electro-motor is so ingeniously contrived, that
it will probably be found applicable to other
things besides sewing machines.

       THE CITY OF THE ANGELS.

              THE CANONIGO.

"THEY call it," quoth the Canonigo,
"Puebla de los Angelos; but, for my part,"
he continued, confidentially, "I don't think
it would do this City of the Angels much
harm if the Verdugo were to come hither,
and hang every man, woman, and child at
Puebla to a gallows forty feet high. Hombre!"
went on the Canonigo, "I think
Puebla would be all the better for it; for,
look you," and here he sank his voice to a
whisper, "everything that walks on two
legs in this city, and, who is not a
guerrillero — a brigand — is either a gambler, or
a receiver of stolen goods."

These were hard words, indeed, to hear
from a patriotic Mexican gentleman, and a
dignified ecclesiastic to boot, concerning a
city so dignified and illustrious as Puebla.
But the Canonigo knew what he was about.
It was at the little village of Amosoque, a
few miles from our destination, that our
clerical friend uttered the strictures,
recorded above, on the character of the Poblanas.
Now I knew nothing as yet of Puebla;
but I should have been quite prepared to
agree with anybody who had told me that
a little hanging — with perhaps a trifle of
drawing and quartering — would have done a
world of good to the people who congregated
round our carriage window at Amosoque.

"Mala gente! Mala gente!" murmured
the Canonigo, looking at the Amosoquians
who trooped up to the coach window, and
stared in at us with sad fierce eyes mutely
eloquent with this kind of discourse: "I
should like a wheel; I a horse; I that stout
man's coat; I his hat; I his dollars; and I
his blood." "Mala gente," said the Canonigo,
drawing his head in somewhat abruptly,
as an Amosoquian of very hungry aspect
uttered the word "Caridad!" in a tone
which far more resembled a curse than a
request. "Por Dios, amigo," quoth the
Canonigo, "I have nothing for you. Mala
gente!" he concluded, sinking back on the
cushions and taking a very vigorous puff at
his cigar, "Mala gente " —which, being
translated, may be accepted as signifying
"blackguards all: a bad lot."

Whenever you halt in a town or village
of Old Spain your equipage will be surely
surrounded by silent, moody men, wrapped
in striped blankets or tattered cloaks, and
with shabby hats slouched over their
brows, who will regard you with glances
that are sad, but not fierce. But faded
as is their aspect, they have a quiet,
resigned mien, not wholly destitute of
dignity. Yonder tatterdemalion of the
Castiles seems to say: "I am destitute; but
still I am a Don. Poverty is not a crime.
I involve myself in my virtue, and have
puffed prosperity away. I am bankrupt, but
it was through being security for a friend.
I am Don Dogberry, and have had losses. I
held shares in the Filibusters' Company
(limited). The company is being wound
up, and another call on the contributories
will be made the day after to-morrow. If
you like to give me half a peseta you can."

But New Spain! But Amosoque! That
small, wiry, leathery, sooty-looking fellow
is a half caste. Watch him scowling at
you in his striped serape — further south
called a poncho — his huge coach-wheel
hat like a cardinal's whitewashed, and
minus the tassels; his loose linen drawers,
bulging through the slashes in his leathern
overalls. Salvator might have painted
him, but Salvator should have made some
preliminary sketches in a Seven Dials
slum and a Bowery whisky cellar, to get
his hand in. The man of Amosoque utters
nothing articulate save an occasional grunt
of "Caridad!"; but his eyes are full of
speech. They say, "Your throat is
precisely the kind of throat I should like to
cut. I have cut many throats in my time.
I am a bankrupt, but a fraudulent one. My
father suffered the punishment of the
'garrote vil;'and my brother-in-law is a
garrotter in Puebla. Give me a dollar, or by
all the saints in Puebla I, and Juan, and
Pepe, and Fernan here will follow the coach
and rob it."

Amosoque is a great mart for spurs. The
"Espuelas de Amosoque" are renowned
throughout Mexico, and the spur makers, I
conjecture, allow the beggars to take the
goods "on sale or return." They thrust
them in, four or five pairs in each hand,
arranged starwise, at the windows, reminding
you, in their startling spikiness, of the
hundred-bladed penknives with which the Jew
boys used to make such terrific lunges at
the omnibus passengers in the old days, at
the White Horse Cellar. These spurs of
Amosoque are remarkable for nothing but
their length and breadth — the rowels are not
much smaller than cheese plates; but you
can no more get clear of the place without
purchasing a pair of "espuelas," than you
can leave Montélimar in Provence without