Innsbruck impressed us, at first, as being far too citified for us to delight in. Entering its streets about sunset, the time when we have of late been accustomed to see the cows come home in great herds from the mountain pastures, we, our bags and shawl-straps, were deposited upon the sidewalk; for when the post stops, you stop without ceremony, and are never taken to the particular hotel where you wish to go. We stared blankly at the broad streets and ruefully at one another. Our eyes, instead of seeing lowing herds, fell upon gallant young officers in brilliant uniforms. We became painfully aware of certain defects in our personal appearance, of which we had been beautifully unconscious in the rural mountain districts. We observed for the first time that there were chasms in our gloves, indented peaks in our hats, alluvial deposits on our gowns; while our boots suggested dangerous ravines, bridged across by one button, instead of boasting that goodly, decorous row without which no civilized woman can be truly respectable. We revenged ourselves by calling Innsbruck “tame,” and declaring that we would at once flee to our mountain. But it is surprising how quickly we have become accustomed to the luxuries of life in an excellent hotel, how bravely we bear the infliction of well-cooked dinners, with what fortitude we recline in luxurious chairs, and allow well-trained servants to wait upon us. Already we have remained longer than we intended, there is so much here that interests us; but soon we start off again to commune with Nature and get sunburned.

Then, the truth is, Innsbruck, which looked so enormous, so grand, to our eyes, used as they were to Tyrolean villages,—we know now how the typical country cousin feels when he comes “to town” for the first time,—is only a little place most charmingly situated on the Inn, in a great broad valley, with mountains ten thousand feet high on one side, and on the other heights that look almost as bold. It has, including its large garrison, eighteen or twenty thousand inhabitants, and with its pleasant atmosphere, extended views, charming mountain excursions, peasants in a variety of costumes, soldiers in a variety of uniforms, excellent music, and many things of historical interest to see, is a very enjoyable place.

The Museum is thoroughly interesting; a visit to Schloss Amras, where Archduke Ferdinand II. and his wife Philippina Welser used to live, is an inevitable but agreeable excursion; you are shown buildings erected by celebrated personages,—among them a “golden roof” over a balcony of a palace which Count Frederic of the Tyrol built to prove that he did not deserve the nickname, “with the empty pockets.” But the chief thing to see, the glory of Innsbruck, is the Maximilian monument in the Franciscan church. Maximilian, in bronze, kneels on a marble pedestal in the centre of the nave, and eight-and-twenty great bronze figures of kings and queens and heroes surround him. Some are stately and grand; some—dare I say?—are comical. The feet of these mailed heroes are so broad and big and their ankles so attenuated, you are reminded of the marine armor worn by divers; and the waists of the women, in the heavy folds of ancient times, are so enormously dumpy and their heads so curious, you smile in their august faces, though the whole effect of all these dark, still figures in the dim church is imposing in the extreme.

They are all celebrated people, whose histories we know; or, if we do not, we ought to. There is Clovis of France, who looks very important indeed, and Philip of Spain. There is Johanna, Philip's queen; Cunigunde, sister of Maximilian; Eleanora of Portugal, his mother; and there are many more “dear, dead women,” with stately, beautiful names, and they themselves, no doubt, were stately and beautiful too, but they are not handed down to posterity in a very flattering guise. There is Godfrey de Bouillon, “king of Jerusalem,” with a crown of thorns on his head. But the two that are really lovely to see are Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths, and Arthur of England. Susceptible, romantic girls of eighteen should not be allowed to gaze too long at these ideal young men. It will make them discontented with the realities of life, and they will spend their days dreaming of knightly figures in bronze.

Theodoric is considered the finest as a work of art. So says all established authority; but to me Arthur is hardly less interesting. Perhaps, in some absurd way, it gratified us of Anglo-Saxon blood to see, in the midst of these Rudolphs and Sigismunds, these counts of Hapsburg and dukes of Burgundy, a hero who seemed to belong to us; but, whatever was the cause, the blameless king won our loving admiration.

Theodoric is the more graceful. He stands in an easy, leaning attitude. He is lost in thought. He is in full armor, but he may be dreaming of something far removed from war. Arthur is firm and proud and strong, looking every inch a king and a true knight. Both are knightly. Both are kingly. Their figures are slight and strong, and they stand like young heroes amid these mighty old potentates, some of whom look as if gout might have been a greater source of trouble to them than their enemies.

If your affections are divided, as were ours, between the two, the best thing to do, perhaps, is to repair immediately to the store where the wood-carving and Tyrol souvenirs make you feel quite miserable,—you want so much more than you can possibly have,—and carefully select a Theodoric and an Arthur from the many representations of them, in wood of different colors and in various sizes, that you will there see. If you march off with them, you will feel sublime enough not to be beguiled into yielding to the temptation of the paper-knives and boxes and innumerable fascinating knick-knacks made by the Tyrolean wood-carvers. But do have them well packed, for it is very sad to see Arthur without his visor and Theodoric with several fractured fingers.

On the sarcophagus, below the kneeling Maximilian, are marble reliefs representing the chief events in the emperor's life. Thorwaldsen pronounced the first nineteen the most perfect work of its kind in the world. These are by Colin, and the others,—there are twenty-four in all,—by Bernhard and Albert Abel, are less remarkable in their perspective, and far less clear. Colin's are very interesting to study carefully. In battle scenes, in grand wedding feasts, with hundreds of spectators, in triumphant entries into conquered cities, every face, every weapon, every feature, and all the most minute details are executed with wonderful clearness.

Three or four of the oldest women in the world were saying their prayers in the church as we wandered about, or sat quietly looking at these men and woman of the past, while queer snatches of history, poetry, and romance came and went confusedly in our minds.

You see here, too, a little “Silver Chapel,” so called from a silver statue of the Virgin over the altar. The tomb of the Archduke Ferdinand II., by Colin, is here, and that of Philippina Welser; and near the entrance, in the main church, is a fine statue, in Tyrolese marble, of Andreas Hofer, and memorial tablets in honor of all the Tyrolese who have died for their country since 1796.

We have been refreshing our memories in regard to Andreas Hofer, and are extremely interested in his career; but, having just suffered a grievous disappointment with which he is connected, we are going to try to banish every thought of him from our minds. A play representing his whole life was to have been enacted to-day in a neighboring village; but to-day it rains, and as the village histrionic talent was going to display itself in the open air, “Andreas Hofer” is postponed till to-morrow, when, unfortunately, we shall be riding over hill and dale in a post-wagon. We have tried to prevail upon the post-wagon powers to allow us to wait a day, but they are obdurate. We can wait if we care to pay our passage twice, not otherwise. This cross may be well for a party that usually sails along on the full tide of prosperity, having always the rooms it wants, front seats in post-wagons, the good-will of drivers and guides, and that hasn't lost or broken anything since it started.

It is possible that we are too successful and need this discipline. But only think what we lose!—a village drama in the open air, given by village amateurs in the patois of the district. According to the announcement, the tailor—the Herr Schneider—was to be director-in-chief; and the audience would audibly express its praise and blame, while the actors would have the liberty of retiring. This, added to heroics in dialect, certainly promised an entertaining scene. The costumes, too, were to be like those worn in Andreas Hofer's time, and the tailor's daughter was to be leading lady. Was, do I say? Is—is yet to be, but not for us, alas!

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