“It is perfectly true, I assure you. I have seen a family as much attached to half and even a quarter of a rood as if it had been a hundred acres.” “But that is downright folly.” “I can imagine, however, that it is hard to give up a bit of land that has been in the family for generations.” “But what happens at last?” “They are obliged at last to sell, of course, and betake themselves to other employments. They are wise if they begin to sell soon enough.” “I have heard,” said the sergeant, “that the reason why we find so many Swiss in other countries is, that the land is divided and divided again, in the way you describe, till the people cannot live upon it.” “In Switzerland,” said Joe, “they do not commonly go on to the last moment before they sell. When a small farmer leaves his estate among his children, it is common for the eldest of the richest son to purchase their slips of land from his brothers and sisters, while they find a subsistence in other countries as soldiers, valets, tutors, and governesses.” “And why not in their own?” “Because Switzerland is a poor country, and there is not capital enough in it to employ its population.” “I have often wondered,” said one, “why we hear so much of Swiss regiments in the armies of other countries.” “And Swiss governesses are often met with in France and Germany, and even in England: and gentlemen travelling abroad are frequently attended by a Swiss servant.” “They cannot love their country as other people do, or they would not leave it so readily.” “Indeed, you are quite mistaken there,” cried Joe. “There is no nation upon earth more attached to home and country. Did you never hear of a certain air of which the Swiss are very fond, and which affects them so much when they hear it played in foreign lands, that it is dangerous to indulge them with it?” “It was forbidden to be played in the hearing of a Swiss regiment,” said the sergeant, “lest it should make the men desert. When they heard it, they cast themselves down on the ground, and some seemed half dead with the violence of their emotion.” “How beautiful the music must be!” “Not particularly so to us, any more than our “God save the King” is to them: but its power lies in the recollections it calls up. It is the air which sounds along the mountain pastures when the cows wander home in the evening: so, when the exile hears it, he thinks of the glorious mountains of his country, glowing in the setting sun. He hears the lowing of the herds: he sees the pretty cottage in a sheltered nook, and remembers his brethren and friends; and these recollections are too much for him.” “No wonder,” said the sergeant. “But I believe they seldom banish themselves for life.”