The prosperous state of Peruvian historiography partly reflects the parlous condition of Peruvian historians. With full professors' takehome pay just over 200 dollars a month at Lima's Pontificia Universidad Católica rather less at the University of San Marcos, and with prices not that much lower than in industrialized countries, scholars scrounge for additional support. Moonlighting as a cabby is risky though definitely known among academicians; high schools offer extra hours to about a fifth of San Marcos' lecturers; and the Católica historians staff the university's general studies program for freshmen and sophomores. But the most attractive solution lies in promoting projects for foundations. That is one way for history to be written.

The founding of the College of St. Francis at Celaya, near Querétaro in Mexico, later to achieve the status of a Royal and Pontifical University, offers an excellent example of the Franciscan Order’s internal conflict between the strict observance of poverty and its willingness to administer higher educational institutions on a permanent basis.

It is rare that one finds, in the form of drawings and documents, a study of the architectural evolution of a church in the Spanish borderlands of the United States. Most of the churches were Indian missions, built at first of adobe in a simple, crude form, with thatched roofs. More beautiful buildings arose in a later period of development when Indian converts had increased and after skilled workmen were available to raise them as monuments of beauty on a cheerless frontier.

Sigmund Freud was more than the father of psychoanalysis; he was also one of the great classical philosophers of history. In Freud's historical thought, we have the framework for an analysis of the past which parallels the formation of neuroses in the life history of the individual. Like psychological man, historical man is the victim of events (trauma) from the past. Etched on the brain of historical man, are memories which endure through time, become part of the “archaic heritage,” and are transmitted from one generation to another. Then, like the “return of the repressed” in neurotic individuals, societies feel the afflictions of the past, which return to haunt them. That Freud stressed the killing of the primeval father by his jealous sons, an event of dubious historical veracity, should not obscure the value of his historical framework. In Freudian thought, the psychic stages of the individual unfold in the collective societies of history.

Edward Bliss Emerson, a younger brother of Ralph Waldo Emerson, was born in 1805. Educated at Andover Academy and Harvard, he showed great promise as a scholar. Ill health plagued the young man, however, and he was forced to give up his work as a teacher. A trip to southern Europe failed to cure his tuberculosis. Next he tried to study law in Boston, but this brought on the total ruin of his health and a short spell of mental derangement.

By 1831 it was apparent that a prolongation of Emerson's life required a warmer climate than that of his beloved New England. He went first to the Danish island of St. Croix. A few months later he was in Puerto Rico, and there he remained—with the exception of one brief trip home—until his death in 1834.

During the forty years from 1567 to 1607 there were three Spanish expeditions from Peru to the South Seas. The first, under Alvaro de Mendaña in 1567, was for the discovery of some rich islands, called Solomon, believed to lie in the equinoctial region between New Guinea and Peru. In the following year he reached a group of islands. Mendaña did not then give them a collective name, but subsequently they became known as the Solomon Islands. With the expedition were four Franciscan friars acting as chaplains and missionaries. The second, a colonizing expedition, was in 1595, again under the Adelantado Mendaña. And here we introduce the celebrated figure and the one to achieve immortal fame in the proto-history of Australia, Pedro Fernández de Quirós. He accompanied the adelantado as captain of his capitana and chief pilot of his fleet of four ships. Because of errors in reckoning latitude and longitude Quirós brought the fleet with close on four hundred settlers to Santa Cruz Island instead of the Solomons, discovering on the way the Marquesas group. At Santa Cruz the settlement knew only tragedy. There was mutiny and disease. Pestilence thinned their ranks by death, and—above all—the adelantado himself died there on October 18, 1595. The settlement, then only a month old, was a month later abandoned. Quirós, by a remarkable feat of navigation, brought the remnants of the expedition to Manila.

WASHINGTON IRVING put together The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus too hurriedly for it to be as accurate and original as historians would like it to be. He was even inclined on occasion, perhaps to compensate for the impossibility of doing exhaustive research, to “let his imagination go completely,” reconstructing colorful scenes not only from what existing records clearly indicated had happened, but from what a knowledge of the era of discovery led him to believe might have happened. And he heightened diction, tone, and characterization to the point of inviting criticism. Nevertheless nineteenth-century historians did not laugh Columbus off. And Stanley Williams’s verdict that instances where Irving consciously invents facts or distorts what in his time was considered to be the evidence are “relatively rare” seems sound. In spite of its faults, the book proved, apparently, to be usable until more detailed studies of the subject appeared.