But in the evening there is brave entertainment for all. Two dancing-halls
there are, and the music is supplied by masters on the _hardingfele,_
and wonderful music it is, to be sure. There are iron strings to it, and
it utters no empty phrases, but music with a sting in its tail. It acts
differently upon different people: some find it rich in national
sweetness; some of us are rather constrained to grit our teeth and howl in
melancholy wise. Never was stinging music delivered with more effect.
The dance goes on.
In one of the intervals the schoolmaster sings touching verses about an
"aged mother, worn with toil
And sweating as 'twere blood...."
But some of the wild youths insist on dancing and nothing else. What's
this! Start singing, when they're standing here with the girls all ready
to dance--it's not proper! The singer stops, and meets the protest in
broadest dialect: What? Not proper? Why, it's by Vinje himself! Heated
discussion, _pro_ and _contra,_ arguing and shouting.
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