260 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



we were invited to occupy we could look across the brown 

 village to the splendid park and the glistening yellow 

 roofs of the imperial tombs. We found next day that 

 it is a veritable paradise, a spot of exquisite beauty 

 where profound artistic sentiment has been magnifi- 

 cently expressed. Broad, paved avenues, bordered by 

 colossal animals sculptured in snow-white marble, lead 

 through the trees to imposing gates of red and gold. 

 There is, too, a delightful appreciation of climax. As 

 one walks up a spacious avenue, passing through gate 

 after gate, each more magnificent than the last, one is 

 being prepared by this cumulative splendor for the tomb 

 itself. One feels everywhere the dignity of space. 

 There is no smallness, no crowding. One feels the great- 

 ness of the people that has done these things: a race that 

 looks at life and death with a vision as broad as the skies 

 themselves. 



At the Twig Ling Nature has worked hand in hand 

 with man to produce a harmonious whole. Most of the 

 trees about the tombs have been planted, but the work 

 has been cleverly done. There is nothing glaringly 

 artificial, and you feel as though you were in a well- 

 groomed forest where every tree has grown just where, 

 in Nature's scheme of things, it ought to be. 



Although the tombs are alike in general plan, they 

 are, at the same time, as individual as were the emperors 

 themselves. Each is a subtle expression of the character 

 of the one who sleeps beneath the yellow roof. The 

 tomb of Ch'ien-Lung, the artist emperor, lies not far 

 away from that of the Empress Dowager. Stately, 



