I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, inthe first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with thecomposure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interestin it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided betweenpleasure and regret--pleasure in the achievement of a long design,regret in the separation from many companions--that I am in danger ofwearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and privateemotions.

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

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfullythe pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; orhow an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himselfinto the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brainare 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 noone can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I havebelieved it in the writing.

Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot closethis Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towardsthe 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 havefallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy.

London, October, 1850.