La Puebla de los Angeles is peculiar, even among the cities of modern
Mexico; peculiar in the fact, that two-thirds of its population are
composed of priests, _pelados, poblanas_, pickpockets, and _incarones_
of a bolder type.
Perhaps I have been too liberal in allowing a third to the "gente de
bueno," or respectable people. There are travellers who have altogether
denied their existence; but this may be an exaggeration on the other
side.
Trusting to my own souvenirs, I think I can remember having met with
honest men--and women too--in the City of the Angels. But I shall not
be positive about their proportion to the rest of the population. It
may be less than a third--certainly it is not _more_!
Equally certain is it: that every tenth man you meet in the streets of
Puebla is either a priest, or in some way connected with the holy
fraternity--and that every tenth woman is far from being an angel!
_Curas_ in robes of black silk serge, stockings of the finest texture,
and "coal-scuttle" hats, full three feet in length; friars of all orders
and colours--black and white, blue, brown, and grey--with shaven crowns
and sandalled feet, are encountered, not only at every corner, but
almost at every step you take.
If monks were immaculate, Puebla might deserve the sanctified
appellation it has received--the _City of the Angels_. As it is, the
_City of the Devils_ would be a more appropriate title for it!
"The nearer the church, the farther from God."
The adage is strikingly illustrated in Puebla, where the Church is not
only present--in all its outward symbols--but paramount. It governs the
place. It owns it. Almost every house in the city, as almost every
acre of land in the vast plain that surrounds it, is the property of the
Church, in fee simple, or by mortgage deed!
As you pass through the streets you see painted over the door-heads--
three out of every four of them--the phrases, "Casa de San Augustin,"
"Casa de San Francisco," "Casa de Jesus," and the like.
If a stranger inquire the object of this black lettering, he is told
that the houses so designated are the property of the respective
convents whose names appear above the doors. In short, you see the
Church above, before, and around you, all-powerful over the bodies as
well as the souls of the Poblanos; and you have not ceased to be a
stranger, ere you discover its all-pervading villainy and corruptness.
Otherwise, Puebla might be termed a terrestrial paradise. Situated in
the centre of an immense plain--whose fertility suggested to Cortez and
his _conquistadores_ the title "La vega" (the farm)--surrounded by an
amphitheatre of magnificent mountains, in grandeur unsurpassed upon
earth--with a climate of ever-spring, truly might it be deemed an
abiding place for _angels_; as truly as it is the home of a host of
infamous men, and not less infamous women.
Despite its moral character, there is a grand picturesqueness about _La
Puebla de los Angeles_--both in its present aspect and its past history.
Both are redolent of romance.
Standing upon the site of an ancient Aztecan town, within view of
Cholula, the Indian Athens--with Tlascala, their Sparta, on the other
side of the mountain Malinche--what heart would not be touched by the
historic souvenirs of such a spot? And though the sages of Cholula and
the warriors of Tlascala are no longer to be recognised in their
degenerate descendants, there, still, are the grand objects from which
they must have drawn their inspirations. On all sides tower up the
Cordilleras of the Andes. Sublime, against the eastern sky, rises the
"Star mountain;" matched upon the west by the rival cone of Popocatepec.
Still in solemn silence reclines the "White Sister" under her cold
coverlet of snow.
Well do I remember the impression produced on my own mind when, after
passing through the _mal pais_ of Perote, I first came within view of
the domes and spires of La Puebla. It was an impression, grand,
mystical, romantic; in interest exceeding even that I afterwards
experienced, when gazing for the first time on the valley of
Tenochtitlan. It was a _coup de coeur_ never to be forgotten!
As my entry into the "City of the Angels" was not of an ordinary kind,--
and, moreover, had much to do with the events about to be related--it
will be necessary to give some account of it. I transcribe from the
tablets of my memory, where it is recorded with a vividness that makes
the transcript easy. I can answer for its being truthful.
I was one of three thousand invaders; all travel stained; many footsore,
from long marches over the lava rocks of Las Vigas, and the desert
plains of Perote; some scathed in the skirmish with Santa Anna's lancers
along the foot hills of the mountain Malinche; but all aweary unto
death.
Fatigue was forgotten, dust and scars disregarded, as we came within
sight of the sanctified city, and with beating drums and braying bugles
marched on to take possession of it.
It needed no warlike ardour on our part. Outside the gates we were met
by the _Alcalde Mayor_ and his magistrates; who, with fair speech on
their lips, but foul thought in their hearts, reluctantly bestowed upon
us the "freedom of the city!"
Who could wonder at the reluctance? We only wondered at the soft
speeches, instead of the hard blows we had been led to expect from them.
All along the route, Puebla had been proclaimed as the point where we
were to be brought to bay. There we should have to encounter the sons
of the _tierra templada_; and our laurels, cheaply gathered at Vera Cruz
and Cerro Gordo, from the enervated children of the _tierra caliente_,
would be snatched from our brows by the "_valientes_" of La Puebla. The
saints of the "holy city" had been promised a hecatomb; and we expected,
at least something in the shape of a fight.
We were disappointed--I will not say disagreeably: for, after all,
fighting is not the most desirable duty to be performed in a campaign--
especially on the eve of entering into some grand town of the enemy. In
my opinion, it is far pleasanter to find the streets clear of
obstructions, the pavement without blood spots--although they may be
those of the foe--the shops and restaurants open, especially the
latter--and the windows filled with fair forms and smiling faces.
After this fashion were we received in the _City of the Angels_. There
were no barricades--no street fighting--no obstructions of any kind.
The fair forms were there, seen in shadow behind the iron _rejas_, or
standing in full light in the _balcons_ above. Many of the faces, too,
were fair; though I shall not go so far as to assert, that any of them
were _smiling_. It would be nearer the truth to say that most, if not
all of them, looked frowningly upon us.
It was a cold reception: but the wonder was that we were received at
all, or not more warmly welcomed--in a different sense. Horse and foot
all told, we counted scarce three thousand weary warriors--stirred for
the moment into a spasmodic activity by the sound of our drums, the
thought of being conquerors, and perhaps a little by the battery of
bright eyes before which we were paraded. We were marching through the
streets of a city of more than sixty thousand inhabitants, with houses
enough to hold twice the number; grand massive dwellings with frescoed
fronts, that rose frowningly above us--each capable of being converted
into a fortress. A city lately guarded by choice troops, and whose own
fighting men outnumbered us ten to one!
Its women alone might have overwhelmed us, had each but pitched a
projectile--her cigarito or slipper--upon our heads. They looked as if
they _would_ have annihilated us!
And yet we did not run the gauntlet altogether unscathed--not all of us.
Some received wounds in the course of that triumphal entry, that
rankled long after.
They were wounds of the heart, inflicted by those soft love-speaking
eyes, for which the Poblana is peculiar.