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.