the same people wherever one went.

Peking is a place never to be forgotten by one who has shared its social life. In the midst of one of the most picturesque, most historical, and most romantic cities of the world there is a cosmopolitan community that enjoys itself to the utmost. Its talk is all of horses, polo, racing, shooting, dinners, and dances, with the interesting background of Chinese politics, in which things are never dull. There is always a rebellion of some kind to furnish delightful thrills, and one never can tell when a new political bomb will be projected from the mysterious gates of the Forbidden City.

We spent a week in Peking and regretfully left by rail for Shanghai. En route we passed through Tsinan-fu where the previous night serious fighting had occurred in which Japanese soldiers had joined with the rebels against Yuan's troops. On every side there was evidence of Japan's efforts against him. In the foreign quarter of Shanghai just behind the residence of Mr. Sammons, the American Consul-General, one of Yuan's leading officers had been openly murdered, and Japanese were directly concerned in the plot. We were told that it was very difficult at that time to lease houses in the foreign concession because wealthy Chinese who feared the wrath of one party or the other were eager to pay almost any rent to obtain the protection of that quarter of the city.

A short time later it became known to a few that Yuan was seriously ill. He was suffering from Bright's disease with its consequent weakness, loss of mental alertness, and lack of concentration. French doctors were called in, but Yuan's wives insisted upon treating him with concoctions of their own, and on June 6, shortly after three o'clock in the morning, he died.

Even on his death-bed Yuan endeavored to save his face before the country, and his last words were a reiteration of what he knew no one believed. The story of his death is told in the China Press of June 7, 1916:

According to news from the President's palace the condition of Yuan became critical at three o'clock in the morning. Yuan asked for his old confidential friend, Hsu Shih-chang, who came immediately. On the arrival of Hsu, Yuan was extremely weak, but entirely conscious.

With tears in his eyes, Yuan assured his old friend that he had never had any personal ambition for an emperor's crown; he had been deceived by his entourage over the true state of public opinion and thus had sincerely believed the people wished for the restoration of the monarchy. The desire of the South for his resignation he had not wished to follow for fear that general anarchy would break out all over China. Now that he felt death approaching he asked Hsu to make his last words known to the public.

In the temporary residence of President Li Yuan-hung, situated in the Yung-chan-hu-tung (East City) and formerly owned by Yang Tu, the prominent monarchist, the formal transfer of the power to Li-Yuan-hung took place this morning at ten o'clock. Yuan Chi-jui, Secretary of State and Premier, as well as all the members of the cabinet, Prince Pu Lun as chairman of the State Council, and other high officials were present.

The officials, wearing ceremonial dress, were received by Li-Yuan-hung in the main hall and made three bows to the new president, which were returned by the latter. The same ceremony will take place at two o'clock, when all the high military officials will assemble at the President's residence.

The Cabinet, in a circular telegram has informed all the provinces that Vice-President Li-Yuan-hung, in accordance with the constitution, has become president of the Chinese Republic (Chung-hua-min-kuo) from the seventh instance.

So ended Yuan Shi-kai's great plot to make himself an emperor over four hundred millions of people, a plot which could only have been carried out in China. He failed, and the once valiant warrior died in the humiliation of defeat, leaving thirty-two wives, forty children and his country in political chaos.

CHAPTER III

UP THE MIN RIVER

Y.B.A.

Three days after leaving Shanghai we arrived at Pagoda Anchorage at the mouth of the Min River, twelve miles from Foochow.

We boarded a launch which threaded its way through a fleet of picturesque fishing vessels, each one of which had a round black and white eye painted on its crescent-shaped bow. When asked the reason for this decoration a Chinese on the launch looked at us rather pityingly for a moment and then said: "No have eye. No can see." How simple and how entirely satisfactory!

The instant the launch touched the shore dozens of coolies swarmed like flies over it, fighting madly for our luggage. One seized a trunk, the other end of which had been appropriated by another man and, in the argument which ensued, each endeavored to deafen the other by his screams. The habit of yelling to enforce command is inherent with the Chinese and appears to be ineradicable. To expostulate in an ordinary tone of voice, pausing to listen to his opponent's reply, seems a psychological impossibility.

There had been a mistake about the date of our arrival at Foochow, and we were two days earlier than we had been expected, so that Mr. C.R. Kellogg, of the Anglo-Chinese College, with whom we were to stay, was not on the jetty to meet us. We were at a loss to know where to turn amidst the chaos and confusion until a customs officer took us in charge and, judiciously selecting a competent looking woman from among the screaming multitude, told her to get two sedan chairs and coolies to carry our luggage. She disappeared and ten minutes later the chairs arrived. Dashing about among the crowd in front of us, she chose the baggage for such men as met with her approval and after the usual amount of argument the loads were taken.

We mounted our chairs and started off with apparently all Foochow following us. As far as we could see down the narrow street were the heads and shoulders of our porters. We felt as if we were heading an invading army as, with our thirty-three coolies and sixteen hundred pounds of luggage, we descended upon the homes of people whom we did not know and who were not expecting us. But our sudden arrival did not disturb the Kelloggs and our welcome was typical of the warm hospitality one always finds in the Far East.

No matter how long one has lived in China one remains in a condition of mental suspense unable to decide which is the filthiest city of the Republic. The residents of Foochow boast that for offensiveness to the senses no town can compare with theirs, and although Amoy and several other places dispute this questionable title, we were inclined to grant it unreservedly to Foochow. It is like a medieval city with its narrow, ill-paved streets wandering aimlessly in a hopeless maze. They are usually roofed over so that by no accident can a ray of purifying sun penetrate their dark corners. With no ventilation whatsoever the oppressive air reeks with the odors that rise from the streets and the steaming houses.

In Foochow, as in other cities of China, the narrow alleys are literally choked with every form of industrial obstruction. Countless workmen plant themselves in the tiny passageways with the pigs, children, and dogs, and women bring their quilts to spread upon the stones. There is a common saying that the Chinese do little which is not at some time done on the street.

The foreign residents, including consuls of all nationalities, missionaries, and merchants, live well out of the city on a hilltop. Their houses are built with very high ceilings and bare interiors, and as the occupants seldom go into the city except in a sedan chair and have "punkahs" waving day and night, life is made possible during the intense heat of summer.

A telegram was awaiting us from the Reverend