The Wooden Plough, As Regards Its Form, Might Have Been
Thousands Of Years Old; It Was Drawn By A Little Donkey, And Traced
In The Soil - The Generous Southern Soil - The Merest Scratch Of A
Furrow.
I could not but approach the man and exchange words with
him; his rude but gentle face, his gnarled
Hands, his rough and
scanty vesture, moved me to a deep respect, and when his speech fell
upon my ear, it was as though I listened to one of the ancestors of
our kind. Stopping in his work, he answered my inquiries with
careful civility; certain phrases escaped me, but on the whole he
made himself quite intelligible, and was glad, I could see, when my
words proved that I understood him. I drew apart, and watched him
again. Never have I seen man so utterly patient, so primaevally
deliberate. The donkey's method of ploughing was to pull for one
minute, and then rest for two; it excited in the ploughman not the
least surprise or resentment. Though he held a long stick in his
hand, he never made use of it; at each stoppage he contemplated the
ass, and then gave utterance to a long "Ah-h-h!" in a note of the
most affectionate remonstrance. They were not driver and beast, but
comrades in labour. It reposed the mind to look upon them.
Walking onward in the same direction, one approaches a great wall,
with gateway sentry-guarded; it is the new Arsenal, the pride of
Taranto, and the source of its prosperity.
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