NOTES ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING. 137 



the straightened rope and the jerking of the plough 

 as it comes, you know how mighty is the power that 

 thus in narrow space works its will upon the earth. 

 Planted broadside, its four limbs — the massive wheels 

 — hold the ground like a wrestler drawing to him the 

 unwilling opponent. Humming, panting, trembling, 

 with stretched but irresistible muscles, the iron 

 creature conquers, and the plough approaches. All 

 the field for the minute seems concentrated in this 

 thing of power. There are acres and acres, scores of 

 acres around, but they are surface only. This is the 

 central spot : they are nothing, mere matter. This is 

 force — Thor in another form. If you are near you 

 cannot take your eyes off the sentient iron, the 

 wrestler straining. But now the plough has come 

 over, and the signal given reverses its way. The lazy 

 monotonous clanking as the drum unwinds on this 

 side, the rustling of the rope as it is dragged forth 

 over the clods, the quiet rotation of the fly-wheel — 

 these sounds let the excited thought down as the 

 rotating fly-wheel works off the maddened steam. 

 The combat over, you can look round. 



It is the February summer that comes, and lasts a 

 week or so between the January frosts and the east 

 winds that rush through the thorns. Some little green 

 is even now visible along the mound where seed-leaves 

 are springing up. The sun is warm, and the still air 

 genial, the sky only dotted with a few white clouds. 

 Wood-pigeons are busy in the elms, where the ivy is 

 thick with ripe berries. There is a feeling of spring 

 and of growth ; in a day or two we shall find violets ; 

 and listen, how sweetly the larks are singing ! Some 



