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