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Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many 
reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to 
which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently 
common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and 
in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not 
trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible 
consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all 
events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head 
of this chapter. 

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow 
and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of 
considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any 
name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that 
these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that 
being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have 
possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and 
faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any 
age or country. 

Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a 
workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable 
circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to 
say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for 
Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact 
is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to 
take upon himself the office of respiration,--a troublesome 
practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy 
existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock 
mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the 
next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, 
if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by 
careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and 
doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and 
indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, 
however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by 
an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such 
matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point 
between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, 
Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the 
inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been 
imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could 
reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been 
possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much 
longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. 

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of 
his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over 
the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was 
raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly 
articulated the words, 'Let me see the child, and die.' 

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the 
fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub 
alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to 
the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been 
expected of him: 

'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.' 

'Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily 
depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of 
which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. 

'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, 
sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead 
except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better 
than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it 
is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do.' 

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects 
failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, 
and stretched out her hand towards the child. 

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold 
white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over 
her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back--and died. 
They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had 
stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been 
strangers too long. 

'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last. 

'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of 
the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she 
stooped to take up the child. 'Poor dear!' 

'You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,' 
said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. 
'It's very likely it WILL be troublesome. Give it a little gruel 
if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on 
his way to the door, added, 'She was a good-looking girl, too; 
where did she come from?' 

'She was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the 
overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had 
walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but 
where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.' 

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The 
old story,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. 
Ah! Good-night!' 

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, 
having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on 
a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. 

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver 
Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his 
only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a 
beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to 
have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he 
was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in 
the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his 
place at once--a parish child--the orphan of a workhouse--the 
humble, half-starved drudge--to be cuffed and buffeted through 
the world--despised by all, and pitied by none. 

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an 
orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and 
overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.