New York Dispatch

OF BRUTAL TASTES.
A Hermit Who Takes Pleasure in Kitty Cat Fights—Feline and Canine Tortures as a Solace for Lonely Hours.

About a year ago, a man named John Shellenbarger made his appearance in the vicinity of Bishop, Kansas. He was a quiet, reticent man, declining all intercourse with those around him, reserved in his demeanor and moody in his conduct, to such an extent as to excite no little curiosity as to his former life, whence he came and whither he intended to go. His ostensible purpose was securing a home under the homestead act, but further than that he made no profession. He dug himself a sort of a cave in a bluff a few miles from Bishop, and ensconced himself therein, avoiding every one. After a while he became known as the "Hermit," and that finally became his name. Attempts were made to approach him, but all such efforts were unavailing, and he lived in his cavern a lonely, deserted life, never coming in contact with his fellow-men, and shunning society. His aspect forbade the presumption that he was a religious recluse, who avoided the busy world, the better to confine his mind to pious considerations. His face was not stamped with the impress of religious zeal. It was a bad face, in the lines in which were traced deep and perverted passions, low and sordid pursuit, and the impression he produced among his neighbors was decidedly unfavorable. For nearly a year he lived on in this way, as isolated from the busy world around him as was Robinson Crusoe. He was unmarried, and how he employed his time or in what way he accomplished happiness, the pursuit of mankind, no one could tell. To the people who knew of him he was a sphynx, a conundrum, and all the guessing inherent in a country locality failed utterly to afford any satisfactory explanation of the Hermit or his mode of life. The only connection between him and humanity was a frail one. It was noticed that he, from time to time, received boxes by express. These he took with the utmost eagerness, and hurriedly conveyed them to his miserable home. Investigation failed to reveal the contents of the boxes. He guarded them as devotedly as a dam would her cubs, and it seemed as if he was bound up in them until his whole existence even centered there. He awaited their arrival with an intensity of anxiety painful to contemplate, and when they came he clutched them as drowning men clutch the bubbles their own efforts make. Whatever may be said of Yankee curiosity, and however unfortunately for the Yankee comparisons may be drawn between his inquisitiveness and that of his Western brother the populace about Bishop evinced as much curiosity concerning the Hermit and his boxes as did ever a sewing circle in Connecticut about a grass widow. They canvassed the matter and tried all in their power to learn about the strange man and his strange consignments, and, in default of reliable information, started various rumors about them, all conflicting, and none satisfactory. His hole was watched, and all his outgoings and incomings were carefully noted, and up to a short time ago as much of a veil of mystery hung over him as when he first went to the place.

Last week some hunters passed his home, and were astounded to hear the most appalling sounds issuing therefrom. They seemed like the voices of humans in distress, and so plainly they came, and in such piteous tones, as to strike awe into the minds of the bewildered listeners. The bad reputation of the Hermit, and the stories of his ferocious nature, deterred them from attacking the place, and so they hurried away, followed by the cries they had heard and which seemed to increase as if new and frightful torments were inflicted. Arriving in the town, the hunters told of what they had heard, and a crowd were soon en route for the Hermit's dug out. When within a quarter of a mile of it the same shrieks and yells assailed their ears, and, as they approached, the noise became more and more plainly manifest. At length they reached the door of the hole and for a moment stood paralyzed. Nothing could be seen, but from within came a perfect pandemonium of yells, as if the lost on the Plutonian shores had sent up a wild wail of despair. The noise seemed to come from human throats, but there seemed to be so many voices, and all in a woeful expression of agony, that the listeners at first feared something supernatural.

At last they hurled themselves against the door, breaking it down, and there the most horrible sight met their eyes. A dozen or more dogs were yelling and snapping at each other, and as they saw the intruders they sprang upon them. Evidently they were suffering the most acute pain, and as they dashed out the door they spun around and then started off howling. In one corner of the dug-out stood the Hermit with a red-hot poker in his hand, brandishing it in defense against a few dogs who had not made their escape, and who were alternately attacking him and each other. The room was filthy in the extreme, and looked as if it had never been cleaned since the occupant took possession. As the dogs sprang toward him he would turn them aside with the poker, searing their flesh and driving them to fresher exertions against each other. A line was stretched across the room and upon it hung sixteen cats, tied in pairs by the tail. Of course, their sufferings compelled them to fight, and there they hung, scratching, fighting, biting and spitting, trying to relieve themselves of their painful situation. In the den the noise was deafening, and the Hermit stood contemplating the tortures of the poor brutes with an expression of rapture on his face. He did not seem to see, or at least did not recognize the invasion, until the line was cut and the unfortunate cats liberated, and then, drawing his revolver, he showed fight. In a moment the crowd were upon him, he was overpowered and bound hand and foot.

"It's a d—d shame a man can't have a little amusement in Kansas," he remarked.

It appears he had administered turpentine to the dogs, as an examination of one of them found dead disclosed. As near as can be ascertained only one dog had died, and the rest have been howling about the country for several days. Upon his promise to leave the State the Hermit was released, and in a few hours he departed. Probably he is insane, for no man endowed with reason would look to the sufferings of dumb brutes for amusement.