Surely no man was ever more truly a prophet in his own country than was Prince Gortchakoff at St. Petersburg in the autumn of 1863. His popularity was something phenomenal, and for a great deal of it he had to thank Lord Russell. Praise of the Russian answers was in all mouths, and Prince Gortchakoff was the idol of the moment, so much so, indeed, that there were some ill-natured persons who hinted rather loudly that the Emperor was growing a little jealous of his Minister’s popularity, and that there had been one or two evil quarters of hours. I am not sure that I was not the witness of one myself. It was at a great party where the Emperor was playing cards. The Prince went up to His Majesty with a very low bow; the Emperor turned sharp round upon him, showing all his teeth, literally, with the growl of an angry lion, and the poor old gentleman’s discomfiture was not pleasant to behold. Many people, of course, saw the affair, and it was much discussed in _salons_ and _chancelleries_. The first time that I saw Prince Gortchakoff come into a drawing-room I looked round for Mr. Winkle, Mr. Tracy Tupman and the poet Snodgrass, for here was Mr. Pickwick in person. Barring the white kerseymere smalls and the black gaiters, the likeness was complete. The round, good-humoured face, very pink and white, thin grey hair, eyes beaming rays of human kindness out of a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a most genial smile, the perfection of good manners, pleasant to everybody—altogether a most engaging personality. Small wonder that St. Petersburg loved him not only for his great qualities, but also for his small foibles, for did not these give endless opportunities to Tutcheff, the Sydney Smith of Russia? Vanity was always said to be the Prince’s strongest weakness. One night, at a dinner at which I was present, the talk turned upon the three famous despatches. Somebody said: “Lorsque le Prince Gortchakoff veut se procurer un vrai plaisir il fait venir un de ses secrétaires pour lui lire ses trois dépêches. Alors il se jette dans un fauteuil, ferme les yeux, et a tout l’air d’un homme qui——” “Effectivement,” interrupted Tutcheff. “C’est le Narcisse qui se mire dans son encrier.” The fun of the thing was that everybody knew that, although of course the despatches represented his policy, he had not written a word of them. They were drafted by a certain M. Katakazy, a very clever writer, who was afterwards Minister at Washington, whence, for some reason or other, he was recalled, and so far as I know, disappeared. At all events we heard no more of him.