First impressions of Peking in shining, clear September days, beneath -skies of deepest blue, can never fade from memory.
Great spaces, gorgeous colours, superb designs; these are the sum of them.
Images of varying beauty rise in the mind, and embody the spirit of the place. The spell cast on entering the city. sunset, from the top of the vision of marvellous beauty prises before the eyes.
The yellow roofs of the Imperial City, the parks and pavilions of the Palace, towers, temples and pagodas, set in a sea of green foliage, spread away into the purple distance towards Abe Western Hills.
The streets themselves have endless fascination.
Medievalism and modernity are strangely mingled. Officials of all nationalities: motor-cars careering hither and thither; quaint, blue. hooded Peking carts with studded wheels and long axles; regiments of police and soldiery controlling traffic; strings of Jaden camera swaying along with high, disdainfr' heads, frequently a young camel behind, untethered and unladen, learning to follow the trail; water-coolies with wooden tubs and ladles sprinkling the dusty roads.
Within the Imperial City rises Son! Hill—the Imperial Pleasure ill.
It is the haunt of tragedy. There Ch'ung Cheng, the last of the Ming Emperors, clad in dragon-embroidered tunic and robe of Imperial yellow and purple, with his faithful eunuch, Wang Cheng, the city having fallen to the rebels, entered a pavilion and strangled themselves to death.
Below on one side lie the lotus Jakes, groves and pavilions of the Winter Palace: on the other the grey-pink walls of the Purple Forbidden City; the peaceful gardens; the marble courtyards; the yellow-roofed Imperial Palaces fitting dwelling places for the Sons of Heaven.
The Temple of Confucius stands, beautiful and austere, amidst shady cypress trees.
No grotesque and tawdry idols; no mendicant priests; but a pure atmosphere of simple aspiration and exquisite serenity.
Doves flutter over flights of marble steps, and the "spirit stairway" leading to the yellow-roofed Hall of Great Perfection Within, all is peace. No imago, no symbol, no ornament, save the
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.