formed
of the effect of commerce upon the outcome of the hostilities, it was
necessary to digest the statistics of the times, much of which existed
in tabulated form; and, for commercial policy, the State Papers, and
debates in Parliament, as well as in the French National Convention. I
now had not only interest in my task, but pride; for the favorable
criticism upon the first sea-power book not only had surprised me, but
had increased my ambition and my self-confidence. It was a distinct
help that there was no expectation of pecuniary advantage; no
publisher or magazine editor pressing for "copy," on which dollars
depended. I now often recall with envy the happiness of those days,
when the work was its own reward, and quite sufficient, too, almost as
good as a baby; when there were no secondary considerations, however
important, to dispute for the first place. I have never knowingly let
work leave my hands in shape less good than the best I can turn out;
but I have often felt the temptation to do so, and wished--almost, not
quite--that there was no money in it. I recast Dr. Johnson's saying:
"None but a blockhead would write unless he needed money." None but a
blockhead would write for money, unless he had to.

Though not embarrassed by publishers, I found a more formidable enemy
on my tracks in 1892. There had been a change in the Bureau of
Navigation, and the new chief, under whom the College was, thought my
help to it less necessary than my going to sea. To an advocate of
allowing me time, he replied, summarily, "It is not the business of a
naval officer to write books." As an aphorism the remark is doubtless
unassailable; but, with a policy thus defined, my position, again to
quote Boatswain Chucks, became "precarious and not at all permanent."
That my turn for sea service had come was indisputable. I could
pretend to no grievance, but I did want first to finish that book. Yet
I have recalled with happiness that I was enabled to work steadfastly
on, my pulse beating no quicker for fear I should be interrupted and
my task left unfinished. I remember a Boston publisher telling me of
the anxiety felt by one of his distinguished clients, lest death
should overtake him before that which he had planned was completed.
The feeling is common to man, and one is touched by the apparent
tragedy when men of promise and achievement are so removed, their aims
unaccomplished, as were recently Professor Rawson Gardiner and Sir
Wil