On the roads one occasionally encounters bridges; and here, again, I have discovered in Russia a key to the mysteries of Hibernian phraseology.  An Irish member once declared to the House of Commons that the Church was “the bridge that separated the two great sections of the Irish people.”  As bridges commonly connect rather than separate, the metaphor was received with roars of laughter.  If the honourable members who joined in the hilarious applause had travelled much in Russia, they would have been more moderate in their merriment; for in that country, despite the laudable activity of the modern system of local administration created in the sixties, bridges often act still as a barrier rather than a connecting link, and to cross a river by a bridge may still be what is termed in popular phrase “a tempting of Providence.”  The cautious driver will generally prefer to take to the water, if there is a ford within a reasonable distance, though both he and his human load may be obliged, in order to avoid getting wet feet, to assume undignified postures that would afford admirable material for the caricaturist.  But this little bit of discomfort, even though the luggage should be soaked in the process of fording, is as nothing compared to the danger of crossing by the bridge.  As I have no desire to harrow unnecessarily the feelings of the reader, I refrain from all description of ugly accidents, ending in bruises and fractures, and shall simply explain in a few words how a successful passage is effected.

When it is possible to approach the bridge without sinking up to the knees in mud, it is better to avoid all risks by walking over and waiting for the vehicle on the other side; and when this is impossible, a preliminary survey is advisable.  To your inquiries whether it is safe, your yamstchik (post-boy) is sure to reply, “Nitchevo!”—­a word which, according to the dictionaries, means “nothing” but which has, in the mouths of the peasantry, a great variety of meanings, as I may explain at some future time.  In the present case it may be roughly translated.  “There is no danger.”  “Nitchevo, Barin, proyedem” ("There is no danger, sir; we shall get over"), he repeats.  You may refer to the generally rotten appearance of the structure, and point in particular to the great 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