Strictly they do not see the prisoner in the dock; all they
see is the usual man in the usual place. They do not see
the awful court of judgment; they only see their own workshop.
Therefore, the instinct of Christian civilisation has most wisely
declared that into their judgments there shall upon every occasion
be infused fresh blood and fresh thoughts from the streets.
Men shall come in who can see the court and the crowd,
and coarse faces of the policeman and the professional criminals,
the wasted faces of the wastrels, the unreal faces of the
gesticulating counsel, and see it all as one sees a new picture
or a play hitherto unvisited.

Our civilisation has decided, and very justly decided,
that determining the guilt or innocence of men is a thing too
important to be trusted to trained men. It wishes for light upon
that awful matter, it asks men who know no more law than I know,
but who can feel the things that I felt in the jury box.
When it wants a library catalogued, or the solar system discovered,
or any trifle of that kind, it uses up specialists. But when it
wishes anything done which is really serious, it collects twelve
of the ordinary men standing round. The same thing was done, if I
remember right, by the Founder of Christianity.


XII

The Wind and the Trees

I am sitting under tall trees, with a great wind boiling like surf