Korea (Hamilton)/Chapter 24

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Kang-wha, the island to which I was sailing in these easy stages, lies in the north-east quarter of the gulf, formed by the right angle which the coast makes before taking that northerly sweep which carries it, with a curve, to the mouth of the Yalu River. On the south and south-west, Kang-wha is exposed to the open sea; on the north, the island is separated from the mainland by the Han estuary; and on the east a narrow strait, scarce two hundred yards wide, through which boats, journeying from Chemulpo to Seoul must travel, severs the island from the mainland.

​The geographical features of the island include four clearly-defined ranges of mountains, with peaks attaining to an altitude of some two thousand feet. Broad and fertile valleys, running from east to west, separate these ranges, the agricultural industry of the population being conducted in their open spaces. The villages and farmsteads, in which the farming population dwell, are folded away in little hollows along the sides of the valleys, securing shelter and protection from the severity of the winter. Many hundred acres of the flats, which form the approaches to these valleys from the coast, have been reclaimed from the sea during the last two centuries, the erection of sea dykes of considerable length and immense strength having proceeded apace. But for these heavy earthworks, what is now a flourishing agricultural area would be nothing but a sea of mud washed by every spring tide. The continuous encroachment of the sea threatened at one time the extinction of all the low-lying level land.

Kang-wha, with its curious monasteries and high protecting battlements, now reduced to picturesque decay, played a prominent part in the early history of Korea. It has repelled invasion, and afforded sanctuary to the Royal Family and the Government in days of trouble; the boldness of its position has made it the first outpost to be attacked and the most important to be defended. Twice in the thirteenth century the capital was removed to Kang-wha under stress of foreign invasion. With the exception of the terrible Japanese invasion under Hideyoshi in 1592, and the Chino-Japanese War in 1894-95, Kang-wha has felt the full force of nearly every foreign expedition which has disturbed the peace of the country during the past eight centuries, notably those of the Mongols in the thirteenth, of ​the Manchus in the seventeenth centuries, of the French in 1866, and of the Americans in 1871. Furthermore, Kang-wha was the scene of the affair between Koreans and Japanese which led to the conclusion of the first treaty between Korea and Japan in 1876. The actual signing of that instrument, the first of the series which has thrown open Korea to the world, took place in Kang-wha city. The predecessor of the present Emperor of Korea was born in Kang-wha in 1831, living in retirement in the capital city until he was called to the throne in 1849. Upon occasion, Kang-wha has been deemed a suitable place of exile for dethroned monarchs, inconvenient scions of Royalty, and disgraced Ministers.

At two points in the narrow strait upon the east are ferries to carry passengers to the mainland. Kang-song, where the stream makes an abrupt turn between low cliffs, is the scene of the American expedition of 1871; near the southern entrance of the strait, and close to the ferry, are the forts which repelled the American storming-party. The famous rapids and whirlpool of Son-dol-mok, whose evil reputation is the terror of the coast, are close by. There are numerous forts dotted round the coast of the island, recalling the Martello towers of Great Britain. They were not all erected at one time; the majority of them date only from the close of the seventeenth century, having been raised in the early years of Suk-chong. The rampart upon the eastern shore, which frowns down upon the straits and river below, was erected in 1253. Ko-chong, of the Ko-ryö dynasty, fled before the Mongol invasion of that date, removing his Court and capital from Song-do to Kang-wha. Kak-kot-chi, where there is a second ferry, is a few miles beyond Kang-song. At the point where the ferry plies, ​the hill of Mun-su rises twelve hundred feet high from the water's edge. From a junk a short distance from the shore it appears to block the straits, so closely do the cliffs of Kang-wha gather to the mainland. This little place became the headquarters of the French expeditionary force in 1866.

The capital of the island, Kang-wha city, is a battlemented citadel, with walls fifteen li in circumference, and four pavilioned city gates. It is a garrison town, beautiful in its combination of green vistas and ancient, crumbling walls. The Chino-Japanese War, so fatal to many of the old institutions of Korea, diminished the ancient glory of Kang-wha. For two hundred and sixty years prior to this campaign, Kang-wha ranked with Song-do, Kang-chyu, Syu-won and Chyön-chyön as one of the O-to, or Five Citadels, upon which the safety of the Empire depended. It controlled a garrison of ten thousand troops; the various officials numbered nearly one thousand. The change in the destiny of the kingdom brought a turn in the fortunes of the island, and it is now administered by an official of little importance. It is still, however, the seat of government for a widely scattered region, and the centre of trade and industry for some thirty thousand people. Agriculture is the staple industry; stone-quarrying and mat-making are other means by which the population exists. At the water's-side there are salt-pans; a certain amount of fishing, a little pottery-making, smelting, the weaving of coarse linen, to which work the wives of the farmers devote themselves, complete the occupation of the inhabitants. One pursuit, horse-breeding, for which Kang-wha was once famous, is now completely abandoned.

There are nine monasteries under the government of ​the island. Seven are situated upon the island; the chief of these is the fortified monastery of Chung-deung, the Temple of Histories, the sometime pillar of defence of the Kingdom, thirty li south of Kang-wha, famous as the scene of the reverse suffered by the French troops in 1866. Mun-su-sa, standing upon the mainland opposite, is included in this little colony of Buddhistic retreats, as is another, upon the island of Ma-eum-to, called Po-mun-sa, famous for the wildness of its scenery and for a natural rock temple in the side of the hill upon which it stands. The monks of Chung-deung-sa enjoyed military rank until quite recently. They were regarded as soldiers in times of national distress; they received Government allowances, food, and arms, in order to maintain them in a state of efficiency. Buddhism has lost much of its hold upon the islanders, although it existed before 1266. There is a branch of the English Mission (Seoul) in Kang-wha, under the administration of the Rev. Mark Napier Trollope, whose notes upon this island were presented in a paper which their author read before the local branch of the Royal Asiatic Society during my stay in Korea. They materially assisted me to collect the interesting data from which these few paragraphs have been compiled.

I stayed five weeks in Kang-wha monastery, preparing the skeleton of this present volume. Having gone there for a week at the outside, I found the quiet and solitude of the spot such a sanctuary from trouble, and such a panacea to the nerves, that I was loath to abandon it. After a few days in the cramped confinement of the native junk which had conveyed me from Chemulpo, delaying much en route, it was pleasant to stretch my limbs again upon the shore. Landing one morning at daybreak, I fell upon the ​unsuspecting guardian of the English Mission, Father Trollope, and moved off at a later hour in the day across country to the monastery. The monks were not at all disturbed by my intrusion. Although strangers are not such frequent visitors to this monastery as to those in the Diamond Mountains, their presence excites no comment, and they are allowed to go their way with that kindly indifference to their existence which is, under the circumstances, the height of courtesy. The Chief Abbot was informed of my arrival, and, after a little explanation, ordered a very airy building to be prepared for my reception. It was well raised from the ground, and, situated just below the main courtyard, afforded a magnificent view of the entire domain. In the distance I could see the farm-lands of the island and the sparkle of the sunlight upon the water; more within the picture, and quite near to my new home, were two wells, a running stream, and a stretch of mountain slopes, cool, fragrant, and overgrown with scrub and bush. Temples revealed themselves in a sea of foliage, through which the drifting breezes played soft music. At one end of this Hall of Entertainment were placed the cooking and eating paraphernalia, in the middle my camp-bed, and, overlooking the landscape, an improvised writing table with my books and papers. There was no element of unrest in the setting of my little camp. Every morning the Chief Abbot welcomed me to the glories of another day; in the evening we, through the medium of my interpreter, talked together upon an amazing variety of subjects—Buddha and Christ, this world and the next, Paris, London, America. Duties in the monastery would prevent these new friends from coming on certain nights; but they always forewarned me of their absence, never disturbing ​me at my work, never taking me by surprise. The sense of consideration and courtesy which their kindly hospitality displayed was manifested in countless ways. The small return which it was possible to make quite shamed me before them. Frequently, at midnight, when my lights were burning, the Abbot would walk across from his own apartments and force me to bed with many smiles and much gentle pressure, covering my manuscript with his hands and nodding towards my camp-bed. There was no screen to the front of my building, so it was always possible for them to observe the stranger within their gates. This inspection was most quietly carried on; indeed, if I turned to the open courtyard, those who, perhaps, had been noting the structure of my camp-bed, or the contents of my valise, hanging to air upon a stout rope, flitted away like ghosts. I was left, as I wished, in peaceful contemplation of my work and the splendour of the scenery around me.

Catering arrangements were quite simple during my stay in this monastery. Rice and eggs and fowls were procurable from the villages beyond the walls of the temple, and rice-flour or vegetables could be procured from the butterman of the monastery. It was my plan to take breakfast about ten o'clock in the morning, and to dine about six o'clock in the evening. Between these hours was my time for writing, and I was always fully occupied. Before breakfast I walked abroad or prepared my notes of the work for the day; after dinner I received my callers, arranging anything of interest in my notes when they were gone. Usually I witnessed the midnight gathering of the monks, listening, with pleasure, to the booming of the great bell of the monastery and the accompanying peals of smaller bells of less melodious volume and much shriller ​

​tone. The vibration in the air, as these wonderful noises broke upon it, filled the high woods with melody and the deep valleys with haunted strains as of spirit-music. After the midnight mass, when the echoes had died away, the delight of the moment was supreme. In utter weariness and most absolute contentment I stretched myself to slumber beneath the protecting draperies of the mosquito-curtains, within the vaulted spaciousness of my Hall of Entertainment.

Visitors to Chung-deung-sa were frequent during my stay, some attracted by the reported presence of a foreigner, others by their very genuine wish to sacrifice to the All-Blessed-One. Two Korean ladies of position arrived in the course of one morning to plead for the intercession of Buddha in their burden of domestic misery and unhappiness. Presenting the Korean equivalent for ten shillings to the funds of the monastery, they arranged with the Abbot for the celebration of a nocturnal mass in the Temple of the Great Heroes. During the afternoon the priests prepared the temple in which the celebration was to be held; elaborate screens of Korean pictorial design were carried into the temple from the cell of the Chief Abbot; large quantities of the finest rice were boiled. High, conical piles of sweetmeats and sacrificial cakes were placed in large copper dishes before the main altar, where the three figures of Buddha sat in their usual attitude of divine meditation. In front of each figure stood a carved, gilded tablet, twelve inches high, exactly opposite to which the food was placed, with bowls of burning incense at intervals between the dishes. Lighted candles, in long sticks, were placed at either end of the altar; above it, in the centre serving as a lamp and hanging from a long gilded chain, ​was suspended a bowl of white jade, in which lay the smoking end of a lighted wick. Numerous side altars were similarly decorated. The furniture of the temple comprised a big drum, a heavy, cracked bell, cast in the thirteenth century, and a pair of cymbals. There were five monks; the two women sat, mute, upon the left of the Abbot. The four priests arranged themselves upon the right—one to the bell, one to the drum, and two to the pair of cymbals, in the playing of which they took turns. Upon each side of the temple, recessed right and left of the main altar, were mural representations of the Ten Judges. Save for the altar illuminations, the effect of which was to render the interior even gloomier and more eerie than usual, the building was in darkness.

The service began with the customary calling for Buddha. The Abbot tapped upon a bamboo cane; every one leant forward, their faces pressed down, and their foreheads resting upon the floor. The palms of their hands were extended beyond their heads in an attitude of reverence and humility. This prostration was accompanied by the intoning of a Thibetan chant, to the accompaniment of a brass gong, struck with a horn handle by the Abbot himself. Further prostrations followed upon the part of the entire assemblage, the women joining in this part of the service. For the most part they squatted silently and reverently in their corner of the temple. As the different services concluded the Abbot shifted the offerings before the main altar to their appointed stations before the smaller shrines, when the prayers proceeded afresh. Protracted overtures were made to the picture of the Ten Judges, before which the service apparently became fully choral. One priest danced amazing and grotesque steps, strangely ​reminiscent of a Kaffir war-dance, the sole of one foot striking the floor to the accompaniment of a clash of cymbals as the other leapt into the air. Another priest played upon the cracked bell, and a third kept up a dull, monotonous thumping on the drum. The sole idea of the priests, as conveyed to my mind by their celebration, seemed to be the breaking up of the solemn silence of the night by the most amazing medley of noises. At intervals, in the course of the unmusical colloquy between the drums, the cymbals, and the big bell, the monks chanted their dirges, which were, in turn, punctuated by the dislocated tapping of the Abbot's brass bell and wooden knocker.

It was deafening, the most penetrating discord of which I have ever been the unfortunate auditor. With the conclusion of the exercises upon the cymbals, which were beaten together in a wide, circular sweep of the arms, then tossed aloft, caught, and clanged together after the fashion of the South African native with his spear and shield, the performing priest returned to the companion who relieved him. His more immediate activities over, he stood aside laughing and talking with his colleagues in a voice which quite drowned the chants in which his companions were engaged. Then, panting with his late exertions, he proceeded to fan himself with the most perfect unconcern, finally examining the hem of his jacket for lice; his search repaying him, he returned to his seat upon the floor and lifted up his voice with the others. After the sacrifices and prayers had been offered before the main altar and those upon the right and left, extra tables of fruit, apples, dates, nuts, cakes and incense, together with the previous dishes of rice, cakes, incense and bread, were spread before a ​small shrine placed in front of the screen. Rice was piled into a bowl, and, while the other monks were laughing and chattering among themselves in the temple itself during the progress of the sacrifice, the two women approached the shrine and made obeisance three times, then touching each dish with their fingers, bowed again and retired to their corner. At the same time three priests, breaking from the group that were talking by the doors of the building, sat down in the centre of the temple upon their praying-mats, seven or eight feet from the shrine. While one chanted Korean prayers from a roll of paper, another struck and rang the brass bell repeatedly, and the third hammered the gong. Throughout this part of the service the others chatted volubly, until they, too, joined in a chorus and pæan of thanksgiving, breaking off from that to chant, in low, suppressed tones, a not unimpressive litany.

Repetitions of the services I have described continued all night. Sometimes there was more noise, sometimes less, occasionally there was none, the tired, quavering voices of the sleepy priests tremulously chanting the requisite number of litanies. The women, who sat with wide-opened eyes, watched with interest and were satisfied. The priests seemed bored. Personally I was tired, dazed and stunned by the uproar. During the progress of this strange service, I was struck by the utter absence of that devotional fervour which was so characteristic of the priests in the principal monasteries of the Diamond Mountains.

The ceremony presently shifted from the Temple of the Great Heroes to the spacious courtyard in front of it. Here, when numerous fires had been lighted, the Abbot and three priests, together with the two Korean women, moved in procession. Their march was accompanied by ​the striking of many gongs and bells. The monks offered prayers round heaps of pine branches, which had been thrown together and lighted at the different spots. Chants and prayers were repeated, and the same clashing of instruments went on as before. It was not until a heavy rain descended that the worshippers returned to the seclusion of the temple. I felt, somehow, quite grateful to that shower of rain. In the morning, my interpreter told me that this progress in the courtyard formed a part of services which accompanied the offering of special prayers for rain. It would be a curious coincidence if this were so. Next day, at the hour of my breakfast, there was some desire to continue the celebration. My head was still aching with the jarring discord of the bells, gongs, and cymbals of the previous entertainment, and at the sight of the preparations my appetite vanished. Breakfast became impossible; I relinquished it to pray for peace. Happily this blessing was granted me; and it was decided to hold no further service—the rain, I presume, having appeared—and to devour the sacrifices. All that day the monks and their two guests ate the offerings. It was therefore a day of undisturbed quiet, and as my prayer also had been granted, each was satisfied, and we were a happy family.

My little holiday passed all too quickly. One day I found myself preparing very sorrowfully to return to Seoul. This accomplished, the news of my intended journey was quickly bruited abroad by my servants. During these days curio-dealers crowded the compound of the Station Hotel, where, made very comfortable by the kindly forethought of Mr. and Mrs. Emberley, I was still living. There is little enough to buy in Seoul: quaint, brass cooking-utensils; iron, inlaid with silver; tobacco boxes, jade cups, fans, ​

​screens, and scrolls. My purchases were few; the native furniture, massive presses, and cabinets faced with copper plates, and small tea-tables, attracting me more than anything else. The Emperor had already sent a present of silk and fans to my hotel, and, with these few remaining articles, my stock of Korean relics was completed. The dealers were importunate, and crowded into the private apartments of the hotel like bleating sheep into a pen. Remonstrances were in vain, and I found the specific cure for their pestiferous attentions to be administered best in the shape of a little vigorous kicking. They took the cuffing with much good humour, and retired to the courtyard, where, at intervals in the day, a plaintive voice would be heard calling upon His Highness to inspect the treasures of his slave. His Highness, however, had concluded his inspection.

The atmosphere in these hot days in Seoul was very bad; the air was heavy with malodorous vapour; the days were muggy and the nights damp. The steaming heat of the capital emphasised the wisdom of an immediate departure, and I hastened my exodus, touched up with a little ague and a troublesome throat. The endless business of obtaining servants, guides, and horses was repeated, until at last the day of my removal was arranged and the hour of actual departure fixed. The prospect was alluring—a journey from Seoul to Vladivostock, through a wild and desolate region, nearly eight hundred miles in length, lay before me. Much of it was unexplored. It was the chance of a lifetime, and, in thus embarking upon it, I was very happy. My last farewells were said; my last calls had been paid—the kindly hospitality of Seoul is not forgotten. The day had come at last, the horses were pawing in the ​courtyard. My effects, my guns, and camp-bed, my tent and stores, were packed and roped. The horses had been loaded; the hotel account had been settled, when my interpreter quietly told me that my servants had struck for ten dollars Mexican—one sovereign—monthly increase in the wages of each. Mr. Emberley stood out against the transaction; I offered to compound with half; they were obdurate. It seemed to me that a crisis was impending. I was too tired and too cross to remonstrate. I raised my offer to eight dollars; it was refused—the servants were dismissed. Uproar broke out in the courtyard, which Mr. Emberley pacified by inducing the boys to accept my last offer—a rise of eight dollars Mexican. My head-servant, the brother of my interpreter, repudiated the arrangement, but the significance of this increase had assumed great importance. It was necessary to be firm. I think now that it was unwise to have entertained any change at all in the standard of payment. Upon the question of the additional two dollars I stood firm; nothing more would be given. The interpreter approached me to intimate that if his brother did not go he also would stay behind. I looked at him for a moment, at last understanding the plot, and struck him. He ran into the courtyard and yelled that he was dead—that he had been murdered. The grooms in charge of the horses gathered round him with loud cries of sympathy. Mr. Emberley called them to him and explained the position of affairs. I strode into the compound. The head groom came up to me, demanding an increase of thirty dollars, Korean currency, upon the terms which he had already accepted; he wanted, further, three-quarters of the contract price to be paid in advance; one quarter was the original stipulation. ​I refused the thirty dollars, and thrashed him with my whip.

The end of my journey for the moment had come, with a vengeance. The head groom stormed and cursed and ran raving in and out of the crowd. He then came for me with a huge boulder, and, as I let out upon his temple, the riot began. My baggage was thrown off the horses and stones flew through the air. I hit and slashed at my assailants and for a few minutes became the centre of a very nasty situation. Servants and grooms, my interpreter, and a few of the spectators went at it keenly while the fight continued. In the end, Mr. Emberley cleared his courtyard and recovered my kit; but I was cut a little upon the head and my right hand showed a compound fracture—native heads are bad things to hammer. Postponement was now more than ever essential; my fears about my health were realised. By nightfall upon the day of this outbreak signs of sickness had developed; the pain had increased in my hand and arm; my head was aching; my throat was inflamed. I was advised to leave at once for Japan; upon the next day I sailed, proposing to go to Yokohama and thence to Vladivostock, starting the expedition from the Russian fortress. However, by the time my steamer arrived at Japan, I was in the clutch of enteric fever. Further travel was out of the question, and when they moved me from an hotel in Yokohama to a cabin upon a Japanese steamer, which was to carry me to England, in my mind I had bidden farewell to the countries of this world, for the doctor told me that I was dying.