This is the story of an orphan, Oliver Twist, who endures a miserable existence in a workhouse and then is placed with an undertaker. He escapes and travels to London where he meets the Artful Dodger, leader of a gang of juvenile pickpockets. Naïvely unaware of their unlawful activities, Oliver is led to the lair of their elderly criminal trainer Fagin. It is notable for Dickens' unromantic portrayal of criminals and their sordid lives. It exposes the cruel treatment of the many orphans in London during the Dickensian era. The book's subtitle, The Parish Boy's Progress, alludes to Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress and also to a pair of popular 18th-century caricature series by William Hogarth, A Rake's Progress and A Harlot's Progress.
In considering Dickens, as we almost always must consider him, as a man of rich originality, we may possibly miss the forces from which he drew even his original energy. It is not well for man to be alone. We, in the modern world, are ready enough to admit that when it is applied to some problem of monasticism or of an ecstatic life. But we will not admit that our modern artistic claim to absolute originality is really a claim to absolute unsociability; a claim to absolute loneliness. The anarchist is at least as solitary as the ascetic. And the men of very vivid vigour in literature, the men such as Dickens, have generally displayed a large sociability towards the society of letters, always expressed in the happy pursuit of pre-existent themes, sometimes expressed, as in the case of Molière or Sterne, in downright plagiarism. For even theft is a confession of our dependence on society. In Dickens, however, this element of the original foundations on which he worked is quite especially difficult to determine. This is partly due to the fact that for the present reading public he is practically the only one of his long line that is read at all. He sums up Smollett and Goldsmith, but he also destroys them. This one giant, being closest to us, cuts off from our view even the giants that begat him. But much more is this difficulty due to the fact that Dickens mixed up with the old material, materials so subtly modern, so made of the French Revolution, that the whole is transformed. If we want the best example of this, the best example is Oliver Twist.
Relatively to the other works of Dickens Oliver Twist is not of great value, but it is of great importance. Some parts of it are so crude and of so clumsy a melodrama, that one is almost tempted to say that Dickens would have been greater without it. But even if be had been greater without it he would still have been incomplete without it. With the exception of some gorgeous passages, both of humour and horror, the interest of the book lies not so much in its revelation of Dickens's literary genius as in its revelation of those moral, personal, and political instincts which were the make-up of his character and the permanent support of that literary genius. It is by far the most depressing of all his books; it is in some ways the most irritating; yet its ugliness gives the last touch of honesty to all that spontaneous and splendid output. Without this one discordant note all his merriment might have seemed like levity.
Dickens had just appeared upon the stage and set the whole world laughing with his first great story Pickwick. Oliver Twist was his encore. It was the second opportunity given to him by those who ha rolled about with laughter over Tupman and Jingle, Weller and Dowler. Under such circumstances a stagey reciter will sometimes take care to give a pathetic piece after his humorous one; and with all his many moral merits, there was much that was stagey about Dickens. But this explanation alone is altogether inadequate and unworthy. There was in Dickens this other kind of energy, horrible, uncanny, barbaric, capable in another age of coarseness, greedy for the emblems of established ugliness, the coffin, the gibbet, the bones, the bloody knife. Dickens liked these things and he was all the more of a man for liking them; especially he was all the more of a boy. We can all recall with pleasure the fact that Miss Petowker (afterwards Mrs. Lillyvick) was in the habit of reciting a poem called "The Blood Drinker's Burial." I cannot express my regret that the words of this poem are not given; for Dickens would have been quite as capable of writing "The Blood Drinker's Burial" as Miss Petowker was of reciting it. This strain existed in Dickens alongside of his happy laughter; both were allied to the same robust romance. Here as elsewhere Dickens is close to all the permanent human things. He is close to religion, which has never allowed the thousand devils on its churches to stop the dancing of its bells. He is allied to the people, to the real poor, who love nothing so much as to take a cheerful glass and to talk about funerals. The extremes of his gloom and gaiety are the mark of religion and democracy; they mark him off from the moderate happiness of philosophers, and from that stoicism which is the virtue and the creed of aristocrats. There is nothing odd in the fact that the same man who conceived the humane hospitalities of Pickwick should also have imagined the inhuman laughter of Fagin's den. They are both genuine and they are both exaggerated. And the whole human tradition has tied up together in a strange knot these strands of festivity and fear. It is over the cups of Christmas Eve that men have always competed in telling ghost stories.
This first element was present in Dickens, and it is very powerfully present in Oliver Twist. It had not been present with sufficient consistency or continuity in Pickwick to make it remain on the reader's memory at all, for the tale of "Gabriel Grubb" is grotesque rather than horrible, and the two gloomy stories of the "Madman" and the "Queer Client" are so utterly irrelevant to the tale, that even if the reader remember them he probably does not remember that they occur in Pickwick. Critics have complained of Shakespeare and others for putting comic episodes into a tragedy. It required a man with the courage and coarseness of Dickens actually to put tragic episodes into a farce. But they are not caught up into the story at all. In Oliver Twist, however, the thing broke out with an almost brutal inspiration, and those who had fallen in love with Dickens for his generous buffoonery may very likely have been startled at receiving such very different fare at the next helping. When you have bought a man's book because you like his writing about Mr. Wardle's punch-bowl and Mr. Winkle's skates, it may very well be surprising to open it and read about the sickening thuds that beat out the life of Nancy, or that mysterious villain whose face was blasted with disease.
As a nightmare, the work is really admirable. Characters which are not very clearly conceived as regards their own psychology are yet, at certain moments, managed so as to shake to its foundations our own psychology. Bill Sikes is not exactly a real man, but for all that he is a real murderer. Nancy is not really impressive as a living woman; but (as the phrase goes) she makes a lovely corpse. Something quite childish and eternal in us, something which is shocked with the mere simplicity of death, quivers when we read of those repeated blows or see Sikes cursing the tell-tale cur who will follow his bloody foot-prints. And this strange, sublime, vulgar melodrama, which is melodrama and yet is painfully real, reaches its hideous height in that fine scene of the death of Sikes, the besieged house, the boy screaming within, the crowd screaming without, the murderer turned almost a maniac and dragging his victim uselessly up and down the room, the escape over the roof, the rope swiftly running taut, and death sudden, startling and symbolic; a man hanged. There is in this and similar scenes something of the quality of Hogarth and many other English moralists of the early eighteenth century. It is not easy to define this Hogarthian quality in words, beyond saying that it is a sort of alphabetical realism, like the cruel candour of children. But it has about it these two special principles which separate it from all that we call realism in our time. First, that with us a moral story means a story about moral people; with them a moral story meant more often a story about immoral people. Second, that with us realism is always associated with some subtle view of morals; with them realism was always associated with some simple view of morals. The end of Bill Sikes exactly in the way that the law would have killed him -- this is a Hogarthian incident; it carries on that tradition of startling and shocking platitude.
All this element in the book was a sincere thing in the author, but none the less it came from old soils, from the graveyard and the gallows, and the lane where the ghost walked. Dickens was always attracted to such things, and (as Forster says with inimitable simplicity) "but for his strong sense might have fallen into the follies of spiritualism." As a matter of fact, like most of the men of strong sense in his tradition, Dickens was left with a half belief in spirits which became in practice a belief in bad spirits. The great disadvantage of those who have too much strong sense to believe in supernaturalism is that they keep last the low and little forms of the supernatural, such as omens, curses, spectres, and retributions, but find a high and happy supernaturalism quite incredible. Thus the Puritans denied the sacraments, but went on burning witches. This shadow does rest, to some extent, upon the rational English writers like Dickens; supernaturalism was dying, but its ugliest roots died last. Dickens would have found it easier to believe in a ghost than in a vision of the Virgin with angels. There, for good or evil, however, was the root of the old diablerie in Dickens, and there it is in Oliver Twist. But this was only the first of the new Dickens elements, which must have surprised those Dickensians who eagerly bought his second book. The second of the new Dickens elements is equally indisputable and separate. It swelled afterwards to enormous proportions in Dickens's work; but it really has its rise here. Again, as in the case of the element of diablerie, it would be possible to make technical exceptions in favour of Pickwick. Just as there were quite inappropriate scraps of the gruesome element in Pickwick, so there are quite inappropriate allusions to this other topic in Pickwick. But nobody by merely reading Pickwick would even remember this topic; no one by merely reading Pickwick would know what this topic is; this third great subject of Dickens; this second great subject of the Dickens of Oliver Twist.
This subject is social oppression. It is surely fair to say that no one could have gathered from Pickwick how this question boiled in the blood of the author of Pickwick. There are, indeed, passages, particularly in connection with Mr. Pickwick in the debtor's prison, which prove to us, looking back on a whole public career, that Dickens had been from the beginning bitter and inquisitive about the problem of our civilisation. No one could have imagined at the time that this bitterness ran in an unbroken river under all the surges of that superb gaiety and exuberance. With Oliver Twist this sterner side of Dickens was suddenly revealed. For the very first pages of Oliver Twist are stern even when they are funny. They amuse, but they cannot be enjoyed, as can the passages about the follies of Mr. Snodgrass or the humiliations of Mr. Winkle. The difference between the old easy humour and this new harsh humour is a difference not of degree but of kind. Dickens makes game of Mr. Bumble because he wants to kill Mr. Bumble; he made game of Mr. Winkle because he wanted him to live for ever. Dickens has taken the sword in hand; against what is he declaring war?
It is just here that the greatness of Dickens comes in; it is just here that the difference lies between the pedant and the poet. Dickens enters the social and political war, and the first stroke he deals is not only significant but even startling. Fully to see this we must appreciate the national situation. It was an age of reform, and even of radical reform; the world was full of radicals and reformers; but only too many of them took the line of attacking everything and anything that was opposed to some particular theory among the many political theories that possessed the end of the eighteenth century. Some had so much perfected the perfect theory of republicanism that they almost lay awake at night because Queen Victoria had a crown on her head. Others were so certain that mankind had hitherto been merely strangled in the bonds of the State that they saw truth only in the destruction of tariffs or of by-laws. The greater part of that generation held that clearness, economy, and a hard common-sense, would soon destroy the errors that had been erected by the superstitions and sentimentalities of the past. In pursuance of this idea many of the new men of the new century, quite confident that they were invigorating the new age, sought to destroy the old entimental clericalism, the old sentimental feudalism, the old-world belief in priests, the old-world belief in patrons, and among other things the old-world belief in beggars. They sought among other things to clear away the old visionary kindliness on the subject of vagrants. Hence those reformers enacted not only a new reform bill but also a new poor law. In creating many other modern things they created the modern workhouse, and when Dickens came out to fight it was the first thing that he broke with his battle-axe.
This is where Dickens's social revolt is of more value than mere politics and avoids the vulgarity of the novel with a purpose. His revolt is not a revolt of the commercialist against the feudalist, of the Nonconformist against the Churchman, of the Free-trader against the Protectionist, of the Liberal against the Tory. If he were among us now his revolt would not be the revolt of the Socialist against the Individualist, or of the Anarchist against the Socialist. His revolt was simply and solely the eternal revolt; it was the revolt of the weak against the strong. He did not dislike this or that argument for oppression; he disliked oppression. He disliked a certain look on the face of a man when he looks down on another man. And that look on the face is, indeed, the only thing in the world that we have really to fight between here and the fires of Hell. That which pedants of that time and this time would have called the sentimentalism of Dickens was really simply the detached sanity of Dickens. He cared nothing for the fugitive explanations of the Constitutional Conservatives; he cared nothing for the fugitive explanations of the Manchester School. He would have cared quite as little for the fugitive explanations of the Fabian Society or of the modern scientific Socialist. He saw that under many forms there was one fact, the tyranny of man over man; and he struck at it when he saw it, whether it was old or new. When he found that footmen and rustics were too much afraid of Sir Leicester Dedlock, he attacked Sir Leicester Dedlock; he did not care whether Sir Leicester Dedlock said he was attacking England or whether Mr. Rouncewell, the Ironmaster, said he was attacking an effete oligarchy. In that case he pleased Mr. Rouncewell, the Ironmaster, and displeased Sir Leicester Dedlock, the Aristocrat. But when he found that Mr. Rouncewell's workmen were much too frightened of Mr. Rouncewell, then he displeased Mr. Rouncewell in turn; he displeased Mr. Rouncewell very much by calling him Mr. Bounderby. When he imagined himself to be fighting old laws he gave a sort of vague and general approval to new laws. But when he came to the new laws they had a bad time. When Dickens found that after a hundred economic arguments and granting a hundred economic considerations, the fact remained that paupers in modern workhouses were much too afraid of the beadle, just as vassals in ancient castles were much too afraid of the Dedlocks, then he struck suddenly and at once. This is what makes the opening chapters of Oliver Twist so curious and important. The very fact of Dickens's distance from, and independence of, the elaborate financial arguments of his time, makes more definite and dazzling his sudden assertion that he sees the old human tyranny in front of him as plain as the sun at noon-day. Dickens attacks the modern workhouse with a sort of inspired simplicity as a boy in a fairy tale who had wandered about, sword in hand, looking for ogres and who had found an indisputable ogre. All the other people of his time are attacking things because they are bad economics or because they are bad politics, or because they are bad science; he alone is attacking things because they are bad. All the others are Radicals with a large R; he alone is radical with a small one. He encounters evil with that beautiful surprise which, as it is the beginning of all real pleasure, is also the beginning of all righteous indignation. He enters the workhouse just as Oliver Twist enters it, as a little child.
This is the real power and pathos of that celebrated passage in the book which has passed into a proverb; but which has not lost its terrible humour even in being hackneyed. I mean, of course, the everlasting quotation about Oliver Twist asking for more. The real poignancy that there is in this idea is a very good study in that strong school of social criticism which Dickens represented. A modern realist describing the dreary workhouse would have made all the children utterly crushed, not daring to speak at all, not expecting anything, not hoping anything, past all possibility of affording even an ironical contrast or a protest of despair. A modern, in short, would have made all the boys in the workhouse pathetic by making them all pessimists. But Oliver Twist is not pathetic because he is a pessimist. Oliver Twist is pathetic because he is an optimist. The whole tragedy of that incident is in the fact that he does expect the universe to be kind to him, that he does believe that he is living in a just world. He comes before the Guardians as the ragged peasants of the French Revolution came before the Kings and Parliaments of Europe. That is to say, he comes, indeed, with gloomy experiences, but he comes with a happy philosophy. He knows that there are wrongs of man to be reviled; but he believes also that there are rights of man to be demanded. It has often been remarked as a singular fact that the French poor, who stand in historic tradition as typical of all the desperate men who have dragged down tyranny, were, as a matter of fact, by no means worse off than the poor of many other European countries before the Revolution. The truth is that the French were tragic because they were better off. The others had known the sorrowful experiences; but they alone had known the splendid expectation and the original claims. It was just here that Dickens was so true a child of them and of that happy theory so bitterly applied. They were the one oppressed people that simply asked for justice; they were the one Parish Boy who innocently asked for more.
SPOILERS This is the chapter in which Fagin is condemned to die, the loathsome Noah Claypole having turned King's Evidence. This was the standout chapter for me. I liked the way Fagin stayed true to himself, despite being dazed by the situation he found himself in. He is so clever that the words of the judge come back to him, even though he was distracted and unable to concentrate during the trial. He undergoes a sort of mental breakdown, but he refuses to repent, both when the Jewish priests visit him, and when Oliver asks him to pray with him. He thinks about other people who he has put in his position. I suppose from time to time, the underworld were required to deliver someone to whoever passed for the police in those days. In an earlier chapter, Fagin remarks that a certain low-level criminal at the Three Cripples, or some other public place, was not yet ripe. However when Oliver (or Mr Brownloe) asks him for evidence on Monks, Fagin readily tells Oliver where it is. He does not show any ill feeling towards Oliver. He seems to like him in a way. I wonder whether one reason kept all those young apprentices was that he liked their company.
The second book is a bit of a waste of time. If I had to pay £1, 11s and 7d for the trilogy, I would have been annoyed to pay so much for the middle volume. I understand why I never saw this in any of the film adaptions, although it does have the brilliant line: "But tears were not the things to find their ways to Mr Bumble's soul; his heart was waterproof." There was a chapter in which the lovely Rose looks like she was going to die. Thanfully, she survived. I liked Dicken's natural Christianity regarding thte death of young people who were dear to you. It was a common enough thing to go through in those days. Conrad and Hardy would probably have let her die and have been a bit cynical about it afterwards. Dickens allowed many of his characters to die, but not cynically - unless you can think of instances when he did.
I thought this was a clever bit of writing from chapter 20. I liked the way it's from Oliver's perspective, who does not understand that it is his good nature and affection for Nancy that is making her feel so bad about what she is doing. He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him. 'What's that!' he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door. 'Who's there?' 'Me - only me,' replied a tremulous voice. Oliver raised the candle above his head, and looked towards the door. It was Nancy. 'Put down the light,' said the girl, turning away her head: 'it hurts my eyes.' Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she was ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him, and wrung her hands, but made no reply. 'God forgive me!' she cried after awhile, 'I never thought of all this.' 'Has anything happened?' asked Oliver. 'Can I help you? I will if I can; I will indeed.' She rocked herself to an fro, and then, wringing her hands violently, caught her throat, and, uttering a gurgling sound, struggled and gasped for breath. 'Nancy!' cried Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'What is it?' The girl burst into a fit of loud laughter, beating her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground, meanwhile; and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her, and shivered with cold. Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there for a little time without speaking, but at length she raised her head and looked around. 'I don't know what comes over me sometimes,' said the girl, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; 'it's this damp, dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?' 'Am I to go with you?' asked Oliver. 'Yes; I have come from Bill,' replied the girl. 'You are to go with me.'
In chapter 9, after Charley Bates and the Dodger practice picking Fagin's pockets, Dickens wrote this: When the game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies came to see the young gentlemen, one of whom was called Bet and the other Nancy. They wore a great deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were. Presumably this means what I think it does. The two girls leave with Charley and the Dodger with some money to spend from Fagin. Hey, how old are Dodger and Charley? Then I started reading a bit more of the introduction and came upon this: Edward Wakefield's chapter on 'Nurseries of Crime', in his remarkable non-fiction 'Facts Relating to the Punishment of Death in the Metropolis' (1831), describes the use of girls by criminals like Fagin to draw boys, often as young as twelve, into thieving through 'the precocious excitement and gratification of the sexual passion' Is this what Dickens was alluding to? If so, would Dickens' readers have understood this?
I recently started reading Oliver Twist. I have several times heard that this was not one of Dickens' best, but actually I am enjoying it more than most of the others of his that I have read. The writing is not too convoluted; the story rattles along, and it is quite funny. Poor little Oliver. He's just a bag of bones. The parish are quite content for him to just die so that they don't have to feed him. His mother kissed him before expiring and the next scrap of kindness he is shown is eight years later when a magistrate refuses to apprentice him as a chimney sweep. In chapter 6, it says the old nurses at the workhouse had talked kindly about his mother, so I suppose it is likely that some people had shown kindness to young Oliver. I doubt whether he would have grown up such a nice lad if no one had. It's terrible to think there was a time when such a plot would be plausible, even if exaggerated a bit, which it seems it wasn't. The 19th century was a period of slow reform. Of course, society was much less wealthy as a whole and less able to address its problems, but it was also a time of widespread incompetence, callous indifference, dodgy self-serving economic theory, and prejudice. No doubt it was even worse before then. The chapter in which Oliver is nearly apprenticed as a chimney sweep is an odd one. It's a chapter that does not lead anywhere. I wonder whether Dickens considered making Oliver a chimney sweep, but then decided against it.
I have written an Oliver Twist Pastiche, called "Quigsnip," which is now available on Amazon. It is about a shadowy villain who seeks revenge on Oliver. Oliver finds himself on the street again, in a series of harrowing adventures, after he is framed, very convincingly for a terrible. In a sense, he is not even framed, which makes it worse. For anyone wishing to review it on the Literature Network forums I will rpovie free copies for any reviewers. The blurb is: "Quigsnip" is a tale of Dickens' Oliver Twist, that Dickens himself seemed too frightened to tell, of a plotline which he began, but never finished.... Oliver Twist, the brave orphan boy who defied the workhouse board has found his rich family, and is now well-nourished, and living among luxury. He imagines his former life as a half-starved workhouse waif in the clutches of the infamous Fagin gang is far behind him. But one villain remains at large. He is a villain with an unknown connection to Oliver’s past. A villain who controls the entire underworld of Victorian London. A villain who will stop at nothing until he has destroyed all that the boy loves, before putting Oliver in his grave…
I need to find three Biblical, Historical, Literary, or Mythological Allusions in Oliver Twist from the chapters 12-16. Thanks to anyone that helps. I'm currently searching for some myself but I really need some help.
In chapter 32 of Oliver Twist, when Losberen takes Oliver for a ride in the country, Oliver thinks he sees the house Sikes took him to the night before the burglary when they met up with Toby Crackit. Losberne barges in, but finds only an angry hunchback man who denies knowing anything about Sikes. The house does not match Oliver's description. The hunchback follows Losberne back to the carraige and, whne he peers in and sees Oliver, flies into a rage. What is up with this chapter? Is the hunchback merely a cantankerous old hermit? Or something more? Is it really Toby Crackit's house? Or did Oliver really misidentify it?
I am trying to find examples of dramatic irony in chapters 21 and 22 of Oliver Twist. Can anyone help me out whilst I'm still in search? Thanks to everyone who contributes.
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