In the Introduction to his valuable bibliography of Puškin in English, published on the occasion of the centenary of Puškin's death, Mr. A. Yarmolinsky says: “…the extent to which the name [of Puškin] was known in England, let alone in other English-speaking countries, must have been exceedingly limited. It is doubtful if Wordsworth, whose name figures in a famous sonnet of Pushkin's, or Coleridge, of whom Pushkin was an assiduous and appreciative reader, had ever heard of their great contemporary, and it is safe to assume that Byron … did not suspect the existence of his Northern admirer and imitator.” On the whole, Mr. Yarmolinsky is, of course, right, and there is nothing surprising in the fact that Byron, who died in 1824, had not suspected the existence of “the Byron of Russia,” as Puškin was to be dubbed in England before the decade was out. But even during Puskin's lifetime, Russian literature had begun to attract attention outside Russia, and Puškin himself was spoken of as its outstanding representative.

The term Belorussia is not well known outside the Slavic world. The area is more frequently referred to as "White Russia." Since 1917, however, use of the latter term has become a source of confusion. The Russians who fought against the Reds in the Civil War of 1918-20 were also called "White Russians." Although in Russian the term Belorussy, the ethnic group, and Belye Russkie, the political group, are easily distinguishable, there is no way of making the distinction clear in literal translation into English. Many people still cannot understand how an anti-Soviet group succeeded in organizing a republic within the Soviet Union, and why its members are called "white" after they have turned "red." In view of the general confusion, it is perhaps time to suggest that when referring to the ethnic group, the term Belorussian replace the term "White Russian" in our libraries, documents and literature.

The document given below, which has recently come to light in the archives of the British Foreign Office, concerns the punishment meted out to the French adventurer D'Anthès-Heeckeren, who killed Puškin in a duel in January, 1837. The author of this dispatch, John George Lambton, Ist Earl of Durham (1792-1840), a noted Whig politician, had been Lord Privy Seal in the Grey Ministry from 1830 to 1833. His zeal for reform had earned him the nickname of Radical Jack. He was British Ambassador to St. Petersburg from 1835 until 1837, and Governor General of Canada in 1838.

It is not suggested that Durham's report adds any material facts to our knowledge of Puškin's tragic end. At the same time, it emphasizes in a striking manner the discreditable part played by the Dutch Minister, Heeckeren, in his adopted son's conduct.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Hungarian literature, an era of optical illusions and wasted lives, the works of Kálmán Mikszáth represented an outlet for socially significant, humorous and satirical energies. Mikszáth was not only accepted, but acclaimed by the Hungarian ruling classes. In their estimation no apparent damage had been done to their social status by his novels, stories and sketches. Although he saw how badly things were going, and though his level-headed judgement was immune to self-deception, he identified himself with his own social stratum, which was that of the gentry. Richard Chase's criterion of “ordealist criticism,” that is, “being interested in the suffering and failure of the artist and his estrangement from society,” could not be applied to the life and works of the Hungarian humorist, although it would be applicable to several of his contemporaries. Mikszáth was not an “accursed” creator or a spiritual exile.

Zygmunt Krasiński, who in one short essay cast more light on the particular excellencies of Słowacki's poetry than do volumes of commentary, when he was informed—one hundred years ago—of Slowacki's death, declared that his grave should be inscribed “To the Author of Anhelli” adding: “This alone will suffice to secure his fame to future generations.” There were perhaps special reasons why Krasiński should have best understood and most admired Anhelli, but it is still difficult to quarrel with his judgment. Of all Stowacki's works, Anhelli is perhaps the most easily accessible to us—more understandable now, even, than it could have been when it was first published, one hundred and eleven years ago.