One of the expanding and teeming questions before the world now, and the authority and ability to determine it, is in the hands of the Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the United States, is whether Manila shall become an American city, with all the broad and sweeping significance attaching thereto. Manila was not dressed for company when I saw her, for she had just emerged from a siege in which the people had suffered much inconvenience and privation. The water supply was cut off, and the streets were not cleaned. The hotels were disorganized and the restaurants in confusion. The trees that once cast a grateful shade along the boulevards, that extended into the country, rudely denuded of their boughs, had the appearance of the skeletons of strange monsters. The insurgent army was still in the neighborhood in a state of uneasiness, feeling wronged, deprived, as they were, of an opportunity to get even with the Spaniards, by picking out and slaying some of the more virulent offenders. There was an immense monastery, where hundreds of priests were said to be sheltered, and the insurgents desired to take them into their own hands and make examples of them. The Spaniards about the streets were becoming complacent. They had heard of peace, on the basis of Spain giving up every thing, but the Philippines, and there were expectations that the troops withdrawn from Cuba might be sent from Havana to Manila, and then, as soon as the Americans were gone, the islanders could be brought to submission by vastly superior forces. There were more rations issued to Spanish than to American soldiers, until the division of the Philippine Expedition with Major-General Otis arrived, but the Americans were exclusively responsible for the preservation of the peace between the implacable belligerents, and the sanitary work required could not at once be accomplished, but presently it was visible that something was done every day in the right direction. There was much gambling with dice, whose rattling could be heard far and near on the sidewalks, but this flagrant form of vice was summarily suppressed, we may say with strict truth, at the point of the bayonet. The most representative concentration of the ingredients of chaos was at the Hotel Oriental, that overlooked a small park with a dry fountain and a branch of the river flowing under a stone bridge, with a pretty stiff current, presently to become a crowded canal. It is of three lofty stories and an attic, a great deal of the space occupied with halls, high, wide and long. The front entrance is broad, and a tiled floor runs straight through the house. Two stairways, one on either side, lead to the second story, the first steps of stone. In the distance beyond, a court could be seen, a passable conservatory--but bottles on a table with a counter in front declared that this was a barroom, as it was. The next thing further was a place where washing was done,