Chemulpo--So-called European hotels--Comforts--Japanese concession--The
_Guechas_--New-Year's festivities--The Chinese settlement--European
residents--The word "Corea"--A glance at Corean history--Cho-sen.
[Illustration: THE DONKEY OF A COREAN OFFICIAL]
When I land in a new country a strange sense of the unknown somehow takes
possession of me. Perhaps in this, however, I am not alone. The feeling
is in part, I think, due to one's new surroundings, though chiefly to the
facial expressions of the people, with which one is not familiar and
probably does not quite understand. One may be a student of human
character in only a very amateurish way, and yet without much difficulty
guess by the twinkle in the eye, or the quivering of the underlip,
whether a person is pleased or annoyed, but when a strange land is
visited one is apt to be at first often deceived by appearances; and if,
as has happened in my case, the traveller has suffered in consequence of
being thus deceived, he is rather apt to look upon all that he sees with
a considerable amount of caution and even suspicion.
It was then with some such feelings as these that I landed at Chemulpo.
Hundreds of coolies running along the shore, with loads of grain on their
backs, to be shipped by the _Higo-Maru_, had no compunction in knocking
you down if you were in their way, and a crowd of curious native loafers,
always ready to be entertained by any new arrival, followed you _en
masse_ wherever you went.
When I visited Chemulpo there were actually three European hotels there.
These were European more in name than in fact, but there they were, and
as the night was fast approaching, I had to make my choice, for I wanted
a lodging badly.
One of these hotels was kept by a Chinaman, and was called Steward's
Hotel, for the simple reason that its owner had been a steward on board
an American ship, and had since appropriated the word as a family name;
the second, which rejoiced in the grand name of "Hotel de Corée," was of
Hungarian proprietorship, and a favourite resort for sailors of
men-of-war when they called at that port, partly because a drinking
saloon, well provided with intoxicants of all descriptions, was the chief
feature of the establishment, and partly because glasses were handed over
the counter by a very fascinating young lady, daughter of the proprietor,
a most accomplished damsel, who could speak fluently every language under
the sun--from Turkish and Arabic to Corean and Japanese. The third
hotel--a noble mansion, to use modern phraseology--was quite a new
structure, and was owned by a Japanese. The name which had been given by
him to his house of rest was "The Dai butzu," or, in English parlance,
The Great God. Attracted by the holiness of the name, and perhaps even
more by the clean look, outside only, of the place, I, as luck would have
it, made the Dai butzu my headquarters. I know little about things
celestial, but certainly can imagine nothing less celestial on the face
of the earth than this house of the Great God at Chemulpo. The house had
apparently been newly built, for the rooms were damp and icy cold, and
when I proceeded to inspect the bed and remarked on the somewhat doubtful
cleanliness of the sheets, "They are quite clean," said the landlord;
"only two gentlemen have slept in them before." However, as we were so
near the New Year, he condescended to change them to please me, and I
accepted his offer most gracefully as a New-Year's gift.
"O Lord," said I with a deep sigh when the news arrived that no meat
could be got that evening, and the only provisions in store were "one
solitary tin, small size, of compressed milk."
"Mionichi nandemo arimas, Konban domo dannasan, nandemo arimasen":
"To-morrow you can have anything, but to-night, please, sir, we have
nothing." As I am generally a philosopher on such occasions, I satisfied
my present cravings with that tin of milk, which, needless to say, I
emptied, putting off my dinner till the following night.
Corea, as everybody knows, is an extremely cold country, the thermometer
reaching as low sometimes as seventy or even eighty degrees of frost; my
readers will imagine therefore how delightfully warm I was in my bed with
only one sheet over me and a sort of cotton bed-cover, both sheet and
bed-cover, I may add, being somewhat too short to cover my feet and my
neck at the same time, my lower extremities in consequence playing a
curious game of hide-and-seek with the support of my head. I had ordered
a cold bath, and water and tray had been brought into my room before I
had gone to bed, but to my horror, when I got up, ready to plunge in and
sponge myself to my heart's content, I found nothing but a huge block of
solid ice, into which the water had thought proper to metamorphose
itself. Bells there were none in the house, so recourse had to be made to
the national Japanese custom of clapping one's hands in order to summon
up the servants.
"Hé," answered the slanting-eyed maid from down below, as she trotted up
the steps. Good sharp girl that she was, however, she quickly mastered
the situation, and hurried down to fetch fresh supplies of unfrozen
liquid from the well; although hardly had she left the room the second
time before a thick layer of ice again formed on the surface of the
bucketful which she had brought. It was bathing under difficulties, I can
tell you; but though I do not much mind missing my dinner, I can on no
account bring myself to deprivation of my cold bath in the morning. It is
to this habit that I attribute my freedom from contagious diseases in all
countries and climates; to it I owe, in fact, my life, and I have no
doubt to it, some day, I shall also owe my death.
The evil of cold was, however, nothing as compared with the quality and
variety of the food. For the best part of the week, during which I stayed
at the Dai butzu, I only had an occasional glance at a slice of
nondescript meat, served one day as "rosbif," and the next day as "mutin
shops," but unfortunately so leathery that no Sheffield blade could
possibly divide it, and no human tooth nor jaw, however powerful, could
masticate it.
As luck would have it, I was asked out to dinner once or twice by an
American gentleman--a merchant resident at Chemulpo--and so made up for
what would have otherwise been the lost art of eating.
Chemulpo is a port with a future. The Japanese prefer to call it Jinsen;
the Chinese, In-chiang. It possesses a pretty harbour, though rather too
shallow for large ships. The tide also, a very troublesome customer in
that part of the world, falls as much as twenty-eight or twenty-nine
feet; wherefore it is that at times one can walk over to the island in
front of the settlement almost without wetting one's feet.
Chemulpo's origin is said to be as follows: The Japanese government,
represented at Seoul by a very able and shrewd man called Hanabusa, had
repeatedly urged the Corean king to open to Japanese trade a port
somewhat nearer to the capital. Though the king was personally inclined
to enter into friendly negotiations, there were many of the anti-foreign
party who would not hear of the project; but such was the pressure
brought to bear by the skilful Japanese, and so persuasive were the
king's arguments, that, after much pour-parleying, the latter finally
gave way. Towards the end of 1880, the Mikado's envoy, accompanied by a
number of other officials, proceeded from the capital to the Imperatrice
Gulf and selected an appropriate spot, on which to raise the now
prosperous little concession, fixing that some distance from the native
city. In course of years it grew bigger, and when I was at Chemulpo there
was actually a Japanese village there, with its own Jap policemen, its
tea-houses, two banks, the "Mitsui-bashi" and "The First National Bank of
Japan," and last but not least, a number of _guechas_, the graceful
singers and posturing dancers of Nippon, without whom life is not worth
living for the Nipponese.
Like the Australians generally, who begin building a town by marking out
a fine race-course, so the light-hearted sons of the Mikado's empire,
when out colonising, begin as a first and necessary luxury of life by
importing a few _guechas_ who, with their quaint songs, enliven them in
moments of despair, and send them into ecstasies at banquets and
dinner-parties with their curious fan-dances, &c, just as our British
music-hall frequenting youth raves over the last song and skirt-dance of
the moment.
The _guechas_, mind you, are not bad girls. There is nothing wrong about
them except that they are not always "quite right," for they are well
educated, and possess good manners. They are generally paid by the hour
for the display of their talent, and the prices they command vary from
the low sum of twenty sens (sixpence) to as much as two or three yen
(dollars), for each sixty minutes, in proportion, of course, to their
capacity and beauty.
As the New Year was fast approaching, and that is a great festivity among
the Japanese, the _guechas_ at Chemulpo were hard at work, and from
morning till night and _vice versâ_ they were summoned from one house to
the other to entertain with their--to European, ears excruciating--music
on the Shamesens and Gokkins, while _saké_ and foreign liquors were
plentifully indulged in.
I walked up the main street. Great Scott! what a din! It was enough to
drive anybody crazy. Each house, with its paper walls, hardly suitable
for the climate, seemed to contain a regular pandemonium. Men and women
were to be seen squatting on the ground round a huge brass _hibachi_,
where a charcoal fire was blazing, singing and yelling and playing and
clapping their hands to their hearts' content. They had lost somehow or
other that look of gracefulness which is so characteristic of them in
their own country, and on a closer examination I found the cause to be
their being clad in at least a dozen _kimonos_,[2] put on one over the
other to keep the cold out. Just picture to yourself any one wearing even
half that number of coats, and you will doubtless agree with me that
one's form would not be much improved thereby in appearance. The noise
increased until New-Year's Eve, and when at last the New Year broke in
upon them, it was something appalling. The air was full of false notes,
vocal and otherwise, and I need scarcely say that at the "Dai butzu" also
grand festivities went on for the greater part of the night.
I was lying flat in bed on New-Year's Day, thinking of the foolishness
of humanity, when I heard a tap at the door. I looked at the watch; it
was 7.20 A.M.
"Come in," said I, thinking that the thoughtful maid was carrying my
sponge-bath, but no. In came a procession of Japs, ludicrously attired in
foreign clothes with antediluvian frock-coats and pre-historic European
hats, bowing and sipping their breath in sign of great respect. At their
head was the fat proprietor of the hotel, and each of them carried with
him in his hand a packet of visiting cards, which they severally
deposited on my bed, as I, more than ten times astounded, stood resting
on my elbows gazing at them.
"So-and-so, brick-layer and roof-maker. So-and-so, hotel proprietor and
shipping agent; so-and-so, Japanese carpenter; so-and-so, mat-maker; X,
merchant; Z, boatman," &c. &c, were how the cards read as I inspected
them one by one. I need hardly say, therefore, that the year 1891 was
begun with an extra big D, which came straight from my heart, as I
uncoiled myself out of my bed at that early hour of the morning to
entertain these professional gentlemen to drinks and cigarettes. And yet
that was nothing as compared with what came after. They had scarcely
gone, and I was just breaking the ice in order to get my cold bath, when
another lot, a hundredfold more noisy than the first, entered my room
unannounced and depositing another lot of "pasteboards," as Yankees term
them, in my frozen hands, went on wishing me all sorts of happiness for
the New Year, though I for my part wished them all to a place that was
certainly not heaven. In despair I dressed myself, and going out
aimlessly, strolled in any direction in order to keep out of reach of
the New-Year's callers. But the hours were long, and about eleven I went
to pay a visit to Mr. T., the American merchant who had kindly asked me
once or twice to dinner. If I considered myself entitled to complain of
the calling nuisance, he must have had good reason to swear at it. Being
the richest man in the place as well as the principal merchant, his place
was simply besieged by visitors. Many were so drunk that they actually
had to be carried in by coolies--a curious mode of going to call--while
others had even to be provided with a bed on the premises until the
effects of their libations had passed off. A well-known young Japanese
merchant, I remember, nearly fractured his skull against a table, through
losing his equilibrium as he was offering a grand bow to Mr. T.
Wherever one went in the Japanese quarter there was nothing but drink,
and the main street was full of unsteady walkers.
Curiously enough, on proceeding a few yards further on towards the
British Consulate, one came to the Chinese settlement, which was
perfectly quiet, and showed its inhabitants not only as stern and
well-behaved as on other occasions, but even, to all appearance, quite
unconcerned at the frolic and fun of their merry neighbours. Here
business was being transacted as usual, those engaged therein retaining
their well-known expressionless and dignified mien, and apparently
looking down disgusted upon the drunken lot, although prepared themselves
to descend from their high pedestal when their own New-Year's Day or
other festival occasions should arrive.
I was much amused at a remark that a Chinaman made to me that day.
I asked him how he liked the Japanese.
"Pff!" he began, looking at me from under his huge round spectacles, as
if he thought the subject too insignificant to waste his time upon.
"The Japanese," he exploded, with an air of contempt, "no belong men. You
see Japanese man dlunk, ol no dlunk, all same to me. He no can speak
tluth, he no can be honest man. He buy something, nevel pay. Japanese
belong bad, bad, bad man. He always speak lie, lie, lie, lie," and he
emphasised his words with a crescendo as he curled up what he possessed
in the shape of a nose--for it was so flat that it hardly deserved the
name; indeed, to give strength to his speech, he spat with violence on
the ground, as if to clear his mouth, as it were, of the unclean sound of
the word "Japanese."
Not even in those days could the Chinese and Japanese be accused of
loving one another.
The Chinese settlement is not quite so clean in appearance as the
Japanese one, but if business is transacted on a smaller scale, it is, at
all events, conducted on a firm and honest basis. Chemulpo has but few
natural aptitudes beyond its being situated at the mouth of the river
Han, which, winding like a snake, passes close to Seoul, the capital of
the kingdom; and yet, partly because of its proximity to the capital, the
distance by road being twenty-five miles, and partly owing to the fact
that it is never ice-bound in winter, the town has made wonderful
strides. As late as 1883 there were only one or two fishermen's huts
along the bay, but in 1892 the settlement contained a score of Europeans,
over 2800 Japanese souls, and 1000 Chinese, besides quite a
respectable-sized native conglomeration of houses and huts.
When I visited the port, land fetched large sums of money in the central
part of the settlement. The post-office was in the hands of the Japanese,
who carried on its business in a very amateurish and imperfect manner,
but the telegraphs were worked by the Chinese. The commercial competition
between the two Eastern nations now at war has of late years been very
great in Corea. It is interesting to notice how the slow Chinaman has
followed the footsteps of young Japan at nearly all the ports, especially
at Gensan and Fusan, and gradually monopolised a good deal of the trade,
through his honest dealings and steadiness. And yet the Chinese must have
been, of course, greatly handicapped by the start of many years which the
dashing Japanese had over them, as well as by the much larger number of
their rivals. A very remarkable fact, however, is that several Japanese
firms had employed Chinese as their _compradores_, a position entirely of
trust, these being the officials whose duty it is to go round to collect
money and cheques, and who are therefore often entrusted with very large
sums of money.
But now let us come to the foreigners stranded in the Corean kingdom. If
you take them separately, they are rather nice people, though, of course,
at least a dozen years behind time as compared with the rest of the
world; taken as a community, however, they are enough to drive you crazy.
I do not think that it was ever my good fortune to hear a resident speak
well of another resident, this being owing, I dare say, to their seeing
too much of one another. If by chance you come across a man occupying
only a second-rate official position, you may depend upon it you will see
airs! One hardly ventures to address any such personage, for so grand is
he that, he will hardly condescend to say "How do you do?" to you, for
fear of lowering himself. There are only about four cats in the place,
and their sole subject of conversation is precedence and breaches of
etiquette, when you would imagine that in such a distant land, and away,
so to speak, from the outer world, they would all be like brothers.
You must now consider yourselves as fairly landed in Corea, and having
tried to describe to you what things and people that are not Corean are
like in Corea, I must provide you--again of course only
figuratively--with a tiny little pony, the smallest probably you have
ever seen, that you may follow me to the capital of the kingdom, which I
am sure will be interesting to you as being thoroughly characteristic of
the country. First of all, however, we had better make sure of one point.
The name Corea, or _K_orea, you may as well forget or discard as useless,
for to the Corean mind the word would not convey any definite idea. Not
even would he look upon it as the name of his country. The real native
name now used is Cho-sen, though occasionally in the vernacular the
kingdom goes by the name of Gori, or the antiquated Korai. There is no
doubt that the origin of the word Corea is Korai, which is an
abbreviation of Ko-Korai, a small kingdom in the mountainous region of
the Ever White Mountains, and bordering upon the kingdom of Fuyu, a
little further north, whence the brave and warlike people probably
descended, who conquered old Cho-sen. The authorities on Corean history,
basing their arguments on Chinese writings, claim that the present people
of Cho-sen are the true descendants of the Fuyu race, and that the
kingdom of Ko-Korai lay between Fuyu on the northern side and Cho-sen on
the southern, from the former of which a few families migrated towards
the south, and founded a small kingdom west of the river Yalu, electing
as their king a man called Ko-Korai, after whom, in all probability, the
new nation took its name. Then as their numbers increased, and their
adventurous spirit grew, they began to extend their territory, north,
south, and west, and in this latter direction easily succeeded in
conquering the small kingdom of Wuju and extending their frontier as far
south as the river Tatung, which lies approximately on parallel 38° 30".
During the time of the "Three Realms" in China, between the years 220 and
277 A.D., the Ko-Korai people, profiting by the weakness of their
neighbours, and therefore not much troubled with guerrillas on the
northern frontier, continued to migrate south, conquering new ground, and
so being enabled finally to establish their capital at Ping-yan on the
Tatong River. After a comparatively peaceful time with their northern
neighbours for over 300 years, however, towards the end of the sixth
century, China began a most micidial war against the king of Ko-Korai, or
Korai, as it was then called, the "Ko" having been dropped. It seems
that even in those remote days the Chinese had no luck in the land of
Cho-sen, and though army after army, and hundreds of thousands of men
were sent against them, the brave Korai people held their own, and far
from being defeated and conquered, actually drove the enemy out of the
country, killing thousands mercilessly in their retreat, and becoming
masters of the Corean Peninsula as far south as the River Han.
To the south of Korai were the states of Shinra and Hiaksai, and between
these and Korai, there was for a couple of centuries almost perpetual
war, the only intervals being when the latter kingdom was suffering at
the hands of the formidable Chinese invaders. But as I merely give this
rough and very imperfect sketch of Corean history, to explain how the
word Korai originated and was then applied to the whole of the peninsula,
I must now proceed to explain in bold touches how the other states became
united to Korai.
After its annexation to China, the Korai state remained crippled by the
terrible blow it had received, for the Ko-Korai line of kings had been
utterly expelled after having reigned for over seven centuries, but at
last it picked up a little strength again through fresh migrations from
the north-west, and in the second decade of the tenth century a Buddhist
monk called Kung-wo raised a rebellion and proclaimed himself king,
establishing his court at Kaichow.
One of Kung-wo's officers, however, Wang by name, who was believed to be
a descendant of the Korai family, did away with the royal monk and sat
himself on the throne, which he claimed as that of his ancestors. Coming
of a vigorous stock, and taking advantage of the fact that China was weak
with internal wars, Wang succeeded in uniting Shinra to the old Korai,
thus converting the whole peninsula into a single and united realm, of
which, as we have already seen in the first chapter, he made the walled
city of Sunto the capital. Wang died 945 A.D., and was succeeded by his
son Wu, who wisely entered into friendly relations with China, and paid
his tribute to the Emperor of Heaven as if he ruled a tributary state. In
consequence of this policy it was that Corea enjoyed peace with her
terrible Celestial rival for the best part of two centuries.
Cho-sen, then, is now the only name by which the country is called by the
natives themselves, for the name of Korai has been entirely abandoned by
the modern Coreans. The meaning of the word is very poetic, viz., "The
Land of the Morning Calm," and is one well adapted to the present
Coreans, since, indeed, they seem to have entirely lost the vigour and
strength of their predecessors, the Koraians. I believe Marco Polo was
the first to mention a country which he called Coria; after whom came the
Franciscan missionaries. Little, however, was known of the country until
the Portuguese brought back to Europe strange accounts of this curious
kingdom and its quaint and warlike people. According to the story, it was
a certain Chinese wise man who, when in a poetic mood, baptized Corea
with the name of Cho-sen. But the student of Corean history knows that
the name had already been bestowed on the northern part of the peninsula
and on a certain portion of Manchuria, and that it was in the year 1392,
when Korai was united to Shinra and the State of Hiaksai became merged in
it, that Cho-sen became the official designation of united Corea. The
word "Corea" evidently is nothing but a corruption of the dead and buried
word "Korai."
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Long gown, the national dress of Japan.