left bank of the river
stand on a little island called Kampa. You cannot see much of this
island from the bridge: I recommend you to go down the steps, under the
bridge, and then look under the second arch, and you will see the view
which I have sketched for you. It is not the view which you will find on
the postcards illustrating this particular spot and calling it "Venice
on the Vltava." In this the Pragers fall into the snobbish habit of
going outside their own country for the sake of finding some inept
comparison. I grant that they are not the only sinners in this respect;
we may even have a "Venice in London," according to those who label the
views on postcards, for all I know. I have, on postcards, met "Venice in
Whatsisname" and elsewhere, wherever there was sufficient sluggish water
reflecting tall houses that have seen better days and conceal their
dilapidations behind motley garments drying in a lazy breeze. But Prague
need not descend to this; here is no "Venice in Prague," but simply a
charming bit of an old town, a fascinating backwater where quaint old
houses exchange reminiscences with their broken reflections in the
water. This ought to be good enough for Prague, anyway.

So Charles threw this bridge across the water, a lasting, glorious
monument to a father ever careful of his children's welfare, and its
stout pillars and graceful arches bid fair to call up reflections for
yet further centuries on the face of Bohemia's own river, the Vltava.

The River Vltava rises away down in the south among the mountains of the
Bohemian Forest. It has its happy infancy in "green days in forest,"
leaping over rocks, playing with pebbles, and generally disporting
itself until it comes out into the world and moves among men. Not empty
handed either, for it carries the sound of the forest and the rhythm of
running water to those that have their being on its banks; if you doubt
it, come and hear Smetana's work at the National Theatre reflected in
the waters of Prague. The Vltava arrives at Prague reinforced by its
tributary, the Berounka, and flows almost due north until it meets the
Castle Hill. Then it makes a bold sweep due east, turns north and west
again, and so makes a peninsula of Castle Hill; then it resumes, with
many windings, its northward course. Nothing could have been better
arranged than this bold sweep encircling the Hrad[vs]any and the wooded
slopes of Letna; it is this feature that adds so much interest