he 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 that they have established a right to a place among
my poems in virtue of long occupancy. Besides, although the writing of
verses is often a mark of mental weakness, I cannot forget that Joseph
Story and George Bancroft each published his little book, of rhymes, and
that John Quincy Adams has left many poems on record, the writing of
which did not interfere with the vast and important labors of his
illustrious career.

BEVERLY FARMS, MASS., August 7, 1891.
O. W. H.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

CHAPTER I.

AN ADVERTISEMENT.

On Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the "State Banner and Delphian
Oracle," published weekly at Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres
in a thriving river-town of New England, contained an advertisement which
involved the story of a young life, and stained the emotions of a small
community. Such faces of dismay, such shaking of heads, such gatherings
at corners, such halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up,
chirruping chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had not
been known since the rainy November Friday, when old Malachi Withers was
found hanging in his