But if we ask whether it is going to be punished for it, the answer is—probably not.
It is not my point to urge that the Government should be punished, but only to show how—as administered to-day—punishment is an arbitrary and artificial device, partially applied or not, according to the prosecutor’s political convenience.
The consequence—the logical consequence of this corrupt inequality of State-prosecution, is that a Government which does such things is misliked and distrusted by men of honest character—and so weakens its hold on the more judicious minds of the community—and eventually, one may hope, its power over the country’s policy.
One might point further to another instance. The Society of Friends, by its official committee, recently published, without submitting it to the Censor, a pamphlet called A Challenge to Militarism. For that corporate act of a committee of twenty—all equally guilty—the Government (to avoid too great a scandal) selected two members for prosecution, and got them sent to prison for six and for three months.
About a fortnight later another challenge to militarism, a pamphlet entitled A League of Nations, was published, without being submitted to the Censor, by Lord Grey of Falloden; and he has not been sent to prison for it.
Now if we believed in punishment, we should want the Government punished for these acts of corrupt favouritism in State-prosecution. But if we believe in natural consequences—those which I have already indicated—we shall confidently anticipate that in the end (the real end) divine justice will be done; and that these ephemeral misdoings will eventually help the spirit of man to a better and larger understanding of the follies which are committed when men substitute the Will to Power for the Will to Love.
And if we can—as we are going to—if we can leave injustice when done in conspicuous high places to the natural and logical consequences, without applying the penal code, why cannot we trust natural consequences a very great deal more, where smaller and more humble misdemeanours are concerned, and give to those natural consequences a greater unity of effect by irradiating them with the true spirit of man—love, joy, gentleness, peace, against which there is no law?
One of the reasons why we dare not be humane and curative instead of punitive to our criminals lies in the fact that the standard of life in which we have allowed honest and hard-working millions to subsist outside our prisons, has been so inhuman and degraded that if we made our prisons really humane, really curative, they would be a reward instead of a punishment.
We dare not offer so beautiful a temptation.
And so it is separation again—the separation of class from class, of rich from poor, which makes impossible the standardising of our prisons from living tombs into genuine reformatories and sanatoria. If we had not separated ourselves in our national life from a sense of responsibility for the poverty and misery around us, we should not be driven into so separate a treatment of our criminals. We cannot afford to humanise our prisons, while we will not afford to humanise our slums. Again and again, when you appeal for real prison reform, the obstructive argument arises: “Why should we take so much trouble for the criminal, when hundreds of thousands of the honest struggling poor are so much worse off?”