Chapter Chapter 1 · TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE

. 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, there is one anciently 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 trouble 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 it 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, that being comprised within a couple of

pages, 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 being born in a workhouse,

is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can

possibly befall 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 woman 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. 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 stopped forever. 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 leaned 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.

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 assigned him

his proper 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.