The New Town seems to have developed along a line of local politics all its own and at variance with that of its very close neighbours, Old Town, Vyšehrad and Mala Strana. Their local politicians did not lack initiative; no one can accuse them of that failing. I can recall one instance as example. During the days when the Protestants of Prague, in their religious ardour, had split up into at least two distinct and hostile parties, a procession of Utraquists, priests leading with the Host, passed by the New Town Hall. Some one threw a brick and hit a priest, thereupon the populace stormed the Town Hall and hurled Mayor and Corporation out of the window; those of the victims who still showed signs of life were dispatched with clubs—in fact, a clean-up of municipal authorities took place. Public spirited certainly, unconventional, you may say; but if the Bohemian is to have no power of imagination, who may?
In the days of Wenceslaus IV the fashionable centre of Prague seems to have been shifted from the impressive Hradšany side to the Old Town. The King himself preferred to live in close touch with his people; he wanted to see life—he certainly made it, for Wenceslaus when young was quite "one of the lads of the village." Let us look up that good King's haunts. On crossing the Charles Bridge from the Mala Strana to the Old Town we keep straight along the Karlova Ulice—that is, as straight as you can along this narrow old street by which Charles must have made his way to the Carolinum. I have already pointed out to you the dome which surmounts the home of the Red Cross Knights, the Knights Crucifer, and told you that this building and the church that stands somewhat apart on your left, behind the statue of Charles IV, is the work of the Jesuits. We may go in by the wide gateway into this mass of buildings, the Clementinum, also part of the University, but this is guide-book business, and I prefer to take you my own way. So we go along the crooked street past a bunch of churches, one of which is the longest in Prague; you may see their bulbous towers from my terrace, or your own if you get the right point of view. These churches do not interest me particularly except for a lovely bit of wrought-iron railing belonging to the Italian Chapel, just where the street takes a slight twist. Here you have quaint old houses, with red-tiled roofs and dormer windows. One of them seems inclined to impede the progress of the traffic, and the street bends slightly away to the right to oblige this building. There are quaint ornamentations on the narrow side of this house facing us, human figures and wreaths, and in the centre of the design a star. This old house has a little story to tell. Long ago, possibly in the sixteenth century, it was an inn, or a lodging-house, was said to be haunted, so the great-grandson of the last innkeeper there gave up taking lodgers and became a confectioner. One winter's evening, probably in preparation for Christmas, this confectioner was surveying the day's handiwork. He was particularly pleased with two little sugar figures he had fashioned; they represented a lady and her gallant in Spanish dress, each draped in the heavy folds of a cloak. He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and in came two figures, in Spanish dress, cloak and all, a lady and her cavalier. The only thing strange about them were their faces: they were like masks, beautiful indeed, but lifeless. However, the couple were quite amiable; they took the proffered seats, and the gallant spoke. "Have you, good master [gramercies, gadzooks, etc., according to taste], a couple of sugar figures in Spanish dress, each draped in a cloak?" "Zounds!" or something equally effective (in Czech, please) from the confectioner, "here is the very article!" The little figures gave satisfaction; the gallant purchased them with much fine gold, then proffered a request for a favour in return. "Granted," or words to that effect, from the confectioner. "As it happens," continued the gallant, "we have lost our heads, and would be much obliged if you would recover them for us. You see, we called here about a hundred years ago and were murdered in our beds, here in this house. It was your great-grandfather's doing; he was a bit peevish that evening. We had arrived with all our trunks, had searched the whole town for lodgings; every place was crowded. Some one advised us to call here. The old gentleman, after a deal of grumbling, showed us into a room, the first floor front. I feel sure he really never liked us; in fact, we were no sooner asleep than he came in and cut our heads off. He put our bodies in one of our trunks, the contents of which he kept as souvenirs; you know he was a great collector. He mislaid our heads, and we have suffered much inconvenience in consequence. The ones we are wearing now are not real ones—wax, you know; quite good of their kind, but not what we have been used to. If you would be good enough to look around for those heads, put them in a coffin with our bodies and have our whole outfit decently buried, we should feel much relieved. By the way, our old trunks are somewhere about the premises still, down in the cellar; your great-grandfather was always keen on cold-storage—a collector should be." The confectioner promised to see to this little matter, the visitors tried to get up a smile of gratitude, and faded away. Right enough, after searching diligently amongst his ancestor's collection, the confectioner found the missing articles, carried out the instructions given him by his visitors, and never saw them again. They have left Prague for good and all, I gather.
It is well worth while to dive into the little narrow streets and alleys to right and left; here you come upon many reminders of ancient Prague. Look out especially for the quaint house-signs, some of which have not yet been swept away—signs of exquisite design and workmanship, a lily, a fish, keys or bunches of grapes. The Karlova Ulice eventually lands us in the little Old Town Square, where you will find a beautiful wrought-iron cage over a well, of sixteenth-century workmanship, and passing on we arrive at one of the most historic spots of Prague, the Staroměstké Náměsti, the Old Town Square, or Ring. In shape it is neither of these two, but that does not detract from the throbbing interest that clings to it.
There was something unusual in the atmosphere of Prague when on the 21st of June the sun dispelled the river mist, penetrated the purple shadows of the quaint old streets, lit up the windows along the modern quays, and gave promise of a glorious day to those who hurried to their daily work. The unusual thing was an occasional streak of black in the general radiance. Above that quarter of the castle where the President's standard flies, a black flag floated on the morning breeze. The same black note was repeated at the Czech National Theatre, and elsewhere black banners waved out over the streets. This 21st of June was a day of mourning for the children of Prague; on that day they remembered the events of three centuries ago, events which robbed them of their rights as a sovereign people, and fixed them firmly, ruthlessly, under the yoke of Habsburg. It was the commemoration day for those who had made the supreme sacrifice for the faith that was in them. The battle of the White Mountain had been lost, and with it went the last remnant of those able to resist the encroaching Austrians and the band of adventurers who, under the cloak of religion, waged savage war in this fair country.
The cause of the trouble is far to seek. It arose from a characteristic of these Slavonic people which should endear them to us, namely, a very strong feeling of race and its responsibilities and a great tenacity when defending their political and religious liberty. It is particularly in the latter direction that the people of Bohemia and Moravia have been in close touch with English thought. They were among the first, perhaps the only people of the Continent, to embrace the tenets of Wycliffe, and they fought for their convictions during the weary vicissitudes of the Hussite wars. There were many Germans among those who took to the new religious thought; Germans who had made their home in Bohemia and Moravia, and were among the most earnest workers for the country's welfare. But the Drang nach Osten of the Germans of the Holy Roman Empire under its semi-independent Princes and Electors, all intent on their own advancement, was a constant menace to the peaceful development of the Bohemian and Moravian people. They were not protected from invasion by the silver sea. Bohemia never had a sea-coast, despite the descriptive scenery in Measure for Measure. And here, I fear, is another shattered illusion. When Shakespeare spoke of Bohemia he meant Apulia, which at one time was named Bohemundia, after its King Bohemund. Bohemia has always been exposed to enemies from the west, who could pour in over the passes from Saxony or Bavaria. So the stout resistance of the Hussites was eventually broken, and the House of Habsburg, for some time elected Kings of Bohemia, encroached more and more on the chartered freedom of the country. A first definite act of imperial bad faith following on years of a policy inspired by malevolence and tempered by stupidity, brought matters to a climax. A heated scene in the Council Chamber of the Castle of Prague ended in what is described as the "Act of Defenestration." In plain English, the Emperor's lieutenants, who, by the way, happened to be a couple of Czech gentlemen bringing evidence of the sovereign's treachery, were thrown out of the window. A midden in the moat broke their fall; the officials fell soft, and got safely away. But this very distinct lack of appreciation of the Emperor's demands on the part of the Bohemian Estates let loose all the horrors of the Thirty Years' War, a conflict which, waged under the cloak of religion and with the blessings of Rome, set back civilization in Central Europe for many generations. For the Czech inhabitants of Bohemia and Moravia, as for those of Teuton origin who sympathized with the liberal movement of the time, the battle of the White Mountain and its tragic sequel on that 21st of June was the death-knell of their hopes.
That there were Germans among the victims shows that it was not merely racial rivalry as between Slav and Teuton, and that there was one Roman Catholic among the number demonstrates that their protest was not directed solely against the power and presumption of an intolerant creed.
The beauty of the architectural composition grouped about the Town Hall was spoilt by the same black note that marked the 21st of June of this year of grace. A large tribune, draped in black, projected well out into the square from under the slender turret of the Town Hall Chapel. Escorted by alien mercenaries, the twenty-seven martyrs were led to execution; the dull, continuous rolling of drums accompanied the scene until the last victim had been disposed of. Strange to relate, the sword which was used by the one executioner was discovered some forty-four years ago in an Edinburgh curiosity shop. On its basket hilt are graven the names of the Bohemian gentlemen who fell by it (three of the twenty-seven were hanged), and under those names the remark in the Czech language: "The last unhappy task, on 21st June 1621. G. M." The sword has returned to the country where the effects of its fell work are felt to this day.
This day, the anniversary, the sunlit square saw numbers of pious folk carrying wreaths to place them where white stones serve as constant reminder of those men who died in the courage of their convictions, both religious and political. It seems to be a peculiarly Slavonic trait, this recalling of sad events in their history. The Serbs still celebrate Vidovdan, the day of their disastrous defeat at Kossovo, where their chivalry, the finest in Eastern Europe, went under in a sea of blood.