Sometimes, as I walk on the valley road on my way to or from the water, a waggonette containing a party of pleasure meets or passes me. I always have the feeling that the incident has sensibly enlivened the journey for these people. Did they seem bored? Smiles appear. Were they hilarious? The downs reverberate with their cachinnations. Mirth in itself is good; therefore I like to hear these people laugh, to see them smile. But mirth of that particular quality is not good. Its other name is derision; it is the child of ignorance, and ignorance is begotten of the pit. Therefore I weep that I should be the cause of stumbling to these poor souls. But what am I to do?
I know that my costume and equipment are to blame, and they alone. In myself I am not a ludicrous-looking man. My features are no more out of drawing than those of ninety-nine in a hundred. I am no homme qui rit. If you
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