  A Talk with the Landlord—A Jew's Offer—A Ride in a Wagen—Talk with the Jew—The Stars—A Mysterious Gun-barrel—An Alarm—Stony Ammunition—The Man with the Gun—The Jew's opinion of him—Sunrise—A Walk—The White Hill—A Fatal Field—Waking up in the Suburbs—Early Breakfasts—Imperial and Royal Tobacco—Milk-folk—The Gate of Prague—A Snappish Sentry—The Soldiers—Into the City—Picturesque Features and crowding Associations—The Kleinseite—The Bridge—Palaces—The Altstadt—Remarkable Streets—The Teinkirche—The Neustadt—The Three Hotels. The landlord came in a few minutes afterwards, and, to encourage me to tell him all he wished to know about myself, declared himself a German. That he should ever have been so stupid as to tempt fortune at Neu Straschitz was a mistake haunting and vexing him continually. A living was not to be got in such a miserable village, and among such miserable people, and he meant to migrate as soon as he could find some one more stupid than himself to take the inn off his hands. I had seen two or three German names in the street, and asked him if they were of long standing. "Not very." And he went on to say that the Stock-Bohemians, as the Czechs are called, are perpetually encroached on, pressed within narrower limits by the German element. Though a good deal was said about Czechish vigour and intellectuality, some folk thought that the language would at no distant day cease to be spoken. After all this, mine host thought he had a fair claim on me for a sight of an English gold coin, and answers to all his questions concerning England. I was doing my best to satisfy him, when the Kellnerinn called my attention to a Herr who was going to start with his Wagen in the course of the evening for Prague; and she suggested, very disinterestedly as it seemed to me, that the opportunity was too good to be lost. Wagen is as comprehensive a word as our "conveyance:" the Herr looked like a man who might be going to Prague in a carriage, so, as he promised plenty of room, and asked no more than a florin for the twenty miles, I accepted his offer. Having yet business to settle, he went out, and promised to call for me at nine o'clock. He had no sooner left the room, than the landlord said, "He is a Jew; but you need not be afraid of him. He is a very honest fellow, and comes here often." I saw no reason to be afraid, and when the Jew came back at the appointed hour was ready to accompany him. He led the way to a back street, where we waited in front of one of the low, undemonstrative houses. Presently the big gate swung back, and out came the Wagen—one of the four-wheeled basket wagons, drawn by a single horse pulling awkwardly at one side of the The wagon was just wide enough for two; and, what with the elastic sides and soft hay, there was no painful jolting. The west shone gloriously with the golden arch of sunset as we drove out of the village and entered on a bad road winding across the open fields; and Twilight came on so softly that you might have fancied Day was lingering to lend her his palest rays. The Jew was disposed to talk, and betrayed no little curiosity on the subject of travelling. Was it not very irksome to be away from home? was it not very expensive? and how much money did one need to carry? was there no danger? and so forth. But what interested him most was the question as to the money: he returned to it again and again. Next, he had much to ask concerning London—the sort of business transacted in the great city—the rate of profit—in short, he put me through a whole social and commercial catechism, from which he drew a conclusion that London would not be an undesirable place of residence. So it went on, interrupted only by his saying a few words now and then to the driver in Czechish, until my turn came, and I opened my questioning about Prague. The Jew, however, was readier in asking questions than in answering; indeed, he was stingy in reply, as if words were worth a florin the dozen. As the stars brightened the night became cold, and set me shivering. The Jew brought two cloaks out of a bag, and, wrapped in one of these, I lay on my back looking up at the sky, thinking of home-scenes and home-friends as my eye wandered from one bright spot to another; and solemn was the impression made on me by the sight of the glorious handiwork. "For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name." 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 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 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, "Ach Gott! die Weissenberger Schlacht Erreicht wohl Ostrolenka's Trauer, Und die darauf erfolgt die Racht, Hat trÜbere als Sibiriens Schauer." 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 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 "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 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, 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 "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. |
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