On Friday, 31st May, we all went to Miramar, eleven of us. We drove to Nabresina, the nearest station to Duino, went from there to Miramar by train (it gave some trouble to the engine-driver, as he had to stop the train on purpose for us to get out), and then walked from the station to the castle. It was a stupid way of getting there; it would have been much better to have driven all the way, but the directress of our party did not think so. I suppose she thought we should enjoy the various modes of travelling. It was rather a pity we had not relays of saddle-horses and bicycles to meet us somewhere—we should have had still more variety. We might have crawled the last bit too on our hands and knees, but I didn't think of it at the time. I used to like railway travelling. When I was very small I could have no greater treat than to be taken somewhere by train—now I don't. I still like to see a train. If I am in the country and feel lonely, I walk to the nearest railway line and wait for an express to rush by. That cheers me. I don't wish to be in it—the sight of it is enough. It must be an English express, however; a Continental express merely irritates one, and deepens the melancholy; I feel I can walk faster than it can travel.

We arrived at the Imperial Castle at last. The gardens are very pretty. There are numbers of terraces, and flights of steps, and cedar-trees, and little Italian gardens. There are big palm-trees, and strange foreign-looking shrubs, and beautiful beds of old-fashioned monthly roses.

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I had written so far in this chapter when I thought I had better consult my collaborator. I found her making a sketch in pen and ink. "That is very nice," I said. "I really know those things are trees." "I am glad you realise what they are," she answered with icy coldness. "Won't you read what you have written?"

I did so, and then the storm burst.

"You call that a description of those beautiful gardens!" she said. "Have you no poetry in your nature? Have you no appreciation of the beautiful? Why don't you say much more of the terraces, the marble staircases? Why don't you speak of the funereal cypresses clear-cut against the sky, the dark green of the ilex contrasting with the gray of the olives? Why don't you write about the white starry blossom of the jasmine, the sweet scent of the honeysuckle, the tea-roses creeping up and festooning the rough stems of the towering palm-trees, and shedding their perfume on the soft summer air, the glistening of the water in the fountains, the azure blue of the sea, the whiteness of the marble statues gleaming through the dark foliage, the mysterious appearance of the Italian gardens with their staircases leading down to the deep-hued waters of the Adriatic? Why don't you say something about the liquid notes of the nightingale, the faint whispering of the trees overhead, the 'Lovers' Walk?' Oh! you are stupid."

Perhaps I am. I have written all I could remember of our conversation. I hope she will be satisfied now.

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The castle was built about the middle of the present century by the Emperor Maximilian. We saw the rooms that had been his. They are built to exactly resemble the cabins on board his ship when he was Admiral of the Austrian Fleet. Every one knows his tragic story: how he, persuaded by the promise of French support, went off to be Emperor of Mexico; how the French deserted him (France has done many things she may well be ashamed of, but nothing more dastardly than this); how he was captured by the rebel Mexicans, and finally shot by them. Poor fellow! one would have thought that with all he had he might have been content without being Emperor of Mexico. But who knows what dreams of glory and heroic adventures passed through his brain! He was a poet and an enthusiast, a man worshipped by the people, and in his veins flowed the blood of CharlesV., who once had been the master of those far countries where his destiny called him. And what must have been his thoughts when he, the son of the German CÆsars, stood forsaken and betrayed before the handful of rebels who put an end to all his golden dreams? In any case his end was worthy of his noble nature. There is an incident in connection with it not generally known. One of the few Mexicans who remained faithful to him was Mejia, one of his generals. He was also captured by the rebels, and was condemned to be shot with the Emperor, but with this difference: for the Emperor a company of picked shots had been selected, and for Mejia they had chosen a number of raw and young recruits, unaccustomed to the use of the rifle. The Emperor, whose experienced eye had immediately remarked the cruel intention of the Mexicans, ordered his companion, as the last boon he could grant him, to exchange places with him. Mejia obeyed, and was killed instantaneously; but the Emperor died a lingering and miserable death.

People say he was so disfigured that when his embalmed body arrived in Vienna, no one, not even the Grand Master of the Court, could be quite sure of his identity.

I do not admire the castle. It is new, and looks new, and is built in no particular style, though the first intention was evidently to make it Gothic. One sees the love of the unfortunate Emperor for Spanish and Moorish things, by the way in which they are dotted here and there. The interior too is rather tasteless. There are some fine things, but the arrangement is bad. A beautiful cabinet that once belonged to Marie Antoinette is in one of the rooms; it has some wonderful old Wedgwood china on the doors.

We were shown round by the most melancholy attendant it has ever been my lot to meet with. He seemed to find it a heartrending business, and his voice sounded as if he were continually on the verge of tears. I was quite glad when the inspection was over. I am tender-hearted myself, and do not like to wantonly distress any one.

After viewing the castle we went out into the gardens again, and (I am sorry to have to confess it) ate some provisions that we had brought with us, on one of the flights of marble steps. Then we wandered about in the gloaming till it was time for our train.

It was a lovely evening:—

Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly,
While one star, trembling, watched the daylight die.