Oliver Twist
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.
CHAPTER III.
RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT
HAVE BEEN A SINECURE
For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of
asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and
solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of
the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose,
that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the
prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have
established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for
ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the
wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this
feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that
pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for
all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the
express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and
pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater
obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all
day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands
before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner,