The printing-press was broken in pieces; the types scattered; the Free State Hotel demolished; General Robinson’s house, with its valuable library, burned to the ground; and many of the cabins set on fire. No time was allowed to remove any thing from the dwellings. Trunks and bureaus were ransacked; daguerreotypes and pictures of dear home friends were cut and smashed; and letters scattered and trampled in the mud. The women and children had been ordered out, at the commencement of these outrages. Mothers were weeping, as they fled across the prairies, and the poor bewildered little ones were screaming and crying in every direction. What cared New England that _her_ six stars were looking down upon the scene, in shameful “Union” with that blood-red flag? Above the noise of tumbling stones, and crackling roofs, and screaming children, rose that horrid yell of the Border Ruffians. “Damn the Yankees!” “Give ’em hell!” A figure, tall as Ajax, loomed up above the savage crowd, calling out, “I’m down on all _sich_ fixens. Allers tole yer ’twas darned mean to come over into the Territory an vote for these fellers. I’m pro-slave myself. I’d like to see him that dar’d to call me an abolitionist; but I tell yer what, boys, this ere’s cuttin up a little _too_ high.” He was interrupted with shouts of, “Hold your jaw!” “Shut up! you damned ole fool!” Still he remonstrated: “This is a breakin down the rights o’ American citizens. You might jist as well smash my ole woman’s bureau. Them ar traps are personal property. I’m down on all sich fixens.” “Pitch into him!” cried the rabble; and they did “pitch into him,” amid yells and laughter. Tom Thorpe was silenced. He learned the uselessness of trying to moderate slavery, or ameliorate murder.