or example, undoubtedly a great
city, is quite content to stand on two hills, Montmartre and
Montparnasse, the latter quite worn flat by the levelling tendencies of
modern times.

It is now time that we delved down into the history of Bohemia, and in
this we gain inspiration from the hills of Prague, the works of man that
crown them and the traditions, legends, shreds of history that cling to
them. Of these hills that of Vy[vs]ehrad is entitled to hold seniority
in the history of Prague. It takes a place somewhat akin to that held by
the Capitoline Hill of Rome. It was from here that the city started,
though this hill has little left of former grandeur and shows nothing to
compare with Rome's monuments to a glorious past. A crumbling block of
masonry, the story of which is quite unknown, a round chapel dating from
the days when Christianity was young among the Slavs and still found
ready martyrs in its cause even among princes, and an _enceinte_ of
brick fortifications, stone-faced and in Vauban's best style, battered
by Frederick the Great's guns, are all that Vy[vs]ehrad has to show by
way of relics of a stormy past.

Vy[vs]ehrad is about the first striking view you obtain of Prague as the
_train de luxe_ brings you round a bend before crossing the railway
bridge over the Vltava. Travellers seeing Prague for the first time are
apt to mistake this hill of Vy[vs]ehrad for the castle. I did so myself;
my delight, therefore, at the first sight of Prague's crowning glory,
the Hrad[vs]any, was all the greater.

Seen against the evening sky, Vy[vs]ehrad looks very imposing; it is at
its best by winter twilight, when the heavy mass is dully reflected on
the surface of the frozen river. Then you may gain some idea of what
this rugged promontory stands for in the life-history of a race that has
passed through great tribulation. Two Gothic spires point to the skies,
rising from a church which, despite its newness, seems more in accord
with the spirit of Prague than do the copper domes of Jesuit
structures; but then this church is built on foundations so ancient as
to defy investigation by the most assiduous chroniclers. No doubt those
spires are right enough in their way, but they are almost painfully
modern and unromantic compared to a square bit of crumbling masonry that
clings limpet-like to the crags of Vy[vs]ehrad overhanging the river at
the feet of the twin church towers. For here, according to legend, is
the cradle of