I could not fail to note that astronomers have reason for telling us that meteoric phenomena are more common on any night than would be believed by those not accustomed to observe the heavens, for I saw twelve shooting-stars within two hours.

As we went on, the lights in the public-houses became fewer, and ere long disappeared, and the silence was only disturbed by the fitful barking of dogs in the distance, and the slow noise of the wheels. Our horse dropped into a walk, and the driver off to sleep, and I was still gazing at the stars when I heard footsteps near the side of the wagon. Turning my eyes, without rising, I saw the top of a gun-barrel about two yards off, apparently resting on some one's shoulder. The sound of the footsteps woke the driver, who immediately began to quicken the horse's pace, but very cautiously, as if to avoid suspicion. The Jew seemed uneasy, and muttered a word or two in a low tone; the whip was used, the horse broke into a trot, but the gun-barrel was not left behind; I could still see it in the same place, keeping pace with the wagon.

What did it mean? One time I fancied that perhaps the hay on which I lay so innocently was but a disguise for something contraband, whereof a cunning gendarme had gotten scent. Then I remembered the landlord's desire to see a gold coin, and the Jew's curiosity as to the amount and quality of a traveller's money, and a faint suspicion of having fallen into a trap did occur to me. Meanwhile the horse trotted in earnest; the gun-barrel was left in the rear; then the whip was plied vigorously; the Jew spoke energetically; the driver jumped from his perch, picked up two big stones, threw them into the wagon, and drove quickly on again.

"There is one for you, and one for me," said the Jew to me, in a loud whisper.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The stones," he replied; "one for you, and one for me, if we are attacked."

"Attacked or not, we are three to one, and one of the three is an Englishman."

The Jew did not answer, for the footsteps were again heard approaching at a run, and soon the gun-barrel appeared once more abreast of the wagon. The driver kept the horse up to his speed, the Jew fumbled about with his feet for the big stones, and the chase—if such it could be called—continued for about ten minutes.

All at once the gun-barrel darted from the road-side towards the wagon. I immediately sat up, and found myself face to face, and but a few inches apart, with the bearer of the weapon—a wild-looking fellow, wearing a slouched cap and hunting-jacket. A faint exclamation of surprise escaped him, and, whether it was that he saw two persons in the wagon, besides the driver, or that we did not look worth his trouble, I know not, but he gradually dropped behind, and we lost sight of the gun-barrel.

A minute passed. "Now," said the Jew, "we are rid of him."

But scarcely had he spoken, than a shrill whistle sounded afar through the silence of the night, followed after a short interval by a whistle at a distance from the road.

"Quick! quick!" was now the word to the driver. "He is calling his comrades: they will be down upon us. Quick! quick!"

The Czech seemed well inclined to obey; the pace was quickened into a gallop, and, in about a quarter-hour, we came to a village, where, stopping in front of the inn, he filled the rack with clover from the wagon, and gave the horse to feed.

The place with its littery appendages looked unked, lying half in deep shadow; the door was fast, and not a light shone from the windows, cheating my hope of a cup of coffee. The Jew now sat up, talked for awhile vehemently with the driver, then said, turning to me, "We have had an escape. That fellow meant nothing good—nothing good—nothing good. A real bad fellow!"

"Was he a robber?"

"Perhaps worse. He meant nothing good. We are well out of it. I hope we shall not see him again."

We did not; and by-and-by, as we went on again, and I lay looking up at the stars, they seemed to grow dim, then twinkle strangely, and at last they disappeared. It may be that I slept, for when next I looked at the sky it was flecked by streams of rosy tints, the fields were covered with dew as a veil, and, by the timid chirping of birds, and other signs, the eye might note the preparations for lifting the veil at the approach of the sun. My sheltering cloak, my hair and eyebrows, were thickly covered with dew, cold as the brightening dawn. The Jew, similarly bepearled, lay sleeping soundly, the Czech nodded on his perch, and the horse, taking advantage of the slumber, was moving only at a sober walk.

It was not yet five when I alighted about three miles from Prague, to get warm by walking the remaining distance. The Jew took his florin with much demonstration of thanks, horse and driver roused up, and the wagon was soon out of sight.

A few minutes brought me to the Weissenberg—White Hill—a battle-field not less fatal than famous. The road is bordered by ample rows of trees; woods thick with foliage clothe the neighbouring hollows and acclivities, and on the left, sloping gently upwards, with here and there a break, rises the hill. Here, then, was the scene of which I had often read, where Frederick of the Palatinate, who had married a princess of England, daughter of James I., lost the crown of Bohemia. Not long had he worn it—indeed, some of his contemporaries called him the Winter King—when he was forced to flee, with his wife and children, among them the infant Rupert, who afterwards won renown as chief of the Cavaliers in England. Treachery, as late researches show, aided the combined forces of Ferdinand of Austria and Maximilian of Bavaria, and from that day Bohemia ceased to be an independent monarchy, and became a province of the Austrian Empire, a loss yet mourned by many, who join in the poet's lament:

Terrible, indeed, was the night that followed! And when one reads of Ferdinand's faithlessness and cruelty, his murderous vengeance on the chiefest of the conquered people, the wonder is not that Bohemia should have revolted, but that she did not reconquer her birthright.

Thoughts of the past came crowding through my mind as I paced across the ground, and presently pursued my walk. I was approaching a city remarkable in itself, and in its historical associations, but for the moment my attention was drawn to immediate objects. As I went on down the now continuous descent, the tops of towers and spires came into view in the distance below, and on either hand appeared indications that a metropolis was not far off. Early folk were opening the booths, shops, and public-houses, which, scattered among the trees, presented ere long an unbroken line on both sides of the road. Cooling drinks were set out on tables, and many a shutter invited the passer-by to Beer and Brandy, in various phrase. Now stalls covered with cherries and currants alternate with piles of bread, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and smoked sausages; and working people stop to eat their earliest breakfast. Every few yards sits a woman with a basket of fresh, tempting Semmel—fancy bread, as we should call it—most of the little loaves thickly sprinkled with poppy-seeds, dear to the native palate. And here and there stands what looks like a roomy sentry-box, painted yellow, and adorned with the Austrian blazon—an Imperial and Royal Booth for the sale of Tobacco.

Already the road is alive with vehicles, for from every lane and byepath speed dog-carts, or little wagons on two wheels, or large wagons on four wheels, all laden with tin cans of milk for the city. How the dogs pant, and the horses snort! for the driver, and his or her two or three companions, keep the animals at full speed, sparing neither lash nor voice. Long before they come into sight you can hear their shrill chatter, mingled with merry laughter, and, as they burst into view, a shout from all the others adds excitement to the race, and away they go, each trying to be first.

Half a mile farther, and I overtake many of them at the turn of the road, where the women are sitting on the bank, putting on stockings and shoes. Some remount the wagons; others walk quietly onwards, showing a neat ankle and clean white leg to the morning sun. Now the city wall frowns towards you, and, once round the turn, there is the gate—Reichsthor—a few soldiers hanging about, and many persons passing to and fro, while the curious towers of the Strahow monastery, where Rupert was born, peer above trees and vine-slopes on the right. I passed through the gloomy arch unchallenged by any of the guards, and had got some distance down the steep street, when a man made me aware that shouts in the rear were intended for me. I turned: a soldier, who had come a few yards from the cavern-like gate, was making very peremptory use of his voice, and, as soon as I saw him, he beckoned with angry gestures. I retraced my steps, but at too slow a pace to satisfy the Imperial functionary, for he turned again and again, each time with the same impatient gesture. No sooner did I come within earshot, than he cried, snappishly, "Why did you not give me your passport?"

"For two reasons," I answered, with a laugh; "this is my first visit to Prague, and I have not yet learnt your regulations; and secondly, why did you let me go by without asking me for it?"

The lounging group of soldiers laughed as this was spoken, and my questioner having led the way to his darksome den, built at the elbow of the arch so as to command both approaches, took my passport and gave me the official receipt without further parley.

As I emerged again into the sunshine, one of the soldiers said, "Do you know what? When any one goes away into the city without stopping at the guard-house, he must always come back to the gate where he entered, and give up his passport."

I thanked him for his information, and took my way once more down the street. It was just six o'clock: all the shops were open; working people thronged the footways; heavy teams toiled slowly up the hill towards the gate; the milk-folk hurried down with noisy clatter, while men wearing glazed hats and a canvas uniform swept the streets. Signs of early rising everywhere.

The peculiar features of the city multiply as you advance. High on the left, its cathedral tower springing above the rest, appears the Hradschin—an imposing mass of building in the factory style of architecture, stretching, as one might guess, for half a mile along the bold eminence, commanding the country for miles around. You can count four hundred windows. There, as every one knows, the Thirty Years' War began, by certain angry Bohemian nobles pitching two Imperial commissioners and their secretary out of one of the windows. Little did the haughty ejectors think of the consequences of their exploit—that before thirty years were over, 30,000 villages and more than a million men would be destroyed by war!

Being very hungry, I was fain to drink a draught of milk and eat one of the poppy-seeded loaves at the door of one of the little shops, looking round all the while on curious gables, panelled fronts, ancient gateways, more numerous as we descend. Lower down, we are in the oldest part of the city, among the palaces of the great nobles whose names figure in history—Kollowrat, Lobkowitz, Wallenstein, and others. Massive edifices, whereby your eye and steps are alike arrested. And on every side are narrow lanes and courts, some nothing but a steep stair, and these, winding in and out, increase the charm of the ornamented architecture, and produce wonderful bits of perspective. Such effects of light and shade, and glorious touches of colour!

Then a church crowded with carvings; old women sitting on the steps, young women and matrons going in to the early mass, of which, as the doors swing to and fro, you hear the loud notes of the organ. Then a square, and tall obelisk, and arcaded houses; and turning a corner there rises the bridge tower, strikingly picturesque. As my eye caught sight of its graceful roof and slender finials, I could not repress an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. Then through the narrow arch, and we are on the ancient bridge, looking down on the broad stream of the Moldau, flowing with noisy rush through the sixteen arches built 600 years ago; at houses, palaces, and churches rising one above another in the Kleinseite through which we have just passed, and in the Altstadt on the opposite side; at the mosaic pavement; at the gigantic statues which terminate every pier, noteworthy saints from the Bohemian calendar, chiefest among them St. John Nepomuk, who with his crescentic belt of five large ruby stars might be taken for another Orion. In no city that I have yet seen have I felt so much pleasure, or such varied emotions, as during my walk into Prague.

Then we pass under the equally picturesque bridge tower of the Altstadt, and enter narrow streets lined with good shops, and full of bustle; and after many puzzling ins and outs, we emerge into the spacious area of the Ring—a lively scene, people crossing in all directions, or sauntering under the arcades; here and there sentries pacing up and down, and small parties of soldiers, in gay uniforms, marching away to beat of drum. And above the farther houses there shoot up the two towers of the Teinkirche—one of the most famous churches in Prague—which were built by George Podiebrad. The church itself is screened by the houses; but, whenever you see those graceful towers, you recognise the site of the edifice which was one of the strongholds of Hussite preachers, and where Tycho Brahe lies buried.

More narrow streets; across the end of a market-place, and passing under the arch of the ancient Powder Tower, we enter the broad streets of the Neustadt. The Bohemian professor at Würzburg had recommended me to lodge at the Blaue Stern, so to the Blue Star I went, and asked for a room.

"Quite full," said the Kellner, at the same time surveying me inquisitively from head to foot.

Two doors off was another hotel, where the answer, accompanied by a similar inquisition, was, "Nothing empty."

A third replied, "Perhaps, to-morrow."

I began to fancy that my not having been in bed all night—boots still dusty, and a few stalks of hay clinging to my coat—might have something to do with these denials. However, hotels are thickly grouped in this quarter of the city, and not many yards farther the Schwarzes Ross, in the Kolowrat-strasse, gave me quarters as comfortable as could be wished.

CHAPTER XI.

The Hausknecht—A Place to Lose Yourself—Street-Phenomena—Book-shops—Glass-wares—Cavernous Beer-houses—Signs—Czechish Names—Ugly Women—Swarms of Soldiers—A Scene on the Bridge—A Drateñik—The Ugly Passport Clerk—The Suspension-bridge—The Islands—The Slopes of the Laurenzberg—View over Prague—Schools, Palaces, and Poverty—The Rookery—The Hradschin—The Courts—The Cathedral—The Great Tomb—The Silver Shrine—Relics—A Kissed Portrait—St. Wenzel's Chapel—Big Sigmund—The Loretto Platz—The Old Towers—The Hill-top and Hill-foot.

I had not been many minutes in my room when the Hausknecht—the German boots—brought me a printed form, in which, besides the inevitable particulars, I had to state the probable duration of my stay in Prague. For three days' residence the police authorities charge nothing, but if you enter on a fourth day you must pay two florins for a permit to reside. I escaped the tax by not having more than three days to spare.

The day was all before me, and I made haste to

Losing one's-self is not difficult in Prague—easier, indeed, than in any city I have yet visited; for the Altstadt so abounds in queer nooks and corners, narrow streets and lanes all crooked and angular, running hither and thither in such unexpected directions, or coming to a sudden stop, as completely to puzzle a stranger. Even my organ of locality well-nigh failed me in the intricate maze.

Among all these zigzags you discover the leading thoroughfares only by the busy appearance, the continuous stream of citizens going and coming, straggling all across the narrow roadway, now darting aside to escape a passing carriage, or slowly giving place to a long lumbering dray that rolls past with deafening rumble, the horses clattering on shoes with tall calkins that put you in mind of pattens. Here, too, are the best shops, displaying attractive wares behind coarse and uneven panes. The booksellers' windows exhibit a good variety of standard books, of maps and engravings, denoting the existence of a wholesome love of literature; very different from what is to be seen in the southern states of the empire. Some shops display none but Czechish books, and if you glance over the title-pages, you will discover that topography of their own country, and descriptions of the beautiful city Praha—as they call Prague—are favourite subjects with the Czechs.

There is no uniformity. Next door to a cabinet-maker's, whose large-paned window exhibits a variety of tasteful furniture, you will see a cavern-like grocery without any window, and the wares all in seeming confusion. Next, beyond, is a shop resplendent with Bohemian glass, elegant forms in ruby, gold, and azure, each one a triumph of art and industry. England is a generous customer for these fragile articles, as may be seen any day in some of the best shops in London. Then comes a sullen-looking front, with grim grated window, showing no wares, and looking as if it had not cared about customers since the days of King George Podiebrad. Then a smirking coffee-house, with muslin curtains and touches of gilding. A little farther, and there is a great open arch, running far to the rear—a beer-house—the space between the street and the bar filled with tables bearing brown loaves cut in quarters, Semmel, and corpulent sausages. Turn which way you will, you find an endless diversity.

"Glück auf!" writes up a little trader. "Here are best Coals. Radnitzer Coal." People who live on the upper floors hang a small wooden cruciform sign from their windows by a long string, low enough to catch the eye and strike the heads of those walking beneath; and on these dangling crosses, when they are not spinning round in the wind, you may read that a Dentist, Shoemaker, or Teacher aloft in his garret would be happy to supply your wants on reasonable terms.

Judging from the number of queer-looking names over the doors, Prague must be the head-quarters of the Czechs, and yet one meets comparatively few examples of the fine intellectual brow and handsome features of which I had seen noble specimens in the villages. Most of the faces struck me as of a very common cast; and as for the gentle sex, never have I seen so many ugly women as in Prague. Those of the working classes are very dowdies, not to say slatterns, in many cases; and the rows of market-women squatting by their baskets resemble so many feather-beds tied round the middle, in a flimsy cotton dress, and crowned by a red or yellow kerchief pinned under the chin. Even among the graceful and gaily-dressed ladies I saw but very few pretty faces. Perhaps I expected too much, or it might be, as I was told, that all the pretty women had gone away to the watering-places!

Surprising to a stranger is the number of soldiers, sauntering among the other pedestrians, in uniforms blue, green, gray, or white; or marching in short files at a brisk pace behind a corporal. Not once did I take a walk in Prague without seeing three or four of these little troops stepping out towards one or other quarter of the compass. What is there to be kept down that can need such an imposing force? At all events, it heightens the picturesque effect of the streets.

Stand for half an hour on the bridge and you will see, while noting that scarcely any besides boys and priests take off their hats to St. John of the five stars, how great is the proportion which the army and the church bear to the rest of the inhabitants. At times the black and the coloured uniforms appear to have the best of it. All besides may be divided into two classes—the well-dressed and the shabby—for nothing appears between the two. There are, however, but few of those very miserable objects such as haunt the streets of large towns in England.

Now a man hurries past carrying a tall circular basket filled with piled-up dinners in round dishes; now another wheeling bundles of coloured glass rods; now another with a barrow-load of bread, and many a slice will you see sold for a noonday repast. Then comes a troop of lawless-looking street-musicians; then beggars grinding out squeaky music from tinkered organs; then a girl carrying a coffin, painted black and yellow, under her arm, which bears a cross on its gabled lid. And now and then, among all these, your eye is arrested by a singular, wild-looking figure, whom you will think the strangest of all. He has lank black hair hanging to his shoulders from under a fluffy, round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat—of the fashion still worn by a few old Quakers in out-of-the-way places. He disdains a shirt, and wears a tight jacket and hosen of whitey-brown serge. He goes barefoot, walking with long, stealthy strides, looking, so you guess, furtively around. On his shoulder he carries a coil of fine iron wire, and in his hand a broken red pan or stone pitcher. Wild, however, and out of place as he looks, he is only a Wallachian plying his honest calling. He is a Drateñik—or Drahtbinder (Wirebinder), as the Germans call it—going about to mend broken pans and pitchers by binding the fractures together with wire; a task which he performs with neatness and dexterity.

I went to the Polizeidirection to reclaim my passport. About a dozen persons were waiting. To some who looked poor and timid the clerk spoke roughly, assuming beforehand a something "not regular." One might fancy that his ungracious occupation had told upon his looks, for he was the ugliest man I ever saw, and, unlike the women, who gave themselves airs in the streets, he seemed to be aware of Nature's unkindness towards him. When my turn came, he asked, "Where are you going?"

"To the Riesengebirge."

"So! But we can't sign a passport for the mountains. You must tell us the name of some town."

"Make it Landeshut, if you will; or any frontier town in Silesia."

"Can't do that. We must have some town on this side the mountains."

"I don't yet know which of three routes I shall take. Say some town nearest to the mountains. Does it make any difference?"

"Schön! You can come back here when your mind is made up." And with this rejoinder, Ugly turned away to consider a timid lady's request for permission to go a journey of fifteen miles.

There was time enough, so I strolled away to the suspension-bridge—Kaiser Franzens Brücke—which, more than 1400 feet long, crosses the Moldau and the Schützen Insel, a short distance above the stone bridge. The view midway will make you linger. On the right bank, Franzens-quai, stretching from one bridge to the other, forms a spacious esplanade, in the centre of which, surrounded by gardens, rises the monument erected by the Estates of Bohemia to the honour of Francis I. Beyond and on either side the towers and palaces are seen in a new aspect, differently grouped from our early morning view. Those of the Kleinseite, backed by the leafy slopes of the Laurenzberg, while immediately beneath your eye rests on the green sward and shady groves of three or four islands. The river rushing past to the dam makes a lively ripple, imparting a sense of coolness enjoyed by the visitors who throng the islands during the summer season. The Sophien Insel, named after the Archduchess Sophie, the emperor's mother, with its pleasure-grounds, dancing-floors, orchestras, refreshment-rooms, and baths, is the chief resort, especially on Sundays. The large ball-room was the scene of noisy public meetings in '48; the Sclave Congress was held there, followed by a Sclavonic costume ball. These islands are a pleasing feature in the view, and, with their shady bowers and the noise of the water mingling with strains of music, contrast agreeably with the matter-of-fact of the city. The Schützen Insel is resorted to by rifle companies, and you may hear a brisk succession of shots from the practice that appears to be always going on.

During the outbreak of June, 1848, the floor of the bridge was taken up, and the passage across completely interrupted for some weeks by the military. And it was to Prince Windischgratz's demonstrations during the same month that the inhabitants were indebted for an extension of their handsome quay. An old water-tower, and sundry ricketty wooden mills that stood at the end of the stone bridge, were set on fire by a shell from the prince's artillery, and the space cleared by the flames was taken into the newly-formed area.

Passing from the bridge through the Aujezder Thor, you come to the pleasant slopes and gardens of the Laurenzberg, a hill that overlooks the city and country around. Winding paths agreeably shaded lead upwards, until you are stopped on the summit by massive fortifications; the great "Bread-wall," or "Hunger-wall"—for it is known by both names—which Karl IV. built all round the city five hundred years ago to give work to the citizens in a season of distress. From a buttress which projects clear of the trees, that cover all the hill-side with a broad mass of foliage, you have a wide prospect. Greater part of the city from the Jews' quarter to the Wissehrad lies beneath the eye as a panorama. The Moldau—breaking from between low hills, with here and there a Kahn floating, or a long, narrow raft drifting to the gap in the dam—flows past in a grand curve between towers and palaces, wretched hovels and stately churches, and onwards round the hills below to join the Elbe. The islands are open as a map, and you see the puffs of smoke from the rifles on the Schützen Insel. It is a striking but disappointing view, for notwithstanding the ancient gables and various towers that shoot aloft, the city has somewhat the aspect of a collection of factories, so monotonous are the long lines of white, many-windowed wall, bearing their long slopes of bright red roof. Street after street stretching away, all of the same character, and scattering on the outskirts into a tame country, cruelly disappoint your expectations of the picturesque. Here and there are large patches of green among houses, and rows of poplars shooting up. Yet, after all, there is something in the view which makes you linger. In some of its architectural forms and features it partly realizes your mental pictures of the East, and your imagination flies back to the remote days when the Czechs left their far-away home towards the sunrise, and wandered on till their leader, looking down from the hills on the valley of the Moldau, determined that here should be the seat of his empire. I sat for an hour on the rough coping of the buttress looking down on the scene, while the leaves rustled cheerfully in a cooling breeze, and the sunbeams glistened and flashed from a thousand windows, and gilded weathercocks, and the lively ripples of the muddy stream.

If inclined for a quiet stroll, you may wander among the trees and rocks on the crown of the hill, or visit the church of St. Lawrence, from whom the hill takes its name. From the highest summit, in very favourable weather, it is possible to see St. Georgsberg, near Raudnitz, and peaks of the Mittelgebirge and Riesengebirge—mountains on the Saxon and Silesian frontier.

On coming down from the hill, I prowled for awhile about the Kleinseite, where, besides the antiquities and rare old palaces, you are struck by the number of schools and institutions for education. Strange groupings indeed in this quarter of the city! Palaces as rich in treasures of art and literature as in historical associations, side by side with miserable hovels and narrow, crooked streets, where poverty lurks in rags and squalor. Little bits of architecture, that are a delight to look on, catch your eye in unexpected places, peering out in some instances from among things that delight not the eye. But the schools are close by, and innovation creeps slowly on though few perceive it.

You may mount to the Hradschin by some of these byeways, where you will see how many windows have inner gratings, and how here and there the prison-like aspect is relieved by plants and flowers that screen the iron bars; and by these signs may you know where honest poverty dwells. In the Hohler Weg and Neue Welt you have specimens of the Rookery of Prague. At length, after many ins and outs and bits of steep stair, you find yourself on the terrace in front of the Hradschin, and you will be tempted to pause on the steps and survey the view across the house-tops.

The mass of buildings here is large enough, and shelters inhabitants enough to form a town. It includes a royal fortress—the archbishop's residence—a nunnery and monastery, a penal reformatory, besides lodgings of the official functionaries.

A considerable portion of the huge pile is now used as barracks for infantry and cavalry, and things military abound within its courts. There are sentries on duty, and soldiers off duty lounging about the guard-house, while their muskets lean against a rail painted black and yellow. But you pass unchallenged, and while crossing the quadrangle may see the word SALVE in large characters in the pavement.

In the third court you come to the cathedral, an unfinished edifice dedicated to St. Vitus, still showing marks of Hussite mischief, and of the Great Frederick's cannon-balls. It covers the site of a church built in 930 in honour of the same saint by Wenzel the Holy—he who planted the first vineyard in Bohemia, on the eastern slope of the Hradschin hill. The foundation-stone of the present structure was laid by Charles IV., during the lifetime of his father John; and although the building went on for forty-two years, it was never completed. In 1673 Leopold I. made an attempt to finish it according to the original plan; but he did nothing more than build a few columns in different styles, which stood in the fore-court until 1842, when they were pulled down, as the beginning of a new effort for completing the structure. Stimulated by the zeal of Canon Pesina, a Prague Cathedral Building Union was founded, with Count Francis Thun for chief; and preparations were made for the work, and for raising a million florins to pay for it, when the troubles of 1848—fatal to so many hopes and noble purposes—put a stop to the proceedings.

If the outside disappoint you by sundry additions and contradictory ornaments, which spoil the pure effect of the original Gothic, you will find cause enough for astonishment inside. At the western end of the nave stands the richly-carved mausoleum, erected in 1589 by Kollin of Nuremberg, at the cost of Rudolf II. It is of Carrara marble, and in magnitude and beauty of sculpture may well vie with Maximilian's tomb in the Court Church at Innsbruck. Royal dust is plentiful in the vault beneath, for therein lie, besides Rudolf himself, Charles IV. and his four wives, Wenzel IV., Ladislaus Posthumus, George von Podiebrad, Ferdinand I. and his wife Anna, Maximilian II., and the Archduchess Maria Amelia, who was buried in 1804. From admiring the manifold carvings, which show the touch of the true artist, you will perhaps look next at the tomb of St. John Nepomuk, on the right near the altar. Surely no other saint, or living bishop, even in this age of testimonials, ever had such a service of plate presented to him as that! It is a small mountain of silver. On high, silver angels hold a canopy over a silver shrine, which, borne aloft by angels, life size, contains the martyr's body in a crystal coffin, set off by shining statues, glittering ornaments, bas-reliefs, and tall candlesticks, all alike made of silver. If current testimony may be relied on, there are nearly two tons of the precious metal therein dedicated to the holy Johannes. No wonder that you see the saint's statue on so many bridges in Bohemia, and even for a few miles beyond the frontiers.

The curiosities of the church are more than can be examined in a brief visit. There are twelve chapels ranged about the nave—the last fitted up as an oratory for the Imperial family. In one of them you may see the foot of a candlestick, which, according to tradition, was one of those made for Solomon's Temple, from whence it was conveyed to Rome, and afterwards to Milan, where Wladislaus I. seized the precious relic, and he brought it to Prague. At all events, the workmanship shows signs of great antiquity. And near the western end there hangs a "true image"—a head of Christ, the holy placid features showing a trace of sadness, the eyes looking at you with an earnest, though pitying expression. It is a remarkable specimen of early art; much venerated by the devout, who would soon obliterate it by kisses were it not protected by glass. A moustachioed man came up, and, taking off his hat, pressed his lips upon the sacred mouth while I was still looking at the painting.

Frescoes bordered by gems adorn the walls of St. Wenzel's chapel; and here are preserved the saint's helmet and coat of mail, a brass ring to which he clung when he fell murdered by his brother's hand, and other relics. Here also the Bohemian regalia are kept in rigorous security under seven locks: St. Wenzel's sword is among them, and with this, after his coronation, the monarch creates knights of St. Wenzel's order.

The verger gives you his cut-and-dry description; but, as he may omit to tell you a little bit of history, it would be well to remember that in this chapel the Archduke Ferdinand was chosen King of Bohemia in 1526, whereby the kingdom has ever since belonged to the house of Hapsburg.

Further concerning statues, lamps, tombs, and paintings, and the organ, with its 2831 pipes, the treasure-chamber, where, among other things, are sixteen leaves of St. Mark's Gospel in the hand of the Evangelist—the rest said to be at Venice—the trinary chapel, and the seven bells in the tower, among which "Big Sigmund" weighs thirteen tons, and the octagon chapel, and the pulpit in the fore-court, may be read in guide-books.

Go next to the Loretto Platz, and look at the palace which once belonged to Count Czernin, and at the Loretto chapel—an exact copy of the far-famed Holy House in Popedom. Or perhaps you will take more interest in remembering that in a house near this chapel Tycho Brahe made the observations from which he and Kepler produced the Tabulæ Rudolphinæ—a work well known to astronomers; perpetuating in its title the name of their munificent patron.

As old engravings testify, the Hradschin once looked picturesque when its twenty-two high-roofed towers were all standing. Of these only four remain; and in the Black Tower you may see fearsome specimens of mediæval dungeons. If those grim walls could speak, the fate would be known of some of Bohemia's worthiest, who, within a year after the battle of the White Hill, suddenly disappeared from among their families and friends, and were never more heard of.

You may end your exploration by crossing to the opposite side of the hill, and taking a view of the great range of buildings from the Staubbrücke, which crosses the Hirschgraben, and commands a prospect over the north-western environs of the city, and of the contrasts between the palace on the hill-top and the frowsy haunts at the foot.

CHAPTER XII.

The Tandelmarkt—Old Men and Boys at Rag Fair—Jews in Prague—The Judenstadt—Schools and Synagogues—Remote Antiquity—Ducal Victims—Jewish Bravery—Removal of Boundary Wires.

From the Hradschin, with its imperial associations, living and dead, to an Old Clothes Market, is a change over which you may laugh or lament, according to your mood. If you have seen Rag Fair in London, you can form a weak notion of what I saw in the Tandelmarkt at Prague on my return to the Altstadt from the palatial hill. For, besides the difference of architecture, which heightens the general effect, foreign Jews, whether in consequence of shabbier clothes or dirtier habits, have always a more picturesque appearance than their brethren in England.

What a gabble! accompanied by gesticulations so violent that you would think the traders were coming to blows. Old men bent by age, of venerable aspect and beard patriarchal, stand chaffering as eagerly for cast-off garments as if they had Methuselah's years before them in which to enjoy the proceeds. "It is naught," argues the buyer; and the graybeards whine over their frippery, and turn it about, and display it to the best advantage, and reply in a tone that extorts at last the reluctant coins from the customer's pocket.

Look at the boys! How they ply nimbly hither and thither, picking up stray bargains: adepts already in the craft of their grandsires. Look at their fathers! No whining in their traffic: but hard altercation, in which patient subterfuge proves more than a match for vehemence. Here and there, however, a cunning Czech, by sharp practice with his tongue, and a timely exhibition of his money, succeeds in carrying off a blouse or hosen on his own terms; and the Hebrew, while pouching the coins, sends after him low mutterings, which forebode ill to the next customer.

As you wander among the stalls, and push between the busy groups, noting how much of the merchandise appears utterly worthless, you will find cause enough for laughter and for lamentation.

According to the census of 1850, the number of Jews in Prague is about nine thousand, of whom nearly eight thousand are natives. Besides these, there are many resident in some of the neighbouring villages; but the number is less now than formerly. Daily perambulations of the city with the old, familiar, dingy bag on shoulder, in quest of "clo," and the trade of the Tandelmarkt, are the resources to which most betake themselves.

The place assigned for their residence, known as the Judenstadt (altered of late years to Josefstadt), is a few acres of the Altstadt, lying between the Grosser Ring and the river: by far the most densely populated part of Prague. It is crowded with houses: traversed by narrow streets not remarkable for cleanliness, and has altogether an uninviting aspect. Your sanitary reformer would here find a strong case of overcrowding: two or three families in one room, and a dozen, and, in some instances, more than twenty owners for a single house. The number of faces of men, women, and children at the windows, and the many comers and goers along the devious ways and in and out of the darksome passages, leave you no reason to doubt the fact. And in these miserable tenements dwell some of the chiefest men of the community—men appointed to places of trust and honour, who sit in the old Jewish council-house, and officiate in the synagogue.

But even here the ancient complexion and character are changing. New and commodious houses built in a few places are a standing reproach to the rest of the neighbourhood, and to the partisans of dirt. And while prying about you will hear the voices of children in sundry schools, where the teachers talk and work as if they were in earnest. Nor is spiritual culture neglected, for you will see some four or five synagogues, and a Temple of the Reformed Israelitish God's-worship.

In Prague, the manners and customs of the Jews are said to retain more of their primeval characteristics than in any other place out of Asia; the chief cause being the bitter persecutions to which the race, as everywhere else, were subjected. Some accounts assign their first settlement here to the fabulous ages of history, and make it seventy-two years earlier than that of the Czechs, or in the year 462 of the present era. And the tradition runs, that on the ground now occupied by the Judenstadt, and on part of the Kleinseite, the first buildings were erected.

In the early days the Jews lived in whatever quarter of the city suited them best; but, in consequence of many corrupt practices, Duke Spitignew II. banished them all from Bohemia in 1059. Eight years later, Duke Wratislaw II., moved to pity, granted leave for their return, though not on compassionate conditions. Besides doubling their former amount of yearly tax, they were to pay an annual fine of two hundred silver marks, to purchase twelve houses near the river in the Kleinseite for their residence, and to wear a yellow cloak as a distinguishing garment. Their number was never to exceed one thousand; but in a few years it had grown to five thousand, whereupon the surplus were banished; and, to check smuggling among the remainder, they were removed from the Kleinseite to their present quarters.

The yellow cloak having fallen into disuse, Ferdinand II. revived the regulation with sharp severity in 1561. From the Second Ferdinand (in 1627) the Jews obtained important privileges, in consideration of a yearly gift of forty thousand gulden: liberty to choose their own magistrates and judges, to establish schools, and multiply in numbers without limit. In 1648 they took a valiant part in the defence of Prague against the Swedes, and the banner won by their bravery is still preserved in the old synagogue. In 1745 they were once more banished, but had permission to return the following year. Joseph II. placed them on an equality with other citizens, and allowed them to buy land, and dress as they pleased.

In the good old times, whenever any turbulence occurred in Prague, it was always made the excuse for plundering or persecution of the Jews; and in this particular their history accords with that of their brethren in all other cities of Europe. They did but barely escape in the memorable '48. Their town once had nine gates, which were shut at nightfall; and subsequently, wires stretched across the streets, marked the boundary between Hebrew and Christian: these were removed in the year last mentioned, and have not since been replaced.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Jewish Sabbath—The Old Synagogue—Traditions concerning it—The Gloomy Interior—The Priests—The Worshippers and the Worship—The Talkers—The Book of the Law—The Rabbi—The Startling Gun—A Birth at Vienna—Departed Glory.

My second day in Prague being a Saturday, I went to see the Jews at worship in their synagogue. The Josefstadt was comparatively quiet; but few persons in the streets, and those dressed in their best; the boys carrying prayer-books, and the men with what looked like an apron rolled up under their arm. On entering the synagogue, I found that the apron was a white scarf (talis), with blue striped ends, which each man put on across his shoulders before taking his seat.

But first, a few words about the building itself. On approaching it along the narrow Beleles-gasse, you are struck at once by its appearance of great antiquity—visibly the most ancient among buildings decrepit with age. It is sunk low in the ground, down a flight of some ten or twelve steps, as if the first builders, worshipping in fear, had sought concealment. Of architectural display there is none. Walls blackened by the dust and storms of centuries, with two or three narrow-pointed windows, looking so much more like a bride-well than a temple of the living God, that not till I had seen the steady procession of men and boys to the door could I believe it to be really the synagogue.

No wonder that its foundation is referred back to days ere Europe had a history. One tradition says, that no sooner was the Temple at Jerusalem destroyed, than angels immediately set about building this synagogue on the bank of the Moldau. According to another, certain people digging in a hill which once covered the spot, came upon a portion of a wall, and, continuing their excavation, cleared away the hill, and found a synagogue built already to their hands. And, as before mentioned, there is the tradition which dates it seventy-two years earlier than the arrival of the Czechs.

It was a remarkable sight that met my eyes as I descended into the building. If the outside conveys an impression of extreme age, much more does the inside. The deep-sunk floor, the dim light, the walls and ceiling as black as age and smoke can make them, are the features of a dungeon rather than of a place of thanksgiving. The height, owing to the low level of the floor, appears to be greater than the length, and, looking up, you can easily believe that cleansing has never been attempted since the first prayer was offered. Old-fashioned brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and here and there a brazen shield on the wall. The almemmar, or rostrum, occupies the centre of the floor, and in the narrow space on either side and at one end are the seats and stools for the congregation, with numerous reading-stands crowded between. These stands have a shabby, makeshift look, no two being alike in height or pattern, as if each man had constructed his own. Hence a general look of disorder as well as of dinginess.

The doorkeeper requested me to keep my cap on; and I saw that all present sat covered. Even the officiating priests wore their hats, and in dress and appearance were in no way different from the hearers. Every man had his talis on, and was continually fidgetting and shrugging to keep it on his shoulders, and his Hebrew prayer-book from slipping off the stand. The priests walked restlessly up and down the almemmar, but whether they were praying or exhorting I could not tell, for all sounded alike to me—a glib and noisy gabble. And all the while the men on the darksome seats under the gallery kept up a murmur of talk in twos and threes, in a way that sounded very much like a discussion of questions left unfinished on the Tandelmarkt. Now and then a "Hush! Hush!" was impatiently ejaculated by one of the devout who sat near with eyes fixed on his book; but the back seats took no heed, and, though in the temple, ceased not to talk of merchandise. Very few were they who maintained a fixed attention; a ceaseless rocking of the body to and fro, as, with half-closed eyes, they went through their recitations, distinguished them from the rest.

Now and then the priests paused in their uneasy walk, drew together, and had a little bit of quiet talk among themselves, seasoned by a pinch of snuff all round. Then they separated, and one, pacing from side to side, gave repeated utterance to a short phrase, in a wailing, sing-song tone, while the others went behind the veil, and presently came forth again, one bearing what at first sight looked like a thick double roll surmounted by two silver candlesticks. It was the Book of the Law; and no sooner did the bearers appear than a cry of joy was set up by the whole assembly. A shabby wrapper and the silver ornaments were taken off, and then the sacred parchment was seen wound on two cylinders, so that as a portion was read from one it might be rolled up on the other.

The scroll was laid on the table with some formal ceremony, and the priests, unrolling a part, began to read, but in such a snuffling tone and careless manner as indicated but little reverence. After each one had snuffled in turn, the old rabbi, wearing a long gown and fur cap, was assisted on to the almemmar, and, bending low over the scroll, he read a few passages solemnly and impressively, though in a voice weak and tremulous with age: audible to all, for the talkers under the gallery held their peace. His task finished, he was led back to his seat: the roll was wound up, and, with the wrapper and ornaments replaced, was returned to its place behind the veil.

The monotonous murmur was renewed: one of the priests commenced a recitation, but he had scarcely opened his lips than the report of a cannon boomed loudly from the Hradschin, startling all within hearing, and making the streets echo again.

"Ah!" cried the talkers, "that's for the empress. Is it prince or princess this time?"

The priest halted in his recitation as the thunderous shocks succeeded—one, two, three, and so on, up to twenty-five—when, after another pause of listening expectation, "Ah!" cried the talkers again, "'tis only a princess;" and they took up once more the thread of their murmur.

Then followed more gabbling and snuffling from the rostrum; and, as I listened and looked round from face to face, noting the expression, something like sadness came over me; for were not those slovenly utterances a hopeless lamentation over the glory that had departed? Was it clean gone for ever? Did no trace remain of that solemn and gorgeous ceremonial, instituted when the glory came down and filled the house in the presence of the king, and of the Levites and singers "arrayed in white linen, having cymbals, and psalteries, and harps;" and of the people? When the king prayed, "Now therefore arise, O Lord God, into Thy resting-place, Thou, and the ark of Thy strength: let Thy priests, O Lord God, be clothed with salvation, and let Thy saints rejoice in goodness."

An hour passed, and still the recitations and murmur went on. I had seen enough, and thought, as I stepped forth into the daylight, that the cry, "His blood be on us, and on our children!" had been fearfully avenged.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Alte Friedhof—A Stride into the Past—The Old Tombs—Vegetation and Death—Haunted Graves—Ancient Epitaph—Rabbi Löw—His Scholars—Symbols of the Tribes—The Infant's Coffin—The Playground—From Death to Life.

The old synagogue and old Jewish burial-ground (Alte Friedhof) are but a few yards apart. On my way from one to the other I passed sundry groups, chiefly women, talking with animation about the interesting event signalized from the Hradschin. And more than one expressed a wish that a prince and not a princess had been born to the House of Hapsburg.

The angle of a wall, overtopped within by foliage, marks the site of the burial-ground. The doorkeeper unlocked the gate, and, passing in, I felt as if, instead of merely stepping across a threshold, a long stride had been taken back into the Past. The living world is all shut out, and you are alone with the dead—the dead of long ago.

Beth Chaim, or the House of Life, is the name in Hebrew; but there is no life save that of gnarly elder-trees, gooseberry-bushes, and creeping weeds that struggle up into a wild maze from among the overcrowded tombs and gravestones. The stones, thick and massive, are so incredibly numerous, that they are wedged and jammed together in most extraordinary confusion. Some lean on one side; some forwards, some backwards, and many would fall outright were they not propped up by others standing near. Hence all sorts of curious holes and corners, in which grow choking weeds and coarse grass, hiding the inscriptions, and producing a strange impression of neglect and decay.

With this impression comes a sense of the mysterious, heightened by the nature of the ground, which, irregular in outline and very uneven, confines your view to but a small portion at once. Though the enclosure takes up about one-twelfth of the Judenstadt, your idea becomes one of a succession of patches of tangled foliage drooping over mouldering tombs. Now the path mounts a broken slope; now dips into a narrow way between the walls of encroaching streets and houses; now enters a widening area, where the fragrant blossoms and branches of the elders droop gracefully over the ancient memorials—or comes to an end in some out-of-the-way nook. Thus you are led on pace by pace, always wondering what will appear at the next turn.

And there is something mysterious in the associations of the place. Tales are told of ghosts that haunt the tombs; unhappy spirits bringing terror and doom to the living, or goblins playing gruesome tricks. And again in its antiquity: anticipating by a hundred years the building of Prague, as proved by a date on a tombstone. No wonder that the ground is heaped high, and full of ups and downs! Thousands of Jews have turned to dust beneath the surface.

Something, however, must be deducted from its antiquity. If, as careful investigation gives reason to believe, the old synagogue was built in the thirteenth century, we may suppose the opening of the burial-ground to have taken place within the same period. The notion arose from misreading the stone, whereby one thousand was subtracted from the date. The inscriptions are in the Hebrew character, and, for the most part, deeply cut. The stone in question is inscribed:

In Elul (August) the 22nd day: lamentation ... was the ornament of our head snatched away. Sara, whose memory stands in high praise, wife of Joseph Katz, died. She was modest; and reached out her hand to the poor. Her speech was mild and agreeable, without shame or vice. Her desire was after the house of the Creator. She gave herself up to whatsoever is holy, and continued steadfast. She trained up her children according to the law of God.

One of the most remarkable tombs is that of Rabbi Löw (or Lyon)—a handsome temple-formed sarcophagus, distinguished by a sculptured lion, and the beauty of its workmanship. The rabbi himself was a remarkable man in his day; eminent for nobleness of mind and great learning; and it is recorded of him that he was honoured by a visit from the Emperor Rudolf II. in his own house. He lies here in good company; for on both sides of his tomb extends a row of gravestones, thirty-three in number, marking the resting-place of thirty-three of his favourite scholars; and not far off a taller stone shows the grave of his son-in-law.

On many of the slabs you will see curious devices deeply cut, and figures resembling a coat-of-arms. These indicate the tribe, or family or name of the deceased. There lies one of the house of Aaron, as shown by the two hands; a pitcher denotes the tribe of Levi; and Israel is signified by a bunch of grapes. The name Fischeles or Karpeles is symbolised by a fish; Lyon by the royal quadruped; and Hahn by a domestic fowl; and so forth.

All these and many other noteworthy objects will you see while wandering about this mortal wilderness; and the doorkeeper, if in the mood, will tell you many a legend, and point out the tombs of Simeon the Just, and Anna Schmiedes, concerning whom something might be said should the humour serve. No burials have been permitted since the reign of Joseph II.; and from that date, except that the path is clean, the whole place appears to have been abandoned to the influence of the seasons. Many of the stones are broken; here and there the slabs of the tombs are crumbled away, leaving large holes through which you may look and see green stains and patches of dark mould. In a dry spot at the foot of a wall I saw a bundle nailed up within rough staves of fir; it was a still-born infant in its coffin; and perhaps for such a little hole may still be dug in the ancient ground.

Notwithstanding that the backs of a few old houses look down on the graves, they fit in with the scene, and your impression of deep loneliness remains undisturbed, except in one corner, where the surface is clear and level. It is used at times as a playground for the children, whose voices you hear from the open windows of the schoolroom that encloses one side. Painter and poet might alike make a picture of childhood, full of mirth and happiness, playing in the sunshine; and in the background, all too near, the haunted tombs of their forefathers.

A few years ago the Jews, finding their quarter much too small for commodious or decent habitation, petitioned the authorities for leave to widen their boundaries, and in answer were recommended to destroy their venerable Friedhof, and build houses upon the ground. No willingness has yet been manifested to adopt the recommendation.

As on entering, so on departing, are you aware of a strange impression; from the field of death, from silence and solitude, you pass at once to the noisy life of the streets, and the spell wrought upon you by the brief saunter where sits