ven way while on
a tour. Thus the village factory is in constant work, but has to encounter
immense competition.

Country towns of any size usually possess at least one manufactory of
agricultural implements, and some of these factories have acquired a
reputation which reaches over sea. The visitor to such a foundry is shown
medals that have been granted for excellence of work exhibited in Vienna,
and may see machines in process of construction which will be used upon
the Continent; so that the village machinist, though apparently isolated,
with nothing but fields around him, has in reality competitors upon every
side.

Ploughing engines, again, travel great distances, and there are firms that
send their tackle across a county or two. Still the village factory, being
on the spot, has plenty of local work, and the clatter of hammers, the
roar of the blast, and the hum of wheels never cease at the shed. Busy
workmen pass to and fro, lithe men, quick of step and motion, who come
from Leeds, or some similar manufacturing town, and whose very step
distinguishes them in a moment from the agricultural labourer.

A sturdy ploughboy comes up with a piece of iron on his shoulder; it does
not look large, but it is as much as he can carry. One edge of it is
polished by the friction of the earth through which it has been forced; it
has to be straightened, or repaired, and the ploughboy waits while it is
done. He sits down outside the shed on a broken and rusty iron wheel,
choosing a spot where the sun shines and the building keeps off the wind.
There, among the twisted iron, ruins and fragments of machines, he takes
out his hunch of bread and cheese, and great clasp knife, and quietly
enjoys his luncheon. He is utterly indifferent to the noise of the
revolving wheels, the creak of the bellows, the hiss of steam; he makes no
inquiry about this or that, and shows no desire to understand the wonders
of mechanics. Something in his attitude--in the immobility, the almost
animal repose of limb; something in the expression of his features, the
self-contained oblivion, so to say, suggests an Oriental absence of
aspiration. Only by negatives and side-lights, as it were, can any idea be
conveyed of his contented indifference. He munches his crust; and, when he
has done, carefully, and with vast deliberation, relaces his heavy shoe.
The sunshine illumines the old grey church before him, and falls on the
low green mounds, almost level with th