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The Viga Canal.

Nowhere in Mexico could there be found a spot which presents an appearance more different, according to the seasons of the year, than the Viga Canal. No place is by turns more solitary or more crowded, more noisy or more silent. This canal, about twenty-four miles long, mixes its waters with the lake on which Chalco stands, and forms a means of transport and communication between that town and Mexico. A broad open road, planted with aspens and poplars, runs along its sleeping waters. If the pedestrian did not observe, at some distance from the highway, the buildings which inclose the bull-ring, and, farther off, the towers of the Cathedral, above which shoot up the two mighty volcanoes of Mexico, he might fancy himself three hundred miles from the city. Some country houses, whose inhabitants are always invisible; the deserted paths of the Candelaria, a rival road to the Viga; lakelets scattered here and there in the midst of teeming vegetation, on whose surface float chinampas[14] looking like large baskets; a solitary vaquero hut here and there in the plain; then a range of hills overtopped by the sierra, form the principal features in the landscape. A placid stillness reigns over every part of the picture. Sometimes a pirogue is seen gliding noiselessly on the canal, sometimes a group of Indians kneeling in some grove before a Christ that they are decking with flowers, at whose feet they are piously depositing oranges and grenadilles, offerings which savor strongly of paganism. The flapping of the wings of an aigret hovering over the water, or that is losing itself in the blue sky, and the baying of some dogs prowling about, are the only sounds which break the stillness on this shady road. But at the approach of the Easter fêtes the road assumes quite a different appearance. Every Sunday in Lent, the entire population of Mexico assembles here, and a noisy crowd streams along the way. The day on which I went to the canal was the last Sunday in Lent. On reaching the road, I found the habitual promenaders of the Paseo and Alameda crowding every spot of the ground in the Viga; but it was not the crowd which chiefly attracted me, it was the canal itself. On that day, the reeds on the bank, ordinarily so still, waved and jostled to and fro under the continual motion of the water, produced by the passing and repassing of numberless fleets of boats. Launches, canoes, pirogues, were constantly coming and going; some conveying to Mexico, for the Holy Week, immense quantities of flowers, which diffused a most delightful odor around. Other boats followed, crowded with light-hearted, merry passengers, wearing wreaths of wild poppy and sweet pea, and dancing on the deck to the inspiring strains of harps, flutes, and mandolins. Light-hearted Cyprians, in gamesome mood, scattered upon the breeze the purple buds of their wreaths, and trolled out choruses of lascivious songs. The clear sky, the dazzling brilliancy of the different costumes, and the soft, sweet melody of the language, brought to my mind the national festivals of ancient Greece; while the canal, which seemed at times suddenly transformed into a carpet of flowers, generally had the appearance of a moving mass of canoes, which shot past one another in all directions; groups of people, lying lazily on the bank, bantered the boatmen as they passed. Farther off, under the green arcades formed by the aspens upon the road, which shook under the roll of carriages and gallop of horses, paraded the gay fashionables of Mexico. Parties of high-spirited, wild-looking cavaliers, dressed in the national costume, sauntered up and down amid this gay throng as if protesting by their rough manners against the whimsical appearance of the dandies habited in French style.

A striking contrast was observable to the spectator. Upon the canal one saw America in the sixteenth century, which, under the beaming sun of the tropics, had abandoned herself without constraint to pleasure. Upon the road was America in the nineteenth century, seeking to model its native appearance on the worn-out type of Europe. By way of compensation, a few Europeans, habited in the ancient Mexican costume, at times appeared on the Viga; but beneath their dress you could distinguish at a glance the Englishman, the Frenchman, or the German. I must say, however, that our compatriots of the South were distinguished above all the other foreigners for the ease and grace with which they wore the national costume.

Evening was drawing on, darkness was coming down over the surrounding country, and the moving picture before me was rapidly dissolving, when I perceived four horsemen seemingly making their way toward me. I could not at first distinguish their features, their faces being partly concealed by the wide-spreading sombreros, trimmed with broad ribbons, which they wore; but their appearance caused me to suspect them. These men, dressed in mangas and sarapes, seemed to be hemming me in with the intention of opposing my passage. They immediately spurred their horses and galloped up to me. "Stand!" cried a threatening voice; and, at the same moment, the four horsemen surrounded me. They were neither robbers nor alguazils, but men whose amiable character and joyous temperament I often had occasion to appreciate. In one I recognized Don Diego Mercado, student of theology in the college of St. John de Lateran; in another, the officer Don Blas; the third was the hidalgo, Don Romulo D—— F——, a political marplot, who could never be satisfied with the government of the day, but was always looking about for an opportunity to overturn it, who was admitted, notwithstanding this weakness, into the highest society in Mexico; the fourth was one whom I would have least expected to find in a company like the present, and in such a disguise: it was no other, in truth, than my worthy friend, Fray Serapio.

"Do I really see the Reverend Fray Serapio?" I exclaimed. "Do I really see my friend under this bandit costume?"

"Tut!" said the Franciscan; "I am traveling incog.; I shall tell you why some other time."

"Good," said I to the monk; "I have something to ask you which interests me as much."

"You are one of ourselves," cried the officer, "and we are going to conduct you to a place out of Mexico, where we intend to finish the Holy Week."

"Where is it?" I inquired.

"You will know when you get there," replied the hidalgo. "I know you are a lover of adventures: well, I promise you some, and of a strange enough kind."

This was taking me on my weak side, and I accepted the offer without troubling myself any farther as to its whereabouts. I was, besides, in full traveling costume; and an excursion by night was, above all, highly agreeable to me. We alighted, and threaded our way through the crowd; then leaving it, we struck along the Candelaria road, and, remounting, pursued a northerly direction. I fell behind the rest and joined Fray Serapio, and again renewed my inquiries about his disguise. On our first acquaintance the monk seemed to my taste too shy and distrustful, but I soon hit upon a sure way of stripping him of these unsocial qualities. I feigned to make the Christian virtues of my venerable friend the theme of my warm admiration; and Serapio, who had the high ambition, a singular one in a monk, of passing for a rake, replied to my eulogiums by some revelations about the old monk which did not redound greatly to his credit. At this time, too, the expedient succeeded as it ordinarily did. The Franciscan assured me, with a contrite air, that he had put on this disguise by the will of God!

"As you always do," I rejoined, gravely; "you obey him implicitly, like a humble servant."

The monk bowed and quickened his horse's pace.

"It has pleased God," replied he, "to deprive his servant of his robes for the purpose of saving the soul of a Christian who is about to quit this world."

"St. Martin gave to the poor only a half of his cloak. What was his charity in comparison with yours?"

The Franciscan shrugged his shoulders.

"Alas!" he muttered, "it is a rich man who has my gown, and I don't deserve to be compared to St. Martin."

"I am well aware that the most noble virtues are often modestly hidden from the world."

Wearied with my bantering, the monk dropped the mask entirely.

"Faith!" he replied, in a frank, open tone, "pietistic people prefer being interred in a monkish habit; and, the more threadbare the garment, the higher they value it. My gown, on this account, is of an inestimable value. I sold it a short time ago for double its original cost; and, besides the profit from the sale of it, I got a present of this costume which I am now wearing."

The sun had now set; and the moon, which was rising, diffused its beams over the solitary country. Arrived at the crest of a small eminence, I looked back upon the canals and the plains of the Viga, which, under the brilliant night of the tropics, appeared to me under quite a new aspect. The moon had lighted up the lagoons, the canal, and the road. They were all now silent. The most profound stillness had taken the place of the stir and hum of the busy crowd; the silence was broken only by the distant bellowing of the bulls in the savannas. The fire-flies sparkled in the high grass, and the watch-fires of the shepherds shone here and there in the fields.