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Literary Contributions of Catholics in Nineteenth-Century Mexico: Part Two: The Díaz Regime (1867–1910)

Published online by Cambridge University Press:  11 December 2015

Francis Borgia Steck O.F.M.
Francis Borgia Steck O.F.M.*
Affiliation:
The Catholic University of America
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Extract

Another gifted writer whose name has almost passed into oblivion is Tirso Rafael Córdoba. Like Rafael Gómez, he from Michoacán, a circumstance that seems to explain why during the period we are considering these two men stood on such intimate terms of friendship and in their literary career had so many things in common. His biographer tells us that in 1853, at the early age of fifteen, Córdoba, then a student in the Seminario de Morelia, was admitted to membership in the Liceo Iturbide, a distinction conferred upon him in view of the exceptional progress he had made in the arts and sciences. Only for the disturbed times in which his youth and early manhood fell, Córdoba would have entered the priesthood, this being his intention when he studied philosophy in the Seminario Conciliar Palafoxiano in the city of Puebla. From this celebrated school he graduated with high honors and then proceeded to Mexico City where he studied canon and civil law in the Colegio de San Ildefonso and passed the bar examination in the University of Mexico. But again he became a victim of circumstances, unable to engage freely and fully in the legal and political circles for which he was so richly qualified. After the fall of the Second Empire, at which time he was Secretary General of the municipal government of Puebla, he retired from public life and thereafter took a prominent part, chiefly in Mexico City, in social and literary activities. He was one of the founders of the organization known as La Sociedad Católica and collaborated in the founding and editing of periodicals, popular as well as literary, such as La Voz de México, El Obrero Católico, El Hijo del Obrero, La Lira Poblana, La Aurora, and La Oliva.

Type
Research Article
Information
The Americas , Volume 2 , Issue 1 , July 1945 , pp. 30 - 50
Copyright
Copyright © Academy of American Franciscan History 1945

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References

48 Agüeros, op. cit., 129–142. 30

49 Ibidem, 139.

50 La Sociedad Católica, II (1870), 430. Translation:

The nations proclaim thy name,
My Mother, and bless the Lord,
From the moment the new day is born
Till its hour of death in the West.
A precious fragrance thy name,
Wafted from Orient flasks;
In affection thy children call
Thee the peaceful star of the sea.
Now is heard in the shades of the grove
The song of the merry birds;
In the dell now the snowy flower
Unfolds its grace and its charm.
The magic blaze of the skies,
The earth in its sweet repose,
The month of gladness proclaim
To thy glory devoted by love.

51 Ibidem, I (1869), 457–459.

52 Ibidem, I (1869), 459. Translation:

How oft, O mother, thou didst say to me,
Holding me close to thy loving breast:
“In the cheerless desert of this life
Deep shadows you will see ahead;
But always remember: thou art born
To adore God’s name, and God is good,
And all our sorrows, thine and mine,
Will once be changed into holy joys.”
Could someone but help me fly to thee
On rapid wing through measureless space
And ask thee to solace my gnawing grief
And make me at least resigned to my lot!
Ah, me! Why has destiny torn me away
From where I enjoyed the sweets of thy love?
Oh, where is now the mother’s kiss
Thou gavest me when I was a child?
Alone in the world I am coursing through life
Like the errant swallow that speeds its flight
Looking for shelter in a foreign abode
Which, being a stranger, it may fail to find …
In my loneliness here, as a silent proof
That to thee my soul has taken flight,
A solace, O mother, to me are thy words:
“My child, thy future in heaven must lie!”

53 Ibidem, V (1871), 32. Translation:

Like an ancient oak on the mountain top,
When the tempest breaks with a roar,
Is deeply wounded by the lightning flash
And shaken by the furious southwest gale;
Thus I behold thee in thy strange distress;
With resolute breast and with brow erect
Silent and sad thou turnest to heaven
In deepening grief thy tear-stained eyes
Ah, no! Let not earthly solace disturb
The silence sublime in which the just
Offers the chalice of suffering to God.
Allow him to gaze on the beauty of heaven
Where one angel more, in the presence of God,
Sings now of its glory and endless joy.

54 Ibidem, IV (1870), 113–117.

55 Ibidem, IV (1870), 116–117.

On the central crest of yonder hill
One saw a cross of wood,
The sign of peace and mysterious badge
Of our faith, august and divine.
Seated in its wholesome shade,
Admiring the wonders of God,
And refreshed by the quickening breath
Of the soft and fragrant breeze,
We spoke of our hapless native land,
Of our fatherland’s ills and woes,
No other nation so fair and rich,
No other nation such as ours
A pattern of pain and distress.
With our heart full of sorrow and grief
We recounted the black deeds of wrath,
The insatiate ambitions, the blinded rage,
The countless crimes and perfidious deeds
That discord, yea! sustains and fans
To dreadful pain in Mexican hearts.
To the dismal future awaiting us
We then directed our gaze
And trembled on seeing ourselves a prey
Some unhappy day already in sight
To the craze of some adventurer
Who fans among brothers the flames of strife
And hastens the end of the Mexican name
By putting on us the mark of slaves …
Here do I cease to sing, dear friend,
For I cannot touch the gaping wound
Of our poor land without my soul
To deepest sorrow giving way.
May God in His bounteous mercy grant
We may see our Fatherland richly robed,
In sterling freedom pursuing the road
To happiness and prosperity!

56 Pimentel, op. cit., 914.

57 Pina, José Castillo y, Mis Recuerdos (México, 1941), 263.Google Scholar

58 Padilla, Perfecto Méndez, “Atenógenes Segale: Su Vida en Su Poesía, Abside (México), III (1939), No. 4, p. 25.Google Scholar

59 Castillo y Piña, Mis Recuerdos, 273–275, 281–282.

60 Méndez Padilla, loc. cit., 32, 36, 38.

61 Ibidem, 35. Translation:

(a) For whom should they be, these songs
That I kept in the depth of my soul,
Bits of fancy and echoes of love,
For whom, dear mother, but thee?
(b) Should it please God that, when I die,
My eyes be touched by a friendly hand,
I should like to have this book repose
Beside the Cross on my Christian breast.
And if ordained that aught of me
By fame perchance be kept alive,
My gift to thee will be this book,
The artless essence of my heart.
But should it fail to make the grade,
Then let the callous world declare:
The work of a wretched poet, this,
But the book of a good and loyal son.

62 ibidem, 36. Translation:

It was for the first time this morning
I carried my Lord on my breast
To the bedside of one who was dying;
My sister it was, near death.
On the altar I placed Him; a fragrance
And offerings rare all around;
Then, melting in tears, I accepted
The avowal of her Christian faith.
She sweetly responded and then was silent,
On the angel-like face, in resignation,
The light of hope in a smile.
The Body of the Lord I gave her, praying
He attend her flight to regions eternal,
My eyes immersed in tears.

63 Ibidem, 40. Translation:

As the driven arrow quivers
So vibrate the strains of thy song;
Thou wast able to reach by holy effort
The ideal’s dust-laden goal.
The heart, thy deep hidden lyre,
Recoiled at sorrow’s hard blow
And gave it the rapture of music;
O poet, well mayest thou rest!
Sleep now. The world is silent.
When the rites of thy funeral are over,
Envy will shackle its tongue.
Even now it calmly recalls thee,
And to thee fame’s tree has proffered
The shade of its immortal leaves.

64 For a copy of this poem the writer is indebted to Alberto María Carreño. Translation:

Fervently at the feet of the Crucified
I knelt and in earnest was going to ask for
The lyre of Horace, the Grecian flageolet,
And a circlet of resplendent laurels.
But raising my eyes, I behold before me
The mangled breast, then the face so haggard
And pale, and I come to the brow beholding
A crown of fresh green thorns around it.
I see two nails that cruelly fasten
His hands to the cross, and a face all bloody
An expression wears of pain superhuman.
It was love that sweetened His crucifixion,
And I came to plead for the dross of glory:
In the end I pray for chagrin and meekness.

65 Quoted by Castillo y Piña, Mis Recuerdos, 267. Translation:

At the time when the gypsies came to
The first abodes of the hamlet,
And descried the gloomy castle,
The fiery sun was bidding
A last adieu and sinking
From the heights of the nearby cliff;
Bestowing a final glimmer
On the shadowy tops of the oaktrees,
It seemed as if it were sending
To nature clothed in sadness
A final word of mourning.
But then in the neighboring village.
The bells were announcing THE ANGELUS.

66 For biographical data see Plancarte, Gabriel Méndez, Horacio en México (México, 1937), 175–179.Google Scholar

67 Ibidem, 177. Translation:

More wisely wilt thou live, O Licinius,
if neither thou plungest into restless seas
nor in fear of the storm dost timidly hug
the treacherous shore.
Who holds to the precious middle course
seeks neither the miser’s miserable roof
nor the lordly manor that with envy fills
the pauper’s heart.
The rude assaults of the gale are borne
by the lofty pine; high towers collapse
with a noise, and lightning flashes strike
the mountain tops.
The wise man fears adversity’s thrust
in time of fortune; in failure he hopes:
if Jove sends winter’s gloom, he soon
dispels it, too.
What aches thee today, tomorrow will end:
Apollo at times with his lyre evokes
the silent muse; enraged at times
he draws the bow.
In time of danger be cautious, my friend,
and strong and brave; if storm-stirred winds
inflate the waves, take heed and trim
the bulging sail.

68 Ibidem, 177, 179.

69 For biographical data see González Peña, op. cit., 226–227.

70 Urbina, Luís G., La Vida Literaria en México (Madrid, 1917), 252.Google Scholar

71 See González Peña, op. cit., 226.

72 Urbina, op. cit., 253–255.

73 Rueda, Julio Jiménez, Historia de la Literatura Mexicana 1st ed. (México, 1934), 210 Google Scholar; 2nd ed. (México, 1942), 205.

74 José López Portillo y Rojas, “Elogio de Manuel José Othón,” foreword to the recent (1926) edition of Othón’s poetry, p. xviii.

75 González Peña, op. cit., 226.

76 Quoted from Castro Leal, op. cit., 220–228. Translation:

(a) Here in this restful place of seclusion,
Away from worldly ambition and strife,
Giving generous rein to quiet reflection,
I fain would listen to dirges and songs.
The hymn of the forest! And joining the anthem
The gentle wind with its quieting murmur,
The choir of birds with its rhythmic singing
The mountain ridge with its endless reports.
With reckless, rush the torrent is plunging
Adown the abyss, while furiously whipping
The rocks on its bed, and forth from the caverns
The unending echoes ardently burst.
In every note of the giant psalter
The measureless psalm of love is throbbing!
(b) And then at the mystical moment when skyward
The Angelus rises, transcending in tone
All the accords of the earth’s adoration,
The hymn of the forests its wings unfolds
Over lake and hillock, over mountain and dell;
Whereupon, like the agony sigh that evening
Sends up to the heights where God is reigning,
The heart of the universe softly entones
The measureless orison: Salve, Maria!

77 Quoted from Castro Leal, op. cit., 234–236. Translation:

I
At sun-down over the placid lake
Hovers a tenuous and ghostly mist;
And far off yonder the mountain ridge
Is dimly traced in deepest blue.
In the azure distance the light of day
Is melting away. On sapphire waves
Quivers the foam, from the chimney grey
Of the farmhouse upward curls the smoke.
The plowman’s lays resound; the last
Deep furrow by clumsy oxen is cut.
The fading glints of yellow light
A shimmer cast on the edge of the ranch,
While under the eaves the swallow ends
Its garrulous chatter in whispers faint.
II
In fluttering blue, with faltering step,
Faint-hearted approaches the angel of night,
The haze of twilight enveloping him
And the tenuous vapors of the lake.
At the sound of the Northwind’s cooing purl
The folds of his magnificent garb
Become a blanket for valley and hill
To guard them against the corruption of night.
Sorrow and solace escape his lips,
His sapphire eyes are wet with tears
From zephyrs of life and blasts of death.
Upward he soars on silent wing
And on reaching the heights gives way
To prayers, to tears, and to sighs.

78 Urbina, op. cit., 255. Translation:

I come from my unspied solitudes,
To my doleful solitudes I will return,
To the high-souled struggle off the broad road;
For to cities I wend my way alone
On hesitant foot and with faltering step,
To refresh fond memories of long ago.
I am the voice, by no one observed,
That sings in the lonely depths of the hills,
Scorched by the sun and drenched by the rain.
What my song reveals of my rustic abode
I know not, for when my spirit returns,
It turns from the region far away.
But I make the dole of my exile sweet
With the savor of hellenic honeycombs
And the blood-stained bloom of Christian faith.

79 See Gabriel Méndez Plancarte, op. cit., 218–220.

80 For biographical data see Agüeros, op. cit., 169–180; Casasús, Joaquín D., En Honor de los Muertos (México, 1911), 155–194 Google Scholar; González Peña, op. cit., 258–260.

81 González Peña, op. cit., 259.

82 Idem.

83 Idem.

84 Casasús, op. cit., 191–193.

85 Quoted from Castro Leal, op. cit., 188. Translation:

At last, my dear harp, we are alone,
Together in the dead of night;
Nor an echo, nor a sound—and here we tarry,
Silent thy strings and silent my lips.
My mind was filled with vain illusions
And with grief my heart …
What became of their offers I know not,
All I know is that victory came to them.
I am aware that dreams
Resemble waves,
That the one always comes
Following the other.
Go thou ahead …
Where will it be, the shore,
Awaiting us?

88 Quoted from Antología de Poetas Mexicanos, 381. Translation:

“I am to behold thee in day’s last glowing,
When here on my window it breathes its last,
And when night expires, in the brilliant star
That succumbs to the sunshine of morning.
In the errant and fleeting haze that embroiders
And richly adorns the azure sky;
Or in the cloud at the lightning flash
That climbs the sky on the wings of the tempest.
“And when I succeed, at the end of my yearning,
In finding the land I saw in my dreams;
When famed at last, neath the canopy of heaven
To no one but God I will bow in submission;
When I arrest my wearisome sailing
On the sand-strewn floor of the burning seashore
Thy image I’ll see on the new-found shore
And sense on my cheek the warmth of thy kisses.
“Meanwhile accept thou mine, sweet darling,
Bestowed from the fullness of holy love.”—
And the noble Genoese, dejected and sad,
A captive bound with the chains of his sorrow,
dropped to his knees on the frigid greensward
And, pressing on it the sorrowful kiss
That night re-echoed in the distant sound,
He took the hand of the child and departed.

87 Ibidem, 378.

And thou, giant spirit, that appearest
Revolving in my orbit,
Receive the guerdon which thou deservest.
Deep, in a wicked hour,
Ingratitude struck thee and had thee drink
The cup of envy to its very dregs;
So great, forsooth, was the world
Thy prowess bequeathed to thy native land,
It considered thee little
In the face of such greatness…!
Today thy name posterity praises,
For low-born calumny smoothes its brow,
On ever-firm pedestal it raises thee aloft!