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Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens POSTSCRIPT
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.