the skull-cap worn beneath it, for which I paid three dollars; but those of the best quality, made of human hair and the finest bamboo, cost as much as one hundred and fifty dollars (nearly £15).

On reaching the main streets we resolved to patronise the tramway tramway and purchased tickets at the small office at one of the stopping-places. A car soon came up and we took our seats. The genial young Japanese conductor spoke a little English and, evidently proud of his accomplishment, entered into conversation with us. Noting the Corean hat which I had just purchased, he said to me, "You have buy?" On my replying in the affirmative he continued, he continued, "How much you pay?" I told him, whereupon he burst out laughing. "Oh, you dam fool" he cried and slapped me genially on the back, rather to my astonishment. However, his mirth was contagious, and I joined in the laugh against myself, while our Corean fellow-passengers, though ignorant of the joke, all cackled merrily.

The car shot along through the wide, dingy streets, over small bridges crossing broad drains, and out through the tunnel-like arch of the gate in the city wall into the country beyond. The road narrowed down until the luxuriant foliage of the trees met overhead, and the line ended about a mile from the walls. On our return we left the car at the gate, to take photographs, but we had not reckoned on the insatiable curiosity of the Corean. A crowd speedily gathered; and no sooner was a camera in position than 8 throng of men, women, and children pressed closely up and strove hard to look in through the lens. Entreaties and curses proving equally unintelligible to the goodhumoured mob, at last we employed strategy. One of our number raised

his camera; instantly the throng rushed at him and tried to peer into the strange little box, when I seized my opportunity. Hearing the click, the crowd turned and scurried back to me, when my companion in turn took them. Then, shouldering our way through the laughing mob, intensely amused at their own defeat, we jumped on another tramcar and were rattled back through the city and out by the gate where we had originally entered. From here we walked back to the Station Hotel.

Thus ended our brief glimpse of the capital of Corea. We returned to Chelmulpo, and on the same evening our steamer sailed for Japan. The following day found us in the magnificent natural harbour of Fusan, a land-locked bay surrounded by an amphitheatre of rounded hills. A large fleet could shelter there with ease, and a few forts would make the place impregnable. Its position on the south-east corner of Corea, within a day's steam of Japan, makes it a point of special interest to the Japanese, who would strongly resist its passing into the hands of any powerful and possibly hostile nation. Fusan was the last spot of ground they possessed on Corean soil after their invasion in former times. centuries they have maintained small colony in the town, which is, to all intents and purposes, a Japanese settlement. Almost the only steamers which visit the port are the vessels of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha which ply between Taku and Nagasaki or Vladivostok, and Japan, and Japanese engineers are building a railway across Corea from Seoul to Fusan. It would be but natural that the Russians should cast an envious eye on Fusan; and equally natural is it that Japan should object to their establishing themselves in a harbour so magnificently equipped

For

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by Nature and so near to her own coasts.

The docile, phlegmatic Corean counts for little in the schemes of more powerful nations. His country has been for centuries the cockpit of Eastern Asia; and only his want of active patriotism and his prompt submission to his conquerors have saved him from extermination. Cheerful and hard-working by nature, long years of oppression by corrupt

officials have left him thriftless and lazy. Of what use is it to endeavour to lift himself from the slough of poverty when, at the first appearance of wealth, he will be forced, under pain of imprisonment, torture, or death, to disgorge the fruits of his toil? Thus commerce is left to the foreigner; and the Corean is content with a bare livelihood and asks but a peaceful existence.

GORDON CASSERLY.

I AM perfectly well aware that tramps are not generally supposed to be specially gifted with imagination, nor with much love for the pic turesque; yet from my personal experiences of these tattered nomads, I have found them to be almost as richly endowed with those qualities as their outward appearance would suggest. And surely, it must require some imagination to concoct those pitiful tales by which tramps generally succeed in lightening the pockets of the unsophisticated but charitable pedestrian. Like the victims of the Sirens, if you are tempted to stand and listen to one of these dulcet strains you are lost, or at least you have parted with something which may, or may not, be valuable to you, according to the fashion in which you regard filthy lucre.

You are passing along a road when one of these interesting specimens of the picturesque meets you and accosts you with this preliminary request: "Please, sir, could you oblige me with a light?" Now a light is what no smoker can possibly refuse if he has one about him. You must stop and begin to search your pockets as naturally, and as readily, for the tramp, as you would for an ordinary traveller. It is what you would ask, if you wanted the article, and met some one on a lonely road who seemed likely to give it.

While the intended victim is rummaging in search of the match-box, which has got into some out-of-theway corner of his pocket, the tattered prowler is studying his probable prospects before beginning business.

A search of this kind is about the best test of a man's character. If he is charitable, easy to be imposed upon, and in no great hurry, he will search leisurely, taking out the different articles deliberately, one by one. He will most likely bring out his own pipe and tobacco-pouch, and, while handing over the match-box, also press upon his unfortunate brother a pipe-full of the weed. If he does all this without becoming excited or losing his temper, then the borrower is pretty sure of a credulous ear to his oral fiction, and at the end of the narration, perhaps half-a-crown to help him along his weary way.

I am by nature a patient listener to the woes of the tatterdemalion fraternity. Perhaps a strain of the same Bohemian blood runs in my veins. I admire, as they do, lonely roads and pleasing landscapes. I am fond, as they are, of perpetual change, and enjoy uncertainty as they do. Method becomes obnoxious when it is forced upon me. I like, as they do, old coats and disreputable trousers, and value much more the chance pipe of borrowed tobacco than I do my own special brand.

Of course I do not always give full credence to the stories which they favour me with, although I am generally filled with admiration at the invention displayed. This, joined to the histrionic gifts exhibited by the narrators, generally lures from me a certain fee, as my tribute to their abilities. It is so pleasant to sit down by the side of a stile, in a country road on a summer afternoon, with an expert liar beside one,

modulating his trained voice to a pathetic self-pitiful strain, all the while watching you with his crafty eyes to see the effect of his sad story: It is pleasant to have your ears tickled in this soothing manner, while your eyes are gratified by the spectacle he presents to you, his stage effect as it were; a figure, draped by Time, in a fashion of its own, with æsthetic bleachings of colours and gradations of tones sufficiently subtle to charm the most critical perceptions, with fringes and fluttering edges, patches, and additions to suit the convenience of the

wearer, that no costumier could imitate, unless perhaps he were of Chinese or Japanese extraction.

The real professional is not to be mistaken, when once you get to know him thoroughly, for the temporary tramp,-that is to say the tramp who lives by the road for the mechanic out of work, who may be merely seeking for employment.

The real article never wastes his valuable time in seeking for work, and he would despise a mate who would dream about such an undesirable consummation to his day's march nearer home.

Possibly such an adept began life as the brat of a beggar, and was initiated into his honourable craft with his first lispings, having served before that date as an unspeakable object for compassion; therefore the road is his only and true home. Such a one will avoid Unions as much as he possibly can, because he does not like to work for his night's shelter. He has rarely any need to go into such places. If he knows his trade at all, night seldom falls upon him without finding him fully provided, and there are jolly places where tramps congregate at nights by the way, and compare notes like the merry mendicant pilgrims of yore.

He has grown up as a professional roadster all his life. His mode of existence is one void of care and responsibility. As a rule, it is almost as rare to see a dead tramp as it is to see a dead donkey. They are a hardy and long enduring race, and may be met of all ages, from helpless babyhood to sturdy and unwashed veteranism; but I never yet encountered a very decrepit specimen, although I have met many who could feign all the ailments of poor humanity to serve the purpose of the moment.

If it is a youthful tramp, he will begin conversation by asking how far it is to the town beyond the one you have just left, also perhaps the time. He will not shock you by asking for a light, as he prefers leaving you under the impression that he has not yet acquired this bad habit. He is a virtuous, if humble, young man, who has lost both his parents and means of living by the collapse of a coalmine, and is generally dirty enough to make this statement seem feasible. He is looking out for work, and has been on the outlook since that deplorable accident in the mine. has tramped all that day, and the day before, without breaking his fast, while his last meal consisted only of a dry crust. At this juvenile stage in his life the tramp has to content himself with coppers, being too young and inexperienced to get up pathos strong enough to draw forth silver from his patrons. He has not practised enough to be able to drop a tear with subdued effect; it is the middleaged widower who can do that to perfection.

This adept accosts you pleasantly, and while you are searching for the match, remarks cheerfully about the condition of the crops and the state of the weather. He is a hopeful. wanderer so far as the prospect of

future work is concerned. If he can manage to get a sickle, on trust, until he can afford to purchase one, he is sure of a job at bean-cutting, which will carry him along first-rate until the hopping-season begins. He has got his pipe filled and lighted at your expense, yet still he lingers, extending his confidences, and gliding gracefully into the pathetic. A broken leg was the first of his disasters, followed by the loss of his dear wife, and a lingering illness which gradually reduced his wardrobe to its present state of dilapidation. He exhibits his pawn-tickets as vouchers of the truth of his tale. They are all there, silent witnesses of his former respectability, although of no more use, having run out their time; a vest, nine pence, a coat, fifteen pence, and so on. "The price of that sickle and a bed for to-night, is the whole that is wanted to make a man once more out of as miserable a wreck as you might meet in a day's march," he concludes, wiping the furtive tear away with his rag of a handkerchief. If lucky, the bereaved one walks off, with the tears of gratitude in his leery eyes, and the price of that sickle in his twine-tied pocket, while the affected donor feels, for the passing moment, a better man as he once more turns a dewy gaze towards spreading Nature.

Of all the variety of tramps whom I have come upon in my wanderings after the picturesque, I never yet met either a vindictive or a grateful one. You may blaspheme at one of them until you are on the verge of a fit of apoplexy, and he will only reply gratefully, "Bless yer, sir, for them yer, sir, for them kind words." Set the house-dog after him to the further dilapidation of his time-worn habiliments; you cannot hurt his feelings or rouse him up to the point of harbouring revenge. Abuse is what he naturally expects,

if he cannot raise commiseration in your bosom. He will not leave you, when once he has got a hearing, until he has roused either the one emotion or the other. As rags are his stock in trade, the raggeder your dog can make him the better prospect he has with the next customer; therefore, as he has no cause for resentment, he does not feel it.

I am taking up my subject from a natural history point of view, and wish to deal with it dispassionately and fairly. I do not look upon the tramp in the same light as I would regard a man whom unmerciful disaster has driven from the ranks of respectability into the hopeless mire of destitution. Such a one is not a tramp, although he may be compelled to consort with them, and most likely may have to die among them. Such a hopeless wreck, with his bitter hatreds, disappointed ambitions, envyings, withering wishes, and impotent desires, can no more be compared with the pure-bred mendicant than can a wild tiger-cat newly caged be compared with the domestic favourite who serves to ornament our hearthrugs.

Like the cat, it has taken many generations to form the nature, as well as to harden the hide, of the tramp,-in fact to make him the object that he is. A Romany has some of the qualities necessary, but he is too conservative and tribal, with too many traditions to hinder his progress towards the traitless perfection required. He is not cosmopolitan enough in his ideas. He does something occasionally for a living,-plaiting rushes, telling fortunes, painting his caravan, housebreaking, or poaching-each of which requires exertion and brain-power. The genuine tramp has grown beyond all effort. He can lie fluently, because to do this requires no effort,