At the time I write of, the most heinous crimes were sometimes perpetrated by fugitive slaves in their desperation; their motives—revenge, impending starvation, or a passionate desire for liberty. They are the banditti of the Southern States. The forests of Maryland and Virginia contain caves, once the resort of runaway negroes, from whence at night they issued and fell upon the unwary traveller or the unprotected house to levy their contributions. “Jim Hice,” the man whose depredations now spread terror through the neighborhood, was a fugitive not only from slavery, but from justice. Impelled by starvation, he had once, after watching a long time outside of the window to know that the coast was clear, entered the kitchen of an old friend and begged “a mouthful to save me from starving.” This friend gave him a can of whiskey, which he swallowed at a draught, and which, from the emptiness of his stomach, immediately intoxicated him; and then offered him a hunk of corn pone and a herring, which he began to devour like a wild beast. But before he could finish it, the door opened and the overseer of the estate appeared. The negro recognised him—his eyes flew wildly around. He sprang to the window, but was seized by the hands of the overseer before he could pass through it. They struggled for life and death—but the struggle was unequal. Soon the gigantic negro had hugged his captor to his bosom with one strong arm, while with the other hand he drew from his pocket a butcher knife and plunged it to the handle into his chest—then dropping him, sprang over his body, cleared the door, and fled to the woods. The officers of justice were soon in pursuit—a price was set upon his head—volunteering parties set out in search of him, and he was traced to the forest behind Heath Hall. There, in spite of the most vigorous hunt with horses and hounds in the deep dells and dense thickets of the forest, he remained concealed.