THE TECHNICS OF WOOD ENGRAVING. 295 



in the pulpit. This man is a refined gentleman ascetic, 

 earnest, thoughtful, and kind. He scarcely uses the vantage 

 even of his pulpit, conies aside out of it, as an eager man 

 would, pleading ; he is intent on being understood is under- 

 stood ; his congregation are delighted you might hear a pin 

 drop among them : one is asleep indeed, who cannot see him, 

 (being under the pulpit,) and asleep just because the teacher 

 is as gentle as he is earnest, and speaks quietly. 



88. How are we to know, then, that he speaks in vain ? 

 First, because among all his hearers you will not find one 

 shrewd face. They are all either simple or stupid people : 

 there is one nice woman in front of all, (else Holbein's repre- 

 sentation had been caricature,) but she is not a shrewd one. 



Secondly, by the light and shade. The church is not in ex- 

 treme darkness far from that ; a grey twilight is over every- 

 thing, but the sun is totally shut out of it ; not a ray conies 

 in even at the window that is darker than the walls, or vault. 



Lastly, and chiefly, by the mocking expression of Death. 

 Mocking, but not angry. The man has been preaching what 

 he thought true. Death laughs at him, but is not indignant 

 with him. 



Death comes quietly : /am going to be preacher now ; here 

 is your own hour-glass, ready for me. You have spoken many 

 words in your day. But " of the things which you have spoken, 

 this is the sum," your death-warrant, signed and sealed. 

 There's your text for to-day. 



89. Of this other picture, the meaning is more plain, and 

 far more beautiful. The husbandman is old and gaunt, and 

 has past his days, not in speaking, but pressing the iron into 

 the ground. And the payment for his life's work is, that he 

 is clothed in rags, and his feet are bare on the clods ; and he 

 has no hat but the brim of a hat only, and his long, unkempt 

 grey hair comes through. But all the air is full of warmth 

 and of peace ; and, beyond his village church, there is, at last, 

 light indeed. His horses lag in the furrow, and his own 

 limbs totter and fail : but one comes to help him. ' It is a 

 long field,' says Death ; ' but we'll get to the end of it to-day, 

 you and I.' 



