Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the Board, of all people
in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment
and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of
anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The
simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling,
possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced,
for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill-usage
he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect
silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was
not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within
the limits of a brown-paper parcel, about half a foot square by
three inches deep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more
attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led away by that
dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice
or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle
always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was
completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they
blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat
and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their
destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look
down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his
new master; which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air
of gracious patronage.
“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once, and passed the
back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear
in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed
sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by
another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an
unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s,
he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprang out
from between his chin and bony fingers.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at
his little charge a look of intense malignity. “Well! Of all the
ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you
are the—”
“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the
well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed,
indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”
“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody
hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross with me!” The child
beat his hand upon his heart, and looked in his companion’s face,
with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with
some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four
times in a husky manner; and, after muttering something about
“that troublesome cough,” bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good
boy. Then, once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in
silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop,
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most
appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
“Aha!” said the undertaker, looking up from the book and
pausing in the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”
“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve
brought the boy.” Oliver made a bow.
“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker, raising the
candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs.
Sowerberry! will you have the goodness to come here a moment,
my dear?”
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop,
and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with
a vixenish countenance.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry deferentially, “this is the boy
from the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.
“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”
“Why, he is rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver
as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no
denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”
“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our
victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for
they always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men
always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’
bones.” With this, the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and
pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp
and dark, forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and
denominated “kitchen”: wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes
down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.
“Here, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
Oliver down, “give the boy some of the cold bits that were put by
for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go
without ’em. I dare say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ’em—are you,
boy?”
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and
who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the
negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before
him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to
gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have
seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had
neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with
which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine.
There is only one thing I should like better, and that would be to
see the philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the
same relish.
“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his
supper, which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful
auguries of his future appetite, “have you done?”
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in
the affirmative.
“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim
and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under
the counter. You don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I
suppose? But it doesn’t much matter whether you do or don’t, for
you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come; don’t keep me here all
night!”
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new
mistress.
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
Chapter 5
Oliver Mingles With New Associates—Going To A
Funeral For The First Time, He Forms An
Unfavourable Notion Of His Master’s Business.
O liver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the
lamp down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly
about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many
people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand.
An unfinished coffin on black trestles, which stood in the middle of
the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble
came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of
the dismal object; from which he almost expected to see some
frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.
Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm
boards cut into the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-
shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.
Coffin plates, elm chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black
cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter
was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very
stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse
drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop
was close and hot; and the atmosphere seemed tainted with the
smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock
mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed
Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a
situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him.
The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the
absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into
his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he
wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin,
and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the
churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his
head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning by a loud kicking at the
outside of the shop door; which, before he could huddle on his
clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about
twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs
desisted, and a voice began. “Open the door, will yer?” cried the
voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.
“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver, undoing the chain and
turning the key.
“Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
“How old are yer?’ inquired the voice.
“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see
if I don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this
obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the
very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to
entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever
he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew
back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
street, and over the way, impressed with the belief that the
unknown who had addressed him through the keyhole, had
walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but
a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a
slice of bread-and-butter, which he cut into wedges, the size of his
mouth, with a clasp knife, and then consumed with great
dexterity.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver, at length, seeing that no
other visitor made his appearance; “did you knock?”
“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.
“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver innocently.
At this the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that
Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his
superiors in that way.
“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the
charity-boy, in continuation, descending from the top of the post,
meanwhile, with edifying gravity.
“No, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re
under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!” With
this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the
shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult
for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and
heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances;
but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal
attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of
glass in his efforts to stagger away beneath the weight, of the first
one, to a small court at the side of the house in which they were
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah, who, having
consoled him with the assurance that “he’d catch it,”
condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after.
Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared; and Oliver having
“caught it,” in fulfilment of Noah’s prediction, followed that young
gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a nice little
bit of bacon for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door
at Mister Noah’s back, and take them bits that I’ve put out on the
cover of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box
and drink it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind
the shop. D’ye hear?”
“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.
“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a rum creature you are!
Why don’t you let the boy alone?”
“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why everybody lets him alone
enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother
will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own
way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!”
“Oh, you queer soul!” said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty
laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both
looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he was shivering on the
box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces
which had been specially reserved for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No
chance—child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way
back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a
washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a
wooden leg and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
unstateable fraction. The shop boys in the neighbourhood had
long been in the habit of branding Noah, in the public streets, with
the ignominious epithets of “leathers,” “charity,” and the like; and
Noah had borne them without reply. But, now that fortune has
cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest
could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest.
This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a
beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how
impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest
lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three
weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut
up—were taking their supper in the little back parlour, when Mr.
Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said: “My
dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking
up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry sharply.
“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr Sowerberry.
“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I thought
you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”
“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” interposed Mrs.
Sowerberry. “I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. I don’t want to
intrude upon your secrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave
an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
“But, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, “I want to ask your
advice.’!
“No, no, don’t ask mine,” replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an
affecting manner; “ask somebody else’s.” Here, there was another
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
Oliver Twist
hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much.
This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of
treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr.
Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say
what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short
altercation of less than three-quarters of an hour’s duration, the
permission was most graciously conceded.
“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry.
“A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.”
“He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady.
“There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,”
resumed Mr. Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would
make a delightful mute, my love.”
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable
wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it; and without allowing
time for any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded.
“I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my
dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have
a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would
have a superb effect.”
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the
undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but,
as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so,
under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much
sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented
