One winter the Alcazar Opera Company of New Orleans made a speculative trip along the Mexican, Central American and South American coasts.  The venture proved a most successful one.  The music-loving, impressionable Spanish-Americans deluged the company with dollars and “vivas.”  The manager waxed plump and amiable.  But for the prohibitive climate he would have put forth the distinctive flower of his prosperity—­the overcoat of fur, braided, frogged and opulent.  Almost was he persuaded to raise the salaries of his company.  But with a mighty effort he conquered the impulse toward such an unprofitable effervescence of joy.

At Macuto, on the coast of Venezuela, the company scored its greatest success.  Imagine Coney Island translated into Spanish and you will comprehend Macuto.  The fashionable season is from November to March.  Down from La Guayra and Caracas and Valencia and other interior towns flock the people for their holiday season.  There are bathing and fiestas and bull fights and scandal.  And then the people have a passion for music that the bands in the plaza and on the sea beach stir but do not satisfy.  The coming of the Alcazar Opera Company aroused the utmost ardour and zeal among the pleasure seekers.

The illustrious Guzman Blanco, President and Dictator of Venezuela, sojourned in Macuto with his court for the season.  That potent ruler —­who himself paid a subsidy of 40,000 pesos each year to grand opera in Caracas—­ordered one of the Government warehouses to be cleared for a temporary theatre.  A stage was quickly constructed and rough wooden benches made for the audience.  Private boxes were added for the use of the President and the notables of the army and Government.

The company remained in Macuto for two weeks.  Each performance filled the house as closely as it could be packed.  Then the music-mad people fought for room in the open doors and windows, and crowded about, hundreds deep, on the outside.  Those audiences formed a brilliantly diversified patch of colour.  The hue of their faces ranged from the clear olive of the pure-blood Spaniards down through the yellow and brown shades of the Mestizos to the coal-black Carib and the Jamaica Negro.  Scattered among them were little groups of Indians with faces like stone idols, wrapped in gaudy fibre-woven blankets—­Indians down from the mountain states of Zamora and Los Andes and Miranda to trade their gold dust in the coast towns.

The spell cast upon these denizens of the interior fastnesses was remarkable.  They sat in petrified ecstasy, conspicuous among the excitable Macutians, who wildly strove with tongue and hand to give evidence of their delight.  Only once did the sombre rapture of these aboriginals find expression.  During the rendition of “Faust,” Guzman Blanco, extravagantly pleased by the “Jewel Song,” cast upon the stage a purse of gold pieces.  Other distinguished citizens followed his lead to the extent of whatever loose coin they had convenient, while some