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Hanging of Robert Schamle in a Georgetown Hog Pen, by a Mob.

Both were thus awakened from a sound slumber, and they instinctively obeyed orders, well knowing that resistance was in vain. The vigilantes then searched for the keys to the cells, and at length found them between the bed and the mattress where the jailer was sleeping. They then left the room, leaving two men to guard the door, and took Schamle from his cell, some time after which the keys were thrown on the bed where the men were lying, and the lynchers left.

Here there is a missing link in Schamle’s history. It is not known to the general public whether he made any unbecoming demonstrations, or protested his innocence, or said his prayers, the only record being that left with the body by a local poet, who half lets us into the secret in the following lines:

THE LAY OF THE VIGILANTES.
Not a bark was heard, not a warning note,
As we o’er to the calaboose hurried;
Not a Thomas cat cleared his melodious throat
Where our hero in slumber lay buried.
We entered his cell at the dead of night,
The bolt with the jail keys turning,
The moon’s pale crescent had sank out of sight,
And never a lamp was burning.
No useless stogas encased his feet;
And we saw, as we carefully bound him,
That he stood like a coward, dreading to meet
The shades of the victims around him.
Few and short were the prayers he said—
He did not have time to say long ones—
But he steadfastly gazed at the frame o’er his head
And grieved that the posts were such strong ones.
We thought, as we hoisted him up from the ground
And made the rope fast to a corner.
That the cool morning zephyrs would whisper around
A corse without ever a mourner.

Lightly they’ll talk of the deed that is done,
And wonder, “Who was it that hung him?”
Though little they’ll grieve to see him hang on
The beam where the “vigilance” swung him.
As soon as our cheerful task was done,
Ere the light of the morning was firing
The peaks that glow in the rays of the sun,
We prudently spoke of retiring.
Sternly and gladly we looked on him there
As we thought of his deeds dark and evil;
We heaved not a sigh and breathed not a prayer,
But we left him alone with the Devil.

This, to be sure, is slightly mysterious, and perhaps not entirely reliable. At any rate, the body of the murderer was found when the sun rose, hanging by the neck to the frame of a dilapidated building, a few hundred feet from the jail, which is used as a pig pen. As soon as the deed became generally known, a large crowd of both sexes collected at the spot to gaze upon the ghastly spectacle. His toilet had evidently been hastily and carelessly made, but possibly he was not to blame for this. He was minus his hat, coat and vest, and in spite of the predictions that are usually applied to his ilk, he did not die with his boots on.

Between 8 and 9 o’clock a brief inquest was held over the remains, and a verdict in accordance with the facts was returned. The body was then cut down and laid on the end of a large cask which served as a sleeping apartment for pigs. When it fell down the head was gashed by the rocks. The body remained where it was placed until 11 o’clock a. m., and during that time was viewed by hundreds of people who were constantly arriving and leaving, and among all that crowd there was not one pitying eye, or a single expression of sorrow or sympathy.