THE LAND OF COREA

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 23, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 37.

THE LAND OF COREA.

THE very name of Corea is suggestive of mystery. This little kingdom, way out here at the uttermost part of the earth, is still unknown, though she stepped out from her hermit life as long ago as 1882, and entered into treaty relations with the civilized nations of the world. Corea has not yet recovered from her air of bewilderment at sight of the great outside world, and those who have visited her, either as newspaper correspondents or travelers, seem to have shared in this same bewildered condition of mind.

When one first comes in sight of this east coast, instead of beholding a country clothed with beautiful forests of maple, black walnut, cherry, oak, varnish trees, red mahogany, and every other common and uncommon wood, as has been represented, there is presented a panorama of mountains, whose rugged outlines, excessively steep slopes, and severe, wild aspect, produce a grand but melancholy and inhospitable expression. 'It seems a forsaken land, given over to solitude.' For the most part it is utterly treeless, nude and barren, though here and there are growths of unthrifty, crooked, weather-beaten pines. From the lofty mountain summits, which tower to the clouds, to where the foothills meet the sea, scarce a human habitation is to be seen; but, on searching more closely, in unexpected valleys that stretch far into the hills, we find many villages and hamlets, surrounded by fertile fields of rice, millet, and other productions, that give a comfortable support to the inhabitants.

The Corean towns are composed of unattractive collections of houses, low and ugly. These dwellings are small, straw-thatched mud hovels of one or two rooms, devoid of furniture, where the people sit, eat, and sleep on the floor. The streets are only narrow, filthy alleys. The mud floors of the Corean houses, heated by flues from beneath, are called kangs. They are heated in summer and winter to a degree that would be intolerable to one not used to it from infancy. Fuel gatherers scour the country to find means to feed these primitive furnaces. All the hillsides are shaven every autumn with short, strong iron sickles. They are stripped of

every growing thing; every stalk and branch is taken off; every little bush that has sprouted from the old, old roots that lie buried in the rich, black soil; every chrysanthemum and bluebell, and every coarse blade of grass, they cut down and bind in bundles for fuel. This is all they have. The impression prevailed, until recently, that Northern Corea was rich in timber, but it is now known that, except in temple grounds, or places sacred to some deity, or to the memory of some great person, there exists very little timber of any value. Everything like a stick of timber is very precious and costly.

Every plank for building, every timber of our houses, is brought by ship from Japan. There is not, there need not be, a sawmill in all the country, for there is no wood to saw. All bricks for building are also brought on steamers from Japan or China; although clay is abundant, and coolies are waiting to make brick, there is no wood to burn them. No Yankee enterprise will avail here to tide over these hard places.

If age fills one with veneration, then you will find enough here to impress you most profoundly, for everything your eyes fall upon looks so old. The rocks are crumbling so you can break them with your fingers. And when the rainy season comes, in summer, the mold of ages gathers on everything, even to your gloves and shoes, if you drop out of them for a few days. The very air you breathe at such times seems to be charged with malaria and old age. It is all made plain when you are told that this is one of the oldest countries in the world; that some of its walled cities date back to King David's time; that most of them are more than a thousand years old.

The Coreans are proudly conscious of their antiquity. They say they have nearly lived out their allotted time as a people. Their slow sensibilities, ancient customs, grave language, and inert manner of life, all befit the aged. They speak of Europe and America as just beginning life; and in a stately way they show they have no intention of yielding any of their venerable ideas to such frivolous youth. No influence can move them to change their slovenly-fitting white cotton garments for anything of a darker color or better shape. They insist on squatting on their heels when they work in your garden, while they use the short-handled, awkward Corean hoe of the past ages, instead of the civilized implement of to-day. This squatting posture is a favorite one with them. We see long lines of squatting men by the roadside, in the hot sunshine, resting; they seem to be perfectly happy, in a half-comatose condition, with watery eyes, after a surfeit of rice and pickle, dog chops and soup of garlic, strings of meat and dough, and some indescribable white lumps, neither flesh nor fish, bread nor fat, that cause a gagging sensation when you feel them upon your tongue, and they slide down your throat as though they might be lizard or snake. This leaves a fierce burning behind it, and your eyes fill with tears; you plunge a brass spoonful of rice into your mouth to put out the fire of red pepper.

So wedded is the Corean to his ways that any change, even in the smallest detail of life, seems to him perfectly absurd. With as much hope might you interfere with the rising and setting of the sun, or try to change the stars in their courses. All his ancestors have sewed up their fearfully and wonderfully made trousers, queer stockings, and long, flowing white outer garments, in just the same painstaking way, and therefore the Corean of to-day refuses our offer to stitch the long seams on the sewing machine, rather choosing to 'sit up of nights' and rip and sew according to the good old custom. They will tell you that some strange appearance and movement in the water is caused by a dragon. You need not take the trouble to deny the existence of the winged serpent, for they will adhere to every old superstition.

Our pretty little Corean bride, who has been educated in a mission school, could not endure the thought of foregoing the custom of brides, so she gladly bore the pain of having all the short hair pulled out which is devoted to bangs by American ladies. Also a professional in the art plucked out her eyebrows. It cost many a tear, to be sure, but it was sufficient comfort to know she was following the good old custom.

The art of acupuncture is practiced largely among the Coreans, and in the most reckless, unskillful manner. Ye Babang has a painful knuckle joint, probably a sprain. Though he is a convert to Christianity, a fine Chinese scholar and teacher, he contends most learnedly for many of these customs and superstitions. He had this suffering joint punctured deeply in three places with long needles. Now, after three days, it is inflamed so we fear lockjaw. Needles are often pushed into the bowels and stomach as far as the length of the hand, without the least regard to the situation of the internal organs, to say nothing of the quivering nerves. Sometimes these needles are roasted in the fire and taken out red-hot, and dipped in the medicine, the heat and medicine giving added agony—the treatment thus becoming more hopeful to the minds of these benighted people.

The young man Mar was sick. All sorts of medicine men were called in. It was decided that some spirit was disturbing his head, so they burned the top with a hot iron, but he grew worse, and the most learned of the wise men decided that the only remedy would be a medicine made of a finger of his only brother. The devoted brother submitted to have his finger cut off. In some way it was pulverized, so the sick man swallowed it—we never knew with what result.

Our teachers and translators in Corea are philosophers in their way. They discussed the case of Hansabang, who has been ill for a long time. Our American doctor says he has consumption. These learned Coreans reported that there was doubtless some unbalanced condition between the male and female atmospheres within the chest and stomach of Han. All sorts of medicines, made of the most repulsive reptiles and unclean things, were mixed up, with incantations, and given, but with no avail, for this morning the poor man lies silent in death in his mud hut, and the mourners go about the streets wailing hideously. The old sorcerers say it was all because he had passed the point where anything could rectify his internal atmospheres.

There is much unexplored country in Corea, and it would delight the heart of the intrepid sportsman to visit this unfrequented region. Among the mountains he would find many wild animals. Tigers, leopards, bears, wolves, foxes, badgers, hogs, and deer are not uncommon in the lower hills. Great numbers of sable, ermine, and otters are trapped in the highlands. Multitudes of birds are met with on hill and plain. Game birds are seen in great numbers. The beautiful pheasants are extremely plentiful. The turkey bustard, water hen, pigeon, plover, quails, and partridges are common. In spring and autumn the waters of every inlet and stream are crowded with such quantities of wild fowl—swans, geese, ducks, and teal—as to astonish and delight the heart of the sportsman.

The Coreans still practice the ancient art of falconry. They use with great skill trained hawks and dogs to beat up the game. Corea has been famed for her fine pearls, but of late the pearl fishery has been unsuccessful. The seas literally teem with fish, but the Corean shuns a life of toil, hardship, and danger. He does not venture out upon the seas, and only gets such fish as he can catch in rudely constructed traps, set along the shore, which only require attention an hour or so each day. Whales, sharks, and seals abound on the east coast. Multitudes of salmon, cod, haddock, herring, sardines, and innumerable other tribes, crowd the waters. Oysters of an excellent quality form a staple article of food.

The Japanese artificers drew their first knowledge and inspiration from Corea; but one will search in vain among the Corean handiwork of to-day for the slightest traces of the renowned craftsmen of ancient Corea. He will only find rude pottery and brass utensils without the least ornament. The present generation, no doubt, looks just like the ancient ones, for, clad in the same fashion, we see these tall white figures going down by the sea, or winding up the steep hills and mountains, by the same beaten footpaths that then, as now, are the highways to China and Russia.

There are no ruins of ancient cities, temples, or palaces—no enduring marks of the generations who have lived, labored, loved, and died here. Only the old graves that billow the hillsides tell the sad story. They are recorded most carefully, worshiped, and guarded as the precious treasures of the kingdom of Corea.—San Francisco Chronicle May 15.