THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
all was silence again. My sturdy locksmith held me up in his arms, so that I might look over the heads of the crowds in front. The unfortunate culprit stepped forward; the assistant of the executioner strapped him to a board which extended from his feet to his shoulders, leaving his neck free; the victim glanced up at the ax, suspended from a cross beam; the next instant he was pushed down so that his neck lay under the gleaming blade; the ax fell like a flash of lightning, severing the head from the shoulders at a whisk. A stream of blood spurted into the air, but the hideous sight was quickly concealed from the gaze of the public by a dark cloth. The whole deed was done with the rapidity of thought. One scarcely became conscious of the terrible shock before it was over. A dull murmur arose from the onlooking throngs, after which they silently dispersed; the scaffold was taken down and the blood on the ground covered with sand before the first rays of the morning sun shone brightly upon the Cathedral towers. I remember walking home shuddering and trembling, and finding it impossible to eat my breakfast. Nothing could have induced me to witness another execution.
The good locksmith was an enthusiastic play-goer, and allowed me sometimes to accompany him to the theater—to be sure only on the topmost gallery, where a seat cost five groschen (twelve and a half cents). The theater of Cologne occupied, as I learned later, in the world of art a very respectable place. To me it was a dream of the marvelous and magnificent. I was beside myself with astonished delight when, for the first time, I saw, before the lifting of the curtain, the painted ceiling over the auditorium part in the middle and through this mysterious opening a brilliantly lighted chandelier slowly descend, the ceiling thereupon closing again. The performances I witnessed also moved me powerfully.
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