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Chap. LI.
DOLMEN.
321
With the klints you have exhausted the sights of
Møen. The island is richly cultivated, and earlier in
the year may have been more beautiful, for it undulates
well ; but we are now in the month of September; and,
let it undulate for ever, there is no beauty in undulating
stubble.
Herregaards of antiquity there are none. Møen was
a royal property, sold up in the last century. Not
far from the picturesque church of Magleby (the Møen
churches are highly picturesque and unwhitewashed)
is a fine dolmen of seven stones, standing erect on a
height—a feature in the surrounding country. When
I showed it to a small boy—an unbelieving
generation is the present—and explained how it was the
work of the ancient Scandinavians, same men who
fashioned the knives and chisels he had picked up
at Engelstofte,—he would give no credit to the truth
of my assertion. “ They move these great stones ?
nonsense! I’ll never believe it: well, if they did build
it a thousand years ago, the stones were then pebbles,
and must have grown since.” And he stuck to his
opinion, looking all the while as stubborn as a young
bull-dog. In ancient times, says tradition, Møen was
governed by two giants: one, Grøn, after whom the
Sound is christened; the other, like the Klint Konge,
came from Upsala. Instead of fighting and beating
each other’s brains out, as giants mostly did, they lived
together in amity; and when they died, were buried
side by side in the same stone chamber under the høi
surmounted by my favourite dolmen.
September 1st—The harvest-home came off last
ever-ing. A cart drove into the court laden with sheaves
of corn and peasants, male and female, shouting and
VOL. II. Y
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