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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
the following year such hours as could be withdrawn from many
other duties to the construction of the story.


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