In the annals of human history, few methods of execution have matched the sheer brutality and prolonged agony of scaphism. This ancient Persian torture technique, also known as “the boats,” stands as a testament to the depths of human cruelty and the macabre ingenuity of our ancestors.
The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote:
“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
This is a sentiment that resonates deeply when confronting the horrors of scaphism. The origins of scaphism can be traced back to the Persian Empire, a vast realm that stretched from the Balkans to Central Asia at its height in the fifth century BCE. The term “scaphism” itself comes from the Greek word skaphe, meaning anything scooped or hollowed out. This etymology offers a chilling hint at the method’s nature, where the victim’s body becomes a vessel for unimaginable suffering.
The practice is believed to have been employed during the reign of Artaxerxes II (404–358 BCE), a period marked by political intrigue and brutal power struggles within the Achaemenid dynasty. One of the earliest and most detailed accounts of scaphism comes from the Greek historian Plutarch, writing in the first century CE. In his work Life of Artaxerxes, Plutarch describes the execution of Mithridates, a soldier who claimed to have killed Cyrus the Younger in 401 BCE. The account is not for the faint of heart, as Plutarch spares no detail in describing the horrific ordeal that awaited the condemned.
Mithridates’ execution took place in the ancient city of Persepolis, the ceremonial capital of the Achaemenid Empire, adding a layer of grim pageantry to the already horrific scene. According to Plutarch, the execution began with the victim being forcibly fed a mix of milk and honey, a combination that would soon play a crucial role in their torment. The executioners would then coat the victim’s face with the same sweet concoction before binding them between two wooden boats or hollowed-out tree trunks. Only the victim’s head, hands, and feet would be left exposed, creating a macabre spectacle that was as much about public humiliation as it was about physical suffering.
This public display served as a potent deterrent, with the Roman orator Cicero later noting:
“The terror of punishment must often be used to keep evildoers in check.”
The boats, with their human cargo, would then be left to float on a stagnant pond or swamp. Here, under the relentless sun, the true horror of scaphism would begin to unfold. The milk and honey mixture, initially forced down the victim’s throat, would soon cause severe diarrhea. Unable to move or clean themselves, the condemned would be forced to lie in their own excrement, which would quickly attract insects. The ancient Greek physician Ctesias, who served at the court of Artaxerxes II, provided additional details about the process, describing how the victim’s eyes were often the first target for the swarming insects, adding a horrific element of blindness to the already unbearable torment.
Flies, attracted by the sweet smell of honey and the pungent odor of human waste, would descend upon the victim in swarms. They would lay their eggs in the exposed flesh, and soon, maggots would begin to feast on the still-living body. The combination of insects, exposure to the elements, and the victim’s own bodily functions created a perfect storm of suffering that could last for days or even weeks.
One of the most disturbing aspects of scaphism was its duration. Unlike many forms of execution that sought a swift end, scaphism was designed to prolong the agony for as long as possible. Executioners would return daily to force-feed the victim more milk and honey, ensuring that they remained alive and conscious throughout their ordeal. This twisted act of care only served to extend the torture, with some accounts suggesting that victims could survive for up to 17 days in this hellish state. The Persian king Darius I (522–486 BCE) was said to have favored this method for particularly heinous crimes, believing that a prolonged death served as a greater deterrent than a quick execution.
While Mithridates’ execution is one of the most well-documented cases of scaphism, it was far from the only one. The method was reportedly used on a variety of criminals and political enemies throughout the Persian Empire’s history. One particularly gruesome account tells of two boats being used with the victim sandwiched between them, creating a kind of human cocoon that was then set adrift on a lake. This variation was said to have been used on a Persian general named Parysatis who had fallen out of favor with the king.
The storyteller Herodotus, often called the “father of history,” recounted numerous tales of Persian punishment, though he did not specifically mention scaphism. His works, however, painted a picture of a culture where elaborate and cruel executions were not uncommon. The psychological impact of scaphism cannot be overstated. The knowledge that one’s body would become a living nest for insects, coupled with the complete loss of dignity and control, must have been as torturous as the physical pain itself.
The Roman historian Zonaras, writing in the 12th century CE, described the final stages of a scaphism victim’s life in horrifying detail:
“The worms that bred in the putrefaction penetrated the body, consuming it in imperceptible progress. Thus, the victim died in the most abominable pain.”
In more recent times, the horror of scaphism has been reimagined in popular culture. The 2014 film The Pyramid features a scene directly inspired by this ancient torture method, bringing its terrors to a new generation of viewers. The enduring fascination with scaphism speaks to humanity’s complex relationship with violence and punishment, a dark mirror reflecting our capacity for both justice and cruelty. As the philosopher Michel Foucault observed in his work Discipline and Punish:
“The public execution is to be understood not only as a judicial but also as a political ritual. It belongs, even in minor cases, to the ceremonies by which power is manifested.”
In the shadowy depths of medieval Europe, a sinister instrument of torture and execution cast its terrible shadow across the land: known as the “breaking wheel” or “Catherine wheel.” This diabolical device became a symbol of the era’s brutal approach to justice and punishment. From the cobblestone streets of Paris to the fortress towns of Germany, the wheel’s presence struck fear into the hearts of commoners and criminals alike. As the renowned 18th-century philosopher Voltaire once remarked:
“The wheel, the stake, the Gallows and the strappado were the usual punishments for crimes which did not deserve death.”
The breaking wheel’s origins can be traced back to ancient times, but it reached its zenith of infamy during the Middle Ages, particularly in France and Germany. The device consisted of a large wooden wheel, often with a diameter of 6 feet or more, mounted horizontally on a sturdy post. Its spokes, typically numbering between 6 and 12, were designed not for locomotion but for inflicting unimaginable pain. In some regions, such as the Swiss Canton of Vaud, the wheel was known as la roue vive or “living wheel,” a chilling allusion to the prolonged suffering it inflicted.
The process of execution by the breaking wheel was as intricate as it was brutal. The condemned would be stripped naked and bound to the wheel, their limbs stretched out along the spokes. The executioner, often a skilled professional who took pride in his grim craft, would then set about systematically breaking the victim’s bones with a heavy iron bar or hammer. Starting with the legs and arms, he would work his way inward, shattering joints and crushing bones with practiced precision.
One such executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, who served as the Royal Executioner of France during the reign of King Louis XVI, wrote in his memoirs:
“The art of the wheel is to prolong the agony, to make death a thing of hours, not minutes.”
In some cases, the executioner would deliver a coup de grâce, a blow to the chest or abdomen to hasten death. However, in particularly severe cases, the victim would be left to die slowly, sometimes taking days to succumb to their injuries, exposure, and dehydration. The wheel would then be hoisted upright and displayed in a public place, serving as a grim warning to would-be wrongdoers.
In 1581, the infamous serial killer Peter Niers was subjected to an especially gruesome execution in Neumarkt in der Oberpfalz, Germany. Over the course of 3 days, he was broken on the wheel with 42 strikes administered before he finally expired.
One of the most infamous cases involving the breaking wheel occurred in 1757 in Paris. Robert-François Damiens, who had attempted to assassinate King Louis XV, was sentenced to be broken on the wheel in the Place de Grève. The execution, witnessed by thousands, lasted for hours as Damiens endured unimaginable torments. The renowned philosopher Voltaire, deeply affected by the brutality of the spectacle, later wrote:
“It is impossible to express the horror of the site.”
The execution was so gruesome that it was detailed in the Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot, serving as a stark illustration of the era’s judicial cruelty. The use of the breaking wheel varied across Europe. In Germany, it was often reserved for the most heinous crimes, such as patricide or regicide. The Constitutio Criminalis Carolina, the first comprehensive German Penal Code issued by Emperor Charles V in 1532, specifically mentioned the breaking wheel as a form of aggravated execution for severe offenses. In the German city of Hamburg, the last execution by wheel took place as late as 1759 when the murderer Mathias Claudius met his grizzly end.
In France, the wheel became closely associated with the punishment of highwaymen and bandits. The notorious outlaw Cartouche, who terrorized Paris in the early 18th century, met his end on the wheel in 1721. His execution drew a crowd of over 200,000 spectators, underscoring the macabre fascination the public held for such brutal spectacles. Cartouche’s demise became the stuff of legend, inspiring numerous works of literature and art, including a play by Voltaire himself.
Interestingly, the term “Catherine wheel” is believed to have originated from the martyrdom of St. Catherine of Alexandria in the 4th Century. According to legend, she was condemned to die on a spiked breaking wheel, but the wheel miraculously broke upon touching her. This association led to the wheel becoming her iconographic attribute and, ironically, a symbol of her sanctity. The 15th-century English mystic Margery Kempe wrote of St. Catherine’s ordeal:
“And when she was set on the wheel, our Lord break the wheel and it slew many of the people about.”
The breaking wheel’s reign of terror extended beyond the borders of France and Germany. In Scotland, it was used in the execution of Robert Weir in 1604, marking one of the few recorded instances of its use in the British Isles. The Scottish chronicler Robert Birrel described the event as:
“A spectacle of infinite mercy.”
In Russia, the rebel leader Yemelyan Pugachev was broken on the wheel in Moscow in 1775 on the orders of Catherine the Great. His execution was witnessed by the young Alexander Pushkin, who later incorporated the event into his historical novel, The Captain’s Daughter.
The psychological impact of the breaking wheel on medieval society cannot be overstated. Its use was not merely about punishment but about creating a spectacle of suffering that would serve as a deterrent to crime. The 16th-century French judge Jean de La Bruyère wrote:
“The sight of a man broken on the wheel is a more efficacious lesson to the people than a hundred sermons.”
Despite its widespread use, voices of dissent against the breaking wheel’s barbarity began to emerge during the Enlightenment. The influential Treatise on Crimes and Punishments by Cesare Beccaria, published in 1764, argued against such cruel forms of punishment, stating:
“The severity of a punishment should be just sufficient to excite compassion in the spectators.”
Beccaria’s work influenced reformers across Europe, including Catherine the Great of Russia and Grand Duke Leopold of Tuscany, who abolished the use of torture in their respective domains. As Europe slowly moved towards more humane forms of justice, the use of the breaking wheel began to decline. In France, its use was officially abolished in 1789 during the early stages of the French Revolution. The last person to be executed by the wheel in France was a criminal named Cazet, put to death in Abbeville in 1788. In Germany, the last known execution by breaking wheel occurred in 1841 in the state of Prussia, marking the end of this brutal chapter in European judicial history.
Today, the breaking wheel serves as a stark reminder of a darker chapter in human history. Museums across Europe, such as the Medieval Crime Museum in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany, house preserved examples of these wheels, allowing modern visitors to contemplate the brutal realities of medieval justice. The Torture Museum in Amsterdam features a particularly chilling reproduction of a breaking wheel, complete with a lifelike mannequin, providing a visceral connection to the past. The wheel’s legacy lives on in language as well, with phrases like “breaking on the wheel” persisting as metaphors for extreme hardship or suffering.
In the annals of human cruelty, few inventions have captured the imagination quite like the Brazen Bull of ancient Sicily. This diabolical device, a hollow statue of a bull cast in bronze, stands as a testament to the depths of human ingenuity when applied to the art of torture. As we delve into the smoke-filled chambers of history, we uncover a tale that blends myth, tyranny, and the macabre in equal measure. The Greek historian Polybius, writing in the 2nd Century BCE, remarked:
“Of all the manifestations of cruelty none is more abhorrent to human feeling than torture applied in a spirit of cold-blooded moralizing.”
The story of the Brazen Bull begins in the sun-drenched city of Akragas, modern-day Agrigento, on the southern coast of Sicily around 560 BCE. Here, under the oppressive rule of the tyrant Phalaris, a talented bronze worker named Perillos of Athens arrived with an invention he believed would curry favor with the notoriously cruel despot. Little did Perillos know that his creation would not only seal his own fate but also become synonymous with barbaric punishment for centuries to come.
Akragas at the time was one of the wealthiest Greek colonies in Sicily, its prosperity built on trade and agriculture. The city’s most famous landmark, the Valley of the Temples, still stands today as a testament to its former glory, a stark contrast to the dark legacy of the Brazen Bull. Perillos approached Phalaris with a proposition that would make even the most hardened executioner pause. He presented plans for a hollow bull, life-sized and cast in shimmering bronze. The bull would be more than a mere statue; it would be an instrument of exquisite torture. A door on the bull’s side would allow a condemned person to be placed inside. Once sealed, a fire would be lit beneath the bull’s belly, slowly roasting the victim alive.
The concept was not entirely without precedent. Ancient Carthaginians were known to sacrifice children to their god Moloch in a similar bronze idol, a practice that horrified even their hardened Roman enemies. But the true horror of the Brazen Bull lay in its acoustical design. Perillos, in a stroke of twisted genius, had engineered a system of tubes and stops within the bull’s head. As the victim’s screams echoed through these carefully crafted channels, they would be transformed into sounds resembling the bellowing of an enraged bull. The more the victim suffered, the more realistic and terrifying the bull’s roars became. This acoustical feature was reminiscent of the Greek fascination with automata and complex mechanical devices, exemplified by the work of Hero of Alexandria, who would later design steam-powered devices and automatic doors for temples.
Phalaris, intrigued by this grizzly invention, ordered its immediate construction. The fires of the forge blazed day and night as Perillos and his team of craftsmen labored to bring the bronze beast to life. When at last the bull stood gleaming in the Sicilian sun, Phalaris demanded a demonstration. It was then that the tale took its most ironic turn. The Roman poet Ovid, in his work Tristia, would later write:
“The artist became the first victim of his own art.”
According to the ancient historian Diodorus Siculus, who chronicled these events nearly five centuries later, Phalaris ordered Perillos himself to be the first to experience his own creation. The inventor was forced inside the bull and a fire was lit beneath. As Perillos’ screams were transformed into the bull’s bellows, Phalaris is said to have remarked on the excellence of the invention. However, not wishing the inventor to die from his own device, Phalaris had Perillos removed before he succumbed to the heat. In a final act of cruelty, the tyrant then had Perillos thrown from a cliff, ensuring that the bull’s creator would never build such a device again.
This account, while possibly embellished over time, reflects the ancient Greek concept of poetic justice or dike, a theme often explored in their tragedies and philosophical works. The Roman orator Cicero, writing about these events in his work Against Verres nearly five centuries later, vividly described the bull’s operation:
“The cries of the man inside, transformed by the resonance of the bronze, created a sound more bestial than human.”
This description captures the psychological terror the device instilled, blurring the line between man and beast in its victim’s final moments. Cicero’s account was part of his prosecution of Gaius Verres, a corrupt Roman governor of Sicily, demonstrating how the memory of the Brazen Bull continued to resonate in Sicilian culture long after its creation.
The Brazen Bull quickly became Phalaris’s preferred method of execution. Countless victims, including political rivals, criminals, and even innocent citizens who had fallen out of favor, met their end within the bronze beast’s scorching embrace. The bull’s bellows became a sound of dread throughout Akragas, a constant reminder of the tyrant’s power and cruelty. The reign of terror under Phalaris and his bronze bull lasted for 16 years, from 570 to 554 BCE. During this time, it’s estimated that hundreds if not thousands of victims met their end inside the device. The exact number remains unknown, lost to the mists of time and the reluctance of ancient historians to dwell on such gruesome statistics.
The Greek historian Herodotus, known as the “father of history,” made passing reference to Phalaris in his works, calling him the “most savage of all tyrants,” though he curiously did not mention the Brazen Bull specifically. Interestingly, the Brazen Bull’s notoriety spread far beyond the shores of Sicily. The device became a symbol of tyrannical excess and cruelty throughout the ancient world. The Greek philosopher Lucian, writing in the 2nd Century CE, used the bull as a metaphor for unjust punishment in his satirical work Phalaris. In it, he imagines the tyrant defending his use of the bull, arguing that the victim’s suffering serves a greater purpose in maintaining order. Lucian’s work reflects the ongoing debate in ancient philosophy about the nature of justice and the limits of power, themes explored by thinkers from Plato to the Stoics.
The legacy of the Brazen Bull extended well into the Roman period. The Emperor Hadrian, during his visit to Sicily in 121 CE, is said to have climbed Mount Etna to see the remains of the infamous device, which by then had become something of a dark tourist attraction. Whether Hadrian actually saw the original bull or merely a replica is a matter of debate among historians. The Roman historian Suetonius, in his work The Twelve Caesars, mentions that the emperor Caligula, known for his cruelty, had a fascination with ancient torture devices and may have ordered replicas of the Brazen Bull to be made.
In the misty dawn of a Parisian morning, the ominous silhouette of the guillotine looms against the sky, its blade gleaming with the promise of swift justice. This infamous machine, forever etched in the annals of history, stands as a chilling symbol of revolution, terror, and the relentless march of progress. Though its name is inextricably linked to the bloodstained streets of 18th-century France, the guillotine’s reach extended far beyond the tumultuous years of the French Revolution, casting its shadow across Europe well into the modern era. As Victor Hugo poignantly observed:
“The guillotine is the concretization of the law. It is called vindicta. It is not neutral nor does it allow you to remain neutral.”
The story of the guillotine begins not with its namesake, Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, but with the ancient quest for a more humane method of execution. In 1789, as the winds of change swept through France, Dr. Guillotin, a respected physician and member of the Revolutionary National Assembly, proposed a machine that would deliver death quickly and painlessly to all condemned, regardless of their social status.
“With my machine,” he declared, “I cut off your head in the twinkling of an eye and you never feel it.”
Little did he know that his name would become synonymous with the very instrument he advocated for on humanitarian grounds. Interestingly, Guillotin was not the first to propose such a device; similar concepts had been used in Halifax, England—the Halifax Gibbet—and in Scotland—the Maiden—centuries earlier.
The design of the guillotine was refined by Dr. Antoine Louis, Secretary of the Academy of Surgery, and the first prototype was built by a German harpsichord maker named Tobias Schmidt. On April 25th, 1792, the guillotine claimed its first victim, a highwayman named Nicolas Jacques Pelletier. As the blade fell, a collective gasp rose from the crowd gathered in the Place de Grève. The execution was over in seconds, a far cry from the prolonged spectacles of hanging or beheading by sword that had preceded it. Sanson, the executioner, reportedly remarked:
“Now with my machine, I’m sure of my blow.”
The efficiency of the new device was immediately apparent, with some spectators even complaining that it was too quick and lacked the drama of traditional executions. During the Reign of Terror (1793–1794), the guillotine became the grim centerpiece of revolutionary fervor. In Paris alone, some 2,600 people met their end beneath its blade, including King Louis XVI and his Queen, Marie Antoinette. The machine worked with ruthless efficiency, capable of decapitating up to 3,000 people per month. The French journalist Louis-Sébastien Mercier described the scene:
“The guillotine works without pause. The executioners’ assistants are worn out and sick at heart. The grim repetition of their duties has made them begin to function like machines.”
Among the notable victims was Maximilien Robespierre, one of the key figures of the French Revolution, who met his end on July 28th, 1794, marking the end of the Reign of Terror. The day before his execution, Robespierre shot himself in the jaw, leading to a grotesque scene as he ascended the scaffold with a bandaged face.
But the guillotine’s reign was not confined to the borders of France. As Napoleon’s armies marched across Europe, they brought with them this emblem of revolutionary justice. The device was adopted in various forms in Germany, Italy, Sweden, and even as far as French Guiana. In Belgium, the last execution by guillotine took place in 1863. Germany continued to use the device until 1949, with its last victim being Richard Schuh, executed in Tübingen for murder. In Nazi-occupied Poland, the guillotine was used extensively, with an estimated 16,000 Poles executed between 1941 and 1945 in prisons like Pawiak in Warsaw.
Perhaps one of the most curious chapters in the guillotine’s history occurred in Sweden. In 1900, the country decided to replace hanging with the guillotine, ordering a device from France. However, it was used only once in 1910 for the execution of Johan Alfred Ander. After this single use, the machine was retired and now rests in the Stockholm Police Museum, a silent testament to changing attitudes towards capital punishment. Ander’s last words were reportedly:
“I’m happy to be the last one.”
Though his wish would not be granted for many decades in other parts of Europe. As the 20th century dawned, the guillotine continued its grim work. In France, during World War I, it was used to execute spies and deserters. In World War II, the Nazi occupation saw the device employed against members of the French Resistance. One of the most famous victims of this period was Marie-Claude Vaillant-Couturier, a member of the resistance who survived her encounter with the blade due to a last-minute reprieve, only to face the horrors of concentration camps. She later testified at the Nuremberg trials, describing her near-execution:
“I was already on the plank, my neck in the lunette, when the order came to stop. It was a mock execution.”
The last public execution by guillotine in France took place on June 17th, 1939, when Eugen Weidmann was beheaded outside the Prison Saint-Pierre in Versailles. The spectacle drew such a large and unruly crowd that French President Albert Lebrun banned public executions thereafter. Witnesses described a carnival-like atmosphere with people climbing trees and pushing to get a better view. The young actor Christopher Lee, later famous for his roles in horror films, was among the spectators. He later recalled:
“The impact of that moment was so powerful that I never forgot it.”
Hamida Djandoubi holds the dubious honor of being the last person executed by guillotine in France, meeting his end on September 10th, 1977, in Marseille. Djandoubi, a Tunisian immigrant convicted of torture and murder, spent his last night listening to a radio broadcast of his own case. His execution marked the end of capital punishment in Western Europe, with France officially abolishing the death penalty in 1981 under President François Mitterrand.
Throughout its long and bloody history, the guillotine has been the subject of much scientific and philosophical debate. In the late 18th century, there was serious discussion among scientists about how long consciousness might persist after decapitation. The physician Dr. Beaurieux in 1905 claimed to have observed signs of consciousness in the severed head of a criminal named Languille for up to 30 seconds after execution. He wrote:
“The eyelids and lips of the guillotined man worked in regularly rhythmic contractions for about 5 or 6 seconds.”
This macabre observation fueled ongoing debates about the humanity of the method. The guillotine’s efficiency and supposed humanity did not shield it from criticism. Victor Hugo, the renowned French author, wrote passionately against its use:
“What is this crime which is committed every morning by judges in their robes and executioners in their shirts? For what do you take us that you think we will allow you to spill blood without even asking why?”
Despite its reputation for equality in death, the guillotine could not escape the class distinctions of the society it served. While common criminals were executed at dawn with little ceremony, political prisoners and aristocrats often faced the blade in full view of jeering crowds. The Marquis de Favras, executed in 1790, reportedly quipped upon seeing his poorly written death warrant:
“I see that you have made three spelling mistakes.”
He maintained his aristocratic composure to the very end. Another notable case was that of Charlotte Corday, the assassin of Jean-Paul Marat, who remained so calm before her execution that witnesses reported a blush visible on her cheeks after decapitation. The guillotine also played a role in scientific advancement, albeit in a grim manner. Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin himself, along with the anatomist Xavier Bichat, used the bodies of the executed for medical research, contributing to the understanding of human anatomy. In a twist of irony, this scientific use of the guillotine’s victims aligned with Guillotin’s original intention of the device serving a humanitarian purpose.
In the dimly lit corridors of Auburn Prison, New York, on August 6th, 1890, a palpable tension crackled through the air. William Kemmler, a convicted murderer, was about to make history in a way he never imagined. As he was led to a wooden chair fitted with electrodes and wires, the air thick with anticipation and dread, Kemmler was about to become the first person in the world to be executed by electricity.
The execution chamber, a stark room with bare walls and a concrete floor, housed the ominous contraption that would soon be known across the nation as “Old Sparky.” As Kemmler was strapped in, he reportedly said:
“Take it easy and do it properly. I’m in no hurry.”
Little did he know the gruesome spectacle that was about to unfold. The electric chair, a grim innovation borne from the mind of a dentist named Alfred P. Southwick, emerged during a time when America was seeking more humane methods of capital punishment. Inspired by an accidental death he witnessed when a drunken man touched a live electric generator, Southwick believed electricity could offer a quick and painless death. Little did he know that his creation would become one of the most controversial and enduring symbols of capital punishment in the United States.
Southwick’s inspiration came in 1881 when he saw a man die instantly after touching a generator at a Buffalo, New York, power plant. He exclaimed:
“This is a better way of producing death than by hanging.”
He set in motion a chain of events that would change the face of capital punishment. The development of the electric chair was not without its share of corporate intrigue. Thomas Edison, the famed inventor, lobbied heavily for its adoption, but not out of any humanitarian concern. Edison saw an opportunity to discredit his rival George Westinghouse’s alternating current system by associating it with death. In a macabre twist of fate, the first electric chair used Westinghouse AC generators, much to Edison’s satisfaction. Edison went so far as to publicly electrocute animals, including an elephant named Topsy in 1903, to demonstrate the dangers of AC current. He coined the term “Westinghoused” as a synonym for electrocution, showcasing the depths of this corporate rivalry.
As William Kemmler sat in that fateful chair in Auburn Prison, witnesses held their breath. The first jolt of electricity, lasting 17 seconds, failed to kill him.
“Great God! He is alive!” exclaimed District Attorney Charles Becker.
A second, more powerful current was applied for 2 minutes, finally ending Kemmler’s life. The New York Times reported the execution as an “awful spectacle, far worse than hanging.” George Westinghouse commented:
“They would have done better using an axe.”
Dr. Edward Charles Spitzer, who witnessed the execution, described it as:
“An infamous exhibition of inhumanity.”
The botched execution led to immediate calls for reform, with some arguing for a return to hanging. Despite its gruesome debut, the electric chair rapidly gained popularity across the United States. By 1908, Ohio had introduced a portable electric chair nicknamed “Old Sparky,” which traveled from prison to prison. This mobile harbinger of death executed 315 people between 1908 and 1963, a testament to the efficiency and widespread adoption of this new method of execution.
The chair’s portability allowed for executions to be carried out in various locations, including the Ohio State Penitentiary and the London Prison Farm. One of its most notable passengers was Anna Marie Hahn, the first woman executed in Ohio’s electric chair in 1938 for poisoning several elderly men. One of the most infamous executions by electric chair was that of Ruth Snyder in 1928. Snyder, convicted of murdering her husband, became the first woman to be executed by electricity in New York. Her execution gained notoriety when a photographer, Tom Howard, secretly captured an image of her in the chair using a camera strapped to his ankle. The photograph, published in the New York Daily News, immortalized the brutal final moments of the execution.
