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| Gwanghwamun in the late 1890s or early 1900s / Robert Neff Collection |
By Robert Neff
On the evening of Feb. 8, 1887, Seoul was awash with excitement. It was Daeboreum, the first full moon of the lunar year, and the citizens of Joseon's largest city and capital were busy with their holiday preparations.
This year's was not a normal Daeboreum, for it was also the night of a partial lunar eclipse. According to Homer Hulbert ― one of the earliest American English teachers ― to many superstitious people, the eclipse was one of the most startling things to occur, as they believed it was a great "heavenly dog" trying to devour the moon.
Much of the population, wishing to know what the new year had in store for them, sought spiritual and supernatural advice from shamans (known as "mudang") and fortunetellers. Horace N. Allen, an American missionary doctor, described (in his usual untactful manner) how some of these fortunetellers obtained their knowledge:
"A precocious child dies, its spirit roams about until finally it asks some old woman or [mudang] to arrange a clean bottle for it to enter, then the spirit comes into it with a whistling sound, after which the hag places a spray of artificial flowers in the neck of the bottle, and lets the people know that she has a spirit at her command. People come, and after paying her, they tell her what they wish to know, and she questions the spirit, when a whistling sound proceeds from the bottle and the leaves shake. The hag then interprets the message."
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| Looking towards the East Gate / Robert Neff Collection |
William W. Rockhill, the temporary charge d'affaires at the American legation, recalled that upon every house in the city were "round pieces of paper, either red or white (representations of the moon), held perpendicularly in split sticks." According to him, they were supplications to the moon to protect the inhabitants from the evils predicted by the fortunetellers.
On this particular Daeboreum, the people also sought to protect the moon from the ravenous celestial canine with firecrackers in the streets and gunfire at the palace. There were also ceremonies taking place outside of the city.
Hulbert and an unidentified doctor ― possibly Allen ― left Seoul through the West Gate at 8 p.m., just as it closed for the night, to witness one of these ceremonies. Hulbert was armed with his "stout stick" and, as a further precaution, they were accompanied by a Korean "gisu" (guard) ― "a grizzled old cynic who sneered at" them for dragging him out on "this wild goose chase."
After a brisk 10-minute walk, they soon found themselves in a circular area surrounded by an amphitheater of hills. A crowd of more than 1,000 people had gathered and in their white clothing "looked like a very orderly congregation of ghosts." Straw mats were used to form a stage and two large bonfires were built, one on each side of the stage. Nearby sat a Korean band.
Seeing the two Westerners, one of the festival organizers invited them to sit near the stage so that they could have an unobstructed view. Hulbert ― who was often as tactless as Allen ― was not impressed with the music and noted that it should have, "frightened the 'Heavenly Dog' effectually."
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| The West Gate around 1900 / Robert Neff Collection |
As the eclipse progressed, the crowd grew more agitated and drew closer to the stage, requiring the organizers to drive them back with clubs and torches. Hulbert wrote:
"At ten o'clock, just as the last shadow of the eclipse was passing off the face of the moon and it became evident that the Heavenly dog had given it up as a 'bad job,' a man leaped into the circle. He was fantastically dressed. On his head was a sort of hat which looked like an ordinary sun-bonnet. His face was disfigured by a hideous mask. His sleeves were bright red and reached to the ground. The band struck up and the dance began. It is entirely beyond my power to describe that dance. I can only give a faint idea of it by a figure. There were two separate kinds of motion, one of the feet and another of the hands. Imagine a man standing on one foot and trying to put a stocking on the other, and you get a faint impression of the motion of this man's feet. Meanwhile, with his long sleeves, he was vigorously defending himself from the imaginary attack of an enterprising swarm of bees. These two motions cover the whole ground."
Other actors soon appeared on the stage, and "their antics and capers were of all sorts, and were very amusing to the crowd." Hulbert failed to find humor in the acts, though he was impressed with the spectacle: "The ring, the band, the crowd, the actors all clearly defined in the white light of the full moon and the red glare of the fires, made a most picturesque scene."
They remained at the festival until midnight ― when their enthusiasm waned ― and returned to the West Gate and found it closed for the night. Like many that night, they were forced to climb over the city walls like thieves (and could have been executed if they had been caught) ― but that is a story for another time.
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| Korean musicians in the late 19th century / Courtesy of Diane Nars Collection |
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| Citizens on the city's walls in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection |
Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books including, Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.
