up and down on the box, while the troïka flew, now up the ascents and then down the declivities of the highway.

Tchitchikoff smiled as he lightly swung on his leather cushions, for he liked to drive rapidly. And what Russian does not love fast driving? How could it fail to suit the taste of a man who is always striving for excitement, who delights to roam? How could his soul help loving this? Should he not love it, this speed which seems so triumphant, so marvellous? It is as though an unknown power had taken you upon its wings; that you were flying on and on while everything else was flying back. The verst-stones fly back; the merchants, on the boxes of their britchkas, fly to meet you; the forest flies off on both sides of the road, with its dark bands of pines and firs, and with the blows of axes and the cawing of crows resounding in its depths; the whole road flits away into the dim distance. And there is something terrible bound up with this swift flashing, amid which one can only distinguish the sky overhead, flecked with light clouds; and where the moon, as it pierces them, seems to be the only thing which is immovable.

Ah, the troïka—the bird-troïka! Who invented thee? Of course, thou couldst only have had thy birth among a dashing race—in that land which has extended smoothly, glidingly, over half the earth, and where one may count the verst-pillars until one’s eyes swim. Thou art not a complicated vehicle, friend troïka. Thou art not put together with iron spikes; a clever moujik of Yaroslavl, with axe and chisel only, has made thee with despatch. Thy driver wears no German cavalry-boots: he has a beard and mittens, they are all he needs. The deuce only knows what he sits upon; but see, he has risen, and he waves his arms and strikes up a song. The horses dash on like a whirlwind; the spokes of the wheels have become merged into one smooth circle; the road quakes, and the foot-traveller halts and cries aloud in alarm—while yet the troïka flies on, on, on! And, behold, it is already visible afar, raising a cloud of dust, and piercing the air, till at last it vanishes from view.

Is it not thus, like the bold troïka which cannot be overtaken, that thou art dashing along, O Russia, my country? The roads smoke beneath thee, the bridges thunder; all is left, all will be left, behind thee. The spectator stops short astounded, as at a marvel of God. Is this the lightning which has descended from heaven? he asks. What does this awe-inspiring movement betoken? and what uncanny power is possessed by these horses, so strange to the world? Ah! horses, horses, Russian horses! what horses you are! Doth the whirlwind sit upon your manes? Doth your sensitive ear prick with every tingle in your veins? But lo! you have heard a familiar song from on high; simultaneously, in friendly wise you have bent your brazen breasts to the task; and, hardly letting your hoofs touch the earth, you advance in one tightly- stretched line, flying through the air. Yes, on the troïka flies, inspired by God! O Russia, whither art thou dashing? Reply! But she replies not; the horses’ bells break into a wondrous sound; the shattered air becomes a tempest, and the thunder growls; Russia flies past everything else upon earth; and other peoples, kingdoms, and empires gaze askance as they stand aside to make way for her!