Our Mutual Friend
gentleman, induced this gentleman to marry this lady, I think he is the
greater gentleman for the action, and makes her the greater lady. I beg
to say, that when I use the word, gentleman, I use it in the sense in
which the degree may be attained by any man. The feelings of a gentleman
I hold sacred, and I confess I am not comfortable when they are made the
subject of sport or general discussion.’
‘I should like to know,’ sneers Podsnap, ‘whether your noble relation
would be of your opinion.’
‘Mr Podsnap,’ retorts Twemlow, ‘permit me. He might be, or he might not
be. I cannot say. But, I could not allow even him to dictate to me on a
point of great delicacy, on which I feel very strongly.’
Somehow, a canopy of wet blanket seems to descend upon the company, and
Lady Tippins was never known to turn so very greedy or so very cross.
Mortimer Lightwood alone brightens. He has been asking himself, as to
every other member of the Committee in turn, ‘I wonder whether you are
the Voice!’ But he does not ask himself the question after Twemlow has
spoken, and he glances in Twemlow’s direction as if he were grateful.
When the company disperse—by which time Mr and Mrs Veneering have had
quite as much as they want of the honour, and the guests have had quite
as much as THEY want of the other honour—Mortimer sees Twemlow home,
shakes hands with him cordially at parting, and fares to the Temple,
gaily.
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. My 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.