 declared
in London by an amazing Alderman, that Jacob's Island did not exist, and never
had existed. Jacob's Island continues to exist (like an ill-bred place as it is)
in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven, though improved and much
changed.

                                   Chapter I

 

   Treats of the Place Where Oliver Twist Was Born, and of the Circumstances
                              Attending His Birth

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
