<h2> POSTSCRIPT </h2>
<h3> IN LIEU OF PREFACE </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>The Lancet</i>, 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 <i>Stuarts</i>, 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>September 2nd, 1865.</p>
<p><br/></p>
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