Late in April, 1917, students of Preparatory Studies in Montevideo, Uruguay, declared a strike against the authorities of their school and organized a public demonstration on the steps of the Faculty of Law of the University. Thus a decade of calm in the university student movement of Uruguay was abruptly shattered by students who were in the last years of secondary education preparing for entry into the University. In a brief but violent struggle with police, troops, and firemen the angry young men of Preparatory Studies kindled a new spirit of protest and rebellion that would soon spread to the University and awaken the dormant student movement.

In October, 1797, the indios principales of the Andean pueblo of Muñani appealed to the royal court in Cusco to depose their governor, or cacica, Doña María Teresa Choquehuanca. Not challenging hereditary Choquehuanca rule, they instead focused on María Teresa's incompetence and her sex, complaining of “the miseries that we have suffered with [her] inappropriate entry into the cacicazgo,” adding that “on account of her distinct sex she should by justice be deposed, because she is not worthy of so estimable an office.” That office was central to the indigenous politics of colonial Peru, the legal and administrative ordering of which placed most of the Indian population in relatively autonomous, land-owning “pueblos de indios” over which the cacique, responsible for collecting the crown's tribute and maintaining order, presided as something between a chief and a lord. As the village leaders in a parallel, popular tradition that reserved its authority for men, Muñani's principales asserted that this bastion of elite indigenous authority ought not be held by a woman. But they made clear that it sometimes was: María Teresa had governed Muñani for five years. Nor was she alone. Cacicas governed pueblos and ayllus throughout the Andes, and it was quite common for the husbands of cacical heiresses to rule in their names.

“Bishops, because they are bishops, cannot stop being vassals of their kings, and functionaries of their states. Nor are they exempt from practicing with all those around them, especially with their diocesans, works of mercy, physically as well as spiritually.

I gave [the miners] as proof of this truth one of the soliloquies of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, in which he said: “You are a man, you are a citizen of the world.” —Bishop Martínez Compañón recounting his experiences with the Hualgayoc miner's guild in a letter to Viceroy Teodoro de Croix of Peru, May 1786.

Waldo Frank, who is now forgotten in Latin America, was once the most frequently read and admired North American author there. Though his work is largely neglected in the U.S., he was at one time the leading North American expert on Latin American writing. His name looms large in tracing the careers of Latin American writers in this country before 1940. Long before Franklin D. Roosevelt launched the Good Neighbor policy, Frank brought back to his countrymen news of Latin American culture.

Frank went to South America when he was almost forty. The youthful dreams of Frank and his fellow pre-World War I writers and artists to make their country a fit place for cultural renaissance that would change society had waned with the onset of the twenties.1 But they had not completely vanished. Disgruntled by the climate of "normalcy" prevailing in America after World War I, he turned to Latin America. He started out in the Southwest. The remnants of Mexican culture he found in Arizona and New Mexico enticed him to venture further into the Hispanic world. In 1921 he traveled extensively in Spain and in 1929 spent six months exploring Latin America.

The Subject of this Study lends itself to a threefold interpretation: it can refer to the books which Zumárraga himself wrote, or to the books which he edited and published, or to those which made up his library, in all probability the first library that existed in New Spain. However it be taken, a study of “The Books of Zumárraga” will give us a glimpse of one of the objects of the invincible zeal that inspired him in his broad vision of his duties as bishop and missionary, as the guide of souls and the father of his flock, occupied with all the necessities of the natives that dwelt within the immense territories comprised in his diocese.

In fact, the constitutive elements of his diocese were two: the conquerors and the conquered. The former, as was to be expected, had their full share of the spiritual defects which the lower nature of any army on active service seems all too prone to exhibit. These faults became even worse among the conquistadores of Mexico when their active service was done and they began to lead a soft, idle life that in many cases incited all their concupiscences.

Students of the Mission History of colonial Spanish America are aware of the importance played by the Apostolic Colleges in the expansion and development of the Indian mission field. The labors of the Fernandinos, Zacatecans and Queretarans, for example, have been heralded in the chronicles of the Colleges, in the extant documents pertaining to the respective mission fields, and in the histories, both Spanish and English, which describe the endeavors of the friars in behalf of Christianity and civilization on the frontier.

Between 1683 and 1814, seven of these Colleges were founded in New Spain alone: Santa Cruz, Querétaro; Cristo Crucificado, Guatemala; Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, Zacatecas; San Fernando, Mexico City; San Francisco, Pachuca; San José, Orizaba; and Nuestra Señora de Zapopan, Guadalajara. Querétaro, Zacatecas and San Fernando are the best-known to American students, because of their influence on the Borderlands from Texas to California. San Fernando was responsible for the great development between 1769 and 1833 in the entire territory of Alta California, and in the southern portion between 1833 and 1853. Studies on this mission field are numerous and detailed, but there is a gap which should be filled with a study on the College itself. For such a study, we are dependent on the official documents of the regime, once—before the confiscation period in Mexican history—very numerous. Though various students have declared that most of the documents have been lost, the present writer may announce, with confidence, that while certain ones evidently have been lost, a great body of them does still exist; and from these it is possible to study various aspects of the College’s life. San Fernando has been chosen for study in this article, both because it was the mother house of the California missions, and because a considerable number of pertinent documents have been brought to light in recent years.

The events of Alberto Masferrer's life and the parallel evolution of his social thought reveal much about the broader forces which shaped El Salvador and Central America during his generation. His lifetime brackets the consolidation of the Salvadoran state and the formation of modern social groups. Alberto Masferrer was born in 1868, the age of the Liberal presidents' ascendence throughout Central America; he died in 1932 as Depression-era dictators assumed power throughout that same region. In fact, 1932 is a watershed year in Central American history. With Agustín Farabundo Martí's failed Communist uprising in El Salvador and the murder of Augusto Cesar Sandino in Nicaragua, the early 1930s brought a decisive end to the possibility for Masferrer's idealized type of elite-led reform and instead turned opponents toward ideologically-motivated popular revolt. Alberto Masferrer, like most intellectuals, struggled with ideas and power. He realized that the liberal reforms of the late nineteenth century Presidents not only had failed to improve the material and moral condition of the majority of his countrymen, but actually had degraded them. Though Masferrer's admiring biographer Matilde Elena López observed that “[t]he reality of man exploited by an unjust society is the central idea of his life,” it remains no easy task to categorize the cranky journalist's thought for, indeed, he does not fit neatly into any single ideology. Masferrer the humanist gave primary importance to the betterment of social and economic conditions for those living on the material plane, while Masferrer as a Christian stressed the otherworldly values of humility, hard work, patience and charity. Masferrer the communist called for a return to the ejidal landholding system of the traditional Indian communities and a guaranteed standard of living for all Salvadorans, but Masferrer the corporatist recognized the existence of a natural state of hierarchy and felt that harmony would prevail if each remained true to his pre-ordained vocation. Masferrer the aesthetic arielista venerated language and culture, but Masferrer the criollista could not be restrained to the world of pure art and consistently returned to earth to criticize uneven social conditions. Masferrer the hispano-falangist idealized a strong and vigorous nation, yet Masferrer the pacifist abhorred violence and aggressiveness.

CIVIL congregation of the Indians in New Spain was one phase of the continuing program which Spanish colonial officials had been conducting since earliest days in the New World to civilize and Christianize American native groups by urbanizing them. Application of this doctrine to New Spain as a whole in the years which began in the seventeenth century has been discussed elsewhere. Here the purpose is to fit the general procedures to a specific case by describing in detail the congregation process as it affected San Pedro Yolox, a small center of Chinantec Indian hamlets in the Sierra de Juarez, lying in the modern Mexican state of Oaxaca.

“The most noble and most faithful city of St. Francis of Quito”, capital of the republic of Ecuador and formerly capital of the Audiencia of the same name, was founded upon the ruins of the capital of Atahualpa by the Spanish conqueror, D. Sebastián de Belalcázar y Medrano, on December 6, 1534. On January 25, 1535, the noble Flemish Franciscan, Fray Jodoco Ricke de Marselaer, assisted by two other Franciscans, placed the first stone of the building which was to become the first Franciscan monastery in South America. As was the custom, the patron of the new building was the saint of the day. In this case, the feast of the day was the Conversion of St. Paul and by this name was the new friary known.

Once the two largest sugar colonies in the slave-owning Caribbean, Jamaica and Haiti trace their separate paths of development back to the revolutionary struggles of the 1790's. While the French colony of Saint Domingue was transformed in a way few societies have ever been, Jamaica remained seemingly untouched by the conflagration that consumed its neighbour. When the slaves and free coloureds of Saint Domingue rebelled in the autumn of 1791, Jamaican society faced the greatest challenge of its history. The dramatic spectacle of violent self-liberation was acted out almost before the eyes of its blacks and mulattoes, while the ruling white elite experienced a dilemma that seemed to oppose its prosperity to its survival. This paper looks at the reaction of different social groups in the island in an attempt to explain its continuing stability.

The old mission buildings of California will, so long as a vestige of them remains, furnish inspiration for writers of fiction and history, poetry and song. For there were built into their very walls stories that can never be completely told; stories that can only be guessed at. And so the subject is ever new, never ending.

Over twenty years ago the writer began a serious study of the old establishments as of the mission day period, feeling that there was need of a better, fuller understanding of them and of the part they had played in the early history of our State. There has been too much of romantic, fanciful, even prejudiced writing and too little that is sanely historical.

Seaborne commerce, communication, and transportation to a great extent defined and enabled the Spanish enterprise in the Caribbean from the time Europeans first arrived in the islands. With the exception of a minority of towns such as Concepción de la Vega in Española that were established in the interiors of the islands to provide access to gold mines and the indigenous labor to exploit them, the majority of new towns and cities were located on the coasts. Although Santo Domingo, San Juan, and eventually Havana emerged as the principal ports and administrative capitals of the large islands of the northern Caribbean in the first half of the sixteenth century, many secondary and small port towns played essential roles in the rapid development of systems of local and regional exchange, indigenous slave raiding, and transatlantic commerce that linked the islands to Seville, the Canaries and other islands of the Atlantic and the southern Caribbean. Allowing island residents to take advantage of waterborne transportation often via indigenous-built canoes, linking the islands to one another and the circum-Caribbean mainland, and serving as staging grounds for slave-raiding and other expeditions that radiated out from the islands, these towns helped to forge a diverse and dynamic region that was closely tied both to Spain and later to the developing societies of Spanish America.

In 1798, the U.S. Congress enacted a series of laws that affected resident aliens by restricting their access to citizenship and making those deemed to be “dangerous to the peace and safety of the Unites States” subject to deportation at the will of the Executive. In 1827, the Mexican government enacted the first of three laws for the expulsion of Spaniards, which ordered the removal of those born on the Spanish peninsula. In both cases, these laws went against the premises for membership that the young nations had set after independence. In both cases, it was argued that such violent measures were necessary to save the nation. As such, they suggest that even though the modern nation is often described as a subjective community, linked by horizontal bonds of solidarity, few mechanisms are as effective in forging an “us” than the construction of a hostile “them.”

When the first European visitors arrived on the shores of California, they found the Indians to be poor and the country sparsely settled. The natives lived in semi-permanent villages of brush shelters and huts. Though hunters and gatherers, they sometimes practiced a form of protoagriculture. Social groups were fragmented by complex language differences. Often extremely hostile and suspicious of strangers, they were nonetheless attracted to the culture brought in by the newcomers.

In most cases the Europeans discovered that the Indians fit their own preconceptions. Missionaries found them eager for conversion. Sophisticates saw them as ignorant and brutish. Kindly people considered them to be warm and friendly. To soldiers they seemed fierce and hostile. Catholic visitors to the missions were frequently impressed with their piety. Protestants often thought their faith was but a thin veneer overlying an undiminished paganism. It is nearly impossible to generalize about the observations of Europeans. Indians in the same place were often described in totally contradictory ways by successive parties of visitors. And this same diversity of opinion exists among historians today.

Although Mexico City was the foremost cultural center in North America before 1800, the musical history of this capital has been strangely neglected. Not until 1946, when Lota M. Spell published a pioneer article on music in the Conquest century, was a first attempt made at bringing the viceregal music to international attention. Four years later Francisco Curt Lange translated her article into Spanish. In 1952 Jesús Bal y Gay handsomely edited what he hoped would be but the first in a series to match Monumentos de la Música Española. As unique source for the transcriptions of Mexican colonial chefs-d’oeuvres in this luxurious 235-page volume, Bal y Gay availed himself of a filmed codex. In April, 1961 Roger Wagner recorded approximately half of the Bal y Gay volume—including Juan de Lienas’ splendid Missa super fa re ut fa sol la (the identical cantus firmus used in Morales’s Missa cortilla and in Masses by Melchor Robledo and Ginés de Boluda), Francisco López [y] Capillas’ Magnificat secundi toni, Hernando Franco’s Peccantem me quotidie, Memento met Deus, and the Spanish Masses transcribed by Bal y Gay because they were in the source codex.

This article analyses the character of local religious practice in the archdiocese of Michoacán during Mexico's cristero rebellion, and explores the relationship between ‘official’ and ‘popular’ religion under persecution. In particular, it shows how the Catholic clergy and laity reconstructed the religious life at parish level in an attempt to mitigate the effects of the revolutionary state's campaigns against the Church. For a variety of reasons, the significance of such passive resistance to the state, and the complexity of the interaction between the ecclesiastical elite and the Catholic laity, tend to be downplayed in many existing accounts. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many historians see cristero violence as the most important response to religious persecution, and therefore study it to the exclusion of alternative, less visible, modes of resistance. As for the Church, the hierarchy's wranglings with the regime similarly tend to overshadow the labours of priests and their parishioners under persecution. But the full range of popular experiences has also been deliberately compressed for ideological reasons. Many Catholic writers, for instance, seek to exalt the Church by describing a persecution of mythical ferocity. While Calles is likened to Herod, Nero, or Diocletian, the clergy and laity comprise a uniform Church of martyrs designate in revolt against a godless state. To achieve this instructive vision, however, a few exemplary martyrs—such as Father Pro and Anacleto González Flores—are allowed to stand for the whole mass of priests and believers, in the same way that Edmund Campion is revered as the protomartyr of the Elizabethan persecution in England. As a result, a stereotypical but politically serviceable image of a monolithic Church is perpetuated, an image which was recently institutionalised by the canonisation of 25 ‘cristero’ martyrs in May 2000.

Henry Clay of Kentucky first offered his American System as a plan to guide the growth of the United States during the period of awakening nationalism that followed the Peace of Ghent in 1815. When asked just before his death in 1852 to make up a list of his most important public services for use by some friends who were having a medal struck to commemorate his career, Clay prepared a list of fourteen items which included the American System with the date, 1824. Thus, at the end of his long career, the Kentuckian identified this phrase with his most famous speech in support of the protective tariff. It may then seem surprising that his first recorded use of the term came on May 10, 1820, in a speech supporting recognition of the emerging nations of Spanish America. Clay’s use of “American System” in these two apparently different areas of discussion has led to two separate connotations for the phrase. The two meanings call for careful discrimination. Equally important, however, is the significant connection between them in the thought of Henry Clay.

In July 1866, Lima conducted its independence celebrations with great fanfare. The festivities began at the main portal of the walled city, where the members of various patriotic associations gathered to celebrate Independence Day. The participants included the Sociedad de Fundadores de la Independencia, the veteran corps from both the Independence Wars and from the recent war with Spain, the national fire brigades, and the members of an artisan society named the Sociedad de Artesanos de Auxilios Mutuos. Together they sang the national anthem while standing at the foot of a Tree of Liberty, a republican symbol dating back to the French Revolution. They subsequently marched into the city, thus initiating two days of celebrations that included fireworks displays and an intricate reenactment, in Lima's central plaza, of the recent naval combat with Spain. In the course of the ceremonies, two artisans were presented with prizes, one for the most outstanding piece of craftsmanship (in the 1866 celebration the prize was won by Vicente Pedraza for making an organ) and the other for the artisan who had shown the most bravery during the recent military encounter with Spain. The prizes were in the amount of 200 soles. At another point in the celebrations the Chief of the Artisan Fire Brigade gave a patriotic speech and following the speech a young girl offered the President Mariano Ignacio Prado a laurel wreath in the name of the artisans.

Throughout the era of the Mexican Revolution, the United States provided sanctuary for thousands of political exiles who opposed the regimes of Porfirio Díaz, Francisco Madero, Victoriano Huerta, and Venustiano Carranza. Persecuted enemies of Don Porfirio and losers in the bloody war of factions that followed the ouster of the old regime continued their struggle for power from bases of operation north of the international boundary in such places as San Francisco, Los Angeles, El Paso, San Antonio, New Orleans, and New York. As a consequence, Mexican regimes were compelled not only to combat their enemies on domestic battlefields but also to wage more subtle campaigns against their adversaries north of the Río Bravo. The weapons in this shadowy war included general intelligence gathering, surveillance, espionage, counter-espionage, and propaganda; the agency most responsible for these activities was the Mexican Secret Service.