The news of the discovery of gold in Minas Gerais at the threshold of the eighteenth century spread like wildfire. Inebriated with the wealth which many thought would be perpetual, Brazil lived hours of rare exultation. “…those Mines,” wrote a former governor-general of Baía at the beginning of the eighteenth century, “are said to be so permanent that it will not be possible to exhaust them as long as the World lasts….” As early as 1697 the governor of Rio could write that the Caeté mines “extend in such a fashion along the foot of a mountain that miners are led to believe that [the extraction of] gold in that locality will be of great duration….” In the absence of more precise information, fantastic rumors became current. The new mining fields were of such dimensions, another contemporary affirmed, that they spread over the vast Brazilian hinterland. In 1709 the Overseas Council (Conselho Ultramarino) was willing to believe that the mines were the richest that had ever been discovered; the Council was certain that they would provoke the jealousy of foreign nations. After so many years of futile search Portugal had at length found another Potosí in the “most expansive heart of that world Emporium,” in that “resplendent diamond” of the finest quality which was Brazil.

In the terrible flames of World War II, the Good Neighbor policy, as conceived by its architect, Sumner Welles, and promulgated by its popularizer, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, met the supreme test of “blood, sweat and tears.” Tried in the crucible of worldwide conflict, inter-American friendship met the challenge of totalitarian Nazi-Fascism triumphantly. As our Good Neighbors themselves often proclaimed in the course of the last five years, “Las Américas unidas, unidas vencerán.” “The united Americas will find victory in their united front.”

To emphasize the contribution of the other American Republics and Canada to our recent victory is a simple act of justice. The historical record discloses that, almost immediately after the Japanese sneak-attack at Pearl Harbor, the tiny Republic of Costa Rica, democratic to the core, hours before the Congress of the United States of America swung into action, had declared war upon the warlords of Tokyo. Although only Canada and the United States of Brazil actually despatched complete army divisions to fight on the battlefields of Europe, the other peoples in this Hemisphere, in overwhelming numbers, sympathized effectively with our cause, while their Governments, one by one, broke diplomatic relations with the Axis powers. In a most critical hour for the peoples of the Western Hemisphere, the spiritual unity of the American Republics and Canada established itself as a precious, sacred reality. Our enemies were regarded as the enemies of America; our friends the faithful allies of humanity, liberty and democracy.

When, on November sixteenth last, the newspapers announced the awarding of the Nobel Prize for literature to a Chilean poetess, Gabriela Mistral, the news came as a surprise to many Americans, who, although they considered themselves well read, had never heard her name.

The fundamental reason we know so little of this remarkable woman who enjoys such a great popularity in the Spanish-speaking world, not only for her words but for her deeds, is because the limited number of her poems which have been translated into English, by heavy hands, for the most part, allow hardly a glimmer of the real Mistral to shine through them. Of course, all translation of poetry is difficult but that of Gabriela extremely so because of her unique selection of words. She has created a plant that does not grow on English soil.

It is Sunday morning in Mexico, and the bells of the great cathedral ring out over the teeming life of the Zócalo, over the flat, irregular rooftops, over the colonial palaces, and through all the vast and interminable ganglia of the ancient city.

“Listen!” says my old friend Rubén, “The bells are the voice of Mexico. Even though you will go away, you will never forget them. Their music will always be in your soul.”

Rubén is a Zapotec Indian boy from the state of Oaxaca, the son of a poor tailor, who is studying medicine at the National University. When he has completed his courses, he will return to his native tierra to work among his people. Deeply imbued with the culture of his country, he is proud of his heritage and his blood.

Although their writings belong more properly to science than to belles-lettres, five Catholic scholars deserve a place in our study. Rafael Angel de la Peña was born in Mexico City in 1837 and died there in 1906. He received his elementary schooling and first lessons in the humanities from his father and his elder brother. At the age of twelve he entered the Seminario Conciliar in his native city where he completed his humanistic training and then, with the consent of the proper authorities who probably hoped to direct him into the priesthood, he followed the regular courses in the various disciplines of theology and in both laws, ecclesiastical and civil. It was obviously an unusual expression of confidence in the young man’s virtue as well as ability when, immediately upon his graduation, the Seminary authorities engaged him to teach theology and philosophy. In 1860 the National University of Mexico, whose prescribed examinations he passed with marked success, conferred on him the academic degree in both philosophy and theology; and the highest honor, that of doctor, was about to be conferred when by decree of the civil government the university ceased to function.

Mexico had many outstanding Franciscan missionaries in the sixteenth century. One of the greatest of those was Fray Francisco de Tembleque. A deeply religious man, whose every action was based on charity, Fray Francisco was at the same time a colorful figure and he merits a place of honor in the hearts of men. Little is known about him because liistorians have depicted for us only the salient chapters of his life, leaving the rest obscure. Even the date of his death has not been found in the many chronicles of his day.

As we shall see, he arrived in New Spain around the year 1540. Fr. Jerónimo de Mendieta tells us that “Fr. Francisco de Tembleque, a native of the town of Tembleque, near Toledo, came with Fr. Juan de Romanones from the Province of Castilla. Both were inseparable companions during their sojourn in New Spain. He acquired a sufficient knowledge of the Aztec language to enable him to hear confessions in that tongue. But he never was capable of preaching in that language from memory. He always read his sermons and instructions to the Indians, and that very satisfactorily.” In this regard he was no equal to his talented brother, Fr. Juan de Romanones, who, “having mastered the Mexican language, preached to the natives and labored among them for over 40 years, being an able speaker. He wrote sermons and other works and translated parts of the Holy Bible, a work of invaluable aid to both himself and to other friars in preaching to the Indians. He was one of the best linguists Mexico ever had.”