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.