Shortly after starting we met three mounted soldiers, evidently the military escort of a weary-looking Westerner seated in a ricksha, followed by another ricksha in which was seated a Korean in pale blue attire. This was the only Westerner we met during our eight days’ journey, and from this time onward we occasionally met a ricksha, though on some parts of the road it looks quite impossible for them to travel. For a distance of perhaps twenty miles the road has been planted on both sides with twigs at a distance of about a foot from one another. They look unpromising, but we were assured that they are likely to grow all right, in which case they will convert the dull road in the course of a few years to a pleasant shady avenue. Towards dusk we came to Po Chan, a Japanese military outpost. It struck us that this was probably the last opportunity of sending a telegram to announce our return to Seoul, so we at once dismounted at the telegraph office. Almost everywhere the one notice up in English is “Post—Telegraph,” but here it was in Japanese. When our wishes, however, had been explained by Mr. Chiao in writing, a telegraph form entirely made out in English was produced and the message written. It seemed such a simple matter to send it, that we were astonished at the amount of correspondence it entailed. Our names, destinations, ages, &c. &c. were demanded by the military authorities, and the little job took at least twenty minutes. At last we got away and it was quite dark before we reached our destination. We sighed for our friendly hosts of the night before, for this time we encountered a horde of inquisitive people, who allowed us no peace; in vain we closed three doors out of the four which led from one tiny room eighteen feet square, and the paper on them was soon in shreds. At last we were driven to distraction, and closed all the peep-holes by curtains, preferring to be stifled than to endure the people any longer. [Illustration: NORTH GATE, SEOUL]