deep guttural
roar of the beast. I could not make out what it was all about until I
saw a man climbing a telegraph-pole.

He was carrying a rope in one hand. As he climbed higher, the roar
subsided. The climber reached the arms that form the cross. He swung the
rope over the crossbeam and paid it out until the end was clutched by
the uplifted hands of those below.

The roar arose again like an angry sea, and I saw the figure of a human
being leap twenty feet into the air and swing and swirl at the end of
the rope.

The roar ceased.

The lawyer laid down the brand-new book, bound in sheep, and leaned out
of the window--men were running down the thoroughfare, some hatless, and
at Washington Street could be seen a black mass of human beings--beings
who had forsaken their reason and merged their personality into a mob.

The young lawyer arose, put on his hat, locked his office, followed down
the street. His tall and muscular form pushed its way through the mass.

Theodore Lyman, the Mayor, was standing on a barrel importuning the
crowd to disperse. His voice was lost in the roar of the mob.

From down a stairway came a procession of women, thirty or so, walking
by twos, very pale, but calm. The crowd gradually opened out on a stern
order from some unknown person. The young lawyer threw himself against
those who blocked the way. The women passed on, and the crowd closed in
as water closes over a pebble dropped into the river.

The disappearance of the women seemed to heighten the confusion: there
were stones thrown, sounds of breaking glass, a crash on the stairway,
and down the narrow passage, with yells of triumph, came a crowd of men,
half-dragging a prisoner, a rope around his waist, his arms pinioned.
The man's face was white, his clothing disheveled and torn. His
resistance was passive--no word of entreaty or explanation escaped his
lips. A sudden jerk on the rope from the hundred hands that clutched it
threw the man off his feet--he fell headlong, his face struck the stones
of the pavement, and he was dragged for twenty yards. The crowd grabbed
at him and lifted him to his feet--blood dripped from his face, his hat
was gone, his coat, vest and shirt were in shreds. The man spoke no
word.

"That's him--Garrison, the damned abolitionist!" The words arose above
the din and surge of the mob: "Kill him! Hang him!"

Phillips saw the colonel of his militia regiment, and seizing him by the
arm, said, "Order out th