books, although so small in proportion to the number of individuals, does not show a higher degree of appreciation than our omnivorous devouring of odds and ends. When, in despite of coarse texture, rude letterpress, very low art, and very high prices, a book runs through six or eight editions, it is reasonable to suppose some higher motive in its perusal than the criminal one of killing time. And in the face of melodramatic tendency, and archaic mixture of sentiment and common-place; in the face of incoherence of action, and want of subtle analytic power; yet with its deference to the ideal of womanhood, its large love of nature, its tribute to the home virtues, its loyalty to national traits, its admiration for simplicity and purity of character, and its enthusiastic patriotism, — the Mexican novel would seem to have found this more elevated plain, and based upon it a recognized right to existence.
The list of Mexican authors stretches almost indefinitely. Besides those already mentioned as novelists, Manuel Payno, Pedro Castera, Peon Contreras, Vicente Morales, and Jose Maria Esteva are well known as brilliant and forcible writers. Upon more serious topics, whether of
