Langeid--Up the mountain--Vanity of vanity--Forest
perfumes--The glad thrill of adventure--An ancient
beacon--Rough fellows--Daring pine-trees--Quaint old
powder-horn--Curiosities for sale--Sketch of a group of
giants--Information for _Le Follet_--Rather cool--Rural
dainties and delights--The great miracle--An odd name--The
wedding garment--Ivar Aasen--The Study of Words--Philological
lucubrations--A slagsmal--Nice subject for a spasmodic
poet--Smoking rooms--The lady of the house--A Simon Svipu--A
professional story-teller--Always about Yule-tide--The
supernatural turns out to be very natural--What happened to an
old woman--Killing the whirlwind--Hearing is believing--Mr.
Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon--The grey horse at
Roysland--There can be no doubt about it--Theological argument
between a fairy and a clergyman--Adam’s first wife, Lileth.
At Langeid station, where we arrived late at night, there was great
difficulty in finding anybody at home. At last we ferreted out an old
man in one of the multifarious buildings, which, as usual, formed the
establishment. All the rest of the family are paa hoien (up on the
mountain). That Langeid was a horrid place. As there was no wash-basin
to be found, I laid hands upon a quaint brass mortar, which the old man
informed me was “manifold hundred years old.” In the travellers’ book
I see a German has been informing the people that he is a Ph.D. But
then I have seen elsewhere, in this country, an Englishman’s name in
the book with M.P. attached to it. But he went down, poor man, with the
steamer _Ercolano_, so we must leave him alone.
What a lovely morning after the rain. The spines of the fir-trees, and
the hairy lichen (_alectoria jubata_) festooning the branches, frosted
over with the moisture which still adheres to them, and is not yet
sucked up by the sun that is just rising over the high mountains. What
refreshing odours they shed abroad, seconded by the lowlier “pors,”
with its delicious aromatic perfume.
What an intense pleasure it is thus to travel through an unknown
country, not knowing where one is to be at the day’s end, and looking
at the map to find out where in the world one is. Give me this rather
than a journey in Switzerland, and all the first-rate hotels in the
world.
“Up yonder,” said my attendant, “a bear used to harbour. The man in the
gaard above shot him not long ago. He was very large. That’s a ‘Vitr’
(warning) yonder, on the top of that mountain to the east. There are a
great many dozen of pine-logs piled up there from the olden times.”
I discovered that this was a beacon-hill, formerly used to give notice
of the approach of foes on the coast. The next beacon was at Lobdal,
a great many miles down the valley. The establishment of beacons from
Naes to Helgeland, is attributed, by Snorro, to Hacon the Good. A
slower way of conveying intelligence of the descent of an enemy on the
coast, was the split arrow (haeror), equivalent to the fiery cross of
Scotland.
“Are not you frightened to travel all alone?” said the little fellow,
looking curiously into my face. “You might be injured.”
“Not I,” replied I.
“Oh! yes, we Norwegians are good people, except in Hallingdal--they
are rare rough fellows there, terrible fighters.”
To the left of the road, high on the hill, is the abode of Herjus,
the bear-victim mentioned above, who is gradually recovering from his
wounds.
The scenery becomes grander as we advance. What would you think of
trees growing on the side of a precipice, apparently as steep as
Flamboro’ Head, and ten times as high? They seem determined to get into
places where the axe cannot reach them. But they are not safe for all
that. Now and then the mountain side will crack, and some of it comes
down. Look at that vast stone, which would throw all your Borrowdale
boulder stones into the shade; it has come down in this manner.
Advantage has been taken of its overhanging top to stow away under it a
lot of agricultural instruments, among which I see a primitive harrow
of wood.
At Ryssestad station I find a quaint old powder-horn, more than two
hundred years old, on which Daniel in the lion’s den, Roland, Adam and
Eve, Samson and Delilah, figure in marvellous guise. I note this, as
I afterwards saw almost the facsimile of it in the Bergen Museum. The
owners declined to part with it.
There was also a wolf’s skin, price five dollars. The station-master
shot him from one of the windows last winter, while prowling about the
premises. One Sigur Sannes offers for sale a curious old “hand-axe,”
date 1622, but I did not wish to add to my luggage.
What a set of giants surrounded me while I was drinking coffee! and
such names--Bjug, Salvi, Jermund, Gundar! Imagine all these long-legged
fellows standing in trousers reaching to their very shoulders and neck,
and supported by shoulder-straps decked in brass ornaments, while below
they are secured by nine buttons above the ankle. What may be seen of
their shirts is confined by two immense silver bullet studs, and then
a silver brooch an inch and a half wide. The hats, of felt, are made
in the valley. The brim is very small, and the crown narrows half way
up, and then swells out again. A silver chain is passed round it two or
three times, and confined in front by a broad silver clasp, to which
is suspended a cross. A figured velvet band likewise goes twice round
it.
The dress of the women is the black or white skirt, already
mentioned, swelling into enormous folds behind, and so short as to
permit the garters with silver clasps to be seen. The stockings
bulge out immensely at the calf--indeed, are much fuller than is
necessary--giving the legs a most plethoric appearance, and, as in
the Tyrol, they often only reach to the ankle. Occasionally, when the
women wish to look very smart, a pair of white socks are drawn over the
foot, which oddly contrasts with the black stocking. The shoes, which
are home-made, are pointed, and fit remarkably well. On the bosom is a
saucer-sized brooch of silver, besides bullet-studs at the collar and
wristband. I see also women carrying their babies in the kjell or plaid.
Beyond the station, we have to diverge from the regular road, and
take an improvised one, the bridge having been carried away by a
flom (freshet). At a ferry above, where the river opens into a lake,
the ferrywoman, after presenting to me her mull of home-made snuff,
inquires if I am married. This provokes a similar query from me.
“No,” is the reply; “but I have a grown-up son.”
The custom of Nattefrieri, to which I have alluded elsewhere, will
account for things of this kind.
Beyond the ferry there has been a recent fall of rocks from the cliffs
above. In the cool recesses of the rocks grow numbers of strawberries
and raspberries, which my man obligingly gathers and presents to me.
A black and white woodpecker, with red head and rump, perches on a
pine-tree close by.
A little above is the finest fall on the river, except that near
Vigeland. All around the smooth scarped cliffs converge down to the
water at a considerable angle, the cleavage being parallel to their
surface.
At one spot my chatty little post-boy, who, boy as he was, rejoiced in
a wife and child, stops to talk with a mighty tall fellow, one Björn
Tvester, who offers to take me up some high mountain near to see a fine
view. A woman close by, who is unfortunately absent on the hills,
possesses an ancient silver cross, of great size and fine workmanship.
This used, in former times, to be used by the bridegroom at a wedding.
A smiling plain now opens before us, in the centre of which stands the
parish church. While I stop to enjoy the prospect, a crowd of men and
women collect around me. One of the fair sex, who rejoiced in the name
of Mari Björnsdatter, I endeavour to sketch, to her great delight.
“Stor mirakel!” (great miracle) shouted the peasants, looking over my
shoulder. “Aldrig seet maken[10] (never saw the like)”!
“And what’s your name?” I asked of a red-headed urchin, of miserable
appearance. The answer, “Thor,” made me smile, and produced a roar
from the masculines, Folke, Orm, Od (a very odd name, indeed), Dreng,
Sigbjörn, and a titter from the feminines ditto, all of whom saw the
joke at once.
Putting up at the station-master’s at Rige, I sally out and meet with
an intelligent fellow, Arne Bjugson by name, formerly a schoolmaster,
now a pedlar. He tells me there is an ancient bridal dress at one of
the houses, and he it was who put this on, and sat to Tidemann for his
sketch of the Sætersdal Bridegroom.
We forthwith go to inspect it. The bridegroom’s jacket is of blue, over
which came another of red. His knee-breeches are black, and crimped or
plaited; his blue stockings were wound round with ribands; his hat was
swathed in a white cloth, round which a silver chain was twisted. In
his hand he held a naked sword; around his waist was a brass belt, and
on his neck a silver chain with medals. The bride’s dress consisted of
two black woollen petticoats, plaited or folded; above these a blue
one, and over all a red one. Then came a black apron, and above that a
white linen one, and round her waist three silver belts. Her jacket was
black, with a small red collar, ornamented with a profusion of buckles,
hooks, fibulas, and chains. On her head was a silver-gilt crown, and
around her neck a pearl necklace, to which a medal, called “Agnus Dei,”
was suspended.
Arne has read _Snorro’s Chronicle_, which he borrowed from the parson.
Ivar Aasen, the author of several works on the old Norsk language,
has been more than once up here examining into the dialect. Those
interested in the sources of the English language, and in ascertaining
how much of it is due to the old Norsk, have ample room for amusement
and instruction here. Many English words, unknown in the modern
Norwegian, are to be found in use in these secluded parts, though
driven from the rest of the country, just in the same way as the Norsk
language was talked at Bayeux a long time after it had become obsolete
at Rouen and other parts of Normandy. Our “noon” reappears in “noni;”
“game,” in “gama,” a word not known away from this. “To prate,” is
“prata;” “to die,” is “doi;” “two,” is “twi,” not “to,” as elsewhere;
indeed, all the numerals differ from those used elsewhere. The people
pronounce “way,” “plough,” and “net,” just like an Englishman. To
“neigh,” is “neja,” not “vrinska.” A stocking is “sock,” not “strömpe;”
eg = edge; skafe = safe or cupboard; “kvik” corresponds in all its
meanings to our word “quick.” The old Icelandic “gildr” is used as an
eulogistic epithet, = excellent. Their word for “wheel” sounds like our
English, and is not “eule,” as elsewhere; “stubbe” is our “stub,” or
little bit; “I” is “oi,” not “Ieg;” “fir” is pronounced “fir;” “spon”
has been already mentioned: “snow,” “mile,” “cross,” re-occur here,
whereas elsewhere they differ from the English.
While we are engaged in these philological lucubrations a man comes
up, a piece of whose lower-lip has gone, interfering with his speech.
This occurred at a wedding. He and another had a trial of strength, in
which he proved the strongest. The vanquished man, assisted by his two
brothers, then set upon him, and bit him like a dog. As aforesaid, the
people of the valley are ordinarily good-natured and peaceable enough;
but let them only get at the ale or brandy, and they become horribly
brutal and ferocious, and a slagsmal (fight) is sure to ensue. One
method of attack on these occasions is by gouging the eye out, spone i
ovgo (literally to spoon out the eye). Sometimes the combatants place
some hard substance in the hand, as a stone or piece of wood. This
they call “a hand-devil,” the “knuckle-duster” of English ruffians. At
Omlid, several miles over the mountains to the east of this, the people
even when sober are said to be anything but snil (good). So disastrous
was the effect of drink at a bridal (_i.e._, bride-ale or wedding
festival),[11] that the bride, it is said, frequently used to bring
with her a funeral shirt for fear that she might have to carry home her
husband dead. In any case she was provided with bandages wherewith to
dress his wounds.
I picked up another very intelligent Cicerone in Mr. Sunsdal, the
Lehnsman of the district.
“You would, perhaps, like to see one of the old original dwellings of
our forefathers,” said he; “there are still many of them in this part
of Norway. The name is Rogstue, _i.e._, smoke-room.”
We accordingly entered one of these pristine abodes, such as were the
fashion among the highest of the land many hundred years ago. The house
was built of great logs, and its chief and almost only sitting-room had
no windows, the light being admitted from above by an orifice (ljaaren)
in the centre of the roof, over which fitted a lid fastened to a pole.
Through this the smoke escaped from the great square fireplace (aaren)
in the middle of the floor, enclosed by hewn stones. Round this ran
heavy benches, the backs of which were carved with various devices.
A huge wooden crane, rudely carved into the figure of a head, and
blackened with smoke, projected from a side wall to a point half-way
between the hearth and chimney-hole. From this the great porridge-pot
(Gryd-hodden) was suspended. Kettle is “hodden” in old English.
On this smoke-blackened crane I discerned two or three deep scars,
indicative of a custom now obsolete. On the occasion of a wedding, the
bridegroom used to strike his axe into this as he entered, which was as
much as to say that peace should be the order of the day; an omen, be
it said, which seldom came true in practice.
One side of this pristine apartment was taken up by the two beds
(kvillunne) fixed against the wall, according to the custom of the
country, and in shape resembling the berths on board ship. Between
them was the safe or cupboard (skape). On the opposite side of the
wall was a wooden dresser of massive workmanship, while round the room
were shelves with cheeses upon them. They were placed just within the
smoke line, as I shall call it. The smoke, in fact, not having draught
enough, descends about half-way down the walls, rendering that portion
of them which came within the lowest smoke-mark of the sooty vapour as
black as the fifty wives of the King of the Cannibal Islands; while the
great beams below this preserved their original wood colour.
The lady of the house, Sigrid Halvorsdatter, took a particular pride
in showing the interior of her abode. Good-nature was written on her
physiognomy, and the writing was not counterfeit. When we arrived,
she was just on the point of going up the mountain with a light
wooden-frame (meiss) on her shoulders, on which was bound a heavy
milk-pail; but she immediately deposited her burden on a great stone
at the door, took a piece of wood from under the eaves and unfastened
the door. Subsequently, I find that this is the identical dame, and
Rogstue, painted by Tidemann, and published among his illustrations of
Norwegian customs.
Taking leave of her with many thanks, we proceeded to another house,
where the woman said we should see a “Simon Svipu.”
“A Simon Svipu!” ejaculates the reader, “what on earth is that?”
Thereby hangs a tale, or a tail, if you will. The nightmare plagued
these people before she visited England.
The people of this valley call her “Muro,” and they have the following
effectual remedy against her. They first take a knife, wrap it up in a
kerchief, and pass it three times round the body; a pair of scissors
are also called into requisition, and, lastly, a “Simon Svipu,” which
is the clump or excrescence found on the branches of the birch-tree,
and out of which grow a number of small twigs. This last is hung up in
the stable over the horses’ heads, or fixed in one of the rafters, and
also over their own bed.
This exorcism is then pronounced--
Muro, Muro, cursed jade,
If you’re in, then you must out;
Here are Simon Svipu, scissors, blade,
Will put you to the right about.
The birchen charm may remind one of the slips of yew “shivered in the
moon’s eclipse,” in _Macbeth_.
The term “svipu” is used in parts of the country for whip, instead of
the real word “svöbe.” And I have no doubt this is the signification of
it here--viz., a means of driving away the mare.[12]
But to return to the real Simon Pure--I mean Svipu. Unfortunately,
I could not get a sight of it. The good folks either could not, or
would not, find the wonderful instrument. I believe, though still in
their heart clinging to the ancient superstition, they were averse to
confessing it to others.
“But here comes a man,” said the Lehnsman, “who will tell us some
curious anecdotes; his name is Solomon Larsen Haugebirke. He is a
silversmith and blacksmith by trade, and having been servant to
half-a-dozen priests here, he has become waked up, and having a
tenacious memory, he can throw a good deal of light on the ancient
customs of the valley. Gesegnet arbeid (blessed labour) to you,
Solomon.”
“Good day, Mr. Lehnsman. You have got a stranger with you, I see. Is he
a Tüsker (German)?”
The old gentleman was soon down on the grass, under the shadow of
an outbuilding, the sun being intensely hot, and whiffing his pipe,
stopped with my tobacco, while he folded his hands in deep thought.
“Well, really, Lehnsman, I can’t mind anything just on the moment.
Landstad and Bugge[13] were both here, and got all my stories and
songs.”
“But can’t you remember something about Aasgardsreia?”
After pausing for a minute or two, Solomon said--
“Well, sir, you know it was always about Yule-tide, when we were just
laid down in bed, that they came by. They never halted till they came
to a house where something was going to happen. They used to stop at
the door, and dash their saddles against the wall or roof, making the
whole house shake, and the great iron pot rattle again.”
“But do you really believe in it, Solomon?” said I, putting some more
tobacco in his pipe.
“When I was a lad I did, but now I don’t think I do. Still there was
something very strange about it, wasn’t there, sir? The horses in the
stable used to be all of a sweat, as if they heard the noise, and were
frightened. _They_ could not have fancied it, whatever _we_ did.”
“But are you certain they did sweat?”
“I believe you; I’ve gone into the stable, and found them as wet as if
they had been dragged through the river.”[14]
“Ah! but I can easily explain that,” said the Lehnsman. “When I first
came here, some years ago, the young men were a very lawless lot; they
thought nothing of taking the neighbours’ horses at night, and riding
them about the country, visiting the jenter (girls); and it is my firm
belief that they took advantage of the old superstition about the
Aasgaardsreia coming by, and making the horses sweat, to carry on their
own frolic with impunity. It was they that made the horses sweat, by
bringing them back all of a heat, and not these sprites that you talk
of.”
I felt inclined to take the Lehnsman’s view of the case; but the old
man shook his head doubtingly.
“Ride, sir! why, at the time I speak of, you could not possibly ride,
the snow was so deep that the roads were impassable. But now we are
talking about it, it strikes me there may have been another cause. The
horses used to get so much extra food just then, in honour of Yule, and
the stalls are so small and close, that perhaps it made them break out
in a sweat. Be that as it may, we used all to be terribly frightened
when we heard the Aasgaardsreia.”
“It was merely the rush of the night wind,” said I, “beating against
the house sides.”
“Would the night wind carry people clean away?” rejoined Solomon,
returning to the charge. “Once, when they came riding by, there was
a woman living at that gaard yonder, who fell into a besvömmelse
(swoon); and in that state she was carried along with them right away
to Toftelien, five old miles to the eastward.[15] And more by token,
though she had never been there before, she gave a most accurate
description of the place. I was by, and heard her. What do you think
of that, Herr Lehnsman?” concluded Solomon, who was evidently halting
between two antagonistic feelings, his superior enlightenment and his
old deep-rooted boyish superstitions.
“I don’t believe it at all,” was the incredulous functionary’s reply;
“it was, no doubt, the power of imagination, and the woman had heard
from somebody, though she might have forgotten it, what Toftelien
looked like.”
“You talked about the night-wind,” continued Solomon, turning to me. “I
remember well when I was a lad, if there was a virvel-vind (whirlwind),
I used to throw my toll-knife right into it. We all believed that it
was the sprites that caused it, and that we should break the charm in
that way.”
“Of course you believed in the underground people generally?”
“Well, yes, we did. I know a man up yonder, at Bykle, who, whenever he
went up to the Stöl, used, directly he got there, and had opened the
door, to kneel down, and pray them not to disturb him for four weeks;
and afterwards they might come to the place, and welcome, till the next
summer.”
“But did you ever see any of these people?” said I, resolved on probing
Solomon with a home question.
“No, I’ve never _seen_ them, but I have heard them, as sure as I sit on
this stone.”
“Indeed, and how was that?”
“Well, you must know, I was up in the Fjeld to the eastward at a
fiskevatn (lake with fish in). Suddenly I heard a noise close by me,
just behind some rocks, and I thought it was other folks come up to
fish. They were talking very loudly and merrily; so I called out to let
them know I was there, as I wished to have selskab (company). Directly
I called, it was all still. This puzzled me; so I went round the rocks,
but not a creature could I see, so I returned to my fishing. Presently
the noise began again, and I distinctly heard folks talking.”
“And what sort of talk was it?”
“Oh! baade fiint o gruft (both fine and coarse, _i.e._, good and
bad words), accuratè som paa en bryllup (just like at a wedding). I
called out again, on which the noise suddenly stopped. Presently they
began afresh, and I could make out it was folks dancing. Then I felt
convinced that it must be a thuss[16]-bryllup (elf-wedding).”
“Had you slept well the night before?”
“Never better.”
“You had been drinking, then?”
“Langt ifra (far from it); I was as ædru (sober) and clear-headed as a
man could be who had taken nothing but coffee and milk for weeks.”
“And how long did this noise continue?”
“Two hours at least. Every time I cried out they stopped, and after a
space began again. I examined all around very carefully, as I was not
a bit afraid; but I could see no hole or anything, nothing but bare
rocks. Now what could it be?” asked the old man, solemnly.
There are more things in heaven and earth, thought I, than we dream of.
“Besides,” continued Solomon, “there was another man I afterwards found
fishing at another part of the water, who heard the same noise.”
“Who was that?” said the Lehnsman.
“Olsen Prestergaard,” (_i.e._, Olsen Parsonage, so called because he
was born on the parsonage farm).
“But he is as deaf as a post,” retorted the other.
“He is _now_, but he was not then. He has been deaf only since he got
that cold five years ago; and this that I am talking of happened six,
come Martinsmass.”
It may be as well to state that we met Mr. Parsonage subsequently
making hay, and, after a vast deal of hammering, he was made to
understand us, when, with a most earnest expression of countenance he
confirmed Solomon’s account exactly.
“Can’t you tell us some more of your tales?” said the Lehnsman; “one of
those will do you told to Landstad and Moe, or to Bugge last summer.”
“How long does the stranger stop?” asked Solomon; “I will endeavour to
recollect one or two.”
“Oh! I shall be off to-morrow,” said I.
“Why so early? Well, let me see. There was the grey fole (horse) at
Roysland. I’ll tell you about that. You must know, then, sir, we used
many years ago to have a horse-race (skei) on the flat, just beyond
the church yonder, at the end of August-month each year. There was a
man living up at Roysland, an old mile from here, up on the north
side of the Elv. He was a strange sort of a fellow, nobody could make
him out; Laiv Roysland, they called him. One August, on the morning
of the race, a grey horse came down to his gaard and neighed. He went
and put the halter on him, and seeing he was a likely sort of a nag,
thought he would take him down and run him, without asking anybody any
questions. And sure enough he came. The horse--he was a stallion--beat
all the rest easily. Laiv carried off all the prizes and returned home.
When he got there he let the horse loose, and it immediately took up
to the hills, and was not heard of or seen for twelve months. When the
race-day came round, a neigh was heard (han nejade), Laiv went out of
the door, and found the same horse. He put the halter on his head, and
brought him down to the races just as before. He won everything. There
never was the likes of him whether in biting or running (bitast eller
springast). He was always the best. At last people began to talk, and
said it must be the fand sjel (the fiend himself). The third year the
horse ran it lost. What a rage Laiv was in. When he got home he hit
the horse a tremendous thwack with his whip, and cursed a loud oath.
It struck out, and killed him on the spot. Next year a neigh was heard
as usual outside the house, early on the morning of the race-day, but
nobody dared go out. They were not such dare-devils as Laiv. It neighed
a second time, but the people would not venture, and from that time to
this it has never been heard of or seen.”
“A strange wild tale,” said I; “ what do you really think it was?”
“Well, I suppose it was _He_. I never told that story,” continued
Solomon, “to any one before.”
“Yes, there can be no doubt about it,” said Solomon, after a long
pause; “so many people have seen these underground people that there
must be some truth in it. Besides which, is not there something about
it in Holy Writ: ‘Every knee shall bow, both of things that are in
heaven, and in earth, and under the earth,’ and who can be under the
earth but the underground people?”
“Well, Solomon, have you no more tales?”
“Not of the valley here, but I can tell you one of the country up
north.”
“Oh, yes, that will do.”
“Well, you must know, there was a man at a gaard up there--let me see,
I can’t rightly mind the name of it. He was good friends with a Tuss;
used, in fact, to worship him (dyrkes). The priest got to hear of
this, and warned him that it was wrong. The man made no secret of the
fact, but persisted that there was no harm in it. Indeed, he derived a
mint of good from the acquaintance. His crops were a vast deal finer,
and he really could not give up his friend on any consideration.[17]
The man spoke with such apparent earnestness and conviction, that the
priest was seized with a desire to see the Tuss. ‘That you shall, and
welcome,’ said the man; ‘I don’t anticipate any difficulty. I’ve lent
him two rolls of chew-tobacco, and he will be sure to return them
before long. No Christian can be more punctual than he is in matters of
business.’ The little gentleman put in an appearance soon after, and
honestly repaid the tobacco, with thanks for the loan of it (tak for
laane). ‘Bide a bit, my friend,’ said the farmer, ‘our parson wants to
have a snak (chat) with you.’ ‘Impossible,’ he replied; ‘I’ve no time;
but I’ve a brother that’s a parson. He’s just the man; besides, he has
more time than me. I’ll send him.’ The tuss-priest accordingly came,
and had a long dispute with the priest of this world about various
passages in the Bible. The latter was but a poor scholar, so he was
easily out-argued.
“At last they began to dispute about vor Frelser (our Redeemer).
“‘Frelser!’ exclaimed the goblin-priest, ‘I want no Frelser.’
“‘How so?’
“‘I’m descended from Adam’s first wife. When she brought forth the
child from which our people trace their descent, Adam had not sinned.’
“‘First wife?’ repeated the University man; ‘where do you find
anything about first wife in the five books of Moses? If you have found
any such like thing there, you have not read it right,’ said he.
“‘Don’t you remember,’ said the tuss, ‘the Bible has it, “This is _now_
bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.” So he must have been married
before to somebody of a different nature.’
“The other, who was not so well read in the Bible as he ought to be--so
much of his time was taken up in farming and such like unaandelig
(un-spiritual) occupations--was not able to confute this argument.
Indeed, the tuss-priest beat the Lutheran priest hollow in every
argument, till at last they parted, and the latter was never known
again to express a wish to have any further controversy with so subtle
an antagonist.”