The preceding may suffice for a description of this cathedral; in which, as I before observed, there is a palpable want of simplicity and of breadth of construction.  The eye wanders over a large mass of building, without being able to rest upon any thing either striking from its magnificence, or delighting by its beauty and elaborate detail.  The pillars which divide the nave from the side aisles, are however excluded from this censure.  There is one thing—­and a most lamentable instance of depraved taste it undoubtedly is—­which I must not omit mentioning.  It relates to the representation of our Saviour.  Whether as a painting, or as a piece of sculpture, this sacred figure is generally made most repulsive—­even, in the cathedral.  It is meagre in form, wretched in physiognomical expression, and marked by disgusting appearances of blood about the forehead and throat.  In the church of St. Mary, supposed to be the oldest in Vienna, as you enter the south door, to the left, there is a whole length standing figure of Christ—­placed in an obscure niche—­of which the part, immediately under the chin, is covered with red paint, in disgusting imitation of blood:  as if the throat had been recently cut,—­and patches of paint, to represent drops of blood, are also seen upon the feet!

In regard to other churches, that of St. Mary, supposed to be, in part, as old as the XIIIth century, has one very great curiosity, decidedly worthy of notice.  It is a group on the outside, as you enter a door in a passage or court—­through which the whole population of Vienna should seem to pass in the course of the day.  This group, or subject, represents our Saviour’s Agony in the garden of Gethsemane:  the favourite subject of representation throughout Austria.  In the foreground, the figure of Christ, kneeling, is sufficiently conspicuous.  Sometimes a handkerchief is placed between the hands, and sometimes not.  His disciples are asleep by the side of him.  In the middle ground, the soldiers, headed by Judas Iscariot, are leaping over the fence, and entering the garden to seize him:  in the back ground, they are leading him away to Caiphas, and buffeting him in the route.  These latter groups are necessarily diminutive.  The whole is cut in stone—­I should think about three centuries ago—­and painted after the life.  As the people are constantly passing along, you observe, every now and then, some devout citizen dropping upon his knee, and repeating a hurried prayer before the figure of Christ.

The Church of the Augustins is near at hand; and the contents of that church are, to my taste and feelings, more precious than any of which Vienna may boast.  I allude to the famous monument erected to the memory of the wife of the present venerable DUKE ALBERT OF SAXE TESCHEN.  It is considered to be the chef d’oeuvre of CANOVA; and with justice.  The church of the Augustins laying directly in my way to the Imperial Library, I think I may safely