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.

    DEAR SIR: