Corea received her culture from China, and gave it freely to Japan. If we may believe the doubtful story of Ki Tsze, then the Coreans have possessed letters and writing, or, what is the equivalent thereto, they have had “civilization,” during three thousand years. It is certain that since about the opening of the Christian era, the light of China’s philosophy has shone steadily among Corean scholars. Japanese early tradition—unworthy of credence in the matter of chronology—claims that literature was brought to Nippon as early as the period 157–30 B.C. The legend of Jingu bringing back books and manuscripts from Shinra is more probable; while the coming of Wani from Hiaksai, to teach the Chinese characters and expound the classics, is a historic fact, though the real date may be uncertain, or later than the accepted one, which is 285 A.D. While the Kokorai people may have brought letters with them, as they migrated southward, in Hiaksai the Confucian analects were not studied until the fourth century, when official recognition of education was made by the appointment of Hanken as master of Chinese literature. This is said to have been the first importation of learning into the peninsula. It was so in the sense of being formally introduced from China into the country south of the Ta-tong River.

As in most of the Asiatic countries, into which Chinese culture penetrated, popular education was for centuries a thing unthought of. Learning was the privilege of a few courtiers, who jealously guarded it from the vulgar, as an accomplishment for those about the royal person, or in the noble families. The classics and ethical doctrines seem in every case to have penetrated the nations surrounding the Middle Kingdom, and formed the basis of courtly and aristocratic education.

Buddhism furnished the popular or democratic element, which brought learning to the lower strata of society. Neophytes were [338]usually taken from the humbler classes, and thus culture was diffused. Even the idols, pictures, and scrolls, with the explanations and preaching in the vernacular, served to instruct the people and lift their thoughts out of the rut of every-day life—a result which is in itself true education. Wherever Buddhism penetrated, there was more or less literature published in the speech of the unlearned, and often the first books for the people were works on religion. China gave her language and ideographs; India sent Sanskrit and phonetic letters, from which syllabaries or alphabets were constructed, not only for vernacular writing and printing, but as aids to the easier apprehension and more popular understanding of the tenets of Confucius.

The Corean syllabary seems to have been first invented by Chul-chong, one of the ministers at the court of the king of Shinra, in the seventh century. This was the Nido; like the kana of the Japanese, purely a collection of syllables and not a true alphabet. The Nido was made by giving to some of the commoner Chinese characters a phonetic value, though the idea of having a vernacular system of writing was most probably suggested by the Sanskrit letters,1 some of which accurately represented Corean sounds. The true alphabet of the Coreans, called Unmun (common language), was invented by a Buddhist priest named Syel-chong, or Sye′-chong, who is regarded as one of the ablest scholars in the literary annals of Corea. The “Grammaire Coréenne” states that this took place under the dynasty of Wang, at Sunto, “toward the end of the eighth or ninth century of the Christian era.” This is a palpable mistake, as the dynasty of Wang was not established at Sunto until the tenth century. Mr. Aston, whose researches are based on the statements of Corean and Japanese writers, believes that the Unmun, or true Corean alphabet, “was invented not earlier than the first half of the fifteenth century.” Yet, in spite of their national system of writing, the influence of the finished philosophy and culture of China, both in form and spirit, has been so great that the hopelessness of producing a copy equal to the original became at once apparent to the Corean mind. Stimulating to the receptive [339]intellect, it has been paralyzing to all originality. The culture of their native tongue has been neglected by Corean scholars. The consequence is, that after so many centuries of national life, Chō-sen possesses no literature worthy of the name. Only in rare cases are native books translated into either Chinese or Japanese.

At present, Corean literary men possess a highly critical knowledge of Chinese. Most intelligent scholars read the classics with ease and fluency. Penmanship is an art as much prized and as widely practised as in Japan, and reading and writing constitute education. From the fifth to the seventeenth century the Corean youth of gentle blood went to Nanking to receive or complete their education. Since Peking has been the Chinese capital (under the Mongols from 1279, and under the Ming emperors from 1410) few young men have gone abroad to study until within the last year, when numbers of Corean lads have entered the naval, military, and literary schools of the imperial government.

The practical democratic element pervading China was long absent from the nations which were her pupils and vassals. Of all these borrowers, Corea has most closely imitated her teacher. She fosters education by making scholastic ability, as tested in the literary examination, the basis of appointment to office. This “Civil Service Reform” was established in Chō-sen by the now ruling dynasty early in the fifteenth century. Education in Corea is public, and encouraged by the government only in this sense, that it is made the road to government employ and official promotion. By instituting literary examinations for the civil and military service, and nominally opening them to all competitors, and filling all vacancies with the successful candidates, there is created and maintained a constant stimulus to culture.

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.

The special schools of languages, mathematics, medicine, art, etc., are under the patronage of the government. The teachers and students in these branches of knowledge form a special class midway between the nobles and people, having some of the privileges of the former. They may also attend the examinations, gain diplomas, and fill offices. Their professions are usually hereditary, and they marry only among themselves. In most respects, these bodies of learned men resemble the old guilds of scholars in Yedo, and the privileged classes, like physicians, astronomers, botanists, etc., in Japan.

There are eight distinct departments of special knowledge. The Corps of Interpreters include students and masters of the Chinese, Manchiu, Mongol, and Japanese languages. These attend the embassy to Peking, have posts on the frontier, or live near Fusan. The treaties recently made with the United States and European powers will necessitate the establishment of schools of foreign languages, as in Tōkiō and Peking.

The School of Astronomy, geoscopy, and the choice of fortunate days for state occasions is for the special service of the king. Corea, like China, has not yet separated astrology from astronomy, but still keeps up official consultation with the heavenly bodies for luck’s sake. The School of Medicine trains physicians for the royal, [344]and for the public, service. The School of Charts or documents has charge of the archives and the preparation of the official reports sent to Peking. In the School of Design, the maps, sketches, plans and graphic work required by the government are made, and the portraits of the king are painted. The School of Law is closely connected with the Ministry of Justice, and serves for the instruction of judges, and as a court of appeals. The School of Mathematics or Accounts assists the Treasury Department, audits accounts, appraises values, and its members are often charged with the task of overseeing public works. The School of Horology at Seoul keeps the standard time and looks after the water-clock. Beside these eight services, there is the band of palace musicians.

It is evident from all the information gathered from sources within and without the hermit nation, that though there is culture of a certain sort among the upper classes, there is little popular education worthy of a name. The present condition of Chō-sen is that of Europe in the Middle Ages. The Confucian temples and halls of scholars, the memorial stones and walls inscribed with historical tablets and moral maxims, the lectures and discussions of literary coteries, and the poetry parties concentrate learning rather than diffuse it. The nobles and wealthy scholars, the few monasteries and the government offices possess libraries, but these are but dead Chinese to the common people. Nothing like the number of book stores, circulating libraries, private schools, or ordinary means of diffusing intelligence, common in China and Japan, exists in Corea. Science and the press, newspapers and hospitals, clocks and petroleum, and, more than all, churches and school-houses, have yet a mighty work to do in the Land of Morning Calm.

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Paganism and superstition, Confucianism and Buddhism, having taken root in Chō-sen, each with its educational influence, Christianity entered within the last century to plant an acorn within the narrow bottle of the Corean intellect. It is needless to say that the receptacle was shattered by the spreading of the oak. The Corean body-politic, confronted by this rooted and growing influence, must be transformed. How the seed was dropped, how the tiny stem grew, how the trunk received into its bosom the lightning bolts of persecution, how the boughs were riven, and how life yet remains, will now be narrated. [345]