July 16th.—We arrived at Singapore this morning and put up at the Hôtel d’Europe. Before dinner we went for a drive out of town, passing through a Malay village perched on piles in cocoa plantations. The hillocks are strewn with villas, like the outskirts of London. On our way back we crossed the Square, the centre of European commerce, with large bazaars and markets.

Singapore, according to its population, is a veritable Tower of Babel. We are amidst natives of every variety of shade, from sepia to chocolate: Majestic Arabs, arrayed in long flowing robes, Hindoos in white tunics and bright red turbans, Malays, Chinamen, Persians, etc. The Malay women are very black, with the fewest clothes that it was possible to wear and nose-rings and beads hanging everywhere. They carry on their backs black babies with woolly hair and white eyes like nice Newfoundland puppies. Ambulant cooks walk amongst the crowd; they carry two round chests, containing a small stove, on which they fry nasty-smelling roasts; in another box, on wooden trays, are placed bowls containing minced meats of all kinds; a whole lot of little horrors, which the natives snap up with the aid of long chopsticks, sitting on their heels on the ground and turning their backs to the passers-by. Black policemen, dressed European fashion, with a white stick in their hand, keep order in the streets.