who come to pay their homage. That stall
in the centre of the pit is occupied by the
editor of the Diario, a Cuban daily paper,
whose politics and local information are
strongly diluted by censorial ink, and which
is, therefore, unintelligible and devoid of
interest. The editor of the Diario is
extremely lenient in his reports of theatrical
entertainments, and on him the manager,
at least, may always rely. His contemporary
and rival, the editor of the Redactor,
government organ, is seated in a stall near
his excellency the governor-general, who is
enthroned in a wide stage- box, and is
dressed in full uniform, covered with
orders. His excellency is accompanied by
an aide-de-camp and half a dozen bronze-
faced, heavily-moustached officers, all of
whom are more or less laden with orders,
crosses, and other military decorations. In
the bend of the theatre are the boxes of the
English and American consuls. But what
are those mysterious enclosures with trellis-
work before them on either side of the
proscenium? Those are special private
boxes for the use of persons or families who
are still in a state of half-mourning, and
may not yet expose themselves to public
scrutiny. But these boxes are not always
occupied by mourners, whispers Tunicú, in
great confidence. There are a certain class,
he tells me, who wear a kind of half-
mourning, which never becomes out of
fashion; these are the half-castes or
quadroons, who dare not be seen in public with
acknowledged white people. The gallery
is as usual devoted to soldiers, sailors, and
persons of slender means; and in the
extreme background are a few benches set
apart for the exclusive accommodation of
mulatto girls and negroes of both sexes,
most of whom are elegantly attired, for
coloured people are scrupulous in their dress
on all public occasions.

After the overture—a medley of Cuban
dance music and Spanish fandango, played
upon ordinary instruments by black
musicians — a big bell, to summon all stragglers
to their places, is heard, the curtain is
raised, and the performance begins. There
is nothing peculiar in a Cuban drama
except that no allusion to political matters
is made, and that the profane and immoral
are somewhat freely indulged in. The
comic players perplex the prompter with
inordinate gagging, and delight in
personalities with occupants of the orchestra
and pit. There is much applause when
the comic man shuffles through the
charinga—a popular negro dance, difficult of
performance, and shouts of laughter are
produced in the scene between a Yankee,
who speaks very broken Spanish, and a
lady who speaks Spanish with the approved
Cuban accent. It is an enthusiastic and
excitable audience.

The entirely new drama is a complete
success, owing to the realistic performance
of the famous star from old Spain. That
gentleman is on the point of breaking a
blood-vessel in his effort to impersonate the
convulsive thief; but he is saved by the
doctor in the private box, who is suddenly
summoned to the actor's dressing-room.
This interesting incident makes a deep
impression upon the sympathising public, and
greatly increases the interest of the drama.
Then the curtain is lowered amidst
rapturous applause, and calls for the infirm
player, who is presently led on the stage,
supported by one of the company and by
the doctor. In the following act the star
astonishes his audience by a vivid
representation of a detected thief gone mad, and
his private convulsions being still fresh in
their memories, many are seen to direct
their gaze towards the doctor's box, in doubt
whether that gentleman will be required
to administer also to a mind diseased.
But all conjecture on this point is presently
set at rest by the acting madman himself,
who is duly restored to his histrionic senses
at the conclusion of the play.

An interval of from twenty to thirty
minutes elapses between each act, during
which the whole audience rise from their
places and promenade around and about
the theatre. The ladies betake
themselves to the lobbies to flirt, fan, and
refresh themselves with ice sorbetes. The
gentlemen from the pit are everywhere.
Some are conferring with friends in the
grilles, or mourning-boxes; some are smoking
cigarettes in spacious saloons provided
for smokers; others are in the street drinking
orchata or bul, a compound of English
beer, with iced water and syrup. The
stage itself is, however, their favourite
resort. Open doors give access to that
mysterious ground from the front of the theatre,
and the pit public is thus enabled to wander
into every nook and corner, from the traps
below to the flies above. The players do
not shun their visitors, but rather court
their society, for a friend in front is
considered a desirable acquisition, and halfway
towards a reputation as " favourite;" to
say nothing of benefit nights at the end of a
season. A small crowd of Pollos waylay
the first lady as she leaves her dressing-