has ever visited Inspruck.

Every one has been every where nowadays; and so the chances are, that
the Tyrol capital is as well known to them as to myself. At all the
hazard of being tedious, however, I must mention one feature of that
beautiful old city--a little street which leads out of the Old Market,
and runs westward down a somewhat steep declivity towards the Inn. It is
one of those narrow, old, gloomy alleys a traveller would scarcely think
of exploring. A low range of arches, supported on pillars of the most
sturdy proportions, runs along either side, furnished with massive stone
seats, worn smooth by the use of some centuries of gossips. The little
shops within this dark arcade are undefended by windows of any kind,
but lie open, displaying to the passer-by, not only the various wares
exposed for sale, but frequently, as the wind, or chance, waves the
folds of an old curtain at the back, the little household of the
merchant himself.

The middle portion of this street, scarcely wide enough for three
to walk abreast, grows even narrower as you look up, by the gradual
encroachment of each story on either side; so that while the denizens
of the first-floors have merely the neighbourly advantages of a near
salutation, they who inhabit the garrets may embrace without any fear
on the score of bodily danger. Our business is only with those beneath,
however, and thither I must ask of your accompanying me.

If the two groined arches--dark with age as well as feint light--the
narrow gloomy-looking alley, might at first deter the stranger
from entering, scarcely would he venture a few steps ere a strange
fascination would lead him onward. Within these little dens--for such
rather than shops do they seem--are objects to be found, the strangest
and the most curious ever exposed for sale. In one, you find a
collection of ancient armour the greatest Ritter Saal would be proud
to choose from:--weapons of every age and country--the chain-mail of
Milan--the plate-armour of Venice--the heavy double-nailed suits of
Regens-bourg--the small conical helmet of the East--the massive
but beautifully fashioned casque of Spanish mould--the blade of
Damascus--the double-handled sword of Appenzell--the jereed--the
Crusader's lance--the old pike of the Tyrol, with daggers and poniards
of every shape, that luxury or cruelty ever invented. Adjoining this,
perhaps, lives one who deals in rare flowers and shrubs; and, strange as
it may seem in