The interest of the Foreign Settlement lay in the crowds that thronged its streets. Never since the occupation of Paris after Napoleon’s downfall has any city presented such a kaleidoscopic picture of varied uniforms and mixed troops of many nations. I know few things more interesting than to sit for an hour on the Astor House verandah and watch the living stream. Rickshas go by bearing officers of every army, punctiliously saluting all other wearers of epaulettes they pass. An Indian tonga bumps along behind two sturdy little ponies. After it rumbles a Russian transport cart, driven by a white‐bloused Cossack. A heavy German waggon pulls aside to make way for a carriage containing two Prussian officers of high rank. A few small Japanese mounted infantrymen trot by, looking far more in keeping with the diminutive Chinese ponies than do the tall Punjaubis who follow them. Behind them are a couple of swarthy Bombay Lancers on well‐groomed horses, gazing with all a cavalryman’s disdain at the “Mounted Foot” in front of them. And surely never was trooper of any army so picturesque as the Indian _sowar_. A guard of stolid German soldiers tramps by. A squad of sturdy Japanese infantry passes a detachment of heavily accoutred French troops swinging along with short, rapid strides. And at each street corner and crossing, directing the traffic, calm and imperturbable, stands the man who has made England what she is—the British private. All honour to him! Smart, trim, well set‐up, he looks a monarch among soldiers, compared with the men of other more military countries. Never have I felt so proud of Tommy Atkins as when I saw him there contrasted with the pick of the Continental armies; for all the corps that had been sent out from Europe had been specially selected to do credit to their nations. _He_ was merely one of a regiment that had chanced to be garrisoning England’s farthest dependency in the East, or of a battery taken at random. In physique, appearance, and soldierly bearing he equalled them all. Even his cousin, the American, sturdy and stalwart as he is, could not excel him in smartness, though not behind him in courage or coolness in action. The British officer, however, in plain khaki with no adornments of rank, looked almost dowdy beside the white coats and gold shoulder‐straps of the Russian or the silver belts and sashes of the German. But gay trappings nowadays are sadly out of place in warfare. [Illustration: PUBLIC GARDENS AND GORDON HALL IN THE VICTORIA ROAD, ENGLISH CONCESSION]