# In Korea with Marquis Ito/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II 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 fortes 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; Japanese
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 blase 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 handshaking 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.
Birds-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 visitors 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 widespreading 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 hyberbole. 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 mediaeval 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, how- ever, 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 de- grade, 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 blood-stains 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 mid-day. 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!
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* ↑ For the following description of Seoul, besides my own observations, I am chiefly indebted to a series of articles published during our stay there by Dr. G. Heber Jones in the Seoul Press.
* ↑ This may seem incredible, but it is a fact that, as late as the spring of 1907, even a basket of fruit could not be sent to the Emperor with the confidence that the eunuchs and palace servants would not steal it all. At every garden-party the dishes and even the chairs had to be carefully watched.