Some Erewhonian Trials

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.

In Erewhon, as in other countries, some courts deal with special subjects. As I explained earlier, misfortune is generally considered more or less criminal. But misfortunes can be classified, and each main category has its own court. Not long after I reached the capital, I wandered into the Personal Bereavement Court. There I listened to a trial that both interested and pained me. The accused man had just lost his wife, whom he had dearly loved. She had left him with three young children, the oldest of whom was only three.

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.

The prisoner’s lawyer tried to argue that the prisoner had never really loved his wife. But the defense fell apart completely. The prosecutor called witness after witness to testify that the couple had been devoted to each other. The prisoner wept repeatedly as evidence of incidents reminded him that his loss could never be repaired. The jury found him guilty after very little deliberation. But they recommended mercy because he had recently insured his wife’s life for a considerable sum. He might be considered lucky, since the insurance company had paid him without objection, though he had paid only 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.

I have just said that the jury found the prisoner guilty. When the judge passed sentence, I was struck by the way he rebuked the prisoner’s lawyer. The lawyer had referred to a book that excused the guilt of misfortunes like the prisoner’s. The book excused them so much that it outraged 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.”

“We shall have these crude, subversive books from time to time,” said the judge, “until everyone accepts a basic moral principle: luck is the only thing people should worship. How much more luck, and therefore more respect, a man has a right to than his neighbours is another question. It has always been settled, and always will be, first by a kind of market bargaining, and ultimately by brute force. But whatever the answer, it stands to reason that no man should be allowed to be more than moderately unlucky.”

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.”

Then the judge turned to the prisoner and continued: “You have suffered a great loss. Nature imposes a severe penalty for such offences, and human law must reinforce nature’s decrees. If the jury had not recommended leniency, I would have sentenced you to six months of hard labour. However, I will reduce your sentence to three months. You may instead pay a fine of twenty-five percent of the money you 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 prisoner thanked the judge. He said that no one would look after his children if he went to prison. So he would accept the option the judge had mercifully allowed him and pay the sum the judge had named. He was then led away 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.

The next case involved a young man who had barely reached adulthood. He was charged with having been swindled out of a large fortune while he was still a minor. His guardian, who was also one of his closest relatives, had swindled him. His father had died long ago, so his offence was tried in the Personal Bereavement Court. The young man, who had no lawyer, pleaded that he was young and inexperienced. He was also very intimidated by his guardian and had no independent legal advice. “Young man,” said the judge sternly, “do not talk nonsense. People have no right to be young, inexperienced, intimidated by their guardians, and without independent legal advice. If such recklessness offends their friends’ moral sense, they must expect to suffer for it.” He then ordered the prisoner to apologise to his guardian and receive twelve lashes 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.

But perhaps the best way to show how completely twisted this extraordinary people’s thinking is would be to describe a public trial. The man on trial was accused of having pulmonary consumption, an offense punishable by death until quite recently. The trial did not take place until I had been in the country for several months. I am departing from chronological order by describing it here. But perhaps I should do so, to finish with this subject before moving on to others. Moreover, I would never finish if I followed a strictly chronological narrative and described the countless absurdities I encountered daily.

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 prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury was sworn in much as it would be in Europe. Almost all our own court procedures were followed, even requiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guilty. He pleaded not guilty, and the case went on. The evidence against him was very strong, but I must say that the trial was completely fair. The prisoner’s lawyer was allowed to say everything possible in his defense. He argued that the prisoner was pretending to have consumption to defraud an insurance company. The prisoner was about to buy an annuity from the company and hoped to get better terms this way. If this had been proven, he would have escaped criminal prosecution. Instead, he would have been sent to a hospital for a moral illness. But the argument could not reasonably be sustained, despite the skill and eloquence of one of the country’s most celebrated lawyers. The case was only too clear. The prisoner was almost at the point of death, and it was astonishing that he had not been tried and convicted long before. He coughed constantly throughout the trial. The two jailers guarding him could barely keep him on his feet 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:-

The judge’s summary was admirable. He emphasized every point that could be interpreted in the prisoner’s favor. But as he went on, it became clear that the evidence was too convincing to leave room for doubt. When the jury left the jury box, everyone in the courtroom agreed on what the verdict would be. The jurors were gone for about ten minutes. When they returned, the foreman declared the prisoner guilty. There was a faint murmur of applause, but it was immediately stopped. The judge then pronounced a sentence in words I can never forget. The next day, I copied them into a notebook from the report published in the leading newspaper. I must shorten the sentence somewhat. Nothing I could say would give more than a faint idea of the solemn, even majestic, severity with which the judge delivered it. 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.

“Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the great crime of suffering from pulmonary consumption. After a fair trial before a jury of your fellow citizens, you have been found guilty. I cannot question the justice of the verdict. The evidence against you was conclusive. All that remains is for me to pass a sentence that will serve the purposes of the law. That sentence must be very severe. It pains me greatly to see someone so young in this distressing condition. Your prospects in life were otherwise excellent, but your constitution has brought you to this state. I can only regard it as rotten to the core. But your case calls for no compassion. This is not your first offence. You have led a life of crime. You have only taken advantage of the leniency shown to you in the past to commit still more serious offences against your country's laws and institutions. Last year you were convicted of severe bronchitis. And although you are only twenty-three, I find that you have been imprisoned no fewer than fourteen times for illnesses of varying degrees of offensiveness. In fact, it is fair to say that you have spent most of your life in 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 all very well to say that your parents were unhealthy. You also say that a severe accident in childhood permanently damaged your health. Criminals often hide behind excuses like these, but justice cannot listen to them for a moment. I am not here to discuss obscure philosophical questions about the origins of this or that. Once such questions were allowed, there would be no end to them. They would place all the blame on the tissues of the primordial cell or on the elementary gases. The question is not how you came to be wicked. It is simply this: are you wicked or not? The answer has been found to be yes. I cannot hesitate for a moment to say that the decision was just. You are a bad and dangerous person. In the eyes of your fellow citizens, you are branded with one of the most terrible offenses known.

“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 not my job to justify the law. The law may inevitably cause hardship in some cases. At times, I may regret that I cannot impose a lighter sentence than the law requires. But yours is not such a case. On the contrary, if the death penalty for consumption had not been abolished, I would certainly impose 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.

“It is intolerable to let someone guilty of such a terrible offense remain free and unpunished. Your presence among respectable people would lead the less healthy to take all forms of illness less seriously. Nor can you be allowed to corrupt unborn beings who might someday pester you. The unborn must not be allowed near you. This is not so much for their protection, since they are our natural enemies, as for our own. They cannot be denied altogether, so we must make sure they are placed with those 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 apart from this consideration, and apart from the physical guilt attached to a crime as great as yours, there is another reason we cannot show you mercy, even if we wanted to. I mean the existence of a class of men who hide among us, known as physicians. Suppose the law or public opinion were to become even slightly less severe. These wicked people, now forced to practise in secret, could be consulted only at the greatest risk no longer. Instead, they would become frequent visitors in every household. Their organisation and close knowledge of every family’s secrets would give them irresistible social and political power. The head of each household would become subordinate to the family doctor. The doctor would interfere between husband and wife, and between master and servant. In time, doctors alone would hold power in the nation, and everything we hold precious would be at their mercy. An age of universal dephysicalisation would follow. Sellers of every kind of medicine would fill our streets and advertise in all our newspapers. There is only one remedy for this. It is the one our country’s laws have long accepted and put into practice. It consists of suppressing all diseases as severely as possible, as soon as the law detects them. If only the law’s eye were far sharper 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.

“But I will say no more about things that are so obvious. You may say that it is not your fault. The answer is simple. If you had been born to healthy, well-off parents and properly cared for as a child, you would never have broken your country’s laws. Nor would you have found yourself in your present disgraceful position. You may say that you had no control over your parents or your upbringing. You may say, therefore, that it is unjust to hold these things against you. I answer that, whether or not your tuberculosis is your fault, it is a fault in you. It is my duty to protect the public against such faults. You may say that it is your misfortune to be a 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.

“Lastly, I should point out that even if the jury had acquitted you, I would have felt duty-bound to impose a sentence hardly less severe than the one I must now pass. I cannot seriously entertain the possibility of your acquittal. For the more innocent you were found of the crime you were accused of, the more guilty you would have been found of a crime hardly less terrible: having been falsely accused.

“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.”

“I therefore have no hesitation in sentencing you to prison with hard labor for the rest of your miserable life. During that time, I urge you to repent of the wrongs you have already done. I also urge you to completely reform the constitution of your whole body. I have little hope that you will take my advice. You are already far too depraved. If it were up to me, I would do nothing to lessen your sentence. But the law mercifully provides that even the most hardened criminal must be given one of the three official remedies. The remedy must be prescribed at the time of conviction. I therefore order that you receive two tablespoons of castor oil daily until the court decides otherwise.”

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.

When the sentence had been read, the prisoner said in a few barely audible words that his punishment was just and his trial had been fair. He was then taken to the prison he would never leave. After the judge finished speaking, there was another attempt at applause, but it was immediately stopped, as before. Though the court was strongly against the prisoner, no one showed any violence toward him. The only possible exception was a little hooting from the bystanders as he was taken away in the prisoners’ van. Indeed, throughout my stay in the country, nothing struck me more than the general respect for law and order.