t
him. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemn
and melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to all
plowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the art
of exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. This
song, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysterious
influences must once have been attributed, is still thought to
possess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying their
irritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil.
It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straight
furrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or driving
it into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does not
know how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires taste
and especial gifts. To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative,
broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and its
intonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossible
to describe.

But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to the
nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peace
of the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that no
genius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except an
accomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At the
season of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that of
the plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of the
breeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Each
phrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held with
incredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharping
systematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, and
anybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another song
taking its place at the same hour and in the same place, without
striking a discord.

So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that of
Holbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man,
a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses,
four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautiful
child; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility of
happiness.

Then the old French verse, "A la sueur de ton vis-aige," etc., and
Virgil's "O fortunatos... agricolas,