Bab Bab 2 · TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic

course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The

hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported

by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish

authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether

there was no female then domiciled in “the house” who was in a

situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of

which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with

humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities

magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,”

or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse

some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders

against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the

inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental

superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and

for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week.

Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child;

a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to

overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was

a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children;

and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself.

So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own

use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter

allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the

lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great

experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a

great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who

demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw

a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and

rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died,

four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable

bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the

female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a

similar result usually attended the operation of _her_ system; for at

the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest

possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen

in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want

and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by

accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was

usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers

it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest

upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead,

or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a

washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything

approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm—the jury

would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the

parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a

remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the

evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of

whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was

very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever

the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board

made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the

day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to

behold, when _they_ went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any

very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday

found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and

decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had

implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of

room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and

perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth

birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it _was_ his ninth

birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party

of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a

sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be

hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly

startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo

the wicket of the garden-gate.

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann,

thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy.

“(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em

directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you,

sure-ly!”

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of

responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave

the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick

which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.

“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had

been removed by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have

forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them

dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have

softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the

beadle.

“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired

Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting

at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with

the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may

say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?”

“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear

children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs.

Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his

importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He

relaxed.

“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you

say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and

have something to say.”

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor;

placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and

cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the

perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the

cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr.

Bumble smiled.

“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs.

Mann, with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or

I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink,

Mr. Bumble?”

“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a

dignified, but placid manner.

“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the

refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop,

with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.”

Mr. Bumble coughed.

“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

“What is it?” inquired the beadle.

“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put

into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,”

replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a

bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”

“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following

with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I

couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”

“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane

woman, Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early

opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it

towards him.) “You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the

gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”;

and he swallowed half of it.

“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern

pocket-book. “The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine

year old today.”

“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the

corner of her apron.

“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was

afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most

superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this

parish,” said Bumble, “we have never been able to discover who is his

father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or condition.”

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s

reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”

“You, Mr. Bumble!”

“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last

was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named _him_. The

next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names

ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it

again, when we come to Z.”

“Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann.

“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment;

“perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the

gin-and-water, and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the

board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out

myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.”

“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that

purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of

dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed

off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent

protectress.

“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair,

and the cocked hat on the table.

“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic

voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great

readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had

got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a

furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been

too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his

recollection.

“Will _she_ go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.

“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble. “But she’ll come and see you

sometimes.”

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was,

however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at

going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears

into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you

want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him

a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece

of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the

workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little

brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr.

Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never

lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony

of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as

were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were

the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in

the great wide world, sank into the child’s heart for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping

his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every

quarter of a mile whether they were “nearly there.” To these

interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for

the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had

by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an

hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of

bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old

woman, returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed him

that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was,

Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite

certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about

the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with

his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively:

and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed

room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At

the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the

rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

“Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears

that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table,

fortunately bowed to that.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him

tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him

cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating

voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool.

Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite

at his ease.

“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know

you’re an orphan, I suppose?”

“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.

“The boy _is_ a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat.

“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got

no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t

you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white

waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_ the

boy be crying for?

“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a

gruff voice; “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of

you—like a Christian.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was

unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian, and a

marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people

who fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn’t, because nobody had

taught him.

“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,”

said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

“So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,” added

the surly one in the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process

of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and

was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he

sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws

of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!

Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy

unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day

arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence

over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and

when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out

at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor

people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the

poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public

breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and

mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. “Oho!” said the

board, looking very knowing; “we are the fellows to set this to rights;

we’ll stop it all, in no time.” So, they established the rule, that all

poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody,

not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a

quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the

water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a

corn-factory to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and

issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and

half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane

regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary

to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in

consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and,

instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had

theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a

bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under

these last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society,

if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were

long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was

inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened

people.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was

in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of

the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in

the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their

wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of

workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were

in ecstasies.

The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a

copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the

purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at

mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and

no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two

ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing.

The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and

when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the

spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at

the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the

very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile,

in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up

any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys

have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions

suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they

got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for

his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had

kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless

he had another basin of gruel _per diem_, he was afraid he might some

night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a

weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they

implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should

walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and

it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his

cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants

ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long

grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys

whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors

nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless

with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin

and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in

stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then

clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with

wonder; the boys with fear.

“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.

“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”

The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him

in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into

the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high

chair, said,

“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for

more!”

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

“For _more_!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer

me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had

eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?”

“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.

“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I

know that boy will be hung.”

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated

discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and

a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a

reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the

hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were

offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade,

business, or calling.

“I never was more convinced of anything in my life,” said the gentleman

in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill

next morning: “I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than

I am that that boy will come to be hung.”

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated

gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this

narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint

just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination

or no.