e that time. He
subsequently sent the author the following, from the "Charleston
Courier," which speaks for itself.

"FROM THE REPORTS OF COUNCIL.
"January 4th, 1843

"_The following communication was received from William M. Lawton, Esq.,
Chairman of the Commissioners of the Poor-house._

"'Charleston, Dec. 17th, 1852.
"'To the Honorable, the City Council of Charleston:

"'By a resolution of the Board of Commissioners of this City, I have
been instructed to communicate with your honorable body in relation to
the insane paupers now in Poor-house', (the insane in a poor-house!)
'and to request that you will adopt the necessary provision for sending
them to the Lunatic Asylum at Columbia. * * * * There are twelve on the
list, many of whom, it is feared, have already remained too long in an
institution quite unsuited to their unfortunate situation.

"'With great respect, your very obedient servant,
"'(Signed) WM. M. LAWTON,
"'Chairman of the Board of Commissioners.'"]

"Five years,--five years,--five long, long years, I have waited for him
in the dark, but he won't come," she lisps in a faltering voice, as her
emotions overwhelm her. Then crouching back upon the floor, she supports
her head pensively in her left hand, her elbow resting on her knee, and
her right hand poised against the brick wall, "Pencele!" says Mr.
Glentworthy, for such is the wretched woman's name, "cannot you sing a
song for your friends?" Turning aside to Madame Montford, he adds, "she
sings nicely. We shall soon get her out of the way--can't last much
longer." Mr. Glentworthy, drawing a small bottle from his pocket, places
it to his lips, saying he stole it from old Saddlerock, and gulps down a
portion of the contents. His breath is already redolent of whiskey. "Oh,
yes, yes, yes! I can sing for them, I can smother them with kisses. Good
faces seldom look in here, seldom look in here," she rises to her feet,
and extends her bony hand, as the tears steal down Madame Montford's
cheeks. Tom stands speechless. He wishes he had power to redress the
wrongs of this suffering maniac--his very soul fires up against the
coldness and apathy of a people who permit such outrages against
humanity. "There!--he comes! he comes! he comes!" the maniac speaks,
with faltering voice, then strikes up a plaintive air, which she sings
with a voice of much sweetness, to these words:

When you find him, speed him to me,
And this heart will