unctually 'Declined with thanks,' or committed without
even that polite formality to the editorial waste paper basket. Nothing
daunted by failure, however, I wrote on and on, and made up my mind, in
my interval of forced idleness, to print a book of my own at all
hazards.

[Illustration: FICTION]

I wrote 'Physiological AEsthetics' in lodgings at Oxford. When it was
finished and carefully revised, I offered it to Messrs. Henry S. King &
Co., who were then leading publishers of philosophical literature. Mr.
Kegan Paul, their reader, reported doubtfully of the work. It was not
likely to pay, he said, but it contained good matter, and the firm
would print it for me on the usual commission. I was by no means
rich--for fear of exaggeration I am stating the case mildly--but I
believed somehow in 'Physiological AEsthetics.' I was young then, and I
hope the court of public opinion will extend to me, on that ground, the
indulgence usually shown to juvenile offenders. But I happened to
possess a little money just at that moment, granted me as compensation
for the abolition of my office in Jamaica. Messrs. King reported that
the cost of production (that mysterious entity so obnoxious to the soul
of the Society of Authors) would amount to about a hundred guineas. A
hundred guineas was a lot of money then; but, being young, I risked it.
It was better than if I had taken it to Monte Carlo, anyway. So I wrote
to Mr. Paul with heedless haste to publish away right off, and he
published away right off accordingly. When the bill came in, it was, if
I recollect aright, somewhere about 120_l._ I paid it without a murmur;
I got my money's worth. The book appeared in a stately green cover, with
my name in front, and looked very philosophical, and learned, and
psychological.

[Illustration: SCIENCE]

Poor 'Physiological AEsthetics' had a very hard fate. When I come to look
back upon the circumstances calmly and dispassionately now, I'm not
entirely surprised at its unhappy end. It was a good book in its way, to
be sure, though it's me that says it as oughtn't to say it, and it
pleased the few who cared to read it; but it wasn't the sort of
literature the public wanted. The public, you know, doesn't hanker
after philosophy. Darwin, and Herbert Spencer, and the Editor of
_Mind_, and people of that sort, tried my work and liked it; in point of
fact, my poor little venture gained me at once, an unknown man, the
friendship of not a few whose f