AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO
  THE HON. Mr. AND Mrs. RICHARD WATSON,
  OF ROCKINGHAM, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.

   PREFACE TO 1850 EDITION

    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.

    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.

    Besides which,
           all that
             I could say
                   of the Story,
         to any purpose,
           I have endeavoured
              to say in it.

    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.

    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.

    Instead of looking back,
           therefore,
         I will look forward.

    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.

    London,
           October,
         1850.

    PREFACE TO THE CHARLES DICKENS
        EDITION

    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.

    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.

    Besides which,
           all that
             I could have said
                   of the Story
                 to any purpose,
         I had endeavoured
              to say in it.

    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.

    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.

    So true
        are these avowals
               at the present day,
           that I
            can now only
                  take the reader
                       into one confidence more.

    Of all my books,
           I like this the best.

    It will be easily believed
         that I
            am a fond parent
                   to every child
                       of my fancy,
           and that no one
            can ever love
             that family as dearly as
               I love them.