Empress was dead. But it was the wrong Empress,-the Dowager or Eastern Empress, who was believed to be in perfect health! The event caused a profound sensation in the capital, and numberless were the rumours that passed from mouth to mouth. It was, however, shrouded in mystery, and we shall probably never know the truth about it. Suffice it to say that Tz'ŭ An unexpectedly died, and Tz'u Hsi unexpectedly recovered; and she has continued in excellent health ever since. It is she who now holds the reins of power, and is the undisputed mistress of China. When the present writer saw her a few years ago, she was about three and forty years of age. Her hair was dressed "butterfly-fashion"—that is, twisted in thick coils along a sort of bar stretching across the top of the head, and protruding on either side—and fastened with gold hair-pins; her straight, well-formed features had an austere look, as she gazed stolidly straight in front of her; and she wore a plain robe of lavender or light-mauve silk, as half-mourning for her son, the late Emperor T'ung Chih. That was before the death of her sister-Empress. Since then her personal influence has very materially increased, and she has dared on several occasions to set all precedent and etiquette aside whenever such restrictions interfered with her own caprices. Tired of her long confinement to the Winter Palace, and in defiance of popular opinion, Her Majesty now goes constantly to the beautiful gardens known as the Nan and Chung Hai, and there gives audiences and holds her court. So thoroughly is she said to throw off the restraints of royalty as to practise archery, and is even reported to have taken lessons in boxing, attired in a sort of Bloomer costume, from an old eunuch. The sight must

be vastly entertaining. Her Majesty, who is no longer in the first bloom of youth, has a dignified presence and a set, stern expression of face. Her appearance, at the age of fifty, in short skirts, hitting out at her venerable preceptor, and, we presume, occasionally receiving punishment herself, must, to say the least of it, cause some scandal to the strait-laced Censors who recently remonstrated with her upon the undue smartness of her headdress; for if it be indecorous for a lady, to say nothing of an Empress, to so far forget her age, her widowhood, and her dignity as to wear showy caps, what must they think when they see her actually pummelling and being pummelled? Many widow ladies are not insensible to the consolations of pretty cap-ribbons; but how many indulge in the relaxation of la boxe? We, however, who are only barbarians, can afford to take a more generous view; and it is pleasant, to our mind, to see the Manchu Empress of China credited, even by rumour, with setting so good an example of independence. According to precedent, it would have been more virtuous for Her Majesty, on being left a widow, to have dressed in sackcloth for the rest of her life, used thorns instead of hair-pins, and perhaps even starved herself to death. The Empress Tz'ǎ Hsi has, happily for herself and for China, far more human nature about her; and her name will certainly descend to future generations, in the histories now being compiled, as that of the best Empress that China has ever had, in spite of the archery, the boxing-matches, the smart caps, and the too great economy of skirt.

D

CHAPTER III.

THE FIFTH PRINCE.

Of the three surviving brothers of the late Emperor Hsien Fêng, the one best known to foreigners is of course His Imperial Highness Kung Ch'in-wang, usually referred to in Chinese as the Sixth Prince. His younger brother Ch'un, the Seventh Prince, and father of the reigning Emperor, is less familiar to us, and for many years was credited with being the uncompromising foe of foreigners. This may have been true in a political sense, though recent events tell a far more favourable tale; and we are able to recall at least one instance in which the Seventh Prince, who happened to be staying at the same temple as a foreign gentleman intent on botanical researches, treated him with the utmost courtesy and cordiality, even going so far as to appoint an hour to receive him for a friendly conversation and the inevitable cup of tea. The position of Prince Ch'un at Court is, of course, of an exceedingly difficult and delicate nature. It is probable that when the Emperor attains his majority the Seventh Prince may be raised to the otium cum dignitate of T'ai Shang Huang-ti ("Emperor above the Emperor "), in which he would hold precisely the same position quoad his son as an Empress-Dowager towards the reigning monarch. But, as matters stand at present, it is impos

sible for him to see his son except in private and in an informal manner. Were he to attend Court in public he would either have to k'o-t'ou to his own child-which is a sufficiently horrifying idea to a Chinese-or the Emperor would have to k'o-t'ou to one of his own subjects -which would be an equal outrage on propriety. He, therefore, only sees his son unofficially, and devotes himself to supervising the lad's education in the privacy of the inner apartments. But there is yet another member of the Imperial fraternity, the eldest of the three, who is known as the Fifth Prince. This gentleman lives in a rather tumble-down-looking palace with green tiles just inside the Ch'i-hua Mên, and is said to be a very original character. He holds the sinecure post of President of the Tsung Jên Fu, or Court of the Imperial Clan—a department which regulates all affairs relating to the Emperor's kindred, and preserves the Yü Tieh or Genealogical Record. In this capacity he has the title of Tsung Ch'ing, or Prince-regulator of the Affairs of the Imperial Clan. The Prince is both popular and poor. Many are the stories told at the capital about the escapades of the Prince of Tun. On one occasion he went to the palace in a very seedy sedan-chair. After he had been there some time the Prince of Kung arrived, and also went in for audience. While the latter was engaged inside, the Prince of Tun came out again, and espied the handsome palanquin of his younger brother. "Whose is this chair?" he asked the attendants. "It belongs to the Sixth Prince," was the reply. "Just the one I wanted," rejoined His Imperial Highness, and before the servants of Prince Kung could recover from their surprise the Fifth Prince stepped nimbly into his

brother's chair, and was carried off in triumph. Whether the Sixth Prince saw the point of the joke when he came out and found the shabby equipage that had been left behind in the place of his own handsome turn-out, history does not record; but this much is vouched for, that, sooner than accept the exchange, His Imperial Highness trudged back to his palace on foot. Soon afterwards the brothers met, and the interview is described as having been like that of the two augurs who did not laugh. Not a word was said about the elder Prince's escapade, and the demeanour of the two was characterised by the most scrupulous solemnity and politeness. Sometimes, however, the Prince of Tun's vagaries take a more generous form. One day, so the story goes, a very poor carter, with a cart of the worst and most rickety description, and drawn by a donkey instead of the mule which is employed by all but the very poorest, was hailed by a shabby-looking person about half a mile from the palace of the Prince of Tun. The shabby man took the inside place, and began to chat with the carter, who was sitting, as usual, on the shaft. The conversation turned upon the Imperial family; and the fare, who was apparently a stranger in Peking, evinced a good deal of curiosity to hear all about the much-talked-of Prince of Tun. The carter, who, like the rest of his race, was a gossipy, simple sort of man, informed the stranger of everything he knew. The Prince of Kung, he said, was not very popular; he had the reputation of receiving too many presents, and enriching himself at the expense of the people. But the Prince of Tun, he thought, was not open to that sort of charge. "What kind of a person is the Fifth Prince?" inquired the shabby man. "A very