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THE GUILLOTINE.


The first sight, however, which it fell to my lot to witness at Brussels
in this second and short visit, was neither gay nor handsome, nor dear
in any sense, but the very reverse; it being that of the punishment of
the guillotine inflicted on a wretched murderer, named John Baptist
Michel.[2] Hearing, at the moment of my arrival, that this tragical
scene was on the point of being acted in the great square of the
market-place, I determined for once to make a sacrifice of my feelings
to the desire of being present at a spectacle, with the nature of which
the recollections of revolutionary horrors are so intimately associated.
Accordingly, following to the spot a guard of soldiers appointed to
assist at the execution, I disengaged myself as soon as possible from
the pressure of the immense crowd already assembled, and obtained a seat
at the window of a house immediately opposite the Hotel-de-Ville, in
front of the principal entrance to which the guillotine had been
erected. At the hour of twelve at noon precisely, the malefactor, tall,
athletic, and young, having his hands tied behind his back, and being
stripped to the waist, was brought to the square in a cart, under an
escort of gen-d'armes, attended by an elderly and respectable
ecclesiastic; who, having been previously occupied in administering the
consolations of religion to the condemned person in prison, now appeared
incessantly employed in tranquillizing him on his way to the scaffold.
Arrived near the fatal machine, the unhappy man stepped out of the
vehicle, knelt at the feet of his confessor, received the priestly
benediction, kissed some individuals who accompanied him, and was