ed its even, solemn progress, the ploughman, whose
pretended violence was only to give his muscles a little practice and
his vitality an outlet, suddenly resumed the serenity of simple souls
and cast a contented glance upon his child, who turned to smile at him.
Then the manly voice of the young _paterfamilias_ would strike up the
solemn, melancholy tune which the ancient tradition of the province
transmits, not to all ploughmen without distinction, but to those most
expert in the art of arousing and sustaining the spirit of
working-cattle. That song, whose origin was perhaps held sacred, and to
which mysterious influences seem to have been attributed formerly, is
reputed even to the present day to possess the virtue of keeping up the
courage of those animals, of soothing their discontent, and of whiling
away the tedium of their long task. It is not enough to have the art of
driving them so as to cut the furrow in an absolutely straight line, to
lighten their labor by raising the share or burying it deeper in the
ground: a man is not a perfect ploughman if he cannot sing to his
cattle, and that is a special science which requires special taste and
powers.

To speak accurately, this song is only a sort of recitative, broken off
and taken up again at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations,
false according to the rules of musical art, make it impossible to
reproduce. But it is a fine song none the less, and so entirely
appropriate to the nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the
ox, to the tranquillity of rural scenes, to the simple manners of the
men who sing it, that no genius unfamiliar with work in the fields could
have invented it, and no singer other than a _cunning ploughman_ of that
region would know how to render it. At the time of year when there is no
other work and no other sign of activity in the country than the
ploughing, that sweet and powerful chant rises like the voice of the
breeze, which it resembles somewhat in its peculiar pitch. The final
word of each phrase, sustained at incredible length, and with marvellous
power of breath, ascends a fourth of a tone, purposely making a discord.
That is barbarous, perhaps, but the charm of it is indescribable, and
when one is accustomed to hear it, one cannot conceive of any other song
at that time and in those localities that would not disturb the harmony.

It happened, therefore, that I had before my eyes a picture in striking
contrast wit