After a long study of the position from our coign of vantage, we descended to the left bank of the nullah; and, passing the residences of the American and Russian Ministers guarded by stalwart Yankee soldier or heavily built Slav, we came to where the imposing gateway of the English Legation opens out on the road running along the bank. Inside the entrance stood the guardroom. To the right lay the comfortable residences of the Minister and the various officials spread about in the spacious, tree‐shaded grounds. We passed on to a group of small and squalid Chinese houses, which served as the quarters for the officers and men of the Legation Guard, chiefly composed of Royal Welch Fusiliers. The officers in command, all old friends of ours, received us most hospitably, and entertained us with grateful refreshment and the news of Pekin. We were cynically amused at learning from them an instance of the limits of human gratitude. The civilian inhabitants of the English Legation have insisted that a wall should be built between their residences and the quarters of the guard, lest, perchance, the odour of “a brutal and licentious soldiery” should come betwixt the wind and their nobility. They gladly welcome their protection in time of danger, but in peace their fastidious eyes would be offended by the sight of the humble red‐coat. Our hosts showed us round the grounds and the enceinte of the defence, and explained many points in the siege that we had not previously understood.

When, our visit over, we walked back to the hotel down Legation Street, we were interested in noticing that the walls and houses bordering the road were covered with bullet splashes; while the ruins of the Chinese houses, of the fine building that had once been a branch of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, and of some of the Legations spoke eloquently of the ravages of war. On the wreckage around notices were posted, showing the increased areas claimed for the various foreign Legations in the general scramble that ensued on the fall of Pekin. Little Belgium, with her scanty interests in China, has not done badly. Everywhere were to be seen placards bearing the legend, “Occupé par la Légation Belge,” until she promised to have almost more ground than any of the great Powers. Vae Victis, indeed! And the truth of it was evident everywhere, from the signs of the game of general grab all around the Legations to the insolent manner of a German Mounted Infantryman we saw scattering the Chinese foot‐passengers as he galloped along the street.

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. As we stood aside to let the procession pass, we raised our hands to our helmets in a last salute to a comrade.

In sobered mood we waded on until, in the centre of the roadway, we came to a mat‐shed that marked the site of a monument to be erected on the spot where the German Minister, Baron Kettler, was murdered at the outbreak of the troubles. Foully slain as he had been by soldiers of the Chinese Imperial troops, his unhappy fate proved perhaps the salvation of the other Europeans in the Legations. For it showed that no reliance could be placed on the promises of the Court which had just offered them a safe‐conduct and an escort to Tientsin. And on the ground stained by his life‐blood the monument will stand, a grim memento and a warning of the vengeance of civilisation.

Weary of our struggles with the mud, we now resolved to go no farther and turned back to the hotel, but not in time to escape a fresh downpour, which drenched us thoroughly.

Next day we changed our abode, having found accommodation in the portion of Pekin allotted to the English troops; for the city was divided into sections for the allied occupation. Some officers of the Welch Fusiliers had kindly offered us room in their quarters in Chong Wong Foo. This euphonious title signifies the palace of Prince Chong, who was one of the eight princes of China. Our new lodging was more imposing in name than in fact. The word “palace” conjured up visions of stately edifices and princely magnificence which were dissipated by our first view of the reality. Seated in jolting, springless Pekin carts that laboured heavily through the deep mire, we had driven from the hotel through miles of dismal, squalid streets. Turning off a main road, which was being repaired, or rather re‐made, by the British, we entered a series of small, evil‐smelling lanes bordered by high walls, from the doorways of which an occasional phlegmatic Chinaman regarded us with languid interest. At length we came to a narrow road, which the rain of the previous day had converted into a canal. The water rose over the axles of the carts. Our sturdy ponies splashed on indomitably until ahead of us the roadway widened out into a veritable lake before a large gate at which stood a British sentry. As we approached he called out to us to turn down a lane to the right and seek a side entrance, as the water in front of the principal one here was too deep for our carts. Thanks to his directions, we found a doorway in the wall which gave admittance to a large courtyard. Jumping out of our uncomfortable vehicles, we entered. Round the enclosure were long, one‐storied buildings, their fronts consisting of lattice‐work covered with paper. They were used as barrack‐rooms, and we secured a soldier in one of them to guide us. He led us through numerous similar courtyards, in one of which stood a temple converted into a gun‐shed, until we finally passed through a small door in a wall into a tangled wilderness of a garden. At the far end of this stood a long, low building with the conventional Chinese curved roof. It was constructed of brick and wood, the latter for the most part curiously carved. The low‐hanging eaves overspreading the broad stone verandah were supported by worm‐eaten pillars. The portico and doorways were of fragile lattice‐work, trellised in fantastic designs. It was the main portion of Prince Chong’s residence and resembled more a dilapidated summer‐house than a princely palace. Here we were met and welcomed by our hosts, Major Dobell, D.S.O. and Lieutenant Williams, who ushered us into the anything but palatial interior, which consisted of low, dingy rooms dimly lighted by paper‐covered windows. The various chambers opened off each other or into gloomy passages in bewildering and erratic fashion. Camp beds and furniture seemed out of keeping with the surroundings; but a few blackwood stools were apparently all that Prince Chong had left behind him for his uninvited guests. Thanks to our friends’ kindness, we were soon comfortably installed, and felt as much at home as if we had lived in palaces all our lives. It took us some time to learn our way about the labyrinth of courts. The buildings scattered through the yards would have afforded ample accommodation for a regiment; and a whole brigade could have encamped with ease within the circumference enclosed by the outer walls.

The place of most fascinating interest in the marvellous capital of China is undoubtedly the Forbidden City, the Emperor’s residence. With the wonderful attraction of the mysterious its very name, fraught with surmise, is alluring. Nothing in all the vastness of Pekin excited such curiosity as the fabled enclosure that had so long shrouded in awful obscurity the Son of Heaven. No white man in ordinary times could hope to fathom its mysteries or know what lay concealed within its yellow walls. The ambassadors of the proudest nations of Europe were only admitted on sufferance, and that rarely, to the outermost pavilions of that sacred city, the hidden secrets of which none might dare reveal. But now the monarch of Celestial origin was an exile from the palace, whose inmost recesses were profaned by the impious presence of his foes. The tramp of an avenging army had echoed through its deserted courts; barbarian voices broke its holy hush. Foreign soldiers jested carelessly in the sacred chamber where the proudest mandarins of China had prostrated themselves in awe before the Dragon Throne. Within its violated walls strangers wandered freely where they listed; and Heaven sent not its lightnings to avenge the sacrilege. Surely the gods were sleeping!

While the capital of the Celestial Kingdom languished in the grasp of the accursed barbarian, admittance to the Forbidden City was granted to anyone who obtained a written order from one of the Legations. This was readily given to officers of the armies of occupation. Provided with it and a Chinese‐speaking guide, a party of us set out one day from the British Legation to explore the mysteries of the Emperor’s abode. A short ricksha ride brought us to the Imperial city. A rough paved road through it led to the gateway of the Palace, at which stood a guard of stalwart American soldiers. Quitting our rickshas, we presented our pass to the sergeant in command. The gates were thrown open, and we were permitted to enter the sacred portals. Before us lay a large paved courtyard, the grass springing up between the stone flags, leading to a long, single‐storied pavilion, seemingly crushed beneath the weight of its wide‐spreading yellow‐tiled double roof. To one who has imagined undreamt‐of luxury and magnificence in the residence of the Emperor of China the reality comes as a sad disappointment. The Palace, far from being a pile of splendid and ornate architecture, consists of a number of detached single‐storied buildings, one behind the other, separated by immense paved courtyards, along the sides of which are the residences of the servants and attendants. The outer pavilions are a series of throne rooms, in which audience is given according to the rank of the individual admitted to the presence in inverse ratio to his importance. Thus, the first nearest the gate suffices for the reception of the smaller mandarins or envoys of petty States, the next for higher notabilities or ambassadors of greater nations, and so on.

The description of one of these throne rooms will serve for all.

A raised foundation, with tier above tier of carved white marble balustrades, slopes up to a paved terrace on which stands a large one‐storied pavilion. Its double roof blazes with lustrous yellow tiles; the gables are ornamented with weird porcelain monsters. The far‐projecting eaves, shading a deep verandah, are supported by many pillars. From the courtyard steps on either side of the sloping marble slab, curiously carved with fantastic designs of dragons and known as the Spirit Path, lead up to the terrace, on which are large bronze incense‐burners, urns, life‐size storks, and other birds and animals, with marble images of the sacred tortoise. From the verandah many doors lead into the vast and gloomy interior. A lofty central chamber, supported by gilded columns, contains a high daïs, on which stands a throne of gilt and carved wood with bronze urns and incense‐burners around it. The daïs is surrounded by gilded railings and led up to by a flight of half a dozen steps. Behind it is a high screen of carved wood. Screen, walls, and pillars are gay with quaint designs of writhing, coiling dragons in gold and vivid hues, or hung with huge tablets inscribed with Chinese characters. The ceiling is gorgeously painted. The whole a wonderful medley of barbaric gaudiness. From the principal chamber a few smaller rooms lead off, crammed with wooden chests containing piles of manuscripts.

As we wandered about this pavilion our movements were closely watched by the custodians; for many of the Imperial eunuchs had been permitted to remain in the palace and entrusted with the keys and charge of the various buildings. As, after the fairly exhaustive looting that took place on the capture of the city, no further plundering was allowed, these men were instructed to watch over the safety of the contents of the palace that had escaped the first marauders; and they kept a sharp eye on visitors who endeavoured to secure mementoes. Despite their vigilance, one of our party succeeded in carrying off a little souvenir which he found in a chamber off the throne room. It was a small, flat candlestick, which its finder hoped would prove to be gold. It was only of brass, however, as he subsequently discovered; and he commented disgustedly on the parsimony of a monarch who could allow so mean a metal within his palace.

In the usual spirit of tourists, to whom nothing is sacred, we each reposed for a few moments in the Emperor’s gilded chair, so that we could boast of once having occupied the Throne of China. I doubt if future historians will record our names among those who have assumed that exalted position.

Passing through this building, we emerged upon another courtyard, at the far end of which stood a similar pavilion. Its interior arrangement differed but slightly from the one which I have just described. There were several of these throne rooms, one behind the other, all very much alike. Along the sides of the intervening courts were low buildings of the usual Chinese type, which had served as residences for the palace attendants.

We came to a large joss‐house, or temple, the interior filled with gilded altars, hideous gods, memorial tablets, bronze incense‐burners and candelabra, silken hangings, and tawdry decorations. Here the reigning monarch comes to worship on the vigil of his marriage.

In amusing proximity was the Emperor’s seraglio. The gate was closed during the allied occupation, and on it was a notice to the effect that “the custodian has strict orders not to admit any person. Do not ill‐treat him if he refuses to open the gate for you. He is only obeying orders.” It was signed by General Chaffee, United States Army, and was significant of many things. So the hidden beauties still remain a mystery to the outer world.

Near one of the pavilions a giant bronze attracted our attention. It represented an enormous lion, with particularly ferocious countenance, reposing on a square pedestal, one long‐clawed fore‐paw resting on the terrestrial globe. Beneath the other sprawled in agony a very diminutive lion, emblematic of China’s enemies crushed beneath her might. The sculpture seemed rather ironical at that epoch.

Passing onwards through a puzzling maze of courtyards, we reached at length the most interesting portion of the palace, the private apartments of the Emperor, the Empress‐Consort, and that notorious lady the Empress‐Dowager. Like all the rest of the Forbidden City, they were merely one‐storied, yellow‐roofed pavilions separated by courts.

The interior of the Emperor’s abode consisted of low, rather dingy rooms opening off each other. The appointments were of anything but regal magnificence. The furniture was of carved blackwood, with an admixture of tawdry European chairs and sofas. On the walls hung a weird medley of Chinese paintings and cheap foreign oleographs, all in gorgeous gilt frames. The latter were such as would be found in a fifth‐rate lodging‐house—horse races, children playing at see‐saw, conventional landscapes, and farmyard scenes. Jade ornaments and artificial flowers in vases abounded; but all around, wherever one could be hung or placed, were European clocks, from the gilt French timepiece under a glass shade to the cheapest wooden eight‐day clock. There must have been at least two or three hundred, probably more, scattered about the pavilion. The Chinese have a weird and inexplicable passion for them, and a man’s social respectability would seem to be gauged more by the number of timepieces he possesses than by any other outward and visible signs of wealth. What a costly collection of rare masterpieces of art is to the American millionaire, the heterogeneous gathering of foreign clocks apparently is to the Celestial plutocrat. The Imperial bed was a fine piece of carved blackwood; but the most magnificent article of furniture in the pavilion was a large screen of the famous Canton featherwork, made of the green and blue plumage of the kingfisher. The design, which was framed and covered with glass, represented a pilgrimage to a sacred mountain. On its summit stood a temple, towards which crowds of worshippers climbed wearily. As a work of art it was excellent. It was the only thing in the Imperial apartments which I coveted. The rest of the furniture and fittings were tawdry and apparently valueless.

The pavilion of the Empress‐Consort was rather more luxuriously upholstered than that of her husband and contained some splendid embroideries. In her boudoir, besides the inevitable collection of clocks, oleographs, and artificial flowers, were a piano and a small organ, both very much out of tune, presented, we were told, by European ladies resident in China.

The pavilion of the Empress‐Dowager, a much finer abode than that of the reigning monarch, contained a long, glass‐walled room crowded with bizarre ornaments of foreign workmanship. Musical boxes, mechanical toys under glass shades, vases of wax flowers, stood along each side on marble‐topped tables; and all around, of course, clocks. On the walls of her sleeping apartment hung a strange astronomical chart. The bed, an imposing and wide four‐poster, was covered and hung with rich embroideries. And, as tourists should do, we lay down in turn on the old lady’s couch, where I warrant she had tossed in sleepless agitation in those last summer nights when the rattle of musketry around the besieged Legations told that the hated foreigners still resisted China’s might. And little slumber must have visited her there when the booming of guns, during the dark hours when Russian and Japanese flung themselves on the doomed city, disturbed the silence even in the sacrosanct heart of the Forbidden City and told of the vengeance at hand.

Having thoroughly inspected the Imperial apartments, we visited a very gaudily decorated temple, crowded with weird gods and hung with embroideries, and then passed on to the small but delightful Emperor’s garden. It was full of quaintly shaped trees and shrubs, bizarre rockeries and curious summer‐houses, gorgeous flowers and plants, and splendid bronze monsters. These last absolutely blazed in the brilliant sunlight as though gilded; for they are made of that costly Chinese bronze which contains a large admixture of gold. The garden closed the catalogue of sights to be seen in the palace; and though we visited a few more of the dingy buildings of the Forbidden City, there was nothing else worthy of being chronicled. We passed out through the northern gateway and climbed up Coal Hill close by for a long, comprehensive look over Pekin from the pavilion on the summit.

All around us the capital lay embosomed in trees and bathed in brilliant sunshine, the yellow roofs of the Imperial Palace at our feet flashing like gold. To the right lay the pretty Lotos Lakes of the Empress‐Dowager, the white marble bridge spanning them stretching like a delicate ivory carving over the gleaming water. Through the haze of heat and dust the towers of the walls rose up boldly to the sky. And far away, beyond the crowded city, the country stretched in fertile fields and dense groves of trees to a distant line of hills, where the tall temples of the Summer Palace stood out sharply against a dark background.