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SKANDERBORG.
Chap. XXIX.
to name a part of our ocean Sø, as though a boggy tarn in
his own marshy Jutland, I am unprepared to say.
A pouring rain—one of nature’s own shower-baths—
catches us just as we arrive at the end of Knud-Sø—
a lovely lake—not blue to-day, but agitated into
wavelets by the stormy breeze—all sand here. Slowly the
“ wagen ” trails its way through the ruts ; on foot we
fare worse; impossible to walk. But we mount the
hill-side, and after a heavy tug arrive at the kro of
Tulstrup. Here the panting horses rest to bait. The
shower is over—sun bursts out—we can gaze at the
lake below from the village cemetery on the adjoining
høi. Humble and towerless is Tulstrup church; its
bell hangs suspended to a wooden belfry in the
churchyard, itself of most unpretending form and principle; but
the small degraded edifice, built of granite, is surely of
noble foundation—a thank-offering probably, though no
legend attests the supposition. It is of early date; a
round arch doorway, adorned with early carvings—as
works of art on a par with King Gorm’s Stone at
Jel-linge. On one side a yawning wolf (løve lure, the old
sacristan calls it) on his hind legs, as large as life, with
huge protruding tongue; on the opposite a damsel,
resembling those very primitive wooden dolls you
sometimes see displayed in a huckster’s shop—large head,
immoveable arms, long feet, and petticoat parted round
the waist. In her hand she holds a distaff, as I imagine
it to be, and looks ready to faint away from fear of the
ravenous wolf—nothing but a church-door between
them. At the other entrance we have the Angel of
Christianity trampling upon the Dragon of Paganism.
Above, the same lady seated, with an infant in her arms.
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