From a Terrace in Prague Part 8

Charles, we have seen, had added a fourth quarter, the New Town, to his city of Prague, moved thereto by the acuteness of the "Housing Problem,"

which, by the way, is equally urgent to-day. Prague is again the capital of a free and flourishing State, and is again hard put to it to find room for all those who feel attracted to her. The New Town soon entered into the spirit of mediaeval Prague, put on no airs, but just joined in any fray that happened to be going on. So New Town and Old were wont to meet in battle over some vexed question, generally of theology strongly mixed with politics, and a favourite c.o.c.kpit was the ground in front of "St. Mary of the Snow." It was on one of those occasions that the steeple was brought down, together with a couple of monks who were hiding in it, and also the big bell Carolus; a gun was brought into action, and no doubt gave tone to the proceedings. This was in 1434; nearly two centuries later some visitors generally alluded to as the "Pa.s.sauer," plundered this church and monastery.

This visit of the "Pa.s.sauer" was again due to that noxious mixture, religion plus politics. The Union of Protestant German Princes had been broken, and Ravaillac's dagger had killed Henri Quatre, spoiling his plans towards helping Protestantism, in which plans the French King had also included Bohemia. Just about this time the Habsburger King of Bohemia, Rudolph II, who must have been rather mad, was looking out for a successor. He loathed all his relatives with complete impartiality, save one, and that one was a cousin, Archduke Leopold, Bishop of Stra.s.sbourg and Pa.s.sau. Leopold was one of those fighting prelates who send others to do the dirty work; in this case an army of his, some thirty thousand bandits led by a foreign _condottiere_, invaded Bohemia, burning and pillaging until they came to Prague. Rudolph had probably invited them, as the imperial garrison of the Hradany admitted these "Pa.s.sauer" to the Mala Strana. In Old Prague these marauders met with resistance, though here too preparations had been made towards their visit, as gunpowder and other warlike stores had been found in monasteries and houses of the Jesuits. The Estates of Bohemia hastily equipped Count Thurn, who soon got the better of Leopold's mercenaries, and chased them and the Jesuits out of the country. Fighting about this quarter of Prague--in fact, anywhere in the city--is now discouraged by an efficient police force, and the only warlike sounds I have ever heard proceeding from out the shadows of "St Mary of the Snow" came from the band of the Salvation Army. A very good band it is too, though the tunes it plays are not up to the native standard of music. Nevertheless the Salvation Army is not only tolerated, but enjoys a certain amount of popularity; deservedly too, for that organization does a great deal of good rescue work. Jungmann's statue looks down thoughtfully upon this somewhat corybantic form of religious expression when on a Sunday afternoon the Salvation Army band is in full blast. Jungmann, who brought out the value of the Czech language, its poetic possibilities, by translating into it Milton's _Paradise Lost_, may wonder at this strange striving after "the Beauty of Holiness," which also comes from England. But probably he understands.

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, Vyehrad 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, pa.s.sed 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 munic.i.p.al 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 Hradany 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 ma.s.s 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 grat.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sing on we arrive at one of the most historic spots of Prague, the Staromestke Namesti, 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 pa.s.ses 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ON THE WHITE MOUNTAIN.]

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CHAPEL OF THE TOWNHALL.]

As a boy I was very strong on observing national and other holidays, but cannot recall any celebration of the Saxon defeat at Hastings; it never occurred to me: lack of imagination probably--and another festive occasion missed.

There is, however, something fine in this Slavonic conception of events worth commemorating; they may celebrate victories, but they also observe the anniversaries of great national disasters, "lest they forget."

In the broad s.p.a.ce between the Town Hall and the Tyn Church stands an imposing group of statuary. Its centre figure of a simple and convincing dignity represents Master John Hus, the great precursor of those sons of Bohemia who died for their faith. The figure stands facing towards the Town Hall.

This group of statuary has only recently found its appropriate site here in the ancient centre of the city's life--formerly a column surmounted by the "Virgin" threw its slender shadow across the square.

Looking out over the city on the 6th of July the first sight that caught my eye was a display of bunting; flags flew everywhere, most of them the colours of the Czecho-Slovak Republic, red and white with a blue triangular insertion close up to the flagstaff. There is a correct heraldic method of describing this, but to most people, as to myself, it is barely intelligible, and hardly fits in with an everyday account of things seen from a terrace in the capital of a very modern republic, the const.i.tution of which allows of no t.i.tles of n.o.bility, and therefore has little use for heraldry.

t.i.tles of n.o.bility have been abolished, and he who under the old regime of Austria would style himself Count von Potts and Kettlehausen is now called plain Mr. Potts. Other t.i.tles, those that have been won by individual achievement and cannot be inherited, still remain in use to brighten our drab existence. Most common amongst these is "Doctor"; you may be a doctor of any or many more or less exact sciences; Professor seems to come next in quant.i.ty; again you may profess anything you like.

This t.i.tle is run rather close by Rad, or so it sounds at least, which seems to be the old German _Rath_ slightly modified; of these also there is a great and glorious variety. You have Pan (Mister) President for the august being who presides over boards of financial, commercial or industrial enterprise; Pan Inspectors are also plentiful and in highly variegated form. In fact, there is quite an imposing array of t.i.tled dignitaries who as true republicans have risen by their own merits. As yet the "leprosy of decorations," as Dr. Seton Watson describes the outbreak of coloured ribbons on manly chests, its spread in inverse ratio to danger incurred, has not a.s.sumed undue proportions--but who knows? I must, however, get back to the 6th of July and tell you how the memory of John Hus is kept green.

A glance at the streets on that day shows you groups of wayfarers carrying wreaths, and they converge on the square outside the Old Town Hall where stands the monument to John Hus. The shop windows display portraits of the Czech national hero, which is also reproduced inset in wreaths, and this recalls to my mind the same day in 1918, when I first became aware of what Master John Hus stands for to this people of tenacious memory.

It was a day of pure Italian colour, that 6th of July, 1918, when I set out from among those lovely Colline Euganie towards the front among the Alps. First along broad, well-kept roads, through the plains of Veneto, where trellised vine hung heavy laden, past homesteads, villas of warm ochre hues or red, or pink, and all embowered in rich green foliage.

Through the narrow winding streets of graceful Vicenza, across the arcaded market-place of old Verona, past the stately ruins of Montecchio, till the road reached the foothills of the Alps. Then up by hairpin turns, gaining an ever wider view of the vast plain lying in a morning haze beyond which you knew was Venice and the blue Adriatic, then down by winding ways into a valley. An outpost in Italian field-grey uniform, not men of the Italian type, but stocky, fair-haired and square-jawed, their collars decorated with red and white tabs. Every group displayed a wreath, within it an effigy of John Hus, for these soldiers were of the Czecho-Slovak Legion, and they were for the first time in their lives allowed to commemorate without let or hindrance the anniversary of their national hero's death. On this day five centuries ago John Hus had met death at the stake for holding to his religious convictions. Trusting in the word of an Emperor who had promised him a safe conduct back to his own country, John Hus had gone to Constance to defend his faith. Rome proved all-powerful, prevailed against the promise of an Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and John Hus perished, on his lips, they say, the words, "O Sancta Simplicitas!" But his memory lives, and most surely amongst those of simple faith.

We do not observe the memory of those who suffered martyrdom for England's spiritual freedom; by the way, there is in Bohemia a church dedicated to St. Thomas a Becket.

I am describing the s.p.a.ce between Town Hall and Cathedral as a square, which is as about as accurate as the German name "Altstadter Ring." The Czech name for it is easier to p.r.o.nounce than most of their words. Czech is an immensely difficult language, and I still marvel at the clever inhabitants of the country who p.r.o.nounce it with ease--even with great fluency. They can make jokes in it too, for the pleasant sound of laughter is often heard in this "City Beautiful." I have never tackled a Czech joke, but am quite prepared to give it credit for all the wit and humour required of a joke, and as long as somebody is happy over it all is well, and I smile with him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TOWER OF OUR LADY OF TYN.]

Really there is something about this city which is smile-producing. It is difficult to a.n.a.lyse, and may be attributed to the sheer beauty of the place. And your smile may well go with a catch in your throat, for there is always pathos in great beauty, and nowhere more so than here in Prague. There is the delicate beauty of the Town Hall Chapel, and facing it the tall steeples of the Tyn Church, with cl.u.s.ters of quaint little pointed turrets, overtop a row of houses that seem to have set themselves down with the deliberate intention of blocking the west entrance. Now these houses are arcaded, and so are those on the south side of the square. You puzzle for a while and then recall Padua, Verona and other towns of Northern Italy; so now you know whence came the inspiration that set up arcades in a northern capital. You ask how and when this influence came to Prague, so I remind you of the relations that existed between Bohemia and Italy, and of which I have told you when discussing King John and his great son Charles. Under the guidance of the latter, the Renaissance was not long in making its influence felt in Prague--in fact, in all Bohemia--and Italian architects who introduced the arcaded house added fresh beauties to the city. To the earlier period of Italian influence must be attributed a quaint arched house, the one at the corner of the Tynska Ulice. It seems to block the west entrance to the Church of Our Lady of Tyn. The old house dates back to the early days of the fourteenth century, at which period the Tyn Church, though founded in the eleventh century, was still a-building. I cannot blame the old houses for having squatted down in front of this church; they were probably under the impression that it would never be finished. They have at least left a vaulted alley-way leading to the somewhat insignificant west entrance. The Tyn Church, though not completed till fairly recently, has actually served as the princ.i.p.al church of the Old Town since 1310. Here the reformers, preachers that I have already mentioned, Conrad Waldhauser and Milic of Kromerie, drew large congregations by their fiery denunciations and their call to repentance. Our Lady of Tyn is to Prague what St. Paul's is to London in a certain degree; many celebrities are buried here, among them that strange character Tycho de Brahe, astronomer, logician, drunkard and duellist, the friend of Keppler and his own worst enemy.

The show-entrance to the Tyn Church is a Gothic porch of rarest beauty; it is tucked away in the little alley on the north side, and generally closed. You are expected to enter by the south door.

A word of warning here: never try to be enterprising between midday and 2 p.m. in Prague, or for that matter anywhere else in the country, unless it be in search of food. At midday everything closes down--churches, museums, shops; they do not open again till the good people in charge of them have had sufficient time for an ample meal--two hours are considered sufficient. You will therefore find the cathedral closed to you until the vergers have dined. But in the meantime you will find the quaint conglomeration of buildings at the east end of the cathedral very attractive. These buildings originally served many purposes--cathedral close, market and custom house, and even at times as bear-garden or zoo. To my thinking, the outside of the cathedral is far more attractive than the inside, which suffers from over-decoration in the incongruous style peculiar to Continental churches. I shall not conduct you personally round the Church of Our Lady of Tyn.

Good King Wenceslaus, of whom we sing at Christmas-time, seems to have caused the chapel and tower of the Town Hall to be built, at least according to archaeologists; the sign of a kingfisher within a wreath which appears here is taken to denote work done in his time. The master architect of those last decades of the fourteenth century was Peter Parler, who also did a good deal of work on the Tyn Church.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A CORNER OF THE OLD TOWN.]

The tower was added to the house of Welflin od Kamene, which was acquired in 1538, and some fifty years later the beautiful chapel, the Gothic projection of which looks out on to the scene of martyrdom of 1621. You will find two very interesting and lovely Sessions Rooms in this Town Hall. In one of these George Podiebrad, a native of Bohemia and of the country's faith, was elected and proclaimed King in 1458. To my thinking, the best time of day on which to come upon this old Town Hall is of an evening, say in late autumn; approach it by that quaint little alley, the Melantrichova, called so in honour of Melantrich, who was famous as printer and publisher in the latter half of the sixteenth century. While wandering about the narrow alleys, these quaint pa.s.sages under the houses, a peculiar feature of Prague, you will pick up something of the old spirit of the city and repeople it with the shades of former inhabitants or visitors to suit your taste or knowledge of its history. There is, for instance, one visitor whom I can quite see roaming about in nocturnal Prague--Dr. Faust. Local legend prefers to call him Wilhelm instead of Heinrich, but that does not matter--he fits into the picture.

Sooth to say, I find about this old quarter of the city a certain atmosphere spiced with wickedness, not thoroughly bad, just enough to keep you amused. Look round for yourself o' nights, and you will probably find reason to agree with me. There is again, in this spicy atmosphere, a local--or shall we say native?--foundation with a markedly exotic top-dressing. For the foundation of this peculiar atmosphere I make Good King Wenceslaus responsible. I have already suggested that he was "hot stuff," and certainly, when he moved into the palace that stood near the "Powder Tower," he made things merry and bright in the Old Town. A night out with Wenceslaus was a liberal education. Fundamentally his form of amus.e.m.e.nt was probably the same as you may enjoy to-day if you are inclined that way. An exotic touch is given to nocturnal diversions nowadays by American bars and "Palais de Danse" varying in degree of respectability; here the English language seems to predominate, in our version and that of our distant relatives across the Atlantic. The natives of the city do not frequent these haunts in any great numbers; they have their own amus.e.m.e.nts, but they look in occasionally, possibly as a mark of respect to the great allied nations, and their representatives, the bearers of western culture. The Bohemian when thinking of America recognizes only the United States of that continent. Many of them emigrate to that country; some return with their own rendering of the English language and a professed admiration for the country of their sometime sojourn, of its inst.i.tutions and leading citizens. The Pragers have expressed this admiration by naming their finest railway station after President Wilson of the Lost Points, whereas their own President has to be content with a rather grubby old terminus.

It would be quite possible for me to enlarge upon the subject of night life in Prague, but discretion advises me not to do so; this is a side of Prague which you must find out for yourself. When after a good dinner you proceed to draw those furtive covers in the region between the Town Hall and the "Powder Tower," you may pick up the scent which, I maintain, hangs about there--that of rather spicy wickedness. I do not mean anything offensive in this; in fact, everything is conducted decently and in good order, also with a certain geniality; the suggestion is rather that you might be mildly wicked if you wanted to be. However, though we have to live in this world we need not be of it.

For those who do not feel drawn towards the furtive corners of the town, there are many other opportunities of recreation. One of these was built by the city itself, and is called the Obecni Dum, which means Town House, I believe; anyway, when asking your way to it linger on the last word and p.r.o.nounce it as if written "doom." This was built about the site of the palace where Wenceslaus IV held his revels, but it is informed of a more sober spirit. You come upon this building as you pa.s.s along the broad street, formerly the moat of the Old Town defences, until you arrive at the street-junction I have already mentioned. Here stands one of the most beautiful monuments to Prague's former glory, the "Powder Tower." When first you come upon this, rising serenely in all its ornate loveliness out of the roar and rattle of the traffic, the sight of it catches your breath. King Vladislav II caused it to be erected--one of the gates of the old city. An unhappy King this latter, I should say; at least his lot was cast in unhappy times. One of the last Slavs to occupy the throne of Bohemia--he was a Prince of Poland--Vladislav succeeded one of the most popular of Bohemian monarchs, George Podiebrad. The times in which Vladislav reigned were evil; the internal religious struggles of Bohemia had reached a desperate stage; all attempts to reunite the Utraquists with Rome had failed, and Alexander Borgia was Pope. The reign of this King, for all the glory of the monuments that commemorate it, seems as it were illumined by the false light that presages disaster. His son Louis was drowned while leaving the battlefield of Mohac, which reduced the greater part of Hungary to a Turkish province, and anarchy held the lands of the Bohemian Crown until in 1526 Ferdinand of Habsburg bribed his way to the throne; one n.o.ble Bohemian is said to have accepted fifty thousand gulden for his kind offices.

The "Powder Tower" looks out directly at a somewhat shabby building opposite to it. I have mentioned it before as standing on the site of an early monastic inst.i.tution founded by those Irish monks who did so much towards bringing Central Europe into the fold of the Church. They were, in fact, the only missionaries, these pilgrims from the Isle of Saints, who took up the task in the fifth and sixth centuries, wandering far afield, through the German forests, along the great rivers Danube and Main, to Italy and Switzerland, where St. Fridian at Lucca and St. Gall in the hills above the Bodensee are still held in pious memory. The Saxon monk Winfrith, better known as St. Boniface, also deserved well of the people of Central Europe, for it was his zeal and energy which a.s.sisted Charles the Great in his colonizing achievements. In our own times other missionaries of Anglo-Saxon race, or at least English-speaking, penetrated to the darkest recesses of the Continent, even to Bohemia. They started as soon as the war was over and Europe again a safe place to travel in. They took their toilsome way, by _train de luxe_ and at Government expense, to such distant places as Prague and Vienna, even Buda-Pesth. They were of those who were indispensable while men were fighting, whose services could be spared when danger no longer threatened. They came deeply imbued with the importance of their mission, their commission, diplomatic, economic, hygienic, whatever it was. They came in scores, accompanied by willing and well-paid workers, to bring relief to those who had suffered in the war. They bought up the scanty supplies of the countries to which they brought the blessing arising out of their own high rate of exchange. They came in their hundreds to spread the light of learning in matters hygienic to Prague, the old university town famous for its school of medicine. They taught the young the blessing of western guilds or a.s.sociations, the young of a country which forged its weapon of social defence, the Sokol, some seventy years ago. They expect a deal of grat.i.tude for all this; they are also entirely devoid of any sense of humour, or they would all go home and keep quiet.

Of real use to the good relations which have existed, intermittently perhaps, but never clouded by misunderstanding, was the mission of the English Singers who came to Prague. They sang to us in the large hall of the Obecni Dum, the building dedicated to the townsfolk's recreation.

They sang us old-time motettes, madrigals, ballads, and we were taken back to our own country by the soothing harmonies of Weelkes. We saw Winchester Cathedral, its long nave and squat tower, standing in lush meadows in the shade of ancient elms, the College Gate, its pillars so artfully, invitingly rounded by William of Wykeham, drew us in again. We were stirred by William Byrd's "Praise our Lord, all ye Gentiles," and taken to Oxford by Gibbons's "What is our life? A play of pa.s.sion. Our mirth? The music of division." Purcell recalled our gracious English landscape, and English life, "When Myra sings we seek the enchanting sound"; and Thomas Morley with "Now is the month of maying." Then there was rollicking Tom Bateson, of Dublin, with his alluring "Come follow me, fair nymphs!" And the Bohemian audience were loud in generous applause.

You may well believe that a land which has given to the world Smetana, Dvorak, evcek, and so many other famous musicians, will concentrate all that is good in music in Prague, its capital. There are two opera-houses to start with; one of them, the National Theatre, throws its reflections on the surface of the river at the end of the Narodni Trida; the German Theatre stands on the rising ground between the Museum at the top of the Vaclavske Namesti and the Wilson Station. There are numerous concert-halls, and every restaurant of any repute has a good little orchestra of its own. Then there is a quaint old theatre down in the centre of the Old Town; you will find it standing comfortably among old red-roofed houses, between two open s.p.a.ces, market-places bright with fruit and flowers in their season. It was in this theatre that Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ was performed for the first time.

It is one of the most interesting parts of Prague, just around this old theatre, and among the crooked lanes and dark corners; it lets you in to the intimacy of the city if you set about your investigations in the right spirit. Alongside of this old theatre, the Mozarteum, divided only by a narrow alley, runs the front--I suppose it is the front--of the Carolinum, the collegiate buildings of Charles's foundation. There is little left outwardly of this building's former aspect, just one glorious Gothic projection which almost touches the balcony of the theatre. Within the Carolinum are s.p.a.cious halls devoted to all manner of academic functions. In one of these halls I witnessed a scene which struck me with a sense of incongruity that I have not been able to explain to myself. The Indian poet and philosopher, Rabindranath Thagore, was received here by the University of Prague. Learned professors read lengthy addresses of welcome in Czech, and to their own entire satisfaction; the Indian poet spoke in English and recited poetry in his own language, let us hope also to his own satisfaction. Thereupon Rabindranath Thagore, his hands folded meekly inside his wide sleeves, his head drooping and eyes half closed as becomes a poet of the tender kind, pa.s.sed out from among us--to travel to Paris in an aeroplane. I do not know whether it was this latter event, or the expression of a philosophy so entirely at variance with my own, or perhaps the sound of the high-pitched plaintive voice, that gave me the sense of incongruity, but there it was undoubtedly.

In your wanderings about the Old Town you will come upon all manner of quaint corners, old houses with courtyard and balconies, churches of all sizes and dedicated to many saints, and among these one which to my thinking deserves particular interest. It is the Church of St.

Martin-in-the-Wall, very old--how old I cannot tell you--much mutilated and disfigured by restorers whose heads should have gone into the decorative scheme over the gateway of the Mala Strana bridge-tower; but here in this church the Sacrament was first given in both forms, _sub utraque_.

There are many little backwaters in the Old Town; you may people them with the shades of all those who for centuries have toiled to restore Bohemia to her rightful place among the States of Europe. You may see flitting figures in the twilight, cloaked and obvious conspirators to your discerning eye. These men were probably among those marked down by the secret police as "patriots." Men who were working for freedom of thought what time Jungmann and Kalina, another national poet, died, and twelve thousand of the people joined in the funeral procession as it pa.s.sed the Town Hall where Arnold, Kalina's friend, was imprisoned. This was in 1847. Then the Slav Congress in 1848, and its stirring scenes, the meeting for Divine Service under the statue of St. Wenceslaus, the scuffle with a sentry caused by an _agent provocateur_, the charge of troops on an unarmed mob. Followed the erection of barricades, over a hundred in half an hour, and street fighting in various quarters of the city. Ruthless slaughter of citizens as at the Polytechnic School, where an attack by ten thousand troops with artillery was repulsed by seven hundred students of the Clementinum. Then the despair of the vanquished.

But the spirit fostered by Bohemia's great men lived on; the people had their museum, containing books and records of their National Society, they had their a.s.sociations, Sokols, and above all, their music. And so they waited, and not in idleness, for the better days which came to them out of the Great War.

The Sokol movement should interest you; it has taken a firm hold among Slavonic nations, and has in it something of the spirit of Freemasonry.

Sokol means "falcon"--no doubt the original badge favoured by Slavonic societies. You will find the falcon, sometimes eagle, cropping up in various places. There is a distinguished Order, that of the White Eagle of Serbia, for instance; then the Poles also have started an Order with an eagle or a falcon in it--I am not acquainted with this Order. Members of Sokol societies wear an eagle's feather, or perhaps a falcon's, in the saucy little head-dress, somewhat like our old cavalry forage-cap, when in their becoming full dress. But Sokol means a great deal more than this.

A year or so ago I witnessed a Sokol display on that flat-topped height called Letna; it is, as it were, an eastward prolongation of the Castle Hill. Here is a large recreation ground for the use of such bodies as Sokol societies. In the arena, before a large and appreciative but critical public, the Socialist Sokols gave their display of gymnastic exercises on the occasion I have in mind. It was a stirring sight: ten to twenty thousand young men and maidens went through their graceful movements in perfect unison to the strains of their national music. It must be borne in mind that those exercises have not only physical value but are useful memnonic training. There is much discipline bred of these exercises; the captain goes through the movements by himself, the team repeats them after him. Then again, the Sokol is, and has been from the beginning, a political union. Surely Socialists who submit themselves to this training, to such discipline, are a powerful a.s.set to a young State that has got to make its mark in the world.

By the way, what is a Socialist? I take it that any man who has a flowerpot in his window, whereas his neighbour has none, is no Socialist. But this is, no doubt, a matter of taste or political conviction, I am not quite clear which.