In the midst of this plain, standing out in solemn isolation, rises a magnificent stone gateway, designed by some rarely skilled artist, by far the finest specimen of Chinese architecture that I ever saw; altogether a most imposing work. Some way beyond this wonder is a second gateway of brick, roofed with imperial tiles, leading to a large, square granite building, cruciform inside, in which is a colossal marble tortoise, bearing a high, upright tablet, graven on both sides with inscriptions, the one telling how the tombs were built for the Ming Emperors, and the other how they were restored by the Emperor Ch’ien Lung in the eighteenth century. At each corner of this building is a triumphal column. Then comes the famous avenue of colossal figures in double pairs—the one pair sitting, the other standing. Lions, Chih Ling (Kylins), camels, elephants, scaled and winged dragons wreathed in flames, horses, warriors in full armour, with breastplates reminding one of Medusa’s head, carrying in their hands swords and maces; warriors in repose, with their swords sheathed and their hands gravely folded on their breasts; councillors; chamberlains. Beyond this dumb and motionless procession, which looked as if it had been congealed and turned into marble by some magician’s wand, a broken and ruinous stone road, with decayed granite and marble bridges, leads the pilgrim in melancholy fashion to the Chief Temple, or Funeral Palace, where the great Emperor Yung Lo lies canonized under the name of Wên. The spot is one of rare beauty, for in a country where even the humblest peasant must needs sleep his long sleep in some choice place, the Emperors of the glorious Ming Dynasty would naturally choose for their graves a sanctuary worthy of their race. Behind the great shrine, decorated with all the sumptuous splendour of which Chinese art is the mistress, is a hillock, an artificial mound covered with trees and shrubs; in the speaking silence of that fair retreat, far from the madding crowd, lie the remains of the Son of Heaven. There is a Chinese proverb which says, “Better a living beggar covered with sores than a dead Emperor.” I wonder!