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 with Holbein's, although it might be a similar scene. Instead
of a sad old man, a cheerful young man; instead of a team of thin, sorry
horses, two yoke of four sturdy, spirited cattle; instead of Death, a
lovely child; instead of an image of despair and a suggestion of
destruction, a spectacle of energetic action and a thought of happiness.

Then it was that the French quatrain:

"A la sueur de ton visaige," etc.,

and the _O fortunatos_----_agricolas_ of Virgil, came to my mind
simultaneously, and when I saw that handsome pair, the man and the
child, performing a grand and solemn task under such poetic conditions,
and with so much grace combined with so much strength, I had a feeling
of profound compassion mingled with involuntary respect. Happy the
husbandman. Yes, so I should be in his place, if my arm should suddenly
become strong and my chest powerful, so that they could thus fertilize
nature and sing to her, without my eyes losing the power to see and my
brain to understand the harmony of colors and sounds, the delicacy of
tones, and the gracefulness of contours,--in a word, the mysterious