An evening visit to the Señorita Teresa finished our first entire day in Granada. This young lady had been educated in the United States, spoke English very well, and was withal a proficient in music,—accomplishments which we never before learned to estimate at their true value. It was worth something to hear well executed passages from familiar operas, amidst tangible and not painted orange trees and palms, and in an atmosphere really loaded with tropical perfumes, instead of the odors of oil-pots and gas-lights. Eight o’clock was the signal for general withdrawal from the streets, for then commenced the rigors of the military police, and the city became at once still and quiet. The occasional barking of a dog, the tinkling of a distant guitar, the soughing of the evening wind amongst the trees of the courtyard, the measured tread and graduated “alertas!” of the sentinels, were the only interruptions to the almost sepulchral silence. While returning to our quarters, we were startled by the “Quien vive?” of the sentinel, uttered in a tone absolutely ferocious, and as these fellows rarely parleyed long, we answered with all expedition, “La Patria,” which was followed on the instant by “Que gente?” “Americanos del Norte.” This was enough; these, we found, were magic words, which opened every heart and every door in all Nicaragua. They never failed us. We felt proud to know that no such charm attached to “Ingleses,” “Alemanes,” or “Franceses.” The day following, in accordance with the “costumbres del pais,” the customs of the country, we returned the visits of the preceding day, and began to see more of the domestic and social life of the citizens of Granada. We found the residences all comfortable, and many elegant, governed by mistresses simple, but graceful and confiding in their manners. They were frank in their conversation, and inquired with the utmost _naïveté_ whether I was married or intended to be, and if the ladies of El Norte would probably visit Granada, when the “Vapores grandes,” the great steamers, came to run to San Juan, and the “Vaporcitas,” steameretts, to ply on the lake and river. They had heard of a Mr. Estevens, (their nearest approach to Stephens,) who had written a book about their “pobre pais,” their poor country, and were anxious to know what he had said of them, and whether our people really regarded them as “esclavos y brutos sin verguenza,” slaves and brutes without shame, as the abominable English (los malditos Ingleses) had represented them. They were also very anxious to know whether the party of Californians which had passed through were “gente comun,” common people, or “caballeros,” gentlemen; upon which point, however, we were diplomatically evasive, for there was more in the inquiry than we chose to notice. One lady had heard that I was a great antiquarian, and anticipatory to my visit, had got together a most incongruous collection of curiosities, from “vasos antiguos,” fragments of pottery, and stone