CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS

beliefthathewasanimpostorandarobber—abeliefwhichmightremainuncontradictedtohisdyingday—wasalmostmorethanhecouldbear. Thecircumstanceoccasionednoalteration,however,inthebehaviourofhisbenefactors.Afteranotherfortnight,whenthefinewarmweatherhadfairlybegun,andeverytreeandflowerwasputtingforthitsyoungleavesandrichblossoms,theymadepreparationsforquittingthehouseatChertsey,forsomemonths. Sendingtheplate,whichhadsoexcitedFagin’scupidity,tothebanker’sandleavingGilesandanotherservantincareofthehouse,theydepartedtoacottageatsomedistanceinthecountry,andtookOliverwiththem. Whocandescribethepleasureanddelight,thepeaceofmindandsofttranquillity,thesicklyboyfeltinthebalmyair,andamongthegreenhillsandrichwoods,ofaninlandvillage!Whocantellhowscenesofpeaceandquietudesinkintothemindsofpain-worndwellersincloseandnoisyplaces,andcarrytheirownfreshness,deepintotheirjadedhearts!Menwhohavelivedincrowded,pent-upstreets,throughlivesoftoil,andwhohaveneverwishedforchangemen,towhomcustomhasindeedbeensecondnature,andwhohavecomealmosttoloveeachbrickandstonethatformedthenarrowboundariesoftheirdailywalkseventhey,withthehandofdeathuponthem,havebeenknowntoyearnatlastforoneshortglimpseofNature’sfaceand,carriedfarfromthescenesoftheiroldpainsandpleasures,haveseemedtopassatonceintoanewstateofbeing.Crawlingforth,fromdaytoday,tosomegreensunnyspot,theyhavehadsuchmemorieswakenedupwithinthembythesightofthesky,andhillandplain,andglisteningwater,thataforetasteofheavenitselfhassoothedtheirquickdecline,andtheyhavesunkintotheirtombs,aspeacefullyasthesunwhosesettingtheywatchedfromtheirlonelychamberwindowbutafewhoursbefore,fadedfromtheirdimandfeeblesight!Thememorieswhichpeacefulcountryscenescallup,arenotofthisworld,norofitsthoughtsandhopes.Theirgentleinfluencemayteachushowtoweavefreshgarlandsforthegravesofthoseweloved:maypurifyourthoughts,andbeardownbeforeitoldenmityandhatredbutbeneathallthis,therelingers,intheleastreflectivemind,avagueandhalf-formedconsciousnessofhavingheldsuchfeelingslongbefore,insomeremoteanddistanttime,whichcallsupsolemnthoughtsofdistanttimestocome,andbendsdownprideandworldlinessbeneathit. Itwasalovelyspottowhichtheyrepaired.Oliver,whosedayshadbeenspentamongsqualidcrowds,andinthemidstofnoiseandbrawling,seemedtoenteronanewexistencethere.Theroseandhoneysuckleclungtothecottagewallstheivycreptroundthetrunksofthetreesandthegarden-flowersperfumedtheairwithdeliciousodours.Hardby,wasalittlechurchyardnotcrowdedwithtallunsightlygravestones,butfullofhumblemounds,coveredwithfreshturfandmoss:beneathwhich,theoldpeopleofthevillagelayatrest.Oliveroftenwanderedhereand,thinkingofthewretchedgraveinwhichhismotherlay,wouldsometimessithimdownandsobunseenbut,whenheraisedhiseyestothedeepskyoverhead,hewouldceasetothinkofheraslyingintheground,andwouldweepforher,sadly,butwithoutpain. Itwasahappytime.Thedayswerepeacefulandserenethenightsbroughtwiththemneitherfearnorcarenolanguishinginawretchedprison,orassociatingwithwretchedmennothingbutpleasantandhappythoughts.Everymorninghewenttoawhite-headedoldgentleman,wholivednearthelittlechurch:whotaughthimtoreadbetter,andtowrite:andwhospok