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.