30 Oliver Twist - Read By Stephanie Poppins

"Oliver Twist," written by Charles Dickens in the 19th century, tells the story of an orphan boy and his adventures in London's slums. In this episode, there is a shock in the night that disrupts the fragile peace of the darkened city streets, propelling Oliver into unforeseen challenges and encounters.

In this episode, Dr. Losberne suspects that Giles and Brittles might have mistakenly identified Oliver as the burglar, especially after hearing Oliver's account of the events.

Transcript

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. It was evening before the kind-hearted doctor brought the intelligence that Oliver was at length sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, He said, And weak from the loss of blood. But his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity to speak. To insist upon his remaining quiet until next morning, Which he should otherwise have done. The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, And he was often compelled to stop by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thing to hear in the darkened room, The feeble voice of a sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him. Oh, If when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, We bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of human error, Which, Like dense and heavy clouds, Are rising, Slowly it is true, But not less surely to heaven, To pour their after-vengeance on our heads. If we heard but one instant in imagination the deep testimony of dead men's voices, Which no longer can stifle and no pride shut out, Where would be the injury and injustice, The suffering, Misery, Cruelty and wrong that each day's life brings with it? Oliver's pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night. And loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm, He felt happy, And he could have died without a murmur. The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, And Oliver composed to rest again, Than the doctor, After wiping his eyes and condemning them from being weak all at once, Betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr Giles. Finding nobody about the parlours, It occurred to him, He could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the kitchen. So in the kitchen he went. There were assembled in that lower house of the domestic parliament the women's servants, Mr Brittles, Mr Giles, The tinker who'd received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, And the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, A large head, Large features, And large half-boots, And he looked as if he'd been taking a proportionate allowance of ale, As indeed he had. The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion, For Mr Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind when the doctor entered. Mr Brittles, With a mug of ale in his hand, Was corroborating everything before his superior said it. Sit still, Said the doctor, Waving his hand. Thank you, Sir, Said Mr Giles. This is wish-some ale to be given out, Sir, And as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, Sir, And was disposed for company, I'll take in mine among them here. Brittles headed a low murmur, By which the ladies and gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they'd derived from Mr Giles's condescension. Mr Giles looked round with a patronising air, As much as to say that, So long as they behaved properly, He would never desert them. How is the patient tonight, Sir? Asked Giles. So, So, Returned the doctor. I'm afraid you've got yourself into a scrape there, Mr Giles. I hope you don't mean to say so, Sir, Said Mr Giles, Trembling he's going to die. If I thought of it, I should never be happy again. I won't cut a boy off, No, Not even Brittles here, Not for all the plate in the country, Sir. That's the point, Said the doctor mysteriously. Mr Giles, Are you a Protestant? Yes, Sir, I hope so, Sir, Thought at Mr Giles, Who turned very pale. Then what are you, Boy, Said the doctor, Turning sharply upon Brittles. Lord bless me, Sir, Replied Brittles, Starting violently. I'm the same as Mr Giles, Sir. Then tell me this, Said the doctor, Both of you, Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear that the boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it now, Come, We are prepared for you. The doctor, Who was universally considered one of the best tempered creatures on Earth, Made this demand in such a dreadful tone that Giles and Brittles, Who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, Stared at each other in a state of stupefaction. Pay attention to the reply, Constable, Will you, Said the doctor, Shaking his forefinger with a great solemnity of manner, And tapping the bridge of his nose with it, To bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. Something may come of this before long. The constable looked as wise as he could, And took up his staff of office, Which had been reclining indolently in the chimney corner. It's a simple question of identity, You will observe, Said the doctor. That's what it is, Sir, Replied the constable, Coughing with great violence, For he'd finished his ale in a hurry, And some of it had gone down the wrong way. Here's the house broken into, Said the doctor, And a couple of men catch one glimpse of a boy in the midst of a gunpowder smoke, And in all the destruction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house next morning, And because he happens to have his arm tied up, These men lay violent hands upon him. By doing which they place his life in great danger, And swear he is the thief. Now the question is, Whether these men are justified by the fact, If not, In what situation do they place themselves? The constable nodded profoundly. He said if that wasn't law, He would be glad to know what was. I ask you again, Thundered the doctor, Are you on your solemn oaths able to identify that boy? Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr Giles. Mr Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles. The constable put his hand behind his ear to catch the reply. The two women in the tinker leaned forward to listen. The doctor glanced keenly around when a ring was heard at the gate, And at the same moment, The sound of wheels. It's the runners, Cried Brittles, To all appearance much relieved. The what? Exclaimed the doctor, Aghast in his turn. The Bow Street officer, Sir, Replied Brittles, Taking up a candle. Me and Mr Giles sent from this morning. What? Cried the doctor. Yes, Replied Brittles, I sent a message up by the coachman, And I only wonder they weren't here before, Sir. You did, Did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here. That's all, Said the doctor. As he walked slowly away.

Reviews

Oliver is always in someone’s hands, cruel or kind… thank you, Steph!❤️❤️