Chapter 2 — CHAPTER II.<br>

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, and consigned the rising
parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided
for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving
herself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great
theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it
so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would
unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on
nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have
had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental
philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered
over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for
at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest
possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in
eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold,
or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any
one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into
another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.

her

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a
parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently
scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accident
was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in
the farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions,
or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a
remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of
the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always
opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and
the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very
self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm,
and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children
were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the
people have!

they

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very
extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale
thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in
circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in
Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet
of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his
having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth
birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two
other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing,
had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the
good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr.
Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, thrusting
her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. “(Susan, take
Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr.
Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!”

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to
this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a
tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated
from no leg but a beadle’s.

“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had been
removed by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have forgotten that
the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in
sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have
softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle.

“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired Mr.
Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting at your
garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial
orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial
delegate, and a stipendiary?”

“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children
as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs. Mann with great
humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had
displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.

“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you say; it
may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something
to say.”

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a
seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table
before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk
had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he
smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.

“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs. Mann,
with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’t
mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?”

“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a
dignified, but placid manner.

“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal,
and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop, with a little
cold water, and a lump of sugar.”

Mr. Bumble coughed.

“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

“What is it?” inquired the beadle.

“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the
blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,” replied Mrs. Mann as
she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll
not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”

“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following with
his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I couldn’t see
’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”

“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane woman,
Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early opportunity of
mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it towards him.) “You feel as
a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your health
with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”; and he swallowed half of it.

“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book.
“The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old today.”

“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of
her apron.

“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards
increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may
say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we have
never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s
settlement, name, or condition.”

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s
reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”

“You, Mr. Bumble!”

“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a
S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him. The next one
comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the
end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.”

him

“Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann.

“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment;
“perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the gin-and-water,
and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined
to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So
let me see him at once.”

“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose.
Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which
encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing,
was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.

“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the
cocked hat on the table.

“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great
readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got
behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious
countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often
impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.

“Will she go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.

“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble. “But she’ll come and see you sometimes.”

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he
had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was
no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and
recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very
naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver
wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too
hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and
the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr.
Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the
gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as
the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as 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 white-washed 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.

is

“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?

could

“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.

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 neighbours 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?”

more!

“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.