The principal street is broad, crossing the wall of the Tartar city. A few miles farther to the south it strikes the Chinese town, and through gates like triumphal arches, and over bridges, across moats, and skirting bastions, reaches the open. This is the perspective before me: my eyes penetrate in a straight line, almost any distance, to the sea at the farthermost point of the realm, but the crowd is so dense and the traffic so thick, and there are such clouds of dust, that we can hardly see what is going on within a yard of us. Caravans of camels, people on horseback, carriages, and carts follow each other incessantly. Every moment we narrowly escape a collision. It is a wonder that numbers of the shaky little vehicles do not get smashed, for there is a continuous stream of fresh phantom-like objects.
The palace is surrounded by a high wall painted red, and roofed with yellow tiles. Red likewise is the large gate studded with yellow nails. In fact, there are three gates side by side—in China everything is threefold—but they are all closed. In front of them are sentries, for the palace is sacred, and entrance into it means decapitation. On the other side are small shops and stores, in the windows of which are exhibited motley wares, while the façades are carved with a hundred and one very quaint pictures. What they represent I am at a loss to know.
We escape into one of the many side streets. It is narrow, dark, and seems to be endless, running along between the houses like a river, to right and left.
Now we reach something like a desert. I cannot call it a common, because there is no grass; there is nothing but dust and dirt. Farther away are some ruins, and still farther a red wall can be seen. It is again the wall of the Imperial city, that gigantic structure that follows us wherever we go. It is either in front of us or behind us, on one side or the other. Beyond the wilderness are rows of houses. Behind huge walls the tops of some shadowy trees are visible now and again, the gabled roofs of yamens and a few flagstaffs.
A little more wilderness is followed by a few rows of houses, and beyond them come some streets; shops crowded with customers, and, lastly, the ubiquitous red wall again.
In the middle of the wall is the gate, a wooden structure, with gabled towers and aggressively golden dragons painted on it, and little bells hanging down from the corners. Crowds are streaming from the archway; sunburnt coolies endeavouring to get their light carts over the marble steps. Now we face the broad Imperial street. The shops on both sides are still more carved and gilt than the others. The gables are like umbrellas blown inside out by the wind, and the edges do not lack ornament, being decorated with carved tassels and lace and every conceivable trimming. The signboards are well worth studying. Some are of wood, others of metal, cast iron, or paper; but all display glaring colours. No wonder they attract the attention of passersby. The shoemakers' wooden signs are of unusually large size, showing the latest fashion in foot-gear either painted or carved, and apparently floating in the clouds or in higher spheres. The sign is generally suspended in the claws of some grinning monster or lion by a chain that is fastened to the eaves. Next in point of merit are the signs of the Pekin apothecaries, who in this respect decidedly excel us; and the pawnbrokers' symbols deserve even more attention than the others from an artistic point of view.
The pavement is occupied by stalls and booths, their only protection from the sun being a sheet of canvas fixed to a pole. The wares are spread out on the ground. Street kitchens abound, consisting of little earthenware stoves or small iron grates which are used for cooking. Half-naked workmen are huddled round the tables, which are covered with little mugs about as large as teacups, each containing something different, hundreds of delicacies with sauces both bitter and sweet at once. Long thin sticks are used instead of forks, and the skill shown in the handling of them is simply astonishing. I have never seen people eat more daintily. A dinner of eight or nine courses can be had for about one farthing. With their chopsticks they pick out some of the solid dishes, seasoning them with four or five different sauces. The Chinese are the greatest gourmets in the world, for I notice that the ordinary meals of labourers are more complicated than the choicest menu of a French chef.
The end of the street is enclosed by a wall—the usual red wall—the inner defence of the Imperial city. Here stands the Western Gate, and the monumental quarter, with yellow tiled roofs, begins. In front of it is a sentry, the entrance to the garden being strictly prohibited.
My way is not in that direction, but to the north. In the centre of the park, which has recently been replanted, stands the cathedral, finished a few months ago.
The work of the Chinese Missions is written on one of the latest pages of universal history. The events of two years ago are still vividly impressed on our memories, when the few hundred Christians who had sought refuge at the Mission in Pei-tang seemed to be doomed. No one believed that they could stand the siege of the frantic mob, for, except a garden wall a few feet high, there were no means of defence. It was due to the most resolute courage and valour that the little flock did not surrender. Old and young, priests and soldiers, fought side by side in the breaches from morning to night.