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people begins at the pier, where native stevedores are loading lighters with sacks of rice for export to Japan. Chemulpo is not an ideal port. It is reached by devious and treacherous channels, through a confusing archipelago, where rapid currents due to the phenomenal tides sweep to and fro twice daily, rendering navigation most precarious. At low water scores of junks and even a few small islands are left stranded high and comparatively dry on broad mud flats.  The town is semi-European, semi-Japanese. There is a native quarter inconsiderable and unimportant, but it lies far from the landing-pier, and its existence is not at first apparent. There is a so-called European hotel conducted by a Chinese, but we favor the Japanese yadoya, where we find the same attentive service as in Japan, the same dainty little dinners served on tables six inches high, the same soft, matted floors and translucent paper walls. There is nothing about the establishment that is not delightfully Japanese. We forget that we are in Korea, until the next morning when |
