When we entered the dining‐room of the hotel that evening, we found it filled with Continental officers, who, as we bowed to the groups at the various tables before taking our seats, rose politely and returned our greeting. Britishers unused to the elaborate foreign courtesy found the continual salutes that were the custom of most of the Allies rather a tax at first; and the ungraciousness of English manners was a frequent source of comment among those of our European brothers‐in‐arms who had never before been brought in contact with the Anglo‐Saxon race. But they soon regarded us as almost paragons of politeness compared with our American cousins, who had no stomach for the universal “bowing and scraping,” and with true republican frankness, did not hesitate to let it be known. Our proverbial British gruffness wore off after a little time, and our Continental comrades finally came to the conclusion that we were not so unmannerly as they deemed us at first. In the beginning some offence was given as they did not understand that in the English naval or military services it is the custom where several officers are together for the senior only to acknowledge a salute; for in the other European armies all would reply equally to it. The three leading characteristics of Pekin are its odour, its dust in dry weather, and its mud after rain. The cleanliness introduced by the Allies did wonders towards allaying the stench; and I do not think that any place in the world, short of an alkali desert, can beat the dust of the Long Valley. But though I have seen “dear, dirthy Dublin” in wet weather, have waded through the slush of Aldershot, and had certainly marvelled at the mire of Hsin‐ho, yet never have I gazed on aught to equal the depth, the intensity, and the consistency of the awful mud of Pekin. We made its acquaintance on the day following our arrival. Heavy rain had kept us indoors until late in the afternoon when, taking advantage of a temporary cessation of the deluge, we rashly ventured on a stroll down Ha‐ta‐man Street. The city, never beautiful, looked doubly squalid in the gloomy weather. Along the raised centre portion of the roadway the small Pekin carts laboured literally axle‐deep in mire. It was impossible for rickshas to ply. On either side the lower parts of the street were several feet under water, while gushing torrents rushed into them from the alleys and lanes. We struggled with difficulty through the awful mud, wading through pools too broad to jump. Once or twice we nearly slipped off the edge of the central causeway, and narrowly escaped an unwelcome bath in the muddy river alongside. As we splashed and skipped along like schoolboys, laughing at our various mishaps, our mirth was suddenly hushed. Down the road towards us tramped a mournful cortège—a funeral party of German soldiers marching with reversed arms behind a gun‐carriage on which lay, in a rough Chinese coffin, the corpse of some young conscript from the Vaterland.