[Illustration:  Droschki-Driver.]

Mister Skipper says I ought to go to the Petershoff.  All very well to say so, but where is Peter, and now far is he “hoff”?  That’s humorous, I think, eh?  You told me to go and “pick up bits of Russian life,” and so I’m going to do it at the risk of my own, I feel sure, for I never saw such chaps as these soldiers, six feet three at the least, every man Jackski of ’em, and broad out of all proportion.  However, I’ll go on shore, and try to get some fun out of the Russians, if there’s any in them.  If I’m caught making fun of these soldiers, I shouldn’t have a word to say for myself!  The Skipper says that he’s heard that the persecution of the Jews has just begun again.  Cruel shame, but I daren’t say this aloud, in case anyone should understand just that amount of English, and then—­whoopski!—­the knout and Siberia!  So I’ll say “nowt.”  Really humorous that, I’m sure, and 19,000 miles from England.

To-day—­I don’t know what to-day is, having lost all count of time—­is a great day with the Russians.  I don’t understand one word they say, and as to reading their letters—­I mean the letters of their alphabet—­that is if they’ve got one, which I very much doubt,—­why I might as well be a blind man for all I can make out.  Somehow I rather think that it’s the Emperor’s birthday.  Guns and bells all over the place.  Guns going off, bells going on.  Tremendous crowds everywhere.  “I am never so lonely,” as somebody said, “as when I’m in a crowd.”  That’s just what I feel, especially when the crowd doesn’t talk a single word of English.  The Russians are not ill-favoured but ill-flavoured, that is, in a crowd.  I cheered with them, “Hiphiphurrahski!  Hipski!  Hurrah-ski!” What I was cheering at I don’t know, but I like to be in it, and when at Petersburg do as the Petersburgians do.

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—­“Ou est,” says I, “le chemin pour aller