of censorship of plays in Cuba. A
play, he tells me, cannot be acted before it
has been first submitted to the censor, who,
empowered by government, is at liberty
to place his red mark of disapproval over
any word, line, or passage which he may
deem offensive to Spanish morality or to
Spanish politics. There is no rule
attached to this dramatic censorship, and
each censor in every town throughout the
island has his own way of passing judgment;
thus, what would suit the politics
and morality of Havana, might be
considered treasonable and profane at Santiago.
A capital comedy is often so mutilated by
the Cuban censor as to be rendered
dramatically unfit for representation.

All Cuban buildings are constructed
with a provident eye to earthquake and
tropical heat, and the theatre is no exception
to the rule. The means of egress
are speedy and facile, so that in case of
emergency the audience may, comparatively
speaking, step from their places into the
street. On every side are huge open
windows and doors, by means of which perfect
ventilation is insured. Fire is also carefully
provided against, and there is always a small
regiment of black bomberos, or firemen,
stationed in readiness within the theatre.
There are two tiers of private boxes and a
gallery. The first tier is but slightly
elevated from the pit, enabling the occupants
to converse, as is the fashion, with friends
in the stalls. Both tiers have the appearance
of an ordinary dress circle, with a low
partition to distinguish one box from
another. There are wide lobbies at the back,
and an ornamental iron grating in front.
Like most houses in Cuba, the theatre is
without drapery, the stall-seats and box-
chairs, which are cane-bottomed, not
excepted. The interior of a Cuban theatre
is barren as a bull-ring.

Despite my intimacy with Tunicú, I
pay my money at the doors before I enter
the theatre at night like everybody else;
for in this proud country it is considered
humiliating in a respectable person to beg
an order or a pass. I accordingly
purchase two separate tickets; one for my
admission into the theatre, and one for
my seat in it; otherwise, I should have
to stand like the indigent few at the back
of the boxes. Tunicú accompanies me
for this occasion only, and gives me the
names and occupation of most of the
audience, whom he seems to know personally.
For the matter of that, everybody in a
Cuban theatre is on intimate terms with
everybody, and there is much conversation
between the occupants of the boxes, who
are, with few exceptions, ladies, and those
of the pit, who are exclusively gentlemen.
The senoritas, in low-necked muslin dresses,
with a wealth of genuine hair, and with
their inevitable fans, form a pleasing frame
of fair humanity around the picture of
dark coats and white drill trousers in the
pit. Their hands are gloveless, and their
diminutive fingers are loaded with rings of
great value: for Cuban ladies are fond of
jewellery, and make a great display of it
upon all public occasions. Some of the
senoras have brought slave attendants,
who crouch in waiting on the ground
behind them. Tunicú points me out the
doctor's box, and when that eminent gentleman
appears late in the evening, I recognise
him as the man who saved me from
the fatal vomito, or yellow fever. The
doctor, I learn, is strong on that disorder,
but weak on the subject of earthquake,,
against which no West Indian physician
has succeeded in finding a remedy. His
box is nearest the principal entrance door,
for he is nervous about earthquake, and is
ever on the alert when he visits a theatre.
Tunicú informs me that an earthquake in
a theatre is worse than a fire, and gives
me the interesting particulars of such a
catastrophe as it happened in the doctor's
own experience. It was a slight affair, he
says, a mere " temblorcito," as he calls it;
one wall was seen to crack from top to
bottom, some plaster from an opposite wall
peeled off, a globe from one of the gas
lamps fell among the audience, and that
was all; but the panic was terrible for all
that, and many were crushed to death in
their attempt to escape.

The stout gentleman who occupies that
big box all to himself in the centre of the
theatre, is his excellency the president. No
Spanish entertainment is complete without
its president. The curtain may not rise
till his excellency has taken his seat; the
actors may not respond to a call or an
encore if the president is not agreeable, and
does not flutter the big play-bill before him
in token of his acquiescence. The box to
the right is the lawful property of the
censor, who, like most Spanish authorities
in Cuba, rarely pays for his pleasure. He
is extremely affable and condescending with
everybody before the curtain, though so
stern and unyielding behind the scenes.
His daughters, charming young ladies, are
with him, and flirt freely with the numerous
Pollos, as the youth of Cuba are called,