not only useless, it is a let and a hindrance.
After all, what does a guide-book tell you? Either it recites dry facts
in an utterly soulless voice, or else, if it make any pretence at
_belles-lettres_, as some of them painfully do, it goes off into
sentiment and rapture before you have decided whether these be suited to
the occasion. Anyway, a guide-book is the expression of some one else's
opinion or experience, and as such is harmful to the soul as likely to
exert undue influence.

From your terrace you take in a more or less comprehensive view of the
city and its surroundings, and also form some conception of its inner
meaning. Then descend from your terrace and wander at random about the
streets, choosing as the more appropriate time the long twilight of a
summer morning which brings the cruder modern aspect of the place into
harmony with the fundamental values. Then, before she awakens to the
stir and activity of everyday life, old Prague will speak to you of
herself and take you into her confidence; she will tell you some
startling stories, for she has a lurid past, has the city of Prague.

I do not know what was Rodin's method of appreciating Prague, but can
easily imagine him looking out over the city from the terrace of his
choice, looking out over Prague and recalling memories of Rome as seen
from the Pincio. There are certain obvious points of resemblance. First
there are several hills on which Prague is built; they are said to be
seven in number, as in the case of the Eternal City. Personally I can
only make out five hills, and I have counted them carefully. It seems to
be the right thing in cities of venerable antiquity to claim seven
hills; to me this seems a mixture of superstition and snobbery. Prague
can well afford to be original and rest content with standing on five
hills. This, by the way, does not include all the suburbs which have
lately been added in order to make up Greater Prague; the innovation is
much too recent, and no "Terrace in Prague" can embrace a view of all
the latest additions to the urban district.

Further superficial points of resemblance to Rome are the towers and
cupolas that rise above a sea of houses, and the winding river; to find
yet more would be a serious strain on the imagination. But there is a
deeper resemblance, and this perchance is what Rodin meant when he
described Prague as "the Rome of the North." I say "perchance," because
Rodin never gave any closer reason fo