Once we wandered clear away to La Favorita Palace, which is several miles from Baden-Baden.  The grounds about the palace were fine; the palace was a curiosity.  It was built by a Margravine in 1725, and remains as she left it at her death.  We wandered through a great many of its rooms, and they all had striking peculiarities of decoration.  For instance, the walls of one room were pretty completely covered with small pictures of the Margravine in all conceivable varieties of fanciful costumes, some of them male.

The walls of another room were covered with grotesquely and elaborately figured hand-wrought tapestry.  The musty ancient beds remained in the chambers, and their quilts and curtains and canopies were decorated with curious handwork, and the walls and ceilings frescoed with historical and mythological scenes in glaring colors.  There was enough crazy and rotten rubbish in the building to make a true brick-a-bracker green with envy.  A painting in the dining-hall verged upon the indelicate —­but then the Margravine was herself a trifle indelicate.

It is in every way a wildly and picturesquely decorated house, and brimful of interest as a reflection of the character and tastes of that rude bygone time.

In the grounds, a few rods from the palace, stands the Margravine’s chapel, just as she left it—­a coarse wooden structure, wholly barren of ornament.  It is said that the Margravine would give herself up to debauchery and exceedingly fast living for several months at a time, and then retire to this miserable wooden den and spend a few months in repenting and getting ready for another good time.  She was a devoted Catholic, and was perhaps quite a model sort of a Christian as Christians went then, in high life.

Tradition says she spent the last two years of her life in the strange den I have been speaking of, after having indulged herself in one final, triumphant, and satisfying spree.  She shut herself up there, without company, and without even a servant, and so abjured and forsook the world.  In her little bit of a kitchen she did her own cooking; she wore a hair shirt next the skin, and castigated herself with whips—­these aids to grace are exhibited there yet.  She prayed and told her beads, in another little room, before a waxen Virgin niched in a little box against the wall; she bedded herself like a slave.

In another small room is an unpainted wooden table, and behind it sit half-life-size waxen figures of the Holy Family, made by the very worst artist that ever lived, perhaps, and clothed in gaudy, flimsy drapery. [1] The margravine used to bring her meals to this table and Dine with the holy family.  What an idea that was!  What a grisly spectacle it must have been!  Imagine it:  Those rigid, shock-headed figures, with corpsy complexions and fish glass eyes, occupying one side of the table in the constrained attitudes and dead fixedness that distinguish all men that are born of wax, and this wrinkled, smoldering old fire-eater occupying the other side, mumbling her prayers and munching her sausages in the ghostly stillness and shadowy indistinctness of a winter twilight.  It makes one feel crawly even to think of it.