IN LIEU OF PREFACE
When I devised this story, I foresaw the likelihood that a class of readers
and commentators would suppose that I was at great pains to conceal exactly what
I was at great pains to suggest: namely, that Mr John Harmon was not slain, and
that Mr John Rokesmith was he. Pleasing myself with the idea that the
supposition might in part arise out of some ingenuity in the story, and thinking
it worth while, in the interests of art, to hint to an audience that an artist
(of whatever denomination) may perhaps be trusted to know what he is about in
his vocation, if they will concede him a little patience, I was not alarmed by
the anticipation.
To keep for a long time unsuspected, yet always working itself out, another
purpose originating in that leading incident, and turning it to a pleasant and
useful account at last, was at once the most interesting and the most difficult
part of my design. Its difficulty was much enhanced by the mode of publication;
for, it would be very unreasonable to expect that many readers, pursuing a story
in portions from month to month through nineteen months, will, until they have
it before them complete, perceive the relations of its finer threads to the
whole pattern which is always before the eyes of the story-weaver at his loom.
Yet, that I hold the advantages of the mode of publication to outweigh its
disadvantages, may be easily believed of one who revived it in the Pickwick
Papers after long disuse, and has pursued it ever since.
There is sometimes an odd disposition in this country to dispute as
improbable in fiction, what are the commonest experiences in fact. Therefore, I
note here, though it may not be at all necessary, that there are hundreds of
Will Cases (as they are called), far more remarkable than that fancied in this
book; and that the stores of the Prerogative Office teem with instances of
testators who have made, changed, contradicted, hidden, forgotten, left
cancelled, and left uncancelled, each many more wills than were ever made by the
elder Mr Harmon of Harmony Jail.
In my social experiences since Mrs Betty Higden came upon the scene and left
it, I have found Circumlocutional champions disposed to be warm with me on the
subject of my view of the Poor Law. Mr friend Mr Bounderby could never see any
difference between leaving the Coketown 'hands' exactly as they were, and
requiring them to be fed with turtle soup and venison out of gold spoons.
Idiotic propositions of a parallel nature have been freely offered for my
acceptance, and I have been called upon to admit that I would give Poor Law
relief to anybody, anywhere, anyhow. Putting this nonsense aside, I have
observed a suspicious tendency in the champions to divide into two parties; the
one, contending that there are no deserving Poor who prefer death by slow
starvation and bitter weather, to the mercies of some Relieving Officers and
some Union Houses; the other, admitting that there are such Poor, but denying
that they have any cause or reason for what they do. The records in our
newspapers, the late exposure by THE LANCET, and the common sense and senses of
common people, furnish too abundant evidence against both defences. But, that my
view of the Poor Law may not be mistaken or misrepresented, I will state it. I
believe there has been in England, since the days of the STUARTS, no law so
often infamously administered, no law so often openly violated, no law
habitually so ill-supervised. In the majority of the shameful cases of disease
and death from destitution, that shock the Public and disgrace the country, the
illegality is quite equal to the inhumanity--and known language could say no
more of their lawlessness.
On Friday the Ninth of June in the present year, Mr and Mrs Boffin (in their
manuscript dress of receiving Mr and Mrs Lammle at breakfast) were on the South
Eastern Railway with me, in a terribly destructive accident. When I had done
what I could to help others, I climbed back into my carriage--nearly turned over
a viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn--to extricate the worthy couple. They
were much soiled, but otherwise unhurt. The same happy result attended Miss
Bella Wilfer on her wedding day, and Mr Riderhood inspecting Bradley Headstone's
red neckerchief as he lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness that I can
never be much nearer parting company with my readers for ever, than I was then,
until there shall be written against my life, the two words with which I have
this day closed this book:--THE END.
September 2nd, 1865.
End
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