ud and blood--and the walls are hung with portraits of the forty-seven
Viceroys of Peru, but placed in so bad a light that, with few
exceptions, the features and expression of the different rulers were
indistinctly visible. They begin with Francisco Pizarro,[8] and are all
miserably executed specimens of painting, without grace or harmony, and
it would seem that the artists, in their anxiety to have them of a
uniform length, in the absence of correct notions of drawing, have
jammed heads and heels close up or down to the frames, leaving the
intermediate portions of the person harsh and ungainly.

The theatre is a mean edifice, and the immense rafters that uphold the
flat roof are apt to keep a nervous person in the pit somewhat anxious
and uneasy, anticipating a shock of the _tremblor_. It is sufficiently
commodious, but badly ventilated, dimly lighted, and without decorations
or scenic display. The first representation we attended was mediocrily
performed by an Italian troupe--there were three prima donnas--who,
apart from being ugly, which, of course, was no fault of theirs, were
regardless of taste or execution, and all strove to outshout the other.
Indeed, a fifth-rate artiste, coming so far abroad in these climes,
deems it imperative to take a tip-top part; besides, I have remarked
among opera people, that there is always a cruel Empressario, who
tyrannically will have something to say in the management of his
theatre--very much to the disgust of the performers, and who is,
moreover, expected to pay handsomely, even when the troupe cannot half
fill the house.

On the occasion referred to there were myriads of fleas, and what with
Beatrice di Tenda--a donna in red--we were fain to quit the opera.
Subsequently the performances were very creditable, and living in the
same house with the Contralto and handsome Barrytone, we became enlisted
in their clique, and did battle against the unreasonable manager. One
evening, whilst assisting at Linda di Charmouni, between the acts I was
sitting behind the scenes, in a temporarily-constructed saloon,
condoling with the interesting Contralto, sympathising with her griefs,
and admiring her open-worked clocked stockings--for she was costumed as
a Swiss peasant--and when nearly wound up to a pitch of desperate
frenzy, against the barbarous Empressario, the lady's tire woman tripped
in. _Signorina_, said she, _la scena_! The call-keeper's pipe chirped
musically. I flew to the front