he can, your worship," replied the officer, again pretending to receive Oliver's answer.
"Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang.
"He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer, hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry Oliver raised his head, and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."
"I think he really is ill, your worship," remonstrated the officer.
"I know better," said Mr. Fang.
"Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; "he'll fall down."
"Stand away, officer," cried Fang savagely; "let him if he likes."
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.
"I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. "Let him lie; he'll soon be tired of that."
"How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk in a low voice.
"Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three months, – hard labour of course. Clear the office."
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.
"Stop, stop, – don't take him away, – for Heaven's sake stop a moment," cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives of his Majesty's subjects, especially of the poorer class, and although within such walls enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels weep thick tears of blood, they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
"What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office," cried Mr. Fang.
"I will speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out, – I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You dare not refuse, sir."
The man was right. His manner was bold and determined, and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.
"Swear the fellow," growled Fang with a very ill grace. "Now, man, what have you got to say?"
"This," said the man: "I saw three boys – two others and the prisoner here – loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done, and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it." Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.
"Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang after a pause.
"I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man; "everybody that could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago, and I've run here all the way."
"The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another pause.
"Yes," replied the man, "the very book he has got in his hand."
"Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?"
"No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile.
"Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.
"A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!"
"D – me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, "d – me! I'll – "
"Clear the office!" roared the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!"
The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other, in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.
He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his temples bathed with water: his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray, directly!"
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
"May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper looking in.
"Bless me, yes, my dear friend," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I've got this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow! there's no time to lose."
The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.
ELEGIAC STANZAS
Why mourn we for her, who in Spring's tender bloom,
And the sweet blush of womanhood, quitted life's sphere?
Why weep we for her? Thro' the gates of the tomb
She has pass'd to the regions undimm'd by a tear!
To the spirits' far land in the mansions above,
Unsullied, thus early her soul wing'd its flight;
While she bask'd in the beams of affection and love,
And knew not the clouds that oft shadow their light!
Fate's hand pluck'd the bud ere it blossom'd to fame,
No withering canker its leaflets had known;
The ministering angels her fellowship claim,
And rejoice o'er a spirit as pure as their own!
While she knew but life's purer and tenderer ties,
The guardian who watches life's path from our birth
Call'd home the bright being Heav'n form'd for the skies
Ere its bloom had been ting'd by the follies of earth!
Alas! while the light of her young spirit's flame
Shone a day-star of Hope to illumine us here,
The messenger-seraph too suddenly came,
And bore his bright charge to her own native sphere!
Yet mourn not for her, who, in Spring's tender bloom,
Has made life a desert to those left
