every place gives him an opportunity of displaying his whims and oddities. Let no one fancy that his compliant manners operate against him as a priest and spiritual director. The Mexicans understand to a nicety the bond which unites devotion to worldly pleasures. When the monk, late at night, wends his way to his convent after a day spent in dissipation, the passers-by, when they see him, bow the knee with as much respect as if his pious discourses and conduct were not in startling contrast with each other.
After this account of the character and habits of the Mexican monk, no one will be astonished at the occurrence which made me acquainted with one of the jolliest members of the great monastic family, the Reverend Fray Serapio. Curiosity had led me to a popular fête in the environs of Mexico, that of San Augustin de las Crevas, a small town about twelve miles from the capital. This fête, which makes Mexico a deserted city for three days, is frequented by the elite of Mexican gamblers. Whoever does not play is looked upon with suspicion. I followed the example of the numerous card-players who had been attracted to San Augustin, and seated myself at a table. My opposite neighbor was a Franciscan of athletic mould, and I shall never forget his sunburned, swarthy countenance, his piercing look, and his shaven face fringed with clusters of long crisp hair, shaggy as a bison's mane. He was a true soldier in a monkish dress. After a run of bad luck, I left the tables just as my last stake disappeared in the pocket of the monk. I wandered for some time in the streets of the village, hearing around me every where the clink of quadruples and piastres. I then mounted my horse, and, cursing my ill luck, took the road to Mexico. I had
