From a Terrace in Prague

ET us return to our terrace, I to mine, you to yours if it gives you the right point of view, for we will now take the foreground into consideration, the Mala Strana and its "Crown of Glory," the Royal Castle, the Hradšany. We have watched Charles IV in his labours to beautify the capital of the land he loved, and among those labours was the restoration of the Hradšany. His son, however, found attraction elsewhere, and neglected the Royal Castle. Sigismund resided by preference at Kutna Hora whenever his imperial duties gave him time to visit Bohemia. This, his choice of residence, was probably dictated by the troubled times through which Bohemia was passing. Prague was full of tumult and of fierce religious controversy. The Hussites, as we have seen, were out and bent to warfare in the cause they held sacred, and the King had no liking for their views or regard for their opinions. We have also noted the value of that Emperor's given word. In Kutna Hora Sigismund found himself surrounded by a strongly German population, zealous in the cause of Rome and the Empire, hostile to the freedom of thought for which Bohemia was fighting. Racial animosity between Slav and Teuton was running high; its immediate result had been the emigration of several thousand professors and students of German nationality to Leipzig, where a new university arose which was inclined to consider its Alma Mater, Prague, a stepmother.

Then followed the Habsburgs, Albert and his posthumous son Ladislas. Albert succeeded as Sigismund's son-in-law, and reigned for two troubled years of civil war in Bohemia, leaving a disrupted State to Ladislas, his unborn son. During the infancy of this child arose a strong man from out of Bohemia, who served Ladislas so faithfully that the young King on his deathbed sent for him to bid him farewell in touching terms. Then was this strong man, George Podiebrad, unanimously chosen King by the Estates.

George Podiebrad was a native of the country which called him to the throne by reason of his integrity and intelligence. He was also of the faith held by the majority of his subjects, the followers of Master John Hus. His lot was cast in troubled times. Bohemia had been ruled by a succession of monarchs of alien race, at first sympathetic but later unable to see eye to eye with their subjects on religious and other questions. In the time of trial, when the soul of the people called out for guidance and support in the struggle for faith and freedom, those rulers were too much bound by the ties that held them to Western Europe as to champion Bohemia's cause whole-heartedly. They failed to understand that Central Europe was ripe for a new orientation, though there were sufficient indications to point out the way. Above all, a great danger threatened; the Turks were extending their conquests in Eastern Europe, the Byzantine Empire was going under before them, and the fall of Constantinople was imminent.

It was shortly before this latter event that George Podiebrad was called to the throne. He found his country distracted by internal dissensions, exhausted by the Hussite wars and threatened by powerful neighbours. His first task was to set his house in order; in this he achieved complete success, and soon found himself reigning over a strong, happy and united country. He next attended to his country's foreign relations, and succeeded in securing peace without his frontiers by means of a network of treaties. The King of Poland was won over by George Podiebrad's tact and ability, and Matthias Corvinus, King of a Hungary with fluctuating boundaries but including a deal of present-day Roumania, was also a ready ally of Bohemia's King. Within his immediate neighbourhood in Central Europe, George Podiebrad's wisdom and uprightness had brought him many requests to act as arbitrator or intermediary in disputes. His fame spread farther afield, his vision extended as he witnessed the growing importance of his country, and from these circumstances arose an ideal of a great Christian Peace League.

The state of Europe in the fifteenth century was not unlike that of the present day. There was strife, turmoil and dissension everywhere, a mighty power—that of Rome—opposing all free expression of opinion, an obsolete shibboleth called the Holy Roman Empire, and a ruthless enemy active in the East. In the midst of all this trouble George Podiebrad worked diligently at his League; he gained the adhesion of King Louis of France; Burgundy and Bavaria also joined, and Venice, remembering what good business could be made out of crusades, was also inclined to agree. England, it appears, was not particularly interested, at least is not mentioned in connection with this League. George Podiebrad endeavoured to win over the Holy Father, but in vain. Rome had turned a deaf ear even to the despairing cry of the Eastern Church.

The League was to hold its first council at Bâle, and subsequent ones in different countries. Its statutes are worth noting; they are drawn up on much the same lines as those of the present-day League of Nations.

When the plans of the League were sufficiently advanced to be put into effect it was found that the forces against it were too powerful. Rome would have none of it, and France, though friendly to the scheme, chiefly out of antagonism to Rome, held back in the end, leaving the King of Bohemia with none but his neighbour, Poland, to support him. That the League should have failed of its purpose is regrettable. It was a genial idea. That it originated in Central Europe and that it gained the adherence of nations farther removed from Western influence is of lasting importance, for it seems to have given a definite direction to a group of Central and Eastern European Powers. Perhaps this direction was subconscious in King George's mind; he may have been actuated only by his desire for peaceful reconstruction behind a united front towards an eastern enemy. However this may be, the idea did not die with George Podiebrad, but has had two revivals, of which I hope to tell you something in time.

George Podiebrad, according to Lützow, has always remained, next to Charles IV, the sovereign whose memory the Bohemians treasure most. Bohemia's great historian, Palacky, gives to this King a place of honour among the rulers of his country which is only equalled by that assigned to the great Luxemburger. His last years were clouded by the increasing distressful state of Europe, by a painful illness, and by the faithlessness of his one-time friend and ally, Matthias of Hungary. This latter had broken with King George, and had carried war into the lands of the Bohemian Crown, and though defeated and driven out of Moravia, still held several towns in that country. This seems to have served Matthias Corvinus as a pretext for disputing the claim of Vladislav to the throne of Bohemia. There was also another claimant with a certain following, namely, Duke Albert of Saxony, but in the end the crown remained with Vladislav of Poland, who then made his way to Bohemia, and entered Prague on August 19, 1471.

I like to conjure up a picture of the reception given to Vladislav by the good people of Prague. Vladislav, coming from Poland, would probably enter by the gateway where now stands that beautiful "Powder Tower," built under his ægis; I have already pointed it out to you. There he would be received by all manner of "grave and reverend seigniors," among them, of course, the doctors of the University, who, I gather, presented Vladislav with a "neatly bound and printed copy of the Bible, so that he might read it and direct himself and his subjects according to the Will of God": thus writes the chronicler. The good citizens of Prague were evidently pleased to welcome Vladislav, so we can imagine him, three days after his entry into Prague, moving, amidst popular rejoicings, to the Hradšany for coronation. A glittering pageant, no doubt, as it moved along under the shadow of the Church of Our Lady of Tyn, past the Old Town Hall, where the man to whom he owed the throne, George Podiebrad, had been called to rule Bohemia. Then along the Karlova Ulice, under the tower built by Wenceslaus, and over the Charles Bridge up the steep slope of Castle Hill.

I cannot imagine that the aspect of the Mala Strana which Vladislav got while proceeding to his coronation was very different from that of to-day. The Bridge Street on the left bank was possibly narrower and ill-paved, but I am certain that the general aspect of arcaded houses was much the same as it is to-day. I cannot imagine the Mala Strana changing very much, nor will you when once you have seen it. Though many houses, palaces and churches have been rebuilt or added, I should say that the Mala Strana has always preserved a certain independence, a conservative aloofness, from other quarters of the capital. From little glimpses, from snatches of conversation and chance remarks, I am inclined to the idea that the aborigines of the Mala Strana, while admitting the existence of other parts of Prague, such as the Old Town, yet do not consider them quite fit to associate with. There must be in the quaint little backwaters of Mala Strana a certain indigenous type which considers it bold and venturesome to cross the Charles Bridge, a proceeding smacking of foreign travel.

The block of buildings including the tall Church of St. Nicholas, which fills up the middle of that irregular place, the Mala Stranské Naměsti, or Place of the Small Side, would be new to Vladislav were he to repeat his progress to-day. There was a church—a very old one—on this spot, dating back to the thirteenth century; it is said that the martyrs of 1621 communicated here in utraque on the morning of their execution. The tall, imposing Church of St. Nicholas replaced the older edifice—a typical monument this of Jesuit pride of conquest over the fallen National Church of Bohemia. Seen from my terrace, the copper dome of St. Nicholas, its tall and slender campanile, stand up dominant over sleepy red-tiled roofs where linger memories of much earlier days. It is indeed a splendid building, this master-work of Ignatius and Kilian Dienzenhoffer. I must admit this, little as I admire baroque and for all my loathing of the spirit of triumphant intolerance and bigotry which informed the builders of this great monument to the enslavement of a nation's soul.

In former years, before the war, there stood here in the narrowest part of this place, a monument to another triumph over Bohemia's freedom, a monument to Field-Marshal Radecky, whose figure was supported by types of Austrian soldiery of his time. This monument has been removed—destroyed, I believe, by the Pragers when they regained their freedom in October 1918. The removal of this monument leaves a blank, not a sentimental one, merely an artistic one, and has led to an unexpected and probably undesired effect. It has given undue prominence to a little building that stands some way up the place, a building of strict utility with no pretensions to architectural consideration, a building which now stands out exposed as it were, trying to hide its confusion under a mask of gaudy advertisement posters.

The singularly characteristic houses on the north side of this square, with their deep arcades, were probably rebuilt or renovated in the seventeenth century; they must be of considerable antiquity, for one of them, a corner house called "Montagu," has its place in history. The name, by the way, is not derived from the Italian, but from the simple German Montag, Monday; and it has by way of embellishment a Slavonic suffix. It was in this Montagu House that the discontented members of the Bohemian Estates were wont to meet in 1618, and here they hit upon the bright idea of throwing the two lieutenants, go-betweens or whatever they were, of their Habsburg ruler, out of a window. So here on this Mala Stranské Naměsti you may see the very spot from which the War of Thirty Years started.

This Mala Stranské Naměsti is divided into an upper and a lower part by the block of buildings I have already mentioned. The palaces all round here are probably different of aspect from the burgher houses which stood here before the baroque irruption of the seventeenth century, so Vladislav on his way to coronation would have been greeted by a homelier sight; neither could he have seen the plague memorial. The plague commemorated visited Prague in 1715; the man who committed this pyramid, dedicated to Holy Trinity, was one Giovanni Battista Alliprandi, an Italian architect, but not of the Renaissance spirit. This peculiar group of sculpture fails to impress me; the figures, of saints, I believe, are not convincing; they are seen holding emblems of piety, but only for decorative purposes, not as if they in the least knew what to do with them; one or other would have appeared much happier with a knife and fork.

Vladislav's farther way would take him up that steep road that leads past Strahov out into the country. It was formerly called the Street of Spurs, I believe; it has since been named Nerudova Třida, after John Neruda, the father of Bohemian literature, who spent his early days here. This street has rather a reputation for mild-mannered men of letters and lights of learning, patrons of art and science. There was, for instance, Baron Brettfeld, who entertained young Mozart, da Ponte and Casanova. But all this happened well after the days of Vladislav of Poland, King of Bohemia, who wound up by the narrow streets of Prague's Mala Strana to his coronation on the Hradšany. The Royal Castle had not been regularly inhabited by royalty for nearly a century, and as Vladislav chose to make it his residence, he found much to do in putting the place in order. The part that still shows strong traces of Vladislav's work is beyond the view from my terrace. You may recognize it some way off by a number of heavily mullioned windows in contrast to the very plain setting of the endless rows of other windows all along the front of the castle buildings. This palatial part of the castle—it is that nearest to the cathedral—was begun by Vladislav as soon as he had settled down to his kingship, and was finished in 1502. The chief feature of this building was a vast hall, which you may see still. It has suffered, of course, has been damaged by fire and also by restorers; just at present some archæologist is at work upon it, and he is, I believe, discovering all sorts of beauties in the decorative Gothic style peculiar to this King of Polish descent and exquisite taste. It seems to me that Gothic in Prague is of finer spiritual quality than the German variant, is of that noble sincerity of which you find many instances in France, in several examples in Portugal, and when it became decorated, never went into the excesses of the Manuelesque style such as you may see it in old Lusitania. Successive Habsburgs who followed on these Polish rulers of Bohemia, Vladislav and his son Louis, benefited by the magnificent work which these two scions of the Royal House of Jagoilla left to posterity. Louis, we know, was drowned just after the battle of Moháč, and the short-lived Polish dynasty made way definitely for Kings of the House of Habsburg. Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria, having married Anna, daughter of Vladislav II, laid claim to the throne of Bohemia. He was not alone in this ambition; in fact, there was a greater number of aspirants to the vacant seat than there had ever been before—thirteen in all, among them Francis I of France. However, Ferdinand secured the throne, and reigned as King of Bohemia right royally it would seem. His coronation took place in the great hall built by Vladislav, and the solemn ceremony was followed by a tournament, also held in the same hall—a tournament on horseback, mind you, and ending up with a mêlée in which thirteen knights a-side took part. There was a banquet too, and the waiting was done by squires on horseback. A great ball brought the festivities to an end. The great fire in Prague in 1541, which destroyed all the State documents, may have been the one which also did much damage to Vladislav's great hall, and Ferdinand's restoration of the same probably did something towards impairing its original beauty. We have reason, however, to be grateful to this Ferdinand, first of the name, for another building which graces the neighbourhood of the Hradšany. This is the Belvedere which stands at the far end of a lovely garden called the Chotkovy Sady. Ferdinand built this Belvedere for Anna, his Queen, with its airy loggias, its wrought architraves and long domed roof. It is one of the most beautiful works of early Renaissance spirit that I have ever seen. All honour to its architect, Giovanni di Spazzio.

Ferdinand I proved to be no such moody bigot as his brother Charles V, yet he was bent on stemming the tide of Protestantism, the floods of which flowed over from the Germany of Luther's way of thinking to mingle with the growing religious sects in Bohemia. This was not done without torture and bloodshed, so the Hradšany witnessed the sufferings, under the rack, of Augusta, the Bishop of the Unity of Bohemian Brethren, and the execution of several prominent citizens of Prague for defying royal authority in matters of conscience. Ferdinand, on the abdication of his father, succeeded him as Emperor, and left his son Maximilian to rule his turbulent Bohemian subjects. Maximilian stands out in history as a picturesque figure, but I cannot see that he did Bohemia any useful service. The fact that he had inherited the old dominions of the House of Habsburg, Upper and Lower Austria, and was also King of Hungary, kept him away from Bohemia a good deal. He called occasionally upon the Diet of this his richest possession for support against the Turks. The Diet thereupon called for religious freedom, and no interference with their spiritual affairs. The discussions that ensued seem to have led to no results. So we find one Habsburg after another on the throne of Bohemia, trying to coerce its people, and each one reducing the country to a state of greater discontent and disorder, until the crash came in 1618, when King Matthias had roused the Bohemian Estates to such a pitch of desperation that they proceeded to the act which precipitated the Thirty Years' War.

The Hradšany did not see much of Matthias, whereas his predecessor on the throne of Bohemia, Rudolph II, lived in the Royal Castle as a matter of habit. True he was dethroned occasionally by his younger brother Matthias, and no doubt Rudolph as King was hopelessly ineffective. He was probably rather mad. Nevertheless, a certain amount of interest can be drawn out of this Habsburg's connection with Prague, and the Hradšany can show you some traces of his peculiarities. So, for instance, you will find a quaint little alley of tiny houses scooped out of the stout north wall of the castle to eastward of St. George's Church.

Rudolph was unmarried; perhaps it was this fact that enabled him to waste money on all sorts of hobbies instead of going to his office with his little black bag and behaving generally as a "weel tappit" husband and king would do. Rudolph's hobbies were alchemy and astronomy. The chief object of the former extremely inexact science seems to have been to make gold by the synthetic process. Any charlatan who came along with a declared conviction that he could produce gold was welcomed by the King. It was for these his guests that Rudolph prepared those tiny dwellings in the narrow alley called "The Alchemists" or the "Gold Makers." They are snug, those tiny dwellings, so small that you should be able to open your front door without getting out of bed; you look down out of the deep embrasure of your window on to the tree-tops in the "Stag's Moat." The height of the wall from your window to the ditch does not invite you to try a leap by way of escape, so Rudolph's alchemist guests had to produce something or suffer from the King's displeasure. This, for instance, happened to two gentlemen from the British Isles, Dr. John Dee and Mr. Kelly. Both these visitors were going to supply Rudolph with wonders of alchemy, gold in profusion. They failed to give satisfaction, and were imprisoned—another injustice to Ireland! Did the fairy chorus that thrilled the listeners at the foot of Dalibor's strong dungeon chant that plaintive cry, "Has anyone here seen Kelly"?

Another of Rudolph's hobbies was astronomy, and he certainly assembled some eminent scientists in that line about him. Prominent among these lights of learning was one whom I have already mentioned, Tycho de Brahe. It appears that this turbulent scientist had made his own country, Denmark, too hot to hold him; he and his family were practically exiled from home, and in his wanderings Tycho turned to the Court of Prague, was kindly, generously entreated by King Rudolph, and no doubt did good work in return. You may see Tycho's effigy over his tomb in the Tyn Church; you may remark that his effigy shows little trace of a nose to his face. Tycho went without one for many years, as he lost his when young, in a duel. Keppler was also one of Rudolph's guests, a man of very different calibre, and certainly one of the most eminent astronomers of all times. There were, no doubt, any number of lesser lights in that line during those quaint old days when men turned to the starry heavens to learn the fate in store for them. Astronomy and alchemy were often mixed up together in those days, or rather astronomy seemed to get mixed up with one's daily life to such an extent that no princely household was complete without its pet astronomer. If things had gone a bit wrong of a morning, perhaps that "tired feeling" mixed with a touch of gout, and the evening had brought a domestic worry or two, you just walked round to your astronomer's for some indication concerning the future. After bumping about in dim religious gloom among stuffed crocodiles and such-like accessories to science of those days, you discovered your astronomer deeply engaged in describing cabalistic figures on parchment; he would raise his eyes with a far-away look, as if no henchman had hurried round a few minutes earlier to say that "the old man was carrying on something awful," your astronomer would descend to earth for a space and then at his master's command reascend to get thoroughly mixed up with the stars.

To those days of the later sixteenth century we may trace all manner of quaint customs, beliefs and observances. People were getting thoroughly into the way of thinking for themselves instead of believing what they were told, and they started many ingenious conceits whereon to pin their faith or perhaps strengthen it. I do not know that those quaint conceits were particularly helpful; personally I could not derive comfort from a belief popular in Bohemia, that King David sits in the moon playing on the harp. My sympathy would go out too strongly for my own comfort, towards David evoking melody in such a lonely spot, far from all his lady friends; I might even imagine him sighing for Saul's hurtling javelin to break the monotony. To these days belongs also the institution of the rosary by Pope Gregory XII, in memory of the victory of Christendom at Lepanto in 1571. The rosary was indeed known as early as the eleventh century, but not in universal use.

While Rudolph was busy with his alchemy, astronomy, and, I am happy to say, with literature as well, he resided in the Hradšany most of his time, and so the Mala Strana enjoyed all the amenities of a Court, the "certain liveliness" that pertains thereto having shifted from the Old Town to the left bank of the river. I have sought vainly for something interesting in the way of local colour, but can find nothing that even suggests the ingerence of a "fardingale" into the local history of Rudolph's reign. Instead of the gentler influence, I find only descriptions of swashbucklers, lackeys and bottlewashers, "ruffling" it in imitation of their masters. Here again we have indication of Italy's refining influence, a new invention which came rapidly into vogue, and unlike most of them, came to stay—the facciolette. What though the roystering pseudo-gallant had no shirt to which he might attach a fine collar, he must have his "facilet," as the chronicler spells it—in short, a handkerchief. Then again the tooth-pick came in for serious observation; it was considered an outward and visible sign of internal creature comfort, and was worn behind the ear when not in action. Tooth-pick practice is still going strong in Prague.

By way of attributing something good to Rudolph, I will make him responsible for a garden, said to have been very beautiful, which occupied some ground at the higher westward end of the "Stag's Moat." Here was a pleasance, where gallants and fair ladies disported themselves and watched the antics of wild animals. It was in this garden that Schiller placed the little drama he describes in Der Handschuh. Schiller gives the Spanish version of the story, where the gallant smacks the lady's face with the glove he had retrieved for her from among the lions, and then struts away for evermore. Romantic, but ill-tempered, whereas the local version here is that the gallant married the lady—perhaps she became insistent; anyway, a useful if commonplace ending.

I gave you an instance of Rudolph's statecraft in that little matter of the "Passauer," and am not inclined to give you any more. His doings and those of his Habsburg successors brought so much suffering to Bohemia and Prague that I would rather be excused from giving any account of them. We have heard of Rudolph's brother Matthias, and how under him the strain put upon the people of Bohemia grew too severe, and how the Estates cut the Gordian Knot by throwing the King's lieutenants out of a window on the Hradšany. They happened to fall soft, on a midden, and got away unhurt. As a diplomatic action, this measure taken by the Estates lacked finesse, but it had one advantage over the usual diplomatic transactions in their devious course, that it was direct and final in its effect, namely, to precipitate a great devastating war, and to leave Bohemia hopelessly enchained for close on three centuries.

We have seen the "Winter King"[1] pass this way with his English wife, pause here to be crowned, and then after a short year's reign, fly from the country that trusted him when his army and the cause he was called upon to stand for went under in a sea of blood on the White Mountain. It is only about an hour on foot to the battlefield where the army of Protestant Bohemia, after retiring before the Imperialist host, made its final, fatal stand. After all, Frederick's short reign was only an interlude: the hand of the Habsburg had closed over Bohemia when Ferdinand I ascended its throne in 1526 by virtue of his marriage with Anna, and also, as I have said, by the free use of Austrian gold; and the victory won by Charles V at Mühlberg in 1547 had almost crushed the cause of Protestantism out of existence.

The battlefield where the independence of Bohemia was lost in November 1620 lies on a plateau, as background to which stands a peculiar building. Surrounded by a park and overlooking undulating country stands the "Star." It is a former royal hunting-box, built several centuries before the battle and planned as a six-pointed star. It has no architectural beauty; it is in appearance a somewhat ungainly landmark and must have been pretty uncomfortable to live in, even for the less exacting royalties of the Middle Ages, but it stands on what, for the Bohemian, should be holy ground. The forces of the Holy Roman Empire, aided by Bavarians and Spaniards, were arrayed against the army of Frederick, the "Winter King," which stood for religious freedom. Perhaps the Protestant forces were not united, they were composed of Czechs, Moravians, Germans and Hungarians, perhaps that their King had left them somewhat hurriedly, at any rate the spirit of the old covenanters, Hus and Žiška, no longer informed the Bohemian Army. The first to break were the Hungarians, and the conduct of the others was not up to tradition; only a small force of Moravians under Count Šlik refused to yield. They took their stand against the wall of the Star Park, along which the dead at some places lay ten or twelve high, according to contemporary writers.

Then the Jesuit-ridden Habsburg entered Prague and laid his heavy hand on all Bohemia, almost to the undoing of its people. But it is a wonderful thing, that power of a strong race to survive treachery and oppression until the time comes when it can reassert itself.

There are many accounts of this battle, most of them obviously biassed, so, for instance, the Imperialists declare that victory was won in the space of an hour, whereas Bohemian historians say that the fighting continued without a break from morning till late afternoon. The Imperialists ascribed their victory to the intervention of Our Lady. Some fifty years after their defeat the Bohemians erected a church and monastery to St. Mary on the White Mountain. You may see this church, looking somewhat dilapidated—I should say ashamed of itself—as it stands there a monument to the Bohemian nation's self-abasement.

We have witnessed the sequel to the defeat of Bohemia on the White Mountain, the execution of Bohemian nobles and other leaders on the open space between the Old Town Hall and the Church of Our Lady of Tyn. In the words of Gindely the historian: "These melancholy executions mark the end of the old and independent development of Bohemia. Members of the most prominent families of the Bohemian nobility, eminent citizens and learned men, in fact all the representatives of the culture of the land, ended here, and with them their cause. The destiny of the country was henceforth in the hands of foreigners, who had neither comprehension of nor sympathy with its former institutions."

CHAPTER XII

OU will, I hope, agree with me that a man who sits upon a terrace and writes about the things he sees and what he thinks about them is entitled to bring his observations to a close whenever he considers it fit to do so. That point is now within reach. From the first I warned you that this is not a guide-book, and therefore not under the obligation of giving you a full and detailed catalogue of all the sights of Prague and how to see them. There is little more that I propose to tell you, it being my object to entice you out here to see for yourself. I will wait for you on my terrace, if you like, and while waiting will cast a final glance round the scene that has, I confess, acquired a strong hold of me.

The Hradšany, seen on a dull, chill day, always recalls to me what I have read about those days since the Bohemians lost their all on the White Mountain, until they broke free again only a few years ago. On dull days the long, plain, featureless walls of the Hradšany seem the very expression of life under the later Habsburg Kings of Bohemia. They were, on the whole, worthy, well-meaning sovereigns, their chief trouble being, it would seem, a hereditary incapacity for seeing any point of view but that to which their forbears, Jesuit-trained, and of limited outlook, had educated them. They were quite impervious to new ideas, very tenacious of old ones, and fully convinced of their own divine right. The Habsburg line of policy towards Bohemia was laid down by Ferdinand II—or shall I say for that monarch?—at the Te Deum sung in St. Stephen's Cathedral, at Vienna, to celebrate the victory of Rome over Bohemia's religious freedom. It would seem as if the King had moulded his policy on the text of the sermon preached by Brother Sabrinus, the Capuchin friar, on that occasion: "Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; Thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel." In carrying out this policy the King of Bohemia was ably assisted by the Jesuits. This congregation had been introduced into Bohemia by a former Ferdinand whose acquaintance we have made; the Jesuits had therefore stores of useful local knowledge at their command when they set about complementing the material victory won on the White Mountain by a spiritual conquest. The first thing was to re-establish Roman ritual, and the church chosen for this act was St. Martin's-in-the-Wall, where, as I have told you, the Sacrament was first given in both kinds by Jacobelius in 1414. Then it was thought fit to remove the statue of King George Podiebrad from the west front of the Tyn Church. The effigy showed this national hero pointing with his drawn sword towards the chalice above his head, of which he had been such a valiant defender.

Then followed persecution, exile, imprisonment and corporal punishment, in addition to the turmoil and sufferings of the Thirty Years' War. Ferdinand's father-confessor was a Jesuit, Lamormain, and under the latter's guidance Bohemia was being brought back to the fold, while elsewhere in Europe men like Tilly and Waldstein, whom Schiller preferred to call Wallenstein, were taking their part in the Catholic Reformation, with striking results, the sack of cities and the devastation of whole countries.

After the Catholic Reformers had seen to it that the leaders of the movement towards religious liberty had been put away, they set about bringing the Bohemians back to Rome in their own ingenious way. We have seen that among other remedies against heresy they introduced, or perhaps re-introduced, a national saint, John Nepomuk, had him canonized and an effigy of him set up on the Charles Bridge; this effigy was followed by many others, among them that of Loyola. Each pillar of the bridge that Charles built is crowned by the effigy of a saint or groups of saints, with most of whom, I regret to say, I am not acquainted. There are, however, some old friends—Saints Ludmilla, Wenceslaus, Cosmas and Damain, and Adalbert—who are intimately connected with the story of Prague. There is no denying the fact that these groups of statuary give a unique touch to the massive beauty of the Charles Bridge, but they do not appeal to me as works of art; this is probably due to my own shortcomings. To my thinking, the statue of St. George, which stands close by the south entrance to the cathedral on the Hradšany, is worth the whole collection on the Charles Bridge. This statue, the work of the brothers George and Martin of Aussenburk, was ordered expressly by Charles IV; it is an absolutely faithful representation of a knight's armour as worn in the fourteenth century. For the rest, the statuary on the bridge was not run up in the space of a few years; the work extended over about two centuries.

The first step taken towards an outward display of regained power was the destruction by the Jesuits of that old church which stood on the Malá Stranské Naměsti, in which, as I told you, the martyrs of 1621 partook of the Sacraments on their road to execution. The Church of St. Nicholas then reared its stately pile out of the medley of quaint old roofs and dormer windows immediately below my terrace. There were changes going on among those sleepy houses too, for the victory of the White Mountain and the Imperialist successes in the Thirty Years' War had brought to Bohemia a swarm of foreign adventurers, officers in the Emperor's armies, who acquired the property of exiled Bohemian nobility and set about building palaces for themselves. They are interesting too, these palaces in Prague, and some of them have beautiful gardens, as those of Fürstenberg, Lobkovitz, Schoenborn and Waldstein. The latter palace has, indeed, more than ordinary interest on account of the strange man who built it.

Albrecht of Waldstein was a Bohemian noble of no very high degree, and belonged to a Protestant family. He seems to have had no great learning, but turned when he arrived at man's estate to the dark sciences, more especially astronomy, and from the study of this science he hoped to look behind the veil of the future and read his fortunes in the stars. He rose, no doubt on account of his ability, to high command, to a position of more real power than that of his imperial master. He amassed a vast fortune, and built himself a huge palace in Prague—from my terrace I could point to you its long line of roofs. To build his palace a number of smaller houses had to be pulled down, some twenty-three in all. Then Giovanni Marini, with his Italian and Dutch architects and landscape gardeners, set to work and built up this regal abode of gigantic proportions, a place as vast as Waldstein's ambition and dreams of power and conquest. For all he was of Protestant faith originally, Waldstein had as patron saint St. Wenceslaus, to whom he built a beautiful chapel in his palace. There are gardens and fountains, a Sala terrena, said to be the largest in Europe; there are magnolia-trees as old as the palace; there is a bower of black old yew-trees screening the space where this warrior-statesman received the ambassadors of kings who sought alliance with him. There is an uncanny air of desolation over all this vast demesne, an air of unsatisfied ambition, of vain striving and infinite sadness of remorse. I can picture to myself Waldstein pacing along that alley of clipped trees, now overgrown, scheming and planning. I am sure he was one of those whose vision showed to them the endless possibilities of power wielded from Prague as capital of a great Central European State, that he was of one mind with George Podiebrad, Charles IV, Přemysl Ottokar II, Libuša, and I will even include that Frankish adventurer, Samo. But Waldstein had to reckon with a Habsburg Emperor, King of Bohemia. The negotiations that his generalissimo had undoubtedly been carrying on with the French and the Swedes had roused the suspicions of Emperor Ferdinand, so Albrecht of Waldstein, Duke of Friedland, was rendered harmless; he was murdered by his own officers one night at Cheb (Eger,) a place you passed through on your way from Paris to Prague.

There is a quaint old-world atmosphere that clings about the Mala Strana, in its narrow streets and under its red roofs and dormer windows, an atmosphere that suggests all sorts of good deeds done in a quiet sort of way, of simple piety and a general steady level of intellectual effort. In this, I am glad to report, some English people, or rather Britons, took part. I have already mentioned Elizabeth Weston and her epitaph in the church dedicated to St. Thomas. This church has also been restored by the Jesuits; it was probably high time, for it had been dedicated in 1316, and was occasionally the scene of a "certain liveliness" which is likely to make repairs necessary. Apart from Swedes who used to come round pillaging, this church seems to have had its private, as it were parochial, troubles, a serious one in 1510, for instance, when a fracas arose one day during service between some Bohemians and some Hungarians. A fracas was always conducted with rapiers and daggers in those days, and must have been a picturesque, if inconvenient, event. It was all about a lady too, which sounds quite likely: it was said that she was not worth all the pother: this is the sort of thing some people would say. As a consequence of this fracas several Bohemians were executed for robbery with violence, which sheds a different light on the incident, but I do not think it matters much at this distance of time.

There was a monastery attached to St. Thomas's Church, or perhaps the other way about, and the monks had a fine library. When the Swedes, quite uninvited, called at Prague and occupied the Mala Strana in 1648, their commander, Königsmark, sent his chaplain, Master John Klee, to pick up the library of St. Thomas's: the Swedes were great collectors of books. Klee remained unmoved by all the entreaties of the good monks until one of them showed him some silver spoons. Klee began to waver; some one brought out a gilt cup; Klee fell, and left the good monks with their books, just carrying off the trifling tokens they had given him as souvenirs. A little kindness goes a long way.

In St. Thomas's there is also a painting ascribed to Rubens over the altar. It looks doubtful to me, but the light was bad, and I could form no opinion as to the picture's merit. Another painting in this church gave me a thrill, a Virgin and Child, both black! I hoped that at last I had discovered a picture I had heard so much of, "The Black Madonna"—a famous picture with a stirring history. There are said to have been several "Black Madonnas" in Bohemia at one time, and that of Stara Boleslav was the most precious of them. St. Ludmilla herself had given this picture to her pious grandson Wenceslaus, who, as we know, was murdered at Stara Boleslav. Podiwin, the most trusty henchman of Wenceslaus, buried this treasure when his master was murdered. You could not well let it fall into the hands of Brother Boleslav, the hefty heathen; he would have been incapable of appreciating the beautiful legend of how the young mother, filled with anxiety on the flight into Egypt, prayed that she and her Child might be turned black while their exile lasted. The picture was found again in 1160 by a ploughman; the Saxons, on their raid into Bohemia in 1635, stole it, and Ferdinand II redeemed it and brought it back to Prague. It should be somewhere in this city. I will leave the search for it to you, when you pay your visit to Prague, which is surely inevitable now that you have read so far in this book.

A tall, very thin spire, that peers up near the mass of the Nicholas Church, reminds me of others of British race, who had their day in Prague and, I feel sure, contributed to its reputation for religion and piety. These were the Englische Fräulein, as the German chronicler calls them; this means English virgins or maidens—you cannot very well call them English misses—whose Order, founded by Clara Ward in the seventeenth century, was introduced into Prague in the eighteenth by a Princess Auersberg. I am not sure how these ladies passed their time, nor what their object was in life, but no doubt they maintained that state to which they considered themselves called, and this alone should be accounted unto them for righteousness in a gay town like Prague.

There is yet one other Briton of whom I must tell you in connection with the story of old Prague. His name is Brown, and I met him, or rather his effigy, in Vienna many years ago. To give him all his style and title, or as much as I can recollect—Field-Marshal Count Brown, but for all that a good stout Briton. He happened to serve the Empress Maria Theresia, and served her well. When her arch-enemy, Frederick of Prussia, came this way, Brown was one of those who came out to meet him; was wounded and died of his wounds in Prague. Frederick of Prussia was obliged to raise the siege of Prague, according to popular opinion forced thereto by supernatural powers. It is said that one night, just after the battle of Prague, fought some five miles out, at a place called Stěrboholy, and while the siege of Prague was still in progress, the guard at one of the gates was surprised by a visitor. He appeared suddenly coming from the city on a black horse, dressed in ancient costume and wearing, mark you, a prince's cap. He demanded right of egress, the gate was opened, and the night-rider vanished into the darkness. The next day came news of the Austrian victory at Kolin, and everyone knew that one of Bohemia's ancient champions had decided the issue of that day. The pious generally ascribe the victory to St. Wenceslaus; if supernatural agency was at work, I am more inclined to attribute this ingerence to Brother Boleslav, the hearty heathen: it was more in his line.

Those dark days passed, and a century elapsed before the Prussians came pouring in again to disturb the Pax Austriaca which held Bohemia enveloped. They came as before, over the passes and through the Gate of Bohemia at that dear little town among the pine forests, Nachod. But all this is ancient history, is past and over, and the serene atmosphere of Good King Charles's gracious days is glowing over Prague again. Old Prague, the somnolent city of centuries after Bohemia's freedom went, is regaining her place and rising to her high mission as capital of a free and independent State, the most promising of those that arose out of the ruins of the Habsburg dynasty's dominions. Old customs, no doubt, are vanishing: I have looked in vain for the bootmakers' Fidlovačka and the tailors' revels in Stromovka, the butchers' special form of annual rejoicing seems also to have fallen into desuetude. Like pious souls, as they undoubtedly are, the butchers of Prague choose an ancient and respectable church for their peculiar celebration, which, to my thinking, has a somewhat pagan savour; indeed, the profoundly learned trace the practice back to the days when Thor was worshipped in the gloomy forests of Central Europe. The church chosen by the butchers for their special ritualistic function was that dedicated to St. James, son of Zebedee. This church was originally one of the oldest in Prague; it stands in that close-packed quarter of the Old Town, near Our Lady of Tyn. The present edifice shows no traces of its earliest aspect when founded by the Order of Minorities in 1232; it has been damaged and restored until its present appearance was evolved, but it seems to have been loyally patronized by the Old Town butchers, whose bravery, we know, did much towards safeguarding the city both during the Hussite troubles and against the Swedes. Stout fellows, those old butchers of Prague; their holiday diversion, observed each 25th of July, was to dress up a goat, to carry it to the top of St. James's church-tower and throw it over into the street with "music and song," in which the goat probably joined until he arrived on the pavement below. Strenuous enjoyment on a hot summer's day, I should say, having been in personal contact with a goat myself on occasion, but I really cannot see where the fun comes in. By the aid of a map you may discern the church-tower of St. James's, but you will no longer see the goat hurtling through space. One by one these dear old customs are dying out. Nevertheless, our Pragers still enjoy life, more than ever I should say, contrasting the city of to-day with that of some ten years ago. I have touched on some of the forms of amusement and recreation you may indulge in; you will also find a pleasant social life developing among the cheery and hospitable Pragers. And there is always the river, which among its many reflections, by the way, also includes those of a very modern and rather German-looking building which stands somewhat by itself among disconnected groups of old and new buildings, near that quaint old house by the Jewish Cemetery. The building I refer to is called the Rudolfinum, after one of the unhappiest of all the Habsburgs, and served originally as an academy of music. It still fills up with sound from time to time, though not necessarily with harmony; it is the Parliament of the Republic of Czecho-Slovakia.

The present tendency in Prague is to erect handsome modern buildings all along the right bank of the river: Government offices, Ministries chiefly, will occupy them. At present the different Ministries are housed in ancient palaces dotted about the city. Foreign Affairs are controlled (and very ably too) from the Hradšany, as is only right, and here are also the offices of the Presidency and the President's official residence. The Ministry of Commerce inhabits Waldstein's Palace, that of Finance the Palace of Clam-Galas, which is well worth seeing on account of its portico. But I fancy it will be some time before all the grand plans for reconstruction and bringing Prague up to the requirements of a capital city have been carried out, and the silver river will be quite content to reflect the glorious monuments of the past for some little time longer. The river, no doubt, could tell us a deal about the chances and changes of the mortals that lived on its banks; we have seen it reflect so many events, joyous, tragic, even comic. On the whole it wears a thoroughly contented look on its shining countenance—the look of one who knows he is thoroughly appreciated. And knowing this, the river has put up with all manner of trammels which men call "regulation"; there are weirs and locks and all manner of improvements which not even Charles IV had thought of constructing for the good of his people. But then there are the islands left, and the Vltava's friends, the Pragers, come down to those islands of an evening and make music, which must reconcile the river to changed conditions. One island, that of Kampa, has already been pointed out to you; there are others. Of these, two count for our purpose, namely, of getting the best we can out of glorious old Prague. Of these two islands, one is named Žofin, which is derived from Sophie, possibly the wife of Good King Wenceslaus. Mind you, I am not at all certain about this; there is a large bathing establishment on this island, which not only recalls the cheery memory of Wenceslaus, but also that of Susanna; therefore to bring in the name of long-suffering Queen Sophie does not seem to me quite nice: what do you think? The next island is a larger one, almost in midstream, whereas Žofin keeps the right bank and has just enough space for a very pretty flower-garden, and a well-kept restaurant where you may enjoy good food and good music under the shade of the spreading chestnut-trees. The larger island is called Střelesky Ostrov, which means that it has something to do with shooting. Indeed, in years of long ago, in the days of bows and arrows, and crossbow and bolt, when archery was compulsory, this island was the rendezvous of marksmen. Being a serious concern, archery, and subsequently all manner of shooting, was put under the spiritual charge of St. Sebastian. It is very sporting of this saint to have accepted this honorary office. Here again, on this island, you may dine and drink and listen to good music. You may also shoot at glass balls with an air-gun. Ichabod!

Wherever there is a good navigable river, there you have many occasions for excursions. Steamers of all sizes, painted in the national colours of Bohemia, white and red, ply up and down the Vltava. In fact, from Prague, now that all the locks are completed, you may travel down the Vltava to the Elbe and right away to New York by water if you will—change at Hamburg.

There are walks and excursions within easy reach of the centre of the city. You take a tram—it is quite worth it, and is comparatively easy on a Sunday afternoon to anyone who has played "forward" in a "rugger" team. When buying a tram-ticket always make a sound like "pshesses" at the conductor. He will not mind it in the least; in fact, he will take special pains about punching your ticket, which, by virtue of the strange noise you made, enables you to change into another tram. The tram takes you to the outskirts, where you may start walking or just sink into a beer-garden, according to your degree of physical fitness after the journey. You will be pleased to hear that the edict of King John anent no drinks within two miles of the city has been withdrawn, so you may settle down in the Stromovka or the Kinsky Garden for the afternoon. This latter garden, by the way, is one of the most attractive features of Prague. One of the Kinskys sold it to the town, which makes the best use of it and keeps it in good order for the benefit of the public. You will also do well to visit that little château place which you will see on entering the garden. In it you will find a delectable collection of old Bohemian and Moravian costumes, furniture and household goods which will help you to realize how and why these people cling so tenaciously to all that pertains to their race.

Touching the Kinsky Garden is another one, also beautiful, called Nebozízek. These gardens are separated by a wall that descends from the top of the height down to the street below, the "Famine Wall" it is called, for a thoughtful King of Bohemia, Charles IV again, caused it to be built in order to provide work during a lean year some centuries ago. A gap in the Famine Wall, which you reach by shady winding ways, gives you a glorious and unexpected view of the Hradšany; the winding ways lead you up to the summit of the Petřin, as this height is called, where you may find an outlook tower, a church, a diorama showing a scene from the Thirty Years' War, and a beer-garden—so entertainment is provided for all tastes. There is a way down from the top of Petřin shaded by chestnut-trees, its stages marked by fourteen chapels, the Stations of the Cross, until it narrows in between garden walls over which you see Strahov and the Hradšany rising in graceful dignity out of a maze of red-tiled roofs and foliage.

Then you may wander on past Strahov and over open rolling country to the battlefield of the White Mountain and to the Star, those places of tragic memory in the history of Bohemia. It is usual to speak slightingly of the immediate environment of Prague as being uninteresting and indeed unlovely; I protest strongly against this, and that because I have traversed the fields and lanes on foot, not dashing through the landscape in a motor-car, and therefore claim to have seen the scenery round about the capital. The citizens of Prague seem to be of my way of thinking, to judge by the numbers that set out on Sundays to the heights that encompass the town on its western side. The good people of Prague enjoy their Sunday beer in the Star Park Restaurant, and take their walks abroad among the pleasant valleys that run down to the river on its left bank. From the plateau of the White Mountain you may find your way into one of these pleasant valleys, that of the Šarka. You enter it by a narrow rocky gorge, and as it has a distinctly romantic look, legend has fastened on to it and echoes a tale of Bohemian Amazons led by a lady of the name of Šarka, who was discontented with the dominance of mere man. The legend is somewhat obscure, but as the Bohemians, like other people, prefer a happy ending to their stories (they have till recently known but few in their own history), we may take it that the Amazonian ladies arrived at the natural issue out of their troubles. Amongst these rocks is an open-air theatre where concerts are given; here one glorious Sunday afternoon in autumn I was once again privileged to hear Kubelik play.

The Šarka brook trips along gaily towards the Vltava under overhanging rocks, by wooded slopes and fresh meadows. It tries to be useful in driving the "Devil's Mill"; that sinister personage seems to have started quite a number of such concerns in Bohemia. It is a pleasant little place, tucked away among rocks and trees, and its chief business appears to be the supplying of refreshments. Of the occasional rocks that jut out above the trees, one claims to be the jumping-off place of a Prague damsel who was tired of life; such places are pretty frequent in all scenery with any pretence to romance. Given a rocky eminence, you will always find that somebody or other has leapt therefrom and thus given it a name, the "Maiden's Leap" or the "Knight's Leap." It is obvious, for instance, that the Vyšehrad, the rocky eminence on which stood the first castle of Bohemia's rulers before ever Prague was built, should have a jumping-off story. A knight was imprisoned in the Vyšehrad Castle; he asked leave to ride round the castle, for change of air no doubt, when suddenly he wheeled about, put his horse at the river and leapt—of course he got safely away. Let us hope that the damsel of Prague who leapt into the Šarka Valley also fell soft and got away.

These little valleys that lead down to the river are all the more delightful as you seem to come upon them by surprise. The general aspect of the high ground above the river is that of a highly cultivated undulating country with prim and rather uninteresting-looking clusters of white-washed cottages gathered round the church-tower with its quaint bulbous top-hamper which, to my thinking, recalls the Dresden china Zwiebel Muster of one's youth, but is really supposed to be due to eastern influence. Again, from the river you see wooded slopes, cherry orchards and factory chimneys. But turning down towards the river you suddenly come upon a jolly little tinkling brook, falling over rocks that peep out of gorse bushes, winding about among lush meadows where geese chatter contentedly, and seem so far remote from broad acres under waving corn that you get the "wind on the heath" all to yourself, and feel yet farther removed from smoking factories. And even these latter blend with the landscape in a manner which English factories can never acquire. They are tucked away in cosy little valleys, and even in large groups do not disturb the harmony of the landscape. They also seem an expression of the national character, steady and hardworking, yet capable of fitting in completely with the joyous beauty kindly Nature spreads all about.

Within easy reach of Prague, with its hundred towers, are many historic places, landmarks in the story of Bohemia. Foremost among these is the Castle of Karlov Týn. It stands on a rocky spur in a wooded valley, between four hills. You catch a sudden and fleeting glimpse of it as you approach Prague from Paris by the line that runs along the winding River Berounka. If you are blessed with the healthy curiosity of the traveller in foreign parts, you will insist on a closer inspection of this lordly castle. It looks new; this is the result of well-meant restoration undertaken some years ago; it is really of great and historic antiquity.

Charles IV, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and first Bohemian King of that name, began the building of this castle in 1348 as a fitting casket for the Crown jewels and the charter of the land he loved. During the reign of subsequent Kings of Bohemia, this castle, though it passed through many of the vicissitudes peculiar to mediæval history, kept up its traditional importance in the land. It was besieged by the Hussites in 1422, and parts of it were burnt down and allowed to go to ruin. Over a century later it was restored, but suffered eclipse after the Thirty Years' War, was even in pawn for several years, and did not quite retrieve its fallen fortunes until after the coup d'etat of 1918. The deeds by which the two leading patron saints of Bohemia gained sanctity are set forth in quite well-preserved frescoes.