on which might be read the thought which had
hitherto marred his own existence. He beheld
his grandfather, in a shooting dress, mournfully
leaning on the barrel of his gun, the other
hand caressing his dog: probably the only friend
he ever had. He beheld his father serious
and sad, hat in hand, and dressed in the suit
of mourning he constantly wore. He seemed
thus to acquaint these mute witnesses with the
close of the fatality which had weighed upon their
race, and to associate them with his next action.
Ringing a bell, he called for water and a basin,
and then, alone, before God, who sees to the
bottom of the heart, he solemnly washed the
hands which the blood of his fellow-creatures
was no more to pollute.

Proceeding to his mother's room, he laid on
her knees the missive of Monsieur the Minister
of Justice. She read it, and turned towards him
those affectionate eyes from which he had often
derived strength and courage, saying, "Blessed
be this day, my son! It relieves you at last of
the evil part of the heritage of your fathers. The
remainder you will enjoy in peace, and Providence,
perhaps, may have further gifts in store."

The next day, eighteen candidates competed
for the bloody inheritance. Their applications,
backed by high testimonials, were handed about
the ministerial ante-chambers. It is clear that
there was no difficulty in replacing the retiring
officer.

As to M. Sanson, his resolution was taken.
He lost no time in selling his old hotel, peopled
with sombre recollections, in which seven
generations of his race had lived, hedged in with
opprobrium and ignominy. His horses and
equipage followed. He got rid of everything that
could retain or resuscitate the memory of the
past. Then he left for ever the hereditary
dwelling where, like his ancestors, he had enjoyed
neither peace by day nor rest by night.

M. Sanson's first idea was to start for the
New World. His father had been dead seven
years; he had had the good fortune to settle
his two daughters, whose married names are
carefully concealed, that they may not have
to blush for their father's old profession. But
in spite of the seductions of a new country and
a new life, a yet stronger claim held him in
Paris: his aged mother still survived, was
incapable of bearing the voyage, and could not be
left to expire uncared for by her only son.

Three years afterwards, she died. In the
mean while, M. Sanson felt conscious of having
reached an age when it was too late to think of
beginning life. He relinquished the idea of
expatriating himself. Nevertheless, he quitted
Paris, and chose a retreat so remote and safe
as that nothing should reach him there to
recal the occupations of his youth and manhood.
In this retreat he has been buried for the last
twelve years, under an assumed name: enjoying
with a secret shame friendships which he leels
remorse at acquiring, and of which he fears
every instant to be robbed by the discovery of
his incognito. As despairing men rush on
the death they cannot escape, so our author,
finding it impossible to banish the past from his
thoughts, has yielded to the strange temptation
of writing the book of which the first volume
is now before us—a history of capital punishment
and of decapitators, including the romantic
incident through which the horrible inheritance
first entered his family, and which inheritance,
he thanks God, he transmits to no man.

Charles Sanson de Longval, first of the line
of executioners, was born at Abbeville, in
1635, and lost both his parents in infancy. As
if to avoid the reproaches which his posterity
might be tempted to make, he took care to
burn his portrait before his death. By a bitter
mockery of destiny, the founder of a dynasty of
headsmen was a " gentilhomme," that is, of
noble birth. The Sansons took part, not only in
the Crusades, but in the conquest of England.
Another, Nicolas Sanson, the father of modern
geography, had the honour of entertaining Louis
the Thirteenth at Abbeville. A king of France,
a Bourbon, slept two nights under the roof of a
family, one of whose descendants was destined,
one day, to execute another Bourbon, another
king of France.

Charles Sanson fell from the rank of
lieutenant in the Marquis de Laboissière's regiment,
to that of executioner, by marrying for love (and
perhaps a little by compulsion) the Dieppe
executioner's daughter, Marguerite Jouanne, whom
he had seduced by very disgraceful means. The
father-in-law would hear of no compromise: the
son-in-law must be one of themselves. The
record of an execution which took place at
Rouen, proves that the father rigorously exacted
the conditions of the bargain. It states, '' That
having to break (the limbs of) one Martin Eslau
by name, Maistre Pierre Jouanne, the executor
of high works, having forced his son-in-law,
newly married, to give the patient a blow with
the iron bar, the said son-in-law fell into a
swoon, and was overwhelmed with hooting by
the crowd." The happiness which Charles
Sanson had purchased so dearly, passed away
like a dream. Marguerite was soon taken to a
better world, leaving him a son.

Towards the close of 1685, the ancestor of
the Sansons quitted Normandy, leaving there the
ashes of the wife whom he had espoused with so
fatal a dowry. The stormy events of his
passionate life had almost shaken his reason; he
was always oppressed by a sombre melancholy,
which heightened the sinister aspect given
to his countenance by the profession to which
he had resigned himself. At Rouen, people
retreated in terror as he passed; they pointed
him out to one another as a man grown old
before his time. Few were acquainted with his
eventful story; but the mere sight of him was
enough. " That's the executioner!" they
whispered, and got out of the way. Glad to
escape from so fearful a notoriety, he willingly
accepted the proposition to go to Paris, and
exchange his provincial jurisdiction for that of the
capital of the kingdom.

On arriving at Paris, he was obliged to occupy
the Pilori des Halles, which the people styled