Contributor
Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.
On May 15, 1891, Bishop Daniel A. Goodsell and his wife Sarah arrived in Seoul to visit the American Methodist community. Quite surprisingly, apart from their religious duties, very little is known about their monthlong stay in the city. The usual gossipers’ letters and journals are strangely silent — perhaps due to religious differences — and do not even record their visit.
In the early summer of 1897, a dog named Jack became a well-known figure in Nagasaki, described as “one of the most singular characters’ in the port. By lineage, Jack was a mongrel, the product of “indiscreet flirtations on the part of some gentle hearted Newfoundland” with a chow chow from Canton. For the most part, he was white, but he bore “a patch of brown over either ear, and another similar patch where his [kinky-curled] tail meets the rest of him.” According to the editor of an English-language newspaper in the port, Jack was “for all intents and purposes, a beach-comber, though a sober one.” He had “a marked predisposition” for following British marines and sailors while they were ashore on leave.
In the 19th century, the treaty ports in China, Japan and, to a lesser degree, Korea, were often plagued by beachcombers — usually destitute sailors who spent most of their time drunk, begging or committing petty theft to support their alcoholism. They were a scourge, barely tolerated until their predations upon the general public became too disruptive. At that point they were either jailed or driven out of town, often with the assistance (and funds) of foreign consuls.
In mid-February 1889, two Presbyterian missionaries — 31-year-old John W. Heron, who served as physician for the foreign community as well as the palace, and 28-year-old Daniel L. Gifford — decided to take a short excursion to the Han River to relax. Heron was especially in need of a respite; he spent long hours in the government hospital and was on constant call for medical concerns in the palace and, to make matters worse, his wife was confined to her bed.
Central Seoul’s busy Yongsan District, was one of the busiest ports on the Han River, back in the late 1880s when it was south of the capital. A large bluff dominated the scene, “mantled to the very top” with the village’s crude homes and the “red brick Catholic Seminary.” At the foot of the village lay the steamship landing, where one or two diminutive riverboats, their engines belching black smoke, plied their trade to and from the seaport of Jemulpo (modern-day Incheon). For much of the year, the port bustled with activity, ruled by farmers, merchants and sailors. However, in winter, when the river froze solid, the Korean fishing boats, ferries and transports were beached and the steamships stayed in Jemulpo seeking dubious sanctuary from the elements. That’s when the region became the domain of Korean fishermen and Western hunters.
In early 1882, an overheard conversation between two Korean students staying at a hotel in Tokyo was recorded in an English-language newspaper. One student, fluent in Japanese, told his companion that he intended to study English so that he could “learn the real value of Western civilization through the reading of English books.” His friend was horrified. He explained that while they were permitted “to learn Japanese, as the Japanese were less barbarous than Western nations,” it was imperative not to study Western languages for fear of becoming like them — barbarians.
While winter is often associated with cold blustery winds, traffic delays and treacherous ice, it is also one of the most breathtaking seasons — especially when the drabness of the urban landscape is covered under a pristine blanket of brilliant white snow. For many, the snow awakens the nostalgia of our childhood — the urge to build snowmen, make snow angels and have snowball fights with our friends and family. For the more adventurous, the snow-covered mountain slopes beckon, ready to be conquered by sleds, snowboards and skis.
In the past, more so than today, small hometown newspapers were often filled with gossip, the more scandalous the better, alongside unsubstantiated accusations. Depending upon public interest, these tantalizing tidbits often graced the pages for an issue or two before they faded away into obscurity, leaving the issues unresolved.
When Count Peter Vay, a Hungarian diplomat and writer, visited Seoul in late November 1902, he was somewhat amused by the almost endless quarrels and scuffles around him. Some involved merchants and coolies locked in heated disputes — perhaps over prices or the jostling of the crowd — while nearby, two young boys tussled next to a police sentry box. When the smaller boy began to cry, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, the sentry remained unmoved. According to the count, the sentry’s expression seemed “rather to approve than condemn.”
Old letters are treasured windows into the past. They lack the brutal honesty and starkness of diary entries, instead offering a sanitized portrayal of daily life, written to entertain and inform friends and family. Fred Dustin’s letters from Jeju Island, penned some 50 years ago, are no exception.