But it does not fall within the scope of my present design to extend this chronicle to the length of an autobiography.  With what pain and labour my poor parent recovered from his memory, and then very imperfectly, of course, my third page; how he grew more melancholy of countenance at each of my successive returns to the house of my birth and formative years; how I sometimes remained away for months at a time, and how once an office boy mis-addressed me to a lady in New Jersey who very graciously herself forwarded me to my parent; how my poor parent was obliged at length by the increasing dilapidation of my appearance to go to the expense of having me completely re-typed by a public typist, and how directly after this he entirely re-wrote, expanded, and elaborated me at the instigation of one firm of publishers; how I was read by a delightful old lady who knitted in her office as she read; by a lady of cosmopolitan mien who had me together with many other manuscripts sent to her home in a box, and who consumed innumerable cigarettes as she perused me; by a young gentleman who I am sure had a morning “hang over” at his desk; by a tough-looking customer who wore his hat at his desk; by a young lady of futurist aspect who took me home to her studio; by an old, old man who seemed to “see” me quite, and by many more—­all this I may merely indicate.

One very striking phenomenon I should by no means fail to mention, and this uncanny fact may be illustrated thus:  If an object is blue or if it is yellow it will be recognised by all men as being blue or yellow, as the case may be.  One will not say of it, “See that lurid yellow object,” to have another reply, “What! that object directly before us?  I see nothing yellow about it; it is as black as ink.”  But I was apparently exactly like such an impossible object.  I was, figuratively speaking, no colour of my own and I was all colours.  One, so to speak, saw me as green, another as white, and yet another as orange, while some saw quite red as they looked at me.  That is, my character consisted altogether, it seemed, in the amazingly diverse reactions I inspired in my successive readers.  I was intolerably dull, I was abundantly entertaining, I was over-subtle, I was painfully obvious, I was exceedingly humorous, and I lacked all humour.

How, at length, a group of editorial gamblers succeeded in coming sufficiently into harmony about me to render a composite verdict that I would be a fair publishing risk; but how the title my poor parent had given me it was unanimously held wouldn’t do at all; and how I got another in book committee meeting; how, after I was (wonderful thing!) “accepted,” I lay in a safe until I thought I should crumble away with age; and how I was suddenly brought forth and hastily read by the manufacturing department for ideas for my cover to be, and then by the advertising department for “copy dope,” before being rushed to the composing room—­of these things I have not time to speak further, as I am now on the press, and am rapidly ceasing to be merely a manuscript.