On leaving the hospital and resuming my travels, I felt sure that any
one of several magazines or newspapers would willingly have had me
conduct my campaign under its nervously commercial auspices; but a
flash-in-the-pan method did not appeal to me. Those noxious growths,
Incompetence, Abuse, and Injustice, had not only to be cut down, but
rooted out. Therefore, I clung to my determination to write a book--an
instrument of attack which, if it cuts and sears at all, does so as
long as the need exists. Inasmuch as I knew that I still had to learn
how to write, I approached my task with deliberation. I planned to do
two things: first, to crystallize my thoughts by discussion--telling
the story of my life whenever in my travels I should meet any person
who inspired my confidence; second, while the subject matter of my book
was shaping itself in my mind, to drill myself by carrying on a
letter-writing campaign. Both these things I did--as certain indulgent
friends who bore the brunt of my spoken and written discourse can
certify. I feared the less to be dubbed a bore, and I hesitated the
less, perhaps, to impose upon good-nature, because of my firm
conviction that one in a position to help the many was himself entitled
to the help of the few.
I wrote scores of letters of great length. I cared little if some of my
friends should conclude that I had been born a century too late; for,
without them as confidants, I must write with no more inspiring object
in view than the wastebasket. Indeed, I found it difficult to compose
without keeping before me the image of a friend. Having stipulated that
every letter should be returned upon demand, I wrote without
reserve--my imagination had free rein. I wrote as I thought, and I
thought as I pleased. The result was that within six months I found
myself writing with a facility which hitherto had obtained only during
elation. At first I was suspicious of this new-found and apparently
permanent ease of expression--so suspicious that I set about diagnosing
my symptoms. My self-examination convinced me that I was, in fact,
quite normal. I had no irresistible desire to write, nor was there any
suggestion of that exalted, or (technically speaking) euphoric,
light-heartedness which characterizes elation. Further, after a
prolonged period of composition, I experienced a comforting sense of
exhaustion which I had not known while elated. I therefore
concluded--and rightly--that my unwonted facility was the product of
practice. At last I found myself able to conceive an idea and
immediately transfer it to paper effectively.
In July, 1905, I came to the conclusion that the time for beginning my
book was at hand. Nevertheless, I found it difficult to set a definite
date. About this time I so arranged my itinerary that I was able to
enjoy two summer--though stormy--nights and a day at the Summit House
on Mount Washington. What better, thought I, than to begin my book on a
plane so high as to be appropriate to this noble summit? I therefore
began to compose a dedication. "To Humanity" was as far as I got. There
the Muse forsook me.
But, returning to earth and going about my business, I soon again found
myself in the midst of inspiring natural surroundings--the Berkshire
Hills. At this juncture Man came to the assistance of Nature, and
perhaps with an unconsciousness equal to her own. It was a chance
remark made by an eminent man that aroused my subconscious literary
personality to irresistible action. I had long wished to discuss my
project with a man of great reputation, and if the reputation were
international, so much the better. I desired the unbiased opinion of a
judicial mind. Opportunely, I learned that the Hon. Joseph H. Choate
was then at his summer residence at Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Mr.
Choate had never heard of me and I had no letter of introduction. The
exigencies of the occasion, however, demanded that I conjure one up, so
I wrote my own letter of introduction and sent it:
RED LION INN,
STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
August 18, 1905.
HON. JOSEPH H. CHOATE,
Stockbridge, Massachusetts.