It was only in the year 1421 that Pekin became the capital of the Chinese Empire. It was up to that period merely the chief town of Northern China, as its name “Pe,” north, “Ching,” city, denotes; but when Nankin, the ancient capital, was abandoned, the seat of government was transferred to its present situation. A worse site for a capital, both commercially and socially, can scarcely be imagined, for although connected by canal with the Peiho river, and thus in summer with the rest of the civilized world, the ice in winter entirely suspends water communication. It is, therefore, for five months of the year, practically a prison for the fifty or sixty Europeans located within its grass-grown walls, for few are rash enough to attempt a journey overland to Chefoo or Shanghai.

There is little or no foreign trade with Pekin, and with one exception no European merchants live there. The embassies of various nations, English and American missions, and professors connected with the college form the majority of the European population. A good deal of difference of opinion exists as to the native population of the capital. Some say it is a million and a half, others not more than nine hundred thousand. In the opinion of Professor P————, who has resided for over twenty years in the place, and is well up in Chinese matters, it is considerably over a million, of whom two-thirds inhabit the Tartar city. The remainder are Chinese, who yearly increase, while their Tartar neighbours are diminishing in number.

In shape Pekin may be roughly described as a square within an oblong, the former standing for the Tartar city, the latter for the Chinese. The outer walls, which are about sixty feet high and of immense thickness, stand about a hundred and fifty yards from the city itself, the space between being occupied by barren sandy waste, along which in the season hundreds of caravans may be seen daily wending their way to or from the Mongolian Desert and Manchuria. Inside this, again, are two smaller walls, also, however, of considerable height, enclosing the imperial and forbidden cities, that enclosing the latter being surmounted with bright yellow tiles, the imperial colour, which none but the Emperor or Queen Regent are permitted to make use of. A Roman Catholic church was built not far from the walls of the Imperial Palace two or three years since, and, in ignorance presumably, the European architect was commencing to roof it over with tiles of the sacred colour, when luckily warned of the risk he was running by one of the European residents; not, however, before it had come to the Emperor’s ears, and since then the poor priests connected with the building are given no peace. The two high western towers which flank the building are visited night and day by a mandarin, to see that no steps have been built up them by the foreign devils, whence they may survey the palaces and gardens of the imperial city. Latterly, to make assurance doubly sure, the walls of the latter have been raised to the height of the church towers at the point where the latter face them.

There are nine gates in all in the outer wall, situated in various parts of the city, and called after the points of the compass at which they stand; viz., the North Gate, South Gate, North-west Gate, and so on. These are closed at seven in summer, and six in winter, and woe to the luckless wretch who is locked out, for the guard dare not open under pain of death till sunrise the following morning, be it in the height of summer or the thermometer below zero. The inhabitants cannot complain of due notice not being given. For full half an hour before closing time there is at every guard-house or gate a beating of gongs and clashing of cymbals that would awaken the dead. Then at the hour to a second the guard give one long unearthly yell, and the ponderous iron-bound gates are thrown together with a crash till six or seven the next morning.

All the walls are built facing the four points of the compass, and the principal thoroughfares and streets run parallel to them. Notwithstanding this apparent regularity and simplicity of construction, the Chinese capital is the easiest place in the world to lose yourself in, as we frequently found; so much so, that after the first time we always employed a guide when we took our walks abroad.

Our first impressions of Pekin were not favourable, for a dustier, noisier, dirtier place it has never been my lot to visit. Upon entering the Hat Ta Men Gate the city presents more the appearance of a huge fair than anything else, for the crowded streets are lined with canvas booths and tents as well as houses. The roads are very broad, some so much so as to dwarf the low rickety dwellings, gaudy with gold and crimson signs and waving banners, into insignificance. The streets are unpaved and raised in the centre to a height of three or four feet for carriage traffic, the space on either side being reserved for foot-passengers, though there did not seem to be any marked distinction, the carts using both ways as they liked.

In dry weather the streets of Pekin are over ankle-deep in dust, in wet weather are simply a morass. Being worn away in places into holes of two or three feet deep, the effects of the clouds of dust or showers of water that every cart-wheel throws up and around may be imagined. At intervals of about fifty yards along the footway are holes eight or nine feet deep. These are receptacles for every species of filth; in fact, serve the purpose of stationary sewers (for Pekin is not drained), and are only cleaned out when quite full (about once a week). In very dry weather, when water is scarce, the dust is laid with the liquid filth they contain, an operation hardly tending to cool or purify the atmosphere!

If we, in England, must eat, according to the proverb, a peck of dirt before we die, I feel convinced that the inhabitants of Pekin swallow at least a hundredweight before their last hour. The dust of Pekin is, next to its smells, undoubtedly its greatest curse. There is no escaping from the fine, brown powder that chokes up eyes, nose and mouth, and finds its way into everything——your food, your clothes, your very boots. There is a saying among the Chinese, that it will worm its way into a watch-glass. Not only is it productive of considerable physical discomfort and annoyance, but it gives a depressing, gloomy look to everything, which on a really dusty day makes it impossible to discern objects one hundred yards off. The sun may be shining brightly outside the city walls, when within all is dark and murky as a thick November fog in London could make it. Indeed it is far worse than the latter, which you can, at any rate, shut out to a certain extent with closely drawn curtains and brightly-lit rooms.

Pekin is by no means an unhealthy city, notwithstanding the disgusting and uncleanly habits of its population, and its low situation (only one hundred and twenty feet above sea level). Strange to say, the good health of its inhabitants is attributed in a great measure to the dust, which acts as a deodorizer and disinfectant to the heaps of filth and garbage one encounters at every turn bleaching and rotting in the sunshine. The climate is, on the whole, good, the only really unhealthy months being those of July, August and September, when the rainfall is excessive. The extremes of temperature, however, are somewhat trying to Europeans of weak constitution. For instance, in July the thermometer is often up to over 100° in the shade, while in winter it frequently falls to below zero. When an epidemic does occur, it is severe, for the Chinese are much prone to fright and panic during these visitations. Cholera broke out only four or five years since, and carried off an average of twelve hundred daily. The two greatest scourges are small-pox and diphtheria, and an enormous number of deaths occur annually from the latter disease in early spring. Typhoid fever and ophthalmia (from the dust) are also prevalent at times, but small-pox is the commonest disease among the Chinese themselves, who look upon it very much as we do upon measles, although it is none the less fatal for all that. As a prevention, the native doctors inoculate by blowing a quantity of the virus of the actual disease up the nostrils. I was made unpleasantly aware of this fact by one of the hotel servants, who spoke a few words of English. Noticing that one of his nostrils was stopped up with a dirty piece of cotton wool, I inquired if he had hurt his nose. “Oh, no,” was the reply, “smol-pok!” This habit has, no doubt, a great deal to do with the spread of the disease, which is always more or less prevalent in Pekin; and I was not sorry we had taken the precaution of being vaccinated in Shanghai.

All susceptibility and refinement must be cast aside when walking in the streets of Pekin. I could not attempt to describe one quarter of the disgusting sights and outrages on decency that continually met the eye in this unfragrant city, even in broad daylight. I was not surprised to hear that no European resident ever dreams of walking about the streets of the capital if he can possibly avoid it. No lady could possibly do so. As any one who has ever visited it must know, there exists no dirtier city in the world than Pekin, no filthier individual, both morally and physically, than the Pekinite. Cleanliness and decency are words unknown in his vocabulary. As for washing, he never dreams of it. In winter he puts on five or six layers of clothes, taking them off by degrees as the weather gets warmer, until he is reduced to the white linen shirt and trousers that he wore the preceding summer. With the approach of the cold weather he gradually resumes his winter garb.

Being provided with letters of introduction to the British and Russian ministers, we made our way to the former legation the morning after our arrival. With the exception of Belgium, whose minister had been recalled about two months before we arrived, nearly every nation in the world has its representative at Pekin. The English Embassy is a perfect palace and stands apart from the other legations on the banks of the Grand Imperial Canal, a stream once fringed by handsome stone banks or quays, which, like everything else in Pekin, have long fallen into ruin and decay. The half-dry canal now presents more the appearance of a dirty ditch of stagnant water than what it once was, an important waterway.

It was quite a relief to get out of the dusty, ill-smelling street, as passing a smart, white-clad English sentry, we entered the cool, shady grounds of the Embassy. The building was formerly the palace of the Duke Liang (a relation of the former Emperor), but was ceded to the British after the campaign of 1860. Probably in no other part of the world does the English Government possess a representative building so thoroughly typical of the country it is in. The pavilions of Chinese architecture, intricate carvings of roof and cornice, vermilion and gold pillars that form the entrance contrasted strangely with the interior where the cool, dimly-lit rooms, fresh with the scent of flowers and replete with every European luxury and comfort, bore witness to the good taste and refinement of the charming “Ambassadrice,” who, fresh from Paris, and clad in one of Worth’s chefs-d’oeuvre, looked strangely out of place in dirty, dusty, semi-savage Pekin!

“You will never,” said Sir John W————, “get through to Kiakhta without an interpreter. I could not allow you to attempt it, so I fear you must make up your minds to remain in Pekin for at least a week. By that time I shall have got you your Chinese passports, and I hope an interpreter to accompany you as far as the Russian frontier. I must tell you that it is not easy, for the Chinese have an unaccountable aversion to crossing the desert of Gobi.”

Our next visit was to the Russian minister, M. Coumany, to whom we had letters of introduction from M. de Staal, the Russian minister in London. He was (as are most Russians) kindness itself, but met us with the invariable question, “Why Siberia?” The picture M. Coumany drew of the overland journey was certainly not pleasant or encouraging. “Here are letters,” said he, “for the commissioner of Kiakhta and governors of Tomsk and Nijni Novgorod. General Ignatieff of Irkoutsk is now away on leave. But let me ask you to think twice before attempting this voyage. You will experience nothing but annoyance and privation, the whole way to Nijni Novgorod. You will find the monotony and fatigue almost unbearable,——and with Japan so close!” he added, using the well-known formula.

But we managed to convince our host, before leaving, that nothing would deter us from at least making the attempt to reach Moscow by land. “Like all Englishmen,” he said, smiling, “you are obstinate; and as you are determined to go, let me give you a word of advice: Get off as soon as you can, and out of Asia by October at latest. Siberia in autumn is a hell upon earth.”

We returned to our hotel somewhat discouraged, for we had hoped that three or four days at the most would suffice for our preparations. However, there was no help for it, so to lose no time we set about getting mules and litters for the four days’ journey to the Great Wall, the first stage of our voyage, and trusted to Providence that “the Boy” (as every Chinese servant from eighteen to eighty is called in China) would arrive in a week or ten days at the latest.

There is much to do and see in Pekin, but the heat, dust and smells detract considerably from the pleasures of a walk through the city. Moreover, the Chinese, since their Tonquinese victories have become so arrogant and insolent that many of the most interesting temples are now closed to Europeans. Our favourite walk was on the summit of the outer wall, where one could enjoy the cool evening breeze out of the dust and stenches for a while. The Tartar or outer wall is a wonderful piece of masonry about sixty feet high by as many broad, and, considering the hundreds of years it has braved wind and weather, in a wonderful state of repair. It is moss-grown on the summit, and the wild tangled herbage grows knee deep. Were it not for the conservatism, to use no stronger term, of the Chinese Government it would make a splendid drive or ride, for it extends unbroken and in an excellent state of repair for upwards of twenty-two miles. To show the jealousy of this strange race, a European minister at Pekin once remarked to a mandarin what a pleasant drive it would make, adding that it was really the only place in Pekin where he could ever walk with any pleasure. “Oh! you walk there, do you?” was the reply, and the very next afternoon, on arriving for his daily constitutional, he found the gate closed, and an order posted forbidding all Europeans to ascend the wall. This order was, however, cancelled a year after, fortunately for us, and we enjoyed our evening strolls undisturbed, for we seldom saw a soul besides ourselves. It was pleasant enough here in the cool of the evening, out of the dust which on still days hung over the great city like a huge funeral pall. When clear the view was lovely, the rugged, precipitous chain of hills in the background, the densely packed, dwarfish-looking dwellings, and rays of the setting sun flashing brightly on the green porcelain roofs and lofty pagodas of the temples, and bright yellow tiles of the Imperial Palace, composed a picture as unique as, on bright, clear evenings, it was beautiful. As a rule, however, the dust obscured everything.

There is an observatory on this wall which was erected as far back as A.D. 1279. In 1674 a Jesuit priest (one Father Verbest) superintended its restoration, and from that day to this it has remained intact. On a kind of platform above the level of the wall, and reached by an iron staircase, are a quantity of bronze instruments——sextants, globes, quadrants, &c, mounted on massively wrought stands representing strange birds and beasts. Of enormous size, and some from twelve to fourteen feet high and of immense weight, they looked a little distance off as if a single man could lift them, so beautiful and delicate is their moulding and workmanship, and though of great value, were left untouched when the allies entered Pekin in 1860, probably by direction of the commanders-in-chief. It seemed strange that although they have stood in the open for so many hundred years, uncared for and uncleaned, they bore not the slightest traces of decay from time or weather——one especially, a huge globe of the heavens in bronze with the constellations thereon in gold and silver, looked as if it had been placed there but yesterday.

From the summit of the observatory one may look down into the Board of Examinations, a walled space of some eighty acres, with rows of queer-looking little boxes or cells for students. Competitive examinations for Government appointments are held here every three years, and so severe are the subjects that many of the candidates go mad. During the examinations, which last three days, no one is allowed to enter or leave the building. On one occasion two students died, but the doors were not opened. Their bodies were hoisted over the wall, and carried to the burial-ground by the friends awaiting them outside.

We occasionally returned from these expeditions along the pieces of waste land, sandy and sterile, which bound the city walls, and frequently came upon groups or squads of Manchu soldiery at target practice with the bow and arrow. The men are fine strapping fellows and well set up, but their weapons wretched, clumsy things, carrying barely thirty yards. The greater portion of the Chinese army consists of these Manchu Tartars. A force of eighty thousand quartered in Manchuria under the command of Germans, forms the backbone of the Chinese army, and consists of cavalry, artillery, and infantry, the latter armed with the new Berdan rifle. Nearly the whole of the remainder of the Imperial army use the old bow and arrow of their ancestors, and I do not think I exaggerate when I say that there is not a rifle among the soldiery in Pekin.

The Chinese are, indeed, a strange and unaccountable race. It is hard to credit that a nation possessing ironclads and the latest improvements in light and heavy guns at the mouth of the Peiho river still clothes its soldiers at the capital in tiger-skins, and instructs them in the art of making faces to frighten the enemy.^[1] Clever and civilized as he is in many things, the Chinaman’s forte clearly does not lie in firearms. A German officer of one of the Imperial gunboats told me that a consignment of three hundred Martini-Henry rifles was one day received on board his ship, with one hundred rounds of ammunition to each. A short time after, returning from a week’s leave, he found that by order of the Chinese commander they had all been thrown overboard. The ammunition was exhausted, argued the latter, what was the use of keeping the rifles!

We made but two excursions into the city itself the whole time we remained in Pekin, and after the first time on foot. I only rode in a Pekin cab once. They are not pretty conveyances to look at, being a sort of box, four feet long by three feet broad, fastened to two long poles or beams, and supported by a pair of clumsy ponderous wooden wheels in iron tires. The roof is of thick dark blue cloth, with two little gauze-covered windows on either side. Most of them are drawn by mules, an animal which is looked upon in Pekin as of far greater value than a horse or pony, and fetches far higher prices. T do not think I have ever seen finer mules, even in Spain, than in North China.

To describe the celestial capital is not difficult. One street is so exactly like another, that when you have seen a bit of the place you have seen the whole of it. The principal street of the Tartar city may be described in very few words. A broad straggling thoroughfare, knee deep in dust, with low, tumble-down houses on either side, hidden at intervals by dirty canvas booths, wherein fortune-tellers, sellers of sweetmeats, keepers of gambling-hells, and jugglers ply their trade. Deep open cesspools at every fifty yards; crowds of dirty, half-naked men and painted women; mandarins and palanquins preceded by gaudily-clad soldiers on horseback and followed by a yelling rabble of men and boys, armed with flags, spears, and sticks, on foot; Tartar ladies in mule litters, hung with bells and bright cloths; dark, savage-looking Mongolians from the desert, leading caravans of camels; Chinamen in grey, green, or heliotrope silk, Chinamen in rags, and Chinamen in nothing at all; water-carriers, soldiers, porters, sellers of fruit and ice, the latter coated with dust, like everything else, and looking singularly uninviting; Chow-chow and sweetmeat sellers; camels, mules, ponies, oxen carts thronging the ruined roadway; a deafening noise of bells, cymbals, shouting and cursing; indecency and filth everywhere, with a dusty, gloomy glare over everything, even on the brightest day, while the air everywhere around is poisoned with the hot, sickly smell peculiar to Pekin. Such was the impression one usually retained of a walk through the capital on a summer’s day. We saw many curious sights, but most were of such a nature that I cannot describe them. A Chinese funeral we passed one day is perhaps worth mention. An enormous procession, nearly a mile long, bore witness to the fact that the deceased was a man of some rank. A number of relations clad in white (Chinese mourning), preceded the catafalque, strewing flowers and burning incense before it. Every hundred yards or so a halt was made, and a huge white sheet spread upon the ground on which the mourners lay flat on their breasts and stomachs, repeatedly beating their heads against the ground. Immediately in front of the coffin was the deceased’s property, his horse, hat, pipe, &c, and sedan. The latter startled one somewhat, for seated in it was a figure which, on closer inspection, we discovered to be a waxen effigy of the dead man himself, clad in the clothes he had worn just before death. The huge oaken coffin was so heavy that it took sixty or seventy men to carry it. At the end of the procession of relatives and friends came the rabble and “followers” of the deceased. The Chinese custom is to set the coffin down on reaching the burial-ground with a light layer of earth over it till the wood begins to rot. It is then covered thickly with earth, but not buried. The dead in China are never put underground.

The quieter and less frequented streets of the city were not so bad; narrow, unpaved byways fringed on either side with high white walls of brick and plaster, enclosing the houses of well-to-do merchants, or the better class of tradesmen; quaint little dwellings, curiously carved and gorgeous with blue, vermilion, and gold faÇades, having neat flower-gardens in front, and willow-fringed ponds. One occasionally caught a glimpse, through an open porch, of the proprietor, his day’s work over, clad in a light and airy costume consisting of a pair of drawers, lazily watching the gold fish in the clear lily-covered water, or studying his Pekin Gazette, the oldest daily paper, by the way, in existence. Occasionally Madame was visible sharing the joys of her lord and master’s leisure-hours, but not often; for when you visit a Chinaman he seldom presents you to his wife, although the latter is not kept at all secluded or under lock and key. A Chinese woman has as much liberty as an English one, maritally speaking, though, as I have said, one does not often meet them. Most are said to make very good wives; unlike most eastern and other nations, they have not the love of intrigue so inherent as a rule in the female sex. A Chinaman may have, if he will, one hundred concubines, but only one wife, who is the ruler and head of his household.

One is much struck with the good looks of the Pekin women when compared with those of Southern China. Those most frequently met with are Tartars, who do not, as a rule, contract and deform their feet. It is only in the Chinese city that one meets poor creatures rolling about the streets with their arms extended, like ships in distress. In some parts of China a bride’s value is reckoned by the smallness of her foot. The operation of contracting it, which is performed in early youth, is not painful. Four of the toes are bent under the sole of the foot, to which they are firmly pressed, and to which they grow together, the great toe being left in its natural state. The fore part of the foot is then compressed with strong bandages so that it shoots upwards and appears like a large lump at the instep, where it forms as it were part of the leg. The lower part of the foot is sometimes not more than four inches long by one inch broad! This practice is, however, said to be dying out, even among the Chinese.

The ornament of which the Celestial is so proud, his pigtail, was in reality introduced into China by the Tartars, who as Mahometans tried to force the Koran on to the whole of China at the commencement of their Dynasty. To this the Chinese would not submit, but an edict was promulgated by the first Tartar ruler that every subject should shave his head in Mahometan fashion, leaving only the small tuft of hair by which the Faithful are supposed to be drawn up to Heaven when they die. The Chinese, artistic in all they do, converted the ridiculous and shaggy tuft of hair into a thick tail, the careful plaiting of which is now the Chinaman’s greatest delight and pride. It is, moreover, a very suitable head-dress for Pekin. We found brushing the head even twice a day quite useless, for the hair was thick with dust ten minutes after the operation.

The coinage current in Pekin is to a stranger more than confusing, consisting as it does of “cash” and bar silver. With the former, small coins of which about fifty go to a halfpenny, one has little to do. A hole is stamped through the middle for greater convenience, and one frequently sees in Pekin two or three necklaces of these worthless, but weighty, pieces slung round a man’s neck, who is struggling along under the value of perhaps eightpence or ninepence, English money. The silver is in bars, and cut off as wanted. The tael is not a coin, but a weight of silver made up in paper packets of one, three, or four taels. A mint has, I believe, been opened in Pekin since our visit, and a proper coinage will be issued in a few months——no small advantage to future visitors, for the difficulty of obtaining “change” at present is somewhat great.

It is curious how little attention a European attracts when walking in the streets of Pekin. Although there are many probably in that great city who have never seen a white face, they evinced but little curiosity when we visited the gambling-hells, opium-shops, and other dens of a like description, and we passed through them unmolested, if not unobserved. Here and there in the lower quarters of the capital, however, the natives evidently preferred our room to our company. The words “Yang Qweitze” fell with uncomfortable frequency upon the ear, and on one occasion a shower of stones and mud hastened our retreat from a house in the slums which our guide had imprudently allowed us to enter and take stock of. As a general rule, however, the natives were civil and obliging enough, and in the more aristocratic eating and tea-houses we were frequently invited to partake of a cup of tea free gratis by the proprietor.

The “Jeunesse DorÉe” of Pekin are gay dogs. Theatres, restaurants, and tea-houses abound, and the more populous quarters of the city are alive with revelry, not to say riot, till four or five o’clock a.m. A good deal more champagne and other alcoholic liquors are consumed than the cup that is popularly supposed to cheer without inebriating. Intoxication is a vice to which the Chinese masher (if I may so call him) is particularly prone, although a very wrong impression exists in Europe as to the disgusting animal food Chinamen are said to be in the habit of eating. Cats, dogs, and even rats are, by many in England, supposed to be devoured promiscuously, but this is not the case. Dogs and rats are eaten, no doubt; in fact I have myself seen the dishes in question, and very good they looked! But it must be remembered that the rats are fed solely on farinaceous food, and carefully brought up by hand. They are in reality far cleaner than our domesticated English pig. The “chow” dog is a race of itself, and the only one ever eaten by the better classes. The lower orders of course have to put up with what they can get. A good dog or rat is as expensive a luxury in Pekin as venison or turtle at home!

Strong drink leads to high play, and gambling in various forms is much in vogue among the gilded youth of Pekin. Cards are the general mode, but a sport at which enormous sums are won and lost is cricket-fighting. The greatest care is lavished on these little animals, and large sums of money paid for them. The trainers are brought up to the profession, and, strange as it may seem, a good cricket in Pekin is almost as valuable to his owner as a useful racehorse in England. The insects are fought in little boxes like miniature rat pits. There is sometimes intense excitement for weeks before an event in which two well-known crickets are to compete. Game-cocks, pigeons, and even quail are also fought, but the most popular sport is undoubtedly cricket-fighting. It is probably also the most ancient of them all.

We strolled into a doctor’s shop one evening in the slums——a dirty, gloomy little den——its grimy walls covered with phials of strange shapes and cruel-looking instruments, while suspended from the ceiling hung a number of dried reptiles and animals which looked weird and uncanny in the dim, uncertain light. In a dark recess, and almost invisible in the gloom, sat the doctor, a large book before him, his wizened old face just visible in the rays of a flickering oil wick at his side. It reminded one of the first act in “Faust,” and one instinctively looked around for Mephistopheles. Though our guide informed us that this was one of the most successful physicians in Pekin, his practice did not seem extensive. I procured with difficulty the following Chinese prescription, though for what ailment it is intended I am ignorant:——

Decoction of centipedes, one frog and three cockroaches, ten grains calomel, three grains morphia, fifteen grains quinine!

Alas! for the poor patient who had to swallow it. Surely the deadliest disease would be preferable to a mixture of cockroach and calomel!

Most of our waste time in Pekin (and we had plenty) was spent in the numerous porcelain shops with which the city abounds. It was curious to walk out of the squalid, filthy streets, knee-deep in dust and reeking with sewage, into the cool, luxurious rooms with their tesselated pavements, fountains, and flowers, and hundreds of pounds’ worth of beautiful wares laid out invitingly before one in cloisonnÉ, jade, and porcelain. We found it hopeless as a rule, to think of getting anything at a reasonable price. Japan itself can produce nothing so beautiful and graceful as true Pekin work, though, like everything else, it is imitated, and there has been, of late years, a quantity of worthless trash in the market. Like most eastern nations, the dealers “see a European coming” and raise their prices accordingly. Unfortunately also, unlike other eastern nations, they steadily refuse to lower them, bargain he never so wisely. It made one’s mouth water to look round the shelves of one of these shops, groaning with thousands of pounds’ worth of treasure in porcelain and jade, and to think of the looting of the Summer Palace in 1860.

I had always imagined the latter to be a building of Chinese architecture, a great rambling place all domes, towers, and pagodas, but found it more like a very perfect imitation, in miniature, of the Tuileries. The morning of our visit one might have been standing on the banks of the Seine and looking on the charred and blackened ruins of Napoleon’s beautiful palace after the fatal September, 1870, had not the red and yellow temples dotted at intervals round the sunlit plains, and Chinese character of the landscape recalled us to a sense of the situation, and reminded us of the distance we were from Fair France! Anything less Chinese than the architecture of the Summer Palace I never saw. It is in pure French style and was designed by Jesuits at a time when they were more popular in China than at present. Standing in the midst of such picturesque scenery, surrounded by such beautiful gardens, park, woodland, and lakes, it seems a sin to have ever destroyed a building which, with its characteristic indolence, the Imperial Government has never attempted to restore. There it stands just as the allies left it in 1860, even to the very names scrawled by Tommy Atkins and the French “Piou-Pious” on its smoke-blackened walls and terraces, and embellished here and there with verses, the work of some French or English canteen poet, containing language more forcible than polite as to the ways and customs of John Chinaman. To say nothing of the enormous value of the objets-d’art and furniture, over 32,000l. in solid ingots of gold were found at the looting of the Palace, and a quantity of valuable china and porcelain cloisonnÉ wantonly destroyed and left on the spot by the troops. The Emperor in those days was a liberal and merry monarch. The Summer Palace was before the war more like a miniature CompiÈgne than anything else, with its theatricals, hunting-parties, concerts, and revelry of other and less sober kinds, in which the Emperor himself used freely to join; a very different existence to that led by his harassed and melancholy descendant of the present day.

The now reigning sovereign, “Kwang-Su,” is eighteen years of age, and by the time these pages are in print will have taken unto himself a wife, or rather one will have been taken for him by his aunt the Queen Regent who, though her nephew has come to years of discretion, has even now a good deal more to do with the management of affairs than the Emperor. She is an arbitrary, ambitious woman, and, rumour has it, knows considerably more about the death of the late Emperor than she cares to own. “Kwang-Su,” cannot, like the Pope, be said to lead a happy life. As a matter of fact, it is literally not his own. Everything must be done by rule and under supervision of the court officials, even to eating and sleeping. The poor boy gets little of the latter luxury, as frequent cabinet councils are held at four in the morning, the Chinese ministers averring that the head is clearer at that hour of the day than at any other. I hardly think this plan would always succeed in Europe.

One can scarcely wonder that “Kwang-Su” is ill-tempered, morose, and subject to fits of passion, during which he defies his aunt, destroys everything within his reach, and declares he will not be Emperor, but will escape and go and work in the fields, anything rather than be shut up like a dog in the Forbidden City. And truly it must be a wretched existence. Every day is planned out beforehand. Not a detail is omitted, even to the very clothes he wears. It must be more than annoying to be given, say a mutton chop, when one particularly wants a beefsteak, champagne when you know it disagrees with you, and you much prefer claret, or a thin suit of clothes when you feel cold and require a thick one. The Emperor’s studies take up about nine hours of the day. His great joke when we were at Pekin, was to beg his tutors, the constant relays of whom annoyed him to desperation, to let him look at their watches. No sooner were they handed to him, than they were violently dashed on the ground and stamped upon. By this means, Kwang-Su argued, they would not know what time to come another day. Since his Majesty’s new “game,” however, most of the professors sent to Shanghai for Waterbury watches. Gold and silver ones became expensive.

Riding or walking, hunting in the green fields and shady forests, or fishing in the blue willow-fringed lakes of the Forbidden City, although as far removed from the turmoil and foul smells of Pekin as the desert of Gobi itself, the Emperor is never alone. There is always a retinue following him to tell him what to do and when to do it: to remind him, for instance, when at four o’clock he is enjoying his favourite pastime of fishing, and has forgotten for a brief period the caring cares of monarchy, that at 4.15 he must abandon the pursuit for a deer-hunt, or a walk (always accompanied by a suite), in a specified part of the grounds of the city. The latter must be a curious place, for the eye of the white barbarian is never allowed to look within its walls, save when, at very rare intervals, the European ministers are admitted to audience in a particular part of the palace.

It was in 1873 that the Great Audience question was finally settled to the satisfaction of all the European powers, and their representatives presented to the Emperor “Tung Che” in the European manner. It had been argued ever since the mission of Lord Amherst in 1814, and unsuccessfully. On that occasion the envoy returned without seeing the Emperor, the latter insisting that he could only do so on condition that he prostrated himself, but this, as the king of England’s representative, Lord Amherst declined to do, and returned to England.

Even at the present time audiences are extremely rare, and only occur, if at all, on the most important occasions. Even the Duke of Edinburgh, when he visited Pekin in 1869, was refused one. The Chinese ministers themselves are not allowed to approach the imperial presence nearer than a distance of about sixty or seventy yards. The Emperor sits at the end of a long, narrow, funnel-like passage, while his ministers prostrate themselves in a small apartment at the end of it. The Empress Regent is still more unapproachable, for when she holds a reception, it is from behind a large screen. On one occasion she became so excited during an argument, that her head appeared over the top, and the ministers were able to gaze (if for an instant only) on the sacred features. The Emperor is the sole male inmate of the Forbidden City, a gigantic harem, beside which even the seraglios of Stamboul pale into insignificance, for the moon’s cousin is surrounded within his golden tiled walls by a population of no less than three thousand women and eunuchs.

Kwang-Su has very little notion of what his capital is like. When he is taken for a drive, it means weeks of careful preparation, the sums of money devoted to patching up the streets through which he passes are fabulous. Were one half of the millions which are supposed to be expended on the keeping in order of the city honestly laid out, Pekin would be a very different place to what it is. But so long as the filching and robbery carried on by the mandarins and others in office continue, the Chinese capital must always remain the dirty dust-heap it now is. A case in point came under my notice while in Pekin, and is one illustration of the enormous sums that yearly find their way into the pockets of the mandarins. A drain had to be built from the French Embassy to the Imperial canal, a distance of about three hundred yards. For this the Government was charged twenty-three thousand taels, the European contractor being paid three thousand five hundred taels. The mandarins pocketed the balance!

When Kwang Su takes an airing all European residents are warned by their ministers to remain within doors, or at any rate away from that part of the city through which the Emperor is to pass, and the most stringent precautions are taken that no man, European or native, may look upon the features of the sovereign. The doors and windows of the houses are closed, and rich silks and tapestries hung from their walls, the streets are carefully swept and watered, every hole carefully filled up, every scrap of litter or offal carried away far from where, at a stated hour, and punctual to the moment, the royal train rolls slowly along through the empty, deserted streets. The Emperor must, therefore, have very different ideas of Pekin from the ordinary run of mankind. Save for the dust, which is of course unavoidable, it must seem a fair place enough to Kwang-Su. Could he but see it as we did, I doubt if he would ever again wish to leave the palaces and gardens, the deer-parks and lakes of his beautiful prison.

The preliminaries for Kwang-Su’s nuptials were being carried out when we were at Pekin. They are curious enough. The bridegroom is, or ought to be, the chief party concerned in the choosing of a wife; not so the wretched Kwang-Su. The sharer of his joys and sorrows is chosen by the Empress Regent out of some three hundred or four hundred girls (daughters of mandarins and others of high position), sent up to Pekin from all parts of China for the purpose. Nor is the Emperor allowed to see his fiancÉe’s face even for a moment till the evening of the wedding day. Though the Emperor is allowed but one actual wife, he can make his choice and select as few or many concubines as he pleases, four hundred or five hundred of the latter being sent to the capital on the occasion of an Imperial marriage. The majority of them are women of low birth, though some of the higher officials who wish to curry favour at court also occasionally send their daughters.

It seems scarcely probable that China will become civilized for many, many years to come, as long as the Emperor and his ministers continue to set their faces against improvement of any kind, especially if it be what they regard as an innovation of the “foreign devils.” For instance: a company was formed a few years since to construct a railway from Tientsin to the capital——a line which would have enormously improved and benefited the trade of the latter, but the Government would not hear of its construction. Permission was, however, granted to carry a line from Shanghai to Woosung on the Yantzekiang river in 1877, an enterprise which under European management, succeeded admirably till when one fine day, not a year after its completion, an order came down from Pekin for its immediate removal——and this command the unfortunate share-holders were of course compelled to comply with.

The Emperor’s father was lately induced to make a trip to Tientsin at the invitation of the European merchants living there. It was hoped that seeing something of the outside world might open his eyes to the foolish and lamentable practices of the Imperial Court. Every honour was shown him——a salute fired from the French and English gunboats. Balls, parties, receptions, dinners were given——everything in short, that money could buy was procured to fÊte him, and it was confidently hoped, so agreeable and pleasant did he make himself, that his week’s visit would send him back to Pekin a wiser man——also that some of this wisdom would be imparted to his son the Emperor. But it was all in vain. All he did on his return to the capital was to set to work and write a number of satirical poems in Chinese, descriptive of his trip, and anything but complimentary to his hosts, the White Barbarians. These poems were published, and had an enormous sale in Pekin.

The long sunny days dragged wearily by. A week, a fortnight elapsed, and still no boy. Our passports for China and Mongolia were in order, mules and litters procured for the journey to the Great Wall——everything in readiness for a start, which, however, Sir John W. would not hear of our making without an interpreter. It was tedious work waiting. We seldom left the hotel after the first week, except to dine at the Embassy, or spend the afternoon in its cool, shady grounds, where one could while away the weary hours with books and papers from the well-stocked library. We did not often dine out, but when we did, preferred ploughing through the dust or mire, on foot, to going in a Pekin cab, a circumstance our neighbours at dinner ought to have been grateful for, for these vehicles are crawling with vermin. It was necessary to take lamps on these occasions, for the less frequented streets of the city are unlit, and to be well armed with thick sticks for protection against the dogs, whose name is legion, and who prowl about the city at night in large numbers in search of food. Although of great size, they are mangy, wretched-looking creatures. In gangs they are dangerous, and frequently attack solitary and unarmed wayfarers; but, like the Turks at Constantinople, the Pekinese do not harm them, for they are capital scavengers, though the din they make at night is very trying to a nervous constitution, and sleep in Pekin for the first two or three nights is an impossibility.

I have said much against Pekin in this chapter, enough, perhaps, to deter the reader from ever wishing to pay it a visit. I must at the same time give it its due, for it is undoubtedly exempt from many of the pests and annoyances of other Eastern cities. There are no mosquitoes to speak of, nor sandflies, nor does that most irritating plague of all, the common fly, torment you day and night as it does in other hot climates. Indeed, it is not, on the whole, such a bad residence for Europeans as many places I could name in India and other parts of the East. The life is, of course, frightfully monotonous during the summer months, when those connected with the Legations who can spare the time betake themselves to the hills, some fifteen miles distant, where some old temples have been fitted up to form rough though comfortable summer retreats for those who are compelled to inhabit the dusty, stench-ridden capital in the hot season.

The European population of Pekin is, as I have said, a very small one, probably not more than sixty or seventy in all. It consists exclusively of the various Legations, Missionary Houses and College. There is but one mercantile establishment: the agency of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.

In winter there are many worse places in the world than this. It is only then, indeed, that the European community ever make any effort to rouse themselves. Sleighing and skating-parties, lawn tennis, by day——and theatricals, dances, and dinner-parties by night, are the order of the day.

Pekin is fairly healthy, even in summer, for Europeans, except for those inclined to be nervous. In such cases the extremely rarified atmosphere often precludes sleep and induces insomnia and other nervous diseases. The sun, too, is more dangerous here than in any place (including Borneo) that I have ever visited in the East. It knocks you over in a second, and deaths from sunstroke, even among the natives, are frequent.

Living in Pekin though dear is excellent, and our host gave us little dinners that would not have disgraced a Paris restaurant. Although not manufactured, that greatest luxury of the East, ice, is cheap and abundant. It is cut (out of the canals) in winter in huge blocks and stored in early spring in large caves just outside the city walls. Fresh fruit is also stored and preserved in the same manner, and I have eaten a bunch of grapes in the month of July that had been stored the previous October as fresh as if they had just been cut from the vine.

We resolved, after a weary fortnight of waiting, to take matters more philosophically. It was useless chafing and worrying, either the boy would come or he wouldn’t. “Tout vient À point À celui qui ‘sait’ attendre,” was a proverb we were always quoting with an assumed calmness we were far from feeling. It was no great hardship waiting with such comfortable quarters, we argued, but the time, that seemed to crawl unless our thoughts turned to Siberia, when it flew with the speed of lightning, was what daily and nightly harassed and worried us. Our host and his pretty wife, however, did all they could to make us comfortable, and thoroughly succeeded. Sitting out after dinner with a cigar in the cool moonlit courtyard, redolent of verbena and mignonette, staring up at the patch of starry heaven overhead, and listening to the distant and soothing tinkle of madame’s piano, things would have seemed pleasant enough had we not known that every day, every hour was of the utmost importance. The Russian minister’s words, too, would keep cropping up, spoiling one’s digestion and upsetting patience and equanimity: “Get off as soon as you can; Siberia in early autumn is a hell upon earth.” Alas! we now began to realize that another month of delay would land us there at this very season.

We spent Jubilee Day at Pekin. A full-dress reception was held at the British Embassy in the afternoon, while at night the gardens were illuminated with hundreds of coloured lamps, the two entrance pavilions turned into reception-rooms, and a ball given to the European community. It was hard to realize that one was really in this hidden corner of the earth. With so many smart gowns and pretty faces around, one might have been in a London or Paris ball-room, and though the number was very limited, the evening was none the less agreeable for that, for Pekin has, or had at the time of our visit, more than its fair share of female beauty when compared with Shanghai or Hong Kong.

The dancing wound up with a display of fireworks (Pekin made) in the grounds, and though of native manufacture the most loyal English subject could not have found fault with the excellent portrait of her Majesty (in fireworks) that drew forth enthusiastic applause from the crowd of natives at the gates and wound up the proceedings. Though day was dawning, dancing was still in full swing when we left the Embassy and took leave of our kind host and charming hostess, without whose kindly aid and hospitality we should indeed have felt lost those long weary days of delay and ennui in the dusty capital.

Though advised not to attempt it, we resolved to ride as much as possible across the Gobi Desert. We had not yet seen a camel cart, but had heard quite enough of its miseries to determine us never to occupy it longer at a time than was absolutely necessary. So having taken the trouble to bring saddles out with us, we resolved to chance the loss of the ponies, and managed to get two strong wiry-looking Mongolian ones, about fourteen hands high, for 8l. English apiece. We tried many before pitching on the right sort. Lancaster’s first attempt at a purchase was not a lucky one. The brute lay on its side the moment he mounted, and resolutely refused to move, much to the delight of the crowd who had assembled to see what the “Yang Qweitze” were about. However, after many and varied experiences he managed to pick up a smart-looking bay pony only four years old. Mine was considerably older, but they were both sturdy, plucky little beasts; looked up to any amount of fatigue——and as we afterwards found by no means belied their appearance.

Our host rushed in one bright sunny morning with a beaming countenance, before we were out of bed. “Courage, messieurs, your boy has arrived,” at the same time handing me a blue envelope containing a note from the Embassy. “Boy will arrive to-day from Tientsin.” This was welcome news indeed, and I turned round for another snooze with a blessed feeling of relief and gratitude. All would now be well. To-morrow morning would see us en route for the Great Wall. We had saved, by the skin of our teeth, detention in Siberia. With any luck November would see us in Moscow.

At 5.30 “the boy” arrived; a tall, forbidding-looking Chinaman, with a sullen, hang-dog expression that inspired but little confidence. I saw in five minutes the kind of gentleman we had to deal with. Sulky, obstinate, and as sly as a fox, with a shifty, restless eye that could not look you in the face for two seconds together.

“Well, so you’ve come at last! What has kept you so long at Tientsin?”

“Jubilee!”

The bare idea of this human scarecrow assisting at a festival of any sort was too funny. But I knew the man lied.

“Will you come with us to Kiakhta?”

“All depend what get. No can go for less than $300. If no take me, master get no one. All afraid go desert. Afraid Mongol man.”

The insolent, swaggering tone of the man annoyed, nearly as much as the exorbitant price he asked surprised, me. I knew it was out of all reason. But the wretch was well aware of our helpless position, and all my hopes of a speedy start for the desert sank below zero. To give the price he named would have been not only absurd but fatal. We should have been mercilessly swindled at every village we came to, if not attacked by robbers, when the news of our liberality and wealth became known, as things do in China in an incredibly short space of time. We had besides this reason, a far better one; we could not afford it.

“It is for you to accept an offer, not for you to make one,” I replied, placing $6 on the table. “Now listen. Here are $6 for your fare back to Tientsin if you do not come to my terms; and you must decide at once. I will give you exactly $120, and not one cash more, to accompany us to Kiakhta and find your own way back. Accept or refuse; and if the latter, make yourself scarce, for I shall not change my mind.”

My sulky friend’s only reply was to carelessly take up the money, pocket it, and without another word calmly leave the room. I watched him slink slowly down the little courtyard and out of the gate, half hoping he would think better of it; but no! He never even once looked behind him, and as I watched his tall, gaunt form vanish slowly in the dusk, I felt that now, indeed, our last hope was gone, and retiring to my room, threw myself on the bed in despair, and wondered what on earth we were going to do next.

To reach Siberia by way of the Gobi Desert was obviously impossible, for, judging by past experience, we could not reasonably expect to find another English-speaking boy, under another month or so. It would then be too late to attempt the journey vi Mongolia, that is, without risking imprisonment of a couple of months in some lonely Siberian village——hardly a pleasant prospect, judging from all we had heard of that melancholy country.

There was now but one course to pursue——to return to Tientsin, and embark thence on the first vessel for Nicolaiefsk at the mouth of the Amour River, thus altogether avoiding the Mongolian desert, and gaining Irkoutsk by way of Khabarofka, Stratensk, and Chita, instead of Urga and Kiakhta.

It was a great disappointment. We had looked forward to the desert journey far more than to any other part of the voyage. There would have been some novelty and excitement in crossing the wild desolate plains lying between the Great Wall of China and Siberia, but none whatever in the cut-and-dried route from Nicolaiefsk, from which port a comfortable and well-found steamer takes the traveller a distance of about fifteen hundred miles up the Amour river to Stratensk. From here he proceeds by tarantass or sleigh (according to season) to Verchui Udinsk and across Lake Baikal (by steamer if in summer) to Irkoutsk, which city is distant about one thousand odd versts from Stratensk. There is but one main post-road across Siberia from Irkoutsk to Tomsk. But the come down from a journey in a camel caravan across the great Gobi Desert to an ordinary steamer and posting carriage along a dull, uninteresting river and monotonous road with a post-house every twenty versts,^[2] was a severe blow to one’s feelings and anticipations.

Dinner that night was a sad meal; even the champagne, which our host insisted upon producing, failed to enliven it. Our party was increased by three Russians from Shanghai, who were on their way to Manchuria for a month’s shooting. One of them had done the Amour journey, and devoutly hoped he might never have to do it again. For monotony and lack of interest that great river was (according to his account) unrivalled. But we had made up our minds, and it must be done. Fortunately enough, a vessel would be leaving Tientsin for Nicolaiefsk in four or five days’ time, which would give us plenty of time to retrace our steps to Tientsin and embark. To bemoan one’s fate under such circumstances is worse than useless, and we retired to rest resigned, if not cheerful. The Gobi was impossible, “Vogue pour ‘l’amour’!”

But the proverb that it is ever “darkest before dawn,” was exemplified next morning when, about ten o’clock, and on the eve of departure for Tientsin, the welcome news was brought us that a boy had been found! and by whom but our good angel, M. Tallien, who, moved to compassion by our woe-begone faces the previous evening, had himself searched Pekin high and low, and run the article to earth within the very walls of the Russian Embassy. No ordinary “boy” was this either, but an excellent cook, speaking English, Russian, and Mongolian fluently, and who, best of all, was willing to go to Kiakhta and find his own way back again for $100 all found. I could have fallen into Tallien’s arms and embraced him. Perhaps, being a Frenchman, he would have taken such a proceeding as a matter of course.

Our new acquisition, Jee Boo by name, a nice, quiet-looking fellow of about 30, had been cook and servant to Prince ————, one of the Russian attachÉs, for some time. Under ordinary circumstances we should perhaps have asked for his character, but dreading another delay we determined to chance it, take him as he was, and ask no questions. We were armed and he was not, which is always satisfactory in case of a disagreement. He was, at any rate, a very different stamp of man to our Tientsin friend, who, it now appeared, had taken the trouble to find him out and advise him to have nothing to do with us, for if he did he would never get paid. We should be sure to repudiate our debt on arrival at Kiakhta and leave him stranded in a foreign land without friends or money. That was why he had himself refused to entertain our offer, &c., &c.

We soon convinced Jee Boo, however, of the honesty of our intentions by making M. Tallien his banker for the amount of $80, the remaining $20 to be paid him on arrival at Kiakhta, with an additional $20 if he behaved himself. Having thus arranged things to everybody’s satisfaction, we gave Jee Boo leave to absent himself for the day, and (not without misgivings of another disappointment) made preparations for a start at six the following morning.

The same afternoon, while we were busily engaged fixing our heavy baggage to the mule packs, two of the most extraordinary beings I ever beheld rode up to the hotel gate. Both might have been any age from nineteen to ninety, and were dressed in suits of loud tartan check (not unlike that worn by Jack Spraggon in that best of sporting novels “Soapy Sponge”), enormous pith sun-hats with long, flowing puggarees and green spectacles. We put them down at a glance for what they unmistakably were, “globe-trotters,” sent out by their mammas (or mamma, for they were like as two peas), to see the world and improve their mind (if they had any). How they had drifted to Pekin, goodness only knows. It is not a city much affected by the genus. The comforts are not up to their standard.

They had ridden from Tungchow under a burning sun and at full gallop, and their weedy, miserable-looking ponies looked ready to drop. The latter evidently only yearned (like the Irishman’s horse), for a wall to lean up against and think, and looked almost as disconsolate as their riders, which is saying a good deal.

They stood for some time without making a remark. Then, dismounting slowly and cautiously, one of them approached Tallien, who was assisting us with the packs, and in a mild and quavering voice inquired if he was manager of the hotel; and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, if he and his friend could have a bedroom, and whether there were any objects of interest to be seen in the neighbourhood?

“The Great Wall of China, messieurs,” replied Tallien; “but you’ll find it rather a long ride in one day.”

A STREET IN TARTAR CITY——PEKIN.