just where it joins the Sill. The town is about
two thousand feet above sea-level, and is surrounded by mountains six
and eight thousand feet in height. It derives its name from the bridge
which here crosses the river--Inn's Bruecke (that is, the Inn's Bridge).
We enter Austria through the Brenner Pass, and after a long Alpine
journey of three or four hundred miles are very glad to pause here both
for rest and observation. There must be about twenty thousand
inhabitants, but the town seems almost solemnly silent. At certain
periods of the year, known as "the season," doubtless its two or three
large hotels are plentifully supplied with guests. Historical
associations are not wanting; among them is the Franciscan church of
Innspruck, containing the elaborate and costly monument to the Emperor
Maximilian I., which, though constructed by order of the monarch
himself, does not contain his remains. The structure consists of a
marble sarcophagus supporting the emperor's effigy in bronze in a
kneeling position, while on the other side of the aisle are rows of
monumental bronze figures, twenty-eight in number, representing various
historic characters. The mention of this unique group in the old church
of Innspruck, by the poet Longfellow, will be remembered.

The Schloss Ambras is of considerable interest, having been the favorite
home of the Archduke Ferdinand II. The view from its battlements is
worthy of a pilgrimage to enjoy. Innspruck looks like a toy-village, so
far below, upon the plain. The broad streets of the new portion of the
town lie spread out as upon a map. The three handsome bridges give
variety to the scene. The central one, as the guide will tell us, was
the scene of a fierce battle, in 1809, between the Bavarians and the
Tyrolese. The former could not withstand the superior marksmanship of
these chamois-hunters, who picked off the men at the cannon as fast as
they came into action, until the Bavarians fled in despair, abandoning
their guns.

On resuming our journey towards Vienna, we pass up the constantly
narrowing valley of the Inn, through a range of mountain scenery,
covered with snow, and grand beyond description, where Alp is piled upon
Alp, until all distinctive outline is lost in the clouds which envelop
them. Now and then we see a rude but picturesque chamois huntsman
struggling up the mountain side in search of the special game which is
growing annually scarcer and scarcer. There is a wild interes