Quaint Korea

In Short

This volume is an impressionistic travelogue and cultural study of 1890s Korea, written by an observant outsider during the turbulent lead-up to the Sino-Japanese War. It serves as both a descriptive memoir and a sociopolitical commentary on a country struggling to maintain its isolation amidst the encroaching pressures of Western and regional powers. By blending personal anecdote with broader historical context, the work provides a vivid, if dated, snapshot of a society—its art, architecture, gender roles, and royal court—that the author fears is being irreparably dismantled by the forces of modernization.

The Story

The narrative begins on the prow of a Chinese junk, setting a tone of intimacy and slightly awkward cross-cultural interaction. The author, an experienced traveler, rejects the "guide-book" style of tourism, favoring a method of immersive, on-the-spot observation. She posits that one cannot truly understand a nation’s history without first connecting with the living, breathing people. From this vantage point, she unfolds the portrait of Korea as a "widow" of the old world, a place of extraordinary natural beauty—where snows do not melt and cherry blossoms bloom in abundance—that is currently being "ripped" from its peaceful seclusion by the cold, clear light of Westernized progress.

The story progresses through a series of thematic inquiries. The author examines the Korean monarchy, painting the King as a man unfairly maligned for his devotion to his wife, and detailing the court’s intricate, symbolic dress and rigid hierarchy. She turns a critical eye toward the social structures, particularly the lives of women, challenging the Western assumption that they are "uneducated" or lacking in agency. She describes their domestic industry, their culinary skill, and their social standing, while also addressing the difficult reality of the ki-saing (geisha) class. She weaves in the significance of architecture, noting the grotesque, protective roof-effigies meant to ward off evil spirits, and the ingenious, underground khan heating systems.

As the narrative deepens, the focus shifts to the broader regional instability. The author explores the historical roots of the peninsula’s conflicts, touching upon the influence of China and the rise of Japan. She discusses the decline of Buddhism within the city walls following Japanese invasions, which she argues rendered the country’s architecture more monotonous. The culmination of the account is a sobering reflection on the ongoing war. She characterizes Japan as a nation "a-tremble" with the arrogance of new, borrowed military power, and laments that Korea, while caught in the crossfire of international disputes, remains "half asleep amid her lotus-flowers." The book concludes not with a resolution for the nation, but with a lingering, melancholic image of a country forced to abandon its hermit existence for the tumultuous glare of a modern, indifferent world.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The author introduces her travel companions—a silent mandarin and an irritable husband—as they sail from Shanghai toward the Korean coast. She establishes her philosophy of travel, arguing that personal immersion is the only valid way to learn the truth about a foreign people.

A portrait of the landscape She describes the seasons of the peninsula, highlighting the matchless beauty of its autumn and the sensory details of its floral cycles. She notes the starkness of the winters, where the nation survives in a state of quiet, domestic huddling.

The court and its ruler The author provides an intimate look at the King and Queen of Korea, defending their personal bond against political detractors. She details the symbolic importance of court attire, particularly the "ears" on official hats, which denote the wearer’s receptivity to the monarch’s commands.

Domestic and social structures The narrative dives into the complex customs of marriage, the betrothal of children, and the social status of widows. The author offers a spirited defense of Korean women, comparing their domestic expertise favorably against the standards of European urban centers.

The role of the geisha She addresses the social function of the ki-saing, viewing them as essential figures of companionship in a society defined by the rigid seclusion of "gentlewomen." She insists on viewing these women without Western prudery, framing them as a necessary part of the social fabric.

Regional conflict and decline The author recounts the historical interplay between Korea, China, and Japan, detailing how past wars influenced the nation’s religious and architectural decline. She concludes with a sharp analysis of the current conflict, expressing deep skepticism regarding Japan’s rapid "Europeanization" and the inevitable, painful cost to the Korean people.

The People

The central figures are not merely individuals, but archetypes of a society in transition. Li-Hsi, the King of Korea, is portrayed with sympathy; he is a man of simple, perhaps "contemptible" habits in the eyes of his critics, but a sovereign who represents a fading, absolute authority. He wants only to maintain his reign and his devotion to his wife, yet he is increasingly thwarted by the "rough hands" of foreign invaders. The Queen serves as his primary influence, a figure of strength who is frequently criticized by the outside world but whom the author views as the victim of unfair double standards. The geisha (or ki-saing) are the third pillar, the "accomplished persons" who navigate a world that denies them traditional family roles, yet they remain the most socially accessible and intellectually engaging women in the public sphere. They stand in contrast to the "purdah-women," the secluded noblewomen who are kept hidden, their lives defined by the palanquin and the curtain. Finally, the Japanese and Chinese soldiers/officials represent the external forces of history—the former, in the author’s estimation, "trembling" with newfound hubris, and the latter, struggling with the "scourge" of poverty and the slow, inevitable decline of a long-standing empire.

In Its Own Voice

The author describes the inevitable end of Korea’s isolation as a profound, if tragic, transformation:

The land of the morning calm! Poor little peninsula (only twice and a half the size of Scotland), the soft, rosy Oriental haze is going to be ripped off of you, and in the cold, clear, brilliant light of Westernized day you are going to fade away into nothing!

She offers a pragmatic, unsentimental observation on the domestic lives of those who survive in the most crowded, impoverished conditions:

For one thing the canals and rivers are too crowded. There is no room for them to swim in. For another thing they have no time to learn how to swim.

What It's Really About

The book is fundamentally an inquiry into the "right" to exist as a nation in a modernizing world. It asks whether a country’s unique cultural integrity—its art, its "irreligion," and its social customs—can survive the aggressive, industrialized machinery of international geopolitics. The author argues that Korea’s "quaintness" is not a sign of inferiority, but a testament to a different, perhaps more sensible, philosophy of life. She challenges the reader to look past the "dirt" and "poverty" that Western observers often cite as proof of backwardness, urging instead an appreciation for the intricate, human systems that allow society to function. Ultimately, it is a mournful argument for the preservation of cultural diversity in an age that prizes uniformity and conquest.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the classic, slightly eccentric travel writing of the late 19th century—where the author’s personality is as much a part of the journey as the landscape—will find much to appreciate here. It is a deeply atmospheric read, rich with descriptions of "snow-covered" plum blossoms and the "weird" silhouettes of temple roof-effigies. However, it is important to approach the text with an understanding of its period. The author’s attitudes are firmly rooted in the 1890s; she displays the era’s characteristic mix of sympathy for the "underdog" and a lingering, sometimes contradictory, sense of Western superiority. She is frank about the "stench" and "din" of poverty and does not shy away from the darker realities of the region.

Today, the value of the book lies in its preservation of a perspective that was about to be silenced by the very war it predicts. It is a slow, thoughtful engagement with a world that no longer exists in the way the author describes. If you can move past the archaic, sometimes dense prose and the occasional sharp, opinionated jab at other contemporary travelers, you will find a book that feels like a conversation with a sharp-witted, slightly cynical, but deeply observant friend. It remains a poignant reminder of how fragile a nation’s "calm" can be when caught in the gears of global history.