Orbis Seraphicus is the title of the impressive Franciscan cosmography projected by Fr. Domenico De Gubernatis da Sospello (d. 1690) for a total of some thirty-five volumes in folio divided into four sections. The programmatic plan of the work, which was submitted to the General Chapter of the Franciscan Order held at Rome in 1688, is known to us as published by the author himself. It has the formidable heading: Idea Orbis Seraphici de tribus Ordinibus a Seraphico Patriarcha S. Francisco institutis, deque illorum progressibus et honoribus per quattuor mundi partes Europam, Asiam, Africam, et Americam, in obsequium Jesu Christi et Ecclesiae Sanctae Romanae, pro defensione atque propagatione fidei catholicae reportatis, a Fr. Dominico De Gubernatis concepta et concinnata; Romae Typographia Comerae Apostolicae, 1688. Copies of the plan are rare, and thus the writer took advantage of the occasion to reproduce it in the prolegomena of the Orbis Seraphicus itself, when it was published at Quaracchi in 1945.

If by opportunity we mean “a favorable juncture of circumstances” then the picture which emerges is not exactly propitious. The Latin American Conference held this year in Los Angeles reflected the concern about the post World War II decline of interest in Latin America and the prevailing indifference of students, the public, and many academic institutions toward Latin America, past and present. Contributing to this general apathy were both the general cultural orientation of the United States and Latin America toward Europe, and the general shift of American emphasis after 1945 to “crisis areas” which reduced Latin America to a minor position since it appeared to be neither threatened nor threatening in the polarized world. (In this respect, Castro remains our greatest benefactor.) Furthermore, the more obvious availability of funds, both public and private, for studies of these “crisis areas” tended to confirm the seeming unimportance of Latin America. The failure to attract the needed personnel, recognition, and support, coupled with the dissipation of current resources for the study of Latin America in the United States have, with few exceptions, prevented Latin American programs from developing momentum and visibility.

Brazil came late to republican government. By 1889 Brazilians had witnessed almost a century of tumultuous politics in neighboring republics. The aspirations of the 1817 and 1824 separatists had been transformed as order and progress, the positivist creed, chased away the specter of social reform. In some ways Brazil itself had changed profoundly during the empire; yet in others it remained deeply rooted to its colonial past. The tension between tradition and change, between old alliances and new possibilities, highlighted the proclamation and consolidation of Brazil's republic. Political transition provided opportunity for widely differing groups to seek preeminence. The myth of a uniquely Brazilian peaceful transition to republicanism is shattered as we witness the power struggles that began on November 15, 1889. But one hundred years later it is the image of lost opportunity, the failure to seize the moment created by abolition, the absence of the povo from the process, that impresses those who experience another transition in Brazilian republican history.

On 15 August 1880, the Venezuelan military governor of the Venezuelan Territorio Federal de la Guajira complained to the president of the state of Zulia that a woman from the town of Sinamaica had recently taken a young Indian woman to Maracaibo for a visit. She then sold the girl to the owner of an hacienda south of Lake Maracaibo. The girl turned out to be the niece of a powerful leader of the Uriana lineage or clan of the Guayú, or Guajiro Indians, known to Creoles as “Jullachipar” or “Juya Chipara.” He threatened to attack nearby Venezuelan settlements unless she was returned. State authorities undertook an urgent search for the girl. She eventually reappeared on an hacienda near Encontrados, south of Lake Maracaibo. She was returned to her family. The man who purchased her was jailed in Maracaibo, as was her abductor, but the ultimate disposition of the case remains obscure.

Woodrow Wilson seldom wavered in his determination to guide the Mexican Revolution along a course acceptable to the United States. From the beginning, he insisted upon the creation of a stable, constitutional, and representative government which could reform social and economic inequities and would provide a hospitable environment for American economic interests. The possibility of involvement in World War I, however, weakened the president's bargaining power with Mexico and reduced his ability to pursue his goals effectively. As Wilson learned to his regret, blatant interference tended to heighten Yankeephobic Mexican nationalism and to create a circumstance which Germany might exploit to her advantage. This problem became critical early in 1917, when the German question profoundly influenced the American government's response to the new Mexican Constitution. Historians hitherto have neglected this relationship, even though it provides an intriguing insight into United States policy toward the government of First Chief Venustiano Carranza.

Although the Panama Railroad Company had operated commissaries in the nineteenth century, not until the United States had begun canal construction in 1904 did pressure increase for supplies and services. In 1905 Canal Zone Governor Charles Magoon reported that two salary increases had been granted to meet rising food costs on the isthmus. On each occasion, however, the salary increment was offset by the Panamanian merchants who had raised commodity prices. Laborers purportedly slipped into the jungle in search of food. In July, 1905, Governor Magoon and Chief Engineer of the canal project, John F. Stevens, agreed to establish a commissary system to distribute food at cost to the canal labor force totalling approximately 17,000 men. Apparently reacting to the jungle environment and to greedy Panamanian merchants, the United States government turned to the commissary operation. With time's passing, the commissaries blossomed “from a pork and beans beginning to silk stocking maturity.” By the late 1940's, the casual visitor wondered if he had stumbled upon a typical United States Department store in the tropics. Many Panamanians were deeply angered by this business activity, believing that their country's economy had been crushed and their right to live and expand denied. Some Panamanians charged that an international crime had been committed by the United States against the small nation. The Republic's merchants contended that most of the commissary trade actually belonged to them.

One of the perplexing problems in the history of the Mexican War has been the account of a body of deserters from the American army which called itself the San Patricio Battalion. Many of these deserters were being tried and executed or severely punished as the troops of General Scott pushed into the heart of Mexico’s capital. The account of the desertion of the San Patricios has been the subject of much debate, a great deal of it bitter, between historians with either a Catholic or Protestant point of view. Many Protestant writers have been prone to use this event as an illustration of placing faith above patriotism, the desertions being laid at the door of the Mexican clergy who are charged with actively attempting to entice Catholic soldiers among the American forces, largely recent German and Irish immigrants, to leave the army of a Protestant power bent on the destruction of a Catholic nation and on the spoliation of the temples of the Catholic faith. Catholic writers have been quick to issue a full denial of such charges. To date most of the charges and countercharges concerning the San Patricio Battalion have been based almost exclusively on secondary evidence. The essential truth of the matter would appear to be obtainable only from the actual records of the deserters in the files of the United States Army. It is on these records that this article is based.

NACIMIENTO IS THE NAME given in Spain and Spanish America to the plastic representation of the Nativity of Christ at Yuletide. These Nacimientos are of very ancient origin; they go back, in fact, to the days of St. Francis of Assisi in the thirteenth century. In December, 1223, St. Francis, who had just obtained from Pope Honorius III the approval of the Order he had founded, left his abode and set out for the Monastery of Monte Colombo, where, shortly after his arrival, we are told that he addressed his friend, Giovanni Vellita, in the following manner:

I am desirous of celebrating with thee the feast of the Nativity of our Lord in a special and hitherto unusual way. Go, therefore, to the cavern that is near this monastery and set up therein a manger full of hay, having taken with thee an ox and an ass, which thou wilt place close by, as they were in Bethlehem that blessed night, for I wish to recall with due solemnity the coming of the Son of God into this world, and to see with my own eyes how poor and miserable He appeared, and all for the love of us men.

It is a Great Honor for one who lives in the Wild West to be asked to speak in the cultured capital of our country, for California is remote. In fact, it came into history as “the most outlandish place in the World,” and in some quarters so it is still regarded. A wealthy Italian Duchess, in the seventeenth century, told her Father Confessor that she wished to endow a mission for the heathen. Being asked where she wished it established, she replied, “In the most outlandish place in all the world.” The Jesuits consulted their geography and concluded that the most outlandish place in all the world was California, and there the mission was founded. Father Kino had a long correspondence with the same Duchess, and for their letters the Huntington Library, a few years ago, paid $18,000. Bigger sums have been paid for letters written to a lady, but seldom for letters written to a lady by a Jesuit priest.

Highlighting the Wars of Independence in Latin America are the personalities and exploits of the great patriot leaders who took up arms in the cause of freedom. Simón Bolívar and José de San Martín are known throughout the world, for they were outstanding liberators whose efforts were crowned with success. But there were other leaders in the Spanish colonies who are almost equally deserving of fame for their contributions to the revolution, and among such men was José Gervasio Artigas, leader of the rebels in the Banda Oriental. His biography is a story of adherence to ideals and tenacity of purpose in the face of dismaying opposition. Chroniclers of his life, however, are not in agreement as to his possible faults and virtues. As one observer has aptly said, “Perhaps never did the memory of a man meet with more honor in his own country and with less favor without it.”