Baltimore Evening Sun (4 January 1913): 6.

Attending at the City Jail yesterday morning, as the guest of the Hon. Bernard J. Lee, to witness the official exitus of a gentleman of color, I was surprised to find no suffragettes at the ringside. In view of their late advocacy of the wholesale hanging of sinners and their plain promise to begin the business as soon as they are in power, which will undoubtedly be very soon, I was full of hope that some of them would be on the scene to observe and master the somewhat ticklish technique of strangulation. But, as I have said, I could find none in the select company of scientists present, and the Hon. Mr. Lee assured me that none were concealed behind the draperies of the lethal chamber.

A pity, to be sure. It was a first-class union hanging and would have given the sweet girls valuable tips for future use. For I assume, of course, that they will participate personally, and even joyfully, in that copious slaughter of the licentious of which they now but dream. When women go to the polls and vote for the practical extermination of the male sex, and then go to the Legislature and put that enterprise into laws, and then sit upon juries and condemn the guilty to the noose, it will be their plain duty, not to say their lofty privilege, to carry the thing through to its affecting finish upon the scaffold. They will do it, I daresay, because they will want to do it, and they will have to do it because few men will be left, after a while, to do it for them. A matter of simple mathematics: on the one hand they tell us that 90 per cent. of all men are scoundrels, and on the other hand they argue that all scoundrels should be exposed to the utmost rigors of the law.

But they missed their chance yesterday, and so I hasten to supply them with particulars of the art, in fear that they may get some friend of mine as their first victim, and disgrace him by bungling him. I pass over, as irrelevant, the affecting preliminaries–the awakening of the condemned by his death-watch; his riotous meal of bacon, fried eggs, French fried potatoes, stewed tomatoes, celery, pound cake and drip coffee; the last visit of his spiritual adviser; the singing of the parting hymn; the composition of dying messages; the goodbye to deputy wardens, newspaper reporters and fellow-prisoners--and proceed at once to the execution proper.

It begins with the fateful footfall of the sheriff in the corridor. “Come, Johnson, your time is up!” The prisoner rises, the cell door is swung open and the first part of the march is begun. It is to the warden’s office. a deputy sheriff leading and guards walking on each side of the condemned. There a crowd of men has gathered--perhaps 30 in all--and as the little procession enters they take off their hats and crane their necks. The prisoner wears a new suit of black clothes and a low, low collar. He stands up in the middle of the room, unsupported and silent, and the deputy sheriffs begin to strap his arms.

First, his wrists are brought together and a long strap is wound around and around them and buckled tight. Then his elbows are drawn back and strapped together behind his back. Then a gruesome black gown, with a monkish sort of black hood, is shaken from its wrappings and put on over his head, with the hood hanging down. The gown has been used before. The straps have been used before. The deputy sheriffs have been there before. It is a very swift and businesslike proceeding.

Now comes the march to the scaffold. Ahead go several deputies, and then follows the condemned with his spiritual adviser. The rest follow in disorder. Through the jail, down the jail yard, and so to the actual place of execution. The condemned, his lips moving, his eyes staring, looks up and sees the great beam, the clumsy trap, the dangling noose. A long flight of steep steps, perhaps 15 or 20. He must walk up them with his arms tied and his long gown flopping about his feet. If he stumbles, his spiritual adviser lends him a hand and a deputy pushes him from behind. The crowd groups itself around the base of the scaffold. Nobody says anything.

Once on the platform the condemned is led to the trap and there makes ready for his farewell to the world. Two heavy boards are laid across the trap, and on these the busy deputies stand, so that in case the trap falls prematurely they will not go through. One of them, kneeling, straps the feet and knees of the condemned together. Another reaches up for the noose, draws it down and deftly slips it over the culprit’s head. The rough rope scratches him: at its touch he winces. It is drawn tightly around his neck, with the huge knot under his left ear. The black hood is pulled over his head. The deputy sheriffs step back and draw their protective boards out of the way. The crowd holds its collective breath.

Then the chief deputy waves a handkerchief, there is the squeak of a wire, and bang! the trip falls with a loud rattle. The sheriff, concealed in his booth behind the scaffold, has pulled the lever. Down shoots the condemned man, a shapeless, black bag--to stop with a jerk that shakes the whole scaffold. The sound of that jerk I shall not attempt to describe: it is much like a single low C, pizzicato, by 104 bass fiddles. The spectators, white and clammy, blow out their breaths; sometimes one or two of them faint. Down below, under the trap, a doctor mounts a chair and begins work with his stethoscope.

But this is not always easy. The condemned. man may kick. Yes; he may kick with both feet, and swing round like a top, and draw up his knees, and heave his shoulders, and struggle with his straps. A pretty sight! And his nose may bleed and he may otherwise--a sight to see! A warning to evildoers! The majesty of the law! Society at a holy duty! Something to remember!

But soon he stops kicking and then they let him down until his toes barely touch the ground. The doctors cluster around him and listen at his chest. By and by one of them sings out “No heart beat!” and the time is taken down. “How long?” asks some one. “Twelve minutes,” says one of the doctors. “Not so bad,” agree the deputy sheriffs. And then a couple of darkies bring up a coffin and the late Mr. Johnson is lowered into it. The rope is slipped from his neck, and the spectators begin to cut it up. Souvenirs! The gown is carefully taken off him, and wrapped up. Some other fellow will need it next week.

Alas, that the suffragettes were not present yesterday. It was a first-rate union hanging, swift, businesslike and instructive. It was full of interest to the connoisseur.