On a summer night in 1800, court physicians went to examine King Chŏngjo (r. 1776–1800). Two weeks earlier he had complained of fever and a weeping abscess on his back, but was otherwise robust enough to argue over the best course of treatment. By the night in question, he was bedridden. Finding Chŏngjo asleep, the physicians left his room. When he awoke, they returned, and he asked how long they had been there. Long enough to smoke, one replied (CWS: Chŏngjo 24 [1800]/6/26, #4; on his illness and death: Chŏngjo 24 [1800]/6/15, #1; Chŏngjo 24 [1800]/6/28, #11).
This exchange encapsulates tensions that had defined Chŏngjo's reign. He had been an exuberant smoker from his youth and praised the various benefits of the “southern spirit-plant” (namnyŏngch'o), as he and other Koreans often called tobacco (An 2008, 153–63, 257–58; on debates over smoking, Sin and Sŏ 2001, 37–44). In extolling tobacco, he was careful to situate it in the larger context of Confucian civilization. Although it was unknown to the sages of antiquity and thus unsanctioned by the Confucian tradition, it aided study, sober conversation, sharp thought, and literary composition. He also credited it with near-magical properties as a cure-all. The appearance of tobacco in the world was, he concluded, a clear sign of the universe's beneficence towards humanity. To reject tobacco would be foolish (An 2008, 153, 157).
Yet that is precisely what he decided in 1797 during a conversation with Yi Pyŏngmo (1742–1806), Superintendent of the Royal Stables (Saboksi chejo) (CWS: Chŏngjo 21 [1797]/7/8, #2). This shift was partly motivated by agricultural considerations. But what mattered most of all was tobacco as a symbol. While Chŏngjo conceded that the “southern plant” (namch'o) had, in fact, originated somewhere off to the west, like the heterodoxy of Catholicism (Sŏhak; lit., Western learning), Yi drew a link between the rise of the Manchu and the ubiquity of smoking. Yi's claims were, in broad outline, rooted in historical fact, and they aroused Chŏngjo's anti-Manchu sentiments (e.g., see CWS: Injo 18 [1640]/4/19, #1; Injo 20 [1642]/10/28, #2; Injo 24 [1646]/2/4, #6; ; Giles Reference Giles1912, chap. 2; Goodrich Reference Goodrich1938; Pae 2010).
Thus convinced of the merits of banning tobacco, Chŏngjo concluded that the creeping influence of Catholicism in Qing China was a consequence of the west's cultural backwardness. This line of thought proceeded logically from the assumption that the Manchu were barbarians: Catholicism had gained a foothold in China because those who professed it were, like their Manchu hosts, at a low level of cultural development. Implicit here was the conviction that Chosŏn was civilized because it adhered to the orthodox neo-Confucianism of Zhu Xi (1130–1200). This view initially had taken shape when Chosŏn thinkers grew alarmed over the influence of the teachings of Wang Yangming (1472–1529) in Ming (1368–1644) China, and it was confirmed for them when the Ming fell to the Manchu Qing. The consequence was an elite belief that Chosŏn had become the guardian of civilization (Chŏng Okcha 1998; Deuchler Reference Deuchler, de Bary and Haboush1985, esp. 377–78; Haboush Reference Haboush, Haboush and Deuchler1999, esp. 69–70; S. Kim Reference Kim2007, 50, 208n51).
From the outset, Chŏngjo's reign was at once animated and troubled by this belief. The previous king, Yŏngjo (r. 1724–76), who was Chŏngjo's grandfather, had killed his own mentally ill son, who was Chŏngjo's father. Then, starting in 1785 Chŏngjo became aware of the dangers posed by heterodox (idan) books entering Chosŏn from Qing China. The fact that Koreans learned of Catholicism while on embassies to the Qing court served to sharpen anti-Manchu attitudes. Not only were the Manchu barbarians who had attacked Chosŏn before toppling the Ming, but by the late eighteenth century, Qing China was the conduit for the teachings of another group of barbarians. However, Catholicism constituted only one part of the threat. Chŏngjo and his court were equally alarmed by fiction and, paradoxically, literary collections dating from the late Ming and early Qing. (As discussed below, such collections might also contain anti-Manchu views, which, from a Chinese point of view, might entail criticism of Chosŏn's role in the fall of the Ming.) In sum, Catholicism was heterodox, but not all heterodoxies were Catholic. The year 1791 was the watershed, when it was discovered that two Catholic converts had burned ancestral tablets used in Confucian mourning rituals. Faced with clear proof that fears over heterodox books were justified, Chŏngjo decided that orthodox Confucian literary discipline was crucial to vouchsafe Chosŏn's claim to civilization.
Although Chŏngjo's decision to ban tobacco in 1797 was unenforceable (he himself appeared doubtful), it underscored the logic of his project to secure orthodoxy and civilization in Chosŏn. What follows is an analysis of the principal elements of that logic, focusing on how these complemented and reinforced each other. I draw largely on government documents preserved in the dynasty's Veritable Records (CWS) as well as recently published literary collections offering additional insight into these events. My method requires some comment. Each of the elements I examine is worthy of fuller treatment. But in a sense, that is the problem. For historians focusing on religion, for example, examination of Chŏngjo's views on Catholicism necessarily centers on the need to define gradations of heterodox beliefs and practices, whereas others tend to emphasize Chŏngjo's conciliatory policies towards Buddhism, which had itself been deemed heterodox for four centuries. Likewise, scholars of Korean literary history have focused on his efforts to ban fiction, promote orthodox learning, and regulate literary styles. What is overlooked is how these activities were linked, and that is what concerns me here. Just as Chŏngjo's understanding of Catholicism was shaped by Buddhism and his belief that the Manchu were barbarians, his fear of Catholicism guided his treatment of Buddhism. The ultimate consequence was his focus on literature to secure Chosŏn's claim to civilization.
Skillful Means to Another End: The Personal and Political Dimensions of Chŏngjo's Buddhist Activities
Scholars have begun questioning the pervasiveness of anti-Buddhist sentiment among the Chosŏn elite (Cho Reference Cho2003; Pu Reference Pu2011). Walraven (Reference Walraven2007), for instance, has demonstrated the social complexity surrounding Buddhism in the late Chosŏn. He also has argued convincingly that the broad acceptance of Confucian values, such as filial piety, paradoxically weakened Confucianism: it “could no longer claim an exclusive right to the values and practices that constituted its backbone” (Walraven Reference Walraven2012, 113). Buddhist apologetics attested to this adoption of Confucian values, taking an extreme form in the position, articulated by the Buddhist priest Yŏndam Yuil (1720–99), that “someone who only practiced Confucian virtues would go straight to the paradise of Amitābha” (Walraven Reference Walraven2012, 109). Such apologetics were impossible in Catholicism where, as Baker (Reference Baker2008, 67) reminds us, “individual devotion to God” outweighed communal values.
Walraven's and Baker's analyses taken together bring into focus significant elements of Korea's sociopolitical and religious landscape during Chŏngjo's reign. Despite the observed similarities between Catholic and Buddhist teachings (discussed below), institutional Buddhism in Chosŏn aligned itself with the state by adopting Confucian values, specifically filial piety and loyalty. While monks and nuns demonstrated filial piety, royal support for Buddhist “prayer halls” (願堂) fused Confucianism and Buddhism by seeking to improve the prospects of forebears in the afterlife. Loyalty likewise was celebrated through memorial shrines for Buddhist priests who had defended Chosŏn during foreign invasions (Walraven Reference Walraven2007, 9–14). In addition, interest in Buddhism in some quarters of the Confucian intellectual elite was evident in the decades leading up to Chŏngjo's reign and would continue thereafter (Yu 2006).
Chŏngjo's treatment of Buddhism illustrates Walraven's judgment that Confucianism was paradoxically weakened by its own success. Chŏngjo's reign began by emphasizing Confucian orthodox praxis and learning through orders to close Buddhist prayer halls and found the Royal Library (Kyujanggak) (CWS: Chŏngjo chŭgwi-nyŏn [1776]/6/14, #3; Chŏngjo chŭgwi-nyŏn [1776]/9/25, #2). But in 1790 he established a Buddhist temple, Yongju-sa, near a tomb he had recently built for his father (Ch'oe 1996, 1:306–27; Kim Kyŏngsŏp 1999, esp. 58–59). The history of the tomb and temple is too complex to treat here, but it is sufficient to draw on Pak's detailed study to highlight two themes that recur throughout the scholarship: that Yongju-sa was built as a “tomb temple” (陵寺) to secure his father's happiness (myŏngbok) in the afterlife, and it and the tomb itself were physical representations of Chŏngjo's filial piety (Pak Ch'ŏnu 2003, 484, 496). Buddhism could thus claim Confucian values and provide something else: a vision of a better afterlife and the means to attain it.
Chŏngjo was not the first to sponsor a tomb temple or display seemingly contradictory attitudes towards Buddhism (Walraven Reference Walraven2007, 8–9). More specifically, his reign, like his grandfather's, was characterized by “limited Buddhist-protection measures” (chehandoen Pulgyo poho chŏngch'aek), but such measures occurred in conjunction with mistrust—and at times, suppression (t'anap)—of popular Buddhist religiosity (Chŏng Ŭihaeng 1993, 354–57). Moreover, anxieties over popular religiosity in general were exacerbated by Catholicism. Those issues are addressed further below, but it is first necessary to assess whether Chŏngjo was, like some of his Confucian-oriented contemporaries, sympathetic towards or interested in Buddhist teachings. Chŏngjo's collected writings do contain some positive comments on Buddhism (and Daoism, too). But there is little to indicate he had much knowledge of Buddhist teachings, and on balance, his written views are consistent with those expressed at court: Buddhism was heterodox and inferior to the orthodoxy of Zhu Xi, and what could be praised for the most part were those aspects that were socially beneficial in Confucian terms (e.g., HCS, vol. 181, entry 15 [ojasugwŏn]; also, Yu 2006, 237). Most important is a comment in his writings where he remarks on how little he knew of Buddhism until the spring of 1796, when he discovered a Buddhist sutra that celebrated filial piety (HCS, vol. 182, section 21 [kaengjaech'uk], #32).
It is therefore difficult to think that Chŏngjo's establishment of Yongju-sa reflected any deeply held personal commitment to Buddhism. But given Buddhism's importance in the lives of common people, this is not remarkable; as Pu (Reference Pu2011, 37) argues, Chosŏn's kings tended to take a practical approach to “Confucianism and Buddhism for the purpose of consolidating their political authority.” This practical approach is especially conspicuous in Chŏngjo because he does not fit Pu's broader thesis on kings' faith in Buddhism (something Pu implicitly acknowledges; 2011, 44n15). Moreover, Chŏngjo already had begun promoting institutional Buddhism's links with the state and court even prior to establishing Yongju-sa.
Much of this activity was done through the bestowal of posthumous titles, with a conspicuous focus on loyalty, following precedents set by his grandfather. In 1788, Chŏngjo encouraged priests who were constructing a shrine for Hyujŏng (1520–1604), who had organized Buddhist militias to fight Japanese invaders two centuries earlier. The shrine's name, Exemplifying Loyalty (P'yo-ch'ung), was commonly used, thus attesting to the degree to which institutional Buddhism had absorbed Confucian values (CWS: Chŏngjo 12 [1788]/7/5, #2; Walraven Reference Walraven2007, 11, 14; Yi Nŭnghwa [Reference Chaeyŏng1918] 1986, 3:69). In 1790, when establishing Yongju-sa, Chŏngjo chose a priest named Sail (also, Pogyŏng; fl. late 1700s) to supervise and designated him as the top-ranking cleric (toch'ongsŏp) in Chosŏn, a position held centuries before by Hyujŏng (Yi Chŏng 1993, 125). In 1790, he also ordered that a stele bearing an inscription written by him be erected at Sŏgwang-sa, a temple strongly associated with King T'aejo (r. 1392–98), the first king and founder of the Chosŏn dynasty. Then, in 1792, he granted additional posthumous titles honoring deceased priests, including Muhak (1327–1405), a close confidante of T'aejo's (CWS: Chŏngjo 14 [1790]8/21, #1; Yi Nŭnghwa [Reference Chaeyŏng1918] 1986, 3:72). Several years later, Chŏngjo again dedicated a shrine to Hyujŏng, naming it the Shrine for Rewarding Loyalty (Such'ungsa) (CWS: Chŏngjo 18 [1794]/3/16, #2; Yi Nŭnghwa [Reference Chaeyŏng1918] 1986, 3:73).
The start of these activities in 1788 coincided with increasing concern over the dangers posed by Catholicism and heterodox books, with the understanding of Catholicism taking shape at court recalling centuries-old Chinese and Korean anti-Buddhist polemics. In the early years of the Chosŏn dynasty, Buddhism had been attacked as a teaching that was “without a father and without a sovereign” (無父無君) and “not loyal and not filial” (不忠不孝) (e.g., CWS: Sejong 6 [1424]/3/12, #2). Catholicism likewise was judged from a Confucian perspective, leading to the conclusion, articulated by Third State Councilor (Uŭijŏng) Ch'ae Chegong (1720–99), that although Catholics criticized Buddhism, Catholicism was, in fact, another Buddhist sect (別派) (CWS: Chŏngjo 12 [1788]/8/3, #1).
Nonetheless, the Chosŏn Buddhist elite, exemplified by Yŏndam Yuil, had adopted Confucian values; moreover, it was possible to appeal to Chosŏn Buddhism's history to highlight, through priests such as Muhak and Hyujŏng, key examples of loyalty to the state. In a variation of the Buddhist notion of skillful means, Chŏngjo's Buddhist activities underscored the importance of Confucian values. Yet Buddhism itself continued to be seen as heterodox even after the start of these activities in 1788 and more significantly, after the establishment of Yongju-sa. This was evident in 1791 during yet another discussion at court over heterodoxy, which Chŏngjo was at pains to delineate in all its many forms. His lengthy list began with Daoism and Buddhism (No-Bul; Ch., Lao-Fo) before turning to many other unacceptable teachings that had developed in China's long history. Anything other than orthodox Confucianism was to be rejected. As before, Chŏngjo was particularly vexed over heterodox books being smuggled into Chosŏn from Qing China, and the forms of heterodoxy that particularly worried him were Catholicism, fiction, and late-Ming and early-Qing literary collections (CWS: Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/10/24, #1).
Although this discussion resembled many that had come before, there was one key difference. It was stimulated by direct evidence that longstanding fears at court over Catholicism had been well founded. The proof was the recent discovery that two Catholic converts, Yun Chich'ung (1759–91) and his cousin, Kwŏn Sangyŏn (d. 1791), had failed to observe proper Confucian rituals in mourning Yun's mother. The two men had thus rejected their duties of Confucian filial piety for their Catholic beliefs, thereby demonstrating disregard for the organizing principle of the Chosŏn state. Their actions confirmed that Catholicism was every bit as dangerous as it seemed, and accordingly, they were executed (CWS: Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/11/8, #2; Baker Reference Baker, Haboush and Deuchler1999).
However, there were two other significant dimensions to Yun's and Kwŏn's crimes that caught the court's attention. First, their rejection of Confucian mourning practices underscored more broadly the manifold dangers of heterodox writings in influencing beliefs and, in turn, actions. The second relates less to Catholicism per se than to what can be most accurately called popular religiosity, in whatever form. This rich topic has not received the attention it deserves, nor is it possible to treat it fully here. Nonetheless, some comment is necessary given that Chŏngjo's Buddhist activities paralleled wariness over popular Buddhist religiosity. That is, the fear generated by Catholicism and its teachings of an afterlife arose also due to more general fears over people believing in “magic” (yosul) and “sorcery” (sasul). In this respect, too, Catholicism was like Buddhism and Shamanism. The difference was one of degree, not kind, as indicated in one early document that discussed Catholicism's power to delude through its teaching of heaven and hell. It concluded that Catholicism was even worse than the ideas propounded by shamans (CWS: Chŏngjo 9 [1785]/4/9, #3). Moreover, government records make clear that there was knowledge of the dangers posed by popular superstition and Buddhist movements, with specific references made to China's White Lotus sect well before the widespread revolt of 1796 (e.g., CWS: Chŏngjo 11 [1787]/2/11, #3; Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/10/24, #1; on “black magic,” heterodoxy, and popular movements in China: Harrell and Perry Reference Harrell and Perry1982; Kelley Reference Kelley1982, esp. 381; Naquin Reference Naquin1982; Waley-Cohen Reference Waley-Cohen1998, esp. 337).
The Chosŏn court was eager to avoid similar problems and, on balance, had been relatively successful. Throughout Chŏngjo's reign there was concern over Buddhist priests and nuns as well as shamans (male and female) entering the capital, and, in accord with a centuries-old law, they were to be driven out (e.g., CWS: Chŏngjo 1 [1777]/9/2, #2; Chŏngjo 6 [1782]/2/25, #1; Chŏngjo 19 [1795]/7/25, #1). Nonetheless, incidents in 1728, 1758, and 1785 demonstrated that charismatic leadership, coupled with popular faith in the Maitreya Buddha, could lead to widespread social disturbances outside the capital (Chŏng Ŭihaeng 1993, 355–57). The events of 1758, in particular, left a strong impression. In that year, the court ordered the decapitation of at least one female self-proclaimed saengbul (“living Buddha”), who had attracted a following among the peasantry, and had her head displayed as a warning (CWS: Yŏngjo 34 [1758]/5/18, #2; Chŏng Ŭihaeng 1993, 356; Yi Nŭnghwa [Reference Chaeyŏng1918] 1986, 3:67). Leading up to the execution of Yun and Kwŏn, Ch'ae Chegong continued to emphasize that Catholicism and Buddhism were effectively the same, and the day before they were executed, Chŏngjo recalled in detail the “living Buddha” incident from his grandfather's reign (CWS: Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/10/25, #1; Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/11/7, #2). The view that Buddhism and Catholicism were similar thus exacerbated fears about both, providing incentive for efforts to promote Chosŏn Buddhism's conformity with the Confucian state.
Chŏngjo's Buddhist activities reached their logical conclusion in 1796, with the printing of one version of The Sutra on the Profound Kindness of Parents (Fu mu en zhong jing) (on this sutra, see Cole Reference Cole1998, 132–58). It was this sutra that he learned about in the spring of that year, as noted above. An apocryphal Chinese work that purports to recount the Buddha's sermon on filial piety, this sutra had less to do with Buddhism per se than a vision of Buddhism rendered acceptable to Confucian orthodoxies on the proper relationships that are to govern the family and, by extension, the state. Versions had been printed several times from late in the Koryŏ dynasty (918–1392) through fifteenth-century Chosŏn (Ch'ŏn 2001, 106, 108–9, 159, 162, 191). In Chŏngjo's case, however, the family-state link through Buddhism was all the more pronounced due to the establishment of Yongju-sa as a tomb temple for his father. It is there that the printing materials were stored (HCS, vol. 56, “chapchŏ” [miscellaneous writings] #3, entry #1; Ch'oe 1996, 1:324–25, 482; Yi Nŭnghwa [Reference Chaeyŏng1918] 1986, 3:73).
Catholicism and Other Fictions: The Logic of Suppression
Notwithstanding the dangers of popular Buddhist religiosity, institutional Buddhism had a history in Korea that could be invoked for the benefit of the Confucian state; Catholicism, of course, did not. Another crucial dimension to fear of Catholicism was that it came from Qing China. Those who visited China were in a unique position to see things that very few Chosŏn Koreans could. However, the literate could read about Qing China from travelogues as well as read imported books, whether related to Catholicism, late-Ming and early-Qing collections, or fiction. The result was intense concern over writing predicated on the assumption that one's reading habits and thus beliefs would be betrayed by what or how one wrote. This assumption was reinforced by two complementary ideas central to the Confucian literary and intellectual tradition: that there exists an inherent moral connection between oneself and what one writes, and that the essential function of literature is to support Confucian morality. Confucian philosophical premises were well-suited to historical exigencies.
In these respects, the centrality of writing in Chŏngjo's fears over heterodoxy makes sense, as do his successive bans on the importation of books from Qing China. For Chŏngjo, however, the dangers of Catholicism and fiction were not two problems, but instead one and the same. As seen below, they were judged to be fundamentally alike because both dealt with falsehoods. Danger also adhered to late-Ming and early-Qing literary collections for other reasons. Among other things, such collections might contain anti-Manchu writings of the sort that instigated the Qianlong emperor's (r. 1736–96) literary inquisition, which overlapped with Chŏngjo's reign. But anti-Manchu writings might also contain views critical of Chosŏn's role in the downfall of the Ming. (I will return to this point below.)
Explicit worry over the link between Catholicism and books grew apparent from the middle of the 1780s onwards. At first, Chŏngjo seems to have been most worried over Catholicism's potential to disturb the minds of the uneducated, but his focus soon shifted to the educated (CWS: Chŏngjo 9 [1785]/4/9, #3). This change appears to have been largely pragmatic; the educated were expected to know better and to serve as examples for the lower classes. However, events had overtaken Chŏngjo. Even the 1785 Complete Compilation of Legal Statutes (Taejŏn t'ongp'yŏn) proved insufficient to deal with the problem of heterodox books (CWS: Chŏngjo 9 [1785]/2/23, #1; Chŏngjo 9 [1785]/9/12, #2; for a reproduction, Sŏul Taehakkyo Kyujanggak 1998, esp. 1:5–30).
A clear example occurred in 1787, when Chŏngjo met an embassy preparing to visit the Qing court. His directions included detailed warnings over smuggling back heterodox books. What was prohibited was anything deviating from Confucian orthodoxy, with an emphasis on books dealing with oddities (妖誕), magic (雜術), and necromancy/immortality (方書). It is easy to see in this a broad outline of how Catholicism was interpreted as sorcery in light of core Christian beliefs in Jesus rising from the dead and the immortality of the soul. Chŏngjo also saw evidence of another threat to the integrity of the state: “the recent literary style” (近來文體) and its “frivolity” (浮輕) had harmed the quality of writings produced in his court's administrative offices. The source of that trouble was not defined as Catholicism per se, however, with Chŏngjo instead focusing on the moral harm wrought by “late-Ming and early-Qing literary collections” (明末淸初文集) and “storytellers' tales” [稗官雜說; i.e., fiction] (CWS: Chŏngjo 11 [1787]/10/10, #1).
The relationship between Catholicism and fiction was most clearly explained by Chŏngjo close to a year later. Alarmed by the declining quality of writing, Chŏngjo concluded that “the vice of having the desire to read fiction is what leads to Catholicism” (有貪看小說之弊, 流入於西學者也). Chŏngjo's judgment reflected a point made during this conversation by Ch'ae Chegong: apart from heaven and hell, Catholics believed in absurd stories, such as Jesus's ability to cure the blind and lame, or most ridiculously, “the story of [Jesus] opening heaven's door and flying up and entering [heaven]” (開天門飛入之說) (CWS: Chŏngjo 12 [1788]/8/3, #1). This record is conspicuous in the clarity of its presentation of various anxieties—and connections among them—that had developed over Catholicism. Of particular significance is the fact that Ch'ae Chegong's conclusion that Catholicism was “another Buddhist sect” occurred during this discussion, coinciding with Chŏngjo's increasing activities highlighting Chosŏn Buddhism's adherence to Confucian values.
Thereafter, the logic of Chŏngjo's formulation was taken for granted. Throughout all this, there also remained heavy emphasis on the role of embassies in importing heterodox books. Implicit here too was a potential remedy that, concisely articulated in 1791, saw control over writings as the necessary first step to vanquishing heterodoxy: “If you want to ban Western Learning [Catholicism], then you must first go after storytellers' miscellanies [fiction] and ban them; if you want to ban storytellers' miscellanies, then you must first go after late-Ming and early-Qing literary collections and ban them” (欲禁西洋之學, 先從稗官雜記, 禁之; 欲禁稗官雜記, 先從明末淸初文集, 禁之) (CWS: Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/10/24, #1). But notwithstanding the clarity of this course of action, it is difficult to say that it represented a new insight. Indeed, it is more reasonable to say that this course of action had already failed. The impending execution of Yun and Kwŏn made that clear, even as it underscored the rightness of the court's fears over the importation of books from Qing China.
But this failure raised another problem that Ch'ae Chegong identified the following day when suggesting to Chŏngjo that Catholic adherents could deny their beliefs (CWS: Chŏngjo 15 [1791]/10/25, #1). This seems to have been a new fear, one reflecting the view that discovery of Yun's and Kwŏn's crimes had been fortuitous. What was striking about Ch'ae's comments was his nervousness over beliefs—not simply the actions they might entail—as well as the recognition that Catholics would thereafter have every reason to disguise themselves. This fear was situated in a familiar framework of analysis, with special emphasis on the great similarity between Catholic and Buddhist teachings in heaven and hell and life after death. But here Ch'ae's concerns centered on men who were educated in Confucianism and therefore ought to have rejected the heterodoxy of Catholicism, not only due to its unfounded and Buddhist-like beliefs in the afterlife, but more importantly, due to its elevation of God above one's father and king.
Although the particulars of Ch'ae's analysis of Catholicism's social and political views are problematic, the main thrust was correct: a Catholic believer's primary relationship was with God, and it was an individual relationship with a view towards what would happen to one after death. Evident here is another dimension to the issues surrounding Catholicism and Buddhism as discussed above in relation to Baker (Reference Baker2008), Pu (Reference Pu2011), and Walraven (Reference Walraven2012). That is, Chŏngjo's expression of concern for his father's happiness in the afterlife through Buddhism was meaningful in Confucian terms, whether or not he believed in Buddhism or the afterlife. It manifested his filial piety, embodying the foundation of Chosŏn's sociopolitical order that even Chosŏn Buddhists were so keen to acknowledge. Yun's and Kwŏn's Catholic convictions inverted that scenario, embodying Catholicism's focus on personal, “individual salvation” (Baker Reference Baker2008, 69).
Chŏngjo's immediate reaction to Ch'ae's analysis was by then predictable; he forbade the import of Ming and Qing literary collections, something he had done before and would do again, each time calling attention to his subjects' disobedience (e.g., CWS: Chŏngjo 16 [1792]/10/19, #1). But the need to execute Yun and Kwŏn made it clear that announcing bans was insufficient, and if, as Ch'ae surmised, Catholics would thereafter be careful to avoid detection, heterodoxy could flourish undetected. One's writings, however, might unwittingly reveal heterodox interests.
Revelations of Heterodoxy
The previous examples, though far from exhaustive, are sufficient to illustrate key concerns in the unfolding logic of suppressing Catholicism and heterodox literature. It is necessary here, however, to emphasize the historical and historiographical foundations for Chŏngjo's anxiety. The fuller implications of his fears over Catholicism, fiction, and Ming and Qing literary collections cannot be appreciated otherwise. This is not to minimize the practical aspects to the problems at hand; the need to repeat bans and warn embassies over importing unacceptable literature, for instance, cast a shadow over respect for his authority as king—a problem echoed, no less, in Ch'ae's conclusion that Catholics could not properly recognize the authority of an earthly sovereign. But the larger issue was the quality of Confucian civilization in Chosŏn based on the view that a dynasty's writings were correlated with its moral and political vitality and hence the quality of its rulers.
From this perspective, the circulation of heterodox writings represented a threat to the integrity of the state, and did so most starkly in relation to historiography and the understanding of history more generally. It is in this connection that additional questions surrounding Chŏngjo's bans on late-Ming and early-Qing literary collections become evident, for it was in such collections that anti-Manchu writings also could be found. There is an important issue here related to historiography that Brook (Reference Brook2005, 125) makes plain in relation to Qianlong, but which has received insufficient attention in the Korean scholarship: that is, it is easy to understand why Qianlong would have been concerned with anti-Manchu writings, but would Chŏngjo have had any reason to care?
There are several reasons, but one is particularly important in this context. Anti-Manchu writings might also criticize Chosŏn's acquiescence to the Manchu, implicating it in the downfall of the Ming. In 1771, it was discovered that such a book, by a Chinese Ming loyalist, had been circulating in Chosŏn. Chŏngjo was not yet king, but Ch'ae Chegong knew of the matter firsthand. Although a full accounting of what transpired cannot be undertaken here, it is sufficient to stress that anti-Manchu attitudes could be expressed very differently, depending on whether one was Chinese or Korean. This book's circulation in Chosŏn was therefore dangerous for diplomatic relations with the Qing as well as for raising questions over Chosŏn's dynastic integrity. Discovery of this book in turn led to tension between the Chosŏn and Qing courts, with Qianlong using the incident to taunt the Koreans (Sun 1997).
Diplomatic interaction with the Qing court was thus fraught with potential danger. Mistakes made by Chosŏn Koreans in written exchanges, for instance, could also provoke diplomatic difficulties (e.g., see Alston Reference Alston2008). Moreover, those who went to Qing China were in a position to question the assumption of cultural superiority that prevailed among the Chosŏn elite. Pak Chiwŏn (1737–1805), who wrote his Yŏrha ilgi (Jehol diary) about his experiences in Qing China in 1780, is perhaps the most famous of these figures. Unfortunately, the bibliographical details surrounding his writings raise complex questions. It is obvious, however, that his writings attracted attention after the execution of Yun and Kwŏn and were deemed offensive by Chŏngjo and others among the elite. One cause for offense, manifested in his Diary, was the view that Chosŏn had much to learn from Qing China, but was too proud to do so (Sin and Kim 2009, 1:195–201, 276–84, 530–31). Implicit here too was criticism of Chosŏn's conduct in the fall of the Ming, and one piece of fiction credited to Pak explicitly raises this sensitive issue (P. Lee Reference Lee1981, 213–21). But for all the reasons cited for Chŏngjo's anger, the charge of Catholicism was not among them. Chŏngjo instead focused on the Ming and Qing influences in Pak's writings (Sin and Kim 2009, 1:199).
The case of Yi Ok (1760–1815), however, illustrates more fully Chŏngjo's attempt to safeguard Confucian orthodoxy through literary discipline, and does so precisely because there is little in Yi's writings as obviously offensive as Pak's Diary, nor anything to suggest that he flirted with Catholicism. It is instead safe to conclude that he was a Buddhist, albeit with a robust sense of humor. Even so, Yi's entanglement with Chŏngjo lasted eight years, with his reading habits, as reflected in his writing, the source of friction. Although others apart from Pak and Yi fell afoul of Chŏngjo for unacceptable reading and writing habits, the duration of the conflict between Yi and Chŏngjo is unique. Throughout, Chŏngjo played the cat to Yi's mouse. It is, however, the longer-term consequence that is of greatest significance. Yi ultimately set aside his aspirations for a career in government and instead focused on writing things of interest to him. As a result, we have a large body of work that, in its totality, makes plain that through the 1790s Chŏngjo was impelled to act on his earlier insight that liking fiction was the precondition for beliefs in Catholicism. Chŏngjo's treatment of Yi was the consequence of that insight in its purest form: the problem of heterodox religious beliefs was, at root, a literary problem and was, therefore, best thwarted by cracking down on heterodox reading habits as reflected in bad writing. The fact that nothing suggests Yi was a Catholic merely underscores the point.
Yi was a student at the State Confucian Academy in 1792 when his writings came to the attention of Chŏngjo, who judged them to be heterodox (Kang Myŏnggwan 2007a, 282; Ryu 1996, 117–18; So 2000, 228–29; Yi Hyŏnu 2009, 1:11–13, 1:32–33; for Yi's own recollections, see Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:164–66). Yi's fellow student, Nam Kongch'ŏl (1760–1840), also faced criticism from Chŏngjo at the same time and for the same reason, and he too was punished. But unlike Nam, who went on to have a long career in office, Yi had no strong network of support. Years earlier, Nam's father had been Chŏngjo's tutor (Sin and Kim 2009, 1:195n1). The events of 1792 thus marked the beginning of a series of confrontations between Yi and Chŏngjo that gathered momentum in 1795 and lasted until the early months of 1800. Chŏngjo could—and did—make an example of Yi to show that heterodox literature could not be tolerated.
At the outset, Chŏngjo criticized Yi for “completely using fiction” (純用小說) and “completely following the style of minor pieces” (純倣小品體裁) (CWS: Chŏngjo 16 [1792]/10/19, #1; Chŏngjo 16 [1792]/10/24, #3). Chŏngjo offered no precise examples to substantiate his broad criticisms; indeed, he continued to emphasize, as late as 1799, that he had not ever read any piece of fiction (e.g., CWS: Chŏngjo 23 [1799]/5/5, #1; Chŏngjo 23 [1799]/12/25, #1). Nonetheless, Chŏngjo's honesty, rather than judgment, is in doubt; as seen below, Yi had a diverse range of literary interests. In the face of such difficulties, Yi remained fixated on taking the civil service exam and made an effort to write obviously acceptable responses, following advice given to him by the headmaster (taesasŏng) of the State Confucian Academy in 1795. Still, he was blocked at every turn as Chŏngjo consistently found fault with his writing. The height of the problems occurred from 1795 to 1796, when Chŏngjo handed down various punishments, including exile and military labor. In 1796, when Yi passed the first stage (ch'osi) of the civil service examination with the highest mark, Chŏngjo was furious and had it reduced to the lowest. In a concluding section to Literary Remnants from Phoenix Castle (Pongsŏng munyŏ), which recounted these events, Yi noted that he had spent a total of 118 days in exile at an area that went by several names, including Phoenix Castle (Pongsŏng) (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:166).
Literary Remnants is the earliest extant example of a body of work that illuminates the crucial point left frustratingly ambiguous in the Veritable Records: what precisely aroused Chŏngjo's ire? Yi's literary output suggests two obvious answers. First, Yi was interested in and knowledgeable of the evolution of literature in China. He read things that fell neatly into Chŏngjo's definition of heterodox literature. A clear example is found in the fact that Yi wrote a play at a time when plays and play scripts were unknown in Chosŏn beyond what visitors to China witnessed and brought back. The title of Yi's play, Tongsang-gi, referred to a wedding ceremony and can best be translated as A Record of a Marriage, but it also was a pun on Sŏsang-gi, the Sino-Korean reading of the title of its famous precursor, China's Romance of the Western Chamber (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:447–83). Second, Yi was not solely concerned with literature as a tool for self-evident Confucian moral and political purposes, but was also interested in historical and linguistic issues relating to literature in China.
Freed of attempting to adhere to orthodox literary standards that met Chŏngjo's requirements, Yi produced a great many writings that can be classified as “minor works.” Some, but not all, were fiction, and a notable unifying characteristic was his emphasis on the quotidian. Two of his works are of particular interest in this connection, one a collection of poetry and poetic theory modeled on the Classic of Poetry (Shijing) and the other a study of smoking in Chosŏn. Each had antecedents in Literary Remnants and each helps to substantiate Kang's argument that Yi's emphasis on the mundane was tantamount to a “dismantling of the neo-Confucian worldview” (sŏngnihakchŏk segyegwan-ŭi haech'e) that Chŏngjo was so keen to emphasize (Kang Myŏnggwan 2007a, 286–92). These works also help to qualify Kang's argument. Yi was himself a Confucian moralist, and like Chŏngjo, he was committed to the Confucian view on literature's function. But they were sharply divided over what that view entailed. Put aphoristically, whereas Chŏngjo saw the end of China's Song dynasty (960–1279) as the start of a cultural and literary devolution that culminated in the Manchu conquest of China, Yi saw an evolution that was worth understanding; and whereas Chŏngjo saw Chosŏn's literary culture as separate from that of post-Song China and sought to maintain it unsullied by Ming and Qing influences, Yi was eager to embrace those influences and count himself as part of those post-Song developments. Although these two works are complementary in illustrating this divide, Yi's study of smoking raises additional issues and therefore is treated separately below.
Yi's Rustic Sayings (Iŏn), which appears to have been written sometime after 1800, focuses on sexual desire and relationships between men and women. Although it was inspired by the love poems in the Classic of Poetry, it was also an explicit critique of rigid orthodox Confucian interpretations of the collection. The first three sections of the work are comprised of debates between Yi and an imaginary interlocutor who, shocked by Yi's poems, articulates the orthodox position predicated on Confucius's putative role in collating the collection and Zhu Xi's much later role in its commentarial tradition. One section is even devoted to prostitution, though here, as elsewhere, Yi exploits the full potential of the Classic of Poetry, noting that his poems resemble those in the “Airs of Zheng” and “Airs of Wei” (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:435), with his own comments on the matter resembling the Mao prefaces' view that these airs “displayed and criticized indecent behavior” (Kern Reference Kern2007, 138; on prostitution in Chosŏn, Pak Ch'an'gŏl 2010, 136–44). The final four sections contain the individual poems, and each of these sections is preceded by a short introduction-cum-explanation. At stake throughout is the way in which the Classic of Poetry was, in his view, corrupted by anachronistic exegesis.
Yi thus directly raises what had been a longstanding problem for Confucian thinkers: how to explain the contradiction between Confucius's famous summation of the Classic of Poetry as having “no depraved thoughts” and the fact that some of the love poems were marked by thoughts that were unacceptable in a Confucian moral framework. Zhu Xi had addressed this problem, but his resolution generated another by emphasizing the role of the reader in making moral determinations (Owen Reference Owen1992, 47–48, 454–55; Wong and Lee Reference Wong and Kar-Shui1989; but cf. Mittag Reference Mittag1993, esp. 222–23). If Confucius had included immoral love poems for didactic purposes, that suggested morals were unstable and that, in turn, might cast doubt over the reliability of the reader. The easiest solution to the problem would be to avoid it altogether, as Yi's interlocutor tries to do. However, Yi will not accept this. His principal argument is that relationships between men and women are fundamental to all relationships.
Yi's views were not unique in the broader East Asian context, and one detects similarities with the late-Ming figures Yuan Hongdao (1568–1610), Li Zhi (1527–1602), and Feng Menglong (1574–1645), as well as his fellow countrymen Pak Sedang (1629–1703) and Kim Manjung (1637–92) (see esp. Kim Manjung 1990, 392–93). In particular, Yi's concern over the meaning and function of chŏng (Ch. qing, love/feeling/emotion) is reminiscent of Feng's Qingshi (History of love). Based on a reference in Yi's writings, it is certain that he read this book, though it is unclear when he did so (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:362; see also Kang Myŏnggwan 2007b, 399–422; on Feng's Qingshi: Huang Reference Huang1998; H. Lee Reference Lee2007, 39–50).
The question of influences to the side, Yi's goal is to respect the integrity of the love poems in the Classic of Poetry and demonstrate the continuing relevance of the collection by writing his own version set it in contemporary Chosŏn. He thus focuses attention on the relationship between writing and factual truth, the question of literary categories, and language itself. Since Yi emphasizes accuracy on behalf of transmitting factual truth as opposed to abstractions that pay scant attention to reality, he points to the inherent tension between moral truths as espoused in Confucianism and factual truths. To be sure, his argument is open to critique for inconsistencies similar to those found in Zhu Xi (e.g., see Wong and Lee Reference Wong and Kar-Shui1989, esp. 215).
Nonetheless, Yi agilely draws on Zhu Xi to make the larger point that all writings are worthy of consideration and study in light of the feelings they convey. He thus argues for an expansion of acceptable literary categories that would accommodate even late-Ming and early-Qing erotic fiction, such as The Plum in the Golden Vase (Jin ping mei) and The Carnal Prayer Mat (Rou putuan) (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:414). His logic builds on the hermeneutic foundations laid by Zhu Xi for interpreting the problematic pieces in the Classic of Poetry. Like Zhu Xi, Yi lays the ultimate responsibility for moral reasoning on the reader, while emphasizing the need to understand thoroughly the circumstances in which something was written. The process of evaluating “lewd histories” (ŭmsa), such as the Jin ping mei and the Rou putuan forces one to investigate their writers' mindsets and feelings. Lewdness in and of itself is no reason for excluding them from study, for such works are part of history. Careful investigation thus becomes an exercise in moral and historical judgment. Any work can be used for didactic purposes.
The issue of language is particularly significant in Rustic Sayings. Yi uses Korean vernacularisms in some of the poems. He also argues on behalf of the Korean vernacular, drawing connections between concrete realities and feelings, and how these are reflected in writing. In light of twentieth-century Korean nationalism and its emphasis on language in relation to national literature, it is unsurprising that these elements have drawn attention (e.g., Ryu 1995, esp. 200–206; 1996, 113–19 and for examples, 117; So 2000, esp. 233–34). Care is required, however. First, it is easy to overlook that Yi's position was rooted in the classical Confucian view that poetry was to reflect the poet's real feelings; moreover, he placed profound importance on literary Chinese and the Chinese script (Kang Myŏnggwan 2007b, 419). Second, despite the few instances in which Yi interpolates Korean vernacular expressions using Sino-Korean readings of Chinese graphs, his poems are in literary Chinese, following the basic template of classical Chinese verse in a series of pentasyllabic quatrains with end-rhymes alternating through the sequences. They thus rely on the Chinese script for their effect (e.g., see the pun on Amitabha Buddha in Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:439). Third, Yi was not unique in employing Chinese graphs to record vernacular Korean words in otherwise literary Chinese writings. Even Chŏngjo did the same (An 2009, 165–71; 2010, 113–23; Kang Min'gu 2007, esp. 20–28).
But unlike Chŏngjo, Yi was eager to participate in the broader pattern of post-Song Chinese literary history and to be counted as part of that history. This point is made most clearly and fittingly in Yi's final comments to his Rustic Sayings. Here he notes that “Korean [lit., our country's] vernacularisms” (我國俗語) were recorded by the Chinese themselves, citing the poetry of You Tong (1618–1704) as well as entries from the early eighteenth-century Kangxi Dictionary (Kangxi zidian). Yi thus admonishes his prospective readers: “How do you know that in the future there will not be someone in the Central Plains [i.e., China] gathering [materials] from far and wide, recording the names of things [as] I have designated [them], and then adding a note explaining ‘what Chosŏn's Kyŏnggŭmja [i.e., Yi Ok] said’?! How hilarious!” (子安知後日中原不有博採者, 錄吾所稱之物名, 而註之曰 ‘朝鮮絅錦子之所云’乎哉. 笑矣乎!) (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 4:283; cf. 2:423).
In retrospect, this is hilarious, but Yi scarcely could have imagined why. His posthumous fame as a Korean writer, conceptualized in national-linguistic terms, shares more with Chŏngjo's aspirations than his own.
From “The Sutra of Smoking” to The Classic of Smoking
Around 1810, Chŏng Yagyong (1762–1836) wrote to his son to suggest he write a book on raising chickens. Chŏng's proposed title, The Classic of Chickens (Kye-gyŏng), was partly inspired by another book, The Classic of Smoking (Yŏn-gyŏng), on the history and culture of tobacco in Chosŏn (Chŏng Yagyong Reference Sŏngmu and Haeyŏm1997, 315; also, An 2008, 20–21). Chŏng obviously saw no contradiction between his proposed Classic of Chickens and his own rigorous Confucian literary views, which were a prominent topic in his letters to his sons. These had led him to abandon his own early interest in Catholicism and conclude, in 1789, that it would be prudent to impose the death penalty on those who returned from Qing China with books of fiction (Baker Reference Baker, Haboush and Deuchler1999, 215–16, 224; Chŏng Yagyong Reference Sŏngmu and Haeyŏm2001, 262, 449). But for all this, Chŏng was impressed by The Classic of Smoking, believing Yu Tŭkkong (1748–1807) to be its author. The only known version was actually written by Yu's cousin, Yi Ok.
The Classic of Smoking (preface, 1810) had a long gestation, which further illuminates Yi's confrontations with Chŏngjo. While in exile in 1795, Yi wrote ten short pieces in a loosely structured travelogue. One of these was entitled “Yŏn-gyŏng,” though here it is appropriately translated as “The Sutra of Smoking.” A humorous piece, it recounts the trouble he experienced at a temple when caught smoking beside an incense burner. What follows is a debate illustrating that from the Buddhist view of impermanence, smoke is smoke, whether from tobacco or incense (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 1:354–57). Another piece, “A Biography of the Southern Spirit” (Namnyŏng-jŏn; undated), appears to be the intermediary step by which “The Sutra” became The Classic. A pseudo-biography, it begins by anthropomorphizing tobacco: “The Southern Spirit's courtesy name is smoke, and among his ancestors is one named Tamp'ago (i.e., tobacco).” Though organized around a dense web of literary and historical allusions, Yi's purpose is to sketch the history of tobacco, showing how it had become essential to people's lives (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 2:388–92).
By contrast, The Classic of Smoking is a sober examination, focusing largely on Chosŏn. Yi's weaknesses reflect his great reliance on Chinese sources. With access to other materials—such as Chosŏn's Veritable Records or The Treatise on Smoking (Enroku, 1796) by Ōtsuki Gentaku (1757–1827), a Tokugawa scholar of Dutch and Western studies (Rangaku)—he could have concluded what is now understood in greater detail: tobacco had multiple transmission routes, in which Chosŏn played a crucial role (An 2008, 17, 58–63; Brook Reference Brook, Gilman and Xun2004, 84–85; Screech Reference Screech, Gilman and Xun2004, 92–93). Yi's understanding of the history of tobacco was thus paradoxically accurate in reflecting a wider pattern of fragmented knowledge, confusion, and guesswork (Sin and Sŏ 2001, esp. 28–32).
Yi's strengths, however, were in his own direct observations. Like Rustic Sayings, this study privileges the mundane. The differences with Chŏngjo's disquisitions on tobacco are thus striking. Chŏngjo looked to idealizations of Confucian culture and civilization to affirm tobacco's value and then to ban it. Yi, by contrast, examined smoking implements; the aesthetics and techniques of smoking; and the production, sale, and comparative costs of tobacco. Yi even offered suggestions on smoking etiquette and safety—including, of course, advice against smoking in temples (Silsihaksa Kojŏn-munhak Yŏn'guhoe 2009, 3:440–41). He did not, however, mention Chŏngjo's decision to ban tobacco in 1797. Given his interests, we can only conclude that he knew nothing of his old tormentor's decision.
Yi's study of smoking is thus as important as anything Chŏngjo wrote on the subject. The obvious irony, however, is less important than another. Yi's contribution to posterity owes much to his conflict with Chŏngjo; his 1795 exile provided firsthand experiences that took shape in his Literary Remnants and the travelogue that included “The Sutra of Smoking.” These early writings also demonstrated his sustained interest in literary history, linguistic variation and change, dialects, and more specifically, recording Korean dialecticisms in Chinese graphs. Yi's Rustic Sayings, no less than The Classic, reflected interests inadvertently nurtured by Chŏngjo.
Conclusion
As Kang has emphasized in reaction to the nostalgia that has developed around Chŏngjo, his reign aimed at consolidating monarchical power in a system that benefited the few at the expense of the many (Kang Myŏnggwan 2007a, 281). However, that goal was complementary to that of safeguarding civilization itself. By the time Chŏngjo became king, this historical understanding of Chosŏn's place in East Asia was not inaccurate for reasons that have become clearer in critical scholarship on Chosŏn's sociopolitical formation: Chosŏn's intellectual, social, and political elite had succeeded to a remarkable degree in establishing the neo-Confucianism of Zhu Xi, adapting those teachings to their own particular circumstances, and in turn, enforcing their interpretation of Confucian orthodoxy (Deuchler Reference Deuchler1992; Duncan Reference Duncan2000; Hwang Reference Hwang2004; S. Kim Reference Kim2007; Palais Reference Palais1984, Reference Palais1996; Park Reference Park2007). The result was a drastically narrowed scope of possibilities in which commitment to neo-Confucian orthodoxy made it necessary to limit what could be imagined. While Chŏngjo's views on Catholicism and fiction consistently illustrated that point, his willingness to employ Buddhism to serve his father's memory attested to both his commitment to orthodoxy and his fears over an encroaching barbarism. In the end, his decision to ban tobacco mattered less for its obvious ineffectiveness than how it underscored the intensity of his fears.
What distinguished Chosŏn can also be appreciated through striking contemporary parallels in Matsudaira Sadanobu's (1759–1829) Ban on Heterodoxy (Igaku no kin) in 1790 in Tokugawa Japan and Qianlong's literary inquisition. Notwithstanding early Catholic success in Japan and Qianlong's employment of Jesuit missionaries at court, by the late eighteenth century, attitudes towards Christianity were similar in China, Japan, and Korea. Indeed, Qianlong may have delighted in Giuseppe Castiglione's (1688–1766) paintings and paid public respect to him, but on the two occasions they met, Castiglione begged for an end to Christian persecution (Anderson Reference Anderson1999, 120). In addition, emphasis on the rightness of Zhu Xi's teachings was central to Matsudaira's Ban on Heterodoxy. But Chŏngjo was attempting to safeguard orthodoxy whereas Matsudaira was attempting to impose the same on a longstanding tangle of competing teachings at the Bakufu Academy (Jansen Reference Jansen and Jansen1989, esp. 56; Kornicki Reference Kornicki2001, 15–16, 339–40). Qianlong, who shared similar views on the importance of neo-Confucian orthodoxy to secure his rule, was nevertheless a foreign ruler of an expansive multiethnic, multireligious, and multilinguistic empire (Brook Reference Brook2005, 132; Dikötter Reference Dikötter and Porter2003, esp. 688–92; Woodside Reference Woodside and Peterson2002). Chŏngjo could coherently invoke neo-Confucian orthodoxy in a way that neither Qianlong nor Matsudaira could.
Acknowledgments
This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies (KSPS) Grant funded by the Korean Government (MOE) (AKS-2011-AAA-2103). The author gratefully acknowledges the Academy for its support and would also like to thank the three anonymous referees whose insightful comments led to a much better paper. Lee Dong-Eun and the staff at the Dongguk University Central Library provided invaluable assistance during a research trip in November 2012.
