In no place were our red-handed allies held in greater detestation than in the city of La Puebla—partly from the striking resemblance borne to them by a large number of its population, and an antipathy on this account; partly from old hostilities; and, perhaps, not a little from the fact of our having there, more than elsewhere, permitted them to carry out their proclivities.
There was a sort of tacit consent to their swaggering among the Poblanos; as a punishment to the latter for the trouble, which their swaggering had caused to us.
It was only for a time, however; and, when things appeared to be going too far, the good old Anglo-American morality—inculcated by the township school—resumed its sway over the minds of our soldiers; and the Red Hats were coerced into better behaviour.
Chapter Twelve.
“Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo.”
Now that its streets were no longer obstructed by the fear of mob violence, or midnight assassination, we had an opportunity of exploring the “City of the Angels.”
A fine old town we found it—with its grand cathedral, of which, according to monkish legend, real angels were the architects; its scores of capillas and parroquias; its hundreds of massive stone and stuccoed houses; and its thousands of adobé dwellings.
Besides those standing, we discovered whole streets that had fallen to decay; barrios of uninhabited ruins, covered with a weed-tangle of convolvuli, cowage, and other creepers, growing in green luxuriousness over the chaos of crumbling walls.