Vanbrugh placed his book in the publisher’s hands with something of his old arrogance, which half a lifetime of hardship had not been able to crush. “This is a book which will, directly it appears, supersede every other book on the brain. But if your reader sees my name on the title-page, he will tell you it is rubbish. I ask you to submit it to him without allowing him to know whom it is by, and then he may tell you the truth.” The publisher smiled. He glanced from his caller’s proud, harsh countenance to his shabby clothes and patched boots, and thought he could understand. “The man is a crank,” he said to himself. “His troubles have unhinged him.” Nevertheless, he gave the required promise. He even went beyond his word. Lest his English reader should suspect the authorship of the book and be prejudiced in consequence, he took the trouble to forward the manuscript to Vienna, to a renowned specialist in that capital, saying that his usual advisers differed as to the merit of the work, and requesting an impartial opinion. This was the first stroke of fortune in Vanbrugh’s favour. In less than a month the publisher was astonished by receiving back the manuscript with a letter in which the Viennese authority repeated Vanbrugh’s very words. “I cannot understand what you tell me about your advisers,” the Austrian wrote. “This is one of the greatest works I have ever had the good fortune to read. It will supersede every existing work on the brain. The author has done you a high honour in offering this book to your house.” The great publisher winced. It so happened that he had in the press a voluminous book on this very subject by a baronet and physician-in-ordinary to the Court, a book on whose preparation he had already spent a considerable sum. It was clear that one of these two books must kill the other. In either case he must be at a loss. On the other hand, if he were to refuse Vanbrugh’s work, it might be taken by the great rival house which divided the trade with his. In this uncertainty he decided to submit the manuscript to his reader in the ordinary way. Scarcely had he sent it off when he received a second call from Vanbrugh. The Austrian specialist, not dreaming that his opinion could be disregarded, and filled with enthusiasm for Vanbrugh’s achievement, had addressed a letter to him, congratulating him in the warmest terms. The letter did not elate Vanbrugh in the least, but it brought him round to the publisher to find out what was being done with his book. He came, taking it for granted that its acceptance was now out of doubt. The publisher, compelled to give a definite answer, made up his mind on the spot, and proposed terms which Vanbrugh accepted. Two days later his reader returned the manuscript with a brief note, dismissing it as the work of a charlatan. Vanbrugh had beaten this man in one of the hospital examinations.