For a short time Tycho Brahe, who, because of his birth in southern Sweden in the days when it was controlled by Denmark, is claimed by both Swedes and Danes, worked in the observatory. Tycho had received much kindness at the hands of Frederick II, Christian’s predecessor, but it soon was evident that the new ruler, great though he was in many ways, did not appreciate the genius of the astronomer, and not only cut off the pension which had been granted to Tycho by the late king, but also forbade him to continue his investigations. Before this, Tycho Brahe had gained the hatred and contempt of the nobility, to which rank he belonged, by daring to do anything so useful as to study astronomy; he had been ostracised by his family as a result of his marriage with a peasant girl; and had roused the jealous indignation of physicians by free medical attendance upon the poor. Now, when his king turned against him, the astronomer shook the dust of unappreciative Denmark from his feet for good and all, and went to Germany, where he taught the German astronomer Kepler, who became greater than he. Kepler’s teacher, however, will be long remembered not only because of the fundamental discoveries which he made, but also because his name is fixed in the sky. Perhaps you will recall that in the old normal school days when I gave “astronomy parties,” one particularly large lunar crater stared down at us through the telescope like the eye of a Cyclops. That one is named Tycho, for the Scandinavian astronomer, Tycho Brahe.
Though Tycho Brahe went, the Round Tower stayed on; and it was used for astronomical purposes until about fifty years ago. It might have been so used still, except for its popularity as a general landscape-gazing observation tower, in spite of the opposition of the professors, who finally abandoned it for purposes of investigation.
The top of the tower is reached not by a spiral staircase, but by a wide spiral roadway of brick, deeply grooved by the carriage wheels of celebrities who drove to the top in days gone by. Peter the Great, for one, seems to have found the ascent of Runde Taarn a favorite amusement when he visited Denmark. It is stated that when he made his last ascent it was in a coach drawn by six horses, and that Queen Catherine sat at his side and held the lines. Until recent years also, in accordance with time-honored custom, newly confirmed children climbed to the top of the tower for a view of the surrounding land; thus they celebrated their formal entrance into manhood and womanhood, and thus they were introduced to the world in which they were thenceforth to play a larger part.
With the coming of the flying machine, however, and other devices for producing more exquisite thrills, Runde Taarn was left pretty much to the ordinary tourist, who pays his ten-öre entrance fee and, like myself, climbs laboriously along the worn roadway to the top. But once up there under the fluttering folds of Dannebrog, the beautiful red and white flag of the Danes, your tourist—meaning myself—gazes out over the city feeling fully rewarded for her exertions. For the view is a splendid one and reveals practically all of the famous buildings of the city, with their peculiar towers and domes, spires and steeples, as well as the parks and boulevards interspersed between, and the harbor with its many ships, and the Sound beyond.
Around the edge of the platform at the top of the tower are double railings. The inner one, I learned, was put up in the 1890’s, during a suicide epidemic. Before it was erected several melancholy Danes had taken arms against a sea of troubles and had ended them by a flying leap over the solitary railing. Now, such a spectacular termination of one’s earthly career is no longer possible.
Another monument to Christian IV’s interest in building is the Castle of Rosenborg. Formerly this royal residence was well outside of Copenhagen, but during the centuries the city has grown to such a degree that now the beautiful royal park and castle are in its very heart. Perhaps it was the magic of the day of my visit to it which lent Rosenborg part of its fascination; for the sky was of the clearest blue and the sunshine was wonderfully golden. Yet the castle itself, irrespective of the day, looked just like the castles in all proper fairy tales. With its red brick walls outlined in Renaissance softness, it stood in its setting of grass and trees, looking indescribably “homey” and inviting. About it clustered the great rose gardens blooming so triumphantly and invitingly that as I approached across the park I felt a stranger to my recent self. It seemed as if fairy tales might be true, or as if I myself might be a child in a fairy book.
But to cross the threshold was to be disillusioned; for Danish kings and queens and gallant knights and ladies fair no longer dwell within. The castle is a museum; since 1863 it has been the repository of the “Danish Kings’ Chronological Collection.” And royal “old clothes,” though sometimes interesting, are incapable of working enchantment. The collection of relics at Rosenborg, however, is one of the richest in Europe, and is exceedingly varied. In it one may find royal souvenirs ranging from the lock of hair of Christian I, who lived four hundred and fifty years ago, to the couch upon which the late Christian IX was in the habit of taking his noonday nap.
Rosenborg Castle, Copenhagen
