This second interruption of my career came at a time and in a manner to furnish me with strong arguments wherewith to support my contention that so-called madmen are too often man-made, and that he who is potentially mad may keep a saving grip on his own reason if he be fortunate enough to receive that kindly and intelligent treatment to which one on the brink of mental chaos is entitled.  Though during this second period of elation I was never in a mood so reckless as that which obtained immediately after my recovery from depression in August, 1902, I was at least so excitable that, had those in authority attempted to impose upon me, I should have thrown discretion to the winds.  To them, indeed, I frankly reiterated a terse dictum which I had coined during my first period of elation.  “Just press the button of Injustice,” I said, “and I’ll do the rest!” This I meant, for fear of punishment does not restrain a man in the dare-devil grip of elation.

What fostered my self-control was a sense of gratitude.  The doctors and attendants treated me as a gentleman.  Therefore it was not difficult to prove myself one.  My every whim was at least considered with a politeness which enabled me to accept a denial with a highly sane equanimity.  Aside from mild tonics I took no other medicine than that most beneficial sort which inheres in kindness.  The feeling that, though a prisoner, I could still command obligations from others led me to recognize my own reciprocal obligations, and was a constant source of delight.  The doctors, by proving their title to that confidence which I tentatively gave them upon re-entering the institution, had no difficulty in convincing me that a temporary curtailment of some privileges was for my own good.  They all evinced a consistent desire to trust me.  In return I trusted them.

XXXI

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.