Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication beyond
occasional contributions to the New York "Evangelist," nor had I
seriously contemplated a literary life. I had always been
extremely fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed a habit of
beguiling the solitary hours in weaving crude fancies around
people who for any reason interested me. I usually had a mental
serial running, to which I returned when it was my mood; but I had
never written even a short story. In October, 1871, I was asked to
preach for a far uptown congregation in New York, with the
possibility of a settlement in view. On Monday following the
services of the Sabbath, the officers of the church were kind
enough to ask me to spend a week with them and visit among the
people. Meantime, the morning papers laid before us the startling
fact that the city of Chicago was burning and that its population
were becoming homeless. The tidings impressed me powerfully,
waking the deepest sympathy. I said to myself, "Here is a phase of
life as remarkable as any witnessed during the war." I obeyed the
impulse to be on the scene as soon as possible, stated my purpose
to my friends, and was soon among the smoking ruins, finding an
abiding-place with throngs of others in a partially finished
hotel. For days and nights I wandered where a city had been, and
among the extemporized places of refuge harboring all classes of
people. Late one night I sat for a long time on the steps of
Robert Collyer's church and watched the full moon through the
roofless walls and shattered steeple. There was not an evidence of
life where had been populous streets. It was there and then, as
nearly as I can remember, that the vague outlines of my first
story, "Barriers Burned Away," began to take form in my mind. I
soon returned home, and began to dream and write, giving during