What to read after Oliver Twist?

CHAPTER ITREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THECIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTHAmong other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasonsit will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I willassign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; ona day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch asit can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage ofthe business at all events; the item of mortality whose name isprefixed to the head of this chapter.For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow andtrouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerabledoubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in whichcase it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would neverhave appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple ofpages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being themost concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in theliterature of any age or country.Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in aworkhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstancethat can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in thisparticular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that couldby possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerabledifficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office ofrespiration, --a troublesome practice, but one which custom has renderednecessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on alittle flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world andthe next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by carefulgrandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors ofprofound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have beenkilled in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper oldwoman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer;and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver andNature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, aftera few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertiseto the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having beenimposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as couldreasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not beenpossessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longerspace of time than three minutes and a quarter.As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of hislungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the ironbedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feeblyfrom 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 theyoung woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, withmore kindness than might have been expected of him: 'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.''Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastilydepositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of whichshe had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.