yfarer on arriving in a strange city
should make a bee-line for the nearest terrace.

There are terraces and terraces, each one with its own definable point
of view, and it is this quality which should influence the traveller's
choice. Prague offers considerable variety in terraces suitable to every
conceivable outlook on life. You may choose a terrace that looks out
over the factory quarter of Prague, over grimy Smichov for instance, and
make notes on the growing industrial prosperity of the city. You will
probably be smoked out of your position, for a cheap and nasty variety
of brown coal is used by local industries. If you belong to the eclectic
you may be privileged to look down on Prague from a terrace with a
background of diplomacy, and find the outlook somewhat limited.

Again, there are terraces where you can get beer and other refreshment.
Such terraces are generally so contrived as to give you an outlook too
varied to allow of concentration on the essentials of the city; the
background to these terraces is generally some little building where the
waiter lurks for orders. But there are other, real terraces to be found
by those who search diligently and know how to discriminate, terraces
with a background that has grown up with the city, that strikes no
foreign note in that harmony of form and colour, of clustering red-tiled
roofs surmounted by domes, towers and spires, which is Prague. Such a
terrace is that from which I write. It is a real terrace, serving its
original purpose in supporting a garden on a hillside. A garden
carefully, fondly tended by generations of those who lived useful lives
and looked out over the city from this point of view.

It is old, very old, this terrace, and it has witnessed many terrible
scenes, fire and slaughter and religious strife, but it has also seen
more that is ennobling and inspiring. In its strength this terrace has
supported those who passed their days upon it, imbuing them, and those
who live there yet, with the serenity that comes of a faith built on a
sure foundation. This terrace is a bridge to the "Abiding City." It is
not my intention to disclose the locality of this terrace; let every man
find one to suit his own particular outlook.

Having found your terrace, settle down to a serious contemplation of
your surroundings and of the outlook before you; absorb as much as you
can of the atmosphere of the place, let it sink into you. For this
purpose a guide-book is