The Class of 1761: Examinations, State, and Elites in Eighteenth-Century China

the class of 1761 The Class of 1761 examinations, state, and elites i n e ig h teen th -cen tu ry chi na Iona D. Man...

Author: Iona Man-Cheong

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the class of 1761

The Class of 1761 examinations, state, and elites i n e ig h teen th -cen tu ry chi na

Iona D. Man-Cheong

stanford university press stanford, california 2004

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2004 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Man-Cheong, Iona, 1950– The class of 1761 : examinations, state, and elites in eighteenth-century China / Iona D. Man-Cheong. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. isbn 0-8047-4146-8 (clothbound : alk. paper) 1. Civil service examinations—China—History—18th century. I. Title. jq1512.m36 2004 351'.076—dc22 2004005499 Original Printing 2004 Last figure below indicates year of this printing: 13 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 Typeset by Classic Typography in 10 /12.5 Sabon

to my father and mother

Man Cheong (1910–1976) and

Su See-hong (1905–1953)

Contents

List of Figures and Tables

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

1. The Meanings of Examination

1

2. Regulating Aspirations

25

3. Spring Rites

57

4. Fair Fraud and Fraudulent Fairness

107

5. Paths to Glory

144

Coda: Definitions of Failure

197

Appendix 1. Grades for the Annual Examination

207

Appendix 2. Provincial Examination Quotas

209

Appendix 3. Number of Attempts for the Metropolitan Degree

210

Appendix 4. Price of Imperial College Studentships

211

Appendix 5. 1761 Class List

212

Character List

221

Reference Matter

231

Notes

233

Bibliography

275

Index

293

Tables and Figures

tables 1.1 Average Number of Metropolitan Degrees Awarded in the Qing Dynasty

7

1.2 Number of Provincial Entrants Compared with Authorized Quota

21

3.1 Timetable for Final Activities of the 1761 Metropolitan Examination

62

3.2 List of 1761 Palace Examination Readers

63

3.3 Table of Palace Examination Personnel

65

5.1 Table of Hanlin Bachelors Arranged by Metropolitan Degree, Class, and Rank

153

5.2 Table of Hanlin Bachelors Arranged by Court Examination Honors

154

5.3 Table of Hanlin Provincial Quota

155

5.4 Table of Zhili Graduates for 1761

156

5.5 Table of Guangdong Graduates

157

5.6 Table of Passed Over (in second class, rank 1–35)

159

5.7 Table of the Class of 1761 Appointments

161

5.8 Table of the Class of 1761’s Final Administrative Ranks

162

5.9 Table of Hanlin Career Appointments

166

5.10 Table of Class of 1761 Selected as Examiners

171

figures 2.1 Main Divisions of the Examination System

26

2.2 Examination System Overview

31

Acknowledgments

Several institutions have contributed generous financial support for the research and writing of this project. I would like to thank the National Academy of Education for awarding me the Spencer Postdoctoral Fellowship, which funded two years of research leave. The Nuala, McGann, Drescher Fellowship (under the auspices of the State University of New York) funded an earlier year of research leave. Both the National Endowment of the Humanities and a SUNY Stony Brook Social Science Division research grant provided funds for summer research. The Department of History at SUNY Stony Brook kindly allowed me to take research leave. I would like to thank the staff of the following libraries and archives: the Qing Archives of the Number One Historical Archives in Beijing; the National Palace Museum in Taipei; the Missions Étrangères, Paris; the Family History Library in Salt Lake City; the Harvard-Yenching Library; the East Asian Collection of Yale University; the Columbia University East Asian Collection; and the Library at SUNY Stony Brook, especially the Interlibrary Loan staff. This book would not have been possible but for the support over the years of many colleagues, friends, and family. I would like to give special mention to the following colleagues in the China field: Jonathan Spence (without whose advice the project would never have begun); Beatrice Bartlett, John Chaffee, Jerry Dennerline, Kent Guy, Jim Hevia, Rui Magone, Peter Perdue, Evelyn Rawski, William Rowe, David Strand, Joanna Waley-Cohen, and Harriet Zurndorffer. They all at various crucial times made suggestions, offered comments, and gave advice. I would like to thank Muriel Bell, Sponsoring Editor at Stanford University Press, for her marvelous support and extreme patience with this project. My thanks also to Judith Hibbard, Senior Production Editor, for shepherding the manuscript through the process. I would like to acknowledge my gratitude to the following for their nurture and encouragement: Michael Barnhart, Paul Gootenburg, Ned Landsman, Gene Lebovics, Gary Marker, Joel Rosenthal, Nancy Tomes, Fred Weinstein, and Barbara Weinstein. I owe a special thanks to the late Michael Sprinker, Joanna Waley-Cohen, Naomi Rosenthal, Rui Magone, Kathleen Wilson, Nicholas Mirzoeff, and Ira Livingston for being so generous to me with their time. I am indebted to Xu Tong for his careful attention in compiling the index. Without the friendship and support of Young-sun Hong and Larry xi

xii

ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s

Frohman, my life would have been immensely dull. My thanks to Michael Crook for making China possible for me, and to Liu Yuan, Chen Yanni, and Xiang Yan for always making China a much more interesting place to be. I also would like to thank my family: my brother, Ying-fook Man, his wife Jenny, and his children, Peter (and his wife Stella and son Caius), Keilu, Sasha (and his wife Emily and children Nicholas and Lauren), and Emma; and my other siblings Kam Shu, Kam Yuk, and her husband Yip, Kam Chi, and his wife Malina (and son Harvey), who have all been important to the writing to this book. I owe my sons, Liam (and his wife, Francesca) and Nikki, and especially my daughter, Lang, immeasurably—the time with them always made the time away from them bearable. Liam’s daughters—my grandchildren Clio and Isabella—will one day, I hope, continue the academic enterprise. Finally, I would like to acknowledge Ira Livingston for his help, comfort, encouragement, and those dinners—without which this project might still be in process. iona man-cheong

the class of 1761

1

The Meanings of Examination Yet in some states little heed is given to birth, and every man’s nobility is derived from his own virtue, and what he has done for the state in private and public capacity. —Pufendorf 1672 Our word “examination” is used in a wide variety of ways to denote everything from the tests given to candidates for civil service appointments and academic degrees to the diagnostic scrutiny that a physician makes of a patient, or the search of luggage made by a customs officer. —Herrlee Creel 19701

Imperial China’s examination system was part of what made it a model meritocratic state. It employed men of demonstrable talent and promoted them according to the merit of their deeds. Excellence was an attribute of exemplary action, conduct, and attitude—not of high birth. But, as sinologist Herrlee Creel notes, the term “examination” encompasses a range of meaning. The constellation of techniques used in eighteenth-century Chinese examination practice ensured that subjects were tested both in their cultural knowledge and in their fortitude, moral and otherwise, to stand the many years of test taking. In fact, the meritocratic ideals of the Chinese imperial examination system joined the repertoire of European enlightenment concepts held by early modern thinkers as aspiring models of rationality.2 In the imperial Chinese examination system, as in modern examination practice, examiners applied a scrutiny as diagnostic as any associated with medical practice; one that determined whether the subject had absorbed and applied the requisite knowledge and distinctions. Thus, besides literally undergoing a body search, the candidate also had his mental “luggage” searched. The most crucial effect of this system was thus the training of loyal, obedient subjects, inculcated with the behaviors, values, and principles of government deemed appropriate for servants of the state. It would, however, be a mistake to assume that this disciplinary process was unilateral in scope. Imperial examinations occurred within and between sets of vibrant state-society relations. Interacting with the more contingent elements 1

2

the meanings of examination

of court politics, intellectual fashions, and social ambitions, examinations become a site of collaboration, contestation, and conflict. It is in this context that examinations also become historically specific. When investigated within the contingencies of both imperial policy and, in the eighteenth century, a growing, multicultural, multiethnic empire ruled by a minority group, practice diverges sharply from typically static, descriptive accounts of structures and institutional functions. These sets of concerns shape the main thrust of this book. The most challenging question about the imperial Chinese examination system is not how the system worked—the several available institutional studies are excellent and provide more than adequate answers—but rather, what the system meant.3 Thirty years ago, Chang Chung-li and Ho Ping-ti both argued that examinations determined membership in the Chinese gentry—a rather anomalous concept, since, unlike in Britain, the gentry was not an exclusively land-based social class, but rather an elite for whom both cultural and other economic capital were significant and for whom, in the final analysis, cultural capital remained decisive.4 In fact, subsequent work has shown that the elite controlled a diverse number of resources that it deployed through various strategies to achieve and maintain its preeminent socio-economic position.5 Although examination qualification was an important resource, contrary to earlier claims it did not hold any absolute determinative role. Once again, then, the question of the significance of examinations opens up. If cultural capital was an important determinant of Confucian elite membership, and yet academic qualification was only one of a range of resources, why did the examination system remain so well subscribed into the late imperial period and why were the educated elite so dedicated to the acquisition of examination status? Much of the answer, I propose, lies in the structural relationship of the examination system to the state, the access to political power that acquisition of examination degrees gave, and the collective identity the system generated. Three basic points summarize the main argument of this book. First, the Chinese examination system was crucial to the process that helped produce and reproduce a unitary, centralized state. Second, it was also a process that shaped candidates through the necessary disciplinary training as servants of the state. Third, the examination system structurally elaborated a collective identity, one that would eventually become the nation-state for the modern intelligentsia, and arguably in the process would make a material contribution to modern Chinese nationalism. The chapters to follow demonstrate how these effects were achieved and elaborate on both the process and its contingencies. To frame the investigation, this chapter outlines the meaning of examination for the state, for the bureaucracy, and for the 1761 cohort of metropolitan graduates who are the focus of this study.


3

The Meaning for the State Examinations were a site where the Han Chinese educated elite, holding cultural capital derived from their training in Confucian texts, enacted a relationship of reciprocity with the throne. The combination of these two elements—throne and elite—constituted a significant portion of the state’s structure. Rather than being seen as an exchange, the relationship between throne and Confucian elites is better understood as a practice that partially produced (and reproduced) the political legitimacy of rule. In the process, the throne and the social elite became closely bound in a nuanced, asymmetrical power relationship. Examinations were enacted neither as if after some prior agreement of partnership or exchange, nor as if some unspoken contract or even some market exchange mechanism were at play. Instead, the practice of examinations was itself productive of that part of legitimacy that enabled both throne and elite to make joint claims on political power. Examinations generated loyalty toward and partial legitimization of the ruling house—thus contributing to the construction of power that the state wielded over the empire—and, in that same process, generated the elite’s access to direct political power.6 I emphasize the partial nature of this dynamic—one particularly involving the throne, the bureaucracy, and Confucian-educated elites—because many other constitutive elements (as others have discussed and as I mention below) contributed to producing the Qing imperial power and its state structure. Each examination contributed to the reproduction of the state’s political legitimacy by reenacting a double and mutually reinforcing authorization. The cultural elite, through its submission to examination, invested the throne with the authority to rule. The throne, in the same act, acceded political authority to the cultural elite while it retained the power of delegation. The educated elite was effectively brought to this arrangement freely and willingly—a crucial condition for the naturalization of the system—in part by its desire to participate in the state’s power and in part as an effect of the very training undergone in the examination system. Thus we are looking at a dynamic of voluntary, unequal, hierarchical relations that produced an asymmetry acceptable to the throne and basic to the structure of the state for the government of China proper. It is this process and relationship that lies at the heart of what has been called the “gentry” stage of China’s imperial history of government. Jack Dull’s short overview of the development of imperial government in China is useful for understanding the interpenetration of rulership, bureaucratic recruitment, and dominant social groups and examinations.7 In Dull’s schematization of the historical construction of state power and legitimation, gentry government—the mode that brought the examination system

4


to prominence—comes as the final stage in a four-part development, following the patrimonial, the meritocratic, and the aristocratic modes of government. In the patrimonial mode of government, during the classical period (1122–256 bc), political power was determined by birth and kinship. A limited form of meritocracy characterized government in the early empire (221 bc–ad 202); performance criteria determined entry into and promotion within government service. Given the very limited sphere of literacy, however, merit could only have applied to an extremely circumscribed service pool. The early empire ended with the rise of powerful, quasi-aristocratic regional families; the prominence of these clans led to a government service monopoly. The clans treated government service as an inheritance right, and the only opportunity left to the less privileged but talented was to attach themselves and their loyalties to the clans rather than to the central government. During much of the early middle empire (589–907), the throne continually had to make accommodations with this powerful elite, generating a delicate balance of power instead of centralizing it in the person of the emperor. Emperor Wu Zetian (r. 690–705), the only female emperor in China’s history, was the first to use the examination system politically, foreshadowing its later role during the period of gentry government.8 As part of her thrust to centralize power and bypass the control of the great families, Emperor Wu supervised the recruitment examinations herself, in order to create a direct and personal claim on the loyalties of those selected. So began the trend toward bringing the growing body of non-aristocratic, lesser provincial families into the political arena. It took time before the aristocracy could be denied automatic access to power and instead be assimilated into a new regimen in which examinations could ensure centralized control over government administration. In a move that seems symbolic of the system’s new legitimating role between throne and elites, examination supervision was transferred in 736 from the Board of Civil Office, where examination was oriented toward employment, to the Board of Rites, where it came within the purview of the productive and symbolic power of ritual practices. Peter Bol’s work also acknowledges the increasing importance of examinations as part of the transformation of the aristocratic great clans from medieval social elites, dependent on birthright, into a transitional group he calls civil-bureaucrats. Stressing continuity, Bol maps the shifting weight of three defining features of socio-political elites: birth, government, and culture. Further reconstellations of these elements completed the transformation of the civil-bureaucrats—who were still semi-aristocratic but had parlayed their advantages into a tradition of family officeholding—into scholar-officials. This family-based structure still had repercussions in 1761, as indicated by


5

the ongoing law-of-avoidance examinations (see Chapter Four). The final shift was the entry of local or provincial elites onto the historical stage. At this point, neither lineage nor family could rely on inherited privilege for access to government service. Instead, government service was the reward for competition through the examination system, which judged success against a standard of ethically based cultural knowledge, thereby allowing the state to appropriate claims of moral leadership. In his discussions, however, Bol’s narrative tends to imply a contractual type of exchange.9 I would suggest two slight modifications to his nonetheless brilliant formulations. First, centralization of authority required displacing the family as a potential power base and thus shifted the sphere of activity onto a broader nexus of social relations that was ultimately controllable by the throne. Thus, for Confucian educated elites to become “willing subordinates, without independent power, who depended on superior authority for their political position” meant sacrificing a more institutionally cohesive family power. Second, rather than deal with the contract metaphor and its various implications, we might focus instead on the dynamic as a reciprocal, structural relationship enacted or performed between throne and elites. Both sides had continually to reenact the symbiotic relationship that established the foundation of government, and the repetition itself meant both constant flexibility and an inherent instability. The shift from an aristocratic to a gentry mode of government was achieved gradually, first by instituting a school system that focused ambition on government-accredited education as a necessary criterion for official appointment. As status rank was still an entrance prerequisite, the school system was able to foster the prestige of examination qualification such that even the aristocracy increasingly expected it of themselves. The throne also began centralizing control of the great families, compiling a national ranking of them, subtly changing their nature and undermining their autonomy. Finally, aristocratic families not only lost their dominant position—during the Five Dynasties (907–960) period of disunity—but also began to disappear as a socio-political group, facilitating the rise of the new provincial elite.10 Gentry government was never absolutely stable. The composition and thus the definition of the state shifted from period to period with changing bureaucratic arrangements and ruling houses, but the general mode of government lasted through the late imperial period. This mode was characterized by a relationship between the throne and a social elite defined by its cultural accomplishments, and mediated by the increasing importance of examinations as the primary method of recruitment.11 Historically, then, the examination system had been found to be most successful in promoting the centralizing impulses of the throne and in controlling the necessary delegation of political power to particular social elites.

6


The Qing dynasty (1644–1911), ruled by the ethnically non-Chinese Manchu minority, is now recognized as the preeminent empire-builder of China. The Qing very quickly adopted the previous Ming dynasty’s examination system in their efforts to ensure that the conquered area of China proper had a continuous flow of administrators. Their adoption of the Chinese examination system, like their strategic use of other Chinese institutions, exemplifies the conquest rulers’ political acumen, a strength that enabled them to achieve and sustain a spectacular level of administrative control and stability for a period of almost three centuries. Examination recruitment of civil servants was particularly instrumental to the successful, stable governance of China proper. China proper, where the Han majority—subjugated by the Manchus—lived, was governed much like non-Chinese territories such as Chinese Turkestan (Xinjiang), using a complex system of direct rule through native proxy. One important problematic arising from these circumstances (see Chapter Five) is the question of what it meant to be a Chinese elite in this period, living within the Qing multiethnic, multilingual, and multicultural empire. At any rate, by the mid-eighteenth century, scholarofficials were satisfied to claim the minority-ruled empire as their own. At least as represented in examination discourse, they registered no difference between themselves, as members of the Han-Chinese majority, and their Manchu minority rulers. Evidently, examination practice, within this ethnically mixed environment, was productive and representative of a developing imaginary of collective identity, a mental and textual space of empty time stretching across the country holding Confucian elites in a common understanding of themselves, fostered by imperial ideology. Examinations allowed the Qing state to control China proper and enact a stable administration. The first Qing emperor, Shunzhi (1644–1661), instituted the first metropolitan examination in 1646; even preconquest, however, the Qing institution of civil service recruitment examinations illustrates the Manchu understanding of their importance. In his use of examinations Kangxi (1662–1722) explicitly recognized the relationship of reciprocity between throne and elites, as he made evident in his assiduous efforts to woo the many disaffected Chinese scholars over to the Qing cause. Although there were probably surveillance and censorship motives at work, the use of examinations also exploited the disciplinary training of test taking that Ming scholars had absorbed.12 As each of the southern provinces was conquered, examinations were held immediately to give the Confucian-educated elites the opportunity to serve the new regime. Examinations reached a new height under the Yongzheng emperor (1723–1735), whose focus on administrative improvements had the effect of opening wider the gateway into Qing politics. The expansion of examination entrance extended even to bypassing established laws of avoidance, which


7

were essentially conflict-of-interest laws (see Chapter Four) that prevented candidates being examined, and thus favored, by their relatives. By the time of Qianlong (1736–1795), through other kinds of institutional initiatives (see Chapter Two), examinations were thoroughly regularized and held more frequently. These last efforts came at a point when Qing rulers needed larger numbers of reliable administrators to govern both the larger population of China proper and the newly acquired populations brought into the empire by the huge eighteenth-century territorial expansions. Thus examinations became key to the maintenance of the burgeoning empire. We can to some extent observe this development of the use of examinations statistically, while keeping in mind that this approach tends to elide important contingencies. In the Kangxi and Qianlong periods the average number of metropolitan degrees awarded for each examination was below 200 (see Table 1.1; I explore this question further in Chapter Two). The highest averages came in the first (Shunzhi), third (Yongzheng), and last (Guangxu) reigns, when numbers of graduates rose to over 300. Each time different factors account for the fluctuations. The Shunzhi average of 370 reflected strenuous attempts to win over the Han Chinese elite. Yongzheng’s average of 300 came because of his efforts to expand and regularize government administration. By Guangxu’s time, examination qualifications were widely believed to have lost their integrity, a belief perhaps supported in the high average of 315 passed at each examination. Overall, though, the numbers remained relatively stable during the dynasty. Only when demographic pressure on administrative structures pushed Qing control to the limit, followed table 1.1 Average Number of Metropolitan Degrees Awarded in the Qing Dynasty Reign

Shunzhi (1644–1661) Kangxi (1662–1722) Yongzheng (1723–1735) Qianlong (1736–1796) Jiaqing (1796–1820) Daoguang (1821–1850) Xianfeng (1851–1861) Tongzhi (1862–1874) Guangxu (1875–1908) Xuantong (1909–1911) total

Number of Examinations

Average per Examination

8 21 5 27 12 15 5 6 13 0

370 194 300 199 235 218 209 264 315 0

112

239

source: Calculated from Jinshi timing beilu, pp. xv–xvii, and Ho, Ladder, p. 189.

8


by external pressure from Western imperialism, did the whole system start unraveling. Then it was not only the Manchu Qing dynasty that threatened to collapse but the system of imperial rule itself that began to crumble. One of the most symbolic and traumatic moments of that disintegration came with the 1905 abolition of the imperial examination system, which suddenly made examination training redundant. Control and definition of the examination system were a constant contestation. Initially, the Manchu nativist policies of the Oboi regency (1661– 1669) resulted, according to Lawrence Kessler, in a radical restructuring of the examination format and the further disaffection of Chinese Confucianeducated elites. Only when Kangxi took up personal rule were efforts made to reverse this trend. The ongoing struggle for hegemonic control of examinations by the Confucian elites and the shifts in intellectual trends and orthodox Confucian interpretative modes are analyzed in detail in Benjamin Elman’s recent work.13 As a practice, examinations helped generate the link between the throne and the Confucian-educated elites; this linkage was central to the state’s authority, and the production of ideology was a crucial function of this nexus. However, neither the concept of state nor that of ideology is unproblematic. Ideology has been discussed in widely varying ways; here I would like briefly to situate the discussion in terms of this study. In particular, I would like to displace two common assumptions of many studies: first, that ideology is a singular, monolithic, and authoritative totality; and second, that the Qing examination system rehearsed or reproduced a pre-existing ideology. One of the most important results of examination practice, and fundamental to my argument, is the training of candidates to be subjects of ideology. This subjectification—the process whereby individuals are produced as subjects of the state by literally subjecting themselves to a training process— manufactured consent for the legitimation of state authority among the mainly Han Chinese Confucian-educated elite. This subjectification (the material practice of which is explored in Chapter Two) meant rehearsing and negotiating ideology embodied through long years of practice and offering it up to the examiners for evaluation. Through their negotiation of the complex intersection between two major components of the state—the throne and the bureaucracy—candidates naturally demonstrated their willing participation in that subjectification. In this process, both sides sanctioned the hierarchical nature of state power. If ideology is inextricably tied to examination practice, is it necessarily singular? Taking ideology as a complete system, as for example later intellectuals of the May Fourth Movement did, can be part of a strategy to promote the notion of a degenerate, single Confucian ideology and is thus a way to rationalize the decomposition and later complete breakdown of the


9

imperial state. The unitary model is also convenient for imagining some generalized moment of rupture between a nonspecific Confucian or traditional culture and modernity.14 I suggest instead that our present knowledge of the eighteenth-century Qing empire precludes the possibility of imposing a singular model of ideology and that it is more productive to recognize a range or multiplicity of overlapping ideologies in which examination candidates participated. For example, imperial ideology is one category of ideology that probably ought to be separated, at least heuristically, from any unitary model. Growing numbers of scholars have contributed to the conclusion that a productive distinction can be made between the imperial ideology that held together the Qing empire and the narrower one of the state or government. As much recent scholarship makes clear, the empire in the eighteenth century was undergoing a rapid building process with the state necessarily in the forefront. As a conquest dynasty, the Qing had through time appropriated to itself a wider and more diverse range of cultural symbols, rituals, and models of legitimation than any previous ruling house. Even subsequent regimes would be hard put to make comparable claims. The Qing expansion necessarily involved an ideology far more complex than any singular set of Confucian concepts, and imperial ideology functioned precisely by making links between disparate cultural symbols and legitimating practices, appropriating and welding them into an imaginary totality to support its claims. Joanna Waley-Cohen, for example, in her analysis of the way Qianlong manipulated religion to advance the imperial project, points out how the Qing by “using multiple languages asserted a claim to universal spiritual as well as terrestrial overlordship” (1996). Drawing together a multicultural agglomeration of legitimating practices, the Qing ruling house cemented to itself much of non-Chinese Inner and Central Asia, which it had conquered or allied with, constructing an imagery of empire it proceeded to redeploy and refine in negotiating diplomatic relations with the neighboring Russian empire. The Qing empire and its imperial ideology, by its sheer diversity in addressing all ethnic groups within its expanding boundaries, was always faced with the danger of fragmentation and the loss of its putative singularity. It therefore constantly needed to reinvent its ideological totality, which recent research suggests was achieved through the appropriation and invention of new cultural constructs.15 If we accept the possibility of imperial ideology, we might consider further distinctions such as some notion of state ideology. Philip Abrams (1977/1988), in a seminal analysis of the modern state, argues that the state does not exist as such, but only by virtue of the “state idea”—in other words, that the state is itself an ideological construct. The questions Abrams raises about the impossibility of the state are useful in pointing out the

10


complexities of state ideology in Qing China and, here in particular, its relationship with examination practices. Abrams argues that rather than being a monolithic, unitary entity, the state is an unstable amalgam comprising many parts (institutions and agencies) that he calls “the state system.” These institutions and agencies themselves interact dynamically, sometimes in conflict and always threatening to break apart. But the amalgam is held together in an imaginary coherence by the ideological power of the “state idea,” which also produces (for us) the sense of the state’s “objective materiality.” Abrams proposes that “the state comes into being as a structuration within political practice; it starts its life as an implicit construct; it (the state) is then reified . . . and acquires an overt symbolic identity progressively divorced from practice (and exists) as an illusory account of practice” (58, 82). In this sense, both state and ideology are reifications, arguably part of a self-referential system producing their imaginary completeness. By this logic, if the Qing state needed an ideology to establish its existence, how does this construct fit with the various systems of ideas that inform what kind of state it is? The state system is defined as the agencies, institutions, and their key agents that we take for granted to be a unitary whole, whereas in actuality this entity often “conspicuously fails to display a unity of practice” (79). The Qing state system, for example, included minimally the institutions and agencies of the throne and palace administration, the six Boards, other central government agencies and advisory councils, provincial and local government offices, the military, and the overlapping Manchu governmental structure. Within that basic framework, the key agents were the emperor, his administrators, and the military, but even within the bureaucracy, as Beatrice Bartlett’s recent work has demonstrated, there was far from unanimous acceptance of the status quo among the various agencies, let alone complete unanimity between throne and bureaucracy. The “state idea,” on the other hand—the imaginary means through which the state is made to have a unitary, cohesive, material body—allows us to conceive of its objective existence as a real, complete entity. The notion of centralization was a basic unifying ideology in imperial China—an abstract ideal toward which rulers struggled, and which state agencies and institutions like the bureaucracy and military worked to support or to undermine, depending upon the circumstances. Ideological power, as Abrams points out, is historically constructed from a “panoply of doctrine and legitimation” (80), but here Abrams is just one of many who assume state ideology to be, like the imaginary state, a coherent whole instead of a much messier nexus of ideologies. Whether we take James Hevia’s focus on “how the Qing imperium deployed ‘guest ritual’ to produce ‘interdomainal’ relations, specifically in enacting the subordinate and incorporation of other sovereignties” or whether we use Pamela Crossley’s concept of “concentric” or


11

“simultaneous” modes of rulership and their ideologies, what we find are ways the Qing centralized the idea of state and provided an overlapping framework of imperial and state ideologies. Thus Qing rulers appropriated the diverse notions associated with Chinese and non-Han legitimation of rulership to create their authority.16 If we separate these overlapping strands in order to make a narrower definition of the Qing state—one in which the examination system played a crucial role—the focus turns to the three interrelated components of the throne, the Qing civil service, and the Confucianeducated elites. Each of these forces played a vital role in the construction of ideology and contributed to the contradictions, articulations, and tensions that characterized the multiple structures of the Qing state and its strength.

The Meaning for the Bureaucracy As Crossley summarizes it, the emperorship and the bureaucracy were “organically linked” in that “the bureaucracy justified itself through service to the Son of Heaven, and the emperor justified himself through moral harmony with the bureaucracy.” This characterization of “moral harmony” with the bureaucracy was as much fiction as it was part of state ideology, for one of the purposes of state ideology was indeed to create the imaginary moral harmony that the state’s support of Confucian beliefs was supposed to generate. I would also add that examinations were a primary site of what Crossley describes as “imperial attempts to co-opt the instruments and ideologies of the bureaucracy” as well as a site where the civil service asserted its own bureaucratic sovereignty.17 Crossley’s work supports the contention that state ideology is itself a multiplicity within which we can discern discourses such as Confucian orthodoxy, which is appropriated precisely for generating the “moral harmony” in the relationship between emperor and civil service, making it merely one strand amongst many that comprise state ideology. Within that framework, Confucian orthodoxy, or state-sponsored Confucian doctrine, construed as a form of managerial discourse for and of the bureaucracy, might in this guise be reclassified as Confucian bureaucratic ideology. The meaning of the overused term “Confucian orthodoxy” has become so slippery that its utility and value have been seriously questioned. However we define it, its ambiguous relationship to Confucian ideology more generally has further confused and complicated the issue. Because both terms are associated with the examination system and the state, some clarification seems necessary. James T. C. Liu’s 1973 essay “How Did a NeoConfucian School Become a State Orthodoxy?” draws a direct link between orthodoxy and ideology, asserting that “state orthodoxy survived as the

12


common ideology of both state and society until 1900.” State orthodoxy in this analysis is defined as “the selection of one particular school or set of interpretations . . . as the officially approved ones used in the civil service examinations; [and] officially proclaimed . . . for presumed application throughout the government; [and] . . . the whole society.” Willard J. Peterson, in a perceptive review of Liu’s Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China (1990), describes how the two terms, orthodoxy and ideology, are assumed to be interchangeable, if not completely identical. Taking up the philological line of reasoning found in Chen Chi-yun’s essay and thinking it through with Charlotte Furth’s processual understanding of orthodoxy, Peterson concludes that “all three forms of zheng (to correct, to rule and to reduce to submission) can be taken as rooted in the process of correcting with the threat of coercing, leading to the conclusion that orthodoxy is the process of correcting applied to others.”18 This understanding of “zheng” (the usual term for orthodoxy) as a verb meaning “the process of imposing correction upon others” can thus be applied constructively to a range of situations and social relationships. Taking into consideration the nature of this orthodoxy redefined as process, two features are most pronounced; first, its coercive mode of operation—the imposition of authority on others—and second, the implication of a hierarchical, passive-active power relationship. Both Liu and more recently Elman appear to adopt this position of orthodoxy as ideology. When thinking of orthodoxy or ideology, often interchangeably, these scholars, as historians of ideas, are also more interested in how systems of ideas are instrumentalized by authorities in order to manipulate targeted social strata— specifically, the process by which a system of ideas, Neo-Confucianism or Dao xue, was appropriated by the state in order to manipulate and, to some extent, to control the Confucian-educated elite, through the examination system in particular. In this view, orthodox simply implies state-sanctioned. W. T. de Bary, also working from a “Chinese thought” perspective in his study of Confucian orthodoxy, designates a category he calls “official state orthodoxy or ideology,” which also conforms closely to the idea of state sanction. He defines this ideology as “using Cheng-Zhu doctrine through commentaries on the classics as a standard for civil service examinations,” including “the promulgation of selected Song texts as authoritative doctrine.”19 This kind of orthodoxy is contrasted with a second type, philosophic orthodoxy: a sectarian doctrine held by non-official schools that identify with Cheng-Zhu teaching and practices such as scholarly study and quiet sitting. It is mainly distinguished from official state orthodoxy by its critical attitude to state authority or prevailing attitudes. De Bary also has a third type of orthodoxy—an “alternative tradition” still well within NeoConfucianism—but this category has more relevance to discussions of the development of Chinese thought than to examination practice.


13

If, however, we move away from the specific concerns of scholars of Chinese thought to focus on our particular source—the 1761 palace examination questions and answers—we find that it may be more productive to think about the process of how orthodoxy in its guise as ideology gets generated. With the exception of one of the four sections of the examination, little raised in the policy issues put forward by the palace examination (the final written part of the metropolitan examination) is directly implicated in mid-Qing intellectual trends. Although, arguably, everything written in the examinations relates to the cultural framework of the Confucian canon, the solutions to policy issues (as Chapter Three will show) fall outside strictly defined categories of intellectual thought, necessarily focusing our attention instead onto the constructive or generative process. In place of rigidly differentiated orthodoxies, we might consider orthodoxies more dynamically as categories defined by different authoritative interpretations imposed by groups who stand in different power relationships with each other. In this view, the interpretations imposed by the state differ from those imposed by mainstream, conventional scholars (remembering that these differences are always historically contingent), and, considering the continually shifting ground of cultural politics, from those imposed by specialists in cultural production. Furth contributes an important analytical dimension to this argument by observing that importance lay less in the transmission of orthodoxy than in encouragement to participate in a “repeated reinvention of the orthodox world order and . . . a willed living performance by social actors.”20 This stress on performance and process rather than on static classifications emphasizes the shifting, interactive, and temporary nature of all categories. Taking into consideration the processual nature of this redefined orthodoxy, its performative mode of operation, and the hierarchically passive-active power relationship always involved, we might, according to Furth’s logic, consider ideology as produced in examination practice (although not necessarily interchangeable with orthodoxy) to be somewhat similarly structured. Rather than a reified, pre-existing object or set of ideas, ideology becomes something that is produced, rehearsed, and reinvented through practice, a model that fits better the actual event of the 1761 palace examination. I will explore the examination discourse produced by the candidates and assess the potential for individual agency in Chapter Three. Because of the relatively minor role played by specific Qing intellectual trends in the 1761 palace examination, and because of Elman’s work on the intellectual trends in imperial examinations elsewhere, I am less interested here in this aspect of examinations. On the one hand, then, my approach to ideology is less instrumental than Elman’s, and, on the other, my work is less concerned with Qing cultural politics. Even in the one section of the examination where there are distinguishable references to the mid-eighteenth–century intellectual trends of Song (Dao), Han, and evidential schools of learning,

14


rather than seeing any absolute predominance of one trend over another, the evidence points instead to an unexpectedly broad definition of acceptable modes of interpretation, findings that tend to support Kai-wing Chow’s evaluation of contemporary intellectual trends. Chow sees a nuanced, overlapping shift in modes of cultural work rather than any sharp breaks.21 The approach here recognizes that ideas derive from different sites of cultural production, yet ideology itself is only produced by the performative act of articulation and circulation. Ideology can thus be understood to be in a constant process of invention and reinvention, a rehearsal of ideas that no matter what their derivation are always performatively produced in a process of “orthodoxing.” Thus, rather than a singular definition of ideology tied to fixed categories of orthodoxy, ideology becomes a continuum or spectrum. At one end is the narrow and idealistic but still perhaps not entirely dispensable definition of ideology as a system of ideas, and at the other, after various nuanced shifts, is ideology as a process, which comes into existence through its practice. By allowing such a spectrum, we leave a space for the generative powers of collective and individual agency without sneaking in a kind of autonomous liberal subject. A decade ago, the pre-modern state was often characterized as a “theater of power”; today we no longer take it for granted that the assumed “audience” was mostly a passive spectator. Instead, we understand that if the state is in any way a theater, it is because of the complex interactions of the various agents—subjects rather than objects, both group and individual—who perform their parts to produce what we often take as already existing—the state.22 Thus, “guojia” (translated variously as nation, country, state; literally meaning kingdom-home), for example, existed as an entity in part because examination candidates discursively enacted it. In this discussion I have tried to situate the concept of ideology in relation to the examination system. I have explored the possibility of multiplicity in the discussion of imperial and state ideology, mitigating against any unitary definition. I have suggested we consider the possibility of a “bureaucratic Confucian ideology” as a kind of managerial discourse to inculcate the socio-ethics relevant to examination candidates who were potential civil servants. Examples of this kind of discourse are found in the 1761 examination considerations of administrative evaluation, of the examination system itself, and of economic planning. I have touched on the relevance of Confucian orthodoxy and its relation to my evidence and concluded that Confucian orthodoxy—at least in its guise as a single, officially sanctioned and state-sponsored interpretive doctrine—impinges hardly at all on the 1761 palace examination. Likewise, no very clear role can be assigned to specific, intellectually based Confucian orthodoxy in the form of eighteenth-century Qing intellectual trends and cultural politics. Instead,


15

we will be able to observe how examination discourse performatively enacted multiple ideologies into existence, shaping the examination system as a whole. Three aspects of the examination system are especially relevant to the bureaucracy. First, examinations instilled the basic principles, ethos, and behaviors that the Qing administration required of all its civil servants and of those who had ambitions to join it. Second, examinations constituted one of the political sites where throne and bureaucracy contended for power. Third, the examination system, organized by the state and usually administered by the bureaucracy, formed a spatial structure that, unlike marketing and commercial networks, was identical with the administrative divisions of the core of the empire, corresponding with the vertical political lines of authority within China proper.23 The examination system was the most popular and certainly the most prestigious means of administrative recruitment. That the administration was responsible for organizing and supervising examinations at all levels was a crucial aspect of the maintenance of bureaucratic power. Qing bureaucracy was far from being a unitary body, as chapters Four and Five will illustrate. It comprised a combination of institutions and agencies characterized by a hierarchy of authority, yet the hierarchy of agents that staffed it participated competitively in a dynamic of political power play. Because of the constantly shifting terrain of power relationships, administration was by nature unstable, with the ever-present possibility of fragmentation and reconfiguration. Imperial authority was of course very well aware of this dynamic. The Kangxi emperor had tried to alter the dynamic by introducing a new bureaucratic element, the imperial bondservants, as well as a new and more direct kind of communication, the palace memorial. The Yongzheng emperor followed with a new center of communications, later called the Grand Council. Studies of these innovations show very clearly the political dynamics of Qing bureaucracy, one study even blaming these dynamics for the failure of Qing foreign policy. The 1761 metropolitan examination had its own crisis, one in which tensions erupted between the Grand Council and agencies lower down in the administrative hierarchy, agencies who in combination were no less powerful in their organization of political resources than ones closer to the throne.24 As I show in Chapter Four, such eruptions could also expose other tensions, revealing the complex interconnections between the institutions of family and examinations (which were supposedly seamlessly connected), and between imperial and bureaucratic policy (which ideally had identical interests). Reorganizations, innovations, and crises indicate the delicate balance the Qing state negotiated as the examination system mediated traffic between the three interconnected institutions of throne, bureaucracy, and family. A

16


set of regulations known as avoidance laws acted as the institutional barrier against conflict of interest. Examination laws of avoidance forbade familial connection between candidate and examiner in any single examination. With imperial permission, special, separate examinations—avoidance examinations—were given occasionally for those disqualified by avoidance law. In 1761, a request for a special avoidance examination sparked a crisis that exposed the tensions between the three institutions that examination practice brought together and allows us to see the full complexity of court politics. The subsequent actions of one candidate offer a rare glimpse of resistance to institutional power and the playing out of the connections, suspicions, and politics of court networks. Neither individual nor bureaucratic power could in the end outmaneuver the throne. Imperial power, with the just-accomplished conquest of Xinjiang, stood at a critical juncture. Appropriate representation of its concern for the welfare of the empire’s people and of the recently reconfigured territorial space far outweighed the demands of court factions or of individual ambitions. Neither could the throne, on the other hand, afford to neglect the possibly disruptive influences of bureaucratic power. The prompt action of the throne quickly made its predominance clear to all concerned, especially to the bureaucracy, and to those believed to be manipulative of the system. I have asserted that the examination system constituted a spatial formation that contributed to the collective identity of the national elite. I will demonstrate in the chapters that follow different facets of this construction. In particular, Chapter Five marshals evidence to show how the framework of the examination system formed a grid that became further elaborated through the administrative structure of China proper, with links to the outermost parts of the Qing frontier territories. The Qing state ensured that all provinces and the political-ethnic divisions of the Banner forces (special organizations that had military duties in wartime and socio-economic duties such as registration in peacetime) were represented in the examination system. These groups included the Manchu Banners; the Mongol Banners, an ethnic group crucial for the legitimation of the Qing state’s imperial claims in much of central Asia; and the Chinese Banners. The last were a politically elite division of ethnically Han Chinese, most originally from the Northeast, who had allied with the Qing before the conquest of China proper. All were allotted some representation in the quota system (see Chapter Two). But representation rarely equalized opportunity and the bulk of examination candidates represented the Yangzi delta provinces of Jiangnan and Zhejiang, along with the metropolitan province of Zhili. Even so, the shifting legislation of catchment areas and quotas still ensured a representation of all provinces, albeit in very unequal numbers. The unequal division itself played into the Confucian educated elites’ cultural politics, for since the time of Kangxi,


17

emperors had favored scholars from the same Yangzi provinces who tended to dominate the higher posts in the bureaucracy allocated to Han Chinese. The spatial arrangement of the system derived from a population of degree holders. Aspiring or actual, they were united in their examination experiences, and they went on to administrative assignments in which they could exploit a rich grid of connections. Examinations thus formed the basis of a matrix that spread thickly across the country and was made more dynamic through use. The dense interconnections that resulted from the circulation of horizontal official communications belies the conventional stress on a strictly pyramidal administrative structure. Bureaucracy as a power relied on relations of dependency both in terms of the chains of vertical hierarchy and the horizontal connections that created a bounded space of political activity. When an official was posted to a region, avoidance laws ensured that he had no relatives there, but often a former classmate could offer advice and assistance on local conditions. Some of the Class of 1761 went on to become examiners themselves, thus perpetuating a chain of obligations similar to those between teacher and student. Furthermore, the mid-eighteenth century was a period of enormous territorial expansion, and several of the 1761 cohort played roles of varying significance in it, contributing to the ongoing geo-political identity formation. The Hanlin Academy was responsible for an unusual combination of academic projects, examination supervision, and government surveillance; the state compilation and publication activities for which it was responsible helped build an archival foundation for the collective identity-making process. The Hanlin together with the military were also exemplary of an overlap and interconnection of lines of command and communication that later scholars have often missed. Here again, the prevailing emphasis on unconnected, parallel, vertical lines of authority overlooks a horizontal web of intersecting lines and networks in which a proto-nation–space can be discerned. Even without the ideology of modern nationalism, such a spatial arrangement constructed the structural, social, and ideological basis of the later nation-space of educated elites. With the ongoing traditions of Confucian moral autonomy and service to the state, is it so surprising that when ideas of nationalism diffused to China in the nineteenth century, it was this same literati-official elite who took up the banner of what they perceived as national salvation? In 1898, for example, a brilliant, young, Cantonese candidate, in the capital for the metropolitan examination, organized that year’s nationwide pool of candidates into the first nationally oriented public demonstration demanding that the Qing Manchu rulers reform the state to save the nation. The young emperor responded positively and a brief but important period of reform began. Ending less than three months later, the reform movement—and the

18


examination candidates who initiated it—nonetheless produced the first martyrs to the emerging modern Chinese nation. But even in 1761 candidates believed they had a duty to uphold the autonomy of the guojia as part of their service to the state. The existence of the examination system defined a territorial space and a community that was national in scope, that was homogeneously bounded, and that spatialized a single time frame that held equally for everyone across the “nation.” The multiple cycles of examinations formed a temporal space that was in Benedict Anderson’s terms “empty” of other content. Whether they were youths at the county and district levels or young adults at the prefectural level, the candidates were all aware that a whole cross-section of similar individuals were taking similar examinations at the same time. At each of the three main levels—prefectural, provincial, and metropolitan—these individuals would actually be exposed to increasing numbers from other regions joined in the same project.25

The Meaning for the Class of 1761 At the metropolitan level, this experience reached a fitting apogee. Here the examination system articulated with many parts of the state apparatus. Once every three years, provincial degree holders came from every administrative province of the country to sit the same examination. The event, lasting no more than a few weeks, created among the participants an awareness of a national body of multiple linguistic regions and ethnicities in which, nonetheless, each individual shared a common cultural language and similar political goals. Having undergone the examination experience together, and able to call each other brother, they made connections that would serve as resources in their subsequent administrative careers. The discourse of this body projected a paternalistic, master-disciple terminology onto an empire-wide space-time frame to signify their connections and networks. Those taking examinations in the same year were called tongnian (literally, “same year”), a title that carried obligations that could be exploited when necessary, no matter if the examinations had been taken in different provinces. The throne, too, on occasion, recognized this structure, for example, in 1810 (JQ15), when a banquet was given, in the name of the Jiaqing emperor, to honor those celebrating the sixtieth anniversary of their provincial examinations. Zhao Yi (1/3; 1727–1814), a 1761 metropolitan graduate, was one of these, along with the famous author from Tongcheng in Anhui, Yao Nai, his provincial tongnian.26 When Zhao Yi died four years later, his epitaph was written by Sun Xingyan, his tongnian from the metropolitan examination. The strict laws of avoidance, forbidding service in one’s native place, show the state’s recognition of and deliberate preventative measure against


19

localist or family-generated political power (see Chapter Four). Nonetheless, given the national pool, degree holders were inevitably assigned to posts that were other tongnians’ hometowns or to posts in their tongnian’s board or office. No regulations prohibited the seeking of useful advice from these connections. Further lines of communication were added to the matrix by those degree holders returning to their homes to await appointment—sometimes for up to ten years—and by those at home in mourning or in retirement. The cooperation between these groups and their commonalities are well documented elsewhere. Elites and their families with business interests in commerce, usury, and landholding added other intersecting junctures. Consequently, besides creating a strong articulation between the cultural and political training of its nation of administrators, the state also left open the possibility of national-level networking and interaction, thus providing sanction for this dimension of proto-nation–space. Historically, the educated elite had a culturally trained desire to participate in rulership through its service as state administrators, and for this, needed the throne to acknowledge its political leadership. Socio-culturally, political ambitions of service were focused, through the ideology of filial piety, onto the prestige and perpetuation of family influence. By the mideighteenth century, the period under study here, the state continued to keep a wary eye on the possible threat of individual families’ becoming too powerful or achieving political independence as a group—trends that Confucian education, with its emphasis on family hierarchy and obligations, tended to foster. Manchu Qing rulers effectively utilized the existing system to provide themselves with a trained and loyal pool of administrators and even improved on it by introducing quotas and special, additional examinations given by imperial decree and held outside the normal triennial schedule. I argue in the next chapter that quotas increased the desire for qualification by seemingly limiting its availability, thus affirming its value, but that the additional examinations actually did increase overall availability. In effect, such strategies, rather than affecting the numbers, in fact focused the attention and loyalty of examination takers even more firmly on the ruling Manchu regime. In short, the Qing throne carefully tried to control any threat from the traditional Confucian-educated elite to its centralized control through its manipulation of the examination system. Besides the role that the examinations played for the structuration of state power, examination training also participated in the imposition of the necessary disciplinary regime to which all aspirants to political power had to subject themselves. Principles of government, political ethics, cultural knowledge, and social adeptness were all expected. This training instilled an esprit de corps that, though it might be modified by the push and pull of subsequent loyalties, formed the basic unifying ideology of the administration. Examinations also offered opportunities for work experience within

20


administration. Although the candidate as an initiate was not fully integrated into the bureaucracy, he was given every encouragement to invest time and commitment, constantly sharpening his desire for promotion into state service, the mark of elite success. Some were promoted into the regular bureaucracy, while others who were willing to take more examinations could achieve a higher position. The demonstrated need for the bureaucracy and the proliferation of hierarchical dependencies, as Claude Lefort has argued, were the hallmarks of a successful administration.27 The system achieved its goal through three main levels of qualification. An initial series of tests enabled the candidate to claim student status (shengyuan, sometimes translated as junior licentiate), a second series awarded the provincial level degree (juren, provincial degree holder), and the final series gave the graduate the highest metropolitan degree (jinshi, metropolitan degree holder). The biographies of the cohort of 217 metropolitan degree holders who passed in 1761 show vividly the way the cream of the young Confucian Han Chinese elite were tutored, from around the age of seven, in the conduct, verbal responses, and ideology of state service. They performatively embodied state-endorsed values of obedience through a continual series of examinations on a common program of political responses and behaviors: repetition in gesture, writing, and social interaction. The product of such training was a group of men—women being completely prohibited from participation—who voluntarily submitted to state requisites and, in so doing, legitimated their own position and that of the throne. The lives and examination careers of the metropolitan examination class of 1761 provide a unique perspective on the system. Biographical data are lacking for only 11 percent of the cohort, but many have very rich sources, which add up to a representative sampling of the full range of metropolitan degree holders, from the very best to the worst in terms of their examination performance and their career trajectories. Using a micro-study approach, I am able to give a level of detailed “thick description” impossible in more sweeping studies. The Confucian-educated Han elites, by their participation in the examination process, accepted the hierarchical logic of the reciprocal relationship with the throne and were trained to be obedient subjects. Obedience here is not meant in the sense of utter submission, but as a systematic, individually trained conformity to a socio-cultural logic or pattern. In this way, examinations functioned as both a norm and a practice that regulated and, within that logic, produced those it governed.28 I detail, in Chapter Two, the background of the eventual top two graduates, after giving an overview of the collective examination careers of the cohort and the various stages through which a candidate typically passed. Candidates were trained by an almost overwhelming regimen of repetition and reiteration, and they were individualized and differentiated by dossiers that listed their examination rank and


21

the awards of stipends and different privilege-carrying statuses. By such means graduates over time embodied the discipline and conformed to the set of ritualized responses expected of them. This framework also produced various degrees of freedom for candidates, and in Chapter Three I analyze the three surviving 1761 palace examination essays to assess the range of discursive practice accommodated in the palace examination essays. Of the 5,059 men, mostly between twenty-seven and thirty-eight years old, who lined up outside the Shuntian prefectural examination compound in Beijing on the morning of April 12, 1761, ready to compete against each other for the metropolitan degree (jinshi)—the highest academic qualification offered by the state system—only 207 would pass, according to the 1761 official quota.29 Table 1.2 gives the provincial breakdown, which yields an average one in twenty-five (4.1 percent) chance of success.30 Following established regulations, the majority of candidates represented the eighteen provinces of China proper. In addition, there were as usual some careful political arrangements involving four political categories: a small table 1.2 Number of Provincial Entrants Compared with Authorized Quota Fengtian Mongol Banner Chinese Banner Manchu Banner Guangxi Yunnan Hunan Guizhou Hubei Sichuan Guangdong Fujian Shaanxi Shanxi Henan Shandong Zhili Jiangxi Zhejiang Jiangnan total

Entrants

Quota

15 11 28 60 119 148 175 141 184 199 240 315 266 286 322 389 571 405 499 686

1 2 2 2 5 5 5 7 8 8 9 9 10 10 10 12 17 21 30 34

5059

207

Ratio

1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1: 1. 1: 1: 1: 1:

Percentage

15 3 14 15 24 30 35 20 23 25 27 35 27 29 32 32 34 19 17 20

6.67 36.6 7.14 6.67 4.20 3.38 2.86 4.96 4.35 4.02 3.75 2.86 3.76 3.50 3.11 3.08 2.98 5.19 6.01 4.96

1: 25

4.09

source: Authorized provincial quota figures, Da Qing shilu (Qing veritable records), 633:13b–14, QL26/3/25; 1761 Provincial entrants, Li ke shishu (Board of Rites section, copies of routine memorials), juan 547, QL26/3/23–25.

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group of men came from Fengtian (the prefectural capital of the Manchu homeland) and also from the Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese Banners. The metropolitan quotas were begun after provincial quotas were introduced in 1712. Calculated proportionally from the size of each entering population of candidates, they ensured representation of even areas disadvantaged by low population and poor educational resources. Entry-level qualification (shengyuan) could be, though it rarely was, purchased by students of the Imperial College, or, as was most often the case, it was gained through examination. Each candidate held the provincial, or second-level, degree (juren), a qualification that—theoretically—allowed the holder to take an official appointment. The examination commonly called the hui shi, or metropolitan examination, consisted of three sessions of tests held over a nine-day period. The graduates from the hui shi were still not metropolitan degree holders. The top-placed graduate was called the hui yuan, and collectively those who passed were known as gongshi, or tribute scholars, a fitting term as indeed they were to be offered up to the emperor as “tribute” in the following palace examination. By May 15, the quota limit of 207 graduates had been determined and announced. After a one-day written essay test, the emperor would, with the help of a separate group of high ministers, read at least the top ten papers and decide on the final class ranking. The Class of 1761 was constituted only after this last important stage and the graduates could begin to claim metropolitan degree-holding status. Thus, although education was the process that initiated the candidate into an ideology of government service, examinations inculcated and trained him in discipline, attitudes, and behaviors. Obliged to reenact a continual repetition of preparing and sitting examinations and to reiterate the same basic principles in a variety of ways, the candidates were drilled into submission, though recalcitrant variations in socio-economic standing, regional provenance, and educational background explain some sources of possible resistance and subversion (as discussed in Chapter Four). The phases of the average candidate’s examination career resembled a coming-of-age story. It began with total immersion and individual subjectification when entering the examination compound for the first time, was followed by a growing awareness and even resentment of the underlying logic of training, and, finally, reached the mature insight that acceptance of subjectification also involved negotiating the complex intersection of throne and bureaucracy, together with the cultural politics of the powerful Confucian-educated elite. Even non-conformist practices that resisted or rejected mainstream thinking and behavior still operated with reference to dominant frameworks and were therefore equally bound by them. Despite having devoted many years to achieving the highest academic qualification, not all went on to claim the right to hold administrative position and political power. I devote the final


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section of Chapter Five to those who failed—by their own, their peers’, or our definition—to reach their political goals after attaining the necessary metropolitan degree. Included among this group are not only those—Peng Shaosheng, for example—who rejected a civil service career in favor of an alternative lifestyle—in his case, as a scholar and lay Buddhist priest—but also those who died before being called for appointment. Several of the cohort were promoted to high position only to suffer the shame of punishment and demotion for supposedly failing in their duties. Zhao Yi’s failure to attain a sufficiently high position obliged him to conclude that he had failed in his career. Perhaps in an ideal career, the graduate would achieve excellent administrative standing and be able to make a mark in the scholarly world, too, accomplishing a middle path as Xie Qikun did. He became provincial governor and specialized in philological studies, compiling a much-referenced work titled Xiao xue. Many men who were promoted to the middling ranks of the bureaucracy—ranks four and five in a nine-grade system—retired relatively early in their careers in order to pursue a more scholarly life teaching in one of the many academies.31 The main goal for examination-takers at all levels of the system was undoubtedly administrative appointment. The examination system rested on an ideological foundation of meritocracy. Even so, the ranking of candidates, usually into three to five classes and numerically within those categories, seems as arbitrarily linked to subsequent appointment to office as does any favor gained from connection, though disjunctions between ranking and appointment seemed not to be questioned and were often less obvious to the naked eye than the use of favor and connection. In Chapter Five I consider the question of whether academic merit was tied to career prospects. Given the system of competitive examinations, some association between the two would seem logical. Through the career vicissitudes of the 1761 metropolitan degree graduates, the chapter also explores the material practices of networking and how they helped constitute the density of the proto-nation–space. Besides its structural meaning and training function, then, the examination system was also a rite of passage into the labyrinths of bureaucratic patronage, one of the material practices of ideology. I focus on two high-powered groups within the 1761 cohort of civil officials: one was affiliated with the Hanlin Academy, which helped reproduce the examination system and engaged in scholarly compilation projects and in the surveillance and policing of officials; the other was affiliated with the military. Both circuits tended to overlap and interpenetrate at certain points and, by so doing, worked to reproduce the bureaucracy, to stabilize and expand the empire while at the same time generating the density of the protonation and the narrative of collective identity and supplying networks of connections crucial for the graduates’ careers in politics.

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Conclusion Despite the complex and pluralistic nature of the state system in which a Manchu minority ruled a multi-ethnic empire, an army of imperially appointed Han Chinese officials was needed to administer the majority Han Chinese core of this empire. Twisting the strategy of “using barbarians to control barbarians,” the Qing Manchu rulers adopted the previous Ming examination system to prepare the vast numbers of Han Chinese civil servants required, thus helping to sustain Manchu state power and ensuring stable rule over the core area of China proper. By the late imperial period in general, and eighteenth-century Qing China in particular, examinations were crucial to the process that produced a centralized state. The examination system was a site where the Confucian-trained Han Chinese cultural elite interacted reciprocally with the throne and implicitly accepted the hierarchical, asymmetrical relationship that produced the authority of the state’s political power. Examinations performatively enacted the political authority that the cultural elite conferred on the throne, contributing to the legitimation of the throne’s right to direct the affairs of the empire through control of the bureaucracy. Recruitment by examination had been initiated much earlier to prevent the perpetuation of political power in individual families and the political independence of the socio-cultural elite as a group, and to forestall any threat to the throne’s centralized control. This basic impetus remained part of the logic of the state’s use of the examination system, although there was no longer an imminent threat to centralized government. For elite families, the continued opportunity for individual political power merited acceptance of the examination system; family success could always be negotiated. Contrary to earlier studies of Chinese social mobility, I hold that examinations did not merely adopt a gatekeeper function. The social elite did not depend on the state for its actual existence; it did, however, need the throne to acknowledge its political leadership. The state, on the other hand, had a mandate to train its potential servants, performatively reproducing in the candidates the behavior, attitudes, and political concepts favored by the state. The key to producing simultaneously those who legitimated the state and who submitted willingly to its authority was in this common training program: repetition in gesture, articulation, and social interaction. Examinations, by performing the legitimation and the reproduction of the symbiotic and asymmetrical relationship between the throne and the educated elite, contributed to the constitution of state power and to the perpetuation of the imperial system. In this process, candidates were also familiarized at each stage with a national network of examination candidates and state officials, contributing overall to the foundation of a nation-space well before the modern idea of nationalism.

2

Regulating Aspirations The success of disciplinary power derives no doubt from the use of simple instruments; hierarchical observation, normalizing judgment, and their combination in a procedure that is specific to it, the examination. —Michel Foucault 1975 To say that talent can only be found through the examination system is not telling the whole story, but to say that talent cannot be found through examinations is equally incomplete. —Wang Jie 1761

Introduction In eighteenth-century China, the lives of those who aspired to earn degrees—and then, perhaps, administrative appointments—were shaped by an ongoing round of examinations. We are probably most familiar with the large, tri-level examination structure (reproduced in Figure 2.1) that awarded the sheng yuan, the juren, and the jinshi respectively. Each of these degrees corresponded with a level of the pyramidal civil administrative hierarchy: the prefecture, the province, and the capital. The lowest-level qualification was the tongshi (or youth examination), which led to the first degree, the sheng yuan. Consisting of a whole series of tests, this qualification was more in the nature of a college or school entrance examination than a qualification for officeholding. Holders of the shengyuan degree could not accept any regular employment, for example (not that such injunctions could stop the determined). The second level of examinations awarded the juren (or provincial degree) and constituted the xiangshi, which were held in the provincial capital. The third and highest level of the system, the metropolitan examination (or huishi), was held in the capital. Significantly, graduates of the huishi were not metropolitan degree holders but merely gongshi (tribute scholars); not until they had passed the palace examination (dianshi) were they formally inducted as jinshi, or metropolitan degree holders.1 Although no candidate ever failed the 25

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regulating aspirations palace examination dianshi (jinshi: metropolitan degree)

metropolitan examination huishi (gongshi: tribute scholar)

provincial examination xiangshi (juren: provincial degree)

(6) tribute student status (gongsheng)

imperial studentships (jiansheng)

youth examination (tongshi) (shengyuan: licentiate/student)

(tongsheng: pupil/student)

figure 2.1. Main Divisions of the Examination System

palace examination as such, it was nonetheless necessary to pass it in order to hold the title of metropolitan graduate. Often discussions of the metropolitan examination consider the palace examination merely a pro-forma gesture of closure to the examination process, but the distinction between being a tribute scholar (gongshi) and a metropolitan graduate (jinshi jidi) was certainly important enough to its participants. The presence of tribute scholars (gongshi) from previous years at the palace examination accounts for the frequent discrepancy between the official quota of graduates and the final, often higher, number of passes. For example, thirty-six tribute scholars who had passed the main metropolitan examination sessions in 1760 were disqualified for writing errors and had to wait until 1761 to take the palace examination. Because of a death in his family, one tribute scholar from 1754 was prevented from taking the palace examination until 1761. And nine tribute scholars who passed the 1761 main examination were then disqualified during a new review process that had been introduced the previous year.2 Thus very real consequences—as well as very real symbolic and ritual significance—attached to the palace

regulating aspirations

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examination and distinguished it from the metropolitan examination. Perhaps most important, the palace examination determined the final ranking of the graduates, and these results were quite literally carved onto stone, on the stele of successful metropolitan graduates (jinshi timing beilu). Rising through the examination hierarchy, and to some extent transcending the variations in their regional provenance, groups of candidates were, by the time they reached the metropolitan level, shaped into a coherent group. By the end, most could call themselves members of a single class or cohort who, finally promoted by the emperor himself in the palace examination, were thus even more bound and indebted to him as well as to each other. The gathering of all the candidates in the capital for the palace examinations, held in the Forbidden City, enhanced the effect of collectivity and spatially culminated the three-tiered pyramid system of local, provincial, and metropolitan levels. The examination process imbued aspiring candidates for office with disciplinary training, and yet allowed the sense of choice and of individuality. At the same time, the examination life/career fulfilled a complex function of producing subjects of the state and apprentices to the bureaucracy. By such means graduates—willingly, as it were—internalized the discipline, conformed to the sets of responses expected of them, and in the process perpetuated the necessarily unequal relationship between the state and the Confucian educated elite. Candidates were individualized, differentiated, hierarchized, and embodied with state values and norms. Given the sense of agency within this framework, a candidate endured the discipline of examinations more or less willingly, and failure not only took an aspirant out of the running, it demonstrated the subject’s limitations to both himself and to the state in the process: if the system worked properly, it worked to attribute failure to individuals rather than to itself. Preparation for the metropolitan examination was long and grueling and the risk of failure was high. Consider, for example, the seven octogenarians and the eighteen septuagenarians who were awarded rank and status equivalent to the examination degree in 1761, as consolation prizes, in a special post-metropolitan examination selection. That these candidates were taking the examination at such an advanced age meant they had attempted to pass at least ten times or more previously. Qianlong, in a move that typically focused these aspirants’ gratitude and loyalty onto the throne, initiated this compassionate measure to celebrate the longevity of his mother, the empress dowager; he also dedicated the 1761 examination partially to her, in honor of her seventieth birthday. The two oldest 1761 graduates again exemplify how long the course of examinations could run: Ouyang Qin from Jiangxi turned seventy and Luo Qingying from Guangdong turned sixty-five during the year that both finally managed to pass the metropolitan examination.3

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As anticipated, this particular group of men and all those immediately associated with them would remember and be grateful for the emperor’s gesture of filial respect to the empress dowager and of largesse to educated seniors in particular. In any case, such examples make abundantly evident that the metropolitan degree was so desirable in itself that men were willing to dedicate most of their lives to the project. The terms used to describe the examination career—“juye” or “yiye” (literally, the profession or occupation of examinations; training in the craft of examinations)—underscore its time-consuming, vocational nature. As we shall see, the effect of quotas increased the scarcity and desirability of examination qualification. At the same time, extra examinations given by imperial fiat, I will argue, more than offset the limitations, in the process directing gratitude and loyalty to the throne in a way that merely increasing the quotas would not. Although formal education in the classical Chinese curriculum was undoubtedly a large part of examination preparation, perhaps its more important effect was to attract and fulfill the broad socio-cultural desires of the scholarly elite by acculturating and socializing them into elite patriarchal society. Such a process could, however, only very partially fulfill the state’s requirements for its aspiring civil servants. Instead, the examination system’s disciplinary effect was perhaps more important; for it was through examinations that the state directed, circumscribed, and channeled that education to its purposes. Such molding resulted in a trained set of normative responses—part of the regulatory practices that produced the subjects and bodies it governed.4 My particular concern in this chapter is to show how the performative and reiterative practices of examination taking were constitutive of Qing state subjects. The Qing examination system performed precisely the evaluative acts of surveillance that marshaled the individual into line, which were coercive acts in spite of how they managed to be naturalized, or perhaps coercive precisely insofar as they managed to become what participants expected and even took for granted. Consequently, there is more than adequate reason heuristically to separate education and examinations rather than treating them as an undifferentiated whole. Investigating (as I mostly do here) a single examination cohort, as opposed to one individual’s examination history or a broad chronological sweep of examinations, makes more obvious the distinction between education and examinations. This distinction was certainly recognized in late imperial China, as attested by the substantial literature either criticizing one in favor of the other or merely didactically stressing the distinction.5 Conflating education with examinations would assume a natural consonance between the two, missing the slippages between them—slippages in which we can find hidden the competing claims and interests of the state and the social elite. Investigating examinations in their distinction from and


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overlap with education—as I hope this and the following chapter will show—allows us to see how they worked to produce individuals. Finally, examination participants were clearly candidates in pursuit of the kind of political power that only the state could authorize—a point often elided in studies that focus on intellectual history and cultural politics, or that conflate examinations with education. The examination system was indeed the training ground of officials; it ensured those who gained access to state-sanctioned political power would be willing and obedient subjects of that state. Three basic characteristics of the examination system, elaborated in the sections that follow, contributed to these goals: first, its repetition and frequency; second, the application of quotas at a variety of levels as part of the selection process, which unpredictably undercut any simplistic meritocratic ideals; and third, the different rewards, privileges, and access to power that were associated with each level, whereby candidates engaged in various negotiations, strategic manipulations, and even resistances, while they subjected themselves to the system’s discipline.

Disciplinary Practices All educated young men following the most prestigious route to political power were obliged to embark on a government-sponsored program of imperial examinations. That process would imbue them with state-endorsed values of obedience—that is, with the sense of systematic, individually trained conformity to a socio-cultural logic or pattern—within a common set of political responses and behaviors. I prefer the term “disciplinary practice,” as it encompasses both a broader and a more specific range of meaning than does “training.” It includes the conscious and subconscious parameters and habits established by years of repeated actions—the modes of thinking, speaking, and reasoning—and as such it suggests a performatively generated subjectivity.6 The overwhelming number of tests that a candidate was obliged to undergo produced the background rhythms and interweaving of tedium and high anxiety characteristic of disciplinary training. With practice, a candidate became an individual fit for government service, able to respond with acuity, with rapidity, and with a smoothness that betokened understanding. As candidates subjected themselves to the discipline of examination taking, the system in turn fashioned them into subjects serviceable to the state. Each candidate’s dossier, a marker of the individualizing aspect of the process, followed him. This was the record of his progress kept by the authorities, which included examination results, rank, appointments, merit and demerit ratings, and the results of periodic evaluations.

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This individualized record was sent to the capital for review whenever a promotion or demotion was expected, and it remained with the authorities throughout the individual’s examination career and on into his administrative career. Adding to the disciplinary effects of the system, a hierarchy of centrally appointed examination and education officials rigorously supervised examination practice, which in turn was minutely circumscribed by massive numbers of detailed regulations that finely tuned a process of uninterrupted, constant coercion. The last published official Qing compilation of statutes and precedents (Da Qing huidian shili) contains well over a thousand pages of regulations on examinations alone, not including an equally large separate section on schools and education.7 Except for the palace examination, the ultimate test of the metropolitan degree, examinations were never given in single sessions. Beginning with the series of tests called the youth examination, candidates could expect to take tests nearly every year in order to proceed through the system in an orderly fashion. As Foucault so rightly argued, examination has a threefold function: it shows whether the candidate has reached the right level, it guarantees candidates have undergone the same training, and it differentiates abilities between them. As Figure 2.2 graphically depicts, regular and frequent test taking was fundamental to the disciplinary practice of the Chinese examination system. The early stages required more frequent testing; the rate tapered off as the candidate became more adept and more invested in climbing the hierarchy. Candidates perforce achieved an approximation of the regulatory ideal, becoming creatures of the state. The more articulate the candidate became in the principles and philosophy of administration and politics, the more the state could be assured of his submission to its ideals; the more invested the candidate became, the more his will to resist decreased. A certain number of failures were statistically bound to occur and regularly delayed candidates. As Foucault notes, ranking is a disciplinary technique that “individualizes bodies by a location that does not give them a fixed position, but distributes them and circulates them in a network of relations.”8 This constant differential positioning and mobility was particularly acute in the stages preceding the provincial degree, where ranking could change after each examination, producing an equally constant level of anxiety and insecurity. To understand such a system it is crucial that we displace somewhat the image of individuals being slotted into a static structure. The structure maintained itself only as an ongoing series of events performed and re-performed by its participants: a more dynamic system, but one that, by the same token, is rather more relentlessly demanding.

Youth Examination (tongshi)

District/County (xianshi) five sessions

Prefectural (fushi) five sessions

Re-examination (fushi) one session

Jing gu one session

Qualifying (yuanshi) three sessions

College: four examinations annually (District/county/prefectural)

Examinations for shengyuan (xiucai) Jing gu two sessions

Jing gu (classical canon and study of antiquity) two sessions Provincial examination (xiang shi)

Annual examination (sui kao) two sessions

Provincial qualifying examination (ke kao) two sessions

Tribute students (gongsheng) and Imperial College students

Examinations for Provincial Degree Holders (juren) Metropolitan examination (huishi)

Palace examination (dianshi)

Metropolitan graduate (jinshi)

figure 2.2. Examination System Overview

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The first hurdle in the examination system was the youth examination. Candidates usually sat for these examinations from age eleven or twelve onward, most often completing them before the traditional “capping” ceremony at around age fifteen recognized their passage into adulthood.9 When they were completed, the candidate became a shengyuan. The youth examination consisted of three main stages and two minor ones. At the first stage the candidate sat the five sessions of the district (xianshi) or county (zhoushi) examination, a very local affair with the district magistrate presiding. Then came the prefectural examination (fushi), which also had five sessions; these were presided over by the prefect and were thus slightly more intimidating. The decisive point was the qualifying examination (yuanshi)— supervised by the imperially appointed Provincial Director of Education (tiduxuezheng), the highest-level education official outside of the capital. After completing the five sessions of the district (xianshi) and the subsequent five sessions of the prefectural (fushi) examination, but before the final qualifying examination (yuanshi), the candidate took two small tests: the “reexamination” (fushi—a homonym written differently and meaning “to repeat”) and an examination on the Classical canon and the study of antiquity (jinggu).10 Passing the jinggu was not a prerequisite for the qualifying examination, but it gave the candidate a chance to improve his prospects for selection. The three sessions of the prefectural qualifying examination (yuanshi), which followed immediately, were the most important of the youth examination, and, apart from a half-hour reexamination test (again for security purposes), it formed the culmination point of the first degree. At this point quotas were applied for the first time, limiting the number of candidates and assigning them to administrative catchment areas, that is, areas that coincided with the political divisions of the province and were under the authority of a state-appointed education official.11 This application of quotas constituted the first level of narrowing of opportunity, making success more difficult and thus all the more desirable. At this point the candidate, as a shengyuan, had sat for at least fifteen sessions—often many more, given the likelihood of failures and reexaminations. To recapitulate, these sessions had included tests at the county or district (zhou or xian shi) and prefectural (fushi) levels, the last (yuanshi) introducing the candidate to the provincial-level education official who would be in charge of the next stage of his examination career. No candidate could move onto the next examination until he had successfully completed all sessions (with the exception of the jinggu, as noted) and, in the case of the prefectural qualifying examination (yuanshi), had also placed high.12 If the student had merited selection as one of the quota, he then moved on to the next series of examinations and would never again need to repeat any of the youth examinations (tongshi).


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As a shengyuan or college student, the candidate was obliged to take another series of examinations in order to maintain his status. Once again, repetition and frequency ensured disciplinary obedience, as it was inevitably both tiresome and, given the stakes, deeply stressful for the student. Students enrolled in a college had to take four examinations a year, usually once every season. These examinations, though relatively minor, concerned the monthly lectures given by local education officials that the students were obliged to attend. Given four times a year, these seasonal examinations enabled the authorities to maintain surveillance over the students, provided the opportunity for social interaction, and were in themselves a form of training.13 More than three absences provoked an official warning, while a year-long absence meant dismissal and removal from the college rolls; students could be excused if they were in mourning, incapacitated by serious illness or accident, or studying away from home. As these practices of administrative surveillance suggest, the so-called colleges sponsored as part of the state system were meant not to offer the kind of scholarly education found at many private academies but to maintain the disciplinary pressure of the examination system. Often called the first degree, the shengyuan was, as indicated, in fact more like admission into student status than an academic degree: it qualified the candidate to continue in the examination system but offered no option of appointment to government office. The frequent translation of the term shengyuan as “licentiate” captures the idea well. Aside from taking the periodic examinations of the local college, a shengyuan student was also regularly obliged to sit for a further series of examinations to maintain his status. This level of test taking continued until the candidate had achieved the provincial degree. The three main series at this level (see Figure 2.2) were the annual examination (suishi), the provincial qualifying examination (keshi), and the provincial examination (xiangshi).14 These cycles—the disciplinary gauntlet of examinations at this stage—kept the pressure on students at an ever higher level, with successively more at stake. The first of these status maintenance examinations, the annual examination (suishi), was also the first examination to offer tangible rewards and penalties based on ranking. Each student remained in a constant movement, the direction and speed of which were defined by his performance in competition with others. Probably the most depressing aspect at the shengyuan student level was that failure meant either repeating the examination every time it was offered, until the individual passed, or admitting defeat and dropping out of the competition altogether. While obliged regularly to take a series of examinations to qualify for status and to maintain it, shengyuan students, as mentioned above, also had to take part in the monthly lectures and seasonal tests of the state college system. Examinations at this level had

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the effect of developing differences and competition amongst the students and of making available various opportunities for improving one’s status, gaining financial awards, and receiving minor official appointments. Candidates were thus separated, differentiated, and individualized by rank and awarded commensurate penalties and rewards. Thus, as the system defined candidates—and encouraged them to define themselves—increasingly by these distinctions, it continued to produce a fiction of pre-existing individuals, whose individual choices and differences the system merely recognized and sorted. Because examination practice also needed to generate the asymmetrical authority relations required by the state, candidates implicitly had to agree to be willing participants, voluntarily submitting themselves to the process of subjectification. The accumulation of individualizing distinctions also strategically undermined the formation of the wrong kind of solidarity among examination candidates by ensuring ongoing competition between them as individuals. Both the annual examination (sui shi) and the provincial qualifying examination (ke shi) were supervised by the Provincial Director of Education and were held in the provincial capital. All shengyuan were initially given the status of appended licentiate (fuxue shengyuan, usually abbreviated to fusheng) until they took the annual examination (sui shi), which would determine their licentiate (shengyuan student) category. In other words, the annual examination determined their student status—and the consequent apportioning of rewards and penalties—and for this reason the examination was the occasion of special dread. There were three status titles available: “stipend student” (linshan shengyuan, usually abbreviated to linsheng); “additional student” (zeng guang shengyuan, usually abbreviated to zeng sheng); and the most numerous, “appended student” (fuxue shengyuan, the generic title given to all first-degree holders). The first status was the most coveted, because it entitled the holder to a government stipend to support himself while studying (lin means “government granary,” hence “stipend”). The second had the same quota allocation as stipend students, with similar honors but without the stipend—effectively adding a second, subsidiary layer to the more prestigious status of stipend student without costing the local authorities any additional financial investment. Students’ fears of the annual examination (sui shi), however, lay in the competition to maintain their status—they must run hard to stay in the same place, or suffer the penalty of demotion for poor performance and fall behind. Their fate—reward or punishment—depended upon which of the six grades the provincial director of education decided to award them (see Appendix 1, which shows the six grades that were assigned to students’ papers, and the conditions attached to each). In general, ranking functions as a disciplinary mechanism by individualizing the subject through an ongoing process that


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does not fix him in position but mandates that he circulate continually through a fixed number of spaces. The distribution of these spaces marks a hierarchy of ability in which he may attain a position but is not guaranteed to remain there. To be a subject in this system is to be always in motion in a network of relations with others who are being similarly individuated within the same hierarchy. In this case, each of the six grades was subdivided in such a way as to attribute values based on the kind of student status attained by the candidate, whether he be stipend student (linshan shengyuan), additional student (zengguang shengyuan), or regular shengyuan student (fuxue shengyuan). Such a meticulously detailed allocation of grades seems to have been designed to produce in candidates a kind of anxious erethism; however, the unvarying cycle of examinations could also be tedious in the extreme, inducing a kind of blasé world-weariness that went with the drill. It is hardly surprising that many candidates never went beyond this stage, often abandoning the enterprise altogether. To a certain extent, simple perseverance in such a marathon marked out those who had achieved the discipline demanded by the state of its administrators. The fascinatingly fine gradations and careful differentiations, the delicate balance of encouragements and punishments, formed the texture of a student’s experience. Gaining promotion was very competitive and involved, but even getting kicked out of the system was a very long process. The six grades ranged from unacceptable to simply good, the stringency of the system reflected in language that begrudged recognition of excellence. Grading was clearly weighted toward doling out penalties: grade three was considered average, and the three grades below it all entailed punishment by demotion or expulsion. Within the six grades, students were promoted through the ranks as vacancies became available, the term of tenure for a stipend student usually lasting three years. Thus, achieving status within the system at this stage merely gave a student the privilege of waiting in line. Stipend students were especially graced by the opportunity to make good if they slipped (see Grade 4, in Appendix 1). It was probably also the case that Provincial Directors of Education, having initially selected and ranked the students, did not want to show themselves or their colleagues to be lacking in judgment. Students probably moved through several of the grades before passing the provincial examination. The grading system was a sophisticated carrot-and-stick method of maintaining surveillance and pressure to work harder, though of course students remained “free” to choose whether to go on, to aim for the highest reward of a stipend, or to abandon the enterprise. The annual examination was an unavoidable ordeal; any student who absented himself without permission was dismissed, and to miss an annual examination more than three times meant automatic removal from the first-degree holder rolls.15

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The provincial qualifying examination (ke shi), by comparison, was a relatively straightforward test to assess the readiness of a candidate for the next major hurdle, the provincial examination. All those planning to take the provincial examination were obliged to participate. It was usually given the year after the annual examination and the year before the provincial competition. Apart from all shengyuan students, a number of other categories of students—tribute students and Imperial College students by purchase (jiansheng; both discussed below) and students holding the hereditary yin privilege—were all required to participate if they wanted to sit the provincial examination.16 The examination itself was held in three sessions and covered the usual material. Those ranked into passing grades—all students of stipend, additional, and appended status who had placed in the top two grades, plus the five to ten highest in the third grade—were allowed to take the provincial examination proper. Failure resulted in having to wait until the next year to face again the interminable round of annual college examinations (sui shi) and the provincial qualifying examination (ke shi) until success, defeat, or death intervened. The frequency and regularity with which candidates were obliged to take examinations, along with subjecting them to education officials’ monthly inspections, exceeded the purposes of ascertaining whether they had attained the required level of knowledge, ensuring that each individual had similar training, or even differentiating their individual abilities. This overwhelming regularity could only contribute toward a level of control through regularized intervention that resulted in a thoroughly trained and properly subjectified individual, one who could properly reproduce the behaviors, the knowledge, and the writing exercises required of him. Examinations constrained candidates to a specific kind of growth that was observable and could continually be marked by qualifications of placement and rank; thus, while coming more and more to resemble others going through the same tests, the candidate was also differentiated by his specific abilities. Competition at this level was intense, as shown by the few figures we do have. There was an official quota for the number of candidates allowed to enter the provincial examination (xiang shi) and another set of quotas for those allowed to pass the examination and become provincial degree holders (see Appendix 2).17 Thus, after having undergone years of rigorous disciplinary training, the candidate for the provincial examination was faced with formidable odds against his passing. The pressure of almost overwhelming competition was added to the round of regular and frequent testtaking. We have no record of the number of attempts at the provincial degree for the 1761 cohort as a whole, but we can get some idea of the range from the cases of Wang Jie (1/1), the top-ranked metropolitan graduate, and Zhao Yi (1/3), who ultimately placed third. Wang Jie, who became a licen-


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tiate (shengyuan) in 1742 (QL7), failed the provincial examination nine times before passing on his tenth attempt, in 1760 (QL25). Zhao Yi, who became a licentiate (shengyuan) in 1745 (QL10), by contrast, achieved provincial degree-holding status on only his second attempt, in 1750 (QL15). The interval between student status (shengyuan) and provincial degree holder (juren), at a very conservative estimate, could thus range from five to fifteen years. The provincial examination (xiang shi) was usually held in the eighth lunar month and the metropolitan examination (hui shi), the next series that the candidate had to take in order to progress, in the third lunar month of the following year. Both had the same timetable of three sessions, each of three days (held on the 8th–10th, the 11th–13th, and the 14th–16th). Sessions were held in an examination compound in the provincial capital, a permanent structure built specifically for the examination. Surveillance seemed to characterize much of the process. Most of the candidates’ first day was spent being processed to enter the compound—including body searches and searches of all material brought in for the two-night stay. On the second day the examination essay themes were handed out, and on the third day candidates could hand in their responses and leave the compound. Provincial degree holders (juren), perhaps because they were considered thoroughly trained in examination taking, were freed from the rhythm of frequent testing and could actually spend time looking for employment. Qualification for civil service employment was probably their most important privilege, along with the right to take the metropolitan examination in the capital. The prospects for employment at this level were not very great, however, mainly because provincial degree holders had to compete with metropolitan degree holders for the same positions. As Qianlong lamented in 1765 (QL30), Each (provincial) examination graduates 1,290 candidates, which means, including special examinations, there are over 5,000 new provincial degree-holders every ten years. In those ten years, not even 500 are employed in office. Aside from those passing the metropolitan examination, there are still several thousand waiting. Over time, this has led to an enormous blockage (in the employment channel) but we have not increased the number of district magistrate positions. In the dead of night, I often try to think of ways to resolve this problem. . . .

Clearly, not only candidates but emperors too were kept up nights by the necessarily obsessive calculus of bureaucratic power. If the emperor’s calculations were correct, fewer than 10 percent of provincial degree holders were employed in any official capacity; thus, along with the enormous odds against passing the provincial examination, there was a shockingly small chance at recompense for a lifetime spent studying and sitting examinations. The remainder had either to find employment on one of the many private

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staffs hired by officials or to be employed as secretaries, copyists, or compilers—the latter a particular opportunity during the mid-eighteenth century when the imperial compilation project, the Siku quanshu (Imperial Manuscript Library), required the services of thousands of extra staff members. Some men no doubt joined the hundreds of copyists hired for each examination to copy examination essays so that they could be graded anonymously. Official employment, however, often entailed taking additional entrance examinations: they were necessary, for example, to be a clerk (neige zhongshu, a secretary of the Grand Secretariat). Although provincial degree holders would be expected to take the metropolitan examination each time it was offered, there was no requirement to do so at this level.18 In summary, most of the 1761 cohort had spent thirty years or so taking examinations and other tests, on a more than annual basis, just to get to a point where they had one chance in fifty to eighty of achieving the provincial degree and, if they did so, a one-in-ten chance (generously estimated) of getting some official employment. At least, at this point, the pace of examinations could be relaxed for the now thoroughly subjectified candidates, who had to decide whether to move onto the highest level of the system.19 We can calculate, from the years the metropolitan examination was held and the record of metropolitan graduates, the number of times the cohort failed the main examination (huishi) before passing in 1761 (see Appendix 3), a sign perhaps of just how well these candidates had absorbed their disciplinary training. Thirty-three had attained provincial degree status only the year before, while another forty-five had qualified two years earlier, in 1759. Perhaps these statistics are not so surprising, given that these candidates were the successful ones who achieved the metropolitan degree. And although a significant number of the 1761 cohort had in fact failed five times over a period of a decade, most managed to pass within three or four attempts. Candidates for the metropolitan examination gathered in the capital from every province of the empire. Those who came from border provinces, such as Guizhou, Yunnan, or Guangxi, were given the use of government horses, and almost all candidates were awarded a sum of four taels or so to cover traveling and lodging expenses. The huishi examination was the main elimination point for the candidates, in form almost identical with the provincial examination: the test was in three sessions, each lasting three days and two nights (in 1761 this meant the first session was held in the third month, from the eighth to the tenth; the second session from the eleventh to the thirteenth, and the final session from the fourteenth to the sixteenth).20 The questions used in the examination are still to be found in the Qing archives, bound in beautiful, thick, hand-made yellow paper, around which a thin band of yellow silk was pasted and on which was written the charge


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to the two Chief Examiners: “Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong are to open and read this.”21 There were three themes: one was based on a quotation from Mencius, one was based on the Rites, and the last was a poetry theme, which had been re-introduced into the examination only in 1723. Initially it seems that all three themes were given in the first session, but descriptions of the examination format indicate that the poetry theme apparently was only given in the second session, even though it was bound in the same packet as the questions from the first session.

Individual Differences One of the most honorable methods of escaping the ceaseless round of tests and examinations at the lower levels of the system was to become a tribute student.22 The term “tribute” derives from the fact that students left their homes and were sent up to the capital to be presented or offered up (gong) as if as tribute to the emperor. Tribute status was awarded to shengyuan students. It facilitated their employment in government as lowranking officials, within the regular appointment system, and it presented the added advantage of allowing them to study in the area with the highest concentration of top-ranking officials and permitted them to take the provincial examination in the administrative area of Shuntian in Beijing. The system of tribute student status can be taken as an example of the generativity of the examination system in producing new kinds of differences among its participants and constructing new kinds of individuality and agency. The most attractive incentive here was that tribute student status exempted the holder from the dreaded annual examination and removed him from any school jurisdiction, which meant no monthly lectures or periodic examinations.23 Selection into this category thus removed at once the worst ordeals of shengyuan student status. Tribute students were also supported by the state while studying at the Guozijian (literally, the supervisorate of the sons of the state). The Taixue, or Imperial College, the academic side of that institution, was the metropolitan educational center; students usually studied there for three years, although some remained for considerably shorter terms. For example, Yang Zhongxuan (3/133), a candidate from the far southwest frontier province of Yunnan, became a tribute student, lived in the capital, and took advantage of the opportunity to try for his provincial degree there. Shuntian was unique in having a special fluctuating provincial degree quota for those in temporary residence there.24 Another major benefit was the opportunity to get an official appointment even before one had attained provincial degree holder status (juren), but because of the stiff competition from those with higher degree status, a prestigious appointment was unlikely.

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Thirty-six of the eventual Class of 1761 achieved tribute student status, and between them they covered most of the categories. Each of the five tribute student categories derived from slightly different circumstances, and the selection schedule varied. The selection process was not necessarily competitive. Tribute status was initially a patronage perquisite of local and provincial education officials and related to the recommendation system (a remnant perhaps of the jiupin zhongzheng system of selection). Early on, the new Manchu dynasty needed many Han Chinese administrators; the practice of selecting tribute students began in 1645, probably in order to satisfy this demand, thus explaining why this status could bring substantive appointment. As the eighteenth century progressed, the selection became increasingly centralized and removed from local and provincial control. The five categories were you gongsheng (tribute student by virtue of excellence), ba gongsheng (tribute student with distinction), sui gongsheng (annual tribute student), en gongsheng (tribute student by imperial beneficence), and fubang gongsheng (tribute student by virtue of an honorable mention, or “tribute student from the provincial examination list”).25 Fubang gongsheng, the most prestigious tribute student category, essentially consisted of failed provincial degree candidates who nonetheless were deemed sufficiently competent to be listed on a roll subsidiary to those who were allowed to pass the provincial examination. The introduction of a provincial quota system inevitably meant that some perfectly adequate candidates failed on numbers alone. Fubang gongsheng status, unlike the other tribute student categories, did not depend on a recommendation from the Provincial Director of Education but was a perquisite of the provincial examiner, who made the final choice. Initially, you gongsheng (excellent tribute students) were selected by the Provincial Director of Education. In the beginning, this open system allowed any director finishing his term in residence unrestricted choice of students, based on the number of local administrative areas under his jurisdiction, and no special examination was required. However, by the mid-eighteenth century, in light of a perceived problem of favoritism in the teacher-student relationship and the increased competition brought on by mid-eighteenthcentury population pressure, selection became increasingly rationalized and rigorous, eroding the local-patronage aspect of the practice. Accountability intensified, with selection increasingly monitored: written examinations were introduced, as were quotas. Directors became increasingly afraid that the Board of Rites might criticize their choices, especially after a 1739 (QL4) edict stating that it would be preferable to send no one if the only choice were a low-quality student. By 1759, the governor of the province shared in the responsibility of evaluating the student. In this, as in so many of the regulations surrounding examinations, the initial range of perquisites


41

was narrowed in favor of standardized procedures guaranteeing fairness and preventing malpractice. At the same time, the state’s restriction of a threatening opportunity for provincial directors to build factional followings also limited the system’s political scope. In any case, by 1765, in addition to a written examination, candidates were also required to take a court examination (that is, an examination with court-appointed examiners) and to participate in an imperial interview. Both procedures raised the threshold for passing and brought the final decision into the throne’s hands, removing it from the purview of provincial government—a trend in the continual struggle of central government with the centrifugal effect of regional and local forces. Nevertheless, as regulations tightened and control centralized, the rewards became increasingly meaningful. Initially, you gongsheng (excellent tribute students) were permitted to study only at the Imperial College. However, the mid-eighteenth century witnessed the introduction of low-ranking substantive appointments of district magistrates, district directors of education, and sub-directors of prefectural schools. Although competition for places might be tough, this option nonetheless represented opportunities for some to withdraw from examination life while still owing loyalty and gratitude to the throne.26 Ba gongsheng (meaning one plucked from among the crowd, thus, an outstanding or distinguished tribute student) was also a common type of tribute student, and this status offered the most opportunity for employment; a third of the thirty-six tribute students in the 1761 cohort claimed this status. Not all ba gongsheng thought highly of the privilege. Two did not even bother to note the distinction on their examination registration forms, though the authors of their biographies and the compilers of local gazetteers were more careful. Clearly, for those with the ambition and perseverance to go on to better things—and of course those in our sample all went on to gain the metropolitan degree—becoming a distinguished tribute student was less meaningful. By the mid-eighteenth century (1742), competition—necessitated by the lack of available appointments—intensified, with selection being made once every twelve years, instead of every six. At the end of a three-year tenure at the Imperial College, ba gongsheng, like you gongsheng, could enter state service with a substantive appointment to either local government or to capital office at equally low rank. Special quotas existed for Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese Bannermen—the ethno-political military elite of the Qing empire—again demonstrating the state’s intent to create an integrated, inclusive identity.27 Sui gongsheng (annual tribute student) was the second most common category of tribute student. However, because students in this category were selected from among older shengyuan who had repeatedly failed the

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provincial examination, they rarely appeared among the ranks of metropolitan degree holders. Chosen by seniority, this status represented a gesture of compassion—another kind of consolation prize—for those stipend students who had taken the provincial examination more than ten times and failed. In spite of their perseverance, which seems to have been considered laudable in itself, the existence of such patent failures was hardly good for the image of the examination system, and removing them from the lists of regular shengyuan students had at least the effect of masking that negative impression. The local education official held the privilege of selecting sui gongsheng, with the provincial director of education confirming the choice. Nevertheless, having assigned quotas ensured that the window of opportunity was small: each prefecture could send one person per year, counties could propose two people every two years, and districts, one every three years.28 Examinations for en gongsheng (imperially mandated tribute student), the fifth and last category, were only held in conjunction with other examinations given by imperial grace, as they were in 1761, for instance, to celebrate the imperial birthdays and the conquest of Xinjiang. Such an occasion was thus used to mark a historic moment of identification conspicuously shared by the whole Qing collectivity. For some aspirants, the easiest route was the tried and tested method of purchase, exploiting their own resources of wealth and social position. The status that most reflected the use of financial resources was that of jiansheng (Imperial College student). Jiansheng status, available for purchase for around 100 taels of silver, was essentially a state monopoly commodity. It enabled the young pre-shengyuan student to bypass completely the early stages of the examination system. For shengyuan students who either had been stuck at the first-degree stage or wanted to avoid it completely, it offered an escape from the local education official’s authority. Furthermore, like regular tribute students, the sons of advantaged families who purchased the status could take the provincial examinations in Shuntian prefecture (the special district of the capital) or get training in the Guozijian or even solicit employment on the staff of some important official. In effect, the purchase of a degree bought first degree status and allowed the student to move immediately on to preparation for the second degree. The sale of status must always have been a temptation for a state in need of financial resources, and initially these studentships were offered to raise funds for the new Manchu regime. But such a practice undermined the prestige of the very system intended to discipline its administrators. The pressure of the twin imperatives of revenue and integrity resulted in a state policy that switched incessantly from one choice to the other, with periods when sale of offices was banned completely. It was most useful as a com-


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modity for sons of officials in the capital or as an unsecured investment for wealthy households looking to get a few steps ahead (see Appendix 4).29 Tribute studentships (gongsheng) and Imperial College studentships (jiansheng) were two kinds of individualizing subroutines within examination practice that created different opportunities to accelerate. They enabled students to secure low-ranking positions and to hedge their bets—just in case, as for many, they never qualified for a higher examination. Perhaps most important, these special statuses and the paths associated with them multiplied goals and strategies and decisions, adding texture and dimension to the sense of individual agency within the system. At the same time, the existence of different paths to the same goal contributed to over-determine the focus on examinations, their value, and the pressure to succeed. To sum up, tribute student status may, in retrospect, have seemed rather insignificant to those holding the metropolitan degree, but the incentive and encouragement it offered to those still in the midst of their examination careers should not be underestimated. Thirty-six of the 1761 metropolitan cohort had competed successfully for the privilege; by contrast, only eleven had used family wealth to purchase positions in the Imperial College. Tribute student status offered an escape from local and prefectural college surveillance and from the worst of the status-maintenance examinations. For some, the experience in the capital offered a chance to polish interpersonal skills and make important connections—one informal agenda of the examination system itself. Such contacts could lead to important training experience. For others (excluding the Class of 1761, of course), tribute student status offered an honorable way out of an examination career: if they could secure a lower-ranking position either in local government or in the state’s examination network, who was to say they did not achieve at least as much as others of their cohort? For the men of the Class of 1761, though, tribute student status was mostly a stopgap measure, a chance to review the options on their way to higher qualification. This status added a dimension to the individualizing distinctions of the examination system (as the collective biography that follows will make apparent), contributing to a sense of agency and an increased sense that the competition mattered, regardless of the fact that, in the process, much the same material was rehearsed, in the same way, and through the same examination rituals. A description of some of their various circumstances shows how members of the 1761 cohort as examination candidates in the system could, while being subject to the disciplinary regime, also maneuver through the more flexible areas of the system. In the collective biography that follows the individual names are, perhaps unfortunately, less significant than the variety of individualizing choices they illustrate. Through this process they

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could demonstrate a kind of agency to themselves—although from this great distance, the training that gave them political power is more noticeable as a constraining device. For many of the 1761 cohort, the status of tribute student was a way station; many refer generically to themselves as tribute students without bothering to stipulate which of its five categories they came under. The vagueness of tribute status is apparent in the use of the abbreviated terms “gongsheng,” a generic reference to the status, or “fu gongsheng.” The latter could mean a fu shengyuan, someone who had purchased the tribute title or, alternately, a tribute student selected as an honorable mention after failing the cut of the provincial examination quota (fubang gongsheng). Several of the cohort had also exploited family wealth and purchased the status; these were usually distinguished from the regular awards by adding the student status rank to the title of tribute student. For example, Wang Weishan (2/13) from Suzhou in Jiangsu province purchased tribute status while holding the zengguang shengyuan (additional student) status, which carried no stipend.30 He used the opportunity to take and pass the 1760 provincial examination. Ma Renlong (3/124), another of the 1761 cohort, listed himself as a “zhun” gongsheng, meaning one “permitted to purchase tribute status.” A native of Shandong province, Ma came from a district in Ji’nan prefecture where his family name was the dominant surname. Tribute status also enabled him to take and pass the provincial degree, and he was selected as a Hanlin bachelor despite being ranked 124th in the third class (twenty-fourth from the bottom in a cohort of 207). Gaining a reputation in cartography, he ended his days as a secretary (zhushi) after having served as metropolitan censor. Even if the position was not necessarily a direct result of his taking his provincial degree in the capital or purchasing tribute status, it signified some benefit derived along the way, in comparison to many who ranked higher in the 1761 examination.31 The 1761 cohort contained only one “excellent tribute student.” With the narrower quotas and tougher competition, it is in fact difficult to assess exactly what Geng Xuemo (3/19) gained in 1753. Hailing from the border province of Sichuan (considered a medium-sized province), Geng Xuemo was one of only four selections province-wide. He did not pass the provincial examination until 1760, ranking fifty-ninth; his metropolitan rank was even lower, at 194th. Perhaps his mediocrity could even have been an effect of his newfound urban life. He was characterized in his later career as magistrate only by the kind of clichés that indicated an average performance. He was said to have been fair to the people, to have kept good order, and to have had the ability to settle longstanding cases; perhaps most formulaically, it was said that when he retired from office, local people wept to see him leave.32 In the end, it seems impossible to say what might have been


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so excellent about Geng Xuemo, since neither his examination rank, nor his official rank, nor subsequent assessments of him were particularly distinguished. This sense of a certain arbitrariness, at least with regard to merit, in the awarding of tribute status only underscores its more important structural or performative functions of generating and elaborating distinctions among candidates and directing their aspirations, their gratitude, and loyalties. Just as important, and as I will discuss again in reference to quotas, the distribution of tribute status, as in the case of Geng Xuemo, ensured that there was regional representation from even the border provinces, for the Manchu state was nothing if not aware of the significance of maintaining inclusiveness in its enormous empire. It mattered little that border provinces could not offer the kinds of cultural resources to compete adequately against cultural strongholds such as the Yangzi delta area; it mattered greatly that all areas were offered a share. Jiang Yongzhi (QL26/2/1), for example, appeared to be rather dissatisfied with his rewards and was not afraid to be selective in his career choices. Chosen as a tribute student in 1741 (QL6), Jiang (1720–1770) was one of the last to get through under the Yongzheng schedule of 1727, in which the selection competition was held every six years. He would have had to fulfill two requirements, not only being a stipend student (linshan shengyuan) but also placing in one of the top three grades of the annual examination (sui shi). He had been chosen during the last of the three sessions of the provincial qualifying examination (ke shi); this had been followed by a further examination, given jointly by either the governor’s or the governorgeneral’s office, after which his documents had been forwarded to the Board of Rites. Jiang Yongzhi traveled to the capital from Anhui province to sit the required court examination the following year. The examination was held inside the Forbidden City’s Wu Men. If he had been selected before 1737 and had placed in one of the top two grades, he might have been appointed to office immediately, but in 1742 he had no choice but to study at the Imperial College for three years. His biographer—the well-known scholar and official Zhu Yun (1729– 1781)—claims that during this period Jiang became the student of Huang Shu-lin (1672–1756). Jiang was interested in Huang’s reputation as a scholar: Huang’s works were sufficiently important to be copied into the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries, the major state-sponsored cultural project of the eighteenth century. At the end of his three years of study he was assigned to the position of instructor in the School for the Eight Banners, a fortunate appointment because it would keep him in the capital. But he apparently expressed a belief that the position was inappropriately menial and, citing filial concern for his aged grandmother and father, he returned home and remained there ten years.33 Not until he secured an appointment worthy of his

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stature would he participate in government service. Although the institution of family most often supported the state and worked reciprocally with it in generating incentives for state service, family duty could also be used as an excuse to avoid an unwanted appointment. Whereas Jiang Yongzhi might have indulged his opinion about accepting low-level official appointments, Guan Zhihan (3/4) had no such scruples. Also selected in 1741, he too went to the capital, participated in the court examination, and studied at the Imperial College. Upon concluding his training, he was appointed district director of education in his home province of Fujian, where he remained until securing his metropolitan degree gained him an appointment in the capital. Even at the relatively young age of twenty-seven, Guan Zhihan was eight years older than his contemporary, the nineteen-yearold Zhang Shoupei (3/25), another ba gongsheng (distinguished tribute student) of 1741. Though not the scholar that Jiang Yongzhi was, Guan Zhihan had literary pretensions—the local gazetteer has numerous examples of his poetry—and as an examination candidate he also showed promise, ranking fourth in the provincial examination of 1760.34 The rewards accruing from selection to tribute status and the appointment and work experience that could follow from it could extend beyond the examination career. Instead of undergoing the usual decade-long wait, Wang Mi (2/24; born 1731) and Xu Fazhen (3/2), again both ba gongsheng, were given immediate appointments as district magistrates after passing the 1761 metropolitan examination, a fact that may well be attributed to their earlier work experience.35 One Bannerman to take advantage of the option of the Mongol quota for ba gongsheng was Song-gui (2/50). With the family name of Shi, he was a bondservant member of the Mongol Plain Yellow Banner under LieutenantGeneral Na-fu and Captain Guan-yin-bu. Curiously, on his metropolitan examination registration form he lists himself as belonging to the Manchu Plain Yellow Banner, as if the distinction between Manchu and Mongol were unimportant. In contrast to the other five Bannermen of the 1761 cohort, Song-gui (1736–1789) had quite a prominent career in the capital and at court. Perhaps his success was facilitated by his selection as ba gongsheng—and subsequent study at the Imperial College—in contrast to the other Bannermen. After receiving his 1761 metropolitan degree, he was chosen as a Hanlin bachelor.36 He Hun (3/130), the only annual tribute student (sui gongsheng) in the 1761 cohort, was one of the lucky ones. Perhaps the award itself had helped inspire his further examination success. Although his family came from the northern border province of Gansu (then part of the administrative area of Shaanxi), his father, who was born in the early years of the Kangxi reign and a metropolitan degree holder of 1724, was already an official at rank


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4A in the capital. It is likely, though not absolutely certain, that He Hun lived in the capital at least until his father’s retirement to Gansu in 1735; it is unclear how old He Hun was when he became an annual tribute student. Born in 1716, he was still only twenty-two when he passed his provincial examination in 1738, so it is baffling that he was reckoned eligible for a status usually reserved for older men. We can guess that his father pulled strings for him. As an annual tribute student (sui gongsheng), he no doubt spent the requisite eight months studying at the Imperial College and lived at home as a non-residential student.37 In any case, like Jiang Yongzhi earlier, he decided not to accept the position of district school sub-director. For the majority of sui gongsheng, a regular appointment even at the lowly rank of 8B must have been a welcome relief from an already too-long examination career, but for He Hun the status was just a stepping stone to higher examination qualification. Ironically, unlike his father, who ended his career as a subdirector in the Court of Judicature and Revision, he became a comparatively lowly district magistrate in the southern border province of Guangdong (a setting dramatically different from his northern boyhood home). There is general agreement among Chinese scholars that the Imperial College did in earlier times offer a substantial education to its student body. At any moment, the college had a diverse group of students, including tribute students of various types, imperial students who had taken examinations to enter, and students who had entered through purchase.38 Wealth and status were perhaps the most telling attributes of Imperial College students (jiansheng). The purchase of an Imperial College studentship could save years of study; for example, it enabled Qin Cheng’en (2/11) to win the provincial degree at the unusually young age of sixteen, Ji Chengqian (2/2) at eighteen, and Jin Yunhua (3/8) at nineteen. At seventeen, Qin Cheng’en (1744–1809) was the youngest member of the 1761 metropolitan cohort. Qin was the second generation of his family to achieve metropolitan degree status. His father, Qin Dashi (1712?–1777), was already a high-ranking official in the Hanlin Academy with a reputation as a poet, sought after by such contemporary luminaries as Yuan Mei. The elder Qin had placed first in the 1752 metropolitan competition. His eldest son, Qin Cheng’en, did not match that feat—perhaps partly because of his accelerated progress, one might speculate—but his precocity itself must have led to ambitious hopes.39 Qin Cheng’en is a perfect example of how families might take advantage of officeholding in the capital and financial resources to further family success. By purchasing an Imperial College studentship for his son, Qin senior at a single stroke shortened by years his son’s course of study at the junior level, so that at age sixteen his son already had the provincial degree, and by the time Qin senior decided to retire in 1763, his

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son was already ensconced in the Hanlin Academy, ready to take over the family fortunes, and he did so successfully. Ji Chengqian (2/2), like his classmate Qin Cheng’en (2/11), achieved his provincial degree through a purchased studentship quite young, at age eighteen, but he did not manage his metropolitan degree until thirteen years later, demonstrating that such academic precociousness did not always guarantee success. Nor, it would appear, did prior officeholding; Ji Chengqian was the third generation to attempt officeholding. Ji’s father, Ji Huang (1711–1794), and his grandfather before him, Ji Zengyun (1671– 1739), both became court ministers famed for their work in river conservancy, but Ji Chengqian rose only as far as sub-reader in the Hanlin Academy, ranked at 5B. Ho Ping-ti, in his work on social mobility, cites Ji Chengqian as an example of downward mobility—and this despite the best efforts of Yuan Mei’s (1716–1798) tutoring. After three generations of officeholding in the capital, family ambitions were weakened, Ho thinks, by taking social position and the comforts of urban living for granted.40 Another Imperial College student was Yao Fen (2/6), a member of the Yao lineage from Tongcheng, Anhui province. Like his great-grandfather before him, he became a high-ranking provincial official; both were considered experts in provincial finance and were appointed as Financial Commissioners. Yao Fen (1726–1801) exemplifies the dream of rising steadily from lowranking magistrate to provincial governor, a progression few in the 1761 cohort ever achieved. Yao Fen figures in Hilary Beattie’s groundbreaking study of Tongcheng county as one of many lineage members working within an established long-range strategy of combining examination qualification, officeholding, landholding, and marriage alliances with established families (in his branch’s case, with the Fangs).41 He, too, translated his studentship into an accelerated provincial degree: at age twenty-four, he ranked as 29th in the 1750 competition. Dai Yuankui (3/13) from Shandong and Jin Yunhuai (3/8) from Huizhou in Anhui both used their studentships to pass their provincial examinations in the capital prefecture of Shuntian.42 Usually students were required to sit the provincial examination in their home province. Changing residency was a complicated procedure, requiring the sponsorship of either a relative who was a long-term resident of that place or the Imperial College, if one were a registered student. Avoidance regulations—the Qing system of conflict-of-interest law—were devised to prevent the formation of family factions, especially regionally based ones. But the laws said nothing about the formation of friendships and cliques within state institutions like the Imperial College, a circumstance that facilitated the development of a widespread network of relations both within the bureaucracy and within elite society. Jin Yunhuai, after his Imperial College studentship, went on to the metropolitan class of 1761 and then to a career in the capital. His ex-


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ample also fits Ho Ping-ti’s pattern for upward mobility: both his sons became higher-ranking officials than he had been. Bannermen also competed as Imperial College students. Min-bao (3/90), of the Plain Blue Manchu Banner, became an Imperial College student, though with less than the usual evidence, it is not clear how he did so. The 1773 Peking Gazette lists him as a brewer in the Banqueting department.43 Obviously, his career was minor in comparison with that of Song-gui, the ba gongsheng, although it appears he had very similar advantages of study at the Imperial College. There is one important point of distinction between the cohort’s Bannermen and their Han Chinese colleagues. Bannermen, even if less distinguished by high examination or administrative rank, tended to get appointment in the capital, whereas Han Chinese, no matter what their examination rank, would often end their careers as ordinary district magistrates, far from home and far from the center of imperial politics. Overall, however, Imperial College studentships attracted officeholding families, particularly in the capital, as a way to bypass the earlier stages of the examination system and achieve examination qualification at a younger age. Why was purchase at this level considered an acceptable practice? Mostly, I would suggest, because the state generally trusted that officeholding families would provide their sons with the kind of acculturation and training that examinations offered, but within the home environment. The risks to the state were not great, as many long-term officeholding families could not maintain the family impetus to officeholding. In practice, it was a rather self-regulating process in which those without real talent or drive tended to slip by the wayside in spite of whatever advantages their families provided. Those who did get through ended with training in the types of behaviors and norms the state wanted; indeed, many were halfway there when they began. We have seen, however, that there was great concern for the integrity of the examination process and perhaps for the lack of disciplinary oversight that was permitted by imperial studentships, and thus the practice of purchase was never quite accepted as completely orthodox.

Construction of Desire Demand, and hence desirability, was achieved in a general way by supporting the family ideology of mobility through educational qualification. But more particularly, desirability was produced by generating scarcity through limiting the availability of examinations in frequency to a onceevery-three-year schedule and numerically through a restrictive quota system. A policy of unlimited accessibility would surely have made success increasingly mundane and detracted from its value. As a consequence, desirability would decrease, as indeed happened in the latter half of nineteenth

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century, when examination degrees became a commodity the state offered widely for purchase. The value of academic degrees decreased and they began to lose their cachet; the examination system subsequently came under increasing public criticism and attack.44 Quotas were a mechanism calculated to generate longing and desire, the state deliberately implementing them to both create and fulfill demand. The devices of extra, irregular examinations and ad-hoc increases in the quota— both of which depended on the personal order of the emperor—could then be used to meet the dissatisfaction. This strategy of increasing the number of state-awarded degrees thus focused the gratitude and loyalty of candidates and graduates onto their benefactor, the throne. The overall effect of examinations and quotas, as Chang Chung-li concluded, may indeed have contributed to the regulation of the size and composition of the elite, but that result may not have been intended. Few would dispute the fact that the quota system limited the availability of examination degrees overall; however, as I suggested in the previous chapter, this restriction acted as a gatekeeper not just to elite status but to political power. Quotas were probably the first paradox of the system that its participants encountered. Examination rhetoric, or ideology (as Ho Ping-ti calls it), promised meritocratic selection based on ideals of scholarly excellence. Yet, on the face of it, the almost infinite malleability of quotas limited that access rather arbitrarily. State manipulation of quotas produced three important effects. First, the parsimony of these regulatory numbers engendered desire, producing an initial voluntary impetus to participate in the system. Second, quota manipulation ensured inclusion and representation, thus contributing to the constitution of a structure that could be thought of as a proto nation-space. Third, by fulfilling unmet demand for examination qualification, irregular quota increases (and extra, ad-hoc examinations) directed candidates’ loyalty and obligation toward the throne. The quota system worked to produce a sliding scale of desirability. As the candidate rose through the examination hierarchy, quotas became narrower, giving the system its distinctive pyramidal shape. No quotas were applied to the very lowest level of the system—the youth’s examination held in the district and prefecture; thus, the number of fuxue shengyuan (appended students or fusheng) was unlimited and this level was, theoretically at least, wholly merit-based. However, even at this shengyuan level quotas did apply to the prestigious, government-sponsored, linshan shengyuan (stipend student) status, and to the lesser status of zeng shengyuan (additional student). These two categories were considered valuable, since the former provided financial aid and the latter, placement on a waiting list for future stipend vacancies. The catchment area for student status followed the political administrative divisions of county (zhou), district (xian), and prefecture (fu), with each further categorized by size.45


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The stage between shengyuan (student) and juren (provincial degree holder)—tribute student—reflected two eighteenth-century trends: increasing centralization of control, including the patronage process, and increasing competition for academic qualification. Whereas, for example, selection of you gongsheng (excellent tribute students) was once a perquisite of the outgoing Provincial Director of Education, as the century progressed the system had come under increasing surveillance from the provincial government and, ultimately, the capital (see earlier discussion). Similarly, although the choice of fubang gongsheng (those listed subsidiary to provincial examination graduates) ostensibly remained in the hands of provincial government, the centrally appointed examiner was usually a member of the capital bureaucracy, and thus this patronage effectively moved into ministerial or imperial hands. Burgeoning demographic growth produced increased demand for examination qualification and with that came an increase in surveillance and a proliferation of restrictions in the examination system (for example, in examination avoidance regulations; see Chapter Four). The treatment of ba gongsheng (outstanding, or distinguished tribute students), as mentioned earlier, is a case in point: through most of the first half of the century, selection was made once every six years, but in 1742 selection was changed to once every twelve years—effectively cutting the quota in half. Competition increased to the extent that all available resources, even the sui gongsheng quota (as we saw above in the discussion of He Hun) was applied to those who were surely too young to qualify as long-term shengyuan. Overall, the period saw growing competition for increasingly scarce resources, both in terms of restrictive quotas and a growing examination population, and a tightening of centralized control, with examination patronage becoming increasingly accountable.46 For the provincial and metropolitan degrees, the unit of quota calculation was the province. As Ho Ping-ti points out, the introduction of provincial quotas was a significant restriction and represented a change from the previous Ming practice of three broad regional groupings (north, south, and middle), which had allowed a larger number to pass. The Qing, however, wanted a specific allocation, and data gathered for the purpose allowed for a much more detailed knowledge of the location of Confucian elites and consequently facilitated more finely tuned adjustments and control.47 Provinces were categorized as small, medium, and large, with provincial quotas assigned accordingly. In 1712 for the first time then, specific provincial quotas were calculated for the metropolitan examination. Focusing only on the restrictive effects of this measure, as Ho Ping-ti does, draws attention away from its stated goal of a more representative selection based on the political divisions of the empire. The measure was seen as an encouragement to the individual provinces that would predictably, as the edict stated, “send increasing numbers to take

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the examinations.” It was only at the metropolitan level that a specific quota number was assigned to each province for each metropolitan examination. The precise method by which the metropolitan examination quota was calculated is unclear; however, it was based on the number of registration forms sent up to the Board of Rites before the examination from the local authorities to whom candidates submitted their paperwork. These were then measured against previous quotas and some calculation made. In 1789, 1790, and 1793, the number of metropolitan degrees awarded dropped abruptly from a general average of between 200 and 300 to 98, 97, and 81 respectively. The last was the lowest for the entire dynasty. There is no ready explanation, but the drop may well relate in some way to Heshen’s hold on political power, the very height of which coincides with these years.48 The Qing system did ensure an interesting version of regional representation. The quota was set to include all provinces nationwide, though the aim was not, as it ostensibly has been for affirmative action policies in our own day, to redress imbalances, but merely to ensure representation. The quota allocated to each province continued to favor provinces that traditionally had been successful in examinations. It did nothing to redress the fact that the overwhelming balance of candidates came from the cultural heartland of Jiangnan and the metropolitan province of Zhili, along with the capital prefecture of Shuntian. Both Zhili and Shuntian were heavily populated with officials, as can be seen in Table 1.2. While Jiangnan had a quota of thirtyfour out of 686 entrants in 1761 (a 4.96 percent success rate), Fengtian, the prefecture of the old Manchu capital of Mukden (modern-day Shenyang), was given a quota of one, out of fifteen entrants (6.67 percent). Zhejiang had a quota of thirty, out of 499 entrants (6.1 percent); Guangxi and Yunnan each had quotas of five, out of 119 (4.2 percent) and 148 (3.38 percent) entrants respectively. Zhili was given a quota of seventeen, to be chosen from 571 entrants (2.98 percent).49 A more evenly apportioned quota system could have been instituted if parity had been the goal. Instead, the system awarded more graduates to the wealthier provinces and fewer to the poorer ones. Such tight quotas, ranging from roughly 3 to 6 percent, did however contribute to the generation of an ongoing desire for examination qualification. To the extent that Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese Bannermen shared some of the same resources as the majority Han Chinese population, it was important that an equal desire and value be created among these nonChinese groups. In terms of the ratio of entrants to graduates, the political divisions of the Mongol, Manchu, and Chinese Banners were allowed a ratio more favorable than average, ranging from a high 18.18 percent for the Mongol Banners to a high average of 7 percent for the Manchu and Chinese Banners. Clearly, then, one very important function of the quota sys-


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tem was to ensure representation from every province and significant ethnic group in the empire. It was probably not accidental that so many of those given tribute student status in the 1761 cohort came from outlying border provinces. Even though Banner quotas were small (Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese Bannermen had a quota of two assigned to each group, with entry numbers that year of 60, 11, and 28, respectively), they were assured some level of representation. One of the most important structural effects of the regional and ethnopolitical quotas was that, together with the funnel-like process of elimination through the three-tiered examination system, they were instrumental in creating the material and symbolic fact of a kind of nation-space. They ensured that each metropolitan cohort, gathered together in the capital and bound by their common experience (whether serving in office or waiting to do so), reproduced a matrix that would spatially cover all of China proper and, with appointments to frontier areas, many of the boundary regions. It was a matrix that intersected both vertically through the bureaucratic hierarchy and, equally significantly, horizontally through communications and connections within Confucian-defined social and professional relationships (the line between social and professional being somewhat blurred). In producing and binding together office holders from all regions who would share political power and administrative responsibility as they had shared the examination life, the system reproduced a matrix that would form the foundation of a later nation-space. Restrictions and representation increased the difficulty, the value, and the desirability of achieving examination qualification. Quotas and examinations could also be manipulated to fulfill demand while performing important symbolic effects for the throne. Petitioning the emperor to change the definition of an area’s size (for example, from small to medium) was one administrative method of increasing a local area’s quota. Hosting a visit from the reigning emperor was another way. For example, each of the Qing emperors visited the Imperial College at least once during his reign; the regulations actually specified once a year. Qianlong visited twice, in 1739 and 1785; on each visit the emperor increased the quota for Imperial College students to pass the provincial examination (which they took in the capital prefecture of Shuntian).50 Perhaps the most common and the most performative way of fulfilling unmet demand, however, was through examinations given by special imperial beneficence. Special examinations (enke) illustrate the way in which the state’s central authority figure—the throne—used its political power to generate symbolic capital, producing gratitude and thus loyalty in its subjects and, simultaneously, enlarging the overall number of degree holders without overtly abusing the principles of quota restriction. In other words, while maintaining the

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scarcity and therefore the value and desirability of examination degrees through restrictive quotas, the throne could in fact be seen to be giving way to demand in a very scripted way—generously and without being constrained to do so—a strategy that would add to its popularity among the educated elite in particular. Although the 1761 metropolitan examination was held in addition to the prescribed three-year schedule, it was far from precedent-setting. The Kangxi emperor (r. 1662–1722) began the practice and the Yongzheng emperor (1723–1736) continued it. It was, however, only in the Qianlong reign that these imperially mandated examinations came to be held with a remarkable regularity, which had the effect of increasing the overall number of degrees issued. The special examinations were in fact held every ten years from Qianlong’s reign onward, though because there was nothing in the regulations that obliged the reigning monarch to hold them, their occurrence could never quite be taken for granted. The deliberate lack of regularization of examinations given through “imperial beneficence” seems to have been part of a strategic policy of the Manchu regime to ensure that metropolitan degree qualification remained at a premium while masking the fact that more degrees were being made available. Several of the 1761 cohort had benefited earlier in their examination careers from these practices, making 1761 a second occasion for their gratitude to their sovereign. Specifically, in addition to the examinations celebrating notable events and imperial birthdays, Qianlong also regularly offered ad-hoc examinations while on inspection tours of his country. The examinations offered as part of an Imperial Tour were extremely modest in comparison to the regular examination format. Most often, candidates submitted samples of their poetry. If, probably through the kind offices of an attending court minister, a piece caught the emperor’s eye, its author could be tested in an essay-writing competition given by ministers in the accompanying entourage. Candidates could be from all levels of the regular examination system: three of the 1761 cohort had their provincial degree under the auspices of an Imperial Tour recruitment examination. Sun Shiyi obtained the luckiest opportunity in his career by taking one of these examinations. He and four others had in fact already become metropolitan degree holders, yet the gains from selection during these events were clearly substantial. The lucky ones could be awarded gifts from the imperial treasury, usually bolts of silk, together with an examination degree, and most often the right to take up a secretarial post in one the capital ministries, as did Sun Shiyi. Feng Yingliu—who had, despite his metropolitan degree, taken both the 1762 and the 1765 Imperial Tour recruitment examinations—later decided these examinations were being abused and had become corrupt. He had been lucky the second time around, but two decades later, in 1788, he submitted a memorial citing various abuses and deceptions, including the use of con-


55

nections and favors, and he suggested that security be tightened. In fact, his proposals, which included the appointment of the Shuntian prefect for the upcoming tour to Tianjin, if taken up, would have moved these loosely structured gestures of imperial largesse into the realm of formal examinations. The imperial response to this exposé seems rather disingenuous. Brought to question the purpose of these examinations, Qianlong asked, “Why do these (men) who have examination qualifications and an officeholding background feel they need the advantages of these recruitment examinations? (In doing so) they merely obstruct the way of those scholars who are more needy.”51 In comparison with those who continued along the regular path to qualification and appointment, those of the 1761 cohort who had participated in recruitment examinations did in fact progress more rapidly and further up the administrative hierarchy. The example of Jiang Yongzhi is instructive of how examination candidates carefully marshaled the resources available to them with an eye on the main chance. Having refused the offer of an instructorship at the School for the Eight Banners in 1741 and returned home, Jiang Yongzhi participated in the ad-hoc examinations offered during the emperor’s southern tour in 1751. He was awarded the provincial degree for the excellence of his poetry; among his group was also Qian Daxin (1728–1804), later famous as a scholar and historian. The year 1751 was also when the Qianlong emperor, besides the usual imperial gifts of silk, established the precedent of awarding immediate appointment to office. His earlier instructorship appointment had not been attractive enough to accept, but Jiang Yongzhi was decidedly content to take up the post of secretary (zhong shu) serving in the Grand Council, the very heart of government in the metropolitan complex. Two others of the 1761 cohort were likewise fortunate, in 1757: Gu Zhen and Cao Renhu also accepted appointment as secretaries until they passed the metropolitan examination.52 I would suggest, in conclusion, that the significance of quotas was as much in their symbolic as their material effects, though of course the two are bound together. If numbers were to be increased, it was most important that the increase have symbolic significance deriving specifically from the generosity of the throne. It was a means of ensuring that the educated elite would continue to attend to their ruler as the source of special benefits, whether honorary degrees, increased quotas, or irregular examinations (not to mention special appointments or even bolts of silk). Any increase in quotas through examinations given by imperial beneficence or through imperially mandated tribute students, or as a result of imperial visits to the Imperial College, must be attributable solely to the throne’s will. Thus the arbitrariness of the system tends to be naturalized as a kind of base against which the throne’s interventions appear as freely granted gifts. The multiplication of

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paths and opportunities, such as in the form of imperially decreed special examinations or quota increases, makes it in fact rather difficult to judge how much more slippery the “ladder to success” would have been without them, and that is just the point, for it allows the sense both of imperial largesse and of an ongoing baseline of scarcity to be maintained, regardless of what the actual success rate was at any given time. The case of Song Yu, another member of the 1761 cohort, graphically illustrates how quotas participated in producing and directing desire, and in laying out the playing field on which candidates moved.53 It makes a fitting if equivocal vignette with which to conclude this chapter. Born in 1727, Song Yu was a Chinese Bannerman who, instead of registering for the 1761 metropolitan examination as such, described himself as a native of Yutian district in Zhili province, where he was a resident. His biographers, typically, claim that the false registration was entirely due to ignorance rather than to intentional deceit. He did not, however, voluntarily confess his mistake to the authorities. It was only after the palace examination, after he had actually been given a class ranking, that he was found out and charged. He was tried by the Banner authorities and sentenced to exile—ironically, in Xinjiang, whose recent conquest was celebrated in the 1761 examination. He spent the next ten years living in Urumqi before receiving an imperial pardon; when he finally left on his journey home, he received monetary gifts totaling some ten thousand taels of silver, perhaps for his services as teacher. He was never appointed to office but spent the remainder of his days, so his chronicler claims, quietly studying back in his home village. We cannot say for sure what complex calculation, however misguided, motivated him to misrepresent himself, whether it was the pressure to succeed or the desire to bypass the small quotas given Bannermen. Curiously, his chances as a Chinese Bannerman would have been better, in terms of percentages at least; the success rate was 7 percent for Chinese Bannermen and just under 3 percent for Zhili. But for whatever reason, it seems he preferred to be among the quota of 17 out of 571 entrants from Zhili to being one of just two (of 28) Chinese Bannermen. In any case, it seems, having had the desire for examination credentials instilled into him, he had neither the luck nor the connections to put himself in the way of imperial generosity. Like all who entered the examination system, though, he had essentially contracted to live and die not by the sword but by the dossier and the quota— or at least to allow his destiny to be shaped by them.

3

Rites of Spring

The palace examination, the final part of the metropolitan examination process, not only differed in format from the main examination (huishi ) for the metropolitan degree; it also had a different agenda. The examination decided the final ranking order of the candidates; they were then awarded metropolitan degrees and given the title of jinshi (“presented scholar”). In fact, their placement in this examination could be radically different from that in the main huishi examination, and placement mattered at this point, because it led directly to one’s first appointment (see Chapter Five). For example, the man ranked first in the main examination (huishi) of 1761 later ranked tenth in the palace examination (dian shi), and the man ranked eventually in first place (zhuang yuan) in the palace examination was originally ranked tenth in the main examination. At first sight it might seem that a simple exchange had occurred, but in fact it is completely coincidental and arbitrary. Nearly all commentaries describe the palace examination as a ritual that simply ranked the graduates—and it is true that having got this far, none failed the test.1 Such a characterization might mislead us into thinking the palace examination was a mere proforma exercise. Ye Duan, as another example, had ranked second in the main examination (huishi) but found himself ranked 170th after the palace examination. By contrast, Hu Gaowang, whose paper we will explore in detail in this chapter, was ranked second, or bang yan, after the palace examination though he had achieved a rank of only 166th in his main examination. Thus, whether our concern is to understand the examination system as a meritocracy or we wish to regard examinations as exercises in political expediency or otherwise, such radical differences in ranking suggest a more acute significance for the palace examination. The most heavily scrutinized of the candidates were those listed as the top ten, especially those ranked in first, second, and third place of the highest grade (yi jia); this group had the most to gain, or lose, from the imperial evaluation. While the throne had the privilege of changing any part of the ranking, in practice the emperor had only the first ten papers brought in for his inspection. Most often, instead of his reading the essays himself, they 57

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were read out loud to him; it was also common for an edict to be prepared that spared him from having to listen to any more than the first three papers. There were also strong elements of ritual in the palace examination that signify its importance to the overall examination scheme. The symbolism of the examination is illustrated in the story of its origins. The test had been added to the main examination during the short rule of the Tang dynasty Emperor Wu Zetian, after he had usurped imperial power. To ensure the loyalty of his new administrators, he had first recruited them through the examination system and then given them a final test under his personal auspices, thus symbolically constituting the emperor as master of all graduates and as chief examiner. Subsequently known as the palace examination, the new system continued for precisely this reason. The test was not merely a symbolic reenactment of loyalty to the throne but a performative act of submission undertaken by every single candidate—an act with very real consequences. Only after this examination could the candidate call himself a metropolitan degree holder, or jinshi. Prior to passing the palace examination, the candidate could only call himself a gongshi, or tribute scholar. Like the lower-ranking gongsheng (“tribute student”) discussed in the last chapter, this title signified the act of presenting a gift to the throne, not of the throne having accepted it (a related meaning of jinshi is “a gentleman who has entered”). It was a convention in the Qing system, and a boon to this study, that together with the registration details of metropolitan examination graduates, the top three essays were also reproduced and published as part of the Dengke lu (record of graduates).2 These published essays were not the original final drafts of the candidates with the comments of their examiners but were the vermilion copies made after the examination, devoid of examiners’ comments. The three essays represent a range of acceptable examination discourse, demonstrating to us that graduates did not just slot into a simplistic mold of conformity; rather, conformity itself comprised a spectrum. In this chapter I discuss the overall procedure of the palace examination, the details of which are not well known. I also offer a close reading of the three extant responses to the 1761 palace examination question. This policy question, which constituted the whole of the palace examination, asked candidates to demonstrate their knowledge and understanding of four areas: the technologies of Confucian scholarship, civil service selection, the assessment of administrative performance, and the improvement of the economy for the welfare of the people (or, as the topics were identified at the time, “the origin of the classics; the evaluation of officials’ achievements; scholars understanding the goal of their studies; farmers knowing the duties of farming”3). Analysis of the responses gives us a sense of the written product of

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examination training—the material production of that long disciplinary exercise. It shows us what candidates demonstrated knowledge of and what they expressed allegiance toward. It enables us to think about the shapes they fashioned their knowledge into and what range they thought acceptable. Above all, it helps us tease out some of the individual particularities and overlapping influences of the throne, bureaucratic factions, and intellectual trends in scholarship. The candidates of the 1761 palace examination were, no less than students and scholars of today, a decidedly messy aggregate of contradictory ideas and beliefs. I consider how the relationship between ideology and examinations can be adduced by this analysis. By ideology I do not mean some instrumentalist system of ideas designed for the purposes of manipulating others, nor do I refer to a unitary, monolithic entity such as Confucianism. Rather, I start with the definition offered by Robert Wuthnow in his comparative study Communities of Discourse, which defines ideology as an “identifiable constellation of discourse.”4 Such a broad understanding alerts us to the taxonomic distinctions that may be hidden under narrower definitions. More important for my purposes, this definition leaves open the boundary lines of the categories under consideration while permitting an analysis of the performative role of examination writing. The candidates for the 1761 palace examination, for example, were asked to write on four themes. The first, which I have called “the technologies of Confucian scholarship,” required specific, detailed knowledge of the philological background of the classical canon. This was followed by themes dealing with administrative evaluation, civil service selection methods, and economic policy. The last three categories could in theory be subsumed under the first, with that whole becoming “Confucian ideology,” but to do so would ignore many of the important distinctions found within each individual category. Instead, my approach allows us to explore the model of ideological categories as participants in a constellation. Furthermore, by separating the categories and seeing them as ideas belonging to distinctive bodies of specialized knowledge, we can analyze a range of ideologies, compare the mix between them, and ask questions about their possible interrelationship. In this way, examination discourse is seen in a new venue, one in which ideas are produced and ideas derived from other sources are rehearsed and recontextualized, and as performative acts through which ideological threads are twisted and fabrics woven. My close reading allows a unique perspective on the range of politics, principles, and policies that candidates brought to their future service to the state. The first section of this chapter gives a general overview of the organization, process, and procedures of the palace examination. The subsequent four sections describe each of the four sections of the palace examination

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question and the answers given by the top three respondents. The chapter ends with a general analysis of the overall significance of this part of the metropolitan examination.

Outline of the Palace Examination As the very last test before graduation, the palace examination differed markedly from the other parts of the examination. In 1761, for the first time, the examination was scheduled on the twenty-first of the fourth month. This was a small moment of systematization in the overall scheme, since the 4/21 date remained the standard until the abolition of the system in 1905. Various schedules had already been tried for the palace examination, but between considerations of the weather and of the major festivals in the Chinese calendar, the schedule had hitherto been a matter of trial and error. The twenty-first of the fourth month became the ideal time to get everything done and allow candidates and examiners to get home before the major Duan Wu holiday, the fifth of the fifth month. Traditionally a time for family reunion, it was perfect for sharing in the success of a metropolitan graduate, since academic qualification was as much a concern for the family as it was for the state. From the dynasty’s earliest days, the palace examination was held in a different place from all earlier sessions, which were held in the Shuntian examination compound of the capital, its panoptic tower allowing visibility in all directions over its rows of individual cells.5 Instead, the palace examination took place in the precincts of the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City, the physical space and environment adding tremendous resonance to the symbolism of the emperor as the highest examiner in the realm. It was not that examination at this exalted level meant sitting in hospitable surroundings. In fact, having dispensed with the spatial isolation of the examination compound, candidates were now seated in an outside courtyard, where they were subject to the elements of rain and cold. For a decade, between 1713 and 1723, the palace examination was held outdoors in the tenth lunar month (usually somewhere between November and December on the solar calendar), when the temperature in Beijing could be around the freezing point. In 1723, during the special additional metropolitan examination held in the first year of the Yongzheng emperor, the new emperor, on his own admission, was moved to pity at the sight of candidates attempting to rub ink from water frozen in their ink stones. Even though candidates were allowed to move under a covered porch in inclement weather, they were still not protected from the cold. The emperor ordered the examination moved inside, into the Tai He Dian (Hall of Ultimate Peace), and also ordered that fires be

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lit to keep the candidates warm. From 1745 (QL10) on, when the palace examination was usually held in the fourth lunar month, to take advantage of the generally warmer weather in the capital, it was again moved outdoors. Usually an odd little numbers game, in which a number of candidates were shuffled around, was played out before the start of the examination. Four possible categories of tribute scholar (gong shi)—all of them hui shi examination graduates—were eligible to sit the 1761 palace examination. The first two categories comprised, first, most of the 207 candidates who had passed the 1761 main metropolitan examination and, second, those from the previous 1760 metropolitan examination who for reasons of illness had not sat the 1760 palace examination. A third category was new and consisted of a small group that had been disqualified from the 1760 palace examination because their essays contained mistakenly written characters (similar to misspellings) or did not conform to the strict stylistic rules of the main examination. This system of disqualification began in 1760, when a review of the papers from the main metropolitan examination had been ordered; reviewers compared the copied versions of candidates’ papers, written out in vermilion by examination copyists, with the original black-ink versions. Mistakes meant the examiner and the candidate were held jointly responsible: the one for not noticing or reporting the error and the other for making it in the first place. The candidate was penalized by being made to wait until the following palace examination before being allowed to graduate, while the examiner was fined. Further, none of the disqualified candidates were admitted into the top ten places, no matter how good the essay. In 1760, Xie Qikun (1737–1802), who was familiar to the scholarly community as a respected scholar and a specialist in philology, had been one of the victims in this group; in 1761 he managed to place only twenty-fifth in the second grade (2/25). In 1761 nine candidates were disqualified; all but one passed the palace examination in 1763, but none ranked higher than the middle range of the second grade (er jia). If we subtract the nine disqualified 1761 candidates and the two who had to return home for mourning, there were now a total of 196 of the original 207 tribute scholars from the 1761 examination. A total of 218 was reported by the Board of Rites, with the addition of twenty-two candidates who had been disqualified from the 1760 palace examination (including one who had entered from the 1754 examinations, having withdrawn for mourning). Despite that total, only 217 passed—meaning yet another candidate had withdrawn at the last minute.6 With the candidates now in order, considerably fewer personnel were needed for the one-day palace examination session. The emperor held the place of chief examiner, sometimes attending personally, or at least starting the proceedings. When the emperor was absent, the most elaborate of the

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rites of spring table 3.1 Timetable for Final Activities of the 1761 Metropolitan Examination QL26/4/20 4/21 4/22-23 4/24 4/25 4/28 4/29 4/30 5/1 5/2 5/17

Announcement of palace examination readers Palace examination Grading and initial ranking Ranking by emperor Public announcement (quan lu) of ranking Banquet hosted by the Board of Rites Court examination Imperial gift-giving ceremony Ceremony giving thanks to the emperor Sacrificial rites at the Temple of Confucius Announcement of first appointments

rituals were curtailed, as there would be no officials with the title of supervisor or chief examiner. As shown in Table 3.1, the emperor made the ultimate choice of final ranking, on 4/24. The eight palace examination readers, examiners subsidiary to the emperor, were all ministers and high officials who were selected from a similar pool as chief examiners; no one below the rank of 2A could serve in this capacity. This group carried out the initial assessment and ranking of the candidates, and, except for the top ten places, their decisions were usually final. Generally the palace examination readers were selected from court ministers and officials stationed in the capital, but the emperor also had leeway to appoint those serving in the provinces. In 1761 the emperor added Yin-ji-shan, one of his favorite Manchu officials, to the list. It had been decided in 1760 that fourteen readers were too many, and that eight could do the job just as well, so keeping the numbers down no longer seemed vital. Yin-ji-shan happened to be in the capital to report on affairs in Jiangnan. The Qianlong emperor, delighted to have such a Manchu star on the team, said of Yin-ji-shan: “In the hundred or so years of our august dynasty, of Manchus with examination qualifications, it is only O-er-tai [1680–1745] and Yin-ji-shan who are truly knowledgeable scholars.”7 The regulations also stated that readers should hold the metropolitan degree. The 1761 list consisted of four Manchus and five Chinese; in an example of Manchu exceptionalism, two of the Manchu ministers had no metropolitan degree, while all the Chinese did (see Table 3.2). Nearly all of the readers were senior statesmen (Lai-bao and O-mi-da were both in their eighties, and altogether four of the readers were to die within the next few years). With the exception of O-mi-da and Lai-bao, all were well-known men of letters, many with firm links to the Hanlin Academy, the center of imperial-sponsored scholarship. Liu Tongxun and Guan-bao had both already served as chief examiners for the main part of the metropolitan ex-

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amination in 1761. Both Guan-bao and Yin-ji-shan, as Manchus, had had more unusual careers, rising up through the Hanlin Academy after their metropolitan degrees; Guan-bao would go on to head the Academy. Probably more important, from the emperor’s point of view, was that each of them had previous experience as palace examination reader and could therefore be trusted to understand the task at hand. Lai-bao was the most experienced, having served five times previously, with Liu Tongxun a close second, having served four times. The youngest and least experienced of the group, Qian Rucheng, had only served as reader for the first time in 1760; he had inherited the right to enter office through the yin (inheritance of office) privilege. He was probably awarded this signal honor through the special relationship between Qianlong and his father, who it was said the emperor held as teacher and friend.8 With the nine palace readers appointed, the examination was ready to begin. The emperor usually presided over the opening ceremonies as a token of his position as chief examiner. Because of the presence of the emperor, the occasion merited all the pomp and circumstance of a full court ceremonial. All the princes of the blood, court ministers, and officials high and low were obliged to attend in full court dress. The imperial equipage officials had to set out the imperial regalia of pendants, throne, and carpets, and the necessary musicians were apprised of their duties, as was the master of ceremonies, who would call out instructions to the assembled court. When all was ready, the emperor was escorted to the throne in full view of the candidates, who had been led in earlier, and the appointed examination readers and personnel. These two groups were stationed on the north side of the courtyard of Tai He Dian, where the examination would later take place. The ceremonies began with ministers from the Grand Secretariat presenting the palace examination question to the responsible ministers from the Board of Rites (the ministry that supervised all the examinations), table 3.2 List of 1761 Palace Examination Readers Name

Lai-bao (Manchu, 1679–1764) O-mi-da (Manchu, d. 1761) Liu Tongxun (Chinese, 1700–1773) Liang Shizheng (Chinese, 1697–1763) Guan-bao (Manchu, d. 1776) Qin Huitian (Chinese, 1702–1764) Qian Rucheng (Chinese, 1722–1779) Liu Lun (Chinese, 1711–1773) Yin-ji-shan (Manchu, 1696–1771)

Metropolitan Degree

Position and Rank

None None 1724 1743 1737 1736 1748 1736 1723

Grand Secretary (1A) Assistant Grand Secretary (1B) Assistant Grand Secretary (1B) Board President (1B) Board Vice-President (2A) Board President (1B) Board Vice-president (2A) Board President (1B) Governor-general (1B)

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who received it with the lesser ritual of three prostrations. In response, all the examination personnel performed the full kowtow ritual of submission, kneeling three times, each time with three prostrations toward the throne. The candidates subsequently performed the same act of submission; afterward examiners and candidates divided to the east and west of the courtyard. There, the examination candidates arranged themselves on either side into two groups of odd and even numbers, based on their main examination ranking. At this point, the master of ceremonies pronounced the observances over, the emperor was escorted back to his residential palace, and the princes, courtiers, and officials all dispersed, leaving behind only those who would participate in the examination. The imperial regalia were removed and the musicians dismissed, and small examination tables were set up in the open space.9 The policy question that was given to the candidates had been drafted in secret the day before the examination, taken into the emperor for formal approval, and by nightfall taken under strict security to the Imperial Printers for printing. As the candidates only had to respond to a single question, the examination itself only lasted for a single day. The essays were customarily at least a thousand characters in length. Though in fact there was no lower limit, those who wrote less were normally ranked at the bottom of the third grade (san jia). The three top essays were each around two thousand characters in length; there was also no upper limit. The examination was so important that some candidates were willing to spend the whole night writing, not finishing until the small hours of the next morning. The practice increased to such an extent that by 1781 the emperor strictly forbade the writing to continue beyond dusk. In part the concern was that after dark lighting would be needed and opportunities for cheating would increase commensurably. In 1761, since there was not yet any rule to prevent the candidate working through the night, undoubtedly many did not finish until dawn of the following day. They handed in their papers and were allowed to leave in small groups.10 Examination personnel were not divided into inner and outer as they were at lower levels of the examination system. With the considerably smaller scale of at most several hundred candidates, security could be fairly easily maintained. The candidates had been issued two examination booklets, one for the draft and one for the fair copy, both of which they were required to hand in when finished. The papers were not copied by copyists (teng lu guan) nor was it necessary for proofreaders (dui du guan) to make comparisons of different versions, as was the practice in all lower-level examinations, so no copyists or proofreaders are listed in the memorial selecting examination personnel. These personnel were redundant because of another crucial feature of the palace examination: it was the only part of

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the whole examination process in which the candidates’ calligraphy was inspected and evaluated.11 Until 1783 (QL48), the fair copy had to be written in large, clerical-style script; thereafter, the easier, small clerical script was allowed. One important consequence of this added element was the elegant play of reading a candidate’s character from his calligraphic style, as present-day handwriting experts do. In the 1761 case, the emperor recognized the writing of one candidate and purported to judge the man’s character from it, while another candidate changed his writing style to hoodwink the palace examination readers about his identity—events (discussed in detail in Chapter Four) that together show the contradictory tendency of writing both to reveal and to conceal. Given the overdetermined elements of Chinese calligraphy, it would not be surprising if the examiners, charged with the initial ranking of the candidates, also expected to be able to evaluate the character of the candidate in the calligraphy of the palace examination essays. Now anonymous, but still with their original calligraphy, the papers were brought in to the readers, who had been sequestered in the Wenhua dian (Hall of Culture). Here, each of the nine readers spent two days going over each of the papers, each supposedly making an independent evaluation. The emperor had been concerned about an over-emphasis on calligraphy the previous year, when palace examination readers had been criticized for concentrating too heavily on the writing and not enough on the actual content. The throne considered giving higher points to calligraphy than to content to be a lazy, lopsided way of grading. An even more worrisome problem was examiners looking out for candidates familiar to them. It was, in 1761, still the practice for candidates to send in writing samples, under the guise of laudatory poetry, to various high officials who might be chosen as readers. The grading system itself was simple and straightforward. Each reader had his name listed at the bottom of each paper, and he marked it either table 3.3 Table of Palace Examination Personnel 1 4 10 12 4 4 8 18

Ti diao—examination proctor Jian shi—censors charged with searching bodies and possessions Shou juan guan—receivers who receive and register papers Mi feng guan—pasting over the names of the candidates Yin juan guan—imprinting the official seal Zhang juan guan—conveyors: convey papers to readers Du juan guan—palace examination readers Xie bang guan—writing up the final list of graduates Xun chuo—surveillance guards Gong gei guan—Supplies officials: food, paper, etc.

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with a circle, the highest assessment; with a triangle, a dot, or circle with a dot, representing a middling assessment; or with a vertical line or a cross. Concerned that the readers might deliberately try to lower the grade of an essay, the emperor issued an edict to enforce consistency in the marking: an essay marked initially with a circle could only be marked subsequently by a dot as its lowest grade.12 Readers were also forbidden to sign their full names on the actual paper in order to maintain impartiality. The emperor received only the preliminary ranking order of the papers; it was his right as emperor, no matter how rarely exercised, to alter this ranking and determine the final order. Another change in procedure in 1761 ended the practice of retaining the anonymity of the top ten papers until after the throne’s ranking decisions had been made, when the seals over the names were removed under surveillance of censors; now, the seals were removed before being taken into the imperial audience. As Chapter Four will explain, fears of bureaucratic favoritism had prompted the change. Thus, both examination readers and the emperor knew who the candidates were and, while the readers had already completed their task, the emperor now had the opportunity to show partiality or in any case to bring interested choice into the process. At least one source relates that on occasion the emperor also read the essays himself. Once this process was complete, the ten candidates were led into the imperial audience and the results announced to them. After the audience, the seals on the rest of the papers were removed, the names checked against the numbers, and the names then listed in ranking order.13 On the 25th of the month, the results were announced publicly. The names of the top three were read out loud three times in succession, after which the three men were led out from among the group of candidates and placed kneeling to one side of the main body, one slightly in front of the other, in ranking order. The ceremonial acknowledgment of the graduates’ success continued for several days, with monetary gifts from the emperor, court robes for the top three graduates, and a banquet hosted by the Board of Rites together with the examiners. These celebrations were topped off by a magnificent procession, with the graduates in their new robes and with the insignia of their new status prominently displayed, that went from the imperial palace through the streets of the Forbidden City, to perform the sacrificial rites at the Temple of Confucius. The palace examination question and response typically followed the genre of policy question (ce wen) and proposal response (zhi ce). Although found at every level of the examination system, policy questions at this highest level assumed a new importance as the exclusive requirement. This was an anomalous circumstance, because at all other levels, policy essays were not highly esteemed; they were in fact relegated to the third and last

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session of each of the three lower levels of the examination system. Even the Qianlong emperor acknowledged publicly the unimportance of policy essays to the system as a whole and criticized their cursory treatment. At the palace examination level, the format of the policy question also changed. In the provincial and main metropolitan examination (hui shi), candidates were most often given five individual questions on five different subjects, whereas in the palace examination there was only one question. However, since the single palace examination question actually was made up of four sections, each on a different and unrelated topic, in reality it would seem that candidates answered four questions.14 The stylistic conventions of the palace examination were probably neither as complex nor as difficult as those of the baguwen (“eight-legged” essay) genre, which required rigorous application because of the difficulty in planning the content around the complex form. There were two essential characteristics of the eight-legged essay: first, that it conform to a series of rhetorically parallel paragraphs and, second, that the writer speak in the voice of Confucius. As its name implied, it was organized into eight sections or structural parts. The palace essays of Wang Jie (1/1), Hu Gaowang (1/2), and Zhao Yi (1/3) all fulfilled the simple stylistic requirements for writing baguwen. Each essay began with the words “chen dui, chen wen” (“the minister responds, the minister has heard,” literally; that is, “I, so-and-so, respond to Your Majesty, whom I have heard”); this was followed by an introduction. The word “chen” was always written in small case, slightly off to the right of the line, signifying the humility and lowly position of the writer. Each individual topic was set off with the phrase “zhi ce you yue” or “zhi ce you yi” (“the policy question states”) as an introduction, usually followed by a partial quotation from the original question. The question, always in the voice of the emperor, enjoined the candidates to “tell me your purpose that I might hear”; thereafter, the text continued, the emperor would “personally evaluate what their ambition in serving the people and myself is and make the decision.” The candidates, in response, ended their essays with another set phrase: “Because I have just been promoted from commoner [status], I have carelessly broken conventions and presumptuously offended the invincible power of His Majesty. My fear is such that I am on the verge of fainting dead away. I have respectfully responded to His Majesty’s policy inquiry” (chen caomao xinjin gang shi, jihui gan mao chen yan, bu sheng zhanli yun zhi zhi). The phrasing may appear comically formulaic, but the statement recognized and rehearsed the enormous asymmetry of the candidate’s relationship with the throne, making the all-important gesture of accrediting supreme power to the figure of the emperor on high.15 Candidates were forbidden from using any kind of overtly flattering and empty language or rhyming couplets. Although (as I will explained further

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below) there could be no doubt that the source and the reason for the greatness of government lay solely in the emperor’s recognizing talent and always making the correct decisions, the line between flattery and eloquence is often difficult to distinguish. For example, Zhao Yi apparently felt no embarrassment at saying, “At root I am a student who is stupid and dim. . . . How could I possibly understand the planning of policy for the country’s great affairs? Although my superficial views are impractical, they do however expose the devotion I feel for His Majesty.” Both implicitly and explicitly, as Elman has also concluded, all the writing of the candidates expressed loyalty to the state—and not only to the state, but also in line with the imperial promotion of an imaginary of personalized rule, to the person of the emperor. Loyalty to the state and throne is, however, a very broad concept, and in their essays, candidates demonstrated the margin allowed for their own interpretation or, at least, the interpretation they assumed would find most favor with the examination readers. In the broadest terms, the staking-out of these positions does more than merely reflect ideology. Through their articulations, the responses perform and produce ideology by creating or reiterating and recontextualizing positions generated in other areas of cultural production. Examining policy questions and answers at this level does open a space for us to observe ideological positioning. But as my analysis will show, we should not too easily assign each to one of the three main camps (Song or Dao Learning, Han Learning, and Evidential Learning) into which Qing intellectual history has been generically divided by modern scholars. When complicated by the four unrelated areas of the question, the responses show an overlap of various positions and no rigid categorization from predetermined arrangements seems possible. As our knowledge of this period of intellectual history develops and we understand better the finer attributes of different regional schools and the sheer variety of Confucian family schools of classicism and intellectual traditions, we may come to prefer far less stark distinctions.16

Technical Knowledge of Confucian Scholarship Only one part of the discussion question did not address a specific area of government policy, and that was the section on what I have termed the technologies of Confucian scholarship. This section, which addresses each of the Five Classics in turn, did not require candidates to give an exegetical response to a quotation from the canon. Instead, candidates were asked to explain the taxonomy and specialized terminology that had arisen historically in the exegetical traditions associated with the interpretation and transmission of the Confucian classics. Candidates were thus expected

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not just to use the technologies of Confucian scholarship but to reflect on them, demonstrating their “meta-discursive” knowledge of the historical context of the transmission of the classics, the historical significance of the various commentaries, the interpretative tools and reference materials available, and the specialized terminology used in discussions of the texts. This focus on philological knowledge of the classics is an interesting example of the way that the cultural politics of Confucian educated elites could participate in the state’s project of examinations. In this case Confucian intellectuals could use their government positions as examiners to establish and sanction different intellectual positions in the ongoing debates.17 Previous to 1760, palace examination policy questions might refer to the classical canon, but never before had a whole section been devoted to this kind of specialist knowledge. In the 1745 palace examination, however, candidates were given a similar but much more modified form of such a question. They were asked to explain the derivation, significance, and history of the divisions of the Confucian texts into the five, seven, nine, eleven, and thirteen classics. Candidates were also asked to discuss the particular schools of Confucian learning each of these divisions belonged to. Presumably this knowledge was rather basic and available to all examination candidates, but given how unusual this kind of question was and especially given the magisterial, meta-discursive perspective it required, it is equally possible that the knowledge, though available, was not the kind that all attended to or could comfortably wield. The candidates’ approach toward this part of the question might also provide some idea of the Confucian schools of learning to which they were affiliated and of their intellectual positioning— positions that participated in and partially constituted the individual’s ideological stance. Affiliation is, however, also predicated on access, and being abreast of the latest intellectual developments required candidates to have some contact with the advanced cultural areas, especially of Jiangnan and Zhejiang, or the metropolitan area of Zhili. The candidates’ approach to this section may also involve ideological positioning, the area on which Elman has focused his research. As I have indicated, I am rather more hesitant, given the complexity of Qing cultural politics, to say how and in what way affiliations to specific intellectual traditions of regional schools are definitive of ideological affiliation, so I will at least keep open the possibility that the candidates’ approach to this section of the palace examination question might be determined by access to cultural resources as well as by somewhat less arbitrary intellectual affiliation. In any case, one basic division noticeable in our sample of three palace examination responses is between the two most contemporary intellectual trends of the eighteenth century, the Han and Evidential Learning approach, marked off in various ways from Song Learning, the Zhu Xi interpretative school sponsored by

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the state. This developing intellectual debate, according to Kai-wing Chow, was in full oppositional mode after a gestation period through the Kangxi and early Qianlong period. The sudden inclusion of this type of question in the 1761 palace examination might represent some kind of intellectual victory. Examiners certainly seemed to expect the candidates to treat the Confucian classics as an objectified body of knowledge or as a disciplinary category (as in the Evidential Learning approach), rather than as the foundation of a belief system (as in the Song Learning paradigm), which of course it also continued to be. With the exception of 1745 and 1760, I can find no earlier precedent for this kind of question in any of the Qing palace examination questions.18 The 1761 question set the general tone: “Scholars, are you able to understand the origins of the transmission [of the Classics] and can you draw a general outline?” Each of the three top respondents began by making a generalization about the place and character of the Confucian canon, providing us with a clue to each person’s intellectual positioning. This section, like the others, begins with a stylistically formulaic device—not unlike a fill-in-the-blank response. For example, each candidate began the section with the required marker, “Reading the discussion question, it says . . . ,” and then continued, “although there are many collections of books, still we must certainly take the six classics as the foundation.” The candidates then go on to fill in the blank by giving their fundamental characterization of Confucian learning. For Wang Jie, the first of our three respondents, the six classics represent the “ultimate standard in the flourishing of true learning” (zheng xue zhi ji gui). The etymological background of the descriptive term “true” (zheng) provides a sense of the connotations of his statement. The origins of zheng are found in the Book of Changes under the Qian hexagram, where it is described as meaning “unfaltering, firm, and upright” and, by extension, “pure.” Its meaning can also connote its pictographic derivative, “to be arrived at and to stop (zhi ) at the line (yi ) or at the limit . . . without going astray” and thus, by extension, it can mean correct or to correct. Thus we might speculate that Wang Jie wanted to suggest that the Confucian classics represented to him an absolute ethical standard of truth and rectitude or the absolute standard in order to correct learning. Such is the sense that Wang Jie might have learned from one of the sources of this interpretation, the Shi Ji (Records of the Historian). The Shi Ji specifically mentions the combination term “zheng xue” and contrasts it with “qu xue” (that is, distorted or crooked learning), another indicator perhaps of the ultimate rectitude of the classics. It seems, then, that Wang Jie’s statement reproduces an ideological position very similar to that of the conventional tradition of Song (Song xue) or Dao Learning (Dao xue). This interpretation seems all the more likely given that Wang Jie for six years had attended an

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academy in the northwestern province of Shaanxi, far from the centers of intellectual and cultural production, and thus he may have had little contact with the newer trends in Han Learning. His work on the secretarial staff of Chen Hongmou could also have put him in contact with more conservative elements.19 Thus his choice of wording may have owed more to circumstance than to deliberate political or intellectual positioning. Hu Gaowang, the second of our respondents, understands the six classics to represent the “flourishing heart of classical learning” (jing xue zhi sheng xin). The term “classical learning” (jing xue) points to the treatment of the classics as part of a disciplinary category. Although it was not a neologism, having already come into use during the Former Han period (206 bc–25 ad), the word jing, meaning the warp in a loom, already connoted “canonical.” The choice of a term with Han origins may not be accidental but may represent a rather pointed affiliation with contemporary intellectual trends that had returned to the kinds of philological work done in the Han period. Such a choice may also signify a more objectifying approach than Wang Jie’s. Hu Gaowang came from one of the empire’s major cultural centers— Jiangnan—and he had worked in the capital as a secretary in the Grand Secretariat. His work would have brought him in contact with various intellectual influences found in the capital, possibly even the brilliant, statesponsored scholars of the imperial Hanlin Academy, and he may have adopted there the more fashionable intellectual trends that are also in evidence in the rest of his work. Zhao Yi, the third of our three examples, characterizes the classics as “the brilliant understanding of practical learning” (shi xue zhi sheng yi). The term shi xue or “practical learning” had impeccable origins, deriving from the second chapter of the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhong Yong), which described Confucian Learning as “real, or solid learning” and by extension, “practical.” The term illustrates another tradition the Confucian canon encompassed, that of practical application, which in eighteenth-century China was also called pu xue and was associated with Evidential Learning. But this immediately raises the problem of whether a methodological approach, in this case Evidential Learning, can situate someone in terms of the Han and Song Learning debates. We know that Zhejiang, where Zhao Yi was initially educated, was very much on the forefront of intellectual trends. He had also lived in the capital, Beijing, since the age of twentythree, first working on the private compilation staff of the Grand Councilor (and 1761 examiner) Liu Tongxun, and later as a Grand Council clerk. We also know from later references in his palace examination essay that Zhao Yi’s affiliation was with Changzhou Learning, which followed the teaching of the Ming scholar, Tang Shunzhi (1507–1560), whom Zhao cited in his response.20

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Of course one might say that it is also possible that the choice of language in these characterizations was merely arbitrary, but there is logic even in seeming arbitrariness. In fact, throughout his response Wang Jie generally did follow a conservative line of reasoning, emphasizing moral factors, while Hu Gaowang enjoyed the minutiae of searching for historical precedents and etymological origins said to be so characteristic of evidential methods. Zhao Yi, on the other hand, true to his characterization, was interested in the process and logic of systems and institutions, relying on a reasoned approach that reflected an empirically based logic. It is equally the case that Wang Jie did not really seem to know as much about classicism as the other two of our sample; perhaps access to more varied cultural resources and influence of other schools of learning would have altered his choices. After the introductory statement, the question became very specific. It asked for the significance of “the four shang of the Yi Jing; the six yi of the Shi Jing; the gu jin of the Shu Jing; the jing and qu of the Li; and the three zhuan of the Chun Qiu.” Following the logic of the question, I shall discuss the essays together in the same order as they respond to the list of classics— Book of Changes, Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, and the Spring and Autumn Annals—supplementing them where possible for clarity and in some instances providing background to the relevant debates. On the Book of Changes, Hu Gaowang, who on his registration data sheet had listed it as his specialization, provided the shortest answer, merely listing the four aspects (shang) as ci (verbalizations), bian (flux), xiang (figures), and zhan (prognostications), with no further explanation. Wang Jie, who also claimed the classic as his specialization, used the occasion to give a general characterization of the Book of Changes, citing directly from the Xi ci zhuan (Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations), which characterized the book as “broad and great and fully provided . . . ” (yi zhi wei shu ye, guang da xi bei), meaning that its content was all-encompassing and its logic all-embracing. He went on to add that “its significance is profound, its language rich and colorful . . . and its meaning inexhaustible.”21 Zhao Yi elaborated slightly further by cleverly using the term shang (as in “the four shang” of the Book of Changes) as a verb meaning “to esteem or to honor” (chongshang) and making each of the four aspects figure actively. Thus he associates the ci and bian with the mandate “to esteem the verbalizations and the abundant flux [of the Book of Changes], to esteem its figures (xiang), and to esteem its prognostications (zhan).” This description alludes to the original text in the Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations: “There are four aspects in which the Change has in it the course traced by the sages. From their words, esteem is given to its verbalizations. From their movements, esteem is given to its flux. From their inventing cul-

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tural artifacts, esteem is given to its figures. From their divining by cracks and stalks, esteem is given to its prognostications.” Zhao Yi, despite having given the most detailed of the three explanations, did not specialize in the Book of Changes, but in the Book of Rites; he was one of a tiny percentage of the cohort who did so. Perhaps both the difficulty of the classic in which he specialized and the close connection said by some to exist between the two classics explains Zhao Yi’s strength here.22 The question concerning the Book of Songs expected candidates to elaborate on the significance of the liu yi (six principles). While none of our three respondents specialized in the Book of Songs (Shi Jing), in fact it was the most popular choice for specialization among candidates overall, and all three of our respondents at least appeared to recognize the collective term. The six principles were to be found in the “Great Preface” of the Mao text of the Book of Songs. Hu Gaowang and Zhao Yi both merely enumerated them as “fu (exposition), xing (the generation of affective images), bi (comparison, simile, metaphor), feng (airs), ya (odes, courtly songs), song (hymns, odes).” Although these terms seem vague enough to us now, none of the three men found it worthwhile to elaborate on the terms or to define their meanings; perhaps knowledge of them was so taken for granted that no explanation was deemed necessary. Each of the three essays presented the terms slightly differently, but all kept to the traditional main division of the terms into two groups, and none explained that this arrangement reflected an essential division into style and mood of composition. The first distribution was into the stylistic headings used in the Shi jing anthology: “Airs,” “Courtly Songs,” and “Odes.” Instead of making use of a classification of rhetorical figures such as found in the Western tradition, traditional China developed a classification based on various moods of poetic composition; the second group of the six principles represented these. Stephen Owen finds that “this vocabulary of moods follows from the conception of language as the manifestation of some integral state of mind, just as the Western rhetoric of schemes and tropes follows from a conception of language as sign and referent.”23 Fu referred to a straightforward statement or an “unfigured sequence” such as direct description, narration, or explanation of what is on the speaker’s mind; bi meant a comparison in which the central images of the poem are similes or metaphors. The meaning of xing is more complex—partly, according to McNaughton, because the original understanding of the term had been lost. While McNaughton prefers the term “composite image” as most apposite, Owen feels that “affective image” best conveys the idea that the image is meant to arouse a particular affection or mood, not simply to signify it. In any case, Wang Jie was the only one of the three respondents to elaborate in any general way on the Book of Songs, giving the Confucian explanation that “poems take

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human relations and man’s emotions as the basis for their most important use in aiding government.” The question about the Book of Documents (Shang Shu), in asking about the distinction between the “gu” and “jin,” cut to the heart of the debates surrounding the two versions (Old Text and New Text) of this text. Neither Hu Gaowang nor Zhao Yi said more than the minimum—possibly to avoid offending proponents of either side—and both agreed that Fu Sheng of the Han dynasty orally transmitted the version called the “jin wen” (New Text) Book of Documents. Hu Gaowang and Wang Jie stated that the version derived from the wall of Confucius’ house was called the “gu wen” (Old Text) Book of Documents; Zhao Yi was more specific, pointing out that the Old Text version was transmitted by Kong Anguo. Again, only Wang Jie gave the context for these different versions. He pointed out that the burning of the books by Qin Shi Huang (r. 221–210 bce) had destroyed all the classics except the Book of Changes, which was used as a divination guide. Only when Fu Sheng of Jinan (in modern Shandong province) began to copy down a version of the Book of Documents that Chao Cuo had transmitted orally was the New Text version of the classic recovered.24 One of the most complicated parts of this question for a modern reader concerned the “rites” (li). In ancient times there had been many different collections of rites, some of which remained in partial form. Even those that were extant were often given a number of different titles, so that the debate over which title referred to which particular work became an important subject in the commentarial tradition. Two of the three classical works on the rites—the Zhou Li (Rites of Zhou) and the Yi Li (Book of Ritual)—had gone under different titles, and the third—Li Ji (Record of Rites)—was a set of notes, probably on the Yi Li. The candidates were asked to explain the difference between the “jing” and the “qu” of the Rites. The shortest explanation was provided by Hu Gaowang, who pointed out that “the Jing Li (Essentials of Etiquette and Ritual) has three hundred and the Qu Li (Minutiae of Etiquette and Ritual), has three thousand [sections]. It is only Zhu Xi’s Yi li jing zhuan tong jie that captures the significance [of the differences].”25 The phrase “jing li san bai, qu li san qian” actually derives from the Li qi chapter. Wang Jie went on to add the information that “the Yi Li (Book of Ritual) was written by Gao Tangsheng while the Li Ji (Record of Rites) underwent editing by Dai senior (Dai De) and Dai junior (Dai Sheng). Confucians of an earlier age thought of the Yi Li as a ‘jing’ and the Li Ji as a ‘chuan’ or ‘zhuan,’ which is what is implied by saying that the ‘jing’ Li has three hundred sections and the ‘qu’ Li three thousand.” Perhaps this explanation was sufficiently clear to the examiners, but today it appears quite confusing and offers little help in elucidating the question.

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Zhao Yi, one of the 6 percent of the cohort to specialize in the Book of Rites, was able to add some context. He points out that although the distinctions between the two versions existed, “it is not as if the Yi Li did not contain the finer details of interaction between ritual matters and social relations. Nor is it that the grand ceremonies of the great sacrifices were not discussed in the Dai Ji.” “In other words,” he says, “the differences between the two should not be overemphasized.” The most correct explanation for the difference, he believes, is to be found in Zhu Xi’s annotations to the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhong Yong), where Zhu Xi calls the Yi Li of three hundred sections the “jing” and the Wei Yi of three thousand sections the “qu.” The palace examination reader who read this section the most intently was probably Qin Huitian, the most renowned specialist on the Rites; in 1761 he had published his Comprehensive Study of the Five Rites, about which Zhao Yi, working in the Grand Secretariat, had surely known.26 The Spring and Autumn Annals (Chun Qiu)—and the three “zhuan” (commentaries) associated with it—was the topic of the final question on the classics. That the question seems readily answerable today probably says more about our current preference for historical works over texts on ritual than about any intrinsic difficulty of the question. In considering the significance of each of the three commentaries, Zhao Yi and Wang Jie both independently agreed that the Chun Qiu Zuo Zhuan (Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals) gave the most detail of the three commentaries. Hu Gaowang and Zhao Yi thought the Gongyang zhuan and the Guliang zhuan were admirable for their insights into moral principles. All three agreed that each of the commentaries on the Spring and Autumn Annals had their particular merits. Wang Jie also made a point of stating his preference for “the blind man Zuo, who was wise to the point of sageliness in research on the classics and thus a meritorious minister.” This is probably a reference to the Shi Ji (Records of the Grand Historian), in which Sima Qian in his preface (tai shi zi xu) mentions that Zuo, the putative author of this commentary, was blind.27 The next item on which the candidates were examined was perhaps the most technical of all their questions. It focused on the special terminology used to distinguish different layers of annotation and commentary on the Confucian classics. Its connection to eighteenth-century cultural politics is not immediately obvious to a modern reader. For the examiners, however, the titles of the works and authors our respondents gave as examples of usage probably enabled them to gauge the intellectual background and the Confucian school of learning to which the candidate was affiliated. Perhaps they could also ascertain how knowledgeable the candidate was about the rich commentarial tradition of Confucian scholarship. I would reiterate, however, that it is unclear how useful it would be to insist on

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making too-categorical distinctions in the responses between Han and Song Learning. Analysis based on the limited evidence of the responses can only hint at political affiliation, and it may just be an indication of the individual’s available cultural resources. The candidates were asked to elaborate on seven terms used with reference to annotations (zhu) and commentaries (shu) on the classics. The annotations they were asked to discuss included the distinctions between zhuan, jian, xue, and jijie. Regarding commentaries, they were given the terms shi, zhengyi, and jianyi. Hu Gaowang is probably the most outstanding of the three in this section. He used the opportunity to demonstrate his detailed knowledge of etymology, philology, and history—forms of knowledge, as Elman and others have suggested, that are associated with Han and evidential learning.28 But because Hu Gaowang had received his education in the Jiangnan area and also in the capital, his choice was perhaps less a consciously political one than a matter of his exploitation of resources available to him—or we could say that the former was determined by the latter. Candidates, even those considered the highest ranking, as in our sample here, did not always answer all parts of a question, and such omissions in this segment suggest some of the strategies they used. Both Wang Jie and Hu Gaowang reviewed only six of the seven terms given. Zhao Yi did least well, elaborating on only five. Not one of our respondents seemed able or willing to give a suitable example of either an author or a work that included the term jian yi, the last of the seven. Thus one method used to cover up lack of knowledge, laziness, or poor memory, it seems, was simply to ignore the question without giving any explanation. Another more interesting strategy, which Hu Gaowang employed (and which is also familiar to any teacher today), was to go around the question rather than giving any specific example of it, demonstrating in the process a different kind of knowledge. Hu Gaowang, for instance, instead of giving a title or author that used the term zhuan (as the other two respondents in our sample did), cited some of its more commonly known etymological developments. Citing the work of Zhang Hua (282–300), he explained that “jing was the designation used for the works of the Sages (sheng ren). The explanations written by various Worthies (xian zhe) were called zhuan.” The word zhuan, he points out, in fact referred to a homonym that meant to turn, to circulate, and thus, he explained, to transmit through the ages. The etymological derivation of zhuan must certainly have been familiar to any eighteenth-century examination candidate and not very original. The reference to the authors of the classics as Sages and to the earliest annotators and exegetes as Worthies was another common practice. Zhao Yi and Wang Jie, by contrast, both showed their knowledge by citing the examples of

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Kong Anguo’s work on the Shang Shu (Book of Documents) and the Han annotation of the Shi Jing by Mao Chang, both called “zhuan.”29 Hu Gaowang confirmed his philological approach in his response on the term jian. Both Zhao Yi and Wang Jie cited the example of Zheng Kangcheng’s (127–200 ad) use of the term. Zhao Yi also pointed out that whereas the exegete Zheng had used the term zhu for the titles of most of his annotations of the classics, it was only in the case of the Book of Songs that he called his annotations jian.30 Neither of the two offered any reason why this was so. Hu Gaowang, in contrast, offered both an explanation and another demonstration of his knowledge in this area: Jian means the same thing as biao (to manifest) and shi (knowledge); the term jian was used during the Wei-Jin period [220–420] to designate a court communication between the Crown Prince and other imperial princes. Zheng Xuan thought the work of Master Mao (Chang) (on the Book of Songs) was most detailed and thorough. Respecting Mao’s interpretation and appreciating his graceful prose, Zheng felt the clear communication of Mao’s guiding principles was sufficient in itself to demonstrate the level of that scholar’s control over the material and the exactitude of his learning.31

The association of Zheng Xuan’s research with Han learning, Elman has suggested, makes citation of Zheng in examination essays emblematic of a candidate’s political-cultural affiliations with Han learning, and thus it is likely that Hu Gaowang was indeed an aficionado of Han Learning. It is clear that these intellectual and political associations were already part of the highest level of examination discourse at mid-century, in contrast to Elman’s conclusion from his research on provincial and hui shi (main metropolitan) examinations that these intellectual influences were regionally widespread only in the later eighteenth century.32 However, I would reiterate that it remains an open question, with only the one previous precedent of this type of question (from 1745), whether the example reflects a clear shift in intellectual discourse or whether examination discourse was in itself sufficiently broad to encompass the many different strands of intellectual debate. All three men agreed that xue (learning) referred to the research of the Han exegete He Xiu (129–182) and his annotations of the Gongyang commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals, which he called “learning”; each candidate noted this briefly. Having just considered works on the Spring and Autumn Annals, Wang Jie and Zhao Yi were probably thinking along similar lines when they turned their attention to the term “jijie.” Both suggested the work of Fan Ning (339–401) on the Guliang commentary for the Spring and Autumn Annals, which he had termed “jijie” (explanations). Hu Gaowang preferred to use the opportunity to demonstrate his more extensive knowledge. Rather than refer to Fan Ning, he cited the research of the lesser-known Tang scholar Li Dingzuo on the Zhou Yi

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(Zhou Book of Changes) entitled Zhou Yi jijie (Explanations of the Zhou Book of Changes). Hu claims that this was the reference work that initiated the use of this term for annotations of the classics. As the Qing scholar and founder of the Han Learning school Hui Dong was a strong proponent of Li Dingzuo’s Zhou Yi jijie, in large part because it preserved fragments of Han-period texts, Hu’s citation seems to be another indication of his Han Learning inclinations.33 Hu Gaowang exhibited the same kind of approach in his discussion of “zheng yi,” a term used in the titles of certain commentaries or shu. He introduced this subsection by pointing out that shu as a term did not acquire its fixed and precise meaning until the Tang dynasty (618–907). Such an approach was more historical than that of Zhao Yi, who preferred an explanation that situated the term within the general taxonomic system of commentaries. Hu explained that shu were interpretive comments on earlier annotations of the classics, written closer to the time of the classics themselves, and he went on to cite another scholar associated with the evidential school of learning, Gu Yanwu, and his Record of Daily Knowledge (Rizhi lu). According to Hu, Gu Yanwu had explained that shu acted as a kind of explanation in the same way that “zheng yi” in the then-current meaning of true, correct, or proper meaning did. Following this etymological insight, he went on to present his position on the arguments concerning Kong Yingda’s (574–648) commentarial work on the classics. He pointed out that Kong had termed his commentaries “zheng yi”; all three essays cited this same generic example. Hu Gaowang diverged from the mere naming of books by going on to elaborate that some scholars thought Kong Yingda had followed only one school of interpretation in his commentaries and, as a purist, had rejected all others. In fact, Hu Gaowang continued, “in his works there are some explanations that have simultaneously drawn from other schools of interpretation and even from various spurious or apocryphal books (wei shu).” He then argued that the Song scholar and statesman Ouyang Xiu (1007–1072) presented his Shan jiu jing zheng yi chan wei zhazi (Instructions for editing the explanations of the nine classics) to the emperor precisely to illustrate the variety of Kong’s sources.34 Thus Hu Gaowang staked out a position on a contested issue, unafraid if his examiners disagreed, all the while demonstrating the breadth of his technical knowledge of Confucian scholarship. Zhao Yi ignored the last two terms. Perhaps he was tired and could not remember, or sloppy, or just uninterested; in any case, he skipped over any specific title that might contain reference to “shi” or “jianyi.” But Wang Jie did think to give an example of “shi” in the commentarial tradition, citing the work of the Tang exegete Jia Gongyan (in office 650–655). Zhao Yi had in fact mentioned Jia Gongyan by name, but in reference to the “shu”

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commentaries on the Rites of Zhou (Zhou Li) and the Book of Ritual (Yi Li). The Tang scholar was an acknowledged specialist on the rites, and was even accorded status by the Song Learning master Zhu Xi—another caution against placing too much stock in a sharp distinction between Han and Song learning. Hu Gaowang cited a different Tang scholar, Lu Deming (556–627), who had written the commentary, Jingdian shiwen (Commentaries on the Classics).35 If Hu Gaowang had hoped to show off his extensive knowledge of books and etymology, he succeeded admirably. He went on to show his detailed knowledge of history in the discussion of artifacts and scholarly practice— another important aspect of the transmission of the classics. First, there was a question about the origins of one of the oldest academic positions in the empire’s history and then one that required knowledge of archeology, paleography, and calligraphy. The first question concerned the Erudites (bo shi), “scholars of wide learning,” which were chairs established in the Han dynasty for scholars who each specialized in one of the classics. Why, the examiners asked, were there sometimes fourteen and at other times nineteen Erudites? Curiously, none of our three respondents seemed able or willing to state upon which particular classics these fourteen or nineteen scholars focused, and perhaps it was not the examiners’ expectation that they do so. Wang Jie and Zhao Yi provided the least detailed responses. Wang Jie was aware that the positions had been set up in the Han dynasty (206 bc–220 ad), but of the details he could only say, “some emperors installed fourteen scholars and some even nineteen.” Zhao Yi fared little better. Not only was he equally vague, but he also made a mistake in naming the emperor: “The practice of having an educational official to put the classics in order began under Han Xiaowu di; later their number was increased several times,” he recounted. As it was, there was no emperor Xiao Wu in the Han dynasty; perhaps he meant the filial Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty (Han xiao Wu di). Only Hu Gaowang had an answer for all parts of the question: Emperor Han Wudi (r. 140–88 bc) established the institution of the Erudites of the Five Classics. In the jianwu period (25–58 ad) of the Later Han (25–220 ad) the number was increased to fourteen. In the Jin dynasty [265–420 ad] the number was raised to nineteen. In the Tang dynasty (618–907) the classics were divided into the three categories of small, medium, and large; each had its allocation of Erudites, and thereafter the number remained constant.

True, there was scant detail, but Hu Gaowang had at least shown that he had read the various dynastic histories and had paid some attention to this subject. The last subject concerning the transmission of the classics was connected to the previous question on the Erudites: “As for the stone classics

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(shi jing), why is there the yi zi (literally one character) and the san zi (literally, three character)? Can you discuss their differences?” The background to the question is as follows: after the specialists on the Confucian classics were established, it was discovered that, because transmission had relied on hand-copied versions, errors and corruptions had crept in over time, and the transmission process had exacerbated the confusion of different schools of interpretation. The solution proposed was that one standardized version of all the classics should be created and that this project should be carried out under state patronage. Our respondents, however, uniformly failed to give any such background or contextual description. Wang Jie gave only the information that “Cai Yong was responsible for the yi zi and Han Danchun was responsible for the san zi,” with neither explanation nor discussion. Hu Gaowang was able from memory to state correctly that the actual practice of inscribing the Confucian classics onto stone began in 175 ad (the fourth year of xiping during Emperor Han Lingdi’s reign, 168–184). He was, however, mistaken in thinking that the project was completed in 177 (the sixth year of guanghe): the correct year was 183 (the fifth year of zhong ping). Because the carvings were begun in the xiping period, they were sometimes called the xiping stone classics by later generations. Hu went on to state that “the yi zi are the stone tablets that Cai Yong [133–192] wrote on in vermilion ink” and that “Zhang Yan decided that the stone tablets should continue to be written in only the clerical style of calligraphy.” This was another mistaken impression, perpetuated in the Hou Han Shu (History of the Later Han). In fact, Cai Yong was exiled in 178 ad, only a few years after the stone classics project began. As Tsien has noted, it would be almost impossible for one hand to write the two hundred thousand characters that comprise these classics. It is likely that the Han dynasty stone classics, although all written in clerical style of script (hence their name yi zi, meaning one calligraphic style) were actually the work of many hands. As for the san zi stone classics, Hu Gaowang correctly stated that “the san zi were set up in the Wei dynasty [220–265 ad] and were named san zi because of the three different styles of calligraphy used: archaic style script (gu wen), seal script (zhuan shu), and clerical script (li shu).” “Some believe,” he continued, “that Han Danchun was responsible for the calligraphy; others believed that his calligraphy was completely lost, and that it was his disciples who were responsible for the writing. But neither explanation can be proved conclusively.”36 He might also have added that the decision to have three different scripts was made so that the Old Text versions of the Shang Shu (Book of Documents), Chun Qiu (Spring and Autumn Annals), and parts of the Zuo Zhuan (Zuo Commentary) could be better reproduced. The “san zi” (three calligraphic style) stone classics of the Wei dynasty were organized according to two different arrangements:

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the first was to have the archaic and seal script arranged under each clerical style character, thus forming a series of small triangles. The second was to have the three styles carved into vertical lines, with each set grouped under the other. Zhao Yi mistakenly thought the “san zi” stone classic was a product of the Tang dynasty (618–907), when “the emperor decreed that the students of the Imperial University (Guozijian) should write the classics on stone tablets in several scripts, including seal and clerical style.” Although the Tang did indeed produce a set of stone classics (inscribed 833–837), this was not the “san zi” version. Zhao Yi ignored the subject of the “yi zi” (one calligraphic style) stone classics altogether. There were actually a total of seven sets of stone classic inscriptions. Besides the Han (174–183), Wei (240–248), and Tang (833–837) sets just mentioned, there were also the Shu version (950–1124), one inscribed in the Northern Song (1041–1054), and one in the Southern Song (1134–1177). The last set to be inscribed was in the late Qianlong period (1791–1794), some thirty years after our respondents were writing. In any case, Zhao Yi closed his extremely brief discussion by suggesting that the extant stone classics provided scholars with a useful textual comparison that could be used with Zhang Can’s paleographical work on the five classics (yu Zhang Can wu jing bing kao zhe ye). In making this point, however, Zhao Yi failed to mention that in addition to the five classics usually identified as the Confucian canon, the stone classics included two texts many Confucian scholars consider to be commentaries—the Gongyang Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals (Gongyang zhuan) and the Analects (Lun yu).37 This section, testing candidates’ technical knowledge of Confucian scholarship, required a broad range of very specific details, a kind of high-level “cultural literacy.” It did not, however, require any kind of sustained, indepth discussion of one particular topic, and thus we can only roughly gauge our three respondents’ intellectual positions. We can conclude with some certainty that Wang Jie conformed to the rather moralistically oriented views found in the more conservative Song learning traditions. He was less interested in the history of the transmission of scholarship than in its ethical core of “truth.” His examples of exegetes were less a careful selection than a list of the most commonly used works. And, as he put it, “they [the exegetes] all had a devout belief in the ‘jing’ of the Sages and the determination to disseminate these views widely.” Our other two respondents, by contrast, were probably involved with the related intellectual trends of Han and Evidential Learning—particularly Hu Gaowang, with his careful attention to the Han and Tang Exegetes and his focus on etymological and historical origins. Zhao Yi was much less focused on historical detail than Hu Gaowang, but his discussions of the

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complexities of the Rites, for example, were both concise and knowledgeable.38 Zhao Yi’s knowledge was not just confined to scholarship; his essay also informed the examiners that he was aware of the imperial projects to issue definitive versions of several of the classics. Such knowledge was an important message to his readers, showing perhaps a level of cultural knowledge above and beyond the usual. Thus the kinds of knowledge of the Confucian classics solicited by the examination represented a wide spectrum, including moral significance, both historical and etymological origins and transmission, and material production. That these three responses were considered the best of 217 illustrates the breadth of acceptable examination discourse in the mid-eighteenth century. The responses also demonstrate that no one particular constellation of discourse, be it Song learning, Han Learning, or Evidential Learning, as yet had a clearly dominant position, much less a monopoly.

Administrative Policy Performance of administrative duties was perhaps one of the most mundane components of government. But time and again, the examiners recognized its centrality and focused attention on the subject in the palace examination question.39 The Confucian canon was valued in part because it was also the repository of administrative practice. Learning the history of institutional practices and their underlying principles constituted a vital part of training. Consequently, together with the standard histories, the classics provided the fundamental lessons of administration that examination candidates were expected to have studied and absorbed. The administration section of the palace examination functioned to sound out the candidates’ understanding of the significance of administrative evaluation. The question asserted that, “in the extension of government (literally, extension of order [zhi zhi]), importance should be placed on the evaluation of officials and methods of investigating this (shen guan, kao ke zhi fang).”40 Appropriate supervision of officials and evaluation of their administrative behavior and performance meant that the state could have the appropriate level of control over its institutions and agents and that administrators should be attentive of this. The question asked, “What is the best way to encourage officials to do their job well, to promote integrity and impartiality in order that behavior be guided completely by public interest without any selfishness?” To some extent, the principles of administrative evaluation elaborated the basic ethical framework needed for officials to think through the extent and limitations of their political power. To understand the principles of evaluation was thus to know what specific areas were considered most crucial in that framework and, by implication, to under-

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stand what constituted an abuse of that power. The administrative evaluation theme covered three areas: historical systems of evaluation, methods of selecting and promoting talented high officials, and methods of fostering public spirit. The questions were, first, what were the differences and similarities between the historical examples and current practice? Second, could present practice be improved? Third, how could ministers be encouraged to make their recommendations based on integrity and impartiality? To ensure that the candidates would be tested on their knowledge of historical precedents, they were asked to discuss a detailed list of references set within a comparison of the systems of antiquity, the Zhou period, and the Han and Tang dynasties. This historical approach contrasted sharply with questions given in the early Qing palace examinations, which often bluntly asked candidates to make suggestions of how better to integrate Han Chinese and Manchu practices. The 1761 examples cited all derived from periods that were believed to constitute the historical bedrock of Han Chinese administration. Neither the question nor the responses made mention of the polyethnic dynasties from the third to seventh centuries ad, or of the Mongol-ruled Yuan period, although the Tang could, arguably, be considered somewhat polyethnic in its employment practices and cosmopolitan culture.41 And none went so far as to mention the precedents of the Qin, with its legalist emphasis, or to discuss the failings of Ming dynasty government. All three responses demonstrated, to varying degrees, a discussion of concrete examples, a demonstration of knowledge of historical precedent, and significant knowledge of institutional practices. For the Zhou period, candidates were expected to comment on the observation that “[King] Cheng of Zhou’s six measures of evaluation to regulate behavior and assess corrupt practices and the [system of] ten day meetings, monthly consultations, and annual reports did not exempt the officials subordinate to the six high ministers.” The question went on: During the Later Han dynasty, officials with the rank of two thousand piculs were investigated according to the six conditions. The Counselor-in-Chief and the Censor-in-Chief variously assessed the feudal principalities and sent in reports. The Chamberlain-for-Attendants assessed the top three offices of government on a yearly basis. By the Tang dynasty, directors of bureaus directed the evaluation of capital officials and vice-directors of bureaus carried out the evaluation of provincial officials.42

Candidates were also expected to be familiar with current practice and were asked to comment on a recent policy initiative. Even if the candidates were not familiar with this particular provision, they were given sufficient detail to be able to assess its probable aims or successes. The initiative was laid out in the following manner:

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. . . More recently, [we have been concerned with] the careful selection of senior officials for promotion. Governors are ordered to recommend those sufficiently talented for prefectural appointments in the civil service and those who can be promoted from the military to colonel and above. As for metropolitan officials, apart from high officials being instructed to meet and evaluate provincial officials, they are also asked to comment on the worthiness of those being evaluated and to use their abilities to compare those recommended.

The question also made clear the parameters within which the responses should be made: “How can the quality of the recommended and of those making the recommendations be improved?” In the historical examples, the number of special terms and references included is immediately striking. Could all the candidates be expected to know about these? How did they deal with these references if they had no knowledge of them? We shall explore below the range of approaches and tactics candidates used. There were also similarities and differences among the respondents, in approach and style, in opinion, and in knowledge. While considering the candidates’ responses, I will again include, wherever possible, an explanation of significant terms and references and some discussion of the candidates’ sources, whether explicitly mentioned or implied by the choice of terminology. At many points, candidates’ responses repeated information verbatim from the question, a practice as familiar to examiners today as it must have been to examiners two centuries ago. All three of our respondents did so, either as a means of introducing their own discussion or to gloss over a point that they could not discuss. This seemed to be a particular practice of Wang Jie, who, for example, cites the second half of the Han example completely verbatim: “chengxiang, yushi za kao junguo ji shu” (the Counselorin-Chief and the Censor-in-Chief were responsible for evaluating the commanderies). He does not explain that these Han officials, the Chengxiang (Councilor-in-Chief) and Yushi dafu (Censor-in-Chief), together with the Da sima (Commander-in-Chief), were the triumvirate of highest ministers of government. Wang Jie did, however, with one exception, mention every single special term and reference included in the question. For example, he was the only one who even bothered to repeat the term for the “six officials” of the Zhou period. Perhaps this method avoided the embarrassment of exposing a lack of detailed knowledge of either the meaning of the terms or the workings of the system. Neither Hu Gaowang nor Zhao Yi relied to the same extent on this method. Another common habit, again familiar in examination practice today, was simply to omit mention of points that one could not discuss or did not wish to address. Not one of the three candidates considered a reference to “liang jing” (literally, two capitals) sufficiently important to point out that

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it referred to the Later (sometimes called Eastern) Han dynasty, with its dual capitals of Luoyang and Chang’an (modern Xian). Zhao Yi neither mentioned nor explained certain terms, such as the just-mentioned “six officials” or the Han Councilor-in-Chief (chengxiang) and Censor-in-Chief (yushi), although this kind of information may have been considered general knowledge. The major culprit of the dubious practice of omission was Hu Gaowang. Given his subsequent high placement in the palace examination, the number of terms he simply ignored is surprising. It is not clear whether he just did not know them or, like Zhao Yi, he thought them insignificant. His omissions, in any case, seemed irrelevant to his overall grade. It appears that these two habits of repetition and ignoring explicit references were probably an acceptable part of examination practice and did not put the respondents at much of a disadvantage. Despite the fact that there was no stated request for the information, all three took the opportunity to establish for the examiners their knowledge of the early precedents of antiquity. Each opened with a statement that the practice of triennial administrative evaluations had begun with the Shun emperor of the Yu dynasty, during the last part of the period of the Five Emperors. As might be expected, our three respondents brought very different approaches to their work. Hu Gaowang would today be described as a comparativist, thinking about the historical examples in relation to each other. He likened the Zhou system to the Han, mentioning the similarity both in methods and in the qualities favored. Thus, “just as the Zhou used the six mandates (liu dian), so the Han used the six conditions. The people of Zhou prized honesty (lian) and the Han investigation of honesty (lian cha) did not miss the meaning handed down by the ancients.”43 In making this distinction, Hu Gaowang, more than our other two candidates, made a point of responding to the question’s invitation to compare the historical examples. Zhao Yi, in contrast, preferred to illustrate his depth of scholarship. In several examples, he exhibited an impressive knowledge of historical institutional practices. Moreover, he had a good eye for opportunities to flatter the emperor—knowing full well that if he were one of the top three, as was his ambition, the emperor would read his essay or have it read to him by one of his ministers. Only Zhao Yi, for example, creatively suggested ways in which present Qing methods, introduced by the Qianlong emperor, combined and exceeded the benefits of the Han and Tang. Zhao Yi had a wonderful rhetorical style; he could be short and completely concise when necessary—such as in his discussion of the Book of Rites, above—and yet use the most evocative metaphors when the occasion demanded. For example, there was his show of modesty when describing his talents: “I am like someone who tries to look through a narrow tube to see the whole sky or tries to measure the sea with a calabash; my ignorance and shallowness are obvious.” Hu Gaowang, by

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comparison, tended to be wordy; his essay of almost two thousand characters was by far the longest. Wang Jie was less interested in demonstrating either extensive or indepth knowledge, but he was very careful to touch on each specific term and question. He first extrapolated the main questions and stated them in order, proceeding then to address each briefly, inserting the text of the question where he had nothing to add. Thus, although it might be said that his scholarly knowledge was poor in comparison to our other two respondents, or that he lacked Zhao Yi’s imagination, Wang Jie was circumspect. Nor should it be said that he did not try. Where possible he introduced extra terms, for example, to elaborate on the Han dynasty system. “The method used in the Han dynasty,” he wrote, “was that the Tai shou appointed their own clerks and the Ci shi circulated through the (six) boards, evaluating officials of the two-thousand-picul category. Thus a Han emperor could say that only those excellent two-thousand-picul officials administer the country with me!” Here Wang Jie was pointing to the Han system of governors (tai shou) of the more than one hundred commanderies (jun) into which the Han empire was divided. By using the terminology tai shou and ci shi, Wang Jie could demonstrate that he knew how the Han system of government worked.44 But were the examiners looking for this? The information was available in the standard histories and, compared to what Hu Gaowang or Zhao Yi could pull out of their memories, it does not seem very impressive. Yet, as Wang Jie’s top place later confirmed, his strategy of cautious, careful, and conservative response was perhaps the most successful. If Wang Jie seems not to have a vast range of scholarly knowledge, the same could not be said of Hu Gaowang or Zhao Yi. Hu Gaowang took every opportunity to demonstrate the breadth of his knowledge and to go far beyond what the question itself asked. While all three respondents had cited the precedent of triennial administrative evaluation from early antiquity, only Hu Gaowang was able to cite from memory the original phrasing found in the Book of Documents (Shu Jing) or Shang Shu, toward the end of the “Statutes of Shun” (Shun Dian): “Evaluations were made every three years and the decision to promote, demote, punish, or reward was based on three such evaluations” (san zai kao ji, san kao chu zhi you ming). Citing material originating from the Book of Documents also implicated Hu Gaowang in the ongoing debates concerning the Old and New Text controversy. As Wang Jie had so plainly pointed out in his discussion of the classic, because of its script and its purported discovery in the wall of Confucius’ home in Shandong province, the Old Text Book of Documents was considered by many the more authentic of the two versions. It was subsequently proven—first in the twelfth century, and then conclusively in the late seventeenth by Yan Ruoju (1636–1704)—to be a forgery (although even today, not all would agree). The New Text version of the Book of Docu-

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ments, named after the Han clerical script in which it was written, thereafter received much more scholarly attention. The issue of authenticity was as important for discussions of institutional practices as it was for philosophical and political debates. The very validity of the three-year evaluation precedent depended upon whether the section of the Old Text Book of Documents called the “Shun Dian” was considered a true document. In our time, Herr Lee Creel, in his investigation of Western Zhou statecraft, did not consider it a reliable enough text to be included in the sources he was prepared to consult.45 But the fact that all three of our respondents mentioned the precedent, and that Hu Gaowang had memorized the details, confirms the text’s importance to eighteenth-century Chinese institutional history and the general reliance still placed upon this section’s administrative precedents, despite the scholarly work of Yan Ruoju. Hu Gaowang was able to remember to cite the Zhou liu dian as a counterpart to the Han liu tiao, although it was Zhao Yi’s response that provides some explanation. This citation of terms might demonstrate knowledge Hu had gained in his studies, but it also allowed him to avoid discussion of terms he had either forgotten, did not know, or considered unimportant. He avoided discussing, for example, nearly all the Han terms that our two other respondents decided to broach. Hu Gaowang did have a very broad range of knowledge to draw upon. In his discussion of the Tang period, for example, he could bring up the Tang system of evaluation of the “four good attributes” (si shan), the qualities of having a name for virtue and righteousness, of being outstanding in honesty and diligence, of being praised for impartiality, and of being cautious and respectful without any slackening of purpose.46 It was to be supposed that the palace examination readers knew this term, for he provided no further explanation. From here he went on to discuss its historical development in the Song dynasty, a subject that the examiners had not even hinted at in their question. He explained that, by the Song, “civil officials were given five year terms and military officials seven. At the end of these terms officials would be evaluated by the specially established bureaus of investigation (shen guan yuan) and evaluation (kao ke yuan).” Thus Hu Gaowang was so driven to impress the examination readers with the breadth of his knowledge that he brought information into his response even where it had not been specifically required of him. That he was ranked second in the 1761 cohort is adequate proof that he had used his strengths well and that his disregard of some of the details of the question had, like Wang Jie’s, been considered irrelevant. Their use of standard terms and stock phrases should not fool us into thinking that either Hu Gaowang or the others had merely superficial knowledge. At times, as all three demonstrated to varying degrees, they were extremely well informed, although there were differences between what each of

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them knew. This is particularly the case with Zhao Yi; he does not omit any of the specific references in the question and, at the same time, gives extraordinary detail, establishing an impressive depth of knowledge. Zhao Yi, specializing in the Rites, was the only one of the three to give exact details of the Zhou system cited directly from the Rites of Zhou (Zhou Li), one of the three classic works on ritual in the Confucian canon. This did not mean that he described the system—of liu ji, or “six assessments,” for example; instead, he gave the original reference found in the xiao zai, or “minor intendant,” section of the “Tian Guan” chapter of the Rites of Zhou. He mentions a second term, liu dian, or “six mandates,” which refers to yet another system found in the “Great Intendant” (Da zai) section of the Heavenly Minister (Tian Guan) chapter. Each of the mandates was meant to benefit the constitutive elements of the Western Zhou empire: fiefdoms, officials and administrators, and the ordinary population.47 The reference to the system of six assessments of King Cheng of Zhou also derives originally from the Zhou Li. The Zhou Li (sometimes referred to also as the Institutes of Zhou or Offices of Zhou) was believed to be a detailed description of the government of Western Zhou actually written by the Confucian exemplar of perfect rule, the Duke of Zhou. According to Herrlee Creel, Qian Mu, and many other Western and Chinese scholars, it is an unreliable text. Despite the doubts surrounding this text, many scholars—even the most skeptical, such as Creel—find that much of the data it gives on the Western Zhou can be corroborated by contemporary evidence from bronze inscriptions. Rather than a forgery, then, according to this argument, it was probably not written earlier than the Warring States period but was based at least in part on authentic Western Zhou data. Written in a time of political strife and instability, the Rites of Zhou also reflects that age’s yearning for the perfect model in its depiction of supposedly paradigmatic government institutions. Why, then, given the climate of evidential scholarship in the second half of the eighteenth century, would the examiners choose to privilege this work as a source? Probably partly because of the lack of other sources and partly because of its antiquity and its traditional place in the canon, belief in its authentic representation of the Zhou system of government was quite firm, though there were already several skeptical critiques of it during the Qing.48 But, according to Kai-wing Chow, even scholars of the Han learning school refused to accept these critiques. Confirming Chow’s observation, inclusion of the doubtful Zhou Li into the palace examination question might well imply that even Han Learning scholars, in their efforts to protect the classical canon, rejected any excessive skepticism that might undermine it. In this view, expurgation of the classics was acceptable but doubting their provenance as authentic texts was not. Thus, by including references to the Zhou Li in their question, the

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examiners neither betrayed Han Learning goals nor went against Song Learning principles. Zhao Yi’s responses were succinct and to the point, and his writing skills were such that he could adjust or clarify a meaning by the insertion of a single word. For example, the examiners, in their reference to the Zhou system under King Cheng, included the phrase “er ri yao yue hui sui ji,” which translated crudely means “and daily and monthly meetings and annual assessments.” The meaning of the phrase would probably baffle readers today. The phrase is merely repeated by both Wang Jie and Hu Gaowang in their answers. Only Zhao Yi, by inserting the verb “you” (literally, to have), changes the repetition into an explanation clarifying (as it does for us) the fact that reports were given every ten days, meetings were held monthly, and accounts of performance were collected annually. The palace examination readers could then be certain that he understood this theoretically cumulative system that determined the evaluation of a Zhou official’s performance record. Zhao Yi was far more knowledgeable in institutional history than the other two respondents. He could give the original phrasing of the liu ji from the Zhou Li just as he could for the liu tiao from the Han Shu (Han History). In this way he impressed upon his examiners that he had a strong interest in the historical record of institutional arrangements. Both Zhao Yi and Hu Gaowang appear to be better informed than Wang Jie. The citational practice in all three essays implies that it was unnecessary either to explain or to elaborate on the meaning of terms and the mechanics of the system. Within the required framework of demonstrating cultural literacy and historical knowledge, the assumption was that a dian gu—an allusion or reference—communicated to the examiners that the candidate could point to the appropriate cultural landmarks. Besides differences in questions and in answers, there was also leeway for differences of opinion, and these were nowhere more obvious than in the question on contemporary administrative evaluation, which I discuss in the final section of this chapter. The Qing system, no less than those of any of the earlier dynasties, required examination credentials, while still relying on personal recommendations in the search for talented leaders, and of course there were no guarantees of objectivity. Promotions were a case in point, as the question implied: administration sought recommendations for leaders of proven abilities; however, individual senior officials often found it difficult to avoid some level of favoritism. If it was not outright favoritism, there was at least pressure to be subjective. Wang Jie held that the key to encouraging officials to be more impartial in their recommendations lay in the attitudes of the senior officials making the recommendations. He asserted that those whose job it was to promote

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or recommend talent held the greatest authority in government and that (rather obviously) the most crucial task in employing people of talent (yong ren) was to search for genuine reputation and ability. He then went on to offer evidence of his own observations. Without naming names, he claimed to have known ministers to make totally unbiased, impartial, and selfless recommendations. In this, he acknowledged that the reason for these attitudes was the sense of reciprocity that all those who served felt for the emperor’s great generosity; consequently, ministers felt obliged to make their recommendations with sincerity. Was this mere sycophancy and empty flattery? Although an element of flattery cannot be discounted, there probably was also a considerable element of sincerity. Wang Jie could not help but be aware of the power of imperial authority, and perhaps saw that the most important guarantee of sincerity and honesty was the review the emperor personally undertook of all recommendations. The very image of an emperor was his omniscience and omnipotence: whether from the provinces or from the capital, “no one escapes from the piercing gaze of His Majesty!” This image of the overwhelming personalistic power and ultimate authority and responsibility of the throne, transcending and potentially rectifying all local biases, was central to the ideology of imperial rule. Hu Gaowang skirted the question of current policy on recommendations. Instead, he fell back to a general position that emphasized the necessity of honesty and rectitude in all serving officials and the importance of strict methods of evaluation as an incentive for attention to that duty. These measures, he hastened to assure the examination readers and ultimately the throne, were already in place—a rather Panglossian view that reassuringly affirmed the health of the system as it was, while lacking any originality (not generally a requirement) or firmness of position. Zhao Yi was the only one of the three to address the specifics of the question. First, he made clear that even if (as the examiners implied) there had been failings in the focus of evaluations in antiquity, the present arrangements ensured that officials in the metropolitan area and in the provinces received equal attention. Second, because His Majesty paid such constant attention to personnel management, the current policy mandating governors and governors-general to recommend suitable civil prefects and military colonels meant there would be a constant pool of candidates available for these positions. Third, the fact that court ministers of each board and section and also governors and governors-general were permitted to memorialize the throne secretly with their assessments ensured the superiority of the present system over either the Han or the Tang system. Even so, Zhao Yi too recognized that those making recommendations had to be trusted to be impartial, while no measures could finally guarantee this result. Our three respondents agreed with their examiners that administrative evaluation, given its long pedigree and in its variety of methods, was a cor-

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nerstone of good government. While Wang Jie certainly stood for the ethical ideals underpinning the system, Hu Gaowang could work from many of the historical precedents, and again only Zhao Yi seemed to have a genuine interest in institutional mechanics as such. Although each candidate demonstrated different levels and kinds of cultural literacy and different positions, that all three were considered not only acceptable but also exemplary shows the range of citational practice and knowledge authorized by examination discourse.

Recruitment Policy Considerations The third of the four topics—the examination system itself—offers fascinating perspectives on political positionings as well as personal expression, and on the self-referential irony of evaluating a system while being part of its process. The question did not invite candidates to attack the system, but examination discourse did allow them to make constructive suggestions for improvement. Given that “from ancient times, the jinshi examination has been the best way to recruit men,” the candidates were asked, “How has it happened that the aesthetic and moral possibilities of the forms and styles of writing are not yet exhausted?” In a direct critique of perceived trends, the examiners asked, “How is it that scholarly writing is still so often both ostentatious and superficial? Perhaps the system’s laws and decrees have not yet exhausted their potential?” Like many presentday test-givers, the examiners wondered whether the inadequacy of regulations had promoted “superficial” writing. The question noted that while there were indeed differences in the principles of selection used in the past, nonetheless common ground among them ought to exist. The candidates were then asked to consider, based on principles derived from their knowledge of historical examples, how changes in examiners’ behavior and attitudes could generate an improved selection of the talented. Finally, they were asked to make a general assessment of the examination system and to suggest improvements to develop the system “to a higher level of perfection.” The question thus addressed both rhetorical and administrative issues in its broad themes for discussion: the relationship between writing and examination, the role of examiners, the standards used for selection of graduates, and overall improvements to the system. I will analyze each of our three respondents’ views within these broad, thematic parameters. The quality of writing in examinations seems to be a perennial and universal issue, especially the criticism made by the 1761 examiners, that examination writing lacks content and is merely written for show. A second issue more specific to Chinese culture is the relationship between writing, examinations, and morality. Peter Bol’s work on changes in definitions of

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culture in the Tang dynasty makes a convincing argument for a shift from an emphasis on knowledge of stylistics to an emphasis on moral positioning that came to characterize the intellectual turn toward Dao xue, or Dao Learning. By the eighteenth century, if one’s writing did not demonstrate sincerity that could only mean too much attention to style at the expense of moral purpose. For Wang Jie, the whole issue of examinations was a moral question. He began his disquisition with one of the best-known quotations from the Song dynasty—“writing is a vehicle for the Dao”—and went on to state unequivocally that “examination compositions represent the words of the sages and worthies” (zhiyi yi dai shengxian li yan), morally linking examination essays and Neo-Confucian principles.49 This repetition of the stylistic principle of baguwen was a conventional characterization of the relationship between writing and examinations, since candidates were supposed to speak in the place of the sages who supposedly wrote the classics and the worthies who wrote the classical exegetical commentaries. Consequently, according to Wang Jie, those who followed this principle would be circumspect in their tone and language. Wang Jie went on to define the difference between poor and good students. A poor student “made wild guesses, plagiarized, and copied from others; he relied on good fortune alone to carry him through; . . . and he paid too much attention to the demands of style, concentrating on rhymes and citing obscure and cryptic passages from the classics.” All this, he noted, was nothing so much as “refurbishing a carriage with leather in order to fool people into thinking it to be brand new.” Instead, the true student should “conform to the moral principles of the study of the classics; . . . investigate moral principles, (so that his) writing reflects the level of his moral worth and his sincere intentions”—not by presenting original ideas, as his first metaphor suggests, but by sincerity. Only in this manner, he proposes, does a man’s writing “conform to the desire of pleasing one’s heart and mind.” All these sentiments were thoroughly in line with the most conventional Song Learning principles advocated by the state. Fine prose, clever quotations, and reproductions of model essays, according to Wang Jie, demonstrated neither literary talents nor level of scholarship nor the industrious learning of an examination candidate. Instead, the only criterion was moral content and the level of sincerity in its presentation. Having made the point that a good examination composition inherently reflected moral nature and value, Wang Jie refused to castigate the examination system itself for the negative qualities he had pinpointed. It was to be expected that none of our respondents would be willing to discredit a system in which they would be evaluated on how they judged the very system assessing them. The dizzying circularity of the exercise necessarily in-

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terpellated the candidates into the self-referentiality of the institution. Wang Jie took a middle ground and chose to make that ground safe by citing the foremost Song Learning master: “Zhu Xi had said, ‘examinations set up to select scholars have succeeded in blocking the path for the empire’s heroes’” (ke mu zhi she tu zu tianxia yingxiong zhi lu). But, as Wang Jie pointed out, he had also said, “it is not examinations that restrict people, it is people who restrict examinations.” His solution to this dilemma was not to criticize the system, but instead to stress the individual’s responsibility to improve the examination system, an answer that fit well with Song Learning principles of individual self-cultivation. Nevertheless, he also argued that examinations were systematically arbitrary and did not necessarily select talent for successful government service. The Tang Shi, he notes, mentions many whose “poetry in the examinations exhibited mere ostentation and was devoid of any reality. Yet when the need arose for ministers to take responsibility for solving national crises, countless numbers of the same people actively contributed and, in the process, became famous ministers.” For Wang Jie, examinations only recruited talented officials if those participating already had the correct attitudes; he effectively disavows the disciplinary nature of this own training. The system, according to Wang Jie, did not guarantee that those selected were talented—or that the talented would be found and selected. In admitting these weaknesses of the system, Wang Jie exhibits significant reservations in supporting the proposition that it was the best method of recruitment. His rationale appears to conclude that the examination system was somewhat neutral—a position at radical odds with Zhao Yi’s. The key to the successful implementation of the system, Wang Jie held, lay in the Song Learning principle of “watchfulness and caution”: even when there seemed to be progress toward higher literary standards, there should be no slackening of attentiveness, nor should personal bias be permitted to enter examiners’ assessments. Wang Jie’s emphasis on individual responsibility meant that he was obliged to recognize that “when it comes to evaluating writing, each (examiner) has a slightly different standard of judgment.” He also recognized that this inconsistency “sometimes allows those who use showy language to get selected by sheer fluke,” fooling examiners into thinking they have genuine talent. As a consequence, some people “will doubt that the literary climate can change at all; instead these people will vie to follow negative examples.” Using examples of famous examiners from the Tang and Song periods, he illustrates his argument that the examination system’s quality depends as much on the moral attitudes of the individually responsible examiner as it did on the candidates’. However, in keeping with the logic of his position, he is forced to conclude that his historical examples had come about “in times when those who were the

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great literary exemplars of their times were also the examiners who evaluated writing.” Given the uniqueness of both the time and the individuals, one might conclude that there was little chance of rediscovering such heights of integrity and excellence. All that remained for Wang Jie’s time was the cultivation of moral character and the continued need for watchfulness and self-discipline. Zhao Yi is perhaps the most outspoken and critical on the issue of examination writing. For him, the system’s structural limitations caused problems. He asserts that “students eager to become qualified use the quickest means to do so and thus most of their essays are shallow and insincere.” He blames the pressure to achieve degree status for the problems of shallow content, superficial knowledge, poor composition, and plagiarism; thus, implicitly the examination system is at fault. Without the urgency to succeed, there would be fewer occasions for writing that is superficial and lacking in sincerity of purpose. He illustrates his point with a beautiful analogy drawn from the work of Tang Shunzhi (1507–1560), the Ming luminary of the Changzhou School of Learning from Zhao Yi’s home county.50 He quotes Tang as saying, “the habit of pursuing wealth and status misleads the mind’s ability to discriminate and judge. It is as if a man lives inside a thatched room; everything he sees is thatch, and he cannot see anything that is outside of it.” Thus blinded by ambition, it is impossible to make important distinctions in the wider scheme of things. “Such being the case,” Zhao Yie goes on to comment, “how is it conceivable that these students would take on the task of studying with a better purpose or more long-term goals, or that they would temper their conduct and reputations as their highest priority?” As he develops his discussion of those who are responsible for the undesirable state of affairs, Zhao Yi makes a clear distinction between officials and the throne. The throne sets in motion the right kind of policy and gives the correct guidelines for action, but it can only rely on its appointed officials to carry out the measures. Hence, Zhao Yi asserts, in every examination, the emperor emphasizes the need to eliminate corrupt practices and to “put an end to selections being made by sheer luck and happenstance.” Zhao Yi touches upon the recent call to “enforce the regulations to investigate serving examiners rigorously in a timely fashion”; this may be a hint about the 1761 case, in which it was suspected that examiners were trying to get around the examination laws of avoidance (see Chapter Four). Such enforcement would ensure that “writing styles and the interpretation of the classics would be corrected and students would concentrate on their studies and temper their characters.” In any case, Zhao Yi asserts, imperially appointed examiners were completely beyond reproach, “like thunderbolts moving with the wind; such was their resolution to be just and impartial. They would, in short order, create a climate whereby the empty seeking of

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fame would be completely eradicated. . . . Consequently students would become more enthusiastic and wholeheartedly motivated to discipline themselves . . . thus producing even more men of excellent talent!” One could no doubt argue that much of this was rhetoric aimed at pleasing a ruler who might read the essay, but in that case it was still important to clarify the distinction between the ruler and his ministers so that criticism reached the right quarters. And what of offending the examiners? Even here Zhao Yi made sure to gratify the palace examination readers, particularly as he considered these as specially court-appointed ministers—all high ranking— and not the ordinary general examiners under criticism in his essay. Nevertheless, examiners in general, according to Zhao Yi, bear a considerable share of the responsibility for producing the trends and attitudes being criticized in the question. He felt that that some examiners “widened the selection routes and passed more people,” producing “those who gained a reputation for being encouraging” not by setting a moral example but by “recommending as many candidates as possible for graduation”— in other words, by building factional followings. Such practices, Zhao Yi maintains, created a “climate of unbridled competitiveness that was ultimately responsible for destroying the scholarly attitudes. Examiners could at least refuse to see those coming to pay respects who, in reality, were there to ask for favors on behalf of their relatives.” But even such a measure would be pointless, he opined, “if examiners do not choose the most superior candidates: in that case it is still the same as fish eyes being passed off as pearls and beautiful stones being confused with genuine jade.” Under such conditions, “there was definitely competition to use ostentatious language and inadequate literary skills to gain advancement,” and consequently “it was impossible to rectify writing styles.” In other words, it was the choices examiners made that set the trends. Since candidates only wanted what would result in success, examiners had to take advantage of this impulse to hold them to proper standards of excellence. Zhao Yi, in sharp contrast to Wang Jie, thus blamed the examiners, who held the power to pass candidates, for the poor state of affairs. If examiners refused to grant favors, then the practice would end; if examiners passed papers that only reflected the highest standards of simple yet sincere writing, these would be the new trends. In the end, the problems were inherent in the system, for students would always compete to meet whatever was perceived to be the required standards to gain officeholding qualification. With that recognition, it is little wonder that Zhao Yi seemed to have such limited confidence in the examination system meeting its goal of selection. Competition could not in and of itself foster integrity and sincere love of learning, as much as the question implied that these qualities were sought after.

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Hu Gaowang, in contrast to both Wang Jie and Zhao Yi, neither discussed nor criticized the examination system. Instead, by passing over the problems and by naturalizing the question into statements of fact, he gave an impression of complete neutrality. “As the court has treated scholars so considerately,” so the scholars themselves are naturally and necessarily diligent and circumspect, and students “should conscientiously cultivate themselves in preparation for the day when the court calls upon them to perform great service and to make their contributions.” He reorganized the discussion to suggest that the throne had now solved all problems with the system, obviating any need for improvement. Habits of superficiality and plagiarism had already been eliminated. It is the Qianlong emperor, he claimed, who capped perfection and promoted elegance of style through bringing all the best of the Han, Tang, and Song dynasties’ examination styles together and synthesizing them into one perfect system.51 Consequently, literary styles had achieved new heights of elegance and perfection and there was no need for improvement or change. Hu Gaowang characteristically seized the opportunity to demonstrate again his interest in historical evidence and his expertise in detail and precedent. First he gave the date ad 606 in the Sui period as the beginning of the jinshi examination (jinshi zhi ke) and went on to mention that in the Tang, the examination had been divided into two different forms, classical studies (ming jing) and literary studies (jin shi). The Song, he added, saw the introduction of a new classifications: the meaning of the classics (jing yi) and poetry (shi fu). Rather than critiquing the examiners, he gave wellknown examples—first of the literary master Lu Zhi (754–805) having passed Han Yu (768–824) in the Tang dynasty, and second of Ouyang Xiu having passed Su Shi in the Song dynasty—to epitomize the evidential principles of “seeking truth from the facts” (shi shi qiu shi ). He added to this list of famous examiners others whom he approved of for maintaining their independence of mind while remaining in the mainstream and thus not causing conflict.52 As exemplars in the education field he cited the Song dynasty brothers Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi and the Song philosopher Zhu Xi. Although completely bland in tone compared to Wang Jie and Zhao Yi, Hu Gaowang once again demonstrated his eye for historical detail. All three responses stake out clear positions and indicate a possible range of responses—and again, since these were chosen as the top three responses in the 1761 examination, despite their differences, clearly all were completely acceptable to the examiners. Wang Jie stuck very much to a conservative position, one fully in line with the basic precepts of morality found in Song Learning. Zhao Yi, by contrast, appealed to his Changzhou learning roots yet in his discussion was more concerned about the structural problems of the system, taking a riskier critical position. Hu Gaowang chose not

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to engage openly with the debate, preferring instead to offer once again a rich evidentiary base from his historical knowledge; this preference for the appearance of letting the facts speak for themselves reflected the general direction of Han Learning. This positioning by the three candidates shows how ideology is not separate from the process that produces it but occurs instead through its articulation. By enunciating these positions the candidates were performing them into a living reality in their cultural world and contributing to the reproduction of ideas derived from various sources. Part of that reality recognized a multiplicity of acceptable positions within the discourse.

Economic Policy Discussion The economy was the final issue candidates were asked to discuss in their palace examination essays. Before laying out the issues, the examiners first stated one of the most fundamental principles of Qing imperial economic theory: that “industrious service and frugality are fundamental to the protection of people’s livelihood.” Unlike any other government of the same period, the Qing state was committed to a paternalistic policy of popular welfare, which was a basic strategy in holding the growing, unwieldy country together. The question went on to highlight one of the most important events to which the 1761 metropolitan examination was dedicated: “Year after year imperial gifts are graciously bestowed [on the people]. Now the new frontier territories of the Western regions [Xiyu, later called Xinjiang] have at long last been conquered and our supplies can be more abundant.” The question then focused on the substantive issue that candidates were to discuss; namely, how in the face of market incentives and profiteering could the state achieve its policy of protecting the people’s livelihood? Good harvests have a tendency to breed idlers who sell grain at low prices, which harms agriculture. Food and daily necessities are the sole reason why grain is grown, yet the extravagant waste these resources. Although the legal system forbids this, still these habits are difficult to eradicate completely. Now it has come about that half the grain grown is wasted on merchants who stockpile it, and on the clerks and runners who purchase it at high prices.

Candidates were thus asked to comment on the supposed collusion between local sub-officials who acted as buyers for local government and merchant wholesalers. The implied collusion thus cheated the state financially and the populace of their food resources. The examiners followed up this problem by mentioning another fundamental principle of imperial economic theory: “Local officials and magistrates should use methods of broadening the sources of income and reduce

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expenditures to ensure producers are not exhausted and consumers are not wasteful.” As R. Bin Wong suggests, the late imperial state believed that economic growth was limited in general and resources in particular were finite. Thus the state had to plan carefully to ensure stability and welfare and required all to cooperate diligently to achieve this goal. The question concludes, “How can these results can be achieved?” The state’s responsibility for the welfare of the people was the fundamental economic principle assumed throughout the elaboration of the issue. As Wong has so aptly characterized it, “amidst considerable policy variations the Chinese state generally followed a basic philosophy of expanding and stabilizing production and distribution in order to create a steady source of revenues and a stable social order. A socially secure and fiscally sound state depended on a healthy and happy people.” From that starting point, frugality and industriousness were the theoretical basis of what might be called the “subsistence ideology” enunciated in the examiners’ statements and supported with various emphases by the candidates. The section also made specific reference—as had the previous year’s (1760) palace examination—to the acquisition of Chinese Turkestan. The candidates were thus invited to comment on this latest victory in the Qing empire’s territorial expansiveness and to offer solutions to the concrete economic problem that it exacerbated, pitting market forces against a theoretically moral economy.53 At the same time, both question and answers once again illustrate the broad range of knowledge and equally different kinds of perspectives held by examiners as incumbent civil servants and expected of candidates as political aspirants. The three responses again give us some basis to infer the ideological leanings of the candidates and how those positions might be translated into concrete practice. Within the moral terms in which the discourse on economic policy was couched, Wang Jie, as he did in his assessment of administrative evaluation, placed the greatest burden of responsibility on the throne. Hu Gaowang settled on promoting social welfare to achieve stability, the goal he considered most important. Zhao Yi, on the other hand, saw government as a partnership between the throne and its administration. He placed much of the burden of responsibility in the hands of local officials. These three perspectives covered a broad range of opinion and again illustrate the breadth of positions acceptable to the readers. All three respondents agree with the basic economic principle of the Qing state that agriculture is the root of the economy and, therefore, that the population should be encouraged to remain on the land and to work diligently at raising crops. For Wang Jie in particular, though, the throne bore the ultimate responsibility and should be the foremost exemplar since, as he put it, “rulers have inherited Heaven’s directives and, occupying the

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highest position (in the land), provide for their people on Heaven’s behalf.” He recognized that people do have a certain responsibility for their own well-being and could “plan the day-to-day tasks of working the fields, putting every effort into raising good crops, and preparing the sacrificial food (for the ancestors).” Nonetheless, he added, “every single item of people’s necessities in food, clothing and implements is part of His Majesty’s consideration.” In view of the overall responsibility of the throne, Wang Jie maintained that “officials need to give guidance to people in practical methods and concrete measures, to use propriety in preparing food and in using implements, and to encourage them in their farming.” Again citing the classics for ultimate legitimacy, he continued, “thus it is said, ‘to show the nation ritual and normative propriety is to show the nation frugality and to correct extravagance’” (Suo wei guo she shi jian, guo jian shi li ye). Interestingly, Wang Jie’s short response for this section did not engage the invitation to discuss the economic impact of the conquest of the Western territories, nor did he offer more than a cursory response to the problem of stockpiling and profiteering from grain purchases. His solution was that the responsible local officials should be charged with making thorough investigations—after which, he expected, all the facts would come to light; a rather simple, optimistic view to say the least. Wang Jie, in fact, did not have much to say about economic policy, but he made sure to offer his appreciation of the imperial concern, which he described as marked by “unheard of levels of kindheartedness, replete with charitable intentions to soothe and pacify the common people.” It would be easy perhaps to take such statements as meaningless rhetoric or simple flattery, except that the continual rehearsal of such sentiments established their specific terms as both expectation and performed reality. “To soothe and pacify the people”: perhaps no other phrase so aptly captures imperial paternalistic considerations of the common people’s welfare. The state relied on the farming population as the bulwark of their economy, and thus, again as R. Bin Wong has discussed so well, their social well-being and control was of primary importance. To demonstrate the sincerity of these sentiments, administrators expected the throne to authorize very concrete gestures, such as the giving of tax remissions in times of dearth or the organization of famine relief, as Pierre-Etienne Will, Peter Perdue, and R. Bin Wong have shown. The throne, especially in the eighteenth century, was still able to live up to these expectations.54 Hu Gaowang averred, in line with the state’s paternalism, that the people would, in the normative rituals of carrying out their daily tasks, “reach a point of knowing filial piety and understanding the meaning of a sense of honor and shame.” Wang Jie concurred in recognizing the beneficial social effects of making people return to their farms. Unlike Hu Gaowang, however, he failed to mention one of the fundamental beliefs in an agricultural

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economy—that is, in the limited nature of resources and therefore the absolute need for attention to careful budgeting and frugality in consumption. As we will see, Zhao Yi discussed this concept in the most detail. Hu Gaowang’s major concern was the people’s welfare, which he considered crucial to foster for “a general climate where people are simple and honest, unspoiled and sincere” to prevail. He noted that, “for goods and materials to achieve abundance, a policy of long-term stable rule” is absolutely necessary. He envisioned quite an extensive welfare program—one completely alien to eighteenth-century Europe, though very much in keeping with economic theory in imperial China. Such a program, according to Hu Gaowang, would include “giving plenty of livestock to families who are taking care of the sick, thus giving families the wherewithal to replenish their income.” Presumably draft animals would substitute for the labor power normally supplied by ailing family members.55 He would also “give food and materials to those families who do not have sufficient.” But, lest we get too radical an impression, Hu Gaowang also believed that “the way to curb extravagance was to use virtue and propriety to establish standards” for families with extravagant propensities. Hu Gaowang’s notions of social welfare did not exceed the normative framework of moral example; thus, exemplary behavior could by itself encourage the extravagant “to revert to virtue.” In keeping with that framework, Hu Gaowang, like Wang Jie, recognized the importance of the throne as the major exemplar “to help people change by being educated.”56 Education here did not refer to a formal classroom program; rather, it was to encourage learning from examples set by their social betters. Demonstrating again his knowledge of and respect for classical and historical knowledge, which by this point had surely convinced the examiners, Hu Gaowang stated that “helping people change through education” could only be achieved successfully by learning from the ancient sage kings and following their methods and policies. In the last instance, however, “everything [I have discussed] lies in the hands of Our Sacred Ruler.” If historical guidelines were followed, then “those people of leisure who feel encouraged to migrate and give up the cultivation of the land will not go so far as to become loafers and idlers. Attendants serving magistrates would also not dare to exploit extravagance, using it as a means of accruing capital.” Migration, an inherent and acceptable aspect of modern society, was in the context of eighteenth-century China’s economy discouraged as a threat to security and stability, as was any prospect of a completely profit-driven, market economy without state intervention. Yet, the mention of the expansion of imperial holdings into Xinjiang was an invitation to discuss migration, especially in relation to these newly acquired territories. But Hu Gaowang seemed only to imply a negative view of migration as potentially dangerous to social order.57 A program focused on pop-

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ular welfare, directed as much by moral example as by measures derived from the experience of the ancients, would be rewarded by “the population growing, families content and singing praises to the Sovereign on High.” Hu Gaowang was the only one of the three respondents to address the implications of territorial expansion. He was also the only one to make direct and carefully diplomatic reference to the founding of the Qing dynasty: More than a hundred years have passed since the time our homeland [wo guo jia] recuperated and multiplied its population [xiu yang sheng xi]. Passes at the Western frontiers [Xi yu] have been established. Urumqi and the area stretching along Changjie and Luokelun have been opened up. The weather there is favorable for crops, farms and military colonies already have bountiful harvests in these areas, and these outstanding results are progressively being extended to open further areas. These resulting successes have been broadcast far and wide.

It would seem that Hu Gaowang thought imperial expansion served not merely strategic military purposes, but had benefits that would also devolve upon the populace at large. Later on, he waxed even more eloquent on the implications of such expansiveness: “The emperor’s decrees will soon reach all the distant corners of the earth; the transformation of people by education will then spread to the nine continents.” Thus such exemplary developments were expected to gain a global reputation for the Qing. Again, it would be wrong to discount this as empty rhetoric. If Hu Gaowang echoed the optimism of the time, he also seemed to feel a personal stake in the fruits of imperial expansion. As he approached graduation from his examination career, his own optimism must have been focused on the prospect of officeholding and sharing in the political spoils of empire. Zhao Yi’s response suggested a kind of Malthusian dynamics of economic growth: “The population grows daily, but the resources needed to support their existence are limited; therefore surpluses cannot be constant and shortages are always possible.” Zhao Yi’s overall approach also reflected the general subsistence ideology of an agricultural economy: “Men can farm and women can weave; one pair of hands and feet are fully able to supply a person’s needs.” This was the kind of position that the other two candidates had taken for granted. Unlike Hu Gaowang, Zhao Yi made little or no reference to any moral or philosophical underpinnings of economic policy, instead framing moral issues as pragmatic problems: “What should be carefully thought through is that there are many shirkers and malingerers, while sources of money are far too limited. Food and clothing outlays are often excessive and the demands on financial resources are many.” He went on to cite two officials famous in their time for their knowledge and expertise in economic issues, Jia Yi and Gui Youguang. From Jia Yi he offers a warning: “A country cannot maintain peace and stability based on one person farming and ten people eating. Those without an established residence, who shirk and

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malinger, should be strongly urged to return to farming.” Hu Gaowang had made a similar point, but unlike Zhao Yi, and despite his idealization of historical precedents and the “words of the sages,” he seemed not sufficiently pragmatic to have read or noted these historical experts. Zhao Yi’s curiosity about and attention to historical precedents and the pursuit of concrete examples, for anyone who has looked at his voluminous notes and jottings on a broad range of subjects, will come as no surprise. His second historical example is from a Gui Youguang allegory about the deleterious effects of bad social habits and the general susceptibility of people to popular fashion. “The people of Wu,” he related, “each competed to dress better than the other and competed to eat delicacies of every kind. Each envied and imitated the other. If people did not keep up in the slightest thing, they felt humiliated and ashamed.” The story ends by asking, “With these attitudes, how could poverty be avoided?” For the hardheaded pragmatist Zhao Yi, mere moralizing or idealizing would not do. He went on to say, “These habits are long-standing and have already been formed. It is impractical and idealistic to expect in a single moment that all unemployed migrants would return to farming or that all who love luxury and extravagance will revert to economical habits. Yet it is impossible to ignore the problem and not do anything to solve it.” Caught by the contradiction between reality and ideal, what could be done? For Zhao Yi, the solution lay in the leadership abilities of local officials, those representatives of the throne actually on the ground and in the field, dealing with such problems on a daily basis. Though undoubtedly in agreement with Wang Jie that exemplary measures from the throne were crucial to keep the populace’s attention on hard work and thrifty habits, Zhao Yi also believed that “real solutions lie in local officials educating and guiding the people in their jurisdiction.” Elaborating, he mentioned how in historical times local officials acted as behavioral models, for example, by “walking through the fields and responding joyfully at seeing seedlings growing well . . . . Local folk would then one by one begin imitating these officials, and in a few short years all the villages had become wealthy and prosperous.” This was an idealized representation to be sure, but one based on some recognition of the practical realities. Zhao Yi also stressed the need to enforce laws and regulations at the local level, noting that in the past, “officials stipulated that all commoners’ funeral and wedding banquets should conform strictly to sumptuary laws.” Here Zhao Yi was recognizing another seemingly perennial concern in Chinese culture: excessive expenditure to produce an image of generosity during the most important public performances of family. Clearly, in the past as in the present, people spent well beyond their means in order to impress; families ran into such debt that when these practices were stopped, Zhao Yi asserted, the same people

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“became families of ample means.” Recognizing the practical difficulties of the pressures on people’s daily lives, Zhao Yi’s concrete suggestions took account of social and cultural necessities and placed the burden of responsibility on the example of the local magistrate. Qing China had some similarities to eighteenth-century Europe in its economic growth dynamics and possibly in the notion of a moral economy, though morality was not merely in the logic of things but in behaviors to emulate. Unlike Wang Jie, Zhao Yi again did not address the philosophical rationale of the throne’s moral leadership, and unlike Hu Gaowang, he did not paint idealistic notions of social welfare measures. Instead, he emphasized the responsibilities of local administrators, the fundamental duties of a “mother and father” official. Like Wang Jie, though, he chose not to address the subject of territorial expansion and its possible implications for the general welfare of the country, taking instead the stance of a practical administrator. Might this be a reason why the imperially appointed examiners placed him first, whereas the emperor thought he merited only third position? Such a surmise seems unavoidable, but by the time the examination results were announced, far too many factors were at play to assign too much weight to any one cause, as the next chapter will explain. The concluding section of the three palace examination essays provides textual evidence of the bounded, shared, spatial, and imaginary community implicit in the candidates’ worldview. The term guojia (homeland, nation, nation-state, country) appears in the discussion of economic policy and in the final remarks of all three responses, uniting them in a common understanding of the collective geo-political entity in which they all believed themselves to play a part. As we saw above, examiners had asked the candidates to comment on the economic benefits of imperial territorial expansion. Hu Gaowang, as we discussed, embraced this idea enthusiastically, even envisaging a global reach for “wo guojia.” All three of our candidates paid lip service to the idea in their concluding remarks. Wang Jie enthused that “our nation [guo jia] will enjoy ten million years of prosperity and good fortune!” and Hu Gaowang, that “the nation’s [guo jia] brilliant future of hundreds and millions of years begins from this point.” For Zhao Yi, it was that “our nation [guo jia] can claim the foundations of the way for the length of ten thousand years.”58 It might be objected that these are mere rhetorical flourishes, but I would continue to argue that—in line with examination discourse being both productive of new formulations and the active rehearsal site for the reproduction and reinforcement of diverse, existing ideas—the stating of guojia also produces its existence. In their careers, several men from the Class of 1761 in particular were able to share in the political control of their “guojia”—and their subsequent careers rose and fell with imperial expansionist efforts (see Chapter

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Five). These men, having graduated from an arduous disciplinary training, and willingly enjoined in the dynamics of imperial legitimacy, were finally permitted fully to perform the proto-nation. Renewing contacts, retracing the available links laid down by examination practice, this prototype of the modern nation-state could claim participation in a variety of vital components: print media, sociability, formal and informal lines of communication—and probably most apposite—the movement toward an inclusive mapping that border campaigns inevitably constructed. Whether guojia is conceived as a nation, nation-state, or homeland, the candidates’ use of the term also implied recognition of imperial power, under a ruling ethnic minority or not, and their own willingness to cooperate, in a subordinate capacity, to include non-Chinese territories (and, by definition, other cultures), and to promote a culture of inclusion, not difference, in a hierarchical world.

Conclusion Having looked in detail at the top three palace examination responses, is it possible to attribute some general reasons why, based on the content of their essays, these three candidates were considered the best? Or why Wang Jie and Zhao Yi were eventually placed first and third and Hu Gaowang second? Although any such assessment is necessarily limited by our small sample, we have noted already that the discourse that qualified as superior covered a broad spectrum of positions. Wang Jie, as we have seen, leaned heavily toward the mode of moral exemplars so typical of the norms of Cheng-Zhu learning. Such an approach placed an extremely heavy burden of responsibility on the throne—the other side perhaps of the subordination to authority that state-sponsored Song Learning supposedly encouraged. It certainly contributed to the imaginary of personal rule and built it to omnipotent proportions—and perhaps inadvertently suggested the question, If the throne was responsible for so much, what responsibility did its officials carry? Insofar as Wang Jie’s views can be judged conservative, they show how an education in the northwest province of Shaanxi and apprenticeship on the staffs of provincial officials were not yet influenced strongly by the latest intellectual trends of Han and Evidential Learning in the metropole and in the Yangzi delta provinces. Yet even without this possible advantage, his cultural literacy was more than sufficient to convince the palace examination readers that he was extremely well versed in the views and responses valued in civil officials, and for this perhaps he had his mentor and employer, Chen Hongmou, to thank. Wang Jie did not demonstrate any great depth of historical or scholarly knowledge. Nor, despite his years serving on a prominent official’s private secre-

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tarial staff, did he exhibit a strong inclination toward administratively oriented solutions. Rather, he was, one imagines, to become one of the many who made up the backbone of the civil service: circumspect, conservative, and unwilling, in fact even if not in theory, to take a firm political position. In other words, he was entirely and acceptably bureaucratic in his views. The contrast between Wang Jie and Zhao Yi is striking. In Zhao Yi we have a deeply engaged administrator, one who applied practical reason to the issues at hand and seemed to have an instinct for recognizing the heart of a problem. Articulate and imaginative in his discursive formulations, he also exhibited a concise knowledge of Confucian classics, although apparently they were not his primary interest. Insofar as eighteenth-century China had criteria of bureaucratic professionalism, Zhao Yi surely measured high, and his examination readers must have recognized his potential worth to the administration. His willingness to consider the practical problems of government would perhaps be considered another aspect of successful examination training, and it likely gave him an edge over Wang Jie in at least the minds of the palace examination readers. While there was some question whether Zhao Yi or Wang Jie would be placed first in the final ranking, there was no doubt in the minds of all concerned that Hu Gaowang’s response merited second place. His interest in classicism and historical precedent conformed to an approach that fit well with the more general attributes of Han learning. He too was a loyal son of the Qing empire. There could be little doubt about his interests and abilities in scholarship overall, or of his pursuit of the newer intellectual trends, and this especially must have contributed to his high ranking. Whatever problems he faced in his work, he could be relied upon to appeal to historical experience, of which his knowledge was considerable. Thus all three, despite their differing intellectual positions and knowledge bases, had proven their worth in examination training. All exhibited the requisite cultural literacy gained through the study of the classics and the histories of state institutions, and all demonstrated their worth through the mostly non-explicatory citational practice acceptable in examination discourse. Our three respondents easily conformed to the stylistic requirements of policy essays and were adept in articulating the requisite understanding of the power relationships between themselves, their superior officials, and the throne. Although not a single one of the three had achieved top rank in either the provincial or the main metropolitan examination, the distinction between those examinations and the palace examination—with its emphasis on practical government issues, addressed to the throne and to high ministers—appeared sufficient to make such discrepancies irrelevant. Finally, the 1760 and 1761 palace examinations were also unprecedented in that they

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commemorated the re-expansion of the empire to beyond China proper, and included a section with a philological approach to classicism. The three respondents did not uniformly address the former issue, though this failing seems not to have been deemed significant among those trained mainly to govern China proper. The responses to the latter indicate the growing acceptability of philology at the highest level of the examination system, but it would be difficult to assess any greater significance from our small sample. Nonetheless, the responses allow us to recognize and to begin to sketch out the multiplicity of knowledges and approaches to statecraft performed and authorized in examinations, and as such, they should continue to be fruitful sites for study.

4

Fair Fraud and Fraudulent Fairness

Just before the 1761 metropolitan examination, a provincial censor, Sui Chaodong, working temporarily in the Grand Council, the emperor’s closest and most important advisory body, submitted a memorial requesting the revival of “avoidance” examinations, allowing those disqualified by kinship or native place conflict of interest to take separately administered examinations.1 Several categories of avoidance laws existed. One category mediated spatially to prevent local power bases from competing with centralized control; another was directed at preventing powerful families from consolidating political power. Instead of treating Sui’s memorial as a routine matter, the Qianlong emperor reacted with rage. He instigated a thoroughgoing investigation, and Sui was subsequently condemned to death. In a follow-up decision, the top-ranked candidate, Zhao Yi, was demoted to third place. While Zhao Yi was not implicated directly in the avoidance investigation, his fate was certainly an effect of it. After first telling the stories of the two best-documented 1761 graduates, Zhao Yi (1727–1814) and Wang Jie (1725–1805), this chapter explores the multiple ways in which this case exposed the tensions between the state and elite office-holding families, and within the state itself—that is, between the throne and its administrative agencies. The early examination careers of Zhao Yi and Wang Jie exemplify how the disciplining process of the examination system shaped individual and familial options to overdetermine various choices. The overlap of these constellations of concerns is exemplified in my analysis of the avoidance case, which also illuminates the system’s inherent political tensions. Because the metropolitan examination interpenetrated and interconnected various social and political spheres of elite power, it could be an effective instrument for furthering networks of connection and influence that crossed social and political boundaries, creating a complex terrain that both emperor and officials alike were obliged to negotiate. Avoidance (huibi) refers to the act of avoiding situations caused by a conflict of interest between the state and the family—in other words, between public 107

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(gong) and private (si), preventing connections inimical to state interests. Thus avoidance also refers to the laws and regulations established to adjudicate any conflict arising from such eventualities. In the first part of this chapter, I discuss the sharply contrasting opportunities and choices that different economic resources brought to bear. The stories of Zhao Yi and Wang Jie illustrate the intersection of the ideology of family continuity and the imperatives of upward mobility. Their detailed chronological biographies, while recapitulating briefly the examination cycle, serve to accentuate their different backgrounds and career trajectories.2 Next, I discuss avoidance examinations and avoidance laws. We then look at the political consequences of Sui Chaodong’s request. In the fourth and final section, we describe the repercussions for Zhao Yi. “Connection” connects all four parts of the story. In the first instance, I illustrate the tight bonds between family, examinations, and social mobility, with a stress on the families’ strategic economic planning. Then, I lay out the issue of holding special examinations for sons and relatives of office-holding families who were otherwise disqualified by family connection. The Qianlong emperor, when he later abolished these special examinations, discovered that many of his officials would rather use their privileged positions to further family fortunes and in the long run possibly damage the integrity of that recruitment process. At the same time as the emperor was discovering how family connection worked, he also began to suspect that fostering family connection within the Grand Council might be a way to create political obligations threatening favoritism or, even worse, factionalism. Political connection is thus the third type of connection discussed. Finally, I talk about Zhao Yi’s personal connections and the struggle of the candidate and the emperor to each achieve different goals: one trying desperately to achieve the familymandated goals of status and success in career and state service, the other choosing to make a pointed demonstration of the dominance of imperial power over the imperially perceived pretensions of the Grand Council. The success of one, as it turns out, was felt to deny the success of the other. As my title suggests, the emperor and Zhao Yi each assumed a different definition of “fair,” while the results themselves demonstrated the obdurate nature of systemic dynamics.

Zhao Yi and Wang Jie—A Comparative Case Study Biographies, around which much of this present study is built, are at root the fundamental written public record of an individual’s contribution to family prestige, and as such to the immortality of both the individual and the family line. Sima Qian noted this fact almost two thousand years


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earlier in a letter to his friend Ren An, a letter probably as familiar to any Confucian-educated person as the classics themselves. The didactic role they played generated an ideal pattern of public life, creating a weight of significance. For precisely that reason, these records are of somewhat limited use for modern China scholars. Such records were central to the ritual of ancestor worship, for oftentimes the general purpose of recording the life of an individual was to “pay final respects to the dead.” In this same category are muzhi (grave records) for burying with the dead, ming (formal laudatory poems that were usually attached to the end of the grave record) and shendao bei (stone inscriptions on the grave path). These usually brief pieces are often all the record we have for many of the Class of 1761 for example. Together with familygenerated xingzhuang (accounts of conduct), they were the basic data for the historical record, that is, the state or locally sponsored public account found in the biography section of officially compiled histories (liezhuan), local gazetteers, and the many collections of biographies for the Qing period. A person’s individual biographic record was not so much meant to illustrate a subject’s distinctive differences as to demonstrate the extent to which he measured up to, or even surpassed, the standard patterns established by convention for a successful public life. Both the standardization and the need to be measured against it lie at the heart of the disciplinary process that was examination life. Although for over 90 percent of the 1761 cohort there are some kind of biographic records, many of these exhibit the kinds of limitations that resulted in standardized copies, as David Nivison and Denis Twitchett discuss. Their sheer prevalence provides an unusual abundance of records, but, though they were sometimes written by those actually connected with the deceased subject, authors were often chosen for their writing skills rather than for any intimacy with the subject, and many of these wrote for monetary remuneration. Biographies thus could often be formulaic, distant from their subjects, and written to participate in a well-established traditional social practice. Although the details tended to be accurate, the tone was more often than not laudatory and tended to blur or omit any negative aspects. Many of those in my sample of over three hundred were, because of their positions as office holders, readily suitable to fulfill the didactic tradition of moral exemplars, which unfortunately often meant slotting their subjects into two-dimensional character types. The hagiographic nature of the enterprise—in its modern sense—is also apparent in officially compiled biographies, based mostly as they were on the carefully edited “accounts of conduct” that the surviving family had compiled, especially for those who had served in administration. These data were often kept in case the subject should later be included in the officially

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compiled history of the period and they were necessarily formal. Thus, as Twitchett describes them, “biographies represented a man’s life through a set of ‘stereotypic topoi.’” Like pre-Renaissance European biographies, although focused on the individual, they treated the individual as part of an ideal pattern of public life.3 In a curious way, though, their repetitive, stereotypical, two-dimensional form and content might be considered to be, after all, another discursive manifestation of lived, regimented, disciplinary practice. Most of the personal data for Zhao Yi and Wang Jie derived from their chronicles (nianpu; literally, chronological biography). Written as a yearby-year account of the subject, these records contain by far the most detailed information. Even though nianpu were far from any idea of a record of thoughts or feelings, and as restrained as any other biography, by virtue of their detailed documentation of acts and events they allow for a much closer look at the subject’s life. For example, one nianpu recorded that in 1747 Zhao Yi’s younger brother died and his sister-in-law brought her family to live with them, thus increasing Zhao Yi’s financial responsibilities. Another relates that in 1746 Wang Jie’s wife gave birth to the first of his four sons—and no doubt increasing family pressure for a success in the examinations leading to a full civil service career. Births, deaths, marriages, registering for various examinations, all these data contribute to our understanding of the interpenetrating structure of family, examination, and career. An overwhelming conclusion from biographic data is that any family with the economic means and cultural resources wanted their sons to be degree holders, to hold office, and to participate in political power. Chang Chung-li estimates that 1.3 percent of the pre–1850 population held some level of examination qualification. Children had to start the process early, and Zhao Yi and Wang Jie began their education well before the age of five. Wang Jie’s chronicler claims that Wang began learning to read at the age of three and could write large characters by age seven; this claim, it turns out, was a standard figure for asserting precocious intellectual development. Despite this assertion of early brilliance, Wang Jie was thirty-five before he managed to pass the provincial examination (xiangshi). Student status and the history of one’s examination achievements were generally recorded in the Record of Successful Metropolitan Graduates (Dengke lu).4 Zhao Yi’s chronicler claims that Zhao began learning to read even earlier, at age two, memorizing twenty characters a day—perhaps unremarkable for an older child but a prodigious feat for one so young. In any case, Zhao Yi was twenty-three before he became a provincial degree holder (juren). Biographers of educated men almost invariably created the impression that the subject was a child of unusual precocity; whatever the truth-value of these claims, they offer a didactic model of early training, to be understood


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as a clear advantage in the process. As for the age difference in the achievement of the provincial degree: although difference in intellectual abilities might explain it, intelligence and examination skills were not commensurate, whereas differences in access to and in kinds of cultural knowledge could be determinants of both literati education and examination taking. Zhao Yi began his schooling with the Qian zi wen (The One ThousandCharacter Primer) and the San zi jing (The Trimetrical Classic). At age five, he attended the village school (shu) where his curriculum also included the Meng Qiu, an easily memorized book of rhymed verses about historical figures, the Xiao jing (The Classic of Filial Piety), another standard children’s text, and, surprisingly, the Yi jing (Book of Changes). The inclusion of the last, an unusually difficult book for a child of this age, could only continue to signify early genius at work. By age eleven, he was studying examination essay writing (shiwen) under his father’s tutelage. Zhao Yi was so proficient— so the possibly apocryphal story goes—that even after his father told him to stop and focus on the classics, he continued to ghostwrite examination essays for his fellow students. Although undoubtedly we can take it as a deliberate hint of his future talents as a scholar, this story also constitutes a narrative building block in the structuring of Zhao Yi as a brilliant prose writer, which is thus pushed back into childhood. Students subsequently moved on to the Four Books and Five Classics, the canonical texts of Confucianism and the basic content of the imperial examinations. The 1761 examination also required that each student should specialize in one of the Five Classics. The Book of Songs was the most popular specialization for the 1761 metropolitan cohort; it was short and thus easier to memorize, so perhaps it is not surprising that 30 percent (67 of the total 217 graduates) had chosen it. Next in popularity—surprising, given its difficulty—was the Book of Changes: sixty of the cohort specialized in it (28 percent). The third most prevalent choice was the Book of Documents, again a required text, chosen by 52 of the 217 graduates (24 percent). While these texts show little fluctuation in overall popularity, the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Book of Rites sharply and unexpectedly dipped in popularity, being chosen by twenty (9.2 percent) and thirteen (6 percent) graduates respectively, surprising given the increased interest in the rites during this period. Contemporaneous discussions of the commentaries for the Spring and Autumn Annals would also suggest that this text would have had a higher standing.5 Superimposed on the basic simplicity of the three-level examination schema was a labyrinthine array of examinations. Before the candidate could sit for the provincial examination, he had to pass three main groups of tests. As we saw in Chapter Two, the first group were to admit the student to initial student status (tong shi); the second group, to maintain surveillance on the student and

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track his progress (the college examinations). And the third group were to maintain student status, to qualify the student to sit the provincial examination, and to assign various awards and incentives (sui shi and ke shi). The student’s first experience in examinations was at the district (xian) or county (zhou) level (depending on place of residence) and took the child to the major administrative center of his local residence area. Only those who managed to pass all five daylong sessions could claim success. After 1700, there were no quotas applied at the district and prefectural examination levels. Selection for a pass without the pressure of quotas meant that examiners were free to set standards of merit without the obligation to raise or lower them to meet a numerical criterion, thus lending at least the veneer of justification to ideological claims of an open, meritocratic system of upward mobility.6 Later, at the next higher level, either prefectural (college) or provincial quotas were applied, and, although merit was still obviously a criterion, numerical limitation took priority. In Ho Ping-ti’s words, the late imperial concept of merit comprised “a knowledge of classics, stereotypical theories of administration, and literary attainments.” Beside social equity, according to Ho, Confucian ideals also included the principle of educational equity, thus enabling the poor to move upward through China’s hierarchical social structure. However, Evelyn Rawski’s study of popular literacy shows that reality tended to contradict this ideal. Indeed, at the end of the local level examinations, in a grand show of elite solidarity, those passing at the district level were rewarded by an invitation to dine with the presiding magistrate.7 Most of a district’s elite families could probably claim some acquaintance with the local magistrate, especially as some of these would be officials of equal status but perhaps on leave or retired. Zhao Yi, for example, circulating as a tutor in Yanghu, the chief district of his prefecture of Changzhou in Jiangsu, would have had opportunities to meet local officials and elites. After the local level examination, Wang Jie and Zhao Yi would move on to the prefectural examination, another set of five day-long sessions. Having completed the district and prefectural examinations—held twice every three years—Zhao Yi and Wang Jie did not yet count as qualified students. Not until the Provincial Director of Education (tidu xuezheng) arrived—which he did twice every three years—to hold the all-important yuan shi (prefectural qualifying examination) could a candidate take up general student status.8 Wang Jie in Hancheng, Shaanxi province, and Zhao Yi in Yanghu, Jiangsu province, each candidate met, probably for the first time, his Provincial Director of Education, who presided over the examination and had final authority in the decision on whether to enter the candidate as a student. Zhao Yi’s provincial director of education was one Cui Jun—a metropolitan graduate of 1718 and concurrent Libationer (jijiu of the capital’s


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Imperial College)—a useful connection for a candidate with ambitions. The director seemed quite determined to enter Zhao Yi into the Changzhou prefectural college quota, which was set at twenty-five; apparently, on this occasion, eighty-six had been passed in the reexamination. In this case, the Provincial Director of Education held a second reexamination to resolve the problem, and fortunately for Zhao Yi, his biographer reports, he made no mistakes on his paper.9 Zhao Yi and Wang Jie were eighteen and seventeen respectively (like present-day high school graduates) before they managed to pass all the first group of examinations (tong shi), crossing the first major threshold in the examination system.10 Passing the yuan shi, in 1742 and 1746 respectively, Wang Jie and Zhao Yi could now claim shengyuan student status, but only in a general sense, as they had still not yet qualified through the sui shi (annual examination), which would give them one of the three available status ranks. They were now called shengyuan and came under the supervision of officially appointed education officials. Unlike Zhao Yi, Wang Jie did not become a prefectural college student but was in the more minor category of district student, coming under the jurisdiction of the Jiaoyu or District Director of Education of Hancheng district. Zhao Yi was supervised by the Changzhou jiaoshou, or Prefectural Director of Education, a higher ranking, and often qualified with a metropolitan degree. At this point, they entered the period of more frequent testing: they would be investigated every month, attend lectures regularly, and be tested by their new educational supervisors four times a year. The function of this college system was predominantly discipline and surveillance and only secondarily what we usually consider education as such. Political power and government position in Qing China were attained not through education per se but through examination qualification.11 Control of the examination system meant that substantial support for government schools was unnecessary. Candidates were assumed to have the necessary knowledge; therefore, the state did not need to invest in a substantive national school system. The credentialing system of examination degrees thus allowed the state to enact a more indirectly controlled, economical, skeletal state education system that left the actual education of the student mostly to the family. Generally, then, candidates had to rely on home schooling or various other cooperative learning mechanisms—village schools such as the one Zhao Yi attended, for example, or the academies such as the Guanzhong Academy in Xi’an, which Wang Jie attended for six years while studying for his provincial degree. Like his father before him, Zhao Yi for much of his youth was gainfully employed as a home tutor. With the incentive of political power imbued with the moral cachet of civil service, the Manchu state could count on families of means to continue to invest time, money, and effort in private

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education. This split system also successfully kept examination status and mobility into the Confucian elite very much closed while allowing the myth of an open system to be perpetuated. The competitive system in fact allowed only a very few to participate and a very few to succeed. The frequency and repetitiveness of examinations would have disciplined Zhao Yi and Wang Jie in political principles, attitudes, and behavior in interactions with other members of the civil service. As they repeatedly worked through the Four Books and Five Classics, there was no question of open interpretation; rather, they learned how others before them, in particular the Zhu Xi School of Dao Learning, had explained and written of them. Doing so was, according to some simplistic analyses of Confucian state orthodoxy, the primary intention of the examination system. Principles were not merely to be learned but to be enacted in one’s own thinking and behavior, and all cultural and political knowledge was channeled through the medium of the classical canon. While the effect of this training was no doubt one of containment, by the same token it also provided a basis for flexibility as a form of resistance. Most important for the state, all alternative forms of knowledge could be marginalized and generally marked as heterodox.12 As the scope for expression was mostly limited to the eight-legged essay style, the student had to learn to work within a narrow, clearly defined format. Zhao Yi, after his early precocity in the examination essay form, moved on to study of the classics and subsequently developed, as many did, a decided aversion to the practice of writing shiwen (examination essays), preferring instead to practice various forms of ancient poetry.13 The rigorous discipline of developing a single style of writing, although undoubtedly irksome for many, was perhaps one of the most important skills required of potential civil servants, who would always need to modulate carefully their own suggestions and opinions. Whether addressing their immediate superiors or the emperor, the mode of communication available would never be informal. Becoming adept in such forms meant not only mastering their conventions as such but becoming increasingly skillful at reading—and writing—between the lines. The repeated fact of evaluation, though, is perhaps more to the point than the sometimes rather arbitrary specificities of form and content. The local magistrate and the prefect or the provincial director of education held enormous power over the candidate’s future; they sat in judgment and decided whether he would go on or remain balanced on the threshold. Since neither Zhao Yi nor Wang Jie gained student status until their late teens, they must have failed one of the local tests fourteen times before qualifying. We cannot know how or why they failed when they did so, whether it was a lack of knowledge or an inability to set it within the prescribed format. We do know


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with some certainty that in the process of learning their lessons well enough to pass they had absorbed the discipline, the proper way of thinking and acting—or perhaps more accurately, that the discipline had absorbed them, as they were being inserted ever more thoroughly into the system. Wang Jie, two years after achieving student status, was awarded stipend status (linshan shengyuan) when he took the annual examination in 1744. He also had the honor of acting as guarantor for young adults taking the student entrance examinations (tongshi), and it is not difficult to imagine him taking some delight and pride in lording it over those who were about to travel the path he had already gone along. But acting as guarantor was a serious responsibility, and severe penalties were given for being party to any deceit. Candidates required a minimum of three guarantors (for the county and prefectural examinations) and five (for the prefectural qualifying examination); one of these had to be a stipend student. Interestingly, graduates were not always known to their candidates; sometimes the local magistrate assigned a stipend student and made the necessary introductions. The same stipend student was required to stand as guarantor through each level until the candidate acquired shengyuan status. By the end of this process, which with an almost inevitable number of failures could take years, the stipend student had also experienced the sense of power as a superior in a relationship comparable to that of elder and younger brother, one of the conventional five Confucian relationships (wu lun).14 Acting as guarantor also offered another opportunity for the shengyuan to catch the attention of local officials and the Provincial Director of Education. Such was the path that Wang Jie followed. After he placed high in the prefectural annual examination (sui shi) and became a stipend student, his family decided that he should improve his chances of examination success by studying at a private academy in Xi’an run by a Shaanxi scholar. He studied there for six years, until he was twenty-eight, without passing the provincial examination. Then, in 1753, he was selected for the subsidiary provincial examination list (fubang gongsheng) and awarded tribute student status. The following year, taking his certificate of status and subsidized by the local authorities, he went to the capital to participate in the required court examination, held by the Board of Rites, in which he placed first. After his period of study, he was selected as director of education for Lantian district, a position not too far from his home. This position was one of the very few exceptions to the usual laws of avoidance that prohibited service in one’s home province. Considered politically neutral positions, prefectural and local education posts were ideal for those conscientious in serving their parents, who might be old and invalid. It was at this point, in fact, that Wang Jie’s father died and he was obliged to go into mourning, at least deferring his appointment. He never did take up the education post, choosing

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instead to join the private staff of the imperial favorite, the Manchu Yin-jishan. It is not clear how he met this very important official, but Yin-ji-shan in turn recommended him highly to Governor Chen Hongmou, who subsequently also employed him. Indirectly, tribute student status had gained him invaluable experience working in the civil service and connections that would play a crucial role in the metropolitan examination later on.15 Whether Wang Jie would otherwise have taken up the somewhat lowly post cannot be known, but he may have followed the same practice as the tribute student Jiang Yongzhi (discussed in Chapter Two), who refused the offer of an Eight Banner School instructorship with the excuse of filial responsibilities (one could use the excuse of family in complex ways). In any case, Wang Jie chose instead to use his new status to find employment in the semi-official realm of private secretariats. Such choices, as his example demonstrates, could be politically far more advantageous for the ambitious examination candidate. But Wang Jie, like most of the Class of 1761, was the exception to the rule: Most tribute students took the positions offered them—which could be as high as district magistrate or sub-prefect—and did not return to the examination compound, probably thankful to escape the never-ending cycle.16 Zhao Yi, by contrast, remained an appended student without ever gaining promotion to stipend status, and by doing so he perhaps developed a more alienated sense of his position. In 1747, the year after passing the prefectural qualifying examination, Zhao Yi had to excuse himself and withdraw his registration from the following annual examination (sui shi) due to the sudden death of one of his younger brothers. He never attained tribute status. Instead, with the help of his father-in-law, he made his own decision to look for employment in the capital, and he also took his provincial examination in Shuntian, after establishing eligibility by qualifying through his relation to an uncle in the salt business in the area. The system was flexible enough to be worked by those with sufficient knowledge, intelligence, and resources, something that no doubt sustained some sense of agency for its participants even as their rigorous subjection continued. Zhao Yi perhaps had little choice but to negotiate in the interstices of official and unofficial employment. It is also unclear how typical was Zhao Yi’s particular strategic use of opportunities. Perhaps he was not interested in striving for the various opportunities offered by the examination system. Lacking the financial means, however, to purchase either tribute student status or even an Imperial College studentship, Zhao Yi used instead his personal contacts and connections to get ahead, a strategy that was to become characteristic for him. In 1749, four years after getting into the prefectural quota of students, he lost his tutoring job and, having nothing else on which to support himself, he left for the capital without any aid from


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the state. Possibly through his father-in-law’s family connections, he managed an introduction to Minister Liu Tongxun (1700–1773), who decided to offer him a position on his compilation staff, at work on the palace history (Gong shi)—a history of the imperial palace complex and its management—a project sponsored by Qianlong (completed 1770). Within a short time, Zhao Yi was informally moving in the highest echelons of political power, always able to offer his erudition, his excellence in poetry, and his considerable drafting skills—in many ways getting farther ahead of others in his later metropolitan examination cohort. It was almost as if Zhao Yi would make his career in spite of, rather than because of, the examination system’s offerings. Wang Jie and Zhao Yi had had their first lessons in the behavioral arts of hierarchical relation in the civil service, beginning in earnest with occasions like the formalities of registration and celebratory dinner with the local magistrate. From childhood on, educated young men were taught how to greet and converse with superior officials sent to examine them. If, like Wang Jie, a student had close family members already holding office to emulate, he was probably more practiced at negotiating the niceties of hierarchical social relations in politics. Failing family, there were also introductions performed by currently registered students. In this case, the aspiring student practiced negotiating elder- and younger-brother relations. Situated between the informal and the formal, such relations would characterize many professional contacts throughout his examination career, laying the groundwork for the close administrative network he would come to enter. The play on distinctions within Confucian family relations continued through the prefectural level and culminated with introduction of the Provincial Director of Education, sent out from the capital—an important test of the young man’s social skills. Learning proper behavior was one of the ways family intersected with the state: from filialness came loyalty. Examination-system relationships reduplicated in many ways the hierarchical structure found in family relationships and, in turn, constituted necessary training in political practice. Family and examinations were also intimately linked in social practice. Both Wang Jie and Zhao Yi, for example, had marriages arranged for them immediately following their achieving student status (shengyuan). As Zhao Yi’s biographical chronicle states, becoming a xiu cai was often the only way an impoverished scholar like him could form a marriage. His father’s friend and patron, Hang Yinglong, put it more generally: “the only way for a scholar to advance is to pass the examinations; what other means do you have of rescuing yourself from poverty?” Though poor, Zhao Yi was well endowed with cultural knowledge—the true coin of the Confucian elite. His introduction to his future wife—arranged by his prefectural director of education, Zhao Yongxiao—was a perfect example of how closely the institutions

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of examinations and family dovetailed. Thus the tensions between family and examinations, already obvious by the time Wu Jingzi was writing Rulin waishi, his novel satirizing examination life, did not appear to affect Zhao Yi too starkly.17 Wu Jingzi’s long and episodic satire focused on the gap between the roles of a civil servant in the public arena and the private virtues of filiality—problematic for all elites involved in administration. For Zhao Yi, in any case, it seems to have been the financial and social burden of responsibility laid on his shoulders at age fourteen by his father’s death that spurred him on to examination success and a government job. The loosely maintained connection between the two institutions of family and examinations was as close as accorded with the disjunction between the two—and the relativization of family power—that had prevailed since influential, wealthy families had lost the monopoly of civil service appointments they enjoyed in medieval times. The increased use of examinations in those times had advanced the state’s centralization project at the expense of powerful families, who increasingly became the creatures of the state as examinations successfully limited their political capabilities and prevented them from competing with the throne. As a preface to his argument for crucial shifts in the definition and meaning of culture, Bol maps out a schema for the shifts in the definition and meaning of educated elite. Specifically, he outlines the way in which the state’s promotion of the examination system between the Tang and Song periods separated the priority of birth and family for the ethos of service to the government. First, birth and service were linked as an incentive to the Tang aristocracy to participate in the examination system. But gradually, as government service relied increasingly heavily on examination entrance, family name became less a means of attaining office than a filial responsibility that included civil service. Examinations, on the other hand, became increasingly a means (among a repertoire of strategies) to office in order to maintain that family prestige. By the eighteenth century, a cautious dynamic between the state and the family had long been established. The Manchu state, however, operated under anomalous circumstances as a minority ethnic group ruling a Han Chinese majority. Having to rely on elite Han Chinese to accept them and govern on their behalf, Qing rulers seem to have felt it even more necessary to prevent the growth of elite Han Chinese family influence. It is perhaps this circumstance that led to the exponential growth in avoidance laws— regulations governing conflict of interest between government service and family—in the Qing dynasty. Even so, avoidance laws (as I discuss below) did not entirely prevent the growth of family alliances and perhaps even factions in the civil service. Wang Jie, for example, having established himself successfully in office, and despite a reputation for upright incorruptibility, thought nothing of seizing the opportunity to marry his daughter to


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Grand Councilor Zhu Gui’s eldest son. The son, Zhu Xijing, a juren of 1779, became a sub-director of the Court of the Imperial Stud (1809–10).18 Consequently, Wang Jie gained a connection with a family of considerable court and scholarly influence, thus strengthening his family’s foothold in the system. Examinations were the way the state guided and appropriated the fruits of education. Wang Jie and Zhao Yi came from very different backgrounds. Zhao Yi had few financial resources but was able to use his cultural resources to become part of the system: he participated in the necessary examinations and got qualified while manipulating opportunities to gain employment and to make important connections among senior officials. Wang Jie, on the other hand, seemed to be able to rely on his fairly stable financial base. When it seemed necessary, his family was able to send him to a private academy to study, for example. Wang Jie perhaps made better orthodox use of the opportunities provided by the system, becoming both a stipend student and a tribute student, but he too would not accept low-ranking appointment. Instead, not unlike Zhao Yi, he found employment on a more informal basis and made connections with well-placed officials.

Avoidance Examinations and Examination Avoidance Law Officials, whether from moral imperatives of filial piety or material ones of status maintenance, were under great pressure to foster the careers of their junior relatives. Examination avoidance laws were, to the contrary, designed to prevent office-holding families from abusing their supervisory responsibilities in the examinations by helping their junior relatives toward examination qualification or by bringing undue influence to bear where they could. Although the yin inheritance of office privilege allowed some officeholders’ families to bypass the whole examination system, and thus the problem of examination avoidance, by the eighteenth century the yin privilege was limited in scope and decidedly lacking in prestige. Without avoidance examinations, there was one simple solution, as was explained in a 1744 discussion memorial: “If there are sons or brothers who want to take the examination, then the father or brother (simply) does not put down his name for service. . . . ” In other words, an incumbent official could refuse to serve as examiner, thus allowing his junior relative to take the examination. Examination qualification was far too important a method for maintaining family status to be sacrificed for the merit gained from examination service, however. As Ho Ping-ti notes in his study of examinations as a method of social mobility, any office-holding family found it

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difficult to maintain status for more than three generations. If, as Qianlong discovered in 1761, potential examiners were “openly disqualifying themselves (from service)” that would leave, as he put it, only “second-rate men” to fill the role. The overall effect of experienced examiners refusing examination service would thus undermine the quality of graders and ultimately damage the entire system’s reputation.19 The Qianlong emperor recognized that refusal of examination service was in effect one way of using family connection to foster social and career mobility. Qianlong’s father, the Yongzheng emperor (1723–36), expressly introduced avoidance examinations to reconcile the ambitions of office-holding families and the state-imposed laws of examination avoidance. In doing so, he alleviated tensions between the state and office-holding families and encouraging a much closer consonance of interests between office-holding families of educated elites and the state, which was focused on recruiting men of guaranteed cultural training with potentially some administrative experience. When the first Qing avoidance examinations were given in 1723, they included only the capital’s administrative area of Shuntian, where many families of ranking officials resided, and applied only to the provincial examination (xiang shi). In the following year, 1724, the Yongzheng emperor extended the practice to include the metropolitan examination, with his announcement couched in the rhetoric of imperial compassion. He commiserated with disappointed candidates who had traveled to the capital from all parts of the country only to discover that avoidance laws prevented them from participating. Actually, he admitted, avoidance examinations were also a method of increasing the pool of potential state officials— very much part of Yongzheng’s push toward administrative rationalization. Avoidance candidates were an important group because they had either a male parent or other close male relative in office. Instead of worrying about nepotism, Yongzheng chose to express appreciation for the training that such family background contributed to a possibly more experienced administration. Thus began the practice of avoidance examinations in the Qing. At each examination, the emperor would authorize a different set of questions and appoint a different group of examiners from the regular examination proctors to grade these “avoidance” papers. However, it was stipulated at the time that these examinations could only be given on a case-bycase basis and could not be made a permanent institution.20 The practice continued routinely throughout Yongzheng’s reign and crossed over into the following Qianlong reign, too. However, in 1744 (QL9), quite early in Qianlong’s reign, after reviewing the procedures and analyzing the statistics, Qianlong conceded that the small number of candidates registered for the provincial avoidance examination did not merit holding one for Shuntian anymore. After all, as the edict


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pointed out, no official was obliged to list himself for examination service. Almost a decade later, in 1752, it was announced that no metropolitanlevel avoidance examination would be held that year. Thereafter, for reasons similar to those justifying the abolition of avoidance examinations at the provincial level, all avoidance examinations were abolished permanently at all levels. This system of examinations had enabled officials for a time to serve both their emperor and their families; with its abolition, officials would have to revert to the more passive method of refusing to act as examiners. But why did Qianlong, unlike the Yongzheng emperor, not only reject the option of avoidance examinations, but also permanently abolish them? Part of the answer is suggested by the enormous proliferation of avoidance laws in the eighteenth century. Competition for both examination degrees and civil service jobs among the burgeoning ranks of the educated elite meant increased attention to ensuring that family connections did not give unfair advantage to office-holding families. Odoric Wou explains that laws of avoidance mainly targeted family relations that “the government thought would be likely to coalesce to promote their family interests.”21 Although avoidance applied to nearly all areas of the administration where state interests and Confucian family interests converged, examinations were a particular focus for avoidance laws. Lower-level examinations were not at issue. As a general rule, examiners were forbidden to serve in their native provinces, so it did not matter if an examiner had a junior relative registered for the examination; thus, both native place and kinship contingencies were covered by the same ruling. As Sui Chaodong pointed out in his initial 1761 memorial, “it was a straightforward regulation that conveniently allowed junior relatives to take their examinations in their home provinces.”22 But when this law proved too imprecise, the onus was on the examiner to declare a conflict of interest to the authorities and it was the examiner who had to remove himself. Thus, the candidate could still take his examinations in his native province, but the examiner in question was required to request assignment to a different region. The metropolitan examination, by contrast, was severely complicated, with both an empire-wide registration of provincial degree holders and a pool of examiners who, although mostly holding office in the capital, came from every province of China. Thus, instead of the examiner removing himself, it was the candidate who was obliged under the law to leave that year’s examination. To add to the complications, appointments of examination personnel were not usually made until days before the examination, whereas candidates had to register in advance, not knowing whether their senior relatives would serve or not. Thus, a candidate from a distant province might discover that a senior relative holding a capital appointment had just been

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appointed examiner, or a candidate temporarily resident in the capital with his family might find his father unexpectedly selected as examiner and be obliged to withdraw. In reality, the choice was much less clear-cut and could crucially affect either the candidate or the examiner. This ambiguity proved to be most troublesome when searching for qualified examiners, as Qianlong had discovered in 1761. By the time Qianlong ascended the throne, the body of examination avoidance laws was growing rapidly. Their number by the second half of the eighteenth century indicates that the alliance of interests between state and family was likely becoming more myth than reality. Although concern for the fairness of examinations might well be the stated reason, there is also reason to believe that fear of competition between contenders for qualification was also involved. Most new avoidance legislation was in fact proposed by members of the bureaucracy—perhaps jealous of others claiming “unfair” advantage for their families, or perhaps even fearful of being accused of nepotism. The categories of relatives expected to practice avoidance expanded to include sons, nephews, and brothers of a maternal grandfather; fathers-in-law and brothers-in-law; sons-in-law, sisters-in-law’s children and their in-laws. These were in addition to the formal categories of kin defined by the five degrees of mourning (wu fu) and an ever-increasing group of marriage relatives.23 If, as Wou claims, there is adequate reason to call this collection of kin “political kin groups,” they were very clearly legally constrained and limited in the ways they could offer help. Besides tensions caused by possible inter-family rivalry and fears of being accused of family connection, the scope of the laws also increasingly extended to cover more groups of examination personnel. The overall effect was to bring state surveillance to an ever-widening range of officials and their families. Originally the number of supervisory personnel and examiners of the metropolitan examination (huishi) covered by the 1658 Qing regulations was quite small. In fact, only those personnel who evaluated the candidates’ papers or supervised the general arrangements for the examination were bound; this category was often called “inner examination officials” (nei lian guan). It included superintendents of examinations (zhi gong ju), vice-superintendents (ti diao), assistant superintendents (jian shi), chief examiner (zheng kao guan), assistant chief examiners (fu kao guan), and eighteen associate examiners (tong kao guan or fang kao) who made the first cut of the examination essays. The proximity and influence of this small group of senior examiners over evaluation procedures seem to be the main reasons that their relatives were precluded from taking an examination. Beginning in the mid-eighteenth century, as an increasing number of relatives were being included in avoidance regulations, so too were more examination personnel placed under the law’s jurisdiction. In 1753, mili-


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tary personnel, temporarily transferred to the examination hall and put in charge of security measures, were included. After 1756, what might be called the intermediate group of personnel—those performing the elaborate mechanics of preparing the candidates’ essays for the examiners’ evaluation—were also included. They comprised collectors (shou juan), who collected the candidates’ papers; receivers (nei shou zhang shi juan), responsible for taking the papers to sealers (mi feng); sealers, who were charged with creating anonymity for the candidates by pasting slips over their names; copyists (teng lu), who copied the essays out in red ink; proofreaders (dui du), who checked for mistakes on the copies; and revisers (mo kan), who checked them again. Even the food supply personnel were not exempt.24 Proliferation of examination avoidance regulations that covered both the kinds of examination personnel and the kinds of relatives implies that avoidance examinations would be more important than ever, if not because of the sheer competition over limited resources, then at least because of the growing complexity of avoidance laws. Unlike his father a generation earlier, however, it seemed Qianlong had no need to encourage the families of officials; rather, he focused instead on the risks of family connection and preventing his administration from succumbing to that temptation. In a world where official position was so highly valued and yet was a fairly scarce resource, the use of family connection was indeed a constant temptation. Perhaps unsurprisingly, incumbent officials were by far the largest group concerned about possible nepotism and favoritism, and consequently they were the ones who constantly proposed emendations to the existing rules. It seems that as much as officials wanted to aid their own families, they neither wanted to give others the same advantage nor wanted others to accuse them. Many like Yu Minzhong, the second of the examiners involved in the 1761 avoidance case, wrote seeking clarification about a relative (in his case, his son-in-law) and were eager to avoid any repetition of administrative sanctions deriving from family connection. While the evidence remains circumstantial, the fact that the state’s attention to family connection grew ever more meticulous may reflect a competitive anxiety among families of official background and a desire to prevent other families from getting ahead—and may, in the end, explain why avoidance examinations were dropped. Career mobility would be harder, but no family would have unfair advantage in examination competition, nor would family connection play any obvious role—at least, not until the rise of midnineteenth century regionalism. Significant as a mechanism for limiting and mediating social reproduction of the scholar-official elite, avoidance was only an issue for the relatives of incumbent office holders. The laws were specifically directed against those who would exploit their bureaucratic position to gain social and political

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advantage through manipulating favoritism, nepotism, or conflict of interest deriving from family or geographic connection; these rules consequently aimed at preventing a closed shop of bureaucratic elite. In his recent study of avoidance in the Qing period, Wei Xiumei details the historical precedents and regulations, and documents actual cases of avoidance in the three functional areas of official appointments, examinations, and legal investigations.25 One of Wei’s most important conclusions is the unprecedented proliferation of avoidance law during eighteenth century, which took the system to new levels of complexity and was indicative perhaps of the impact of demographic growth on the strata of educated elites. Two distinct categories of avoidance existed: one that prohibited any official from serving in his native place and the other that prohibited kin from serving together in the same office. It is perhaps significant that prohibitions against serving in one’s native place came into existence early—beginning with the rulers of the first unified empire in China, the Qin (221 bc–ad 207)— whose purpose was not to stop nepotism but to prevent the growth of regionally based political power and competition with centralized control. Before the Han dynasty (ad 206–220), the threat of regional competition for control was viewed as more critical than the threat of families dominating power within the administration. Precedents for regulations governing avoidance of blood relatives, relatives by marriage, and those kin related by clan connection came much later, most probably in the latter half of the Later Han period (25–220 ad). Until the first third of the eighteenth century, kin avoidance, which under the Qing applied equally to Manchu and Han Chinese officials alike, was fairly simple and straightforward. At the metropolitan level, it was enforced on officials with appointments in the capital, and thus beginning in 1656 officials of rank three and above could not serve together with their direct relatives either in the Censorate or in Board of Revenue offices—the former because it had surveillance power over officials, and the latter because it oversaw finances both in the capital and the provinces. Beginning in 1664 grandfather and grandson, father and son, and paternal uncles and their nephews were also forbidden to serve in the same office in all outer court agencies. Beginning in 1716 sons and brothers of Grand Secretaries could not be listed for any Grand Secretariat appointments of any kind. The general rule, which applied throughout the period, was that if there was need for avoidance, either the more junior or the more recent appointee (if of the same rank) had to request a transfer. During Qianlong’s rule kin avoidance regulations began to cover more cases and were applied more stringently than at any other time in history. In 1753 (QL18) those sent out on temporary appointments from the capital were enjoined to avoid all direct kin in their place of appointment, and in


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1778 (QL43) kin avoidance was for the first time extended to those related by marriage. Coincidentally, the precedent involved Grand Councilor Yu Minzhong, who nearly twenty years earlier was implicated in the illegal registration of kinsmen in the 1761 metropolitan examination while serving as its chief examiner. In 1778, Yu Minzhong memorialized asking for clarification concerning his son-in-law Ren Jiachun.26 The son-in-law, with no jinshi degree, had purchased the position of secretary (zhu shi ) and had been appointed to the Board of Revenue, where his father-in-law was president. Although relatives by marriage on the female side of the family (wai yinqin) had previously not been subject to avoidance laws, it seemed to Yu Minzhong that in-laws were in fact relatives and to avoid suspicion ought to be similarly subject to avoidance. He requested that his son-in-law be transferred to a less suspect appointment. In response, Qianlong had him transferred to the Board of Punishment. The emperor feared that evaluations of bureaucratic performance were being compromised through marriage connections. He subsequently forbade a new group of marriage relatives from holding office together. This group included sons and nephews of the maternal grandfather and any of his brothers (mu zhi fu, mu zhi xiongdi). It also included sons-in-law of a wife’s father and any of his brothers (qi zhi fu, qi zhi xiongdi), one’s own sons-in-law and one’s wife’s sisters’ children and their in-laws (ji zhi nüxu, disheng). After 1793 (QL58) all affinal relatives with appointments in the capital had to practice avoidance, and after 1806 (JQ11) even the relatives by marriage of one’s own sons and daughters (bensheng ernü yinqin) had to be avoided. Kin avoidance in the provinces was always more strictly enforced than in the capital and became even more so starting in Yongzheng’s reign, when provincial administration was overhauled.27 Besides the application of all the kin avoidance categories in effect at the metropolitan level, father’s sister’s husband (gufu), the list of kin to be avoided now included the husbands and brothers-in-law of a wife’s older and younger sisters (zimei zhi fu, qi zhi lianjin), the wife’s nephews (qi zhi qin zhi), the mother’s older and younger sisters’ husbands and their children’s husbands (mu zhi zimei zhi fu, mu zhi yizhang), the wife’s older or younger sisters’ sons (qi zhi zimei shi zi), a father’s sisters’ sons—that is, paternal cousins (zhong biao xiongdi)—and the older and younger brothers of a son’s wife—that is, a daughter-in-law’s brothers (zifu zhi qin xiongdi). The number of regulations increased after 1744 (QL9) when even the affinal kin of the children of local officials became included in its provisions.28 In 1806 the metropolitan regulation forbidding the relatives by marriage of one’s children from serving in the same office was applied to the provinces, too. More complicated, perhaps, and certainly having a more serious impact was the inclusion in 1753 of clan brothers (zu xiongdi, you fu, wu fu). Clan brothers are those born of the same generation

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in the same lineage, whether or not they were bound by mourning obligations—that is, irrespective of how close the relationship; in addition, after 1763 no males from the same clan (tong zu) were to serve in office together. One inescapable conclusion that can be reached from the proliferation of avoidance laws is that by the eighteenth century, if one was planning an official career, one needed to have a deep knowledge of exactly who comprised the extended family, where they were located, and how far advanced they were in their careers. Categories to which avoidance applied spread to cover not only officials with the same clan connections, and with the same native place connections, but also officials with same class-year connections (that is, those who had taken examinations together in the same year, tong nian). Even those who had had the same teacher (tong shi) were included, as well as any former private employer on whose secretarial staff one might have served; none of these latter additions had previously been controlled. Not surprisingly, officials themselves frequently became confused and often memorialized the throne for clarification. Memorializing quite often led to new regulations, but sometimes the rules could be changed in the opposite direction. Take for example the case of the Wu family, who were known for their legal expertise. The father and two sons found themselves at one time or another serving in the Board of Punishments together. Wu Tan (1724–1780), the adopted younger of the two brothers, was a graduate of the 1761 metropolitan examination, and his older brother, Wu Yuan (d. 1786), who entered the bureaucracy by purchasing a board department directorship, held only the provincial degree.29 Their father, Wu Shaoshi (1698?–1776), had entered the bureaucracy as a first degree-holder (shengyuan). A decade of experience in the Board of Punishments had made Wu Shaoshi a legal expert and set him on the path to high office. In 1766 (QL31) Wu Shaoshi and Wu Tan found themselves both with appointments in the Board of Punishments: Wu Shaoshi had just ending a period of mourning, and instead of returning to his original post as Financial Commissioner of Gansu province, accepted an appointment as Vice-President. Wu Tan was already serving on the board as a department director. Recognizing that they were contravening the existing laws of avoidance, they memorialized requesting that the appointment of the more junior, Wu Tan, be changed. The imperial response came the next day: “Wu Shaoshi’s son, the department director Wu Tan, according to the regulations ought to be avoided, but Wu Tan handles affairs very quick-wittedly and exerts himself to the utmost and thus is a very good officer for the Board of Punishments. Let avoidance be unnecessary (in this case).”30 A few years later, in 1771 (QL36), when Wu Shaoshi was once again Vice-President of Punishments, this time it was his elder son, Wu Yuan, who


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by imperial fiat was excused from avoidance. The edict stated that Wu Shaoshi’s son Wu Yuan was an officer who had been especially transferred to the Board of Punishments and he therefore did not need to practice avoidance. Despite the Wu family’s reputation as legal specialists and their exemption from avoidance, their nepotistic appointment in the board was short-lived, an indication perhaps of an inherent distrust of such commissions. Wu Shaoshi’s 1766 appointment to the Board of Punishments lasted no more than a month or so before he was again moved to Jiangxi as Provincial Governor. Thus father and son overlapped for only a matter of months. Having noted what care could be put into matters of conflict of interest and avoidance, I should add that such attention was not a constant. Wu Shaoshi and older son Wu Yuan had been excused from practicing avoidance in the Board of Punishments in 1771. The following year (1772, QL37), however, Wu Shaoshi was moved as Vice-President from Punishments to the Board of Civil Office and his younger son Wu Tan was appointed Junior Vice-President of the Board of Punishment in his place. In essence, one was taking over from the other, with the result that both occupied the same rank and position in different boards. In the meantime, the other family member, older son Wu Yuan, was probably also transferred as Department Director of the Board of Civil Office.31 Consequently, Wu Yuan had a close family member in a senior position in both Punishments and Civil Office. This fact presumably posed an equal risk of collusion and charges of nepotism; whether he stayed in Punishments with his brother, or moved to the Board of Civil Office with his father, he would need to get special imperial permission again, but there is no record of his having done so. Are we merely lacking documentation, or was the previous year’s imperial exemption still in effect, perhaps, and carried over to a different board? The records do not make it clear. However, it would seem from the previous cases that changes in either placement (a different board) or personnel (his brother instead of his father) would necessarily require a new imperial sanction. Is this a case of administrative negligence, or perhaps a sign that kinship avoidance had become so complex that not even the most careful attention could cover all cases? The question of native place connection, which originally had been the more important category, became an increasingly complex series of mileage calculations. This was especially the case after 1703, when the Kangxi emperor made the 500 li regulation effective. Thereafter, all provincial officials, including district magistrates, were forbidden to serve within 500 li (167 miles) of their hometown. Generally, metropolitan officials were affected less by native place avoidance, except for those with appointments either in government finance offices or the Censorate, who could not be attached to an office charged with their native province’s affairs.

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In 1784 there was a new complication when temporary residence was included in the 500 li rule. Henceforth, if an official happened to have relatives both in his temporary and his permanent place of residence, he had to avoid both places. A question then arose: if someone left his temporary residence to return to his permanent residence, what was the appropriate time lapse before the disqualifications no longer applied? In other words, how long did one have to be absent or not in residence before the place no longer counted as a residence? Thirty years was given as the crucial marking-off point—anytime under that period meant the place was still a residence. In 1750 native place avoidance regulations were extended to include Manchus. In 1823, a further distinction was made between permanent residence and ancestral home: an official was expected to avoid accepting office in both places as well as any temporary home. One major exception to these regulations were the positions of sub-provincial education officials, where familiarity with local dialect and customs was deemed an advantage; even so, prefectural directors of education were disqualified from serving in their native prefecture and no official could serve in his actual hometown.32 As many of the subsequent appointments of 1761 graduates show, these educational appointments were often given to older graduates, or those who claimed to have parents in need of care.

Nepotism, Factionalism, and Favoritism It was against this background of family connection that eight days before names of the examiners were made public for the 1761 metropolitan examination, Sui Chaodong, a Grand Council clerk with concurrent appointment as censor for the Shanxi office, submitted his request to hold an avoidance examination. His specific request was stated in the style of earlier requests—suggesting perhaps his access to the records—and even pointed out, as Yongzheng had nearly thirty years earlier, how metropolitan candidates were to be pitied for having traveled so far only to be disappointed by being disqualified. When the Qianlong emperor refused the request, it was issues of favoritism, nepotism, and, ultimately, factionalism that most exercised him. While the 1761 metropolitan examination avoidance case demonstrates the state’s recognition of family pressure, it also exemplifies the tensions existing between the throne and the Grand Council. Initially, the Qianlong emperor’s response to Sui Chaodong’s request was mere suspicion that this official was trying to gain imperial favor: “This request looks like praise-seeking; have the board investigate.” Instead of ordering an inquiry into Sui Chaodong’s personal family background however, the emperor merely added Sui as an additional examiner when he was presented with the list of prospective associate examiners and then ordered


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an investigation into “the directors, high officials, inner and outer examination hall officers, and all concerned with the examination . . . to discover all those with relatives (registered for the examination) who ought to practice avoidance.”33 In this way perhaps he thought to discover not only whether Sui Chaodong was intending to help his own relatives but, at the same time, whether there was any collusion between the examiners to help their relatives. The ensuing investigation uncovered three candidates who were directly related to two of the three chief examiners; Sui Chaodong was instantly discharged from examination duties. It also discovered that Liu Tongxun (1700–1773)—serving in the Grand Council since 1752 and in 1761 concurrent President of the Board of Civil Office and the Junior Vice-President of the Board of Revenue—and Yu Minzhong (1714–1780)—who had only begun serving in the Grand Council the previous year—both had relatives illegally sitting the examination. Liu had two relatives illegally registered— a younger brother and a nephew—and Yu Minzhong had a distant nephew. Possibly the three culpable candidates did not know or discovered too late that their senior relatives had been appointed to the examination, or perhaps they hoped to slip through without attracting attention. Having violated avoidance regulations, the Liu and Yu relatives were removed straightaway from the examination and suspended until the next time it was held. In fact when Qianlong earlier had complained about the poor quality of the examiners—he had done so on the same day as ordering the investigation into illegal registration—the emperor had already recognized that “the Board of Rites had a rule that disqualified relatives of examiners from competing in the metropolitan examinations, [and thus] excluded a great number (of candidates).” In this sense he was implicitly acknowledging the pressures that avoidance regulations placed on his administrators. The Board of Rites nevertheless was to tighten security. In future it was expected to monitor regularly for illegal registration by carefully checking the personal dossiers submitted by prospective candidates. Presumably these dossiers would be checked for family connections against the lists of examiners at each examination. If the discovery of three illegally registered candidates were the only outcome, the avoidance case would hardly merit mention, especially in comparison with other examination cases.34 In fact, questions of political connection were much more to the point. Was Sui Chaodong deliberately conspiring to help Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong? If so, why? Was there an attempt by the Grand Council itself to gain more political leverage within the broader bureaucracy? The Grand Council was “a small, tightly knit council directed by ministers with whom the emperors were well acquainted and in whom they had confidence,” according to Beatrice Bartlett; it was only formally established in 1738, and grew to dominate the empire’s communications channels. Shrouded in secrecy,

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not subject to general administrative organizational principles or regulations, it eventually became “the major central government administrative body for as long as the dynasty lasted.” To all intents and purposes, it was indeed “the emperor’s high privy council.” The 1761 avoidance case occurred during the same period that the Grand Council was in the midst of expansion to achieve “monarchical-conciliar government,” meaning that, although this extra-legal body fully represented the emperor’s interests, it nonetheless saw those interests as an integral part of its own power. It so happened that all the major players in the 1761 examination avoidance case were connected to the Grand Council. Liu Tongxun had served there for over a decade, Yu Minzhong had just joined the previous year (1760), Sui Chaodong had just been appointed to their subordinate staff, and Zhao Yi, who I will argue was the real victim of the avoidance case, had begun his service as a Grand Council clerk in 1756. By about 1760, this new “conciliar” system had been more or less worked out, and in the ensuing power contest, the Grand Council achieved a bureaucratic hegemony at the expense of other government agencies. This dominance was manifested, for example, through concurrent positions of Grand Councilors as Board Presidents and as holders of other high offices, where they tended to dominate the capital’s ministries. The intra-bureaucratic conflict that resulted seemed to be troubling to the Qianlong emperor, as did perhaps the fact of Grand Council power itself; rivalry and jealousy among ranking officials and various state agencies could always threaten the delicate balance of imperial and administrative cooperation. Despite its great power, the Grand Council had to exercise even greater care than other government agencies because its legitimacy was closely tied to imperial confidence. Moreover, its power was extra-legal and therefore unstable and vulnerable to attack from other bureaucratic quarters. In Zhao Yi’s memoirs, he claims that it was precisely because the emperor knew of the rumors of favoritism circulating in the bureaucracy at large about the Grand Council that the 1761 examination drew closer imperial attention than usual. Qianlong had supposedly heard that “the top places of successive [metropolitan] examinations had gone to Grand Council people . . . ” He also probably realized that the rumor mill had already exaggerated the avoidance case. Zhao Yi reports that “the chief examiners, Liu Wenzheng (Tongxun) and Yu Wenxiang (Minzhong), had very many relatives in the examination who ought to have practiced avoidance.” Qianlong was also made aware that these rumors were tied to some hard evidence: after all, “in the previous year’s metropolitan examination (1760), both the first-place, Bi Qiufan (Bi Yuan), and the second-place, Zhu Tongyu (Zhu Chongguang), were secretaries in the Grand Council.” 35 Such facts supporting the rumors could only fuel existing tensions, especially when members of this highest advisory body were regularly appointed as chief examiners.


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Examinations were in fact one area in which the Grand Council could claim a substantial degree of control. Grand Councilors were frequently charged with the organization, or with drafting the questions, or with being the chief examiners. The year 1761 was particularly notable, for not only were Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong selected as chief examiners, they were also chosen as two of the nine readers to grade the palace examination essays. This last part of the metropolitan degree was the crucial point in deciding the final ranking of the candidates and thus affected their subsequent official appointments.36 If the Grand Council, as rumor had it, could really achieve such a monopoly in examination placement, it threatened the throne’s authority by redirecting the loyalty of up-and-coming junior officials to other quarters. To the contrary, Zhao Yi’s description of the painstaking search by the examiners appointed from the Grand Council to ensure his paper was not among the top ten demonstrated the level of control the Grand Council did in fact exercise. Such connections borne of examinations probably did create a nation-wide network of political connection—one that significantly increased the power of the Grand Council at the expense of other agencies. For the other Grand Council clerk, Sui Chaodong, however, the impact of attempted political connection was much more immediate. His career until 1761 was fairly unexceptional. After getting his metropolitan degree in 1742, he had been promoted from secretary in the Grand Secretariat through various departmental posts in the Board of Punishments; between 1757 and 1759 he was provincial director of education for Guizhou. By 1761, he was a clerk in the Grand Council, with concurrent appointment as censor for the Shanxi office. Qianlong believed that Sui’s attempts to “seek praise” (in other words, to curry favor) were not only part of a devious plan to stay in the Grand Council but also represented a deliberate attempt to establish a faction based on the two Grand Councilors’ obligation to him. Moreover, granting Sui’s request would have benefited the relatives of all officials serving in the capital, enhancing his reputation within the group of high ministers and perhaps also creating unseemly political links between the emperor’s “Privy Council” and the bureaucracy at large. Qianlong seemed worried not just about Sui, who justifiably could be accused of more than “seeking praise,” but also about the wider implications for bureaucrats in general: “Are those who are called scholars really like this? This has much to do with the habits of scholar-officials.” Sui Chaodong was in fact subsequently charged with attempting to put his immediate superiors under obligation to him (jiejiao jinshi), a charge that, together with the rumors of Grand Council favoritism in examinations, cast the spotlight onto the Grand Council. As Qianlong understood it, “If the investigation showed that none of the examiners were subject to avoidance . . . the censor’s request was no more than an attempt to seek fame. . . . [but with the discovery of Liu Tongxun’s and Yu

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Minzhong’s relatives] everything [Sui] memorialized was obviously done to please his superiors.”37 By interpreting Sui’s request as a deliberate act of putting Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong into his debt, the emperor was also accusing Sui of forming a faction. Qianlong, like earlier Qing rulers, was extremely sensitive to the dangers of factionalism and fully intended to prevent its recurrence: “This trend cannot be allowed to grow. In the Ming period, teachers and their students practiced the vices of organizing societies and creating [political] parties to recruit followers—pretending to act for the public good, but in fact promoting private interests. The resulting harm permeated court politics and seriously affected the Censorate.” The existence of competing centers of power historically had undermined the ruling houses of imperial China, whether they were maternal relatives of the throne, powerful families, court eunuchs controlling the emperor’s person, or organized political interests such as the Donglin party during the late Ming period. By the eighteenth century the prime directive of personal loyalty to the emperor absolutely precluded any possibility of loyal group opposition. When he submitted what he hoped would pass for a innocuous request, Sui Chaodong could hardly have been aware that he would end up enduring investigation, being expelled from an examination, being withdrawn from his duties as examiner, being humiliated before his colleagues and dismissed from office, and finally, being sentenced to execution by the Board of Punishments. But as the emperor raged, “to further want to favor relatives and clansmen is not to know what is sufficient [in favors] and to go on asking for more.” As Zhao Yi reports, “the emperor thereupon sent the case to the Board of Punishment. The board, citing the regulation against making improper connections (jiejiao jinshi), sentenced Sui to execution (zuo yi da bi).” In fact, the sentence was never carried out. Once the board had made an example of actions that implied the development of factionalism, and threatened punishment to the fullest extent of the law, it seems it was no longer necessary to carry out the punishment itself. Qianlong had made his point very clear, as Sui’s subsequent career amply proved. After spending four years out of office, he was allowed to reapply for appointment and was re-employed as a prefect in the province of Hunan, a post more or less commensurate with his former rank.38 It is striking that the emperor did not treat the senior members of this supposed cabal with the same level of sternness. He pointed out that they had ample opportunity to work out the scheme—“Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong were not ordered to go with us . . . out of the capital, but to look into their part [as chief examiners] in the upcoming metropolitan examinations”—and he had already recognized the motivating force of the laws of avoidance. Nonetheless, he deliberately ignored the obvious ramifi-


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cations of guilt in the investigative findings. Instead, he reached this decision: “ . . . whether or not Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong deliberately participated in this, I will not investigate any further.” This restraint might be explained by the level of trust the emperor was expected to place in his Grand Council advisors: to dig deeper might also appear to raise doubts about his own abilities to choose his advisors. It was also true that because neither Yu nor Liu had achieved their high ministerial positions through such actions, it would have been not only ill-conceived but crass for them to have either encouraged their relatives to register illegally or actively encouraged Sui Chaodong to proceed with the supposed plan. Whether or not he was motivated by genuine trust, Qianlong made it perfectly clear that neither councilor “could be said to be blameless.” Later on, Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong were to be the only two Han Chinese who achieved the privilege of being appointed ranking Grand Councilors in Qianlong’s reign— ample evidence of the emperor’s favor and their own political savvy, which were already in evidence in 1761.39 Curiously, it was Liu Tongxun who almost twenty years earlier had had the temerity to impeach a previous favorite Grand Councilor of Qianlong’s. The accusations he made then were very similar to the concerns of family connection and political clout voiced about him in 1761. In 1742, as the senior president of the Censorate, he had impeached Zhang Tingyu—one of Qianlong’s very first Han Chinese Grand Councilors—on charges of building a family-based faction. He had asserted that Zhang’s relatives from Tongcheng county, Anhui, together with the Yaos, the traditional marriage partners of the Zhangs, occupied more than half of the posts in the capital. Liu Tongxun then requested that both families be penalized by a three-year moratorium on promotions. In fact, the Zhangs held nineteen bureaucratic positions and the Yaos eleven—hardly numbers that amounted to “half the posts in the capital.” Qianlong, as he did later in his 1761 response, dismissed the charges against Zhang Tingyu. He stressed that even though the Zhangs and the Yaos were indeed extremely well represented in government office, this fact in itself had not prevented Liu Tongxun’s memorial of impeachment from reaching his hands.40 The Zhangs and Yaos were left in place and Liu Tongxun suffered no reprisals for his actions. Liu Tongxun was probably interested more in gaining imperial praise for this demonstration of integrity and courage, and furthering his career in the process, than in voicing any genuine concern for nepotism and family connection. Perhaps the whole affair was also another instance of bureaucratic rivalry, since the subsequent 1761 investigations did not show Liu to be particularly careful about his own family connections. In sum, the 1761 avoidance case laid bare an instance of the tensions that growing Grand Council power was creating within the general bureaucracy.

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Incidents could be exploited to play out existing tensions and jealousies, while intra-bureaucratic rivalries could threaten the delicate balance of imperial and administrative cooperation. Qianlong’s response had been, as with the accusations against Zhang Tingyu twenty years earlier, to assert once again his confidence in his Privy Council, and especially in his favorite Han Chinese advisors. Or, at least, he did not want to expose his own judgment to be lacking. Nevertheless, he was also at pains to advertise a stern condemnation of any attempt to promote favoritism or factionalism through political connection within the subordinate ranks of the Grand Council. Clerks like Sui Chaodong would be punished severely for seeming to connive at faction building and would need to behave with circumspection. Finally, family mobility could be advanced only through subtler means.

Zhao Yi and the Qianlong Emperor Ironically, the one unwitting victim of the 1761 case was not from an office-holding family and was therefore not subject to examination avoidance, nor would he have been caught up in the avoidance case but for the fact of his working in the Grand Council. But with the focus now on political connection in high places and on the way families promoted their own interests, Zhao Yi became a candidate to treat with prudence. As he later summed up this episode, “the securing of top place in the examination set in motion a series of setbacks that were presaged by the events occurring in the examination itself.” Citing a historical precedent from the Southern Song period (1127–1279) that also involved an imperial decision to switch the examination finalists, Zhao Yi represented his experience as an act of arbitrary power rather than as the consequences of a complex system. He likens himself to Huang Gongdu, his Southern Song counterpart, whom Zhao reckoned to be an equally deserving victim, a man who seemed “not to have it in his original fate to be illustrious and influential.” Zhao Yi subsequently claimed that all his appointments were due to imperial favor, and thus he was not deprived of Qianlong’s regard. He also apologized for himself, explaining that his administrative abilities were not as good as others’—an excuse that seems a far cry from that of having fallen foul of a powerful minister, as had been the case with Huang Gongdu. Zhao Yi’s research had determined that Huang was promoted only upon the minister’s death. The affair cited by Zhao Yi had begun in the 1138 palace examination. As in later Qing practice, the Song emperor Gaozong personally interviewed the top-placed graduates. In an effort to find out more about their family circumstances, he asked the top two, Huang Gongdu and Chen Jun-


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qing, “What is so particular about your native place that it has managed to produce you?” Huang’s elliptical answer was “mullet, seaweed, lichees, and rock oysters.” Chen, in contrast, responded by saying, “the land is not fertile; we plant firs and cedars. Families are poor; children read books.” Based on these responses, Song Gaozong decided that “Gongdu is not as good as Junqing, and moved Chen Junqing into first place.” The two candidates’ analogies are masterpieces of indirection, allusion, and metaphor, and serve equally to frame Zhao Yi’s main point. Huang Gongdu’s reference to luxury foods can be read as a metonym for power and wealth; by contrast, the poverty and learning described by Chen Junqing alludes to a simple family background and therefore implies purity of morals and diligence. Chen’s response also mentions firs and cedars, traditional emblems of constancy in adversity and, by extension, loyalty. Zhao Yi’s reference could perhaps be read as an apology, but more to the point would be the indirect association of Huang Gongdu’s wealthy origins and Zhao Yi’s surfeit of connections with the powerful Grand Council.41 While he acknowledges that the imperial system may be unfeeling toward individuals, Zhao Yi seems to recognize that was so in pursuit of legitimate goals, since he implies nowhere in his memoir that the decision was capricious, in spite of its dire consequences for him.42 It was Sui Chaodong’s interference with the system for private advantage that had put the emperor in a rage. Similarly, Zhao Yi’s fate, in this instance, was much more related to painstaking policy considerations than to any arbitrariness of imperial power. Qianlong quite possibly thought that he had “calculated policy decisions” very successfully. Zhao Yi, in fact, exemplified perfectly the Confucian ideals of upward mobility. He came from an educated but almost destitute background and his main assets were his intelligence and connections; his ambition was a career serving the state. Zhao Yi’s father, Zhao Weikuan, a private tutor with no metropolitan degree, died in 1741, when Zhao Yi was fourteen. As eldest son, he had full responsibility for the care of a widowed mother, three older sisters (one of who was still unmarried), and three younger brothers. The family possessed less than a third of an acre of land (1.8 mu) and four rooms of an original seven-room courtyard; poverty had forced them to sell the three other rooms in the house. Zhao Yi’s mother helped with her weaving, and he was able to bring in an annual income of six taels of silver through his tutoring.43 Serving as head of the family, Zhao Yi was under both moral obligation and material pressure to do well in the metropolitan examination; materially, he needed to improve his family’s straitened circumstances, and the moral obligations of filial piety required him to bring honor to his parents. One has only to think of the ambiguous relationship between the state’s

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promotion of the ideology of loyalty and the norms of filial piety fostered by families to get a sense of the conflict experienced especially by the families of office-holding officials subject to laws of avoidance. On the one hand, filial piety was the basic tenet of the general Confucian ethical system. In fact, one of the several reasons for holding the 1761 metropolitan examination was Qianlong’s wish to honor his mother, the Empress Dowager, on her seventieth birthday. Imperial recognition of filial piety was but one manifestation of the linkage between the family and the state. It was marked, for example, by a system of honorific titles for the parents and grandparents of officials (feng zeng), a category found in most local gazetteers in which family reputation was noticed. The historian Sima Qian had succinctly summarized it: “Filial piety begins with the service to your parents; next you must serve your ruler; and finally you must establish yourself that your name may go down through the ages bringing glory to your father and mother. This is the most important aspect of filial piety . . . ”44 On the other hand, beginning at about the time examinations were used more broadly for recruitment purposes in the Tang, the state, despite its respect for the family, began to expect loyalty to the state to hold primacy of place. For example, Chen Gui (Rules for Officials), a work compiled by order of Wu Zetian (630?–705) as compulsory reading for officials, stressed the primacy of loyalty. A millennium later, the Qing still left unclear whether filial piety or loyalty to state was to be primary—not surprising given the state’s continued dependence on Confucian family training and education of its would-be recruits. The reciprocal nature of all Confucian relationships also had a direct impact on the examination system.45 In concrete terms, while junior relatives were to serve their seniors with love and obedience, senior relatives—especially incumbent officials—were duty bound in exchange to lend assistance to their young relatives. Such had been one of the reasons for the creation of avoidance laws. Wou calls the kinship coalition defined by the laws of avoidance a “political kin unit” and points out ways in which these coalitions helped, supported, and protected the in-group kin members by strategic use of their political influence. Oftentimes this political kin unit could comprise hundreds of relatives; it took as its base all those relatives within the five grades of mourning, who were considered to be extremely closely related, and added to them maternal relatives and those related by marriage. However, by further adopting a variable of political power (official position and administrative rank), Wou creates a highly flexible category of what he terms “a core and peripheral group,” defined essentially by the amount of political influence they wielded. The state certainly did not underestimate the threat of this so-defined group; the Board of Civil Office required officials to maintain a full and constantly updated record of these bureaucratic kinship af-


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filiations.46 Zhao Yi’s networks of connections, however, despite including family connection, show that the resulting political connection is far more complicated than the conclusions of Wou’s earlier study allowed. Although Zhao Yi did have marriage connections, he did not because of them contravene any laws of avoidance; however, it was marriage connections that gave him the fundamental material to weave his intricate web of political connections—one that worked only up to the point where it conflicted with an imperial agenda. Zhao Yi achieved the first degree (sheng yuan) in 1745 and immediately became a desirable prospect on the local marriage market. Before qualifying for the degree, he was “so poor, he did not even have the right to marry.”47 That his prospective father-in-law chose Zhao Yi’s provincial director of education to find a suitable match for his daughter epitomizes the connection between examinations and family. His father-in-law (Liu Heming) had been a failed candidate of the 1736 “examination for scholars of wide learning” (boxue hongci); in exchange for this new opportunity to improve his family status, Liu Heming offered Zhao Yi a fairly significant set of connections and, ultimately, the opportunity to work in the highest levels of government. Although not holding office, Liu Heming was connected to Yin-ji-shan, who had been his 1736 examination sponsor, and to Liu Lun, who was a very distant clansman; both Yin-ji-shan and Liu Lun were to be readers in Zhao Yi’s palace examination. Consequently, marriage had brought important political connections to Zhao Yi and contributed to his rising career. Examination qualification and marriage alliances were thus another manifestation of the structural connection between family and state in late imperial China. Until he took the metropolitan examination in 1761, Zhao Yi’s political network of connections had done nothing but benefit his career as a bureaucrat. Earlier, Liu Lun, his father-in-law’s distant kinsman, probably introduced Zhao Yi to Liu Tongxun, his fellow Grand Councilor, who employed Zhao Yi for several years on his private staff before he was able to join the Grand Council. In 1756 he passed the Grand Council recruitment examination for clerks, thus joining the actual agency employing those to whom he was so closely connected. There he managed to solidify his friendship with two other Grand Councilors—first Wang Youdun (1750–56) and later Fu-heng. Wang Youdun (1692–1758), a protégé of the imperial favorite Zhang Tingyu, who served in the Grand Council from 1746 until his death, employed Zhao Yi on his private staff. However, Sui Chaodong’s request for an avoidance examination had not only unforeseen repercussions for the Grand Council—bringing it under careful scrutiny of the emperor and the larger bureaucracy; it also had unforeseen repercussions for Zhao Yi. It was just his misfortune to have “come by [his] reputation through

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working as a secretary in the Grand Council.” The Grand Council felt itself under such surveillance that even the ranking Manchu Grand Councilor, Fu-heng, according to Zhao Yi, felt constrained to tell his protégé “there is no point in hoping for top place in the upcoming examination.”48 It was true that under the gaze of not just the bureaucracy but the emperor, too, the Grand Councilor examiners had to be absolutely sure that none of their staff achieved high place in the palace examination. Ironically, that the Grand Council could achieve such assurance and provide unimpeachable results showed just how much power they actually did exert over the process. Liu Tongxun, who was implicated in the avoidance case, and Liu Lun—two of the readers for the palace examination—both feared further imperial censure of the Grand Council. According to Zhao Yi, they went to quite extraordinary lengths to ensure the top-placed candidate was not one of their staff. Nevertheless, Zhao Yi, who “had put [his] whole life’s determination into this project,” was not about to give up “his life’s ambition”; instead, he deliberately worked against the Grand Council’s exercise in political circumspection.49 Zhao Yi knew that candidates’ names on the examination papers were covered over and sealed for anonymity. He was also aware that the palace examination essays were the only ones to be judged on both the calligraphy and the content and were not copied before grading. Therefore, despite the anonymity rules, he risked having his writing recognized by the Grand Council examination readers.50 Zhao Yi decided on a simple expedient to get around all these obstacles: he would change his calligraphic style in the hope of evading recognition. In doing so, he was implicitly evening up the odds that had become stacked against him and ensuring selection based on merit alone—a criterion espoused in the principle of fair examinations. Perhaps disingenuously, he foregrounds the account of his deception by parading his Grand Council connections, leaving us in the process with a delightful anecdote about political networking and about his expertise in the manipulation of cultural capital. While working in Liu Tongxun’s home on his private staff, Zhao Yi became fascinated by Liu Tongxun’s son’s calligraphic style and adopted it for his secretarial work in the Grand Council.51 The son, Liu Yong (1719–1804), later a renowned calligrapher and as famous a statesman as his father, had created a calligraphic style which subsequently became known as the shi’an style (named for Liu Yong’s studio). It was this style with which Zhao Yi’s superiors were most familiar; however, he confesses, his superiors had no knowledge of the fact that he had an equal facility with the Ouyang shuai geng style. This was a regular (kai shu) style recognized for its austerity and “coldness” that had been developed by the famous Tang calligrapher, Ouyang Xun (557–645).52 Zhao Yi deliberately used this style for his examination essay, hoping its unfamiliar-


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ity would fool his readers. In spite of determinedly and repeatedly searching for his essay, he writes, and despite their claims of intimacy with his work, Liu Lun and Liu Tongxun could neither find his essay nor recognize his writing. Both readers were foiled in their attempt to deliberately mark down his work, and consequently also in their attempt to save the Grand Council from censure. Zhao Yi’s palace examination essay placed highest. Now for the end of the story: Zhao Yi may have fooled his superiors in the Grand Council who read his writing every day, but he was unable to get past the final and most important gatekeeper of the examination system— the emperor. Evidence here points to the emperor’s power and interest in weighing political policy considerations (as opposed to acting in ways that were open to interpretation as mere whim or malice). It was his prerogative to make the final ranking of the top ten candidates selected by the examiners. The results were announced in court audience (chuan lu), mostly a formal ritual confirming the choices already made. That year, because of suspicions aroused by Sui Chaodong’s memorial, the examination papers had been unsealed and the candidates’ names revealed just before being sent in to the emperor. Unlike Liu Tongxun, Liu Lun, and the remaining appointed readers, Qianlong was actually able to connect names, and perhaps even faces, to the ten essays before him. Moreover, he could watch carefully for any undue Grand Council influence. Zhao Yi reckons that Qianlong spent more than ten hours going through the papers, approximately an hour for each of the two-thousand character essays.53 The emperor apparently noticed two things: first, that both the first- and second-place papers were written by candidates from the culturally advantaged heartland of China (Jiangnan and Zhejiang), which regularly sent in more candidates than other provinces. Second, both were also clerks serving in the Grand Council. In complete contrast, the third-place candidate, Wang Xingyuan (Wang Jie), was from the strategic border province of Shaanxi and was unconnected to capital office. The emperor called in his palace examination readers and, without mentioning the Grand Council, asked them whether their dynasty had ever had a zhuang yuan (first-place) from Shaanxi province. He was told that, given the small numbers entering from that province, although there had been a first-placed graduate in the Ming dynasty, no Shaanxi graduate had ever placed first in the Qing. “The emperor thereupon switched Wang’s paper with Zhao Yi’s,” thereby, according to Zhao Yi, sealing both men’s fates54 Writing the memoir at least twenty years later, Zhao Yi could say, “[i]t was from this moment that Wang Jie attracted the emperor’s attention and was promoted in soaring leaps, whilst I only reached the level of circuit intendant.” Assigning this unexpected turn of events to fate implies arbitrariness, but how arbitrary was the outcome? Why was the second-placed (bang yan) candidate, for example, not sacrificed instead of Zhao Yi? After all,

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the bang yan, Hu Gaowang, had come from Jiangsu and had also worked in the capital. Zhao Yi blamed the whole onto the Grand Council. Under scrutiny, it was unfortunate that on the day the results were made public, he chose to wear the pearls that the former Grand Councilor, Wang Youdun, had given him as a gift. The top three candidates were required to stand forward from the rest of the cohort and to present their obeisance. The Emperor, from his throne, noticed Zhao Yi’s pearls and inquired of Fu-heng about them. Fu-heng then explained Zhao Yi’s close working relationship with Wang Youdun, the former Grand Councilor.55 Qianlong, aware of the rumors of Grand Council favoritism in the selection of metropolitan degree graduates, aware of how the previous year’s metropolitan graduates were indeed Grand Council men, aware that Sui Chaodong’s actions could be construed as Grand Council clique formation, was now made further aware that Zhao Yi had connections to a former Grand Councilor, and chose the option to remove Zhao Yi from top place, settling with a single stroke all of these troublesome considerations. The edict issued by the emperor did not once mention the Grand Council. Instead, it was the policy issues underlying his decisions that were stressed: Zhao Yi’s writing is of course fine. However, as we have [already] had so many first-placed graduates from Jiangnan and Zhejiang, placing [Zhao Yi] in first place does not make sufficient difference. During our dynasty, we have never had a topplaced graduate from Shaanxi. Now that we have achieved our great victory in Xinjiang, Wang Jie’s paper has already been given third place, so it would not be a mistake to put it in top place.

Qianlong thus made sure to underscore the greatest military expansionist achievement of his rule, and, in language of unassailable political rectitude, acted in the spirit of present-day affirmative action to bring an economically and culturally poor but militarily strategic province into the spotlight. Thus it was that Zhao Yi, possibly because—like Sui Chaodong—he had unbecomingly attracted the emperor’s attention, or because he was too well connected, was sacrificed for the sake of policy.56 The subtext of the edict also sends out a clear message to the bureaucracy at large: the Grand Council did not hold a privileged position in the emperor’s favor, nor would connection be allowed to interfere with the state’s examination agenda when competition was on the increase. There is no question that Zhao Yi, in changing his handwriting to achieve misrecognition, was being deceitful, but as long as he was not cheating outright, or committing bribery, he was probably entitled to try to get through with whatever means he had available. By recreating the conditions of anonymity and deceiving his examiners in the process, he was both enacting a resistance and redressing the balance of a system that claimed to be


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meritocratic. Rather than gaining an unfair advantage over other candidates, or indeed losing it, he had in fact reestablished the status quo for himself. But if Zhao Yi felt he had a right to be judged by merit, he reckoned without the intervention of the emperor, who, by exercising his rarely used prerogative of intervention to fulfill political and policy agendas, in fact rendered arbitrary any notion of academic merit. Wang Jie, ultimately chosen as first, was set on the path to highest office; Zhao Yi, however, having placed third, went on to a career that did not go beyond middling-level posts. The Grand Council had been properly censured and the Xinjiang victory—the conquest of Chinese Turkestan—had been imprinted for the second year running on the examination system.

Conclusion If examinations structurally linked family to state in a consonance of interests, such linkage also opened up a range of political and social connections. Educated elites and bureaucrats manipulated these connections guided by various personal agendas, but for the emperor the aim was to resolve policy concerns dictated by broader imperial objectives. First, Imperial actions had made it clear that bureaucratic machinations by office holders to further family mobility must neither interfere with the quality of examination personnel nor be seen to further family connection. In 1761, Confucian family practices had given rise to a conflict in the examination system between the state and the family, which exacerbated the tension between mobility and fair examinations. Yet, as Robert Marsh has commented, “it was against the interests of the dynasty to attempt to weaken the family system for the family performed too many social, political and ideological control functions.”57 Second, Qianlong forcefully indicated that political connection could not be seen to promote actively the power of the Grand Council for fear of exacerbating bureaucratic rivalry, nor could subordinate officials manipulate it to build ties of obligation. Third, personal networks like Zhao Yi’s could not be used to further family honor and career ambitions at the expense of larger imperial concerns (for example, significant projects such as empire-building in Chinese Turkestan). The 1761 law of avoidance case, and its consequences, was not typical of the examination process as a whole. It was a crack in the production of a dominant ideology in which imperial, bureaucratic, and family interests would seamlessly converge. Instead, it exposed the internal contradictions of the seemingly interconnected imperatives of family, education, and power politics, permitting a close analysis of the way the emperor managed and relativized these different sources of power. Imperially defined ideology retained

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its hegemony not because it was a monolith, but rather because the many strands that spread throughout society created the ideological matrix to sustain it. Consider Sui Chaodong, for example, who, although sentenced to execution because of the perfidy of his intentions, in fact paid a cash restitution and was re-appointed to office. It was more important to delegitimize the effects of Sui Chaodong’s actions than to punish him as an individual. In the end, we do not know exactly why Sui submitted his original request: it seems inconceivable that he hoped the emperor would not remember the earlier regulations. Circumstantial evidence, just as the emperor suspected, points to Sui’s seeking to attract praise and hoping to put the emperor’s top advisors under obligation to him. Not only did the throne manage the structural problematics of the examination system as it affected control of the state, it was equally interested in managing potential competition or threats to its own power. The emperor’s wary attitude toward the Grand Council laid the basis for Zhao Yi’s rationalization of his failure to achieve highest honors for both himself and his family. In the end, neither a poor background nor, more significantly, powerful connections served him in his ambitions to high office. The interests of the throne, the bureaucracy, and scholar elite families for the most part overlapped. But, as the recent work of Bartlett and Kuhn, and the earlier work of Metzger, has shown, tension and conflict between imperial power and all levels of the bureaucracy were also built into the system. The 1761 law of avoidance case exposed the potential for conflict of interests in an examination system that appeared otherwise to function smoothly. Behind the “fairness” of the examination system lurked the beautiful sophistication of power. The eighteenth-century increase in avoidance regulations, in greatly expanding the circle of kin subject to the laws, also ensured that a far larger group of educated elite would face conflict-of-interest choices. It may be that Qianlong was reacting to the cumulative effects of demographic growth that were beginning to be felt in the Chinese bureaucracy. By 1761 the population was quickly growing toward the 300 million mark from a low of around 100–150 million just after the Manchu conquest in 1644. The scale of organization needed to administer an empire that included rapidly expanding territorial acquisitions, in addition to the population increase, produced an enormous strain on administrative resources. Such challenges were intensified by a bureaucratic structure that refused to expand substantially the number of administrative units to enable a more effective administration. Although cost may have been part of the reasoning, it is possible that this refusal was motivated by the fear of administrative proliferation. Administrative expansion could militate against a tightly centralized bureaucracy’s remaining firmly under imperial control. But, if imperial interests


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wanted a controllable bureaucracy that was also within the state’s budget, educated elites were also going to insist on continued access to academic qualification, knowing that a refusal to expand administrative personnel did not argue against an expansion of officials’ private staffs, for which the individual official had to bear personal responsibility. Thus the empire could be administered, but increasingly by a seemingly two-tiered system of personnel, both tiers certified by academic degree, but one qualified additionally by official rank and the other by personal recommendation. Increased competition for academic qualification was a serious consequence of demographic pressure. Set quotas at the lower levels of the examination system ensured that quotas at the metropolitan level would fluctuate little. Arguments supporting the notion of intensified competition for academic qualification are difficult to substantiate statistically. A general increase in population would presume some proportionate increase of this elite group.58 Although it is impossible to calculate exact growth figures for the educated elite, avoidance laws expanded most during the same period when the population as a whole was rising, indicating a narrowing of access into the one elite group that held imperially sanctioned political power. Demographic pressure suggests that the state tightened control of the examination system through examination avoidance laws and the abolition of avoidance examinations, a process that arguably stimulated even more competition for this scarce but necessary resource, which in a chain reaction led to ever-increasing avoidance controls.

5

Paths to Glory

In this final chapter we examine the graduating Class of 1761—the products of the disciplinary process—as they move through the transitional period of the court examination and into political and administrative careers. The authorities were aware that, although these graduates had been thoroughly trained in the different kinds of knowledge and practices necessary for political power holders, the ideology they brought to their future careers was as broad-ranging as examination discourse would permit. The graduates were also deeply aware, probably through the various gossip networks within each cohort, that they could not ignore the tensions of bureaucratic politics (as discussed in the previous chapter) and the impact these might have on an individual career. Even at this stage, the candidate could not really bid farewell to examinations, for there was still the court examination to sit. This daylong test would determine whether he would have the good fortune of immediate appointment as Hanlin bachelor, board trainee, or local official (magistrate or prefectural director of education). If he failed this examination, the new metropolitan graduate was obliged to return to his native province and wait until his name appeared on the appointment lists kept by the Board of Civil Office, the ministry in charge of personnel matters. Examination training produced subjects literate in all the principles of government and in administrative codes. Through repetitive practice, these men had become proficient in the correct responses toward state authority and initiatives, bound by loyalties that transcended local or regional ties, and ready to serve the Qing state. That together they also generated a broad grid connected vertically and horizontally—one that created and defined a bounded space—is perhaps less obvious. As I have mentioned, studies of Qing bureaucratic organization and institutional practices have tended to emphasize the pyramidal structure of command, with parallel, seemingly unconnected, lines of command and transmission (the most conventional division being among the military, the civil administration, and the Censorate) that did not converge until the higher reaches of the throne. However, vertical lines of command, I would argue, offer camouflage to a horizontal density of intersecting lines of communication and connection. These con144

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nections include the communication grids set up by formal kinds of memoranda and reports as well as the possibly more significant informal ties generated by examination taking and stretching on into administration. The resulting dense articulation of different intersecting and overlapping networks together produced a rich, horizontally (and, one should add, diagonally) articulated space, one that simultaneously had the vertical, hierarchical integration necessary for controlling such an entity. This spatial complex of articulations formed a material base that later nationalists would appropriate in the construction of the nation-state, when political and cultural narratives of nationalism would come together to produce its modern configuration. Accordingly, we might argue here for the interactive pattern of continuity and rupture that tends to characterize linear models of history.1 The examination system’s role in civil service recruitment meant that it intersected directly or indirectly with all government agencies associated with the government of China proper. These intersections were deliberate, for the system was one of the most important means by which the Qing state could ensure that the administration embodied the systemic order of its behavioral codes and ideological principles. My overview of appointments given to the 1761 cohort illustrates how the great mass of tentacles generated by the examination system spread over the bounded space of the guojia. These appointments—the rewards of hard training through examinations—represented one purpose and end result of examination training. The single most important service degree holders gave to the state was through local, provincial, and capital administration. At these places, men who were reliable, indoctrinated, loyal to the idea of moral obligation to the state and to the ideal of worthy servitude to the throne could exert political power. With adequate surveillance and oversight, they could be trusted to exert appropriate leadership on behalf of the Qing state. The structure of appointments in conjunction with the examination system established a matrix coextensive with the guojia. This was the term used by Wang Jie, Hu Gaowang, and Zhao Yi, and probably all graduates as part of the formulaic conclusion to their responses (see Chapter Three). Whether they meant “our country,” “our empire,” “our state,” or “nation-state”— such being the senses of their usage—the contours of guojia included, for Hu Gaowang, the newly established regions of Chinese Turkestan (later called Xinjiang); for Zhao Yi, the population as a whole; and, for Wang Jie, the reach of imperial power.2 In the several written statements where Wang Jie, Hu Gaowang, and Zhao Yi used the terms “guo” or “guojia” the implication of nation or homeland was very much present. As the economic policy section of the palace examination made clear, the expansion of imperial holdings had important implications for the welfare of the empire in general and for the 1761 candidates

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in particular. Success in the palace examination literally meant sharing in the political spoils of the empire, which, as we saw, Hu Gaowang embraced enthusiastically, to the extent of even envisaging the guojia’s global reputation. Several 1761 men discussed in this chapter did indeed share in the political control of the guojia and they exploited that connection so that their careers gained significance from that participation in the process. Ho Ping-ti, in calling metropolitan degree-holders a national elite, takes for granted the national dimensions of this structure. Although Hsieh Pao Chao criticizes correctly the idea that the examination system had in fact “unified China as a nation,” his rejection of the notion at the same time ignores the implication that the examination system did actually construct a spatial and imaginary structure. The Manchu state’s use of examinations laid the groundwork for a political and administrative matrix that extended both its own and the system’s institutional reach, through the Qing rulers’ strategic exploitation of Chinese cultural and political practices. This strategy simultaneously authorized a political network that could reproduce itself with little or no reference to anything outside itself—a kind of selfperpetuating, self-nourishing system. The Hanlin Academy, in particular, had a large hand in reproducing the base matrix of this state-defined guojia by supplying the officials who oversaw the examination process. The importance of the Hanlin Academy and examinations to political recruitment has already been noted by Jerry Dennerline in his fine study of the sociopolitical processes underpinning popular mobilization in seventeenth-century Jiading (Jiangsu province). The Confucian elite was able to perpetuate strong, and informal, networks in support of regionally based cultural politics through appointments to the academy and recruitment via the examination system. By the eighteenth century, the Hanlin Academy’s larger purpose might well be identified as the reproduction of the political elite through examinations. In carrying out their duties as compilers and editors of official written records and archives, Hanlin members also consciously produced the base matrix of guojia and its web of linkages, serving as the nerve center for the production of imperial narratives of empire. The Hanlin furthermore serviced the administrative surveillance network—the Censorate—by ensuring that there were no unacceptable deviations or breaches in the training it had supervised through the examination system. Considered in this light, the Hanlin Academy was a significant component—a particularly dense node— of the guojia matrix, and one that intersected with the cultural politics of the Confucian elite.3 The Hanlin, one might say, evolved into an organ shared by the Siamese twins of state and elite. The practices of this community play an important role in the construction of what James Hevia (1998) has described in terms of an “archive state”—a set of communication lines established to collect, reorganize, and

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redistribute information crucial to the ongoing project of imperial expansion. These terms further suggest the importance of the Hanlin for both the Qing empire and the proto-nation space with which it came to be so thoroughly implicated. Thus my discovery, made from a survey of the 1761 cohort’s appointments, that the most successful of the cohort were those civil officials who became involved in the military project of imperial expansion, is not quite so startling. Those appointed to civil positions within the military enterprise, as well as those appointed to the Hanlin Academy to record the Qing’s military glories, are exemplary here. The 1761 group appointed to civil positions within the military network were in the main responsible for the supply side of supporting the extension of empire as well as maintaining territories within the empire’s shifting shape. In the process, they were to work closely with a section of the state that was usually reserved for Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese Bannermen, the elite of the military establishment. The existing system of appointments made sure that civil officials would be deeply involved in territorial expansion, the enterprise closest to the heart of imperial ideology. One preliminary conclusion from this late eighteenth-century trend is that there was at this point a much more fluid dynamic between the division of civil and military (wen and wu) than one would suspect from most subsequent accounts, which tend to overstate the rigidity of these divisions. Nor, it would seem, was the civil side of government (wen) prized more than the military side (wu) in the latter half of eighteenth-century China. Second, and in line with the recent research of Joanna Waley-Cohen, the state was becoming increasingly martial in its cultural agenda and its expectations of civil officials were being adjusted to fit this view.4 Networking was the informal structure that interwove the political matrix of examinations and appointments, forming a substantial part of the leverage to be gained through the examination qualification. My analysis here, however, focuses on the overall shape and logic of the matrix—the network of networks—as it emerged at the intersection of civil and military, contributing to the nation-like spatial effect and the attendant sense of collective identity by and in which all recognized the contours of the entity they called guojia.

The Class of 1761: Categories and Contexts of Appointment Besides contributing to the shaping of the guojia’s structural web, the court examination was perhaps the major link between the examination system and civil service appointment. That every metropolitan graduate was

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obliged, within the space of days, to take another examination for the opportunity to be selected for immediate appointment clearly demonstrates the arbitrariness of the examination system for civil service recruitment. If the system had been genuinely based on merit, logically there would have been a direct correlation between one’s metropolitan graduating rank and appointment to office; available appointments would be assigned according to the person’s rank in the metropolitan examination. Instead, as I show later in Table 5.6, several seemingly deserving graduates were passed over. During the latter part of the Kangxi reign, between 1712 and 1723, the appointment system for new jinshi graduates had been somewhat less arbitrary: whether or not he was selected for immediate appointment, each qualified new metropolitan degree holder had the option to remain in the capital for three years with a stipend, either as a trainee on a Board or in the Hanlin as a compiler. This practice may have been part of the ongoing Qing policy of wooing Han Chinese intellectuals into government service. But in 1723, the first year of the Yongzheng emperor, this practice, which seemed both to provide valuable training to new graduates and to supply a continually available pool of trained personnel to the capital, was suddenly stopped. Thereafter, all that remained was the complement of board trainees selected at the same time as the Hanlin bachelors.5 Paradoxically, although the court examination was held immediately following the palace examination, it was not considered part of the metropolitan examination. In fact, everyone taking the court examination was already a metropolitan degree holder and even failure did not take away that qualification. The court examination stood somewhere between the credentialing system for civil service recruitment examinations and the later system of evaluations of administrative service in which civil officials participated every three years. The court examination, to some extent, represented a transitional step between the two parts, letting candidates know that they were still subject to that disciplining process. Court examinations were in fact held at other levels of the administrative hierarchy; tribute students (ba gongsheng), for example, were required to attend a court examination in the capital prior to an appointment decision.6 While the court examination was required for first-time appointees, serving officials underwent the triennial administrative evaluation of performance; it was usually used to determine promotion, transfers, and demotions and relied on a complex system of merits and demerits. Success in the court examination meant immediate appointment to one of three categories of office: Hanlin Academy bachelor (a probationary, three-year training period); trainee in one of the six ministries (either as secretary of a board, zhu shi, or as secretary of the Grand Secretariat, neige zhongshu); or local administrator (usually either as magistrate or prefec-

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tural director of education). All these positions ranked equally low in the administrative ranking scale, which comprised nine full ranks, one being the highest and nine the lowest, with each full rank being subdivided into junior and senior, for a total of eighteen possible ranks. The Class of 1761 sat for the court examination in the same ranking order as their palace examination results: each belonged to one of three classes (jia)—which were roughly analogous to the class honors system found in Europe—and each was numerically ranked within that class. In 1761 there were the usual three in the first class (yi jia): the zhuangyuan, Wang Jie; the bangyan, Hu Gaowang; and the tanhua, Zhao Yi. Another sixty-six graduates made up the second class (er jia), and a further one hundred forty-eight were in the third class (san jia). The appointments made as a result of the court examination did not, however, represent the academic standing gained in the metropolitan examination; rather, new graduates had once again to submit to competitive selection through this new examination. Only the three graduates in the top class of the palace examination could absolutely count on positions commensurate with their academic achievement in the Hanlin Academy. According to custom, the top-placed (Wang Jie) was made a Hanlin Academy compiler of the first class, ranked 6B (xiu zhuan); the second-placed (Hu Gaowang) and third-placed (Zhao Yi) were made Hanlin Academy compilers of the second class (bian xiu) and ranked 7A. Neither position ranked high, but they constituted entrance into the most prestigious state-sponsored center of learning in the empire, from which it was possible eventually to gain promotion to the highest offices in the land. Nonetheless, these three first-class honors holders still had to pass the court examination, the chao kao, with the rest of their cohort. Hanlin appointments were yet another example of how the throne over time appropriated the right to give bureaucratic privilege and at the same time, in response to accusations of partiality, attempted to make the selection process impartial. In the late fifteenth century, the Ming selection gave high ministers clear control over the decision. New graduates could send a written specimen of their literary abilities to the Board of Rites; the board would then pass it on to the Hanlin Academy. Next, the Hanlin decided upon the selection, apparently on literary merit, though candidates could often be identified by their writing samples. The Board of Rites in conjunction with the Board of Civil Office and the Grand Secretariat would prepare a written test for the final selection. The same system was adopted in the early Qing period, but accusations of partiality were made. Apparently, in the first two court examinations of the Yongzheng reign, many from areas outside of the central Yangzi provinces were passed over in the selection, including both Chinese bannermen and ethnic Mongols. As mentioned earlier, the state

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believed that provincial and ethnic representation was important for the stability of the empire. To avoid regional partiality and to ensure selection from a broader pool, ministerial selection of examination candidates by using a writing sample was abolished. Instead, the written test known as the court examination was administered to each metropolitan graduating class immediately after the formalities of the metropolitan degree graduation. In the earlier system, then, the selection of these immediate appointments of Hanlin bachelors, board trainees, and magistrates had been a bureaucratic perquisite and had relied completely on recommendations from senior officials in the capital; after having solicited these recommendations, the new metropolitan degree holders would participate in a court audience where the new appointments would be distributed. Part of the repertoire of strategies for rewarding previous service, these recommendations for appointment could be used in building factions and followings. Appointments seemed to be the reward, for example, for Wang Jie’s service to GovernorGeneral Yin-ji-shan or to Governor Chen Hongmou, and for Zhao Yi’s service on Liu Tongxun’s staff, or even as Grand Council clerk. Wang Jie, in fact, during his long career as examiner, continued to accept writing samples, as indeed did many other examination officials, but to prove his integrity, he made a point of rejecting the accompanying gifts of money.7 The written examination introduced in 1723 supposedly assessed literary abilities (xuewen) and was more comprehensive in its selection: to avoid losing any talent (bu zhi yilou), it was not meant to be too serious or too hard. The new graduates were given three topics in the “four six” or “parallel prose” style of poetry (pianti wen) and they could choose to elaborate on whichever they wished from one topic to all of them. The questions given to the graduates were considerably shorter than those of the palace examination, as they were given only to evaluate literary style. We are again fortunate that the 1761 court examination theme is one of the few still extant in the Beijing Qing archives. Held on the twenty-ninth of the fourth lunar month, the first section asked graduates to discuss the phrase “translate Records of the Stone Stream” (fanyi Shi Jian Ji). The second and third sections asked them to compose two rhymed prose poems (fu). The first theme was as follows: “Cows and sheep do not trample the reeds” (niu yang wu jianxing wei). Finally, they were to write eight lines of seven syllables each, based on the phrase “beautiful jade is then blemished” (fu de—to end on; jin yu ni xia). The papers were treated with as much care as any of the earlier examination papers: names were covered and they were sent to a separate group of readers, who read and arranged them into three classes, based on their assessment. In the familiar gesture of impartiality, names were revealed only when the top-graded papers were sent for the emperor’s final approval of the ranking; appointments were distributed

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during a court audience held over a three-day period. Positions had already been opened in the Hanlin on the twenty-second of the third month, when bachelors completing their term of tenure at Hanlin were also examined on a rhymed prose poem theme. Those who were selected by the examiners stayed on; the rest, now classified as “expectant officials,” went onto a waiting list at the Board of Civil Office.8 The Hanlin quota—thirty-five in 1761—was apparently calculated from the current number of entrants and the previous year’s quota. In 1761, there were nine in the first class, eleven in the second, and fifteen in the third-class honors group. Logically, the quota of Hanlin bachelors ought to have been the top thirty-five graduates of the class, but this was not the case. Three of the top-ranked graduates of the second-class honors group were selected (that is, 2/1, 2/2, 2/3), but the remaining thirty-two appear to be somewhat arbitrary choices. The available rankings of the 1761 Hanlin bachelors exhibit significant randomness vis-à-vis rankings in previous examinations, unlike the more or less consistent rank over time that can be expected from a modern student within any single subject area. Three significant variables contribute to this apparent randomness. The first was content and format (representing the necessary cultural knowledge absorbed by the graduates), which were the same for both the provincial and metropolitan (huishi) examinations, but were incomparable on both counts of genre and content for the palace and court examinations. Second, there could be a considerable time lapse between a candidate’s provincial and huishi examinations, anywhere from one to twenty years (in Table 5.1, see the “provincial rank” column), though for those taking the two examinations within a year of each other there were still significant differences. Third, the environments of the provincial and metropolitan examinations were incomparable, particularly since, apart from population differences, testing standards were supposedly lower in outlying provinces and more competitive in culturally advanced provinces. Guan Zhihan of Fujian was one of the few Hanlin bachelors who took both his examinations within a year of each other and, as a tribute student (gongsheng), he took both in the capital. He was a 3/4 palace examination honors graduate and ranked in the second-class honors in the court examination. He ranked fourth in the 1760 provincial examination and seventy-second in the huishi; this discrepancy may have been significant, but overall he exhibits an unusual level of grade consistency. By comparison, Jiang Yongzhi (2/1) and Hu Qiaoyuan (2/19) both took the provincial and metropolitan examination within a seven-year interval and both did so in the capital. They were each consistent in their placement in the palace and court examination, Jiang placing high in both (2/1 honors and first class in the court examination) and Hu placing in the second class for both examinations. Yet,

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whereas Hu showed consistency in his two comparable results for the provincial and huishi, Jiang fell from middling position in the provincial examination to low in the metropolitan—166 out of 207. Another comparison in which both graduates took the provincial examination in the provinces is between Qin Cheng’en and Huang Tengda. Qin from Zhejiang and Huang from Jiangsu had equally good cultural learning environments, and both took the examinations within the same two-year interval. Their provincial and metropolitan results were similar: both placed high in the provincial examination and proportionately lower in the metropolitan, and both were second class in the court examination. However, their placement in the palace examination was significantly different, with Qin ranking high in secondclass honors (2/11) and Huang only in the middling ranks of third-class honors (3/68). One conclusion we might draw from the apparent arbitrariness of these academic ranks is that other factors impinged on the criteria for the selection of Hanlin bachelors, perhaps including favoritisms of various kinds that, no doubt, would have found ways to operate in spite of official mechanisms to exclude them. In his work on the sociology of education, Bourdieu offers a more comprehensive argument, that arbitrariness is in fact fundamental to the education process, as an expression of its inherent symbolic violence; it is also in this instance fundamental to how the state retained its ascendancy in its ongoing and dynamic set of power relations with educated elites.9 When the Hanlin bachelors of Table 5.1 are sorted according to the three honors classes of the court examination, the result highlights the criterion of geographic representation (Table 5.2). According to Lui, culturally advanced provinces were held to much higher standards than other provinces, particularly outlying ones; graduates of Jiangnan and Zhejiang had to place in the palace examination second-class honors group, and had to place in the first class of the court examination in order to get selected. At least for the 1761 cohort, this standard seems not to have been enforced. Rather, it was the case that any graduate chosen either for first- or second-class honors in the court examination, irrespective of his palace examination ranking, would be selected as a Hanlin bachelor. Second, as Table 5.3 shows, the thirdclass honors group was filled with graduates from provinces that were either represented inadequately or absent completely from the first two court examination honors groups. Even when we look at provincial representation, the criteria used appear somewhat obscure. For example, of the two choices of Hanlin bachelors for Zhili province, Ma Zenglu, at 3/148 (see Table 5.4), was at the bottom of the third-class honors group in the palace examination, with eighteen Zhili men ahead of him. No matter whether we sort the nineteen by their metropolitan (huishi) rank—where he had placed seventy-third—or by their provincial

table 5.1 Table of Hanlin Bachelors Arranged by Metropolitan Degree, Class, and Rank Palace Exam Rank

Metropolitan Huishi Rank

Provincial Exam Rank

Home Province

2/1 2/2 2/3 2/7 2/11 2/13 2/15 2/19 2/21 2/25 2/33 2/39 2/42 2/43 2/50 2/52 2/58 2/60 2/61 3/4 3/6 3/8 3/12 3/14 3/26 3/37 3/45 3/59 3/61 3/68 3/81 3/124 3/126 3/133 3/148

166 77 16 1 150 82 44 52 172 8 110 131 106 3 55 54 161 162 59 72 26 125 108 189 71 9 163 140 114 158 41 47 39 94 73

59/1753 38/1750 ?/1757 18/1752 26/1760 ?/ 1760 62/1759 35/1753 7/1753 21/? 67/1741 100/1760 24/1760 64/1747 155/1756 6/1759 ?/1757 73/1759 30/1750 4/1760 202/1759 162/1752 161/1760 16/1759 1/1759 10/1753 27/1756 30/1756 10/1753 10/1760 26/1753 121/1759 3/1756 1/1753 198/1760

Anhui Jiangsu Zhejiang Jiangsu Jiangsu Jiangsu Shanxi Jiangxi Jiangxi Jiangxi Jiangsu Jiangsu Hubei Shandong Mongol Banner Zhejiang Jiangsu Chinese Zhejiang Fujian Zhili Anhui Shandong Guizhou Yunnan Hunan Henan Hunan Guangdong Zhejiang Guangxi Shandong Sichuan Yunnan Zhili

Tribute or Imperial Student

Court Exam Class

Name

Tribute Imperial

First Second First Second First First Third Second Third First Second Second Third Third Third Second First Third Second Second Third First Second Third Third Third Second Third Third First Third First Third Third Second

Jiang Yongzhi Ji Chengqian Gu Zhen Chen Buying Qin Cheng’en Wang Weishan Ge Zhenghua Hu Qiaoyuan Liu Zhuo Xie Qikun Zhu Mishu Shen Shijun Mao Yepu Bu Zuoguang Songgui Zhang Yingzeng Cao Renhu Guo Jie Wang Shanglin Guan Zhihan Shao Yuzeng Jin Yunhuai Ding Rongzuo Tian Junyu Li Songling Yu Tingcan Wu Yulun Liu Xiaozhi Deng Dalin Huang Tengda Feng Changshen Ma Renlong Chen Yuchou Yang Zhongxuan Ma Zenglu

Tribute Tribute

Tribute

Tribute Tribute Tribute Banner Tribute Imperial Tribute

Tribute

Tribute Tribute Tribute Tribute

source: Dengkelu, QL26 (Record of Metropolitan Graduates, 1761); Da Qing shilu (Veritable records of the Qing dynasty), Qianlong reign (QL26/5/17), 637: 3–4; Shangyu dang (Qing Archives, National Palace Museum, Taipei), QL26/5/18.

table 5.2 Table of Hanlin Bachelors Arranged by Court Examination Honors Palace Exam Rank

Metropolitan Huishi Rank

Provincial Exam Rank

Home Province

2/1 2/3 2/11 2/13 2/25 2/58 3/8 3/68 3/124 2/2 2/7 2/19 2/33 2/39 2/52 2/61 3/4 3/12 3/45 3/148 2/15 2/21 2/42 2/43 2/50 2/60 3/6 3/14 3/26 3/37 3/59 3/61 3/81 3/126 3/133

166 16 150 82 8 161 125 158 47 77 1 52 110 131 54 59 72 108 163 73 44 172 106 3 55 162 26 189 71 9 140 114 41 39 94

59 ? 26 ? 21 ? 162 10 121 38 18 35 67 100 6 30 4 161 27 198 62 7 24 64 155 73 202 16 1 10 30 10 26 3 1

Anhui Zhejiang Jiangsu Jiangsu Jiangxi Jiangsu Anhui Zhejiang Shandong Jiangsu Jiangsu Jiangxi Jiangsu Jiangsu Zhejiang Zhejiang Fujian Shandong Henan Zhili Shanxi Jiangxi Hubei Shandong Mongol Banner Chinese Banner Zhili Guizhou Yunnan Hunan Hunan Guangdong Guangxi Sichuan Yunnan

Tribute or Imperial Student

Court Exam Class

Name

Tribute

First First First First First First First First First Second Second Second Second Second Second Second Second Second Second Second Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third Third

Jiang Yongzhi Gu Zhen Qin Cheng’en Wang Weishan Xie Qikun Cao Renhu Jin Yunhuai Huang Tengda Ma Renlong Ji Chengqian Chen Buying Hu Qiaoyuan Zhu Mishu Shen Shijun Zhang Yingzeng Wang Shanglin Guan Zhihan Ding Rongzuo Wu Yulun Ma Zenglu Ge Zhenghua Liu Zhuo Mao Yepu Bu Zuoguang Songgui Guo Jie Shao Yuzeng Tian Junyu Li Songling Yu Tingcan Liu Xiaozhi Deng Dalin Feng Changshen Chen Yuchou Yang Zhongxuan

Tribute Tribute Imperial Tribute Imperial Tribute Tribute Tribute Tribute Tribute Tribute Tribute

Tribute

Tribute Tribute

source: Dengkelu, QL26 (Record of Metropolitan Graduates, 1761); Da Qing shilu (Veritable records of the Qing dynasty), Qianlong reign (QL26/5/17), 637: 3–4; Shangyu dang (Qing Archives, National Palace Museum, Taipei), QL26/5/18.

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examination rank (xiangshi)—in which he had ranked 198th—Ma Zenglu would still rank nowhere close to the top of his provincial cohort. Statistically, then, Ma Zenglu would seem to be unlikely to be selected at the court examination level. Only if the Zhili group were sorted by date of birth would he rank first (though we are missing the dates for five of the men), making him at age fifty sui the oldest. However, as a comparison with those from Guangdong province shows, seniority was not one of the criteria at this stage. To the contrary, it seems that younger, more vigorous applicants tended to be deemed superior.10 Among ten graduates from Guangdong province in 1761, Deng Dalin— 61st in the third class of the palace examination, in the third class of the court examination and from Dongguan county—was nowhere near the oldest, as Table 5.5 shows. At thirty, he was about average in age; his 114th place in the metropolitan examination (huishi) was not high, although in 1753 he had placed tenth in his provincial examination (xiangshi). He had not been a tribute student; more than half of the Hanlin selection had been. table 5.3 Table of Hanlin Provincial Quota Province

1652 Quota

Zhili Jiangnan

5 5

Zhejiang Shandong Jiangxi Fujian Henan Huguang

5 4 4 4 4 4

Shanxi Shaanxi Guangdong Chinese Banners Yunnan Sichuan Guangxi Guizhou Manchu & Mongol

2 2 1 4 *1 *1 *1 *1 *2

Province

Jiangsu Anhui

Hunan Hubei

1761 Quota

Honors Class

2 7 2 4 3 3 1 1 2 1 1 *3 1 1 2 1 1 1 1

2nd , 3rd 1st , 2nd 1st 1st , 2nd 1st, 2nd, 3rd 1st, 2nd, 3rd 2nd 2nd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd

source: Lui, 1981:26. 1 In 1652 these provinces were not yet consolidated into the Qing empire and therefore had no quota assessed. 2 Manchu and Mongols initially had separate examinations with a quota of six in 2:4 Mongol– Manchu ratio. 3 This list does not include the first-class honors group (1/1-3) that included Wang Jie from Shaanxi.

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pat h s to g l o ry table 5.4 Table of Zhili Graduates for 1761 Palace Class/Rank

Metropolitan Rank

Provincial Rank

DOB

2/22 2/63 3/5 3/6 (Hanlin) 3/27 3/29 3/42 3/44 3/53 3/63 3/70 3/95 3/108 3/121 3/122 3/123 3/138 3/144 3/148 (Hanlin)

86 188 185 26 123 200 46 111 38 148 66 57 160 171 103 ? 15 135 73

69 22 201 202 206 67 14 42 ? 89 138 105 222 71 82 ? 113 25 198

1724 1728 1723 1741 ? 1730 1739 1732 ? 1725 1718 1734 ? 1722 1731 ? 1742 ? 1711

source: Data extrapolated from Dengkelu, QL26 (Record of metropolitan graduates, 1761), Number One Historical Archives, Beijing.

Thus while probably not having the advantage of connections in the capital before his metropolitan degree, he had likely benefited from the reputedly lower standards used for selection of provincial degree graduates from outlying provinces. None of these statistics offer much explanation for Deng Dalin’s selection, but his biography in the 1911 edition of the Dongguan local gazetteer provides an important clue to the seemingly random choices of Hanlin bachelors within provincial groupings. The compilers of the local gazetteer record that grand secretaries (Daxue shi) Liang Shizheng (1697–1763) and Yin-ji-shan (1696–1771, the imperial favorite who had already spoken for Wang Jie, the first-placed 1761 graduate) were impressed by Deng Dalin’s writing (shang qi wen); this comment seems to indicate that he had followed the longstanding practice of soliciting favor by sending a writing sample. Surely it was no coincidence that Liang Shizheng was at that time both chancellor of the Hanlin Academy and president of the Board of Civil Office, both crucial powerhouses for new metropolitan graduates. It is already clear from the previous chapter how important connections to imperial favorites could be. In this instance, Deng’s apparent choice to appeal to

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Yin-ji-shan, the Governor-General of Jiangnan and a member of the Manchu Bordered Yellow Banner, was not inappropriate. As Qianlong himself had said, “in the hundred or so years of this dynasty, of all the Manchus who came up through the examination system, it is only O-er-tai and Yin-ji-shan who were really knowledgeable in scholarship.” As Zhao Yi, one of the classmates mentioned in Deng’s biography, wrote about elsewhere, and as the Jiaqing emperor was to denounce and forbid in 1820 (JQ25), sending writing samples to senior officials had been a tradition since Song times. As Zhao Yi’s palace examination essay had suggested, candidates were perfectly aware of the importance of impressing their readers, given an examiner’s patronage powers. In the early Qing it was of course a practice linked to the seeking of recommendation for sponsorship for Hanlin appointment. It seems altogether likely that Deng Dalin influenced his selection by sending writing samples to Liang Shizheng and Yin-ji-shan, who had both been readers for the palace examination. That the chroniclers openly name Deng’s connections implies that this practice was still at least marginally acceptable, but as Wang Jie’s later reservations make clear, it lay in a gray area between the licit and illicit. Deng Dalin probably had not employed the kinds of subterfuge that so outraged the Qianlong emperor in 1769— but they still may have been prevalent. In the 1769 instance, when the names on the examinations were been unsealed, the poetry of the first, second, third, and fifth papers was found to have alternative forms of the homophones of the candidates’ names carefully encoded into its lines. In one example, a 1769 court examination candidate named Yan Ben had written the lines: “ren xin ben hunran ye, er yao bi yan bian yu dongjing zhi shu” (“man’s heart is originally confused so that it becomes necessary to differentiate strictly between the distinctions of movement and quietude.”) The table 5.5 Table of Guangdong Graduates Palace Rank

2/10 2/59 3/18 3/23 3/24 3/41 3/61 (Hanlin) 3/79 3/110 3/131

Huishi Rank

Provincial Rank

Year of Birth

201 192 30 85 69 142 114 183 65 14

40 11 33 57 28 47 10 4 72 4

1735 1696 1733 1730 1727 1728 1731 1717 1731 1732

source: Data extrapolated from Dengkelu, QL26 (Record of metropolitan graduates, 1761), Number One Historical Archives, Beijing.

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emperor was shown how both graphs of the man’s name were inserted into the text. The other three examples were less sophisticated: Wang Shiwei had used the character “wei” in one line; Bao Zhizhong had used the character “bao,” as in baohan (meaning “to contain”). Even more farfetched was the accusation against Cheng Yuanze, that he had used the common graph “cheng” as a self-reference. As punishment, these candidates had their names removed from the Hanlin bachelor selection roll. By henceforth limiting candidates to one poem with a single theme, examiners hoped there would be less opportunity to practice this trick. While it is impossible to know how many of the Class of 1761 employed any or all of these practices, the attempts to curb them, in conjunction with the arbitrariness of the academic rankings, only underscore the importance of connections to the process. Indeed, a regular, unofficial hierarchy apparently existed to organize the ritualized practice of connections. In that scheme the examiner, at any level, was known as a shou zhi shi, literally, the “master who receives knowledge”; thus, the examiner had the same status as the traditionally more respected teacher and, as the examiner did not actually teach, with much less reason. In order to claim his attention, Deng would have had to gain entry, usually bringing expensive gifts, to either Yin-ji-shan’s or Liang Shizheng’s official residence. First, he would need to pay his respects to the doorman (bai men) and give him a purse of money called a “door purse” (men bao) to get his visit announced; thus, even the lowly could be treated with respect. Deng Dalin also tried to maintain the more horizontal ties with his classmates and fellow Hanlin bachelors; his chroniclers insist on listing his apparently close friendships with Zhao Yi, Cao Renhu, Chen Buying—and the famed scholar of ritual Dong Gao (1740–1818).11 If fame is calculated by reference to whom one knows, Deng Dalin, contrary to his assertions, was not considered significant enough to be mentioned by those with whom he claimed a connection. Instead, he exemplifies how connections contributed to a collective and overall construction of the patchworks of networks that participated in the empire’s structural identity. Perhaps in the end, then, it may be their lack of connection that explains why seventeen of the top thirty-eight 1761 graduates were passed over (see Table 5.6), neither being selected into the Hanlin Academy nor appointed as board trainees nor even given immediate appointment to local government. One can imagine these men were at a loss at this contradiction: should they blame the system for its arbitrariness and disregard of their “merit,” blame themselves, or blame their circumstances for their apparent failure to demonstrate that other kind of political merit, namely the cultivation of connections. It may have been easier—or more circumspect—just to call it “fate.”

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As Table 5.6 shows, except for Peng Shaosheng and Sun Shiyi, not one of these metropolitan degree holders rose beyond the middling ranks of administration, most remaining in the lower echelons. The same was true of the 75 percent of the class who also failed to make the selection in the court examination. That the majority of the class waited an average of ten years for an appointment offers eloquent testimony to the advantage gained by the 25 percent selected in the court examination for immediate appointment. After they won the very highest qualification for civil service entrance, government rules mandated that those who had failed court selection return to their homes in the provinces in order to wait for appointment. Clearly, the majority of new graduates would have preferred to stay in the capital in search of private employment, and in 1761 an attempt was made to force graduates and the authorities to abide by the rules. Provincial offices were sent lists of their 1761 provincial cohort’s names so that they could make sure these new degree holders had returned.12 The general appointment system to which the new degree holders were subject was complex and itself somewhat randomized. The new degree holders went to the Board of Civil Office (the ministry in charge of appointments, table 5.6 Table of Passed Over (in second class, rank 1–35) Palace Rank

Huishi Rank

Eventual Highest Appointment

Native Province

Final Administrative Rank

Name

2/4 2/8 2/9 2/16 2/28 2/32 2/10 2/12 2/14 2/17 2/22 2/26 2/29 2/30 2/35 2/5 2/18

6th 5th 78th 168th 107th 104th 201st 85th 19th 27th 86th ? ? 50th 34th 118th ?

Grand Secretary (Da xueshi) Prefect Assistant county magistrate Sub-prefect Board Assistant Dept director Sub-prefect District magistrate District magistrate District magistrate District magistrate County magistrate District magistrate District magistrate District magistrate District magistrate District director of education No appointment

Zhejiang Zhejiang Shandong Jiangnan Zhejiang Zhejiang Guangdong Hubei Jiangnan Zhejiang Zhili Guangxi Zhejiang Jiangnan Zhejiang Jiangnan Jiangnan

1A 4B 5A 5A 5A 5A 7A 7A 7A 7A 7A 7A 7A 7A 7A 8A n/a

Sun Shiyi Cai Feng Li Wencao Du Yihong Feng Yingliu He Chengjun Liang Shangsheng Wang Yonggong Xue Kelian Zhao Hang Ji Ju Ouyang Jin Zhang Qingyuan Zhao Chuanji Chen Jiamou Feng Bingzhong Peng Shaosheng

source: Data extrapolated from Dengkelu, QL26 (Record of metropolitan graduates, 1761); Luli yinjian (Personnel dossiers for court audience), Number One Historical Archives, Beijing. Jinshen quan shu (Da Qing zhiguan qianchu timinglu) Qing dynasty record of officials transferred or dismissed from office, Harvard-Yenching Library, Cambridge, MA. I am grateful that the Family History Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, kindly provided microfilms of both the available Dengke lu and Luli yinjian archive collections.

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promotions, demotions, and other personnel matters) and listed their particulars in the personnel registry. It was also at this point that the process of keeping an individual personnel dossier (lüli) began. The dossiers were intimately related to the examination records kept by the Board of Rites; as the candidates had discussed in their palace examination essays, nothing could substitute for regular evaluation in imposing a disciplinary regime. The results of the periodic evaluation were entered into each official’s dossier and, over time, an individual record established that provided a continuous assessment. The personnel dossier also formed the basis of future promotions. As appointments were centrally decided and required a court audience (yinjian), a supporting reference file was put together from the records each time the individual’s name came up. This practice has left scholars today with detailed employment records.13 When their names came up, individuals would receive notice that they were expectant officials for a particular position and would present themselves, most often just after the lunar New Year, in the capital for a court audience. Most of the 1761 graduates were appointed to the post of district magistrate. While fairly low in the grand scheme of appointments, the position brought with it probably the most significant level of power in the local county or district. In the interim, while waiting for appointment, many probably gained administrative experience and some financial remuneration by serving on the private secretarial staff of ranking local officials. Those considered too old to cope with the strenuous life of a magistrate, or those who needed to be close to home to care for aged parents, were appointed as prefectural directors of education. These posts were often set aside for such purposes, offering easy traveling distance to home. By 1763 the number of appointments for the class had increased to almost 36 percent; more than 76 percent of the cohort can be accounted for as having received appointments by 1773, as we see in Table 5.7.14 Some, like Cao Tan (3/145), in what he may have reckoned his only route to appointment, had taken advantage of the opportunity offered by the state’s efforts to raise money through the sale of board secretaryships during the Jinchuan campaigns (1771–1776). The 1761 cohort’s appointments support John Watt’s findings that the average waiting time for an expectant official was about ten years. The initial appointments given to new metropolitan degree holders were often no higher than rank 7A—usually district or county magistrates and prefectural directors of education. Directors of education, in consideration of their parents’ or their own age, were posted to a prefecture in their home province, but magistrates were posted anywhere in the realm. Those of the Class of 1761 were to be found in all sixteen provinces, and undoubtedly they called on each other when necessary, using the class network as a basis for information gathering and political support, and in the process further-

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ing the connection. Still, most of the cohort (almost 60 percent) remained at the lower end of the administrative ranking scale (as Table 5.8 illustrates), while almost 25 percent achieved the middling ranks of 4–5. The highest ranks, 1–3, which carried a modified right to pass office holding on through the yin privilege, accounted for only 5.5 percent of the whole cohort, a mere 12 of 217 men. Considering the 25:1 odds against attaining a metropolitan degree in the first place, the fact that only about one in twenty metropolitan degree holders succeeded in getting a high-ranking appointment underscores the intensity of the competition for political office. But the system nourished the desire and kept its prizes in view: if with determination it was possible to achieve metropolitan degree standing, it was possible, with even more determination and a constant eye on the main chance, to find admission to the paths of higher office. As a very rough comparison, one might think of the hope—mostly delusional—entertained by some doctoral students in the United States that they will go on to tenure at institutions comparable to the ones in which they trained. No discussion of the web of connection that elaborated the political space laid down by the examination and the interconnected appointments system would be complete without mention of the highest and most powerful connection in the empire—the emperor. Of course the state tended to emphasize indirect connection to the throne through the hierarchy of political authority table 5.7 Table of the Class of 1761 Appointments Year

Reign Year

Type of Record

Number of Graduates

Percent of Class%

Cumulative Percentage

1761 1762 1763 1765 1768 1770 1771 1772 1773 1774 1777 1780 1785 No Record

QL26 QL27 QL28 QL30 QL33 QL35 QL36 QL37 QL38 QL39 QL42 QL45 QL50 −

Immediate appointment Recruitment examination Jinshen Lu Recruitment examination Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Jinshen Lu Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Luli Yinjian dossier Local gazetteer record

57 3 18 1 1 33 11 4 37 5 2 1 2 17

26.27 1.38 8.29 0.46 0.46 15.21 5.07 1.84 17.05 2.30 0.92 0.46 0.92 7.83

26.27 27.65 35.94 36.40 38.86 52.07 57.14 58.98 76.03 78.33 79.25 79.71 80.63 88.46

−

Biographic sources

(25)

11.52

100%

217

100%

No Appointment totals

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pat h s to g l o ry table 5.8 Table of the Class of 1761’s Final Administrative Ranks Rank

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 No appointment total

Numbers

%

2 5 5 18 34 5 121 2 25

0.9 2.3 2.3 8.3 15.7 2.3 56.7 0.9 11.52

217

100

% in 3 Levels of Rank

= 5.5% @ rank 1–3

= 26.3% @ rank 4–6 = 57.6% @ rank 7–8

and direct connection only through the various privileged lines of upward communication, the palace memorial system for instance. To have a more personal (if indirect) connection with the emperor could also be a great boon, as we saw with Wang Jie (1/1), and perhaps Deng Dalin, with their association through Yin-ji-shan. The possibilities of connection to the emperor are well illustrated in the emperor’s Southern Tours. It was on these imperial trips, especially into the cultural heartland of Han Chinese culture, the lower Yangzi valley, that the emperor made the presence of imperial ideology felt. In a gesture at once symbolic and performative, the head of state, a non-Han Manchu outsider, performed the ideology of imperial largesse toward the Confucian educated elite through ad-hoc examinations invariably held at the major resting points on the emperor’s tours of Southern China. There were six such tours during Qianlong’s reign. The practice, which began in 1703 with the Kangxi emperor, had as a central part of its format an attenuated form of a much older practice. This was characteristic of so many Qing institutions and practices and indicative of the Qing state’s ability to adapt earlier practices to new uses and, in that sense, to reinvent the tradition. The Southern Tour tests hark back to what appears to be a preSong practice, requiring the candidate to write poetry (usually a more minor requirement of the main examination process) instead of evaluating the Confucian ethical knowledge central to the Qing examination curriculum. They are evocative of the Tang dynasty examinations that tested the candidate’s mastery of the literary markers of the cultural elite. In each of the major places where the emperor stopped, educated men scrambled for the chance to make that connection, a worthwhile effort considering the significant rewards. Three of the 1761 cohort had already benefited from the practice. In 1751 (QL16), on Qianlong’s first Southern Tour, Jiang Yongzhi (2/1) had been selected, as we saw in Chapter Two. On that occasion, Qianlong

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had consulted with the Manchu minister Fu-heng (his brother-in-law), Liang Shizheng, and Wang Youdun on the most appropriate procedures for the examination. Coincidentally, Zhao Yi, making use of the opportunities to expand his cultural knowledge, was at that time employed by Wang Youdun on his private staff, while Fu-heng was another minister to whom he later claimed connection.15 Generally, as we saw in Chapter Four, if there was to be a choice of patrons, it had far better be the emperor. Even so, the example of Chen Buying demonstrates that, by the late eighteenth century, such elevated connection in and of itself did not necessarily guarantee success, as we shall see below. On imperial tours, academically qualified elites would flock to petition the emperor; connections to the imperial entourage were of course advantageous here, too. These examinations thus became an important focus of the loyalties of an ambitious and therefore potentially volatile group. In 1751, the three ministers, proposed to organize the petitioners by having applicants apply to this examination through their provincial directors of education, the most appropriate channel. They also determined that there should be two examinations to avoid having a crush of people, one in each provincial capital—Jiangning (Nanjing) and Hangzhou—and the content should be a prose poem (fu) theme. These suggestions were approved. Those selected through this process were divided into two ranking classes, and no distinction was made between metropolitan and provincial degree holders, though first degree holders—whether shengyuan (students), jiansheng (imperial college students), or gongsheng (tribute students)—were treated as a separate category. Thus, Jiang Yongzhi (2/1) in 1751, and Gu Zhen (2/3) and Cao Renhu (2/58) in 1757 (the Qianlong’s second Southern Tour)—all shengyuan students—were each awarded the provincial degree (juren), the right to sit the following metropolitan examination, and, if available, a secretaryship (zhongshu).16 Each of these three individuals, with neither rank nor high qualification but with the sponsorship of the provincial director, had used the opportunity to win imperial connection, allowing them to bypass the conventional and more time-consuming route to academic qualifications. The same was true for Sun Shiyi (2/4) and Feng Yingliu (2/24)—both high-ranking second-class honors graduates of 1761—for Lu Xixiong (2/66), and for Guo Yuanlong (3/28) on the two tours subsequent to the 1761 metropolitan examination.17 In these cases, the candidates’ qualifications were much higher and so, commensurately, were the rewards. Thus in 1762 (QL27), Sun Shiyi, one of those passed over for Hanlin bachelor selection, was probably delighted to be picked for first place with first-class honors in the Jiangning examination. Four days later, he submitted a poem of gratitude, which was accepted by the emperor, and he was given a gift of an ornamental purse in exchange, marking the acknowledgment of patronage and

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indebtedness. Metropolitan (and provincial) degree holders were given immediate appointment as secretaries in a board (zhushi) or the Grand Secretariat (zhongshu). Lu and Guo had both participated in the Southern Tour recruitment examination in Hangzhou (Jiangnan province). Three years later, in 1765 (QL30), the fourth of Qianlong’s Southern Tours, Feng Yingliu (2/28), having failed in the 1762 examination, tried again and placed second with first-class honors. All four gained immediate appointment to the capital—a significant boost, since without this imperial connection they would have remained part of the 75 percent waiting out the ten or so years for an appointment to the non-metropolitan position of local magistrate. In fact, none of these four recipients of imperial sponsorship spent their whole careers in the metropole, but they remained there a significant time and, more important, were facilitated in their climb to the higher (and for Sun Shiyi, the highest) ranks of officialdom.

Hanlin Circuits and Connections To be taken into the Hanlin Academy was an enormous opportunity, since it facilitated entry into a number of crucial realms of bureaucratic power. These included, according to Adam Lui in his study of the Hanlin, serving the examination system; working on the literary, scholarly, institutional, and historical compilations produced under imperial auspices; staffing the Imperial Library; lecturing the emperor on the Confucian classics; recording the imperial daily activities; and educating the princes of the blood. For the bachelors of the Class of 1761, this meant that most of those who remained in the Hanlin participated in that curious cycle of appointments—low in rank but high in prestige and authority—that Dennerline finds so crucial to the mobilization of literati interests in the seventeenth century. This network of appointments, after a series of upheavals in the early years of the Qing, perpetuated itself into the eighteenth century and continued to be available despite the sapping of the robust local points of political activism that Ming literary societies provided. Dennerline describes its political hub as the Hanlin “club,” where the work of recruitment so crucial to seventeenth-century literati mobilization and to eighteenth-century network formation was done. Although the Hanlin was less a part of the inner court (nei ting) and was no longer close to the emperor’s ear since by the mid-Qianlong period it had been superseded permanently by the Grand Council, it nonetheless continued its important role in the staffing of areas traditionally under its purview. As part of the outer court (wai ting), it was connected to the regular administrative structure and to bureaucratic power, but since it still to some extent straddled the divide be-

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tween inner and outer courts, its officers could not help but be significant. In the Ming period it had been the preeminent source of examiners—both chief and associate examiners for the metropolitan examination and chief examiners for the provinces—but many of the major decisions on selection of these officers were now made by the Grand Council. Provincial directors of education had also been traditionally selected from among Hanlin officials, bringing metropolitan cultural influences to the provinces for threeyear periods. Often Hanlin men filled the post of Investigating Censor (jiancha yushi) attached to the Censorate (ducha yuan): presumably, those wellversed in the Confucian ethical system could also be trusted to maintain the highest levels of moral integrity necessary for the empire’s investigating officials of the Censorate (the bureaucratic surveillance arm of the state). Often, after a period as investigating censor (see Table 5.9), a Hanlin official might be assigned as a secretary (zhushi) to a board and later be promoted to department director. Although grand secretaries and board presidents no longer derived exclusively from the Hanlin as they had in the Ming, it was still possible to go that traditional route, instead competing with Manchu appointees and those being rewarded for military service.18 The connections that radiated from the Hanlin hub established so many overlapping and intersecting circuits that pinpointing them in any kind of linear logic would be a wasted exercise. Rather, in the next three sections I will discuss three of the most important practices within the Hanlin’s purview, practices that each worked within and between the others to generate, together, a distinctive network of both spatial and physical connections partially constitutive of the nation-space matrix. First, we examine the overall employment pattern of those selected to be Hanlin bachelors, which moved these most highly qualified disciplinary subjects into a range of activities that ensured their widespread distribution into positions of prestige and authority, and allowed them to subject others to versions of their own disciplinary training. Second, we focus on the supervision of examinations, an area of disciplinary training we have until this point considered mainly from the position of the candidate and the state. The full circulation of the examination process, from candidate to examiner, was central to the continual reenactment that bound the Confucian educated elites to the state. Examination supervision also set up network connections that brought metropolitan political concerns to the localities of different regions and, in the process, complicated (again as Dennerline has shown) any simple dichotomy between national and local concerns. The Qing dynasty exhibited its abilities strategically to intervene in these patterns of political mobilization by bringing outsiders to the Hanlin into the system, and almost in the face of this seeming challenge from the throne, elites mobilized the various networks of connection available to them. In

table 5.9 Table of Hanlin Career Appointments Court Rank st

1 1st 1st 1st 1s 1st 1st 1st 1st 1st 1s 1st 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 2nd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd 3rd

Hanlin Compiler

B/sec

Yushi

Dept Dir

X X X X

Prov Govt

Capital

Name (metropolitan class and rank)

X X

Wang Jie (1/1) Hu Gaowang (1/2) Zhao Yi (1/3) Jiang Yongzhi (2/1) Gu Zhen (2/3) Qin Cheng’en (2/11)

Prefect X

X

X

X

Jud. Com Fin. Com Governor

X

X

Jud. Com Fin. Com Governor

X

Wang Weishan (2/13) Xie Qikun (2/25)

X X X X

X X X

X

X

X

X

X

Prefect Fin. Com Governor

X

X rec’d

X

Prefect

X

X

X X

X

X D/mag X X X

rec’d

X X X X X X X X X X X

X rec’d

X X

X X

Prefect D/mag Prefect X Prefect

X

X

X X

X

X X D/mag D/mag D/mag

Cao Renhu (2/58) Jin Yunhuai (3/8) Huang Tengda (3/68) Ma Renlong (3/124) Ji Chengqian (2/2) Chen Buying (2/7)

Hu Qiaoyuan (2/19) Zhu Mishu (2/33) Shen Shijun (2/39) Zhang Yingzeng (2/52) Wang Shanglin (2/61) Guan Zhihan (3/4) Ding Rongzuo (3/12) Wu Yulun (3/45) Ma Zenglu (3/148) Ge Zhenghua (2/15) Liu Zhuo (2/21) Mao Yepu (2/42) Bu Zuoguang (2/43) Songgui (2/50) Guo Jie (2/60) Shao Yuzeng (3/6) Tian Junyu (3/14) Li Songling (3/26) Yu Tingcan (3/37) Liu Xiaozhi (3/59) Deng Dalin (3/61) Feng Changshen (3/81) Chen Yuchou (3/126) Yang Zhongxuan (3/133)

abbreviations: Hanlin: Bianxiu—compiler ; jiantao—reviser; B/sec—Board secretary (zhushi); ; yushi— investigator. Rec’d—recommended for post (jianju), but not appointed; Dept Dir (langzhong); D/mag—district magistrate (zhixian); Jud. Com—Judicial Commissioner; Fin. Com—Financial Commissioner.

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the process of this mobilization a number of overlapping circuits were established, structuring a definite space that superimposed itself on the scholarly community, just as its own members modified it through their recruitments. Third, we look at state-sponsored compilations, which brought together like-minded scholars and also created connections for those who had merely been assigned to a certain project. The process of compilation was generative of an imaginary space replete with the imperial narrative the state endeavored to promulgate. In a “self-organizing” circularity of influence, the creation of the narrative also changed and shaped in turn the interests of its authors, the scholarly community. This process was particularly the case for those in the Hanlin who were assigned to help craft the military record of Qing expansion and control of imperial territories. The role of these authors in participating in the production of the “archive state”—the real and “virtual” state spun out of information gathering and the continual redeployment of information into textual narrative—was crucial at the time in that it projected a dynamic, expansive, and proud image of the empire. A century or so later, versions of the same narrative played (as they continue to play) a key role when the nation-state incorporated into its modern nationalist ideology this body of knowledge on the acquisition and control of territories, using the historical precedent to rationalize continued political control.19 hanlin employment patterns

Selection as a Hanlin bachelor was the most prestigious appointment a new metropolitan graduate could obtain, and though it could and often did lead to a successful, high-ranking bureaucratic career, there were certainly no guarantees of the outcome. Four graduates of the 1761 court examination who had been awarded third-class honors, probably to fulfill provincial representation requirements, were eventually appointed as district magistrates. This position, although it promised a leading role in local politics, was also the position that those who failed the court selection process usually took up. Nevertheless, a surprising number fulfilled the promise that honors selection in the court examination seemed to imply. As Table 5.9 shows, four of the nine with first-class honors in the court examination rose to the highest ranks of the provincial bureaucracy, and five had careers in Beijing, ending in the middling ranks of administration. Since his name is listed in the lüli yinjian (the personnel dossiers for court audience), we know that Jin Yunhuai (3/8) was an investigating official (yushi) working in the Board of Civil Office in 1769 as an inspector (jiankan) for the monthly appointments committee, but there is neither biographic record nor record of appointment to any subsequent office. Likewise, I have been able to find no record showing that Wang Weishan (2/13) of Kunshan (Suzhou) in Jiangsu

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held any other office beyond his tenure as Hanlin bachelor. In the absence of any detailed records in the local gazetteers, personnel dossiers, or the published Jinshen quanshu (Complete Book of Official Appointments), we can only guess that both Jin Yunhuai and Wang Weishan may have died unexpectedly and that they lacked the necessary contacts to have an epitaph written for their local gazetteer.20 The 1761 Hanlin bachelors, like the generations before them, were essentially trainees there for a three-year term. At the end of the period they took the examination called the Release from the Academy (san guan) to determine their first substantive appointment; that is, an official post that carried an administrative rank and a salary. This would be the second examination since their elevation to metropolitan graduate status, part of the ongoing process of administrative evaluation. While in the Hanlin, they were placed under the general tutelage of two ministers: Jie-fu, vice-president of the Board of Rites; and Guan-bao, palace examination reader, chancellor of the Hanlin Academy, and vice-president of the Board of Civil Office; both men were Manchu.21 When Jie-fu died a year later, Liu Lun, the one chief examiner who had not been involved in the laws-of-avoidance case, took over the position. If the bachelors passed, some were selected to remain in the Hanlin Academy as compilers, correctors, proofreaders, or revisers; others were sent out to one of the six boards as secretaries (zhushi). Board appointment meant one would join the eight 1761 graduates given immediate appointment in the court examination as board secretary, a type of trainee position. Many of those appointed as board secretaries continued to be members of the metropolitan bureaucracy, in time rising through the ranks of assistant department directors (yuanwai lang) and department directors (langzhong). Interestingly, it appears that even those who remained as metropolitan officials were nonetheless temporarily appointed to different regions outside the capital in order to gather some sense of provincial administration, whether as investigators (yushi), as provincial directors of education (xuezheng), or in more temporary assignments as provincial examiners: this process looped connections in the provinces back into the metropolitan network. Contrary to conventional notions of Qing administrators as neither practically trained nor trained as specialists, functional training appeared to be an important component of the career process. Most officials held several junior posts in the same sector and were quite experienced before arriving at the more managerial levels of bureaucracy as department directors and such, adding a level of job-specific training to the disciplinary training already gained through examination practice.22 If a Hanlin bachelor failed the end-of-term examination, as did three of the above thirty-five, he was not retained in the capital but sent out to a provin-

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cial appointment at the local level, as district or country magistrate. Like the vast majority of the 1761 cohort listed as expectant magistrates, these too tended to remain at that level, although they avoided the long wait for appointment. By comparison, those who were sent out to the provinces after substantive appointment from the Hanlin could rise through the ranks into the midlevel of provincial government as prefect (rank 4B)—or, for the very few, into the higher ranks as financial commissioner or judicial commissioner and even governor. For example, Chen Buying (2/7) rose from prefect to financial commissioner, and both Xie Qikun (2/25) and Qin Cheng’en (2/11) became provincial governors, though with rather different reputations, as I discuss further on. the examination circuit

Seventeenth-century practices that locate civil service examiners as “a prime target for political action” clearly continued into the eighteenth century.23 Metropolitan and provincial examiners and provincial directors of education all exercised political influence in their various jurisdictions. Associate examiners (tongkao guan or fangkao guan) for the capital, Shuntian prefectural, and the metropolitan examinations were most often seconded (that is, called for duty and then returned to their posts) from the Hanlin ranks of compilers, revisers, and sometimes, though rarely, bachelors. Associate and especially metropolitan examiners had the power to appoint bachelors, and both these groups could establish strong examiner-disciple bonds, the latter within the Hanlin. In the Qing, the Grand Secretariat (which had been, in the Ming, the inner-court office most closely associated with the Hanlin but was superceded as such in the mid-eighteenth century by the Grand Council) most often provided the chief examiners for the Shuntian and the metropolitan examination; some of the metropolitan examiners had once been Hanlin officials. The Hanlin provided the bulk of the provincial examiners, who decided eligibility for the metropolitan examination. The position of provincial director of education was a temporary concurrent appointment for metropolitan officials: it was again often selected from the ranks of the Hanlin, but answerable to the Board of Rites. These officials had final control of student status for shengyuan and also selected tribute students (gongsheng) and decided eligibility for the provincial examination (see Chapter Two). Since an official was usually sent to the chosen province for a term of three to six years, directors had a significant impact on intellectual trends in the province. More than half the bachelors of 1761 participated as examiners at one point or another in the great self-perpetuating cycle of provincial and metropolitan examinations, contributing to the ongoing cementing of the relationship between Confucian-educated elites and the state. With the exception of

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the different arrangements made with non-Han Chinese minority populations in frontier areas, the Hanlin provided the central node in the examination circuitry, generating lines of communication and connection through every level of the political pyramid. As Table 5.10 shows, examination appointments were very uneven. Only three of the original 1761 bachelors were appointed examiner more than five times: they were Wang Jie, top of his class (1/1); Hu Gaowang, second with first class honors(1/2); and Cao Renhu (2/58). Wang Jie outdid the other two by holding the position of chief metropolitan examiner three times, a Qing record broken only by Liu Tongxun (see Chapter Four), who presided four times. Whereas Zhao Yi (1/3) might have attributed his limited opportunities (he served three times as associate examiner) to the capricious ranking he received in the examination, or to the fact that he was appointed to the provinces almost immediately upon completion of his tenure as bachelor and Hanlin compiler (bianxiu), by contrast Cao Renhu, who spent practically his whole career in the Hanlin, got six turns as examiner. Very much a member of Beijing’s scholarly community, Cao Renhu was also a cousin of the well-known scholar and historian Qian Daxin, from Jiading in Zhejiang province, and thus is a good example of the kind of continuity in the structural process of networks leaving their local roots that Dennerline discusses.24 As expected, most served as examiners while resident in the Hanlin. Perhaps again as part of strategic imperial policy, the Qing considerably diluted the Ming Hanlin monopoly of examiner appointment. Qing rulers had, as part of the system of joint ethnic appointments, ensured that a proportion of appointments also went to those of Manchu ethnicity; in 1761 these included several non-Hanlin Grand Secretariat officials. While Songgui (1736–1789; 2/50) of the Mongol Plain Yellow Banner, as the Table 5.10 notes, could rightfully claim a Hanlin qualification in the examination system, the same was not true of Fu-de (d. 1776) of the Manchu Plain Yellow Banner. Listed for selection as chief or deputy examiner in 1761, he had never served in the Hanlin. Although he held the title of Grand Secretary and was serving in the Grand Council, the greater part of his career was spent as a military commander in Chinese Turkestan. His listing as an examiner was likely seen as a prestigious appointment—a reward for military services rendered to the Qing empire. A similar example from the 1761 palace examination was the last-minute appointment of Zhao-hui (1708–1764) as reader. This victorious Manchu commander-in-chief, back from the Chinese Turkestan campaign, was believed by some to read Chinese poorly. According to Zhao Yi’s rather mean-spirited story, Zhao-hui was apparently instructed by the emperor on how to follow the grading pattern of the other eight palace examination readers and thus to complete his assignment without actually reading the texts.25 Whatever the truth of

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this story, both examples show that Qing imperial intervention was undermining the traditional structure of examiner appointments. In this case, the appointments were probably made to showcase the military successes of the ruling house, as a pointed reminder of the empire’s indebtedness to its military personnel and, not least, as a cue to examination candidates to acknowledge these obligations in their essays. Probably one of the most common political functions of an examiner or education official was in making and calling on the ancient teacher-student table 5.10 Table of Class of 1761 Selected as Examiners

Rank

Provincial Examiner

Associate Examiner Tongkao

Huishi (metropolitan) Examiner

Provincial Director of Education

4 3

4 1

1/1 1/2 1/3 2/1 2/2 2/3 2/11 2/15 2/19 2/25 2/39 2/50 2/58 3/6 3/8 3/12 3/45 3/59 3/68 3/124 2/4

4 3

2/28

2

2

1

2/66

2

1

1

3/28

2

1

3/46

1

2 1

2 3 1 2

1

3 1 1 1 1 3 2 2

1 1 1 1 2

1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1

3 1 1 2

1

source: Fashishan (1798), Qing mishu wen.

Name

Wang Jie Hu Gaowang Zhao Yi Jiang Yongzhi Ji Chengqian Gu Zhen Qin Cheng’en Ge Zhenghua Hu Qiaoyuan Xie Qikun Shen Shijun Song-gui Cao Renhu Shao Yuzeng Jin Yunhuai Ding Rongzuo Wu Yulun Liu Xiaozhi Huang Tengda Ma Renlong Sun Shiyi Non-Hanlin Feng Yingliu Non-Bachelor Lu Xixiong Non-Bachelor Guo Yuanlong Non-Hanlin Sun Jiale Non-Hanlin

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relationship as established in earliest times by Confucius. With the growth of the examination system, this relationship included the connection between examiner and his passing graduate. The examination circuit lay down the lines along which patronage could be dispensed and—as with connections between examiners and candidates in the court examination—teacherstudent cliques could build an official’s political influence. By the Qing period, with the strict limitations placed on political activities of scholarly associations, this patronage focused more on partisan intellectual interests than on any mobilization for political action.26 However, even within the realm of cultural politics, we should be attentive to considerations of imperial ideology that, for example, favored the strategic choice of Wang Jie as first-place over the academic merit of Zhao Yi in 1761: Wang Jie in his palace essay subscribed to no new trends but conservatively remained within the framework of state-sponsored Song Confucian learning, and he was rewarded for so doing. Moreover, as mentioned earlier, Wang Jie tried in his own habits to minimize the political interests of his position by rejecting the monetary gifts that could usually be expected from grateful clients. As chief metropolitan examiner in 1787 (QL52), Wang Jie passed Sun Xingyan (1753–1818) and in 1790 (QL55) Hong Liangji (1746–1809)—the latter who, but for the untimely death of his mother, almost joined Wang’s private staff. Despite the considerable scholarly success and fame of both these students, the honor of writing Wang Jie’s epitaph (muzhiming) went instead to Zhu Gui (1731– 1807, younger brother of Zhu Yun), who was connected to Wang Jie by the marriage of their children. Thus, although lines of communication and connection were laid within the examination and appointment network, often not obligation as such but choice, strategic or otherwise, was what activated them. It was obviously acceptable to acknowledge the examiner-disciple (i.e., examiner-student) relationship. Jiang Yongzhi and Wu Yulun stand as two representative examples of this relationship, which particularly through the practice of epitaph writing was allowed to become part of the written record and thus public knowledge. Jiang Yongzhi (2/1) died in 1770, much to the regret of his friend Zhu Yun, a scholar who played a major role in the massive Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu) compilation project. Zhu Yun had been Jiang’s associate examiner in the 1761 metropolitan examination (huishi), thus establishing the hierarchical relationship of examiner-student. The two became very close only after the examination—or so we are told—even though they lived near each other on the same Beijing street and Jiang had been around since 1751, working as a clerk in the Grand Secretariat (a job given for passing the Qianlong emperor’s first Southern Tour recruitment examination; see above and Chapter Two). So, at least, Zhu Yun wanted the readers of the epitaph he wrote for Jiang to believe.27

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The example of Wu Yulun demonstrates a complex overlapping of the more fraternal, fellow-student, same-year-degree relationship with the more hierarchical examiner-graduate one, and of family connection with the semiprofessional tasks of a scholar. Wang Chang (1725–1806), a scholar and prolific writer of epitaphs (muzhiming), was a classmate of Wu Yulun. Taking the provincial examination together in 1753 (despite Wu’s failure to pass, according to Wang Chang) made them tongnian, that is, same-year degree holders. Wang Chang’s relationship to Wu Yulun became more hierarchical when he became an examiner of Wu’s in 1761. He was one of those, in addition to Sui Chaodong (see Chapter Four), who had been added to the list of tongkao guan (associate examiners) when the emperor had been dissatisfied with the board’s offerings; to some extent, then, he was also a personal choice of the emperor’s. In fact, it seems, the obligation Wang Chang felt toward Wu Yulun was due first to the personal service that Yulun’s father, Wu Shigong, had earlier performed on behalf of his son’s friend when he found Wang a position on the staff of Qin Huitian (1702–1764). Wang Chang was then able to participate in the compilation of the latter’s Comprehensive Study of the Five Rites (Wu li tongkao) and to join an exclusive coterie of scholars. This was an experience for which Wang remained grateful, citing it in the epitaph he wrote for Wu. Wang Chang also thought it significant to cite Wu Yulun’s connection to Qian Qi (1742?–1799). Wu had acted as assistant metropolitan examiner in 1781. Qian Qi stands out in the history of examinations as one of only two men in the Qing who managed to take top place in all three major examinations (the provincial, the metropolitan or huishi, and the palace examination); the other would be Chen Hongmou’s great-great-grandson, in 1820; in his research on the subject, Weng Fanggang (1733–1818, Qian Qi’s provincial examiner in 1779) had found only a total of nine such cases, called san yuan, since the Tang period.28 Perhaps the single most important advantage for the Hanlin bachelor appointment, then—since the position carried no rank—was the opportunity it provided to establish relationships and connections with officials connected to the highest levels of administration. Here the bachelors might get to know the emperor’s favorite advisors and high ministers and to make their own connections within this power nexus, coming to perpetuate the cycle of patronage in their own pattern of appointments. Moreover, as Deng Dalin’s biographers and Jiang Yongzhi’s epitaph writer indicate, the opportunity to foster closer links with others in the same examination cohort was another important facet of the experience. Hanlin connection, unless it seemed to present a factional challenge to imperial power, was not regulated in the same way as family connection. Often Hanlin connection could work together with family connection, as

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in the case of Ji Chengqian. In other cases, such as that of Yao Fen, family connection could work to compensate for lack of Hanlin connection. When the state so chose, family connection as a barrier to state service could also be overridden completely. While Yao Fen, Zhang Yuantai, and Wu Tan were not bachelors but had family connection outside the Hanlin network, Ji Chengqian (1732–1784; 2/2), second son of Ji Huang, could claim both benefits. He was Hanlin bachelor of 1761; his grandfather, Ji Zengyun (1671–1739), and his father, Ji Huang (1711–1794), had both been Grand Secretaries famed for river conservancy work. Ho Ping-ti considered Ji Chengqian to be typical of the three-generation cycle of social mobility, representing the first in the downward trend of his family’s fortunes, though in fact he achieved a position as sub-expositor in the Hanlin (rank 5B) and it is difficult to guess how high he might have risen if he had not died in 1784, a decade before his father.29 It also seems likely that Shao Yuzeng (1741–1786; 3/6), as Hanlin bachelor, and his father, Shao Zizhen (1718–1789; 3/70), as prefectural director of education—both of whom were jinshi in 1761—maintained close contact. Shao Yuzeng’s appointments spanned the usual duties of a Hanlin career: he was eventually sent out, first as provincial investigator and then on a more permanent basis as prefect, then circuit inspector. His father and fellow jinshi Shao Zizhen meanwhile remained close to his family in Daming prefecture so that he might care for them. Yao Fen and Wu Tan rose to the highest administrative ranks of all those given immediate appointment, Yao Fen as district magistrate and Wu Tan as board trainee. Whether it was their administrative talents or immediate appointment that gave Wu Tan (2/23) and Yao Fen (2/6) their edge, it seems that family connection also must have played an important role, perhaps as significant a role as Hanlin connection. Yao Fen (2/6), as anyone familiar with the period might guess, was a member of the Yao lineage so closely connected by marriage to the Zhang lineage of Tongcheng county, Anhui. As Liu Tongxun charged (see Chapter Four), they had through family connection generated a sizable family presence through the auspices of Zhang Tingyu. For Yao Fen, this plus his own political acumen had resulted in a very successful career, not in the capital, but in provincial politics. Hilary Beattie considered him to be one of the two outstanding Yaos of the 1790s (the other was Yao Nai, the author of several QL26-men’s epitaphs). Yao Fen in traditional fashion augmented family prestige by sponsoring the compilation of a new genealogy and continued the tradition of contributing land for the support of the lineage’s examination candidates. He was given an immediate appointment as district magistrate in 1761, by 1790 was acting governor, and was appointed to a substantive position in Guangxi in 1795 before retiring in 1797. Especially

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as Yao Fen was the only one of his cohort to make the straight shot from magistrate to governor, his lineage reputation seems to have been a major asset. By contrast, no such fortune followed Zhang Yuantai (2/36), also of Tongcheng, Anhui, whose highest office was that of district magistrate. He was Zhang Tingzan’s grandson, but his sub-branch was less well known than that of Zhang Tingyu, even though, according to Beattie, his subbranch donated more land, maintained the marriage connection to the Yaos better, and suffered less from the general falling off of degree holding.30 Arguably, just as the state could bend its regulations that restricted family influence, Confucian-educated elites could meet the challenge of Qing state modifications by using the Hanlin network, its institutional academic power base, together with the examination circuit and family connection as sets of overlapping strategic practices to support its own interests. Thus, as we have seen, Zhu Yun found his multiple connections with Jiang Yongzhi natural enough to mention without excuse, nor was it unusual that Zhu Yun should also, in the same context, name Jiang’s friend Tian Junyu (3/14) as his fellow 1761 examinee who subsequently had been appointed as a reviser.31 The patterns of connection were not necessarily there to be used instrumentally but existed as a space in which these scholars were used to moving about. the virtual space of the archive state

The Hanlin and its associated agency, the Grand Secretariat, were responsible for staffing almost all the empire’s imperially sponsored compilation projects. These duties often combined the effects of the military enterprise—the extension of the empire’s boundaries and frontiers—with the scholarly project of creating the textual space of the state. Thus, the structuring matrix of examination practice and official appointment that contributed to a proto-nation space also penetrated the empire-building project that was part and parcel of Qing imperial ideology. The new additions to the Qing empire in turn enhanced and defined the political power of the trained subjects of the state who governed on its behalf. In the draft biography of editors Ji Yun, Lu Xixiong, and Chi Lufei written for the Qing shi (History of the Qing dynasty), the editor said, “most of those who made their name after the mid-Qianlong period did so on the basis of military merit” (Lunyue: Qianlong zhongnian hou duo yi wugong zhi taiding). Those that did not— such as Jiang Yong, for example, or the three editors of the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu), subjects of the just-mentioned biography—were involved in narrating the empire. Reckoning the surprising number of the class involved variously with the Qing military project substantiates further the important revisionary work now being done, especially by Joanna Waley-Cohen, on the Qing program to restructure culture in order to

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reflect an imperial image based on military success.32 Many of the Class of 1761 illustrate the fluidity between civil and military duties in the Qing bureaucracy. Bureaucrats sometimes had duties in the scholarly realm of compilation and editing, or they could be more actively involved in the field; or, for the many more holding local appointment, their military duties might begin when a supply line cut across their territorial jurisdiction or when military action literally arrived on their doorstep. Not only was the Hanlin as the empire’s highest academic research institution closely connected to the emperor’s own library and the School for Imperial Princes—the training ground for future emperors; in addition, great numbers of its staff were called to serve in an enormous number of imperially mandated compilation projects. Hanlin compilers were thus involved in academic work that related to issues of current policy and in many projects at the heart of contemporary politics, cultural and otherwise. Scholars either affiliated with the Hanlin or having had some training there often proposed these projects, to which the Qianlong emperor might give his sanction, providing funding to pay for the costs of research, compilation, and printing. These projects in turn provided scholarly work for many degree-holding literati, who were as a result paid out of state funds, and comprised another important connective node from the Hanlin community to the scholarly community at large.33 Twenty-one of the thirty-eight 1761 bachelors became compilers, revisers, or proofreaders—although only a handful did more than work for one or two three-year terms on any one project, and for most the experience was merely a stage of their early career. Creating a virtual textual space was a particularly important part of the program that helped generate the imaginary extension of the empire—a structure with which few could or would have actual experiential contact in its totality. The scholars involved in these projects collected and compiled materials gathered from many sources; the state considered all of them crucial to the creation and documentation of the truth that the Qing rulers were indeed the “overlords of all under heaven.” Such sources as Confucian elite literary and scholarly production, made available through the massive compilation project of the Siku quanshu—the emperor’s Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (so ably documented by Kent Guy)— demonstrated that Qianlong was indeed the benefactor of all that the Confucian elite considered to be their own project. Lu Xixiong (2/66), who gained appointment through the Southern Tour recruitment examination, was, together with Ji Yun (1724–1805), chief editor of the project. Until he died of the bitter cold in 1792, he was still working on the copy of the library held in the Wensu Pavilion in Fengtian, Manchuria. Xie Qikun, another compiler from the Class of 1761, had the misfortune in 1778 to get caught up in the censorship campaign that had grown in the train of this

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massive compilation project. Others worked on creating the imprint of Qing prestige on the historical record. Lu Xixiong worked on the general history Lidai tongjian jilan (Imperial comments on the comprehensive mirror). Zhao Yi worked on the three famous encyclopedic institutional histories compiled in the ninth, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, which had been known as the San Tong; in the eighteenth century, the same term was used to refer to the encyclopedic institutional histories of the Qing, which were so abundant that they merited a separate compilation office. The precedents of this single dynasty (and only up to 1785) filled three volumes, each one named after one of the famous earlier works. Yu Tingcan (3/37), a native of Hunan, worked as compiler on the San Tong project during his short time in office (1768–1771). He is perhaps most representative of the changing trends in scholar-officials’ careers, discussed by Elman, that came as a consequence of these state efforts. Never gaining any higher position than compiler, Yu Tingcan did not even serve out his appointment as Hanlin bachelor because of his father’s death, and the remainder of his life was spent not in office but teaching in various academies. Xie Qikun (2/25), shortly after redeeming himself from the Xu Shukui censorship case, went into mourning for his parents and remained in retirement until 1790.34 This period of respite allowed him to contribute to the ongoing project of evidential scholarship (kaozheng) in the compilation of the Xiaoxue kao (Bibliography of philology) and the Wei Shu (History of the Wei). Later, while governor of Guangxi, he was responsible for compiling the Guangxi gazetteer—another area of interest to present-day scholars of evidential research. Li Wencao is probably more significant for his private scholarship than for any contribution to an officially sponsored project. He is best known to us as the author of the only study of Liuli chang, a market just south of Beijing’s Qianmen (the gate to the Chinese city) that was the site of the capital’s central book market and thus the place of knowledge exchange—at least in commodity form—for bibliophile literati, scholar-officials, and book merchants.35 No matter whether it was private or official, scholarship and literary production could, in the expansiveness of the mid- to late-eighteenth century environment, find an outlet so long as it contributed to the prestige of Qing rule. Compilation and editing work also included assembling material for the geographic record that would create the spatial imagery of the empire, in particular the Da Qing yitong zhi (Comprehensive gazetteer of the empire), which Wang Jie (1/1) was appointed to proofread in 1779. Perhaps not least, the documentary enterprise took in the recording of the actual events (shi), together with the actions taken and words spoken by the emperor, in the personification of empire known to us as the Veritable Records. The image making process of the Veritable Records of the Qing Dynasty (Shilu)

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was so crucial that editing it, as Beatrice Bartlett has explained, occurred continuously throughout the dynasty.36 Wang Jie was given the honor of directing the Veritable Records of the Qianlong Emperor (Gaozong Chun huangdi shilu) as general editor in 1799. Every aspect of the record intended to map out the glory of the Manchu Qing rulers’ conquests, the work was constructed to be handed down to posterity, its story distilling the fruits of imperial ideology into an imperially sanctioned narrative. Each of these works proclaimed the greatness of the Qing and its rulers and covered prodigious expanses of knowledge, thus both symbolizing and participating in the Qing domination of vast and previously unheard of resources. The location and function of the Wuying dian (Hall of Martial Prowess) constituted a physical symbol of the interpenetrations of the civil or literary (wen) and the martial (wu). Located within the Forbidden City (Zijin cheng), the Wuying dian throne hall has long been more familiarly known as the Imperial Bindery and Printing Office. Here, wen and wu, one of China’s most traditional binaries, were brought together by the supreme harmony emanating from the throne. The Hall of Martial Prowess, to the west of Taihe men (Gate of Supreme Harmony), was the base of the narrativeproducing enterprise and formed a symbolic unity with the parallel Wenhua dian (Hall of Literary Glory) to the east, where the emperor listened to Hanlin lectures on the Confucian classics. The same two buildings had in the Ming period been designated as Grand Secretariat duty offices. Despite its martial name and symbolic identity, by the mid-eighteenth century the Wuying dian had long been used as a place to collate, engrave, and bind books.37 Song-gui (2/50), the most successful Bannerman of the cohort, was director here for a number of years. It was Jiang Yongzhi’s appointment as a compiler in this office, along with his work in the Dzungar campaign records office, that Zhu Yun thought was responsible for Jiang’s death: long hours spent poring over dusty documents had, apparently, led to a sudden and serious illness.38 Assembled in the same complex as the Wuying dian were an array of other structures dedicated to binding together the literary and military enterprises of the imperial project: the Muslim (Huizi guan) school (attached to the east of the throne hall); the Burmese School, slightly to the north of it (Mianzi guan); the San Tong compilation office (San Tong guan); and the Military Archives office (Fanglüe guan). The latter, which within the political division of the court and administrative bureaucracy was considered part of the powerful inner court, had been created especially for storage and compilation of military campaign records (fanglüe) that would tell the story of imperial conquest and expansion so crucial for Qing prestige. The association between these offices—representing institutional precedent, military campaign records, and relations with foreign states and important ethnic

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minorities—is immediately striking: these material structures embodied the priorities of the imperial narrative. Although the Qianqing men (Gate of Heavenly Purity) has long been thought of as the boundary between the inner and outer courts—that is, more or less private and public courts—in the Forbidden City, one might also situate the group of offices around the Wuying dian as a kind of complex gateway between the inner realm of imperial power—of which the military project was officially a part—and the outer realm of the bureaucracy.39 The State History Office (Guoshi guan), by contrast, was located less centrally, against the eastern wall of the palace complex, north of the Donghua men (Eastern Flowery Gate). Here was the archive for creating the general narrative of the Qing dynasty, where Shao Yuzeng (3/6), Liu Zhuo (2/21), and Xie Qikun (2/25) all worked when they were compilers. The State History Office also supervised the construction of the narrative of the previous and now-fallen Ming dynasty, a project to which Wang Jie was appointed as assistant reviser for a short time (1779–1780) while proofreading the Comprehensive Gazetteer; the simultaneous appointment indicates the supervisory role of his assignment. Still, the long-term significance of the History Office was clear, and apparently its role merited supervision of the inner court.40

From Military Compilations to Military Circuits Examination-trained officials who were disciplined in state-endorsed norms, values, and behaviors not only administered the Qing realms within China proper but also participated in the expansionist project of empire. Many of the Class of 1761 were engaged in the project of organizing, sustaining, and even expanding the larger structure through the military campaigns that marked the high point of eighteenth-century Qing rule. In many respects this participation exemplifies two prominent characteristics of the period: first, the easy shift between official and private scholarly compilation projects and, second, the fluidity between civil- and military-related duties of officials. The former participated in what Elman has described as the professionalization of the Confucian elite and the latter illustrated the broader spectrum of the examination system’s participation in the construction of the proto-nation–space. The earlier examples of Yu Tingcan (3/37), Li Wencao (2/29), and to a lesser extent Xie Qikun (2/25) have shown that already by the mideighteenth century, considerable fluidity existed between official and private patronage of scholarship. Zhao Yi’s role ranged from the participatory to the narrative. Even before receiving his metropolitan degree, Zhao Yi had been privately hired to work with Liu Tongxun’s staff compiling the Gong

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shi (Palace History), an imperially sponsored publication. When appointed as a Grand Council clerk (1756) and later as a Hanlin reviser, he was ordered to work in the Military Archives Office. There, together with Jiang Yongzhi (2/1), he worked on the Dzungar campaign records—part of the archival mapping of the empire—not surprising, perhaps, given Zhao Yi’s earlier contacts with Fu-heng (d. 1770), the emperor’s brother-in-law and favorite, under whose direction the imperially commissioned Pingding Zhunge’er fanglue (Strategy for the pacification of the Dzungars) was compiled. Appointments as compilers of the military record of imperial expansion were increasingly common in this era, but Zhao Yi took the official enterprise a step further into the realm of private scholarship when in 1792 he completed his Huangchao wugong jisheng (Record of the august dynasty’s military achievements). Written in four chapters, this account was based on his personal records and materials culled from published sources, including the 464 fascicles of published campaign records that he had gained access to in 1782 in Yangzhou’s Wenhui ge; this library was one of the more positive results of the centralization and publication efforts of the official Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu) compilation.41 Zhao Yi’s career thus exemplifies the increasing involvement of civil officials in military affairs. Apart from those in and out of the Hanlin who were involved in creating the textual space of the Qing military project, others of the cohort were involved in a much more on-the-ground fashion. These appointments suggest how Qing views of their empire shaped the cultural production of Han Chinese as much as the Qing Manchus in turn assimilated and were assimilated by Han Chinese culture. Shao Yuzeng (3/6), for example, in common with several in the cohort, thought nothing of being appointed as a civil official to the Shanxi military supply circuit in support of the expanding empire.42 Sun Shiyi stands out as a civil official who spent nearly all his career in the provinces and whose fame rested solely on his military successes—a civil official whose ambitions seemed to be drawn by the luster of the martial enterprise. On the whole, the Manchu rulers personally planned, directed, and controlled the Qing imperial expansionist project. For much of the latter half of the eighteenth century—and following the models of his grandfather, the Kangxi emperor, and his father, the Yongzheng emperor—Qianlong continued the territorial expansion. Manchu imperial relatives—in particular, the emperor’s brother-in-law Fu-heng and his four sons, of whom Fu-kang’an (d. 1796) was probably the most prominent in the late Qianlong period— in retrospect constitute one of the most powerful military factions at court. Han Chinese officials at court rarely held the most important military positions; instead, their job was mostly to document the achievements of the largely Manchu-led military establishment. Those of the 1761 cohort who

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worked in provincial government, and were thus closer to the field, tended to be part of the day-to-day process of supplying troop material. The military sphere was peculiarly prominent in eighteenth-century China, when the empire’s frontiers were being pushed to an extent unmatched even by present-day China. Many civil officials took part in Qianlong’s ten great campaigns of military expansion. For some this brought success and honors, for others, defeat, and for many, some equivocal mix of both. The members of the Class of 1761 who managed to get leading roles in this arena—roles usually reserved for Manchus—had also to deal with the competitions and rivalries of those who literally fought for fame. Success depended strongly on drawing the attention of the emperor, who not unnaturally took a strong interest in military matters, but even the emperor at times could not outweigh the opinions of his generals. For example, Chen Buying (2/7) had the personal backing of the Qianlong emperor after being praised for his excellent organization of the supply lines in the pacification of the 1784 Muslim uprising. Appointed Judicial Commissioner to Gansu province, he was quickly able to shift from his civil duties into military ones. As a reward for his efforts, Qianlong personally suggested promoting him to Financial Commissioner of the province, but even the emperor could not face down what might be called the Manchu military clique. Before Chen could take up his appointment, Fu-kang’an had objected, saying that although Chen had integrity and skills in logistics, the appointment should go to Pu-lin, his own protégé. Thus, despite earning two military merits and the recommendation of the emperor, Chen Buying did not, it seems, have a close enough relationship with the most prominent among the Manchu military clique.43 In contrast, the 1761 metropolitan degree holder Sun Shiyi (2/4), although a Han Chinese, was deemed sufficiently warrior-like to be made an honorary member of a Banner and rewarded with aristocratic title. Sun’s classmate Qin Cheng’en (who is discussed in the Coda) was another successful civil official caught up in the defense of the empire. In the end—and despite networking, connections, and imperial favors—neither man could avoid falling with the fortunes of the empire. The Burma campaign (1766–1770) was probably the earliest one in which Zhao Yi and Sun Shiyi experienced military life, while serving under Manchu commander-in-chief Fu-heng. Zhao Yi, denied personally by the emperor, had no choice but to leave the Hanlin Academy and accept assignment to Zhen’an in Guangxi province as prefect; thus, he was conveniently located for temporary posting to the Burmese border.44 Whether Fuheng had remembered that the former Grand Council clerk had a military interest is unclear; however, Zhao Yi would later use this first-hand experience in his book on Qianlong’s military achievements. Zhao Yi mentions

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nothing of his former classmate, Sun Shiyi (2/4), who was brought in from the Grand Council to Fu-heng’s Burma staff in 1769 and, as a civil official, was to play an extensive role in military affairs. These officials’ Confucian education and the examination curriculum had probably familiarized them with the complex principles of interstate relations governing the conflict between such states as Burma and Qing China. The two were unequal overlords, and most often it was Burma that paid tribute to China. However, by the mid-eighteenth century, there was a resurgent new dynasty at the capital, Ava, which, like Qing China, was aggressively expanding its sphere of control. Thus the balance of power in the region was in flux. Sparked by Burma’s refusal to send tribute and, by implication, to perform the ritual of submission, Qing reacted. Burma had since the Qing conquest impinged on the politics of the empire. By giving what turned out to be inhospitable refuge to the peripatetic Ming forces escaping the conquering Qing forces (they eventually handed over their prisoners, thereby betraying the Ming cause), Burma had demonstrated its strategic potential as an opposition outpost to the newly installed Qing government. In 1763 and again in 1765, over-zealous Burmese troops crossed into Yunnan province and attacked local settlements, and these acts, coupled with the refusal to send tribute, were construed by Qianlong correctly as an act of defiance. Qianlong felt he had little choice but to enact punitive measures. Zhao Yi became involved in a follow-up retaliatory invasion in 1768 (there were four between 1766 and 1769); Sun Shiyi arrived a year later. Campaign headquarters themselves could function as further nodes of connection and interaction for overlapping civil-military duties: Zhao Yi’s 1771 note from his short stint as military circuit intendant for western Guizhou mentions his pleasure at casually running into his former colleague Wang Chang in western Guizhou province, while the latter was traveling with troops being detoured from Yunnan to the Jinchuan front in Sichuan.45 Sun Shiyi is the cohort’s most outstanding example of how successful the crossing of military and civil lines could be. A relatively unknown figure, Sun Shiyi saw action in several of the Qianlong’s primary military ventures: in Burma, leading the Annam campaign (in northern Vietnam), working in the campaign to suppress the Lin Shuangwen rebellion on Taiwan (another crucial border area), and organizing transportation and supplies in Tibet against the Gurkhas. Even so, Sun started as an insignificant Han Chinese metropolitan degree holder and remained a civil official throughout. Given how crucial the expansion of the empire was to the Qing rulers, the examination-trained administrators, most of whom were Han Chinese, could hardly be excluded if stability and control were to be maintained and government structure had to be sufficiently flexible to allow such crossings to occur.

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In 1761 Sun Shiyi was no doubt chagrined to discover himself listed as an expectant official and to be sent home—in his case, to Zhejiang—to await appointment. He was not selected as a Hanlin bachelor despite graduating seventh in the cohort as a whole (fourth in second-class honors). Yet, in the twelve years following his first meeting in 1784 with Yuan Mei, the eighteenth-century bon vivant, Sun managed to rise to the position of chief examiner for the Shuntian provincial examination, had been awarded the title of Grand Guardian of the Heir Apparent and the military accolade Qingche Duwei, wore the double-eyed peacock feather, and, not least, was president of the Board of War, carrying the rank of 1B; thus he was well able to be Yuan’s protector. The epitaph that Yuan Mei wrote for his great friend told of Sun’s impressive career, in which he had scaled seventy mountain peaks (some said to be “a hundred miles high”), crossed difficult mountain terrain in order to clear a military supply route, and, at the end of his life, still served his emperor actively in the field.46 The crossover of Sun Shiyi—as civil official in government service, examiner evaluating potential civil servants, and leader on active military duty—makes him an unusually high-level example of the linkage between the examination network and other seemingly unrelated networks. Sun was characterized by an obvious love of adventure, danger, and the outdoor life. Although several other civil officials in his cohort were similarly involved in military action, they exhibited nothing like Sun’s level of enthusiasm. By the time of his death in 1796, he held the title of Duke, but perhaps most significantly, he was a Han Chinese (not Manchu) man of action; a role model Qing rulers could hold up for others to emulate. As if deliberately fulfilling this dramatic narrative, his dying wish was that he and his family be inducted into the Banner system, an institution that epitomized the martial aspect of Manchu rule. This wish the emperor granted, and his family was taken into a company of the Chinese White Banner. The most important framework for Sun Shiyi’s success was not that he was a brilliant military leader but that existing networks and connections made such a career possible; also, as a well-trained subject, he was ready to fulfill any role the state might require of him. Arguably, the career of Sun Shiyi exemplifies a new constellation of civil and military elements, an emergent model of the scholar-official’s career that differed from earlier eighteenth-century Confucian models. Scholars today argue compellingly that the Qing empire bore all the markers of strategic and self-conscious rule by an ethnic minority over a multicultural state; it is perhaps a testament to the Qing’s recognition that flexibility was crucial to such a system that administrators of Han Chinese extraction were allowed to be involved in many facets of even the most sensitive of frontier events. Han Chinese rarely held long-term positions of power in these areas (either indigenous

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elites or Manchus were preferred for these), but the curriculum of the examination system meant that degree-holding Han officials understood and could be trusted to carry forward these projects. As we saw earlier, Sun Shiyi seized upon the opportunity to take the adhoc recruitment examination given on the emperor’s inspection tour. He was already approaching his forties when, just one year after graduating with his metropolitan degree, he rushed to Jiangning to gamble his skills at poetic composition, hoping to avoid the long wait for official appointment.47 It was perhaps coincidence that the Manchu general Fu-heng was one of the examiners appointed to read the candidates’ poetic creations, but the coincidence led to a lifelong connection for Sun, one that was to extend to Fu-heng’s son, Fu-kang’an. There is little doubt of Sun Shiyi’s political ambitions, especially since only the year before his Annam debacle he had taken the initiative, preparing supplies and arms for the Guangdong Green Standard army troops in the pacification of the Taiwan rebellion before they were called for or even needed. After a rapid ascent through the ranks, and even likely under the patronage of He-shen, the Qianlong emperor’s favorite minister, Sun had in 1787 been made governor-general of Liangguang (comprising the two provinces of Guangdong and Guangxi). His coastal jurisdiction bordered on Fujian province, from which the main imperial forces under their commander-in-chief Fu-kang’an, were leaving for Taiwan. For his foresight and prompt action, Sun was rewarded with the right to wear the prestigious double-eyed peacock feather in his hat; he was also given the military title of Qingche duwei. By 1785 the rebellion had been suppressed, he was beginning to make a name for himself in military circles and was further awarded the honor of having his portrait hung in the Ziguang ge (Pavilion of Purple Light), as was Wang Jie.48 Sun Shiyi’s adventures in Annam substantiate the expansive civil/military model of state, testifying to the examination subject’s ability to enjoin the politics of empire and promote the participatory claims of nation-space. Some scholars believe that Sun was motivated by ambitions of imperial aggrandizement and aware of the complex circumstances from which he was proposing to rescue the Annamese emperor (or king, depending on who was speaking, the Annamese court, or the Qing; see discussion below) Lê (d. 1798), when he appealed for Chinese aid in 1788. Sun Shiyi’s obituary (muzhiming) writer, Sun Quji, claimed that, even as a child, Sun exhibited an impulse toward grand ambitions. Perhaps Sun Shiyi could also relate to a society that was guided by Confucian ideology; that had produced an examination system contributing to a socio-political order similar to China’s system, based on an age hierarchy and on continuous conditioning; and that even wrote in the same script. Annam—the “protectorate of the paci-

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fied south”—was, despite strong proto-nationalistic distinctions and a strong will to stress its differences, perhaps remarkable among all the Southeast Asian kingdoms in most closely resembling the Chinese empire in ideology, institutions, and political structure—especially with regard to its elites.49 When the Annamese emperor appealed for aid, Sun must have quickly learned of the social upheavals and discontent among the Vietnamese population that had resulted in the earlier Tayson rebellion in 1771. Led by three brothers, it would be responsible for uniting much of modern Vietnam. (The Annamese emperor [of the Later Lê dynasty 1428–1788] had only nominal control over the territory, which since 1620 was under the de facto control of two elite families, the Nguyen in the south and the Trinh in the north.) Contrary to the impression given to Sun Shiyi that the Annamese Emperor Lê had been illegitimately deposed from his throne, the later assessment by the Chinese authorities that the Annamese emperor had lost his mandate to rule was closer to the actual situation. We do not know what led the emperor and his family to run away when the usurper, Nguyen Hue, now linked by marriage to the royal family, marched toward Hanoi, where the royal residence was located. In any case, several hundred of the royal family, including the Annamese emperor’s mother and wife, claiming their legitimate right as supplicants, sought refuge with the Chinese authorities—who were, as officials, servants of Annam’s supreme lord and protector, the Qianlong emperor. The Annamese emperor was perhaps genuinely frightened for his life, as Truong Buu Lam suggests, or perhaps his action was a strategic move, allowing him to claim just cause in asking for his suzerain’s intervention. In either case, his conduct provided the ideal opportunity for Sun Shiyi, then governor-general of Liangguang, to leap precipitously into action.50 After hearing about the state of affairs, Sun Shiyi—with orders from the Qianlong emperor—proceeded to Longzhou (near the border with Annam) in order to hear more detailed reports directly from the refugees. The extent and gravity of the Tayson rebellion were far from clear to the Chinese authorities: Was the rebellion merely local? How much support did Emperor Lê still have? Sun Shiyi appeared to favor mounting an offensive against the rebels and restoring the Annamese emperor to his throne. Following Grand Council deliberations in the capital, orders were issued to Sun Shiyi, agreeing that he should intervene to assist in the restoration of Emperor Lê and to aid in the pacification of the rebels. Perhaps the authorities in the capital were also testing to see just how capable a military leader Sun Shiyi was. When Fu-kang’an, the governor-general of Yunnan and Guizhou, requested to join the expedition, he was told that an army should not have two commanders. Instead, as Annam was in no position to supply the Chinese expeditionary forces, he was to oversee the setting up of more than seventy stations along the Guangxi and Yunnan routes to ensure the smooth

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circulation of provisions. In comparison with Europe, where “no logistic system of the time could sustain an army embarked on operations in enemy territory,” the Annam operation was a remarkable feat. Apparently three armies of men from Guangxi, Guangdong, and Yunnan were sent into Annam with Sun Shiyi as their commander-in-chief. Estimates of the number of troops range from as high as three hundred thousand to as low as one thousand, with some general agreement on the figure of ten thousand. Sun Shiyi’s leading general, Xu Shiheng, was especially transferred from Zhejiang and had been left commanding the rear-guard of about two thousand after the Chinese army had crossed into Annam through the Zhennan Pass in western Guangxi. When the expeditionary army arrived at Lan-son (Liang shan), just inside Annam, they broke into regional divisions of a Guangxi army—led by the Chinese general Shang Weisheng and assisted by Qing Cheng—and a Guangdong army led by generals Zhang Chaolong and Li Hualong.51 Sun Shiyi was not a seasoned commander and doubtlessly relied on the advice of his subordinate officers. The Chinese expeditionary force entered Annam at the end of November 1788, and by December 17 or 19 they had reached Hanoi, victorious after a series of engagements all the more laudable for having been fought in unfamiliar territory. For these deeds, Qianlong awarded Sun Shiyi the title of “Valiant Tactician” and the aristocratic rank of Duke. The engagements were later documented in a set of six engravings—five depicting the most impressive battles. Descriptions of the events made their way into the Hangzhou prefectural gazetteer of Sun Shiyi’s hometown, thus bringing the narrative of expansive empire into the mapping of the proto-nation–space of China proper.52 What followed was the most humiliating and shameful episode in Sun Shiyi’s career. There is no doubt that Sun Shiyi was in some ways responsible for a military blunder that cost the lives of more than half his men. In considering this event we should also ask whether Sun Shiyi’s actions might have been in the aid of a grander plan, fulfilling what he believed to be imperial ambitions pleasing to the Qianlong emperor. Or, the acquisition of Annam having ultimately failed, were the documents subsequently altered or edited to fit the new circumstances, conveniently blaming Sun Shiyi? Having arrived at the Annam capital and overseen the investiture of the king—the Grand Council had made sure to have the seals ready so there would be no delay—Sun Shiyi should have obeyed orders and left immediately for the return journey to the border and back into China. Instead, he delayed—deliberately, it appeared—and the troops were obliged to spend Chinese lunar new year (January 26, 1789) away from home. Drunk with success, they celebrated, completely unprepared for the surprise night attack by the usurper Nguyen Hue’s returning troops. In the confusion of a

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disorderly retreat, the unfamiliar and frightening sight of large cannon resting on the backs of elephants (animals that many of the troops had never before seen) may have contributed to the panic. According to one story, Sun Shiyi, fleeing with his men, crossed from south to north the Phú-lüong River (Chinese: Fuliang), the capital’s strategic entry point and site of their earlier victorious battle, cutting behind him the pontoon bridge that had been constructed at the time of the earlier battle by generals Xu Shiheng and Zhang Chaolong. Why Sun Shiyi might have destroyed the bridge with half his troops left on the other side is unclear. In any case, generals, officers, soldiers, and servants drowned in the general mêlee in getting across the river. Other accounts attribute less responsibility to Sun Shiyi, stating merely that the pontoons were too weak to hold such huge numbers and that, breaking, they threw the men into the river. Sun’s archival draft biography puts the responsibility for the accident on Colonel Li Hualing, who with his men is said to have slipped and fallen on the bridge, which already was under the strain of such a chaotic exodus and caused it to give way, drowning those on the bridge and leaving Xu Shiheng stranded. However it happened, and in spite of reasons to believe it may not have been Sun’s immediate fault, the results were the same: those not cut down by the Annamese rebel forces were drowned. More than half of Sun’s Chinese Green Standard forces was lost, including General Xu Shiheng. The first news Sun Shiyi relayed to the capital downplayed the magnitude of the losses, merely reporting that the rebel army had surrounded the imperial troops, and that, after losing touch with General Xu Shiheng, Sun Shiyi had managed to break out of the encirclement. It was only during a court audience that the emperor heard how the general had insisted that Sun Shiyi as an imperial minister should be protected at all costs and had provided an escort to ensure Sun’s retreat, and that Xu had subsequently fallen in battle.53 The evidence that Sun Shiyi had intentions of exploiting the presence of Chinese military forces in Annam in order to expand the Qing empire’s holdings, while not definitive, is fairly compelling. It appears that, even before embarking on the expedition, Sun Shiyi thought there might be an opportunity here for the Qing to gain control of more territory, but the authorities in the capital wanted no more than to fulfill their tributary obligations and restore the Annamese emperor.54 Having arrived in Hanoi and restored the ruler, Sun Shiyi apparently disobeyed the orders given for immediate withdrawal, despite General Xu Shiheng’s entreaties. Instead, Sun sought authorization to move in on Nguyen Hue’s headquarters. Only the governor of Guangxi, Sun Yongqing, by his report on the impossibility of providing supplies along such long communication lines, prevented this plan from being implemented: apparently another hundred thousand troops

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would have been required. However, Vietnamese historians also tend to accept the argument that it was the Qing authorities themselves who had more aggressive intentions toward Annam and that Sun Shiyi’s role in the failure was deliberately exaggerated in the records to gloss over their imperialist designs. On the one hand, tributary relations had never precluded the expansion of power and the Qing empire was certainly in an expansive phase at the time. On the other, given such a climate, it was equally possible that an ambitious Sun Shiyi would seize the opportunity to enhance his reputation in the capital and prove his military worth. In either case, and perhaps in the very ambiguity between them, Sun Shiyi’s role in the Annam affair illustrates in fairly dramatic fashion how a civil official’s career might intersect with military enterprise, and rise and fall with the vicissitudes of empire. As it turned out, Sun Shiyi was not seriously punished: his newly awarded titles were removed, he lost his position as governor-general, and he was recalled to the capital, where he was soon made president of the Board of War and a Grand Councilor. Sun Shiyi’s abilities as a military leader having been tested and found wanting, the Annam commission was now turned over to Fu-kang’an, then serving as governor-general of Liangguang—the one who, with prior experience in Burma, had initially requested the assignment. Having prepared for a massive troop engagement on the border with Annam, he was saved from further activity by the prompt actions of the usurping Annamese, Nguyen Hue, who sent a relative with a petition to submit to Qing suzerainty, along with tribute and gifts. In a response that Sun Shiyi may have expected earlier, Nguyen Hue, the usurper, having forced the incumbent ruler twice to run away, decided to take the throne for himself. Seeking both to legitimize his claim and to forestall any retaliatory action from the Qing, Nguyen promptly sent tribute, a petition, and a request for the seals of investiture from the Qing emperor. Generally, the appointment of a tributary ruler was an important sanction of the supreme lord, that is, Qianlong, in this case. The approval and conferral of appointment were usually enacted through the ritual submission of the new tributary ruler, who, in return, had the regalia and gifts bestowed upon him by the supreme lord.55 As Hevia elaborates, this ritual action brought to completion the transformative powers that the superior generates by his bestowal, transforming the inferior into a generative power—that is, ruler—in his own right. Thus, in the case of Annam, the system of sovereignty—in which the Qing referred to the Annamese ruler as king but referred to himself as emperor—was not strictly speaking a dualism.56 Instead, the Annamese rulers were the lesser lords to the Qing but emperors or supreme lords to their own people, in large part because the transformative action of submission

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to the protector created the terms of their autonomy within their own realm. In this case, Qianlong, by sending the Chinese expedition, had honored his duty to aid and protect his loyal vassal, the Lê king. But, having twice seen the ruler deposed from office, Qianlong was also able to accept that the Lê king’s mandate to rule had passed to a new ruler, Nguyen, who, having usurped power from the hereditary ruler, was ready to acknowledge and submit to Qianlong as supreme lord. As Sun Shiyi and other Qing officials appointed to border areas understood, ritual action was in itself productive of the interstate relations it supported and not merely symbolic of them. Nowhere was this more apparent than the subsequent visit of the new Annamese king to the Qianlong in honor of the Qing ruler’s eightieth birthday—the visit thus enacting his acknowledgment of his overlord. (Although the following account is an aside to our main focus on Sun Shiyi, the story offers diverting evidence of the complexities of Qing foreign relations that Confucian-trained officials negotiated.) The visit was promised when Nguyen Hue presented tribute and his petition to Fu-kang’an; the petition in itself was the model of sincerity from an inferior to a superior. In it, Nguyen Hue apologized for the attack on the Chinese troops, explaining how in the darkness his forces had mistook them for the Lê forces: this explanation conforms so closely to the Chinese explanation that some suspect that Fu-kang’an had helped in its drafting. In 1790, Nguyen Hue, now styled the emperor Quang-trung (Chinese: Guangping), arrived at the frontier ready to fulfill his promise and was escorted with due ceremony to Beijing, where he was received with more than the prescribed graciousness. The Qianlong emperor, recognizing the significance of a personal visit from the tributary lord, appears to have developed a genuine affection for him. In any case, the supreme lord was suitably magnanimous to his newly appointed tributary lord and both sides exhibited the proper degree of sincerity. By having this visit selected as the sixth and final engraving in the series celebrating the Annam campaign, the state also acknowledged the event as a moment of closure. The arrival of the Annamese ruler at the Qing court was depicted as a conclusion of a seemingly continuous cycle of events, though in fact the Annam submission at court occurred a year after the campaign had ended.57 That it was not the new ruler Quang-trung but a body double who had been sent to the Qing court adds another twist to the story and demonstrates further the complex play of realpolitik in tributary relations. According to two of the sources consulted by Lam in his excellent study of the Chinese intervention in Annam, reactionary forces representing the deposed regime were busy submitting to Siam in the expectation of military aid and were beginning to move against the new ruler, Quang-trung (Chinese: Guangping), making it risky for him to leave the country. Moreover,

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it was foolhardy for the new ruler to put his life into the hands of a powerful state that had not hesitated to help the previous Annamese ruler. The demonstration of sincerity (and courage) signified by the actual presence of the Annam ruler was here balanced also against the necessity of the ruler’s remaining at home to protect his newly declared sovereignty against other contenders. In sum, rather than put himself at risk, he found a double, trained him, and sent him to Beijing. That the Chinese sources offer no clue of the substitution seems to indicate the success of the ploy—or perhaps it is even possible that the story was a fabrication to showcase Emperor Quang-trung’s skills in rulership. The example above all reveals, in no uncertain terms, the intricate diplomacy of interstate tributary relations. Perhaps Sun Shiyi can even be appreciated for his intervention into Annam, and for his ambitious intentions to extend the empire further, as in fact Qianlong did. Moreover, Sun Shiyi was not a general: he had never entered the army, nor had he sat the military examinations. He was in fact a civil official carrying out military duties, as indeed was the Manchu Fu-kang’an. Perhaps the “bungled military border campaigns” in which he participated did in fact “demonstrate more the strength of the emperor’s will than the shrewdness of his evaluation of character,” as Jonathan Spence put it. Wang Jie, in contrast to Sun Shiyi, is perhaps the most prominent example from the 1761 cohort of a successful civil official who, except for short stints in the provinces as director of education, spent most of his career in the capital. Even so, he too managed to attain military merit for his contributions. Having achieved first place in the palace examination, Wang Jie spent most of his career in charge of examinations. By 1788, at age sixty-four and at the peak of his career, he was a member of the Grand Council, the emperor’s closest advisory body. It is not clear exactly what advice he contributed to the pacification of the Taiwan rebellion, but it was considered significant enough to be awarded the honor of a portrait in the Ziguangge, for what amounted to a role as armchair general. He was awarded a second portrait at the end of the later campaign against the Gurkhas in Tibet, again for his role as armchair military advisor.58 Campaigns of repression, like that carried out on Taiwan, seemed to be responses predicated on fear of losing control more than attempts to deal with social problems as such. Events in Taiwan turned so serious that Li Shiyao, Zhao Yi’s former superior and one of the governors involved in the repression campaigns, went to the trouble of inviting Zhao Yi out of retirement; evidently, Zhao Yi’s military organizational skills were well respected in some circles. Zhao Yi (flattered, perhaps) joined the governor’s private staff for the duration of the campaign; he was also able later to use his experiences in a chapter on the campaign that came to be part of his published work.59 The rewards for actively participating in military action were considerable—as Sun Shiyi also discovered when he was made Grand Councilor in

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1789, joining the rather thin ranks of Han Chinese who achieved such heights of imperial confidence. His service in the capital lasted for no more than a year, during which time he served in the Imperial Library (Nanshu fang); by the winter he was off to the provinces again, appointed acting and then actual governor-general of Sichuan, to which he proceeded early in 1790.60 Sun Shiyi’s appointment to Sichuan meant that he was once again called into action in 1790, when the Gurkhas of Nepal attacked another of the Qing empire’s strategic border zones. The situation in Tibet called for the very best of the Qing military leaders, and the Qing authorities, having taken the measure of both Sun Shiyi and Fu-kang’an, determined that these two, together with Hai-lan-cha as Fu-kang’an’s chief of staff, would lead the imperial forces. Fundamental to any military victory was the ability to determine “requirements, supplies available and expected, organization and administration, transportation and arteries of communication,” and “Sun’s logistical flair was a major factor in Qing success against the Gurkhas,” as he had demonstrated so well during the Taiwan campaign. The military decisions in the field were in the hands of Fu-kang’an; in an unprecedented move, Qianlong awarded the title of da jiangjun (commander-in-chief) to him.61 The Qing position in Tibet was complicated. On the one hand, the geographic significance of Tibet—situated along the borders of Gansu, Yunnan, and Sichuan—and its political significance—as spiritual leader of many Mongol khanates—meant that Tibet’s relationship with the Qing was particularly strategic. On the other hand, religious rivalries—especially between the various monastic orders—had allowed the control of Tibet first by the Mongols and then by the Qing. Claims of “emanation-body” status provided leverage in the religious factional rivalries. The practice of competing rival orders claiming religious authority through incarnate hierarchs (“living Buddhas”) and political authority through the patronage of outside military powers, mainly Mongol khanates, became the established practice. The close relationship that had existed earlier between the Yellow Hat and various strong Mongol khanates determined that the Qing empire, which had included Mongolia in their territory, would seek to have some level of control over the Yellow Hat in particular. In the interest of more straightforward direction and security, the Qing promoted the predominance of Yellow Hat over all other Tibetan religious orders, and also supported the Yellow Hat suppression of the nativist Bon religion; these actions would have repercussions in the Qing campaigns in Jinchuan.62 As in Annam, the Qing did not want to control Tibetan administration directly, and chose to establish a loose protectorate with various administrative changes. These new arrangements for Tibet included abolition of the Regency, de facto abolition of the monarchy, establishment of a Qing garrison, and eventually establishment of a court-appointed Imperial Resident

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and his assistant. The garrison troops fluctuated in numbers, depending on Tibetan abilities to support the troops. Perhaps more seriously for Tibetan spiritual authority, part of Kham was annexed to Sichuan and later, in 1724, Amdo and northeast Kham were annexed as Qinghai province, thus enlarging the direct control of the Qing empire and its territory at Tibet’s expense. Consequently, Tibet loomed much larger in Qing concerns, mostly as a mobilizing force for Mongol tribes and khanates, and as religious factionalism encouraged these alternative arrangements with outsiders, the threat remained constant. Under the Tibetan kings, Tibet took on the subordinate status of tributary state, which later became, under the Qing court appointed Ambans (Imperial Residents), a protectorate. When the expanding kingdom of Nepal invaded Tibet in 1791—after the Panchen Lama had failed to give Nepal the tribute he had, under duress in 1788, agreed to pay—Tibet again lacked the military strength to mobilize against these outside invaders. Instead, the Qing was petitioned for help again. Nepalese action thus challenged the Qing in their position as overlord, especially when the Qing learned that the Tashilhunpo monastery outside Shigatse had been successfully attacked and looted. Whether Tibet was calling for its patron’s aid or its spiritual son’s support, the Qianlong emperor needed to ensure the integrity of his protectorate. Given the consciousness of territorial control, as Peter Perdue’s recent work on Qing relations with the Russian empire makes clear, the Qing empire was at least somewhere between the traditional modes represented by the tributary system and the well-defined borders demonstrated by the nation-state system, if not beyond it.63 It was against this background that Sun Shiyi, president of the Board of Civil Office and assistant grand secretary, was ordered to Tibet. Initially, he was under the command of the governor-general of Sichuan, Er-hui. Sun quickly set up furnaces for arrow making and prepared the necessary military supplies. In mid-May 1792 (QL57/intercal. 4), Sun Shiyi sprang into further action, this time in support of Fu-kang’an and Hai-lang-cha, who, leading six thousand troops, were advancing beyond the plundered Tashilhunpo monastery and on into Nepal. Fu-kang’an’s success depended on being able to supply his men with grain rations and munitions over some of the world’s most difficult terrain and highest altitudes and in unfamiliar enemy country. This feat required the cooperation of and coordination with the Dalai lama, the Kalon (the four-minister administrative committee in Lhasa that had replaced the abolished regency), and several Khutukhtu (incarnates or emanations), who had put horses, draft oxen, transport labor, gunpowder, and cannons at the Qing troops’ disposal. When the oxen fell sick, thus slowing the movement of supplies to the front, it was Sun Shiyi who volunteered to go to Chamdo to clear the way. This was high adventure

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for a man in his early seventies. By mid-September (QL57/8), the Gurkhas were driven back to the very gates of their capital, Kathmandu. Only the already overstretched lines of communication and the risk of losing supplies put a stop to the Qing advance. Peace terms were negotiated by Fukang’an and later approved by the emperor, thus ending one of the most successful of the ten campaigns. Sun Shiyi was again rewarded with high honors—as was Wang Jie, though the latter again played a more sedentary role. Sun Shiyi was subsequently ordered to remain in Tibet to sort out the military account. The end of the careers of the Class of 1761 coincided with the end of an era of expansion, prosperity, and stability, and all the benefits such conditions generated. Sun Shiyi was governor of the southwestern province of Sichuan when the Miao ethnic minority rebellion broke out in 1795. Besides being the easiest route into Tibet, Sichuan perhaps had the misfortune to be bordered by Yunnan in the south, Guizhou to its southeast, Hunan and Hubei to its east, and Shaanxi on its northeast borders. Such strategic placement was unfortunate in any time of social unrest—particularly the late eighteenth century—when both ethnic minority rebellions and sectarian uprisings made defense of the territory a nightmare. Beginning in Hunan, the Miao rebellion quickly spread to the Xiushan, on the eastern borders of Sichuan, and Sun Shiyi was again on top of the logistical problems. In December (QL60/11), Sun Shiyi led his troops to attack the rebels, who were driven by Fu-kang’an and He-lin into the Xiushan area, and, according to the generally accepted account, substantially reduced their numbers. The Miao rebellion was just one indication that all was not well in the empire.64 But examination training did not mean that all Han Chinese officials treated minorities harshly. Ma Zenglu (3/148), for example—the bottom graduate of the class—who had served as a Hanlin bachelor and was transferred as prefect to Guizhou province, at least according to his biographic records tried to be considerate to this minority group. Both Fu-kang’an and He-lin (He-shen’s younger brother) died in 1796, during the suppression of the Miao rebellion. These deaths were a blow to the Manchu military clique, and probably to Sun Shiyi himself. But on a much larger scale, the decline of the empire was augured if not catalyzed by the events subsequently called the White Lotus rebellion, which itself was at least partially a result of overstretched resources that in turn contributed to rising corruption and political demoralization, over and above the demographic pressure already challenging the system.65 In 1796, the White Lotus uprising, which began in Hubei, had spread into western Sichuan, where, coordinating with the military forces in the area, Sun Shiyi went after the insurgents with a vengeance. Unfortunately, such exhausting activity for a man of Sun’s age—he was now in his late

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seventies—meant that he was less able to deal with the elements. In the sixth lunar month Sun became ill and soon after died in camp. The emperor honored his death with more titles of nobility and with the posthumous name of Wenjing. His eldest grandson was allowed to inherit the title, and he was also, as mentioned above, allowed to be the one to fulfill his grandfather’s dying wish—whether made out of calculation or romantic appeal—to enter the Chinese Banners. The request certainly illustrates the pull, for Sun Shiyi among others, of the mystique of the Manchu martial spirit. Within a decade a decided change in the mood of the times had made itself very apparent. Civil officials holding academic qualifications served in even greater numbers in military capacities, but the earlier expansiveness of the empire had all but disappeared, a change that had rather sad consequences for Sun Shiyi’s family. In 1807, Sun Jun, Sun Shiyi’s grandson, was in poor health and thus unable to carry the duties that in 1797 he had been too young to undertake. He requested that his cousin (tongzu di) Sun Yuchi be allowed to inherit the duties and titles awarded his grandfather. Emperor Jiaqing’s (r. 1796–1820) response, although harsh, could in many ways be justified. In the eight years since the death of his father, Qianlong, the empire had proved far from resilient.66 Once seen as the victorious fruits of expansion, the campaigns were increasingly being assessed as an extravagance and a drain on the exchequer. Sun Shiyi’s career, too, was subject to similar reassessment. Forgotten were his successes at organizing supplies and transportation as quartermaster-general for the two campaigns against the Gurkhas, and his earlier success at mobilizing troops used against the Lin Shuangwen rebellion on Taiwan. Instead, his disobedience in Annam was held up, and although he had returned the honors given to him from that campaign, in fact they had all eventually been returned to him for his later achievements. In other words, the punishment now looked inadequate.67 Of course, this assessment completely ignored the question of whether in fact territorial expansion had been the goal of the campaign, or whether Sun Shiyi had been treated as a scapegoat for a change of plans. By 1807, though, even Sun Shiyi’s deathbed dispatch beseeching Heshen to permit his entrance into the Banners looked suspect. Speaking for the Jiaqing emperor, an edict addressing these considerations also pointed to the number of deceptions in which Sun Shiyi was thought to have been involved—even though, it stated, Sun was neither investigated thoroughly nor seriously charged. Given that his grandson had not been able to take up his Banner duties, the edict continued, to allow the grandson to inherit the title of nobility was more than adequate compensation for Sun’s services. The expansive atmosphere that buoyed the careers of Sun Shiyi, Fukang’an, and He-lin (who died within months of each other in 1796) had

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ebbed. During their careers, the empire was growing and so, it seemed, ought its wealth and the prestige of its servants; what matter if those who were contributing the most took a little for themselves? Was this not merely part of the compensation for their tireless service to the emperor and empire? In any case, we should keep in mind that it is difficult to separate “actual” gains yielded by the military successes of the Qianlong reign from the “virtual” gains that the claims of these successes seemed to yield. In any event, speaking for Jiaqing, the edict stated that no precedent could be found for one relative to inherit title and position from another who had never served in the office, especially since the grandson’s debility already augured badly for the inheritance. Thus, the edict concluded, given such a ridiculous situation, no title would be inherited. The Sun family could return to commoner status. This was the end of an era, but perhaps for some who had not shared fully in it, the diminution of the military’s power and glory was not the occasion for regret. Chen Buying (mentioned earlier in the chapter) had not fared as well as Sun Shiyi. He had however kept up a connection with Qin Cheng’en (2/11), another classmate who was involved in the military project and had achieved the rank of governor. Both Chen and Qin were in some sense the victims of the military agenda in general, and the Manchu military clique in particular. Chen was jockeyed out of an important promotion, and Qin fell rather dramatically from power—ending an otherwise successful career (see Coda). Certainly, military service was the point at which many of the 1761 cohort, some by circumstance and others by design, ended their careers. Bu Zuoguang (2/43), as another example, was awarded two ranks of military merit for his efforts organizing logistics as military circuit intendant (bingbei dao), even though he was a civil official; he was offered a transfer post but chose instead to retire to a life of academic teaching.68 Wu Yulun (1734– 1802; 3/45) was made Junior Vice-President of the Board of War in 1787; there he fell afoul of A-gui (1717–1797), another senior civil official famed for his military exploits, but apparently not a member of the He-shen faction.69 Wu was rapidly demoted to his original rank as Hanlin Corrector, although when he was ordered to retire in 1795 he did so at his highest rank. Sun Shiyi had been able to use the overlay of the Qing dynasty’s institutional systematicity to begin his initial climb to fame; its very denseness and inertia promised there would be continuity. Hence, throughout the turns of events, the same institutions continued their work, creating intersections and networks in other circuits of connections, creating civil servants trained to respond naturally within a fairly well-defined range, thus establishing parameters that not even corruption in high places could overcome. In addition to the dense overlay of circuits, these systems and networks were

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made more successful because they created cross-connections or switchpoints that allowed individual ambitions, like Sun’s military fantasies, to play themselves out. The products of this disciplinary training, qualified servants of the state, also contributed to the generation of networks and connections whose constellations constructed the matrix of the proto-nation–space. Difficulties for the Qing arose apparently not with the expansion of the empire, which was extremely successful, or even with its interstate relations, but with maintaining the incorporated territories. The campaigns—against the Jinchuan (first in 1747–1749 and again in 1771–1776), against the Miao (1795–1797), and at various times against the Muslim minorities— reflected, in their initial successes, the ability of the Qing state to keep these other ethnic minorities contained by, if not strictly integrated into, the empire. When, by the late eighteenth century, administration was stretched ever tighter and ever thinner across this growing spatial complex, the examination system could not easily be made to produce more administrators to manage the empire, for the costs of examining, employing, and managing these personnel would become prohibitive. The assignment of Han Chinese civil officials to newly incorporated areas might conceivably be seen as an enlargement of the area commonly perceived as China proper: as the 1761 palace examination question had made clear, the acquisition of new territories did indeed increase the overall wealth of the empire. In the case of Xinjiang, for example, six million square miles had been added. At the same time, however, peoples of other ethnicities had also to be incorporated and, as the events of the late eighteenth century demonstrated, the combination of geographic reach and ethnic difference was stretching the imperial resources available for control and management. The prospect of more difficult, poorly paid, and remote assignments after years of examination training must have been a daunting one indeed.

Coda definitions of failure

In this coda I want to consider briefly—and to problematize—the question of what, ultimately, might constitute failure in, and of, the examination system. Insofar as failure constructs success and vice versa, perhaps by considering failures it will be possible to see rather differently the accomplishments of examination practice in the individuals it helped produce. Failure is undoubtedly relative, its various definitions constrained by time, ideology, and the variety of goals possible or intelligible within a given framework. Most would agree that appointment was a fundamental goal of all examination candidates, yet there were those in the Class of 1761 who, although achieving the metropolitan degree, failed to get an official appointment of any kind. Twenty-five of the 217 fell into this category; that is, a statistically defined insignificant 11.5 percent of the graduates. For some, the time taken to qualify ate up the most active years of their lives: by the time their turn for appointment came, they were dead or close to it. Ouyang Qin, a relevant case here, can hardly be counted as a failure. He became a metropolitan degree holder at age seventy-one and was offered a position in the Hanlin Academy. He turned it down, preferring to accept a directorship of prefectural education, a position that allowed him to be closer to home. After just one term in office, he retired to join another official’s private staff, perhaps a more lucrative post. His final years were spent heading up a local academy. By the time he died, he was over eighty and had had a varied and busy career for such a late starter; nonetheless, his life also seems to inspire a certain kind of pathos. For others, failure may have been a question of failing to network: no matter how long they waited, the right appointment never came along. For at least one graduate who did not become an official, failure actually meant success in another, perhaps less orthodox, realm. Peng Shaosheng (2/18), rejecting his chance at political power, went on to make a name for himself as a scholar. In particular, he was attracted by Buddhism and its rejection of worldliness; he went on to compile biographies of Buddhist priests 197

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and nuns (among other subjects) that are still used by contemporary Buddhologists.1 Thus, although he eventually became a lay preacher, moving into a separate house and ending intimate relations with his wife, he still managed to leave something (that is, his texts) to carry his name into posterity, following a model set by China’s preeminent historian, Sima Qian. In this sense, his failure—or rather, his rejection of officialdom—allowed him a measure of moral and intellectual autonomy, which even at the time could win respect from his peers. In a sense, the argument could be made that the examination system was itself a failure insofar as it was “wasted” on those men who earned degrees but not appointments. The men who failed to be appointed, whether due to rejection or death, did not contribute fully to the reproduction of the system, though they may have helped to reproduce the symbiotic, asymmetrical relationship between the educated elite and the state, and they may have been disciplined in their responses to political authority. There were also those who, having achieved high official rank, failed to sustain it. Zhao Yi (1727–1814), by his own admission, was a political failure. After his disaster in the palace examination, he probably still expected he could become a court minister with some stature. In 1766, he was given a special appointment to the post of prefect in Zhen’an, Guangxi, which he did not want. It was apparently Fu-heng who persuaded him not to refuse it. When Zhao Yi was called to the emperor’s personal apartments, the Yangxin dian (Hall of Mental Cultivation), to receive special instructions, the emperor knew all about his background in the Grand Council and how he had drafted many memorials and poems for his former private employer, the minister Wang Youdun. The emperor also knew of Zhao Yi’s disappointment at not remaining in the Hanlin, and how he had been poorly evaluated in his administrative duties. Qianlong told him that not all scholars were good at administration but that “you have worked in the Grand Council for a long time, and served well. Guangxi is a place where government is straightforward and the populace honest. When you begin your appointment, concentrate hard on learning and naturally you will be a good official.”2 The emperor surely knew that Guangxi’s climate fostered tropical disease and that Han Chinese relations with the minority ethnic groups presented difficult problems for officials serving there, but he had, in effect, rhetorically outmaneuvered Zhao Yi: by couching his speech as personalistic discourse, he constrained Zhao Yi all the more thoroughly by the oath of obedience and loyalty implicit in state service. To refuse would be tantamount to treason. In fact, subsequent service in the provinces proved unrewarding to Zhao Yi, despite his contributions to the military project (see Chapter Five); 1771 found him as circuit intendant in charge of water conservancy and grain in Guizhou province. Moreover, criticism was leveled at


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him for the way he had conducted a case in his previous position in Guangdong province. Seizing upon the excuse of his mother’s advanced age, and perhaps fearful of retribution, he retired home. Although he left once to help in the suppression of the Taiwan rebellion, he spent the last forty-three years of his life teaching. He died in 1814 at the age of eighty-six—one of the longest lived in the cohort. Although a self-acknowledged failure, Zhao Yi is a name still very much recognized among contemporary China scholars. His own scholarly achievement was even greater than Peng Shaosheng’s. During his own lifetime he gained renown for his poetry; today we recognize him for his research in Chinese history and historiography. Even though he did not achieve his personal ambitions for great political power, how can he be defined as a failure? Wang Jie, in contrast to Peng Shaosheng and Zhao Yi, was undeniably a success in his own lifetime. By 1786 he was a grand councilor, one of the emperor’s closest advisers, and, though only in his early sixties, allowed to ride a horse within the massive confines of the Forbidden City—a boon in an area where everyone except the emperor had to walk. He survived Heshen’s years in power—according to some stories, with his integrity unblemished. One of his biographers points to Wang Jie’s unusual ability to look to the larger issues and thus to sidestep possible quarrels with He-shen and thereby avoid the inevitable revenge He-shen was capable of inflicting; we might observe that survival to fight another day is not necessarily equivalent to high integrity.3 Wang Jie was calculating enough to be both sycophantic and sincere, and his collected works are filled with poems sent to the emperor in an effort to maintain a personalized relationship—or at least to ensure he remain in his sovereign’s mind. It is not entirely clear whether when in his late seventies he requested permission to retire, he did so under a cloud. His memorials to the throne, in any case, continued to receive imperial endorsements. In 1805, while visiting the capital to thank the emperor, he suddenly fell ill at his inn and died. Thus even his death could be interpreted as part of state service; he died “in the line of duty,” as it were, and received the requisite imperial plaudits and considerations. History, however, produces its own reservations: few, if anyone, remembers Wang Jie today and no one studies his works or reads his poems. Though remembered as neither scholar nor statesman, Wang Jie is perhaps the Class of 1761’s bestinterpellated state subject, and consequently fully deserving of his top-place status. To us, however, he seems a worthy but a somewhat dull fellow. As we have seen, the overlap of civil service with the imperial military project was, for Sun Shiyi, an opportunity to exploit to the full in the service of the state—and of his own ambitions. After dying in the field, he was made an earl of the third class. Fu-kang’an, who died in the same year, was the more famous military man of his era, becoming the only Manchu outside

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of the imperial family ever to be made a prince of the fourth degree (beizi). Within ten years of their deaths, questions were being asked and criticism leveled. Some of the era’s heroes, like Sun Shiyi, posthumously slipped from the power and glory they had achieved, but for others still working in the military arena, there was a long road of humiliation to travel down. Wielding power was, as always, a capricious enterprise. Qin Cheng’en was just such an example of this adage. At seventeen, Qin Cheng’en (1744–1809; 2/11) was the baby of the cohort in 1761. Serving first as a Hanlin bachelor, he followed a typical career path up through the provincial administrative hierarchy until, at age forty-five (in 1789), he became the new (and unusually young) governor of Shaanxi, the strategic northwest province of China proper and gateway to Mongolia and Chinese Turkestan. This appointment was to draw him into military activities associated with the pacification of areas wracked with rebellion, including tracking and capturing rebels so that the dislocated populace could eventually return to their normal lives on the land. His work was initially well regarded; in 1797 he was even ordered to stay in office instead of going into mourning for his mother. In Jiaqing’s first year on the throne (1796, though in fact his father, the old emperor, continued to rule until his death in 1799), Qin Cheng’en was warned that he would be held personally responsible if any more rebels escaped over the borders into Shaanxi. By 1799, the sectarian rebellion had been raging for ten years. It was reasonable to expect that Qin Cheng’en was familiar enough with local conditions to be considered the best qualified for the job, yet he had not been able to contain the rebellion, let alone put it down. We don’t know whether Qin Cheng’en was made a scapegoat out of the state’s general frustration with the growing incidents of rebellion, becoming one of the many targets of the accusation that officials were not doing their jobs—or whether, as some believed, he was part of the trend of officials getting rich through the empire’s troubles. In other words, was he really bad, and if so, just how bad was he? Given the general atmosphere of the times, it is difficult to get the straight story from the evidence. Within a month, Qin Cheng’en was charged with refusing to personally lead any military engagements, and perhaps more seriously, with locking more than a hundred thousand people outside the city walls during a rebel attack, with the eventual result that hundreds were driven to their deaths by drowning. Moreover, Qin had exacerbated the situation further by ignoring the needs of the local populace, producing discontent that could easily fuel further rebellion. This last charge was also serious for the throne, insofar as a case could be made that the emperor (who according to imperial ideology was ultimately responsible for everything in his realm) was ignoring the welfare of his subjects.


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In the initial stages of the social unrest, Qin Cheng’en had appeared to be coping well. In 1796 (JQ1) he was praised for his efforts against the rebels coming into Shaanxi from Sichuan province (Da zhou). Unfortunately, Shaanxi was surrounded by four other major provinces (Gansu province being still part of Shaanxi): Shanxi, to its northeast; Henan, to its east; Hubei, at its southeast corner; and Sichuan, at its southwest corner. Three years hence, disparate sectarian rebel groups would be active in each of these areas, and Qin Cheng’en, with limited resources at his disposal, would be fighting a losing battle. For now, though, victory still seemed possible. He was able to surround and attack some of the incoming rebels and to capture their leader alive. The information leading to the apprehension was supplied by a former sectarian adherent who, having read one of the amnesty notices posted by Qin Cheng’en, forthwith turned state’s informant. The incident was lauded by the authorities as an example of how “it would not be difficult to turn those who were wicked into the good”; later this conclusion would seem more than a little overly optimistic. In the following months Qin requested permission to implement disaster relief measures around the border area just cleared of rebels, in order to prevent further social dislocation. Permission was given to issue the following month’s grain rations ahead of time and to give cash to those whose homes had been destroyed in order to enable them to rebuild. Qin also encouraged returning farmers to pool resources such as farm tools and draft animals. These were some of the means by which one of the best and most efficient disaster relief systems in the world of the eighteenth century moved into action.4 A year later, in 1797, even though rebel forces in one locality had taken advantage of inept officials, who had allowed them to move to safety, Qin was not held responsible on the grounds that events had been too overwhelming at the time. This finding was issued after the throne received his report about the incident, a report that lamented the impossibility of being in two places at once. Qin had added, effectively if somewhat disingenuously, “how dare I blame my subordinates for responsibilities that were mine? Please have the relevant board punish me.” When four months later he submitted a questionable proposal for tactical troop movements, the authorities began to realize his lack of military savvy. He was bluntly told that his proposals were nonsense. “Why,” the imperial rejoinder asked, “would you move troops north and expect an attack from that direction when the troops were moving southwest?”—a perfectly valid criticism. By early 1798, the strains on both the court and the province’s resources were beginning to show. When Qin Cheng’en proved unable to prevent several rebel groups from joining up with each other, the edict from the throne flatly told Qin he was a “worthless imbecile” (yongnuo).5 Early in 1799, Qin was criticized further for his inability to stanch the flow of rebels entering Shaanxi’s borders,

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a failure that was resulting in an ever-widening area under rebellion. Perhaps his failure was hardly surprising, in that Shaanxi bordered on four provinces that also had serious rebel activity. In any event, at first, the instructions to him from court were still somewhat conciliatory. He was removed from power without recriminations: “Qin Cheng’en is unwell; his spirits cannot be roused to consider his shortcomings; let him return home to mourn the death of his mother.” A month later, however, it was discovered that one of his subordinates had completely bungled a maneuver and given the advantage to rebel forces. The Jiaqing emperor was furious, and his anger translated into charges that mandated the order for Qin to be brought in chains to the capital for questioning. Qin Cheng’en’s performance in Shaanxi was investigated, and a complete inventory was made of his family’s possessions. According to the list of possessions, still available to us, Qin was a wealthy man. His assets stand in stark contrast, for example, to those that Zhao Yi had claimed before his metropolitan degree (when he had had seven rooms, three of which were rented out, and less than an acre of land). The inventory was meticulous, including expensive items of children’s and women’s clothing, the family’s five female servants, and even Qin’s personal library of 661 books. According to market values as they were calculated and given at the time, they owned 22,148 taels of property and land; 11,700 taels of capital were out as loans to people; 392 taels remained as ready cash. Jewelry, porcelains, bronzes, jade, silks and brocades, and a large hoard of collector’s items significantly increased the overall value. In the ensuing report, no evidence was found that any of the wealth had derived from illegitimate sources. Clearly, however, politics could be lucrative, and Qin Cheng’en could support an impressively elegant lifestyle—one which might well have put saving his own skin above his performance of his official duties.6 Qin Cheng’en was asked to write a detailed deposition, which he did in twenty-one pages of closely copied text. Explaining what he had done and the logic and rationale of his actions, he concluded by pointing out that Shaanxi province had proved too large and the rebels too numerous for his inadequate skills. In all the years he had spent facing off with the enemy, he regretted that he had personally failed to achieve any military merit. In that regard, he thought himself completely incompetent—a useless bungler. Actually, though, none of the charges were borne out in the investigation. The Board of Punishments clearly viewed his inadequacies as deserving of punishment, recommending that he be given the death sentence, but the final decision handed down from the throne recommended clemency on the grounds that Qin was a scholar unversed in the military arts—basically agreeing, in other words, with Qin’s self-evaluation. In the end, Qin was not let off so lightly. When he reported in at the end of his mourning period, another as-


203

sessment was handed down from the throne: “We sent him home out of our compassion; now that his mourning period has ended, how can we permit him to stay peacefully with his family? Let him be exiled to Ili (Chinese Turkestan).” After spending two years in Xinjiang (the conquest of which had been the celebratory occasion of his 1761 metropolitan examination), he returned to the capital to take up another appointment as governor. Over the following seven years he was regularly charged with administrative errors and poor performance, and by 1808 (JQ13) he had been demoted to the lowly position of Hanlin Academy second-class compiler. Even so, when the emperor was told that Qin had become seriously ill, he relented and raised him to minister of the third rank. Qin, perhaps worn out after the series of disasters in his life, died almost immediately.7 During the trials and tribulations of his later career, Qin Cheng’en may have wished that, like his friend and classmate Sun Shiyi, he too had died with the earlier generation, at the peak of his career. One obvious conclusion from his story is that not all examination-trained officials could make the shift to military duties—another, just as warranted, that Qin Cheng’en may have been more a victim of his times than of his own ineptitude. Political success was capricious, and getting caught on the wrong side of factional disputes could result in failure: it is very probable that Qin Cheng’en had, by the Jiaqing period, lost whatever political backing he had had. In what sense might the examination system be held responsible for failing to prepare Qin adequately? While few probably believed that examination qualification signified real academic or scholarly merit, there was little reason to doubt that a degree guaranteed some understanding of performance requirements, or to dispute examination success as a crucial entry point into civil service and into political power.8 Overall, then, the examples discussed here add weight to conclusions made earlier in this study: that examination qualification, besides producing legitimation for the state, did allow the Confucian elite an opportunity to share in political power, for good and ill. Although there were those who failed to achieve it in the first place, those who refused it, and those who could not keep it, through it all examination practice, having subjectified these potential servants of the state, shaped as well their sense of their own freedom to choose what to make of it. Considering the broad spectrum, both geopolitically and within the power hierarchy, and conceding that self-conscious nationalism as such is indeed a modern development, we can still identify a proto-nation–space—a real and virtual space—within the Qing empire. Late twentieth-century revisionist debates, reassessing trends in Qing history in light of recent work on Manchu-language texts and on the Qing’s unique governing style, have provided a summary of reasons to treat Qing China as a contested and conflicted multiethnic nation.9 As with many new realizations, there may be, in

204


the new claims, some overcompensation for what earlier accounts ignored— some downplaying of the Han Chinese role in the Qing empire. On the other hand, refutations that deny the impact of the revisionist version on our understanding merely beg the question. Neither completely sinicized— for the Qing did not become Chinese but rather redefined what it meant to be Chinese—nor unaware of the strengths of preexisting institutions, the Manchu state placed enormous reliance on Han Chinese administrators to govern the bulk of China proper. To regard this as unmediated sinicization conceals the complexity of ethnic interaction between the Manchu and the Han Chinese elite. There was scarcely an institution or practice that did not bear the mark of some Manchu adaptation. Rather than conforming to some predetermined or preexisting mold of Chineseness, the Manchu state consciously promoted the Chinese examination system to achieve a spectacular level of administrative control and stability. The practice of examinations created a state-defined and controlled territorial space and a political community that was national in scope and bound by a set of common experiences. Examinations at each of the three levels—prefectural, provincial, and metropolitan—were held at the same time throughout the whole country, creating what Benedict Anderson has called an “empty” temporal space: one in which everyone involved did the same task at the same time, mostly physically unseen by each other but imaginable to that community. This space was even more fully realized at the metropolitan level, where, every three years, provincial degree holders, recruited nationwide, met face to face to put their common language to the test. In a country as large as the Qing empire, the sharing of language and cultural literacy were important identity markers and, as Anderson suggests, a crucial factor in the creation of an imagined community. It was also most resonantly at this level, as my examples of the military and the Hanlin demonstrate, that the examination system articulated with other parts of the state apparatus. Having undergone the examination experience together, the graduates carried that network into their administrative careers and continued to exploit the knowledge gained from that connection. A special, informal vocabulary even existed to acknowledge such networks (the term tongnian is most familiar); terms describing examiners as exalted teachers, in the more scholarly Confucian definition, underscore the examination system’s importance in its linkage with other traditional networks. Even strict laws of avoidance for examinations, forbidding service in one’s native place, did not prohibit the seeking of useful advice and connections; rather, they mandated the proliferation and articulation of networks through and beyond the spheres of place and family, and thus generated more connections across the already thickly interwoven matrix of systemic networks. Examination practice appropriated Confucian family networks and local ties for


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the state while preventing only their independent development. Economic networks also joined the same matrix with elite families, whose business interests in commerce, money lending, and landholding added other intersecting junctures of the kind that must have implicated Qin Cheng’en’s family wealth. Thus the Manchu state left open the possibility of a variety of interactions up to the national level, while the regularity and the sameness of examinations guaranteed continuity. With unprecedented population growth and no concomitant increase in administrative jurisdictions or numbers of ground-level administrators, the imperial system by the late eighteenth century may have found it increasingly difficult to manage the empire and to ensure its security.10 The late career patterns of many of the 1761 cohort suggest that the state’s need to ensure that officials performed duties effectively often ran up against the impossibility of doing so without the allocation of additional resources, which the state could not supply. In reaction to the failure of its administrators, the state used administrative punishment frequently in the attempt to elicit more efficient administrative results. The increasingly tense environment of rising social dislocation and unrest, together with the regularity of administrative sanctions, as illustrated in a significant number of our biographic sample, yields a rather unhappy picture of anxious (sometimes futile) striving and regular, punitive discipline. By the late eighteenth century, frequent administrative punishment could also be used by bureaucratic power-holders to pay back small grudges or infringements of increasingly important protective factional alliances. This combination of factors achieved an effect the opposite of improved performance, driving some officials out of officialdom into early retirement and thus, in any case, strengthening the alternative forms of employment open to educated elites. It seems that one of the ways in which the imperial system declined was that political life became so tough, examination qualification so competitive, bureaucratic life so political, and networks so crucial that many began to choose the quieter alternatives of scholarship, refusing the lure of political power. A great number of the 1761 cohort retired from official careers after only a relatively short tenure; some, like Yu Tingcan (3/37), served only one threeyear term of office before retiring and returning home. These degree holders were abandoning the traditional ideal, fostered by family ideology and examination practice, in which the scholar-official served his sovereign and the state, devoting his spare time and mourning times to serious scholarly projects. Instead, circumstances seemed to demand an either/or approach: serve in office as a career bureaucrat and exercise direct political power at your own risk or pursue one of the alternatives, especially academic life as scholar-teacher dependent on the patronage of bureaucrats in charge of state or private compilation projects. The state, meanwhile, by at least one account,

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increasingly could no longer define so closely what constituted the elite or its ideology. In this sense, state-sponsored Confucianism was increasingly in competition with other intellectual trends that, with support from the scholar-elite, could now decenter imperially sponsored interpretations. By the nineteenth century, as Esherick and Rankin demonstrate, other kinds of elites more centered on economic or military power began to make headway. One important consequence was the development of a more autonomous scholarly community—of which Peng Shaosheng is our most obvious 1761 exemplar—a community poised to construct their identity within a framework of modern intellectual life but with particular moral expectations of their responsibility to the state. The state, with its legacy of the examination system, continued to believe in and to exercise its right to impose disciplinary parameters and obedience. These important continuities not only supply an epistemology that continued to mediate the relationship between state and intellectuals, they also explain why, despite the diversity of elites in the late imperial period, examination-trained literati elite, with their privileged access to political power, remained the primary elite in eighteenth-century China.11

appendix

1

Grades for the Annual Examination

grade 1. If the work is uniformly in accordance with the proper literary style. a. Additional status students, appended status students, and those “in plain clothes” may be promoted to stipend status. b. If there are no stipend status vacancies, then appended status students, and probationers may fill available additional status vacancies; if no additional status vacancies are available, probationers may be given appended student status. All may be listed in the expectant stipend status category. c. Former demoted stipend status students may be restored to their former stipend status in sequential order. grade 2. If the work is basically good a. Additional status students can be promoted to stipend status; appended students and probationers can be promoted to additional student status. b. If no additional status vacancies are available, then probationers should be put back on appended status. c. Demoted stipend students currently holding additional status may revert to their former stipend status. d. Additional status students demoted to appended status can only revert to expectant additional status and may not be promoted to stipend status. grade 3. If the work is average a. Lapsed stipend students may be listed as expectant stipend students. Those returning from mourning may fill the appropriate vacancy, as they become available. b. Probationers may revert to appended status. c. Stipend students already demoted to additional status may not revert to stipend status. grade 4. If the work is flawed a. Stipend students may be treated leniently, their stipend will temporarily cease, but no vacancy will be opened. They should be tested again after six months of further study. b. Additional students, appended students, and probationers, however, will carry full responsibility and be punished. grade 5. If the work is seriously flawed a. Stipend students will be deprived of their status and a vacancy made available.

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208

appendix 1

b. Former stipend students will be demoted to additional status, additional status students will move down to appended status, and appended status students will be put on probation. c. Probationers are to be expelled. d. Those already expelled will revert to commoner status. grade 6. If the work is absolutely unacceptable a. Stipend students holding status for ten years or more will be expelled. b. Stipend students holding status for more than six years, and additional status students holding status for ten or more years, will be assigned clerkships in another area. c. The remainder will be punished by returning to commoner status—if amongst them there are any who have not made an appearance for six years—let them be put on probation and kept under surveillance. Data derived from DQHDSL, j. 382: 11–13 see chapter two. A student plain clothes (that is, commoner with no student status) refers to the term Qingyi fashe, those penalized by being stripped of their shengyuan robes and on probation with the threat of expulsion from status—hereafter referred to as probationer).

appendix

2

Provincial Examination Quotas

Province

Zhili Jiangnan—Upper Lower Zhejiang Jiangxi Hu-Guang—Hunan Hubei Fujian Shandong Henan Shanxi Guangdong Shaanxi Sichuan Guangxi Yunnan Guizhou total

Quota for Number of Entrants

Quota for Provincial Degrees

8,160 + 40 3,600 + 5,520 + 40 7,520 + 40 7,520 + 40 3,600 + 3,840 + 40 6,800 + 40 4,260 + 30 4,260 + 30 3,600 + 30 4,320 + 30 3,660 + 30 3,600 + 30 2,250 + 20 2,700 + 20 2,000 + 20

102 45 49 94 94 45 48 85 69 71 60 72 61 60 45 54 40

77,210 + 480

1,094

source: Xuezheng quanshu (Complete book for Provincial Directors of Education) j.36: 652–655. These figures do not include the fluctuating quota allowed to Shuntian prefecture to cover those candidates registering to take the examination in the capital, but who were natives of a different province. Calculated from the totals in 1730, these would number 196 (see DQHDSL, 354: 9772, QL30).

209

appendix

3

Number of Attempts for the Metropolitan Degree

Year of Provincial Degree

QL3 QL6 QL9 QL12 QL15 QL16* QL17 QL18 QL21 QL22* QL24 QL25

1738 1741 1744 1746 1750 1751 1752 1753 1756 1757 1759 1760

Metropolitan Examination

Number of Attempts

Numbers of 1761 Graduates

QL4 (1739) QL7 (1742) QL10 (1745) QL13 (1747) QL16 (1751) QL17 (1752) QL19 (1754) QL19 QL22 (1757) QL25(1760) QL25 QL26 (1761)

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 4 3 2 2 1

3 4 3 4 19 1 27 34 39 2 45 33 214

source: Dengke lu (Record of Metropolitan Graduates), QL26 (1761) *Provincial degree awarded by ad hoc recruitment examination given on the Imperial Southern Tour. Chapter two, p.19

210

appendix

4

Price of Imperial College Studentships

Pre-College entrance (junxiu) Probationer (qingyi shengyuan) Military shengyuan student (wu shengyuan) Appended shengyuan student (fuxue shengyuan) Additional shengyuan student (zengguang shengyuan) Stipend shengyuan student (linshan shengyuan)

108 taels 100 taels 100 taels 90 taels 80 taels 60 taels

source: Qianlong yuan nian tiao li (1736 Regulations) cited by Xu Dalin (1950), Qingdai juanna zhidu (The Qing dynasty Purchase system).

211

appendix

5

1761 Class List Organized by Class Number

first class honors 1/1 ˝N

Wang Jie ¢ËP{≤˙∞§ Shaanxi Tongzhou fu Hancheng xian

1/2 Hu Gaowang J™Ê ˝øC{≤ØM§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Renhe xian 1/3 Øl

Zhao Yi ø¨`{≤ßÚ§ Jiangsu Changzhou fu Yanghu xian

second class honors 2/1 Jiang Yongzhi ±l” w≤wy≤hÁ§ Anhui Anqing fu Huaining xian 2/2 Ji Chengqian R”æ øn`{≤L¸§ Jiangnan Changzhoufu Wuxi xian 2/3 U_

Gu Zhen ˝øC{˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou Qiantang xian

2/4 Sun Shiyi ]h› ˝øC{ØM§ Zhejiang Hangzhoufu Renhe xian 2/5 Feng Bingzhong æ√æ ø¨Ìø≤˜¬§ Jiangsu Zhenjiang fu Jintan xian 2/6 ¿‚

Yao Fen w≤wy≤‰∞§ Anhui Tongcheng xian.

2/7 Chen Buying ØBs ø¨øÁ≤øÁ§ Jiangsu Jiangning fu Jiangning xian 2/8 ≤?

Cai Feng ˝ø≈≥≤‰m§ Zhejiang Tongxiang xian

2/9 Li Wencao ıÂ¶ sFC{≤q£§ Shandong Yidu xian 2/10 Liang Changsheng Á˜t sFs{≤n¸§ Guangdong Nanhai xian. 2/11 Qin Cheng’ en 1744–1809 ≥”¶ ønøÁ≤øÁ§ Jiangsu Jiangning fu Jiangning xian 2/12 Wang Yonggong ˝√• Ú_Z˜≤≥Í{ Hubei Wuchang fu Xingguo zhou 2/13 Wang Weishan ø∞Ω ø¨¨{≤Xs§ Jiangsu Suzhou Kunshan xian 2/14 Xue Kelian ßÏp ø¨`{≤L¸§ Jiangsu Changzhou Wuxi xian 2/15 Ge Zhenghua Øøÿ sË≠ß≤N{ Shanxi Pingyang fu Ji zhou 2/16 Du Yihong ˘@E ø¨`{≤ø±§ Jiangsu Changzhou fu Jiangyin xian 2/17 ØC

Zhao Hang ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian

213

appendix 5 2/18 Peng Shaosheng ^–… ø¨¨{≤¯w Jiangsu Suzhou Changzhou 2/19 Hu Qiaoyuan Úº∏ øË«{≤÷≠§ Jiangxi Raozhou fu Yueping xian 2/20 µE

Xiang Chun w≤≤{≤˘§ Anhui Huizhou fu She xian

2/21 BZ

Liu Zhuo øËÿw≤n◊§ Jiangxi Jian’an fu Nanfeng xian

2/22 u≤

Ji Ju Ωıe°≤dÙ§ Zhili Hejian fu Wuqiao xian

2/23 d¬

Wu Tan sF¸◊§ Shandong Haifeng xian

2/24 ˝K

Wang Mi sË—{≤w∂§ Shanxi Jiezhou fu Anyi xian

2/25 Xie Qikun ¬“¯ øËnd≤nd§ Jiangxi Nankang fu Nankang xian 2/26 Ouyang Jin ⁄ß˜ sËh{≤®≠§ Guangxi Liuzhou fu Maping xian 2/27 Yin Wenzhao »ÂL en\{≤{o§ Henan Xuzhou fu Linying xian 2/28 Feng Yingliu æ≥h ˝ø≈≥≤‰m§ Zhejiang Tongxiang xian 2/29 Zhang Qingyuan iyΩ ˝ø≈≥≤qÙ§ Zhejiang Jiaxing fu Xiushui xian 2/30 Zhao Chuanji Ø«ˆ ø¨Qø≤W¸§ Jiangsu Songjiang fu Shanghai xian 2/31 Chen Songnian ØC~ ˝øC{≤˙Ì§

Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 2/32 He Chengling Û®W ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 2/33 2/33 Chu Mishu xµ— ø¨≈≥≤≈≥§ Jiangsu Jiaxing xian 2/34 Sun Jingsui ]∫Ê ˝ø≈≥≤¸Q§ Zhejiang Jiaxing fu Haiyan xian 2/35 Chen Jiamo Ø≈” ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 2/36 Zhang Yuantai i∏ı w≤wy≤‰∞§ Anhui Anqing fu Tongcheng xian 2/37 Wang Tingmo ˝?“ ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 2/38 PE

Zhou Hao ø¨¨{≤∏M§ Jiangsu Suzhou fu Yuanhe xian

2/39 Shen Shijun Hh@ ø¨¨{∏M§ Jiangsu Suzhou fu Yuanhe xian 2/40 Fu Zhongyue ≈¡® øËæ{≤˜À§ Jiangxi Fuzhou fu Jinqi xian 2/41 Guo Zuochi ¢ÆK øËnd≤ÿ˜§ Jiangxi Jianchang xian 2/42 Mao Yepu Ú~¡ Ú_{≤Ωw§ Hubei Jingzhou fu Gong’an xian 2/43 Bu Zuoguang RÆ˙ sF^{≤È”§ Shandong Yizhou fu Rizhao xian 2/44 Yuan Weifeng K˚◊ ÷ÿ≈{≤WC§

214

appendix 5 Fujian Tingzhou fu Shanghang xian

2/45 U≥

Gu Jiong ønq{≤po§ Jiangsu Tongzhou fu Rugao xian

2/46 Yang Xianchun ®˝K øËnd≤wq§ Jiangxi Nankang fu Anyi xian 2/47 Li Zhi’e ıß∞ øËÿw≤n◊§ Jiangxi Jian’an fu Nanfeng xian 2/48 vv

2/49 ≤ˆ

2/50 CQ

Shi Zong sË≠ß≤”≠§ Shanxi Pingyang fu Taiping xian Cai Can Ún¯F≤qß§ Hunan Changsha fu Yiyang xian Song-gui ø¿X°{ Zheng huang qi Manzhou actually Mongol Plain Yellow Banner

2/51 Qiao Jiyuan Ï∞{ sËZ{≤aÛ§ Shanxi Puzhou fu Yishi xian

2/57 Cui Longjian ?s£ sËZ{√Ÿ§ Shanxi Puzhou fu Yongji xian 2/58 Cao Renhu ‰ØÍ ø¨”‹{≈w§ Jiangsu Taicang zhou Jiading xian 2/59 Luo Qingying πM^ sF≈≥Ωı{≥Á§ Guangdong Jiaying zhili zhou Xingning xian 2/60 ¢‰

Guo Jie ÏıX~x Xiang hong qi Hanjun

2/61 Wang Shanglin LWL ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 2/62 ¢`

Guo Yong ø¨¨{≤∏M§ Jiangsu Suzhou fu Yuanhe xian

2/63 Cao Junbi ‰g] Ωı∂—≤j≥§ Zhili, Shuntian fu Daxing xian 2/64 ˙S

Qian Lu ø¨øÁ≤øÁ§ Jiangsu Jiangning fu Jiangning xian

2/52 Zhang Yingzeng i≥ø ˝øC{≤Ωs§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Xiaoshan xian

2/65 Ling Mengzeng ‚⁄ø ˝øÚ{≤kw§ Zhejiang Huzhou fu Gui-an xian

2/53 Zhang Zengbing iø± w≤M{≤ts§ Anhui Hezhou fu Hanshan xian

2/66 Lu Xixiong ∞¸µ ø¨Qø≤W¸§ Jiangsu Songjiang fu Shanghai xian

2/54 Shen Chouchu H•Ï ˝ø≈≥≤qÙ§ Zhejiang Jiaxing fu Xiushui xian 2/55 Zhang Liuhang iªÊ en\{≤¯Ø§ Henan Xuzhou fu Changge xian 2/56 Hao Shenxing qVÊ sF¶Ωı{™K§ Shandong Jiao zhili zhou Gaomi xian

third class honors 3/1 HY

Shen Lin ˝ø≈≥≤qÙ§ Zhejiang Jiaxing fu Xiushui xian

3/2 Xu Fazhen \k_ en¸w≤wß§ Henan Zhangde fu Anyang xian

215

appendix 5 3/3 Wang Chaoxiang LÈ¤ Ú_®ß≤–§ Hubei Yunyang fu Fang xian 3/4 Guan Zhihan x”[ ÷ÿµ≠≤n≠§ Fujian Yanping fu Nanping xian 3/5 Ji Zengyin ˆøÆ Ωı∂—≤Âw§ Zhili Shuntian fu Wen’an xian 3/6 Shao Yuzeng Úhø Ωı∂—≤j≥§ Zhili Shuntian fu Daxing xian 3/7 Ma Junliang ®T} ˝ø≈≥≤¤˘§ Zhejiang Jiaxing fu Shimen xian 3/8 Jin Yunhuai ˜≥i w≤≤{≤˘§ Anhui Hui zhou fu She xian 3/9 Shen Zuozi H@Í ˝øÚ{≤wM§ Zhejiang Huzhou fu Deqing xian 3/10 Cheng Mingyu {˙R Ú_~ß≤µP§ Hubei Hanyang fu Xiaogan xian 3/11 Xiong Jiazhen µa∂ øËnd≤^s§ Jiangxi Nankang fu Fengxin xian 3/12 Ding Rongzuo BaÆ sFC{≤—∞§ Shandong Qingzhou fu Zhucheng xian

Hubei Wuchang fu Jiangxia xian 3/17 P≤

Zhou Fu w≤¿{≤Q¿§ Anhui Chizhou fu Guiche xian

3/18 Xie Tianqu ¬—¸ sF≈≥{ Guangdong Jiaying (zhili) zhou 3/19 Geng Xuemo ’«“ |tkw≤F{ Sichuan Suiding fu Dazhou 3/20 Cai Shangxiang ≤Wæ øËæ{≤˜À§ Jiangxi Fuzhou fu Jinxi xian 3/21 Chen Xiguang Ø¸˙ ˝øÁi≤Ì¸§ Zhejiang Ningbo fu Zhenhai xian 3/22 ¿Û

Huang Tang øËÿw≤yÀ§ Jiangxi Jian’an fu Luxi xian

3/23 Yang Jinyun ®ß≥ sFÈ{≤jH§ Guangdong Chaozhou fu Dafu xian 3/24 Hua Guanzhen ÿ[s Ú_¿{≤øÙ§ Hubei Huangzhou fu Qishui xian 3/25 Zhang Shoupei i˛ÿ enºÁ≤Hß{ Henan Runing fu Xinyang zhou 3/26 Li Songling ıQ÷ ≥n{w≤Á{ Yunnan Lin’an fu Ning zhou.

3/13 Dai Yuankui π∏‹ sF‹{≤≥§ Shandong Laizhou fu Yexian

3/27 Bx

3/14 Tian Junyu –°› Q{‰{≤…Ã§ Guizhou Sizhou fu Yubing xian

3/28 Guo Yuanlong ¢∏˜ w≤Q{≤˛‘§ Anhui Chuzhou fu Quanjiao xian

3/15 Yu Zongze ÎvA øËsÿ§ Jiangxi Xinjian xian 3/16 Tao Yingyu ≥≥J Ú_Z˜≤øL§

3/29 ™ı

Liu Guan Ωı—z≤—z§ Zhili Tianjian fu Tianjin xian.

Gao Zhe Ωı—z≤—z§ Zhili Tianjin fu Tianjin xian.

216

appendix 5

3/30 Ren Zhenyuan Ù_∑ ø¨`{≤y≥§ Jiangsu, Chang zhou fu Yixing xian

3/42 fl∏

Li Yuan Ωıs≠≤s≠§ Zhili Guangping fu Guangping xian

3/31 Wang Fengming ˝ÒÔ |t∂y≤Ás§ Sichuan Shunqing fu Yingshan xian

3/43 ¿¢

Huang Kai øıX~x Zhenghong qi Hanjun

3/32 Shi Chuanyuan v«∑ sËc{≤Zm§ Shanxi Qinzhou fu Wuxiang xian 3/33 HC

Shen Jun ø¨`{≤ßÚ§ Jiangsu Changzhou fu Yanghu xian

3/34 Huang Heqing ¿eM sF£{≤Ó{ Guangdong Qiongzhou fu Danzhou 3/35 Xiao Fufeng Ω˛Ò Q{w∂≤£√≤ Guizhou Anshun fu Duyun fu 3/36 ]C

Sun Yan w≤wy≤‰∞§ Anhui Anqing fu Tongcheng xian

3/37 Yu Tingcan E?È Ún¯F≤¯F§ Hunan Changsha fu Changsha xian 3/38 Ãs

Gan Shan øË^s§ Jiangxi Nankang fu Fengxin xian

3/39 Zhu Tingji ∂?Ú sFC{≤q£§ Shandong Qingzhou fu Yidu xian 3/40 }≤

Xu Jue øËÿw≤n◊§ Jiangxi Jian’an fu Nanfeng xian

3/41 Zou Chaoyang Q¬ß sFÈ{≤¸ß§ Guangdong Chaozhou fu Haiyang xian

3/44 Yuan Qiying K_o Ωı¨Ωı{«j§ Zhili Ji (zhili)zhou Zaoqiang xian 3/45 Wu Yulun d…˙ en˙≠{ Henan Guangping (zhili) zhou 3/46 Sun Jiale ]≈÷ ˝øC{≤ØM§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Renhe xian 3/47 »—

Tan Cui w≤wy≤Êø§ Anhui Anqing fu Wangjiang xian

3/48 Xiao Yujun Ω÷g Q{£√≤ Guizhou Duyun fu 3/49 Chen Yuanxi Ø∏¸ ÷ÿu{≤wÀ§ Fujian Chuan zhou Anxi xian 3/50 Chen Fengju ØÒ| ˝øC{≤˙Ì§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 3/51 Pei Zhifang pΩË ø¨`{≤Zi§ Jiangsu Changzhou fu Wujin xian 3/52 πs

Luo Guang sË_y§ Guangxi Beiliu xian

3/53 Mi Tianqi Ã—a Ωı∂—≤{≠§ Zhili Shuntian fu Wanping xian 3/54 Ø…

Chen Shi Ú_≈{≤Mu§ Hubei Hengzhou fu Qingquan xian

217

appendix 5 3/55 Liu Zuoyuan B@Æ ¢ËD{≤Z¬§ Shaanxi Liangzhou fu Wuwei xian 3/56 P¨

Zhou Jian sFn{≤‹ß§ Shandong Dengzhou fu Laiyang xian

3/57 ıÎ

Li Qu sFC{≤—∞§ Shandong Qingzhou fu Zhucheng xian

3/58 Huang Heming ¿bÔ Ú_~ß≤~ß§ Hubei Hanyang fu Hanyang xian 3/59 Liu Xiaozhi B’ß Ún¯F≤¯F§ Hunan Changsha fu Changsha xian 3/60 Peng Tongzu ^P™ ø¨Ìø≤Ãß§ Jiangsu Zhenjiang fu Liyang xian 3/61 Deng Dalin HjL sFs{≤F§ Guangdong Dongguan xian 3/62 Xu Shaojian }–≥ ˝øC{≤˙Ì Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Qiantang xian 3/63 ˝Ì

Wang Zhen Ωı—z≤…{ Zhili Tianjin fu Cang zhou

3/64 cE

Lu Chun ≥n{w≤¤Ã{ Yunnan Lin’an fu Shibing zhou

3/65 ıP

Li Yan enen≤•ß§ Henan Henan fu Luoyang xian

3/67 Wei Qirui Q_Õ sF‰{≤d•§ Shandong Cao zhou fu Juye xian 3/68 Huang Tengda ¿ÀF ˝øØM§

Zhejiang Renhe xian 3/69 Wang Xiongzhao ˝µ¸ ≥n·ø≤s≥§ Yunnan Chengjiang fu Xinxing xian 3/70 Shao Zizhen Ú¤Ì ∂—≤j≥§ Shuntian fu Daxing xian 3/71 Zhou Kezun PJÌ Únÿe§ Hunan Huarong xian. 3/72 Meng Yongfen s√‚ enF{ Henan Sui zhou 3/73 Zhang Hengxian i≈m |t…Á§ Sichuan Tongliang xian 3/74 Weng Peilin ŒÆM ÷ÿZ–§ Fujian Putian xian 3/75 ¢X

Guo Ji sË{?§ Shanxi Linjin xian

3/76 LË

Lin Tan ÷ÿfw§ Fujian Hui’an xian

3/77 Qian Tingmo ˙?” ˝øC{ØM§ Zhejiang Hangzhou fu Renhe xian 3/78 Huo Yitai Nˆı sË“≠≤®∂§ Shanxi Shuoping fu Mayi xian 3/79 Yuan Xiuluan Kqr sFF§ Guangdong Dongguan xian 3/80 Qin Hongzhi ≥ªº sË®≠§ Guangxi Maping xian 3/81 Feng Changshen æ˜‘ sËh{≤H{ Guangxi Liu zhou fu Xiang zhou 3/82 Bu Yizhi RMΩ ønZi§ Jiangnan Wujin xian

218

appendix 5

3/83 Shi Jiuguang ¤¥˙ Ú_≥Í{ Hubei Xingguo zhou

3/97 Dong Yankai ≥µ¢ sF‹ß§ Shandong Laiyang xian

3/84 Yan Shengri Y±È øËn˜≤^s§ Jiangxi Nanchang fu Fengxin xian

3/98 Shi Xuanshu I¢œ sËÆ∏§ Shanxi Yuci xian

3/85 Yao Longguang ¿˜˙ ønø£§ Jiangnan Jiangdu xian 3/86 Qi Shinan Ù@n ˝ø—x§ Zhejiang Tiantai xian 3/87 Li

Wang1 Huai ønøÁ§ Jiangsu Jiangning fu Jiangning xian

3/88 Zhong Yanzu ¡k™ øË|˜§ Jiangxi Huichang xian 3/89 Sun Zhigui ]¤¤ ¢Ë∞T§ Shaanxi Chenggu xian 3/90 ”O

Min-bao °{ø≈X Plain Blue Manchu Banner

3/91 Wang Daheng LjÎ ˝ø˙Ì§ Zhejiang Qiantang xian 3/92 Q÷

Song-ling °wøıX Manzhou Zhenghong qi

3/93 Tang Shihou @p sË˛{ Guangxi Quanzhou 3/94 Liu Shufang B⁄ sË≠w{ Shanxi Pingding zhou Ø∏ Ωıs∞§ Zhili Xincheng xian 3/95 Zhao Hanglin ØCL Ωıs∞§ Zhili Xincheng xian 3/96 Shen Shengzu H∑™ ˝økw§ Zhejiang Gui’an xian

3/99 Li Fangmao ıËZ enŸΩ§ Henan Jiyuan xian 3/100 Liu Yuanlong B∏s ¢ËwÁ§ Shaanxi Xianning xian 3/101 ≠›

Ye Duan ˝ø˙Ì§ Zhejiang Qiantang xian

3/102 Li Tingbo ı?f ≥nÿÙ§ Yunnan Jianshui xian 3/103 Zheng Yuezhong GÆ¡ sËÂÙ§ Shanxi Wenshui xian 3/104 Ouyang Chu ⁄ßW øËNw≤ıM§ Jiangxi Ji’an fu Taihe xian 3/105 Wang Zhaolin ˝¸Ô ¢Ë˘ß§ Shaanxi Jingyang xian 3/106 ‘˛

Fan Quan ¢ËTÏ§ Shaanxi Sanyuan xian

3/107 iØ

Zhang Hao ¢ËI≠§ Shaanxi Fuping xian

3/108 æ™q

Feng Gaoxiu Ωı—z§ Zhili Tianjin xian

3/109 PRF

Zhou Buzheng w≤‰∞§ Anhui Tongcheng xian

3/110 diM

Wu L(he sFjH§ Guangdong Dapu xian

3/111 ıß

Li Yu enH{ Henan Deng zhou

219

appendix 5 3/112 Jue-luo-ji-lan (Gioro Giran) ±π∞ı °wÏ≈X Xiang lan qi Manzhou

3/127 i¿™

Zhang Nianzu Ú_¿£§ Hubei Huanggang xian

3/113 ]È√

Sun Yuebing ^—≤”w§ Fengtian fu Chengde xian

3/128 i?h

Zhang Tingliu ¢ËZ\§ Shaanxi Wugong xian

3/114 ±a«

Jiang Rongyi Q{…Ø≤ Guizhou Tongren fu

3/129 ÛT»

He Sanwei sË{¤§ Guangxi Lingui xian

3/115 s√Ì

Meng Bingjian en√˜≤˜§ Henan Weihui fu, Hui xian

3/130 Û˝

He Hun ¢Ë•{Â§ Gansu Jie zhou Wen xian

3/116 dlÚ

Wu Yiji |t~{ Sichuan Han zhou

3/131 Ø™∏

Chen Gaofei sF·¸§ Guangdong Denghai xian

3/117 π⁄

Dai Fang Q{ÌÁ{ Guizhou Zhenning zhou

3/132 ⁄ß‹

Ouyang Qin øËK{≤¿y§ Jiangxi Yuanzhou Fenyi xian

3/118 ’‚≥

Bai Lingyun ¢ËH∞§ Shaanxi Dengcheng zhou

3/133 ®§Ô

Yang Zhongxuan ≥nMl{ Yunnan Xundian zhou

3/119 ıE

Li Chun |tF{ Sichuan Da zhou

3/134 ®¯ı

Yang Changzuo |tøz§ Sichuan Jiangjin xian

3/120 ß˚¥

Xue Shu’ao ¢Ë‡Û Shaanxi Tongguan ting

3/135 √”

Wei Mo enŸΩ§ Henan Jiyuan xian

3/121 ™@˙

Gao Shilun Ωı≈Ù§ Zhili Hengshui xian

3/136 i…

Zhang Yushu ¢ËZ\§ Shaanxi Wugong xian

3/122 B”

Liu Zhi Ωın÷§ Zhili Nanpi xian

3/137 ı—

3/123 ∫R

Song Yu Ωı…–§ Zhili Yutian xian

3/138 Wu Xingzong d≥v ∂—≤j≥§ Shuntian fu Daxing xian

3/124 ®Hs

Ma Renlong sFŸnÙe§ Shandong Ji’nan fu Qihe xian

3/139 Hu Wenchao JÂW Ú_~ß§ Hubei Hanyang xian

3/125 L˙”

Lin Guangzhao ÷ÿ¯˙§ Fujian Xiapu xian

3/140 Qin Xuehan ≥«v Q{¶`§ Guizhou Bijie xian

3/126 Ø_•

Chen Yuchou |t‘ø§ Sichuan Dianjiang xian

3/141 Yu Kaijia \}“ ˝øQ{§ Zhejiang Wucheng xian

Li Cui Q{Ìq§ Guizhou Zunyi xian

220

appendix 5

3/142 Xu Qinglong \Cs ÷ÿnt§ Fujian Nanjing xian 3/143 Mo Yuanlong ˆ∏s encÛ§ Henan Lushi xian 3/144 Quan Tianjian v—≤ Ωı≈∆§ Zhili Xuanhua xian 3/145 ‰Z

Cao Tan enÃs§

Henan Queshan xian 3/146 Yu Dahe Ejb ≥nÿÙ§ Yunnan Jianshui xian 3/147 Õz

Tan Li øn”‹§ Jiangnan Taicang xian

3/148 Ma Zenglu ®ø| Ωıøw≤Fÿ§ Zhili Zhengding fu Lingshou xian

Character List

Ancha shi ˆÓœ Anhui w≤ Annam wn bang yan ]⁄ baohan ]t Bao Zhizhong jß¡ bi Ò Bi Yuan ¶J bian ‹ bianxiu s◊ Bietou shi OY’ Bing bu L° boshi ’h boxue hongci ’«E¸ Buzheng shi ¨Fœ Cai Yong ≤o ce wen ¶› ce yang ¶i Changzhou xuepai `{«£ Chao Cuo Ã˘ chaokao ¬“ chen dui ⁄Ô chen wen ⁄D Chen gui ⁄y Chen Junqing ØTÎ chengxiang ‡¤ Cheng Yuanze {Jh chuanlu «§ chushen X≠ Chun qiu zuozhuan KÓ™‡

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character list

ci „ Da qing yitong zhi jM@Œv da sima jq® Dai De πw Dai Sheng πt Danyang xian ¶ß§ Dao xue D« dianshi µ’ dishi “v du juan guan ™˜x duidu Ô™ Fan Ning dÁ Fang Hui Ë^ fangkao (guan) –“x Fanglüe guan Ë§] fanyi Ω∂ Fa-shi-shan k°Ω feng ∑ fengzeng ^ÿ fu · Fu-heng ≈Ì fukao guan ∆“x Fu-liang I} Fu Sheng ÒÕ fushi (prefecture) ≤’ fushi –’ fuxue sheng yuan (fusheng) ˛«Õ˚ Gao Tangsheng ™ÛÕ Gaozong chun huangdi shilu ™v¬”“Í˝ gongji suo —π“ gongsheng ^Õ gongshi ^h Gongyang zhuan Ωœ« Guangping ˙≠ Guangxu ˙¸ Gui Youguang k≥˙

character list

gu jin jµ Guliang zhuan ‘d« guojia Ía Guoshi guan Ív] Guozi jian Íl? guwen jÂ Han xue ~« Han Yu ˙U Hanlin yuan ´L| He nei e∫ He Qiaoyuan ÛÏ∑ He Xiu Û Hou Zang ·√ Huang Gongdu ¿Ω◊ huibi ^◊ huishi |’ Huizi guan ^l] Jia Gongyan ÎΩ¤ jian ‡ Jiangnan øn jiankan À› jianshi ?’ jiantao ÀQ jianyi ›q jiaohua –∆ Jiaqing ≈y Jia Yi ÎÀ jiejiao jinshi ≤ÊÒ¯ jijie ∞— jiming OW Jinan Ÿn Jingdian shiwen gÂ¿Â jing gu gj Jing li gß jingqu g± jingxue zhi shengxin g«ß±fl

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character list

jingyi gq jinshi ih jinshi jidi ihŒƒ Jinshi timing beilu ih£WO˝ Jintan xianzhi ˜¬§” jinyu ni xia @ÏŒÂ jishizhong π∆§ jiu qing EÎ Jun p juren |H juye |~ kaishu ¢— Kangxi d≥ kaoke yuan ““| kaozheng (pai) ““£ ke Ë Kechang tiaoli Ïı¯“ keshi Ï’ Kong Anguo ’wÍ Kong Yingda ’oF langzhong ¶§ li ß lian G liancha ÆÓ Liang shan Ds Lidai tongjian jilan ˙Nq≥Ë˝ Li Dingzuo ı©Æ Li Hualong ı∆s Li ji ßO like shishu ßÏv— like tiben ßÏDª linshan shengyuan (linsheng) oØÕ˚ Lin Shuangwen LnÂ Li Qingjia ıy“ li shu ı— liu dian ªÂ

character list

Liu Heming BbÔ liu ji ªp Liu Lun (Wending) B˙AÂw liu tiao ª¯ Liu Tongxun (Wenzheng) BŒ¤AÂø Liu Xin Bı liuyi ªq Liu Yong (Shi-an) BVA¤g Li Weiduan §˚› Li Weiqi §˚¬ Lu Deming ∞w˙ Lüli yinjian i˙fi£ Lu Zhi ∞Ù Miandian ql Mianzi guan ql] mifeng guan ±?x ming jing ˙g Min shu ‘— mokan i… mouyong gong —iΩ muyou ıÕ muzhiming ””? Nanshu fang n—– neige zhongshu ∫’§— neilian guan ∫Æx nei shouzhang shijuan ∫¨x’˜ niuyang wu jianxing wei ˚œ≈^Ê´ Ouyang shuaigeng ti ⁄ßvÛÈ Ouyang Xiu ⁄ß◊ Ouyang Xun ⁄ßfl pianti wen cÈÂ puxue Î« Qu li ±ß Ruan Wenhui øÂf Qianlong Æ© Qian Zang e√

225

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character list

qingcheng y® Qing mishu wen sanzhong MµzDTÿ Quxue ±« Ren Jiachun Ù≈K Ri zhi lu Èæ˝ Ruan Wenhui øÂf san fu T≤ San gong TΩ san guan ≤] San tong Tq san yuan T∏ san zhuan T« san zi Tr shang qi wen ‡‰Â Shang Weisheng |˚… Shan jiujing zhengyi chanwei zhazi REgøqbn„l shenguan yuan fx| shengyuan Õ˚ shi ¿ shi-an ti ¤gÈ shifu ÷· Shi ji vO shi jing ¤g Shijian ji ¤ÓO shilang Õ¶ shixue zhi shengyi Í«ß±N shoujuan guan ¸˜x shu ® Shun dian œÂ Shunzhi ∂v Siku quanshu |w˛— si shan |Ω si shang || song | Song xue ∫« Su Shi ¨˝

character list

Sui Chaodong ™¬… suishi ≥’ Sun Yüchi tai shou ”u tanhua ¥· tidiao £’ tidu xuezheng £˛«F Tongcheng ‰∞ tong jinshi chusheng PihX≠ tongkao guan P“x tongnian P~ tongshi £’ tong zudi P™Ã wai ting ~? Wang Shiwei ˝@˚ Wang Youdun L—∞ wei shu n— Wei shu Q— weiyi ¬ˆ Wensu ge Âπ’ wenyi zai dao ÂH¸D wo guojia ⁄Ía wufu ≠A wulun ≠¤ Wu li tongkao ≠ßq“ xiang H xiangshi m’ xianshi §’ xian zhe ÂÃ Xiao xue kao p«“ Xi ci zhuan t„« xiebang guan g]x Xiyu Xinjiang ËÏs¶ xuezheng «F Xuezheng quanshu «F˛— xiuyang shengxi iÕß

227

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Xunchuo µÔ ya Æ Yan Ben Yª Yao Nai ¿Û Yao shi ¿Û yi jia @“ Yi Li ˆß yi zi @r yin Æ Yingkui lüsui huiping π∂flH◊˚ Yin-ji-shan ®~Ω yinjuan guan L˜x yiye ¿~ Yongnuo e∂ Yongzheng lø yuanshi |’ Yuanwai lang ˚~¶ Yu Minzhong £¨Wenxiang) _”§AÂ∏ yushi dafu svj“ zai junjichu xingzou bx˜BÊ´ za kao junguo jishu ¯“pÍp— zeng guang shengyuan (zeng sheng) WsÕ˚ zhan ˚ Zhang Can i— Zhang Chaolong i¬s Zhang Hua iÿ zhangjuan guan x˜x Zhang Tingyu (Wenhe) i?…AÂM Zhao-hui ¸f Zhashilunbo „∞¤¨ Zhejiang ˝ø zheng ø zheng ∫ zheng F Zheng Kangcheng Gd® zhengkao guan ø“x

character list

zhengxue zhi jigui ø«ß•y zhengyi øq Zhennan guan Ìnˆ zhice Ó¶ zhigong ju æ^| zhixian æ§ zhiyi yi dai shengxian li yan ÓqHNtÂfl• Zhong yong §e Zhou li Pß zhou shi {’ Zhou yi jijie Pq∞— zhu ` zhuan shu f— zhu kao D“ Zhu Chongguang —ÿ˙ zhu shi D∆ zhuan « zhuangyuan ¯˚ Zijin cheng µT∞ zongzai `‚ zuoyi dabi ÆHj◊

229

r efer e nce mat t e r

Notes

chapter 0ne 1. Samuel Freiher von Pufendorf (1632–1694), De Jure Naturae et Gentium Libri Octo, ed. James Brown Scott, trans. C. H. Oldfather and W. A. Oldfather, 1688 ed., reprinted as vol. 2, The Classics of International Law (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934), p. 1270; Herrlee Creel, The Origins of Statecraft in China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), p. 25. 2. See Creel, Origins, pp. 17–26. 3. Some of the best-known early studies are Etienne Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires (Liechtenstein: Kraus-Thomson Organization Ltd., 1894; reprint, 1975); Zhang Zhongru (Chang Chung-ju), Qingdai kaoshi zhidu (The Qing dynasty examination system) (Shanghai: Liming Publishing House, 1931); Shang Yanliu, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue (A description of the imperial examinations of the Qing dynasty) (Taipei: Wenhai Publishing Co., 1927; reprint, 1958). A more recent institutional study is by Wang Daocheng, Keju shihua (A historical narrative of the examination system) (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1988). For the Qing dynasty examination system, see Wang Daocheng, Qingdai keju zhidu yanjiu (Research on the Qing dynasty examination system) (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1984); Yu Jingxiang, Jinbang timing: Qingdai keju shuyao (Proclamation of successful examination candidates: An essential narrative of the Qing dynasty examination system) (Liaoning: Liaohai Publishing House, 1997). A recent study with a scope that rivals Ho Ping-ti’s study (Studies on the Population of China, 1368–1953 [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962]) is Benjamin A. Elman’s A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). 4. See Chang Chung-li, The Chinese Gentry: Studies on Their Role in Nineteenth Century Chinese Society (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1955); Ho Ping-ti, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China: Aspects of Social Mobility, 1368–1911 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962; reprint, 1980). For a cultural analysis of the Qing debate on social class versus social status, see Jonathan D. Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor: Bondservant and Master (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), pp. 43–46. 5. See, for example, Hilary J. Beattie, Land and Lineage in China: A Study of T’ung-ch’eng County, Anhwei, in the Ming and Ch’ing Dynasties (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979); Joseph W. Esherick and Mary Backus Rankin, Chinese Local Elites and Patterns of Dominance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). 6. For these insights I am indebted to Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), especially pp. 69–93 and 182–218; this work is cited in James Hevia, “Sovereignty and Subject: Constituting Relations

233

234

notes

of Power in Qing Guest Ritual,” in Body, Subject, Power in China, ed. Angela Zito and Tani Barlow (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), pp. 181–200. 7. Japanese scholar Shigeta Atsushi gives a detailed Marxist application of this concept; see his “The Origins and Structure of Gentry Rule,” in State and Society in China: Japanese Perspectives on Ming-Qing Social and Economic History, ed. Linda Grove and Christian Daniels (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1984); see also Jack Dull, “The Evolution of Government in China,” in Heritage of China, ed. Paul Ropp (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Qian Mu (Ch’ien Mu, 1895–1991?), Traditional Government in Imperial China: A Critical Analysis, trans. Chun-tu Hsueh and George O. Totten (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1955; 1982); Qian Mu, Zhongguo lidai zhengzhi deshi (A critical analysis of China’s system of government through the ages) (Taipei: Sanmin Publishing House, 1969). 8. Richard W. L. Guisso, Wu Tse-t’ien and the Politics of Legitimation in T’ang China (Bellingham: Western Washington University, 1978); Jacques Gernet, A History of Chinese Civilization, trans. J. R. Foster (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), pp. 236–260. 9. Peter Bol discusses the Northern Song in terms of the emperor having already “struck a deal” with social elites: “In return for their support of central authority, he [the emperor] would see to it that they had exclusive rights to political leadership, and . . . make government service the family occupation for generations.” See Peter Bol, “This Culture of Ours”: Intellectual Transitions in T’ang and Sung China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992), pp. 32–75. 10. This process is well-documented by David Johnson in The Medieval Chinese Oligarchy (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1977). 11. The Marxist arguments concerning the class nature of this new group called the gentry have often foundered on the difficulty of demonstrating prevalent landholding patterns (see Shigeta, “The Origins and Structure of Gentry Rule,” for example). As my discussion of Zhao Yi’s situation in Chapter Two demonstrates, socio-cultural status appears as a far stronger marker of difference (see also Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor). 12. On the wooing of scholars, see Jonathan D. Spence, Emperor of China: Self-Portrait of K’ang-hsi (New York: Vintage Press, 1974). On the surveillance of scholars, see Luther Carrington Goodrich, The Literary Inquisition of Ch’ien-lung, 1935 ed. (London: Paragon Press; reprint, 1966), pp. 19–26; Kent R. Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: Scholars and State in the Late Ch’ien-lung Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1987). 13. For Manchu nativist trends, see Lawrence Kessler, “Chinese Scholars and the Early Manchu State,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 31 (1971); Robert B. Oxnam, Ruling from Horseback: Manchu Politics in the Oboi Regency, 1661–1669 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), pp. 81–89. Although Benjamin Elman was kind enough to send me several draft versions of some chapters, I had finished writing this study before I had the opportunity to see his published manuscript (A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China [Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000]). 14. One of the earliest statements on Confucianism and state ideology is in James T. C. Liu, “How Did a Neo-Confucian School Become the State Orthodoxy?” Philosophy East and West 23 (1973). For the elaboration of the May

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Fourth view, see Lin Yu-sheng, Crisis of Confucian Consciousness: Radical Anti-Traditionalism in the May Fourth Era (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1979). Interestingly, Michael Dutton, applying Foucault (see Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alain Sheridan, 1979 ed. [New York: Vintage Books, 1977; reprint, 1979]) to the development of state security arrangements in Chinese history, sets up an equally fallacious binary model of Chinese continuity and Western rupture in his analysis of policing in China; see Michael R. Dutton, Policing and Punishment in China: From Patriarchy to “The People” (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). There is little reason not to suppose that both patterns of continuity and rupture exist for all cultures, depending on the issues and perspective. 15. On the range and complexity of the Qing multicultural, multiethnic, multilingual empire, see in particular Evelyn Rawski, The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Peter Perdue, “Boundaries, Maps, and Movement: Chinese, Russian, and Mongolian Empires in Early Modern Central Eurasia,” International History Review 20, no. 2 (1998); Peter Perdue, “Military Mobilization in Seventeenth- and EighteenthCentury China, Russia and Mongolia,” Modern Asian Studies 30, no. 4 (1996); James L. Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar: Qing Guest Ritual and the Macartney Mission of 1793 (Raleigh: Duke University Press, 1995); Evelyn S. Rawski, “Presidential Address: Reenvisioning the Qing: The Significance of the Qing Period in Chinese History,” Journal of Asian Studies 55, no. 4 (1996); Joanna Waley-Cohen, “Commemorating War in Eighteenth-Century China,” Modern Asian Studies 30, no. 4 (1996); Joanna Waley-Cohen, “Religion, War, and Empire-Building in Eighteenth-Century China,” International History Review 20, no. 2 (1998); James A. Millward, Beyond the Pass: Economy, Ethnicity, and Empire in Qing Central Asia, 1759–1864 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998); and Mark C. Elliott, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Manchu Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001). For a rich elaboration on Qing imperial ideology, see Pamela K. Crossley, “The Rulerships of China”; Crossley, A Translucent Mirror: History and Identity in Qing Imperial Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). For debates over modern nationalist territorial claims, see Prasenjit Duara, “Bifurcating Linear History: Nation and Histories in China and India,” Positions 1, no. 3 (1993); Prasenjit Duara, “De-Constructing the Chinese Nation,” Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs 30 (1993); Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar, pp. 29–30. 16. For an excellent analysis of the ephemeral quality of the state, see Philip Abrams, “Notes on the Difficulty of Studying the State,” Journal of Historical Sociology 1, no. 1 (1988). I thank Dave Strand for recommending this work to me and allowing me to read a draft version of his introduction to David Strand and Kjeld E. Brodsgaard, Reconstructing Twentieth Century China: State Control, Civil Society, and National Identity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). For a theoretical exploration of modern capitalist states, nonetheless, the overall thrust of his discussion is applicable to the state in general; see Bob Jessop, State Theory: Putting Capitalist States in Their Place (College Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990). For tension between agencies, see Beatrice S. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). For different visualizations of imperial power, see Crossley,

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“Rulerships”; Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar; Angela Zito, Of Body and Brush: Grand Sacrifice as Text/Performance in Eighteenth-Century China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 17. See Crossley, “Rulerships,” p. 1469. 18. For a brief and succinct overview of imperial ideology, see Crossley, “Rulerships.” For an excellent review of Kwang-ching Liu’s edited volume, see Willard Peterson, “Review of Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 53 (1993). For an earlier analysis of Confucianism as ideology, see Liu, “How Did a Neo-Confucian School Become the State Orthodoxy?” See also Chen Chi-yun, “Orthodoxy as a Mode of Statecraft: The Ancient Concept of Cheng,” in Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China, ed. Kwang-ching Liu (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); and, in the same volume, Charlotte Furth, “The Patriarch’s Legacy: Household Instructions and the Transmission of Orthodox Values.” 19. For Elman’s view of orthodoxy, see Benjamin A. Elman, “The Formation of ’Dao Learning’ as Imperial Ideology During the Early Ming Dynasty,” in Culture and State in Chinese History: Conventions, Accommodations, and Critiques, ed. R. Bin Wong, Theodore Huters, and Pauline Yu (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997). For de Bary’s analytical categories of orthodoxy, see William T. de Bary, Neo-Confucian Orthodoxy and the Learning of Heart-and-Mind (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981). 20. Charlotte Furth, “The Patriarch’s Legacy: Household Instructions and the Transmission of Orthodox Values,” in Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China, ed. Kwang-Ching Liu (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). 21. See Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism in Late Imperial China: Ethics, Classics and Lineage Discourse (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994). His assessment sees an overlap of Han, Song, and evidential trends at the mid-century mark. 22. For a critique of this aspect of earlier performance theory, see Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. For a discussion of the theater of the law, which might also be understood as the theater of the state, see Douglas Hay, “Property, Authority, and the Criminal Law,” in Albion’s Fatal Tree: Crime and Society in EighteenthCentury England, ed. Douglas Hay et al. (New York: Pantheon Press, 1975). 23. Here bureaucracy, following Lefort’s theorization and critique of Marx and Weber, is not taken to be a rational, disinterested type of organization. Instead, based on historical evidence exemplified here and in chapters four and five, bureaucracy is empirically considered as a historical, dynamic part of the state that is interested in preserving its existence and expanding its power. Thus, it is productive of the state’s power that it turns to itself as participatory in political life. See Claude Lefort, “What Is Bureaucracy?,” in The Political Forms of Modern Society: Bureaucracy, Democracy and Totalitarianism, ed. John B. Thompson (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1986). For marketing structures and macroregions, see G. William Skinner, “Marketing and Social Structure in Rural China,” Journal of Asian Studies 24 (1964–1965). For the important differences between administrative/political divisions compared to economic divisions, see William T. Rowe, Hankow: Commerce and Society in a Chinese City, 1796–1889 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1984). 24. For the Kangxi emperor’s use of bondservants and the introduction of the palace memorial system, see Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor; Silas Wu, Communication and Imperial Control in China: Evolution of the Palace Memorial

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System, 1693–1735 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971). For the most comprehensive study on this complex institution, see Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers. For the culpability of the bureaucracy for the failure of Qing foreign policy, see James M. Polachek, The Inner Opium War (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University Press, 1992). 25. For the Hundred Days Reform movement, see Luke S. K. Kwong, A Mosaic of the Hundred Days: Personalities, Politics and Ideas of 1898, Harvard East Asian Monographs, 112 (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University Press, 1984). For the understanding of “empty time,” see Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso Press, 1983), pp. 22–36. 26. Note: All members of the 1761 cohort will be referenced by their year of degree, class grade, and rank: for the class list, see Appendix 5. For an enumeration of examination network terms, see Xu Ke, Qingbai leichao (Anecdotes of the Qing period arranged by category), vol. 8 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1917; reprint, 1984); and Ho, Ladder, pp. 99–100. 27. For the mix of strategies employed by elites, see Beattie, Land and Lineage in China; and Esherick and Rankin, Chinese Local Elites and Patterns of Dominance. For the structural implications of bureaucracy, see Lefort, “What Is Bureaucracy?” 28. Here I follow the logic of Judith Butler’s discussions of performativity and producing the subject; see Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex” (New York: Routledge Press, 1993). 29. For a greater range of statistical analyses, see Iona D. Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761: The Politics of a Metropolitan Examination (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University; Ann Arbor: UMI Microfilms, 1991), pp. 7, 15. 30. For 1761 metropolitan examination quota announcement, see Da Qing gaozong chun (Qianlong) huangdi shilu (Veritable records of the great Qing Qianlong emperor) (Tokyo: Manchuria-Japan Cultural Association, 1934–1936), juan 633, pp. 13–14, QL26/3/25 (hereafter abbreviated DQSL). See Appendix 2 for breakdown of provincial examination entrants matched against the given quota. 31. For the Kangxi emperor’s introduction of provincial quotas, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili (Precedents and regulations supplementary to the collected statutes of the great Qing dynasty) (Taipei: Zhongwen shuju, 1898; reprint, 1976), juan 350. For Ho Ping-ti’s explanation, see Ho, Ladder, pp. 187–188. For a recent assessment of Qing academies, see Alexander Woodside, “Territorial Order and Collective-Identity Tensions in Confucian Asia: China, Vietnam, Korea,” Daedalus (1998). chapter two 1. In some older works the term shengyuan is translated as “licentiate”; here I use the now familiar Chinese term. For the role of shengyuan as pettifoggers, see Melissa A. Macauley, Social Power and Legal Culture: Litigation Masters in Late Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998). See also Fu Zengxiang, Qingdai dianshi kaolue (A brief study of the Qing dynasty palace examination system) (Tianjin: Dagong Baoshe, 1933); Qin Guoqing, “Qingdai de dianshi” (The Qing dynasty palace examination), Gugong bowuyuan yuankan (Journal of the Palace Museum) 4 (1981).

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2. See the table of provincial entrants and quotas in Appendix 2. Ho, Ladder, p. 245, recognizes this group as technically metropolitan degree holder. For the announcement of figures entering from other examinations and those disqualified from the 1761 palace examination, see “Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” Number One Historical Archives (Beijing), QL26/4/20, packet no. 9; “Like shishu” (Document register for the Rites section), Number One Historical Archives, Beijing, 1761 (QL26), juan 548, QL26/4/20 and QL26/4/22 rescript. On the introduction of a review process for the huishi examination, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, pp. 9815–9816. 3. See ibid., pp. 9489–9504. Honorary degrees gave recognition to those who had struggled to pass the examination, for years, unsuccessfully, see “Gongzhong yuzhi huizou” (Document register of palace memorials and edicts), in Number One Historical Archives, Beijing, juan 60, p. 4, QL26/4/6. For Song origins of practice, see John Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 24. For vital data on Ouyang Qing and Luo Qingying, see “Dengke lu” (List of metropolitan graduates) (1761) microfilm, Beijing Number One Historical Archives, held at Salt Lake City’s Genealogical Library, 26/3/132 and 26/2/59. 4. For the socio-cultural role of examinations, see Benjamin A. Elman, “Political, Social, and Cultural Reproduction via Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China,” Journal of Asian Studies 50 (1991). 5. Miyazaki Ichisada, China’s Examination Hell, trans. Conrad Schirokauer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976); Shang Yanliu, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue; and Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires. Although these scholars carefully describe the Qing process of examinations, they give generalized institutional descriptions that tend to treat the system as timeless. For an excellent discussion of the inherent contradictions between examination and education, see David S. Nivison, “Protest against Conventions and Conventions of Protest,” in The Confucian Persuasion, ed. Arthur Wright (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1960). 6. Other routes to office existed, mainly awarding lower-level examination qualification (discussed below as jiansheng) or low-ranking position in the civil service. This understanding of subjectivity derives from Butler, Bodies That Matter, where “performativity,” by means of which subjectivity is produced, is defined as “the reiterative and citational practice by which discourse produces the effects that it names.” See also Fran Martin’s insightful analysis of subjectivity in Chinese culture, “Chen Xue’s Queer Tactics,” Positions 7, no. 1 (1999): 71–94. Butler’s generalized concept works well for my study. For the concept of disciplinary practice, see Foucault, Discipline and Punish, pp. 135–169. 7. Examination practice was also guided and circumscribed by an official compilation designed to guide directors through the labyrinth of rules: the 1774 (QL39) edition upgraded the 1759 (QL24) version and contained eighty sections (juan) of guidance for provincial and local examinations. See Su Erna et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu (Complete book for provincial directors of education), ed. Shen Yunlong, 2 vols., in Jindai Zhongguo shiliao congkan (Taipei: Wenhai Publishing House, 1774; reprint, 1960). By 1887 (GX13), a second work, Kui Run et al., Qinding kechang tiaoli (Imperially authorized regulations for the examination compound), containing sixty sections of procedures and rules, had been produced. 8. See Foucault, Discipline and Punish.

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9. For an anthropological study of children’s development in China, see Margery Wolf, “Child Training and the Chinese Family,” in Studies in Chinese Society, ed. Arthur P. Wolf (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1978); for a historical study, see Angela Ki Che Leung, “Elementary Education in the Lower Yangtze Region in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600–1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 381–416. 10. The “reexamination” was held for security purposes: to ensure that it was the same candidate who had sat for the earlier examinations. The “jing gu” was a special examination session in which students did not write in the formal eightlegged examination style usually required; instead, they had to demonstrate substantive knowledge of the Confucian classics and the standard histories; see Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 58. 11. See Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 4–5; Ho, Ladder, pp. 169–173; Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell, passim; Evelyn Rawski, Education and Popular Literacy in Ch’ing China, Michigan Studies on China (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan Press, 1979), pp. 24–108; and in particular, Thomas H. C. Lee, “Sung Schools and Education before Chu Hsi,” in NeoConfucian Education: The Formative Stage, ed. William T. de Bary and John Chaffee (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), pp. 105–136. Quota size depended on the size and tax income of the administrative area. Quotas for the district and county level youth examinations (tongshi) had been abolished in 1744 (QL9), broadening examination entrance at the lower level. See Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 11n, 73n; Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 2. Juan 370 gives a general indication: after 1670 and before 1850 when quotas were increased, a district could accept seven to eight students, a county, twelve, and a prefecture, twenty; see also “Construction of Desire” later in this chapter. 12. There was no set date for these examinations, but were arranged to coincide with the Provincial Director of Education’s three-year term of office during which he circumambulated the province twice. The term yuan is derived from his official designation of xue yuan; by extension, all the examinations over which he presided also became known as yuan shi or examinations given by the Provincial Director of Education, also called xueyuan. See Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 58. The number of visits was fixed in 1673; see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 389, p. 21a. Also cited in Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 74. 13. The practice of giving monthly lectures ceased during the Jiaqing period, see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 1–17. 14. Held once every three years, the three sets of tests were staggered; the annual examination was offered in year one and the provincial qualifying examination in year two, both timed for the provincial examination in year three. If special examinations were given by imperial consent, the scheduled examinations were temporarily rearranged or extra ones given. 15. Stipend student quotas were allotted in each prefecture, county, and district, and as students moved on to become provincial degree holders, their positions would fall vacant for the next in line. Beginning in 1647 (SZ4), prefectures were given 40, counties and districts 30; see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 370. 16. When necessary, the annual examination and the provincial qualifying examination and the provincial examination proper could be held in the same year—for an

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examination given by imperial favor for example, which threw the normal sequence out of gear. Yin privilege was extended to those whose fathers had held high office or had died in the line of duty; the immediate next of kin were allowed to participate in the higher level examination without first having the shengyuan degree. 17. In 1646, a generous entrance quota of thirty candidates had been allowed for every degree given. By 1744 (QL9), with population on the rise, competition had increased, and each large province was only allowed eighty entrants for each degree to be awarded, sixty for medium-sized provinces, and fifty for small provinces. In 1747 (QL12), each large province was given forty additional places, medium provinces, thirty, and small, twenty. See Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 36, pp. 652–55. These figures changed little over time. Chang Chung-li’s quotas for 1881 are almost identical; see Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 124. 18. For emperor’s hiring concerns, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 354, p. 9772. In 1761 Grand Secretariat secretaries (neige zhongshu), usually recruited by a separate examination, were for the first time recruited from those failing the metropolitan quota selection (fubang). There had always been a category (fubang), considered sufficiently good to merit a mention, but not good enough to pass the quota selection. Zi calls them “honorable mentions” (Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, pp. 156, 160). The selection of secretaries from the metropolitan fubang continued until 1790. In 1761, the examiners listed 60 candidates in this category of whom 43 were selected. See “Gongzhong yuzhi huizou,” juan 60, p. 5; DQSL, juan 630, p. 20a (QL26/2/14); (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 353, pp. 9752–9759; “Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” packet no. 9 (QL26/4/10). Further research found that seventeen of the forty-three also went on to pass the metropolitan examination. 19. Provincial degree holders still had to take a qualification examination (fushi )— a one-day examination given in the provincial capital—in order to enter the metropolitan examination, the huishi. Candidates had also to submit various kinds of paperwork to register for the examination; these registrations formed the basis for the later metropolitan degree quota calculation. See Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell, p. 64; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 358, pp. 9812–9821; Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p.174. 20. ”Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” QL26/3/9, 12, 15. 21. This was the only archival material of its kind in the First Historical Archives collection of examination questions in Beijing (Neige shiti), document no. 1. (See “Neige shiti” [Examination topics], Grand Secretariat, 1761, Number One Historical Archives, Beijing.) A slip of paper pasted to the front of the packet reads in Chinese, “QL26 questions already used.” The packet did not, however, contain the questions on the five Confucian classics—nor were the policy questions from the third session found there. 22. The practice of sending tribute students at this level to the capital began in the Ming dynasty. However, ancient precedents exist for sending gongshi (tribute scholars) to the capital. See Yang Xuewei, Zhu Choumei, and Zhang Haipeng, eds., Zhongguo kaoshi zhidu ziliao xuanbian (Selected sources for the history of China’s examination system), 2 vols. (Hefei: Huangshan Publishing House, 1992), pp. 4–5, 71–72, 148, 314–317. 23. Among the tribute students in the 1761 metropolitan cohort were Wang Weishan 26/2/13 (see Suzhou fuzhi [Suzhou prefectural gazetteer (Jiangsu)] 1883,

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juan 65, p. 10b; Wang Mi 26/2/24 (see Anyi xianzhi [Anyi district gazetteer (Shanxi)] 1764, juan 6, p. 37b); Chen Songnian 26/2/31 (see Hangzhou fuzhi [Hangzhou prefectural gazetteer (Zhejiang)] 1922, juan 112, p. 32a); Zhang Yingzeng 26/2/52 (see Xiaoshan zhi gao [Xiaoshan draft gazetteer (Zhejiang)] 1935, juan 13, p. 59a. At least four of the thirty-six tribute students were actually awarded their provincial degree from the prefecture of Shuntian. For regulations and guidelines concerning tribute students, see Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 40; and Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 84. 24. Located next to the Temple of Confucius (Wen miao), the Guozijian (Imperial College) really comprised two institutions: the Guozijian (Supervisorate of the Sons of State) and the Taixue (a name reflecting its subordination in the third century to the Taichangsi). The term “sons of state” (guozi) refers to its origins as a school for the sons of officials. The name Taichangsi (Court of Sacrificial Worship) is a reference to education’s ties with ritual—a subject that has not yet been explored fully in Western literature on China. By the Qing dynasty, the terms and institutions Taixue and Guozijian became interchangeable, but strictly speaking the Guozijian was the metropolitan administrative center for the empire’s system of prefectural, county, and district schools—hence, supervisorate. For more on the Imperial College, see Yuquan Zhang, “The Guozijian,” Chinese Social and Political Science Review 24 (1940): 69–106. For biographic data on Yang Zhongxuan (3/133), who lacks a local gazetteer biography, see “Dengke lu”; Jinshen quanshu (Complete register of Qing officials) (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard-Yenching Library) microfilm, 1773; “Luli yinjian” (Personnel dossiers for the imperial audience), QL36/10 (1771), Number One Historical Archives, Beijing: 1761–1810. None of his three forebears held a metropolitan degree. He was selected as a Hanlin bachelor and afterward appointed magistrate of Huairou district in 1771. Two and a quarter centuries later (1995) his district became the site of the U.N.-sponsored International Women’s Conference. 25. For the jiupin zhongzheng system, see Qian Mu, Traditional Government in Imperial China; for the categories of tribute students, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 385. 26. For you gongsheng, see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 31–32; Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 40, pp. 764–769. 27. For formation of Banners, See Pamela K. Crossley, The Manchus (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell Publishers Inc., 1997); Elliott, The Manchu Way. For Manchu education, see Pamela K. Crossley, “Manchu Education,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600–1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 340–378. In 1671, Manchu and Mongol Banners were each assigned a quota of two and the Chinese Banners one. For Banner quotas, see Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 39; also cited in Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 28. Established in the early years of the Kangxi emperor’s personal reign after the overthrow of the Oboi regency, the measure was probably intended to give these political and ethnic elites a share in all Han Chinese privileges and to compete for them on the same terms; see Oxnam, Ruling from Horseback, for a description of the regency. For the Kangxi emperor’s struggle for ascendance, see Spence, Emperor of China. 28. For sui gongsheng (annual tribute students), see Huang Guangliang, Qingdai keju zhidu zhi yanjiu (Research on the Qing dynasty examination system)

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(Taipei: Jiaxin Foundation, 1976), p. 186; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 385; Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 1–47; Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 40; Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 89. 29. The term jiansheng has been variously translated as Imperial Academy student, Imperial University student, and Imperial College student. For the purchase of academic degrees, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 385; Xu Daling, “Qingdai juanna zhidu” (The system of sales of official ranks and degrees in the Qing period), Yenjing xuebao special issue no. 22 (1950). There are indications that some 1761 graduates had paid cash for tribute student status. Certainly such a practice existed and could theoretically be noted on the record of metropolitan graduates (as li gong); the notation often indicated the holder’s student status, too. Not all Imperial College studentships were purchased. Apparently, none of these three non-purchased categories ever constituted a significant number of students; see Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 19; Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 23–26. The 1733 amended regulation clarified the hierarchical distinction between tribute and Imperial College students, showing tribute students superior to Imperial College students. 30. He was selected as a Hanlin bachelor through the 1761 court examination. From that point, however, Wang Weishan (QL26/2/13) becomes one of those who mysteriously disappears from the record; no evidence of any officeholding exists, neither is there any record of his death, early or otherwise. See “Dengke lu”; Suzhou fuzhi, juan 63, pp. 10b, 20b; and Wang Xuehao, Kunshan/Xinyang liangxian zhi (1826), juan 15, pp. 21a, 21b. 31. For Ma Renlong’s (QL26/3/124) biographic data, see “Dengke lu”; Ji’nan fuzhi (Jinan prefectural gazetteer [Shandong]) (1840), juan 42, pp. 14a, 34b, juan 56, p. 12a. 32. For a discussion of downward mobility of family office holding, see Ho, Ladder. For Geng Xuemo (QL26/3/19) biographic data, see Da xianzhi (Da district gazetteer [Sichuan]) (1932), juan 14, pp. 5, 11a, juan 15, pp. 10–11; “Dengke lu.” 33. In 1743, Huang was deprived of all rank and sent into retirement at age seventy-one; see Arthur Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1943; reprint, 1970), vol. 1, pp. 344–345 (hereafter ECCP). For appointments to the School of Eight Banners, under the supervision of the Imperial College, see Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 39. For epitaph to Jiang Yongzhi, see Zhu Yun (1729–1781), “Bianxiu Jiang Jun muzhiming” (Epitaph for compiler Jiang Yongzhi), juan 12, pp. 20–24, in Sihe wenji (Collected writings of Master Sihe), ed. Wei Li (Shanghai: Commercial Press, 1815; reprint, 1936). 34. For Zhang Shoupei’s (26/3/25) biographic data, see “Dengke lu”; Xinyang xianzhi (Xinyang district gazetteer [Henan]) (1934), juan 22, pp. 1b, 2b, 5a, juan 26, p. 9a. On Guan Zhihan (26/3/4), see “Dengke lu”; Nanping xianzhi (Nanping district gazetteer [Fujian]) (1810; reprint, 1872), juan 2, pp. 29b, 41a, juan 13, pp. 5–6, juan 20, 43b, juan 23, pp. 43–44, juan 24, pp. 69–70, juan 26, pp. 56–57, juan 27, pp. 20–40. 35. Wang Mi (26/2/24), see Anyi xianzhi, juan 6, pp. 10a, 37b, 38a; Anyi xianzhi, juan 4, pp. 5–6; “Dengke lu.” On Xu Fazhen (26/3/2), see Anyang xianzhi (Anyang district gazetteer [1819]) (1819), juan 20, p. 34a; “Dengke lu.”

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36. For details of the upper echelons of the bondservant system during the seventeenth century, see Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor; for biographic data collected on Song-gui (QL26/2/50) see the National History Archive (Guoshi guan), see Li Huan (1827–1910), ed., Guochao qixian leizheng (Classified biographical records of famous men of the reigning dynasty), 1st series (Taipei: 1884– 1890; reprint, 1966), juan 96, pp. 10–11 (hereafter GCQXLZ). 37. He Hun (QL26/3/130) commissioned the biography for his father only after being appointed magistrate of Conghua district in Guangdong. The closing remarks make it clear that the gesture was as much to mark the son’s official appointment as it was to mark his filiality. See “Dengke lu”; Wen xianzhi (Wen district gazetteer [Gansu]) (1876), juan 5, p. 2, juan 6, p. 2, juan 7, pp. 67–70, for biographic information. 38. Shang Yanliu, the author of the most detailed study on the Qing examination system, was one of the last actually to participate in imperial examinations before their abolition in 1905, believed that Imperial College education began to decline only in the Jiaqing (1796–1820) and Daoguang (1821–1850) periods, and set the institution’s apogee at 1738; see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 23–26. Earlier in the Qing dynasty the College also had overseas students, from the Ryukyu Islands and from Russia. See Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 5, 11–12, 102–111; Guozijian zhi (Treatise on the Guozijian), pp. 69–106; Ho, Ladder, pp. 32–34; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 385; Xu, “Qingdai juanna zhidu,” passim. 39. On Qin Cheng’en (QL26/2/11), see Min Erchang, “Beizhuan ji bu,” juan 8, pp. 1309–10, in Qingdai beizhuan quan ji (The complete Qing stele commemorative writings), ed. Chen Jinlin, Qi Desheng, and Guo Manman (Shanghai: Shanghai Guji Publishing House, 1932). 40. On Ji Chengqian (26/2/2), see “Dengke lu”; Ho, Ladder, 137–139; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 119–120; Ji shi xu zongpu; Wuxi, Jinkui xianzhi (Wuxi and Jinkui district gazetteer [Jiangsu]) (1813). 41. Yao Fen (26/2/6), see Beattie, Land and Lineage in China pp. 51, 105; “Dengke lu”; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 186, p. 79; Tongcheng xianzhi (Tongcheng district gazetteer [Anhui]) (1875), juan 7, pp. 25a, 26a, juan 8, p. 15a, juan 13, pp. 18–19. 42. For Dai Yuankui (26/3/13), see “Dengke lu”; for Jin Yunhuai (26/3/8), see ibid.; She xianzhi (She district gazetteer [Anhui]) (1937), juan 4, p. 43b, juan 6, pp. 72–73. 43. Min Bao (26/3/90), see “Dengke lu”; Jinshen quanshu (1773). Candidates often gave abbreviated examination registration information if entering from previous years’ metropolitan examinations, but this record is unusually brief. 44. For the decline of the Chinese examination system, see Chang, The Chinese Gentry; Wolfgang Franke, Reform and Abolition of the Traditional Chinese Examination System (Cambridge, Mass.: Center for East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1960). 45. As Chang Chung-li pointed out, the quota relied on the size and importance of the administrative area, but even here to a certain extent population determined quotas (Zhili and the Yangzi delta provinces, both heavily populated, had the lion’s share of the quota), but other factors also were considered—economic importance and cultural position (again, Jiangnan and Zhejiang come to mind as the cultural

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heartland of the empire). Counties (zhou), districts, and prefectures were each catchment areas for a government college and were further categorized by size: small, medium, or large. In 1647 (SZ4), large catchment areas were allocated 40, medium, 30, and small, 20. In terms of averages, Chang’s tables 15 and 16, based on the (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, are a good indicator; see Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu. But the impact of the 1724 regulation’s flexibility means these figures are by no means absolute; see Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 77–92, 97. 46. Beginning in 1655, the Provincial Director of Education could select two from each large administrative area and one from each small. Yongzheng increased the frequency of selection as part of his administrative reform program, see Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 40, pp. 764–769. 47. For quotas, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 350, p. 9717. In 1660, quotas for the whole empire were established and fifteen provincial examination areas were mapped out. In the Kangxi period, Zhili, Jiangnan, Jiangxi, Zhejiang, Fujian, and Hu-Guang were considered large provinces; Shandong, Shanxi, Henan, Shaanxi, Sichuan, and Guangdong, medium; and Guangxi, Yunnan, and Guizhou, small. The regulations set figures of 114 and 206 respectively for the large provinces of Jiangnan and Zhili, and the medium-sized provinces of Shandong, Shanxi, Sichuan, and Guangdong had quotas of 69, 60, 60, and 72 respectively. The three small provinces of Guangxi, Yunnan, and Guizhou had their quotas set at 45, 54, and 36 respectively. Provincial quotas are also cited in Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 76–78. 48. The meteoric rise to power of Heshen, the Manchu favorite of Qianlong, marked the turning point of Qing fortunes. For the introduction of provincial quotas in the metropolitan examination, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 350, p. 9718, for discussion; see also Ho, Ladder, pp. 186–190 (also pp. 339, 381); he cites Libu zeli (Regulations for the Board of Rites) (1844), p. 93. Ho mistakenly gives the date as 1702. The Kangxi edict states that the previous metropolitan examination figures should be compared with the numbers registered for the current examination and the quota derived from the comparison. See Fang Chao-ying and Tu Lien-che, eds., Chin-shih t’i-ming pei-lu (List of metropolitan degree holders of the Ch’ing period), Harvard-Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series, no. 19 (Taipei: Chinese Materials and Research Aids Center, Inc., 1941; reprint, 1966), for the list of graduates from the low quota years. I investigate this case in a forthcoming article. 49. See DQSL, juan 633, pp. 13b–14, QL26/3/25, for the authorized quota. For statistics of entrants divided by province, see “Like shishu,” juan 357, QL26/3/23–25. 50. See Guozijian zhi, juan 11, p. 12, juan 14, p. 4, passim, juan 24, 10, passim, juan 68, p. 18b (cited in Zhang, “The Guozijian,” pp. 69–106). 51. These were Jiang Yongzhi (QL26/2/1), in 1751, during Qianlong’s first Southern Tour; Gu Zhen and Cao Renhu in 1757, see “Dengke lu”; for Qianlong’s remarks, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 357, p. 9805; Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 102. 52. For Jiang Yongzhi acceptance, see Zhu, “Bianxiu Jiang Jun muzhiming,” juan 12, pp. 20–24. For Gu Zhen, (26/2/3), see Hangzhou fuzhi, juan 111, p. 22b. For Cao Renhu, (26/2/58), see Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 129, p. 16a. 53. For Song Yu (QL26/3/123), see He-ning, comp., San zhou jilue (Summary compilation on three areas) (Taipei: Chengwen, 1805; reprint, 1968), p. 222; Yutian xianzhi (Yutian district gazetteer [Zhili]) (1889), juan 18, pp. 10–12.

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chapter three 1. Although the new metropolitan degree holders went on to take a court examination (chao kao) held a few days after the palace examination, it was the palace examination that marked the actual awarding of the degree and the title of jinshi. This topic is discussed further in Chapter Five. See (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9844–9858. Each metropolitan degree cohort was considered a class and defined by its year of graduation. The cohort was divided into three grades. The top grade (yi jia, also called jinshi jidi; meaning “ranking presented scholar”) contained only three graduates. The second grade (er jia, also called jinshi chushen; “of presented scholar background”) was of no fixed number, and usually contained many more graduates than the first grade but fewer than the third grade (san jia, also tong jinshi chushen; “equal to presented scholar background”), which contained the highest number of graduates. 2. The Dengke lu (hereafter DLK) for the 1761 metropolitan examination (QL26) is held in the Beijing Number One Historical Archives and is available in microfilm through the Mormon Genealogical Library holdings in Salt Lake City, Utah. 3. Parts of this chapter exploring the ideological analysis were originally presented as papers at the Association for Asian Studies Conference (April 1992) and at the eighteenth-century studies faculty seminar (May 1993) at SUNY, Stony Brook, whose members I thank for their comments. For the full text of the palace examination question, see DQSL, juan 635, pp. 10a–13a (QL26/4/21; 1761/5/25); Zhong Guanjun et al., eds., Lidai jindian dianshi dingjia zhujuan (Vermillion essays of first-class palace examination degree holders through the ages), 2 vols. (Shijiazhuang, Hebei: Huashan Wenyi Publishing House, 1995), vol. 1, pp. 486–488. 4. In his comparative study of the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European socialism, Wuthnow pays close attention to the theoretical issues of ideology together with the historical data to produce an empirically based cultural history. See Robert Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European Socialism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989). I am indebted to Arif Dirlik for recommending this study to me. 5. For more on shifts in time and place of the palace examination, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9844–9849. For the location and a description of the Shuntian prefecture examination hall in old Beijing, see L. C. Arlington and William Lewisohn, In Search of Old Peking, 1935 ed. (Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1991; reprint, 1987), pp. 151–155. 6. The second category usually included those who had to withdraw for mourning purposes, but as mourning usually lasted at least twenty-eight months, there could be no one from 1760 taking the 1761 palace examination. For 1761 list of the disqualified, the mistakes, and the penalties imposed on examiners, see “Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” packet no. 9, QL26/4/20; “Like shishu,” juan 548, QL26/420. For initiation of the review, list of types of errors and accompanying penalties, and a complete list of those excluded, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 358, pp. 9812–9821; and Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, pp. 158– 165. Zhang Xi of Anhui was the highest ranked (he had been 25th in the 1761 huishi examination) and placed 23rd in the second grade (er jia) in the 1763 palace examination. No one was in the fourth category in 1761; it was a minor category,

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for those given extraordinary imperial permission to take the palace examination. There was one person in KX60, two in YZ9, and two later in QL43; see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9844–9858. 7. For the 1761 list of palace examination readers, see DQSL, juan 635, pp. 9–10. For revisions to the number of readers see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9849–9850. For biographic material on Yin-ji-shan, see Zhao Ersun, Qingshi gao (Draft history of the Qing), 48 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1927; reprint, 1977), juan 307, pp. 10545–10549 (hereafter QSG); Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 955; Arthur Waley, Yuan Mei, Eighteenth-Century Chinese Poet (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1957; reprint, 1975), pp. 25, 75–77, 102–105, and passim. 8. On O-mi-da, Manchu of the Oji clan and patron of the geographer Lan Tingyuan (1680–1733), see Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 440; Zhao, QSG, juan 323, pp. 10808–10810, 10824. On Lai-bao, bondservant of the White Banner and manager of the imperial household for much of his career (in 1761 he was supervisor of the Board of Rites), see Zhao, QSG, juan 302, pp. 10459–10461. For career promotions and transfers of Guan-bao, see Qian Shifu et al., Qingdai zhiguan nianbiao (Chronological tables of Qing dynasty office holders) (hereafter QDZGNB), 4 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980), vols. 1 and 4, passim; Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 931. Interestingly, none of these palace examination readers had ever acted as provincial director of education or supervised examinations in the provinces. For details on the readers’ previous examination service, see Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, p. 185. For Qian Rucheng, see Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 147; Zhao, QSG, juan 305, pp. 10507– 10511, 10524. 9. For details of the palace examination ritual, see Qin, “Qingdai de dianshi”; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9844–9858. A copy of the imperially endorsed memorial outlining the schedule of events for the 1761 palace examination is in “Like shishu,” juan 548, QL26/4/16–18. 10. See Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, pp. 144–148. Unfinished essays were still handed in; these candidates were placed at the end of the third grade (san jia). In 1880 new regulations were put in effect because some candidates were sneaking back in to complete their essays. In 1883 some candidates were caught taking their unfinished essays home and handing them in later—another practice that had to be stopped. Those found out were prohibited from taking the later court examination for nine years (that is, three metropolitan examinations). 11. The test papers were then handed over to the officials in the Collector’s Office (shou juan suo), the first step in the grading process. There, the candidates’ names were entered into a register and the papers handed over in batches to the Sealers’ Office (mi feng suo). The sealers entered the name and other registration information into a register and assigned each essay a number, which was also entered into the register. The name and registration information were then sealed over with a slip of paper. The now-anonymous papers were handed over to the Office of the Official Seal (yin juan suo), where an official seal was stamped on the slip of paper covering the names. On the inspection of calligraphy, see “Mi tiben, li ke” (Secret routine memorial, rites section), 1761 (QL26), packet 9, QL26/4/18, in Number One Historical Archives, Beijing. I am indebted to Beatrice Bartlett (personal communication) for explaining that some routine memorials were also classified as secret and only available to a limited audience. One might assume from Elman (“Political, Social, and Cultural Reproduction via Civil Service Examinations in Late Im-

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perial China”) that calligraphy was evaluated at every session and level of the examination system. 12. Regarding the grading system, see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 114– 115; Zhao Yi (1727–1814), Yanpu zaji (Miscellaneous notes from the Yanpu studio) (Beijing: Zhonghua publishing house; reprint, 1982), p. 27; Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 198. For Qianlong’s concerns, see DQSL, juan 634, pp. 22–24. 13. Most often it was only the top three that were read either by or to the emperor and an edict was written to excuse him—because of the press of imperial business—from reading the remaining seven. See Zhao, Yanpu zaji, pp. 26–28, for changes in reading procedures. 14. For an analysis of policy questions and responses for provincial and huishi examinations, see Benjamin A. Elman, “Changes in Confucian Civil Service Examinations from the Ming to the Ch’ing Dynasty,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600–1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 111–149. The palace examination (dian shi) policy question format makes it very difficult to rank the subjects addressed in any order of importance—as Elman was able to do in his study of provincial (xiang shi) and metropolitan examinations (hui shi). On the pedigree and development of palace examination genre of policy question, see Benjamin A. Elman, “History in Policy Questions from Southern Provincial Civil Examinations During the Late Ming and the Early Ch’ing,” in Achievements of Historical Figures in South China During the Late Ming and Early Ch’ing (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1993), pp. 181–183; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361; Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, pp. 190–198. 15. For a helpful explanation of the eight-legged essay, see Ching-i Tu, “The Chinese Examination Essay: Some Literary Considerations,” Monumenta Serica 3, no. 1 (1975). I am grateful to Kent Guy for this reference. See DQSL, juan 635, pp. 10–13 (QL26/4/21), for the palace examination discussion question. The top three candidates’ palace examination essays (yi jia), the basis for this chapter’s analysis, are found in the 1761 DKL, pp. 4a–9a, 10a–15b, 16a–20a. 16. For a modern and a contemporary account of regional divisions among Confucian intellectual traditions see Benjamin A. Elman, “Ch’ing Dynasty ’Schools’ of Scholarship,” Ch’ing-shih wen-t’i 4, no. 6 (1981); and Juan Yuan (1764–1849), “Wang Jie nianpu” (Chronological biography of Wang Jie),” in Baochun quanshu (1815). For some recent contributions to Qing intellectual history, see Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism; Benjamin A. Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship: The Chang-Chou School of New Text Confucianism in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Zhang Shunhui, Qing ruxue ji (Notes on Qing dynasty Confucian learning) (Shandong: Qilu Book Company, 1991). 17. Much of Benjamin Elman’s excellent work has focused on this perspective; see, for example, his Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China. 18. For the reasons why there were such variations in the number of classics, see Lu Yuanjun, Wu jing si shu yaozhi (The essentials of the five classics and four books) (Taipei: Sanmin Publishing House, 1972). Palace examination questions and responses (where available) are collected in Zhong et al., eds., Lidai jindian dianshi dingjia zhujuan. The most common type of palace examination question that related to the Confucian canon provided candidates with a quotation from the Classics

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situated in the context of certain governmental principles or specific policies. See, for example, the palace examination for 1736 (QL1), in ibid., p. 470. 19. For the philological transmission of Chinese characters, see particularly Kangxi zidian (The Kangxi dictionary) (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House, 1958; reprint, 1989); Leon Wieger, S.J. (1856–1933), Chinese Characters: Their Origin, Etymology, History, Classification and Signification, trans. L. Davrout (New York: Dover Publications, 1927; reprint, 1965), pp. 266, 574, 584, 639, 695. For reference to the zheng/qu contrast, see Sima Qian (145 bc–86 bc), Shiji (Records of the grand historian), 6 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House, 1959; reprint, 1973), juan 121, p. 3124. See Wang Jie’s chronological biography (nianpu) in Juan, “Wang Jie nianpu.” For the most recent work on Chen Hongmou with mention of Wang Jie’s relationship with him, see William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), pp. 80, 475. Wang Jie’s relationship with Chen Hongmou is discussed in detail in Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761. 20. See Liang Qichao (1873–1929), Intellectual Trends of the Ch’ing Period, trans. Immanuel Hsu (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), for the development of Evidential Learning. See Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), for the broader socio-cultural implications of this development. For Zhao Yi’s link to Changzhou Learning, see Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship, pp. 40, 76–85; Zhang, Qing ruxue ji, pp. 480–521. 21. For English translation of the classical text cited, see James Legge (1815–1897), ed. and trans., I Ching: Book of Changes (New York: Bantam Books, 1899; reprint, 1969), p. 402, section II, 410.463. 22. Translations of these terms are taken from the excellent discussion by Willard Peterson, “Making Connections: “Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations” of the Book of Changes,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 42 (1982): 67–116. I have adopted Peterson’s translation of the four terms for the sake of consistency. For reference to the putative relationship with the Zhou Li (Rites of Zhou), see Ch’u Chai and Winberg Chai, “Introduction,” in I Ching: Book of Changes, n. 7, p. xxix. See also I Ching: Book of Changes, pp. 367–369, section I.310.359. 23. For the translation of liu yi as “aspects” or “principles,” see Siu-kit Wong, Early Chinese Literary Criticism (Hong Kong: Joint Publishing Company, 1983), p. 6; on interpretation of meaning, see William McNaughton, The Book of Songs (New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1971), pp. 105–106; Stephen Owen, “The Great Preface, to the Book of Songs,” in Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, ed. Stephen Owen (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1992), pp. 37–56; Burton Watson, Early Chinese Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962), pp. 201–230. 24. For a detailed analysis and interpretation of the implications of the important late Qing Old Text/New Text debate, see Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship; also Rodney A. Taylor, “Confucianism, Scripture and Sage,” in The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective, ed. Frederick Denny and Rodney Taylor (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1985), pp. 184–185, cited in John B. Henderson, Scripture, Canon, and Commentary: A Comparison of Confucian and Western Exegesis (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), p. 44.

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25. For an analysis of the various rites texts, see Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism; Henderson, Scripture, Canon, and Commentary. 26. See Henderson, Scripture, Canon, and Commentary, p. 74; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 167–168; Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, pp. 181–182; Zhao, QSG, pp. 10501–10502, 10506. 27. Controversy existed over whether Zuo’s name was Qiu or Qiuming, which Wang Jie sidestepped by avoiding any reference to it; see Sima Qian, Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty I, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), juan 130, pp. 509, 3300. 28. For the titles of the various commentaries mentioned by Wang Jie, Hu Gaowang, and Zhao Yi; see Juan Yuan (1764–1849), ed., Shisan Jing Zhushu (Commentaries on the thirteen classics) 1815 ed. (reprint, 1932), juan 416. For the most detailed description of Qing regional schools, see Elman, “Ch’ing Dynasty ’Schools’ of Scholarship”; Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship; Elman, From Philosophy to Philology. 29. See Fang Xuanling (578–648), Jin shu jiaozhu (Annotated history of the Jin dynasty) (Taipei: Xin Wenfeng Publishing House, reprint, 1975), juan 36, pp. 727– 733. See Sima, Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty I, juan 47, p. 1947; see also Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, p. 179, for a recent evaluation of the exegete Mao Chang, styled Mao Xiang. Kong Anguo was in office during the reign of Han Wudi (r. 140–86 bc). 30. For biography of Zheng Xuan (Kangcheng), see Fan Ye (398–445), Hou Han shu jijie (The annotated history of the Later Han), 2 vols. (Taipei: Xin Wenfeng Publishing House, reprint, 1975), juan 35, pp. 397–401. 31. Hu Gaowang, DKL, 1761. 32. For the spread of Han and evidential learning in the provincial examination circuit, see Elman, “Changes in Confucian Civil Service Examinations from the Ming to the Ch’ing Dynasty,” pp. 138–139. 33. For a biography of He Xiu, see Fan, Hou Han Shu jijie, juan 79 xia, p. 886. For a biography of Fan Wuzi (Ning), see Fang, Jin shu jiaozhu, juan 75, pp. 1290– 1292. For Hui Dong, see Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, pp. 158–159. Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 357–358. 34. For Gu Yanwu on shu, see Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, pp. 150, 155. For biographies of Kong Zhongda (Yingda), see Liu Xu (887–946) et al., Jiu Tang shu (Old standard history of the Tang dynasty) (Taipei: Xin Wenfeng Publishing House; reprint, 1975), juan 73, pp. 1261–1262; Ouyang Xiu (1007–1072), Xin Tang shu (New standard history of the Tang) (Taipei: Xin Wenfeng Publishing House; reprint, 1975), juan 198, pp. 2212–2213. 35. For biographies of Jia Gongyan, see Liu et al., Jiu Tang shu, juan 189 xia, p. 2471; Ouyang, Xin Tang shu, juan 198, p. 2215. For biography of Lu Yuanlang (Deming), see Liu et al., Jiu Tang shu, juan 189 xia, pp. 2468–2469; Ouyang, Xin Tang shu, juan 198, pp. 2210–2211. 36. Curiously, the same question on the stone classics was given again in the 1800 Shaanxi provincial examination, and Benjamin Elman cites this as evidence of the spread of Han and evidential learning, some forty years later, into the non-metropolitan and less culturally advanced regions. See Elman, “Changes in Confucian Civil Service Examinations from the Ming to the Ch’ing Dynasty,” p. 139; Elman,

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“The Changing Role of Historical Knowledge in Southern Provincial Civil Examinations During the Ming and the Ch’ing,” Renwen ji shehui kexue jikan (Collected papers of the humanities and social sciences) 5, no. 1 (1992); Elman, “History in Policy Questions from Southern Provincial Civil Examinations During the Late Ming and the Early Ch’ing,” for a discussion of the philological topics and changes in types of questions asked. Cai Yong’s biography in the History of the Later Han (Hou Han shu) explains that the project was begun because each of the erudites who transmitted the classics did so according to his family tradition and thus many corruptions had been introduced over time. The stone classics were to be the permanent, standardized texts for students and scholars. See Ma Heng (1880–1955), Han shi jing jicun (Collected remnants of the Han dynasty stone classics) (Beijing: Academy of Science, Archeological Institute Publishing House, 1957), preface. 37. For a general outline history of the stone classics, see Tsien Tsuen-hsun, Written on Bamboo and Silk: The Beginnings of Chinese Books and Inscriptions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), pp. 73–83. For a discussion of the stone carving of these commentaries, see Ma Heng (1880–1955), “Han shi jing gaishu” (Brief account of the Han dynasty stone classics), Zhongguo kaogu xuebao (Journal of Chinese archeology) 10 (1955). 38. I thank Chin Ann-ping of Yale University (February 1999) for sharing with me her knowledge and views on the rites. 39. For another example of an administrative-type questions, see Zhong et al., eds., Lidai jindian dianshi dingjia zhujuan, p. 470. 40. For the 1761 palace examination question, see DQSL, juan 635, pp. 10a– 13a (QL26/4/21; 1761/5/25). 41. For examples of the more hands-on approach of administration, see in particular the questions given during the Shunzhi era (1644–1661) in volume one of Zhong et al., eds., Lidai jindian dianshi dingjia zhujuan. See Denis Twitchett, Financial Administration under the T’ang Dynasty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963); see Twitchett, ed., Sui and T’ang China, 589–906, 1979 ed., vol. 3, pt. 1, The Cambridge History of China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), for examples of Tang administration. 42. Da Qing Shilu, Qianlong reign, juan 635, pp. 10a–13a. Two-thousand-picul officials (er-qian shi) were mid to low ranking, with ten thousand piculs as the highest ranking. See Charles Hucker, “Introduction: Governmental Organization Era by Era,” in A Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, ed. Charles Hucker (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), p. 16. Officials were given a grain ration as an emolument, the amount depending on their rank. Governors (similar to the high officials in central government, called the nine ministers, “jiu qing”) were given two thousand bushels of rice, hence they were called “two-thousand-picul officials.” The “liu-tiao,” or six criteria, were the basis of evaluation used by regional inspectors in the Han dynasty. See Ban Gu et al., “Baiguan gongqing biao” (Table of administrative officials),” in Han shu (Standard history of the Han dynasty) (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House; reprint, 1962); and the commentary by Yen Shigu, Han guan zhi yi (An explanation of the Han dynasty system of officialdom). Directors of bureaus were of relatively low rank, 5b, but the position was considered significant for rapid promotion; see Hucker, ed., A Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, no. 3565.

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43. For Han administrative system, see Du You (735–812), Tongdian (Encyclopedic history of institutions), 5 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House; reprint, 1988), vol. 1, juan 19, p. 110. Hucker, “Introduction: Governmental Organization Era by Era,” pp. 11–13; Qian Mu, Traditional Government in Imperial China, pp. 1–35. “San gong” (three dukes) was the collective name of the group who supervised the three main divisions of government (san fu). For these and other pre-Han administrative practices, see Gujin tushu jicheng (Imperially approved synthesis of books and illustrations past and present), 82 vols. (Shanghai: Zhonghua Publishing House, 1934; reprint, 1985), vol. 673, juan 681, pp. 645b–651a. The six ministers—a collective term for the top six agencies in the royal Zhou government (liu guan)—were (1) Tian Guan (Heavenly Minister: minister of state); (2) Di Guan (Earthly Minister: minister of education); (3) Chun Guan (Spring Minister: minister of rites); (4) Xia Guan (Summer Minister: minister of war); (5) Qiu Guan (Autumn Minister: minister of justice); and (6) Dong Guan (Winter Minister: minister of works). These offices evolved in the Sui-Tang period into the six boards. See also Eduoard Biot, Le Tcheou-Li ou rites des Tcheou, trans. Eduoard Biot, 3 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1851; Taipei: Chengwen, reprint, 1975); Hucker, ed., A Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, no. 3795. Interestingly, Jia Gongyan (in office 650– 655) glosses “lian” as meaning kao cha (investigate). 44. On the emperor and examinations, see Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, pp. 27–28. For Han administrative practices, see Ban et al., “Baiguan gongqing biao,” juan 89, p. 3624. On the one hand, governors of commanderies, as Wang Jie indicates, had to appoint their staffs from among local officials; meanwhile, they themselves had to follow the laws of avoidance that prohibited them from serving in their home areas or with relatives. Han dynasty inspectors (ci shi ) were minor officials, with an emolument of around six hundred piculs, who were assigned to evaluate the governors of commanderies and the nine ministers of the central government. Because inspectors were low-ranking officials, they had little to fear from their superiors and therefore could be the “ears and eyes” of the emperor, who could theoretically be assured of incorrupt high officials. 45. Both translations of the title are used by Creel in his study of ancient statecraft practice. Creel considered that only twelve of the twenty-eight documents of the New Text version could be reliably attributed to the Western Zhou. Nine documents that are claimed as pre-Zhou he rejects completely, and the remaining seven, he thinks, are more dubious but cannot necessarily be rejected. See Creel, Origins, pp. 447–463, passim. For a translation of the Old Text version, see The Shoo King or the Book of Historical Documents, trans. James Legge (1815–1897), vol. 3 of The Chinese Classics, 5 vols. (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press; reprint, 1960), p. 29; for a translation of the relevant section of the Modern Text version, see Bernhard Karlgren, “Glosses on the Book of Documents,” Bulletin of the Museum of Far Easter Antiquities (Stockholm) 20–21 (1948–49): 58, 92–94. The same information can also be found in the Gujin tushu jicheng, juan 81, p. 445b. The meaning of the remainder of the section, “shu ji xian xi fen bei san miao,” is less clear. For another view, see Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, pp. 57–59. Debates concerning this text have received a great deal of attention from scholars of Chinese intellectual history; the best recent discussion of the significance of New Text studies is in Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship. See also Hu Zifeng, Wu

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jing zhi yao (The essentials of the five classics) (1993), pp. 252–294, for a contemporary statement supporting the Old Text Book of Documents. 46. See Gujin tushu jicheng, juan 82, p. 51b, citing the “Zhiguan zhi” (The treatise on officials), in Liu et al., Jiu Tang shu. 47. I have followed Creel’s translations of the names for Zhou officials; see his Origins. See Biot, Le Tcheou-Li ou rites des Tcheou. Six mandates refers to the six aspects of law that the great intendant was to use in aiding the Zhou king in governing the fiefdoms. The six mandates concerned (1) government (to bring order), (2) education (to produce stability), (3) ritual (to harmonize and unite), (4) politics (to bring peace and justice), (5) punishments (to rectify as well as punish), and (6) economic policies (to enrich the fiefdoms, appoint officials, and foster population growth). 48. For background on the Zhou li, see Bernhard Karlgren, “The Early History of the Chou Li and Tso Chuan Texts,” Bulletin of the Museum of Far Easter Antiquities 3 (1931): 1–59. For assessment of the text by a twentieth-century Euro-American and a Chinese scholar, see Creel, Origins, pp. 478–480; and Qian Mu (Ch’ien Mu), “Zhou guan zhuzuo shidai kao,” Yenjing xuebao 11 (1932): 2191–2300, cited in Hsiao Kung-ch’uan, A History of Chinese Political Thought, trans. Frederick Mote (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979), vol. 1, p. 195n. For a Qing scholar’s assessment of the text, see Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, p. 59; Henderson, Scripture, Canon, and Commentary, p. 23. 49. ”Wenyi zai dao” is cited in and the translation is adapted from Bol, “This Culture of Ours,” p. 25. 50. See Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship, pp. 40, 76–85, passim, for an in-depth analysis of Tang Shunzhi and his role in the Changzhou School of New Text Confucianism. 51. Examinations, according to Hu Gaowang, had achieved perfection by combining the writing of tie (government documents), shi (poetry), fu (prose poetry), and the discussion of jing (classics) and ce (policy themes) and bringing them into one examination. 52. For Lu Zhi biography, see Liu et al., Jiu Tang shu, juan 139; Ouyang, Xin Tang shu, juan 157. For an elaboration of these intellectual debates on examination writing style, see also Bol, “This Culture of Ours”; Winston W. Lo, An Introduction to the Civil Service of Sung China: With Emphasis on Its Personnel Administration (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987). See Fan Chunren and Qian Gongfu (1023–1074), Song shi (Standard history of the Song dynasty) (Taipei: Xin Wenfeng Publishing House, reprint, 1975), juan 321. 53. See R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), p. 98, for quotation. Zhong et al., eds., Lidai jindian dianshi dingjia zhujuan, p. 485. See E. P. Thompson, “The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century,” Past and Present 50 (1971). This question points to a contradiction in the economic sphere akin to the problem suggested in the examination system (as Zhao Yi construed it), wherein what we might call the “market forces” of competition for degrees seemed to produce squandering or excess in writing and undermined what should be writing’s moral economy. 54. See Peter Perdue, Exhausting the Earth: State and Peasant in Hunan, 1500– 1850 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987); Pierre-Etienne Will, Bu-

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reaucracy and Famine in Eighteenth Century China, trans. Elborg Foster (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990). 55. See Philip C. C. Huang, The Peasant Economy and Social Change in North China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), pp. 155–168, for a discussion on the use, or rather non-use, of draft animals. 56. See also Bol, “This Culture of Ours,” pp. 170, 184, for an analysis of this phrase. 57. The negative state view of migration is still echoed by authorities in contemporary China, see Dorothy Solinger, Contesting Citizenship in Urban China: Peasant Migrants, the State and the Logic of the Market (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). 58. For Wang Jie, see DKL, QL26: 9a; for Hu Gaowang, see DKL, QL26: 15b; and for Zhao Yi, see DKL, QL26: 21b. chapter four 1. Avoidance examinations, first given in the Tang dynasty, were called bie tou shi (literally, “separate head examinations”), which meant holding the same examination in two different places for disqualified junior male relatives of examination officials. For more on the origins of avoidance examinations, see Zhao Yi (1727– 1814), Gaiyu congkao (1877), juan 29, p. 29 (also cited in Wei Xiumei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu [The avoidance system in the Qing period] [Taipei: Institute of Modern History, Academia Sinica, 1993], p. 165). Chaffee discusses the Song system of avoidance examinations as part of his extremely detailed work on Song examinations. See Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, pp. 101– 103, 231. Wei argues for avoidance as conflict of interest law. 2. For a description of nianpu, see Wu Pei-yi, The Confucian’s Progress: Autobiographic Writings in Traditional China (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), pp. 31–42, 155, 235. 3. Grave records provided a record should the grave later be disturbed. For issues in the Chinese cultural model of biography, see David S. Nivison, “Aspects of Traditional Chinese Biography,” Journal of Asian Studies 21, no. 4 (1962): 457– 463, Denis Twitchett, “Problems of Chinese Biography,” in Confucian Personalities, ed. Arthur Wright and Denis Twitchett (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1962), pp. 24–39; Denis Twitchett, The Writing of Official History under the T’ang, ed. Denis Twitchett (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 62–83. 4. For statistics on degree holding, see Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 164, table 132. Chang gives 402,300,000 as the total population, out of which 1,094,734 held degrees; degree holders, together with their families, numbered 5,473,670. Provincial examination essays were published as a record of achievement and as a model for others to follow. Benjamin Elman in his work on the examination system has analyzed the changing examination format based on several series of these essays. 5. On the Qian zi wen, see Paul Pelliot, “Le Ts’ien Tseu Wen Ou Livres Des Milles Mots,” T’oung pao 24 (1926): pp. 179–214, 251–253. Even as a girl growing up in the West, I learned the Trimetrical Classic in Cantonese at age five. For the life history and biography of Zhao Yi, see Du Weiyun (Tu Wei-yun), Zhao Yi zhuan (Biography of Zhao Yi) (Taipei: Shibao Publishing House, 1984); Yi Ming, Oubei

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xiansheng nianpu (Chronological biography of Master Oubei [Zhao Yi, 1727– 1814]), Jiaqing ed. (Hong Kong: Chongwen Bookstore, reprint, 1974). 6. See Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 22, for abolition of local level quotas. In 1652 (SZ9) regulations stipulated that the quota would be 50 percent of entering district or county candidates, and 25 percent of entering prefectural candidates should pass. In 1700, prefectural and local area quotas were abolished. See Ho, Ladder, pp. 7–17, for a discussion of the Confucian social ideology of an open system of mobility. 7. See Rawski, Education and Popular Literacy in Ch’ing China, for a discussion of literacy in Qing China. For customs and practices of examination at the local level, see Huang Liu-hung (17th century), The Complete Book Concerning Happiness and Benevolence (Fu-Hui Ch’uan-Shu): A Manual for Local Magistrates in Seventeenth-Century China, trans. Djang Chu (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1984), pp. 150–151, 518–520. 8. As I mentioned in Chapter Two, these local level examinations had no set date but were arranged to coincide with the provincial director of education’s threeyear term of office, during which he circumambulated the province twice. The term yuan is derived from his official designation of xue yuan; by extension all the examinations over which he presided also became known as yuan shi, or examinations given by the Xueyuan. See Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 58. The number of visits was fixed in 1673; see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 389, p. 321a. Also cited in Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 74. 9. See Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, pp. 6–7. 10. This compares very favorably with Chang’s figures; according to Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 94–95, only 19 percent of all shengyuan were between the ages of 16 and 20, while 44 percent were between 21 and 25, and 29 percent were between 26 and 30. 11. See Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell, pp. 33–35; see also Huang, The Complete Book Concerning Happiness and Benevolence, pp. 536–538. 12. See Daniel K. Gardner, “Confucian Commentary and Chinese Intellectual History,” Journal of Asian Studies 57, no. 2 (1998): 397–422. See Liu, “How Did a Neo-Confucian School Become the State Orthodoxy?,” pp. 483–505, on Confucianism as ideology. See Nivison, “Protest against Conventions and Conventions of Protest,” pp. 177–201, for the kinds of contradictions Confucian scholars could feel caught in. 13. On Zhao Yi’s aversion to examination essay-style, see Du, Zhao Yi zhuan, p. 6; Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, p. 4. 14. On the special relationships made at the shengyuan level, see Ch’u Tung-tsu, Local Government in China under the Ch’ing, 1969 ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1962), p. 177. 15. On Wang Jie and Chen Hongmou, in particular Chen’s special interest in Guanxue, and the Shaanxi regional Confucian school of learning studied at the Guanzhong Academy, see William T. Rowe, Saving the World, pp. 80, 131–133. 16. For career prospects of tribute students, see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 32; Ch’u, Local Government in China under the Ch’ing, pp. 93–96; Ho, Ladder, pp. 28–32. For Wang Jie’s biographic data, see Juan, “Wang Jie nianpu.” 17. Marston Anderson’s analysis suggests that the intersection of family and examinations in the eighteenth century was showing distinct signs of tension, but the

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two institutions continued nonetheless to be interdependent; see Marston Anderson, “The Scorpion in the Scholar’s Cap: Ritual, Memory, and Desire in Rulin Waishi,” in Culture and State in Chinese History, ed. Theodore Huters, R. Bin Wong, and Pauline Yu (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), pp. 259–276. 18. See Bol, “This Culture of Ours,” pp. 32–74, for this important shift in cultural values. For a definitive analysis of avoidance as it affected all areas of administration, see Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu. On Wang Jie’s reputed uprightness and integrity, see Qingchao yeshi daguan (A collection of unofficial accounts of the Qing dynasty), 1936 ed., 5 vols. (Shanghai: Shanghai Bookstore Publishing House, 1981), juan 6, p. 102. For the story of this marriage arrangement, see Zhu Gui (1731–1807), “Dongge Daxueshi Wenduan Wang Gong Jie muzhiming” (Epitaph for the Dongge Grand Councilor Wenduan, Master Wang Jie), in Beizhuan ji (Collected stele commemorative writings), juan 28, p. 18; Zhu Gui nianpu, attached to Zhu Gui (1731–1807), Zhizu Zhai wenji (Collected writings from the Studio of Completed Knowledge); Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 185–186. 19. For an evaluation of the yin privilege, see Ho, Ladder, pp. 149–153. See (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, p. 9657, for a copy of the 1744 discussion memorial. For the problems of maintaining degree-holding status over several generations, see Ho, Ladder, pp. 126–167, and see the Coda for an example in the 1761 metropolitan degree cohort. For the view ascribed to the emperor, see DQSL, juan 631, pp. 617b–618b, QL626/632/627. 20. See James H. Cole, Shaohsing: Competition and Cooperation in Nineteenth Century China (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1986), p. 108, for the high provincial degree (juren) quota assigned to Shuntian and registration of non-Zhili natives for the provincial examination. Shuntian also had an extremely high population of non-native office-holding families. For Yongzheng precedents (1723, 1724), see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, pp. 9655–9656; also Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, p. 169 cited, DQSL, juan 7, 10, YZ2/8/27. It is unclear whether it was proposed to, or by, Yongzheng as part of a strategy to strengthen his hold over a bureaucracy still divided against him. Kangxi had also used the strategy of recruiting scholars through examinations to build up a loyal following after he seized personal power over the throne. See Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor, p. 50. 21. Odoric Y. K. Wou, “The Political Kin Unit and the Family Origin in Ch’ing Local Officials,” in Perspectives on a Changing China, ed. Joshua A. Fogel and William T. Rowe (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1979), p. 73. On examination laws of avoidance, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, for the state regulations; see also Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 130–144, for sample lists of requests for clarification of existing regulations and for implementing new measures. See Odoric Wou’s 1979 article also for discussion of avoidance and his definition of the “political kin unit.” See Robert Marsh, “Bureaucratic Constraints on Nepotism in the Ch’ing Period,” Journal of Asian Studies 19, no. 2 (1960), for an analysis of nepotism and the role of avoidance. 22. See DQSL, juan 631, p. 633a, QL26/2/17, for the full text of Sui Chaodong’s memorial. 23. For increments of kin and relatives included in examination avoidance laws, see Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 169–176; and (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, pp. 9655–9662. Wou defines the five grades of mourning (wu fu)

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vertically to include the nine generations from great-great-grandfather to greatgreat-grandson, and horizontally to include the stem and three collateral branches (that is, same ancestor, different line of descent). Laws of avoidance also included maternal relatives and relatives by marriage, such as a man’s mother, wife, daughterin-law, daughter, granddaughter, aunt, and sister. Freedmann, in discussing the wu fu includes, in addition, a man’s brothers up to his great-grandnephew, a man’s father’s brothers and their sons to the second generation, a man’s grandfather’s brothers and their sons, his great-grandfather’s brothers and their sons to the man’s own generation, and the sisters of all the men; see Maurice Freedman, Lineage Organization in Southeastern China (New York: Humanities Press, 1965), pp. 41–45, cited in Wou, “The Political Kin Unit and the Family Origin in Ch’ing Local Officials,” p. 271. 24. See (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, pp. 9655, 9657, for the early Qing precedents. Duties of superintendents included overseeing the printing of the examination questions, ritually locking the examination hall gates, and carrying the examination papers from the outer hall where the candidates sat to the examiners in the inner hall. The reviewing of examination papers (mo kan), that is, comparing the original black ink version with the version copied in vermillion ink, was introduced into the metropolitan examination in 1760; see ibid., juan 358, pp. 9812–9825. On the number and types of examination personnel, see Huishi lu (Record of the Metropolitan Examination), 1751. See also Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, pp. 107– 110, 130; Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 69–74; Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell, p. 42; Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 166–167; juan 333–336, for description of duties and translation of official titles. On the inclusion of military examination personnel, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, p. 9658. Later, in 1804 (JQ9), it was thought too risky to permit the personnel who handled the food, water, and lighting (gong gei suo) to remain outside avoidance laws; they were returned to the law’s jurisdiction; cited in Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, p. 176. 25. For a general discussion on avoidance, including its contemporary relevance, see Liu Jialun and He Xuan, eds., Huibi zhidu jiangxi (Analytical explanations of the avoidance system) (Beijing: Zhongguo Renshi Press, 1990). This work was published to support the promulgation of the “Draft of Temporary Avoidance Regulations Governing the Nation’s Public Servants” (“Guojia gongwu yuan huibi zhanxing guiding cao’an”), a new administrative initiative based on the avoidance precedent. 26. This incident occurred two years before Yu Minzhong’s death; at that time Yu was in favor with the emperor and was his ranking grand councilor, although Heshen was also in favor. Yu Minzhong (1714–1780) was later accused of bribery and corruption and of helping his younger kinsmen. Yu Minzhong’s request is also cited in Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 60–61; for his biography, see Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 942–944. 27. On Yongzheng administrative reforms, see Madeleine Zelin, The Magistrate’s Tael: Rationalizing Fiscal Reform in Eighteenth-Century Ch’ing China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), passim. 28. The 1760s saw the greatest increase in these regulations. For an enumeration of categories of relatives included into kin avoidance regulations governing appointments, see Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 57–145. Interestingly, 1744 (QL9) was also the year that state quotas for the so-called youth’s examinations

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(tong shi) were abolished. See Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 2; Chang, The Chinese Gentry, pp. 11n, 73n. The implications are that while families were controlled more rigorously, examination entrance at the lower level was being broadened. 29. Several sources indicate the probability of Wu Tan’s adoption. Wu Tan’s father, according to the “Dengke lu,” was Wu Shaomo; this is corroborated in Wuding fuzhi (Wuding prefectural gazetteer [Shandong]) (1859), juan 28, p. 28. Yet both Wu Shaoshi’s biography in Han ming chen zhuan (Biographies of eminent Han Chinese ministers), Harvard-Yenching East Asia Reference Collection ed. (n.d.), juan 31, pp. 50–63; and Zhao, QSG, juan 321, pp. 10778–10779, list Wu Tan as his son. For more on the adoption of a brother’s son, see Ann Waltner, Getting an Heir: Adoption and the Construction of Kinship in Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1990), pp. 50–51, 91, 177, n. 156. 30. For appointment of father and son Wu Yuan and exemption from avoidance, see DQSL, juan 753, pp. 713–714, QL31/1/21 for appointment; also cited in Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, p. 123. 31. For appointment and avoidance exemption for Wu Yuan, see DQSL, juan 885, p. 883b, QL36/15/17. Cited in Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, p. 123 as 885:4. See DQSL, juan 903, p. 906, QL37/2/19, for second appointment of Wu Shaoshi and Wu Tan together. The crucial part of the text says, “Let Wu Tan be appointed to the vacancy of vice-president of the Board of Punishments; let Wu Shaoshi be transferred as vice-president to the Board of Civil Office. . . . Wu Shaoshi should manage the affairs in the Board of Punishments until Wu Tan arrives, thereafter he can proceed to the Board of Civil Office . . . ” See also Qian et al., QDZGNB, vol. 1, p. 623; vol. 3, pp. 1850–1851. See Han ming chen zhuan, juan 31, p. 55a. The subject of the Han ming chen zhuan sub-biography is the elder son, Wu Yuan, but in QL37 (1772) it says: “his younger brother, Tan, was moved internally to the Board of Punishments as vice-president; thus he was transferred to the Board of Civil Office.” The “he,” if referring back to the subject, would mean Wu Yuan. The father, Wu Shaoshi, was moved to the Board of Civil Office at the same time (ibid., 31:57b). 32. One li is equivalent to a third of a mile. For native place avoidance regulations, see Wei, Qingdai zhi huibi zhidu, pp. 5–56. 33. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 201–205, 208–209, n. 202, for appointment of Grand Council clerks, concurrent appointment and terminology (zai Junjichu xingzou). For Sui Chaodong’s request and the emperor’s response, see DQSL, juan 631, p. 633, QL26/2/17. Compare with (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 345, pp. 9655–9656, for Yongzheng precedents (1723, 1724). For the list of prospective associate examiners and the imperial selections, see “Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” packet no. 9, QL26/2/25. Sui Chaodong’s name was written as an addition to the original list of prospective names. For orders to investigate all examination personnel families, see DQSL, juan 631, p. 618b, QL626/632/627, and juan 632, p. 633a, QL626/633/632. 34. On Sui Chaodong’s service as examiner, see Fa-shi-shan (1753–1813), ed., Qing mishu wen: San zhong, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju; reprint, 1982), vol. 1, pp. 210, 477. On Liu Tongxun’s and Yu Minzhong’s offices, see Qian et al., QDZGNB, vol. 1, pp. 138, 228, 615. For biography of Liu Tongxun (1700–1773), see “Qingshi juan” (Draft biographies for the Qing History), in National Palace

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Collection Archives (Taipei), no. 7780; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 533–534. For Yu Minzhong biography, see ibid., pp. 253, 369, 942; Guoshi dachen liezhuan (Categorized draft biographies of ministers for the national history) (Taipei: National Palace Museum Archives), no. 5741; Jintan xianzhi (Jintan district gazetteer [Jiangsu]) (1926), juan 9, p. 1. See DQSL, juan 631, pp. 17b–18b, QL26/2/27; juan 632, 14–16b], QL26/3/11 for the announcement of the investigation results. For two other important examination cases, see Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor, and the several anecdotes in Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell. 35. Much of this section is indebted to Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, the most thorough-going work on Grand Council development to date and one that also lays much of the groundwork for understanding mid-Qing bureaucratic politics. See, in particular, pp. 1–5, 9, 20, 137, 149, 151, 164–166, and 186–190 for the complex development of the council’s functions as the emperor’s “high privy council,” for Grand Council bureaucratic hegemony, for the struggle and tension between inner and outer court and the growing power of the Grand Council, and for Grand Council concurrent appointments. For Zhao Yi’s (1727–1814) account of the incident, see Zhao Yi, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, pp. 26–28. 36. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 181–182, 197, for comments on the extent and potential of the examination network of Grand Council activities in examinations. For the general process of palace examiner selection, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9844–9850. See DQSL, juan 635, pp. 639– 610, QL26/4/20; and Qian et al., QDZGNB, vol. 4, p.2814, for 1761 palace examination readers. Final ranking in the palace examination was influential in appointment to office. See Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, pp. 233–300. 37. Biographic data for Sui Chaodong derive from Fa-shi-shan, ed., Qing mishu wen: San zhong, vol. 1, pp. 192, 383, 460, 463, 465; Qian et al., QDZGNB, vol. 4, p. 3219; Danyang xianzhi (Danyang district gazetteer [Jiangsu]) (1885), juan 20, p. 23a. See DQSL, juan 632, pp. 614–616, QL26/3/11, for conclusion of the court investigation, the emperor’s angry accusations and order to send Sui’s case to the Board of Punishments. 38. For overview of the throne’s struggle for centralized control over the state, see Qian Mu, Traditional Government in Imperial China, passim. On remission of sentence and Sui Chaodong’s 1765 appointment as prefect of Yuan county in Hunan, see “Luli yinjian” 1765 ; Danyang xianzhi, juan 20, p. 23a. See Joanna WaleyCohen, Exile in Mid-Qing China: Banishment to Xinjiang, 1758–1820 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), pp. 62–63, 73–76; Thomas A. Metzger, The Internal Organization of Ch’ing Bureaucracy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973), pp. 303–308, for discussion of cash restitution, redemption of crimes, and resumption of administrative careers. 39. See DQSL, juan 630, p. 637b, QL26/2/5, for the announcement of Qianlong’s departure to Wutai Shan. On Liu and Yu as the earliest Chinese leading grand councilors, see Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 174, 180, 351, n. 128. On the policy of punishment for senior Council members, see ibid., p. 219. Bartlett suggests that the emperor actually often chose not to know about his advisors’ activities. 40. For Liu Tongxun’s memorial of impeachment, see DQSL, juan 156, pp. 157– 161, QL6/12/4 (1742); “Shangyu dang” (Record book of imperial edicts), in Qing archives, National Palace Museum (Taipei), vol. l, pp. 760–761, 1910, QL6/12/4 (1742); for a later discussion of the incident, see Kent R. Guy, “Zhang Tingyu and

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Reconciliation: The Scholar and the State in the Early Qianlong Reign,” Late Imperial China 7, no. 1 (1986): 50–62. 41. See Zhao Yi’s personal recollections of the 1761 Palace Examination, Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, p. 28. Zhao Yi’s sources were: the Fang Hui (1227–1306), ed., Yingkui lusui (The metrical marrow of the Hall of Literary Notables) (China); He Qiaoyuan (1558–1632), ed., Min shu (Fujian provincial gazetteer), reprint, 3 vols. (Fujian: Fujian Renmin chubanshe; reprint, 1994). It is interesting that Zhao Yi should cite He Qiaoyuan, who was considered suspect by the Qing rulers (one of his works, Ming shan cang, was prohibited), and whose work was not included in the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu). Min shu (1629), cited in Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, p. 253. I am grateful to John Chaffee for providing the reference to the University of Chicago’s microfilm copy of this work; a facsimile reprint is now available. Zhao’s second source is a work of poetic criticism. See C. A. S. Williams, Outlines of Chinese Symbolism and Art Motives (Shanghai: Kelly and Walsh, 1932), p. 323: “The pine and cedar, which, unlike most trees, do not wither in winter, are used metaphorically for friends who remain constant in adversity.” 42. For the discussion on the nature of imperial power, see Jonathan D. Spence, “Review of Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 52, no. 2 (1992): 756–763, where he argues that imperial power rather than arbitrary was subject to the systemic dynamics of the bureaucracy. See Philip Kuhn, “Political Crime and Bureaucratic Monarchy: A Chinese Case of 1768,” Late Imperial China 8, no. 1 (1987): 80–104; Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers: The Chinese Sorcery Scare of 1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), pp. 187–222, for the argument that imperial power was capricious and therefore arbitrary. 43. One mu is a sixth of an acre. For Zhao Yi’s early circumstances, see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, pp. 5–6. For his annual income, see Du, Zhao Yi zhuan, p. 10. Given the formulaic tendencies in biographic writing, this description may well be an instance of playing up to the cliché of the poor scholar making good through education as exemplified by Wu Jingzi’s eighteenth-century satire of the examination system, see Wu Jingzi (1701–1754), Rulin waishi (The scholars), trans. Xianyi Yang and Gladys Yang (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1957). 44. See Sima, Records of the Grand Historian, juan 130, p. 3295, for an example of the archetypal statement on filial piety. 45. See Nivison, “Protest against Conventions and Conventions of Protest,” for a discussion of the link between family, state, education, and culture, and the stresses such conflicting imperatives could impose upon intellectual autonomy. DQSL, juan 604, p. 602, QL25/1/1. See, for Chen Gui reference, Richard W. L. Guisso, “The Reigns of the Empress Wu, Chung-tsung, and Jui-tsung (684–712),” in Cambridge History of China, Sui and T’ang Dynasties, 589–906, ed. Denis Twitchett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979). On the intersection of family and education and a discussion of the “social ideology” of examinations, see Ho, Ladder, pp. 1–52. On the dynamics of reciprocity in Confucian social relations, see Liensheng Yang, “The Concept of Pao as a Basis for Social Relations in China,” in Chinese Thought and Institutions, ed. John King Fairbank (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957), pp. 291–309. 46. See earlier note defining the five grades of mourning (wu fu). Ninety-two percent of Wou’s (1979) nineteenth-century sample was found to have at least one

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prominent official as a relative on whom they could call for help. The results of Wou’s study considerably complicated Ho’s (1962) earlier conclusions about late imperial China’s socially open and fluid society, as of course did Beattie’s work (1979). 47. For the significance of marriage and examinations in the Song period, see Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, pp. 8, 10–12, 187–188; Thomas H. C. Lee, “Life in the Schools of Sung China,” Journal of Asian Studies 37, no. 1 (1977): 51–52; Jerry Dennerline, “Marriage, Adoption, and Charity in the Development of Lineages in Wu-Hsi from Sung to Ch’ing,” in Kinship Organization in Late Imperial China, 1000–1940, ed. Patricia Ebrey and James L. Watson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), pp. 171–172; Jerry Dennerline, Qian Mu and the World of Seven Mansions (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), passim; Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship, passim; Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, p. 8. 48. See Li Fusun (1764–1843), Hezheng houlu (Record of participants in the boxue hongci examinations of 1679 and 1736) (China: 1807; reprint, Zhaodai congshu, vol. 119), juan 24, p. 64, for reference to Liu Heming’s participation in the 1736 examination. Liu Heming, with Yin-ji-shan’s sponsorship, was one of the 194 candidates who participated, but he was not selected, according to the compiler, an honor worthy of a written record nonetheless. See also ibid., juan 24, p. 12, for Liu Lun’s (1711–1773) participation in the same examination. Liu Lun was placed top of the group of five in the highest category. For Zhao Yi becoming a Grand Council clerk, see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, pp. 8–14; also cited in Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, p. 206. For Zhao Yi’s relationship with Fuheng (d. 1770) and Wang Youdun (1692–1758), see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, pp. 19–21; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 602, 943; Qian et al., QDZGNB; Zhao, QSG, juan 302, pp. 10456– 10459; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 22, p. 27a. For details of Wang Youdun’s career, see Qingshi liezhuan (Categorized biographies compiled for the history of the Qing dynasty), 1928 ed. (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, reprint, 1964), juan 72, pp. 19b– 21a; Zhao, QSG, juan 485, pp. 13390–13391. For Zhao Yi’s relationship with Fuheng (d. 1770), see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, p. 14. Besides being divided into three main classes, each graduate was also ranked seriatim within his class. See Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, p. 117, for explanation of examination ranking. See Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, p. 216, n. 226, for translation of terms. 49. See Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, pp. 26–28. 50. See Chaffee, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China, p. 51, for the beginning of this examination practice in 992. See Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, pp. 155–165, for details of checking procedures. See Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 198, for the non-copying of palace examination essays. As Elman (1991) notes, calligraphy was important, its significance was complicated however by the system of copying (teng lu) to provide equity and anonymity. Arguably, it was only at the palace examination—the very last stage—that calligraphy became a significant criterion of selection. 51. For anecdote, see Zhao, “Xinsi dianshi” (1761 palace examination), in Yanpu zaji, juan 2, pp. 26–28, reprint, 1982. Zhao Yi went to the capital in 1749 and immediately found employment with Liu Tongxun, where he helped compile the latter’s Gong shi (Palace history); see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, p. 9.

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52. For Liu Yong’s biography, see Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 536–537; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 30, pp. 31–38; Zhen Dou, Guochao shuhua jia bilu (Notes on Qing dynasty painters and calligraphers) (Taipei: Wenshi Zhe Publishing Co., 1911; reprint, 1971), pp. 161–162. For Liu Yong’s calligraphy, see Zhongguo shufa da cidian (Encyclopaedia of Chinese Calligraphy) (Beijing: 1984), p. 868; also see Nakata Yujiro, Chinese Calligraphy, trans. J. Hutner (New York: Weatherhill, 1983) pp. 150–153. For biographic data on Ouyang Xun, see Liu et al., Jiu Tang shu, juan 189, shang, p. 4947; Ouyang, Xin Tang shu, juan 198, p. 5645. See Zhongguo shufa da cidian, pp. 369–370; also Chen Chih-mai, Chinese Calligraphers and Their Art (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1966), pp. 80–84, for a description of Ouyang Xun’s calligraphy. For a description of Ouyang Xun’s stylistic development of regular script, see Huang Zongyi, Ouyang Xun shufa zhi yanjiu (Research into the calligraphy of Ouyang Xun) (Taipei: Huifeng Tang Bimo Publishing Co., 1989). His calligraphy was famous in his own lifetime; even Koreans came to China to search out his work. 53. See Kuhn, Soulstealers, pp. 187–222, for an analysis of this interpretation of imperial power. For emperor’s reading time, see Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, p. 27; also cited in Zi, Pratique des examens litteraires, p. 198, however Zi defines one ke as fifteen minutes and not the correct equivalent. Zi’s total is five hours. 54. Given the quota system introduced by the Kangxi emperor in 1712, the lack of a Shaanxi zhuang yuan was not a shocking omission but a built-in mechanism. Whereas the assigned geographical quota for Jiangnan was 34 from a total of 686 entrants, and for Zhejiang 30 out of 499 entrants, Shaanxi (which in 1761 included Gansu) was assigned 10 out of 266 entrants. Roughly, Jiang-Zhe, the cultural heartland, had an assigned quota of 10 out of every 100 entrants, while Shaanxi (even if sending in fewer entrants) had approximately only half that amount, 5 out of 100. See DQSL, juan 633, pp. 613–614, QL26/3/25, for the 1761 quota; for 1761 entrance numbers, see “Like shishu,” juan 547, pp. 523–525; see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 350, p. 9718, for introduction of metropolitan quotas. The date for the latter is mistakenly given as 1702 in Ho, Ladder, p. 188. 55. See Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, pp. 19–21; Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, pp. 26– 28, “Xinsi dianshi” (1761 palace examination), for recollections of the court audience. See above for Wang Youdun references. Dating calculated from Zhao’s use of the posthumous names of all the senior ministers and the discussion of his own retirement from office and brief attempt to return to official life in 1780. 56. As it turns out, Wang Jie was indeed the only Shaanxi zhuang yuan during the whole Qing dynasty. See Zhu Peilian, Qingdai dingjia lu (Top-placed metropolitan degree holders of the Qing dynasty) (Taipei: Zhonghua publishing house, 1969); Huang Yanpei, “Qingdai ge sheng renwen tongji zhi yiban” (Statistics for Qing dynasty degree holders arranged by province), Renwen yuekan 2, no. 6 (1931): 1–10, cited in Susan Naquin and Evelyn Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987); Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 157–159; Zhang, Qingdai kaoshi zhidu, juan 4, pp. 1–12, for lists and statistical analyses of Qing dynasty metropolitan graduates. Though it occurred rarely, the 1761 metropolitan examination was not the only one where the graduates were made to switch places. 57. See Marsh, “Bureaucratic Constraints on Nepotism in the Ch’ing Period,” pp. 117–133, for an analysis of career mobility and the influence of family background. Marsh delineated some of the issues discussed here, but his focus was on

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the role of seniority as a restriction on nepotism, laws of avoidance were only a tangential issue. 58. For a discussion of the problematic of imperial decline, especially in its impact on late imperial bureaucracy, see Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,” in The Cambridge History of China: Late Ch’ing, 1800–1911, ed. John King Fairbank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), pp. 107–162. For population figures, see Ho, Studies on the Population of China, pp. 35, 281–282; William Lavely, James Lee, and Wang Feng, “Chinese Demography: The State of the Field,” Journal of Asian Studies 49 (1990): 816, gives an increase of 100–150 million in the late seventeenth century to 500 million by the turn of the twentieth century. See, for example, Peter Perdue, “Compassion Fatigue and Famine Relief in Imperial China,” (unpublished paper, 1995), for a likely response to regularized demands on local elite resources. See Waley-Cohen, Exile in Mid-Qing China, pp. 12–13, for an explanation of the budgetary restraints. For a study of private secretaries (mu you) in nineteenth century China, see Kenneth E. Folsom, Friends, Guests, and Colleagues: The Mu-Fu System in the Late Ch’ing Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968). For a discussion of the control of examinations by the imposition of state quotas, see Chang, The Chinese Gentry, passim; Ho, Ladder, pp. 172–190. For an analysis of state quotas set against eighteenth century provincial population figures, see Man-Cheong, The Class of 1761, pp. 13– 80. For an analysis of state examination quotas by macro-region divisions, see Naquin and Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century, passim. For an estimate of “classically educated commoners,” see David Johnson, “Communication, Class, and Consciousness in Late Imperial China,” in Popular Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. David Johnson, Andrew Nathan, and Evelyn Rawski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), pp. 34–72. Johnson estimates a figure of five million during the Qing period (cited by Elman, in “Political, Social, and Cultural Reproduction via Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China”), or 10 percent of the early eighteenth century population and 5 percent of the early nineteenth century population. See Esherick and Rankin, Chinese Local Elites and Patterns of Dominance, pp. 1–24, for argument supporting a resource-centered definition of elites. chapter five 1. There are a great many studies on the subject of Qing communications. Some of the most recent and/or most important are Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers; John King Fairbank and Ssu-yu Teng, Ch’ing Administration: Three Studies (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960); Silas Wu, “The Memorial Systems of the Ch’ing Dynasty, 1644–1911,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 27 (1967): 7–75; Silas Wu, Communication and Imperial Control in China: Evolution of the Palace Memorial System, 1693–1735 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971). For a fascinating discussion of the self-referentiality of the state, see Jessop, State Theory, pp. 278–367. Although Jessop’s work problematizes modern capitalist states, his discussion is illuminating on the state in general. This in no way argues for the facticity of this model, merely how such a model can be narratively constructed. See discussions on historical narrative in Hayden White, “The Fictions of Factual Representation,” in Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism, ed. Hayden White (Baltimore:

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Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978); see Duara, Rescuing History, for arguments against a linear approach to history. 2. I take the last to be the case since Wang Jie’s wrote the characters “guo jia” higher than the ordinary text of his essay, level with his references to the emperor. See “Dengke lu,” pp. 14b, 15b, 21b, 19a. See Kui et al., Qinding kechang tiaoli, juan 42, for regulations governing the elevation of special characters or graphs. 3. See Hsieh Pao Chao (Xie Baozhao), The Government of China, 1644–1911 (New York: Octagon Books, Inc., 1966) p. 181. Hsieh does not say who was the author of this notion. See Polachek, The Inner Opium War, for an example of this self-nourishing system in action. For the discussion of the Hanlin, see Jerry Dennerline, The Chia-ting Loyalists: Confucian Leadership and Social Change in Seventeenth Century China (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981); and Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship. 4. See James Hevia, “The Archive State and the Fear of Pollution: From the Opium Wars to Fu Man-Chu,” Cultural Studies 12, no. 2 (1998): 234–264. Hevia’s discussion is mainly concerned with the effects of what he has described as “the importance of the paper shuffling process of bureaucratic practice” as it particularly pertains to nineteenth-century British colonialism. His theorizing clearly has interesting implications for the study of Qing bureaucracy. The wonderful work of Beatrice Bartlett (1991) on the Grand Council springs immediately to mind. 5. See (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9857–9858, for late Kangxi training system; see Kui et al., Qinding kechang tiaoli, juan 57, p. 4353, for Yongzheng changes. See Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor; Lawrence Kessler, “Chinese Scholars and the Early Manchu State”; Frederick Wakeman, Jr., “The Price of Autonomy: Intellectuals in the Ming and Ch’ing,” Daedalus 101 (1972); Lynn A. Struve, “Ambivalence and Action: Some Frustrated Scholars of the K’ang-hsi Period,” in From Ming to Ch’ing: Conquest, Region, and Continuity in Seventeenth-Century China, ed. Jonathan D. Spence and John E. Wills (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979); for early Qing relations toward intellectuals. See Table 5.7. 6. Compare, for example, Su et al., comp., Qinding xuezheng quanshu, juan 40; with (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9857–9858. 7. Provincial quotas for post-metropolitan degree selection were introduced in 1652. For the system of accepting writing samples, see Shang, Qingdai keju kaoshi shulue, pp. 125–126; for Wang Jie practice of integrity, see Juan, “Wang Jie nianpu.” 8. Later graduates composed in four different genres of writing: a disquisition (lun), a proclamation (zhao), and a memorial to the throne (shu) besides the original pianti poetry style. Half a century later it was decided to omit the zhao form from the test. See (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, pp. 9857–9858; Kui et al., Qinding kechang tiaoli, juan 57, pp. 4340–4341. I have found no reference to the cited work Shi jian ji. For the examination question for recruiting Hanlin bachelors and the examination question for those leaving the Hanlin Academy, see “Neige shiti,” 1761, QL26/4/29 kaoshi shujishi ti, and QL26/3/22, Wang Chang, jiaolai kaoshi feiyuan Hanlin. For an institutional study of the Hanlin, see Adam Yuen-chung Lui, The Hanlin Academy: Training Ground for the Ambitious, 1644–1850 (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1981), p. 12. 9. See Pierre Bourdieu and Jean-Claude Passerson, Reproduction in Education, Society, and Culture, trans. Richard Nice and Louis Wacquant, 1990 ed. (London: Sage Publications, 1992); and Pierre Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power,

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trans. Gino Raymond and Matthew Adamson (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), pp. 1–32; see John B. Thompson’s introduction to the latter work for the theoretical argument concerning the arbitrariness of both education and examination. 10. See Lui, The Hanlin Academy, p. 24. 11. For Deng Dalin, see Dongguan xianzhi (Dongguan district gazetteer [Guangdong]) (1911). The compilers had rather unusually also provided citations of sources from which they had derived their information. The 1798 edition of the district gazetteer has no biography, although it mentions that Deng Dalin’s father, Deng Yunhe was awarded an honorary title, because of his son’s position as Guangxi circuit intendant. The parallels with O-er-tai (1680–1745), the famed imperial favorite of the early reign, were more than just intellectual: Yin-ji-shan was married to one of O-er-tai’s nieces and both men had enormously successful careers marked by the obvious fondness of Qianlong; see Zhao, QSG, juan 307, pp. 10545–10549. On sending writing samples, see Zhao, Yanpu zaji; (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 361, p. 9857; Kui et al., Qinding kechang tiaoli, juan 57, pp. 4341–4342. On using coded language to cheat, see ibid., juan 57, pp. 4335–4338. See Xu, Qingbai leichao, vol. 8, p. 3579 “Shi zhi leibie” (Kinds of teachers). The mention of Dong Gao, a famous scholar of Confucian ritual, may be a coded way of indicating that Deng Dalin also had similar interest in the subject; see Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 791. 12. See DQSL, juan 636, p. 639 (QL26/5/5), for instructions to inform provincial governors of returning graduates. 13. These figures correlate well with those in John Watt’s findings for the nineteenth century. They show that the trends he discusses began at least in the previous century. See John R. Watt, The District Magistrate in Late Imperial China (New York: Studies of the East Asian Institute, Columbia University Press, 1972). 14. See Folsom, Friends, Guests, and Colleagues, for details on the private secretariat system. The best sources for administrative appointments for the 1761 cohort are the personnel dossiers prepared for the court interviews for appointment to office (lüli yinjian). The Jinshen quanshu (The complete book of official appointments)—which sometimes include the subject’s qualifications but often not—has no index and is organized by administrative structure; it is a laborious source and less useful than it could be. Sometimes it has listings not found in the personnel dossier records, and often contains appointments made previous to the edition. The Luli yinjian is arranged by year and by name; those who came up on the Board of Civil Office’s appointment rolls were listed as expectant officials (houxuan) and in preparation for such and such a vacancy (nibei), a detail missing from the published Jinshen quanshu. Listings of degree holders in local gazetteers sometimes give some information on appointment, but it is often undated. 15. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, for one the most comprehensive statement on the system to date. See Spence, Emperor of China, for a description and analysis of the earlier tours. See Zhao, Yanpu zaji, for a description of his tenure in Wang Youdun’s secretariat. 16. For the imperial tours, see (Qinding) Da Qing huidian shili, juan 357, pp. 9804–9805. Those ranked with second class honors had to be content with the gift of a bolt of imperial brocade. 17. For details of 1762 awards, see DQSL, juan 656, pp. 654, 614, 616b (QL27/3/3, 9, 13); and “Gongzhong Yuzhi Huizou,” juan 61, p. 63 (QL27/3/10,

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13). See Qingshi liezhuan, juan 71, pp. 30–31; “Qingshi juan,” nos. 4852, 4347, for details of Feng Yingliu’s selection. 18. See Lui, The Hanlin Academy, pp. 29–44, 65–112. See Benjamin A. Elman, “Imperial Politics and Confucian Societies in Late Imperial China,” Modern China 15, no. 4 (1989): 379–418. Elman reprises Dennerline’s earlier argument in very broad strokes, extending it from the Song to the late Qing, arguing for a nineteenth-century revival of “gentry” activism. Curiously, Elman seems to have missed Dennerline’s in-depth 1981 monograph of literati activism and political mobilization, depriving his argument of some beautifully detailed analysis. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, p. 187, on the power of the Grand Council. For Ming organization of government, see Charles O. Hucker, “Governmental Organization of the Ming Dynasty,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 21 (1958): 1–66, cited in Dennerline, The Chia-ting Loyalists. 19. See Elman, “Imperial Politics and Confucian Societies in Late Imperial China,” p. 396, where initially it appears there is a simple binary opposition of the imperial state representing national interests and scholar-officials representing local interests. Although Yang is mainly interested in post-Qing practices, much of her argument is relevant to the eighteenth century discussion, see Mayfair Mei-hui Yang, Gifts, Favors, and Banquets: The Art of Social Relationships in China (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994). See Hevia, “The Archive State and the Fear of Pollution,” for an explanation of this concept in the exercise of imperial control of colonial territories. See Duara, “De-Constructing the Chinese Nation,” and Duara, Rescuing History, on the development and impact of nationalist narratives. 20. For Wang Weishan’s examination listing and selection as Hanlin bachelor, see Wang Xuehao, Kunshan/Xinyang liangxian zhi, juan 15, p. 21, juan 16, p. 22; there is no separate biography. 21. The appointments were made on QL26/6/21. Jie-fu died in the fourth lunar month of QL27 (1762). See Qian et. al., QDZGNB, vol. 4, p. 2814. 22. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, on the important training that Grand Council clerks received with their clerkships. 23. For examiners as political activists, see Dennerline, The Chia-ting Loyalists, pp. 16–23, 302–314, 338–339. 24. For the continuities established by Qian Daxin, see ibid., p. 334–337. 25. For Song-gui, see Qian et al., QDZGNB, vol. 4, p. 3242; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 96, p. 4433; “Qingshi juan,” no. 5787. See Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 262, for Fude. For the Zhao-hui anecdote, see Zhao, Yanpu zaji, juan 2, p. 27. 26. See Dennerline, The Chia-ting Loyalists, pp. 14–23, for discussion of the Ming period; and Chang, The Chinese Gentry, p. 27, for the Qing. See Elman, “Imperial Politics and Confucian Societies in Late Imperial China,” pp. 379–418, for a discussion of Qing political activism; see Elman, “History in Policy Questions from Southern Provincial Civil Examinations During the Late Ming and the Early Ch’ing,” for the spread of intellectual trends. 27. See Nivison, “Aspects of Traditional Chinese Biography,” pp. 457–63, for epitaph writing. Jiang Yongzhi had turned down the employment offer that came with his tribute status studentship in 1741 (see Chapter Two) but accepted the appointment awarded for success in the 1751 Southern Tour recruitment examination. For Jiang Yongzhi’s biography, see Huaning xianzhi (Huaining district gazetteer [Anhui]) (1825), pp. 21–22; Zhu, “Bianxiu Jiang Jun muzhiming,” juan 12, pp. 20–24.

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28. See Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 805–807, for a biography of Wang Chang. Qianlong only selected eight from the original list of seventy-three names presented to him by the Board of Rites for selection as associate examiner; an additional ten names were written on the front page of the list, to some extent representing the choices made with subsequent consultation. See “Routine Memorials Rites Section (Tiben like),” packet no. 9, QL26/2/25. See Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 87, 148, 856, for Qing san yuan. 29. For Ji Chengqian and the Ji lineage, see Ji shi xu zongpu, juan 5, pp. 1–2; Wuxi, jinkui xianzhi, juan 15, pp. 17a, 43a; Ho, Ladder, pp. 137–139. 30. For Yao Fen and the Yao lineage, see Tongcheng xianzhi (1875), juan 7, p. 26, juan 28, p. 27, juan 13, pp. 18–19; Tongcheng xianzhi (1975), pp. 207, 263; Tongcheng Yaoshi beizhuan lu (Stele commemorative records for the Yao lineage of Tongcheng [Anhui]) (1906), juan 5, pp. 1–3; Beattie, Land and Lineage in China, pp. 52–53, 100–105; Qingshi liezhuan, juan 27, pp. 40–41; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 186, pp. 6745–6746. 31. For Ji Yun’s role in the imperial compilation project, see Kent R. Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries. 32. For comment on importance of military merit, see “Qingshi juan,” no. 7763. While the author of the editorial comment is unknown, the positive attitude toward both the Qing and the Qianlong military project would seem to imply it was written during rather than after the Qing fell. The compilation history of the Qing is complicated; see Endymion Wilkinson, Chinese History: A Manual, Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series, 46 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, Harvard University Press, 1998), pp. 914–915, for discussion. For the argument for a shift in cultural values, see in particular, Joanna WaleyCohen, “Commemorating War,” pp. 869–899; Waley-Cohen, “Religion, War, and Empire-Building,” pp. 336–352. 33. This could often be after rather than before the fact, however. See Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 122. See Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, for the most comprehensive study in a Western language on this project. See Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, in particular, for an elaboration of the development of unofficial patronage within the scholarly community. 34. For Yu Tingcan, see Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 129, p.120a–121b; Changsha xianzhi (Changsha district gazetteer [Hunan]) (1871), juan 21, p. 13b, juan 21, p. 27b, juan 23, p. 51b. For biographic material on Xie Qikun (1737–1802) who was a student of Weng Fanggang (1733–1818), see Jiangxi tongzhi (Complete gazetteer for Jiangxi province) (1881), juan 16, pp. 18a–19b; Qingshi liezhuan, juan 31, p. 42a; Zhao, QSG, juan 359, pp. 11356–11358; and Yao Nai (1732–1815), “Guangxi Xunfu Xie gong muzhiming (Funerary epitaph for Master Xie, governor of Guangxi province),” in Xibao xuan wenji (Collected writings of Master Xibao’s studio) (1800), juan 7, pp. 2a–3b. Ten years after Sun Shiyi had used Guangxi as a base for the Annam expedition, Xie Qikun, appointed governor in 1799, still found the province to have enormous deficits and was able to use his financial abilities to turn them around. For the history of Liuli chang, see Kai-wing Chow, “Writing for Success: Printing, Examinations, and Intellectual Change in Late Ming China,” Late Imperial China 17, no. 1 (1996); and also the work of another metropolitan graduate of 1761, Li Wencao.

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35. See Goodrich, The Literary Inquisition of Ch’ien-lung, pp. 49, 170–173, 182; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 320–321, 645–646, for details of the literary inquisition and Xie Qikun’s involvement with the Xu Shukui case. Goodrich mistakenly writes that Xie Qikun was sentenced to and actually went into exile when he in fact paid cash redemption for his sentence. See Wu Yulun biography, Qingshi liezhuan, juan 25, pp. 25b–27a; see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, for Zhao Yi. For the compilation history of San Tong, see Wilkinson, Chinese History: A Manual, pp. 524– 526, 915. 36. The reinvention and narration of the Manchu heritage was a separate project that none of the Class of 1761 worked on insofar as our biographic records show. The Comprehensive Gazetteer (Yi tong zhi) was begun before the Qianlong reign. The Veritable Record was compiled after each monarch’s reign; see Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 160–163, 293. For Wang Jie’s appointment, see Qingshi liezhuan, juan 26, p. 31a. 37. The Wuying dian was subordinate to the Imperial Household Department (Neiwu fu), whose management office lay to the west of it, just inside the Xihua men (Western Flowery Gate), the western entrance to the Forbidden City. See Preston Torbet, The Ch’ing Imperial Household Department: A Study of Its Organization and Principal Functions, 1662–1796 (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1977), for a comprehensive study of the Imperial Household Department. My thanks to Joanna Waley-Cohen, who in conversation (12/5/99) pointed out that the wen/wu binary, rather than oppositional, should be regarded as a continuum. One can clearly see this in the layout of these buildings in the Forbidden City. See the small illustrated volume by Gilles Beguin and Dominique Morel, The Forbidden City: Center of Imperial China (New York: Harry Abrams, Inc., 1997), pp. 38, 49; and O-er-tai and Zhang Tingyu, eds., Guochao gongshi (Palace regulations of the Qing dynasty), 1769 ed. (Beijing: Guji Publishing House, reprint, 1987) (compare juan 11, p. 177, with juan 12, p. 201). For the English translation of Wuying dian as Hall of Military Prowess, see Arlington and Lewisohn, In Search of Old Peking, pp. 26–27. Many of the contributors to Hummel prefer to translate the name of the throne hall into its functional name, as do H. S. Brunnert and V. V. Hagelstrom in Present-Day Political Organization of China, trans. A. Beltchenko and E. E. Moran (Kelly & Walsh, 1912 ed.; Taipei: reprint, 1960), p. 22—that is, Imperial Printing Office and Bookbindery (with some slight variations); see Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 159, 236, 536, 862, 961. For the Ming layout, see Hucker, “Governmental Organization of the Ming Dynasty,” pp. 1–66. South of the Xian’an gong was the Hall of Southern Fragrance (Nanxun dian), where in 1759 it was decided to house the portraits of dynasty’s empress dowagers. See O-er-tai and Zhang, eds., Guochao gongshi, juan 11, p. 198. 38. For Jiang Yongzhi’s biography, see Huaning xianzhi, pp. 21–22; Zhu, “Bianxiu Jiang Jun muzhiming,” juan 12, pp. 20–24. Zhu Yun also regretted that the chief editors had refused Jiang’s fellow office workers’ request to list the deceased Jiang as one of the compilers of the finished Pingding Zhunge’er fanglue (The campaign for the suppression of the Dzungars), giving him some recompense for the sacrifice of his life in state service. 39. Immediately to the west lay the Palace of Perfect Peace (Xian’an gong), another school where Mongol, then later Tibetan and Uighur were taught in order to

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administer these territories. See Torbet, The Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, p. 38; O-er-tai and Zhang, eds., Guochao gongshi, juan 11, p. 198. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 14–19, 225–228, for the organization and development of the fanglue guan—the Military Archives Office; and for a discussion of the political division between inner and outer. 40. See “Lüli yinjian” QL37/7 and QL47/6–7, for biographic references for Liu Zhuo. For biographic details of the Shao (Zizhen) father and son (Yuzeng), see Shao Shouming, Daxing Shao shi zongpu (Genealogy of Shao lineage of Daxing county [Shuntian prefecture]) (China: 1863), and Shuntian fuzhi (Shuntian prefectural gazetteer [Hebei]) (1885), juan 116, p. 117a, juan 118, p. 139a. The Ming shi (History of the Ming) was a project begun during the earlier Qing period, for details of directorship, see Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 80, 87, 159, 293; on the History Office, see ibid., pp. 22, 163, 188. 41. See preface of Zhuang Jifa, Qingchao gaozong shiquan wugong yanjiu (Research on the Qing dynasty Qianlong emperor’s ten complete military victories), 1982 ed. (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House, 1987). 42. For the debate over redefining the Qing period, see Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar, p. 29; Evelyn S. Rawski, “Presidential Address,” pp. 829–850; Ping-ti Ho, “In Defense of Sinicization: A Rebuttal of Evelyn Rawski’s Re-Envisioning the Qing,” Journal of Asian Studies 57, no. 1 (1998): 123–155. 43. For Chen Buying, see “Qingshi juan,” nos. 7755, 5930; Yao Nai (1712– 1815), “Bingbu shilang xunfu guizhou Chen gong muzhiming (Funerary epitaph for Board of War vice-president, governor of Guizhou, Master Chen),” in Xibao xuan wenji (Collected writings of Master Xibao’s Studio) (1800), juan 13, pp. 11– 13; Zhao, QSG, juan 332, p. 10970. 44. Zhao Yi worked in the private secretariat of A-li-kun, who, together with A-gui, was second in command of the campaign. 45. For background to the Burma (Myanmar) campaign, see Frank Trager and William Koenig, Burmese Sit-Tans 1764–1826 : Records of Rural Life and Administration (Tucson: Association for Asian Studies, University of Arizona Press, 1979); Michael Aung-Thwin, Pagan: The Origins of Modern Burma (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1985). For the history of the deposed Ming dynasty, see Lynn A. Struve, The Southern Ming, 1644–1662 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984). Zhao Yi apparently thought Fu-heng’s strategy reckless—and responsible for Fuheng’s subsequent death in 1770, from tropical disease. Not until 1788 did Burma again send tribute to Qing China, having reneged on a truce worked out in 1770. See the relevant years in Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 6–9, 252, 578, for details of the Chinese side of the campaign. Sometimes the position bingbei daotai is translated as “civil defense intendant” (see, for example, Dennerline, The Chia-ting Loyalists, p. 147). See Du, Zhao Yi zhuan, pp. 84–92, 99, for discussion of Zhao Yi’s career. 46. For biographic details on Sun Shiyi’s life, see Arthur Waley, Yuan Mei, Eighteenth-Century Chinese Poet, 1957 ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, reprint, 1975), pp. 155 and passim; Yuan Mei (1716–1798), “Taizi Taibao Wenyuan Ge Daxue Shi Feng Yideng Gong Sun Gong Shendaobei” (Wenyuan Pavilion Grand Councilor, Sun [Shiyi] commemoration stele), in Xiaocang Shanfang shiwenji (Collected poetry and prose writings from the Xiaocang Mountain Retreat) (Shanghai:

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Guji Publishing House; reprint, 1988), juan 32, pp. 17–18; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 32, pp. 2885–2887. 47. The previous section on the Hanlin connection details the background and precedents of recruitment examinations. 48. See Jonathan D. Spence, The Search for Modern China, 1990 ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990), pp. 110–111. For additional details of Sun Shiyi’s career, see Qingshi liezhuan, juan 26, pp. 38–45. On the various methods used to celebrate Qing military achievements, in particular the Ziguangge and the Wucheng dian (Pavilion of Military Achievements), see Waley-Cohen, “Commemorating War,” pp. 869–899. 49. The Annamese king’s Chinese name was Li Weiqi (r. 1786–1788). For background on premodern Annam, see Keith W. Taylor, “The Early Kingdoms,” in The Cambridge History of South-East Asia: From Early Times to c. 1800, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 137–182; Alexander Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model: A Comparative Study of Nguyen and Ch’ing Civil Government in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971). Before about ad 100, the area had, together with Guangdong and Guangxi, been an independent state called Nam Viet (later Nan Chao); for the next millennium it was part of the Chinese empire, under direct rule. Of course, fixed and demarcated national boundaries were nowhere even imagined at that point, but for Annam the bitter memory of its re-subjugation during the Ming was sufficient by the eighteenth century to create a climate of suspicion and animosity. Attitudes of acceptance and rejection between the Cantonesespeaking sub-ethnic Chinese group and the Vietnamese, and the 1979 Chinese punitive invasion of Vietnam, for example, both contribute to the ongoing complexity of relations and explain the Vietnamese desire to create a gap between ethnic distinctiveness and the long shadow of Chinese cultural influence. 50. For background on the Qing intervention in Annam, see Truong Buu Lam, “Intervention Versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” in The Chinese World Order, ed. John King Fairbank (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968), pp. 165–179; Emile Gaspardonne, “Les Victoires D’annam aux Gravures de K’ien-Long” (Annam victories in the Qianlong engravings), Sinologia 4, no. 1 (1954): 1–13; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 680–682. See Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 32, pp. 2879–1892; Hangzhou fuzhi, juan 129, p. 111, for career of Sun Shiyi. The surviving claimant to the aristocratic family, who had controlled the south, was Nguyen [Phuc] Anh (Chinese: Juan Fu-ying); he eventually established the Gia-long reign in 1802. See Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model, pp. 2–4; Jean Chesneaux, The Vietnamese Nation: Contribution to a History, trans. Malcolm Salmon, 1954 ed. (Sydney: Current Book Distributors, 1966) p. 44; Lam, “Intervention Versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” pp. 166, 322, n. 163. Apparently, their real surname was not Nguyen, but Hö (Chinese: Hu); see G. Deveria, Histoire des Relations de la Chine avec L’annam-Vietnam du 16ieme au 19ieme Siecle (History of the relations between China and Annam-Vietnam from sixteenth to nineteenth century), 1880 ed. (Farnborough, Hants: Gregg International Publishers Inc., 1969), pp. 16–17. 51. For Sun Shiyi’s new duties, see Deveria, Histoire, pp. 24–25. See Martin Van Creveld, Supplying War: Logistics from Wallenstein to Patton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), p. 7, for military supply and logistics. The highest

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figure derives from a letter sent to Paris by M. La Mothe, the resident for the French Missions Etrangères (Society of Foreign Missions Etrangères), Paris. Founded in Paris in 1664, Missions Etrangères was a special French-directed mission to CochinChina, see vol. 692, pp. 132–135, dated July 6, 1789, Archives des Missions Etrangères. The organization had been established by the same group of merchants and missionaries who had founded the French East India Company; see Joseph Buttinger, Vietnam: A Political History (New York: Praeger, 1968), pp. 63–64, 512; and Adrien Launay, Histoire Generale de la Societe de Missions Etrangères Depuis Sa Fondation Jusqu’a Nos Jours (Paris: 1894), vol. 3, pp. 219–222, cited in Buttinger. The low figure is cited in Hangzhou fuzhi, juan 129, p. 112. Lam, “Intervention Versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” p. 166; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 680– 682; and Deveria, Histoire, pp. 24–25, all give the same number, ten thousand troops. The history of this event still needs further research and clarification—the Qing archives might possibly supply more or different details. The Yunnan army, led by the Chinese general Wu Dajing (according to Deveria, Histoire, p. 26), had entered Annam through the Ma-pê-koan (Chinese: Mabai guan), and then according to the Hangzhou fuzhi, juan 129, p. 111; and Zhao, QSG, juan 334, p. 10116, through Mengzi. Although Wu Dajing’s Yunnan troops did see some action, they seem to have been absent from the main forces in the end. 52. For a detailed description of the set of prints, see Gaspardonne, “Les Victoires D’annam aux Gravures de K’ien-Long,” pp. 1–13. For the Hangzhou gazetteer description, see the biography of Sun Shiyi, in the section devoted to those achieving military merit, Hangzhou fuzhi, juan 129, pp. 110–114. 53. See Deveria, Histoire, p. 32, for cutting of pontoon bridge; see Hummel, ed., ECCP, p. 682, for weak pontoons. For biography of Xu Shiheng, see Qing shi (Qing history), 8 vols. (Taipei: Guofang Yanjiu Yuan, 1961), juan 335, p. 4353 (4355); Zhao, QSG, juan 334, pp. 11015–11016. 54. Lam, “Intervention Versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” p. 168, citing Wei Yuan (1794–1856), Sheng wu ji (Records of the imperial military exploits), 1842 ed. (Beijing: Zhonghua Publishing House; reprint, 1962), p. 187. 55. See Lam, “Intervention Versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” pp. 172– 174, for request of seals of investiture. See Thongchai Winichakul, Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-Body of a Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994), pp. 83–84; Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar, pp. 126–128, for the dynamics of tribute diplomacy. 56. For an analysis of the Annamese system of rule as a dualism, see Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model, pp. 9–22. 57. For a revisionist view of ritual, see Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice; Zito, Of Body and Brush. See Gaspardonne, “Les Victoires D’annam aux Gravures de K’ien-Long,” pp. 1–13; for reference to Qing archival sources of his visit, see Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 195, 357, n. 107. 58. For a detailed view of Wang Jie’s career, see Juan, “Wang Jie nianpu.” 59. For Zhao Yi’s part, see Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu; Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 75–76. For recent studies on the Lin Shuangwen uprising on Taiwan and its implications for ethnic conflict, see John Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600–1800 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), pp. 1–26, 178–214, 267–294, 308–357, 395–407. And for sub-ethnic rivalries see David Ownby, Brotherhoods and Secret Societies in Early and Mid-Qing China:

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The Formation of a Tradition (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), pp. 2–7 and passim. 60. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, pp. 180–181, for Grand Council appointment trends for Han Chinese. The appointment of Sun Shiyi to serve in the Grand Council in the sixth lunar month of 1789 (QL54), and the return of all honors confiscated after his Annam defeat, and subsequent appointment to Sichuan in the tenth month are discussed in Guoshi dachen liezhuan, nos. 5782 (5785); see also Zhao, QSG, juan 330, p. 10924. 61. See Joanna Waley-Cohen, “The Militarization of Culture in EighteenthCentury China,” prepared for the Columbia Modern China Seminar, December 1999, cited with author’s permission. No other campaign leader had been so designated, including his father, Fu-heng, and the generals Ming-rui and A-gui (who were designated the more common jiangjun. Fu-kang’an received his award in 1791 (QL56/11), see Han Ru, “Luelun Fu-Kang-an zhengjiao Guo’er-ke (A brief discussion of the role of Fu-Kang-an in the subjugation of the Gurkhas),” Lishi dang’an (Historical archives) 54, no. 3 (1994): 97–102. 62. For background to the formation of the various Tibetan Buddhist orders, see C. W. Cassinelli and Robert Ekvall, The Political System of Sa Skya (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1969), pp. 57–58; R. A. Stein, Tibetan Civilization, trans. J. E. Stapleton Driver, 1962 ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press; reprint, 1972), pp. 70–83. Each major order could prove their legitimacy through claims of socalled “emanation bodies,” a system said to have been initiated in the mid-twelfth century. It established the hierarchy of succession of each order and led them. Emanation bodies are manifestations of buddhahood in Bodhisattvas, revealed in a succession of rebirths or incarnations; thus the related terms incarnates, incarnate lamas, or living buddhas. The best known of such emanation bodies are the Dalai lama and the Panchen lama; others can be recognized by the title of Khutukhtu (Hutuketu). For background to the Qing relationship with Tibet, see Luciano Petech, China and Tibet in the Early Eighteenth Century (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1950); Melvin Goldstein, A History of Modern Tibet, 1913–1951: The Demise of the Lamaist State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989); A. Tom Grunfeld, The Making of Modern Tibet (New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1996). For the role of the Yellow Hat suppression of the Bon religion, see in particular Waley-Cohen, “Religion, War, and Empire-Building,” pp. 336–352. 63. See Mayura Jang Kunwar, “China and War in the Himalayas, 1792–1793,” The English Historical Review 77 (1962): 283–297 (I thank Joanna Waley-Cohen for this reference); Han, “Luelun Fu-Kang-an zhengjiao Guo’er-ke,” pp. 97–102. See also the argument made in Perdue, “Boundaries, Maps, and Movement,” pp. 1–15. 64. See Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600–1800, pp. 398–403, which compares Qing policy on the Miao with policy on Taiwan. 65. For Ma Zenglu’s biography, see Lingshou xianzhi (Lingshou district gazetteer [Zhili]) (1873), juan 7, pp. 4–5. For the deaths of Fu-kang’an and He-lin, see Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 255, 286. 66. For the devolution of security duties to the local elite, see Philip Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796–1864 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980); for the decline of the Qing, see Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion.”

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67. The edict is quoted in Guoshi dachen liezhuan, nos. 5782 (5785); Qingshi liezhuan, juan 26, pp. 38–45. 68. On Bu Zuoguang, see Jizhao xianzhi (Jizhao district gazetteer [Shandong]) (1885), juan 8, p. 27. 69. On Wu Yulun, see Hummel, ed., ECCP, pp. 6–8; Wang Chang (1725–1806), “Hanlin yuan Jiantao Qian Bingbu You Shilang Wu jun muzhiming (Funerary epitaph for Master Wu, Hanlin academician, previously junior vice-president of the Board of War),” in Chunrong tang ji, ed. Wang Chang (1725–1806). coda 1. See Richard Shek, “Testimony to the Resilience of the Mind: The Life and Thought of P’eng Shao-sheng (1740–1796),” in Cosmology, Ontology, and Human Efficacy: Essays in Chinese Thought, ed. Richard J. Smith and D. W. Y. Kwok (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1993), cited in Beata Grant, “Who Is This I? Who Is This Other? The Poetry of an Eighteenth-Century Laywoman,” Late Imperial China 15, no. 1 (1994): 47–86. 2. See Yi, Oubei xiansheng nianpu, p. 14a (27). 3. See Juan, “Wang Jie nianpu.” Juan Yuan had once been employed on Wang’s private staff thus establishing the connection between this famous scholar and the minister (see earlier reference to Rowe, Saving the World. I am grateful to Betty Wei for discussing her research findings with me (June 1989), Taipei. See also Qingchao yeshi daguan; Li Yuandu (1821–1887), ed., Guochao xianzheng shilue (Biographical sketches of Qing dynasty statesmen) (1866), juan 20, p. 10b (1006). 4. For Qin Cheng’en biography, see Will, Bureaucracy and Famine in Eighteenth Century China; Wong, China Transformed; Mike Davis, Late Victorian Holocausts: El Nino Famines and the Making of the Third World (London: Verso Press, 2001), for a cross-cultural comparative study of disaster relief. 5. See Qingshi liezhuan, juan 30, p. 21a, JQ33/33 (1798). 6. A tael is a Chinese ounce of silver. For the inventory, see “Qin Cheng’en huozui shijian” (Incident of the punishment of Qin Cheng’en), in Wenxian congbian (Compilation of historical documents from the Qing Archives) (Beijing), juan 24, pp. 27–28; see also Junjichu lufu zouzhe (Reference collection of the Grand Council), “Nongmin yundong bu” (Supplement in the Peasant Movement category), 267/1, Number One Historical Archives, Qing Collection, Beijing. The published copy and the archival copy of Qin Cheng’en’s inventory and deposition are identical. I am indebted to Blaine Gaustad for so kindly sharing the archival documents he collected from Beijing for his own study of the White Lotus Rebellion. 7. See Qin Cheng’en, “Changliu shuibi,” in He-ning compd., San zhou jilue (Summary compilation on three areas) (Taipei: Chengwen, 1805; reprint, 1968). I am indebted to Joanna Waley-Cohen for this reference. See Waley-Cohen, Exile in Mid-Qing China, pp. 89n, 206, for a slightly different interpretation of the role and impact of punishment on officials. 8. See Gu Yanwu (1613–1682), “Shengyuan lun” (On Shengyuan), in Tinglin wenji (Literary works of Master Tinglin [Gu Yanwu]) (China), juan 1, pp. 20–21, cited in Franke, Reform and Abolition of the Traditional Chinese Examination System, p. 20.

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9. See Evelyn S. Rawski, “Presidential Address,” pp. 829–850; Ho, “In Defense of Sinicization,” pp. 123–155. 10. See Jack Goldstone, Revolution and Rebellion in the Early Modern World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), for an analysis of why early modern empires fail to sustain themselves. 11. See Yu Tingcan’s biography in Changsha xianzhi, juan 23, pp. 51–52; Li, ed., GCQXLZ, juan 129, pp. 120–121. The development of China’s modern intelligentsia is much too large a subject for full discussion here. For a thoughtful contemporary perspective, see Timothy Cheek, “From Priests to Professionals: Intellectuals and the State under the CCP,” in Popular Protest and Political Culture in Modern China: Learning from 1989, ed. Elizabeth Perry and Jeffrey Wasserstrom (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1992), pp. 124–145; Wakeman, “The Price of Autonomy,” pp. 35–70; and the work of Kai-wing Chow and Benjamin Elman mentioned in notes to Chapter Three.

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Index

Abrams, Philip, 9–10 Analects, 81 Anderson, Benedict, 18, 204 Anderson, Marston, 254n17 Annam, 184–190, 269n49 appointment, of the class of 1761, 147–64 aristocracy, 4–5 avoidance, laws of, 16, 17, 18, 107, 119–28, 136, 142–3, 251n44, 255nn21,23 baguwen (“eight-legged” essay), 67, 92, 114 bang yan, 57, 149 Bannermen, 41, 46, 49, 52–53, 56 Banners, 16, 22 Bao Zhizhong, 158 Bartlett, Beatrice, 10, 129, 142, 178 Beattie, Hilary, 48, 174–75, 233n5, 243n41, 266n30 bie tou shi. See examination: avoidance examination biography, nature of, 108–110 Board of Civil Office, 4, 136, 149, 159 Board of Rites, 4, 52, 63, 66, 129; in the Ming, 149 Bol, Peter, 4–5, 91, 118, 234n9, 255n18 bondservants, 15 Book of Changes (Yi Jing), 70, 72–73, 111 Book of Documents (Shu Jing or Shang Shu), 72, 74, 77, 80, 86–87, 111 Book of Rites (Li), 72–73, 75, 111 Book of Ritual (Yi Li), 74–75, 79 Book of Songs (Shi Jing), 72–73, 77, 111 Bourdieu, Pierre, 152 boxue hongci, 137, 260n48 Bu Zuoguang, 195 bureaucracy, 8, 10, 11–18, 20, 236n23 Burma campaign, 181–82 Butler, Judith, 237n28, 238n6 calligraphy, of the candidate, 65, 80, 138–39, 246n11, 260n50, 261n52 Cao Renhu, 55, 163, 170, 244n51

Cao Tan, 160 ce wen (policy question), 66–67, 239n14 Chang Chung-li, 2, 50, 110, 243n45 Changzhou Learning, 71, 96 chao kao. See examination, court examination Chen Buying, 163, 169, 181, 195 Chen Chi-yun, 12 Chen Hongmou, 71, 116 Chen Junqing, 134–35 Chen Songnian, 241n23 Cheng Yuanze, 158 Cheng-Zhu teaching, 12, 104. See also Song Learning China proper, 6, 196 Chow, Kai-wing, 14, 70, 88 civil service, 11, 37, 105 classical learning (jing xue), 71 collective identity, 2, 6, 16–17, 23, 147 conflict-of-interest laws, 7, 48 Confucian canon, 70–71, 82 Confucian classics, 68, 70, 75, 80, 82, 105 Confucianism, 59 Creel, Herrlee, 1, 87, 88, 233nn1,2, 251n45 Crossley, Pamela, 10–11 Cui Jun, 112 cultural capital, 2–3, 138 Da Qing huidian shili, 30 Da Qing yitong zhi (Comprehensive gazetteer of the empire), 177 Dai Yuankui, 48 Dao xue. See Neo-Confucianism; Song Learning de Bary, William T., 12 Deng Dalin, 155–58 Dengke lu (record of graduates), 58, 110 Dennerline, Jerry, 146, 164–65, 170, 260n47, 263n3, 265nn18,23,26, 268n45 dian shi. See examination: palace examination disciplinary practice, 29–39, 110

293

294

index

disciplinary process, 107, 109, 148 disciplinary regime, 19, 43, 160 Doctrine of the Mean (Zhong Yong), 71, 75 Dull, Jack, 3 Dutton, Michael R., 235n14 education, 100 elite, 2–8, 16, 17, 19–20, 24, 50, 118, 206, 234n9, 237n27, 241n27 Elman, Benjamin, 8, 68, 77, 177, 179, 233n3, 234n13, 238n4, 246n11, 247n16, 260n50, 273n11, 252n50; on orthodoxy and ideology, 12–13, 69, 236n19; on evidential learning, 76–77, 248nn20,24, 249nn32,36; on policy questions, 247n14; on gentry activism, 265n18 emanation bodies, 191, 271n62 er jia, 61, 149, 245n1 Er-hui, 192 Esherick, Joseph. W., 206, 292 Evidential Learning, 68–71, 76, 78, 81–82, 88, 104. See also Elman, Benjamin: on evidential learning examination personnel, 65t, 256n24; copyist (teng lu guan), 64; proofreader (dui du guan), 64 examination questions, 58, 240n21; related to Confucian canon, 68–82, 247n18; related to administration, 82–91; related to recruitment policy, 91–97; related to economic policy, 97–104. See also ce wen, zhi ce examination: abolition of, 8; annual examination, 33–36, 39, 45, 239nn14,16; and family, 137, 254n17; avoidance examination, 16, 107–08, 119–121, 143, 253n1; compound, 21, 37, 60; control of, 8, 113, 143; county examination, 32, 112; court examination, 144, 147–52, 167, 245n1; district examination, 32, 112; education and, 28–29, 113; essay, 64, 67, 97, 103–104, 238n10, 245n4; family and, 118; grading, 35, 65, 246n11; metropolitan examination, 6, 25–27, 37–38, 51–52, 107, 256n24; palace examination, 25–27, 57–71, 105, 245n1, 238n2, 245nn1,3,5,6, 254n8; prefectural examination, 32; prefectural qualifying examination: 32, 231n12, 246n8;

provincial examination, 25, 33, 35–37, 48, 247n14, 239n16; provincial qualifying examination, 33–34, 36, 45, 239nn14,16; reader, 62–63, 63t, 65–66, 68; reexamination, 32, 239nn10,19; relationship to the state, 2; special examination (enke), 19, 40, 53–54, 56, 108; structure, 25; supervision, 17; three levels of, 18; use of, 6–7, 24, 118; youth examination, 25, 30, 32, 239n11 examiner-disciple relationship, 172 Fan Ning, 77 Fanglüe guan (Military Archives office), 178 Feng Yingliu, 54, 163–64 Fengtian, 22, 52 Five Classics, 68, 81, 111, 114 five grades of mourning, 136, 255n23 Forbidden City, 27, 45, 60, 66, 178–79 Foucault, Michel, 30, 235n14 Four Books, 111, 114 Freedman, Maurice, 256n23 fubang, 240n18 Fu-de, 170 Fu-heng, 137–38, 140, 163, 180–82, 184, 198 Fu-kang’an, 180–81, 184–85, 188–93, 199 Furth, Charlotte, 12–13 fushi. See examination: prefectural examination fushi. See examination: reexamination Geng Xuemo, 44–45 gentry, 2–3, 234n11 gongsheng (tribute student), 36, 39–44, 51, 240n22; ba gongsheng, 40–41, 46, 51; en gongsheng, 40, 42; fubang gongsheng, 40, 44, 51; sui gongsheng, 40–42, 46–47, 51; you gongsheng, 40–41, 51 gongshi (tribute scholar), 22, 25–26, 58, 61, 239n11, 240n22 government, mode of, 4–5 Grand Council, 15, 129–31, 133, 138– 141, 165; tension with the throne, 128 Grand Secretariat secretaries (neige zhongshu), 38, 148, 240n18 Grand Secretariat, 149 gu wen (Old Text), 74, 86–87, 243n45 Gu Yanwu, 78

index Gu Zhen, 55, 163, 244n51 Guan Zhihan, 46, 151 Guan-bao, 62–63, 168 Guangdong, 155, 157t Guangxi, 52 guarantor, 115 Gui Youguang, 101–102 Guo Yuanlong, 163 guojia, 14, 18, 103–104, 145–47 Guoshi guan (State History Office), 179 Guozijian, 39, 42, 81, 241n24, 244n50 Gurkhas, 193 Hai-lan-cha, 191–92 Han Danchun, 80 Han Learning, 68; related to examination essay, 69, 71, 76, 81–82, 97, 104–105 Hang Yinglong, 117 Hanlin Academy, 17, 23, 146–47, 151, 164–167; and compilation projects, 175–79 Hanlin bachelors, 148, 150–52, 153t, 154t, 156; employment patterns, 166t, 167–69; as examiners, 169–75 He Hun, 46–47, 243n37 He-shen, 199 Hevia, James, 10, 146, 188, 263n4 Ho Ping-ti, 2, 48–50, 51, 112, 119, 146, 233nn3,4, 237n31, 268n42; on social mobility, 2, 48–49, 112, 119, 174 Hong Liangji, 172 honorary degree, 238n3 Hsieh Pao Chao, 146 Hu Gaowang, 57, 67, 145–46, 149; examination essay of, 71–81, 84–91, 96, 98–105; as examiner, 170 Hu Qiaoyuan, 151–52 Huang Gongdu, 134–35 Huang Shulin, 45 Huang Tengda, 152 Huangchao wugong jisheng (Record of the august dynasty’s military achievements), 180 hui shi. See examination: metropolitan examination hui yuan, 22 Huizi guan (Muslim School), 178 ideology, 8–14, 59, 68, 97, 245n4 Imperial College, 22, 39, 41, 43, 47–8, 53, 241n24, 242n29, 243n38. See also Guozijian; Taixue

295

Imperial Tour, 54 intellectual trends, 59 Jessop, Bob, 262n1 Ji Chengqian, 48, 174 Ji Huang, 174 ji jiu (Libationer), 112 Ji Yun, 175–76 Ji Zengyun, 174 Jia Yi, 101 Jiang Yongzhi, 45–46, 55, 172, 244n51, 265n27, 267n38; administrative career, 151–52, 162–63, 172, 175, 178, 180 Jiangnan, 16, 52, 69 jiansheng (Imperial College student), 36, 42–43, 47–49, 53, 242n29 Jiaqing, 18, 194–95, 202 Jie-fu, 168 jin wen (New Text), 74, 86, 248n24, 251n45 Jin Yunhuai, 48, 167–68 jinggu, 32, 239n10 jinshen quanshu, 264n14 jinshi (metropolitan degree holder), 20, 22, 25, 28, 37, 58, 62–63, 148, 150, 245n1 jinshi chushen. See er jia jinshi jidi. See yi jia jinshi timing beilu, 27 juren (provincial degree holder), 20, 22, 25, 30, 33, 37, 38, 239n15, 240n19 juye, 28 Kangxi, 15–16, 54, 241n27, 255n20 keshi. See examination: provincial qualifying examination Kessler, Lawrence, 8 kin avoidance, 124–125 Kong Yingda, 78 Kuhn, Phillip, 142 Lai-bao, 62–63 Lam, Truong Buu, 185, 189 Lefort, Claude, 20 Li Ji (Record of Rites), 74 Li Wencao, 177, 179 Liang Shizheng, 156–58, 163 licentiate. See shengyuan liu dian (six mandates), 85, 88 liu ji (six assessments), 88 Liu Lun, 137–39, 168 Liu Tongxun, 39, 62–63, 71, 117; and 1761 avoidance case, 129–33, 137–39

296

index

liu yi (six principles), 73 Liu Yong, 138 Liu Zhuo, 179 Liu, James T. C., 11 Lu Deming, 79 Lu Feichi, 175 Lu Xixiong, 163, 175–77 lüli (individual personnel dossier), 160 lüli yinjian (personnel dossiers for court audience), 167, 241n24, 264n14 Lui, Adam, 152, 164 lun (disquisition), 263n8 Luo Qingyin, 27 Ma Renlong, 44 Ma Zenglu, 152, 155, 193 Manchu, 8, 62, 170, 180 Marsh, Robert, 141 Martin, Fran, 238n6 Marx, Karl, 236n23 McNaughton, William, 73 meritocracy, 1, 4, 23 Metzger, Thomas A., 142 mi feng suo (Sealers’ Office), 246n11 Mianzi guan (Burmese School), 178 Miao rebellion, 193 Min-bao, 49 Ming, 51, 149, 165, 240n22 Miyazaki, Ichisada, 238n5 nationalism, 2, 17, 145, 203 nation-space, 53, 184 nation-state, 2, 18, 104, 145, 167. See also proto-nation-space nei lian guan (inner examination officials), 122 Neo-Confucianism, 12. See also Song Learning Nepal, 192 nine-grade system, 23 Nivison, David, 109 Northern Song, 234n9 O-boi, 8 O-er-tai, 264n11 O-mi-da, 62 orthodoxy (zheng), 11–14 Ouyang Qin, 27, 197 Ouyang Xiu, 78 Owen, Stephen, 73 palace memorial, 15

Peng Shaosheng, 23, 197, 206 Perdue, Peter, 99, 192 performativity, 237n28, 239n6 Peterson, Willard J., 12 Pingding Zhunge’er fanglue (Strategy for the pacification of the Dzungars), 180 proto-nation, 104 proto-nation-space, 17, 19, 23, 50, 179, 196; and the Qing empire, 147, 175, 186, 203 provincial director of education (tiduxuezheng), 35, 51, 169, 239n12, 244n46 Pufendorf, Samuel Freiher von, 1 puxue, 71 Qian Daxin, 55 Qian Qi, 173 Qian Rucheng, 63 Qian zi wen (The One ThousandCharacter Primer), 111 Qianlong, 9, 27, 37, 53–55, 62, 107; and avoidance law, 120–26, 128–34, 139– 42; Southern Tours of, 162, 164; and Qing expansion, 189 Qian Mu, 88 Qin Cheng’en, 152, 169, 181, 195, 200–03 Qin Dashi, 47 Qin Huitian, 75 Qing, 6, 9–11; Qing empire, 98, 175, 203–04 quotas, 49–56, 143, 239n11, 240n17, 243n45, 244nn47–48, 261n54, 262n58; function of, 19, 50; district and prefectural, 32, 112; provincial, 21t, 36, 39, 40, 112, 241n54; metropolitan, 22; for Bannermen, 41, 241n27 Rankin, Mary B., 206 Rawski, Evelyn, 112 recommendation system, 40 reform movement, 17 Rulin waishi, 118 san jia, 64, 245n1 san tong, 177; san tong guan (san tong compilation office), 178 San zi jing (The Trimetrical Classic), 111 scholar-officials, 4, 6, school system, 5 Shaanxi, 140

index Shang Yanliu, 233n3, 238n5, 243n38 Shao Yuzeng, 174, 179–80 Shao Zizhen, 174 shengyuan, 20, 22, 25, 32–34, 237n1, 254n10; fuxue shengyuan (appended student), 34–36, 50; linshan shengyuan (stipend student), 34–36, 42, 45, 50; zeng guang shengyuan (additional student), 34–36, 44, 50 Shi ji (Records of the Historian), 70, 75 Shilu (Veritable Record), 177 shiwen (examination essays), 111, 114 shou juan suo (Collector’s Office), 123, 246n11 shu (memorial), 263n8 Shuntian, 21, 39, 52, 60 Shunzhi, 6 Siku quanshu (Complete Library of the Four Treasuries), 38, 45, 175–76 Sima Qian, 75, 108, 136 social mobility, 24 Song Learning (Song Xue), 68; related to examination essay, 69–71, 76, 81–82, 89, 92–93, 96 Song Yu, 56 Song-gui, 46, 170, 178 Spence, Jonathan, 190, 233nn4,12, 259n42, 263n5, 269n48 Spring and Autumn Annals (Chun Qiu), 72, 75, 77, 80, 111; Chun Qiu Zuo Zhuan, 75, 80; Gongyang Zhuan, 75, 81; Guliang Zhuan, 75, 77 state idea, 9–10, state ideology, 9–10 state, 3–11, 206, 234n14, 235n16, 262n1; and elite, 107, 120, 141 stone classics (shi jing), 79, 81, 249n36 Sui Chaodong 107–08, 121, 128–132, 142 sui shi. See examination, annual examination Sun Jun, 194 Sun Quji, 184 Sun Shiyi, 54, 163, 180–95, 199–200 Sun Xingyan, 18, 172 Sun Yongqing, 187 Tai He Dian, 60, 63 Taixue, 39, 241n24 Tang Shunzhi, 71 tanhua, 149

297

teacher-student relationship, 171–72 Tian Junyu, 175 Tibet, 191–92 tong jinshi chushen. See san jia tong shi. See examination: youth examination tongnian, 18–19, 126, 173 tributary relation, 189–90 Tsien Tsuen-hsun, 80, 250n37 Twitchett, Denis, 109–110 Waley-Cohen, Joanna, 9, 147, 175 Wang Chang, 173, 182 Wang Jie, 36, 67, 139, 141, 199; examination essay of, 70–81, 84, 86–96, 98–100, 102–05, 251n44; examination career of, 108–119; administrative career of, 145, 149–50, 170, 172, 178, 190 Wang Mi, 46, 241n23 Wang Shiwei, 158 Wang Weishan, 44, 167–68, 240n23, 242n30 Wang Youdun, 137, 140, 163 Watt, John, 160, 264n13 Wei Xiumei, 124 Weng Fanggang, 173 Wenhua dian (Hall of Literary Glory), 65, 178 White Lotus uprising, 193 Will, Pierre-Etienne, 99 Wong, R. Bin, 98–99 Wou, Odoric, 121–122, 136–37, 255nn21,23, 259n46 Wu Jingzi, 118 Wu Shaoshi, 126–27, 257nn29,31 Wu Shigong, 173 Wu Tan, 126–27, 174, 257nn29,31 Wu Yuan, 126–27, 257n31 Wu Yulun, 172–73, 195 Wu Zetian, 4, 58 Wuthnow, Robert, 59, 245n4 Wuying dian (Hall of Martial Prowess), 178–79 Xi ci zhuan (Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations), 72 xiangshi. See examination: provincial examination xianshi. See examination: district examination Xiao Jing (The Classic of Filial Piety), 111

298

index

Xie Qikun, 23, 61, 169, 176–77, 179, 266n34 Xinjiang (Chinese Turkestan), 140, 196; related to 1761 examination, 56, 97–98, 100–01, 145 Xu Fazhen, 46 Xu Shiheng, 186–87 Yan Ben, 157 Yan Ruoju, 86–87 Yang Zhongxuan, 39, 241n24 Yao Fen, 48, 174–75 Yao Nai, 18 Ye Duan, 57 yi jia, 57, 149, 245n1 yin juan suo (Office of the Official Seal), 246n11 Yin privilege, 36, 63, 119, 240n16 Yin-ji-shan, 62–63, 116, 137, 156–58, 162, 246n7, 264n11 yiye, 28 Yongzheng, 6, 15, 54, 60, 236n46, 247n20; and avoidance examination, 120 Yu Minzhong, 39; and the 1761 avoidance case, 123, 125, 129–33, 256n26 Yu Tingcan, 177, 179 Yuan Mei, 183 yuan shi. See examination: prefectural qualifying examination

Yunnan, 52 Zhang Shoupei, 46 Zhang Tingyu, 133, 174–75 Zhang Xi, 245n6 Zhang Yingzeng, 241n23 Zhang Yuantai, 174–75 zhao (proclamation), 263n8 Zhao Yi, 18, 23, 36–37, 67, 198–99; examination essay of, 68, 71–79, 81–82, 84–91, 93–96, 98, 100–05; examination career of, 108–119; and 1761 avoidance case, 107, 130–32, 134–35, 137–42; administrative career of, 145, 149, 170, 179–82, 190 Zhao Yongxiao, 117 Zhao-hui, 170 Zhejiang, 16, 52, 69, 71 Zheng Xuan, 77 zhi ce (proposal response), 66 Zhili, 16, 52, 69, 152, 156 Zhou Li (Rites of Zhou), 74, 79, 88 zhoushi. See examination: county examination Zhu Gui, 172 zhu shi (secretary of a board), 148 Zhu Xi, 69, 71, 75, 79, 93 Zhu Yun, 45, 172, 175, 178, 267n38 zhuang yuan, 57, 149 Zi, Etienne, 233n3, 240n18

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