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344
BORNHOLM.
Chap. LUI.
turns round, having first completed his furrow, and then
sows his way down the adjoining ridge to our very
carriage-wheel. We are all right; drive on to his farm,
put up our horses there, and—he is too busy himself,
but his grandfather will show us the way to the Holy
Well; so we follow his directions, but he soon appears
at the house himself, on hospitality bent. We must
have a cup of coffee ; we decline—then on our return.
His hustru was to have shown us the way—but the
coffee ? Leave it to the pige (servant-girl). Impossible !
she is so careless she will be sure to burn it. She
consults her husband ; first looks at us, then at the coffee,
and hospitality has the best of it; so the pige is
summoned, and off we set across some fields, more boulders
than grass, and then, after more wood, we come to the
cliff’s side. A narrow winding path leads to the beach
below. Fine bold rocks, divided into squares, rise like
turrets from the sea which reaches their base. The
pige can tell me nothing. She thinks more of her
own pretty face—and small blame to her I—than all
the saints of paradise; but I find out later that 150
years ago there existed a chapel dedicated to the
Trinity, and how this little ravine was planted with
stone and wooden crosses, and the chapel hung with
votive offerings, long tresses of women’s hair among the
number. All this has long since disappeared; the
poorbox alone remains, iron-bound and massive, nailed to a
stake firmly planted in the ground, and, like Hogarth’s,
with a cobweb across the opening. “ Tell the
gentleman,” laughs the pige, 11 not to put anything in; “ better
give the money to me to buy a ribbon.” You may be
sure I followed her advice. She knows nothing about
the Holy Well, but the spring runs from the rock
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