After I had lived over again the trials and the tortures of my unhappiest years—­which was of course necessary in ploughing and harrowing a memory happily retentive—­the completion of this first draft left me exhausted.  But after a trip to New York, whither I went to convince my employers that I should be granted a further leave-of-absence, I resumed work.  The ground for this added favor was that my manuscript was too crude to submit to any but intimate acquaintances.  Knowing, perhaps, that a business man with a literary bee buzzing in his ear is, for the time, no business man at all, my employers readily agreed that I should do as I pleased during the month of October.  They also believed me entitled to the favor, recognizing the force of my belief that I had a high obligation to discharge.

It was under the family rooftree that I now set up my literary shop.  Nine months earlier an unwonted interest in literature and reform had sent me to an institution.  That I should now in my own home be able to work out my destiny without unduly disturbing the peace of mind of relatives was a considerable satisfaction.  In the very room where, during June, 1900, my reason had set out for an unknown goal, I redictated my account of that reason’s experiences.

My leave-of-absence ended, I resumed my travels eagerly; for I wished to cool my brain by daily contact with the more prosaic minds of men of business.  I went South.  For a time I banished all thoughts of my book and project.  But after some months of this change of occupation, which I thoroughly enjoyed, I found leisure in the course of wide travels to take up the work of elaboration and revision.  A presentable draft of my story being finally prepared, I began to submit it to all sorts and conditions of minds (in accordance with Mill’s dictum that only in that way can the truth be obtained).  In my quest for criticism and advice, I fortunately decided to submit my manuscript to Professor William James of Harvard University, the most eminent of American psychologists and a masterful writer, who was then living.  He expressed interest in my project; put my manuscript with others on his desk—­but was somewhat reserved when it came to promising to read my story.  He said it might be months before he could find time to do so.  Within a fortnight, however, I received from him a characteristic letter.  To me it came as a rescuing sun, after a period of groping about for an authoritative opinion that should put scoffers to flight.  The letter read as follows: 

    95 IRVING ST., CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 
    July 1, 1906.

    DEAR MR. BEERS: