Hello.
Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,
Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.
Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.
But before we begin,
Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.
Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.
It is time to relax and fully let go.
There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.
Happy listening.
Chapter 17 Oliver's destiny continuing unpropitious brings a great man to London to injure his reputation.
It is the custom on this stage in all good murderous melodramas to present the tragic and the comic scenes in as regular alternation as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon.
The hero sinks upon his straw bed weighed down by fetters and misfortunes.
In the next scene his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song.
We behold with throbbing bosoms the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron,
Her virtue and her life alike in danger drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other.
And just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch,
A whistle is heard and we straightway transported to the great hall of the castle where a grey headed sensual sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals who are free of all sorts of places from church vaults to palaces and roam about in company caroling perpetually.
Such changes appear absurd but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight.
The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to deathbeds and from mourning weeds to holiday garments are not a whit less startling.
Only there we are busy actors instead of passive lookers-on which makes a vast difference.
The actors in the mimic life of the theatre are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling,
Which presented before the eyes of mere spectators are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene and rapid changes of time and place are not only sanctioned in books by long usage but are by many considered as the great art of authorship,
An author's skill in his craft being by such critics chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter.
This brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary.
If so,
Let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born,
The reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse gate and walked with portly carriage in commanding steps up the high street.
He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood.
His cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun.
He clutched his cane with a vigorous tenacity of health and power.
Mr Bumble always carried his head high,
But this morning it was higher than usual.
There was an abstraction in his eye,
An elevation in his air,
Which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind too great for utterance.
Mr Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him deferentially as he passed along.
He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand and relaxed not in his dignified pace until he reached the farm where Mrs Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care.
Drat that beadle,
Said Mrs Mann,
Hearing the well-known shaking at the garden gate.
If it ain't him at this time in the morning.
Look Mr Bumble,
Only think if it's been you.
Oh dear me,
It is a pleasure this is.
Come into the parlour sir,
Please.
The first sentence was addressed to Susan and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr Bumble as the good lady unlocked the garden gate and showed him with great attention and respect into the house.
Mrs Mann,
Said Mr Bumble,
Not sitting upon or dropping himself into a seat as any common jack-and-apes would,
But letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair.
Mrs Mann,
Mum,
Good morning.
Well,
Good morning to you sir,
Replied Mrs Mann with many smiles and hoping you find yourself well sir.
So,
So Mrs Mann,
Replied the beadle,
A parochial life is not a bed of roses Mrs Mann.
Oh,
That isn't indeed Mr Bumble,
Rejoined the lady and all the infant paupers might of course rejoined it with a great propriety if they had heard it.
A parochial life ma'am,
Continued Mr Bumble,
Striking the table with his cane,
Is a life of warrant and vexation and hardyhood,
But in all public characters,
As I may say,
Must suffer prosecution.
Mrs Mann,
Not very well knowing what the beadle meant,
Raised her hand with a look of sympathy and sighed.
Ah,
You might well sigh Mrs Mann,
Said the beadle,
And finding she had done right,
Mrs Mann sighed again.
Evidently to the satisfaction of the public character,
Who repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat said,
Mrs Mann,
I am going to London.
Look Mr Bumble,
Cried Mrs Mann starting back,
To London ma'am,
Resumed the inflexible beadle.
By coach,
I am two paupers Mrs Mann.
A legal action is coming on about a settlement and the board has appointed me,
Me Mrs Mann,
To dispose to the matter before the Court of Sessions at Clerkenwell.
And I very much question,
Added Mr Bumble,
Drawing himself up,
Whether the Clerkenwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they've done with me.
Oh,
You mustn't be too hard on them sir,
Said Mrs Mann,
Coaxing me.
The Clerkenwell Sessions are brought it upon themselves ma'am,
Replied Mr Bumble.
And if the Clerkenwell Sessions find they come off rather worse than they expected,
The Clerkenwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr Bumble delivered himself of these words,
That Mrs Mann appeared quite awed by them.
At length she said,
You're going by coach sir,
I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.
That's when they're ill Mrs Mann,
Said the beetle.
We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather to prevent their taking cold.
Oh,
Said Mrs Mann.
The opposition coach contracts for these two and takes them cheap,
Said Mr Bumble.
They're both in a very low state and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move them than bury them.
That is if we can throw them upon another parish,
Which I think we shall be able to do if they don't die upon the road to spiders.
When Mr Bumble had laughed a little while,
His eyes again encountered the cocked hat and he became grave.
We are forgetting business mum,
Here is your parochial stipend for the month.
Mr Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper from his pocketbook and requested a receipt,
Which Mrs Mann wrote.
It's very much blotted sir,
Said the farmer of infants,
But it's foreman enough I dare say.
Thank you sir,
Mr Bumble sir,
I'm very much obliged to I'm sure.
Mr Bumble nodded blandly in acknowledgement of Mrs Mann's courtesy and inquired how the children were.
Bless their dear little hearts,
Said Mrs Mann with emotion,
There as well as can be the dears,
Of course except the two that died last week and little Dick.
Isn't that boy no better?
Inquired Mr Bumble.
Mrs Mann shook her head.
He's an ill-conditioned,
Vicious,
Bad disposed parochial child that.
Where is he?
Said Mr Bumble angrily.
I'll bring him to you in one minute sir,
Replied Mrs Mann.
Here,
You,
Dick.
After some calling,
Dick was discovered.
Having had his face put under the pump and dried upon Mrs Mann's gown,
He was led into the awful presence of Mr Bumble,
The beadle.
The child was pale and thin.
His cheeks were sunken and his eyes large and bright.
The scanty parish dress,
The livery of his misery,
Hung loosely on his feeble body and his young limbs had wasted away like those of an old man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr Bumble's glance,
Not daring to lift his eyes from the floor and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice.
Can't you look at the gentleman,
You obstinate boy?
Said Mrs Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes and encountered those of Mr Bumble.
What's the matter with you,
Parochial dick?
Inquired Mr Bumble with well-timed jocularity.
Nothing sir,
Replied the child faintly.
I should think not,
Said Mrs Mann,
Who had of course laughed very much at Mr Bumble's humour.
You want for nothing,
I'm sure.
I should like,
Faltered the child.
Ay,
Day,
I suppose you're going to say you do want for something now,
Why you little wretch.
Stop,
Mrs Mann,
Stop,
Said the beadle,
Raising his hand with a show of authority.
Like what sir,
Eh?
I should like,
Faltered the child,
If somebody that can write would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper and fold it up and seal it and keep it for me after I'm laid in the ground.
What does the boy mean?
Exclaimed Mr Bumble,
On whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression.
What do you mean,
Sir?
I should like,
Said the child,
To leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist and let him know how often I've sat by myself and tried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him.
And I should like to tell him that I was glad to die when I was very young,
For perhaps if I'd lived to be a man and a grown old,
My little sister who's in heaven might forget me or be unlike me and it would be so much happier if both were children there and then together.
Mr Bumble surveyed the little speaker from head to foot with indescribable astonishment and turning to his companion said,
They're all in one story,
Mrs Mann,
That audacious Oliver had demoralized them all.
I couldn't have believed it,
Sir,
Said Mrs Mann,
Holding up her hands and looking malignantly at Dick.
I've never seen such a heart and little wretch.
Take him away,
Ma'am,
Said Mr Bumble imperiously.
This must be stated to the board,
Mrs Mann.
I hope the gentlemen understand it isn't my fault,
Sir,
Said Mrs Mann,
Whimpering pathetically.
They shall understand that,
Ma'am.
They should be acquainted with the true state of the case,
Said Mr Bumble.
There,
Take him away.
I can't bear the sight of him.
Dick was immediately taken away and locked up in the cold cellar.
Mr Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off to prepare for his journey.
In the due course of time,
He arrived in London and experienced no other crosses on the way than those which originated in the perverse behavior of the two paupers who persisted in shivering and complaining of the cold,
In a manner which Mr Bumble declared caused his teeth to chatter in his head and made him feel quite uncomfortable,
Although he had a great coat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night,
Mr Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped and took a temperate dinner of steaks,
Oyster sauce and porter.
Then,
Upon drawing his chair to the fire,
Composed himself to read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr Bumble's eye rested was the following advertisement.
Five guineas reward.
Whereas a young boy named Oliver Twist absconded or was enticed on Thursday evening last from his home at Penterville and has not since been heard of,
The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist or tend to throw any light upon his previous history in which the advertiser is,
For many reasons,
Warmly interested.
