I
TREATS OF THE PLACE
WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS
BORN AND OF THE
CIRCUMSTANCES
ATTENDING HIS BIRTH
Among othe r 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 wi t, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was
born; on a day and date which I n eed not trou ble myself
to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible
consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business a t
all events; the item of morta lity 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
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somewhat more than p robable that these memoirs would
never have a ppeared; 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 disp osed to mai ntain that the 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 tha t in this particular instance, it
was the best thing for Oliver T wist that could by
possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was
considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon
himself the office of respirati on,?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 ma ttress, rather un equally 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 doct ors of profound wi sdom, he
would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in
no time. There b eing nobody by, however, but a pauper
old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an
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unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who
did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nat ure fought
out the poi nt between them. The r esult was, th at, 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 cr y 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 hi s 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 articul ated the words, ?Let
me see the c hild, 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
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contents of which she had b een tasting in a cor ner with
evident satisf action.
?Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I
have, sir, and had thirte en children of her own, and all on
?em dead except two, and th em 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 con solatory perspective of a mo ther?s
prospects fai led in producing its d ue effect. Th e 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 passi onately on i ts 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. Thin gummy!? sai d 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!?
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?You needn?t mind sendi ng up to me, if the child cries,
nurse,? said the surgeon, putting on his gloves w ith great
deliberation. ?It?s very likely it WILL be tro ublesome.
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 s he come
from??
?She was brought here last night,? replied the old
woman, ?by the overseer?s order. She was found lying in
the street. S he had wal ked some d istance, for her shoes
were worn t o 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 sa id, 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 t o 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 cov ering, he m ight have
been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it wo uld have
been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assig ned him
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his proper stati on in society. But now that he w as
enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow
in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell
into hi s 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 orp han, left to th e tender mercies of church-
wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the
louder.
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