In Andrew Johnson's town they hung up two men to the same limb, and the bloody Col. Ledbetter, a man born and educated in the State of Maine, going down to Mobile and marrying a lot of negroes through another woman--the worst man, the biggest coward, and the blackest-hearted villain that ever made a track in East Tennessee--this man tied the knots with his own hands, and directed that the victims should be left hanging for four days and nights right over the iron track of the railroad, and ordered the engineers to run their trains slowly by the spot in order that the secessionists on board might feast their eyes upon the ghastly spectacle. And it is a fact as true as it is revolting, that men stood upon the platforms of every train that went by and kicked the dead bodies as they passed, and struck them with sticks and ratans, with such remarks as "that they looked well hanging there," and that all "d----d Yankees and traitors should hang that way too." It is true that Col. Ledbetter, as the weather was somewhat warm and the corpses were becoming somewhat offensive, ordered them to be cut down at the expiration of some thirty-six hours, but it was for the convenience of his secession friends purely, and not from any other motive. One day they came with two carts and took old Harmon, a Methodist class leader, and his son. Old Mr. Harmon was seated in one cart upon his coffin, and his son in the other, and each cart was surrounded by a strong guard of rebel bayonets, and driven down the hill to a scaffold in sight of the jail. The young man was hung first, and the father was compelled to look upon his death struggles. Then he was told to mount the scaffold, but being feeble and overpowered by his feelings, two of the ruffians took hold of him, one of them saying, "Get up there, you damned old traitor!" and the poor old man was launched after his son. A few days after this they came up to the jail with another cart. We never knew whose turn was to come next. I had "counted the cost." I intended, if my turn had come, to meet my fate with the best grace I could. I had prepared a speech for the occasion, and I can assure you that I should have pronounced a handsome eulogy, if I had been called upon, for if I have any talent in the world, it is that talent which consists in piling up one epithet upon another. But it turned out that the cart was not intended for me. It was intended for a young man by the name of H. C. Haun, an excellent young man of fine morals and good common sense. He had a wife and two small children. Haun was informed one hour before hand that he was to be hung. He immediately asked for a Methodist preacher who lived in the town, to come to see him, and to pray with him. The reply was: "We don't permit any praying here for a damned Union-shrieker."