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 inscription, 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 inscription
'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 London
News of several weeks 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 I see 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?"

"I see nothing more," said Brother Francis,
"and there is nothing more to see, except the
curlpaper bill of the theatre, which was
opened and shut last week (the manager's
family played all the parts), and the short,
square, clunky omnibus that goes to the railway,
and leads too rattling a life over the
stones to hold together long. O yes! Now,
I see two men with their hands in their
pockets and their backs towards me."

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried
Thomas Idle, "what do you make out from
the turret, of the expression of the two men
with their hands in their pockets and their
backs towards you?"

"They are mysterious men," said brother
Francis, "with inscrutable backs. They
keep their backs towards me with persistency.
If one turns an inch in any direction,
the other turns an inch in the same direction,
and no more. They turn very stiffly, on a
very little pivot, in the middle of the market-
place. Their appearance is partly of a mining,
partly of a ploughing, partly of a stable,
character. They are looking at nothing—very
hard. Their backs are slouched, and their
legs are curved with much standing about.
Their pockets are loose and dog's-eared,  on
account of their hands being always in them.
They stand to be rained upon, without any
movement of impatience or dissatisfaction,
and they keep so close together that an elbow
of each jostles an elbow of the other, but
they never speak. They spit at times, but
speak not. I see it growing darker and
darker, and still I see them, sole visible population
of the place, standing to be rained upon
with their backs towards me, and looking at
nothing very hard."

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried
Thomas Idle, "before you draw down the
blind of the turret and come in to have your
head scorched by the hot gas, see if you can,
and impart to me, something of the expression
of those two amazing men."

"The murky shadows," said Francis Goodchild,
"are gathering fast; and the wings of
evening, and the wings of coal, are folding
over Wigton. Still, they look at nothing
very hard, with their backs towards me.
Ah! Now, they turn, and I see—"

"Brother Francis, brother Francis," cried
Thomas Idle, "tell me quickly what you see
of the two men of Wigton!"

"I see," said Francis Goodchild, "that
they have no expression at all. And now
the town goes to sleep, undazzled by the
large unlighted lamp in the market-place;
and let no man wake it."

At the close of the next day's journey,
Thomas Idle's ankle became much swollen
and inflamed. There are reasons which
will presently explain themselves for not
publicly indicating the exact direction in
which that journey lay, or the place in which
it ended. It was a long day's shaking of
Thomas Idle over the rough roads, and a
long day's getting out and going on before
the horses, and fagging up hills, and scouring
down hills, on the part of Mr. Goodchild,
who in the fatigues of such labours
congratulated himself on attaining a high point of
idleness. It was at a little town, still in
Cumberland, that they halted for the night
—a very little town, with the purple and
brown moor close upon its one street; a
curious little ancient market-cross set up in
the midst of it; and the town itself looking,
much as if it were a collection of great stones
piled on end by the Druids long ago, which
a few recluse people had since hollowed out
for habitations.

"Is there a doctor here?" asked Mr.
Goodchild, on his knee, of the motherly
landlady of the little Inn: stopping in his
examination of Mr. Idle's ankle, with the
aid of a candle.

"Ey, my word!" said the landlady, glancing
doubtfully at the ankle for herself; "there's
Doctor Speddie."

"Is he a good Doctor?"

"Ey!" said the landlady, "I ca' him so.
A' cooms efther nae doctor that I ken.
Mair nor which, a's just THE doctor heer."

"Do you think he is at home?"