was now as eager for her removal, on account of his hatred to Sigbrit. A nobleman of the court, named Torben Oxe, was anxious to marry Dyveke, to whom he had formed a strong attachment; but his aristocratic family were much opposed to his wish; and, fearful that Dyveke, whose mother was supposed to favour his suit, would be induced to accept his offer, they joined Walkendorff’s cabal against her, and she was poisoned. The poison was administered in some cherries, sent to her by her noble admirer, who, though innocent of the murder, was made the victim of Christian’s revenge, and hanged, after a mock trial.
History tells, that after Dyveke’s death Christian became more ferocious than ever; and he was encouraged to every evil deed by the unprincipled Sigbrit, who maintained her influence over him, and, in fact, was, until he was deposed, the actual prime minister of the Nero of the North, as Christian has been named. Sigbrit surrounded Christian with her own creatures, and among these, one Didnk Slagbek was the adviser and promoter of every act of tyranny and atrocity. This infamous person, according to Hvitfelt, had been originally a barber; and Holberg says of him, that "he was not the first barber who had made so high a jump in the world." But he ended his ill-spent life on the place of public execution.
In Samsöe's tragedy, there is a monk, Father Johan, the agent of Bishop Walkendorff, who had been created Archbishop of Drontheim, who plays a prominent part. One of the earliest scenes introduces this monk, engaged in endeavouring to persuade or frighten Dyveke into leaving the king. She and her confidential attendant, Klaudia, are together when he enters:
Monk. Peace be with you, noble lady!
Dyveke. Thanks be to God! I have peace. My conscience reproaches me not.
Monk. No!—not that you disturb the happy union between our illustrious monarch and his virtuous queen?
Klaudia. Spare her, holy father! Spare her that reproach—she deserves it not.
Monk. I speak in the cause of God and the king. In the name of my superior, the pious Archbishop Walkendorff, do 1 speak. He sends me again this day to you. Long have I sought to move you by mild councils; if these fail, then duty and conscience compel me to employ the sternest language of truth.
Klaudia. You forget yourself, holy father … that tone …
Dyveke. Let him speak as he will, Klaudia; yet once more will I condescend to justify myself.
Monk. You are becoming obdurate …
Dyveke. Oh no, good father, no. Would to God you knew how miserable I am! My young, inexperienced heart was open to every impression when the brave and handsome Christian sued for my love. He placed his happiness in the possession of this heart; I gave it to him, guiltless and undivided. I vowed eternal love to him, and I hold fast my oath. I knew nothing of what the public interest might demand of the prince. To soften Christian’s perhaps too severe temper, to subdue bis heart to milder feelings—in a word, to make him win the affection of all his subjects—these were the hopes that lulled me, the dreams in which I gloried. But woe, woe to him who knew the abyss into which I was about to plunge, yet held me not back! It was your Walkendorff—your now so pious, so strict Walkendorff—who precipitated me into that abyss. It was he who smilingly enticed Christian to me, in order to make me the tool of his own designs. If there was good in these designs—if he