Two or three hours sufficed to see every thing of interest in the city.  We had intended lo go further through the Alps, to the beautiful vales of the Tyrol, but our time was getting short, our boots, which are the pedestrian’s sole dependence, began to show symptoms of wearing out, and our expenses among the lakes and mountains of Upper Austria, left us but two florins apiece, so we reluctantly turned our backs upon the snowy hills and set out for Munich, ninety miles distant.  After passing the night at Saalbruck, on the banks of the stream which separates the two kingdoms, we entered Bavaria next morning.  I could not help feeling glad to leave Austria, although within her bounds I had passed scones whose beauty will long haunt me, and met with many honest friendly hearts among her people.  We noticed a change as soon as we had crossed the border.  The roads were neater and handsomer, and the country people greeted us in going by, with a friendly cheerfulness that made us feel half at home.  The houses are built in the picturesque Swiss fashion, their balconies often ornamented with curious figures, carved in wood.  Many of them, where they are situated remote from a church, have a little bell on the roof which they ring for morning and evening prayers; we often heard these simple monitors sounding from the cottages as we passed by.

The next night we stopped at the little village of Stein, famous in former times for its robber-knight, Hans von Stein.  The ruins of his castle stand on the rock above, and the caverns hewn in the sides of the precipice, where he used to confine his prisoners, are still visible.  Walking on through a pleasant, well-cultivated country, we came to Wasserburg, on the Inn.  The situation of the city is peculiar.  The Inn has gradually worn his channel deeper in the sandy soil, so that he now flows at the bottom of a glen, a hundred feet below the plains around.  Wasserburg lies in a basin, formed by the change of the current, which flows around it like a horseshoe, leaving only a narrow neck of land which connects it with the country above.

We left the little village where we were quartered for the night and took a foot path which led across the country to the field of Hohenlinden, about six miles distant.  The name had been familiar to me from childhood, and my love for Campbell, with the recollection of the school-exhibitions where “On Linden when the sun was low” had been so often declaimed, induced me to make the excursion to it.  We traversed a large forest, belonging to the King of Bavaria, and came out on a plain covered with grain fields and bounded on the right by a semi-circle of low hills.  Over the fields, about two miles distant, a tall, minaret-like spire rose from a small cluster of houses, and this was Hohenlinden!  To tell the truth, I had been expecting something more.  The “hills of blood-stained snow” are very small hills indeed, and the “Isar, rolling rapidly,” is several miles off; it was the spot, however, and we recited Campbell’s poem, of course, and brought away a few wild flowers as memorials.  There is no monument or any other token of the battle, and the people seem to endeavor to forget the scene of Moreau’s victory and their defeat.