CHAPTER IV
OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO
PUBLIC LIFE
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession,
reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very
general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an
example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some
small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very
best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper
would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his
brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very
favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case
presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of
the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for
Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view
of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and
was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he
encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black,
with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features
were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given
to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry,
as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.
'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,' said the
undertaker.
'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and
forefinger into the proferred snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little
model of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr.
Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the
probability of the event. 'The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'
'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as
a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a
long time without cessation. 'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no
denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something
narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr.
Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles
come, by canal, from Birmingham.'
'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course,
allowable.'
'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a profit upon this or that
particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see--he! he! he!'
'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.
'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations
which the beadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to
contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off
the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years,
are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble,
that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits:
especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.'
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as
Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish;
the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being
uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A
porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the
porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?' As Mr. Bumble
spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the
words 'five pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official
coat; 'that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know--dear me,
what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.'
'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large
brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The die is the same as the porochial seal--the
Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on
Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to
attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.'
'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, "Died from exposure to the
cold, and want of the common necessaries of life," didn't they?'
Mr. Bumble nodded.
'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the
undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the
relieving officer had--'
'Tush! Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If the board attended to all the nonsense that
ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.'
'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'
'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into
a passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.'
'So they are,' said the undertaker.
'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that,' said the
beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.
'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.
'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,'
said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit
down for 'em.'
'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to
calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown;
wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the
cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
'Well; what about the boy?'
'Oh!' replied the undertaker; why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the
poor's rates.'
'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'
'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a
right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so--I think I'll take the boy
myself.'
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr.
Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that
Oliver should go to him that evening 'upon liking'--a phrase which means, in the case of
a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough
work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term
of years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and informed that he
was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained
of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to
be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion,
that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and orered 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 kneebreeches.
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.
'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 sprung 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 to 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 putup the shutters of his shop, 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, then, 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 Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this 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.
CHAPTER V
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR
THE
FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S
BUSINESS
Oliver, 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 tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and deathlike
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 in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like highshouldered
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.
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 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 wellremembered
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.
'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the key-hole.
'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 street, and over the
way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the
key-hole, 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 effort to
stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house
in which they were 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.
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 sat
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 unstateable fraction. The shopboys
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
bourne them without reply. But, now that fortune had 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 backparlour,
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 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 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 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 itself to her husband's mind before? Mr.
Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily
determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the
trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next
occasion of his services being require.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr.
Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his
large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he
handed over to Sowerberry.
'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; 'an order for a
coffin, eh?'
'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied
Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book:
which, like himself, was very corpulent.
'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. 'I never
heard the name before.'
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr.
Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'
'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. 'Come, that's too much.'
'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimonial, Mr.
Sowerberry!'
'So it is,' asquiesced the undertaker.
'We only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle; 'and we shouldn't
have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house
made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon
to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is
a very clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.'
'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.
'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle. 'But what's the consequence; what's the
ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the
medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it--says she shan't take
it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish
labourers and a coal-heaver, ony a week before--sent 'em for nothing, with a blackin'-
bottle in,--and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!'
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter
sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.
'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne--ver--did--'
'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nor nobody never did; but now she's dead,
we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's done, the better.'
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial
excietment; and flounced out of the shop.
'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!' said Mr.
Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.
'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the
interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound
of Mr. Bumble's voice.
He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for
that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had
made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon
trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for
seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be
thus effectually and legally overcome.
'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat. 'the sooner this job is done, the better.
Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.' Oliver obeyed,
and followed his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of
the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any
they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their
search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by
people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently
dentoed, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men
and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along.
A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and
mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had
become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by
huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even
these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless
wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window,
were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage
of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and
there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master
stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver
keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight
of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw
enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been
directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty
stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting
beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess,
opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.
Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to
his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were
blookshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over
her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afriad to look at either
her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker
approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!'
'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all
its shapes. 'Nonsense!'
'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,--'I
tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would
worry her--not eat her--she is so worn away.'
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket,
knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his
knees at the feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down
--kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to
death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones
were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark--
in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out
their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came
back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to
death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!' He twined his hands in
his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and
the foam covering his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as
quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence.
Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground,
she tottered towards the undertaker.
'She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the
corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death
in such a place. 'Lord, Lord! Well, it IS strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a
woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying ther: so cold and stiff!
Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as a play!'
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the
undertaker turned to go away.
'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow, or
next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large
cloak: a good warm one:
for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind;
send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread,
dear?' she said eagerly:
catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.
'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Anything you like!' He disengaged himself
from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and
a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master
returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied
by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had
been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having
been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the
street.
'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered Sowerberry in the old
woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move
on, my men,--as quick as you like!'
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept
as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace
in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated,
however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the
nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived;
and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means
improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the
brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold
rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the
churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their
amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and
Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry,
and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the
clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then
as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his
surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.
'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'
It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was
within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it
loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys,
who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.
'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back.
'They want to shut up the yard.'
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side,
started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for
a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in
bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any
attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him
safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.
'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like it?'
'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. 'Not very much,
sir.'
'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry.
'Nothing when you ARE used to it, my boy.'
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr.
Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back
to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.
thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read
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