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142
COPENHAGEN.
Chap. X.
added to which, be it Dick Whittington or King
Bernadotte, I always do delight in him who, from no
beginning, raises himself in this world, and dies at the top of
the tree, be it royal oak or humble bean-stalk.
We follow the course of the dull, boatless Holm
Canal, on the opposite side of which rise long, low,
high-pitched roofed, yellow buildings, with mysterious black
shutters, ever closed—something to do with dockyards
and naval stores—to the Royal Opera House. Here
the canal turns off at right angles, and disappears among
the “ back slums ” of the old wharf. The Opera House
is a shapeless building, half-rebuilt, half-pulled down,
to be cased with stone or stuccoed some day. I believe
Denmark to be the only country where the stage is
perfectly respectable: to play or dance at the Royal Opera
House, a woman, like Cæsar’s wife, must not even be
suspected. We now stand at the entrance of the Kongens
Nytorv, or King’s New Market (formerly called Hallands
Aas), though no market at all is ever held there. It is
shapeless, but the general effect is imposing, and must
have been more so in earlier days, before the destruction
of the double avenue of cut limes which formerly
surrounded the garden, in the centre of which stands the
equestrian statue of Christian V., erected in 1688. This
statue is allegorical, and requires a key. The horse is
trampling on a monster, which was once called Sweden:
but as Danes no longer trample on their neighbours, but
live in peace and amity, the monster is now styled Vice,
or something else. At the bombardment of 1807 a
cannon-ball struck the right arm of the statue, since
which time the king holds his sceptre downwards.
Passing by the ugly Military High School, about to be
removed, we arrive at the Charlottenborg Slot, a building
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