Yet Mr. Jones was not a hypocrite nor a monster; he was only a commonplace man—­a thing molded by circumstances instead of molding them.  In him the official outweighed the apostle, for a very good reason—­he was commonplace.  This was his defect.  His crime was misplacing his commonplace self.  A man has a right to be commonplace in the middle of the New Forest, or in the great desert, or at Fudley-cum-Pipes in the fens of Lincolnshire.  But at the helm of a struggling nation, or in the command of an army in time of war, or at the head of the religious department of a jail, fighting against human wolves, tigers and foxes, to be commonplace is an iniquity and leads to crime.

The man was a humane man.  It was not in his nature to be cruel to a prisoner, and his humanity was, like himself, negative not positive, passive not active—­of course; it was commonplace humanity.

After looking on in silence for a twelvemonth or two he remonstrated against Hawes’s barbarity.  He would have done more; he would have stopped it—­if it could have been stopped without any trouble.  Cold water was thrown on his remonstrance; he cooled directly!

Now cold water and hot fire have been thrown on men battling for causes no higher nor holier than this, yet neither has fire been able to wither nor water to quench their honest zeal.  But this good soul on being sprinkled laid down his arms; he was commonplace.  Moreover, he was guilty of something beside cowardice.  He let a small egotistical pique sully as well as betray a great cause.  “The justices have thrown cold water on my remonstrance—­very well, gentlemen, torture your prisoners ad libitum; I shall interfere no more; we shall see which was in the right, you or I.”

This was a narrow little view of wide and terrible consequences; it was infinitesimal egotism—­the spirit and essence of commonplace.

His inclinations were good, but feeble—­he was commonplace.  His heart was good, but tepid—­he was commonplace.  Had he loved the New Testament and the Saviour of mankind, he would have fought Hawes tooth and nail; he could not have helped it.  But he did not love either; he only liked them—­he was commonplace.  When the thief cursed this man, he was guilty of an extravagance as well as a crime; the man was not worth cursing—­he was commonplace.

The new chaplain arrived soon after these events.  The new chaplain was accompanied by his friend, the Rev. James Lepel, chaplain of a jail in the north of England.  After five years’ unremitting duty he was now enjoying a week’s leave of absence.

The three clergymen visited the cells.  Mr. Lepel cross-examined several prisoners.  The new chaplain spoke little, but seemed observant, and once or twice made a note.  Now it so happened that almost the last cell they entered was Tom Robinson’s.  They found him sitting all of a heap in a corner, moody and sullen.

At sight of three black coats and white ties the thief opened his eyes, and with a sort of repugnance turned his back on the intruders.