In Korea with Marquis Ito

by George Trumbull Ladd

To the ordinary traveller, after the first strangeness of its more obvious aspects is over, not much remains of particular interest in the capital city of Korea. Of fine buildings, of museums, picture-galleries, temples, theatres, parks, and public gardens, there is little or nothing to compare with any European or Japanese city of the same size. There is, however, here as everywhere in the peninsula, no little of antiquarian and historical interest which awaits the researches of those trained and enthusiastic in such pursuits. Of those sights which the city of Seoul within the walls can show, there are three principal classes—the so-called palaces, the shrines, and the monuments. Even these are interesting, not for their intrinsic grandeur or beauty, but chiefly for their connection with the legends or historical incidents of the country.

To quote again from the articles of Dr. Jones: “The Koreans apply the term Kung or palace to all residences of royalty, and to them Seoul is a city of palaces, for there are eighteen Kung of varying sizes and degrees of importance in and about the city.” Among the eighteen, however, “there are several which are to-day a name and nothing more.” Of these minor palaces the most interesting is that called the “Special South Palace,” which was erected nearly five hundred years ago by one of the kings for his favorite daughter and her consort. But the latter made it such a “veritable den of infamy” that it was abandoned as a house haunted by evil spirits and unsafe for habitation. The mixture of fawning malice and hypocritical servility characteristic of Korean officialdom was at one time humorously exhibited in a way to deceive even the Chinese; for when the Mings were overthrown by the Manchus, the hated envoys of the latter were assigned to this House, “for their entertainment and as a covert derogation to their dignity.” Thus, too, with the so-called “Mulberry Palace,” known by the Koreans as the “Palace of Splendid Happiness.” It was erected by the tyrant Lord Kwanghai who was here dethroned, and from here sent into exile, where he died a prisoner. From it also his successor was driven out by the usurping “Three Days, King.” It was in this palace, also, that the King Suk-jong, having surprised his favorite concubine in practising magic rites to accomplish the death of the Queen whom she had already caused to be divorced and banished, turned upon the concubine herself, sentenced her to drink poison, and when she in revenge mutilated the Crown Prince, had her torn in pieces. Its present name is derived from one of the many fruitless experiments which the present Government of Korea, left to itself, is constantly making. The “mulberry” plantation remains only as a name to adorn, or degrade, the ruins of the palace. But if any visitor to Seoul thinks that such violence, lust, and thriftlessness, must of necessity belong to the ancient history of Korea, let him learn his mistake. Were the firm, strong hand of the Japanese Resident-General withdrawn, there is not one of these horrid deeds which might not be reproduced at any hour.

These are not, however, the “Major Palaces,” through which the foreign visitor is usually conducted, after having obtained a permit from the proper authorities. The palace, known to the Koreans as the Kyung-pok, or “Palace of Beautiful Blessing,” and to foreigners as the “Summer Palace,” dates from 1394, and was occupied by the present Emperor until 1896. Nowhere else have I seen so large a space (it is estimated that the principal enclosure containing only the buildings deemed necessary for his Korean Majesty’s comfort, contains one hundred acres, besides which there are other enclosures running up the slopes of the mountains and designed for defence) strewn over with desolated and half-ruined barbaric splendor. The main Gateway, through whose central arch no other person than His Majesty and his bearers may pass, is an impressive structure and is still in fairly good repair. It is guarded by stone effigies of the Hai-tai, or mythical sea-monsters, who are prepared to spout water against the mysterious influences stored in the “fire mountain,” some ten miles away to the southward. They are therefore called “Fire Dogs.” Once inside the enclosure, one is presented with a melancholy picture of neglect, swiftly oncoming decay, and advancing ruin. All this is the more melancholy, because the present palace buildings are only about fifty years old, were erected by the Prince-parent of the present Emperor, almost to the financial ruin of the country, and were abandoned only after the assassination of the Queen, October 8, 1895.

Amidst this crowded waste where formerly three thousand persons lived in attendance upon the separate establishments for the King, Queen, Crown Prince, and the Dowagers, there are only two buildings which, architecturally considered, are worthy of note. One of these is the old “Audience Hall.” Its columns, although many are cracked for a considerable part of their length, and none of them ever possessed anything like the beauty or finish of the noble wooden pillars of the Nishi Hongwanji in Kyoto (which, however, they resemble in style and effect), seem to have been made of entire stately trees. There are really no galleries, but the appearance is that of a two-galleried hall. The strong colors of red, black, green, and blue, with which the carved and panelled ceiling is decorated, in a manner similar to that of the castles in the Tokugawa period in Japan, seem to find their way through one’s upturned eyes to the base of the brain. In some of its structural features this Audience Hall resembles the audience halls of the Muhammadan monarchs in Northern India more than anything to be found in Japan. This is especially true of the high platform on which the throne was placed. The decoration central over it, and that central in the ceiling of the whole hall, is golden dragons, with clouds and flames, in bas-reliefs; it is in an excellent state of preservation.

The other really fine building in the entire collection is the so-called “Hall of Congratulations,” whose upper floor is supported by forty-eight granite monoliths—six rows of eight each in a row. These pillars are about sixteen feet high and three feet square. The lotus pond surrounding the building is oblong and faced with masonry; while miniature islands rise here and there above the surface of the water. This Hall was intended for state social functions of the out-of-door character.

By going still further back of the sleeping apartments of the King, which consisted of nine rooms arranged in a square, so that the eight surrounding the central room could guard it from intrusion or attack, we come in front of the wall behind whose screen are the apartments in one of which the brilliant and attractive but cruel Queen met her own most tragic and cruel death. All are now forbidden to enter there. But some twelve years before, our escort had seen the dark bloodstains on the floor—perhaps hers, perhaps those of her chamberlain who met his death in trying to protect his queen. And one has only to look a little way over to the right in order to see the now peaceful pine-grove where her body was dragged and burned. Such was the deed which terminated the royal habitation of another, and this the most splendid, of the palaces of Seoul!

It is the grounds, rather than the buildings, of the East Palace, especially when the azaleas and cherry bushes and apricot-trees are in full bloom, which constitute its beauty. Here the diplomatic corps and the other invited guests of the Emperor are accustomed to have picnics and afternoon teas. The apartments, which were united into one so-called palace in the reign of Suk-jong (1694-1720) appear to be most distinctively Korean and are unlike any other buildings which I have ever seen. The rooms are small and rambling; and the screens between them are decorated with those geometrical patterns which are so ancient and so nearly universal wherever architecture has reached a certain stage of development. The ceilings are low and devoid of decoration, but are made pleasing by being everywhere “beamed-over.” This palace, too, has not escaped its history of violence and its bath of blood. Here it was that, in 1884, the party of Progressives, headed by Mr. Kim Ok-kiun, tried to enforce reforms by capturing the person of the King. But the conservative party of Koreans, helped by eight hundred Chinese soldiers under the leadership of the Major Yuan, who afterward became Li Hung Chang’s successor, and is even to-day cutting an important figure in the complicated politics of China, finally drove out the Progressives and the one hundred and forty Japanese who were defending them.

Little else of the mildly exciting “sights” of Seoul remains besides the Great Bell and the Marble Pagoda. The former bears witness to an art in which the Koreans once excelled, but which is now, like all the other arts, either lost or neglected. At Nikko, it will be remembered, there is a Korean bell which was presented to one of the Japanese Shoguns. Setting aside all legends as to the time and incidents of its manufacture and hanging, a recently deciphered inscription on its own side tells the date as 1469 and gives the names of the prominent men connected with the undertaking. The report of a Chinese envoy of 1489, who says of the bell, “It calls all men to rest, to rise, to work, to play,” taken in conjunction with the fact that, to avoid the troubles of faction and violence, men were forbidden on the streets after dark, probably gave rise to the report that women only were allowed to go abroad at night. And this is believed by natives and travellers until the present hour. But the bell, which once rung to open and close the massive city gates, now rings only to tell of midnight and midday. And, although it is about eight feet in diameter and ten feet high, it is no great sight as looked at by peeking through the bars of its surrounding cage. It does, however, like many other things else in Seoul, bear witness to the life of the past and the changes of the present.

The marble pagoda is at the same time the most notable existing monument of Buddhism in Korea and the most interesting art-object in Seoul. It came, however, from abroad; tradition connects its gift with a Mongol princess who, after the death of Kublai Khan, came to Korea in 1310 to become the queen-consort of King Chung-sun. It was brought in a junk from China and at first erected in the grounds of a temple in the little town of Hanyang—the predecessor of Seoul on the same site; for the capital of the present dynasty was not then built. The temple grounds were beautified in its honor; roads were constructed leading to it; and a bridge was built over a stream running near by. But the Korean inevitable happened to it—the fate meted out to all that shows signs of order, industry, or art, when not of immediate selfish interest to the rulers of Korea. The roads, encroached upon by surrounding hovels, became foul and narrow alleys; a squatter built his straw-thatched hut about it; and the stream became the main sewer of the city, which is cleaned only by the downpour of the summer rains. Thus, as says our chronicler: “The gift to Korea of one of the mighty Mongol Khans, whose arms had literally shaken the world, became the impedimenta of a Korean coolie’s backyard, sixteen by twenty feet square!” What wonder, however, in a land where court officials and palace hangers-on do not hesitate to-day to steal the screens, and other presents from foreign monarchs and plutocrats, out from under His Majesty’s very eyes.[2]