e Museum at the top of the Vaclavske Nam[ve]sti and the Wilson
Station. There are numerous concert-halls, and every restaurant of any
repute has a good little orchestra of its own. Then there is a quaint
old theatre down in the centre of the Old Town; you will find it
standing comfortably among old red-roofed houses, between two open
spaces, market-places bright with fruit and flowers in their season. It
was in this theatre that Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ was performed for the
first time.

It is one of the most interesting parts of Prague, just around this old
theatre, and among the crooked lanes and dark corners; it lets you in to
the intimacy of the city if you set about your investigations in the
right spirit. Alongside of this old theatre, the Mozarteum, divided only
by a narrow alley, runs the front--I suppose it is the front--of the
Carolinum, the collegiate buildings of Charles's foundation. There is
little left outwardly of this building's former aspect, just one
glorious Gothic projection which almost touches the balcony of the
theatre. Within the Carolinum are spacious halls devoted to all manner
of academic functions. In one of these halls I witnessed a scene which
struck me with a sense of incongruity that I have not been able to
explain to myself. The Indian poet and philosopher, Rabindranath
Thagore, was received here by the University of Prague. Learned
professors read lengthy addresses of welcome in Czech, and to their own
entire satisfaction; the Indian poet spoke in English and recited poetry
in his own language, let us hope also to his own satisfaction. Thereupon
Rabindranath Thagore, his hands folded meekly inside his wide sleeves,
his head drooping and eyes half closed as becomes a poet of the tender
kind, passed out from among us--to travel to Paris in an aeroplane. I do
not know whether it was this latter event, or the expression of a
philosophy so entirely at variance with my own, or perhaps the sound of
the high-pitched plaintive voice, that gave me the sense of
incongruity, but there it was undoubtedly.

In your wanderings about the Old Town you will come upon all manner of
quaint corners, old houses with courtyard and balconies, churches of all
sizes and dedicated to many saints, and among these one which to my
thinking deserves particular interest. It is the Church of St.
Martin-in-the-Wall, very old--how old I cannot tell you--much mutilated
and disfigured by restorers whose heads should have