Dedicated
TO THE MEMORY OF MY UNCLE
SAMUEL EDWIN MERWIN
WHOSE TIMELY GENEROSITY
I BELIEVE SAVED MY LIFE
AND WHOSE DEATH HAS FOREVER ROBBED
ME OF A SATISFYING OPPORTUNITY
TO PROVE MY GRATITUDE
This story is derived from as human a document as ever existed; and,because of its uncommon nature, perhaps no one thing contributes somuch to its value as its authenticity. It is an autobiography, andmore: in part it is a biography; for, in telling the story of my life,I must relate the history of another self—a self which was dominantfrom my twenty-fourth to my twenty-sixth year. During that period I wasunlike what I had been, or what I have been since. The biographicalpart of my autobiography might be called the history of a mental civilwar, which I fought single-handed on a battlefield that lay within thecompass of my skull. An Army of Unreason, composed of the cunning andtreacherous thoughts of an unfair foe, attacked my bewilderedconsciousness with cruel persistency, and would have destroyed me, hadnot a triumphant Reason finally interposed a superior strategy thatsaved me from my unnatural self.
I am not telling the story of my life just to write a book. I tell itbecause it seems my plain duty to do so. A narrow escape from death anda seemingly miraculous return to health after an apparently fatalillness are enough to make a man ask himself: For what purpose was mylife spared? That question I have asked myself, and this book is, inpart, an answer.
I was born shortly after sunset about thirty years ago. My ancestors,natives of England, settled in this country not long after theMayflower first sailed into Plymouth Harbor. And the blood of theseancestors, by time and the happy union of a Northern man and a Southernwoman—my parents—has perforce been blended into blood truly American.
The first years of my life were, in most ways, not unlike those ofother American boys, except as a tendency to worry made them so. Thoughthe fact is now difficult for me to believe, I was painfully shy. Whenfirst I put on short trousers, I felt that the eyes of the world wereon me; and to escape them I hid behind convenient pieces of furniturewhile in the house and, so I am told, even sidled close to fences whenI walked along the street. With my shyness there was a degree ofself-consciousness which put me at a disadvantage in any family orsocial gathering. I talked little and was ill at ease when others spoketo me.
Like many other sensitive and somewhat introspective children, I passedthrough a brief period of morbid righteousness. In a game of"one-old-cat," the side on which I played was defeated. On a piece ofscantling which lay in the lot where the contest took place, Iscratched the score. Afterwards it occurred to me that my inscriptionwas perhaps misleading and would make my side appear to be the winner.I went back and corrected the ambiguity. On finding in an old toolchest at home a coin or medal, on which there appeared the text, "Putaway the works of darkness and put on the armour of light," my sense ofreligious propriety was offended. It seemed a sacrilege to use in thisway such a high sentiment, so I destroyed the coin.
I earl