gambling, bad liquor, and his neighbor's wife. Though just why this latter should be is a bit of a mystery. The Korean woman is even more grotesque than the man. All of them gross, animalized, and fat, with no more facial expression than a still-born calf and no more figure than a sack of wheat with a string tied 'round the middle. And to get within shooting distance of either would be all the evidence you would require that soap and water were at a premium in the 'Land of the Morning Calm.' He is devoid of kindly instincts either toward his own kind or animals. Altogether, Japan has a man's job on her hands to make a real citizen of him, which possibly explains why she has devoted herself to the material advancement of the country, leaving the Koreans to develop themselves largely under insuperable difficulties.

Architecturally the city of Seoul is nil. The ancient gates already mentioned, the deserted palaces, and a fairly good museum include the principal attractions. The one thing really worth while, which very few travelers ever visit, is the ancient tomb of the Korean kings about ten miles out of the city. It is entirely different from any other tomb I have ever seen. We were glad, indeed, that we went. An inexpensive flivver took us over the unspeakable roads to an embowered spot off on the hills, in charge of a native Korean who lived in a little cottage at the padlocked entrance. A silver key opened the gate, however, and we followed an ancient pathway up a hill, past an old wooden temple that resembled a gabled barn, behind which was the tomb. On the crest of the hill were two huge grassy mounds, in front of which were two massive blocks of polished granite. Surrounding the spot, which was probably one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, was a low limestone wall, on the inside of which were crudely sculptured figures of horses, sheep, dogs, etc., all of a size, all covered with

lichen, and all headed outwards from the grave, as if to ward off intruders. In the front, which was open, stood two huge effigies of royal attendants on either side, guarding the entrance, as it were.

The motif is the oldest one known to man: those animals and officials are there for the purpose of accompanying the disembodied spirit of their royal master and ministering unto it during the long, long journey through the nether world. Sun, sky, and verdure conspired to enshrine the spot with rural peace and all Nature smiled. Here was one place that made me feel that I should like to visit Seoul again some day. Just what emperor it was that lay there, the keeper didn't know, or when he died, or whether there were one or a half-dozen under the two turfcovered mounds that were so highly suggestive of a hazard on a golf course, and it made no difference anyway. He was quite willing, however, for an additional coin to sit for his photograph in the tomb of that 'Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay,' whose very name was unknown to him.

There is a spot in this ancient city that will never be forgot by the Koreans and which will be pointed out to visitors for years to come. It is a deserted garden in the rear of the old North Palace where the Korean Queen was assassinated in 1895. She was a typical Oriental in her cruelty, lust, and unlimited ambitions, and she stood in the way of Japanese progress after Dai Nippon had done away with all Chinese influence. And so, one night, between midnight and morning, a gang of Japanese and Korean thugs, under the direction of the Japanese Minister, dragged her out of the palace and knifed her. The spot to-day is rank with weeds and undergrowth, and the ancient wall, that originally enclosed it as part of the palace grounds, is crumb

ling to ruin. This is a little incident that the more intelligent Japanese do not care to discuss. They lay the infamous job at the door of Viscount Miura who put it through while yet Korea was an independent nation and fifteen years previous to annexation. The Japanese government is supposed to have known nothing about it. If so, they never disciplined Minister Miura for his part in it.

Owing to the universality of the 'hot dog' sign which will be seen with almost as great frequency in the Orient as here at home, it might be well to caution the traveler that 'hot dog' in Seoul means precisely what it says. Dog meat is a staple article of food with the Koreans and native goat is sold as mutton. This is one way of serving notice that it will be a good thing under any and all circumstances to confine your eating to your hotel. If you anticipate being absent at meal-time, by all means take your luncheon with you. You'll enjoy it much more and you'll avoid any unfortunate after-effects. Also, avoid drinking from native wells.

In the public square in Seoul is a sightly stone monument badly cracked and chipped. Just what its significance was or is, I could not learn. The interesting thing about it is that many years ago a number of soldiers who had been sent over to discipline the Koreans, at a time when the Chinese Government was maintaining a sort of half-baked suzerainty, set fire to it. Tradition says they were very much surprised that the monument would not burn.

After two days in this queer old intrigue-ridden rookery, we resumed our journey north. The railway runs through a very picturesque, wild, and mountainous country with plenty of scenic variety. Crossing the famous Yalu River where the Japanese defeated the Russian army in 1905, we stopped for a few moments at that war-ridden town An

tung, on the Manchurian side of the river. Late that night we arrived at another city which was celebrated for a Japanese victory: Mukden, where we put up at an excellent railway station hotel - The Yamato. A long railway ride the next day through Manchuria brought us to Port Arthur, or Dalny, as it is now called. Here we spent a day going over the melancholy remains of the most terrific battle-field ever known prior to the Great World War. No one would dream that there had ever been a town on that peninsula; that when Russia established herself there, she brought along with her commerce, travel, and society. Outside of France that is, beyond all doubt, the most shellblown and mine-scarred monument to bloody war the world has ever known. It's a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah. No one but the Japanese War Department knows how many soldiers were sacrificed on that terrible hill-side. Picture it yourself: the whole terrain fortified from every conceivable angle with a view to repelling an attack from the sea which had to be made uphill against the Russian guns all trained downhill. And in the end, those myriad lives were largely sacrificed in vain, as the fortress was finally taken by tunneling and mine-laying.

It may be you will come across a little book either in Tokyo, Kyoto, or Port Arthur, entitled 'Human Bullets,' written by a young Japanese officer who survived. If so, get it. The tactics were repeated by the German armies in France: the pouring-out of men like bullets from a machine gun: an attempt to overcome by sheer sacrifice of numbers, trusting that enough may get through to win a victory. A visit to such a Gehenna as this is bound to work a salutary effect on a civilian. Incidentally, it is worthy of note that the present Japanese fortification of Port Arthur gives that enterprising nation complete control of all China north of the Yangtze River and up to the Amur.

It is equally true that the fleet that holds the Pacific Ocean controls Port Arthur as well. Please take notice that Japan has not been asleep at the switch' since the RussoJapanese War. What she might possibly lack on the sea, she makes up in her control of the Manchurian Railway which runs from Harbin on the Trans-Siberian Road, direct to Tientsin, and thence to Peking. Furthermore, no one realizes this fact any more thoroughly than China herself.

There is a steamship line plying between Port Arthur and Tientsin, China, across the Gulf of Pechili. That, after all, was what brought us on that roundabout trip from Japan. We hadn't lost any time and we had traveled through a vast territory of intensely interesting country that we should have missed had we followed our original plan and gone to Hongkong via Nagasaki.

It was a beautiful afternoon on which we pulled away from the dock at Dalny in a queer sort of undersized Japanese steamship and bid good-bye to Nipponese territory. The course lay past the southernmost point of the Liaotung Peninsula which Russia had 'leased' from the Chinese Government and which Japan had wrested from her at such a fearful sacrifice of human life. The memorial monument on the summit of 203-Metre Hill was silhouetted against the blue sky as we steamed by, while between us and the shore-line lay a picturesque Chinese junk becalmed on the glassy expanse of the gulf 'as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.' And the famous names of a day that was dead came trooping through my mind: Togo, Nogi, Kuroki, Oyama, Kuropatkin, Makaroff, Rojestvensky, Verestchagin, blundering Alexeieff, and the wretched Stoessel - all gone to their final reckonings. 'Cui bono?' The memory brings to mind those lines of Stephen Benet's: