KOREA’S KING.
It has been with genuine indignation that I have recently read that the
King of Korea is weak of mind and weak of character.
Statements could scarcely have less foundation. Journalism is indeed an
exacting profession, and the pressman who would wield an up-to-date pen
must, once in a way, write glibly upon a subject of which he knows
nothing, or less than nothing. But surely, if one chooses for one’s
theme a person whom one has never seen, and of whom one knows nothing
authentically, the least one can, in common decency, do is to speak
good, not evil of that person. If it is necessary to clothe persons of
momentary interest with attributes that are wholly a fabric of
guess-work, it seems to me that the most reckless scribbler is in honour
bound to clothe the involuntary human lay-figure with whole, clean,
garments of praise, and not with grimy rags of fantastic criticism.
As a matter of simple fact, Li-Hsi, the King of Korea, is an admirable
man. He has most of the good qualities, and very few undesirable ones.
He has an exceptionally sweet nature. He has a heart of gold. He is
patient, forgiving, persevering and hard-working. He is a man of decided
mental strength, and of most considerable learning. The welfare of his
people has been his unintermittent aim; and to-day he is staunchly
enthroned in the hearts of those people.
It has been said that his Korean Majesty is a man of contemptible
personal habits. And, worst of all, it has been said that he is entirely
under his wife’s thumb. There is in all Christendom no monarch more
sober, more unselfish than Li-Hsi. As for the last accusation, it is the
one in which there is, I fear, a grain of truth. But what of it? The
same thing was said of Frederick the Good. Was he weak-minded, morally
corrupt? The same thing is said to-day (and not without some show of
truth) of the Emperor of Germany, the King of Italy, and was said of the
late Tsar of Russia. They are rather a wholesome, brainy, manly trio,
aren’t they?
Unquestionably the Queen of Korea has great influence over the King. But
surely even a king might commit a graver crime than that of being fond
of his wife. For instance, he might be fond of someone else’s wife. Now
that strikes me as rather worse form than the other. And certainly it is
the more apt to lead to deeply dire results. On the whole, I think the
King of Korea might almost be forgiven his one weakness—a weakness for
his own wife.
Of civilized sovereigns, the King of Korea is rather uniquely placed. No
monarch could have more absolute power in his own kingdom, no monarch
could well have less influence abroad. Indeed even the King’s power at
home seems rather tottery just now. But it has been shaken by the rough
hands of alien invaders, not by the disloyal hands of his own subjects.
To-day, when in Korea all is confusion and dismay, Li-Hsi is as
absolutely king over the Koreans as he was when he ascended the throne
thirty years ago.
His Majesty is rather under the average of Korean height, and is about
forty years of age. The Queen, contrary to the usual custom in Korea, is
much younger.
He wears a dress somewhat resembling the ordinary Korean court dress;
but his dress is of brilliant scarlet. The dresses of his nobles are of
pale blue or pink. The King wears the usual white Korean collar, and a
plastron, and shoulder pieces (or epaulettes) of gold and jewels.
All Korean hats are wonderful. A Korean court hat is simply marvellous.
It is most noticeable for its wings or ears, which project sharply out
from either side. They typify human ears, and signify that the wearer
has his ears wide spread to catch the most whispered command of his
Majesty. Even Li-Hsi wears a court hat. But his ears (I mean his hat’s
ears) stand erect, or are at the tips caught together at the top of the
hat. This is because the Emperor of China is too far away for his actual
voice to be heard by the Korean King, and no other human being but the
Chinese Emperor may speak to Li-Hsi with anything even approaching
insistent emphasis. To no other voice need the King of Korea listen,
unless he like. So at least it was until a few months ago.
The King of Korea has a gracious but dignified bearing. His face is fine
and beautiful, and his smile is peculiarly sweet and winning.
There are two great palaces in Söul: the Old Palace and the New Palace.
The New Palace is four hundred years old and more. The old palace is as
old as Söul. The present King of Korea lives in the New Palace. His
Majesty deserted the Old Palace, or, to be more exact, upon his
accession to the throne, declined to adopt it as his residence, because
it was full of, to him, painful family reminiscences.
The Old Palace is one of the few Architectural wonders of Söul. It is
deserted now, and in parts decaying. It is surrounded by an admirable
wall. Its principal gate is guarded by two gigantic stone monsters. The
Koreans call them Chinese Lions, and the Japanese call them Korean dogs.
They look as much like one as the other. They are of Chinese descent.
The Koreans copied them from the Chinese. In Korea they caught the quick
Japanese fancy. From that day they have played a conspicuous part in
Japanese art, and have even become familiar to European eyes, because
they grin at us from so many thousands of the cheaper (so called)
Satsuma vases.
The Old Palace is a vast collection of buildings, of court-yards, of
landscape gardens, of parks and of lotus-ponds. In its centre stands the
famous Audience Hall, which I am almost tempted to call one of the
architectural wonders of the world. I may safely call it one of the
architectural and artistic wonders of Korea. Many steps lead up to the
entrance of the Audience Hall. This alone is in Korea a great
distinction. Save the King only, no Korean may build or own a building
outside of which there are more than three steps. Four steps would be
high treason, and would cost their owner a traitor’s death.
In the background of the Old Palace is Nam San, the mountain upon which
signal-fires burn every nightfall, telling the inhabitants of Söul that
all goes well throughout the kingdom. Or if, as now, aught goes ill, the
fires tell that—tell it with considerable detail. It is a curious
signal-code, as complicated as ingenious; but it is beautifully vivid
and altogether effective.
The New Palace is in a collection of palaces. Like Söul its grounds are
surrounded by an elaborate wall. Those grounds cover over a hundred
acres, every rod of which is beautiful. They are carefully laid out, but
not with foolish elaborateness. Nature is accented in those palace
grounds, but never interfered with. Wherever an exceptionally pretty bit
of view is to be seen, there is a quaint Korean summer-house. And as the
pretty bits tread upon each other’s heels, the grounds are rather thick
with odd summer-houses, and still odder pavilions. The Koreans are
intensely fond of Nature; but they are not fond of exercise. They like
to sit, even when they look upon the trees, the flowers, the hills, the
sky, the lotus-ponds that they so love. Therefore the grounds of a
king’s house would be most incomplete, were not rest and shelter
available at every few yards.
A summer-house in the grounds of the New Palace is a favourite haunt of
the present king. On a drowsy summer afternoon his Majesty sits there
for hours, sipping tea and watching the changeless loveliness of the
view.
The Koreans drink tea almost as perpetually as the Siamese do, and, like
the Siamese, they are greatly addicted to drinking it out of doors. But
this must be with them a comparatively new fashion, for Hamel and many
other old historians tell us that tea is seldom drunk in Korea.
To one versed in Korean architecture, it is a simple thing to
distinguish the house of a king from that of a subject. The columns of
the monarchs’ houses are round, and their rafters are square. Only a
king may use the round column or the square rafter. Only a king might,
until recent years, paint his house. Only a king may wear a coat of
brilliant red. Of all men, only the king may look upon the faces of the
Queen’s hundreds of attendant ladies. On occasions of ceremony when the
King is present, only he may face the south.
The Korean soldiers are clad in dark blue relieved with crimson, and
fantastically decorated with ribbons. The Chinese character which
signifies valour is elaborately embroidered over their hearts. They’re
rather fine-looking fellows, but their manners are mild, and they
impress the impartial European observer as staunch lovers of peace. They
wear no helmets, but their head-gear is most distinguished.
There is no other inanimate thing so important to the Korean mind as are
hats. The hat of the King is his crown. The hat of the soldier is his
helmet. And no Korean owns any other chattel so valuable, so indicative
of his station, state, and worth, so indispensable, so cherished as his
hat; no, not even his children, never to mention his wife.
Black is the Korean hat colour. But even Korean rules have their
exceptions. The hats of the Korean army officers are vivid of hue, and
heavy with feathers and ribbons; and the hats of the private soldiers
have at least a band or border of red to show that the wearers are men
of bloodshed and fearless.
In Söul there are military hat stores galore; and naturally enough, for
his hat is the most important item of the Korean soldier’s uniform. As
for his accoutrements, they are so completely overshadowed by the brim
of his mighty hat that they shrink into unconsidered insignificance.
But in years gone by Korea’s army was far less a force of straw and of
plumage. The Korean eagle could shriek once—now she seems to have
become metamorphosed into a military owl; blind at day, timid at night.
The military force of Korea was at an early period divided into three
distinct branches: the navy, the secular army, and the armed or military
monks.
The armed monks garrisoned castles and fortresses which were usually
inaccessibly placed, or, as we should say to-day, built on commanding
positions. They, as a rule, hung frowningly on the rough side of some
steep mountain, or punctuated menacingly some narrow and difficult or
treacherous pathway.
These religious warriors did not go far upon the war-path. They defended
the strongholds, which were also their monasteries, and they engaged
valiantly enough in local warfare. These were the most efficient and
most esteemed of old Korea’s soldiers. Each town furnished a required
number of these holy militaries. They were officered by men of their own
order. When they reached the age of sixty they retired from active
service, and their sons filled up their vacant places; for they were not
celibates, these warrior priests of old Chosön.
Each Korean province is under arms one year out of seven. The selected
soldiers of the province (in Korea, warriorship is a matter of the
king’s selection, not of the soldier’s election) are equipped, robed,
drilled, paraded, and made generally presentable upon the picturesque,
flower-dotted, and bloodless battle-fields of Korea’s martial
pageantries. They take their turns in going up to Söul, these impromptu,
but for all that, well-rehearsed fighting men. When they get to Söul
they there invariably act well their parts. The beginning and the end of
their duty are included in ceremonial functions; and the breath of
ceremony is the only air that can fully inflate the lungs of any
self-respecting Asian. “No man is a hero to his own valet,” we say
lightly. But the peoples of the Orient take the great truth of this
adage very seriously, almost grimly. They realize that the only divinity
that can really hedge a king from the degrading familiarity of his
subjects is the divinity of purple and fine linen, the blare of
trumpets. In brief, the people (in Asia or in Europe) love a show, and
the king who would sit staunchly enthroned upon the hearts, not to
mention the intellects, of his people, must be followed by a train of
supers as long, and as splendidly clad, as well-trained—and perhaps as
meaningless—as those who make the pit of a London theatre appreciate
the more clearly the regal glory of Henry the Eighth, of Arthur the
deceived, and of that other Henry with whom Becket quarrelled.
But in Korea’s martial comedy there are actors who are never out of the
bill. Over each province a general presides, who has under him from
three to six colonels; each colonel is the military master of several
captains; each captain is the Mars of a city, a castle, a town, or some
other fortified place. Even the Korean villages are protected (Japan and
China, save the mark!) by a corporal. Under the corporal are petty
officers; under the petty officers are soldiers, so-called.
There is one admirable thing about the Korean army. Its books are well
kept, and the King of Korea can always tell to the moment how many
fighting men are at his disposal. If only they could fight! Or, if only
they had no need to fight!
Bows and arrows are conspicuous among the implements of the Korean army.
They make little or no impression upon the cannon of civilization, but
they serve to remind us of the days when man needed to contend but
against nature, to slaughter only birds and four-footed mammals.
The Korean infantry and the Korean cavalry are very similarly equipped.
They wear brilliant, if vulnerable, breast-plates. They carry swords
nice of shape, if dull of edge, and they used, in battles of great
moment, to replace their crimson-decked hats with head-pieces of
cotton-batting and tinsel.
There is a unique branch of the king’s immediate servitors. We should
bluntly call them spies. The Koreans picturesquely call them “messengers
on the dark path.” The King of Korea does not hang about the doorways,
nor prowl into the back-yards of his subjects, but in every Korean city
he has several, and in every Korean village at least one appointed
listener. European history tells us that more than one European monarch
has disguised himself at night, and held up his thirsty ears to the
nectar or the gall of his subjects’ candid opinions of himself. Whether
eaves-dropping is more admirable when performed in person or when
deputed to the hireling, is a nice question for those who would judge
between East and West. It seems to me that the King of Korea does a
dirty thing with rather more dignity than did Napoleon or Nero. At all
events, the plebeian spies of Korea are an acknowledged branch of Korean
officialism, and every Korean knows that his house, and all it contains,
is very possibly under the _espionnage_ of the million eyes of the king.
Korea is as netted day and night with the spies of the king as she is at
night netted with signal fires. Just such a system of official
_espionnage_ used to exist in Japan. Did Japan copy Korea? Did Korea
copy Japan? Again we ask the question, and again Asia declines to
answer.
The spies of Li-Hsi are the father confessors of the Koreans, and the
custom is so old, so authentic, so much a matter of course in Korea,
that the Korean caught in the utterance of treason, or relating some
petty offence, cries “_mea culpa_” rather devoutly.
Not very many years ago there were in Asia three absolute monarchs with
comparatively small kingdoms. Those kingdoms were Burmah, Siam, and
Korea. Theebaw, the master of many wooden cannon, the monarch of
Mandalay, the master of Burmah, has accepted his defeat with a good deal
of dignity, and Burmah the old, Burmah the real, is fast passing off of
the face of our earth.
Siam, when Sir Harry Parkes first went there, was possibly the most
picturesque kingdom in Asia; but the King of Siam is a man so wise in
his generation, that we may almost venture to call him a monarch
up-to-date. ‘Since he cannot die at the head of his elephant-cavalried
army; since he cannot see that army victorious in the land of its birth
and its training, he lays bits of his sword (in the form of goodly
scraps of his kingdom) at the feet of French democracy, I mean
republicanism.’
Theebaw is banished, and Chulalongkorn compromises. And what of Li-Hsi?
This, at least, he has made the longest and most hopeless fight of them
all against the inroads of Western civilization.
There is no high office in Korea, civil or military, that can be
bestowed without the king’s sanction, or that cannot be revoked at the
king’s pleasure.
Unfortunately, Li-Hsi has to take the word of the men whom he trusts, as
to the efficiency of the majority of the men whom he appoints to
positions of power. Were Korean officials fewer in number, then might
Li-Hsi know each and all personally; and then might his servants, civil
and military, be less complete nonentities on the one hand, and more
invariably worthy on the other, in the great pageant of Asia’s Western
civilizationship.
The Chinese call their Emperor “The Son of Heaven.” The Japanese used to
regard their Mikado with as much veneration, and even now speak of him
with no less reverence. The Koreans seem to have caught, from China or
Japan, the convenient idea of mediation. According to the religious law
of Korea, which is seldom marked, and less often respected, only the
king is fit to worship the gods. The subjects of the king must content
themselves with worshipping him. To venture to pray to the king is as
near heaven as an orthodox Korean may dare to come. And the king, if he
be in gracious mood, will pass the prayer on to the god who is no more
above him than he is above his people.
It seems a Jacob’s ladder sort of religion—the religion to which the
Koreans pretend (for, as a matter of fact, as I shall try to prove
later, they have no religion at all). The peasant throws his paper
prayer at the feet of his king; the king, if to him it so seems fit,
throws that paper prayer at the feet of the god; and perhaps none of the
kingly prerogatives more clearly define the high position of the king
than the fact that of all Koreans, he alone is fit to speak to the
Korean god.
The royal house of Korea emphatically believes that it is descended from
divine and royal spirits. If Li-Hsi cannot prove his descent from the
denizens of the Korean heaven, we certainly cannot disprove it; and he
has the courage of his convictions, for neither he nor any prince of his
blood will wed with a maiden who cannot claim as exceptional, as divine,
and as ethereal an ancestry. This keeps the royal family of Korea almost
as narrowly blooded as the royal family of Siam.
Tinsel has not yet gone off the market even in Europe. Newsboys and Eton
boys jostle each other on the curb-stones of Northumberland Avenue in
their boyish desire to see a modern Lord Mayor’s Show. In the Orient
tinsel is almost as common a commodity, as necessary an adjunct of daily
life as is rice itself. When the King of Korea goes forth from his
palace grounds he is followed by, preceded by, a glittering throng.
Nobles, soldiers, secretaries, and servants arrayed in barbaric
splendour, and carrying a hundred symbols of Asiatic majesty, attend
upon him; and over him is carried a canopy rich with gold and jewels.
Music, unless the king forbid, sounds his approach. But no other sound
is heard. No one may speak. The procession moves slowly, silently. The
very horses step softly, and would sooner think of cantering backwards
than of neighing. The horsemen are followed by footmen. Both carry
banners and insignia.
Immediately before the king walks a secretary of state. He carries an
elaborate box. I have heard Koreans speak of it as “the mercy-box.” The
king’s ear is open to the meanest of his subjects, in theory at least.
When the king goes forth his route is probably strewn with papers,
papers are thrown from over walls, papers hang by strings from windows
and roofs, sticks are placed along the roadside, and in their notched or
forked ends are more papers. All these papers are scrupulously gathered
up and put into the “mercy-box.” Each paper contains a petition or the
story of a wrong for which the sufferer beseeches the king’s redress.
These papers are opened by the king in person, after he has returned to
the palace. He and he alone decides which of the petitions shall be
granted and how; which shall be refused. Often only he ever knows by
whom they have been written.
Such is the outing of a Korean king, or rather such it was until a very
few years ago. Within six or seven years the ceremonial has been
slightly altered. Until then it had remained almost unchanged for
centuries. Whether Li-Hsi will ever again go forth in like state I
question. It’s more likely that, if he lives and reigns, he will be
sending to London or Calcutta for a brougham. But of this I feel sure:
while he continues to sit in power upon Korea’s throne, his ears will be
keen to hear the cries of his people, and his heart hot to serve them.