EIGHT or ten miles from Pekin lies the loveliest spot in all North China, the Summer Palace, the property of the Empress‐Dowager. When burning heat and scorching winds render life in the capital unbearable, when dust‐storms sweep through the unpaved streets and a pitiless sun blazes on the crowded city, the virtual ruler of China betakes her to her summer residence among the hills, and there weaves the web of plots that convulse the world. When the feeble monarch of that vast Empire ventured to dream of reforms that would eventually bring his realm into line with modern civilisation, the imperious old lady seized her nominal sovereign and imprisoned him there in the heart of her rambling country abode. Twice, now, in its history has the Summer Palace fallen into the hands of European armies. English and French have lorded it in the paved courts before ever its painted pavilions had seen the white blouses of Cossacks or the fluttering plumes of the Bersagliere; when Japan was but a name, and none dreamt that the little islands of the Far East would one day send their gallant soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder with the veterans of Europe in a common cause.

Passed from the charge of one foreign contingent to another in this last campaign, the Summer Palace was at length entrusted to the care of the British and Italians. Desirous of visiting a spot renowned for its natural beauty as for its historical interest, a party of us sought and obtained permission to inspect it. And so one morning we stood in the principal courtyard of Chong Wong Foo and watched a procession of sturdy Chinese ponies being led up for us. The refractory little brutes protested vehemently against the indignity of being bestridden by foreigners; and all the subtlety of their grooms was required to induce them to stand still long enough for us to spring into the saddles. And then the real struggle began. One gave a spirited imitation of an Australian buckjumper. Another endeavoured to remove his rider by the simpler process of scraping his leg against the nearest wall. A third, deaf to all threats or entreaties, refused to move a step in any direction, until repeated applications of whip and spurs at length resulted in his bolting out of the gate and down the road. After a preliminary circus performance, our steeds finally determined to make the best of a bad job; and, headed by a guide, we set out for the palace.

Our way lay at first through a very unsavoury part of the capital. Evil‐smelling alleys, bordered by open drains choked with the refuse of the neighbouring houses; narrow lanes deep in mire; squalid streets of tumbledown hovels—the worst slums of Pekin. Gaunt and haggard men scowled at us from the low doorways; naked and dirty babies sprawled on the footpaths and lisped an infantine abuse of the foreign devils; slatternly women stared at us with lack‐lustre eyes; and loathsome cripples shouted for charity. Splashing through pools of filthy water, dodging between carts in the narrow thoroughfares, we could proceed but slowly. The heat and stench in these close and fetid lanes were overpowering, and it was an intense relief to emerge at last on one of the broad streets that pierce the city and which led us to a gateway in the wall. One leaf of the wooden doors lay on the ground, the other was hanging half off its hinges. Both were splintered and torn, for they had been burst open by the explosion of a mine at the taking of Pekin. The many‐windowed tower above was roofless and shattered. On either hand, on the outer face of the wall, deep dints and scars showed where the Japanese shells had rained upon them in the early hours of that August morning, when the gallant soldiers of Dai Nippon6 had come to the rescue of the hard‐pressed Muscovites.

When the Allied Armies arrived at Tung‐Chow, thirteen miles from Pekin, a council of war was held by the generals on the 13th August, at which it was decided that the troops should halt there on the following day, to rest and prepare for the attack on the capital which was settled for the 15th. For the stoutest hearts may well have quailed at the task before them. A cavalry reconnaissance from each army was to be made on the 13th, with orders to halt three miles from Pekin and wait there for their main bodies to reach them on the 14th.

But the Russian reconnoitring party, eager to be the first into the city and establish their claim to be its real captors, pushed on right up to the walls and attacked the Tung Pien gate. They thus upset the plans for a concerted attack, and precipitated a disjointed and indiscriminate assault. For they stumbled on a far more difficult task than they had anticipated, and it was indeed fortunate for the wily Muscovites that the Japanese, probably suspicious of their intentions, were not far off. For the Chinese flocked to the threatened spot and from the comparative safety of the wall poured a devastating fire upon the Russians. The fiercest efforts of their stormers were unavailing. General Vasilievski fell wounded. In vain the bravest officers of the Czar led their men forward in desperate assaults. Baffled and beaten, they recoiled in impotent fury. Retreat or annihilation seemed the only alternatives; when the Japanese troops attacked the Tong Chih gate. There, too, a terrible task awaited the assailants. Again and again heroic volunteers rushed forward to lay a mine against the ponderous doors, only to fall lifeless under the murderous fire of the defenders. But the soldiers of the Land of the Rising Sun admit no defeat. As men dropped dead, others stepped forward and took the fuses from the nerveless fingers. The gate was at length blown open. Fierce as panthers, the gallant Japanese poured into the doomed city. The pressure relieved, the Russians again advanced to the assault. An entry was effected at last; and, furious at their losses, they raged through the streets, dealing death with a merciless hand, heedless of age or sex.

Meanwhile the other Allies, roused by the sound of heavy firing, were lost in amazement as to its meaning; and dawn came before the truth was known. The British and Americans then attacked the Chinese city and met with a less stubborn resistance. An entry effected, the Indian troops wandered through the maze of streets until met by a messenger sent out from the Legations to guide them. He led them through the water‐gate, the tunnel in the wall between the Tartar and the Chinese city, which serves as an exit for the drain or nullah passing between the English and the Japanese Legations, and so right into the arms of the besieged Europeans. Thus they arrived first to the relief, while the Japanese and Russians were still fighting in the streets. But every nation whose army was represented in the Allied Forces claims the credit of being foremost of all into the Legations. I have read the diary of the commander of the Russian marines in the siege, in which he speaks of the arrival of the Czar’s troops to the relief and completely ignores the presence of the other Allies. And in pictures that I have seen in Japan of the entry of the relievers, the besieged are shown rushing out to throw themselves on the necks of the victorious Japanese, whose uniform is the only one represented. But, while the brunt of the fighting fell on them and the Russians, the Indian troops were actually the first to reach the Legations.

As we rode up to the gate through which the soldiers of Japan had fought their way so gallantly, a guard of their sturdy little infantrymen at it sprang to attention. For it and the quarter near was in the charge of their contingent, and their flag, with its red ball on a white ground, was to be seen everywhere around. The sentry brought his rifle to the present with the jerky movement and wooden precision of an automatic figure. Returning the salute, we clattered through the long tunnel of the gateway and emerged beyond the walls of the city.

Here began a wide road, paved with large stone flags, which runs for an immense distance through the country, stopping short at the threshold of the capital. It was bordered in places by hedges of graceful bamboos with their long feathery leaves. Elsewhere a narrow ditch divided the roadway from the fertile fields, where tall crops of kowliang (a species of millet) rose higher than a mounted man’s head, almost completely hiding the houses of tiny hamlets. Over the stone flags, sparks flashing from under our ponies’ hoofs, we clattered past crowds of coolies trudging towards the city, long lines of roughly built carts laden with country produce, or an occasional long‐queued farmer perched on the back of his diminutive steed.

By fields of waving grain, past groves of thick‐foliaged trees, through trim villages that showed no trace of the storm that had swept so close to them. But here and there signs of it were not wanting. A wayside temple stood with fire‐scorched walls and broken roof. On the threshold lay the shattered fragments of the images that had once adorned its shrine. But from the doorways of the houses we passed the inhabitants looked out at us with never a vestige of fear or hate, and as little interest. In the stream of travellers setting towards Pekin came a patrol of Bengal Lancers, spear‐point and scabbard flashing in the sun as they rode along with the easy grace of the Indian cavalryman, their tall chargers towering above our small Chinese ponies as the sowars saluted. Farther on we passed two men of the German Mounted Infantry, their tiny steeds half hidden under huge dragoon saddles. A brown dot in the distance resolved itself into a British officer as we drew near. He was Major De Boulay, R.A., who had charge of the treasures of the Summer Palace. For when the English took the place over these were collected and locked up for safe keeping in large storehouses. When the palace was handed back to the Chinese, the Court sent a special letter of thanks to this officer for his careful custody of the valuables. This campaign was not Major De Boulay’s first experience of the Far East. As an authority on the Japanese army, when few in Europe suspected its real efficiency as a fighting machine, he had been appointed military attaché to it when it first astonished the world in the China‐Japan War; and he accompanied the troops that made the daring march that ended in the capture of Wei‐hai‐wei.

Our meeting him on his way in to Pekin was a distinct disappointment to us; for the keys of the godowns in which the treasures of the palace were stored never left his keeping, and in his absence we had no chance of seeing them. With many expressions of regret for this unfortunate circumstance, he continued on his way to the capital.

Trotting on, we reached a long village bordering the road on each side. It was quite a populous and thriving place. The inhabitants looked sleek and content; and shops stocked with gay garments or weird forms of food abounded. Half‐way down on the left‐hand side a narrow lane led off from the highway. At the corner stood a sign‐post with the words, “Au palais de l’été.” It was our road. We turned our ponies down it, nothing loth, I warrant, to exchange the hard stone flags for the soft ground now underfoot. We were soon clear of the houses and among the fields. Passing a belt of trees that had hitherto obstructed our view, we saw ahead of us a long stretch of low, dark hills. Far away to our left front, from a prominent knoll a tall, slender pagoda rose up boldly to the sky, and straight before us, standing out on the face of the hills, was a confused mass of buildings—the Summer Palace. We broke into a brisk canter, the canter became a gallop, and we raced towards our goal. As we drew nearer, and could more clearly distinguish the aspect of the buildings, we slackened speed. On the summit was a temple which, so one of our party who had visited the place before told us, was known as the Hall of Ten Thousand Ages. Below it stood a curious circular edifice, with a triple yellow roof. It was built on a huge square foundation, on the face of which were the lines of a diamond‐shaped figure. These we afterwards found to be diagonal staircases ascending to the superstructure which was the Empress‐Dowager’s own particular temple. Trees hid the lower portion and concealed from our view a lovely lake that lies at the foot of the hills. Passing onwards by a high‐walled enclosure, we reached a wide open space, at the far end of which were the buildings of the palace proper. Out in the centre of it stood one of those Chinese paradoxes—a gateway without a wall, similar to the one at the Great Lama Temple. It was gaily painted with weird designs in bright colours. We rode past it and reached the entrance to the outer courtyard. At it was a guard of an Indian infantry regiment which was quartered in the Summer Palace. Dismounting, we passed through the gate and found ourselves in a large court. Facing us was a long, low building of the conventional Chinese type. It was a temple. On the verandah stood large bronze storks and dragons. We had seen too many similar joss‐houses to care to visit it; so we secured a sepoy to guide us through the labyrinth of courts to the pavilion that was occupied as a mess by the officers of the troops garrisoning the palace—a British Field Battery and the Indian regiment. Here we were warmly welcomed and ushered into a building of particular historical interest; for in this very pavilion the Emperor had been confined.

The interior was elaborately furnished. Large mirrors covered the walls. Marble‐topped tables with the inevitable clocks and vases of artificial flowers were placed round the sides. European chairs and Chinese blackwood stools stood about in curious contrast. But the pièce de résistance was a lovely screen. An inner chamber was used as a mess‐room; and a long table covered with a white cloth, on which stood common Delft plates and glass tumblers, looked out of keeping with the surroundings. But, more regardful of the thirst induced by a hot ride than artistic proprieties, we threw ourselves into comfortable chairs and quaffed a much‐needed, cooling drink.

In front of the pavilion was a square, paved yard, in which stood a curious scaffolding of gaily painted poles, which had served to spread an awning above the court. For here the imprisoned Emperor had been permitted to walk; and as we sat on the verandah and gave our hosts the latest news of Pekin, we gazed with interest on the confined space in which the monarch of the vast Empire of China had paced in weary anticipation of his fate.

As it wanted an hour or two to lunch‐time, one of the officers of the garrison volunteered to guide us round the palace. We eagerly accepted his offer and were led out into a maze of courts surrounded by low houses. He brought us first to his quarters in a long, two‐storied building. From the upper windows on the far side a lovely view lay spread before our eyes. Below the house was a large lake, confined by a marble wall and balustrade that passed all round it. Close to us, on the right, the long, tree‐clad hill, on which stood the Empress‐Dowager’s temple and the Hall of Ten Thousand Ages, rose almost from the brink. To the left a graceful, many‐arched bridge stretched from the bank to a tiny island far out in the placid water. On it stood a small pavilion. Near the shore a flotilla of boats was anchored. It comprised foreign‐designed barges, dinghies, and a half‐sunken steam launch. Patches of lotus leaves lay on the tranquil surface. And away, far beyond the lake, a line of rugged and barren hills rose up from the plain.