The Guardian Angel | Page 5

the whole family connection; but as the delusion
under which they labor is still common, and often leads to the wasting
of time, the contempt of honest study or humble labor, and the
misapplication of intelligence not so far below mediocrity as to be
incapable of affording a respectable return when employed in the
proper direction, I thought this picture from life might also be of
service. When I say that no genuine young poet will apply it to himself,
I think I have so far removed the sting that few or none will complain
of being wounded.
It is lamentable to be forced to add that the Reverend Joseph Bellamy
Stoker is only a softened copy of too many originals to whom, as a
regular attendant upon divine worship from my childhood to the
present time, I have respectfully listened, while they dealt with me and
mine and the bulk of their fellow-creatures after the manner of their
sect. If, in the interval between his first showing himself in my story
and its publication in a separate volume, anything had occurred to make
me question the justice or expediency of drawing and exhibiting such a
portrait, I should have reconsidered it, with the view of retouching its
sharper features. But its essential truthfulness has been illustrated every
month or two, since my story has been in the course of publication, by
a fresh example from real life, stamped in darker colors than any with
which I should have thought of staining my pages.

There are a great many good clergymen to one bad one, but a writer
finds it hard to keep to the true proportion of good and bad persons in
telling a story. The three or four good ministers I have introduced in
this narrative must stand for many whom I have known and loved, and
some of whom I count to-day among my most valued friends. I hope
the best and wisest of them will like this story and approve it. If they
cannot all do this, I know they will recognize it as having been written
with a right and honest purpose.
BOSTON, 1867.

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.
It is a quarter of a century since the foregoing Preface was written, and
that is long enough to allow a story to be forgotten by the public, and
very possibly by the writer of it also. I will not pretend that I have
forgotten all about "The Guardian Angel," but it is long since I have
read it, and many of its characters and incidents are far from being
distinct in my memory. There are, however, a few points which hold
their place among my recollections. The revolt of Myrtle Hazard from
the tyranny of that dogmatic dynasty now breaking up in all directions
has found new illustrations since this tale was written. I need only refer
to two instances of many. The first is from real life. Mr. Robert C.
Adams's work, "Travels in Faith from Tradition to Reason," is the
outcome of the teachings of one of the most intransigeant of our New
England Calvinists, the late Reverend Nehemiah Adams. For an
example in fiction,--fiction which bears all the marks of being copied
from real life,--I will refer to "The Story of an African Farm." The
boy's honest, but terrible outburst, "I hate God," was, I doubt not, more
acceptable in the view of his Maker than the lying praise of many a
hypocrite who, having enthroned a demon as Lord of the Universe,
thinks to conciliate his favor by using the phrases which the slaves of
Eastern despots are in the habit of addressing to their masters. I have
had many private letters showing the same revolt of reasoning natures
against doctrines which shock the more highly civilized part of
mankind in this nineteenth century and are leading to those dissensions

which have long shown as cracks, and are fast becoming lines of
cleavage in some of the largest communions of Protestantism.
The principle of heredity has been largely studied since this story was
written. This tale, like "Elsie Venner," depends for its deeper
significance on the ante-natal history of its subject. But the story was
meant to be readable for those who did not care for its underlying
philosophy. If it fails to interest the reader who ventures upon it, it may
find a place on an unfrequented bookshelf in common with other
"medicated novels."
Perhaps I have been too hard with Gifted Hopkins and the tribe of
rhymesters to which he belongs. I ought not to forget that I too
introduced myself to the reading world in a thin volume of verses;
many of which had better not have been written, and would not be
reprinted now, but for the fact