So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can now only take the reader into one confidence more. Yet, I had nothing else to tell unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing. It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever.

My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind was so divided between pleasure and regret – pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions – that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions.īesides which, all that I could have said of the Story to any purpose, I had endeavoured to say in it. I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. I cannot close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy. Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. Yet, I have nothing else to tell unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I have believed it in the writing. It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever.

My interest in it, is so recent and strong and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret – pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions – that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions.īesides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it. I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. I Am Shown Two Interesting Penitents LXII. I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again XXX. Some Old Scenes, and Some New People XXIII. I Am a New Boy in More Senses Than One XVII. Liking Life on My Own Account No Better, I Form a Great Resolution XIII. I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like It XII. I Become Neglected, and Am Provided For XI.

RICHARD WATSON, OF ROCKINGHAM, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.

David copperfield charles dickens