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.