Christianity entered Corea through the gates of Rome and Peking. Though some writers have supposed that Christianity was introduced into the Corean peninsula by the Japanese, in 1592, yet it is nearly certain that this religion was popularly unknown until near the end of the eighteenth century. Then it entered from the west, and not from the east. It was not brought by foreigners, but grew up from chance seed wafted from the little garden of the church in Peking.

The soil upon which the exotic germ first lighted was in the mind of a student well-named by his father, “Stonewall,” on account of his character in choosing a literary career, instead of the hereditary profession which his family wished him to adopt. During the winter of 1777, Stonewall was invited to form one of a party of students who were to spend a season of literary dalliance in company with the famous Confucian professor, Kwem.

The conference, held in a secluded temple, lasted ten days, during which time the critical study of the texts of Confucius and Mencius was indulged in with keen delight, and the profoundest problems that can interest man were earnestly discussed; but most fertilizing to their minds were some tracts on philosophy, mathematics, and religion just brought from Peking. These were translations of the writings, or original compositions in Chinese of the Jesuits in the imperial capital. Among these publications were some tracts on the Christian and Roman Catholic Religion, treating of the Existence of God, Divine Providence, the Immortality of the Soul, the Conduct of Life, the Seven Capital Sins, and the Seven [348]Contrary Virtues. Surprised and delighted, they resolved to attain, if possible, to a full understanding of the new doctrines.

They began at once to practise what they knew, and morning and evening they read and prayed. They set apart the 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th days of the month as periods of rest, fasting, and meditation. How long they continued this course of life is not known.

Stonewall, well knowing that his ideas of this new religion were imperfect and confused, turned his thoughts longingly toward Peking, hoping to get more books or information through a living teacher. For several years all his attempts were fruitless; though study, discussion, and practice of the new life were continued. In 1782, he moved to Seoul to live, and in 1783, to his joy, his friend Senghuni, son of the third ambassador to Peking, proceeded thither through Shing-king (Liao Tung), with a message to the bishop, Alexander de Gorla, a Portuguese Franciscan.

Senghuni himself became a docile pupil, and was, with the consent of his father, baptized. With the hope that he would become the first stone of the church in Chō-sen, he was named Peter.1 He pledged himself to suffer all torments rather than abandon his faith, to have but one wife, to renounce worldly vanities, and finally to send his foreign friends tidings every year.

Safely passing the sentinels at Ai-chiu, he reached Seoul. Stonewall, eagerly receiving his share, gave himself for a time up to fresh reading and meditation, and then began to preach. Some of his friends in the capital, both nobles and commoners, embraced the new doctrines with cheering promptness and were baptized.

It is interesting to note the choice of baptismal names. As Stonewall had been the forerunner, he was named John the Baptist. Another called himself Francis Xavier, intending to make this saint his protector and patron. Other names of these primitive confessors are Ambrose, Paul, Louis, Thomas, Augustine, and later, [349]among the women, Agatha, Marie, Madeleine, Barbe, etc. The adoption of these foreign names excited bitter feelings among the patriotic, and became a cause of intense hatred against the Christians, who were stigmatized as “foreigner-Coreans.”

A counterblast soon followed. The first, and as they were destined to be the last and most bitter enemies were the literati, who saw at once that the new faith sapped at the base their national beliefs and their most cherished customs. In the contest of discussion which followed, Senghuni came off victor. The pagan champions retired from the conflict uttering memorable and prophetic words, with a final question, that became a by-word to Americans nearly a century later: “This [Christian] doctrine is magnificent, it is true, but it will bring sorrow to those who profess it. What are you going to do about it?”

Among the converts were the lecturer Kwem and his brother, both of whom propagated the faith in their district of Yang-kun, thirty miles east of Seoul, now justly called “the cradle of the faith.” One of their converted students from the Nai-po returned home to labor in the new cause, and from first to last, in the history of Roman Christianity in Corea, Nai-po has ever been a nursery of fervent confessors and illustrious martyrs. A second convert of the Kwem brothers laid the foundations of the faith in Chulla. At the capital, a learned interpreter, on becoming a believer, multiplied with his own facile pen copies of the books brought from Peking; and it is believed translated from the Chinese the “Explanation of the Gospels of the Sabbaths and Feasts”—the first Christian book in the Corean language.

Thus from small beginnings, but rapidly, were the Christian ideas spread, but soon the arm of the law and the power of the pen were invoked to crush out the exotic faith. The first victim, Thomas Kim, was tried on the charge of destroying his ancestral tablets, tortured, and sent into exile, in which he soon after died. The scholar now took up weapons, and in April, 1784, the king’s preceptor fulminated the first public document officially directed against Christianity. In it all parents and relatives were entreated to break off all relations with the Christians. The names of the leaders were published; and the example of Kim was cited. Forthwith began a violent pressure of entreaty and menace upon the believers to renounce their faith. Instead of peace, the sword was brought into the household. Then began an exhibition alike of glorious confession and shameful apostasy, but though even [350]Stonewall lapsed, the work went on in Nai-po, and in 1787,2 persecution slackened.

Meanwhile, in order to cement more closely their bonds, the leaders formed a hierarchy after the model which Peter had seen in Peking, and to which their liturgical books so often referred. Francis Xavier was made bishop and others were chosen as priests. Separating to their various posts, they baptized, confessed, confirmed, and distributed the sacred elements in communion, all of which infused a new glow of faith among the converts. They robed themselves in rich Chinese silk, and erected platform confessionals. For ordinary faults confessed by the kneeling penitents alms were ordered, but for graver derelictions the priests administered one or two smart blows on the legs—a mild imitation of the national punishment, which so suggests Western methods of nursery discipline.

In perfect good faith and harmony, this curious hierarchy, so strange and even comical to a believer in the so-called “apostolical succession”—continued for two years; but in 1789, certain passages in their books suggested doubts as to the validity of their ministry. After earnest thought, and even at the risk of public ridicule, and of troubling the consciences of the faithful, they resigned their offices and took their places among the laity. A letter of inquiry was written, and sent in 1790 by the convert Paul to Peking. Surprised and overjoyed at the news from Corea, the fathers baptized and confirmed Paul, explained to him the Roman dogma of validity of ordination, and gave him a letter written on silk, to be concealed in his clothes, directed to Peter and Francis Xavier. His godfather Pansi, being an artist, painted Paul’s portrait in oil, which was sent on to Paris.

The Christians at Seoul graciously submitted to the Episcopal rebuke and explanation, giving them the right only to baptize, yet [351]they yearned to receive the sacraments. Inflamed by the accounts of Paul, who pictured before them the ritual splendors, in the Peking cathedral, of altars, lights, vestments, solemn masses, music, processions, and all that enchants the eye and fires the imagination in the Roman form of Christianity, they indited another letter to the bishop, beseeching that an ordained priest should be sent them. This letter, carried by Paul, who left with the special embassy sent to congratulate the renowned emperor Kien-lung, which left Seoul September 17, 1790, contained a whole catechism of vexed questions of discipline and faith which had begun to disturb the little church.

While in Peking, Paul’s companion was baptized, receiving the name of John the Baptist. The fathers gave them a chalice, a missal, a consecrated stone, some altar ornaments, and everything necessary for the celebration of the eucharist, with a recipe for making wine out of grapes, in order that all might be ready on the arrival of a priest among them. Paul and John the Baptist, after the return journey of a thousand miles through Shing-king, arrived safely in Seoul. All were filled with joy at the idea of having a priest sent them, but the episcopal decision against the worship of ancestors proved to many a stone of stumbling and a cause of apostasy. Hitherto, in simple ignorance and good faith, they had honored their ancestral shades and burnt incense at their shrines. Henceforth, all participation in such rites was impossible. After the authoritative declaration from Peking, that the worship of God and the worship of ancestors were contrary and impossible, no Corean could be a Christian while he burned incense before the tablets.

This tenet of the bishop was in the eyes of the Corean public a blow at the framework of society, the base of the family, and the foundation of the state. From this time forward, many of the feeble adherents began to fall away. In the conflict of filial and religious duty, many a soul was torn with remorse. In frequent instances the earnest believer who, for conscience sake, despoiled the family oratory and piling the ancestral tablets in his garden set them on fire, saw his aged parents sink with sorrow to the grave. For this crime Paul and Jacques Kim were put upon public trial, at which, for the first time, a clear and systematic presentation of Christian doctrine and the Roman cultus was elicited. The case, after condemnation of the prisoners, was submitted to the king, who was prevailed upon by the premier to approve the finding [352]of the local tribunal. On December 8, 1791, the two Christians, after publicly refusing to recant, and reading aloud the sentence inscribed upon the board to be nailed over their pillory, were decapitated, while invoking the names of Jesus and Mary. Their ages were thirty-three and forty-one.

Thus was shed the first blood for Corean Christianity—the first drops of the shower to come, and the seed of a mighty church. The headless trunks, frozen to a stony rigidity which kept even the blood fresh and red, lay unburied on the ground for nine days, until devout men carried them to burial. A number of handkerchiefs dipped in their blood and preserved kept long alive the memory of these first martyrs of bloody persecution. The Nai-po now became a hunting-ground for the minions of the magistrates, who sought out all who professed themselves Christians and threw them in prison. There the tortures, peculiarly Corean, were set to work to cause apostasy. The victims were beaten with rods and paddles on the flesh and shin-bones, or whipped till the flesh hung in bloody rags. In many cases their bones were disjointed until the limbs dangled limp and useless. One man, Francis Xavier, after prolonged agonies was exiled to Quelpart, and on being removed to another place, died on the way. Peter, 61 years old, after wearying his torturers with his endurance, was tied round with a cord, laid on the icy ground at night, while pails of water were poured over him, which freezing as it fell, covered his body with a shroud of ice. In this Dantean tomb, the old martyr, calling on the name of Jesus, was left to welcome death, which came to him at the second cock-crow on the morning of January 29, 1793.

In the ten years following the baptism of Peter at Peking, in spite of persecution and apostasy, it is estimated that there were four thousand Christians in Corea.3 [353]