“And fain it would stoop downward
  To the mirrored wave below;
  And fain it would soar upward
  In the evening’s crimson glow.”

I remember that a little yacht lay beside the pier at the castle’s foot, and lazily flapped its sail, while the sea beat inward with as languid a pulse.  That was some years ago, before Mexico was dreamed of at Miramare:  now, perchance, she who is one of the most unhappy among women looks down distraught from those high windows, and finds in the helpless sail and impassive wave the images of her baffled hope, and that immeasurable sea which gives back its mariners neither to love nor sorrow.  I think though she be the wife and daughter of princes, we may pity this poor Empress at least as much as we pity the Mexicans to whom her dreams have brought so many woes.

It was the midnight following my visit to Miramare when the fiacre in which I had quitted my friend’s house was drawn up by its greatly bewildered driver on the quay near the place where the steamer for Venice should be lying.  There was no steamer for Venice to be seen.  The driver swore a little in the polyglot profanities of his native city, and descending from his box, went and questioned different lights—­blue lights, yellow lights, green lights—­to be seen at different points.  To a light, they were ignorant, though eloquent, and to pass the time, we drove up and down the quay, and stopped at the landings of all the steamers that touch at Trieste.  It was a snug fiacre enough, but I did not care to spend the night in it, and I urged the driver to further inquiry.  A wanderer whom we met, declared that it was not the night for the Venice steamer; another admitted that it might be; a third conversed with the driver in low tones, and then leaped upon the box.  We drove rapidly away, and before I had, in view of this mysterious proceeding, composed a fitting paragraph for the Fatti Diversi of the Osservatore Triestino, descriptive of the state in which the Guardie di Polizia should find me floating in the bay, exanimate and evidently the prey of a triste evvenimento—­the driver pulled up once more, and now beside a steamer.  It was the steamer for Venice, he said, in precisely the tone which he would have used had he driven me directly to it without blundering.  It was breathing heavily, and was just about to depart, but even in the hurry of getting on board, I could not help noticing that it seemed to have grown a great deal since I had last voyaged in it.  There was not a soul to be seen except the mute steward who took my satchel, and guiding me below into an elegant saloon, instantly left me alone.  Here again the steamer was vastly enlarged.  These were not the narrow quarters of the Venice steamer, nor was this lamp, shedding a soft light on cushioned seats and paneled doors and wainscotings the sort of illumination usual in that humble craft.  I rang the small silver bell on the long table, and the mute steward appeared.