The insane of Florence were of a different class; they were the boys who had laughed at such a yielding to adversity in Andersonville, and felt a lofty pity for the misfortunes of those who succumbed so.  But now the long strain of hardship, privation and exposure had done for them what discouragement had done for those of less fortitude in Andersonville.  The faculties shrank under disuse and misfortune, until they forgot their regiments, companies, places and date of capture, and finally, even their names.  I should think that by the middle of January, at least one in every ten had sunk to this imbecile condition.  It was not insanity so much as mental atrophy—­not so much aberration of the mind, as a paralysis of mental action.  The sufferers became apathetic idiots, with no desire or wish to do or be anything.  If they walked around at all they had to be watched closely, to prevent their straying over the Dead Line, and giving the young brats of guards the coveted opportunity of killing them.  Very many of such were killed, and one of my Midwinter memories of Florence was that of seeing one of these unfortunate imbeciles wandering witlessly up to the Dead Line from the Swamp, while the guard—­a boy of seventeen—­stood with gun in hand, in the attitude of a man expecting a covey to be flushed, waiting for the poor devil to come so near the Dead Line as to afford an excuse for killing him.  Two sane prisoners, comprehending the situation, rushed up to the lunatic, at the risk of their own lives, caught him by the arms, and drew him back to safety.

The brutal Barrett seemed to delight in maltreating these demented unfortunates.  He either could not be made to understand their condition, or willfully disregarded it, for it was one of the commonest sights to see him knock down, beat, kick or otherwise abuse them for not instantly obeying orders which their dazed senses could not comprehend, or their feeble limbs execute, even if comprehended.

In my life I have seen many wantonly cruel men.  I have known numbers of mates of Mississippi river steamers—­a class which seems carefully selected from ruffians most proficient in profanity, obscenity and swift-handed violence; I have seen negro-drivers in the slave marts of St. Louis, Memphis and New Orleans, and overseers on the plantations of Mississippi and Louisiana; as a police reporter in one of the largest cities in America, I have come in contact with thousands of the brutalized scoundrels—­the thugs of the brothel, bar-room and alley—­who form the dangerous classes of a metropolis.  I knew Captain Wirz.  But in all this exceptionally extensive and varied experience, I never met a man who seemed to love cruelty for its own sake as well as Lieutenant Barrett.  He took such pleasure in inflicting pain as those Indians who slice off their prisoners’ eyelids, ears, noses and hands, before burning them at the stake.