Sunday Morning in Prague—Gay Dresses—Pleasure-seeking Citizens—Service in the Hradschin Cathedral—Prayers and Pranks—Fun in the Organ-loft—Glorious Music—A Spell broken—Priests and their Robes—Osculations—A Flaunting Procession—An Old Topographer's Raptures—The Schwarzes Ross—Flight from Prague—Lobositz—Lost in a Swamp—A Storm—Up the Milleschauer—After Dark—The Summit—Mossy Quarters—The Host's Story.

The streets were alive before the lazy hours approached on Sunday morning. Here and there the walls covered with handbills, red, blue, green, and yellow, presented a gay appearance. The Summer Theatre, in which you sit under the open sky and see plays acted by daylight, was open—Jubelfest! ran the announcements: Health and Prosperity to the House of Hapsburg. Music and a ball on the Sophia Island—music on the Shooting Island—music at Hraba's Railway Garden—music at the Pstrossischer Garden—music at Podol—music at Wrssowitz—music at the FliedermÜhle—a military band at Bubencz—in short, music everywhere. And everywhere "Pilsen beer, in Ice." And so the streets were alive at an early hour with citizens going to an early mass that longer time might remain for pleasure, or starting for some of the neighbouring villages, or for the White Hill, where a saint's festival was to be celebrated—all dressed in their Sunday clothes, and looking as if they had made up their minds for a holiday.

The morning is bright and the breeze playful, and the sober colours having all chosen to stay at home, there are none but the gayest tints abroad in the sunshine. Pink appears to be the favourite. Pink skirts, pink scarfs, pink ribands, pink bonnets; but no lack of all besides, and more than make up the rainbow. Not a work-a-day dowdy to be seen. Here come father, mother, and half a dozen children, the sire carrying a basket, and one or two of the youngsters a havresack, all eager with anticipated pleasure. Here half a dozen sweethearts going to make a day of it. Here a troop of lads nimble of foot, noisy in talk, and proud of their orange and purple decorations in waistcoat and necktie, while now and then a Fiaker trots past laden with a party who prefer a holiday on wheels; and always there come the eternal soldiers, rank and file, or tramping at liberty.

The spectacle is animated in the spacious area of the Grosser Ring, where the gay throngs mingle and traverse from all directions; entering or leaving the Teinkirche, where service is performed in the Czechish tongue. Striking is the contrast between them and a group of sunburnt haymakers squatted in the centre, men and women in rustic garments, gazing wonderingly around from amid many-coloured bundles, piles of scythes, and scattered sickles. They look half amazed at finding themselves in a great city, and as if fearful of ever finding their way out again.

All this and much more did I see while on my way to hear the service in the metropolitan church on the Hradschin. The steep stair-flights which, avoiding the narrow, crooked streets, lead directly up to the palace, were all a-blaze with shining silks and satins, the wearers of which were mounting slowly upwards on dainty feet in the full glare of the hot sun. Already nearly every seat in the church was filled, and as the service went on the aisles were thronged, the women on one side, the men on the other, though with exceptions. The opportunity was favourable for seeing something of the better class of citizens, for of such the congregation appeared chiefly to be. Again I looked for pretty faces along the variegated aisle, and though there was no dearth of grace and animation, I was forced to believe that the beauties had not yet returned from the watering-places. Meanwhile the service went on; three robed priests officiated at the altar, the little bell tinkled, the host was lifted up, every head was bowed, and incense floated around the cross, while the boys set to feed the censers pulled one another's hair on the sly, and played pranks in their corner.

I crept quietly up to the organ-loft when the time for music was near, and saw seedy men take their post at the bellows, and in the front seat of the gallery a row of young men and boys tuning up their fiddles. The great height prevents the twang and scrape from being heard below, and affords, moreover, opportunity for fun, for as they screw and twang they reach across and tweak ears, or prod a cheek with the end of a bow, or bend down and tell some joke which well-nigh chokes them with suppressed laughter. At last the signal is given, and as if by one impulse they strike into a symphony, in which the organ joins at times with a sonorous note. I crept down to the aisle to listen. The harmonies, at first timid, grew gradually in volume and power, till at length they swelled into glorious music that filled the whole place, and held every ear entranced. Then the organ broke out with an exulting response, and all the echoes of the lofty roof and soaring arches repeated the sound, until there came a sudden pause, in which you presently heard the faintest of tones, like a plaintive wail, from the stringed instruments. Then strength came once more to the trembling notes, and again the strains which angels might have stayed to hearken to floated through the air.

Where could such music come from? I felt constrained to go up again to the organ-loft. There sat the same boys carrying on their sports during the rests and pauses—the same seedy men at the bellows—earthly hands producing heavenly music which held the listeners spell-bound.

For me the illusion was over, and I felt curious to see what sort of men they were who in stately robes had gone through the ceremonial at the altar. Surely they would exhibit signs of spiritual life. I placed myself close to the door by which they would have to pass to the sacristy, and observed them as they withdrew. They were men of sluggish feature, lit by no gleam of spirituality, and walked as if released from a wearisome duty. And the robes which seemed rich and costly in the distance, showed faded and shabby near at hand—unworthy attire for priests of a church that boasts a silver shrine. Here, thought I, we must not look for the Beauty of Holiness.

Many a kiss did I see imprinted on the sacred picture of Christ as the congregation departed; and then, as they streamed forth and dispersed in groups in many directions, I hastened forwards to catch the view of the many-coloured procession as it descended the great stair, flaunting in the sun between the gray old houses.

While crossing the ancient bridge for the last time, my impression was strengthened that from thence you get the best view of Prague—a view which conceals the damaging features seen from the hills. "Oh! it is a ravishing prospect!" exclaims an old topographer; "your eye knows not whether it shall repose on the mighty colossus of stone which appears to bid defiance to the broad Moldau stream, or whether it shall pasture on that romantic slope, from the summit of which the huge imperial fortress, and the highly-famed cathedral church, together with many palaces and churches, shine down upon you. Surprise, wonder, and bewilderment overcome him who for the first time turns hither and thither to look at the sight." If your raptures rise not to this lofty pitch, you will hardly fail, even at your last view, to sympathise with the antiquated narrator's enthusiasm.

The Schwarzes Ross has a worthy reputation, and deserves it, for the entertainment is good, the plenishing clean, and the beer excellent. Dinner is served, after the Carlsbad manner, at twenty or more small tables—an arrangement which favours conversation; and after the soup has disappeared, the host enters with his best coat on—a plump man, whose appearance does honour to his own viands—and he makes a solemn bow to every table. I had the happiness of catching his eye on three successive days.

It was not by enchantment—though it seemed like it—but by steam, that, four hours later, having lost the way, I was trudging about in swampy meadows at the foot of the Milleschauer. My mind was confused with pictures of Prague, with glimpses of the journey, and, unawares, I had wandered from the track. At two miles from the city our train was entered by two soldiers, one of whom stood guard at the carriage door, while the other went from passenger to passenger demanding passports, that he might inspect the visas. This done, the Podiebrad—so the locomotive was named—hurried us past fruitful slopes, orchards, and poppy-fields; past bends of the river; between hills that come together in one place and form a glen, where tunnels pierce the projecting crags; across a broad plain, till at Raudnitz we saw the Elbe, and peaks and ridges in the distance, indicating our approach to the mountains. At Theresienstadt we stopped twenty minutes for the passing of the train from Dresden, there being but a single line of rails, beguiling the time by looking at the rafts on the river, and the broken line of hills. Then to Lobositz, where the folk appeared less wise than at Prague, for the flour-mill and chicory-factory were rattling and roaring in full work.

I left my knapsack at the Gasthof zum FÜrst Schwarzenberg, and started for the Milleschauer. Half an hour along the TÖplitz road, bordered all the way by fruit-trees, and you come in sight of the mountain—a huge cone, two thousand seven hundred feet in height, one of the highest points of the Mittelgebirge. At the village of Wellemin you leave the road for an obscure track across uneven slopes; and here it was that, keeping too faithfully to the left, according to direction, I lost the way.

I was trying back, when a fierce squall swept up from the west. The sky grew dark, the rain fell in torrents, the mountain disappeared shrouded in gloom, and from the woods that clothe its sides from base to cope, tormented by the cold wind, there came a roar as of the sea in a storm. I took shelter behind a thick-stemmed willow, and waited; but twilight crept on before the growl ceased. There were paths enough to choose from, too many, in fact, as there commonly are round the base of minor hills; however, by dint of making way upwards, through dripping copse and plashy glades, I came at last to a single track, completely hidden by the woods.

It was part of a great spiral winding round the cone—now rising, now falling, but reaching always a higher elevation. The clouds still hung overhead; the sun had set, and under the trees I could see but a few yards ahead. I stopped at times to listen for some companionable sound, but heard only the heavy drip-drip from the leaves, and melancholy sighs among the branches. A little higher, and there, in the beds of moss around the roots, gleamed the tiny lanterns of swarms of glowworms—more than ever I had seen before—and the way felt less lonely with the pale green rays in view. Moreover, holding my watch near one of the tiny lanterns, it was possible to see the hour—half-past nine. Farther on I came to a little wagon standing in a gap, and then the path became exceedingly steep and hard to climb, and scarcely discernible in the increasing darkness. Steeper and steeper grew the path, and with it the prospect of a bivouac, when the trees thinned away, and a dark barrier stopped further advance. It was a rough stone wall, along which I felt my way, and coming presently to a door, kicked upon it vigorously. A dog barked. Footsteps approached, and a man's voice asked:

"Who's there?"

"An Englishman."

"Good," replied the voice; and forthwith the bolt was shot, and the door opened. A man, whom I could scarcely see in the darkness, took my arm and led me down a short steep path, and round a corner into a small gloomy room, dimly lighted by a single lamp. Presently he brought another lamp, and then I saw that the seeming gloom was an effect of colour only, for the low apartment was lined with dark brown moss; a settee, thickly covered with the same production, ran from end to end along each side; and overhead you saw, resting on unhewn rafters, the rough underside of a mossy roof.

To find such a sylvan retreat, comfortably warmed, too, by a stove, was an agreeable surprise. I stretched myself on the soft and springy couch, while the man went away to get my supper. He soon returned with a savoury cutlet and a pitcher of good beer; and while I enjoyed the cheer with an appetite sharpened by exercise, he sat down to talk. The place, he said, belonged to him. It comprised a group of huts, all built of poles and moss, in which he had often lodged sixty guests at once. There were a few sitting-rooms and many bedrooms, a garden, a dancing-floor, an oratory, a poultry-yard, pigeon-house, and other benevolent contrivances, as I should be able to see in the morning. The wagon which I had seen at the foot of the steep belonged to him. It was hard work for a horse to drag it up heavily laden; but harder still to carry the stores from thence on one's shoulder to the summit. He came up in May with his first load, and set to work to repair roofs, walls, and fences, to renew the moss and dry the beds, and then stayed till October busy with guests, who arrived by tens or twenties every day, chiefly from TÖplitz, about ten miles distant. The voices we heard from time to time in an adjoining hut were those of a party of four, who had come from the fashionable spa to see the sun set, and had been disappointed by the storm. Perhaps sunrise would repay them. They and I were, as it happened, the only guests this night, so the host had time to talk without interruption.

Supper over, he went before me with a lantern through the cold night wind to a hut some yards distant, where, with a friendly "Gute Nacht," he left me. What a snug little mossy chamber! At one end two beds—thick piles of moss with plenty of blankets, and sheets as clean as pure water and mountain breezes can make them. At the other, two washstands, a looking-glass, and little window. I had it all to myself, and was soon sound asleep.