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 died in 1471, after having ensured the succession to the throne of Bohemia of Vladislav, son of Casimir, King of Poland. King George's reason for going outside his country for a successor instead of finding one among his own sons was his concern for the safety of Bohemia, which, he seems to have considered, would have been endangered by a scion of his own family or nation under the conditions under which he was to leave his country. He was moved towards Poland by reason of the great plan he had formed far in advance of his age, namely, that of the League of Peace.

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 Namesti, 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 Namesti you may see the very spot from which the War of Thirty Years started.

This Mala StranskÉ Namesti 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 Trida, 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 MohÁc, 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 iŠka, 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."