rvices could be spared when danger no longer
threatened. They came deeply imbued with the importance of their
mission, their commission, diplomatic, economic, hygienic, whatever it
was. They came in scores, accompanied by willing and well-paid workers,
to bring relief to those who had suffered in the war. They bought up
the scanty supplies of the countries to which they brought the blessing
arising out of their own high rate of exchange. They came in their
hundreds to spread the light of learning in matters hygienic to Prague,
the old university town famous for its school of medicine. They taught
the young the blessing of western guilds or associations, the young of a
country which forged its weapon of social defence, the Sokol, some
seventy years ago. They expect a deal of gratitude for all this; they
are also entirely devoid of any sense of humour, or they would all go
home and keep quiet.

Of real use to the good relations which have existed, intermittently
perhaps, but never clouded by misunderstanding, was the mission of the
English Singers who came to Prague. They sang to us in the large hall of
the Obecni Dum, the building dedicated to the townsfolk's recreation.
They sang us old-time motettes, madrigals, ballads, and we were taken
back to our own country by the soothing harmonies of Weelkes. We saw
Winchester Cathedral, its long nave and squat tower, standing in lush
meadows in the shade of ancient elms, the College Gate, its pillars so
artfully, invitingly rounded by William of Wykeham, drew us in again. We
were stirred by William Byrd's "Praise our Lord, all ye Gentiles," and
taken to Oxford by Gibbons's "What is our life? A play of passion. Our
mirth? The music of division." Purcell recalled our gracious English
landscape, and English life, "When Myra sings we seek the enchanting
sound"; and Thomas Morley with "Now is the month of maying." Then there
was rollicking Tom Bateson, of Dublin, with his alluring "Come follow
me, fair nymphs!" And the Bohemian audience were loud in generous
applause.

You may well believe that a land which has given to the world Smetana,
Dvo[vr]ak, [vS]ev[vc]ek, and so many other famous musicians, will
concentrate all that is good in music in Prague, its capital. There are
two opera-houses to start with; one of them, the National Theatre,
throws its reflections on the surface of the river at the end of the
Narodni T[vr]ida; the German Theatre stands on the rising ground between
th