7 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. Oliver is captured by, and forced to work among, pickpockets and thieves until redeemed by a gentleman who has taken an interest in him.

In this episode, Oliver breaks free.

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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. That's it. 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 7 Oliver continues refractory. Noah Claypole rang along the streets at his swiftest pace and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse gate. Having rested there for a minute or so to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, He knocked loudly at the wicket and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it that even he who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times started back in astonishment. My, What's the matter with the boy, Said the old pauper. Mr. Bumble, Mr. Bumble, Cried Noah with well-affected dismay and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, Who happened to be hard by, But alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard with a loud cry. Mr. Bumble, Mr. Bumble, Cried Noah with well-affected dismay and in tones so loud and agitated that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, Which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance as showing that even a beadle acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession and forgetfulness of personal dignity. Oh, Mr. Bumble, Sir, Said Noah, Oliver, Sir, Oliver, As what, What, Interposed Mr. Bumble with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. Not run away, He hasn't run away, Has he, Noah. No, Sir, No, Not run away, Sir, But he's turned vicious. He tried to murder me, Sir, Then he tried to murder Charlotte, Then Mrs. , What a dreadful pain it is. And here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of ill-like positions, Thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, He had sustained severe internal injury and damage from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, He imparted additional effect thereon too, By bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before, And when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, He was more tragic in his lamentations than ever, Rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice and rouse the indignation of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted, For he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for, And why Mr. Bumble did not favour him, With something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated an involuntary process. It's a poor boy from the free school, Sir, Replied Mr. Bumble, Who's been nearly murdered by young Twist. By Jove, Exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, Stopping short, I knew it, I felt a strange presentiment from the very first that that audacious young savage would come to be hung. He has likewise attempted, Sir, To murder the female servant, Said Mr. Bumble, With a face of ashy paleness. And his missis, Interposed Mr. Cleeple, And his master, Too, I think you said, Noah, Added Mr. Bumble. No, He's out, Or he would have murdered him, Replied Noah, He said he wanted to. Ah, Said he wanted to, Did he, My boy, Inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Yes, Sir, Replied Noah, And please, Sir, Missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there directly and flog him, Because master's out. Certainly, My boy, Certainly, Said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, Smiling benignly, And patting Noah's head, Which was about three inches higher than his own. You're a good boy, A very good boy, Here's a penny for you, Bumble, Step up to Sowerbreeze with your cane, And see what's best to be done, Don't spare him, Bumble. No, I will not, Sir, Replied the beadle, And the cocked hat and cane, Having been by this time adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Cleeple betook themselves Mr. Bumble and Noah Cleeple betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not been at all improved. Sowerbreeze had not yet returned, And Oliver continued to kick, With undiminished vigour, At the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocities, Related by Missis Sowerbreeze and Charlotte, Were so startling in nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view, He gave a kick at the outside by way of prelude, And then, Applying his mouth to the keyhole, Said in a deep and impressive tone, Oliver, You let me out, Replied Oliver from the inside. Do you know this here voice, Oliver, Said Mr. Bumble. Yes, Replied Oliver. Are you afraid of it, Sir? Ain't you trembling while I speak, Sir, Said Mr. Bumble. No, Replied Oliver boldly. An answer so different from the one he'd expected to elicit, And was in the habit of receiving, Staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole, Drew himself up to his full height, And looked from one to another of the three bystanders in mute astonishment. Oh, You know, Mr. Bumble, He must be mad, Said Missis Sowerbreeze. Oh, Boy, Half in his senses could venture to speak so to you. It's not mad, This man, Pleaded Mr. Bumble after a few moments of deep meditation. It's mate. What, Exclaimed Missis Sowerbreeze. Mate, Ma'am, Mate, Replied Bumble with stern emphasis. You've overfed him, Ma'am. You've used an artificial soul and spirit in him, Ma'am. I'm becoming a person of his condition, Ma'am. As the bold Missis Sowerbreeze, Who are practical philosophers, Will tell you. What a pulp has to do with soul or spirit. It's quite enough we let him have live bodies. If you'd have kept the boy on gruel, Ma'am, This never would have happened. Dare, Dare, Ejaculated Missis Sowerbreeze. This comes of being liberal. The liberality of Missis Sowerbreeze to Oliver had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat. So there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation, Of which, To do her justice, She was wholly innocent in thought, Word or deed. Nah, Said Mr. Bumble when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again. The only thing that can be done now that I know of is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, Till he's a little starved down, Then to take him out and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family, Missis Sowerbreeze. Both the nurse and doctor said the mother of his made her way here against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman weeks before. At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, Just hearing enough to know some illusion was being made to his mother, Recommends kicking with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerbreeze returned at this juncture, Oliver's offence having been explained to him with such exaggerations as the lady's thought best calculated to rouse his ire. He unlocked the cellar door into twinkling and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he'd received. His face was bruised and scratched and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, However, And when he was pulled out of his prison, He scowled boldly on Noah and looked quite undismayed. Now, You are a nice young fellow, Ain't you? Said Sowerbreeze, Giving Oliver a shake and a box on the ear. He called my mother names, Replied Oliver. Well, And what if he did, You ungrateful wretch? She deserved what he said and worse. She didn't, Said Oliver. She did, Said Mrs. Sowerbreeze. It's a lie, Said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerbreeze then burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mrs. Sowerbreeze no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, It must now be quite clear to every experienced reader he would have been, According to all precedents and disputes of matrimony established, A brute, An unnatural husband, An insulting creature, A base imitation of a man, And various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, He was, As far as his power went, Kindly disposed towards the boy. The floods of tears, However, Left him no resource. Because his wife disliked Oliver so much, He gave him a good drubbing, Which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerbreeze herself and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the pariochal cane rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, Oliver was shut up in the back kitchen, In company with a pump and a slice of bread. And at night, Mrs. Sowerbreeze, After making various remarks outside the door, Looked into the room and ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt, He had borne the lash without a cry, For he felt that pride swelling in his heart, Which would have kept down a shriek to the last, Though they had roasted him alive. But now, When there were none to see or hear him, He fell upon his knees to the floor and, Hiding his face in his hands, Wept such tears as God sent for the credit of our nature, Few so young may ever have caused to pour out before him. For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet and, Having gazed cautiously around him, He gently undid the fastings of the door and looked abroad. It was a cold, Dark night. The stars seemed to the boy's eyes farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before. There was no wind and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked death-like from being so still. He softly reclosed the door and, Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle, He tied up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, Sat himself down upon a bench and waited for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose and again unbarred the door. One timid look around, One moment's pause of hesitation, And he closed it behind him and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, Uncertain whether to fly. He remembered to have seen the wagons as they went out, Toiling up the hill. He took the same route and, Arriving at a footpath across the fields which he knew, He struck into it and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well remembered he'd trotted beside Mr Bumble when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself to be in a hurry. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, It was so early, There was very little fear of his being seen, So he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped and peeked into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds as he stopped. He raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him before he went, For, Though younger than himself, He'd been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten and starved and shut up together, Many and many a time. Hush, Dick, Said Oliver as the boy ran to the gate and thrust his thin arm between the rails. Is anyone up? Nobody but me, Replied the child. You mustn't say you saw me, Dick, Said Oliver. I'm running away. They beat and ill-used me and I'm going to seek my fortune some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are. I heard the doctor tell them I was dying. Replied the child with a faint smile. I'm very glad to see you, Dear, But don't stop, Don't stop. Yes, I will, To say goodbye to you, Replied Oliver. I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall. You'll be well and happy. I hope so, Replied the child. After I'm dead, But not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, Because I dream so much of heaven and angels and kind faces. I never see them when I'm awake. Kiss me, Said the child, Climbing up the low gate and flinging his arms around Oliver's neck. Goodbye, Dear. God bless you. The blessing was from a young child's lips, But it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head. And through the struggles and sufferings and trouble and changes of his afterlife, He never once forgot it.