This residence was and is a very plain one, not very large, set on a single hill commanding a view over the forts and town opposite and is opposite the new palace of the civil governor.
General Nakamura, who was acting governor of Manchuria, a most affable and agreeable personality, did us voluntarily a great service, which he anticipated the moment we came into the room. He gave us our return pass to Fusan, as Baron Goto of the South Manchurian Railway was away from his home in Dalny.
The delicate way the Japanese, in their kindness even think for one, is wonderful.
“’Twas fated I should seek this battle field and here above the multitudinous dead, be the white victim, growing daily whiter. The breath of death has rustled thru my hair! The shudder of death has passed athwart my soul! I am all white, a sacrificial host!”
So felt the Duke of Reichstadt at Wagram, so feels every noble soul at Port Arthur. It is for humanity, an altar of blood and fire!
The fields have been put under the plow, but labor cannot wait.
The necessities of existence have, perhaps fortunately, no sentiment. Parts of our road are blasted thru the solid rock. We move towards the battle field, watching alternately the dismantled homes and the primitive methods of agriculture. Some buildings are left as wrecks. The configuration grows every mile more sinister. In a distant low roofed building we are told that General Stoessel surrendered but it is all a dream; we are seeking something. There on the horizon! Yes, it rises! Calm as at creation’s dawn, when its Maker saw this hour. “203 Metres Hill”! Name forever immortal!
Oh, the sublimity of the view over that billowy plain from its summit! There “Pigeon Bay” and “Kerr Bay.” The monuments of Russia’s generosity and Japan’s gratitude.
We visited the war museum and the Administration buildings. The blue of that day’s sky, so blue, with the glory of the sun on the “Golden Hill” and the “Tiger’s Tail” forts but the hosts were visible to the unseen eye, the cries of agony and victory were in our ears and in the garden of General Stoessel we found growing the flowers so thoughtless, or so healing of it all! The flowers which have no memory!
“Les fleurs nont pas de memoire,
Nouvelles dans un monde ancien!”