from Oliver Twist by Dickens

This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow 

and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he

had comforted himself many times during his illness, with

thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin 

would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell

them how many long days and nights he had passed in 

reflecting on what they had done for him, and in 

wailing his cruel separation from them. The hope 

of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and ex-

plaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him

up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; 

and now, the idea that they should have gone so far,

and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor

and a robber – a belief which might remain uncontra-

dicted to his dying day – was almost more than he 

could bear.

The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however,

in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fort-

night, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and

every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves

and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting

the house at Chertsey, for some months. Sending the 

plate, which had so excited the Jew's cupidity, to the 

banker's; and leaving Giles and another servant in care

of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance

in the country, and took Oliver with them.

Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace

of mind and soft tranquility, the sickly boy felt in the 

balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods

of an island village! Who can tell how scenes of peace

and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers

in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness,

deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in

crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who

have never wished for change; men to whom custom 

has indeed been second nature, and who have come

almost to love each brick and stone that formed the

narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they,

with the hand of death upon them, have been known

to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face;

and, carried, far from the scenes of their old pains and

pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state

of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some 

green sunny spot, they have had such memories wak-

ened up within them by the sight of sky, and hill, and

plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven 

itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have 

sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun, whose

setting they watched from their lonely chamber-window

but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble

sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes 

call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and 

hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to 

weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved:

may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old

enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers,

in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed

consciousness of having held such feelings long before,

in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn

thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride

and worldliness beneath it.