A curious difficulty arises in The Celestial City. It is that of locomotion. How are we to get about with no carriages, and only those abominable agonizing carts to drive in? We end by taking refuge on the humble donkey, and every time we went out messengers had to be sent to the walls to charter the best attainable animals.

Great mandarins and ministers-plenipotentiary go in chairs, but smaller fry are not allowed to use them, besides which they are prohibitorily expensive. Even the late Marquis TsÊng, when he returned from his embassy to Europe, was at first denied the privilege of a chair, that he might understand that, although great in England, he was small in China. For the Secretaries, ponies are the chosen mode of locomotion by day, and fifty ponies stand in the Legation stables. At night all must walk, lantern in hand, or go in a cart. So it is with the ladies. Carriages are unknown and impossible, with the result that the majority make, as I have said, a sweet prison of the compound, and lawn tennis has votaries among all ages.

The sky is clear and blue, with a north wind bringing a deliciously crisp feeling into the air, suitable to this October month. The climate of Peking offers a redeeming feature to the Europeans who are isolated here. For the next six months this cloudless sky is uninterrupted. Rain is unknown for nine months together, from July to April, and the worst season is the rainy one of May and June, when the steamy heat is most trying. The winter is perfect—cold, but with warm sun in the middle of the day, and the snow that falls, but occasionally, is soon dispersed by the wind.

Moreover, Peking is fortunate in having a summer resort close at hand in the Western Hills, some fifteen miles distant. Here the Legation lives for the hot months, in a privately-rented group of Temples. The dust storms are the scourge of the town; from the crumbling "loess" and alkaline nature of the soil, they sweep in blinding clouds over the plain, and are most irritating in their fortnightly recurrence. The air is so intensely bracing and dry, as to unpleasantly affect the skin.

The first thing to do is to grasp the topography of the Celestial Metropolis, with its city within city, and wall within wall. We return to the Gate of Sublime Learning, and ascend by it on to the great Tartar Wall.

Peking is spread out at our feet. We can trace out the four Walls, each containing a separate town. The outer and lower ramparts surround the Chinese city. The next exclude the abodes of the conquered from those of the Conqueror. Here upon the higher ground were assigned, two hundred and fifty years ago, spacious residences for the Tartar Bannermen. Within the Tartar town again, and surrounded by its defenders, is the Imperial city, and enclosed again, securely inside this, with further moats and guard-houses, is the Wall of the Forbidden City itself.

These Walls are from fifty feet high, to forty and sixty feet wide. They are built on massive stone foundations, but the walls themselves are of brick, filled in with mud. How have these common black bricks survived the crumbling of ages? But, except where the base has been marauded for the sakÉ of the yellow clay of the mortar, they are as solid as the day they were constructed. At intervals of three hundred yards there are massive flying buttresses, and a crenellated parapet crowns the summit. They are pierced with many gateways, for there are nine to the Tartar city, and eight for the Chinese. Each gate is surmounted by a square tower of many storeys, loopholed for archers and musketeers, and with quaint heavy black roofs, decorated often in gay colours.

Poetical names mark these Gates, such as "The Eastern Straight Gate," "The Gate of Peace and Tranquillity," "Of Attained Victory," "The Gate of Just Law," "The Western and Eastern Gate of Expediency." These vast fortifications extend for twenty miles, and enclose an area of twenty-five square miles. They are all that you see from whichever side you approach the city, for they are loftier than the loftiest interior pagoda or tower. They are the most impressive and venerable sight, and alone would be worth coming to see.

We are walking on the top of this Wall of the Tartar city—over the ancient grass-grown pavement—commanding a splendid view of the Chinese capital, in the early morning light. The pale grey haze over the Western Mountains points the direction where lie the ruins of that beautiful Summer Palace, magnificent even in its decaying fragments, standing for ever as a reproach to the allies, but fit judgment on the barbarous cruelty of a civilized nation. From this bird's-eye view, Peking appears so buried in trees, that it is hard to believe that its teeming streets, with a population variously estimated at from 400,000 to 800,000, is immediately below. We are so far above it, that even the street cries and calls come up in a softened murmur.

We can distinguish the black roofs of several temples, and the bright green-tiled ones that denote the abode of a Prince of the Blood, called the First or the Tenth Prince, in gradation of propinquity. Over there now the sun is shining and gleaming from the many yellow-tiled roofs of the Imperial palaces of that Forbidden City, where shrouded in mystery, unseen by his people, dwells the Emperor who holds sway over a fourth of the human race.

For about two miles we walk upon the ramparts, which would make a splendid promenade, turning the corner of the square by the Eastern Straight Gate, which is beautiful with its pagoda newly-decorated for the recent passage of the Sovereign. The roof is formed of dark crenellated tiles, with deep outward curving lines, underneath which is a lovely inlaid mosaic in vivid blue and green tiles, whilst the green bronze dragons with twisted tails are perched in single file along the curving sweep. From point to point of the gracefully arched line, suspend crescent-shaped eyes, that tremble in the breeze. And each of the numerous gates have equally fine pagodas, so that in our wanderings we were always coming back to one of these familiar features.

But a difficulty occurs. We wish to descend from the wall. There is a ramp; but at the bottom a locked and spiked gate. We call for a ladder, without result. Pulled by the guide, pushed from below, we scramble up and over a nine-foot wall. It was not dignified, and the crowd was amused at our quandary.

We are making our way towards the Tower which leans against the City Wall, belonging to the observatory.

We pass into a shady courtyard to gaze upon the very instruments whereat Marco Polo wondered in his famous travels. There are two planispheres, an Astrolabe of great size, cast in bronze, and supported on twisted dragons of exquisite workmanship, and which are probably the best specimens of bronze work in Eastern Asia. Ascending up some damp stone steps, we find ourselves on the top of the Tower, and inside a finely wrought iron railing, where there is a gigantic Globe of the Heavens, with the planets yet marked in relief on the surface. Also a quadrant, sextant, and sundial; while the large Azimuth instrument in the corner was a present to the Emperor Kanghai from Louis XIV.

And these instruments are as perfect as they were when placed here 300 years ago. Indeed, some of these are still used by the Astronomical Board for their observations. It brings home to us the fact that we must never ignore for a moment, whilst living in China, that in the earliest centuries she was far ahead in civilization of any country in the world. But while the West has gone rapidly onward, overtaking and outstripping the East, China, self-contained and shut off from contact with all other nations, has remained stationary, so that much we see around us dates from that era. The Chinese are under the impression that there is no nation equal to theirs. They suppose themselves the centre of civilization for the last 2000 years, and claim that China knew the art of printing, invented gunpowder, and was learned in astronomy, long before us. They consider that China is the middle of the Universe, as is shown by the name, which, in their language, signifies "The Middle Kingdom." They look upon themselves as superior to us, as we think ourselves to them, calling us Barbarians, and considering all European nations as such. As a nation they never travel, and are down-trodden by the conservatism of the Mandarins, who, risen from the people, wish to retain their superiority by keeping the lower classes under.

The real interest of Peking lies in its intense age. The city is 4000 years old. Conquered by the Mongols, or the "Golden Horde," who, in their turn were overthrown by the Tartars, Peking of the present day is built, like Rome, upon the ruins of many cities. The description of the famous Venetian traveller is as true to-day as it was when written in the thirteenth century. It is in this wondrously preserved life of the middle ages that the curiosity remains; it is because we see the streets under their primitive conditions of dirt, before ideas of sanitation were dreamt of, because we can look on the carts that were in use at a period corresponding with our conquest by the Norman—on the wheelbarrows with the single wheel, which creaks as loudly now as it did then, on the wells with their Eastern earthenware jars, and the water drawn as in the pictures of Isaac and Rebecca—on those great Walls, then necessary for protection from the wild hordes that scoured the plains, and where the gates are still closed, in accordance with the ancient custom, at sundown. It is all the same. We might have fallen into a Rip Van Winkle sleep at Tientsin, and awoke in the streets of the Celestial Capital in the middle of the dark ages.

There is one thing which impresses itself indelibly on the mind, and is called to remembrance with the first mention of Peking. It is the dirt! the dirt! the dirt!

It is impossible to conceive of such awful filth, and, unless you have seen it, I defy anyone to have the faintest idea of the sights and smells of this city of the Flowery Land. The condition of the streets is the same as it was B.C. If they were described faithfully and in detail, common decencies would be violated, even as they are but too openly. Let it suffice to say that they reek with refuse, garbage, and decaying matter of every description; that the houses throw out into dry pits, dug anywhere in the road, their pig's wash and offal, and that the putrefaction and decay fills the air with noisome smells that overpower you at every turn. Filth and refuse you soon grow hardened to in Peking, but occasionally some particularly nauseous sight, such as a dead dog in a far advanced stage of decomposition, or a cat with the entrails protruding, unnerves you again.

Wherever there is water you may be sure that it is a stagnant pool of liquid filth, covered with green slime, and containing untold horrors if stirred up. Also, if you pass down even the comparatively clean Legation Street, in the wake of the watering-cart, the stench from the stirred-up dust is unbearable. Men are seen going along with baskets on their backs, carefully collecting with a bamboo pronged fork every morsel of manure, for this is the only kind that the Chinese use, chemical fertilizers being unknown. Fortunately, too, there are hundreds of pariah dogs, many evil-looking beasts, who, with their sharp noses, are busy turning over the most unsavoury heaps, or lie asleep gorged in the middle of the narrow roads. Also the pigs, great coarse-haired masses of fat (the Chinese pig is a peculiarly revolting species) wallowing in the foul slush. Enough! In every place and corner are revolting sights, unfit for a civilized community.

Then there is the dust. It adds to the unpleasantness of going about. Such dust as it is, all-pervading, all-penetrating, leaving a pungent smell in your clothes, so that I soon found out that it is necessary to keep a special costume to face it. Once outside the Compound, you find yourself in the jostle and crowd, the shouts and disorder of the streets, and as a cart or horseman passes, a cloud is raised that obscures everything for the moment; and so it is that, for half the time you are out you see nothing for the dust, and for the other half only through a dim veil of the same. At sundown the state of affairs is made worse by the succession of mules, purposely loosened to roll over and over.

Lastly there is the incredible state of the roads, with their deep holes in the very middle of the busiest thoroughfares, with huge stones lying across, or a steep embankment, round which you must diverge. There is this excuse, that the soil, owing to its light and porous nature, aided by the extreme dryness of many months of the year, easily shifts with the wind. If the dust is intolerable, what must it be in winter, when it is turned into a quagmire of black mud or sludge? It is no uncommon thing for a mule to be drowned in the streets. He falls into this soft morass and, unable to get a footing, perishes within sight of the bystanders.

There is yet another and a more unpleasant drawback to be met with, in going about the streets of Peking. The Chinese, but particularly the Tartar and Manchu part of the population, dislike Europeans, and openly insult us as we pass along, jeering and laughing in a most offensive manner, and obviously making the rudest observations. Even the little children come out and call us foul names, of which Barbarian and Foreign or Red-Haired Devils are the mildest terms—language which they must have become familiar with by hearing it used by their parents. There are several places where Europeans are almost invariably stoned, and public feeling has been intensified by these late unfortunate riots on the Yangtze.

In the afternoon we go into the Chinese town, passing through the great Chien-men or Front Gate. Inside this there is a large blank square, formed by the meeting walls of the Chinese and Tartar cities, which are pierced by four archways. The centre entrance is only opened and used by the Emperor on the occasion of his yearly visit to the Temple of Heaven. But through the others that connect the towns, there is a constant moving, hurrying crush of people, the two streams meeting and blocking in the arch.

We lift up and pass under some black draperies and find ourselves in the Chinese bazaar—in a passage one yard wide and completely covered in. The shops are a succession of rooms, raised on a step from the earth passage and all open in front, where you can buy fancy articles and artificial flowers. There are the pretty jade pins, which form the centre for the shiny coil of hair worn by the Chinese women, long earrings and bracelets of the same, mandarin buttons in coloured stones, clocks, porcelain, shoes, and silk embroideries. It is the quaintest and prettiest of Eastern arcades, with the afternoon sun penetrating the bamboo blinds in shafts of light, lighting the picturesque groups of buyers and sellers squatted on the floors. The three-foot passage is blocked by a curious crowd, assisting in our purchases.

We penetrate yet further into the Chinese city, across a stone bridge and through a dangerous open square—a meeting of ways—where crates of merchandise, carts drawn by tandem bullocks and mules, palanquins, wheelbarrows with baskets of liquid manure running over, horses and donkeys, are all mingled together, going and coming in different directions. Yes! Sir Edwin Arnold, you speak truly of

Then we go up a narrow street, tortuous and dirty, to another bazaar where there are nothing but lantern, fan, and picture shops.

Half an hour in these streets gives you more idea of Chinese life than all the books of travel you may read in a life-time.

Peking beggars description, still let me try to give some idea of what we see.

Here we are in a narrow lane. This is the aristocratic quarter where the mandarins and officials live. There are a succession of mud-plastered walls, roofed at the top and presenting an absolutely blind appearance to the road, which, when combined with the always dilapidated condition of the latter, gives the most deserted and squalid impression. Opposite the entrance are hung tablets, indicating the offices and titles of the householder. They are on a blank wall, for you must observe that the entrance into a Chinese house is never straight. It always winds, and this is supposed to be a defence against the incursion of evil spirits, for the latter can happily only go straight. For the same reason we see the little children wearing their pig-tails plaited at the side of the head, so that the evil spirit, not finding anything to grip at the back, is unable to catch hold of them. In the houses of poor people, who cannot afford such elaborate precautions, there is always a mud screen erected in front of the door. Let us go inside. We find ourselves in a succession of courts, surrounded by low buildings, where a family and its branches reside, to the number sometimes of 200 persons. There are separate buildings for the cooking, eating, sleeping, and living, but the family all live together. As our "boy" said, when we inquired about these houses, "Family man live there." Truly one, indeed. Yet there is something to be admired about this family life, this care of aged parents and luckless relations.

The streets with shops, present the most wonderful vista of untidy ends of tattered rags flying from poles, of dingy decorations of strips of paper or cloth hanging over the doorways. The houses have a mean appearance, being only of one story, and their walls, unless they are of mud, consist of carved wood openwork, covered in with tattered yellow paper. I think I may truly say that I never saw one, where the paper was not torn and discoloured. Occasionally you come upon a shop, bright with the names of the goods written in gold and scarlet or green. They were originally all like this, and this one is only recently finished, yet in a few months will become as dull and dirty as the rest. Everything is allowed to run to decay. The Chinese never seem to think it necessary to repair or re-decorate, and the climate powerfully aids in this destruction.

In many of the streets, the road is raised on an embankment of loose dust, and then bordered by an empty space, where the garbage of the dwelling-house is increased by the refuse from the various trades pursued in it, and which is thrown out indiscriminately to fester and decay in the hot sun, or it is occupied by cheap-jacks who lay their goods in the dust, hawking and crying their wares. Here are rows of lanterns with a primitive wooden receptacle for the lamp, filled in with opaque paper, and frequent watch-houses, whence the watchmen patrol the city at night with the muffled beat of a gong.

The life in these streets, straggling, ill-compacted, and grimy as they are, is yet full of vivid interest. Not that these open shop fronts, or grimy pig-tailed men, can compare with the fascinating life of a dear little Japanese street. Here is a tea-house, with the distinguishing sign of ornamental green and gold wooden drums outside, and inside a crowd sitting cross-legged on benches, each with a bowl and chopsticks held within an inch of his nose, shovelling his food rapidly into his mouth. There a man with rows of little black balls spread out before his shop; he is a coal and these balls are made of clay mixed with coal dust—a most economical method of firing. That house in the middle with glazed windows is a bank, and whenever we see a particularly bright exterior, we may be sure that it belongs to a pawnbroker, for he does a large business, the Chinese being ever ready to pawn their all for a good gamble or perhaps a whiff of opium, as some unfortunates at home will do for a last drink. There is a man squatted on the ground, shaking some sticks in a bamboo-holder. He is largely patronized, men coming and going and choosing out a stick and putting it back with either a pleasing or dissatisfied look. He is a fortune-teller. Or there is a group intent on a game of hazard, when the stakes in question are a few cash. Yes! these Chinese are certainly inveterate gamblers, and would gamble their food, their clothing, anything away. Or it is a juggler with a simple apparatus giving a street performance, and many of our best tricks are, as we see, borrowed from the Chinese conjuror.

Then the coffin shops, piled high with those ponderous sarcophagi hewn out of a single tree-trunk, so thick, so substantial, warranted to last for generations, and there is no sending for one in a hurry, for generally the coffin has been waiting in the house for years for its occupant. The funeral furnishers also do a thriving business, for we see many of them, hung inside with the green paraphernalia, the lanterns, carrying pagodas and poles that make up such an imposing procession. So do the wedding contractors, which we distinguish from the undertakers by their red decorations.

Then there are the carpenters and ironmongers, the blacksmiths and the book-shops, the laundries and the barbers, and those of other trades, all of which are easily distinguished at a glance, in the open shops, where the work is carried on within view of the world, adding tenfold to the interest of the streets. The travelling cobbler is frequently seated at the corner of a thoroughfare, repairing the soft felt soles of the Chinese shoes. The itinerant musician is seen under an awning with his book and drum, singing to an attentive audience seated round a table. In all these shops, there is a whirligig round which an incense-burning tube is smouldering, and which marks the flight of time. Watch this shopman give change. He produces often from up his sleeve, or from round his neck, heavy strings of copper "cash." Now as 1200 of these go to make up a dollar, the counting of the change is a matter of patience. It is a cumbrous monetary system, but well in keeping with all that is Chinese.

We are in the midst of a moving scene of life. Here the descendant of the Tartar soldiery carrying a cage of performing birds, or a stick with a chaffinch tied to it. It is the thing perhaps that he values most of all his possessions, and you will often see the Manchu kneeling on the grass, collecting grasshoppers on which to feed his favourite. Very cruel to them also they often are, sewing up their eyes so that they cannot see to escape. There is a soldier in uniform of bright Imperial yellow bordered with crimson, carrying an antique matchlock with long stock, and a flint in his belt. Soon after another passes on a pony with arquebus and arrows slung across his back, for all Chinese soldiers must, as in the days of Agincourt, be expert archers.

Here is a caravan of camels bearing loads of tea (and connoisseurs always prefer that which has thus travelled overland, to the tea transported by sea), with their slow, stealthy, deliberate walk, and contemptuous turned-up noses, tied together by the rope passed through the ring in the nose, attached to the tail of the preceding one. The last of the string has a bell which keeps slow and solemn time with his dignified walk, and the driver does not trouble about the end of the file, unless the stopping of the bell tells him there is something amiss. A flock of sheep are being driven down that walled lane. They are white with black spots, and have the great lumps of fat on their haunches peculiar to the breed of Eastern sheep. If we follow to where they are going, to the butcher's shop, we shall see the disgusting scene presented by a slaughter-house open to the street. The animals will be torn asunder, joint by joint, whilst still warm, with the blood streaming, and entrails laid bare.

A blue palanquin, with many bearers, is being carried along. There is a great mandarin squatted inside on the floor, and we can just see the handsome magnate with his embroidered robes lined with sable, his turned-up velvet hat with the peacock's feather stuck out straight behind, the red, blue, or white button on which indicates his rank. He wears the red, and is going to the YÂmen or Ministry. He is preceded by a retinue of mounted servants, who summarily clear the way, with the whip if necessary, and their number announces to the world the rank and importance of their master. Now there gallop past us a party of wild-looking Tartars, veritable barbarians they look, with their yellow faces, short lank hair and fur caps. Comes along next, a wheelbarrow, with the excruciating squeak of the single front wheel, while the merchandise is neatly balanced in baskets on either side. It is a perpetual wonder how they maintain their equilibrium, especially when, as at Shanghai, they are used for passengers, and there is only one seated on the side.

Now we must make way for this long cart, crowded with passengers, which corresponds to our omnibus; also for that uncouth-looking waggon, with its piebald team of a single pony in the shafts, with a troika of two donkeys and a mule roped in front. Again and again these curiously mixed teams excite our mirth, the wheeler being often the smaller animal of the whole. Then there is the never-ceasing stream of those blue and black covered carts, of which we retain such a lively horror since our journey from Tungchau, and out of many, jeer the Chinese ladies, looking with scorn at the "Barbarian's wife" riding a donkey, whilst they are boxed up safely inside, with a curtain in front, and guarded by an armah (or maid) seated on the shafts.

Add to all these sights, crowds of donkeys, small and wiry, with their padded saddles on a wooden frame, with a bulging Chinaman with swinging pigtail seated far back, and with his legs tucked up, trotting along—of horsemen on rough Tartar ponies, generally white in colour, and which run along at a great pace, so that there is no rising in the saddle, and lastly the mules, a beautiful breed, large and strong, with glossy coats, cruelly bitted, with a double bit and wire over the upper gums.

We have grown so accustomed to John Chinaman, with his innocent yellow face, so smooth and hairless,—except when as a grandfather he wears a moustache,—his obliquely-slit eyes, and his flowing pigtail, with plaited ends of cord and tassels, that we have ceased to observe him. We are now quite familiar with his baggy pantaloons, which sometimes he binds tightly to the ankle—with his turned-up hat with velvet brim, or eight-sided cap, always with coloured button atop—with his loose blue coat fastened by two buttons on one shoulder, with the sleeves hanging long over the hands, and that serve him as pockets. It is beginning to get cold, so that the wadded coats worn in winter are coming into general use. Whilst there is a level monotony of colour in the lower classes, the upper have the most gorgeous brocaded coats of crimson, blue, and purple, with pantaloons of other colours, that combine in pleasing effect. Some of the men have the long claw nail, but only on the little finger, in token that they do no manual labour, and a disgusting sight it is to see this transparent substance of several inches in length, bending backwards and forwards, as they use their hands.

The pigtail! What is it for? What is its origin? It is simple. The Tartars were few, the Chinese many. Let not the latter see this and be tempted to say: "Arise, drive out the conqueror." Let them shave three-fourths of the head; let the back hair grow long and braid it into a bridle as is the Tartar custom. The pigtail was intended as a mark of subjection to signify to the Chinese that, even as it resembled a horse's tail, so might they be driven like one, whilst the cuff of the official sleeve to this day is cut into the shape of a horseshoe.

Such, says tradition, was the Manchu order, and off came at a stroke the heads of the disobedient. Two generations pass, and the Chinese love the pigtail, as they do to-day, and dread the agents of the Secret Society snipping it here and there, as an insult to the Tartar.

The Chinese ladies are plain. They wear their black hair plastered from a flat parting on either side of the face, and with bunches of artificial flowers and tinsel stuck in, behind the ear, from which depend long green jade earrings. Others have their hair drawn up over a comb, to form a top knot, rising about four inches above the head. There is yet a still more curious fashion of dressing the hair into a plait wired, so as to stand out from the nape of the neck in a stiff curve, just like the tail of a cat. It has a most peculiar appearance. Has it ever struck you, when travelling, as it has me, how very nearly all the nations of the world have black hair, the English, Germans and Swedes being nearly the only exceptions? The Chinese women smear their faces with rouge, beginning by placing one brilliant vermilion spot under the lower lip. They wear the same dress as the men, loose trousers and coats, and their clothes are of the brightest colours—violent greens, blues and purples, richly embroidered in gold or silver tissue, and rainbow tints. They wear many bangles and rings of jade or crystal, and a silver circle round the neck. They too have the long nails, but on all their fingers. We bought some of the pretty silver claws of immense curving length, which they use as shields.

Her Ladyship's Foot.