35 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, there is a shadow over the proceedings.

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.

Happy listening.

Chapter 34 Continued Mr.

Lossburn and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment whilst this hurried conversation was proceeding.

The former now held out his hand to Harry Mailey and hearty salutations were exchanged between them.

The doctor then communicated,

In reply to multifarious questions from his young friend,

A precise account of his patient's situation,

Which was quite as consolatory and full of promise as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope.

And to the whole of which,

Mr.

Giles,

Who affected to be busy about the luggage,

Listened with greedy ears.

Have you shot anything particular lately,

Giles?

Inquired the doctor when he had concluded.

Nothing particular,

Sir,

Replied Mr.

Giles,

Colouring up to the eyes.

Nor catching any thieves or identifying any housebreakers?

None at all,

Sir.

Well,

Said the doctor,

I'm sorry to hear it because you do that sort of thing admirably.

Pray,

How is Brittles?

The boy is very well,

Sir,

Said Mr.

Giles,

Recovering his usual tone of patronage,

And sends his respectful duty.

That's well,

Said the doctor.

Seeing you here reminds me,

Mr.

Giles,

On the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly,

I executed,

At the request of your good mistress,

A small commission in your favour.

Step into this corner a moment,

Won't you?

Mr.

Giles walked into the corner with much importance and some wonder,

And was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor,

On the termination of which he made a great many bows,

And retired with steps of unusual stateliness.

The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour,

But the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it.

Mr.

Giles walked straight thither,

And having called for a mug of ale,

He announced with an air of majesty,

It had pleased his mistress,

In consideration of his gallant behaviour,

On the occasion of that attempted robbery in the local savings bank,

To deposit the sum of five and twenty pounds for his sole use and benefit.

At this,

The two women's servants lifted up their hands and eyes,

And supposed Mr.

Giles,

Replied,

No,

No,

That if they observed he was at all haughty to his inferiors,

He would thank them to tell him so.

And then he made a great many other remarks,

No less illustrative of his humility,

Which were received with equal favour and applause,

And were,

Withal,

As original and as much to the purpose as the remarks of great men commonly are.

Above stairs the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away.

The doctor was in high spirits,

And however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Mayley might have been at first,

He was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour,

Which displayed itself in great variety of sallies and professional recollections,

And an abundance of small jokes,

Which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard.

They were as pleasant a party as was under the circumstances could well have been.

It was late before they retired,

With light and thankful hearts,

To take rest of which,

After the doubt and suspense they'd recently undergone,

They stood much in need.

Oliver rose the next morning in better heart.

He went about his usual occupations with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days.

The birds were once more hung out to sing in their old places,

And the sweetest wildflowers that could be found were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty.

The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang for days past over every object was dispelled by magic.

The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves,

The air to rustle among them with sweeter music,

And the sky itself to look more blue and bright.

Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts exercise even over the appearance of external objects.

Men who look on nature and their fellow men and cry all is dark and gloomy are in the right,

But the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts.

The real hues are delicate and need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark,

And Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,

His morning expeditions were no longer made alone.

Harry Mailey,

After the first morning where he met Oliver coming late in home,

Was seized with such a passion for flowers and displayed such a taste in their arrangements as left his young companion far behind.

If Oliver were behind hand in these respects,

He knew where the best were to be found.

Morning after morning they scoured the country together and brought home the fairest that blossomed.

The window of Rose's chamber was opened now,

For she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in and revive her with its freshness.

But there always stood in water,

Just inside the lattice,

One particular little bunch,

Which was made up with great care,

Was every morning.

Oliver could not help noticing the withered flowers were never thrown away,

Although the little farce was regularly replenished.

Nor could he help observing that whenever the doctor came into the garden,

He invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner and nodded his head most expressively as he set forth on his morning's walk.

Pending these observations,

The days were flying by and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands.

Although the young lady had not yet left her chamber,

And there were no evening walks,

Save now and then,

With Mrs.

Maillie,

He applied himself with redoubled assiduity to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman,

And laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself.

It was while he was engaged in this pursuit that he was greatly startled and distressed.

By a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit when busy at his books was on the ground floor at the back of the house.

It was a quiet cottage room with a lattice window,

Around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle that crept over the casement and filled the place with their delicious perfume.

It looked into a garden,

Whence a wicket gate opened into a small paddock.

All beyond was a fine meadow land and wood.

There was no other dwelling near,

In that direction,

And the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth,

Oliver sat at his window in tent upon his books.

He had been poring over them from some time,

And as the day had been uncommonly sultry,

And he'd exerted himself a great deal,

It is no disparagement to the authors,

Whoever they may have been,

To say that gradually and by slow degrees he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that stills upon us sometimes,

Which,

While it holds the body prisoner,

Does not free the mind from a sense of things about it,

And enable it to ramble at its pleasure.

So far as an overpowering heaviness,

A prostration of strength,

And an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion can be called sleep,

This is it.

And yet we have a consciousness of all that's going on about us,

And if we dream at such a time,

Words which are really spoken,

Or sounds which really exist at the moment,

Accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions,

Until reality and imagination become so strangely blended it is afterwards almost a matter of impossibility to separate the two.

Nor is this the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state.

It is an undoubted fact that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead,

Yet our sleeping thoughts and the visionary scenes that pass before us will be influenced,

And materially influenced,

By the mere silent presence of some external object,

Which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes,

And of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.

Oliver knew perfectly well that he was in his own little room,

That his books were lying on the table before him,

That the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside,

And yet he was asleep.

Suddenly the scene changed,

The air became close and confined,

And he thought with a glow of terror that he was in the Jew's house again.

There sat the hideous old man in his accustomed corner,

Pointing at him and whispering to another man,

With his face averted,

Who sat beside him.

Hush,

My dear,

He thought he heard the Jew say,

It is he,

Sure enough,

Come away.

He,

The other man answered,

Could I mistake him,

Thank you.

If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape,

And he stood amongst them,

There is something that would tell me how to point him out.

If you buried him fifty feet deep and took me across his grave,

I fancy I should know,

If there wasn't a mark above it,

That he lay buried here.

The man seemed to see this with such dreadful hatred,

That Oliver awoke with a fear and started up.

Good heaven,

What was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart,

And deprived him of his voice and of power to move?

There,

There at the window,

Close before him,

So close he could have almost touched him before he started back,

With his eyes peering into the room,

And meeting his,

There stood the Jew.

And beside him,

White with rage or fear or both,

Were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn yard.

It was but an instant,

A glance,

A flash before his eyes,

And then they were gone.

But they had recognised him,

And he them,

And their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory as if it had been deeply carved in stone,

And set before him from his birth.

Oliver stood transfixed for a moment,

Then leaping from the window into the garden,

He called loudly for help.

Reviews

Oh no! So much for sleep for both of us! (It’s just one of those nights for me, but relaxing into insomnia— by Oliver’s side)
Thank you 🙏🏼✨🙏🏼