Oliver Twist | Page 2

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 church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.



CHAPTER II
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,