gion in our childish ears, and the swift river
hurried us away!

PREFACE OF 1848

I cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers
in this greeting-place, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded
warmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey
we have just concluded.

If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on
which this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which
endears the sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me.
I may claim to have felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I
would fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.

PREFACE OF 1867

I make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not
even found, within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing so much as the faces of men, is a general one by any
means. The two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to
arise from the former default, are, the confounding of shyness with
arrogance--a very common mistake indeed--and the not understanding that
an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle with itself.

Mr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real
life. A sense of his injustice is within him, all along. The more he
represses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and
external circumstances may bring the contest to a close in a week, or a
day; but, it has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after
a long balance of victory.

I began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some
months in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between
the writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind,
that at this day, although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the
little midshipman's house, and could swear to every pew in the church
in which Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in
Doctor Blimber's establishment, I yet confusedly imagine Captain
Cuttle as secluding himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of
Switzerland. Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was
that the waves were always saying, my remembrance wanders for a whole
winter night about the streets of Paris--as I restlessly did with a
heavy heart, on