In front of the stage was a kind of orchestra, made up of an infinitude of fiddles and cracked clarionets, which discoursed most melancholy music, for half an hour after we came upon the ground. At the end of that time, it was announced that Señor Z., a young man who wrote poetry and wore his hair long, after the manner of bardlings the world over, would recite an appropriate poem. The Señor came forward, bowed low, and after telling us what he proposed to say in plain prose, commenced his poem. It related to Christ, dealt largely in superlatives, and complimented our Saviour much after the manner a love-sick youth might be supposed to address his mistress. The only redeeming point was the manner, and the clear, distinct enunciation with which it was given. It was listened to with attention, and vehemently applauded at its close. While the speaker was in the midst of his heroics, and the entire assemblage silent, I heard a heavy regular tramp, and turning, saw a detachment of troops, marching slowly through the crowd, their arms glancing in the moonlight. They defiled into the shade, close to the wall of the church, and at the word of command, their muskets came down with a startling clang upon the pavement. There they stood, like bronze statues during the whole evening. This incident will illustrate the condition of the country better than an essay. After the poem, the music struck up again, and we were treated to a lugubrious song by two men and three women, but I could not make out what it was about. Vocal music is certainly at a low ebb in Nicaragua; _nasal_ music, however, is flourishing. Fortunately the people make no pretensions to musical accomplishments, and thus criticism is disarmed. A kind of drama, in two acts, borrowed from the Bible, followed the vocal entertainments, in which a shallow, rattling character or clown was introduced, with other comic accessories. This was by far the best part; the clown was a rare fellow, and acquitted himself well; but the serious part was very serious. The characters talked in a kind of monotonous recitative, like automatons, and without a particle of action. An hour’s endurance of this was enough for a Christian, and throwing some silver in the box of a man who went round for the purpose of making a collection for the benefit of the church, I left, in company with the señoritas, who inquired if similar “funcions” were common in the United States? I told them yes, but that our padres consigned all those who frequented them to the demonio, whereupon the señoritas opened their big, black eyes, and ejaculated “Mira!” do tell!