Chapter VI: Part 6

We do not deny the great utility of studying all the literary schools of the civilized world; we would be incapable of such nonsense, we who adore the classical memories of Greece and of Rome, we who ponder long over the books of Dante and Shakespeare, who admire the German school and who should desire to be worthy to speak the language of Cervantes and of Fray Luis de Leon. No: on the contrary, we believe these studies indispensable: but we desire that there be created a literature absolutely our own, such as all nations possess, nations which also study the monuments of others, but do not take pride in servilely imitating them.

* * * * *

Our last war has attracted to us the eyes of the civilized world. It desires to know this singular nation, which contains so many and such coveted riches, which could not be reduced by European forces, which living in the midst of constant agitations has lost neither its vigor nor its faith. It desires to know our history, our public customs, our private lives, our virtues and our vices; and to that end it devours whatever ignorant and prejudiced foreigners relate in Europe, disguising their lies under the seductive dress of the legend and impressions of travel. We run the risk of being believed such as we are painted, unless we ourselves seize the brush and say to the world--_Thus are we in Mexico_.

Until now those nations have seen nothing more than the very antiquated pages of Thomas Gage or the studies of Baron Humboldt, very good, certainly but which could only be made upon a nation still enslaved. Further, the famous _savant_ gave more attention to his scientific investigations than to his character portraits.

Since his day, almost all travelers have calumniated us, from Lovestern and Madam Calderon, to the writers--male and female--of the court of Maximilian, trading upon public curiosity, selling it their satires against us.

There is occasion, then, to make of fine letters an arm of defense. There is a field, there are niches, there is time, it is necessary that there shall be the will. There are talents in our land which can compete with those which shine in the old world.

THE PROCESSION OF THE CHRISTS.

If there is one thing characteristic in the Holy Week at Tixtla, it is this procession of the Christs, ancient, venerated, and difficult to abolish. It responds to a necessity of the organization of the Tixtla Indians, strongly fetichistic, perhaps because of their priestly origin. This propensity has caused the maintenance always in the pueblo of a large family of indigenous sculptors who live by the fabrication of images--poor things!--without having the least idea of drawing, nor of color, nor of proportion, nor of sentiment. For them sculpture is still the same rudimentary and ideographic art that existed before the conquest. Thus with a trunk of bamboo, with the pith of a _calchual_, or of any other soft and spongy tree, they improvise a body which resembles that of a man, give it a coat of water-glue and plaster and paint it afterwards in most vivid colors, literally bathing it in blood. _Á mal cristo, mucho sangre_ (bad Christ, much blood); such is the proverb which my artistic compatriots realize in an admirable fashion. After they varnish the image with a coat of oil of fir, they have it blessed by the priest and then adore it in the domestic _teocalli_, on whose altar it is set up among the other penates of similar fabrication.

The only day on which such Christs sally forth to public view is Holy Thursday and in reality few family festivals assume a more intimate character than the especial festival with which each native family celebrates the sallying forth of its Christ. _A padrino_ (godfather) is selected who shall take it out, that is to say who shall carry it in the procession, on a platform if it is large, in his hand if it is little. But every Christ has an attendance which bears candles and incense.

With such a cortege, the Christs gather in the portico of the church, awaiting the priest and the Christ who shall lead the procession, the one which is called the _Christ of the Indians_. When these issue from the church the procession is organized; the cross and the great candlesticks go before and then file by slowly and in good order some eight hundred or a thousand Christs with their retinues. Tixtla has some eight thousand inhabitants, hence there is a Christ to about each eight persons. This might well dismay an iconoclast.

The procession passes through the more important streets, in the midst of the crowd gathered at the corners, the doors, windows and public squares. What a variety of images! It should be stated that not all represent crucifixes; there are also Christs with the cross on their shoulders, some simply stand, others of ‘Ecce-homos of the pillar,’ but these are few; the crucifixes are in majority. The sole respect in which all are equal is in the rude sculptural execution. There are some in which the chest muscles rise an inch above the ribs, others which have the neck of the size of the legs; some are the living portrait of _Gwinplaine_ or of _Quasimodo_; they smile lugubriously or they wink the half closed eyes with a grimace calculated to produce epilepsy. All have natural hair arrangement, the hair arrangement of the Indians, disordered, blown by the wind, tangled like a mass of serpents around the bleeding body of the Christ.

As to size they vary from the colossal _Altepecristo_,[17] which the Indians hide in caverns, which is almost an idol of the old mythology, to the microscopic Christ which wee Indians of nine years carry with their thumb and forefinger, before which are burned tapers as slender as cigarettes. All the sizes, all the colors, all the meagerness of form, all the wounds, all the deformities, all the humped-backs, all the dislocations, all the absurdities which can be perpetrated in sculpture, are represented in this procession. When by the light of torches (for this procession ends at night), this immense line of suspended, behaired and bloody bodies is seen in movement, one might believe himself oppressed by a frightful nightmare or imagine himself traversing some forest of the middle ages in which a tribe of naked gypsies had been hung.

Callot in his wild imagination never saw a procession more fantastic, more original.

Yet this spectacle was the delight of my boyhood days!

Then the Christs withdrew with their _padrinos_ and retinues to the houses whence they issued and there the family prepared a savory feast. The _atole_ of cornmeal called _champol_ and the sweet and delicate _totopos_.

Ah, General Riva Palacio, never in thy days of campaign in Michoacan, have you had a more sumptuous banquet than that which you have enjoyed in the land of your fathers, an evening of the Christs--and of _champol_!

VICTORIANO AGÜEROS.

Victoriano Agüeros was born September 4, 1854, in the pueblo of Tlalchapa, in the State of Guerrero. His father was a Spaniard, his mother a Mexican. Young Victoriano was given good opportunity for education, being sent, at twelve years of age, to the Capital city where he attended the _Ateneo Mexicano_. In 1870 he was qualified to teach in primary schools. In 1877 he entered the National School of Jurisprudence and was admitted to the practice of law December 19, 1881.

He commenced literary work when but sixteen or seventeen years of age, signing his productions with the name “José.” Using this _nom-de-plume_ he published his _Ensayos de José_ (Essays of José) in 1877. This was followed by _Cartas Literarias_ (Literary Letters) and _Dos Leyendas por José_ (Two Legends by José). Shortly after he published a series of articles--_Escritores Mexicanos Contemporaneos_ (Contemporary Mexican Authors)--in the literary journal, _La Ilustracion Espanola y Americana_, of Madrid. This was reprinted in book form and gave the author deserved credit. _Confidencias y Recuerdos_ (Confidences and Recollections) completes the list of Agüeros’s books.

Renouncing law for literature Señor Agüeros became editor of _El Imparcial_ (The Impartial) but shortly after, on July 1, 1883, he founded and has ever since, conducted, _El Tiempo_ (The Time), the most conservative of the periodicals published in the Mexican capital. During the twenty years and more that have passed since then his pen has been well employed. His editorials are always carefully written and--though ultra-conservative--are marked by thought and judgment. No modern Mexican writer uses Spanish in a more accurate and graceful way. As a literary critic he ranks high, though it is difficult for him to see aught of good in the radical and liberal movement of the day or in those who are its exponents.

Deploring the neglect of the national literature by Mexican readers Señor Agüeros is attempting to arouse new interest by publishing, in uniform style, the works of the best authors under the general title _Biblioteca de Autores Mexicanos_ (Library of Mexican Authors). The series has passed its fiftieth volume, is being well received, and is serving a most useful purpose.

THE DAY OF THE DEAD.

_Las ofrendas_; (the offerings) this is the custom which gives a special character to the Day of the Dead in my village. Those candles of whitest wax, those human-figure shaped loaves of bread, those crowns, those exquisite sweets which for six days have been offered for sale in the booths in the Plaza are to be deposited upon the graves in the cemetery--in such wise, that the rude bench covered with a cloth of the finest cotton, assumes the appearance of a carefully prepared table, fitted with the richest and most delicate dishes. There are placed earthen jars of syrup, dishes of wild honey in the comb, cakes made of young and tender corn--sweetened and spiced with cinnamon, preserves, vessels of holy water, and the best of whatever else the mother of the family can provide. It is the banquet which the living give to the dead....

From three in the afternoon, at which time the bell of the parish-church begins to strike the doubles, sadly and slowly, as the doubles are always struck in the villages, families sally from their houses and direct their way to the cemetery or to the church porch, where there are also some graves. There they traverse the pathways between these and by examining the crosses (not the names nor epitaphs, for there are none) they recognize the place where relatives or friends rest.... They then place the objects which they bear as the _ofrenda_, light the candles, sprinkle the grave with some drops of holy water, and soon after there is heard in that enclosure of the dead, the murmur of the prayers they raise to Heaven.... Thus the afternoon passes: neither curiosity, nor the desire to see, nor other profane pastime, distract the attention of these simple villagers, who, absorbed in the sanctuary of their most intimate recollections, pray and sigh with tender and deep sadness.

When the evening shadows drive them thence, they bear the _ofrendas_ to the interior of the houses. The lights are renewed, a sort of an altar is improvised upon which are placed the objects which before were on the graves, and other prayers and other mournings begin. It is not rare to see, high in some tree in the grove, or in some solitary and retired spot, a taper which gleams, in spite of the night breeze: it is the offering for the _ánima sola_ (the lonely soul)--that is to say, of one who has in the village neither a relative nor a friend who remembers it and decorates its grave. A bit of bread and a little taper, and a prayer repeated for it--this is what each family dedicates to the soul of that unknown one.

Thus do the poor people of my village honor the memory of the dead.

THE STUDENT AT HOME.

The student who returns to his village is generally reputed to be a man of learning, who knows everything. The most perplexing questions are submitted to him, though they may be remote from the studies which he has pursued. If the priest is preparing a Latin inscription, he consults about it with the student; if the townspeople desire to make a petition to the town government, the chief of the district, or the governor of the state, they request the student to compose the document to be presented; if it is planned to celebrate with a festival the anniversaries of some prominent personage of the place, they invite, first of all, the newly-returned collegian, to pronounce a discourse and enthuse all with his words; if some person is seriously ill, they call the student to examine the patient and hold his opinion decisive regarding the disease. That year he has studied civil procedure and international law in the Law School; but what of that? He has lived in Mexico, where there are so many physicians and must know and understand something of medicine. The judge of the lower court is about to decide a case; ah, well, before doing so he strolls around to the house of the collegian, and after asking him a thousand things about Mexico, regarding politics, theaters, the promenades and driveways, etc., inquires his opinion concerning the matter with which he is occupied.

“You can enlighten me,” he says humbly. “Perhaps I have not sufficiently informed myself regarding the value and force of the evidence; I fear that I have badly interpreted such and such articles of the Code. Come, let us walk down to the courtroom and have the good will to show what is best.”

“But that will be useless, because I know nothing of this matter,” replies the collegian. “This year I have been studying mathematics in the School of Mines.”

“So much the better; thus you will have a clear head for this kind of questions; because it is plain, had you been studying law you might now have difficulty in co-ordinating your ideas. No excuses, no excuses; come to my house, I have great confidence in your knowledge and sound judgment.”

Such is the part which the student fills, in his village, during vacations. If he yields to all the requests made of him and speaks of matters which he does not understand, words cannot be found sufficient for praising him. How wise! how humble and good he is! he refuses no one. If, on the contrary, the student is timid and only desires to speak of matters with which he is acquainted; if he refuses to decide a law-suit, to cure a sick man, to preach a sermon, then--who so ignorant as he, he knows nothing, he is good for nothing!

CRITICISM OF THE NEW SCHOOL OF MEXICAN WRITERS.

Well, then, in my opinion the new literary generation has no importance; I discover no virtues in it, neither love for study, nor noble tendencies favoring the advancement of our literature. Who can endure this crowd of youth who write in the papers and who, in spite of their ignorance, give themselves the airs of learned men? With what eyes can we observe their affectations? They think they know all, but because they have learned jokes in the low plays, history in the novels and librettos of the opera, and gallantries in the almanacs and reviews of fashion. They believe themselves men of letters and poets, because they have published some article in the ---- and have, in the ---- given forth some verses in which they speak of their _disenchantments_ and of their _ennui_, of their _doubts_ and _hours of pain_. Although beardless youths, they are already miserable, very miserable, their complaints and laments for the disillusions they have suffered have no bounds.--They speak everywhere of politics and literature; in the interludes at the theater they render judgment on the play in an epigram, and if some praise it they criticise it, or they celebrate its beauties when all find it defective. And thus they are in other things; because they believe that, in following public opinion, even though well founded, they fall into vulgarity, and to be singular is what they most desire.

Moreover, these youth, neither by the literary education they receive, nor by the system of studies pursued today in the schools, nor by their tastes and inclinations, nor finally by the models which they set before themselves for imitation in their writings, will ever succeed in giving days of glory to our literature. Profoundly inflated by the praises of their friends, without direction or desire to receive it, their self-esteem nourished by the very persons who ought to reprove and correct it, tainted with modern skepticism, rebellious, in a word, to the authority of rules and of good models, what hopes do they offer? What class of works are to sally from their hands? They do not study nor accumulate new information; they are not mindful of the literary movement of the epoch; still less do they attempt to correct their defects by following the teaching and example of the masters in the art. And if they do none of these things it is useless for them to write and publish verses, since the progress of a literature has never yet consisted in the abundance of authors and of works. Love for study and for work, close thought, good selection of subjects and care in expression--these are the things necessary.

Criticism, further, is completely lacking among us; criticism, so necessary for correcting and instructing, so useful for preventing our lapses to bad taste and for forming good taste. Who has thought of it? Who has ventured to exercise it, here where all desire praises and where it is customary to lavish them? For my part, I hold, that if our literature has not progressed so much as it should, if there are ignorant, insolent writers, inflated with vanity and pride, it has been due not exactly to the lack of criticism but to the mutual flatteries which all have exchanged in the papers. Today, as a French writer says, one utters one compliment, to gain the right of demanding twenty. No one ventures to frankly express his opinion, since friendship, the hope of obtaining a favor, considerations of respect and other various circumstances, deprive the critic of his freedom; and although he ought to be severe, impartial and just, he becomes a benevolent dispenser of unmerited eulogies, an encourager of unpardonable defects and veritable literary heresies.

Criticism, to give efficacious results, should be severe always, above all here in Mexico where many believe themselves endowed with the talent of Gustave Becquer, of Figaro, of Delgas or of Theophile Gauthier. It should eulogize with much moderation, and that to the humble, modest and timid, because these need kindly words for their encouragement.

PEON Y CONTRERAS AND HIS ROMANCES DRAMATICOS.

These suggestions and many others which it would be impertinence to present in this article were suggested to me by the precious little volume which, with the title _Romances dramaticos_, our inspired poet José Peon y Contreras has just published; and in order to render a tribute to justice and merit, rather than to praise one who is sufficiently praised by his very work, I am about to say something about it.

Fourteen pieces form the collection, and although short they are choicest gems in which are brilliantly displayed the most exquisite and delicate beauties. In my opinion the first is a certain originality in the form, under which the poet encloses a veritable drama, a terrible and sad catastrophe, a poem in which the great passions of the soul are stirred and the tender breathing of the purest affections are felt. The form, I say, but I do not mean precisely the meter--since it is understood what that must be--but the unfolding of the romance, the design of the composition, the manner employed by the author to present and develop his thought. In these lovely ballads (for such they appear) there are no details; the movement of the action, the rapid development of the plot, the violence and precision with which the figures appear upon the scene, demand few but energetic pencil strokes and do not permit digressions nor long and minute descriptions of places and persons; they are like those pretty miniatures whose merit consists in the exactness, the clearness, the grace, with which the scene or picture is reproduced in spite of the small space at the disposition of the artist. As little are there inopportune references to times preceding the drama which develops; nothing to distract the reader from the scenes which the poet places in view: all is _actual_, if I may so express myself, and only the final catastrophe is presented in which a passion or a misfortune culminates, at the conclusion of a series of unhappy incidents. For the rest, it is easy to divine what elements Peon y Contreras employs in his dramatic romances; love with all its tendernesses, jealousies with their terrible ravages, virtue with its power and its struggles against temptation and vice, the energy of a manly heart, the storms resulting from defiled honor, from violated faith, from lost hope ... all that which the soul feels in its hours of joy or despair. And what pictures he can paint with a single stroke; how he transports us to those distant times of Castilian honor, of solitary and retired castles, of somber and silent cities; what strength of coloring there is at times in the scenes he paints and at other times what enchanting ingenuity, what adorable simplicity, what innocence, what grace.

MANUEL GUSTAVO ANTONIO REVILLA

Manuel Gustavo Antonio Revilla was born in the City of Mexico, February 7, 1863. His father, Domingo Revilla, was a distinguished author and from him the son appears to have inherited his studious inclinations. Young Revilla studied law, completing his course in 1887, but the practice of that profession had little attraction for him, and he has devoted himself to teaching and writing. Having a strong taste for the fine arts, he developed sound art criticism, and in 1892 was appointed Professor of the History of Art in the National School of Fine Arts. During the following year he wrote his _Arte en Mexico_ (Art in Mexico), of which the Spanish art writer, Menéndez y Pelayo, said:--“I have read with much pleasure, and I believe with much profit, _Arte en Mexico_, learning from it new data regarding architects, sculptors, and painters, of the times of the Viceroys, who are almost unknown in Spain. As well from the novelty and interest of its subject, as for the good taste and sound art criticism with which it is treated, the book deserves every kind of praise, and will no doubt receive it, from all intelligent readers.” After ten years of class instruction Professor Revilla was appointed Secretary of the same school, in February, 1903. At the same time he was appointed one of a committee of three to prepare a systematic catalogue of the works of art belonging to the institution.

Señor Revilla is a public speaker of power and some of his addresses have attracted notable attention. Among these may be mentioned the Independence Day oration of September 16, 1889, and that commemorating the forty-third anniversary of the Death of the Cadets of the Military School of Chapultepec. He has also been a prolific writer for periodicals. To _El Tiempo_ (The Time), he has long been an editorial contributor, especially upon topics of public law, political economy, and social problems. Traveling in Guatemala, he was connected for a time with _El Bien Publico_ (The Public Weal), in which he published an article upon the Monroe Doctrine, which attracted considerable attention in Latin America. In his writings of every kind, Revilla shows the greatest care in the choice of words and use of language. In 1902 he was named a Correspondent of the Mexican Academy.

At present Señor Revilla is writing a series of critical biographies of Mexican artists. This is an absolutely new undertaking in Mexico and the work demands exceptional information and much research. Volumes have so far appeared regarding the sculptors Patiño, Ixtolinque, and Guerra, the architect Hidalga, the painter Rebull, and the musicians Paniagua and Valle. This series is being published by Agüeros and will be extended. Revilla has also written a biography of Francisco Gonzales Bocanegro, author of the Mexican National Hymn.

Our selections are taken from _El Arte en Mexico_.

THE FINE ARTS IN MEXICO.

The three arts do not attain the same grade of development, nor prosper equally, at all times. At the beginning, that is, during the sixteenth century, their growth was slow, as was to be expected of all pertaining to a young community, and they were sustained, thanks to masters from the art centres of Spain. But, from the very beginning of the seventeenth century, these are to be seen surrounded by disciples, many born in the colony, to whom they transmit their knowledge, and, owing to the increasing demand for works, which they receive, the production augments and a new artistic manifestation appears, which, although derived from the Spaniards, may be considered indigenous.

During the seventeenth century is when painting was practised with greatest brilliancy and the schools of Mexico and Puebla were formed, which, although decadent, were maintained in the following century.

On the contrary, this eighteenth century, is the period of greatest lustre for architecture; during it, ancient edifices, begun long before, were carried to completion, many others were rebuilt, and new ones were erected, and there appears in houses, palaces, and churches, a style in which symmetry is but laxly observed and ornamentation is profuse or lavish.

Sculpture, long confined to imperfect wooden statues and crude bas-reliefs in stone, acquires an actual existence only near the close of the past century, with the famous Valencian[18], author of one of the most famous of equestrian statues; with him also architecture assumed correctness, simplicity and proportions in harmony with the classical canon.

* * * * *

The fine arts in Mexico, without having arrived, in general, to the perfection to which the Spaniards carried them, ... cannot, for that reason, be considered unworthy of esteem and study, since in them are found undeniable and many excellences. The defects met with in them are not sufficient to invalidate their merits. The literary works of that time are also open to criticism, but no one has denied the value of the literature of the vice-royal period, during which arts and letters attained equal prosperity. Echave, the elder, yields in nothing to Balbuena; José Juarez and Arteaga stand forth conspicuously as Sister Juana Inéz de la Cruz; Perusquía or Tres Guerras are comparable with Navarette; and, as famous as is Ruíz de Alarcón in his line, is Tolsa in his.

TRES GUERRAS AND TOLSA.

Independently, in a modest city, a creole artist, Eduardo Tres Guerras, followed the same impulse, with result and applause. Student of the Academy, he had been trained in painting; having attained no great result in which, he dedicated himself to architecture, which yielded him merited laurels for constructing--besides various beautiful private houses--the Church of the Carmen of Celaya and the Bridge of the Laja in the same city.

Tolsa and Tres Guerras have many points of likeness; both, professing another art,--the one statuary, the other painting--dedicated themselves later to construction; both cultivated the same style, that of the Renaissance, and succeeded in imparting majesty to their buildings. Tolsa is more severe, elegant, and grand; Tres Guerras better knows how to express grace and is more audacious. This one sometimes lacks good taste, the other--rather frequently becomes heavy. Withal, both are notable architects; and, if one wins constant applause, the other gains an enduring fame.

Although it might be thought that Tres Guerras felt Tolsa’s influence, nothing is further from the truth, since Tres Guerras had already constructed the Carmen and the Laja bridge, before Tolsa had reared his edifices.

With these two artists, the cycle of vice-royal architecture ended. Beginning rude and coarse it developed brilliant and overloaded, and ended simple and correct, ever showing itself strong and robust as the virile, conquering, race that produced it.

WOOD CARVING IN PUEBLA.

When these glaring offenses against art were not only condoned, but authorized by religion, it will be appreciated how great credit is due to a group of modest and industrious artists, who, in the City of Puebla, about the second half of the past, and the beginning of the present, century, without good masters nor great models for imitation, cultivated the sculpture of images, forming their own canons. The Coras, with all their defects, play the rôle of restorers to respect of an art, which could not fall to a more lamentable extremity. There were three principal--though other artists of lesser value figure in turn--José Villegas de Cora, the master of all; Zacarias Cora, and José Villegas, who also took the surname Cora, as an honorific title.

José Villegas de Cora, called in his time the _Maestro Grande_, from having been the founder of the school, was the first to insist upon the observation of the natural, from which indeed he himself took but a general idea, leaving the arrangement of the details of the projected work to fancy; from this proceeds the arbitrary character, to be observed in the minutiæ of almost all of his images. At the same time he sought naturalness in the arrangement of draperies; that for which he was most esteemed, was the grace and beauty of the faces, particularly those of his Virgins; which, like most of his other works, were made to be clothed.

Zacarias Cora made show of some knowledge of anatomy, accentuating the muscles and veins, which did not prevent his figures from frequently lacking proper proportions and appearing to have been supplied with them from sentiment rather than accuracy. In expression, he competed with his master. His best work was the _San Cristóbal_ with the infant Jesus, which is in the temple of that name in Puebla.

Unlike the preceding, most of the works of José Villegas were of full size; in them he handled the draperies well, though at times falling into mannerisms, as did Zacarias also, in exaggerating movements and delicacy in them. His faces are less pleasing. His _Santa Teresa_, larger than life, belonging to the church of that name in Puebla, offers a good example of draperies, and presents the feature,--common to all the works of the sculptors of this school, of a pursing of the lips, with the purpose of making the mouth appear smaller.

Each of the three artists named had some quality in which he was distinguished from the others; one in the attractiveness of the faces, another in the greater attention to the natural, the other in the regular proportions and in having preferred to make figures of life size. After them the school decayed and died.

THE WORKS OF TOLSA.

Tolsa did not make many statues, since another art robbed him of a great part of the time which he might have given to sculpture. The few, which remain, suffice to show his knowledge, his talent, his brilliancy and his power.

Besides the superb equestrian statue of Charles IV, legitimate pride of the City of Mexico, he made the principal statues of the _tabernaculo_ of the Cathedral of Puebla, those of the clock of the Cathedral of Mexico and some pieces in wood. Only two of his sculptures were run in bronze, the _Charles IV_, and the _Conception_, of the _tabernaculo_, the others which adorn this, and which represent the four great doctors of the Latin Church, being of white stucco, imitating marble, and those of the façade of the Cathedral of Mexico, which represent the three virtues, being of stone. The size selected for all of these is the colossal, which so well lends itself to the grand. And this is Tolsa, beyond all, grand in proportions, in type conceptions, in postures, in gestures, in dress.

The horse of the statue of the Spanish monarch, treated after the classic, is of beautiful outline, natural movement, graceful and animated in the extreme; as for the figure of the king, although a little heavy, it is majestic, in movement well harmonized with that of the noble brute, and forms with it a beautiful combination of lines. There has been abundant reason for counting it one of the best equestrian statues.

The remaining sculptures of Tolsa, that is, the _Doctors_, the _Conception_, and the _Virtues_, are distinguished by the movement, which gives them an appearance full of grace and life. All reveal sufficient personality combined with conscientious study of the antique. If one sought to find defects he might say that at times he is heavy, over-emphasizes and gives a berninesque execution to his draperies.

In wood, he has left two heads of the _Dolorosa_ and a _Conception_, artistically colored.

BALTASAR DE ECHAVE.

We have the scantiest personal notices of Baltasar de Echave, commonly called Echave the elder, to distinguish him from the painter of the same name, his son, who is designated as Echave the younger; but although these data are scanty, they are abundant in comparison with those which are preserved of other painters (of the time), of whom we know only the names. He was a Basque, born in Zumaya, in the Province of Guipúzcoa, and besides being a painter was a philologist, having published a work upon the antiquity of the language of Cantabria. He has several sons, of whom two were painters. Torquemada states that, at the time when he was writing his _Monarquia Indiana_ (1609), Echave finished his great retable of the Church of Santiago Tlaltelolco; further, it is known by the examination of his works, that already in 1601, he was painting, as the colossal canvas of _San Cristóbal_, which bears that date, shows, and that still in 1640, the activity of his brush had not ceased, since in that year he executed the _Martyrdom of Santa Catarina_ for the Dominicans of Mexico....

His fecundity did not prevent his pictures from having that completeness and detailed study which makes them so agreeable; yet, at times he falls into carelessness of drawing, which cannot at all be attributed to lack of skill, but to the fact that his pictures were generally destined to occupy high places in churches, rendering unnecessary a minute attention to finishing, unappreciable at a great distance and in the feeble light of the interior of churches....

Being of versatile genius Echave displayed varied characteristics; sometimes we see him most painstaking in outlines; sometimes easy and firm in handling the brush; now varied in types and attitudes and again attentive to the arrangement of draperies; now skillful in the nude, of which but few examples are found in the Mexican school; now notable as a colorist, worthy of comparison with the Venetians. When it suits him, he can give beauty of expression, but he does not so persistently seek it, that it becomes a mannerism.

He neglected, yes, systematically, the figures of secondary importance, his draperies are often hard and confused, and his halos and glories lack luminous intensity. Without being weak, he lacks strength in his modelling and he does not delight in strong contrasts of light and shade--both qualities in which the Spaniards surpass. His pictures, in general, do not profoundly move, although they produce an agreeable impression largely because he does not highly develop expression, although undertaking highly emotional incidents, such as the martyrdom of certain saints, at the moment of their suffering. Thus it is not the expression which most interests in his _San Ponciano_, _San Aproniano_, and _San Lorenzo_, but the nude figures of the martyrs, the character in the participants in the scene, and the fine coloring.

As an example of feminine beauty and of undeniable and palpable Raphaelean influence, may be cited the figures of the Saints and the Virgin, respectively, in the paintings of _Santa Cecilia_, _Santa Isabel_, _Queen of Portugal_, the _Porciuncula_, and the _Adoration of the Magi_.

In the latter, one figure is seen, that of the king who adores the infant Jesus, which is admirably conceived and executed; type, expression, attitude and drapery, are worthy of a great master. The coloring and rich draperies of the _Santa Isabel_ and of _Santa Cecilia_ are also notable. But the best pages of Echave, and at the same time the most mystical creations, are his _Christ praying in the Garden_, and _Saint Francis receiving the Stigmata_; both compositions as simple as they are beautiful; the figure of Jesus, in the first, is so peaceful and resigned, that it has been justly compared to the celestial visions of Overbeck; that of Saint Francis is equally imposing and majestic for its great asceticism, for the sincerity and truth with which the ecstasy in which the Christ of the Middle Ages is overwhelmed, is represented.

To him belong also the _Presentation of the Virgin at the Temple_, the _Visitation_, and a masterly _Conception_, which is in the State College of Puebla, of vigorous execution and strong light and shade. Echave gave life size to most of the figures on his canvases, as did--indeed--most of the other painters of the school.

MIGUEL CABRERA.

Miguel Cabrera exaggerated the defects of Ibarra and fell into others, because he is more incorrect in form, more neglects the study of the natural, lacks strength in execution, and reduces coloring to the use of five or six tints, monotonously repeated; he is weak in perspective, and in composition never maintains himself at any great height; yet, with all this, his vogue was great during his lifetime and his prestige has not ceased today. The religious communities outbid each other for his works, connoisseurs sought his canvases, the University entrusted important commissions to his hand, Archbishop Rubio y Salinas appointed him his court painter, and when, in 1753, a group of painters were organizing the first Academy of Painting, they elected him perpetual president. How can we explain the high opinion in which he was held? The reason may be found in the bad taste then prevalent, bad taste which in other times has even elevated a Gongora, or has caused that a Lucas Jordán shall be compared with, and preferred to, a Claude Coello. But there is a further reason for the popularity, which Cabrera enjoyed; that he painted prettily, taking great pains with the faces, even when he neglected the rest, and employing brilliant coloring, pleasing to the crowd.

To his fame, have contributed his activity and extraordinary productiveness, shown by the quantity he produced, but particularly by his having painted the thirty-four great canvases of the life of San Ignacio, and the same number of that of Santo Domingo, in the short period of fourteen months. The fact is not, really, so surprising if one considers on the one hand his unfinished style, and on the other that it is in those very pictures, that his style reached its fullest expression; these being, for that reason, the worst we have seen of that artist. It must be added, too, that other artists worked in his studio, who naturally assisted him in his heavier commissions. Furthermore, it is not the quantity of the works of an artist, nor the rapidity with which he turns them out, that gives the measure of his value, but their quality, no matter how small their number. Otherwise, Luca, of course, would have long since been proclaimed the greatest painter of the world, and criticism would have relegated to oblivion such works as the _Santa Forma_ of Claude Coello, for having been made, although marvelously perfect, with patient slowness.

JOSÉ PEON Y CONTRERAS.

José Peon y Contreras was born at Merida, Yucatan, January 12, 1843, being son of Juan Bautista Peon and María del Pilar Contreras. Studying medicine in his native city, he received the degree of M.D., at the age of nineteen years. In 1863, he went to the City of Mexico and saying nothing of his earlier course, again went through the medical curriculum. By competition, he obtained an appointment in the _Hospital de Jesus_; in 1867, he was Director of the _San Hipólito_ Hospital for the Insane; for several years he was in charge of public vaccination for the city.

Giving his leisure to letters, José Peon y Contreras soon gained high rank as a lyric poet and a dramatist. He had already entered the field of letters before leaving Merida. His first effort was _La Cruz del Paredon_, a fantastic legend, printed when its author was eighteen years of age. A volume of _Poesias_ (Poems) appeared in 1868. In Mexico, in 1871 he printed, in the paper, _El Domingo_ (Sunday) a collection of _Romances historicos Mexicanos_ (Mexican Historical Romances), in which he dealt with Aztec themes and actors. These have merit, but are little known. The field of José Peon y Contreras’s greatest triumphs is the, in Mexico, much neglected drama. In 1876 he published his _Hasta el cielo_ (Unto Heaven), a drama in prose, which was a great success. It was rapidly followed by others, mostly in verse. On May 7, 1876, _La hija del Rey_ (The Daughter of the King) being presented, the writers of Mexico presented the author of the piece a gold pen and a Diploma of Honor signed by all. Agüeros says of José Peon y Contreras that he is to be compared with José Echegary. He is of “marvellous dramatic talent; profound knowledge of the human heart; his descriptions are paintings; his dialogue is natural, sound, and moral. His faults are claimed to be similarity of argument and absence of certain dramatic resources, showing lack of originality.”

In 1880, he published _Romances dramaticos_ (Dramatic Romances), in which he presents fourteen brief, rapid sketches, each of them capable of expansion into a drama. In 1881 he published _Trovas Columbinas_ (Columbian Metres), lyrical poems dealing with Columbus and his discovery. In 1883, a volume of poems, _Ecos_ (Echoes) was published in New York. Two novels by our author _Taide_ and _Veleidosa_, have been well received, the latter being, perhaps, the favorite.

José Peon y Contreras at one time represented Yucatan in the lower house of Congress; later, in 1875, he was Senator for the same State. He has recently been a Deputy for the State of Nuevo Léon.

HASTA EL CIELO!

The scene is laid in the City of Mexico; the time is the seventeenth century. The play is in three acts and is written in prose. The selections are from Act III. The action takes place at Sancho’s house. Sancho is the private secretary of the Viceroy; he is passing under an assumed name and is seeking vengeance against the Viceroy, who does not know his identity, for his father’s death and his mother’s dishonor. Blanca, supposed to be the Viceroy’s ward, is in reality his daughter; this Sancho knows and gains her love, with the intention of making her dishonor the Viceroy’s disgrace. To escape a hated suitor, Blanca, trusting to Sancho’s pretended love, has left her father’s house and taken refuge with Sancho. The Viceroy, distracted seeks her. Ultimately, the true love, which Sancho would give her, proves impossible.

SCENE IV.

Blanca: Sancho!

Sancho: Ah, Blanca--what is the matter?

B.: Nothing; nothing; how happy I am to find you here.

S.: Did you not sleep?

B.: No. I could not. Slumber fled from my eyes.

S.: Why? Are you not here secure? What do you fear? Have I not told you----?

B.: In vain I seek repose. My agitated spirit wakes; my afflicted soul recalls the past and trembles for the future. There are moments, when I feel that I shall go mad!

S.: You tremble, are cold--Blanca, calm yourself.

B.: The memory of this misfortune haunts me.

S.: You still insist----!

B.: You attempt to conceal it from me, in vain.... Last night I overheard, when Fortun announced to you the death of this--of this marquis.

S.: Well! What of that?--Man’s days are numbered. His hour of punishment arrives.

B.: Moreover, I can not conceal it from you, Sancho; the passing moments seem to me eternities.--We cannot continue living thus.--It is necessary that God should sanctify this union.

S.: Soon--very soon.

B.: This is not my house. Much as I love you, much as I have sacrificed my dignity upon the altar of this love, I cannot be tranquil. I feel something here, in my breast, of which I had no idea before,--and--you see, I cannot venture to raise my eyes in your presence.--The blush, which inflames my cheek, is the shame of guilt----

S.: You, guilty----?

B.: Just the same!--What am I, here?--When I am alone no one beholds me, but I would even hide me from myself.--If, in snatching me from my home, you have taken advantage of my love, do not sport with my weakness.

S.: Blanca, God reads our hearts----

B.: Yes, and because God reads them, I implore you, once for all, to end this situation. What is past is as the image of a fearful dream.--To have dreamed it alone had seemed to me impossible. Cruel! this is very cruel!--Your very presence is enough to humiliate me--and I could not live without your presence!--I would desire that looking at you my heart should beat with joy. I wish to feel that which I have always felt at seeing you! that which I felt before!--Why turn your face away? Why does your stern and sombre glance uneasily conceal itself beneath your lids, and why do you not look at me as heretofore?

S.: Blanca, you suspect----

B.: No, I do not suspect; I believe. I confess it frankly.... Love is born and grows slowly, but it may die in a single instant!--Mine is the guilt.

S.: Cease.--Do you not see that you are lacerating my soul?

B.: Listen! At night you slept--I watched! I shuddered, for presently I heard your voice, as if distant, broken and tremulous--you were speaking as if an enormous rock weighed down upon your breast----

S.: You are right--it was so----!

B.: You uttered crushing words,--words of vengeance--of dishonor--of love!

S.: Also of love!

B.: Among those words, which issued as if drawn from the innermost places of your heart, and which escaped from your lips like an echo--I heard my name.--What was this, Sancho?--Tell me.

S.: A dream!--an awful nightmare! I know not whether I dreamed. I know not whether I was awake. I saw you, Blanca, humiliated, degraded, vile,---- ... and in this fearful struggle between my love and my vengeance----

B.: Your vengeance!

S.: You do not know what that is! Grief wrung my soul; I felt madness in my brain; despair sprung up in my heart as the tempest in the black centre of the storm-cloud and a torrent of blasphemies and prayers broke from my lips.

B.: Sancho! But you are still delirious!

S.: No, Blanca; no, my poor Blanca--Now, I am not delirious; no! but I believe indeed, I shall go mad. There still continues, in my soul, a frightful combat--here I feel the battle, fierce, desperate,--mortal. Go--recover yourself.--Leave me alone!

B.: Sancho!

S.: I love you.--Go----!

(Blanca leaves, weeping.)

SCENE V.

Sancho, who has watched Blanca disappear, when she has gone, says: Unhappy being! Why does a cursed blood course through your veins? Aye!--What blame have I, for having loved you ere I knew the stock from which you came--the blood that gives color and freshness to your cheeks, smile to your lips, light to your eyes? Why do I love you, when I ought to hate you? Why ought I to hate you, when I love you with all my heart?--What is this?--Aye! Aye! I cannot. I cannot more.

(The curtain falls darkly on the scene. A short pause.)

* * * * *

SCENE VII.

Viceroy: Sancho----

Sancho: Enter sir! So great an honor!--

V.: I have already told you, Sancho, that I love you as a son. It is not the Viceroy of Mexico, who comes now to your house. I enter it as a friend. Receive me as such.

S.: And--to what, then, do I owe this pleasure? Seat yourself, sir, seat yourself.

(The Viceroy seats himself.)

V.: I come to you, Sancho, because I am most unhappy.

S.: (With pleasure.) You, most unhappy!

V.: Yes. If you knew----

S.: And what has happened to you? Let me know--but allow me to close this door because a draught enters. (He bolts the door that communicates with the interior and through which Blanca had passed.) Ah, well! sir! what makes you unhappy? It seems incredible; a man, powerful, rich, immensely rich, cradled from infancy in the arms of fortune--Perhaps, your wife!----

V.: My wife?--No! My wife has never been able to make me unhappy, just as she has never made me happy. We have never loved. I married her for family reasons and, in fine----

S.: I do not understand, then----

V.: Hear me, Sancho! For many years my only good, my only joy, my sole delight in this world, has been a lovely girl----

S.: Yes, yes,--a lovely girl who has grown up, receiving her education, in the Convent of Seville.

V.: You know it! (Profoundly surprised.)

S.: And whom you brought with you to Mexico, two years ago.

V.: Yes.

S.: You lodged her with the Sisters of the Conception where you caused her to be loved and respected as if she were your daughter.

V.: That is true!

S.: You visited her daily, secretly, at evening----

V.: Yes, because----

S.: You have already said it. Because you loved her with all your soul----

V.: With all my soul! but----

S.: But they have robbed you of her. (Very brief pause.)

V.: (Approaching Sancho, with great emotion.) And you, you Sancho, know this also!

S.: As I tell you----

V.: And, who, who has been--? Who--? Do not tell me his name, that matters nothing! Tell me where he is,--tell me that--because I desire his life’s blood.

S.: Calm, Señor Viceroy, more calm!

V.: Calm! and she is not at my side--Calm! and the hours pass.--Calm! and the grief increases and the suffering grows stronger, and despair kills!

S.: You suffer greatly!

V.: Tell me who it is, Sancho! You know it. I see it in your eyes.--Tell me.--You know that here I am the equal of the King! The King, himself, is not more powerful than I! Ask, from me, riches, honor, position,--all, all, for your single word! Speak! You know! Is it not so?

S.: Yes. It is true.

V.: Oh, joy! And you will tell me!

S.: No.

V.: (Furious.) No?--You will not tell me, _you_? (He directs himself toward the door, raising his voice)--Halloa, here!

S.: (Gently detaining him.) Ah! I will close this door because a draught enters. (Locks the door with a key. The Viceroy looks at him with frightened surprise.)

V.: Sancho!--Are you making sport of me? Are you trifling with my agony?--But, no, no, you would not be capable of that, impossible.--You are not an ingrate.

S.: Seat yourself, Señor Viceroy, and hear me.

V.: Seat myself?--Good, I obey you--Now, you see--I seat myself.--But you must tell it me.

S.: Listen. Only last night, Señor Viceroy, I told you that Juan de Paredes,--the person who has been recommended to you----

V.: My God! but--and, what has this to do?

S.: If you are not calm----!

V.: Sancho!

S.: If you are not calm, I will say nothing and then you would know nothing, even if you put me to the torture.

V.: Well! well!--I am silent--I listen--What anxiety!

S.: Juan de Paredes, unhappy orphan, entrusted to a friend--very intimate--in fact a second self--the mission of avenging his wrongs upon the person who dishonored his mother, Doña Mencia, and assassinated his father--and this firm friend finally discovered the scoundrel--ah, he was a man of great power!

V.: And you know his name?

S.: If you interrupt----

V.: I am silent.

S.: The good friend of Juan de Paredes succeeded in approaching--then in speaking with--and, later, in introducing himself into the house of--and, soon in ingratiating himself in the heart of the criminal.--He spied upon him as the wolf-hunter spies upon his prey,--scrutinized his movements--informed himself of his most insignificant actions. He studied his character, his most hidden motives; he followed him everywhere and at all times and at last discovered the place--the place in which the lair of the beast was hidden! He had but a single love on earth!--And there he fixed his eyes, because fixing his eyes there he thrust a dagger into the assassin’s heart.--Not into his heart, no,--into his very soul!--Because, that love was his daughter--a lovely maiden!----

V.: Continue----!

S.: She gave him evidences of her love.

V.: Continue----!

S.: She loved him with all the blindness and strength of a first love.

V.: And he----?

S.: He did not love her!

Blanca: (From within, with a feeble cry.) Aye!

V.: That cry----

S.: A cry?--Did you hear a cry?

V.: I thought--perhaps, no--I deceived myself,--continue.

S.: And one night--at night!

V.: I know it, now!--Be still! his name!

S.: He stole her--to dishonor her----

V.: Silence.

S.: To defile her----

V.: To defile her!--and, she?

Blanca: (Within.) Open. (Violently shakes the door.)

S.: Hear her.

V.: There--she, there! Wretch--! What have you done? You shall die. (Placing his hand on his swordhilt.)

S.: Yes, yes! Come on, infamous assassin; because, I abhor you as I do her.

SCENE VIII.

The same; also Blanca, who has broken open the door.

B.: (Addressing Sancho.) You lie! You do not abhor me!

V.: Blanca!