Meanwhile the general internal situation remained deplorable.  Nothing was done for the provinces whose paper currency was depreciating from month to month in an alarming manner; whilst the rivalries between the various leaders instead of diminishing seemed to be increasing.  The Tutuhs, or Military Governors, acting precisely as they saw fit, derided the authority of Peking and sought to strengthen their old position by adding to their armed forces.  In the capital the old Manchu court, safely entrenched in the vast Winter Palace from which it has not even to-day been ejected (1917) published daily the Imperial Gazette, bestowing honours and decorations on courtiers and clansmen and preserving all the old etiquette.  In the North-western provinces, and in Manchuria and Mongolia, the socalled Tsung She Tang, or Imperial Clan Society, intrigued perpetually to create risings which would hasten the restoration of the fallen House; and although these intrigues never rose to the rank of a real menace to the country, the fact that they were surreptitiously supported by the Japanese secret service was a continual source of anxiety.  The question of Outer Mongolia was also harassing the Central Government.  The Hutuktu or Living Buddha of Urga—­the chief city of Outer Mongolia—­had utilized the revolution to throw off his allegiance to Peking; and the whole of this vast region had been thrown into complete disorder—­which was still further accentuated when Russia on the 21st October (1912) recognized its independence.  It was known that as a pendent to this Great Britain was about to insist on the autonomy of Tibet,—­a development which greatly hurt Chinese pride.

On the 15th August, 1912, the deplorable situation was well-epitomised by an extraordinary act in Peking, when General Chang Cheng-wu, one of the “heroes” of the original Wuchang rising, who had been enticed to the capital, was suddenly seized after a banquet in his honour and shot without trial at midnight.

This event, trivial in itself during times when judicial murders were common, would have excited nothing more than passing interest had not the national sentiment been so aroused by the chaotic conditions.  As it was it served to focus attention on the general maladministration over which Yuan Shih-kai ruled as provisional President.  “What is my crime?” had shrieked the unhappy revolutionist as he had been shot and then bayonetted to death.  That query was most easily answered.  His crime was that he was not strong enough or big enough to compete against more sanguinary men, his disappearance being consequently in obedience to an universal law of nature.  Yuan Shih-kai was determined to assert his mastery by any and every means; and as this man had flouted him he must die.

The uproar which this crime aroused was, however, not easily appeased; and the Advisory Council, which was sitting in Peking pending the assembling of the first Parliament, denounced the Provisional President so bitterly that to show that these reproaches were ill-deserved he invited Dr. Sun Yat-sen to the capital treating him with unparalleled honours and requesting him to act as intermediary between the rival factions.  All such manoeuvres, however, were inspired with one object,—­namely to prove how nobody but the master of Peking could regulate the affairs of the country.