OUT-DOOR LIFE.—CHARACTERS AND EMPLOYMENTS.
Six public roads of the first class traverse the peninsula and centre
at the capital. They are from twenty to thirty feet in width, with
ditches at the side for drainage. One of these begins near the ocean,
in Chulla Dō, and in general follows the shores of the Yellow Sea
through three provinces to Tong-chin opposite Kang-wa Island, and
enters the capital by branch roads. Another highway passes through the
interior of the three provinces bordering the Yellow Sea, and enters
Seoul by the southern gate. Hamel and his fellow-captives journeyed by
this road. The road by which the annual embassy reaches Peking, after
leaving the capital, passes through Sunto and Ping-an and Ai-chiu,
crosses the Neutral Strip, and enters Manchuria for Peking by way of
Mukden. This was the beaten track of the French missionaries, and the
shipwrecked men from the United States and Japan, and is the military
road from China. It is well described, with a good map, in Koei-Ling’s
“Journal of a Mission into Corea,” which Mr. F. Scherzer has translated
for us.
From Fusan and Tong-nai, in the southeast, Seoul is reached by no less
than three roads. One strikes westward through Chung-chong, and joins
the main road coming up from the south. Another following the Nak-tong
River basin, crosses the mountains to Chulla, and enters Seoul by the
south gate. Eight river crossings must be made by this road, over which
Konishi marched in 1593. The third route takes a more northerly trend,
follows the sea-coast to Urusan, and passing through Kion-chiu, enters
the capital by the east gate.
The fifth great road issuing from the north gate of the capital passes
into Kang-wen, and thence upward to Gensan, and to the frontiers at the
Tumen River.
The roads of the second class are eight or nine feet wide, and without
side ditches. They ramify through all the provinces, but are especially
numerous in the five southern. The three northern circuits, owing to
their mountainous character, are but poorly furnished with highways,
and these usually follow the rivers.
The third class roads, which are nothing more than bridle-paths, or
trails, connect the villages.
The hilly nature of the country, together with the Asiatic apathy to
bestowing much care on the public highways, makes travelling difficult.
Inundations are frequent, though the water subsides quickly. Hence in
summer the road-beds are dust, and in winter a slough of mud.
Macadamized, or paved roads, are hardly known, except for short
lengths. Few of the wide rivers are bridged, which necessitates
frequent fordings and ferriages. Stone bridges, built with arches, are
sometimes seen over streams not usually inundated, but few of the
wooden bridges are over one hundred and eighty feet long.
In one respect the roads are well attended to. The distances are well
marked. At every ri is a small, and at every three ri a large mound,
surmounted with an inscribed post or “mile-stone,” called chang-sung.
They are two, six, and even ten feet in length.
In ancient times, it is said, there was a man named Chang-sung, who
killed his servant and wife. When punished, his head was placed on a
small mound. Legend even declares that it was successively exposed on
all the distance mounds in the kingdom. This is said to be the origin
of the bournes or distance-mounds, which suggests, as Mr. Adams has
shown, the termini of the Romans. When of stone, they are called
pio-sek, but they are often of wood, rudely carved or hacked out of a
whole tree by an axe into the exaggerated form of a man, and are of a
ludicrous or absurd appearance. The face is meant to be that of the
murderer Chang-sung. The author of “A Forbidden Land” mistook these for
“village idols,” and was surprised to find the boys in some cases
sacrilegiously kicking about some that had rotted down or fallen. The
“gods of the roads” may, however, have their effigies, which are
worshipped or profaned.
All distances in every direction are measured from the front gate of
the magistrates’ offices, the standard of all being the palace at
Seoul. Not the least interesting sights to the traveller are the
memorial stones set up and inscribed with a view to commemorate local
or national worthies, or the events of war, famine, or philanthropy.
The Coreans are “idolaters of letters,” and the erection of memorial
tablets or columns occasionally becomes a passion. Sometimes the
inscriptions are the means of stirring up patriotism, as the following
inscription shows. It was graven on a stone in front of a castle
erected after the French and American expeditions, and was copied by a
Japanese correspondent.
“It is nothing else than selling the kingdom into slavery, in order to
avoid war, to make peace without fighting when any Western nation comes
to attack it; such should never be done even by our descendants
thousands of years hence.”
In this country, in which sumptuary laws prevent the humbler classes
from travelling on horseback, and where wagons and steam-roads are
unknown, the roads are lively with numerous foot-passengers. Palanquins
are used by the better classes and the wealthy. The rambling life of
many of the people, the goodly numbers of that character not unknown in
Christendom—the tramp—the necessities of trade, literary examinations,
government service, and holy pilgrimages, prevent too many weeds from
growing in the highways. In travelling over the high roads one meets a
variety of characters that would satisfy a Corean Dickens, or the
Japanese author who wrote the Tokaidō Hizakurigé (Leg-hair, i.e.,
“Shanks’ mare,” on the East Sea Road). Bands of students on their way
to the capital or provincial literary examinations, some roystering
youths in the full flow of spirits, are hastening on, others,
gray-headed and solemn, are wending their way to fail for the twentieth
time. Pompous functionaries in umbrella-hats, on horseback, before whom
ordinary folks dismount or kneel or bow, brush past with noisy
attendants. Pilgrims in pious garb are on their way to some holy
mountain or famous shrine, men to pray for success in business, women
to beseech the gods for offspring. Here hobbles along the lame or
rheumatic, or the pale-faced invalid is borne to the hot springs. Here
is a party of pic-nickers, or poets intent on the joys of drink, verse,
and scenery. Here a troop of strolling players or knot of masqueraders
are in peripatetic quest of a livelihood, toiling fearfully hard in
order to escape settled industry. Nobles in mourning pass with their
faces invisible. Postal slaves, women doing the work of express agents
in forwarding parcels, pass the merchant with his loaded pack-horses
returning from Sunto, or going to Gensan. There a packman is doing
horse’s work in transportation. Here an ox laden with brushwood is led
by a woman. Beggars, corpses, kang-si, or men dead of hunger in times
of famine, make the lights and shadows of life on the road.
There are other methods of travel besides those of horseback, on foot,
and sedan chair, for oxen are often straddled by the men, and poor
women travel on an ox, in a sort of improvised palanquin having four
poles recurved to centre and covered with robe or cloak. In winter,
among the mountains not only in the north, but even in Chulla, the
people go on racquettes or snow-shoes. These are in shape like a
battledore, and are several feet long. At regular distances are yek, or
relays or offices, at which sit clerks or managers under government
auspices, with hereditary slaves or serfs, porters, guides,
mail-couriers, and pack-horses. These await the service of the
traveller, especially of official couriers, the finer beasts being
reserved for journeying dignitaries.
All these throughout a certain district, of which there are several in
each province, are under the direction of the Tsal-peng, or Director of
Posts. Kiung-sang, the province having the greatest number of roads,
has also the best equipment in the way of post-officers, relays, and
horses. The following table from Dallet shows the equipment of the
eight provinces:
-------------+----------------------+---------+--------
|Post Superintendents. | Relays. | Horses.
-------------+----------------------+---------+--------
Kiung-Kei | 6 | 47 | 449
Chung-chong | 5 | 62 | 761
Chulla | 6 | 53 | 506
Kiung-sang | 11 | 115 | 1,700
Kang-wen | 4 | 78 | 447
Wang hei | 3 | 28 | 396
Ham-kiung | 3 | 58 | 792
Ping-an | 2 | 30 | 311
| -- | ---- | -----
| 40 | 471 | 5,362
-------------+----------------------+---------+--------
Yet with this provision for locomotion, the country is very deficient
in houses for public accommodation. Inns are to be found only along the
great highways, and but rarely along the smaller or sequestered roads.
This want arises, perhaps, not so much from the poverty of the people,
as from the fact that their proverbial hospitality does away with the
necessity of numerous inns. The Coreans have been so often represented,
or rather misrepresented, as inhospitable, fierce, and rude by
foreigners, that to give an inside view of them as seen through
information gathered from the French missionaries in Corea is a
pleasant task. From them we may learn how much the white-coated
peninsulars are like their cousins, the Japanese, and that human nature
in good average quantity and quality dwells under the big hats of the
Coreans. The traveller usually takes his provisions along with him, but
he need not eat it out-doors. As he sits along the wayside, he will be
invited into some house to warm his food. When obliged to go some
distance among the mountains to cut wood or make charcoal, a man is
sure to find a hut in which he can lodge. He has only to bring his
rice. The villagers will cook it for him, after adding the necessary
pickles or sauces. Even the oxen, except during the busy season, are
easily obtained on loan.
The great virtue of the Coreans is their innate respect for and daily
practice of the laws of human brotherhood. Mutual assistance and
generous hospitality among themselves are distinctive national traits.
In all the important events of life, such as marriages and funerals,
each one makes it his duty to aid the family most directly interested.
One will charge himself with the duty of making purchases; others with
arranging the ceremonies. The poor, who can give nothing, carry
messages to friends and relatives in the near or remote villages,
passing day and night on foot and giving their labors gratuitously. To
them, the event is not a mere personal matter, but an affair of public
interest.
When fire, flood, or other accident destroys the house of one of their
number, neighbors make it a duty to lend a hand to rebuild. One brings
stone, another wood, another straw. Each, in addition to his gifts in
material, devotes two or three days’ work gratuitously. A stranger,
coming into a village, is always assisted to build a dwelling.
Hospitality is considered as one of the most sacred duties. It would be
a grave and shameful thing to refuse a portion of one’s meal with any
person, known or unknown, who presents himself at eating-time. Even the
poor laborers, who take their noon-meal at the side of the roads, are
often seen sharing their frugal nourishment with the passer-by. Usually
at a feast, the neighbors consider themselves invited by right and
custom. The poor man whose duty calls him to make a journey to a
distant place does not need to make elaborate preparations. His stick,
his pipe, some clothes in a packet hung from his shoulder, some cash in
his purse, if he has one, and his outfit is complete. At night, instead
of going to a hotel with its attendant expense, he enters some house,
whose exterior room is open to any comer. There he is sure to find food
and lodging for the night. Rice will be shared with the stranger, and,
at bed-time, a corner of the floor-mat will serve for a bed, while he
may rest his head on a foot-length of the long log of wood against the
wall, which serves as a pillow. Even should he delay his journey for a
day or two, little or nothing to his discredit will be harbored by his
hosts. In Corea, the old proverb concerning fish and company after
three days does not seem to hold good.
As may be imagined, such a system is prolific in breeding beggars,
tramps, blackmailers, and lazy louts, who “sponge” upon the
benevolently disposed. Rich families are often bored by these
self-invited parasites, who eat with unblushing cheek at their tables
for weeks at a time. They do not even disdain—nay, they often clamor
for—clothing as well. To refuse would only result in bringing down
calumny and injury. Peddlers, strolling players, astrologers, etc.,
likewise avail themselves of the opportunities, and act as plundering
harpies. Often whole bands go round quartering themselves on the
villages, and sometimes the government is called upon to interpose its
authority and protect the people.
Corea is full of Micawbers, men who are as prodigal as avaricious, who
when they have plenty of money, scatter it quickly. When flush they
care only to live in style, to treat their friends, to satisfy their
caprices. When poverty comes, they take it without complaint, and wait
till the wheel of fortune turns again to give them better days. When by
any process they have made some gain by finding a root of ginseng, a
bit of gold ore, a vein of crystal, what matters it? Let the future
take care of itself. Hence it happens that the roads are full of men
seeking some stroke of luck, hoping to discover at a distance what they
could not find at home, to light upon some treasure not yet dug up or
to invent some new means of making money. People forever waiting for
something to turn up emigrate from one village to another, stop a year
or two, and then tramp on, seeking better luck, but usually finding
worse.
Strolling companies of mountebanks, players and musicians, in numbers
of five, six, or more, abound in Chō-sen. They wander up and down
through the eight circuits, and, in spring and summer, earn a
precarious and vagabond livelihood. Their reputation among the
villagers is none of the best, being about on a par with that of the
gypsies, or certain gangs of railroad surveyors of our own country.
They often levy a sort of blackmail upon the people. They are jugglers,
acrobats, magicians, marionette players, and performers on musical
instruments. Some of them display an astonishing amount of cleverness
and sleight of hand in their feats. In the villages crowds of gaping
urchins are their chief spectators, but in the large cities they are
invited to private houses to give exhibitions and are paid for it. When
about to begin a performance, they secure attention by whistling on the
nail of their little finger. On the occasion of the anniversary of some
happy event, a public fête day, a marriage or a social company, the
lack of what we call society—that is, social relations between
gentlemen and ladies—is made up, and amusement is furnished by these
players, engaged for an evening or two. The guests fully appreciate the
“hired music,” and “best talent” thus secured for a variety
entertainment. The company of one class of these “men of society,” or
pang-tang, a kind of “professional diner-out,” is so desirable that
several are taken along by the ambassadors to China to amuse them on
their long and tedious journey, especially at nights. The chang-pu are
character-comedians, who serenade the baccalaureates that have passed
successfully the government examinations. They play the flute and other
instruments of music, forming the escort which accompanies the graduate
on his visits to relatives and officials. A band of performers is
always attached to the suite of ambassadors to China and Japan, or when
visiting a foreign vessel.
A character common to Corea and Japan is the singing-girl, who is also
a great aid in making life endurable to the better class of Coreans,
whose chief business it is to kill time. The singing-girl is the one
poem and picture in the street life of the humbler classes, whose
poverty can rarely, if ever, allow them to purchase her society or
enjoy her charms and accomplishments. Socially, her rank is low, very
low. She is herself the child of poverty and toil. Her parents are poor
people, who gladly give up their daughter, if of pretty face and form,
to a life of doubtful morals, in order that she may thereby earn her
own support and assist her parents. She herself gladly leaves the
drudgery of the kitchen, and the abject meanness of the hovel, to shine
in the palace and the mansion. Her dress is of finest fabric, her
luxuriant black hair is bound with skill and grace, her skin is
whitened by artificial cosmetics as far as possible, and with powder,
paint, and pomatum, she spends much of her life before the
looking-glass, studying in youth to increase, and in womanhood to
retain, her charms. At home, she practises her music, occasionally
enlivening a party of her humble neighbors. As she passes along the
street, fresh, clean, bright, and pretty, she may dispense smiles for
popularity’s sake, but her errand is to the houses of the wealthy, and
especially to the official, who, for his own amusement as he dines
alone, or for his friends in social gathering, may employ from two to
twenty geishas (as the Japanese call them). Most Corean cities have
these geishas, who form themselves into a sort of guild for fixed
prices, etc. Often they organize complete bands or choirs, by which
music may be had in mass and volume. At a feast they serve the wine,
fill and pass the dishes, and preside generally at the table. When
eating has fairly begun, they sing (chant), play the guitar, recite in
pantomime or vocally, and furnish general amusement. The dancing is
usually not of an immoral character. Such a life, however, amid feast
and revel, wine and flattery, makes sad wreck of many of them, morally
and physically. A large proportion of the most beautiful girls become
concubines to wealthy men or officials, or act as ladies of the chamber
(brevet wives) to young men and widowers. Not a few join the business
of prostitutes with that of musicians. Nevertheless, it is quite
possible for a respectable family to enjoy a pleasant and harmless
evening by the aid of the lively geishas. Of course, Seoul is the chief
headquarters of the fairest and most accomplished geishas, who are, as
a class, the best educated of their sex in Corea.
The theatre, proper, does not seem to exist in Corea. The substitute
and nearest approach to it is recitation in monologue of certain events
or extracts from the standard or popular histories, a single individual
representing the successive rôles. The histrionic artist pitches his
tabernacle of four posts in some popular street or corner. He spreads
mats for a roof or shade from the sun in front, and for a background in
the rear. A platform, and a box to squat on, with a small reading-desk,
and a cup of gingery water to refresh his palate, complete his outfit.
A few rough benches or mats constitute all the accommodation for the
audience. A gaping crowd soon collects around him, his auditors pull
out their pipes, and refreshment venders improve the occasion for the
chance sale of their viands. With his voice trained to various tones
and to polite and vulgar forms of speech, he will hold dialogues and
conversations, and mimic the attitude and gestures of various
characters. The trial of a criminal before a magistrate, the bastinado,
a quarrel between husband and wife, scenes from high life and low life
will be in turn rendered. He will imitate the grave tones and visage of
the magistrate, the piteous appeals, the cries and groans and
contortions of the victim under torture, the angry or grumbling voice
of the husband, the shrill falsetto of the scolding shrew or the shower
of tears and the piteous appeals of the wife. Smiles, frowns, surprise,
sorrow, and all the emotions are simulated, and the accompaniment of
voice is kept up with jokes, puns, bon-mots, irony, or well-expressed
pathos. In short, the reciter is a theatrical stock company, and a band
of minstrels, rolled into one person. For the use of beginners, and the
mediocrity of the profession, there are a number of “jest-books,”
collections of jokes and anecdotes, more or less threadbare, and of
varying moral quality, from which speakers may prime for the occasion.
With the advanced of the profession, however, most of the smart sayings
are original and off-hand. The habitués of the booths have their “star”
favorite, as theatre-goers with us go into raptures over their actors.
Able men make a good living at the business, as they “pass round the
hat” to take up a collection in the audience. This usually comes at the
most telling point of the narrative, when the interest of the hearers
is roused to the highest pitch (or when it is to be “continued in our
next,” as the flash newspapers say). Sometimes the speaker will not go
on till the collection is deemed by the tyrant a sufficient
appreciation of his talents. In addition to their public street income,
the best of them are often invited to perform in private houses, at
family reunions, social parties, and as a rule, in visits to
dignitaries by candidates who have won degrees.
The Corean gamut, differing from the scale used in European countries,
makes a fearful and wonderful difference in effect upon our ears. Some
of their melodies upon the flute are plaintive and sweet, but most of
their music is distressing to the ear and desolating to the air. One
hearer describes their choicest pieces as “the most discordant sounds
that ever were emitted under the name of music from brass tubes.” Some
of the flute music, however, is very sweet. As most of the ancient
music of Japan is of Corean origin, one can get a fair idea of the
nature of the sounds that delight a Corean ear from the music of the
imperial band of Tōkiō, which plays the classical scores. Yet it is
evident that the modern tunes of Seoul are not melodious to Japanese
auditory nerves. One would think that, as the mikado’s subjects “hear
themselves as others hear them” when Corean musicians play, they would
be delighted. On the contrary, Corean music seems to horrify and
afflict the Japanese ear. Evidently, in the course of centuries the
musical scales of the two countries, originally identical, have altered
in tone and interval. Wan-ka is the father of Corean music—though the
mere fact that he belonged to antiquity would secure his renown. The
various stringed musical instruments known are the kemunko, a kind of
large guitar; the kanyakko, mandolin; the ko-siul, or guitar of
twenty-five strings; and the five-stringed harp or violin. The wind
instruments comprise a whole battery of flutes, long and short
trumpets, while cymbals, drums, and other objects of percussion are
numerous. Ambassadors and other high officers at home, and when on duty
to foreign countries, are accompanied by a band of musicians. Laborers
on government works are summoned to begin and end work by music, but
the full effect of a musical salvo is attained at the opening and
closing of the city gates. Then the sound is most distressing—or most
captivating, according as the ears are to the manner born, or receive
their first experience of what tortures the air may be made to vibrate.
The chief out-door manly sport in Corea is, by excellence, that of
archery. It is encouraged by the government for the national safety in
war, and nobles stimulate their retainers to excellence by rewards.
Most gentlemen have targets and arrow-walks for practice in their
gardens. At regular times in the year contests of skill are held, at
which archers of reputation compete, the expense and prizes being paid
for out of the public purse. Hamel says the great men’s retainers have
nothing to do but to learn to shoot. The grandees rival each other in
keeping the most famous archers, as an Englishman might his fox-hounds
or as the daimiōs of Japan formerly vied with each other in patronizing
the fattest and most skilful wrestlers. Other manly sports are those of
boxing and fist-fights. Young men practice the “manly art” in play with
each other, and at times champions are chosen by rival villages and a
set-to between the bruisers is the result, with more or less of broken
heads and pulpy faces. In large cities the contestants may come from
different wards of the same city. In Seoul, usually in the first month,
there are some lively tussles between picked champions, with betting
and cheering of the backers of either party. Often these trials of
skill degenerate into a free fight, in which clubs and stones are used
freely; cracked skulls and loss of life are common. The magistrates do
not usually interfere, but allow the frolic to spend itself.
Another class of men worthy of notice, and identified with out-door
life, are the sportsmen. The bird-hunters never shoot on the wing. They
disguise themselves in skins, feathers, straw, etc., and lurk in some
coigne of vantage to bring down the game that comes within their range.
The skilled fowler understands perfectly how to imitate the cries of
the various birds, particularly that of the pheasant calling his mate.
By this means most of the female pheasants are captured. The call used
is an iron whistle, shaped like the apricot-stone, and similar to that
used by the Japanese hunters. The method of hunting the deer is as
follows: During the months of June and July deer-horn commands a very
high price, for it is at this season that the deer-horns are
developing, and the “spike-bucks” are special prizes. A party of three
or four hunters is formed. They beat up the mountain sides during
several days, and, at night, when obliged to cease for awhile, they
have a wonderful instinct for detecting the trail of the game, except
when the earth is too dry. Usually they come up to their game on the
third day, which they bring down with a gunshot. The horn is sold to
the native physicians or is exported to China and Japan, where
hartshorn and valuable medicines are concocted from it. A successful
deer-hunt usually enables a hunter to live on his profits for a good
part of the year, and in some cases individuals make small fortunes.
Those who hunt bears wait for the occasion when the mother bear leads
her cubs to the seashore to feast them on the crabs. Then the hunters
bide their time till they see the mother lifting up the heavy rocks on
edge, while the little cubs eat the crabs. The hunters usually rush
forward and assault the bear, which, frightened, lets fall the rock,
which crushes the cub. When on the open field or shore they do not fire
at the she-bear, unless sure of killing her. For the various parts of
the animal good prices await the hunter who sells. In addition to the
proceeds from hide, flesh, fat, and sinews, the liver and gall of the
brute, supposed to possess great potency in medicine, are sold for
their weight in silver. In another chapter we have written of the
tiger-hunters and their noble game.
Gambling and betting are fearfully common habits in Corea, and
kite-flying gives abundant occasion for money to change hands. The two
months of the winter, during which the north wind blows, is “kite
time.” The large and strong kites are flown with skill, requiring stout
cords and to be held by young men. A large crowd usually collects to
witness the battle of the kites, when the kites are put through various
evolutions in the air, by which one seeks to destroy, tear, or saw off
the string of the other.
Resources for in-door amusement are chiefly in the form of gossip,
story-telling, smoking, lounging, and games of hazard, such as chess,
checkers, and backgammon. The game of chess is the same as that played
in Japan and China. Card-playing, though interdicted by law, is
habitual among the common people. The nobles look upon it as vulgar
amusement beneath their dignity. The people play secretly or at night,
often gambling to a ruinous extent. It is said that the soldiers,
especially those on guard, and at the frontiers, are freely allowed to
play cards, as that is the surest way to keep them awake and alert in
the presence of enemies, and as safeguards against night attacks. They
shuffle and cut the cards as we do. Games with the hands and fingers,
similar to those in Japan, are also well known.
In pagan lands, where a Sabbath, or anything like it, is utterly
unknown alike to the weary laborer, the wealthy, and the men of
leisure, some compensation is afforded by the national and religious
holidays. These in Corea consist chiefly of the festal occasions
observed in China, the feasts appropriate to the seasons, planting, and
harvest, the Buddhist saints’ anniversaries, the king’s birthday, and
the new year.
Among the poorer classes the families celebrate the birthday of the
head of the family only, but among the noble and wealthy, each member
of the family is honored with gifts and a festal gathering of friends.
There are certain years of destiny noticed with extra joy and
congratulations, but the chief of all is the sixty-first year. With us,
the days of man are three score years and ten, but in the hermit
kingdom the limit of life is three score years and one, and the reason
is this: The Coreans divide time according to the Chinese cycle of
sixty years, which is made up of two series of ten and twelve each
respectively. Every year has a name after the zodiacal sign, or one of
the five elements. The first birthday occurring after the entire
revolution of the cycle is a very solemn event to a sexagenarian, and
the festival commemorative of it is called Wan-kap. All, rich and poor,
noble and vulgar, observe this day, which definitely begins old age,
when man, having passed the acknowledged limit of life, must remember
and repose. When it happens—a rare event—that the sixty-first
anniversary of a wedding finds both parties alive, there are
extraordinary rejoicings, and the event is celebrated like our “diamond
weddings.” For both these feasts children and friends must strain every
nerve, and spend all their cash to be equal to the occasion and to
spread the table for all comers; for at such a time, not only the
neighbors, but often the whole country folk round are interested. A
silk robe for the honored aged, new clothes for themselves, and no end
of wine and good cheer for friends, acquaintances, hangers-on, country
cousins, and strangers from afar, must be provided without stint. Poems
are recited, games and sports enjoyed, minstrels sing and dance, and
recitations are given. All come with compliments in their mouths—and a
ravenous appetite. All must be fed and none turned away, and the
children of the honored one must be willing to spend their last coin
and economize, or even starve, for a year afterward. It is often as
dreadful an undertaking as a funeral pageant in other lands. In the
event of the queen, royal mother, or king, reaching the sixty-first
birthday the profusion and prodigality of expense and show reaches a
height of shameful extravagance. All the prisons are opened by general
amnesty, and the jail-birds fly free. An extraordinary session of
examiners is held to grant degrees. In the capital all the grandees
present themselves before the king with gifts and homage. In all the
rural districts, a large picture of the king is hung up in a noted
place. The chief magistrate, preceded by music and followed by his
satellites, and all the people proceed to the place and prostrate
themselves before the effigy, offering their congratulations. In the
capital the soldiers receive gifts from the court, and the day is a
universal holiday for the entire nation.
Almost as matter of course, the festivals are used as means of
extortion and oppression of the people by the officials, who grind the
masses mercilessly to provide the necessary resources for the waste and
luxury of the capital and the court. New Year’s day is not only the
greatest of all Corean feasts in universal observance, but is also the
only real Sabbath time of the year, when for days together all regular
employments cease and rejoicing reigns supreme. All debts must be paid
and accounts squared up, absentees must return, and children away from
home must rejoin the family. The magistrates close the tribunals, no
arrests are made, and prisoners held to answer for slight offences are
given leave of absence for several days, after which they report again
as prisoners. All work, except that of festal preparation, ought to
cease during the last three days of the old year. It is etiquette to
begin by visits on New Year’s Eve, though this is not universal.
On New Year’s morning salutations or calls are made on friends,
acquaintances, and superiors. To this rule there must be no exception,
on pain of a rupture of friendly relations. The chief ceremony of the
day is the sacrifice at the tablets of ancestors. Proceeding to the
family tombs, if near the house, or to the special room or shelf in the
dwelling itself, the entire family make prostrations. Costly
ceremonies, with incense-sticks, etc., regulated according to the
family purse, follow. This is the most important filial and religious
act of the year. In cases where the tombs are distant, the visit must
not be postponed later than during the first month. After the ancestral
sacrifices, comes the distribution of presents, which are enclosed in
New Year’s boxes. These consist of new dresses, shoes, confectionery,
jewelry for the boys and girls, and various gifts, chiefly cooked
delicacies, for neighbors, friends, and acquaintances. For five days
the festivities are kept up by visits, social parties, and
entertainments of all sorts. The ordinary labors of life are resumed on
the sixth day of the new year, but with many, fun, rest, and frolic are
prolonged during the month.
The tenth day of the second month is the great house-cleaning day of
the year, when mats are taken up and shaken, the pots, kettles, and
jars scoured, and the clothing renovated.
Tomb-cleaning day occurs in the third month. On this occasion they make
offerings of food to their ancestors, and cleanse tombs and tablets. It
is a busy time in the graveyards, to which women transfer their straw
scrubbers, dippers, and buckets, when monuments and idols are well
soused and scoured. It is more like a picnic, with fun and work in
equal proportions.
The third day of the third month comes in spring, and is the great
May-day and merrymaking. The people go out on the river with food and
drink, and spend the day in feasting and frolic. Others wander in the
peach-orchards to view the blossoms. Others so inclined, enjoy
themselves by composing stanzas of poetry.
On the eighth day of the fourth month the large cities are illuminated
with paper lanterns of many colors, and people go out on hills and
rivers to view the gay sights and natural scenery.
The fifth day of the fifth month is a great festival day, on which the
king presents fans to his courtiers.
On the fifteenth day of the seventh month occurs the ceremony of
distributing seed. The king gives to his officials one hundred kinds of
seed for the crops of the next year.
On the fifteenth day of the eighth month sacrifices are offered at the
graves of ancestors and broken tombs are repaired.
The chrysanthemum festival is one of much popular interest. Among the
most brilliant flowers of the peninsula are the chrysanthemums, which
are cultivated with great pride and care by gentlemen and nobles. The
flower is brought to unusual perfection by allowing but a single flower
to grow upon one stem. They are often cultivated apart, under oiled
paper frames. On the ninth day of the ninth month the perfected
blossoms are in their glory, and the owner of a crop of brilliant
chrysanthemums invites his friends to his house to feast and enjoy the
sight of the blooms. The florists exhibit their triumphs, and picnic
parties enjoy the scenery from the bridges and on the mountains.
The article chiefly used for pastry among oblique-eyed humanity is what
the Japanese call mochi, a substance made by boiling rice and pounding
it into a tough mass resembling pie-crust. Like oysters, it may be
eaten “in every style,” raw, warmed, baked, toasted, boiled, or fried.
It occupies an important place in ceremonial offerings to the dead, in
the temple, and in household festal decoration. It is made in immense
quantities, and eaten especially at New Year’s time, and on the two
equinoctial days of the year. Another favorite mixed food for festive
occasions is “red rice” and beans. The Corean housewife takes as much
pains to color the rice properly as a German lavishes upon his
meerschaum, and if the color fails, or is poor, it is a sign of bad
luck.
The fourteenth day of the first month a person who is entering upon a
critical year of his life makes an effigy of straw, dresses it up with
his own clothing at evening, and casts it out on the road, and then
feasts merrily during the whole night. Whatever happens to the man of
straw thus kicked out of the house, is supposed to happen to the man’s
former self, now gone into the past; and Fate is believed to look upon
the individual in new clothes as another man.
The fifth, fifteenth, and twenty-fifth of each month are called “broken
days,” on which they avoid beginning anything new. These are the
“Fridays” of Chō-sen. In the beginning of each of the four seasons of
the year they post up on the doors of their houses slips of paper, on
which are written mottoes, such as “Longevity is like the South
Mountain,” “Wealth is like the Eastern Sea,” etc. Certain years in each
person’s life are supposed to be critical, and special care as to
health, food, clothing, new ventures, etc., must be taken during these
years, which are ended with a feast, or, what is more economical, a
sigh of relief.
The fifteenth day of the first month is called “Stepping on the
Bridge.” A man and woman go out together over the bridge at the rising
of the moon and view the moonlit scenery, indulging meanwhile in
refreshments, both of the solid and liquid sort. It is believed that if
one crosses over seven bridges on this night, he will be free from
calamities during the year.
Not the least interesting of the local or national festivals, are those
held in memory of the soldiers slain in the service of their country on
famous battle-fields. Besides holding annual memorial celebrations at
these places, which fire the patriotism of the people, there are
temples erected to soothe the spirits of the slain. Especially
noteworthy are these monumental edifices, on sites made painful to the
national memory by the great Japanese invasion of 1592–97, which keep
fresh the scars of war. A revival of these patriotic festivals has been
stimulated by the fanatical haters of Japan, since this neighbor
country broke away from Asiatic traditions.
Though much has been written concerning the population of Corea, we
consider all conjectures of persons alike unfamiliar with the interior
and the true sources of information as worthless. These random figures
vary from 250,000 (!) to 6,000,000. Dallet presumes a population of
10,000,000. A rude enumeration made thirty years ago gives the number
of houses at 1,700,000, and of the people at 7,000,000. Our own
opinion, formed after a study of the map and official lists of towns
and cities, is that there are at least 12,000,000 souls in Chō-sen. A
Japanese correspondent of the Tōkiō Hochi Shimbun, writing from Seoul,
states that a census made last year (1881) shows that there are
3,480,911 houses and 16,227,885 persons in the kingdom.