The Anderson Intelligencer

A Picture of a Thousand.

When Sherman's army entered Columbia there lay upon a bed of sickness, in a hospital, the widowed mother of two little girls, who, innocently, and in blissful ignorance of their sad situation, amused themselves with children's sports in the place of privation, sorrow and pain to which their poor mother had retreated as the only refuge in her helplessness. She had come from Georgia to attend her husband, a soldier, who was sick in the hospital, and who was soon relieved from misery and the dread scenes to come by death. His poor wife soon took his place in the sick list, and her only children, the two little girls, remained as guests of this place, where infancy was so strangely associated with disease with all its horrors, and became familiar with Death, who, attended by famine, maintained his hideous vigils over the sick, wounded and dying inmates.

The thunders of the approaching army, the roar of flames, the ringing of bells, the falling of houses, the bursting of shells, and grief, so shocked the feeble sick woman in the hospital that she died from grief and fright, bestowing a last glance, in utter despair, upon her two little children, whose fate it was to be left at such a time amongst strangers, far from home and perfectly helpless. Who can tell the anguish of that poor mother at passing away from the world and leaving her tender offspring to the mercies and chances of that perilous day! It was indeed a mercy that the pang and the agony were brief.

The mother died, and was buried by order of General Sherman, who also ordered that the two infants should be sent to the asylum. A general famine followed in the march of that general officer, and there being nothing wherewith to feed the inmates of the asylum, there was no recourse but to send them away. Here was another phase of that extreme human misery which chills the blood even to read of. The feeble, the sick, the lame, and the halt; and the helpless who found refuge in that asylum, were to go forth, as there was nothing there to feed them. Where were they to go? and what to do? What became of them all, none can tell: Death ended the sorrows of many.

In the midst of this sad community were the two motherless girls, mere infants, unconscious of their lot. People came from all quarters to see what could be done for the dispersing household. Among those who came on this errand was a lady of great worth and refinement, who was once the mistress of a mansion where all that wealth, and elegance, and taste could contribute to comfort and enjoyment was gathered together. She had fled from the fine estates of her husband in Beaufort, and the fair and rich domains she once looked on as hers was now parcelled out amongst her late slaves. Living in what may be called poverty in Columbia, she yet needed some assistance in her housekeeping for herself and family, and repaired to the asylum to obtain, if possible, a servant girl. There her eyes were attracted by the two little girls, thinly clad, sitting in a corner on the sunny side of the house on a chilly April day, hugging each other to keep warm. They were remarkable for their beauty, and very symmetrical and delicate figures.

The lady made inquiry; and learned their history. Her heart yearned towards them; but what could she do in her poverty? Contemplating them in their forlorn condition, yet so bright and so unconscious of their fate, cheerfully endeavoring to borrow from the sun that warmth which man's inhumanity had deprived them of, she was oppressed with the force of the tender sympathy which she felt she was too poor to gratify. She turned away abruptly and hurried toward her home. But those two tender and bright faces—those two babes with neither home nor relative were before her. She could not shut them out. Her pity and sympathy grows as she widened the distance between her and them, and at last, completely overcome by her solicitude, she turned back, and in the multitude of miserables sought the children, and taking one in each hand, walked up with them in delight.

Since then, until a few days ago, that noble lady has maintained these children under all the privations of her own situation. She had sought in vain for a place of refuge for them. Some two weeks ago she wrote to Miss Emily Mason now in Baltimore—that indefatigable lady who had done so much to relieve the unfortunate and afflicted of these times—inquiring if some provision could not be made for these children. Miss Mason had filled all the places she succeeded in finding, and had written a letter saying that nothing could then be done for them—when, as it were by Providential design, a letter came from St. Louis offering places for twelve Southern children, the means for the support and education of whom had been provided by the liberal citizens of that city. Miss Mason, with a delight all who know her can well imagine, reopened the letter to her Columbia friend and wrote a postscript, in which she was requested to send on "Beulah" and "Lulu"—for these were the names of the motherless little fawns—at once, that they might go on to the homes just found for them. Poor children! who will not offer up a prayer that they may now be happy for life!

This is, indeed, a picture of a thousand and no one can read the facts, we are sure, without being impressed more forcibly with the solemn duty at such a time as this of contributing to the aid and succor of those brought to dependence and destitution by the events of the war. Richmond Dispatch.