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<h1> LITTLE DORRIT </h1>
<h2> By Charles Dickens </h2>
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<h2> PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION </h2>
<p>I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of two
years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not leave its merits
and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on its being read as a
whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to suppose that I may have held its
threads with a more continuous attention than anyone else can have given
them during its desultory publication, it is not unreasonable to ask that
the weaving may be looked at in its completed state, and with the pattern
finished.</p>
<p>If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the Barnacles
and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the common experience of
an Englishman, without presuming to mention the unimportant fact of my
having done that violence to good manners, in the days of a Russian war,
and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend
that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated
after the Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and
of one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead
anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design will
sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious design, it would
be the curious coincidence that it has been brought to its climax in these
pages, in the days of the public examination of late Directors of a Royal
British Bank. But, I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on
all these counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good
authority) that nothing like them was ever known in this land. Some of my
readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no any portions
of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until
the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I found the outer
front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop;
and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering,
however, down a certain adjacent 'Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey', I
came to 'Marshalsea Place:' the houses in which I recognised, not only as
the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that
arose in my mind's-eye when I became Little Dorrit's biographer. The
smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw,
offered a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its
old uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I
judge him to be) came by his information, I don't know; he was a quarter
of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to
the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father
lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted
that apartment at present? He said, 'Tom Pythick.' I asked him who was Tom
Pythick? and he said, 'Joe Pythick's uncle.'</p>
<p>A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used to
enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for
ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of Angel
Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving-stones
of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard to the right and
to the left, very little altered if at all, except that the walls were
lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms in which the debtors
lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many miserable years.</p>
<p>In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many
readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have still
to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and confidence
that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I added to that,
May we meet again!</p>
<p>London May 1857</p>
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