First performed at the Pavilion Theatre, May, 1838— at the Royal Surrey Theatre, on Monday, November 19th, 1838.
The Stage is never devoted to a more noble or better purpose than when it
lends its powerful aid to improve the morals, and correct the vices of the age.
It is this conviction which has led to the adaptation of the impressive Work
upon which this Drama is founded, opening one of the darkest volumes of life,
and revealing facts that must startle the more strongly, from the previous total
ignorance of their existence, even by those persons residing in the very heart
of the scenes in which they are daily and nightly passing. Nothing can be more
useful and salutary than the knowledge of such facts to the Public at large,
against whom the offences of which they consist are practised, and the
consciousness of their possessing such knowledge by the individuals themselves
employed in the commission of them. " Holding the mirror up to nature," albeit
in its worst light, and showing the manner in which youth is unsuspectedly
seduced into crime—unmasking the nurseries of guilt—pointing out the receptacles
of plunder—and warning the victims both sinned against and sinning; the object,
as The Times newspaper of Tuesday, November 13th, 1838, in an able and
eloquent article on this important subject, justly remarks, is " not for the
purpose of grounding any legislative remedy against these particular nuisances,
but for the sake of giving to the respectable inhabitants of every parish a
general acquaintance with what goes on in the little alleys near them, and thus
enabling them to exercise with the more advantage that local vigilance, which is
the best, and, indeed, almost the only check upon these haunts of vice. Evidence
of complete offences committed by the tenants against any specific law is not
easily obtained, but constant observation, and active declared suspicion, will
do a good deal in the way of prevention. Disorderly people grow cautious how
they behave when they know that their practices are understood and watched. Few
pockets are picked under a gas lamp."
It is possible that many persons may conceive the striking pictures presented
to them in this Drama have not their parallel in real life, but are exaggerated,
wrought up, and coloured, merely for the sake of effect. That such is not the
case, the testimony of individuals of the highest integrity and intellect, given
before a Committee of the House of Commons appointed to enquire into the subject
in 1837, will sufficiently evince. "The Calendar of human sins," says the writer
we have just quoted, " contains no crime, however private and domestic, which
does not directly or indirectly work some social mischief, whether by the injury
done to its immediate victims, the evil of its example, or by its demoralising
effect on the delinquent himself as a member of society. To prove how offenders
are first trained to vice, what haunts are kept open for them, and where they
find their markets, there is the evidence of Mr. Wakefield. He remarks 'there
did exist, and he believes exists still, a great number of people in London,
whose
The city officers in pursuing that great receiver of stolen goods, Ikey Solomons, discovered cellars and trap doors, and all sorts of places of concealment, which they found full of stolen goods. There seems no reason to believe that any effectual check has been given to these depositories of crime, for Mr. Wakefield, only last year, referred the Committee to a class of houses existing in all the poorer parts of London, and kept for the use of thieves, where they meet receivers of stolen goods, plan robberies, and lie in concealment for some time after their commission of any crime which has excited observation.
Thus it will be seen in this Drama. It's great original, who verbally speaking, may truly be termed akin to Hogarth, has raised a beacon on the basis of truth to warn the erring, guide the inexperienced, instruct the ignorant to avoid the shoals by which they are surrounded, and forcibly inculcate the great moral lesson, that vice, however prosperous for a time, will sooner or later meet with punishment and disgrace, while virtue, whatever be its trials and temptations, will ultimately secure a lasting and just reward.
The Scenery either from designs made upon the spot by Mr. Brunning, or from the Etchings which so richly illustrate the Work, by the talented George Cruikshank.
Interior Of The "Three Cripples,"
Meeting of the Fence and the Thieves—The Persecutor of the Orphan—and the Plot.
Parlour Of Mrs. Corney-The Tea Table.
"It was bleak, dark, and piercing cold; it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire, and thank God they were at home, and for the homeless starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets at such times, who (let their crimes have been what they may) can hardly open them to a more bitter world."
The Application for an Apprentice—The Working of the Plot—Its Defeat, and the just Escape of Oliver.
The Undertaker's Shop. The Parochial Coffin.
" 'It's only about young Twist—a very good looking boy that, my dear." ' He need be,' says she, 'for he eats enough.'
'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear, which is very interesting—he would make a delightful mute—not a regular mute to attend grown-up people, but only for children's practice—it would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear.'"Mr .Bumble entered the shop, drew forth his pocket book, from which he selected a scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry—'Aha!' said the undertaker, with a lively countenance, 'an order for a coffin, eh?' 'For a coffin first, and a parochial funeral afterwards,' replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket book, which like himself, was very corpulent."
"'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's yer mother?' 'She's dead,' replied Oliver, 'don't you say anything about her to me.' 'But yer must know,' continued Noah, 'work'us, yer mother was a right down bad un.' 'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up quickly. ' A regular right down bad un,' replied Noah coolly. Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew chair and table, seized Noah by the throat, shook him in the violence of his rage till his teeth chattered in his head, and collecting his whole force in one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.—Oliver locked up for the night—he cancels his indentures."
The Highgate Gatehouse. The Artful Dodger And The Early Breakfast.
"'Hollo, my covey, what's the row ?' Oliver thought that the young gentleman who thus addressed him was one of the queerest looking boys that he had ever seen ; he was short of his age, with rather bow legs, and little sharp ugly eyes. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back half way up his arm to get his hands out of the sleeves, apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trowsers, for there he kept them. He was altogether as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in his bluchers."
Fagin's Den, in the Neighbourhood of Field Lane. The Introduction
"When they reached the bottom of the hill, his conductor catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house in Field Lane, and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them. 'Now then,' cried a voice from below in reply to a whistle. 'Plummy and slamm,' answered the Dodger—this seemed to be some watchword, or signal that all was right. 'There's two on yer', said the man, ' who's the t'other one?' 'A new pal,' replied Jack
Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward. 'Is Fagin up stairs ?' said he. 'Yes,' said the other, 'and sorting the wipes—up with ye.'" " In a frying pan which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantel shelf by a string, some sausages were cooking, and standing over them, with a toasting fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew. Oliver ate his share of the supper, and the Jew then mixed a glass of hot gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly;—Oliver did as he was desired, and then sunk into a deep sleep.
The Parlour Of The Matron.
"Mr . Bumble's conduct on being left to himself was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the tea spoons, weighed the sugar tongs, closely inspected the silver milk pot, to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner ways, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table."
A Parlour In The House Of Mr. Brownlow.
The Sick Boy And His Benefactor.
" 'And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow. 'To-morrow morning,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'In the meantime, Oliver, you can go to the booksellers—say that you have brought these books back, and that you have come to pay the four pounds ten I owe him.' ' It wont be ten minutes before I return,' replied Oliver."
" The two friends drew their chairs close to the table, and sat in silent expectation, with the watch between them. At last it grew so dark that the figures on the dial were scarcely discernible; but still there the two old gentlemen continued to sit in silence."
Beershop In Clerkenwell.—The Stratagem.
" 'What the devil's this ?' said a man bursting out of a beershop, 'Come home to your poor mother, you young dog. What books are these ? Give 'em here.' With these words the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. In another moment Oliver was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and forced along them at a pace which rendered his cries unintelligible.
The Den Of Fagin. —The Re-Capture.
" 'So you wanted to get away, my tear,' said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fire-place, 'eh ?' when the girl rushing forward, wrested it from his hands."
" There is something about a roused woman, especially if she adds to all her other strong passions the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair, which few men like to provoke."
Interior of the Parochial Orphan Asylum.
The Journey To London.
" 'I am going to London,' said Mr. Bumble to Mrs. Mann., An action is coming on about a settlement, and the Board has appointed me to depose the matter before the Quarter Sessions at Clerkenwell.
"The two women servants ran up stairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber. In the midst of this noise and commotion was heard a sweet female voice which quelled it in an instant."
Sikes' Garret.—The Broken Promise.
" She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further."
The Workhouse Parlour. The Stranger And The Bribe.
" ' She spoke of a young creature,' replied the matron, ' who has brought a child into the world some years before ; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed in which she there lay dying'
London Bridge and the River Thames.
The Midnight Meeting.
" The steps to which the girl had pointed were those which on the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as St. Saviour's Church, form a landing stairs from the river."
"Peeping out more than once to make sure he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs could carry him. "
City Of London—Holborn Hill.
The mystery ."On Nancy hearing the exposition of the mystery, she
hurried with great rapidity in a contrary direction, partly to recover lost
time, and partly to keep pace with the violence of her own
feelings."
The Garret Of Sikes.
The Murder Fatal Consequences.
"The man struggled violently to release his arm, but those of the girl were clasped round his, and he could not tear them away."
Mr . Brownlow's House.—The Confession.
"The only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin."
An Old House In Jacob's Island.
On the Banks of Folly Ditch. — The Desperado's Death.
"In a neighbourhood beyond Dockhead, in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in these days as Folly Ditch."
"The murderer sat his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose. Missing his aim he fell into the ditch, and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains."
Tis gold !—real—real gold! By my life, a bargain !
What are you jawing about, Fagin ?
Vy, don't you know, Bill? Fagin's got a bargain, and he's overjoyed, that's all.
Who has he been swindling, the old thief?
No one, my tear—no one, Mishter Sikes. An ould pauper met me in the street just now, and sold me this watch.
And how should a pauper have a watch ?
It was given her by a woman she attended who was sick, fourteen years ago. But I'll tell you all about it, if you come closer to me.
No, Fagin—go on.
About fourteen or fifteen years ago, said the ould pauper, one stormy night, a loud ringing at St. Nicholas' Workhouse gates aroused the inmates. When the gate was opened, two men entered carrying a woman, who seemed exhausted and dying. They had discovered her in the high road, sinking and worn out with fatigue and want. She was a good-looking girl, and must have walked far, for her shoes were torn to pieces.
Within three hours of her being brought there, she gave birth to a male child
and expired. As a reward for her services, she gave the woman who attended her
this watch.
Or else the beldame stole it—eh, Fagin ?
Can't say—can't say, indeed.
But what became of the child ?
He still lives—is at the workhouse, and I think they call him Oli—Oliver—yes, Oliver—Oliver Twist.
Oliver Twist!—that's a rummy name.
'Tis no stranger; 'tis my very good friend Monks. Good day, Mr. Monks—good day.
Fagin, I am glad to see you. I overheard your tale —that trinket—let me see it.
Yes, yes, Mr. Monks, in a moment—there is a cypher on it—" H. B. The gift of a fond father."
Those initials too!—Give it me !
You knew the owner of this watch, then ?
Knew her? Would I ne'er had seen her—I had then been a crimeless man. Knew her? Oh, Heaven! Quick— take this watch—it seems to sear me like a red hot iron! Take it—-take it—it is pain to gaze upon it!
What means this ?
Ask me nothing—I can answer nothing—thoughts of the past torture me! Give me
some brandy—quick—some brandy, I say !
There's some'at wrong in his upper story, or I'm no cracksman.
Damnation—'tis here again! Must I be ever haunted thus, and remined of the
past ? Yet, hold—this may be of service—I may rid me of my fears. 'Tis but one
bold stroke and all may yet be well.
Fagin, that boy's fate is deeply involved with mine. Get him in your power, and you shall have a hundred pounds.
And what would you do with him, Mr. Monks ?
No harm—no harm—but we must have him in our power.
You want to have this boy in your power ? Vell, I see the vay—it shall be
done. Dawkins ! Bates !
Oh, my eye ! What a jolly row that ere Fagin's a kicking up about nothin.'
I'm sure we're two as 'dustrious covies as ever nimmed a ticker, or fenced a sneezer—so don't go for to hurt our feelings any more by such injestice. Don't, Fagin, 'cause we are 'ceptible, and don't like it.
Come, stow your gammon and cut, you young savages!
I say, Sikes—you are a rum'un, and no mistake.
By-bye, Fagin. "We soon shall meet again," as the man said the other night at the threeatre.
One hundred pounds, you say, if we succeed in getting the boy ?
Yes—I have said it.
Enough. Sikes, come with me; you shall be the boy's master. Yes, yes—'twill do. Monks, come to my crib to-night, and you shall find Oliver Twist there. Ah, 'tis a notable scheme ! 'twill do—'twill do! Come with me, Sikes, and I will tell you what to do. Good day, Mr. Monks.
Don't forget—Fagin's crib—to-night at twelve- remember.
Yes, 'tis well—the boy once in my power, all chance of his being recognized
and claimed will be at an end, and my many fears at rest. I might then with one
blow rid myself of him—but, no, no—I dare not murder him. Her child, too ! No,
no—I must not dwell on't. And thy child, proud woman, is there, badged and
ticketed—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humbled half-starved
drudge—cuffed and buffetted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by
none. Oliver Twist! 'Tis a good name. May he never live to bear another.
Heyday! a pretty thing, indeed, I actually caught one of the paupers singing a song, and two other paupers a listening to her. This must to the Board ! such atrocity! Heyday! here comes Mr. Bumble!
Good gracious ! is that you, Mr. Bumble?
Yes, ma'am—it is me, ma'am—Bumble, the beadle ma'am—the parochial beadle, ma'am. These paupers are unruly, ma'am—I heard 'em singing, ma'am !
I am sure 'tis no fault of mine!
Wery well, ma'am—perhaps it ain't, ma'am. I have come here Mrs. Corney, upon parochial business—parochial, ma'am—connected with the parochial orphans. Are you aware, Mrs. Corney, that you are, as I may say, a parochial delegate and a stipendiary.
Why, Mr. Bumble, it was only this morning I was a telling some of the dear children, as is so fond of you, that--—
Wery true, ma'am—I'll inform the Board of your remarks.
You are very good, sir. Mr. Bumble, don't be offended—but you've had a long walk, or I wouldn't mention it; will you take a little drop of something ?
You had better. Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.
What is it?
I'm obliged to keep a little by me, to put in the blessed infants' daffy when
they ain't well.
It's gin! Neat, if you please, ma'am. You are a humane woman, Mrs Corner. You
give the children gin in daffy—I shall take an early opportunity of mentioning
it to the Board, ma'am. You feel as a mother; I drink your health with
cheerfulness.
Yes, sir.
And notwithstanding an offered reward of ten pounds, which was afterwards increased to twenty—-notwithstanding the most superlative—I may say, supernatural exertions on the part of the parish, we have never been able to discover who is his father—that is, if he ever had a father-—or what was his mother's settlement, name, or condition !
How comes he to have any name at all ?
You, Mr. Bumble?
I, Mrs. Corney. We name our foundlings in alphabetical order. The last was a
S—Swubble, I named him—this was a T—Twist I named him—the next was Unwins, and
the next will be Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end
Why you're quite a literary character.
Well, well—perhaps I may be. But where is this Oliver? The Board will require something more of him than picking oakum. Where is he ?
Wery unnat'ral—wery. But he's here!
Come here, Oliver. Make a bow to the gentleman.
Boy, listen to me. You know you're an orphan.
What's that, sir ?
The boy's a fool!
You know you've got no father or mother ?
Oh, yes, too—too well!
Can you say your prayers ?
Almost, sir.
Well, now that you've been edicated, the Board are going to have you taught a trade. The Board can't afford to give you good thin wholesome gruel three times a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays, for doing of nothin'. It's the diet of an able-bodied pauper, and those who get it must work hard.
Yes, sir. Please, sir, I have just had some gruel, yet I feel hungry—may I have some more ?
More !
More !
Yes, if you please, sir—I want some more.
More ! After eating the breakfast prescribed by the dietary. More ! Mrs. Corney, the boy is mad !
I think he is, sir.
It's well the parish have advertised him, ma'am, I say it will be well, ma'am, if the parish get him off their hands, ma'am. Mr. Burns, the justice, will be here this morning to attend to the summonses for the poor rates. It's wonderful, Mrs. Corney, what lots of summonses we has out, and agin such respectable people! It would serve the young rascal right to take him before him and have him punished !
Some one would speak to Mr. Bumble.
Let him come here.
Who can it be ? Oliver, stand aside.
The beadle?
This here boy that the parish wants to 'prentice—I see'd the advertisement in the 'Tizer, and if the parish would like him to learn a light, pleasant trade, in a good chimbley sweeping bis'ness, I wants a 'prentice, and I am ready to take him!
A chimbley sweeper is a nasty trade.
And young boys have been smothered in chimblies before now.
That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again. That makes all smoke and no blaze—whereas smoke ain't of no use at all in makin' a boy come down—it only sends him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinate, and wery lazy, and there's nothing like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down with a run. It's humane, too—acause, if even they have stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes them struggle to hextricate theirselves.
So you won't let me have him ?
The Board have given me free power to act for them, and I think, as it is a nasty business, the premium should not be more than three pound ten shillings.
Ten shillings too much.
Say four pound.
Three pounds —
Let's split the difference—three fifteen —
Not a farthing more. It's a bargain. Go down stairs —the 'dentures won't be long in drawing out—the magistrate will be here presently, and the matter can be settled out o' hand.
I'll get the 'dentures, immediately, and be back in a jiffey.
Oliver, come here.
A 'prentice, sir ?
Yes, Oliver. The kind and blessed gentlemen— which are so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own—are a going to 'prentice you, and set you up in life, and make a man of you.
Make a man of me, sir ?
Yes; although the expense to the parish is three pounds ten—three pounds ten, Oliver—seventy shillings — one hundred and forty sixpences—two hundred and ten four-penny bits ! and all for a naughty orphan, which nobody can love.
Love! No, no—none will love poor friendless Oliver—all hearts harden to him.
Come, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry no more. When the gentleman that's a coming here axes you a question, tell him you're wery happy, and wants to be apprenticed—and if you don't, mind you'll catch it.
Yes, sir; I'll say whatever you please, only don't beat me.
The master sweep is a coming—and I declare if here isn't Mr. Burns, the magistrate—nothing could be more fortunate!
Now, Mr. Bumble, what business have you for me until my colleagues arrive ?
Not a great deal, your worship. We only want you to sign the 'dentures of a poor little orphan, whom the parish are going to 'prentice to a respectable tradesman.
To what trade ?
A wery respectable man, your worship.
But what is the business?
A chimbley sweep, your worship.
To a sweep ? Is the trade the boy's own choice?
Quite, your worship; he is delighted with the idea. He has had lots o' time to consider, and he dreams on it. The other night, your worship, in the middle of a sound sleep, he jumped out of bed, and began crying " sweep ! sweep !"
'Tis an unpleasant trade; but if the boy likes it, why I cannot withhold my sanction. Call the boy and the master.
Oliver, dear, come to the gentleman.
Yes.
What's that he says ?
If you're such a fool I'll knock you down !
Why, what does this mean?
You young rascal, I'll throttle you by-and-bye.
Why, the boy is crazed !
If you please, sir, he told me to say it; but if I'd thought it would have made you angry, I would not have done it.
Told you to say it, did he? Well, you're a poor unsophisticated child, and have been much neglected—as parish orphans, I am sorry to say, generally are. And so you will be a sweep ?
If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneously, your worship.
You're a rough speaker, my friend, but I dare say you are an honest-hearted man.
I hope I am, sir.
You can take the boy with you now: bring the indentures to the office to-morrow, and I will sign them.
Thank your worship. Come, my lad.
How is this? What is it that terrifies you?
Your worship——
Stand aside, beadle. Now, boy, what is the matter —speak—don't be afraid.
Well, of all the artful and designing orphans I ever see'd, Oliver, you are one of the most barefacedst!
Hold your tongue, beadle.
Yes—hold your tongue.
I refuse to sanction the indentures.
Yes, to eat—he seems to want it.
Heaven bless you, sir, and reward your kindness to a poor friendless orphan.
Well, I never!
Open the door, Noah.
Good evening, Mr. Sowerberry.
Good evening, Mr. Bumble. Noah, go into the kitchen—Mr. Bumble has come to speak on business.
Yes, sir.
Obstinate people, sir, very—proud, too, I'm afraid.
Proud ! come, that's too much.
Oh, it's sickening—perfectly antimonial! We only heard of them the night before last. A woman who lodges in the house made an application to the parochial committee for them to send the parochial surgeon to see a woman as was wery bad. He had gone out to dinner, but his 'prentice—who is a very clever lad—sent 'em some medicine, in a blacking bottle, off hand.
Ah, there's promptness!
Promptness, indeed ! 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 coalheaver only a week before—sent 'em for nothing, sir!
Blacking bottle included!
Blacking bottle included. And he sends word back " that she shan't take it, sir."
Well, I never did
Never did, sir ! no, nor nobody ever did, sir ! But now she's dead—we've got to bury her, and that's the direction, and the sooner it's done the better. You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry.
Think so ? The prices allowed by the Board are very small.
So are the coffins—he, he, he !
Well, there's no denying, that since the new system of feeding came in, coffins are something narrower than they used to be.
By-the-bye, you don't know anybody as wants a boy—a parochial 'prentice—who is at present a dead weight— a millstone, as I may say, round the parochial neck. Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—five pounds—five pounds !
Well, I want a boy, and I'll take him.
Egad, that's fortunate! The boy is outside, a waitin' for me—for I was going
to take him to Mr. Slaughter, the knacker, to ax him to take him; but this
arrangement will be better.
What have you been a crying for ? You are the most un-gratefullest and
wickedest
Oh, that's the boy. He's small, Mr. Bumble—he's small.
Why he is rayther small; but he'll grow, Mr. Sowerberry. If you just step up with me to the workhouse we'll arrange the preambles of this affair as we goes along.
The boy can stay here, then ?
What blessed laws there is now, Mr. Sowerberry, for the poor. The parochial
board are always contriving something for the benefit of the poor! They divorces
men from their wives without having recourse to Doctors' Commons—they objects to
out-door relief because it's expensive— and in order to avoid the ills which
await on repletion, they takes care not to overfeed the poor! Oh, it's a blessed
law, is the Poor Law!
Overfeed! Three basins of thin gruel a day, and an onion on Sundays !
Alone! alone! and in a strange place ! My heart feels chilled and desolate! I have no friends to care for, and none to care for me. I wish when I creep to my wretched bed again, that my sleep may be calm and lasting—that I may quickly be borne to the church-yard, and the tall grass may wave gently over my head, while the old deep bell soothes me in my sleep ——
Who is this ?
You are the new boy, ain't you ?
Yes.
How old are you?
Fourteen.
Fourteen ! I'm seventeen—so I'll whop you by-and- bye, my work'us brat.
You'll want one soon, if you cut jokes with your betters in that way. You don't know who I am, Work'us ? I'll tell you. I'm Mr. Noah Claypole, and you're under me.
Under you.
Yes, Work'us.
What did she die of, Work'us ?
One of the old nurses told me of a broken heart.
I think I know what it must be to die of that.
Work'us, what makes you snivel ?
Not you.
Oh, not me, eh?
No, not you—there, that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her—you'd better not.
Better not! Why, you know, Work'us, it can't be helped now, and of course yer couldn't help it then—and I'm very sorry for it, and pity yer very much—but you must know, Work'us, your mother was a regular, right down, bad 'un —
My heart will burst! I cannot bear it! Liar!
Why, what does this mean ?
If you please, sir, send for the millingtary—here's the new boy a murd'ring me!
Get up! Oliver, stand back. What flagrant atrociousness!
Yes, sir. Oh, what a dreadful pain it is—sich agony, please, sir !
Oliver, do you know me? No answer! Do you know this here woice.
Ain't you afraid of it ? Ain't you trembling while I speak?
No !
He must be mad !
Meat.
Meat, sir—meat. He's been overfed. I thought what would come of the justice ordering him a full meal! A artificial soul and spirit has been raised in him quite unbecoming a person of his condition. If the boy had been kept entirely on gruel this would never have happened !
What's to be done, Mr. Bumble?
Come with me, Mr. Sowerberry. I must inform the Board of this outrageous outrage, and we will take their advice upon this important matter. Come with us, Noah. We will lock the boy in here until our return. Why he's quite a assassin—a rebel!
And worse nor that, sir!
They are gone! The feelings that struggled in my breast while they were here
can now have vent. I would not give way to them a moment since—my heart should
have burst first! All is dark and silent—but they will return, and then—but, no,
no—they shall not find me here.
I could bear it no longer. I listened to all without a murmur till he spoke of my mother, and then I felt I should have been a poor-spirited coward had I endured it longer. I'd rather beg my way from door to door. Beg !—No, no, I can never do that. I am alone, friendless, and unprotected in the world, and naught is left me but to lie down and die.
Hollo, my covey, what's the row ?
I don't hear any row, sir.
Vot are you after ?
I'm after nothing, sir.
Isn't he jolly green? I mean, what game are you on ?
What game, sir ? I can't play at any, sir.
Ha ! ha ! Oh powder me blue!—Isn't he jolly green?—I s'pose you're running from the beaks, eh? You know what a beak is, I s'pose ?
Oh yes, sir, the mouth of a bird.
Oh, oh! oh, double me up, isn't he jolly green ? Why a beak's a magistrate; but none o' your gammon.—Do you mean to say you never was on the mill?
I've been in the mill, sir, where they grind the flour.
Oh, sew me up! he is a green 'un. The mill I mean is so small that it'll work
inside a stone jug, and goes better when the wind is low with people than when
it's high, 'cos then they can't get work-people. I'm at low-water mark myself;
only a bob and a tanner; but as far as it goes I'll fork out, so sit
down and I'll show you what I've got for breakfast. portiver. —So eat,
drink, and make your life happy.
You're a strange boy, and I hope you're a good one.
Good, good as gold, and as brassy about the countenance as a bed warmer. They
calls me the Dodger! t'others calls me the Artful Dodger. Where I live
you shall live if you like. Going to London ?
Yes.
Got any lodgings ?
No.
Got any money.
No .
me ? Oh no, not at all neither. Oh no, certainly
not.
He don't know you, do you say.
Not much, only a little about the edges. There, cut away, tip your rags a flutter, my covey.
Be quiet, be quiet, I say—there's somebody coming up stairs—quiet, my tears,
quiet.
What! two of you—vhere did he come from?
From Greenland. Fagin, tip us your listener.
Vhy you don't say so.
I'm glad to see you, my tear; ve're all glad to see you.
Yes, yes, we're all glad to see you.
Quiet, there, quiet. Dodger, help me to clear the crib.
What a lot of handkerchiefs!
They're all come in from the vash, my tear.
We're going to sew 'em together to make summer trousers of, my covey.
Ugh! Ugh!
You've got a bad cough, sir.
Yes, my tear, I caught it through sleeping with my eyes open; but you must take something after your walk, Oliver.
No, thank you sir. I'm so sleepy.
'Twill do you good, my tear.
Oh, how strange I feel, how my head aches, how the room swims round.
Dodger, go and look after the boys.
Now, then, while all's quiet, I can look at my darling treasures. He's sound,
quite sound.
I saw nothing, sir, I didn't, indeed; my head aches so, I can't sleep.
You're quite sure you didn't see any little articles that I had in my hand ?
Quite sure, sir.
Been at vork, my tears ?
Like Britons, Fagin.
Good boys, good boys, vhat have you got ?
These fogles and a couple of eelskins.
Vhat have you got, Charley ?
Well, I didn't pick 'em, I took 'em as they come.
The Dodger's the best workman, ain't he, Oliver ?
I never saw him at work, sir.
But you shall, my tear.
I will, sir.
Look after him, Dodger.
You heard what the old gentleman said, you're to do whatever we young gentlemen tells you.
I will, sir.
Bolt!
What—the door ? Yes, sir.
Oh, isn't he jolly green. Hook it.
Hook what, sir ?
Cut your stick.
I havn't got a knife, sir.
Spin him along, Charley. Oh, powder me blue, isn't he jolly green.
Well, I'm sure we've all of us a good deal to be grateful for, if we did but
know it.
Dear me! is that you, Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney—good morning, ma'am.
Good morning to you, sir, and hoping you find yourself well ?
So, so, Mrs. Corney; a parochial life, ma'am, is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Corney.
Ah, that it isn't, indeed, Mr. Bumble.
A parochial life, ma'am, is a life of worry and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.
Yes.
Mrs. Corney, I'm a going to London.
Lawk, Mr. Bumble!
To London, ma'am, by coach—I, and two paupers, Mrs. Corney; a legal action is
a coming on about a settlement, and the Board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Corney,
to depose to the matter before the General Quarter Sessions at
Clerk-in-well—and I very much question whether the Clerk -in-
well 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.
The Clerk- in -well Sessions have brought it on themselves, ma'am;
and if the Clerk- in -well Sessions find that they come off rather
worse than they expect, the Clerk- in -well Sessions have only
themselves to thank !
You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was usual to send them paupers in carts ?
That's when they're ill, Mrs. Corney; we put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.
Hard weather, Mr. Bumble.
Hard indeed, ma'am—anti-parochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, a matter of twenty quartern loaves, and a cheese and a half, this very blessed arternoon—and yet them paupers are not contented.
Of course not; when would they be?
I never see anything like the pitch it's got to; the day before yesterday, a man—you've been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you.
Lawk, sir!
A man, with hardly a rag on his back, goes to our overseer's door, when he's got a party to dinner, and says he must be relieved. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes, and half a pint of oatmeal. "What's the use of this to me ?" says the ungrateful villian—" you might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!" " Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away agin, " you won't get anything else here." " Then I'll die in the streets," says the vagrant. " Oh, no, you won't," says our overseer ——
Ha, ha, ha! that was very good—so like Mr. Grannet.
Well, ma'am, he went away, and did die in the streets. There's an
obstinate pauper for you !
Shocking obstinate ! Don't you think out-door relief a very bad thing.
Mrs. Corney, out-door relief properly managed—properly managed, ma'am, is the parochial safeguard; the great principle of out-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want, and then they get tired of coming.
Well, that's very good.
Yes, that's the reason; if you look at any cases that gets into the newspapers, you'll find the sick have been relieved with slices of cheese—that's the rule everywhere now.
Will you take a cup of tea, sir?
Wery sweet indeed, ma'am.
I'm so fond of them—they're so fond of their home.
I mean to say, ma'am, that any cat or kitten, Mrs. Corney, that could live with you, and not be fond of its home, must be an ass, ma'am !
Oh, Mr. Bumble!
It's a' no use disguising facts, ma'am ; I would drown it with pleasure, ma'am.
Then you're a cruel man, and a hard-hearted man besides.
Dear me—what a curious question from a single man ! What can you want to know
for?
If you please, mistress, you're wanted in the firmary.
I'm always wanted when I'm —— Mr. Bumble, I shall not be long.
No, ma'am. She's full fifty, and got a good situation —full forty pounds
a-year. She's not handsome, but she's rent free—wiolent temper—coals and candle
allowed by the Board.
I'm so dreadfully put out!
Put out, ma'am? Pray answer me, what has happened ? for—for I'm on broken bottles !
'Tis dreadful to think on.
Then don't think on't.
That I should be hurried away to hear a dying woman confess she had stolen a watch from Oliver Twist's mother when she was first brought here.
And did she steal it ? Where is it ?
She sold it to a Jew.
Dreadful! Compose yourself, Mrs. Corney—take a little wine.
Not for the world—I couldn't! The top shelf on the right-hand corner.
I'm better now; it's peppermint, with a little—a little something else in it.
Very much so indeed, ma'am.
I'm a foolish, excitable, weak creature !
Not weak, ma'am—are you a weak creature ?
We are all weak creatures.
So we are.
I can't help it!
This is a very complete room; another room and this, would be a complete thing, ma'am.
It would be too much for one.
But not for two, ma'am—eh, Mrs, Corney ?
Lawk, Mr, Bumble!
And candles,
Coals, candles, and house rent-free—I'm fixed! Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a angel you are !
Dear Bumble!
Dear Bumble ! such parochial perfection ! What a opportunity for a joining of hearts and housekeeping !
Oh, wicked Bumble !
Naughty Bumble!
The one little, leetle—leetle word, my blessed Corney!
Ye—yes—yes !
Once more—compose your darling feelings for only one more ; when is it to come off ?
Farewell, my love! parochial duties call me hence but softer duties will soon
call me back again. One insinivating embrace!
Ha, ha, ha!
Hold your noise—do you want to be grabbed, stupid ?
I can't help it; to see Oliver splitting away at that pace.
Yes, and the very first plant we had when he was with us, to be sich an unlucky 'un—and his begging so much to go out with us to work.
Ha, ha, ha! work—he little thought what work old Fagin makes us do; what a precious green 'un he is.
Wery, Charley. I think the old chap saw us dip our mawleys into his pocket.
How can that be—didn't he turn, and there was Oliver staring with all his eyes—and then the fool ran away— and the old gentleman ran after him—and a lot of people joined him in the pursuit, all calling out " Stop thief!"
How he did cut round the corner, and knock up against the posts, and then start on again as if he'd been made of iron—while I had the wipe all the time, and sung out arter him louder than any body : but what'll Fagin say when he comes to know we've lost him in this here way ?
Why, what should he say ?—as I live this is him.
Fagin!—
Ah, the boys are here, that's fortunate ! I heard a row, and so—But what's this—only two of you ? where's the boy?
Why —
Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it.
Here's Sikes !—
Why, what the blazes is in the wind now ?—Ill-treating the boys, you avaricious, covetous, insatiable, old fence—I wonder they don't murder you—I'd have done it long ago; no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards though, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiosity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow them large enough !
Hush—hush! Mr. Sikes, don't speak so loud.
None of your mistering—you always mean mischief when you come to that; you know my name—out with it ! I shan't disgrace it when my time comes!
Mishter Sikes, the boy's gone.
Gone !
We'd got a plant—Oliver was with us, and just as we had nabbed the wipe, old Squaretoes turned round; we cut—- Oliver ran, and they ran arter him, thinking he was the thief.
I'm afraid he may say something that will get us into trouble.
That's very likely; Fagin, you're blowed upon.
And I'm afraid if the game was up with us you see, it might be up with a good many more—and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my tear!
Somebody must find out what's become of him. If he hasn't peached and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again—and then he must be taken care on ;—you must get hold of him somehow.
Go to the office, Sikes, and —
Me go there ?—you know better, Fagin ! no, no.
He must be found. Charley, do nothing but skulk about till you bring home some news of him—I trust to you— to you, and to the Artful for everything.
—But, the boy, we must have him; and here comes Nancy—she'll be the gal to do the job for us. We'll dress her up like a servant gal, and put her on the scent, my tear.
Nancy, my tear, I want you to go somewhere for me.
Where?
To look arter Oliver Twist, my tear.
Shan't go.
What do you mean by that?
What I say.
She'll go, Fagin.
No, she won't.
'Spose I do, what am I to say.
Well, I'm blessed, if a woman don't know what to say, I'm blowed if a man can tell her.
I know, Bill. I'll say I'm his sister.
Beautiful, beautiful, my tear!
She's a honour to her sex.
Oh, my poor, dear, little brother Oliver! Oh, oh!
There's a gal for you! there's a gal !
I hope you're better now, my dear.
Much better, thank you.
He's just had a basin of beautiful broth, sir.
Bedwin, look there.
Why do you look so sternly upon me, sir ? You're not going to send me away I hope ? Don't turn me into the streets again with those wicked men ; let me stay here, sir. Oh, do, and I will be your faithful servant—I will, indeed, sir, and never—never deceive you.
I'm sure you won't, boy; your likeness to one whom I once dearly loved—will ever make me regard you with interest and affection; let me hear your story further, and if you are deserving my bounty you shall never want a friend.
Mr. Grimwig, sir.
No, no; he's had no orange. He's a nice looking boy, isn't he ?
I never see any difference in boys, there are only two sorts of boys —mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.
And which is Oliver?
A mealy boy. But where does this lad come from ?— are you sure he's not deceiving you ? I knew a beef-faced boy who was one of the greatest imps alive ;—a horrid boy, with a round head, red ochre cheeks, and goggle eyes.
Well, well, this boy is the reverse of that.
He'll deceive you—I know he will—I can see it in his face. If that boy don't deceive yon, I'll eat my head.
We shall see.
We shall, we shall.
Oh, the books. Let the man stop, Mrs. Bedwin; there's something to go back.
He's gone, sir.
Dear me! and I wanted to pay him. He's a poor man, and may want the money. There are some books to be returned also.
Send the boy there with them ; he'll be sure to take them safe, you know. Ha, ha!
You shall go, just to prove to my old friend here what a bad judge he is of faces. You'll find the books I want taken back in the next room. Give them to him, Mrs. Bedwin.
There is a five pound note; pay the man his bill, and bring me back the change. Mrs. Bedwin will give you his direction.
Thank you, sir, for letting me go—I'll be back in no time, sir.
It won't take him longer than half an hour at most.
Oh, you expect him back, do you ?
Of course. Don't you?
No, sir, I do not; he's got a set of valuable books with him, and a five pound note in his pocket, and he'll join his old acquaintances, and laugh at you. If ever that boy comes back again, I'll eat my head.
He won't.
He will.
If he does, I'll eat my head and yours too.
No you won't.
I will, I will.
Oh, what a dear kind old gentleman, that is to trust me on an errand like
this, and then the other old gentleman to mistrust me. I'll show him how wrong
he is, for I'll be back before they think I'm half way there.
I've found him, I've found him ! oh ! oh ! my poor brother, I've got him at last.
Let me go, let me go. What are you stopping me for?
Oh, Oliver, you naughty, naughty boy, come home, do.
I don't know you. I tell you, help, help !
Hollo, what's this ?
Oh, sir, make him come home, he'll kill his poor mother.
I'll help you, you young warmint, what have you got here ?
Oh, sir, don't take them, they're not mine.
Don't hurt him much, sir, but take him to his mother.
Help! Help !
Silence, you young rip, or I'll break your neck, come along.
Delighted to see you looking so well, my tear ! Why
But I can't read, Bill, my tear.
Then sell 'em.
Oh, no; they belong to the kind gentleman who took me into his house. Pray send them back, and the money too, or they'll think I'm a thief.
Of course they vill;—that's vhat we want 'em to think.
Then kill me if you will; for here I'll not stay, to be thought an ungrateful, dishonest being in the eyes of those who protected me.
After him, Dodger!
What's that to you? Stand away from the door, or I'll split your head against the door.
I don't care for that, Bill; you shan't set the dog on the boy—you shall kill me first!
I'll d—d soon do that.
Vhat's the matter, my tears ?
The gal's mad.
No, she ain't.
Now, strike the boy if you dare, any of you!—I won't stand by and see it done! You've got the boy, and what more would you want ? Let him alone, then, or I'll put that mark on some of you, that shall bring me to the gallows before my time.
Why, burn my body, do you know what you are and what I am ? You're a nice 'un to take up the humane and genteel line.
Heaven help me, I am. I wish I had been struck
Civil verds, civil verds.
Who taught me to pilfer and steal when I was a child ?—you !
Veil it vas your living, varn't it ?
Heaven help me, it was! and the cold wet streets my home, and you are the
wretch who drove me to 'em—you, you! Devil that you are.
Heigho!
Ah, you may well sigh ; I told you I'd eat my head if he came back again.
I knew we should hear of him, poor dear; here's a person below, who says he can tell us something of Oliver. Come in, sir.
A parish beadle or I'll eat my head;—you are a beadle are you not ?
Yes, sir, I am—a parochial beadle.
Well, my friend, do you know where this poor boy is to be found ?
There, there, that will do; if your conscience had permitted you to have
given a more favorable account I would have doubled this.
I wish to hear no more, sir.
But I was going to say I made a made mistake, Oliver Twist! why, he's the most amiablest—the most —
Aye, aye, that will do ; there's the door, sir.
Oh, Bumble, Bumble, you've put your both foots in it.
Heigho ! the boy then was an impostor.
Bah! you old women believe nobody—but quack doctors.
Never let me hear that boy's name again, on any account.
Very well, sir; poor boy, poor boy.
I knew you'd be deceived in him; If you hadn't I'd have eaten all your heads, and my own afterwards.
And I imagined that boy to possess, the purest and most affectionate heart.
Heigho, it's a wicked world!—a sad wicked world !
About the crib at Chertsey, Bill: is it to be done?
As soon as you like; Toby and I sounded the doors and shutters last night, there's one part we can crack safely.
Vhat part's that, Bill?
Never you mind what part it is, you can't do it without me I know: but it's best to be on the safe side, when one deals with an avaricious old skeleton like you;—one thing we shall need, and that's a boy.
If he don't do what we want, when we once get in the job, you won't see him alive again, you may make sure of that. I've planned it all with Toby, we've hired a cart and horse, and can be off the stones, in an hour or two.
The boy's there, fast asleep ; sound, sound !
Do you ever sleep sound, Fagin ?
Sometimes ; and sometimes I dream.
Of what?
Sometimes of one thing, and sometimes of another.
One night of your gold, and another of the devil, to whom you sold your soul to gain it.
Don't hurt him, Bill.
Are you going to interfere again ?
No, Bill, no.
We're off, Fagin. One cry, one sound, and you die —come.
Do you mean to betray us ?
No.
I don't think you will, good night.
Good night.
These vomen are a deal of trouble. Veil, she's now smooth and fair again.
This vill be a splendid crack ! Toby says there's plate enough to make born
gentlemen of us! I'll make haste and get all the money I can, and then I'll turn
honest and repent, and try to pray—yes, yes—I vill; when I've more gold—vhen
I've more—more !
Hand the boy over.
I see it all now;—robbery—perhaps murder ! Oh, do not make me steal!
Do as I tell you; and the moment the devil tempts you to split, or take to
your heels, think that this is on one side of you.
What would you have me do ?
Be quiet till I take down the shutter.
All right. Hark !—I hear something !
Well, well, Giles; tell us all about it.
Well, you must know, that when I heard the noise I jumped out of bed—pulled on my—
Giles! ladies are present—
Be quiet—I drew on my stockings—
Oh, well—
And thought I was a dead man for certain. I heard a noise, so taking down a
blunderbuss, I crept softly to the door, and just at that moment
After you, by all means.
Let's all go together.
Murder! murder! thieves! thieves!
What's the matter ?
The thieves ! the thieves ! There's one of 'em.
No, no; indeed I am not—Oh, good lady! pity, pity, and protection !
Why, this poor boy cannot be a robber.
I am not, indeed, ma'am. I am in the power of wicked men, who would make the guiltiest of the guilty;—oh, save me from them, lady !-oh, save me! I am a poor orphan : I never knew a father's care or a mother's love ! I have been driven by poverty and ill usage to herd with men who have forced me into guilt and misery. Do not believe me guilty, for that would kill me; shelter and protect me, and an orphan's blessing will reward you.
And is it possible that you are alone, unprotected, and forced into crime against your own inclination?
Indeed, 'tis true, lady; believe me—oh, believe me!
Follow me up stairs, and I will question you further.
The blessings of a grateful heart be on you, lady.
He sleeps now; the fever is leaving him, and he has become more tranquil. Oh, would that I could leave this horrid life of crime and misery! The good lady that I have seen, promised to aid me in my good intentions, and I am to meet her to-night on London Bridge, at twelve o'clock. How shall I keep my appointment without being watched.
Yes, Bill.
Getting on for twelve, Bill. How do you feel now ?
As weak as water. Give us a hand to get off this thundering bed, will you ?
Don't be cross, Bill.
Shall if I like ; why shouldn't I ?
Because you don't know the number of nights I've been watching and caring for
you, as if you were a child; and this is the first night you have been anything
like yourself, and I'm sure you wouldn't be cross with me now.
What's the fool crying for now ?—don't be coming over me with any of your
woman's nonsense.
How are you Bill, my tear ?
None the better for seeing you, you old willin.
Don't call names, my tear; but see what I've brought you—show him, Dodger.
Look here, Bill; here's a rabbit pie, made of sich werry delicate creeturs
that their bones will melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick
'em;—half a pound of gunpowder tea, so precious strong, that if you mix it with
biling water it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the teapot off; a pound and a half
of moist sugar, that the niggers didn't work at all upon, I 'spose, oh, no! not
at all neither; two half-a-kervortern busters, a pound o' double Glo'ster, and
to wind up, some of the richest port you ever lushed.
Ah ha ! Bill, you'll do now.
Do, you old wagabone! I might ha' been done altogether for what you cared. What do you mean by leaving a cove in this state for three weeks, you old wagabone!
I couldn't help it, I couldn't, upon my honour!
Your what ?—here, give us another glass to wash that down.
Be calm, my tear; I hadn't forgot you.
It's a lie, you old fence; you wouldn't have come now if you hadn't some work for me to do. If it hadn't been for the girl I might ha' died. Give us some blunt.
I haven't a mag about me.
Then go home and get it.
Vhy, I haven't got as much—
There, I don't want to know how much you've got, and I dare say you don't know yourself, 'cause it would take you too long to count it; but some money I'll have to-night, and that's flat, old Fagin.
Veil, Bill, I'll send the Dodger home for all the money I have in the vorld, seven and sixpence; here's the key of the table drawer where it is, Dodger.
No, you won't; go on, Dodger; and I say, mind you're not too artful for me—don't gammon to lose the money, or—
Vot d'ye mean ? Vhy, I'd never deceive a friend for the vorld,
Hollo! where's the gal going?
I want a breath of fresh air, Bill.
Put your head out o' window then.
No, I want to go out a bit. I shan't be long.
If I had a mind to go, it ain't such a thing as a bonnet that would stop me.
Do you know what you are doing.
In course I do—holding you down in this here chair.
I never interferes 'twixt man and wife, my tear.
Fagin! Fagin! take me with you! Oh Bill! Bill! if ever you loved me, let me go !
Why, what ails the gal ? Is she mad ? Be quiet.
Let me go—let me go !
I shan't.
There, there! twelve o'clock! My promise! my promise ! Too late ! too late!
Now, to business, we drank together last night.
We did—we had six glasses of gin and water, warm with sugar.
Call your wife.
This gentleman wants to distort a secret from us, my duck.
Perhaps the gentleman thinks a woman cannot keep one.
There is one secret they will always keep till it is found out—The loss of their good name.
I don't understand you, sir !
Then carry your memory back to that room in the workhouse where misery gives birth to wretched children for the parish to rear upon its stinted bounty.
He means the lying-in room, my dear. Ah! a great many children are born there in a very unparochial manner.
I come to enquire of one named Oliver Twist; his mother died in giving him birth. There was an old hag who nursed her that—
Of course there was. You nursed her, didn't you, my dear.
Silence. No, sir; it was not I, it was Old Sally.
And where is she ?
Why, I think she's dead.
What reason have you to think so ?
Because they buried her.
Did you see her die.
No, sir; but I did, and she told me something about the boy's
mother.
Indeed! tell me the truth, and this twenty pound note is yours.
Well, sir; Old Sally spoke of a young creature, who had clutched in her hand while dying a small locket, with the name of Agnes engraved inside, also of a wedding ring— I have them in a parcel.
They are the very things I want.
Yes ; but where's the twenty pounds we want?
Not so fast.
Now is the time for you and I to understand each other, my tear.
I'm glad to hear it. I've robbed my master, Mr. Sowerberry, and given you twenty pounds to learn me prigging, but don't go shoving me into danger, you know.
You can dodge a voman, can't you?
I believe you ; and whack her too, if that's all.
It's Nancy I want you to watch, and tell me where she goes, and who she speaks to. I know she's coming here ; I must go and dodge her from Sikes's, and then I'll leave the rest to you—be on the look out.
All right!
I'spose he's doubtful of Nance, as he calls her; afraid she's going to split.
I hates a sneak, so I'll watch her and blow the gaff on her. How I hates a
suspicious natur. My eye, if old Sowerberry had suspected me, I never could have
robbed his till so often. Hark ! footsteps; I'll hide and open my ears and my
eyes.
You were not here as you promised?
It was not my fault, sir, he kept me at home by force.
Have you heard any more of the man who calls himself Monks ?
I have; a bargain was struck between the Jew and him to make Oliver a thief.
Did you learn for what purpose ?
I heard the man called Monks say, that " Jew as you are, you will never lay such plans for your victims, as I have for my young brother Oliver."
His brother ! What, Oliver !
Aye, lady, thank heaven, that you had friends to care for and protect you in your infancy—that you never were in the midst of riot, drunkenness, and crime, as I have been since a child ; the alley and the streets have been my cradle and they will be my death-bed.
Are you not afraid of being watched ?
No, for I gave Bill a dose of laudanum in his drink
Thank you, my good girl, but there is one thing more, you must deliver up this Jew.
No, devil as he is and worse than devil, I will not do that.
Well, I will consider how he can be spared, but how can I serve you? I must do something for you.
Don't mind me, sir, I am beyond hope.
How so? Why not quit your evil companions and accept an asylum at my hands, where you can lead a quiet and contented life.
Too late, sir ! too late! Let us part, and if I have done you any service, all I ask is that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.
What can be the end of this poor creature's life ?
I will tell you ; look at that dark and rolling river, how many times do you read of such as I springing into its depths and leave no living thing to bewail or regret them, it may be years hence, it may be only months—but be it days, or even weeks before it happens, it will come to that at last! It will never reach your ears, lady, and heaven forbid it should. Let us part, I may be watched or seen.
Take this purse.
No, no, and yet I should like something to remember you by, give me your
handkerchief.
Nay, nay,—stay.
Follow me not, or you may cause my destruction. Farewell, farewell, and heaven bless you.
I think I have escaped unnoticed. I hope Bill has not woke. I don't know how
it is but I have such a fear and dread upon me to-night, that I can hardly
stand, and I can think of nothing else but horrible things of death and
misfortune ; but I'll hasten home, and sleep away this gloom; I dreamt too last
night, that Fagin would bring me to an untimely end. Oh, how I hate and fear
that man, but I must
And is this true ?
As true as I am here, I heard it all.
And so she's been playing me false, eh? She hocussed me did she! put laudanum in my drink; damn her I'll—
Be calm, Bill; be calm.
Calm, you withered old fence ! when a girl splits on you, and sells you to the beaks ? Why, none of us are safe now.
Very true, my tear; very true.
It's all true as I've told you, 'pon my soul.
Yes, he's a good lad, and has vatched veil; and I've promised to do something handsome for him.
And I'll do something handsome for her too.
Keep off, or I'll brain you. If I don't stop her tongue for ever, this night, my name aint Bill Sikes.
Follow him, Noah, and see where he goes—if you hear him quarrelling with Nancy, mind you don't interrupt them—but bring me word all about it.
All right, old cock.
Sikes knows too much; de girl knows too much. Vell, vell; I leave them to one
another—they'll settle it. Bill may stop her tongue, and then who knows but
Sikes may be brought to the gallows, and I not seem to stir in it. Last night I
had a dream; I thought I had been condemned to die, and sat in my cell the night
before the morning of my execution. I sat in the dark cold cell, and, do what I
could, I could not help hearing some one speak, in a loud voice, the words that
the judge had said to me, "To be hanged by the neck till I was dead;" and then I
thought of the many men I had brought to the same end, and joked at them, too,
because I saw them die with a prayer upon their lips.—Some there are who cannot
count the number of their loves; I cannot number the number of my hates.—With
what a rattling noise the drop goes down, and how suddenly changed from strong
and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes. "To be hanged by the neck till I
am dead !"—and is this—no ! twas a dream, and dreams by contraries go. Be of
heart then, Fagin—be of heart, for there are many good years before you yet.
There's light enough for what I've got to do.
I'll open the window.
Stay where you are; I want you.
Oh, tell me what I've done ! I won't scream or cry. What's the matter?
You know well enough; you've been watched tonight ; I know all about it.
Then spare my life, as I spared yours. Oh, you cannot have the heart to kill to me. I will not loose my hold till you say, you forgive me.
Let go, will you?
Stop and hear me. Bill—I have been true to you—I have, upon my guilty soul.
It's a lie.
No, it's the truth. The good lady and gentleman told me of a home where I could end my days in peace. Let me see them again, and beg them to show the same mercy to you; we will lead better lives, and forget how wicked we have been—It is never too late to repent—never—never.
Will you let go ?
No, never, till you say you forgive me.
Then die.
By what authority am I brought here ?
By mine. Edward Leeford, I was your father's oldest friend; you have a brother, named Oliver.
'Tis false—I am an only child.
Your father had issue by another, whom he married under a false name, and
then deserted her. She fled from the
He did—bequeathing to myself and my mother the whole of his property.
False, sir; he left you half only, leaving the other half to Oliver, if he survived. To appropriate the whole, you have sought to destroy the boy, but heaven sent the orphan a protector in me. Now, Edward Leeford, do you brave me still.
Oh, Mr. Brownlow, Nancy has been murdered by Sikes, and the police are seeking him everywhere !
Never! never! you have triumphed over me, and may my curse rest on you all!
He! my brother?—oh let me hasten after him, and—
Oh, Mr. Brownlow, here's such a to do—they have tracked the murderer of Nancy to a house by the river side, and the people are running after him to secure him, and —
Oh, Mr. Brown, let not the murderer escape!
Fear not, my boy, he shall not escape if money or zeal can prevent it—follow
me, friends.
That's mine—so Fagin's nailed, eh?
Yes ; they nabbed him just at dinner time. I cut my lucky up the chimney—Charley got into the water butt, but they se'ed his legs sticking out at top and nailed him.
Well, I wish you'd picked out another crib rather than this.
Why I thought you'd like to see an old pal.
Not when he's as likely to be nailed as you are !
I hear Fagin's taken; is that true ?
Yes.
Well, why don't you speak to me ?—have you got nothing to say to me?—Do you mean to sell me, or let me stay here till the hunt's over.
Stay here if you think you're safe.
Is the—the—-body buried?
What's what?
That knocking.
There's no knocking.
But look at those eyes!—see—see—how they follow me! Dodger, let me set aside of you !
Toby, let's go in the other room.
What, don't you know an old pal?
Oh yes, I know you—but don't you come near me. You murdered poor Nance, and
if they come here I'll give you up; aye, and I'll do it now. Murder !—help
!—down with him !
Ha ! you hell-cub, I'll strangle you!
He's here—he's here ! Murder !—help !
Show me some place where I can put this devil's bird.
Do you hear, Bill ?
Is the door down stairs fast?
Double locked and chained, and the panels lined with sheet iron.
Quick, Bill, or you'll be nabbed !
Ah ! here's a coil of rope!
The murderer has met his death, hung by his own bloodthirsty hands, and poor Nancy is avenged. Oliver, dear son of my only brother, your trials are over; your enemies vanquished, and a happy life is opening before you.
How can I thank you, sir? words cannot convey to you the gratitude I feel towards you, and the kind friends who have befriended the poor orphan Parish Boy—Oliver Twist!