Stranica 90 [90]
58 OLIVER
TWIST.
heart alive! if we had known he would
have asked for you, we would have put
you a clean collar on, and made you as
smart as sixpence."
Oliver did as the old lady bade him,
and, although she lamented grievously
meanwhile that there was not even time
to crimp the little frill that bordered his
shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and hand¬
some, despite that important personal ad¬
vantage, that she went so far as to say,
looking at him with great complacency
from head to foot, that she really didn’t
think it would have been possible on the
longest notice to have made much differ¬
ence in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the
study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow calling
to him to come in, found himself in a little
back room, quite full of books, with a win¬
dow looking into some pleasant little gar¬
dens, There was a table drawn up be¬
fore the window, at which Mr. Brownlow
was seated reading. When he saw Oli¬
ver, he pushed the book away from him,
and told him to come near the table and
sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling
where the people could be found to read
such a great number of books as seemed
to be written to make the world wiser,—
which is still a marvel to more expe¬
rienced people than Oliver Twist every
day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are
there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow,
observing the curiosity with which Oliver
surveyed the shelves that reached from
the floor to the ceiling.
“ A great number, sir,” replied Oliver ;
“T never saw so many.”
“You shall read them if you behave
well,” said the old gentleman kindly;
“and you will like that better than look¬
ing at the outsides,—that is, in some cases,
because there are books of which the
backs and covers are by far the best
parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones,
sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large
quartos with a good deal of gilding about
the binding.
c Not those,” said the old gentleman,
patting Oliver on the head, and smiling
last said he should think it would be s
much better thing to be a bookseller;
upon which the old gentleman laughed
heartily, and declared he had said a very
good thing, which Oliver felt glad to have
done, though he by no means knew what
it was.
“ Well, well,” said the old gentleman,
composing his features, "dont be afraid;
we won’t make an author of you, while
there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or
brick-making to turn to.” .
6 Thank you, sir,” said Oliver; and at
the earnest manner of his reply the old .
gentleman laughed again, and said some¬
thing about a curious instinct, which Oli¬
ver, not understanding, paid no very great
attention to. |
“ Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking
if possible in a kinder, but at the same ©
time in a much more serious manner than
Oliver had ever heard him speak in yet,
“] want you to pay great attention, m
boy, to what I am going to say. I shall
talk to you without any reserve, because
I am sure you are as well able to under¬
stand me as many older persons would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you are going to
send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oli¬
ver, alarmed by the serious tone of the old
gentleman’s commencement; “don’t turn
me out of doors to wander in the streets
again. Let me stay here and be a servant.
Don’t send me back to the wretched place
I came from. Have mercy upon a poor
boy, sir; do!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentle¬
man, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s
sudden appeal, “ you need not be afraid
of my deserting you, unless you give me
cause.”
“T never, never will, sir,” interposed
Oliver. | |
“T hope not,” rejoined the old gentle¬
man; “I do not think you ever will: I
have been deceived before, in the ob¬
jects whom I have endeavoured to bene¬
fit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust
you, nevertheless, and more strongly in
terested in your behalf than I can well
account for, even to myself. The persons
on whom I have bestowed my dearest love
lie deep in their graves; but, although
ones, though of a much smaller size.
How should you like to grow up a clever
man, and write books, eh?’
s [ think I would rather read them, sir,”
replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a |
pook-writer ?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while, and at |
buried there too, I have not made a coffin
of my heart, and sealed it up for ever on
my best affections. Deep affliction has
only made them stronger; it ought, I
think, for it should refine our nature.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low
voice, more to himself than to his com¬
panion, and remained silent for a short time