Now,the engine shrieked in hysterics of such intensity,that it seemed desirable that the men who had her in charge should hold her feet,slap her hands,and bring her to;now,burrowed into tunnels with a stubborn and undemonstrative energy so confusing that the train seemed to be flying back into leagues of darkness.Here,were station after station,swallowed up by the express without stopping;here,stations where it fired itself in like a volley of cannon-balls,swooped away four country-people with nosegays,and three men of business with portmanteaus,and fired itself off again,bang,bang,bang!At long intervals were uncomfortable refreshment-rooms,made more uncomfortable by the scorn of Beauty towards Beast,the public (but to whom she never relented,as Beauty did in the story,towards the other Beast),and where sensitive stomachs were fed,with a contemptuous sharpness occasioning indigestion.Here,again,were stations with nothing going but a bell,and wonderful wooden razors set aloft on great posts,shaving the air.In these fields,the horses,sheep,and cattle were well used to the thundering meteor,and didn't mind;in those,they were all set scampering together,and a herd of pigs scoured after them.The pastoral country darkened,became coaly,became smoky,became infernal,got better,got worse,improved again,grew rugged,turned romantic;was a wood,a stream,a chain of hills,a gorge,a moor,a cathedral town,a fortified place,a waste.Now,miserable black dwellings,a black canal,and sick black towers of chimneys;now,a trim garden,where the flowers were bright and fair;now,a wilderness of hideous altars all a-blaze;now,the water meadows with their fairy rings;now,the mangy patch of unlet building ground outside the stagnant town,with the larger ring where the Circus was last week.The temperature changed,the dialect changed,the people changed,faces got sharper,manner got shorter,eyes got shrewder and harder;yet all so quickly,that the spruce guard in the London uniform and silver lace,had not yet rumpled his shirt-collar,delivered half the dispatches in his shiny little pouch,or read his newspaper.
Carlisle!Idle and Goodchild had got to Carlisle.It looked congenially and delightfully idle.Something in the way of public amusement had happened last month,and something else was going to happen before Christmas;and,in the meantime there was a lecture on India for those who liked it -which Idle and Goodchild did not.
Likewise,by those who liked them,there were impressions to be bought of all the vapid prints,going and gone,and of nearly all the vapid books.For those who wanted to put anything in missionary boxes,here were the boxes.For those who wanted the Reverend Mr.Podgers (artist's proofs,thirty shillings),here was Mr.Podgers to any amount.Not less gracious and abundant,Mr.
Codgers also of the vineyard,but opposed to Mr.Podgers,brotherly tooth and nail.Here,were guide-books to the neighbouring antiquities,and eke the Lake country,in several dry and husky sorts;here,many physically and morally impossible heads of both sexes,for young ladies to copy,in the exercise of the art of drawing;here,further,a large impression of MR.SPURGEON,solid as to the flesh,not to say even something gross.The working young men of Carlisle were drawn up,with their hands in their pockets,across the pavements,four and six abreast,and appeared (much to the satisfaction of Mr.Idle)to have nothing else to do.
The working and growing young women of Carlisle,from the age of twelve upwards,promenaded the streets in the cool of the evening,and rallied the said young men.Sometimes the young men rallied the young women,as in the case of a group gathered round an accordion-player,from among whom a young man advanced behind a young woman for whom he appeared to have a tenderness,and hinted to her that he was there and playful,by giving her (he wore clogs)a kick.
On market morning,Carlisle woke up amazingly,and became (to the two Idle Apprentices)disagreeably and reproachfully busy.There were its cattle market,its sheep market,and its pig market down by the river,with raw-boned and shock-headed Rob Roys hiding their Lowland dresses beneath heavy plaids,prowling in and out among the animals,and flavouring the air with fumes of whiskey.There was its corn market down the main street,with hum of chaffering over open sacks.There was its general market in the street too,with heather brooms on which the purple flower still flourished,and heather baskets primitive and fresh to behold.With women trying on clogs and caps at open stalls,and 'Bible stalls'adjoining.
With 'Doctor Mantle's Dispensary for the cure of all Human Maladies and no charge for advice,'and with Doctor Mantle's 'Laboratory of Medical,Chemical,and Botanical Science'-both healing institutions established on one pair of trestles,one board,and one sun-blind.With the renowned phrenologist from London,begging to be favoured (at sixpence each)with the company of clients of both sexes,to whom,on examination of their heads,he would make revelations 'enabling him or her to know themselves.'Through all these bargains and blessings,the recruiting-sergeant watchfully elbowed his way,a thread of War in the peaceful skein.Likewise on the walls were printed hints that the Oxford Blues might not be indisposed to hear of a few fine active young men;and that whereas the standard of that distinguished corps is full six feet,'growing lads of five feet eleven'need not absolutely despair of being accepted.