Korea (Hamilton)/Chapter 20

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The peace, piety, and sublime earnestness of the monks of the monasteries of Yu-chom and Chang-an is in startling contrast to the state of things at Shin-ki-sa. The magnificence of Yu-chom-sa, and the charitable benevolence of Chang-an-sa, engender a mood of sympathetic appreciation and toleration towards those, whose lives are dedicated to the service of Buddha, in these isolated retreats of the Diamond Mountains. The spectacle presented by the monastery at the north-eastern base of the Keum-kang-san, however, reveals the existence of certain evils which happily do not disfigure the more important Buddhist centres in this region. It is not time which alone has brought about the disorder; nor would the material decay be so lamentable if the dignity and charm of a picturesque ruin were not lacking. The tone of the monks here is totally different. Everything is neglected, and every one is indifferent to the needs of the temples. A litter of broken tiles lies about the buildings; dirt and dust, the natural consequences of carelessness and neglect, disgrace them within. The spirit of reverence is wanting. The scene is changed. ​Shin-ki is a small monastery. Perhaps its temples have never been comparable with the shrines of Yu-chom-sa in grace and beauty. Nothing, however, can excuse the disorder and neglect of its court-yards, and the slovenliness of the temple service. There seems to be nothing in common between this and those other monasteries, which rest within the heart of the ranges. One looks in vain for the courtly dignity of the aged Abbot of Yu-chom-sa, whose humanitarian spirit was so impressive. The principles of consideration, politeness, and devotion that govern his conduct are sadly lacking in the Abbot, the priests, and monks attached to Shin-ki-sa. The contrast is indeed great. The most painful emotions are excited by the decline which has taken place in the prosperity of the temples. Anger and sorrow fill the soul. As one gazes beyond the temples into the peace and beauty of the valley below, it is as if one were looking across from a place of abomination into another and a better world. The colourless skeleton of the past alone remains, and one longs for the power to restore the fabric to its former self.

In its setting the monastery has caught something of the spirit of nature. If there is any compensating element in its decadence, it is found in the wild beauty of the rugged mountains, which tower above it from across the valley. Beyond their granite faces lie the trials and tribulations of the outer world; once enclosed within their grey embrace the little ironies of life disappear. The hours are cool and undisturbed. Primeval forests adorn the deep gullies of the ranges; a flood of colour comes from the open spaces where wild flowers are growing and the tints of the woodland foliage disclose an endless variety of green. In the centre of a patch, cleared of its undergrowth and ​approached by a path winding through deep woods, is Mum-sa-am. This retreat is given over to the twenty nuns who are associated with Shin-ki-sa. I know nothing of their lives, but from the state of their temples, and the

roughness and disorder of their surroundings, it did not appear to me that they, any more than the sixty priests, monks, and boys of the lower monastery, find the tenets of Buddha very elevating, or derive much satisfaction from the surrounding scenery.

The history of our days in the more important monasteries of the Diamond Mountains was uneventful. The anxious care and solicitude of the monks for the welfare of their guests was hourly manifested, and some kindly attention was shown to us at every possible opportunity. Cool and lofty quarters were allotted for our entertainment; the resources of the monastery were placed at our disposal. The Abbot of Chang-an-sa prepared draughts of honey-water and cakes ​of pine-seeds for our refreshment. Every morning supplies of honey, rice, and flour, and small bundles of fresh vegetables were brought to the table; throughout the day nothing was left undone, which, in the minds of these simple men, would be conducive to our comfort. A deep pool in the tumbling mountain-stream was reserved for our use, and when, in the fresh air of the morning, and again when the cool winds of the evening had tempered the heat of the day, we went to bathe, the Abbot, upon his own initiative, arranged that we should be left in undisturbed possession of the water-hole.

The Temple, which we occupied during our stay at Chang-an-sa, contained The Altar of the Three Buddhas. The building was spacious and impressive. A wide verandah surrounded it, teak pillars supported a massive roof; scrolls and allegorical pictures, illustrating incidents in the life of Buddha, decorated the wall. Layers of oiled paper carpeted the floor; an altar cloth of silk, richly embroidered, small mats, bronze incense bowls and brass candelabra, embellished the altar, in the centre of which was a large gilt image of the Three Buddhas. Every evening at sunset, the monks who officiated in this Temple placed bowls of rice, honey, and pine-seed cakes upon the altar, and lighted the small lamps and candles which illuminated it. Prayers were not always said, nor were the services always the same, the numbers of the monks varying nightly according to the character of the special office. When the services concluded, there were many who found something to attract them in our small encampment. They gathered round the kitchen; they assisted the interpreter to cook, and tasted his dishes. They handled with amazement the cooking utensils of a camp-kitchen, the cutlery of a traveller's table. ​Occasionally, as their increasing familiarity brought about some small degree of intimacy between us, the monks would display their beads and alms-bowls for our inspection, requesting our acceptance of copies of their books in return

for photographs of their temples. The intricacies of a camera delighted them, the appearance of a sporting rifle created consternation in their breasts, and they were never tired of swinging in my camp-bed.

Before the camp at Chang-an-sa was shifted to Yu-chom-sa, a fast friendship, engendered by many kindly acts and the uninterrupted expression of a thoughtful consideration for our needs, sprung up between the monks and ourselves. They consulted us about their ailments, which usually took the shape of an acute attack of indigestion or a form of intermittent dysentery. My medicines were limited to some quinine pills and a bottle of fruit salts; ​they accepted either prescription with gratitude and much melancholy philosophy. But although they remained always the same well-disposed visitors to our camp, I noted that they did not frequently present themselves as candidates for treatment again. When the moment came for our departure, many small gifts were pressed upon us. For a long time, too, it seemed as if it would be impossible to obtain an account of our indebtedness to the monastery. In the end the persuasion of the interpreter prevailed. When we added to the reckoning a few dollars for the funds of the monastery, the expressions of gratitude and appreciation, to which our little gift gave rise, made it almost possible to believe that the kindness and hospitality shown had been all on our side.

Our quarters at Yu-chom-sa were in no sense inferior, and none the less delightful in their situation, to those which we left behind at Chang-an-sa. The guest-house in Yu-chom-sa affords views of the mountain torrent as it dashes through the boulder-strewn, tree-clad slopes of the valley. At Chang-an-sa we camped beneath the protecting eaves of the spacious verandah which surrounds the Temple of The Three Buddhas, avoiding whenever possible any general use of the sacred edifice. In the case of Yu-chom-sa, this diffidence was unnecessary; the building placed at our disposal being that usually set aside for the requirements of those persons of official position who might be visiting the monastery. The apartments were clean, comfortable, and bright. They were hung with tablets, upon which had been inscribed the names and dignities of previous visitors. High walls enclosed the buildings, and massive gates preserved the compound from unexpected intrusion. The life in these encampments is one of ideal ​peace and happiness. It was possible to work undisturbed and unprovoked by any harrowing influences. Indeed, there was no suggestion of any other existence. We lived in the seclusion of a sanctuary, where mortal misgivings had not penetrated, and where the tribulations, which oppress mankind, were unknown.

Beyond Shin-ki-sa, a journey of fifteen li, a well-made road leads east north-east to the coast, which it touches at Syöng-chik. The sight and scent of the sea, after the exhausting discomforts of Shin-ki-sa, was peculiarly welcome. Between Yu-chom-sa and Shin-ki-sa the country is intersected with marshes and rice-fields. The difficulties of marching through these bogs and mud-holes greatly impeded the horses. The road by the coast, if rough and stony in places, is at least free from these obstacles, affording a tortuous, but none the less pleasant, course. Wending across basaltic slopes, ascending their smooth surfaces by a series of roughly-hewn steps, it drops to a level of burnished sand. A sweep inland to the west and south-west avoids the rugged spurs of a neighbouring range. The sea licks the white sand with gentle murmurs and the slight breeze scarcely ripples the blue surface, the constant variations, which the golden sands and glittering sea, the open valleys and green hills present, adding to the charm and freshness of the journey. The feeling of isolation, inseparable from travel in regions where the sense of freedom is shut out by a world of enclosing mountains, is at once lost in contact with the ocean and the ships that go down to it. Far out, in the great expanse of the peaceful sea, were fishing-boats, grey junks, hull down upon the horizon, their brown sails bellying spasmodically in the fitful gusts of the breeze. In the shallows off-shore men, brown ​and naked, dragged for herring and sprat while their children gathered crabs, diving after their victims in the deep pools with screams of delight.

Around the hovels, in all these clusters of small villages by the waves, men slept in the blazing sunshine. While their lords reposed, the women mended the rents in the nets, or busied themselves in constructing crude traps, with the aid of which their husbands contrived to catch fish. The aspect of these villages upon the beach was not inviting; and they did not compare favourably with any of the inland villages through which we had passed. They were dirty, tumble-down, and untidy; the appearance of the people suggested great personal uncleanliness. The air was laden with the smell of fish drying in the sun—of itself a pleasant perfume, smacking of the salt of the sea—but here so mingled with the odours of decaying offal, piles of rubbish, and varieties of fish and seaweed in different stages of decomposition that the condensed effluvium was sickening. The people, however, were neither curious nor unkindly; for the great part they were indifferent, offering baskets of fresh eggs, fish, and chickens readily for sale. The beach by these villages was black with rows of fish, drying, upon the white sand, in the most primitive fashion. The art of smoking fish is unknown, and the careless manner in which the curing is done proves that the treatment has neither principle nor system. Dogs lay upon these rows of fish, fowls fed undisturbed off them, and, in many places, men slept peacefully with a number of them heaped together, to serve as pillows for their weary heads. Where such neglect prevails, it is perhaps not unnatural that much of the disease among the Koreans should be attributed to the dried fish which they eat so greedily. ​The trade in salted and sun-dried fish is extensive and finds its way all over the kingdom; an overland traffic of considerable importance exists with the capital. Strings or stacks of dried fish are to be seen in every village. Pack ponies, and coolies laden with loads of dried fish, are met upon every road in the kingdom. The pedestrian who "humps his own swag" almost always carries a small stock with him. The parallel industry to the business of curing fish is the operation of making salt from sea-water, a pursuit which is conducted in a manner equally rough and casual. In both of these industries there is a crying need for simple technical instruction, as well as for capital, the lack of which hinders the work from achieving any particular success. There is so much fish in the sea along the coast, that, if the catches were properly treated, the beginning of a prosperous export trade could be readily laid. At the present only a bare sufficiency is secured, the days of prosperity not yet having begun to dawn. The industry is completely paralysed by the exactions of the officials; the fishermen, like the peasants, knowing only too well that an immunity from the demands of the Yamen is found only in a condition of extreme poverty.

Many fishing villages were passed through in the journey from the Diamond Mountains. Each seemed to reflect the other, the sole difference between them lying in their size, the number of fishing-boats drawn up on the beach, the strength and density of their smells. The poverty and squalor of these hamlets was astonishing. The people seemed without spirit, content to live an idle, slatternly existence in sleeping, yawning, and eating by turns. Despite offers of payment, it was impossible to secure their services in a day's fishing, although they generally admitted that the ​boats, nets, and lines were not otherwise engaged. As the outcome of this spirit of indifference among the natives, Japanese fishermen are rapidly securing for themselves the fishing-grounds off the coast. Unless these dreary, meditative, and dirty people arouse themselves soon, the business of fishing in their own waters will have passed altogether from their hands. The Japanese catch fish at all seasons; the Koreans at one only—when it suits them. They have consequently a diminishing influence in a trade so exceedingly profitable that some ten thousand Japanese fishing-boats subsist by it.

The filthy condition of the villages renders any stay in them perilous. It is wiser to camp beyond them in the open. It was my misfortune to stay in several, but in the village of Wha-ding, seventy-five li from Won-san, the virulence and variety of the insects surpassed all my experience in Australia, America, Africa, or Asia. Fleas were everywhere; they floated through the atmosphere, much as the north-west winds of New Zealand and the hot winds of Africa drive particles of fine sand through the air. In this case, however, nothing remained without its thin penetrating covering of fleas. One night in Wha-ding stands out as the most awful of these experiences. It was impossible to stand; it was impossible to sit; sleep was out of the question. We shook our clothes; we bathed and washed and powdered. Every effort was a torture, and each precaution increased the ironies of the situation. To add to the plagues of this accursed place, we were deafened by the ear-splitting incantations of a sorcerer, who had been hired by the proprietor of the village inn to exorcise a devil that had bewitched him. We wondered, afterwards, whether this accounted for the damnable activity among the vermin. ​

​After a futile attempt to come to terms with the magician by bribery and corruption through the medium of my interpreter, it was arranged that one of the grooms should represent the evil spirit. He passed out into the desolation of the night and howled plaintively, while we, having collected the elders and the necromancer, solemnly fired our revolvers into the darkness at the departing spirit. Unfortunately, we did not convince the wizard that the devil had been expelled. It was not until, losing my temper and my reason together, I dropped his gongs and cymbals down a well, depositing him in it after them, that we were rid of the agonies of this additional nuisance.