At St. Petersburg Forrest found much to interest him, especially the tomb of Peter the Great, the numerous relics and specimens of his handiwork so carefully preserved, and the magnificent equestrian statue by Falconet, erected in his honor by Catherine. While crossing a bridge that spans the Neva, he one day observed a covered boat gliding beneath, manned by half a dozen soldiers. On inquiry, he learned that the boat contained some Polish noblemen who had been condemned to slavery and chains for the crime of loving liberty and their country too well. He describes a visit to the Palace of the Hermitage, where there was a fine collection of paintings, among them one ascribed to Jules Romain,--a very curious representation of the creation of woman. "Adam is asleep, like a melodramatic hero just fallen into a reverie, with his head resting on his right hand, quite in an attitude. The Deity, as usual, is given as an infirm old man dressed in azure, and is pointing to the side of our primeval parent, out of which mother Eve seems to slide like a thief from his hiding-place!" Moscow he found still more attractive and imposing, with its long, romantic story, and the sublime tragedy of its conflagration in the presence of the terror-struck army of Napoleon. A single extract from his diary will suffice: "Went to the Kremlin. Passed the Holy Gate with my hat on, unconscious of the _sacred_ precincts until a boor of a Russian grunted at my ear and with violent gestures motioned toward my head. It then struck me this must be the Holy Gate, through which none dare pass without being uncovered. But, as I did not like to be browbeaten into respect for their 'brazen images,' I passed on sans cérémonie and without molestation. I walked to the terrace which overlooks the gardens and the river, and looked down upon the magnificent city, with her gorgeous palaces, her innumerable cupolas and domes, dazzling amid the bright sunbeams with azure and gold. I stood by the ancient residence of the Tsars, the scene of so much history; and as I glanced over the immense assemblage of stately structures spread far and wide across the vast plain below, all beaming with as much freshness as if by the voice of magic they had just been called into existence, my eyes drank in more delight than they ever had before in looking upon a city, save only when in early life, after an absence of years from my native place, I revisited my home. The spectacle which Moscow presented was at the same time novel and sublime. Its varied architecture was at once Oriental, Gothic, and Classic, the delicate towering minarets of the East and the beauteous majesty of the Grecian blending with the 'tall Gothic pile Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, Bearing aloft the arched and ponderous roof. Which by its own weight stands immovable.'