Chapter II: Part 2

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

At every temple one may secure _tarani_. A _tarani_ is a sheet of paper with something printed on it in red from a wood-block. The wood-blocks at the different temples vary and while most of the characters in the printing are Chinese, there is a sprinkling of Sanskrit. A _tarani_ is a sort of passport to the Western Paradise and it is supplied for burial with the dead. When a man is burned or buried a _tarani_ is placed with his body. We secured them from almost every monastery visited. Perhaps no priest in Korea can read them. We saw, however, at one monastery, an old book concerning _tarani_, and it seems probable that these texts have been copied from such books. About sixty years ago there seems to have been a special fancy for cutting these wood-blocks for printing _tarani_ and most of those we saw date from that time.

Interesting are _sari_ monuments. As we neared Yuchom-sa we passed ten or twelve stone monuments with a square base, a swelling body and decorated tip. We were told that these were _sari_ stones and that in them a _sari_ or “jewel” was buried. These _sari_ are curious things. It is said that when the body of a monk of special piety is burned a little pebble will be found among the ashes. It is irregular in form, clearly shows fusion, and looks a little like a gem or crystal. It is believed that it has been formed from the elements of the dead body, and they say that only about one man out of four hundred gives rise to one of these _sari_.

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I had always had my doubts about them. One day at Songkwang-sa, where the monks are exceptionally depraved, a policeman was with us to see that nothing happened. Coming to some _sari_ stones we asked a monk about them. He told us the same story that we had heard before and we asked him if he really believed that it was true. He answered, “O yes, surely it is true.” The policeman, however, expressed vigorous doubt. The monk replied, “You don’t believe it, I will show you.” So we proceeded to tear a _sari_ monument to pieces! It seemed a shocking thing to do. We took off the top stone, and laid it by, and then turned the main stone upside down. At the center was a little cavity which was neatly covered with a thin sheet or disk of earthenware; removing this we found inside a hole filled with packing, in which was a small tin capsule bearing an inscription. This was said to be the name of the man who had honored the dead priest by erecting the monument to him. Opening the capsule it was found to contain some packing in the midst of which was the little gem—all that remained to represent the worthy dead man. We put it back with care, replaced the packing, closed the capsule, repacked it and reconstructed the monument as it had been originally. No doubt all these _sari_ stones really contain some such relic. That policeman had his doubts—I still have doubts as to just what _sari_ are, but it seems certain that all _sari_ stones really have _sari_ in them.

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There is no question that there is much ignorance and even vice among the monks. In this monastery where we examined the matter of _sari_ stones there were only five men, poor, ignorant fellows. We early noticed that the head priest there lacked a tooth, but only found after we had left the place that the most devout of the five monks had knocked it out the day before, having had a fight with his superior. The neighbors told us that that monastery was a place of constant disorder and bad conduct.

At one monastery we were even moved to give a lesson in behavior. Here we were accompanied by a Japanese policeman; he was with us to protect and give such aid as possible, but was absolutely of no use. The monks received us coldly, answered a few questions and then disappeared. Unaccustomed to such treatment, I complained to the policeman who replied, “This monastery has a very bad name in all this district; the monks are avaricious; they are thieves; they always treat visitors badly; they do nothing unless they are well paid. That is why I came with you.” I replied, “Why don’t you do something, then? Tell them to come out and do their duty.” He shook his head sadly and said, “You do not know the reputation of this temple hereabouts; it has a very bad name indeed.”

So turning to my interpreter I said, “We must deal with this problem right here.” Calling a priest I said to him, “I understand that in this monastery you have a bad name; there is no time to waste; we want no delays; call every monk and priest here at once.”

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He did so, and when they had come I placed them in a semicircle before me and spoke to them. “You are Buddhists; you bear the name of Buddha, a great teacher; he was kind and good and cared nothing for money; he desired to help people and make them better, and people who are Buddhists should be like him; I am told that you are avaricious and when visitors come here you treat them with unkindness and discourtesy unless they pay you well; I shall pay you nothing, but I want you to think of the disgrace you bring upon your name by such conduct; I am visiting the monasteries because I wish to see whether Buddhism is a living force in this land; I wish to see how you monks live and what your conduct is, and what the people say about you; go back to your rooms and think over what I have said; as I go from place to place, looking at things here, I expect to have them open, and I wish you to treat me as a brother and a friend; remember that others who may come after me deserve equally good treatment; it is a shame to bring disgrace upon a cause.”

Well, there was an instant conversion. Poor, ignorant fellows, living in their remote mountain monastery, how should they know better? They gave me honey water and popped rice; they showed me their buildings and their treasure; they begged that I would come again and some accompanied me, when I was leaving, down to the outer gate.

As for ignorance, it is probable that very few of them could pass examination on any kind of Buddhism, whether Hinayana or Mahayana. What more could be expected? Surely we can scarcely throw stones. What do most of us know about Christian doctrine? How wise religiously are the common people in our churches? In a recent newspaper it was stated that a man among us asked five professional men about the Holy Ghost. Do you suppose he got much in the way of a satisfactory answer? In reality he got nothing. All these educated men had other business than to know about the Holy Ghost. They were not well informed in regard to the religion in which they had been reared; and yet we expect Buddhists, who have been exiled in mountain monasteries for four hundred years to know so much!

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How is the population of the monasteries maintained? Whence do new members come to-day? There is, of course, always a supply of orphan children, few of whom ever go back into the world after they have been brought up in monastery surroundings. Other people drift in for many reasons. Men who have lost their friends and relatives by death often go to the monasteries. So do those who fail in business, or who have been disappointed in life enterprises. The head-priest of one small, but very famous, ancient monastery, only recently became religious; he had been employed as a janitor or helper in a Buddhist temple of Japanese in a Korean city and became interested and attracted. The head-priest of one of my favorite monasteries was in the world until he had reached the age of fifty years or more; he had been in military service and I believe, had risen to the rank of Colonel; getting on in years, however, he began to think seriously of religious matters and retreated to the monastery. With one young priest at Yuchom-sa in the Diamond Mountains we talked for hours, until midnight. He was genuine; he had the spirit of true religion; he was a thinker and was in the monastery from principle. There are no doubt many like him.

We were at Tongdo-sa on Buddha’s birthday. It is one of the great monasteries of the South. They knew we were coming and therefore we found a place to sleep. When we were within three or four miles of it we found ourselves in a crowd of persons going up to the celebration. The nearest railway station is about ten miles away. Most of the people, however, had walked from their homes. It is a mountain district, sparsely settled; there are surely only two or three towns of any size within fifteen miles of the place. When we reached the monastery we found one of the liveliest scenes we ever witnessed in Korea. The head-priest told us that ten thousand people slept on the grounds of the temple that night. The majority of them were women. Of course, _that_ would have been true if it had been a Presbyterian gathering. We were two nights there. On the full day that we spent with them a wonderful crowd of people was present; there were a few Japanese—a teacher and one or two officials—but apart from these the multitude was Korean. Probably fifteen thousand people were there that day. We found that one of the events of that evening was a moving-picture show in one of the monastery buildings. The life of Buddha was to be represented in moving pictures. All this does not look much like death! It is said that at the other head monasteries there were proportionately equal crowds.

We often asked what efforts were being made at monasteries for general improvement and helping the outside world. The purpose of a monastery, of course, is not related to such undertakings. In all religions, at all times, monasteries have been only for persons who were seeking individual improvement or salvation. In their very essence they are not philanthropic or reform movements. Still, with the lack of temples in the cities and definite teaching of the people through them, it might seem as if something would be undertaken by the monasteries. In reality there is much more in this direction than could be expected. At several of the monasteries there is a school for outside children; some have undertaken a definite work of teaching and some others realize that they have a genuine opportunity to aid in the elevation of the country. More and more the monasteries seem to awake to the existence of these possibilities.

Korean Buddhism has, perhaps, a political part to play. When the Japanese took over Korea, Buddhists came into the country in great numbers. Japanese priests and temples came with these settlers. These priests and temples are in the cities and larger towns. They do not, however, fit with the Koreans. There might be thousands of them and they would still not make Korean converts—not because the Japanese are not ready to do mission work, but because the Koreans are not ready to accept it. The Korean Buddhism of to-day is actually Korean, not Japanese.

I can imagine nothing that would be more dangerous to Japanese control than a strong and vital Korean Buddhism that was hostile to Japan. On the other hand, I can think of nothing that would be a greater help to Japan than a Korean Buddhism developed among those people by their own priests and friendly to Japan. What Korean Buddhism is to be in the future depends upon its relation to the government now there. If Korean Buddhism accepts and coöperates with the Japanese control, it will become the mightiest factor that can be devised to make Japan’s hold on the peninsula secure. If hostile to Japan, when the crisis comes, as it surely will come, when Japan will be tried out again and once for all on Korean soil, Korean Buddhism may be the decisive element in that moment of test.

KOREAN BUDDHISM: ART

To-night we are to consider art in Korean Buddhism. We shall examine it under six different forms—scenery, sculpture in stone, wood carving, architecture, images or idols and painting.

Perhaps it scarcely seems to you as if scenery—real landscape, not landscape painting—were art. In the Orient, however, it is surely such. Eastern peoples have for hundreds of years been passionately fond of the beautiful in nature. Chinese, Koreans, Japanese will travel on foot or by any possible conveyance many miles to see a famous view. They locate their houses in pretty places; they build temples and shrines upon commanding points. When the Korean monks, in the fifteenth century, were compelled to take refuge in the mountains, they located their buildings in surroundings harmonious to the religion. Their locations have been chosen with great care. And there is much more in scenery than the careless spectator thinks; for the Oriental scenery always contains something of the esoteric.

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For example, think of the Diamond Mountains. They are a remarkable tangle of peaks and ridges; measuring only thirty or forty miles across, the area is more or less elliptical in form; it is called “the twelve thousand peaks” or summits. The Diamond Mountains have been famous for two thousand years, and famous not only in Korea, but in China and Japan. They have been the theme of hundreds of poems and have furnished material for scores of books, some of them hundreds of years old. Artists have delighted in depicting their beauties. The Diamond Mountains with their twelve thousand peaks are divided into two portions. The name Diamond Mountains in itself is most suggestive; the diamond is one of the most precious symbols in Buddhism—indicating purity, clearness, brightness—and Korean Buddhism was a religion of light and illumination. The two divisions of the Diamond Mountains are known as the Inner and the Outer Kongo. The traveller may visit the outer region and realize but little of the true significance of Kongo-San. In the Inner Kongo every outstanding rock is significant. Every building has been placed with reference to some hidden meaning of the landscape, and with every step the visitor goes deeper and deeper into mystery.

Let us approach a mountain monastery. The trail is well marked long before we see the buildings. Once upon the grounds we come to some of those carved posts or pillars, devil posts, _changson_, which were illustrated in the preceding lecture, and were no doubt taken over from the old-time paganism. We pass through the outer gate. All the gates bear names significant to the thoughtful worshipper. We pass through gate after gate like “the gateway of Life,” “the gate of All-powerful Truth,” “the gate of Illumination.” Many of these gates are pavilions, resting-places, whence one may view the scenery, or visit with companions, or meditate in preparation for worship. As we approach the buildings we may find ourselves in a narrowing valley, or passing some cascade. All the rock cliffs have been seized and utilized and bear inscriptions, beautifully cut into the stone material. We see the formula, constantly on the tongue of Korean Buddhists, _Namu Amida Pul_, not once or dozens of times, but everywhere, repeated hundreds of times over. The _Daimon_, or great gateway, is the last; it signifies the gate of death through which we reach the heavenly life.

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At last we come to the mass of monastery buildings. Every temple has its name marked clearly on it, sometimes the names themselves are suggestive, helping the worshipper to clearer thought and serious meditation.

The second form of art is sculpture in stone. We have already mentioned the formulæ and other inscriptions cut upon the cliffs. To the Oriental eye they are as beautiful and represent as much artistic skill as figures would. There are, however, also on the natural rock faces, designs and figures cut in low relief, which we find in the most unexpected places. In the Inner Kongo there are many great representations of the Buddhas cut upon the vertical rock face. Here, for instance, are three figures, twenty feet in height, one of the great Buddhist trinities. Again, there is a representation of Monju, of even greater size. (Plate XIV.) On another face of rocks are the figures of the famous fifty-three Buddhas who came so long ago to live and die among the Diamond Mountains.

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In a former lecture we referred to the cave chapel of Sukkul-am. It is full of beauty. Excavated in the slope near a great ridge summit, it looks out upon the Eastern Sea. In the old days it was approached by a fine flight of steps. From its summit a passageway led to the subterranean chamber. It was bordered on both sides by slabs carved with figures in high relief. Here are the two guardian demons, the four kings of the cardinal points, the six generals. Passing between them we reach the little circular chapel, about thirty feet across, subterraneously situated in the hillside. Its low, vaulted roof is an ingenious and wonderful construction. The surrounding walls are filled with slabs bearing fine carvings. Here are three splendid figures of Bodhisattvas, with boat-shaped haloes, three other figures of Bodhisattvas with round haloes, and distributed between them the ten first disciples of the Great Teacher. These ten figures present marvellous detail of feature; not only personal differences, but race differences are sharply brought out; more than that the figures were originally colored, and no doubt, different races are indicated by the different tints. There is no question that individuals of different races were among the first disciples of the Buddha. And in the center of all this beauty, this flowering of ancient art, sits the stone Buddha, on his lotus pedestal. It is a monolith, cut from a block of stone about eleven feet in height. It is beautiful in pose, in feature, and in expression. For almost fifteen hundred years it has sat there calmly looking out upon the Eastern Sea. Every morning it is greeted by the rising sun.

Besides figures cut in high relief, the old artists made full sculptures in the round. Such, of course, was the Buddha figure, just described. Such are the great miriok, sculptured from natural rock pinnacles, like the one at Eunjin. You may remember the picture of a giant lotus pedestal, lying in the courtyard of Kumsan-sa (Plates V, VI), which we showed you in the first lecture; it is at least a thousand years of age. In the same courtyard, you remember that we saw a little tower or pagoda of stone, thirteen stories high, but in reality no taller than a man. At Pawpchu-sa there is that splendid bowl of stone, more than twelve hundred years of age, which in its time, no doubt, was filled with pure water for the cleansing of the hands and mouth of worshippers. Sometimes we find stone lanterns and occasionally these are supported by animal figures in caryatid forms. Then there are the _sari_ stones and altars and turtle-borne monuments.

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Look at this series of pictures from Hoiam-sa, one of the first temples we visited in 1917. (Plate XV.) To-day it is a place of no significance, but it was once a great religious center and has been associated with three famous men. It chanced the day we visited it that the three monks who live there were about to celebrate the day sacred to the memory of these noted teachers; gifts and offerings and all the paraphernalia for worship were laid out, ready. These three men were Muhak, Chikong and Nanong. Chikong was a native of India, who spent his last days in Korea. Nanong was chaplain and preceptor of King Kong-Min-Oang, the last king of the Koryu dynasty. Muhak was the chaplain and preceptor of Yi-tajo, founder of the Yi Dynasty. Behind the monastery building there rises a remarkable narrow-backed and sloping ridge. It bears a line of monuments reared to the memory of these three men. The stones commemorating Chikong and Nanong were erected by Muhak in the year 1393; the stones in memory of him were reared in 1401. The monument to each of these worthies consists of four stone objects—a lantern, an altar, a _sari_ stone—which I suppose contains the jewel that was left after the burning of the man in whose honor it was reared—and a stone turtle figure from whose back rises a slab bearing a long inscription. These turtle-stones with inscribed slabs are found everywhere in Korea; the turtle is the symbol of longevity and its use in this connection breathes the wish that the memory of the thing recorded may endure ten thousand years. These monuments are typical and good examples of their class. The carving on Muhak’s _sari_ stone is particularly beautiful.

In connection with stone work we must remind you again of the towers or pagodas of which you have seen repeated illustrations. Here we show but one to refresh your memory. (Plate XVI.) Such towers or pagodas rise in stories, numbering from three to thirteen, but always odd—three, five, seven, thirteen. There are hundreds of them scattered over the peninsula and at all the old monasteries you will find them. Some of those in the monasteries of the Diamond Mountains claim to be fifteen hundred years of age or more. They are symbolical, variously; they may denote the life of the individual, pointing heavenward, developing from one stage of perfection to another; they may mean the body of the faithful, or the church; the simple three-story towers symbolize earth, sky and heaven.

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Thirdly, are the wooden figures and other carvings in wood. And before we study these in detail let us remember that all religions are accustomed to borrow from those that have preceded them. In Christianity we have quantities of superstition lingering on from our days of paganism. Every religion that attempts a propaganda is compelled to take over much from the faiths which it displaces. India is a veritable mother of religions. One after another great religious systems have developed there. In very ancient days there was the simple nature worship of the old Aryans, as shown us in their sacred hymns, the Vedas. Among their gods two of the greatest were Brahma and Indra. Brahma was the creator, Indra was a god of heaven, an atmospheric deity who wielded thunderbolts, who hurled lightning strokes against the foe. In course of time the old Aryans advanced in culture, and their ancient worship gave way to a systematized religion, Brahmanism, with many gods, having definite names and qualities and attributes. But old Brahma and Indra lived on from the early days into Brahmanism. In that system Brahma was the king of all the gods, Indra was the king of heaven—having a special heaven of great beauty. It is said that his heaven was situated between the four peaks of Meru and consisted of thirty-two cities of Devas, eight on each of the four corners of the mountain. Indra’s capital was at the center where he sat enthroned, with a thousand eyes and four arms grasping the thunderbolt, in company with his wife and eleven thousand and nine hundred concubines. There he received monthly reports regarding the progress of good and evil in the world from his four Maharajas, heavenly kings of the cardinal points. The word Deva in Brahmanism is applied to the gods in general; if a god is not specifically named he is called a Deva.

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Brahmanism was the religion of India when Buddha came. He devoted his life to its overthrow, and his teaching was hostile to its assumptions. Curiously, however, in the popular traditional life of Buddha many incidents are mentioned in which the friendliest of relations were established between Buddha and the Devas of the old faith. Thus it is said that Brahma himself appeared to Buddha and begged him to begin his teaching. Indra in these stories repeatedly shows his friendship. There is one splendid occasion mentioned in which Buddha had been to Indra’s heaven; when he was ready to descend, stairs appeared for him made of the choicest and most beautiful materials, and as he came down this stairway, Brahma descended by a side stairway of silver and Indra upon a stairway of purple gold upon the other side, while with them came thousands of Devas, singing Buddha’s praises.

The four Maharajas, heavenly kings of the cardinal points, who reported to Indra every month, showed themselves equally friendly. On one occasion Buddha was without a begging bowl; the Deva kings came to him and each one offered a begging bowl of emerald; the Buddha refused to take them, as they were of too precious material; so they offered bowls less fine and each was strenuous that he should accept _his_ gift; so Buddha took the four bowls and placing them together, lo, they became a single bowl, but with a rim showing how four had merged, so that none of the kind Devas was neglected or hurt in feeling, and the offering of all was accepted by the Great Teacher; it is said that this begging bowl was in existence hundreds of years after Buddha’s time, kept as a precious treasure in a temple.

We need not then, be surprised, to find that a number of the old Brahmanic gods were taken bodily over into Buddhism. Brahma and Indra are in fact to-day considered in Mahayana to be the chief patrons and protectors of Buddhism. The four Maharajas have also been taken over completely. And Yama, the very ancient god of hell, to-day finds himself as comfortable in Buddhism as he ever could have been in Brahmanism, or in the earlier Aryan worship of the Vedas.

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Approaching any Buddhist temple in Japan or Korea you are almost sure to find two gigantic figures standing at the outer gate. They are the old gods Brahma and Indra. They are represented as full-muscled men of gigantic size, wrestling against the powers of evil. (Plate XIX.)

At another gate, farther up the trail, one is almost sure to find the Maharajas, heavenly kings of the cardinal points, under shelter, each in a niche or alcove; usually there are two on either side as one passes through the gate.[8] Being related to the cardinal points, they are always arranged in the same order, and are distinguished from each other by having different colored faces, each having the color proper to the district over which he has control. (Plate XXa, b.) Each carries a characteristic object, thus one bears a pagoda or tower on his hand, another carries a blazing jewel, the third varies what he carries, but frequently he plays upon a lute, the fourth one has a sword; these four great Brahman deities are found to-day in Korea at every Buddhist monastery, at the gate commonly called “the gate of the four kings”; there they watch, guarding the monastery against all harm. These are almost always figures of wood, but rarely one may find paintings on the wooden walls instead of the figures. While these guardian kings are always represented in heroic size the series at Pawpchu-sa are of extraordinary dimensions, probably the largest in Korea. (Plate XXI.)

Yama, too, was taken over from the older faith. The god of hell, he was assisted by ten helpers; each of these served as his representative in a separate hell, or division of that place of torment. Yama judges souls and inflicts penalties, assigns duties, and directs all the details of his realm. In most Korean monasteries there will be a hall of the ten kings in which we see figures of Yama with his assistants.

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Next we may consider architecture. We place it fourth because we have pursued a logical order of approach. Coming through the beautiful scenery, we have passed over the trail, noticing the inscriptions on the cliffs, passing by the guardians of the outer gate, walking between the four kings on their ceaseless guard, but at last have come to the monastery buildings proper and see them in their age and beauty before us. We have already seen representations of many of these temples in the preceding lectures. You have noticed that all were built of wood; you have observed the curious mode of timbering; you have studied the tangle of projecting timber ends under the roof—the decorative features applied to them, the carving and painting; red, green, black, white and blue, the gaudiest of colors are used upon them in a fashion which we could not conceive, and from which we would expect disharmony, though the real effect is charming. You have examined in detail the carved decoration of the doors, sometimes foliage, again floral, or with figures mingled with the other designs. (Plate XVIII.)

While the buildings themselves are always of wood there is a curious use made of stone at times in the way of supports. You remember in a picture from Sukwang-sa this was illustrated. The building was in the nature of a pavilion where tablets bearing names were left by visitors; the pavilion was borne upon upright columns of stone, highly characteristic of Korea, but not common elsewhere.

Another feature of the architecture is wall-painting and here we find two different kinds. Pictures may be painted directly upon the woodwork of the wall. It is more common, however, to panel the timbered walls with plastering and then to paint upon the plaster. Let us examine examples of both kinds.

You remember that among the Buddhist books recently printed in _on-mun_ was an allegory by a Chinese monk. The writer’s name was Chiu-Chang-Chun; he was born in 1208 and died in 1288. His book was named _Sei-yeu-ki_; at Pongeum-sa, a scene taken from his book is painted on the wooden wall. We present it as an example of this kind of decoration. It represents a scene from the closing part of the old story. (Plate XXII.)

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The pilgrims had almost finished their journey and were returning in state, on cherubim, with a great collection of idols and sacred texts. It was found, however, that they had suffered only eighty trials, and it seems that to be perfect they should pass through eighty-one—nine times nine—so angels were sent to overtake the eight cherubim, and tell them privately that they must let the monks suffer one trial more. This the angels did. As a sample of the story, and in explanation of the picture we quote from Dr. Richard’s translation.

“It was a strange sensation to be on the ground again. They had come
down near some water. The master asked, ‘Can anyone tell me where we
are?’

The monkey said, ‘Master, this is the mouth of the Milky Way River.’
The river was wide. It was also a lonely place, without houses or
boats, and they were on the western side. How could they get across?
Two of them suggested that since the master had left his mortal body
behind they could cross the river by magic, but the monkey said, ‘No,
it cannot be done.’ He knew that there was one trial more to undergo,
and it was for this they had stopped on the way. Then they heard a
cry, ‘Chinese priest, come this way.’ They went and found that it was
the white tortoise, who had ferried them over as they went West, at
the time when they had saved the family at Chen Kia Chwang. The
tortoise said he had been waiting for their return for a long time and
was glad to see them. The practical monkey said, ‘Formerly we had to
trouble you. Now we meet again.’

At this the four pilgrims were very rejoiced to see the tortoise. He
took them and the horse all on his back and swam across to the other
side. As they neared the Eastern shore and it was getting dark, the
tortoise said, ‘Master, when you went West I asked you to inquire of
Buddha for me how I might return to my former state, and when I might
get a human body. Did you remember to ask?’ But the master had been so
absorbed in his own affairs that he had completely forgotten the
tortoise and his request and so he had nothing to say. The tortoise,
finding that he had been forgotten, turned a somersault, and threw all
and everything into the river. Happily the mortal body of the master
had been exchanged for an immortal one, and therefore he was safe in
the water. The pig and the monkey, the boy and the horse, were also at
home in the water, but the books were all soaked.”

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The old allegory took a strong hold upon Eastern Asia and there must have been hundreds of pictures painted in the course of time representing its incidents.

As an example of the wall-paintings on plaster we may study a group of paintings, each representing an individual being, from one of the main temples at Sukwang-sa. None of these figures is haphazard, or without significance. Each would be recognized by the well-informed Buddhist. (Plate XXIII.)

Fifth are the idols or images. In the Buddhism taught by Sakya there was no room for them. The Great Teacher recognized no gods, and his followers should have no representations of deities. In Amida Buddhism, however, there are many gods, and a multitude of figures. The Buddhas, themselves are all represented among them including Sakya. When we examine the figures worshipped in Buddhist temples we find three groups, (a) Buddhas, (b) Bodhisattvas, (c) Arhats or Rakan. Sakya was not the first Buddha; in fact he was the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth in the line of those who attained enlightenment and gained _Nirvana_. The Indians reckoned time in long periods or _kalpas_; most of the Buddhas were in former _kalpas_, but even in the present _kalpa_, in which we live, Buddha had three predecessors; and before our _kalpa_ ends a successor will appear, Maitreya, or Miroku, the coming Buddha.[9]

The two Buddhas most commonly represented by figures in Korean Buddhism are Sakya and Amida. Miroku, too, is frequently to be seen, but Miroku is not yet a Buddha but only Bodhisattva.

Bodhisattvas were human beings who had piled up _karma_ and passed from stage to stage until they stood within a single step of Buddha-hood; during their next existence they could hope for illumination, enlightenment, _Nirvana_. There are many Bodhisattvas, but the ones most commonly represented by Korean figures are six in number. Their Korean names are Miryek Posal, Titsang Posal, Kwandyeieun Posal, Taiseichi Posal, Mounsou Posal, and Pohien Posal. These Bodhisattvas are much better known to the outside world by their Japanese names, and having introduced them in Korean terminology we shall refer to them as we have opportunity under the Japanese forms.

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They become, then, Maitreya or Miroku, Jizo, Kwannon, Daiseishi, Monju, Fugen. Curiously enough in Korean iconography Jizo, a most mild and gentle god, fond of and loved by children, replaces Yama often as the king of hell. Kwannon, god of mercy, usually considered female in Japan, though not invariably, is usually male in Korean representation.

The third type of images of figures worshipped in Korean monasteries are the Arhats or Rakan. These are men who have made progress; they have meditated, studied, listened and thought; some of them are the original students of Sakya; all have gained a store of helpful _karma_, and many of them are worshipped. When made in figures there are two groups of Rakan. One known as the sixteen Rakan, the other as the five hundred. The sixteen Rakan are all absolutely historical personages of early date, friends, relatives, and hearers, of Sakya. In figures and in paintings they are represented with characteristic attributes, readily recognized.

These three kinds of figures are usually made of wood, painted and gilded; sometimes the gold leaf on them represents absolutely considerable value. The figures of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas are frequently of large size, and often beautiful. They may be standing or seated, but in both cases the position of the hands and fingers is important and significant. (Plate XXIV.) Buddhism everywhere recognizes a series of finger symbols carrying a message. It is interesting to notice that the Buddha is usually included in a trinity. This fact is among many which have led some writers like Professor Lloyd, Doctor Richard, and Madame Gordon to think that Mahayana Buddhism is actually Christianity worked over and given the name of Buddhism.

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Trinities are conspicuous everywhere. Often we find the central figure of the three to be Sakya, while to his right and left are the Bodhisattvas Monju and Fugen. The former sometimes sits upon a dog or lion, and the latter upon a white elephant. Then they are easily recognized by their mount. When not mounted they are not so easy of recognition. Even more common in Korea is the Amida trinity. Amida is usually accompanied by Kwannon on one side and Daiseishi on the other. (Plate XXV.) There are other trinities to be seen in Korean temples but these two are common. (Plate XXVI.)

These figures are generally in curious relation with paintings. In most temples where there are figures on the altar there are paintings hung up on the wall behind which usually represent the same beings as the figures, but accompanied by many more attendants. This association of pictures and figures representing the same being is rare, if it occurs, in Japanese Buddhism. (Plate XXVII.)

Lastly, we come to paintings. While many are related to figures as just mentioned, many more stand by themselves and are displayed upon the walls of halls and temples without figures. If we desire to make a study of the paintings of a monastery we must pass from hall to hall. Many monasteries are absolute masses of great buildings. In the main temple there are usually figures of a trinity of Buddhas or sometimes even three trinities with paintings hung behind. In the Rakan hall we may find the sixteen Rakan in figures, in paintings, or in combinations. In halls of the five hundred Rakan, we usually find five hundred little figures set on shelves thickly around all three sides; no two are just alike, and it is probable that you will be told with glee that if you look long enough you will find your own father represented among them. (Plates XXIX, XXX.) In the hall of the Ten Kings of Hell we sometimes find the figures of Yama or of Jizo with the ten helpers; if so, behind the figures are frightful paintings of the ten hells, a picture of each one behind its proper king. Sometimes, however, there are only paintings in this hall. (Plate XXVIII.) At some temples there is the hall of the Eight Scenes of the Life of Buddha.[10] These scenes are definite and fixed in every detail, are traditional, and have been passed down for centuries. The whole building is occupied by the eight great paintings hung upon the wall. Each contains a mass of detail, and there may be hundreds of individuals represented in a single scene. (Plate XXXIII.) Occasionally there is a hall of portraits at a monastery; such a one we saw at the monastery where we rebuked the priests for avarice and impoliteness; the building is devoted to the portraits which are said to be reliable representations of the head priests of this monastery for a period of almost fifteen hundred years. One might, however, visit many monasteries without finding such a hall.

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