# Vagabond life in Mexico/The Viga Canal

CHAPTER II.
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 him self three hundred miles from the city. Some country houses, whose inhabitants are always invisible;
​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 English man, 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 horse men 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."
​"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.