November 30th.—St. Petersburg at last! To anyone who loves beautiful scenery there could hardly be a duller, gloomier journey than that across the eternal stretches of moor and marsh, broken up by forests of sad-looking, stunted birch and fir trees. No human habitation to be seen, no mankind, save at the railway stations a few peasants, their limbs swathed in bandages of sackcloth, with bags of the same all over; dirty, unkempt, poverty-stricken, and hungry as their fellow-subjects the wolves. Soldiers everywhere, for the Polish insurrection was at its height, and even our train had a military guard. Most of my fellow passengers carried revolvers, picturesque but unprofitable furniture, giving a slight flavour of adventurousness to the journey, though there was really no cause for alarm, no reason to expect the least little excitement in the way of danger. There were too many soldiers about for that. Thirteen trains full of them passed into Lithuania the day before I was there, adding to our impatience by delaying us for an hour and a half when we were longing with our whole souls to reach our goal. And yet, socially, it was a pleasant journey enough. I travelled with William Harbord, Lord Suffield’s brother, whose first appearance it was as a Queen’s Messenger. On board the Calais boat was the Crown Prince of Denmark, going home from work at Oxford, who was most kind to us, and invited us to travel in his carriage and to dine with him at Cologne. We parted from him at Hanover when he branched off for Denmark. We were very sorry to say good-bye, for he was most gracious and friendly. At Berlin I had a few hours between trains, which I spent with that grand old diplomatist Sir Andrew Buchanan, who was our Ambassador, a great gentleman of the old school, and in the evening I dined with him before starting for Russia. Here again I was in luck, for in the train I found Prince Alexis Dolgorouky and at Kowno there were added to us General Bechelemicheff and his wife. He was returning from a command in Poland, and the first intimation that we had of his presence at the station was an awful serenade of songs and brass instruments executed by the band of one of his regiments. So we had quite a merry party and the time passed cheerfully enough inside the carriage. Outside the prospect was dismal to a degree, and we shut our eyes to it. The winter’s snow had not yet arrived, and there was nothing but slosh and mud and misery. However: “Be the day weary or be the day long, At length it ringeth to evensong.”