When the wayfarer does tear himself away from Paris he should travel by the _train de luxe_, which lands him, without the trouble of changing, in Prague at a reasonably early hour of the evening. This route is interesting in itself, as it leads through many notable places, Château Thierry, with its grim reminders of the Great War, Nancy, and Strasbourg restored to France. Then on to Stuttgart, the capital of a small but healthy German Republic, formerly the Kingdom of Würtemberg; there has been no exaggerated display of republican fervour here in this clean and proper capital, and a crown still tops the coat of arms of a line of rulers, on the former royal palace. You cross the fertile country of Franconia, a wide curve gives you a fine view of Nuremberg, and then you ascend towards the pass that divides the Ore Mountains from the Bohemian Forest. There are quaint old towns growing out of crumbling battlements perched on rocks, towns of soft-sounding South German names breathing history of long ago. There is, for instance, Waiblingen, a very ordinary-looking wayside station, yet what memories does that name recall! Memories of Hohenstaufen Emperors, Fredericks and Conrads, down to the last and luckless Conradin, memories of faction fights between the city republics of Italy, within the walls of those cities, between Guelph and Ghibelline, Welf and Waiblingen. This country Bavaria was also at one time the home of the Welfs; they were a strong, determined race, and spent much time and energy in vigorous opposition to Holy Roman Emperors, possibly as men of common sense they considered the whole prevailing idea of empire rather nonsensical; they were eventually banished to the country about Hanover and Brunswick, where they flourished by virtue of their forceful character--and we Britons have reason to be grateful that it was so. We move along to Eger or Cheb, where we find a last reminder of the Hohenstaufen in the ruins of a castle and a round two-storied chapel built by Frederick Barbarossa. During the summer season a through coach from Paris is detached at Eger, whence it is taken to Carlsbad, whither go those who have occasion to repent them of the evil they have wrought in themselves by self-indulgence; there they fast and prepare for the next season of overeating, among peculiarly beautiful surroundings. From Eger onwards we pass out of the zone of German predominance and into the ancient land of Bohemia, over wooded heights and broad fertile fields, past Marienbad, beloved of our King Edward, and where are also many who love his memory, past Pilsen, and winding along a clear river, the Berounka, its banks crowned here and there by castles and chapels, each with a story all its own yet part of the life of the people of Bohemia, until a sharp curve brings you to the meeting of the waters of Berounka and Vltava within hail of Prague.