I do not like writing a preface--it seems too much like an apology. I
have no special apology to tender for offering this collection of New
Thought nuggets. They may possess no literary merit, but they have
_helped_ men and women. With the exception of "The Secret of the
I Am," these essays appeared from month to month in "New Thought," of
which magazine I am associate editor. They were written hastily,
principally upon the demand of the printer for "copy," and, for the
most part, were printed just as they were written, there being no time
for revision or polishing up. You may pick up any one of them and find
many sentences needing straightening out--many thoughts which could be
better expressed by the change of a few words. Knowing these things, I
first thought that I would go over each essay and add a little here,
and take away a little there, polishing up and burnishing as I went
along. But when I looked over them, my heart failed me. There they
were just as they were written--just as they were dug out of my
mind--and I hadn't the heart to change them. I remembered the
circumstances surrounding the writing of every one of them, and I let
them alone. A "nugget" polished up would be no longer a nugget. And
these thoughts are nuggets--I dug them myself. I will not say much
regarding the quality of the metal--that is for you--but you see them
just as they came from the mine--rough, unpolished, mixed with the
rock, queerly shaped. If you think that they contain metal of
sufficiently good quality, refine them, melt them and fashion them
into something useful or ornamental. For myself, I like things with
the bark on--with the marks of the hammer--with the original quartz
adhering to the metal. But others are of different taste--they like
everything to feel smooth to the touch. They will not like these
nuggets. Alas, I cannot help it--I cannot produce the beautifully
finished article--I have nothing to offer other than the crude product
of the mine. Here they are, polish them up yourself if you prefer them
in that shape--I will not touch them.
W. W. A.
Chicago, October 2, 1902.