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
"go lose myself,
And wander up and down and view the city."
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.