When I devised this story, I foresaw the likelihood that a class ofreaders and commentators would suppose that I was at great painsto conceal exactly what I was at great pains to suggest: namely,that Mr John Harmon was not slain, and that Mr John Rokesmithwas he. Pleasing myself with the idea that the supposition mightin part arise out of some ingenuity in the story, and thinking itworth while, in the interests of art, to hint to an audience that anartist (of whatever denomination) may perhaps be trusted to knowwhat he is about in his vocation, if they will concede him a littlepatience, 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 itto a pleasant and useful account at last, was at once the mostinteresting and the most difficult part of my design. Its difficultywas much enhanced by the mode of publication; for, it would bevery unreasonable to expect that many readers, pursuing a story inportions from month to month through nineteen months, will, untilthey have it before them complete, perceive the relations of its finerthreads to the whole pattern which is always before the eyes of thestory-weaver at his loom. Yet, that I hold the advantages of themode of publication to outweigh its disadvantages, may be easilybelieved of one who revived it in the Pickwick Papers after longdisuse, and has pursued it ever since.

There is sometimes an odd disposition in this country to dispute asimprobable in fiction, what are the commonest experiences in fact.

Therefore, I note here, though it may not be at all necessary, thatthere are hundreds of Will Cases (as they are called), far moreremarkable than that fancied in this book; and that the stores of thePrerogative Office teem with instances of testators who have made,changed, contradicted, hidden, forgotten, left cancelled, and leftuncancelled, each many more wills than were ever made by theelder Mr Harmon of Harmony Jail.

In my social experiences since Mrs Betty Higden came upon thescene and left it, I have found Circumlocutional championsdisposed to be warm with me on the subject of my view of the PoorLaw. Mr friend Mr Bounderby could never see any differencebetween leaving the Coketown 'hands' exactly as they were, andrequiring them to be fed with turtle soup and venison out of goldspoons. Idiotic propositions of a parallel nature have been freelyoffered for my acceptance, and I have been called upon to admitthat I would give Poor Law relief to anybody, anywhere, anyhow.

Putting this nonsense aside, I have observed a suspicious tendencyin the champions to divide into two parties; the one, contendingthat there are no deserving Poor who prefer death by slowstarvation and bitter weather, to the mercies of some RelievingOfficers and some Union Houses; the other, admitting that thereare such Poor, but denying that they have any cause or reason forwhat they do. The records in our newspapers, the late exposure byTHE LANCET, and the common sense and senses of commonpeople, furnish too abundant evidence against both defences. But,that my view of the Poor Law may not be mistaken ormisrepresented, I will state it. I believe there has been in England,since the days of the STUARTS, no law so often infamouslyadministered, no law so often openly violated, no law habitually soill-supervised. In the majority of the shameful cases of diseaseand death from destitution, that shock the Public and disgrace thecountry, the illegality is quite equal to the inhumanity--and knownlanguage could say no more of their lawlessness.

On Friday the Ninth of June in the present year, Mr and MrsBoffin (in their manuscript dress of receiving Mr and Mrs Lammleat breakfast) were on the South Eastern Railway with me, in aterribly destructive accident. When I had done what I could to helpothers, I climbed back into my carriage--nearly turned over aviaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn--to extricate the worthycouple. They were much soiled, but otherwise unhurt. The samehappy result attended Miss Bella Wilfer on her wedding day, andMr Riderhood inspecting Bradley Headstone's red neckerchief ashe lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness that I cannever be much nearer parting company with my readers for ever,than I was then, until there shall be written against my life, the twowords with which I have this day closed this book:--THE END.

September 2nd, 1865.