in reputation it never equalled what was known throughout China as the
"I.G.'s Own."

[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART'S CHINESE BAND.]

In spring and autumn his musicians gave an open-air concert in the
Inspectorate garden every Wednesday afternoon. Of course, this was the
event of the week so far as society was concerned. Peking residents,
as well as many distinguished strangers who happened to be passing,
came to listen. The scene was invariably animated; ladies walked about
under the lilacs, which in April hung over the paths like soft clouds
of purple fog, displaying their newest toilettes; diplomats discussed
_la situation politique_; missionaries argued points of doctrine;
correspondents exchanged bits of news. All nationalities, classes and
creeds were represented in this cosmopolitan corner of the world, but
the lions and the lambs agreed tacitly to tolerate each other for the
sake of hearing the familiar tunes, warming as good old wine to the
hearts of exiles, and for the sake of seeing the mysterious man whose
advice, given, as it were, under his breath, shaped the course of
events in China.

He guessed well enough what brought the people, and would sometimes
remark laughingly, "They come; I know why they all come. It is just
to get a sight of the two curios of Peking, the I.G. and his queer
musicians."

Occasionally Chinese guests would mingle with the rest, lending with
their silken gowns and silken manners a touch of picturesqueness to
the scene. I can well remember seeing the famous Wu Ting Fang, whose
alert manner made him a general favourite. He prided himself upon