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122
COPENHAGEN.
Chap. IN.
pression of Copenhagen. Few houses of ancient date
remain, and it was not until I grew acquainted with
the city in detail that I discovered how really
picturesque it was, with its misshapen Places (Pladser), its
spires, and its canals alive with shipping running up into
its very heart. We pass down the Frederiksborg-street
—a bad approach; but Copenhagen, like all fortified
towns, boasts of no handsome entry. The pavement you
will have already found out is atrocious, and such an
apology for a trottoir—a narrow strip of flag inserted
among the rougher stones? A droit du pavé exists here
as in other places; I never could understand it myself;
the whole etiquette appeared to consist in shoving me
into the adjoining gutter. We now pass through the
old market (Gammeltorv), where once stood the small
but quaint Raadhuus destroyed in one of the numerous
conflagrations from which the town has suffered. In
the centre stands a fountain in metal, which now no
longer plays, and though allegorical — I forget the
subject—is neither imposing nor beautiful.
It was on this Gammeltorv that took place the
execution of the well-known Dietrick Slagheck,
Archbishop of Lund, Christian IL’s most unworthy
minister. Strangers in all ages have risen to the highest
posts in Denmark, and Dietrick, a barber’s boy, by
backstairs influence—for he was cousin to Sigbrit—
soon, like Olivier le Dain, rose to power. A dangerous
councillor he proved; but he suffered for it later and
was made the scapegoat of his master. When on his
way to the place of execution, he met on the Høibro
bridge Master Jasper Brachman, one of the council, to
whom he exclaimed, in the Latin tongue, “Farewell,
Master Jasper! such are the rewards of our labours.”
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