DEAR GARDINER,--I am still pretty poorly and can't "jine" anything--but, apart from that, I don't foresee much good from a Philosophical Society. Philosophical discussion proper only succeeds between intimates who have learned how to converse by months of weary trials and failure. The philosopher is a lone beast dwelling in his individual burrow.--Count me _out_!--I hope all goes well with you. I expect to get well, but it needs _patience_. Wm. James. On April 1, 1902, James sailed for England, to deliver the second "course" of his series of Gifford Lectures in Edinburgh. _To F. C. S. Schiller._ HATLEY ST. GEORGE, TORQUAY, _Apr. 20, 1902_. MY DEAR SCHILLER,--I could shed tears that you should have been so near me and yet been missed. I got your big envelope on Thursday at the hotel, and your two other missives here this morning. Of the Axioms paper I have only read a sheet and a half at the beginning and the superb conclusion which has just arrived. I shall fairly _gloat_ upon the whole of it, and will write you my impressions and criticisms, if criticisms there be. It is an uplifting thought that truth is to be told at last in a radical and attention-compelling manner. I think I know, though, how the attention of many will find a way not to be compelled--their will is so set on having a technically and artificially and _professionally_ expressed system, that all talk carried on as yours is on principles of common-sense activity is as remote and little worthy of being listened to as the slanging each other of boys in the street as we pass. Men disdain to notice that. It is only after our (_i.e._ your and my) general way of thinking gets organized enough to become a regular part of the _bureaucracy_ of philosophy that we shall get a serious hearing. Then, I feel inwardly convinced, our day will have come. But then, you may well say, the brains will be out and the man will be dead. Anyhow, _vive_ the Anglo-Saxon amateur, disciple of Locke and Hume, and _pereat_ the German professional! We are here for a week with the Godkins--poor old G., once such a power, and now an utter wreck after a stroke of paralysis three years ago. Beautiful place, southeast gale, volleying rain and streaming panes and volumes of soft sea-laden wind.