While on the subject of castles—and you must forgive me for rambling,—I should like to tell you about another one that stands some little way farther up the valley of the Berounka, tucked away out of sight of the railway. The history of this Castle of Křivoklát dates yet farther back than that of Karlov Týn, for we read of its restoration in the twelfth century by Prince Vladislaus I, a scion of the House of Přemysl. Charles IV loved to live here, and restored the place for the first of his four wives, Blanche of Valois. Other guests more or less distinguished visited here, some of them involuntarily; these latter were generally lodged in the Huderka Tower suitably fitted with oubliettes. Among these guests were two already mentioned, a leading religious light, John Augusta, Bishop of the Bohemian Brethren, and another less certain light, Kelly, the Irish alchemist. "Irish alchemist" has rather a racy flavour; the idea of an Irishman engaged in such pursuit suggests endless ingenuous possibilities. With Kelly was also the Englishman, Dr. John Dee, who was in like condemnation. No doubt the two were a precious pair of rogues, but King Rudolph II had asked for trouble by encouraging alchemists from all over Europe to visit him in Prague. The present-day compeers of Dee and Kelly are no doubt the self-constituted experts on politics, finance, commerce and other questions which puzzle international commissions, conferences and such-like amenities of our times. Anyway, Dr. Dee and Mr. Kelly failed to give satisfaction, and so were incarcerated at Křivoklát. A charming place it must have been when the forests were denser and shy deer tripped down to the water's edge of an evening. Charming it is still with its haunting memories that seem to linger more fondly than at Karlov Týn, perhaps because the modern renovator has not been so busy here. The quaint old corners still have an old-world, homely look which the renovator invariably destroys. Despite the trees that add deep shadows to the sombre masonry, you may yet call up visions of knights tilting in the uneven overgrown courtyard while fair ladies looked on from a balcony specially added for the purpose, and in such manner as to produce a very quaint effect of perspective. You may yet imagine yourself as one of a reverent crowd listening awestruck to bold utterance of religious truths from a Bohemian preacher in that beautiful pulpit of carved stone which still adorns the gateway that leads to the inner court. And if you have the gift of placing yourself back among those earnest seekers after truth who lived in and suffered for their faith, you will draw nearer to the real spirit of the sons of Bohemia.

And this reflection leads to yet another historic spot within easy reach of Prague, Tábor. This is a pleasant little town some two hours by rail from the capital. Seen from the railway as it stands on a gentle rise, its tall church-tower and red roofs reflected in the waters of a winding lake, it looks what it is now, a very peaceful spot. But if you go about its narrow streets you come upon many relics of the town's eventful past. It comes as a surprise to find that the side towards the south, towards Austria, descends precipitously to the River Losnice, a striking contrast to the placid lake which first greeted you. This lake was called Jordan, the city Tábor, by those who, following the teaching of Hus, ordered their lives and thoughts by Holy Writ. The Hussites under their leader Žižka, one of the ablest generals of all time, had decided to build them a city and fixed upon this site for the sake of its undoubted strategic value and its capacity for defence.

Tábor, however, takes me rather too far afield; I mentioned it for the benefit of those who study archæology; these will find interesting instances of Bohemia's fifteenth-century architecture in this the stronghold of Žižka and the followers of Hus.

In these my reflections on things seen and noted from "a Terrace in Prague" I have endeavoured to arouse your interest in this grand old city. I have pointed out to you from the terrace of my choice monuments to a glorious past, to a glowing vital history of this the capital of an ancient realm. I leave it now to you to fill in the gaps I have left, either purposely—for I want you to come here and see for yourself—or inadvertently; and I have already admitted my limited knowledge of a great subject. So come out here and choose your point of view, and carry on the reflections I have started; there is endless scope. As Lützow says: "When throwing a stone through a window in Prague you throw with it a morsel of history." This is not meant to encourage stone-throwing, a practice that meets with little appreciation here. What is meant is that there is a vast field lying before you, as you look out over the city, a field which will render you good returns for any attempt you make to cultivate it. If your outlook be academic, at your feet lies one of Europe's oldest universities; if your interests turn to architecture, this little work alone should give you some idea of the wealth of material lying here to your hand. If you are one of those rare mortals who study history for the sake of applying its moral to the conduct of the world's affairs, then you have here a deep well from which to draw inspiration. Look at those figures that rise above the heads of their fellows in the shadowy pageant of Bohemia's capital, at those whose vision carried well beyond the narrow frontiers of their country and the limitations of their age. Ottokar II and Charles IV, George Podiebrad and Waldstein, all these saw the inner meaning of Libuša's prophecy: "I see a grand city, the fame of which reaches to the skies."

Libuša's prophecy has been fulfilled, her forecast of Prague's place in the world has come true. In the days of Ottokar II, Prague held high place as a capital of a great State. Charles IV rescued this city that he loved, and made of it the rallying point of Central European culture. King George Podiebrad felt the high importance of this his native country's capital, and from it he wove his web of treaties and agreements for the betterment of Central Europe by means of his League of Peace. Dark Waldstein had formed great and ambitious plans, possibly not so altruistic as those of his spiritual kinsmen, the great men mentioned above. You have seen how one after another these giants of Bohemia saw their plans brought to nought. Ottokar II succumbed to the first Habsburger that threw his shadow over Bohemia. The successors of Charles and George Podiebrad could not stand up against the forces of reaction that beat down Bohemia's efforts towards finding herself and taking her rightful place in the comity of nations. Of Waldstein's plans and ambitions there are only dark traces, obscure indications; he, a man of penetrating vision, must have realized the possibilities of his country, and must have been bent on securing for it the place it is entitled to. But he in his turn perished at the instigation of a Habsburger. And so we see the searching light of greatness light up the city from time to time, and in almost regular intervals of a century at a time; then came heavy banks of cloud to obscure the fair prospect. The clouds have rolled away again; again bright sunshine draws out the memories of Golden Prague and raises hopes of a glorious future. This time the fate of Prague and the land and people she stands for does not depend upon dynastic considerations nor the will or vision of one ruler or another. The destinies of Prague are in the hands of a sovereign people; it is theirs to make or mar them.

Here is matter for deep study, such as will in time justify prediction. Mark also well the signs of the times as you look out over Prague, and note whether the spirit of the great departed has not returned to inform the people of Bohemia and of the lands that make up the Succession State of the old Austrian Empire, the Republic of Czecho-Slovakia.

If I have succeeded in arousing your interest, my task is completed; it is then for you to take up the tale—"From a Terrace in Prague."

INDEX