Aaron Mahnke

Meanwhile, citizens outside the prison scaled trees and telegraph poles, eager to catch a glimpse of the strange spectacle.

Some even perched on nearby rooftops as if watching a parade, but what they were about to see would be about as far from a parade as you could get.

Snap went the straps, tying Kemmler's arms and legs and torso to the chair.

Even his face was buckled in.

Finally, though, he was secure, and then the chair was turned on.

Kemmler convulsed.

He went rigid, and then the electricity was turned back off.

It was done.

Or so they thought.

Because then, to everyone's horror, Kemmler began to drool.

He foamed at the mouth and made odd noises while his chest heaved with clear evidence of breathing.

There was no doubt.

The man was still alive.

On went the chair again, and this time the capillaries in Kemmler's face began to burst.

An awful smell filled the room, singed hair and flesh.

One full excruciating minute passed as the chair continued to fizz and rattle, until at long last it was over.

Kemmler was dead.

The next day, a furious article scorched the front page of the New York Times.

Far worse than hanging, read the headline, a disgrace to civilization.

Later, an autopsy noted that Kemmler's muscles underneath where the electrodes were placed were, and I quote, "...cooked like overdone beef."