Cheating to Succeed

A group of Korean students gather around their teacher in the late 19th century. Robert Neff Collection

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.

The first student, the “enlightened” one, laughed at this foolish notion and insisted he would study English regardless. His laughter faded quickly when his friend threatened to kill himself. For Korea, he explained, was “a divine country” and life was not worth living if his closest friend became a barbarian.

By the mid-1880s in Korea, English was no longer considered foreign and barbaric but was seen as a tool for advancement in government service and employment. In 1886, three Americans — Dalzell Bunker, George Gilmore and Homer Hulbert — were employed by the Korean government as teachers at the Royal College — where young Korean nobles were taught on “the American plan.”

In the fall of 1888, Frank Carpenter, an American journalist, visited the college and was greatly impressed. He observed 40 “bright young men” sitting at desks similar to those used in American colleges, using English-language textbooks while Bunker lectured them in English. Despite their teacher speaking very quickly, the students seemed to fully understand. By invitation, Carpenter gave a short speech and was delighted when the students responded to him in English.

According to Bunker, many of the “pupils [were] of the royal family and that all [were] the sons of nobles.” Upon graduation, the best of the students would serve the king in the diplomatic service.

Nearly four decades later, Bunker recalled the school’s first examination held in the presence of the Korean monarch. The king sat on his throne while he was flanked on one side by the president and vice president of the Royal College and on the other, the three American teachers.

One by one, each student was summoned to the room “and bending low came before his King, where he knelt touching his forehead to the floor.” An official would draw a piece of paper from a nearby box with a page number written upon it. The textbook was then opened to the corresponding page, and the student would read the passage aloud. The king would then look to the English teachers, who would give their appraisal of the student’s ability by holding one to three fingers — one being the best.

The Americans, fully aware of their students’ abilities, were astounded by how well their students performed before the king — particularly “by some of the scholars who had done little hard study in the classroom.”

It soon became apparent that “the scholars and some of the higher-ups had arranged that each pupil should be given a certain page irrespective of the number drawn from the box — a trick not unknown to the West.”

The teachers kept the knowledge to themselves — feeling “it wise for various reasons” not to inform the monarch of the deception. However, King Gojong was oblivious to what was going on.

When the queen’s cousin, “a somewhat pampered son of luxury [who] staked his standing more on station than on study,” finished his examination, the king turned to the teachers and “with the hint of a twinkle in his eye” held three fingers up. The three Americans, in turn, likewise held up three fingers. The king roared with laughter, as did the officials. Everyone in the room, especially the noble student, knew what had just transpired — the king was fully aware of the deception.

But English tests were not the only thing presided over by the king — so too was the national civil examination, “gwageo.” According to Bunker: “Every examination was long and widely advertised and the number of entrants was numbered by the grade of the examination. The occasions were rare, and the literary aspirants of the country at large made much of them.”

Bunker was one of the few Westerners to witness the final gwageo, held on May 25, 1894, in a large open field at Gyeongbok Palace. In his lengthy “Reminiscences,” written four decades later, he provided a vivid and amusing account of the event:

“The scene inside the enclosure was a busy one. Ten thousand entrants for honors were said to be in attendance. Many of these were seated under huge tent umbrellas and their time seemed to be well taken up, what with smoking, chatting with friends, rubbing up ink on ink stones and writing. Many had servants who kept the ink supplied and attended to sundry other duties. The examination papers were of standard size and grade, government make. These were separately rolled and huge loads of them were brought into the grounds on coolies’ backs and sold as opportunity offered.”

There were rumors that exam papers, “finely written and ready to be handed in,” could be purchased for a price — no matter how exorbitant. The test meant everything. “A certificate showing that a state examination had been passed meant possible distinction, while the absence of such a certificate meant positive extinction.”

As the sun began to set, the examination concluded, and the king took his seat on a carpeted, raised platform shielded by a canopy. A rope barrier was stretched a short distance in front of the platform, forming an open space where the candidates would throw their scrolled answer sheets.

When the signal was given, thousands rushed to the line and hurled their scrolls towards the king. Many young candidates jostled with one another for the most advantageous positions, believing that the closer their scroll landed to the king, the greater their chance for success. It was a “veritable storm of cylindrical snow shafts,” declared Bunker, who added, “the air was white with them.”

Near Bunker stood an elderly man — nearly 70 years old — clutching his scroll and waiting for the right moment to throw it toward the coveted spot near the king. Noticing the man’s feebleness and his inability to compete physically with the younger candidates, Bunker offered to throw it on his behalf. The elderly man readily agreed. Bunker threw the scroll, and to the senior candidate’s amazement, it landed closest to the king. Overwhelmed with gratitude, the old man explained that for over 30 years, he had tried to “obtain recognition of his literary ability from his gracious King” but had always failed. Now, thanks to Bunker’s powerful throw, he was convinced this year would be different.

Bunker later recalled that as the hour grew late, “we parted — he his way, sanguine; I mine, carrying doubts as to the King’s ability to examine all those 9,000 scrolls and declare the successful competitors in time for publication in the next morning’s ‘Palace Gazette.’”

Hopefully the elderly man’s name was on the list.

I wish to express my appreciation to Diane Nars for her invaluable assistance.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.