FIRST GLIMPSES OF KOREA
It was soon after seven on the morning of Tuesday, March 26, 1907, that
we had our first sight of Chosen, “The Land of Morning Calm.” The day was
superb, fully bearing out the high praise which is almost universally
bestowed upon the Korean weather in Spring—the sunshine bright and
genial, the air clear and stimulating like wine. Tsushima, the island
which for centuries has acted as a sort of bridge between the two
countries, was fading in the distance on our port stern. The wardens of
Tsushima, under the Tokugawa Shogunate and, as well, much earlier, had a
sort of monopoly of the trade with southern Korea. From Tsushima, several
centuries ago, came the trees which make conspicuous the one thickly
wooded hill in Fusan, now the only public park in the whole country. In
front rose the coast; its mountains denuded of trees and rather unsightly
when seen nearer at hand, but at a distance, under such a sky, strikingly
beautiful for their varied richness of strong coloring. The town of
Fusan, as we approached it, had a comfortable look, with its Japanese
buildings, many of them obviously new, nestled about the pine-covered
hill which has already been noticed as its public park.
From the steamer’s deck our companion pointed out the eminence on which,
according to the narrative written by a contemporary in Chinese (the
book has never been translated and copies of the original are rare), the
Korean Governor of the District, when hunting in the early morning more
than three centuries ago, looked out to sea and to his amazement saw
myriads of foreign-looking boats filled with armed men approaching the
bay. It was the army sent by Hideyoshi for the invasion of the peninsula.
The Korean magistrate hastened to his official residence in the town, but
scarcely had he arrived when the Japanese forces were upon him and had
taken possession of everything. In twenty-one days the invaders were in
Seoul. But according to the universal custom of the country when invaded,
from whatever quarter and by whomsoever, the cowardly court—a motley
horde of king, concubines, eunuchs, sorcerers, and idle officials—had
fled; then a Korean mob burned and sacked the deserted palace and did
what well could be done toward desolating the city. For seven years the
Japanese held Southern Korea, even after their navy had been destroyed,
so as to make it impossible to transport reinforcements sufficient to
meet the combined forces of the Chinese and the Koreans. It was the fear
of a similar experience which, centuries later, made them so careful
first to incapacitate the Russian navy as a matter of supreme importance.
On another low hill to the right, our attention was directed to the
remnants of one of the forts built at the time by the invading Japanese;
and further inland, the train ran near to traces of the wall which they
erected for the defence of their last hold upon the conquered country.
Even then “the people hated them with a hatred which is the legacy of
centuries; but could not allege anything against them, admitting that
they paid for all they got, molested no one, and were seldom seen outside
the _yamen_ gates.”
On the wharf at Fusan there were waiting to welcome us the local
Resident, the manager of the Fusan-Seoul Railway, and other Japanese
officials—all fine-looking men with an alert air and gentlemanly bearing.
The official launch conveyed us to the landing near the railway station,
which is now some distance up the bay, but which will soon be brought
down to the new wharf that is in process of building, in such good time
that we had an hour and a half to spend before leaving for Seoul. Most of
this time was improved in visiting a Korean school on the hillside just
above. We were not, however, to see this educational institution at work,
but only the empty school-rooms and several of the Korean and Japanese
teachers. For the one hundred and seventy children of this school,
clothed in holiday garments of various shades in green, pink, carmine,
purple, yellow, and a few in white or black, were just starting for
the station to give a “send-off” to Prince Eui Wha. This Prince is the
second living son of the Korean Emperor and, in the event of the death
or declared incapacity of the Crown Prince, the legitimate heir to the
throne. There was much blowing of small trumpets and many unsuccessful
attempts on the part of the teachers to get and keep the line in order,
as the brilliantly colored procession moved down the hill.
The teachers who remained behind showed me courteously over the
school-rooms and interpreted the “curriculum” of the school which had
been posted for my benefit in one of the rooms. I give it below as a good
example of the kind of instruction which is afforded in the best of the
primary grades of the Korean school system as fostered by the Japanese:
_1st Class_—Ages, 7-9 years, inclusive:
Chinese classics; morals; penmanship; gymnastics.
_2d Class_—Ages, 10-11 years, inclusive:
Chinese classics; national literature; penmanship; Korean
history; gymnastics.
_3d Class_—Ages, 12-13 years, inclusive:
Chinese classics; arithmetic; composition; national and
universal history; gymnastics.
_4th Class_—Ages, 14-15 years, inclusive:
Chinese classics; arithmetic; composition; Japanese language;
universal history; gymnastics.
_5th Class_—Ages, 16 years and over:
English; Japanese; geography; national and universal history;
Korean law; international law.
It will appear that this scheme of education is based upon a Chinese
model, largely modified to meet modern requirements and, in the upper
classes, designed to fit those who are able to continue in school for the
lower grades of the Korean official appointments.
On returning to the station we found the children in line on one side
of the road and on the other a row of Korean men, some in clean and
some in dirty-white clothing, waiting for the coming of the Prince. The
difference between the mildly disorderly and unenthusiastic behavior of
the Korean crowd and the precise and alert enthusiasm of the Japanese on
similar occasions was significant. The Japanese policemen treated all the
people, especially the children, with conspicuous gentleness. The Prince,
who arrived at last in a jinrikisha and took the reserved carriage just
back of the one reserved for us, had a languid and somewhat _blasé_ air;
but he bowed politely and removed his hat for an instant as he passed by.
Before the train left the station a number of the principal civil
officers of Japanese Fusan appeared to bid us a good journey; and so we
entered Korea as we had left Japan, reminded that we were among friends
and should feel at home. Indeed, at every important station the cards of
the leading officials, who had been informed of the arrival of his guests
from the office of the Resident-General at Seoul, were handed in; and
this was followed by hand-shaking and the interchange of salutations.
The country through which the train passed during the entire day was
very monotonous—or perhaps “repetitious” is the better descriptive
word. Each mile, while in itself interesting and possessed of a certain
beauty due to the rich coloring of the denuded rock of the mountains and
of the sand of the valleys, which are deprived of their natural green
covering by the neglect to bar out the summer floods, was very like every
other of the nearly three hundred miles between Fusan and Seoul. Here,
as everywhere in Korea, there was an almost complete absence of any
_special_ interests, either natural or human, such as crowd the hills and
valleys of Japan. Of roads there appeared to be nothing worthy of the
name—only rough and tortuous paths, in parts difficult for the Korean
pony or even for the pedestrian to traverse. No considerable evidences of
any other industry than the unenlightened and unimproved native forms of
agriculture were visible on purely Korean territory. But at Taiden—about
170 miles from Fusan and 106 from Seoul—where the car of the Prince was
switched off, and where he remained overnight in order that he might
arrive at the Capital in the daylight, something better appeared. This
city is situated on a mountainous plateau and is surrounded by extensive
rice-fields, some of which, we were told, belong to the son of Marquis
Nabeshima, to Count Kabayama, and to other Japanese. In spots, the number
of which is increasing, all over Southern Korea, Japanese small farmers
are giving object-lessons in improved agriculture; and grouped around
all the stations of the railway, the neat houses and tidy gardens of the
same immigrants are teaching the natives to aspire after better homes.
Our escort believes that the process of amalgamation, which has already
begun, will in time settle all race differences, at least in this part of
the country.
At ten o’clock our train arrived at the South-Gate station of Seoul,
where we were met by General Murata, Marquis Ito’s _aide-de-camp_,
Mr. Miura, the Seoul Resident, Mr. Ichihara, manager of the Japanese
banks established in Korea, a friend of years’ standing, and others,
both gentlemen and ladies. The dimly lighted streets through which
the jinrikishas passed afforded no glimpses, even, into the character
of the city where were to be spent somewhat more than two exceedingly
interesting and rather exciting months. But less than an hour later we
were lodged in comfortable quarters at Miss Sontag’s house, and were
having a first experience of the almost alarming stillness of a Korean
night. Even in the midst of a multitude of more than two hundred thousand
souls, the occasional bark of a dog and the unceasing rat-tat of the
ironing-sticks of some diligent housewife, getting her lord’s clothing of
a dazzling whiteness for next day’s parade, are the only sounds that are
sure to strike the ear and soothe to sleep brains which must be prevented
from working on things inward, if they sleep soundly at all. But this
is the place to speak in well-merited praise of the unwearied kindness
and generosity of our hostess. Miss Sontag not only makes the physical
comforts of those visiting Seoul, who are fortunate enough to be her
guests, far different from what they could be without her friendly help,
but is also able to afford much insight into Korean customs, of which her
experience has been most intimate and intelligently derived.
With the morning light of March 27th began first observations of the
physical conditions and more obvious social peculiarities of Seoul—the
place which has been fitly styled “an encyclopædia of most of the
features of Korean so-called city life.” It is impossible to describe
Seoul, however, in any such fashion as to satisfy the conflicting
opinions of all—whether transient foreign observer or old-time resident.
The former will base his estimate upon the particular aspects or
incidents concerning which his missionary or diplomatic friend has given
him presumably, but by no means always actually, trustworthy information;
or upon what his own uninstructed eye and untrained ear may happen to see
and hear; while the more permanent indweller in Seoul is pretty sure to
conceive of it, and of its inhabitants, according to the success or the
failure of his schemes for promoting his own commercial, political, or
religious interests. This difference is apt to become emphatic, whenever
any of the patent relations of the two peoples chiefly interested, the
Koreans and the Japanese, are directly or even more remotely concerned.
The point of view taken for comparison also determines much. Approached
from Peking or from any one of scores of places in China, Seoul seems no
filthier than the visitor’s accustomed surroundings have been. But he who
comes from Old or New England, or from Japan, will observe many things,
greatly to his disgust. The missionary who compares his own method in
conducting a prayer-meeting with that pursued by the guard in clearing
the way at the railway station, or with that to which the policeman or
the jinrikisha-runner on the street is compelled by the crowd of idle and
stately stepping pedestrians, will doubtless complain of the rudeness
shown to the Koreans by the invading Japanese. And if he is disposed to
overlook the conduct of the roughs in San Francisco, or to minimize the
accounts of the behavior of American soldiers in the Philippines, or
has forgotten his own experiences at the Brooklyn Bridge, he may send
home letters deprecating the inferior civilization of the Far East. On
the other hand, he who knows the practice of Korean robbers, official
and unofficial, toward their own countrymen, or who recalls the sight
of a Korean mob tearing their victim limb from limb, or who credits the
reports of the unutterable cruelties that have for centuries gone on
behind the palace walls, will, of course, take a widely divergent point
of view. But let us—laying aside prejudice—glance at the externals of the
capital city of Korea, as they appeared during the months of April and
May, 1907.
The word Seoul,[1] coined by the Shilla Kingdom in Southeastern Korea and
originally pronounced _So-ra-pul_, means “national capital”; and Hanyang
(“Sun of the Han”), the real name of the present capital, is only one of
a succession of “Seouls,” of which Song-do and Pyeng-yang were the most
notable. To the imagination of the ignorant populace of Korea, who can
have no conception of what real civic beauty and decency are in these
modern days, and who are accustomed to express themselves with Oriental
hyperbole, Hanyang is the “Observation of all Nations,” “the King’s city
in the clouds,” “a city that spirits regard and ghosts conceal”; and to
be hailed as the “Coiled Dragon and the Crouching Tiger.” When the town
came down from the mountain retreat of Puk Han (to be described later)
and spread over the plain in order to utilize the Han River, it took the
river’s name; but it was only some five hundred and twenty years ago made
“Seoul” by the founder of the present dynasty selecting it as his capital
city.
The situation of the chief city of modern Korea becomes more and more
impressive and, in every important respect, satisfactory, the greater
the frequency of one’s reflective observation from any one of numerous
favorable points of view. There is no natural reason why, under the
governmental reforms and material improvements which are now being
put into effect, Seoul should not become as healthy, prosperous, and
beautiful a place of residence as can be shown anywhere in the Far East.
While its lower level is only some 120 feet above tide-water, and within
easy reach of the sea by the river, the city is, with the exception
of the side which opens toward and stretches down to this waterway,
completely surrounded by mountains. On the north these guardian peaks
rise to the height of 2,500 feet, from the tops of which magnificent
views can be obtained, not only of the town nestled at their feet but of
the surrounding land and of the ocean, far away. It is not necessary,
however, to climb so high in order to discover the geographical
peculiarities of Seoul. “To secure the best view of the city and its
surroundings,” says Dr. Jones, “one should ascend the lower slopes of
Nam-san” (a mountain almost wholly within the walls) “on a bright sunny
day in Spring. Taking a position on one of the many spurs jutting out
from this mountain a really notable scene greets the eye. The stone
screen of mountains enclosing the city begins at the left, with Signal
Peak distinguished by a lone pine-tree on its top. In former years there
was a beacon fire-station here, which formed one of the termini of the
long line of fire-stations that in pre-telegraph days signalled to the
authorities the weal or woe of the people.”
[Illustration: Bird’s-Eye View of the Capital City.]
Attention should again be called—at least for all lovers of natural
beauty—to the intensity and changeable character of the colors of the
surrounding mountains and hills, and of the city enclosed by them in
its plain, or in places where a few houses, mostly foreign, climb
their sides. These colors are often very intense; but they change in
a remarkable way, according to the brilliancy and direction of the
sunlight, and the varying mixtures of sunshine and shadow. From such
a point of view, the city itself, which is for the most part mean and
filthy when seen from the streets, appears as a sort of grayish carpet,
with dark-green spots made by the pines, for the plain beneath one’s
feet. As has already been indicated, the hillsides, both within and
around the walls, are uninhabited. They are devoted—and thus wasted—to
the mounds that cover the long-forgotten dead. By calculation, upon a
basis of counting, it is estimated that one of these burial grounds in
the vicinity of Seoul has no fewer than 750,000 of these graves. It is
neither reverence nor any other worthy feeling, however, which is the
chief factor in fostering a custom so expensive of comfort to the living;
it is superstitious fear, akin to that spirit-worship, which is largely
devil-worship, and which is really the only effective religion of the
non-Christian Korean people. Foreign residents upon the hillsides find it
difficult to keep their Korean servants during the night, so dominated
are they by their fear. In this respect, as well as others, there is an
important difference between so-called ancestor-worship, as in Korea, and
ancestor-worship in Japan.
The most obvious thing of interest in Seoul is the city wall. Its
construction was begun early in 1396, four years after the present
dynasty came to the throne; it was finished in about nine months by the
forced labor of men aggregating in number 198,000. According to the
legendary account, the course of the wall was marked out by a Buddhist
monk, who had the help of a miraculous fall of snow that indicated the
line which should be taken in order to avoid a dangerous mixture of the
“tiger” influence and the “dragon” influence. To this day the Koreans,
like the Chinese, whose pernicious domination they have followed in
this as in many other respects, are firm believers in geomancy. The
fact is, however, that the wall surrounding Seoul wanders, without any
assignable reason, some twelve miles, as recent surveys have settled the
long dispute about its length, over hills and along valleys, enclosing
a vast amount of uninhabitable as well as inhabited space. It is built
of partially dressed stone, with large blocks laid lengthwise at the
base, and the superstructure formed of layers of smaller stone—the
whole surmounted by battlements about five feet high and pierced
with loop-holes for archery adapted to the varying distances of an
approaching foe. In height it ranges from twenty to forty feet; it is
banked by an embankment of earth from twelve to fifteen feet thick.
Various attempts have been made at patching up this decaying structure,
but it can never have had the solidity and impregnability against attack
by the methods of mediæval warfare which were given to fortifications
of the same era in Japan. Moreover, the Korean defenders of the wall
customarily ran away as the foe approached; and this the Japanese
seldom or never did. Thus Seoul was easily captured by the warriors of
Hideyoshi in 1592, and nearly a half century later by a Manchu invading
army. The wall is, of course, useless for purposes of defence against
modern warfare; and its continuance in existence, at least in large part,
depends upon the length of time during which the sentiment of pride
triumphs over more utilitarian considerations.
It is the Gates of Seoul which emphasize the visitor’s interest in the
city wall and which give most of character to its picturesque features.
In themselves, they are mere “tunnels pierced in the wall”; but they
are rendered architecturally interesting by the wide-spreading eaves
and graceful curvature and, in some cases, striking ornamentation of
their roofs. They are, in all, eight in number, one of which is the
“concealed.” They bear the names of the points of the compass—South,
Little West, West, Northwest, East, Little East, and East Water; this
is not, however, because they face true to these points, but because in
the main they form the principal avenues of communication between the
inside of the wall and the outlying regions situated in these general
directions. Each of the gates has, besides, another name characterized
by the customary Korean hyperbole. There are, for example, the “Gate of
Exalted Ceremony,” the “Gate of Effulgent Righteousness” (or, in two
other cases, different kinds of righteousness), the “Gate of Brilliant
Splendor,” etc. But in and out of these gates, for one-half of a
thousand years, far more of corruption, cruelty, and darkness, has crept,
or trailed, or strutted, than of the qualities fitly called by their
high-sounding names. It was over them that the late “lamented queen”
festooned more than a score of heads freshly taken from her political
enemies in order to signify to the Tai-won-kun that she retained control
of His Majesty, in spite of the fact that his father had obtained
permission to re-enter the city through that same gateway. But why
disturb our admiration of a point of structural interest by recalling
one of the long list of doings in and around Seoul, no less distinctive
of the character of its government? In those older days, when the Great
Bell of the city rang the curfew, the gates were at once locked for the
night; and any inquirer may hear from missionaries and travellers how
they have climbed the wall in order not to sleep outside—thus incurring
the death penalty, which was not, however, at all likely to be enforced
upon the protected foreigner. The gates themselves, and the devices for
locking them, are very similar to those so frequently met with as the
relics of mediæval Europe. But the clay manikins (or _Son-o-gong_) which
sit astride the ridges of the roof, are designed to warn and ward off
all evil spirits that may attempt to enter the city. The old-fashioned
guards, with their dreadful array of big knives and swords, have now
given place to the modern policeman, whose principal duty is to keep the
gateway clear for traffic. This service is needed, for it is said that no
fewer than 20,000 foot-passengers, besides a stream of laden ponies and
bullocks, and a tolerably frequent schedule of electric cars, sometimes
pass through the South Gate in a single day. And the Koreans in the
streets are a slow-moving, stubborn, and stupid crowd.
To the ordinary traveller, after the first strangeness of its more
obvious aspects is over, not much remains of particular interest in the
capital city of Korea. Of fine buildings, of museums, picture-galleries,
temples, theatres, parks, and public gardens, there is little or nothing
to compare with any European or Japanese city of the same size. There is,
however, here as everywhere in the peninsula, no little of antiquarian
and historical interest which awaits the researches of those trained
and enthusiastic in such pursuits. Of those sights which the city of
Seoul within the walls can show, there are three principal classes—the
so-called palaces, the shrines, and the monuments. Even these are
interesting, not for their intrinsic grandeur or beauty, but chiefly for
their connection with the legends or historical incidents of the country.
To quote again from the articles of Dr. Jones: “The Koreans apply the
term _Kung_ or palace to all residences of royalty, and to them Seoul
is a city of palaces, for there are eighteen _Kung_ of varying sizes
and degrees of importance in and about the city.” Among the eighteen,
however, “there are several which are to-day a name and nothing more.”
Of these minor palaces the most interesting is that called the “Special
South Palace,” which was erected nearly five hundred years ago by one
of the kings for his favorite daughter and her consort. But the latter
made it such a “veritable den of infamy” that it was abandoned as a
house haunted by evil spirits and unsafe for habitation. The mixture
of fawning malice and hypocritical servility characteristic of Korean
officialdom was at one time humorously exhibited in a way to deceive
even the Chinese; for when the Mings were overthrown by the Manchus,
the hated envoys of the latter were assigned to this House, “for their
entertainment and as a covert derogation to their dignity.” Thus, too,
with the so-called “Mulberry Palace,” known by the Koreans as the “Palace
of Splendid Happiness.” It was erected by the tyrant Lord Kwanghai
who was here dethroned, and from here sent into exile, where he died
a prisoner. From it also his successor was driven out by the usurping
“Three Days, King.” It was in this palace, also, that the King Suk-jong,
having surprised his favorite concubine in practising magic rites to
accomplish the death of the Queen whom she had already caused to be
divorced and banished, turned upon the concubine herself, sentenced her
to drink poison, and when she in revenge mutilated the Crown Prince, had
her torn in pieces. Its present name is derived from one of the many
fruitless experiments which the present Government of Korea, left to
itself, is constantly making. The “mulberry” plantation remains only as
a name to adorn, or degrade, the ruins of the palace. But if any visitor
to Seoul thinks that such violence, lust, and thriftlessness, must of
necessity belong to the _ancient_ history of Korea, let him learn his
mistake. Were the firm, strong hand of the Japanese Resident-General
withdrawn, there is not one of these horrid deeds which might not be
reproduced at any hour.
These are not, however, the “Major Palaces,” through which the foreign
visitor is usually conducted, after having obtained a permit from the
proper authorities. The palace, known to the Koreans as the Kyung-pok,
or “Palace of Beautiful Blessing,” and to foreigners as the “Summer
Palace,” dates from 1394, and was occupied by the present Emperor until
1896. Nowhere else have I seen so large a space (it is estimated that the
principal enclosure containing only the buildings deemed necessary for
his Korean Majesty’s comfort, contains one hundred acres, besides which
there are other enclosures running up the slopes of the mountains and
designed for defence) strewn over with desolated and half-ruined barbaric
splendor. The main Gateway, through whose central arch no other person
than His Majesty and his bearers may pass, is an impressive structure
and is still in fairly good repair. It is guarded by stone effigies of
the _Hai-tai_, or mythical sea-monsters, who are prepared to spout water
against the mysterious influences stored in the “fire mountain,” some
ten miles away to the southward. They are therefore called “Fire Dogs.”
Once inside the enclosure, one is presented with a melancholy picture of
neglect, swiftly oncoming decay, and advancing ruin. All this is the more
melancholy, because the present palace buildings are only about fifty
years old, were erected by the Prince-parent of the present Emperor,
almost to the financial ruin of the country, and were abandoned only
after the assassination of the Queen, October 8, 1895.
Amidst this crowded waste where formerly three thousand persons lived
in attendance upon the separate establishments for the King, Queen,
Crown Prince, and the Dowagers, there are only two buildings which,
architecturally considered, are worthy of note. One of these is the
old “Audience Hall.” Its columns, although many are cracked for a
considerable part of their length, and none of them ever possessed
anything like the beauty or finish of the noble wooden pillars of the
Nishi Hongwanji in Kyoto (which, however, they resemble in style and
effect), seem to have been made of entire stately trees. There are
really no galleries, but the appearance is that of a two-galleried
hall. The strong colors of red, black, green, and blue, with which the
carved and panelled ceiling is decorated, in a manner similar to that
of the castles in the Tokugawa period in Japan, seem to find their way
through one’s upturned eyes to the base of the brain. In some of its
structural features this Audience Hall resembles the audience halls of
the Muhammadan monarchs in Northern India more than anything to be found
in Japan. This is especially true of the high platform on which the
throne was placed. The decoration central over it, and that central in
the ceiling of the whole hall, is golden dragons, with clouds and flames,
in bas-reliefs; it is in an excellent state of preservation.
The other really fine building in the entire collection is the so-called
“Hall of Congratulations,” whose upper floor is supported by forty-eight
granite monoliths—six rows of eight each in a row. These pillars are
about sixteen feet high and three feet square. The lotus pond surrounding
the building is oblong and faced with masonry; while miniature islands
rise here and there above the surface of the water. This Hall was
intended for state social functions of the out-of-door character.
By going still further back of the sleeping apartments of the King,
which consisted of nine rooms arranged in a square, so that the eight
surrounding the central room could guard it from intrusion or attack, we
come in front of the wall behind whose screen are the apartments in one
of which the brilliant and attractive but cruel Queen met her own most
tragic and cruel death. All are now forbidden to enter there. But some
twelve years before, our escort had seen the dark bloodstains on the
floor—perhaps hers, perhaps those of her chamberlain who met his death
in trying to protect his queen. And one has only to look a little way
over to the right in order to see the now peaceful pine-grove where her
body was dragged and burned. Such was the deed which terminated the royal
habitation of another, and this the most splendid, of the palaces of
Seoul!
It is the grounds, rather than the buildings, of the East Palace,
especially when the azaleas and cherry bushes and apricot-trees are
in full bloom, which constitute its beauty. Here the diplomatic corps
and the other invited guests of the Emperor are accustomed to have
picnics and afternoon teas. The apartments, which were united into one
so-called palace in the reign of Suk-jong (1694-1720) appear to be most
distinctively Korean and are unlike any other buildings which I have ever
seen. The rooms are small and rambling; and the screens between them
are decorated with those geometrical patterns which are so ancient and
so nearly universal wherever architecture has reached a certain stage
of development. The ceilings are low and devoid of decoration, but are
made pleasing by being everywhere “beamed-over.” This palace, too, has
not escaped its history of violence and its bath of blood. Here it was
that, in 1884, the party of Progressives, headed by Mr. Kim Ok-kiun,
tried to enforce reforms by capturing the person of the King. But the
conservative party of Koreans, helped by eight hundred Chinese soldiers
under the leadership of the Major Yuan, who afterward became Li Hung
Chang’s successor, and is even to-day cutting an important figure in the
complicated politics of China, finally drove out the Progressives and the
one hundred and forty Japanese who were defending them.
Little else of the mildly exciting “sights” of Seoul remains besides the
Great Bell and the Marble Pagoda. The former bears witness to an art in
which the Koreans once excelled, but which is now, like all the other
arts, either lost or neglected. At Nikko, it will be remembered, there
is a Korean bell which was presented to one of the Japanese Shoguns.
Setting aside all legends as to the time and incidents of its manufacture
and hanging, a recently deciphered inscription on its own side tells the
date as 1469 and gives the names of the prominent men connected with
the undertaking. The report of a Chinese envoy of 1489, who says of the
bell, “It calls all men to rest, to rise, to work, to play,” taken in
conjunction with the fact that, to avoid the troubles of faction and
violence, _men_ were forbidden on the streets after dark, probably gave
rise to the report that _women_ only were allowed to go abroad at night.
And this is believed by natives and travellers until the present hour.
But the bell, which once rung to open and close the massive city gates,
now rings only to tell of midnight and midday. And, although it is
about eight feet in diameter and ten feet high, it is no great sight as
looked at by peeking through the bars of its surrounding cage. It does,
however, like many other things else in Seoul, bear witness to the life
of the past and the changes of the present.
The marble pagoda is at the same time the most notable existing monument
of Buddhism in Korea and the most interesting art-object in Seoul. It
came, however, from abroad; tradition connects its gift with a Mongol
princess who, after the death of Kublai Khan, came to Korea in 1310 to
become the queen-consort of King Chung-sun. It was brought in a junk from
China and at first erected in the grounds of a temple in the little town
of Hanyang—the predecessor of Seoul on the same site; for the capital
of the present dynasty was not then built. The temple grounds were
beautified in its honor; roads were constructed leading to it; and a
bridge was built over a stream running near by. But the Korean inevitable
happened to it—the fate meted out to all that shows signs of order,
industry, or art, when not of immediate selfish interest to the rulers
of Korea. The roads, encroached upon by surrounding hovels, became foul
and narrow alleys; a squatter built his straw-thatched hut about it;
and the stream became the main sewer of the city, which is cleaned only
by the downpour of the summer rains. Thus, as says our chronicler: “The
gift to Korea of one of the mighty Mongol Khans, whose arms had literally
shaken the world, became the impedimenta of a Korean coolie’s backyard,
sixteen by twenty feet square!” What wonder, however, in a land where
court officials and palace hangers-on do not hesitate to-day to steal the
screens, and other presents from foreign monarchs and plutocrats, out
from under His Majesty’s very eyes.[2]
The pagoda itself, which has now been cleared from the clutter of huts
and made the central object in Seoul’s first attempt at the beginnings
of a public park, deserves a brief description. It is of white marble,
much stained by time, war, and neglect, and was originally thirteen
stories in height; although only ten of these are now standing, while
the upper three have been removed and rest beside it on the ground. The
base and first six stories have twenty sides; the remainder are squares.
Each story is symmetrically diminished in size; some have galleries with
curved eaves and upturned corners. The ornamentation is exceedingly
complicated and abstruse in its symbolism and suggestiveness. There are
sculptured upon the flat surfaces processions of tigers, dragons, men on
foot and on horseback, teachers discoursing in groves, pictures taken
from the traditional life of Buddha, and various bas-reliefs of different
Buddhas. The lower stories are composed of several blocks of carved
stone, but the smaller and upper stories are monoliths.
Near the pagoda stands the Tortoise Tablet, a very ancient structure; the
tablet is said originally to have been brought from the Southern Kingdom
of Scilla, and erected upon the ledge of granite which outcropped in
this place, after the rock had itself been carved into the shape of a
tortoise. It was designed to memorialize the building of a temple which
dates back to the eleventh century A. D. The tablet is probably more than
one thousand years old.
Within the small enclosure surrounding these relics, Mr. Megata, the
Japanese financial adviser to the Korean Government, is trying to
encourage the public spirit of the natives and entertain the resident
foreigners by providing band concerts on Saturday afternoons. Thus this
spot also offers a study in epitome of the history, present changes, and
future prospects of the capital city of Korea.
Of the few shrines which the royal prohibition of Buddhism and the low
and decaying interest in all religious conceptions rising above the level
of spirit-worship—and this mostly devil-worship—have allowed to remain
in Seoul, the only ones of any particular importance are the Imperial
Ancestral Shrines and the so-called “Temple to Heaven.” But even the
guests of Marquis Ito did not think it wise to ask for permission to
visit these shrines, or to exhibit any more curiosity respecting them
than to glance by the guard, through the open doors of the gateway, while
passing along the street. As to the New Palace, which is a stone building
of modified Doric architecture, and is so far finished externally that it
can be seen to have decided claims to beauty, if only the superstitions
of the monarch and of his counsellors among the blind-men and the
sorcerers had permitted it to be well placed—this was ever before our
eyes from the windows of Miss Sontag’s house. And what was seen of the
buildings occupied at the time of our visit by His Majesty and the Court,
so far as it is worth a word, will be described in another place.
The Seoul seen from the surrounding mountain-sides, and the Seoul of
so-called palaces, is not the city in which the people live. Apart from
a few of its inhabitants—such as the missionaries, certain foreign
business men and diplomatic agents, together with a small number of
native officials who have acquired a taste for foreign ways—the Seoul
of the people is disgustingly filthy and abjectly squalid. It is,
indeed, not so filthy and miserable, and lacking in all the comforts
and decencies of respectable Western life, as it was a generation, or
even a few years ago. Several of the streets have now been—not only
occasionally when the King was going a “processioning” through them,
but habitually and to the benefit of the populace—cleared of their
encroachments of squatter hovels, huts, and booths. The gutters along
the sides of _these_ streets do not quite so much as formerly disturb
the eyes and nostrils of the pedestrian, especially if he walks in
the middle of the thoroughfare; their use for vile purposes is not so
much in evidence as was the case before any of the natives had even a
glimmering sense of decency about such matters. In spite of the increased
business activity of the city there is not to-day quite the same stream
of white-robed saunterers, stately in gait but low in character, to give
a semi-holiday aspect to the “Broadways” of Seoul; for electric cars
transport the multitudes back and forth in several directions. Besides,
there is the neat, attractive Japanese quarter. Here, according to my
observation, the Koreans themselves were doing more sight-seeing and more
trading than in their own quarters; for here the cheaper products of the
new and hitherto unknown world are skilfully displayed. But otherwise
and elsewhere in the city, the same unsanitary conditions and indecent
habits, in all respects, prevail. The narrow, winding alleys are flanked
with shallow, open ditches, that are not only the drains and sewers but
the _latrines_ of the dwellers in the low earth-walled houses on either
side. Cowardly and lean dogs, naked children, and rows of men squatting
and sucking their long pipes or lying flat upon the ground, crowd and
obstruct these alleys. And from them the wide-spreading Korean roofs cut
off the purifying and enlivening sunlight. Many of the most wretched and
unsanitary of these hovels squat under the shadow of the stately city
wall. May its stones sometime be used to build a better and healthier
city!
There are, however, yet more notable changes and improvements than those
already accomplished, which seem destined surely and speedily to follow.
A water-supply, for which the surveys and contracts have already been
completed and for which, during our visit, the pipes were beginning to
be laid, will not only diminish the dangers that lurk in the cans of the
professional water-carriers and in the private wells, but will assist
the summer rains in their formidable task of washing clean the open
sewers. More of these foul, winding alleys, and huddles of hovels, will
be abolished. The increase in the interests of life, and the enjoyment
of the rewards of protected industry, will diminish the drunkenness and
gluttony, varied by enforced periods of starvation, which now distress
the people. The new hospital and medical school—the former of which will
immediately relieve much suffering and the latter of which will perform
the yet more important service of educating a native medical class—are
among the most cherished projects of the Resident-General. And when to
these more essential matters there is added the cultivation of the native
love of nature and taste for flowers, it is not an extravagant hope to
picture Seoul as becoming, in many respects, a not undesirable place for
residence, before many years are past. Even now, with the spring covering
of bloom from plum, apricot, apple, and cherry, and with the profusion
of flowering shrubs which adorns the valleys and the mountain-sides, one
feels inclined to overlook, at least for the months of April and May, the
foul sights of the gutters and the surrounding hovels. But all this was,
as it were, only background and theatre for the work I wished to do and
the observations I wished to make.