Mr. Cordes Kemp, sorely grieved at the loss of so venerable and valuable a piece of property,—­and which he bought of the state, for the rights of which he is a great champion,—­will give the above sum in hard cash to the clever fellow who will secure it within a prison, so he may get it.  If this cannot be done, he will declare him an outlaw, offer a premium for the old man’s head, and, with the bleeding trophy, demand the premium paid by the state.  However, seventy-five dollars is no mean offer for so old a negro, and as the said negro cannot be a fast runner, the difficulty of catching him will not be very great, while the sport will be much more exciting.  Romescos and Dan Bengal keep a sharp look-out for all such little chances of making money; and as their dogs are considered the very best and savagest in the country, they feel certain they will be able to deliver the article over to Mr. Kemp in a very few days.

A few days after the appearance of Mr. Cordes Kemp’s proclamation, these two worthies may be seen riding along the Camden Road, a sandy level, with little to indicate its tortuous course save a beaten and irregular path through a forest of stately pines.  Their reddish-coloured home-spun clothes, set loosely, and their large, felt hats, slouching over their bearded faces, give their figures a brigand-like appearance which excites apprehension.  They are heavily armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives; and as their horses move along at a quick walk, the riders may be heard keeping up an animated discussion on matters of state policy.  The state and its policy is a matter of deep interest to slave-dealer and slave-hunter; none discuss them with more pertinacity.  And as every great measure is supposed to have some bearing, directly or indirectly, on the right of one class to enslave the other, a never-ceasing political jar is kept up by these worthies, and too often finds its way into the public acts of men who should be far removed above their selfishness.

The horse on which Romescos rides, a sprightly dark-bay, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of his master’s pursuit, pricks his ears erect, and keeps his head turning from one side to the other, as if watching the approach of some object in the forest.  A few paces ahead are seven fierce hounds, now scenting about the ground, then scampering through the trees, and again, quickly obeying the call, return to the horses.  Not a bark is heard, not a growl escapes them!  Nothing could be under more explicit subjection-not even those northern dogs who pollute their own free soil by making it a forest, where the souls of men are humbled, and where, willing allies of the sport, they desecrate that holy sentence, “Our Pilgrim Fathers!”