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Oliver Twist
Charles Dickens
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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,
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
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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 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 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
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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
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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!’
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