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 little loaves thickly sprinkled with poppy-seeds, dear to the native palate. And here and there stands what looks like a roomy sentry-box, painted yellow, and adorned with the Austrian blazon—an Imperial and Royal Booth for the sale of Tobacco.
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 voice, and, as soon as I saw him, he beckoned with angry gestures. I retraced my steps, but at too slow a pace to satisfy the Imperial functionary, for he turned again and again, each time with the same impatient gesture. No sooner did I come within earshot, than he cried, snappishly, "Why did you not give me your passport?"
"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 eminence, commanding the country for miles around. You can count four hundred windows. There, as every one knows, the Thirty Years' War began, by certain angry Bohemian nobles pitching two Imperial commissioners and their secretary out of one of the windows. Little did the haughty ejectors think of the consequences of their exploit—that before thirty years were over, 30,000 villages and more than a million men would be destroyed by war!
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!