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 23,
Which contains the substance of a pleasant conversation between Mr.
Bumble and a lady and shows that even a beetle may be susceptible on some points.
The night was bitter cold.
The snow lay on the ground frozen into a hard,
Thick crust so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad,
Which,
As if expending increased fury on such prey as it found,
Caught it savagely up in clouds and,
Whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,
Scattered it into the air.
Bleak,
Dark and piercing cold,
It was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw around the bright fire and thank God they were at home,
And for the homeless,
Starving wretch,
To lay him down and die.
Many hunger-worn outcasts closed their eyes in our bare streets.
At such times,
Who,
Let their crimes have been what they may,
Can hardly open them in a more bitter world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs where Mrs.
Corny,
The matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist,
Sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room and glanced,
With no small degree of complacency,
At a small round table,
On which stood a tray of corresponding size,
Furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy.
In fact,
Mrs.
Corny was about to solace herself with a cup of tea.
As she glanced from the table to the fireplace,
Where the smallest of all possible kettles were singing a small song in a small voice,
Her inward satisfaction evidently increased,
So much so,
Indeed,
That Mrs.
Corny smiled.
Well,
Said the matron,
Leaning her elbow on the table and looking reflectively at the fire,
I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for.
A great deal,
If we did but know it.
Mrs.
Corny shook her head mournfully,
As if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it,
And thrusting a silver spoon,
Private property,
Into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea caddy,
Proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds.
The black teapot,
Being very small and easily filled,
Ran over whilst Mrs.
Corny was moralising,
And the water slightly scalded her hand.
Trat the pot,
Said the worthy matron,
Setting it down very hastily on the hop.
A little stupid thing that only holds a couple of cups.
What use is it of to anybody?
Except.
.
.
Oh dear.
And with these words,
The matron dropped onto her chair and once more,
Resting her elbow on the table,
Thought of her solitary fate.
The small teapot and the single cup had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr.
Corny,
Who had not been dead more than five and twenty years,
And she was overpowered.
I shall never get another,
Said Mrs.
Corny,
Pettishly.
I shall never get another,
Like him.
Whether this remarkable reference to the husband or the teapot is uncertain,
It might well have been the latter.
But Mrs.
Corny looked at it as she spoke,
And took it up afterwards.
She had just tasted her first cup,
When she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room door.
Oh,
Come in with you,
Said Mrs.
Corny,
Sharply.
Some of the old women dying,
I suppose.
They always die when I'm at meals.
Don't stand there letting the cold air in.
What's amiss now,
Eh?
Nothing,
Ma'am,
Nothing,
Replied a man's voice.
Dear me,
Exclaimed the matron,
In a much sweeter tone,
Is that Mr.
Bumble?
At your service,
Ma'am,
Said Mr.
Bumble,
Who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean and to shake the snow off his coat,
And who now made his appearance,
Bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other.
Shall I shut the door,
Ma'am?
The lady modestly hesitated to reply,
Lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr.
Bumble with closed doors.
Mr.
Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation and being very cold himself.
Shut it without permission.
Hard weather,
Mr.
Bumble,
Said the matron.
Hard indeed,
Ma'am,
Replied the beadle.
Antiparochial weather,
This,
Ma'am.
We've been given away,
Mrs.
Corny,
We've given away a matter of twenty cotton clothes and cheese and a half this very blessed afternoon,
And yet them paupers are not contented.
Of course not.
Why would they be,
Mr.
Bumble,
Said the matron,
Sipping her tea.
When indeed,
Ma'am,
Rejoined Mr.
Bumble.
Why,
Here's one man that,
In consideration of his wife and large family,
Has a cortened loaf and a good pound of cheese for,
Wait,
Is he grateful,
Ma'am,
Is he grateful?
Not a copper farthing's worth of it.
What does he do,
Ma'am,
But ask for a few coals,
As if it's only a pocket handkerchief for,
He says.
Coals,
What would he do with coals?
Toast his cheese with them,
Then come back for more.
That's the way with these people,
Ma'am.
Given a matron full of coals today,
And they'll come back for another,
The day after tomorrow,
As brazen as alabaster.
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile,
And the beadle went on.
I never,
Said Mr.
Bumble,
See anything like the pitch it's got to.
The day before yesterday,
A man,
You've been a married woman,
Ma'am,
And I may mention it to you,
A man with hardly a rag upon his back,
Goes to our overseer's door when he's got company coming to dinner,
And he says he must be relieved,
Mrs.
Corney,
As he wouldn't go away and shock the company very much.
Our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal.
My heart,
Says the ungrateful villain,
What's the use of this to me?
He might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles.
Very good,
Says our overseer,
Take him away again,
You won't get anything else here.
Then I'll die in the streets,
Said the vagrant.
Oh no,
You won't,
Says our overseer.
Oh,
That was very good,
So like Mr.
Garnet,
Wasn't it?
Interposed the matron.
Well,
Mr.
Bumble?
Well,
Ma'am,
Rejoined the beadle,
He went away and he did die in the streets.
There's an obstinate pauper for you.
It beats anything I could have believed,
Observed the matron emphatically,
But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing anyway,
Mr.
Bumble?
You're a gentleman of experience and ought to know,
Come.
Mrs.
Corny,
Said the beadle,
Smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information,
Out-of-door relief,
Properly managed,
Properly managed,
Ma'am,
Is to prorogue your safeguard.
The great principle of out-of-door relief is to give the paupers exactly what they don't want and then they get tired of coming.
Dear me,
Exclaimed Mrs.
Corny,
Well,
That is a good one too.
Yes,
Betwixt you and me,
Ma'am,
Returned Mr.
Bumble.
That's the great principle and that's the reason why,
If you look at any cases that get into them audacious newspapers,
You'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese.
That's the rule now,
Mrs.
Corny,
All over the country.
But however,
Said the beadle,
Stopping to unpack his bundle,
These are official secrets,
Ma'am,
Not to be spoken of,
Except,
As I might say,
Among the parochial officers such as ourselves.
This is the port wine,
Ma'am,
That the board ordered for the infirmary.
Real,
Fresh,
Genuine port wine,
Only out of the cast this forenoon,
Clear as a bell and no sediment.
Having held the first bottle up to the light and shaken it well to test its excellence,
Mr.
Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers,
Folded the handkerchief in which they'd been wrapped,
Put it carefully in his pocket and took up his hat as if to go.
You'll have a very cold walk,
Mr.
Bumble,
Said the matron.
It blows,
Ma'am,
Replied Mr.
Bumble,
Turning up his coat collar,
Enough to cut one's ears off.
The matron looked from the little kettle to the beadle,
Who was moving towards the door,
And as the beadle coughed,
Preparatory to bidding her good night,
Bashfully inquired whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea.
Mr.
Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again,
Laid his hat and stick upon a chair and drew up another chair to the table.
As he slowly seated himself,
He looked at the lady.
She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot.
Mr.
Bumble coughed again and slightly smiled.
Mrs.
Corny rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet.
As she sat down,
Her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle.
She covered and applied herself to the task of making his tea.
Again,
Mr.
Bumble coughed,
Louder this time than he had coughed yet.
Sweet,
Mr.
Bumble,
Inquired the matron,
Taking up the sugar basin.
Very sweet indeed,
Ma'am,
Replied Mr.
Bumble.
He fixed his eyes on Mrs.
Corny as he said this,
And if ever a beadle looked tender,
Mr.
Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
