Part 3

Remember at just what point in the history of the nation this effort to restore Buddhism took place. Japan’s war against China was declared in 1894; it ended in 1895, with the treaty of Shimonoseki; it was one of the most important wars of recent times; it was fought over Korea—in order to see whether Korea owed allegiance to China or was an independent nation. From 1895 on, Korea was a hot-bed of world intrigue. China, Russia, Japan, all were struggling on the peninsula for a continued foothold. Each was trying to gain advantage. From this condition, in 1904 came the great war between Japan and Russia, which was ended by the treaty of Portsmouth. It too, was a war on account of Korea. It decided the question as to whether Russian, or Chinese, or Japanese influence should preponderate. The year 1902 came right between those two great wars, which were fought on account of Korea. In 1902 the man who had been King—the last real representative of the Yi Dynasty had become Emperor. One of the results of the war of 1894 was to make Korea an empire, and her king an emperor. The effort to re-establish and revive Buddhism was made then during this period of the empire.

The passage quoted from Hulbert was printed in 1905. It referred to an attempt made in 1902, which he says failed, since Buddhism was dead. To-day is 1918. I have been visiting Korea since 1911 and have seen what seems to be definite growth and revival of the old religion. Buddhism appears to-day to be very far from dead in Korea. It shows signs of active life and there may be prospects of its future growth and large development.

The monasteries of Korea are under control of thirty head monasteries.[5] Some of these have only two or three unimportant subordinate monasteries, but others are the heads of really great groups. For instance, Yuchom-sa, in the heart of the Diamond Mountains, is the head of forty monasteries in that remarkable mass of peaks (Plates III, XVII); Pongeum-sa, which is near Seoul, is said to be the head of eighty-six monasteries. These head monasteries in 1902 had become greatly reduced in property, membership, influence and splendor. They were estranged from each other. There was no feeling of unity among them. Each monastery was a thing by itself and decay and corruption were everywhere evident.

But about six years ago the priests of these thirty head monasteries came together; they held a great meeting and discussed their common interests; they decided that union was necessary and a forward movement, a thing such as was tried in 1902 and which failed then. It was tried again and has not failed. They elected a president of their commission, with a term of office of one year. His whole time is devoted to the interests of united Korean Buddhism for that year. (Plate I.) They bought property in the city of Seoul and erected a central building, partly temple and partly office building. The expenses of this head office are borne by the thirty temples in proportion to their importance and wealth. The monasteries are graded into five groups and each contributes annually a set sum for the advancement of Buddhism in the peninsula.

While in Seoul last year, I visited a theological seminary of Buddhism. It has a good location in a desirable part of the city; it occupies a fine old Korean building; it has a corps of teachers of some ability; I found sixty-five students in attendance. The institution had been running for about three years. Most of the students were already connected with some of the mountain monasteries; they had come in for information, for improvement, for further study; they were looking forward to return to their temples with new strength and vigor for their work. The young men with whom I talked seemed to be earnestly interested and anxious for improvement. A definite course of three years instruction is offered to them. The number of students has grown steadily and no doubt the time will come when there will be hundreds of students in this institution.

There is to-day a magazine conducted in the interests of Korean Buddhism. It has been published for something like six years. The history of the editor, Yi Nung Hwa, is rather interesting.[6] His father is a pillar of the Presbyterian Church in Seoul, one of the most successful of the mission churches. The young man himself was educated in Catholic schools in Seoul; his education came from foreigners, and he is now official interpreter for the Belgian Consul; but he finds his pleasure and outside interest in this magazine for the advancement of Korean Buddhism. Son of a Presbyterian Elder, trained in Catholic schools, speaking French, Korean, Chinese and Japanese, professionally engaged in service at a foreign consulate, he is the editor of a magazine for Buddhist propaganda!

Mr. Yi is also the author of a history of Korean Buddhism, which had not yet been printed when I saw him. It is, I think, the only history that has been written covering the entire field of Korean Buddhism. Everything that is printed in Korea must pass under the eye of the Japanese government, and can be printed only with its permission. It makes no difference whether the material is secular or religious, social, economic, literary or political. At the time when we were speaking about his book it had been sent in to the government for examination. It is to be hoped that it was approved and that permission was given for its publication. A book of that kind would have importance and no such book exists, in any modern form certainly, for popular reading.

One of the most interesting things in connection with this modern movement of Korean Buddhism, and one which seems to show that it has real vitality, is the fact that Buddhist books for common reading are being printed. Most Korean books are printed in Chinese characters and are thus sealed to the common people; they can be read only by scholars or people of considerable education. Yet Korea is said to have invented one of the most perfect systems of writing that the world has seen. It is known as the _on-mun_ and is competent to write the language perfectly and easily. But scholars in Korea have never used the _on-mun_; it has been considered suitable only for the ignorant, for women and children. If a book is to reach the common people, however, and be widely read, it should be printed in _on-mun_. The books issued by the foreign missionaries in their propaganda have been printed in _on-mun_, or in a mixed script of Chinese character and _on-mun_. The fact that several Buddhist books have recently appeared printed in _on-mun_ shows that Korean Buddhism is reaching out after the common people.

Two of these books deserve special mention. One is called the “Eight Scenes from the Life of Buddha.” It follows quite closely the story of Buddha’s life as told in other countries. The book is widely offered at book stores and street stalls and is said to have considerable sale. More interesting than it, however, is the allegory called _Sei-yeu-ki_. You remember that in the seventh century a Chinese pilgrim, Hiouen Tsiang, went on foot from China to India, and that he came back loaded with books and images for use in religious worship. That pilgrim was really a historic character, and he wrote an account of his journey, a simple and charming diary of travel. His book was called _Sei-yeu-ki_, which in its English translation appears under the title of “A Report of Buddhist Kingdoms.” In it he described the countries through which he had passed, the monasteries and temples which he had seen, and the adventures he had undergone. Now in the thirteenth century a Chinese monk wrote a book with almost the same name. As pronounced there is scarcely any difference; when the names are written they are easily distinguished. The writer intended to imitate the name of the diary of the old pilgrim. In his story, he says that a certain man named Hiouen-Tsiang—he uses the actual name of the old pilgrim—goes on a journey to the West for books, idols and information, just as the real pilgrim did; but instead of telling a true and simple story this man writes an allegory something of the nature of “Pilgrim’s Progress.” It is full of astonishing adventures. It seems that the Emperor of China died and came to life again. He determined to send Hiouen-Tsiang, “the Master,” to the West for books, idols and pictures. The Master started upon his errand and as he travelled picked up a strange group of comrades. The Emperor had given him a white horse, and of course he had to have a boy to take care of it; in addition he had for companions and helpers a monkey and a pig. The master and his three human companions were gone, like the real pilgrim, about fifteen years; they travelled, of course, through the same countries, but had startling adventures. The master was very pious, but unpractical; in fact he was a weak subject for the hero of a story. But the monkey was fine, and when they got into trouble it was always the monkey who rescued them. When the master, through his lack of knowledge, and practical experience, was caught by the most palpable traps and tricks only the monkey could rescue him. Yet they all abused the poor creature. All were jealous of him and on the slightest occasion pig or boy or horse urged the master to make the magic hat equipped with thorns and pins squeeze and hurt the monkey’s head in order “that he shall not become proud.” It is really an interesting and beautiful allegory. It has recently been translated into English by a missionary in China and anyone who wishes may read it. For hundreds of years it has been read in the original Chinese by Chinese, Koreans and Japanese. To-day Koreans may read it in their own language, printed in _on-mun_.

All these signs of life seem to show that Korean Buddhism is far from dead. It is coming forth from its mountain exile and bids fair to make itself felt in the future.

Let us examine for a moment the organization of an ordinary monastery. The monasteries are scattered through the mountains. Many of them are in remote places and it is difficult to reach them. Some are so far back that it would be impossible for them to go farther. I have no fears that ordinary tourists will spoil my delight in Pawpchu-sa, or Hain-sa, or Yu-chom-sa. If one desires to see them he must pay the price. Take Pawpchu-sa for instance. To see it we dismounted from the railroad train and took a Ford car across country ten miles to a little district capital; the next day, by government automobile, we went out over a road which had just been put in good order—there was only one break in it that was serious; for forty miles we travelled over this mountain road, deeper and deeper among the hills, up and up into the narrowing valley, until with mountains on all sides of us we reached the village of Poun. There we abandoned the automobile. The party went by horses, but a chair had been provided for my benefit. I hate chairs, and would have much preferred a horse, though Korean horses are little creatures and disagreeable. Their gait is as bad as anything one can imagine; there is nothing like a saddle, but only a broad cushion, without stirrups, and the traveller’s legs hang down over the front of the cushion, one foot on each side of the horse’s neck and the rider has no control whatever over the horse; nor has anyone else, although the _mapu_, or “boy,” runs along beside and hangs on to the halter or strikes the beast with stick or whip. I hate a Korean horse, but I hate a chair worse. However, we started, the rest on horses. When we had gone about half a mile the chair carriers, though professionals, declared they could go no farther; this, of course, was a mere question of weight; it was, however, a great relief to me. Promptly an exchange was made with my little Japanese photographer and interpreter, who took the chair, while I mounted his horse—the smallest and weakest of the outfit. We travelled on and on for miles; we passed one ridge behind another and another and another, until at last we reached Pawpchu-sa. Anyone who really journeys to Pawpchu-sa has my regard and blessing.

The trip to Hain-sa, where the woodblocks are preserved, is a trying one. We went by _basha_. Japanese _bashas_ are bad; the Japanese themselves think them far superior to Korean, but I prefer the latter. A _basha_ is made for six passengers, but usually carries eight. The Japanese _basha_ has two benches running lengthwise at the sides; three persons fill a bench, four overfill one. The driver sits in front and a single horse moves the conveyance. Such is the Japanese _basha_. The Korean vehicle has no benches at the sides like the Japanese affair; the passengers sit upon the floor with thin, rush mats under them, probably to keep the floor of the vehicle clean; there are no springs and the roads are rough. After travelling sitting on the springless floor for thirty-two miles, we abandoned the _basha_, as there was no longer a cart-road, and rode about seventeen miles on horses; it was like travelling over Mexican trails. Thus we reached Hain-sa. I do not begrudge a visit to Hain-sa to any person; those who make the journey deserve to be treated as friends and brothers.

Each monastery has its official corps. First comes the head priest. He has a hard time of it. He has to deal with the outside world and to oversee everything; he is business manager; he has little to do with spiritual direction, but has to settle all the quarrels and deal with all the problems that present themselves to the monastery; he gets all the hard work and shoulders all the blame. He receives, however, some extra rice and is entitled to an extraordinary exhibition of respect. He has a councillor to help him in problems of a serious nature. Next comes the religious head, who leads the services and sees that they are properly observed. The first religious service of the day comes at three o’clock A.M. At that hour the visitor hears the bells and gongs and the droning of songs and prayers. The people of the monastery all turn out to early service. There may be other services throughout the day; there are also times of meditation, and in special halls, where no disturbance is permitted, persons spend hours or entire days in silence and pious thought. There is always a steward whose business it is to attend to the food supply of the entire monastery. In a monastery of a hundred and fifty or two hundred persons in a remote mountain district, the steward’s work is important and exacting. At every monastery there are, of course, one or two cooks, whose business it is to prepare the food. There is regularly also, a group of little fellows, boys from ten to fifteen years of age, whose business it is to help these others on every occasion when help is needed. These boys have little in the way of religious duties, but sweeping and cleaning, errands, burden carrying and hard work in general falls on them. (Plate XI.)

The balance of the population in a monastery is devoted to religious living. These include three different kinds of persons—priests, acolytes and orphans. The monasteries have always been orphan asylums. When a child in the country around is left without parents or other proper guardians he is usually sent to the mountain monastery; unless the unexpected happens he will grow up in the way of religion and become a priest or monk when the time arrives.

Many young men come in from the outside world for purposes of instruction. They look forward to becoming monks, but during their period of study they let their hair grow long, dress as outsiders and are regarded as still belonging to the world. Most of them, however, carry out their intention and remain permanently in the monastery. Thirdly, there are the regular monks and priests. They are dressed, of course, in characteristic style, and their heads are shaved. They live on vegetarian food and are vowed to celibacy. At some of the more important monasteries there is a resident teacher, but most of them depend upon a teacher sent from the head temple. The greeting given him when he arrives is beautiful to see. All know when he is expected, and at the hour they go in procession, dressed in their best robes, out to the farthest gate to meet him. When he arrives all but the head priest prostrate themselves so that they actually grovel in the dust. Then, accompanying him, with the head priest walking before, the whole company goes back to the monastery and the teaching almost immediately begins. He barely takes a little refreshment and rests a bit before he undertakes his duties. During the period of his stay the teaching continues throughout the day. One class or group comes in after another; the teaching is sometimes from books, sometimes from the teacher’s own experience and knowledge.

Are the monasteries really places of great learning; are they centers of deep piety? It is hard to tell and much depends on one’s definition.

We must remember that there are two vastly different kinds of Buddhism. They are almost opposite; the one is certainly the negation of the other. The first is the Buddhism which the actual Buddha taught. You remember that he was an historic character, who lived at about five hundred years before Christ. An Indian prince, he is known under various names as Sakyamuni, Siddartha and Gautama. He pondered much over the problems of life and devoted himself to the solution of mysteries; he tried asceticism and listened to one teacher after another; he wandered, meditated, fasted; he finally reached enlightenment. He decided that life was an illusion and a snare which one would gladly be rid of; he discovered that the chain that bound one to this existence could be broken. Release comes from careful conduct; it comes through right living, and right thinking; it comes in course of time, after many many existences; through right living in one life man gathers _karma_ which carries him to higher and higher stages until at last he becomes a great scholar; finally he becomes a Bodhisattva, which is but one step from Buddha-hood; and finally, from a Bodhisattva, through enlightenment, he becomes a true Buddha and when his earthly life ends, passes out into oblivion, blissful, calm nothingness.

Buddha was one of the greatest of world teachers. His teaching was simple; we may work out release gradually from the thraldom into which we are born; through careful thought and right living we may pass from stage to stage until at last we merge into infinity and lose our individuality.

Buddha taught that we end in _Nirvana_; his doctrine was a revolt against the idea of an individual soul that lives forever; in his religion there were no figures, no idols, nothing for worship. Buddhism proper taught nothing about gods. It simply taught men to strive for enlightenment, to become Buddhas and to pass out into _Nirvana_.

But this is not the Buddhism of China, Korea or Japan. The Buddhism of these three countries recognizes an individual soul that continues. It has scores of gods and represents them by images or idols; the man who lives to-day does not try to work out salvation for himself through stage after stage of higher living. On the contrary he seeks salvation through another and that other is Amida Buddha. The Koreans call him Amida Pul. You may see them any day standing outside the temples repeating over and over again the formula, “Namu Amida Pul, Namu Amida Pul, Namu Amida Pul.” They are thereby gaining salvation; through faith in Amida they will reach the Western Paradise. There was no Western Paradise in Buddha’s teaching; there was no continued existence of the human soul; there was no one through whom men might be saved; one must work out his own salvation. But in this second Buddhism, any person in a single moment may gain salvation. It makes no difference whether a man has led a good or evil life, death-bed repentance may save him. A man does nothing for himself; faith only through the merit of another wins salvation—it sounds like good Presbyterian doctrine.

It is evident that these two forms of Buddhism could not diverge more widely than they do. The early Buddhism taught by Sakyamuni is called _Hinayana_ or the “Little Vehicle.” The other form is known as _Mahayana_ the “Great Vehicle.” Korean Buddhism is and for the most part always has been _Mahayana_, yet in the Buddhist temples of the Korean monasteries one finds many a figure of Sakyamuni and the worshippers seem totally unconscious of their inconsistency and of the fact that their worship of Sakya is a contradiction in terms.

This leads us to inquire regarding sects. Japanese Buddhism is divided into many. Thus we may speak of Shingon, Jodo, Zen, or Nichiren Buddhism there. Each of these names stands for a definite system of doctrinal belief. Every student of Buddhism in Japan knows the fundamental differences upon which the dozen or more Japanese Buddhist sects are based. Knowing something of these divisions in Japan it was natural to ask on coming into contact with Korean Buddhism what sects they have. The answer was always immediate and glibly given. “We have two sects—_Syen_ and _Kyo_.”

This was said everywhere, but I cannot see that there is anything in Korean Buddhism like the sects of Japan. In Shingon there is a whole series of doctrines and beliefs and practices; so in Zen, so in every other sect. Every person belonging to a given sect holds those dogmas and practises those ceremonials characteristic of his sect. No man is at once Shingon and Zen. But in a Korean monastery we find Syen people meditating and Kyo people reading and to-morrow the situation will be reversed, and it seems as if the terms apply merely to two modes of discipline, not to actually different sects. At all events in the same monastery we regularly find Syen and Kyo.

The texts of Mahayana Buddhism were originally in Sanskrit. They have been translated into Chinese and it is in their Chinese form that they are generally studied in China, Korea and Japan.[7] In Korean monasteries we not infrequently find books that are printed, at least in part, in Sanskrit characters. Do the Korean monks know the Sanskrit language? Far from it. I doubt whether there are a half-dozen priests in all Korea who know anything whatever of the language.