Having strayed away from our yachting party, or yachting party having strayed away from me, I found myself (_they_ didn't find me though; they _have_ been finding me in wittles and drink during the whole of the voyage,--humorous again, eh? It's _in_ me, only there's a depression in the Baltic. Why call it Baltic? Nobody on board knows) outside the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. I daresay there's some legend about their having built it, but, as I remarked before, my knowledge of the Russian tongue is limited to what I get _dried for breakfast_, and that doesn't go far when there are many more than myself alongside the festive board--and so I couldn't get any explanation. But I managed to sneak inside the fortress--and then,--_lost my way_!!! Couldn't get out. "If you want to know your way, ask a Policeman" in London, and, in St. Petersburg, ask a Bobbiski. Here's one with a sword--at least, I think he's one. I said, "Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French--"_Où est_," says I, "_le chemin pour aller_ out of (I couldn't remember the French for 'out of') _cette_ confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand me. I tipped him a wink--I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came up,--what _he_ was I don't know--but suddenly, from their awful manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me, "Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With great presence of mind I pointed to my nose--they saw the point at once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I! and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard, where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away! [Illustration: Policeman.] Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely. Expect me back soon. Ah, what an escape!--to think I might have languished for the best of my days in irons or in the mines out in Siberia, like _Rip Van Winkle_, or the Prisoner of Chillon, who dug himself out with his nails (when I was a boy I remember it, and tried to do it in the garden), and came up with a long beard when everyone was dead and gone. I may return as a stowaway, but anyhow expect me, and prepare the fatted outlet. That's humorous, isn't it, eh? [Illustration: "Suddenly from their awful manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me, 'Hang it all! They take me for a Jew!"'--_Extract from Letter from Our Yotting Yorick_.] Yours, JETSAM, THE Y.Y. 19,000 miles away too! Just imagine! * * * * * AUTOMATIC PROGRESS.