THE LAND OF THE BOXERS

THE
LAND OF THE BOXERS

OR

CHINA UNDER THE ALLIES

BY
CAPTAIN GORDON CASSERLY
INDIAN ARMY

WITH 15 ILLUSTRATIONS AND A PLAN

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1903
All rights reserved

TO
THE OFFICERS
OF THE
AMERICAN AND BRITISH
NAVAL AND MILITARY FORCES
IN CHINA

PREFACE

WRITTEN many thousand miles from the ever‐troubled land of China, with no opportunity for reference, this book doubtless contains many errors, for which the reader’s indulgence is asked. The criticisms of the various armies are not the result of my own unaided impressions, but a résumé of the opinions of the many officers of the different contingents with whom I conversed on the subject.

My thanks are due to Sir Richard Harrison, k.c.b., Inspector‐General of Fortifications, who served with the Allied Army which captured Pekin in 1860, for his courtesy in permitting me to use some of the excellent photographs taken by the Photo Section, Royal Engineers.

THE AUTHOR

London, 1903

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

FROM WEI‐HAI‐WEI TO TIENTSIN

Our transport—An Irish padré—Wei‐hai‐wei harbour by night—The island by day—The mainland—On to Taku—Taku at last—The allied fleet—The famous forts—The Peiho River—The Allies at Tong‐ku—The British at Hsin‐ho—The train to Tientsin—A motley crowd of passengers—The country en route—A historic railway station

[pages 1–16]

CHAPTER II

TIENTSIN

The foreign settlement—The Chinese city—The linguists in the Anglo‐Indian army—The Tientsin Club—A polyglot crowd round the bar—The English Concession—The famous Gordon Hall—The brawls in Taku Road—Dissensions among the Allied troops—The attack on the Royal Welch Fusiliers’ patrol—The siege of Tientsin—Scene of the fighting—Accuracy of the Chinese shell fire—Soldier life in the streets of Tientsin—Tommy Atkins—Peace and War—The revenge of Christianity—The “railway siding incident”

[pages 17–33]

CHAPTER III

THE ALLIED ARMIES IN CHINA

The German expeditionary force—Out‐of‐date tactics—Failure of their transport—Their campaigning dress—The German officer—The French troops—Improved training and organisation of the French army—The Russians—Endurance and bravery of the Russian soldier—Defective training—The Japanese army—Its transport system in China—Splendid infantry—The courage of the Japanese—Excellence of their Intelligence Department—Its working—The East sown with their agents—The discipline of the Japanese soldiers—Their bravery in action—Moderation in victory—Friendship for our sepoys—The American troops—Continental criticism—The American army of the future—Gallantry of the Americans at the capture of Tientsin—General Dorward’s praise—Friendship between the American and British troops—Discomfiture of an English subaltern—The Italians—Holland’s imposing contingent—The Indian army—A revelation to the world—Indian troops acting alone—Fighting qualities of the various races—The British officers of the Indian army—Organisation of an Indian regiment—Indian cavalry—Loyalty of the sepoy

[pages 34–63]

CHAPTER IV

PEKIN

To the capital—The railway journey—Von Waldersee’s introduction to our Royal Horse Artillery—The Temple of Heaven—The Temples of the Sun and Moon—The Centre of the Universe—The Chien Mên Gate—Legation Street—The Hôtel du Nord—Description of Pekin—The famous walls—The Tartar City—The Imperial City—The Forbidden City—Coal Hill—The Ming Pagoda—The streets of Pekin—A visit to the Legations—The siege—Pekin mud—A wet day—A princely palace—Chong Wong Foo—A visit to the Forbidden City—The Imperial eunuchs—Seated on the Emperor’s throne—His Majesty’s harem—A quaint notice—A giant bronze—The Imperial apartments—The Emperor’s bedroom—The Empress‐Dowager’s pavilion—Musical‐boxes and toys—Her Majesty’s bed—The Imperial Garden—The view from Coal Hill

[pages 64–94]

CHAPTER V

RAMBLES IN PEKIN

The Peitan—Defence of the Cathedral—A prelate of the Church militant—A gallant defence—Aspect of Pekin after the restoration of order—A stroll down Ha‐ta‐man Street—Street scenes—Peddlers—Jugglers—Peep‐shows and a shock—A dancing bear—Shoeing a pony—The sorrows of a Pekin shopkeeper—Silk and fan shops—A pottery store—A market‐place—A chaffering crowd—Beggars—The Legation wall—Visit to the Great Lama Temple—The outer gate—The first court—Lama priests—Rapacious beggars—The central temple—Colossal statue of Buddha—The lesser temples—Improper gods—Photographing the priests—The Temple of Confucius—A bare interior—A visit to a Pekin cloisonné factory—Method of manufacture—Deft artists—Firing—The enamel—The humiliation of China—The standards of the victors

[pages 95–114]

CHAPTER VI

THE SUMMER PALACE

Our ponies—The ride through the streets—Evil‐smelling lanes—The walls—The shattered gate‐towers—The Japanese guard—The taking of the City and relief of the Legations—The paved high‐road—A fertile country—The villages—A ruined temple—Bengal Lancers and Mounted Infantrymen—A ride through the fields—Distant view of the palace—The ornamental gate—The entrance—The sepoy guard—The outer courtyard—Bronzes on the temple verandah—A network of courts—Royal Artillery mess in the pavilion that had served as the Emperor’s prison—The shaded courtyard—Officers’ quarters looking out on the lake—A marble‐walled lake—Lotos—Boats—A walk round the lake—The covered terrace—The Bersagliere guard—Pretty summer‐houses—The Empress’s temples—The marble junk—A marble bridge—Lunch in a monarch’s prison—The hill over the lake—A lovely view—The Hall of Ten Thousand Ages—Vandalism—Shattered Buddhas—The Bronze Pagoda—The island—The distant hills—Summer quarters of the British Legation—The ride back—Tropical rain—Flooded streets—A swim

[pages 115–132]

CHAPTER VII

A TRIP TO SHANHAIKWAN

A long journey—The junction at Tong‐ku—Mud flats—A fertile country—Walled villages—Mud forts—Defended stations—The canal—Tong‐shan—The refreshment room—The coal mines—Hills—Roving brigands—Shanhaikwan—Stranded at the station—Borrowing a bed—Hunting for a meal—A Continental café—Spatch‐cocks—A woman without pride—A mosquito concert with refreshments—Rigging up a net—A surprise for the British and Russian station officers—A midnight introduction—An admiring Russian—Kind hospitality—Good Samaritans—The Gurkha mess—Fording a stream—A Russian cart—The Great Wall of China—Snipe—The forts—The old camp—The walls of the city—On the cliffs by the sea—The arrival of the Japanese fleet—A shock for a Russian dinner‐party—The sea frozen in winter—A cricket match—Shooting snipe on the cricket pitch—Dining with my Russian friends—Vodki—Mixed drinks—The wily Russian and the Newchwang railway—Tea à la Russe—Heavy rain—The line flooded—Cossacks on a raft—Cut off from everywhere—An orderly of the 3rd Bombay Cavalry—A sowar’s opinion of the Russian invasion of India—Collapsed houses—Friendly scene between Japanese soldiers and our sepoys—The floods subside—The return—Smuggling arms—Lieutenant Stirling, D.S.O.

[pages 133–168]

CHAPTER VIII

OUR STRONGHOLD IN THE FAR EAST

HONG KONG AND THE KOWLOON HINTERLAND

Importance of Hong Kong as a naval and military base—An object‐lesson of Empire—Its marvellous rise—The constant menace of famine—Cause of Hong Kong’s prosperity—Its geographical position—An archipelago—Approaching Hong Kong by sea—First view of Victoria—A crowded harbour—The mainland—The Kowloon Peninsula—The city of Victoria—Queen’s Road—The Shops, hotels, banks—The City Hall—The palatial club—The Brigade Parade Ground—The base Commissariat Officer, Major Williams, I.S.C.—The Naval Dockyard—Sir Francis Powell, K.C.M.G.—Barracks and Arsenal—The Happy Valley—A memento mori—The polo ground—Lyeemoon Pass—The southern side of the Island—The Peak—The cable tramway—View from the Peak—The residential quarter—The floating population of Hong Kong—The sampans—Their dangers in the past—The rising suburb of Kowloon—The Hong Kong regiment—The docks—The Chinese city of Kowloon—Street scenes in Hong Kong—Social amusements of the colony—Society in Hong Kong and Kowloon—The Kowloon Peninsula—Danger to Hong Kong averted by its possession—Character of the peninsula—The frontier—The Chinese territory beyond it—The taking over of the Hinterland in 1898—A small campaign—The chances of a land invasion of Hong Kong—The garrison of Hong Kong—Advisability of mounted infantry

[pages 169–201]

CHAPTER IX

ON COLUMN IN SOUTHERN CHINA

A camp on the British frontier—Fears of outbreaks in Canton—The Black Flags—Alarm in Hong Kong—General Gaselee’s troops diverted to Hong Kong and Shanghai—His authority among the Allies weakened in consequence—Wild rumours in Canton—The reform party in the south—The Triads—Rebellion in the Kwang‐tung province—Admiral Ho—Troops despatched from Hong Kong to guard the frontier—The Frontier Field Force—Its composition—The departure of the column—A picturesque voyage—An Imperial Chinese Customs gunboat—The Samchun River—War junks—Our first camp—Admiral Ho’s army—Consternation among the Chinese troops—They march away—No official maps of the Hinterland—A Customs station—Britishers in danger—Chinese‐made modern guns—A false alarm—A phantom battle—Chinese fireworks—A smart trick at the storming of the Peiyang Arsenal—A visit to Samchun—A game of bluff—Taking tea with a mandarin—Round the town—Cockroaches as a luxury—A Yankee Chinaman—A grateful escort—Terrified Chinese soldiers—An official visit to a mandarin—Southern Chinese soldiers—The Imperial troops in the north—A real alarm—A night raid—A disappointment

[pages 202–230]

CHAPTER X

IN THE PORTUGUESE COLONY OF MACAO

Early history of Macao—Its decay—A source of danger to Hong Kong—Fleet of the Hong Kong, Canton, and Macao Steamboat Company—The Heungshan and its passengers—Guarding against piracy—Macao from the sea—An awkward Chinaman—The Boa Vista Hotel—View over the city—The Praia Grande—Around the peninsula—In the Public Gardens—Administration of Macao—A night alarm—A mutinous regiment—Portuguese and Macaese society—A visit to the Governor—An adventure with the police—An arrest—Insolent treatment of British subjects—Redress—An arrest in Japan—Chinese gambling‐houses—Fan‐tan—The sights of Macao

[pages 231–255]

CHAPTER XI

A GLIMPSE OF CANTON

Hostility of Canton to foreigners—The scare in 1900—History of Canton’s relations with the outer world—Its capture and occupation by the English and French—The foreign settlement—The river journey from Hong Kong to Canton—River scenes at Canton—A floating city—Description of Canton—The streets—A visit to the shops—Feather workers—Ivory carvers—Embroidery shops—Temple of the Five Hundred Genii—Marco Polo among the gods—The prison—The cangue—Insolent prisoners—Chinese punishments—Death of a Thousand Cuts—The Temple of Horrors—The Examination Hall—Shameen—The English and French concessions—Foreign gunboats—The trade of Canton—French designs—Energy of their consuls—Our weak forbearance—An attack on Canton by river and by land

[pages 256–278]

CHAPTER XII

CHINA—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

At England’s mercy in the past—An easy and tempting prize—Patriotism unknown—The Chinaman’s wonderful love of his family—Causes of his want of patriotism—His indifference as to his rulers—The Chinese abroad—Hatred of foreigners in China—Its causes—This hatred common to all classes—A substitute for the non‐existent patriotism—Can we blame the Chinese?—A comparison—If England were like China—Our country invaded by Chinese, Coreans, Siamese, and Kamschatkans—The missionaries in China—The gospel of love becomes the doctrine of revenge—The China of the present—Tyranny and corruption—What the future may prove—Japan’s example—Japan in the past and now—What she is China may become—Intelligence of the Chinese—Their success in other countries—The Chinaman as a soldier—Splendid material—Examples: the Boxers; the Regulars who attacked Seymour and Tientsin; the military students at Tientsin; the behaviour of our Chinese Regiment under fire—Heavy losses among the Allies in the beginning of the campaign—Comparison of the Egyptian fellaheen—The Chinese army of the future—A reformed Empire

[pages 279–298]

Index

[pages 299–307]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Plan of Pekin.

Gates.

1. Chien Mên Gate. 2. Tung‐Chi Gate, attacked by the Japanese. 3. Ha‐ta‐man Gate. 4. The Water‐gate, a tunnel in the Wall between the Tartar and Chinese cities. By this the Indian troops entered the Legations. 5, 5. Nullah draining the Tartar City. 6. The English Legation. 7. The Japanese Legation. 8. The Russian Legation. 9. The American Legation. 10. The Hotel du Nord. 11, 11, 11. Ha‐ta‐man Street. 12. The Temple of Heaven. 13. Temporary railway station. 14. Railway line passing through a breach in the Wall. 15. The Temple of Agriculture, occupied by the Americans.

THE
LAND OF THE BOXERS

CHAPTER I
FROM WEI‐HAI‐WEI TO TIENTSIN

OUR transport steamed over a glassy sea along the bold and rugged coast of Shan‐tung in Northern China. Ahead of us, a confused jumble of hills dark against the setting sun, lay Wei‐hai‐wei.[1] A German steamer homeward bound from Chifu dipped her flag to the blue ensign with crossed swords flying at our peak. Close inshore an occasional junk, with weird outlines and quaint sail, lay becalmed. On our deck, lying in easy‐chairs, were a dozen officers of various branches of the Service, all bound for Pekin. Some were fresh from South African battlefields, others were there whose soldiering had been done in India or in Burma.

Among our number was a well‐known and popular military chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Hardy, author of the famous How to be Happy though Married. A living testimony to the success of his own theory, he was the most genial and delightful shipmate I have ever met. Dowered with all an Irishman’s wit and humour, he had been the life and soul of everyone on board. He had recently arrived in Hong Kong from Europe, having travelled across America, where his studied carelessness of dress and wild, untrimmed beard had been a constant source of wonderment to the smart citizens of the United States. “In Salt Lake City,” he told us, “a stranger addressed me one day in my hotel. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘would you oblige me and my friends at this table by deciding a small bet we have made?’ ‘I fear I shall be of little use,’ replied Mr. Hardy; ‘I have only just reached your city.’ ‘Not at all. The bet is about yourself. We can’t make out which of three things you are—a Mormon elder, a Boer General, or a Scotchman.’ And, faith,” added our Irish padré when he told us the tale, “I think I felt most insulted at their last guess.”

The sun went down slowly behind a chain of rugged hills. But soon before us, set in a silver sea, the island of Wei‐hai‐wei rose dark and sombre under a glorious moon. In the glistening water lay the dim shapes of several warships, their black hulls pierced with gleaming portholes. On their decks, bright with electric lamps, bands were playing, their strains swelling louder and louder as we drew near. Far off the hills of the mainland stood out sharply against the sky, with here and there below a twinkling light from the villages or the barracks of the Chinese Regiment.

As our steamer rounded a long, low point, on which lay a deserted fort, every line distinct in the brilliant moonlight, the town came into view. The houses nestled down close to the water’s edge, while above them the island rose in gentle slope to a conical peak. Our anchor plunged sullenly into the sea, and we lay at rest in England’s most Eastern harbour. Considerations of quarantine prevented us from going ashore, and we were forced to wait for daylight to see what the place was like.

Early on deck next morning we watched the mists fade away until Wei‐hai‐wei stood revealed in the strong light of the sun. Our latest possession in the East consists of a small island, called Liu‐Kung‐tao, on which stands the town. It lies about four miles from the mainland, of which a few hundred square miles has been leased to England. The harbour is sheltered to the south by the hills on the coast, to the north by the island. It affords ample anchorage for a large fleet, but could not be adequately defended without a large expenditure. During the China‐Japan War the Chinese fleet sheltered in it until routed out by the Japanese torpedo boats; while the Japanese army marched along the heights of the mainland, seized the forts on them, and, turning their guns on the island, forced its surrender.

At the end of the island, round which our transport had passed, was a small peninsula, on which stood the fort we had seen. Dismantled now, it was unused by the present garrison. Close by, on reclaimed land, lay the recreation ground; and even at the early hour at which we saw it, tennis and cricket were in full swing. Just above it, in that close proximity of life and death found ever in the East, was the cemetery, where many crosses and tombstones showed already the price we pay for empire. Near at hand was the magazine, over which a Royal Marine sentry watched. Below, to the right, lay the Naval Dockyard with a pier running out into the harbour, one destroyer alongside it, another moored a short distance out. Along the sea‐front and rising in tier after tier stood well‐built stone Chinese houses, which now, large‐windowed and improved, serve as residences, shops, and offices for Europeans. A staring whitewashed wall bore the inscription in big, black letters, “Ah Ting. Naval Dairy Farm.” A picturesque, open‐work wall with Chinese summer‐houses at either end enclosed the Club. Farther on, a little above the harbour, stone steps through walled terraces led up to the Headquarter Office, once the Yamen—a long row of single‐storied houses with a quaint gateway, on either side of which were painted grim Chinese figures of heroic size. On the terrace in front stood some large Krupp guns with shields, taken in the present campaign. The Queen’s House, as these buildings are called, divides the naval from the military quarter of the town, the latter lying to the right. A few good European bungalows sheltered the General, the Commanding Royal Engineer, and the local representative of the famous firm of Jardine, Mathieson, and Company. In the lines of Chinese houses close by were the residences of the military officers and the hotel. To the right stacks of fodder proclaimed the presence of the Indian Commissariat. Past open ground lay a small camp and a few more houses.

Above the town the island rises in terraced slopes to the summit, four to six hundred feet high, the regular outline of which was broken by mounds of upturned earth that marked the beginning of a new fort. On the hillside are long stone walls with gates at intervals, which date from the Chinese occupation, built by them, not to keep the enemy out in time of war, but to keep their own soldiers in. Well‐laid roads lead to the summit or round the island. The slopes are green with small shrubs and grass, but nothing worthy of the name of tree is apparent. Towards the eastern end were the rifle‐ranges, near which a fort was being constructed.

In the harbour was a powerful squadron of British battleships and cruisers; for Wei‐hai‐wei is the summer rendezvous of our fleet in Chinese waters.

To the south the mainland lay in a semicircle. Rugged, barren hills rise abruptly—in many places almost from the water’s edge. Where the ground slopes more gently back from the sea lines of substantial stone barracks have been erected for the Chinese Regiment, with excellent officers’ quarters and a good mess. Nestling among trees—almost the only ones to be seen on the iron‐bound coast—lies a large village. East of it a long triangle of embrasured stone wall—the base on the shore, the apex half‐way up the hill behind—guards the original town of Wei‐hai‐wei, which still owns Chinese sovereignty, though all the country round is British territory. A few good bungalows and a large and well‐built hotel mark where the future Brighton of North China has already begun to claim a recognition; for in the summer months the European residents of Tientsin, Pekin, even of Shanghai are commencing to congregate there in search of cool breezes and a healthy climate. High up above all towers the chain of rugged hills from whose summits the victorious Japanese gazed down on the wrecked Chinese fleet and the battered forts of the island. Behind it, forty miles away, lies the little‐known treaty port of Chifu with its prosperous foreign settlement.

The day advanced. From the warships in the harbour the bugle‐calls rang out merrily in the morning air, answered by the brazen clangour of the trumpets of the Royal Artillery ashore. The rattle of musketry came from the rifle‐ranges, where squads of marines were firing. Along the sea‐front tramped a guard of the Chinese Regiment. Clad in khaki with blue putties and straw hats, they marched with a soldierly swing to the Queen’s House, climbed the steps, and disappeared in the gateway. Coolies laboured at the new fortifications. Boats shot out from the pier and headed for the warships. Volumes of dense black smoke poured from the chimneys of the condensing works—for no water fit for drinking is found on the island. A cruiser steamed out from her moorings to gun‐practice in the bay. And hour after hour we waited for the coming of the Health Officer, who alone could allow us to land. But, instead, the Transport Officer arrived, bearing orders for the ship to start at once for Taku. And so, with never a chance for us to go ashore, the anchor rumbled up and out we headed by the eastern passage. As we steamed out to sea we passed the tiny Sun Island, merely a deserted fort, still showing how cruelly battered and torn it had been by the Japanese shells. Round the steep north side of the island we swung and shaped our course for Taku in the track of the Allied Fleets that had swept in vengeful haste over those same waters to the merited punishment of China. All that day we passed along a rocky and mountainous coast and in among islands of strange and fantastic shape. Here an elephant, there a lion, carved in stone lay in slumber on the placid sea. Yonder a camel reposed in Nirvana‐like abstraction. On one islet, the only sign of life or human habitation we saw, stood a lighthouse, like unto lighthouses all the world over.

Next morning we awoke to find the ship at anchor. “Taku at last,” was the cry; and, pyjama clad, we rushed on deck. To see what? Where was Taku? All around a heaving, troubled waste of muddy sea, bearing on its bosom the ponderous shapes of warships—British, French, Russian, German, Austrian, Italian, Japanese. Close by, a fleet of merchantmen flying the red ensign, the horizontal stripes of the “Vaterland,” or the red ball on white ground of the marvellous little islands that claim to be the England of the Far East. Tugs and lighters were making for a German transport, the decks of which were crowded with soldiers. But of land not a sign. For the roadstead of Taku is so shallow that no ship of any considerable draught can approach the shore, and we were then ten miles out from the coast. Passengers and cargo must be taken ashore in tugs and lighters. Only those who have seen the place can appreciate the difficulties under which the transport officers of the various armies laboured in landing men, horses, guns, and the necessary vast stores of every description. And Captain Elderton, Royal Indian Marine, well deserved the D.S.O. which rewarded him for the excellent work he performed at the beginning of the campaign; when, having successfully conveyed our expedition ashore, he was able to lend invaluable assistance to the troops of many of the Allies.

The bar at the mouth of the Peiho River, which flows into the sea at Taku, can only be crossed at high tide; so we were forced to remain on board until the afternoon. Then, embarking on a launch that had come out to meet us, we steamed in to the land through a rough and tumbling sea. As we drew near, the low‐lying shore rose into view. On each side of the entrance to the Peiho ran long lines of solid earthworks—the famous Taku Forts. Taken in reverse and bombarded by the gunboats lying in the river, gallantly assaulted by landing parties from the Allied Fleets, which, owing to the shallowness of the water, could lend no other assistance, they fell after a desperate struggle, and now from their ramparts flew the flags of the conquering nations. Here paced an Italian sentry, there a Russian soldier leaned on a quick‐firing Krupp gun; for the forts were armed with the most modern ordnance. The red coat of a British marine or the white clothing of a group of Japanese artillerymen lent a few specks of bright colour to the dingy earthworks.

Close to the entrance of the Peiho stands a tall stone building; near it is the Taku Pilots’ Club, their houses, comfortable bungalows, close at hand. Between flat, marshy shores the river winds, its banks crowded with mud huts. Farther up we passed a small dock, in which lay a gunboat flying the Russian flag. Then more gunboats—American, French, and Japanese. A few miles from the mouth of the river is Tong‐ku, the terminus of the Tientsin‐Pekin Railway. At the outset of the campaign all nationalities, except the British, had chosen this for their landing‐place and established their depôts here. As we steamed past, we looked on a scene of restless activity. Russian, French, German, and Italian soldiers were busy disembarking stores and matériel from the lighters alongside, loading railway trucks in the temporary sidings, entraining horses and guns. The English, more practical, had selected a landing‐place a few miles farther up, at Hsin‐ho. Here they found themselves in sole occupation, and the confusion inevitable among so many different nationalities was consequently absent. An excellent wharf had been built, large storehouses erected, and a siding constructed from a temporary station on the railway. Hsin‐ho was our destination. Our launch stopped at the quay, alongside which two shallow‐draught steamers and a fleet of lighters were lying. Men of the Coolie Corps were hard at work; close by stood a guard of the stalwart Punjaub sepoys of the Hong Kong Regiment. Overhead flew the Union Jack.

Our luggage was speedily disembarked. Most of our fellow‐passengers, learning that a train for Tientsin was due to leave almost at once, hurried off to the railway station, about a mile away. Three of us of the same regiment were met by a brother officer who was in charge of a detachment at Hsin‐ho. He offered us the hospitality of the station mess, composed of those employed on various duties at the place; and, desirous of seeing how the work of the disembarkation of a large force was carried out, we determined to remain for the night.

We visited Tong‐ku that afternoon, and found a marked difference in the methods prevailing there and at Hsin‐ho. The presence of so many different nationalities naturally entailed great confusion. At the railway station a very babel of languages resounded on every side.

One truck with German stores had to be detached from a goods train and sent down one siding; the next, with French cavalry horses, sent down another; a Russian and an Italian officer disputed the ownership of a third. Lost baggage‐guards stood disconsolate or wandered round aimlessly until rescued by their transport officers. Detachments of Continental troops stood helplessly waiting for someone to conduct them to their proper trains. Disorder reigned supreme.

At Hsin‐ho everything proceeded without confusion. It might have been an up‐country station in the heart of India. Comfortable huts had been built for the detachment responsible for the guard duties; and the various details were equally well accommodated. The military officers had established themselves in a stone house that had formerly been the quarters of a railway engineer. The Royal Indian Marine officers in charge of the naval transport had settled down with the readiness with which sailors adapt themselves to shore life. A line of felt‐roofed, mud huts had been turned by them into an excellent mess and quarters. A raised terrace looked down on a tennis‐court, on the far side of which a pond in the mud flats, stretching away to the horizon, boasted a couple of canoes. From a tall flagstaff that stood on the terrace floated the blue ensign and Star of India of their Service.

The railway siding ran past large and well‐built storehouses. On the river bank long lines of mules were picketed, looking in excellent condition despite the hard work they had gone through. In a little cutting in the bank was an old and tiny steam tug, which had been turned into a condenser for drinking‐water. Everything was trim and tidy. The work of disembarking the stores from the lighters in the river and putting them into the railway trucks almost alongside went on in perfect order, all in marked contrast to the confusion that prevailed at Tong‐ku.

Early next morning we were en route for Tientsin. My brother officers and I tramped down through awful mud to the long platform which was dignified by the title of “Hsin‐ho Railway Station.” A small house close by sheltered the railway employees and the telegraph staff, signallers of the Army Telegraph Department.

The train from the Tong‐ku terminus soon appeared, and as it steamed in presented a—to us—novel appearance. Leaning out of the windows was a motley crowd of many nationalities. Out of one appeared the heads of a boyish Cossack and a bearded Sikh. The next displayed the chubby face of a German soldier beside the dark features of an Italian sailor. When the train stopped, a smart Australian bluejacket stepped out of the brake‐van. He was the guard. In the corridor cars were Yagers, Austrian sailors, brawny American soldiers, baggy‐trousered Zouave and red‐breeched Chasseur d’Afrique. Sturdy little Japanese infantrymen sat beside tall Bengal Lancers. A small Frenchman chatted volubly with a German trooper from the Lost Provinces. Smart Tommy Atkins gazed in wondering disdain at the smaller Continental soldiers, or listened with an amused smile to the vitriolic comments of a Yankee friend on the manners and appearance of “those darned Dagoes.” And among them, perfectly at his ease, sat the imperturbable Chinaman, apparently a little bored but otherwise quite uninterested in the “foreign devils.”

The first‐class carriages were filled with the officers of every nation whose flag now waved on Chinese soil. Russians in white coats with flat caps and gold shoulder‐straps sat side by side with khaki‐clad Britishers; Italian officers in yellow; Frenchmen in every shade of supposed‐to‐be khaki; Germans with silver belts and sashes; Japanese with many medals and enamelled decorations on their breasts. As we entered our carriage we touched our helmets to the previous occupants—a salute which was punctiliously returned by everyone present. Settling ourselves in our seats, our interest was at first fully absorbed by the various uniforms around us; and it was some time before we could devote our attention to the scenery through which we were passing.

The train ran first over wide‐stretching mud flats, then through a level, monotonous country, flooded or covered with high crops; and, barely seen above the tall vegetation, here and there roofless houses and ruined villages showed the track of war. At every bridge and culvert stood a tent with a guard of an Indian regiment, the sentry presenting arms as the train passed. The stations along the line were numerous. Over their stone buildings floated the Union Jack, for the railway was now in British hands. On each platform the same scene presented itself. The English Staff Officer in khaki and red‐banded forage cap; the stalwart Indian sentry; a varied mob of French and German soldiers, Sikhs, Mussulmans, Chinese.

The fields of luxuriant, waving grain stretched away to the rim of the distant horizon. A trail of smoke, the tall masts of junks showed where the river wound in frequent bends. At length we passed the extensive buildings and high chimneys of the Chinese Arsenal, captured by our marines and held by the Russians; and above the trees towers and domes told that we were nearing Tientsin. Then through a gap in a big earthen wall that is twenty miles in circumference, past many sidings and long lines of iron trucks and waggons with bullet‐marked sides, eloquent of fierce fighting, we ran into the station.

A commonplace, uninteresting place at first sight—just the ordinary railway station with the usual sheds, iron bridge, offices, refreshment‐room. Yet here, not long before, white men and yellow had closed in deadly struggle, and the rails and platforms had been dyed red with the blood of heroes. The sides of the iron water‐tank, the walls of the engine‐house, were patched and repaired; for shells from the most modern guns had rained on them for days. The stone walls were loopholed and bullet‐splashed. Many of the buildings were roofless, their shattered ruins attesting the accuracy of the Chinese gunners. At yonder corner the fanatical Boxers had burst in a wild night attack, and even European soldiers had retreated before the fury of their onslaught. But the men of the hitherto untried Hong Kong Regiment, sturdy sons of the Punjaub plains or Frontier hills, had swept down on them with the cold steel and bayoneted them in and under the trucks; until even Chinese fanaticism could stand it no longer and the few survivors fled in the friendly darkness. For that brave exploit, the Subhedar Major of the corps now wears the Star of the Indian Empire. From the mud walls of that village, scarce two hundred yards away, the European‐drilled Imperial troops, armed with the latest magazine rifles, had searched with deadly aim every yard of open ground over which the defenders advanced. Across this ditch the Boxers, invincible in their mad belief, had swarmed in the face of a murderous fire, and filled it with their dead. Not a foot of ground in that prosaic railway station but had its tale of desperate fanaticism or disciplined valour.

EUROPEAN CONCESSIONS, TIENTSIN, AND THE PEIHO RIVER

CHAPTER II
TIENTSIN

THE foreign settlement of Tientsin and the Chinese city are entirely separate, and lie some distance apart. The former, resembling more a European town than an alien lodgment in the heart of the Celestial Empire, boasts wide roads and well‐kept streets, large offices and lofty warehouses, good public buildings and comfortable villas, a racecourse and a polo‐ground. It is divided into the Concessions of the various nationalities, of which the English, in size and mercantile importance, is easily first. The difference between it and the next largest—the French—is very marked. The latter, though possessing a few good streets, several hotels, and at least one long business thoroughfare with fine shops, speaks all too plainly of stagnation. The British quarter, bustling, crowded, tells just as clearly of thriving trade. In it are found most of the banks, the offices of the more considerable merchants, and all the municipal buildings.

The Chinese city, perhaps, has more charm for the lover of the picturesque, though it is less interesting now than formerly, since the formidable embrasured wall surrounding it has been pulled down by order of the Allied generals. In it stands a grim memento of another outburst of fanaticism against the hated foreigner—the ruins of the Roman Catholic Cathedral, destroyed by the Chinese in 1870. The city itself is like unto all other Celestial cities. Narrow lanes, low houses, ill‐kept thoroughfares, gaudiness and dirt intermingled, stench and filth abominable. To it, however, was wont to go the seeker after curiosities, choice silks, or rich furs from Manchuria and Corea. But the retributive looting that fell on it after its capture has left it bare indeed.

On the platform of the railway station almost the first friendly face we saw was that of perhaps the best‐known man in North China, Major Whittal, Hyderabad Contingent. Interpreter in Russian, fluent in French and German, his linguistic abilities had been responsible for his appointment to the scarcely enviable post of Railway Staff Officer at Tientsin. In a town that held the headquarters of every foreign army, where troops and stores of all kinds were despatched or arrived daily in charge of representatives of the different forces, such a position required the possession of a genius for organisation and infinite tact and patience. Even as we greeted him, French, Russian, or German officers and soldiers crowded round, to harry him with questions in divers tongues or propound problems as to the departure of troop trains or the disposal of waggons loaded with supplies for their respective armies. The Britisher is usually supposed to be the least versed of any in foreign languages. But the Continental officers were very much surprised to find how many linguists we boasted in our expeditionary force. At every important railway station we had a staff officer who was an interpreter in one or more European languages. There were many who had passed examinations in Chinese. A French major remarked to me one day: “Voilà, monsieur, we have always thought that an Englishman knows no tongue but his own. Yet we find but few of your officers who cannot converse with us in ours. Not all well, certainly; but, on the other hand, how many of us can talk with you in English? Scarcely any. And many of you speak Russian, German, or Italian.” It was not the only surprising fact they learned about the hitherto despised Anglo‐Indian army.

Leaving Major Whittal surrounded by a polyglot crowd, and handing over the luggage to our sword orderlies, we seated ourselves in rickshas and set out in search of quarters. The European settlement is separated from the railway station by the Peiho River. We crossed over a bridge of boats, which swings aside to allow the passage of vessels up or down. At either end stood a French sentry, to stop the traffic when the bridge was about to open. The stream was crowded with junks loaded with stores for the various armies, and flying the flag of the nation in whose service they were employed. A steamer lay at a wharf—an unusual sight, for few ships of any draught can safely overcome the difficulties of the shallow river. Along the far bank ran a broad road, known as the Bund, bordered with well‐built warehouses and offices. Some of these bore eloquent testimony to the severity of the Chinese shell fire during the siege. The Tricolour flew over the first houses we passed, for the French Concession lies nearest the station. At the gates of those buildings, used as barracks, lounged men of the Infanterie Coloniale, clad in loose white or blue uniforms, with large and clumsy helmets. A few hundred yards farther down we reached the English settlement, and turned up a wide street, in which was situated the fine official residence of the British Consul‐General. We arrived at last at the mess of the Hong Kong Regiment, where two of us were to find quarters. It stood in a narrow lane surrounded by houses shattered by shells during the siege. Close by were the messes of the Royal Welch Fusiliers and the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry in dark and gloomy Chinese buildings.

In the afternoon we paid our first visit to the Tientsin Club. It was crowded with representatives of almost every nationality. Britishers, Americans, French, Russians, and Austrians were clinking glasses amid a chorus of “A votre santé!” “Good health!” “Svatches doróvia!” and “Here’s how!” Even an occasional smart little Japanese officer was to be seen. Naval uniforms were almost as much in evidence as military garb; for the officers of the Allied Fleets lying off Taku varied the monotony of riding at anchor, out of sight of the land, by an occasional run ashore and a visit to Tientsin and Pekin. The utmost good fellowship prevailed among the different nationalities. French was the usual medium of intercourse between Continental officers and those of the English‐speaking races. Britishers might be seen labouring through the intricacies of the irregular verbs which had vexed their brains during schooldays, or lamenting their neglect to keep up their early acquaintance with the language of diplomacy and international courtesy. The bond of a common tongue drew the Americans and the English still more closely together, and the greatest friendship existed between all ranks of both nationalities. The heroic bravery of the sailors and soldiers of the great Republic of the West earned the praise and admiration of their British comrades, who were justly proud of the kinship that was more marked than ever during those days when the Stars and Stripes flew side by side with the Union Jack. The famous saying of the American commodore, “Blood is stronger than water,” and the timely aid given by him to our imperilled sailors in this same vexed land of China, were green in our memory. The language difficulty unfortunately prevented much intercourse with the Japanese officers. Some of them, however, were acquainted with English, and these were readily welcomed by British and Americans.

The club stands in the broad, tree‐shaded Victoria Road. Next to it is the Gordon Hall, a handsome structure famous as the refuge of the women and children during the bombardment. It contains a theatre and a public library, and is the scene of most of the festivities in Tientsin. Before its door stands an object‐lesson of the siege—two small guns of Seymour’s gallant column flanked by enormous shells captured from the Chinese. The two tall towers were a conspicuous mark for the hostile artillerymen, as was the even loftier German Club facing it. Close by are the small but pretty Public Gardens, where, in the afternoons, the bands of the various regiments used to play. Nearer the French Concession stands a large hotel, the Astor House; its long verandah was the favourite resort of the foreign officers. The groups in varied uniforms sitting round the small marble tables gave it the appearance of a Continental café—an illusion not dispelled by the courtesy which prevailed. As each new‐comer entered he saluted the company present, who all rose and bowed in reply.

Behind the Victoria Road runs the famous, or infamous, Taku Road, the scene of so many disgraceful brawls between the Allied troops. For part of its length it is lined by commercial buildings, but towards the French Concession were many houses tenanted by the frail sisterhood. Their presence attracted the worst characters among the men of the various armies, and disorder was rife. It culminated at length in a wanton attack on a small patrol of the Royal Welch Fusiliers by a drunken mob of Continental soldiers. A Japanese guard close by turned out to the aid of their English comrades, and, wasting no time in parley, dropped at once on the knee to fire into the aggressors. They were restrained with difficulty by the corporal in charge of the British patrol, who vainly endeavoured to pacify the mob. Forced at length to use their rifles in self‐defence, the Fusiliers did so to some effect. Two soldiers were killed, eight others wounded, and the remainder fled. Naturally enough, great excitement and indignation were aroused at first among the troops to which these men belonged; but it died away when the truth was known. An international court of inquiry, having carefully investigated the case, exonerated the corporal from all blame and justified his action. Such unfortunate occurrences were only to be expected among the soldiers of so many mixed nationalities, and the fact that they did not happen more frequently spoke well for the general discipline. At the end farthest from the French Concession the Taku Road ran through a number of small cafés and beer‐saloons, much patronised by the German troops, whose barracks lay close by.

The sights of the city and the foreign settlement were soon exhausted. But one never tired of watching the moving pictures of soldier life, or of visiting the scenes of the deadly fighting memorable for ever in the history of North China. The long stretches of mud flats lying between the Chinese town and the Concessions, over which shot and shell had flown for weeks; the roofless villages; the shattered houses; the loopholed and bullet‐splashed walls. There, during long days and anxious nights, the usually pacific Chinaman, spurred on by fanatic hate and lust of blood, had waged a bitter war with all the devilish cunning of his race. There the mad rushes of frenzied Boxers, reckless of life, hurling themselves fearlessly with antiquated weapons against a well‐armed foe. There the Imperial soldiers, trained by European officers, showed that their instruction had borne fruit. From every cover, natural or improvised, they used their magazine rifles with accuracy and effect. Lieutenant Fair, R.N., Flag‐Lieutenant to Admiral Seymour, told me that he has often watched them picking up the range as carefully and judiciously as a Boer marksman. And his Admiral, conspicuous in white uniform and dauntlessly exposing himself on the defences, escaped death again and again only by a miracle while men fell at his side. Nor was the shooting of the Chinese gunners to be despised. Lieutenant Hutchinson, H.M.S. Terrible, in a redoubt with two of his ship’s famous guns, engaged in a duel at three thousand yards with a Chinese battery of modern ordnance. Of six shells hurled at him, two struck the parapet in front, two fell just past his redoubt, and two almost within it. Fortunately none burst. Had the mandarins responsible for the munitions of war proved as true to their trust as the gunners, the Terrible’s detachment would have been annihilated; but when the ammunition captured afterwards from the enemy was examined, it was found that the bursting charges of the shells had been removed and replaced by sand. The corrupt officials had extracted the powder and sold it. A naval ·450 Maxim was most unpopular in the defences. Its neighbourhood was too unsafe, for whenever it opened fire the smoke betrayed it to the Chinese gunners, and shells at once fell fast around it. It had finally to be withdrawn.

But the desperate losses among the Boxers opposed to Seymour’s gallant column, the heavy fighting around Tientsin, and the capture of the city broke the back of the Chinese resistance. And when the Allied Army advanced on Pekin, no determined stand was made after the first battle. The capital, with its famous and formidable walls, fell almost without a blow. A sore disappointment to the British Siege Train, who, hurried out to South Africa to batter down the forts of Pretoria, found their services uncalled for there; and then, despatched to China for the siege of Pekin, arrived to learn that there, too, they were not needed.

The interest of the Foreign Settlement lay in the crowds that thronged its streets. Never since the occupation of Paris after Napoleon’s downfall has any city presented such a kaleidoscopic picture of varied uniforms and mixed troops of many nations. I know few things more interesting than to sit for an hour on the Astor House verandah and watch the living stream. Rickshas go by bearing officers of every army, punctiliously saluting all other wearers of epaulettes they pass. An Indian tonga bumps along behind two sturdy little ponies. After it rumbles a Russian transport cart, driven by a white‐bloused Cossack. A heavy German waggon pulls aside to make way for a carriage containing two Prussian officers of high rank. A few small Japanese mounted infantrymen trot by, looking far more in keeping with the diminutive Chinese ponies than do the tall Punjaubis who follow them. Behind them are a couple of swarthy Bombay Lancers on well‐groomed horses, gazing with all a cavalryman’s disdain at the “Mounted Foot” in front of them. And surely never was trooper of any army so picturesque as the Indian sowar. A guard of stolid German soldiers tramps by. A squad of sturdy Japanese infantry passes a detachment of heavily accoutred French troops swinging along with short, rapid strides. And at each street corner and crossing, directing the traffic, calm and imperturbable, stands the man who has made England what she is—the British private. All honour to him! Smart, trim, well set‐up, he looks a monarch among soldiers, compared with the men of other more military countries. Never have I felt so proud of Tommy Atkins as when I saw him there contrasted with the pick of the Continental armies; for all the corps that had been sent out from Europe had been specially selected to do credit to their nations. He was merely one of a regiment that had chanced to be garrisoning England’s farthest dependency in the East, or of a battery taken at random. In physique, appearance, and soldierly bearing he equalled them all. Even his cousin, the American, sturdy and stalwart as he is, could not excel him in smartness, though not behind him in courage or coolness in action. The British officer, however, in plain khaki with no adornments of rank, looked almost dowdy beside the white coats and gold shoulder‐straps of the Russian or the silver belts and sashes of the German. But gay trappings nowadays are sadly out of place in warfare.

PUBLIC GARDENS AND GORDON HALL IN THE VICTORIA ROAD, ENGLISH CONCESSION

And though within a few miles the broken Chinese braves and routed Boxers, formed into roving bands of robbers, swooped down upon defenceless villages, and heavily accoutred European soldiers trudged wearily and fruitlessly after them over impossible country, life in Tientsin flowed on unheeding in all the gay tranquillity of ordinary garrison existence. Entertainments in the Gordon Hall, convivial dinners, polo, races, went on as though the demon of war had been exorcised from the unhappy land. Yet grim reminders were not wanting; scarcely a day passed without seeing a few miserable prisoners brought in from the districts round. Poor wretches! Many of them were villagers who had been driven into brigandage by the burning of their houses and the ruin of their fields as the avenging armies passed. Some were but the victims of treacherous informers, who, to gain a poor reward or gratify a petty spite, denounced the innocent. And, with pigtails tied together, cuffed and hustled by their pitiless captors, they trudged on to their doom with the vague stare of poor beasts led to the slaughter. A hurried trial, of which they comprehended nothing, then death. Scarce knowing what was happening, each unhappy wretch was led forth to die. Around him stood the fierce white soldiers he had learned to dread. Cruel men of his own race bound his arms, flung him on his knees, and pulled his queue forward to extend his neck. The executioner, too often a pitiful bungler, raised his sword. The stroke fell; the head leapt from the body; the trunk swayed for an instant, then collapsed on the ground.

EXECUTION OF A BOXER BY THE FRENCH[page 28

Yet for many of them such a death was all too merciful. No race on earth is capable of such awful cruelty, such hellish devices of torture, as the Chinese. And the unfortunate missionaries, the luckless wounded soldiers who fell into their hands, experienced treatment before which the worst deviltries of the Red Indian seemed humane. Occasionally some of these fiends were captured by the Allies; often only the instruments, but sometimes the instigators of the terrible outrages on Europeans, the mandarins who had spurred on the maddened Boxers to their worst excesses. For these no fitting punishment could be devised, and a swift death was too kind. But in the latter days of the campaign too many suffered an unmerited fate. The blood heated by the tales of Chinese cruelty at the outbreak of the troubles did not cool rapidly. The murders of the missionaries and civil engineers, of the unhappy European women and children, could not be readily forgotten. The seed sown in those early days of the fanatical outburst bore a bitter fruit. The horrors that war inevitably brings in its train were aggravated by the memory of former treachery and the difficulty of distinguishing between the innocent and the guilty. A very slight alteration of dress sufficed to convert into a harmless peasant the Boxer whose hands were red with the blood of defenceless Europeans, or of Chinese Christians whose mangled bodies had choked the river.

The echoes of a greater struggle at the other side of the globe filled the ears of the world when the defenders of Tientsin were holding fanatical hordes of besiegers at bay. And so, few in Europe realised the deadliness of the fighting around the little town where hundreds of white women and children huddled together in terror of a fate too dreadful for words. The gallant sailors and marines who guarded it knew that on them alone depended the lives and honour of these helpless ones. Day and night they fought a fight, the like of which has scarcely been known since the defenders of the Residency at Lucknow kept the flag flying in similar straits against a not more savage foe. Outmatched in armament, they opposed small, almost out‐of‐date guns to quick‐firing and large‐calibre Krupps of the latest pattern. Outnumbered, stricken by disease, assailed by fierce hordes without and threatened by traitors within, they held their own with a heroism that has never gained the meed of praise it deserved. From the walls of the Chinese city, a few thousand yards away, and from the ample cover across the narrow river, shells rained on the unprotected town, and its streets were swept by close‐range rifle fire. All national rivalries forgotten, Americans, Russians, British, French, Germans, and Japanese fought shoulder to shoulder against a common foe. Admiral Seymour’s heroic column, baffled in its gallant dash on Pekin, and battling savagely against overwhelming numbers, fell slowly back on the beleaguered town. The Hsi‐ku Arsenal, a few miles from Tientsin, barred the way, guarded by a strong and well‐armed force of Imperial soldiers. The desperate sailors nerved themselves for a last supreme effort. Under a terrible fire the British marines, under Major Johnstone, R.M.L.I., flung themselves on the defences and drove out the enemy with the bayonet. Then, utterly exhausted, its ammunition almost spent, the starving column halted in the Arsenal, unable to break through the environing hordes of besiegers who lay between it and Tientsin. A gallant attempt made by two companies of our marines to cut their way through was repulsed with heavy loss. The Chinese made several attempts to retake the Arsenal. A welcome reinforcement of close on two thousand Russian troops from Port Arthur had enabled the besieged garrison of Tientsin to hold out. A relieving force was sent out to bring in the decimated column, utterly prostrated by the incessant fighting. An eye‐witness of their return, Mr. Drummond, Chinese Imperial Customs, who fought with the Tientsin Volunteers throughout the siege, told me that the condition of Seymour’s men was pitiable in the extreme. Worn out and weak, shattered by the terrible trials they had undergone, they had almost to be supported into the town. For sixteen days and nights they had been battling continuously against a well‐armed and enterprising foe. Their provisions had run out, and they had been forced to sustain life on the foul water of the river, which was filled with corpses, and on stray ponies and mules captured by the way. Out of 1,945 men they had 295 casualties. As soon as the sailors and marines of the returned column were somewhat recovered from their exhaustion, the Allied Forces moved out to attack the native city of Tientsin, which was surrounded by a strong and high wall, and defended by over sixty guns, most of them very modern ordnance. Covered by a terrific bombardment from the naval guns, which had come up from the warships at Taku, the little army, 5,000 strong, hurled itself on the doomed city. But so fierce was the Chinese defence that for a day and a night it could barely hold its own. But before sunrise the Japanese sappers blew open the city gate, under a heavy fire. The Allies poured in through the way thus opened to them, and the surviving defenders fled, having lost 5,000 killed and wounded. The Allies themselves, out of a total force of 5,000, had nearly 800 casualties. The enemy’s stronghold captured, the siege of the European settlements was raised after a month of terrible stress.

Between the railway station and the river lies a small stretch of waste ground, a few hundred yards in extent. Here arose the famous “Railway Siding incident.” The Russians claimed it as theirs “by right of conquest,” although it had always been recognised as the property of the railway company. An attempt to construct a siding on it from the station brought matters to a crisis. A Russian guard was promptly mounted on it, and confronted by a detachment of Indian troops under the command of Lieutenant H. E. Rudkin, 20th Bombay Infantry. The situation in which this young subaltern was placed demanded a display of tact and firmness which might well have overtaxed the resources of an older man. But with the self‐reliance which the Indian Army teaches its officers he acquitted himself most creditably in a very trying position. Then ensued a period of anxious suspense when no man knew what the morrow might bring forth. But calm counsels fortunately prevailed. These few yards of waste ground were not judged worth “the bones of a single grenadier,” and the question was taken from the hands of the soldier and entrusted to the diplomat.

CHAPTER III
THE ALLIED ARMIES IN CHINA

TO a soldier no city in the world could prove as interesting as Tientsin from the unequalled opportunity it presented of contrasting the men and methods of the Allied Armies. And the officers of the Anglo‐Indian forces saw with pride that they had but little to learn from their Continental brothers‐in‐arms. In organisation, training, and equipment our Indian Army was unsurpassed. Clad in the triple‐proof armour of self‐satisfaction, the soldiers of Europe have rested content in the methods of 1870. The effects of the increased range and destructive power of modern weapons have not been appreciated by them. Close formations are still the rule, and the history of the first few battles in the next European war will be a record of terrible slaughter. The lessons of the Boer campaign are ignored. They ascribe the failures and defeats of the British forces to the defective training and want of morale of our troops, and disdain to learn from a “nation of farmers.”

The world has long believed that the German Army is in every respect superior to all others. But those who saw its China expeditionary force—composed though it was of picked troops and carefully selected officers—will not agree with this verdict. Arriving too late for the serious fighting—for there were no German troops in the Allied Army which relieved the Legations—it could only be criticised from its behaviour in garrison and on a few columns which did not meet with very serious opposition. All nationalities had looked forward eagerly to the opportunity of closely observing a portion of the army which has set the fashion in things military to Europe during the past thirty years. But I think that most of those who had hoped to learn from it were disappointed.

The German authorities are still faithful to the traditions of close formations and centralisation of command under fire. Unbroken lines in the attack are the rule, and no divergence from the straight, forward direction, in order to take advantage of cover lying towards a flank, is authorised. The increased destructive power given by low trajectory to modern firearms does not seem to be properly understood by them. The creeping forward of widely extended and irregularly advancing lines of skirmishers, seizing every cover available within easy reach, is not favoured; and the dread of the effect of cavalry charges on the flanks of such scattered formations still rules the tactics of the attack. The development of the initiative of the soldier, of his power of acting for himself under fire, is not striven after. In steady, mechanical drill the German private is still pre‐eminent, but in wide extensions he is helpless without someone at his elbow to give him orders. One of the Prussian General Staff—sent out as a Special Service Officer—argued seriously with me that even when advancing over open ground against an entrenched enemy armed with modern rifles, it would be impossible to extend to more than an interval of one pace, “as otherwise the captain could not command his company.”

Those in high places in Germany probably appreciate the lessons of the South African campaign. But the difficulty of frontal assaults in close formations on a well‐defended position, the impossibility of battalion or company commanders directing the attack in the firing line at close ranges, the necessity of training men to act for themselves when near the enemy, have not struck home to the subordinate grades. Viewed in the light of our experiences in the Boer War and on the Indian Frontier, their adherence to systems that we have proved disastrous before modern weapons stamps their tactics as antiquated. “Entrenching,” another staff officer said to me, “is contrary to the spirit of the German Army. Our regulations now force us to employ the spade, but our tradition will always be to trust to the bayonet.” And I thought of another army, which also used to have a decided liking for the same weapon, and which had gone to South Africa in the firm belief that cold steel was the only weapon for use in war!

The German officers were very smart in their bearing and dress. Their khaki uniforms were similar to ours, the coats well made; but the clumsy cut of their riding breeches offends the fastidious eyes of the horsey Britisher, who is generally more particular about the fit of this garment than any other in his wardrobe. The product of despotic militarism in a land where the army is supreme and the civilian is despised, the German officers are full of the pride of caste. In China they were scarcely inclined to regard those of the other allied troops as equals. The iron discipline of their army does not encourage intercourse between the various ranks. The friendly association of English officers with their men in sports is inexplicable to them; and that a private should excel his superior in any pastime is equivalent, in their opinion, to the latter at once forfeiting the respect of his subordinate. When a team of British officers in Tientsin were training for a tug‐of‐war against those of the Pekin garrison in the assault‐at‐arms at the Temple of Heaven, they used to practise with a team of heavy non‐commissioned officers. A German captain said to a British subaltern who was taking part:

“Is it possible that you allow your soldiers to compete against officers even in practice?”

“Certainly,” replied the Englishman.

“But of course you always beat them?”

“Not at all,” was the answer. “On the contrary, they generally beat us.”

“But surely that is a mistake,” said the scandalised Prussian. “They must in that case inevitably lose all respect for you.” And nothing could convince him that it was not so.

As the German military officer does not as a rule travel much abroad, the realisation of England’s predominance beyond the seas seemed to come on those in China almost as a surprise. One remarked to a member of the staff of our Fourth Brigade:

“Our voyage out here has brought home to most of us for the first time how you English have laid your hands on all parts of the earth worth having. In every port we touched at since we left Germany, everywhere we coaled, we found your flag flying. Gibraltar, Malta, Aden, Colombo, Singapore, Hong Kong—all British.”

FRENCH COLONIAL INFANTRY MARCHING THROUGH THE FRENCH CONCESSION, TIENTSIN

“Yes,” added another, “we have naturally been accustomed to regard our own country as the greatest in the world. But outside it we found our language useless. Yours is universal. I had said to myself that Port Said, at least, is not British; but there, too, your tongue is the chief medium of intercourse. Here in China, even the coolies speak English, or what they intend to be English.”

GERMAN OFFICERS WELCOMING FIELD‐MARSHAL COUNT VON WALDERSEE AT THE RAILWAY STATION, TIENTSIN

[page 38

The German organisation—perfect, perhaps, for Europe, where each country is a network of roads and railways—was not so successful in China. For the first time the leading military nation was brought face to face with the difficulties involved in the despatch of an expedition across the sea and far from the home base. And its mistakes were not few. Their contingent found themselves at first devoid of transport and dependent on the kindness of the other armies for means to move from the railway. One projected expedition had to be long delayed because the German troops could not advance for this reason, until the English at length furnished them with the necessary transport. The enormous waggons they brought with them were useless in a country where barrows are generally the only form of wheeled transport possible on the very narrow roads. Their knowledge of horse‐mastership was not impressive, their animals always looking badly kept and ill‐fed.

The first German troops despatched to China were curiously clothed. Their uniform consisted of ill‐fitting tunics and trousers made of what looked like coarse, bright yellow sacking, with black leather belts and straw hats shaped like those worn by our Colonials, the broad brim caught up on one side and fastened by a metal rosette of the German colours. Later on all were clothed in regular khaki, and wore helmets somewhat similar to the British pattern, but with wider brims. The square portion covering the back of the neck was fastened by hinges, so that the helmet was not tilted over the wearer’s eyes when he lay down to fire, which is the great disadvantage of our style of headgear. Some of the officers wore silver sashes and belts which looked out of place on khaki, the embodiment of severe simplicity in campaigning dress.

The physique of the German soldiers was very good, but they were members of a comparatively small contingent picked from an enormous army. To those used to the smart and upright bearing of the British private their careless and slouching gait seemed slovenly. But on parade they moved like automatons. A curious phase in the relations of the Allies was the intimacy which prevailed between the men of the French and German troops. In the French Concession numbers of them were to be constantly seen fraternising together, strolling arm‐in‐arm in the streets, or drinking in the cafés. This was chiefly owing to the fact that many in either army could speak the language of the other. But this intimacy did not extend to the commissioned ranks.

The vast increase in their mercantile marine of late years enabled the Germans to transport their troops in their own vessels. The Russians, on the other hand, were frequently forced to employ British ships, although the bulk of their forces in North China did not come from Europe by sea, but was furnished by the Siberian Army.

The German Navy took a prominent part in the China imbroglio. The Iltis was well to the fore in the bombardment of the Taku forts by the gunboats in the Peiho. In the assault by the storming parties from the Allied Fleet 130 German sailors shared, and lost 6 killed and 15 wounded; 200 more accompanied Seymour’s column on the advance to Pekin. The Navy of the Fatherland possesses the immense advantage of being very modern and homogeneous, and is consequently quite up to date. Even at its present strength it is a formidable fighting machine. If the Kaiser’s plans are realised, and it is increased to the size he aims at, Germany will play a prominent rôle in any future naval complications.

English officers are frequently accused of a lack of interest in their profession from not acquainting themselves with the problems which arise in contemporary campaigns, the course of which many persons believe that they do not follow. But we found a singular want of knowledge of the history and events of the South African campaign among the commissioned grades of the Allied Armies. I understood the crass ignorance of Continental peoples with regard to the Boer War after a conversation with a foreign staff officer. I had asked him what he thought had been the probable strength of the Republican forces at the beginning of the campaign.

“Ah, that I know precisely,” he replied. “I have heard it from an officer in our army, now in China, who served with the Boers. I can state positively on his authority that your antagonists were never able to put into the field, either at the beginning of the war or at any other time, more than 30,000 men. The total populations of both States could not produce any greater number capable of carrying a rifle.”

“And how many do you think they have in the field now?” I asked. This was in August, 1901.

“About 25,000.”

“But surely,” I argued, “after nearly two years of fighting their losses must amount to more than 5,000 between killed, wounded, and captured.”

“Not at all. Perhaps not even that.”

“Then you apparently do not know,” I said, “that we have about 30,000 or 40,000 prisoners or surrendered men in St. Helena, South Africa, Ceylon, and India.”

“Oh, but you have not,” he said, with a politely incredulous smile; “two or three thousand at most. In our army we are not ignorant of the course of the campaign. We read our newspapers carefully.”

I ceased to wonder at the ignorance of his nation when he, a Staff and Special Service Officer, was so ill‐informed.

The French Army in China suffered some loss of prestige in the beginning through their first contingent, composed of Infanterie Coloniale and others sent up from l’Indo‐Chine. Long service in unhealthy tropical climates had rendered the men debilitated and fever‐stricken. They were by no means fair samples of the French soldier, and certainly not up to the standard of the troops which came out later from France. The Zouaves and Chasseurs d’Afrique, particularly, were excellent. Both are crack corps, and were much admired, the physique of the men being very good. The latter were fine specimens of European cavalry, good riders, well mounted; but their horses seemed too heavily weighted, especially for service in hot climates.

The infantry were weighed down by an extraordinarily heavy pack, which they carried on nearly all duties—mounting guard, marching, even in garrison. They were trained in the same obsolete close formations as the Germans; but, with the traditional aptitude for loose fighting which dates from the days of Napoleon’s tirailleurs, they can adapt themselves much more rapidly to extended order.

The French officers, though not so well turned out as the Germans, were much more friendly and agreeable. There was a good deal of intercourse between them and the Britishers. Their manner of maintaining discipline was very different to our ideas on the subject. I have seen one of them box the ears of his drunken orderly who had assaulted the Indian servant of an English officer, and who, considering himself aggrieved at being reprimanded by his master, had staggered up to him to tell him so.

The training and organisation of the French Army has immensely improved since the disastrous campaign of 1870. A soldier serves first in the Active Army, then in the Reserve of the Active Army, where he is called up for training somewhat on the lines of our Militia. He is then passed into the Territorial Army, where he is not allowed to forget what he has learned with the colours. Finally he is enrolled in the Reserve of the Territorial Army, and is still liable to be summoned to defend his country in emergency. A regiment has all its equipment and stores in its own keeping; so that, when suddenly ordered on active service, there is no rush to indent upon the Commissariat or Ordnance Departments. Its reservists join at regimental headquarters, where they find everything ready for them, and take their places as though they had never quitted the colours. In marching powers, at least, no troops in Europe surpass the French; and legs are almost as useful as arms in modern warfare, where wide flanking détours and extended movements will be the rule in future.

France’s long experience of colonies and wars beyond the sea rendered the organisation and fitting out of her expeditionary force an easier task than some other nations found it. The men were always cheerful; and the French soldier is particularly handy at bivouacking and fending for himself on service.

The Russian troops were composed of big, heavy, rather fleshy men. Unintelligent and slow, for the most part, they were determined fighters, but seemed devoid of the power of initiative or of thinking for themselves. I doubt if the Muscovite soldier is much more advanced than his Crimean predecessor. The men of the Siberian army may be best described as cheerful savages, obedient under an iron discipline, but not averse to excesses when not under the stern hand of authority, especially when their blood has been heated by fighting. The great power of the Russian soldier lies in his wonderful endurance under privations that few other European troops could support. I should be sorry to offer Englishmen the meagre fare on which he manages to exist. His commissariat rations were anything but lavish in China, and had to be supplemented by the men themselves by foraging. Yet those whom I saw in North China and Manchuria looked well fed and almost fat.

Their respect for, and faith in, their officers is admirable. Their religion is a living force to their simple natures. Once, in Newchwang, in Manchuria, I passed a small Russian church in which a number of their troops were attending a Mass of the gorgeous Greek ritual. Their rifles were piled outside under the charge of a sentry. Helmet in hand he was devoutly following the service through the open window, crossing himself repeatedly and joining in the prayers of the congregation inside. I am afraid that such a sight would be very rarely seen at a church parade in our army.

Of the courage of the Russians there can be no doubt. Their behaviour during the stern fighting around Tientsin was admirable. The European settlements owed their preservation largely to the timely reinforcements which arrived from Port Arthur at a time of deadly peril. When Admiral Seymour started on his desperate attempt to relieve the Legations, he left behind at Tientsin a small number of British sailors and marines under Captain Bayly, H.M.S. Aurora, with orders to hold the town, so that his column, if defeated, might have some place to fall back on. When, after his departure, the Concessions were suddenly assailed, the commanding officers of the other Allies were of opinion that the defence of the settlements was hopeless, and advocated a retirement on Taku. Captain Bayly pointed out the peril to which the Relieving Column would be exposed if repulsed and forced to fall back only to find Tientsin in the hands of the Chinese. His remonstrances had no effect. Then the dauntless sailor, with true British grit, declared that the others might go if they wished. He had been ordered to remain in Tientsin, and remain he would. He would not desert his admiral even if left alone to hold the town with his handful of Britishers. I have it on his own authority that the Russian commander was the first to applaud his resolution and declare that he and his men would stay with the English to the end. His action turned the scale, and all remained to defend Tientsin and save Seymour’s gallant but unfortunate column.

Though the Russian officers exceed even the Germans in the severity with which they treat their men, there is, nevertheless, more of a spirit of comradeship existing between the higher and lower ranks. This is truer, perhaps, of the European army than the Siberian, which was more employed in the China campaign, and is inferior to the former, especially the splendid Guards corps. The officers were fine men physically, but seemed in military training rather behind those of the other Allies.

Profiting by the experience gained in their previous campaign against China, the Japanese Army arrived well equipped in 1900. As long as road or river was available, their transport system of carts and boats was excellent; but when it came to flying columns moving across country the Indian mule train was superior. Beginning the war in white uniform, the disadvantages of such a conspicuous dress were soon evident, and khaki was substituted. The men were well clothed, and carried a horsehide knapsack containing the usual necessaries and an extra pair of boots.

The cavalry, consisting as it does of small men on undersized animals, would be of little use in shock tactics. It would be far more useful converted into mounted infantry, for their infantry earned nothing but praise. Small, sturdy, easily fed, and capable of enduring an extraordinary amount of hardship, they were ideal foot soldiers. Recruited among an agricultural population, inhabitants of a mountainous country, they were inured to toil and fatigue. Under a load that few white men could carry they tramped long distances, arriving at the end of the march apparently not in the least exhausted. Their racial respect for superiors has bred a perfect spirit of unquestioning discipline. Their high patriotism and almost fanatical courage endow them with an absolute contempt of death, and their heroic bravery extorted the admiration even of such unfriendly critics as the Russians. Trained in German methods, their army suffers from all the defects of the hide‐bound Teutonic system. In the attack on some fortified villages held by banditti, after Major Browning’s death in a preliminary skirmish, two Japanese companies advanced in line with the 4th Punjaub Infantry. Under a fierce fire from 4,000 brigands, armed with Mannlichers and ensconced behind walls, the Indian troops extended to ten or twelve paces. The Japanese came on in single rank, almost shoulder to shoulder. They lost four times as many as the Punjaubis, but never wavered for an instant, closing in mechanically as their comrades fell, and almost outstripping our sepoys in the final charge that carried the position. Though many of their officers have realised that the day of close formations is past, they have not sufficient confidence in the ability of their men to fight independently yet; while they know that no amount of slaughter will dismay them in an attack. Besides, in China they were anxious to blood them well and to show to their European critics the splendid fighting quality of their soldiers, and prove that they were worthy to combat with or against any troops in the world.

The organisation, equipment, and material of the Japanese Army leave little to be desired. Their engineers and artillery are well trained, and both rendered good service to the Allies in 1900. Their Intelligence Department had been brought to a high standard of efficiency; and its perfection astonishes those who are permitted to gain a glimpse of its working. The whole East is sown with its spies. When the Legations were threatened, Japanese who had been working at inferior trades in Pekin came in and revealed themselves as military officers who for months or years had been acquainting themselves with the plans, the methods, and the strength of China.

The discipline of Japanese soldiers in small things as well as great is admirable. I have often watched crowded troop‐trains arriving at the Shimbashi railway terminus in Tokio. The men sat quietly in their places until the order to leave the carriages was given. Then, without noise or confusion, they got out, fell in on the platforms, piled arms, fell out, and remained near their rifles without chattering; indeed, with hardly a word except in an undertone. Prompt and unquestioning obedience in everything is the motto of the Japanese soldier. Their courage at the storming of Tientsin city, on the march to the capital, and at the capture of Pekin won the admiration of all the Allies, and their behaviour and self‐restraint in the hour of victory were equalled only by their gallantry in action. No charges of cruelty to inoffensive peasants or women and children could be substantiated against them; and they treated the conquered Chinese with great kindness. They employed their prisoners to work for them and paid them liberally for their labour. Their conduct in garrison was admirable. Well armed and equipped, well officered and led, the Japanese Army is now a powerful fighting machine, and would prove a formidable enemy or a useful ally in the field.

Throughout the campaign a remarkable spirit of comradeship existed between the Japanese and the Indian troops. The Gurkhas were their especial friends. So like in appearance that it points to a common ancestry in the past, they hailed each other as relatives, and seemed quite puzzled to find no resemblance in the languages. This did not seem to slacken their friendship; and it was amusing to see a mingled group of the two races chatting together in an animated manner, neither understanding a word of the other’s tongue.

UNITED STATES CAVALRYMAN

The men of the American Army were equalled in physique only by the Australian Contingent and our Royal Horse Artillery. Their free‐and‐easy ideas on the subject of discipline, the casual manner in which a private addressed an officer, astonished and shocked their Continental critics. I heard the remark of a German officer who, after a slight acquaintance with their ways, exclaimed, “That an army? Why, with the Berlin Fire Brigade I would conquer the whole of America!” The speech was so typically German! But the men, accustomed to think and act for themselves, were ideal individual fighters; and for scouting, skirmishing, and bush‐whacking could not easily be surpassed. Their troops in China consisted at first mainly of marines and regiments diverted when on their way to the Philippines, and consequently were not well equipped for a long campaign. But soon after the outset of the expedition all deficiencies were made good and ample supplies were forthcoming, their hospitals especially being almost lavishly furnished with all requirements.

The new American Army, like their excellent go‐ahead Navy, is a force to be reckoned with in the future. We hear much of the effects of “influence” in our army. It is nothing compared to what goes on in the American. With them to be the near connection of a Senator or a prominent politician is infinitely more advantageous than to be the scion of a ducal line or the son of a Commander‐in‐Chief with us.

If the Continental troops suffer from too rigid a discipline, which destroys the power of thinking for themselves in the lower ranks, the Americans, perhaps, err on the other side. They are too ready to act on their own responsibility, to question the wisdom of the orders they receive, and act, instead, as seems best to themselves. This was particularly evident in the case of the volunteer regiments in the Philippines; but instances of it were not wanting among the regulars and marines in North China. Democracy is impossible in an army. But the material at the service of the United States is unquestionably magnificent; and when the pressure of events in the future has called into being and welded together a really large army in America, there are few nations that can hope to oppose it successfully in the field. How rapidly the sons of the Star‐spangled Banner acquire the art of war was evidenced in Cuba and in the more difficult and trying guerilla campaign in the Philippines. Their faults were those of inexperience.

Of their courage there can be no doubt. At the taking of Tientsin city nearly a thousand American infantry and marines served with the British under General Dorward. In a letter to their commander this officer warmly expressed the honour he, in common with all his men, felt in serving alongside the American troops. In his own words, “they formed part of the front line of the British attack, and so had more than their fair share of the fighting. The ready and willing spirit of both officers and men, their steady gallantry and power of holding on to exposed positions, made them soldiers of the highest class.” What greater praise could be given them? And well they deserved it! Two companies of the 9th Infantry (U.S.A.), attacked in front and flank by a merciless fire, held gallantly to their ground until nightfall with a loss of half their number in killed and wounded, including their brave leader, Colonel Liscum, who met a hero’s death at the head of his men. In all the actions of the campaign the American troops distinguished themselves by conspicuous bravery; and the British recognised with pride and pleasure the gallantry of their cousins. May we always fight shoulder to shoulder with, but never against, them!

Great camaraderie existed between the Americans and the English troops. The sons of the Stars and Stripes amply repaid the disdain of the Continental officers with a contempt that was almost laughable. They classified the Allies as white men and “Dagoes.” The former were the Americans and the British, the latter the other European contingents. They distinguished between them though, and the terms “Froggie Dago,” “Sauerkraut Dago,” “Macaroni Dago,” and “Vodki Dago” left little doubt in the hearer’s mind as to which nationality was meant.

I heard a good story of an encounter between a young English subaltern and an American in North China. I fancy the same tale is told of a Colonial in South Africa; but it is good enough to bear repetition. The very youthful Britisher, chancing to pass a Yankee soldier who was sitting down and made no motion to rise, considered himself affronted at the private’s failure to salute him. He turned back indignantly and addressed the offender.

“Look here, my man, do you know who I am?”

“No—o—o,” drawled the American.

“Well, I’m a British officer.”

“Air ye naow?” was the reply. “Waal, sonny, you’ve got a soft job. See you don’t get drunk and lose it.”

The subaltern walked on.

Of the Italian Expeditionary Force, which was not numerically very strong, I saw little; but all spoke well of them. The famous Bersagliere, the cocks’ plumes fluttering gaily in their tropical helmets, were smart, sturdy soldiers.

I regret never having had an opportunity of seeing the contingent which Holland, not to be outdone by the other European Powers, despatched to the East. This nation was also determined to show its power to the world. So a Dutch Expeditionary Corps was equipped and sent out. It consisted of a sergeant and ten men.

The Indian Field Force was a revelation to Europe. Friend and foe realised for the first time that in the Indian army England has a reserve of immense value. While our Continental rivals fancied that our hands were tied by the South African war, and that we could take no part in the Chinese complication, they were startled to see how, without moving a soldier from Great Britain, we could put into the field in the farthest quarter of the globe a force equal to any and superior to most. It was mobilised and despatched speedily and without a hitch. The vessels for its transport were all available from the lines that ply from Calcutta and Bombay, and no ship was needed from England. The bluejackets and marines with half a battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, already on the spot, and two batteries with some Engineers were all the white troops we had until gallant Australia sent her splendid little contingent as an earnest of what she could and would do if required.

Previous to the expedition of 1900, the Indian army was never allowed to engage in war without a strong backing of British troops. And even its own officers scarcely dared to allow themselves to believe that without such leavening their men could successfully oppose a European army. But now that they have seen them contrasted with the pick of Continental soldiers, they know that they could confidently lead their Sikhs, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Pathans, or Punjaubis against the men of any other nation. Not only is the Indian army as well equipped and organised as any it could now be called upon to face, but also the fighting races of our Eastern Empire, led by their British officers, are equal to any foe. The desperate battles of the Sikh War, when, as in the fierce struggle of Chillianwallah, victory often hung wavering in the balance, the determined resistance of the mutinous troops in 1857, show that skilful leadership is all that our sepoys need to enable them to encounter the best soldiers of any nation.

GERMAN AND INDIAN SOLDIERS

India is a continent—not a country—composed of many races that differ far more than European nationalities. A Russian and an Englishman, a Swede and an Italian are nearer akin, more alike in appearance, manners, and modes of thought than a Gurkha and a Pathan, a Sikh and a Mahratta, a Rajput and a Madrassi. It follows that the fighting value of all these various races of India is not the same. No one would seek among the Bengali babus or the Parsees of Bombay for warriors. The Madras sepoy, though his predecessors helped to conquer India for British rule, has fallen from his high estate and is no longer regarded as a reliable soldier. Yet the wisdom of the policy which relegated him of late years altogether to the background during war may be questioned. For the Madras sappers and miners, who alone of all the Madras army have been constantly employed, have always proved satisfactory. But the fiat has gone forth; and the Madrassi will be gradually replaced even in his own presidency by the men of the more martial races of the North. The Mahratta, who once struck terror throughout the length and breadth of Hindustan, is considered by some critics to be no longer useful as a fighting man. But they forget that not so long ago in the desperate battles near Suakin, when even British troops gave back before the mad rushes of fanatical Dervishes, the 28th Bombay Pioneers saved a broken square from imminent destruction by their steadfast bravery. And they were Mahrattas then. Of the excellence of the gallant warrior clans of Rajputana, of the fierce Pathans inured to fighting from boyhood, of the sturdy, cheerful, little Gurkhas, the steady, long‐limbed Sikhs, none can doubt. Hard to conquer were they in the past; splendid to lead to battle now. To Lord Roberts is chiefly due the credit of welding together the Indian army and making it the formidable fighting machine it is.

One great factor of its efficiency is the excellence of its British officers. Early placed in a position of responsibility, they rapidly learn to rely on themselves and act, if need be, on their own initiative. In a British regiment an officer may serve twenty years without commanding more than a company; whereas the Indian army subaltern, before he has worn a sword three years, may find himself in command of his battalion on field‐days, in manœuvres, sometimes even in war. In the stern fighting at the Malakand in the beginning of the Tirah campaign, one Punjaub regiment was commanded by a subaltern, who acquitted himself of his difficult task with marked ability. Unlike the system of promotion that exists in the British army, the English officers of the native corps attain the different grades after a certain number of years’ service—nine for captain, eighteen for major, twenty‐six for lieutenant‐colonel—and may occupy any position in their regiments irrespective of the rank they hold.

An Indian infantry battalion consists of eight companies, each under a native officer, termed a subhedar, with a jemadar or lieutenant to assist him. He is responsible for the discipline and interior economy of his company. The senior native officer is known as the subhedar‐major. Instead of the terms lance‐corporal, corporal, sergeant, and sergeant‐major, lance‐naik, naik, havildar, and havildar‐major are the names of the corresponding grades.

The British officers practically form the staff of the regiment. The former number of eight has been recently increased to eleven, twelve, and thirteen, according to the presidency to which the corps belongs, those of the Punjaub—being nearest the danger zone of frontier wars and threatened invasion—possessing the largest number. The eight companies are grouped in four double companies—the double company commander (a British officer) having almost complete control of his unit. The commanding officer of the battalion mainly restricts himself to seeing that the training of each portion of the regiment is identical and efficient. Each corps possesses a commanding officer, four double company commanders, an adjutant, a quartermaster, and the remainder are known as double company officers.

The organisation of a native cavalry regiment is very similar, the terms squadron and squadron‐commander replacing double company and double company commander. In most of the corps the sowar, as the Indian cavalry private is called—sepoy being employed to denote an infantryman—is usually the owner of his horse; and direct commissions to native gentlemen are of more frequent occurrence in the cavalry than in the infantry. Regimental transport consists of baggage‐ponies or mules, so that an Indian mounted corps is particularly mobile.

Foreign officers in North China at first made light of our Indian soldiers; but they were not those who had seen them fight in the early days of the campaign. For one arm, however, there was nothing but praise. All agreed that our native cavalry was excellent. Even German officers acknowledged that in smartness, horsemanship, and efficiency it could not easily be surpassed. The work done by the 1st Bengal Lancers in the advance on Pekin and afterwards could not be underrated. With the exception of a few Cossacks and Japanese, they were the only mounted troops available at first. They were in constant demand to accompany columns of Continental troops, and they won the admiration of all the foreign officers with whom they were brought in contact. In fact, the only persons who failed to appreciate their merits were the Tartar horsemen who ventured to oppose them in the march on the capital. Their opinion is not recorded, but I think that it would not be fit for publication except in an expunged and mutilated form. The 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry—as good a regiment as any that Bengal can show—won many encomiums for its smartness from all who saw its squadrons at Tientsin, Shanghai, or Shanhaikwan.

But Indian officers were at first surprised and puzzled at the unflattering criticisms passed on our native infantry. Those who had seen our sepoys in many a hard‐fought struggle on the frontier could not understand the frequent remarks of foreign officers, that “our men were very unequal.”

“Some of them,” they said, “are tall, well‐built, and powerful, and should make good soldiers; but others are old, feeble, and decrepit. We have seen in the streets of Tientsin many who could not support the weight of a rifle.” But it was soon discovered that these critics failed to comprehend the distinction between fighting men and followers, since in China both were clad somewhat alike. The coolie corps, bheesties, syces, and dhoolie‐bearers were all dressed in khaki; and Continental officers were for a long time under the impression that these were soldiers. The error was not unnatural, and it accounted for the unfavourable reports on the Indian troops which appeared in many European journals. But those who understood the difference were struck by the fine physique and excellent training of our native army. When we compared our Sikhs, Pathans, Gurkhas, and Punjaubis with the men of most of the Allied forces, we recognised that, led by British officers, they would render a good account of themselves if pitted against any troops in the world. And our sepoys return to India filled with immeasurable contempt for the foreign contingents they have seen in China. As the ripples caused by a stone thrown into a lake spread over the water, so their opinion will radiate through the length and breadth of the land; and this unexpected lesson of the campaign will have a far‐reaching and beneficial effect throughout our Eastern Empire.

India is essentially a soldier’s country. Its army is practically always on a war footing, the troops near the frontier especially being ready to move at a few hours’ notice. The rapid despatch of the British contingent for Natal and the China expeditionary force are object‐lessons. The peace establishment of a native regiment is greater than the strength required for active service. Hence on mobilisation no reserves have to be called up to fill its ranks; recruits and sickly men can be left behind, and it marches with only fully trained and seasoned soldiers. In India vast stretches of country are available for manœuvres, which take place every winter on a scale unknown in England. Not a year passes without its little war. In consequence, the training of the troops is thorough and practical. The establishment of gun and rifle factories is all that is needed to make India absolutely self‐containing. It produces now all other requisites of war. Ammunition, clothing, and accoutrements are manufactured in the country, and it was able to supply, not only the needs of the expedition in China, but also many things required for the troops in South Africa.

To the pessimists in England and the hostile critics abroad, who talk of the possibility of another mutiny, the answer is that a general uprising of the Native army can never occur again. The number of British troops in India has been more than doubled since 1857, and the proportion between white and coloured regiments in each large station more equalised. The artillery is altogether in English hands, with the exception of the rank and file of a few mountain batteries and the smooth‐bore guns maintained by native princes for show. Communication has been enormously quickened by the network of railways that covers the country, enabling a force to be moved in two or three days to a point where formerly as many months were required.

And the Indian army is loyal to the core—loyal, not to the vague idea of a far‐distant England, not to the vast impersonal Sircar,[2] but loyal to itself; loyal to its British officers, who, to the limited minds of the sepoys, represent in concrete form the Power whose salt they eat. And those officers, speaking to each in his own tongue—be he Sikh, Rajput, or Dogra—stand in the relation of fathers to their men. To them in sorrow or perplexity comes the sepoy, sure of sympathy or aid. In their justice he reposes implicit confidence. And as in peace he relies on these men of alien race, so in war do they trust in him. And the tales of the struggle of the Guides round Battye’s corpse, of the gallant Sikhs who died at their post in Saragheri, of the men who refused to abandon their dead and dying officers in the treachery of Maizar, show that our trust is not misplaced.

CHAPTER IV
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]

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER V
RAMBLES IN PEKIN

WHEN the treachery of the Empress‐Dowager and the mad fanaticism of the Chinese ringed in the Legations with a circle of fire and steel, all the world trembled at the danger of the besieged Europeans. When Pekin fell and relief came, the heroism of the garrison was lauded through every nation. But few heard of a still more gallant and desperate defence which took place at the same time and in the same city—when a few priests and a handful of marines in the Peitan, the Roman Catholic cathedral of Pekin, long held at bay innumerable hordes of assailants. Well deserved as was the praise bestowed on the defenders of the Legations, their case was never so desperate as that of the missionaries, nuns, and converts penned up in the church and schools. On the Peitan fell the first shock of fanatical attack; no armistice gave rest to its weary garrison, and to it relief came last of all. For over two months, with twenty French and eleven Italian marines, the heroic Archbishop, Monseigneur Favrier, and his priests—all honour to them!—held an almost impossible position against overwhelming numbers. The enceinte of the defence comprised the cathedral, the residences of the priests, the schools, and the convent, and contained within its straggling precincts, besides the nuns and the missionaries, over 3,000 converts—men, women, and children. The buildings were riddled with shot and shell. Twice mines were exploded within the defences and tore away large portions of the protecting wall, besides killing or wounding hundreds.

The Chinese occupied houses within a few yards of the cathedral, and on one occasion brought a gun up within forty paces of its central door. A few rounds would have laid the way open to the stormers. All hope seemed lost; when the dauntless old Archbishop led out ten marines in a desperate sally, drove off the assailants, and, capturing the gun, dragged it back within the church. A heroic priest volunteered to try to pierce the environing hordes of besiegers and seek aid from the Legations, not knowing that they, too, were in deadly peril. In disguise he stole out secretly from the defences, and was never heard of again. One shudders to think what his fate must have been. It is still a mystery. Under a pitiless close‐range fire the marines and priests, worthy of their gallant leader, stood at their posts day and night and drove back the mad rushes of the assailants. Heedless of death, the nuns bore water, food, and ammunition to the defenders, nursed the wounded and sick, and soothed the alarm of the Chinese women and children in their care. Disease and starvation added their grim terrors to the horrors of the situation.

Desirous of seeing the scene of this heroic defence, I set out one day to visit the cathedral in company with some officers of the Fusiliers and of my own regiment. The ground being dry, we chose rickshas for our vehicles in preference to Pekin carts, which are as uncomfortable a form of conveyance as any I know. Our coolies ran us along at a good pace, for the Pekinese ricksha‐men are exceedingly energetic; indeed, the Chinaman is the best worker I have ever seen, with the possible exception of the Corean boatmen at Chemulpo. The Hong Kong dock labourers are a model that the same class in England would never copy. One day in Dublin I watched three men raising a small paving‐sett a few inches square from the roadway. Two held the points of crowbars under it while the third leisurely scratched at the surrounding earth with a pickaxe, pausing frequently to wipe his heated brow and remark that “hard work is not aisy, begob!” I wondered what a Chinaman would have said if he had seen that sight.

Close to the Peitan we found ourselves in a broad street which was being re‐made by the French, who had named it “Rue du General Voyron” after their commander‐in‐chief. In it were many newly‐opened cafés and drinking‐shops, placarded with advertisements of various sorts of European liquors for sale within. Turning off this road into a narrow lane, we suddenly came upon the gate of the Peitan.

The cathedral is a beautiful building of the graceful semi‐Gothic type of modern French churches, lightly constructed of white stone. It is crowned by airy pinnacles and looks singularly out of place among the squalid Chinese houses that crowd around it. At first we could not discern any marks of the rough handling it had received, and marvelled at its good preservation. But on approaching closer, we saw that the masonry was chipped and scarred in a thousand places. Scarce a square yard of the front was without a bullet or shell‐hole through it. The walls were so thin that the shells had passed through without exploding; and it seemed almost incredible that any being could have remained alive within them during the hellish fire to which they had so evidently been subjected.

We were met at the entrance by Monseigneur Favrier’s courteous coadjutor‐bishop, who received us most hospitably, took us over the cathedral and round the defences, and explained the incidents of the siege to us. He showed us the enormous hole in the compound and the breach in the wall caused by the explosion of one of the Chinese mines, which had killed and wounded hundreds. The ground everywhere was strewn with large iron bullets and fragments of shells, fired by the besiegers. The Bishop smiled when we requested permission to carry off a few of these as souvenirs, and remarked with truth that there were enough to suffice for visitors for many years. We inspected with interest the gun captured by the Archbishop. Then, as he spoke no English, and I was the only one of the party who could converse with him in French, he handed us over to the care of an Australian nun, who proved to be a capital cicerone and depicted the horrors they had undergone much more vividly than our previous guide had done. Her narrative of the sufferings of the brave sisters and the women and children was heartrending. Before we left we were fortunate enough to have the honour of being presented to the heroic prelate, whose courage and example had animated the defenders. A burly, strongly built man, with genial and open countenance, Monseigneur Favrier is a splendid specimen of the Church Militant and reminded one of the old‐time bishops, who, clad in armour, had led their flocks to war, and fought in the forefront of battles in the Middle Ages. His bravery was equalled by his modesty, for he resolutely declined to be drawn into any account of his exploits during the siege. Long may he flourish! A perfect specimen of the priest of God, the soldier, and the gentleman. As we parted from him we turned to look again on the man so modestly unconscious of his own heroism, that in any army in the world would have covered him with honours and undying fame.

When we looked at the extent of the defences and compared it with the paucity of the garrison, we could scarcely understand how the place resisted attack for an hour. By all the rules of warfare it was absolutely untenable. It is surrounded on all sides within a few yards by houses, which were occupied by the Chinese who from their cover poured in an unceasing and harassing fire upon the garrison. The defenders were too few to even attempt to drive them out,[5] and so were obliged to confine themselves to defeating the frequent assaults made on them. Their successful and gallant resistance was a feat that would be a glorious page in the annals of any army. “Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Not the least remarkable of the many curious phases of this extraordinary campaign was the rapidity with which, when order had been restored, the Chinese settled down again in Pekin. A few months after the fall of the capital its streets, to a casual observer, had resumed their ordinary appearance; but the wrecked houses, the foreign flags everywhere displayed, the absence of the native upper classes, and the presence of the soldiers of the Allies marked the change. Burly Russian and lithe Sikh, dapper little Japanese and yellow‐haired Teuton roughly shouldered the Celestial aside in the streets, where formerly the white man had passed hurriedly along in momentary dread of insult and assault. But in the presence of the strict discipline of the troops after the first excesses the Chinaman speedily recovered his contempt—veiled though it was now perforce—for the foreign devil. Ricksha coolies argued over their fare, where not long before a blow would have been the only payment vouchsafed or expected. Lounging crowds of Chinese on the sidepaths refused to make way for European officers until forcibly reminded that they belonged to a vanquished nation.

Shops that had any of their contents left after the fairly complete looting the city had undergone opened again, the proprietors demanding prices for their goods that promised to rapidly recoup them for their losses. Vehicles of all kinds filled the streets, which were soon as interesting as they had been before the advent of the Allies—and a great deal safer. Pekin carts rattled past strings of laden Tartar camels, which plodded along with noiseless footfall and the weary air of haughty boredom of their kind. Coolies with streaming bodies ran their rickshas over the uneven roadway. Heavy transport waggons, drawn by European and American horses or stout Chinese mules, rumbled through the deep dust or heavy mud. And, thanks to the cleansing efforts of the Allies, the formerly most noticeable feature of Pekin was absent—its overpowering stench.

Engaging the services of a guide and interpreter, a party of us set out one afternoon to view the shops, with the ulterior purpose of purchasing some of the famous pottery and silks. We went in rickshas to Ha‐ta‐man Street, which is a good commercial thoroughfare. Arrived there, we discarded our man‐drawn vehicles and strolled along the high side‐walks, pausing now and then to gaze at the curious pictures of Chinese street life. Here peddlers sat surrounded by their wares. An old‐clothes merchant, selecting a convenient space of blank wall, had driven nails into it, and hung on them garments of all kinds, from the cylindrical trousers of the Chinese woman to the tarnished, gold‐embroidered coat of a mandarin, with perhaps a suggestive rent and stain that spoke all too plainly of the fate of the last owner. Another man sat amid piles of footgear—the quaint tiny shoes of women that would not fit a European baby, the slippers of the superior sex, with their thick felt soles, the long knee boots for winter wear. Here a venerable, white‐haired Chinaman, with the beard that bespoke him a grandfather, dozed among a heterogeneous collection of rusty knives, empty bottles and jampots, scraps of old iron, and broken locks of native or European manufacture. Another displayed cheap pottery of quaint shape and hideous colouring, or the curious, pretty little snuff‐bottles, with tiny spoons fitted into the stopper, that I have never seen anywhere but in China. Another offered tawdry embroidery or tinselled fan‐cases. Piles of Chinese books and writing‐desks, with their brushes and solid blocks of ink, were the stock‐in‐trade of another.

And true Oriental haughty indifference marked the demeanour of these cheapjacks when we searched among their curious wares for souvenirs of Pekin. They evinced not the least anxiety for us to buy, although they knew that the lowest price that they would extract from us was sure to be much more than they could obtain from a Chinese purchaser. Their demands were exorbitant for the commonest, most worthless article; and they showed no regret if we turned away exasperated at their rapacity. One asked me fifteen dollars for a thing which he gave eventually, after hard bargaining, for one, and then probably made a profit of fifty cents over it.

Farther on we stopped to gaze at a small crowd assembled round a fortune‐teller. A stout country‐woman was having her future foretold. The prophet, looking alternately at her hand and at a chart covered with hieroglyphics, was evidently promising her a career full of good fortune and happiness, to judge from the rapt and delighted expression on her face.

A bear, lumbering heavily through a cumbrous dance to the mournful strains of a weird musical instrument, was the centre of another small gathering. Farther down the street a juggler had attracted a ring of interested spectators, who, when the performer endeavoured to collect money from them, melted away quite as rapidly as a similar crowd in the streets of London scatters when the hat is passed round.

We had noticed many peepshows being exhibited along the side‐walk, with small, pig‐tailed urchins, their eyes glued to the peepholes, evidently having their money’s worth. Curious to see the spectacles with which the Chinese showman regales his audiences, we struck a bargain with one, and for the large sum of five cents the whole party was allowed to look in through the glasses. The first tableau represented a troupe of acrobats performing before the Imperial Court. Then the proprietor pressed a spring; by a mechanical device the scene changed, and we drew back from the peepholes! The Chinese are not a moral race. None of us were easily shocked, but the picture that met our gaze was a little too indecent for the broadest‐minded European. We moved on.

Outside a farrier’s booth a pony was being shod. Two poles planted firmly in the earth, with a cross‐piece fixed between them, about six feet from the ground, formed a sort of gallows. Ropes passed round the animal’s neck, chest, loins, and legs, and fastened to the poles, half suspending him in the air, held him almost immovable. The most vicious brute would be helpless in such a contrivance.

Our guide, on being reminded that we desired to make some purchases, stopped outside a low‐fronted, dingy shop, and informed us that it belonged to one of the best silk merchants in Pekin. We entered, and found the proprietor deep in conversation with a friend. The guide addressed him, and told him that we wished to look at some silks. Hardly interrupting his conversation, the merchant replied that he had none. Irritated at his casual manner, our interpreter asked why he exhibited a sign‐board outside the shop, which declared that silks were for sale within. “Oh, everything I had was looted. There is nothing left,” replied the proprietor nonchalantly; and he turned to resume his interrupted conversation as indifferently as if the plundering of his goods was too ordinary a business risk to demand a moment’s thought. Not a word of complaint at his misfortune. How different, I thought, from the torrent of indignant eloquence with which the European shopkeeper would bewail the slackness of trade or a fire that had damaged his property!

We were more successful in the next establishment we visited, for a new stock had been laid in since the capture of the city. But the silks were of very inferior quality, the colours crude and gaudy, and the prices exorbitant. So we purchased nothing.

We next inspected a china shop, which was stacked with pottery from floor to ceiling. To my mind the patterns and colouring of everything we saw were particularly hideous, though some of our party who posed as connoisseurs went into raptures over weird designs and glaring blues and browns.

I was equally disappointed in a visit to a fan shop. China is pre‐eminently the land of fans, and I had hoped to find some particularly choice specimens in Pekin. But all that were shown me were very indifferent—badly made and of poor design. The prettiest I have ever seen were in Canton, where superb samples of carved sandal‐wood and ivory can be procured at a very reasonable price. But Canton is far ahead of the capital in manufactures, and its inhabitants possess a keen commercial instinct. Its proximity to Hong Kong and the constant intercourse with foreigners have sharpened their trading faculties, and there are few smarter business men than the Canton shopkeeper.