The Grand Duke is the third brother of the Emperor, is about thirty-seven years old, perhaps, and is the princeliest figure in Russia.  He is even taller than the Czar, as straight as an Indian, and bears himself like one of those gorgeous knights we read about in romances of the Crusades.  He looks like a great-hearted fellow who would pitch an enemy into the river in a moment, and then jump in and risk his life fishing him out again.  The stories they tell of him show him to be of a brave and generous nature.  He must have been desirous of proving that Americans were welcome guests in the imperial palaces of Russia, because he rode all the way to Yalta and escorted our procession to the Emperor’s himself, and kept his aids scurrying about, clearing the road and offering assistance wherever it could be needed.  We were rather familiar with him then, because we did not know who he was.  We recognized him now, and appreciated the friendly spirit that prompted him to do us a favor that any other Grand Duke in the world would have doubtless declined to do.  He had plenty of servitors whom he could have sent, but he chose to attend to the matter himself.

The Grand Duke was dressed in the handsome and showy uniform of a Cossack officer.  The Grand Duchess had on a white alpaca robe, with the seams and gores trimmed with black barb lace, and a little gray hat with a feather of the same color.  She is young, rather pretty modest and unpretending, and full of winning politeness.

Our party walked all through the house, and then the nobility escorted them all over the grounds, and finally brought them back to the palace about half-past two o’clock to breakfast.  They called it breakfast, but we would have called it luncheon.  It consisted of two kinds of wine; tea, bread, cheese, and cold meats, and was served on the centre-tables in the reception room and the verandahs—­anywhere that was convenient; there was no ceremony.  It was a sort of picnic.  I had heard before that we were to breakfast there, but Blucher said he believed Baker’s boy had suggested it to his Imperial Highness.  I think not—­though it would be like him.  Baker’s boy is the famine-breeder of the ship.  He is always hungry.  They say he goes about the state-rooms when the passengers are out, and eats up all the soap.  And they say he eats oakum.  They say he will eat any thing he can get between meals, but he prefers oakum.  He does not like oakum for dinner, but he likes it for a lunch, at odd hours, or any thing that way.  It makes him very disagreeable, because it makes his breath bad, and keeps his teeth all stuck up with tar.  Baker’s boy may have suggested the breakfast, but I hope he did not.  It went off well, anyhow.  The illustrious host moved about from place to place, and helped to destroy the provisions and keep the conversation lively, and the Grand Duchess talked with the verandah parties and such as had satisfied their appetites and straggled out from the reception room.