TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BI

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasonsrnit will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I willrnassign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns,rngreat or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; onrna day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch asrnit can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage ofrnthe business at all events; the item of mortality whose name isrnprefixed to the head of this chapter.rnrnFor a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow andrntrouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerablerndoubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in whichrncase it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would neverrnhave appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple ofrnpages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being thernmost concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in thernliterature of any age or country.rnrnAlthough I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse,rnis in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that canrnpossibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particularrninstance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could byrnpossibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerablerndifficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office ofrnrespiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has renderedrnnecessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping onrna little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this worldrnand the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter.rnNow, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded byrncareful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctorsrnof profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably havernbeen killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauperrnold woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance ofrnbeer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliverrnand Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that,rnafter a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded tornadvertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burdenrnhaving been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry asrncould reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not beenrnpossessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longerrnspace of time than three minutes and a quarter.rnrnAs Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of hisrnlungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the ironrnbedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feeblyrnfrom the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words,“Let me see the child, and die.”rnrnThe surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire:rngiving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As thernyoung woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, withrnmore kindness than might have been expected of him:rnrn“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”rnrn“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastilyrndepositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of whichrnshe had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.rnrn“Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir,rnand had thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two,rnand them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on inrnthat way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother,rnthere’s a dear young lamb, do.”rnrnApparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failedrnin producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretchedrnout her hand towards the child.rnrnThe surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lipsrnpassionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazedrnwildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast,rnhands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked ofrnhope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.rnrn“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.rnrn“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of therngreen bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped torntake up the child. “Poor dear!”rnrn“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” saidrnthe surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s veryrnlikely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” Hernput on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door,rnadded, “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”rnrn“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by thernoverseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walkedrnsome distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she camernfrom, or where she was going to, nobody knows.”rnrnThe surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. “The oldrnstory,” he said, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah!rnGood-night!”rnrnThe medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having oncernmore applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chairrnbefore the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.rnrnWhat an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twistrnwas! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his onlyrncovering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; itrnwould have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned himrnhis proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the oldrncalico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badgedrnand ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphanrnof a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed andrnbuffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.rnrnOliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan,rnleft to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps hernwould have cried the louder.