—at least I wouldn't hit anybody, you know.

  Only in self-defense.

  Well, well. [Fumbling in his pocket.] I suppose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment—hang it, I won't follow my judgment. So here, George.

  No, my kind, good sir, you've done a great deal for me, and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it.

  No but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere, can't have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it, do take it, now do, my boy!

  [Taking the money .] On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will.

  And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way? Not long or far I hope? It's well carried on, but too bold.

  Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they

  But the mark on your hand?

  [Draws off his glove and shows scar.] That is a parting mark of Mr. Harris' regard. Looks interesting, doesn't it?

  I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it—your condition and your risks!

  Mine has run cold a good many years; at present, it's about up to the boiling point.

  George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your head, and move and speak like another man.

  [Proudly.] Because I'm a freeman! Yes, sir; I've said “master” for the last time to any man. I'm free!

  Take care! You are not sure; you may be taken.

  All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. Wilson.

  Them's my sentiment, to a teetotal atom, and I don't care who knows it! Neighbor, the boat is ready, and the sooner we make tracks the better. I've seen some mysterious strangers lurking about these diggings, so we'd better put.

  Farewell, Mr. Wilson, and heaven reward you for the many kindnesses you have shown the poor fugitive!

  [Grasping his hand .] You're a brave fellow, George. I wish in my heart you were safe through, though—that's what I do.

  And ain't I the man of all creation to put him through, stranger? Chaw me up if I don't take him to his dear little wife, in the smallest possible quantity of time. Come, neighbor, let's vamose.

  Farewell, Mr. Wilson.[Crosses to L. H.

  My best wishes go with you, George. [Exit R. 1 E. .]

  You're a trump, old Slow-and-Easy.

  [Looking off, R. H.] Look! look!

  Consarn their picters, here they come! We can't get out of the house without their seeing us. We're teetotally treed!

  Let us fight our way through them!

  No, that won't do; there are too many of them for a fair fight—we should be chawed up in no time. [Looks round and sees trap door, C.] Holloa! here's a cellar door. Just you step down here a few minutes, while I parley with them.

  I am resolved to perish sooner than surrender!

  That's your sort! [Closes trap and stands on it.] Here they are!

  Say, stranger, you haven't seen a runaway darkey about these parts, eh?

  What kind of a darkey?

  A mulatto chap, almost as light-complexioned as a white man.

  Was he a pretty good-looking chap?

  Yes.

  Kind of tall?

  Yes.

  With brown hair?

  Yes.

  And dark eyes?

  Yes.

  Pretty well dressed?

  Yes.

  Scar on his right hand?

  Yes, yes.

  Well, I ain't seen him.

  Oh, bother! Come, boys, let's search the house. [Exeunt, R. 1 E.

  [Raises trap.] Now, then, neighbor George.

  Follow me, Phineas. [Exit, L. 1 E.]

  In a brace of shakes.

  Ah! he's down in the cellar. Follow me, boys!

  Chaw me up! but I've got 'em all in a trap. [Knocking below.] Be quiet, you pesky varmints! [Knocking.] They're getting mighty oneasy. [Knocking.] Will you be quiet, you savagerous critters!

—A Plain chamber .

  [Without, L. H.] You go 'long. No more nigger dan you be! [Enters, L. H.—shouts and laughter without—looks off.] You seem to think yourself white folks. You ain't nerry one—black nor white. I'd like to be one or turrer. Law! you niggers, does you know you's all sinners? Well, you is—everybody is. White folks is sinners too—Miss Feely says so—but I 'spects niggers is the biggest ones. But Lor! ye ain't any on ye up to me. I's so awful wicked there can't nobody do nothin' with me. I used to keep old missis a-swarin' at me ha' de time. I 'spects I's de wickedest critter in de world. [Song and dance introduced. Enter Eva, L. 1. E.]

  Oh, Topsy! Topsy! you have been very wrong again.

  Well, I 'spects I have.

  What makes you do so?

  I dunno; I 'spects it's cause I's so wicked.

  Why did you spoil Jane's earrings?

  'Cause she's so proud. She called me a little black imp, and turned up her pretty nose at me 'cause she is whiter than I am. I was gwine by her room, and I seed her coral earrings lying on de table, so I threw dem on de floor, and put my foot on 'em, and scrunches 'em all to little bits—he! he! he! I's so wicked.

  Don't you know that was very wrong?

  I don't car'! I despises dem what sets up for fine ladies, when dey ain't nothing but cream-colored niggers! Dere's Miss Rosa—she gives me lots of 'pertinent remarks. T'other night she was gwine to a ball. She put on a beau'ful dress dat missis give her—wid her har curled, all nice and pretty. She hab to go down de back stairs—dem am dark—and I puts a pail of hot water on dem, and she put her foot into it, and den she go tumbling to de bottom of de stairs, and de water go all ober her, and spile her dress, and scald her dreadful bad! He! he! he! I's so wicked!

  Oh! how could you!

  Don't dey despise me cause I don't know nothing? Don't dey laugh at me 'cause I'm brack, and dey ain't?

  But you shouldn't mind them.

  Well, I don't mind dem; but when dey are passing under my winder, I trows dirty water on'em, and dat spiles der complexions.

  What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won't you try and be good? Don't you love anybody, Topsy?

  Can't recommember.

  But you love your father and mother?

  Never had none, ye know, I telled ye that, Miss Eva.

  Oh! I know; but hadn't you any brother, or sister, or aunt, or—

  No, none on 'em—never had nothing nor nobody. I's brack—no one loves me!

  Oh! Topsy, I love you! [Laying her hand on TOPSY'S shoulder.] I love you because you haven't had any father, or mother, or friends. I love you, I want you to be good. I wish you would try to be good for my sake. [TOPSY looks astonished for a moment, and then bursts into tears.] Only think of it, Topsy—you can be one of those spirits bright Uncle Tom sings about!

  Oh! dear Miss Eva—dear Miss Eva! I will try—I will try. I never did care nothin' about it before.

  If you try, you will succeed. Come with me.

  I will try; but den, I's so wicked! [Exit Eva R. H. followed by TOPSY, crying .

SCENE V.—Chamber.

Enter GEORGE, ELIZA and HARRY, R. 1 E.

  At length, Eliza, after many wanderings, we are again united.

  Thanks to these generous Quakers, who have so kindly sheltered us.

  Not forgetting our friend Phineas.

  I do indeed owe him much. 'Twas he I met upon the icy river's bank, after that fearful, but successful attempt, when I fled from the slave-trader with my child in my arms.

  It seems almost incredible that you could have crossed the river on the ice.

  Yes, I did. Heaven helping me, I crossed on the ice, for they were behind me—right behind—and there was no other way.

  But the ice was all in broken-up blocks, swinging and heaving up and down in the water.

  I know it was—I know it; I did not think I should get over, but I did not care—I could but die if I did not! I leaped on the ice, but how I got across I don't know; the first I remember, a man was helping me up the bank—that man was Phineas.

  My brave girl! you deserve your freedom—you have richly earned it!

  And when we get to Canada I can help you to work, and between us we can find something to live on.

  Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other, and our boy. Oh, Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his wife and child belong to him! I've often wondered to see men that could call their wives and children their own, fretting and worrying about anything else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare hands. If they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied—thankful!

  But we are not quite out of danger; we are not yet in Canada.

  True, but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it makes me strong!

  [With a snuffle .] Verily, friends, how is it with thee?—hum!

  Why, Phineas, what means this metamorphosis?

  I've become a Quaker, that's the meaning on't.

  What—you?

  Teetotally! I was driven to it by a strong argument, composed of a pair of sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and pouting lips. Them lips would persuade a man to assassinate his grandmother! [Assumes the Quaker tone again.] Verily, George, I have discovered something of importance to the interests of thee and thy party, and it were well for thee to hear it.

  Keep us not in suspense!

  Well, after I left you on the road, I stopped at a little, lone tavern, just below here. Well, I was tired with hard driving, and after my supper I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the corner, and pulled a buffalo hide over me—and what does I do but get fast asleep.

  With one ear open, Phineas?

  No, I slept ears and all for an hour or two, for I was pretty well tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were some men in the room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking; and I thought, before I made much muster, I'd just see what they were up to, especially as I heard them say something about the Quakers. Then I listened with both ears and found they were talking about you. So I kept quiet, and heard them lay off all their plans. They've got a right notion of the track we are going to-night, and they'll be down after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what's to be done?

  What shall we do, George?

  I know what I shall do!

  Ay-ay, thou seest, Eliza, how it will work—pistols—phitz—poppers!

  I see; but I pray it come not to that!

  I don't want to involve any one with or for me. If you will lend me your vehicle, and direct me, I will drive alone to the next stand.

  Ah! well, friend, but thee'll need a driver for all that. Thee's quite welcome to do all the fighting thee knows; but I know a thing or two about the road that thee doesn't.

  But I don't want to involve you.

  Involve me! Why, chaw me—that is to say—when thee does involve me, please to let me know.

  Phineas is a wise and skillful man. You will do well, George, to abide by his judgment. And, oh! George, be not hasty with these—young blood is hot!

  I will attack no man. All I ask of this country is to be left alone, and I will go out peaceably. But I'll fight to the last breath before they shall take from me my wife and son! Can you blame me?

  Mortal man cannot blame thee, neighbor George! Flesh and blood could not do otherwise. Woe unto the world because of offenses, but woe unto them through whom the offense cometh! That's gospel, teetotally!

  Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?

  I pray that I be not tried; the flesh is weak—but I think my flesh would be pretty tolerably strong in such a case; I ain't sure, friend George, that I shouldn't hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to settle with him.

  Heaven grant we be not tempted.

  But if we are tempted too much, why, consarn 'em! let them look out, that's all.

  It's quite plain you was not born for a Quaker. The old nature has its way in you pretty strong yet.

  Well, I reckon you are pretty teetotally right.

  Had we not better hasten our flight?

  Well, I rather conclude we had; we're full two hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned; so let's vamose. [Exeunt R. 1 E.]

—A Rocky Pass in the Hills.—Large set rock and platform, L. U. E.

  [Without R. U. E.] Out with you in a twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks with me! run now, if you ever did run! [Music. PHINEAS enters, with HARRY in his arms. GEORGE supporting ELIZA.] Come up here; this is one of our old hunting dens. Come up.

  I do see. And now, as this affair is mine, let me take all the risk, and do all the fighting.

  Thee's quite welcome to do the fighting, George; but I may have the fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kind of debating down there, and looking up, like hens when they are going to fly up onto the roost. Hadn't thee better give 'em a word of advice, before they come up, just to tell 'em handsomely they'll be shot if they do.

  Well, Tom, your coons are fairly treed.

  Yes, I see 'em go up right here; and here's a path—I'm for going right up. They can't jump down in a hurry, and it won't take long to ferret 'em out.

  But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks. That would be ugly, you know.

  Ugh! always for saving your skin, Marks. No danger, niggers are too plaguy scared!

  I don't know why I shouldn't save my skin, it's the best I've got; and niggers do fight like the devil sometimes.

  [Rising on the rock.] Gentlemen, who are you down there and what do you want?

  We want a party of runaway niggers. One George and Eliza Harris, and their son. We've got the officers here, and a warrant to take 'em too. D'ye hear? An't you George Harris, that belonged to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?

  I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his property. But now I'm a freeman, standing on heaven's free soil! My wife and child I claim as mine. We have arms to defend ourselves and we mean to do it. You can come up if you like, but the first one that comes within range of our bullets is a dead man!

  Oh, come—come, young man, this ar no kind of talk at all for you. You see we're officers of justice. We've got the law on our side, and the power and so forth; so you'd better give up peaceably, you see—for you'll certainly have to give up at last.

  I know very well that you've got the law on your side, and the power; but you haven't got us. We are standing here as free as

  [Drawing GEORGE down.] Thee'd better keep out of sight with thy speechifying; they're teetotal mean scamps.

  What did you do that for, Marks?

  You see, you get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky.

  Now, Phineas, the first man that advances I fire at; you take the second and so on. It won't do to waste two shots on one.

  But what if you don't hit?

  I'll try my best.

  Creation! chaw me up if there a'nt stuff in you!

  I think I must have hit some on'em. I heard a squeal.

  I'm going right up for one. I never was afraid of niggers, and I an't a going to be now. Who goes after me?

  Friend, thee is not wanted here!

  [Retreating.] Lord help us—they're perfect devils!

[Music.—MARKS and PARTY run off. GEORGE and ELIZA kneel in an attitude of thanksgiving, with the Child between them.—PHINEAS stands over them exulting.— Tableau .]

END OF ACT II