young man, about thirty years of age, politely enquired what I wanted. Mr. Henry Sanson," said I, in a trembling voice. This individual was one of the executioner's assistants.

Among other accredited errors regarding the executioner in France, is an idea that the office is perpetual in the same family, and the son obliged to succeed the father. No such thing. No man who has not undergone the sentence of a court of justice can, at a period when the lowest citizen enjoys his civil and political rights, be forced to embrace any profession against his will. Another cause must be found to account for the son always reaping the bloody inheritance of his father.

The executioner lives in a state of exclusion from society. He can associate, out of his own family, with none but executioners: nor can he seek alliances anywhere but among executioners. Is it his fault if you have made him a man apart from other men? Would you give him your daughter in marriage, or seek to become his sonin-law? Would you admit him into your house? Would not his arrival at any place where you might be, raise throughout your frame the same kind of shudder as if you were in the Jardin des Plantes, and the lion had broken loose? And yet he is a man, as well as you —and equally in want of friendship and love, which he can demand only from those circumstanced as he is. He and his are like a family of Chandalas in the midst of a community of Bramins.

Do not believe, however, that the office of executioner can ever want an occupant. When Monsieur de Versailles died, some years ago, without issue, there were a hundred and eighty-seven applications for his office. Most of the candidates were old soldiers, several of them butchers. This fact leads to a horrible doubt. Can it be possible that all men are qualified for such an office, and that familiarity with blood is alone wanting?

I return to my visit.

I was ushered into a small room, where I saw a man about sixty, with a countenance beaming with mildness and candour, amusing himself at the piano. This was the executioner!

In the same room was his son,* a young man of three or four and thirty, with light hair, and a mild timid look. On his knee sat a girl ten or twelve years old, lovely as an angel, remarkable for the

* The circumstance of this young man's marriage is somewhat romantic. A young and very beautiful girl, the daughter of a rich hosier of Paris, seeing him often pass her father's house, fell deeply in love with him, without knowing who he was. On discovering the dreadful secret, her parents endeavoured to combat this unhappy attachment, but so ineffectually, that she became dangerously ill, and would, no doubt, have died, had not the prejudice been overcome, the young man sent for, and the match concluded. This couple are models of conjugal affection. The office of executioner at Paris is better paid than that of president of the Royal Court. Mr. Sanson, the elder, has two unmarried daughters, remarkable for their beauty. He has spared no expense upon their education, and is able to add handsome dowers. Yet these ill-fated and lovely girls must make up their minds to marry executioners, or pine away their lives in single blessedness.

beauty and nobleness of her features, and their expression of artless vivacity. She was his daughter.

This family picture struck me forcibly; and Susan must have perceived it. The fact is, that, without sharing in the prejudice of the multitude, I had, nevertheless, formed an idea very different from what was now before me. That little girl above all-she strangely bewildered me. I could have wished that nothing so beautiful might have been found there; it was like sun-light on a thunder-cloud, or a rose rising in its beauty between the stones of a sepulchre.

For several years past, M. Sanson the younger performed the duties of his father's office. Destined, for reasons which I have already explained, to succeed to that office, he is serving his little apprenticeship of blood under the eye of the latter, who is obliged to be present at every execution-for the law knows no other than him, and he is personally responsible for all that passes.

M. Sanson received me like a man of the world, without embarrassment or affectation, and politely enquired the object of my visit. My story was ready prepared. I was writing a work on judicial punishments, and, relying upon his obliging disposition, had taken the liberty of applying to him for information. The amiable manner in which he replied, that all the information he possessed, was at my service, made me feel quite at home. I did not therefore confine my questions to the avowed object, and in a conversation of nearly two hours, I had an opportunity of observing the sound judgment and purity of mind of Monsieur de Paris.

M. Sanson did not attempt to disguise how acutely he felt the stigma attached to the situation. But he supports it, not like a scorner, but a philosopher.

This feeling, however, never once made him forget the distance which society has placed between him and it. If you but lost sight of it an instant, M. Sanson would take care to recall it to your mind.

One thing struck me particularly. He had often resorted to his snuff-box without once offering it to me. This departure from the established custom of snuff-takers, surprised me. On a sudden, mechanically indeed, and without thought, and while absorbed in conversation, I offered him a pinch from my box. He raised his hand in token of refusal, with an expression of countenance impossible to describe, but which sent a chill through me. Unhappy man! a recollection of the past brought the blood tingling to his fingers' ends!

M. Sanson delights in conversation; probably because he has read much and with profit. He has an extensive and well-chosen library. His books, indeed, are his only society; with their aid he can escape from embarrassment and humiliation, converse with master minds, obtain recreation from his horrible duties, consolation for the scorn of his fellow men, repose for his days, and sleep for his nights.

Excluded from living society, his intercourse is with the great of

past ages; he can look on them without a shudder-they died not by his hand!

Among the works, were two which I little expected to find there -the works of M. de Maistre, and Le dernier Jour d'un Condamné.* The library furnished me with a topic of conversation, which I was glad to avail myself of. Until then the conversation had flagged; I had felt a delicacy in pressing him with questions, and he, with the tact which characterizes him, avoided speaking on any subject not immediately connected with his office. But the moment we touched upon literature, he yielded me an entire confidence; the constraint he had imposed upon himself disappeared. He laid down principles, and discussed opinions like a man well acquainted with the subject, and notwithstanding certain literary heresies, arising from the want of an elementary education, he gave decisions that would have done honour to a member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles Lettres.

One would have supposed that the nature of his office, and the description of persons with whom it brings him in connexion, must have extinguished in him all humane feeling; quite the reversethey have developed the most acute sensibility. This man, who coldly inspects the preparations for an execution, raises piece by piece the dreadful instrument of death, oils the ropes, and tries the edge of the knife with his finger, cannot restrain his tears when you remind him of any past execution. He raises his voice with energy against the punishment of death, developes with animation the means which might efficaciously be substituted for it-and on the day of execution he may be seen pale as death, refusing food, and overcome with feelings of disgust and horror.

He related to me some curious anecdotes concerning the last moments of certain celebrated criminals. I shall not record them here. Amid facts sometimes affecting, sometimes burlesque, such details are painful—they are like the smile of a corpse on a gibbet. I shall only mention why the scaffold and guillotine are now taken down immediately after an execution. Formerly they remained standing. the spring which put the knife into action being fastened by a padJock.

In 1797, after an execution, the executioner and his assistants had retired to the first floor of a cabaret, situated at the angle formed by the Place de Grève and the Quai Pelletier. They were talking, drinking, perhaps laughing. Some one knocked at the door. It was a workman, who came, he said, to beg that M. Sanson would lend him the key of the guillotine. A journeyman barber had just been taken in the act of stealing a watch, and the people, in their love of summary justice, had hoisted him upon the scaffold, tied him to the fatal plank, slid him under the knife, and, but for the precaution taken, his head would have been already off. The executioner, who had

"

The last day of a condemned criminal," a work by Victor Hugo.

opened the door himself, replied, that M. Sanson was just gone out, and had taken the key with him, but would return in a couple of hours. There was, therefore, no remedy but to wait. By degrees the crowd began to disperse, but the man devoted to death was left lying under the axe. At last, and after a lapse of time, every minute of which must have appeared an hour, he was released. Nothing can give an adequate idea of his feelings, nor of the agony he suffered during this novel species of slow torture.

Less from a motive of curiosity than to remind M. Sanson of the professed object of my visit, I begged him to show me the room which contained the instruments formerly used in the infliction of judicial torture. The sight of this museum filled me with horror. One thing in this conservatory of murder is worthy of mention: it is the sword with which the Marquis de Lally was decapitated. This weapon was manufactured on purpose, and several blades were made before one was found fit for the purpose.

At that period, whenever any remarkable execution took place, the young lords of the court were in the habit of standing upon the platform of the scaffold, just as they were accustomed, in the evening, to seat themselves upon the benches which, in those days, stood upon the stage, at the theatres. On the day of M. de Lally's execution, these spectators were more numerous than usual; and one of the most eager to enjoy the spectacle, accidentally struck the arm of the executioner at the moment the latter was balancing the murderous steel in the air, previously to striking the fatal blow. The shock caused the weapon to deviate from a right line, and, instead of striking the nape of the neck, it fell upon the head of the victim, which it penetrated, and stopped at the jaw. The sword was notched by coming in contact with a tooth, and an assistant of the executioner was obliged to terminate the tragedy with a cutlass !—I held the fatal sword in my hand, and saw that a tooth might easily have caused the notch. Another anecdote may not be out of place.

About the year 1750, in the middle of the night, three young men belonging to that high class of the nobility which had then a monopoly for breaking windows, insulting street passengers, and beating the guard, and which would fain have revived, after too long an interval, the gay, extravagant, and insolently aristocratical manners of the regency were strolling down the faubourg St. Martin, after supper, laughing and talking under the influence of sparkling champaign.

On their arrival in the Rue St. Nicholas, they heard the sound of instruments, and the music was of so lively a character that it could not but indicate a hearty bourgeois dance. How fortunate! it would enable them to pass pleasantly the remainder of the night.

One of them knocked at the door; it was opened by a polite welldressed man.

The young lord hastened to explain the nature of this unseasonable visit.

The gentleman, with frigid politeness, declined their company. "This is a family party," said he, " and no stranger can be admitted.” "You are wrong," said the young nobleman, “We belong to the court, and we are doing you great honour in condescending to join your party."

"Once more, gentlemen, I must refuse your offer, neither of you know the person you are addressing, or you would be as anxious to withdraw as you are now importunate to be admitted.”

"Excellent, upon my honour!" said the most eager and the wildest of the party, “and who the devil are you?"

"I am the executioner of Paris."

"Ha! ha! ha! What, is it you who cut off heads, break limbs upon the wheel, make nerves crack upon the wooden horse, and torture poor devils so agreeably?"

"Softly, gentlemen. Such, indeed, are the duties of my office; but I leave these matters to my deputies. It is only when a man of quality—a young lord, like either of you, gentlemen—is subjected to the penalties of the law, that I do execution on him with my own hands.'

The individual who addressed the executioner was the Marquis de Lally, who, twenty years afterwards, died by the hands of the same man upon whose office he was then exercising his powers of raillery.

When I quitted Sanson, after a long visit, during which I had lost sight of his situation in his society,-prompted by that natural warmth of feeling which urges us to make advances to those who please us,—I instinctively held out my hand to him. He drew back with a look of surprise and confusion.

The snuff-box occurred to my recollection, and I fully understood his thoughts. The hand which comes in daily contact with crime dareed not press that of an honest man.

TO A DEPARTED CHILD.

Thy memory, as a spell

Of love, comes o'er my mind-
As dew upon the purple bell,
As perfume on the wind-

As music on the sea,

As sun-shine on the river,

So hath it always been to me,

So shall it be for ever.

I hear thy voice in dreams,

Upon me softly call,

Like echo of the mountain streams,
In sportive waterfall.

I see thy form, as when

Thou wert a living thing,

And blossom'd in the eyes of
Like any flower of spring.

men,