The dog-cart,with Mr.Thomas Idle and his ankle on the hanging seat behind,Mr.Francis Goodchild and the Innkeeper in front,and the rain in spouts and splashes everywhere,made the best of its way back to the little inn;the broken moor country looking like miles upon miles of Pre-Adamite sop,or the ruins of some enormous jorum of antediluvian toast-and-water.The trees dripped;the eaves of the scattered cottages dripped;the barren stone walls dividing the land,dripped;the yelping dogs dripped;carts and waggons under ill-roofed penthouses,dripped;melancholy cocks and hens perching on their shafts,or seeking shelter underneath them,dripped;Mr.Goodchild dripped;Thomas Idle dripped;the Inn-keeper dripped;the mare dripped;the vast curtains of mist and cloud passed before the shadowy forms of the hills,streamed water as they were drawn across the landscape.Down such steep pitches that the mare seemed to be trotting on her head,and up such steep pitches that she seemed to have a supplementary leg in her tail,the dog-cart jolted and tilted back to the village.It was too wet for the women to look out,it was too wet even for the children to look out;all the doors and windows were closed,and the only sign of life or motion was in the rain-punctured puddles.
Whiskey and oil to Thomas Idle's ankle,and whiskey without oil to Francis Goodchild's stomach,produced an agreeable change in the systems of both;soothing Mr.Idle's pain,which was sharp before,and sweetening Mr.Goodchild's temper,which was sweet before.
Portmanteaus being then opened and clothes changed,Mr.Goodchild,through having no change of outer garments but broadcloth and velvet,suddenly became a magnificent portent in the Innkeeper's house,a shining frontispiece to the fashions for the month,and a frightful anomaly in the Cumberland village.
Greatly ashamed of his splendid appearance,the conscious Goodchild quenched it as much as possible,in the shadow of Thomas Idle's ankle,and in a corner of the little covered carriage that started with them for Wigton -a most desirable carriage for any country,except for its having a flat roof and no sides;which caused the plumps of rain accumulating on the roof to play vigorous games of bagatelle into the interior all the way,and to score immensely.
It was comfortable to see how the people coming back in open carts from Wigton market made no more of the rain than if it were sunshine;how the Wigton policeman taking a country walk of half-a-dozen miles (apparently for pleasure),in resplendent uniform,accepted saturation as his normal state;how clerks and schoolmasters in black,loitered along the road without umbrellas,getting varnished at every step;how the Cumberland girls,coming out to look after the Cumberland cows,shook the rain from their eyelashes and laughed it away;and how the rain continued to fall upon all,as it only does fall in hill countries.
Wigton market was over,and its bare booths were smoking with rain all down the street.Mr.Thomas Idle,melodramatically carried to the inn's first floor,and laid upon three chairs (he should have had the sofa,if there had been one),Mr.Goodchild went to the window to take an observation of Wigton,and report what he saw to his disabled companion.
'Brother Francis,brother Francis,'cried Thomas Idle,'What do you see from the turret?'
'I see,'said Brother Francis,'what I hope and believe to be one of the most dismal places ever seen by eyes.I see the houses with their roofs of dull black,their stained fronts,and their dark-rimmed windows,looking as if they were all in mourning.As every little puff of wind comes down the street,I see a perfect train of rain let off along the wooden stalls in the market-place and exploded against me.I see a very big gas lamp in the centre which I know,by a secret instinct,will not be lighted to-night.I see a pump,with a trivet underneath its spout whereon to stand the vessels that are brought to be filled with water.I see a man come to pump,and he pumps very hard,but no water follows,and he strolls empty away.'
'Brother Francis,brother Francis,'cried Thomas Idle,'what more do you see from the turret,besides the man and the pump,and the trivet and the houses all in mourning and the rain?'
'I see,'said Brother Francis,'one,two,three,four,five,linen-drapers'shops in front of me.I see a linen-draper's shop next door to the right -and there are five more linen-drapers'shops down the corner to the left.Eleven homicidal linen-drapers'shops within a short stone's throw,each with its hands at the throats of all the rest!Over the small first-floor of one of these linen-drapers'shops appears the wonderful inion,BANK.'
'Brother Francis,brother Francis,'cried Thomas Idle,'what more do you see from the turret,besides the eleven homicidal linen-drapers'shops,and the wonderful inion,"Bank,"-on the small first-floor,and the man and the pump and the trivet and the houses all in mourning and the rain?'
'I see,'said Brother Francis,'the depository for Christian Knowledge,and through the dark vapour I think I again make out Mr.Spurgeon looming heavily.Her Majesty the Queen,God bless her,printed in colours,I am sure I see.I see the ILLUSTRATED LONDONNEWS of several years ago,and I see a sweetmeat shop -which the proprietor calls a "Salt Warehouse"-with one small female child in a cotton bonnet looking in on tip-toe,oblivious of rain.And Isee a watchmaker's with only three great pale watches of a dull metal hanging in his window,each in a separate pane.'
'Brother Francis,brother Francis,'cried Thomas Idle,'what more do you see of Wigton,besides these objects,and the man and the pump and the trivet and the houses all in mourning and the rain?'
