One of the former Empresses, whose life had been passed far from the sea, complained that she had never beheld a ship. So a cunning architect was found, who built in the lake close to the bank an enormous marble junk. The hull, which has ornamented prow and stern and small paddle‐boxes, rests, of course, on the bottom. On the deck he erected a large two‐storied pavilion; but as the Chinese are seldom thorough, this he constructed of wood painted to look like marble. It formed an ideal and picturesque summer‐house, for the sides, between the pillars, were open or closed only by blinds. But at the time of our visit it looked dismally dilapidated; for the paint was blistered and peeling off. The Marble Junk resembles a white house‐boat at Henley, and at a little distance across the water looks quaint and graceful. Close to it, spanning a small stream that runs into the lake, is a lovely little covered bridge with carved white marble arches and parapets. Venice can boast no more perfect gem of art on its canals.

Our conductor, looking at his watch, tore us from our contemplation of this masterpiece and insisted on our returning to the mess for lunch. And in the pavilion where the powerless monarch of a mighty empire had lain a helpless prisoner, a victim to the intrigues of his own family, British officers sat at table; and the conversation ranged from the events of the campaign to sport in India or criticisms of the various contingents of the Allied Army.

A recent occurrence, thoroughly typical of the readiness with which the Court party snatched at every opportunity to “save face,” was alluded to. The British Minister in Pekin, at the humble request of Li Hung Chang, who was negotiating about the return of the Summer Palace to the Chinese, had removed the Field Battery garrisoning it to the capital. An Imperial Edict was immediately issued, which stated in grandiloquent terms that the Emperor had ordered this removal. Sir Ernest Satow, who was fast proving himself a far stronger man than had been anticipated and well fitted to cope with Oriental wiles, promptly commanded the return of the battery as the fitting answer to this impudent declaration. It was almost the first strong action taken by our diplomats in a wearisome series of “graceful concessions”; and great satisfaction was occasioned among the officers of the British forces, who hailed it as a hopeful prelude to a firmer policy.

After lunch we ascended the tree‐clad hill on which stood the Hall of Ten Thousand Ages. From the summit a beautiful view over the surrounding country was obtained. Below us was the confused jumble of yellow‐roofed buildings that constituted the residential portion of the Summer Palace. At our feet lay the gleaming lake, hemmed in by its white marble walls, the tiny island united to the shore by the graceful arches of the long bridge. The bright roof of the pretty little pavilion on it shone in the brilliant sunlight. Along the far bank stretched a tree‐shaded road that ran away to the right until lost in thick foliage or fertile fields. A thin line marked the crowded highway to the capital. The plain was dotted with villages or lay in a chessboard‐pattern of cultivation interspersed with thickets of bamboos or dense groves of trees. Far away the tall towers of the walls of Pekin rose up above the level sea of roofs, broken only by the lofty buildings of the Imperial city, the temples or the residences of the Europeans in the Legation quarter. Over the capital a yellow haze of smoke and dust hung like a golden canopy. Away to the right lay a long stretch of dark and sombre hills, among which nestled the summer residence of the members of the British Legation. Here in the hot months they hie in search of cooling breezes not to be obtained in the crowded city.

The grandiloquently named Hall of Ten Thousand Ages was a rectangular, solidly constructed building with thick walls. But inside a sad scene of ruin met our eyes. Enormous fragments of shattered colossal statues choked the interior, so that one could not pass from door to door. Huge heads, trunks, and limbs lay piled in fantastic confusion. The temple had contained a number of giant images of Buddha. Some troops, on occupying the palace, had been informed that these were hollow and filled with treasures of inestimable value. The tale seemed likely; so dynamite was invoked to force them to reveal their hidden secrets. The colossal gods were hurled from their pedestals by its powerful agency; and their ruins were eagerly searched by the vandals. But it was found that the interiors of the statues, though indeed hollow, were simply modelled to correspond with the internal anatomy of a human being, all the organs being reproduced in silver or zinc. And the gods were sacrificed in vain to the greed of the spoilers.

The Empress‐Dowager’s temple had escaped such rough treatment, as it held nothing that tempted the conquerors. Under its huge shadow lay a lovely little structure, the Bronze Pagoda. On a white marble plinth and surrounded by a carved balustrade of the same stone, stood a delicately modelled, tiny temple about twenty or thirty feet high. Roof, pillars, walls—all were of the same valuable material. From the corners of the spreading, upturned eaves hung bells. The whole structure was a perfect work of art; and one sighed for a miniature replica of the graceful little building.

But while we wandered among these quaint temples we had failed to notice dark masses of clouds that had gradually climbed up from the horizon and overcast the whole sky. One of the heavy storms of a North China summer was evidently in store for us. So, anxious to regain the capital before it could break, we returned to the palace, bade a hurried farewell to our kind hosts, and mounted our ponies. Back through the fields and on to the paved highway we rode at a steady pace, our ponies, refreshed by the long halt and eager to reach their stables, trotting out willingly. The storm held off, and as we came in view of the gate of Pekin, we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. But suddenly, without a moment’s warning, sheets of water fell from the dark sky. In went our spurs, and we raced madly for the shelter of the gateway. But long before we reached it we were soaked through and through. Our boots were filled with water, the broad brims of our pith hats hung limply over our eyes, and we were as thoroughly wet as though we had swum the Peiho.

Under the tunnelled gateway we dismounted. The water simply poured from us, and formed in pools on the stone flags where we stood. We found ourselves in a damp crowd of jostling, grinning Chinamen, who were cheerfully wringing the moisture from their thin cotton garments or laughing at the plight of others caught in the storm and racing for shelter through the ropes of rain. Coolies, carts, ponies, mules, and camels were all huddled together under the archway. Jests and mirth resounded on every side; for the Celestial is generally a veritable Mark Tapley under circumstances that would depress or irritate the more impatient European.

We waited for an hour beside our shivering ponies for the deluge to cease; then, seeing little prospect of it, we mounted again and rode on into the city. But short as was the time the rain had lasted, the streets were already almost flooded. The ditch‐like sides were half filled with rushing, muddy torrents; and in crossing one of the principal roads the water rose up to our saddle‐girths in the side channels. In one place my pony was nearly carried off his feet and I feared that I would be obliged to swim for it. From the shelter of the verandahs of the houses along the streets crowds of Chinese laughed at our miserable plight, as our small steeds splashed through the pools and their riders sat huddled up in misery under the pitiless rain. With heartfelt gratitude we reached at last the welcome shelter of Chong Wong Foo. So ended our visit to the famous Summer Palace, which is once more in the possession of its former owner. The courts that echoed to the ring of artillery horses’ hoofs, the rumble of our gun‐wheels, the deep laughter of the British soldier, or the shriller voices of his sepoy comrades, are now trodden only by silent‐footed Celestials. The white man is no more a welcome guest.