Death, ever present all the world over--how softened his grim
visage is when associated with the name of Jesus, how awful when
he appears alone. The writer still recalls one summer long ago,
May, 1889, when funeral preparations were being made before a
neighboring house. He made inquiry of An, his host: “I didn’t
know that there was a death.” “Yes, the master of the house is
dead; they will bury him.” “But when did he die? To-day when
we were out?” “No, no, not to-day. He died before you came.”
I had been there two months. They had a bier ornamented with
dragons’ heads, painted in wild colors, that suggested skull and
cross-bones. The funeral service was a fearful row; everybody
was noisy, many were weeping, many were drunk. A more gruesome
performance than that which I saw, over that horrible, unburied
body, no one could imagine. To-day that same village sits as it
did then, with background of mountain and foreground of sea,
but how changed! All is Christian; Sunday is a day of rest,
and every house is represented at the service in the chapel.
They have lived down old-fashioned death in that village and
exchanged it for quiet sleep.--JAMES S. GALE, “Korea in
Transition.”
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