The opening of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens

    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
               could 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.


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