to chief mourner — is worse even than the dreadful funerals at home, with their long string of hired carriages, which yet have some faint semblance of privacy. In strong contrast come the inexpressibly sad burial processions through the country; the coffin borne on the shoulders of friends, and the little handful of sorrowing people walking behind. This has about it the pathos of homely sincerity, that the bathos of vulgar display; and yet one may be as heartfelt as the other.
Along the Viga Canal, leading to the floating gardens, which are now more a name than a reality, the green, slimy water is covered with flat boats and barges, on their way to and from the markets. These are sometimes very beautiful, with masses of vegetables and flowers piled high in fantastic shapes; sometimes as ugly as garbage and offal can make them. Historians of ancient Mexico paint an exquisite picture of the light peroque of the Aztec, floating with the dawn down the shining water toward the Venice-like city on the lake, wreathed in bloom, its flower-crowned crew chanting hymns to the sun god, and the atmosphere of peace and innocence brightening the scene. But time has played havoc with this,
