It was on the summit of a lofty mountain between Laffenau and Herrenalb, that we fell in with one of those generals, or, I should rather say, _field_-marshals, (immortalized by the “Old Man of the Brunnens”) who, with three or four aid-de-camps, was marching and manœuvering a “swinish multitude” of raw recruits among these alpine heights. They were evidently less a fighting than a foraging party, levying contributions on every thing edible in these sombre pineries. It was also manifest that, whether from the morning air or the supperless night, they were by no means over nice, either in their olfactory or gustatory senses; for nothing seemed to come amiss to them, or to prove unsavoury or indigestible. But although provender turned up at almost every step, they were a grumbling and grunting, as well as an awkward squad, and so prone to predatory excursions, that the schwein-general and his staff were constantly flogging them into the regular ranks. Their long legs and lank sides shewed that their fare was not of the most fattening nature—or, that they had little else than predatory rations to live upon. They had been called out early that morning, by bugle and horn, from their various bivouacs in Laffenau, with more appetite than order, for their mountain drill. The general (or field-marshal) with his aid-de-camps, and some vigilant videttes, of the canine species, had no small difficulty in compelling their guerilla corps of maurauders to keep “close order;” for they were constantly deploying to the right and to the left—shooting a-head—or straggling in the rear, despite the proclamations of the general, the stripes of the subalterns, and the biting rebuffs of the quadrupeds, who, ever and anon, _lugged_ back into the ranks some long-faced and bleeding deserter, amid the grunts and groans of his sympathising companions, on whom, however, these summary sentences of a drum-head, or rather mountain-head, court-martial appeared to make but a transient impression.