Meanwhile, the lower table did not at all seem to be in want of an appetite; the kettle was emptied, and whole heaps of flad-bröd, sour as verdjuice, and pots of butter, such as no nose or stomach, out of Norway, could tolerate, were fast disappearing beneath the unceasing attacks of seven gluttonous Scandinavians—while, as the twilight darkened, and diminished the restraint they might possibly have felt at the presence of their superiors, the noise grew louder and louder. Jacob began some interminable ballad about the sorrows and trials of little Kirstin, a very beautiful lady, who went through all sorts of misfortunes, and did not seem a “bit better than she should be;” but that goes for nothing at all in Swedish song, and very little in Swedish life. This he sang, chorus and all, to his own share. It seemed to affect the worthy man very little, that he was almost his own audience; no one seemed to attend him, but his song went on, stanza after stanza, uninterruptedly, forming a sort of running accompaniment to the shouts and screams of “Gammle Norgé,” “Wackere Lota, or, Kari,” which startled the echoes alternately, according as love, or patriotism, was the prevailing sentiment.
At last, they began drinking healths—“Skaal Herr Carblom,” “Skaal for the well-born singer;” for, like the old Spanish nobility, though they addressed one another as Tom, Piersen, and so forth, they always gave the interloper his full title.
“Jeg takker de,” said Jacob, solemnly, without, however, pausing for one moment in his song.
“Little Kirstin, she came to the bridal hall,—
We will begin with the wooing,—
And a little page answered to her call,
My best beloved, I ne’er can forget you”—
Here broke in Tom, beating time to his music with a horn which he had replenished to the very brim, and of which he was imparting the contents very liberally to the turf round him—
“Wet your clay, Andy!
Out with the brandy!