PICTURE to yourself an old cathedral-town in the midst of a valley about three miles across, hemmed in by magnificent mountains six to eight thousand feet high, from whose summits the wolves are said to look down into the very streets. The city stands on a deep, impetuous river—the Inn; and hence its name, Innsbruck, or Inn's Bridge.

This city is but of moderate extent; but few towns of its size contain, in the modern part, better and handsomer buildings; and its suburbs are remarkable for cleanliness and elegance. The old part of the city is picturesque enough: there you may see tumble-down old houses nodding with age, having rickety outside staircases leading to old, rickety wooden galleries or balconies; crumbling walls kept together with old timbers nailed outside in various quaint fashions; upper floors overhanging lower ones, and supported with rows of carved brackets, or by poles imbedded in the pavement below; antique gables, fantastically decorated, with grotesque heads on the spouts between them.

Many of these antiquated streets have low arcades, which afford capital shelter to women who sell fruit, cakes, cheeses, sausages, and get through a great deal of gossip. The shops are homely and primitive, with very few outward allurements to attract customers. They are mostly in the "general" line, and deal indifferently in groceries, medicines, straw-hats, coarse thread, ready-made garments, and old rags and bottles.

In these dwellings a great many generations have been born and brought up; have eaten, drunk, slept, talked over the news of the day, thought the world was coming to an end because of some matter which the next generation thought infinitely unimportant and succeeding generations have forgotten altogether;—marketed, made good bargains, bad bargains, grown poor, grown well-to-do in the world, fallen sick, got well again, gone to weddings and funerals, gone to church at six o'clock in the morning, made friends, made enemies, been disappointed in friends, lived down the slanders of enemies, found life a very hard battle, sometimes won it, sometimes not, resolved never to be deceived again, or to do a wrong or foolish thing any more, found that cheerfulness is a salve for many reverses, and contentment a great set-off against straitened means, remembered how much better everything was in their young days, grown old before they were aware of it, ailed a little, dropped aside and out of sight, except of the priest, doctor, and one or two old friends,—in short, been, and done, and felt, and enjoyed, and suffered, just like the rest of the world.

If the spiders could talk, doubtless they would be able to tell you many interesting stories of these people; for the human heart is the same all over the world, but its experiences are infinitely various; as various as human faces.

At the court-end are the triumphal arch built by Maria Theresa; the Neustadt, a fine wide street, with a fountain in the centre; the town-hall, the theatre, and the spacious palace assigned as the residence of the governor of the Tyrol. These buildings are surrounded by public pleasure-grounds, well planted, and extending to the fine chestnut avenue on the banks of the river, which is a favourite resort of the townspeople in fine weather.

The market-place, too, is very gay. There you may see old women in red jackets and witch-like hats, squatted behind a small spread of eggs, butter, salad, onions, lettuces, &c.: young girls, in tight-laced purple bodices, and short, full, snow-white sleeves, arranging baskets of peaches and apricots; children, with brown, ruddy faces, offering for sale large nosegays of rhododendrons, harebells, cowslips, anemones, lilies-of-the-valley, honeysuckles; or little heaps of small bright scarlet strawberries; men, unloading ox-wains of fire-wood, or shouldering little sacks of corn, steering their way amid piles of coarse earthenware, spread on the ground.

But the chief glory of Innsbruck is its churches; especially its Hofkirch, or Cathedral, the wonders of which are hardly to be sufficiently explored in a single day. Here is the famous tomb of the Emperor Maximilian the First, who died in 1519: and who is represented at the top of the tomb, kneeling, with his face towards the altar. Round the sides of this tomb, which is about six feet high and thirteen feet in length, are a wonderful series of what have been poetically called "pictures in marble"—exquisite carvings, that is, in Carrara marble, of various events in the Emperor's life. Guarding this tomb, as it were, in stern and solemn array, are eight-and-twenty colossal bronze statues of famous princes, warriors, and chieftains; including our own king Arthur. "When the gloom of evening," says Inglis, "begins to fall among these dark-visaged and gigantic kings and knights, the effect is almost terrific."

Round and about this wondrous tomb, with looks of simple surprise and admiration, strayed many of Hofer's rustic companions on the famous 11th of April, as well as Hofer himself. When his heart heaved within him as he gazed on the effigies of those mighty men of renown, he little thought that, in times to come, times not far distant, travellers from distant lands would flock to that old church, to see—not the eight-and-twenty champions, nor the kneeling emperor,—but, the presentment of a humble, heroic Tyrolese peasant, with face upturned to Heaven, one hand grasping the national banner, the other holding the barrel of the rifle slung from his shoulder. "We know what we are," said poor Ophelia, "but we know not what we shall be."

Even in the gladness of that day, there was a heaviness at his heart. His companions were shouting, singing, and waving their feathered hats round the Imperial eagle as they carried it through the streets—he was standing, lonely, in the church; kneeling; praying.

It was not a long prayer, but a hearty one; a prayer such as God loves. "O God! I thank Thee for this day's success, but I know not whither it will lead. Oh, guide us, guide us, for Thy goodness' sake, O Lord, in Christ Jesus!"

It was a success. Eight thousand French and Bavarians had laid down their arms, and surrendered at discretion, with their eagles, colours, and munitions of war; while only twenty-six Tyrolese had been killed, and forty-two wounded. Hofer personally knew some of the twenty-six, however, and felt a manly sorrow for them: only twenty-six dead men may leave behind them a good many sad hearts.

The enemy's cavalry took to flight, but were stopped and made prisoners by Speckbacher, in the meadows near Halle.

Meanwhile, our friends in the green jackets, who were perambulating the streets of Innsbruck, assembled themselves together in front of the Palace, and amused themselves by shooting down the Bavarian lion from over the entrance; after which their patriotic souls were vexed by seeing the hated blue and white stripes of Bavaria decorating sundry buildings; whence a great cry for paint-pots arose, and they ransacked the oilmen's shops for all their stores of black and yellow paint, and with hog's hair brushes and ladders, set themselves diligently to work to efface the enemy's emblems and substitute the Imperial colours.

Some others of these merry hearts thought nothing wanting but a little good music; and, as all the instruments they were able to muster among themselves, proved to be two fifes, two fiddles, two rusty iron pot-lids, and a few Jews'-harps, they did not scruple to impress the Bavarian band into their service, and make them patrol the city playing triumphal tunes in honour of their own defeat.

There were likewise certain native ballad-singers of the itinerant order, who turned a good many pence, that is to say kreutzers, this day, by vocalizing on their own account, at tavern-doors and in public places, to the great delight of the Tyrolese, who sat on benches and on door-steps, listening to them while they quaffed hot coffee in thick ale-glasses, or tasted for the first, and perhaps last time in their lives, iced rum and water.

Others of them were not too tired to get up a game of bowls in the market-place, which excited immense merriment among themselves, and crowds of townspeople at the windows, with whom they talked as comfortably as if they had known them a hundred years. Just as they had had enough of it, Punch very opportunely made his appearance, and kept them amused till it was dark. Then they lay down on the ground, in and about the town, and slept soundly all night.

Hofer thought he should like to see a play. So, to the theatre he went, where, on asking what there was to pay, the money-taker with a bow replied, "Nothing." So he walked into the boxes, and picked out the very best place; where his remarkable dress and person drew on him the attention of every one in the house.

But if they thought a good deal of him, he was very little aware of it; for there were a great many things to employ his attention. In the first place, there seemed to him a great waste of wax lights; half the number would have been quite sufficient. In the second place, the ladies' dresses appeared to him a great deal too low, too short, and too scanty: he hardly liked to look at them, and was very glad to see no other Tyrolese in the house. In the third place, the orchestral music, when it struck up, quite took him by surprise: he had a sensitive though untutored ear, and a tender heart; its dying falls and gradual swells, its minors, its concords, its plaintive and its impassioned strains, nearly overpowered him.

Luckily, the curtain drew up, the music ceased, and the play began. Hofer could not understand much of it. But, on the whole, he thought it funny, and concluded it clever,—and did not know whether he should ever care to go to a play again.

"They seem to make very light of swearing," thought he; "I have frequently heard them take God's holy name in vain. Some of their dresses, also, are immodest, and as for their music, it makes a man's heart like cream-cheese. The story, too, by what I can make out of their acting, is of two young persons who deceive their parents very much, tell many lies, and think only of their own selfish wishes; yet they are rewarded and applauded at the last, while the old people are laughed at for having been ill-used. So that, altogether, I am glad to see none of our dear Tyrolese here to-night, for it would soften and demoralize them."

With these reflections, the thoughtful father of a family quitted his seat at the end of the performance, and stood about in the lobby, looking rather bewildered and uncertain which was his way out; while many smart townspeople of the upper classes looked at him with curiosity and interest as they passed. Our English readers may wonder that, after such a day of stern realities, people could be found with minds sufficiently disengaged to enter a theatre;—but our continental neighbours are as fond of their play as—what shall we say?—an Englishman of his dinner. Both parties can go without it, if there be some stringent necessity; but never from inclination.

Hofer was not quite so new to Innsbruck as the generality of his comrades. He had never passed a night there, indeed, but he had occasionally, though rarely, gone thither on business connected with his trade, which had brought him into some slight acquaintance with a brother innkeeper, by name Michael Stumff, whose sign was the "Goldener Adler."

As Hofer stood in the lobby of the theatre, spoken to by none, though gazed on by many, a pretty looking young woman, with a respectably dressed young man for her companion, came up and accosted him.

"So you have come to see our theatre, Sandwirth," said she, frankly. "Do you not know who I am? I am Alouise Stumff, Michael Stumff's daughter."

"Ah, Alouise! I did not know you at first," said Hofer, looking pleased, and holding out his brown hand to her rather red one.

"Are you going to spend the night in Innsbruck, Sandwirth?" said Alouise, who addressed him with perfect ease and a little affability, as if it were kind of her to take notice of him. "My father will be very glad if you will take a bed at his house."

"That will suit me well," said Hofer, in his plain, homely manner. "I was considering where to bestow myself. So I will go home with you, if it please you, Alouise."

"Come along, then," said Alouise briskly. "This young man is a neighbour's son, Sandwirth, Leopold Mayer; we are very old friends."

When they reached the "Goldener Adler," Michael Stumff was surprised and rather pleased to see his old acquaintance.

"Why, Sandwirth, this is an unexpected honour," said he. "You are kindly welcome."

"Praised be Jesus Christ," said Hofer, reverently using the greeting customary among the Tyrolese; but, perceiving that the other did not respond "for ever and ever, Amen," he after a pause, continued:

"Unexpected enough, it may be, Michael Stumff; but an honour I cannot think it. However, I am glad you say I am kindly welcome."

"How can you be otherwise," said Stumff, "when you have performed such a glorious work this day, leading the men of Passeyr on to victory?"

"Oh no, oh no," said Hofer, "there was no leading in the case. We were all just as equal as so many sheep. God was our shepherd."

"The Bavarians were more like sheep, to my thinking," said Stumff, with a jovial laugh. "They did run, to be sure!"

"Better for both parties that they should save us the necessity of shooting them," said Hofer. "However, I don't expect we've seen the last of them."

"I was just going to ask you, Sandwirth—(let us have supper, Alouise)—Surely you don't think them put down with one day's drubbing?"

"Surely, no," said Hofer; "I look to see them again in a day or two, or at furthest, by the end of the week, and then with God's blessing, we'll drub them again."

"And shall you all keep together here, in Innsbruck, till then?"

"We cannot. This is a busy time with us in the field; we must plough and sow."

"But, directly your backs are turned the enemy will come back! Besides, what are you going to do with all your prisoners?"

"I'll think of it on my pillow," said Hofer. "Now, supper."

For he was true to the saying his wife quoted of him. "One thing at a time will last the longer." And besides, the Wirth of the "Goldener Adler" was not Speckbacher; and he had no mind to tell him all his plans before he had digested them.

"Well, and so you've been to the play," said Stumff, slicing away at a ham, and hospitably loading Hofer's plate. "How did you like it?"

"Some things I liked; others I liked not."

"What did you like?"

"The house was beautiful as a dream—but where was the good of it? Directly the play is over all melts away, like a day's frost!"

"All? what?"

"Why,—the impression."

"Oh! well, but we can renew the impression every night; and we do not want it all day."

"Truly no," said Hofer. "And I doubt its being good to renew it every night."

"Why?"

"Too softening and enervating."

Stumff laughed a jolly laugh.

"Did not you like the music, Sandwirth?" cried Alouise.

"Too much," said he, sighing. "It made my heart ready to burst."

"The dancing, then?"

"Not at all."

Alouise smiled. "Oh!" said she, "you are getting too grave and steady, at your time of life; but you would have liked it when you were young."

"Perhaps I should—perhaps I should not; but that would not have made it good or bad."

"Then, the ladies' dresses, Sandwirth?"

"Ah!" with a grimace.

Stumff laughed. "What of them?" said he.

"Too little dress—too much exposure."

"Why, there's no satisfying you, Sandwirth."

"Oh, yes," said he, smiling. "One play has satisfied me—I don't want to go again."

"Your daughter would like it," said Alouise, decisively.

"I should not wish to give her a taste for such things," said Hofer. "She is perfectly content as she is."

"And that's more than I can say of my girl sometimes," said Stumff, with a smile and a shrug, as Alouise left them for a few minutes.

"I wonder," said Hofer, after a short silence, "that you let her go to the theatre."

"I should be considered quite a bear, not only by her, but by all Innsbruck, if I denied her," said Stumff. "No, no, Sandwirth,—we town-folks are not quite the same with you village-folks,—it does our girls no hurt, I believe—or, if it does, we can't help it. And now, as you seem tired, I'll show you your bed. What! you must take your dearly-beloved rifle along with you, hey? Ha, ha!"