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The Travellers in State

The other day, to my great astonishment, I caught a train; it was
a train going into the Eastern Counties, and I only just caught it.
And while I was running along the train (amid general admiration)
I noticed that there were a quite peculiar and unusual number of
carriages marked "Engaged." On five, six, seven, eight, nine carriages
was pasted the little notice: at five, six, seven, eight, nine windows
were big bland men staring out in the conscious pride of possession.
Their bodies seemed more than usually impenetrable, their faces more
than usual placid. It could not be the Derby, if only for the minor
reasons that it was the opposite direction and the wrong day.
It could hardly be the King. It could hardly be the French President.
For, though these distinguished persons naturally like to be private
for three hours, they are at least public for three minutes.
A crowd can gather to see them step into the train; and there was no
crowd here, or any police ceremonial.

Who were those awful persons, who occupied more of the train
than a bricklayer's beanfeast, and yet were more fastidious
and delicate than the King's own suite? Who were these that
were larger than a mob, yet more mysterious than a monarch?
Was it possible that instead of our Royal House visiting the Tsar,
he was really visiting us? Or does the House of Lords
have a breakfast? I waited and wondered until the train
slowed down at some station in the direction of Cambridge.
Then the large, impenetrable men got out, and after them
got out the distinguished holders of the engaged seats.
They were all dressed decorously in one colour; they had neatly
cropped hair; and they were chained together.

I looked across the carriage at its only other occupant, and our
eyes met. He was a small, tired-looking man, and, as I afterwards learnt,
a native of Cambridge; by the look of him, some working tradesman there,
such as a journeyman tailor or a small clock-mender. In order to make
conversation I said I wondered where the convicts were going.
His mouth twitched with the instinctive irony of our poor, and he said:
"I don't s'pose they're goin' on an 'oliday at the seaside with little
spades and pails." I was naturally delighted, and, pursuing the same vein
of literary invention, I suggested that perhaps dons were taken down
to Cambridge chained together like this. And as he lived in Cambridge,
and had seen several dons, he was pleased with such a scheme. Then when
we had ceased to laugh, we suddenly became quite silent; and the bleak,
grey eyes of the little man grew sadder and emptier than an open sea.
I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same, because all
modern sophists are only sophists, and there is such a thing as mankind.
Then at last (and it fell in as exactly as the right last note of a tune
one is trying to remember) he said: "Well, I s'pose we 'ave to do it."
And in those three things, his first speech and his silence and his
second speech, there were all the three great fundamental facts of
the English democracy, its profound sense of humour, its profound sense
of pathos, and its profound sense of helplessness.

. . . . .

It cannot be too often repeated that all real democracy is an attempt
(like that of a jolly hostess) to bring the shy people out.
For every practical purpose of a political state, for every practical
purpose of a tea-party, he that abaseth himself must be exalted.
At a tea-party it is equally obvious that he that exalteth
himself must be abased, if possible without bodily violence.
Now people talk of democracy as being coarse and turbulent:
it is a self-evident error in mere history. Aristocracy is the thing
that is always coarse and turbulent: for it means appealing to the
self-confident people. Democracy means appealing to the different
people. Democracy means getting those people to vote who would never
have the cheek to govern: and (according to Christian ethics) the
precise people who ought to govern are the people who have not the
cheek to do it. There is a strong example of this truth in my friend
in the train. The only two types we hear of in this argument about crime
and punishment are two very rare and abnormal types.

We hear of the stark sentimentalist, who talks as if there were no
problem at all: as if physical kindness would cure everything:
as if one need only pat Nero and stroke Ivan the Terrible.
This mere belief in bodily humanitarianism is not sentimental;
it is simply snobbish. For if comfort gives men virtue,
the comfortable classes ought to be virtuous--which is absurd.
Then, again, we do hear of the yet weaker and more watery
type of sentimentalists: I mean the sentimentalist who says,
with a sort of splutter, "Flog the brutes!" or who tells you
with innocent obscenity "what he would do" with a certain man--
always supposing the man's hands were tied.

This is the more effeminate type of the two; but both are weak
and unbalanced. And it is only these two types, the sentimental
humanitarian and the sentimental brutalitarian, whom one hears
in the modern babel. Yet you very rarely meet either of them
in a train. You never meet anyone else in a controversy.
The man you meet in a train is like this man that I met:
he is emotionally decent, only he is intellectually doubtful.
So far from luxuriating in the loathsome things that could
be "done" to criminals, he feels bitterly how much better it
would be if nothing need be done. But something must be done.
"I s'pose we 'ave to do it." In short, he is simply a sane man,
and of a sane man there is only one safe definition. He is a man
who can have tragedy in his heart and comedy in his head.

. . . . .

Now the real difficulty of discussing decently this problem
of the proper treatment of criminals is that both parties
discuss the matter without any direct human feeling.
The denouncers of wrong are as cold as the organisers of wrong.
Humanitarianism is as hard as inhumanity.

Let me take one practical instance. I think the flogging
arranged in our modern prisons is a filthy torture; all its
scientific paraphernalia, the photographing, the medical attendance,
prove that it goes to the last foul limit of the boot and rack.
The cat is simply the rack without any of its intellectual reasons.
Holding this view strongly, I open the ordinary humanitarian books or
papers and I find a phrase like this, "The lash is a relic of barbarism."
So is the plough. So is the fishing net. So is the horn or
the staff or the fire lit in winter. What an inexpressibly feeble
phrase for anything one wants to attack--a relic of barbarism!
It is as if a man walked naked down the street to-morrow,
and we said that his clothes were not quite in the latest fashion.
There is nothing particularly nasty about being a relic of barbarism.
Man is a relic of barbarism. Civilisation is a relic of barbarism.

But torture is not a relic of barbarism at all. In actuality it is simply
a relic of sin; but in comparative history it may well be called a relic
of civilisation. It has always been most artistic and elaborate when
everything else was most artistic and elaborate. Thus it was detailed
exquisite in the late Roman Empire, in the complex and gorgeous sixteenth
century, in the centralised French monarchy a hundred years before the
Revolution, and in the great Chinese civilisation to this day. This is,
first and last, the frightful thing we must remember. In so far as we
grow instructed and refined we are not (in any sense whatever) naturally
moving away from torture. We may be moving towards torture. We must know
what we are doing, if we are to avoid the enormous secret cruelty which
has crowned every historic civilisation.

The train moves more swiftly through the sunny English fields.
They have taken the prisoners away, and I do not know what they
have done with them.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton