akes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow.
We are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to
appeal to the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought
down here from London. From two o'clock till half-past two on that day I
had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress,
and handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the
hospital ward without a moment's notice being given to me. Of all
possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they
laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could
exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was.
As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an
hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob.

For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour
and for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as
possibly it sounds to you. To those who are in prison tears are a part
of every day's experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is
a day on which one's heart is hard, not a day on which one's heart is
happy.

Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who
laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not on my
pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very unimaginative nature
that only cares for people on their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very
unreal thing. A pillory is a terrific reality. They should have known
also how to interpret sorrow better. I have said that behind sorrow
there is always sorrow. It were wiser still to say that behind sorrow
there is always a soul. And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful
thing. In the strangely simple economy of the world people only get what
they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the
mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save that
of scorn?

I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply that
it should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything out of
my punishment but bitterness and despair. I have, however, to do it, and
now and then I have moments of submission and acceptance. All the spring
may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may
hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. So
perhaps whatever beauty of life