Without my diary, I doubt--pray let me express it in the grossest

terms!--if I could have honestly earned my money. With my diary, the

poor labourer (who forgives Mr. Blake for insulting her) is worthy

of her hire. Nothing escaped me at the time I was visiting dear Aunt

Verinder. Everything was entered (thanks to my early training) day by

day as it happened; and everything down to the smallest particular,

shall be told here. My sacred regard for truth is (thank God) far above

my respect for persons. It will be easy for Mr. Blake to suppress what

may not prove to be sufficiently flattering in these pages to the person

chiefly concerned in them. He has purchased my time, but not even HIS

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wealth can purchase my conscience too.* * NOTE. ADDED BY FRANKLIN BLAKE.--Miss Clack may make her

mind quite easy on this point. Nothing will be added,

altered or removed, in her manuscript, or in any of the

other manuscripts which pass through my hands. Whatever

opinions any of the writers may express, whatever

peculiarities of treatment may mark, and perhaps in a

literary sense, disfigure the narratives which I am now

collecting, not a line will be tampered with anywhere, from

first to last. As genuine documents they are sent to me--and

as genuine documents I shall preserve them, endorsed by the

attestations of witnesses who can speak to the facts. It

only remains to be added that "the person chiefly concerned"

in Miss Clack's narrative, is happy enough at the present

moment, not only to brave the smartest exercise of Miss

Clack's pen, but even to recognise its unquestionable value

as an instrument for the exhibition of Miss Clack's

character.

My diary informs me, that I was accidentally passing Aunt Verinder's

house in Montagu Square, on Monday, 3rd July, 1848.

Seeing the shutters opened, and the blinds drawn up, I felt that it

would be an act of polite attention to knock, and make inquiries. The

person who answered the door, informed me that my aunt and her daughter

(I really cannot call her my cousin!) had arrived from the country

a week since, and meditated making some stay in London. I sent up a

message at once, declining to disturb them, and only begging to know

whether I could be of any use.

The person who answered the door, took my message in insolent silence,

and left me standing in the hall. She is the daughter of a heathen old

man named Betteredge--long, too long, tolerated in my aunt's family.

I sat down in the hall to wait for my answer--and, having always a few

tracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially

applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was dirty, and

the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of returning good for

evil raised me quite above any trifling considerations of that kind. The

tract was one of a series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of

dress. In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, "A Word With

You On Your Cap-Ribbons."




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