We, the Corps Diplomatique, were bidden to the Winter Palace at noon. The drive through the streets was fascinating. The weather was glorious and the glistening city was at its brightest, the soldiers in all their bravery giving a kaleidoscopic glamour to the surging mob, mostly clad in sad-coloured sheepskins with the wool inside. The wild-looking Georgians in their native dress, Cossacks of the Don, fierce, swarthy horsemen from the Caucasus in their shirts of mail and shining armour, striking a medieval note in the concert of men. The Kurnos regiment of the Emperor Paul, every man with a snub nose, and wearing the old peaked brazen shako of our Guards in Queen Anne’s reign, each shako showing a bullet hole in it, a memorial of a bullet which, aimed at the Tsar, found its billet in the tall cap of one of his faithful, snub-nosed guardsmen, who dashed forward just in time to save the Tsar’s life at the expense of his own; in contrast to these were the grenadiers, with heavy bearskin caps and plumes. The _chevalier-gardes_ in white tunics, their helmets and cuirasses dazzling in the winter sun—all the panoply of war set in the flaming glory of ecclesiastical and imperial splendour. Could this be Europe in the nineteenth century? From the room in the Palace in which we had assembled we were ushered off to a side entrance to see the priestly procession form to meet the Tsar. It was an imposing ceremony. The air was heavy with the penetrating fumes of incense, and in the distance we could hear the mysterious effect of the deep bass voices of the priests and deacons—those wonderful bass voices for which they are chosen—chanting the impressive litanies of the Greek Church. Nearer and nearer they came, the music becoming clearer and more distinct, but intensely reverential, until at last the great procession of Church dignitaries passed before us; it was stirringly solemn. Priests in red, priests in purple, priests in white, and priests in violet, all as resplendent as a profusion of gold embroidery and jewels could make them—very imposing with their long white beards and hair. One deacon, a giant in stature, with hair and beard reaching half-way down to his waist, had a deep voice which, pealing through the corridors like the rolling[42] notes of a bass trombone, made the windows rattle again. Last of all came the Bishops and the Metropolitan, like the King’s daughter “all glorious within,” clad in raiment that made them seem like a vision out of the Apocalypse. Altogether a sight not to be forgotten.