A few paces farther, and there are the weapons with which the Hussites fought and won battles in the name of the Lord. Flails, shields, and firelocks of a very primitive construction. And such flails! The short swinging arm is hung by strong iron staples to the end of a stout staff, about six feet in length, and is braced up in iron bands, which bristle with projecting points, the better to make an impression on an enemy's skull. Truly a formidable weapon! Try the weight. The arm must be strong that would wield it with effect; and mighty must have been the motive that sent whole ranks armed therewith rushing to the onslaught as to a threshing-floor. Looking at these things, you realize somewhat of the shock and storm of the events in which they were employed.
Besides the stacks of weapons, the room contains in glass-cases round the walls numerous ivory carvings of singular merit and rarity, and other curiosities with which you may divert your thoughts. And in a neighbouring apartment there hangs an engraved view of Prague as it stood a few years before the fatal day of the White Hill, well worth inspection. The Hradschin and Wyssehrad, at opposite ends of the city, look really picturesque crowned with numerous towers.
Walking afterwards through the markets, and seeing the dowdies sitting by their stalls under large red umbrellas, and the number of shabby men loitering about, I wondered if they were indeed the descendants of those who, under Ziska's command, had wielded the flails. However, in 1848, the men proved that the fighting-blood still circulated in their veins.
The authorities had lost no time, and on every corner placards were posted, announcing in loyal terms the "glückliche Entbindung" of the empress; but though crowds stopped to read, I saw no manifestations of joy. Great was the concourse, too, in the Grosser Ring, where a Te Deum was offered with pomp and ceremony in presence of the city militia: close ranks of green uniforms interposed between priests and people.
The letter of the Würzburg professor opened for me the hospitable doors of a pleasant house on a hill-slope beyond the city. Father, mother, and the two daughters joined in showing kindness to one who came to them with credentials from son and brother. The young ladies spoke English fluently, and while we sauntered between odorous flower-beds and under drooping cherry-trees, they took pleasure in exercising their acquirement. Then we had tea in a pretty garden-house, all open to the breeze and quivering sunbeams and rustling vespers of the leaves. A Bohemian tea—cutlets, potatoes, salad, cheese, and butter, bottled beer, Toleranz, and the fragrant beverage itself poured from a real teapot. Toleranz was something new to me: it is a pungent, relishing preparation, in which horseradish is a principal ingredient, and at your first taste you will think it appropriately named.
It was while chatting over this delightful repast that I was told all the pretty women had left Prague for the watering-places. Two at least were left behind. The conversation of the Czechish servants who waited on us, heard at a short distance, sounded like a screechy quarrel; and on my remarking that I had noticed similar discords during a ramble in Wales, one of the young ladies replied, in explanation, "Our friends often think we are scolding our servants, when all the while we are speaking to them in a quiet, natural tone. Your ear is deceived. There is nothing but good-humour among them."
It was late each evening when I walked back across the fields to the city; just the hour, as it seemed, when the great arched beer-vaults in the Rossmarkt were in their prime. There was something striking in the long gas-lit vista viewed from the entrance, every table crowded with tipplers, dimly seen through tobacco-smoke; waiters flitting to and fro with tankards; the damsel at the sausage-stall trying to serve a dozen customers at once; while high above the rumbling, rattling din, sounded the liveliest strains of music. I sat for awhile on an upturned barrel watching the scene. Here workmen and labourers, and those of lower degree, the proletaires of Prague, were enjoying their evening—making merry after the toils of the day. These were the folk who would fight whether or no in 1848; whose bullet-marks are yet to be seen on many of the houses. Either the beer was strong, or they drank too deeply, for many staggered into the street, and went reeling homewards; conquered more hopelessly by their own hand than by Prince Windischgratz's bombardment.
CHAPTER XVI.
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.