holes sufficient to engulf half a post-horse. "Ne bos', Bog pomozhet"
("Do not fear. God will help"), replies coolly your phlegmatic Jehu. You
may have your doubts as to whether in this irreligious age Providence
will intervene specially for your benefit; but your yamstchik, who has
more faith or fatalism, leaves you little time to solve the problem.
Making hurriedly the sign of the cross, he gathers up his reins, waves
his little whip in the air, and, shouting lustily, urges on his team.
The operation is not wanting in excitement. First there is a short
descent; then the horses plunge wildly through a zone of deep mud;
next comes a fearful jolt, as the vehicle is jerked up on to the first
planks; then the transverse planks, which are but loosely held in their
places, rattle and rumble ominously, as the experienced, sagacious
animals pick their way cautiously and gingerly among the dangerous holes
and crevices; lastly, you plunge with a horrible jolt into a second
mud zone, and finally regain terra firma, conscious of that pleasant
sensation which a young officer may be supposed to feel after his first
cavalry charge in real warfare.

Of course here, as elsewhere, familiarity breeds indifference. When you
have successfully crossed without serious accident a few hundred bridges
of this kind you learn to be as cool and fatalistic as your yamstchik.

The reader who has heard of the gigantic reforms that have been
repeatedly imposed on Russia by a paternal Government may naturally
be astonished to learn that the roads are still in such a disgraceful
condition. But for this, as for everything else in the world, there is
a good and sufficient reason. The country is still, comparatively
speaking, thinly populated, and in many regions it is difficult, or
practically impossible, to procure in sufficient quantity stone of any
kind, and especially hard stone fit for road-making. Besides this, when