In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a
castle, or schloss. A small income, in that part of the world, goes
a great way. Eight or nine hundred a year does wonders. Scantily
enough ours would have answered among wealthy people at home. My
father is English, and I bear an English name, although I never saw
England. But here, in this lonely and primitive place, where
everything is so marvellously cheap, I real]y don't see how ever so
much more money would at all materially add to our comforts, or
even luxuries.
My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a pension
and his patrimony, and purchased this feudal residence, and the
small estate on which it stands, a bargain.
Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a slight
eminence in a forest. The road, very old and narrow, passes in
front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its moat,
stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans, and floating on
its surface white fleets of water-lilies.
Over all this the schloss shows its many-windowed front; its
towers, and its Gothic chapel.
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