OLIVER TWIST.
VOL. I.
NEW WORK BY “BOZ.”
BARNABY RUDGE:
BY “BOZ.”
Which will be published forthwith in BENTLEY’S MISCELLANY.
[Illustration: _Oliver’s reception by Fagin and the boys._]
OLIVER TWIST.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
AUTHOR OF “THE PICKWICK PAPERS.”
SECOND EDITION.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1839.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
OLIVER TWIST.
CHAPTER I.
TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN, AND OF THE
CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH.
AMONG other public buildings in a certain town which for many reasons
it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will
assign no fictitious name, it boasts of one which is common to most
towns, great or small, to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was
born, on a day and date which I need not take upon myself to repeat,
inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in
this stage of the business at all events, the item of mortality whose
name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after
he was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish
surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child
would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat
more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared, or,
if they had, being comprised within a couple of pages, that they would
have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and
faithful specimen of biography extant in the literature of any age
or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being
born in a workhouse is in itself the most fortunate and enviable
circumstance that can possibly befal a human being, I do mean to say
that in this particular instance it was the best thing for Oliver Twist
that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was
considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the
office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom
has rendered necessary to our easy existence,—and for some time he lay
gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between
this world and the next, the balance being decidedly in favour of the
latter. Now, if during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by
careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors
of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have
been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper
old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of
beer, and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract, Oliver
and nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that,
after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to
advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden
having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as
could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been
possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer
space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his
lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron
bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young female was raised feebly
from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words,
“Let me see the child, and die.”
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire,
giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately; but as the
young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with
more kindness than might have been expected of him—
“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”
“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily
depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which
she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. “Lor bless
her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had
thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two, and them
in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way,
bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear
young lamb, do.”
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed
in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched
out her hand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips
passionately on its forehead, passed her hands over her face, gazed
wildly round, shuddered, fell back—and died. They chafed her breast,
hands, and temples; but the blood had frozen for ever. They talked of
hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy,” said the surgeon at last.
“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the
green bottle which had fallen out on the pillow as she stooped to take
up the child. “Poor dear!”
“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said
the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very
likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He
put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door,
added “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”
“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by the
overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street;—she had walked
some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came
from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.”
The surgeon leant over the body, and raised the left hand. “The old
story,” he said, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! good
night!”
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having
once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair
before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
And what an excellent example of the power of dress young Oliver
Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only
covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar;—it
would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have fixed his
station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico
robes, which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and
ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan
of a workhouse—the humble half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and
buffeted through the world, despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan,
left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he
would have cried the louder.