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CHAPTER IX.: PROBLEM VI. To strengthen the Impression of Punishments upon the Imagination. - Jeremy Bentham, The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 1 (Principles of Morals and Legislation, Fragment on Government, Civil Code, Penal Law) [1843]

Edition used:

The Works of Jeremy Bentham, published under the Superintendence of his Executor, John Bowring (Edinburgh: William Tait, 1838-1843). 11 vols. Vol. 1.

Part of: The Works of Jeremy Bentham, 11 vols.

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CHAPTER IX.

PROBLEM VI.

To strengthen the Impression of Punishments upon the Imagination.

It is the real punishment which produces all the evil: it is the apparent punishment which produces all the good. It is proper to diminish the first, and to augment the second, as much as possible. Humanity consists in the appearance of cruelty.

Speak to the eyes, if you would move the heart. This precept is as old as the age of Horace, and the experience which dictated it, as old as the first man:—every one has felt its force and endeavoured to profit by it; the actor, the rogue, the orator, the priest, all know its prevailing power. Render, therefore, your punishments exemplary; give to the ceremonies which accompany them a mournful pomp; call to your assistance all the imitative arts; and let the representation of these important operations be among the first objects which strike the eyes of childhood.

A scaffold painted black, the livery of grief—the officers of justice dressed in crape—the executioner covered with a mask, which would serve at once to augment the terror of his appearance, and to shield him from ill-founded indignation—emblems of his crime placed above the head of the criminal, to the end that the witnesses of his sufferings may know for what crimes he undergoes them: these might form a part of the principal decorations of these legal tragedies; whilst all the actors in this terrible drama might move in solemn procession—serious and religious music preparing the hearts of the spectators for the important lesson they were about to receive. The judges need not consider it beneath their dignity to preside over this public scene, and its sombre dignity should be consecrated by the presence of the ministers of religion.

Instruction should not be rejected when it is offered, even by the most cruel enemy. The Vehemic Council, the Inquisition, the Star-Chamber, may all be consulted, all their methods examined and compared. A diamond is worth preserving, though covered with mud. If assassins employ pistols for the commission of murder, is this a reason why I should not use them in self-defence?

The emblematic dresses of the inquisition might be usefully employed in criminal justice: an incendiary under his cloak, painted with flames, would present to all eyes the image of his crime, and the indignation of the spectator would be fixed upon the idea of his crime.

A system of punishments, accompanied with emblems appropriated as much as possible to each crime, would possess an additional advantage: it would furnish allusions for poetry,* for eloquence, for dramatic authors, for ordinary conversation. The ideas derived from them would, so to speak, be reverberated by a thousand objects, and disseminated on all sides.

The Catholic priests have known how to derive from this source the greatest assistance for augmenting the efficacy of their religious opinions. I recollect having seen, at Gravelines, a striking exhibition: a priest showed to the people a picture, in which was represented a miserable multitude in the midst of flames, and one of them was making a sign that he wanted a drop of water, by showing his burning tongue. It was a day appointed for public prayers, for drawing souls out of purgatory. It is evident, that such an exhibition would tend less to inspire a horror for crimes, than a horror of the poverty which did not allow him to be redeemed. The necessary consequence is, that money for the purchase of masses must be obtained at any rate; for where every thing is to be expiated by money, misery alone is the greatest of all crimes, the only one which has no resource.*

The ancients have not been more happy than the moderns in the choice of punishments: no design, no intention, no natural connexion between punishments and crimes, can be discovered; every thing is the work of caprice.

I shall not dwell upon a point which has for a long time been familiar to all who are capable of reflection. The modes of punishment in England form a perfect contrast with every thing which inspires respect: A capital execution has no solemnity. The pillory is sometimes a scene of buffoonery; sometimes a scene of popular cruelty—a game of chance, in which the sufferer is exposed to the caprices of the multitude and the accidents of the day. The severity of a whipping depends upon the money given to the executioner. Burning in the hand, according as the criminal and the executioner can agree, is performed either with a cold or a red-hot iron; and if it be with a hot iron, it is only a slice of ham which is burnt: to complete the farce, the criminal screams, whilst it is only the fat which smokes and burns, and the knowing spectators only laugh at this parody of justice.

But it may be said, that every question has two sides—that these real representations, these terrible scenes of penal justice, will spread dismay among the people, and make dangerous impressions. I do not believe it. If they present to dishonest persons the idea of danger, they offer only an idea of security to those who are honest. The threat of terrible and eternal punishment for undefined and indefinite crimes, working upon an active imagination, may have sometimes produced madness. But here no undefined threatenings are supposed: on the contrary, here is a manifest crime proved—a crime which no one need commit; and consequently the dread of punishment can never rise to a dangerous height. It would, however, always be desirable to guard against producing false and hateful ideas.

In the first edition of the Code Theresa, the portrait of the empress was surrounded with medallions, representing gibbets, racks, fetters, and other instruments of punishment. What a blunder, to present the image of the sovereign surrounded by these hideous emblems! This scandalous frontispiece was suppressed; but the print, representing all the instruments of torture, was allowed to remain. A sad picture, which could not be considered without each one saying to himself, Such are the evils to which I am exposed, although innocent! But if an abridgment of the penal code were accompanied with prints representing the characteristic punishments set apart for each crime, it would form an imposing commentary—a sensible and speaking image of the law. Each one might say, That is what I shall suffer, if I become guilty. It is thus that, in matters of legislation, a slight difference sometimes separates what is good from what is bad.

[* ]See in Juvenal, his allusion to the punishment of parricides:—

  • Cujus supplicio non debuit una parari
  • Simia non serpens unus, &c.

[* ]At the commencement of the reigns of the kings of Poland, there existed a very singular custom:—

“A bishop of Cracow, murdered by his king in the eleventh century, cited to his tribunal, that is, to the chapel where his blood was shed, the new king, as if he had been guilty of the misdeed. John repaired thither on foot, and replied, as his predecessors had done, that the crime was atrocious, that he was innocent of it, that he detested it, and in asking pardon for it, implored the protection of the holy martyr upon himself and his kingdom. It is to be wished, that in all states they had thus preserved the monuments of the crimes of kings: flattery has discovered in them only virtues.”—History of John Sobiesky, by l’Abbe Coyer, vol. ii. p. 104.

This is a singular fact, and proves the great skill of the clergy in seixing upon the imagination, and making an impression upon the minds of men. How well every thing was calculated in this ceremony, to render the person of a bishop holy and sacred in the eyes of the king and of the nation! This crime, which no time could efface—this blood, which always cried out—this new king, who seemed to inherit the malediction of the misdeed, until he had disavowed it—this first act of his reign, a kind of honourable fine, for violence committed ages before,—here is a solemnity well directed to its end; whilst, as to the wish of the Abbe Coyer, it is without doubt good, but he ought to have taught us the means of accomplishing it.