Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 March 1886 — Page 6

LOVE’S LESSON. BY MIRIAM MERRIMAC. Oh! yesternight, in a willful mood, Young Love came o'er the hill; The folded flowers in Dame Nature's wood Lay silvery white and still. The gates were closed, but the wall was low. So Love sprang lightly o’er; And slyly shook from his wings of snow hundred darts or more. *l’ll take them prisoner, every one I" He whispered, with roguish glee; “And you, proud Rose, ere the morrow’s sun, Shall yield your heart to me.| “I hear you laughed at the Wind’s embrace, And baffled the Sun’s hot flame, And shrugged up your leaves, with a dainty grace, t> j When the pleading Raindrops came. “And even scoffed at the power of Love I* He picked up his bow and darts, • And right ana left, ere one could move, Took aim, and pierced their hearts. And then, in a dimpling, careless way, He tightened his trusty bow, And knelt to the Rose, while a starlit ray Danced over his wings of snow. A moment more, and the arrow sped. "Ha, ha! Sweet love, dost yield? Rest on my heart thy drooping head, And know the power I wield. •Love conquers all." But there he stopped, For on his thrilling breast The fallen Rose’s heart-blood dropped! What need to tell the rest? Of how Love came to reign a King, Of how a slave he lives ? But this he’s heard to softly sing, “Love asketh not—but gives.”

“POT-BOILERS."

CHAPTER I. Blind! Nothing else would have mattered much, but he was blind—hopelessly blind. He was an artist, and had caught cold while out sketching. Inflammation had set in—gone to his eyes: and it was as if a dead wall had been built right across his path of life. Ten years later it might have mattered less, for the children would have been “out of hand;” but now, with six of them—the eldest but nineteen and only a girl; the youngest seven—and no provision, it was a black look-out, indeed. For Charles Lloyd was not a genius. He had not even audacity, which does almost as well. He painted very nice pictures, true to nature; but who on earth is satisfied with nature? One might as well offer people uncooked meat. Christmas came, and the ready money was gone. There were some pictures in the studio, but not any finished; however, finished or not, they must go. They packed them up, and sent them to Mr. Lloyd’s picture dealer, with a note to say they • would be willing to take a low price, as the Cures were unfinished, and they were the they would ever be able to send—a touch of tragedy Janet thought they would feel. She added she would be happy to «end some of her own drawings for their approval; and awaited their orders with the calm confidence of one who has not the faintest idea of the struggle for existence. Incredible! impossible! It couldn’t be true! “Messrs. Pink <t Son are returning the ‘Woodland Scene’ and the ‘Morning Walk,’ by Mr. Charles Lloyd, as they are sorry to say the pictures are unsalable in their present condition. They also beg to inform Miss Lloyd that they are unable at present to send her an order, as trade is very bad, and they have a large stock on hand. ” Janet sat stupefied, with the letter in her hand. “Mother, the pictures are coming back! Pinks won’t have them. What in the world are we to do?” “Won’t have them! Whatever do they mean?” “I don’t know; oh, I don’t know—it’s dreadful—it’s dreadful to think of!” and she started up distracted. ■ Jack was kneeling on a chair, his elbows well on the table, and a newspaper before him. “Don’t run away, Jenny; stop a minute. There’s something here. Listen. ‘To Artists—Wanted: Pictures for expor- . tation. Price must be moderate. Apply, Moses <t Co., Borough.’ ” “Oh, Jack, let me see—how providential! What a magnificent opening! Why, they’ll want dozens. Let’s write at once; or perhaps we had better go, and then we can see them and get to know all about it, and buy the canvases and things.” The reaction was tremendous. Janet felt abundantly happy. “But, my dear, it’s hardly the thing.” “Oh! with Jack it will be all right, mother; besides, we shall really not have to mind ‘the thing’ any more.” So Janet and Jack went, and they found ■“the Borough;” then they turned out of that, and up a court found “Moses & Co.” Talk about the improvement of taste! Whoever will buy all the tea trays, wax flowers, gorgeous time-pieces which those warehouses contain is a puzzle. They were ushered into a little back office to interview the buyer. “Pictures?” said he shortly. “Yes; well, I’ll just look at them. I can tell ata glance whether they will do for us.” He seemed very rude and abrupt; but if they had only known how tired the poor man was of pictures! “There,” said Janet, picking out two of her fathers, and putting them up with some ©ride—they were so infinitely better than those in the room. They all looked at them a minute—the man doubtless lost in admiration. At last the girl looked jound smiling, butthere was mo admiration to be seen; the man merely ■screwed up his lips and shook his head. Presently he took up one of her own sketches—the worst a long way. “This might do; only it would want a deal more work in it.” “Certainly,” she said anxiously. “I could ■put any amount of work into it. I don’t mind work.” “Don’t you? Then I dare say we shall •come to terms. You must throw a bridge across the river.” “But there wasn’t one.” “That doesn’t matter; and you must put an old woman in a scarlet cloak in the foreground. Our customers like a bit of life; and the canvas wants covering. There’s too much sky; they like it well filled up—plenty for the money. You might put a range of mountains in the background; it would be a great improvement, would a mountain or two. What’s your price?” “I thought three guineas,” she said, not liking to ask too much. The man shook his head. “Forty-eight shillings is our price, and we never give a -pemy more to anybody. The sister and brother looked anxiously .at each other, but forty-eight shillings was

better than nothing; it was rather a queer price, though. “You find your own canvases?” said the man sharply. “Of course.” “You had better sign them—not your own name, of course; besides, a lady’s name wouldn’t do. Sign them—er—let me see, our last man signed himself Montague White; suppose you call yourself Matthew —no, Mark Black; no, perhaps Black would hardly do just after White. Say—er—er— Barrett—Mark Barrett. Don’t forget, and bring ’em in next week; forty-eight shillings, and find your own canvases.” “You want more than one, then? It is hardly the thing to do the same subject twice.” The man looked horrified at such nn-bnsiness-like ideas. “It s a dozen I’m ordering, just for a sample—forty-eight shillings a dozen! and if I like" them, you’il have to do dozens and dozens all alike.” “Oh !”

CHAPTER IL March. Havsrstock Hill. “Show day” among the artists. Carriages, critics, and well-dressed people going from studio to studio. A rising young A. R. A., Mark Barrett, was looking at his own pictures before the arrival of his visitors, with that “divine discontent” which, unfortunately, is not very common among inflated young artists. Some ladies came in—people he knew quite well and had sent cards to, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember their names. He tried to make up for it in “gush.” “So glad to see you. How kind of you to come!” “Not at all; delighted! Dear, dear, how verv nice!” and the elder lady put up her glasses. “What a verv fine picture. Worthy of Millais, I declare!’’

Mark Barrett went red, not with gratification—it was a portrait of a provincial mayor, and he had not put his best work into it, as he ought to have done. More people came it; among others, some friends of the mayor. “How do you do, Mr. Barrett? Very happy to meet you again, sir. Saw you last in our council chamber. You remember me; Mr. Aiderman Whitley, sir. Now let’s have a look at our worthy mayor. Very good, very good; just like him. isn’t it, my dear?” turning to his wife. “Eh?” “Well, it’s like him in the face,” said the little woman, doubtfully; “but. I think myself that the waistcoat buttons are a trifle too small.” “So they are, so they are. Trust a woman for telling you your faults, Mr. Barrett, eh?” A city man came up to him. “I could have picked up one of your pictures for an old song the other day, Mr. Barrett,” in a loud, cheerful voice, as if it was a good joke that all the room would like to hear — and perhaps they did. “Indeed! what was it?” “River scene; bridge, mountains, old woman in scarbet cloak. I should have bought it, being yours, only the frame was such a gimcrack affair.” “You are mistaken. I never did such a thing in my life.” “It had your name on it, I’m perfectly certain.” “What were they asking for it?” “Five-and-twenty shillings.” “Yon must be mistaken,” in deep disgust. “Very well; if you don’t believe me you can look for yourself. I have the address in my pocket.” Mark was so much annoyed that the very next day he made a pilgrimage to the city. He determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. Most likely it was a name that was something like his; but it might be a forgery, in which case he would have the fellow punished. He found the picturedealer’s—at least, it wasn’t a picture-deal-dealer’s, it was a draper’s—and there, sure enough, among oleographs and rubbish of all sorts, were three pictures, fearful things, signed “Mark Barrett.” However, the shopman directed him to Moses & Co., Borough. He hurried on there; it was dinner-time, between twelve and one; only a boy in charge. That was fortunate; he got the address without any trouble: Miss Janet Lloyd, Ivy Cottage. Hoxton, Surrey. “A woman, after all. What pests those women are!”

CHAPTER 111 “Now, Jack, I’ll put in the bridges while you follow with the old woman. We must hurry along. If we don’t get these off tonight we shall be in a fix for jnoney tomorrow.” “Well, never mind, Jinney; don’t let’s worry more than we can help. Do you think this old woman will do?” “Ye—es; put plenty of color on and smooth it down well. Whatever would the public do without ‘ Mark Barrett’s ’ works of art? I do hate calling myself ‘Mark Barrett,’ ” signing the name in a comer as the door opened. She didn’t turn round—she Was too busy —until their little servant said, “Mr. Mark Barrett, please, miss.” Poor, white, over-strung Jane dropped her palette “butter-side” down on the only decent carpet in the house as she turned, horror-struck, to face a gentleman—a Mark Barrett in the flesh. Curly-haired and blue-eyed certainly, but ferocious. She simply could not speak for a moment. Even Jack was speechless; he turned very red and tried to stand in front of the pictures with the name on, but as there was a whole row of them all alike, the feat was beyond his powers. Mark had come straight down from London in a furious rage. Every “pot-boiler” he had seen of poor Janet’s only made him more angry.

He marched into the house as soon as the door was opened; it was ouite possible such a person as that might lock him out; however, the little servant was evidently not up to it, and most fortunately showed him into the very room where the forgeries were going on. • There was the fictititious “Mark Barrett” herself—caught red-handed, literally redhanded; she had been signing the name in vermilion, and the palette in falling had smeared her hands. Mark was rather taken aback as he looked at the pale, trembling culprit, with her great horror-struck dark eyes. He looked at the row of wretched daubs, twelve of them all alike, and at Jack’s red face, short trousers, and shrunken jacket, and his agonized attempts to hide the twelve staring “Mark Barrets.” But it wouldn’t do to give way to sentiment and have his judgment warped by a pretty face, like a British juryman in a

breach of promise case. The very thought made him stern. “I will not apologize for my intrusion,” he said; “for 1 have no doubt you have some idea of the cause of my visit. ” Janet, who would have broken down at a kind word, resented this unjust harshness. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain. I am not aware that I have done anything so very wrong.” Jack felt very angry. He was longing to defend his sister, but couldn’t think of a telling speech. “Oh! to be a man—a cool, self-possessed man.” “Not done anything wrong, do yon say, madam? Are you, then, so ignorant of right and wrong as not to know that you have committed the grossest forgery? Don’t you know that it is actionable?”

The sister and brother looked at each other, not very clear as to what “actionable” meant. An idea flashed upon Jack. “You don’t mean to say you are going to send my sister to prison, because it wasn’t her that did it: it was me,” he said, eagerly. “No, no, Jack; that won’t do. It was I, sir,” turning proudly and contemptuously to Mark, “if you refer to my having signed what I suppose is your name. It is fortunate that I did not happen to sign ‘ John Brown,’ or I might have had a hundred gentlemen threatening me instead of one.” “If you had signed your pictures”—sarcastic emphasis and wave of the hand toward the twelve—“‘John Brown’ it would have mattered very little, as that is not a well-known name.” “Indeed!” “In the art world, I was about to add,” furiously; “but it so happens that my name is rather well known, as no doubt you are aware.” “Indeed! I never had the pleasure of hearing it before.” “Indeed?” He really was surprised, and not much flattered. “No, really, isn’t it surprising? said Jack rudely—his clumsy way of defending his sister. Mark colored up. but he was obliged to accept the extinguisher. Ho couldn’t explain what a great man he was, from an artist’s point of view. “Well,” said he, willing to be magnanimous, “since the offense has been committed in ignorance, I will not prosecute this time, on condition that you immediately obliterate all these” —pointing to the twelve names—“and call in all the—er—pictures you can possibly get hold of and re-sign them.”

Jack whistled. “Think of Moses!” he suggested. “I don’t suppose the people who buy them will like that,” said Janet. “They’ve got a trade for ‘Mark Barretts’, they say. I don’t know what to do. Whatever shall we do, Jack?” There was a despairing ring about tne voice that struck Mark. She turned to him again. “If you would just let us send off this dozen it would give us time.” “Not another picture! You have done me incalculable injury already.” “I’m very sorry. Will you wait just a minute? I should like to consult my father. He was a painter himself, but last winter he became blind. That’s the reason we have had to do all this,” she said simply. “Is it so?” sharply. This little key gave a clue to the whole situation, but he could hardly believe it yet, it was so different from his idea. He rose and opened the door for her, and was left alone with Jack. Then there was an awkward pause. Jack, with’his hands in his pockets, looked out of the window. He had no intention of being civil to this “brute.” Mark looked at the pictures. “Does your sister do many of these things?” “A dozen or two a week.” “You don’t say so. Why, she must work night and day.” “She does, pretty nearly.” “You shouldn’t let her work so hard. She’ll kill herself.” “Can’t be helped. We’ve nothing else to live on,” and he whistled to keep down tears unbecoming in a man. More and more shocked and distressed, Mark ventured to hope they got a good price. “Four shillings each, and find our own stuff.” A howl in the passage. “It’s only the children,” explained Jack. “Are there some children?” “Six of us, and father and mother. I say, I think you might have left ‘Mark Barrett’ alone. Perhaps yon would if you knew everything.” “I am very sorry—very sorry, indeed! I didn’t know all this, you see." Of course, I cannot possibly let your sister go on using my name; but if you will tell me all, perhaps I can help you a little.” But Janet came back into the room very grave and sad. Mark’s heart smote him painfully. He vowed he wouldn't lose sight of this poor family. Janet apologized humbly for tne mistake she had made, said how sorrv her father was to hear of it, and he would like to see Mr. Barrett for a few minutes.

A few weeks later, when the Academy was getting stale, the town hot and wearisome, Mark Barrett felt it was really his duty to get a little country sketching before the spring tjnts quite faded away. A day or two later, and he found himself looking out of a farm-house window not far from Ivy Cottage, and wondering if he might venture to call. The country is rather dull without any one to speak to—“a heathy grave,” Sidney Smith called it. So not many days—in fact, only a few hours—elapsed before he was chatting comfortably with Mr. Lloyd, talking art, nay, “shop,” soul-refreshing to the ex-artist, although so tedious to the “Philistine.” Mr. Lloyd was so delighted to meet with a brother of the brush again that he became quite confidential, told him about his own unfinished work, and what a pity it was. “You know Janet can paint in a fashion, but she can’t do good enough work for that; besides, I am afraid these wretched things she seems to be doing now won’t have improved her style. You’ve seen them, of course? Tell me, as an artist, are they really so Very bad?” “Those I saw were certainly rather—rather—crude, but perhaps she has something better in hand now. I should like to see what she is doing, if you think I might venture. Perhaps I could give her a few hints, you know 7 .” “Thank you very much. I am sure we are greatly indebted to you for your forbearance altogether; but come into the next room and tell me what you think of their work. ”

Mark was surprised to find his heart beat strangely at this mild remark. “It must be a touch of indigestion,” he impatiently assured himself; but he couldn’t help feeling it was a moment that would

stand out in his life when he held Janet’s nervous hand in his for a second, and she glanced up at'him with proud shame. For ranged along the wall were twelve more pictures, exactly like the others—twelve ranges of mountains, twelve bridges, now in course of construction, and twelve old women awaiting their scarlet cloaks, j “Still busy, I see, Miss Lloyd.” “She's always busy,” said her father, with a sigh. “I do wish she could get out a little more—not only for the sake of the fresh air, but I am sure if she does not get more sketching from nature her work will deteriorate.” “Mr. Barrett will tell you that that is impossible, father,” said Janet, half in fun, half in sarcasm. Mark colored a little. He could not deny that it was impossible for anything in the painting line to be much worse; but he caught a faint little sigh from Janet, and Jack looked out of the window with longing eyes. “It’s a jolly afternoon,” he said. “I say, Jenny, don’t you think we might drop it for once? There’ll be such a breeze on Riplev Head.” Janet gave him a look. “We’ll see when we have done our work, Jack.” Sighing not a little, but prodigiously, Jack took up the brush again. “Thatmeans ‘never!’ ”he said. “These beasts will take hours.” Mark hesitated a minute before he descended to the bottom of the professional ladder. “If you will allow me to help you.” he said presently, “I think we might finish in time for a walk before dusk. lam very anxious to see Ripley Head myself, and your father was kind enough to say you would show me the way,” looking at Jack, “If Miss Lloyd would allow me the pleasure of accompanying you,” looking at Janet. “We shall be most happy,” she said; “but I cannot think of troubling you with these. I dare say Jack and I can finish in two or three hours.” “But I enjoy painting, and I have nothing in the world to do this afternoon. Here, Jack, lend me a palette. I’ll go on with the trees.” A month or two ago Mark wouldn’t have believed it if he had seen himself now, diligently working in trees by the dozen, trying to ingratiate himself with an overgrown boy and maneuvering for a look from a “brazen forgerer.” The little maid brought them in some tea, and they worked away cheerily—Mr. Lloyd looking in now and then, enjoying the fresh life in the house.

When the sun was beginning visibly to sink, and the last old woman was fitted with her red cloak, the young people got ready fortheir walk. Janet, from some undefinable instinct, put on her most becoming, though by no means her newest, hat, and plucked some scarlet geraniums for her neck, which burned bright against her black dress and pale face. But not so pale. As they stood on Ripley Head, watching the sun quickly sinking on the horizon, long out of sight from the valleys, the reflection of the red and golden clouds wrapped the girl in a halo of glory. “What a wonderfully beautiful creature!” thought the artist, entranced with the “effect.” She was by no means beautiful, but he thought her so, which was enough. It was sunrise for Janet, not sunset. Jack had many a time helped his sister down the steep side of Ripley Head. He was going to do so now, of course (even the biggest of brothers are not very “sharp” where their sisters are concerned); but Mr. Barrett happened to be nearer, and offered his hand, and, though Jack was a dear boy, there was, strange to say, something firmer, and warmer, and closer in this grasp. The mother, dulled perhaps by her troubles, was vexed with her daughter about this time. She was so unreasonable. She actually cried—not openly, but quietly and unseen, as she hoped—because she could not have a new gown, and Janet was foolish enough to spend a shilling on ribbons, which might have been much more profitably spent on stockings. But Janet’s instinct was right. Though nothing on earth will sunder souls that are fast and firmly knit, the merest trifle will turn aside the first inclination. Besides, to attract is a natural, healthy instinct, and to be attracted—why, no one would if they didn’t like it.

One day it dawned even upon Jack’s brotherly understanding that Janet was different somehow, and it wasn’t only the geranium in her dress and ribbon at her waist. They were painting as usual, and, as was now not unusual, Mr. Barrett was helping them, when the bungling, well-meaning brother struck in: “You’ve been an awfully good friend to us, Mr. Barrett, especially to Janet and me —getting us orders and ail that; but there’s one thing you’ve done that I don’t believe anybody’s noticed but me, and that is, you’ve made a great alteration in Jenny.” “Nonsense, Jack, nothing of the kind!” she burst in, horrified as to what he would say next, her face almost as red as the geraniums. Mark, standing by her, looked down on her, bit his lip, and began to wish Jack would go out of the room. “I know what I’m talking about,” said Jack, with the calm confidence of ignorance, and blundering like a big bluebottle fly; “she’s as happy and cheerful as anything now, and I know it’s you, because she’s so disappointed when you don’t come.” “Jack, be quiet—it’s all nonsense. Don’t be silly!” “She was very down at first about the name, you know, and Moses was very mad with her because she wouldn’t sign ‘ Mark Barrett ’ any more.” “Of course not! I shouldn’t think of such a thing. ” she burst in passionately, “after all you said,” turning to Mark. “You may be sure I shall never make use of your name again.” “Wont you?” he returned. “Do you know, I was rather beginning to hope you would.” In great surprise Janet looked at him, but something in his eyes made her drop ners. “With a little addition,” he said, in a low tone. “Oh, my!” struck up Jack, enlightened at last. “I never thought of that. Here, I’ll go and get some dinner—tea, I mean. You can come when you’re ready.” James Anthony Froude, in his latest book, “Oceana,” says of American life: “Nowhere in America have I met with vulgarity in its proper sense.” Major Barnet, Secretary of the State of Georgia for forty years, is 85 years old.

RAISING A BOYCOTT.

Knights of Labor Score a Point Against the Employment of Convict Labor. [Chicago telegram.] The boycott declared by the Illinois Knights of Labor at their convention in Decatur against Phelps, Dodge and Palmer, Selz, Schwab & Co., and C. H. Fargo & Co., boot and shoe dealers of Chicago, was lifted yesterday. The manufacturers came to the terms dictated by the Knights, and signed the following: The disagreement existing between the Knights of Labor of Dlinois and the firm of Phelps, Dodge & Palmer, concerning the employment of convicts in the State Penitentiary for the manufacture of boots and shoes, is, by this agreement, settled. Both parties agree that convict-contract labor should not come in conflict with free labor, and that the interest of the public is better served by its discontinuance. Such being the sentiment of Phelps, Dodge <fc Palmer, they voluntarily agree that they will not, directly or indirectly, renew any of their existing contracts for contract labor; they also agree that they will cancel all their contracts for contract labor with the State of Indiana as soon as the State of Indiana will relieve them from said contracts, or any liability by virtue of said contracts. Phelps, Dodge & Palmer further agree that they will not knowingly buy boots and shoes of any manufacturer using convict labor. Phelps, Dodge Palmer further agree that no one seeking employment in their factory at Chicago shall be refused employment on account of being a member of the Knights of Labor.

The compromise was signed by representatives of the firms, and by Robert Bennett, President; J. P. Trench, Secretary, and George Rodgers, John J. Mahoney, James Courtney, and John Budlong, members of the Executive Board of Knights. Included in the boycott originally declared were C. M. Henderson & Co. and M. D. Wells & Co., of Chicago, and Pettingill & Co., of Peoria. A new boycott will be declared against them at once." Members of the yielding firms say the meeting was held at the request of the board. The members of the board say it was called by the firms. The influences which prompted the agreement are mysterious. Neither the members of the board nor of the conceding firms will express themselves lucidly on that point. There exists an understanding—an oral agreement—between the parties, which appears to be more potent than the written one. This they all acknowledge, but refuse to explain. An analyzation of the agreement shows that it has no immediate effect upon the business methods of the firms concerned. Selz, Schwab & Co. employ 451 men in the Joliet penitentiary, on three contracts. One of these, controlling the labor of sev-enty-five men, expires in a year; another expires in 1889, and the other, for the labor of the majority of the men, expires in 1892. The firm recently closed a contract with the prison authorities. Mr. Schwab explained to a reporter that he was heartily in accord with the abolishment of contract labor, and for that reason alone had signed the agreement. He said the firm had a factory in Chicago, employing free labor, from which good results had been obtained. He said in connection with this, that Chicago manufacturers were compelled to employ prison labor to compete with the East. He insisted that his firm is of the opinion that contract prison labor is a wrong principle, and that when the Knights of Labor demanded its abolishment his house was entirely willing to comply. The firm of C. H. Fargo & Co. employs about two hundred pri ners in the Michigan Penitentiary. Their contract expires in two years. Mr. C. H. Fargo said yesterday that he would rather not discuss the influences which caused him to sign the agreement. He had carefully considered the matter, and found that it was to his business interests to agree with ’ the Knights. Phelps, Dodge & Palmer employ 130 men in the Indiana Prison. Their contract expires in three years.

IN A MOB’S CLUTCHES.

The Brothers Archer, Three in Number, Taken from Jail and Lynched. [Shoals (Ind.) special.] The members of the notorious Archer gang, who have been confined in the County Jail here for several weeks past on a charge of having been concerned in several brutal and unprovoked murders, but more especially for the killing of old man Bunch, expiated their crimes just before 1 o’clock this morning at the hands of a mob of determined men, all armed and thoroughly prepared to carry out their purpose. The mob was composed of many of the farmers of the surrounding country, and was quiet and orderly. On reaching the city the men passed rapidly along through the streets until the jail, situated in West Shoals, was reached. The keys were at once demanded of the jailer, but were refused. Without tarrying a moment for a colloquy the spokesman of the mob pushed the jailer aside, and, crying out to the men to follow him, led the way up to the door. A few vigorous strokes against it, and it fell in with a crash. In an instant the excited men were before the iron gratings of the cells. These were speedily broken open by a hammer, and the doomed prisoners led out into the court-yard adjoining the jail. The mob was as silent as death. From the court-yard the prisoners were led a short distance up the road to a place where three trees had been extemporized into three ghastly gallows. Here the prisoners were given a few moments in which to exchange parting greetings or to make confession of their crimes. But the three men made no sign, and as the three nooses were slipped about their necks they stood composed and resigned to their fate. The ends of the rope were then thrown over the limbs of the trees, a strong pull was given by each of the little groups of men who held the ropes, and in an instant the three lifeless bodies of John, Martin,, and Thomas Archer were dangling heavily in mid-air. In a moment the lynching party was gone, leaving its victims still warm in death. Anxious citizens are now thronging in to view the bodies, and the people are wild with excitement. The hanging is generally commended by the entire city.