onvents and churches, as to favor the belief that
every house has something of the kind attached thereto. From the
neighboring valley of Almencaes I have counted sixty. In the distance
they present a solid, imposing aspect, but on a nearer view, they will
generally be found mere paper structures of reeds and plaster. Many of
the grand edifices, the cathedral, convents, and parochial churches, are
partly of bricks, stone, or the most enormous adobies, up to the
belfreys, but above, all are similar to the pasteboard decorations of
the theatre; and although it seems reasonable to suppose they would
topple down at the first summons of the _tremblor_, yet it is the only
style of lofty work that will bear the frequent shocks, totter like a
tree, and still stand erect. Externally these buildings are elaborately
carved, painted, and imaged, without any consistent order of
architecture; and within they are profusely decorated with rich
gildings, paintings, and statues; all, however, destitute of taste; and
only when brilliantly illuminated, with the myriads of silken
parti-colored streamers pendant and fluttering from the lofty aisles,
swinging censers, organs pealing, with all the pomp and imposing
ceremony of the Catholic church, is the effect worthy of admiration.

The best position for viewing Lima--Asmodeus-like--is from the high
tower of San Domingo, that is, if, after mounting above the bells, you
can reconcile the flimsy quaking fabric you stand upon to any extreme
ideas of personal safety. The devil on this pair of sticks could not
have chosen a more eligible spot for inspecting the arcana of people's
dwellings. The city is spread like a map at your feet; composed of long
lines of crumbling walls, miles of flat roofs, and little patios, the
former loosely tiled, and sprinkled over with dirt, where even dead
cats, and tattered rags quietly repose for ages. There is not in the
universe to be seen such a large area of mud walls, reed, and rush-built
houses, all appearing so unfinished and incomplete. But in a climate
where it never rains, where it never blows, where even the thick
coatings of dust are hardly absorbed by the _dry rain_ of winter fogs,
it is not surprising that all these masses of reeds and plaster are
preserved for centuries without perceptible decay. Still there can be no
scepticism on one point, that if ever there chance to fall a heavy
tropical shower, the city of Pizarro will be swept, a heap of mud and