As the novels of Machado de Assis make clear, for most Brazilians the War of Triple Alliance against Paraguay in the 1860s was a remote affair which scarcely impinged on their lives. In this respect the impact of the Paraguayan war on Brazil may be compared with that of the Napoleonic wars on the world of Jane Austen. In Argentina it was a different story. The war with Paraguay produced a sense of national trauma and crisis that makes it not hyperbolic to regard it as Argentina's Vietnam. This article seeks to trace the effect of the bloody conflict with Francisco Solano López on Argentine society. To simplify the analysis, the consequences of the war have been considered below under four headings which do not purport to be exhaustive or mutually exclusive: military, political (i.e., relating to the internal politics of Argentina), economic and international (concerned with Argentina's external relations).

In studying the nuances of any legal term from the colonial period in Latin America it is always good to have recourse to the Siete Partidas, the compilation of royal law promulgated, and some say written, by the famous thirteenth-century Castilian monarch, Alfonso X, often called “The Wise.”

A distinguished British historian, commenting on the trial and execution of “ Edmund Arrowsmith, a Papist burned by pious Englishmen at Lancaster in 1628,” claims that “ clearly … there is no rational comparison between a victim of the bloody Spanish Tribunal and one who suffered at the hands of cool headed English justice.” Considering that Magistrate Henry Yelverton judged Arrowsmith guilty of high treason for being a priest, refused to allow the accused to testify in his own defense, and then gleefully witnessed the execution, it is possible that “ cool headed English justice ” might not compare so favorably with the proceedings of the Inquisition. This is particularly true when the Inquisition in eighteenth-century New Spain is studied, for although the Holy Office was then in decline and under the control of regalist prelates, its operations exhibited marked deliberation in the pursuit of justice as defined by the courts of that period.

Any historian who sets out to write a book faces two dangers. The one might be called the “one more document syndrome,” the obsession with research that is so exhaustive that nothing further can be found. The other is the prospect of publishing a work, only to have further documentation come to light that was lacking in his original research or alters his conclusions. Perhaps the latter is the lesser danger because it at least permits part of the historical record to reach the public. It may be that I am prejudiced in that regard, having suffered this very experience. In a recent biography of Pedro Moya de Contreras, the first inquisitor of New Spain, third archbishop of Mexico, and interim viceroy, I wrote of his last years in Spain “one can only hope that future research and perhaps fortuitous discoveries will complete that part of his life's story.” The fortuitous discoveries were made within a few months after publication, happily by the author himself. They consist for the most part of a collection of documents in the library of the Instituto de Valencia de Don Juan in Madrid, especially the papers of Mateo Vázquez de Leca (1543-1591), Philip II's private secretary and an indefatigable hoarder of valuable documents.

In the 1960s, a generation of Latin American youth entered political life inspired by a heroic view of activism tiiat coincided, often contentiously, with the spread of new cultural trends from youth movements in Europe and the United States. This study focuses on how the notions of “being young” in circulation at the time affected the construction of political identities in Uruguay, particularly among the different branches of the Uruguayan left. I am especially interested in analyzing the relationship between the cultural representations of youth and the requirements for activism as conceived by these Uruguayan leftist groups.

On a warm December day in 1897 the political leadership of Minas Gerais converged on the small hamlet of Belo Horizonte to inaugurate a new capital for Brazil's most populous state. Foreshadowing the construction of Brasília six decades later, politicians and planners had transformed a rustic village of some 8,000 inhabitants into an enormous construction project. As with Brasília, those who promoted the move saw the new capital as a symbol and a catalyst. This planned city would symbolize the modernizing forces that were transforming Brazil and Minas Gerais at the turn of the century. More important, the rationally designed political center would also serve as a catalyst in the economic growth and integration of the state. In short, a modern, planned city would provide Minas Gerais with the dynamic economic and political capital that it so badly needed.

The dramatic changes in the Latin American church since the Second Vatican Council have taken many observers by surprise. In search of an explanation for these changes, much recent scholarship has devoted itself to analyzing the changing political climate, the influx of foreign religious personnel, the creation of radical priests' groups, the impact of Vatican II itself and the episcopal assemblies of Medellín and Puebla and, of course, the varying currents of liberation theology. In contrast, the tendency has been to overlook pre-Vatican II history. The pre-conciliar Peruvian church in particular has been characterized as tradition-bound, obscurantist or subservient to the upper classes. One author writing in the early seventies stated:

Historians have long debated the relationship between the Spanish Crown and its colonial subjects. The issue has taken on an additional dimension as our knowledge of the lives of women expands. Recently published works describe the statutes promulgated by royal authorities to regulate the institution of marriage. But what was the actual result of these laws once they crossed the Atlantic Ocean? Were they followed to the letter, partially enforced, or ignored? Did they apply to some groups and not to others? In order to answer these and other questions it seemed appropriate to focus upon the laws governing marriage and the effect of their implementation on a specific group of women—the wives of regular army officers who served in Venezuela during the last half of the eighteenth century.

Richard Greenleaf, in urging ethnohistorians of Indian response to Spanish Catholic culture to be attentive to the inquisitorial record, pointed especially to two unusually rich bodies of documentation, one generated by the Oaxacan enquiry of the 1540's and 1550's; the other by the “idolatry trials” of Yucatán in 1562. Most of the material relating to the Yucatecan episode has long been easily accessible to scholars through France Scholes' and Eleanor Adams' magnificent publication of 1938. Scholes, in his introduction to that work, and then in an article he wrote in conjunction with the great ethnographer of the Maya, Ralph Roys, judged the Indian confessions elicited in the course of the inquisition to be largely based on fact, and therefore concluded that the Maya Indians of Yucatán, after their apparent conversion, had not only continued to worship their old idols, but had returned to an intensified practice of human sacrifice in which some victims had been subjected to preliminary crucifixion.

Although virtually unstudied, the introduction of the philosophy of positivism into Chile acted as a catalyst upon the development of that country during the decade before the War of the Pacific. Scholars have given appropriate attention to the influence of positivism as it became significant in other Latin American countries during the eighteen-seventies, and Leopold Zea has discussed the importance of that philosophic system in Chile during the years which followed the west coast conflict of 1879-1883. However, despite the ever increasing number of articles and monographs dealing with positivism, the historians of Latin America have ignored the philosophy's growth in the Republic of Chile before the war and the effect of that growth upon the ideologies already extant in the Pacific coast nation.

The conquest of the Argentine pampas, with its well-known effects on Argentine expansion and on the political career of General Julio A. Roca, had a religious accompaniment which gave it some of the aspects of a crusade. Missionary priests went along with the military expedition and followed it up in order to convert and settle the Indians whose wanderings were forcibly suppressed by the operation of the army.

Efforts to Christianize the area had extended over two centuries, with only limited success.

The Franciscan Province of the Holy Cross was the first major administrative unit organized by the Franciscans, or by any religious, in the Americas. Begun at the relatively early date of 1505, this province faced the task of aiding in the establishment of the Church in a new world inhabited by only several thousand Europeans and hundreds of thousands of other people so completely unknown that the Europeans could not even call them by their proper name.

In 1519 Spanish conquistadors arrived on the shores of Mesoamerica under the leadership of Hernando Cortés. Following the defeat of Mexico-Tenochtidan, the Aztec capital, Cortés requested that members of the Franciscan order be sent from Spain to lead the conversion effort. In 1523 the first three Franciscans arrived, among them fray Pedro de Gante. One year later another 12 Franciscans made the journey. They established themselves in the southeastern portion of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, and under their direction Nahua laborers built the principal Franciscan religious compound, San Francisco, and the first indigenous chapel in New Spain, San Josef de los Naturales. Together this friary and chapel served as the main point of interaction for Franciscan conversion efforts within the altepetl, ethnic state, of Mexico-Tenochtidan. In the courtyard of San Francisco, next to the indigenous chapel, fray Pedro established an indigenous school aimed at the indoctrination of the Nahua peoples of Mexico-Tenochtitlan and other outlying altepetl. Although its students were primarily members of indigenous nobility, other promising Nahuas received an education there as well.

After The Fall of Tenochtitlán in 1521, the focus of Spanish attention was quickly shifted to the peripheral areas of New Spain. One of such areas, variously known in colonial times as Panuco, the Huasteca, or Vitoria Garayana, was conquered by Cortés in late 1522 or early 1523. In the spring of 1523 the Conqueror founded the villa of Santisteban del Puerto on the Panuco River; granted encomiendas to some one hundred Spaniards; and returned to Mexico City. Despite an early challenge by Francisco de Garay, the governor of Jamaica, Pánuco was administered by Cortés or the royal treasury officials of New Spain until May, 1527. At this time the crown appointee, Nuño Beltrán de Guzmán, arrived in the province with the title of Governor of Panuco which he held until the last months of 1533. In the pages that follow, an attempt will be made to present evidence relating to a decade of slaving in Panuco. This will involve the activities of both Cortés and Guzmán, as well as some traditional accounts relating to the topic. The author wishes to state at the outset that he is neither defending nor prosecuting the moral issue of Indian slavery.

Trans-Pacific relations of Japan and Latin America began toward the end of the sixteenth century, but it was not until almost three centuries later that continuous contact was established. A seclusion law, adopted in 1638 by the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan, was enforced until the late nineteenth century. During this period Japanese citizens going abroad were subject to the death penalty upon returning, and foreigners, except for a limited number of Chinese and Dutch traders, were excluded from Japan. The expedition of Commodore Matthew C. Perry was instrumental in reestablishing Japan's relations with the West. Following the restoration of the Meiji Emperor, Mitsuhito, in 1868, Japanese were encouraged to seek knowledge throughout the world; however, the emigration of Japanese subjects, in general, was not legalized until 1885.

On May 1, 1989, María, a high school teacher from Buenos Aires, wrote a letter to President Raúl Alfonsín as he began his final months in office. The country was in the midst of a hyperinflation crisis and elections were set for just two weeks away. Earlier in the day, María had heard the president's last address to the congress, and she felt compelled to write him. “My friend,” she began, as she recounted how she and her husband, an adjunct university instructor, had worked hard over two decades of marriage, weathering continuous financial difficulties and the sensation of “always having to start over.” María emphasized that she had no political affiliations that would cloud her judgment, lest the president think she was writing to ask for political favors.

On February 1, 1584, Pedro Moya de Contreras, archbishop of Mexico City, dispatched the official summons to the bishops of his ecclesiastical province to attend the Third Mexican Council set for the ninth of December of that same year. At the request of the bishop of the distant diocese of Guatemala, Fray Fernando Gómez de Córdoba, of the Order of St. Jerome, the opening date was postponed to January 20, 1585.

One of the Archbishop's letters of convocation was addressed to the first bishop of the Philippines, Fray Domingo de Salazar, Dominican. From Salazar's reply we know that the Archbishop did not insist on his personal attendance nor did he even suggest that he send a delegate. The purpose of the letter was to inform Salazar of the convocation of the Council and invite him to send a written report on conditions of the Church in the Islands, and propose such problems as he thought the assembled bishop should discuss and strive to solve.

The Teatro Colón of Buenos Aires stands as one of the few truly great opera houses of the world. Completed in 1908 after two decades of intermittent disasters which threatened to leave it a crumbling ruin before it ever opened, it remains unsurpassed as a building for the presentation of operas on a grand scale in an elegant setting. With one of the largest auditoriums of the world's opera houses, it combines splendid acoustics and a stunning exterior. Over 3,500 spectators can be easily accommodated in a seating arrangement which could make room for more were the chairs in parts of the house not so commodious nor so generously spaced. Nearly all the most renowned singers of the twentieth century have performed there and deemed it a signal honor.

A surprisingly frank letter from Francisco I. Madero, political figurehead of the Mexican Revolution of 1910, to New York publisher William Randolph Hearst casts new light on the difficult question of when Madero finally opted for revolution to topple the 35-year dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876-1911).

The letter was dated April 25, 1911, when Madero was with insurrectionary troops fighting at Ciudad Juárez. It contained Madero's responses to some written questions on his role in the Revolution submitted by Hearst through Sonunerfield, an American consular official in Mexico. Madero's answers were to form the basis for a news story in the Hearst newspapers.