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