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Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Part 2 out of 10

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This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they
were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they
dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted,
into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done,
Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.

'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass of water,
Noah, dear. Make haste!'

'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she
could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold
water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. 'Oh!
Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our

'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope this'll
teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures,
that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle.
Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in.'

'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a
level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the
inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon
him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Your master's
not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that
door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plunges against the
bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly

'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we
send for the police-officers.'

'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.

'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's
old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here
directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make
haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along.
It'll keep the swelling down.'

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest
speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out
walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets
pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.



Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and
paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate.
Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst
of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked
loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the
aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but
rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in

'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper.

'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay:
and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the
ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but
alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his
cocked hat,--which is a very curious and remarkable
circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden
and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary
visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of
personal dignity.

'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir,--Oliver has--'

'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure
in his metallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he,

'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,'
replied Noah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to
murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is!

Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and twisted his
body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby
giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and
sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe
internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment
suffering the acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly
paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by
bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and
when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the
yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly
conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse
the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.

The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not
walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired
what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not
favour him with something which would render the series of
vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process?

'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble,
'who has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir,--by young

'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat,
stopping short. 'I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from
the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be

'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,'
said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.

'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole.

'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr. Bumble.

'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. 'He
said he wanted to.'

'Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the gentleman
in the white waistcoat.

'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missis wants to know
whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and
flog him--'cause master's out.'

'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was
about three inches higher than his own. 'You're a good boy--a
very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to
Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done.
Don't spare him, Bumble.'

'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And the cocked hat
and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's
satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with
all speed to the undertaker's shop.

Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry
had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with
undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his
ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so
startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley,
before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the
outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the
keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:


'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside.

'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble.

'Yes,' replied Oliver.

'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I
speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble.

'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit,
and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a
little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his
full height; and looked from one to another of the three
bystanders, in mute astonishment.

'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.'

'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a few
moments of deep meditation. 'It's Meat.'

'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern emphasis.
'You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and
spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the
board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell
you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite
enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy
on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened.'

'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her
eyes to the kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!'

The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a
profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which
nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and
self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's
heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly
innocent, in thought, word, or deed.

'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to
earth again; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know
of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a
little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on
gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family.
Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor
said, that that mother of his made her way here, against
difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed
woman, weeks before.'

At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing
enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother,
recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other
sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's
offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as
the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked
the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious
apprentice out, by the collar.

Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received;
his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over
his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and
when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah,
and looked quite undismayed.

'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said Sowerberry;
giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.

'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?' said
Mrs. Sowerberry. 'She deserved what he said, and worse.'

'She didn't' said Oliver.

'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'It's a lie!' said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he
had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it
must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would
have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony
established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting
creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable
characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this
chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went--it
was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps,
because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife
disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource;
so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.
Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent
application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the
rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company
with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry,
after making various remarks outside the door, by no means
complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room,
and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte,
ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness
of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to
the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to
have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts
with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry:
for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have
kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him
alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell
upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands,
wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so
young may ever have cause to pour out before him!

For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The
candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet.
Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he
gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes,
farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there
was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the
ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still.
He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the
expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few
articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a
bench, to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices
in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One
timid look around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had
closed it behind him, and was in the open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.

He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling
up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath
across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out
again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.

Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted
beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse
from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage.
His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he
half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and
should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so
early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he
walked on.

He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates
stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the
garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he
stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of
one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him,
before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his
little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved,
and shut up together, many and many a time.

'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust
his thin arm between the rails to greet him. 'Is any one up?'

'Nobody but me,' replied the child.

'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. 'I am running
away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my
fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you

'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child
with a faint smile. 'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't
stop, don't stop!'

'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied Oliver. 'I
shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and

'I hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead, but not
before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream
so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see
when I am awake. Kiss me,' said the child, climbing up the low
gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck.
'Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!'

The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first
that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the
struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after
life, he never once forgot it.



Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and
once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though
he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid
behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be
pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of
the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he
had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an
intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to
London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind.

London!--that great place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could
ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the
workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London;
and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those
who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the
very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless
some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts,
he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.

He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full
four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo
ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this
consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a
little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a
crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in
his bundle. He had a penny too--a gift of Sowerberry's after
some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than
ordinarily well--in his pocket. 'A clean shirt,' thought Oliver,
'is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned
stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a
sixty-five miles' walk in winter time.' But Oliver's thoughts,
like those of most other people, although they were extremely
ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a
loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after
a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his
little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted
nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water,
which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the
night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a
hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt
frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty
fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had
ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he
soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so
hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small
loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had
walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again.
His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled
beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made
him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he
could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came
up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were
very few who took any notice of him: and even those told him to
wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see
how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep
up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by
reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this,
they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring
that he was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve anything; and
the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.

In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all
persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent
to jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to
get out of those villages with all possible expedition. In
others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully
at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated
in the landlady's ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging
about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was
sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer's
house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and
when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the
beadle--which brought Oliver's heart into his mouth,--very often
the only thing he had there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and
a benevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been
shortened by the very same process which had put an end to his
mother's; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen
dead upon the king's highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a
meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked
grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth,
took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she
could afford--and more--with such kind and gentle words, and such
tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into
Oliver's soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place,
Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The
window-shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a soul had
awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all
its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy
his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding
feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were
drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped
to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare
at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled
themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg.
And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at
the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet
was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches
as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that
they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a
whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to
accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had
passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was
now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the
way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained
in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver
raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the
boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,

'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?'

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was
about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that
Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed,
common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would
wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a
man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little,
sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so
lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment--and would
have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of
every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought
it back to its old place again. 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 trousers; 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 the bluchers.

'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?' said this strange young
gentleman to Oliver.

'I am very hungry and tired,' replied Oliver: the tears standing
in his eyes as he spoke. 'I have walked a long way. I have been
walking these seven days.'

'Walking for sivin days!' said the young gentleman. 'Oh, I see.
Beak's order, eh? But,' he added, noticing Oliver's look of
surprise, 'I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth
described by the term in question.

'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why, a
beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's
not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming
down agin. Was you never on the mill?'

'What mill?' inquired Oliver.

'What mill! Why, _the_ mill--the mill as takes up so little room
that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when
the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they
can't get workmen. But come,' said the young gentleman; 'you
want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark
myself--only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll
fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then!

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an
adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of
ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself
expressed it, 'a fourpenny bran!' the ham being kept clean and
preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole
in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing
it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman
turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room
in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in,
by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at
his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the
progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with
great attention.

'Going to London?' said the strange boy, when Oliver had at
length concluded.


'Got any lodgings?'




The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as
far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

'Do you live in London?' inquired Oliver.

'Yes. I do, when I'm at home,' replied the boy. 'I suppose you
want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?'

'I do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not slept under a roof
since I left the country.'

'Don't fret your eyelids on that score,' said the young
gentleman. 'I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a
'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings
for nothink, and never ask for the change--that is, if any
genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no!
Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!'

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter
fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the
beer as he did so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;
especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance
that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide
Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led
to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver
discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he
was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before

Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the
comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he
took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and
dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among
his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of 'The
Artful Dodger,' Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and
careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto
been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly
resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as
quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as
he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of
his farther acquaintance.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before
nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the
turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St.
John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at
Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row;
down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the
classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole;
thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the
Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing
Oliver to follow close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping
sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty
glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier
or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very
narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.

There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade
appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of
night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from
the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the
general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them,
the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main.
Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the
main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men
and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of
the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously
emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or
harmless errands.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away,
when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor,
catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near
Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind

'Now, then!' cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from
the Dodger.

'Plummy and slam!' was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right;
for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the
remote end of the passage; and a man's face peeped out, from
where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken

'There's two on you,' said the man, thrusting the candle farther
out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Who's the t'other

'A new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

'Where did he come from?'

'Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?'

'Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!' The candle was
drawn back, and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other
firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty
the dark and broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an
ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.

He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age
and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which
were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter
pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was
on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a
string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with
a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose
villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity
of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with
his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between
the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number
of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of
old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round
the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger,
smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of
middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he
whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and
grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in

'This is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'my friend Oliver

The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him
by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate
acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came
round him, and shook both his hands very hard--especially the one
in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very
anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging
as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very
tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself,
when he went to bed. These civilities would probably be extended
much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew's
toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate
youths who offered them.

'We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' said the Jew.
'Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for
Oliver. Ah, you're a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my
dear. There are a good many of 'em, ain't there? We've just
looked 'em out, ready for the wash; that's all, Oliver; that's
all. Ha! ha! ha!'

The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout
from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the
midst of which they went to supper.

Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot
gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly,
because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he
was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently
lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep



It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long
sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew,
who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and
whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round,
with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen
when there was the least noise below: and when he had satistified
himself, he would go on whistling and stirring again, as before.

Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not
thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and
waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half
open, and yourself half conscious of everything that is passing
around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast
closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At
such time, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing,
to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its
bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed from
the restraint of its corporeal associate.

Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his
half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the
sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan's sides: and yet
the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in
busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.

When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob.
Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if
he did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and
looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer,
and was to all appearances asleep.

After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently
to the door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it
seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor: a small box,
which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he
raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the
table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch,
sparkling with jewels.

'Aha!' said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting
every feature with a hideous grin. 'Clever dogs! Clever dogs!
Staunch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were.
Never poached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn't
have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer.
No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!'

With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature,
the Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At
least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same
box, and surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches,
bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent
materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even
of their names.

Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so
small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be
some very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon
the table, and shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and
earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of
success; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:

'What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent;
dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it's a fine
thing for the trade! Five of 'em strung up in a row, and none
left to play booty, or turn white-livered!'

As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had
been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver's face; the
boy's eyes were fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the
recognition was only for an instant--for the briefest space of
time that can possibly be conceived--it was enough to show the
old man that he had been observed.

He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his
hand on a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously
up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror,
Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air.

'What's that?' said the Jew. 'What do you watch me for? Why are
you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick--quick!
for your life.

'I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir,' replied Oliver, meekly.
'I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.'

'You were not awake an hour ago?' said the Jew, scowling fiercely
on the boy.

'No! No, indeed!' replied Oliver.

'Are you sure?' cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than
before: and a threatening attitude.

'Upon my word I was not, sir,' replied Oliver, earnestly. 'I was
not, indeed, sir.'

'Tush, tush, my dear!' said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old
manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it
down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in
mere sport. 'Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to
frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha! ha! you're a brave boy,
Oliver.' The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced
uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.

'Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?' said the Jew,
laying his hand upon it after a short pause.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Ah!' said the Jew, turning rather pale. 'They--they're mine,
Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old
age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live
in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that
perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him
a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew,
and asked if he might get up.

'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' replied the old gentleman.
'Stay. There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door.
Bring it here; and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.'

Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant
to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.

He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by
emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's
directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very
sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the
previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as
Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee,
and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in
the crown of his hat.

'Well,' said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing
himself to the Dodger, 'I hope you've been at work this morning,
my dears?'

'Hard,' replied the Dodger.

'As nails,' added Charley Bates.

'Good boys, good boys!' said the Jew. 'What have you got,

'A couple of pocket-books,' replied that young gentlman.

'Lined?' inquired the Jew, with eagerness.

'Pretty well,' replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books;
one green, and the other red.

'Not so heavy as they might be,' said the Jew, after looking at
the insides carefully; 'but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious
workman, ain't he, Oliver?'

'Very indeed, sir,' said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates
laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who
saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed.

'And what have you got, my dear?' said Fagin to Charley Bates.

'Wipes,' replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four

'Well,' said the Jew, inspecting them closely; 'they're very good
ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so
the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach
Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!'

'If you please, sir,' said Oliver.

'You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as
Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?' said the Jew.

'Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir,' replied Oliver.

Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this
reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the
coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel,
very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.

'He is so jolly green!' said Charley when he recovered, as an
apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.

The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his
eyes, and said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old
gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the
subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the
execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for
it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both
been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly
have found time to be so very industrious.

When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and
the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which
was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a
snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the
other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain
round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt:
buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case
and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room
with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen
walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped
at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that
he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such
times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves,
and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he
hadn't lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner,
that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this
time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of
his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was
impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod
upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley
Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they
took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box,
note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief,
even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a hand in any
one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game
began all over again.

When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of
young ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was
named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair,
not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about
the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps;
but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked
quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in
their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed. As
there is no doubt they were.

The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in
consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness
in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and
improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed his opinion
that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver,
must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the
Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away
together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew
with money to spend.

'There, my dear,' said Fagin. 'That's a pleasant life, isn't it?
They have gone out for the day.'

'Have they done work, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'Yes,' said the Jew; 'that is, unless they should unexpectedly
come across any, when they are out; and they won't neglect it, if
they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make 'em your models, my dear.
Make 'em your models,' tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to
add force to his words; 'do everything they bid you, and take
their advice in all matters--especially the Dodger's, my dear.
He'll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you
take pattern by him.--Is my handkerchief hanging out of my
pocket, my dear?' said the Jew, stopping short.

'Yes, sir,' said Oliver.

'See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw
them do, when we were at play this morning.'

Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had
seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of
it with the other.

'Is it gone?' cried the Jew.

'Here it is, sir,' said Oliver, showing it in his hand.

'You're a clever boy, my dear,' said the playful old gentleman,
patting Oliver on the head approvingly. 'I never saw a sharper
lad. Here's a shilling for you. If you go on, in this way,
you'll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and
I'll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.'

Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman's pocket in play,
had to do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking
that the Jew, being so much his senior, must know best, he
followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply involved
in his new study.



For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the
marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number
were brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already
described: which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly,
every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh air, and
took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to
allow him to go out to work with his two companions.

Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by
what he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman's
character. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at
night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with great vehemence on
the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them
the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to
bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock
them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his
virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.

At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so
eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon,
for two or three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre.
Perhaps these were reasons for the old gentleman's giving his
assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go,
and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and
his friend the Dodger.

The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves
tucked up, and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering
along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them,
wondering where they were going, and what branch of manufacture
he would be instructed in, first.

The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking
saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were
going to deceive the old gentleman, by not going to work at all.
The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps
from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while
Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the
rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from
the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets
which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to
undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These
things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring
his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could;
when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by
a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.

They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open
square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange
perversion of terms, 'The Green': when the Dodger made a sudden
stop; and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back
again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.

'What's the matter?' demanded Oliver.

'Hush!' replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that old cove at the

'The old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver. 'Yes, I see him.'

'He'll do,' said the Doger.

'A prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise;
but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys
walked stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old
gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver
walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whether to
advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with
a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a
bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; wore white
trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had
taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away,
as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It
is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it
was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall,
nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the
book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning
over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at
the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the
greatest interest and eagerness.

What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off,
looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly
go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's
pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the
same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running
away round the corner at full speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the
watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind.

He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all
his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning
fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and,
not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his
feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when
Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his
pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing
the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally
concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting 'Stop thief!'
with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the
hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract
public attention by running down the open street, had merely
retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no
sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing
exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great
promptitude; and, shouting 'Stop thief!' too, joined in the
pursuit like good citizens.

Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not
theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been,
perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being
prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like
the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and
shouting behind him.

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in the sound. The
tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the
butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman
his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles;
the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they
run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling,
screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners,
rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets,
squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred
voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they
fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling along the pavements:
up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a
whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot,
and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh
vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR _hunting_
_something_ deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched
breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks;
agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down
his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and
as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant,
they hail his decreasing strength with joy. 'Stop thief!' Ay,
stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement;
and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling
and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. 'Stand
aside!' 'Give him a little air!' 'Nonsense! he don't deserve
it.' 'Where's the gentleman?' 'Here his is, coming down the
street.' 'Make room there for the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy,
sir!' 'Yes.'

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the
mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that
surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged
and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.

'Yes,' said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is the boy.'

'Afraid!' murmured the crowd. 'That's a good 'un!'

'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurt himself.'

'_I_ did that, sir,' said a great lubberly fellow, stepping
forward; 'and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth. I
stopped him, sir.'

The follow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for
his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression
of dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running
away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted
to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police
officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such
cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized
Oliver by the collar.

'Come, get up,' said the man, roughly.

'It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other
boys,' said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking
round. 'They are here somewhere.'

'Oh no, they ain't,' said the officer. He meant this to be
ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley
Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to.

'Come, get up!'

'Don't hurt him,' said the old gentleman, compassionately.

'Oh no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer, tearing his
jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. 'Come, I know you;
it won't do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?'

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on
his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the
jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with
them by the officer's side; and as many of the crowd as could
achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver
from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they



The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in
the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan
police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of
accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a
place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway,
and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by
the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned;
and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on
his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

'What's the matter now?' said the man carelessly.

'A young fogle-hunter,' replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

'Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?' inquired the man
with the keys.

'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure that
this boy actually took the handkerchief. I--I would rather not
press the case.'

'Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'His
worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which
he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here
he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar,
only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was
Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people,
who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But
this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every
night confined on the most trivial charges--the word is worth
noting--in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate,
occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and
under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts
this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key
grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had
been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.

'There is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentleman
to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the
cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; 'something that
touches and interests me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked
like--Bye the bye,' exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very
abruptly, and staring up into the sky, 'Bless my soul!--where
have I seen something like that look before?'

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the
same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard;
and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's
eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had
hung for many years. 'No,' said the old gentleman, shaking his
head; 'it must be imagination.

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and
it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed
them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many
that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the
crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were
now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and
closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still
dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the
lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of
the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty
beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from
earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle
glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which
Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the
recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an
absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the
man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his
book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence
of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang
sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was
a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already
deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man,
with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the
back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much
flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather
more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action
against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the
magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, 'That is
my name and address, sir.' He then withdrew a pace or two; and,
with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head,
waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a
leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some
recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred
and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the
Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of
temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.

'Who are you?' said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away
with the newspaper. 'Who is this fellow?'

'My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a
gentleman, 'my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the
name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked
insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the
bench.' Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if
in search of some person who would afford him the required

'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what's
this fellow charged with?'

'He's not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'He
appears against this boy, your worship.'

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance,
and a safe one.

'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr.
Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. 'Swear him!'

'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr.
Brownlow; 'and that is, that I really never, without actual
experience, could have believed--'

'Hold your tongue, sir!' said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

'I will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman.

'Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of
the office!' said Mr. Fang. 'You're an insolent impertinent
fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!'

'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not hear
another word. Swear him.'

Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting
perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it,
he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

'Now,' said Fang, 'what's the charge against this boy? What have
you got to say, sir?'

'I was standing at a bookstall--' Mr. Brownlow began.

'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Policeman! Where's the
policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken
the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his
person; and how that was all he knew about it.

'Are there any witnesses?' inquired Mr. Fang.

'None, your worship,' replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to
the prosecutor, said in a towering passion.

'Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is,
man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand
there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect
to the bench; I will, by--'

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor
coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former
dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word
from being heard--accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow
contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of
the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him
running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate
should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be
connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him
as justice would allow.

'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion.
'And I fear,' he added, with great energy, looking towards the
bar, 'I really fear that he is ill.'

'Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. 'Come, none
of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's
your name?'

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly
pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

'What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?' demanded Mr. Fang.
'Officer, what's his name?'

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat,
who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated
the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding
the question; and knowing that his not replying would only
infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his
sentence; he hazarded a guess.

'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said the
kind-hearted thief-taker.

'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang. 'Very well, very
well. Where does he live?'

'Where he can, your worship,' replied the officer; again
pretending to receive Oliver's answer.

'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang.

'He says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied the
officer: hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and,
looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a
draught of water.

'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang: 'don't try to make a fool
of me.'

'I think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated the

'I know better,' said Mr. Fang.

'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising his
hands instinctively; 'he'll fall down.'

'Stand away, officer,' cried Fang; 'let him, if he likes.'

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the
floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each
other, but no one dared to stir.

'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this were
incontestable proof of the fact. 'Let him lie there; he'll soon
be tired of that.'

'How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?' inquired the
clerk in a low voice.

'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He stands committed for three
months--hard labour of course. Clear the office.'

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were
preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an
elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of
black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the

'Stop, stop! don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop a
moment!' cried the new comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise
a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name,
the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty's subjects,
expecially of the poorer class; and although, within such walls,
enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels blind
with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the
medium of the daily press.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.]
Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an
unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.

'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the
office!' cried Mr. Fang.

'I _will_ speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turned out. I saw
it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not
be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse,

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was
growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

'Swear the man,' growled Mr. Fang. with a very ill grace. 'Now,
man, what have you got to say?'

'This,' said the man: 'I saw three boys: two others and the
prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when
this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another
boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed
and stupified by it.' Having by this time recovered a little
breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a
more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.

'Why didn't you come here before?' said Fang, after a pause.

'I hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied the man. 'Everybody
who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get
nobody till five minutes ago; and I've run here all the way.'

'The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, after
another pause.

'Yes,' replied the man. 'The very book he has in his hand.'

'Oh, that book, eh?' said Fang. 'Is it paid for?'

'No, it is not,' replied the man, with a smile.

'Dear me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed the absent old
gentleman, innocently.

'A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!' said Fang,
with a comical effort to look humane. 'I consider, sir, that you
have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and
disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very
fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute.
Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you
yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!'

'D--n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he
had kept down so long, 'd--n me! I'll--'

'Clear the office!' said the magistrate. 'Officers, do you hear?
Clear the office!'

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was
conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in
the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He
reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little
Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt
unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly
white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. 'Call
a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!'

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on
the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

'May I accompany you?' said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

'Bless me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr. Brownlow quickly. 'I
forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump
in. Poor fellow! There's no time to lose.'

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.



The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which
Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with
the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the
Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a
quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared,
without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge
carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with
a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the
goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and
sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay
stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and
wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the
dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to
have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in
the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked
anxiously around.

'What room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver.
'This is not the place I went to sleep in.'

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and
weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's
head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly
and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair
close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very
quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,--as
bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a
dear!' With those words, the old lady very gently placed
Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from
his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he
could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and
drawing it round his neck.

'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a
grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his
mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him

'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands
together; 'perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she

'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly.

'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way
off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of
a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me,
even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She
can't know anything about me though,' added Oliver after a
moment's silence. 'If she had seen me hurt, it would have made
her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy,
when I have dreamed of her.'

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first,
and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as
if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool
stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek,
told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey
the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth,
because he was completely exhausted with what he had already
said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was
awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the
bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking
gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a
great deal better.

'You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?' said the

'Yes, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Yes, I know you are,' said the gentleman: 'You're hungry too,
an't you?'

'No, sir,' answered Oliver.

'Hem!' said the gentleman. 'No, I know you're not. He is not
hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which
seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man.
The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.

'You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said the doctor.

'No, sir,' replied Oliver.

'No,' said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look.
'You're not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?'

'Yes, sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.

'Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the doctor. 'It's very
natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little
tea, ma'am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don't keep
him too warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't let him be too
cold; will you have the goodness?'

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the
cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried
away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner
as he went downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was
nearly twelve o'clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night
shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who
had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small
Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head
and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver
that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the
fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at
frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers
moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than
causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some
time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection
of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with
his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall.
The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn;
as they brought into the boy's mind the thought that death had
been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill
it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his
face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from
recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which
it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be
roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all
its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more
than all, its weary recollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes;
he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely
past. He belonged to the world again.

In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well
propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk,
Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little
housekeeper's room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here,
by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; and,
being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much
better, forthwith began to cry most violently.

'Never mind me, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I'm only having a
regular good cry. There; it's all over now; and I'm quite

'You're very, very kind to me, ma'am,' said Oliver.

'Well, never you mind that, my dear,' said the old lady; 'that's
got nothing to do with your broth; and it's full time you had it;
for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this
morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we
look, the more he'll be pleased.' And with this, the old lady
applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full
of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample
dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three
hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.

'Are you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired the old lady, seeing
that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait
which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.

'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his eyes
from the canvas; 'I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a
beautiful, mild face that lady's is!'

'Ah!' said the old lady, 'painters always make ladies out
prettier than they are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child.
The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might
have known that would never succeed; it's a deal too honest. A
deal,' said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own

'Is--is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.

'Yes,' said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;
'that's a portrait.'

'Whose, ma'am?' asked Oliver.

'Why, really, my dear, I don't know,' answered the old lady in a
good-humoured manner. 'It's not a likeness of anybody that you
or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.'

'It is so pretty,' replied Oliver.

'Why, sure you're not afraid of it?' said the old lady: observing
in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded
the painting.

'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so
sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my
heart beat,' added Oliver in a low voice, 'as if it was alive,
and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.'

'Lord save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting; 'don't talk in
that way, child. You're weak and nervous after your illness.
Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you
won't see it. There!' said the old lady, suiting the action to
the word; 'you don't see it now, at all events.'

Oliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had
not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry
the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him;
and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted
and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the
bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it
with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the
last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. 'Come
in,' said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had
no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his
hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long
look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great
variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy
from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out
of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking
back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be
told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six
ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of
tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not
sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat.
'I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have
caught cold.'

'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Everything you have had,
has been well aired, sir.'

'I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'I
rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but
never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?'

'Very happy, sir,' replied Oliver. 'And very grateful indeed,
sir, for your goodness to me.'

'Good by,' said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. 'Have you given him any
nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?'

'He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,' replied
Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong
emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and
broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection

'Ugh!' said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; 'a couple of
glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good.
Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?'

'My name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little invalid: with a
look of great astonishment.

'Oliver,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?'

'No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'

'Queer name!' said the old gentleman. 'What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?'

'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt
him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened

'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for
looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the
resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon
him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising his
eyes beseechingly.

'No, no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why! what's this? Bedwin,
look there!'

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's
head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The
eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The
expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the
minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not
being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted
away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an
opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of
the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates,
joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in
consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr.
Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they
were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for
themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the
liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts
of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to
observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the
opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a
degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own
preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the
little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging
philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature's
deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing
the good lady's proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and,
by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and
understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations
of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters
totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal
admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and
weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical
nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very
delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also
recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their
quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon
Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest
possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is
usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten
the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being
rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and
discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men
under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to
indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it
is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in
carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight
in providing against every possible contingency which can be
supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great
right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means
which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the
right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction
between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher
concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear,
comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity,
through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that
they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having
remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to
speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and
delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter,
flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport
of mirth.

'What's the matter?' inquired the Dodger.

'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.

'Hold your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously
round. 'Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?'

'I can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it! To see him
splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and
knocking up again' the posts, and starting on again as if he was
made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket,
singing out arter him--oh, my eye!' The vivid imagination of
Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong
colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon
the door-step, and laughed louder than before.

'What'll Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the
next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to
propound the question.

'What?' repeated Charley Bates.

'Ah, what?' said the Dodger.

'Why, what should he say?' inquired Charley: stopping rather
suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger's manner was
impressive. 'What should he say?'

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off

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