On March 12th, 1903, I wrote a letter which so disturbed the Governor that he immediately set about an informal investigation of some of my charges.  Despite its prolixity, its unconventional form and what, under other circumstances, would be characterized as almost diabolic impudence and familiarity, my letter, as he said months later when I talked with him, “rang true.”  The writing of it was an easy matter; in fact, so easy, because of the pressure of truth under which I was laboring at the time, that it embodied a compelling spontaneity.

The mailing of it was not so easy.  I knew that the only sure way of getting my thoughts before the Governor was to do my own mailing.  Naturally no doctor could be trusted to send an indictment against himself and his colleagues to the one man in the State who had the power to institute such an investigation as might make it necessary for all to seek employment elsewhere.  In my frame of mind, to wish to mail my letter was to know how to accomplish the wish.  The letter was in reality a booklet.  I had thoughtfully used waterproof India drawing ink in writing it, in order, perhaps, that a remote posterity might not be deprived of the document.  The booklet consisted of thirty-two eight-by-ten-inch pages of heavy white drawing paper.  These I sewed together.  In planning the form of my letter I had forgotten to consider the slot of a letter-box of average size.  Therefore I had to adopt an unusual method of getting the letter into the mails.  My expedient was simple.  There was in the town a certain shop where I traded.  At my request the doctor gave me permission to go there for supplies.  I was of course accompanied by an attendant, who little suspected what was under my vest.  To conceal and carry my letter in that place had been easy; but to get rid of it after reaching my goal was another matter.  Watching my opportunity, I slipped the missive between the leaves of a copy of the Saturday Evening Post.  This I did, believing that some purchaser would soon discover the letter and mail it.  Then I left the shop.

On the back of the wrapper I had endorsed the following words: 

“Mr. Postmaster:  This package is unsealed.  Nevertheless it is first-class matter.  Everything I write is necessarily first class.  I have affixed two two-cent stamps.  If extra postage is needed you will do the Governor a favor if you will put the extra postage on.  Or affix ‘due’ stamps, and let the Governor pay his own bills, as he can well afford to.  If you want to know who I am, just ask his Excellency, and oblige,

    Yours truly,

    ?”

Flanking this notice, I had arrayed other forceful sentiments, as follows—­taken from statutes which I had framed for the occasion: 

    “Any person finding letter or package—­duly stamped and
    addressed—­must mail same as said letter or package is really
    in hands of the Government the moment the stamp is affixed.”