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Updated: June 27, 2025
'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, replied the beadle. 'Here! I've brought the boy. Oliver made a bow. 'Oh! that's the boy, is it? said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear? Mrs.
Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry. 'Aha! said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; 'an order for a coffin, eh? 'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards, replied Mr.
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.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that 'he'd catch it, condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs.
Sowerberry, the parish undertaker, finally applied for the prize, and carried Oliver away with him, which, for the poor boy, was a matter of falling from the frying pan into the fire, and in his short career as undertaker's assistant he even sighed for the workhouse, miserable as his life there had been. At the undertaker's, Oliver's bed was in the shop.
'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.
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 beds! 'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am, was the reply.
Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr.
Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
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