When in 1918 the Soviet government established the first complete State monopoly of foreign trade, whereby that government should become the purchaser of all goods imported into the vast territories of former Tsarist Russia, and the distributor of all materials and products grown or manufactured within those territories, the outside world hesitated for several years to reopen trade dealings with the new State. It feared and distrusted this new commercial colossus, which on the one hand could become, in theory at least, the largest single buyer in the world of the goods it needed, and on the other, a seller that could, again in theory, break any competitor in the world market, by the mere process of offering at any price the materials it could produce in such abundance.

When Aunt Pelageya Yushkova finished appropriating “necessities” for the journey and the future existence of the Tolstoi children (Nikolai, Dmitri, Sergei, Lyovochka, and Masha) at Kazan, Yasnaya Polyana looked as though the Golden Horde had ravaged it. An immense amount of household equipment, and carpenters, tailors, mechanics, cooks, and upholsterers from among the skilled serfs were sent on ahead. The “complete orphans” with their various attendants and staples for the road set out, accompanied by a long train of carriages and carts. The brothers grieved at parting with Auntie Tatyana. Their “second mother's” love and long service gave her a stronger moral claim to the children than that of their legal guardian, Aunt Pelageya, who always treated her with polite hostility. Aunt Pelageya could never forget that Auntie Tatyana had once received a proposal from her husband, who still spoke with enthusiasm of “Toinette,” and indiscreetly recalled before his wife how “elle était charmante!”

Let me Resurrect the “York Minster” episode of seventy-five years ago — and enlarge it a little for present purposes. York Minster — such was his nickname — was a native of Tierra del Fuego. He was a likable young fellow, bright, animated, rather handsome, and of a particularly shapely figure. Let him be where he might, his figure was always on exhibition, for he wore not a rag of clothing, except a square of untanned skin between his shoulders. His costume did not make him conspicuous, because it was the costume of his whole nation.

For Several Centuries Denmark shared with the Hanseatic league predominance in the Baltic area, but the first three decades of the sixteenth century witnessed radical changes. The Hansa was affected adversely when new routes were discovered to important overseas markets, when European states underwent fundamental reorganizations in structure, and when for some reason the herring changed their course. Denmark found herself weakened by the political revolution following the reformation, the expansion of Spanish, Dutch, and English seapower, and the dissolution of the Kalmar Union due to the Swedish independence movement. As a result, the old balance of power in the Baltic area was destroyed. Had Sweden, Poland, Prussia, the Holy Roman Empire, or any combination of these taken over the place which Denmark had held for so long, no significant new development would have resulted. The fact that Denmark's decline coincided with and partly caused the rise of Russian power in northern Europe marks the importance of the period.

Two Decades Ago, in 1923, the Slovak Academy of Arts and Sciences known as Matica Slovenská, celebrated its sixtieth anniversary. Present at the international convention of this body held in the Slovak cultural capital of Turčianský Svätý Martin was the figure with whom we have here to deal, Martin Kukučin.

A man of sixty-three at the time, a distinguished physician known for his unselfish labors in three countries and on two continents, to say nothing of being the reigning figure in Slovak letters, Kukučin was one of the half dozen stars of this stellar occasion.

Because it is a “most favored” nation, and one sensitive to distress in parent lands of the many population strands woven into its life pattern, the United States has a firmly established reputation for international philanthropy.

This tradition for world-wide generosity is well maintained today. The President's War Relief Control Board has a war relief agency registered for virtually every one of our fighting or Axis-occupied allies, and even for one erstwhile enemy, Italy. Other organizations cut across national lines to aid the refugees, war prisoners and other dislocated groups of the entire continent of Europe.

Russian ecclesiastical architecture presents a very interesting study in artistic geography, and its monuments typify, with unusual fidelity, the various episodes in the development of Russia itself. The lusty northern strength, the mystical Byzantine piety, and a haunting orientalism are all expressed in the church buildings, and the long development which brought them into organic architectural unity is a fascinating one to follow. Its theme is a curious counterchange of northern and southern elements, both affected (in varying degrees) by the East.

Christianity filtered into the old heart-land of Russia from the south, but the first churches of all, modest indeed, were doubtless built in the local northern “vernacular” architecture of shed-like units. Early evidence of various kinds indicates an underlying architecture of this sort in Ireland (seventh century), the Carolingian Empire (eighth century, figure 1), Britain (tenth century), and Scandinavia (eleventh century) — if not before, in each case.

The multiplication of orientation and specialized courses (or parts of courses) on aspects of Soviet history, diplomacy, social policy, economics, government, and culture which seems likely to result from the present war and from the emergence of the U.S.S.R. as a world power of the first magnitude confronts American educators with related problems of some scope.

For the first time, the Western democracies find themselves in momentary friendly partnership with a nation actuated by an alien ideology which, until recently, led it to be critical of, if not aggressively hostile toward, the spirit of their political institutions. With respect to this nation, a marked cleavage of opinion has existed between those who are more or less disposed to accept its ideology as a fairly logical phase of human sociology and politics, and their opponents who, from experience, prejudice, or honest conviction, regard it with varying degrees of aversion as a political and social menace.

The original text of the Declaration of Lithuanian Independence, signed and proclaimed by the Lithuanian Council in Vilnius (Vilna) on February 16, 1918, was written in Lithuanian, a language which never before in the entire history of the Lithuanian nation had enjoyed the status of an official state language. The official documents of the former Grand Duchy of Lithuania had been drawn up in Latin, White Russian, or Polish; and during the Russian domination of the nineteenth century the use of Russian was compulsory in all walks of life, while in Prussian Lithuania German held a similar though less brutally enforced position. Thus, the declaration of February 16, 1918, was not only an act of political but also linguistic liberation. Today the Lithuanians boast of a standard language in which everything interesting the human mind can be successfully discussed. A systematic catalogue of Lithuanian books published during the first two decades of Lithuanian independence was brought out in 1938 and contains about 7100 individual entries: Izidorius Kisinas, Lietuviškų knygų sistematinis katalogas (Kaunas, 1938). All the books listed in this catalogue are written in the standard language and bear testimony to the genius of the nation.

Their battalion had been put on a train in Paris and sent off to the east. They had taken along the things they had looted in France, French wine and French autos.

From Minsk they had marched to the front, leaving their autos behind for lack of gasoline. Drunk with German victories and French wine, they moved along the dusty roads of White Russia with the sleeves of their uniforms rolled up and their collars unbuttoned. Their helmets hung on their belts; their bare, sweaty heads were dried by the gentle sun and warm breeze of foreign Russia. There was still some wine swashing in their flasks, and the soldiers walked boldly down the streets of burned Soviet villages and loudly sang a boastful army song about a pretty French girl, Jeanne, and how she had never seen real soldiers or known real men until the Germans came to Paris.