I was in Munich when the news arrived of the surrender of the Hungarian troops under Goergey, and the fall of the Hungarian republic.  All along my journey I had observed tokens of the intense interest which the German people took in the result of the struggle between Austria and the Magyars, and of the warmth of their hopes in favor of the latter.  The intelligence was received with the deepest sorrow.  “So perishes,” said a Bavarian, “the last hope of European liberty.”

Our journey to Switzerland led us through the southern part of Bavaria, among the old towns which formed a part of ancient Swabia.  The country here, in some respects, resembles New England; here are broad woods, large orchards of the apple and pear, and scattered farm-houses—­of a different architecture, it is true, from that of the Yankees, and somewhat resembling, with their far-projecting eaves, those of Switzerland.  Yet there was a further difference—­everywhere, men were seen under arms, and women at the plough.

So weary had I grown of the perpetual sight of the military uniform, that I longed to escape into Switzerland, where I hoped to see less of it, and it was with great delight that I found myself at Lindau, a border town of Bavaria, on the Bodensee, or Lake of Constance, on the shores of which the boundaries of four sovereignties meet.  A steamer took us across the lake, from a wharf covered with soldiers, to Roorschach, in Switzerland, where not a soldier was to be seen.  Nobody asked for our passports, nobody required us to submit our baggage to search.  I could almost have kneeled and kissed the shore of the hospitable republic; and really it was beautiful enough for such a demonstration of affection, for nothing could be lovelier than the declivities of that shore with its woods and orchards, and grassy meadows, and green hollows running upward to the mountain-tops, all fresh with a shower which had just passed and now glittering in the sunshine, and interspersed with large Swiss houses, bearing quaintly-carved galleries, and broad overhanging roofs, while to the east rose the glorious summits of the Alps, mingling with the clouds.

In three or four hours we had climbed up to St. Gall—­St. Gallen, the Germans call it—­situated in a high valley, among steep green hills, which send down spurs of woodland to the meadows below.  In walking out to look at the town, we heard a brisk and continued discharge of musketry, and, proceeding in the direction of the sound, came to a large field, evidently set apart as a parade-ground, on which several hundred youths were practicing the art of war in a sham fight, and keeping up a spirited fire at each other with blank cartridges.  On inquiry, we were told that these were the boys of the schools of St. Gall, from twelve to sixteen years of age, with whom military exercises were a part of their education.  I was still, therefore, among soldiers, but of a different class from those of whom I had seen so much.  Here, it was the people who were armed for self-protection; there, it was a body of mercenaries armed to keep the people in subjection.