Guess Who Made History but Not in the Way They Hoped
It’s another Guess Who with Kevin! Inspired by Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story, Kevin has crafted a series of “guess who” articles, which he’s generously sharing with our readers!
Where do you stand on capital punishment?
It’s one of those questions that rarely sits in the middle. Most people today feel strongly—either firmly in favor or firmly opposed.
But a couple of centuries ago, the discussion wasn’t so much about if a person should be executed, but how. And back then, the method often depended on who you were. The wealthy and well-connected might receive a swift end. The poor or marginalized often faced something much more brutal.
Around that time, a man named Dr. Joseph stepped quietly into the picture—and eventually changed things in a way no one expected.
To some, he was a humanitarian. To others, a dreamer out of touch with reality. What seems clear is that Dr. Joseph didn’t support the death penalty in his heart. But he also understood the world he lived in. He knew trying to end executions altogether wouldn’t get far in 18th-century France.
So instead, he focused on what he could change: the method.
At the time, executions were public and often intentionally cruel. They weren’t just about justice—they were meant to be a spectacle. Dr. Joseph believed that if the state insisted on taking a life, it should do so without added suffering. Quietly, he began speaking out against these accepted practices.
He was just one voice. But in 1789, he was elected to France’s Constituent Assembly, giving him a platform to advocate for reform. His ideas were met with skepticism—some even laughed. A “humane” execution? The concept sounded absurd.
At first, he had no clear alternative. So he went looking. He researched old records, legal codes, and practices from other countries. That’s when he found mention of an Italian device called the mannaia—a swift, mechanical tool once used for executions among nobility. It was meant to end life quickly and, as far as anyone could tell, painlessly.
He brought the idea forward. This time, there was no laughter. The Assembly examined the device. They tested it. They debated. And after three years, in 1792, it was officially approved for use.
Dr. Joseph had succeeded. Not in ending executions, but in helping create a more consistent, less brutal method—one used regardless of a person’s background.
He didn’t design the final machine. He didn’t operate it. And he certainly didn’t ask for what came next: people naming it after him.
Though his work was grounded in compassion, his name–Guillotin–-became forever attached to a device that later came to symbolize fear and revolution.
In trying to bring dignity to a grim process, Dr. Joseph made history. But not in the way he hoped.
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