the spirit with which, in a sense, he ventures to be present at
their hearths.

One of the advantages of authorship is criticism; and I have never
had reason to complain of its absence. My only regret is that I
have not been able to make better use of it. I admit that both the
praise and blame have been rather bewildering, but this confusion
is undoubtedly due to a lack of the critical faculty. With one acute
gentleman, however, who remarked that it "was difficult to account
for the popularity of Mr. Roe's books," I am in hearty accord. I
fully share in his surprise and perplexity. It may be that we at
last have an instance of an effect without a cause.

Ten years ago I had never written a line of a story, and had
scarcely entertained the thought of constructing one. The burning
of Chicago impressed me powerfully, and obedient to an impulse I
spent several days among its smoking ruins. As a result, my first
novel, "Barriers Burned Away," gradually took possession of my mind.
I did not manufacture the story at all, for it grew as naturally
as do the plants--weeds, some may suggest--on my farm. In the
intervals of a busy and practical life, and also when I ought to
have been sleeping, my imagination, unspurred, and almost undirected,
spun the warp and woof of the tale, and wove them together. At first
I supposed it would be but a brief story, which might speedily find
its way into my own waste-basket, and I was on the point of burning
it more than once. One wintry afternoon I read the few chapters then
written to a friend in whose literary taste I had much confidence,
and had her verdict been adverse they probably would have perished
as surely as a callow germ exposed to the bitter storm then raging
without. I am not sure, however, but that the impulse to write would