In the west, however, between the Ural and Lake Baikal, towns exist in the European sense of the word. It cannot be said, however, that they are remarkable for their monumental beauty, but they possess a certain measure of picturesqueness, and bear a striking resemblance to the provincial towns of Russia proper, such as Saratof or Samara, or some quarters of Moscow itself. The houses are nearly all built of black wood like those peppered all over the country, and are built on either side of the long streets at a little distance one from another, and rarely, if ever, embellished by a garden or any attempt at external decoration. The streets cross each other at right angles, and are made as wide as possible, on account of the numerous fires, against which every precaution has to be taken, and people are actually requested not to smoke on the great wooden bridge which crosses the Angara at Irkutsk. In certain wealthier quarters of the towns a story is usually added to the houses, which are painted white, gray, or some other conspicuous colour. Occasionally one comes across a stone building two or three stories high, usually either the shop of some rich merchant or official, or else a museum, hospital, gymnasium, college for boys or school for girls, or sometimes an immense barracks. The appearance of these dwellings when grouped together on the hill-tops, as at Omsk, is agreeable, especially so as they are interspersed with the bright-coloured cupolas of the churches. As to the latter, they are innumerable. There is literally one at every corner. Standing at the centre of the cathedral square at Irkutsk, I was able to see no less than seven at a glance. They are all exactly alike, usually painted blue or rose-colour, surmounted by one big cupola, and surrounded by a lot of smaller ones brightly gilt or silvered, and produce an excellent effect in the sun or on a clear moonlight night. Internally they possess all the barbaric splendour of Russian churches, and are a blaze of gilt icons and crystal chandeliers.