Chapter IV

by Charles Dickens

　　Oliver, Being Offered Another Place, Makes His First Entry Into Public LifeIn great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained,either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, forthe young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom tosend him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutaryan example, took counsel together on the expediency of shippingoff Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a goodunhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thingthat could possibly be done with him: the probability being, thatthe skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some dayafter dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar;both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favouriteand common recreations among gentleman of that class. The morethe case presented itself to the board, in this point of view,the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, theycame to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Olivereffectually, was to send him to sea without delay.Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminaryinquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other whowanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to theworkhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when heencountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry,the parochial undertaker.Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in asuit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of thesame colour, and shoes to answer. His features were notnaturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was ingeneral rather given to professional jocosity. His step waselastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advancedto 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, ashe thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proferred snuff-boxof the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of apatent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,'repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in afriendly manner, with his cane.'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted andhalf disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices allowedby the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.''So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as nearan approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he oughtto be; and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well,Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, sincethe new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are somethingnarrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must havesome profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensivearticle, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, fromBirmingham.''Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. Afair profit is, of course, allowable.''Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don'tget a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make itup in the long-run, you see--he! he! he!''Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming thecurrent of observations which the beadle had interrupted: 'thoughI must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one verygreat disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go offthe quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paidrates for many years, are the first to sink when they come intothe house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or fourinches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one'sprofits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.'As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of anill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended toconvey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the lattergentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. OliverTwist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wantsa boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present adead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochialthroat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?' As Mr.Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gavethree distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds': which wereprinted thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by thegilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the verything I wanted to speak to you about. You know--dear me, what avery elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed itbefore.''Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancingproudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellishedhis coat. 'The die is the same as the porochial seal--the GoodSamaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presentedit to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, Iremember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on thatreduced 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 commonnecessaries of life," didn't they?'Mr. Bumble nodded.'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said theundertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if therelieving officer had--''Tush! Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If the board attendedto all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd haveenough to do.''Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.''Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was hiswont 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 'emthan 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 thehouse for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules andregulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for'em.''Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, hesmiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignantparish officer.Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from theinside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspirationwhich 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 agood deal towards the poor's rates.' 'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?''Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay somuch towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as Ican, Mr. Bumble; and so--I think I'll take the boy myself.'Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him intothe building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board forfive minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to himthat evening 'upon liking'--a phrase which means, in the case ofa parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial,that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too muchfood into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do whathe likes with.When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening;and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-ladto 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 mightbe, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consentpronounced him a hardened young rascal, and orered Mr. Bumble toremove him forthwith.Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all peoplein the world, should feel in a great state of virtuousastonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feelingon the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particularinstance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead ofpossessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and wasin a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutalstupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. Heheard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and,having had his luggage put into his hand--which was not verydifficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within thelimits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by threeinches deep--he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once moreattaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by thatdignitary to a new scene of suffering.For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice orremark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadlealways should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver wascompletely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as theyblew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoatand drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to theirdestination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to lookdown, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection byhis new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit andbecoming 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 theback of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left atear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumblegazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followedby another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but itwas an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr.Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tearssprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at hislittle charge a look of intense malignity. 'Well! Of all theungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver,you are the--''No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held thewell-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed,indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it isso--so--''So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybodyhates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!' The childbeat 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 someastonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in ahusky manner; and after muttering something about 'thattroublesome 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, wasmaking some entries in his day-book by the light of a mostappropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausingin the middle of a word; 'is that you, Bumble?''No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I'vebrought the boy.' Oliver made a bow.'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising thecandle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs.Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, mydear?'Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, andpresented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with avixenish countenance.'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boyfrom 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 Oliveras 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'llgrow.''Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on ourvictuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, notI; 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 aside door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into astone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to thecoal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternlygirl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very muchout of repair.'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliverdown, 'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by forTrip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may gowithout 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--areyou, boy?'Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and whowas trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in thenegative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set beforehim.I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn togall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; couldhave seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that thedog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horribleavidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all theferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should likebetter; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the samesort of meal himself, with the same relish.'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished hissupper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and withfearful auguries of his future appetite: 'have you done?'There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied inthe affirmative.'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim anddirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under thecounter. 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'tsleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!'Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.