and how, finally, he has insisted on the
great leverage of the beam behind it, while Stanfield's lever looks more
like a prop than a thing to turn the roof with. And he has done all this
fearlessly, though none of these elements of form are pleasant ones in
themselves, but tend, on the whole, to give a somewhat mean and
spider-like look to the principal feature in his picture; and then,
finally, because he could not get the windmill dissected, and show us
the real heart and centre of the whole, behold, he has put a pair of old
millstones, _lying outside_, at the bottom of it. These--the first cause
and motive of all the fabric--laid at its foundation; and beside them
the cart which is to fulfil the end of the fabric's being, and take home
the sacks of flour.

Sec. 11. So far of what each painter chooses to draw. But do not fail also
to consider the spirit in which it is drawn. Observe, that though all
this ruin has befallen Stanfield's mill, Stanfield is not in the least
sorry for it. On the contrary, he is delighted, and evidently thinks it
the most fortunate thing possible. The owner is ruined, doubtless, or
dead; but his mill forms an admirable object in our view of Brittany. So
far from being grieved about it, we will make it our principal
light;--if it were a fruit-tree in spring-blossom, instead of a desolate
mill, we could not make it whiter or brighter; we illume our whole
picture with it, and exult over its every rent as a special treasure and
possession.

Not so Turner. _His_ mill is still serviceable; but, for all that, he
feels somewhat pensive about it. It is a poor property, and evidently
the owner of it has enough to do to get his own bread out from between
its stones. Moreover, there is a dim type of all melancholy human labor
in it,--catching the free winds, and setting them to turn grindstones.
It is poor work for the winds; better, indeed, than drowning sailors or
tearing down forests, but not their proper work of marshalling the
clouds, and bearing the wholesome rains to the place where they are
ordered to fall, and fanning the flowers and leaves when they are faint
with heat. Turning round a couple of stones, for the mere pulverization
of human food, is not noble work for the winds. So, also, of all low
labor to which one sets human souls. It is better than no labor; and, in
a still higher degree, better than destructive wandering of imagination;
but yet, that grinding in the darkness, for mere fo