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 with Holbein's, although it might be a similar scene.
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