famous painting

TWO days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set
me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for
the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in
the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this
moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of
the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there
it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar
set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more
obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its
summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the
inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the
well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted;
a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain:
this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there
are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The
population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these