Watering The Streets.

Looking from my window, one morning, I could have fancied that a multitude of monstrous mushrooms had sprung up from the pavement in a single night; for one of the migratory markets, characteristic of old European cities, had established itself here for the day, and I was looking down upon a mass of white umbrellas of enormous size, designed to shelter from the sun and rain provisions and proprietors alike. The market-women of Vienna, who thus sell their wares, are notorious for their volubility and the vituperative power of their tongues. One of the escapades of Joseph II., when a young man, was to go among them in disguise, and overturn a basket of eggs, or play some similar prank, that he might listen to their torrents of abuse; in return for which, however, he was always willing to pay well for the mischief he had done.

One of the most important business streets in Vienna is the Graben, which, as the name denotes, was once a part of the moat outside the fortifications; and, strange as it may seem to the tourist of the present time, many of the attractive shops that tempt him here, to-day, stand on the site of the old city battlements. Among the modern buildings which adorn the Graben is a singular relic of the past, well worth inspection. It is the stump of an old tree, securely fastened to the wall by an iron band. It is called the " Stock im Eisen," or the " Iron Stick," from the fact that it is completely covered with nails that have been driven into it in accordance with an ancient custom, the significance of which is unknown. Its appearance, therefore, is precisely that of an iron club. That this old tree, which apparently could not crumble now if it should try, was formerly looked upon as sacred, there can be no doubt; and it is said to have once marked the terminus of the great Weiner Wald, or Forest of Vienna, which then extended to this moat.

White Umbrellas.

In the centre of the Graben stands an architectural monstrosity, sadly at variance with the handsome shops along the street. It is, I think, without exception the ugliest monument in the world. It is entitled the Trinity Column; but what that theological doctrine has to do with its confused array of clouds, men, angels, animals, and devils is difficult to understand. At the first glance, it seemed to me the petrified result of an explosion of dynamite beneath the monkey cage of a menagerie; and as it was erected, in 1679, to commemorate the cessation of the plague in Vienna, one almost regrets that the architect, at least, did not succumb to the epidemic.

The " Stock Im Eisen."

The Graben And St. Stephen's Spire.

Until about two hundred years ago, the sovereigns of Austria were buried in the crypt of St. Stephen's Cathedral. Since then, however, their bodies have been laid to rest in the vault of the far humbler Church of the Capuchins. Guided by one of the brothers, I descended into this subterranean chamber of the royal dead. The faint light from the monk's lamp flickered fitfully upon the dark stone pavement and the bronze sarcophagi which lie here side by side; and, halting before each, the priest would strike the metal cover with his key and speak the name of its dead occupant. The largest and most elaborate of these contains the remains of Maria Theresa. Near that are the coffins of her husband, Francis I., and her son, Joseph II.; a few steps further one perceives the tomb of Marie Louise, the second wife of Napoleon, beside which lies the casket of her son, who was called by his imperial father the King of Rome, but is named here by the title given him in Austria, the Duke of Reichstadt. Another tomb in this crypt is that of the Archduke Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico; who, lured by the glitter of a phantom crown, was induced to leave his exalted position in Austria, to found a shortlived empire on the shores of the New World, and met an ignominious death at the hands of those who refused to submit to a foreign dictator. The most recent member of the imperial family buried here was the unfortunate Prince Rudolph, son of the present Emperor, and heir-apparent to the throne, the mystery of whose tragic death, in 1889, has never been openly explained. His afflicted father, Francis Joseph, on the day of the tragedy, sent to the Pope the following pathetic telegram: "Holy Father," he wrote, "please decide whether my poor boy is to have Christian burial or not, exactly like any other man. I ask for no favor. As for myself, I am resolved to abdicate." I saw a wreath of flowers "lying upon Rudolph's coffin, and the ribbon attached to it, in token of his wife's affection, bore the three words, " From thy Stephanie."