The weekly pioneer and Democrat. [volume], January 15, 1864, Image 6

About The weekly pioneer and Democrat. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn. Territory) 1855-1865

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
6 '
A SACRIFICE CONSUMED.
A TOUCHING EPISODE OF THE
WAR.
Prom Harper for January.
A low room, scanty but neat furniture,
a small stove shooting red beams into the
growing shadows ; a slight, stooping fig
ure at the window, using up the lingering
light for her busy needle. The fingers,
pricked and thin they were, moved with a
nervous rapidity, now and then pushing
away impatiently the stray locks of brown
hair that would wave and ripp’e down on
her forehead in a pretty, girlish way,
strangely in contrast with the lace that
looked so old and careworn. A shrinking
mouth and eyes that looked—well, they
might have power, you might say, after
watching them awhile; to-night they were
only dull. This was the picture. She
stitched ceaselessly on a silk robe, whose
richness seemed to laugh at the meagre
room and its poorly draped occupant.
Very fast she sewed, the work must be
done by to-night; but the thoughtless
western light crept atfay to its home in
the hills, and left her. She laid down
her sewing, put her hands to her strained
eyes a moment, and sighed wearily. But
there was no time for rest, and in a mo
ment her lamp was burning and her face
bent again over her work. When it was
finished she tied on her bonnet, folded the
costly silk with care, and started to go
out. She turned round, however, before
she blew out her lamp, to glance over the
room ; but it looked bare and lonely ; no
voice to speak to her out of the stillness,
no kind eyes to pity her weariness.
By one of those sudden surges of feeling
which rush upon us when the physical
strength is overtaxed, the long pent-up
sufferng that her toil and desolation had
made burst into a wail. These constant
drudging days—for what were they ? To
warm, and clothe, and feed herself, and
herself only—to work, eat, sleep, and work
again, alone. Was this life? As in a
picture the dragging years came before
her, and loomed up in the future merci
lessly.
Oh, these hours of dark prophecy!—
sterner than the sorrowful Past, more bit
ter than the troubled Present, what won
der is it that when their cold hand touches
us we shrink and faint beneath it ? The
pale woman bowed her face in her hands
and cried out, sharply,
“Alone, all alone! No home, no love
—always, always! O Christ! ”
I think He heard her, for He knew she
loved Him. The word seemed to give her
strength, and the spasm passed away in a
few moments. Some thought seemed to
strike her which she repelled—a picture of
some face perhaps it was, which she ought
not to see just then. She put her pain
back, down deep into her heart, to go on
with her life and trust to Him.
It was almost dark when she reached
the street door ; but her errand must be
done, and drawing her veil closely about
her face, the ’ seamstress stepped out hur
riedly on the pavements.
•I am giving you no sickly sentimental
ism when I let you into the secret of her
moment of pain. The heart ofeveiy woman
calls to God out of its own solitude, in
such a life as hers, with a bitterness He
only can fathom. You shall not blame
her nor pronounce her weak, that she
beats her wings against the prison door
and cries for her mate to open the door
and sing to her. And, I am sure, the
humblest birds can make melody which
God loves to hear. They may build their
nests among the low grasses and daisies;
but perhaps the song is sweeter then, for
it has so tar to rise.
This woman took her loneliness as God
sent, and bore it, for the most part, health
fully. He must have some object for her
existence; she would work out the prob
lem with tireless faith. This night, as she
passed by brightly-lighted houses in her
walk, and 6aw the home groups, like dis
tant fairy pictures, through the windows,
the happy mothers’ faces, and little chil
dren climbing on their fathers’ knees*-*
she could not help it, the remembrance of
that desolate room was fresh—she choked
and clnsped her hands tightly together,
then wiping away the tears, angrily hur
ried on faster than before. The errand
accomplished, holding fast to the scanty
price of her labor, she turned to go home.
It grew darker. People peered curious
ly under her bonnet as she passed the
shop windows. One man stopped when
he saw her, turned and followed. She
walked faster, so did he; she turned a
sudden corner, but started and screamed
slightly, as she heard his step behind her
and a hand touched her shoulder.
“Ruth ”
“Oh, John ! Mr. John ! I didn’t know
it was you. ”
Did I frighten you ? lam sorry. I
will make up for it now by seeing you safe
home, if you will let me.”
.He drew her trembling hand through
his arm quietly, and walked on with her.
“Why are you out so late?” he asked?
“I had to take hack Mrs. Alden’s dress,
and it wasn’t finished till dark,” said Ruth;
and as a vision of the lonely room came
up again at this she hurried to change the
■abject.
“Are you just out of the store?” she
asked.
“Yes; as I’m the only clerk, you know,
I cannot be spared early. I get tired.”
“Do you?” said the seamstress, quickly,
with a smothered tenderness. “I am very
sorry.”
They were passing a street lamp just
then, and the light fell full upon her face.
You would hardly have known it for the
same that bent over the ceaseless needle
in the darkening room. Her oheeks were
rosy with exercise and excitement, her
eyes black and intense with feeling, as her
companion turned to look at her.
“Are you sorry ?” he said, simply. “I
am very glad.”
They walked on in silence a few mo
ments.
“This is a hard life for you,” he sai
length, “and I don’t like to have you out
so evenings. I wish I could take care of
you.”
She made no answer.
“Ruth,” he said, stopping under the
shadow of the steps as they reached the
Louse, and looking down into her eyes
with his own honest blue ones, il couhl you
love me? Could you let me take care of
you always?”
She did not understand him at first.
How should she? She had never known
since she kissed her dead mother years
ago what it was to hear words of love.
She looked up half frightened into his face.
He repeated it slowly, surely. She saw it
all. t
“ Oh, John, can you want me ?"
“I want you to be my wife, Ruth.
"Why, little woman, don’t look bo scared.
Your eyes are on fire. Tell me. How
is it?”
She gave him her hands, her poor, toil
worn hands, and while he grasped them
fast 6he hid her face and cried. A quaint
way it was of telling him how she loved
him, but the young man understood it;
and when a moment after she raised her
head and looked up at him the plain face
looked to him beautiful as an angel’s.
Just before he left her he opened his
wallet, and took from it a bit of yellow
paper, unfolded it and held up a ring; it
was of old-fashioned gold-work, with a
strange red stone in the shape of an
anchor.
“It was my mother’s wedding-ring,” he
said. “ I’ve kept it as if it were holy.
No woman has ever touched it or seen it
since she died. She would like to have
you wear it, Ruth.”
Ruth took it, kissed it reverently, then
handed it back to him to place it upon her
finger, looking up with a sort of worship
into the manly face, and wondering that
he thought her worthy to wear it.
After he had gone she went up stairs
blindly, and stumbled over one of her
fellow-boarders on the landing. The wo
man looked at the seamstress in amaze
ment.
“ What’s the matter ? ” she said. “ Why
don’t you walk straight ? Your cheeks are
so red I didn’t know you.”
Ruth only smiled in answer, went into
her own room, and shut the door. Then
this little woman did a most unpoetic thing.
She sat down on the floor by the stove,
put her head on a chair, and cried again.
I doubt if even John would have under
stood these tears. A wanderer suddenly
finding home; a discord swelling up quickly
into unimagined harmony. Do you won
der that when she saw herself and her life
so the joy should be too much for her?
The dreariness was dreary no longer, be
cause away in another such room she knew
he thought of her. The loneliness was
lonely no longer, for she remembered the
sound of his voice when he told her he
loved her. “He loved her! ” She said
it over, kissing the quaint ring.
But I shall tell you no more of this.
I cannot let you into that hidden
sanotuary .of her heart a heart
which thirsted like a desert for the
water-brooks, and found them all at once
in a burst of sunshine.
A new world opened to the little seam
stress. Her day’s toil seemed short and
easy. The light and air were strangely
fresh and beautiful. Her own dwarfed
house-plants grew green and blushed into
tiny flowers. She bent over them in
wonder, and thought they had never
bloomed so before. A bit of chick-weed
crept up through the pavement by the
door; she stooped one day and touched it
caressingly, thinking it sprang up tor her.
On her long walks—a little longer, per
haps, that she might pass John’s store and
look in at the open door, or step modestly
in to buy a spool of thread—on these
walks she watched the gay ladies with
their haughty lips and discontented eyes,
and pitied them that they had no such joy
as hers, thinking, poor simple heart, that
since those matchless days in Eden no
woman was ever so happy. Then, when
the work must be carried home at night,
John kept his promise to “take care of
her.” With her baud upon his arm, and
his cheerful voice in her ear, the dark
crowded streets became like corridors of
arching trees, and marble pillars, with low
winds, and the song ot a nightingale.
One evening she stood before the glass
in the little closet which she used for a
bedroom, and looking at herself, wondered
at the happy face she saw there She
dressed with care, for John was coming
to see her. A dark-brown de laine was
the best her scanty wardrobe contained;
it would have ugly on some women,
but it seemed to suit the quiet little figure
perfectly. You would not wish to see her
in a brighter dress. The room which
served her as a parlor, kitchen, and work
room looked less bare and meagre than
formerly. She teok off the cover of her
little cooking-stove, and the ruddy light
brightened the dingy carpet, and softened
the sharp outlines of the furniture, and
danced among the leaves of the plants on
the window sill. Among them was one
geranium of a pure pink, which had bud
ded on the day of that memorable walk
with John. She loved it for that reason.
Coming out from the closet she stopped
to look around her room; it was pleasant,
she thought. She went to the geranium
and bent over it tenderly. 1 here were
several blossoms on the stalk, and she held
one up against her dark dress. A thought
struck her as she looked at it. John loved
flowers: would he think her very silly, if
she, with her pale, pinched face, should
vear it? She hesitated, then broke it off
guilty Bt ° 6 “tothe like a
I doubt if you can imagine how shy the
little seamstress was about so simnle a
thing, how she took the flower ud then
looked at her face and dghedf’ Sen
gianced timidly around, as if 6ome Q
were watching her; and finally laid the
delicate blossoms in the folds of her hair
and with only a momentary look at herl
self hurried away from the glass, shut the
door hard, and stood blushing like a cul
prit. A quick knock caught her in the
midst of the blush, and deepened it.
She formed a pleasant pictnre, with her
THE WEEKLY PIONEER AND DEMOCRAT.
face made almost young by the tint of the
flower, and the rippling of her hair, though
these were in strong contrast with the
stooping figure in its dull dress, and her
odd, old-fashioned little ways of greeting
John. Perhaps he thought her handsome.
Why shouldn’t he ? She was all his own,
you know, and loved him.
“I like it,” he said, touching with his
finger the flower in her hair. “ I want
you to wear some bit of color oftener; it
makes you so pretty, Ruth.”
Her face for a moment, as 6he turned it
up to him, was really girlish. The tired
heart was bewildered with the rest of this
new love. She listened to him dreamily,
and fancied she had slipped hack through
the years—the wretched, toiling years—
and was playing among the butter-cups
and daisies at her mother’s door. All hap
piness, real or imaginary, took, to her,
this far-off likeness. Is there not with all
of us some such simple thing which weaves
itself into our ideal joys ? The gleam of
sunset—the lull of a drowsy wind—the
chime of a distant bell—a something that
we catch and lose again, but without
which our vision was imperfect ?
“I brought you a ribbon,” John said;
“it’s just this same color. I wanted to
make my little woman look as well as any
of them.”
He unfolded a paper and held up a rose
colored neck-tie. With the quick eye of
a dry-goods clerk he had chosen the latest
style and rich silk. Ruth looked at it a
moment without saying a word: then,
“Oh, John! I’m too homely for so
beautiful a thing. ”
“I guess I know best about that,” he
said, with a smile, and laid it upon her
lap. Her look was thanks.
“ Oh dear!” she said, in a little restful
tone, “ I thought every one would always
think I was old and homely; and I thought
the room would always be lonely and dark,
and I’d never have any one to love me.”
He held out his hand to her ; she took
it, and crept up to him timidly. The room
seemed all in a glow of heat and dancing
lights; the broken chairs, and patched
curtains, and faded chintz were bright as
the tapestry of a palace. She hid her face
and felt his hand stroking her hair.
“ Oh, John! John!”
She knew sho was never to be tired
again; she knew she was never more to
be alone.
In a truthful story of such a life as hers
you must not expect excitement or change
of scene. I can give you no whispering
winds and deep skies, no wild flowers or
clinging mosses about this quiet figure. I
must show her to you in the little room
where such as she—God help them!—
must always live, and love, and sutler.
The happy months flew by quickly.
Ruth wondered, as she waited one even
ing tor John, and thought over the sum
mer, to find that July was drawing to its
golden close. She wondered also if all of
life would be as bright—looking forward,
it dazzled her.
The soft summer twilight had not yet
erept into the room when John came.
Ruth was sitting by the window. She
wore a dress of purple muslin, printed
with a delicate spray of white—an extra
vagance she had indulged in to please
John. The pink ribbon, too, was tied at
her throat. The sunlight, by some strange
mistake, had happened to slip into the
dark street on its way to the west, and
fell through the window on the little seam
stress’s brown hair, and made her eyes
very happy as she turned them toward
the opening door. John stopped an in
stant with a choking in his throat when
he saw her.
“You are early,”she said, coming up
to him. “ I am afraid I shall have to
send you back. ” Her smile faded, how
ever, when she saw his face distinctly ; it
looked pale and sad.
“ Whafris it, John?”
He answered her inquiry by holding her
tightly in his arms a moment, and kissing
her forehead. Then he said, “Nothing;”
and sat down by her. Ruth began to talk
in her quiet way, and he listened.
“It is so strange,” she said at length,
“to know I have you always to come to.
Life is so happy now.”
To her surprise he did not answer for a
moment, then covered his face with his
hands She thought she had troubled him
in some way, and looked grieved.
“Ruth,” he said, suddenly, “could you
get along without me for a while!”
“ Without you ! ”
“I mean—l mean, if I went into the
army. ”
“Into the army, John!”
“I’ve been thinking a great deal lately,”
he said, in a firm but tender voice,
“of our brave soldiers, and I do
not think it is altogether right to stay at
home—l don’t think it’s right. Our coun
try needs me—ours, yours and mine, Ruth
—and so I’ve come to you to know if you
can let me go. ”
She shivered, and dropped her hands in
his with a bitter cry. For some moments
neither spoke. Then he said, in a reverent
tone:
“ I want to please God in this thing. I
think He wishes it.”
“I can’t, I cannot give you up, John ! ”
“ Not for the country, Ruth ? ”
“No oue needs yon as much as I; how
could I be alone again ? ”
He took her gently to him as if she had
been a child, and they talked a long time
in the twilight. I cannot tell you all John
said, but his words at last aroused her. It
was a brave heart, though it was a wo
man’s. Her face grew calm, and she lifted
it to his with a smile.
“You may go.”
“ God bless you for this, my darling! ”
They looked into tfach other’s eyes a mo
ment—a long look; his were intense with
a love that could not be uttered; hers
were tender, liquid, filled with no vain re
gret, but pure as those of a martyr.
So John enlisted and went to camp, but
several furloughs were granted him before
the time of departure. Ruth had cheerful
words for him, and a trusting face to meet
him with always. Ido not think he knew
what they cost her, though his whole heart
blessed her for them. Why should I
linger over the parting? Thousands of
pale women know its sacredness, and need
no picture of that wich “ entereth within
the vail.” It may be months or years
since, but still they hear at nightfall the
echo and re-echo of the low “ good-by ”
the last sound of a distant step—the death
like stillness that shall never more be
broken.
It was in August that he went, and her
life with its tentbld loneliness went cn as
in the old days before they were engaged.
Only his letters came— full of love and
courage. She would sit up till late every
night, and cramp her already tired fingers
to answer them ; writing in her timid, lov
ing way, putting in few words of endear
ment, except his name. She loved to
write that often, and sometimes she would
kiss it shyly, or drop a tear on it perhaps,
and then try to wipe it oil’so he should not
see the mark. It was curious to see her,
when she took out his little pidlire and
looked at it with her large reverent eyes;
and when a distant step was heard in the
Mouse she would start as if guilty, and
with burning cheeks hide it away. Yet
you could not laugh at her. You would
have felt more like crying, perhaps.
As the pile of John’s cheerful letters in
creased, and still he was safe and perfectly
well, she herself grew more trusting, and
began to sing a little at her .work. Per
haps he would come home after all.
One night she heard the newsboys’shout
of a great battle, and saw an unusual
crowd around the bulletin. She stopped
to read the rumors of the Maryland battles
with a sharp pain at her heart. But John’s
regiment had not drill enough yet to fight;
she would not be anxious. Yet her lips
were compressed, and her eyes feverishly
bright all day.
Then came the news which stirred the
North with glad surprise—of a victory at
Antietam. The seamstress thanked God
for it as heartily as the gladdest; but
every morniug she searched the list of
killed and wounded; and every day, as no
letter came for her, she grew paler, and
the lines of her face sharper with pain.
At last she saw that John’s regiment had
been in the tight, hut nothing more.
Still the golden days fled away, and the
skies were warm and hazy, over that far
off Southern river, but the pale faces turn
ed toward them, saw them not. The
birds sang with a willful merriment, and
the gay autumn flowers grew and smiled
in soil that was soaked with human blood.
The sparkling hours would pause,in their
sport to sing no dirge for the dead and to
pity no mourner.
Ruth waited, and the mornings bright
ened, and the evenings faded, but the
columns of the papers, though full for
others, brought nothing to her.
One day she sat sewing in her room in
the afternoon warmth. The sound of
carriage wheels without grew less and
less ; there were no voices about the
house ; a strange, oppressive stillness fell
suddenly upon her. She laid down her
work and clasped her hsnds, straining
every nerve to listen for she knew not
what.
A step on the stairs, and some one
knocked. She said “Come in,” for she
could not rise. A man entered and touch
eil Lis hat respectfully Ruth recognized
him as one of John’s company; she had
seen him at camp.
“Is this Miss Mason ?*’
She bowed her head, and pointed to a
chair; then clenched her fingers again,
and sat looking at him with a sort of fierce
courage that surprised the man.
“I’ve just come homeon furlough to git
my arm cured up,” and he pointed to the
sling he wore; “thought mother could do
it better than those doctors. Now it’s
better, and—and I come to tell you that—
to tell you—well, he’s gone. John Rog
er's gone; he got shot at Antietam on
Wednesday, just two weeks ago, poor fel
low!”
She uttered a long, low cry, and pressed
her hand to her heart. Then she sank on
the floor, and hid her face in the chair in
a crouching, helpless way, moaning plain
tively.
The man passed his rough hand over his
eyes, and moved uneasily in his chair.
“Poor creetur! she’s hurt pretty bad.
Hard work this; rather be under fire any
time,” he muttered to himself.
There was an innate sense of delicacy
in the man, coarse looking as he was,
which forbade him to speak; he only sat
looking at her in a puzzled way, waiting
for her to look up. She did so at last.
Her face was very white; she shed no
tears; but there was such a beseeching
look in her dry eyes, such a crushed, hope
less pressure of her lips as was pitiful to
see.
“Tell me about it,” stretching out her
hands in a pleading way.
“Why, you see, Miss,” began the man,
“he was ’long with Burnside down by the
bridge, in the thick of the fight, when a
shot hit him in the breast, and he dropped
down just by a great tree that’s nigh the
bridge, and lay there pretty nigh three
hours, I reckon, afore they could get him.
When I’d been off the field myself with this
’ere arm a while some one brought him
up, and the surgeon he laid him by me,
and says he, ‘Poor fellow! he won’t never
get well;’ and when John heard that he
just shut his eyes a minute, and I heerdihim
say, ‘Ruth, Ruth!’ I didn’t quite under
stand him at first, and thought he was
talkin’ about the pain: so I called out and
told him ’twouldn’t last long,and he kinder
smiled and said ’twarn’t that, ‘but,’ said
he, ‘it’s Ruth Mason; and if you get bet*
ter, as the doctor says you will, when you
go home tell her how I died praying for
her, and take her back her letters, and tell
her I’ll love her just the same in the other
world, and that it’s for the country, and
God will help her make the sacrifice.’
Them's the very words, Mias, and after
that he didn't say much, only his mind
wandered a bit, and he talked about a
room with flowers in it, and something
about a pink ribbon, too; then he died,
and they buried him down by the river,
and the boys sorrowed for him, for he was
a brave soldier and a kind one, and had a
pleasant word for everybody.”
Ruth listened to it all; and still she sat
with that dumb, entreating face just the
same, only the lips quivered now.
Ib “ few moments the man rose awk
wardly and 6aid he* must go, placing the
package of letters on the table. He stopped
a moment at the door, and looked back
hesitatingly.
“The day afore I come,” he said, “I
went to find where they’d laid him, and I
see a little blue flower, starry-like had
blpwed out close to the grave, and 1 thought
maybe you’d like to know it. ”
Ruth put up her hand to take his, and
thanked him in a broken voice. Then he
went, and she was alone. She took up her
letters and kissed them hotly—they were
the last thing John had held—staggered
to the bed, and buried her face in the
pillows.
“ Oh, my God! ” crying out, sharply,
“ I loved him so; I loved him so! ” re
peating it over and over ag_in, as if she
would touch infinite mercy by her plead
ing, to bring back her dead from that far
oft heaven where no one could need him
as much as she did.
So the night came, and she was alone
with it.
At last one of the lodgers came in softly
and made her a cup of tea. Ruth thanked
her in the same broken way she had
thanked the soldier, but she could not
drink it.”
“She lay so still,” the woman said
afterward, “ kind o’ moaning, and
the tears running so fast down her
cheeks, and she never wipin’ them off,
nor nothin’, and she didn’t touch that tea,
for it came down cold next mornin’. ”
Well, how can I tell you of the bitter
coming back to life, of the dreary days
and wakeful nights, and the lonely even
ings when the bent form rocked to and fro
in stillness—of the heavy work, and
tired fingers, and tears dropping fast on the
hand with a ring ?
In her mourning dress, with her sad eyes
filled with dark questionings, her patient
mouth and her forehead drawn by pain,
she looked ten years older. The frost of
her life had melted into a few late, golden
days, but even those were gone and the
winter was cold. There was now no fu
ture; all her days ‘ read backward ;” for
what should she live ?
There were still hours at night when she
called beseechingly to Death ; but he would
not hear, and passed her by. John had
said this was to be a sacrifice, and that
God would help her: so her life should be
His, to do with as he pleased, and she
would bear it courageously, and love her
country all the more for what it had cost
her
There are heroes who take their Jives in
their hands—their young, happy lives, all
bright with dreams of an unknown suc
cess, and joyous with tender loves; and,
calm amidst the roar of musketry, cool
amidst the flaming heats, quiet amidst
the shrill shrieks of wounded and dying
—face death with a smile, and we do them
honor. But there are martyrs at humble
firesides, who give up more than this.
“They empty heart and home of life’s life
love ;” who yet go back to their desolate
days from which all the beauty, all the fra
grance, all the song has departed, and take
them up bravely, waiting in firm trust till the
Rest comes. On their pale brows also the
crown shall glitter.
But Ruth was no philosopher, and she
could not always see how it could be right
—thinking, you know, that she loved kef
soldier so; and when she gave him up,
after all, what did he do for that proud,
beautiful flag that could be worth all this
suffering? And, groping in the dark, One
met her w-ho had himself wept and strug
gled alone on the hill sides of Judea for her,
and she was still.
Could He be unkind or unfaithful ?
Could she not watch with Him one hour ?
So she lived very patiently at the foot of
the altar where the ashes of her sacrifice
lay, and knew that God had accepted it lor
the blessing of her country, herself, and
John.
A Horrible Story.
AN IDIOT’S SUFFERINGS FOR TWENTY YEARS,
The following horrible story appears in
the London Times. It is from the pen of
Mr. Sydney Hodges, Secretary of the
Royal Cornwall Polytechnic Society:
For some years past rumors have been
current that the brother of a person named
Porter, living in comfortable circumstances
at Flushing, had been kept for many years
in close confinement in a small room at
the back ot the premises in which Porter
and his family reside. Heartrending cries
and howls have been repeatedly heard by
the neighbors, especially on cold winter
nights; but, although the sympathy of
many was aroused, no one deemed it his
duty to inquire into the circumstances of
the case, not dreaming, probably, of the
horrors that were to be revealed.
Rather more than a year ago Dr. Byrne,
a well-known medical practitioner from
the county of Durham, now residing in
this town, was compelled to seek the warm
climate of Flushing for his health, and in
cidentally heard these rumors. Not satis
fied to allow the matter to remain unin
ve9tigated, he collected all the evidence
he could, and was so satisfied that the
case was one demanding a strict inquiry
that he communicated the facts to the
Home Secretary, who at once appointed
him special commissioner, and sent down
two other commissioners, who, in com
pany with Dr. Byrne, went to Porter’s
house on Thursday last and demanded ad
mission to his brother. Porter himself
was absent, but, after some little parley
with the other inmates, Dr. Byrne, who
had obtained some insight into the plan of
the premises, led the way through the
house across a yard and up a flight of
steps, where, concealed from view round a
corner, they found a door which admitted
them to the den in which the lunatic was
confined.
The sight which met their gaze was too
revolting to be described with all its hor
rid details. The place consisted of four
bare, wet, plaster walls, with a small win
dow on one side, and the door by which
they had entered; a doorway opposite,
formerly communicating with the house,
was plastered up, so as to cut off all com
munication except hy the flight of steps at
the hack. In one corner of the room was
a wretched truckle bedstead, with cross
pieces of wood, rotten with filth, about six
inches wide and the same distance apart.
On these bare hoards was crouched a being
more resembling a baboon than a man,
cramped from long exposure
ami suffering, out of all form of humanity,
stark naked, and with only two old rotten
’nags for a coverlet. I have said like a
baboon, from the peculiar form into which
the limbs were drawn; the knees almost
touched the chin, and were pressed close
down upon the chest, I imagine for warmth;
the feet close together and bent down one
over the other, also 1 imagine for warmth;
the hands clinched and brought up close
to the chin ; the arms closely [tressed
against the sides. The knee and hip joints
were anchylose; the elbow joints were
also stiffening. The floor and the walls
were one mass of accumulated filth, the
floor was rotten with it, the stench horri
ble; and there are other circumstances of
the case too dreadful for publication.
For upwards of twenty years the tender
mercies of his nearest relatives have con
signed him to this living tomb—not a rag
to lie upon, not even a wisp of straw;
nothing hut the naked board and the two
old bags to cover him. Would a raving
maniac be confined to such a tomb? God
forbid. What, let us ask, is the men al
condition of this poor wretch ? Simply
imbecile. A most mild, benevolent ex
pression of countenance, a childlike sub
mission to all that is done to him, no
symptoms of violence or even anger of
any kind, and strong indications of intel
ligence in many things, even after these
weary years of neglect and cruelty. On
Sunday, in company with Dr. Byrne and
some friends, I visited the poor creature
lor the purpose of getting a sketch of the
remarkable position in which he has re
mained for so many years. The arrange
ments being completed, two intelligent
keepers from the county asylum washed,
dressed and took him away to that admi
rably conducted establishment at Bodmin,
where we fervently hope that both his
mental and bodily condition may soon be
improved.
Of all the moving incidents of the case,
not the least was the scene on emerging
from the house. Many hundreds of peo
ple were collected round the conveyance,
to which the keeper carried him in his
arms like a child. “My God! can that
be a man ? ” “ God bless you, Dr. Byrne !”
were the exclamations that burst from the
lips of the multitude. Few eyes were dry,
especially when some who had known him
when a strong, intelligent youth went for
ward and shook him by the hand. I am
told the commissioners stated that in an
experience of forty years they had never
met with a case so awful.
DESTRUCTION OF REBEL SALT
WORKS IN FLORIDA.
Washington, Jan. G. —The Navy De
partment to-day received the following
dispatch :
Flag Ship San Jacinto,!
Key West, Dec. 28. j
To lion. Gideon Welles, Secretary :
I have the gratification of reporting a
very important service performed by the
blockading force at St. Andrew’s Sound
under command of Acting Master, Wm.
B. Brown, in destroying a very extensive
and valuable salt-works, both at Lake
Ococola and St. Andrew’s Bay. There
were six boilers at Lake Ococola, and sev
en kettles made expressly for the purpose,
holding 200 gallons. They were in the
practice of turning out 150 bushels of
salt daily. Besides destroying these boil
ers, a large quantity of salt was thrown
into the lake, and two large llatboats and
six ox carts were demolished, and four
teen prisoners taken, who were paroled
and released. On the 10th of December,
Acting Ensign, Edward Cressey, arrived
at St. Andrew’s Sound from the East
Pass, of Santa Rosa Sound, with the stern
wheel steemer Bloomer and her tender,
and the State of Carolina, having heard of
an expedition to take Osceola, and placed
his command at the disposal of Acting
Master Browne for more extensive opera
tions near St. Andrews. Accordingly
three officers and forty-three men were
seat from the Restless to the Bloomer, and
she proceeded to the west of the bay,
where the rebel government salt woiks
were first destroyed, which produced forty
bushels daily. At this place there were
twenty-seven buildings, twenty-two large
boilers and some two hundred kettles,
averaging 200 gallons each, all of which
were destroyed, together with 5,000 bush
els of salt and some storehouses containing
some three months’ provisions. The whole
is estimated at half a million dollars.
From this point the expedition proceed
ed from the bay destroying the Privete Salt
Works, which lined each side for a dis
tance of seven miles, to the number of 198
different establishments, averaging two
boilers and two kettles to each, together
with a large quantity of salt. Fifty of the
kettles were dug up and rendered useless
Over fifteen buildings were destroyed,
together with twenty-seven wagons and
five large flat boats. The entire damage
estimated by Acting Master Browne is
$300,000. Thirty-one contrabands em
ployed at these works availed themselves
of this opportunity to escape, and were of
great service in pointing ..out the places
where the kettles were stored. Acting
Master Browne ran up to within 500 yards
of the town of St. Andrews, which had been
reported by deserters to him as being oc
cupied by a military force for the last ten
months and commenced shelling the place
a Bpeftd ? retreat t 0 the
woods. The town was fired bv the 3rd
throogw resu,ta “ ce WM
Respectfully yours,
(Signed) THEO. BAILEY
Acting Rear Admiral.
Minnesota soldiers have been
admitted into the Military Hospital at KeokTk
lowa, since 1862. F