We got home about 10 and went in to pay a visit to the Baldwins, who have the rooms next to us. They had intended going too to the camp, but the rain frightened them off. We told them they hadn't missed much. The Admiral is charming--has been everywhere, seen everything, and takes such a practical American view of everything. He was not at all impressed with all the magnificence of Moscow--"All show (not much of a one) and hollow. What is there underneath?" However, I said I thought the show was pretty good as far as it went, and certainly no other country in the world could offer such a sight; to which he replied, smilingly, that I had been so long away from America that I had forgotten what it was like. I stuck to my guns, and said that certainly not all the intelligence, energy, education, and money of America could produce such a pageant. What was so wonderful was the contrast. All the modern life and luxury grafted upon that old half-Eastern, half-barbaric world. I think I shall never again see anything like the dinner of the Emperor and Empress the day of the Coronation. It looked exactly like some old mediaeval picture as they sat there in their robes and crowns in that old dark-vaulted room of the old palace. We had quite an animated discussion. I fancy he always takes the opposite side on principle. This morning we have been very energetic. Mathias came at 10 o'clock, and we started off sight-seeing. We walked across to the Palace, which is directly opposite, and were there about an hour. There is not much to see, the rooms are large and high, all very simply furnished. Those that give on the river are very gay with all the water life of the city passing under the windows. There is one large gallery "des glaces" rather like the famous one at Versailles, which they told us was beautiful when it was lighted. There are quantities of portraits everywhere, and these, of course, are interesting; also some fine china, large vases. We saw, of course, Bernadotte's room, left exactly as it was when he died there. It was a curious mixture of French and Swedish, several French papers and brochures lying about on the tables just as he had left them, quite yellow with age and the print fading, also note-books and "projets de loi" annotes in his handwriting. They say he never knew a word of Swedish and yet was so popular. There was a fine portrait of him over the fireplace, a handsome man, with fine soldierly bearing.