The situation had become truly appalling in Peking.  It was even said that the neighbouring province of Shantung was to become a separate state under Japanese protection.  Although the Peking administration was still nominally the Central Government of China, it was amply clear to observers on the spot that by a process of successive collapses all that was left of government was simply that pertaining to a city-state of the antique Greek type—­a mal-administration dominated by the enigmatic personality of Liang Shih-yi.  The writ of the capital no longer ran more than ten miles beyond the city walls.  The very Government Departments, disgusted with, and distrustful of, the many hidden influences at work, had virtually declared their independence and went their own way, demanding foreign dollars and foreign banknotes from the public, and refusing all Chinese money.  The fine residium of undisputed power left in the hands of the Mal-administrator-in-Chief, Liang Shih-yi, was the control of the copper cash market which he busily juggled with to the very end netting a few last thousands for his own purse, and showing that men like water inevitably find their true level.  In all China’s tribulations nothing similar had ever been seen.  Even in 1900, after the Boxer bubble had been pricked and the Court had sought safety in flight, there was a certain dignity and majesty left.  Then an immense misfortune had fallen across the capital; but that misfortune was like a cloak which hid the nakedness of the victim; and there was at least no pretence at authority.  In the Summer of 1916, had it not been for the fact that an admirable police and gendarmerie system, comprising 16,000 men, secured the safety of the people, there can be little doubt that firing and looting would have daily taken place and no woman been safe.  It was the last phase of political collapse with a vengeance:  and small wonder if all Chinese officials, including even high police officers, sent their valuables either out of the city or into the Legation Quarter for safe custody.  Extraordinary rumours circulated endlessly among the common people that there would be great trouble on the occasion of the Dragon Festival, the 5th June; and what actually took place was perhaps more than a coincidence.

Early on the 6th June an electric thrill ran through Peking—­Yuan Shih-kai was dead!  At first the news was not believed, but by eleven o’clock it was definitely known in the Legation Quarter that he had died a few minutes after ten o’clock that morning from uraemia of the blood—­the surgeon of the French Legation being in attendance almost to the last.  A certificate issued later by this gentleman immediately quieted the rumours of suicide, though many still refused to believe that he was actually dead.  “I did not wish this end,” he is reported to have whispered hoarsely a few minutes before he expired, “I did not wish to be Emperor.  Those around me said that the people wanted a king and named me for the Throne.  I believed and was misled.”  And in this way did his light flicker out.  If there are sermons in stones and books in the running brooks surely there is an eloquent lesson in this tragedy!  Before expiring the wretched man issued the following Death Mandate in accordance with the ancient tradition, attempting as the long night fell on him to make his peace with men:—­