“Can any country afford to lose such men?” I put that question to myself as I looked over an audience of six hundred stalwart young Russians, their faces alight with intelligence, their whole bearing showing sturdy self-reliance, and yet lovable and teachable, withal. The place was an East Side hall, and the occasion a gathering to do honor to a Russian fellow countryman, and to enjoy a Russian play. The countryman was an exile because he wished to hasten the day of freedom for his beloved land. He was a man with a noble, melancholy face, and eyes that looked love and friendship. One wondered what that scholarly man could have done to have the sentence of death passed upon him. The play when given in Russia was immediately suppressed, and yet it is founded on an actual happening. Imagine yourself with me at the Russian hall; let us take a seat and hear what the play is about and maybe we shall learn why it is that many Russians do not like the church. The players will speak in Russian, but we shall understand them for we shall have some one beside us to translate the Russian into English. Now all is quiet. Here enters a young student in a red shirt and big top boots. He feels very important, for he has just arrived home from the University at St. Petersburg. His sister is with him. They are talking about a monastery in their village. “You know how the great monastery near us deceives the people,” says the brother. “You know how the monks pretend the sacred _ikon_ (image) on the altar works miracles, and how the poor peasants have to give the monks hard-earned money. You know how these cheats tell the authorities of any one who says he is dissatisfied with the government. And you know, too, that these monks are not good men.” “Yes,” the sister says, “I am sorry that what you say is true. The monastery ought to be a great blessing to our village, but instead it is a great curse.” “Then,” cries the student, walking up and down and much excited, “I am going to open the eyes of the people and show them that the monastery is a wicked fraud.” “How will you do it?” exclaims his sister, greatly alarmed. “Please do nothing that will cause the police to send you to prison.” There comes a knock at the door; the brother opens it, and in walks one of the monks from the monastery. He is such an unclean, repulsive-looking man you would want to run away from him if you met him on a lonely road. He does not look at all like the priests, or preachers, we know. He holds out a tin cup and whines, “Please help a poor friar who is begging for holy church.” All the Russians in the audience laugh in derision when they hear the whining voice. “Why is the church in need of money?” asks the student. “We need money,” whines the monk, “because the people no longer visit us as in years past, and since they do not bring money in we monks must collect it.” “But,” persisted the questioner, “why have the moujiks stopped visiting you?”