been dead some time.

Charles must have been rather a prig. He was evidently, immensely pleased with his own little bit of book-learning; he even insisted on talking and writing Latin—pure "swank"—whereas his family would surely have preferred their native Frankish. Worse still, Charles had an obsession, that of a Holy Roman Empire, with himself as head and the Pope as an "also ran," and this obsession led to endless trouble—trouble which is not over yet. Charles also had no sense of humour, or he would have made friends with the Slavs instead of fighting them. Men with a "mission in life" rarely have the "saving gift," and so they cause endless trouble; Charles did.

He hammered the Saxons into Christianity: they were Teutons and could stand it. He tried the same on the Slavs, but force was not the right method in their case. Charles could not see this, and went on killing Slavs, handing over their property to Teuton knights. This method, and especially its results, appealed strongly to Charles's successor, who continued to hack the way of Christianity through Slavonic tribes until eventually the latter were completely subjugated in all the German-speaking countries of to-day. It took a long time to do this, for there is a deal of resilience in the Slav, and his soul remains his own even under much persecution. The Slavs were heavily handicapped too; they were broken up into numerous little tribes and clans, and seldom became united under the leadership of a strong man of their own race. They had no spiritual head who would take responsibility for any crime as long as it was atoned for by a corresponding number of heathen converted or killed. The pagan Slav would not just push his bit of piety on to the priest before dashing into the fray; he had to propitiate various jealous deities in person, not by proxy. This must have been anxious work and a waste of time to boot. Then again, both sides were capable and frequently guilty of abominable treachery, with the difference that the Christian Teuton betrayed his enemy only, which was counted unto him for righteousness, whereas the Slav was inclined to sell his own cause, only to be "let down" by the Teuton in the end. The Slavs were also prone to fight among themselves in their spare time; there has been no marked improvement on either side for the last ten centuries or so; however, the history of other nations and races tends to prove that neither Slav nor Teuton are unique in this respect.

Anyway, the "Holy Roman Empire," describing itself as of German nationality, spread out over Central Europe, absorbing one Slavonic tribe after another until there remained as the most western of them only the Czechs of Bohemia as a coherent body, their national life centred on Prague.

However, we are still on the way to Prague up the valley of the Elbe, an interesting route, as it takes you by Dresden, rich in art treasures and still renowned for its music.

The best time of year to travel by this route is the season when the fruit trees are in blossom. Then the valley of the Elbe is a mass of white and pale green set against a background of yellow sandstone rocks and the sombre greens and purples of pine forests. It is not so very long ago since this district of Saxony formed part of the Kingdom of Bohemia, and many names familiar to travellers in these parts recall memories of Slavonic inhabitants—Blasewitz, Loschwitz, Pilnitz, whither the royal family of Wettin, another Slavonic name, was wont to retire for the summer months. The Wettins have now retired from business as monarchs, and their former subjects are following the prevailing fashion of submission to democratic rule tempered by an occasional diversion in the form of an attempted local counter-revolution. These movements are generally innocuous; they sometimes add to the gaiety of nations by the sheer imbecility of their inception and attempted execution, and they appear to be welcome rather than otherwise, as a means of distracting public attention from the universal muddle and general misguidance of European affairs, to those who consider themselves called upon and qualified to set those affairs right.

You may also approach Prague via Vienna; in former days you were encouraged by Austrian propaganda to do so, and this in order to emphasize the fact that you were expected to regard Prague as a quaint little provincial town lying on the road to nowhere in particular. The hand of the Habsburg lay heavy on Prague, and all the glory of great possessions had to be concentrated on Vienna.

We are still on the road to Prague, which has come into its own at last, whereas the glory of Vienna has departed. You wind up to the Bohemian Forest through lovely scenery, where the grey ramparts of Eggenburg look out over the blue distances, across the uplands of Bohemia, passing Tabor dreaming yet of stirring days of religious strife, its towers mirrored in the waters of Jordan, and onward till a wide curve brings the first sight of the towers and spires of "Zlata Praha," Golden Prague.

The usual travelling Westerner prefers the shortest and most convenient route to Prague, namely, via Paris. You may get right through from London to Prague in thirty-six hours if you just skirt round Paris by the ceinture, but a right-minded wayfarer, who should never hurry, will not miss an opportunity of taking the tonic of a few days in the "Ville Lumière." If he be a true wayfarer—that means not only an enterprising traveller but also given to contemplation—he will bestow some thought on the geographical position respectively of Paris and his destination, Prague, which should help him to enter into the spirit of those two cities; but of this more hereafter.

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