In Erewhon as in other countries there are some courts of justice that
deal with special subjects. Misfortune generally, as I have above
explained, is considered more or less criminal, but it admits of
classification, and a court is assigned to each of the main heads under
which it can be supposed to fall. Not very long after I had reached the
capital I strolled into the Personal Bereavement Court, and was much
both interested and pained by listening to the trial of a man who was
accused of having just lost a wife to whom he had been tenderly
attached, and who had left him with three little children, of whom the
eldest was only three years old.
The defence which the prisoner’s counsel endeavoured to establish was,
that the prisoner had never really loved his wife; but it broke down
completely, for the public prosecutor called witness after witness who
deposed to the fact that the couple had been devoted to one another,
and the prisoner repeatedly wept as incidents were put in evidence that
reminded him of the irreparable nature of the loss he had sustained.
The jury returned a verdict of guilty after very little deliberation,
but recommended the prisoner to mercy on the ground that he had but
recently insured his wife’s life for a considerable sum, and might be
deemed lucky inasmuch as he had received the money without demur from
the insurance company, though he had only paid two premiums.
I have just said that the jury found the prisoner guilty. When the
judge passed sentence, I was struck with the way in which the
prisoner’s counsel was rebuked for having referred to a work in which
the guilt of such misfortunes as the prisoner’s was extenuated to a
degree that roused the indignation of the court.
“We shall have,” said the judge, “these crude and subversionary books
from time to time until it is recognised as an axiom of morality that
luck is the only fit object of human veneration. How far a man has any
right to be more lucky and hence more venerable than his neighbours, is
a point that always has been, and always will be, settled proximately
by a kind of higgling and haggling of the market, and ultimately by
brute force; but however this may be, it stands to reason that no man
should be allowed to be unlucky to more than a very moderate extent.”
Then, turning to the prisoner, the judge continued:—“You have suffered
a great loss. Nature attaches a severe penalty to such offences, and
human law must emphasise the decrees of nature. But for the
recommendation of the jury I should have given you six months’ hard
labour. I will, however, commute your sentence to one of three months,
with the option of a fine of twenty-five per cent. of the money you
have received from the insurance company.”
The prisoner thanked the judge, and said that as he had no one to look
after his children if he was sent to prison, he would embrace the
option mercifully permitted him by his lordship, and pay the sum he had
named. He was then removed from the dock.
The next case was that of a youth barely arrived at man’s estate, who
was charged with having been swindled out of large property during his
minority by his guardian, who was also one of his nearest relations.
His father had been long dead, and it was for this reason that his
offence came on for trial in the Personal Bereavement Court. The lad,
who was undefended, pleaded that he was young, inexperienced, greatly
in awe of his guardian, and without independent professional advice.
“Young man,” said the judge sternly, “do not talk nonsense. People have
no right to be young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of their guardians,
and without independent professional advice. If by such indiscretions
they outrage the moral sense of their friends, they must expect to
suffer accordingly.” He then ordered the prisoner to apologise to his
guardian, and to receive twelve strokes with a cat-of-nine-tails.
But I shall perhaps best convey to the reader an idea of the entire
perversion of thought which exists among this extraordinary people, by
describing the public trial of a man who was accused of pulmonary
consumption—an offence which was punished with death until quite
recently. It did not occur till I had been some months in the country,
and I am deviating from chronological order in giving it here; but I
had perhaps better do so in order that I may exhaust this subject
before proceeding to others. Moreover I should never come to an end
were I to keep to a strictly narrative form, and detail the infinite
absurdities with which I daily came in contact.
The prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury were sworn much as in
Europe; almost all our own modes of procedure were reproduced, even to
the requiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guilty. He pleaded
not guilty, and the case proceeded. The evidence for the prosecution
was very strong; but I must do the court the justice to observe that
the trial was absolutely impartial. Counsel for the prisoner was
allowed to urge everything that could be said in his defence: the line
taken was that the prisoner was simulating consumption in order to
defraud an insurance company, from which he was about to buy an
annuity, and that he hoped thus to obtain it on more advantageous
terms. If this could have been shown to be the case he would have
escaped a criminal prosecution, and been sent to a hospital as for a
moral ailment. The view, however, was one which could not be reasonably
sustained, in spite of all the ingenuity and eloquence of one of the
most celebrated advocates of the country. The case was only too clear,
for the prisoner was almost at the point of death, and it was
astonishing that he had not been tried and convicted long previously.
His coughing was incessant during the whole trial, and it was all that
the two jailors in charge of him could do to keep him on his legs until
it was over.
The summing up of the judge was admirable. He dwelt upon every point
that could be construed in favour of the prisoner, but as he proceeded
it became clear that the evidence was too convincing to admit of doubt,
and there was but one opinion in the court as to the impending verdict
when the jury retired from the box. They were absent for about ten
minutes, and on their return the foreman pronounced the prisoner
guilty. There was a faint murmur of applause, but it was instantly
repressed. The judge then proceeded to pronounce sentence in words
which I can never forget, and which I copied out into a note-book next
day from the report that was published in the leading newspaper. I must
condense it somewhat, and nothing which I could say would give more
than a faint idea of the solemn, not to say majestic, severity with
which it was delivered. The sentence was as follows:-
“Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the great crime of
labouring under pulmonary consumption, and after an impartial trial
before a jury of your countrymen, you have been found guilty. Against
the justice of the verdict I can say nothing: the evidence against you
was conclusive, and it only remains for me to pass such a sentence upon
you, as shall satisfy the ends of the law. That sentence must be a very
severe one. It pains me much to see one who is yet so young, and whose
prospects in life were otherwise so excellent, brought to this
distressing condition by a constitution which I can only regard as
radically vicious; but yours is no case for compassion: this is not
your first offence: you have led a career of crime, and have only
profited by the leniency shown you upon past occasions, to offend yet
more seriously against the laws and institutions of your country. You
were convicted of aggravated bronchitis last year: and I find that
though you are now only twenty-three years old, you have been
imprisoned on no less than fourteen occasions for illnesses of a more
or less hateful character; in fact, it is not too much to say that you
have spent the greater part of your life in a jail.
“It is all very well for you to say that you came of unhealthy parents,
and had a severe accident in your childhood which permanently
undermined your constitution; excuses such as these are the ordinary
refuge of the criminal; but they cannot for one moment be listened to
by the ear of justice. I am not here to enter upon curious metaphysical
questions as to the origin of this or that—questions to which there
would be no end were their introduction once tolerated, and which would
result in throwing the only guilt on the tissues of the primordial
cell, or on the elementary gases. There is no question of how you came
to be wicked, but only this—namely, are you wicked or not? This has
been decided in the affirmative, neither can I hesitate for a single
moment to say that it has been decided justly. You are a bad and
dangerous person, and stand branded in the eyes of your
fellow-countrymen with one of the most heinous known offences.
“It is not my business to justify the law: the law may in some cases
have its inevitable hardships, and I may feel regret at times that I
have not the option of passing a less severe sentence than I am
compelled to do. But yours is no such case; on the contrary, had not
the capital punishment for consumption been abolished, I should
certainly inflict it now.
“It is intolerable that an example of such terrible enormity should be
allowed to go at large unpunished. Your presence in the society of
respectable people would lead the less able-bodied to think more
lightly of all forms of illness; neither can it be permitted that you
should have the chance of corrupting unborn beings who might hereafter
pester you. The unborn must not be allowed to come near you: and this
not so much for their protection (for they are our natural enemies), as
for our own; for since they will not be utterly gainsaid, it must be
seen to that they shall be quartered upon those who are least likely to
corrupt them.
“But independently of this consideration, and independently of the
physical guilt which attaches itself to a crime so great as yours,
there is yet another reason why we should be unable to show you mercy,
even if we were inclined to do so. I refer to the existence of a class
of men who lie hidden among us, and who are called physicians. Were the
severity of the law or the current feeling of the country to be relaxed
never so slightly, these abandoned persons, who are now compelled to
practise secretly and who can be consulted only at the greatest risk,
would become frequent visitors in every household; their organisation
and their intimate acquaintance with all family secrets would give them
a power, both social and political, which nothing could resist. The
head of the household would become subordinate to the family doctor,
who would interfere between man and wife, between master and servant,
until the doctors should be the only depositaries of power in the
nation, and have all that we hold precious at their mercy. A time of
universal dephysicalisation would ensue; medicine-vendors of all kinds
would abound in our streets and advertise in all our newspapers. There
is one remedy for this, and one only. It is that which the laws of this
country have long received and acted upon, and consists in the sternest
repression of all diseases whatsoever, as soon as their existence is
made manifest to the eye of the law. Would that that eye were far more
piercing than it is.
“But I will enlarge no further upon things that are themselves so
obvious. You may say that it is not your fault. The answer is ready
enough at hand, and it amounts to this—that if you had been born of
healthy and well-to-do parents, and been well taken care of when you
were a child, you would never have offended against the laws of your
country, nor found yourself in your present disgraceful position. If
you tell me that you had no hand in your parentage and education, and
that it is therefore unjust to lay these things to your charge, I
answer that whether your being in a consumption is your fault or no, it
is a fault in you, and it is my duty to see that against such faults as
this the commonwealth shall be protected. You may say that it is your
misfortune to be criminal; I answer that it is your crime to be
unfortunate.
“Lastly, I should point out that even though the jury had acquitted
you—a supposition that I cannot seriously entertain—I should have felt
it my duty to inflict a sentence hardly less severe than that which I
must pass at present; for the more you had been found guiltless of the
crime imputed to you, the more you would have been found guilty of one
hardly less heinous—I mean the crime of having been maligned unjustly.
“I do not hesitate therefore to sentence you to imprisonment, with hard
labour, for the rest of your miserable existence. During that period I
would earnestly entreat you to repent of the wrongs you have done
already, and to entirely reform the constitution of your whole body. I
entertain but little hope that you will pay attention to my advice; you
are already far too abandoned. Did it rest with myself, I should add
nothing in mitigation of the sentence which I have passed, but it is
the merciful provision of the law that even the most hardened criminal
shall be allowed some one of the three official remedies, which is to
be prescribed at the time of his conviction. I shall therefore order
that you receive two tablespoonfuls of castor oil daily, until the
pleasure of the court be further known.”
When the sentence was concluded the prisoner acknowledged in a few
scarcely audible words that he was justly punished, and that he had had
a fair trial. He was then removed to the prison from which he was never
to return. There was a second attempt at applause when the judge had
finished speaking, but as before it was at once repressed; and though
the feeling of the court was strongly against the prisoner, there was
no show of any violence against him, if one may except a little hooting
from the bystanders when he was being removed in the prisoners’ van.
Indeed, nothing struck me more during my whole sojourn in the country,
than the general respect for law and order.