The first thing which I visited in Inspruck, and the object which I could not tire of gazing on after repeated visits, is the grand cenotaph in the church of the Franciscans, to the memory of Maximilian the Emperor.

The mausoleum itself would require, if I attempted it at all, a very minute description, and of a nature that would be tedious to the reader, without conveying the general effect to his mind. It is raised on three steps of veined marble, on the highest of which there is a finely executed bordering in bronze of arms and trophies. In bronze, Maximilian, robed as an emperor, kneels suppliant on his tomb; on the sides, in tablets of white Carrara marble, each of which is two feet wide by one and a half in height, are represented, in bas relief, the most remarkable actions of his life. The sculpture is exquisite, and all the scenes are represented with a fidelity at once minute and animated. But the charm and the magic of this monument arise from the remarkable circumstance of its being sur

*

colossal statues in bronze. The figures are male and female, persons of renown and royal birth: many of the house of Austria and in the ancestral line of Maximilian, and others, to the stranger's eye, of a deeper and more attaching interest. There is "Gottfried von Bouillon, König v. Irusalem," in armour, with the cross on his breastplate, and the crown of thorns upon his cap of steel. There is Theodoric, king of the Goths: Clovis of France: Philip the Good, and Charles the Bold; and it is with a start of delight that the Englishman reads on the pedestal of that one whose port and bearing are allowedly the most knightly and the most royal,

ARTUR, KÖNIG

V. ENGLAND.

You ask not why he is here; you gaze upon his coronetted helm with the worship of one who had lived his subject; you

* That is, somewhat larger than life.

mount the pedestal and raise his barred vizor, and look upon the still features; you grasp his gauntletted hand, and touch his sword

with a fancy that you are daring too far, and down again in reverence to the paved aisle.

I lingered among these forms at a second visit till it was dusk. Albrechts and Rodolphs were frowning on me in fearful armour. Queens and princesses standing solemn in large draperies of bronze, and I happily pacing or pausing among them with a created and indulged terror; and ever as I came near “Artur, König von England,” the harp of Warton sounded in my ear, as it was wont to do, when as a boy it was my pastime to recite his fine "Ode on the Grave of King Arthur."

In this same church lie the remains of Hofer under a plain stone, simply inscribed

brought from Mantua by order of the Emperor of Austria, that they might be honoured with a public funeral in the capital of Tyrol. They were received by the faithful Tyrolese with transport, and followed to the place of their present rest by the public authorities, the military, and crowds of the peasantry, who flocked down from all their mountains to grace the glorious procession. A costly monument is to be erected to the memory of this great peasant. I saw the design, and thought it cumbrous. The tomb of such a man cannot be too plain. A block of granite on a mountain's top were enough; and I would have it on a mountain hitherto pathless: then would every footstep of the way be a trace of, and a tribute to, his fame.

The man who served me during my stay at Inspruck had been at Mantua when Hofer was put to death, and saw him shot. He was an Italian of the regular indolent domestique de place character, roused, as he described it, by the running past of an idle crowd, and the cries that a man was to be

shot: some designating him as the great robber, some the mountaineer with the long beard, some the traitor, some the rebel. He told me that Hofer walked pale and praying, but very firmly; that he gave his watch, just before the fatal moment, into the hands of a bystander, as a legacy to his family, and died easily:- a better head and a worse heart, and Hofer would not thus have died. A Tyrolese gentleman told me that during a great part of the time of that insurrection, Hofer was very unhappy, by finding himself involved in the administering of so many affairs, of which he knew nothing. His great adviser was a priest, and among his minor advisers another, who, it is whispered, finally betrayed him. Even Hofer could not escape the charge of injustice, nor perhaps the real though unintentional commission of it. To a person who appeared before him on behalf of a friend who had been taken up and put into prison, his reply was, "Your friend cannot be a good man or without fault in this matter, or he would not be in prison:" but it is fair to add, the counsellor

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