In Korea with Marquis Ito

by George Trumbull Ladd

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.

The word Seoul,[1] coined by the Shilla Kingdom in Southeastern Korea and originally pronounced So-ra-pul, means “national capital”; and Hanyang (“Sun of the Han”), the real name of the present capital, is only one of a succession of “Seouls,” of which Song-do and Pyeng-yang were the most notable. To the imagination of the ignorant populace of Korea, who can have no conception of what real civic beauty and decency are in these modern days, and who are accustomed to express themselves with Oriental hyperbole, Hanyang is the “Observation of all Nations,” “the King’s city in the clouds,” “a city that spirits regard and ghosts conceal”; and to be hailed as the “Coiled Dragon and the Crouching Tiger.” When the town came down from the mountain retreat of Puk Han (to be described later) and spread over the plain in order to utilize the Han River, it took the river’s name; but it was only some five hundred and twenty years ago made “Seoul” by the founder of the present dynasty selecting it as his capital city.

The situation of the chief city of modern Korea becomes more and more impressive and, in every important respect, satisfactory, the greater the frequency of one’s reflective observation from any one of numerous favorable points of view. There is no natural reason why, under the governmental reforms and material improvements which are now being put into effect, Seoul should not become as healthy, prosperous, and beautiful a place of residence as can be shown anywhere in the Far East. While its lower level is only some 120 feet above tide-water, and within easy reach of the sea by the river, the city is, with the exception of the side which opens toward and stretches down to this waterway, completely surrounded by mountains. On the north these guardian peaks rise to the height of 2,500 feet, from the tops of which magnificent views can be obtained, not only of the town nestled at their feet but of the surrounding land and of the ocean, far away. It is not necessary, however, to climb so high in order to discover the geographical peculiarities of Seoul. “To secure the best view of the city and its surroundings,” says Dr. Jones, “one should ascend the lower slopes of Nam-san” (a mountain almost wholly within the walls) “on a bright sunny day in Spring. Taking a position on one of the many spurs jutting out from this mountain a really notable scene greets the eye. The stone screen of mountains enclosing the city begins at the left, with Signal Peak distinguished by a lone pine-tree on its top. In former years there was a beacon fire-station here, which formed one of the termini of the long line of fire-stations that in pre-telegraph days signalled to the authorities the weal or woe of the people.”

Bird’s-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 visitor’s 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 wide-spreading 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 hyperbole. 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 mediæval 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.