else is old,
strange and solemn.

Having found out first a few of the locations, we hunted our way with
difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or
interest. Reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and
ascend to the Hradschin--the palace of the Bohemian kings. The bridge
was commenced in 1357, and was one hundred and fifty years in building.
That was the way the old Germans did their work, and they made a
structure which will last a thousand years longer. Every pier is
surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and
time-beaten, that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had
any. The most important of them, at least to Bohemians, is that of the
holy "Johannes of Nepomuck," now considered as the patron-saint of the
land. He was a priest many centuries ago, whom one of the kings threw
from the bridge into the Moldau, because he refused to reveal to him
what the queen confessed. The legend says the body swam for some time on
the river, with five stars around its head. The 16th of May, the day
before we arrived, was that set apart for his particular honor; the
statue on the bridge was covered with an arch of green boughs and
flowers, and the shrine lighted with burning tapers. A railing was
erected around it, near which numbers of the believers were kneeling,
and a priest stood in the inside. The bridge was covered with
passers-by, who all took their hats off till they had passed. Had it
been a place of public worship, the act would have been natural and
appropriate, but to uncover before a statue seemed to us too much like
idolatry, and we ventured over without doing it. A few years ago it
might have been dangerous, but now we only met with scowling looks.
There are many such shrines and statues through the city, and I noticed
that the people always took off their hats and crossed themselves in
passing. On the hill above the western end of the city, stands a chapel
on the spot where the Bavarians put an end to Protestantism in Bohemia
_by the sword_, and the deluded peasantry of the land make pilgrimages
to this spot, as if it were rendered holy by an act over which Religion
weeps!

Ascending the broad flight of steps to the Hradschin, I paused a moment
to look at the scene below. A slight blue haze hung over the clustering
towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream.
It was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and