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Death of a New York City Policeman-A Trial, Sentence, and Execution-Ought Governors to hold the Pardoning Power?

THE arrest of Robert Shank was made in the nighttime. He was taken with considerable difficulty. When the officer received Chief M-l's telegraphic dispatch, Shank was in a gambling-house on Broad way. The approach of the police was discovered, and all in the house at the time endeavored to make their escape. By accident, one of the police, after all hopes of making the arrest that night seemed lost, chanced to walk through Canal street from Broadway, into Mercer street. Opposite a lamp-post, he saw a man, apparently endeavoring to read the hour from his watch. Closely scanning his features, he recognized the very game he sought. Immediately giving a signal for assistance, he seized him by the arm, saying

"Robert Shank, you are my prisoner."

Shank aimed a blow at the officer, which was successfully parried. A trial of strength ensued, in which Shank drew a knife and succeeded in inflicting a dangerous wound upon the officer's left breast. The wounded man fell heavily to the ground; but, not relaxing his hold, Shank was drawn down with him.

As he was about to inflict a second blow upon the fallen policeman, his arm was rendered powerless by a well-directed blow given by a policeman, who had answered the signal. Shank felt himself seized by a second assailant. Mustering all his strength, he made one more effort to effect his escape. In this he would have succeeded, but for the unflinching courage of the wounded officer, who, having grasped his legs with both arms, held him, as the event proved, with the death grasp. This enabled the second officer to aim a blow at Shank which, for the instant, rendered him powerless. Taking a cord from his pocket, he succeeded in binding Shank's arms behind his back, before he revived from the effects of the blow. Several other officers now reached the scene of action, when Shank was fully secured. His knife was picked up, reeking with blood. Before assistance could be procured for the wounded policeman, he breathed his last. Shank was immediately conveyed to the Tombs.*

The wheels of justice, when money is freely used to block them, turn slowly, and, too often, crazily.

Notwithstanding the clear evidence which marked Shank for the gallows, still, nearly ten months had elapsed from the time he killed the policeman before he was adjudged to die. On the thirtieth day of June, he was brought into court to receive his sentence. The case had not failed to excite considerable interest, as all actions on behalf of the people, involving the penalty of death, usually do. In consequence, the court-room was filled. At ten o'clock in

* "Tombs," is a nickname bestowed upon one of the New York city jails.

the morning, the prisoner was led into the room. Every eye was instantly turned upon him. He walked erect and firmly, looking over the assembled hundreds, with a careless, but unflinching glance. A close observer, however, might have detected in his eye, regret. Whether it was a regret which proceeded from fear of death, aroused by a guilty conscience, or a regret at not being permitted to prey longer upon honest people, it was impossible to decide. While the prisoner was being led to a seat by his counsel, a buzz ran over the audience, caused by a general movement to obtain a better view of him.

At length, the court crier rapped several times upon his desk, when instantly a solemn stillness pervaded the audience. Every breath was held, and every ear eagerly opened to catch each word of the presiding justice. He thus addressed the guilty

wretch before him.

"Robert Shank, stand up.'

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The prisoner arose. Once more, a general buzz ran over the audience, which was immediately succeeded by a silence as of the grave.

The judge, whose benevolent countenance showed plainly how sincerely he shrank from the solemn duty which devolved upon him, then delivered the following address to the prisoner:

"Prisoner at the bar! you stand before this court convicted of the crime of murder, the highest offence known against human law. Your conviction has been the result of an earnest, careful, and solemn discharge of duty. That duty has been unsought by the men who have sealed your doom. In making up their verdict, your jury have been assisted by the

efforts of wise counsels and earnest appeals both on your behalf and for the measure of justice. The doubt, which the law, with her ready protection, throws around the life and liberty of every citizen, has, by their verdict, been taken from your brow. In its place, there is stamped upon it, in plain characters, the terrible word 'murderer.' See to it, ere the short time shall elapse which the court, for your own sake, has determined to add to your life, that this terrible word does not become stamped in inef faceable characters upon your soul. The facts of your crime are peculiar. While the hand of justice was being laid upon your arm, calling you to an account for the life of one once a herald of God's truth to man, and for the taking of whose life you would have been brought to trial, had the result of the present action been different; with the knowledge of your crimes, or your innocence, you struck down a fellow-being, who had warned you that his purpose was commanded by duty. Innocence seldom feareth the inquiry of justice, however searching. Conscious guilt is sure to plan and quick to execute additional crime. The verdict of your jury, while it consigns your body to a felon's death, also gives public opinion the right to look to you for a solution of the doubt which yet hangs over the memory of your supposed victim, Rev. John Furnace. See to it, as you endeavor to make your peace with heaven, that you hesitate long to approach that grave which separates all mankind from the Great Judge, without removing so much of your guilt as confession and repentance, handmaids of Truth, can wash from your soul.

"Robert Shank, have you anything to say why

the sentence of the law should not now be pronounced against you?"

The large audience waited in breathless silence to catch the prisoner's reply. It was very evident that the address of the judge, so entirely unexpected by the prisoner, as well as by the audience, had been carefully listened to and duly weighed by the guilty man. But one thing prevented him from making a full confession upon the spot-the fear that he should implicate Mordaunt. After waiting a few moments, he replied:

"Nothing, sir."

The justice then, taking up a piece of paper, continued:

"Robert Shank, you have been tried and convicted of the crime of murder, by a jury of your countrymen, for the killing of John Peabody. It remains for this court to pass upon you the sentence of the law, in such cases made and provided. It is, that you be taken from this room back to the confinement from whence you came; that you be there kept until the 16th day of August, proximo; that on that day, between the hours of eight o'clock, A.M., and six o'clock, P.M., you be hanged by the neck until dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul."

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On the sixth day of August, subsequent to receiving his sentence, Shank sent a request for his counsel to visit him, in company with a young clergyman to whom he had become very much attached, and who, in view of the awful doom which awaited Shank, had been very attentive to him.

On that day he made a full confession of his.

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