attention and respect, into the house.
“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble, not sitting upon, or dropping
himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would, but letting
himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; “Mrs. Mann,
ma’am, good-morning.”
“Well, and good-morning to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann with
many smiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”
“So—so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not
a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.”
“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all
the infant paupers might have chorused the rejoinder with great
propriety, if they had heard it.
“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the
table with his cane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and
hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer
prosecution.”
Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant,
raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.
“You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.
Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again, evidently
to the satisfaction of the public character; who, repressing a
complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat said:
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“Mrs. Mann, I am a-going to London.”
“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach.
I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a-coming on,
about a settlement; and the Board has appointed me—me, Mrs.
Mann—to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at
Clerkinwell. And I very much question,” added Mr. Bumble,
drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkenwell Sessions will not
find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.”
“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann
coaxingly.
“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves,
ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find
that they come off rather worse than they expected, the
Clerkenwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.”
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about
the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of
these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At
length she said:
“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to
send them paupers in carts.”
“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle.
· “We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather,
to prevent their taking cold.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.
“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them
cheap,” said Mr. Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and
we find it would come two pound cheaper to move ’em than to
bury ’em—that is, if we can throw ’em upon another parish, which
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I think we shall be able to do, if they don’t die upon the road to
spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”
When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again
encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave.
“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is
your porochial stipend for the month.”
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper,
from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt; which Mrs. Mann
wrote.
“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s
formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very
much obliged to you, I’m sure.”
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgement of Mrs.
Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.
“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann, with emotion,
“they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that
died last week. And little Dick.”
“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child
that,” said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”
“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann.
“Here, you Dick!”
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face
put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was
led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his
eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his
misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had
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wasted away, like those of an old man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr.
Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and
dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice.
“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs.
Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr.
Bumble.
“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr.
Bumble, with well-timed jocularity.
“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.
“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had, of course,
laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour. “You want for
nothing, I’m sure.”
“I should like—” faltered the child.
“Heyday!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to
say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—
”
“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with
a show of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”
“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write,
would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it
up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”
“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on
whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made
some impression, accustomed as he was to such things. “What do
you mean, sir?”
“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor
Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself
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and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with
nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child,
pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great
fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for,
perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little
sister, who is in heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it
would be so much happier if we were both children there
together.”
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker from head to foot, with
indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said,
“They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That outdacious Oliver has
demogalised them all!”
“I couldn’t have believed it, sir!” said Mrs. Mann, holding up
her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a
hardened little wretch!”
“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This
must be stated to the Board, Mrs. Mann.”
“I hope the gentlemen will understand that it isn’t my fault,
sir?” said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted
with the true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him
away, I can’t bear the sight on him.”
Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-
cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare
for his journey.
At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble, having exchanged his
cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue
greatcoat with a cape to it, took his place on the outside of the
coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was
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disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London.
He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which
originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who
persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner
which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his
head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a
greatcoat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr.
Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped,
and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter.
Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he
drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on
the too prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed
himself to read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested,
was the following advertisement.
“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD”
“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was
enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville;
and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to
any person who will give such information as will lead to the
discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon
his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons,
warmly interested.”
And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person,
appearance, and disappearance, with the name and address of Mr.
Brownlow at full length.
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Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly
and carefully, three several times; and in something more than
five minutes was on his way to Pentonville; having actually, in his
excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water untasted.
“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl
who opened the door.
To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather
evasive reply of “I don’t know; where do you come from?”
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of
his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the
parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state.
“Come in—come in,” said the old lady. “I knew we should hear
of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his
heart! I said so, all along.”
Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the
parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The
girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs
meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble
would follow her immediately; which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr.
Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses
before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the
exclamation:
“A beadle! A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”
“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a
seat, will you?”
Mr. Bumble sat himself down, quite confounded by the oddity
of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to
obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and
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said, with a little impatience:
“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the
advertisement?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.
“And you are a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble
proudly.
“Of course,” observed Mr Grimwig, aside to his friend; “I knew
he was. A beadle all over!”
Mr Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his
friend, and resumed:
“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”
“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.
“Well, what do you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you
know of him?”
“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr.
Grimwig caustically, after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s
features.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his
head with portentous solemnity.
You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr.
Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-
up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he
knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his
arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few
moments’ reflection, commenced his story.
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It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words, occupying as
it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and
substance of it was, That Oliver was a foundling, born of low and
vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better
qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had
terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a
sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and
running away in the night-time from his master’s house. In proof
of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble
laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town; and folding
his arms again, awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.
“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully,
after looking over the papers. “This is not much for your
intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if
it had been favourable to the boy.”
It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of
this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might
have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was
too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and,
pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes;
evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr.
Grimwig forbore to vex him further.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper
appeared; “that boy, Oliver, is an impostor.”
“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.
“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you
mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from
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his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his
life.”
“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady firmly. “Never!”
“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and
lying story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why
didn’t you take my advice in the beginning; you would, if he hadn’t
had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he?
