PEKIN
Tientsin is but a stepping‐stone to Pekin—one a mere modern growth,
important only in view of the European commercial interests that have
made it what it is; the other a fabled city weird, mysterious. The
slowly‐beating heart of the vast feeble Colossus, that may be pierced
and yet no agony, thrills through the distant members. Pekin, the
object of the veneration of every Chinaman the world over. Pekin, which
enshrines the most sacred temples of the land, within whose famous
walls lies the marvellous Forbidden City, the very name of which is
redolent of mystery; around it history and fable gather and scarce may
be distinguished, so incredible the truth, so conceivable the wildest
conjecture. The Mecca to which turn the thoughts of every Celestial.
The home of the sacred, almost legendary, Emperor, whose word is law
to the uttermost confines of the land, and yet whose person is not
inviolate against palace intrigue; omnipotent in theory, powerless in
reality, a ruler only in name. Worshipped by millions of his subjects,
yet despised by the least among the mandarins of his court. The
meanest eunuch in the Purple City is not more helpless than the monarch
who boasts the proud title of Son of Heaven.
Pekin, the seat of all power in the land, whence flows the deadly
poison of corruption that saps the empire’s strength; the capital that
twice within the last fifty years has fallen before the avenging armies
of Europe, and yet still flourishes like a noxious weed.
One morning as the train from Tong‐ku came into Tientsin Station and
disgorged its usual crowd of soldiers of the Allied Forces, I stood on
the platform with four other British officers, all bound for Pekin. We
established ourselves in a first‐class carriage, which was a mixture of
coupé and corridor‐car. The varied uniforms of our fellow‐passengers
no longer possessed any interest for us; and we devoted our attention
to the scenery on each side of the railway. From Tientsin to Pekin
the journey occupies about five hours. The line runs through level,
fertile country, where the crops stand higher than a mounted man; thus
the actions on the way to the relief of the Legations were fought
blindfold. Among the giant vegetation troops lost direction, corps
became mixed, and the enemy could seldom be seen. As the train ran
on, the tops of the tall stalks rose in places above the roofs of the
carriages, and shut in our view as though we were passing through a
dense forest. Here and there we rattled past villages or an occasional
temple almost hidden by the high crops. There were several stations
along the line; the buildings solidly constructed of stone, the walls
loopholed for defence. On the platforms the usual cosmopolitan crowd
of soldiers, and Chinamen of all ages offering for sale bread, cakes,
Japanese beer, bottles of _vin ordinaire_ bought from the French,
grapes, peaches, and plums in profusion. In winter various kinds of
game, with which the country teems, are substituted for the fruit.
At Yangsun were a number of Chasseurs d’Afrique, whose regiment was
quartered in the vicinity. Trains passed us; the carriages crowded with
troops of all nations, the trucks filled with horses, guns and military
stores, or packed with grinning Chinamen.
At last, between the trees, glimpses of yellow‐tiled roofs flashing in
the sunlight told us that we were nearing the capital. Leaning from the
windows we saw, apparently stretching right across the track, a long,
high wall, with buttresses and lofty towers at intervals. It was the
famous Wall of Pekin. Suddenly a large gap seemed to open in it; the
train glided through, and we found ourselves in the middle of a large
city as we slowed down alongside a platform on which stood a board with
the magic word “Pekin.” We had reached our journey’s end. On the other
side of the line was a broad, open space, through which ran a wide
road paved with large stone flags. Over it flowed an incessant stream
of carts, rickshas, and pedestrians. Behind the station ran a long wall
which enclosed the Temple of Heaven, where, after General Gaselee’s
departure, the British headquarters in Pekin were established.
On the platform we found a half‐caste guide waiting for us, sent to
meet us by friends in the English Legation. Resigning our luggage
to him and directing him to convey it to the one hotel the capital
possessed, we determined to begin our sightseeing at once and walked
towards the gateway of the enclosure in which stands the Temple of
Heaven. On entering, we found ourselves in a large and well‐wooded
demesne. Groves of tall trees, leafy rides, and broad stretches of turf
made it seem more like an English park than the grounds of a Chinese
temple. Long lines of tents, crossed lances, and picketed horses marked
the camp of a regiment of Bengal cavalry; for in the vast enclosure
an army might bivouac with ease. Here was held the historic British
assault‐at‐arms, when foreign officers were roused to enthusiasm at the
splendid riding of our Indian cavalry and the marvellous skill of the
Royal Horse Artillery as they swung their teams at full speed round the
marks in the driving competitions.
Apropos of the latter corps a story is told of Field‐Marshal Von
Waldersee’s introduction to them at the first review he held of British
troops at Tientsin. When the horse gunners came thundering down
towards the saluting base in a cloud of dust, their horses stretching
to a mad gallop, the guns bounding behind them like things of no weight
but with every muzzle in line, the German Commander‐in‐Chief is said to
have burst into admiring exclamation: “Splendid! Marvellous!” he cried.
As they flew past the old man huddled up on his charger, he started in
surprise and peered forward.
“Donnerwetter!” he exclaimed, “why, they actually have their guns with
them!” The pace was so furious that he had been under the impression
that they were galloping past with the teams only; for he had thought
it impossible for artillery to move at such speed drawing their
field‐pieces. The other officers of the Allied Armies were equally
amazed at the sight.
“It is positively dangerous!” said a German.
“C’est incroyable! Ça ne peut pas!” cried an excited Frenchman.
“Say, that’ll show the Dagoes that they’ve got something still to
learn,” said a pleased Yankee.
The Temple of Heaven consists of long, low buildings of the
conventional Chinese architecture, with wide, upturned eaves. We found
it empty but for a few memorial tablets of painted or gilded wood.
Emerging through a small gate and crossing a tiny marble bridge, we
strolled through the park to another temple, the conical roof of
which rose above the trees. It was known to the British troops in
Pekin as the Temple of the Sun; whether the name is correct or not I
cannot say.[3]
[Illustration: FIELD‐MARSHAL COUNT VON WALDERSEE REVIEWING THE ALLIED
TROOPS IN PEKIN]
Passing the cavalry camp we came to a flight of steps, which led up to
a terrace. On ascending this we found a huge gateway to the left. We
passed through, and then, little susceptible as we were to artistic
emotions, we stopped and gazed in silent admiration as the full beauty
of the building stood revealed. The temple, circular in shape, stands
on a slight eminence, surrounded by tiers of white marble balustrades.
Its triple roof, bright with gleaming blue tiles and golden knob,
blazed in the sun, the spaces between the roofs filled with gay designs
in brilliant colours. The walls were of carved stone open‐work with
many doors. It rose, a dream of beauty and grace, against a dark green
background of leafy trees, the loveliest building in Pekin. Within, all
was bare. An empty altar, a painted tablet, a few broken gilt stools
were all that pillaging hands had spared. The massive bronze urns which
stood outside, too heavy to be carried away, had lost their handles,
wrenched off for the mere value of the metal. Quitting the temple and
passing through a door in a low wall, we came to a broad open space,
in which stood a curious construction which bears the proud title of
“Centre of the Universe.” Three circles of white marble balustrades,
one within the other, rose up to a paved platform, round which were
large urns. Here once a year the Emperor comes in state to offer
sacrifice to the _manes_ of his ancestors. Close by was the Temple of
the Moon, in design similar to that of the Sun, but much smaller and
with only a single roof.
This exhausted the sights of the Temple of Heaven. We returned through
the park to the railway station, where we procured rickshas to take us
to the hotel. Strong, active coolies whirled us along over the wide,
flagged road that runs through the Chinese town. We passed crowds
of Celestials trudging on in the awful dust, springless Pekin carts
drawn by sturdy little ponies, an occasional Bengal Lancer or German
Mounted Infantryman, through streets of mean shops, the fronts hung
with gaudy sign‐boards, until we reached the wall of the Tartar city.
Before us stood the Chien Mên Gate, the brick tower above it roofless
and shattered by shells, the heavy iron‐studded door swung back. We
rumbled through the long, tunnel‐like entrance, between rows of low,
one‐story houses, and soon reached the famous Legation Street, the
quarter in which lie the residences of the Foreign Ministers and the
other Europeans in Pekin. We passed along a wide road in good repair,
by gateways at which stood Japanese, French, and German sentries, by
the shattered ruins of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank. All around
the Legations lay acres of wrecked Chinese houses, torn by shells and
blackened by fire—a grim memento of the outrage that had roused the
civilised world to arms. At length we reached a broad street leading
from the Ha‐ta‐man Gate, turned to the left down it, and drew up
before a small entrance in a line of low, one‐story houses. Above it
was a board bearing the inscription, “Hôtel du Nord.” Jumping from our
rickshas, we paid off the perspiring coolies, and, walking across a
small courtyard, were met by the proprietor and shown to our quarters.
The hotel, which had been opened shortly after the relief of the
Legations, consisted of a number of squalid Chinese houses, which had
been cleverly converted into comfortable dining, sitting, and bedrooms.
An excellent cuisine made it a popular resort for the officers of the
Allies in Pekin, and we found ourselves as well catered for as we could
have done in many more pretentious hostels in civilised lands.
A short description of the chief city of China may not be out of place;
though recent events have served to draw it from the obscurity that
enshrouded it so long. It is singular among the capitals of the world
for the regularity of its outline, owing to the stupendous walls which
confine it. These famous battlements are twenty‐five miles in total
circumference, and the long lines, studded with lofty towers and giant
buttresses, present an imposing spectacle from the exterior.
Pekin is divided into two separate and distinct cities, the Tartar and
the Chinese. The latter, adjoining the southern wall of the former, is
in shape a parallelogram, its longer sides running east and west. It
grew as an excrescence to the capital of the victorious Manchus, and
was in ancient times inhabited by the conquered Chinese as the Tartar
City was by the superior race, though now this line of demarcation is
lost in the practical merging of the two nationalities as regards the
lower orders. The wall of the Chinese city is thirty feet high and
twenty feet thick.
[Illustration: A STREET IN THE CHINESE CITY, PEKIN]
The Tartar city, in shape also a parallelogram, with the longer sides
north and south, is surrounded by a much more imposing wall, which
if vigorously defended would prove a truly formidable obstacle to
any army unprovided with a powerful siege train. It is forty feet
high, fifty feet broad at the top, and sixty‐four feet thick at the
base, and consists of two masonry walls, made of enormous bricks as
solid as stone, that on the external face being twelve feet thick,
the interior one eight feet, the space between them filled with clay,
rammed in layers of from six to nine inches.[4] A practicable breach
might be effected by the concentrated fire of heavy siege guns, for
shells planted near the top of the wall would probably bring down
bricks and earth enough to form a ramp. From the outside seven gateways
lead into the Chinese city, six into the Tartar, while communication
between the two is maintained by three more. They can be closed by
enormously thick, iron‐studded wooden gates, which in ordinary times
are shut at night. The Japanese effected an entrance into the Tartar
city by blowing in one of these. At the corners of the walls and
over each gateway are lofty brick towers several stories high, the
intervals between them being divided by buttresses. These towers are
comparatively fragile, and at the taking of Pekin those attacked
suffered considerably from the shell fire of the field guns of the
Allies. Outwards from the base of the walls a broad open space is left.
The Tartar City is by far the more important. It holds most of the
temples, the residences of the upper and wealthier classes, the
important buildings and larger shops. In the centre of it is the
Imperial city, in shape an irregular square, enclosed by a high wall
seven miles in circumference, the top of which is covered with yellow
tiles. Here are found the public buildings and the houses of the
official mandarins; and in its heart lies the Purple or Forbidden City,
the residence of the Emperor and his Court. All the buildings inside
the limits of the Imperial city are roofed with gleaming yellow tiles,
that being the sacred colour. To the south‐east, near the wall of the
Chinese city, lies the Legation quarter, where most of the European
residents live.
The only high ground in Pekin consists of two small eminences, just
inside the northern boundary of the Imperial city. One, facing the
gateway, is known as Coal Hill. Tradition declares it to consist of
an enormous quantity of coal, accumulated in former times to provide
against a threatened siege. It is covered with trees, bushes, and
grass. On the summit is a pavilion, from which an excellent view over
all Pekin is obtained. At one’s feet the yellow roofs of the buildings
in the Imperial and Forbidden cities blaze in the sun like gold. To the
right is the other small tree‐clad hill, on which stands the quaintly
shaped Ming Pagoda. Below it, to the right of the Imperial city, lies
a gleaming expanse of water, the Lotos Lake, crossed by a picturesque
white marble bridge, with strange, small, circular arches. Near it is
the Palace of the Empress‐Dowager. To the south of the sacred city
is the Legation quarter, where the European‐looking buildings of the
residences of the Foreign Ministers and the other alien inhabitants
seem curiously out of keeping with their surroundings. Far away the
high, many‐storied towers over the gateways between the Tartar and the
Chinese city rise up from the long line of embattled wall. Looking down
on it from this height Pekin is strangely picturesque, with a sea of
foliage that surges between the buildings; and yet on descending into
the streets one wonders what has become of the trees with which the
city seemed filled. The fact is that they are extremely scattered,
one in one courtyard, one in another, and in consequence are scarcely
remarked from the level. The Palace, the Legations, and the towers are
the only buildings that stand up prominently among the monotonous array
of low roofs, for the houses are almost invariably only one‐storied.
The Tartar City is pierced by broad roads running at right angles to
the walls. From them a network of smaller lanes leads off, usually
extremely narrow and always unsavoury, being used as the dumping‐ground
of all the filth and refuse of the neighbouring houses. The main
streets even are unpaved and ill‐kept. The centre portion alone is
occasionally repaired in a slovenly fashion, apparently by heaping on
it fresh earth taken from the sides, which have consequently become
mere ditches eight or nine feet below the level of the middle causeway
and the narrow footpaths along the front of the houses. After heavy
rain these fill with water and are transformed into rushing rivers.
Occasionally on dark nights a cart falls into them, the horse unguided
by a sleepy driver, and the occupants are drowned. Such a happening
in the principal thoroughfares of a large and populous city seems
incredible. I could scarcely believe it until I was once obliged
almost to swim my pony across a main street with the water up to the
saddle‐flaps, and this after only a few hours’ rain. A Chinaman, by the
way, will never rescue a drowning man, from the superstition that the
rescuer will always meet with misfortune from the hand of the one he
has saved.
The houses are mostly one story high, dingy and squalid. The shops,
covered with gaudy red and gold sign‐boards, have little frontage but
much depth, and display to the public gaze scarcely anything of the
goods they contain. All along the principal streets peddlers establish
themselves on the narrow side‐walks, spread their wares on the ground
about them, and wait with true Oriental patience for customers. The
houses of the richer folk are secluded within courtyards, and cannot be
seen from the public thoroughfares.
On the whole, Pekin from the inside is not an attractive city; and as
the streets in dry weather are thick with dust that rises in clouds
when a wind blows, and in wet are knee‐deep in mud where not flooded,
they do not lend themselves to casual strolling. The broad tops of the
walls are much preferable for a promenade. Access to them is gained
by ramps at intervals. They are clean, not badly paved though often
overgrown with bushes, and afford a good view over the surrounding
houses, and in the summer offer the only place where a cooling breeze
can be found.
Comfortably installed in the Hôtel du Nord, we determined to devote our
first afternoon in Pekin to a visit to the quarter of most pressing,
though temporary, interest, the Legations, on which the thoughts of
the whole civilised world had been concentrated during their gallant
defence against a fanatical and cowardly foe. As the distance was
short, we set out on foot. The courtyard of the hotel opens on to
the long street that runs through the Tartar city from the Ha‐ta‐man
Gate, leading into the Chinese city. As the wall was close at hand,
we ascended it by one of the ramps or inclined ways that lead to the
top, and entered the tower above the gateway. It was a rectangular
three‐storied building with the usual sloping gabled roofs and wide,
upturned eaves of Chinese architecture. The interior was bare and
empty. The lower room was wide and lofty, the full breadth and depth of
the tower, and communicating with the floor above by a steep ladder.
From the large windows of the upper stories a fine view over both
cities was obtained. We looked down on the seething crowds passing
along Ha‐ta‐man Street and away to where, above the Legation quarter,
the flags of the Allies fluttered gaily in proud defiance to the tall
yellow roofs of the Imperial palace close by. Descending, we emerged
upon the broad paved road that ran along the top of the wall, and
found it a pleasant change from the close, fetid streets. The side
towards the Chinese city, the houses of which run up to the foot
of the wall, is defended by a loopholed and embrasured parapet. We
soon found ourselves over the Legation quarter and looked down on the
spot where the besieged Europeans had so long held their assailants
at bay. A broad ditch or nullah with walled sides, which during the
rains drains the Tartar city, ran towards the wall on which we stood,
passing beneath our feet through a tunnel in it, which could be closed
by an iron grating. This was the famous water‐gate by which the
Anglo‐Indian troops had entered, first of the Allies, to the relief of
the besieged. The nullah was crossed by several bridges, over one of
which passes Legation Street, along which we had ridden in our rickshas
that morning. On the left bank of the nullah, looking north, stands
the English Legation, surrounded by a high wall enclosing well‐wooded
grounds. Opposite it, on the right bank, is the Japanese Legation,
similarly enclosed. During the siege the two were connected by a wall
built across the watercourse, which is generally dry, and they thus
formed the front face of the defence. A portion of the city wall, cut
off by breastworks on the summit, became the rear face, which was held
by the Americans, who were attacked along the top of the wall itself.
The French, German, and Belgian Legations lay to the right and rear of
the Japanese; while the Russian and American stood between the British
Legation and the wall. All around the limits of the defence were acres
of wrecked and burnt Chinese houses, destroyed impartially by
besiegers and besieged.
[Illustration: FRONT FACE OF THE DEFENCES OF THE LEGATIONS
Gate of the British Legation on the right, wall across the nullah
connecting it with the Japanese Legation Wall of Tartar city in the
background]
After a long study of the position from our coign of vantage, we
descended to the left bank of the nullah; and, passing the residences
of the American and Russian Ministers guarded by stalwart Yankee
soldier or heavily built Slav, we came to where the imposing gateway
of the English Legation opens out on the road running along the
bank. Inside the entrance stood the guardroom. To the right lay the
comfortable residences of the Minister and the various officials spread
about in the spacious, tree‐shaded grounds. We passed on to a group of
small and squalid Chinese houses, which served as the quarters for the
officers and men of the Legation Guard, chiefly composed of Royal Welch
Fusiliers. The officers in command, all old friends of ours, received
us most hospitably, and entertained us with grateful refreshment and
the news of Pekin. We were cynically amused at learning from them an
instance of the limits of human gratitude. The civilian inhabitants of
the English Legation have insisted that a wall should be built between
their residences and the quarters of the guard, lest, perchance, the
odour of “a brutal and licentious soldiery” should come betwixt the
wind and their nobility. They gladly welcome their protection in time
of danger, but in peace their fastidious eyes would be offended by the
sight of the humble red‐coat. Our hosts showed us round the grounds
and the _enceinte_ of the defence, and explained many points in the
siege that we had not previously understood.
When, our visit over, we walked back to the hotel down Legation Street,
we were interested in noticing that the walls and houses bordering
the road were covered with bullet splashes; while the ruins of the
Chinese houses, of the fine building that had once been a branch of
the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, and of some of the Legations spoke
eloquently of the ravages of war. On the wreckage around notices were
posted, showing the increased areas claimed for the various foreign
Legations in the general scramble that ensued on the fall of Pekin.
Little Belgium, with her scanty interests in China, has not done badly.
Everywhere were to be seen placards bearing the legend, “Occupé par
la Légation Belge,” until she promised to have almost more ground
than any of the great Powers. _Vae Victis_, indeed! And the truth of
it was evident everywhere, from the signs of the game of general grab
all around the Legations to the insolent manner of a German Mounted
Infantryman we saw scattering the Chinese foot‐passengers as he
galloped along the street.
When we entered the dining‐room of the hotel that evening, we found it
filled with Continental officers, who, as we bowed to the groups at
the various tables before taking our seats, rose politely and returned
our greeting. Britishers unused to the elaborate foreign courtesy
found the continual salutes that were the custom of most of the Allies
rather a tax at first; and the ungraciousness of English manners was a
frequent source of comment among those of our European brothers‐in‐arms
who had never before been brought in contact with the Anglo‐Saxon race.
But they soon regarded us as almost paragons of politeness compared
with our American cousins, who had no stomach for the universal
“bowing and scraping,” and with true republican frankness, did not
hesitate to let it be known. Our proverbial British gruffness wore off
after a little time, and our Continental comrades finally came to the
conclusion that we were not so unmannerly as they deemed us at first.
In the beginning some offence was given as they did not understand
that in the English naval or military services it is the custom where
several officers are together for the senior only to acknowledge a
salute; for in the other European armies all would reply equally to it.
The three leading characteristics of Pekin are its odour, its dust in
dry weather, and its mud after rain. The cleanliness introduced by the
Allies did wonders towards allaying the stench; and I do not think that
any place in the world, short of an alkali desert, can beat the dust of
the Long Valley. But though I have seen “dear, dirthy Dublin” in wet
weather, have waded through the slush of Aldershot, and had certainly
marvelled at the mire of Hsin‐ho, yet never have I gazed on aught to
equal the depth, the intensity, and the consistency of the awful mud
of Pekin. We made its acquaintance on the day following our arrival.
Heavy rain had kept us indoors until late in the afternoon when, taking
advantage of a temporary cessation of the deluge, we rashly ventured
on a stroll down Ha‐ta‐man Street. The city, never beautiful, looked
doubly squalid in the gloomy weather. Along the raised centre portion
of the roadway the small Pekin carts laboured literally axle‐deep in
mire. It was impossible for rickshas to ply. On either side the lower
parts of the street were several feet under water, while gushing
torrents rushed into them from the alleys and lanes. We struggled
with difficulty through the awful mud, wading through pools too broad
to jump. Once or twice we nearly slipped off the edge of the central
causeway, and narrowly escaped an unwelcome bath in the muddy river
alongside. As we splashed and skipped along like schoolboys, laughing
at our various mishaps, our mirth was suddenly hushed. Down the road
towards us tramped a mournful cortège—a funeral party of German
soldiers marching with reversed arms behind a gun‐carriage on which
lay, in a rough Chinese coffin, the corpse of some young conscript from
the Vaterland. As we stood aside to let the procession pass, we raised
our hands to our helmets in a last salute to a comrade.
In sobered mood we waded on until, in the centre of the roadway, we
came to a mat‐shed that marked the site of a monument to be erected
on the spot where the German Minister, Baron Kettler, was murdered at
the outbreak of the troubles. Foully slain as he had been by soldiers
of the Chinese Imperial troops, his unhappy fate proved perhaps the
salvation of the other Europeans in the Legations. For it showed that
no reliance could be placed on the promises of the Court which had
just offered them a safe‐conduct and an escort to Tientsin. And on
the ground stained by his life‐blood the monument will stand, a grim
memento and a warning of the vengeance of civilisation.
Weary of our struggles with the mud, we now resolved to go no farther
and turned back to the hotel, but not in time to escape a fresh
downpour, which drenched us thoroughly.
Next day we changed our abode, having found accommodation in the
portion of Pekin allotted to the English troops; for the city was
divided into sections for the allied occupation. Some officers of the
Welch Fusiliers had kindly offered us room in their quarters in Chong
Wong Foo. This euphonious title signifies the palace of Prince Chong,
who was one of the eight princes of China. Our new lodging was more
imposing in name than in fact. The word “palace” conjured up visions
of stately edifices and princely magnificence which were dissipated by
our first view of the reality. Seated in jolting, springless Pekin
carts that laboured heavily through the deep mire, we had driven
from the hotel through miles of dismal, squalid streets. Turning off
a main road, which was being repaired, or rather re‐made, by the
British, we entered a series of small, evil‐smelling lanes bordered
by high walls, from the doorways of which an occasional phlegmatic
Chinaman regarded us with languid interest. At length we came to a
narrow road, which the rain of the previous day had converted into a
canal. The water rose over the axles of the carts. Our sturdy ponies
splashed on indomitably until ahead of us the roadway widened out into
a veritable lake before a large gate at which stood a British sentry.
As we approached he called out to us to turn down a lane to the right
and seek a side entrance, as the water in front of the principal one
here was too deep for our carts. Thanks to his directions, we found
a doorway in the wall which gave admittance to a large courtyard.
Jumping out of our uncomfortable vehicles, we entered. Round the
enclosure were long, one‐storied buildings, their fronts consisting
of lattice‐work covered with paper. They were used as barrack‐rooms,
and we secured a soldier in one of them to guide us. He led us through
numerous similar courtyards, in one of which stood a temple converted
into a gun‐shed, until we finally passed through a small door in a wall
into a tangled wilderness of a garden. At the far end of this stood a
long, low building with the conventional Chinese curved roof. It was
constructed of brick and wood, the latter for the most part curiously
carved. The low‐hanging eaves overspreading the broad stone verandah
were supported by worm‐eaten pillars. The portico and doorways were of
fragile lattice‐work, trellised in fantastic designs. It was the main
portion of Prince Chong’s residence and resembled more a dilapidated
summer‐house than a princely palace. Here we were met and welcomed by
our hosts, Major Dobell, D.S.O. and Lieutenant Williams, who
ushered us into the anything but palatial interior, which consisted of
low, dingy rooms dimly lighted by paper‐covered windows. The various
chambers opened off each other or into gloomy passages in bewildering
and erratic fashion. Camp beds and furniture seemed out of keeping with
the surroundings; but a few blackwood stools were apparently all that
Prince Chong had left behind him for his uninvited guests. Thanks to
our friends’ kindness, we were soon comfortably installed, and felt as
much at home as if we had lived in palaces all our lives. It took us
some time to learn our way about the labyrinth of courts. The buildings
scattered through the yards would have afforded ample accommodation for
a regiment; and a whole brigade could have encamped with ease within
the circumference enclosed by the outer walls.
The place of most fascinating interest in the marvellous capital of
China is undoubtedly the Forbidden City, the Emperor’s residence. With
the wonderful attraction of the mysterious its very name, fraught with
surmise, is alluring. Nothing in all the vastness of Pekin excited such
curiosity as the fabled enclosure that had so long shrouded in awful
obscurity the Son of Heaven. No white man in ordinary times could hope
to fathom its mysteries or know what lay concealed within its yellow
walls. The ambassadors of the proudest nations of Europe were only
admitted on sufferance, and that rarely, to the outermost pavilions of
that sacred city, the hidden secrets of which none might dare reveal.
But now the monarch of Celestial origin was an exile from the palace,
whose inmost recesses were profaned by the impious presence of his
foes. The tramp of an avenging army had echoed through its deserted
courts; barbarian voices broke its holy hush. Foreign soldiers jested
carelessly in the sacred chamber where the proudest mandarins of China
had prostrated themselves in awe before the Dragon Throne. Within its
violated walls strangers wandered freely where they listed; and Heaven
sent not its lightnings to avenge the sacrilege. Surely the gods were
sleeping!
While the capital of the Celestial Kingdom languished in the grasp of
the accursed barbarian, admittance to the Forbidden City was granted to
anyone who obtained a written order from one of the Legations. This
was readily given to officers of the armies of occupation. Provided
with it and a Chinese‐speaking guide, a party of us set out one day
from the British Legation to explore the mysteries of the Emperor’s
abode. A short ricksha ride brought us to the Imperial city. A rough
paved road through it led to the gateway of the Palace, at which
stood a guard of stalwart American soldiers. Quitting our rickshas,
we presented our pass to the sergeant in command. The gates were
thrown open, and we were permitted to enter the sacred portals. Before
us lay a large paved courtyard, the grass springing up between the
stone flags, leading to a long, single‐storied pavilion, seemingly
crushed beneath the weight of its wide‐spreading yellow‐tiled double
roof. To one who has imagined undreamt‐of luxury and magnificence
in the residence of the Emperor of China the reality comes as a sad
disappointment. The Palace, far from being a pile of splendid and
ornate architecture, consists of a number of detached single‐storied
buildings, one behind the other, separated by immense paved courtyards,
along the sides of which are the residences of the servants and
attendants. The outer pavilions are a series of throne rooms, in which
audience is given according to the rank of the individual admitted
to the presence in inverse ratio to his importance. Thus, the first
nearest the gate suffices for the reception of the smaller mandarins
or envoys of petty States, the next for higher notabilities or
ambassadors of greater nations, and so on.
The description of one of these throne rooms will serve for all.
A raised foundation, with tier above tier of carved white marble
balustrades, slopes up to a paved terrace on which stands a large
one‐storied pavilion. Its double roof blazes with lustrous yellow
tiles; the gables are ornamented with weird porcelain monsters. The
far‐projecting eaves, shading a deep verandah, are supported by many
pillars. From the courtyard steps on either side of the sloping marble
slab, curiously carved with fantastic designs of dragons and known as
the Spirit Path, lead up to the terrace, on which are large bronze
incense‐burners, urns, life‐size storks, and other birds and animals,
with marble images of the sacred tortoise. From the verandah many
doors lead into the vast and gloomy interior. A lofty central chamber,
supported by gilded columns, contains a high daïs, on which stands a
throne of gilt and carved wood with bronze urns and incense‐burners
around it. The daïs is surrounded by gilded railings and led up to
by a flight of half a dozen steps. Behind it is a high screen of
carved wood. Screen, walls, and pillars are gay with quaint designs of
writhing, coiling dragons in gold and vivid hues, or hung with huge
tablets inscribed with Chinese characters. The ceiling is gorgeously
painted. The whole a wonderful medley of barbaric gaudiness. From the
principal chamber a few smaller rooms lead off, crammed with wooden
chests containing piles of manuscripts.
As we wandered about this pavilion our movements were closely watched
by the custodians; for many of the Imperial eunuchs had been permitted
to remain in the palace and entrusted with the keys and charge of the
various buildings. As, after the fairly exhaustive looting that took
place on the capture of the city, no further plundering was allowed,
these men were instructed to watch over the safety of the contents of
the palace that had escaped the first marauders; and they kept a sharp
eye on visitors who endeavoured to secure mementoes. Despite their
vigilance, one of our party succeeded in carrying off a little souvenir
which he found in a chamber off the throne room. It was a small, flat
candlestick, which its finder hoped would prove to be gold. It was only
of brass, however, as he subsequently discovered; and he commented
disgustedly on the parsimony of a monarch who could allow so mean a
metal within his palace.
In the usual spirit of tourists, to whom nothing is sacred, we each
reposed for a few moments in the Emperor’s gilded chair, so that we
could boast of once having occupied the Throne of China. I doubt if
future historians will record our names among those who have assumed
that exalted position.
Passing through this building, we emerged upon another courtyard, at
the far end of which stood a similar pavilion. Its interior arrangement
differed but slightly from the one which I have just described. There
were several of these throne rooms, one behind the other, all very much
alike. Along the sides of the intervening courts were low buildings of
the usual Chinese type, which had served as residences for the palace
attendants.
We came to a large joss‐house, or temple, the interior filled with
gilded altars, hideous gods, memorial tablets, bronze incense‐burners
and candelabra, silken hangings, and tawdry decorations. Here the
reigning monarch comes to worship on the vigil of his marriage.
In amusing proximity was the Emperor’s seraglio. The gate was closed
during the allied occupation, and on it was a notice to the effect
that “the custodian has strict orders not to admit any person. Do
not ill‐treat him if he refuses to open the gate for you. He is only
obeying orders.” It was signed by General Chaffee, United States Army,
and was significant of many things. So the hidden beauties still remain
a mystery to the outer world.
Near one of the pavilions a giant bronze attracted our attention. It
represented an enormous lion, with particularly ferocious countenance,
reposing on a square pedestal, one long‐clawed fore‐paw resting on
the terrestrial globe. Beneath the other sprawled in agony a very
diminutive lion, emblematic of China’s enemies crushed beneath her
might. The sculpture seemed rather ironical at that epoch.
Passing onwards through a puzzling maze of courtyards, we reached
at length the most interesting portion of the palace, the private
apartments of the Emperor, the Empress‐Consort, and that notorious lady
the Empress‐Dowager. Like all the rest of the Forbidden City, they were
merely one‐storied, yellow‐roofed pavilions separated by courts.
The interior of the Emperor’s abode consisted of low, rather dingy
rooms opening off each other. The appointments were of anything but
regal magnificence. The furniture was of carved blackwood, with an
admixture of tawdry European chairs and sofas. On the walls hung a
weird medley of Chinese paintings and cheap foreign oleographs, all
in gorgeous gilt frames. The latter were such as would be found in a
fifth‐rate lodging‐house—horse races, children playing at see‐saw,
conventional landscapes, and farmyard scenes. Jade ornaments and
artificial flowers in vases abounded; but all around, wherever one
could be hung or placed, were European clocks, from the gilt French
timepiece under a glass shade to the cheapest wooden eight‐day clock.
There must have been at least two or three hundred, probably more,
scattered about the pavilion. The Chinese have a weird and inexplicable
passion for them, and a man’s social respectability would seem to be
gauged more by the number of timepieces he possesses than by any other
outward and visible signs of wealth. What a costly collection of rare
masterpieces of art is to the American millionaire, the heterogeneous
gathering of foreign clocks apparently is to the Celestial plutocrat.
The Imperial bed was a fine piece of carved blackwood; but the most
magnificent article of furniture in the pavilion was a large screen of
the famous Canton featherwork, made of the green and blue plumage of
the kingfisher. The design, which was framed and covered with glass,
represented a pilgrimage to a sacred mountain. On its summit stood
a temple, towards which crowds of worshippers climbed wearily. As a
work of art it was excellent. It was the only thing in the Imperial
apartments which I coveted. The rest of the furniture and fittings were
tawdry and apparently valueless.
The pavilion of the Empress‐Consort was rather more luxuriously
upholstered than that of her husband and contained some splendid
embroideries. In her boudoir, besides the inevitable collection of
clocks, oleographs, and artificial flowers, were a piano and a small
organ, both very much out of tune, presented, we were told, by European
ladies resident in China.
The pavilion of the Empress‐Dowager, a much finer abode than that of
the reigning monarch, contained a long, glass‐walled room crowded with
bizarre ornaments of foreign workmanship. Musical boxes, mechanical
toys under glass shades, vases of wax flowers, stood along each side
on marble‐topped tables; and all around, of course, clocks. On the
walls of her sleeping apartment hung a strange astronomical chart. The
bed, an imposing and wide four‐poster, was covered and hung with rich
embroideries. And, as tourists should do, we lay down in turn on the
old lady’s couch, where I warrant she had tossed in sleepless agitation
in those last summer nights when the rattle of musketry around the
besieged Legations told that the hated foreigners still resisted
China’s might. And little slumber must have visited her there when
the booming of guns, during the dark hours when Russian and Japanese
flung themselves on the doomed city, disturbed the silence even in the
sacrosanct heart of the Forbidden City and told of the vengeance at
hand.
Having thoroughly inspected the Imperial apartments, we visited a
very gaudily decorated temple, crowded with weird gods and hung with
embroideries, and then passed on to the small but delightful Emperor’s
garden. It was full of quaintly shaped trees and shrubs, bizarre
rockeries and curious summer‐houses, gorgeous flowers and plants,
and splendid bronze monsters. These last absolutely blazed in the
brilliant sunlight as though gilded; for they are made of that costly
Chinese bronze which contains a large admixture of gold. The garden
closed the catalogue of sights to be seen in the palace; and though we
visited a few more of the dingy buildings of the Forbidden City, there
was nothing else worthy of being chronicled. We passed out through
the northern gateway and climbed up Coal Hill close by for a long,
comprehensive look over Pekin from the pavilion on the summit.
All around us the capital lay embosomed in trees and bathed in
brilliant sunshine, the yellow roofs of the Imperial Palace at our feet
flashing like gold. To the right lay the pretty Lotos Lakes of the
Empress‐Dowager, the white marble bridge spanning them stretching like
a delicate ivory carving over the gleaming water. Through the haze of
heat and dust the towers of the walls rose up boldly to the sky. And
far away, beyond the crowded city, the country stretched in fertile
fields and dense groves of trees to a distant line of hills, where the
tall temples of the Summer Palace stood out sharply against a dark
background.
[Footnote 3: Lord Curzon, in his interesting book, _Problems of the Far
East_, refers to this building as “The Temple of Heaven” and calls what
I have described as “The Centre of the Universe” “The Altar of Heaven.”
He is more likely to be correct than the officers of the armies of
occupation, but I give the names which they used.]
[Footnote 4: These dimensions were given me by Lieutenant Pearson,
R.E., who had to tunnel the wall to allow the passage of a
railway line.]