Late in the autumn of 1904, a slight illness detained me for two weeks in a city several hundred miles from home.  The illness itself amounted to little, and, so far as I know, had no direct bearing on later results, except that, in giving me an enforced vacation, it afforded me an opportunity to read several of the world’s great books.  One of these was “Les Miserables.”  It made a deep impression on me, and I am inclined to believe it started a train of thought which gradually grew into a purpose so all-absorbing that I might have been overwhelmed by it, had not my over-active imagination been brought to bay by another’s common sense.  Hugo’s plea for suffering Humanity—­for the world’s miserable—­struck a responsive chord within me.  Not only did it revive my latent desire to help the afflicted; it did more.  It aroused a consuming desire to emulate Hugo himself, by writing a book which should arouse sympathy for and interest in that class of unfortunates in whose behalf I felt it my peculiar right and duty to speak.  I question whether any one ever read “Les Miserables” with keener feeling.  By day I read the story until my head ached; by night I dreamed of it.

To resolve to write a book is one thing; to write it—­fortunately for the public—­is quite another.  Though I wrote letters with ease, I soon discovered that I knew nothing of the vigils or methods of writing a book.  Even then I did not attempt to predict just when I should begin to commit my story to paper.  But, a month later, a member of the firm in whose employ I was made a remark which acted as a sudden spur.  One day, while discussing the business situation with me, he informed me that my work had convinced him that he had made no mistake in re-employing me when he did.  Naturally I was pleased.  I had vindicated his judgment sooner than I had hoped.  Aside from appreciating and remembering his compliment, at the time I paid no more attention to it.  Not until a fortnight later did the force of his remark exert any peculiar influence on my plans.  During that time it apparently penetrated to some subconscious part of me—­a part which, on prior occasions, had assumed such authority as to dominate my whole being.  But, in this instance, the part that became dominant did not exert an unruly or even unwelcome influence.  Full of interest in my business affairs one week, the next I not only had no interest in them, but I had begun even to dislike them.  From a matter-of-fact man of business I was transformed into a man whose all-absorbing thought was the amelioration of suffering among the afflicted insane.  Travelling on this high plane of ideal humanitarianism, I could get none but a distorted and dissatisfying view of the life I must lead if I should continue to devote my time to the comparatively deadening routine of commercial affairs.