Corea: The Hermit Nation

by William Elliot Griffis

Corean culture resembles that in mediæval Europe. It is extra-vernacular. It is in Latin—the Latin of Eastern Asia—the classic tongue of the oldest of living empires. This literary instrument of the learned is not the speech of the modern Chinamen, but the condensed, vivid, artificial diction of the books, which the Chinese cannot and never did speak, and which to be fully understood must be read by the eye of the mind. The accomplished scholar of Seoul who writes a polished essay in classic style packs his sentences with quotable felicities, choice phrases, references to history, literary prismatics, and kaleidoscopic patches picked out here and there from the whole range of ancient Chinese literature, and imbeds them into a mosaic—smooth, brilliant, chaste, and a [[340]]perfect unity. This is the acme of style. So in the Corean mind, the wise saws and ancient instances, the gnomic wisdom, quotations and proverbs, political principles, precedents, historical examples, and dynasties, are all Chinese, and ancient Chinese. His heaven, his nature, his history, his philosophy, are those of Confucius, and like the Chinaman, he looks down with infinite contempt upon the barbarians of Christendom and their heterodox conceptions of the universe. Meanwhile his own language, literature, and history are neglected. The Corean child begins his education by learning by voice, eye, and pen, the simple and beautiful native alphabet of twenty-five letters, and the syllabary of one hundred and ninety or more combinations of letters. He learns to read, and practises writing in both the book or square style and the script form or running hand. The syllabary is not analyzed, but committed to memory from sight and sound. Spelling is nearly an unknown art, as the vowel changes and requirements of euphony—so numerous as to terrify the foreign student of Corean—are quickly acquired by ear and example in childhood. With this equipment in the rudiments, which is all that nearly all the girls, and most of the boys learn, the young reader can master the story-books, novels, primers of history, epistles, and the ordinary communications of business and friendship. If the lad is to follow agriculture, cattle-raising, trade, mining, or hunting, he usually learns no more, except the most familiar Chinese characters for numbers, points of the compass, figures on the clock-dial, weights, measures, coins, and the special technical terms necessary in his own business. Thus it often happens that a Corean workman, like a Chinese washerman, may be perfectly familiar with the characters even to the number of hundreds relating to his trade or occupation, and yet be utterly unable to read the simplest book, or construct one Chinese sentence. With the Chinese characters, one can write English as well as Corean or Japanese, but a thorough knowledge of the terms necessary to a sailor, a jeweller, a farmer, or a lumber merchant would not enable one to read Ivanhoe or Wordsworth.

If the Corean lad aspires to government service, he begins early the study of the “true letters” or “great writing.” The first book put into his hands is, “The Thousand Character Classic.” This work is said to have been composed by a sage in one night—a labor which turned the hair and beard of the composer to whiteness. In it no character is repeated, and all the phrases are [[341]]in two couplets, making four to a clause. The copies for children are printed from wooden blocks in very large type. At the right side of each character is its pronunciation in Corean, and on the left the equivalent Corean word. The sounds are first learned, then the meaning, and finally the syntax and the sense of the passages. Meanwhile the brush-pen is kept busily employed until the whole text of the author is thoroughly mastered by eye, ear, hand, and memory. In this manner, the other classics are committed. Education at first consists entirely of reading, writing, and memorizing. Etiquette is also rigidly attended to, but arithmetic, mathematics, and science receive but slight attention.

After this severe exercise of memory and with the pen, the critical study of the text is begun. Passages are expounded by the teacher, and the commentaries are consulted. Essays on literary themes are written, and a style of elegant composition in prose and verse is striven for. For the literary examinations in the capital and provinces, the government appoints examiners, who give certificates to those who pass. Those who succeed at the provincial tests, are eligible only to subordinate grades of employ in the local magistracies. The aspirants to higher honors, armed with their diplomas, set out to Seoul to attend at the proper time the national examination. The journey of these lads, full of the exultation and lively spirit born of success, moving in hilarious revelry over the high roads, form one of the picturesque features of out-door life in Corea. The young men living in the same district or town go together. They go afoot, taking their servants with them. Pluming themselves upon the fact that they are summoned to the capital at the royal behest, they often make a roystering, noisy, and insolent gang, and conduct themselves very much as they please. The rustics and villagers gladly speed their parting. At the capital they scatter, putting up wherever accommodations in inns or at the houses of relatives permit.

Though young bachelors form the majority at these examinations, the married and middle-aged are by no means absent. Gray-headed men try and may be rejected for the twentieth time, and grandfather, father, and son occasionally apply together.

On the appointed day, the several thousand or more competitors assemble at the appointed place, with the provisions which are to stay the inner man during the ordeal. The hour preparatory to the assignment of themes is a noisy and smoky one, devoted to study, review, declamation, or to eating, drinking, chatting, or [[342]]sleeping, according to the inclination or habit of each. The examination consists of essays, and oral and written answers to questions. During the silent part of his work, each candidate occupies a stall or cell. The copious, minute, and complex vocabulary of terms in the language relating to the work, success and failure, the contingencies, honest and dishonest shifts to secure success, and what may be called the student’s slang and folk-lore of the subject, make not only an interesting study to the foreigner, but show that these contests subtend a large angle of the Corean gentleman’s vision during much of his lifetime.

Examination over, the disappointed ones wend their way home with what resignation or philosophy they may summon to their aid. The successful candidates, on horseback, with bands of musicians, visit their patrons, relatives, the examiners and high dignitaries, receiving congratulations and returning thanks. Then follows the inevitable initiation, which none can escape—corresponding to the French “baptism of the line,” the German “introduction to the fox,” the English “fagging,” and the American “hazing.”

One of the parents or friends of the new graduate, an “alumnus,” or one who has taken a degree himself, one also of the same political party, acts as godfather, and presides at the ceremony. The graduate presents himself, makes his salute and takes his seat several feet behind the president of the party. With all gravity the latter proceeds, after rubbing up some ink on an ink-stone, to smear the face of the victim with the black mess, which while wet he powders thickly over with flour. Happy would the new graduate be could he escape with one layer of ink and flour, but the roughness of the joke lies in this, that every one present has his daub; and when the victim thinks the ordeal is over new persons drop in to ply the ink-brush and handful of flour. Meanwhile a carnival of fun is going on at the expense, moral and pecuniary, of the graduate. Eating, drinking, smoking, and jesting are the order of the day. It is impossible to avoid this trial of purse and patience, for unless the victim is generous and good-natured, other tricks and jokes as savage and cruel as those sometimes in vogue in American and British colleges follow. After this farce, but not until it has been undergone, is the title recognized by society.

The three degrees, corresponding somewhat to our B.A., M.A., and Ph.D., are cho-si, chin-sa, kiup-chiei. The diplomas are awarded in the king’s name, the second written on white paper, and the third on red adorned with garlands of flowers. The degrees are not [[343]]necessarily successive. The highest, or the second, may be applied for without the first. The holder of the second degree may obtain office in the provinces, and after some years may become a district magistrate or guardian of one of the royal sepulchres. The highest degree qualifies one to fill honorable posts at the palace and in the capital, in one of the ministries, or to be the governor of a province, or of a great city. Properly, the place of a “doctor” is in Seoul. The usual term of office is two years.

The examinations for civil titles and offices attract students of the highest social grade. The military studies are chiefly those of archery or horsemanship, the literary part of their exercises being slight. But one degree, the lowest, is awarded, and if the holder is of gentle blood, and has political influence, he may rise to lucrative office and honors, but if from the common people, he usually gets no more than his title, or remains a private or petty officer.

The system of literary examinations which, when first established, and during two or three centuries, was vigorously maintained with impartiality, is said to be at present in a state of decay, bribery and official favor being the causes of its decline.