Dominica is the northernmost of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles. Its capital is Roseau. The official language is English, but for most of the island's predominantly Negro population of about 80,000 the language of everyday life is a French-based Creole called patois. Dominica was granted full independence from Britain on 3 November 1978. From November 1977 to December 1978, I lived there in a fishing village called Casse. Casse has about 800 inhabitants.

It is generally accepted that declining birth rates in most Western countries after the late 1870s2 were preceded by declining marital fertility among the middle classes. Though some scholars have suggested that the general decline was due partly to the working classes' later emulation of the middleclass family size “ideal,” no hypothesis has been presented to explain satisfactorily the downward trend in middle-class fertility. The most widely accepted explanation is that the “great depression” of 1873–96 lowered the middle-class standard of living, which in turn led to a concomitant decline in the birth rate as middle-class couples tried to retain or improve levels of consumption and status. However, recent research indicates that the great depression may not have been anywhere near as severe as earlier scholars have implied. But even if the middle classes believed that they were experiencing a declining standard of living, surely many years of supposed deprivation would have been necessary to jolt their class psyche to the realization that the future was to remain forever gloomy. And when some authorities who promoted the great depression hypothesis also claim that the middle-class fertility decline commenced in the early 1870s, before the onset of the great depression, then the argument becomes even more suspect. If the work of other authorities, who have received less coverage in demographic literature, is considered, then it is not the great depression but the 1850s and 1860s—the period of mid-Victorian prosperity—that should be supported as heralding the decline in fertility.

Slash-and-burn cultivation—the practice of clearing temporary fields in forests by chopping and firing the natural vegetation, planting crops for a brief time, and then allowing these fields to revert to forest—is a well-known type of agriculture in the world's tropical environments. Anthropologists, agronomists, and geographers have demonstrated that slash-and-burn cultivation, once regarded as a primitive and wasteful practice, can be an efficient adaptation to tropical forests, where the soils are highly leached, and the bulk of the nutrients available is locked up in the forest vegetation in a nearly closed cycle. By clearing and burning the forest vegetation in a field, slashand-burn cultivators release nutrients accumulated during many years of forest growth in order to fertilize a few years of cultivated crops. When the crop yield in such a field begins to decline, the cultivators abandon it to natural long-term fallow, allowing it to return to forest. The continued success of slash-and-burn cultivation depends on maintaining a high ratio of fallow land to cultivated land to allow for the gradual restoration of forests and nutrients.

The idea that the British colonial administration of Malaya systematically excluded non-Malays from rice cultivation has gained some currency in writings on Malaysian history and has become an important part of a model of colonial exploitation. According to this model, the British administration of Malaya undertook to maximize revenue and to serve the needs of British capital by pursuing a policy of ethnic division of labor, with Chinese working in the mines and Indians on the estates of Malaya and with the indigenous Malay population producing food for the mine and estate workers. Immigrant labor, the argument continues, was denied the opportunity to build an economic base in Malaya in order to keep wages low, while the indigenous Malay population was discouraged from growing export produce (particularly rubber) in order to stimulate rice cultivation, thereby creating a cheap supply of food. This model is attractive but in several particulars it is wrong, and taken as a whole it oversimplifies and seriously distorts the situation in colonial Malaya.

Overwhelming evidence from many sources, which covers diverse periods and aspects of life, suggests that the record of status attainment of Mexican Americans is unique among national groups in the United States. The variety of theoretical perspectives which has been used to explain the pattern of progress experienced by various national groups is not helpful in explaining why Mexican Americans depart from this pattern.

In the period 1894–96, when the Ottoman Empire was ruled by Sultan Abdul Hamid II, tens of thousands of Armenians were massacred. Nineteen years later, when the empire was weakened by disintegration and war, some one million persons—half of the Armenian population—were killed with the active participation of the Committee of Union and Progress, the ruling party of the day. The massacres and the genocide—for that is what the second act of violence has come to be called—must rank among the most terrible catastrophes of our era. Two questions come to mind: why did these things happen, and what is there to be learned from the Armenian case? We shall attempt to answer these two questions, keeping in mind that for historical events of such complexity and magnitude there are no final answers, merely more or less credible, more or less convincing, formulations. And given the obvious limitations, this article will focus on the massacres alone.

In an influential essay, Arnaldo Momigliano has identified an extremely important but perhaps little remarked oddity of ancient Greek historical writing and political thought.

Historical research has supplied extensive information about the stark facts of the Holocaust. It includes efforts both to document the full extent of the horror and to maintain a degree of objectivity and avoid undue sentimentality (Bauer 1978). The historical work includes, and goes beyond, chronicling the details of the murderous events. It points up unresolved-and possibly unresolvable-questions, such as the nature of the involvement and responsibility of European Christians. That issue involves, at one end, the accusation that Pope Pius XII was, at the very least, inactive in the face of a supreme moral challenge (Falconi 1970). At another end, it involves acknowledgement of extensive efforts by Christians to protect Jews, at considerable risk to themselves (Friedman 1980; Flender 1963).

Historians dislike nomads. This feeling is perhaps understandable, since our sedentary habits keep us from a full comprehension of people whose prosperity depended so much on continual movement and opportunistic raiding. The primary historical sources reinforce this dislike with their universally pejorative attitude: their authors were sedentary beings also who saw nomads as predators and described them from a safe distance. Why should we impeach these witnesses in the absence of an alternative body of sources containing the nomadic perspective? It is ironic that the very practices which led to the nomads' success have doomed them to ignominy in our modern eyes. Why should mounted archers have preserved archives? Paper, always heavy, would restrict mobility, range, and speed of horses. In short, travelling light gave military advantages to the nomads, but it also gave their history into the hands of their settled prey.