The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1873-07-27

INFINITE pleasure Of those who hear and the merri-
ment Oh the Prince himself, who keeps his way.
THE OLD TOWN.
And now We pass up the slope, the villagers
meeting us In denser array, across the bridge that
covers the moat, under broad wide arched gate
way that may have de1ed the Saracens, and over
which Is written to-day, in Bohemian phrase,
welcoming word, and We are in the
old town OF Wittingau. "A short; snap
ping breath OF rain falls as we
pass the portal; but the heavens suddenly repent
and the sun smiles again In compliment to our H.
lustrious host, and we, his dusty guests, who
throng these highways anxious about dinner, for
the day has been long and the shadows are COM
ing. All Wittingau does us honors; every window
and easement burdened with curious faces-trades-
men In their doorways bowling and smillng-as we
look around at the strange old town. Rosetted
persons point the way, and we enter low, mar
row door into series OF communicating rooms
paved with brick and devoted to the archives Of
the family-twenty rooms In al-the records and
deeds and bonds, blazoned decorations, manu-
scripts OF the Middle Ages, telling OF the Schwartz
enberg glories in fading texts manuscripts OF Wal
lenstein and Maria Theresa which attract US par
ticulary as we hurry along. So we pass into an
extensive garden with abundant fowers-the
private garden Of the caste-where nature
these noble men and women; still on into an open
courtyard, which ia the brewery. 1t is large
enough for States prison or modern New York
newspaper Office, with towers, too, and archways
and vaults. We are crowded into small rooms
aromatic with hop odors and up stairs and down
stairs to see boys ladling the OdOrous mash, and
then into long, arched room with tables spread.
where we dine The Prince tells us that this
brewing house was formerly an abbey, and that
the room in which we sit was the monks refec-
tory. Let us hope that the jolly monks whose
souls have rested in peace these centuries past,
and who would look with wondering anger at this
invasion OF hungry Turks and inndels, had as
good beer and beef as we find before US.
THE DINNER AND FAREWELL.
Well, We dine In honest, hearty fashion, the
dinner genuine transaction, with some suspicious
OF French continuing in the sauces. But Of this we
speak not, for we would not be In any way unbe-
coming as the guests of this mighty Prince and
Count Of the Holy Roman Empire. Before the
dinner the musicians came-the fdding person
who resembles Mr.. Emerson, another who plays
horn instrument, and younger one with an ex-
ceedingly contented face, who plays kind Of bag
pipe. Mr.. Emerson is in fine singing mood, and he
chants long legend In the local dialect, mainly
about the fisheries and the ancient gories OF the
home Of Schwarzenberg, and now and then
sly hit at the young Prince and his
father, which their Highnesses hear with smiling
face. After the dinner we are summoned by the
horns OF the buglcmen to the carriages and hurried
to the train. BY this time the moon is coming over
the hills and shines as radiantly she ever shOne
upon the Alps or the Mediterranean. And there,
to see us off, are the Prince, his family and retinue.
He accepts our thanks in a friendly way and begs
US to come again, which 1 am sure most Of us
would find a pleasure. AS we move or we give him
cheers in voices OF loud appreciation; and the
old Prince-his hair white with its seventy-four
years-bows us farewell, with uncovered head as
we are whired home again to Vienna.