Řip

Some time in the sixth century—nobody seems to know exactly or to care much when it was—one Czech or Czechus was wandering about this land of Bohemia with a party of friends and relatives, probably a whole tribe of them. Czech seems to have had the country to himself; if he had met any strangers there would have been a fight, and we should have heard about it. It may therefore be assumed that the former occupants, probably lodgers only, had moved on.

There was much movement going on in those early centuries of the Christian era, the main tendency being from north-east to south-west, from cold, damp and short-commons to warmth and plenty.

Now we have sufficient reason to believe that Thuringians and Rugians abode for a while in Bohemia and parts of Bavaria, and Lombards in Moravia, and that these gentry, hearing of loot to be had in plenty farther south, left their temporary homes, crossed the Danube and made themselves unpopular elsewhere, leaving the lands of Bohemia and Moravia to anyone who cared to take them.

This happened some time about the middle of the sixth century, which gives us something more definite to go upon as to Czech's place in time.

Anyway, there were Czech, his friends and relations wandering at their own sweet pleasure over the rolling wood-clad landscape of Bohemia. On this excursion Czech espied from afar a peculiar shaped hill (not one of the hills of Prague) to which he promptly gave the appropriate name of Řip.

Now this innocent-looking word is, by virtue of the sign placed over the R, pronounced in a peculiar manner; between the initial consonant and the "i" you should insert a sound somewhat like that of the French "j" as in "jamais," for instance. Heaven and the Czechs only know what meaning you would convey did you neglect this euphonious concatenation of consonants and simply say "Řip"—probably something to cover the young person with confusion; but rightly pronounced, and with due regard to the soft but insistent sibilant, this mixture of sounds means—toadstool.

It is all so simple when once you know: Řip = toadstool,—and there you are. The description tallies too: the hill of Řip does look like a toadstool; I have seen it myself, and am prepared to support Czech's statement on oath. Anyway, Řip stands there still, much the same as when Czech discovered it, but for a chapel dedicated to St. George on its summit, the result of some one else's piety.

You can see Řip for miles round, as it has chosen a fairly level plain out of which to arise much like a mushroom on the lawn after a rainy night. No wonder, then, that Czech made straight for Řip, climbed to the top, looked around him, approved of what he saw, and decided to stay. He did, so did his friends and relatives and those that came after them, and no power on earth was able to shift them.

The descendants of Czech are there still. One of these told me that the best and sturdiest type of Czech is bred round about Řip; he was born thereabouts himself, and should know. I am prepared to believe it anyway, as my friend is certainly of the best and sturdiest type of Czech.

That much for Czech and his descendants; we must now skip a century or two which even Cosmas of Prague was unable to fill out with legend, and return to the lady whose bath I have already referred to. Not that I believe the ruined bits of wall to have contained a lady's bathroom; I have tried to imagine Libuša using the place for the morning tub, and have failed to conjure up any picture that would carry conviction. However, I do not wish to prejudice the case; come out to Prague and judge for yourself.