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.

From a hill twelve miles off we had our first view of the spires of
Munich, looking like distant ships over the sea-like plain. They kept in
sight till we arrived at eight o'clock in the evening, after a walk of
more than thirty miles. We crossed the rapid Isar on three bridges,
entered the magnificent Isar Gate, and were soon comfortably quartered
in the heart of Munich.

Entering the city without knowing a single soul wi