The Pennsylvania State University

The Graduate School

Department of Comparative Literature

SET APART BY MIND AND SOUL: SUBJECTIVITY IN THE WRITINGS OF

EARLY KOREAN CATHOLICS

A Dissertation in

Comparative Literature

by

Deberniere J. Torrey

 2010 Deberniere J. Torrey

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

August 2010

The dissertation of Deberniere J. Torrey was reviewed and approved* by the following:

Thomas O. Beebee Distinguished Professor of Comparative Literature and German Dissertation Advisor Chair of Committee

Ronnie Hsia Edwin Earle Sparks Professor of History

Alexander C.Y. Huang Assistant Professor of Comparative Literature, Chinese, and Asian Studies

Richard Nichols Professor Emeritus of Theater Arts

Donald Baker Director, Centre for Korean Research Associate Professor, Department of Asian Studies, University of British Columbia Special Member

Cho Sung-Won Professor of English Language and Literature, Seoul Women’s University Special Signatory

Caroline D. Eckhardt Head, Department of Comparative Literature Director, School of Languages and Literatures

*Signatures are on file in the Graduate School.

iii ABSTRACT

In Korean intellectual historiography, engagement with Western Catholic thought

is cited as one of several influences contributing to the epistemic change that marked the

eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However, studies of this influence have thus far been

limited to intellectual and social historiography. This project helps to complete the

general picture and to illuminate a somewhat obscured period in the history of Korean

literature by connecting the philosophical and historical issues with the personal literature

of the period, examining the subjective discourse associated with this influence as a text

of change.

What does the discourse of those individuals who embraced Western Catholic

thought reveal about the changing landscape of this transitional time? What is distinctive

about this site of Catholic-influenced discourse, and how does it compare with both the literary mainstream and the concurrent stream of change in late Joseon Korea? In preexisting studies of the influence of Catholic thought and the ensuing conflict between the Neo-Confucian establishment and the Catholic movement, an important theme that surfaces is the troubling of traditional assumptions regarding the place of the human being in relation to the world. Starting from this initial observation, the project examines a selection of Catholic-influenced texts to demonstrate that the personal discourse of individual Catholics expresses a new subjectivity of the human as separate from the world; a position that contrasts to the traditional Korean assumption of the human as part of a unifying self-contained cosmic pattern.

iv The texts at the focus of this examination are two groups of personal writings

from the early years of the nineteenth century that are contextualized by the divide

between the Catholic movement and mainstream Korean society. The first is a selection

of the social poems of Dasan Jeong Yagyong (1762–1836), most of which were written

in exile during the first two decades of the nineteenth century. The second group consists

of a remnant of personal writings by Catholics from the time of the Great Persecution of

1801: the letter written by Hwang Sayeong (1775–1801) to the Bishop of Beijing

requesting aid for the persecuted Church (1801), the letters of Yi Sunyi (1781–1801),

written from prison to her mother and sister-in-law (1801), and the confessional essay written from excile (c.1803) by Choe Haedu (dates unknown).

The Catholic-influenced discourse represented by both bodies of work is

demonstrated to be divergent from the Korean mainstream in its representation of the

human subject as set apart by intellect and/or by the immortality of the soul. For their part,

these two groups of texts, each representing one side of a divide within the Catholic

movement, are shown to express two variations of this new subjectivity. In his poetry,

Dasan, representative of the camp that maintained its identification with Confucian

tradition, expresses a paradigm of subjective distinction that translates into free will and responsibility, which supports his main purpose of ethical action in the world. Thus, the

Dasanian subject, while distinct from the world, remains engaged. On the other hand, the

writings of Hwang Sayeong, Yi Suni, and Choe Haedu, representing the camp that allied

itself fully with the Catholic Church, express a subjective distinction from the world,

based on loyalty to a transcendent authority represented by the Church and by belief in

the soul’s immortality. Like Dasan, these writers represent the human being as distinct

v from the world, free to choose, and responsible to act righteously. At the same time, their writings manifest an increasing focus upward to the transcendent world of heaven and inward to the individual soul, and greater disengagement with the world.

The changes of the eighteenth and nineteenth century may reasonably mark this period as one of transition between pre-modern and modern, in which characteristics associated with modernity coexist with the traditional and “feudalistic” mainstream. In light of the Catholic-influenced texts examined in this project, is it possible to assert that the introduction of Western Catholic thought contributed to Korea’s transition to modernity? Inasmuch as the separation of human agency from the cosmic order was the point at which Dasan, Hwang Sayeong, Yi Suni, and Choe Haedu diverged from the dominant worldview of their milieu, Catholic-influenced discourse might indeed be said to have contributed to the movement toward a modern consciousness of distinct human subjectivity. In particular, Yi and Choe introduce a new inward self-consciousness by focusing on the state of their souls, and Dasan reveals a human subject that conceives of being distinct from the cosmos by merit of the intellect. However, the moral impetus of these writings and their expressed subjective dependence on heaven or God also trouble any clear-cut identification with the autonomous modern subject. Thus, the answer to this final question remains problematic. Nonetheless, considering the characteristics that reveal its affinity with both modern and pre-modern literature, Catholic-influenced discourse may be usefully associated with the category of “transitional literature,” coming into being within the changes and the tensions of late Joseon Korea.

vi TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... vii

Chapter 1. INTRODUCTION...... 1

Chapter 2. THE ENCOUNTER BETWEEN CONFUCIANISM AND CATHOLICISM IN LATE JOSEON...... 35

Chapter 3. THE INDEPENDENT HUMAN SUBJECT IN THE POETRY OF DASAN JEONG YAGYONG...... 71

Chapter 4. TRANSCENDING TRADITION AND SOCIETY IN CATHOLIC DISCOURSE...... 112

CONCLUSION...... 188

WORKS CITED...... 198

vii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This project would have been impossible without the generous assistance of many

individuals. The following is a brief mention of those who have played a vital role during

the course of my graduate career at Penn State.

First, I wish to thank my adviser, Thomas Beebee, for his scholarly guidance and

his many acts of assistance in smoothing my transition through the phases of doctoral

studies, as well as for his communication and support as graduate director leading up to

my enrollment in the program at Penn State. I also wish to express my deep appreciation

to Donald Baker of the University of British Columbia for going beyond the expected

duties of an outside member and patiently reading and commenting on the chapters and

drafts of my project throughout the period of my writing. I am grateful to Ronnie Hsia for

agreeing to sit on my committee and for offering constructive criticism during the final

phases of my writing, and to Alexander Huang for providing moral support and input at

various points in my graduate career. I thank Richard Nichols for being willing to remain

on my committee even after his time of duty at Penn State had ended, and for taking the

trouble to give my final draft an editorial reading. Cho Sung-Won of Seoul Women’s

University offered much guidance and assistance during the earlier phases of my project, and I appreciate the support and interest she has continued to show, and the time she has given to be a special member on my committee. Although not a member of my committee, during her affiliation with our department, Cathy Steblyk was very supportive, and pointed me to some key sources at the beginning of my graduate career.

viii I am also indebted to the support and the departmental leadership provided by

Caroline Eckhardt throughout my graduate career, and to her steady and affirmative guidance through many of my teaching assignments. The staff of the Department of

Comparative Literature has truly been a beacon of humanity; their kindness, hard work, and competence have smoothed many pathways for me, and I will always be grateful to

JoElle DeVinney, Jamie Frazell, Irene Grassi, Sharon Laskowsky, Mona Muzzio, Bonnie

Rossman, and Lynn Setzler.

The Summer Residency awarded by the Institute for the Arts and Humanities at

Penn State provided me with precious time and space to focus on my scholarship. I have also benefitted from the assistance of organizations and individuals beyond the gates of

Penn State. Through its year-long sponsorship, the Fulbright Organization offered me opportunities that were truly indespensible to my course of study, and I am deeply grateful to the Fulbright Commission in Seoul, as well as to Professor Kim Hyeonju, and the many other individuals at Sogang University and Yonsei University who opened doors, expressed support, and permitted me to sit in on classes. I am also indebted to the generous support of the Korea Foundation, which greatly alleviated the financial burdens associated with a graduate career, while also affirming my course of study. In addition, the Sungui Scholarship Fund in Seoul made it possible for me to meet extra medical, travel, and incidental expenses through their monthly support. Finally, I wish to thank fellow Koreanist Frank Rausch, now completing his degree at the University of British

Columbia, for generously helping me track down sources and for connecting me to a wider network of colleagues.

Chapter 1: Introduction

Late Joseon: Tradition, Change, and a New Episteme

The proximity of the Joseon period (1392–1910) to Korea’s contemporary era, the

wealth of historical records and cultural artifacts preserved from this period, and the

growth of a more distinctively Korean identity prompted largely by the invention of

written Korean writing system (Hangeul) in 1447, all contribute to the prominence of the

Joseon period in any reference to or discussion of Korean tradition and identity. In

particular, the latter half of the period witnessed an intensification of factors that still

reveal their influence whenever tradition and change clash in modern Korea: rigid

Confucian norms; restrictions on women; and regional tensions that can be traced back to

Joseon-era factional politics. At the same time, this latter part of the Joseon period,

having been ushered in by the disruptive impact of foreign invasions—the Japanese

invasion in 1592 followed less than a century later by the Manchu invasion of 1636—is also marked by unprecedented changes necessitated by these disruptions, changes that accelerated as Korea was eventually forced into the modern era.

In their preface to Culture and State in Late Chosŏn 1 Korea, Haboush and

Deuchler point out that “In recent years, there has been a growing awareness that Late

1 “Chosŏn” is the McCune-Reischauer Romanization of “Joseon.” For Romanization of

Korean words, I will follow the Korean Ministry of Education 2000 system, and any

alternative Romanization in quoted material will be converted likewise, except titles of

2

Joseon was a vibrant period and that it should be studied in its own right rather than in terms of the long-accepted view as a time of continual decline sandwiched between an early period of vigor and the eventual loss of sovereignty to Japan in 1910” (vii). They describe late Joseon as a period molded by the need to respond to a disrupted worldview:

[T]he Korean capitulation to the Manchus and the subsequent fall of the Ming to these “barbarians” in 1644 . . . threatened the very basis of Korean cultural identity. . . . The world changed from a benign place of order and peace in which the hierarchy among countries corresponded to their degree of civilization to a lopsided and disorderly one in which power was divorced from legitimacy, creating suspicion and contempt. . . . The new order challenged their epistemological foundations, and hence Koreans had to construct a new episteme of the world and the self, one that allowed them to sustain their political beliefs and to maintain their cultural identity. (4–5)

The “quest for a new episteme” that played out during this time gave rise to an intellectual life that revealed a breaking away from traditional assumptions. Most often cited in relation to this shift is the intellectual trend labeled by many modern scholars as

Sirhak (“practical learning”), which emphasized practical knowledge and social reform.

Promoted by Confucian scholars who sought to move away from esoteric philosophy and, instead, examine “things as they are” (實事求是), this emphasis on practical knowledge translated to an increased attention to what was at hand, which fostered the growing emphasis on things distinctively Korean, alongside the focus on critiquing social ills.

Other developments in the culture at large also challenged conventional notions about

books or article. Where Korean scholars follow another system for the spelling of their names in English-language publications, I will use their adopted spelling.

3

literature. These included the participation of members of the middle class in the formerly

elite pastime of composing hansi,2 the growing use of everyday speech and vernacular

Korean in literature, a shift to narrative as the primary medium of new creativity, and the

featuring of the lives and feelings of ordinary people in the narratives of pansori opera.

Also, women’s voices were increasingly interjected into the strongly patriarchal

discourse of Joseon Dynasty Korea. Within all these trends, there appears to be a new

consciousness of individual human subjectivity, as opposed to conformity to idealized

themes and prescribed forms.

If these changes are understood as symptomatic of an underlying shift in the

system of knowledge about the world, then this new consciousness of subjectivity might

be identified as part of the “new episteme” that came under construction in response to

social disruptions and external interventions. Here we turn to the concept of episteme not

in the classical sense of “knowledge” or “science,” but in something closer to the

Foucauldian idea of “the total set of relations that unite, at a given period, the discursive

practices that give rise to epistemological figures, sciences, and possibly formalized

systems” (Foucault 191). Although similar to the concept of “worldview” or “paradigm,”

the Foucauldian episteme is not constructed by a set of suppositions. This is made clear

by the remainder of Foucault’s four-part definition of episteme, of which the subsequent parts are introduced with the phrases, “the way in which . . . the transitions . . . are

situated and operate,” “the distribution of these thresholds,” and “the lateral relations

between the totality of relations that can be discovered,” indicating, in this otherwise

2 Poems in classical Chinese.

4 semantically abstruse definition, a dynamic association as opposed to “a form of knowledge” or “type of rationality” that unifies the sciences and discourses of a period

(191). Inasmuch as the characteristics of the changes described in the preceding paragraph are summarized in terms of exploratory and dynamic states—“a new consciousness of individual human subjectivity”—the Foucauldian concept of episteme provides a useful marker for the totality of the relations that unite the landmark discourses of the period under question. Under this construction, the changes in the literary activity of late Joseon mentioned above would correspond to the “discursive practices” of Foucault’s definition, and are thus part of the new episteme.

One more clarification: the terms “subject” and “subjectivity” as used here refer to the particular human being as subject and are not to be confused with the postructuralist sense of subjectivity as constructed through language. In this light, the terms “identity” or “selfhood” might be interchangeable with “subjectivity” within certain constraints. Indeed, the broader landscape of the shift that I examine in this project is described by Haboush and Deuchler as “a new episteme of the world and the self” (5, emphasis added), and there are passages in which I revert to this more familiar term, as permitted by context. Nonetheless, I will generally use the term “subjectivity,” since my treatment does not focus on an essential categorization but on the relationship of the human to the world.

5

The Role of Western Learning

Seohak, or “Western Learning,” a body of knowledge comprised of Western

science and Catholic doctrine transmitted from China, is an external intervention often

mentioned directly or by implication in scholarship addressing the changes in the late

Joseon.3 It is apparent that the adoption of certain elements of Western Learning helped

germinate the interest in practical knowledge and social reform, contributed indirectly to

the growing popularization of literature through the use of the vernacular language in

widely distributed religious texts, and encouraged a new egalitarianism through the

Catholic teaching that all human beings were equal before God.

Continuing in the vein of the preceding explanation of episteme, if we posit that

epistemes are embodied in discourse, then to examine the discourse of those individuals

who embraced Western Learning—notably Catholic converts and other “West-

Believers” 4 —would help to illuminate one very distinctive corner of the changing

3 See, for instance, Chai-sik Chung 75, 79; Cho Kwang, “Hwang Sayeong” 276, 291;

Chung Doo-hee, “Dasan-gwa Seohak-e Deahan” 11–13; Geum, Jeong Yagyong 278; Jang

Seung-gu 312–5; Kim Inseop 23–51; O Seyeong 604,7; and Yun 21.

4 Most of the first Confucian scholars to embrace Western Learning were already linked

to each other by family or factional ties, and they became sub-grouped under the label

信西派 (“West-Believing Faction,” using “belief” in the sense of “trust” or “reliance on”).

In this project, “West-Believer” will refer to members of the group comprising both

Catholic converts and those who were associated with the Catholic movement regardless

6

landscape. What is distinctive about this site of “West-Believer” discourse, and how does it relate to the increasing human-subject-awareness of late Joseon?

A sizeable body of recent scholarship addresses the impact of Western Learning and the activities of its adherents on late Joseon intellectual life. Geum Jangtae and Kim

Okhui have produced much scholarship on the history of Western Learning in Korea. A number of their studies uncover evidence of Catholic concepts in the philosophical commentaries of Jeong Yagyong (1762–1836), which, as stated in Michael Kalton’s analysis, present “a vision of man as unique, distinct from the pattern of the cosmos and the world of lesser creatures” (18). In relation to the more existential subjectivity of individual West-Believers, Chung Doo-hee’s thoughtful presentation of the martyrs

Hwang Sayeong and Yi Suni obliquely draws attention to their self-propelled agency.5

Also, Donald Baker’s examination of the conflict between the Catholic movement and

the Confucian establishment reveals that one outcome of this opposition was the

emergence of the issue of individual religious freedom.6 These and other analyses will be referenced in more detail in later chapters.

of their final position on Catholic religious belief. “Catholic” will refer more narrowly to those who maintained a Catholic identity throughout the persecutions. The one exception is in my title, wherein I have used “Catholic” to refer to both groups to facilitate a quick identification of my general subject matter.

5 See Chung Doo-hee, Sinang-ui Yeoksa-reul Chajaseo 74–107.

6 See Baker, “From Pottery to Politics” and “Ritual Hegemony.”

7

Taken together, these studies imply that the intellectual, social, and religious activity associated with the introduction of Western Learning in Joseon exhibits an epistemological divergence from the mainstream. A striking case that reveals the paradigms at stake in the conflict surrounding this divergence is that of Yun Jichung

(Paul Yun 1759–91), one of the earliest Korean martyrs. In a discussion of Confucian conceptions of heterodoxy in late Joseon, Donald Baker points out that Yun, executed for destroying his family’s ancestral tablets, defended his actions as compatible with

Confucianism by arguing for the reasonability of his beliefs, a radical departure from the traditional Confucian premise that ritual and praxis, not intellectual belief, determine

orthodoxy (Baker, “A Different Thread” 199–230). This remarkable contrast of

presuppositions for determining right and wrong, and the fact that Yun would even

attempt to argue from such a divergent premise, suggest that acceptance of and

conversion to Catholicism resulted in a profound break from the prescribed worldview.

Furthermore, as indicated by Yun’s shift of reference to individual belief over social

praxis, by Jeong Yagyong’s humanistic departure from the Neo-Confucian assumption of

cosmic unity, and by the individual agency implicit in the Catholic struggle for religious

freedom, this break appears to be a shift toward a new awareness of the intellectual and

spiritual self as distinct from the world.

Focus of the Project

By examining a section of the discourse of West-Believers and identifying the

epistemological shift revealed therein, I wish to draw attention to this new subjectivity

8

and its variations. To this end, I am undertaking a close reading of two specific bodies of

writing. The first, which represents a non-religious position in the West-Believing

Faction, is a selection of the poetry of the aforementioned Jeong Yagyong (pen name:

Dasan), a Confucian scholar whose criticism of the Neo-Confucian establishment was informed in part by his study of Western Learning. Although Dasan’s poetry, written in classical Chinese, generally follows the thematic conventions of traditional Sino-Korean poetry, much of it is distinctive in its emphasis on social reform, its criticism of established assumptions, and its articulation of national identity. Dasan’s use of contrasting images also reflects his philosophy, which departs from traditional Neo-

Confucian metaphysics on at least two related counts: 1) he sees human beings as distinct from nature, and nature not merely a manifestation of universal laws and a site or means of self-cultivation, but as an object with its own laws that can be studied and used for the betterment of human society; and 2) for Dasan, the relationship between contrasting elements in society (e.g. between landlord and peasant) represents oppositional forces to be resolved, rather than mutually coexisting parts that reflect a universal pattern.

The second body of writing examined in this project is a selection of documents and letters from the collected works of Catholic converts at the beginning of the nineteenth century—a selection that also highlights the conflict between Confucianism and Catholicism in late Joseon society. These documents include the following: Hwang

Sayeong’s (1775–1801) Silk Letter to the bishop in Beijing during the persecution of

1801, requesting aid for Korean Catholics and even suggesting the use of European military force against the Joseon regime, thus marking Hwang’s severance from the

9

Confucian establishment; the prison letters of martyr Yi Suni (1782–1801), which

transcend the traditional gender-based boundaries of women’s writing on several counts;

and the confession of Choe Haedu (dates uncertain), written in exile, in which he repents

of his earlier rejection of the faith in the threat of persecution.

These documents and the selection of Dasan’s poetry are chosen for their placement during and immediately after the “Great Persecution” of Catholics in 1801, a period during which the conflict between Confucianism and Catholicism in late Joseon

society reached its height. Also, unlike the bulk of primary sources connected to Western

Learning in Korea, these texts are not philosophical and apologetic treatises, or

catechisms and devotional texts. Rather, as expressions of the personal and emotional

lives of their creators, they provide a glimpse into the subjective inner experience of the

individual writers. They are thus relevant to this examination of a divergent subjectivity,

and are my main focus, although other primary sources will be referenced to establish

background and context.

The Division in West-Believer Discourse

The organization of these texts into two groups—Dasan’s poems in one and the letters of Hwang and Yi and Choe’s confessional essay in the other—represents an important split in the history of Western Learning in Korea. Relevant details of this event will be given in later chapters. What follows is a brief overview.

At its first introduction in Korea in the 1600s and up to the late eighteenth century,

Western Learning, which had been brought to China by European Jesuit missionaries

10

beginning in the early seventeenth century, was viewed by interested scholars as

intellectual matter that might supplement Neo-Confucian philosophy. In particular,

Matteo Ricci’s (1512–1610) Tianzhushiyi (天主實義) (“The True Meaning of the Lord of

Heaven”), an apologetic treatise written in classical Chinese, asserted the reasonability of belief in the Catholic God and compatibility between Catholicism and Confucianism.

Ricci drew from older Confucian texts for support, and thereby attracted the attention of

Confucian scholars who were looking for matter to support their critique of the predominant Juja (C. Zhuxi) school of Confucianism. The conflict between Confucian tradition and the Catholic movement began only after certain members of the West-

Believing Faction became baptized Catholics and turned to the Church for authority and instruction. Confucian ancestral rituals, which had been permitted by Ricci and his followers, were now forbidden by Rome, and the reaction to this injunction exposed a fundamental difference of opinion among Korean Catholics. The split was between those who approached Western Learning as a practical philosophy to supplement Confucianism in the management of “this-worldly” human affairs, and those who were drawn to the explicitly spiritual and religious—or “other-worldly” (Rausche 52)—components of

Western Learning. After the aforementioned execution of Yun over ancestor-rites protocol, the gap between these two groups became pronounced, and several members of the former group eventually renounced their Catholic affiliation. One of these was Dasan.

Although his philosophical approach revealed clear points of departure from prevailing

Neo-Confucian assumptions, Dasan remained loyal to classical Confucian ideals, and maintained his identity as a socially conscientious Confucian scholar throughout his exile

11

and to the end of his life. Hwang Sayeong, Yi Suni, and Choe Haedu, on the other hand,

were among those who remained Catholic in spite of the Church’s decree on rituals. For

Hwang and Yi, the final outcome of this stance was martyrdom, while for Choe, who

apostatized to save himself, the result seems to have been an outpouring of self- flagellation during the last days of his life in exile, as suggested by his confessional essay.

The contrast in content and form between these two groups of works is also

reflective of this split. Dasan’s poems reflect this-worldly concerns in their descriptions

of the world of nature and humanity, as well as in their frequent social critique. Also,

they are expressive of his identity as a Confucian scholar: all of his poems are written in

classical Chinese, and he views poetry as a vehicle of do (道 C. dao), the moral Way of

Confucian teaching. On the other hand, in terms of content, Hwang’s letter to the Bishop

of Beijing, though proposing a this-worldly course of action for the physical deliverance

of the persecuted Catholics, is predicated on a sense of shared identity based on other-

worldly concerns. Also, Yi Sunyi’s letters dwell largely on her impending martyrdom and

the theme of salvation, and she is intent on reassuring her persecuted and grief-stricken

family of spiritual blessing and their eventual reunion in heaven. Finally, Choe’s

confession is the most absent of references to the outside world of human affairs: it is

entirely focused on his own soul and the wager of eternal blessing or damnation.

As to form, the second body of work contrasts with Dasan’s in that it consists

entirely of prose pieces, and Yi’s and Choe’s compositions are in vernacular Korean.

Granted, it is impossible to claim that these documents are a representative cross-section

of personal writing on the part of literate Catholics of that period—we have no access to

12

the private collections of personal writings that were destroyed by official decree in

tandem with the punishment of individual Catholics. Yi’s letters and Choe’s confessional

appear to have survived by being preserved by Catholics in hiding. Nonetheless, this

remnant of texts corresponds to the Catholic movement’s increasing detachment from

traditional and elite literary forms in favor of the use of prose, gasa,7 and vernacular

Korean.

Contributions of the Project

In this project, I wish to bring literary scholarship into a dialogue that has been dominated by historical and philosophical evidence up to now. Efforts to examine the influence of Western Learning on Dasan’s philosophy and on the growth of Shirhak are strong and ongoing, as is research on the history of the Korean Catholic church.8 Still

7 A genre of loosely composed poems of indefinite length, often narrative, descriptive, or

instructive.

8 For monographs published within the last five years on topics related to Sirhak, Western

Learning, and Dasan, see for instance Geum, Dongseo Gyoseop-gwa; Song Jaeso,

Hanguk Hanmunhag-ui; and Yi Donghuan, Sirhak Sidae-ui. On Korean Catholic History,

recent monographs, translations, and edited volumes include Buswell and Lee; Kim Jae-

hyun; Kim Okhui, Sungyoja Yi Suni; Kim Yeongsu, Gyoju Cheonjugasa; No,

Minjoksawa Cheonjugyo; and Yeo Hwang Sayeong. In addition, The Research Institute

of Korean Church History publishes new articles yearly in its Gyohoesa Yeongu.

13

lacking, however, is research that would connect the philosophical and historical issues

with the personal literature of the period in question, examining the writings associated

with this influence and movement as a text of change—as a body of writing expressing a

new sensibility, perception, and subjectivity departing from the established worldview.

For instance, there are very few studies that examine Dasan’s poetry against the backdrop

of Catholic elements in his philosophy. 9 And in the case of the individual Catholics whose writings I examine, most scholarship focuses on the external events of their lives,

whereas the few essays that touch on the inner lives of these subjects focus on themes of

Catholic faith and spirituality, and are oriented toward a religious audience. 10 To

complement these existing studies and to fill out the picture that philosophical and

historical research have thus far provided, I wish to approach these texts as part of a

discourse participating in a new episteme, and to extract from them an idea of how the

person conceived of him/herself in relation to the world; that is, his/her sense of being the

subject.

This examination is important for what it can reveal about key points in Korea’s

intellectual transition to modernity, as well as for its contribution to a clearer delineation

of Korean literary and intellectual history. More broadly and comparatively speaking, in

9 To date, I have found only two scholarly monographs that include this topic in their

discussion of Dasan’s poetry: Bak Muyeong, Jeong Yagyongu-ui; Song Jaeso, Dasansi

Yeongu.

10 Chung Doo-hee, Sinang-ui Yeoksa-reul; Kim Okhui, Hanguk Seohak.

14 the context of West-dominated intellectual discourse, wherein definitions of ages or movements are still based largely on the record of Western intellectual history, one effect of my project is to point out this particular manifestation of a movement that resembles a theme within the Western trajectory toward modernity—that is, awareness of the self— and to suggest how it may or may not be correlated with previously assumed patterns.

Also, by delineating a subjectivity shift expressed in the literature of a transitional period in Korean history and literature, the project relates to a topic of study that is of special interest to Asian scholars: the transitions to modernity of non-Western cultures.11 Latent to this exploration are also new questions and angles to be addressed in the ongoing critique of both the Western thought that helped to engender Korea’s early modernization and the traditional Confucian assumptions that stood in resistance to such changes.

Furthermore, by approaching a historical moment through its manifestation in the voices and literary output of key players, this project not only balances out an examination that has thus far has been weighted towards historical and philosophical inquiries, but it also sets a precedent for further explorations of an interdisciplinary nature. Finally, this work is an important addition to US-based English-language scholarship in the field of Korean

Studies, which is comparatively lacking in research on topics prior to the twentieth century.

11 See Cho Tong-il, Korean Literature.

15

Context: New Movements in Late Joseon Literature

There are at least two components of the intellectual landscape of this period that

create the backdrop against which West-Believer subjectivity stands out as something distinct. One is the dominant Neo-Confucian worldview that conflicted with the Catholic paradigm. An exposition of this conflict, which played an important part in defining

Catholic subjectivity in Korea as a counter-discourse, helps to illuminate the intellectual ground of the subjectivity shift. This conflict will be explained in the next chapter.

The other component is the general shift away from traditional norms of intellectual and literary activity. As mentioned at the beginning of Section Two above, the introduction and adoption of Western Learning is often cited among the change- producing trends of this period. Indeed, these trends share with the Catholic movement a questioning of established values, a movement toward greater egalitarianism and consciousness of individual worth, and a valuing of the vernacular. However, as this project will show, the subjectivity manifest in West-Believer discourse maintains a further distinction on the basis of its clearly articulated transcendent reference point.

Specific examples from mainstream literature will be referenced for more detailed comparison in the textual analyses that follow in Chapters Three and Four. But first, an elaboration of the representative points of change briefly alluded to at the beginning of this chapter will help to fill out the general context relevant to the subject under discussion.

16

“Practical Learning” and Appeals for Social Reform

In modern scholarship, the labels “Sirhak” (實學), “Sirhak Movement”

(實學運動), “Sirhak School” (實學派), and “Sirhak Scholar” (實學者), are typically applied to the various manifestations of the new emphasis on social reform and practical knowledge that was shared by a number of prominent scholars during the late Joseon period. During its time, however, the trend was not categorized as a particular movement or school. Accordingly, there is some debate over whether the label “Sirhak” should be used at all. For the sake of convenience, I will use the label in the following overview, but the reader should keep in mind that the categorization has been applied retroactively by modern scholars. The characteristics of association with the Sirhak label sometimes vary widely from one “Sirhak Scholar” to the next.

The beginnings of the Sirhak trend are usually traced to Yu Hyeongwon (1622–

73) and Yi Manbu (1664–1732), who advocated the careful examination of real-life social problems and the rectification of corrupt and ineffective practices. It was Yi Ik

(1681–1763), however, who articulated some of the main themes associated with Sirhak and who drew a following around his philosophy. Yi was critical of the discriminatory and unreasonable practices of the government bureaucracy, and insisted that a proper scholar (선비) should strive to help society by pointing out its realities instead of seeking approval from within the established norms. Yi also advocated that constructive protest of social ills be undertaken cooperatively across classes. Yi Ik’s nephew, Yi Yonghyu

(1708–82), carried on his uncle’s legacy, with a focus on its implications for literature.

The affairs of everyday society were the subject of his writings, and he argued that

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literature must serve society, rather than merely gratify or promote the individual scholar

and his milieu. Yi Yonghyu’s focus on the particulars of his surrounding society naturally

translated to an emphasis on being true to what was distinctly Korean, rather than

mimicking the Sino-centric cultural heritage. This opinion was expressed by a number of

Sirhak scholars, and was also translated into a new interest in the study of history, as

exemplified by An Jeongbok (1712–91), another of Yi Ik’s disciples.

One subgroup of Yi Ik’s intellectual heirs associated with the Sirhak trend

included West-Believers Gwon Cheolsin (1736–1801), Yi Gahwan (1742–1801; son of

Yi Yonghyu), and Dasan. In the case of these three, their dissatisfaction with the

prevailing Juja (C. Zhuxi) school of Confucian thought and their interest in the spirit of

the original, pre-Juja classics for guidance on matters of social ethics led them to explore

the texts of Western Learning that claimed to integrate early Confucian thought with

Catholic philosophy. Gwon and Yi’s scholarly pursuits were cut short when they were

executed during the persecution of 1801, but Dasan’s copious scholarship on social issues

became what is popularly regarded as most representative of later Sirhak thought.

Mokminsimseo (牧民心書), Dasan’s detailed treatise on the proper governing of the people, is considered a landmark text among the various scholarly efforts advocating social reform in late Joseon. Like Dasan, Yi Hakgyu (1770–1835) also wrote many

pieces describing the plight of the peasantry. He represented a slight variance from his

Namin (Southerners) peers, however, in that he worked more from an impulse to depict

in poetry whatever struck his imagination from among the things that surrounded him,

rather than mulling over the social and moral implications of literary activity.

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The emphasis of Yi Ik’s disciples on ethics and social responsibility was

complemented by the more materialistic and innovation-oriented reform philosophy of

Hong Daeyong (1731–83), Bak Jiweon (1737–1805), and several other members of the

Noron faction. Hong and Bak both traveled to China, and their respective memoirs from these trips created a stir among their peers both for their observations and their literary styles. In his memoir, Damheon Yeongi (湛軒燕記), Hong endeavored to communicate real-life details independent of any ideological or conceptual framework, and he did not strive to follow literary conventions. Bak likewise eschewed literary conventions in

Yeolha Ilgi (熱河日記), his travel memoir, and he explored the potential of language through innovative uses of classical Chinese. His distinctive composition style was banned under King Jeongjo’s Munche Banjeong (文體反正 “Restoration of Literary

Form”) campaign, which declared that such literary practices disrupted the order of things. Through satirical stories, many of which he featured in Yeolha Ilgi, Bak criticized the corruption and the empty pretension of the scholarly yangban class to which he himself belonged. Bak Jega (1750–1805), another member of this peer group, made as many as four trips to China. Deeply impressed by his observations from these travels, he wrote Bukhak Ui (北學義), in which he discussed methods for effective governing and ways to promote economic growth for the people through the development of commerce and industry. Bak Jega and his aforementioned peers acquired the label Bukhak

(Northern Learning) School, as a reference to the knowledge they gleaned from China, located to the north of Korea. Yi Deokmu (1741–93), who shared with the others an interest in Qing China, was also praised by Bak Jiwon for faithfully depicting local

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Joseon realities in his writing. Alongside Bak Jega and Yi Deokmu, Yu Deukgong

(1748–1807) also sought to concretize and further apply the new theories and methods

introduced by Hong Daeyong and Bak Jiwon. He did this in part by going beyond

traditional thematic boundaries in his poetry and advocating a clear sense of Korean

identity. Yi Ok (1760–1812), known for his miscellaneous stories, was charged under the

Munche Banjeong ruling for using a novelistic style in his government exam. Yi was

exiled on these charges, although Bak Jiwon avoided any serious punishment for the

same infraction, probably by reason of his prominence.12 Yi argued that truth is arrived at

through the direct experience and recognition of material reality. He valued detailed

descriptions of everyday objects and events, descriptions that also communicated his effort to acknowledge the distinctive value and character of all things apart from any hierarchy of value. He shared many other Sirhak scholars’ attention to Koreanness, and was innovative in joining hansi to native folk song styles.

The Broadening Base of Literary Activity

Among the new developments marking the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as a period of change and transition in the intellectual and literary spheres were the broadening base of literary production and consumption, and the adaptation of traditional genres to new values rising from this shift of authorship, subject matter, and audience.

12See Cho Tong-il, Jungse-eseo Guendaero-ui Yihaenggi Munhak 224.

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Such adaptation led to the growth of new sub genres while other changes in society drew

formerly marginalized categories of literary activity further into the mainstream.

The capitalistic enterprise advocated by Bukhak scholars, and represented by Bak

Jiwon’s enterprising and resourceful protagonist in “Heosaengjoen” (許生傳) (“The

Story of Master Heo”), corresponded to the rise of commerce and business in the latter part of the Joseon period. Seoul’s development into a commercial hub allowed more leisure for the middle class of petty officials and jungin,13 who used this leisure to pursue

the arts. The growing participation of these individuals in the composition of hansi, a

traditionally elite genre, culminated in the publication of a series of anthologies. The

earliest of these was Sodae Pungyo (昭代風謠), published in 1737, which was followed by two more editions, each published on the sixtieth anniversary of the previous volume:

Pungyo Sokseon (風謠續選 1797) and Pungyo Samseon (風謠三選 1857). Go Si-eon

(高時彦 1671–1734), an official translator who participated in the publication of the first volume, wrote an introduction that was included in the final volume wherein he suggests that the anthology is a complement to Dongmunseon (東文選 1478), a canonical

anthology of poems written by members of the elite class. Go makes the point that

heaven grants to noble and ignoble alike the same voice. Translators like Go, who

achieved a high level of culture through their required training in classical Chinese and

their frequent travels abroad, produced the majority of contributions in all three editions,

13 Jungin: a class composed of medical practitioners, translators, accountants, and other

educated professionals.

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while most of the remainder were the work of officials involved in the production and

inspection of written materials. The compilation and publication of these anthologies, as

well as the stated justification of them, suggested that members of the middle class were

enjoying a new consciousness and confidence as classical poets in their own right.

Anthologies, Saseol Sijo, Pansori, and Gasa

The most original contribution from individuals of the middle class came in the

form of sijo14 anthologies that were the result of a growing recognition and appreciation of this distinctively Korean genre of lyrical poetry that was usually sung and passed down orally. The genre is believed to have developed in the fourteenth century, at the end of the preceding Goryeo period (918–1392). In tandem with the Sirhak focus on “things at hand” that translated into a strong interest in distinctively Korean cultural features, the country’s survival of two devastating foreign invasions encouraged a general ethnic self- awareness and confidence in being a distinctive culture. In this spirit, Kim Cheontaek, a jungin, created the first sijo anthology in 1728 and titled it Cheonggu Yeongeon

(청구영언),15 or “Songs and Poems of the Green Hills,” “green hills” referring to the

14 The sijo uses a structure of three lines, with each line containing four segments (words

or phrases separated by a natural pause), each of which consists of a specified number of

syllables.

15 There are several variations of the Chinese character version of the title: 靑丘詠言,

靑丘영言, 靑邱永言.

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land of Joseon. The volume believed to be the standard edition (seven variants exist)

contains 580 poems, including several from late Goryeo. The poems of kings, scholars, jungin, gisaeng,16 and anonymous writers shared the same volume. A similar anthology of sijo, titled Haedong Gayo, or Songs from East of Balhae,17 likewise referring to the

land of Korea, was created in 1755 by Kim Sujang, who, like Kim Cheontaek, was a

musician of jungin status. Members of the middle class were now not only participating

in aristocratic literature, but were also taking upon themselves the previously neglected

job of recording, compiling, and preserving a distinctly Korean literary form.

In a sijo poem, the metrically similar first two lines normally introduce the subject,

and the last line, longer than the first two, usually expresses the author’s feelings about

the subject. This concise structure lent itself well to the controlled, elegant sentiments of

scholars and yangban. Extant sijo dating from the first part of the Joseon period were

authored by well-known poets and philosophers, and generally expressed Confucian

sentiments and the desire of the scholar to retreat into nature. Unlike hansi, sijo were

composed in Korean; thus the genre lent itself to widespread adoption by literate

members of the lower classes during the latter part of the Joseon period. In conjunction

with this appropriation of sijo by the non-yangban classes, there appeared the new saseol

sijo, a variation in which the middle part of the poem was not confined to one line of four

segments. This gave the poet freer narrative reign, which made the form a popular mode

16 Female courtesan entertainers.

17 해동가요 海東歌謠; Balhae: C. Bohai 渤海.

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of expression, as evidenced by the large number of saseol sijo published in Cheonggu

Yeongeon and Haedong Gayo. Unlike the dignified sijo of the Confucian gentleman or the yangban poet, saseol sijo were thematically unrestrained. Common human sentiments, everyday events, the antics of an animal—anything could be the subject of poetic composition, and frequently the poems were marked by ribald humor. In the classic sijo, rural scenes and depictions of humble activities usually expressed the scholar’s philosophical escapism and idealism, whereas saseol sijo contained lively, realistic descriptions of the mundane. Although most saseol sijo were likely written by members of the middle class,18 a poem might even feature the narrative voice of a hired hand or a peddler.

The saseol sijo was clearly a medium through which members of the newly “self-

conscious” (Yun 28) lower classes could express their creative impulse and present their

lives and voices uninhibited by rigid Confucian mores and the literary prescriptions of the

elite. To a lesser degree, saseol sijo were also used as a channel to air complaints about injustices and to poke fun at officialdom. When set against the backdrop of the excesses and abuses of the rich, seemingly innocent poems featuring animals and other natural phenomena took on allegorical significance, and some poems made subtle allusions to politically significant landmarks or persons, turning an amusing narrative or image into a

18 Authorship is difficult to determine for the large number of anonymous entries in these

anthologies.

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veiled criticism. Another means by which a writer might make fun of a respected

personage was to assign authorship of a bawdy poem to a well-known scholar.19

Pansori novels, derived from the operatic story-telling of pansori performance,

moved from margin to mainstream during the latter part of the Joseon period. Reflecting

the general creative growth among the non-elite classes, these “commoner’s” novels, as well as the performances of the stories they narrated, became a popular mode of

entertainment, particularly in the nineteenth century. Stories that had been passed down

orally in the pansori tradition were now published in written form. This often resulted in

variations of individual stories, but the general narratives were alike. Pansori narratives

featured the dramas of ordinary people, sometimes in situations of oppression, but they

generally upheld traditional values. For instance, the protagonist of Chunhyang Jeon

(“The Story of Chunhyang”) remains loyal to her husband even in the face of death. In

Sim Cheong Jeon (“The Story of Sim Cheong”), Sim Cheong is rewarded for sacrificing herself for the sake of her blind father, while in Heungbu Jeon (“The Story of Heungbu”),

greed and cruelty are punished, humility and kindness are rewarded, and the story ends

with an affirmation of brotherly duty. Nonetheless, traditional assumptions are also

19 The attachment of the names of respectable scholars to incongruously vulgar poems

has caused some confusion for modern researchers. The assumption is that the

attributions are false and intentionally ironic since these scholars, had they wished to

write such poems themselves, would have chosen to avoid censure by simply remaining

anonymous (see Cho Tong-il, Jungse-eseo Guendaero-ui Yihaenggi Munhak 325).

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slightly troubled in these stories: Chunhyang Jeon celebrates a love affair between a high-ranking government official and the daughter of a lowly courtesan, and the abuses of a provincial official create the setting for the final climax. Moreover, Chunhyang, who is held up as an ideal of womanhood for her chaste loyalty, displays an exuberant charm and spirit that lend her character an earthiness lacking in the traditional model of female virtue, who was as restrained as she was loyal. In Sim Cheong Jeon, the father figure is pathetic and weak, and Sim Cheong’s dramatic sacrifice, when considered more thoughtfully, might be judged more imprudent than filial. Also, in the context of growing commercialism, the virtuous brother in Heungbu Jeon could be perceived as a foolish

simpleton, lacking his greedy brother’s industry.

Gasa poems are indefinite in length and have no prescribed structure apart from

the repetition of a clear rhythm set by a given number of syllables (usually four) that

makes it possible for the poem to be chanted or sung. As with hansi and sijo, authorship

and readership of gasa expanded during the latter part of the Joseon period. The bulk of

later gasa appear to be authored by women and non-yangban men. Also, unlike the earlier gasa written by prominent poets and scholars, the content of later gasa more

frequently dealt with quotidian human emotions and experiences. Because of its

flexibility, the genre lent itself to a wide range of uses, from poetic sentiment and story-

telling to instruction and religious propaganda.

Three new sub-genre of gasa that appeared after the beginning of the eighteenth century were religious: Bulgyo (Buddhist) gasa, the number of which increased as the

exclusively Confucian Joseon regime weakened; Cheonju (Catholic) gasa, which

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appeared with the birth of the indigenous Catholic church in the 1780s; and Donghak

gasa, the first of which became the founding scripture for Donghak, the new religion

established in the 1860s by Choe Jewu. These gasa communicated religious sentiment

and doctrine in an accessible format, contributing to the growth of each religion. Cheonju

gasa, as one manifestation of the Catholic intervention on the traditional Joseon

worldview, will be addressed in more detail in Chapter Four.

Choe Jewu’s Yongdam Yusa, the aforementioned founding gasa of the Donghak

religion, is worthy of attention here for its divergence from tradition on several points.

The message of the poem initially honors Confucian tradition in its emphasis on moral

improvement and in its evident reverence for the hyeonin gunja (賢人君子), the sage-

gentleman who epitomized Confucian virtue. It echoes the Neo-Confucian criticism of

West-Believers for rejecting Confucian morality and filial piety and selfishly focusing on

individual spiritual reward. However, it also asserts that all people are equal in the sight

of Haneulnim (The Revered One of Heaven), and that the divine (Haneulnim) resides in

each person. Furthermore, the Confucian canon is relegated to secondary status by the

insistence that followers must recite and chant a special thirteen-character text that

supersedes all great books. Significantly, Choe’s self-mythologizing and the strongly proto-nationalistic sentiment of the poem provide a magnified example of the newly self-

assertive literature of the latter part of the Joseon period. Choe describes himself as

divinely appointed to bring a message of salvation to the suffering masses of Joseon, and

proclaims that Korea, favored among all nations, will arise victorious in the coming age

of disaster and turmoil. Although there are elements of Donghak theology that suggest

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Catholic influence, Choe criticizes the intervention of foreign cultural and political forces.

Hence his religion is Donghak (Eastern Learning), which is meant to counter the influence of Seohak (Western Learning).

Women’s Voices

The latter part of the Joseon period also witnessed more women’s writing entering public space. The most prominent features of this development were the growth of a new genre of poetry and the appearance of a female-authored public memoir.

Paralleling the growing recognition of vernacular Korean as a valid medium of literary expression, the active composition and circulation of gasa written by women for women led to the birth of a new genre, gyubang gasa (inner chamber gasa), which featured instructive words, descriptions of daily life and special events, celebrations of good fortune, and expressions of grief over personal struggles and tragedies.20

Thematically, some of these gasa reveal a subtle shift in attitude on the part of

individual women. For instance, on the surface, Ssangbyeokga (1794), written by Yi21 of

Yeonan, as a song commemorating the promotion of her son and nephew to official

status, appears to follow the standard thematic trend in gasa-composition of celebrating

20 Instructional gasa authored by men but written for a female audience are also

categorized under gyubang gasa, but the majority of texts in this genre are written by

women.

21 Women were generally referenced by their surnames.

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traditional values. However, Yi draws attention to herself through a long section

describing her own life, her suffering, and her eventual triumph, thereby celebrating her

own success as an individual rather than conforming to the standard practice of self- effacement when celebrating a fortunate event. Also, in Buyeo Nojeonggi (1802), Yi celebrates the rare opportunity of travel awarded her by her son’s success, and expresses relief at being able to set foot outside the home and to see the world, something generally forbidden of women at that time. Another interesting example is Myeongdo Jatansa

(1801), Yun of Namwon’s moving lament over the death of her husband. Yun describes her devotion and love for her husband, and voices her desire to end her life rather than go on living without him. However, Yun’s narrative is somewhat different from typical accounts of the yeollyeo—the celebrated loyal wife of tradition who follows her husband into death—in that it is a first-person account dominated by the subjective experience of grief and despair. When Yun questions the justice of the universe in subjecting her to such loss, she is expressing not the yeollyeo’s feelings of devotion, but a very human, existential angst. Also, the account is distinctive in its emphasis on the couple’s affection for each other, rather than on dutiful loyalty. In a similar vein, Hongssi Buin Gaenyeosa

(late nineteenth c.), written in the tradition of instructive words passed on from one generation to the next, deviates from the standard gaenyeoga (“song of instruction to women”) that details virtuous conduct along conventional lines. Unlike the anonymous and predictable voice of the standard version, this modified gaenyeoga features the writer’s own opinions and experiences.

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One of the most harrowing and tragic events of the late Joseon period was the death of the crown prince Sado. Fearing that his son’s increasing mental instability would jeopardize the political equilibrium so painstakingly achieved during his reign, King

Yeongjo (r.1724–76) was compelled to order the prince’s death. However, to protect the prince’s family from being criminalized by association, it was necessary to avoid a traditional execution that would in any way maim the prince’s body, which, according to custom, would brand him a criminal. The solution was to order the prince to climb into a large rice chest, which was then locked and left on the palace grounds until the prisoner died of exposure and starvation. The repercussions from this event carried into the politics, both personal and public, of succeeding generations.

Many years after the event, Lady Hyegyeong Hong (1735–1815), Sado’s wife and the mother of King Jeongjo (r.1776–1800), completed Hanjungnok22 (“Records Written in Silence”), a four-part memoir written over a period of ten years. It recounts her life in court, the events leading to the prince’s death, and the terrible incident itself. On one level, the memoir presents a woman who is faithful to traditional values: Lady Hong’s sense of maternal and public duty keeps her from committing suicide after the trauma and shame of the Sado event, and, despite her undisguised sorrow and shock, she remains loyal to King Yeongjo, to whom she feels indebted for protecting the status of her son.

22 In Chinese-character versions of the title, han is rendered alternately as 閑 (quiet leisure), or 恨 (sorrow). The English translation in brackets is taken from Jahyun Kim

Haboush’s translation.

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Also, she displays a conventional self-restraint, writing more about others than about

herself. Nonetheless, the memoir is a remarkable text of agency in its stated purpose as a

defense of family honor, and it marks Korea’s first instance of a woman, writing in the vernacular, narrating a public event. Furthermore, in her multilayered memoir, Lady

Hong honestly depicts a flawed royal court marked by misconduct, petty intrigues, and far-reaching tragedy.

The preceding overview has pointed out notable literary manifestations of the changes that were entering the cultural space of late Joseon. Whether they were part of an openly articulated movement, such as the Namin critique of official ideology, the Bukhak effort toward innovation, and the new middle class foray into literary activity and guardianship, or whether they appeared unannounced in individual texts or through the natural growth of a new genre, these manifestations shared the following: a questioning of traditional ideals and a new attention to the real particularities of human life removed somewhat from a formerly prescribed hierarchy of value.

These trends are often said to be indicative of a new self-consciousness or self- realization and a new consciousness of individual worth. 23 At this point in general scholarship, the correlation of these trends to a new realization of self is more a matter of interpretation than of textual evidence of a clear and intentional articulation of this theme.

23 For several examples of scholarship in this vein, see O’s overview in “Geundae Sigi-ui

Gijeom.” See also Yun 19–23, 37.

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Nonetheless, this emergence of an increased turning for reference to the subject of one’s

own person and ground—rather than being content with what is allotted by tradition and

society—suggests at least a movement in that direction, and allows such trends to be discussed in terms of a new episteme.

The Distinctiveness of West-Believer Subjectivity

On one level, discourse influenced by or directly linked to Western Learning appears to coincide with the changes taking place during this period: Catholic texts from

China helped inform scholars’ critiques of traditional assumptions and their attention to social reform; aristocratic yangban Catholic leaders turned their attention to the lower classes and utilized popular modes of communication; Catholic teaching promoted the idea of equality; and adherence to Catholicism entailed a struggle to live according to personal conviction rather than social prescription. But the Catholic-influenced stream was unique in that it carried a clearly articulated shift of presupposition based on belief in a distinct human mind or soul and a transcendent God. Dasan and the Korean Catholics diverged from the dominant worldview of their milieu by separating human agency from the cosmic order. In comparison, although the other changing trends of late Joseon revealed a new questioning of received authority and a growing assertion of one’s own subjectivity and agency, there was no indication of the kind of subjective separation, cosmic or even social, that appeared in Catholic-influenced discourse.

In this light, the West-Believer texts that form the core of this project will be examined as expressive of a new subjectivity on the part of the writers. From the

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traditional Confucian assumption that human essence is identical to that of nature, Dasan

shifts to a position of recognizing human beings as distinct from nature. This shift

informs and fuels his efforts for social reform based on objective analyses of the rules

that govern nature and society. The Catholic converts, for their part, shift from the

established world-view that individuals are part of a closed cosmic system that defines

their respective roles, to faith in a transcendent world in which belief rather than social

praxis is paramount, and on the strength of which martyrdom is possible.

Preview of Coming Chapters

In Chapter Two I provide an overview of the political and social context of late

Joseon as a crucible of change, and describe the growth of the Catholic movement and the government’s increasing censure of Catholic activities. By placing loyalty to God above obedience to elders and loyalty to the king, Catholicism challenged the central

Confucian values of filial piety and loyalty, and by disregarding the government’s jurisdiction of religious activities, the Catholic movement came into conflict with the

Joseon government. I point out that the Catholic paradigm underlying this conflict leads to the realization of an intellectually independent human subject.

Chapters Three and Four present the close readings and textual analyses that are the main focus of this study. In Chapter Three, I start by introducing Dasan Jeong

Yagyong’s departure from orthodox Neo-Confucian philosophy and the possible influence of Western Learning on his thought. Through an analysis of a selection of

Dasan’s poems, I identify an underlying paradigm of subject-distinction embodied in the anthropomorphic, oppositional, and socially critical themes and images of these poems. I

33 conclude by pointing out that Dasan nonetheless remains faithful to the Confucian ideal of ethical praxis, and his subjectivity engages the world, rather than seeking autonomy.

I begin Chapter Four with an overview of the body of religious and non-personal literature from the early years of the Catholic movement, which reveal an evolution from syncretism with Confucianism to isolation from mainstream society and a focus on the soul and the next life. Three personal works that survived the earliest persecution constitute the bulk of this chapter’s discussion of human subjectivity: Hwang Sayeong’s

Silk Letter, the letters of Yi Sunyi written from prison, and the confession of Choi Haedu.

I present these as expressive of the subject’s identification with transcendence and immortality rather than tradition and society. Hwang severs himself from traditional authority and identifies with a group linked by spiritual and intellectual ties rather than geographical or ethnic; Yi affirms the primacy of immortality and transcendence; and

Choe places himself under scrutiny and chastises his physical embodiment. I conclude by pointing out that although these writers, like Dasan, see the human subject as distinguished from the cosmos by something transcending material phenomenon, their goal of salvation and immortality leads to a disengagement from the world.

In Chapter Five, I offer a brief overview of the main points of this study, followed by an observation on the theme of moral imperative shared by both Catholic and Neo-

Confucian discourse. This observation links to a discussion on periodization and the place of Catholic-influenced discourse in Korea’s transition to modernity. In this discussion, I point out several factors that complicate a neat correlation of West-Believer discourse with either pre-modernity or modernity. But I also suggest that, through its subjectivity of human distinction, West-Believer discourse introduces to the late Joseon intellectual landscape something closer to a modern sense of the human self. Although

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the topics introduced in this last chapter are matters for further research, I conclude that

West-Believer discourse may reasonably be fit into the category of “transitional

literature.”

Scope of the Project

This project is limited to an examination of the personal writings of specific

West-Believers in relation to the official Neo-Confucian worldview and the literary

trends of the period. What is left out of this study is the role of pre-existing counter- mainstream views or belief systems that may have also paved the way for these individuals to take on a divergent subjectivity. For instance, although it was officially suppressed, Buddhism, practiced privately, helped fulfill a role neglected by

Confucianism: care of the soul and preparation for the afterlife. It would be worthwhile to research the potential influence of Buddhism on individual Catholics prior to their respective conversions. Also, a study of the parallels between the martyr accounts propagated by the Catholic Church and the personal portraits offered in Hwang and Yi’s letters and Choe’s essay would present a fascinating analysis, as would a comparison of these personal writings with those of Chinese Catholics facing similar conflicts of worldview. These topics, however, are not within the scope of my study at this time, and will be set aside for future projects.

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Chapter 2: The Encounter between Confucianism and Catholicism in

Late Joseon

This chapter describes the encounter between the mainstream Confucian

worldview and the new paradigms introduced by Western Learning as relating to the

subjective identity of the West-Believer. I begin with an overview of the turbulent and

transitional characteristics of late Joseon society and the ensuing intellectual development

that created a space of reception for Western Learning. The remainder of the chapter

focuses on the reception of Western Learning, the growth of the Catholic movement, and

the basic points of conflict between Confucianism and Catholicism that came into light as

the contours of Catholic doctrine and identity grew sharper. I conclude by linking the

new Catholic paradigm to a human subjectivity of intellectual and spiritual distinction,

represented in the individual discourses that will be properly examined in the following

chapters.

Late Joseon: Turmoil and Transition

As the eighteenth century opened, Joseon politics were marked by intense factional struggles carrying over from the previous century. The reigns of Yeongjo and

Jeongjo brought some stability to the country, but overall the late Joseon period was marked by continuous power struggles and growing social problems, which No

Gilmyeong describes as the outward manifestation of the divisions and contradictions that were inherent in the Joseon dynasty (23).

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The politics of the late Joseon period were dominated by the Noron faction, which had wrested power from their rivals, the Soron, at the end of the seventeenth century.

Members of the Namin, a subgroup of the Soron, and other literati who were pushed to

the margins of political power moved to the provinces and established centers of learning

that became accessory to the factional struggles. With national administration falling to

the lot of a single faction, monarchic authority was weakened.

To combat this threat to the stability of the state, King Yeongjo (1694–1776,

r.1724–76) adopted a policy of distributing official positions equally to members of both

factions and actively promoted cooperation. This brought about a measure of equilibrium

and strength that carried over into the reign of Jeongjo (1752–1800, r.1776–1800), who

maintained the power-balancing policy instituted by his predecessor.

The problem of factionalism was not entirely resolved, however, and with the

bitter conflicts that arose around Yeongjo’s grim decision to do away with Prince Sado,

his deranged son, further subdivisions formed between those who had supported and

those who had opposed the condemned prince. Since most of the former were members

of the Namin and the latter composed largely of Noron, the new conflict served to widen

the main political fault line. At Jeongjo’s sudden death in 1800, the authority of his

young successor, Sunjo (r. 1800–1834), just ten years old when he ascended the throne,

was appropriated by the Queen dowager, Yeongjo’s oldest surviving queen, who took

advantage of the official censure of Catholicism to rid the government of her rival Namin,

many of whom were associated with the growing Catholic movement. Likewise with

succeeding kings, any further efforts to restore a power balance were thwarted by the

37 domination of what became known as “in-law politics” that marked the closing decades of the Joseon dynasty.

On the economic front, governmental measures to tackle serious fiscal problems, along with advances in technology, brought about changes in the economic structure of late Joseon society. In addition, a government-designated class of merchants, the gongin, began accumulating capital, and with the development of agricultural technology and changes in agricultural economy, some members of the farming class were able to acquire wealth and land, leading to the emergence of a commoner-landlord class.

Alongside a growing number of independent artisans, the activity of private merchants increased, as did commercial activity in the countryside. Nonetheless, these economic developments fell short of a fundamental solution to many of the problems left by the wreckage of war and official corruption and neglect. Abuses of official power were widespread in the provinces and increased after the death of Jeongjo, in spite of efforts to curb corruption through the appointment of undercover investigators.

Tenant farmers who were unable to reap the benefits of the new economic developments became more impoverished. Numerous natural disasters at the beginning of the nineteenth century compounded the sufferings of the peasantry. Conditions failed to improve, and the difficulties of the lower classes helped spur the Donghak uprising, led by the followers of Choe Jewu, in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Under the social instability and the dire economic circumstances of the time, Choe’s charismatic leadership and the egalitarian doctrine and nationalism of the Donghak religion held great appeal for the peasantry.

38

Such political and social woes also impacted the traditional class system centered

on the yangban, the aristocratic scholar-officials who were educated in the Confucian

classics and expected to participate in public life. Yangban who had been marginalized by factional or “in-law” politics, or who became victims of economic hardship, were often unable to maintain the lifestyle and responsibilities expected of their class. As the number of mollak (ruined) yangban grew, and as members of other classes, such as the aforementioned gongin or the jungin, became more active in public life, practical distinctions between the yangban elite and the lower classes grew less pronounced. The

trickling down of formerly elite cultural and literary activity to the middle classes was

partly the result of such practical changes in economic status.

The politics of the last several decades of the nineteenth century were frequently

dominated by the strong-minded Yi Ha-eung (1820–98), better known as the Heungseon

Daewongun, who took over as regent in 1864, at the beginning of the reign of his son,

Gojong (1852–1919 r.1864–1907). The Daewongun instituted reforms and tried to stabilize the nation by strengthening the monarchy and assigning appointments based on merit rather than factional affiliation. But his reform strategies were limited in their effectiveness and aroused the ire of the yangban, who pushed to remove him from his position of influence. The Empress Myeongseong, engaged in power struggles with her father-in-law, had him sent into exile in 1882, but he was reinstated in 1895, three years before his death. In addition to seeking to stabilize the government, the Daewongun was bent on protecting Korea from foreign intrusion. However, his xenophobic foreign policy served only to heighten tensions between Korea and stronger foreign governments.

39

Thoroughly weakened by the adverse economic and political circumstances of the preceding decades, the Joseon regime was forced into an unfavorable treaty with Japan in

1876, in spite of the regent’s attempts to protect his country. The treaty with Japan was followed by unfair treaty demands from other foreign powers contesting with each other for center stage at the turn of the twentieth century. Korea’s internal struggles were reduced to variables in the plots of competing foreign powers, and finally overshadowed by Japan’s annexation of the country in 1910.

Intellectual Ferment

The difficult circumstances leading into the last two centuries of the Joseon dynasty encouraged the exploration of new ideas, and the intellectual ferment of this period, notable for the changes it manifested in the literary and cultural activity described in Chapter One, might be said to mark the beginnings of Korea’s ideological transition to the modern age. As early as the seventeenth century, thoughtful members of the elite, resentful of official corruption and continuing social problems, expressed criticism of the

Juja-centered Neo-Confucian ideology that legitimized the status quo and promoted traditions that obstructed positive change. Interest grew in the “heterodox” Confucian philosophy of Wang Yangming (1472–1529), as well as in Western Learning. Among the common populace who had little to gain from Confucianism, interest in heterodox religions was kindled in part by nomadic literati, composed of jungin and members of the aristocracy who were isolated from the larger intellectual communities due to illegitimate

40

birth status, political strife, criminal activity, poverty, or simply by preference.24 Many of

the populace embraced the Mireuk faith, a messianic Buddhism according to which the

Mireuk would alleviate the sufferings of this life and establish a utopia, and sought secret

knowledge through traditional fortune-telling arts and mystical teachings contained in

works such as the apocalyptic Jeonggamnok, a compilation of prophecies that had likely been passed on orally, and which was first mentioned in official records during the reign of Yeongjo (1724–76).

In response to the social ills of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the

aforementioned “practical learning” method of scholarship developed among those who

remained more or less in the mainstream of Neo-Confucian learning. Certain notable

Sirhak scholars, such as Bak Jiweon, were members of the dominant Noron faction, but

most scholars associated with this trend were those who had been marginalized, a

situation that heightened their critical awareness of the political and social ills of the

times. Even Bak was something of a misfit, deprived of the usual education until later in

his youth, and he did not follow the usual path of studying for and taking examinations to

attain officialdom. Also, Sirhak scholars Yi Deokmu, Yu Deukgong, and Bak Jega

(likewise associated with the Noron faction) were sons of concubines, which meant they

lacked full legitimacy in family- and faction-based status.

Some Sirhak scholars addressed the issue of agricultural reform, promoting the development of an agricultural economy based on the independent, self-employed farmer.

24 See No 28.

41

Yu Hyeongweon, the Sirhak forerunner mentioned earlier, had focused on the issue of land ownership, while also advocating abolishment of the official examination system and implementation of equal opportunity policies. Yu’s ideas were never implemented, but they inspired Yi Ik and later Namin scholars to explore and apply practical solutions to social problems, including those related to public health. Dasan, for instance, being one of “the first in Korea to show enough interest in smallpox immunization to experiment with it on Korean bodies,” exemplified the later Sirhak drive to verify practical theory through experiment (Baker, “Sirhak Medicine” 157). In his treatises on various social issues, including the aforementioned Mokminsimseo for provincial administrators, Dasan drew directly from his own experiences in the provinces during several official appointments. Alongside this stream of scholarship that addressed issues associated with the agricultural and provincial side of Joseon life, the school of thought developed by the Qing-inspired Bugin (Northerners) was centered in the cities and encouraged commercial activity. Although their topics of study contrasted somewhat with those of the Sirhak scholars who emphasized agricultural reform, the Bugin likewise promoted a fact-centered methodology and criticized the shortcomings of traditional practices, even going so far as to propose the establishment of a bureaucracy that would recruit its members through a system of education open to everyone, regardless of class.

As already noted, this emphasis on examining what was actual and immediate encouraged many Sirhak practitioners to develop their scholarship in a direction growing out of a special interest in Korean history, geography, culture, and language, in contrast to the traditional focus on China.

42

This trend in scholarship was encouraged during the reign of King Yeongjo, as well as under his successor Jeongjo, who established the Gyujanggak library in 1776 as a center of research, and assigned scholars to prepare detailed works that would assist in the management of the country. This active pursuit of practical solutions and openness to new and constructive ideas no doubt contributed to the decades of relative stability and cultural growth enjoyed under the reigns of Yeongjo and Jeongjo during the latter half of the eighteenth century.

After the death of Jeongjo, with the descent into the political infighting that marked most of the nineteenth century, efforts at reform failed to bear the fruit envisioned by the earlier Sirhak scholars. However, something of a shift in cultural consciousness continued, as indicated by what Hoyt calls the “meeting of high and low culture” (506). The entrance of the middle classes into the elite literary arena, the growing publication of literature that varied more widely in genre, theme, and authorship, and the flowering of folk art forms like pansori and mask dance suggested that traditional norms and hierarchies were being transformed.

The Reception of Western Learning in Korea

The intellectual curiosity of the late Joseon literati extended toward the new knowledge from the West that was embodied in the writings and cultural artifacts of

European Catholic missionaries in China. The writings of these Catholic missionaries, composed in classical Chinese, included topics in Western science as well as Catholic teaching, and were transmitted to Korea by traveling scholars.

43

Bringing new concepts and new adaptations of traditional philosophy into this

space of transition and exploration, “Western Learning,” as it was called, attracted both

adherents and detractors. Although this body of learning was introduced by the

missionaries as compatible with and supplementary to the best of Confucian tradition,

Scholastic arguments underlying the main philosophical and theological expositions in

these texts were based on presuppositions that did not exist in the Neo-Confucian

metaphysical interpretation of reality.

Western Learning introduced into the Korean intellectual arena a new paradigm

that included the following components: distinct and separate categories of identification

for the metaphysical world; truth as propositional; the divine as an anthropomorphic,

conscious, independent being; humans as cognitive beings distinguished from the cosmos

and possessing eternal souls; and virtue as involving intellectual belief in and obedience

to God’s will. In contrast, the pre-existing Neo-Confucian paradigm assumed the

following: metaphysical categories based on activity and function within an all- encompassing dynamic; interpretation according to an ethical criterion that precedes a notion of objective propositional truth; terms such as “Heaven,” or “Emperor on High” as referring to the Great Ultimate, the impersonal source of moral order in the universe; humans as relational and acting beings; and virtue as the natural expression of an innate moral sense, which itself is one manifestation of the all-pervasive li (principle). For its part, traditional Confucian teaching, in contrast to Neo-Confucianism, did not present a comprehensive metaphysical paradigm, but the foundational Confucian principle of ren

(仁) clearly articulated, both in the ideograph itself and through the thematic content of

44 the Four Books, a definition centered on human relationships, which in turn implied the primacy of immanence and interrelation over transcendence and independence.

Furthermore, the new teaching brought with it a shift of loyalty and authority for the individual convert. Now that primary loyalty was extended to this transcendent God and his representative Church and Pope, the heretofore uncontested authority of king, forebears, and elder, while not entirely undermined, was relativised. Also, since Neo-

Confucian hegemony in Korea extended into the space of religious rituals, the Catholic separation of propositional belief from universal moral pattern and the embracing of individual salvation led to the assumption of religious autonomy on the part of Catholics.

Thus, Western Learning, tolerated at first, was eventually labeled a “perverse doctrine” and its followers became further separated from the mainstream.

First Encounters25

This import of Western Learning from China began as early as 1603, when Yi

Gwangjeong, on a diplomatic mission to Beijing, returned with a copy of Matteo Ricci’s world map. In 1614, Yi Sugwang (1563–1628) published Jibongyuseol, which included a brief introduction of Ricci’s Tianzhushiyi, indicating that this work, the most widely read of Western Learning texts, had been transmitted to Korea by then. Jeong Duweon (1581–

25 In this summary of the introduction of Western Learning to Korea, I follow the outline of events as given in Cha, Joseon Hugi; Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi Cheonjugyosa; Cho

Tong-il, Jungse-eseo; and Kim Okhui, Hanguk Seohak Sasangsa.

45

?) met the Jesuit João Rodrigues (1561–1633) while on a mission to China in 1631 and

brought back Western books and artifacts given to him by Rodrigues. Five years later, at

the beginning of the Manchu invasion of Korea, the crown prince Sohyeon was taken to

China, and returned in 1645 with a collection of Western books that had been given to

him by Jesuit missionaries with whom he had conversed during his captivity. And around

1720, Yi Imyeong (1658–1722), also on an official diplomatic mission, met the Jesuit

fathers Ignatius Kögler (1680–1749) and Joseph Suarez (1656–1736) in Beijing and

discussed Western astronomy and religion with much interest, as did Hong Daeyong in

1766, with Frs. Augustine von Hallerstein (1703–74) and Anton Gogeisl (1701–71).

During the reign of Jeongjo, a strong interest in the philosophical and religious writings of the Jesuits developed, especially among Namin scholars. In 1779, a group of

Namin scholars, related to each other by family as well as factional lineage, gathered in a

Buddhist monastery for the purpose of studying and discussing Western Learning. This event is sometimes hailed as the birth of the Catholic Church in Korea, although it was not until after Yi Seunghun was baptized in Beijing in 1784 and returned with more books on Catholicism that gatherings became distinctly religious and were carried on in

secret to avoid interference from the state, which monitored all ritual activities. Under the

leadership of Yi Seunghun (1756–1801), Yi Byeok (1752–85), and Gweon Ilsin (?–1791),

the initial study group expanded to include members of the jungin class. This group met

regularly in the Seoul residence of jungin Kim Beomu (1751–87). In early spring of 1785,

the secret gathering was discovered and the participants arrested. The yangban in the

group were released, but Kim, accused of propagating “perverse doctrines,” was

46 imprisoned and tortured before being exiled to Danyang in Chungcheong Province.

Weakened by the wounds suffered during his torture, Kim died two years later.

Soon after the Catholic gathering was disrupted, Yu Haweon, a scholar-official, recommended that the importation of Western books be prohibited, and by the following year, Western Learning was officially banned. Over the next few years, other attempts were made at suppressing the Catholic movement, but it continued to grow, and it spread into the provinces among both yangban and members of the lower classes, the literate of whom were now able to access Korean translations of Catholic texts. Communications with the church in Beijing continued in spite of the state’s prohibitions, and in 1792, the bishop of Beijing reported to Rome that the Korean Church had been founded. Two years later, a Chinese priest, Zhou Wenmo (周文謨), was clandestinely sent to Korea to minister to the Church, which had grown to about four thousand members, even without the assistance of foreign missionaries.

Matteo Ricci and Confucianism

This indigenous founding of Catholicism by members of the Confucian literati was, in part, the effect of Matteo Ricci’s (1552–1610) vision and missionary method, by which Catholicism was presented as compatible with Confucianism. In fact, it was assumed by Ricci and his followers that Christian faith and reverence for God would enable the good Confucian to lead the moral life demanded by Confucian philosophy.

The “pioneer Catholics were moral men, concerned about the moral issues of their day.

They converted to Catholicism because of their strong Confucian beliefs and values, not

47

in reaction against them” (Baker, “From Pottery to Politics” 129). Nonetheless, as apparent from the Joseon state’s censure of Catholicism, to the mainstream understanding, Catholicism and Confucianism were incompatible.

Matteo Ricci’s activities in China and the initial response to his intellectual legacy reveal the irony of his tremendous effort at integration falling short in terms of methodology and an adequate grasp of Confucian presuppositions. In 1582, thirty years after the Jesuit missionary Francis Xavier died on an island off the coast of China, where he had waited in vain for entrance to the mainland, Ricci arrived in Macao and soon became the key to the success of the Jesuit mission in China. Under the sponsorship of

Xavier’s successor, the brilliant and open-minded Alessandro Valignano, Ricci and his partner Michele Ruggieri painstakingly worked to master the Chinese language, adopt

Chinese ways, and become integrated into Chinese society. Eighteen years after his arrival, Ricci and his colleagues were finally allowed to establish a mission in Beijing. By this time, Ricci had completed a Latin translation of the Confucian Four Books, was fluent in Chinese, and had acquired enough knowledge of Chinese culture and thought to engage in conversations with the Confucian literati. Ricci’s primary effort was to point out what Chinese and Christian tradition had in common, and to indigenize Christianity by adopting a life-style that accorded with the Confucian socio-ethical system. Specific

means of indigenization included utilizing traditional Chinese terminology and its

48 underlying ideas and conceptions, and integrating traditional rites and customs into the activity of the mission.26

Ricci’s mission in China coincided with the gradual decline of the Ming dynasty, a period during which the government relied heavily on Confucian ideology as a means to maintain its authority. Thus, Ricci’s encounter with China became essentially an encounter with Chinese Confucianism of the sixteenth century.27 Foss notes that Ricci’s

Renaissance education, having taught him to integrate the Greco-Roman heritage with

Christian tradition, prepared him to likewise integrate Confucianism and Christianity

(259). It was not difficult for Ricci and his colleagues to adopt a favorable stance toward

Confucianism, since the moral teaching and the humanism of Confucius agreed with their own understanding of virtue. Accordingly, the Jesuits “attempted to define the universal truth of a Christian God within Confucianism. The Jesuits thought in a Confucian way by defining human beings in moral terms, proving the existence of God with secular knowledge, borrowing terms from the Chinese classics, and taking the enemies of

Confucianism (Taoism and Buddhism) as their own” (Li 122). In spite of Confucian borrowings from Taoism and Buddhism, the sentiment at the time branded the followers of those religions as “enemies of Confucianism,” which conveniently offered the Jesuits another point of identification with Confucians. Li further argues that the Jesuits’ emphasis on Confucianism was not only a strategy, but also arose from their sincere

26 See Sebes 589.

27 See Spalatin 660.

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conviction that Confucianism was compatible with their understanding of Christianity, as

well as with the Renaissance humanism they had inherited in Europe. Thus, as part of this

effort to communicate Catholic philosophy through means characteristic of Chinese

tradition, Ricci undertook to re-write a catechism that Ruggieri had composed, focusing

more on natural philosophy than on divine revelation. This work, considered a “pre-

evangelical dialogue” (Lancashire and Hu 15), or what we might call a work of Christian

apologetics, was the aforementioned Tianzhushiyi (“The True Meaning of the Lord of

Heaven”).28

The book takes the form of a dialogue between Ricci, the “Western Scholar,” and

a “Chinese Scholar,” with the discussion developing around the nature of self-cultivation.

Ricci argues that the Confucian engaged in self-cultivation must also believe and serve

God, and a believer must engage in self-cultivation to achieve the greatest good. He

justifies his arguments by drawing on the Confucian classics and augments the teaching

of Confucianism by expounding on the nature of God and man—a subject absent in the

Confucian classics, which address only the relationship between heaven and man. Ricci

introduces the subject of God in the first chapter and expounds on it in the second,

drawing attention to the necessity of a creator God to explain the existence of the world,

28 Citations of Tianzhushiyi will refer to the edition titled The True Meaning of the Lord

of Heaven, edited and translated by Lancashire and Hu, and numbers will refer to page numbers in this edition. Also, references to Tianzhushiyi from hereon will use the

shortened English title: True Meaning.

50

refuting the Buddhist, Taoist and Neo-Confucian theories regarding the source of the universe, and identifying the ancient Chinese “Sovereign on High” (Shangdi 上帝) and

“Heaven” (Tian 天) with the Christian God (Ricci 71–132). He then devotes five chapters to the subject of the human being and the cultivation of virtue (133–408). In this section, which constitutes the bulk of the book, Ricci emphasizes the distinction of humankind from the rest of the created world by possession of a spiritual soul, and he asserts that the end of each human person is in the world to come, not in this world. He explains that the cultivation of virtue is correctly motivated by the desire for reward in the next world, by gratitude to God, and by the desire “to harmonize with, and to obey, the Lord of

Heaven’s sacred will” (313), which is the highest of these three motives. Ricci does not bring up the subject of Jesus until the eighth and final chapter, and gives only a brief account of the plan of salvation and the life of Jesus. His primary aim in the book is to argue for the reasonability of belief in the existence of the Christian God and the compatibility of Western Catholic concepts of God and humanity with those of

Confucian tradition. After Ricci’s death, the remaining Jesuit missionaries expanded on his apologetics, continuing his method of philosophical dialogue as a means to communicate the gospel.

In spite of its influence on certain key literati, Ricci’s work received a mixed reception in China. It was denounced by Taoists, Buddhists, and Neo-Confucians, whose philosophies he had criticized in the book.29 But his fiercest opponents were Confucian

29 See Ricci, True Meaning 99–121, 203–209, 239–259, 391–407.

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traditionalists who wanted to preserve the transmission of orthodoxy. Under the biting

criticism of these Confucians, “Ricci and his colleagues were shown to be ignorant of the

finer nuances of Chinese thought” (Lancashire and Hu 45). The dialogue form used by

Ricci was similar to that used in The Analects, which attempts to present an argument in

evolving descriptions of reality rather than in constructing absolute definitions, but his

method of argumentation was more Scholastic than Confucian. In fact, Song Young-Bae

describes the True Meaning as the first specialized publication to introduce Western

philosophical thought, especially Aristotilian philosophy and Thomism. He points out the

discrepancy between the questions of the fictional Chinese scholar, which can be

understood only within the paradigms of Neo-Confucianism, and Ricci’s responses, which “develop in accordance with Aristotle’s philosophical system and the theology of

Thomas Aquinas” (“Conflict and Dialogue” 225). Spence notes that Ricci’s classical

training taught him to use an intellectually precise idiom in his effort to summarize

Chinese philosophy and ethics, an idiom that would appeal more to his contemporaries in

Europe than to his Confucian friends, and to use Roman and Latin models rather than

images drawn from the Bible in his exposition of Christian theology (15).

Aside from the issue of Ricci’s methodology being more or less inappropriate for

the task at hand, modern scholars, like Ricci’s seventeenth century critics, have pointed

out his failure to comprehend central ideas of various Chinese schools of thought

(Lancashire and Hu 47–48). The Confucian traditionalists disputed the idea of what Ricci

identified as Chinese theism revealed in early Confucian teaching, and they opposed the

Catholic doctrines of the soul, the Incarnation, human nature, and the afterlife. But the

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focal issue seemed to be Ricci’s attempt to infuse the Confucian concept of heaven with

the idea of the personal God of Christianity. Modern scholars are quick to turn to this

issue when a simplistic assertion is made about the compatibility of Catholic and

Confucian teaching, pointing out that it is difficult to interpret the Confucian “tian (天)”

as a personal God (Huang 85). Dunne states that the meaning of the Chinese terms was

never rendered precisely in the Confucian classics, by reason of which Ricci was able to

adopt them in the first place: “He sought for words which had an approximation of the

Christian idea and, by process of explanation and instruction, endowed them with the

power to evoke the correct Christian concept” (282). Ricci defended his interpretation of

the indeterminate Confucian “heaven” by referring to earlier Confucian writings that

appeared to speak of a divine entity that was more personal than the “heaven” of his

Confucian contemporaries. But the issue remained an obstacle in later dialogues between

Ricci’s followers and their Chinese contemporaries: the former could not understand the

Confucian concept of the impersonal ultimate, and the latter could not grasp the idea of a

personal God (Luk 187).

Related to these differing conceptions of the ultimate are what Song identifies as

the problem of an excessive emphasis on soul-body dualism in Ricci’s writing, and the differing foundations for moral action in the Christian and Confucian pursuit of virtue.

The emphasis on the separation of soul and body encouraged a focus on the next world, an outlook difficult to understand and accept in Confucian culture, for which the primary interest is the interaction between human beings in this life (“Conflict and Dialogue”

227– 228). This focus on a separate soul and reward in the next life in turn supports what

53

Song calls “Christian moral utilitarianism” by which God’s reward of good and

punishment of evil induces moral behavior, in contrast to “Confucian moral idealism”

according to which virtue is pursued for the sake of perfecting oneself (235). To Ricci,

the “Neo-Confucian notion of original goodness based on Heavenly Principle is

completely insufficient for encouraging good and prohibiting evil” (236). But to the

Confucian, it is one’s own conscience that rewards or punishes good or evil, and from

this humanistic viewpoint “the God of Christianity is no more than the conscience

immanent to our minds” (245).

Ricci’s argument was also handicapped by his failure to consider the intellectual

history of Confucianism, as evident in his limited criticism of Neo-Confucian

metaphysics. “Ricci, in examining these [neo-Confucian] concepts, did not take account of their connotations within their original thought systems. He analyzed these terms from the perspective of scholastic philosophy and could see only superficial similarities which he criticized while failing to understand their deeper meaning” (Lancashire and Hu 48).

In effect, while stressing the basic similarity between Christianity and Confucianism, he was at the same time denying the metaphysical framework of Neo-Confucianism (Song

Young-Bae, “Conflict and Dialogue” 226). It is not surprising then, that “[f]or the ordinary Chinese reader, the sections which treat these concepts seem somewhat strange and the discussion seems to lack a satisfactory conclusion” (Lancashire and Hu 48). For instance, in his discussion of the Confucian concept of li (理) (“principle”), Ricci’s scholastic training restricted him to a presupposition that was entirely different from that of his Confucian contemporaries. Ricci understood li as principle that is “dependent and

54

cannot be the source of things” (Song Young-Bae, “Conflict and Dialogue” 230). He saw

it as similar to the Aristotelian formal cause that exists within the substance and defines it

as an existence. However, if a Confucian were to use the language of Aristotelian

philosophy, he would likely equate li not only with the formal cause, but also with the

efficient cause that moves the object, and the final cause that prescribes the purpose of its

motion. In the traditional Confucian worldview the universe as animated, itself a living

being, rather than the inanimate object of Aristotelian philosophy (231–34). Ricci

apparently failed to take into account the fundamental difference between his

presuppositions and those of his Chinese contemporaries, for whom “the concept of an

external efficient cause, that transcends things and initiates their motions, was not conceivable” (235).

Despite the various deficiencies in Ricci’s apologetic work, it appears that the theories of Ricci and his followers did make sense to a number of Chinese scholars, who

accepted the Catholic faith while keeping their Confucian philosophy (Luk 175).

Lancashire and Hu identify the strengths of Ricci’s book that allowed these and other less

critical scholars to view it favorably. First, its approach of natural reason made it

understandable to Chinese scholars, and as a philosophical-theological synthesis of

Confucianism and Christianity it led them to investigate Christian theology further.

Secondly, its stress on self-cultivation was agreeable to the Confucian mindset. Finally, although Ricci’s understanding of Confucian metaphysics may have been wanting, his command of Chinese and fluency in the Four Books allowed him to make fruitful use of quotations from them, which provided a base upon which further discussion could take

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place. This, along with his use of traditional Chinese terms for theological terms, facilitated the indigenization of Christianity. 30 Most importantly, however, this and

Ricci’s other publications “may correctly be regarded as the first lengthy expressions of

dialogue between China and the West and, more specifically, between representatives of

Chinese and Western value systems” (53).

Indeed, it was most likely Ricci’s teachings on self-cultivation and virtue and the

example of his character and lifestyle, rather than his philosophical engagement with

Confucian concepts, that carried the most weight in convincing the Chinese to consider

Christianity. In a preface to a Chinese book on geometry written by Ricci, his friend Xu

Guangqi (1562–1633) “stressed that only the less important aspect of Ricci’s learning

involves ‘investigating things and fathoming principles,’ while the more important aspect

involves ‘cultivating one’s self and serving heaven.’ He expected readers of the geometry

book to move from the lesser aspect of Ricci’s Learning from Heaven to its greater moral

and religious aspects” (Peterson 146). If this is the case, perhaps Ricci was more

Confucian than his representative work of Scholastically-inspired apologetics would

indicate. In fact, some time after his publication of True Meaning, Ricci published a book

on virtue titled Ershiwu Yan ( 二十五言) (“Twenty-five Sentences”), essentially a

translation and adaptation of Epictetus’ Encheiridion. In it he teaches by aphorisms,

principles, and illustrative examples, a method congenial to the Confucian mode of

teaching, and which Ricci noted he should have used in True Meaning (Spalatin 667). In

30 See Lancashire and Hu 52.

56 content also this book is more agreeable to Confucian scholars. Feng Ying-qing, in his

1601 preface to the work, notes that the book speaks of the heavenly way men ought to live, rather than teaching directly about heaven or divine reality. Such a manner of teaching coincided with the way of Confucius, and in this book Ricci comes across as a gentleman-scholar in the same tradition as Confucius. Spalatin points out that Ricci’s resemblance to Confucius in this context is based not only on his ethical teaching, but on the understanding that the interior cultivation of virtue is “in accordance with Heaven or god. Feng claims that this is very much in the tradition of Confucius himself. . . .

Confucius is aware of following Heaven and its mandate as he goes on to expound his ethical teachings through aphorisms and anecdotes” (669). In other words, although

Confucius refrains from speaking of Heaven, it is the basis of his teaching, as it is for

Ricci. Spalatin concludes that Ricci can be seen as a sort of “follower” of Confucius, for both find agreement in a universal ethical teaching, and both look beyond themselves to a divine source (670).

Responses in Korea: Acceptance of Western Learning vs. Reaction to Heterodoxy

In Korea, True Meaning was the most widely read of Ricci’s works. Along with other works presenting Western cosmology and Catholicism, it was given a mixed reception by the Korean Confucians. The “crisis situation” of late Joseon had generated

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two contrasting intellectual trends: 31 the conservative approach bent on strengthening

Neo-Confucianism, and what might be called a “retro-liberal” approach that attempted to revive ancient Confucianism while also exploring new ideas to supplement it—an approach exemplified by the trends that are grouped under the Sirhak label. Naturally, the response to Western Learning was affected by this situation. Cha Gijin notes that the general attitude of the mainstream, bent on preserving the tradition of Jujahak (Zhuxi

Studies, the core of Korean Neo-Confucianism), was intolerance of Catholicism, while

the more open response was found primarily among the latter group (the “retro-liberal”

group), which was critical of the dominance of Neo-Confucianism (Joseon Hugi 321–

31). In the latter group the response was divided yet again, roughly three ways, among 1) those who separated out what they deemed acceptable in Western Learning while rejecting the rest; 32 2) those who wanted to ban Catholicism and Western Learning

altogether; and 3) those who accepted it almost wholly (No 33–34).33

The boundary between the last two groups became more sharply defined after

1784, the year that Yi Seung-hun was baptized and started the Korean Catholic Church.

31 See No 26. No identifies three intellectual trends, the third being less an active

movement than the potentiality of the common populace, given the opportunity, to

oppose tradition and embrace a new value system.

32 This group roughly coincides with the group referred to in Chapter One as the “this-

worldly” West Believers (Rausche 52).

33 The “other-worldly” West Believers from Chapter One (Rausche 52).

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Cha, in his study of the response to Western Learning in late Joseon, describes the pre-

1784 period as marked by an intellectual reception and examination of Western Learning running parallel to a reactionary movement to formulate a doctrine of cheoksa (斥邪)

(“rejection of perverse teachings”), while after 1784, this divided response fell into the

more polarized strains of Catholicism as a religious movement, versus the official

declaration of cheoksa coupled with an increasingly active effort to ban Western

Learning (321–22).

The scientific and technological component of Western Learning survived this

polarization, being relatively favored by the mainstream from the beginning. To many

scholars who did not embrace Western philosophy or theology, Matteo Ricci was

nonetheless credited for knowledge that was welcome to the curious minds of the

eighteenth century (Park 43). By depicting the world outside East Asia, Ricci’s world

map, brought from Beijing in 1603, offered an expanded view that also supported the

trend among Sirhak scholars to move beyond the traditional Sino-centric emphasis as

well as to examine things as they are. The round-earth theory was also generally accepted,

and, by showing that China was not the geographical center of the world, no doubt

further supported the growing interest in things Korean (Cha, Joseon Hugi 323). Western

calendrical techniques were also of interest to the king, who wished to correct the

inaccuracies in the Korean calendar (Sources 118). Although the more theoretical and

metaphysical components of Jesuit science were not readily embraced, Western

technology and methods were praised for their usefulness. For instance, in his mention of

Ricci’s introduction to Euclidean geometry, Yi Gyugyeong does not suggest that it

59

inspires a new metaphysical approach, but he does commend its usefulness in training the

mind. He claims that when he reads the book on geography, trivial thoughts are banished

from his mind, and his thinking becomes sharp (qtd. in Park 40).

Such regard for the practical uses of Western science without a corresponding interest in Western metaphysics went against Jesuit expectations of the effect their scientific knowledge would have on the Confucians. To the medieval European mind, the structure of the cosmos had metaphysical ramifications that supported Scholastic theology. Even in True Meaning, Ricci includes a diagram of the nine heavens and other categorizations popular at the time in Europe to support his apologetics with cosmological evidence. As Baker notes in his discussion of the Korean reception of Jesuit science, the expectation of the Jesuits was “that acceptance of the Catholic picture of the physical structure of the universe would lead to belief in the Catholic doctrines” (“Jesuit

Science” 211). The response to this picture, however, was variable. Diagrams of the heavens generally inspired less interest than the more immediate round-earth theory (Park

38), while even those who accepted as factual Western depictions of the cosmos “ignored and rejected the Jesuit assumption that such facts had philosophical or theological implications” (Baker, “Jesuit Science” 217). For instance, although Kim Manjung (1637–

1692) was “one of the first Koreans to publicly declare support for Western cosmology

[he] did not feel that the effectiveness of Western science enhanced the appeal of Western religion. Catholicism appeared to him to be merely an offshoot of Buddhism” (Baker,

“Jesuit Science” 228). For Europeans, theories of the cosmos held such metaphysical weight that the introduction of Copernicus’ heliocentric model revolutionized the

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Western worldview.34 In China and Korea, however, since there was no one authoritative model of the universe, the Western model merely joined an assortment that included an infinite-cosmos theory and the more popular “heaven-lid” model that depicted the earth as a flat surface covered by a rounded heaven (Park 37). For the same reason, Park suggests that Ricci’s introduction of the outdated earth-centered model at a time when the more accurate Copernican model was gaining acceptance back in Europe did not significantly hold back the advance of science in Asia, since cosmological models were not given much weight to begin with (37).

In his analysis of correspondence and conversations between Korean envoys and

Jesuit missionaries in Beijing, Baker points out the disparity between the Jesuit attempt to

“argue from the superiority of the Western calendar to the superiority of Western religion” and the Korean response characterized by “respect for the accuracy of the

Western calendar combined with skepticism toward Western astronomical theory”

(“Jesuit Science” 220). Similarly, Yi Ik’s response to Western knowledge was praise for the accuracy of the Western calendar and interest in Aleni’s world geography, but his criticism of the aspects of Catholic thought that made absolute claims about the supernatural world, toward which Confucianism maintained a more agnostic stance reveals his “ability to subsume Western achievements within an overall framework of

Confucian civilization and tradition” (Sources 120–27). This relatively careful distinction between what was deemed useful and what appeared problematic in Western Learning

34 See Tarnas 248.

61 was the general response of prominent Korean scholars. Many of those among them who rejected Catholicism were not reacting as diehard traditionalists opposed to new ideas, but were rationally considering the ethical implications of Catholic teaching.

In his examination of the primacy of morality over metaphysics in Korean Neo-

Confucianism, Baker remarks that “[t]his pragmatic ethical criterion for truth meant that philosophical positions were often interpretations of personal moral experience”

(“Morality and Metaphysics” 9). In the personal experience of the Confucian scholars who accepted Catholicism, reverence for the Lord of Heaven, whom they, like Ricci, equated with the “Heaven,” or the “Emperor on High” of classical Confucianism, helped them overcome the human frailty that obstructed their goal of moral living (Baker,

“Morality and Metaphysics” 9). For others, however, Catholic teaching did little to resolve such issues, and presented other dangers. Sin Hudam (1702–61), for instance, who wrote Seohakban, the first systematic critique of Catholic doctrine, “found nothing in those Catholic writings to help him overcome his frustrating inability to reach sagehood” (Baker, “Morality and Metaphysics” 10). Instead, addressing topics such as the Catholic doctrines of the soul and eternal salvation, “he argued that Catholicism promoted immorality rather than morality, since it encouraged selfish interest (sa) in personal salvation at the expense of the common good (gong). Though he had other objections as well, the charge of selfishness was for him sufficient grounds to reject that religion from the West” (Baker, “Morality and Metaphysics” 10). In effect, Sin was criticizing what Song Young-Bae refers to in his discussion of Matteo Ricci as “Christian moral utilitarianism” that drew focus away from the human relationships and affairs of

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this life to individual salvation in the next, and presented heavenly reward as the

incentive for virtuous living, when, according to the Confucian, virtue should be its own

reward.

Sin’s critique, written in 1724, influenced later scholars who vigorously opposed

Catholicism through their cheoksa (“rejection of perverse teachings”) campaign (Cha,

Joseon Hugi 327). Cha links the starting point of the formulation of cheoksa doctrine to

Yi Ik, who fully embraced the cheoksa stance after 1757 (Joseon Hugi 327), although his

disciple Gweon Cheolsin went on to form the group that met in 1779 to study Western

Learning. An Jeongbok (1712–91), who was likely influenced by Yi, later published two critiques of Catholicism in 1785 and became the representative figure for what Cha identifies as the post-1784 official campaign to reject perverse teachings. At this point,

the division within the Namin between the anti-Catholic group and the pro-Catholic

group had become distinct, with the former generally aligning with An and the latter with

Gweon Cheolsin (Cha, Joseon Hugi 327).35

An incident in the fall of 1787 intensified the opposition between the anti- and

pro-Catholic groups. Yi Gigyeong, who had formerly associated with the pro-Catholic

group but had begun to distance himself that year, discovered Yi Seunghun, Dasan Jeong

Yagyong, and several others studying Western texts. He reported the secret study group

to Hong Nagan, a strong anti-Catholic, who notified the king and insisted that the

35 Modern scholars use the terms gongseopa (攻西派) and chinseopa (親西派) to refer to

the anti- and pro- Catholic groups, respectively.

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participants be punished. No one was punished directly for this meeting, but as the

incident became known, anti-Catholic rhetoric was stepped up, fueled by Hong Nagan’s

memorials insisting that Catholics should be persecuted before their “disease” spread to

the rest of society. By the end of the century, the opposition between the anti- and pro-

Catholic groups was unmistakable.

The first persecution of prominent yangban converts was prompted by the Jinsan

incident of 1791, briefly mentioned in Chapter One. The previous year, the bishop of

Beijing, acting on orders from Rome, had forbidden the Korean Catholics from

participating in ancestor memorial rituals, a practice that had previously been permitted

by Ricci and his followers. In obedience to the Church’s prohibition, Yun Jichung (Paul)

(1759–91), following his mother’s death in the spring of 1791, burned her ancestral

tablets with the help and support of his cousin, Gweon Sangyeon (James). Alarmed

relatives and neighbors reported the action to the authorities, and the two were

imprisoned, questioned, and executed for violating the key Confucian principles of filial

piety and loyalty to the monarch. Subsequently, Yi Seunghun, Gweon Cheolsin and eight

others were arrested (but later released) for their role in promoting Catholicism. The

Church’s prohibition of ancestral rites and the related Jinsan incident resulted in prominent Catholic yangban, out of loyalty to the Confucian moral code, withdrawing from active involvement in the Church.

King Jeongjo and his chief councilor Chae Jegong remained generally tolerant toward the pro-Catholic group, but the death of Chae in 1799 and of Jeongjo in 1800 opened the door to officially-sanctioned persecution of Catholics that culminated in the

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mass executions of 1801, during which most of the Church’s yangban leadership,

including Yi Seunghun, Gweon Cheolsin, and Jeong Yakjong (1760–1801; Dasan’s elder

brother), were killed. Following the Great Persecution of 1801, the Catholic movement

shifted from its intellectual yangban origins to become an underground religious

movement drawing most of its followers from the common classes. In the mainstream of

Joseon society, interest in importing Western knowledge and culture did not resurface

until the latter part of the nineteenth century.36

The Conflict between Confucianism and Catholicism

The limitations in Ricci’s engagement with Confucian philosophy and the

suppositional gap between his ideas and those of most of his Chinese contemporaries

impeded the acceptance of Catholicism in the Korean intellectual arena as well.37 For most Korean Neo-Confucians, Ricci’s logic proved little, being reliant on assumptions they did not hold. “Most of Ricci’s arguments were based on assumptions of transcendence, which Korean Neo-Confucians, oriented toward immanence, did not

36 See Cha, Joseon Hugi 329.

37 It should be noted that “acceptance” here refers to openness toward and tolerance of

Catholicism, not religious conversion per se, since rational arguments do not necessarily

lead to conversion. However, such tolerance would likely coincide with an increase in the

ranks of the converted, since the base of propagation would be allowed to grow more

freely.

65 share” (Baker, “Neo-Confucians Confront Theism” 158). In True Meaning, Ricci presented two classic arguments for the existence of God: the need for an external, intelligent cause for the universe, and the need for a primal source. Both arguments were ineffective in convincing most Neo-Confucians, who already assumed an ontologically self-sufficient universe that had always existed. To Korean scholars, the i (principle; C. li) and gi (material force; C. qi) of Neo-Confucian metaphysics adequately accounted for the universe’s existence. In their view, references to Sangje (the Supreme Ruler Above; C.

Shangdi) were merely figurative, “simply one way of referring to the unconscious functioning of impersonal principle” (Baker, “Neo-Confucians Confront Theism” 161).

An intelligent, conscious first cause was unnecessary. As noted earlier, in the language of

Scholasticism, Ricci understood i as dependent attribute, rather than independent substance, and thus it could not be the cause of the universe. But “[u]nder the Neo-

Confucian definition, i could not be otherwise” (Baker, “Neo-Confucians Confront

Theism” 164). Consequently, the Neo-Confucians could not accept the idea of the

Catholic God on the basis of Ricci’s arguments, since their view of the universe did not carry the necessary presuppositions for his logic to make sense.

However, according to Baker’s analysis of Neo-Confucian and Catholic discourse in late Joseon, what mattered more to the Korean Confucians were the ethical implications of belief in the Catholic God, not the provability of his existence. On this issue as well, Catholicism was problematic to the Confucians, as An Jeongbok’s critiques make clear:

66 In An’s world, truth was determined by the good. . . . As a Confucian, An asked first how to act. Knowledge was important in so far as it told man what to do. This contrasted with the Catholics’ primary concern for what to believe. The missionaries argued that man had to know what to believe before he could know how to act. (Baker, “A Confucian Confronts Catholicism” 19)

For the Catholics, the basis of acting morally was to believe in the existence of God and the immortal soul. Ricci’s Scholastic method was to first establish what is, then focus on what one should do; “The ‘ought’ followed the ‘is,’ to use Hume’s terminology” (Baker,

“A Confucian Confronts Catholicism” 22). For the Confucians, however, morality was based not on a doctrinal or philosophical premise, but on one’s innate sense of right and wrong, and the purpose of metaphysics was to support pre-established ethics. In other words, the implied “ought” was more important than the “is,” and was the basis of formulating the metaphysical or religious “is.” Even prior to the development of Neo-

Confucian metaphysics, the Confucian classics “did not claim to reveal new truth. . . .

Instead of serving as vehicles for the disclosure of truth, the Confucian Analects and other Classics clarified and developed moral themes already present in Chinese tradition”

(Baker, “A Confucian Confronts Catholicism” 23). For the Catholics, religion came before morality; for the Neo-Confucians, the order was reversed, and the purpose of religion was to serve morality.

Thus, in spite of the Jesuits’ attempt to present Catholicism as compatible with

Confucianism, the religion from Europe became labeled as heterodox by most eighteenth century Korean scholars. However, since heterodoxy was determined by the moral implications of a doctrine, and such implications might be a matter of interpretation based on personal experience, the small group of Confucians who embraced Catholic teaching

67

while remaining loyal to the standards of Confucian morality—such as Gweon Cheolsin,

Yi Seunghun, and Dasan—did not initially conceive of the religious component of

Western Learning as heterodox. Cha suggests that what distinguished them from the

Confucians who actively opposed Catholicism was their combined religious and ethical

sense (Joseon Hugi 327). Nonetheless, as the activities of Korean Catholics became subject to the requirements of Church authority, with the most defining moment being the arrival of news that Rome had forbidden the practice of Confucian ancestral rites, Yi,

Gweon, Jeong and others drifted away from Catholicism. Ultimately, even to these religious-minded Confucians, “the ‘is’ [Catholic doctrine] could not take priority over the

‘ought’” (Cha, Joseon Hugi 325). Confucians who remained in the Church in spite of its prohibition of rituals seem to have accepted the “Roman Catholic stress on doctrinal purity as the prime criterion for orthodoxy” with a diminished consideration for the

Korean Neo-Confucian emphasis on “the behavioral implications of claims of orthodoxy”

(Baker, “A Different Thread” 204, 205). This shift is apparent in Paul Yun’s attempt to argue that his destroying of his mother’s ancestral tablets was logically and reasonably acceptable: “Yun shifted from the pragmatic orientation of Neo-Confucianism, in which

the purpose, the moral import, of a ritual determined how that ritual was interpreted, to

the doctrinal orientation of Catholicism, which imposed a literal interpretation on both

ritual objects and ritual behavior” (218).

Catholicism was not the only teaching considered heretical (idan). Buddhism,

Daoism, and Shamanism also lay outside the boundaries of Confucian orthodoxy, but

because they did not present a threat to the stability of Joseon society and to the authority

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of the state, they were tolerated. In particular, Buddhism, though well-organized, and still

influential in the private lives of some members of the ruling class, “eagerly subscribed to

the hegemonic Confucian ideology of the priority of the public good (gong 公) that was

promoted by fostering the duties of filial piety and loyalty to the monarch” (Walvaren 19).

When a heterodox teaching actively threatened the socio-political status quo, then it was

labeled 邪學 (“perverse doctrine”), and was actively suppressed through the cheoksa

campaign. Catholicism, by placing loyalty to God above obedience to elders and loyalty

to the king, challenged the central Confucian values of filial piety and loyalty (Choi 18).

For the political community of Joseon, this meant that Catholics directly challenged what

Baker describes as the Joseon state’s “ritual hegemony.” In late Joseon, “[e]thical

demands generated by specific religious traditions were not allowed to override the

behavioral demands of the political community,” and government approval was required

to organize and to practice religious rituals (Baker, “Ritual Hegemony” 262). While

Buddhists and Shamans accepted the state’s authority over their actions, Catholics

engaged in such activities without official approval.

Catholics, even before persecution began, met secretly to read Christian books.

They created an unauthorized organization and gave unauthorized titles to its leaders.

They refused to perform rituals such as jesa (ancestral rites) in the manner the

government told them to perform them. Moreover, they performed their own rituals, such

as baptism and the mass, which the government had not given them permission to

perform. And, worst of all, they looked to the Pope in Rome and his representatives in

Beijing rather than to the King of Korea for advice on their moral and ritual obligations.

69

This departure from the traditional relationship between the state and religious

communities could not be tolerated by the Korean government (Choi 7). The ethical

implications of Catholicism made it heterodox. However, it was the Catholic assumption

of religious autonomy that earned it the added status of sahak and made it the object of

the state’s persecution.

A New Subjectivity of Intellectual and Spiritual Independence

To what extent did the new suppositions introduced by Catholic teaching enter the

subjective sense of individual West-Believers? In the Jinsan incident, Paul Yun’s

assumption of his right to act according to what he understood as propositional truth and

his arguments for the acceptability of his beliefs, disregarding the traditional emphasis on

praxis, suggest an internalization of certain components of these suppositions. For West-

Believers who maintained their Catholic identity after this incident, the succeeding growth of the Catholic Church with its attending catechisms, instructions, and rituals, no longer filtered through the intellectual prism of Confucian scholars, meant that being

Catholic involved accepting the central tenets of Catholic doctrine as they were presented in the literature smuggled in from the Vatican-sponsored Chinese mission. In their self-

professed identification as Catholics, Hwang Sayeong, Yi Suni, and Choe Haedu would

have embraced the Catholic understanding of God as an anthropomorphic, conscious, and

independent being; their own being as body and eternal soul; and their duty as obedience

to God’s will. These assumptions are communicated to varying extents in their writings,

as we will see.

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In the case of Dasan, the result is more nuanced. His philosophical writings reflect his foray into Western Learning in their indication of a method of identification based on distinct and separate categories for observing the world. Also, he proposes that human beings are distinct from the cosmos by merit of their intellect, which allows them to act ethically based on their will. Furthermore, he sees as necessary for ethical action a religious sense of reverence for heaven. On these points Dasan’s assertions resonate with many of the arguments on the human being that Ricci presents in True Meaning.

However, he does not offer, directly or indirectly, any opinion regarding the immortal soul or the afterlife; his focus is on this world and a person’s moral duty in this world.

We will now turn to Dasan and his poetry.

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Chapter 3: The Independent Human Subject in the Poetry of

Dasan Jeong Yagyong

This chapter examines the elements of Dasan’s philosophy and poetry that reveal

a distinct break from the general philosophical and poetic tendency of his times, a break

that links to the new paradigm of human distinction introduced by Western Learning. I

begin with an overview of Dasan’s divergence from Neo-Confucian orthodoxy and the

intellectual context of this divergence, with a focus on the likely influence of Western

Learning. I identify this divergence as the shift to a dualistic paradigm. This overview of

Dasan’s philosophy is followed by an examination of the distinctive characteristics of his

poetry that can be identified as expressive of a dualism of subject and object, or self and

other. Finally, I conclude by pointing out that Dasan’s dualistic subjectivity, though

divergent from tradition in the sense demonstrated, by being outwardly oriented and

interactive with the object of perception, remains faithful to the classic Confucian focus

on ethical practice in society.

Dasan’s Divergence from Neo-Confucian Orthodoxy

Dasan Jeong Yagyong (1762–1836) emerged on the scene of Korean philosophy at a time of political and social unrest that gave rise to a growing impetus for exploring new ideas to replace or augment traditional systems that were proving inadequate. Dasan, as a member of the Namin (Southerners) faction that maintained a tenuous position of favor with the government during the latter part of the eighteenth century and fell

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completely out of favor after the death of King Jeongjo in 1800, was, by his political

marginality, in a position to develop a critical eye toward the establishment.

As noted earlier, Dasan is usually associated with the intellectual trend of the

eighteenth and nineteenth century to which many historians have attached the label

Sirhak (Practical Learning). Prominent Sirhak scholars such as Yu Hyeongwon, Yi Ik,

and Dasan shared an approach characterized by an examination of the Confucian classics

for their application to the specific demands of the real world, a preference for proof in

the form of experience and hard evidence, an attitude of objective criticism toward

official practices and those in power, and scholarship that encouraged reform in

government. 38 Although criticism of the establishment was in part directed at the authorities’ overdependence on the Zhu Xi (1130–1200) school of Confucianism, which, by its essential conservativeness, legitimized the status quo, most of these critics

nonetheless continued to use the basic apparatus of Zhu Xi’s Neo-Confucian metaphysics

in their discussions of philosophy. Dasan, however, stood apart from his contemporaries

by taking this critical stance farther, and challenging the very foundations of Neo-

Confucian cosmology (Setton 16).

Neo-Confucianism was a metaphysical system developed by Chinese scholars

during the Song dynasty (960–1279) to compensate for the lack of a metaphysical

component in the Confucian tradition. When Confucianism was adopted as the state

philosophy in Joseon dynasty Korea (1392–1910), the philosophy of Zhu Xi (1130–

38 See Geum, Jeong Yagyong 83, and Setton 10-17.

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1200), who represented the systematic and theoretical wing of Neo-Confucianism, came

to dominate Korean intellectual discourse. References to Neo-Confucianism in the

Korean context refer almost exclusively to the Zhu Xi School.

In Korea, adherence to Neo-Confucianism encouraged a formalistic and inwardly directed attitude toward ethics. According to Zhu Xi’s cosmology, virtue is embodied in principle, or i (C. li 理), which underlies all material phenomena. The other component of this universe, material force, or gi (C. qi 氣 ), accounts for the differentiation of phenomena, including base emotions and impulses in the human mind. Accordingly, for the Neo-Confucian sage, moral self-cultivation involves filtering through the varied manifestations of gi and engaging in meditative investigation to regain and manifest the pure i, which exists a priori in human nature. It is important to note that in the Neo-

Confucian cosmos, principle is not transcendent, but is encased in material force. This i/gi dynamic constitutes the taegeuk (C. taiji 太極), or the “Supreme Ultimate” from which the universe originates. Thus, the ultimate source of the material universe is contained in the universe itself, and the pattern underlying all material phenomena expresses the ultimate Way.

Dasan challenges the notion of a self-contained universe by rejecting the i/gi dynamic as the source of all things. He points out that the conception of a completely abstract Supreme Ultimate as developed by Zhou Dunyi (1017–73) cannot be corroborated by the earlier Six Classics of Confucianism (Yeoyudang 2.6.38b). Referring to the Sangje (C. Shangdi 上宰), or “Heavenly Ruler” of ancient Confucian texts, Dasan replaces this abstract source of cosmic order with the idea of a personal being who

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transcends and oversees the world, and who can be compared to a king:

“天之主宰爲上帝 其謂之天者 猶謂王爲國 (“The ruler of heaven is Shangdi, who is called ‘Heaven,’ as a king might be called ‘the Kingdom’”; Yeoyudang 2.6.38b, qtd. in

Kim Yeong-il 97); “上帝者何 是於天地神人之外 造化天地神人萬物之類

而宰制安養之者也” (“Who is Shangdi? He is outside heaven, earth, and human beings.

He is the maker of heaven, earth, gods, people, and the ten thousand things, and he is the

one who rules and nurtures”; Yeoyudang 2.36.24a, qtd. in Kim Yeong-il 97). He also

suggests that Zhu Xi’s materialistic conception of “heaven” fails to explain the presence

of orderly phenomena in the universe (Yeoyudang 2.4.1.3a). Thus, as Kalton points out in

“Chŏng Dasan’s Philosophy of Man,” Dasan rejects two fundamental assumptions of the

Neo-Confucian cosmic vision: that the ultimate source of the universe lies within the

universe itself, and that the “innate pattern of the universe itself is an ultimate explanation

of purposeful order” (22). To Dasan, the taegeuk has no metaphysical significance, and is

merely part of the created order. 39 He replaces the Neo-Confucian paradigm with a worldview that incorporates the dual categories of the transcendent supreme and the physical world.

By stepping outside the framework of a monistic, self-contained, and self- referential universe, Dasan “adopts a new, transcendent perspective” (Kalton 21).

Consistent with this perspective is his conception of human beings as distinct from the rest of the physical world by merit of their intellect. In his Jungyong Gangui (“Lecture on

39 See Kim Okhui, Seohak Sasangsa 152.

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the Mean”), Dasan criticizes the Neo-Confucian assumption of “萬物一體” (“all things are of one body”) by pointing out, “其在古經 絶無此語” (“In the old classics, there is no word of this”; Yeoyudang 2.4.065b). Also, in another passage he notes, “人物同性者

佛之言也” (“[The assumption that] humans and animals are of like nature is Buddhist

[not Confucian]”; Yeoyudang 2.3.057c). In contrast to Zhu Xi, who claims that human beings and animals In contrast to Zhu Xi, who claims that human beings and animals share the same essence but differ in physical endowment (Chu and Lu 79), Dasan insists that physical form and appetite are what humans and animals share, while that which makes humans distinct is the moral nature, which has no form (Yeoyudang 2.6.140a).

Likewise, in his three-category division of living beings—vegetation, animals, and humans (Yeoyudang 2.5.124a)—Dasan distinguishes humans by what Song Yeong-Bae translates as “subtle intelligence” (75). Song also points out that Dasan locates the

“original nature” or the “original self” of human beings in the intellectual ability that he calls “無形之靈明” (“incorporeal intelligence”; Yeoyudang 2.6.140a), and “靈明之心”

(“intelligent mind”; Yeoyudang 1.15.410b, qtd. in Song Young-Bae 79).

In Kalton’s words, Dasan has established “a vision of man standing before God” in place of “the conventional wisdom of man integrated into the universe” (25). The implications for morality likewise present a distinct break from the Neo-Confucian pattern. By possession of the intellect, humans can consider what is before them and judge between right and wrong, which then leaves the way open for moral action.

According to Dasan, one’s virtue is not determined by the purity of the gi with which one has been arbitrarily endowed; rather it is dependent on choice and action. Since virtue is

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determined not a priori according to endowment but through individual choice and

action, one is able to emulate the virtue of Yao and Shun, and all humans have the

potential to be good or evil as they choose.

Granted, the Neo-Confucian also recognizes the need for a certain kind of

practice, but it is a practice of meditative self-cultivation, the goal of which is the

removal of distortions in the gi from which cravings of the physical nature arise, and the

innate purity of which varies from person to person (Setton 70). Kalton describes how

Dasan’s approach to the problem of human evil is fundamentally different from the Neo-

Confucian view:

[Their respective views] are similar insofar as in both cases man must deal with aberrant tendencies associated with the physical aspect of his being. But for the Neo-Confucians these tendencies represent a distortion of the correct pattern, or principle; hence the role of the mind is conceived of in terms of a mastery exercised through a self-possessed, focused concentration that removes the distortion and puts one in touch with principle. In Dasan’s view there is no question of distortion; the tendencies of man’s physical nature simply represent values that may conflict with higher values. Self-mastery is certainly called for, but the mind’s essential role is that of deliberation and choice between conflicting values. (29)

Dasan recognizes the possibility of conflict between the moral and physical appetites, and thus places importance on what Setton translates as the “faculty of deliberation (권형)” that is endowed by Heaven and gives humans the ability to make moral distinctions and decide on a course of action (83).

By asserting that the human being is made up of mind and body, and that the original substance of the human lies in the incorporeal mind, Dasan appears to introduce

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a new dualism to Confucian philosophy. It is important to note, however, that this shift,

though presented by Dasan’s critical standpoint and break from orthodox Neo-

Confucianism, grows out of the very tradition he criticizes. It is, in fact, the Neo-

Confucian emphasis on the mind and its role in human moral life and Zhu Xi’s cosmic dualism that, as Kalton points out, “prepare the way for Dasan’s description of two levels in human nature” by their “stress on what is above forms (principle) and what is below forms (material force)” (31). Dasan takes the Neo-Confucian idea of what is above, but extracts it from the realm of things and repositions it in the transcendent. Similarly, the

Neo-Confucian emphasis on the mind “provides background for [Dasan’s] careful attention to the role of the mind in [human] moral life” (Kalton 31). For the Neo-

Confucian, the mind is the site of cultivation aimed at connecting with principle. Dasan also emphasizes the role of the mind, but, in his case, it is the source of “his uniquely human ability to possess and dispose of his own person independently from any external force in the universe” (Kalton 35). Kalton goes so far as to suggest that Dasan’s apparently heterodox position is in fact “a clarification, and systematic presentation of

[the] full implications” of traditional Confucianism (31).

Furthermore, Dasan’s philosophical investigations were motivated not by a desire to break from the past, but by the desire to strip away what he and other critics of the Zhu

Xi school viewed as distortions of classical Confucianism. Remarkably, this development of a divergent paradigm took place within the context of reviving the spirit of classical

Confucian teaching and advocating ethical practice, an emphasis that Dasan shared with many of his colleagues, as will be shown below.

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The Namin Context and Western Learning

It has already been noted that one factor prompting the growth of Dasan’s

“heterodox” philosophy is Neo-Confucianism itself. Supporting this assessment of

Dasan’s views as representative of a further evolution of pre-existing ideas is their placement in the context of the philosophical tradition of the Southerners. Dasan’s affiliation with this faction was significant politically as well as philosophically. Setton makes the important observation that factional tensions catalyzed “the critical attitudes toward Neo-Confucian dogmatism, and doctrines, that developed within the Southerners faction during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, particularly in the work of Yi Ik and his followers Gwon Cheolsin and Dasan” (25). With the Noron in power, the Namin were at a political disadvantage during most of this period. Thus, not only did their marginality allow them direct experience of the corruption and incompetence of the ruling class and draw their attention to the need for reform, but such criticisms also supplied ammunition against their rivals. As Setton states, “these critiques were double- edged, since they represented not only an attack on the perceived ideological roots of socioeconomic problems, but also an attack on the legitimating ideology of the faction in power, the Old Doctrine faction, a subfaction of the Westerners” (25). This position of political disadvantage nurtured the Southerners’ critical stance toward the status quo, which, in turn, “led to curiosity about other worldviews, and provided a springboard for the development of alternative ideas” (Setton 25).

In the context of Korean Confucian philosophy, the Southerners were associated with the Yeongnam School that continued the tradition of Toegye Yi Hwang (1501–70).

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The most prominent facet of Toegye’s thought might be summed up in the phrase

“principle [i] is noble; material force [gi] is base” (Bak 285). This contrasts with the Giho

School’s emphasis on the interaction, rather than the polarization between i and gi.40 But

Bak Muyeong, in a study of Dasan’s thought and poetry, points out another characteristic

of Toegye’s philosophy as the element that was carried down to Dasan. This was

Toegye’s association of principle with human moral duty, which differed from Zhu Xi’s

view of principle as innate universal order. This tradition of emphasizing moral duty was

continued by Toegye’s successors in the Southerner school, such as Seongho Yi Ik and

his disciples Gwon Cheolsin (1736–1801) and Dasan (Bak 285–86).

As for the concept of heaven as a supreme, divine power, Setton traces its origin

within the Southerners school to Yun Hyu (1617–80), who “appealed to a much earlier

authority than the Sung Confucians for his depiction of heaven, pointing out the ancients’

constant mindfulness of Shang T’i [Shangdi], the personal deity mentioned in the writings of the early Chou to which the sacrificial rituals and even daily activities of the royal house were dedicated” (29). It is apparent that prominent reform-minded Namin

such as Yun, Yi Ik, and Dasan shared this emphasis on returning to the older Confucian

writings and the larger canon of Confucian classics in response to the current over- dependence on the Four Books edited by Zhu Xi. In their emphasis on the study of the

Six Classics in addition to the Four Books, Yi Ik and the others were inspired by the Han

Learning movement of the Qing dynasty. This movement in China involved the method

40 The Giho School was founded by Yulgok Yi I (1536–1684).

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of 考證學 (“evidential learning”) that used a philological approach to uncovering the original meanings of passages in the ancient texts (Setton 45). In Korea, this new emphasis on the part of the Namin came to be known as susahak, a name adopted by Yi

Ik to express the idea of returning to the classics through reference to the rivers Su and Sa

(C. Zhu 洙 and Si 泗), on the banks of which Confucius taught his disciples (Setton 47).

Bak refers to Yi Ik’s thought as a mid-way point between Toegye’s Neo-

Confucian focus on the i/gi dynamic and Dasan’s distinctive break from the traditional

cosmology (271). Yi Ik’s conception of the human being includes an element he calls the

道義之心 (“moral mind”), in addition to the life instinct and the 知覺之心 (“feeling

mind”) that humans share with other living creatures. By introducing a faculty of moral

intention, Yi clears the human appetites of any intrinsic moral value: in themselves, they

do not constitute good or evil; it is what is done with them that matters. This distinctive

feature carries over to Dasan, who develops the concept further by describing human

desire as an interplay of physical and spiritual appetites that sometimes conflict, and over

which the distinctively human capacity for moral choice must be exercised (Bak 281).

Setton further brings up the possible influence on Dasan of the Ancient Learning

(Kogaku) proponents of Tokugawa Japan, who, along with Yun, Gwon, and Dasan, were monotheistically inclined (49). He also points out that although the impact of Ming and

Qing scholarship on Dasan’s work has yet to be examined in detail, themes shared by the

Kogaku and Dasan are “themes that had previously emerged or been hinted at in certain branches of Ming and early Ch’ing Confucianism. Their empirical methodology, their affirmation of the positive role of the emotions and desires, and their emphasis on the

81 practical value of scholarship were preceded by the work of Late Ming and early Ch’ing thinkers” (132).

In his examination of Dasan’s break from Neo-Confucian orthodoxy, Setton highlights the influence of pre-existent Korean, Chinese, and Japanese philosophical trends, as noted above, and de-emphasizes the role that Dasan’s “youthful incursion into

Western Learning” may have played (144). Indeed, tracing links between Dasan’s thought and Western Learning is obstructed by the fact that Dasan makes no direct reference to Western Learning in his philosophical writings. However, Kim Okhui’s suggestion that historical circumstances would have prompted Dasan to obscure such links is entirely reasonable (Hanguk Seohak 120), considering that any association with

Catholicism was punishable by death or exile. In spite of his retraction of any affiliation with Catholicism after the Jinsan incident of 1791,41 Dasan was nonetheless singled out for his family and factional affiliation with prominent Catholics, and exiled during the persecution of 1801. Jeong Yakjong, one of Dasan’s older brothers, was among the hundreds executed that year, as was Gwoen Cheolsin, Dasan’s close colleague.

Doubtless, Dasan’s detractors would have seized any chance to incriminate him by

41 As mentioned in Chapter One, when the earliest group of Korean Catholics, most of whom were Confucian scholars, belatedly learned that Rome had forbidden Confucian ancestral rites, many members, including Dasan, renounced Catholicism. The Jinsan incident refers to Yun Ji-chung’s destruction of his ancestral tablets in an effort to observe the Church’s prescription.

82 tracing Catholic ideas in his philosophical writings. In the absence of any strong religious conviction on his own part, the tenuousness of his own political and physical security and the need to protect his family would have discouraged Dasan from making any direct, positive reference to Catholic ideas.

Thus, the influence of Western ideas on Dasan’s thought can only be inferred from his earlier study of Western Learning and the apparent similarity between many of his ideas and those expressed in Ricci’s True Meaning and other apologetic texts that were accessible to Dasan and his contemporaries. Subsequent to Setton’s book, Geum

Jangtae, Kim Okhui, Song Young-Bae and several other Korean scholars have addressed

Dasan’s incursion into Western Learning and compellingly highlighted the similarities between his ideas and those contained in the Catholic texts. These points of similarity are particularly relevant to Dasan’s vision of the human as distinct from other living beings.

Accordingly, a brief overview of his involvement with the early Catholic movement and the points of likely connection between Western Learning and his philosophy will help to fill out the intellectual context of Dasan’s unique poetic stance.

Dasan belonged to a branch of Yi Ik’s followers called the Seongho Left Faction, centered around Gwon Cheolsin and linked by family ties as well as shared philosophical interests. The first active study of Catholic doctrine was undertaken by members of this group. Their attraction to Catholic texts from China was due to the resonance they found between their own susahak and the approach that Ricci and his followers had adopted of presenting Catholic doctrine as an augmentation of Confucian thought. This resonance, and active proselytizing by fellow Namin Yi Byeok (1754–85), a charismatic, central

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figure in the early promotion of Catholicism, positioned the beginnings of Korean

Catholicism within the Namin faction.

In 1784, at the age of twenty-two, Dasan became actively involved in this group’s

study of Catholicism. After Yi Seunghun (1754–85) went to Beijing and returned as a

baptized Catholic, the group began to supplement their study with the practice of Catholic

rituals during their regular gatherings. One of these meetings was interrupted by alarmed

authorities, and the group was forbidden from continuing these gatherings. From this

point on, Catholicism came under scrutiny as a social issue (Geum, Jeong Yagyong 88).

According to Dasan’s own admission, he had sincerely believed in Catholicism, and was

baptized and christened with the name Yohan (“John”) by Yi Seunghun, before

eventually turning from his earlier belief after the Jinsan incident (see Chapter Two).

Apart from the fact of Dasan’s direct access to Western Learning, it is notable that

predecessors from whom he may have inherited the seeds of his distinctive philosophy

were also exposed to Western Learning. Yun Hyu, for instance, was a disciple of Yi

Mingu, whose father, Yi Sugwang, made reference to Ricci’s texts on Catholicism in his

writings (see Chapter Two). Similarly, Yi Ik studied a number of Catholic texts with

great interest, choosing from them elements that would support his particular

interpretation of Confucianism.

In a comparison of Dasan and Ricci’s respective paradigms, Song Young-Bae traces several philosophical views shared between the two, including the idea that all things are divided into “incorporeal spirit” and “corporeal matter,” wherein it is the incorporeal spirit, or mind, that distinguishes humankind from the rest of nature (“A

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Comparative Study” 78). In addition, Dasan presents an argument that closely resembles

Ricci’s invocation of the Aristotelian distinction between substance and accident to contradict i as substance:

[Dasan] claims that i is not an independent substance, which autonomously exists external to all things. Only corporeal gi exists independently. Dasan echoes Ricci’s argument that gi is a substance whereas i is only a mere accident, which must depend on the substance. . . Principle (i) lacks intellect, influence, power, and free will, hence it is not a rational substance. (Song, “A Comparative Study,” 87)

In his examination of the paradigms shared between Dasan and Ricci, Song summarizes their points of contrast to the Neo-Confucian paradigm as 1) the rejection of the idea that nature and human ideals are unified; and 2) the belief that morality can only be attained through practice be means of free will, not through the meditative investigation of things

(92).

Geum observes that a remarkable synthesis of Confucian philosophy and Western

Learning is especially evident in Dasan’s Jungyonggangi (“Lecture on The Mean”), which includes the contradiction of i as substance mentioned in Song above. Dasan draws on concepts and categories found in texts of Western Learning in his critique of the Neo-

Confucian Five Haeng ( 五行論), in his distinction between “heaven” as natural phenomena and “heaven” as a supernatural being, in his rejection of the Neo-Confucian claim that matter and human beings are alike, and in his assertion that the fundamental principle for human behavior is reverence for the divine (Geum, Jeong Yagyong 94–98).

Geum also points out that Dasan’s re-articulation of the classic Confucian ethic of 仁 (C. ren; “humanity; humaneness”) by emphasizing virtue as realized through a person’s

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action toward other human beings, rather than through inner cultivation, parallels the

Christian concept of love as an act directed toward the Other (Jeong Yagyong 98),

thereby further supporting Dasan’s synthesis of Western Catholic and Confucian ideas.

However, this is likely as much the case of a happy coincidence between the Christian

concept of charity and what Dasan understood as the more human-relationship-centered

concept of ren in early Confucianism, as illustrated by the ideograph itself, which is a

construction of the characters for “human” and “two.”

Considering Dasan’s earliest “social” poems (see “Gwangyang at Sunset” below),

his particular social conscience and a suggestion of his epistemology appear to be evident

prior to his engagement with Western Learning. Certainly, it would have been ideas to

which Dasan was already predisposed that drew him to Western Learning in the first place. Nonetheless, the circumstances of Dasan’s brief involvement with the early

Catholic movement and the evidence of parallels between Riccian philosophy and

Dasan’s particular interpretation of metaphysical and moral concepts suggest that, if

nothing else, Western Learning provided a means for further exploring and articulating

what was latent in Dasan’s philosophical outlook.

Dasan’s Poetry and the New Paradigm

In addition to commentaries based on textual analyses of Confucian classics,

social treatises, and writings on a wide variety of subjects, the large body of Dasan’s literary output includes roughly 2,500 poems written in classical Chinese. The writing of poetry in literary Chinese was a common pastime of Confucian scholars, and Dasan’s

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commitment to this tradition was strongly motivated by his concern for social ethics, for

he viewed the writing of poetry to be a natural extension of moral action (Song Jaeso,

Yeongu 28), a view based on the classic Confucian attitude toward literature.

Nonetheless, the content, if not the form, of much of Dasan’s poetry is consistent with his unique philosophical standpoint, and expresses what might be identified as a dualistic subjectivity of self and other.

Dasan’s poetry is unique on several accounts that can be associated with a new paradigm. Some of these characteristics are shared with other scholar-poets of late

Joseon, such as an increased emphasis on “Joseon-ness” that suggests a new awareness of

the distinctiveness of Joseon, new uses of language, and realistic depictions of the social

landscape. But Dasan’s specific dualistic consciousness can be identified in the

following: his oppositional stance, from which he denounces the social ills he observes

rather than merely describing them; his use of contrasting images that emphasize

opposition over Neo-Confucian cosmic harmony; his anthropocentric depictions of the

countryside; and in his poetics of contact between poet and matter as opposed to a more

organic cause-and-effect relationship between the two. Before elaborating on Dasan’s

characteristic dualism as manifested in his poetry, let us take a brief look at the Confucian

literary context of late Joseon from which he emerged.

The bulk of male-authored Confucian poetry written in classical Chinese during

the pre-modern period of Joseon (from its founding in 1392 to the opening of Korea by

Japan in 1876) might be placed in the following two broad categories: poetry dealing

with ideals and conceptual issues, and poetry emphasizing social realities. The poetry of

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Toegye, of Yulgok Yi I (1536–84), and of other Neo-Confucian scholar-poets of the

earlier centuries falls into the former category, while Dasan’s poetry is often identified as

most representative of the latter (“Hanmunhak” 3160), and is considered atypical when

compared to the longer precedent of ideal-centered Neo-Confucian poetry. Toegye

represents “the typical poetic world of the Neo-Confucian literati who wrote poems based on philosophy and contemplated philosophy through poems . . . Yi [Toegye] defended poetry as an indispensable element of self-cultivation that seeks purity of mind detached from the mundane world” (Kim Heunggyu, “Chosŏn Poetry” 252). The shift to a greater interest in the phenomenal world was already underway, however, as Yulgok developed a philosophy that emphasized the interaction between principle and material force, in contrast to Toegye’s elevation of principle over material force and phenomena. Cho

Tong-il suggests that Yulgok’s philosophy, by accepting and dealing with the manifestation of material force in everyday reality, was naturally the more persuasive philosophy during a period in which various historical factors were bringing about a

“transition from medieval to modern” (Ihaenggi Munhak 61). It “forged ahead of

Toegye’s philosophy, which attempted to remain in the medieval age. It was a matter of course that Yulgok’s disciples would become the dominant political group” (Cho,

Ihaenggi Munhak 61). However, the poetry of the sixteenth to mid seventeenth century, represented by the “Four Masters”—Yi Jeonggu (1564–1635), Sin Heum (1566–1678),

Yi Sik (1584–1647), and Jang Yu (1587–1638)—did not manifest this shift, but carried on in the tradition of earlier scholar-official poets, “since the task of establishing ideology was not attached to poetry” (Cho, Ihaenggi Munhak 68).

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As economic hardship and official corruption increased in the wake of the Qing

invasions of the seventeenth century, the social conscience of Sirhak scholars extended to their literary activities. “Not everyone shared the assumption that [the main task of] members of the official class who had studied Confucianism and learned poetry was to pass the government exams . . . and bring glory to the clan. There were also those who believed that the task of the learned man was to criticize and reform a crooked world, and they composed [treatises] to this end” (Cho, Ihaenggi Munhak 201). Dasan even suggested that, considering the practical impotence of those who pour all their time and energy into passing the exams, it might be just as well to abolish the civil exam system

(“Chŏng Yagyong: False Forms” 25–26).

Despite the fact that the dominant faction (Noron) was composed largely of the disciples of Yulgok—whose philosophy, as Cho suggests, might have been more conducive to the shift toward a new paradigm than was Toegye’s idealism—it was actually those who had been pushed to the margins of power, such as the Southerners, whose critical eye toward the governing powers first translated into new intellectual efforts. However, when government pressure weakened the efforts initiated by

Southerners such as Yi Ik, they were revived by members of the dominant faction, such as Hong Daeyong and Bak Jiwon (Cho, Ihaenggi Munhak 209).

Yi Yonghyu (1708–82; see Chapter One) became a central figure presenting the

Namin alternative to the dominant faction’s claim to be the guardians of orthodoxy in

Sino-Korean literature. Cho Tong-il indicates that Yi, through his declaration that “one should recite one’s own thoughts, instead of carrying on about the heights of Tang poetry,

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or the depths of Han poetry” (qtd. in Cho, Ihaenggi Munhak 205), insisted on the

importance of establishing a unique literature from one’s own original starting point.

Indeed, the effect on Sino-Korean poetry of this movement toward reform and practicality was greater experimentation, realism, and Joseon-consciousness. Speaking of

the “later four poets”—Bak Jega, Yi Deokmu, Yu Deunggok, and Yi Seogu (see Chapter

One)—Kim Hunggyu notes:

Rejecting blind imitation and using lively diction, they reproduced the natural scenery, human feelings, and social conditions of contemporary Joseon. Taking their subjects from everyday life, these poets created works of exuberant realism through realistic and sensuous descriptions. Along with Bak Jiwon’s accomplishments in prose, their movement to reform in poetry led to a shift in the eighteenth century literary scene. (“Chosŏn” 255)

This shift to a literary sense that aimed at capturing the real, immediate world included

the aforementioned increased awareness of a Joseon self-identity distinct from China, and

what scholars call the “Joseon Style” in Sino-Korean poetry. Although scholars such as

Dasan and Bak Jiwon continued to use classical Chinese in their writing, their

experimentation with more colloquial elements supports Kim Hunggyu’s point that,

“Poetry in classical Chinese is not simply poetry written in a foreign language, but rather

an important genre of Korean poetry that helped to push it into new areas of expression in

the face of considerable stylistic and formulaic limitations” (Kim H., Understanding 78).

This Joseon consciousness expressed through the medium of classical Chinese seems to

have reached its height in Dasan’s work. In a study of Dasan’s poetry, Song Jaeso

highlights the characteristics that distinguish it from the bulk of poetry written by

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Confucian scholars of Joseon, and draws attention to the poetic expressions of this

Joseon-conscious sensibility, or minjok juche uisik (民族主體意識) (“race/ethnic subject

consciousness”). He clarifies that although the concept of gukka (國家) (“nation”) could not be separated from Korea’s tributary relationship to China, Dasan nonetheless

“attempted to break free of the absolute authority of Sino-centrism” (Yeongu 33).

In this vein, Dasan not only depicts local scenes, he also incorporates vernacular

Korean into many of his poems by providing calques, or by transliterating the Korean pronunciation of a word into Chinese, instead of using the Chinese equivalent. For instance, to express the Korean aga, which, in provincial dialect, meant “bride,” instead of using the Sino-Korean word sinbu (新婦), he transliterates by using the Chinese characters 兒 (“child”) and 哥 (“elder brother”) which combine to produce the sound

“aga” when pronounced in Korean (Song, Yeongu 34). Several instances of calques

(literal translations of distinctly Korean words and phrases) may be found in the first four stanzas from “耽津漁歌” (“A Song of Tamjin Fishing”), which depicts the activities of the fisher people in Gangjin, where Dasan was exiled after the Catholic persecutions:

桂浪春水足鰻鱺 橕取弓船漾碧漪 高鳥風高齊出港 馬兒風緊足歸時 三汛纔廻四汛來 鵲漊波沒舊漁臺 漁家只道江豚好 盡放鱸魚博酒杯 (Yeoyudang 1.4.082c)

Eels fill the spring waters of Gyeryang and a bow boat is rowed out to float on the blue ripples; Out from the harbor in a straight line with the high-bird wind, back when the horse wind urges. When the third tide recedes and the fourth tide comes, magpie waves drown the old fishing stand. The fishers say only the river swellfish are good,

91 and they hand over the sea fish for a few cups of wine. (Emphasis added)

Dasan included footnotes to explain the colloquial expressions: a boat fitted on top with a net was called a “bow boat” (perhaps because of the resemblance of its outline to a hunter’s bow); “high-bird wind” and “horse wind” were local terms for eastern and southern winds respectively; and a “magpie wave” was a large wave with a white crest resembling a flock of magpies. To a Chinese reader, of course, the effect of such transliterations and calques would be lost. But Dasan makes no apologies for a poetry that expresses a subjectivity independent of the unifying Chinese tradition. In a poem titled, “老人一快事 (“An Old Man’s One Enjoyment”), he expresses this sentiment quite directly: “我是朝鮮人 甘作朝鮮詩 卿當用卿法 迂哉議者誰” (“I am a Joseon man; I enjoy writing Joseon poems / In the countryside, you naturally use the countrified way.

Who’s to say otherwise?”; Yeoyudang I.3.34a). The idea of distinction and independence as an intellectual being, which we find in Dasan’s philosophy, would no doubt encourage a growing independence from a centuries-old identification with the language and customs of China. In turn, this unique comparison of the Joseon self with the Chinese other would amplify the subject’s distinction.

Joseon consciousness aside, Dasan’s transliteration and calquing of expressions that are not only Korean, but happen to be colloquialisms of the provinces, demonstrates his social realism, a characteristic that, as noted above, he shares with other poets of his time. However, in his portrayal of the social landscape, Dasan frequently takes an oppositional stance toward the ills of society, highlighting them as something to be denounced, rather than merely lamented or satirized. Thus the label “social poem” is

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applied to many of Dasan’s poems. Song points out that Dasan’s depiction of the corrupt

petty official who exploits the peasantry as a recurring type is a trend unprecedented in

Korean aristocratic literature, and that this feature of Dasan’s social poems marks an

important moment of modern realism and naturalism in Korean literature (Yeongu 83).

“田間紀事” (“Records from the Fields”; Jeongseon 609–31), a series of six poems describing the plight of local peasants during a serious drought, frequently refers to the unreasonable or cruel demands of the petty official or local magistrate. In one of the series, the metaphor “wolves and coyotes” is used to describe the local administration.

Corrupt administrators and their lackeys are the main feature of poems such as “龍山吏”

(“The Petty Officials of Yongsan”), “波池吏” (“The Petty Officials of Paji,”) and “海南

吏” (“The Petty Officials of Haenam”; Jeongseon 630–34).

In his poetic depictions of the suffering of the peasantry, Dasan’s realism extends to dirty and unattractive details. A seven-year-old girl abandoned by destitute parents and left to care for her little brother recounts her mother’s weeping: “涕泗交頤” (“Tears and snivel mingled on her chin”; Jeongseon 629). The poet describes a malnourished child sitting in the yard, wailing for his mother: “糞溺滿身” (“Feces and urine covering his body”; 592). He also does not hesitate to record the shocking. One of Dasan’s most famous poems recounts a tragic incident in which a young, impoverished father cuts off his own penis in desperation when the local administration includes his new-born son on the conscription list and then takes away the family cow in payment for military exemption.

93 哀絶陽

蘆田少婦哭聲長 哭向縣門號穹蒼 夫征不復尙可有 自古未聞男絶陽 舅喪已縞兒未澡 三代名簽在軍保 薄言往愬虎守閽 里正咆哮牛去皁 磨刀入房血滿席 自恨生兒遭窘厄 (Yeoyudang 1.4.083b)

Lament for the Cutting of the Virile Organ

The young wife from Reed Village lets out a long cry, first at the district gate, then toward the blue sky. “A man might not return after leaving home to fight, but who’s heard of him cutting off his organ?” Her father-in-law just died—she’s in white,42 and the new-born is barely washed. Yet they place all three—grandfather, father, and son—on the conscription list. The man went to the district office to make a mild complaint, but the gatekeeper stood like a tiger, then took the cow with a growl. So he sharpened the knife and went inside, and left a pool of blood where he sat, reproaching himself for siring a son only to meet such misfortune. . . .

Again, Dasan’s realism does not stop with depiction; it is accompanied by a stance of opposition toward the misery he sees, and the next few lines of the same poem continue in a tone of sorrowful protest over the tragedy of such an act of desperation carried out in the face of unreasonable and inescapable demands. In the final lines of the poem he condemns the excesses of the rich and the administration’s bias against the poor:

豪家終歲奏管弦 粒米寸帛無所捐 均吾赤子何厚薄 客窓重誦鳲鳩篇 (Yeoyudang 1.4.083b)

In the homes of the wealthy there is revelry all year long, yet they offer neither grain of rice nor inch of silk.

42 The color of mourning.

94 How can “fairness” to the same people be so thick and thin? I recite the Sigu heavily from my wayfarer’s room.43

The Sigu (鳲鳩) is a section of the Sigyeong (C. Shijing 詩經; The Poetry Classic) that

praises the fairness of the virtuous man. Condemned by the authorities and living in exile,

Dasan is powerless to do anything, but his one recourse is to report, lament, and condemn

what he sees, drawing from a Confucian classic that supports his case.

“ 山民” (“Mountain People”) by Kim Changhyup (1651–1708; pen name:

Nongam), is famous as an earlier example of a poem depicting the misery of the peasantry, but it lacks the strong tone of criticism that we find in Dasan. The poem opens with the speaker stopping by a rural home and finding the wife alone, even though it is evening. She explains that her husband leaves to work in the field early in the morning and stays all day and into the evening because the rough mountain plot is so difficult to cultivate. There are no neighbors, and the woman is always fearful when picking wild greens because the woods are full of fierce tigers. The poet is moved and laments,

哀此獨何好 崎嶇山谷間 樂哉彼平土 欲往畏縣官 (Nongam Jip 1.317d)

How sorrowful to prefer such isolation, here in this rough valley. Rather be happy in that wide plain; but fear of the magistrate stops their going.

43 This, like most of Dasan’s social poems, was written in exile.

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As Yi Byeongju points out in his analysis of this poem, rather than enumerate the

injustices that cause such unhappiness, Kim merely states that such misfortune happens

to be the case:

This poem hints at the sympathy felt toward the ruled by one of the ruling class, and such sympathy was the duty of the scholar class. But it is no fist raised in protest; it is an appeal to the building of a better nation, and falls along the lines of ‘long live the king!’ . . . This is not pointing out and denouncing something in the manner of [Dasan] Jeong Yagyong. Rather, it is pointing out something and turning it into poetic sentiment. (182)

Cho Tong-il indicates in a separate analysis that this poem also indirectly expresses the

scholar’s sense of isolation and helplessness amidst the power struggles of the times:

One might claim to practice both the Way [Neo-Confucian morality] and scholarship, but one could not necessarily take hold of the world and set it aright according to one’s own wishes. It cannot be denied that since [the Way provided] no grounds or means to do so, it [merely] inclined toward the ideal, and literature became a soliloquy for comforting oneself. (Ihaenggi Munhak 73)

Cho’s comment and the previous overview of the inwardly-directed Neo-Confucian ethical consciousness suggest an attitude of passivity toward the problems of society. It should be noted, however, that the Neo-Confucian founders of Joseon were, in fact, actively engaged in the task of reconstructing society, and their scholar-official successors were expected to carry on the vocation of building and maintaining the ideal society. 44 However, this impetus being overly directed toward idealized forms and

44 See Deuchler, Transformation 24–27.

96 ritualistic considerations, one result was the imposition of rigid social patterns in the service of a utopian Neo-Confucian ideal. In contrast, the trend among Dasan and other reform-minded scholars to examine “things as they are” facilitated a more exploratory attitude. Moreover, unlike the Neo-Confucian assumption that moral endowment was dependent on Confucian education and lineage, Dasan’s philosophy suggested that, by possession of an independent intellect, or moral faculty, a person could make moral choices regardless of circumstances. It was a stance independent of, but thereby allowing willful action toward the object. Granted, one might argue that the final line of Dasan’s

“Lament” above (“I recite the Sigu heavily from my wayfarer’s room”) likewise indicates a use of literature as self-comforting soliloquy; but when seen in light of the whole of

Dasan’s writings, which included—along with numerous social poems—various social treatises outlining specific means for reform, his stance of opposition becomes clear.

Unsurprisingly, another common feature of Dasan’s poetry is the use of oppositional images. Again, this feature is a direct reflection of his philosophical break from the tradition of harmony and synthesis. The Neo-Confucian view asserted that the various levels and distinctions in society, such as that between landlord and peasant, were harmoniously coexistent elements that reflected the universal order. Dasan, critical of the abusive power relationships such an attitude supported in Joseon society, viewed these contrasting elements as oppositional forces to be resolved (Song, Yeongu 74–93).

Dasan’s poems are full of juxtaposed images of poverty and wealth, the abused peasant and the corrupt official, and other such images illustrating social oppositions. His allegorical poems are especially rich in oppositional elements, such as tiger and lamb,

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snake and magpie, pine tree and caterpillar. Unlike the traditional allegory that simply

illustrates a moral, Dasan’s allegories depict problematic relationships demanding

resolution in some form or other. The animals in his fables do not represent a harmonious

ecological balance, nor the eternal order underlying all of nature. Rather, they represent

the world of human society rife with conflict, where, for instance, a school of vicious fish

attacking a great whale (Yeoyudang I.3.13b) illustrates the in-fighting at the highest levels of government.

Kim Jiyong notes that Dasan’s distinctive use of oppositional imagery contrasts with the harmonious imagery of Toegye’s nature poems. In accord with the Confucian tradition, both Toegye and Dasan attach a moral significance to poetry. However, as a

Neo-Confucian, Toegye sees the moral role of poetry to be that of expressing the ideal of cosmic order. Toegye’s nature poems fulfill this purpose by depicting the harmony of the natural world, which, in turn, manifests the 天理 (“heavenly order”) that one must attain

to realize virtue (Song Jaeso, Body 104–109). Unlike the stark oppositions that Dasan employs, contrasting images in Toegye’s poems remain in close enough proximity temporally and spatially to serve the goal of depicting harmony rather than opposition

(Kim Jiyong 135).

The following lines from “春日閑居” (“On a Spring Day Leisurely”) by Toegye depict such cosmic harmony, and portray human life as part of this harmonious whole:

昨日雲垂地 今朝雨浥泥 開林行野鹿 編柳却園雞 不禁山花亂 還憐徑草多 ...... 水聲含洞口 雲氣帶山腰 睡鶴沙中立

98 驚鼯樹上跳 山田宜菽粟 藥圃富苗根 北彴通南彴 新村接舊村 樵人閒出谷 乳雀競棲簷 (Toegye Jip 2:78d)

Yesterday clouds lingered over the ground; today, morning rain moistens the earth. A wild deer wanders in the open woods, woven willow twigs enclose the garden fowl. Do not forbid the mountain flowers blooming dizzily, and pity the grass spreading onto the path...... The sound of water swallows the village entrance, and clouds encircle the mountain. A sleeping crane stands in the sand. A startled squirrel leaps from the top of a tree. The mountain field nurtures beans and millet, and the medicinal herb plot is abundant with sprouts and roots. A bridge traverses from south to north; the new village adjoins the old. The woodcutter leisurely quits the valley and mother sparrows quarrel in the eves.

In this poem, the contrasting images of wild and domestic life create a harmonious whole by complementing and overlapping with each other. Even the chicken cage, a human tool, is constructed of wild willow branches; the woodcutter finds his livelihood in the forest; and the eaves of the house are home to wild birds. The juxtaposition of one day and the next, clouds and rain, flowers and grass, village and mountain, bean field and herb plot, a sleeping crane and a startled squirrel, creates a variegated tapestry, but each part is in harmony with the whole. Any variety or shifting of images in this poem reflects the natural dynamic of the cosmos. The images of the bridge connecting north and south and the old and new villages adjoining each other further communicate a sense of all things being harmoniously connected. Even the one reference to discord, “sparrows quarrel,” is framed in the context of the pleasant activity of returning to nest and home at the end of the day. In its natural state, the world is harmonious, and one need only recognize and cooperate with this natural order.

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In contrast to this variegated picture of cosmic harmony, Dasan’s oppositional

images in “公主倉穀爲㢢政” (“Corruption at the Gongju Grain Stores”), a long poem describing the plight of the peasantry during a time of food shortage, show the contrast between the abandoned hut of a destitute farmer and the landlord’s comfortable home, thereby emphasizing the reality of disharmony and injustice:

所餘唯短犢 相弔有寒蛩 白屋狐兼兎 朱門馬似龍 村粻無卒歲 官廩利經冬 窮蔀風霜重 珍盤水陸供 (Yeoyudang 1.2.42a)

Only one calf left. Cold crickets comfort each other, Fox and rabbit run about the thatched hut, While a dragon of a horse stands in his Excellency’s stable. In the village storehouse nothing is left to finish out the year, But the official’s store lasts through the winter with ease. Heavy wind and sleet fill the villager’s desolate kitchen, While [elsewhere] fish and meat are offered on a plate of jade.

The opening images of lone calf, crickets, and wild animals running about the thatched home are certainly picturesque, but, when contrasted to the well-fed horse in the landlord’s stable, their poignancy takes on a disturbing significance. As the poem progresses, the disparity between the respective circumstances of the villager and the landlord becomes greater. Finally, the villager’s kitchen is not only empty, but fills up with wind and sleet, while the landlord enjoys his savory meat and fish in luxury.

“暮次光陽” (“Gwangyang at Sunset”), which Dasan wrote at the age of nineteen,

is noted for its indication of his burgeoning social consciousness (Bak and Jeong 29) and

provides another instance of his characteristic use of oppositional imagery:

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小聚依山坡 荒成逼海潮 漲霾官樹暗 含雨島雲驕 烏鵲爭虛市 蠯螺疊小橋 邇來漁稅重 生理日蕭條 (Yeoyudang 1.1.009a)

The small village leans against a mountainside; A ruined fortress borders the seawater. Thick fog darkens the trees by the yamen; Clouds arrogant over an island swallowing the rain. Black magpies quarrel noisily in the empty marketplace; The bridge is covered thick with clam and conch shells. Fish taxes are so heavy of late, Making a living becomes sorrowful by the day.

Each of the first six lines balances the next with a contrasting image, much in the manner of Toegye’s “On a Spring Day Leisurely”: village and fortress, yamen and island, magpies and shells. But the neutral and picturesque image of a small village next to a mountain in the first line immediately gives way to images of ruin, darkness, and abandonment. These succeeding images, interlaced with suggestions of inept and corrupt governing—the ruined fortress, thick fog darkening the trees by the official headquarters,

“arrogant” clouds—place the first image in a new light: the small village leaning against

the mountain no longer suggests the security and harmony of a social order in which the

weak are protected by the strong; instead, as the last two lines of the poem articulate, the

strong exploit the weak, and harmony is but an illusion.

Toegye’s “On a Spring Day Leisurely,” by depicting the human as inextricably

and harmoniously part of the cosmic order, reflects the Neo-Confucian conception of

human beings as essentially the same as all matter. Dasan, on the other hand, frequently

juxtaposes images of nature with images of human industry in a manner that focuses on

101 the human, rather than the cosmic (Song Jaeso, Dasansi Yeongu 93–133). Whereas for the traditional Neo-Confucian scholar “Nature was the ideal space to experience the principles of the universe and carry on Neo-Confucian inquiry” (Kim Hŭnggyu,

“Chosŏn” 252), Dasan’s view of the mind as distinct from the material universe allowed him to see nature not merely as a manifestation of universal laws and a site or means of self-cultivation, but as an object with its own laws that can be studied and used for the betterment of human society.

The following poem, written three years into Dasan’s exile to Gangjin, is a peaceful depiction of a rural landscape, and, as such, perhaps reflects a measure of calm that Dasan may have achieved as he settled into the years of exile stretching before him

(Bak and Jeong, 456). Its lines do not carry the troubled imagery of “Gwangyang at

Sunset,” but neither do they depict cosmic order. Rather, nature is presented as the setting of human rural industry:

田家晩春

雨歇陂池勒小涼 楝花風定日初長 麥芒一夜都抽了 減却平原草綠光 泥水漪紋漾碧靴 桔槹閒臥井邊莎 西隣黃犢春來健 新服平畦八齒耙 荊桑芽吐魯桑舒 螘子纖纖出殼初 從此女紅爭日夜 小姑朝起廢粧梳 (Yeoyudang 1.4.083d)

A Rural Home in Late Spring

Just cleared of rain, the bank of a rice paddy harnesses cool air. The late spring wind has stopped, and the sun begins to lengthen. Overnight the barley sprouts, And the green light of the grass fields has faded. Ripples of muddy water lap a blue boot,

102 And a dipping-gourd sits lazily on the fine grass by the well. Our neighbor’s calf over to the west has grown strong with the coming of spring; And the eight-toothed rake has newly leveled the fields. The one mulberry tree has sprouted, the others already full of leaves, And the silkworms chew their way out of the cocoons bit by bit. By day and night now the women will be busy making silk; The young wife has risen too early to even comb her hair.

Almost every detail of the season’s manifestation in nature is related to human life. The focus of the first scene is a field that produces the daily staple. The poem then moves from the larger landscape to specific traces of human activity, such as the muddied boot and the gourd lying by the well waiting for the next thirsty laborer. Likewise, the calf and the silkworms are important for their service to human livelihood. Even the independent images of wind, sun, fading green, and mulberry trees take on a humanistic significance in the context of the poem as a whole, for longer days mean more time to work, changes in the color of the landscape mark the various periods of farm activity, and mulberry leaves provide food for the silkworms. In Dasan’s landscape, the human subject takes center place, and the relationship of the human with nature is not one of co-effluence.

Rather, the human subject, through the distinction of intellect that in this case enables it to manipulate nature for the end of human livelihood and progress, stands apart from nature.

Finally, Dasan’s philosophy of poetry further reflects a paradigm of dualism. Bak

Muyeong’s study begins by identifying Dasan’s distinctive epistemology, which she traces to his break from the Neo-Confucian worldview that sees the natural world as a manifestation of metaphysical principle (i), and that assumes continuity between the natural and the human. As Bak points out, Dasan’s way of knowing places primacy on

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experience and sensory perception, since the intellect, separate from the world, can know

and make judgments only by first perceiving the object. Since the object exists separately

from the human subject and carries no metaphysical significance, it must be perceived

through the senses as object, rather than as continuous with the subject on the basis of shared metaphysical principle. In Bak’s words, “Cognition happens not on the basis of a common original principle. Instead, individualized cognition takes place through individualized sensory experiences” (107). Moral knowing also takes place within this framework through the application of the sense of right and wrong to what has been perceived through the senses (Bak 34). Dasan’s view of the poetic process reflects this epistemology of sensory perception, and can be summed up in his phrase “觸物興感”

(“touch matter, arouse sense”; Yeoyudang 2.19.433d). Thus, poetic feeling arises from

contact with matter that is outside the subject (Bak 78). Naturally, this approach, by

highlighting the distinction of phenomenal object from intellectual subject, would, by the

same token, emphasize the objective existence of the thing being perceived, and would

support the inclination toward exact language, careful observation, and realistic detail

characteristic of Dasan’s poetry.

In her analysis of Dasan’s “楊江遇漁者” (“Meeting a Fisherman at Willow

River”), Bak highlights the pattern of separation between subject and object evident in this poem in the division between the scene described and the poet’s expression of his own sentiments:

一翁一童一小年 楊根江頭一釣船 船長三丈竿二丈 數罟數十鉤三千

104 少年搖櫓踞船尾 童子炊菰坐鐺邊 翁醉無爲睡方熟 兩脚挂舷仰靑天 日落江湖浪痕白 山根水浸村煙碧 少年呼童攪翁起 魚兒撥刺天將夕 中流布網去復還 上下刺船如梭擲 伊軋唯聞柔櫓聲 蒼茫不辨雲水色 黃昏收網泊柳浪 摘魚落地聞魚香 松鐙細數柳條貫 鐙光照水銅龍長 野夫估客爭來看 鏗鏗擲錢錢滿筐 水宿風餐了無恙 浮家汎宅聊徜徉 人間富貴非善賈 (Yeoyudang 1.3.48d)

An old man, a child, a youth, On one fishing boat at the head of Willow Branch River. The boat is thirty feet long, the fishing rod, twenty; Dozens of nets, and three thousand fish hooks. The youth rows, seated at the boat’s tail, While the child sits by the cooking pot. The old man, drunk, is deep in slumber, His two legs hanging over the side, face to the blue sky. White waves move on the river now red with the setting sun. Water sweeps the mountain base, and the village is blue with smoke. The youth shouts at the child to awaken the old man. Baby fish wriggle about as the sun goes down; The net is thrown to the center of the flow, and thrown again. The boat moves up and down like a spindle, The creak of the paddles the only sound. In the dimness, cloud and water are indistinguishable. At dusk the net is gathered, the boat anchored; The fish are poured out on the ground, fragrant with their fishy smell, And strung to willow branches, then counted carefully by the light of a pine lamp. The lamps reflect on the water like a long bronze dragon. The village men come to argue and look, Clanging coins fill the wicker basket. Sleeping on the water and feasting on the wind, free of worry; At home on a floating house, leisurely going about. Human wealth is not good commerce—

This last line marks the above-mentioned division between a factual description of the scene and the poets’ own thoughts. The depiction of a humble fishing boat and its inhabitants, and the intermingling of idyllic images with the work of fishing, is now suddenly interrupted by a reflection on the human wealth and fortune that contrasts to this simple, hardy way of life. Bak suggests that the second part, in its function as a reflection

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inspired by the things described in the first, can be seen to poetically subsume the first

(113).

盡將僞樂沾眞苦 朝將軒冕飾聖賢 暮設刀俎待夷虜 跼蹐常如荷轅駒 鬱悒眞同落圈虎 籠雉耿介不戀豆 塒鷄啁哳生嫌怒 何如江上一漁翁 隨風逐水無西東 維州利害漠不聞 東林勝敗俱成聾 蘋洲蘆港作園圃 葦被篷屋爲帲幪 會攜二兒入苕水 令當一少與一童 (Yeoyudang 1.3.48d)

Through false joy one finds but true bitterness. In the morning they crown the sage, In the evening they bring out knife and chopping block and call you enemy. You struggle like a colt fastened to a cart, Frustrated and pitiful as a tiger in a snare. A pheasant in a cage stays clean because it doesn’t care for the beans, Chickens in a coop cluck noisily out of strife and envy. How is it that one old man on the river Follows the wind and water without east or west, Ignorant of the vicissitudes of the world, And deaf to the battles of nobles and factions? His garden is the riverbank full of water grass and flowers, A reed bed and a mugwort roof shield him from the wind. So I will take my two sons with me to the water, And make one the youth, the other the child.

This structure reflects the poetic process of “touch matter, arouse sense,” in that the

physical matter described in part A inspires the sentiment of part B (Bak130).

Nonetheless, the clear shift from description to reflection creates an oppositional dynamic

between the two parts (Bak113). In other words, though the two parts work together, they

can exist independently.

“Gwangyang at Sunset,” quoted earlier, provides another instance of this

juxtaposition of objective imagery (lines one to six) with the poet’s feelings (lines seven

and eight), which Kim Jiyong relates to Dasan’s “oppositional consciousness” in his brief

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commentary on the poem (131–32). Granted, the poet’s subjective experience might

influence what he sees and chooses to objectify, but the images can also stand

independent of the closing remark. As Bak points out, the independence of the object

from the observer is suggested in Dasan’s use of 觸 (“touch”) as opposed to 因 (“cause”

or “because of”) in the traditional Susahak theory of 因物起興 (“matter causing arousal of excitement”) (78), which suggests a more organic and unified relationship between matter and poet. Cho Tong-il goes so far as to suggest that Dasan’s philosophy of poetry

“provided a basis for understanding literature as a confrontation between the self and the world” (Ihaenggi Munhak 228).

Dasan’s shift away from the Neo-Confucian worldview to a new paradigm of the human as set apart from the world is thus expressed in his poetry through a dualistic subjectivity of distinction between subject and object, self and other. As we have seen in the above examples from Dasan’s poetry, this subjectivity is manifested in the following ways: consciousness of a distinct cultural self-identity; realism in the depiction of nature and society; acknowledgement of conflict and opposition in social relationships; human- industry-centered depictions of the world; and, finally, the human mind as knowing and being inspired to create not on the basis of shared metaphysical principle with the world of matter, but through sensory perception and experience of matter as the independent object.

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Interactive and Engaged Subjectivity

In the dualistic paradigm commonly associated with the Western intellectual trajectory toward modernity, the division between self and other extends to a division within the self that is frequently the subject of modern psychoanalytic theory, and often the source of the modern artist’s self-exploration and self-expression. Dasan acknowledges a potential conflict within the self between what he distinguishes as the

“do (C. dao 道) mind” and “human desires” (Yeoyudang 2.2.38a–41b), but his overriding focus is on moral action in the world outside the subject, not on exploration of the inner self. Thus, the result of Dasan’s social ethic is that his subjectivity, rather than inwardly focused and individualistic, is outwardly directed and interactive.

This subjectivity can be identified in Dasan’s view of nature, as Song Jaeso points out in his analysis of Dasan’s descriptive poems that reveal his man/nature dualism to be interactive, rather than statically opposed (Yeongu 96), as evidenced by Dasan’s interest in and close observation of the phenomenal world and his association of nature with human activity. In contrast, the tendency of Dasan’s predecessors and contemporaries to view the outside world through their inner preconception of Neo-Confucian metaphysics promotes a distortion of what is perceived, and obstructs meaningful interaction with the object (Song, Yeongu 106). This interactive orientation of Dasan’s subjectivity is also suggested by the pattern of his epistemology. As we saw in the discussion of Bak

Muyeong’s analysis of “Meeting a Fisherman,” for Dasan, poetic creation finds its origin outside the poet, and the outer object is presented as existing independently. The poetic voice is not introverted, but fulfilled through the pursuit of what is outside, since the

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objective existence of matter is necessary for thought in Dasan’s epistemological

framework (Bak 127, 130).

Kim Jong-gil suggests that the bulk of Sino-Korean poetry is marked by “the

propensity of the poets to withdrawal from the world, a propensity which often involves a

kind of philosophical transcendence” that happens, in part, through the “identification of

the poet himself with the natural phenomena” (41, 45).45 In contrast, as we have seen,

Dasan engages with the world, though his opportunity to engage was limited by his status as an exile. For the typical Neo-Confucian scholar, exile would provide a buffer from the coarse realities of the world and offer space to engage in meditative self-cultivation.

Indeed, Dasan’s quiet exilic home in Gangjin, surrounded by woods, flowers, birds, and streams, where he spent many hours instructing young scholars in the classics, could have provided some buffer and escape. But his poems show that he was sorely aware of the misery always nearby. In the following piece, written in 1810, the ninth year of his exile in Gangjin, the “old man” likely refers to Dasan himself, who would have been 49 at the time:

山翁

山翁今朝下山村 直爲問疾坐簷端 南村貧婦聲悍毒 與姑勃谿喧復哭 大兒槃散手一瓢 小兒蔫黃顔色焦 井上一兒特枯瘦 腹如怒蟾臀皮皺 母去兒啼盤坐地 糞溺滿身鼻涕溜 母來擊兒啼益急 天地慘裂雲色逗 東隣繰絲聲軋軋 西隣舂麥聲搰搰 舍北叱牛聲咄咄 牛不聽戒力但竭 山翁心煩意未裁 不可久留受此災 翩然拂袖上山來 碧樹涼蟬藕花開 (Yeoyudang 1.5.103b)

45 See Jim Jong-gil’s analysis of Kang Wi’s “On My Way to Sucheon” (44).

109 The Old Man from the Mountain

This morning the old man from the mountain goes down to the village and sits under the eaves to inquire about recent troubles. The poor woman of the southern village yells and fights with her mother- in-law, then bursts out crying. The big child walks with a limp, carrying a gourd in his hand, and the smaller child’s face is shrunken and yellow. The child by the well is even thinner, stomach extended like an angry toad, buttocks withered. His mother takes off, so he sprawls on the ground and wails, body covered in feces and urine, snivel running from his nose. The mother returns and gives him a hard swat, and he yells so loud that heaven and earth would rip and clouds would fly. The rattle of the mill from the eastern neighbor, the “thud-thud” of barley being pounded over in the west. From north of the house comes the “giddy up!” of the cowherd, but the sullen cow only drains his strength. The old man’s heart is troubled, and he can’t make up his mind; staying longer won’t make this misery any easier to bear. So he softly shakes out his sleeves and returns to the mountain, Where sorrowful cicadas drone in the green trees and the lotus blooms.

A scene of discord and unhappiness greets the old man as soon as he reaches the foot of the mountain. Overwhelmed, he ventures no further, only listening to the sounds coming from the other houses. He returns in frustration to his mountain home. The last two lines might suggest escape to a place of peace and beauty, but it is the starkly realistic scenes of unhappiness that dominate the poem. The old man might return to his mountain refuge, but he cannot escape the indelible impressions of what he has seen, and the cicada shares his sorrow.

The “old man’s” frustration and sorrow is expressed directly in Dasan’s preface to

“Records from the Fields,” where he writes of the drought that afflicted the Gangjin region in 1809:

110 是歲大旱 爰自冬春 至于立秋 赤地千里 野無靑草 六月之初 流民塞路 傷 心慘目 如不欲生 顧負罪竄伏 未齒人類 烏昧之奏階 銀臺之圖莫獻 時記所 見 綴爲詩歌 蓋與寒螿冷蛬 共作草間之哀鳴 (Yeoyudang 1.5.104c)

The drought began the preceding winter, and continued through the spring and to the beginning of fall. The earth was red for a thousand li,46 and the plains were barren of grass. At the beginning of June, wanderers filled the roads. What a heart-breaking sight. I had no will to live. Being a criminal in exile, I cannot stand equal with others, and have no means of reporting the people’s suffering to the king. So I record these things in poems, weeping with those who suffer, as the cicada and the cricket weep together in the grass. . . .

Perhaps it was this frustration that led to a decline in Dasan’s poetic output during the

remaining eight years of his exile. In his Yeoyudang Jeonseo (The Complete Collection of

Leisure Hall), the last poem recorded from exile in Gangjin is “海南吏” (“The Petty

Officials of Haenam”) which tells of a visitor from Haenam describing the brutal

oppression he has temporarily escaped. The last line reads, “泫然雙淚垂 條然一嘯舒”

(“Two streams of tears flowing, he lets out a long sigh”; Yeoyudang 1.5.106a). On this note Dasan ends most of his exilic poetry writing, leaving only three other poems from between 1811 and 1818 recorded elsewhere (Bak and Jeong 635).

Dasan’s outwardly directed, interactive subjectivity is intrinsic to the stated goal of his poetics, which is that literature must present the Way (do 道) that corrects society of its ills. The view that literature carries the do (文以載道) was shared by Dasan’s Neo-

Confucian contemporaries, but their respective perceptions of what constituted the do

differed (Song, Sasangjeok Jipyeong 220). Dasan criticized the Neo-Confucian idea of moral cultivation through “主情凝默” (“ruling the heart with still silence”) as overly

46 A unit of distance equaling roughly half a kilometer.

111 introverted, individualistic, and quietist, and stated that, according to the ancients, “正心”

(“putting the heart right”) takes place through “應事接物” (“responding to affairs and connecting with matter”; Yeoyudang 2.1.5d). To Dasan, the do was not an abstraction.

While a criminal in exile, unable to take any political action to relieve the conditions of those who were suffering, he nonetheless attempted to fulfill his moral duty by criticizing injustice through his poetic depictions of the human world around him.

As we have seen, Dasan’s poetry expresses a new dualistic subjectivity of subject and object, of self and other—a subjectivity based on the understanding that human beings are set apart from the determinism of the natural world, and, thus, free and responsible to act morally. At the same time, his poetry is distinctly Confucian in the classic sense, for its end is ethical engagement with the other, not self-expression, or inwardly-directed self-cultivation.

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Chapter 4: Transcending Tradition and Society in Catholic Discourse

This chapter focuses on the discourse of the religious component of the “West-

believing” element in late Joseon. I begin by tracing some of the more specific counter- mainstream characteristics of the early Catholic movement before moving on to a discussion of its literature. After an overview of early Catholic literature, I identify its main points of departure from tradition as loyalty extended to a transcendent object and belief in the soul’s immortality. These points of departure signify the shift to a subjectivity of the self as separate from the world. The remaining half of the chapter discusses three works expressive of this subjectivity shift: Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter,

Yi Suni’s letters from prison, and Choe Haedu’s “Self Reproach.” To conclude, I argue

that the discourse of the Catholic believers, being strongly focused on transcendent

identity, the next life, and holy separation from the world, results in a disengaged

subjectivity, as opposed to Dasan’s engaged subjectivity.

The Catholic Movement in the Transitional Space of Late Joseon

As we have seen in the previous chapter, the first people to embrace Catholicism

were members of a group that was generally dissatisfied with the oppressive structures of

late Joseon society, and motivated to find a new paradigm. Before exploring Western

Learning, some of these early converts had already been experimenting with systems of

thought branded as heresy by the Neo-Confucian establishment, such as Buddhism and

Taoism (Cho, Joseon Hugi 102). No doubt such interest in new ideas made them more

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receptive to Christianity, which, by offering a more egalitarian paradigm, also responded

to their desire for social change. In spite of their elite status as yangban, these scholars

who first introduced and promulgated Christianity, such as Yi Seunghun, Gwon Cheolsin,

and Yi Byeok were, by their association with the opposing Southerners faction,

politically disadvantaged. Thus, in a landscape dominated by their rivals, they were more

inclined to recognize the value of empowerment through the ideals of individual worth

and equality. For yangban who were economically impoverished or unable to attain

officialdom, as well as for members of lower classes, such as seo-eol (descendants of concubines, lacking full clan status) and jungin, such ideals presented in Catholic teaching took on a sociological as well as religious significance (Yi Wonsun 175).

In terms of an understanding of the world at large, the introduction of Western

Learning led to a new consciousness and respect for the world outside the Sinocentric

realm of East Asia. In his commentary on 職方外紀 (“World Geography”) by Giulio

Aleni (1582–1649), Yi Ik attempts to harmonize the findings of the Westerners with ancient Confucian teachings about the physical world. Though still affirming the centrality of China, he suggests that the Westerner’s map is trustworthy, and even says that “scholars from the West surpass [the scholars of China] in determination and ability” to accurately map the world (Sources 123). What had previously been a closed view that deemed as barbaric anything lying outside the cultural reach of China gave way to a more global view that was further informed by contact with Western science.47 For those who

47 See Yi Wonsun 174.

114 embraced the religious component of Western Learning, this global view was additionally strengthened by their secret but growing ties to the Church outside Joseon.

More significant, however, was the shift in their view of the state when allegiance to the

Lord of Heaven (the Christian God) came to take precedence over allegiance to the king.

The idea that there was a God existing above the state and above one’s forebears, a personal God who had created each person, replaced the traditional assumption of the state’s authority. The authority of the king, which until then had been nearly absolute, was now made relative.48

This rearrangement of loyalties signified a break from traditional authority, and unnerved the official establishment. The organizational structure of the Catholic community, based somewhat more on personal merit and religious devotion than on factors over which one had no control, likewise challenged the Joseon administration’s rigid structures based on class, clan, and faction. Furthermore, in order to enjoy religious freedom, many Catholics lived in hiding outside the jurisdiction of local governments.

Such modes of operations were considered a threat to the traditional order, and the growing Catholic movement came to be seen as a movement of resistance against state control.49

Although the Catholic community was not large or strong enough to harm the state, and had no intention of doing so, whenever a conflict arose between a matter of

48 See Choe Seogu 11, Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 123.

49 See Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 133, 137.

115 faith and the demands of the state, the Catholic subject placed greater importance on the requirements of his or her faith, even to the point of death. As Chung Doo-hee notes, at this point, the believer was spiritually and psychologically no longer a subject of the

Joseon king (Sinan- ui Yeoks- reul 130).

While most Catholics neither intended nor were able to directly extend their influence to Joseon society at large, and acted in resistance only when official demands conflicted with matters of religious conscience, within the Catholic community itself, the doctrine of the equality of all persons before God, regardless of class, gender, or ability, supported the changes in demographic and leadership that were made inevitable by the

Church’s marginality and persecution. Significantly, although the Catholic movement in

Joseon was birthed among members of the elite yangban class who came into contact with its teachings through their study of Western Learning texts written in classical

Chinese, once the followers of Catholicism were branded as subversive in the wake of

Yun Jichung’s defiance of Confucian tradition in the Jinsan incident of 1791, the Catholic community grew to encompass members of different classes. By the great persecution of

1801, the majority of the Catholic leadership came from the jungin class, with others of unknown status also included in their ranks. One notable characteristic of this development was the increasing use of vernacular Korean in the propagation of Catholic teaching. From the very beginning, the scholars who had started the Catholic movement translated Catholic texts into Korean to make them accessible to literate women and commoners. By 1787, barely four years after the founding of the Catholic Church in

Korea, these translated texts had become numerous and accessible enough for the

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authorities to complain that they “were being read even among the ignorant populations

of the villages and valleys” (qtd. in Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 84). As with European

reform-era vernacular translations of the Latin Bible that made the scriptures directly

accessible to the general populace, Korean translations of condensed versions of

scripture, such as Seonggyeong Jikhye (“Direct Exposition of the Bible”), made it

possible for a literate commoner to gain knowledge of much of the New Testament

scriptures on his or her own. According to the Joseon Ministry of Justice records, by

1801, over half the Catholic books being bought and sold among converts or others

interested in Catholicism were Korean translations (Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 91).

This demonstration of popularism, which helped fuel these efforts to share

Catholic teaching with anyone, regardless of class and gender, was founded on the ideal

of love central to the Christian faith. In Sinmyoeng Chohaeng (“Acting on the Mandate of

God”), an exposition of Catholic teaching widely read by early Catholics, the reason for

loving others was explained thus: “The Lord created humans in his own image and made

them his children so that, for his sake, they might love one another as brothers. One must

not love [on account of] character, ability, or virtuous deeds, but love justly and rightly,

for this is the place of being human, and it is the work of the Lord” (qtd. in Cho Kwang,

Joseon Hugi 97). Jo points out that Catholic teaching itself did not insist on the

demolition of the existent class structure, or require the practice of social equality; rather,

such changes were suggested indirectly by the appeal to conscience in writings such as

Seongchal Gwiryak (“General Self-Examination”), which insisted on harmony and mutual consideration between masters and servants, and in relationships in general (109).

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Naturally, those who were unsatisfied with the existing status quo and ready to move on

to a new order would apply their consciences in such a way. The result was, as noted, that

members of different classes were represented not only among the lay community, but

among the leadership as well. “For the Catholics, who believed in the equality of all

human beings before God, it was acceptable to receive religious instruction from women,

to gather with them in the same space, and to treat as equal companions even slaves and

butchers” (Yi Weonsun 197). 50 The circumstances of persecution reinforced such commonality. Following the persecutions of 1801, believers fled to remote rural areas and lived and worshiped together for mutual support, regardless of social status. By the second wave of persecution in 1839, even a person who would normally enjoy honor and privilege for being descended from a line of scholar-officials was often living in

circumstances no better than those of the lowest of commoners (Chung Doo-hee 144,

145).

Within a society traditionally segregated along class and gender lines, the

Catholic community presented a radical alternative that troubled traditional

assumptions. 51 Of particular note was the attitude toward women. In late Joseon, the

sexes were segregated and strict limitations were imposed on women. According to

traditional Confucian values, husband and wife were in a vertical, rather than horizontal

relationship, with servitude toward both the husband and the husband’s family expected

50 See also Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 78–79.

51 See Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi 110.

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of the wife. In society at large, the preservation of such patterns generally took precedence over the pursuit of marital harmony. The Church did not seek directly to abolish such traditions, but it encouraged marital harmony, allowed women to participate with men in religious education, activities, and leadership roles, and forbade the practice of polygamy and forced marriages, all of which indicated a significantly improved level of deference toward the opinions of women (Cho Kwang, Joseon Hugi151).

An overriding theme of these counter-mainstream developments in the Korean

Catholic church was that of individual agency. Submission to the transcendent authority of God brought with it spiritual emancipation from the traditional authority structures of

Joseon society, and, to the extent of practice within the Catholic community itself, greater social freedom as well. “A believer’s resistance toward the authority of the state was an assertion of his or her rights in a situation where legal and other sanctioned means of escaping oppression—whether as an ordinary citizen or as a persecuted Catholic—did not exist” (Choe Seogu 13). This assertion of one’s right to follow personal faith and conscience suggested a new realization of individual subjectivity, which Cho articulates as a sort of realization of selfhood: “By insisting that even the king could not dominate their souls or their consciences they had reached a new self-awareness” (Cho Kwang,

Joseon Hugi 128). For those commoners whose sufferings had increased with the economic changes and the political fluctuations of late Joseon society, and who frequently lacked the economic means to engage in legitimizing activities like ancestral rites, the realization that one’s worth and virtue were not determined by social status or

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by the ability to meet the practical and ritualistic expectations of Confucian tradition was especially empowering.

The Changing Emphasis in Catholic Literature

The literature of the burgeoning Catholic movement, though revealing significant points of departure from tradition, as will be discussed further on, did not set out to be revolutionary. Instead, as noted above, one of the uses of literature by the early Catholics

was to lessen the clash with tradition by showing that Catholic ideas were compatible

with Confucianism. In spite of their disillusionment with the oppressive structures of late

Joseon, which were maintained by the standard interpretation of Neo-Confucian

philosophy, the early Catholics were not seeking to replace Confucianism, but rather to

integrate Christianity into it. The earliest literature of the movement reveals this effort

toward integration, alongside the purpose of promulgating Catholic teaching. But as the

rift between the Catholic movement and the rest of society became greater, Catholic

literature drifted away from integrating Christianity and Confucianism, and dwelt primarily on themes of spiritual redemption, religious observances, and the next life.

The first writings associated with the Korean Catholic movement seem to have

been the outcome of the gathering of scholars that took place during the winter of 1779

for the purpose of studying Western Learning and Catholicism. 52 “Cheonju

Gonggyeongga” (“A Song of Reverence to the Lord of Heaven”), attributed to Yi Byeok

(1754–1785), a charismatic leader of the first group of Catholics, was composed in

52 See Chapter 2.

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vernacular Korean soon after this meeting. Consisting of 34 four-syllable couplets, the

poem begins by presenting the reason one must revere the Lord of Heaven:

어화세상 벗님네야 이내말씀 들어보소 집안에는 어른있고 나라에는 임금있네 내몸에는 영혼있고 하늘에는 천주있네 부모에게 효도하고 임금에게는 충성하네 삼강오륜 지켜가자 천주공경 으뜸일세 ...... 천주없다 시비마소 아비없는 자식봤나 양지없는 음지있나 임금용안 못뵈었다 나라백성 아니런가 ...... 시비마소 천주공경 믿어보소 깨달으면 영원무궁 영광일세 (Gyoju 14–16)

O friends of the world, listen to what I have to say: In the home there is an elder, and in a kingdom, the king. In my body there is a soul, and in heaven, Cheonju [the Lord of Heaven]. Filial to parents and loyal to the king, Let us observe the three and five relations; reverencing the Lord of Heaven is foremost...... Do not argue that there is no Lord of Heaven. Have you seen a child without a father, shade without sun? Not having seen the king’s face makes you no less a citizen...... Do not argue about revering the Lord of Heaven; believe, and, once you understand, Your glory will be eternal.

Within a context of honoring Confucian ideals, the author introduces Cheonju, unseen but personal, supreme over even the king, and to whom primary loyalty is owed.

At about the same time, Jeong Yakjeon, the second of the four Jeong brothers, of whom Dasan was the youngest, collaborated with Gwon Sanghak, Yi Chong’eok, and

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several others on a longer poem titled Sip Gyemyeongga (“A Song of the Ten

Commandments”), also written in the vernacular. This piece introduces and explains

Catholic doctrine through an exposition of the Ten Commandments. However, as Kim

Inseop points out, the writers also insert their own criticisms of the tendencies of their contemporaries (48):

허위허례 마귀미신 밎지말고 천주믿세 ...... 대혜대각 깨달으며 우주섭리 알고나면 천주은혜 밝은빛을 무궁토록 받을런가 사람지혜 우든하여 꼭두각시 나무신막 외고울어 복받더냐 절한다고 효자되냐 잘되어서 제복이라 못되면은 남탓이네 (Gyoju 19)

Do not believe in devils and ghosts, but believe in the Lord of Heaven...... Once you understand [his] cosmic providence, You will receive the bright light of his grace for all eternity. The wisdom of men is dull, [and they are but] puppets and wooden tablets. Will reciting and crying bring you fortune? Does bowing make you filial? When things go well it’s your own fortune; when things go ill, it’s another’s fault.

Thus, knowing and believing in the Lord of Heaven is presented as rational, and reflective of the wisdom of the cosmos. In other words, a follower of the Lord of Heaven would be a good Confucian. The choice of the Ten Commandments as a point of introduction also ties in with the Confucian emphasis on wise and proper action, whereas reference to the New Testament themes of God’s incarnation and the redemption of humanity through Jesus would require more of a leap into spiritual territory foreign to this-worldly Confucian scholars.

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Seonggyo Yoji (“The Essentials of Holy Teaching”) is another early piece based

on a study of Catholic texts. Along with “Cheonju Gonggyeongga,” it is attributed to Yi

Byeok. Unlike the first poem, which was intended for a wide audience, Seonggyo Yoji

was composed in Chinese for an elite, scholarly audience. But there is also a condensed

Korean version of the same, focusing on the main points presented in the longer, more

polished Sino-Korean version (Kim Inseop 53). In the longer version, as with Cheonju

Gongyeongga, the author attempts to integrate Catholic doctrine with teachings from the

Confucian classics. Christ is depicted as the gunja (C. junzi 君子 the gentleman, the

virtuous man, the sage) or the seonwang (C. xuanwang 宣王 the sage king of the

Confucian classics). The personal regeneration brought about through Christ is equated

with the Confucian goal of seong (C. cheng 誠; usually translated “sincerity”), and Christ

is the complete man who fulfills both the way of heaven (天道) and the way of

humankind (人道). Christians are those who strive to imitate this example and seek out

the completion of their humanness. The author also speaks of the cosmos as revealing the

mystery of God through the rules of nature, and closes the poem with a series of

instructions on salvation.53

An early piece that reveals a Confucian moral code repositioned under the

authority of the Lord of Heaven, as opposed to the authority of ancient sages, is

Ryuhandang Eonhaeng Sillok (“A Record of the Words of Ryuhandang”), a transcription of admonitions attributed to Ryuhandang Gwonssi (dates unknown), the wife of Yi

53 See Kim Inseop 55.

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Byeok. The identity of the transcriber is uncertain, as is the date of transcription (53

fn39), but the preface is said to have been written by Ryuhandang’s uncle, Gwon

Cheolsin, in the summer of 1795 (31). The preface begins as follows:

부부는 천지와 흡사하다. 턴주가 하늘과 땅을 만드시고, 하늘과 땅이 있은 후에 만물이 나고, 부부가 있은 후에 오륜(五倫)이 생겼다. 아버지와 아들, 임금과 신하, 벗이 다 부부로부터 나고, 한 집안의 친속들과 어른과 어린이가 다 부부로부터 난다. 후대의 모든 자손까지 부부로부터 말미암아 나오니, 사람의 윤리 가운데 으뜸이다. (30–31)

The union of man and woman is like heaven and earth. The Lord of Heaven made heaven and earth, after which all created things came about. After there was man and woman, the five cardinal principles came into being. The relationships between parent and child, ruler and subject, friend and friend, all originate from the husband and wife; the kinsfolk, elders, and children of one household all originate from husband and wife; and ten thousand generations of descendants all originate [from husband and wife]. Thus, [the union of man and woman] is the foremost of human moral relationships.54

The first sentence draws from the Confucian model of the marriage relationship that

compares the couple with heaven and earth. Traditionally, the man was equated with

heaven and the woman with earth, and the hierarchy implied by this image was

emphasized in the expectation that the wife would be subservient to her husband and

regard him as her “heaven” (Kim Yongsuk Joseonjo Yeoryu 38; Hanguk Yeosoksa 113).

However, in the passage above, there is no further elaboration on the meaning of this comparison, and the next sentence immediately introduces the Catholic God (“Lord of

54 In the third sentence of this quotation, I have revised the translation I give in the

published version by changing “After the creation of man and woman” to “After there was man and woman” to more closely reflect the wording of the original.

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Heaven”) creating heaven and earth. This description of creation draws from both Korean

tradition and Catholic teaching. The depiction of heaven and earth being directly created

while everthing else comes into being afterward, with no further mention of direct

creation, corresponds to Chinese and Korean creation myths in which the world begins

with the creation or the opening of heaven and earth and everything else comes about

indirectly. However, in Confucian tradition, the creation of the world was not attributed

to a personal being or to the Sovereign on High, and the personal creators featured in pre-

Confucian creation myths, such as Pangu, were not the eternal, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent God of Catholic teaching. Most significantly, although the five cardinal principles of Confucianism (五倫) are referenced, the marriage relationship is presented as the origin of the other relationships, rather than just one of the five. The marriage relationship is thereby given a higher status than was customary in Confucian tradition.

Kim Inseop suggests that this indirectly raises the status of women, whose primary moral contribution was within the marriage relationship (77).

The remainder of the text, which consists of sayings attributed to Ryuhandang, is a series of instructions to women, ranging in topic from “Carrying Oneself” to

“Instructing One’s Daughter-in-Law.” The Confucian moral code of restraint and humility in manner and servitude toward husband and in-laws is strictly upheld, but the

Lord of Heaven is introduced as the proper object of reverence, and as an authority on matters of proper living. In the section on Speaking, Ryuhandang instructs:

천주께서 말씀하시기를, “말을 많이 하지 말라. 말이 많으면 패함이 많다.” 고 하셨다. 이 말씀은 남녀노소 할 것 없이 항상 잊지 말고 염두에 두면

125 다툼이 없고, 낭패할 일이 없으며 평생에 유익할 것이다. 흉한 말은 옮기지 말고 좋은 말만 전하며, 어두운 밤에는 귀신 이야기나 도둑과 살인에 관한 이야기를 하지 말 것이다. 비와 바람을 탓하지 말고, 해와 달과 별들을 원망하지 말며, 옷매무새를 바르게 하고 천주를 공경할 것이니라. (36–37)

The Lord of Heaven says do not speak at length. He tells us that much talk brings much destruction. This is meant for all—male, female, old or young—to remember so that they may be free of contention and failure, and may be benefited by this counsel all their lives. Do not pass on ugly words, but pass on only good. On a dark night, refrain from speaking of ghosts and thieves and killing, avoid reproaching the rain and wind, do not resent the sun, moon and stars, keep your clothing and headdress neat, and reverence the Lord of Heaven.

Two other passages likewise present the Christian God as the originator of advice that

might formerly have been attributed to ancient sages:

천주의 말씀에 이르시되, “한 집의 계획은 온화하고 순한 데 있[. . .]다.” 고 하셨다. [. . .] 또 천주께서 말씀하시기를, “십년을 위한 계획으로는 나무를 심고, 일년을 위한 계획으로는 곡식을 심으라.” 고 하셨다. (39)

The Lord of heaven has said that the [careful] plans and thoughts of a household come about from peace and geniality . . . The Lord of Heaven also says that to plan carefully for ten years, one should plant trees, and to plan carefully for the year, one should plant crops.

Neutral references to ancestral rites and visits to ancestral shrines (37, 41–42) suggest

that Church injunctions had not yet fully settled in to separate Catholics from certain

customs central to proper Joseon society. One change is mentioned, however, in relation

to the custom of making the bride wait three months to prove her worth before visiting

her husband’s ancestral shrine: “천주께서 모든 법을 가르치신 후부터는 사흘 만에

사당을 보게 하기로 고치시는지라 “ (“But since the Lord of Heaven instructed us in everything, the rule has been changed to allow the bride to see the ancestral shrine after only three days”; 42). Apart from such references to the authority of the Lord of Heaven,

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and the preeminence given to the marriage relationship in Gwon Cheolsin’s preface, the

remainder of the text coincides with customary instructions to women.

By the turn of the century, the study of Western Learning had been banned by the

government for several years, the first persecutions had taken place surrounding the

Jinsan incident of 1791, and the Catholic movement was thoroughly alienated from mainstream Joseon society. Literature circulating among Korean Catholics at this point mostly consisted of expositions of biblical themes and church teaching, with less attention given to Confucian motifs.

One of the most influential expository writings of the early Catholic movement was Jugyo Yoji (“The Essentials of the Lord’s Teaching”), which Jeong Yakjong, the second of the Jeong brothers, composed. He was the only one of the four to be martyred during the Sinyu Persecutions of 1801, not long after his publication of Jugyo Yoji. Jeong had been appointed by Zhou Wenmou, the Chinese priest secretly sent to Korea in 1794, to head a group of laypeople trained to present Catholic teaching to those outside the

Church (Sungyojawa Jeungeojadeul 9). Jeong published Jugyo Yoji in the early spring of

1801, soon after the persecutions had begun. Hwang Sayeong is said to have praised the accessibility of Jeong’s work: “述主敎要旨二券 博採聖敎諸書 參以己見 務極明白 愚

婦幼童 亦能開卷了然 無一疑晦處” (“Jeong Yakjong, in composing the two volumes of

Jugyo Yoji, drew from various books of holy teaching, added his own thoughts, and provided such clear explanations that even an ignorant woman or child, upon opening the book, would understand clearly”; lines 36–37). Written in prose, in the vernacular, the piece systematically works through a range of topics, with the first volume focusing on

127 the existence of God, the attributes of God, the falseness of Taoism and Buddhism, the immortality of the soul, and the soul’s reward or punishment after death (Jeong Yakjong

10–39). The second volume presents the creation story, the theme of original sin, and the life and redemptive work of Christ, and it urges the reader to accept the Catholic faith

(39–70). The gist of the work corresponds to Matteo Rici’s Tienzhushiyi, although its organization and details differ.55

Several decades later, in Sang Jesangseo (“Letter Addressed to the Prime

Minister”), an appeal to the court to stop the persecution of Christians, Jeong Hasang

(1795–1839), the son of Jeong Yakjong, makes reference to Confucian sages and other

Confucian motifs, but less as a demonstration of integration than as an effort to argue for the legitimacy of Catholic teaching:

[In ancient times,] if the teachings were true, the sages fully embraced them, even if they were the words of a woodcutter. This means that they did not disregard someone’s words simply based on external appearance. For what reason, then, does our country prohibit the holy religion of the Lord of Heaven?56 (136)

Furthermore, he makes it very clear that, with all due respect to elders and to the king,

Christians are bound to give their first loyalty to the Lord of Heaven—“Obeying the king’s command, however, yet disobeying the command of the Great King of heaven and earth is an incomparably greater sin” (144)—and obey the Church even when it forbids the practice of ancestral sacrifices: “Hence, even at the cost of sinning against the

55 See Kim Inseop 59

56 Translation, Won-Jae Hur.

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nobility, we do not want to commit a sin against the Holy Catholic Church” (147). The

argument was not enough to convince the authorities of the compatibility between

Catholicism and official ideology, and Jeong Hasang was put to death during the Gihae

Persecution of 1839, along with over a hundred other Catholics.

Following in the tradition of Yi Byeok’s “Cheonju Gonggyeongga” and Jeong

Yakjeon’s Sip Gyemyeongga, the gasa, a poem of any given length of couplets (usually

in a 4-4 syllable pattern), could be chanted or sung, and became the preferred means of communicating Catholic sentiment and teaching. This gave rise to the genre of Cheonju gasa (Catholic gasa). Unlike “Cheonju Gonggyeongga” and Sip Gyemyeongga, however, the great majority of these gasa focused on exclusively Catholic themes. From the number of versions in existence, it appears that the most widely read of these were

Sahyangga (“A Song of Longing for Home”), the authorship of which is uncertain, although frequently attributed to the priest Choe Yangeop, and Samse Daei Ui (“The

Great Meaning of Three Ages”), by Min Geukga, a yangban convert who was said to have transcribed many works of church literature for distribution up until his martyrdom in 1840 (Kim Yeongsu 59). The main theme of Sahyangga is the expectation of heaven, the soul’s true home, a theme that, no doubt, sustained the believers during times of persecution: “어화 벗님네야 우리낙토 찾아가세 / 동서남북 사해팔방 어느곳이

낙토런고 . . . 이러한 풍진세계 평안한곳 아니로다 . . . 체읍지곡 이아니며 찬류지소

그아닌가 / 아마도 우리낙토 천당밖에 다시없네” (“O friends, let us find our joyful land. / East-West-South-North, where is this joyful land? . . . This storm-swept earth is no place of peace . . . Is this not a vale of tears and a place of brief sojourn? / Perchance our

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joyful land is no other than heaven itself”; Gyoju 27–28). Much of the poem also depicts the battle against evil that a believer must win in order to achieve heaven. The last lines of the poem admonish the believer to

세속훼방 탄치말고 세속체면 보지말고 세속명리 취치말고 세속일락 탐치말고 제삼구를 힘써치고 저칠도를 굳이막아 천당길을 바로찾아 대부모를 보사이다 (58)

Lament not the persecutions of the world, heed not worldly esteem. Acquire not the fortune of the world, covet not worldly joys. Soundly strike the three evils [the world, the flesh, and the devil] and firmly obstruct the seven ways [the seven deadly sins]. Let us find the proper road to heaven that we may see our Great Parent.

The Great Parent, of course, is God, with whom the suffering believer may finally find his or her true home. Samse Dae Ui, while encouraging the practice of church teaching, also emphasizes an eschatological faith. The topic of final reward and judgment leads into a long discussion of heaven and hell that fills the last third of the poem (82–89).

Aside from the Church’s increasing alienation from society due to its perceived subversion of traditional customs, another factor that would have contributed to this evolution away from Confucian themes was the Catholic movement’s growth among the lower classes. Since scholars no longer made up the main population of the Church, the need to appeal to philosophical inquiry diminished, and since the lower classes had little power to affect change in society at large and no expectation of their sufferings to diminish within the traditional system, their main hope would have been to achieve spiritual empowerment and eternal life after death. The widely read and recited gasa,

130 such as those mentioned above, not only provided a new vantage point on life, but also presented a means of overcoming the oppression and suffering of one’s circumstances

(Kim Inseop 80).

As suggested previously, within the Catholic community itself, greater respect was offered to individuals regardless of class. In Catholic literature, this was reflected by the fact that the vernacular was the preferred medium of composition, even with the very first works by scholars such as Yi Byeok and Jeong Yakjeon, who themselves had studied Catholic teaching in the elite medium of Chinese. In turn, the growing base of middle and lower class believers and their equal participation in the movement’s activities led to the use of freer forms in writing. “As the number of women and people of lower status increased among the Catholics, works were produced that did not rely on standard formalities, but merely expressed what was meant to be conveyed” (66).

Examples are “Self-Reproach,” Choe Haedu’s confessional meditation, and Gihae Ilgi, an account of the persecutions of 1839.

As indicated, early Korean Catholic literature generally paralleled the growth of popular egalitarianism evidenced in the makeup and structure of the Catholic community.

Kim Inseop suggests that Jeong Yakjong’s Jugyo Yoji, having been composed no later than 1800, at a time when prose writing by yangban was still predominantly in Chinese, would have made a significant contribution to the general movement to spread the use of written Korean and to unify written and spoken language (59). Apart from its use of and propagation in the vernacular, the themes of Catholic literature also paralleled the

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movement away from the philosophic concerns of the Confucian elite to more pietistic

themes that appealed to the lower classes.

A New Paradigm of Transcendent Identification

These counter-mainstream characteristics of early Korean Catholic literature

might be considered secondary manifestations of what I wish to highlight in this study as

pivotal to the emergence of a new subjectivity: that is, the presuppositions that marked

the break from the Neo-Confucian worldview and contributed to a sense of the individual

subject as separate. In the literature overviewed above, beginning with the very first

pieces that attempt to integrate Christianity and Confucianism, there are two critical

points of departure from the Neo-Confucian paradigm: primary allegiance shifts from parents, elders, and king to a transcendent God; and the human soul is seen as distinct and immortal. We have already noted how reverence and loyalty toward the Lord of Heaven is introduced in these pieces, the new idea being brought into the Confucian context by referring to God as the “Great Parent” or the “Great King.” Two central Confucian values—filial piety and loyalty to the sovereign—are not undermined per se, and filial piety is now noted as something commanded by God (“Honor your father and your mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.”

(Exodus 20.12)), but these values are extended to heaven, their reference point thus shifting from the biological and the earthly to the transcendent.

The Catholic idea of the soul is also introduced in the earliest works, and referred to repeatedly in subsequent writings. In Cheonju Gongyeongga we have seen how Yi

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Byeok compares the existence of the soul with the residence of a person in his home, and of God in heaven. Further on he elaborates: “이내몸은 죽어져도 영혼남아 무궁하다”

(“Though this body dies, the soul remains and lives forever”; 15). Jeong Yakjeon’s Sip

Gyemyeongga, focusing primarily on the Ten Commandments, does not discuss the soul, but it alludes to immortality when it states, “You will receive the bright light of his grace for all eternity.” In Jugyo Yoji, Jeong Yakjong’s widely-read, two-volume exposition of

Catholic faith, two sections are devoted to the soul, followed by two sections discussing

the afterlife. Jeong explains the soul’s immortality as follows:

사람이 죽은 뒤에 몸은 썩어도 영혼은 죽지 아니하느니 . . . 사람의 혼은 제 몸에서 생긴 것이 아니라, 몸이 생길 제 천주께서 신령(신령)한 혼을 붙여 주셨기 때문에 . . . 사람은 짐승과 달라 영혼이 따로 있기 때문에 몸이 죽어도 영혼은 따라 죽지 아니하느니라. (32)

After a person dies, the body rots, but the soul does not die . . . A person’s soul does not originate in the body; [rather] when the body is formed, God attaches to it a divine soul . . . Human beings are different from animals and have a separate soul. Therefore, even when they die, the soul does not die.

In Sahyangga, the soul’s imaginative powers are referenced, and the soul is praised as marvelous, for “무형하고 무상하되 영명신능 기이하다 / 멀고높은 하늘위를

순식간에 보고오며 / 크고넓은 바닷가를 순식간에 다녀오며 / 굳고굳은 돌산속에

걸림없이 횡행하며” (“It has no form or image, possesses divine power, / Sees the distant and high heaven in a moment, / Visits the great and wide ocean in an instant, /

Travels unobstructed through stone mountains”; 48). The wonder of the soul is presented as indicative of God’s divinity: “사람사람 한영혼도 다이같이 기이거든 / 하물며

전능천주 기묘성성 어떠할고” (“If the soul of each person is so marvelous, / How

133 much more marvelous would be the all-powerful Lord of Heaven?”; 48). In Sang

Jesangseo, Jeong Hasang’s appeal written some three decades later, he describes the human soul as spiritual and immortal, using terms of classification from Western

Scholasticism:

又當知靈魂之不滅也盖魂有三焉一生魂二覺魂三靈魂也生魂者草木之魂也能 生長而無知覺覺魂者禽獸之魂也能知覺而不知義理也是非也靈魂者人之魂也 能生能長能知能覺能分辦是非能推論道理於萬物之中惟人最貴所貴乎人者以 其魂之靈也卽所謂天命之謂性而賦卑于胎中者也烏可與草木禽獸同歸於朽腐 乎 (7)

Also, we know that the soul does not perish, and that, in general, there are three kinds of souls: First is the vegetative soul; second is the sensitive soul; and third is the spiritual soul. The vegetative soul is the soul of grass and trees, which live and grow, but do not sense. The sensitive soul is the soul of beasts, which can sense, but do not know reason, or right from wrong. The spiritual soul is the soul of humans. It not only can live, grow, and sense, but it is also able to discern, understand right and wrong, and seek and discuss truth. Thus, among all creatures, humans are the most noble because of their spiritual soul. This is the nature said to be commanded by heaven and granted to the person while still in the womb. Therefore, how can humans be the same as plants and beasts, which decay?

Again, not only is the immortality of the soul affirmed, but the soul is described in specific terms as distinct from the rest of creation by merit of its spiritual nature, which can reason, discern, and seek truth. Jeong Hasang’s classification mirrors Dasan’s three- category division of living beings—vegetation, animals, and humans (Yeoyudang

2.5.124a), and the distinction ascribed to the human soul in these Catholic writings is the same that Dasan gives to the human mind as separate from the rest of the cosmos by merit of its intellect.

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Yun Jichung’s assumption that intellectual belief, not praxis, should be the basis of orthodoxy (see Chapter Two), suggests that to the early Joseon Catholics, whose understanding of Christian faith was informed largely by European Scholasticism, the idea of religious faith was closer to what William C. Smith identifies as the modern understanding of “belief” as credence in the factual truth of a propositional statement, rather than belief in the older sense of “trust.” 57 In this discussion, therefore,

“transcendent” and “spiritual” may be equated with “intellectual” in the sense of being associated with the human mind as distinct from the material world.

Thus, for the Catholics, the reference point for establishing one’s identity shifted from the material to the intellectual. In a very real, social sense, this reorientation of identity was reflected in the new parameters of interpersonal association that developed within the Catholic community. The disruption of traditional familial and regional associations became one point of the government’s criticism toward the Catholic movement: “Even if it is one’s own father, son or brother, if he does not join the Catholic

Church, one regards him as the enemy, whereas people from just anywhere, once they join the church, are regarded as flesh and blood” (Yi Gigyeong, Byeokwipyeon 288).

Official complaints often exaggerated actual practices, but it is clear that identification with a spiritual, rather than a biological family was the basis of the class integration that occurred within the Catholic community (see also Cho 147).58

57 See Smith 36–69.

58 See also Cho 147.

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In a sense, the Catholic believer’s new loyalties were an extension of the

Confucian ideal of filial piety—after all, the Lord of Heaven was the Great Parent, and,

most likely, such fierce allegiance in the face of torture and death was possible in part

because the ideals of filial piety and loyalty had been ingrained in the Joseon Catholics

from an early age. Nonetheless, the shift was radical: to the Korean Catholic informed by

Western Scholastic ideas, the Great Parent belonged to the intellectual, rather than the

material world. Furthermore, that one’s personal relatedness to this transcendent Parent

hinged not on predetermined biological or social relationships, but was dependent on

one’s own choice to believe, implied that the individual was intellectually autonomous,

and, in the transcendent view of things, no longer confined to a closed system.

Thus, as in the case of Dasan, the shift for these Catholic believers can likewise be identified as the turn to a dualistic subjectivity that separates the human intellect from the rest of the world. Unlike Dasan, however, whose goal of ethical practice in society made the human world the focus of his independent subjectivity, the Catholic focus was on the transcendent; and, more specifically, on the individual believer’s place before God as defined by religious piety. The outcome of this transcendent orientation, as will be demonstrated in the remainder of this chapter, was identification based on ideological rather than traditional ties and values; a heightened consciousness of the individual soul; a preoccupation with the afterlife and an emphasis on purity and religious piety over engagement with the world; and, finally, the classic dichotomy of soul/body, heaven/earth, redeemed self/unredeemed other, as expressed in the following excerpts

from two of the instructional writings discussed above:

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천주는 위로 천신을 내시고, 아래로 짐승을 내시고, 그 중간에 사람을 내시니, 사람의 영혼은 위로 천신과 같고 몸은 아래로 짐승과 같은지라. (Jugyo Yoji 33)

The Lord of Heaven created angels above, animals below, and human beings in- between. The human soul is like that of the angels above, and the body is like that of the animals below.

범한죄악 쌓였거든 어느때에 안심할고 네육신은 부성하나 네영혼은 빈궁하다 고은의복 잆었으나 네영혼은 벗었으며 좋은음식 배부르나 네영혼은 굶었으며 ...... 너의종족 칭찬하나 호수천신 미워한다 너의붕우 친우하나 천주제성 버렸도다 ...... 원수로다 육신이여 미운 것이 세속이다 평생섬겨 믿었더니 흉한것이 마귀로다 ...... 세상벼슬 구치말고 천국벼슬 생각하소 세상재물 탐치말고 천당재물 사랑하며 잠생사만 하지말고 영생사를 돌아보라 (Sahyangga 55–57)

When your sins have accumulated, how can you be at peace? Though your body enjoys wealth, your soul is in poverty, Though you are dressed in finery, your soul is naked, Though tasty food fills your stomach, your soul is hungry ...... You praise your flesh and blood but despise your guardian angel, You are intimate with your friends, but have rejected the Lord of Heaven and the saints ...... [The punishment that awaits the sinner is described; then the sinner laments,] Flesh, you are the enemy, and the world is what I hate. All my life I trusted the devil, only to find him hideous...... [The believer is exhorted to overcome sin by caring for the soul and looking to heaven:] Seek not worldly rank, but think of heavenly rank,

137 Covet not worldly wealth, but love heavenly wealth, Care not only for temporary matters, but be mindful of eternity

Three Representations of the Catholic Subject’s Shift to a New Paradigm

In the face of official censure and growing persecution, Joseon Catholics of the yangban class enjoyed little leisure to pursue the literary activities typical of their milieu, and, as we have seen, writings associated with Catholic converts were intended primarily

for the purpose of promulgating church teaching, defending Catholicism, or recording

events. It is certainly possible that there were some who wrote poetry or composed essays

in whatever leisure time they might have had, but since publication of such writings

would have depended on official approval, they were either never published, or destroyed

when the author was marked as an enemy of the state and executed.

Nonetheless, there are three works worthy of examination as expressive of the writer/subject’s break from tradition and shift to a new sense of subjective identity.

Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter presents a testament of the Catholic movement’s contradistinction to mainstream society, as well as an individual Catholic subject’s severance from traditional worldly authority and his identification with a group defined

by spiritual rather than geographical or political ties. Yi Suni’s letters written from

prison, while retaining certain characteristics of traditional female subjectivity, also

manifest an identity repositioned beyond traditional boundaries; they declare the primary

value of the transcendent and the importance of purity, and point to martyrdom as the

prize of final transformation through severance from the world and sin. Finally, Choe

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Haedu’s remorseful memoir reveals an internalization of the dualistic paradigm, by which

the self is placed under scrutiny and the body becomes the adversarial other.

Hwang Sayeong’s Testament and Appeal

In contrast to the other-worldly emphasis in Yi Suni’s letters, Choe Haedu’s essay, and the later Catholic literature overviewed above, the occasion and content of

Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter offer a unique instance of an individual Catholic trying to affect political change. However, the change is primarily for the sake of preserving the freedom of the Catholic minority to pursue their beliefs, and there is no indication of the intent of ethical engagement with the world that is evident in Dasan’s writing. Hwang’s letter testifies that within the Catholic movement itself there are trends of social reformation brought about by identification with Catholic religion and spirituality rather

than with traditional customs and values, revealing the Catholic movement functioning as an alternative society increasingly isolated from the rest of Joseon. Furthermore,

Hwang’s individual separation from the world seems further emphasized by the note of desperation and the lack of realism in the measures he proposes.

Hwang Sayeong (1774–1801) was one of the Church’s brightest and most influential leaders, and one of the many Namin scholars martyred during the Sinyu

Persecutions.59 The son of a respected yangban household, he took and passed the jinsa

59 For the following descriptions of Hwang Sayeong’s life and the Silk Letter incident I

have drawn primarily from the Korean translation of Dallet’s L’histoire de l’église de

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examination (the first level of civil service examination) at the age of 16. The king was so

impressed with him that he clasped the boy’s wrist—an unusual honor—and insisted that

Hwang come to him when he reached the age of 20, for he would have an important task for the bright young man. As was the custom, Hwang kept the wrist which the king had touched bound in red silk. Around the same time, Hwang began to study Catholicism with his in-laws, the Jeong brothers, of whom the oldest, Yakhyeon, was his father-in- law. The king was disappointed to learn of Hwang’s conversion to Catholicism, but did not trouble him about it. However, like many other Catholics of the yangban class,

Hwang gave up any ambitions to advance in government rank, since greater status and visibility would have made him an easy target to the factions wishing to rid the government of anyone associated with the Catholic movement. In 1798 Hwang lived in

Seoul, and frequently hosted Fr. Zhou. When the persecution began, he went into hiding at a pottery in Jecheon, Gangwon Province, staying there until his capture in late 1801.

In hiding, Hwang was accompanied by two other Catholics, Kim Hanbin and

Hwang Sim, who frequently went out to gather information on events taking place among

Catholics. During their time in hiding, the persecution of Catholics gathered force, and in the spring of 1801, Jeong Yakjong, Gwon Cheolsin, and several other church leaders were executed. Two months later, hoping to stop the persecution, Fr. Zhou gave himself up and was executed. When news of these events reached Hwang Sayeong, he decided to

Corée (II. 557–575), in which the translators have added footnotes to correct any known

factual inaccuracies in Dallet’s account (see his pp. 198–219).

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take action by writing for assistance to the bishop of Beijing, and in late October

painstakingly composed a long epistle on a length of white silk, which Hwang Sim was to

smuggle to Beijing. But Hwang Sim was apprehended en route a few days later, and the

authorities learned of Hwang Sayeong’s hiding place and arrested him soon afterward.

For criticizing the regime, for having intended to report the execution of Fr. Zhou to

Beijing, and for daring to invite foreign armed intervention, Hwang Sayeong was branded

a wicked criminal who had violated the moral principles of heaven and humanity, and he

was beheaded that December.

Hwang’s Silk Letter describes the situation of the Korean church and recounts the recent persecutions, with detailed reports on each of the thirty-some martyrs, including

Fr. Zhou Wenmou. This section is followed by a request for assistance through several

measures that Hwang had conceived of on the basis of his limited knowledge of the

power of the Catholic church outside Korea: papal influence should be applied to the

Qing Emperor to pressure the Joseon government to allow the Catholics to practice their

religion; if necessary, Korea could be made the personal territory of the Manchu rulers of

China, since the Joseon government was deteriorating in any case; and finally, the

Catholic nations of the West should gather a force of some sixty to seventy thousand

troops to pressure the Joseon government to allow the entrance of missionaries and lift all

restrictions on the practice of Catholicism.

Hwang’s expectations were clearly unrealistic, and his willingness to invite

foreign powers to subjugate the nation was criticized even by other Catholics. As he

himself reveals in one passage of the letter, some of his contemporaries questioned not

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only the practicality of such measures, but whether they were appropriate to what the

church represented (line 115). Similarly, in the Foreword to the 1924 French translation

of the Silk Letter, Gustave Mutel, then Bishop of Seoul, refers to Hwang’s endeavor as

being somewhat rash, misguided, and self-righteous (as cited in Oda Shyogo 1). Also,

Yamaguchi Masayuki, who published a Japanese translation of the Silk Letter in 1946,

criticized the ideology underlying Hwang’s drastic measures as the tragedy of a misguided reliance on the West (84). Subsequent scholarly treatments of the Silk Letter

incident have been mixed, with negative reactions to Hwang’s perceived toadying to

foreign powers balanced by studied treatments of the Silk Letter as a notable expression of dissent unusual for its time.60

On one level, the gist of the letter does seem to be the rash and almost fanciful

action of a desperate, alienated young man. Certainly, Hwang reveals his naiveté and

misjudgment in perceiving the Church as representing and being supported by all or most

of the outside world: “聖敎已遍天下 萬國之人 無不歌詠聖德 鼓舞神化” (“The Holy

Church has already spread throughout the world; among the people of all nations, there is none who does not sing of the [Church’s] holy virtue, nor beat the drum and dance in praise of [God’s] enlightenment”; line 4). But the letter—consisting of some 30,000 tiny

Chinese characters brush-written in neat lines on a roughly 1’ x 2’ length of silk—is also carefully composed. It has a clear structure, and Hwang’s report of the events that have

60 For an overview of scholarly opinions on Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter, see Won

Jaeyeon 327–333; and Heo Donghyeon.

142 befallen the Catholics is unexaggerated, largely coinciding with the official records.

When there is no certain eye-witness report yet as to whether a particular individual had recanted or remained faithful at the time of death, Hwang is careful to mention this ambiguity. One such comment reads: “權哲身亦杖斃 而不知其善惡死 容俟採訪”

(“Gwon Cheolsin was also beaten to death, but it is not known whether he died in [grace] or in evil. Please wait until we have inquired [further]”; lines 51–52). Also, Hwang’s criticism of the regime is supported by his fairly accurate depiction of factional strife and the extremes to which the regent and her supporters were resorting to remove opposition.

Understandably, some contemporary Korean scholars highlight the Silk Letter as an important artifact that brings to light issues of individual and religious freedom, and point out that its challenge of a stagnating system is not entirely invalid.61

Apart from the debate over the merit or the weakness of Hwang’s intent, the Silk

Letter is a remarkable representation of a conversion so complete as to compel Hwang to openly declare the illegitimacy of the traditional system under which he had been personally favored by the king, and within which he could have advanced to fame and fortune had he so wished. Hwang was unusual even among Catholics in this insistence on whatever means were necessary to procure religious freedom (Jeon 74). Chung Doo-hee makes the following observation: “Most of the martyrs chose death for the sake of keeping their faith, but they did not extend their interpretation of Catholic teaching to [the conception of] a new system of thought that would take the place of the centuries-old

61 See Jeon Insu; Chung Doo-hee; Yi Jeongrin; and Won Jaeyeon.

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Confucian system. But Hwang Sayeong was different. He was clearly denying the

legitimacy of the Joseon dynasty” (89). Chung explains that such a shift was possible for

Hwang because it was the inevitable conclusion of the premise that all human beings

were the direct creation of the Lord of Heaven (89). This removed the subject from the

closed, Neo-Confucian paradigm, and to leave this paradigm meant, essentially, to deny

the legitimacy of the Joseon system (89).

As one reason for the Joseon government’s persecution of the Catholics, Hwang

mentions in his letter the closed ideology of those in power: “由聞見孤陋 所知者惟宋耳

少有不同之行 卽看作天地間大変怪” (“What they have seen and heard is narrow, and all they know is Song scholarship. Seldom is there any variance, and [when there is] it is looked upon as a strange accident between heaven and earth”; line 113). The variance

that Hwang and all Catholics had embraced was, as discussed before, the reorientation

toward a transcendent reference point. It was for this reason that Hwang would attempt to

procure intervention from people with whom his only ties were ideological and spiritual,

rather than geographical, familial, or ethnic. Also, the goal of his actions was to protect

ideological freedom. In this light, the Silk Letter can be seen as the testament of a new

subjectivity—a subjectivity that has crossed the boundaries of traditional identity and

ontology; and that, on the strength of ideological agency based on the transcendent, presumes a trans-national affiliation.

Among other things, Hwang’s letter is a report on the history and the state of the

Korean Catholic Church, and, as such, is a testament to the new subjectivity represented

by the Catholic movement’s transgression of the status quo. As noted previously, the

144 movement’s break from traditional Joseon authority and the patterns it dictated, joined with the Catholic teaching that all people were equal before God, made possible the troubling of traditional hierarchies.

One manifestation of this change was that a movement begun by elite male scholars of the yangban class grew to include the lower classes, and offered new legitimacy and respect to traditionally inferior groups such as jungin, seo-eol, and women. In his account of specific individuals who have been martyred, Hwang does not discriminate in praise or detail between members of the elite yangban and individuals from the traditionally disadvantaged groups, and he depicts some of these individuals in leadership roles. The first person he introduces in this part of the report is “崔多默必恭

者 中路人也” (“jungin Choe Damuk [Thomas] Pilgong,” whom Hwang describes as “性

直志毅 仗義疎財 熱心最盛 有卓犖不羣之風” (“straight of character and firm-willed, and whose zeal sets him apart from others”; line 6). Hwang mentions that Thomas had apostatized during the Jinsan incident, which pleased the king, who then arranged a marriage and an official position for Thomas. In spite of this honor, Thomas regretted what he had done, and later confessed to the king and the authorities his loyalty to the

Church, knowing this would likely mean his death (lines 6-8).

The second person Hwang introduces is another man of great boldness who happens to be a seo-eol: “李瑪爾定中培者 少論一名也(士夫妾子孫謂之一名) . . . 勇力

絶倫 志氣豪快 . . . 熱心如火 明目張胆而行 不怕人知覺” (“Yi Ma’ijeong [Martin]

Jungbae (the son of a concubine) of the Soron faction . . . of outstanding bravery and strength, and heroic spirit. . . . His zeal is like fire, and he acts with clear eyes open wide,

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not fearing that others will know [that he is a Catholic]”; line 8). Hwang relates in detail

an incident that demonstrates Yi Jungbae’s enthusiasm and his lack of fear:

庚申復活占禮 煮狗 酒 與同里敎友 會坐路邊(山僻小路) 高聲念喜樂經 擊匏 樽按節 歌竟飮酒嚼肉 飮訖復歌 如是終日 未幾爲仇家所告 與同友十一人 被捕到官 友中亦有弱者 皆賴瑪爾定鼓動勸勉 之力 屢經毒刑 一幷堅固 遂拘囚不放 (lines 8–9)

On Easter of the Gyeongsin year [1800], he cooked up a dog and [took] some wine and sat by the side of a road (a small, remote mountain road) with fellow Catholics from his village [to celebrate the season]. With loud voices they chanted the [Regina Caeli] for Easter, beating out the rhythm on gourds and wine bottles. When the singing ended, they would take more wine and meat, then sing again, and thus [they continued] to the end of the day. Not long afterward, his enemy relatives reported him, and he and eleven of his fellow [Catholics] were taken to the authorities.

In prison, Yi Jungbae buoys up the other imprisoned Catholics, and uses prayer and the bit of medical knowledge he happens to possess to help others in pain. He also takes the opportunity to tell others about Catholic teaching, resulting in the conversion of one of the guards.

Another individual who stands out in Hwang’s report is “總會長崔若望昌賢 中

路人也” (“General Secretary [of the Korean Church] Choe Yagwang [John]

Changhyeon, a jungin”; line 32). Hwang goes on to describe Choe as devoted, just, and an outstanding teacher. He was one of the first to be converted when the Church was established in Korea, and his serene and simple bearing and the clarity and depth of his teaching are a source of comfort and inspiration to others. Hwang sums up his description of John with, “德望爲敎中第一人 人無不愛信” (“In virtue he is foremost among the faithful, and there is none that does not love and trust him”; line 33).

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The impact of the Catholic movement on the status of women is hinted at in a long passage devoted to “姜葛隆巴 一名家女子也 才辨剛勇 志趣高尙” (“Gang

Galyungpa [Columba], the daughter of a concubine, skilled, prudent, firm and brave, [and whose] aspirations are noble”; line 65). Hwang describes how Galyungpa, despairing of her husband’s lack of faith and backbone, leaves the farm to his care and takes the children and moves to Seoul to assist the persecuted Church. She hides Father Zhou in her own home in Seoul and earns his trust through her diligent assistance in all manner of church affairs (lines 66-68). In leaving her husband’s home and taking on a self-chosen vocation, Columba essentially becomes her own agent.

Not only are traditionally inferior groups represented by such outstanding individuals, Catholic leaders from among the elite act in ways that support these shifting values. Hwang reports how Jeong Yakjong, a yangban and a prominent member of the first group of Catholics, does not hesitate to reach out to the lowly and the ignorant, tirelessly instructing them such that even the most dull-witted person is able to understand. As previously noted, Hwang praises Jeong for his vernacular exposition of

Church teaching that even women and children can read and comprehend (lines 36–37).

Kim Baeksun, another yangban convert, is persecuted by his family for not pursuing official success. Having seen beyond the limitations of Song teaching, he has examined and embraced the teaching of the Church instead (lines 61–62).

The Church’s demographic makeup also reflects this shift of representation across class boundaries and beyond the markers of traditional success. Describing the

Church’s rapid growth the year before, Hwang reports that two thirds of the new converts

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are women and one third are from the lowest classes (line 20). Although a yangban

aristocrat himself, Hwang does not hesitate to add that, “士夫男子 惧怕 世禍 信從者狼

少” (“Sons of the gentry fear the world’s trouble, and very few become believers”; line

20). Unlike the jungin, the seo-eol, and the women, who have found a new self-propelled

agency through their identification with a reality not constricted by the world, the “sons

of the gentry” remain tied to the world. As we have seen, traditional status and success

are not the markers of praise and distinction among the converts and martyrs portrayed in

Hwang’s letter. Rather, it is a depth of conviction that transcends traditional boundaries at

the risk of alienation and persecution.

Political circumstances certainly contributed to the Church’s growth among the

disadvantaged, who were accustomed to dispossession and had less to lose in the face of

persecution. But this class integration was also a reflection of the paradigmatic shift

based on the shifting of authority from the earthly to the heavenly realm. The values of

loyalty and filial piety foundational to Joseon society were transferred to the spiritual

world. Since God was Lord and Father, belonging to the church was a matter of

individual will and belief, rather than physical circumstances of birth or location. Thus,

that Gang Columba chose to live apart from her husband, or that Gwon Cheolsin, once a

respected yangban, was sabotaged by “本鄕怪鬼輩 誣告官” (“the ghoulish hordes of his

hometown”; line 12), or that yangban Kim Baeksun was despised and reprimanded by his wife, his relatives, and his friends for choosing Catholicism over success and security

(lines 62–63), was neither disgraceful nor surprising.

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Transcending the physical, this spiritual community extended beyond the

political and geographical boundaries of Joseon. When Hwang learned that most of his

fellow church leaders had been killed, he turned to the Portuguese Bishop de Gouvea in

Beijing as parent and shepherd: “惟我大爺 恩兼父母 義重司牧 必能憐我救我 疾痛之

極 我將呼誰” (“Our great father, in grace you are as mother and father, in justice you carry the burden of shepherd; certainly you are able to pity us and save us. In such extremes of misery, to whom shall we appeal?”; line 2). For Hwang, this spiritual and ideological connection extended to a political connection that could solve the current crisis. In his plea to the Bishop, and his request that their plight be “敢望敷奏敎皇 布告

各邦” (“reported to the Pope and to all regions”; line 5), he assumes his identity as a

subject of what he perceives to be the global community of a spiritual family.

Yet, in Hwang’s perspective, the current crisis and the ignorance and the evil of the Joseon regime are obstructing him and his fellow Catholics from proper belonging in their rightful, global community—traditional ties, as well as the geographical boundaries of “mountain passes and rivers” (line 89), separate them from the larger world to which they now belong. In other words, ties based on biological and material realities have become a severe obstacle to rightful belonging identified by the intellectual tie of common belief. Furthermore, Hwang perceives that this communion should rightfully extend to the whole of Joseon: “而顧此左海蒼生 孰非上主赤子 地方避僻 聞敎晩”

(“Of all the people of [this kingdom], who is not the child of the High Lord? But our region being remote, we were late in hearing the teaching [of the Church]”; line 4). This affiliation is not only necessary for the survival of the Catholic minority in Korea, but

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also for the good of Joseon, which has suffered under a weak and narrow-minded regime

(lines 102–105). Hwang points out that one reason for the persecution of Catholics is the restrictive ideology of those in power, as mentioned earlier. He laments that even the bounty of the land—“慶尙道之人蔘至賤 耽羅島之良馬極多 此亦天府之國” (“vast

fields of ginseng in Gyeongsang Province, fine horses on Tamna Island; a kingdom of

plentiful produce”; line 104)—is poorly managed by the reigning Yi clan, and the people are barely able to eke out a livelihood (line 105). He suggests that the Joseon regime be coaxed to join the enlightened global community, and that any hesitancy on its part can be easily overcome by the threat of political and military pressure, since it is too weak and corrupt to defend itself (line 104; lines 108–109).

Hwang has some specific suggestions. As an initial measure to prepare for this new trans-national alliance, he suggests that the Church headquarters in Beijing employ someone from Joseon to teach Korean to the young men for the Church’s future use in proselytizing Korea (line 98). He also proposes that a political alliance be established by sending a Manchu princess to marry the young Korean king (line 105). And, most infamously, as noted above, he proposes that several hundred warships with fifty to sixty thousand troops be sent to Korea with a request that the Joseon king admit just one missionary (lines 110–111). Hwang recommends that this plan be implemented within three or four years. In the meantime, the most urgent step is to encourage cross-border commercial activities by opening a shop inside the Willow Palisades gate on the border between China proper and Manchuria, through which Koreans entered China (line 118).

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In justifying such measures, Hwang argues in his letter that the Joseon regime’s persecution of Catholics is entirely unjust, and that “實不得絲毫不忠之” (“in fact, there has been no [evidence] acquired of [even] a thread or hair of disloyalty” on the part of

Catholics (line 115). Obviously, Hwang is not speaking for himself, but for the general

Catholic movement up until this point. Aside from two earlier, less provocative letters of request for intervention sent to Beijing by a group of Catholics, Hwang’s letter is, in fact, the only action undertaken by a member of the early Catholic community that might be readily identified as politically traitorous. And in the midst of the devastating persecutions of 1801, the Catholic movement had even less opportunity and incentive for political and social involvement. Nonetheless, conversion to Catholicism meant that the once absolute authority of the king was now relativised by the authority of God and the

Church. Hwang’s insistence that Catholics have been loyal subjects of the king is not entirely true.

As in the case of Yun Jichung, Hwang is arguing from a perspective that has shifted value to another realm. Although the help that he seeks is material and political, the crisis that he details is not the loss of biological, ethnic, or national continuance, but the loss of freedom to pursue a system of intellectual belief. By embracing belief in a reference point that lay beyond the cosmos, that was not restricted by time or place, and that was directly and personally linked to each individual, Hwang mentally broke away from the pre-determined structure of the Neo-Confucian worldview. The characteristics of the Church described in the Silk Letter, as well as Hwang’s own assumption of transnational belonging, are possible because of this subjectivity that has left the confines

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of a material kingdom and sees the human as distinguished by possession of an immortal

soul in relationship with the Lord of Heaven.

The Autobiographical Letters of Yi Suni, Virgin Martyr

Writing from prison to her sister and sister-in-law, Yi Suni begins the account of

her arrest and imprisonment during the persecution of 1801 as follows:

금년을 당하여 간장을 녹이다가 . . . 살고 싶은 생각이 없어 기회가 좋을 때에 위주치명하리라 심중에 정지하고, 대사를 경영하여 판비함을 힘썼사오나, 부지불각이라, 허다한 장차가 이르러서 이 몸이 잡히오니, 기회가 없어 염려하던 차에 내 뜻과 같이 되온지라, 감사주은이나이다. 일념이 흔희하오나 실심중에 황망하고 장차는 재촉하니, 애애한 곡성이 천지에 진동하고, 고당편친과 형제 친우와 인리고향이 즈음없는 영결이라. 육정이 미진하여 한 줄 눈물로 창황히 영걸하고 암연히 돌아서니 원하는 바는 선종이오다. (76)

As we faced [the disaster] of this year and I became sick with anxiety, . . . Having no desire to live, I resolved in my heart to die for the Lord at the right opportunity. I looked after the great work [of my salvation] and strove to prepare myself. Then without warning a crowd of official messengers appeared and I was arrested. I had just begun to fear that I would miss such an opportunity, but it happened as I had wished. I give thanks for the Lord’s grace. My one desire [is met with] happiness. But everything happened suddenly in the midst of great confusion, and the messengers were hurrying us on. Sorrowful cries shook heaven and earth. Separation from my elderly mother, siblings, friends, neighbors and home, with no promise of reunion! My familial affection not yet exhausted, I departed in tears and turned away in grief. But what I desire is to die in grace.

This rambling but purposeful account describes tragic events fraught with the very human emotions of fear, hopelessness, and sorrow; yet it repeatedly points back to the subject’s desire for martyrdom. How can we interpret this text in the context of traditional assumptions about human subjectivity?

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Hwang Sayeong’s portrayal of Gang Galyungpa offers a glimpse into the Catholic movement’s impact on women. One particular subjective experience of that impact can be glimpsed through the letters of Yi Suni, the only surviving personal writings of a

Catholic woman from the period of the first persecution. To better understand the significance of what Yi’s letters reveal in terms of subjectivity, it is important to contextualize them by looking a bit more closely at the perceived subjectivity of women in late Joseon and the ways in which the Catholic movement ran counter to traditional prescriptions, as well as by placing the letters in the general framework of women’s writing of that period. Kim Okhui suggests that Yi’s letters merit being treated as gyubang munhak (the term for pre-modern women’s literature; an alternate term is naebang munhak, meaning “literature of the inner chamber”) (Sungyoja Yi Suni 22), but

Kim’s own work focuses on the religious significance of Yi Suni’s life and letters, and so far there has been no analysis of Yi’s letters within the context of Joseon women’s literature. One reason is most likely the predominantly religious content of the letters, as well as the marginality of their circumstances. Although Yi’s letters might be reasonably included in a survey of Joseon period naegan (letters of the inner chamber), the only other sample of writing leading up to that period that in any way resembles these letters in content and circumstance is that written from prison by Yi’s brother at around the same time. Yet it is also by this same token of uniqueness that the letters are worth examining within the contexts that give them their singularity.

The term “literature of the inner chamber” alludes to the sphere to which elite women were restricted by the Confucian moral code as interpreted by the legislators of

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the Joseon period. Efforts to return order to society following the devastating foreign

invasions of the seventeenth century translated to increasing moral instruction for

women, which was delivered through officially mandated vernacular translations of

Confucian didactic literature, such as the Xiaojing (孝經) (“The Classic of Filial Piety”), and the Nü Sishu (女四書) (“The Four Books [for] Women”). These books constituted the primary material of a girl’s literary education, which took place at home, and often added to such collections were instructional writings composed by a respected family member and passed down from one generation to the next. After marriage, a woman was expected to continue this education in virtue by heeding the family traditions instructed to her by her in-laws.

While the moral education of women grew in momentum during the eighteenth century, their agency in practical matters was undermined by legislative actions that banned theim from performing ancestral rites, decreased the inheritance a daughter could

receive from her parents, and changed marriage customs so that a bride was required to

move into the home of her husband’s family. Such restrictions were reinforced by moral

prescriptions drawn from the Confucian literature. The most famous of these

prescriptions was the samjongjido (三從之道) (“the principle of three followings”) that

required a woman to submit first to the authority of her father (or closest male relative in

the father’s absence); then, upon marriage, to her husband; and, finally, after the

husband’s death, to her son (unless she followed her husband into death, which was

another virtuous alternative).

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Official efforts were made to expand this moral education across the social

spectrum, and these efforts were reinforced through such strategies as rewarding the

families of yeolyeo (a woman who proved her loyalty to her husband) through gestures of recognition or through material rewards. In some cases, freedom from slavery was the reward for demonstrating virtue. Jeong Hae-un remarks that when a woman’s virtuous actions thus affected not only the honor but the material welfare of the family, the pressure was increased for a woman to make sacrifices (226). Thus, while a woman’s authority and freedom were greatly restricted, she was at the same time saddled with the weighty moral responsibility of helping to restore and maintain order in a troubled society. In Deuchler’s words,

Women were taught to assume pivotal roles as guardians and transmitters of Confucian norms and values and to embody the ideal of female virtue as one of the axial elements of the Confucian hegemonic system. . . . Ultimately, a woman’s worth was judged according to her ability to avoid friction and conflict within the family, to create harmony in the larger domestic realm, and thus to contribute to ‘an ordered world.’ (“Propagating Female Virtues” 165)

Such moral responsibility, though accompanied by restrictive prescriptions, no doubt also contributed to a sense of vocation for women of all classes.

Alongside the means of literacy made possible through the growing use of vernacular Korean, it was likely this sense of vocation that contributed to the marked growth in women’s literature during what was otherwise a period of increased restrictions. Haboush describes this “curious and seemingly contradictory phenomenon”:

155 Just as they were losing social privileges, they began to write in quantity and thereby to actively participate in written discourse. . . . Women avidly availed themselves of this new medium [the Korean script], and, for the first time in Korean history, they emerged as writing subjects who projected their own visions and perspectives. (“Versions and Subversions” 279)

This phenomenon of women as “writing subjects” giving expression to their particular

stance also led to “the development of a women’s literature quite distinct from men’s literature” as a result of the inequality and segregation imposed by the Neo-Confucian social system (Lee Younghee 98). Unsurprisingly, the majority of women’s writing of the later Joseon period was morally instructive, reflecting their vocation as guardians of

Confucian norms in the domestic sphere. Women’s writing was further distinguished from men’s writing by several characteristics, the most noticeable being that it was largely written in the vernacular. Also, apart from the gisaeng, whose role as courtesans required them to be skilled in poetry writing, women were not encouraged to engage in creative writing. Thus most women’s literature from the Joseon period consisted of supil,

narrative gasa, and letters. Finally, in subject matter, women rarely ventured beyond the

particulars of family life, Confucian norms, and personal emotion.

The genre of supil consists of prose compositions that encompass a variety of theme-based categories. Some scholars include gasa in the genre of supil due to the common narrative content and the lack of poetic restriction in gasa “poems,” and letters are commonly subcategorized under the genre of supil as well. Most Hangeul supil (as opposed to those written in classical Chinese) were composed by women, and the majority of these were instructional pieces. One example already mentioned is

Ryuhandang Eonhaeng Sillok, which offers guidelines for proper behavior. In gasa form

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as well, the most widespread category of vernacular writing by women was moral

instruction. One of the most famous and widely-read of these texts was Kim Daebi

Hunminga (“Queen Kim’s Song of Instruction to the People”), composed by King

Sunjo’s first consort after Sunjo’s appointment to the throne in 1800. It is addressed to both men and women, with the first part exhorting men to uphold the Confucian relationships by being filial to parents, respectful of elders, and mindful of the distinction between men and women. The second part instructs women to uphold the Three

Followings, to remember that husbands are to be honored like heaven, and to respectfully serve the in-laws. These and similar themes are also found in pieces with titles like

Gyeongburok (“A Record of Instruction for Wives”), Gyenyeoga (“A Song of

Commandments for Women”), and Gyujung Haengsilga (“A Song of Proper Behavior for the Women’s Quarters”). Personal letters between women naturally revealed more immediacy and individuality than formal supil or gasa pieces, but these were also circumscribed by the traditional principles of letter-writing that a girl of a good family would be taught as part of her domestic education, and thus did not usually deviate from prescribed form and content.62 Similarly, the few instances of historical events recorded by women, such as Gyechuk Ilgi (“A Diary of the Gyechuk Year”; written in about 1613 by an anonymous maid-in-waiting at the royal court) and Inyeon Wanghujeo (“The Tale of Queen Consort Inhyeon”; also by an anonymous maid-in-waiting, most likely written during the late eighteenth century), while presenting the personal experiences of tragic

62 See Kim Yongsuk and Supil Munhak Yeongu.

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events, maintain a decorous solemnity and calm. Hanjungnok,63 the third of three such

works from the Joseon period, is somewhat unique in its candor about royal misdemeanor

and its role as a statement of defense, as noted earlier. Nonetheless, it likewise maintains

the restraint and self-effacement expected of a Joseon woman.

Of course, not quite all women’s writing was morally prescriptive or otherwise

consistently circumscribed by social expectations. As mentioned in the overview of new

trends in late Joseon cultural output,64 there were occasional pieces written by women

that showed a subtle deviation from the norm. Also, a smaller thematic category of

gyubang gasa includes works that express a married woman’s longing for her parents and

siblings from whom she was veritably exiled upon marriage, as well as her longing for

the wider world outside the restricted female domain. Yi of Yeonan’s Buyeonojeonggi

mentioned earlier expresses a rare instance of the satisfaction of this yearning for the

outside world. Constituting another small but important category is the gasa that openly communicates yeotan (women’s lament) or yeohan (women’s sorrow): sorrow and discontent over the suffering to which a woman was destined. Much of the brilliant poetry of Heo Nanseolheon (1563–89), who represents a rare instance of a Joseon woman with a legacy of poems written in classical Chinese, expresses this malaise with a shrewdness and eloquence unequalled elsewhere. Nonetheless, a number of late Joseon gasa with titles such as Yeoja Yuhaengga (“Song of a Woman’s Leaving to be Married”),

63 See Chapter 1.

64 See Chapter 1.

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Seokbyeolga (“Song of Reluctant Parting”), Yeoja Jatanseo (“A Woman’s Self-Lament”), if not as pointed and eloquent as Heo’s poetry, still express a profound sorrow in the face of destiny.65 At the same time, such elegiac pieces often reveal the tension between moral

ideology and personal feeling through sections or phrases that offer a nominal

reaffirmation of traditional values.66

In this context of rigidly imposed Confucian norms, the introduction of

Catholicism carried profound implications for women. Not only had the Church

transferred ultimate loyalty from king and parent to the Lord of Heaven and had

prohibited ancestral rites, “the doctrine that acknowledged women as equal to men in

personhood and forbade polygamy, concubinage [and other such practices that

advantaged men over women] disrupted the given family system” (Jeong Hae-eun 246).

Catholic doctrine was as accessible to women as it was to men by virtue of its

propagation in the vernacular script, and what had been the script of women and the

lower classes was effectively elevated in status by becoming the primary means of

propagating the teaching of a movement begun and still dominated by men. This equality

of access and education, as well as the content of the doctrine, no doubt allowed for a

shift in a woman’s perception of her personal status. In practice as well, the Church

65 Lee Younghee examines this theme in Joseon women’s literature, and offers a more

nuanced treatment of the word han, which, for the sake of brevity, I have translated here

as “sorrow.”

66 See Lee Younghee 87.

159 permitted women greater freedom of movement and leadership than what was customary for the times, as Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter also indicates. This relative egalitarianism was also manifest in the lack of segregation of place when Catholics gathered to worship.

The actual seating may have remained divided, but men and women worshiped together in the same place, sometimes in private rooms. This was one of several criminal actions of which female Church members were accused by the authorities during the Sinyu persecution. Other “crimes” included the following: leaving home to go to the capital

(Seoul was the center of Catholic activity after the arrival of Fr. Zhou); going about in the streets from house to house; remaining unmarried; and falsely claiming widowhood to disguise unmarried status (Jeong Hae-eun 248).

For a Joseon woman, having the option to remain unmarried meant enjoying considerably more freedom than allowed in a traditional marriage, where a wife’s role usually involved a sort of indentured servitude to her in-laws. It also implied a rare exercise of personal choice over an important life event. Ledyard depicts this opportunity in terms of personal agency:

While marriage was more a matter of fate than of choice for the average Korean woman, maintaining virginity or postmarital chastity was, at bottom, a woman’s own personal decision to make. It was a way of asserting agency, defining independence. As virgins or chaste widows in Kang Wansuk’s [Galyungpa (Columba) Gang Wansuk] and other church networks, they had not only a religious vocation but a life and solidarity in an enterprise that was bigger than all of them. And if, in being faced with the conventional gender attitudes of the society, they had the courage to make that decision, they also usually had the strength to resist the pressures that inevitably followed. As a practical matter, such opportunities were available to few Korean women, but for that reason, perhaps, were all the more prized by those who seized them. (54)

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Furthermore, the Church’s approach to marriage offered women more choice by

countering the traditional assumption that marriage was a contract between families and

thus subservient to the parent-child relationship. As noted earlier, the opening lines of

Ryuhandang Eonhaeng Sillok reflect this shift of emphasis by elevating marriage above

the other cardinal relationships. In vernacular writings distributed by the Church for the

instruction of Catholics, marriage was presented as a union of individuals in a sacred

relationship of love (Cho Kwang, “Human Relations” 32). Women were further protected

by the Church’s efforts to discourage mistreatment of daughters or disparagement of

women who could not bear sons (Cho Kwang, “Human Relations” 32). Considering that

the unusual practice of celibacy after marriage was accepted by the Church in those cases when a marriage took place in name only for the sake of a woman’s protection, or when post-marital celibacy was observed as a form of religious devotion, doctrinally and theoretically, a woman’s ultimate worth was no longer determined by her ability to bear children.

Such doctrinal and practical manifestations of relatively greater egalitarianism and individualism doubtless held a strong appeal to women caught in a repressive social system. Furthermore, Catholicism could also appeal to a woman’s sense of moral vocation. Her loyalty to elders and to Confucian norms could be transferred to God and to the Church, and the reward was at least fourfold: greater agency and esteem than that usually offered to women in the world outside the Church; recognition among fellow

Catholics; involvement in something beyond the confines of her previous life; and promise of eternal life. In contrast, adherence to Neo-Confucian norms was intended to

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be its own reward, and the most desirable effect of such rectitude, as frequently cited in

admonitions to women, would be to bring honor to the family name. A woman’s self-

sacrificing decorum and hard work might also reap the more tangible rewards of family

harmony and increased respect, and the reward of material compensation in some cases,

but these things did not offer her the degree of personal agency offered by the Catholic

doctrine of each individual’s having equal value before God. Also, even if an individual

Catholic woman was in no practical position to enjoy the earthly benefits of being a member of the Church, inwardly she could access this sense of worth, and she could always look forward to the reward of heaven and union with God after death. More importantly, however, Catholic belief in the afterlife was based on the belief in the

freedom and the immortality of the human soul. Thus, not only did Catholicism offer

something after death, it introduced a new sense of individual transcendence, and

recognition of a person’s inner life and spiritual aspirations.

What is known of the life of Rugalda (Luthgard) Yi Suni (1782–1801) and what

she reveals in her letters from prison reveal parallels as well as points of contrast between

the subjectivities of a Catholic and a non-Catholic Joseon woman. I will now turn to

Rugalda’s background, the events leading to her imprisonment, and the content of her

letters in relation to the contextual themes presented above.67

67 From this point on, I will refer to Yi Suni by the Korean version of her Catholic name,

Rugalda, by which she is best known. This is also the name with which the oldest

existing transcriptions of her letters are signed. I will likewise refer to her husband by the

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After a period of relative calm following the executions of Catholic leaders in the early spring of the Sinyu year (1801), the discovery of Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter prompted the government to step up its condemnation of the movement, and all Catholics were branded as enemies of the state. Another series of executions, including that of

Hwang, closed the Sinyu year. One victim of the second wave of persecutions that year was Rugalda, the daughter of a respected yangban family distinguished also within the

Catholic community by their religious devotion.68 Her father, Yi Yunha, was active with

Gwon Ilsin (brother of Gwon Cheolsin) in the founding of the Korean Church. Her mother was the sister of Gwon Cheolsin, whose influence turned the Yanggeun district of

Gyeonggi Province into a cradle of the Catholic Church.69 Rugalda was considered well- connected in the larger society as well, for her paternal grandmother was the daughter of the renowned Confucian scholar Yi Ik. According to the record from the prosecution of

Korean version of his Catholic name, Yoan (which is also the name Rugalda uses in references to him).

68 The details that follow of Rugalda’s life, imprisonment, and execution are drawn primarily from pages 177–182 of Kim Jinso’s recent history of the Jeonju Diocese, as well as from his introduction to a volume containing Rugalda’s letters (see bibliography), and from the letters themselves. In Dallet’s record, the account of Rugalda’s life and martyrdom, as well as the text of her two letters written from prison, can be found on pages 176–197.

69 See Kim Inseop 45.

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Rugalda’s elder brother (Gyeongdo), their father had inherited from his grandfather (Yi

Jibong) several books of Western Learning, including Ricci’s True Meaning. As Kim

Okhui notes, this early introduction to Catholicism would have contributed to a natural

and deeply-rooted conversion for members of the family (Sungyoja 13).

Yi Yunha died when Rugalda was 11, but she was raised with care and with much

religious instruction by her devout mother. After her first communion, Rugalda expressed

to Fr. Zhou her wish to offer herself fully to the Lord by remaining celibate. At that time,

a text commonly used for religious instruction was a volume that combined Korean

translations of Seonggyeong Jikhae (“Direct Exposition of the Bible”), and another volume, Seonggyeong Gwangik (“The Bible for Widespread Benefit”), published some decades earlier in Beijing by the French Jesuit, Moyriac de Mailla. The content of the latter consisted of meditations on scripture for various dates on the Church calendar, and also recorded the traditions of the Church. In one passage, different marital states were labeled as gold, silver, and bronze. Celibacy was lauded as the most prized “gold,” for it would allow the practitioner to focus wholeheartedly on the “Lord’s work” while keeping the mind and body pure; the life of a widow or widower was equated with “silver” for the same reason of its allowing single-minded religious service and purity; and the ordinary matrimonial state was “bronze.” Furthermore, the parable of the sower (Matthew 13.1–9) was used to teach that the celibate life would bring a harvest of a hundred-fold, the life of

the widow or widower sixty-fold, and the life of a married person thirty-fold. Thus, it was not unusual for Catholic women of the time to choose celibacy. However, for a healthy young woman of a good family to remain single was practically forbidden in Joseon

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society, and for the sake of the woman’s protection, as well as to avoid the attention of

the authorities, marriage was often necessary. Rugalda was fortunate in that through the

mediation of Fr. Zhou, she was able to find a partner of like mind in Yoan (John) Yu

Jungcheol, the son of another yangban family. There was some discontent among her

relatives that she was marrying into an inferior clan, but her mother and Yoan’s parents

accepted the plan for the two to enter a celibate union, and they were married in 1797.

Between late March and early April of 1801 Rugalda’s father-in-law was

arrested and taken to Seoul, and soon afterward her husband was also apprehended and

imprisoned in Jeonju. Six months later, his father was sentenced to death, transferred to

Jeonju and executed. A few days before, Rugalda’s elder brother, Gyeongdo, was

arrested as well. With the heads of the two families arrested and sentenced, Rugalda and

her remaining in-laws were arrested for implication, as had become customary during the

anti-Catholic persecution; she and several of her in-laws, including her husband’s

younger brother, were imprisoned at the governor’s headquarters. Early in November,

remembering Fr. Zhou’s instructions that she should keep a record in the event that

suffering and persecution were brought upon her family, Rugalda wrote a letter to her

mother detailing what had happened, and sent it with her young brother-in-law, who was

allowed to make the errand. Several days later, when the guard came to transfer her

brother-in-law to the prison where his elder brother Yoan was detained, Rugalda

entreated the young man, “동일동사하라더라 요안에게 전하소서” (“Tell Yoan that I said let us die on the same day at the same time”; Yi Suni 77). Soon word came that the brothers had been hanged. Later Rugalda was given a note from her husband, found

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among his belongings: “권면하고 위로하여 천국에 가 다시 보자” (“Let us comfort and encourage one another, and meet again in heaven”; 78). Contrary to her wishes to die quickly and join her husband, four days later Rugalda and several of her remaining in- laws were ordered into exile. However, about thirty miles into their journey, they were suddenly interrupted by a constable who announced that the exile order had been cancelled and they must return to prison. This was most likely the result of the intensified recriminations following the discovery of Hwang Sayeong’s Silk Letter. Back in the

Jeonju prison, Rugalda was beaten and a stock fastened to her neck. Sometime later in

November, probably over the course of several days, as she had to avoid the eyes of the prison guard, she wrote a longer letter addressed to her sister and her brother’s wife. Two days after completing the letter, Rugalda was beheaded. According to witnesses, when the executioner tried to remove Rugalda’s clothes, as was the custom, Rugalda said in a solemn, authoritative voice, “I might die at your hand, but how dare you try to touch my body.” Again, according to witnesses, when the executioner tried to tie her hands, she pushed him away, held her hands against her body, and calmly laid her head beneath the executioner’s axe.

Rugalda’s reported dignity and calm in the face of suffering and death, as well as her desire to remain faithfully chaste and to follow her husband into death, parallel the characteristics of virtuous womanhood as promoted by Confucian tradition. The role implied therein is further supported by parts of her letters that carry an instructive tone as

Rugalda takes it upon herself to exhort her mother and sisters to remain calm and

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controlled in the face of grief and duress. In particular, Rugalda’s letter to her mother

begins with the standard formality interspersed by such exhortations:

창황한 시절을 당하여 하회를 아뢰려 하오나 다할 길이 없사오나, 친필로 수황을 아뢰어 사년이회를 올립니다. 비록 기이 죽는 지경에 이르러도 과도히 상심하다가 특특한 은명을 배반치 마옵시고 안심순명 하옵소서. 다행히 버리지 않으시는 은혜를 받잡거든 감사주은하옵소서. (73)

Having met with precipitous events, I wish to tell you my lowly thoughts, but am unable to do so in full, so I write in my own hand to recount the events of these past four years. Though I am close to death, do not betray the Lord’s special grace by being overly grieved, but follow his will with a peaceful heart. When he bestows upon me the grace of not being forsaken [martyrdom], give thanks for his grace.

In this opening section, Rugalda also expresses her role as the dutiful daughter through

her self-effacing apologies and the promise that her sacrifice will make her mother proud,

thus following the traditional mode of discourse:

나의 세상에 살았음이 진실로 떳떳치 못한 자식이옵니다. 쓸 데 없는 자식이지만 특총으로 결실하는 날이면, 어머님도 가히 자식을 두었다 할 것이오, 떳떳한 자식이 될 것입니다. (치명은) 적고 쓸 데 없는 자식을 진실되고 보배로운 자식으로 만들으심이니, 천만번 바라건대 과히 상회치 마옵시고 관희억제하옵소서. (73)

During my life in the world I have truly failed to be an honorable daughter. I may be a useless child, but when the day of fruition arrives through [the Lord’s] special grace, you will say that you have rightly given birth to this child, and I will become a worthy daughter. [Martyrdom] will turn this small, useless child into a true and precious one. I beseech you a million times not to be exceedingly grieved, but to restrain [your grief].

Rugalda’s declaration of her worthlessness as a daughter, her references to respect and honor, and her fervent pleas for restraint on the part of her mother are in line with some

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of the traditional Confucian norms that would have influenced her upbringing: filial

piety, self-abnegation before elders, and stoic restraint in manner. However, the basis of

her insistence that her mother be not excessively grieved, as well as the stated source of

the honor that will befall them, is not adherence to Confucian norms, but allegiance to a

transcendent world to which the immortal soul belongs, a home into which martyrdom

allows direct, glorious entry. Thus Rugalda continues:

차세를 꿈같이 여기시고, 영세를 본향으로 알아 조심 조심하여 순명 순명하시다가 출이차세하신 후에 비약한 자식이 영복의 면류관을 받잡고, 즐거운 영복을 띠고 손을 붙들어 영접하여 영복 하리이다. (73–74)

Regard this world as a dream, consider the eternal world to be your true home, and take care to obey the Lord’s will. Then when you have left this world, [you will find] your pitiful child holding up a crown of glory, with joyful, eternal blessing, and we will clasp each others’ hands to worship and to enjoy eternal blessing.

Rugalda speaks likewise of the news of her elder brother’s death sentence: “이 어떠하신

총우이신고! 우러러 감사함이 겨를 없고, 어머님의 복을 찬송하나이다” (“How

graciously the Lord has helped us! . . . My thankfulness knows no bounds, and I rejoice

in your blessing”; 74). She encourages her mother to lean on the help and comfort of her

remaining brothers, as well as that of her elder sister and sister-in-law. And since

“영세에 모녀의 정을 다시 이어 온전케 하옵소서” (“In the eternal world, we will

renew and make whole our affection as mother and daughter”) her mother must restrain

her grief in expectation of their future joy (74). The end of the letter echoes these

sentiments, as she makes a final plea for her mother to accept the circumstances and

maintain restraint (75).

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Rugalda’s letter to her sister and sister-in-law likewise offers such exhortations

accompanied by dutiful self-effacement and references to family honor. However, the

focus is, again, on the reward that awaits the soul in the next life:

비천한 자식이요 용렬한 동생으로, 감히 주의 의자 되고 의인에 참례하며, 천상제성의 벗이되며 미복을 갖추고 성연에 참레하면 이 어떤 광영이옵나이까! […] 자식과 동생이 임금의 총만 입어도 경하할 일이온대, 천지대군의 총애하는 자식을 두면 이 어찌 경하할 일이 아니옵니까! […] 관비의 형이라 함과 치명자의 형이라는 말이 피차에 어떠하옵겠나이까? 어머님도 치명자의 모친이라하오면 이 이름이 어디로 가고 싶으옵니까? 내 감히 치명을 하면 그 기이함은 어느 치명에 비하옵겠습니까? 다른 성인들은 응당 할 일이어니와, 감히 우러러 볼 일을 殘生에게도 허락하시면, 그런 황송한 일이 있겠나이까? (81)

If this lowly child, your foolish younger sister, should dare to become the Lord’s righteous child and be included among the righteous; and, though clothed in such shabby garments, should become a friend of the saints in heaven and participate in the heavenly banquet, what great glory! . . . When the king shows favor to one’s child and sister it is a matter of great celebration; then how much more to celebrate when one’s child is favored and loved by the Great King of Heaven and Earth! I am the worst sinner in heaven and on earth . . . but if I end this way and meet martyrdom, I will instantly be pardoned of all my sins and enter into ten- thousand blessings. So why should you be sorrowful? To say that one is the sister of an official servant, how does that compare to saying that one is the sister of a martyr? And if our mother can say that she is the mother of a martyr, will it not be [a good thing] for her name? If one such as I should dare to be martyred, it would be a wonder incomparable to any other martyrdom. [Martyrdom] is a matter of course for other saints, but if this lowly life were to be granted such an honor, would anything be more awesome!

The traditional ideals of moral vocation, self-abnegation and sacrifice are now translated to the eternal realm. Although Rugalda alludes to earthly honor, the final reward for all involved is heaven, and, as in her letter to her mother, she closes by expressing her hope in their reunion in eternity.

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The passage above also hints at the emotionally wrought tone that characterizes much of Rugalda’s second letter, written during her second imprisonment and after the harsh beating. This letter to her sisters seems to betray her pain, as well as the urgency she feels as the day of her death draws near. As in the letter to her mother, much of what she writes is aimed at comforting her loved ones and reminding them of the greater meaning and ultimate blessing of her suffering. But her writing is frequently interrupted, and she trails off at one point, thinking she is being called for execution, but then she resumes. She repeats herself often, and intersperses fervent, pious words of comfort and exhortation with very personal worries about her loved ones, and she asks after various members of her family. She also narrates with urgency and sorrow the events that have befallen the members of her husband’s family, expressing particular concern for her younger in-laws:

서러운 일이 너무 많아 기록하고자 하면 송죽도 마를 것이니 우리 시매는 고생없이 지내던 몸이 부모 동생 다 잃고 가산까지 빼앗겼으니 큰 집을 버리고 초라한 초옥에 불쌍하신 숙모와 노혼하신 조모를 의탁하고, 신례도 안했다가 구가에서는 데러가니 안가니 하고 신세도 너무 가련하니 어찌 기설하지 않으리요? 세 시동생은 9 세, 6 세. 3 세의 아이로 흑산도, 신지도, 거제도로 각각 웡배 당하니 그런 참상을 차마 어찌 볼 노릇이리요? (86)

The sorrowful events are so many that to record them all would [leave the land bare of] pine and bamboo.70 My younger sister-in-law, with no prior experience of suffering, has suddenly lost her parents, her younger siblings and all the family’s possessions, and now lives in a shabby hut, dependent on her poor aunt and her senile grandmother. She [was just married and] not yet moved to her husband’s home, but now her in-laws can’t decide if they will let her come. Her

70 Charcoal from pine wood was used to make ink, and strips of bamboo were joined together to create the pages to write on.

170 circumstances are so unfortunate, how can I fail to speak of them? And my three youngest in-laws, mere children, nine, six and three years old, have been exiled as far away as Heuksando, Sinjido, and Geojedo.71 How can anyone even look upon such a terrible sight?

The grim events of the Sinyu persecution, as well as Rugalda’s own feelings, aspirations,

and sense of duty, are made personal and vivid through this emotional immediacy. Her

elder brother’s letter to their mother, though sharing some of the same notes of deeply felt

concern, self-deprecation, and references to spiritual glory, is not nearly as descriptive.

Most notably, in both letters Rugalda speaks poignantly of her relationship with her husband. In the more formal letter to her mother, shorter and probably written in haste, she accounts very little of the four years since her marriage, but considers it important to mention that she and Jungcheol were able to fulfill their original intent:

식이 이리 온 후 평일에 근심하던 일을 얻어 9 월과 110 월에 양인이 발원맹세하여 4 년을 지내면서, 사실상 남매 같더니, 중간에 유감을 입어, 근 10 여 차를 입어, 거의 하릴 없더니, 성혈공로를 힘입어 능히 유감을 면하였습니다. 나의 일을 답답히 여기실까 이렇게 아뢰오니 이 수지로써 나의 생명을 삼아 반기실지어다. (74–75)

After I arrived here [in Jeonju] we attained that which had concerned the two of us, pledging [our intent of celibacy] in the 9th and 10th month. During our four years together, we were indeed as brother and sister. But we were tempted on as many as ten occasions, such that it seemed hopeless. But we were strengthened by the work of the holy blood [shed by Christ on the cross for sinners] and able to avoid falling into temptation. I am telling you this to ease your concern, so please think of this letter as me alive before you, and receive it with gladness.

In the second letter, her references to Yoan are more frequent and candid, echoing the same sentiment of devotion expressed in the message she had sent to her husband through

71 Small islands off the west coast of Korea where political exiles were often sent.

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his younger brother. While describing her imprisonment, she mentions her concern for

Yoan, imprisoned elsewhere, and how she was finally able to send him a message. When she learns of his death, she is grieved; however, “인정의 참결함은 오히려 둘째되고,

요안의 수복함은 경희경희하오나” (“the tragic severance of our human affection was secondary to my exceeding joy in knowing of Joan’s blessedness”; 78). She tells that she was then suddenly struck by the fear that his heart might not have been right with the

Lord at the time of his death. But after much thought her heart is somehow calmed, and her peace is confirmed when she learns of the message her husband had left addressed to his “sister”: “권면하고 위로하여 천국에 가 다시 보자” (“Let us comfort and exhort one another, and meet again in heaven”; 78). She writes on, telling about Yoan’s maturity, love, and faithfulness, and she recounts their meeting, their mutual intent of celibacy, and their plans for the future to help the poor and serve the Lord. She then mentions him again toward the end of her letter:

요안은 남들은 남편이라 하나 나는 충우라 하니, 만일 득승천국하였으면 나를 잊지 않았을 것이나이다. 세상에서 나를 위한 마음이 지극하였으니 만복소에 거하였을진대, 그런 중에 괴롭게 부치어 암암이 부르는 소리가 떠나지 않으리니, 평일 언약을 저버리지 않으면 이번은 끊지 않을까 하나이다. 언제나 기옥을 벗어나 대군대부와 천상모황과 사랑하던 존구와 나의 동생과 충우 요안을 만나 즐길꼬? (85)

Others call Yoan my husband, but I say that he is my faithful friend, and if he has indeed ascended to heaven in virtue, he will not have forgotten me. On earth his concern for me was exceeding, and now that he is in the place of ten-thousand blessings, my silent calls to him will not leave his ear. If I remain faithful to my vows, this time there will be no separation [between us]. When shall I leave this prison to meet our Great King and Father and the Mother Empress of Heaven [Mary], and see my beloved father-in-law, brother-in- law, and Yoan, and rejoice?

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Such expressions of tender feeling toward one’s spouse were not common in writing from that period, and appear almost exclusively in the few elegiac gasa featuring or written by women who chose to follow their husbands into death through suicide, such as

Myeongdo Jatansa.72 Another exception is an untitled sixteenth century poem written in the vernacular by An Minhak, lamenting his wife’s death. As Choe Ganghyeon notes in his commentary of the poem, such “honest and candid” demonstrations were rare because of the social expectations regarding the nature of the marriage relationship, which was dominated by “formality and decorum” (321). This formality and decorum was predicated on the hierarchical Confucian ideal of marriage, and the more open expressions of devotion found in female-authored pieces such as Myeongdo Jatansa were made acceptable by the normative expectation of devotion on the part of wives. In the case of Rugalda and Yoan, however, several factors distinguished their union from the traditional hierarchical ideal centered on continuing the family line, and thereby allowed an equality and intellectual intimacy conducive to such demonstrations. As mentioned, the Catholic stance toward marriage emphasized it as a union of individuals rather than a contract between families, and the valuing of celibacy even within marriage clearly went against the traditional expectation of marriage as a means to continue the family line.

Rugalda and Yoan met through the mediation of Fr. Zhou, but this mediation was prompted by their individual choices which were then joined in their common vocation of celibacy. On a practical level, the choice of celibacy would have had a more equalizing

72 See Chapter 1.

173 effect, removing the factor of childbirth and parenthood, by which traditional male and female roles were cemented. More importantly, the novel ideal of both husband and wife equally guarding their chastity for the sake of deeper union with God as well as for the purpose of a “higher,” more spiritual union with each other stood in contrast to the traditional ideal of the woman guarding her chastity for the sake of her husband. The expectation that the woman devote herself faithfully to her husband at all costs while her husband devoted himself faithfully to the king, was now replaced by the expectation that both husband and wife devote themselves first to the King of Heaven. In effect, this placed them on the same level. Thus Rugalda says, “Others call Yoan my husband, but I say that he is my faithful friend.”

In the matter of virtue as well as choice, the nature of Rugalda’s relationship with

Yoan links to the theme of her individual agency. Unlike in the case of a traditional wife, the measure of whose virtue was related to her function in relation to her husband and the outcome of her husband’s life, Rugalda’s virtue, though guarded through mutual contract with her husband, was not strengthened or lessened by his status or success. Her virtue was primarily a matter of her individual soul and body.

This subjectivity of the distinct and autonomous self likely underlies the aspect of

Rugalda’s letters that characterize them, in Kim Okhui’s words, as an “immortal final testament” that is also an “autobiographical record” (Sungyoja 22). The expression of the person’s inner, self-aware consciousness, neglected in traditional Confucian discourse, is facilitated by the Catholic sense of human identity as set apart and immortal. In

Rugalda’s letters, this subjectivity is heightened by a very serious sense of personal

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distinction, which is further emphasized by her chastity (purity) and her anticipated

attainment of martyrdom.

Her consciousness of being set apart and her zeal for martyrdom are revealed in

the first three passages quoted above. In subtle contrast to the more formal and controlled

voice of Rugalda’s letter to her mother, the letter to her sisters is more revealing of her

anxieties, and the anxiety that seems to grip her the strongest is directed toward her own

soul. She voices this concern in a passage immediately following her mention of likely

reunion with Yoan in heaven: “하오나, 무궁 대죄악인이 마치 바랄 뿐이지, 그처럼

쉽게 될 리 있사오리까” (“But an exceedingly sinful person such as I can only hope, for

such a thing cannot take place so easily”; 85). And, by the same token, she is thankful for

the likelihood of martyrdom, which will speed her soul directly to heaven. Elsewhere in

the letter she recounts as a welcome event her being taken back to prison after the

cancellation of the exile order: “백리를 겨우 지나 다시 잡히니, 이는 극진하여 다시

더 할 것 없는 총은이라. 어떻게 감사해야 마땅할꼬? 내가 죽은 후에라도 감사주은

하옵소서” (“But we had traveled barely a hundred li 73 when we were apprehended again. This was such exceeding favor that there can be nothing better. How can I properly give thanks? Even after I have died, give thanks for the Lord’s grace”; 79). As a servant in exile, Rugalda would most likely have been forced into relations with a man, which to her would have meant betraying her vows. Even if spared such violation, she would have

73 A unit of distance roughly equal to half a kilometer.

175 faced a lifetime of human temptation. But bodily death, the “ultimate transformative experience” (Fields xviii), would set her free from all that threatened her purity, her righteousness, and the transcendent, other-worldly love she shared with her husband.

Rugalda’s choosing a life of celibacy in a society that regarded voluntary non- marriage not only as a betrayal of filial piety that interfered with the continuation of the family name, but also as an act of disloyalty to the state, was a clear declaration that she was no longer subject to traditional authority. Again, as with all Catholics who placed their ultimate loyalty in an intellectual faith they could choose to accept or reject, this was an act of self-determination. Martyrdom, the voluntary choice of death for the sake of a personal conviction, carries with it perhaps an even stronger theme of self-actualization

(Straw 44).74 Rugalda’s letters offer an unmistakable impression of the subject as set apart, as very conscious of itself. Even the language of Rugalda’s letters is unusually elevated for a Joseon woman. Though writing in Korean, Rugalda uses many Chinese terms and literary phrases. The distinction of her aristocratic family likely played a part in

Rugalda’s sense of being set apart, but through her Catholic faith, this sense became grounded in something separate from and no longer bounded by the material world. As

Rugalda’s choice of chastity and her embracing of martyrdom indicate, her sense of identity and worth, though intertwined with her biological family to whom she is very humanly and emotionally attached, derives from the transcendent reference point to which she repeatedly points them. Although familial hierarchies and relationships remain

74 See also L. B. Smith 363.

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in play, they are not absolute, but derivative, and the soul is autonomous in its choice to

align itself to the spiritual father.

As a writing subject, Rugalda’s affinity with the typical Joseon woman is found in

her instructive tone, her expressions of humble filial piety, her appeals for restraint, and

her reminders that suffering will bring honor to the family. Also, the tension between her pious and zealous exhortations and the more human expressions of sorrow, longing, and anxiety is similar to the aforementioned tension between moral ideology and personal feeling found in a number of elegiac gasa written by women. However, Rugalda’s letters,

as has been shown, deviate from the mainstream of women’s writing on several accounts.

First, the most dominant themes in her letters, those of salvation, martyrdom, and heaven,

are themes that transcend the bounded gender-based topics of women’s writing. Her

suffering derives from her Catholic identity, not her womanhood, while her self-sacrifice

is for God and for her personal salvation, not for the honor and well-being of her family

as required by the Confucian model. Secondly, her primary allegiance to God and to the

tenets of Catholicism makes her relationship with her husband and her family, as well as

her status as a woman, markedly different from the mainstream, as pointed out earlier.

Also, her self-awareness is probably heightened by the fact that she is aware of an

audience that will extend beyond her family members, since Fr. Zhou had told her to

record these events. Finally, this shift of subjectivity allows her an autobiographical voice

uncommon to the period, a voice that expresses her inner consciousness. Unlike the

generic and repetitive themes of most women’s writing of the period, the very personal

and individual content of her letters offer a distinct portrait of her person.

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In Rugalda’s case, the subjectivity of distinction was emphasized by her choice of

chastity and martyrdom, qualities that would further set her apart from the world. And

this distinction did not end with her own awareness of it, as indicated by the fact that her

letters were passed on outside the family and transcribed several times, thus likely being

read by many Catholics during the decades of persecution that followed (Kim Okhui,

Sungyoja 26). In this light, it is perhaps not surprising that Rugalda’s other-worldly identity became memorialized by a legend surrounding the occasion of her execution, according to which witnesses claimed that white blood flowed from her severed neck as a sign of her purity (Kim Jinso, Yi Suni 24).

Choe Haedu’s Self-scrutinizing Confession

Another piece of writing that offers a rare glimpse into the inner life of a Catholic individual from this period is the essay, “Jachaek” [Self-Reproach], written in vernacular

Korean. As Kim Inseop observes,

Through the inwardly-directed consciousness of the writer, [the memoir] clearly reveals the depth to which the Catholic faith had taken root. Unlike other works that aimed at transmitting doctrine, or reinforcing faith through a sense of community identification, [this memoir] unveils the inner thoughts of a particular individual. (67–68)

This confessional essay is attributed to Choe Haedu, one of many who escaped the executions of 1801 by doing the very thing Yi Suni and other stalwart believers were successful in avoiding—renouncing the faith. For this he may have spent the remainder of his life afflicted by the feelings of guilt he confesses with much anguish in the memoir.

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The manuscript bears no name, and the date of composition is uncertain, but from the text it is possible to identify the author (Sungyojawa Jeungeojadeul 95). The literary style and the content of the memoir indicate that the author was probably one of the scholarly elite, or at least of jungin status. He was knowledgeable in church doctrine, and had read accounts of the lives of the saints. From this, and by matching other details with historical records, historians have identified the author as Choe, who had been active in the Catholic movement alongside leading figures such as Dasan and Hwang Sayeong.

He had also met Fr. Zhou several times after the latter’s arrival in Korea. In the early part of 1801, upon learning that his father’s younger brother had been arrested, Choe went into hiding, but when his father was arrested in his stead, he gave himself up. Although he avoided execution by renouncing Catholicism, Choe was exiled to the district of

Heunghae, in North Gyeongsang province, where he most likely remained until his death

(95).

As suggested earlier in this chapter, the expansion of the Catholic movement among women and lower classes, as well as its general tendency away from strict adherence to custom, led to the production of literary works that were more free-form in expression and less concerned with standard formalities. This would have been especially counter-mainstream in the case of men’s writings, which “were constricted by the formulas of traditional Chinese poetry and essay writing [that] greatly limited the ability of men to express their feelings freely” (Lee Younghee 43). (Thus, An Minhak’s poem mentioned above, emotive and written in the vernacular, is considered a rarity.) But as the Catholic movement offered a greater equalization of activity between men and

179 women in the practical sphere, and, in the psychological and intellectual sphere, presented spiritual piety as the most important focus of life for men and women alike, the lines of distinction between men’s and women’s writing would have become blurred. In fact, considering the increasing use of the vernacular, the decreased concern with literary formalities, and the growing emphasis on the inner life and the other world—subjects occasionally glimpsed outside the Catholic movement almost exclusively in women’s writings—Catholic literature might be said to have produced a somewhat “feminized” discourse.

This is particularly evident in Choe Haedu’s confessional essay. For one, it is not easily classified under any traditional genre of men’s writing, including the various classifications for supil pieces, most of which were written in Chinese in the case of male authors. If anything, the tone of lament, freely voiced through Choe’s use of the vernacular, gives the essay some affinity with the aforementioned subcategory of women’s writing, although the subject of Choe’s lament differs from that of yeohan.

Also, whereas men’s writing was “publicly oriented, being primarily focused on the

Chinese classics and a concern with virtue, governance, and social relations” (Lee

Younghee 2), Choe gives no attention to such public and social matters, being primarily concerned with the state of his soul.

Let us now turn to the content of the essay, the central theme of which is Choe’s regret over his sinfulness and his having missed the chance of chimyeong dae-eun, the

“great grace of martyrdom.” Choe opens the memoir with a deeply-felt remark that reveals his confessional purpose: “My heart is heavy and greatly troubled, so I record a

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few lines. How sorrowful, how sorrowful indeed.” He then goes on to describe how he

has failed:

두루 심란 답답하여, 두어 줄 글을 기록하노니, 슬프고 슬프도다. [. . .] 나는 이미 문교하여, 근 이십 년 죽기로써 봉사하노라 하다가, 시절이 불행하여 성교의 간군이 대거하니, 평일에 열심 봉사하여 신공을 세운 이는 오주 예수를 효칙하여 치명대은으로 다 돌아가시고, 나 같이 무공무덕하고 유죄유실한 인생은 썩고 썩어 신유년 동국 봉교인에게 상사하신, 그리 흔한 티명의 대은을 참례치 못하고, 절박 원통히 나 혼자 빠져나와 이 흥해 옥중에 잔명이 붙어 살았으니, 이 무슨 일인고! (96)

Early on I inquired of the [Catholic religion] and for nearly twenty years served it as to the death. But then the times turned ill and the Holy Church became widely fraught with poverty and trouble. Those who had diligently served [the Church] in their daily lives and had built up divine works followed the example of Jesus and departed in the great grace of martyrdom. But I, lacking both works and virtue, with a life full of sin and loss, rotten to the core, failed to participate in those plentiful opportunities of martyrdom that were bestowed upon the faithful of the Eastern Kingdom [Korea]. Regrettably, I alone escaped, and now live here in this Heunghae prison,75 with the remains of my wretched life keeping me alive. What disaster is this!

He laments that he has lost the blessings of both this life and the next, and, not long into

the text, mentions with reproach his specific sin of taking delight in indecent talk. The

remainder of his self-reproach is more general. He regrets failing to undertake virtuous deeds and good works for the nurturing of his soul, which, as a result, has become impure:

쓸데없는 말과 죄되는 생각은 부러 일삼아 부지런히 맛있게 하고, 유익하고 공되며 덕되는 염경에는 어서 바ㅃ; 하고, 무슨 큰일이나 있는 듯이 입만 놀려 맛없이 지나치니, 이러하고도 실시함이 아니라 하랴. . . . 지존지귀하신

75 Probably not an actual prison, but a reference to the imprisonment of exile.

181 주를 모시려 하면, 내 영혼을 조찰케 하여야 즐겨 강림하시려니와, 만일 사욕과 편정과 잡념을 채워 영혼을 더렵혔으면, 어찌 더러이 여기사 바삐 떠나지 아니시랴. (99–100)

I relished with delight and diligence useless talk and sinful thoughts, while rushing through the worthwhile and virtuous reading of scripture, merely moving my mouth as if there were no flavor. How can I deny that I have lost my chance? . . . If I am to host my most revered and honored Lord, I must carefully examine my soul so that He might descend gladly. But if I have soiled my soul by filling it with evil desires, obsessions, and idle thoughts, will the Lord not find it filthy and depart in haste?

Couched in these terms of purity and contamination, concern with the soul’s state of righteousness is a constant thread of thought throughout the essay, and the body is depicted as the primary obstacle to the soul’s maintenance of righteousness.

The passage above is followed by a discussion of how, possessing a body, it is difficult for a person to avoid sin in a polluted world. However, just as water cleanses the body, so penitence cleanses the soul. Choe then confesses again that he is a great sinner, and speaks at length on the importance of penitence. But the conflict resumes, and there is no peace, for his greatest enemy is his own flesh:

육신, 마귀, 세속 원수라. 자기는 이 옥중에 앉았으니 무슨 세속 체면을 보리요. [. . .] 마귀는 [. . .] 주모를 의뢰하여 자기 삼가면 오히려 피하기 쉬오대, 다시 피치 못할 원수 있으니 자기 육신이라. [. . .] 육신은 풍우히 길러 괴로움으로 몸을 이기지 못하면 영혼의 말을 듣지 아니하여 선생을 마다하고 금수의 마음만 나는 것이라. (104)

The flesh, the devil, the world are my enemies. Since I am seated in this prison, what worldly honor should tempt me? . . . As for the devil, if I trust in the mother of our Lord, and take care, it is easy to avoid him. But the enemy that I cannot avoid is my own body. . . . If I do not train my flesh as with wind and rain, and do not overcome my body through suffering, regardless of any good works, my heart will grow into that of a beast.

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But apparently even such measures are no guarantee of escape from sin, for he recalls how another day of life brings another day’s worth of sin. He may accumulate a year’s worth of sins with no recourse to partake in the sacraments and be pardoned (105). The thought of this is too much to bear: “애고 애고, 나 죽으리로다. 이를 어이할꼬? 나

죽으리로다. 죽을 가슴이 터지는 듯, 미칠 듯, 취한 듯, 생각 곧 하면 그저

지원지원애닯도다. 내두를 잘 하면 영고는 면한들 연옥을 어이할꼬?” (“Alas, alas, I shall die! What can be done? I shall die. I feel that my dying heart would burst, that I would go mad, that I am overwhelmed! When I think upon it I am exceedingly vexed and anguished. If I take care with the life that remains before me, I might avoid eternal damnation, but what about purgatory?”; 106). Even if the remainder of his life offers the chance to do penance and avoid hell, the test of purgatory still awaits him after death.

Thus he feels a torturous regret over missing the opportunity of martyrdom, which would have granted him not only freedom from the liability of his sinful body, but direct passage to heaven as well.

But he again finds comfort in the possibility of redemption through careful spiritual discipline: “그러나 우리네가 실망치 말고 부지런히 힘써 보사이다. . .

.무엇이 부족하여 육신의 욕심만 좇고, 영혼대사를 돌아보지 아닛나뇨?” (“But let us not be discouraged, but diligently strive. . . . What was so lacking that I would pursue only the desires of my flesh, and fail to look over the great work of my soul?”; 106).

Perhaps as a means to now diligently nurture the soul that he had so neglected in favor of

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the desires of his flesh, most of the remainder of the text is a meditation on the first six of

the Ten Commandments.

The classic fleshly enemy being sexual desire, it is perhaps unsurprising that Choe

mentions at the beginning of the confession his delight in lewd talk. Interestingly, his

memoir ends with the Sixth Commandment, “Thou Shalt not Commit Adultery.” In his

exposition of the commandment he recounts a story about a wise teacher who

admonishes his disciple for taking a close look at a beautiful woman. It is unclear

whether Choe’s intention was to end the text here; there are no closing remarks as such.

Instead, the memoir ends pointedly with the following comment on the gist of the

preceding story: “계집을 가까이 하면 죄를 묻히느니, 삼가 멀리 할지어다” (“By letting a young woman get close, one will become soiled with sin. So take care and keep a distance”; 115). Considering his regret over his participation in lewd talk and his frequent reference to the body as a spiritual obstacle, it seems that Choe perceived this particular temptation of the flesh as his primary undoing, regardless of the extent to which he may have acted on the temptation.

This instructive aspect makes the latter part of the text similar to compositions that belong to a category that scholars term jamgye (箴戒) (“probing admonition”). The purpose of such compositions was to guide oneself and others away from moral transgression in speech and action, and this was usually done through exposition of a certain theme or through illustrative narration of one’s own or another’s actions.76 But the

76 See Gwon Ho 328.

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degree of inwardly-directed reproach that we find in Choe’s essay is unmatched in the

traditional jamgye composition. For example, in “Saek Yu” (色喩), an essay on the dangers of womanizing, Yi Gyubo (1168–1241) warns about the evil intent of the

seductress and the risk that such dallying can pose to one’s wealth, reputation, family,

and country. There is no mention of spiritual contamination. Another such composition,

one that is pointedly self-reproachful, is Jeong Cheol’s (1536–1593) famous “Gyejumun”

(戒酒文) (“A Warning Against Drink”), in which the writer reflects on his excessive drinking and the embarrassment it has caused him. He speaks about the difficulty of a person’s controlling his heart and intent, and ends with a self-directed warning to be careful to follow such admonitions. But, again, there is no reference to the harm or contamination that such excess might bring to one’s inner self. Jeong’s references to heart and intent relate to the effect that these have on one’s actions, which, if improper, will bring shame to oneself and harm to family and society. In contrast, Choe’s essay is focused on the individual soul and its fate in the afterlife. Unlike Confucian virtue, which was played out by the role into which one was born, Catholic piety concerned first the relationship between the individual soul and God.

Among the three pieces analyzed in this chapter, “Self-Reproach” is the most devoid of references to the outside world. The dualistic paradigm of separation between self and other is, in effect, internalized, and the writer’s internal division is evident in this manifest tension between soul and body. The self is made the object of scrutiny, and the body becomes the “other” to be abnegated in the hopes of the soul’s attaining the heavenly kingdom.

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Disengaged Subjectivity

The preceding discussion has pointed out how the literature of the Catholic movement expressed an increasing focus on transcendent themes and the soul’s belonging to the other world. This shift led to the countering of traditional values and boundaries within the Catholic community and made possible Hwang Sayeong’s identification with a group based on ideological, not traditional ties. This transcending of traditional values and identifications is also evident in Rugalda’s letters, which move a step further to focus on martyrdom, which facilitates final separation from this world and complete union with the other world. Finally, Choe Haedu’s essay reveals that the individual soul is in tension not only with the outer world, but also with the body.

The ultimate goal of these Catholic subjects was the attainment of heaven through virtue defined primarily by religious belief. Hwang Sayeong does not directly mention his desire for heaven, but the Catholic teachings he embraced emphasized this goal, and his identification was with a movement separated from traditional society on the basis of ideology. Like these confessing Catholics, Dasan, for his part, saw the human as not only separate from the cosmos by merit of the intellect, but also as standing before God. But he did not speak of the attainment of heaven, nor did he emphasize the relationship between human beings and God. Rather, his stated goal was virtue defined by engagement with the world of humanity, not by separation from it. In contrast to Dasan’s engaged subject who was separate but morally responsible to the other of the world, the early Korean Catholic emphasis on individual salvation and life in the next world produced a subject who was disengaged from general society, and focused inward.

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Although within the Catholic community there was the sharing of goods with those who

were needy, caring for the disadvantaged, and the showing of greater respect for

individuals regardless of class and gender, such socially conscientious practices were not

emphasized in the early literature of the movement, and there was no noticeable effort to

extend such practices to those outside the Catholic community. In practical terms, of

course, the official censure of Catholicism made this exclusivity necessary. But the

Church’s strict warnings about avoiding the temptations of the “world” to which non-

believers belonged, no doubt reinforced this exclusivity.

According to Kim Inseop’s analysis of the relationship between the Catholic

movement and Korean literature, in spite of some of the forward-looking characteristics of Catholic literature, such as the widespread use of the vernacular and the integration of new ideas from the West, the literary consciousness evidenced in these works was limited, for it failed to actively express the concrete, vivid reality of the Korean people

(94). Though sharing with the new discursive practices of this period an attention to individual subjectivity, these expressions were less grounded in the concrete details of quotidian life and human emotion than were those of other genres popular at the time, such as saleol sijo, gyubang gasa, and pansori.77 Under the dire circumstances faced by

the Catholics, it was perhaps nearly impossible for Catholic literature not to disengage

from society and grow in upon itself. If there had been no harsh persecutions to end the

lives of some of the country’s most brilliant nonconformists, or to deepen the lines of

77 See Chapter 1.

187 division between those concerned with social reform and those focused on matters of the individual soul and psyche, the result might have been different.

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CONCLUSION

The point of this study has been to demonstrate how Catholic-influenced discourse diverged from the intellectual and literary mainstream of late Joseon Korea in terms of its representation of the human subject. Here, the “mainstream” encompasses two currents: the discourse arising from the hegemonic Neo-Confucian ideology of late

Joseon; and the various discursive practices taking part in a new episteme of change. If these two currents are examined against each other, the Catholic movement might be added to a hypothetical list of the manifestations of change belonging to the latter current, as is often done in scholarly examinations of the transitional character of this period.78

Indeed, the Catholic movement’s valuation of the individual and its challenge to official

ideology through its relativising of traditional authority associated it with the new

consciousness of individual human subjectivity manifested in this current of change.

However, as pointed out in the first chapter, Catholic discourse was a step removed from

this current as well, in its representation of the intellectual and spiritual human subject as

separate from the world. In this light, Catholic discourse can be understood as the

formulation of another episteme coexistent and interacting with the larger episteme of

change. At the same time, considering the clearly articulated set of philosophical and

religious suppositions upon which this discourse was based, this secondary episteme

might also be discussed in terms of a paradigm, as I have done in the preceding chapters.

78 See Ch. 1 fn. 3.

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This divergent paradigm is shared by both bodies of Catholic-influenced discourse examined here, each taken from the turn of the nineteenth century when the divide between Catholics and society, as well as the divide between the two camps of the

Catholic movement, reached its first full articulation. Dasan Jeong Yagyong, representative of the camp that maintained its identification with Confucian tradition, departs from orthodox Neo-Confucian philosophy in his philosophy of the human being, as other studies have already shown. Dasan’s philosophy connects to his poetry, which provides a discursive ground upon which to trace the manifestation of a personal human subjectivity. In Dasan’s poetry, the paradigm of subjective distinction translates into several characteristics: a heightened ethnic- and local-consciousness expressed in specifically Korean uses of Chinese, and in realistic depictions of the physical and social landscape; a stance of opposition to social ills and the use of contrasting images to depict mutual distinction or opposing relationships rather than cosmic harmony; human- centered depictions of rural life; and a poetic theory of subject-object contact. Dasan’s

philosophy of human distinction, by translating also into free will and responsibility,

supports his main purpose, which is ethical action in the world. Thus the subject is

distinct from but engaged with the world.

The writings of Hwang Sayeong, Yi Suni (Rugalda), and Choe Haedu,

representing the camp that allied itself fully with the Catholic Church, also offer

discursive manifestations of subjective distinction from the world. In their case, this

distinction is based on loyalty to a transcendent authority represented by the Church, and

belief in the soul’s immortality. Hwang’s letter is a testament to both the Catholic

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movement’s troubling of Joseon tradition and the Catholic individual’s identification with

a group defined by subjectively-chosen ideological ties. Rugalda’s letters from prison

express a heightened consciousness of the subject’s distinction from the world and a

preoccupation with preserving that distinction through martyrdom. Finally, Choe’s

confession reveals the internalization of the subject-object distinction, with the result that the subject turns upon himself and laments the missed chance of martyrdom, which would have offered complete freedom from the body. Like Dasan, these writers represent the human being as distinct from the world, free to choose, and responsible to act righteously. However, these three personal texts, like the religious literature overviewed in the same chapter, represent an increasing focus upward to the transcendent world of heaven and inward to the individual soul, while Dasan’s focus remains largely on the sphere of human affairs in this world.

As just summarized, I have presented the West-Believer discourse of early

nineteenth century Joseon as sharing in the new episteme of change, but set apart from

both the hegemonic Neo-Confucian tradition and the concurrent discourses of change. In

my overview of the Confucian-Catholic paradigm conflict in Chapter Two and in the

textual analyses of Chapters Three and Four, the comparative part of my examination of

subjectivity has focused largely on the contrast between West-Believer discourse and

Neo-Confucian tradition, since each of these two are based on an articulated philosophy

regarding the human being. However, when viewed apart from the theme of the

subjective identity of the human in relation to the cosmos, the Catholic-influenced

discourse of this period shares an important characteristic with the conservative Neo-

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Confucian paradigm to which I have contrasted it up to now. This is its concern with duty. For the West-Believer, duty is directed toward the divine and, in the case of those who sided wholly with the Church, toward the Church that represents the divine and toward the other world that is the soul’s final home. For the Neo-Confucian, duty is directed toward the maintenance of the cosmic balance as played out in society. The respective implications and interpretations of this duty differ, but on both sides there is a sense of obligation toward a metaphysical ideal. On the other hand, in the concurrent discourses of change overviewed in Chapter One, the movement appears to be away from such duty and idealism and toward greater self-expression and grounding in the hear and now. Therefore, on this point of duty toward fulfilling an ideal, the West-Believer shares an important stream with the traditional current to which it has otherwise been contrasted.

The carryover of this theme of duty and righteousness from the Confucian and

Neo-Confucian spheres to the Catholic-influenced sphere has been glimpsed at certain points in my preceding discussion: in Dasan’s view of reverence toward heaven as the basis of proper human behavior; in Yi Suni’s role as moral exemplar paralleling the role of a good Confucian woman; and in Choe Haedu’s concern with rules of behavior. This shared theme holds implications for individual human subjectivity, and these implications may also be compared and contrasted with the subjectivity embodied in the concurrent non-Catholic discourses of change.

This particular point of commonality between Catholic-influenced discourse and the traditional Neo-Confucian discourse somewhat complicates the issue of whether or not the influence of Western Catholic thought contributed to Korea’s transition to

192 modernity. The topic of periodization—that is, where to draw the demarcation between premodern and modern in the history of Korean literature—is one that elicits ongoing debate.79 The most simple and common answer to this question is that the demarcation point is 1876, the year that Korea was opened to the modern world through its treaty with

Japan. However, as we have seen, the various discourses of change that can be traced back to the late eighteenth century exhibit characteristics that resemble Western

Enlightenment and Romantic ideals associated with the move toward modernity in the

West. These “modern” characteristics of late Joseon literary activity would include the emphasis on practical knowledge and social reform expressed by those scholars often associated with the Sirhak label; the lowering of high culture and the elevation of common culture through the growth of literary activity among the non-aristocratic classes and the popularization of new literary genres; the growing focus away from prescribed ideals and toward the particular human subject and its mundane world; and the troubling of traditional assumptions. The Catholic movement’s move away from elitism, its use of the vernacular, and its challenging of traditional authority may be allied with the modern- like discourses of this new episteme. Yi Wonsun remarks that “Although Christianity was not a modern product, it was quietly opening the way to proximity with the substance of modernity that found its indicators in freedom and equality” (197–8). In other words,

79 See O for an overview of scholarly opinions on the issue of where to mark the start of modernity (現代 hyeondae) or near-modernity (近代 geundae) in the historiography of

Korean literature.

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while Catholicism itself might not be considered a product of modernity, the Christian

ideals of individual worth and human equality were values that coincided with the

historical signposts of modernity (175). Even though the structures of organization and

authority in the Catholic Church were fashioned on feudalistic models, and, in fact,

helped to maintain such feudalistic structures in the West, its underlying ideals, when

brought into the context of traditional Confucian society, contained the potential to

encourage modernization (175, 178).

The subjectivity of human distinction that underlies and manifests these particular

characteristics of the Catholic movement also links to a theme that scholars associate

with the move toward modernity in Korean literature: “self-consciousness” (ja-a uisik 自

我意識; Yun 22, 37) or “self-awakening” (ja-a gakseong 自我覺醒; O 604, 606). In scholarship on the Catholic movement, this theme is also referenced as an indicator of affinity with the movement toward modernity. In a discussion of the persecution of 1801, for instance, Cho Kwang implies that the assertion of one’s right to follow personal faith and conscience suggested an awakening of selfhood: “By insisting that even the king could not dominate their souls or their consciences, they had reached a new self- awareness” (Joseon Hugi 128). Also, Chai-sik Chung comments that Hwang Sayeong’s

“critical spirit would involve a courageous affirmation of the ‘subjective’ self that characterizes the essential mental quality underlying the modern socio-political development of society” (75). Indeed, it seems reasonable to assert that, when contrasted to the traditional Neo-Confucian philosophy of the human as part of the cosmos, Catholic philosophy introduced something more closely resembling the modern self.

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The movement toward modernity in the West is associated with the concept of the

distinction and sovereignty of the individual mind or soul, as opposed to the ancient

assumption of unity between the human and the natural world.80 Charles Taylor also

articulates the move in terms of separation and cosmic individuation: “The stance of

separation helps overcome the profound sense of involvement in the cosmos, that absence

of a clear boundary between self and world, which was generated by and contributed to

sustaining the premodern notions of cosmic order” (202). In this, we see a resemblance between the more holistic traditional worldview of Joseon and that of Europe prior to the

birth of modern individualism.81 Inasmuch as the separation of human agency from the cosmic order was the point at which Dasan and the Korean Catholics diverged from the dominant worldview of their milieu, West-Believer discourse can be said to have contributed to the movement toward modernity.

However, the categorization becomes troubled when taking into consideration

several points on which the respective Dasanian and Catholic discourses do not coincide

with normative models of the transition to modernity based on expositions of Western

intellectual history. In his volume on the development of the modern self in the West,

Taylor posits that, by making “the first-person standpoint fundamental to our search for truth,” Augustine originated the “I think, therefore I am” argument voiced centuries later by Descartes (133). Tarnas supports this argument when he calls Augustine “the most

80 See Dumont 94; Tarnas 17–56.

81 See Also Munro 2.

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modern of the ancients” for possessing “an existentialist’s self-awareness with his highly

developed capacity for introspection and self-confrontation . . . his doubt and remorse . . .

his intensity of inner conflict” (144), a description that in many ways resembles the self-

portrait suggested by Choe Haedu’s “Self Reproach.” If, as Taylor argues, the

development of inwardness is assumed as a crucial component of the modern self, then

the soul-searching introduced by Catholicism and expressed in Rugalda’s letters and

Choe Haedu’s confession certainly moves the subject in the direction of the modern.

However, the Catholic discourse of late Joseon stops short of a culmination of the

modern self, for the Catholic subject, like the Augustinian self, is not entirely

autonomous. As Taylor suggests, the Augustinian self is not the autonomous self of

Cartesian dualism, for the inner light points to the person of God; in examining itself, the

soul recognizes its dependence on God (139). In this model, it is ultimately Descartes’ re-

situation of the moral source within human intellect that provides the crucial formulation

of the autonomous modern subject.

The case of Dasan creates a further complication of the definition of “modern”

that might be associated with West-Believer subjectivity. The practical and experiential approach that Dasan used in his approach to problems like smallpox and provincial government, his human-centered and realistic depictions of the world, and his poetics of subject-object distinction give Dasan a resemblance to the practical, humanistic, and

scientific modern subject. In fact, in the light of these characteristics, Dasan appears more

“modern” than do Hwang Sayeong, Rugalda, and Choe Haedu in their focus on the

religious. Yet Dasan’s subject is also not entirely autonomous, for he acknowledges

196 human dependence on Heaven. And, most clearly, his poetic discourse reveals neither the degree of inwardness exhibited by the Augustinian self nor the self-objectification of

Western Enlightenment and Romantic subjectivity. 82 In his description of the

Enlightenment and Romantic stances as two facets of the radically reflexive modern self,

Taylor points out that in both facets subject and object are entirely separable, and the human agent is now disengaged from the cosmic order (194). Against this model of the modern mind, Dasan represents an interesting synthesis by revealing a human subject that conceives of being distinct from the cosmos by merit of the intellect yet remains engaged with the world through moral imperative.

The concept of moral duty brings us back to the theme that West-Believer discourse shares with the traditional discourse of the Joseon period. As suggested at the beginning of this discussion, this point of resemblance further troubles any neat categorization of “modern” and “pre-modern.” Cho Tong-il, in his response to the issue of periodization, points out that, “By the beginning of the modern period in 1919, medieval themes of moral imperative had yielded to modern themes of confrontation between the self and the world” (“Two-Stage” 1). If an overarching theme of moral imperative marks literature as “medieval,” and confrontation between the self and the world is “modern,” then West-Believer discourse would better fit what Cho terms

“medieval” literature. Then what about Dasan’s realism? And if, as Cho also asserts,

“language usage [that is, literary Chinese versus vernacular Korean] offers the clearest

82 See Taylor 188, 190.

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basis for distinguishing medieval from modern literature” (“Two-Stage” 3) where does that leave Joseon Catholic literature with its extensive use of the vernacular?

Obviously, the issue is far from clear. If anything, West-Believer discourse further complicates any easy solution to the issue of periodization. However, with its clearly articulated position on human subjective distinction, it pulls at least one thread of modern thought further back into the history of Korean literature.

The issues touched on in this last chapter are matters for further research. For now, considering the characteristics that reveal its affinity with both modern and pre- modern literature, West-Believer discourse may usefully be associated with Cho Tong- il’s category of “transitional literature” (“Two-Stage” 3–12), coming into being within

the changes and the tensions of late Joseon, and exhibiting affinities with both the

traditional and the new. At the same time, as this project has shown, West-Believer

discourse displays a configuration of human subjectivity that is unique among the

discourses of this period.

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Jeong Yagyong]. Seoul: Taehaksa, 2002. Print.

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VITA

Deberniere Janet Torrey

Education

Ph. D., Department of Comparative Literature, Pennsylvania State University, 2010. M.A., Classical Liberal Arts, St. John’s College, 2000. B.A., Liberal Arts, Eastern Mennonite University, 1989.

Selected Translations

Mansaseongchwi (The Attainment of All Things). Gil Seon-Ju. Ed. Jae Hyun Kim. Seoul: KIATS Press, 2008. 15-69. A Record of a Dream of Yi Byeok, A Record of the Words of Ryu-Han-Dang; Meditation on Life after Death. Ed. Jae Hyun Kim. Seoul: The Korean Christian Museum at Soongsil University, 2007. 19-88.

Refereed Article

“Separate but Engaged: Human Subjectivity in the Poetry of Tasan Chŏng Yagyong.” Journal of Korean Studies 15 (forthcoming, 2010).

Book Review

Comparative Journeys: Essays on Literature and Religion East and West. By Anthony C. Yu. Comparative Literature Studies 47 (forthcoming, 2010).

Fellowships, Honors, and Awards

Korea Foundation Fellowship for Graduate Studies (2005-2008). Institute for the Arts and Humanities Summer Residency, Penn State University (2007). Winner of English Category, 5th Korean Literature Translation Award, Korea Literature Translation Institute (2006). Bayard Award for Excellence in Graduate Studies in the Department of Comparative Literature, Penn State University (2006). Fulbright Fellowship for coursework and research in Seoul, Korea (2004-2005).

Teaching

Asian Literature. Penn State University. Chinese Language. Middlebury College; Penn State University; Handong University (S. Korea). Korean Language. Penn State University. Mythology of the Non-Western World. Penn State University.