bloody Wlaska, who reigned with her Amazon band for seven years over half Bohemia.  Those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of Huss, and the castle of his follower—­the blind Ziska, who met and defeated the armies of the German Empire—­molders on the mountains above.  Many a year of war and tempest has passed over the scene.  The hills around have borne the armies of Wallenstein and Frederick the Great; the war-cry of Bavaria, Sweden and Poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often gleamed along the “blood-dyed waters” of the Moldau...

On the way down again we stept into the St. Nicholas Church, which was built by the Jesuits.  The interior has a rich effect, being all of brown and gold.  The massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely ornamented in the same style.  The music chained me there a long time.  There was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of singers.  It was placed above, and at every sound of the priest’s bell the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal.  It was like a triumphal strain.  The soul became filled with thoughts of power and glory; every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of rapture which held the spirit as if spellbound.

Not far from this place is the palace of Wallenstein, in the same condition as when he inhabited it.  It is a plain, large building having beautiful gardens attached to it, which are open to the public.  We went through the courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock and entered the garden, where a revolving fountain was casting up its glittering arches.

THE CAVE OF ADELSBERG[21]

BY GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD

The night had been passed at Adelsberg, and the morning had been agreeably occupied in exploring the wonders of its celebrated cavern.  The entrance is through an opening in the side of a hill.  In a few moments, after walking down a gentle descent, a sound of flowing water is heard, and the light of the torches borne by the guides gleams faintly upon a river which runs through these sunless chasms, and revisits the glimpses of day at Planina, some ten miles distant.

The visitor now finds himself in a vast hall, walled and roofed by impenetrable darkness of the stream, which is crossed by a wooden bridge; and the ascent on the other side is made by a similar flight of steps.  The bridge and steps are marked by a double row of lights, which present a most striking appearance as their tremulous luster struggles through the night that broods over them.  Such a scene recalls Milton’s sublime pictures of Pandemonium, and shows directly