China's Philological Turn: Scholars, Textualism, and the Dao in the Eighteenth Century 9780231545174

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface and Acknowledgments
Introduction: The Way and Its Crossroads
PART I. THE WAY OF MAN: SCHOLARLY NETWORKS AND THE SOCIAL HISTORY OF SCHOLARSHIP
1. Learning to Be a Scholar
2. Official Scholars and the Growing Philologists’ Networks
3. Private Scholars, Private Academies, and the Community of Knowledge
PART II. THE WAY OF ANTIQUITY: SEARCHING FOR THE TRUE WAY IN THE PAST
4. The Way of Ancient Learning: Philology, Antiquity, and Ru Identity
5. Philology and the Message of the Sages: The Classics and the Four Books
6. Historical Philology: Navigating the Sources
PART III. THE WAY OF HEAVEN AND EARTH: THE MANDATE OF SCHOLARSHIP AND THE SEARCH FOR ORDER
7. Astronomy, Mathematics, and Calendar: Historical Perspective
8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning: Scientific Knowledge and Its Cultural Baggage
9. Fate, Ritual, and Ordering All Under Heaven
Conclusion: The Consequences of the Eighteenth-Century Intellectual Transformations
Appendix A: Selections from Qian Daxin’s 1754 Palace Examination Answer
Appendix B: Major Shuowen and Erya Studies of the Qian-Jia Period (and Related Works), 1736–1820
Appendix C: Qian Daxin’s Letter to Dai Zhen (1754)
Appendix D: Questions and Answers About Astronomy
Appendix E: Essay on the Value of π
Appendix F: Qian Daxin’s Writings on Mathematics, Astronomy, and Divination
Appendix G: On Saṃsāra
Appendix H: Sources for the Works of Qian Daxin
Note on Abbreviations and Citations
Notes
Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles
Index

Citation preview

C H I NA’ S PH I L OL O G IC A L TURN

STUDIES OF THE WEATHERHEAD EAST ASIAN INSTITUTE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSIT Y

STUDIES OF THE WEATHERHEAD EAST ASIAN INSTITUTE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY The Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute of Columbia University were inaugurated in 1962 to bring to a wider public the results of significant new research on modern and contemporary East Asia.

C H I NA’ S PH I L OL O G IC A L TURN Scholars, Textualism, and the Dao in the Eighteenth Century ORI SELA

Columbia University Press New York

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York Chichester, West Sussex cup.columbia.edu Copyright © 2018 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Sela, Ori, 1972- author Title: China’s philological turn : scholars, textualism, and the Dao in the eighteenth century / Ori Sela. Description: New York : Columbia University Press, 2018. | Series: Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017038584 (print) | LCCN 2017039897 (ebook) | ISBN 9780231545174 (electronic) | ISBN 9780231183826 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: China—Intellectual life—1644-1912. | Chinese philology— History. | Learning and scholarship—China—History. | Qian, Daxin, 1728-1804. | Intellectuals—China—History. | Scholars—China—History. | Knowledge, Sociology of. Classification: LCC DS754.14 (ebook) | LCC DS754.14 .S45 2018 (print) | DDC 305.5/520951—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017038584

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America Cover design: Lisa Hamm Cover image: Yao Wenhan 姚文瀚 (fl. 1740–1790), “Mo Songren wenhui tu” 摹宋人文會圖 (“Copy of a Literary Gathering by a Song Artist”), 1753. The Collection of National Palace Museum, Taipei.

To my family

CONTENTS

Preface and Acknowledgments ix Introduction: The Way and Its Crossroads 1

PART I. THE WAY OF MAN: SCHOL ARLY NET WORKS AND THE SOCIAL HISTORY OF SCHOL ARSHIP

1. Learning to Be a Scholar 21 2. Official Scholars and the Growing Philologists’ Networks 40 3. Private Scholars, Private Academies, and the Community of Knowledge 55 PART II. THE WAY OF ANTIQUIT Y: SEARCHING FOR THE TRUE WAY IN THE PAST

4. The Way of Ancient Learning: Philology, Antiquity, and Ru Identity 85 5. Philology and the Message of the Sages: The Classics and the Four Books 101 6. Historical Philology: Navigating the Sources 118

viii

Contents

PART III. THE WAY OF HEAVEN AND EARTH: THE MANDATE OF SCHOL ARSHIP AND THE SEARCH FOR ORDER

7. Astronomy, Mathematics, and Calendar: Historical Perspective 135 8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning: Scientific Knowledge and Its Cultural Baggage 150 9. Fate, Ritual, and Ordering All Under Heaven 163 Conclusion: The Consequences of the Eighteenth-Century Intellectual Transformations 179 Appendix A: Selections from Qian Daxin’s 1754 Palace Examination Answer 195 Appendix B: Major Shuowen and Erya Studies of the Qian-Jia Period (and Related Works), 1736–1820 199 Appendix C: Qian Daxin’s Letter to Dai Zhen (1754) 205 Appendix D: Questions and Answers About Astronomy 209 Appendix E: Essay on the Value of π 211 Appendix F: Qian Daxin’s Writings on Mathematics, Astronomy, and Divination 213 Appendix G: On Saۨsāra 217 Appendix H: Sources for the Works of Qian Daxin 221 Note on Abbreviations and Citations 225 Notes 227 Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles 285 Index 299

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

D

uring my BA and MA years at Tel Aviv University, when the Chu bamboo slips of Guodian (郭店楚簡) were still considered “newly discovered,” my heart was set on ancient China studies. I was fortunate to study with such scholars as Yoav Ariel, Andrew Plaks, Yuri Pines, and Gidi Shelach-Lavi; translate treatises from the bamboo slips; and, as I had a keen interest in Sanskrit, too, think about differences between these two classical languages and the implications thereof. So when I had the opportunity to pursue PhD studies at Princeton University, it seemed only natural to stay focused on ancient China. There, with the generous teaching and insights of Martin Kern, many new avenues for understanding the early texts opened up. Yet, slowly but surely, I became more and more interested in a group of scholars who at the time seemed almost transparent: those who had transmitted the ancient texts and had made a substantial part of these texts intelligible to later scholars, those who had worked on making sense of ancient pronunciations and characters, or ancient meanings and thought, before the modern era. In this sense my perspective was shaped not by a modernist viewpoint trying to understand the failures or successes of a previous era but by an interest in antiquity and the way it was reshaped and renewed in later times. In sum, my gaze and mind turned to Qing intellectuals. I was privileged to have as my teachers some of the most prominent scholars in the field of Qing studies. Each of them taught me in a different manner and facilitated my growth as a researcher, and I am greatly indebted to them. My deepest gratitude goes to Ben Elman, who threw open the gates of Late Imperial China

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Preface and Acknowledgments

for me and taught me what it means to be a devoted scholar, true teacher, and mentor. Ben also read the full manuscript of this book, left his many handwritten remarks on the pages, and mailed them back to me, whereupon I attempted to decipher them. Susan Naquin and Willard Peterson likewise provided guidance, support, criticism, and inspiration in different aspects of my evolving research, and I am very grateful to them. For further precious advice and guidance I owe deep gratitude to Zvi Ben-Dor Benite. And, for offering their friendship and support and also for reading parts of the manuscript and making valuable corrections and comments, I thank Josh Fogel, Ari Levine, and Joachim Kurtz. I am also indebted to Richard Smith for correcting some of my Yijing errors and, of course, to the anonymous reviewers of the manuscript. I am grateful beyond words; needless to say, all the remaining faults and errors are my own. From my Princeton days I am very grateful also to Buzzy Teiser and Tony Grafton; to the wonderful cohort of fellow graduate students—Mick Hunter, Jim Bonk, Scott Gregory, Shellen Wu, Brigid Vance, and especially Sun Yinggang and Yulia Frumer; to Martin Heijdra and Gonul Yurdakul at the wonderful East Asian Library; and, on the administrative side, to Hue Kim Su and the East Asian Studies Program and its staff, especially Richard Chafey. My scholarly identity was also shaped by my good fortune of studying Sanskrit and thinking comparatively about East and South Asia, first with Yigal Bronner and Rafi Peled at Tel Aviv and later with Shelly Pollock at Columbia University, with whom I enriched my knowledge of Sanskrit and early modern India and gained great inspiration. At Fudan University in Shanghai, where I spent many months, I am especially grateful to Wu Ge, who taught me about rare books and ancient manuscripts and helped me find my way through the wonders of the Rare Books Library of Fudan University and other rare book collections in China. Likewise, my thanks go to Ge Zhaoguang for his ideas, help, and support, as well as to the younger generation at Fudan, Pan Weilin and Cao Nanping, who made me feel at home there. Sun Yinggang, at Fudan and later Zhejiang University, has been a wonderful friend and his great help deserves my deep gratitude. The staffs of Shanghai Library and Nanjing Library were also of great help, while at Hangzhou I am grateful to the Zhejiang Library staff and mostly to Xu Liwang, both for his hospitality and support; in Beijing my thanks go to Luo Xin of Beida for all his help; and in Taipei my thanks go to the staff of the National Palace Museum. I am very grateful to Dagmar Schäfer and the Max Planck Institute for the History of Science in Berlin for having me during two summers, allowing me to participate in discussions and to benefit from the wonderful resources of the institute, which has become yet another home away from home. As I was making my way through the intricacies of “big data,” help and support were required to ascertain social networks, carve out maps, and understand

Preface and Acknowledgments

xi

the digital mysteries. I am grateful to Hongsu Wang, project manager of the China Biographical Database, who found solutions to all of the difficulties I faced and to Lex Berman of the Center for Geographic Analysis at Harvard. In the past years parts of my research have been presented at various conferences and workshops. I am grateful to the organizers of and participants in these events for inviting me, to those who came to conferences I organized for attending, and to all of the above for their comments that benefited my work, even if they were not aware of it. Special thanks to Eugenia Lean, Chu Ping-yi, Cynthia Brokaw, Marta Hanson, Janet Chen, Joan Judge, Marwa Elshakry, On-cho Ng, Chu Hung-lam, Kai-wing Chow, Hu Minghui, Bruce Rusk, Andrea Bréard, Martin Hofmann, and Zhang Xue. Likewise, I thank my graduate students at Tel Aviv—Nataly Shahaf and Yuval Givon, in particular. Grants and scholarships during my time as a graduate student, from Fulbright IIE, PIIRS and the EAS Program at Princeton, and the AAS, provided me with the means to conduct my research, travel to China and Japan, and present at conferences. In the past few years my research has been supported by the Israel Science Foundation (grant 55/12). Special thanks go to the Columbia University Weatherhead East Asian Institute, and especially to its director, Eugenia Lean, and to Ross Yelsey, the publications coordinator. At Columbia University, thanks are likewise due to the Warner Fund at Columbia Seminars. At the production phase, I am indebted to project manager Ben Kolstad and copyeditor Sherry Goldbecker, whose meticulous work was invaluable, as well as to my wonderful editors at Columbia University Press and the meticulous indexers Anne Holmes and Rob Rudnick. I am also grateful to the Yad Hanadiv grant program at the Department of East Asia Studies, Tel Aviv University, and its director, Asaf Goldschmidt, whose friendship and support I hold dear. Udi Halperin, my colleague at the department, has acted as an excellent and brotherly wailing wall, and I hope I reciprocated well. Others who have stood by me and whose friendship I cherish include Mika Natif and Elliot Sperling—and most of all I am forever grateful to Ron Sela, who would put everything aside when I needed him. Finally, I would like to thank those who deserve the deepest gratitude of all for their love and support: my wife, Shlomit, who always encouraged me, even when my desk and study looked like war zones, and my children, Yonatan and Shira, who made me do all sorts of activities that were unrelated to research but, inconceivably, much more fun. Likewise, my thanks go to my parents, Tamar and Jacob, who always believe in me and do everything in their power to help, showering me with their endless love; my brother, Ron, and sister-inlaw, Hila, along with little Alma, who are always there for me with kindness, warmth, and love; and my grandparents, all of whom are no longer with us but whose memory and resilience continue to inspire me, most of all in an attempt to become a mensch and find my own Way.

C H I NA’ S PH I L OL O G IC A L TURN

INTRODUCTION The Way and Its Crossroads

E

arly nineteenth-century Chinese scholars began to write histories depicting the intellectual achievements of their predecessors in the Qing Dynasty 清 (1644–1911). Some were critical of these achievements and others admired them, but they were in agreement about the intellectual sea change that occurred during the first century and a half of Qing rule. Most of them were also in agreement that the term that best reflected the new and dominant intellectual trend of their day was “Han learning” (Hanxue 漢學). Although use of this term to designate a Qing dynasty phenomenon rather than scholarship of the classical era Han dynasty (202 BCE–220 CE) emerged only in the first decades of the nineteenth century, it quickly caught on and became predominant in referring to previous Qing scholarship. Scholars further agreed that although Han learning had begun with a handful of prominent seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century scholars, it was only during the “Qian-Jia” period—that is, during the reigns of Emperors Qianlong 乾隆 (r. 1735–1796) and Jiaqing 嘉慶 (r. 1796–1820)—that Han learning had become the prevailing intellectual taste of the dynasty. Finally, nineteenth-century scholars also concurred that their dynasty’s Han learning was distinguished by its admiration for ancient Han dynasty scholarship (hence the term); by its emphasis on broad erudition, in terms of both the variety of fields of knowledge and the depth of expertise involved; and, most importantly, by its reliance on philological research and the improvement of philological tools for research. Indeed, Han learning stressed Han era sources precisely because they venerated philology or provided philological evidence; although

2

Introduction

a host of different fields of knowledge were researched, philology was a major aspect of inquiry in and for all of them, and its rise marked the most significant of the intellectual transformations of the mid-Qing. Throughout I use “philology” in the general, “maximalist” sense applied in recent scholarship by Pollock; for example, in a volume on world philology he described its shared aspects: “concern with problems of grammar and usage, with the history of manuscript (or printed) sources and their discrepant readings, and with problems of interpretation.”1 The historical actors of eighteenth-century China used terms such as “evidential research” (kaozheng/kaoju 考證／考据), sometimes adding “learning” (xue 學), to convey their general approach to texts and to serve as a general marker for the type of critical textual studies they conducted. When dealing with classical texts, the term often used was “minute learning” 小學 (xiaoxue), thus implying a more specific textual corpus, both as the object of study (the Classics) and as the auxiliary means to conduct such study. Both terms (kaozheng and xiaoxue) were also used to designate the professionals who conducted the research, “the philologists,” by adding the suffix jia (家).2

Judging Scholarship from Afar: Modern Historiography of the Philological Turn Modern scholarship has generally accepted and reaffirmed this understanding of the Qing intellectual turn to philology, albeit, by and large, with a highly negative judgment of the philological turn. This negative judgment, along with a modern Western perspective and categorization, has often precluded modern scholars from careful research of the phenomenon on its own terms and according to the historical actors’ own priorities. Consequently, mostly limited and biased answers were provided to the fundamental questions that should, in my view, accompany any serious attempt at understanding the philological turn: Why did the philological turn take place? How did it gain prominence? What did it mean and what were its consequences? Chinese and Japanese scholars—including such prominent researchers as Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873–1929), Hu Shi 胡适 (1891–1962), Qian Mu 錢穆 (1895–1990), Yü Ying-shih 余英時, and Du Weiyun 杜維運 in China and Naitō Konan 内藤湖南 (1866–1934), Hamaguchi Fujiō 濱口富士雄, Kondo Mitsuo 近藤光男, and Yamanoi Yū 山井湧 in Japan—have certainly dealt with Qing intellectual history (and I am, of course, indebted to their achievements). However, their approaches, although not monolithic and subject to their own debates, often did not address these questions. These approaches were either highly specific, detailing the story of one person or event without engaging in overall analysis of the phenomenon, or quite general, focusing on the link between Qing

Introduction

3

thought and previous periods on one hand and on the relationship between Qing thought and modernity on the other.3 The groundbreaking research of Elman, over three decades ago, introduced Chinese and Japanese scholarship on Qing intellectual history to the West and built on it to describe in depth and with ingenuity the intellectual turn of the Qing. However, Elman’s scholarship led to several problems. The title of his book From Philosophy to Philology caused many readers to take it as a qualitative conclusion that Qing scholars were not interested in philosophy at all; thus, although the details in the book suggest otherwise, the general assumption that Qing scholars conducted philology for the sake of philology4 was reinforced, and the negative judgment persevered. Indeed, three years after the first edition of Elman’s book was published in 1984, a very positive review of the book by Grieder appeared.5 Grieder, a scholar dealing with modern China, was willing to concede that the question “Why no Newton in China?” had become obsolete, but he raised instead the very similar question, “Why no Kant?” Grieder was asking the question the subjects of his research asked (in different ways) at the turn of the twentieth century, looking at the “failure” of Qing intellectuals from a modernist perspective,6 but the question was just as irrelevant for those who wanted to understand Chinese history on its own terms and categories from an eighteenth-century perspective. And eighteenth-century China had no category called “philosophy” (as opposed to philology or history).7 My aim in this book is not to answer the question “Why no Kant?” Neither is it to pull an eighteenthcentury Chinese Kant out of a hat. Rather, it is to understand the preoccupations and priorities of the historical actors, for whom philosophy was a nonissue. However, not having the category of philosophy did not mean not being interested in anything beyond philology; on the contrary, philology was understood as the cornerstone or gateway for both “attaining the truth of meanings and principles” (得義理之真) and “bringing order to all under heaven” (治天下).8 Two other issues that came up in Elman’s research were the notion that the philological turn continued from the late Ming through the Qing and the question of the scholars’ identity, both of which I problematize in this book. The first, I argue, does not explain the extraordinary rise of philology in the second half of the eighteenth century; that is, I accept the view that late eighteenthcentury scholars were standing on the shoulders of earlier giants—they said so themselves—and that philological inquiry had been conducted in China well before the Ming. But the very gradual development of and engagement with philological inquiry in earlier periods was followed by a quantum leap in the eighteenth century. Why? And, although Elman raised the question of identity, in the end the significance of the sense of identity—in particular, Ru identity, as discussed below—to philologically minded scholars received little attention; however, I see it as central to answering the first question regarding the quantum leap in philology.

4

Introduction

Apart from Elman, Mann’s dissertation on Hong Liangji 洪亮吉 (1746–1809), Guy’s work on the Siku quanshu 四庫全書 (The complete collection of the Four Treasuries), and Rowe’s research on Chen Hongmou 陳宏謀 (1696–1771) added greatly to our understanding of the eighteenth-century intellectual scene.9 Later, scholars further researched themes of ritual and power, gender, and sociopolitical history, as well as printing, and their relationship to scholars of the eighteenth century, adding more nuanced analysis to the intellectual history of the eighteenth century. 10 The perspective of my book, although building on their cutting-edge scholarship, is different and aims to break free from some of the basic assumptions about and categories used to describe eighteenth-century scholars that are still applied today. In particular, previous scholarship has ignored what I see as a paramount factor in the development of the Qing intellectual transformations—namely, the role of Qing scholars’ shifting sense of cultural, professional, and social identity in their changing concepts of knowledge and in the ways scholarship had transformed. Scholarship thus far has yet to explain why and how the great wave of philological research developed so rapidly, specifically in the second half of the eighteenth century. Scholarship in Western languages has neglected the main protagonists of the eighteenth-century intellectual transformations almost completely, and the few exceptions to this rule were generally treated using modern Western categories (such as philosophy, which often induced such research to begin with) rather than attempting to understand the historical actors’ priorities. This book tells the story of the intellectual transformations of the eighteenth century by focusing on one of its main protagonists, the polymath Qian Daxin 錢大昕 (1728–1804). Qian’s life coincided and intertwined in many different ways with the unfolding of the critical events of the century. Qian’s mentors and teachers, real and ideal alike, had built the philological threshold that Qian and his peers would transcend as the philological turn became an overarching phenomenon. Qian’s many students naturalized the process and its outcomes, turning philology into the mainstream baseline of knowledge from the late eighteenth century into the twentieth. The micro-history of Qian Daxin thus illuminates the macro-history of the philological turn by anchoring larger developments in concrete historical cases; using Qian as the orientational axis of the study thereby grounds general conclusions in specific historical details. China’s Philological Turn: Scholars, Textualism, and the Dao in the Eighteenth Century, thus suggests that during this period transformations in the relationships between scholars and their sense of identity; in the texts they studied, along with the means for studying texts and the assumptions about knowledge, facts, and truth embedded in them (what I refer to as textualism); and in the search for the Way—the Ru Way—took place. These transformations had a lasting effect on the intellectual history (and more) of China.

Introduction

5

Recovering the Way of the Ru The scholars of this story shared a systematic focus, accompanied by terminological, categorical, and discursive transformations, on the reliability of sources as evidence for restoring ancient texts and meanings, a shift that deeply affected the formation of contemporaneous political, social, and cultural agendas. It was a sea change in the epistemological, methodological, and even social grounds for making a valid argument, for claiming and attaining valid knowledge, and for thinking about the past and had practical and theoretical implications for the practices of the historical actors’ present. This was a significant intellectual transformation in terms of China’s intellectual history and according to its own indigenous intellectual trajectories. It is therefore considered through the prism of the historical actors, through the examination of several fields of knowledge, and through the process of charting the social history and context that precipitated and enabled the intellectual transformation. So how did the protagonists of this intellectual turn think of their own endeavors? What were the historical actors’ categories and terminology that conveyed such a sense of intellectual change? The scholars discussed in this book certainly were aware of the transformative character of their undertakings, although the terminology for expressing the novelty and accomplishment of their scholarship was diverse and not fixed. Wang Mingsheng 王鳴 盛 (1722–1798) thought of his and his peers’ efforts of “correcting learning” (正學) as marking a “great change” or “transformation” (大化) compared with previous times,11 and many others concurred with this notion of a “great transformation” in learning.12 This transformation, according to various scholars of the time, indicated the “vigorous development” (振興) of scholarship along with vast “circulation and dissemination” (流布). As a result, by the early nineteenth century Jiang Fan 江藩 (1761–1831) argued that scholarship had gradually changed and improved during the reigns of the first Qing emperors, with the height of change taking place during the Qian-Jia era; he found that “the dark haze of a thousand years [was dispelled by] one dynasty reviving the bright dawn” (千載沉霾,一朝復旦).13 Taken together, the diverse terms these scholars used vividly convey the sense of intellectual change outlined above. And in most cases the notion that a new bright dawn was required stemmed from the sense that for centuries (how many centuries and which dynasties and scholars were to be blamed fluctuated according to scholars or subjects) the Way had been lost or abandoned (失道/道失/道廢). The intellectual transformation was therefore understood as an act of recovering the Way of antiquity. Zhang Xuecheng 章學誠 (1738–1801), in a letter to Qian Daxin, commented that the scholars of his day (今) were “able to make visible what comprehensive Ru with broad learning could not achieve for hundreds of years . . . surveying

6

Introduction

from east to west and from north to south, [thus] hearing and seeing far beyond previous people” (有數百年博學通儒所未得見   .  .  . 縱橫流覽聞 見廣於前人).14 It was thus an intellectual campaign to recover the Way in which no wood and stone barricades were built and no spears, swords, or cannons were used. The weapons of the campaign consisted of brushes, ink, bronze and stone artifacts and inscriptions, and books. At stake, nonetheless, in the scholars’ eyes was survival: the survival of knowledge and culture and also the survival of the correct way to lead society—the survival of a Way that had to be recovered first. In particular, I argue that the complex relationships between the scholars’ notions of identity (or identities) and the transformations in knowledge during the eighteenth century, hitherto unexplored, are crucial aspects in explaining the changing scholarly tastes of the eighteenth century as well as their later consequences. Scholars’ notions of their identity were systematically and systemically interlinked with their conceptions of knowledge in general and with classical, historical, and scientific knowledge in particular. The cultural identity of most of the scholars I examine was termed Ru (儒). Commonly rendered as “Confucian” in Western scholarship, I prefer to leave the term untranslated in this book so as to maintain the scholars’ indigenous title, one that is more accurate in terms of their own concerns, which extend well beyond Confucius and even beyond “Confucian” classics or writings per se.15 And there were many—at times competing—visions of what Ru identity was all about along with other competing or overlapping identities experienced or imagined by the scholars. The scholars’ preoccupation with self-characterization and collective identity was manifested by their frequent use of such positive self-referential terms as “the Ru,” “we Ru” (吾儒), “genuine/true Ru” (真儒), “comprehensive Ru” (通儒), “sincere Ru” (洵儒), and “previous Ru” (先儒), which were contrasted with various negative Others, such as “later Ru” (後儒), “vulgar Ru” (俗儒), and “pretending Ru” (貌儒), and also with other lineages or schools of thought and practice, such as Buddhism and Daoism. The continual emphasis the scholars placed on who they were (Ru) and what that meant or should have meant—an emphasis found throughout their writings—is a clear sign of the significance of this sense of identity to them (and hence to those who wish to understand them). At the same time, this emphasis indicates their anxiety about this fragile and contested identity (again, in their eyes), and the fact that issues of identity were constantly intertwined with questions, analysis, and conclusions about various means and contents of knowledge speaks to the close relationship between sociocultural identity and knowledge. The nexus between knowledge and identity thus binds the volume thematically and extends to the realm of official, scholarly, and social power.

Introduction

7

In his seminal studies of the Tang to Song transition and of Neo-Confucian history Bol has demonstrated the fundamental role that the shi 士 (literati) sense of local and national identity played in turning learning into a major signifier of social prestige and identity as well as the role that Neo-Confucian scholars played in the development of shi identity. He further showed how this line of local identity continued well into the Ming and how identity, notions of learning or knowledge, and power (or lack thereof) were tightly connected. For the Qing elite scholars discussed in this book, however, shi was by no means their identity marker. In fact, Qian Daxin often wrote about shi but never wrote about himself as being a shi. Rather, he referred to himself as a Ru; this was an overarching identity marker that transcended time and place rather than being anchored in the local. Thus the Ru is the fundamental sociocultural identity analysis unit for this study, although I discuss other sociocultural identity units as well. Nonetheless, the knowledge-identity-power nexus that Bol discussed is also at its core.16 I further maintain that eighteenth-century scholars regarded their Ru identity as anchored in the concept of the Dao 道 (the Way). They felt that they, the Ru, had meandered away from the Way and that the Way had to be found again; they acknowledged that Ru tradition, culture, and teachings, as well as identity, had been contested and compromised. The main question that scholars such as Qian Daxin were attempting to answer seems to have been “Where is the Way?” This question, which Graham claimed encapsulated the difference between Western philosophy (asking “What is the truth?”) and Chinese philosophy (searching for the Way), serves as a point of departure for the present study.17 Yet, unlike Graham, I suggest that a significant part of the philological turn had to do with understanding the quest for finding the Way as built on a quest for finding truth—as the main slogan and methodology of the turn, shishi qiushi 實事求是 (search for truth in solid facts), indicates.18 Both quests, nonetheless, relate to the deep identity anxieties of those seeking the Way and the truth.19 By “anxieties” I mean the feelings of “uneasiness or trouble of mind about some uncertain event”;20 that is, eighteenth-century elite scholars’ sense of social or group identity21 as Ru was shaken, and they believed that the Way of the Ru, as they understood it, had been threatened, both from within the Ru camp and from without.

The Way and Ru Identity Anxieties The mid-eighteenth-century novel Rulin waishi 儒林外史 (lit. The external history of the forest of Ru; the English translation is titled The Scholars) by Wu Jingzi 吳敬梓 (1701–1754) highlights some of the tensions between the Ru

8

Introduction

ideal and the actualities of Ru behavior, at times to an extreme, and the sense of how the ideal had been compromised. Chapter 5 of the novel, for example, tells the story of the rich and fainthearted Yan Dayu 嚴大育. When Yan’s wife was on her deathbed, she resolved to have her husband marry his concubine so that Yan’s son from that concubine would not suffer under a different wife, potentially a wicked stepmother. Yan, who had hoped for this arrangement, summoned his wife’s brothers—Wang Ren 王仁 (Benevolent Wang) and Wang De 王德 (Virtuous Wang)—to witness their sister’s request firsthand and to give their approval. The two arrived at Yan’s house, and having received in private some silver from Yan (seemingly unrelated to the marriage plans), they urged their brother-in-law to marry his concubine in accordance with their sister’s wish: “Striking his fist on the table, Wang Ren declared, ‘The great thing about us scholars is our adherence to principles. If we were writing a composition to speak for Confucius, we should take exactly the line that we are taking now.’  ” Yan, for his part, expressed concerns that other relatives might object to the marriage. The Wang brothers reassured him that they would invite the relatives to a feast, thereby easing their potential objections. Someone, of course, had to pay for the feast, so Yan gave the brothers more silver. The brothers thus “left [Yan’s house], exuding righteousness from every pore” (二位義形於色去了).22 Later in the novel the Wang brothers’ vain claim to be able to speak for Confucius was contrasted with the view of another protagonist—a scholar named Zhuang Shaoguang 莊紹光. Zhuang lamented that “it does not seem that our Way will avail in this age!” (看來我道不行了) and that “there is no Confucius in our age” (世無孔子).23 Shang Wei has interpreted these and other scenes in the Rulin waishi as signs of a larger “crisis,” which he termed “the crisis of the Confucian world” or “a crisis of the Confucian norm.”24 Other scholars dealing with the history of literature offered similar assessments, characterizing the eighteenth century as a time of “Confucian crisis.” Huang, for example, claimed that the Rulin waishi “is closely related to the identity crisis experienced by China’s literati during that time.”25 Qian Daxin, the protagonist of the present study, came of age when the Rulin waishi was being written (1730s and 1740s) in the Jiangnan area, where the stories of the novel took place, and was a friend of Wu Jingzi’s son.26 But unlike many of the characters in the Rulin waishi and many of the literati discussed by Shang Wei and Huang, Qian was a very successful scholar-official. By the age of twenty-six he had already passed the metropolitan examination, earned the highest degree (jinshi), and served at the prestigious Hanlin Academy in the capital, Beijing. When he was in his fifties, Qian retired and went on to serve as head of some of the most esteemed academies of Jiangnan until he passed away twenty-five years later in 1804. He was highly respected as a student and

Introduction

9

examinee and as an official, examiner, scholar, and teacher, and he became known by the turn of the nineteenth century as perhaps the most celebrated Ru of his age in various fields of knowledge. Nonetheless, at the same time I argue that Qian Daxin experienced identity anxieties not dissimilar from those discussed by historians of literature. These anxieties—as I argue below—were tightly connected to his notions of the relationship between knowledge and sociocultural identity and to epistemological questions regarding the nature of valid knowledge and the legitimate means to attain it. Most modern scholars who use the term “crisis” in relation to eighteenthcentury China seem to deal more with literature;27 those who are engaged with sociopolitical, economic, and intellectual history generally regard the midQing period as the “prosperous age” of the “high Qing.”28 In the introduction to his book on Chen Hongmou 陳宏謀 (1696–1771), Rowe outlined the flourishing period of the mid-eighteenth century when everything seemed to be going in the right direction: there were hardly any revolts; the population grew; mortality rates declined; general public health increased; regional food shortfalls were managed; the empire expanded; new lands were cultivated; agriculture, commerce, and industry thrived, as did international trade; education and publishing expanded; and the arts prospered. The government was usually an ardent supporter, if not a catalyst, in all of these success stories.29 Whence the crisis then? In his book on Zhang Xuecheng, Nivison claimed that “when there is good order in the world the tao is not a matter of argument.”30 Yet many prominent scholars began to doubt the transmitted tradition during the eighteenth century. The time of such “good order,” it appears, was precisely the time to argue about the Way (道) and about Ru tradition, as Qian Daxin’s ways of articulating his own identity, his anxieties about his identity as a Ru, and the reasons for his anxieties demonstrate. Going back to the Rulin waishi, elite scholars certainly were very much aware of the corruption that afflicted officialdom, and whereas Wu Jingzi (himself a scholar) expressed his uneasiness through his novel, other elite scholars, such as Qian, expressed it in their scholarly work: “Low-ranking literati eagerly pursue glory through position; while high-ranking literati eagerly seek the arrogance of fame. ‘The male and female servants killed the sheep,’ their loss is the regular norm” (下士逐逐,惟位之榮,上士汲汲,惟名之矜. 臧穀亡羊,其失則均.).31 Qian’s quote about killing the sheep comes from the Zhuangzi 莊子;32 there Zhuangzi discussed how people were losing their inborn nature in favor of fast gain while making excuses. And if Qian expressed his discomfort in a moderate way, others in the eighteenth century, such as Hong Liangji (whom Qian knew) and before him Chen Hongmou, expressed it more forcefully. Qian Daxin and his peers were thus trying to find the better, true-to-antiquity, correct Way, but how could one know where the Way was? The answer to this question was located in the very foundation of what it meant—socially,

10

Introduction

culturally, and intellectually—to be a Ru for the main protagonists of this book. By Qian Daxin’s time some scholars felt that the Learning of the Way (Daoxue 道學; also known as Cheng-Zhu learning [程朱學]) and the Learning of the Heart (Xinxue 心學) of the Song 宋 (960–1279) and Ming 明 (1368–1644) dynasties—often rendered in the West as “Neo-Confucianism”—had brought into Ru culture elements that were clearly outside its boundaries, such as transcendence and intuition.33 These were considered invalid sources of knowledge that had infiltrated Ru culture’s very core: the classical texts, the transmission of which was deemed problematic even without Song and Ming intervention. Furthermore, the cultural encounter with Western knowledge systems— religious, scientific, artistic, and more—and the Qing Manchu rule increased anxieties over the undermining of Ru culture (and its contents).34 Such anxieties did not begin with Qian Daxin. They can certainly be found in seventeenth-century scholarship by Gu Yanwu 顧炎武 (1613–1682), Yan Ruoqu 閻若璩 (1636–1704), and others, who had been motivated by concerns that were similar, although caused by different sociopolitical predicaments. However, by the second half of the eighteenth century significant changes can be discerned: the political crisis was long resolved, the government encouraged scholarly projects, it was possible to criticize both the Learning of the Way and the Learning of the Heart with greater vigor, scholars had various (often private) institutional means at their disposal, and a wider and more active scholarly community was coming into being, a community that could interact, publish, and disseminate its studies and concerns more easily and efficiently than ever before, certainly compared to the turmoil of the previous century. Scholars thus felt that they could battle their anxieties with superior forces—most importantly, through philology, which, as a set of linguistic tools and methods used to investigate languages and texts, has the power to construct the textual pasts of peoples and consequently to shape both individual and collective identities. From the seventeenth to the early nineteenth century philology became the mainstay of classical scholarship. Although philological inquiry was not new, the consolidation of the discipline, its rising status, and the massive publication efforts linked to it, especially in the second half of the eighteenth century— alongside attacks on philology by those dissatisfied with its reign—constitute the philological turn. Qian Daxin made it clear that although he greatly appreciated the Ru of the early Qing, his and his peers’ achievements were by far greater and their line of scholarship—especially from the time of the scholar regarded as the pioneer of the philological turn in the eighteenth century, Hui Dong 惠棟 (1697–1758)— was new and more powerful and thus better suited to engage anxieties. These scholars called their new line of research “ancient learning” (古學)—a title appropriate to their main object of passion, antiquity.

Introduction

11

Ancient Learning, Han Learning, and the Modern Marginalization of Qian Daxin and the Philologists The label “ancient learning” did not last for long, and just a few years after Qian Daxin died a new label came into use to describe Qing, and in particular Qian-Jia, scholarship: “Han learning” (Hanxue 漢學). Promoted at first by Jiang Fan and Fang Dongshu 方東樹 (1772–1851), albeit from different sides of the scholarly trenches, the term quickly gained momentum, despite the voices of those who objected to it, such as Gong Zizhen 龔自珍 (1792–1841). By the mid-nineteenth century, scholars were using the term “Han learning” as synonymous with Qian-Jia scholarship and with philology. In the 1840s the famous scholar Wei Yuan 魏源 (1794–1856) declared—and thus also echoed the understanding of the Qian-Jia period as one of intellectual transformation—that “since the middle of the Qianlong [reign] the scholars within the seas advocated Han learning, and south and north of the Yangzi it greatly flourished” (自乾隆中葉後，海内士大夫興漢學，而大江南北 尤盛).35 At the same time Han learning was understood to juxtapose Song learning (Songxue 宋學), which came to be identified with lofty ideas (later termed “philosophy” by modern scholars) or yili 義理 (lit. meanings and principles). These titles and understandings of the Qian-Jia scholarly turn, alongside the notion of a contrast and tension between a strictly philological Hanxue “school” and a philosophy-minded Songxue “school,” continued to be used and endorsed well into the twentieth century. Neither of these understandings, however, contributes to our understanding of Qian-Jia scholarship and scholars: Hanxue does not come close to expressing Qian-Jia scholars’ sense of identity, their scholarship, and their priorities; philology became the mainstay methodology for scholars beyond those later designated as Hanxue scholars; and the main debates of the eighteenth century were not simply Hanxue versus Songxue. Furthermore, the historical context of the production of knowledge about Qing intellectual history during the early decades of the twentieth century induced Chinese (and other) modern scholarship to marginalize most of the so-called Hanxue scholarship of the Qing and its main protagonists. By the late nineteenth century, views of the Hanxue style of scholarship, often also rendered as evidential learning (kaozhengxue/kaojuxue 考證學/考 據學), were mixed. On one hand the philological methodology that Hanxue scholars championed cut across “school” boundaries; yet on the other there was no consensus regarding the extent to which this methodology had been or should have been applied and the effects of its contribution (or damage) to state and society. Some, like the prominent scholar Yü Yue 俞樾 (1821–1907), greatly appreciated Qian-Jia scholars and scholarship,36 whereas Kang Youwei 康有爲

12

Introduction

(1858–1927)—among others who followed the early nineteenth-century criticism by Fang Dongshu—bemoaned the uselessness (in his eyes) of such scholarship.37 Indeed, Fang Dongshu waged the initial and most vehement attack on Qian-Jia scholars, partaking in the battle between Han learning and Song learning scholars waged in the early nineteenth century. At the turn of the twentieth century Fang’s attacks on Hanxue were still taken seriously, and more editions of his Hanxue shangdui 漢學商兌 (An assessment of Han learning) were published, but the grounds for later attacks differed from Fang’s.38 As Western categories of knowledge, as well as the Western “scientific method” of producing knowledge, became the vogue alongside the “new historiography” (xin shixue 新史學), scholars reevaluated the historical role and significance of Han learning scholars; they used Fang Dongshu, but their agenda was different than his. The agenda of the twentieth century was based on a Western storyline rather than a Cheng-Zhu script (as was the case for Fang Dongshu), and Hanxue scholars were examined not by the standards of Chinese antiquity but by those of Western modernity. In 1902 Liang Qichao published his Lun Zhongguo xueshu sixiang bianqian zhi dashi 論中國學術思想變遷之大勢 (Essay on the general trend of changes in Chinese thought and learning), in which he discussed Fang Dongshu’s book: “[Fang] assailed [Han learning] sparing no pains, his language striking, his discussion sharp and acute, and what he attacked was the crux of the matter” (抨擊不遺余力, 其文辭斐然, 論鋒敏銳, 所攻者間亦中癥結). The “crux of the matter” was Hanxue’s uselessness, but, nonetheless, when Liang compared Han learning with what Fang Dongshu’s Tongcheng school (桐城) had to offer, he concluded that both schools were “equally useless” (等無用也).39 But why were these schools useless from Liang’s perspective? First, Liang asserted China’s eminence in world history until the modern period, saying that “in the thought and learning of antiquity, our China was the best; . . . in the thought and learning of the Middle Ages, our China was the best” (上世史 時代之學術思想，我中華第一也；  .  .  . 中世史時代之學術思想，我中華 第一也). However, “only in modern times, it became inferior, and I blush with shame” (惟近世史時代，則相形之下，吾汗顔矣).40 The blame for China’s new state of inferiority, Liang thought, lay with the Han learning school of the Qian-Jia era. “This Learning,” wrote Liang, “has destroyed China for a long time!” (斯學之敝中國久矣). Among its better qualities the Han school of thought “possessed the spirit of science” (有科學之精神), but in the end the school was useless in bringing about modernity, and even worse, it was morally degenerating.41 One of the major new categories of knowledge that became a yardstick for learning was Western-style philosophy, as transmitted first from Japan and then from Europe and America. And as philosophy’s status soared in the 1900s and 1910s, all past Chinese thought was measured by its philosophical contribution.

Introduction

13

As a result, in 1916 Xie Wuliang 謝無量 (1884–1964),42 in his Zhongguo zhexue shi 中國哲學史 (History of Chinese philosophy), concluded that the Qing dynasty was the period in which “philosophy was the least invigorated” (哲學最為不振) and in which “only evidential research flourished, while philosophy, on the contrary, declined” (考證之學所以獨盛，而哲學反衰者).43 Soon thereafter special essays and monographs detailed the “philosophy” or “thought” of Qing scholars as part of the quest to “reorder the Chinese past” (整理國故). Hu Shi 胡適 (1891–1962), who had preached the cause of the “reordering” project, elaborated on Qing scholarship. In “Qingdai Hanxuejia de kexue fangfa” 清代漢學家的科學方法 (The scientific method of Qing dynasty Han learning scholars),44 his substantial essay on Qing scholarship, Hu dealt with methods of scholarship and explained that “among the achievements of the Han learning of the Qing period, the examination of the phonology within paleography was the greatest” (清代汉学的成绩，要算文字学的音韵一部 分为最大).45 He further concluded that such philological endeavors comprised the basis of modern phonology because the “method” and the “spirit” were “scientific” (科學的方法 . . . 科學的精神).46 Indeed, Hu regarded Qian Daxin as the “the most scientifically minded man of the eighteenth century” (最有科學頭腦的人裏的一個), referring to Qian’s paleography as “the best model of the evidential research method” (第一等考證方法的最好的模範).47 Among Qing scholars, however, Hu’s general attention was directed primarily toward Dai Zhen 戴震 (1724–1777). Dai Zhen, according to Hu, “would not submit merely to being an evidential scholar; he wanted to be a philosopher” (他不甘心僅僅做個考據家;他要做個 哲學家).48 This Hu Shi took to be an exception to the rule among Han learning or evidential research scholars, who “as a whole did not discuss philosophy” (大家都不講哲學了). Hu further stated that Dai Zhen was to be taken as the one who revived philosophy (哲學的中興) in what was considered to be Dai’s most important philosophical work, the Mengzi ziyi shuzheng 孟子字義疏證 (Analysis of the meaning of terms in the Mengzi).49 Hu thus regarded Dai as the greatest thinker and philosopher of the time.50 A year after the first part of Hu Shi’s “Qingdai Hanxuejia de kexue fangfa” appeared, in 1920, Liang Qichao (after consulting with Hu Shi) published the Qingdai xueshu gailun 清代學術概論 (Outline of Qing period scholarship), his own narrative of Qing intellectual history.51 Liang generally thought that eighteenth-century scholars—whom he classified as “the Orthodox School” (正統派)—“carried on empirical research for the sake of empirical research and studied the Classics for the sake of the Classics” (正統派則為考證而考 證，為經學而治經學).52 In general, this line of interpretation of mid-Qing philologists—as conducting “research for the sake of research” with no practical or philosophical consequences—became the accepted dictum, prevailing

14

Introduction

until today. Thus, Qian Daxin, who had been identified (correctly perhaps) as the greatest Han learning scholar, became a beacon of futile scholarship and so was marginalized in modern research along with his fellow travelers on the philological path. Han learning philology has since been usually equated with kaozheng/ kaoju, or evidential research, and deemed almost irrelevant or even detrimental for anyone looking for philosophy, which was understood as the superior discipline and the basic prerequisite for scientific progress, for “modernity.” At best, a “scientific spirit” could be found in the philologists’ methodology, and then the method alone would be emphasized, without the “abortive”53 or “escapist” thought system within which the method had operated and had been applied. Whether Qian had a coherent system of thought (as opposed to methodology) was usually not examined, and this was the case for most other eighteenth-century scholars: they did not fit the relevant category.54

Road Map to China’s Philological Turn China’s Philological Turn provides a systematic reconstruction of the history of the eighteenth-century intellectual transformations through the prisms of social history, intellectual history, and the history of science. The first part of the book is a social history of scholarship; the second examines the nexus among philology, history, and classicism; and the third is a study of the intricate relationship among man, nature, and cosmos, as viewed through the history of mathematics, astronomy, calendrical studies, ritual, and fate. These different fields of study are not randomly grafted into this monograph: each field had profound interactions with the others, and the scholars of the philological turn were assessed by their ability to master different fields of knowledge and were able to do so through social interactions. Thus the application of the philological methodology to multiple fields of study can also be taken as a major parameter for determining the turn’s contents and scope. Furthermore, throughout the book the nexus between knowledge and identity—a hitherto unexplored theme in the context of eighteenth-century Chinese intellectual history—serves as a thread that binds the volume thematically. More specifically, the first part of the book delineates the intricate social networks of scholars, unraveling the social contacts and environments that facilitated—materially, institutionally, and intellectually—the exchange, circulation, and dissemination of contemporaneous knowledge. The intellectual turns scholars took were tightly connected to the social turns in their lives. The first part thus also serves as the sociohistorical anchor of the study, presents Qian Daxin’s life story as a web of expanding social networks, and grounds the development of his knowledge and know-how for the later parts through an

Introduction

15

analysis of these networks. Through this story the process by which Qian came to acquire, elaborate on, and produce different types of knowledge unfolds as a case study of a major philologically oriented scholar. This process, like knowledge itself, was dynamic and changing, and it involved social and family relations; it was not based on one individual’s sole efforts but rather incorporated the joint endeavors of many scholars. One of the central institutions that enabled Qian Daxin—and his peers—to create, maintain, and enhance social networks was the examination system, within which scholars of various statuses interacted, could gain fame and find patrons, advanced their interests, and established social units, such as their class or examiners, that would potentially accompany them for a long time. Similarly, the capital—geographically and perhaps ideologically—where scholars gathered to take examinations or to meet with patrons was instrumental in shaping a vibrant scholarly community that was in constant flux. Private academies, libraries, and various collections (of printed books, handwritten manuscripts, and inscriptions), especially but not exclusively in the Jiangnan region, likewise played major roles in the production and development of knowledge and scholarly networks. Travel—to view steles in temples, to research rare manuscripts, or to visit other scholars, for example—was therefore also a significant tool for the production, dissemination, and circulation of knowledge, related, again, to the networks that made it possible by funding journeys and hosting scholars far from their homes. Throughout part I, I also demonstrate the absence of distinct schools, lineages, or identities distinguished as Han or Song learning during the second half of the eighteenth century and begin to highlight how Qian Daxin and the scholars of the philological turn perceived their quest for knowledge and its relation to their vision of Ru identity. By using social networks as an analytical tool, I move away from the notion of distinct Han and Song learning “groups” or “movements” and rethink the very notion of the “Han learning versus Song learning” debate at the time (while also historicizing the appearance of such a debate in the early nineteenth century). Hence I also question the validity of the use of the term “Han learning” (or “Song learning”) to describe eighteenthcentury scholars and thus enable a much more nuanced understanding of these scholars and their priorities. The three chapters of part I, arranged chronologically around Qian’s biography, suggest at the same time the chronological development and spread of the philological turn and the process that enabled it. In particular, I draw attention to the momentous drive toward philology that intensified from the 1750s. I bring to light the substantial scholarly and publishing efforts associated with such philologically related texts as the Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 (Analysis of simple graphs as an explanation of complex characters) and the Erya 爾雅 (Progress toward correctness) that surged in importance during that period,

16

Introduction

and especially from the 1770s. Unfortunately, despite the magnitude of their publication history (dozens of such publications date to the Qianlong and early Jiaqing periods), these works have more often than not been ignored in Western sinology. This scholarly surge toward meticulous textual study and the careful study of the philological aids in and of themselves, I propose, is one of the fundamental indicators of the philological turn, and the course of its intensification should serve as a litmus test for the intellectual concerns and tastes of the time: a philological turn litmus test. Moreover, I demonstrate that the textual objects of philological inquiries were far from limited to Han or preHan dynasty texts (as the term “Han learning” might suggest), as can be seen in the profusion of philologically oriented studies of dynastic histories, natural studies, ritual studies, and more. Part II deals with the most fundamental issue for ancient learning scholars: antiquity. Antiquity was a crucial source of inspiration, an aim for aspirations, an authority for knowledge and practice, and, concurrently, a problem. The tension between antiquity’s elevated status and the problem of what antiquity actually was (or was meant to be) was one of the foremost motivations for acute philological studies. This part therefore examines this heavily laden term, especially through the writings of Qian Daxin, in order to understand what antiquity meant for eighteenth-century scholars; how it served as an authority for knowledge, practice, and identity; and what was entailed in the complex relationship between scholars and their past. I show that antiquity was a source of authority for Qian Daxin, mainly through his concept of the Classics. Qian’s understanding of the Classics as sources of knowledge—indeed, the ultimate sources of knowledge—underscored his search for the correct readings of the Classics by philological means. He perceived a rupture between antiquity and his present, and hence anxieties about his sources arose—and because he felt the rupture was related to Ru identity, a historically compromised identity in his view, his identity anxieties became apparent. Qian was not satisfied with the ways previous scholars, especially during the Song and Ming dynasties, had confronted the rupture with antiquity (for many the “burning of the books” by the First Emperor marked the beginning of the rupture). These scholars represented, at least in part, a contradicting epistemological agenda as far as Qian Daxin was concerned and a battle between “ancients and moderns.”55 The weapons for subduing the anxieties and fighting this battle were textual philological practices and tools, and their use went far beyond Qian Daxin and included many late eighteenth-century scholars. Philology was an instrument to get to “meanings and principles,” the “big ideas”—not just in rhetoric but also in practice. This was true for the Classics, but philology also played a role in other areas, as reflected in Qian’s attitude toward history and the Histories. Qian thought that these two fields of knowledge—classicism and history—had

Introduction 17

been part of one unified field of knowledge in the past and of the past, a field of knowledge that was central to examining any practice in his present and certainly to understanding the Way of the Ru and Ru identity. By proposing to examine the philological style of writings as a series of philological-historicalclassical “case studies,” I emphasize the professionalization and disciplinary nature of philology at that time. Part II also sets the stage for the next part by looking at the ways of thinking about and working with the past that were vital to knowledge and practices related to the nexus among man, nature, and cosmos, discussed in the last part of the book. Part III examines scientific fields of knowledge—primarily astronomy, mathematics, and calendrical studies. These, in turn, were related to ritual and fate, two themes with which philologically minded scholars, along with the government and the emperors, were profoundly concerned. This part thus relates the intersection between the Way of Heaven (天道) and the Way of Man (人道), as perceived during the second half of the eighteenth century, when interest in all the fields mentioned above grew dramatically. In this part I explain the close relationship between scientific inquiry and the classical and historical fields of knowledge and expound the limits of knowledge and of what can be known as well as man’s possibilities for comprehending, adhering to, or manipulating nature and cosmos. I demonstrate how anxieties over Ru identity gave rise to scientific debates and how some of these debates were in fact cultural in essence. More specifically, I discuss case studies that involve questions concerning the length of the year, the value of π, and cosmology. I emphasize the proximity of astronomy and astrology for Qian and the consequences of such proximity. I therefore also use the modern term “science” with caution and in a qualified manner.56 Furthermore, I maintain that Qian regarded these sciences as an inherent part of Ru identity and felt that Western learning posed a serious threat to Ru identity precisely because it, too, took science and cultural identity as part of one whole. Thus, tensions between Westerners and Chinese, as well as “ancients and moderns,” played a significant part in Qian Daxin’s scientific outlook and research; on one hand they opened intellectual space for innovation and reception of ideas, but on the other they limited the scope of that space for Qian, his peers, and their students. Anxieties about Ru identity related to scientific issues also expose the nexus between knowledge and power (intellectual, official, and imperial) for eighteenth-century scholars, especially vis-à-vis the Jesuits. Jesuit teachings, gradually available in China since the late sixteenth century, at times posed a threat to the cultural identity of Chinese scholars. The explicit Jesuit claim that its teachings would surpass and replace indigenous teachings (such as Confucianism and Buddhism) was one facet of this threat. The tight nexus between the scientific aspects of Jesuit teachings and their larger cultural and religious arguments presented yet another layer of threat, whether implicit or

18

Introduction

explicit, as their scientific and religious teachings began to be disseminated in seventeenth-century China. The Jesuit threat—far from being irrelevant as the eighteenth century progressed, as the conventional narrative has it—remained an important factor for Chinese scholars to reckon with. Manchu rule was no less significant in shaping the cultural interactions of scholars (and Jesuits), who also had to vie for the Qing court’s support and patronage, and the Manchus themselves struggled with upholding their own Manchu identity.57 In addition, such complex scientific issues were often part of a larger discourse concerning the Way of Heaven. I argue that the complex relationship between the Way of Heaven and the Way of Man, was manifested, for example, in notions of fate and the human capability or inability to act and to shape individuals’ destinies and society’s well-being. Having embraced the authority of antiquity and the need to find potential ways of acting within and affecting reality, the intellectual turn culminated in a heightened perception of the significance of ritual and its role in safeguarding both Ru and society at large. The prevailing view is that Qian-Jia philologists were pushing away from concrete studies and from concrete attempts to bring order to society. In contrast, I maintain that these philologists not only were acutely aware of the sociopolitical problems of their time but also thought that their efforts to correct rituals (through astronomical, mathematical, and calendrical studies as well as historical and classical studies) were potentially the most fundamental and concrete contributions for creating order and “saving the world”—indeed, for finding and actuating the Way. Thus I explore both intracultural discussions and debates and intercultural interactions in a variety of related fields of knowledge and practice and conclude that the philological turn was instigated in significant ways as a reaction to the various threats to Ru cultural identity and institutional standing from both within and without the Ru community. I further argue that the philologists thought of their work as practical insofar as it had, or should have had, concrete effects on individuals, state, and society. In so doing, I am not arguing that there actually were such concrete effects, that the philologists saved the day, or that by the late eighteenth century the socioeconomic or political situation in China improved. It did not, but one could also question whether the philologists’ ideas were ever fully implemented. I am not defending the scholars but rather providing a means to understand the historical phenomenon, for this phenomenon did not come to an end in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. The philological turn continued with full force well into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Therefore, in the conclusion I discuss the possible implications of this continuity along with possible links to issues of “modernity” and the question of whether the use of the term “revolution” is appropriate in describing this intellectual turn.

PART I

THE WAY OF MAN Scholarly Networks and the Social History of Scholarship

Portrait of Qian Daxin. Source: Cheng Zuqing 程祖慶 (fl. 1851), Lianchuan mingren huaxiang (Jiading: Cheng shi gainan cao tang, Daoguang 30 [1850]), juan 4, 24.

CHAPTER 1

LEARNING TO BE A SCHOLAR

Methodological Foreword The mid-Qing social infrastructure provided the setting that enabled eighteenth-century intellectuals to steer the philological steam engine along new and challenging tracks and thus make the philological turn. At the same time, social interactions were often what exposed these intellectuals to the new scholarly landscapes that changed their preferences, agendas, and priorities and caused them to change the direction of the philological engine. Growing funding opportunities for philological projects—from both government and private sources (such as well-off scholars or scholar-officials, governors, academies, bibliophiles, and library owners)—allowed more scholars to devote their time and energy to both individual and group philology projects. In part I, I analyze the changing sociohistorical settings, the social infrastructure and interactions that made up the milieu in which the protagonists of the philological turn lived, and the influences that sociohistorical processes had on their intellectual choices, as seen through the prism of Qian Daxin’s biography. As  this part unfolds, I also consider questions relating to differences in the social setting from those of previous eras, to the sponsorship of the protagonists of our story (who/what sustained the intellectual turn and how), and to the opposition to the philological turn. This social setting was an important, albeit not exclusive, factor in the continual shaping of Qian Daxin’s persona as a learner, user, and producer of knowledge as well as of the sociocultural identity he perceived as his own.

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The rationale for part I derives from the notions that there is a strong (reciprocal) relationship between the production of knowledge and its sociohistorical context and that knowledge should be considered a dynamic process rather than an ahistorical object. As Sayer put it, “We tend not to think in terms of knowing, which is in the process of becoming  .  .  . but as a thing already ‘precipitated.’  .  .  . To combat this static view it is imperative to consider the production of knowledge as a social activity.”1 I take the relationship between knowledge and social aspects as central also because one major aim of this study is to reveal the nexus between knowledge and identity for the historical actors and because the notion of identity, as delineated below, is in itself tightly related to social circumstances. The method I use for analyzing Qian Daxin as a social actor is partly inspired by the perspective of social network analysis, which describes social structure by focusing “on relationships among social entities, and on the patterns and implications of these relationships.”2 The emphasis on relationships (at times referred to as “ties”) assumes interdependency among “social actors,” both in their actions and in the “flow of resources (either material or nonmaterial)”; interdependency is also seen “as providing opportunities for or constraints on individual action.”3 Within the framework of social network analysis, I focus on an egocentric approach—that is, one that emphasizes relationships that center on one individual; the set of all such relationships is termed a “personal community.” Questions about personal communities in social network analysis usually concern the size of the community, the strength of its ties (whether degrees of weakness or strength), its composition (kin, friends, neighbors, etc.) and its changes over time, its spatial dispersion, interconnections between its different ties, and the kind of support it provides for the central figure.4 Although the data resulting from my research do not often allow the full-scale quantitative analysis typical in social network analysis,5 the underlying principles of the method, outlined briefly above, are still relevant for a study of a qualitative nature and should prove revealing. One of my goals in using this methodology, however, is to avoid the pitfalls—determinism and instrumentalism, in particular—often associated with structuralist approaches such as social network analysis.6 Specifically, in the context of this study I do not subscribe to the notion that knowledge is essentially only a social construct or that social factors unequivocally determine paths of knowledge production. Further, the nexus between knowledge and power has Marxist connotations, which the very term “production of knowledge” might bring to mind for some. This term should be used with care: I do not take social factors to be exclusive determinants but rather see them as components in our overall view of Qian Daxin and the protagonists of the philological turn. Qian and his peers made choices when opportunities presented themselves, even created these opportunities,

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and their work, perseverance, and intelligence—themes that appear again in later chapters—were all factors in their intellectual development and in the intellectual turns they chose to take. The process of the professionalization of philological inquiry in eighteenthcentury China was also related to questions of identity. Elman argued that a “gradual crystallization of a distinct kaozheng identity” could be traced already “in the late seventeenth century.” Following Thackray and Merton, he further described this identity as a “cognitive” and “professional” identity, related to the “institutionalization and professionalization of evidential scholarship.” 7 Although I contend that the “crystallization of a distinct kaozheng identity” was rapid rather than gradual and that it can be traced clearly in the second half of the eighteenth century rather than the seventeenth (as a wider social phenomenon versus one of limited scope), the notion of cognitive and professional identities linked to it is highly significant. Even more so, Vanderstraeten and Vandermoere recently furthered Thackray and Merton’s claims concerning the nexus between disciplines and identities and argued that “the rise of disciplines is connected with the formation of networks of specialists [wherein] scholarly journals play a key role [in] the constitution of a distinct scholarly identity.”8 This connection among a discipline, identity, and social networks is precisely what this study examines. However, I argue that the relationship among the three is reciprocal; that is, each of the vertices of this triangle—discipline, identity, and social networks—affects and changes the others. But what do I mean by “identity”? The protagonists of this book experienced the constant interaction of multiple identities: local identity, family lineage identity, teacher and student lineage identities, official identity, private scholar identity, expert identity, religious (or, perhaps more correctly, ritual) identity, and more. At the same time, these protagonists faced a host of Others who had their own identities, including nonChinese (Manchus, Mongols, borderlands peoples, etc.), Buddhists, Daoists, merchants and nonscholars, and scholars with a different sense of identity. The various identities of the protagonists and the Others were or could be interpreted as competing or overlapping. Certainly, they all interacted with one another through the scholars’ engagement with the social, political, economic, and textual realities surrounding them, and many of these identities were not mutually exclusive. Indeed, Qian Daxin’s earliest recollections of his childhood involve various, and competing, identities conveyed by his elders. The identity the philologists were trying to shape and their vision of what Ru identity was or should have been were heavily influenced by competing visions of Ru identity that had been put forth by different Ru scholars. I also argue that the philologists’ interests should not be taken for granted in this regard. Their allegiance with the “early Ru” and their intermittent difficulties with Westerners, for example, were not a preconditioned default.

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These interests and allegiances grew out of a sense that Ru identity (as they perceived their present) was deteriorating; that they needed to find the true Ru identity, closely linked to correct Ru practice; and that they needed to carve out a new vision for that identity. The identity that I refer to in most of these cases is social identity (one’s sense of identity as a member of a collective group) rather than personal identity (one’s unique and personal sense of self as an individual). The notion of social identity, as applied in the social sciences, involves several basic elements related to how a person thinks and feels about himself or herself in relation to others. Some of the dominant elements include categorization as belonging to a group; identification of the group, which involves a sense of awareness of being a member of a group (cognitive) that is related to value connotations about what it means to be part of that group (evaluative) and an emotional investment in being part of the group; comparison of the group with other groups; and a sense of distinctiveness of the group. In general, for a social identity to be formed, both internal factors (how in-group members define themselves) and external factors (how others define in-group members) are usually at play. Assmann and Czaplicka maintained that “a group bases its consciousness of unity and specificity upon this knowledge [the cultural memory of a group] and derives formative and normative impulses from it, which allows the group to reproduce its identity.”9 It is therefore also vital to explore the ways the eighteenth-century philologists constructed and understood the cultural memory of the Ru as a basis for their sense of identity. The definition of a “group,” however, is fuzzier when the various factors mentioned above are at play—a group can be formed whether it is clearly defined in terms of the exact members or characterized in a more open fashion.10 In this and the following chapters, I discuss the changing sense of social (and hence also cultural) identity of Qian Daxin and his peers and the ways it was articulated in relation to knowledge and knowledge production, along with the social networks that were intertwined with these processes. By focusing on Qian Daxin’s social networks as they related to questions concerning knowledge and bearing in mind the social network analysis questions mentioned above, I explore (1) Qian’s own biography, focusing on the sociohistorical context and on the unfolding of his scholarly and cultural identity through his expanding social networks; (2) the extent to which there were clearly (or fuzzily) delineated and bounded communities of Han learning (漢學) and Song learning (宋學) in the eighteenth century; (3) the relationship between local lineage schools of thought on the one hand and the interaction of scholars at the national level, regardless of school or lineage affiliation on the other; and (4) the philologists’ sense of identity and its relation to their methodology and search for knowledge. I also highlight changes in the production of knowledge during the second half of the eighteenth century, especially in terms

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of the quantity and dissemination of scholarship, along with the means and institutions providing for scholars and scholarly production and the changes in political climate relevant to scholarly production. Finally, I consider the question of who was missing from Qian’s networks and the possible ramifications of the exclusions. I explore the above-mentioned issues predominantly by means of Qian Daxin’s Nianpu (年譜), a chronological biography that he personally wrote until 1792, when he was sixty-four years old.11 It was later completed by his great-grandson Qian Qingzeng 錢慶曾 (1809–1870), who added many useful comments.12 The biography provides many links to Qian’s other writings, especially the many letters, prefaces, postscripts, epitaphs, and tombstone inscriptions he wrote for dozens of friends, relatives, and acquaintances (his own and those of his friends), which, in turn, form yet another valuable source for Qian’s social networks. And as Qian Daxin’s networks were very extensive, the “biography” of the philological turn as a whole, as it were, emerges as I explore them. Some of the sources are exceedingly flattering and may seem empty or exaggerated, and hence they require caution; on the other hand, when several sources converge in such an attitude, it seems that the apparent flattery was based on actual appreciation. Thus part I unfolds around the hitherto untold story of Qian’s life as a process of evolving networks. It serves as a prism through which to view sociohistorical processes beyond him and also to bring his peers into the discussion, and it takes the first step in setting the sociohistorical stage as part and parcel of the epistemological and topical stances discussed in the next parts.13 The three chapters in this part correlate (but are not limited) to the phases of what struck me as the most important sociopolitical institution for Qian Daxin, the examination system, as it affected him as a student, examinee, examiner, teacher, and head of academies. The examination system is central to our understanding of the context for the production of knowledge on many levels, including the social realities in which knowledge was produced, the reasons to pursue knowledge, and the kinds of knowledge pursued. Moreover, this system was Qian’s and his acquaintances’ main avenue for networking: they prepared for the examinations, took them time and again, failed and succeeded, reacted to the system, and in some cases acted as examiners and later on as teachers for examinees-to-be. Those who rose to higher positions within the bureaucracy were also engaged with coordinating the system, and those who rose to higher positions within private academies strived to influence the curriculum of would-be examinees. In all of these capacities the system served as an arena where students, examinees, examiners, and teachers could socialize and network both within and among these groups. The examination system was also the context in which the relationship of power and knowledge was under contention, with the emperor and his officials being part of this hierarchical

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system, even if they did not share the same identity or preferences, and thus they formed part of the networks of Qian himself. The centrality of the examination system should, nevertheless, not be taken to mean it was the exclusive avenue for pursuing knowledge or networks: other institutional frameworks, such as the Hanlin Academy and the various private academies, served similar functions for Qian, as did noninstitutional avenues, such as private communications, various group projects, and travel. Yet the majority of the networks that Qian wove, especially until his retirement, grew directly or indirectly—at least at the outset—out of the examination system. The periodization of each chapter is not rigid. The years that bound each of the phases are indicative of major changes in Qian’s life and should thus be taken as road signs in mapping Qian’s paths in life, not as clear boundaries, breaks, discontinuities, or outright beginnings. Let us begin, then, with Qian Daxin’s birth.14

Family Background and Childhood The geographical seedbed of the philological turn was an area known as Jiangnan (see map 1) in the lower Yangzi River delta. This was the most prosperous region of the Qing Empire, referred to as “China’s richest region,” “the hub of commerce and communication in late imperial China,” and a center of learning and culture.15 Qian Daxin, like many other protagonists of our story, was a Jiangnan native. His home was located in Jiading (嘉定) county (then part of Suzhou prefecture; today administered by Shanghai), some thirty-five kilometers (21 miles) northwest of modern Shanghai’s city center, at the heart of Jiangnan. The history of the Qian family in Jiading began sometime during the Zhengde (正德) reign (1505–1521) of the Ming dynasty, when Qian Zi 錢鎡 moved there from Changshu (常熟), about forty kilometers (25 miles) northwest of Jiading, to live with his in-laws of the Guan (管) family.16 The descendants of Qian Zi lived primarily in two of Jiading’s towns, Waigang (外岡) and Wangxianqiao (望仙橋), which were about five kilometers (3 miles) apart and about ten to twelve kilometers (6–7 miles) west of Jiading’s center.17 Jiading’s topography, according to the 1726 Gujin tushu jicheng 欽定古今圖書集成 (Imperially decreed complete collection of books and illustrations past and present), was made up of “high land, not suitable for paddy fields” (土高不宜水稻), in contrast to most of Suzhou prefecture.18 Thus the population was involved in growing cotton and trading in cotton products well before Qian Daxin was born. Because the region was a part of the Yangzi delta “cotton revolution”19 and was located on commercial trade routes, it is no surprise that well-to-do families emerged that could afford and would seek private teachers for their sons; many

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Map 1 Qian Daxin’s early travels in Jiangnan, 1728–1751

scholars who attained low-level examination degrees or failed to attain them were willing candidates for the jobs.20 Two of these private teachers were Qian Daxin’s grandfather Qian Wangjiong 錢王炯 (1668–1759) and his father, Qian Guifa 錢桂發 (1697–1775), the first male ties in Qian Daxin’s life. They were not famous outside of their home region, and they did not hold any official positions or come from a dominant lineage, although they both passed the county examination and therefore were licentiates (邑諸生 or 生員).21 The Qians were neither very poor nor rich, and both father and grandfather had to relocate occasionally to take teaching jobs within the area. Qian recalled his father telling some of his students (with some exaggeration) that “[my] household is poor and cannot support a garden, [but] the famous mountains and waterways are close within a few hundred li

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and can be reached with a small boat, and they are all my gardens” (家貧不能 為園, 名山水近在數百里, 扁舟可達者, 皆吾園也).22 “When [my] father passed the age of thirty, he still did not have a son” (先大夫年逾三十, 尚未得子), recalled Qian Daxin.23 “Maternal uncle Shen Zupei said that the gate of the house was unfavorable, and it was necessary to shut it and not open the door. His words were followed, and that year I was born” (姑父沈組佩先生，言房門不利，當閉之而別啟戶焉, 如其言,斯年 而居士生). It was 1728 when Qian Daxin was born in Wangxianqiao in Jiading county, the region that supplied Qian with his first social contacts, institutions, and opportunities to learn and develop socially and intellectually. Qian Daxin’s immediate family formed the first and basic network in which he participated; it was his initial framework for education and support, and it also played a fundamental role in shaping his sense of local and cultural identity. Over time, the family network grew in numbers through marriages and births, in social position and prestige, in intellectual dominance, and in formal official positions. Qian’s memories of his elders provide some insight into the world he saw and participated in as a child, serving as a prelude to his networking outside of the family and a possible indicator of considerations in different choices he made. Qian’s grandfather had been a teacher for most of his life and had an interest in scholarship, writing two (unpublished) manuscripts: “Zixue haizhu” 字學 海珠 (Character learning from the Pearl Sea) and “Xingming suoyan” 星命 瑣言 (Trivial words on fate). In his teaching, according to the grandson and as the two titles above suggest, Qian Wangjiong emphasized both the components of the written character and the tonal aspects of its pronunciation (字之偏旁，音之平仄) and generally “was inclined toward divination and fate prognostication, always having efficacious results” (旁及卜筮祿命之術, 輒有奇驗).24 Both themes—philology and fate—would become prominent in Qian Daxin’s own scholarship later on. Qian Daxin’s sense of identity and intellectual choices were significantly influenced by his relationship with his grandfather. The following excerpt, most of which was supposedly told by the grandfather and recounted by Qian, is revealing in several respects; here I concentrate on the sense of identity that can be discerned from it, especially toward the end, and the intellectual predilections that it reveals: [My grandfather was] not pleased with the learning of the two masters [Laozi and the Buddha] and once said that “the immortal [i.e., Laozi] spoke about prolonging life while the Buddha spoke about nonextinction [after dying]; both of them cannot be believed. The spirit [神] depends on the body in order to exist, and there is no such thing as the spirit existing after the body has passed away. Now, those who follow the teachings of the immortal and

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of the Buddha roam the land, but at the end no one is able to see an ancient immortal or an ancient Buddha, and therefore those who ‘prolonged their life’ are not [eternally] alive and those who ‘did not become extinct’ did [in fact] become extinct. When [the Buddhists] say ‘the enlightened nature is eternal,’ therefore, how can it be that we Ru [吾儒] are the only ones who are not right? Not only Kong[zi], Meng[zi], [the] Cheng [brothers] and Zhu [Xi], all the way to Li [Bo], Du [Fu], Han [Yu], Su [Dongpo], and their kind, their essential spirit also extends and exists today.  .  .  . Establish virtue, establish achievements, establish words, this is the immortality of us Ru,25 as well as the prolonging of life and nonextinction of us Ru [立德, 立功, 立言, 吾儒之不朽, 即吾儒之長生不滅也].” 26

The notion of “us Ru” (吾儒) was both a recurring theme in the writings of Qian Daxin and many of his contemporaries and the cornerstone of their identity. Here Ru identity was contrasted to that of others—Laozi, Buddha, and their followers—and can thus also serve as an illustration of whom the grandfather saw as the significant Other of the Ru and what the Ru were not: they did not believe in immortality or reincarnation, and they were not Daoists or Buddhists. Some basic positive aspects of what it meant to be a Ru were also stated: a “this worldly” attitude in a continual process of establishing virtue, achievements, and words. Metaphysics was rejected prima facie— the reason for the rejection of immortality or reincarnation, for example, was sense and experience oriented (no one had seen such a person). The high regard for divination, mentioned above, should not be confused with metaphysics, as I clarify in part III. Furthermore, there is the sense of a living and continuous tradition of Ru that stretches all the way from Confucius to Zhu Xi and further to Qian’s own time. Late Tang and Song dynasty thinkers were not rejected here but rather embraced as part of the Ru continuum. Indeed, Zhu Xi’s heritage was kept alive in practice by Qian’s father in the form of Zhu’s “Family Rituals” (家禮), which the father practiced at the family ancestral temple.27 Another related factor influencing Qian’s developing identity was his father’s emphasis on “penetrating ancient learning” (通古學).28 Qian’s father was not alone in Jiading in upholding the ideal of ancient learning. “The love of ancient learning in Jiading,” Qian wrote in 1779, “began with master Wang” (嘉定之好古學自王氏始).29 Master Wang was Wang Erda 王爾達 (1693–1768), the father of Wang Mingsheng 王鳴盛 (1722–1798, jinshi of 1754), another famous Jiading scholar and philological enthusiast; Wang Erda was also Qian’s father-in-law. Wang Erda, together with Qian’s father and another local scholar, Cao Guifang (曹桂芳),30 were later known as “the three fathers of distinguished sons” (三封翁), the sons being Wang Mingsheng, Cao Renhu 曹仁虎 (1731–1787,

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jinshi of 1761),31 and, of course, Qian Daxin. But the fathers had a local network of their own in Jiading prior to the sons’ success. Qian related how the three fathers were friends who had “gatherings of writing, wine, and singing” (文酒 唱和). None of the three, however, had a viable network beyond Jiading prior to the success of his son. The fathers’ stress on ancient learning impressed all three sons and integrated with the notion of “us Ru,” even though at the early stages of their education ancient learning seems to have been an amorphous term. Ancient learning thus became the essence of what “us Ru” was all about and the key term of self-designation for the scholars of the philological turn. What ancient learning meant, however, was about to undergo a radical shift: if for Qian’s father and grandfather—according to Qian’s narrative (and we have no sources to contradict it)—ancient learning stood for the continuous line to and from antiquity, viewed in a somewhat amorphous and vague, less critical way, then for Qian and his friends ancient learning would soon focus on the divides that separated antiquity from their present and on the ability to differentiate what they perceived as correct antiquity from false. Antiquity, or the possibility of knowing antiquity, would present a problem for the philologists to tackle and solve. But in order to penetrate the intricacies of ancient learning, the philologists had to be highly literate. Qian Daxin began learning to read and write as a baby. His mother—a member of the Shen (沈) family from Xinyang (新陽), also in Suzhou prefecture, some twenty-five kilometers (15 miles) west of Jiading—taught him a few characters when he was not even two years old.32 His more formal education began when he was five sui. Because his father was away teaching at other locales, he studied with a private teacher, Zeng Xianruo (曾獻若), until 1737, when he was ten sui and then he continued his studies with his grandfather. Qian thus became acquainted with the eight-legged essay format (八股), and in 1738, when he was only eleven years old, he took (and failed) his first youth examination (童子試). The examination system would soon prove to be not only a difficult obstacle to overcome in order to move into the demanding scholar-official job market but also a vibrant social arena wherein Qian would eventually thrive. A year after the failed examination, Qian joined his father and moved to the nearby village of Waigang due to employment considerations. There the father took up his son’s education personally, yet Qian failed the youth examination again in 1740. As the seemingly frustrated father and disappointed son went to pay their respects to the county magistrate, Lin Shangzi (林上梓), the official consoled the father, saying “[your] good son is broadly talented, one should not necessarily want to accelerate his achievements [too  much]” (令子遠大之器, 不必欲其速售也). Thus Qian continued to study with his father, who also taught him how to compose poetry in the following year, 1741.33

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Away from Home: Extending the Scholarly Networks and Their Contents In 1742, at the age of fifteen sui, Qian “loaded the satchel and entered the city [of Jiading]” (負笈入城) in order to study with his father’s friend Cao Guifang.34 The move proved successful, and in the summer of that year Qian passed the youth examination and earned xiucai (秀才) status, thus allowing him to compete in the higher-level examinations.35 The move into the city meant more than passing the examination and receiving an official status; it also meant many encounters that enabled Qian to weave new networks of connections and later enlarge the family network. Qian’s classmates in Jiading included the teacher’s son Cao Renhu and also Wang Mingsheng, and the three became lifelong friends as well as prominent scholars. Years later, in 1788, Qian still held Wang and Cao dear: “[These] two gentlemen are the best scholars under heaven, set among the ancients; nothing eludes them, and in my hometown I always receive them with friendship” (兩君者天下之善士也, 置之古人中, 無不及焉, 而在吾鄉, 吾皆得而友 之).36 Note that the compliment Qian came up with was tied to antiquity, the ancients. Qian’s social network extended beyond his peers (Cao and Wang) to include their fathers. Of the two, perhaps Wang’s father, Wang Erda, had greater significance in Qian’s life in general. In 1779, when Qian wrote Wang Erda’s epitaph, he recalled: “When I was fifteen years old I took the youth examination, and the master [father Wang] repeatedly appreciated my writing; Xizhuang [Wang Mingsheng] also considered me someone fit for learning together [and so] I was invited to be a son-in-law [by marrying Wang Mingsheng’s sister, Wang Shunying 王順媖 (1728–1767)]” (大昕年十五應童子試, 先生亟賞其文, 西莊亦謂予可與共 學. . . . 招為館甥).37 The wedding took place in 1750, a year after Qian joined Wang Mingsheng at the prestigious Ziyang Academy (紫陽書院) in Suzhou. The network of the elders, which became a scholarly network of peers, thus also became, via the tie between the families, part of an extended affinal network.38 The “Qian-Wang” (as the two scholars were called by their mutual acquaintances) connection was further strengthened when in 1752 Qian moved to Beijing and soon thereafter both his wife and her brother joined him. The decade, however, between Qian’s success in the youth examination (1742) and his move to Beijing (1752) was filled with other changes, challenges, successes, exchanges, and acquaintances—for both peers and teachers. In 1744 Qian took the qualifying examination (科試) in the provincial capital, and later that year he failed the provincial examination (鄉試) on his first try. Despite this failure, however, in terms of networking Qian gained some success: it was there that Qian met Wang Chang 王昶 (1724–1806) and began

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another lifelong friendship. It was Wang Chang who presumably recommended Qian to the head of the Ziyang Academy five years later, and the two began their studies there in the same year (1749; Wang was admitted a few months earlier). They received their jinshi degrees together in 1754, and Wang Chang became a prominent scholar and philologist, alongside Qian. After failing the 1744 examination, Qian became a teacher in the Gu (顧) family household (1745–1746) in Wucheng (塢城), some twenty-two kilometers (13 miles) south of Jiading. Qian was able to consult books in the nearby library and continued advancing his scholarly pursuits. The rise of libraries in Jiangnan, in particular during the late Ming and Qing dynasties, was an important factor in the process that enabled scholars in the eighteenth century to penetrate the vast ancient textual corpus. The accessibility of libraries allowed scholars first to get to know more sources in general and later to find among them exceptional editions and manuscripts with which to work on philological issues.39 Among the works that Qian found worthy of mention in his Nianpu was Sima Guang’s 司馬光 (1019–1086) Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑒 (Comprehensive mirror for aid in government), which he would “consult from dawn till dusk” (晨夕 披覽). Indeed, Qian’s high regard for this Northern Song scholar and text was also expressed in his 1780 preface to his magnum opus, Nianer shi kaoyi 廿二 史考異 (Examination of variances in the twenty-two histories). Later, in 1786, Qian wrote a correction to Hu Sanxing’s 胡三省 (1230–1287) commentary on the Comprehensive Mirror.40 Furthermore, in 1797 Qian helped Bi Yuan 畢沅 (1730–1797) edit the sequel to Sima Guang’s work entitled Xu zizhi tongjian 續 資治通鑒 (Successive comprehensive mirror for aid in government), published in 1801. Qian’s view of Sima Guang’s Comprehensive Mirror was shared by Wang Mingsheng, who wrote: “This is a book that one cannot do without in the world, and that scholars cannot fail to read” (此天地間必不可無之書，亦學 者必不可不讀之書).41 In spite of Qian’s studies (or perhaps because of the time he devoted to teaching) during the two years he spent with the Gu family, he again failed the 1747 provincial examination in Jiangning (江寧; today’s Nanjing). He therefore took an annual examination (歲試) the following year to retain his eligibility to keep taking the more advanced examination. Qian tried again in 1750, taking yet another qualifying examination and another provincial examination, but failed the latter. These various tests—like the 1744 provincial one—were not only milestones of failure in his biography but also good opportunities to further his networking. They also demonstrate, and will continue to do so throughout this book, the centrality of the examinations in the lives of our historical actors and in the development of the scholarly networks and aspirations of our protagonists. Nevertheless, the more significant step in Qian’s life at that point came in the form of studying at the Ziyang Academy in Suzhou. While living at the academy for over two years (1749–1752) among bright students and teachers,

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Qian strengthened his contacts and made new ones, thereby opening up new avenues for learning and ideas. But first things first: in order to be admitted to the Ziyang Academy, Qian needed someone to recommend him. As mentioned earlier, Wang Chang began studying in the Ziyang Academy shortly before Qian, and when the head of the academy, Wang Jun 王峻 (1694–1751), questioned Wang Chang about “the talented men of the day” (今日人才), the latter replied with Qian’s name. The head of the academy then passed the word to the Manchu provincial governor, who made the official invitation, and Qian came to the academy to be examined on the Zhouli 周禮 (The rites of Zhou) and the Wenxian tongkao 文獻通考 (Comprehensive examination of documents), an encyclopedia first composed during the Yuan dynasty by Ma Duanlin 馬端臨 (ca. 1254–ca. 1323). Wang Jun was so impressed that he reportedly said that Qian was “a [real] talent under heaven” (此天下才也), and all the other talents of the academy allegedly became respectful of Qian (and maybe jealous, but we have no evidence of that).42 The students at the academy by that time—Cao Renhu, Wang Mingsheng, Wang Chang, Chu Yinliang 褚寅亮 (1715–1790), and others—“encouraged each other with ancient learning” (以古學相策勵). Half a century later, while mourning Qian Daxin’s death, Wang Chang recounted their friendship with a sense of solidarity: “I recall staying together with master [Qian] and with Fengjie [Wang Mingsheng] at the house of learning; it was already almost fifty-seven years ago. We were of the same class, shared a common native place, and served as officials together and of the same dynasty” (回憶與君及鳳喈同 居學舍, 時距今忽忽五十七年, 逮同年通籍, 同官同朝).43 It was there that Qian, who “was inclined to studies of the Classics and the Histories and did not want to specialize as a poet” (頗有志經史之學，不欲專為詩人), nonetheless began composing poems as a kind of a group activity with Wang Mingsheng, Wang Chang, and Cao Renhu.44 Qian, naturally, did not interact only with his peers: at the academy he also got to know and learn from the “old veterans” (老宿) such as Hui Dong 惠棟 (1697–1758) and Shen Tong 沈彤 (1688–1752). Shen Tong, who wrote on subjects ranging from rituals to physiology, received little attention in Qian’s writings; Hui Dong, on the other hand, was often alluded to. Qian highly respected Hui Dong and his work, and Hui’s lifelong impact on Qian and on many other scholars pursuing philology was immense. In Qian’s 1792 preface to Hui Dong’s Guwen Shangshu kao 古文尚書攷 (Examination of the Old Text Documents), concluded half a century earlier, Qian wrote that “master Hui Songya [Dong] was the only one who was able to prove completely each and every [doubt about the authenticity of the Documents], his contribution to the classics [found in the] wall [during the Han dynasty] being great indeed” (惠松崖先生獨一一證 成之, 其有功於壁經甚大).45 Hui Dong’s presence and teaching activity at the

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academy seem to have been crucial in shaping the scholarly tastes of Qian and his peers and in planting the seeds of acute philological and evidential research in their minds.

The Hui Connection and the Ziyang Academy Up to that point the scholarly voices of Hui Dong; his father, Hui Shiqi 惠士 奇 (1671–1741, jinshi of 1709); and his grandfather Hui Zhouti 惠周惕 (jinshi of 1691) had, generally, hardly been heard. However, the eager audience of students at the Ziyang Academy around 1750 would soon take the Huis’ ideas and legacy to new heights, both by disseminating and by enhancing them. The Huis had been based in Suzhou for several generations, and all three— grandfather, father, and son—were prolific and prominent scholars in the Suzhou area. Their renown, however, was also limited to that area, and their scholarly views, among other factors, were part of the reason for this. During the late Kangxi 康熙 (1662–1722) and Yongzheng 雍正 (1723–1735) reigns, the Ru scholarly world had to conform, in general, to the political tastes of the day, especially in its public presentations. Although the Huis achieved official status, their views limited their ability to further their scholarly concerns, especially after the father fell out of the Yongzheng emperor’s favor during the 1720s and 1730s when he overstepped his official duties.46 The early eighteenth century was a time when the authorities encouraged adherence to the so-called orthodox teachings of Song dynasty thinkers, the school of the Learning of the Way, commonly known today as Neo-Confucianism. The authorities not only encouraged orthodox views but also took measures against scholars who expressed opposing notions. The Huis, nonetheless, were not admirers of Song dynasty thinkers; gradually, the Huis’ views took a more direct form of critique vis-à-vis the Song luminaries. They certainly were not the first to critique the Song, and one might postulate that the Huis may have known about or read works by seventeenthcentury critics such as Gu Yanwu and Yan Ruoqu, when criticism could be made more openly. We do not, however, have direct evidence to establish such link. Hui Shiqi and Hui Dong worked together, as is evident from jointly authored manuscripts as well as from handwritten remarks and notes left by both of them on specific books. Yet until the 1750s their audience was small; it was only after Qian Daxin and other protagonists of the philological turn in the second half of the eighteenth century had learned about the Huis’ teachings that their earlier manuscripts were published. And in sharp contrast to later philological discussions embodied in multiple scholars’ handwritten notes, the Huis’ scholarly interaction seems to have been a father-and-son practice with no more than a few local participants involved in the dissemination or discussion of their teachings.47

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Hui Dong’s scholarship, nonetheless, was broad and meticulous. Wang Chang, in the epitaph he wrote for Qian Daxin, described Hui Dong as Qian’s teacher. Hui’s learning, wrote Wang, included the Thirteen Classics, Yang Xiong’s 揚雄 (53 BCE–18 CE) Fang yan 方言 (Regional words), the Han dynasty Shiming 釋名 (Explanation of names), Lu Deming’s 陸德明 (556–627) Jingdian shiwen 經典釋文 (Textual explanations of the Classics), and mainly Xu Shen’s 許慎 (fl. second c. CE) Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 (Analysis of simple graphs as an explanation of complex characters). Wang also highlighted Hui’s rejection of the “mediocre and superficial [learning] from the Song, Yuan and onward” (以洗宋元以来庸熟鄙陋). Wang regarded Qian as an ardent student who later furthered all of these types of learning and raised them to a higher level of expertise.48 As a teacher, Hui instructed Qian in the study of the Daozang 道藏 (Daoist canon) as a source for ancient editions of Ru texts as well as in the study of the Buddhist canon as a means to achieve a better understanding of ancient sources and their validity.49 Furthermore, according to Qian, “[Hui] would be as clear as differentiating black and white with regard to [determining] the authenticity of ancient books” (於古書之真偽, 瞭然若辨黑白). Hui emphasized finding ancient texts and distinguishing the correct editions and the correct ancient characters, words, pronunciations, word glossing, and meanings (古字, 古言,古音, 古訓, 古義), as opposed to relying on “personal understandings” (己意), characteristic of the “vulgar Ru” (俗儒), which I discuss in depth later in this volume. Thus, contended Qian, Hui was a scholar who not only “corrected vulgar teachings” (正俗學) but also had been “a guardian of ancient learning” (守古學).50 The path of ancient learning that Qian had come to know through his local Jiading network (his family, the Wangs, and the Caos) was thus enhanced by a more rigorous methodology and far broader contents in his Suzhou days under the tutelage of Hui Dong. Within the category of ancient learning Qian specifically emphasized Hui’s role in reviving ancient Han dynasty learning: “Han learning has been cut off for over one thousand and five hundred years, but [with Hui’s efforts] it is bright and clear again” (漢學之絕者千有五百餘年, 至是而粲然復章矣). Neither Qian nor Wang Chang identified Hui as a Han learning teacher or partisan, nor did they propose that Hui had been the founder of a lineage, school, or any kind of movement by that name.51 Indeed, the Ziyang Academy, where Hui and Qian met and interacted, was instead known to promote Cheng-Zhu learning at least until 1751, when Shen Deqian 沈德潛 (1673–1769) was appointed as its new head, shortly before Qian departed from the academy.52 Shen Deqian himself was part of Qian’s scholarly network of seniors and teachers, alongside Hui Dong and Shen Tong. He arrived at the academy after Qian had succeeded in another qualifying examination and failed another provincial examination in 1750 for the third time. In the course of

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these examinations Qian made more friends, such as Huang Wenlian 黃文蓮 (who passed the provincial examination and became juren of 1750), Zhao Wenzhe 趙文哲 (1725–1773), and Wu Xingqin 吳省欽 (1729–1803, jinshi of 1763). The first two—Huang Wenlian and Zhao Wenzhe—were also Shen’s students, and together with five other students—Qian Daxin, Wang Chang, Cao Renhu, Wang Mingsheng, and Wu Tailai 吳泰來 (jinshi of 1760, d. 1788), they composed under Shen’s instruction the “Wuzhong qizi shixuan” 吳中七子詩選 (Selection of poems by the seven students of the Wu [region]), published in 1753.53 Shen’s literary interests lay, inter alia, in stressing ancient forms of poetry and pre-Song poets, and one could plausibly assume that these interests were part of his teachings.54 Furthermore, Shen had been employed at the capital during the 1740s (after many of his own failures in provincial examinations) and had gained the appreciation of the emperor. Shen also greeted the emperor on the latter’s southern journey in 1751, the same journey during which a special examination was held. In order to take this examination, scholars had to first present poems to the emperor, and only those selected were summoned to Nanjing, where the examination was held. We might speculate that Qian’s relationship with Shen may have helped him get to the special examination in Nanjing that year.55

The Way to the Capital Qian succeeded in the 1751 special examination. He then traveled to thank the emperor at the temple (Xiangfu si 香阜寺) in Yangzhou (揚州), where the emperor had his temporary residence while touring the south. Soon thereafter Qian was recruited by Grand Secretary Gao Bin 高斌 (1683–1755), who was also one of his 1751 examiners, to his first administrative position, at the Hefang Academy (荷芳書院) in Qingjiang Pu (清江浦; today’s Huai’an 淮安). Gao Bin had established this academy in 1750, and it was the Qingjiang Pu administrative seat of government at the time; the emperor visited it a couple of times on his southern tour. The 1751 examination, along with the subsequent journey to thank the emperor and the contact made with Gao Bin, thus created for Qian new opportunities for forming relationships that enabled him to move quickly, from the local arena of Jiading and Suzhou to the national arena of the capital, Beijing. Qian did not stay at Qingjiang Pu for long. In spring 1752, about half a year after arriving there, Gao Bin sponsored Qian’s northern journey to the capital. There he lodged with Chu Yinliang, who had studied with Qian in Suzhou and who had passed the special examination with him as well. Qian initially worked at the Grand Secretariat (内閣) in the department that issued recommendations (票籤). Toward the end of 1752 Qian and Chu moved their residence to

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another part of Beijing. There, in the following year, Qian, Chu, and Wu Lang 吳烺 (who had also passed the special examination in 1751 with Qian and Chu) studied mathematics and astronomy together, and thus new fields of learning, which Qian did not mention at all while in the local area of Jiading and Suzhou, gained his attention.56 Both Chu Yinliang and Wu Lang earned reputations as good mathematicians. Chu was said to have “excelled in astronomical, calendrical, and mathematical techniques, and was exceptional with regard to geometry and calculations” (精天文曆算之術, 尤長於句股和較).57 In 1755 Qian Daxin acknowledged Chu’s contribution to Qian’s first book, the Santongshu yan 三統術衍 (Developing the technique of the triple concordance [system]), saying “the manuscript had mistakes and errors, and so in deliberating, proofreading, and correcting, the help of Chu Yinliang of Changzhou was great indeed” (志文間有訛舛, 相與商酌校正, 則張洲褚君寅亮之助實多云).58 Wu was also a renowned mathematician. In a preface to Wu’s Zhoubi suanjing tuzhu 周髀算經圖注 (Illustrated annotations of the gnomon of the Zhou dynasty and the classic of computation), Shen Dacheng 沈大成 (1700–1771)59 praised him as follows: Excellent in the Nine Chapters, [he] considered the difficulties of this Classic as clear. He wrote them with brush, calculated, and drew diagrams, as lucid as the differentiated eyebrows, as reasoned as measuring a well, clear as exposing the path of the sun and moon. He removed the difficulty of a thousand years in clarifying [the Classic], [as if] in one day he opened the eyes and penetrated the heart. How could one not [consider Wu’s book as] pleasing and gratifying?!60

Qian, Chu, and Wu obtained books by the famous mathematician Mei Wending 梅文鼎 (1633–1721) and found themselves “practically forsaking sleeping and eating” (寢食幾廢) while reading them. The works of Mei Wending were of significance not only in introducing ancient Chinese mathematics but also in bringing the knowledge of Western methods to the foreground, as Mei Wending used and wrote on both methods.61 Yet Qian also had to keep preparing for the metropolitan examination, scheduled for 1754. He studied with Wang Mingsheng, who joined Qian in the capital, together with Wang’s sister, Qian’s wife, at the end of 1753 (this also meant moving his residence in Beijing again).62 The efforts were worthwhile: in 1754 Qian passed the metropolitan examination and received his jinshi degree. Among his 1754 classmates were Wang Mingsheng, Wang Chang, Ji Yun 紀昀 (1724–1805), Zhu Yun 朱筠 (1729–1781), Zhai Hao 翟灝 (1736–1788), Cao Xuemin 曹學閔 (1720–1788), and Zhuang Peiyin 莊培因 (1723–1759).63 The examination class was a powerhouse of scholars.

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Qian’s 1754 examination paper (which survives in manuscript form in the Peking University Rare Books Library; see also appendix A to this volume) revealed the first buds of doubt about the Ru continuity that his grandfather upheld. At the beginning of the paper Qian glorified Daoxue notions of daotong 道統(the transmission of the Way) and xinfa 心法(the method of the mind), along with the emperor’s heavenly status, but as the paper unfolded, Qian made clear that Daoxue was far from being on a simple continuum with antiquity. First, he problematized the term Daoxue, saying “I have not heard of the term Daoxue before the Three Dynasties; from the Song Dynasty the historians and Ru such as Zhou [Dunyi], Cheng [brothers], Zhang [Zai,] and Zhu [Xi] differentiated and established a lineage which [they] termed Daoxue” (三代以前 未聞道學之名，自宋周程張朱諸儒史家別立一傳，名曰道學).64 Qian further stressed that the various writings by these Song scholars contained ideas that “in fact previous Ru did not express” (實有先儒所未發者). Qian did not present these unheard-of teachings as necessarily problematic and stated that, as innovators, the Song scholars could be “rightly called the correct ancestors of li [principle] and dao [lineage]” (洵足稱理道之正 宗矣).65 His paper went on to a question about written works (文), in which Qian continued to pay homage to Song scholars, quoting Zhou Dunyi’s dictum that “it is through written works that the Way is transmitted” (文所以載道 也).66 But written works, even if transmitted correctly, do not mean a continued similar understanding thereof throughout history, and in a seemingly passing note Qian divulged his own developing taste and criticized Daoxue propagators: “The examination papers writing style [of today] began in the Song and Yuan dynasties. Their words are the words of Confucius and Mencius, but their meaning is the meaning of the Cheng [brothers] and Zhu [Xi]” (帖括之文昉 於宋元，其言則孔孟之言，其義則程朱之義).67 Qian did not continue this line of criticism and retreated to the safer zone of imperial compliments; yet his understanding of the Song change as a rupture in Ru learning and his dedication to getting the written works right (i.e., as the ancients understood them) would increase in the years to come. The chief examiner in 1754, Qian Weicheng 錢維城 (1720–1772; no relation), said after the examination that those who passed had “all obtained the essence of the eight-legged [essay], and mister Qian [Daxin] is the first in ancient learning” (俱以八股取中, 錢生乃古學第一人也).68 What is important about this declaration, for the purposes of this study, is not whether Qian Daxin was the first in ancient learning but rather that ancient learning was the category used to depict his excellence. The label ancient learning was of utmost importance to many eighteenthcentury scholars and was common to most of Qian’s networks around the middle of the century—from his family elders (e.g., his grandfather), through his local elders (such as Wang Erda) and academy teachers (Hui Dong), and

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all the way to his examiners and peers. All were keen on the subject of ancient learning, contributed in varying degrees to this line of study, and used this label to express the type of learning they did as well as their identity as scholars. What ancient learning actually meant for the protagonists of the philological turn was about to be consolidated in the latter decades of the eighteenth century.

CHAPTER 2

OFFICIAL SCHOLARS AND THE GROWING PHILOLOGISTS’ NETWORKS

The Evolving Beijing Network The young generation of scholars, some of whom had just completed the daunting task of achieving the highest examination degree, was still at the beginning of their careers in the early 1750s. Their official duties—along with the stamp of the degree—would yield many opportunities to further their social links and their research. After earning the jinshi degree, Qian Daxin began to serve as bachelor (Hanlinyuan shujishi 翰林院庶吉士) at the Hanlin Academy’s Institute of Advanced Studies (shuchangguan 庶常館),1 where he met new acquaintances and made new friends.2 It seems that Qian made a name for himself early on: in the same year that he passed the examination (1754) he wrote the Santongshu yan 三統術衍 (Developing the technique of the triple concordance [system]) and was asked by Qin Huitian 秦蕙田 (1702–1764), a high-level official at the Board of Rites and the Board of Punishments and a renowned scholar himself, to join Qin’s grand project, the Wuli tongkao 五禮通考 (Comprehensive examination of the five rites), which was concluded in 1761 and consisted of 262 juan.3 Qin Huitian had been working on this very ambitious project since the 1730s and 1740s. The context for this project was a multitude of other grand textual projects, many of which dealt with rituals; some had been sponsored by the government since the late Kangxi period, and others were conducted by private scholars. Qin Huitian’s project was one of the largest of these, and for its compilation Qin utilized the assistance of some of the best and brightest of

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the period, especially as the project gathered momentum during the 1750s. Among those who took part in the project were Qian Daxin, Dai Zhen, Wang Mingsheng, and Lu Wenchao 盧文弨 (1717–1796), making it one of the first scholarly achievements for each. It is significant that Qin chose relatively young scholars, most of them being fresh out of the examination oven and having recently received their training at academies, especially at the Ziyang Academy. Why Qin chose these specific scholars (apart from a general high regard for them) the records do not say, but apparently he wanted scholars with good textual training, which the Ziyang offered at the time, and perhaps also scholars young enough to be open-minded. The team could also include the works of others in the project: Dai Zhen, for example, brought into the Wuli tongkao the work of Jiang Yong 江永 (1681–1762).4 Although some of those working on the project were formally recognized as having received high-level degrees via the examination system, others, such as Dai Zhen, were relatively marginal at the time and were introduced to the project through personal networks and contacts—in Dai’s case, through Qian Daxin. The project’s scholars were impressed, and perhaps inspired and motivated, by their scholar-patron’s strict methodology. As Wang Mingsheng stated in a preface written afterward: Every time the master wanted to establish one meaning, he had to examine dozens of books to provide evidence. As he returned to the like-minded colleagues he would again discuss the matter, and only afterward write it down. Therefore, his analysis of differences and similarities extended from roots to branches . . . indeed, one can call him a man who extended [his knowledge] as far as all the books!5

The Wuli tongkao, as its name suggests, emphasized five major ritual categories: Auspicious Rites (吉), Felicitous Rites (嘉), Military Rites (軍), Guest Rites (宾), and Funerary Rites (凶). Taken together, the rites were supposed to mediate relations within the court, between the court and the people (including foreigners), and between the court and extra-human powers.6 In order to accomplish the desired results, these five sets of rites were closely linked to the bureaucracy, with specific offices in charge of performing these rites. According to Kai-wing Chow, Qin Huitian intended the Wuli tongkao “to finish what Chu Hsi [Zhu Xi] had begun.” However, it seems the project aimed not simply to complement (as the rhetoric of the Wuli tongkao’s prefaces claimed) the great paragon of the Song dynasty Learning of the Way, Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200), but also to surpass him, and at times it even contradicted him. 7 Indeed, the celebrated general-statesman-scholar Zeng Guofan 曾國藩 (1811–1872), writing about the project a century later, indicated very high regard for the Wuli tongkao and asserted that “when I paint the portrait of the early

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righteous [men] of the dynasty, I put Gu [Yanwu] first, and next master Qin Wengong [Huitian, the head of the Wuli tongkao project]” (吾圖畫國朝先正 遺像,首顧先生, 次秦文恭公).8 Zeng did not regard Qin Huitian as merely supplementing Zhu Xi; rather, “Mister Qin [Huitian’s] Wuli tongkao can connect the ends of the two lineages of Han and Song” (秦氏五禮通考可以通漢 宋二家之結).9 Although Zeng used the new nineteenth-century terminology of Han versus Song learning (and sought to mediate the two), this bifurcation did not exist for mid-eighteenth-century scholars. For Qian Daxin this project provided the patronage of a senior scholar and official, access to sources, and enhanced his reputation and scholarly network in Beijing. It also made him prominent enough to assist other scholars; as mentioned above, he introduced Dai Zhen to Qin Huitian, and Qin eventually added Dai to his Wuli tongkao team. Qian met Dai only in the same year he earned the jinshi degree and was assigned to the project himself (1754). That year Dai Zhen came to the capital for the first time and went to Qian’s residence, where they spoke for a whole day. Qian reportedly “sighed in admiration of [Dai’s] meticulous and vast learning” (嘆其學精博),10 and as Qin Huitian was looking for a knowledgeable mathematician for another project, Qian introduced Dai to Qin the next day. According to Qian, from then on Dai’s reputation flourished.11 Although Qian Daxin was impressed with Dai Zhen, the two apparently also had their differences. After another Qian-Dai meeting (held at Ji Yun’s residence in Beijing) Qian wrote a letter to Dai Zhen that is important for understanding the nexus among learning, knowledge, and identity for Qian at the time as well as his evolving social networks. The following is a translation of a part of the letter (the rest of it will be dealt with in part II): Formerly, when we met at Xiaolan’s [Ji Yun’s] residence, you highly praised the learning in computational astronomy of Master Jiang [Yong] of Wuyuan [in Anhui province], which is not to be found in Xuancheng [Mei Wending’s hometown, also in Anhui]. Naively, I thought that your words were to be trusted, regretting that I had not yet obtained his [Jiang Yong’s] books and read them. As I was staying for a while in Master Weijing’s [Qin Huitian’s] residence I began to obtain and thoroughly read what is called “Wings for Mei” [Jiang Yong’s book of eight juan]. His discussion of the tropical year and of the fixed fortnightly period generally follows the European explanations, citing and extending them. His views are one-sided and do not comply with Xuancheng [Mei Wending], and [so] I all the more think that Xuangcheng’s knowledge [level] is higher. Why? Xuancheng was able to use Western learning, whereas Master Jiang became merely a tool in the hands of Westerners. Reading his [Jiang’s] “Measurement of the Winter Solstice” [chapter 4 of his book Shuxue 數學 (Calculations)], ah! One really laughs out loud. . . . The methods of the Western scholars admittedly surpass the Chinese system, and it is permissible

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to practice their methods. [However,] to practice their methods while being made a fool of [by the West]—that is not permissible.12

First, consider the relationships that are revealed in the letter: Qian and Dai Zhen had obviously met more than once; Ji Yun had hosted a meeting and was part of the scholarly network, which seems to have been quite lively (Ji was appointed to the Hanlin Academy along with Qian); the contact between Qian and Qin Huitian is reaffirmed, and Qian stayed in Qin’s residence studying the book collection for which Qin had been famous. Such teamwork and social networking were hallmarks of the philological turn; without it, getting access to sources, collective brainstorming, and debates would have been difficult, if not impossible. Mutual interests in diverse fields of knowledge fueled discussions, the search for prestige in all likelihood was another behind-the-scenes factor, and favorable patronage (private and/or official) enabled the social networks of knowledge to grow. Qian and Dai in particular clearly shared an interest in mathematical astronomy (most of Qian’s letter to Dai deals with mathematical aspects of astronomy) but disagreed on a matter that seems, on the face of it, to be a matter of lineage and prestige: Mei Wending or Jiang Yong? Yet it was more than that; at stake, for Qian, was the very identity—scholar and cultural—of himself, Dai, the Ru in general, and the culture they represented and were part of. Qian clearly recognized that the Western methods were superior to those of China (that he adhered to the “Western learning, Chinese origins” ethos is a related story)13 and accepted that one could or should use these Western methods—he did so himself. But Qian feared that by using these Western methods uncritically, people would lose their cultural identity. Recall that Qian had begun studying astronomy and mathematics only shortly before he met Dai Zhen (who began working on these issues awhile before Qian did). Perhaps his feeling of uneasiness with Jiang Yong was related to anxiety about losing what he just came to consider firm ground in his newfound field. That feeling, however, persisted later in his life. The notion that such a threat was hovering over Chinese scholars is also evident in Qian’s reaction to the early Qing clash between Yang Guangxian 楊光先 (1597–1669) and the Jesuits a few years later (the date is unknown but would have been before Dai Zhen’s death and when Qian was in Jiangnan, possibly at the end of the 1760s):14 Previously, I have heard my friend Dai Dongyuan [Zhen] explain that Europeans used to purchase this book [Yang Guangxian’s Budeyi 不得已 (I cannot do otherwise)] paying high prices, and then [the Europeans] would burn them [the books they bought], wanting to eliminate their traces. Recently I began looking at it [Yang Guangxian’s book] when I was at mister Huang’s Study for Cultivating Learning at

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Wumen [the study of Huang Peilie 黃丕烈 (1763–1825) in Suzhou]. Since Mister Yang was not an expert in calculations and did not have adequate help, in the end he was not fitting for the job [of astronomical disputation]. Nevertheless, his slander of the Jesuits’ deviant teaching [耶穌異教] prevented people from continued practice [of it], and [thus his attack] cannot be taken as unbeneficial to those [upholding] the [correct] doctrine of names [名教].15

Here, beyond the sense of cultural threat and adherence to cultural legacy in matters related to sciences, we again witness the close link between scholarship and social opportunities—in this case both in the discussion with Dai Zhen about the Yang Guangxian affair and in the relationship with the famous bibliophile Huang Peilie. Huang, who owned the book, described how Li Rui 李銳 (1765–1814), Qian’s student and a mutual acquaintance, approached Huang when he heard the book was in Huang’s collection. Li told Huang that Qian had mentioned before that he had never read this book, so Huang invited Qian (and Li Rui) to read the book and perhaps annotate it, resulting in Qian’s postscript and enhancing our understanding of the significance of social networks to scholarship.16 Qian’s sense of identity, by contrast, was evidently not threatened by another foreign group, the ruling Manchus. In 1755 the Qing won a victory over the Dzungar Mongols in one of a series of battles, and Qian wrote a poem to mark the occasion: 平定準噶爾告捷禮成恭紀一百韻 (Hundred rhymes reverently recording the completion of the rites of the victory over the Dzungars).17 Although this kind of activity can be discarded offhand as lip service to the rulers, one cannot find a critique by Qian of the Manchus. Indeed, Qian continued to serve the dynasty in other ways as well later in life and continued to demonstrate appreciation and admiration of his rulers on many occasions, certainly during the 1750s and into the 1770s when he served as an official—and even after he retired. In 1756 Qian was appointed by Grand Chancellor Wang Youdun 汪由敦 (1692–1758), who was one of the examiners in Qian’s 1751 special examination, and by Vice-Chancellors Qiu Yuexiu 裘曰修 (1712–1773) and Dong Bangda 董邦達 (1699–1769) to compile, together with Ji Yun, the local history of Rehe (熱河志). This area northeast of Beijing was where the summer residence of Chengde (承德) was located, and Qian and Ji asked and were allowed to join the emperor on his trip to the hunting grounds at Mulan (木蘭) to gather firsthand information on the region.18 After about three years of service as a bachelor at the Hanlin Academy’s institute (sanguan 散館), Qian was released by mid-1757. He took the special examination designated for Hanlin bachelors19 and, after passing it, was promoted to a Hanlin compiler (Hanlin yuan bianxiu 翰林院編修). At his leisure he would travel to Liulichang (琉璃廠), the famous book-market street,

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“buying two or three hundred [rubbings of] Han and Tang stone carvings, collating them day and night, verifying them with historical affairs, and always writing postscripts. That was the beginning of [my] collection of texts from stone and bronze [inscriptions]” (購得漢唐石刻二三百種, 晨夕校勘, 證以 史事, 輒為跋尾. 收藏金石文字自此始).20 Collecting and researching bronze and stone inscriptions became one of the critical means of mid-Qing scholars to authenticate and arrive at more reliable knowledge about the past, and Qian was one of the leading figures in that quest. In the few years since Qian arrived at the capital his research had become more and more professional, and his reputation preceded him in various fields: in 1758 He Guozong 何國宗 (d. 1766), the grand chancellor at the time, heard of Qian’s reputation in mathematics. Qian was by then not only famous for his skills in indigenous mathematics but also considered knowledgeable in Western mathematical methods: “[When He and Qian] discussed Mei Wending’s learning, through Matteo Ricci [1552–1610] of the end of the Ming, Adam Schall [1591–1666], and Giacomo Rho [1593–1638], to [theories concerning] the movement of the sun and the moon and the various tables of the five planets, the master [Qian] was as clear as if one was looking at fire” (論宣城梅氏之學, 及明 季利瑪竇, 湯若望, 羅雅谷, 日離, 月離, 五星諸表, 公洞若觀火).21 Qian’s scholarly identity thus kept taking on more and more features: the “first in ancient learning,” as he was labeled by the examiner of his jinshi examination in 1754; rites expert for Qin Huitian; collector of inscriptions; and then a foremost mathematician-cum-astronomer who was fluent in both Chinese and Western methods, a label that was confirmed by the relationship with He Guozong. In all of these cases Qian had been involved with and had the patronage of very high-ranking officials. In most of these activities he was a part of a team in an expanding network of scholars, officials, collectors, and bibliophiles, and in many cases these teams would gradually build the networks of the philological turn. In 1758 He invited Qian to join such a team to explain the structure of the cosmos to the emperor. The scholar who formed the central pillar of the project was the Jesuit Michel Benoist (1715–1774), who was working at the time on European-style gardens outside the capital. It is unclear to what extent, if any, Qian and Benoist interacted and communicated; Qian was said to have “polished” (潤色) Benoist’s work, which was titled Diqiutu shuo 地球圖説 (Explanations on the map of the cosmos).22 It is clear, in any case, that through the project Qian learned much more about the Western geographical, cosmological, and astronomical conceptions that had reached China: Benoist’s explanations of the heliocentric model of the cosmos were the first of their kind in China, even though he presented the model with some reservations. In a sense—that of the border-crossing nature of scientific knowledge— Benoist was also included in Qian’s larger, indirect community, an inclusion

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that was reinforced through the Chouren zhuan of the end of the century when Benoist (蔣友人) and other Western scholars received biographical entries. Yet Benoist was not a part of all aspects of Qian’s community—and especially not its most basic aspect, that of self-identity and ancient learning. Although Qian and Benoist were (almost) working hand in hand to bring to China new astronomical explanations (which were by then old in Europe), they were also involved in a confrontation of approaches: Qian was one of the first to hear of the heliocentric theory—and one of the first to reject it.23

From Examinee to Examiner: Extending Networks Inside and Outside the Capital The connection with He Guozong was, plausibly, more beneficial for Qian in other ways, too: in 1759, the year his grandfather died, Qian composed another hundred-rhyme poem praising the great triumph over the Dzungars in central Asia and was then appointed chief examiner (正考官) of the provincial examination in Shandong.24 The candidate who wrote, according to Qian, “the most excellent policy [question’s] answer” (對策最優) and whom Qian promoted to second place was Li Wenzao 李文藻 (1730–1778). Li was also an important bibliophile who facilitated the printing of several works, among them (in  1773–1774) Hui Dong’s Guwen shangshu kao 古文尚書考, Jiujing guyi 九經古義, and Chunqiu zuozhuan buzhu 春秋左傳補注 as well as Qian’s own works, as I indicate below.25 This experience introduced Qian to a new scholarly milieu: that of the bibliophiles, booksellers, and printers. Li Wenzao was the first, but others— such as Huang Peilie, in whose residence Qian read the Budeyi, as mentioned before, and Cheng Jinfang 程晉芳 (1718–1784), who had a huge library in Yangzhou and later in Beijing26—would soon follow. This network opened more possibilities for Qian’s textual research by allowing him greater access to books and inscriptions. The various social networks were not exclusive and separate from each other; indeed, most of the bibliophiles were also ardent scholars who worked on their own research, and the examination arena provided an opportunity—which Qian seized—to make a variety of contacts and friends. At the beginning of the next year (1760), Qian served again as an examiner, this time an associate examiner (同考官) at the national juren examination in Shuntian (順天). Afterward he assumed office as one of the compilers of the Xu wenxian tongkao 續文獻通考 (Continued comprehensive analysis of archival sources).27 In the autumn he was promoted to reader at the Hanlin Academy (翰林院侍讀), a position he would hold for three years until he was promoted to expositor (侍講學士). During 1760 Qian also became a friend of

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Zhu Yun’s younger brother, Zhu Gui 朱珪 (1731–1807),28 who was at the time also a reader at the Hanlin Academy and who later became a very prominent official as well as someone very close to the imperial family.29 In the winter Qian was again engaged with the examinations: this time he was a reviewer (mo kan 磨勘) of a provincial examination.30 As an examiner Qian could bring into consideration his own developing agenda, which prioritized exact scholarship and ancient learning. Another occasion to leave the capital came in 1761, when the emperor traveled to Wutai shan (五臺山) and Qian was able to join the entourage. As the emperor wanted a poem to celebrate the tour, Qian composed one about the One Thousand Buddhas Cave (千佛洞).31 What is remarkable about the poem is not only that Qian seems to be very familiar with Buddhist iconography, terminology, texts, and customs (especially of Tibetan Buddhism) but also that Qian seems to be highly accommodative of Buddhism in the style of the poem. Of course, one could attribute this to the fact that the emperor was no less a boddhisatva than a Confucian sage and Qian could not possibly have launched an attack on Buddhism in this specific context. Still, Qian seems to have gone quite far in his tolerant description of Buddhism: “Inside are all the Buddha statues [and we] prostrate ourselves in four circles. What the world venerates is the Great Vehicle, and Kaśyapa seems to smile. . . . The thousand Buddhas originally are one, and people cherish them in their hearts. The principles of the three teachings have the same origin, our emperor holds deep knowledge of them concurrently” (中有諸佛像, 膜拜來四徼. 世尊說大乘, 迦葉示微笑。。。千佛本一佛, 心性人各抱. 三教理同源, 我皇並深造).32 The understanding, which Qian portrays in the poem, of the image and role of the emperor as embodying “the three teachings” concurrently demonstrates that the emperor was not portraying a different image to each different cultural or religious group. Rather, the multifaceted character of the ruler was projected to a variety of groups and certainly to his high-ranking officials. After the royal tour was over, Qian worked again as reviewer, this time for the metropolitan examination, and then furthered his relations with the imperial house. For the dowager empress’s seventieth sui birthday, upon which occasion all the officials in the capital received a one-rank promotion, Qian (like many others, no doubt) wrote her a tribute. The tribute, comprised solely of quotations from the Classics, venerated many aspects of the ruling house, from filial piety, through learning, to dominance over all other countries.33 In the following year (1762) Qian traveled again, this time to preside as chief examiner of the Hunan provincial examination, held in Changsha (長沙).34 His second in command was Wang Jie 王杰 (1725–1805), who had passed as zhuangyuan (somewhat controversially) the year before and was later to become grand secretary (1787–1802).35 Qian’s long involvement with the examinations continued slightly more intensively in 1763 when he took

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part in two other examinations: first he served as a reviewer for the metropolitan examination, and then he was examined in the Hanlin scholars’ examination. His success in the latter allowed him to be promoted to expositor (as mentioned earlier). He was thus appointed later that year to the Office of Daily Notes (起居注), which allowed him to observe daily decision making at the highest level. Indeed, when he completed that year’s Notes, he may have presented them at the Gate of Heavenly Purity (乾清門) in the palace.36 Later that year Qian was asked by Qin Huitian (with whom he worked earlier on the Wuli tongkao) to help in another project—the Yinyun shuwei 音韻述微 (Clarification of the subtleties of phonology). This book was later described by the SKQS editors as a work of xiaoxue 小學 (philology)37 and was understood as dealing with both the sounds and the meanings of characters, supplementing existing rhyme dictionaries such as the Guangyun 廣韻 (Expansion of rhymes) and paired with the Yinyun chanwei 音韻闡微 (Explanation of the subtleties of phonology), which dealt more with sounds than with meanings.38 Qian held Qin Huitian in high respect and venerated him broadly in an epitaph he wrote two years later, after Qin’s death. There we can find one of the possible influences Qin had on Qian, as Qian quoted Qin as often saying that “as for the Ru, if one dismisses the Classics while chattering about the Way—that is not the Way; if one distances himself from the Classics while searching for learning—that is not learning” (儒者，舍經以談道，非道也； 離經以求學，非學也.). Qian thus concluded that Qin prioritized meticulous classical learning and “did not take part in the reputation of the learning of [idle] lecturing” (不居講學之名).39 The epitaph for Qin also reveals the sense of rupture with antiquity, which began with the burning of the books at the beginning of the Qin dynasty and continued especially during and after the Han and Wei dynasties. At the same time, however, the epitaph stresses the possibility of mending the rupture through textual studies, presumably through the endeavors of Qin Huitian (and his colleagues). Indeed, the Yinyun shuwei project was initiated, according to the epitaph, because there was a sense of rupture with the past—in this case, a phonological rupture—and an absence of understanding of the full rhyming system of antiquity, which was relevant in particular to the Odes. Unfortunately for Qin, he was already ill when he invited Qian to join the Yinyun shuwei team and died without accomplishing this project (but the project was continued by others after Qin’s death). In 1764 Qian was joined in the capital by his father and (much) younger brother, Qian Dazhao 錢大昭 (1744–1813). His brother would later both travel with Qian and assist him with research, thus gaining a name for himself as a prominent scholar specializing in the Han period. In 1798 Qian Daxin

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described his brother as one who “diligently loves antiquity, and searches for truth in solid facts” (孜孜好古,實事求是).40 Qian Dazhao thus came to play an important role within both his family and the scholarly networks (with his sons later continuing the newly achieved family prominence in scholarship) and later came to be a prominent scholar of philology in his own right, renowned in particular for his Guangya studies.41 Qian’s ties to the imperial family, and perhaps to court life, also grew stronger as he participated at the beginning of 1765 in the sacrifice at the Hall of Annual Prayer (祈年殿; commonly known today as the main hall of the Temple of Heaven in Beijing) and later went to Zhuozhou (涿州), in Hebei, about sixty kilometers (37 miles) south of Beijing, to welcome back the emperor, who had been on tour. While traveling, Qian took the opportunity to visit the Tibetan-Buddhist temple Qingliang si (清涼寺), one of the major temples in the Mt.  Wutai area. With some friends he examined Buddhist inscriptions, including one inscription of the Prajñāpāramitā H‫܀‬daya Sūtra (The heart of the perfection of wisdom sutra), and tried to date them.42 Qian continued to travel that year, and in the sixth month he was sent as assistant examiner (副考官) to the Zhejiang provincial examination in Hangzhou. The chief examiner was Cao Xiuxian 曹秀先 (1708–1784), later one of the editors of the SKQS and also a prominent government official. On the way south Qian stopped at Tai’an (泰安), ascended Taishan (泰山), and wrote a short piece about it.43 Among those who passed the 1765 Zhejiang provincial examination was Shao Jinhan 邵晉涵 (1743–1796, jinshi of 1771), who later worked in Beijing under Zhu Yun; became an assistant editor of the SKQS; edited (with Qian) Bi Yuan’s Xu zizhi tongjian; and was a friend of Zhang Xuecheng, Dai Zhen, and other prominent scholars and officials.44 Qian’s appraisal of Shao as an expert in ancient learning was apparent in an introduction Qian wrote for him just after Shao had passed the metropolitan examination in 1771: “[When I examined Shao, I] knew [Shao’s] learning of the Classics was profound and deep  .  .  . penetrating ancient learning” (知其經學湛深  .  .  . 通古學).45 One may be skeptical of Qian’s (or any other scholar’s) sincerity in such laudatory remarks—the genre obliges; the close relations, however, that Qian forged with Shao (in this case, but also with others) and the scholarly cooperation they had seem to suggest—through practice—at least some honest praise. More importantly, note the recurring use of “ancient learning” rather than Han/Song or other variants. It was ancient learning that defined best—for the historical protagonists of this study—who they were and what they were doing. Qian, Shao, and the other successful candidates of the 1765 provincial examination then went together with the examiners to Hangzhou’s Western Lake (西湖), where they celebrated and wrote poems. With each examination round

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and with each project Qian Daxin’s social network grew, and in fact each member of Qian’s network was making his own new contacts, finding friends and colleagues to work with, consult with, and turn to for help or, at times, patronage. These scholars came to share mutual understandings about knowledge, about what valid knowledge consisted of, and about how to pursue learning. It was in this manner that the unfolding of the philological turn would take place in the years to come. The next year Qian served again as associate examiner in the 1766 metropolitan examination, and later that year his first son was born. Yet at the beginning of 1767 Qian and his wife were both ill. Qian recovered, but a few months later his wife died. Although Liu Tongxun 劉統勳 (1700–1773),46 the grand secretary and chancellor at the time, initially did not allow Qian to return to his native town for the mourning period, a few months later Qian was granted the leave he so desired. His friend Li Wenzao wrote the epitaph for Qian’s wife. After his return to Jiading, Qian began composing his Nianer shi kaoyi and soon thereafter (in 1768) bought a new residence there. He named it Qianyan Tang 潛研堂 (Hall of Subtle Research), recalling an expression coined by Cao Xiuxian, whom he had met a few years earlier at the Zhejiang examination. Later that year (1768) his second son (by a concubine) was born. Qian’s interest in Song and Yuan history increased during that time. He  searched through and compared editions of the Yuan da yitongzhi 元大 一統志 (Comprehensive gazetteer of the Yuan), resulting in his Ba Yuan da yitongzhi can ben 跋元大一統志殘本 (Postscript to the fragmented edition of the Comprehensive gazetteer of the Yuan). Qian also wrote the biographies of the Song dynasty literati Hong Kuo 洪适 (1117–1184), who was a famous collector and publisher of inscriptions (and who had also been criticized severely by Zhu Xi),47 and Lu Yu 陸游 (1125–1210), also known as Fangweng 放翁 (the old man who does as he pleases).48 In 1769 Qian and a few others, including Wang Mingsheng, traveled to Suzhou’s Tiger Hill (虎丘山). There they examined and tried to date stone inscriptions, some of famous persons and others, as before, of Buddhist scriptures—this time it was Guanshiyin pusa pumen pin 觀世音菩薩普門品 (chapter 25, The universal gate of the Boddhisatva Guanyin) of Saddharma Pu۬‫ڲ‬arīka Sūtra 妙法蓮華 經 (Sutra on the lotus of the sublime dharma). Writing about the occasion, Qian mentioned that “those who care about bronze and stone inscriptions these days are few” (世之好金石文字者寡矣) and made rubbings of some of the inscriptions to show his friends.49 With the help of Li Wenzao and his own relative Qian Tang 錢塘 (1735–1790), who joined the family network of scholarship, Qian was able to obtain additional rare editions and manuscripts of Song and Yuan texts, some of which he read on the boat on his way back to Beijing.50 Thus, taken together, Qian’s many travels (to be continued throughout his life) contributed to his growing scholarly interests and enabled greater access to sources and people beyond the Beijing hub and his hometown and its vicinity.

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The Consolidation of the Philological Network Having returned to Beijing Qian met again with his old friend Zhu Yun, and in 1770 they went on excursions together in the Western Hills (西山), one of Beijing’s “eight vistas” (八景),51 and to the Buddhist temple Fayuansi (法源寺) “to view the flowers” (Qian also found a Liao-period text there). Qian also traveled to the Daoist temple Baiyunguan (白雲觀), just outside the Beijing city walls, with Cao Renhu and others.52 It was around 1770 that, significantly, Qian “began reading the Shuowen, and researching the origins of phonology, paleography, and etymology” (始讀說文, 研究聲音文字訓詁之原).53 He expressed his Shuowen and phonological interests in a letter he wrote that year to the scholar most associated with Shuowen studies (apart from the work’s author), Duan Yucai 段玉裁 (1735–1815). Qian did not know Duan when he wrote the letter, even though (or so he claimed in the letter) he had heard of Duan’s reputation in these fields for a long while. Qian described how a mutual friend of theirs, Shao Jinhan, had brought Duan’s Shijing yunpu 詩經韻譜 (Rhyming groups in the Odes)54 to Qian’s attention. As Duan’s work seemed to suggest some remedy to the problem of pronunciation, which “had long since lost its most original sound” (久之遂失其最初之音), Qian praised the Shijing yunpu and its author: “You examined antiquity and corrected the textual errors in the Classics, and further balanced the pronunciation errors in this auxiliary text [the Shuowen], and made the rules of sound alteration [of characters or parts thereof, the tongzhuan 通轉 system]. The many different paths of the great Way must have originated from this.” 55 Qian did not write to Duan simply to flatter him; Qian concluded the letter, with all fitting manners, by bringing up a case in which, he claimed, Duan was mistaken and asking for the latter’s review of the matter. Duan was thus incorporated into Qian’s scholarly network (with another letter to him surviving in the QYTJ).56 And with Duan and his work, the interest in the Shuowen kept growing. Indeed, this interest in the Shuowen, as well as in other related auxiliary texts pertaining to the comprehension of the Classics, would become the hallmark of the intellectual turn, in particular from the 1770s onward.57 But Qian had another pressing concern that year, as a tomb was excavated in Liulichang, the same street in Beijing that he used to frequent in order to buy books and rubbings. The tomb, dating to the Liao, had an inscription in it, which Qian craved, so he contacted the secretary of the Board of Works, who was in possession of the inscription (in what form we are not told). Qian managed to read the inscription and also provided a narrative account of it, briefly explaining why a tomb would be found in Liulichang: during the Liao, Liulichang was the edge of the city.58

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In 1771, while at the capital, Qian finished his Jinshiwen bawei 金石文跋尾 (Postscripts to stone and bronze inscriptions), and his major Liulichang contact, Li Wenzao, had it printed that year (at that time it was in six juan; later, material was appended and the contents reordered, so that at its final stage it reached twenty juan). With his relative—Qian Tang’s younger brother Qian Dian 錢坫 (1744–1806)—Qian Daxin worked on revising the Baihutong (白虎通) and the Guangya (廣雅).59 At the same time, while serving at the Yitonghi zuanxiu guan 一統志纂修官 (Comprehensive Gazetteer Compilation Office), Qian’s interest in geography and clan-name history grew, as demonstrated, for example, in his Yu Yitongzhi guan tongshi shu 與一統志館同事書 (Letter to a fellow official at the Comprehensive History Office), where Qian discussed these issues.60 Living in Beijing kept providing Qian more opportunities for making new contacts and meeting interesting people while also allowing him to maintain older friendships. Qian corresponded with Zhao Wenzhe, his friend since 1750, and he also began an acquaintance with Zhang Xuecheng. One of the letters from Zhang to Qian is recorded in Zhang’s writings, but in Qian’s Nianpu there is no mention of that communication, which perhaps attests to Zhang’s lower status in Qian’s eyes, as Hu Shi claimed.61 Nonetheless, the letter did show Zhang’s high regard of Qian, and Zhang wanted to consult with him on various historical questions.62 As Zhang was part of what Nivison and Guy called “Zhu Yun’s circle”63 and Qian and Zhu had already been friends for a while at that time, Qian and Zhang plausibly had more opportunities to meet during these years. Toward the end of the century Zhang and Qian had more interaction, if indirect, while working on the Xu zizhi tongjian with Bi Yuan. Qian’s career at the capital continued to advance in the next couple of years. In 1772 he became a Hanlin reader (侍讀學士), served in both the metropolitan examination and the palace examination, and was also involved with the imperially sanctioned writing of the Qing Tongzhi 通志 (Comprehensive annals). In the following year he was promoted to director of the Palace School (上書房), located inside the Forbidden City, and was assigned to teach the emperor’s twelfth son, Prince Yongqi 永基 (1755–1779). That year (1773) Qian’s connections with the imperial family were lucrative, both materially and in terms of prestige: for the Dragon Boat Festival (端午) he received many gifts from the emperor, and later that year, when Qian was appointed the assistant supervisor of instruction (少詹事) in the Household Administration of the Heir Apparent (詹事府), he received more gifts. Qian himself presented the court with calligraphy of the character fu (福). During that time Qian lived in the capital in the same residence as Wang Tingyu 汪廷璵 (1718–1783), who was part of the SKQS editorial staff and the senior vice-president of the Board of Works (工部左侍郎).64 Perhaps related to the commencement of the SKQS project, Qian mentioned that “the Son of Heaven instructed the Ru officials to look for evidence in the Yongle dadian”

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(天子詔儒臣校永樂大典). Among the many “hitherto unseen books” (世所 未見之書) that came to light in the course of the project Qian found several books and tried to trace both their origins and the history of their transmission (and eventual neglect), although he did not have a formal role in the SKQS.65 One of the important points that Qian identified many years later (1799) as indicating a transition in learning during the Qing was the SKQS project. He wrote that “since the Office for [Editing] the Four Treasuries had opened, the scholars began to take seriously learning of the Classics and Histories” (自四庫 館開而士大夫始重經史之學).66 Qian did not mean that no one studied these subjects before; rather, it was a different type of learning during the Qing—what Qian referred to elsewhere as “concrete learning” (實學).67 In a way it seems that for Qian and his friends the SKQS meant formal imperial recognition of their scholarly priorities that began taking shape in the 1750s and 1760s.68 However, Qian himself was not officially part of the SKQS project, whereas several of his students (such as Shao Jinhan) and peers (such as Dai Zhen, who held no official position and did not pass his jinshi examination) did work on the project. Although Qian wrote favorably about the project, it seems that he felt some uneasiness, at the very least, at not being included. Whether or not that was the case, we have no paper trail to follow in order to prove it, and the puzzle as to why Qian Daxin was not included in the SKQS remains unsolved. We should also bear in mind that, naturally, many other prominent scholars, such as Wang Mingsheng, did not have formal positions in the SKQS project, so perhaps we need not read too much into the seeming exclusion. After attending a celebration held by the emperor to commemorate the initial work on the SKQS, in the beginning of 1774, Qian was appointed chief examiner of the Henan provincial examination. Qian had been planning to go back north to Beijing after the examination was over, but he was appointed director of education in Guangdong (廣東學政) and went south to Canton.69 There, amazed by what the south had to offer, he wrote: “The climate is warm, and [even in] severe winter there is no ice or snow; the flowers and trees are abundant and lush, and do not change during the spring” (氣候和煖, 嚴冬無冰 雪, 花木豐茂, 不異春時).70 Around his office he found many stone inscriptions of Southern Han and Song times, which he could look into in his leisure time. Possibly due to the distance from the capital and from his hometown, in a preface of that year to a collection of poetry by Cao Renhu (whom Qian extolled as tongnian, friend and poet), Qian expressed his views on the importance of friendship while also identifying Beijing as the scholarly center of the nation: “Among the Five Relations, the one between friends is the first.  .  .  . The joy of friends is only to be found in numbers in the officialdom of the capital. . . . Only the capital is where worthy officials assemble and [the place to which] they return” (五倫之中, 朋友居其一 . . . 朋友之樂, 唯京朝官所得為 多 . . . 獨京都為賢士大夫所會歸).71

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Qian was, however, in Guangdong, which perhaps was the reason he wrote an epitaph for one of Guangdong’s top achievers and a former governor of Jiangsu, Zhuang Yougong 莊有恭 (1713–1767).72 Qian reported that after looking into the state of education there, he was very disappointed by the level of understanding of the Classics and revised the curriculum so that all the young students would know the Classics. He took it as an urgent matter and was also disappointed at the previous director’s work there. Qian wrote that he was so devoted to his educational reform, traveling around the province, that he did not hear of his father’s death. When he did get the news—after about a month’s delay—he was struck with grief and “on a starlit night returned north” (星夜北歸).73 The death of his father in 1775 also marked the end of Qian’s official career; after his return to Jiading he retired from his official positions at the age of forty-eight sui and became a private scholar. Although Qian had left Beijing a year earlier, most of his official life had been conducted in Beijing, where he stayed from 1752 until 1774 (excluding his years of mourning for his wife and his travels). During these years Qian’s range of expertise had broadened, he learned much, and his authority as a scholar was established. These years gave Qian a boost in every aspect of his scholarship and also profoundly extended his networks. The interaction on a national level with the top scholars of his day not only widened his existing networks of peers but also furthered his governmental and imperial contacts. On one hand these various networks allowed Qian access to cutting-edge scholarship and sources whereas on the other they gave him the opportunity to disseminate (during and especially after the Beijing days) his new knowledge through the printing of his works. Clearly, practically everyone he had met was impressed with his intellect and talents; the opportunities did not just arise because of his knowing people, but knowing people enabled Qian to put his intellect into practice in more ways. And it was Beijing first and foremost—rather than Jiangnan—that was the core wherein the philological turn consolidated through social networks, enhanced by the examination system, official business, and opportunities for patronage. It was the capital that induced many of Qian’s travels, and with them he further extended his scholarly networks. These became the basis for his private scholarship and individual standing in the years to come. The two decades or so examined in this chapter were the time when the social basis was formed that allowed him access to collections of source materials; team projects and research founded on shared ideas about priorities concerning knowledge and how to attain valid knowledge; official and private patronage that sponsored scholars; and dissemination of the new knowledge produced through printing, extensive letter writing, and gatherings of scholars. The young generation of scholars in the early 1750s who came to know each other and work with each other further in the 1760s thus became the backbone of the intellectual transformation that reached its peak from the 1770s onward.

CHAPTER 3

PRIVATE SCHOLARS, PRIVATE ACADEMIES, AND THE COMMUNITY OF KNOWLEDGE

T

he peak of Qian Daxin’s career coincided with the flourishing of the intellectual turn to philology. During most of the last three decades of Qian’s life, after having retired from government service, he was a private scholar and the head of some of the most renowned private academies of his day. We should, however, bear in mind that the word “private” might be a bit misleading: although Qian had retired, he continued to collaborate with government officials and respond to official requests; private academies were not completely private, as they were often established by the government, were thought of as catering to government needs (related to the examination system and other needs), and were funded and at times monitored, at least in part, by the government; and, as we shall see below, governors were often instrumental in establishing academies, appointing heads of academies, and influencing academies in general. Thus our understanding of “private” should be qualified. Nonetheless, the academies, as Qian Daxin’s biography and own account reveal, did allow scholars much more independence in managing their time and deciding on their research (and other) priorities. Moreover, Qian clearly drew a line separating his government-service years and his later career; hence the use of “private” (which is common in modern research of the Qing period) seems appropriate.1 After Qian retired from official duties, he had more time on his hands to conduct his own research, to teach, and to travel. During the first two years after his father’s death, from 1775 until 1777, Qian Daxin remained mostly in and around Jiading. His wife and his father were posthumously promoted to

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the fourth rank, and Qian himself and his (still living) mother received similar honors, testifying to the court’s high regard for him.2 With what may seem like family tradition in mind, Qian wrote a record of his family’s ancestral hall.3 Although one might expect this record to be a simple story of the Qian hall, half of the essay is a general history of the terms related to ancestral halls and rituals more than anything else and as such reveals much about Qian’s line of thinking. It begins thus: The ji sacrifice of the ancestral temple was comprised of the spring yue ancestral sacrifice, the summer di ancestral sacrifice, the autumn chang ancestral sacrifice, and the winter zheng ancestral sacrifice. The Duke of Zhou, as he established the rituals, considered the di sacrifice to be a Shang dynasty ancestral sacrifice, and so changed summer to be that of the yue sacrifice and spring that of the ci sacrifice. Xu Shuzhong [Xu Shen, author of the Shuowen] said: “The spring sacrifice is called ci with little paraphernalia and many utterances.” Sun Shuran [Sun Yan 孫炎 (third c.)] and Guo Jingchun [Guo Pu 郭璞 (276–324)], in their commentary to the Erya, said: “the word ci means to eat.” Ci as designating a sacrificial hall began from the Qin and Han onward, as all the sacrifices to the various gods and spirits were [then] called the same.

Having established the beginning of the use of the term ci for sacrificial halls in relatively late times using the ultimate sources of the philologist, the Shuowen and the Erya, Qian continued to explain the different levels of such halls, mourning the forgotten fact that ci used to designate the specific name of a sacrificial ritual and not a place. Only then did Qian give a bit of background about how his family came to live in Jiading a few centuries earlier and how, through divination, the location for their ancestral hall had been chosen. He concluded the record (supposedly engraved into stone at the hall itself) by stressing the importance of mutual help for safeguarding the well-being of the dead ancestors and living family. We can see through this record how even when engraving a record of the family hall, philology and history played a crucial role for Qian; at the same time his participation in the rituals at the hall and his acceptance of the basic practices and beliefs surrounding the hall are also apparent. Death seems to have encompassed Qian at that time, as Li Wenzao, one of his closest friends and contacts, died in 1775. In 1776 Qian heard the news from Li’s younger brother, who also asked him to write Li’s epitaph. Qian agreed and wrote one celebrating Li as a friend, a scholar, and a person. He especially noted that Li was dedicated to collecting books and would inform Qian whenever an ancient book or inscription came to his hands, and he mentioned the correspondence they shared.4 Gradually, Qian began traveling again and resumed his scholarly endeavors full-time. Toward the end of the second year of mourning for his father (1776)

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he traveled to Dongting Hill (洞庭山) by Taihu (太湖) Lake, just west of Suzhou, where he found some stone inscriptions. On another boat journey he read the inner chapters of the Baopu zi 抱朴子內篇 (The master who holds to simplicity) by Ge Hong 葛洪 (283–343). Qian was surprised to find in the Baopu zi evidence that the nayin (納音) system of correlation of sounds and fate5 had its origins in or before the Han and Wei periods: “The Yuce ji (玉策記) and the Kaiming jing (開名經) were thus authored by Han and Wei persons [and I] began to know that the nayin was in fact an ancient method” (玉策 記，開名經乃漢魏人所撰，始知納音果是古法).6 The ancient pedigree of these books, however, had been recognized by Hui  Dong long before Qian’s encounter with them: “The Yuce ji and the Kaiming jing are all books of the Zhou and Qin periods” (玉策記，開名 經，皆周秦時書).7 Qian and Hui, nonetheless, took their interpretations in different directions, with Hui focusing on the date of the books and Qian focusing on divinatory aspects that were rooted in antiquity (and hence legitimate). Qian’s interest led him to write a short essay on the nayin system, titled “Nayin shuo” 納音說 (Explanation of the correlation of sounds [system]).8 In his explanation Qian refuted the Song scholar Shen Kuo 沈括 (1031–1095) and the Yuan-Ming scholar Tao Zongyi 陶宗儀 (ca. 1316–1403), who did not realize the most ancient origins of the nayin system, writing that Shen “thus had only seen one spot while neglecting to clarify the origins of the establishment of the method” (蓋已略見一斑而未明乎立法之原意). Furthermore, Qian declared that “a Ru does not follow [or does not regard as the Way] what does not concur with antiquity” (不合於古, 儒者所不道也). This statement is of great importance, as it emphasizes the relationship among what it means to be a Ru, the Way (Dao, or how the Ru should conduct themselves), and antiquity. This triangle of Ru-Way-antiquity was of utmost importance to Qian’s sense of identity and had important impacts on his scholarship, as discussed in parts II and III. Another question of authenticity arose that year (1777) when Wang Zhao 汪炤 (dates unknown), a mutual friend of Qian and Wang Chang, found a copy of Guo Zongchang’s 郭宗昌 (?–1652?) Jinshi shi 金石史 (History of bronze and stone [inscriptions]). Wang Jie, Qian’s former colleague and a high official at the time, wanted to print it and first asked Qian to verify its originality.9 The scholarly network was employed in this way time and again, and these social connections enabled both the improvement of research (methods and contents alike) and the dissemination of the knowledge gained by that research along with its standards and general geist. Qian Daxin’s network of high officials included Gao Jin 高晉 (1707–1779), governor general of Liangjiang, who invited Qian to be the head of the Zhongshan Academy (鍾山書院) in Jiangning (today’s Nanjing) in 1778.10 Qian wrote that he did not like the idea of becoming a teacher, but his poor economic

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condition (he had been out of office for several years, due to his mourning) made him go to Jiangning. He arrived there in the summer, “lectured and discussed ancient learning, [and emphasized that] penetrating the Classics and reading the Histories come first” (講論古學，以通經讀史為先).11 That Qian Daxin was appointed as the head of a prestigious academy clearly testifies to his personal reputation, to his skills, and also to his good relations with senior government officials; at the same time it testifies to a larger phenomenon: the acceptance of philologically minded scholars as being the foremost scholars of the day and, by implication, the widespread acceptance of philology—the main line of inquiry Qian and his like-minded friends preached—as a highly significant field of study. As such, one may consider Qian’s appointments since the 1770s as the head of three of the most highly esteemed academies of the time as the institutional manifestation of the philological turn’s success. By analogy (to the scope of the change and its possible influences, not to the actual content) the process of partial secularization undergone by the U.S. academy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, gradually resulting in more university and college presidents who were scientists rather than ministers of religion or theologians, can assist (within the limits of a general analogy) in understanding such a shift in the priorities of academies. Academy life was not too intense, and in his free time Qian would enjoy the company of Yuan Mei 袁枚 (1716–1798) and Yan Changming 嚴長明 (1731–1787), both famous men of letters who lived in Jiangning, were well connected socially, and had large libraries.12 In 1781, after Qian’s mother died, Yuan wrote her epitaph, which was, not surprisingly, full of praise both for the devoted mother and for her highly accomplished son.13 In the NESKY preface Qian stated that the period at the Zhongshan Academy was fruitful for his own studies. The following allows us to understand Qian’s notion of citing sources when doing research: “When I had leisure from instructing, I would further discuss [my work], and whatever happened to coincide with previous scholars’ [research] I would erase. Whatever I obtained from the understanding of fellow scholars, I would also oblige myself to give them credit. Indeed, I am deeply ashamed of the Guo Xiang and He Fasheng affair” [郭象, 何法盛之事].14 The Guo Xiang/He Fasheng affair Qian mentioned relates to two infamous plagiarism instances: as Wang Yinglin 王應麟 (1223–1296) recounted, “Xiang Xiu [向秀 (third c.) composed] a commentary on the Zhuangzi while Guo Xiang [(d. 312)] plagiarized it; [likewise] Xi Shao [郗紹 (third or fourth c.)] composed the History of the Jin Restoration while He Fasheng [(fifth c.)] plagiarized it. These two affairs are of a similar category” (向秀注莊子而郭象竊之; 郗紹作晉中興書而何法盛 竊之. 二事相類).15 Drawing on these counterproductive examples and citing other scholars directly, Qian avowed his own originality and assured readers that credit was given to others when it was due.16

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Qian seems to have had quite a lot of leisure during his Zhongshan years, as he was able not only to finalize his Nianer shi kaoyi but also to write shorter essays on a variety of subjects. In one of these essays, dated 1778, Qian showed another aspect of what he admired as correct methodology. The essay was a postscript to He Zhuo’s 何焯 (or He Chuo; 1661–1722) Yimen dushu ji 義門讀 書記 (A record of Yimen reading books), which was published in 1769. In it Qian stated: “Among those in the Wu [Suzhou] area who in recent times talk about ‘concrete learning’ [one] must mention mister He Yimen [Zhuo]. Yimen genuinely loved reading books, and whenever he saw a Song or Yuan woodblock edition, he always carefully recorded its discrepancies and similarities [compared to other editions]” (近世吳中言實學, 必曰何先生義門. 義門固 好讀書, 所見宋元槧本, 皆一一記其異同).17 The search for discrepancies and similarities—in different printed editions, handwritten manuscripts, stone and bronze inscriptions, etc.—became a marker of good scholarly practice, of exact, evidence-based scholarship during the second half of the eighteenth century, and for Qian that meant “concrete learning.” Also in 1778 Bao Tingbo 鮑廷博 (1728–1814), a renowned Hangzhou bibliophile, obtained an ancient edition of Xiong Fang’s 熊方 (Song dynasty) Hou Hanshu nianbiao 後漢書年表 (Yearly tables of the Later Han history). Bao wrote a letter to Qian, informed him about his finding, and invited him to prepare a copy for publication, in order for it to “circulate in the world” (將刻以行世). Qian concurred, had his son Huizhi 錢晦之 do most of the work for this project, and composed a “late preface.”18 The desire to circulate knowledge, especially if it could be supplemented by an authority such as Qian Daxin, was part of the reason for efforts to publish such works during that time. This circulation spread not only knowledge content but also ideas regarding what truth, facts, and proofs were all about: What should true or real knowledge include? What were correct scholarly practices? What made facts valid? Often, as in this case, paratexts, such as prefaces and postfaces, had the power to bring similar questions to the fore, address them, and thus circulate new scholarly standards as well. A shared acquaintance of Qian and Bao was Wang Huizu 汪輝祖 (1731–1807, jinshi of 1775), a native of Xiaoshan, Zhejiang, and a famous judicial clerk and official. Wang wrote mainly about government and statecraft and knew many of Qian’s peers and students, such as Shao Jinhan, Zhu Yun, and Zhang Xuecheng. In 1778 Qian wrote a short biography of Wang’s father, Wang Kai 汪楷 (1696–1740), in which he praised Wang Huizu, saying that he was “worthy and cultured, as well as a man of sincere filial piety, [and] his words can therefore be trusted” (賢而有文, 且誠孝人也, 其言故可信).19 Qian indeed trusted Wang’s words, and, as they also shared a similar interest in Yuan history, in 1802 Qian wrote a preface to Wang’s Yuanshi ben zheng 元史本證 (Examination of the Yuan history edition); in it Qian emphasized the difficulties of working with

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the Histories, and more recent Histories in particular, especially in matters of ascertaining “correlations and discrepancies” (同異).20 Difficult matters of “correlations and discrepancies” were not unique to the Histories. In 1779 Qian had a student named Tan Tai 談泰 (juren of 1786), whom Qian described as “good at calculations” (善算術), and Qian instructed him on the subject of “differences and similarities in distances between ancient and recent celestial calculations” (古今推步異同疏密). Qian’s satisfaction with Tan is evident from his “Zeng Tan Jieping [Tai] xu” 贈 談階平序 (Bestowing [kind words] for [the departure of] Tan Jieping [Tai]).21 In it Qian reiterated his thoughts about the West’s superiority in mathematics and emphasized again the related question of identity, from the perspective of the Ru. I discuss this subject at length in chapter 7 and here would just note that Qian recognized China’s inferiority in scientific fields of knowledge (already suggested in his 1754 letter to Dai Zhen), saw it as the responsibility of the Ru, and had hope for the future of indigenous sciences, particularly because of the endeavors of scholars such as Dai Zhen, Tan Tai, and, of course, Qian himself. Qian identified two related problems with regard to the sciences: the current inferiority of the Ru in the sciences and the fact that only a handful of Ru were engaged with mathematics at the time. Dai Zhen (who had already passed away by then) had never developed a large circle of followers in this area of expertise and was never in an institutional position to take the matter further, unlike Qian, who had both the students and the institutional means to try to tackle the second problem. The methodology of catching up with Europe, as a solution to the first problem, was to go back to antiquity, as discussed below. One such way of returning to antiquity, as we have seen in another field of knowledge, was the collection and examination of inscriptions. Sun Xingyan 孫星衍 (1753–1818) entered the Zhongshan Academy in 1774 as a student and later became an accomplished and prolific scholar. In the summer of 1779 he and Qian went to Mt. Mao (茅山), a famous Daoist site, where they visited many temples and attempted to date some of the inscriptions they found.22 Qian mentioned with some sorrow that the only people who really shared his passion for inscriptions were Zhu Yun, Yan Changming, and Li Wenzao (perhaps Sun was not prominent enough at the time to be mentioned).23 Lu Wenchao, whom Qian knew from the Wuli tongkao project, indeed corresponded with Qian about inscriptions around that time. Qian and Lu also discussed other subjects in their letters, ranging from tables in the Hou Han shu 後漢書 (History of the Later Han) to texts found in the Daozang.24 Later on, when Qian was the director of the Loudong Academy (婁東書院), Lu was apparently a teacher there.25 Qian did not neglect his ties with the imperial family while being a private scholar. In the spring of 1780 the emperor embarked on yet another southern

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tour, and Qian went to greet him, presenting a “Nanxun song” 南巡頌 (Southern tour Tribute) and receiving some gifts. Due to illness Qian asked to be granted leave from the academy, and Sazai 薩載 (d. 1786), the Liangjiang governor, had him work on the imperially commissioned Nanxun shengdian南巡盛典 (Account of the southern tours).26 With a bit more time on his hands Qian was able to work on his own projects. That year he finished his Yuanshi shizu biao 元史氏族表 (Table of the clan names in the Yuan History), a work that was published about a decade later, along with another work on the Yuan, the Yuanshi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (The treatise on literature and art in the Yuan history).27 Qian also wrote the preface to his Nianer shi kaoyi. Qian’s relative Qian Tang, who earned his jinshi that year (1780), was in Jiangning serving as director of schools, and Qian Daxin wrote a preface to Qian Tang’s work Huainan Tianwenxun buzhu 淮南天文訓 補注 (Further commentaries on the heavenly patterns teaching [chapter] of the Huainan[zi]).28 Feeling better, Qian Daxin returned to Jiangning, to the Zhongshan Academy, in 1781 and was pleased with his students’ achievements, which were also acknowledged by the area’s top officials. However, he soon had to return to Jiading, as his elderly mother was sick. He tried to help her but to no avail. She died that year at the age of eighty-one, and thus Qian effectively retired from the Zhongshan Academy at that time in order to mourn. While Qian was in Jiading, a local official, Yao Xuejia 姚學甲, had a second edition of Qian’s Jinshi wen bawei 金石文跋尾 (Postscripts to stone and bronze inscriptions) published in seven juan (the previous edition had six juan). Qian also wrote a preface to Bi Yuan’s Guanzhong jinshi ji 關中金石記 (Record of bronze and stone [inscriptions] from within the pass [Shaanxi province]), explaining the importance and superiority of inscriptions over any other types of evidence for “concrete learning” of the Classics and Histories: The study of bronze and stone [inscriptions] is the back and bones of the [study] of the Classics and Histories.  .  .  . Writings on silk are damaged after a while; printing on paper loses its authenticity as it circulates; only bronze and stone inscriptions, which originated over a thousand years ago, still reflect the true features of the ancients, their writings, their affairs, [and] are [thus] trusted and have a standard, and therefore can be treasured. . . . The concrete learning of the Classics and Histories [經史之實學] lies therein.29

The search for “the true features of the ancients” (古之真面目) was at the heart of what Qian and his peers wanted to do, and the notion that what they did was “concrete learning” (實學), with tangible consequences in the world, rather than mere scholarly play was yet another significant characteristic of their understanding of their scholarship. And Qian Daxin did his utmost to consult

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the inscriptions he so treasured. Mourning for his mother, Qian stayed home in Jiading and finished his famous magnum opus, the Nianer shi kaoyi 廿二 史考異 (Examination of variances in the twenty-two histories), which had a hundred juan30 and was published in 1794; he also composed the catalog for his own stone and bronze inscriptions (金石文字目錄), which was printed in 1805. In a postscript to that work, Qu Zhongrong 瞿中溶 (1769–1842),31 Qian’s son-in-law and a famous bibliophile, remarked: Whenever [Qian Daxin] had some time, he would take his walking stick and wander about, passing mountain cliffs and water banks, Daoist and Buddhist temples. Whenever he found one piece of broken stele with an incomplete inscription, he would surely clear the moss and brush off the dust, make a rubbing and read [it] carefully and then walk away. . . . The rubbings archive at [his] house had over 2,000 items; his postscripts amounted to over 800 chapters.32

Travels were indeed a good way to secure more historical information (e.g., inscriptions), and Qian’s extensive travels were part of what facilitated his vast collection of inscriptions. After Qian’s mourning period was over, in 1783, he went back on the road again. First, he traveled to Mt. Tiantai (天台山), a famous Buddhist pilgrimage site about one hundred kilometers (62 miles) south of Shanghai, where he found more inscriptions to look into and perhaps also collect. He then accompanied one of his sons to the provincial examination in Jiangning, and, finally, he got ready to “enter the capital and take an official duty” (入都供職). His plans, however, were not realized, as Qian, now in his mid-fifties, had serious problems with his eyesight. In the following year (1784) Qian’s health deteriorated further and his feet became numb. He  was thus housebound for over three months. While he was ill, and presumably worried about his severe illness, Qian began writing his Nianpu (and continued adding to it until 1792).33 Qian’s worries were evidently premature, and his health was restored (how this happened we are not told). Soon thereafter, in 1785, he received a job offer to become the head of the Loudong Academy in Songjiang (松江), about thirty kilometers (18 miles) south of Jiading. Qian accepted and would serve as head of the academy until 1788. Meanwhile, his interest in biographies seems to have grown, and in 1786 he composed three: of Hong Mai 洪邁 (1123–1202), Wang Yinglin 王應麟 (1223–1296), and Wang Shizhen 王世貞 (1526–1590). For some reason those who in 1803 printed the biographies that Qian wrote were not aware of the latter two works, and thus they printed only three out of a total of five, not including Qian’s own biography. Li Gengyun 李賡芸 (1754–1817), who was one of Qian’s students and had the biographies published, wrote in a later postscript to the biographies that Qian

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did not mention those two missing biographies even though he assisted in the publication. It was only after Qian’s death that Li found them and added them to a new edition.34 Qian, evidently feeling better, continued to travel, and Ningbo became a preferred destination. In 1785 he visited some Buddhist temples southeast of Ningbo with Qian Weiqiao 錢維喬 (1739–1806), Qian Weicheng’s younger brother.35 Two years later Qian Weiqiao invited Qian to Ningbo again to edit the local gazetteer (鄞縣志); Qian wrote it in five months, and it was printed the next year.36 Qian attributed great importance to geography: “One who reads history without being fluent in geography is just like a blind man who does not [ask for] help” (讀史而不諳輿地, 譬猶瞽之無相也).37 In 1787 Qian had the opportunity to visit and work at Ningbo’s famous Tianyige Library (天一閣) at the invitation of the head (and owner) of the library Fan Maomin 范懋敏 (dates unknown). Qian had heard of Fan a few years earlier during his journey to Tiantai, and he set out to join a team to prepare a catalog of the inscriptions found at the library.38 While in Ningbo, Qian resided at least part of the time with Zhang Yanchang 張燕昌 (1738–1814), who was part of the team working on the catalog. Qian mentioned that he taught Zhang about text forgeries and forgers and showed (or maybe showed off) his expertise, saying of one such text that “the instant I saw [the text] I determined it was a forgery” (予一見決為贗作).39 Qian did not concentrate all his efforts on the Tianyige Library: while in Ningbo, he also wrote a record of the Lu (盧) family’s Baojinglou Library 抱經樓 (Building for Safeguarding the Classics). In this record Qian expressed his anxiety over issues of what learning was all about and why it was so crucial to safeguard the Classics (note the probable competition for access to private collections): The Changes, Documents, Odes, Rites, and Spring and Autumn were the means by which the sages mapped the warp and woof of Heaven and Earth.40 Above they [the Classics] can make the times harmonious, below they can govern oneself, with regard to the Way—there is nothing they do not penetrate, and with regard to meanings—there is nothing that is not supposed to be.  .  .  . So, the sages compiled and set the Six Classics in order to hand down to and instruct posterity. . . . [But] there are also those who are excessive: they reject everything and praise themselves as intuitive knowers, they ridicule [those engaged in] textual glosses as vulgar Ru [俗儒], [they] scold [those who have] broad learning as trifling with things, and so there are those who do not read books yet designate themselves as mastering the Classics, and there are those who do not read the Classics yet designate themselves as teachers. . . . To safeguard the intentions of lost Classics and to make it a first priority in assembling books can be termed knowing the roots.41

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This is the first appearance of those who “ridicule [those engaged in] textual glosses” in Qian’s writings. Qian, it seems, felt he had to confront rivals who did not adhere to his stance on what learning was all about and who proposed alternatives that were in Qian’s view inferior and misleading, even dangerous. The use of the term “vulgar Ru” (俗儒) is also significant: the methodology one used in his studies determined his identity, what kind of Ru he was. Qian and his peers wanted to be, and thought they were, “true Ru” (真儒), and Qian used this kind of terminology much more in the 1780s and 1790s. This, perhaps, was the period when philology gained more stature (as Qian’s status in academic life demonstrates) and Shuowen and Erya studies begun to flourish; hence it was also the period when philology came under greater attack and was denounced more forcefully, perhaps by those feeling threatened by its growing power. Taken from a different perspective, one may also think of such attacks and defenses as expressing the consolidation of the philologists’ self-identity, as distinguished from that of other groups.42 During the 1780s we also witness the growing use of the phrase shishi qiushi 實事求是 (search for the truth in solid facts), both to express the correct methodology and to designate those scholars who employ it. For example, in his 1787 preface to Liang Yusheng’s 梁玉繩 (1745–1819) Shiji zhiyi 史記志疑 (Determining doubts in the records of the historian), Qian lauded both the author as a shishi qiushi person and the book itself as a masterpiece.43 Eleven years later Qian still corresponded with Liang to discuss some disputes they had over Shiji issues.44 Qian returned to the Loudong Academy by the end of 1787, after preparing the Tianyige catalog, and then composed the Yinian lu 疑年錄 (Register of uncertain dates), in which he recorded the “years of birth and death of men of letters from antiquity to the present” (古今文人生卒年). He began the list with the great Han dynasty scholar Zheng Xuan 鄭玄 (127–200) and ended it with Dai Zhen, including almost 360 men. A few years later he added 6 more: Jiang Shiquan 蔣士銓 (1725–1785), Zhu Yun, Cao Renhu, Yan Changming, Qian Tang, and Shao Jinhan. Later incarnations of this work culminated in 1925 when Qian’s text and four supplements were collected and edited into Zhang Weixiang’s 張惟驤 Yinian lu huipian 疑年錄彙編 (Collected registers of uncertain dates), incorporating 3,928 names.45

Systematization and Institutionalization of Textual Studies: Philology, Full Steam Ahead Qian did not stay at the Loudong Academy for long. By the end of 1788 he had received an invitation from Governor Min Zhongcheng 閔中丞 (jinshi of 1769) to become the director of the highly prestigious Ziyang Academy in Suzhou,

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where Qian had studied forty years earlier. Qian accepted the appointment and arrived at the academy at the beginning of 1789; he would stay there until his death in 1804. Upon arrival, he worked on Ying Shao’s 應劭 (fl. second c.) Fengsu tongyi 風俗通義 (Penetrating the meaning of popular customs) and also corrected his own catalog of inscriptions. In 1790 Qian, already sixty-two years old, went to the capital to greet the emperor on his eightieth (sui) birthday and stayed for about two months. There Qian lodged for awhile in the residence of Xie Yong 謝墉 (1719–1795), a scholar who is famous today for his Xunzi (荀子) studies and who worked on the Xunzi with Lu Wenchao.46 Still in the capital, Qian moved to the residence of Shao Jinhan. Qian also wrote a preface to Zhou Chun’s 周春 (1729–1815) famous work on the great Tang dynasty poet Du Fu 杜甫 (712–770), the Du shi shuangsheng dieyun pu 杜氏雙聲疊韻譜 (Table of alliteration and assonance in Master Du [Fu’s poetry]). In the preface, in addition to praising Zhou as “working out the facts by means of textual glossing” (於訓詁事實) and referring to him as a friend, Qian hailed Du Fu as a “sage in poetry” (聖於詩者), whose “nature was compatible with Heaven” (性與天合).47 That year Qian also wrote a preface to Zhao Yi’s 趙翼 (1727–1814) collected writings (Oubei ji 甌北集), praising his poetic abilities as compared with poets of all previous periods: “Not Han and Wei, and not Qi and Liang, neither Tang nor Song, it was only accomplished in Yunsong’s [Zhao Yi] poetry” (非漢魏，非齊梁，非唐，非宋，而獨成爲耘 菘之詩也).48 More often than not Qian’s praise for someone was also accompanied by reproach to others—usually unspecified groups, such as the “later Ru” (後儒) or “from the Song onward” (自宋以來), who neglected such work until the praised person’s time. I deal more specifically with these unnamed groups in subsequent chapters; for the time being I emphasize that there was no one particular group that was a major target of criticism alone, with no praise. In 1792 Qian wrote a preface to Yuan Zhi’s 袁袠 (1502–1547) Shiwei 世緯 (The weft of the world). There he explicitly claimed the correct role of the Ru: The learning of the Ru lies in making clear the substance in order to result in practice. The Odes, Documents, the upholding of the Rites, are all words of statecraft [經世]. . . . I reverently read the Imperially Sanctioned Four Treasuries that classified this book [Shiwei] as part of Ru [scholarship]; moreover, I say that master [Yuan Zhi] genuinely was a Ru of both substance and practice [有體有用之儒], unlike those pretending to be Ru [貌儒] in order to deceive the world. . . . Indeed, the words of the Ru still have vast expediency!49

Focusing here on the question of Qian’s identity, or what it meant for him to be a Ru, I would stress the great interest Qian took in conveying the notion that Ru teachings were practical and useful. The notion that the “Way of scholarship”

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(學問之道) had to be practiced and had to venerate antiquity as well as connect antiquity to the present is also apparent in Wang Mingsheng’s writing, and he, too, used Ru designations to discuss it: “Not knowing antiquity is the narrowness of the vulgar Ru; knowing antiquity without knowing the present is the weakness of the detached [or impractical] Ru. Exerting your mind in examining antiquity, putting to practice all the time, doing these simultaneously without contradicting each other, is what is called a comprehensive Ru” (不知古俗儒之陋也，知古 不知今迂儒之癖也. 心存稽古，用乃隨時，並行而不相悖，是謂通儒).50 The question of what it means to be the correct type of Ru preoccupied Qing scholars, and Qian Daxin labeled those he deemed not authentic—“true” or “genuine” (真)—Ru as “pretending Ru” (貌儒) or “vulgar Ru” (俗儒). This anxiety over what the true Ru were is also apparent in the preface Qian wrote in 1793 to Zang Lin’s 臧琳 (1650–1713) Jingyi zaji 經義雜記 (Various records on the meaning of the Classics). In the preface Qian gave a sense of what Ru were supposed to do, what some problems were with what they did do (from a certain time onward), and what attempts needed to be made to restore the ways of the “true Ru.” He thus linked issues of what we might call philosophy and philology51 with notions of breaks and continuities in the Ru tradition (I discuss this preface at length from a different angle in chapter 4) and exposed his notion of the nexus between knowledge and identity: From the Song and Yuan onward the essay on classical meaning52 was used to select literati [for office], [so scholars] had defended one teacher’s explanations and elaborated on one tradition; [they] were all one unified chatter, and those who emptily commented [on the Classics] without [truly] learning named themselves teachers of the Classics. . . . The comprehensive Ru [通儒] of the current dynasty, such as Gu Yanwu, Chen Qiyuan [陳啟源 (d. 1689)], Yan Ruoqu, and Hui Dong, were the first to have sincere intentions about ancient learning, deeply researching the readings of the Classics, following paleography, phonology, textual glosses, and so obtained the true meanings and principles [of the Classics]. At that time, there was Mister Zang Lin of Kunling [who] said: “[How] can one read books without mastering the characters? How can one clarify the Classics without being comprehensive [about] textual glosses?” [He] said that the six Classics were the words of the sages; if one followed their words in order to search for meaning, then one must begin with textual glosses; outside of textual glosses there are no meanings and principles [and] that [i.e., the neglect of textual glosses] is not the learning of we Ru. Textual glosses must depend on the Ru of the Han, since they were not far off from antiquity. . . . The book of the master [Zang Lin] was searching for truth in solid facts [shishi qiushi], . . . this is the learning of the true Ru [真儒], [who] are devoted to solid [facts], not to bragging about [empty] names. I therefore respect his book, and even more so respect his person.53

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In Qian’s view, from the Song and Yuan periods onward, the center of gravity of the Ru tradition shifted toward idiosyncratic usages. This shift began to be balanced from the early Qing.54 The shishi qiushi methodology employed by Qing scholars according to Qian, which was based, generally speaking, on philology, was the essential means of getting to the correct ancient meanings rather than the personal views of individual scholars. Gu Yanwu received a place of honor at the beginning of the list of Qing personalities; yet, although Qian appreciated Gu’s work, he also had reservations about it, as I will show in subsequent chapters. Gu Yanwu’s image changed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and his place of honor in the newly formed Qing tradition of scholarship had to wait until the second half of the eighteenth century. The term tong Ru 通儒 (comprehensive Ru), as referring to the great Ru of the Qing with their broad scholarship and interests, was not used much by Qian in most of his writings up to this point; the wider use of the term was a late eighteenth-century phenomenon.55 A related issue that comes up in the above-quoted preface is the notion of Han dynasty Ru. To clarify this matter, I add another quotation, from Qian’s preface to Hui Dong’s Guwen shangshu kao, written a year earlier.56 In this preface we find one of the rare occasions in which Qian used the term Hanxue: “These days many scholars venerate the learning of the Han [Hanxue]; in fact this [veneration] began with the master’s [Hui Dong] introductory discussion” (今士大夫多尊崇漢學,實出先生緒論).57 Qian used the term Hanxue to mean the learning that had been conducted during the Han dynasty, by Ru of that period. It did not mean an eighteenthcentury school of learning and certainly not a school that originated with Gu Yanwu. I am not belittling the importance of Han dynasty traditions of learning for Qian; they were very important. Rather, I emphasize that their importance did not bring Qian to see himself as part of a Han learning group or line.58 Indeed, in 1798, when Qian wrote a preface to Xie Qikun’s 謝啓昆 (1737–1802) Xiaoxue kao 小學攷 (Examination of philology), Qian hardly mentioned “Han” and did not even use “Han Ru” or “Hanxue.” What he did use were specific names of Han dynasty scholars or texts (such as Xu Shen’s Shuowen), but he also referenced scholars from later times, such as Sima Guang, that were important as means to penetrate antiquity (古).59 The Ru of the Han period were not too distant in time from “antiquity” (a  term that I problematize in the next part), according to Qian; thus their philological abilities to penetrate the linguistic aspects of earlier eras (both in terms of pronunciation and in terms of the written forms) were better than those of later scholars. Therefore, in order to get “meanings and principles” (義理) out of the Classics—which Qian acknowledged was the raison d’être of the philological endeavor—one had to depend on Han scholars’ works. Whereas this was the rationale for emphasizing Han dynasty scholarship when it came to

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the Classics, we have to keep in mind that the Classics were not everything—far from it. As one can clearly see from Qian’s biography and writings, Qian and many of his scholarly friends did not look for meanings and principles solely or mainly in the Classics; they were engaged in research that cut across historical periods and ranged from the ancient past to more recent periods. Naturally, Han learning was irrelevant when dealing with materials from periods later than the Han dynasty. The most prominent example of Qian Daxin’s engagement with Histories rather than Classics is, of course, his Nianer shi kaoyi, published in 1794. After its publication, Qian—together with Duan Yucai; Yuan Tingtao 袁廷檮 (1764–1810), a bibliophile from Suzhou; Ge Zhouxiang; and Qu Zhongru (瞿中溶)—worked on another nonclassical text, the Daozang, at a non-Ru location, the Daoist temple Xuanmiaoguan (玄妙觀) in Suzhou. Once again we see philological commitment and scholarly interests ranging far beyond so-called Confucianism, and whereas the Daozang was used as a source for a variety of works related to the Classics, it was also a source for other materials. Similarly, the teamwork style of work continued well into Qian’s older days. Indeed, from 1792 Qian was a part of another team, headed and sponsored by Bi Yuan, compiling the Xu zizhi tongjian. That team, in accordance with the larger project in mind, was comprised of such eminent scholars as Shao Jinhan, Yan Changming, Sun Xingyan, and others, including Zhang Xuecheng, less famous then but more so now.60 The project was finalized and printed in 1797, and in between Qian made sure to keep up his contacts with his lifelong friends and visited Wang Chang, who was about to retire from official service, at Qingpu (not far from Suzhou), presumably to greet him for his seventieth sui birthday. In 1797 Qian wrote another work not focusing on the Classics, the Sishi shuorun kao 四史朔閏考 (Examination of the first day of the month and intercalary months in the four histories [Song, Liao, Jin, Yuan]).61 He then visited Yuan Tingtao’s library in Suzhou and later traveled to the area of Dongting Lake, looking for inscriptions. In the following year Yuan Tingtao again invited Qian, this time together with Wang Chang, Pan Yijun 潘奕雋 (1740–1830), Duan Yucai, and others, to spend some leisure time at his garden in Suzhou— Yuyin xiaopu (漁隱小圃, a small garden with hidden fish)—while also examining his library.62 Often, while examining libraries and reading books, scholars would leave their notes and remarks in the books, and one example is Qian Daxin’s notes on Chen Jun’s 陳均 (1174–1244) works found at Yuan’s disposal at the time, still extant in the facsimile of this work.63 Even though Qian Daxin was a private scholar, this did not mean that his relations with high-ranking officials evaporated. Indeed, in 1798 Qian was still in contact with Yin Zhuangtu 尹壯圖 (1738–1808), who gained his jinshi degree when Qian served as the examiner in 1766. Yin, by then a top official (sub-chancellor of the Grand Secretariat [内閣學士] and vice-president of the

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Board of Rites [禮部侍郎]), asked Qian to compose the epitaph for Yin’s father, Yin Songlin 尹松林, who had earned his jinshi with Qian in 1754 and, according to the epitaph that Qian wrote, was also Qian’s friend.64 Yin Zhuangtu had indirectly protested against the corrupt official Heshen 和珅 (1750–1799),65 prompting the question of whether Qian, too, was affected by the Heshen affair. But whether Qian’s association with Yin had anything to do with the Heshen affair, in terms of him either suffering any consequences or encouraging Yin in his protest, or whether there was any other link between Qian and the affair remains unclear (it seems that Qian was not affected by the incident whatsoever, unless his inability to return to office in the 1780s was affected by the Heshen issues, although there is no direct evidence for this).66 After Qian’s grief over the death of the Qianlong emperor in early 1799 had eased (so he presented his emotional state), he went over Zang Lin’s Jingyi zaji, mentioned earlier, to prepare it for printing. He also had another version of his Jinshi wen bawei published and wrote the preface to another famous collection of his miscellaneous writings, entitled Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of the cultivation of the new from the study of the ten yokes). The last title was published five years later, in 1804, by Ruan Yuan 阮元 (1764–1849), who also wrote a glorifying preface for it.67 Yet before Ruan’s preface, and still in 1799, Qian wrote a preface hailing Ruan Yuan’s grand philological project, the Jingji zuangu 經籍纂詁 (Collected glosses on the Classics).68 The paratext ping-pong was a textually lucrative and a continued effort. In his preface Qian advanced the cause of philology in the search for meaning (“Etymology is the fountainhead of meanings and principles” [訓詁者, 義理之所由出]), the problematic character of some of the Song Ru (and the Jin 晉 Ru) as opposed to the Han Ru, and the progress in learning made during the Qing after the decline in learning during the Ming. But most important for Qian was the love of antiquity: “[Those] studying the Way have to embrace the love of antiquity, [for if] they ignore antiquity then there is no way to see the Way” (學道要於好古, 蔑古則無以見道). Qian’s preface to Zhao Yi’s Nianer shi zhaji 廿二史劄記 (Notes on the twenty-two histories),69 dated 1800, likewise emphasized the role of antiquity and further stressed that “the teaching of the sincere Ru has both substance and practicality; one can sit down and discuss [it], and one can get up and exercise [it]” (洵儒者有體有用之學, 可坐而言, 可起而行者也).70 The practice may have been related to the production of texts and research, but the ties with Ruan Yuan, who was then rising up the official ladder, suggest that it also related to actual governance. Ruan was perhaps a prime example of “substance and practicality” from Qian’s perspective,71 and Qian was associated with another of Ruan’s impressive team projects, the Chouren zhuan 疇人傳 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers), which involved more prominent scholars, such as Jiao Xun 焦循 (1763–1820), Ling Tingkan 凌廷堪 (1755–1809), and some of Qian Daxin’s students.72

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Qian’s relations with Ruan grew even closer in the following years. In 1800 Qian and Ruan, who was governor of Zhejiang at the time, traveled together with a few other scholars to Hangzhou’s Western Lake for entertainment purposes.73 A year later Ruan had Qian’s Santongshu yan published, and Huang Peilie had Qian’s Yuanshi yiwenzhi published. Qian continued his travels, going to Yu Mountain (虞山) in Changshu county in 1801, as well as to Changxing (長興) county, where he compiled a local gazetteer with Qian Dazhao at the request of local officials.74 In 1802, while traveling to Changxing, Qian made a stop in Nanxun (南潯) to visit the library of the noted bibliophile Liu Tong 劉桐 (1759–1803). This was one of his last journeys. In the following year Qian’s health deteriorated, but he remained head of the Ziyang Academy at Suzhou and continued to work, finishing the Changxing gazetteer. He was able to see his Shijiazhai yangxin lu published in the beginning of 1804, but on November 21, 1804, Qian died. By that time numerous works by many scholars that dealt with or used philology had been printed. Major officials patronized philological projects, and private sponsors assembled many teams of scholars for philological research. Institutionally, philology and philologists were accepted as the cutting-edge methodology and scholars, and in many ways it became clear to anyone who wished to make a substantial scholarly claim (of any sort) that he would have to bring philological proof and backing for his assertions. Indeed, by the turn of the nineteenth century philology reigned supreme, and it was about that time that its reign caused some to feel uneasy about the consequences of the philological turn. Nonetheless, in terms of scholarship, the philological wave that took shape in the second half of the eighteenth century continued as a tsunami well into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

The Social Infrastructure of Scholarship and Ru Scholarly Identity In the year Qian Daxin died, Ruan Yuan praised him in a preface to Qian’s Shijiazhai yangxin lu: From the beginning of the dynasty and up until now, among all the Ru, some discuss the Way and the [moral] virtues, some discuss statecraft, some discuss the learning of history, some discuss astronomy, some discuss geography, some discuss paleography and phonology, some discuss [inscriptions on] metal and stone and belles-lettres. There are truly many experts, but experts simultaneously [in all of the above] are yet rare. Only master Qian Xinmei [Daxin] of Jiading was able to simultaneously accomplish this.75

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As shown by the unfolding story of Qian Daxin’s life, his diligence, hard work, and intelligence were accompanied by possibilities and opportunities for mastering these diverse fields of knowledge, which he both created and seized. These opportunities were often facilitated through his extensive social networks. And Qian seized every opportunity to research every one of these various fields in depth, thus becoming an authority in practically all of them. All Qian’s networks—from his expanding family network, through the networks of his superiors (the imperial family, examiners, teachers, high officials) and the networks of his peers (co-students, classmates, and colleagues), all the way to the networks of his students and examinees—opened new paths for improving his scholarship as well as for its dissemination. Moreover, the development of such networks exposes the social life and vitality of knowledge production, as many books were not written in seclusion: drafts were circulated and shared; scholars made corrections to these drafts and corresponded with their friends about these corrections; they exchanged letters in which they sought or gave advice; they borrowed books and sources or consulted them in other scholars’ residences; and team projects introduced newer scholars, enhanced existing networks, and allowed for research funding. One prime material example of the scholarly and social networks, both intellectually and socially but also aesthetically, is a copy of a Song dynasty edition of Zhao Mingcheng’s 趙明誠 (1080–1129) Jinshi lu 金石錄 (Records of bronze and stone [inscriptions]) preserved in the Rare Books Collection of the Shanghai Library. In it we can find on one page (figure 3.1) a staggering array of over three dozen different red ownership-seal imprints—some from different eras and some from times not so far apart, such as Bao Tingbo’s and Ruan Yuan’s—along with many postfaces and other paratext by prominent Qing scholars in particular.76 This edition also points to the great interest in the subject of bronze and stone inscriptions at the time, and on another edition of this title—dated Qianlong 27, 1763—Qian Daxin himself added his handwritten notes.77 Scholars, of course, liked to own books, and they wrote notes and left remarks in them, for themselves but also for contemporaries and later scholars to consult. Notes such as the ones left by Qian Daxin on numerous manuscripts—a drop in the sea of handwritten notes left by many eighteenth-century scholars on manuscripts and earlier editions—exemplify and problematize what the act of reading entailed for scholars at the time. These notes were an integral and essential ingredient in the process of reading and hence also in the process of (social or private) knowledge production. I argue that for these scholars78 reading was not an isolated individual act but rather a communal practice that involved writing, a continual process of reading-cum-writing. A specific, single text (printed or handwritten) could often be read, commented on, and then reread (more than once) by several scholars, and various paratexts apart

3.1 Jinshi lu Ownership-seals Imprints. Source: Zhao Mingcheng 趙明誠 (1080-1129), Jinshi lu 金石錄 (Reconds of Bronze and Stone [Inscriptions]) (Shanghai Library Rare Books Collection, Song dynasty ed., ms. 02885).]

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from marginalia or inline notes, such as prefaces and postfaces, as well as letters (potentially published, read by other scholars, or incorporated into later published editions), consolidated a larger, imagined or real, evolving scholarly community. This evolving community also meant social networks were extended, research opportunities and knowledge were improved, and the circulation and dissemination of knowledge and epistemological stances increased. Even those like Cui Shu 崔述 (1740–1816), who couldn’t or wouldn’t find their place within these networks, took part in the scholarly production of knowledge within the new methodological and ideological atmosphere.79 Scholarly print culture, from this perspective, was therefore dependent on, and perhaps secondary to, a flourishing and vital handwritten manuscript culture even as print culture thrived during this period; residues of the handwritten or reading-cum-writing style can be often found in printed editions; handwritten notes left by scholars on a draft, a manuscript, or an earlier printed edition would often end up within the pages of a printed edition.80 The “notation books” (劄記册子, lit. “notebook for notes and records”) genre—“an important genre of writing during the Qing,” as Elman noted, and one with a long historical pedigree—became one of the central ways of conducting research, a way that exemplifies the reading-cum-writing methodology, and is also a good example of the handwritten-print culture interaction. This genre included notes that scholars wrote as they read and researched, quotations that they found relevant, discussions that they had on specific subjects, and thoughts or ideas that developed during their working process. By the late eighteenth century these notation books often included many philological entries, and in some cases they were polished and published, aiding other scholars as useful “source books.”81 It was through these social networks and this communal scholarly activity that scholars also changed communal tastes and preferences, as discussed in parts II and III. How did the networks of the philologists, with Qian Daxin often at the center, develop? Several levels of what I term “social infrastructure” facilitated the production of social knowledge and the development of social networks of scholars in the eighteenth century. These levels existed before the mid-eighteenth century; however, they greatly intensified during the Qian-Jia era. The predominant elements of this infrastructure included the examination system; the further growth of print culture (with more books being published, a quicker publication process, and the publication of seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century manuscripts in the second half of the eighteenth century); the further development of libraries (private and official) and bibliophiles’ collections, including improved access to them; the possibilities of travel (privately and/or officially); the growth of academies (in number, size, and prestige);82 the increase of paratexts (prefaces, postfaces, notes, etc.) and various invited writings (such as paratexts

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but also epitaphs); the development and use of the printed genre of notation books; the improvement of the postal services (allowing letters and manuscripts to arrive faster and with greater security);83 and the nexus that developed between scholarship and power (through scholar-officials’ increased access to sources; through official sponsorship and patronage of scholarship; through the relationships between high-ranking officials and private scholars/institutions, making their recommendations for private offices important; and through the court itself). All these different segments were not isolated but functioned together in enhancing, intensifying, and vitalizing the development of social scholarly networks and, with them, the spread of intellectual sensitivities and agendas. These sensitivities and agendas, in turn, had a reciprocal influence on the social infrastructure, its composition, and its priorities. The role of the examination system in the creation and maintenance of Qian’s social networks was, perhaps, the most crucial. From 1738, when Qian participated in his first youth examination, until 1774, when he served as the chief examiner of the Henan provincial examination, he attended examinations almost every year, either as an examinee or as part of the examination staff (or both, as Qian was also examined at the Hanlin Academy even after obtaining his jinshi). The system was an arena for formal and informal networking and socializing among the examinees, among the examiners, and also between examinees and examiners beyond the doctrinal and political socialization processes. This networking process thus advanced friends from within the system or the class (Qian’s 1754 class would be a good example); brought officials and scholars together and created working and scholarly links among them (Gao Bin, He Guozong, and Qin Huitian, to name a few); resulted in job offers later on (e.g., Gao Jin) or examiners’ patronage (e.g., Shao Jinhan); allowed networking with potential publishers and getting one’s work printed (e.g., Li Wenzao); provided access to rare sources (such as books, manuscripts, and inscriptions); and simply enabled participants to make new friends. Such friends might later find similar issues to work on and perhaps might exchange views and sources (again, the 1754 class is a case in point), and they could extend the networks—in terms of circulation of works and ideas, for example—to second-order contacts and beyond. Examinations also provided travel opportunities, and travel supplied ample occasions for meeting other scholars, consulting libraries, finding inscriptions, and dealing with local histories (see map 2). It was also this type of networking that introduced Qian to the field of mathematical astronomy, with Chu Yinliang in Beijing and later with Dai Zhen and Tan Tai,84 and to the field of professional philology, with Hui Dong, Duan Yucai, and many others. Print expansion,85 the growth of libraries, and imperial and private textual team projects86 increased scholars’ ability to find research materials and circulate their own—and to do so at an increased pace. Moreover,

Map 2 Qian Daxin’s travels after passing the 1751 examination

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after the Kangxi and Yongzheng periods, which proved hazardous at times for scholars, the more relaxed political climate of the Qianlong era stimulated scholars to state their views more candidly.87 These networks also demonstrate how Qian’s production of knowledge was dynamic, going in new directions as he met more scholars. In that regard his time in Beijing (roughly 1752–1774) was highly significant in shaping his interests. It was there that Qian began to study mathematical astronomy, establishing his name in that field and thus getting to learn, for example, about the Copernican heliocentric system. It was also there that he improved his textual research methodology, increased his emphasis on philology, began to research the Shuowen jiezi and discuss it with fellow scholars, and started his collection of bronze and stone inscriptions, later incorporating them into his textual research. Qian’s own assessment of Beijing as the scholarly hub of the empire speaks to that effect. Although a vast majority of the members of Qian’s networks were Jiangnan natives (see map 3),88 Beijing was where many of them were first introduced to each other. Similarly, team projects (in Beijing

Map 3 Qian Daxin’s social networks

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or elsewhere) provided many occasions for forging new relationships. In the case of Qian Daxin, his first-order scholarly connections (those whom he knew firsthand and those with whom he had interactions that were mentioned directly by him or by them) amounted to over a hundred, not including the thousands of students he taught at the academies and examinees he tested but did not mention. If we add the second-order connections (acquaintances of those in the first order), the size of the network grows exponentially, and it was this network that embodied the developing social structure of the philological turn. Mapping the development of Qian Daxin’s networks problematizes not only the centrality of Jiangnan in the making of the connections but also various assumptions about “schools of thought” within Jiangnan.89 Instead of supposed geographical or teacher-student lineages, we find new networks that incorporated scholars, officials, bibliophiles, and others who cooperated, worked together, and learned from one another and that spanned seeming geographical divides, both within Jiangnan and outside of it. Again, Beijing served in many instances as the central locale for making such acquaintances. But, of course, it was not only in Beijing that Qian found opportunities to further his networks and studies. He traveled extensively during his lifetime, from Guangdong in the south to Rehe in the northeast, and used most of his trips to advance his research (see map 2). These trips were also social occasions for furthering his networks, either by strengthening old friendships or by creating new acquaintances wherever he went. These travels also enabled Qian to reach sources otherwise unavailable, such as the books and inscriptions at the Tianyige Library. Qian often traveled because scholars and officials who had heard of him sought his help in one way or another: writing a record of their inscriptions, preparing a local gazetteer, verifying the authenticity of a text they had, or composing an epitaph for a relative. These sorts of “invited writings,”—that is, various types of treatises of varying lengths initiated by someone other than the author and not necessarily related to travel—were common in the eighteenth century, and many of Qian’s peers accounted for such invitations. Presumably, it was also lucrative; although in most cases the payment remains invisible to historians, some scholars did mention receiving compensation for such writings.90 Moreover, invited writing was not just a source of additional income. Several decades ago Genette coined the term “paratext” to refer to the “accompanying productions” of any book-form text (e.g., prefaces, postfaces, illustrations, etc.). He defined “paratext” as “a threshold, or—a word Borges used apropos of a preface—a ‘vestibule’ that offers the world at large the possibility of either stepping inside or turning back.”91 Paratexts, according to Genette, have considerable influence on readers, especially in how readers approach and understand the entire book in front of them.92

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However, the influence of prefaces and postscripts, epitaphs, biographies, genealogies, records, and more extended beyond the specific books and their meanings: writing these paratexts was a social activity as well. A preface could endorse both its author and the book’s author; an epitaph from a prominent scholar was a testimony to the deceased’s honor and prestige (and perhaps, more importantly, to the honor and prestige of his or her relatives);93 a record of a library (such as ones Qian Daxin wrote in the 1780s) had the power to promote the status of the library and the social status of its owner. And it seems that the greater the number of invited writings a scholar produced, the higher his own prestige rose. To put it simply, there was an economy of invited writings that was mutually beneficial to both the writer and the customer. Qian was a central figure in it, but he was certainly not the central figure, as many scholars in the second half of the eighteenth century engaged in this type of writing. Scholars wrote such items for each other frequently. The circles of these scholars were not isolated or clearly bounded but rather overlapped to the point that one cannot tell exactly where a scholar’s circle began and ended. Qian’s circle included many of the scholars who were also in Dai Zhen’s, Ji Yun’s, and Zhu Yun’s circles, the latter two being central figures whose networks were very large. Using the term “network” rather than “circle,” I have also tried to convey the openness and fluidity of the social contacts of Qian Daxin and his fellow scholars.94 Such openness is evident from the 1888 edition of Xie Qikun’s Xiaoxue kao, mentioned earlier. There, one after the other, Qian Daxin’s and Yao Nai’s 姚鼐 (1732–1815) prefaces coexist, both dated 1798. The two scholars, allegedly foes from opposing schools, praised Xie’s philological work without denigrating either Song or Han learning, terms that neither even used in his preface. The  theme they both emphasized was the significance of philology (xiaoxue, and paleography and phonology in particular) as a means of getting as close as textually possible to antiquity (古). The two rivals, a Han learning champion and a Song learning follower, as modern historiography has often portrayed them,95 were able to convene in one book—and without any apparent difficulty.96 Evidently, Xie Qikun’s book was not the only intersection point for the two: Yao Nai had also written a recommendation letter for Qian’s relative Qian Tang. In the letter, Yao wrote that the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi were the “true Ru who understood the intentions of the sages” (真儒乃得聖人之旨) in the Song and that since the end of the Ming there were those who “discarded ChengZhu [learning] while admiring the scholars of the Han” (舍程朱而宗漢之士). However, Yao Nai also praised Qian Tang’s line of learning, a line, as mentioned above, that was very much in accordance with Qian Daxin’s in its emphasis on Han period scholars and philological methodology. Nevertheless, this apparent contradiction was accommodated by Yao Nai: “The motion of heaven and earth must cause transformations over a long period of time: therefore, the Xia

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valued loyalty, the Shang valued raw substance, and the Zhou valued refined culture. [This is] the transformation of learning” (天地之運, 久則必變, 是故 夏尚忠, 商尚質, 周尚文. 學者之變也).97 Thus, both Han and Song scholars were validated by means of Yao’s theory of transformation, as certainly must have been the case for Qing scholars who dealt with scholars of the Han, Song, and many other dynasties.98 And Qian Daxin, for his part, was also accommodating toward Song scholars, albeit in a different fashion from that of Yao Nai. For Qian, generalizations about Song versus Han were bound to be misleading. Although he did see general problems in certain periods, he also acknowledged those who merited praise, Sima Guang being the example Qian himself gave in the preface to the Xiaoxue kao. It was not that the boundaries between (what later scholarship called) Han and Song learning groups or movements were blurry or fuzzy for Qian Daxin—I did not find evidence to prove that he acknowledged the very existence of such groups. If Qian Daxin, who was treated in modern scholarship as a Han learning scholar par excellence, did not regard himself as such and did not write using such a term, I contend that our basic dichotomy of Han versus Song learning for the eighteenth century may be problematic. Was Qian an isolated case? I think that he was not. In Zhu Gui’s stele memorial for his brother Zhu Yun, another alleged exemplar of Han learning, there is no mention of Han learning as a term, and the same holds for Zhu Yun’s epitaph written by Zhang Xuecheng. Zhang wrote that Zhu Yun “prioritized the learning of Han people” (主漢人之學), but the notion of identity was much broader: Zhu, wrote Zhang, “forcefully established the name of the Ru” (強立儒名).99 Wang Mingsheng’s preface to his Shiqi shi shangque likewise has no mention of the Han dynasty. Wang discussed at length the work of the historian and classicist and issues of methodology. The main terms he used to describe his methodology were shishi qiushi, phonology, etymology, and paleography.100 In a preface, dated as late as 1815, to Wang Zhong’s Shuxue 述學 (Discourses on learning), Wang Niansun 王念孫 (1744–1832), a celebrated Yangzhou scholar and a former student of Dai Zhen, wrote: “My friendship with Rongfu [Wang Zhong] lasted nearly forty years, and we encouraged each other in ancient learning” (余與容甫交垂四十年, 以古學相砥礪). Wang Niansun did not mention Han learning, and rather than blaming the Song, as one might expect if the Han versus Song debate had in fact been the major issue, he contended that “from the Yuan and the Ming onward, those who explained the Classics had many defects and chiseled through air” (自元明以來, 說經者多病鑿空).101 Of course, one could claim that if the scholars mentioned above revered Han dynasty scholarship, aimed to capture its essence, and took it as both methodologically and substantially correct, then for heuristic purposes we can, perhaps, use the term “Han learning” to categorize them, even if the term

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itself is anachronistic. Nevertheless, the identification of kaozheng xue with Hanxue and their juxtaposition to Songxue are, in my mind, more obscuring than clarifying for the following reasons (these reasons echo in many ways Gong Zizhen’s 龔自珍 [1792–1841] opposition to these terms, stated just as the terms came into use in the early nineteenth century):102
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and pre-Han texts (the Classics being the most revered group of texts but not the only one). However, even for those designated as Hanxue scholars by modern scholarship, much of their work had nothing to do with Han or preHan texts, and taking a heuristic term that emphasizes only Han clouds this important premise.
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tradition, and so did Qian’s skepticism; Han texts were no exception to this skepticism. And Qian was not an isolated case.

It should be clear that I do not imply that Han texts and scholars were unimportant for Qian and his friends—on the contrary, they were. Nor do I claim that there was no controversy over philological and philosophical issues during the eighteenth century. Rather, I argue that the controversy was not between Han and Song groups of scholars but between competing epistemologies (discussed in the following chapters) that were not grounded in or limited to such a dichotomy (even if such a dichotomy was established in the nineteenth century) and that it was linked to scholars’ sense of and anxieties about cultural and intellectual identity.103 It is therefore not surprising to find a scholar in Qian Daxin’s network who was connected to many other so-called Han learning scholars styling himself Ning Song zhuren 佞宋主人 (a collector biased in favor of Song editions).104 As far as Qian Daxin was concerned, Han texts and scholars were as close as one could get to the ancient sages. What mattered for him, however, was antiquity (古): Han and Song scholars and texts were mediators, at best. In order to understand the ancient sages better, Qian advocated “concrete learning” (實學); this type of study, for Qian as for “most scientists of the sixteenth and early seventeenth

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century” in Europe, was taken “not as discovering facts never before seen and drawing inferences from them but as assembling facts from reliable sources in a new and revealing order.” Indeed, “concrete” for Qian Daxin meant “textual,” whether in the Classics or in mathematical astronomy, a sort of experientia litterata that “resulted not in reports on controlled situations [as Francis Bacon had envisioned] but in commentary or bricolage. . . . The normal early modern scientist resembled a bookworm dragging its length down endless shelves rather than Cesi’s lynx fiercely scrutinizing the secrets of nature.”105 Qian Daxin’s research was textual, and the textual focus also shows in his networks: no technician or hands-on astronomer can be found there. When, from time to time, Qian had to consult a physician, he mentioned that person, but nowhere did Qian build on such relations in order to further medical knowledge (one of the few fields in which he did not engage textually). Nonetheless, Qian thought of Ru scholarship, his own included, as practical and useful and of the Ru as those who can contribute to the sociopolitical world. They had to participate in a common endeavor to produce knowledge that was, in their eyes even if not in others’ judgment, practical and crucial for the well-being of self, society, and realm. Qian acknowledged that the texts of antiquity, which were the locus of this practical wisdom, had been mediated and required rigorous textual criticism; he had “historical awareness” of the “gap between the time of production [of the Classics, of tradition] and the time of ‘application.’”106 But this awareness did not lead Qian to skepticism about the very possibility of knowing what the ancient texts, and the sages who composed them, really meant or determining their overall original truthfulness. Neither did it lead to a rejection of the ancient texts as valid sources of knowledge in tutto. On the contrary, the philological methodology imbued Qian with confidence that he had the textual means that could lead to an understanding of antiquity—to a rediscovery, in a way, of antiquity. Qian’s reaction to Western learning was also on one hand part of his confidence that such rediscovery was possible in every field and on the other part of his very identity as a champion of ancient Chinese tradition. And as suggested by Qian’s engagement with Western learning (which unfolds in part III), he and his peers were preoccupied with many and diverse fields of knowledge. In part II, I will deal with questions related to Qian’s perception of historical research in general and the Yuan in particular and with his notions of antiquity and the ways to know it, along with those who led the Ru astray.

PART II

THE WAY OF ANTIQUIT Y Searching for the True Way in the Past

Mao Yuesheng’s 毛嶽生 (1791–1841) handwritten notes (in red ink) adding many of Qian Daxin’s corrections (here from the Shuowen, elsewhere from other sources; there are dozens of such notes) on Gu Yanwu’s Rizhilu 日知錄 (Record of knowledge gained day by day) 1695 printed edition. Ms #670147 (3215). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai.

CHAPTER 4

THE WAY OF ANCIENT LEARNING Philology, Antiquity, and Ru Identity

E

ditors of the Siku quanshu sorted scholars of their time—midQing—into various categories, two of the most important being “those who lectured” (講學者) and “those who read books” (讀書者). “Those who read books” were the champions of exact textual, evidence-based scholarship such as Qian Daxin; “those who lectured” were those who explicated idiosyncratic opinions without supporting them with textual facts (usually, these scholars remained unnamed).2 This chapter examines “those who read books” and begins with the study of auxiliary philological books, which became one of the most important genres from around 1770 onward. Studies of ancient dictionaries and philological aids, most prominently the Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 and Erya 爾雅 (and to a lesser extent Guangya 廣雅), proliferated in the late eighteenth century, developed through the community and communality of scholars. This communality provided the foundations for a scholarly quantum leap: a leap that transformed the way texts were read and reread and that changed the notion of what valid knowledge was and how it was to be sought. Although much of the philological effort was directed toward the Classics, it also concerned the dynastic Histories and aimed at constructing new (understood to be correct) historical narratives in various fields of knowledge and reconstructing the ancient texts as faithfully as possible to their original form. The dilemma of how to treat history and how to approach the classical tradition intensified toward the end of the eighteenth century, as scholars seemed to have more philological means at their disposal—such as the

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(researched and corrected) Shuowen and related texts—as well as more institutional venues and social networks where they could engage in and spread their practice, as discussed in previous chapters. Before we look into how “those who read books” dealt with the Classics and Histories in subsequent chapters, I consider here their understanding of what constituted a valid classical and historical argument, the philological methodology in general, and the underlying epistemological assumptions. As we have seen, the cultural and intellectual identity of these scholars, as it took shape in the second half of the eighteenth century, was (within Ru identity in general) linked to ancient learning. And as “ancient,” “antiquity,” and “the ancients” were all essential to the philologists’ concept of knowledge, I also problematize the notion of antiquity (gu 古) as a source, authority, and rhetorical device in Qian Daxin’s argumentation and thereby show his scholarly agenda, tightly linked to his sense of identity, as well as to his understanding of what valid knowledge means.

The Proliferation of Shuowen and Erya Studies A prominent scholar “who read books”—Wang Mingsheng—remarked that “the Shuowen is the paramount book under heaven; one who reads all the books under heaven, but does not read the Shuowen, it is as if he does not read [at all]. However, one who is capable of penetrating through the Shuowen, even if he does not read the rest of the books, cannot be regarded as not being a comprehensive Ru” (說文為天下第一種書,讀徧天下書,不讀說文,猶不讀也; 但能通說文,餘書皆未讀,不可謂非通儒也).3 Wang’s assertion, even if intentionally exaggerated, affirms and demonstrates the prominence of the Shuowen in the late eighteenth century. The Shuowen’s stature, however, was only newly acquired; it was not an established tradition. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873–1929), writing about intellectual trends of the Qing dynasty in 1923, observed: People before the Qing had hardly paid any attention to the Shuowen. Although [scholars] such as Xu Xuan [徐鉉 (916–991)], Xu Kai [徐鍇 (920–974)], Li Tao [李燾 (1115–1184), and] Wu Qiuyan [吾邱衍 (1272–1311)] of the Song and Yuan had written about it, their expositions, however, were extremely scarce or, even worse, made it [the Shuowen] chaotic. At the end of the Ming there was a group of scholars who liked using rare characters and held onto the book like a secret treasure, yet they [too] did not understand its value and use; during the MingQing transition, finally, Fang Yizhi [方以智 (1611–1671)] was the first advocate of the Shuowen, and in his Tongya [通雅] he frequently cited and explained [it]. Although during the Kangxi reign there were more and more classicists, yet there were no scholars who fully comprehended the Shuowen. In the middle

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of the Qianlong reign, Hui Dong composed the Du Shuowen ji [讀說文記] in 15 chapters, and that was the real beginning of the transmission of the Shuowen for Qing Confucians. Jiang Yong and Dai Zhen followed suit in discussing the six modes of character formation in great detail. Dai Zhen began diligently using this category of books when he was 16 or 17 years old even though he did not write anything [on this subject at that time], and he imparted this [learning] to his student Duan Yucai. From this, Shuowen studies rose like the wind and gushed like water, occupying the most important place in Qing Learning.4

Although the details and specificities of Liang’s narrative of the history of Shuowen studies could be debated, his general argument—namely, that until the mid-Qianlong reign there were few Shuowen studies but thereafter a tsunami of such studies began—is certainly correct. What, then, precipitated this tsunami, and how did it come about? The changing social setting provided the infrastructure and the means for the Shuowen to gain prominence quickly during the Qian-Jia era; it also enabled the acceptance of a shared intellectual discourse and atmosphere that prioritized philological inquiry. Thus scholars gradually changed their views about knowledge in general as well as their understanding of their role, their distinct scholarly place, and their identity within history. The famed scholar Wang Chang 王昶 (1725–1806), in the epitaph he wrote for Qian Daxin, described Hui Dong—whom Liang Qichao saw as the “father” of the Shuowen revitalization in the Qianlong period—as Qian Daxin’s teacher. Hui, wrote Wang, was keen on studying, apart from the Classics or in order to study the Classics, a host of Han through Tang philological aids—and particularly Xu Shen’s Shuowen jiezi.5 Similarly, Wang asserted, in a 1777 preface to Cheng Jisheng’s 程際盛 (jinshi of 1780) Shuowen yinjing kao 說文引經考 (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics), that Hui Dong was Cheng Jisheng’s model (even though Cheng was too young to have met Hui). As such, wrote Wang, Cheng was an outstanding scholar of philology (於小學尤精) who, like Hui Dong, also mastered a variety of Han to Tang philological aids, including the Yupian 玉篇 and the Guangya.6 When Wang Chang wrote the preface, Cheng’s work had not been published; a decade later it was still unpublished when Wang Mingsheng added his own preface to the work, affirming Cheng’s excellence and the vast importance of the Shuowen as “the true bridge of classical learning” (誠經學之津梁也).7 Whereas in the late 1780s many (even if Wang Mingsheng thought they were too few) already regarded the Shuowen as a fundamental work, the link to Hui Dong is not trivial. Significantly, in his biography Qian Daxin mentioned that he only “began reading the Shuowen” (始讀說文) in 1770.8 It is no simple matter, then, that Qian Daxin—a 1754 jinshi who held prestigious posts at the capital; worked on many philological, classical, and historical projects; and met

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regularly with the best scholars of the realm—had not begun to deal with the Shuowen until so late. In 1763 Qian had been asked by Qin Huitian to help in the Yinyun shuwei project, which was also philological in nature and dealt with issues for which the Shuowen seems (now) the natural reference book to use. Nevertheless, the Shuowen is absent from Qian’s writings prior to 1770, presumably because until the 1770s—that is, until the Shuowen increasingly became an object of research—it failed to arouse Qian’s curiosity.9 Thus interest in it seems to have stemmed less from Qian’s direct contact with Hui Dong than from his contacts with later scholars, made possible by the social interaction described in part I. Suddenly, around 1770, the Shuowen became central. Qian, as we saw in part I, was already interested in and working on philological issues—through his projects with Qin Huitian, for example. However, getting deeper into the philological echelons, as the Shuowen allowed, and questioning the philological aids in themselves began only later. In all likelihood the impetus for work on the Shuowen originated in 1770 when Qian was introduced to Duan Yucai’s Shijing yunpu, which focused on research on the Shuowen, by Shao Jinhan, their mutual friend. That Shao showed this text to Qian in 1770 means that it was still a handwritten manuscript; the book was published only a few years later and with Qian Daxin’s preface on the first edition. Duan himself became interested in philology and Shuowen studies about a decade earlier. In 1760, after obtaining the juren degree, Duan arrived in Beijing; read Gu Yanwu’s Yinxue wushu 音學五書 (Five books on phonology), printed in 1667; and became interested in phonology, especially in the Odes. Note again the significance of the examination system as well as of Beijing. There in 1763 Duan met Dai Zhen and became the latter’s disciple, thus furthering his phonological studies. Dai introduced Duan to Zhu Gui as well as to others among Qian Daxin’s networks, leading eventually to the direct contact between Duan and Qian along with the further growth in Shuowen studies.10 The late 1760s also witnessed a surge in interest in the Shuowen from Hangzhou bibliophiles. Wang Xian 汪憲 (1721–1771) and Zhu Wenzao 朱文藻 (1735–1806) in particular began publishing Shuowen-related materials, using a Song dynasty edition (presumably a handwritten manuscript) of the Shuowen xizhuan 說文繫傳 (Appended commentary to the Shuowen), a work about the Shuowen by Xu Jie 徐鍇 (920–974).11 The noted bibliophile Huang Peilie, who was also a friend of Qian’s, acquired a Song manuscript of this work as well, which Duan Yucai also consulted, thus integrating philological and bibliophilic interests into consistent research.12 As appendix B demonstrates, the 1770s mark a sea change in the history of Shuowen and Erya studies. For decades before 1770, very few studies were written and often remained unpublished; yet in the three decades after 1770, dozens of studies were written and many were published; in addition, undated texts exist that in all likelihood were composed at that time. This trend continued

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into the nineteenth century, lasting well beyond the Qian-Jia era, with many more studies and paratexts (hundreds of them) being published or remaining in handwritten form. The Shuowen yinjing kao, mentioned earlier, had three prefaces by prominent Qian-Jia scholars—Wang Mingsheng, Wang Chang, and Cheng Yaotian 程瑤田 (1725–1814)—and a self-preface, and it was certainly not unusual. By 1798, when Qian Daxin wrote the preface to Xie Qikun’s Xiaoxue kao, the status of the Shuowen as a vital and central means to penetrate antiquity (古) was widely accepted; in fewer than three decades Shuowen studies became rooted in the lifeblood of the scholarly milieu.13 That the social networks and infrastructure were the foundations for this quick dissemination is understandable, but why was the Shuowen (and related texts) so important to late eighteenth-century scholars? “Someone asked,” wrote Qian Daxin in an undated entry of his diary, “ ‘What is it that makes Ancient Learning difficult?’ [I] replied: ‘not to err.’ [He] further inquired, [so I] replied: ‘not to omit’  ” (或問古學以何為難?曰:”不誤”.又問, 曰:”不漏”.). Qian, however, was very much aware that this was easier said than done, writing “How easy it is to speak of ‘not to err’!” (然不誤亦談何容易!), and he continued to expose Yan Ruoqu’s 閻若璩 (1636–1704) errors in historical geography.14 Qian and his peers felt they had to get their research right, and the Shuowen was a key means of getting the Classics right, especially once the Shuowen’s own errors were discussed and corrected. Indeed, Qian did not hesitate to unravel the errors of both those he considered his more immediate predecessors in ancient learning (古學) and those he thought of as representing a different kind of learning, one that was problematic in his eyes because it did not adhere to the standards and the Way of antiquity. And errors were not easy to avoid. Cheng Yaotian, considering, not unlike Qian Daxin, the difficulties of the profession in 1780, wrote that “as for the difficulty in reading books, [this] difficulty rests in comprehending the characters, if one does not know the characters one cannot penetrate their meaning (夫讀書之難，難在識字，弗知其字，弗通其義也).15 By “comprehending the characters” Cheng exposed a greater concern of his time: a clear notion of the difference, the divide, the gap, between antiquity and their present day that was manifested in linguistic differences of form, sound, and meaning between antiquity (in the case of the Classics, the time of their original composition) and the eighteenth century (along the transmission trajectories spanning all the periods in between). Duan Yucai, in his 1791 preface to Wang Niansun’s Guangya shuzheng 廣雅疏證 (Exegetical evidence on the Guangya),16 articulated the ancient/modern divide simply and clearly: Philology has form, has sound, and has meaning [as its focus]. These three are to be sought in mutual relations; when you get hold of one [of the three] you can obtain the other two. There are ancient forms and modern forms, ancient

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sounds and modern sounds, ancient meanings and modern meanings. These six are to be sought in mutual relations, when you get hold of one [of the six] you can obtain the other five.17

The Shuowen thus served as a basis for narrowing the gap, for “knowing characters” and “their meaning,” as Cheng Yaotian argued: Although the Shuowen cannot completely avoid errors about the ancient meaning of characters, still, its learning has a [reliable] lineage of teachers. Although Mister Xu [Shen] and Mister Zheng [Xuan] were of the same period, they could not help having their differences as well, yet all of them were not of the type of later people who made the chatter of chiseling through air and of “shadows and echoes” [鑿空影響之談; i.e., not direct knowledge]. Therefore, those who explain the Classics, if they discard Zheng Xuan and Xu Shen, the two masters, yet desire to behold the fellowship of the ancients, that, too, is difficult indeed.18

The “desire to behold the fellowship of the ancients” and the “love of antiquity” (好古), which late eighteenth-century authors of Shuowen research books and their intended audience shared, motivated the interest in Shuowen studies. The will to face antiquity in person, as it were, rather than its mere “shadows and echoes,” as Cheng put it, motivated the scholars in their further research of the text. Nonetheless, just thinking of the Shuowen as a cure for a classical illness leaves this analysis symptomatic and fails to get to the bottom of the philological turn, for the Shuowen was a part of a larger shift in the intellectual history of the Qing. Wang Mingsheng, in his preface to Sun Xingyan’s Wenzi tang ji 問字堂集 (The collected writings of the Hall of Questioning Characters), wrote that for “those who love antiquity like Sun [Xingyan], their learning comes close to antiquity, and can also connect it with the present” (好古如孫君，其學進乎古，而又能通于今).19 The motivation for narrowing the gap between past and present, along with the chosen methodology and texts, requires more explanation. Why was it so important for Qian Daxin and many of his fellow scholars “not to err” and “not to omit” in their quest for ancient learning? In what follows I examine Qian Daxin’s and his peers’ notion of knowledge and its nexus with antiquity and with his sense of Ru identity. While doing so, I problematize the term “antiquity” (古, as well as “former,” 先) and its significant other, “current” or “modern” (今, or “later,” 後) and illustrate their various meanings and designations along with their implications for the pursuit of knowledge and the sense of identity for scholars in the eighteenth century. Using Qian Daxin’s writings, I therefore discuss the philological zeitgeist of the mid-Qing and explicate the epistemological debate of the eighteenth century through the prism of the nature of knowledge and how valid knowledge was to be attained.

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Antiquity’s Epistemological Authority The predominance of antiquity in the Chinese discourse was not Qian Daxin’s or his peers’ invention; the predilection for antiquity had begun already—in antiquity. But which antiquity? Who were those deemed the authoritative and representative figures of antiquity, the “ancients”? The texts of antiquity and the means to penetrate them have been in continuous transformation, contention, and, at times, accumulation.20 When Confucius remarked (whether rhetorically or not is a different matter) that he “trusted and loved antiquity” (信而好古),21 he certainly did not refer to his own time. During the Han dynasty the term “ancient” (古) was used and evoked to indicate, quite unsystematically, pre-Qin personalities (Confucius already being a central “ancient”), texts, scripts, and meanings while also occasionally using the term “ancient learning.” The usage of “ancient” in Han times referred to different periods prior to the Han, of course.22 In the Wenxuan 文選 (Selections of refined literature), a major collection of works composed up to the sixth century with important commentaries dating to the Tang dynasty, the Han could be regarded as ancient.23 And Zhu Xi in the Song dynasty lamented in his commentary to Confucius that by his own time there were only a few who “both trusted antiquity and loved antiquity” (信古又好古),24 with an even more amorphous demarcation of when that antiquity had been. In the thirteenth century Wang Yinglin, with acute historical awareness (and philological methodology), recognized the diverse uses of the terms “ancient learning” (古學) and “current [or modern] learning” (今學) already during the Han (in respect to the Gongyang 公羊 and Zuozhuan 左傳 traditions of Chunqiu exegesis) and explained that such designations could change when the chronological perspective changes.25 Thus the time frame indicated by the term “ancient” was in constant flux, designating different periods at different times or for different people; various periods, even centuries or millennia apart, were sometimes regarded by similar authors as part of antiquity. “Antiquity” was a very vague yet loaded term. And eighteenth-century philologists not only were acutely conscious of this but also found it important to remind their readers of this constantly. For example, Duan Yucai stated in his clear and unambiguous style: “Ancient and modern are not fixed terms. The Three Dynasties were taken as ancient when the Han was taken as modern; the Han, Wei, and Jin were taken as ancient when Tang, Song, and later periods were taken as modern” (古今者,不定之名也. 三代為古,則漢為今,漢魏晉為古,則唐宋以下為今).26 Qian Daxin, too, was well aware of the fluidity or multiplicity of antiquities. He acknowledged the process of producing antiquity, as it were, saying that “looking backward from modern times at the beginning of the Tang, [some] also call them [i.e., those of the early Tang] ‘ancients,’ [even though] essentially

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they were far removed from the Qin and Han [times]!” (自今日而溯唐初, 亦謂之古人,要其去秦,漢遠矣).27 If one might think that in saying this Qian in essence declared that ancients belonged to no later periods than the Qin and Han, that was not the case. Indeed, Qian also participated in this process of antiquity production and accepted the multiple layers of antiquity, at least in practice.28 Thus, when Qian explained why the notion of “the forty prefectures of the Qin” (秦四十郡) was false, he remarked: “That the saying [about the Qin] emerged from the ancients but still cannot be trusted, is not because the ancients are not trustworthy. Before the ancients there still were ancients, and these more-ancient ancients did not have this saying [about the Qin] while the later ancients spoke of it; I follow their predecessors [i.e., the “more-ancient ancients”] and that is it” (言出于古人而未可信者,非古人之不足信也. 古人 之前尚有古人,前之古人無此言,而後之古人言之；我從其前者而已矣).29 Qian, nonetheless, qualified the seeming axiom of “what is more ancient is more reliable” and further explained: Someone asked: “You said that there is a difference between earlier and later ancients [古人有前後之殊], and that is acceptable. [But in the case of the  number of Qin prefectures] you accept the Hanshu [漢書, History of the [former] Han] and do not accept the [earlier] Shiji [史記, Records of the historian]—I do not see how this accords with trusting antiquity [信古].” I replied and said: “When you read the books of the ancients you must look for order and consistency; you cannot take a single word and make it into an accepted fact.”30

Qian Daxin regarded the author of the Hanshu—Ban Gu 班固 (32–92)—as an ancient authority: “In geographical records there is no one who is more ancient than Mengjian [Ban Gu], nor is there anyone who is more precise than Mengjian. I do not perceive the possibility of not accepting Mengjian while accepting Fang Qiao [Xuanling], Jing Bo31 and all of these people” (地理之志, 莫古于孟堅亦莫精于孟堅;不信孟堅而信房喬,敬播諸人,吾未見其可也).32 If Ban Gu’s authority as an “ancient” could be contested—even if not by Qian himself—others’ authority was not so prone to debate: these were the ancient sages and worthies whose authoritative status had been well established. The question was, rather, how to know what these sages and worthies actually preached, how to access their (perhaps perfect) knowledge. For Qian Daxin these ancients represented another type of antiquity, one that did more than supply evidence for events and locales or even furnish prototypical historical events and modes of behavior and “big ideas”; this type of antiquity provided the fundamental knowledge, identity, and ideals—in sum, the Way—that Qian (and others in various historical periods) sought to recover. These sages

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and worthies (聖賢) were the ones who put the rites in order while following human emotions, and with these rites they were able to “cultivate themselves, put their families in order, and rule the country” (修身齊家治國).33 And the method to gain access to the Way of these sages was bound to the Classics, for “that which is called the ‘Six Classics’ are the words of the sages” (謂六經者聖 人之言).34 But these “words of the sages” were not so easy to grasp.

The Rupture Between Antiquity and the Present This view of the Classics as repositories of the wisdom and Way of the ancient sages, of course, was by no means a monopoly of Qing scholars. However, because the Classics were transmitted as written texts, they were prone to be corrupted in the process of transmission—and much more so, according to the traditional views, after and because of the Qin burning of the books. Thus, as the mediators of antiquity—the Classics—were under suspicion, a fundamental problem arose, which was especially pronounced from the Song onward: there was a perceivable gap, a rupture, between antiquity and the present, between the sages and worthies—the ancients—and their words—the Classics—and the scholars of the present—the moderns. Qian Daxin articulated this rupture clearly and wrote that “from the time of ancestor Ying, the Qin had destroyed and discarded the ancient Rites, and many of the scholars from the Wei and Jin onward resorted to ‘idle chatter,’35 [so that] the teaching of the Rites consequently was abandoned” (自嬴秦滅棄 古禮，魏晉以降士大夫多尚清談，禮教遂廢).36 Qian thought of the rupture in historical terms of discontinuity and relative distance from the past. And with the “later Ru being far apart from antiquity” (後儒去古益遠),37 a theme that Qian emphasized repeatedly,38 the question of how to mend this rupture or how to bridge the gap between antiquity and the (ever-changing) present became more and more problematic. In this respect the points of departure for Song Daoxue (道學) scholars, Ming Xinxue (心學) scholars, and Qing Guxue (古學) scholars were not too far apart: all of them sensed a detachment from the ancients, and all of them sought ways to reconcile past and present, even if their methods and presuppositions differed considerably. Daoxue and Xinxue thinkers concluded that they could bridge the gap by skipping previous scholarship, from the Tang and Han times in particular,39 and going directly back to antiquity and even further beyond antiquity—to the Way (Dao) itself. They aimed to establish a “direct line” between them and the Way by means of reason or introspection, achieved by the cognitive faculties of the mind (心, lit. heart). With a correct use of the mind the scholar could jump directly to the fountainhead of the Way and know or experience it firsthand. Thus they could discuss the “transmission of the Way” or “the method of the

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mind” (道統，心法) and later the “innate knowledge” (良知) that everyone possessed as road maps to the Way that allowed them to bypass even antiquity. As Bol put it with regard to both Daoxue and Xinxue thinkers: “If there were universal principles and if the mind could grasp them, then it was the mind rather than antiquity that needed attention.”40 Textual studies in this regard were either just stepping-stones, part of one’s training for ultimately using the mind (Daoxue), or completely problematic, posing obstacles to getting quickly and directly to the Way (Xinxue). Nevertheless, the relationship between knowledge and antiquity was more complex for Daoxue and Xinxue thinkers who saw themselves as an integral part of Ru tradition and upheld Ru identity based on ancient scriptures, models, and precepts. And the Way they were trying to access was articulated in terms fundamentally drawn from a Ru perception of antiquity mediated via textual transmission.41 For a claim to prioritize the mind over antiquity to be considered legitimate and well founded, then, these (especially Daoxue) thinkers had to fall back on antiquity, even if at times by mere rhetoric.42 In other words, paradoxically, the only way to bypass antiquity had to be through antiquity, through the textual mediators that treasured antiquity, as Zhu Xi’s student Cai Shen wrote: “The great ordering pattern and methods [of governing], which the two emperors [Yao and Shun] and the three kings [Yü, Wen, and Wu] used to order the world, are recorded in this book [the Documents]. . . . The world-ordering of the two emperors and three kings drew its roots from the Dao. The Dao of the two emperors and three kings drew its roots from the mind. If one gets their mind, the Dao and the world order can be gotten and articulated” (二帝三王 治天下之大經大法皆載此書 . . . 二帝三王之治本於道. 二帝三王道本於心. 得其心則道治固可得而言矣.).43 So Song and Ming scholars highly valued the philological and historical research of ancient texts and engaged in it, advocated studying the Classics, and accepted the Classics’ authority in general. But their “direct line” to the Way meant a superior authority, as this line did not suffer from the “reception interference”44 the classical texts had suffered. Nonetheless, they had to use the texts to legitimate their extratextual authority, which was often conveyed through creative textual exegesis to and on the classical texts. Zhu Xi’s remark on the need for the Classics and on its limits is a case in point: “Borrow the Classics in order to penetrate the principle therein. [Once] the principle is obtained do not seek in the Classics” (借經以通乎理耳. 理得，則無俟乎經).45 This was a dialectic process, in which established texts legitimized new ideas and new ideas gave way to the production of modified/rearranged/appended/ invented “ancient” texts, the Daxue 大學 (Great learning) perhaps being the foremost example, and to the emphasis on a specific textual corpus (the Four Books). The textual endeavor, however, was not without tension between the ideas sought for and the textual evidence available. A good example, which

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shows both the commitment to the texts and the readiness to prioritize the ideas over the questionable evidence, can be found in the way Zhu Xi justified his use of a Documents chapter, suspected of being a forgery, to legitimate his understanding of the relationship between renxin 人心 (the human mind) and daoxin (道心 (the mind of the Way). The “Da Yu mo” 大禹謨 (Counsels of Yu the Great) chapter of the Documents was one of the cornerstones of Zhu Xi’s textual evidence for a distinction between the human mind and the mind of the Way (often taken as “the moral mind”), a crucial aspect of Daoxue thought. Nonetheless, Zhu was well aware of the doubts—raised due to the differences between Old Text and New Text chapters of the Documents—about the authenticity of the “Da Yu mo” (an Old Text chapter) and hence doubts about his textual evidence. Zhu Xi had some ideas as to why there were differences between Old and New Text chapters, ideas that were supposed to reconcile the Old and New Text chapters as reliable authentic chapters of the Documents. Still, Zhu did not pretend to have a definite answer and remarked that with regard to some of the doubts about the “Da Yu mo” one “could not know clearly” (不可曉). These doubts, however, did not cause Zhu Xi to put the chapter aside; rather, he stated that “[one] can truly extract from it [the “Da Yu mo” chapter] fundamental meanings and principles” (其間大體義理固可推索).46 Thus, the “meanings and principles” that could be extracted from the chapter justified the use of the chapter as evidence for these same meanings and principles, on which Zhu Xi elaborated elsewhere, even though the linguistic issues were not ignored. As Elman put it, “Philological niceties took a backstage [sic] to the more important philosophic issues enunciated in the Documents.”47 Thus Song and Ming thinkers could see the classical tradition as subservient to their own claims, and if the texts under scrutiny supported their line of reasoning, even doubtful passages became legitimate. This also meant that new ideas—if said to have been reasoned from the Way—were legitimate, as antiquity and the present became one in the minds of Daoxue and Xinxue scholars. New knowledge said to be springing from the fountainhead of the Way through the scholar’s mind was therefore not new anymore and assumed the authority of the ancient Way.48 The notion of new knowledge was not alien to Qian Daxin, but the question was how to legitimize and validate new knowledge. In 1799 Qian wrote the preface to his Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of nourishing the new from the ten yokes study). He opened the preface by quoting Zhang Zai’s 張載 (1020–1077) “Yong bajiao” 詠芭蕉 (Poem in praise of the banana), in which Zhang compared the rise of new knowledge to the life cycle of the banana plant: “The heart of the banana plant keeps extending new stems, new rolls and a new heart secretly follow each other; I hope learning the new heart would nourish new virtues, and as new leaves steadily follow—new knowledge [will] arise.49

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The use of the banana metaphor is significant: its corm,50 or kernel, hidden from view, lingers on and keeps generating a new stem every year or so, whereas the visible stems die out. For Zhang Zai the emphasis was on the visible new elements as authentic representations of the hidden corm: they allowed him leeway to extend his own views and put predecessors—even Confucius—in a status similar to that of former stems that had already died out. Qian, who remembered reciting the poem as a child, used two elements from Zhang’s poem: the first was the idea of “nourishing the new” (yangxin 養新), and the second was the idea of “new knowledge” (xinzhi 新知). Qian then connected the two ideas to a quote from the Analects: “Keep the old warm [and thereby] know the new” (溫故知新).51 By bringing the “old” back into the picture, Qian turned Zhang Zai’s metaphor and notion of antiquity on their heads: no longer were the new stems the center, rather, it was the old corm; the new stems were thus subservient to the constant corm, to antiquity. Elsewhere Qian Daxin further discussed the Analects passage mentioned above and explained the relationship between its two parts (溫故 and 知新) while also connecting it to the notion of the “mind” or “heart” (心): Mengzi had said: “The way of learning is nothing else [but] seeking one’s neglected heart and that is all.” 52 “Seeking one’s neglected heart” means “to  maintain the heart.”53 The one who is able to maintain his heart is then capable of knowing the inborn nature and of making bright [his] moral virtue.54 The Rites say: “The gentleman venerates the virtuous inborn nature and follows the path of learning.” “The virtuous inborn nature” is what has been imparted to us by heaven. To know the need to venerate the virtuous inborn nature is the way to attain the achievements of the learning [of the ancients]. The learning of the ancients was in order to make bright the virtuous inborn nature. So it is like the great sage Kongzi’s saying “I am fond of antiquity, and diligently I seek it,” and also “a virtue that is not cultivated, teachings that are not conveyed, are what I am anxious about.”55 How is it possible for all-underheaven to abandon learning and part from the achievements of venerating the virtuous inborn nature? For to leave the virtuous inborn nature while treating it as learning is the same as what Chengzi had ridiculed as “playing with things but losing the mark,” and the previous Ru’s different purpose in this is twofold. What are they? Zengzi said: “The gentleman venerates what he hears, and then becomes wise; carries out what he knows, and then becomes vast. To become wise and vast does not lie in anything else, it lies in the appending of intentions and that is all.”56 Is it different from Zisi’s 子思 saying “extend the vastness, go to the utmost of wisdom”57 or not? “Keep the old warm [and thereby] know the new”58—this is Kongzi’s saying, and Zisi drew upon it. The former Ru took the past as what was heard of old; and the new as what they acquired

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in their present time. Keeping the past warm is what enables [us] to know the new. Yanzi’s [Yan Hui] [capability] “to know the whole from one part,” Zigong’s [capability] “to know [only] the second part from one part,”59 cannot they be called “to know the new”? Zixia said: “[He who] knows daily what he had missed, and every month does not forget what he is capable of, can be called a lover of learning.”60 To know what he missed is to know the new; not to forget what he is capable of is to keep the past warm. Both are the business of learning, one is in the category of maintaining the heart, the other in the category of extending knowledge.61

Thus, Qian thought, new valid knowledge had to be authorized or sanctioned by the past, by antiquity, with the mind playing one part in a learning effort, not dictating or overriding it. In his discussion of the Daxue Qian presented the notion of “roots and branches” (found, of course, in the Daxue) in a way that is illustrative of the previous assertions: “The efforts of the Great Learning begin with the ‘extension of knowledge and investigation of things,’ ‘things have roots and branches,’ [wherein] the investigation of things refers to the investigation of these things; and the extension of knowledge means the knowledge of the roots.”62 “Branches” were therefore legitimate as long as they extended clearly from the “roots”; new knowledge had to be anchored in antiquity, and, significantly, Qian asked: “How could the knowledge of the later Ru surpass Kongzi?!” (豈後儒之識能加孔子之上乎哉!?).63 The problem, however, was that not all scholars adhered to the “roots”—which I take here as antiquity— in the way Qian envisioned, so the problem of the transmission of antiquity began: “Later people seldom read the ancient books, and always ridiculed the Han Ru as preposterous; not knowing the purity and profundity of the ancients, [the later people] each venerated whatever they had heard, with unprecedented discussions that were [merely] ‘to chisel through air’” [鑿空之論].64 For Qian Daxin, following eminent scholars such as Gu Yanwu and Yan Ruoqu, this kind of discourse that neglects the actual texts or grants them secondary stature and belittles the authentic, textually based antiquity was unacceptable. Qian regarded it as “hollow” or “empty” (空, 虛, and 空虛之 論)65 and as “one person’s subjective [or selfish] opinion” (一人之私意).66 A  “subjective opinion” did not constitute valid knowledge and was considered “hollow” by Qian, as if it was floating in the modern air, not anchored to the ancient ground. Qian was thus concerned about those who took part in this “hollow” discourse and their identity as Ru, thereby also revealing the link between learning or knowledge and identity. Who were the “later people” (後人), “later Ru” (後儒), or “moderns” (今人) that “chisel through air”?

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The Discourse of Ancients Versus Moderns The various designations just mentioned for those who departed from the teachings of antiquity—whom I term “moderns”—abound in Qian Daxin’s writings. Usually, when they appear in the text, it is in juxtaposition to contrary designations, such as the “ancients” (古人) or the “former Ru” (先儒). However, all of these designations were seldom used by Qian to indicate a specific person or several distinct people. Rather, they served as generic designations of vague group identities. The following example adds two more such generic designations that Qian Daxin often used: Han Ru and Song Ru. The excerpt below deals with the question of when the “Preface to the Odes” (詩序) was composed and debates the correct answer. Qian argued that Song Ru (宋儒) were wrong in ascribing the preface to Wei Hong 衛宏 of the Eastern Han and thus questioning the ancient authority of the preface in prescribing the way to read the Odes. This is how Qian articulated the issue, after he quoted other scholars who showed that Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 (179–117 BCE) and Ban Gu had known the preface well before Wei Hong: The Song Ru considered the Preface to the Odes to be the creation of Wei Hong [衛宏], that is why Ye Shilin [Mengde 夢德 (1077–1148)] had this saying [about Wei Hong as the author]. However, Sima Xiangru [司馬相如] and Ban Gu [班固]—all of them preceded Hong [and knew the Preface], so the Preface did not come out of Hong, and there is no doubt about it. I also researched into Mengzi’s explanation of the ode “Northern Mountain [北山],”67 where he said: “[The ode is about someone] who served the king’s affairs and could not nourish his father and mother.” This is similar to the Lesser Preface. Only if the Lesser Preface existed prior to Mengzi could he have followed it. When Han Ru called Zixia [子夏] its creator it was hardly a false accusation. . . . The intentions of the poets are visible through the Preface,68 and Mengzi would not accept discarding the Preface in order to discuss the Odes. As later Ru moved far apart from antiquity, they desired to use one person’s subjective opinion in peeking at the ancients [欲以一人之私意窺測古人]. Their confusion is apparent.69

Time and again Qian Daxin denounced the amorphous group of the “later Ru,” usually without naming names. The later Ru “moved far apart from antiquity” and thereby fell short of it and failed to transmit it to later generations. Their knowledge was faulty, as it rested on subjective opinion rather than on ancient texts. Furthermore, the later Ru were not always associated with the Song dynasty Ru: sometimes they were those from the Han onward, sometimes those from the Tang or Song onward, and sometimes Ming and even Qing Ru, depending on the context. But the designation “later Ru” did

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not mean the entire Ru community from a specific date—Qian recognized many exceptions. The term often stood in opposition to the “former Ru” (先儒), indicating another amorphous group made up of those who represented the uncorrupted tradition or those who were doing their utmost to get to such a tradition. Ironically, in a section on one of Zhu Xi’s commentaries where Zhu Xi had used the term “former Ru,” Qian Daxin criticized Zhu for “not saying who the ‘former Ru’ were” (不云先儒何人). This did not stop Qian from using “later Ru” a few lines later in the same section as well as using “former Ru” abundantly in his own writings without naming names either.70 The term “later Ru” was thus used almost ahistorically as the antithetic counterpart of the “former Ru,” the ancients or antiquity in general. All terms were often used in Qian’s arguments as rhetorical devices to emphasize the validity of a point he was making—for example, by adding “the ancients had known it earlier” (古人早知之)71 or “the ancients had already realized it before” (古人已有先覺者).72 The Song Ru, the target for many of Qian’s philological arrows, were taken to comprise a complex group; some of them, like Sima Guang and Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072), were venerated by Qian, and others, such as the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi, were the subjects of both praise and blame. Antiquity, then, was not necessarily an objective time frame that pointed to one specific period in history for Qing scholars. Rather, it was a loaded term, both as a period and as an emotional and qualitative term, and it was a rhetorical device, often ahistorical, manipulated by its users throughout the ages, at times pointing to the antiquity of the sages and at other times pointing to authoritative figures in the less distant past. Nonetheless, recovering antiquity, in historical and classical terms, was still the main aim. The question, then, was how to recover it, and it was here, on the methodological battlefield, that the battle between the ancients and the moderns took place in the second half of the eighteenth century. Qian Daxin and many of his peers considered their cultural and intellectual identity as ancient learning. They saw themselves as championing the cause of the ancients and saw the moderns as those who did not accept the textually rooted antiquity and the methodology for unearthing it. Needless to say, those moderns did not necessarily think of themselves as “moderns” and often thought that they represented a more authentic antiquity. By the late eighteenth century, however, they also caved in to the triumphant philological methodology in their scholarly pursuits, even if they had different arguments to craft with that methodology. At stake in this battle was the very identity of “us Ru” (吾儒): whether they were, as Qian Daxin put it, “true Ru” (真儒)73 or “vulgar Ru” (俗儒) and “pretending Ru” (貌儒).74 The term “us Ru” was used by Qing scholars mostly when distinguishing between the Ru and the Buddhists or Daoists; in arguments within the Ru community “true Ru,” “vulgar Ru,” and “pretending Ru” were used.75 Ru identity was dependent on the type

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of learning pursued and on the knowledge attainable, the way it was put to use, and the context within which it was threatened, debated, or manipulated. The following passage, from Wang Mingsheng’s preface to Yu Xiaoke’s 余蕭客 (1732–1778) Gujing jie kouchen 古經解鉤沉 (Presentation of lost ancient Classics commentaries), demonstrates in a nutshell the close connection between the search for truth and antiquity. In it Wang recalled a conversation in which he asked Dai Zhen to compare Dai’s own studies with those of Hui Dong: Dongyuan [Dai Zhen] said: “They are not the same. Dingyu [Hui Dong] searches for antiquity [求古], I search for the truth [吾求是].” Hah! Although Dongyuan designated his own [studies] as not the same [as Hui’s], in effect, the search for antiquity is the means by which one searches for the truth, and without antiquity there is no truth [求古即所以求是,舍古 無是者也]. . . . This is how antiquity can be esteemed. Now, as we return to master Yu, if it was not ancient he did not follow [or did not consider it as the Way (非古不道)], and what he sought after was also all real antiquity [皆真古], not fake antiquity [非贗古].76

Thus, although Dai Zhen may have held a different view of antiquity (and was mildly criticized for it in the passage above, but perhaps much more so in other circumstances), Wang Mingsheng, Qian Daxin, and many of their peers understood real antiquity to be equated with truth. To know the truth meant to know antiquity. And to know both, philology was the key. Wang therefore concluded that “from this [Yu’s book and other scholars’ similar philological works] ancient learning flourishes” (古學自此昌) and could bring a cure to “prevalent and vulgar, rootless, learning” (流俗無本之學). In the next chapter I consider how philology functioned and what it encompassed.

CHAPTER 5

PHILOLOGY AND THE MESSAGE OF THE SAGES The Classics and the Four Books

A

fter taking even a brief look at Zhu Xi’s Mengzi zhangju jizhu 孟子章句集注 (Collected commentaries by chapter and verse on the Mencius) and then at Jiao Xun’s 焦循 (1763–1820) Mengzi zhengyi 孟子正義 (The correct meanings of the Mencius), one is immediately struck by the very different reading experiences and styles of the two works.1 The first pages of the two texts demonstrate the difference well. Zhu Xi’s twelfthcentury work, which became the authoritative text in the examination system for most of late imperial China, passes through the title of the first chapter, then moves on to the core text, and finishes by elucidating several of Mengzi’s sentences, well into the part where he criticizes King Hui of Liang. All of this appears on a single page. Moving to Jiao Xun’s work, prepared in the early nineteenth century, the first page of his commentary on the Mengzi does not even get to the core text: it deals only with the chapter’s title; in fact, it mostly discusses the way it is numbered, and toward the end of the first page we get to the chapter title, “Liang Hui Wang,” to which (i.e., to the title alone) Jiao dedicated about four pages of commentary. Only in the middle of the fifth page does he arrive at the opening sentence of the core text.2 Furthermore, although Zhu Xi’s commentary presents very brief philological notes (mostly concise character glosses), its major aim is to clarify doctrinal notions and ideas. For Jiao Xun, however, philology takes the leading role. Indeed, whereas Zhu Xi mentions the Shuowen jiezi very seldom—only three times in the entire Mengzi zhangju jizhu—Jiao Xun mentions the Shuowen three

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times before even finishing the first Mengzi passage and almost a thousand times in the entire work. Clearly, this is not just a slight difference in emphasis; it is a potential disparity in ideas and their understandings, with the two works providing completely different reading experiences and distinct notions of what is valuable about knowledge and how knowledge should be arranged and transmitted. This brief comparison demonstrates the changing agenda of the philological turn in a nutshell.

From Daxue to Xiaoxue: Philology as the Harbinger of Meanings and Principles In 1793 Qian wrote a preface to Zang Lin’s Jingyi zaji, considered in chapter 3.3 In it he discussed attempts to restore the ways of the “true Ru,” providing an account of Ru history through the transition from the problematic (in his view) mode of scholarship of the Song and Yuan (elsewhere the Ming was taking most of the blame) to the correct methodology of the early Qing. The  early Qing transition toward ancient learning was certainly acknowledged but was still in its early stages, however, and Qian Daxin also thought Gu Yanwu’s and Yan Ruoqu’s writings were at times erroneous.4 Qian then stressed the role of the philological methodology employed by Qing scholars, who had “sincere intentions about ancient learning” (篤志古學), as the method for getting to the “true meanings and principles” (義理之真) of the Classics. At the same time Qian deplored other ways of arriving at meanings and principles, especially those grounded in the personal views of individual scholars (一先生之說). In antiquity, Qian asserted, there was continuity of knowledge transmission, of the teachings of Confucius between his disciples and the Ru of the Han period, despite the significant rupture of the Qin burning of the books.5 Such transmission was opposed to the series of jumps from one sage’s mind to the other, accompanied with breaks in the transmission of the Way, as Song Ru had suggested. The interest in Han Ru was therefore an attempt to arrive at the furthest limits of reliable textual transmission, and the philological means to arrive at “true meanings and principles” was composed of three aspects: paleography, phonology, and textual glosses (文字,聲音,訓詁), with the Shuowen and the Erya being the central tools for such a methodology. Qian presented Zang Lin’s notion—with which he sympathized—that a scholar cannot “read books without mastering the characters” (不識字何以讀書) or “clarify the Classics without being comprehensive [about] textual glosses” (不通詁訓何以明經). The main reason was that the “Classics were the words of the sages[;] if one followed their words in order to search for meaning, then one must begin with textual glosses; outside of textual glosses there are

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no meanings and principles” (經者,聖人之言,因其言以求其義,則必詁訓始; 謂詁訓之外別有義理).6 Wang Mingsheng’s remark on the significance of the Shuowen quoted in chapter 4 (“The Shuowen is the paramount book under heaven”) was intended to showcase the significance of the “treasure books” (寶書), as Dai Zhen referred to the Shuowen and the Erya.7 The problem was, as Wang Mingsheng pointed out, that “the transmission of philology has long been lost” (小學之失其傳 也久也)—and in particular the transmission of the Shuowen and the Erya.8 So the first effort of the scholars was to try to recover the original Shuowen and Erya as best they could in order to be able to recover the Classics, to rebuild the basic tools required for reconstructing and then understanding the Classics. An explosion of such studies began during the Qianlong reign, especially from the 1770s onward, as discussed in the previous chapter.9 In a related move, the status of the category of knowledge we broadly call philology was elevated from marginal to central. The category that incorporated various dictionaries and philological aids, as seen in Wang’s quotation above, was called xiaoxue 小學 (lit. “minute learning”), as opposed to daxue 大學 (“great learning”), which dealt with the big ideas. Up to the second half of the eighteenth century xiaoxue was of lesser importance than daxue. Furthermore, until that time xiaoxue was not exclusively a category for philology and was more eclectic. However, in the eighteenth century—as we can see, for example, in the SKQS—the category changed dramatically, both in status and in contents:10 In antiquity the teachings of xiaoxue did not go beyond the type of texts related to the six ways of written character formation [六書]. That is why the [History of the Former] Han catalog considered the [Guanzi chapter] “The Duties of the Student” [弟子職]11 as part of the Classic of Filial Piety section, while the Grand Scribe Zhou12 [史籀] and the other nine scholars [who contributed to works in this section totaling] 45 chapters were lined up under the rubric of xiaoxue. The catalog of the Sui [History] appended [to the xiaoxue category] inscriptions of bronze and stone, the Tang [History] catalog appended [to the xiaoxue category] calligraphy and calligraphic classifications, both not part of the original intention [of the xiaoxue category]. Since the time that Zhu Xi made xiaoxue auxiliary to the daxue, and Zhao Xibian’s [趙希弁 (fl. thirteenth c. CE)] “Appendix to the Record of Books Read [at the Prefectural Study]” [讀書附志,]13 complied by bringing “The Duties of the Student” section into the xiaoxue category as well as by joining the “Youth Inquiries” [蒙求] section to it, xiaoxue has become even more diversified. When [we] examine and consider the source and subsequent use [of xiaoxue], only the [History of the Former] Han catalog had thoroughly grasped the meaning of the Classics, as it was still close to antiquity. Now, texts that discuss youth ceremonies we differentiate

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and put under the “Ru Lineage” [儒家] heading; texts that discuss methods of calligraphy we differentiate and put under the “Various Arts” [雜藝] heading; texts of the “Youth Inquiries” kind that record stories and those [texts] for easy memorization and recitation we differentiate and put under the “Classified Books” [類書] heading. Only texts that are derivatives of the Erya we consider as “Etymology” [訓詁]; only texts that are derivatives of the Shuowen we consider as “Paleography” [字書]; only texts that are derivatives of the Guangyun [廣韻] we consider as “Phonology” [韻書]. The many forms we regulated carefully and precisely, without losing the ancient meanings [不失古義].14

As we can see, the xiaoxue category of the late eighteenth century presumed to evoke the ancient Han dynasty category of that name, but in fact the two were somewhat different, with professionalization in philology being the major theme of later times. Indeed, the SKQS itself demonstrates the acute philological state of mind and anxiety about “losing the ancient meanings” and reviving a presumed ancient category of knowledge. Crossley argued that “for the Chinese, no project of this kind [SKQS] was necessary. The ancient classics contained all that was supposed to be knowable about Chinese origins, and the best the court could do—and what it certainly did—was to encourage the scholars using ‘evidential’ methods to review these texts to see what new things could be discovered between the lines, as it were.”15 She further suggested that the SKQS project should be understood as part of the Qianlong emperor’s attempt to stabilize, define, and fix Manchu identity, and that the SKQS in fact gave “an aura of authoritativeness” or “a classical pedigree” to other Manchu-identity-related projects going on at the Qianlong court for decades before the SKQS was initiated.16 The SKQS probably did serve such Manchu-identity interests of the Qianlong emperor, and it also, as Finnane noted, had implications “for issues of Manchu identity and the boundary between Manchu and Han,” especially as the project began shortly after the Chinese were expunged from the banner system and some of them were also employed in the project.17 However, I do not concur with Crossley’s remark that the project meant little to the “Chinese.” The Classics may well have contained most of all possible knowledge (the Histories, e.g., were perhaps no less important), but the simultaneous flourishing of philological studies that began shortly before the SKQS demonstrates that the Ru, whose identity was based on the Classics in many ways, were very insecure about the contents thereof. They were not trying to find a few novelties “between the lines”; they targeted each and every line and character for philological scrutiny to remake or revive the Classics, as it were. And along with the remaking came the rethinking of categories of knowledge. Thus in the late eighteenth century, under the rubric of xiaoxue, the three main fields of research were xungu 訓詁 (etymology or textual glosses), shengyin 聲音 (phonology), and wenzi 文字 (paleography).

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Taken together, those pursuing xiaoxue were aiming to bring back the lost or damaged integrity of the ancient texts, the “ancient meanings” (古義). Wang Mingsheng further argued that “xiaoxue has two beginnings, and paleography follows phonology” (小學有二首，文字次聲音) in the sense that first there were the sounds of the language and then these were manifested in written characters. “So,” continued Wang, “both of them [sounds and written forms of language] have transformed into chaos [over history]” (蓋二者皆易 變亂), and because the written evidence is “concrete” (實), in order to penetrate the sounds one has no alternative but to examine the written records.18 Duan Yucai explained the two interconnected processes of textual formation and philological inquiry in a bit more detail, presenting the philologist’s craft as a procedure of reverse engineering: “When the sages worked out the characters, they [first] had meanings and then had sounds [to pronounce those meanings], [as they] had sounds only then they had forms [of characters]. When scholars research characters, they follow the form in order to get the sounds, and [then] follow the sounds in order to get the meaning” (聖人之制字,有義而後有音, 有音而後有形. 學者之考字,因形以得其音,因音以得其義).19 It was therefore understandable why Wang Mingsheng thought it was “the great fortune of this culture that the Shuowen survived. To be able to comprehend the Shuowen, to grasp its gate and enter, is what can be called [true] learning” (說文之存 尤為斯文之幸. 能通說文得其門而入，可舆言學矣).20 “If one cannot penetrate xiaoxue one cannot explain the Classics” (未通小學，不可說五經),21 or, simply put, “without xiaoxue naturally there is no learning of the Classics” (無小學自然無經學).22 Mid-Qing scholars such as Wang Mingsheng and Qian Daxin, along with the SKQS editors who were part of their social and intellectual networks, thus not only juxtaposed Zhu Xi’s understanding of what xiaoxue meant with their own understanding but also rearranged the hierarchical relationship between daxue and xiaoxue. It was an attempt, perhaps, to free xiaoxue from Zhu Xi’s chains: xiaoxue gained independence and practically overshadowed the daxue. For these scholars, as can be seen from the above quotations, the philological integrity of a text was a prerequisite for discussing yili 義理 (the “meanings and principles” or the big ideas). Furthermore, it was not simply a prerequisite— it was also a powerful weapon in the arsenal of the scholars who debated both the textual details and the big ideas, often (but not always) with Song scholars being the main target of criticism. As antiquity was understood to be the supreme authority for big ideas, the philologist gained the textual means to prove or refute so-called philosophical claims by Song, Ming or other scholars, as I demonstrate below. Contrary to the prevalent view of Qing philologists as doing “evidential research for the sake of evidential research” (只是為考 證而考證),23 as too completely absorbed in their minute studies to make any substantial claims (apart from a few exceptions, of course, who were readily

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ignored or belittled in their own time), the philologists were in fact making many such big claims. The claims, however, were cloaked in philological terminology, methodology, and textual context and were often hidden within a large textual corpus, as the understanding of how knowledge should be presented also changed in the mid-Qing. Thus the two paths—that of xiaoxue and that of daxue or yili—converged, and different layers of antiquity began to be revealed. Nonetheless, the great scholars of the eighteenth century placed greater emphasis on xiaoxue. Their understanding was that such emphasis was necessary because the philological quest had only recently been put into motion; philological knowledge, the basis for the understanding of the Classics, was still far from complete; and hence making grand claims would be inappropriate and unsubstantiated if not anchored in philological grounds. Furthermore, when they did make larger claims, these were anchored to highly specific terms or ideas rather than dictating a full-blown systematic doctrine. The system was de facto philology itself; the methodology was the system that held the different specific arguments together. The style of their argumentation was often that of notes, sometimes in what may seem like a random order (sometimes the order was indeed random, perhaps according to the sequence in which the notes came to their attention, but sometimes it was thematic, topical, or historically chronological), or detailed commentaries; rarely did it take the form of direct, full-fledged, standalone treatises that expressed a unified doctrine.24 Many of their works took the shape of polished notation books, but, I argue, one should perhaps take the perspective of “thinking with cases” when examining such works (Qian Daxin’s SJZYXL, Wang Mingsheng’s Yishu bian 蛾術編 [The ant-like method compilation], and Wang Zhong’s Jingyi zhixin ji 知新記 [Record of knowing the new] serve as prominent examples) and regard them— even as a heuristic exercise—as collections of philological “cases” (案). Such an exercise yields interesting conclusions. Like the medical (yi’an 医案) or judicial (e.g., xing’an 刑案) case collections—by the Qing a well-known genre—the philological cases presented a suspected “illness,” “crime,” or puzzle: a problematic character, forged edition, or questionable sound scheme that required the judgment of an expert, based on evidence. And as with cases in medicine or law, the expert’s opinion could establish an authoritative precedent for others engaged in dealing with similar illnesses, crimes, or problems. In addition, the case genre may demonstrate the specialization and professionalization of the philologists as it does that of medical or legal personnel. In all these cases “specialist knowledge” was required to make a judgment. Furth argued that “as each of these different specialist domains fostered its own forms of case production, the case becomes a sign of the historical sociology of emerging professional spheres in China: those of the healer, the judge, the official, the priest.”25

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Indeed, the specialist philologists emerging in the second half of the eighteenth century can certainly be compared to other professionals of the time or earlier. Furth, in describing the characteristics that distinguish a “case,” stressed the significance of the narrative organization of cases. Although the cases in the philological works discussed here did not share the narrative literary style of the case genre known from medicine or law, their paratexts often did. In fact, one could regard the paratexts (the preface and postface, in particular) as presenting the entire work in narrative form as a meta-case of philological inquiry, wherein the author of the work was the main protagonist of the case story (a short biographical sketch or individual anecdotes about the author were often part of such paratexts), whether he wrote his own story or others told it for him. Moreover, if the significance of the narrative style rests in the possibility it will attract an audience or establish authority (for the author and/ or for the narrative itself by the author), then the paratexts certainly did that, too. The philological cases themselves, beyond the paratexts, were highly specialized texts aimed at a highly specialized audience (and the social networks of these specialists could guarantee such an audience), and using the literary narrative style for each case would have made it more tiresome than useful. There was no need to attract the reader to each and every case; the paratext narratives could establish the authority of the author for the work as a whole. Reading the philological works as sets or systems of “philological cases” may also strengthen the contention that many of these scholars, and certainly Qian Daxin, thought of their knowledge production as useful and practical. The case, wrote Furth, “brackets particulars as facts[;] the forms of reasoning called for lead to claims to empirical knowledge and point to problem-solving interventions in the world” and also “transform[] facts into evidence.”26 That was how Qian Daxin thought about his studies; it was part of his notion of shixue (實學) and, of course, of the evidence-based learning (考證學) that he preached. And, yet again, the notion that cases had to have an author who had, or was presumed to have, expert authority and was responsible for the evidence being valid and reliable fits in well with the philological cases at hand—and even more so if we accept the notion that cases are supposed to be arranged “in groups or sets” that form “an archive.” As such, cases present accumulated knowledge and knowledge relationships rather than universal truths and are “designed to cope with certain perennial tensions between canon, norm, or code on the one hand and contingency and particularity on the other.”27 The case (an 案) genre in medicine and law derived gradually from the commentarial tradition, which used an as a keyword for the voice of a commentator but transformed its meaning into one that emphasized the case in hand. The philologists used the term an extensively, again more in keeping with its commentarial tradition but at the same time with the extended meaning of

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a case: each philological case demanded a commentator, a philologist, to analyze it, to make a judgment. The above discussion is not meant to convince the reader that philological writings in the Qing were cases as defined or discussed in recent scholarship about China or other places; rather, it aims to use the “cases” perspective to highlight characteristics shared by the “notation book” style, a specific genre of philological writing that flourished in the second half of the eighteenth century, and through it to emphasize the specific conclusions mentioned above. One of the main precedents for the style used in the philological presentation of knowledge can be traced at least to the Song dynasty, with Wang Yinglin’s Kunxue jiwen, which Qing scholars, including Qian Daxin, greatly admired. A few isolated examples of other such works joined Wang Yinglin during the Ming and early Qing, but the flood of the second half of the eighteenth century was unparalleled.28 The philologists of that time saw their writings as a work in progress, not as a final step. Wang Mingsheng’s decadeslong work on his notation book was described by the analogy of an ant-like method, moving slowly and gradually up the scholarly hill.29 Similarly, Dai Zhen described a long, gradual way that has to be walked in order to try to comprehend the Classics, which continue to challenge the scholar.30 Indeed, in one of the few instances in which such a scholar—in this case, Dai Zhen— decided to write a (relatively short) systematic treatise of his own on his larger ideas about Ru learning and to refute Daoxue at the same time, he was denounced for this by his peers.31

The Ant-Like Method of the Philologists What did the philological cases look like? What was their structure and function? In what follows I first give examples of strict philological cases related to the Classics and then consider cases that had direct bearing on the “big ideas” in Qian Daxin’s large textual corpus. Qian indefatigably examined hundreds of characters to establish their correct pronunciation or form, citing a huge variety of sources as evidence and trying to pass his own judgment, as the case required. Entries were sometimes arranged by radicals (as in his Jingdian wenzi kaoyi 經典文字考異 [Examination of variants in the written characters of the Classics], focusing more on the form of the written characters), 32 or by the text dealt with (as in his Tang shijing kaoyi 唐石經考異 [Examination of variants in the Tang stone Classics], examining each classic as it appeared in the Tang dynasty stone-inscribed Classics),33 or in what may seem to be random order (as in his SJZYXL, although some of the chapters there are thematic and deal with a specific subject across various texts or a specific text across subjects).

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Philological entries could be as simple as the following, in which I try to convey the original style of writing, and are very short (certainly not representing the majority of the entries in Qian’s writings):
t
Lei 雷: is a simplification of feng 靁 [thunder] (雷：即靁之省).34
t
Lang 朗: Odes: “High and brilliant, leading to a good end.”35 Shuowen writes: “lang 朖.” Yupian:36 “lang 朗 is also written lang 朖” (朗:詩:高朗令終. 說文 作:朖. 玉篇:朗亦作朖.).37
t
Ji [to pass] as zhi [to stop]. Zhuangzi: “when the gale has passed, all the hollows empty.”38 Guo Xiang’s39 explanation. (濟,止也. 莊子:厲風濟則眾竅 為虛. 郭象說.)40
t
Analects, 1. “To Learn”: “Poor yet happy.” Below “happy” add the character “Way.” Mister Huang’s edition41 also has the character “Way.” (論語一，學而： 貧而樂. 樂下旁添道字. 皇氏本亦有道字).42
t
Odes, “Sangrou”:43 “friends are insincere,” “Zhanyang”:44 “Their slanders in the beginning may be falsified in the end,” the two “zen” 譖 characters are both glossed by Zheng [Xuan] as “do not trust,” therefore the character must have followed jian 僭 [overstepping authority], which is different from the characters chan 讒 [slander] and zen” (詩桑柔:朋友已譖,瞻卬:譖始竟背,兩 譖字鄭皆訓為”不信”,則字當從僭,與讒譖字異).45

These very brief and coded messages seem to emulate the Shuowen’s style of short definition-like entries. The sense of a coded message rather than a fluent narrative is evident: In the first example Qian simply dictated a similarity. In the second example he did not even feel he needed to explain that his opinion was that the two characters lang are interchangeable—it was evident from the short and concise phrase that includes all the required evidence, evidence that in this case could speak for itself. In the third example it was clear to the reader from the context—a book about initial sounds of characters—that Qian meant that the initial sound of the two characters was similar. In the last two examples a bit more textual evidence was presented, although keeping the succinct form. Qian also had no reservations about using unorthodox texts, such as the Zhuangzi in the third example, to prove philological claims. Let us proceed then to somewhat more elaborate examples: “yu” 于 and “yu” 於—two characters with the same meaning and a slight difference in sound. The Documents and the Mao Odes as a rule use the character “yu” 于. Only the [following use “yu” 於]: The “Metal-Bound Coffer” [chapter of the Documents]: “having made another altar on [於] the south, and facing north,” “spread a baseless report through [於] the kingdom,” “the Duke would do no good to [於] the [king’s] young son”; the “Announcement About Drunkenness” [chapter of the Documents]: “Let not men look into [於] water, let them look into [於] the glass of other people”; the “Odes of Bei” [section of

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the Odes]: “She was to await me at [於] a corner of the wall”; the “Odes of Qi” [section of the Odes]: “He was waiting for me between [於] the door and the screen,” “He was waiting for me in [於] the hall,” “He was waiting for me in [於] the open court”; the “Odes of Qin” [section of the Odes]: “He assigned [於] us a house large and spacious,” “He assigned [於] us at every meal four dishes of grain”; the “Odes of Cao” [section of the Odes]: “Would they but come and abide with [於] me,” “Would they but come and rest with [於] me,” “Would they but come and lodge with [於] me”;46 the “Odes of Bin” [section of the Odes]: “He was stopping with [於] you [and me] but for a couple of nights,” “He was lodging with [於] you [and me] but for a couple of nights”; the “Greater Odes of the Kingdom” [section of the Odes]: “For [於] myriads of years.” The “Greater Odes of the Kingdom” [has] “You have no reality in [于] your sincerity”; that the Song edition [of it] has it written as “yu” 於 [means] it is a mistake. The Analects as a rule uses the character “yu” 於. Only when it quotes the Odes and the Documents it writes “yu” 于, and the [entries in the Analects] “I will get upon a raft, and float about on [于] the sea,” and “died of hunger at [于] the foot of the Shou Yang Mountain” nonetheless [as exceptions] use “yu” 于.47

Qian Daxin’s analysis of the use of the characters yu 于 and yu 於 demonstrates how on one hand Qian devised general rules on how the two characters were used in antiquity in the Documents, the Odes, and the Analects. On the other hand he pointed to exceptions and was able to prove (to his own satisfaction, at least) that a Song edition of the Odes was erroneous by stressing that the two were used differently. Comparing the use of characters in different editions was an accepted procedure for Qian and his peers, a procedure that was repeated in numerous other cases. Qian revealed in this way missing characters in the Shuowen edition that survived to the Qing period as well as problematic character glossing within the Shuowen.48 Consider the following example, entitled “Song people did not study the six ways of character formation” (宋人不講六 書), which begins to hint at the notion that philological problems resulted in a problematic understanding of the Classics: Wang Bohou [Yinglin] quoted Wang Qufei [王去非],49 saying: “As for [the character] xue 學 it comes from the character xiao 孝, as for the character jiao 教 it comes from the character xiao 孝, therefore both follow the character xiao 孝.” [He] also quoted Yang Jian [楊簡] of Cihu [慈湖] and Yuan Fu [袁甫] of Mengzhao [蒙齋],50 explaining: “The ancient character xiao 孝 is the same as the character xue 學.” According to the ancient forms, xue 學 was written xiao [爻 above 子], xiao follows yao 爻, xiao 孝 follows lao 老, distinguishing correctly the two characters, how could one unite them into one?! Song people did not study the six ways of character formation; therefore they had this erroneous explanation [宋人不講六書,故有此謬說].51

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Paleographic study, in which Qian traced both the errors of his “secondary sources”—from the Song dynasty in particular but also from earlier periods— and the ancient paleographic evidence (which he did not present here), was an opening to larger claims or accusations. Here the accusation that “Song people” (note the generalization) were not paying attention to the liushu 六書 (six ways of written character formation) was much more than a simple critique of the minute priorities of lexical proximity of characters, character origins, or erroneous editions; the liushu was understood by Qian and his philologically minded peers to be crucial for the very ability to understand the Classics. Qian Daxin did not have to tell his intended audience that this paragraph, seemingly a simple correction of a paleographic nature, was an assault with much deeper implications. Apart from specific cases, evidential scholars also came up with overarching philological or linguistic rules. Among such rules credited to Qian Daxin, the following examples were perhaps the most prominent: (1) “In antiquity there were no ‘light lip sounds’ [labiodental initials, such as f, v]” (古無輕唇音), and (2) “In antiquity there was no differentiation between [initial sounds] ‘tonguehead’ [dentals, such as d, t] and ‘tongue up’ [retroflex stops, such as zh, ch]” (古無舌頭舌上之分).52 Qian arrived at these general rules by meticulously collecting dozens of instances that demonstrate—each on its own and together as a system—how the phonological system in antiquity had worked. Taken together, these instances, backed with evidence from dozens of sources, were understood to generate those overarching phonetic rules. So as to demonstrate the craft of the philologist in this regard, let us zoom in to one of these instances: “The ancients read fu 附 as bu 部. The Zuozhuan: ‘the small mounds [bulou 部婁] had no big trees.’ The Shuowen quoted and had it written: ‘fulou [附婁],’ saying: ‘fulou [means] a small mound.’ The Odes: ‘The bright appointment is attached to your person [僕 pu].’ [According to] the [Mao] Commentary: ‘pu [means] fu [僕附也].’ The Guangya [also had]: ‘bo [sounds like] fu [薄附也].’”53 By bringing together different ancient sources that agreed on the issue—in this case, that the specific fu was not pronounced as f but as b or p (i.e., as bilabial initials that were interchangeable)—Qian proved one instance. By repeating the procedure many times he was proving the rule. The sources used for Classics philology were various editions of the Classics, other ancient sources dating as closely as possible to the Classics (preferably Han and earlier), and, in particular, philological auxiliary texts such as the Shuowen and the Guangya (used in this instance). These auxiliary texts themselves were not devoid of problems and mistakes that in many cases were caused by the faulty transmission of the texts; thus a significant part of the philologists’ work consisted of checking and correcting the auxiliary texts so they were able to read the Classics correctly and thus arrive at correct “meanings and principles” (yili).

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The Ideas Even the staunchest philologists—such as Duan Yucai—did not prioritize philology above the fundamental meanings it aimed to recover. Duan insisted that “in mastering the Classics there is nothing more important than obtaining the meaning” (治經莫重於得義); the great value of Wang Niansun’s Guangya research, in Duan’s view, was the result of Wang’s “outstanding ability to get to the meanings of the Classics through the ancient sounds” (尤能以古音得經 義).54 And the meanings obtained and discussed were not limited to particular stand-alone characters but were also extended from the character to a larger idea. As mentioned earlier, Qian Daxin did not hesitate to make larger claims about yili as well. His style of argumentation in this area, too, resembles that of the “cases” mentioned above, and it was with the accumulation of cases that one could find general trends of thought. The philological zeitgeist is evident in the following cases—and in particular the first one, in which the main concern is whether ji or yi was used in a specific Analects passage: “If no one appreciates him, he should simply give up”:55 The Analects: “mo ji zhi ye, si yi er yi yi [莫己知也，斯已而已矣],” contemporaries read: “si yi 已 er yi 已,” two yi characters, both as in [the sounds of] yi 以. Examining the Tang dynasty Stone Classics [one finds] “mo ji 己 si ji 己,” both written as the ji 己 in renji 人己 [oneself], while yi 已 is written as the yi in yizhi 已止 [to stop]. The Shiwen [釋文]: “[the ji in] mo ji 己 sounds like jue 紀, the ji 己 [character] below si [斯 in the Analects passage] is the same [i.e., also ji].” This is truly coherent with the Stone Classics. The Jijie [集解, commentary on the Analects by He Yan 何晏 (third c. CE)]: “the absurdity is that [he] follows himself and that is it.” Huang [Kan’s] 皇侃 Yishu [義疏] explains it and says: “Saying Confucius absurdly did not fit the changing times, only derives from [saying] he believed in himself and that is it.” It [also] follows the [understanding] of the Tang, and before the Tang, that the Analects characters “si ji” 斯己 were all not written as the “zhi” 止 [to stop] glossing, [and so] following the language of the Classics should be written “ji” 己 and not written “yi” 已. Ji 己 and yi 已 were not simply a one-character [deviation], Song Ru mistakenly read “si ji” 斯己 [as si yi 斯已] and [then] transformed [the yi 已] to yi 以, in fact transforming the language of the Classics in order to advance their own [ji 己] explanations [己說].56

Although this discussion may seem literally to be splitting hairs as small as the tiny stroke that differentiates the ji 己 and the yi 已, we should recall that if we read this as a case within a set of cases, wherein often one case builds on other cases, then here Qian was able to discredit the basic reading habits and capabilities of Song Ru. The case continued this line of discreditation by attacking Zhu

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Xi himself, blaming him for a false reading (according to Qian) of a Mengzi passage, where again a character was mistakenly altered. The  passage deals with a pair of stolen sandals and an accusation aimed at Mencius that his followers are thieves. Mencius replies that he doubts anyone would come to hear his teaching just so as to steal sandals. This is followed by another comment that contains the disputed character—yu 予 (“I”). The understanding of that character alters the subject of the sentence: Is Mencius talking, or is the accuser talking? Qian contended that the ancient glossing of the character as wo 我 (“I”) proved that Mencius was the subject/speaker and then blamed Zhu Xi for impermissibly altering yu 予 to zi 子 (so the subject/speaker was the accuser, who was thus talking about Mencius). This alteration was due to Zhu Xi’s problematic understanding of ancient language, and Qian concluded that “this is [another case] of transforming the original language in order to advance their own explanations” (此亦改本文以就已說也).57 Having discredited the Song Ru and criticized Zhu Xi’s reading skills while making minor changes to larger issues of meaning and doctrine, Qian continued to challenge some basic doctrinal assumptions and emphasize his understanding thereof. In an entry titled “Cheng Yi said that within the inborn nature there is no filial or brotherly piety” (程子言性中無孝弟), Qian admitted that Zhu Xi already saw the “utmost fault” (極有病) of this assertion and quoted Zhu Xi’s reservations, which made it quite clear that for him filial and brotherly piety was an integral part of one’s inborn nature. Nonetheless, Qian followed the Zhu Xi quote with several Mengzi quotes, concluding that “Song Ru saw filial and brotherly piety as a mediocre behavior and outward rude display, distinguishing [themselves] by searching for the inborn nature in emptiness, therefore their words frequently have exceedingly high demerits” (宋儒以孝弟為庸行 粗跡，而別於空虛處求性，故其言往往有過高之弊.).58 And whereas here Qian insisted on the inner qualities of piety (and also hinted at Buddhist/Daoist influence on Song Ru), his next entry criticized Song Ru for making too much of the inner at the expense of the outer. The discussion revolved around the notion of what “respect” (敬) means and where its importance lies. The argument was that Song Ru, again, failed to understand the “original intentions” (本旨) of the Classics. In order to explain why respect was mostly important in its outward manifestations rather than in its inner existence, Qian wrote: “The Analects say ‘respect’ twenty-one times, all of them in the sense of prioritizing action and behavior” (論語言敬者二十有一，皆主行事而言). He then quoted examples that proved his assertion from the Analects and from the Liji and concluded that although respect was located in the heart, its outer manifestations, mainly through rituals, were the crux of the matter.59 With this we begin to see that significant matters were at issue: the importance of rituals (禮) was at stake, at least in Qian’s mind, and the question of where to look for one’s inborn nature was raised as well. That Qian saw Song

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Ru as searching for issues related to rituals in “emptiness” was significant. “Ritual” was one of the most important questions of the day, foregrounding debates about Neo-Confucian metaphysics, correct Ru practice and behavior, and where the center of gravity for Ru should be placed: inner reflection or outer performance (I use the term “center of gravity,” as the two were not mutually exclusive). Thus, in the entry “Tian ji li” 天即理 (Heaven equals principle), Qian attacked one of the fundamentals of Cheng-Zhu thought: 60 The Song Ru saying, that inborn nature equals principle [性即理], was right; [their] saying that Heaven equals principle [天即理], I am afraid that is not true. “When you have offended against Heaven, there is nowhere you can turn to in your prayers,”61 means praying to Heaven. How can one pray to principle? The Odes says: “respect Heaven’s wrath,”62 “be in awe of Heaven’s might.”63 How  can principle have “wrath” or “might”? [The Odes] also says: “respect Heaven’s changing moods.”64 One cannot speak of “changing moods” with regard to principle. To say that principle comes out of Heaven [理出于天] is therefore possible; to say that Heaven equals principle is therefore impossible.

In this way Qian demonstrated that in the ancient texts there was no way for Heaven to be equal to principle and hence Song Ru were simply wrong. In other places Qian attacked the notions of xiantian 先天 (before Heaven) and houtian 後天 (after Heaven) in similar ways, saying that “later Ru subjectively invented [the notion of] ‘before Heaven’ ” (後儒私造先天).65 He therefore undermined the basis of Neo-Confucian metaphysics.66 Beyond metaphysics, textual scrutiny allowed Qian to convey his opinion when strict philological questions (such as paleography or phonology) were not the key—as in the example below on how a country should be run. His entry on one character in the Daxue illustrates his views: “The Way of the great learning is in qin 親 the people,” “love what the people love, hate what the people hate, that is what is called the father and mother of the people,” this is the truth of “making the people dear.” Song Ru altered qin 親 [making dear, close, intimate] into xin 新 [making new], specifically following and quoting the “Kang gao” [康誥 chapter of the Documents] saying “renew the people,” without knowing the “Kang gao” also had the saying “like protecting the children.” Protecting the people is the same as protecting children, and the meaning compared with making the people dear is very close. The way of protecting the people of the ancient sages was not in excluding [the people] from wealth, [their] teaching had two roots, and the character qin [親] suffices to combine them; by turning qin into xin there is no avoiding of one-sided teaching. The meaning of qin is larger than xin, saying qin then there

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is no gap between things and oneself, saying xin causes having [the situations in which] nobles rule the lowly, worthies rule those of lesser luck, making the people dear goes against these [situations] and appears not to be like that. That by which the way of ruling of later generations does not reach the Three Dynasties, in fact is not searching for the well-being of the people and [not] being devoted to guard the people against what is bad; it is thus that [later generations] abandoned virtue and used punishments, designating themselves removers of old stains, while daily becoming more despised.67

Qian Daxin did not go as far as Dai Zhen in accusing the Cheng-Zhu learning of “using principle to kill people” (以理殺人) or “using personal opinions to kill people” (以意見殺人); Qian also did not use the same vocabulary as Dai to express the validity, legitimacy, and importance of human emotions (情) and desires (欲) vis-à-vis the Cheng-Zhu attack on emotions and desires. Qian was literally more politically correct. Nonetheless, the underlying rationale was very similar. Qian’s contention that Cheng-Zhu learning turned government into a punishing mechanism that “renews the people” instead of a compassionate organism that turns the people into family and follows what they love was very close to Dai’s assertions that li 理 (principle) amounted to fa 法 (law) in Song Ru discourse and precept. For both Qian and Dai the basic reason for the Song error and fault was their textual incompetence; as Dai Zhen stated: “Song Ru mocked the learning of textual glosses, and made light of language and paleography” (宋儒譏訓詁之學，輕語言文字).68 In this case and context Qian’s was a harsh allegation—made even more so when it was based on a statement regarding how Song Ru changed the Daxue, one of the most revered texts of the Cheng-Zhu lineage. Furthermore, Qian’s positive use of emotions (here from the side of the ruler) may also point to his agreement with Dai Zhen and others, who affirmed the role of emotions and desires by the eighteenth century, against the backdrop of the Cheng-Zhu denouncement thereof. Qian Daxin also directly condemned the basics of Daoxue and Xinxue thought and claimed that “when Wei and Jin people talked about Laozi and Zhuangzi—it was idle chatter; when Song and Ming people talked about the heart and the inborn nature—it was also idle chatter” (魏晉人 言老莊清談也；宋明人言心性，亦清談也).69 Qian’s use of the term “idle chatter” (qingtan) is revealing: the term was used to describe the kind of scholarship that flourished during the Wei, Jin, and Six Dynasties period; it was associated with the thought of scholars such as He Yan 何晏 and Wang Bi 王弼 and at times referred to as “Mysterious Learning” (Xuanxue, 玄學).70 In subsequent dynasties this scholarship was denounced, also by Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi, as empty learning based on the teachings of Laozi, Zhuangzi, Yang Zhu (杨朱), and even Mozi.71 By the seventeenth century, however, the term came to be used to denounce not only scholars of the distant past

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but also those of the more recent past and present. Thus, when Gu Yanwu wrote about “Kongzi’s explanations regarding the relationship between the inborn nature and the Way of Heaven” (夫子之言性與天道), he stated that “the turmoil of our culture during the Five Dynasties originated in the disastrous flourishing of ‘idle chatter’ [清談]; everyone knows that. [But] who knows that today’s ‘idle chatter’ is even worse than that of past times? The ‘idle chatter’ of the past was chatter about Laozi and Zhuangzi; the ‘idle chatter’ of the present is chatter about Kongzi and Mengzi.”72 Qian Daxin then went even further: he explicitly charged both the scholars of the Ming (who were under fire already in Gu Yanwu’s time) and those of the Song with producing harmful “idle chatter.” The rupture from distant antiquity had thus continued into the recent past, and the use of similar attacks on both Cheng-Zhu/Wang Yangming (王陽明) Ru scholars and Daoist teachers and teachings also implied severe criticism.73 The desire to restore the integrity of antiquity was not just a matter of love of antiquarianism and certainly not escapist, as later scholars often depicted eighteenth-century philologists. As we have seen, for Qian, as for many others in his time, the notion that anything new about knowledge had to be at the very least latent in ancient knowledge was fundamental. Antiquity was the fountainhead for the very identity of the Ru, and philology was the means to get to it. Valid knowledge, imbued with the authority of antiquity, was then to be put to use in Ru officialdom, and it is not surprising that when Qian Daxin was appointed director of education in Guangdong in the early 1770s, he stressed exactly this type of studies. It is also not surprising that Qian and many of his peers were delighted with the SKQS project, which enabled them to penetrate the textual tradition under the auspices of the Manchu emperor Qianlong. Qian thought that the SKQS project encouraged scholars to “begin to place [greater] importance on classical and historical learning” (始重經史之學).74 Qian’s high regard for the SKQS did not mean, however, that he did not examine it critically: in several cases Qian exposed errors or lack of evidence on the part of the SKQS editors.75 Perhaps he also felt that he was left out of the project and that the editors did not give him enough credit: in one section he mentioned that “now, the SKQS catalog chose my explanation exactly” (今四庫全書目即采予說也), but he did not dwell on this point.76 For Qian Daxin ancient learning meant rigorous study based on what he saw as textual facts and supported—when possible—by bronze and stone inscriptions and other aids. In that way the textual integrity of antiquity was to be restored. Qian was painfully aware of the loss of that integrity through history, as people “chiseled through air” (鑿空).77 Qian’s meticulous methodology aimed, in paraphrase, to chisel through hard rock or, as the contemporary slogan had it, to “search for truth in solid facts” (實事求是). Sun Xingyan stressed the solid-hollow metaphor even further: “The sages

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valued the solid [實] and despised the hollow [虛], spoke of what is [有] and not on what is not [無], valued the hard [剛] and scorned the soft [柔]; that is the difference between the Ru and the Daoists, and that is the difference between the learning of the Three Dynasties and Song learning.”78 This line of investigation of the past, however, was not limited to the Classics—it was just as important to implement it with regard to a less distant and often less venerable past, the past of the Histories.

CHAPTER 6

HISTORICAL PHILOLOGY Navigating the Sources

Getting the Histories Right “The difficulty of reading the Histories is not new,” wrote Qian Daxin in his preface to his magnum opus, Nianer shi kaoyi 廿二史考異 (Examination of variances in the twenty-two histories). “When Sima Wengong [Guang] completed his Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government [draft] only Wang Shengzhi [Yirou 益柔 (1015–1087) was able] to read it all the way. [All] the others [to whom Sima Guang gave the draft to read] did not even get to ten pages and already stretched and yawned and fell asleep” (夫史之難讀久矣. 司馬溫公撰資治通鑒成，惟王勝之借一讀，它人讀未盡十紙，已欠 伸思睡矣.).1 The complex nature of the sort of historical writing that Qian admired (such as Sima Guang’s Comprehensive Mirror) did not lend itself to easy reading or research, and Qian was very much, perhaps painfully, aware of this. Nonetheless, in 1778, when he was the head of the Zhongshan Academy, he “[emphasized that] penetrating the Classics and reading the Histories comes first” (以通經讀史為先).2 The Classics, as shown in the previous chapter, were thought to be the words of the ancient sages, and their message was transmitted through these texts, but why deal with the Histories, especially those of the later periods, and why prioritize them? The first issue that Qian mentioned with regard to the Histories was “praise and blame” (褒貶). Discussing the Chunqiu, he wrote that “the Chunqiu is a book that praises good, and assigns blame to evil. How does it praise or blame? [It] straightforwardly writes of the affair and so man’s good or

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evil [deeds] have nowhere to hide and that is all” (春秋,褒善貶惡之書也. 其褒貶奈何?直書其事,使人之善惡無所隱而已矣). “This,” he continued, “has been the general rule of the historians from antiquity until today. Without the existence of praise and blame, [even] sages cannot make a change [just] on the basis of their opinion” (此古今史家之通例,非褒貶之所在,聖人不能以 意改之也.).3 Indeed, the link between the Chunqiu as a classic and its historical nature and inspiration made the historical quest itself prestigious, perhaps equally as prestigious as the classical pursuits in many periods of China’s history. But the question of why deal with the Histories is somewhat more complex: If the Chunqiu was a “history” as well as a “classic,” where should the categorical boundary between Histories and Classics be drawn? Significantly, Qian asserted that such a line should not be drawn: “[At] that [ancient] time there really was no term such as ‘four-parts’ [in which classical and historical learning were set apart], so the historians also were not differentiated into a separate category” (是時固無四部之名,而史家亦未別為一類也).4 An important source for grasping Qian Daxin’s concept of history’s place among the various disciplines is his 1800 preface to Zhao Yi’s Nianer shi zhaji 廿二史劄記 (Notes on the twenty-two histories). There Qian historicized what he perceived as the decline of the historical vocation, emphasized the categorical unity of historical and classical learning, and praised Zhao Yi. Qian explained that “in the past, when Confucius compiled the six Classics, the Documents and the Springs and Autumns were in fact the historians’ authoritative domain” (昔宣尼贊修六經,而尚書,春秋實為史家之權輿). But, although “in the beginning there was no separation between Classics and Histories” (初無經史之別), after the Han the two categories were set apart. According to Qian, the bifurcation began “when Li Chong 李充 [fl. 345–357], Xun  Xu [d. 289,] and others began establishing the ‘four parts’ [division], and the Classics and Histories began to be separated” (李充,荀勖等刱立四 部,而經史始分).5 Indeed, Qian repeatedly made it clear that engaging with the Histories and Classics was part of the same category of learning: “How could the relationship between the Classics and Histories be bifurcated into two [categories] of learning?! . . . I have not heard of denigrating the Histories and [at the same time] glorifying the Classics” (經與史豈有二學哉  .  .  . 然不聞陋史而榮經也).6 In expounding their unity Qian was also bemoaning a historical reality. One of the major culprits in the Histories’ fall from grace, Qian thought, on top of and after their separation from the Classics, was Wang Anshi 王安石 (1021–1086), whose teaching Qian described as “unruly, crafty, deceiving, and absurd learning” (猖狂詭誕之學). Qian blamed Wang and his Sanjing xinyi 三經新義 (New meanings of the three classics)—which excluded the Springs and Autumns in favor of the Odes, Documents, and Rites of Zhou and became

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required reading—for downgrading history and prioritizing a history-free or ahistorical type of classical learning.7 Nonetheless, for the final and most substantial blow to the Histories, Qian pointed at none other than “all of the Ru [upholding] the Learning of the Way” (道學諸儒): [They] preached about searching for the heart and inborn nature, and were worried that their flood of students and disciples would not have a place to return to. And so they criticized reading Histories as “a playful thing that makes one lose one’s purpose,”8 and also said that reading Histories “causes one’s heart to become coarse.”9  .  .  . Accordingly, those who were explaining the Classics increased in number every day, while those who mastered the Histories lessened every day. Their motto was “the Classics are refined and the Histories coarse; the Classics are upright and the Histories confused.”10

Putting the blame on Wang Anshi—who was already heavily criticized by many scholars in his own time for a variety of faults11— had no immediate consequences and obviously was not as harsh, and potentially controversial, as putting the blame on all Daoxue Ru. Yet that was Qian Daxin’s stance. Qian did, however, explain in 1802 that the study of the Histories was indeed even more difficult than working on the Classics and that as one moved further into the recent past, the study became harder still: “Reading the Classics is easy, reading the Histories is difficult; reading the Histories while discussing praise and blame is easy, reading the Histories while verifying correlations and discrepancies is difficult; verifying correlations and discrepancies in the Histories of the Han and Wei is easy, verifying correlations and discrepancies in the Histories of later periods is difficult.” 12 Thus Qian established a “difficulty hierarchy”: most difficult was recent history, going back to earlier times was less difficult, and least difficult was the issue of praise and blame, to be followed only by reading the Classics. This hierarchy in fact signaled the most pressing demands that Qian saw for the historians of his time by positing later histories as the most difficult (and, of course, consisted of self-praise, as Qian’s mastery of recent histories was well known by then). It also sketched a brief historical methodology—that is, one had to solve the problems of recent histories first and then move gradually back up the line all the way to praise and blame and the earlier histories. Qian’s explanation of the difficulty hierarchy also established a reverse hierarchy, wherein the “praise and blame” and the Classics were still the most important, but one could seriously discuss the textual-historical problems only after they were solved. Indeed, although he praised the success of Sima Guang’s historical project (for those who did not fall asleep reading it),13 Qian nevertheless proclaimed that the Song and Yuan histories were particularly

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difficult and confusing. If Sima Guang was considered almost a sage-historian, then by bypassing him through an even more daunting task, the implicit meaning would be that Qian surpassed Sima Guang. But working on the more recent histories was challenging. The problem with the Histories was that “in the books of the twenty-two lineages [the twenty-two histories] there are troublesome characters, confused meanings, and the geographies thus have had different names in the past and present” (廿二家之書,文字煩多,義例紛 糾,輿地則今昔異名).14 The “task of the historian,” then, was to disentangle the knots and, much like the philological work needed for the Classics, get the texts right while also checking the facts. For unlike the Classics—the words of the sages—“the Histories were not the books of one lineage but were in fact the books of thousands of writers, and only when doubts were dispelled could their trustworthiness be strengthened” (且夫史非一家之書,實千載之書,祛其疑, 乃能堅其信).15 Luo Binglang, in a recent book dedicated to historical research in the Qianlong-Jiaqing period, described Qian Daxin as one of the leading historians of the period.16 Considering Qian’s methodology in the NESKY as well as other writings, Luo recounted five main areas in which Qian excelled: (1) examination of paleographical errors (考订文字讹误), (2) glossing of expressions and names (训诂语辞名物), (3) research into historical facts (考证历史事实), (4) analysis of regulations and institutions (辨析典章制度), and (5) comments on historians in relation to historical writings (评论史家与史书).17 Luo further suggested that Qian Daxin’s main achievements were in the realm of inductive, comparative, source-oriented, and integrative textual research (归纳, 比较, 溯源, 会通).18 It should also be stressed that Qian’s historical research included not only the vast work of comparing different sources but also that of comparing different editions of the same source, as in the case of mistaken characters in the common edition of the Hou Han shu circulating in his time, about which he wrote: “I once saw a Southern Song edition and a Ming Jiajing [1522–1566] 1549 edition [of the Hou Han shu], neither erred” (予嘗見南宋本及明嘉靖己 酉本,皆不誤.).19 In his efforts to get his evidence right, Qian was aware of the power of accumulated evidence, and when he found further sources to verify his claim, he would add them later, saying “[I] have obtained one more piece of evidence” (又得一證). At one time he even boasted, in his minimalist way, that as a result of the additional finding scholars “can very much believe that my words are not absurd” (尤可信吾言之非妄).20 When one considers Qian’s historical writings, it seems that one of the major themes that keeps emerging as crucial is the proper historical understanding of language—written and oral—and, within this, of names (broadly conceived), which the case study below demonstrates.

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Rectification of Names: The Yuan History as a Case Study One of the main “troublemakers” in the realm of names, as well as in other aspects, was, as mentioned briefly above, the history of a foreign dynasty— the Yuan shi 元史 (Yuan history), which, as table 1 demonstrates,21 was one of Qian’s main research interests.22 Qian wrote that “the former and latter [time periods of composing the Yuan shi]23 add up to merely 331 days. Since antiquity and until now, there was no History that was completed as fast as the Yuan shi; nor was there [a history] which had a text so corrupt and degraded as that of the Yuan shi” (綜前後廑三百三十一日,古今史成之速未有如元史者. 而文 之陋劣,亦無如元史者.)24

Table 1 Main Works by Qian Daxin Dealing Directly with Yuan History

Title

Reference

Yuan shi section of NESKY

NESKY, 86.1615–100.1842

Yuan shi section of Zhu shi shiyi 諸史拾遺 (Gathering the lost in all the histories)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 4, 5.109–24

Yuan shi shizu biao 元史氏族表 (Tables of Yuan clan [names])

JDQDXQJ, vol. 5

Yuan jinshi kao 元進士考 (Examination of Yuan jinshi [degree holders])

JDQDXQJ, vol. 5

Yuan shi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (Bibliographic catalog of the Yuan history)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 5

Song Liao Jin Yuan sishi shuorun kao 宋遼金元四史朔閏考 (Examination of lunations and intercalations in the four histories of the Song, Liao, Jin, and Yuan)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 5

Yuan section of Jinshi wen bawei 金石文跋尾 (Postscripts to bronze and stone inscriptions)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 6, 18.479–554

Yuan section of Jinshi wenzi mulu 金石文字目錄 (Catalog of bronze and stone inscriptions)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 6, 7.176–8.198

Various short essays on the Yuan shi, the history of the Mongol dynasty, and on the Mongolian language

SJZYXL, 9

Yuan shi “Questions and Answers” section

QYTWJ, 13.203–5

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Qian Daxin had his work cut out for him as he embarked on the mission to remake the history of the Yuan. And because the main historical source for the Yuan period—the Yuan shi—was so problematic (and because, of course, it was the object to be remade), Qian searched for other sources that would enable him to complete his task. In his research on the Yuan (and on other areas as well) he located and employed historical data from a variety of different kinds of sources. In the case of the Yuan shi Wang Jilu emphasized six such sources used in Qian’s research, often in an unprecedented manner:25 1. Yuanchao bishi 元朝秘史 (The secret history of the Yuan dynasty): an account of the history of the Mongols, from their mythical beginning, through Chinggis Khan’s rule, to c. 1240, the end of the reign of Chingiss’s son Ögödei (r. 1229–1241). Qian was arguably the first scholar to make use of the Yuanchao bishi in rethinking Yuan history as such.26 2. Shengwu qinzheng lu 聖武親征錄 (Records of the personal campaigns of the sage warriors): chronologically ordered records of the reigns of Chinggis and Ögödei. It was used by the compilers of the Yuan shi.27 3. Yuantong yuannian jinshi timinglu 元統元年進士題名錄 (1333 palace jinshi roll): a list of the candidates who passed the 1333 palace examinations, which Huang Peilie asked Qian to examine.28 4. Yuan dianzhang 元典章 (Compendium of statutes and sub-statutes of the Yuan): “a compilation of codes and regulations issued from about 1270 to about 1320  .  .  . much of the text is in the peculiar style of Yüan period colloquial Chinese and further reflects, in many cases, the diction and grammar of Mongolian documents that underlie the Chinese texts.”29 5. Chang Chun zhenren xiyouji 長春真人西遊記 (The western journey of the true man of eternal spring): a diary of a Daoist master who met with Chinggis Khan.30 6. Yuandai jinshi beike 元代金石碑刻 (Yuan period bronze, stone, and stele inscriptions): as Wang Jilu points out, while the use of such inscriptions for periods before the Yuan (and especially before the Song) was popular among scholars during and prior to the Qing, Qian Daxin may be regarded as the first to employ them in the scholarship of the Yuan shi.2531

Qian Daxin used these sources concurrently, checking and verifying them against each other as he tried to produce a more reliable and accurate history. The historical doubts that Qian had faced and tried to dispel were often about names—mostly of people and places (but also of offices and ranks)—so one of his major tasks was to clarify the relationship between the signifier, the name, and the signified, the correct historical person or the place. In the realm of names the main questions Qian Daxin faced concerned (1) the correct name, or names, of a person/place and clarification of cases in which different

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names or methods of writing a name designated the same or different historical persons/places; (2) dates related to the person/place; (3) familial relations and genealogies;32 and (4) ambiguities. At times, getting the names right also involved foreign languages—and thus questions of transliteration. One might also suspect that the different foreign languages involved in the research process may have interacted with Qian’s sense of identity. Qian Daxin’s command of Mongolian also played a major part in his Yuan studies and his ability to discuss issues pertaining to pronunciation and transliteration.33 Qian’s first entry on the Yuan shi, in his NESKY, dealt with the first sentence in the Yuan shi, regarding Chinggis Khan’s clan name, and read as follows: “Clan name Qiwowen.”34 Explication: The Secret History of the Yuan put it as “the mister of the Beierzhiji [clan].”35 Yang Ziqi’s [楊子器 (1458–1513)] Yuan Palace Poetry commentary also says: “The clan name of Emperor Shizu [Chinggis Khan] was Beierzhijin.” Zhijin is equivalent to Zhiji-dai; transliteration [can] have both light and heavy [pronunciations].36 Nowadays we transliterate it as Boerjiji-dai. (“姓奇渥溫氏.” 按:元秘史作孛兒只吉歹氏. 明楊子器元宮詞注 亦云世祖姓孛兒只斤. 只斤即只吉歹,譯音有輕重爾,今譯為博爾濟吉特.)26

Qian’s broader conclusion, or rule, that “transliteration [can] have both light and heavy [pronunciations]”38 was furthered still in the context of the history of the Mongol Yuan dynasty: “Transliteration does not have fixed characters” (譯音無定字).39 Trying to bring order and coherence to the historically different transliterations was a daunting task, taking into consideration the problematic sources and their diversity of linguistic usage. It is no wonder, then, that much work was needed to ascertain correct names in the Yuan shi, and with the histories of other periods having their inaccuracies as well, Qian’s work spanned well beyond the Yuan. Another type of naming problem is illustrated by the following, concerning Ong Khan (Chinese: Wang Han 汪罕／王汗, also known as Toghril/Toghrul [d. 1203]), a leader of one of the main nomadic tribes of central Mongolia and a “blood brother” to Chinggis Khan’s father. Ong Khan at first cooperated with Chinggis and later opposed him. The following entry concerns the names of Ong Khan’s son, Senggüm, one of the main plotters against Chinggis:40 “Ong Khan’s son yi-la-he.” The Sacred History has it written: “ni-le-he.” [He is] also called Sang-kun, so following Liao and Jin times name clarifications, it [i.e., yi-la-he] is his nickname and not his name. In “Joci’s Biography” [of the Yuan History]41 it is written as Xian-kun 鮮昆, in the “Biographies of the Loyal and Dutiful” [of the Yuan History] it is written as Xian-kun 先髡, the transliteration has light and heavy [pronunciations], [but] in fact it is one [person] and that is all.42 (汪罕子亦剌合. 祕史作：儞勒合. 亦稱：桑昆者，蓋

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沿遼，金時詳兗之稱是號非名也. 先髡，譯音有輕重，其實一爾.)

朮徹台傳作：鮮昆，忠義傳作：

Names, of course, were also a matter of spatial importance in historical geography: “Fourth year [of the reign of Möngke Khan (1254–1255)]. He assembled all the kings west of Kekenaoer [probably a name of a lake in Qinghai], and then sacrificed to Heaven at Riyueshan [lit. Sun-and-Moon Mountain].” Wang Yi [王禕 (1321–1372), one of the chief compilers of the Yuan Shi], in his “Eulogy to the Sacrifice to Heaven at Riyueshan” [said that] Riyueshan, in the vernacular of the region is called Mount Alawen [probably known as Qara’un jidun in Mongolian], located to the north of Helin [Qara Qorum]. [According to] the Jin History “Geographical Catalog,” over 500 li north of Baoshan county of Chang prefecture on the Western Capital Road [today’s Hebei], there is a Riyue Mountain, which, in the twentieth year of the [Jin] Dading [reign period (1161–1189)] was also called Mobai Mountain. These [two Riyueshan] are not one and the same mountain; similar name but different place.43 (四年, 會諸王於顆顆腦兒之西,乃祭天於日月山王. 王禕日月山祀天頌,日月山, 國語云阿剌溫山,在和林之北. 金史地理志,西京路昌州寶山縣北五百餘里 有日月山大,　定二十年,更曰抹白山,此別是一山,名同而地異也.)

Using a host of different sources enabled Qian to come to such conclusions regarding similar or different place names, personal names, and chronological disagreements. The many different transliterations used, not just in different sources but also in the same one, would challenge a modern scholar using “digital humanities” tools,44 but Qian Daxin was not deterred from this arduous and painstaking task. Writing about how his monumental historical work came about, he said: “[I would] go over and over again [the twenty-two histories], comparing and correcting [them], whether it was cold or hot, whether I was sick or with high fever, rarely would I give it a little rest. If by chance I found something, I would write it down on separate pages” (反覆校勘，雖寒暑疾疢，未嘗少輟. 偶有所得，寫於別紙.). In time he came to collate these separate pages and put them in order (稍編次之) and then discuss them with others; in this way the full project of the NESKY developed.45 These assertions and the above examples again demonstrate how reading-cum-writing practice was crucial for the type of scholarship Qian and his peers conducted. Their use of notation books thus takes a little twist: the notation books were not simply ordered and published; rather, many of the notations were included in complete and systematic works, such as the NESKY, which followed a distinct path. In the case of the Histories, the path dictated by the structure of the sources, the Histories, was followed. In the case of commentaries, the text commented on dictated the path.

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Philological Terminology and Style Philological analysis made constant use of vocabulary that conveyed comparison, evidence, judgment, and precision. Some of the major terms that appear again and again in Qian Daxin’s works include yi/yiyin 譯／譯音 (sounds like, pronounced as, transliterates), an 案 (according to, gloss), ju 據 (according to, depending on), zuo 作 (written), jinyi 今譯 (pronounced today as), fei qishi 非其實 (it is not the truth/fact, incorrect), qishi 其實 (if in fact [it is]), de qishi 得其實 (get [to] the truth of the matter), ke xin 可信 (believable, can be trusted), wu ke xin 無可信 (unbelievable, not to be trusted), zhen 真 (true), you yan 猶言 (as if saying), xiangtong 相同 (similar), sheng xiangjin 聲相近 (the sounds are close), dang zuo 當作 (it should be written [as]), ji 即 ([X] is [Y]), fei ye 非也 (wrong), si wei jin zhi 似為近之 (it seems close to [X]), wu 誤 (mistake), dang yi當以 [X source] weiju為據 [X source] ([source X] should be consulted [and taken as authoritative]), xian you buhe 稍有不合 (slightly different), wei shi 為是 ([X] is the true, truth, correct), kao 考 (examine, research, analysis), kong [X] wu 恐 [X] 誤 (afraid [X person/source name/title] is wrong), kong shi yanyan 恐是衍言 (afraid [it] is redundant), yi yu ci 移於此 (different than this), xie tuo zhi 寫脱之 (omitted in writing), wu shu 誤書 (writing mistake, typo), xie zhi wu 寫之誤 (writing mistake, typo), shi qi shi 失其實 (lost its credibility), yi 疑 (doubt), and wu ke yi 無可疑 (cannot doubt, without a doubt). Philological language was usually very terse and precise, and the vast corpus used by the philologists, to an extent, dictated such terse language; otherwise, philological writings would have become exceedingly large and complex (even more than they had already become). At times, however, there were exceptions, and one of Qian’s favorites was the posing of rhetorical questions, presenting the reason for his judgment in such a way that the reader would perhaps have difficulty rejecting the reasoning and exposing Qian’s emotional investment in the project. The next passage deals with the conquest of Bukhara and Samarkand by Chinggis Khan, which took place in 1221 but was dated to 1222 by the Yuan History. As before, the issue of historical geography, wherein names of places and their correct administrative status in a given period had to be determined, was investigated in this section. Determining the chronology and timing of events was also one of the major tasks for any historian: “Sixteenth year [of Chinggis Khan’s reign as Taizu, according to the Yuan History]. The emperor attacked Bukhara, Samarkand, and other cities.” Xuemisigan is Xunsigan [Samarkand]. Also written Xiemisigan. Analysis: the year before, in the fifth month, it [the Yuan shi] already wrote that the city of Samarkand was subdued! How can it be that this spring [of 1222] it writes again

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that it was attacked? Was it attacked and then again it rebelled?! How could it be that the historical text repeats itself?!46 (十六年. 帝攻卜哈兒,薛迷思干等 城. 薛迷思干,即尋思干也.一作邪迷思干. 考:上年五月已書克尋思干城矣, 何以此春又書攻下之?豈克而又叛乎?抑史文重出乎?)

A similar line of rhetorical questions can be found in many other instances in Qian’s writings.47 Yet Qian did not always have a fixed and certain judgment, and thus, while examining the term “The Seventeen Histories,” he encountered another term—“The Nineteen Histories”—which he did not recognize; Qian then wrote: “The name ‘Nineteen Histories’ is not to be seen elsewhere, perhaps it is mistaken with ‘Seventeen Histories’ ” (十九史之名它無所見，或即十七 之訛).48 The NESKY and Qian’s other studies of the Histories were not meant, however, to give the reader a sense of greater ideas about history; they were consistent and systematic in their vocabulary, arrangement, and chronological order and followed the sequence of the Histories they aimed to set right. The methodology, if understood also as a leading idea on how to approach historical materials, is certainly manifested, but overall the historical works of the NESKY type seem to serve more as massive reference works than as anything else. The “praise and blame” that could be unearthed from them would be those of careful or careless past historians to the extent that they performed their task as historians properly or not.49 If we read these collections as chronologically arranged historiographical “cases” (as outlined in chapter 5), then the sense of professionalization and authoritativeness—as the case genre often implies—of the philologists-cum-historians is overwhelming. Furthermore, looking at the NESKY as a whole or, similarly, looking at the Yi nian lu or the various tables (表) that Qian composed (either presented as individual monographs or appended to main texts), one could argue that a strong sense of historical continuity underlies all of them, together or apart. Keeping in mind that Qian and his peers bemoaned discontinuity, the rupture from the past, then these styles of writings, and tables in particular, perhaps presented the methodology that had the power to recover the lost continuity. Nylan, in her research on the Shiji, claimed that three themes or roles distinguish the tables of that work: “[The tables stress] that a person is defined by what he or she works at . . .; that a sage is defined by his single-minded drive and extraordinary ambitions  .  .  .; and that the system of enfeoffment, along with recent modifications to the system, is designed to ensure the continuation of sacrifices in perpetuity to the worthy.”50 She also added the notion that the tables “put these individuals [recorded in them] securely in time, on an analogy with the carefully composed genealogies preserved in ancestral temples.”51 Vankeerberghen likewise tried to claim the rhetorical and intentional significance of the tables in the Shiji. He argued that the tables “draw our attention

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away from the center of power . . . and give us a bird’s eye perspective on the whole Chinese realm [thus validating the different regions] as integral parts of China” and described them as a model “presenting as continuous with the past.”52 These observations by Nylan and Vankeerberghen about Sima Qian’s use of tables are fruitful in analyzing Qian Daxin’s use of tables. And the continuum that can be seen through the tables and other genres of historical writings discussed above leads us back to the philological cases that hoped to create a similar continuum by mending textual ruptures. Both philological and historical works enabled Qian and his friends to interact—to speak, as it were—with the ancients directly and to be placed in a continuum with them during their life and after their death.53

History, Praise and Blame, and the Song Dynasty as a Case Study Direct praise and blame can be seen most clearly in Qian Daxin’s entries in his general collections, such as the SJZYXL and the QYTWJ, whether in specific discussions of his own or in letters or various paratexts. One major target for Qian’s arrows of blame was the Song reformer Wang Anshi 王安石 (1021–1086). In his “Treatise on Wang Anshi” (王安石論), Qian attacked Wang ferociously: The prevalent saying these days that Wang Anshi misused the Zhou li and so the Song perished is wrong. When did Anshi ever use the Zhou li! The Record [of Rites, Li ji] says: “The Jing li [經禮] has 300, the Qu li [曲禮] has 3,000.” The Jing li is the Zhou guan [周官]. The Qu li is the Yi li [儀禮]. Han Xuanzi [韓 宣子] of the Jin [晉 (d. 514 BCE)] saw the Yi xiang [易象] and the Lu Chunqiu [魯春秋], and knew the Zhou li is most extant in the state of Lu.54 When Anshi established [his] method of “meaning of the classics” [經義法], he discarded the Yi li and the Chunqiu and did not use them, and went as far as slandering the Classics of the sages as “obsolete and fragmentary worthless documents,”55 and drove the literati to practice what he devised, the Xin jing yi [新經義 (New meanings of the Classics)]. How absurd and preposterous it was that Anshi called it Zhou li! By [the pretext] of honoring the Zhou li he opportunistically delivered his new methods [or laws].

Having attacked Wang Anshi’s general approach to the Classics, Qian continued to explore Wang’s manipulation of the Zhou li, arguing that Wang used only one part of the Zhou li, although all the parts are interconnected, in order to “prove” (證) his new laws for the crop loan system and state trade policy. Qian then angrily repeated his accusation: “When did Anshi ever use the Zhou li!” (安石曷嘗用周禮哉). Wang, wrote Qian, kept falsely urging Emperor

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Shenzong 神宗 to model himself after the sage emperors Yao and Shun whereas Wang was modeling himself after the renowned legalist thinker Shang Yang 商鞅 (390–338 BCE). Qian concluded that although the deeds of Shang Yang could be “shamed by a three-foot toddler” (三尺童子恥之), Wang Anshi’s presenting himself as bringing Yao and Shun to the fore was much more difficult to detect but at the same time much more harmful. Wang’s “big words deceived his contemporaries” (大言欺當世), and with his rhetoric of “prosperous and strong” (富強)—shorthand for “a prosperous country with a strong army” (國富強兵)—he could do whatever he liked, get rid of older ministers, and change the laws.56 People were so impressed with Wang Anshi and his son Wang Pang 王旁 (1042–1076) that they compared them to Confucius, Mencius, and the Duke of Zhou, and Qian was enraged at this situation and at the fact that the two Wangs regarded themselves as such.57 For Qian, Wang Anshi was a follower of Shang Yang, but unlike Shang, who had limited influence and who admitted his difference with “the Three Dynasties” (三代), Wang had vast influence and hence was more dangerous than Shang, especially as people in later times often regarded Wang’s literary style highly.58 In sum, as far as Qian was concerned, “Anshi did not merely commit a crime against the Song Court, in fact he committed a crime against the Doctrine of the Names [i.e., Ru teachings]” (安石非獨得罪於宋朝實得罪 於名教).59 Note that Emperor Shenzong was not blamed for the situation at the Northern Song court—he became a pawn in the hands of the powerful official. Was Qian—writing these remarks during the 1780s or 1790s—trying to convey a message about his own time vis-à-vis the Heshen affair? We do not know, and this must remain a speculation. But even if these remarks were intended as such or if they were interpreted as such by contemporary readers, their message was wrapped in the massive bulletproof vest of philology. It was also clear to anyone versed in the quarrels within the Shenzong court that the alternative to Wang Anshi was Sima Guang, the object of Qian’s frequent praise. This praise for Sima, however, was based on his historical expertise as manifested in the Zizhi tongjian, implying—again as mere speculation—who should have been running the government in his times, too. Beyond Sima Guang’s opposition to Wang Anshi’s “new methods,” Qian examined the development of “factions” (黨) within the opposition to Wang Anshi. In particular, he lamented the way the small crack between Cheng Yi and Su Shi became a huge divide that prevented the two from cooperating and resisting Wang Anshi. Qian understood these factions within the “praised” camp to have been one of the causes of the eventual fall of the Song. Qian was very saddened, it appears, by this eventuality, saying “when I examine the beginnings and ends of the hateful relationship between the two [Cheng Yi and Su Shi], I always utter three sighs” (考两家交惡始末，未嘗不三嘆息).60 Again, we note the emotional bearing history had on the historian.

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Qian also criticized Cai Jing 蔡京 (1047–1126), a famous senior official serving in the last decades of the Northern Song who was accused (in his own days, too) of treating Emperor Huizong 徽宗 “like a child, convincing him of any crazy project,” and also of sending gifts to the emperor in order to gain his approval.61 Qian, perhaps careful not to be too straightforward in the analogy to his own time (and the Heshen affair), did not criticize Cai directly regarding these matters; rather, Qian criticized him regarding aspects of learning. In an entry that begins with the phrase “literati cannot neglect learning” (士大夫不 可以無學), Qian set out a number of examples of senior officials who neglected learning themselves or had others neglect learning. Cai Jing was mentioned at the end of the list with this remark: “Cai Jing prohibited people from reading history, and regarded [Sima Guang’s] Tongjian as particular scholarship of the Yuanyou era [1086–1094], and that is how the Xuanhe era [1119–1125] rapidly met with disaster” (蔡京禁人讀史以通鑑為元祐學術宣和所以速禍也).62 Qian thus made the connection between the learning of history and the survival of the dynasty direct and clear. Moreover, and relating to questions of identity, Qian, at best, wrote about both Wang Anshi and Cai Jing as part of the general literati (士大夫), whereas the praised subject—Sima Guang—was referred to as a Ru.63 The general group of literati was not the same as the specific group of Ru. Likewise, Qian juxtaposed Wang Anshi (“and his like”) with those revered “previous Ru”: “with the emergence of Wang Anshi, Zheng Qiao64 [鄭樵 (1104–1162)], and their like, pretending and fabricating came to be considered the learning of the Classics, slandering and destroying the previous Ru [先儒] wantonly and without any fear” (王安石，鄭樵輩出,以穿鑿杜撰為經學,詆毀先儒,肆無 忌憚景).65

Valid Knowledge and Ru Identity For Qian Daxin, the past was a crucial part of his present in many ways. It was part of his identity as a Ru, and it was the source of all knowledge. It had vast implications, in Qian’s mind, for both the moral and the political spheres, which were interconnected in antiquity, both categorically and as embodied in the personas of the sages and exemplary men. Yet the understanding of the past as it had been transmitted to Qian’s present suffered from grave mistakes and discontinuities that troubled him. The only way to get to the past was textual because “later Ru”—or, more precisely, “all of the Ru [upholding] the Learning of the Way”—had misused the past, mistreated or misinterpreted it, and invented new pasts. Qian believed this meant he and other scholars had to reconstruct the past— antiquity and its aftermath—using philological and historical means.

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Philology, as I showed, did not replace yili (meanings and principles). Rather, it became its precondition, and Qian Daxin and the other protagonists of the philological turn pronounced their views on this matter often and unequivocally. These protagonists were “searching for the Way” (求道) or “searching for the Way of the sages” (求聖人之道), but they were not willing to concede that this search for the Way meant “emptily upholding meanings and principles” (空執義理). The search was to entail “quietly and stubbornly safeguarding” (墨守) the ancient records by means of philology.66 Nonetheless, philology and the historical mode of scholarship prevalent at the time did dictate the modus for expressing these views. The form of writing did not welcome those interested mostly in philosophizing—it was terse, loaded with quotations, and at times from obscure sources, and it gave very little guidance to the reader. The intended audience of most of these writings was a highly qualified, expert one. In order to find the yili, the reader had to go through thousands of citations and hairsplitting discussions. Philology thus overshadowed yili, and perhaps overwhelmed it, even if yili was still considered the end to which philology led. In my view, the real intellectual debate of the eighteenth century was therefore not Han versus Song learning, implying a simplistic debate between Song supporters who venerated yili and denigrated philology and Han supporters who venerated philology and denigrated yili. Rather, it was a debate between two competing epistemologies, one claiming valid knowledge could be achieved only through textual evidence and philology and the other stressing the ability to arrive at valid knowledge through reasoning and reflection (usually accepting philology as one more valid means for knowledge). The SKQS split of “those who read books”—the philologists—and “those who lecture” is therefore a much more accurate differentiation of the competing sides, and it is also contemporaneous.67 Indeed, Wang Mingsheng, in his 1795 preface to Sun Xingyan’s collected writings, accused Ming scholars, not Song scholars, of corrupting the classical transmission, and problematic reading was at the core: “Learning has to take penetrating the Classics as its essential task, penetrating the Classics has to take character literacy as its foundation; hence Ming literati did not penetrate the Classics, when reading books they all read in chaos, and scholarly methods were corrupted to the extreme, what texts were there to deserve talking [about]?!”68 In order to achieve valid knowledge, the leading philologists of the eighteenth century produced a massive corpus of classical and historical works, which, in general, were very much in line with the style of writing and argumentation outlined above for Qian Daxin. The famous works by these scholars included, apart from Qian’s works, such vast collections as Wang Mingsheng’s Shiqi shi shangque, Zhao Yi’s Nianer shi zhaji, and many other individual dynastic or otherwise collected histories. In this corpus scholars were able to uncover

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mistakes, to date and to name people and events across China’s space and time, and to discover overarching rules. The importance of these findings is still recognized today—but for the most part in scholars’ footnotes. Whereas these findings allow modern scholars to better understand ancient China, for the protagonists of the philological turn these findings and the reconstruction of historical texts and phonological systems of the Classics were meant to allow access to a renewed understanding of the past—and hence to a renewed ability to bring order to the world in their present. Indeed, the notions that the very identity of the Ru was at stake after centuries of neglect and that “antiquity”— the repository and creator of this identity—was in peril imbued Qian with a sense of duty and responsibility to fight back and mend the rupture with the past. This was therefore also an emotional task, as can be seen at times from Qian’s style of remarks. I further argue that for Qian, as a philologist-historian, the emotional attitude stemmed not from the eventual downfalls of various dynasties but from the notion that such downfalls were triggered because his line of people, Ru, failed to deliver at different times. Hence he emphasized the tight nexus between history and classicism that was so important to him. Similarly, he emphasized the nexus between learning and practice, knowledge and action, which he saw as critical: “One who has scholarship but lacks in behavior, is an offender of the teaching of the names [i.e., the Ru]” (有文無行，名教之 罪人也.).69 This was especially true for him, as he had to face not only “later Ru” of the Song or Ming but also outsiders—particularly the Westerners, who seemed to be in greater control of their past than did his fellow Ru. As he lamented in 1779, “The vulgar [people] of Europe are able to venerate their ancient learning while the Ru of the middle land more often than not think lightly of the ancients” (歐邏巴之俗,能尊其古學,而中土之儒,往往輕議古 人也).70 The ancient learning capabilities of the Westerners were related to the historical writings that Qian valued but even more so to another type of related expertise, that of calendrical studies, mathematics, and astronomy, the subjects of the next chapter.

PART III

THE WAY OF HEAVEN AND EARTH The Mandate of Scholarship and the Search for Order

Sheng Bai’er’s Rendering of the Geo-Heliocentric Model. Source: Sheng Bai’er 盛百二 (1756 juren), Shangshu shitian 尚書釋天 (Explanations of Heaven in the Shangshu) (N.P.: Rencheng shuyuan, 1774 edition), juan 4, p. 3.

CHAPTER 7

ASTRONOMY, MATHEMATICS, AND CALENDAR Historical Perspective

Scientific Categories and Rationale Qian Daxin once remarked that “when the worthies and sages pursued the Way, it was by making human relationships clear” (聖賢之求道, 以明人倫也).1 The Way under consideration in that remark was the Way of Man (人道); yet man was not operating in a vacuum or in an environment composed only of humans. Rather, he was operating in a cosmos, in which the Way of Heaven (天道) played a crucial role, influencing human life from its very beginning by endowing humans individually with their inborn nature (and fate, as discussed below) and being relevant to the well-being of state and society in general. The questions that followed this understanding of the relationship between man and cosmos, then, were these: How could, and why should, one know the Way of Heaven and to what extent? How, if at all, could one influence the type of interaction among the individual, the society or the state, and the Way of Heaven? And hence how should one conduct oneself so as to make sure the Way of Man and the Way of Heaven were in accordance? These questions will accompany us through the chapters of part III, and the first of them— How could and why should one know the Way of Heaven and to what extent?— serves as our departure point.2

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Consider the following passage from Qian Daxin’s 1780 preface to Qian Tang’s work Huainan Tianwen xun buzhu 淮南天文訓補注 (Further commentaries on the Heavenly patterns teaching [chapter] of the Huainan[zi]):3 The exploration of what is called the patterns of Heaven began with Confucius’ clarification of the Changes. “The alternation of Yin and Yang is called the Way”;4 “The transformations of the Way are called things, the intermingling of the things is called the patterns.”5 The Heavenly patterns are the Way of Heaven. When the Classics and their commentaries discussed the Way of Heaven, they all prioritized the seven planets, the five phases, auspicious or inauspicious [predictions], good or bad fortune.

Although Qian Daxin’s citing the Zhouyi 周易 (The Changes of Zhou) and equating the heavenly patterns with the Way of Heaven were not a novelty, his notions are relevant in understanding both the motivation to deal with scientific issues and the significance of astronomy and mathematics for astrology and divination.6 And in the preface Qian touched on this topic directly: Since the Qin burning [of the books], the books and treatises were dispersed and lost; the one chapter of the Huainanzi overall preserves the ancient methods [存古法]. Gaiting [Qian Tang] introduced and extended it, and one who reads it can catch a glimpse of the origins of the spherical 渾 heaven, vaulted 蓋 heaven, and infinite space 宣夜 [theories], [as well as] penetrate the study of the “canopy and carriage” [(堪輿, method of choosing auspicious time or space)] and the interactions of the various heavenly bodies.7

The linkage Qian suggested between different fields of knowledge and practice is revealing (we will return to the theme of preserving “ancient methods” later): cosmology, divination, and astronomy were understood as part of one comprehensive topic of inquiry, related to classicism through the Changes.8 Number-related disciplines were not precisely organized into defined and separate categories as the terms “mathematics,” “astronomy,” “numerology,” and “astrology” may suggest.9 What, then, were the categories that Qian Daxin used, and what did he mean by them? Qian did not provide us with direct answers or strictly defined categories.10 His categorization was broad, with interchangeable terms and titles rather than exclusive, narrow, or specific ones—at times even within the same essay. These categories included computational methods (算術),11 calculations (步算),12 arranged calculations (布算),13 calculations studies (算學),14 heavenly patterns (天文),15 predictive (heavenly) paces (推步),16 calendrical arts (磿術),17 numerical arts (術數),18 and simply numbers or studies of numbers (數, 數之 學).19 The practitioners of such methods and studies were identified by calling

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them chouren (疇人) or the next generations of the chouren (疇人子弟) or by simply adding the suffix jia (家) to the above terms. Qian’s lack of clarity over the matter was not unique; Mei Wending 梅文鼎 (1633–1721), arguably the greatest mathematician-cum-astronomer of the early Qing, found it necessary to engage the issue of the historical categorization of these fields well before Qian. In his Lixue dawen 曆學答問 (Questions and answers about calendrical learning) Mei tried to explain how and why the various categories had been differently arranged in different histories and how the various administrative offices that dealt with them related to one another. The result further suggested the existing confusion, as various methods and disciplines were essentially “used in an interconnected way” (互相為用).20 The SKQS categorization was more systematic, but despite the rhetoric of deriding divinatory texts, the categories were still not that clear-cut. The (new) general category of Tianwen suanfa (天文算法), roughly corresponding to astronomy and mathematics, included two subcategories: predictive (heavenly) paces (推步) and calculation books (算書). The SKQS editors regarded the two categories as interconnected and asserted that “computational methods and heavenly patterns complement each other” (算術天文相為表裏).21 Thus, the categories and subcategories included titles that could relate to both or that were not conclusively related to only one category.22 Nevertheless, the notion that there were two different, even if not totally separate, categories remained. Another related category was numerology, shushu 術數 (arts of numbers, consisting mainly of divinatory books), which SKQS editors relegated to the position right after astronomy and mathematics. Although numerology was separated from, even inferior to, astronomy and mathematics, it was also closely linked with them, thus manifesting the strong ties among all three categories. Divination often required astronomical and mathematical knowledge, and at times astronomical or mathematical questions arose from divinatory requirements. Qian Daxin’s interests were mostly scholarly and historical rather than practical, the ties among the three categories were loosening at the time, and some elite scholars overtly condemned some of the divinatory practices (yet such practices continued, as discussed in chapter 9). However, some of Qian’s works reveal the nexus between astronomical, mathematical, and calendrical research and divination.23 For example, in his “Taiyi tongzong baojian” 大[太]乙統宗寶鑒 ([On] the Precious mirror for the systematic treatise on the Taiyi [divination method])24 Qian analyzed the length of the tropical year according to which Taiyi divination operated, exposed mistakes, and further discussed the issue historically. As he put it in another essay, “When the ancient books discussed the Way of Heaven, they all prioritized auspiciousness and inauspiciousness, misfortune and good fortune, . . . they all discussed auspicious and inauspicious numbers” (古書言天道者,皆 主吉凶禍福而言.  .  .  . 皆論吉凶之數).25 Appendix F brings together most26

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of Qian’s writings about these subjects and demonstrates both this interconnectedness and Qian’s historical approach to scientific issues. And for Qian interest in all these fields of knowledge was part of his understanding of the essentials of Ru identity and culture. Nonetheless, in the mid-eighteenth century, when Qian’s scientific interest began to grow, it was considered an exception to study mathematics and astronomy within the Ru community at large. Indeed, as discussed in part I, it was only when Qian was in his mid-twenties that, with the company of two friends, Wu Lang and Chu Yinliang, he began to learn mathematics and astronomy. The three, wrote Qian, “discussed and practiced computational methods. We obtained the books of Master Mei [Wending] of Xuancheng and read them, practically forsaking eating and sleeping. Then we read the historical records of the successive dynasties, advanced [our knowledge of] calculations, and perceived the principles of predicting [heavenly] patterns from antiquity to the present” (與吳杉亭, 褚鶴侶兩同年講習算術. 得宣城梅氏書讀之, 寢食幾 廢. 因讀歷代史志, 從容布算, 得古今推步之理).27 Qian Daxin did not explain what stimulated him to begin these kinds of studies; it is, however, clear that soon thereafter he became a renowned authority on these subjects.28 His initial sources for scientific knowledge, according to his own statement, were drawn from Mei Wending’s works, 29 which included European and Muslim knowledge—that is, new categories of knowledge from outside Ru turf (culturally and geographically). Mei Wending’s works represented a synthesis of diverse knowledge systems, and the ethos that “Western learning originated from China” (西學中源) was supposed to reconcile, appropriate, and accommodate the different systems under the umbrella, or from within the roots, of the ancient and indigenous Ru cultural sphere.30 Qian Daxin, however, did not accept this ethos, this dictum, as an axiom: he examined different subjects and aimed to prove such origins and, as will be shown below, also to question the validity of outside knowledge when his own sources allowed him to assert the preeminence of Chinese knowledge. His research thus brought his philological and historical expertise and skills into the scientific arena. Likewise, Qian’s historical perspective is evident from his methodology with regard to scientific knowledge and its sources as well as to his scientific objects of inquiry. Mei Wending also searched for the ancient Chinese mathematical and astronomical predecessors of Western learning, but his and Qian’s attitudes were not identical, as we shall see below. And one of the major scientific issues that had been a subject of research in China’s history was that of the length of the tropical year. This issue was also a matter of debate, both in the first half of the eighteenth century and between Qian Daxin and Dai Zhen.31 In order to understand the eighteenth-century debates, let us begin with a brief explanation of the subject matter.

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Length of the Tropical Year in Historical Perspective The debate over the length of the year was central in the history of Chinese astronomy and calendrical studies, which were linked to politics and various divination methods. Dai Zhen wrote an entire treatise dealing with different values assigned to the length of the year throughout history entitled Gujin suishi kao 古今嵗實考 (Examination of the [length] of the tropical year from antiquity to the present), and Qian Daxin added many notes to that treatise.32 The Gujin suishi kao lists over sixty different calendars, most of which established different values for the length of the year. Table 2 shows a sample of the calendars that Dai Zhen included in the Gujin suishi kao and the different values for the length of the year they included.33 The length of the year was, of course, not the only parameter to be accounted for in the calendrical system. Other parameters included the number of years it takes for the winter solstice and the conjunction of the sun and the moon to take place at exactly the same time (often referred to as tong 統 [concordance cycle] or ji 紀 [era]);34 the number of lunations during one tong; the number of days in one tong (sometimes called zhoutian 周天 [a full heavenly cycle] or dazhou 大周 [great cycle]); and the number of tong it takes for the winter solstice, the conjunction of the sun and the moon, and also the first day of the sexagenary cycle to occur at exactly the same time (the yuan fa 元法 [origin factor]). In table 2 the denominator stands for the tong or ji; the numerator stands for the remainder after the zhoutian or dazhou is divided by the tong or ji with the assumption that the result was added to the basic 365 days of the year (this parameter often has its own term, such as xiaoyu 小餘 [small remainder] or doufen 斗分 [dipper divider]). Thus, we can see that not only was the value of the year different but also the parameters that were used to calculate it differed greatly (in astronomical terms) among different calendars. The complexity of the system is also evident.35 Indeed, determining the length of the year was critical to the successful production of a calendar, which, in turn, was a key factor in religious, political, and other practices—and not just in China. The calendar most of us use today—the Gregorian calendar—was the product of concerns that were very similar to those of the Chinese and was the subject of similar debates, both before and after its inception, such as the debate between Christopher Clavius and Joseph Scaliger over the Gregorian calendar and the length of the year.36 The first question to be considered in many such debates is, of course, What is a “year”? In the first imperial calendars for which we have sufficient data in China, the year was a relatively straightforward concept: it was the time difference between one winter solstice and the next. This interval was understood to be a constant number, linked and equal to the actual orbit of the sun around the earth.

Table 2 Selected Calendrical Systems in Chinese History

Length of the Tropical Year (plus 365 days for all)

Name of Calendar

Period or Person in Charge

Length of the Sidereal Year

1

Santong (三統, Triple Concordance)

Liu Xin (first c. CE)

385/1,539 = 0.25016244

—

2

Sifen li (四分, Quarter-Day Remainder)

Western and Eastern Han (with some modifications)

235/940 = 0.25

—

3

Qianxiang (乾象, Heavenly Symbol)

Liu Hong (third c.)

145/589 = 0.24617996

—

4

Huangchu li (黃初暦, Yellow Inception)

Wei Dynasty, Han Yi 韓翊

1,205/4,883 = 0.24677452

—

5

Jingchu li (景初 暦, Luminous Inception)

Yang Wei 楊偉 (in use 237–443)

455/1,843 = 0. 24688008

—

6

Daming li (大明暦, Great Brightness)

Zu Chongzhi (in use 510–589)

9,589/39,491 = 0.24281481

10,449/39,491 = 0.26459193

7

Zhengguang li (正光 暦, Upright Glory)

Northern Wei, Zhang Longxiang 張龍祥

1,477/6,060 = 0.24372937

—

8

Xinghe li (興和 暦, Ascendant Harmony)

Eastern Wei, Li Yexing 李業興

4,117/16,860 = 0.24418742

—

9

Tianbao li (天保暦, Heavenly Guardian)

Northern Qi, Song Jingye 宋景業

5,787/23,660 = 0.24459002

—

10

Tianhe li (天和暦, Heavenly Harmony)

Northern Zhou, Zhen Luan 甄鸞

5,731/23,460 = 0.24428815

—

11

Huangji li (皇極暦, Sovereign Pole)

Sui, Liu Chao 劉焯

11,406.5/46,644 = 0.24454377

12,016/46,644 = 0.25761083

12

Wuyin li (戊寅暦, Fifteenth-Year)

Tang, Fu Renjun 傳 仁均

2,315/9,464 = 0.24461115

2,485.5/9,464 = 0.26262679

13

Linde li (麟德暦, Chimera Virtue)

Tang, Li Chunfeng, 李淳風

328/1,340 = 0.24477611

—

14

Dayan li (大衍暦, Great Expansion)

Tang, Yixing 一行

743/3,040 = 0.24440789

779/3,040 = 0.25649671

15

Guantian li (觀天暦, Watching Heaven)

Song

2,930/12,030 = 0.24355777

3,084/12,030 = 0.25635957

16

Shoushi li (授時暦, Season Granting)

Yuan, Guo Shoujing

0.2425*

0.2575

∗ Guo Shoujing used a more complex method of computing the length of the tropical and sidereal years, which Dai Zhen did not include. Guo’s value for the tropical year was dynamic and varied one minute for every one hundred years (adding to or subtracting from the baseline length of the year—365.2425 in 1280—one minute for each hundred years in calculating backward or forward in time, respectively).

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As  Yixing 一行 (683–727)37 put it: “In the ancient calendars, the sun had a constant measure, and the orbit [of the sun] made up the entire year, therefore bounding up the measure of the stars with the [twenty-four] fortnightly periods” (古曆，日有常度，天周為歲終，故係星度于節氣).38 According to the earliest calendars each winter solstice occurred when the sun returned to the exact same spot in its path. How long was the year? Different calendars gave different answers, and Qian Daxin, well aware of the historical change while also elucidating it, showed how the length of the year in the Huangji li 皇極暦 (Sovereign Pole calendar) from the Sui period differed by 0.0001 from Yixing’s Dayan li 大衍暦 (Great Expansion calendar) from the Tang period. This fraction may seem negligible, but it was important to Qian—and to anyone interested in how to calculate events that occurred a millennium or two before Qian’s time—as this fraction could have consequences over a long period of time.39 The term “length of the year,” however, should be qualified, as there was a difference between the length of the calendar year and that of the solar or tropical year (and additional types of years, as discussed below). The calendar was based on lunar months, so the need arose to bridge the gap (“reconcile the irreconcilable,” as Needham put it40) between the length of the tropical year and the length of the period of twelve lunar months (which was also subject to debate). Another gap to be bridged was that among the sixty-day/sixty-year cycles (of the heavenly stems and earthly branches), the solar year, and the lunar month. This was usually done by adding intercalary months to make up for the time difference (the solar year being longer than the lunar year), thus also making sure that the calendar year was in line with the seasons (i.e., the solar year), as well as by using a system of epochs and cycles, which determined when the solstice, the conjunction of the moon and the sun, and the various sexagenary cycles coincided. Qian Daxin, explaining when an intercalary month should be added (at the beginning or end of the year and after several other months were all historical possibilities), concluded that the reason intercalary months are added at the end of the year stems from the Qin. When the Qin came to power, they altered the old system (which was more flexible) and fixed the extra month as always the last. Qian concluded that the Han continued this method, making clear that “this was a Qin method, not an ancient method” (此秦法，非古法也.).41 The calendrical system was indeed subject to change. As table 2 and the Gujin suishi kao demonstrate, many different values for the tropical year had been devised historically, along with many different calendrical systems. The calendar, nonetheless, was not made to account for the movement of only the sun and the moon. Many other constellations and stars required prognostication, and with the passing of time Chinese astronomers began to realize that when one compared the position of the sun in the sky relative to other,

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fixed heavenly bodies, it differed from one winter solstice to the next; Yu Xi 虞喜 (281–356) was credited with the discovery that the sun’s position continuously changed every year.42 This phenomenon meant that the sun did not return to the exact same spot in its orbit every winter solstice and hence that the time it took the sun to complete its orbit was not exactly the same as the time interval between two solstices. Thus a new type of time interval, comparable to but slightly higher or longer than the tropical year, was discovered, which in the West was called the sidereal year. Because there was a slight change in the position of the sun every year, the length of that new interval also changed, creating a time difference between the tropical and the sidereal years that was called the suicha 嵗差 (annual difference).43 The reason for this phenomenon was not known, but the  implication—as understood by Chinese astronomers—was important: “The heavenly [cycle] makes the heavenly [cycle], the yearly [cycle] makes the yearly [cycle]” (天為天，歲為歲);44 in other words, the sun’s orbit is independent of the length of the year. Qian Daxin explained it as follows: Heaven’s cycle and the yearly cycle [天周歲周] are both calculated from the winter solstice. The sun [completes] one cycle in one year, originally that was fully sufficient, but as the stars changed [their courses] and moved eastward, then the heavenly cycle [became] always longer than the yearly cycle. The shape of heaven is completely round, originally there were no mathematical calculations, and the saying “365 degrees and a remainder” was determined according to the sun’s cycle. During the Han, Wei, and before, no one knew about the annual difference, therefore, the heavenly cycle was [the same] as the yearly cycle. Zu Chongzi was the one who first knew that the winter solstice did not [continually occur] at a fixed spot, and differentiated the heavenly cycle from the yearly cycle into two. . . . That which is called the heavenly cycle is thus the heaven of the fixed stars, and as the body of heaven turns to the left [eastwards], the stars [turn] eastwards [too], [so] in the beginning there was no [issue] of the heaven having a longer course and the sun not keeping pace with it. I  once said that the heavenly cycle is actually the stars’ cycle, and the yearly cycle is the true heavenly cycle, as the measure of the heavenly cycle originally got its name from the yearly cycle.45

Qian thus explained the annual difference phenomenon as a result of the slow movement eastward of the entire fixed heavenly body (accepting the Huntian, spherical heaven cosmology) vis-à-vis the movement of the sun. Although he had ideas about different terms that should be used, he accepted the notion of the annual difference and followed it. He also credited the famous mathematician-cum-astronomer Zu Chongzhi 祖沖之 (ca. 429–500) with the discovery of the phenomenon (contrary to other views that credited Yu Xi),

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perhaps because he thought that Zu employed the new notion of suicha in the calendar for the first time, understanding the sidereal year to be of a changing length and the tropical year to be of an unchanging length.46 Later on, other calendars introduced new values for the tropical year, although the value of the tropical year was still deemed to be constant over time.47 In the thirteenth century another eminent astronomer—Guo Shoujing 郭守敬 (1231–1316)48—devised a new calendar (perhaps with the aid of Muslim astronomers), the Shoushi li 授時暦 (Season Granting calendar), in which he claimed that the suicha was itself subject to change and that the length of the tropical year—like the length of the sidereal year—was changing. He thus set the length of the base tropical year for calculations as 365.2425, the same as the value given in the Gregorian calendar some three centuries later.49 Guo reached the conclusion that the tropical year was changing both by using precise measurements he had made with improved instruments and measuring techniques over the span of a few years and by comparing the position of the sun in its orbit to the constellations at the time of the winter solstice since antiquity. He thus introduced a new mechanism for calculating the length of the tropical year back into history and further into the future, called the xiaochang 消長 (“shortening and lengthening” or simply variation). The idea was that the length of the tropical year had gradually shortened; thus in the past the year was longer, whereas in the future it would be shorter. If one were to search for a date in the past, one would have to take the base year calculated by Guo Shoujing and add to it a fraction for every hundred years or so. If one were to calculate the length of the year for the future, or any astronomical/calendrical event linked to it, one would have to reduce the base year by a fraction every hundred years.50 The variation method thus had important implications not only for how to devise current and future calendars but also for how to calculate events in the past, a principle that Qian Daxin accepted— and debated.51 Qian also argued that the forerunner of Guo Shoujing was the Southern Song astronomer Yang Zhongfu 楊忠輔 (ca. 1160–1227),52 who was in charge of the Tongtian 統天 (Concord with Heaven) calendar adopted in 1199. Qian, following Mei Wending, thought that two of the major influences Yang had on Guo and on the Shuoshi calendar were the notion of variation and the length of the year.53 The Shoushi li was in use during the Yuan (since 1281), and when the Ming came to power, they adopted it, almost wholesale, naming it the Datong li 大統 暦 (Great Concordance calendar). The two major changes of the Datong li were the changing of the epoch year (or the base year for calculating dates back in time or forward into the future) from Guo’s 128054 (in the Yuan dynasty) to 1384 (in the early Ming) and the discarding of Guo’s system for computing the variation of the length of the tropical year. These changes, especially the discarding of the variation system, did not go unchallenged. Although some scholars and

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officials supported discarding the variation system (and eventually won the debate under the leadership of Yuan Tong 元統 [dates unknown]), others— such as Li Defang 李德芳 (dates unknown) in the early Ming and, much later, Zhu Zaiyu 朱載堉 (1536–1610)—attacked the decision with fervor, claiming that the variation was an important and integral part of the calendar.55 The Shoushi li was very accurate at the time of its inception and a good baseline for starting the new calendar, but the Datong li gradually became inaccurate. There were several reasons for this. The epoch year according to Guo (1280) coincided with the time of his actual measurements (as well as with a specific cosmic situation whereby the time of the perihelion and the winter solstice were almost concurrent), and, due to the precession of the equinoxes, by 1384 the length of the year had already changed slightly. However, the Datong system kept the length of the year as it had been before (while changing the epoch year to 1384). Furthermore, whereas Guo’s system was supposed to compensate for the precession of the equinoxes by reducing one minute every hundred years (for future calculations), the Datong system did not incorporate this value. Finally, even if a minute had been reduced, it would not necessarily have helped, as (we now know) Guo was wrong about how to compensate for the precession.56 Although doubts about the accuracy of the calendar were raised by sixteenth-century Chinese scholars, with some suggestions on how to modify it, only in the mid-seventeenth century was a new calendar declared by the new Qing dynasty—with Jesuit influence and involvement. The new calendar brought new methods of calculating the length of the tropical year, a new cosmology, and hence new or modified calendrical calculations. In the Qingshi gao 清史稿 (Draft of the Qing history) chapter dealing with astronomy it is mentioned that the system that was introduced by the Europeans included the teachings of Brahe, Kepler, Cassini, and others, establishing the notions of the planetary deferent (本天, short for 星本行天, “orb of proper motion of the planet”), the highest points (apogee) and lowest points (perigee) of the sun’s orbit (高卑), the planetary epicycle (本輪), and the uniform epicycle (均輪).57 Later on, in the early eighteenth century, the elliptical orbit of planets (橢圓) was introduced, which also meant that the center (or focus) around which the various planetary objects traveled was not a fixed center—the earth—but a changing center, according to the positions of the planets relative to the earth. Also, it meant that the speed of these objects was changing according to their position on the orbit. The Europeans based the measurement of the length of the tropical year on the interval between two vernal equinoxes instead of the interval between two winter solstices, which had been the traditional Chinese method. They also took into account the more precise measurements of Tycho Brahe and others in

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Europe. However, this change in the beginning and end points of the interval was also culturally related. Whereas the timing of the vernal equinox was of great importance to the Church (as it was used to determine the date of Easter), the timing of the winter solstice was of great importance to the Chinese (as the yin/yang alternation point, in particular). The presentation of the new Jesuit calendar also meant new measuring units for the tropical year and for time in general. Instead of dividing the hours of the day and night into 12 shi 時 (hours, some of unequal length) with 100 ke 刻 (quarters), the European system had 24 (equal) hours and 96 quarters; each hour had 60 fen 分 (minutes), each quarter had 15 minutes, and each minute with 60 miao 秒 (seconds). I mention these seemingly trivial details because they were far from trivial for the scholars who dealt with Western science. In fact, as late as the nineteenth century, Chinese scholars often reminded their readers that time measurements were done in this way in the West and noted how they differed from the traditional Chinese units.58 The names of the units were not new, but they signified a new way of measuring time. The shift, as Verbiest described it later in the seventeenth century, was not superficial: “They [the Chinese astronomers] struggled then to retain this [traditional Chinese] division, which they inherited from times immemorial, as if it concerned the defence of their altars and their hearths.”59 Although one might suspect the description was exaggerated so as to fit the views of the European audience of the time, I would suggest that the question of how to measure time was indeed a grave cultural matter for the Chinese (as well as for many other peoples).60 The new calendar, its ways of calculating the length of the year, and the Jesuits who devised it faced challenges, such as the Yang Guangxian 楊光先 (1597–1669) affair, which, through the manipulations of Yang and his colleagues and their accusations against the Jesuits, caused the ousting of the Jesuits from the court for several years.61 However, prominent mathematician-astronomers, such as Wang Xishan 王錫闡 (1628–1682) and Mei Wending, endorsed the new calendar, so it seems that the issue had been settled by the early eighteenth century. The length of the tropical year was thus determined according to European methods; it was calculated at first (in 1645) following the late Ming Jesuit calculations as 365.2421875, and it was readjusted in 1684 with the epoch year changed to the first Kangxi reign year. During the first decades of the eighteenth century it was understood that further adjustments were required, and especially during the 1730s another calendar project was conducted at the Imperial Ministry of Rites. The result was the 1742 Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian 御製曆象考成後編 (Imperially sanctioned sequel to the Compendium of observational and computational astronomy), which readjusted the calendar with the epoch year changed to 1723 and recalculated the length of

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the year as 365.24233442.62 Yet although the official questions about the length of the tropical year had been settled, at least formally, the European methods used to determine it and its cultural implications remained a subject of debate.63

Early Eighteenth-Century Debates: The Jiang-Mei Clash In 1741, when the Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian project was in its final stages, Jiang Yong, a Jiangnan scholar, came to Beijing. Jiang thought of himself as a follower of Mei Wending and understood Mei, not unlike modern scholarship, to be a paragon of Western-Chinese knowledge synthesis.64 He recalled that he “heard that [in] Xuancheng there was Master Mei Wu’an [Wending], the most famous expert in calendrical calculations, and that being already advanced in years he [Mei] desired to have someone who would continue his teachings” (聞宣城有梅勿菴先生曆算第一名家. 年已耄欲得人傳其學). Jiang thus obtained one of Mei’s writings, the Lixue pianzhi 暦學駢枝 (Superfluous notes on calendrical learning), and because the book dealt mainly with the Shoushi and Datong calendars (of the Yuan and Ming, respectively), Jiang “began suspecting that mister Mei’s learning, on the whole, advocated China and dismissed the West” (始疑先生之學蓋主中而黜西).65 Jiang Yong consequently put aside Mei Wending’s scholarship for over two decades, until he came to read more of Mei’s writings in the 1730s. Jiang soon came to realize that he was mistaken about Mei, asserted Mei’s vast knowledge, and said he “desired to follow the master’s [Mei Wending’s] book, enhance and further it, . . . at times to supplement what had not been said, at times to reveal what had not been completed” (愛就先生之書衍繹之, . . . 或補所未言,或發 所未竟).66 Thus Jiang Yong’s book Yi Mei 翼梅 (The wings for Mei [Wending]) came into being. Jiang, as can be seen above, considered himself—whether sincerely or not is a different question—a follower of Mei Wending, not of Mei’s opposition. Jiang, perhaps, did see in Mei Wending the pluralistic openness ascribed to him in the twentieth century and aimed to pursue this line of inquiry even further.67 When Jiang arrived in Beijing in 1741, he had the opportunity to meet Mei  Wending’s grandson, Mei Juecheng 梅瑴成 (1681–1763). Jiang wanted Mei Juecheng to write a preface to the Yi Mei, hoping that Mei would endorse a book that Jiang thought to be generally supportive of Mei’s grandfather, especially because, according to Jiang, Mei Juecheng had invited him to the capital. Yet Jiang was soon to be proved wrong: at the meeting between the two Mei Juecheng took a quick look at the table of contents and began asking Jiang specific questions, trying to see whether or not the book was consistent with his

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grandfather’s teachings. The answers did not satisfy Mei, and after the meeting he read Jiang’s book, concluding that it was a far cry from what Mei Wending had envisioned. The two met again in the summer of 1741, and as an understanding could not be reached, the two parted ways: Mei wrote a short piece condemning Jiang and his book, and Jiang added another preface to the Yi Mei, explaining the dispute in a light favorable to him.68 What, then, were the principal points of disagreement between Jiang Yong and Mei Wending that may have aroused Mei Juecheng’s displeasure? And how did Mei Juecheng present his disapproval of Jiang Yong and his book? One of the main issues of contention between Jiang and Mei Wending was related to the length of the tropical year:69 Mei Wending accepted the notion that the length of the tropical year was changing, thus requiring some kind of variation method (消長), which, even if Guo Shoujing’s values were incorrect,70 should still be based on the methods promulgated in the Shoushi calendar; Jiang claimed that the Western way of devising a constant tropical year (in effect, a mean tropical year) was much better.71 Jiang further explained that the differences in the length of the tropical year throughout history were caused on one hand by the less precise method of measuring the year according to the interval of winter solstices (and the year should be measured as the Westerners did, according to the interval of the vernal equinoxes) and on the other by a lack of understanding of the entire heavenly system. He stated that the distinction between the tropical year and the heavenly cycle (天自為天，嵗自為嵗) was wrong: the differences in the length of the tropical year over time were caused by the different positions of the sun at the winter solstice with regard to other celestial objects, and in the long run these seeming differences cancelled each other out. Hence the use of a mean tropical year also meant for him a real, or constant (恆), tropical year.72 In a sense the use of the term “tropical year” (suishi 嵗實) for different types of measurement is somewhat misleading: suishi was not only an astronomically designated term used in a “civilian” calendar but also a culturally loaded term. To disassociate suishi from the winter solstice was thus not just a question of precision but also one of cultural authenticity. Moreover, Jiang Yong made it clear that he thought Western cosmology, astronomy, and calendrical studies were better, more correct, and more precise than the traditional Chinese ones.73 He wrote that after his meeting with Mei Juecheng he already knew that Mei “feared that [Jiang] Yong advanced the later calendrical lineages and neglected the work of previous men, and also worried that [Jiang] Yong advanced the cause of Western learning to an excess, [whereas Mei] wanted to make the Way of Xi and He 羲和 of our great civilization the basis [of calendrical studies]” (恐永於曆家知後來居上而忘昔人之勞. 又恐永主張西學太過,欲以中夏羲 和之道為主也).74

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Jiang was not wrong, but he perhaps was not aware of the fact that Mei Juecheng had a leading role in the Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian project, which was being conducted at the time and which also served as a cultural and institutional battleground between Chinese and Jesuit scholars. Thus it was also part of the reason for Mei Juecheng’s antagonism to enthusiastic views of Western learning. After their meeting, Mei Juecheng wrote the following impression of Jiang Yong: Therefore, as for the initial achievements of the ancients, [Jiang Yong] completely neglected them. Furthermore, [he] would do his utmost to find faults, and exert himself unrestrainedly to spread his slander, [and I] truly do not know his intentions. The Westerners did not go further than using their methods as a pretext for their [religious] teachings. Now their methods are already in use and their learning already in circulation; even if Shanxiu [Jiang Yong] desires to flatter and get closer to them, is it not [too] late? These Westerners now claim that the ancients knew nothing of calendrical [studies].75

The underlying principle that guided the debate between Jiang Yong and Mei  Juecheng was, then, cultural rather than purely scientific.76 And the question of who could claim legitimacy as an ancient and whether the ancients had authority in the debate was an important part of the discussion, as I show below. As noted earlier, Mei Juecheng did not write the preface Jiang had desired, and with his critique of Jiang’s book and character it seemed that the Yi Mei was doomed and Jiang Yong’s Beijing experience had turned out to be futile.77 Nonetheless, in Huizhou, Anhui, where Jiang Yong was teaching and where Dai Zhen was a student, Jiang’s teachings survived.78 And in 1754, when Dai Zhen traveled to Beijing, he carried the book with him, along with Jiang’s other writings. Dai introduced Jiang Yong’s Yi Mei to Qian Daxin, and Qian introduced Dai (not because of the Yi Mei, of course) to Qin Huitian and others of the scholarly milieu in Beijing. Dai thus presented Jiang’s writings to Qin Huitian, who later included some of them in the Wuli tongkao 五禮通考 (Comprehensive examination of the five rites). That the Yi Mei drew fire from scholars in the second half of the eighteenth century, including Qian Daxin and Ruan Yuan, testifies to its continued circulation among scholars.79 Dai Zhen included the Yi Mei in the SKQS, albeit under the title Shuxue 數學 (The learning of numbers) so as to avoid using the more controversial title, which included Mei Wending’s name. Qian Daxin, however, was not enthusiastic about Jiang’s teachings. And in 1754, after discussing some of the issues related to Jiang Yong’s and Mei Wending’s teachings with Dai Zhen and later reading Jiang Yong’s work, Qian wrote a letter to Dai. Qian recalled in the letter that among the issues they

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discussed in their meeting was the question of who was a better astronomer: Jiang Yong, as Dai Zhen suggested, or Mei Wending, as Qian Daxin claimed. The length of the year and its definition were a heated subject of debate.80 Mei  Juecheng’s reasons for rebuffing Jiang may have been partly influenced by being a relative of Mei Wending—and thus a self-appointed guardian of the family tradition (with imperial endorsement)—and also spurred by Mei Juecheng’s clashes with Jesuits within the Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian project. However, Qian bore neither family relations nor local allegiance to Mei Wending and in 1754 still had no institutional feuds with Jesuits. What, then, was the rationale that informed Qian’s choice of Mei over Jiang? And what can the terminology and style of the letter reveal about notions of scientific knowledge, competing Ru identities, and the philological pursuit from the 1750s? These questions set the scene for the next chapter.

CHAPTER 8

ANCIENT LEARNING ENCOUNTERS WESTERN LEARNING Scientific Knowledge and Its Cultural Baggage

Setting the Scientific-Cultural Stage “If one was to hold on to the measures of master Jiang [Yong] when going to the market, he was bound to be whipped by the market superintendent!” (持江氏之 權度以適市,必為司市所撻矣), exclaimed Qian Daxin after he learned of Jiang Yong’s opinions. After he had met with Dai Zhen in 1754, Qian made this harsh statement in the letter he wrote to Dai debating who was a better astronomer: Jiang Yong or Mei Wending. In the letter Qian debunked Jiang’s mistakes (as Qian understood them) and praised Mei’s stance, especially regarding the length of the tropical year. The letter—which was also quoted as a whole in the entry about Qian Daxin in the first sequel to the CRZ—is thus a valuable source for understanding the debate as well as for understanding the general attitude of Ru toward Western learning in the middle of the eighteenth century.1 Qian Daxin began the letter by turning the Mei versus Jiang question into a dualistic cultural opposition—Ru versus the West (or perhaps the Chinese, Zhong, Ru 中儒 versus the Western, Xi, Ru 西儒). Going beyond the strictly scientific argument about how to arrive at an exact value of the length of the tropical year, Qian stated: “Xuancheng [Mei Wending] was able to use Western learning, whereas master Jiang became merely something to be used by Westerners” (宣城能用西學,江氏則為西人所用而已). Qian then further discredited Jiang Yong vehemently,2 comparing Jiang to the infamous Qin prime minister Li Si 李斯 (ca. 280–208 BCE) and indicting Jiang for the fabrication of history, incompetence, and useless sophistry. Most importantly,

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Qian portrayed Jiang as a traitor who went against the way of Xi and He, the ultimate starting point for astronomy—indeed, for “world ordering” projects— as far as eighteenth-century scholars were concerned; hence Jiang became “merely something to be used by Westerners.”3 These assertions, however, are far from self-evident. In the mid-eighteenth century Westerners were, supposedly, inconsequential for elite scholars: since the late Kangxi reign period, and perhaps even more so during the Yongzheng era, imperial intervention meant Christian proselytism ceased to be a subject of concern for the scholarly elite;4 the status of Westerners at court and beyond the court declined; and Mei Wending allegedly synthesized Western learning into the Chinese discourse under the auspices of the court.5 Moreover, the “Western learning originated in China” (西學中源) ethos had already been instituted and popularized among scholars, and no further justification seemed to be required for scholars to deal with or avoid Western learning. So why was Qian Daxin anxious about Jiang becoming “merely something to be used by Westerners”? In the letter Qian discussed the model Ru whom Jiang Yong attacked: Guo Shoujing and Yang Guangfu (楊光輔). Guo Shoujing, as discussed above, was the one credited with the development of the Shoushi calendar, which Qian perhaps saw as the best Chinese alternative to Western calendars. As for Yang Guangfu, that seems to be a typo; I prefer the theory that the name should have been Yang Zhongfu (mentioned in the previous chapter as the forerunner to Guo Shoujing), as the letter continues to discuss one of the concepts with which Yang and Guo were credited—the notion of variation in the length of the year—and Jiang Yong’s rejection of it.6 Qian thus argued for the Yang Zhongfu/ Guo Shoujing system of calculating the changing length of the year—assuming a longer value in the past and a shorter one in the future. These calculations were of significance not only for creating a functioning calendar but also for fine-tuning the calendar, for arriving at better predictions of natural events (as mentioned above, in the early 1740s one such project was finalized, with religio-political debates and implications), and, from a historical or historicist perspective, for calculating past dates of historical and cosmic events. From the historical perspective Qian regarded Western methods as irrelevant because they had no effect, he argued, on past calculations (as the Western methods did not propose a changing length of the year but rather a mean value) and because they did not consider past information at all. As we have seen, for Qian, as for his many of his peers, the past, revered antiquity (gu 古), was the central pillar of Ru identity.7 Another option for reading the name in the letter—Yang Guangfu—although not as likely in my view, is that the typo was not the guang but the fu and that Qian was referring to Yang Guangxian, whom Qian valued for his opposition—as scientifically ignorant as it may have been—to Jesuits at court almost a century earlier.8

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Whether Qian meant Yang Zhongfu or Yang Guangxian, it is evident that for him science was part of his cultural identity; mathematics and astronomy were part of being a Ru.9 The threat from the West may have changed from Yang Guangxian’s time and may have been contained in some respects during the eighteenth century; it was not understood as a direct political, economic, or military threat. Earlier concerns over loyalty, as well as later ones about opium, trade, and sovereignty troubles, were not evident; nevertheless, a  threat was felt, a cultural threat to Ru identity. Jiang Yong’s assertions about Guo Shoujing also echoed (intentionally or not) the Kangxi emperor’s denouncement of the latter. I do not know if Qian knew that, but if he did, one could claim that Qian’s defense of Guo (and, of course, of Yang Guangxian, whom Kangxi found guilty) could also be interpreted as expressing uneasiness toward the Kangxi emperor and perhaps a concern about how the present Manchu emperor, Qianlong, might manage astro-calendrical affairs. These speculations, however, find no explicit grounds to sustain them as more than that.10 Qian Daxin, however, did not stop at defending past Ru, attacking Jiang Yong, or reciting the “Western learning originated in China” ethos while suggesting the irrelevance of Western methods to China. Rather, Qian went as far as doubting Western learning in itself, trying to prove the West wrong, discredit it, or fault it for plagiarism. Qian claimed that the Western values of the tropical year were inconsistent even with “less than a hundred years” (未及百年) and that the Westerners themselves argued over the issue. In an essay on “The Calculation Methods of the Muslims” (回回算術), Qian accused Tycho Brahe of fraud; Tycho, Qian claimed, had used Muslim values for the length of the year while fraudulently claiming he measured them: [The length of the tropical year according to the Muslims, as calculated by Dai  Zhen, was 365.24218750.] Toward the end of the Ming, the man of the Western ocean, Tycho, measured the time difference between vernal equinoxes, and fixed the tropical year as 365 days 23 quarters 3 minutes and 45 seconds. [If one] multiplies 23 quarters by 15 [to get the value in minutes], adds 3 minutes, again multiplies [the sum] with 60 [to get the value in seconds], and adds 4911 seconds, the total is 20,925 seconds. This means [that the ratio between the remainder] 20,925 and 86,400 [which is the total number of seconds in a day of 24 hours] is, if multiplied by 100,000,000, also 24,218,750 [as the remainder after 365 days, the same as the Muslim value]. So it is known that Tycho actually secretly used the Muslim system when he determined the tropical year, although he said he got it from measurements.12

“Tycho actually secretly used the Muslim system when he determined the tropical year, although he said he got it from measurements” is a harsh

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accusation, aimed at one of the most important European scholars the Jesuits presented to China. Qian Daxin further undermined, or hoped he did, a central astronomical claim made by the Jesuits, that of using exact measurements. The West was thus presented as deceitful, and those who became the West’s followers were condemned both by implication and directly, as the Jiang Yong case demonstrates. Clearly, Qian Daxin’s argument was flawed and exposed a probable misunderstanding of Tycho’s measurements, their intentions and findings, and the intricacies of the new cosmological system Tycho proposed. But Qian’s attack on Westerners and their learning was not solely, perhaps even mainly, related to astronomy as such; rather, it was a cultural battle fought with astronomical means. Furthermore, this attack was not aimed solely or mainly at Westerners who were using Ru scholars; I argue that Qian’s attack was meant as a corrective to an even greater challenge, the internal challenge and threat posed by such “modernistic” Ru who favored Western learning. For Qian, it seems, the internal threat to Ru culture and to Ru identity was the main issue. The scientific debate was, at times, a veil for a cultural battle internal to the Ru community. Acceptance of Western scientific premises was therefore a blow to the way of Xi and He, regardless of the details. But it was not only an internal battle, as the entanglement of Christianity as a teaching (教) with science and technology also meant a more general distrust on the part of Ru such as Qian Daxin toward Westerners and the material and cultural baggage they carried. This stance was not unique to Qian Daxin, nor was it limited—in general strokes rather than specifics—to high-brow elite scholars specializing in mathematics and astronomy. Consider Ji Yun’s story about a legendary Song dynasty crossbow, which he and others were attempting to rebuild after it had disappeared from sight centuries earlier. Ji wrote that he “wanted to make a sketch and have some Westerners set it to rights,” as his own attempts to grasp the matter had failed. The underlying assumption here was clearly that the Westerners’ proficiency in such matters of technology may have been greater than that of his fellow Chinese. However, Ji Yun narrated the reply of his teacher, who opposed this idea: Westerners are people that defy our understanding. The method of deriving mathematical roots was originally a Chinese method but it spread west and is known there as the method from the east. And yet, if one studies mathematics from them, they would hide something and not tell all that they know. This crossbow has been passed down as a prized weapon. How can we know that the Westerners will not secretly take it away and just tell us that they do not understand it? The Yongle dadian is stored at the Hanlin Academy. Perhaps someone someday will understand it. What need is there to seek help from foreign countries?13

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Such concerns over Westerners hiding information and knowledge from the Chinese (as we know they did) and robbing the Chinese of their ancient knowledge (and weapons, too, in this case) reveal the complexities of cultural, scientific, and technological transference in the eighteenth century.14

A Four-Way Debate: Scientific Knowledge, Validity, and Culture Qian Daxin’s suspicions about Western knowledge included his views of Western cosmology: for him, Western cosmology was no more (and no less) than a heuristic device, useful for calculations but certainly not a correct description of how the real heavens were shaped.15 Western cosmology was thus legitimate when used for calculations, but when Ru scholars—such as Jiang Yong—accepted it as real, they went against the grain of Ru culture. The “heuristic device” strategy was also employed in early modern Europe in order to legitimize the use of the heliocentric cosmology without discarding Christian cosmology and theology that positioned the earth at the center.16 The forces driving the Christians and the Ru to resolve the tensions between their belief and identity systems and the new scientific assertions were thus comparable, and so were their solutions, resulting in bifurcation into real and heuristic.17 But could the real heavens be known? Qian seems to have been skeptical about such a possibility; in his 1754 letter to Dai Zhen he quoted the Zhouyi 周易 (The changes of Zhou) when he said that “going beyond this, it is hardly possible to know” (過此以往,未之或知).18 In 1779 Qian continued this line of skepticism, relating the difficulties of understanding heaven and earth: “Does heaven have a measure? Does the earth have a circumference? I cannot know, but it is only through existence of numbers that there is a way of knowing them [the measure and circumference]. . . . No one can grasp and control the thousand transformations and myriad changes.”19 Yet whereas knowledge had its limitations, the men of antiquity (古) could provide some answers: “Those penetrating [men] of antiquity had established the [calculations of the] right triangle and the right angle in order to investigate their [heaven and earth’s] transformations, and thereby the height of heaven and the extent of the earth could all be calculated and pointed at.” Because the ancients had already attained all possible knowledge of heaven and earth, one could know more in Qian’s present by trying to understand the ancients and their writings better. Qian acknowledged the preeminence of the ancients time and again, as we have also seen in part II. Thus, for Qian, the search for scientific origins both exposed the vitality of ancient Ru and revealed the better ancient originals. In discussing the length of the tropical year, both Qian Daxin and Dai Zhen declared that the Western value was based on an earlier Muslim value.

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Dai Zhen further argued that the value of the older Julian calendar, 365 days and 1 quarter, was in fact based on the value of the ancient Han dynasty sifen 四分 (1 quarter) calendar.20 But the search for ancient Chinese origins did not mean that Western learning was discredited as a whole, and many parts of it could also (and often had to) be legitimized, as scholars had deemed them correct. In a “Questions and Answers” section21 Qian Daxin asked whether “the theory from the Western Ocean which claims that the sun’s orbit has a highest [apogee] and a lowest point [perigee] also has a basis” (泰西推日躔有最高卑之行,其說亦有本乎). Qian’s first step in his reply was to assign the origin of the apogee-perigee theory to the Muslims; then he concluded that an earlier precedent for the theory could be found in the “four movements” (si you 四遊) system, depicted in a Han dynasty text, the Shangshu wei 尚書緯 (The woof of the documents), along with its commentaries.22 Next, Qian explained the “four movements” system by equating the two theories, saying that “although the theories of the two lineages [China and the West] seem to be incompatible, in fact they prove each other, just like the two halves of a tally” (兩家之言似枘鑿之不相入, 而還以相證, 如合符節). The  “two halves of a tally” illustration is a quotation from Mengzi (8.289), where it qualifies the actions of the two sage rulers—Emperor Shun (a native of the east) and King Wen (a native of the west)—as similarly propitious. Mengzi acknowledged that Shun lived well before Wen but said both had acted based on similar rationales, grounding their accomplishments within “the Central Land” (中國). In this way Qian Daxin posited the Chinese and the Western systems as similar, albeit with Chinese priority in antiquity; the Western method became a legitimate derivative. Qian thus legitimated and criticized Western learning simultaneously. Qian mourned the neglect of the Shangshu wei and blamed the “later Ru” (後儒)—a derogatory term, as we have seen in part II—who had slandered the theory as “hard to believe” (難信). Qian concluded that “those who practice Western learning are still not able to be extensively familiar with the Classics and Histories as well, in order to connect the positions of antiquity and the present time, and [in that way] not become confused over the discord” (習西學者, 又不能博涉經史, 以通古今之郵, 無惑乎齟齬). Thus Qian’s notion of the “ancients versus moderns” debate is also evident from his scientifically related writings.23 And in this line of writings the challenge involved another group beyond the Chinese ancients and the Chinese moderns—the Westerners. Why, then, did the China-versus-the-West debate resurface in the mid-eighteenth century? Why did Qian Daxin search for the origins of what was then not so new knowledge from the West in Chinese antiquity? The proposition that it was all part of a continuous legitimation campaign for using Western

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learning under the guise that “Western learning originated from China” (Xixue zhongyuan) is valid, yet it is also incomplete. As we have seen, Qian did not merely legitimate Western knowledge— he  also attacked this knowledge. Furthermore, Qian’s quest for antiquity was definitely not limited to Western learning and should be taken as one part in a larger puzzle. Qian Daxin’s and Ruan Yuan’s refusal to accept the heliocentric model presented by Michel Benoist (1715–1774) should be not only understood in terms of astronomical or cosmological inconsistencies with the Western knowledge transmitted to China beforehand or a “restorationist” fervor24 but also seen in light of Qian’s and Ruan’s perceptions of the nature or structure of knowledge. By structure of knowledge I primarily mean whether knowledge was progressive and accumulative or static and fixed as well as the very possibility of obtaining comprehensive knowledge (note Qian’s skepticism on this issue in the letter to Dai Zhen, discussed above):25 scientific knowledge was not a unique, stand-alone category; rather, it was related to classicism, rituals, and morality (and much more)—that is, the basic grid of Ru identity, with science being part of its cultural commitment. Therefore, on the grounds of scientific endeavors, tensions arose both within the Ru community (between those understood as defenders of the ancients and those perceived as modernists or followers of the West) and between Ru and Westerners. In previous chapters I dealt with Qian’s sense of antiquity and newness and its cultural and scholarly nexus. Here I focus on the scientific identity of the Ru and the threats to that identity, as apparent from Qian Daxin’s writings. Qian Daxin did accept Western scientific superiority over China, as science developed in the West during the recent few centuries before his time. Qian attributed scientific faults to the Ru of the Ming dynasty, saying “the Ming Ru did not comprehend the computational methods” (明儒無通算術者).26 The problem was not that the West was so successful but rather that incompetent Ru failed to carry out their duties, duties to engage in science and duties to transmit ancient knowledge, knowledge that had been an essential part of their Ru identity: “Since antiquity there had been no one who did not know numerical [methods] and was [still] regarded as a Ru. The disadvantage of our Chinese methods with regard to Europe stems from the mathematical ignorance of the Ru” (自古未有不知數而為儒者. 中法之 絀於歐邏巴也,由於儒者之不知數也).27 In Qian’s letter to Tan Tai, Qian bemoaned the fact that “in my younger days I wandered with the scholars of the country, and none of those who practiced mathematics could be compared to Dai Dongyuan [Zhen]. When Dongyuan died, his studies were not transmitted further” (予少與海內士大夫游,所見 習於數者,無如戴東原氏. 東原歿,其學無傳). Qian still had hope, though, because scholars such as Dai Zhen and Tan Tai (and other students of Qian, mentioned below) showed great scientific prowess, and with institutional

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means—at the academies, for example, and with the team projects under way—the hope seemed realistic. “Originally,” wrote Qian, “the ancient methods and [those of] Europe were not so far apart from each other” (古法與歐 邏巴原不相遠), so scientific revival could be achieved. Moreover, the terminology in the last quote may suggest that the ancient Chinese methods and the European ones were not just “close” but actually had one common source: Chinese antiquity.28 And with antiquity on the line, the philologists could feel at home and employ their rigorous textual methodology to reconstruct the ancient texts and bring ancient (deemed original) Chinese science back to full bloom. Advancing in mathematics and astronomy in order to catch up with the West therefore meant a textual travel to antiquity, or to various antiquities, as the case may be. And some of Qian’s relatives and students were perfect candidates for the job. Two such candidates who fulfilled their promise from Qian Daxin’s perspective come up in Qian’s essay discussing the value of π: “Yuan jingzhou lu” 圓經[徑]周率 (The ratio of the diameter and circumference of the circle [π]).29 The essay begins with a long quotation from the Sui shu 隋書 (Records of the Sui dynasty), laying out various values for π and culminating with the fifth-century value of between 3.1415926 and 3.1415927, established by Zu Chongzhi.30 Next, Qian argued that Westerners used trigonometric calculations to find a similar value, 3.14159265, which was exactly between Zu Chingzhi’s lower and upper limits, 3.14159265. Most mathematicians, Qian continued, were in basic agreement around this approximate value. However, Qian was not like most mathematicians, and contrary to this prevalent view, he suggested a different value for π: 3.16. Qian’s reasoning for the 3.16 value included experimentation, mathematical theory, history and antiquity, and a personal argument, all of which proved his conclusion. He first claimed to have used a wooden wheel with a known diameter of 1 zhang and measured its circumference with a bamboo strip to determine the ratio. He added mathematical, or geometrical, theory, emphasizing that any use of straight lines (to construct multiple triangles within a circle) in an attempt to measure a circle or curved lines would be inaccurate. History, Qian continued, in fact supported his own findings: the great mathematician Qin Jiushao 秦九韶 (ca. 1202–1261)31 calculated the area of a circular field, and in the process he also presented the value of π as the square root of 10; Qian calculated the square root and arrived at 3.16227766. Qian thus concluded this part of his essay with this statement: “Therefore the ancients had already realized it before” (則古人已有先覺者). Antiquity and the ancients were intertwined with the historical and scientific argument. And if all of the above did not convince the reader, Qian added a personal touch: his nephew Qian Tang and his student Li Rui had both agreed that the value of π was indeed 3.16.32

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This discussion, seemingly on a pure mathematical problem, exposes us to Qian Daxin’s priorities and anxieties. He went against those deemed “modernists” or “later Ru” (後儒) and against Westerners and their Chinese followers. He even refuted his own paragon of Chinese astronomy and mathematics, Mei Wending, who had no issue with the 3.14 value for π. Indeed, whereas Mei was searching for common denominators with and precedents for Western mathematics in China, Qian Daxin was seeking discrepancies that would allow him to demonstrate to his (Ru) audience the mistakes of the West and at the same time to correct Chinese antiquity. Qian Daxin, as we have seen before, used the terms “antiquity,” “ancients,” and “later Ru” according to his needs. In this case even a “more-ancient ancient,” such as Zu Chongzhi, was cast aside in favor a “later ancient,” Qin Jiushao, who met Qian’s scientific-cultural requirements.33 This was therefore a four-way debate: between China and the West and between true Ru and later Ru within Ru community. But the Western side of the debate, in fact, had no active speakers, only texts. That aspect made the later eighteenth-century debate different from earlier debates or quarrels: in the seventeenth century Jesuits such as Verbiest presented their views (and in Chinese). Even during the first half of the eighteenth century Jesuits working in the Astronomical Bureau were part of the discussion (although far less prominently than Verbiest). Benoist, whose map and explanations were presented to the emperor in the mid-1750s, presumably after Qian himself “polished” them, was not an active part of the debate. Although the Qianlong emperor was interested in Benoist’s talents for arranging his European gardens, it is doubtful Qian Daxin would have invited Jesuits to intervene directly in the debate.34 The question of whether or not Benoist himself was a threat—or, more correctly, whether Qian Daxin considered him a threat—remains unanswered. In fact, the sense of threat that emerges from my discussion above, I would argue, requires more research with regard to another question: whether the Jesuits in the second half of the eighteenth century really were as irrelevant as modern scholarship has claimed. The Jesuit technological efforts were not invisible, even if direct dialogue between Ru and Jesuits was not very common:35 in architecture, gardens, cartography, painting, and music the Jesuits’ presence could still be felt and seen (in person until their order dispersed in the 1770s; in relics and texts afterward). And they competed for the court’s favor and engaged with Chinese historical players, whether these were Ru or not.36

The Debate in Historical Perspective, 1600–1800 Whether Dai Zhen ever replied to Qian’s allegations remains a mystery. In fact, we do not know if the letter was even sent or delivered to Dai Zhen: by the time

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it was published (at the turn of the nineteenth century), Dai and Jiang Yong were long dead. Jiang died in 1762, and Dai Zhen and Qian Daxin each wrote his biography. The two biographies (especially the opening paragraphs) are remarkably similar—and often identical.37 Both hailed Jiang as a great scholar, an exemplary Ru, and an expert in ancient learning. They included Jiang Yong’s critique of Mei Wending’s assertions regarding the tropical year but avoided— as befitting the genre of commemoration—offering their own assessment of this critique. With Jiang’s works entering the Wuli tongkao in the 1750s and the SKQS in the 1770s, both through Dai Zhen, Jiang’s name was cleared posthumously, and the debate lingered with other protagonists.38 Neither Qian nor Dai took office at the Astronomical Bureau, and their writings did not influence the imperial calendar making. The debate had no concrete consequences. In many ways the “science” in the debate stood for “cultural,”39 and it was a textual debate within the community of elite Ru scholars, leaving technicians, official astronomers, and Western scholars outside of its scope. The debate concerned the question of what kind of (scientific) knowledge could be considered legitimate—and hence anchor cultural, as well as official and political, identity. The ancients, or their later representatives such as Qian Daxin, adhered to past Chinese sources; the modernists accepted Western sources (human or textual) as valid. The boundaries and limitations of knowledge were disputed, as were the privileged status and authority of antiquity.40 The interconnected nature of the relationship between science and cultural identity can be seen not only in China but also in Europe. Examples include the controversy over the value of the tropical year in Renaissance Europe, the modes of writing the history of mathematics as a European invention, the “Needham question,”41 and the ongoing debates about whether the value of π given in the Old Testament (i.e., 3.0) is right or wrong. The Jesuits linked natural philosophy and theology, whereas Ru such as Qian Daxin associated scientific studies with classicism; in both cases the protagonists’ cultural identities were on the line. Hence a Jesuit claim to superiority in scientific fields had the potential to suggest superiority in other fields of knowledge (and practice); this was what the Jesuits had in mind to begin with, and it was indeed relevant to Ru scholars. If the Jesuits were in fact the originators of their superior scientific theories and techniques, then why would their theological theories not be superior (something that Matteo Ricci himself had envisioned)? At the heart of the matter lay also different notions of antiquity and the nature of knowledge upheld by the Chinese participants in the debates. Xu Guangqi 徐光啓 (1562–1633), one of the early prominent advocates of Western learning during the late Ming, regarded knowledge as progressive and accumulative, despite grand rhetorical declarations about the great

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ancient Chinese sages. Xu conceded the Western superiority and in a memorial to the throne (dated 1629), for example, wrote explicitly that “all of these [astronomical issues] were unheard of since antiquity, only the calendar of the Western countries has had them, and if this numerical system is discarded then eclipse [predictions] will be violated, and in the end there will be no suitable coherence [between predictions and occurrences]” (皆古來所未聞,惟西國之 曆有之,而舍此數法,則交食凌犯,終無密合之理). 42 Xu did not claim, however, that Western knowledge in tutto was new to China or that it was lacking completely from China’s indigenous systems. He thus suggested the rhetoric of “when the rites are lost seek out in the open [i.e., outside of the civilized center]” (禮失求野) to domesticate Western knowledge.43 Later the ethos of Xixue zhongyuan was likewise used for such domestication, often while accepting the notion that scientific knowledge was progressive and accumulative.44 However, whereas Xu Guangqi accepted the resulting conclusion—endorsed by the Jesuits, of course—that scientific superiority indicated the religious superiority of Christianity,45 it seems that Mei Wending’s grand project was to create a firewall between the scientific and the cultural-religious Jesuit claims. Thus, although Xu Guangqi and Mei Wending tried to connect Western and Chinese learning, each held a very different view of the connection precisely because the cultural hierarchy embedded in it was clear.46 One of Mei Wending’s treatises demonstrates perhaps what made Qian Daxin admire him. This treatise, “Lun Xili yuanliu ben chu Zhongtu ji Zhoubi zhi xue” 論西歷源流本出中土即周髀之學 (Discussion of the origin and spread of the Western calendar which originated in our land and comes close to the teaching of the Zhou Gnomon), written in 1705, shows Mei’s acceptance of the progressive nature of scientific knowledge. Mei described a gradual advancement in the history of Chinese calendars from the Han onward, in which “Western methods” (西術) represented the height of advancement, and flatly asked, “Why choose between our Chinese or the Westerners’ [learning]?” (何擇乎中西). But if we are impressed by this universalist approach, it is imperative to keep reading—for although Mei did not give a reason to choose one or the other, he did make such a choice: he told readers of how he had researched the ancient Zhoubi suanjing and had found all the Western teachings there. Mei concluded that because “there was no one who talked about Western systems” (其時未有言西法者) back in those ancient times, “how could one deny that the ancients had [already had] their [the Westerners’] system?!” (豈非 舊有其法歟). And with every method, including the Westerners’ methods, requiring a source [本], Mei located that source in the Zhoubi suanjing. With antiquity reigning supreme and the Chinese source identified, Western learning could be “trusted” (信). Mei ended his discussion relating the scientific methods to the ancient sages: “How could one deny that this is the spirit of

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what the ancient sages had created?!” (豈非古聖人制作之精神).47 The Xixue zhongyuan ethos was meant to resolve tensions arising from the cultural and scientific nexus. Yet the tensions did not evaporate. That is why Mei was not satisfied with simply stating the Chinese origins; he also attempted to prove them through the ancient texts.48 But for Qian Daxin the progressive view of knowledge posed a problem, and we encounter more tensions. On one hand he seemingly accepted the progressive notion, as can be seen both from the obvious example of how philology gained knowledge day by day and from the examples of his discussion of the discoveries of the annual difference, the variation method, and the value of π. On the other all these examples had to be anchored in antiquity: philology aimed to find ancient knowledge, and for each of the scientific examples an “ancient” (古) authority was determined; whether that authority was a fifth-, twelfth-, or thirteenth-century ancient was almost irrelevant. Recalling his use of the poem in praise of the banana (chapter 4), we can see that legitimacy for the new branches was to be sought in the corm, which was antiquity for science as well as for classicism. Qian did not seek to create a firewall between science and culture; he sought to keep their nexus by proving the ancient Chinese superiority, Ru superiority. Qian’s support of Mei Wending as opposed to Jiang Yong was therefore anchored in notions of knowledge, identity, and antiquity. And Jiang Yong was not the only scholar who was interested in and promoted Western scientific learning in the eighteenth century: Sheng Bai’er 盛百二 (juren of 1756) promoted the acceptance of the Tychonic system as an official and as a teacher in academies;49 Minggatu, or Ming Antu 明安圖 (d. 1765?), the renowned Mongol-banner mathematician, claimed that “nothing like it [Pierre Jartoux’s (1668–1720) work on infinite series] exists in ancient or modern mathematics.”50 Yet the intellectual turn to philology, championing the cause of antiquity among the large social networks of Qian Daxin and his relatives, colleagues, and students, countered the modernistic views and seemed to triumph, with the 1799 CRZ telling the story of the victors.51 In 1806 Duan Yucai wrote a preface to Qian Daxin’s QYTJ. He praised Qian for his high abilities, saying that “[regarding] the Chinese and Western calendrical methods from the Han to modern times, there was none that he [Qian Daxin] was not clear about as if it was a stroke of finger on his palm” (自漢迄今中西曆法,無不瞭如指掌).52 Whether Duan intended it or not, his preface touched on the tensions related to Ru identity that Qian struggled with in his scientific writings: between ancients and moderns, between China and the West, and about ways to link all four. As I have shown in this chapter, these tensions not only formed the basis for Qian’s attitude toward mathematics and astronomy but also had a major bearing on Qian’s notion of Ru identity and culture. In the scientific fields, as in the classical and historical fields of learning, Qian Daxin was working with texts, and the observable natural

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phenomena seemed secondary to textual evidence. Rather than completely rejecting Western science (which was an alternative), Qian Daxin and his peers carefully engaged with it, and this, along with the rise in the status of those pursuing these fields that accompanied the engagement, meant the opening of an intellectual and social space (metaphorically and concretely) wherein nineteenth-century scholars could develop their own ideas. And as the new century ushered in new and at times harsher challenges, the tensions described above often surfaced, and scholars found new ways of working between the Way of Heaven and the Way of Man.

CHAPTER 9

FATE, RITUAL, AND ORDERING ALL UNDER HEAVEN

The Way of Heaven, Fate, and Religiosity Qian Daxin’s interest in exploring the Way of Heaven did not lead him to think that this Way could be completely and fully understood. As mentioned above, Qian asserted that mathematics and astronomy provided means for penetrating some knowledge pertaining to heaven, but ultimately “no one can entirely know.” The relationship between the limits of knowledge and the Way of Heaven was related to a fundamental question regarding the intimate nexus between humans and Heaven in general, as Heaven was understood to bestow upon humans their inborn nature (性) and their fate (命). It was in regard to the latter that Qian wrote: “When the ancient books discussed the Way of Heaven, they all prioritized auspiciousness or adversity, good fortune or misfortune” (古書言天道者,皆主吉兇禍福而言.).1 Qian gave several examples of such “ancient books,” ranging from the Documents and Changes, through the Analects and Mencius, to Laozi. These examples served together to demonstrate that the main issue concerning the Way of Heaven for major historical figures was that of man’s good or bad fortune. However, Qian went further in asserting the problem of understanding such fortunes, arguing that it was in fact impossible to understand the laws or regularity by which heaven operated. He quoted the Chunqiu era thinker Zi Chan子產, saying “the Way of Heaven is far away, the Way of Man is near, how could Zao know the Way of Heaven?!” (天道遠，人道邇，竈焉知天道).2 The context for this quote from the Zuozhuan is significant: Zi Chan was

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refuting another official at the court of the state of Zheng, Pi Zao (裨灶), who presumed to know the Way of Heaven and to be able to predict the future. Siding with Zi Chan, Qian took a skeptical view of the possibility of knowing what the future holds and, more importantly, of the notion that people should act on such predictions, as Pi Zao wanted Zi Chan to do. Qian also cited other quotations speaking to that effect, making his point clear: the Way of Heaven was, in some significant ways, unknowable to anyone. And when Qian wrote “no one,” he meant no one, including the great ancient sages: “That which the sages did not know they therefore called ‘fate’ ” (聖人所不知，故曰命也).3 Nonetheless, Qian was very much aware that the unknowable factor of fate presented a problem to many individuals throughout the ages. He thus concluded that “the kind of things like Shun [digging] the well or [building] the granary,4 King Wen’s imprisonment,5 or the adversities of Confucius6 are therefore called fate” (虞舜井廩,文王拘幽,孔子厄困之類, 故曰命也).7 Evident in Qian’s writings was his inability to explain why these sages—Shun, Wen, and Confucius—had suffered and hence his acceptance of a fate that could not be predicted or understood, one that was not fixed, logical, or regular. However, Qian Daxin also deviated from his own rule. For example, he quoted the Changes: “The Way of Heaven lowers the arrogant and benefits the modest, the ghosts and spirits bring harm upon the arrogant and fortune to the modest” (天道虧盈而益謙，鬼神害盈而福謙).8 In another instance Qian further argued that “misfortune and good fortune are all created by what man brings [upon himself]. The one who does not do good [brings] misfortune on himself, and if [he is not good] to an excess [misfortune] will reach his sons and grandsons; the principle of mutual response can clearly be believed” (禍福皆人所召而作,不善者禍及其身,甚則及其子孫,感應之理昭然可信也.).9 Nonetheless, this line of thought seems to be more didactic than dogmatic, admonishing people to behave according to what he thought was correct and good. In both cases behavior according to ritual propriety was at stake: in the first, modest and humble behavior; in the second, filial piety, as opposed to Buddhist notions of saূsāra. And even then Qian emphasized that “man is born within Heaven and Earth, and only has a temporal existing body, ‘dying young or having longevity are not two different things, cultivate yourself in waiting [for them]’ ” (人生天地間,只有見在之身,夭壽不貳,修身以俟之).10 The second half of the quotation, about premature or elderly death, is a quote from Mencius, who explicitly stated that “by the means of [self-cultivation] fate is established” (所以立命也).11 According to this passage fate was closely related to how “the one who exerts his heart to the utmost knows his inborn nature; knowing his inborn nature he therefore knows Heaven” (盡其心者， 知其性也. 知其性，則知天矣). It was thus the duty of men to cultivate their hearts and inborn nature as a way of “serving Heaven” (事天), and in that

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way Mencius arrived at the irrelevance of dying young or living a long life. Accordingly, fate became a secondary consideration for Mencius, and for Qian as well, because human agency regained full power over issues beyond the control or understanding of human beings, regardless of the lifespan or material benefits of the individual. Still, discussions about fate remained central in intellectual, literary, and divinatory sources in Chinese history, even if the conclusion often was that fate was not comprehensible. The Mencius quotation above served as one of the major exegetical points of discussion for thinkers, especially during the Song dynasty and later. The difference between how Zhu Xi and the mid-Qing scholars of Qian Daxin’s milieu interpreted Mencius is revealing, as their exegeses of this quote revealed that some of the fundamental worldviews of Cheng-Zhu learning and Qing philologists were built on different foundations. Zhu Xi’s commentary on this section began by explaining that “the heart is the cognitive spirit of man, by which he includes the multitude principles and responds to all events” (心者，人之神明，所以具眾理而應萬事者也).12 The heart (what is understood as the mind in many translations), according to Zhu, was the faculty that enabled man to understand li (principle), his inborn nature, Heaven, and all phenomena. Zhu Xi equated the character er 貳with the character yi 疑, thus explaining that “to have no doubt is to know the utmost of Heaven” (知天之至) and that self-cultivation while waiting for death meant “serving Heaven throughout one’s life” (事天以終身). Zhu added quotations from Cheng Yi that foregrounded the notion of principle (li 理) as a unifying factor among the heart, the inborn nature, and Heaven; from Zhang Zai he added the notion of the “Great Void” (太虛) as the progenitor of Heaven and again the notion of principle (li). Zhu Xi then concluded that the exertion of the heart and knowledge of the inborn nature and Heaven were “means by which to arrive at their principle” (所以造其理也) and without these, any other efforts at serving Heaven or maintaining oneself were meaningless. The cosmological narrative of Zhang Zai and the significance of li from Cheng Yi thus provided the background for Zhu Xi to understand the human relationship with Heaven and human fate—and hence the “no doubt” state of mind. Quite another story comes up when reading Jiao Xun’s Mencius commentary, discussed in chapter 5, in which Jiao did not even mention or quote any of the great Daoxue thinkers.13 For Jiao the heart was the cognitive organ that allowed people to think (思盧可否) and to differentiate and determinate the “suitability of affairs” (事之宜), and it was “that by which the inborn nature was good, and therefore the roots of humaneness, dutifulness, propriety, and wisdom originate in the inborn nature and manifest in the heart” (人之心能裁 度，得事之宜，所以性善，故仁義禮智之端，原於性而見於心). Jiao Xun equated the role of the heart in correctly regulating human beings to that of the North Star (北辰) in regulating the heavenly constellations, and he further

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argued that the goodness of the inborn nature was located in the heart’s ability to think and then act in a good way. And it was the Way of Heaven, prioritizing goodness (天道貴善), that bestowed this ability uniquely on humans (特鍾其 靈於人). This link between the Way of Heaven and humans also meant that a person who truly understood the goodness of his or her inborn nature through the faculty of the heart also realized that the Way of Heaven was fond of goodness (好善). Jiao Xun did not accept the Daoxue glossing of the character er 貳 as yi 疑 (doubt) and chose the glossing of it as er 二 (two), providing philological evidence to convince the reader of his correct reading of er. Quoting Cheng Yaotian (discussed in chapter 4), Jiao concluded that the inborn nature “was imparted to us; the inborn nature did not differ from Heaven” (天之分與我 者也，性不異乎天), so “knowing the inborn nature and knowing Heaven were not two separate things” (知性知天非二事). Thus fate meant that with which Heaven endowed an individual human being (mostly in terms of one’s heart and inborn nature), and through self-cultivation one could live without fear of external measures, regardless of short or long lifespan. In that way, Cheng Yaotian argued, one established his fate (立命), and Jiao Xun concurred. Furthermore, what Heaven imparted to people was different: “Heaven’s endowment includes dying young or longevity, poverty or renown, wisdom or stupidity, worthiness or unworthiness” (天之命有殀壽窮達智愚賢不肖); nonetheless, Jiao insisted that the themes of self-cultivation, the nourishment of the heart and the inborn nature, and the serving of Heaven in goodness were just as relevant to all human beings, for “although what Heaven endows is not uniform, when pursued in this way [self-cultivation, etc.] everyone makes [his or her fate] uniform” (天之命雖有不齊，至是而皆齊之).14 The end result of both Daoxue thinkers’ (such as Zhu Xi) exegesis of this Mencius passage and mid-Qing thinkers’ (such as Jiao Xun) understanding thereof may seem similar: self-cultivation of the good inborn nature and heart, regardless of the phenomenal circumstances of one’s individual life, is what it means “to exert one’s heart to the utmost” and “to establish fate.” But the ways to achieve these goals, and especially the processes by which the different thinkers constructed their arguments, were fundamentally different. The stress that Zhu Xi put on the differentiation of various people and their allotted fate is opposed to the stress that Jiao Xun placed on the eventual unity or uniformity of different people. The cosmological reasoning of Daoxue thinkers that grounds the understanding of the heart and inborn nature in a primordial “Supreme Void” is completely absent from Jiao Xun’s discourse—or rejected entirely. And rather than quoting Daoxue luminaries, Jiao Xun preferred contemporary or near-contemporary philologically minded scholars, such as Cheng Yaotian and Dai Zhen, as his authorities on this issue. Finally, in Jiao’s explanation of the inborn nature, he specifically quoted passages from Dai Zhen that diametrically

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opposed Daoxue narratives: for example, the negative views of Daoxue thinkers on human desires opposed Dai Zhen’s positive views that stressed the importance of human desires. Despite these discussions, whether fate itself could be completely known was a matter of contention, both within Daoxue scholarship and among mid-Qing scholars. But Qian Daxin was aware that in any case people—including his own grandfather—often tried to discern their particular fate, to know the unknowable, using a variety of divination methods, and as mentioned in chapters 7 and 8, Qian himself also wrote about the technicalities of these methods.15 In 1800, four years before he died, Qian wrote about how he was approached by Governor Wang Zhiyi, who was worried about his own future as a result of a prognostication of his fate. Wang, Qian wrote, “although he did not believe [the prognostication], unavoidably went to see all the fortune-tellers [to consult on what he should do]” (雖不信,而未免見諸吟詠).16 When Wang approached him for advice, Qian recalled that he had served with Zhu Gui on an examination staff four decades earlier. Zhu was “fond of talking about fate” (好談命) and made a problematic prediction about Qian’s fate, which never came to fruition (we are not told what that prediction was). Qian was therefore skeptical about fate and further explained, for example, that it seemed absurd that in the popular “eight-character” (八字) fortune-telling method, based on the two characters of one’s year, month, day, and time of birth, there were only 518,400 possible combinations, whereas there was an exponentially larger number of human beings. His conclusion was that “with similar eight-characters there had to be [a] great many discrepancies of wisdom and stupidity, wealth and poverty” (八字同,而智愚貴賤必有大不同者). And therefore “How could the glued-together method of [Xu 徐] Ziping [of the Song, who was an important teacher of the eight-character method,] have prior knowledge and outline [of the future]?!” (豈子平膠固之術所能 前知而概論乎). Qian Daxin thus thought of these methods as “rude and impetuous chatter” (孟浪之談) and “shallow methods” (淺術). Forming the background to Qian’s rebuttal of attempts to divine individuals’ futures was his awareness that notions of fate were indeed prevalent even among his friends, his kin, and people whom he held in high regard. Furthermore, Smith convincingly argued that “divination was even more powerful and pervasive in late imperial China—the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) in particular.”17 He further correlated pro- and anti-divination groups with sociopolitical status and attributed divination criticism to elite “kaozheng scholars.”18 However, whereas Smith’s assertion about the prevalence of divination in the Qing seems appropriate, the identification of the anti-divination position with kaozheng scholars as a whole goes too far: there were many such elite scholars (as the examples above show) who were very much interested in fate prognostication and divination. Qian Daxin, nonetheless, did build his critique of divination on

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the work of earlier critics, either from the early Qing era (such as Gu Yanwu, Quan Zuwang, and others) or from the distant past, as his Chunqiu example demonstrates. A fundamental related question nonetheless seems to underlie Qian Daxin’s writings: If individual fate was granted from Heaven, if there was no way to know it, and if there was no way to change it, why then were people supposed to act in accordance with the Ru creed and not simply be as egoistic as they could be or do whatever they liked? Moreover, why not accept challenging views, including those about fate, originating from thought systems outside of Ru circles? Qian Daxin’s rebuttal of Buddhism aimed to cope with these questions. Qian asserted that Buddhist views about human fate were false, as they assumed an endless cycle of transmigration—saূsāra—in which human fate in each life cycle is based on one’s conduct in previous lives. He ridiculed this notion of saূsāra and, although without naming it, refuted also the notion of karma as a law-like mechanism embedded in the Buddhist notion of saূsāra. Qian thus prioritized a “this-worldly” view that rejected “other-worldly” thought systems and their logic. In his essay refuting saূsāra, Qian repeated the notion of “searching for the Way” (求道), which was a fundamental quest for him. Although it has been suggested that the Way of Confucius was “a Way without a crossroads,”19 Ru scholars throughout history seemed to face many crossroads as they searched for the Way. But how could one know where the Way was? The answer to this epistemological question was located in the very foundation of what it meant—socially, culturally, and intellectually—to be a Ru. In order to explore the question “Where is the Way?” I shall use a heuristic approach presented by Peterson. He suggested a way of “mapping the history of Chinese thought,” in which the main question underpinning the mapping process was this: “From what place on a metaphorical plane, on which are distributed all sources or grounds of ideas, do you know what you say you know?”20 Peterson used the following story from the Zhuangzi to shift the question on knowing from “how” to “where”: Zhuangzi and Huizi (惠子) were strolling on the bridge above the Hao river. “Out swim the minnows, so free and easy,” said Zhuangzi. “That’s how fish are happy.” Said Huizi: “You are not a fish. Whence do you know that the fish are happy?” Zhuangzi replied: “You aren’t me, whence do you know that I don’t know the fish are happy?” “We’ll grant that not being you I don’t know about you,” said Huizi, “You’ll grant that you are not a fish, and that completes the case that you don’t know the fish are happy.”

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“Let’s go back to where we started,” said Zhuangzi, “When you said ‘Whence do you know that the fish are happy?’ you asked me the question already knowing that I knew. I knew it from up above the Hao.”21

The map for the metaphorical plane of knowledge, argued Peterson, should be divided into “squares and circles”: For most thinkers who are drawing from inside the square, perceptions, reasons, and traditions are regarded as important. It is presumed by them that much of what we want to know can be learned and that the knowledge which has been learned can be taught to others in a form which cuts short some of the struggle of acquiring it. . . . Conversely, many thinkers who can be understood as drawing from outside the square, as in the case of the Chuang tzu, emphasize insight and intuition rather than ordinary “learning” . . . . Their knowledge tends to be esoteric, mysterious, and only imperfectly expressible.  .  .  . The crucial criterion involving the boundary of the square is found in attitudes toward the world of man’s making. The square commonly has been taken as symbolic of the crafted, worked, planned, humanly altered realm that is society. Outside the boundary marked by this square is the realm of heaven-and-earth and the ten thousand things not of man’s doing.22

The Ru, accordingly, can be understood in these terms as drawing from within the square. As the square is an emic term, one can also regard this view of tradition as tradition’s own view of itself, and the square delineates the limits or boundaries of the tradition and of the grounds for valid knowledge. Furthermore, the Zhuangzi story has an additional element that I would add to Peterson’s analysis of “where”: the question of “who.” Note that in the story the question of knowing was articulated not as a general question—“Whence is it possible to know?”—but rather as a personal, perhaps subjective, question. Zhuangzi and Huizi kept using personal pronouns (“I,” “you,” and their equivalents), and thus the identity of the one who knows or does not know became central. The person or knowing self is linked to the knowledge, and thus for Ru such as Qian Daxin, transgressing the boundaries of the square or fearing the square’s redefinition therefore infringed on both the grounds for knowing and the sense of cultural identity.23 By Qian Daxin’s time some scholars (e.g., Gu Yanwu) suggested that the Daoxue and Xinxue of the Song and Ming brought into the square elements that were clearly outside its boundaries, such as concepts of transcendence and intuition.24 These were considered invalid sources of knowledge that had not only dented the square but also infiltrated its very core: classical texts whose transmission they deemed problematic even without Song and Ming intervention. Furthermore, the cultural encounter with Western knowledge

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systems—religious, scientific, artistic, and more—was fraught with anxieties over the predominance of Ru culture and its contents.25 Nevertheless, this notion of the Ru drawing only from within the square was not necessarily accepted by all Ru: earlier we saw how Qian was opposed to some of the divination assumptions that Wang Zhiyi and Zhu Gui had accepted. Similarly, as Zhu Gui, “a lifelong devotee of [the gods] Lüzu and Wenchang,” was trying to have the god Wenchang (文昌) canonized and authorized by the court,26 Qian argued against the worship of anything other than Heaven: “The Way of the sages is nothing but being reverential to Heaven” (聖人之道，敬天而已矣).27 As Goossaert has shown, Zhu Gui is probably an exception in that we have records of his religious practices and inclinations, but many other Ru whose religious practices remain “invisible” to us probably shared similar religious habits.28 Significantly, however, even such religious issues (denounced by Qian but pursued by Zhu) were often examined by philological means or through a philological lens, as suggested by Zhu Gui’s editing of the Wendi jiujie baojing 文帝救劫寳經 (Precious scripture by the civil emperor, on saving humans from the kalpa) and other texts (e.g., some related to Lüzu). We should also recall that Qian Daxin himself had deployed Daoist or Buddhist texts for philological ends, even if he did not endorse their doctrinal contents.29 But Qian Daxin’s religious concerns were not entirely “invisible”: the statement above, concerning Heaven as the sole legitimate focus of worship, was made within a context that makes it sound more apologetic or didactic than sincere. Qian made this statement in a dedication record that he wrote to commemorate the renovation of the Daoist temple Jixian gong 集仙宮 (Palace of the Gathering Immortals) in his hometown of Jiading. And, as the occasion demanded, after his declaration about “the Way of the sages,” Qian was much more accommodating to Daoist beliefs and practices; whether he really thought in that way or was simply catering to specific needs we do not know.30 In this record Qian reiterated the notion that Heaven “[bestows] good fortune on [those who do] good and [brings] calamities [to those who act] licentiously” (福善禍淫), thus arguing that Heaven’s actions reflect what “man brings upon himself ” (人之自取). In that regard Qian claimed that although “the purpose of the teachings of the two misters [Laozi and the Buddha] differs from us Ru, their desire to have men become good and stay away from faults is therefore similar [to the Ru]” (二氏之教,其宗旨與吾儒異,其欲人 遷善而遠罪則同.).31 Qian continued in his restrained endorsement of something Daoist: devotional statues and paintings were made in order to ensure that individuals would stay on the right path, even if those devotional objects related to Buddhist teachings that were “absurd and hard to believe” (誕而難 信). Thus he wrote that “only the Daoists, in taking the Jade Emperor as the supreme heavenly deity to revere, using ‘jade’ to articulate the utmost pure virtue and ‘emperor’ to articulate the utmost greatness of the Way, are like two

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halves of a tally with what the Documents called ‘only the thearch on high’ or what the Odes called ‘having the thearch on high’ ” (唯道家以玉皇上帝為 天神之至貴者,玉以言乎德之至純,皇以言乎道之至大,與書稱:惟皇上帝,詩 稱:有皇上帝者若合符節.). Qian thus made Daoist teachings partially equivalent to Ru teachings, insofar as they gave humans something to respect and revere (敬畏), thereby allowing them to correct their ways. Qian explicitly acknowledged: “Thus [the Daoist practices] compared with the teaching of us Ru of revering Heaven are mutually supportive and noncontradictory” (則與吾儒敬天之學相資而 不相悖焉). Having established the legitimacy of this Daoist temple and its practices (perhaps more to himself than to others), Qian described how the local population had mobilized itself to reconstruct the temple after it fell into ruin and neglect as a positive act of help, support, and contributions of funds or labor. Thus the Daoist temple, and the Jade Emperor Hall (玉皇殿) within it, became an arena for good deeds and for the ordering of society at large, wherein those above and below could find their respective places and improve social customs (善俗). Qian Daxin finalized the partial squaring of the circle, or the conversion of the Daoist activities surrounding the reconstruction of the temple into the Ru agenda, by proclaiming that these activities and the rationale behind them were in fact a demonstration of “ritual that begins with righteousness” (禮以義起者).32 This phrase—which builds on a long commentarial tradition that dates back first to the locus classicus of the sentence in the Liji and more intensely to the Cheng-Zhu learning of the Song and which was also used several times in the Wuli tongkao33—was thus used to legitimate new rituals, the transformation of rituals, and, as we just saw, even Daoist practices. Qian Daxin utilized Ru sources to legitimate a Daoist ritual and present it as an extension of Ru rituals and rationale. Rather than “Confucian purism” or “purist ritualism,” as Kai-wing Chow termed eighteenth-century developments in ritual studies and practice,34 we instead find Qian Daxin exercising pragmatism with hints of syncretism, even if these were limited to specific lineage rituals or, in this case, Daoist ones (despite the anti-Daoist views mentioned earlier, perhaps expressed to a different intended audience and for different aims).35 Ritual, nonetheless, was indeed at the core of the philological turn—and in particular at the core of what the philologists like Qian thought human beings could and should accomplish.

Ordering All Under Heaven: Ritual, Human Relations, and Philology The centrality of ritual for eighteenth-century scholars has been emphasized and thoroughly examined by many modern and contemporary scholars. In the past couple of decades new research on this theme has emerged from four

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scholars whose work is directly relevant. Kai-wing Chow argued that since the late Ming a “ritualist re-orientation of Confucian thought” began to occur as a response to various sociopolitical problems that Chinese society had faced and in particular to challenges to the sociocultural status of the “gentry.”36 This ritualist reorientation was “completed,” as “linguistic purism [i.e., kaozheng-style philological pursuits] prevailed” since the middle of the eighteenth century. Chow stressed the patron-client relationship between the (Manchu) state and gentry scholars, which on one hand enabled scholars to maintain a superior hierarchical role in society, where rituals played an important role, and on the other, due to the Manchus’ foreignness, caused scholars to search for indigenous sources of identity through ritualism. In sum, Chow saw the rise of ritual and ritual studies as representing “gentry attempts to reassert their elitist role in the social hierarchy.” Ritual thus “provided them with a common ground to legitimate their dominance.”37 Chow’s research aspired to draw on studies that emphasize the “symbolic” (“patterns of meanings”) and “performative” (“social interaction”) aspects of ritual;38 although he claimed to go beyond the simply “functionalist” approach, Chow’s conclusions remained in the social-functional realm and seem to present “ritual learning” (禮學) as a manipulation by elitists that was intended to maintain or enhance their power relations with the state, with local lineages, with other parts of society (such as merchants), and with women. Chow’s explanatory framework may hold for the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, but by the Qianlong reign it becomes problematic and also exposes the problem of assuming a directly continuous process of intellectual change from the Ming to the mid-Qing. First, as we have seen, Qianlong era scholars did not view their dynasty as a negative foreign intervention into an otherwise correct and indigenous historical process. Moreover, the Qianlong emperor and the Manchu court were very much involved in the growing attention to ritual studies and practice by initiating and sponsoring ritual-related projects. Some of the greatest ritual-studies scholars, such as Dai Zhen, came from the merchant class, and much of the funding of the philological turn’s academies, book collections, and philological projects came from merchants. Some of the scholars involved in this turn, such as Qian Daxin and Zhang Xuecheng, did not come from very dominant gentry lineages, and although Qian’s erudition paved the way for his lineage to assert scholarly dominance and achieve national renown, it was not simply, or even predominantly, the ritualistic aspects of his scholarship that gained him reputation and respect. Furthermore, even with regard to the role of women in rituals and to the ritual status of women, some modern scholars have suggested a different understanding of ritual-related studies and women’s status in the eighteenth century. In her seminal studies of Qing “ritual learning” Chang So-an 張壽安

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rightly claimed that the turn “to substitute principle with ritual” (以禮代理, as Ling Tingkan 凌廷堪 [1755–1809] put it) was not simply a substitution of one practice for another concept but rather a shift in the intellectual center of gravity during the Qian-Jia era, one that should be understood in intellectual terms and not just as a technical change. After carefully examining specific case studies pertaining to both ritual and ceremonial regulations and ritual thought, Chang argued that the Qianlong (and later Jiaqing) era should be regarded as a turning point in ritual thought and practice. She connected the rise of “the cult of qing” (情, emotions, desires) to the rise of ritual studies and thus reconceptualized these ritual changes not merely as men trying to assert their power over women but rather as a motivation to allow women to assert their own power. The methods that mid-Qing scholars used to rethink rituals were textual and philological, and their means of asserting ritual regulations were often related to linguistic questions about the terminology used in various ritual manuals, including the different roles of women, the tensions between kinship hierarchy and formal seniority hierarchy, and also lineage and dynastic terms concerning the correct heir to power or the throne. Chang concluded that eighteenth-century scholars, who were immensely influential on later generations all the way to the twentieth century, were committed to the ideas of “governing the world with ritual” (以禮經世) and that “ritual learning governs the world” (禮學經世). She demonstrated that debates about rituals were a major characteristic of the eighteenth-century intellectual milieu and that the debates often concerned, and mostly negated, Cheng-Zhu notions of “principle” (理) and the ways in which such notions had informed, and mostly misinformed, rituals since the Song and Ming dynasties. Mid-Qing scholars, according to Chang, aimed to bring about a “reform of ritual order” (禮秩 重整). This reform included both philological textual studies of rituals and concrete changes to court, lineage, and popular rituals.39 Similarly, Rowe emphasized the significance of rituals for Chen Hongmou, both as a fundamental basis of his worldview and as a means for bringing order to state and society. For Chen and many other eighteenth-century scholars of statecraft, rituals were seen as a tool for “teaching the people” (教民) and hence part of what Rowe translates as “civilizing mission” (教化). However, as Rowe claims in an argument related to Chang So-an’s, rituals had to be reformed; in particular, they had to be understood and performed in terms related to human emotions and also modified as times changed.40 Rowe also demonstrated that Chen Hongmou relied on Lü Kun’s (呂坤) notions of ritual and in particular stressed (following Handlin) that “Lü argued point-blank that ritual propriety, properly understood, was no more than a vocabulary for the physical expression of renqing, of emotions that were perfectly natural, and reflected the noblest human instincts.”41 The “vocabulary” metaphor used by Rowe to describe ritual is also significant, as Zito has shown that by the mid-eighteenth century scholars

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and the court used “shared metaphors of editing and ritual.” The shared notion of rituals and texts was that “both bring to light the hidden and give form to chaos,” and therefore Zito deploys the neologism “text/performance of li.”42 I further argue that eighteenth-century philologists read and understood ritual in ways similar to those in which they read and understood texts. Ritual, for them, was itself a text (and texts, in their way, were ritualized) to be researched and discussed in ways similar to those they used to research and discuss texts. It was in this way that the philological turn was integral to the turn to ritual as well as the turn to emotions. Qian Daxin’s explication of rituals is a case in point, and many other philologists of the time shared a similar understanding of rituals. In his 1801 preface to Tang Zhongmian’s 唐仲冕 (1753–1827) Yili mengqiu 儀禮蒙求 (Seeking the obscure in the rites and ceremonies), Qian described rituals and ritual studies beginning with their inception: “Ritual has ceremonies, the ancient sages followed the natural human emotions of love and reverence and made them into regulated patterns, causing each of them to be simply that which pacifies the human heart” (禮之有儀也,古聖人,因人情自然之愛敬,而節文之.使各 即乎人心之所安而已.) 43 Here Qian did not mention some sort of “heavenly principle” (天理) that was supposed to be made manifest by rituals according to the Cheng-Zhu line of thought. Rather, ritual was a sagely understanding of human emotions, made for humans and established within the human comfort zone. He explicitly wrote that rituals were not meant to harshly confer on people something they “do not desire” (所不欲) or something that would be “difficult to practice” (所難行). Nonetheless, Heaven was involved in ritual as a recipient of human feelings and reverence in the sense that “the order of Heaven has a form; practicing ritual is the means by which to revere Heaven” (天秩有禮. 行禮所以敬天.). If one senses a hint (or more than a hint) of Xunzian notions of ritual in Qian’s articulation, that is certainly possible: the mid-Qing witnessed a boost in Xunzi studies (as part of the philological turn, which included many texts that had been outside Ru consensus for a long time), Qian’s friends (e.g., Wang Zhong, Lu Wenchao, and Xie Yong) were the avant-garde of these studies (ritual, in particular), and Qian himself expressed favorable views of Xunzi: What the Song Ru criticized [about Xunzi] was only the “Inborn Nature Is Evil” chapter [of Xunzi]. I say, when Mencius said that the inborn nature is good, he  wanted to exert their inborn nature to the utmost while rejoicing in goodness; when Xunzi said that the inborn nature is evil, he wanted people to transform their inborn nature while making efforts to become good. Although these words are different, their teaching people to become good is one and the same. When Song Ru discussed inborn nature, although they prioritized Mencius, they [felt] compelled to separate meanings and principles versus

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material qualities into two things, thus turning Mencius and Xunzi into two meanings. . . . In that case, how can Xunzi’s book be criticized for even a small blemish?!44

For Qian Daxin rituals were not just the means of generating rules for articulating emotions or revering Heaven; they were also the means that the early sages (先聖) used for “self-cultivation, for bringing order to the family, and for ruling the country” (修身齊家治國). And these sages made sure that “each ceremony (yi) had to have one meaning (yi)” (一儀必有一義). The problem with the degradation of ritual standards and understanding began “ever since the Qin house discarded the ancient rituals, and from the Wei and Jin onward the literati promoted idle chatter, so that the ritual teachings were abandoned” (自嬴秦滅棄古禮魏晉以降士大夫多尚清談禮教遂廢);45 some attempts made during the Tang or Song to remedy the situation were ineffective, and the penetration of Daoist and Buddhist ideas only made things worse. This narrative of the decline of ritual was exactly the same as the one Qian had related for classical texts and textual studies: a rupture with antiquity around the time of the Qin, followed by the Wei and Jin “idle chatter,” and then exacerbated by Daoist and Buddhist influences. Qian’s terminology for describing the decline of rituals and classical texts was almost identical; when texts were the main issue, for example, he specifically mentioned the burning of the books as a disjuncture point. His use of jiewen (regulated patterns), although not a novelty in discussions about rituals, echoes his decline narrative about textual studies, as does the search for order and meaning, a theme that appears repeatedly in Qian’s preface. Telling the story of how he was asked to write the preface, Qian reminded the readers that “the establishment of rituals prioritizes the differentiation of those above and those below, and stabilizes people’s aspirations, palace halls, vehicles and clothes, and practical utensils” (禮之設,主于辨上下,定民志,宮室,車服, 器用). All of these were instrumental in making sure that “the love for the kin and the respect for the senior” (愛親敬長) prevail as a fundamental character of the human heart (人心) and proper expression of human emotions (人情). This narrative of ritual theory, like the one found in Qian Daxin’s record of the Daoist temple, demonstrates that his conception of ritual not only legitimized Daoist practice (or other new rituals) but also brought what seems to be religious, extra-human, or heavenly practice down to earth and to men. Indeed, for Qian the very essence and importance of rituals were not the mere reverence of some heavenly deities but rather the establishment and maintenance of a healthy society, in that rituals enabled a transference from the Way  of Heaven to the Way of Man as well as a connection between the two Ways. Ritual was conceived by humans, enabled human emotions to be properly externalized, was practiced by humans, and served humans first and

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foremost in structuring human relations in accordance with the Way and with human nature. The link between ritual and the heavenly principle (天理), central to Cheng-Zhu followers, is missing altogether from Qian Daxin’s discussion of rituals; humans and human society were the core. And as a human endeavor, ritual’s power was centered in and sustained by its practice: To discard concession [讓] and talk about reverence [敬] is therefore empty, and attains nothing; even as one talks daily about ritual [in this way] he moves further and further apart from [ritual]. Ritual means that one humbles himself and treats people with respect, and “I” and “other” become joined together. . . . The one who possesses ritual reveres men, and as he reveres men, men always revere him; how could one neglect modesty and concession [謙讓]?!46

Thus, in Qian’s ritual theory, ritual accomplished two seemingly opposite ends: it clarified and manifested social differences and hierarchies, and it also created equality and joined hierarchically different people together. But how? In a short essay titled “The Way” (Dao 道) Qian explained that the term “Way” should be understood in two complementary manners: first, the Way that originated from Heaven (道本于天) and from which notions about human fate (命) and human nature (性) emerged, and, second, the Way that relates to the actual reality of human social behavior. This second Way, wrote Qian, “is nothing else but the five relations [of ruler-minister, father-son, husband-wife, older-younger brothers, and friends]” (是道不外乎五倫也). This Way of the five social relationships also manifested for Qian the Zhongyong (中庸) notion that “the Way is not far removed from men” (道不遠人).47 The five relations were of great importance to Qian, for “that by which humans differ from birds and beasts is by them [humans] having the five relations” (人之所以異于禽獸 者,以其有五倫也).48 The obligations within the five-relations system were mutual, and it was therefore through these mutual obligations that the hierarchy could be understood as an equality of responsibility or as a situation that placed even greater responsibility on the superior party in the relationship. Contrary to Cheng-Zhu thought, Qian stated that this Way did not begin with some transcendental principle: “There were Heaven and Earth and only then there was the Way of Heaven and Earth; there were sages and only then there was the Way of the sage” (有天地而後有天地之道;有聖人而後有聖人 之道). Notions that the Way preceded Heaven and Earth, he contended, began with Laozi, but these were completely contradictory to the way Confucius and Mencius had conceived the Way.49 Hence Qian further stated that “when sages and worthies sought the Way, it was by clarifying human relationships” (聖賢 之求道,以明人倫也).50 The prioritization of ritual, then, was an integral part of Qian’s understanding of the very nature of the Way and its human-anchored characteristics.

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And, as a human-anchored phenomenon, ritual resembled the humananchored phenomenon of language. Ritual was analogous to language because it had meaning and this meaning was produced by closely regulated rules and because both human phenomena—ancient ritual and language—had undergone transformations during their historical transmission from the ancient sages. Finally, and as a result of these historical transformations, both ritual and language had to be penetrated and comprehended through meticulous philological inquiry, as both interconnected people in the present day with the work and understanding of the ancient sages. Therefore, rituals first had to be understood textually, even if their current linguistic manifestations might differ from their ancient origins. Consequently, Qian prioritized ritual knowledge and research without disassociating the former from its practical use in bringing order to all under heaven. And this Way, he thought, was not something distant and difficult to comprehend: The Way of the Sages is all about being close and accessible, so that it [the Way] could be followed. Later people have discarded what was easy to know and easy to follow in the Way, while searching for everything between deep and profound to mysterious and remote. Therefore their explanations branched away [from the Way] and are difficult to believe. . . . So it was said [Zhongyong, 13]: “the Way is not far removed from men.” For to distance [oneself] from men while talking about “things,” or to distance [oneself] from principles while talking about “inborn nature and fate”—that is not what I call the Way. 51

Qian was optimistic about the possibilities of finding the Way with the powerful philological approach, but the Way was not to be found in the metaphysical circle. The Way was firmly rooted in the human world, in the “true Ru” square located in antiquity, and was meant to be “close and accessible, so that it could be followed.”52 Qian’s notion of the rupture with antiquity—a rupture that “later people,” “later Ru,” or “the moderns” had perpetuated until the Qing— also included the idea that the rupture could be mended. The Way Qian was searching for seemed closer by the day.

CONCLUSION The Consequences of the Eighteenth-Century Intellectual Transformations

Philology as Scientia scientiarum The philologically minded scholars of the Qian-Jia era, discussed in this book, were a diverse rather than a monolithic group. They included scholars who did not pass the examinations (such as Dai Zhen); scholars who did not rise to prominent positions and remained poor (such as Zhang Xuecheng); sons of merchants (such as Dai Zhen and Ling Tingkan); private scholars, heads of various academies, and tutors at the same (such as Qian Daxin); officials who were part of the Hanlin Academy and played an important part in the examination system (such as Qian Daxin, Wang Mingsheng, Zhao Yi, and many others); imperial family tutors (such as Hong Liangji); and also officials with significant hands-on positions, even chancellors and governor-generals (such as He Guozong, Bi Yuan, and Ruan Yuan). Some belonged to more than one category. Their networks also included bibliophiles, printers, library owners, and many others who were instrumental in funding their scholarly quests in both private and official walks of life, in finding and sharing research materials (such as rare editions, manuscripts, and bronze and stone inscriptions), and in circulating their research in a variety of geographical areas and thematic fields. Together, they created, maintained, and were part of the social infrastructure of the philological turn. These scholars did not detach themselves from the problems of their day; rather, they were very much aware of them. They did not live in an isolated ivory tower; rather, they sought solutions to the problems

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they perceived, even if their solutions—anchored in philological research— did not bring about the hoped-for results or fit later intellectual tastes for useful solutions. Philology, in their eyes, was concrete and useful learning. It was the essential methodology and rationale for “searching for truth in solid facts” in all fields of knowledge because truth and true ancient knowledge (emanating from the sages) were one and the same. Thus, a new relationship among Ru scholars, the texts they researched and their textual methodology, and the Way itself was forged. With its stress on finding and proving facts and truth in texts, this textual research—textualism, in short—was certainly different from the type of postmodern textualism (or “strong textualism”) of the twentieth century discussed by Rorty. For example, the protagonists of my study were certainly interested in “discovering the truth,” regarded textual truth as coinciding with reality, and gave pride of place to scientific inquiries about reality; they certainly did not “brush aside” the authors of texts, their context, and their intentions, and they were not fond of “creative or interesting misreadings” (all notions that Rorty rejected for twentieth-century textualism). Nonetheless, it is intriguing that Rorty depicted modern textualism as contrasted with (nineteenth-century) idealism, rejecting metaphysics, and related to pragmatic traits—all aspects that the Ru philologists of the eighteenth century would uphold. And like the protagonists of this study Rorty’s “strong textualism” has been criticized for a lack of morality or even for offenses against morality—a criticism that, if I may “brush aside” Rorty for now, has been very problematic for the Qing scholars, who regarded their task as clearly related to a reconstruction of moral human relations according to Ru values.1 Indeed, what many of the scholars of the philological turn shared was a common sense of identity as being Ru—true Ru. They also shared an understanding or concern that the basis of their Ru identity, grounded in texts and embodying the Way of Heaven and the Way of Man, had been compromised throughout history but that the philological means at their disposal allowed them to gradually remedy this situation. Such anxieties about identity were not unique to Qian-Jia Ru scholars. In the more interconnected “early modern” world in general and in the multicultural Qing dynasty in particular, such anxieties abounded. Manchu identity anxieties and attempts to strengthen Manchu identity during the Qianlong reign (and not only during that period) are an example of this delicate situation.2 And Ru scholars could see all around them, especially in the capital, not only Manchu identity markers but also various Buddhist identity markers, mainly of Tibetan Buddhism, such as the newly built Lama Temple near the Imperial Academy (Guozijian) and the White Pagoda looming over the city. Western material reminders also surrounded Ru scholars at the capital, from the newly built Summer Palace through the Jesuit Observatory, to time markers related to the calendar and even paintings.

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The main protagonist of this book, Qian Daxin, regarded himself as a “true Ru” (真儒).3 He understood that his task as a Ru was to defend the Way (道) in order to safeguard “the learning of us Ru” (吾儒之學).4 Qian related that he learned of the “us/we Ru” terminology from his grandfather when he was a child in Jiading. It was then and there that he also learned that “we Ru” had rivals—the followers of Laozi and even more so those of the Buddha (ChengZhu learning was not a declared rival back then). His father taught him that the right approach to learning—at least in Qian’s later judgment—and the anchor of the sociocultural identity of “us Ru” was ancient learning (古學), and his best friend’s father (Wang Erda) was famous for such ancient learning in Qian’s hometown.5 In his biography of Hui Dong, perhaps the person most associated with the Qing era’s Han learning, Qian Daxin identified Hui as “a protector of Ancient Learning” (守古學). He described earlier protagonists of philology, such as Gu Yanwu and Yan Ruoqu, in a similar manner, even if their efforts were still preliminary.6 Qian himself was praised by one of his examiners for being “the first in Ancient Learning” (古學第一人也), and that was also the type of learning he later espoused as head of several academies.7 Ancient learning did not mean the exclusive study and research of the Classics or of Han dynasty paragons and texts. Indeed, as Qian Daxin’s social networks broadened, they allowed him the access and opportunities to expand his interests and expertise into diverse fields, from calendrical studies and geographical history to exact philological research on the Shuowen. One subject in which he was regarded an expert was the Histories. Duan Yucai’s 1806 praise for Qian Daxin in his preface to Qian’s QYTWJ reveals the priorities of the day: As for the subtleties of paleography [文字], phonology [音韻], and etymology [訓詁]; the [historical] transformations of geography; the structure of government in history; the changes in genealogies; the disordered and manifold types of names of the ancients, village offices, facts, and ages; stone engravings, paintings, seal and official scripts from antiquity until now; he [Qian Daxin] could correct the patterns of the six ways of written character formation; he could add to the historical commentators; and when it came to the ancient Nine Chapters on Numerical Studies, and to Chinese and Western calendrical methods from the Han to modern times, there was none that he [Qian] was not clear about as if it was a stroke of finger on his palm. And when we get to the worthies and villains of the successive dynasties, the right and wrong deeds that seemed hard to clarify, great institutions and systems that people in the past could not pass judgment on whether they were proper or improper, all these he ascertained with a definite view. So, master [Qian’s] accomplishments in “extending knowledge and investigating things” can be said to be deep indeed. For since antiquity those of the forest of Ru scholars

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that were able to make a name for themselves in one of [the six] arts have been rare; [but] to combine the multitude of the arts while refining them—there is hardly any. And as for the arts that the Ru should possess, master [Qian] had practiced all of them, and there was none that he did not refine.8

Duan’s characterization of Qian as an “all-round-player,” so to speak, echoes Ruan Yuan’s 1804 praise for Qian as a rare example of a Ru who was able to master all the “nine difficulties” (九難) simultaneously.9 The philological approach was the basis on which all these categories were researched and was used with vigor to try to authenticate the correct readings of past texts. Philology became, in practice, a kind of scientia scientiarum, the science of all sciences,10 and it was only through correct readings that the big ideas of antiquity, the “meanings and principles,” could unfold. For these scholars, antiquity—authenticated antiquity or the real antiquity as they understood it—was equivalent to truth in many ways, and the multifaceted nature of antiquity was what they sought. It comes, then, as no surprise that just a few years later, in 1810, Jiang Fan— a student of Qian Daxin who by then had known Ruan for several years as well as others who were part of Qian’s networks—glorified Qian as the best scholar of the dynasty. Significantly, Jiang thought it was time to assert explicitly that Qian Daxin was a better scholar even than Dai Zhen: [SKQS] Editor Dai Zhen once told someone: “Among the current scholars I consider Xiaozheng [Qian Daxin] as the second.” So, Dongyuan [Dai Zhen] firmly considered himself to be the first. Dongyuan’s learning prioritized the study of the Classics without reading post-Han books; in the case of the master’s [Qian Daxin] learning—[he] investigated Heaven and men, vastly synthesized the corpus of books [beyond the Classics], and since the beginning of the Dynasty until now [he has been] the magnificent model of the Ru of the time.11

Jiang’s rationale for Qian’s higher spot on the scholarly podium was Qian’s broader outlook, which was not limited to the Classics or Han dynasty scholarship (whether that observation about Dai Zhen was correct is another matter), but the venue in which Jiang argued prioritized Han learning and in fact positioned Qian himself as part of a new lineage, a lineage of “Han learning masters.” So despite initial controversy over the term “Han learning” (or “Song learning”),12 during the nineteenth century the notion began to take hold that the intellectual heritage of the second half of the eighteenth century was best understood as a debate over Song versus Han learning. The terms of the new debate were, like those of the philological turn, rooted in identity questions regarding various scholars’ sense of intellectual and practical belonging.

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With this new notion of a Han versus Song learning debate, the deterioration of the state of the Qing dynasty in the early decades of the nineteenth century, and the growing prominence of scholars oriented to statecraft (經世) or New Text (今文), those deemed to be Han learning scholars came to be denounced.13 However, the philological persuasion and mind-set, along with the shishi qiushi methodology and epistemology, remained a vital and prominent backbone for nineteenth-century scholars, whether they denounced or esteemed Han learning scholars or attempted to create a synthesis between the two. Weng Fanggang 翁方綱 (1733–1818), a prominent northern official, epigrapher, and Cheng-Zhu defender, wrote in 1812: The learning of textual research [考訂之學] has the grounding of meanings and principles as its main priority, not its delight in extensiveness, or its delight in pettiness, nor its delight in what deviates [from orthodoxy], nor its self-praise. Not to praise oneself, not to delight in what deviates, not to delight in extensiveness and in pettiness, while exerting oneself in textual research, this can be said to be [true] textual research. . . . Textual research is simply the opposite of learning of empty chatter [空談] about meanings and principles. In general, what is considered as textual research is the desire to support search for truth of meanings and principles. . . . When one is engaged in penetrating the Classics and learning about antiquity, one must precede it with textual research.14

If one wanted to make a valid argument—whether supporting or objecting to Cheng-Zhu tradition or to any other—one had to anchor one’s words in textual research, in philology. Thus throughout the nineteenth century treatises and books focusing on philology continued to be published in vast numbers. Even those such as Wei Yuan 魏源 (1794–1856), who objected to the so-called Han learning scholars—claiming they “confined the wise and bright under heaven and led [them] to follow a useless path” (錮天下聰明知慧，使盡出 于無用之一途)—still accepted the priority of meticulous textual research in making various arguments.15 Indeed, Wei himself was engaged in philological research, and his work on the history of the Yuan dynasty was indebted to Qian Daxin’s Yuanshi shizu biao 元史氏族表 (A table of clan names of the Yuan) and Yuanshi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (Bibliographical treatise of the Yuan history).16 Moreover, the Huangchao jingshi wenbian 皇朝經世文編 (Collected essays on statecraft of the glorious [Qing] dynasty), of which Wei Yuan was the chief compiler, included philological research and had abundant references to philological studies. By the 1840s, when the statecraft collection was in its final stages of compilation, Gu Yanwu had taken pride of place among Qing scholars. However, it can be argued that Gu’s acceptance (as a statecraft scholar and as a philologist) was indebted to the epistemology that Qian-Jia philologists had

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established and to the distinguished place they granted Gu Yanwu, even if for them his philological achievements came first. One way or another, philology became central and was understood as part and parcel of statecraft. And despite the difficulties the Qing faced during the 1840s and 1850s, in the form of the Opium Wars, the Taiping Rebellion, and other rebellions and challenges, the very person who is often credited with subduing the Taipings and initiating the Self-Strengthening Movement, Zeng Guofan 曾國藩 (1811–1872), along with Feng Guifen 馮桂芬 (1809–1874), came to appreciate and engage in philological research, prioritizing ritual. Similarly, Li Hongzao 李鴻藻 (1820–1897), a prominent minister and grand councilor involved in the Self-Strengthening Movement and other negotiations with Western nations and Western learning, also took part in the philological endeavor well into the 1880s. Likewise, the celebrated official, Self-Strengthening Movement leader, and internationally involved diplomat Li Hongzhang 李鴻章 (1823–1901) expressed great respect for Duan Yucai’s Shuowen studies, writing a preface to Duan’s work in 1888 and also claiming that the significance of the Shuowen began in the Qianlong era.17 In 1871 Li Zuwang’s 李祖望 (1814–1881) collection of Shuowen studies, the Xiaoxue leibian 小學類編 (Categories collection of philology), was published and continued to prioritize Qian-Jia scholars and their later followers. This collection also included Qian Daxin’s “Questions and Answers” on the Shuowen as an independent text and later motivated other, larger, collections of such studies during the twentieth century.18

Western Methods Versus Chinese/Ancient Methods The power and significance of philology endured through the nineteenth century. Furthermore, in the first decades of the nineteenth century the philological turn of the eighteenth century opened up intellectual space for more scientific studies. The Western learning the Jesuits had brought—which manifested the Jesuits’ scientia and specifically the realms of mathematics, astronomy, and calendrical studies—challenged eighteenth-century Ru scholars. The Jesuit challenge to the sciences was not simply a scientific one; it was also a cultural (as well as social) challenge because for Ru such as Qian Daxin these sciences were intrinsic to their Ru identity. The relationship among the Classics, the Histories, and the sciences was cast in antiquity, built into the “six arts” that constituted Ru identity. For Qian Daxin “us Ru” sciences were superior to Western ones, but historical deviations from the Way had caused their deterioration. Thus, once more, philological tools could be used to recover lost scientific works—not only to accommodate Western learning, an accommodation that simultaneously caused identity anxieties, but also to disprove some of Western learning’s claims, uncovering its imperfections and recovering Ru superiority

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in the eyes of Ru protagonists. And as eighteenth-century Ru became more willing to deal with the sciences, so more and more of their students developed them later on. Luo Shilin 羅士琳 (1789–1853), in his 1840 sequel to Ruan Yuan’s CRZ, acknowledged the significance of eighteenth-century scholars in general and Qian Daxin in particular in scientific studies. Luo included Qian, along with some of the latter’s prominent students, such as Li Rui and Tan Tai, in the 1840 sequel and stated: Up until now, among the forest of Ru there were only few who were able to make a name for themselves in [only] one art. There were hardly any who combined many arts and excelled in them. And the Supervisor of Instruction [i.e., Qian Daxin] with regard to the arts that the Ru should possess—there was none that he did not practice, none that he did not excel in, and none that he did not follow to the correct [measure]; his learning can be said to have been broad and great! And as for calendrical calculations he pursued the same direction of the ancient method and thoroughly clarified all the errors. Since Mei Xuancheng [Wending] initiated it in the beginning, Jiang [Yong] and Dai [Zhen] and all the gentlemen also followed and supported it, whereupon the ancient method gradually became apparent. And as Mei Xuancheng was at the point where things that flourish to the utmost begin to decline, all the ancient calculation books still had not come out, and Jiang and Dai were thus enclosed within the Western method, showing their inclination to research what was missing. Only the Supervisor of Instruction [Qian] searched for truth in solid facts, and the collection of his great accomplishments, compared to Jiang and Dai the two gentlemen, is outstandingly excellent. In the past, the Supervisor of Instruction had said that Xuancheng [Mei Wending] was the number one mathematician of the dynasty; I take the liberty of saying that Xuancheng [Mei Wending] seems to have abdicated [this title] to the Supervisor of Instruction [Qian] who was next in line.19

Thus in 1840 Qian Daxin was regarded by “one of the leading mathematicians of the period”20—Luo Shilin—as the best mathematician of the dynasty, better even than the celebrated Mei Wending and superior to Jiang Yong and Dai Zhen. Although modern scholars may (rightly perhaps) roll their eyes at Luo’s choice, let us try to understand why Luo chose Qian over the others. The answer lies in one of Luo’s major standards for assessing scholars—namely, his categorization of scholars in terms of Xifa (西法) versus Zhongfa/Gufa (中法／古法), Western method versus Chinese/ancient method. Horng Wann-Sheng described Luo’s changing sympathies, from Xifa to Gufa, as a “conversion” that took place in Beijing during the early 1820s.21 “Conversion” might not be the best term due to its overbearing religious connotation, but

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Luo had undoubtedly developed a special interest in and sympathy for the Chinese/ancient method. Ancient, for him, still stood for (scientific) truth. As I discussed earlier, Qian Daxin’s preoccupation with scientific issues had a lot to do with issues of Western versus Chinese learning. Qian’s attacks on Jiang Yong and Dai Zhen (to different degrees)—some of which were quoted verbatim in Luo Shilin’s CRZXB—were part of a Western/Chinese cultural battle. And although Qian had written his polemics against Western learning in the late eighteenth century, when there was no direct and concrete Western political, military, or socioeconomic threat in sight, Luo found them particularly relevant when these threats were realized during the 1820s and 1830s, culminating in the Opium War, just as the CRZXB was published. Luo Shilin demanded that China’s scientific supremacy be acknowledged— indeed, demonstrating its superiority was the very reason he elevated Qian Daxin—but his efforts did not withstand the test of time, and particularly the upheavals of the Taiping Rebellion and the Second Opium War. From the 1860s onward, when scholars granted the superiority of Western learning on scientific issues, often based on technological and military achievements, the new intellectual climate was not favorable to those who were earlier perceived as the champions of Chinese scientific learning. Qian Daxin, who sought to discredit some aspects of Western learning in particular, thus became less relevant. Others, such as Dong Youcheng 董祐誠 (1791–1823) and Xu Youren 徐有壬 (1800–1860), who earlier rejected Qian’s 3.16 value of π and who had been accused of using Western methods in 1840 and hence deemed problematic by Luo Shilin, were exonerated, as it were, and elevated in the 1860s.22 The path chosen by Li Shanlan 李善蘭 (1810–1882), one of the most prominent mathematicians of the second half of the nineteenth century, is indicative in this regard. As opposed to Luo Shilin’s so-called conversion from Xixue to Zhongxue, Li Shanlan’s biography represents a sort of inverted transformation in his attitude toward Western learning. During the 1830s and 1840s Li favored ancient Chinese learning and stressed the Xixue Zhongyuan ethos along with the essential preeminence of the ancient sages and worthies in developing mathematical methods. However, by the 1860s Li Shanlan refrained from mentioning these issues.23 Li’s experience as a translator at the London Missionary Society Press in Shanghai during the 1850s and his acquaintance there with Wang Tao 王韜 (1828–1897), who had already developed a taste for things Western, as well as with Westerners, were key factors in his scholarly transformation. Furthermore, in 1860 he worked for awhile under Xu Youren, whom he knew well beforehand and who had a keen interest in Western learning. Together they tried to save Suzhou from the Taiping rebels but to no avail; as Li went to Shanghai to try to get Western help, Suzhou fell and Xu was killed. As Meng Yue put it, “The fall of Suzhou and Hangzhou in 1860 marked the collapse of a long and prominent

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scientific culture that had been a lively core of city life.”24 The center of scientific gravity shifted to Shanghai and, along with the Self-Strengthening Movement, to different institutions such as the arsenals. Thus in 1863 Li Shanlan came to serve under Zeng Guofan in the Self-Strengthening Movement, and a year later he began working at the Nanjing Arsenal. For Li Shanlan mathematics was the foundation of technological expertise, including advanced machine and weapon technology, and hence it deserved to occupy an important place within the arsenals and the Self-Strengthening Movement in general. Finally, Li joined the Tongwen guan 同文館 (lit. “Office of Bringing Languages Together,” commonly known as the School of Foreign Languages) in Beijing, where he taught mathematics.25 These various institutions demonstrate the changes the Qing experienced, the new tastes and standing of mathematicians in the second half of the nineteenth century, and the tightening links between mathematics and technology as mathematics became much more professionalized in China.26 Thus early nineteenth-century scholars who had been criticized for their Xifa inclinations, such as Dong Youcheng, Xu Youren, and Wang Lai 汪萊 (1768–1813), were considered paragons of the Chinese-Western integration of mathematics or as those who were on the verge of achieving what the West had already achieved (as in the case of calculus).27 Those Qian-Jia scholars who did not display favorable attitudes toward Western learning, such as Qian Daxin and Ruan Yuan, were explicitly criticized by Li Shanlan for their misgivings about Copernicus and Kepler with regard to the heliocentric theory and the laws of the elliptical motion of the planets. Li  contended that “[Qian and Ruan] didn’t attempt elaborate investigation, constructed far-fetched interpretations of theories, and made meaningless, inappropriate comments” (未嘗精心考察,而拘牽經義,妄生議論,甚無謂也); he validated the Western arguments as “confirmed, indubitable conclusions” (定論如山,不可疑矣).28 Li therefore accepted as valid not only the Western mathematics but also the Western understanding of the shape of the cosmos, which Qian Daxin and others regarded, at best, as a heuristic device, as discussed in part III.29 Just as gradual distinctions were made between scientific and humanistic disciplines in the West during the eighteenth century, classical and historical studies were separated from scientific fields, such as mathematics, in the second half of the nineteenth century in China. Luo Shilin’s elevation of Qian Daxin thus quickly faded away. In 1886, in another sequel to the CRZ—the Chouren zhuan sanbian 疇人傳三編 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers, third edition)—Zhu Kebao 諸 可寳 (1845–1903) described Luo Shilin himself as “only intent on reviving ancient learning and making his aim the clarification of the Chinese method [Zhongfa]” (惟以興復古學,昌明中法為宗旨), even though earlier Luo had “practiced the Western method” (習西法).30 For Zhu Kebao and fellow intellectuals in the late nineteenth century “antiquity,” “Chinese origins,” and

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“truth” gradually began to stand for different things, at least as far as scientific issues were concerned, and the scientific gradually came to be seen as removed from the cultural baggage of the Ru. Zhu Kebao asserted that “in [scientific] techniques, [the categorization of] ancient/modern, Chinese/ Western, new/old is irrelevant” (術無論古今中西新舊也). What was relevant was “the method that worked” (用法之法). And although Mei Wending had the seniority in integrating Western learning, Zhu claimed that after Mei there was “only one man and that is all” (一人而已) who was to be hailed as Mei’s equal, and perhaps his superior, and that one man was Li Shanlan.31 Not everyone who dealt with sciences in the late nineteenth century accepted the superiority of the West or rejected the Xixue Zhongyuan ethos; there were many voices that adhered to the ethos even after the 1894–1895 Sino-Japanese War, and it was not until a decade or two after that war that the ethos became a general sign of “superstition” (密信) for some scholars.32 Nonetheless, scholars at the forefront of scientific learning in the late nineteenth century who worked and researched alongside Westerners and in Western-inspired institutions had begun to pave the way for recognizing the ethos as problematic as early as the 1860s. The image of those who searched for the “Chinese origins” of Western science during the Qian-Jia period was therefore multifaceted as the nineteenth century drew to a close, and indeed in other fields, not just scientific ones, intellectuals also began searching for “Chinese origins.” The Western threat that some scholars perceived was not limited to the realm of the military, politics, or science and technology; Yu Yue’s 俞樾 (1821–1907) case demonstrates that he was worried about nothing less than “abandoning the Way” (舍道). Yu linked his anxieties about Ru identity to a longing for the Qianlong era, with its share of gifted scholars, especially Dai Zhen—a legacy that he had received from his mentors, who were Dai’s students. Later Yu Yue’s appreciation for Dai was transferred to the former’s student Zhang Binglin 章炳麟 (1868–1936), who promoted the study of Dai Zhen, although Dai Zhen’s—and others’—ascendance and appreciation in the early twentieth century were related to new factors.33

Categories, Precursors, and Modernity The breakup of the equation “truth equals textually verified ancient knowledge and practice” did not mean that the intellectual transformations of the eighteenth century became obsolete, even though the categories of discussion changed dramatically. The consequences of China’s defeat by Japan in the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1995 included a realization by prominent Chinese scholars that their ancient “square”34 was bankrupt, perhaps with nothing left to offer except its place in historical memory. New, modern, and

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Western categories and terms—new historiography, philosophy, and science, in particular—were deemed essential if the Chinese nation (a new term as well) was to survive. The category of history was transformed, and from the need to create the new nation, with a history of its own, arose the “new historiography,” within which the Ru square (among other squares and circles) became an object of memory, gazed on from the outside. The Ru square, once the framework that dictated individual life and the empire’s conduct (at least rhetorically), came to be regarded as a source of weakness and an obstacle on the modern highway.35 Nonetheless, the emerging Chinese national identity needed a past, and the new historians were certainly keen on using the philological methods—even if for different ends—in shaping the new history of the nation. The philological methodology—and in particular that of Qian Daxin—could fit the notion of the “scientific spirit.” And even as suspicions about antiquity and the accepted historical narratives grew during the early twentieth century, the methods developed by eighteenth-century scholars—the shishi qiushi methodology and epistemology, the philological means, and the textual mechanism for penetrating the Classics and the Histories, as well as antiquity in general— were all essential to modern scholars. Even though philology was no longer used to validate the ancient Way or the Classics but rather to cast doubt on them (obviously contradicting the original intentions of eighteenth-century scholars),36 it remained one of the primary methods used by modern scholars. Indeed, the Shuowen itself, which was no longer a gateway to the Way and the sages, continued to be published and discussed profusely in the twentieth century (and today).37 Likewise, it has served as one of the primary identity markers of ancient “Chinese civilization.” Fu Sinian’s 傅斯年 (1896–1950) stress on philology in this regard is revealing, and philological works and discussions were conducted on many occasions, especially as language became a major concern in the creation of the “New China” and its identity as well as the identity of the new Chinese.38 Philology, in this regard, continues to shape sinological research inside and outside of China to this day, along with questions about Chinese identity. By the 1920s, through the works of Hu Shi, Liang Qichao, Feng Youlan, and others, Dai Zhen—who could fit another Western category, philosophy—was favored, whereas Qian Daxin and most of the Qian-Jia philologists were marginalized. In Dai Zhen, and a handful of other mid-Qing scholars, modern intellectuals could find the Chinese “precursors” to modernity, understood as exceptions to the general rule of Qing scholarship. In the spirit of finding precursors some mid-Qing scholars who had been relatively isolated or much less renowned in the eighteenth or nineteenth century were suddenly (with or without the influence of Japanese historians) rediscovered. Hu Shi stated that in order “to feel at home in the modern world,” the “new” had to be somehow

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grounded in the “old,”39 despite the radical changes the new implied and despite the seeming radical rupture Hu and his peers had supported. Ironically, this echoes Qian Daxin’s ideas of how new knowledge had to be rooted in the old, in antiquity. Of course, Qian’s antiquity and Hu’s antiquity were not the same, and whereas Qian envisioned antiquity as vital and alive, Hu preferred to objectify it as something shelved in the past. Thus, in examining antiquity and the “old,” Hu’s priority was to identify stepping-stones for moving into a modern future rather than ways of reviving the old anew, and this new priority dictated the type of history and understanding of the past that were created, including the mid-Qing transformations. The influence of these early twentieth-century scholars, especially Hu Shi and Feng Youlan, in shaping the way the history of Chinese philosophy was written in the West remained significant throughout the twentieth century.

Afterword: Scholasticism, Revolution, and Modernity Reconsidered Since the early twentieth century Qing philology has often been portrayed as a form of futile intellectual practice associated with Chinese conservatism and endless textualism detached from reality. The term “scholasticism” has been associated with it, and not in a positive way, influenced by the prevalent negative views of medieval European intellectual developments that stemmed from the Enlightenment, which regarded scholasticism as “a pejorative term,” contrasted to “modern philosophy.”40 Indeed, the negative views of Christian scholasticism (not unlike the views of rabbinical Judaism and orthodox Islamic traditions) during the twentieth century derived from modernistic standpoints and teleologies of the formation of modernity and the impediments to such formation. The intellectual transformations delineated in this book attest to something other than what the connotations of scholasticism might suggest. But did these intellectual transformations of the eighteenth century represent a full-scale revolution? The term “revolution” has become non grata in recent decades, and within the company of Qing historians one can find heated debates on whether or not the eighteenth century ushered in a revolution. Everyone seems to agree that there was definitely “a turn”—but did this turn constitute a full revolution? Naturally, the conclusion depends on how one defines a revolution and what one requires from it. The importance of this seemingly merely semantic squabble rests on the understanding of the depth of the process of change under scrutiny, its relationship with previous intellectual trends, and, perhaps most importantly, its perceived implications (modernity being the elephant in the room).

Conclusion 191

If with a “revolution” we expect an event or process anticipating an anachronistic Western-style modernity that did not evolve, then in my view we are in for a disappointment. Similarly, that modernity did not immediately ensue should not imply a failure on the part of Qing intellectuals, which modern historiographical narratives have often suggested. If we expect such a revolution to be a short-term event or series of events, as political revolutions are often depicted, then, again, this was not the case, nor did it erase the past to produce something entirely new. However, if we are willing to accept that a revolution may take place during a longer time frame (decades or more) and entail a deeply structured sociointellectual process of change, then we may be inclined to think of the intellectual transformations in China in the second half of eighteenth century as representing a revolution. In either case, within and through the process delineated in this book, we can see how scholars came to share new systematic knowledge; agreed on the procedures related to the production of reliable knowledge; altered the style of the important and influential commentarial tradition; built a corpus of texts to be examined, both because they related to the past and because they served as auxiliary tools; expanded the textual corpus under scrutiny to include texts that were hardly researched up to that point (e.g., Mozi); created a new understanding of what facts, evidence, and truth meant, and thus what valid argument and knowledge were made of, within social networks that facilitated and enhanced these understandings; systematized the terminology and the categories of knowledge in new ways (even if many of the isolated terms were old); accepted ritual as a fundamental building block of self, society, and state order along with the relationships among them (understood according to their understanding of the ancient texts); and opened an intellectual and actual space for scientific inquiry (which became more creative and precise with the next generation of scholars, such as Li Rui). These transformations, in terms of China’s intellectual history and according to its own indigenous intellectual trajectories and priorities, also attest to a Kuhnian paradigm shift, which Kuhn saw as characterizing scientific revolutions.41 Moreover, one of revolution’s original meanings, that of circular or cyclical motion, implies the way eighteenth-century scholars thought of their endeavor—as a return to and revival of ancient learning (guxue 古學). Finally, the scholars discussed in the book, along with those who followed, were very conscious that theirs was a significant turn in the history of scholarship. I  therefore do not propose a Copernican “scientific revolution” that transformed the cosmological understanding of the universe or a Kantian “epistemological revolution” that focused on the human mind and on its ability or inability to make valid judgments, thereby transforming notions of self, philosophy, and science, where both “revolutions” were perceived (or used to be perceived) as leading (tautologically or not is another matter) to modernity.

192

T H E WAY OF H E AV E N A N D E A RT H

But were the eighteenth-century intellectual transformations (or revolution) completely detached from the ways in which “Chinese modernity” developed later on? In a recent book about Dai Zhen, Hu Minghui seemed to suggest that Dai Zhen should be considered as part of a global early modern moment and, as the title of his book implies, as part of “China’s transition to modernity.” Even though Hu was cautious not to take this notion too far between the covers of his book, I would be even more hesitant to link this directly with eighteenthcentury scholars, including Dai Zhen.42 On the other hand, the statements that “during the nineteenth century this [kaozheng] movement lost momentum” and that “the early stages of the introduction of the modern empirical disciplines in China were characterized by inertia rather than dynamism” are even more problematic and inaccurate.43 As we have seen, the eighteenth-century transformations set the tone that continued to be dominant during the nineteenth century, including after the Taiping Rebellion, whether with philologists focusing on Shuowen research, statecraft thinkers using philology and notions of evidence to bring in new ideas and practices, officials introducing new ways to interact with Western pressures, or even mathematicians who learned their first scientific steps through eighteenth-century spaces making further advances their field. Indeed, such intellectual and actual spaces opened avenues within which later scholars could carve their own paths, even if the later paths did not copy the earlier ones. The eighteenth-century intellectual transformations also enabled a host of other ideas (albeit ideas that at times had been foreign to the eighteenth century itself, a consequence that went against the original intentions of eighteenth-century scholars) to take root in China both during the nineteenth century and at the turn of the twentieth century. Thus the use, perhaps manipulation, made of Zhang Xuecheng or Cui Shu to argue for secularism or to question the Classics in the early twentieth century demonstrates modern scholars’ need for “precursors” and the ample possibilities on which they could draw. The continued use of philology and Shuowen studies to create and build modern Chinese identity (and scholarship) shows even more how these themes endured well beyond the Qian-Jia period. We must disentangle “modernity” from its European expectations and limitations (e.g., the search for secularism, science, and philosophy) in order to see the significant and powerful, if at times less conspicuous, undercurrents that span the period from the second half of the eighteenth century well into our own time. Recent studies of Europe, too, suggest a more multifaceted road to modernity; consider, for example, the relationship of Grafton’s and Blair’s work on Renaissance humanism or Funkenstein’s work on scholasticism or Jewish thought with the scientific revolution.44 Eighteenth-century Ru scholars were not iconoclasts who embraced secular modes of thinking and practice, but

Conclusion 193

their intellectual breakthroughs paved the (indirect and unintended) way to modern doubts about the venerated Classics and tradition as a whole and, at the same time, to evidence-based research (that affected politics as well). In particular, their skepticism, their views of texts and how to read and treat texts, and their new notions of facts, proofs, and what made valid knowledge became the backbone of intellectual pursuit later on. Thus the powerful undercurrent of philology and shishi qiushi epistemology continued to flow during the twentieth century, even when it was used to repudiate eighteenth-century scholars and scholarship. Furthermore, evidence-based epistemology provided important grounds for argumentation and research, as well as for governing, as Chinese revolutionaries tried to build their new nation. The “passion for facts,” as Tong Lam put it, was shared by the late Qing and Republican governments; in the latter case, where social surveys were used and attempts were made to understand and control society, such an epistemology flourished.45 One wonders whether Mao Zedong’s use of shishi qiushi (as well as his rejection of “empty chatter” [kongtan]) as a key element of his thought, honored in the People’s Republic of China to the present day, was informed by eighteenth-century precedents and their later circulation. Presumably, Mao’s choice of terms (like those of the social surveyors discussed by Tong Lam) rested on the assumption that such a term-cum-slogan (shishi qiushi), which he had learned from his own teachers and which was prevalent for well over a century, had an appeal and power over his interlocutors; one might also surmise that the use of such an indigenous term may have reflected Mao’s anxieties over his own identity. In any case, the use of the term also fit a more general epistemological stance dating, directly or indirectly, to the eighteenth century. Similarly, Deng Xiaoping chose to use this same slogan, albeit for different reasons, in the late 1970s,46 and it remains to this day the motto of one of China’s leading universities (Renmin). The “truth” and “facts” sought during the twentieth century were in constant flux, turning more and more to the new categories and disciplines of philosophy, science, and the natural and social sciences; embedded much less in ancient texts and honored antiquity; and related to a lesser extent to the Way (even though the “truths” and “facts” have often been produced, constructed, and diffused textually).47 The tight nexus among scholars, texts, and the Way may have dissolved in the politics and statecraft of the twentieth century, but its binding thread of evidence-based methodology and even its relationship with antiquity as a means of providing a sense of (national) identity persevered. Philology was thus a powerful weapon that proved to be a double-edged sword. It was developed to safeguard antiquity but ended up in the hands of those who doubted antiquity. It could cut both ways, and it did. And for both those defending antiquity and those doubting it, philology and its epistemic grounds were the fundamental means for seeking the right Way.

APPENDIX A

SELECTIONS FROM QIAN DAXIN’S 1754 PALACE EXAMINATION ANSWER

I have heard that “The Son of Heaven is the father and mother of the people, and so becomes the sovereign of all under heaven.”1 So, only the August Emperor “unseen, secures the tranquility of the lower people, aiding them to be in harmony with their condition.”2 “The sincere, intelligent, and perceptive [among men] becomes the great sovereign.”3 Only he, in his one person, is simultaneously the unification of lord and teacher, reverently accomplishing the lofty governing achievements, and that is how his “serving as a sign and director to the myriad regions”4 is established through his essential [place]. Therefore, “Heaven is all-intelligent and observing” and “the sage [king] takes it as his model.”5 “Being in awe of Heaven” is the way to “preserve [all under Heaven] for [all] time.”6 “When the thoughts [of the sage king], from first to last, are constantly fixed on learning,”7 the transmission of the Way [道統] rests with the superior [sage king]. . . . Since antiquity, during the Three Dynasties and before, the method of the mind [心法] and the method of ruling [治法] were followed continuously as one [by the sage kings]. The essential point has been “to sincerely hold fast to the mean”8 and that is all. . . . Just like Heaven is high and hears the lowly, common words must be examined. In this period of Palace Examination, [you] bring back and advance [your] subjects for the policy examination on the mutual correspondence of Heaven and men. . . . The policy question is about the principle of “the unity of Heaven and men” [天人合一之理] which earlier sages have clearly discussed, and while the Heaven that is in Heaven [在天之天] is void and difficult to inquire about, the Heaven that is within men [在人之天] is near and can be sought for.

196 Appendix A

Nevertheless, there is no duality between men and Heaven, there are no two [different] principles; the Way is great indeed! The words of [my] king are truly the method of the mind, transmitted by thousands of sages. I have heard that “the Way of Heaven embodies the paramount teaching; the sages embody the paramount virtue.”9 Heaven bestows Yang and Yin, thereby giving birth to and generating the four seasons, as well as the wind, rain, dew, and thunder, arranging their transformation and regeneration. The sage receives the virtues of Qian, firmness, and Kun, compliance,10 thus embodying the five constant [virtues] and bringing auspicious harmony to ritual, music, punishment, and governance. For this reason the myriad things arise in the [trigram] Zhen, and reverberate in the [trigram] Li. Zhen and Li are the hexagrams of the east and the south position [respectively], indicating that Yang dwells in the great summer and acts therein, rejoicing in [the position of the trigram] Dui, and getting rewards in [the position of the trigram] Kan; Dui and Kan are the trigrams of the west and the north position [respectively], indicating that Yin dwells in the great winter and accumulates in that void and motionless position. In the Changes, Qian stands for pure Yang, possessing the four virtues of “originating, penetrating, advantageous, and faithfulness.” And the “Wenyan” [commentary] regards the embodiment of humaneness, proper ritual, harmonized righteousness, and faithful firmness as equal.11 The Way of faithful firmness [貞固之道] is simultaneous with trust and wisdom. Therefore, one does not make a name for oneself with one virtue [alone], and moreover fit the four virtues [四德] with the five phases [五行]. Hence Kong Yinda’s [孔颖达] saying: “the two phases of water and earth are simultaneously imbued with trust and wisdom.”12 As for the king, if he desires to have accomplishments, he must seek their roots in Heaven: spring creates; summer brings growth; autumn bestows [what is gathered in the fields]; and winter embraces, such is the Way of Heaven. And the sage [i.e., the emperor] models [himself] on it [i.e., on the way of Heaven] by regarding humaneness as the source, following righteousness, establishing rituals, using wisdom, and embodying trust. The Way of Heaven is far and difficult to fathom;13 the affairs of men are close and easy to follow, but the source of Heaven and men in fact originates from the same path. Now although there is a [common] basis in them, the originating [virtue] of Qian provides the beginning so as to regulate Heaven, and thereupon different types of things spread and take shape, each with the correct inborn nature and fate. “The gentleman embodies humaneness in order to guide the people”14 “and then the myriad things and the ten thousand countries are all pacified.”15 Hu Anguo 胡安國 has a saying: “embodying the [virtue] of origination is the duty of the sovereign, while regulating the [virtue] of origination is the responsibility of the chancellor.”16 It is within one person’s [the emperor’s] capacity to make the humane heart into the substance while the responsibility to “harmonize and regulate Yin and Yang”17 rests with all the ministers.

Appendix A 197

The policy question also deals with the “subtle words and great meanings” of the sages and worthies, which are as clear as the sun and the stars, [and asks] how should men of learning devote themselves [to these words and meanings]? Furthermore, [the question] goes all the way to the pure sayings of [Zhou Dunyi, of] Lian[xi], [Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, of] Luo[yang], [Zhang Zai, of] Guan[zhong], and [Zhu Xi, of] Min[zhong], [and asks:] where is their subtle Way to be found? The most detailed discussion of learning in the Book of Documents is the “Shuo ming,” and the deliberations about principle in the great Changes begin with the “Xici”; but during the Three Dynasties or before, the name “Learning of the Way” [道學] had been unheard of. Historians differentiated and established a lineage which was called “Learning of the Way” [only] from the Song [Dynasty] onward, with Ru such as Zhou [Dunyi], the Cheng [brothers], Zhang [Zai,] and Zhu [Xi]; and those whose interests and purposes slightly differed [from the Learning of the Way] were categorized under “the forest of Ru” [儒林]. That is how the term “Daoxue” was first established. Later Ru chimed in and echoed these sounds so as to begin even further categorizations and classifications. Indeed, master Zhu said[,] “Liu Zijing’s [Jiuyuan’s] learning is focused on venerating the inborn moral nature, while my learning lies much more in following the path of inquiry and study.”18 These two notions of “venerating the inborn moral nature” and “following the path of inquiry and study” originated with master Zisi, and master Zhu never originally used this [twofold division of learning] to slander Lu. Later generations did not scrutinize [this same origin] and turned the similarities and differences into far-reaching divisions to flaunt their own reputation. This is wrong! Now, the subtle words of the Five Classics, Four Books, sages and worthies are just like the orbits of the sun and the moon in heaven, and the great rivers encompassing the earth, and the great meanings are set by the traditions and commentaries of Song Ru who made them increasingly clearer, like master Zhou [Dunyi’s] Taiji tushuo and Tongshu [通書], exploring the origins of Heaven, men, inborn nature and fate; master Zhang [Zai’s] Ximing [西銘], explaining the notion of one principle with diverse manifestations; the Cheng brothers’ Yishu [遺書] and master Zhu [Xi’s] Yulei, both of which were collected by their disciples, and in them the refined and pure sayings are truly such that had never before been expressed by previous Ru [先儒], thereby indeed making it sufficient to call them the correct model of the principle and the Way [理道之正宗]! [Source: Ms #147097, Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing.]

APPENDIX B

MAJOR SHUOWEN AND ERYA STUDIES OF THE QIANJIA PERIOD AND RELATED WORKS, 17361820

Year Completed

Author

Title

Notes

1

1735

Yang Xiguan 楊錫觀 六書例解

2

1736

Wu Yujin 吳玉搢 (1698–1773)

說文引經考

3

1745

Dai Zhen 戴震 (1724–1777)

六書論

4

1747

Dai Zhen

轉語

5

1749

Dai Zhen

爾雅文字考

6

1760

Zhou Chun 周春 (1729–1815)

爾雅補注

Undated preface by Wang Mingsheng (who passed the 1754 jinshi examination with Zhou) and preface dated 1760 by Qi Zhaonan 齊召南 (1703–1768)

7

1766

Ren Jizhen 任基振

爾雅注疏箋補

Preface dated 1772 by Dai Zhen

8

1767

Dai Ying 戴鎣

爾雅郭注補正

1770—Qian Daxin began his research into the Shuowen 9

1770

Duan Yucai 段玉裁 (1735–1815)

六書音均表

Qian Daxin’s preface—and later others’ prefaces (this text was originally called 詩經韻譜)

200 Appendix B

Year Completed

Author

Title

Notes

10

1770

Zhu Wenzao 朱文藻 說文繫傳考異 (1735–1806)

11

1773

Zhu Yun

說文解字

12

1774

Shao Jinhan 邵晉涵 (1743–1796)

爾雅正義

13

1781

Pan Yijun 潘奕雋 (1740–1830)

說文解字蠡測

14

1781

Qian Dian 錢坫 (1744–1806)

爾雅釋地四 篇注 “Preface” and “Later Preface” by Sun Xingyan

15

1783

Bi Yuan 畢沅 (1730–1797)

經典文字辨證

16

1783

Bi Yuan

說文解字舊音

17

1784

Bi Yuan

音同義異辨

18

1784

Yao Wentian

說文聲系

19

1785

Shao Jinhan

爾雅正義

20

1786

Wu Zhao 吳照 (1755–1811)

說文偏旁考

21

1787

Kong Guangju 孔廣 居 (1732–1812)

說文疑疑

22

1789

Zang Yong 臧庸 (1767–1811)

爾雅漢注

23

1790

Cheng Jisheng 程際 盛 (jinshi of 1780)

說文古語考

24

1790

Qian Dazhao

說文統釋

25

1791

Mao Jisheng 毛際盛 (1764–1792)

說文解字述誼

26

1792

Chen Zhan 陳鳣 (1753–1817)

說文解字正義

27

1792

Wu Zhao

說文字原考略

28

1796

Dong Zhao 董詔 (juren of 1774)

說文測議

Zhu Yun had the Song edition published

Preface by Lu Wenchao

Preface by Wang Mingsheng

Appendix B 201

Year Completed

Author

Title

Notes

29

1796

Duan Yucai

汲古閣說文訂

Corrected edition of Mao Jin’s 毛晉 (1599–1659) and Mao Yi’s 毛扆 (b. 1640) rendition of Xu Xuan’s 徐鉉 (916–991) edition of Shuowen

30

1798

Niu Shuyu 鈕樹玉 (1760–1827)

說文新附考

Preface by Qian Daxin

31

1798

Wang Lai 汪萊 (1768–1813)

說文聲類

32

1800

Yan Kejun

段氏說文訂訂

33

1801

Wang Yushu 王玉樹 說文拈字

34

1802

Yan Kejun

說文聲類

35

1803

Qi Xuebiao 戚學標 (1742–1824)

漢學諧聲

36

1803

Song Bao 宋保

諧聲補逸

37

1803

Yan Yuanzhao 嚴元 照 (1773–1818)

爾雅匡名

38

1804

Qi Xuebiao

說文補考

39

1804

Yao Heng 姚衡

小學述聞

40

1805

Niu Shuyu

說文解字校錄; Based also on Qian Daxin 說文玉篇校錄 (?)

41

1806

Hong Liangji 洪亮吉 六書轉注錄 (1746–1809)

42

1806

Yan Kejun and Yao Wentian

說文校義

43

1807

An Qi 安吉

六書韻徵

44

1807

Duan Yucai

說文解字段氏注 Comprehensive work that became the authoritative rendition of the text; Duan worked on it for about thirty years and consulted with other scholars during the process

A short, one-juan text that aims to correct Duan’s 1796 text

Preface by Duan Yucai

Later appended and amended by Sun Xingyan, with a later preface dated 1818 by Yan Kejun

202 Appendix B

Year Completed

Author

Title

Notes

45

1807

Yan Kejun

說文翼

46

1808

Wang Xu 王煦

說文五翼

47

1809

Jiang Yuan 江沅 (1767–1837)

說文解字音韻表 Preface by Duan Yucai

48

1811

Hu Chong 胡重

說文字原韻表

49

1811

Jiang Yuan

說文釋例

50

1812

Shao Ying 邵瑛

說文羣經正字

51

1812

Wu Yunzheng 吳雲蒸

說文引經異字

52

1815

Chen Huan 陳奐 (1786–1863)

說文部目分韻

53

1816

Li Fusun 李富孫 (1764–1843)

說文辨字正俗

54

1822

Hao Yixing 郝懿行 (1757–1825)

爾雅義疏

55

1823

Niu Shuyu

段氏說文注訂

Duan Yucai’s student

Prefaces by Duan Yucai, Ruan Yuan, and others.

Works with uncertain/unknown dates, divided into pre- and post-1770 when possible 56

Pre-1770

Hui Dong 惠棟 (1697–1758)

惠氏讀說文記

57

Pre-1770

Shen Dacheng 沈大 成 (1700–1771)

說文引經證異

58

Pre-1770

Song Jian 宋鑒 (jinshi of 1748)

說文解字疏

59

Post-1770

Cheng Jisheng 程際 盛 (jinshi of 1780)

說文解字引經考 Prefaces dated 1777 by Wang Chang, 1780 by Cheng Yaotian, and 1787 by Wang Mingsheng

60

Post-1770

Gu Guangqi 顧廣圻 (1766–1835)

說文辨疑; 說文 考異附錄

61

Post-1770

Jiang He 蔣和 (juren 說文字原集註 of 1786)

62

Post-1770

Jiang He

字原表說

Corrections and additions to Yan Kejun and Yao Wentian’s text

Appendix B 203

Year Completed

Author

Title

Notes

63

Post-1770

Liang Yunchang 梁運昌 (b. 1771, jinshi of 1799)

讀說文解字小箋 Based on Qian Daxin’s notes

64

Post-1770

Qian Daxin 錢大昕 (1728–1804)

說文答問

65

Post-1770

Qian Daxin

經典文字考異

66

Post-1770

Qian Dazhao 錢大昭 說文稗傳 (1744–1813)

67

Post-1770

Qian Dazhao

68

Post-1770

Qian Shishen 錢師慎 說文繫傳刊誤 (1788–1819)

69

Post-1770

Qian Tang 錢塘 (1735–1790)

說文聲系

70

Post-1770

Qian Tang

說文解字斠詮

71

Post-1770

Wang Chang 王昶 (1724–1806)

說文引書字異考

72

Post-1770

Wang Mingsheng 王鳴盛, (1722–1798)

說字

73

Post-1770

Wang Niansun 王念孫 (1744–1832)

說文繫傳校本

74

Post-1770

Wang Niansun

王氏讀說文記

75

Post-1770

Xi Shichang 席世昌 席氏讀說文記 (juren of 1795, d. 1808)

Preface dated 1815

76

Post-1770

Yan Kejun 嚴可均 說文長編 (1762–1843) and Yao Wentian 姚文田 (1758–1827)

Unfinished

77

Post-1770

Zang Litang 臧禮堂 (1776–1805)

小徐說文纂補

Qian Daxin’s student

78

Post-1770

Zang Litang

說文經考

79

Post-1770

Zhang Huiyan 張惠 言 (1761–1802)

說文諧聲譜

說文新補新附 考證 Qian Daxin’s grandson

Printed 1848

204 Appendix B

Year Completed

Author

Title

80

Unknown

Cao Renhu 曹仁虎 (1731–1787)

轉注古義考

81

Unknown

Gui Fu 桂馥 (1736–1805)

手校注刻本說文 繫傳

82

Unknown

Gui Fu 桂馥

說文段注鈔案

83

Unknown

Gui Fu 桂馥

說文解字義證

84

Unknown

Huang Peilie 黃丕烈 (1763–1825)

說文部首韻語

85

Unknown

Jiang Sheng 江聲 (1721–1799)

六書說

86

Unknown

Li Wei 李威 (jinshi of 1778)

說文解字定本

87

Unknown

Lu Wenchao 盧文 弨 (1717–1796) and Liang Tongshu 梁同 書 (1723–1815)

說文繫傳校本

88

Unknown

Wu Lingyun 吳夌雲 (d. 1803)

小學說

89

Unknown

Wu Yingfang 吳穎芳 說文理董 (1702–1781)

90

Unknown

Xie Yong 謝墉 (1719–1795)

六書正說

91

Unknown

Zhu Yun 朱筠 (1729–1781)

說文繫傳校本

Notes

This list includes only studies in book form whose principal subject matter is the Shuowen and/or the Erya; it is not exhaustive. Many more short essays on specific problems related to Shuowen/Erya studies were composed during that time. I also include a few more works from the last year of the Yongzheng period, as well as the first few years of the Daoguang period, so as to show initial attempts and later continuity, respectively. I collected the data from the following sources: Lin Mingbo 林明波, Qingdai Xuxue kao (Taipei: Jiaxin shuini gongsi wenhua jijinhui, yanjiu lunwen 28, 1964); Ding Fubao 丁福保, comp. and ed., Shuowen jiezi gulin (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1966), 12 vols., esp. vol. 1; Zhu Zuyan 朱祖延, comp. and ed., Erya gulin (Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu chubanshe, 1996), 5 vols., and its Xulu 敘錄 (Catalog) volume, published in 1998; Zhao Yongji 趙永紀, chief ed., Qingdai xueshu cidian (Beijing: Xueyuan chubanshe, 2004); Chen Zuwu 陳祖武 and Zhu Tongchuang 朱彤窗, Qian-Jia xueshu biannian (Shijiazhuang Shi: Hebei renmin chubanshe, 2005); Yu Wanli 虞万里, “Erya yishu ji qi zuozhe Hao Yixing,” Cishu yanjiu 1 (1984): 161–69; Song Fei 宋飞 and Liu Shangchun 柳向春, “Hao Yixing Erya yishu shulue,” Tushuguan zazhi 25, no. 7 (2006): 69–72.

APPENDIX C

QIAN DAXIN’S LETTER TO DAI ZHEN 1754

Formerly, when we met at Xiaolan’s [Ji Yun] residence, you highly praised the learning of computational astronomy of Master Jiang [Yong] of Wuyuan [in Anhui province] as not inferior to Xuancheng [Mei Wending’s hometown, also in Anhui; hence a designation for Mei Wending]. Naively, I thought that your words were to be trusted, regretting that I had not yet obtained his [Jiang Yong’s] books and read them. As I was staying for awhile in Master Weijing’s [Qin Huitian] residence I began to obtain and thoroughly read what is called Yi Mei [Jiang Yong’s book of eight juan]. His discussion of the tropical year and of the fixed [twenty-four] fortnightly periods generally follows the European explanations, citing and extending them. His views are one-sided and do not comply with Xuancheng [Mei Wending], and [so] I all the more think that Xuangcheng’s knowledge [level] is higher. Why? Xuancheng was able to use Western learning [能用西學], whereas master Jiang became merely something to be used by Westerners [為西人所用]. Reading his [Jiang’s] “Measurement of the Winter Solstice” [冬至權度, juan 4 of the Yi Mei], ah!, one really laughs out loud. The ancient [length] of the tropical year was strong [i.e., longer] while the later one was weak [i.e., shorter]; before the Han the [length of the year] was a little more than [365 days and] a quarter-remainder; after the Han the [length of the year] was a little less than [365 days and] a quarter-remainder.1 From the “Heaven Symbol” [乾象 calendar]2 and all the way to the “Season-Granting” [授時 calendar]3, by and large, the [length of the] tropical year has gradually decreased. These are all contemporary actual measurements [當時實測], not

206 Appendix C

the reasoning made by one person’s opinion. So, if we infer from the ancient methods to the later ones, necessarily there is a time lag, since the tropical year was longer [in the past]; if we examine from nowadays’ method backwards, also necessarily there is a time lag, since the tropical year is [now] shorter. Those, like Yang Guangfu [楊光輔]4 and Guo Shoujing [郭守敬], who knew that this was true, therefore added or subtracted a fraction every hundred years to minimize and eliminate the lag. Although “no one knows how to go beyond this,”5 if [this method of variation is] used in examining antiquity, then what is lost will be sparse, as their [Guo’s and Yang’s] methods were not bad to begin with. The methods of the Westerners only consist of actual measurements of the present [止實測於今] and do not turn further to investigate in antiquity. In fact, what they call “mean tropical year” [平歲實] has even more changes, and therefore actually cannot be taken as preserving a constant tropical year. Master Jiang [Yong] thus confusingly made into a basis an explanation that omitted [Guo Shoujing’s method of] variation, slandering Yang and Guo in order to promote Westerners. However, historical documents that record the day of the longest shadow [i.e., winter solstice] can be examined clearly, and it would be difficult for one person’s hand to cover completely the eyes of all humanity.6 It follows that according to the explanation of adding or reducing in determining the winter solstice—one should add [when calculating backward in time]; add to it [to the length of the year] and so it will be the correct day. It also follows that [if] the [Western] explanation about the radius of the epicycles and deferent being longer in antiquity and shorter nowadays [is employed] then one should add [when calculating forward in time]; add to it and there will be a lag. The words are evasive and limited, and hence make the broken into straight in falsifying history. It is exactly the same as the addition in Gongsun Long’s [公孫龍] discussion: “that Zang has three ears is very difficult [to establish], but still is in fact wrong!”7 The Way of Heaven is truly great [天道至大]; there is no method of one person or one time that can handle it. The orbits of the sun, moon, and five planets all have longer and shorter [lengths], and the ancients had known that early on [古人早知之], and each [of the ancients] established the precise value [of the length of the orbits] in order to be in accordance with the movements of heaven. The Summation of Series [垛積 method] of the Grand Astrologer Guo [Shoujing],8 the new [Western] method of epicycles and deferent, and compounded epicycles [新法之本輪,均輪,次輪] have all been skillfully calculated [巧算], but are not the real [physical] representation [非真象也 of the heavens]. The number to be reduced or added follows the false representation [of the heavens] in order to establish the basis of calculations: if it accords then one uses it, if it deviates a bit then one adds or subtracts it, and if it greatly deviates then one discards it. Originally there were no [various types of] epicycles, so how could there be a diameter [of epicycles]? Originally, [then,] there

Appendix C 207

was no diameter, so how could antiquity’s [diameter] be big and nowadays’ small? Furthermore, as for the reduction in the value of the radius of the two epicycles, Westerners suspected its starting point, measured it, and it was not compatible, examined it and it was not fixed with regard to the assumption that the ratio was more in antiquity and less nowadays. Even if it is as Jiang explained, and the value of the radius of the two [epicycles] in antiquity was big and now it is small, then it still [accords] with Yang’s and Guo’s method of a hundred years’ growth and decline, [and it is as if Jiang] used his spear to strike his own shield [i.e., self-contradictory], how could he make such an explanation! For to use [the measurement of the time difference between] two vernal equinoxes in order to ascertain the [length] of the tropical year, when compared to [the time difference between] two winter solstices is close, but the small remainder [of the length of the year, beyond 365 days]—2421875—is the old value of the Muslims, and it was what Tycho Brahe [1546–1601] had used. During the Chongzhen [reign] period, there was an attempt to change the value of the small remainder to 24218864, and now it is again changed [this time] to 24233442. Even within this hundred years period the Western scholars already were not able to safeguard their old value [西士已不能守其舊率], and Jiang desired to use the number that Tycho Brahe had used in order to examine the time before a millennia ago, saying that there was no growth or decline [in the length of the tropical year], is there any coherence in this?! Epicycles and deferent originally are false representations [假象 of the heavens], and today they are already dismissed and not used, and instead [we] began [using] the ratio of the ellipse [橢圜之率]. Ellipses are also false representations [of the heavens]. Yet when applied to the trajectories of the heavenly bodies and to eclipses, [if] predictions and calculations and observations all match, then one can speak of big or small orbits, and one can speak of ellipses. However, from the time when the method was established until the present, a hundred years have not passed, and its source already is unusable. Approaching predictions in this way enables far-reaching knowledge. Master Jiang, however, held on to a fish trap that had already been discarded, making it into an eternal yardstick, his error is extreme! The methods of the Western scholars admittedly surpass Our system [西士之術,固有勝於中法], and it is permissible to practice their methods. [However,] to practice their methods while being made a fool of [by the Westerners]—that is not permissible. First one must have a fixed unit of length, like zhang or chi, and only then one can measure objects; first one must have a fixed unit of weight and only then one can weigh objects. Now, is what Jiang holds in order to measure fixed or is it not fixed? Talking about the mean tropical year means that the value [of the year in each period] might be more or less; talking about the lowest point in the orbit means that sometimes the movement is slow and sometimes fast; talking about a difference in the diameter of orbits

208 Appendix C

means that the representation [of the heavens] is alleged and it is not the true representation. [Jiang] used a washbasin to figure out the sun, and slandered Xi and He; [Jiang] used an awl to point at the earth, and sneered at [Da] Zhang 大章 and [Shu] Hai.9 If one was to hold onto the measures of master Jiang when going to the market, he was bound to be whipped by the market superintendent! Formerly, I heard that the [former] vice-president of the Censorate, Xun Zhao [Mei Juecheng], was not happy with Jiang’s explanations, and suspected that he had an ulterior motive for that. Now that I read [Jiang’s] book I know that Xun Zhao can be considered as a scholar, and Jiang could not reach his knowledge. Nowadays there is no one among those who understand about the heavens who matches you [Dai Zhen], but you alone still advance Jiang without changing a word. Is it because when [you] were young you learned with Jiang and [feel obliged to] spread his reputation? Or are there some other explanations that would dispel a humble [man’s] confusion? I further ask you to clarify the matter. [Source: QYTJ, 33.595–97.]

APPENDIX D

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS ABOUT ASTRONOMY

Question: Does the theory from the Western Ocean that claims that the sun’s orbit has a highest [apogee] and a lowest [perigee] point also have a basis? Answer: The methods of the Western Ocean originated from the Muslims [泰西之法,本於回回]; I have not heard about [this method of highest and lowest points of the sun’s orbit] beforehand. However, I researched the explanations of the “four upward and downward movements” in the Shangshu wei [尚書緯四遊升降 (The woof of the documents)],1 and they are close to the theory of [the most] high and low [points on the sun’s orbit]. How does it [the Shangshu wei] explain this [theory of “four upward and downward movements”]? Zheng Kangcheng’s [Zheng Xuan’s] commentary on the “Kaolingyao” [考靈曜 (Investigation of the numinous luminaries), a chapter of the Shangshu wei,] states: “The earth is thus 30,000 li thick, and during the time of the vernal equinox, the [thickness of the] earth is completely balanced. From then [the vernal equinox] onward the earth gradually moves downward, and when it comes to the time of the summer solstice, the earth had moved down by 15,000 li, and the upper side of the earth and the center of heaven are exact opposites. After the summer solstice, the earth gradually moves up, and when it’s time for the autumn equinox the earth is exactly centered under the heavens. From then, the earth gradually [keeps] moving upward, and when the winter solstice arrives [the earth] moved 15,000 li, and the lower face of the earth and the heavens are exact opposites. After the winter solstice the earth gradually moves downward [and so on and so forth].” The time of the winter solstice is therefore the most upward point of the movement of the earth, when the lower face of

210 Appendix D

the earth is exactly opposite to the heavens, and the height of the center of the earth with regard to the center of the heavens attains half of the diameter of the earth. From the perspective of the earth it is called “upward movement,” from the perspective of the heavens it can be called the lowest point [or the point where the earth is closest to the sun, hence the lowest altitude]. The summer solstice is when the earth moves to the lowest point, and the upper face of the earth is exactly opposite to the center of the heavens, and the height of the center of the earth with regard to the center of the heavens attains half the diameter of the earth. From the perspective of the earth it is called “downward movement,” from the perspective of the heavens it can be called the highest point [as the distance between the heavens and the earth is the greatest]. At the spring and autumn equinoxes the earth is completely leveled, and the center of the earth and that of the heavens [have] no issues of high or low. After the spring equinox, the earth gradually moves downward, and the distance of the heavens is growing further apart, therefore the heavens are higher. After the autumn equinox, the earth gradually moves upward, and the distance of the heavens is getting shorter, therefore the heavens are lower. According to the ancient method, the center of the heavens does not shift, while the center of the earth has upward and downward [motions]. According to the Western method, the center of the earth does not shift, and the orbit of the sun has high and low [points]. Upward and downward are the same as highest and lowest. [Source: Qian Daxin, QYTJ, 14.229–30]

APPENDIX E

ESSAY ON THE VALUE OF π

“The ancient ‘nine [types] of computation’ [古之九數] [claimed that] when the circumference of a circle is three then the diameter of that circle is one. This method was messy and confused. Each of the followers of Liu Xin [劉歆 (d. ca. 23 CE), who composed the Triple Concordance calendar], Zhang Heng [張衡 (78–139)], Liu Hui [劉徽 (third c. CE)], Wang Fan [王蕃 (third c.)], and Pi Yanzong [皮延宗 (fifth c.)], established a new ratio [between the circumference and the diameter of the circle], and they did not reach an agreement. By the end of the Song [420–479], the Nanxuzhou [南徐州] local official Zu Chongzhi [祖沖之 (ca. 429–500)] further calculated the precise ratio, taking the diameter of the circle of one hundred million as one zhang [10 feet], and the upper limit of the circumference of the circle was 3.1415927, while the lower limit was 3.1415926. The correct value was between the upper and lower limits. The precise ratio of the diameter and circumference was 113/355, and if reduced the ratio of the diameter and circumference was 7/22. He further established methods for extracting differences in squares [i.e., areas] and differences in cubes [i.e., volumes]1 and used them concurrently to correct the [ratios of the] circle. In emphasizing the precision, he was the best among the calculators.”2 The Westerners’ explanation on the subdivision of the circle into the “six origins” and “three basics” [六宗三要]3 was very subtle and for a circle with a diameter of 1 they arrived at a circumference value of 3.14159265, which was actually between the upper and lower limits that Chongzhi had set up. Reading from antiquity to modern times, whether in China or outside of it, all the [theories] of arranged calculations seem to be identical, and when used to pace

212 Appendix E

the heavens [i.e., predict astronomical events and set the calendar], it was fitting as if firm and unalterable. Only my nephew, the teacher Tang of Jiangning, [Qian Tang, dared] to doubt it, saying that the circumference of the circle was a curved line while the diameter was a straight line; using the right-angled triangle method with every equilateral side, and obtaining the hypotenuse, and dividing it [again]—the more one divides it the more small remainders [are neglected], and in the end there were no more sides, so what is called “precise ratio” is not precise. Now, if we try to make a big circular wheel from wood, its diameter one zhang, and on a long bamboo strip carve the decimal fractions [0.1, 0.01, 0.001, 0.0001] and measure it, the result is a constant of 3.16 with a remainder. So we know that Chongzhi’s precise ratio missed below the [correct number]. Therefore, to use a straight line while searching for a curved line, in fact did not correlate with the precise [ratio]. It is not that the calculation is not fine, but rather that the principle cannot be exhausted. Previously, Li Rui of Yuanhe told me that in juan three of Qin Jiushao’s Shuxue jiuzhang [數學九章 (The nine chapters on the learning of numbers)], there is a problem of calculating the area of a circular field: [the answer is] to square the diameter, and multiply [it] by 10 [which] gives the constant, then extract the square root, and you have the circumference [ 10 ]. If you place 100 million as the diameter, and calculate it according to this method, then you get a circumference of 316,227,766 and a remainder. This fits well with Gaiting’s [Qian Tang] explanation, and therefore the ancients had already realized it before [則古人已有先覺者]. [Sources: Qian Daxin, SJZYXL, 17.463–64.]

APPENDIX F

QIAN DAXIN’S WRITINGS ON MATHEMATICS, ASTRONOMY, AND DIVINATION

Title

Source

Santongshu yan 三統術衍 (Developing the technique of the triple concordance [system])

JDQDXQJ, 8:1–181.

“Yu Dai Dongyuan shu” 與戴東原書 (A letter to Dai Dongyuan [Zhen])

QYTJ, 33.595–97.

Diqiutu shuo 地球圖説 (Explanations to the map of the cosmos)

Jiang Youren 蔣友人 (Michel Benoist), Diqiutu shuo 地球 圖説 (Explanations to the map of the cosmos) (Taipei: Yiwen, 1967).

“Zeng Tan Jieping xu” 贈談階平序 (Introductory recommendation letter for Tan Jieping [Tai])

QYTJ, 23.377–78.

“Runyue shuo” 閏月說 (Explanation of the intercalary month)

QYTJ, 3.43–44.

“Dawen” 答問 (Questions and answers)

QYTJ, 14.212–32.

“Cewen” 策問 (Policy question)

QYTJ, 17.279–80.

“Huainan Tianwenxun buzhu xu” 淮南天文訓補注序 (Preface QYTJ, 25.419–20. to [Qian Tang’s] Further commentaries on the Heavenly patterns teaching [chapter] of the Huainan[zi])

214

Appendix F

“Ba Huainanzi” 跋淮南子 (Postscript to the Huainanzi)

QYTJ, 27.478.

“Ba Xingjing” 跋星經 (Postscript to the Classic of heavenly bodies)

QYTJ, 30.532.

“Ba Qin Jiushao Shuxue jiuzhang” 跋秦九韶數學九章 (Postscript to Qin Jiushao’s Nine chapters on numerical studies)

QYTJ, 30.532–33.

Various letters to Zhu Yun, Sun Xingyan, and Lu Wenchao

QYTJ, 34.617–23.

“Jiang xiansheng zhuan” 江先生傳 (The tradition of Master Jiang [Yong])

QYTJ, 39.705–9, esp. 706, 708.

“Dai xiansheng zhuan” 戴先生傳 (The tradition of Master Dai [Zhen])

QYTJ, 39.710–16, esp. 711, 713–15.

“Xingjing” 星經 ([On] the Classic of heavenly bodies)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 7; SJZYXL, 14.383–88.

“Dan Yuanzi Butian ge” 丹元子步天歌 ([On] Dan Yuanzi’s Songs about the pacing of the heavens) “Shuxue jiuzhang” 數學九章 ([On] the Nine chapters on numerical studies) “Ceyuan haijing xicao” 測圓海鏡 細草 (“[On] the detailed examples of the sea mirror of circular measurement) “Ge xiang xinshu” 革象新書 ([On] the new book about the [Yijing] symbol of “alteration”) “Baoyou huitian li” 寶祐會天曆 ([On] the Comprehensive almanac of the Baoyou [reign period, 1253–1258]) “Sanli cuoyao” 三曆撮要 ([On] the collected essentials of the three calendrical systems) “Taiyi tong zong baojian” 大[太]乙統宗寶鑒 ([On] the precious mirror for the systematic treatise on the Taiyi [divination method]) “Yuan jingzhou lu” 圓經[徑]周率 (The ratio of the diameter and circumference of the circle [π]) “Wang Shenning [Yinglin] yin Jiuzhang you wu” 王深寧引九 章有誤 (Wang Shenning’s [Yinglin] Commentary on the nine chapters had a mistake)

JDQDXQJ, vol. 7; SJZYXL, 17.463–80.

Appendix F 215

“Liuren tui xingnian” 六壬推行年 (The [divination method of the] “six ren” [one of the heavenly stems] infers yearly change) “Liuren shier shen” 六壬十二神 (The twelve “shen” [governing spirits] of the “six ren” [divination method]) “Taiyi” 太一 (The great unity) “Tianyi jia” 天一家 ([On] the lineage of heavenly unity) “Suanpan” 算盤 ([On] the abacus) “Gaitian” 蓋天 ([On] the vaulted heaven [theory]) “Jiuqi” 九鬿 ([On the term] “nine qi” [as the nine stars of the Big Dipper]) “Shuangyue” 霜月 ([On the term] “white month”) “Xianchi” 咸池 ([On the] “salty pond” [year]) “Taiyin” 太陰 ([On] of [the star] “Taiyin” [counter-Jupiter]) “Liu li” 六曆 (The six calendrical [lineages of antiquity]) “Suixing chaochen” 歲星超辰 ([On] the “jumping-[zodiac]space” of Jupiter) “Zhi run” 置閏 (Placing the intercalary [month]) “Ershisi shi” 二十四時 (Twenty-four hours [of the day]) “Yezi shi” 夜子時 (The “Yezi” time) “Huihui suanshu” 回回算術 (The computational methods of the Muslims) “Shigan peihe” 十干配合 (The combinations of the ten [heavenly] stems) “Xingde” 刑德 (The “recession and accretion” [divination method]) “Hejie ben Heyue zhi e” 河戒本河戉之訛 (The mistaken [identity] of the [star] Hejie as originally Heyue) “Dianfu” 電父 (Father lightning) “Leigong” 雷公 (Master thunder) “Dajiangjun” 大將軍 (The “Great General” [star]) “Guxun” 孤虛 (The “orphan-empty” [divination method])

216 Appendix F

“Qimen” 奇門 (Strange gates [divination]) “Jiugong zhi shen” 九宮之神 (The [auspicious] spirits of the “nine palaces” [magic square]) “Liuren” 六壬 (The “six ren” [divination method]) Untitled questions about the shape of the cosmos, divination, and the intercalary month

Zhuting xiansheng riji chao 竹汀先生日記鈔 (Master Zhuting’s [Qian Daxin] daily notes), JDQDXQJ, 8:46, 47, 52, 54.

APPENDIX G

ON SAুSĀRA 輪迴論

Wuhu! Who was it who began this talk about saূsāra? His [talk] deceives Heaven, cheats the spirits, and drives this world into that of the birds and beasts! Heaven and earth give life to humans and things similarly, but humans are the only intelligence-endowed beings among all things in their having human relations. The Five Relations prioritize filial piety, and even the stupid and unworthy love their father and mother, for their body is the body of their father and mother. Hence until death one would not dare forget one’s father and mother. From the time the talk about saূsāra appeared, there were [talks about] the body of the current life [今生之身], the body of former life [前生 之身], as well as the body of former-former life [前乎前生之身], extending further to unfathomable [numbers of lives], and all of [these lives] are my body, with each having a father and mother. After death, again, there is the body of the next life [來生之身], as well as the body of the after-next life [後乎來生之 身], again extending further to unfathomable [numbers of lives], also being my body, and also with each having a father and mother. By regarding father and mother as strangers, instead of considering [the parents] with kindness, they are thought of as piles [of accumulated parents]. [According to the Buddhists] one must leave his family and study Buddhism [as a monk] and then one can escape the suffering of saূsāra; that is how [the Buddha] misled people, [with] a plan very crafty and words very skillful. And those who practice his teachings conceal their filial and brotherly heart, willingly doing unfilial and unbrotherly things, yielding [to the Buddha’s rhetoric] and following him for over a thousand years without realizing [or attaining

218 Appendix G

enlightenment], could it not be considered a great pity! For birth and death are a human constant [夫生死者,人之常], just like grass and trees grow in the spring and wither in the autumn. When form and spirit unite there is a body, like when color and fragrance unite and there is a flower, I have not heard of a flower withering but the fragrance remains—how can the body die but the spirit stays? As the multitudes covet life, alchemists lure them by [promising to] prolong life, [this has been going on] for long with no proof [不驗]. After Mister Buddha’s [teachings] entered our country [釋氏後入中國], he made these words even more absurd by asserting that the form comes and goes but the spirit is neither born nor dies, and those who do not follow his method fall into the suffering of saূsāra. Listening to him repeatedly it seems as if he leads people into being good, and people do not know he teaches people to be unfilial and unbrotherly in a way that brings severe misfortune. Some say: “the spiritual qi returns to heaven, and the material soul returns to earth [神氣歸于天,形魄歸於地,形與神既非一物], material and spiritual are not one thing, so the spirit can indeed not die.” I say: in the initial time of death, the hun and po types of souls move apart [魂魄相離], and although there is differentiation of [hun] going up and [po] going down the end does not take long and there is no separation. The early kings knew the constitution of ghosts and spirits, therefore they made the sacrificial rituals for the dead, so that the [souls] return [upon death] and do not become dangerous. The one who carries out the sacrificial ceremony must be the descendent [of the deceased], as the qi of the descendent and that of the ancestors develop mutually. Without kin there is no sacrificial ceremony to the ancestors, as the qi does not fit. If it was according to Mister Buddha, then Zhang One’s father in the past could be Li Second’s son in the present, so that they have absolutely nothing in common (like wind, horse, and ox), how could the sacrificial ceremony be performed? The Yi zhuan says: “A family that amasses that which is good would have many causes for celebration; a family that amasses that which is not good would have many occasions of calamities.” Misfortune and good fortune are all created by what man brings [upon himself]. The one who does not do good [brings] misfortune on himself, and if [he is not good] to an excess [misfortune] will reach his sons and grandsons; the principle of mutual response [感應之理] can clearly be believed. Now their [the Buddhists’] saying that “if in previous life you did evil, then in this life you suffer” means that if Zhang One’s evil alters and brings misfortune on Li Second’s family, how extreme it gets! This does not lead people into doing good, but advises them to do evil. Furthermore, who actually manages the balance of saূsāra? Or will the heavens rule themselves? Or establish an office that divides people into kinds, provided with accounting books and registers, staffed with petty officials and apprentices, who would examine one by one the misconducts [of all humanity], with many times more cases than the multitude

Appendix G 219

of cases appearing before court in the world below? With this kind of Buddhist talk it is even hard to deceive a 3-foot child, yet the vulgar people of our world who read the books of the Ru and still are absurdly listening and deeply believing it, where on earth is their heart?! The earlier Ru had said that Laozi was close to Yang [Zhu] and that Buddha was close to Mozi [先儒言老氏近於楊,釋氏近於墨]. In my opinion, Buddha is also—from beginning to end—thinking only about himself, where is the so-called universal love in that? On the other hand, the Buddhists leave their family to study [their] way, while not returning to their father and mother, and only seek that they would avoid entering saূsāra, which means they think more of themselves than of their father and mother. Thus the result proves the self-preoccupation, and again only the individual gains the great liberation, and what about the multitudes of living? During their lifetime they receive alms to survive, not working for their living, and then they make the multitudes of human beings serve them as they dismiss themselves, while lying and bewildering their donors, deceitfully talking about universal love while in fact it is all about themselves. The egoism of Yang Zhu 杨朱 was about not giving something of oneself to benefit the world, while the Buddhists take the benefit of the world [for themselves]; the universal love of Mozi was about treating others positively like first-degree kin, while the Buddhists disadvantage their kin equally [as anyone other than their kin], that is why their harm by far exceeds that of Yang Zhu and Mozi. When sages and worthies sought the Way, it was by making clear human relationships; to discard human relationships in order to seek the Way is therefore not what I call the Way [聖賢之求道,以明人倫也;棄人倫以求道,則非 吾所謂道]. When the sages and worthies cherished the heart, they cherished the heart of filiality and brotherly relations. To part with filiality and brotherly relations and talk about heart, that is not what I call heart. Man is born in the midst of Heaven and Earth, only he has the phenomenal body, dying young or living a long life are not two [separate things], and he cultivates his self while awaiting it [death]. When the body exists—the Way exists; when the body disappears, the name exists; when the name exists, the Way also exists. Previous life and later life, what are they to do with me [前生後生,於吾何與]? Where does this anxiety about saূsāra come from?! Originally there was no saূsāra yet it is always feared—that is absurd thinking; to frighten people with saূsāra—that is absurd talk. To slight a human’s relations is not something that Heaven would endorse, to neglect kin and run away from ruin—that is true ruin, although they speak daily about heart and inborn nature, what benefit does it bring?! Moreover, [the kinds of transformations such as] when the field rat turns to a quail, and the sparrow enters the great waters to become a clam, things sometimes have [these transformations], it is only man that is the only creature that does not have [such transformations], it is this that makes man

220 Appendix G

different from birds and beasts. With the talk of saূsāra man also enters into the life of domestic animals, and domestic animals also transform and become man. Even if man is not very smart, how would he willingly associate himself with birds and beasts?! Birds and beasts know their mother and do not know their father, those who leave their family [to become monks] negate their father and mother and distance themselves from them [their father and mother], thus how does their intelligence differ from that of birds and beasts! I therefore say that truth does not match these [Buddhist] understandings, and getting rid of the thought about saূsāra is possible. [Source: Qian Daxin, QYTWJ, 2.34–36.]

APPENDIX H

SOURCES FOR THE WORKS OF QIAN DAXIN

The main source for Qian Daxin’s works that I have used in this study is the 1997 edition of his complete works, the Jiading Qian Daxin quanji 嘉定錢 大昕全集 (The entire collected writings of Qian Daxin of Jiading). This edition is primarily based on the Qianyan tang quanshu 潛研堂全書 (Complete writings from the Hall of Subtle Research), the first collection of Qian Daxin’s writings, published in 1806–1807 by his second son, Qian Dongshu 錢東塾 (1768–1833), and reprinted in 1840 by his grandson, Qian Shiguang 錢師光 (1792–?). Further editions of Qian’s collected writings, as well as individual titles, were published in various collections (叢書) and also independently throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; Qian’s writings have never been out of print.1 These early editions, however, did not include all the materials found in the 1997 collection. For example, the first collection did not include some of Qian’s prefaces and postfaces, which were later added from sources that included these materials (such as titles by other scholars that included Qian’s prefaces or postfaces). In my study, although I generally followed the 1997 collection, I also consulted earlier editions, both in order to check for discrepancies (which I rarely encountered) and in order to examine the material nature of earlier works and search for unpublished materials.2 I thus found that Qian Daxin’s writings that were included in the Qianyan tang quanshu circulated not only as complete titles but also in more fragmented ways. Qian’s follower Sun Xingyan 孫星衍 (1753–1818), for example, had a two-volume set of only the “Da wen” 答問 (Questions and answers) section

222 Appendix H

of the Qianyan tang ji (juan 4–9, dealing with the Classics and the Four Books), and the title of the collection—Qianyan tang quanshu—printed on the side of the edition was irregularly erased in the printing of the “Da wen” section (also suggesting the use of the same printing blocks).3 Likewise, I was able to use some of Qian Daxin’s notes, commentaries, and remarks that were not published in either of his early collected works because they were appended to or written on other scholars’ works. One example is Qian’s comments on Dai Zhen’s Gujin suishi kao 古今歲實考 (Examination of the [length] of the tropical year from antiquity to the present), a work also missing from Dai Zhen’s collected writings, as well as those comments added later by Huang Rucheng and Mao Yuesheng, discussed in part III.4 The table below lists the titles in the JDQDXQJ, along with preliminary information about them, including the modern researchers who checked and punctuated them for the JDQDXQJ. In part I in particular I expand on some of these works (when specific information is available), and, whenever possible, I try to date the writings and answer, to the extent that my sources allow, questions such as these: When and where did Qian work on these writings? When were they completed? When and where were they published and by whom? The answers are then intertwined into the larger picture of Qian Daxin’s life, scholarship, and social circumstances.

Title

Completed (in/between)

Published

Researcher Who Checked and Punctuated the Work

1

唐石經考異

Chen Wenhe 陳文和

2

經典文字考異

陳文和

3

聲類

4

甘二史考異

1825 1767–1782

陳文和

1794—through Juan 1–4, 21–32 Zhang the Five Dynasties Liansheng張連生; 1795—Song was added

Juan 15–20 陳文和;

1796—Yuan was added

Juan 33–100 Sun Kaiping 孫 開萍, Sun Yongru 孫永如

1797—Jin was added 5

三史拾遺

1806

Tian Hanyun 田漢雲

6

諸史拾遺

1807

Wang Yongping 王永平

Appendix H 223

Title

Completed (in/between)

Published

Researcher Who Checked and Punctuated the Work

7

修唐書史臣表

陳文和

8

新唐書糾謬校補

陳文和

9

元史氏族表

1753–1780/1791 1806

田漢雲

10 元史藝文志

1791

田漢雲

11 宋遼金元四史 朔閏考

1797

1801, 1806

田漢雲

12 通鑒注辨正

田漢雲

13 洪文惠公年譜

1768

1803

田漢雲

14 洪文敏公年譜

1786

1803

田漢雲

15 陸放翁先生年譜

1768

1803

田漢雲

16 王伯厚年譜

1786

1807

田漢雲

17 弇州山人年譜

1786

1807

田漢雲

18 天一閣碑目

1787

陳文和

19 疑年錄

1787

田漢雲

20 竹汀先生日記鈔

陳文和

21 竹汀日記

陳文和

22 竹汀居士年譜

陳文和

23 竹汀居士年譜續編

陳文和

24 錢竹汀先生行述

陳文和

25 潛研堂金石文跋尾

1768–1799

26 潛研堂金石文字目錄 1782

1768–1799 (four ZhuZhu 祝竹 editions, each one expanded) 1805

祝竹

27 地名考異

陳文和

28 元進士考

陳文和

29 十駕齋養新錄

1799

1804

Juan 1–10 Sun Xianjun 孫顯軍; Juan 11–20 陳文和

224 Appendix H

Title

Completed (in/between)

Published

30 十駕齋養新餘錄 31 三統術衍

Researcher Who Checked and Punctuated the Work 陳文和

1755

32 三統術鈐

1801

陳文和

1801

陳文和

33 風俗通義逸文

陳文和

34 顏氏家訓注補正

陳文和

35 恒言錄

陳文和

36 困學紀聞校

陳文和

37 鳳墅殘帖釋文

祝竹

38 潛研堂文集 39 潛研堂詩集 40 潛研堂詩續集

1770

1806

陳文和

1770, 1806

陳文和

1806

陳文和

41 潛研堂文集補編

陳文和

42 輯錄

陳文和

NOTE ON ABBREVIATIONS AND CITATIONS

The list below includes titles that are used frequently in the book. For many of them I have also used other editions (premodern handwritten manuscripts and printed editions and modern printed editions), and those are specifically cited accordingly in the notes. Some titles, such as the Lunyu and the Mengzi (by Confucius and Mencius, respectively), which are part of China’s earlier classical heritage, are used here primarily for the rich commentarial tradition, especially of the Qing era; hence they are usually listed under the commentator’s name. As for the Siku quanshu, the epic project in which thousands of texts were collected, annotated, chosen, and censored in the 1770s and 1780s, it is abbreviated mainly to refer to the project itself rather than to specific texts included therein or to its textual outcome. CRZ

CRZSB CRZXB ECCP

Ruan Yuan et al., Chouren zhuan 疇人傳 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers). Part of the Chouren zhuan huibian 疇人傳彙編 (Collected Editions of the Biographies of Mathematical Astronomers), 2008 ed., 2 vols. Zhu Kebao, Chouren zhuan sanbian 疇人傳三編 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers, 3rd ed.). In CRZ, vol. 2. Luo Shilin, Chouren zhuan xubian 疇人傳續編 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers, 2nd ed.). In CRZ, vol. 2. W. Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644– 1912) (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1943; repr., Taipei: Ch'eng Wen, 1970).

226

Note on Abbreviations and Citations

HS HXSCJ JDQDXQJ

JDWMSQJ

LY MZ NESKY

Nianpu

QYTJ QYTSJ QYTSXJ

QYTWJ SJZYXL

SKQS SKQSZMTY

ZZYL

Ban Gu, Han shu 漢書 (History of the [former] Han). 1962 ed. Jiang Fan, Hanxue shicheng ji 漢學師承記 (Records of Han learning masters). 2006 ed. Qian Daxin, Jiading Qian Daxin quanji 嘉定錢大昕全集 (The entire collected writings of Qian Daxin of Jiading). 1997 ed. Wang Mingsheng, Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji 嘉定王鳴盛 全集 (The entire collected writings of Wang Mingsheng of Jiading). 2010 ed. Confucius, Lunyu 論語 (Analects). See Liu Baonan, Lunyu Zhengyi, 2007. Mencius, Mengzi 孟子 (Mengzi). See Jiao Xun, Mengzi zhengyi, 2007. Qian Daxin, Nianer shi kaoyi 廿二史考異 (Examination of variances in the twenty-two histories). In JDQDXQJ, vols. 2–3. Qian Daxin, “Qian Xinmei xiansheng nianpu” 錢辛楣先生 年譜 (The biography of Master Qian Xinmei [Daxin]). In JDQDXQJ, vol. 1. Qian Daxin, Qianyan tang ji 潛研堂集 (Collected writings of the Hall of Subtle Research). 1989 ed. Qian Daxin, Qianyan tang shiji 潛研堂詩集 (Collected poems of the Hall of Subtle Research). In JDQDXQJ, vol. 10. Qian Daxin, Qianyan tang shi xuji 潛研堂詩續集 (Collected poems of the Hall of Subtle Research, Sequel). In JDQDXQJ, vol. 10. Qian Daxin, Qianyan tang wenji 潛研堂文集 (Collected writings of the Hall of Subtle Research). In JDQDXQJ, vol. 9. Qian Daxin, Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of the cultivation of the new from the study of the ten yokes). In JDQDXQJ, vol. 7. Siku quanshu 四庫全書 (The complete collection of the Four Treasuries). Lu Guangming et al., Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao 四庫全書總 目提要 (Summary of the catalog of the Complete collection of the Four Treasuries). 1997 ed. Zhu Xi, Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類 (Conversations with Master Zhu [Xi] classified by topic). 1987 ed.

NOTES

Introduction 1. Sheldon Pollock, “Introduction,” in World Philology, ed. Sheldon Pollock, Benjamin A. Elman, and Ku-ming Kevin Chang (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2015), 12. 2. These terms are dealt with in more detail in part II. 3. Examples of their scholarship include Hu Shi, Dai Dongyuan de zhexue (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1963), and Zhang Shizhai xiansheng nianpu, Hu Shi’s Collected Works Series vol. 33 (Taipei: Yuanliu, 1986); Liang Qichao, Dai Dongyuan (Taipei: Taiwan zhonghua shuju, 1970), and “Qingdai xueshu gailun,” in Liang Qichao shixue lun zhu san zhong (Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1984), 179–272; Qian Mu, Zhongguo sixiang shi (Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng shuju, 1977), and Xiandai Zhongguo xueshu lunheng (Taipei: Dongda tushu gongsi, 1984); Yü Ying-shih, “Some Preliminary Observations on the Rise of Ch’ing Confucian Intellectualism,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies, new ser., 11, no. 1 (December 1975): 105–46, and Lun Dai Zhen yu Zhang Xuecheng (Hong Kong: Longmen shuju, 1976); Du Weiyun, Qingdai shixue yu shijia (Taipei: Dongda tushu gongsi, 1984); Naitō Torajirō (Konan) 內藤虎次郎, Naitō Konan zenshu (Tokyo: Chikuma shobo, 1977), vol. 11, esp. 340–42; Yamanoi Yū, Min Shin shisō shi no kenkyū (Tokyo: Tokyo daigaku, 1980); Hamaguchi Fujiō, Shindai kōkyogaku no shisō shi teki kenkyū (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1994); Kondo Mitsuo, Shinchō kōshōgaku no kenkyū (Tokyo: Kenbun Shuppan, 1987). Elsewhere I have expanded on the development of Qing intellectual history in early twentieth-century China and the reasons for its trajectory. See my “ ‘To Feel at Home in the Wonderful World of Modern Science’: New Chinese Historiography and Qing Intellectual History,” Science in Context, 30, no. 3 (2017): 325–58. 4. See Yu Ying-shih 余英時, “Qingdai sixiang shi de yige xinjieshi,” in Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lun ji—Qingdai, 2nd ed., ed. Yu Ying-shih et al. (Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988), 11–48, esp. 41–44.

228

Introduction

5. Jerome B. Grieder, “Review: From Philosophy to Philology,” Journal of Asian Studies 46, no. 2 (May 1987): 388–90. 6. Note that De Bary quoted Grieder’s Kant question, and although he dismissed it for more pressing questions (not because it was irrelevant in De Bary’s mind), he did try to explain the Confucian failure from a very similar perspective. See William Theodore De Bary, The Trouble with Confucianism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), esp. 89–93. 7. For a discussion of the category of philosophy see my “From Theology’s Handmaid to the Science of Sciences: Western Philosophy’s Transformations on Its Way to China,” Transcultural Studies 2 (2013): 7–44. 8. See, e.g., QYTJ, 24.390–91; Ruan Yuan 阮元, Rulin zhuan gao, Xuxiu Siku quanshu ed. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995), 537:4.56. 9. Susan Mann (Jones), “Hung Liang-chi (1746–1809): The Perception and Articulation of Political Problems in Late Eighteenth Century China” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 1972); Susan Mann, “Scholasticism and Politics in Late Eighteenth Century China” Ch’ing-shi wen-t’i 3, no. 4 (December 1975): 28–49; R. Kent Guy, “The Development of the Evidential Research Movement: Ku Yen-wu and the Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies, new ser., 16, no. 2 (December. 1984): 97–118, and The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: Scholars and the State in the Late Ch’ien-lung Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987); William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001). 10. See, e.g., Susan Mann, Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997); Evelyn S. Rawski, The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism in Late Imperial China: Ethics, Classics, and Lineage Discourse (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994); Angela Zito, “Ritualizing Li: Implications for Studying Power and Gender,” Positions 1, no. 2 (Fall 1993): 321–48, and Of Body and Brush: Grand Sacrifice as Text/Performance in Eighteenth-Century China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997); Iona D. Man-Cheung, The Class of 1761: Examinations, State, and Elites in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2004); Cynthia J. Brokaw and Kaiwing Chow, eds., Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005). 11. Wang Mingsheng, Xizhuang shi cun gao, Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 ed. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995), 1434:27.330. 12. E.g., Ji Yun 紀昀 (1724–1805), Ji Wenda gong yi ji (n.p., Jiaqing 17, 1812), 7.89. Even Yao Nai 姚鼐 (1732–1815), usually associated with the opponents of the philologists, mentioned the great transformation of his own dynasty (positively). See Yao Nai, Guwen cilei zuan (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002), 15.148. 13. HXSCJ, 1.32. One could argue that Jiang Fan’s attempt to name the intellectual transformation he had witnessed brought the designation Hanxue to center stage. 14. See Zhang Xuecheng’s letter to Qian Daxin, written in the 1790s, in Xu zizhi tongjian, comp. Bi Yuan (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008), 1:16–20. 15. The term “literati” is too broad, as there were literati who did not see themselves as part of the Ru cohort. The Renaissance use of “humanists” seems to be a good equivalent for Ru, but that term carries later baggage that might be misleading to readers. See also Lionel M. Jensen, Manufacturing Confucianism: Chinese Traditions and Universal Civilization (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1997); for important critical reviews

Introduction

16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

24.

25.

26. 27.

229

of Jensen’s work see T. H. Barrett, “Is There a Chinese Word for ‘Confucius’? A Review Article,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 62, no. 1 (1999): 105–10; Willard J. Peterson, “Review: Manufacturing Confucianism: Chinese Traditions and Universal Civilization by Lionel M. Jensen,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 59, no. 1 (June 1999): 276–83; Nicolas Standaert, “The Jesuits Did NOT Manufacture ‘Confucianism,’” EASTM 16 (1999): 115–32; Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), vii. See Peter K. Bol, “This Culture of Ours”—Intellectual Transitions in T’ang and Sung China (Stanford. Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1992); Peter K. Bol, “The ‘Localist Turn’ and ‘Local Identity’ in Late Imperial China,” Late Imperial China 24, no. 2 (2003): 1–50; Peter K. Bol, “Neo-Confucianism and Local Society, Twelfth to Sixteenth Century,” in The Song-Yuan-Ming Transition in Chinese History, ed. Paul Smith and Richard von Glahn (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2003), 241–83; Peter K. Bol, Neo-Confucianism in History (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2008). A. C. Graham, Disputers of the Tao: Philosophical Argument in Ancient China (La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1989), 3. See more on the shishi qiushi methodology, its zeitgeist, and its genealogy (beginning in the Han but culminating in the mid-Qing) in Wang Yingxian 王应宪, Qingdai Wupai xueshu yanjiu (Study of the Wu-school scholarship of the Qing) (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009), 187–205. I am not arguing that in other times scholars did not experience or articulate identity anxieties or search for the Way—that is true for many periods of China’s history. In each period, however, there were specific historical reasons for experiencing such anxieties and for searching for the Way at different places and with different means. OED Online, s.v. “anxiety” (accessed September 22, 2015). More on the notion of social or group identity appears in chapter 1. Wu Jingzi, Rulin waishi (Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922), 1:4.10–11; for the English translation, see Wu Ching-tzu, The Scholars, trans. Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 68–69. Wu Jingzi, Rulin waishi, 2:35.5–6; the translation is based (with minor changes) on Wu Ching-tzu, The Scholars, 445. Zhuang reacted in this way after having found a scorpion in his cap immediately after an audience with the emperor. Because the scorpion was stinging him during the audience, Zhuang was unable to reply to the emperor when asked about his educational plans. Assuming that someone was trying to harm him, Zhuang decided to return home and renounce a high position in the imperial bureaucracy. See also Marston Anderson, “The Scorpion in the Scholar’s Cap: Ritual, Memory, and Desire in Rulin waishi,” in Culture and State in Chinese History: Conventions, Accommodations, and Critiques, ed. Theodore Huters, R. Bin Wong, and Pauline Yu (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997), 259–76. See Shang Wei, “Ritual, Ritual Manuals, and the Crisis of the Confucian World: An Interpretation of Rulin waishi,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 58, no. 2 (December 1998): 373–424. Martin W. Huang, “Stylization and Invention: The Burden of Self-Expression in The Scholars,” in Self as Image in Asian Theory and Practice, ed. Roger T. Ames, Thomas P. Kasulis, and Wimal Dissanayake (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 89. See part I for a detailed account of his life. See, e.g., Martin W. Huang, Literati and Self-Re/Presentation: Autobiographical Sensibility in the Eighteenth-Century Chinese Novel (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University

230

28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

38.

39.

Introduction

Press, 1995); Stephen J. Roddy, Literati Identity and Its Fictional Representations in Late Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998); Shang Wei, Rulin waishi and Cultural Transformation in Late Imperial China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003). Note that scholars have granted that there was a seventeenthcentury crisis, beyond the political crisis of the dynastic change, yet this older crisis supposedly came to an end with the Pax Manchurica or Pax Sinica (depending on the viewpoint of the observer) of the eighteenth century. See, e.g., Frederic Wakeman Jr., The Great Enterprise: The Manchu Reconstruction of Imperial Order in SeventeenthCentury China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 1:19–20; Zito, Of Body and Brush, 68–69. For the notion of a Manchu “identity crisis” during the eighteenth century see, e.g., Mark C. Elliott, “Ethnicity in the Qing Eight Banners,” in Empire at the Margins: Culture, Ethnicity, and Frontier in Early Modern China, ed. Pamela Kyle Crossley, Helen F. Siu, and Donald S. Sutton (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 27–57, esp. 47–52. See Frederic Wakeman Jr., “High Ch’ing: 1683–1839,” in Modern East Asia: Essays in Interpretation, ed. J. B. Crowley (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1970), 1–28; Rowe, Saving the World, 1, 457–58, n. 1; Susan Naquin and Evelyn S. Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven. Conn.: Yale University Press, 1987), esp. 63. See also Mann, Precious Records, esp. 19–22, where she qualified the “prosperous age” image. Mann, it seems to me, also described an intellectual crisis in her dissertation on Hong Liangji 洪亮吉. See Mann (Jones), “Hung Liang-chi (1746–1809),” esp. 96–97. Rowe, Saving the World, 1–2. David S. Nivison, The Life and Thought of Chang Hsueh-ch’eng, 1738–1801 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1966), 19. QYTWJ, 17.258. For the first part of the translation see Roddy, Literati Identity, 260. Zhuangzi, ch. 8. See also Willard J. Peterson, “Squares and Circles: Mapping the History of Chinese Thought,” Journal of the History of Ideas 49, no. 1 (January–March 1988): 47–60, esp. 59–60. This was not the first time that an external knowledge system posed a challenge to the Ru tradition: the Buddhist doctrine posed such a challenge centuries earlier. Indeed, Daoxue has been often interpreted in part as a response to the Buddhist as well as the Daoist challenge by domesticating some of their doctrines and bringing them under the wings of Ru tradition; this was part of the change to Ru tradition that Qian rejected. See Wei Yuan, Guwei tang ji (Shanghai: Guoxue fulunshe, 1909), juan 4, 148–50. See Yang Xumin 杨绪敏, “Lun wan Qing xuejie zongshi Yu Yue de xueshu chengjiu ji yingxiang,” Hechi xueyuan xuebao 27, no. 4 (August 2007): 39. Kang Youwei’s remarks were parts of his story—told in his autobiography some years later—about his 1879 scholarly transformation with regard to how to study and think, dismissing bookish learning and focusing on meditation and self-reflection. For this entry in his autobiography, “Kang Nanhai zibian nianpu” 康南海自編年譜 (Autobiography of Kang Youwei), see his Kang Nanhai xiansheng yizhu huikan (Taipei: Hongye shuju, 1976), 10. See also Dong Shiwei 董士偉, Kang Youwei pingzhuan (Nanchang: Baihua zhouwenyi chubanshe, 1994), 43. (Kang, of course, had his own feuds with Dai Zhen over the interpretation of the Mengzi. See Dong Shiwei, Kang Youwei pingzhuan, 11.) For this edition see Fang Dongshu, Hanxue shangdui (Hangzhou: Zhejiang shuju, Guangxu gengzi, 1900). (Note that when I reference the Hanxue shangdui elsewhere in this book, I am referring to the 1937 edition.) Liang Qichao, Liang Qichao quanji (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 1999), 2:614. For more on the Tongcheng school, its adherence to Cheng-Zhu learning, and its “imaginary

Introduction 231

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46. 47.

48. 49. 50.

51.

52. 53.

intellectual lineage,” see Kai-wing Chow, “Discourse, Examination, and Local Elite: The Invention of the T’ung-ch’eng School in Ch’ing China,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600–1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 183–219. Liang Qichao, Liang Qichao quanji, 2:561. Liang Qichao, Liang Qichao quanji, 2:612–13. Note that the standard term for utilitarianism (功利主義) was not yet fixed at the time. Xie Wuliang is mostly famous today for composing the first history of women writers in China, published in 1916. Xie Wuliang, Zhongguo zhexue shi (Shanghai: Zhonghua, 1930), pian 3 xia, 21. The essay was published in three parts in the journal Beijing daxue yuekan from 1919 to 1921; this was the original title of the essay, but the title was changed in Hu’s collected writings to “Qingdai xuezhe de zhixue fangfa.” For the essay see Hu Shi, Hu Shi wenji (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 2:282–304. See Hu Shi, Hu Shi wenji, 2:291. For the phonetic terminology see William Hubbard Baxter, Handbook of Old Chinese Phonology (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1992), esp. 45–51. Hu Shi, Hu Shi wenji, 2:293. See Hu Shi, “Zhongguo zhexue li de kexue jingshen yu fangfa,” in Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lunji—zonglun, 2nd ed., ed. Hu Shi et al. (Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988), 2–33, esp. 24–25. See also Hu Shi, Hu Shi wenji, 12:396–421. Hu Shi wrote that in 1923 (although the book was not published until 1925). See Hu Shi, Dai Dongyuan de zhexue (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1963), 26. Hu Shi, “Fan lixue de sixiangjia—Dai Dongyuan,” in Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lunji— Qingdai, 2nd ed., ed. Yü Yingshi et al. (Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988), 229–40. For Hu Shi’s notion that he was part of a longer tradition of scholarship in Anhui (despite the fact that he was born in Shanghai) in which Dai Zhen was a major participant see Jensen, Manufacturing Confucianism, 220, 260n1. See also Hu Shi’s preface “Dai Dongyuan zai Zhongguo zhexueshi shang de weizhi” 戴東原在中國哲學史上的 位置 (Dai Dongyuan’s place in the history of Chinese philosophy) to Dai shi san zhong, by Dai Zhen (Shanghai: Pushe, 1924), 1–8; An Zhenghui 安正辉, Dai Zhen zhexue zhuzuo xian zhu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 16. Hu thought that Zhang Xuecheng— the “expert in discussing historical studies” (專講史學的人)—was one of the few who “was to a considerable extent able to comprehend Master Dai’s thought” (一個很有見 解的人,他頗能了解戴氏的思想). See Hu Shi, Dai Dongyuan de zhexue, 91, and Zhang Shizhai xiansheng nianpu, 31. For the work see Liang Qichao, Liang Qichao shixue lun zhu san zhong (Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1980), 179–272. Liang’s “Qingdai xueshu gailun” was translated by Immanuel C. Y. Hsu as Intellectual Trends in the Ch’ing Period (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970). Liang Qichao, “Qingdai xueshu gailun,” 189. The translation here follows Hsu, Intellectual Trends in the Ch’ing Period, 23. Levenson did not consider kaozheng scholarship to be in line with modern science at all. See Joseph R. Levenson, “The Abortiveness of Empiricism in Early Ch’ing Thought,” Far Eastern Quarterly 13, no. 2 (February 1954): 155–65. For Demieville, “the tide of philological criticism [had] sweeping and devastating effects on the future of the Confucian tradition.” P. Demieville, “Chang Hsueh-ch’eng and His Historiography,” in Historians of China and Japan, ed. W. G. Beasley and E. G. Pulleyblank (London: Oxford University Press, 1961), 169.

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54. For similar views see, e.g., Qian Mu, Zhongguo sixiang shi, 244–279; Du Weiyun, Qingdai shixue yu shijia, 289–313, and Zhongguo shixue shi (Taipei: Sanmin shuju, 2004), 330–55; Naitō Torajirō (Konan), Naitō Konan zenshu,11:340–42; Yamanoi Yū 山井湧, “Ko Enbu no gakumon kan—‘Mingaku kara Shingaku e no tenkan’ no kanten kara,” Chūō daigaku bugakubu kiyō 35 (1964): 67–93; Yamanoi Yū, Min Shin shisō shi no kenkyū; Yamanoi Yū, Kō Sōgi (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1983); Hamaguchi Fujiō 濱口富士雄, “Hō Tōju no Kangaku hihan ni tsuite,” Nihon Chūgoku Gakkai hō 30 (1978): 165–78, and Shindai kōkyogaku no shisō shi teki kenkyū, esp. 218–96; Kondo Mitsuo, Shinchō kōshōgaku no kenkyū; Kinoshita Tetsuya 木下鉄矢, “Shinchō kōshōgaku” to sono jidai: Shindai no shisō (Tokyo: Sōbunsha, 1996). 55. Important aspects of the “quarrel between the Ancients and the Moderns” in Europe included questions such as “Did the ancients know more than the moderns. . . . Had the ancients achieved more than the moderns [in literature and the arts]” and questions of accumulation and imitation. Joseph M. Levine, The Autonomy of History: Truth and Method from Erasmus to Gibbon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 128. My use of the term “modern” or “moderns” when discussing Qian Daxin and his times or when translating jin (今) rests on the definition of “modern” as “relating to the present and recent times, as opposed to the remote past” or “a person who lives in or belongs to the present time . . . as contrasted with an ancient one.” OED Online, s.v. “modern, adj. and n.,” http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/120618?redirectedFrom=modern (accessed January 25, 2011). This use differs from the one that concerns modernity as a later period and idea. 56. See chapter 7 for more on my use of “science” and “scientific.” 57. See, e.g., Pamela Kyle Crossley, A Translucent Mirror: History and Identity in Qing Imperial Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); Beatrice S. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Zvi Ben-Dor Benite, The Dao of Muhammad: A Cultural History of Muslims in Late Imperial China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005); Pamela Kyle Crossley, Helen F. Siu, and Donald S. Sutton, eds., Empire at the Margins: Culture, Ethnicity, and Frontier in Early Modern China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); Mark C. Elliott, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001), and “Review: Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China, by William T. Rowe” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 63, no. 1 (June, 2003): 241–58; Evelyn S. Rawski, “Reenvisioning the Qing: The Significance of the Qing Period in Chinese History,” Journal of Asian Studies 55, no. 4 (November 1996): 829–50, and The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998).

1. Learning to Be a Scholar 1. Andrew Sayer, Method in Social Science: A Realist Approach (London: Routledge, 1992), 16 (italics in the original). For more on the link between social aspects and knowledge see Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language (New York: Pantheon, 1972); Stephen M. Downes, “Socializing Naturalized Philosophy of Science,” Philosophy of Science 60, no. 3 (September 1993): 452–68; Leon Olive, Knowledge, Society and Reality: Problems of the Social Analysis of Knowledge and of Scientific Realism (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1993); Steven Shapin, “Here and Everywhere:

1. Learning to Be a Scholar 233

2.

3. 4. 5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

Sociology of Scientific Knowledge,” Annual Review of Sociology 21 (1995): 289–321; Roy Bhaskar, The Possibility of Naturalism: A Philosophical Critique of the Contemporary Human Sciences (New York: Routledge, 1998); Nico Stehr and Volker Meja, eds., Society and Knowledge: Contemporary Perspectives in the Sociology of Knowledge and Science (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction, 2005). Stanley Wasserman and Katherine Faust, Social Network Analysis: Methods and Applications (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 3. See also Charles Wetherell, “Historical Social Network Analysis,” International Review of Social History 43 (1998): 125–44; Roger V. Gould, “Uses of Network Tools in Comparative Historical Research,” in Comparative Historical Analysis in the Social Sciences, ed. James Mahoney and Dietrich Rueschemeyer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 241–69. Wasserman and Faust, Social Network Analysis, 4. See Wetherell, “Historical Social Network Analysis,” 130–31. I also use the data I have in quantitative analysis (e.g., in the maps) but recognize their limitations. I should also mention that the statistical methodology is more suited for the “whole network” approach (which deals with entire social systems) than for the egocentric approach. See Wetherell, “Historical Social Network Analysis,” 128. See Mustafa Emirbayer and Jeff Goodwin, “Network Analysis, Culture, and the Problem of Agency,” American Journal of Sociology 99, no. 6 (May 1994): 1411–54; Valerie A. Haines, “Social Network Analysis, Structuration Theory and the Holism-Individualism Debate,” Social Networks 10 (1988): 157–82. Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), 90, 211. See also Arnold Thackray and Robert K. Merton, “On Discipline Building: The Paradoxes of George Sarton,” Isis 63, no. 4 (December 1972): 472–95. Raf Vanderstraeten and Frederic Vandermoere, “Disciplined by the Discipline: A Social-Epistemological Fingerprint of the History of Science,” Science in Context 28 (June 2015): 197. Jan Assmann and John Czaplicka, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” New German Critique, no. 65, Cultural History/Cultural Studies (Spring–Summer 1995): 128. See Henri Tajfel and John Turner, “An Integrative Theory of Intergroup Conflict,” in The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations, ed. Stephen Worchel and William Austin (Monterey, Calif.: Brooks/Cole, 1979), 33–48; Henri Tajfel, “Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations,” Annual Review of Psychology 33 (1982): 1–39. See also Assmann and Czaplicka, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” 125–33; Alon Confino, “Collective Memory and Cultural History: Problems of Method,” American Historical Review 102, no. 5 (December 1997): 1386–1403; Allan Megill, “History, Memory, Identity,” History of the Human Sciences 11, no. 3 (1998): 37–62. Qian remarked that he began writing the Nianpu when he was ill in 1784 (and continued writing it until 1792). See Qian Daxin, “Qian Xinmei xiansheng nianpu,” JDQDXQJ, 1:32 (henceforth referred to as Nianpu). Qian may have compiled the biography from notes or a diary of some sort that he had kept, but there is no evidence to support this assumption (his published “diary” does not include notes of this kind). For biographies as historical sources in sinology see D. C. Twitchett, “Chinese Biographical Writing,” in Historians of China and Japan, ed. W. G. Beasley and E. G. Pulleyblank (London: Oxford University Press, 1961), 95–114. For Qian Daxin’s biography I used mainly the Nianpu. For secondary sources on Qian Daxin’s life (mostly modern renderings of the Nianpu) see Fei Haiji 費海璣, Qian Zhuting zhuanji yanjiu (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1971), esp. ch. 2; Fang Shiming

234 1. Learning to Be a Scholar

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

方詩銘 and Zhou Dianjie 周殿傑, Qian Daxin (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1986), esp. chs. 1 and 2; Qian Daxin, Qianyan tang ji (Shanghai: Guji chuban she, 1989), 1–25; Kinoshita Tetsuya 木下鉄矢, “Shinchō kōshōgaku” to sono jidai: Shindai no shisō (Tokyo: Sōbunsha, 1996), 76–82, 145–50; Zhang Tao 張濤 and Deng Shengguo 鄧聲國, Qian Daxin pingzhuan (Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 2006), esp. ch. 1. See also brief accounts in English in Arthur W. Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644–1912) (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1943; repr., Taipei: Ch’eng Wen, 1970), 152–55; Jerry Dennerline, The Chia-Ting Loyalists: Confucian Leadership and Social Change in Seventeenth-Century China (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981), 334–37. Dennerline’s account has many inaccuracies when compared to the Nianpu (which was also Dennerline’s source). The idea of a clear beginning and ending to this (and any other) narrative is problematic: although Qian’s birth and death were, quite naturally, significant for him, they were not the beginning and ending of the larger story of the origins of his thought or its continuation through his students after his death. About the issue of beginnings and endings in general see Edward W. Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985); Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987); Jonathan Gilmore, The Life of a Style: Beginnings and Endings in the Narrative History of Art (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2000). Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europe, and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), 63; Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 8–14. See also map 1. There is not much information on Qian Zi and what seems to be an uxorilocal marriage; whether he came from a poor home and moved into a more well-to-do family or vice versa remains unclear. For more about uxorilocal marriage see Burton Pasternak, “On the Causes and Demographic Consequences of Uxorilocal Marriage in China,” in Family and Population in East Asian History, ed. Susan B. Hanley and Arthur P. Wolf (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1985), 309–34. See also Wang Zhiyi 汪志伊 (1728–1818), “Qian Zhuting xiansheng xingshu,” JDQDXQJ, vol. 1, esp. 1–2; “Qian shi citang ji” 錢氏祠堂記 (Record of the Ancestral Hall of the Qians), QYTJ, 21.341–42 (written in 1777). See Chen Menglei 陳夢雷 (b. 1651) et al., comp., Qinding Gujin tushu jicheng 欽定古今 圖書集成 (Imperially decreed complete collection of books and illustrations past and present) (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1934), ce 115, juan 676, 23b. According to Huang, Jiading county was an “ecologically unstable area,” which meant that “returns from farming had already become so low by the seventeenth century that cotton handicrafts were the mainstay of the household’s subsistence.” He used the term “cotton revolution” in the Chinese context to mark the shift from hemp and other indigenous products to cotton, a process that involved a socioeconomic shift to cotton handicraft spinning and weaving as well as trade. This was a different type of revolution than the European “cotton revolution” in Huang’s view: in Europe (from the eighteenth century) it meant industrialization and machinery, but in China it meant, according to Huang, “involution”; i.e., the increase of production was accompanied by a greater workload but no increase in per capita income for the peasants. Philip C. Huang, The Peasant Family and Rural Development in the Yangzi Delta, 1350–1988 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1990). For opposing views about the notion of involution as distinct from revolution in Europe see R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press,

1. Learning to Be a Scholar 235

20.

21.

22.

23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28.

1997), 13–32. For the predominance of cotton at Jiading in the early Qing (“90 percent of the arable land in Jiading county was planted in cotton”) see Pierre-Etienne Will, Bureaucracy and Famine in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1990), 177, esp. n1; Samuel Adrian Miles Adshead, Material Culture in Europe and China, 1400–1800: The Rise of Consumerism (Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan, 1997), esp. 86–87; Mark Elvin, “Market Towns and Waterways: The County of Shang-hai from 1480–1910,” in The City in Late Imperial China, ed. G. William Skinner (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1970), 441–73. On the link among commerce, merchants, and change in intellectual environment see Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 8–11, 124–33; Benjamin A. Elman, “The Social Roles of Literati in Early to Mid-Ch’ing,” in The Cambridge History of China: The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, Part 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 360–427. Apparently Qian’s great-grandfather Qian Qi 錢岐 was also a licentiate. See Wang Chang, “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming,” in Chunrong tang ji (n.p.: Shunan shushe kanben, Guangxu 18, 1892), juan 55, 12b–16a. “Xiankao zeng Zhongxian dafu fujun jia zhuan” 先考贈中憲大夫府君家傳 (The hereditary house of [my] father, posthumously titled Zhongxian dafu [fourth rank]), QYTJ, 50.870. Qian mentioned that his grandfather did not have money to buy books and had to borrow them from the library. “Xiandafu zeng Fengzheng Dafu fujun jia zhuan” 先大父贈奉政大夫府君家傳 (The hereditary house of [my] grandfather, posthumously titled Fengzheng dafu [fifth rank]), QYTJ, 50.868–69. It is hard to quantify “modest” or “poor” in this context, as there are no specific figures for the Qians’ income; although research has already shown that teachers’ salaries were not too far behind those of officials (depending on the official’s nonofficial sources of income, of course), it seems that the salaries used for the comparison were not those of private family teachers (as opposed to school or academy teachers). See Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 172–73, n87. Jiading, which suffered a great massacre during the Manchu conquest in the seventeenth century, has been famous, especially since the late nineteenth century, as a center of anti-Manchu resistance. The story of the resistance and massacre, perhaps surprisingly, was told by Qian Daxin himself: “Ji Hou-Huang liang zhongjie gong shi” 記侯黃兩忠節公事 (The affair of the two loyal and moral masters Hou [Tongzeng] and Huang [Chunyue]), QYTJ, 22.355–59 (undated). For more on the Jiading massacre see especially Dennerline, The Chia-Ting Loyalists); Kinoshita Tetsuya 木下鉄矢, “Shinchō kōshōgaku,” 74–76. Nianpu, 3. (All the information about Qian’s life is drawn from the Nianpu unless stated otherwise.) See “Xiandafu zeng Fengzheng dafu fujun jia zhuan,” QYTJ, 50.868–69. The locus classicus of the three immortalities (hierarchically ordered from virtue, through achievements, to words) is the Zuozhuan, from the twenty-fourth year of Duke Xiang of the state of Lu. See Hong Liangji 洪亮吉 (1746–1809), comp. and commentator, Chunqiu Zuozhuan gu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 567. “Xiandafu zeng Fengzheng dafu fujun jia zhuan,” QYTJ, 50.868–69. Qian Daxin also did not reject Cheng-Zhu learning as a whole—his attitude was more complex, as I try to show in the following chapters by way of engaging Qian’s thought. Here I emphasize the social aspects of his identity. QYTJ, 50.871. The flag of “ancient learning” had been raised by different people and in different periods with different meanings. What ancient learning meant for Qian Daxin and his peers will be considered in later chapters.

236 1. Learning to Be a Scholar 29. “Xu Ting xiansheng muzhiming” 虛亭先生墓誌銘 (Epitaph for Master Xu Ting), QYTJ, 43.774. One might question Qian’s narrative of ancient learning beginnings in Jiading and speculate about earlier roots going back to the late Ming, when Jiading had a host of fugu 復古 (restoring antiquity) scholars. However, making such a link to late Ming times in Jiading may have been problematic for Qian: some of the Jiading scholars of that time were involved with the resistance to the Manchus that ended with the Jiading massacre. See Dennerline, The Chia-Ting Loyalists. 30. Cao had the title of annual tribute student (歲貢生). 31. Man-Cheong claims that Cao was a cousin of Qian Daxin. Iona D. Man-Cheung, The Class of 1761: Examinations, State, and Elites in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2004), 170. They were, in fact, very distant cousins (and close friends): Cao’s great-great-grandmother was the sister of Qian’s great-grandfather. See QYTJ, 43.780–83. There Qian also related his close relationship with Cao over the years. 32. These characters, so Qian wrote much later, were 玉 and 而. Nianpu, 4. For more on mother-son relations in late imperial China, with a focus on teaching, see Hsiung Pingchen, “Constructed Emotions: The Bond Between Mothers and Sons in Late Imperial China,” Late Imperial China 15, no. 1 (June 1994): 87–117; Dorothy Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994). 33. The more common age to start learning characters and later poetry and eight-legged essay skills, as well as the age for passing examinations, was usually a year or two beyond Qian Daxin’s age. There is no mention in Qian’s writings as to the age at which he mastered various texts. See Ichida Miyazaki, China’s Examination Hell: The Civil Service Examinations of Imperial China (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981), esp. 14–17; Benjamin A. Elman, “Political, Social, and Cultural Reproduction via Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China,” Journal of Asian Studies 50, no. 1 (February 1991): 7–28, and A Cultural History of Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 261–80. 34. In 1768 Qian wrote the “Rongjing tang ji” 蓉鏡堂記 (Record of the Hall Mirroring the Lotus), a record of Cao’s studio in which he mentioned the few dozens of students studying together in the cramped old room, for which the title “hall” seemed somewhat extravagant. QYTJ, 21.344–45. 35. Incidentally and most propitiously, the question on the examination, according to Qian, dealt with the following passage from the Lunyu (9.23): “It is fitting that we should hold the young in awe. How do we know that the generations to come will not be the equal of the present?” (後生可畏，焉知來者之不如今也). See Confucius, The Analects, trans. D. C. Lau (London: Penguin, 1979), 99. 36. “Xi’an xiansheng shiji xu” 習菴先生詩集序 (Preface to the collected poetry of Master Xi’an [Cao Renhu]), QYTJ, 26.436. See also Qian’s 1803 epitaph for Wang Mingsheng: “Xizhi xiansheng muzhiming” 西沚先生墓誌銘 (Epitaph to Master Xizhi [Wang Mingsheng]), QYTJ, 48.838–41. 37. “Xu Ting xiansheng muzhiming,” QYTJ, 43.774. See also “Jiwai jiu Xu Ting xiansheng wen” 祭外舅虛亭先生文 (The funeral oration for [my wife’s] father Xu Ting), QYTJ, 50.881–82 (written in 1768); for a similar narrative with more on Wang Gongren see “Wangqi Wang Gongren xingshu” 亡妻王恭人行述 (The life of the deceased wife Wang Gongren), QYTJ, 50.878–80 (written soon after her death in 1767). The terms used by Qian may imply uxorilocal marriage.

1. Learning to Be a Scholar 237 38. Qian was also in contact with Wang Mingsheng’s younger brother, Wang Mingshao 王 鳴韶 (1732–1788), who was a scholar in his own right. See QYTJ, 48.841–42. 39. For more on the exceptional development of libraries during the Qing see Taam Cheukwoon, “The Development of Chinese Libraries Under the Ch’ing Dynasty, 1644–1911” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1933); for the connection between libraries and the intellectual turn of the Qing see Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 181–89. 40. See JDQDXQJ, 4:1–40; in a preface to this work Qian’s student Ge Zhouxiang 戈宙襄 (1765–1827), who had the work published in 1792 (according to the date of the preface), hailed Qian’s knowledge of history as well as his methodology. 41. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi shangque (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe, 2005), 930. One should note Sima Guang’s famous saying that “history is the one starting point of the Ru. . . . This is the means by which the student pursues the Way. There are no two Ways in the world, how could there be four learnings?!” (史者儒之一端 . . . 夫學者 所以求道；天下無二道，安有四學哉). Sima Guang, Tongjian lun, comp. Wu Yaoguang 伍耀光 (Taipei: Taiwan guji, 2002), juan 123, 251. For more on Wang Mingsheng’s scholarship and the Shiqi shi shangque in particular see Shi Jianxiong 施建雄, Wang Mingsheng xueshu yanjiu (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2009). 42. Qian omitted Wang’s role in getting him to Ziyang in the Nianpu and just mentioned that the Manchu provincial governor had “heard of [my] name” and made the Jiading county official recommend Qian to the academy. Qian’s great-grandson, in the commentary to the Nianpu, added Wang’s role. Qian’s great-grandson’s version does not correspond to that of Wang Chang himself; Wang Chang claimed in the epitaph he wrote for Qian Daxin that it was Wang Mingsheng who came up with Qian’s name and that through Wang Mingsheng Wang Chang’s contact with Qian began. It is unclear, however, if Wang Mingsheng gave Qian’s name directly to the head of the academy or to Wang Chang, who passed it on. See Wang Chang, “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming.” For more on governors at the time see R. Kent Guy, Qing Governors and Their Provinces: The Evolution of Territorial Administration in China, 1644–1796 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013). 43. Wang Chang, “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming.” For a similar spirit of lifelong friendship see Qian’s “Shu’an xiansheng qishi shou xu” 述庵先生七十壽序 (Preface to Master Shu’an’s [Wang Chang’s] seventy [year] birthday), QYTJ, 23.378–80 (dated 1793). 44. See Qian’s preface to his QYTSJ, 889 (dated 1770). 45. QYTJ, 24.383. Qian thought Hui’s accomplishment to be greater than that of Yan Ruoqu. See also Qian’s high esteem for Hui’s father, Hui Shiqi: QYTJ, 38.687–92. 46. ECCP, 356. See also Wang Yingxian 王应宪, Qingdai Wupai xueshu yanjiu (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009). 47. See, e.g., their notes on the Yizhuan 易傳 (Commentary on the Changes) by Jing Fang 京房 (77–37 BCE), written on a handwritten edition of the work that was supposedly a copy of a Song dynasty printed edition. Zhu Bangheng 朱邦衡, also a Suzhou local and presumably Hui’s disciple, copied the work in 1731. Ms #001260087/3286, Rare Books Collection, Fudan University, Shanghai. 48. Wang Chang, “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming.” 49. QYTJ, 29.529, 39.698. More generally, Qian mentioned that Hui’s family had many books and that his studies covered the full range of Classics, Histories, masters, and the hundred schools of various teachings (經, 史, 諸子, 百家雜說, 釋道二藏). Qian did not mention which texts exactly. 50. QYTJ, 29.529.

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51. See “Hui xiansheng [Dong] zhuan” 惠先生[棟]傳 (The biography of Master Hui [Dong]), QYTJ, 39.698–705. Qian also wrote the biography of Hui Dong’s father, Hui Shiqi 惠士奇 (1671–1741). There Qian quoted Hui Shiqi as saying very similar things about Han learning as well as about the necessity of penetrating Han learning in order to get to correct ancient learning. “Hui xiansheng [Shiqi] zhuan” 惠先生[士奇]傳 (The biography of Master Hui [Shiqi]), QYTJ, 38.687–92. I deal more extensively with the question of Han learning in the final section of chapter 3. 52. See William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001), 114 and, for a qualification of the terms Hanxue and Songxue, 483n29. 53. Mss #0184296–99, Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. 54. For Shen Deqian see, e.g., ECCP, 645–46; Kao Hsin-sheng, “Shen Te-Ch’ien,” in The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. William H. Nienhauser Jr. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 1:678–79; Elman, “The Social Roles of Literati,” 410; Jerry Dean Schmidt, Harmony Garden: The Life, Literary Criticism, and Poetry of Yuan Mei (1716–1798) (New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 190, 236, 246, 263–69, 284, 396, 282nn135, 139, 142. For Shen and the academy see also Liu Yucai 刘玉才, Qingdai shuyuan yu xueshu bianqian yanjiu (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2008), 76–84. Although Shen Deqian was Yuan Mei’s “literary rival,” they still had close contact, and Qian Daxin was later a close friend of Yuan (see more in chapter 3 below). 55. See also Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring and the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007), 271–97. 56. It seems to me Qian began studying these subjects because his roommates were interested in them; only later did his own interest in these fields appear. See also Wang Chang’s epitaph for Qian Daxin: “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming.” That year (1753) Qian also began his project on the Yuanshi shizu biao 元史氏族表 (Table of the clan names in the Yuan period), which he completed in 1791. 57. HXSCJ, juan 2, 255; CRZ, vol. 1, 42.493. For Chu as an expert on rituals see Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism in Late Imperial China: Ethics, Classics, and Lineage Discourse (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), 182. 58. See JDQDXQJ, 8:3. 59. Shen knew Wu’s father—the famous writer Wu Jingzi, author of the Rulin waishi—and also Hui Dong. See ECCP, 357, 867; Xunzi, Xunzi: A Translation and Study of the Complete Works, trans. John Knoblock (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1988), 1:117; Stephen Roddy, Literati Identity and Its Fictional Representations in Late Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998), 281n45. 60. CRZ 42.546. Wu Lang’s work was published in 1768. See ECCP, 867. 61. See Horng Wann-sheng, “Chinese Mathematics at the Turn of the 19th Century: Jiao Xun, Wang Lai, and Li Rui,” in Philosophy and Conceptual History of Science in Taiwan, ed. Lin Cheng-hung and Fu Daiwie (Dordrecht, Neth.: Kluwer Academic, 1993), 167– 208, esp. 173–75. 62. Qian did not provide any details on the nature of the residence (such as whether they owned or rented a residence or stayed with friends, what its size was, etc.). 63. Some of Qian’s 1754 classmates became potent ties in his networks. For Cao Xuemin see QYTJ, 49.859–60 and the emphatic epitaph Qian wrote for him, QYTJ, 41.743–45. 64. Qian Daxin, “Qian Daxin dianshi ce,” Ms #147097, f. 8 (unpaginated, from the nineteenth year of the Qianlong emperor, 1754), Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing.

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65. Qian Daxin, “Qian Daxin dianshi ce,” f. 9. 66. Qian Daxin, “Qian Daxin dianshi ce,” f. 10. For Zhou Dunyi’s saying see Zhou Dunyi, Zhou Dunyi ji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1990), 34. 67. Qian Daxin, “Qian Daxin dianshi ce,” f. 11. 68. Qian Daxin would later befriend Qian Weicheng’s younger brother Qian Weiqiao 錢維喬 (1739–1806, juren of 1762), who was a painter, poet, and dramatist. See ECCP, 158; QYTJ, 26.441–42.

2. Official Scholars and the Growing Philologists’ Networks 1. In the translation of this office I follow Benjamin A. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 163. 2. For a general account of the Hanlin Academy during most of the Qing period, as well as for various positions in it and avenues for promotion, see Adam Yuen-chung Lui, The Hanlin Academy: Training Ground for the Ambitious, 1644–1850 (Hamden, Conn.: Archon, 1981). 3. For Qian’s help with the Wuli tongkao see also Qin Huitian’s preface to the work: Qin Huitian, comp., Wuli tongkao (Taipei: Xinxing shuju, 1970), 1:15. 4. See more on Jiang Yong in part III. 5. See Wang Mingsheng, Xizhuang shi cungao, Xuxiu Siku quanshu ed. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995), 1434:24.318. 6. See Angela Zito, Of Body and Brush: Grand Sacrifice as Text/Performance in EighteenthCentury China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 78, 91, 123; see also Angela Zito, “Ritualizing Li: Implications for Studying Power and Gender,” Positions 1, no. 2 (Fall 1993): 321–48. For the Wuli tongkao as related to military affairs see Joanna Waley-Cohen, The Culture of War in China: Empire and Military Under the Qing Dynasty (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006), 69–70. See also Wang Xinfu (Dalong) 王欣夫 (大隆), Eshu xuan qiecun shanbenshu lu (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002), 2:1134–35. 7. Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism in Late Imperial China: Ethics, Classics, and Lineage Discourse (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), 51, 136. For more nuanced research on the Wuli tongkao and also its relationship to Zhu Xi’s line of thought see Yang Zhigang 楊志剛, “Qin Huitian Wuli tongkao zhuanzuo tedian xilun,” Jingxue yanjiu jikan 3 (October 2007): 149–64. 8. See Lu Baoqian 陸寳千, Qing dai sixiang shi (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009), 425. 9. Zeng Guofan 曾國藩, Zeng Wenzheng gong shuzha (Changsha: Chuanzhong shuju, 1876), juan 7, 165. 10. Nianpu, 13. 11. The description of the contacts with Dai Zhen is a bit different in Dai’s own biography (written by the latter’s follower Duan Yucai). There Duan wrote that by the time Qian Daxin, as well as Wang Mingsheng, Ji Yun, and Zhu Yun, received the jinshi degree, Dai had already established his reputation. Nor did Duan mention Qian as the contact for Qin Huitian. See Duan Yucai, Dai Dongyuan xiansheng nianpu (Hong Kong: Chongwen Shudian, 1971), 16–17. 12. QYTJ, 33.595–97.

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13. See also QYTJ, 14.229–30; “Zeng Tan Jieping [Tai] xu” 贈談階平[泰]序 (Preface to Bestowing [kind words] for [the departure of] Tan Jieping [Tai]), QYTJ, 23.377. My translation for Zeng as “Bestowing [kind words]” is based on the idea that appeared already in Xunzi of “bestowing men with words” (贈人以言), especially those departing, as a farewell gift of sorts. See Wang Xianqian 王先謙 (1842–1918), Xunzi jijie (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988), 3.83. Zeng can also mean presenting a recommendation letter; Qian frequently used this term when writing for a younger scholar, often a protégé of his, just before that person was about to serve in a position to which he did not have access beforehand, and Qian included praise for that person in his writing. Both options are thus relevant and are not contradictory. 14. For more on the Yang Guangxian affair in the 1660s see chapters 7 and 8 below and also Zhu Weizheng, Coming Out of the Middle Ages: Comparative Reflections on China and the West (Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1990), esp. 81–112; Jacques Gernet, China and the Christian Impact: A Conflict of Cultures (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), esp. 134–35; Eugenio Menegon, “Yang Guangxian’s Opposition to Johann Adam Schall: Christianity and Western Science in His Work budeyi,” in Western Learning and Christianity in China, ed. Roman Malek (Saint Augustin, Ger.: China-Zentrum, Monumenta Serica Institute; Nettetal, Ger.: Steyler-Verlag, 1998), 311–38; Harriet T. Zurndorfer, “‘One Adam Having Driven Us Out of Paradise, Another Has Driven Us Out of China’: Yang Kuang-hsien’s Challenge of Adam Schall von Bell,” in Conflict and Accommodation in Early Modern East Asia: Essays in Honour of Erik Zurcher, ed. Leonard Blusse and Harriet T. Zurndorfer (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 1993), 141–68; John D. Young, Confucianism and Christianity: The First Encounter (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1983), 77–96; Benjamin A. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China, 1550–1900 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 134–44. 15. By using “doctrine of names” I follow Kai-wing Chow: “Teachings about social stations, the crux of Confucian social ethics, are called either ming-chiao (doctrine of names) or li-chiao . . . ming-chiao refers to the sum total of social ethics.” Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, 10. The mention of Dai Zhen means Qian had perhaps contemplated the issue before 1777 (the year of Dai Zhen’s death), but Qian wrote this a long time afterward, in 1799. See Qian Daxin, “Budeyi tiji” 不得已題記 (Record of the problem of the [book] I cannot do otherwise), in Yang Guangxian 楊光先, Budeyi (Hefei Shi: Huangshan shushe, 2000), 195. See also Menegon, “Yang Guangxian’s Opposition,” 335, where there is an additional sentence in the translation that was not part of the edition I consulted (or any other I have seen): “In the judgment of posterity, then, Yang’s merit lay more in his opposition to Christianity than in his opposition to Western studies.” 16. Huang Peilie wrote this in his own postface, “ba” 跋, to the Budeyi. See Yang Guangxian, Budeyi. See also the Budeyi handwritten manuscript, which includes both Huang Peilie’s and Qian Daxin’s postfaces, along with others’ postfaces and prefaces dating to the Jiaqing and Daoguang periods. Ms #05672, Rare Books Collection, National Library of China, Beijing. 17. Qian mentioned a hundred and fifty rhymes, but in his collected poetry the poem has the title, as well as the number, of only a hundred. See QYTSJ, 3.966–67. 18. Unfortunately I could not find any other information on this intriguing journey with the emperor. It is likely the two did not travel with the emperor himself but somewhere in the large entourage. 19. Almost every year during Qian’s Hanlin career he took an examination (yushi 御試) to retain his position or upgrade his status.

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20. Nianpu, 14. 21. See the commentary by Qian’s grandson. Nianpu, 15. See also the CRZXB entry on Qian, where it is said that Qian would discuss “all the methods of China and of the West” with He (中西諸法). CRZXB, 49.29. According to the CRZ entry on He, he heard of Qian as being “good at calculation” (善算), invited him to discuss astronomical matters, and said that “these days, those among all the fellow office holders gentlemen who are [able] to talk about this [mathematical] Way are rare” (今同館諸公談此道者鮮矣), and began working with Qian. CRZ, 41.522. See, e.g., “Zeng Tan Jieping xu,” QYTJ, 23.377–78. That He and Qian lamented the rarity of scholars engaging with the sciences does not mean that there was not an increase in the popularity and status of these fields, nor does it mean that the scientific community in eighteenth-century China was negligible. See, e.g., Hu Minghui, “Cosmopolitan Confucianism: China’s Road to Modern Science” (PhD diss., University of California–Los Angeles, 2004). 22. Benoist reportedly drew a large-scale map of the cosmos (thirteen to fourteen feet long by seven feet high), which he presented to the emperor in 1760. The explanations were appended to the map (which was then redrawn), and a manuscript of the explanations circulated among leading astronomers. The Diqiutu shuo was copied into the CRZ in 1799 and published separately in 1802/1803. Later still Li Rui 李銳 (1765–1814) and Jiao Xun 焦循 (1763–1820) added the illustrations (which they drew according to the text). For a discussion of the subject see Nathan Sivin, Science in Ancient China (Aldershot, UK: Variorum, 1995), ch. 4, 63–122. 23. However, the formulation of the rejection awaited the CRZ of 1799. I deal with the astronomical issues in more detail in chapters 7 and 8. 24. After practically every high-level examination there was a reception for the successful candidates, and Qian participated in these events as a student as well as an examiner. Qian also wrote a preface to the emperor about the examination. He wrote such prefaces to each of the examinations for which he served as an examiner. 25. Qian extolled Li’s abilities as a bibliophile as well as their friendship in the epitaph he wrote a year after Li’s death. See “Li Nanjian muzhiming” 李南澗墓誌銘 (Epitaph to Li Nanjian [Wenzao]), QYTJ, 43.783–86. In 1766 Qian also wrote a letter to Li; the text of the tombstone of Li’s father, Li Yuan 李遠, in which he celebrated the son’s high degree of filial piety; and the epitaph for Li’s mother, Xing Ruren 邢孺人. See “Da Li Nanjian shu” 答李南澗書 (Reply letter to Li Nanjian), QYTJ, 33.602; see also QYTJ, 49.854–59. For Li’s letter to Qian asking him to write the epitaph for the former’s mother, which also demonstrates the tremendous respect and appreciation Li had for Qian, see Li Wenzao, Nanjian wenji (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), 35–36. For more about Li as a bibliophile see Joseph P. McDermott, A Social History of the Chinese Book: Books and Literati Culture in Late Imperial China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2006), 150, 153, 247n2. Li also had contacts with Ji Yun (see ECCP, 123), wrote an account of Liulichang in 1769, borrowed books from Zhou Yongnian’s 周永年 (1730– 1791) library (one of the most flourishing libraries of the day), and printed some of these books in Guangdong. See ECCP, 175, 358. For Zhou Yongnian and Li Wenzao see also Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), 192–93. 26. For Qian’s acquaintance with Cheng see “Ba Nenggai zhai manlu” 跋能改齋漫錄 (Postscript to the Vast record of the changeable studio), QYTJ, 30.540 (written in 1784). For Cheng Jinfang see ECCP, 114. Another bibliophile whom Qian knew was Yan Yuanzhao 嚴元照 (1773–1817). See QYTJ, 45.808–9.

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27. For more on the history of the (Xu) wenxian tongkao and on the subjects that it covers (mostly in administration and institutions) see Endymion Wilkinson, Chinese History: A Manual (Revised and Enlarged) (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 524–27. 28. See Qian’s story about Zhu Gui, who liked talking about fate. The story was written in 1800, but it mentions being with Zhu Gui in Beijing in 1760. QYTJ, 3.49. Qian perhaps knew Zhu Gui before 1760, but I did not find records to verify that. See also chapter 9 below. 29. See ECCP, 185–86. 30. It is not mentioned which province. 31. See “Gonghe yuzhi you qian Fo dong de guti sishi yun” 恭和御製游千佛洞得古體四 十韻 (Forty rhymes in ancient form on the occasion of journey to the One Thousand Buddhas Cave), QYTSJ, 5.1007–8. 32. “Gonghe yuzhi you qian Fo dong de guti sishi yun,” QYTSJ, 5.1007–8. 33. See QYTJ, 1.5–6. That year, at age thirty-four, Qian began suffering from insomnia. 34. See also his report about the exam. “Hunan xiangshi luxu” 湖南鄉試錄序 (Preface to the report on the Hunan provincial examination), QYTJ, 23.367–69. For his poems about the examination see QYTSJ, 7.1036, 1048. For the difficult task the examiners had see Elman, A Cultural History, 424–25. 35. Wang also associated with some of Qian’s friends and students, such as Jiang Fan 江藩 (1761–1831). See ECCP, 75; Iona D. Man-Cheung, The Class of 1761: Examinations, State, and Elites in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2004); William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001), 80, 131. 36. According to his grandson’s notes to the Nianpu, 18; Qian did not mention this himself. 37. I translate xiaoxue as “philology” for writings from the mid-eighteenth century onward because when one examines the contents of xiaoxue at that time, it usually includes three major categories: xungu 訓詁 (etymology), shengyin 聲音 (phonology), and wenzi 文字 (paleography). These categories can be taken more generally to mean philology. I discuss this in more detail below. See, e.g., Xie Qikun’s 謝啓昆 (1737–1802) Xiaoxue kao (Hangzhou: Zhejiang shuju, 1888), which I return to below, and Ren Dachun’s 任大椿 (1738–1789) Xiaoxue gouchen, proofread by Wang Niansun (Nanjing: Jiangsu guangling gujike yinshe, 1987). 38. See SKQSZMTY, juan 42, Xiaoxue lei 3. 39. For the long and detailed epitaph see QYTJ, 42.751–55. 40. QYTJ, 24.401. 41. See ECCP, 152. It seems that Qian Daxin assisted his brother to a large extent: in a printed Ming edition of the Guangya, preserved at the National Library of China, there are many handwritten notes by Qian Daxin. Ms #7312/2287, Rare Books Collection, National Library of China, Beijing. Some of these notes were later incorporated almost verbatim into Qian Dazhao’s Guangya shuyi 廣雅疏義 (Extended meanings of the Guangya), albeit without direct reference to Qian Daxin. See also Zhang Xue 張雪, “Qian Dazhao shengping ji Guangya shuyi chengshu xiaokao,” Wenjiao ziliao 23 (2012): 8–10. 42. See QYTJ, 18.301. 43. See QYTJ, 24.408. 44. See ECCP, 637–38; QYTJ, 23.375–77. 45. QYTJ, 23.375–77.See also Qian’s epitaph for Shao, where Qian hailed him as a master of historical studies and Dai Zhen as a master of learning of the Classics. QYTJ, 43.786–88.

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46. See ECCP, 533–34. 47. See Liu Cunren, New Excursions from the Hall of Harmonious Wind (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 1984), 23; Miranda Brown, The Politics of Mourning in Early China (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2007). 48. See Burton Watson, trans., The Old Man Who Does As He Pleases: Selections from the Poetry and Prose of Lu Yu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1973). For both works see JDQDXQJ, vol. 4. 49. See “Hu qiushan shi Guanyin dian timing” 虎丘山石觀音殿題名 (On the topic of the stone [inscriptions] in the Guanyin Hall of Tiger Hill), QYTJ, 18.301–2. 50. Later Qian Daxin, his brother Qian Dazhao, and his two sons, along with Qian Tang and his three sons, were designated as “the Nine Qians” (九淺). See ECCP, 156. For Qian’s discussions about the Song and Yuan texts see QYTJ, 30.537–38, 32.578–79. For Qian Tang see QYTJ, 45.805–6. 51. See Susan Naquin, Peking: Temples and City Life, 1400–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 11–12, 258–60. 52. For each of the occasions he composed poems. See QYTSJ, juan 10. 53. Nianpu, 23. Because Qian had helped Qin Huitian a few years earlier with a work on phonology (see above), this statement probably should be taken to mean a more thorough research on the subject. 54. It seems that Qian saw a manuscript, as the book was not printed until the next year. 55. See QYTJ, 33.597–99. 56. Qian also kept the imperial network going with a tribute to the emperor: “Wanshou song” 萬壽頌 (Tribute for longevity), QYTJ, 1.8–12. 57. See also the handwritten remarks (and postscripts) by both Qian and Duan on Hui Shiqi, “Daxue shuo,” Ms #756289 (undated handwritten manuscript), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. 58. See “Ji Liulichang Li gong muzhi” 記琉璃廠李公墓誌 (Record of the tombstone of Master Li [which was found in] Liulichang), QYTJ, 18.299–300. 59. The Baihutong is an Eastern Han text attributed to Ban Gu; it purports to report discussions on the Classics held at the White Tiger Hall between some of the most important scholars of around the mid-first century. The Guangya, attributed to Zhang Yi of the third century, is a dictionary (an enlargement of the Erya) that was considered to have important philological value. 60. See QYTJ, 33.603–4. 61. Hu Shi 胡適, Zhang Shizhai xiansheng nianpu (Hu Shi’s Collected Works Series vol. 33. Taipei: Yuanliu, 1986), 62–63. See also David S. Nivison, The Life and Thought of Chang Hsueh-ch’eng (1738–1801) (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1966), 41, 182–83, 206–7, 215n). 62. For the letter see Zhang Xuecheng, Zhang Xuecheng yishu (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1985), 332. Yu Ying-shih claimed that Zhang thought Dai Zhen to be superior in his learning to both Zhu Yun and Qian Daxin, based on a letter Zhang wrote to Shao Jinhan. See Yu Ying-shih, “Zhang Xuecheng Versus Dai Zhen: A Study in Intellectual Challenge and Response in Eighteenth-Century China,” in Chinese Language, Thought, and Culture: Nivison and His Critics, ed. Philip J. Ivanhoe (Chicago: Open Court, 1996), 121–54. As interpretations of the letter may vary see the letter to Shao in Zhang Xuecheng, Zhang Xuecheng yishu, 644–46. 63. Nivison, The Life and Thought of Chang Hsueh-ch’eng, 39–42, 50–54; R. Kent Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: Scholars and the State in the Late Ch’ien-lung Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987), 49–56.

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64. See “Gongbu zuoshilang Wang gong muzhiming” 工部左侍郎汪公墓誌銘 (Epitaph of the senior vice-president of the Board of Works, Master Wang), QYTJ, 42.758–61. 65. See QYTJ, 24.381, 24.410, 25.412. Another archival project, albeit from a different field, came when Qian was asked by Ni Chengkuan 倪承寬 (1712–1783), his 1754 classmate and a vice-president at the Board of Rites at the time, to go through various Song and Yuan paintings and gather them into one volume. See QYTJ, 18.298; for Qian’s contact with Ni see QYTJ, 41.736–38. 66. QYTJ, 43.787. 67. QYTJ, 24.393: “The scholars of our dynasty value concrete learning and the teachings of the Ru develop vigorously” (我國家崇尚實學,儒教振興). Qian wrote that when he argued that learning in the Qing was different than that from other periods. 68. See also Hong Liangji’s remarks in this spirit in his biography of Shao Jinhan in Luo Junfeng 罗军凤, Qingdai Chunqiu Zuozhuan xue yanjiu (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2010), 67n3. Note that the SKQS was also a platform for studying and unraveling ancient texts beyond the scope of Ru texts. See, e.g., Bi Yuan’s remarks regarding the Mozi in Sun Yirang 孫詒讓, Mozi xiangu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2009), 2:661–63. 69. This also meant moving farther away from the center of production of the SKQS. 70. Nianpu, 25. 71. “Zhiyan ji xu” 炙硯集序 (Preface to the collected [poems] of the roasted inkstone), QYTJ, 26.440–41. 72. “Taizi shaobao Zhuang gong muzhiming” 太子少保莊公墓志銘 (Epitaph to the guardian of the heir-apparent, Master Zhuang), 42.746–51. 73. Nianpu, 26.

3. Private Scholars, Private Academies, and the Community of Knowledge 1. The term “extra-bureaucracy” may be relevant here, and academies also served as mediators or brokers between the students and the state/bureaucracy. 2. The year of the promotion for all was 1777. 3. “Qian shi citang ji” 錢氏祠堂記 (Record of the Ancestral Hall of the Qians), QYTJ, 21.341–42 (written in 1777). 4. QYTJ, 43.783–86. 5. This system linked a number of variables, such as the correlation between the five phases (五行) and the five sounds (五音), in characterizing the different times as harmonious or not, and what the implications of this were, and was used as a divinatory practice and in calendrical practices. See Catherine Despeux, “The System of the Five Circulatory Phases and the Six Seasonal Influences (wuyun liuqi), a Source of Innovation in Medicine Under the Song,” in Innovation in Chinese Medicine, ed. Elizabeth Hsu (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 121–66; Jean-Claude Martzloff, Le calendrier chinois: Structure et calculs (104 av. J.-C.-1644) (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2009), esp. 98–99. 6. The two books mentioned are no longer extant, but both are mentioned in the Baopu zi. See Baopu zi neipian jiaoshi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), 11.209. In the edition I used for Qian’s QYTJ the name of the second book is spelled with 名 rather than with the character I found in most Baopu zi editions, 明. 7. Hui Dong, Yi Hanxue (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937), vol. 457, juan 4, 59. 8. QYTJ, 3.47–49.

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9. See QYTJ, 25.413. 10. Gao Jin was a relative of Gao Bin, who had recruited Qian in 1751 to his first official position and had helped Qian get to Beijing in 1752. 11. Nianpu, 28. For Yao Nai’s different outlook as head of the Meihua Academy (梅花書院) at about the same time (later Yao became the head of the Zhongshan Academy), see Xu Yanping 徐雁平, Qingdai Dongnanshuyuan yu xueshu ji wenxue (Hefei Shi: Anhui jiaoyu chubanshe, 2007), 1:50–67. 12. In 1778 he wrote “Da Yuan Jianzhai shu” 答袁簡齋書 (A reply letter to Yuan Jianzhai [Mei]) with tremendous praise for Yuan (QYTJ, 34.611–13), and a few years later Qian wrote “Yuan Jianzhai bashi shou shi” 袁簡齋八十壽詩 (“A poem for Yuan Jianzhai’s [Mei] eightieth birthday), admiring Yuan as well (QYTSXJ, 7.1272–73). See also QYTSXJ, 9.1296–97, and his poem to Yan in QYTSXJ, 1.1155. 13. See the epitaph in Yuan Mei, Yuan Mei quanji (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1993), 2:456–57. 14. See the preface to the NESKY, JDQDXQJ, 2:1. Compare with Gu Yanwu’s insistence on erasing parts of his writings for which he found precedents in earlier scholars’ writings: Gu Yanwu, Rizhilu jishi (Shujiazhuang: Huashan wenyi chubanshe, 1990), 1. 15. Wang Yinglin, Kunxue jiwen (Shanghai: Shanghai wuyinshuguan, 1935), vol. 4, juan 10, 18a. Wang Yinglin was perhaps not the first to accuse the two, but he linked them together and had been a prominent scholar in Qian’s view. The high esteem for Wang Yinglin’s works during the Qing began earlier, with Yan Ruoqu and Quan Zuwang 全祖望 (1705–1755) working primarily on the Kunxue jiwen (Quan’s work was completed in 1742). Hui Dong, in 1756, promoted another book by Wang Yinglin, the Zhengshi Zhouyi 鄭氏周易 (Master Zheng [Xuan’s version] of the Zhou changes). See Benjamin A. Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship: The Ch’ang-chou School of New Text Confucianism in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 130–31, and From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), 242; Chen Zuwu 陳祖武 and Zhu Tongchuang 朱彤窗, Qian-Jia xueshu biannian (Shijiazhuang Shi: Hebei renmin chubanshe, 2005), 46. 16. Qian reiterated the sense of shame at plagiarizing in his biography of Chen Zufan 陳祖范 (1675–1753), whom he regarded as living up to the Lunyu ideal of a “gentleman Ru” (君子儒) in part due to the former’s scholarly integrity. See QYTWJ, 38.648. 17. See QYTJ, 30.545–46. 18. See “Hou Hanshu nianbiao houxu” 後漢書年表後序 (A late preface to the [Song dynasty, Xiong Fang’s] Yearly tables of the later Han history), QYTJ, 24.398–99. 19. See QYTJ, 40.722–23. 20. See Qian’s preface to Yuanshi ben zheng, by Wang Huizu 汪輝祖 (1731–1807) (Taipei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1984), 1–3. I further discuss this passage in part II. 21. QYTJ, 23.377–78. See also note 12 to chapter 2 above. 22. See “You Maoshan ji” 游茅山記 (“A record of [my] travel to Mount Mao), QYTJ, 20.335–38. 23. Qian also looked for inscriptions in Jinling that year and made some rubbings there. See “Jinling shike ji xu” 金陵石刻記序 (Preface to the record of Jinling stone inscriptions), QYTJ, 25.417–18. See also Sun Xingyan’s letter to Qian, which deals with bronze and stone inscriptions as well as with calendrical issues. Sun Xingyan, Wenzi tang ji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 1:104–6. 24. See QYTJ, 34.622–23; Lu Wenchao, Baojing tang wenji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1990), 264–68.

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25. ECCP, 550. In 1790 Qian also wrote a preface to one of Lu’s publications, praising him highly as a shishi qiushi person. See QYTJ, 25.420–21. 26. Around this time Wang Zhong 汪中 (1745–1794) was also given a similar task by Sazai, so perhaps Qian and Wang worked together. For more on Wang Zhong, see Zhang Shunhui 張舜徽, Qingdai Yangzhou xueji; Gu Tinglin xueji (Wuhan: Huanzhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2005), 82–103. 27. For both see JDQDXQJ, vol. 5. The second work was published by Huang Peilie in 1801. I discuss Qian’s historical studies of the Yuan dynasty at greater length in part II. According to the postscript by Qian’s student Huang Zhong 黃鍾, Qian worked for over thirty years on the first title. See JDQDXQJ, 4:314–15. 28. QYTJ, 25.419–20. For Qian Tang’s career see ECCP, 156. 29. QYTJ, 25.414–15. Qian wrote that this type of study began in the Song (Ouyang Xiu being a major figure in this field). Qian repeated the claim for the importance of the Song in this field, as well as the importance of the contribution of this field to the study of the Histories and the Classics, in 1796. See QYTJ, 25.415–17. For Qian’s high regard for Bi Yuan, see the long epitaph Qian wrote for him in 1798. QYTJ, 42.762–68. Compare the attitude toward bronze and stone inscriptions to that of Gu Yanwu. See Gu Yanwu, “Jinshi wenzi ji xu” 金石文字記序 (Preface to the record of bronze and stone inscriptions”), in Xinyi Gu Tinglin wenji (Taipei: Sanmin shuju, 2000), 113–14. 30. Qian’s NESKY was published in four phases: the first, covering the histories up to the Five Dynasties, was published in 1794; the second, covering the Song, in 1795; the third, covering the Yuan, in 1796; and the fourth, covering the Jin, in 1797. 31. ECCP, 154; Joseph P. McDermott, A Social History of the Chinese Book: Books and Literati Culture in Late Imperial China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2006), 175. 32. JDQDXQJ, 6:201. 33. One might suspect the health problems were an excuse to avoid going to the capital and taking office during the Heshen years of power, but there is no evidence to support this theory. 34. See JDQDXQJ, 4:1 (last page). Qian also wrote postscripts to two of Wang Shizhen’s works—Yanzhou sibu gao 弇州四部稿 (Yanzhou’s drafts on the four divisions) and Yanzhou Shanren xugao 弇州山人續稿 (Yanzhou Shanren’s continued drafts); Yanzhou or Yanzhou Shanren was Wang Shizhen’s literary name. In these postscripts Qian criticized Wang for various historical mistakes: “Men of letters who are self-conceited and stubborn neglect to check and verify; more often than not [we] have this defect” (文人自矜強記,失於檢照,往往有此病). QYTJ, 31.562–63. 35. See Qian Daxin’s high esteem of Qian Weiqiao’s poetry (also mentioning their time together that year), as well as Qian’s notion of the difficulties in writing poetry with “real” and “great talent,” in QYTJ, 26.441–42. 36. Qian also wrote many short notes about various issues arising from local history. See QYTJ, 19.304–23. 37. QYTJ, 24.403. Xu Wenfan 徐文范 (1734–1803), Qian Daxin’s friend from his home county of Jiading, wrote extensively on historical-geographical matters. The prefaces by Qian Daxin and Wang Mingsheng (dated 1789 and 1792, respectively) to Xu’s Dong Jin Nanbeichao yudi biao 東晉南北朝輿地表 (Tables of Eastern Jin [317–420] and Southern and Northern dynasties [420–589] territories) testify succinctly to the importance historical geography gained in the late eighteenth century. This book also circulated through handwritten manuscripts such as the one preserved at the National Central Library. Ms #03242, Rare Books Collection, National Library of China, Beijing.

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38. Qian was amazed that no such catalog had existed until he came there, as the Tianyige Library was very famous (and especially so for its contribution to the SKQS) and its collection was of importance to scholars. Qian probably knew of the library well before he knew of its head and owner. See Qian Daxin, Tianyige beimu 天一閣碑目 (A catalog of the stele [inscriptions] at the Pavilion Unifying Heaven [Library]), JDQDXQS, 4:1. For Tianyige and its context among other libraries, as well as a brief summary of the history of the library and its catalogs, see Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 183–98. 39. QYTJ, 32.581. The text was Yirui tang tie 義瑞堂帖 (Model writings from the Hall of Auspicious Meaning) by Xue Chen (薛晨) of the Ming dynasty. For another suspected forgery Qian found that year see QYTJ, 32.577–78. Qian not only composed the catalog but also read the material critically, thus finding forgeries and discrepancies between editions. See, e.g., QYTJ, 32.568. Qian was very intent on finding correct editions. See, e.g., QYTJ, 25.420–21. 40. See more on the notion of “warp and woof ” as a metaphor for the “fundamental ethical-political principles of government” in Martin Kern, The Stele Inscriptions of Ch’in Shih-huang: Text and Ritual in Early Chinese Imperial Representation (New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 2000), 37n96. 41. “Baojinglou ji” 抱經樓記 (Record of the Building for Safeguarding the Classics), QYTJ, 21.349–50. See another discussion, also dated 1787, on somewhat similar issues of philology and Han dynasty studies in QYTJ, 24.386–87. 42. For the attacks on philology see Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 270–92. 43. Shiji zhiyi xu 史記志疑序 (Preface to Determining doubts in the records of the historian), QYTJ, 24.396–97. 44. Three letters to Liang are found in QYTJ, 34.623–26; the first is dated 1798 according to the Nianpu. Liang’s letters to Qian are found in Liang Yusheng 梁玉繩, Shiji zhiyi (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937), 11–12. 45. See ECCP, 154; JDQDXQJ, 4:1–73. Pelliot argued that this book was a reference book for dates. Pelliot also mentioned that Qian wrote only about men of letters and not about any other personalities unless they had writings. See Paul Pelliot, “Les 疑年錄 Yi Nien Lou,” T’oung-pao 25 (1928): 65–81, esp. 66, 69. 46. See Masayuki Sato, The Confucian Quest for Order: The Origin and Formation of the Political Thought of Xunzi (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2003), 32. 47. QYTJ, 26.427–28. 48. QYTJ, 26.438–39. 49. QYTJ, 25.422. 1792 was also the last year Qian contributed to his own Nianpu. 50. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi shangque (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe, 2005), juan 82, 724. 51. For my reservations regarding the use of the term “philosophy” see my “From Theology’s Handmaid to the Science of Sciences: Western Philosophy’s Transformations on Its Way to China,” Transcultural Studies 2 (2013): 7–44. 52. For more on the “classical essays” (經義) see, e.g., Benjamin A. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Service Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 17–18, 28, 526–29. 53. QYTJ, 24.390–91. 54. In subsequent chapters I deal with Qian’s notion that the Song marked a watershed in the Ru tradition. For more of his critique of the Song (dated 1794) see QYTJ, 26.449–50; see also JDQDXQJ, vol. 7; SJZYXL, 18.491–92. For another critique dated 1799 see QYTJ, 24.393 (there the corrupting role of the Ming was also emphasized).

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55. See R. Kent Guy, “The Development of the Evidential Research Movement: Ku Yen-wu and the Ssu-K’u Ch’uan-Shu,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies, n.s., 16, no. 1 (December 1984): 97–118. Hu Minghui suggested translating the loaded term tong Ru as “cosmopolitan Confucians,” but I think that the modern connotations of the term might mislead the reader. See Hu Minghui, “Cosmopolitan Confucianism: China’s Road to Modern Science” (PhD diss., University of California–Los Angeles, 2004), 127, 293–94. In his recent book on Dai Zhen, Hu included a good and succinct analysis of the term tong Ru, emphasizing the comprehensive and thorough aspects of the term for the eighteenth century. See Hu Minghui, China’s Transition to Modernity: The New Classical Vision of Dai Zhen (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015), esp. 15–23. 56. I discuss this further in the section titled “The Hui Connection and the Ziyang Academy” about Hui Dong. 57. QYTJ, 24.384. 58. See also Qian’s 1793 praise of Wang Chang: “[In his] methods with regard to the Classics he took as a model the Ru of the Han, and named his study ‘Zheng [Xuan] learning’ ” (經術專宗漢儒,名其齋曰鄭學). QYTJ, 23.379. Similarly, see Qian’s praise of Bi Yuan (in the 1798 epitaph wrote for him): “As for the meanings of the Classics [Bi] took as a model the Ru of the Han” (謂經義當宗漢儒). Yet Qian also mentions several other issues that Bi was concerned about that were not connected to the Han or the Ru of the Han, such as the histories of the Song and Yuan. See QYTJ, 42.766. 59. Qian also used the term Hanren (漢人)to mention a historical change in the transmission of the Classics. QYTJ, 394–95. As Wang Chang put it, they were “intent on ancient learning” (有志於古學). Wang Chang, Jinshi cuibian (Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1967), 1b. 60. In the preface to the Xu zizhi tongjian, Feng Jiwu 馮集悟 (jinshi of 1781), who had the work printed in 1801, mentioned Bi Yuan as the primary author and Shao Jinhan and Qian Daxin as the editors, thus giving the entire work a strong foundation. Feng, however, ignored Zhang Xuecheng’s role. See Bi Yuan, comp., Xu zizhi tongjian (Taipei: Hongshi chubanshe, 1981), 1:13–14. 61. JDQDXQJ, vol. 5. 62. “Wuyan lou ji” 五硯樓記 (Record of the Five Inkstones Library), QYTJ, 21.351–52. Later that year Ge Zhouxiang invited Qian to another event at his home in Suzhou. 63. See Charles Hartman, “Chen Jun’s Outline and Details: Printing and Politics in ThirteenthCentury Pedagogical Histories,” in Knowledge and Text Production in an Age of Print: China, 900—1400, ed. Lucille Chia and Hilde De Weerdt (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2011), 273– 316, esp. 291–98. 64. QYTJ, 43.777–80. 65. See ECCP, 151; R. Kent Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: Scholars and the State in the Late Ch’ien-lung Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987), 103. For Yin’s suggestion of returning to pre-1765 policies see Pierre-Etienne Will, “Officials and Money in Late Imperial China: State Finances, Private Expectations, and the Problem of Corruption in a Changing Environment,” in Corrupt Histories, ed. Emmanuel Kreike and William Chester Jordan (Rochester, N.Y.: University of Rochester Press, 2004), 29–82, esp. 63, 80n97. For more on the great corruption case and networking of Heshen see, e.g., Beatrice S. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723—820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 232–42. See also Daniel McMahon, Rethinking the Decline of China’s Qing Dynasty: Imperial Activism and Borderland Management at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century (London: Routledge, 2015).

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66. Qian was also well acquainted with Hong Liangji, they admired each other’s work, and even though Hong was almost twenty years younger than Qian, Qian did not hesitate to ask Hong for his advice on scholarly issues. See, e.g., their correspondence in QYTWJ, 35.604–9 and in Hong Liangji, Hong Liangji ji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2001), 1:208–12. It seems that Hong’s involvement with the aftermath of the Heshen affair did not bear on Qian Daxin, either. See Susan Mann (Jones), “Hung Liang-chi (1746–1809): The Perception and Articulation of Political Problems in Late Eighteenth Century China” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 1972), 157–78. See more on Qian’s negative attitude toward corruption in part II. 67. For Ruan’s high praise of Qian and his work in the preface see JDQDXQJ, 7:1–2, and the final section of this chapter; for Qian’s own preface see JDQDXQJ, 7:1. 68. QYTJ, 24.392–94. 69. For more on Zhao Yi and his writings, see Quinton Gwynne Priest, “Historiography and Statecraft in Eighteenth Century China: The Life and Times of Chao I (1727–1814)” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 1982); Virginia Mayer Chan, “Historical Consciousness in Eighteenth Century China: A Case Study of Zhao Yi and the ‘Zhexi’ Historians” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1982). 70. Zhao Yi, Nianer shi zhaji jiaozheng (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 2:885–86. For Zhao’s high regard for Qian see Zhao Yi, Oubei ji (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1997), 2:1199. 71. See QYTJ, 45.809. Because he wrote that in the preface to the work, one might suspect some exaggeration, yet the type of work Ruan had accomplished seems to fit Qian’s scholarly tastes very well. 72. The Chouren zhuan project began, according to Ruan, in 1795 and was concluded in 1799. Qian did not write about his participation in the Chouren zhuan project, and it is hard to tell what exactly his role was; Ruan Yuan mentioned him as part of the larger team in the “Fanli” 凡例 (Outline) section of the book, and that is all. See CRZ, 5. For Ruan Yuan in general see Betty Peh-T’i Wei, Ruan Yuan, 1764–1849: The Life and Work of a Major Scholar-Official in Nineteenth-Century China Before the Opium War (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2006). Wei mentioned Qian Daxin only in passing and did not expand on this relationship (on page 41, when she mentioned Qian as part of the 1754 class with regard to Zhu Yun and not Ruan Yuan; on page 249, when she wrote that Ruan Yuan admired Qian’s work; and on page 326, when she included Qian in an appendix in which she listed scholars “associated with Ruan Yuan”). 73. Qian also interacted with another provincial governor, Wang Zhiyi 汪志伊 (1743–1818), discussing various issues, and especially fate, when Wang came to visit Suzhou. As the governor was alarmed by certain predictions, Qian tried to calm him down, writing that year (1800) the “Xingming shuo” 星命說 (Explanation of fate prognostication), QYTJ, 3.49–50. In the last two years of Qian’s life, when his health declined, Wang called on Qian several times, and their friendship seemed to grow stronger. In fact, Wang would not replace Qian as head of the Ziyang Academy in spite of Qian’s worsening health. 74. By that time Qian Dazhao had already made a name for himself in philological circles and not only was part of his older brother’s networks but also extended them with social and literary links ranging from Wang Mingsheng, Shao Jinhan, Lu Wenchao, Weng Fanggang 翁方綱 (1733–1818), and Ruan Yuan to Wang Mingsheng’s younger brother Wang Mingshao 王鳴韶 (1732–1788), Jiao Xun 焦循 (1763–1820), Zang Yong 臧庸 (1767–1811), Xie Qikun, and many others. For a brief discussion of Qian Dazhao’s life see Zhang Xue 張雪, “Qian Dazhao shengping ji Guangya shuyi chengshu xiaokao,” Wenjiao ziliao 23 (2012): 8–10.

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75. JDQDXQJ, 7:1–2. 76. Zhao Mingcheng, Jinshi lu, Ms #02885 (Song dynasty printed ed.), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. 77. Zhao Mingcheng, Jinshi lu, Ms #849629–31 (Qing dynasty printed ed., Qianlong 27, 1763), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. A 1739 printed edition of Wang Yinglin’s Kunxue jiwen contains an ownership-seal imprint of Qian Daxin himself; it also includes multiple handwritten notes by Qian. Wang Yinglin, Kunxue jiwen, Ms #756778–83 (Qing dynasty printed ed., Qianlong 3, 1739), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. 78. See also Qian’s remark on He Zhuo’s reading habits at the beginning of this chapter. 79. For more on Cui Chu see, e.g., Michael Quirin, “Scholarship, Value, Method, and Hermeneutics in Kaozheng: Some Reflections on Cui Shu (1740–1816) and the Confucian Classics,” History and Theory 35, no. 4 (December 1996): 34–53. For his early twentiethcentury “rediscovery” see Joshua A. Fogel, “On the Rediscovery of the Chinese Past: Ts’ui Shu and Related Cases,” in Perspectives on a Changing China: Essays in Honor of Professor C. Martin Wilbur on the Occasion of His Retirement, ed. Joshua A. Fogel and William T. Rowe (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1979), 219–35. 80. See, e.g., Gujin suishi kao, a treatise composed by Dai Zhen (see more in part III); Qian Daxin added comments on an undated draft, and Huang Rucheng 黃汝成 (1799–1837) and Mao Yuesheng 毛嶽生 (1791–1841) added their own notes on top of Qian’s. Dai Shen, Gujin suishi kao, Ms #802654 (undated), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. The final version of the work, which includes the remarks of all three scholars and Dai Zhen’s base text, can be found in Huang Rucheng, Xiuhai lou zazhu (Taipei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1983), vol. 2. 81. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 213. 82. Note that during the Qing, and the Qianlong era in particular, the number of academies rose sharply. Deng Hongbo estimates the total number of academies in the Qing as 5,836. A change in government policy toward academies, which began during the Yongzheng era, was related to the rise in numbers, and a more tolerant and encouraging policy was adopted by the Qianlong emperor. Thus while the government increased its sponsorship and support, it also continued to try to monitor and control the academies to some degree (as was the policy before the Yongzheng). As a result, even though a distinction existed between government academies and private academies, the latter were not completely private (note the involvement of governors in the appointment of heads of academies in Qian’s biography). See Deng Hongbo 邓洪波, Zhongguo shuyuan shi (Wuhan: Wuhan daxue chubanshe, 2012), 449–60, 475–90. For academies and their funding see, e.g., Zhao Lianwen 赵连稳, “Qingdai Beijing shuyuan jingfei choucuo tujing ji yanbian,” Zhongguo jingji shi yanjiu 2 (2009): 69–73. 83. For the development of the postal services (and their peak during the Qianlong reign) see, e.g., Yan Xing 晏星, Zhonghua youzheng fazhan shi (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1994); Liu Wenpeng 刘文鹏, “Qingdai yichuan tixi de jindai zhuanxing,” Qingshi yanjiu 4 (2003): 58–66, and Qingdai yichuan ji qi yu xingcheng guanxi zhi yanjiu (Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe, 2004). 84. See Jonathan Porter, “The Scientific Community in Early Modern China,” Isis 73, no. 4 (December 1982): 529–44. 85. See McDermott, A Social History of the Chinese Book, 21, 39, 101, 112; Charles O. Hucker, China’s Imperial Past: An Introduction to Chinese History and Culture (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1975), 386; Cynthia J. Brokaw, “On the History of the Book in China,” in Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. Cynthia J. Brokaw and Kai-wing Chow (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 3–54, esp. 29–30.

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86. See Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 178–202. 87. Qian’s remarks (mentioned toward the end of chapter 2) about the positive influence of Qianlong’s SKQS project serve to illustrate that. 88. This map includes the birthplaces of Qian Daxin’s first- and second-order connections. It is based on over 600 people, according to the China Biographical Database (CBDB). Note that recently, Clea Walford and I extended the entries in the CBDB (for Ji Yun and Qian Daxin in particular), yet this work is still in its early stages for other Qing scholars; I expect that as we continue to update the CBDB hundreds more connections (esp. second order) would be added. I am grateful to Wang Hongsu for his tremendous help with the CBDB. 89. For an excellent discussion of these schools see Benjamin A. Elman, “Ch’ing Dynasty ‘Schools’ of Scholarship,” Ch’ing-shih wen-t’i 4, no. 6 (December 1981): 1–44. For the notion of one Qian-Jia school (retaining the notion of Hanxue) see Chen Zuwu 陳祖武, Qingdai xueshu yuanliu (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 2012), esp. 171–72. 90. See, e.g., Jerry Dean Schmidt, Harmony Garden: The Life, Literary Criticism, and Poetry of Yuan Mei (1716–1798) (New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 53; Dorothy Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-Century China (Stanford. Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), 131. 91. Gerard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 1–2. 92. See also Qian Daxin’s letter to Feng Jiwu 馮集悟 (jinshi of 1781) asking Feng to make sure a preface was added to the Xu zizhi tongjian in order to both convey the right meaning of the book and see that Bi Yuan’s name as the primary author of the book was not neglected. See Bi Yuan, Xu zizhi tongjian, 15. 93. Most of the epitaphs Qian wrote—over fifty of them appear in his collected writings— were invited by a family member; so were some of the records (記), prefaces (序), and postscripts (跋). 94. In that sense I leave the boundaries of Qian’s networks fuzzy rather than specified. See Edward O. Laumann, Peter V. Marsden, and David Prensky, “The Boundary Specification Problem in Network Analysis,” in Research Methods in Social Network Analysis, ed. Linton C. Freeman, Douglas R. White, and A. Kimball Romney (Fairfax, Va.: George Mason University Press, 1989), 61–87. 95. See, e.g., Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, 121–156, esp. 140–141, where Guy qualified the use of the terms “Han learning” and “Song learning” yet continued to use them (see also Lynn Struve, review of The Emperor's Four Treasuries: Scholars and the State in the Late Ch'ien-Lung Era, by R. Kent Guy, American Historical Review 94, no. 5 [December 1989]: 1453–54, in which she exposes this problem); Theodore Huters, “From Writing to Literature: The Development of Late Qing Theories of Prose,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 47, no. 1 (June 1987): 51–96; William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001), 114; Wang Damin 王达敏, “Lun Yao Nai yu Siku guannei Han Song zhizheng,” Beijing daxue xuebao 43, no. 5 (September 2006): 86–95. 96. Qian and Yao also met personally in Beijing during the 1760s and early 1770s. See ECCP, 900. For the prefaces to Xie Qikun’s books see Xie Qikun, Xiaoxue kao (Hangzhou: Zhejiang shuju, 1888), 1b–6a. 97. Yao Nai, Xibao xuan quanji (Xianggang: Guangzhi shuju, [1900?]), 84–85. Yao Nai also wrote a preface to Wang Chang’s poetry in 1799, once again stressing his admiration of Wang and their long-term acquaintance since they met in Beijing in the 1760s. See Yao Nai, Xibao xuan quanji, 46–47.

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98. Earlier I mentioned Qian’s relations with Cheng Jinfang as a bibliophile; here I would note that Cheng was also highly accommodative of Han and Song learning. See Cheng Jinfang, Mianxian tang wenji (Jiaqing 23–25, 1818–1820), esp. juan 1 (series of essays entitled “Zhengxue” 正學 [Correct learning]) and juan 5 (his postface to Hui Dong’s Yi Hanxue). 99. See Zhu Gui, “Zhujun Zhu gong shendaobei” 竹君朱公神道碑 (Memorial stele for Master Zhu Zhujun [Zhu Yun]) and Zhang Xuecheng, “Zhu xiansheng muzhiming” 朱先生墓誌銘 (Master Zhu’s epitaph) in Zhu Yun, Sihe wenji (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), 5–9, 11–13. 100. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi shangque, 1–3. 101. See Wang Niansun, “Wang Rongfu Shuxue xu,” in Xinbian Wang Zhong ji, by Wang Zhong (Yangzhou: Guangling shushe, 2005), app., 60–61. See also Wang Niansun’s preface to his own work on the Guangya, where he refers to the Han as a means for getting “ancient meanings” (古義), again with no mention of Han learning. Wang Niansun, Guangya shuzheng (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013), 2. These are but a few examples, and many more exist. 102. See Gong Zizhen’s “ten reservations” (十不安) about the use of the term Hanxue to discuss Qing intellectual currents. Chen and Zhu, Qian-Jia xueshu biannian, 790–91. 103. I deal further with the epistemological controversy in subsequent chapters. For the prevailing view of the eighteenth century as a time of debate between Han and Song learning see Yu Ying-shih, “Some Preliminary Observations on the Rise of Ch’ing Confucian Intellectualism,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies, n.s., 11, no. 1 (December 1975): 105–46. There Yu claimed that “the term Han Learning is actually a name Ch’ing scholars applied to their own approach to the study of the Confucian classics” (110–11). This was partly true for nineteenth-century scholars, but I did not find eighteenthcentury scholars using this term to designate their own identity, and Yu did not provide a reference for his claim. I contend that the debate between Jiang Fan and Fang Dongshu, which began in the 1810s (see Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 147), was perhaps the starting point of the usage of these terms (and Gong Zizhen’s opposition to the use of the term Hanxue would be further evidence). 104. ECCP, 340. 105. Anthony Grafton, Commerce with the Classics: Ancient Books and Renaissance Readers (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), 197–98. The term experientia litterata was coined by Bacon to denote the recording of experiments in writing rather than experimentation with writings. 106. See Pierre Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1995), 310.

4. The Way of Ancient Learning 1. Mao Yuesheng was born in Baoshan 寶山, some 16 kilometers or 10 miles east of Jiading; he was the son of Mao Jisheng 毛際盛 (1764–1792), a celebrated Shuowen scholar and Qian Daxin's student (when and where the sources do not reveal). He was Yao Nai’s student and also a friend of Li Zhaoluo. He was keen on publishing Qian Daxin’s work on the history of the Yuan, took interest in Gu Yanwu’s Rizhi lu, and perhaps was involved in the preparation of Huang Rucheng’s Rizhi lu jishi. Mao pedantically copied Qian Daxin’s notes on relevant Rizhi lu passages; these notes can also be found in Huang’s Rizhi lu jishi, and point to the scholarly exchange on the theme of Gu Yanwu

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2. 3.

4.

5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

studies during the 1830s. See Hu Yongpeng 胡永鹏 and Song Junfen 宋均芬. “Mao Jisheng Shuowen xinfy tongyi lunlue” 毛际盛论略 (“Account of Mao Jisheng’s Shuowen xinfu tongyi”), in: Hanzi wenhua 1.75 (2007): 35–38; Mou Runsun 牟潤孫. Haiyi zazhu 海遺雜著 (Various Works of the Lost at Sea). Xianggang Xinjie Shatian: Zhongwen daxue chubanshe, 1990, p. 75; Cao Hong 曹虹. “Li Zhaoluo de xueshu yu wenxue” 李兆洛的学术与文学 (“Li Zhaoluo’s Scholarship and Literature”), in: Zhongguo wenhua yanjiu 15 (Spring, 1997): 24–29. For Mao and Huang’s joint remarks on scientific issues see chapter 7. See SKQSZMTY, 1.49. Wang Mingsheng, “Shuowen jiezi zhengyi xu,” in Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian, comp. Ding Fubao 丁福保 (Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977), 1:328. The Shuowen jiezi zhengyi, for which Wang Mingsheng wrote the preface, was a work by Chen Zhan 陳鳣 (1753–1817). Liang Qichao 梁啟超, Zhongguo jin sanbainian xueshu shi (Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe, 2004), 233. Elsewhere Wang Mingsheng stressed that “the Erya and Shuowen are the fortunate survivors of this culture, and cannot be rebuked” (爾雅與說文皆斯文之 幸存者,不可駮也.). JDWMSQJ, 8:668. Wang Chang, “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming,” in Chunrong tang ji (n.p.: Shunan shushe kanben, Guangxu 18, 1892), juan 55, 12b–16a. The Yupian was attributed to Gu Yewang 顧野王 (518–581). Wang Chang, “Shuowen yinjing kao xu,” in Shuowen yinjing kao, by Cheng Jisheng, Ms #374889 (3107), 3b, Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Wang Mingsheng, “Shuowen yinjing kao xu,” in Shuowen yinjing kao, by Cheng Jisheng, Ms #374889 (3107), 1a–2a, Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Nianpu, 23. Although it is an option, I doubt Qian did not know of the Shuowen at all before 1770. See ECCP, 782. See Nancy Lee Swann, “Seven Intimate Library Owners,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 1, no. 3/4 (November 1936): 363–90; Zhang Guili 张桂丽, “Wangshi Zhenqitang cangshu, keshu,” Zhongguo dianji yu wenhua 86, no. 3 (2013): 75–83; Li Fuyan 李福 言, “Shuowen xizhuan kaoyi zuozhe puzheng,” Guizhou shifandaxue xuebao 187, no. 2 (2014): 117–20; Wang Guiping 王桂平, Qingdai Jiangnan cangshujia keshu yanjiu (Nanjing: Fenghuang chubanshe, 2008). See more on this Song dynasty text and its transmission, along with the various printings of it from the Qianlong era onward, in Shao Min 邵敏, “Xu Jie Shuowen jiezi xizhuan zhuangben kao,” Xinyang shifan xueyuan xuebao 27, no. 6 (December 2007): 92–95. See also Duan Yucai’s preface to the Jigu ge Shuowen ding 汲古閣説文訂 (The Shuowen corrected according to the Jigu ge [Pavilion for absorbing the ancients ed.]), Ms #503527 (printed by Yuan Tingtao), Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. In it Duan narrated the history of the text, the finding of a (different) Song edition, and the relationships with many scholars, bibliophiles, and publishers enabling its research and new printing. QYTJ, 394–95. See Zhuting xiansheng rijichao, JDQDXQJ, vol. 8, juan 1, 1–2. Cheng Yaotian, “Shuowen yinjing kao xu,” in Shuowen yinjing kao, by Cheng Jisheng, Ms #374889 (3107), 5a, Rare Book Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. The book was published only in 1796, so clearly Duan was reading a manuscript or draft. Duan Yucai, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Guangya shuzheng, by Wang Niansun (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013), 1.

254 4. The Way of Ancient Learning 18. Cheng Yaotian, “Shuowen yinjing kao xu,” 5a. 19. Wang Mingsheng, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Wenzi tang ji, by Sun Xingyan (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 4; see also page 3 for the Shuowen as a major means of getting antiquity right. 20. For different notions of antiquity and antiquities in Chinese history see the various excellent essays in Dieter Kuhn and Helga Stahl, eds., Perceptions of Antiquity in Chinese Civilization (Heidelberg: Edition Forum, 2008). In it almost every period in Chinese history has been discussed. One period, however, is conspicuously missing: the Qing. Among the thirteen thoughtful essays not a single one deals directly or indirectly with the Qing. What makes this even more peculiar is that the majority of the sources for this book (newly discovered archeological findings notwithstanding)—from the standard Histories, through Ruan Yuan’s nineteenth-century edition of the Thirteen Classics, to the SKQS and more—were consolidated and refined during the Qing period. 21. LY, 7.1. 22. See Michael Nylan, “The ‘Chin Wen/Ku Wen’ Controversy in Han Times,” T’oung Pao, 2nd ser., 80, no. 1/3 (1994): 83–145. 23. See David R. Knechtges, “Introduction” to Wen xuan or Selections of Refined Literature, by Xiao Tong (501–531), trans. and annotated David R. Knechtges (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1996), 1:1–72. 24. ZZYL, juan 34, 855–56. 25. See Wang Yinglin, Kunxue jiwen (Shanghai: Shanghai wuyinshuguan, 1935), vol. 3, juan 6, 21b. 26. Duan Yucai, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Guangya shuzheng, 1. 27. QYTWJ, 16.245. 28. Qian was even willing to grant a scholar of the Yuan period—the mathematician Qin Jiushao 秦九韶 (ca. 1202–1261)—the designation “ancient” when it fit his agenda. See JDQDXQJ, vol. 7; SJZYXL, 17.463–64. See also part III. 29. QYTWJ, 16.245. 30. QYTWJ, 16.246. 31. Fang Xuanling and Jing Bo were notable historians of the Sui/early Tang. Fang was the chief compiler of the Jin shu, and Jing Bo compiled the Veritable Records of the first Tang emperors. See more in Denis C. Twitchett, The Writing of Official History Under the T’ang (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), esp. 123–27. 32. QYTWJ, 16.246. 33. Qian’s preface (dated 1801) to Tang Zhongmian’s 唐仲冕 (1753–1827) Yili mengqiu 儀禮蒙 求 (Seeking the obscure in the rites and ceremonies), in Qianyan tang ji waiwen, comp. Wang Xinfu 王欣夫, Ms # 619171 (unpublished handwritten manuscript, preface by Wang dated 1966, not paginated), Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. 34. QYTJ, 24.391. 35. Qingtan has often been translated as “pure conversations” in modern Western scholarship. Some scholars saw in it an example of “important philosophical conversations” and hailed those who participated in the “conversations” (as well as others before or after who used similar generic methods, such as Zhu Xi and Wang Yangming) as representing “some of the highest achievements in the history of Chinese philosophy.” Donald Holzman, “The Conversational Tradition in Chinese Philosophy,” Philosophy East and West 6, no. 3 (October 1956): 223–30, esp. pp. 227–30. I prefer to use the term “idle chatter,” as I think it better represents the way scholars (such as those mentioned here) understood it. For more on qingtan see Richard B. Mather, “Chinese Letters and Scholarship in the Third and Fourth Centuries: The Wen-Hsueh P’ien of the Shih-Shuo-Hsin-Yu,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 84, no. 4 (October–December 1964): 348–91; Tang

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36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42.

43.

44.

45.

46. 47. 48.

49. 50.

51.

Yiming, “The Voices of Wei-Jin Scholars: A Study of ‘Qingtan’” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1991); Miyazaki Ichisada 宮崎市定, “Seidan,” Shirin 史林 31 (1946): 1–17. I discuss this issue further in chapter 5. Qian’s preface to Tang Zhongmian’s Yili mengqiu. SJZYXL, 2.28. See, e.g., SJZYXL, 16.245; QYTJ, 24.394. See Benjamin A. Elman, “Philosophy (I-Li) Versus Philology (K’ao-Cheng): The Jen-Hsin Tao-Hsin Debate,” T’oung Pao 69, no. 4–5 (1983): 175–221, esp. 180. Peter K. Bol, “When Antiquity Matters: Thinking About and with Antiquity in the Tang-Song Transition,” in Perceptions of Antiquity in Chinese Civilization, ed. Dieter Kuhn and Helga Stahl (Heidelberg: Edition Forum, 2008), 232. See Daniel K. Gardner, “Transmitting the Way: Chu Hsi and His Program of Learning,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 49, no. 1 (June 1989): 141–72. The debate between Zhu Xi and Lu Jiuyuan 陸九淵 (1139–1192) over questions of authority, interpretation of the Classics, and the transmission of the Way, wherein Zhu accused Lu of ignoring the Classics while prioritizing the mind, is significant in showing the importance of the issues outlined above for these Song scholars. See Hoyt Cleveland Tillman, Confucian Discourse and Chu Hsi’s Ascendency (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1992), 222–30. Cai Shen’s 蔡沈 (1167–1230) preface (序) to Shujizhuan (Taipei: Shijie shuju, 1969), 1–2. The translation (with minor changes) is taken from Elman, “Philosophy (I-Li) Versus Philology (K’ao-Cheng),” 180. See, e.g., Zhu Xi’s statement in his preface to the Daxue that “the text of the Greater Learning contained some errata and lacunae and hence, forgetting my rusticity, I edited it. At times also I took the liberty of appending my own ideas and filling the lacunae.” Daniel K. Gardner, Chu Hsi and the Ta-hsueh: Neo-Confucian Reflection on the Confucian Canon (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), 86. ZZYL, 11.192. Gardner claimed that the yü-lu 語錄 (records of conversations) genre, prominent during the Song, helped scholars attain some independence from the Classics when they wanted to articulate new ideas that were constrained by the Classics or by other commentarial genres. See Daniel K. Gardner, “Modes of Thinking and Modes of Discourse in the Sung: Some Thoughts on the Yu-lu (‘Recorded Conversations’) Texts,” Journal of Asian Studies 50, no. 3 (August 1991): 574–603. ZZYL, 78.1979. Elman, “Philosophy (I-Li) Versus Philology (K’ao-Cheng),” 184. An interesting case for comparison is that of the notion of Buddhavacana (the words of the Buddha) in Buddhist traditions and how new pronouncements could be legitimized and incorporated into textual canons by claiming a Buddhavacana authority. See, e.g., James P. McDermott, “Scripture as the Word of the Buddha,” Numen 31, no. 1 (July 1984): 22–39; Steven Collins, “On the Very Idea of the Pali Canon,” Journal of the Pali Text Society 15 (1990): 89–126. SJZYXL, “Zi xu” 自序 (Author’s preface), 1. “The bottom part of the stem of a plant which, like a bulb, can be preserved and from which the plant sprouts again in the spring.” Alan Stephens, ed., Dictionary of Agriculture (Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn, 1998), 61–62. LY, 2.11. For the various glosses of wen (溫), understood primarily in terms of warmth and keeping something warm (through practice), and thus keeping something constantly alive, see Liu Baonan 劉寳楠 (1791–1855), Lunyu Zhengyi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 1:54–55.

256 4. The Way of Ancient Learning 52. MZ, 6A:11. 53. See MZ, 4B:28, where the maintaining of the heart, for the gentleman, is done through humaneness (ren) and ritual propriety (li); the maintaining of the heart is what distinguishes the gentleman from ordinary people. 54. The connotations and earlier mentioning of “knowing the inborn nature” and “making the moral virtue bright” are numerous and well known. Suffice it to say that the latter is very relevant to the “Kang Gao” chapter of the Shangshu, which Qian also discussed separately, and, of course, to the Daxue. As for the former, it seems to gain importance as a foundational term during the Song, and especially with Zhu Xi (there are several dozen instances where he used this term). Interestingly, he suggested that the term came from Mengzi, but I could not find this in the Mengzi. Also, he usually connected this term with jinxin 盡心 (exerting the heart to its utmost). 55. LY, 7.3. Qian omitted two other things Kongzi worried about in that passage: “hearing of righteousness but not being able to follow it, being not good but not being able to change.” 56. HS, 56.2511. In the original, the junzi is not mentioned, and in the end instead of zhi (志) we find yi (意). The meaning, however, is close. 57. Zhongyong, 28, for the source and Zhu Xi’s commentary on these assertions see Zhu Xi, Sishu zhangju (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008), 35–36. 58. LY, 2.11. 59. LY, 5.8. 60. LY, 19.5. 61. QYTJ, 17.277–78. 62. QYTJ, 2.23. See also his handwritten remark in this line, emphasizing that “[knowing] roots and branches; beginnings and ends; earlier and later; [that is what] makes the learning of the investigation of things” (本末，始終，先後，為格物之學), in Hui Shiqi, Daxue shuo, Ms #756289, 15b (undated handwritten manuscript), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. 63. QYTWJ, 2.18. 64. QYTJ, 11.177. Note that Cheng Yaotian, above, used this derogatory term as well—“chisel through air.” 65. See, e.g., QYTJ, 11.177, 24.390–91, 24.393, 25.422, 36.649; SJZYXL, 3.61; NESKY, vol. 1, “Xu” 序 (Preface), 1. 66. SJZYXL, 1.28. See also other instances where Qian used the term “opinion” (意) as something that is used by someone contrary to evidence from the texts or textual studies in general, often also in ways contrary to antiquity: e.g., QYTJ, 2.18–19, 24.394. 67. MZ, 5A:4; the ode is Mao 205. 68. The relationship between intentions and odes is discussed in the “Great Preface” to the Odes. See Stephen Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), 40–41. 69. SJZYXL, 1.28. 70. SJZYXL, 1.11–12. 71. QYTJ, 33.596. 72. SJZYXL, 17.464. 73. QYTWJ, 24.375. 74. QYTJ, 21.349. 75. The use of the term “us Ru” when opposed to Buddhists and Daoists can be traced at least to the Song. 76. See JDWMSQJ, 10:280.

5. Philology and the Message of the Sages 257

5. Philology and the Message of the Sages 1. For more on Jiao Xun see Zhang Shunhui 張舜徽, Qingdai Yangzhou xueji; Gu Tinglin xueji (Wuhan: Huanzhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2005), 104–38; Xu Liwangno 徐立望, Jia-Dao zhi ji: Yangzhou Changzhou quyu wenhua bijiao yanjiu (Hangzhou: Zhejiang daxue chubanshe, 2007), 66–90. 2. Both editions I used for the comparison have similar page and character sizes. See Zhu Xi, Sishu zhangju (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008), 201–377.; Jiao Xun, Mengzi zhengyi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007). See also Li Changran 李畅然, Qingdai Mengzi xue shi dagang (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2011), esp. 253–307. Li argues that 1766 marked a significant change in Mengzi studies, which corresponds to the period I suggest as the beginning of a significant change in Shuowen studies. 3. QYTJ, 24.390–91. Leading up to and during the second half of the eighteenth century many books and treatises that were written in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries but remained unpublished were printed. This was especially true for books pertaining to philology, such as Yan Ruoqu’s Shangshu guwen shuzheng 尚書古文疏證 (Evidential analysis of the Old Text documents), first published in 1745 (see ECCP, 909); and Zhang Erqi’s 張爾岐 (1612–1678) Yili Zhengzhu judou 儀禮鄭注句讀 (The sentences and phrases according to the Zheng [Xuan] commentary on the Book of ceremonies and rituals), first published in 1742. See Chen Zuwu 陳祖武 and Zhu Tongchuang 朱彤窗, Qian-Jia xueshu biannian (Shijiazhuang Shi: Hebei renmin chubanshe, 2005), 48. 4. For example, Qian found that Gu erred in thinking that ancient characters had only one pronunciation (see SJZYXL, 1.1–2) and corrected Yan on historical geography in JDQDXQJ, vol. 8, juan 1, 1–2. See also Wang Mingsheng’s saying that he believed his good friends Dai Zhen and Duan Yucai were of the opinion that Gu Yanwu, his importance notwithstanding, had some errors. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi shangque 十七 史商榷 (Critical study of the seventeen dynastic histories) (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe, 2005), juan 82, 724. For Wang Mingsheng’s acknowledgment of Gu Yanwu and Yan Ruoqu, along with Wan Sitong 萬斯同 (1638–1702) and Hui Dong, as those making the first steps of Qing scholarship toward the right direction of evidential research, see Wang Mingsheng, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Wenzi tang ji, by Sun Xingyan (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 3; see also Wang Mingsheng’s high regard for Gu in JDWMSQJ, 8:677–78, 690, where, alongside his praise, Wang mentioned that in a very few cases Gu was not correct or extensive and that Gu followed Wu Yu 吳棫 (1100–1154) in his discussion of rhyme patterns. Wang also made it clear that Duan Yucai made substantial progress in rhyme patterns research, based on Gu Yanwu, Jiang Yong, and others. For Wu Yu see also William Hubbard Baxter, Handbook of Old Chinese Phonology (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1992), 154. 5. See also Qian’s assertions that “when Han Ru transmitted the Classics, each of them had a lineage of teachers” (漢儒傳經各有師承, QYTWJ, 5.64) and that “none of the Han Ru had learning devoid of a teacher” (漢儒無無師之學, QYTWJ, 5.67). So it was a matter not only of chronological distance but also of valid transmission of the teachings. Note that the Qin burning of the books presented a significant rupture but, because of personal transmission in the early Han, could be overcome during the Han; that was not the case later on, when scholars deviated from the former models. 6. QYTJ, 24.390–91. 7. See Shuowen yinjing kao xu, Ms #374889 (3107), 5a, Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai.

258 5. Philology and the Message of the Sages 8. See Wang Mingsheng’s preface to Zhou Chun’s 周春 (1729–1815) Erya buzhu 爾雅補注 (Supplementary comments on the Erya), in Erya gulin Xulu, comp. and ed. Zhu Zuyan 朱祖延 (Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu chubanshe, 1998), 292. 9. This explosion did not end after the Jiaqing reign but rather intensified. For more on the transmission problems of the two texts see Roy Andrew Miller, “Problems in the Study of Shuo-wen chieh-tzu” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1953); Su Tiege 苏铁戈, “Shuowen jiezi de banben yu zhuben,” Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 4 (1997): 15, 43–45; Wang Guiyuan 王贵元, “Shuowen jiezi banben kaoshu,” Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 6 (1999): 34, 41–43; Feng Yutao 冯玉涛, “Shuowen jiezi de liuchuan yu banben,” Tushuguan lilun yu 4 (2004): 49–51; Weldon South Coblin Jr., “An Introductory Study of Textual and Linguistic Problems in Erh-ya” (PhD diss., University of Washington, 1972), esp. 62–115. 10. See also Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), esp. 198–208. 11. This text is a short educational precept to students, revered by many scholars throughout the ages, including Zhu Xi and others in the Qing and even modern periods. Whether or not it was a chapter of the Guanzi or an independent text has been debated. See Zhang Liangcai 张良才, “Cong Guanzi.Dizi zhi kan Jixia xueguan de jiaoxue yu shenghuo guanli,” Guanzixue kan 3 (1994): 39–42. See the translation and short discussion in Allyn W. Rickett, Guanzi: Political, Economic, and Philosophical Essays from Early China: A Study and Translation (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1998) 2:283–91. 12. This text was composed of treatises intended to teach one how to write (presumably in a different script than most of those prevailing during the Han). There has been disagreement over what the character zhou (籀) refers to and hence over the translation of the title. I follow the Hanshu understanding that zhou here refers to the name of the grand scribe (史) in the days of King Xuan 宣 (d. 782 BCE) of the Zhou dynasty. In the twentieth century Wang Guowei claimed otherwise, which also means a different periodization for the text, and the issue is still contested. See Pan Yukun 潘玉坤, “Shizhou pian niandai kao,” Hangzhou shifan daxue xuebao 2 (March 2002): 82–85. 13. The Junzhai dushu zhi 郡齋讀書志 was a catalog of Chao Gongwu’s 晁公武 (1105–1180) library, which Zhao Xibian had printed in 1249, with his own additions. See Daniel K. Gardner, “Modes of Thinking and Modes of Discourse in the Sung: Some Thoughts on the Yu-lu (‘Recorded Conversations’) Texts,” Journal of Asian Studies 50, no. 3 (August 1991): 575. 14. SKQSZMTY, 40.1059. 15. Pamela Kyle Crossley, A Translucent Mirror: History and Identity in Qing Imperial Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 290. 16. Crossley, A Translucent Mirror, 290–301. 17. Antonia Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou: A Chinese City, 1550–1850 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2004), 273–74. 18. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi, juan 82, 723. 19. Duan Yucai, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Guangya shuzheng, by Wang Niansun (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013), 1. 20. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi, juan 82, 724. 21. Wang Mingsheng, Shiqi shi, juan 25, 178. 22. Wang Mingsheng, Yishu bian, JDWMSQJ, vol. 7, juan 1, 9. There Wang also bemoaned the fact that the decline in xiaoxue began mostly from the Tang and reached its culmination in the Ming; hence for over a millennium no one was able to penetrate the Classics (無人通經), and xiaoxue degenerated into chaos (亂).

5. Philology and the Message of the Sages 259 23. Yü Ying-shih, “Qingdai sixiang shi de yige xin jieshi,” in Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lun ji— Qingdai, 2nd ed., ed. Yu Yingshi 余英時 et al. (Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988), 11–48, esp. 41–44. 24. For a similar use of commentaries (in various fields) in the Muslim world see, e.g., George Saliba, “The Astronomical Tradition of Maragha: A Historical Survey and Prospects for Future Research,” Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 1 (1991): 67–99; the articles in Oriens 41, no. 3–4 (2013). 25. Charlotte Furth, “Introduction: Thinking with Cases,” in Thinking with Cases: Specialist Knowledge in Chinese Cultural History, ed. Charlotte Furth, Judith T. Zeitlin, and Hsiung Ping-chen (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007), 3. 26. Furth, “Introduction,” 3. 27. Furth, “Introduction,” 4–5. 28. See Elman, From Philosophy to Philology, 211–14. Note that the xue’an (學案) genre of “learning cases” famously associated with Huang Zongxi was very different from the philological cases I discuss here. See Chu Hung-lam, “Confucian ‘Case Learning’: The Genre of Xue’an Writings,” in Thinking with Cases: Specialist Knowledge in Chinese Cultural History, ed. Charlotte Furth, Judith T. Zeitlin, and Hsiung Ping-chen (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007), 244–73. 29. See various prefaces in Wang Mingsheng, Yishu bian. 30. See Dai Zhen, Dongyuan wenji, comp. Yang Yingqin 楊應芹 (Hebei: Huangshan shushe, 2008), 240. 31. See Zhu Yun’s denouncement of this line of writings in HXSCJ, vol. 2, 6.620. 32. JDQDXQJ, 1:1–120. 33. JDQDXQJ, 1:1–144. 34. Jingdian wenzi kaoyi, juan 1, 2. 35. Shijing, Mao 247. See James Legge, trans., The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1970), 476. 36. Sixth-century philological text that follows the Shuowen in its style. 37. Jingdian wenzi kaoyi, juan 1, 2. 38. Zhuangzi, ch. 2. See Chuang-Tzu: The Inner Chapters, trans. A. C. Graham (Indianapolis, Ind.: Hackett, 2001), 49. 39. Guo Xiang’s edition and commentary of the Zhuangzi (dated to around 300 CE). For more on Guo Xiang and his edition see Livia Kohn, Early Chinese Mysticism: Philosophy and Soteriology in the Taoist Tradition (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1991), 69–80. 40. Qian Daxin, Sheng lei 聲類 (Categories of sounds), JDQDXQJ, juan 1, 3. 41. Huang Kan, of the fifth–sixth century. See also Benjamin A. Elman, “One Classic and Two Classical Traditions: The Recovery and Transmission of a Lost Edition of the Analects,” Monumenta Nipponica 64, no. 1 (2009): 53–82. 42. Tang shijing kaoyi, 119. 43. Shijing, Mao 257. See Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King, 524. 44. Shijing, Mao 264. See Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King, 561–62. 45. SJZYXL, 1.22. 46. The edition in use by Legge and most modern scholars today has “us” (我), whereas Qian has “you” (女) in the last three quotations from the “Odes of Cao.” 47. SJZYXL, 1.13–14. For modern research on these two particles see E. G. Pulleyblank, “The Locative Particles Yü 于, Yü 於, and Hu 乎,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 106, no. 1 (January–March 1986): 1–12. 48. SJZYXL, 4.84. 49. Jin dynasty scholar (ca. fourth c. CE).

260 5. Philology and the Message of the Sages 50. Both were Southern Song scholars of the later twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. 51. SJZYXL, 4.85. For the need to use editions critically and look for better editions see SJZYXL, 3.76. 52. See Hu Shi, “Qingdai xuezhe de zhixue fangfa,” in Hu Shi wenji (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998), 2:282–304, esp. 291. For the phonetic terminology see Baxter, Handbook of Old Chinese Phonology, esp. 45–51; E. G. Pulleyblank, “Qieyun and Yunjing: The Essential Foundation for Chinese Historical Linguistics,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 118, no. 2 (1998): 200–216. 53. SJZYXL, juan 5, 127. 54. Duan Yucai, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Guangya shuzheng, by Wang Yingsun, 1. 55. LY, 14.39. The translation of disputed quotations in such cases is problematic, as it depends on which characters are understood as the “correct” ones and what the “correct” interpretation is—these are the essentials of the dispute. For ease of reading I use, for the heading, the translation of Roger T. Ames and Henry Rosemont Jr., trans., The Analects of Confucius: A Philosophical Translation (New York: Ballantine Books, 1998), 181, which is later problematized. 56. SJZYXL, 3.59. 57. SJZYXL, 3.59–60. The Mengzi passage is found in MZ 7B:30. 58. SJZYXL, 3.61. 59. SJZYXL, 3.62. 60. SJZYXL, 3.62–63. 61. LY, 3.13. For D. C. Lau’s translation see Confucius, The Analects, trans. D. C. Lau (London: Penguin, 1979), 69. 62. Shijing, Mao 254. See Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King, 499–504. 63. Shijing, Mao 272. See Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King, 575–76. 64. Shijing, Mao 254. I follow Legge in translating yu as “changing moods.” See Legge, The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King, 499–504. 65. SJZYXL, 1.9, 18.48. 66. See also Qian Daxin’s rejection of the notion of taiji 太極 (supreme ultimate) as pronounced by Cheng-Zhu scholars and compared to Laozi and Zhuangzi and his historical outlook on the notion of Daotong 道統 (transmission of the Dao). SJZYXL, 18.492–93. For the tian ji li notion in Cheng-Zhu thought see, e.g., A. C. Graham, Two Chinese Philosophers: The Metaphysics of the Ch’eng Brothers (La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1992), esp. 110, 117; Ng On-cho, Cheng-Zhu Confucianism in the Early Qing: Li Guangdi (1642–1718) and Qing Learning (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), esp. 110; Chu Hsi, Further Reflections on Things at Hand: A Reader, trans. Allen Wittenborn (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1991), esp. 33. 67. SJZYXL, 2.41. See also Qian’s handwritten remark in this same spirit and on this same subject. Hui Shiqi, Daxue shuo, Ms #756289, 12a (undated handwritten manuscript), Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. 68. For these ideas by Dai Zhen see his Mengzi ziyi shuzheng (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008); see also Dai’s two related letters that vehemently attack Song learning—“Yu mou shu” 與某書 (A letter to someone) and “Yu Duan Ruoying lun li shu” 與段若噟論理書 (A letter to Duan Ruoying [Yucai] discussing principle)—in his Mengzi ziyi shuzheng, 173–74 and 184–85, respectively. 69. SJZYXL, 18.502. 70. See, e.g., Rudolf G. Wagner, Language, Ontology, and Political Philosophy in China: Wang Bi’s Scholarly Exploration of the Dark (Xuanxue) (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003); John Makeham, Transmitters and Creators: Chinese Commentators

6. Historical Philology 261

71. 72. 73.

74.

75.

76. 77. 78.

and Commentaries on the Analects (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003), esp. 30–47. See, e.g., ZZYL 34.874–75, 55.1320–21, 122.2954, 123.296. See Gu Yanwu, Rizhilu jishi (Shujiazhuang: Huashan wenyi chubanshe, 1990), 7.402. Qian’s friend Zhao Yi 趙翼 (1727–1814) also wrote an essay on “The Practice of ‘Idle Chatter’ During the Six Dynasties” (六朝清談之習), wherein he, too, denounced the “idle chatter” phenomenon. See Zhao Yi, Nianer shi zhaji jiaozheng (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 167–70. QYTJ, 43.787. Qian also specifically mentioned the emperor as the one who made scholars look into the Yongle dadian and thus discover unknown texts. See QYTJ, 24.381, 24.410, 25.412. See remarks such as “I do not know on which edition the [SKQS] Catalog depended” (不知總目所據何本也). SJZYXL, 14.399. See also SJZYXL, 13.359, 14.390; QYTWJ, 28.481, 36.610; Du Wencai 杜文才, “Qian Daxin tiba yu Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao,” Guitu yuekan 4 (1995): 50–51. SJZYXL, 14.396. QYTJ, 11.177. Sun Xingyan, Wenzi tang ji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 19.

6. Historical Philology 1. NESKY, 1. For more on Wang Yirou see Tuotuo 脫脫 (1313–1355) et al., comps., Song shi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1977), juan 286, 9635–36; for the Sima Guang story see Hu Sanxing’s 胡三省 (1230–1302) preface to Zizhi tongjian, by Sima Guang (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1956), 1:23–26. 2. Nianpu, 28. 3. QYTWJ, 2.17–18. 4. See Qian’s preface to his Yuan shi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (The catalog of the Yuan history), JDQDXQJ, 5:1; QYTWJ, 13.192–93. See also Benjamin A. Elman, “The Historicization of Classical Learning in Ming-Ch’ing China,” in Turning Points in Historiography: A Cross Cultural Perspective, ed. Q. Edward Wang and Georg G. Iggers (Rochester, N.Y.: University of Rochester Press, 2006), 101–44. 5. For more on the role of Li Chong and Xun Xu in the institutionalization of the “four parts” categorization (i.e., Classics [經], History [史], Masters [子], Miscellanea [集]) see Zuo Yuhe 左玉河, Cong sibu zhi xue dao qike zhi xue (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 2004), esp. 53–59; Jean-Pierre Drège, Les Bibliothèques en Chine au tems des manuscripts (jusqu’au Xe Siècle) (Paris: Publications de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1991), 161:108–12. 6. Qian Daxin’s preface to Zhao Yi’s work can be found in Zhao Yi, Nianer shi zhaji jiaozheng (Critical edition of the notes on the twenty-two histories) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 2:885–86. 7. Qian Daxin’s preface to Zhao Yi’s Nianer shi zhaji, 2:885. 8. This phrase was used by Cheng Hao, according to Zhu Xi. See ZZYL, 5.90. 9. This phrase might contain a typo, intentional or otherwise, if Qian had in mind Zhu Xi’s saying that “the heart of nowadays people is coarse” (今人心粗), which has jin 今 instead of ling 令; perhaps the edition that Qian was reading had ling and not jin, but these are speculations. See ZZYL, 76.1943. 10. Qian’s preface to Zhao Yi’s Nianer shi zhaji, 2:885.

262 6. Historical Philology 11. For more on Wang Anshi’s critics, see Peter K. Bol, “Examinations and Orthodoxies: 1070 and 1313 Compared,” in Culture and State in Chinese History: Conventions, Accommodations, and Critiques, ed. Theodore Huters, R. Bin Wong, and Pauline Yu (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997), 29–57, esp. 43–46; for Wang Yinglin’s critique (Qian held Wang Yinglin in high esteem) see Jiang Guanghui, “The Interpretation of Tradition and the Tradition of Interpretation,” Contemporary Chinese Thought 36, no. 4 (Summer 2005): 11–35, esp. 20–21. See also Achim Mittag, “History in Sung Classical Learning: The Case of the Odes (Shih-ching),” in The New and the Multiple: Sung Senses of the Past, ed. Thomas H. C. Lee (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong Press, 2004), 201–35; Benjamin I. Schwartz, “Some Polarities of Confucian Thought,” in Confucianism in Action, ed. Arthur F. Wright (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1959), 50–62. 12. See Qian’s preface to Yuanshi ben zheng, by Wang Huizu 汪輝祖 (1731–1807) (Taipei xian Yonghe zhen: Wenhai chubanshe, 1984), 1–3. 13. Note the respect for Sima Guang, as opposed to the resentment at Sima Guang’s rival Wang Anshi. 14. Qian’s preface to NESKY, 1. See also Qian’s elaborate “Letter to the Colleagues of the Comprehensive Gazetteer Office” (舆一統志館同事書), QYTWJ, 33.572–73. There Qian wondered how to insert people’s names in a local gazetteer when the geographical unit or the name of the unit they belonged to had changed over time. Should they be included in the locality as it was called in their time or in the locality as it was called in Qian’s time? For the problem of similar names in different periods see, e.g., SJZYXL, 12.319–24. 15. Qian’s preface to NESKY, 1. 16. Luo Binglang 罗炳良, Qingdai Qian-Jia lishi kaozhengxue yanjiu (Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe, 2007), esp. p. 240. Many others before Luo have had similar views of Qian’s historical research. See, e.g., Zhang Shunhui’s (1911–1992) remark (in a short discussion of Qian’s QYTWJ) that Qian was the “first in the Qing” (有清第一) in his historical studies. Zhang Shunhui 張舜徽, Qingren wenji bielu (Wuhan: Huazhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2004), 185. See also Liu Mo’s hierarchical order of evidential research scholars, in which Qian—“the paragon of evidential research” (考据的典范)—was the most senior, followed by Wang Mingsheng and then Zhao Yi. Liu Mo 刘墨, Qian-Jia xueshu shi lun (Beijing: Shenghuo, dushu, xinshi sanlian shudian, 2006), 135. 17. Luo Binglang, Qingdai Qian-Jia lishi kaozhengxue yanjiu, 180–90, 240–45. 18. See Luo Binglang, Qingdai Qian-Jia lishi kaozhengxue yanjiu, 190–98. 19. SJZYXL, 6.154. See also, e.g., SJZYXL, 6.149–50, 157. 20. See SJZYXL, 6.158–59, 19.511. 21. Table 1 does not include the now-lost Yuan shi gao 元史稿 (Draft of the Yuan history), which was never published and presumably had 100 juan. See ECCP, 154; William Hung, “Three of Ch’ien Ta-hsin’s Poems on Yuan History,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 19, no. 1/2 (June 1956): 1–32; Gu Jichen 顾吉辰, “Qian Daxin yu Yuan shi gao xialuo,” Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 3 (1993): 10–11, 22 22. See also Duan Yucai’s preface to the QYTWJ, where Duan mentioned that “throughout [Qian Daxin’s] life he most deeply exerted diligence with regards to the Yuan shi” (生平 于元史用功最深). Duan Yucai, “Xu” 序 (Preface), QYTWJ, 2. 23. The Yuan shi was composed during two periods: first, 188 days in 1369 (which included materials up to 1333, the beginning of the rule of the last Yuan emperor, who ruled until 1370) and, second, 143 days in 1370 (covering the last reign period, which lasted until that year). See Fang Linggui 方龄贵, “Yuan shi zuanxiu zakao,” Shehui kexue zhanxian 2 (1992): 161–72.

6. Historical Philology 263 24. SJZYXL, 9.232. See also Qian’s harsh judgment on the Yuan shi in QYTWJ, 13.203 and 28.477 as well as his remarks on the difficulty of name research in QYTWJ, 28.479– 80; for the difficulty regarding geographical studies of the Yuan period see QYTWJ, 29.489–90. 25. Wang Jilu 王记录, Qian Daxin de shixue sixiang (Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2004), 250–59. 26. See William Hung, “The Transmission of the Book Known as the Secret History of the Mongols,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 14, no. 3/4 (December 1951): 433–92; for more on the Yuanchao bishi see Frederick W. Mote, “A Note on Traditional Sources for Yüan History,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 6, Alien Regimes and Border States, 907–1368, ed. Denis Twitchett and John K. Fairbank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 689–726, esp. 693–94. 27. Mote, “A Note on Traditional Sources,” 691, 700. 28. See Wang Jilu, Qian Daxin de shixue sixiang, 254. 29. Mote, “A Note on Traditional Sources,” 697–98. 30. See Arthur Waley’s introduction to The Travels of an Alchemist: The Journey of the Taoist, Ch’ang-Ch’un, from China to the Hindukush at the Summons of Chingiz Khan. Recorded by His Disciple Li Chih-ch’ang, by Li Chih-Ch’ang, trans. Arthur Waley (London: Routledge, 1931). 31. See Wang Jilu, Qian Daxin de shixue sixiang, 258–59. See also Cho Yung-lan 曹泳兰, “Qian Daxin he Yuan shi yanjiu,” Zhongguo dianji yu wenhua 1 (2006): 84–89. 32. Qian’s vast project of Yuan genealogies (Yuan shi shizu biao) and the importance he gave it remind one of the remark by the German historian Reiner Reineck (1541–1595), who wrote that genealogy “illuminates all the other parts of history, and without it they bear basically no fruit at all.” Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton, Cartographies of Time (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2010), 49. 33. See Wang Jilu, Qian Daxin de shixue sixiang, 243. The answer to the fascinating question of when and how Qian mastered Mongolian (and perhaps other languages) remains unclear to me. 34. Most entries in the NESKY begin with a quote from the specific history under discussion; the quote here is from juan 1 of the Yuan shi. 35. According to Urgungge Onon, “The suffix—dai [歹] indicates a male of the clan, equivalent perhaps to referring to a man from Yorkshire as a ‘Yorkshire lad’; the suffix (in many cases) has the basic meaning of ‘from/of,’ and thus the suffix is not part of the transliteration of the name Borjigin (Genghis Khan’s clan), and I translate it (with shi 氏, ‘mister’) simply as a genitive—‘of.’” Urgungge Onon, trans., The History and the Life of Chinggis Khan: The Secret History of the Mongols (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 1990), 2n10. 36. In this case the “light and heavy” refers to the length of the syllable, especially the finals, with jin being long (“heavy”) and ji short (or shorter, “light”). See more on these terms from a historical perspective in Li Xinkui 李新魁, Hanyu dengyun xue (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), esp. 49–61; for the possible Sanskrit influence in adopting the terms and for their early use see Victor H. Mair and Mei Tsu-lin, “The Sanskrit Origins of Recent Style Prosody,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 51, no. 2 (December 1991): 375–470. 37. NESKY, 86.1615. 38. Qian Daxin acknowledged that he was not the first to reach this conclusion and mentioned Yan Shigu 顏師古 (581–645), e.g., as one who already mentioned this rule, although Qian claimed that Yan did so in an incorrect way. See NESKY, 8.213. Qian repeated this conclusion a number of times: e.g., NESKY, 86.1616, 1627. 39. See NESKY, 97.1788; SJZYXL, 9.265.

264 6. Historical Philology 40. See more about these events in Michal Biran, Chinggis Khan (Oxford, UK: One World, 2007), 34–38. 41. Joci, or Jochi (1181–1227), was Chinggis Khan’s eldest son and was born amidst the events described above (hence questions regarding who his real father was arose). See Biran, Chinggis Khan, 35. 42. NESKY, 86.1616. 43. NESKY, 86.1628. 44. See more on Chinese ways of writing Mongolian from the Yuan to the Qing in Fang Linggui 方龄贵, “Mengguyu zhong Hanyu jieci shili,” Yunnan shifan daxue xuebao 36, no. 3 (May 2004): 110–18. 45. NESKY, 1. 46. NESKY, 86.1620. 47. For one such example with another set of rhetorical questions see his discussion of Emperor Xiaowu 孝武 (510–535, r. 532–535) of the Northern Wei. NESKY, 38.827. 48. SJZYXL, 6.148. 49. E.g., his critique of early Tang historians who failed to grasp how Buddhism entered and spread in China. SJZYXL, 6.168. 50. Michael Nylan, “Sima Qian: A True Historian?” Early China 23/24 (1998–1999): 243n155. 51. Nylan, “Sima Qian,” 215n40. 52. Griet Vankeerberghen, “The Tables (biao) in Sima Qian’s Shiji: Rhetoric and Remembrance,” in Graphics and Text in the Production of Technical Knowledge in China: The Warp and the Weft, ed. Francesca Bray, Vera Dorofeeva-Lichtmann, and Georges Métailié (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2007), 295–314. 53. On a different type of “reading as interaction with the past” see Hsiao Li-ling, The Eternal Present of the Past: Illustration, Theater, and Reading in the Wanli Period, 1573–1619 (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2007), esp. 251–92. 54. This refers to an entry in the Zuozhuan, dated 540 BCE. See more in Edward L. Shaughnessy, Unearthing the Changes: Recently Discovered Manuscripts of the Yi jing (I Ching) and Related Texts (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), 314n2. 55. Wang Anshi used these words to describe the Chunqiu. 56. QYTWJ, 2.31–32. 57. SJZYXL, 7.195. 58. QYTWJ, 2.31–32. 59. SJZYXL, 7.195. 60. QYTWJ, 2.32–33. Qian “sighs” (嘆) dozens of times in his writings. 61. See more on Cai Jing in Patricia Buckley Ebrey, “Introduction,” and John Chaffe, “Huizong, Cai Jing, and the Politics of Reform,” in Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China: The Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics, ed. Patricia Buckley Ebrey and Maggie Bickford (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 1–27, 31–77. 62. SJZYXL, 18.497. 63. QYTWJ, 15.238. 64. In terms of his scholarship, Zheng Qiao 鄭樵 is usually regarded as the foremost historian, and also philologist, who flourished in the Southern Song. That Qian chose to put him right next to Wang Anshi may seem strange. From the context of the passage, which also deals with the image of Confucius (which Zheng problematized), and from Zheng’s harsh views of Han scholarship (followed by his own new explications), both of which (i.e., Zheng’s views of Confucius and criticism of Han scholarship) Zhu Xi and others adopted, we may have a glimpse into Qian’s reasoning. 65. SJZYXL, 6.174–75.

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66. See Wang Mingsheng and Sun Xingyan’s assertions in Sun Xinyan’s preface to Wang’s Shiqi shi shangque, 960. 67. See also Willard J. Peterson, “Squares and Circles: Mapping the History of Chinese Thought,” Journal of the History of Ideas 49, no. 1 (January–March 1988): 47–60. 68. See Wang Mingsheng, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Wenzi tang ji, by Sun Xingyan (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996), 3. 69. He said that about Wang Chong 王充 (27–100), whom he considered not to be filial. See SJZYXL, 6.155. 70. QYTJ, 23.378.

7. Astronomy, Mathematics, and Calendar 1. QYTJ, 2.38. 2. See a preliminary discussion of some of these issues in my “Confucian Scientific Identity: Qian Daxin’s (1728–1804) Ambivalence Toward Western Learning and Its Adherents,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society 6, no. 2 (2012): 147–66. 3. QYTJ, 25.419–20. 4. See Zhouyi zhuzi suoyin, ed. D. C. Lau and F. C. Chen, Concordance Series, Classical Works no. 8 (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1995), 77, 84. 5. The full Zhouyi sentence is “The Way has transformations, which are called blending; the blending has [different] types, which are called things” (道有變動故曰爻. 爻有等 故曰物.). Zhouyi zhuzi suoyin, 84. 6. The modern use of the terms “science” and “scientific” is anachronistic and alien to Qian and his time (and perhaps also to the Jesuits). I use these terms to simplify the discussion, referring mostly to astronomy and mathematics and to ways of engaging with natural phenomena by means of calculation, observation, and experimentation. For more on the terms and their historical/historiographical usage see Michael H. McCarthy, The Crisis of Philosophy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 2; Anthony Grafton and Nancy Siraisi, eds. Natural Particulars: Nature and the Disciplines in Renaissance Europe (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1999). See also Richard Olson’s comprehensive definition of “science,” which enabled him to discuss “scientism” even before the nineteenth century. Richard Olson, Science and Scientism in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 1–2. 7. QYTJ, 25.420 8. See also Wai-ming Ng, “The I Ching and the Adaptation of Western Science in Tokugawa Japan,” Chinese Science 15 (1998): 94–117. 9. Even the SKQS, which on the surface provides what seem to be clearly defined separate categories, struggles, in effect, with its own categorization, as shown below. See also Nicolas Standaert, “The Classification of Sciences and the Jesuit Mission in Late Ming China,” in Linked Faiths: Essays on Chinese Religions and Traditional Culture in Honour of Kristofer Schipper, ed. Jan A. M. De Meyer and Peter M. Engelfriet (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2000), 287–317. 10. For similar categorization issues in early modern Europe see, e.g., Nicholas Popper, “ ‘Abraham, Planter of Mathematics’: Histories of Mathematics and Astrology in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 1 (2006): 87–106; various essays in Brendan Dooley, ed., A Companion to Astrology in the Renaissance (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2014). 11. QYTJ, 14.230–31, 17.279; JDQDXQJ, 7:14.385, 7:17.466, 8:3.

266 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

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QYTJ, 23.377, 39.706. JDQDXQJ, 7:14.385, 17.466. QYTJ, 39.711. QYTJ, 4.53. QYTJ, 14.214, 33.595, 39.710–11; JDQDXQJ, 7:14.385–86. JDQDXQJ, 8:3. JDQDXQJ, 7:14.386. QYTJ, 23.377–78, 33.597. Mei Wending, Lixue dawen, Congshu jicheng chubian ed. (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), vol. 1325. SKQSZMTY, 106.2. During the late eighteenth century the reconsideration of knowledge and categories of knowledge went beyond such scientific fields. See, e.g., Benjamin A. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China, 1550–1900 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 265. For the tight nexus among astronomy-calendar-divination, see also Cao Mo 曹謨, Zhonghua tianwenxue shi (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1986), esp. 16–30. SJZYXL, 14.387–88. The Taiyi tongzong baojian was a text presumably composed during the Yuan Chengzong period (1294–1307) by a person called (probably a pseudonym) Xiaoshan Laoren 曉山老人 (lit. “the old man of the bright mountain”). SJZYXL, 3.57. Qian also wrote about such issues in essays that were not manifestly about numerical studies, and I refer to these when they are relevant to my discussion. Nianpu, 12. See my discussion in chapters 1 and 2. See Catherine Jami, “Learning the Mathematical Sciences in the Late Ming and Early Ch’ing,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 223–56. Taking Zhong as short for China is, of course, anachronistic; I understand it as a reference to what is inside, what is of oneself, and hence as a pronoun meaning “us.” Moreover, the Zhong versus the Xi carries geographical/cosmological baggage, which the name “China” does not necessarily carry, and the Chinese Zhongguo is problematic, as it connotes the modern state. I use “China” and “Chinese” for the sake of brevity and ease of understanding. For more on the ethos and its development see, e.g., Xu Haisong 徐海 松, Qingchu shiren yu Xixue (Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe, 2000), 319–72; Elman, On Their Own Terms, 149, 154–56, 172–77, 473n115; Nathan Sivin, “Wang His-shan,” http:// ccat.sas.upenn.edu/~nsivin/writ.html; John B. Henderson, “Ch’ing Scholars’ Views of Western Astronomy,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 46, no. 1 (1986): 121–48, esp. 139–48; Horng Wann-sheng 洪萬生, “Chinese Mathematics at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century: Jiao Xun, Wang Lai, and Li Rui,” in Philosophy and Conceptual History of Science in Taiwan, ed. Lin Cheng-hung and Fu Daiwie (Dordrecht, Neth.: Kluwer Academic, 1993), 167–208; Michael Lackner, “ ‘Ex Oriente Scientia?’ Reconsidering the Ideology of a Chinese Origin of Western Knowledge,” Asia Major, 3rd ser., 21 (2008): 183–200. For the notion that this origination ethos (or myth) prevented further interest in Western sciences (with which I do not concur) see Liu Mo 刘墨, “Qian-Jia xueshu yu Xixue,” Qingshi yanjiu 3 (August 2005): 53–62; Fan Longzhi 樊龙智, “Lun diyici Xixue Dongjian tingzhi de yuanyin,” Beijing Huagong daxue xuebao 2, no. 41 (2003): 57–62. See Qian’s “Yu Dai Dongyuan shu” 與戴東原書 (A letter to Dai Dongyuan [Zhen]), QYTJ, 33.595–97.

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32. This treatise was composed by Dai Zhen but is missing from his collected writings; Qian Daxin added comments to an undated draft, and on top of these Huang Rucheng 黃汝成 (1799–1837) and Mao Yuesheng 毛嶽生 (1791–1841) added their own notes. I used the manuscript that can be found in the Shanghai Library. Dai Zhen, Gujin suishi kao, Ms #802654, Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. The final version of the work, which includes the remarks of all three and Dai Zhen’s basis, can be found in Huang Rucheng, Xiuhai lou zazhu (Taipei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1983), vol. 2. 33. I did not include the Muslim and Jesuit values, as these are discussed below. See also Nathan Sivin’s table, which records ninety-eight calendars: “Astronomical Systems,” http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/~nsivin/system.html. See also Nathan Sivin, Cosmos and Computation in Early Chinese Mathematical Astronomy (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 1969). 34. In calculating the length of the year the suffix fa 法 (factor) was usually added to denote which factor was used—tongfa, jifa, etc.—as these cycles meant different values 35. See also Christopher Cullen, “The Birthday of the Old Man of Jiang County and Other Puzzles: Work in Progress on Liu Xin’s Canon of the Ages,” Asia Major 14, no. 2 (2004): 27–70; Benjamin A. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 468–73. 36. See Anthony Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1993), vol. 2, esp. 336–57. 37. Yixing, or Seng Yixing 僧, was the Buddhist name of Zhang Sui 張遂, who devised the Da Yan (大衍) calendar and was one of the most novel astronomers-cum-mathematicians in history; his Da Yan calendar was in use for about thirty years, from 728. See Qu Anjing, “Why Interpolation?” in Historical Perspectives on East Asian Science, Technology and Medicine, ed. Alan K. L. Chan, Gregory K. Clancey, and Loy Hui-chieh (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 1999), 336–44, and “Revisiting an Eight-Century Chinese Table of Tangents,” in History of Oriental Astronomy, ed. S. M. Razaullah Ansari (Dordrecht, Neth.: Kluwer Academic, 2002), 215–35. 38. See Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072) et al., comps., Xin Tang shu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1975), juan 27A, 600. 39. NESKY, 43.917. 40. Joseph Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, vol. 3, Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 390. 41. QYTWJ, 3.43. For Qian’s discussion of the Muslim way of dealing with the lunar-solar problem see, surprisingly, his remarks about troublesome evidence in the Xiyou ji in a postface he wrote for it. QYTWJ, 29.502. 42. Jean-Claude Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics (Berlin: Springer, 1997), 15. 43. The function of this phenomenon is known in the West as the precession of the equinoxes. 44. See Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tang shu, juan 27A, 600. 45. QYTWJ, 14.221–22. 46. See also Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations, 468–73, for an alternative version of this discovery story. 47. For more on Zu Chongzhi see Ho Peng Yoke, Li, Qi and Shu: An Introduction to Science and Civilization in China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1985), 76–77; Shen Kangshen, John N. Crossley, and Anthony W.-C. Lun, The Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art: Companion and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics. 48. For a collection of articles, most of which concern Guo Shoujing, see Nha Il-Seong and Richard F. Stephenson, eds., Oriental Astronomy from Guo Shoujing to King Sejong:

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49.

50.

51. 52. 53.

54.

55.

56.

57. 58. 59. 60.

61.

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Proceedings of an International Conference, Seoul, Korea, 6–11 October 1993 (Seoul: Yonsei University Press, 1997). For more on the Shoushi calendar see Nathan Sivin, Granting the Seasons: The Chinese Astronomical Reform of 1280, with a Study of Its Many Dimensions and a Translation of Its Records (New York: Gardners, 2008). Shigeru Nakayama 中山茂, “Shō-chō no kenkyū,” in Explorations in the History of Science and Technology in China, ed. Li Guohao, Zhang Mengwen, and Cao Tianqin (Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Publishing House, 1982), 155–82. QYTWJ, 14.220. See Feng Lisheng, Chouren zhuan hebian jiaozhu (Zhengzhou shi: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 2012), 202–3. See, e.g., NESKY, 68.1306–7. See more on Guo and Yang in Sivin, Granting the Seasons, 384; Thomas Hockey et al., eds., Biographical Encyclopedia of Astronomers (Berlin: Springer Verlag, 2007), 450; Karine Chemla, “A Chinese Canon in Mathematics and Its Two Layers of Commentaries: Reading a Collection of Texts as Shaped by Actors,” in Looking at It from Asia: The Processes That Shaped the Sources of History of Science, ed. Florence Bretelle-Establet (Dordrecht, Neth.: Springer, 2010), 169–210. Note that the epoch year began for Guo in the winter solstice of 1280, so the epoch year began in late December 1280 and continued through most of 1281, when the calendar was formally adopted by the Yuan. See Zhang Tingyu 張廷玉 (1672–1755) et al., comps., Ming shi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), 31.516–23; Willard J. Peterson. “Calendar Reform Prior to the Arrival of the Missionaries at the Ming Court,” Ming Studies 21 (Spring 1986): 45–61; Thatcher Elliott Deane, “The Chinese Imperial Astronomical Bureau: Form and Function of the Ming Dynasty Qintianjian from 1365–1627” (PhD diss., University of Washington, 1989), 402–41. There were other reasons as well; these are the ones pertaining to my discussion. See Nakayama Shigeru, A History of Japanese Astronomy: Chinese Background and Western Impact (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1969), 118–52. Note that the growing inaccuracy was not solely or mainly because of the value of the tropical year; as shown above, many factors determined the accuracy of the calendar. For the terms used, see the appendix (“Chinese Epicyclic Terminology”) in Nathan Sivin, Science in Ancient China (Aldershot, UK: Variorum, 1995), ch. 4, 63–122. See, e.g., Dai Zhen, Gujin suishi kao, 25a. See Noel Golvers, The Astronomia Europaea of Ferdinand Verbiest, S.J. (Dillingen, 1687): Text, Translation, Notes and Commentaries (Nettetal, Ger.: Steyler Verlag, 1993), 70. For a study of measuring time as a cultural matter in a Middle Eastern context see Avner Wishnitzer, Reading Clocks, Alla Turca: Time and Society in the Late Ottoman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). For the Yang Guangxian affair in the 1660s see, e.g., Chu Pingyi, “Scientific Dispute in the Imperial Court: The 1664 Calendar Case,” East Asian Science, Technology, and Medicine 14 (1997): 7–34; Zhu Weizheng, Coming Out of the Middle Ages: Comparative Reflections on China and the West (Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1990), esp. 81–112; Jacques Gernet, China and the Christian Impact: A Conflict of Cultures (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), esp. 134–35; Eugenio Menegon, “Yang Guangxian’s Opposition to Johann Adam Schall: Christianity and Western Science in His Work Budeyi,” in Western Learning and Christianity in China, ed. Roman Malek, Monograph Series, vol. 35, no. 1 (St. Augustin, Ger.: Monumenta Serica Institute, 1998), 311–38; Harriet T. Zurndorfer, “ ‘One Adam Having Driven Us Out of Paradise, Another Has Driven Us Out of China’: Yang Kuang-hsien’s Challenge of Adam Schall von Bell,” in Conflict

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62.

63.

64.

65.

66. 67.

68.

69. 70.

269

and Accommodation in Early Modern East Asia: Essays in Honour of Erik Zurcher, ed. Leonard Blusse and Harriet T. Zurndorfer (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 1993), 141–68; John D. Young, Confucianism and Christianity: The First Encounter (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1983), 77–96; Elman, On Their Own Terms, 134–44. The length of the tropical year determined by the Jesuits was not the same as the length of the tropical year according to the Gregorian (or Julian, of course) calendar. The methods of intercalation of the calendar also differed from the Gregorian calendar in order to match the basic Chinese notions of a lunar year, so that it is not surprising the length of the tropical year used in the calendar was not the same. In fact, the 1742 “readjustment” or “recalculation” was far more than a slight fixing of the numbers; it involved new knowledge (at times manipulated) and disputes and competition between Jesuits and Chinese, some of whom, like Mei Juecheng, played a major role in the internal Chinese debates discussed below. For more on these changes, debates, and the project that produced them see Han Qi, “The Compilation of the Lixiang kaocheng houbian,” in History of Mathematical Sciences: Portugal and East Asia II, ed. Luis Saraiva (Lisbon: EMAF-UL, 2001), 147–52; Han Qi 韓琦, “ ‘Zili’ jingsheng yu lisuan huodong: Kang-Qian zhi ji wenren dui xixue taidu zhi gaibian jiqi beijing,” Ziran kexueshi yanjiu 21 (2002): 210–21; Hashimoto Keizō 橋本敬造, “Daen hōno tenkai—‘Rekishō kōsei gohen’ no naiyō ni tsuite,” Tōhō gakuhō 42 (1971): 245–72; Hashimoto Keizō and Catherine Jami, “Kepler’s Laws in China: A Missing Link?” Historia Scientiarum 6–7 (1997): 171–85; Shi Yunli, “Reforming Astronomy and Compiling Imperial Science in the Post-Kangxi Era: The Social Dimensions of the Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian 御製曆象考成後編,” EASTM 28 (2008): 36–81. See, e.g., Chu Ping-yi, “Technical Knowledge, Cultural Practices and Social Boundaries: Wan-nan Scholars and the Recasting of Jesuit Astronomy, 1600–1800” (PhD diss., University of California–Los Angeles, 1994), 232ff.; see also Catherine Jami, Les methods rapides pour la trigonometrie et la raport précis du cercle (1774) (Paris: De Boccard, 1990), esp. 27–30 (note Jami’s emphasis on the universality of science in the eyes of the Chinese scholars); Catherine Jami, “History of Mathematics in Mei Wending’s (1633–1721) Work,” Historia Scientiarum 4, no. 2 (1994): 159–74; Jean-Claude Martzloff, Recherches sur l’oevre mathematique de Mei Wending (1633–1721) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1981), esp. 325–27; Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics, e.g., 29–30; Li Yan and Du Shiran, Chinese Mathematics: A Concise History, trans. John N. Crossley and Anthony W.-C. Lun (Oxford, UK: Clarendon, 1987), 212–17. Jiang Yong, “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Yi Mei, Haishan xianguan congshu 海山仙館叢書 (Sea Mountain Immortal’s Lodge Collectanea ed.) (n.p., Guangxu reign [between 1886 and 1897]), 143:1a. Jiang Yong, “Xu” to Yi Mei, 2a. See also Chu Ping-yi. “Ch’eng-Chu Orthodoxy, Evidential Studies and Correlative Cosmology: Chinag Yung and Western Learning,” Philosophy and the History of Science: A Taiwanese Journal 4, no. 2 (October 1995): 71–108. Jiang Yong, “You xu” 又序 (Additional preface) to Yi Mei, 1a–2b. For Mei Juecheng’s version of the story see his notes in Mei Wending, Mei shi congshu jiyao (Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1971), 7:56B.28a–b. See Guo Shirong 郭世荣, “Mei Juecheng dui Jiang Yong: Yi Mei yinqi de Zhong Xi tianwenxue zhi zheng,” Ziran bianzhengfa tongxun 27, no. 159 (May 2005): 79–84. Note that Mei Wending thus rejected the Western method in this regard, but he was not a member of the calendar-making group, and his views did not affect a change at the government level.

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71. See, e.g., Jiang Yong, Yi Mei, 1:1.36a–b, 1.38a, 1.40a–41a. 72. Jiang Yong, Yi Mei, most of juan 2 (which deals with the variation method of the tropical year). 73. See also Chu Ping-yi, “Technical Knowledge, Cultural Practices and Social Boundaries,” 244–83. 74. Xi and He 羲和 were sent by the legendary emperor Yao to survey the land and had responsibilities with regard to determining the seasons, the calendar, and the heavenly objects. For the classical reference under Qing philological eyes see Sun Xingyan, Shangshu jingu wen zhushu 尚書今古文注疏 (Annotation and Exegesis of the New and Old script Book of Documents) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 10–11. Cullen compared the importance of the role of Yao and his emissaries Xi and He to the importance of the creation story in the book of Genesis. See Christopher Cullen, Astronomy and Mathematics in Ancient China: The Zhou bi suan jing, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 3–4. For more on the importance of Xi and He as representing the Chinese world view at large (or “orientation”) in the early twentieth century see also Chang Hao, Chinese Intellectuals in Crisis: Search for Order and Meaning (1890–1911) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 7–8; see also John Bryan Henderson, “The Ordering of the Heavens and the Earth in Early Ch’ing Thought” (PhD diss., University of California–Berkeley, 1977), esp. chs. 1 and 2; Chen Jiujin 陳久金, ed., Zhongguo shaoshu minzu kexue jishu shi congshu: Tianwen lifa juan (Nanning: Guangxi kexue jishu chubanshe, 1996), esp. 11–14. 75. Mei Wending, Mei shi congshu jiyao, vol. 7, juan 56B, 28a–b. 76. See also Huang Xi 黃曦 and Hu Deming 胡德明, “Jiang Yong de kexue jishu chengjiu jianshu,” Huangshan xueyuan xuebao 6, no. 4 (August 2004): 119–21. 77. That the lack of a preface from a distinguished scholar might doom the fate of a book is further evidence of the power of preface writing, as discussed in part I. 78. Whether Dai Zhen met Jiang for the first time in 1742, 1750, 1752, or earlier and whether Jiang was really Dai’s mentor or only an older friend are questions that have been debated in modern scholarship. These debates, however, lie outside the scope of this study. See Yu Ying-shih 余英時, Lun Dai Zhen yu Zhang Xuecheng (Hong Kong: Longmen shuju, 1976); Chen Hu i陈徽, “Dai Zhen yu Jiang Yong guanxi de zai tantao,” Anhui nongye daxue xuebao 13, no. 6 (November 2004): 102–6; Yang Yingqin 杨应芹, “Dai Zhen yu Jiang Yong,” Anhui daxue xuebao 4 (1995): 35–40, 94; Lu Xinsheng 路新生, “Lijie Dai Zhen: Qian Mu, Yu Yingshi de ‘Dai Zhen yanjiu’ bianzheng,” Huadong Shifan daxue xuebao 35, no.1 (January 2003): 20–27, 41; Cai Jinfang 蔡锦芳, Dai Zhen: Shengping yu zuopin kaolun (Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chubanshe, 2006), esp. 3–27. For more on lineages of teachers and students in Yangzhou see Antonia Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou: A Chinese City, 1550–1850 (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2004), 274–83. 79. See, e.g., Qin Huitian, comp. Wuli tongkao 五禮通考 (Comprehensive examination of the five rites). Taipei: Xinxing shuju, 1970, juan 186–87. 80. See Qian’s “Yu Dai Dongyuan shu,” QYTJ, 33.595–97.

8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning 1. See appendix C for my full translation of the letter; the source for the letter—and for my quotations that follow—is “Yu Dai Dongyuan shu” 與戴東原書 (A letter to Dai Dongyuan [Zhen]”), QYTJ, 33.595–97. For the CRZ sequel entry about Qian Daxin see CRZ, 2:580–87.

8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning 271 2. Through most of his writings, Qian Daxin rarely resorted to the kind of language he used in this letter to describe Jiang Yong. 3. See note 74 in chapter 7. 4. I do not mean that Christianity ceased to play a role in China as a whole but rather that conversion was not a popular or even a legitimate option for the scholarly elite, especially those engaged with official duties and with the court. See Huang Xiaojuan, “Christian Communities and Alternative Devotions in China, 1780–1860” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2006), esp. ch. 2. 5. See Chu Ping-yi, “Technical Knowledge, Cultural Practices and Social Boundaries: Wan-nan Scholars and the Recasting of Jesuit Astronomy, 1600–1800” (PhD diss., University of California–Los Angeles, 1994), 224–29. 6. Feng Lisheng 馮立昇 has a short footnote to the text of the letter that suggests Yang Guangfu must be Yang Zhongfu. See Feng Lisheng, Chouren zhuan hebian jiaozhu (Zhengzhou shi: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 2012), 439. 7. See also Liu Mo 刘墨, Qian-Jia xueshu shi lun (Beijing: Shenghuo, dushu, xinzhi sanlian shudian, 2006), 266–88, esp. 274. 8. See chapter 2; Qian Daxin, “Budeyi tiji,” in Budeyi, by Yang Guangxian (Hefei Shi: Huangshan shushe, 2000), 195. 9. The nexus between science and classicism as a whole for scholars was not unique to China; see, e.g., Anthony Grafton’s discussion of Kepler in his Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), 178–203. 10. For Kangxi’s attitude to Guo and Yang see Chu Ping-yi, “Technical Knowledge,” 177–80, 203–4. 11. Note that “49” (四十九) here should be 45 (as in the previous line) and must be a misprint, as the total—20,925 seconds—confirms that 45 is correct (with 49 the total would have been 20,929). This misprint appears in other editions I have checked as well. 12. JDQDXQJ, 7:473–74. 13. See Chi Yun, Shadows in a Chinese Landscape: The Notes of a Confucian Scholar, trans. David L. Keenan (New York: Sharpe, 1999), 53–54. I am grateful to Clea Walford for drawing my attention to this story. 14. Various other literary works of the late eighteenth century reveal similar anxieties about Europeans. As Shang Wei put it: “[Europeans’] presence [in the novels] becomes associated with uncertainty and suspicion, if not an immediate threat to the empire.” Shang Wei, “The Literati Era and Its Demise (1723–1840),” in The Cambridge History of Chinese Literature, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Stephen Owen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 2:245–342. 15. See also Nathan Sivin, Medicine, Philosophy and Religion in Ancient China: Researches and Reflections (Aldershot, UK: Variorum, 1995), ch. 5, 165–90. 16. See, e.g., the following chapters from Jerzy Dobrzycki, ed., The Reception of Copernicus’ Heliocentric Theory; Proceedings of a Symposium Organized by the Nicolas Copernicus Committee of the International Union of the History and Philosophy of Science, Torun, Poland, 1973 (Dordrecht, Neth.: Reidel, 1972): Robert S. Westman, “The Comet and the Cosmos: Kepler, Mastlin and the Copernican Hypothesis,” 7–30; Kristian P. Moesgaard, “Copernican Influence on Tycho Brahe,” 31–56; Barbara Bienkowska, “From Negation to Acceptance,” 79–116. See also Bruce T. Moran, “Wilhelm IV of Hesse-Kassel: Informal Communication and the Aristocratic Context of Discovery,” in Scientific Discovery, Case Studies, ed. Thomas Nickles (Dordrecht, Neth.: Reidel, 1980), 67–96, esp. 89; Keith Stewart Thomson, Before Darwin (New Haven. Conn.: Yale University Press, 2007), 231.

272 8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning 17. See also John B. Henderson, “Ch’ing Scholars’ Views of Western Astronomy,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46, no. 1 (1986): 121–48, esp. 129–31, 144–45. 18. QYTJ, 33.595–97. And, again, the similarity to the European scholars’ skepticism on man’s capability to know the heavens is remarkable. See Tycho’s remark that “we have no real knowledge of the matter or nature of the whole heavens, sun and moon, nor what causes their wonderfully adroit motion, though they have stood and been visible since the beginning of the world.” Quoted in Adam Mosley, Bearing the Heavens: Tycho Brahe and the Astronomical Community of the Late Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 72. 19. QYTJ, 23.377–78. 20. Dai Zhen, Gujin suishi kao, Ms #802654, 25b, Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. Note that there is no enmity toward or sense of threat from Muslim science. 21. QYTJ, 14.229–30. For a full translation see appendix D. 22. This book is a lost apocrypha of the first century BCE, preserved mostly through the commentary of Zheng Xuan. See also Joseph Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, vol. 3, Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 224. For modern research on the impact of Islamic science on Europe see George Saliba, Islamic Science and the Making of the European Renaissance (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2007). 23. See more in part II on this general theme and many of the chapters in Dieter Kuhn and Helga Stahl, eds., Perceptions of Antiquity in Chinese Civilization (Heidelberg: Edition Forum, 2008). 24. See, e.g., John Bryan Henderson, “The Ordering of the Heavens and the Earth in Early Ch’ing Thought” (PhD diss., University of California–Berkeley, 1977), 201–17. 25. See also Sivin, Medicine, Philosophy and Religion in Ancient China, ch. 5, 165–90; JeanClaude Martzloff, “Space and Time in Chinese Texts of Astronomy and of Mathematical Astronomy in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Chinese Science 11 (1993–1994): 66–92; Jacques Gernet, “Space and Time: Science and Religion in the Encounter Between China and Europe,” Chinese Science 11 (1993–1994): 93–102. 26. SJZYXL, 14.385. 27. QYTJ, 23.377. 28. Note the possible allusion here to LY, 17:2: “Men are close to one another by nature. They diverge as a result of repeated practice” (性相近也，習相遠也). One, of course, could claim the opposite—i.e., that the Lunyu reference in fact acknowledges the universal possibility of legitimate knowledge, regardless of origins—but I would argue that the overall context does not easily allow for this reading. For the LY translation see Confucius, The Analects, trans. D. C. Lau (London: Penguin, 1979), 143. 29. This essay was not dated, but as it was mentioned by Li Rui, it had to be written during or after the 1780s. See JDQDXQJ, vol. 7; SJZYXL, 17.463–64. See appendix E for a full translation. 30. Wei Zheng 魏徵 (580–643) et al., comps., Sui shu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1973), juan 16, 387–88. 31. For more on Qin Jiushao, see Ulrich Libbrecht, Chinese Mathematics in the Thirteenth Century: The Shu-shu chiu-chang of Ch’in Chiu-shao (Mineola, N.Y.: Dover, 1973), esp. 96–97, 275–76. 32. Note that the ancient “Nine Chapters” mathematical treatise was evoked to show the Chinese roots or precedents of Western learning. See, e.g., Jiao Xun’s remarks in the preface and postface to the Ouluoba xijing lu 歐邏巴西鏡錄 (Records of the Western mirror of Europe), Ms #4860 (author unknown, handwritten manuscript, copied by

8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning 273

33. 34. 35.

36.

37.

38. 39. 40.

41.

42. 43.

44.

Jiao Xun in 1801), Rare Books Collection, Peking University, Beijing. Jiao Xun’s remarks reveal that Li Rui and Qian Daxin also consulted the book and were instrumental in his opportunity to read (and copy) it; the notebook on which Jiao copied the text includes the characters for the Ziyang Academy. For more on the Ouluoba xijing lu see Liu Dun, “A Homecoming Stranger: Transmission of the Method of Double False Position and the Story of Hiero’s Crown,” in From China to Paris: 2000 Years Transmission of Mathematical Ideas, ed. Yvonne Dold-Samplonius et al. (Stuttgart: Steiner Verlag, 2002), 157–66. See also part II above. See Elman, On Their Own Terms, 209–11; Sivin, Medicine, Philosophy and Religion in Ancient China, ch. 4, 63–122. Ru dialogue with Jesuits after 1750 was perhaps not as common as the dialogue between Giuseppe Castiglione (1688–1766) and his fellow Chinese artists, yet questions as to the extent to which it occurred and who the participants were still demand more research. See, e.g., Benjamin A. Elman. “The Jesuit Role as ‘Experts’ in High Qing Cartography and Technology,” National Taiwan University History Bulletin (Taida lishi xuebao) 31 (2003): 223–50; see also Anne Chayet, “Architectural Wonderland: An Empire of Fictions,” in New Qing Imperial History: The Making of Inner Asian Empire at Qing Chengde, ed. James A. Millward et al. (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004), 33–52, esp. 46. Although it may seem that one of them copied sections from the other, overall the two biographies are not the same, and because we do not have information as to when Qian wrote the biography, it is hard to decide if there was any plagiarism in this matter (and, if there was, whether it would have been regarded as plagiarism at all). Dai wrote the biography in the year of Jiang’s death, 1762. See Dai Zhen, Dai Zhen quanshu (Hebei: Huangshan shushe, 1995), 6:409–14; QYTJ, 39.705–9. See also Chu Ping-yi, “Technical Knowledge,” 244–46. As mentioned earlier, the debate also had an “official” and political facet in that it had implications for the question of who should take office. Another aspect, which I do not discuss in this study, is the Manchu, Mongol, and Tibetan interests in astronomy, mathematics, calendar, and divination. For a preliminary discussion see, e.g., Chen Jiujin 陳久金, ed., Zhongguo shaoshu minzu kexue jishu shi congshu: Tianwen lifa juan (Nanning: Guangxi kexue jishu chubanshe, 1996), 408–36. Needham asked why modern science, the new or experimental philosophy of the time of Galileo, had arisen only in European culture and not in the Chinese and Indian cultures. For a discussion of the question see J. Fang, “The ‘Needham Question’: Toward a ‘Sociology of Mathematics,’” Philosophia Mathematica 2, no. 2 (1987): 180–210. Xu Guangqi, Xu Guangqi ji, comp. Wang Zhongmin 王重民 (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1963), 2:327. For more on the evolution of li shi qiu ye and other such catchphrases see Han Qi 韓 琦, “Ming-Qing zhi ji ‘li shi qiu ye’ lun zhi yuan yu liu,” Ziran kexue shi yanjiu 26, no. 3 (2007): 303–11. Han Qi translated li shi qiu ye as “retrieving lost rites from barbarians”; see also Han Qi, “Astronomy, Chinese and Western: The Influence of Xu Guangqi’s Views in the Early and Mid-Qing,” in Statecraft and Intellectual Renewal in Late Ming China: The Cross-Cultural Synthesis of Xu Guangqi (1562–1633), ed. Catherine Jami, Peter Engelfriet, and Gregory Blue (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2001), 360–79, esp. 363–64. See Hashimoto Keizō and Catherine Jami, “From the Elements to Calendar Reform: Xu Guangqi’s Shaping of Mathematics and Astronomy,” in Statecraft and Intellectual Renewal in Late Ming China: The Cross-Cultural Synthesis of Xu Guangqi (1562–1633), ed. Catherine Jami, Peter Engelfriet, and Gregory Blue (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2001), 263– 78, esp. 274–78.

274 8. Ancient Learning Encounters Western Learning 45. See, e.g., Willard J. Peterson. “Why Did They Become Christians? Yang T’ing-yün, Li Chih-tsao, and Hsü Kuang-ch’i,” in East Meets West: The Jesuits in China, 1582–1773, ed. Charles E. Ronan and Bonnie B. C. Oh (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1988), 129–52; Nicolas Standaert, “Xu Guangqi’s Conversion as a Multifaceted Process,” in Statecraft and Intellectual Renewal in Late Ming China: The Cross-Cultural Synthesis of Xu Guangqi (1562–1633), ed. Catherine Jami, Peter Engelfriet, and Gregory Blue (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2001), 170–85. 46. One could argue that Xu also upheld the Chinese hierarchy over the Western hierarchy and that he chose to domesticate not only the Western sciences but also the Western religion. For an extensive revisionist study of Xu Guangqi see Roger Hart, Imagined Civilizations: China, the West, and Their First Encounter (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013). 47. See Mei Wending, Lixue yiwen bu, Congshu jicheng chubian ed. (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), vol. 1425, juan 1, 1. 48. Another aspect of the incorporation of the Xixue Zhongyuan ethos had to do with the Kangxi emperor’s interests and motivations, which were not necessarily the same as Mei’s, as Western learning also had a political bearing on his rule and on his ability to maneuver between the Jesuits and the Chinese Ru at court. See Elman, On Their Own Terms, 154–66. 49. He was later criticized in the CRZ: “The gist of his [work] took the Western method as the model” (其大要以西法為宗). CRZ, vol. 1, juan 42, 489–90. His favorable views of Western learning can be seen in his Shangshu shitian 尚書釋天 (Explanations of heaven in the Shangshu). In the preface, dated 1754, he presented a historical narrative of progress beginning with Xi and He, which included his assertion that ancient and modern, Western and Chinese principles of mathematics were similar despite their differences. Sheng, however, turned to Western notions (including various illustrations, such as a depiction of the Tychonic model [see image 4], and the claim that “ancient illustrations do not match modern illustrations” 古圖不如今圖). For the printed 1781 edition see Ms #501949, Rare Books Library, Renmin University, Beijing (several printed editions of this work still exist, attesting to the circulation of the book). See also Harriet T. Zurndorfer, “Comment la science et la technologie se vendaient à la Chine au XVIIIe siècle: Essai d’analyse interne,” Études chinoises 7, no. 2 (1988): 59–90, esp. 70; Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, 3:456; Elman, On Their Own Terms, 273–74. 50. See Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics, 358. For Minggatu’s students and their continued research on these topics see Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics, x, 358; Elman, On Their Own Terms, 152. 51. See more in the conclusion to this book. 52. For Duan’s preface see QYTWJ, 1–2.

9. Fate, Ritual, and Ordering All Under Heaven 1. SJZYXL, 3.57. 2. SJZYXL, 3.57. For the Zuozhuan source see Yang Bojun, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu 春秋左 傳注 (Commentary to the Chunqiu zuozhuan). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1981, p. 1395. 3. QYTWJ, 9.118. 4. At the request of his stepfather, who thus tried to kill him. 5. By King Zhou of Shang, to whom Wen was loyal. 6. As he suffered hunger on the way from Chu to Cai.

9. Fate, Ritual, and Ordering All Under Heaven 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

275

QYTWJ, 3.57. SJZYXL, 18.484. QYTWJ, 2.35. QYTWJ, 2.36. MZ 7A:1. Zhu Xi, Sishu zhangju (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008), 349. Jiao Xun, Mengzi zhengyi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 2:26.877. Jiao Xun, Mengzi zhengyi, 2:26.877–79. See also appendix G. QYTWJ, 3.48. Richard J. Smith, Fortune-Tellers and Philosophers: Divination in Traditional Chinese Society (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1991), 5. Smith, Fortune-Tellers and Philosophers, 72–73. Based on more recent scholarship, Smith argued that “dichotomies” such as elite/commoner “may have to be reconsidered,” especially in relation to notions and practices related to divination. Elman’s study of the examination system and divination in particular was given as an example of elite use of divination in late imperial China. See Richard J. Smith, Mapping China and Managing the World: Culture, Cartography and Cosmology in Late Imperial Times (London: Routledge, 2013), 160–61. The examples I briefly outlined above demonstrate that divination’s centrality in elite scholars’ lives extended well beyond the examination arena. Most famously, and disputedly, Herbert Fingarette, Confucius: The Secular as Sacred (New York: Harper & Row, 1972), ch. 2. Willard J. Peterson, “Squares and Circles: Mapping the History of Chinese Thought,” Journal of the History of Ideas 49, no. 1 (January–March, 1988): 47–60. Wang Xianqian 王先謙 and Liu Wu 劉武, comps. and eds., Zhuangzi jijie; Zhuangzi jijie neipian buzheng (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 148. The translation is based (with minor changes) on A. C. Graham, trans., Chuang-tzǔ: The Inner Chapters (Indianapolis, Ind.: Hackett, 2001), 123. Peterson, “Squares and Circles,” 56–57. Assmann and Czaplicka maintained that “a group bases its consciousness of unity and specificity upon this knowledge [the cultural memory of a group] and derives formative and normative impulses from it, which allows the group to reproduce its identity.” See Jan Assmann and John Czaplicka, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” New German Critique, no. 65, Cultural History/Cultural Studies (Spring–Summer 1995), 128. See also Peterson, “Square and Circles,” 59–60. This was not the first time that an external knowledge system posed a challenge to the Ru tradition: the Buddhist doctrine posed such a challenge centuries earlier. Indeed, Daoxue has been often interpreted as a response to the Buddhist as well as the Daoist challenges, partly, at least, by domesticating some of their doctrines and bringing them under the wings of Ru tradition, which was the part of the changes to the “Ru square” that Qian rejected. See Vincent Goossaert, “Modern Daoist Eschatology: Spirit-Writing and Elite Soteriology in Late Imperial China,” Daoism: Religion, History and Society 6 (2014): 238. QYTWJ, 20.317. Goossaert, “Modern Daoist Eschatology,” 238–39. And one may recall his favorable presentation of Buddhism in 1761 and his various tours to Buddhist and Daoist temples and monasteries. See chapter 2; QYTSJ, 5.1007–8. For this record see QYTWJ, 20.317–18. QYTWJ, 20.317

276

9. Fate, Ritual, and Ordering All Under Heaven

32. For more on this phrase and its significant rise in use during the Qing see especially Feng Erkang 冯尔康, “Shiba shiji yilai Zhouguo jiazu de xiandai zhuanxiang” 十八 世纪以来中国家族的现代转向 (The modern transformation of the Chinese lineage from the eighteenth century), Tianjin shifan daxue xuebao 160, no. 1 (2002): 42–50, and “Qingdai zongzu jili zhong fanying de zongzu zhidu tedian” (The lineage system as reflected in the Qing dynasty lineage sacrificial ceremonies), Lishi jiaoxue 573 (August 2009): 5–12. 33. On the similarity and influence of using this phrase between Zhu Xi and Qin Huitian see Cao Jiandun 曹建墩, “Lun Zhuzi lixue dui Wuli tongkao de yinxiang,” Jianghai xuekan 5 (2014): 156–61. 34. Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism in Late Imperial China: Ethics, Classics, and Lineage Discourse (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), e.g., 110, 202, 227. 35. See also Chen Hongsen 陈鸿森, “Wang Mingsheng Xizhuang yiwen jicun shenggao,” Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 1 (January 2014): 1–13. 36. Chow did not define or explain what he meant by “gentry.” 37. Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, e.g., 223–27. 38. Kai-wing Chow, The Rise of Confucian Ritualism, 12. 39. The research of Chang So-an (or Zhang Shouan) on this topic includes Yi li dai li: Ling Tingkan yu Qing zhongye Ruxue sixiang zhi zhuanbian (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiu yuan jindai shi yanjiusuo zhuankan, 1994), and Shiba shiji lixue kaozheng de sixiang huoli: lijiao lunzheng yu lizhi chongxing (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan jindaishi yanjiusuo, 2001). 40. See William T. Rowe, Saving the World: Chen Hongmou and Elite Consciousness in Eighteenth-Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001), 326–27, 406–7, 430–45. 41. Rowe, Saving the World, 432. 42. Angela Zito, Of Body and Brush: Grand Sacrifice as Text/Performance in EighteenthCentury China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 78–81. 43. Qian Daxin, “Yili mengqiu xu” 儀禮蒙求序 (Preface to Seeking the obscure in the rites and ceremonies), in Qianyan tang ji waiwen, comp. Wang Xinfu 王欣夫, Ms #619171 (unpublished handwritten manuscript, unpaginated, preface by Wang dated 1966), Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. For the surging interest in and publications about the Yili during the Qing see Deng Shengguo 鄧聲國, Qingdai “Yili” wenxian yanjiu (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2006). 44. See, e.g., QYTWJ, 27.453–54. See also Wang Guomin毛国民, “Qing zhongqi de lixue yanjiu yu Xunxue fuxing,” Zhongguo zhexue 6 (2014): 52–56; Zhou Deliang 周德良, Xunzi sixiang lilun yu shijian (Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 2011), 20–21. 45. Qian Daxin, “Yili mengqiu xu.” Unless otherwise noted, all quotes are to this preface. 46. SJZYXL, 18.484–85. 47. SJZYXL, 18.482. 48. SJZYXL, 18.483. 49. SJZYXL, 18.482. 50. QYTWJ, 2.36. 51. “Li Zhicai Shao Yaofu wenda bian” 李之才邵堯夫問答辨 (Discerning the questions and answers of Li Zhicai and Shao Yaofu [Yong]), QYTWJ, 16.249. Li Zhicai (1001–1045) was purportedly Shao Yong’s 邵雍 (1012–1077) teacher and also transmitted to Shao the “Before Heaven Diagram” (先天圖). Shao Yong became known as one of the “five masters of the Northern Song” (北宋五子) in the Daoxue tradition. See Don J. Wyatt, The Recluse of Loyang: Shao Yung and the Moral Evolution of Early Sung Thought (Honolulu:

Conclusion 277 University of Hawai’i Press, 1996), esp. 20–22, 41–47, 177–207; Alain Arrault, “Les diagrammes de Shao Yong (1012–1077): Qui les a vus?” Études chinoises 19, no. 1–2 (Spring– Autumn 2000): 67–114. Qian Daxin, as mentioned above, opposed the “Before Heaven” notion (and diagram). 52. An interesting cross-cultural comparison comes to mind with Franz Kafka’s following aphorism, written in October 1917 when he was recuperating from tuberculosis in Zürau: “The True way is along a rope that is not spanned high in the air, but only just above the ground. It seems intended more to cause stumbling than to be walked along.” Kafka was not unfamiliar with Chinese culture; he was known by some as “the only essentially Chinese writer the West has produced,” and in his story “The Great Wall of China” he took the identity of a Chinese man. Interestingly, in that story he maintained the superiority (or at least the anteriority) of the Great Wall over the Tower of Babel. Kafka’s depiction of the “True way” stands in contrast to Qian Daxin’s Way and opens up questions regarding the nexus among identity, knowledge, and also polity. See Franz Kafka, The Blue Octavo Notebooks, ed. Max Brod, trans. Ernst Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins (Cambridge, UK: Exact Change, 1991), 87.

Conclusion: The Consequences of the Eighteenth-Century Intellectual Transformations 1. See especially Richard Rorty, Consequences of Pragmatism (Essays: 1972–1980) (Brighton, U.K.: Harvester Press, 1982), 139–60. 2. See, e.g., Mark C. Elliott, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2001). 3. See, e.g., QYTJ, 24.390–91. 4. QYTJ, 24.390–91, 50.868–69. 5. QYTJ, 43.774, 50.871. 6. QYTJ, 24.390–91, 39.705. 7. QYTJ, 25.413, 26.441–42. 8. QYTWJ, 1–2. 9. JDQDXQJ, 7:1–2. 10. Scientia scientiarum, at roughly a similar time in Europe, became the understanding of philosophy as the discipline that held the various knowledge fields (sciences) together and designated their methodology and justification. See, e.g., Roy Tseng, The Sceptical Idealist: Michael Oakeshott as a Critic of the Enlightenment (Thorverton, UK: Imprint Academic, 2003), 60. Note that scientia scientiarum had been used since the Middle Ages to describe various fields, dialectics being a relevant example. See, e.g., Gérard Defaux, “Rabelais and the Monsters of Antiphysis,” Modern Language Notes 110, no. 5 (1995): 1017–42. 11. HXSCJ, 3.321. 12. See chapter 3 above. 13. The most aggressive attack on Han learning scholars at the time came from Fang Dongshu in his Hanxue shangdui. Fang Dongshu, Hanxue shangdui (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937). See also Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001), 272–87. On Fang Dongshu and the opium problem in Canton as the background to the Hanxue shangdui, see Hamaguchi Fujiō 濱口富士雄, “Hō Tōju no Kangaku hihan ni tsuite,” Nihon Chūgoku Gakkai hō 30 (1978): 165–78, esp. 173–74.

278 Conclusion 14. Quoted in: Shen Jin 沈津, Weng Fanggang nianpu (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiusuo, 2002), 514; and Chen Zuwu 陳祖武 and Zhu Tongchuang 朱彤窗, Qian-Jia xueshu biannian (Shijiazhuang Shi: Hebei renmin chubanshe, 2005), 726. 15. Wei Yuan, Guwei tang ji (Shanghai: Guoxue fulunshe, 1909), juan 4, 148–50. See Benjamin A. Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship: The Ch’ang-chou School of New Text Confucianism in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 120. 16. See Jiang Xianhan 蒋先寒, “Wei Yuan jingshi zhiyong de bianji sixiang,” Shaoyang xueyuan xuebao 6, no. 5 (October 2007): 1–4; Liu Lanxiao 刘兰肖, “Yuanshi xinbian de lishi bianzhuan chengjiu,” Shandong ligong daxue xuebao 26, no. 1 (January 2010): 93–97; Zhu Huazhong 朱华忠 and Wang Jilu 王记录, “Qian Daxin zai Yuan shixue shang de gangxian ji yingxiang,” Xinan shifan daxue xuebao 6 (1997): 103–7; Chen Qitai 陈其泰, “Qian Daxin yu Yuan shixue,” Zhejiang xuekan 4, no. 111 (1998): 118–22; Jane Kate Leonard, Wei Yuan and China’s Rediscovery of the Maritime World (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 16–17. 17. See Li Hongzhang, “Shuowen Duan zhu dingbu xu,” in Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian, comp. Ding Fubao 丁福保 (Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977), 1:217. For Zhang Zhidong’s 張之洞 (1837–1909) praise of the Shuowen and of Qing dynasty scholars’ achievements in the field, see his “Shuowen jiezi yizheng xu,” in Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian, comp. Ding Fubao 丁福保 (Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977), 1:225–26. 18. See Ms #0222163–170 (1871 printed manuscript), Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. 19. CRZXB, 49.587. 20. See Horng Wann-sheng, “Chinese Mathematics at the Turn of the 19th Century: Jiao Xun, Wang Lai, and Li Rui,” in Philosophy and Conceptual History of Science in Taiwan, ed. Lin Cheng-hung and Fu Daiwie (Dordrecht, Neth.: Kluwer Academic, 1993), 188. 21. Horng Wann-sheng, “Chinese Mathematics at the Turn of the 19th Century,” 187. 22. See CRZSB, 4.719; Horng Wann-sheng, “Li Shanlan: The Impact of Western Mathematics in China During the Late 19th Century” (PhD diss., City University of New York, 1991), 35–36. 23. Li repeated the story of the ancient (superior) methods being lost due to Qin Shihuang’s burning of the books and the good fortune of them being transmitted to the West so as to save them. See Horng Wann-sheng, “Li Shanlan,” 65. 24. Meng Yue, Shanghai and the Edges of Empires (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006), 4–5. 25. See Meng Yue, Shanghai and the Edges of Empires, 69–106. 26. See Meng Yue, Shanghai and the Edges of Empires, 386–475. 27. See Ho Peng Yoke, Li, Qi and Shu: An Introduction to Science and Civilization in China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1985), 112; Jean-Claude Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics (Berlin: Springer, 1997), 341–43. 28. See Wang Yusheng 王渝生, “Li Shanlan: Zhongguo jindai kexue de xianqu zhe,” Ziran bianzhengfa tongxun 5 (1983): 64–65. I follow the translation of Wang Yusheng’s article as it was published (under the same translated title) in Chinese Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science and Technology, ed. Fan Dainian and Robert S. Cohen, trans. Kathleen Dugan and Jiang Mingshan (Dordrecht, Neth.: Kluwer Academic, 1996), 354. 29. See also John B. Henderson, “Ch’ing Scholars’ Views of Western Astronomy,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46, no. 1 (1986): 121–48. 30. See CRZSB, 4.717. 31. CRZSB, 7.775–76. For more on the sociocultural context of science in the late nineteenth century see Natascha Vittinghoff, “Social Actors in the Field of New Learning in

Conclusion 279

32.

33.

34. 35.

36.

37.

38. 39.

40.

Nineteenth Century China,” in Mapping Meanings: The Field of New Learning in Late Qing China, ed. Michael Lackner and Natascha Vittinghoff (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2004), 75–118. Benjamin A. Elman, “Rethinking the Twentieth Century Denigration of Traditional Chinese Science and Medicine in the Twenty-First Century” (paper prepared for the Sixth International Conference on the New Significance of Chinese Culture in the Twenty-First Century: “The Interaction and Confluence of Chinese and Non -Chinese Civilization,” International Sinological Center, Charles University, Prague, November 1–2, 2003), 2–6, 15, 17. For more on Yu Yue, see Qiu Weijun 丘為君, Dai Zhen xue de xingcheng (Taipei: Lianjing chubanshe, 2004), 11–75; Yang Xumin 杨绪敏, “Lun wan Qing xuejie zongshi Yu Yue de xueshu chengjiu ji yingxiang,” Hechi daxue xuebao 27, no. 4 (August 2007): 38–39. Elman noted Yu Yue’s “overall attack on Chinese medicine . . . which may have been prompted by the deaths of his wife and children due to illness.” Benjamin A. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China, 1550–1900 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 274, 406; see also Liu Zesheng 刘泽生, “Yu Yue feizhi Zhongyi sixiang genyuan tansuo,” Zhonghua yishi zazhi 31, no. 1 (July 2001): 171–74; Luo Xiongfei 罗雄飞, “Lun Yu Yue zai wan Qing xueshu shi shang de diwei,” Suzhou daxue xuebao 1 (January 2007): 99–103, 115, esp. 101. That Yu criticized some aspects of ancient Chinese knowledge while upholding others and used new terminology but held to the traditional structure also attests to the problems related to strict categorization on the part of scholars today. For the “squares and circles” metaphor, see chapter 9 above. For a fuller discussion on how eighteenth-century scholarship was understood and categorized in the early twentieth century see my “‘To Feel at Home in the Wonderful World of Modern Science’: New Chinese Historiography and Qing Intellectual History,” Science in Context 30, no. 3 (2017): 325–58. For the entrance and the changing category of “philosophy” in China at the time see my “From Theology’s Handmaid to the Science of Sciences: Western Philosophy’s Transformations on Its Way to China,” Transcultural Studies 2 (2013): 7–44. Gu Jiegang 顧頡剛 (1893–1980), along with the Gushibian 古史辨 (Ancient history debates), is a case in point. See Gu Jiegang, Gushibian zixu (Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu, 2000), 18–119. See also Brian Moloughney, “Myth and the Making of History: Gu Jiegang and the Gushi bian Debates,” in Transforming History: The Making of a Modern Academic Discipline in Twentieth-Century China, ed. Brian Moloughney and Peter Zarrow (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2011), 241–70. The twelve volumes of the Shuowen jiezi gulin, first published in the 1930s and later revised and enlarged, are perhaps the apex of such efforts (and the inspiration for later compilations). See Ding Fubao 丁福保, comp. and ed., Shuowen jiezi gulin (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1966). Hu Shi, “The Chinese Renaissance,” in The China Year Book, 1924–5, edited by H. G. W. Woodhead (Tientsin: Tientsin Press) 633–51. The quote is from pages 636–37. See, e.g., Carine Defoort, “Fu Sinian’s Views on Philosophy, Ancient Chinese Masters, and Chinese Philosophy,” in Learning to Emulate the Wise: The Genesis of Chinese Philosophy as an Academic Discipline in Twentieth-Century China, ed. John Makeham (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2012), 275–310; Elisabeth Kaske, The Politics of Language in Chinese Education, 1895–1919 (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2008). See Christoph Schwöbel, “Reformed Traditions,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Summa Theologiae, ed. Philip McCosker and Denys Turner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 319–42. See also the use of the term “scholasticism” in Susan

280 Conclusion

41.

42. 43.

44.

45.

46.

47.

Mann (Jones), “Scholasticism and Politics in Late Eighteenth Century China,” Ch’ing-shi wen-t’i 3, no. 4 (December 1975): 28–49. For Kuhn’s notion of paradigm and his later articulation of the “disciplinary matrix” see his “Postscript” in Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 50th anniversary ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 181–86. See Hu Minghui, China’s Transition to Modernity: The New Classical Vision of Dai Zhen (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015). See Michael Quirin, “Scholarship, Value, Method, and Hermeneutics in Kaozheng: Some Reflections on Cui Shu (1740–1816) and the Confucian Classics,” History and Theory 35, no. 4 (December 1996): 34–53. Amos Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), and Theology and the Scientific Imagination from the Middle Ages to the Seventeenth Century (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986); Anthony Grafton, New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), and Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991); Ann Blair, “Humanist Methods in Natural Philosophy: The Commonplace Book,” Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (1992): 541–51; Ann Blair and Anthony Grafton, “Reassessing Humanism and Science,” Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (1992): 535–84. See also various contributions in Scholasticism Reformed: Essays in Honour of Willem J. Van Asselt, ed. Maarten Wisse, Marcel Sarot, and Willemien Otten (Leiden, Neth.: Brill, 2010). See Tong Lam, A Passion for Facts: Social Surveys and the Construction of the Chinese Nation State, 1900–1949 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). Tong Lam also briefly suggested a connection between kaozheng shishi qiushi and twentieth-century developments. See Susanne Weigelin-Schwiedrzik, “On Shi and Lun: Toward a Typology of Historiography in the PRC,” History and Theory, Theme issue: Chinese Historiography in Comparative Perspective, 35, no. 4 (December 1996): 74–95, esp. 88; David S. G. Goodman, Deng Xiaoping and the Chinese Revolution: A Political Biography (London: Routledge, 1995), 150. Establishing a direct link between eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Ru scholarship and Mao’s and Deng’s thought requires, however, further evidence and research. For a brief genealogy of shishi qiushi, which shows how Mao’s views on shishi qiushi were influenced by his teacher at Hunan (Yang Changji 楊昌濟 [1871–1920]), and the links to earlier nineteenth-century Hunanese scholars (such as Wei Yuan, Zeng Guofan, Zuo Zongtang 左宗棠 [1812–1885], Guo Songtao 郭嵩燾 [1818–1891], and Tan Sitong 譚嗣同 [1865–1898]), see Li Youxin 李佑新 and Chen Long 陈龙, “Mao Zedong ‘shishi qiushi’ sixiang de Xiangxue yuanyuan,” Zhexue yanjiu 1 (2010): 42–47, 98. See also Liu Liyan, “The Man Who Molded Mao: Yang Changji and the First Generation of Chinese Communists,” Modern China 32, no. 4 (October 2006): 483–512. See also Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986).

Appendix A. Selections from Qian Daxin’s 1754 Palace Examination Answer 1. Shangshu 尚書 (The book of documents), “Hongfan” 洪範 (The great plan). See James Legge, trans., The Chinese Classics, vol. 3, The Shoo King (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1970), 333.

Appendix C 281 2. Shangshu, “Hongfan.” See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 318. Note that Qian Daxin replaced the original subject of this sentence—“heaven”—with the emperor. 3. Shangshu, “Taishi” (shang) 泰誓-上 (The great oath). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 283. 4. Shangshu, “Zhonghui zhi gao” 仲虺之誥 (Zhonghui’s announcement). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 178. 5. Shangshu, “Shuo ming” (zhong) 說命-中 (The charge to Yue II”). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 255. 6. Shijing 詩經 (The book of odes), “Wo Jiang” 我將 (We bring forward), Mao 272; Mengzi, 1B:9. 7. Shangshu, “Shuo ming xia” 說命-下 (The charge to Yue III). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 261. 8. Shangshu, “Da Yu mo” 大禹謨 (The counsels of Great Yu”). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 61–62. 9. Liji 禮記 (The book of rites), “Li qi” 禮器 (Ritual vessels). See Zhu Bin 朱彬, comp. and ed., Liji xunzuan (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1998), 375. 10. “Shuogua” 說卦 (On the trigrams). See Li Xueqin 李學勤, ed., Zhouyi zhengyi (Beijing: Beijing daxue, 1999), 329–30. 11. “Wenyan” 文言 (Sayings on patterns or The sayings of [King] Wen), See Hui Dong, Zhouyi shu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007), 2:347–49. 12. See Li Xueqin, Zhouyi Zhengyi, 13. 13. The juxtaposition of the distant Way of Heaven and the close-at-hand human affairs, or the Way of Man, had been articulated in this way by the Chunqiu era thinker Zi Chan 子產. See Yang Bojun 楊伯峻, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1981), 4:1395–99. Qian Daxin, however, did not continue to doubt heaven’s relevance, as Zi Chan had done; rather, Qian connected the two Ways through Yijing methodology and epistemology. See more in chapter 9. 14. “Wenyan.” See Hui Dong, Zhouyi shu, 2:347. 15. “Tuan” 彖 (On hexagram statements), hexagram “Qian.” See Hui Dong, Zhouyi shu, 143. 16. See Kang Kailin 康凱淋, Hu Anguo “Chunqiu zhuan” yanjiu (Taipei: Zhizhi xueshu chubanshe, 2014), 264. 17. Shangshu, “Zhou guan” 周官 (Officers of Zhou). See Legge, The Chinese Classics, 527. 18. For the various sources of these views by Zhu Xi see Lin Wei-chieh 林維杰, “Zhu-Lu yitong de quanshixue zhuanxiang,” Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu jikan 31 (2007): 235–61.

Appendix C. Qian Daxin’s Letter to Dai Zhen (1754) 1. See, e.g., Liu Xin’s value of the remainder as 0.250162, whereas Zu Chongzhi’s value was 0.242815. See Joseph Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, vol. 3, Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 294, table 30; see also table 2 in chapter 7 above. 2. Created by Liu Hong 劉洪 (ca. 135–210 CE) and in use in the kingdom of Wu 吳 (222–280). 3. Attributed mainly to Guo Shoujing and in use since 1281. 4. See the discussion above in chapter 8 for the identity of “Yang Guangfu.” 5. See Zhouyi zhuzi suoyin, ed. D. C. Lau and F. C. Chen, Concordance Series, Classical Works no. 8 (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1995), 82.

282 Appendix C 6. The last sentence is a reference to the poem “Du Li Si zhuan” 讀李斯傳 (Reading the biography of Li Si). In it, the author, Tang poet Cao Ye 曹鄴 (jinshi of 850), criticized Li Si for trying to obscure right and wrong. See Wu Zaiqing 吴在庆 and Yang Juanjuan 样娟娟, “Tang dai wenshi dushu xiye de shenghuo xintai yu wenxue chuangzuo shulue,” Shehui kexuejia 1, no. 153 (January 2010): 33–36. 7. Lushi chunqiu, 18.5.3, see John Knoblock, and Jeffrey Riegel, The Annals of Lü Buwei: A Complete Translation and Study (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000), 457–58. 8. Guo used the summation of series method (which aids in computing large series of numbers over a large range) in his calculations of the Shoushi calendar. The Ming shi (33.591) stated that this method, when compared to the Western method of epicycles, was in the spirit of the Changes: “Different roads converge together” (殊途同歸). See Zhouyi, 82. 9. Shu Hai and Da Zhang 大章 were said to have surveyed the land all the way from east to west and from north to south. They were also said to have composed the Shanhai jing. See Julian Ward, Xu Xiake (1587–1641): The Art of Travel Writing (Richmond, UK: Curzon, 2001), 93n7.

Appendix D. Questions and Answers About Astronomy 1. This book is a lost apocrypha of the first century BCE, preserved mostly through the commentary of Zheng Xuan. See also Joseph Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, vol. 3, Mathematics and the Sciences of the Heavens and the Earth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 224.

Appendix E. Essay on the Value of π 1. These methods were lost. For more on the history of the value of π in Chinese history see Qian Baocong 钱宝琮 (1892–1974), Qian Baocong kexue shi lunwen xuanji (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1983), 50–74. See also Jean-Claude Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics (Berlin: Springer, 1997), 45n22; Wu Wen-tsun, Mathematics Mechanization (Beijing: Science Press, 2000), 21; Yoshio Mikami, The Development of Mathematics in China and Japan (1913; repr., New York: Chelsea, 1923), 51. 2. Until this point Qian quoted from Wei Zheng 魏徵 (580–643) et al., comps., Sui shu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1973), 16.387–88. 3. This was a trigonometric method for constructing various polygons and using sine and cosine formulas to arrive at the value of the arc in question (as well as the total circumference of the circle). This theory was presented by Johann Schreck (Terrentius) in his 1631 book Da ce 大測 (The great measurement), which was based on Bartholomaeus Pitiscus’s 1612 Trigonometriae Sive. See Qian Baocong, Qian Baocong kexue, 61–62; Martzloff, A History of Chinese Mathematics, 23, 388.

Appendix H. Sources for the Works of Qian Daxin 1. Extant editions of Qian’s writings were published in 1806, 1807, 1833, 1838, 1860, 1862, 1876, 1884, 1912, 1918, 1925, 1927, 1928, 1935, 1936, and later.

Appendix H 283 2. For early editions of the SJZYXL see Ms #605070 (dated 1806) and Ms #604071 (dated 1876, Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai; for an 1805 edition of Qian’s Zhuting riji chao see Ms #670861 (3507), Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. 3. See Mss #820039–40 (Jiaqing ed., 1796–1820), 2 vols., Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. I also found a very similar edition of the “Da wen” stand-alone section mentioned above. Mss #18721–22 (undated), 2 vols., Haining Municipal Library (海宁市图 书馆), Zhejiang province. 4. See Ms #802654, Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF CHINESE AND JAPANESE TITLES

Due to space considerations, this selected bibliography includes only Chinese and Japanese titles. The book’s full bibliography can be accessed through my university webpage: https://english.tau.ac.il/profile/osela.

Pre-1900 Manuscripts and Editions Cheng Jinfang. Mianxian tang wenji 勉行堂文集 (The collected writings from the study of doing the utmost). N.p., Jiaqing 23–25, 1818–1820. Cheng Jisheng. Shuowen yinjing kao 說文引經考 (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics). Ms #374889 (3107). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Cheng Yaotian. “Shuowen yinjing kao xu” 說文引經考序 (Preface to Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics). In Shuowen yinjing kao 說文引經考 (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics), by Cheng Jisheng. Ms #374889 (3107), 5a. Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Cheng Zuqing. Lianchuan mingren huaxiang 練川名人畫像 (Portraits of eminent Lianchuan [Jiading] men). Jiading: Cheng shi gainan cao tang, Daoguang 30, 1850. Dai Zhen. Gujin suishi kao 古今嵗實考 (Examination of the [length] of the tropical year from antiquity to the present). Ms #802654. Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. Duan Yucai. Jigu ge Shuowen ding 汲古閣説文訂 (The Shuowen corrected according to the Jigu ge [Pavilion for absorbing the ancients ed.]). Ms #503527 (Jiaqing 2 [1798] ed., printed by Yuan Tingtao). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Gu Yanwu. Rizhilu 日知錄 (Record of knowledge gained day by day). Ms #670147 (3215) (1695 printed edition, with Mao Yusheng’s handwritten notes). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai.

286

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

Guangya 廣雅. Ms #7312/2287 (Ming dynasty printed ed.). Rare Books Collection, National Central Library, Beijing. Hui Shiqi. Daxue shuo 大學說 (Explaining the great learning). Ms #756289 (undated handwritten manuscript). Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. Ji Yun. Ji Wenda gong yi ji 紀文達公遺集 (Remaining collected [writings] of Master Ji Wenda [Yun]). N.p., Jiaqing 17, 1812. Jiang Yong. Yi Mei 翼梅 (The wings for Mei [Wending]). Haishan xianguan congshu 海山 仙館叢書 (Sea Mountain Immortal’s Lodge Collectanea ed.). Vols. 143–46. N.p., printed during the Guangxu reign (between 1886 and 1897). Jing Fang. Yizhuan 易傳 (Commentary on the Changes). Ms #001260087/3286 (handwritten ed. copied by Zhu Bangheng 朱邦衡 in 1731, annotated by Hui Dong and Hui Shiqi). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Li Zuwang. Xiaoxue leibian 小學類編 (Categories collection of philology). Ms #0222163–170 (dated 1871). Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. Ouluoba xijing lu 歐邏巴西鏡錄 (Records of the Western mirror of Europe). Ms #4860 (author unknown, handwritten manuscript copied by Jiao Xun in 1801). Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. Qian Daxin. Qian Daxin dianshi ce 錢大昕殿試策 (Qian Daxin’s palace examination essay). Ms #147097 (dated Qianlong 19, 1754). Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. ———. “Da wen” 答問 (Questions and answers [section of the Qianyan tang ji (juan 4–9, dealing with the Classics and the Four Books]). 2 vols. Mss #820039–40 (Jiaqing ed., 1796–1820). Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library.———. Zhuting riji chao 竹汀日記 鈔 (Zhuting’s [Qian Daxin’s] daily notes). Ms #670861 (dated 1805). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library. ———. Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of the cultivation of the new from the study of the ten yokes). Ms #604070 (dated 1806). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. ———. Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of the cultivation of the new from the study of the ten yokes). Ms #604071 (dated 1876). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. ———. “Da wen” 答問 (Questions and answers [section of the Qianyan tang ji (juan 4–9, dealing with the Classics and the Four Books]). 2 vols. Mss #18721–22 (undated). Haining Municipal Library (海宁市图书馆), Zhejiang province. Shen Deqian, comp. Wuzhong qizi shixuan 吳中七子詩選 (Selection of poems by the seven students of the Wu [region]). 4 vols. Mss #0184296–99 (dated 1753). Rare Books Library, Peking University, Beijing. Sheng Bai’er. Shangshu shitian 尚書釋天 (Explanations of heaven in the Shangshu). Ms #501949 (1781 printed ed.). Rare Books Library, Renmin University, Beijing. ———. Shangshu shitian 尚書釋天 (Explanations of heaven in the Shangshu). N.p.: Rencheng shuyuan, 1774. Wang Chang. “Shuowen yinjing kao xu” 說文引經考序 (Preface to Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics). In Shuowen yinjing kao 說文引經考 (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics), by Cheng Jisheng. Ms #374889 (3107), 3b. Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. ———. “Zhanshi fu shao zhanshi Qian jun muzhiming” 詹事府少詹事錢君墓志銘 (Epitaph to the assistant supervisor of instruction at the Imperial Supervisorate of Instruction, Master Qian). In Wang Chang, Chunrong tang ji 春融堂集 (The writings from the Spring Harmony Hall), juan 55, 12b–16a. N.p.: Shunan shushe kanben, Guangxu 18, 1892.

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

287

Wang Mingsheng. “Shuowen yinjing kao xu” 說文引經考序 (Preface to Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics”). In Shuowen yinjing kao 說文引經考 (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics), by Cheng Jisheng. Ms #374889 (3107), 1a–2a. Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. Wang Yinglin. Kunxue jiwen 困學紀聞 (Record of stories from arduous learning). Ms #756778–83 (Qing dynasty printed ed., Qianlong 3, 1739). Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library.Xie Qikun. Xiaoxue kao 小學攷 (Examination of philology). Hangzhou: Zhejiang shuju, 1888. Xu Wenfan. Dong Jin Nanbeichao yudi biao 東晉南北朝輿地表 (Tables of Eastern Jin [317–420] and Southern and Northern dynasties [420–589] territories). Ms #03242 (handwritten manuscript). Rare Books Collection, National Central Library, Beijing. Yang Guangxian. Budeyi 不得已 (I cannot do otherwise). Ms #05672 (handwritten manuscript). Rare Books Collection, National Central Library, Beijing. Zeng Guofan. Zeng Wenzheng gong shuzha 曾文正公書札 (The correspondence of the official Zeng Wenzheng [Guofan]). Changsha: Chuanzhong shuju, 1876. Zhao Mingcheng, Jinshi lu 金石錄 (Records of bronze and stone [inscriptions]). Ms #02885 (Song dynasty printed ed.). Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library. ———. Jinshi lu 金石錄 (Records of bronze and stone [inscriptions]). Ms #849629–31 (Qing dynasty printed ed., Qianlong 27, 1763). Rare Books Collection, Shanghai Library.

Post-1900 Titles An Zhenghui. Dai Zhen zhexue zhuzuo xian zhu 戴震哲学著作选注 (Annotated anthology of the philosophical works of Dai Zhen). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979. Ban Gu. Han shu 漢書 (History of the [former] Han). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962. Baopu zi neipian jiaoshi 抱朴子内篇校釋 (The inner chapters of the Baopu zi with commentaries). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985. Bi Yuan, comp. Xu zizhi tongjian 續資治通鑒 (Successive comprehensive mirror for aid in government). Taipei: Hongshi chubanshe, 1981. ———. comp. Xu zizhi tongjian 續資治通鑒 (Successive comprehensive mirror for aid in government). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008. Cai Jinfang. Dai Zhen: Shengping yu zuopin kaolun 戴震 : 生平与作品考论 (Examination and discussion of Dai Zhen’s life and works). Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chubanshe, 2006. Cai Shen. Shujizhuan 書集傳 (Collected commentaries on the Documents). Taipei: Shijie shuju, 1969. Cao Hong 曹虹. “Li Zhaoluo de xueshu yu wenxue” 李兆洛的学术与文学 (“Li Zhaoluo's Scholarship and Literature”), in: Zhongguo wenhua yanjiu 15 (Spring, 1997): 24-29. Cao Jiandun. “Lun Zhuzi lixue dui Wuli tongkao de yinxiang” 论朱子礼学对《五礼通考》 的影响 (On the influence of Zhu Xi’s ritual studies on the Wuli tongkao). Jianghai xuekan 5 (2014): 156–61. Cao Mo. Zhonghua tianwenxue shi 中華天文學史 (History of Chinese astronomy). Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1986. Chang So-an (Zhang Shouan). Yi li dai li: Ling Tingkan yu Qing zhongye Ruxue sixiang zhi zhuanbian 以禮代理 : 淩廷堪與清中葉儒學思想之轉變 (Substitute principle with ritual: Ling Tingkan and the transformation of mid-Qing Ru learning thought). Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiu yuan jindai shi yanjiusuo zhuankan, 1994.

288

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

———. Shiba shiji lixue kaozheng de sixiang huoli: lijiao lunzheng yu lizhi chongxing 十八世紀 禮學考證的思想活力 : 禮敎論爭與禮秩重省 (The vibrant thought of eighteenth-century evidential research on ritual learning: The debates over ritual studies and the reconstruction of the ritual order). Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan jindaishi yanjiusuo, 2001. Chen Hongsen. “Wang Mingsheng Xizhuang yiwen jicun shenggao” 王鸣盛西庄遗文辑存 剩稿 (Remnant manuscript of the lost collected writings of Wang Mingsheng, Xizhuang). Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 1 (January 2014): 1–13. Chen Hui. “Dai Zhen yu Jiang Yong guanxi de zai tantao” 戴震与江永关系的再探讨 (Another inquiry into the relationship of Dai Zhen and Jiang Yong). Anhui nongye daxue xuebao 13, no. 6 (November 2004): 102–6. Chen Jiujin, ed. Zhongguo shaoshu minzu kexue jishu shi congshu: Tianwen lifa juan 中國 少數民族科學技術史叢書：天文歷法卷 (Collectanea of the history of science and technology of minorities in China: Astronomy and calendar section). Nanning: Guangxi kexue jishu chubanshe, 1996. Chen Menglei 陳夢雷 (b. 1651) et al., comp. Qinding Gujin tushu jicheng 欽定古今圖書集 成 (Imperially decreed complete collection of books and illustrations past and present). Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1934. Chen Qitai. “Qian Daxin yu Yuan shixue” 钱大昕与元史学 (Qian Daxin and Yuan historiography). Zhejiang xuekan 浙江学刊 (Zhejiang journal) 4, no. 111 (1998): 118–22. Chen Zuwu. Qingdai xueshu yuanliu 清代學術源流 (The development of Qing scholarship). Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 2012. Chen Zuwu and Zhu Tongchuang. Qian-Jia xueshu biannian 乾嘉學術編年 (Scholarship of the Qianlong-Jiaqing [reign periods] on a yearly basis). Shijiazhuang Shi: Hebei renmin chubanshe, 2005. Cho Yung-lan. “Qian Daxin he Yuan shi yanjiu” 钱大昕和元史研究 (Qian Daxin and the research of the Yuan history). Zhongguo dianji yu wenhua 中国典籍与文化 (Chinese classics and culture) 1 (2006): 84–89. Dai Zhen. Dai Zhen quanshu 戴震全書 (The collected writings of Dai Zhen). Hebei: Huangshan shushe, 1995. ———. Dongyuan wenji 東原文集 (The collected works of [Dai] Dongyuan). Compiled by Yang Yingqin. Hebei: Huangshan shushe, 2008. ———. Mengzi ziyi shuzheng 孟子字義疏證 (Analysis of the meaning of terms in the Mengzi). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008. Deng Hongbo. Zhongguo shuyuan shi 中国书院史 (History of academies in China). Wuhan: Wuhan daxue chubanshe, 2012. Deng Shengguo. Qingdai “Yili” wenxian yanjiu 清代《儀禮》文獻研究 (Study of Qing-era Yili literature). Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2006. Ding Fubao, comp. and ed. Shuowen jiezi gulin 說文解字詁林 (The forest of explanations of the analysis of characters and an explanation of writing). Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1966. ———. comp. Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian 說文解字詁林正續合編 (Joint compilation of the corrected and continued forest of explanations of the analysis of characters and an explanation of writing). Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977. Dong Shiwei. Kang Youwei pingzhuan 康有爲評傳 (A critical biography of Kang Youwei). Nanchang: Baihua zhouwenyi chubanshe, 1994. Du Weiyun. Qingdai shixue yu shijia 清代史學與史家 (Historical studies and historians of the Qing period). Taipei: Dongda tushu gongsi, 1984. ———. Zhongguo shixue shi 中國史學史 (History of historical studies of China, vol. 3). Taipei: Sanmin shuju, 2004.

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

289

Du Wencai. “Qian Daxin tiba yu Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao” 钱大昕题跋与《四库全书总 目提要》(Qian Daxin’s comments regarding the Synopsis of the SKQS catalog). Guitu yuekan 贵图学刊 (Journal of Guizhou Libraries) 4 (1995): 50–51. Duan Yucai. Dai Dongyuan xiansheng nianpu 戴東原先生年譜 (The biography of Master Dai Dongyuan [Zhen]). Hong Kong: Chongwen Shudian, 1971. ———. “Xu” 序 (Preface) to Guangya shuzheng 廣雅疏証 (Exegetical evidence on the Guangya), by Wang Niansun. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013. Fan Longzhi 樊龙智. “Lun diyici Xixue Dongjian tingzhi de yuanyin” 论第一次西学东渐 停止的原因 (A discussion of the reasons for the suspension in the first infiltration of Western learning to the East). Beijing Huagong daxue xuebao 北京化工大學學報 2, no. 41 (2003): 57–62. Fang Dongshu. Hanxue shangdui 漢學商兌 (An assessment of Han learning). Hangzhou: Zhejiang shuju, Guangxu gengzi, 1900. ———. Hanxue shangdui 漢學商兌 (An assessment of Han learning). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937. Fang Linggui. “Yuan shi zuanxiu zakao”《元史》纂修杂考 (Various examinations of the compilation of the Yuan history). Shehui kexue zhanxian 社会科学战线 (Social science front) 2 (1992): 161–72. ———. “Mengguyu zhong Hanyu jieci shili” 蒙古语中汉语借词释例 (Explanations of some Chinese loanwords in Mongolian). Yunnan shifan daxue xuebao 36, no. 3 (May 2004): 110–18. Fang Shiming and Zhou Dianjie. Qian Daxin 錢大昕. Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1986. Fei Haiji. Qian Zhuting zhuanji yanjiu 錢竹汀傳記研究 (Research of Qian Zhuting’s [Daxin] biography). Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1971. Feng Erkang. “Shiba shiji yilai Zhouguo jiazu de xiandai zhuanxiang” 十八世纪以来中国家 族的现代转向 (The modern transformation of the Chinese lineage from the eighteenth century). Tianjin shifan daxue xuebao 160, no. 1 (2002): 42–50. ———. “Qingdai zongzu jili zhong fanying de zongzu zhidu tedian” 清代宗族祭礼中反映 的宗族制特点 (The lineage system as reflected in the Qing dynasty lineage sacrificial ceremonies). Lishi jiaoxue 573 (August 2009): 5–12. Feng Lisheng 馮立昇. Chouren zhuan hebian jiaozhu 疇人傳合編校注 (Annotated, compared, and collated Chouren zhuan). Zhengzhou shi: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 2012. Feng Yutao 冯玉涛. “Shuowen jiezi de liuchuan yu banben” 《说文解字》的流传与版本 (The circulation and editions of the Shuowen jiezi). Tushuguan lilun yu 图书馆理论与实 践 (Library theory and practice) 4 (2004): 49–51. Gu Jichen 顾吉辰. “Qian Daxin yu Yuan shi gao xialuo” 钱大昕与《元史稿》下落 (Qian Daxin and the vicissitudes of the Draft of the Yuan history). Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 古籍整理研究学刊 (Journal of ancient books collation and studies) 5 (1993): 10–11, 22. Gu Jiegang 顧頡剛 (1893–1980). Gushibian zixu 古史辨自序 (The self-prefaces to the ancient history debates. Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu, 2000. Gu Yanwu. Rizhilu jishi 日知錄集釋 (Record of knowledge gained day by day, with collected explanations). Shujiazhuang: Huashan wenyi chubanshe, 1990. ———. Xinyi Gu Tinglin wenji 新譯顧亭林文集 (New interpretations of the writings of Gu Tinglin [Yanwu]). Taibei: Sanmin shuju, 2000. Guo Shirong. “Mei Juecheng dui Jiang Yong: Yi Mei yinqi de Zhong Xi tianwenxue zhi zheng” 梅瑴成对江永：引起的中西天文学之争 (Mei Juecheng versus Jiang Yong: The debate over Western and Chinese astronomy set off by the Yi Mei). Ziran bianzhengfa tongxun 27, no. 159 (May 2005): 79–84.

290

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

Hamaguchi Fujiō. “Hō Tōju no Kangaku hihan ni tsuite” 方東樹の漢學批判について (Concerning Fang Dongshu’s criticism of Han learning). Nihon Chūgoku Gakkai hō 日本 中國學会報 (Bulletin of Sino-Japanese studies) 30 (1978): 165–78. ———. Shindai kōkyogaku no shisō shi teki kenkyū 清代考拠学の思想史的研究 (A study of the historical thought of evidential learning in the Qing period). Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1994. Han Qi. “ ‘Zili’ jingsheng yu lisuan huodong: Kang-Qian zhi ji wenren dui xixue taidu zhi gaibian jiqi beijing” 《自立》精神与历算活动—康乾之际文人对西学态度之改变及 其背景 (The spirit of self-dependence and the appropriation of Western sciences: The transition in Chinese literati’s attitude toward Western science and its social context from the Kangxi to the Qianlong reigns). Ziran kexueshi yanjiu 21 (2002): 210–21. ———. “Ming-Qing zhi ji ‘li shi qiu ye’ lun zhi yuan yu liu” 明清之際”禮失求野”論之源 與流 (The origin and spread of “When the rites are lost seek out in the open” during the Ming-Qing transition). Ziran kexue shi yanjiu 自然科學史研究 (Studies in the history of natural sciences) 26, no. 3 (2007): 303–11. Hashimoto Keizō 橋本敬造. “Daen hōno tenkai—‘Rekishō kōsei gohen’ no naiyō ni tsuite” 楕円法の展開：暦象考成後編の内容について (The development of the ellipsoid method: About the contents of the Lixiang kaocheng houbian). Tōhō gakuhō 42 (1971): 245–72. Hong Liangji, comp. and commentator. Chunqiu Zuozhuan gu 春秋左傳詁 (Glosses on the Zuo commentary of the Spring and autumn annals). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987. ———. Hong Liangji ji 洪亮吉集 (The collected works of Hong Liangji). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2001. Horng Wann-sheng 洪萬生, ed. Tantian sanyou 談天三友 (Three friends who chatted about heaven). Taipei: Mingwen shuju, 1993. Hu Shi. “Dai Dongyuan zai Zhongguo zhexueshi shang de weizhi” 戴東原在中國哲學史上 的位置 (Dai Dongyuan’s place in the history of Chinese philosophy). In Dai shi san zhong 戴氏三種 (Three works of Mister Dai), by Dai Zhen, 1–8. Shanghai: Pushe, 1924. ———. Dai Dongyuan de zhexue 戴東原的哲學 (The philosophy of Dai Dongyuan). Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1963. ———. Zhang Shizhai xiansheng nianpu 章實齋先生年譜 (The biography of Mister Zhang Shizhai [Xuecheng]). Hu Shi’s Collected Works Series vol. 33. Taipei: Yuanliu, 1986. ———. “Fan lixue de sixiangjia—Dai Dongyuan” 反理學的思想家-戴東原 (A thinker who opposed the learning of principle—Dai Dongyuan). In Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lun ji— Qingdai 中國哲學思想論集, 清代 (Collected essays on Chinese philosophical thought— the Qing period), edited by Yü Yingshi 余英時 et al., 229–40. 2nd ed. Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988. ———. “Zhongguo zhexue li de kexue jingshen yu fangfa” 中國哲學里的科學精神與方法 (The spirit of the scientific method in Chinese philosophy). In Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lun ji—zonglun 中國哲學思想論集, 總論 (Collected essays on Chinese philosophical thought—general discussion), edited by Hu Shi et al., 2–33. 2nd ed. Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988. ———. “Qingdai xuezhe de zhixue fangfa” 清代學者的治學方法 (The method of research of Qing Period scholars). In Hu Shi wenji 胡适文集 (The collected writings of Hu Shi), 2:282–304. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998. ———. Hu Shi wenji 胡适文集 (The collected writings of Hu Shi). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1998. Hu Yongpeng 胡永鹏 and Song Junfen 宋均芬. “Mao Jisheng Shuowen xinfy tongyi lunlue” 毛际盛论略 (“Account of Mao Jisheng's Shuowen xinfu tongyi”), in: Hanzi wenhua 1.75 (2007): 35–38.

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

291

Huang Rucheng. Xiuhai lou zazhu 袖海樓雜著 (Miscellaneous writings from the Hall of the One Who Has the Sea Under His Sleeve). Taipei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1983. Huang Xi and Hu Deming. “Jiang Yong de kexue jishu chengjiu jianshu” 江永的科學技術 成就簡述 (Discussion of Jiang Yong’s achievements in scientific techniques). Huangshan xueyuan xuebao 6, no. 4 (August 2004): 119–21. Hui Dong. Yi Hanxue 易漢學 (The changes [according to the] learning of the Han). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937. ———. Zhouyi shu 周易述 (Subcommentary to the Book of changes). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007. Jiang Fan. Hanxue shicheng ji jianshi 漢學師承記箋釋 (Records of Han learning masters, annotated and explained). With annotations by Qi Yongxiang. 2 vols. Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 2006. ———. Guochao Hanxue shicheng ji; fu Guochao jingshi jingyi mulu, Guochao Songxue yuanyuan ji 國朝漢學師承記；附國朝經師經義目錄，國朝宋學 淵源記 (Records of Han learning masters of the dynasty; appended by Catalog of classics teachers and classics meanings of the dynasty, and records of Song learning sources of the dynasty). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008. Jiang Xianhan. “Wei Yuan jingshi zhiyong de bianji sixiang” 魏源经世致用的编辑思想 (On Wei Yuan’s editorial thinking in statecraft and practicality). Shaoyang xueyuan xuebao 邵阳学院学报 (Journal of Shaoyang College) 6, no. 5 (October 2007): 1–4. Jiao Xun. Mengzi zhengyi 孟子正義 (The correct meanings of the Mencius). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007. Kang Kailin. Hu Anguo “Chunqiu zhuan” yanjiu 胡安國《春秋傳》研究 (Research of Hu Anguo’s Chunqiu zhuan). Taipei: Zhizhi xueshu chubanshe, 2014. Kang Youwei. Kang Nanhai xiansheng yizhu huikan 康南海先生遺著匯刊 (Collected edition of Kang Youwei’s remaining writings). Taipei: Hongye shuju, 1976. Kinoshita Tetsuya. “Shinchō kōshōgaku” to sono jidai: Shindai no shisō「清朝考証学」と その時代: 清代の思想 (“Evidential studies of the Qing dynasty” and their times: The thought of the Qing period). Tokyo: Sōbunsha, 1996. Kondo Mitsuo. Shinchō kōshōgaku no kenkyū 清朝考證学の研究 (Studies on evidential research learning during the Qing dynasty). Tokyo: Kenbun Shuppan, 1987. Li Changran. Qingdai Mengzi xue shi dagang 清代《孟子》学史大纲 (Outline of the history of Mengzi studies in the Qing period). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2011. Li Fuyan. “Shuowen xizhuan kaoyi zuozhe puzheng”《说文系传考异》作者补证 (Supplement and correction to the author of the Shuowen xizhuan kaoyi). Guizhou shifandaxue xuebao 187, no. 2 (2014): 117–20. Li Hongzhang. “Shuowen Duan zhu dingbu xu” 說文段注訂補序 (Preface to the Shuowen Duan zhu dingbu). In Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian 說文解字詁林正續合編 (Joint compilation of the corrected and continued forest of explanations of the analysis of characters and an explanation of writing), compiled by Ding Fubao, 1:217. Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977. Li Wenzao. Nanjian wenji 南澗文集 (The collected works of Nanjian [Li Wenzao]). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936. Li Xinkui. Hanyu dengyun xue 汉语等韵学 (Chinese rhyme table phonology). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983. Li Xueqin, ed. Zhouyi zhengyi 周易正義 (Correct meaning of the Book of changes). Beijing: Beijing daxue, 1999. Li Youxin and Chen Long. “Mao Zedong ‘shishi qiushi’ sixiang de Xiangxue yuanyuan” 毛 泽东 “实事求是”思想的湘学渊源 (The Hunan learning origins of Mao Zedong’s “shishi qiushi” thought). Zhexue yanjiu 哲学研究 (Philosophical researches) 1 (2010): 42–47, 98.

292

Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

Liang Qichao. Dai Dongyuan 戴東原 (Dai Dongyuan [Zhen]). Taipei: Taiwan zhonghua shuju, 1970. ———. Liang Qichao shixue lun zhu san zhong 梁啟超史學論著三種 (Three works of Liang Qichao discussiong history). Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1980. ———. “Qingdai xueshu gailun” 清代學術概論 (Outline of Qing period scholarship). In Liang Qichao shixue lun zhu san zhong 梁啟超史學論著三種 (Three works of Liang Qichao discussing history), 179–272. Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1984. ———. Liang Qichao quanji 梁啟超全集 (The collected works of Liang Qichao). 10 vols. Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 1999. ———. Zhongguo jin sanbainian xueshu shi 中国近三百年学术史 (History of scholarship of the past three hundred years in China). Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe, 2004. Liang Yusheng. Shiji zhiyi 史記志疑:附錄 (Doubtful records in the Shiji: Appendix). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937. Lin Mingbo 林明波. Qingdai Xuxue kao 清代許學考 (Examination of Qing-era Xu [Shen] studies). Taipei: Jiaxin shuini gongsi wenhua jijinhui, yanjiu lunwen 28, 1964. Lin Wei-chieh. “Zhu-Lu yitong de quanshixue zhuanxiang” 朱陸異同的詮釋學轉向 (The hermeneutical turn in the distinction between Zhu Xi and Lu Jiuyuan). Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu jikan 31 (2007): 235–61. Liu Baonan. Lunyu Zhengyi 論語正義 (The correct meaning of the Analects). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007. Liu Lanxiao. “Yuanshi xinbian de lishi bianzhuan chengjiu”《元史新编》的历史编撰成就 (The history, composition, and accomplishment of the New compilation of the Yuan history). Shandong ligong daxue xuebao 山东理工大学学报 (Journal of Shanghai University of Technology) 26, no. 1 (January 2010): 93–97. Liu Mo. “Qian-Jia xueshu yu Xixue” 乾嘉学术与西学 (Qian-Jia learning and Western learning). Qingshi yanjiu 3 (August 2005): 53–62. ———. Qian-Jia xueshu shi lun 乾嘉學術十論 (Ten essays on Qian-Jia [period] scholarship). Beijing: Shenghuo, dushu, xinzhi sanlian shudian, 2006. Liu Wenpeng. “Qingdai yichuan tixi de jindai zhuanxing” 清代驿传体系的近代转型 (The modern transformation of the Qing postal services system). Qingshi yanjiu 4 (2003): 58–66. ———. Qingdai yichuan ji qi yu xingcheng guanxi zhi yanjiu 清代驿传及其与疆域形成关系 之研究 (Study of the postal services [system] and its relation to the territorial formation during the Qing period). Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe, 2004. Liu Yucai. Qingdai shuyuan yu xueshu bianqian yanjiu 清代书院与学术变迁研究 (Study of changes in academies and scholarship during the Qing). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2008. Liu Zesheng. “Yu Yue feizhi Zhongyi sixiang genyuan tansuo” 俞樾废止中医思想根源探索 (Research on the origin of Yu Yue’s thought of abolishing Chinese medicine). Zhonghua yishi zazhi 中华医史杂志 (Journal of the history of Chinese medicine) 31, no. 1 (July 2001): 171–74. Lu Baoqian. Qing dai sixiang shi 清代思想史 (Qing history of thought). Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009. Lu Guangming et al., eds. Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao, zhengli ben 四庫全書總目提要, 整理 本 (Summary of the catalog of the complete collection of the Four Treasuries, rearranged ed.). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1997. Lu Wenchao. Baojing tang wenji 抱經堂文集 (Collected works from the Hall for Cherishing the Classics). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1990.

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Lu Xinsheng. “Lijie Dai Zhen: Qian Mu, Yu Yingshi de ‘Dai Zhen yanjiu’ bianzheng” 理解 戴震:錢穆余英時 “戴震研究”辨正 (Understanding Dai Zhen: Analysis of Qian Mu’s and Yu Ying-shih’s “Dai Zhen research”). Huadong Shifan daxue xuebao 35, no. 1 (January 2003): 20–27, 41. Luo Binglang. Qingdai Qian-Jia lishi kaozhengxue yanjiu 清代乾嘉历史考证学研究 (Research of evidential and historical studies during the Qian-Jia [period] of the Qing dynasty). Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe, 2007. Luo Junfeng. Qingdai Chunqiu Zuozhuan xue yanjiu 清代春秋左传学研究 (Research on Qing-era Chunqiu zuozhuan studies). Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2010. Luo Xiongfei. “Lun Yu Yue zai wan Qing xueshu shi shang de diwei” 论俞樾在晚清学术史 上的地位 (On Yu Yue’s position in the history of scholarship of the late Qing). Suzhou daxue xuebao 苏州大学学报 (Academic journal of Suzhou University) 1 (January 2007): 99–103, 115. Mei Wending. Lixue dawen 曆學答問 (Questions and answers about calendrical learning). Congshu jicheng chubian 叢書集成初編 ed. Vol. 1325. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936. ———. Lixue yiwen bu 歷學疑問補 (Supplement to the questions and doubts about calendrical studies). Congshu jicheng chubian 叢書集成初編 ed. Vol. 1425. Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936. ———. Mei shi congshu jiyao 梅氏叢書輯要 (Essentials of Master Mei’s collectanea). Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1971. Miyazaki Ichisada. “Seidan” 清談 (Pure conversations). Shirin 史林 31 (1946): 1–17. Mou Runsun 牟潤孫. Haiyi zazhu 海遺雜著 (Various works of the lost at sea). Xianggang Xinjie Shatian: Zhongwen daxue chubanshe, 1990. Naitō Torajirō (Konan). Naitō Konan zenshu 內藤湖南全集 (The complete works of Naitō Konan). Tokyo: Chikuma shobo, 1977. Ouyang Xiu et al., comps. Xin Tang shu 新唐書 (New history of the Tang). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1975. Pan Yukun. “Shizhou pian niandai kao” 史籀篇年代考 (Examination of the periodization of the Shizhou pian). Hangzhou shifan daxue xuebao 杭州师范大学学报 (Journal of Hangzhou Teachers College) 2 (March 2002): 82–85. Qian Baocong. Qian Baocong kexue shi lunwen xuanji 钱宝琮科学史论文选集 (Anthology of Qian Baocong’s essays on the history of science). Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 1983. Qian Daxin. “Yili mengqiu xu” 儀禮蒙求序 (Preface to Seeking the obscure in the rites and ceremonies). In Qianyan tang ji waiwen 潛研堂集外文 (Writings not included in the collected writings from the Hall of Subtle Research). Compiled by Wang Xinfu 王欣夫. Ms #619171 (unpublished, unpaginated handwritten manuscript, preface by Wang dated 1966). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. ———. Qianyan tang ji waiwen 潛研堂集外文 (Writings not included in the collected writings from the Hall of Subtle Research). Wang Xinfu (Dalong), comp. Ms #619171 (unpublished handwritten manuscript, preface by Wang dated 1966). Rare Books Collection, Fudan University Library, Shanghai. ———. Qianyan tang ji 潛研堂集 (Collected writings of the Hall of Subtle Research). Compiled by Lu Youren. Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1989. ———. Jiading Qian Daxin quanji 嘉定錢大昕全集 (The entire collected writings of Qian Daxin of Jiading). Edited by Chen Wenhe. 10 vols. Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1997. Qian Mu. Zhongguo sixiang shi 中國思想史 (History of Chinese thought). Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng shuju, 1977.

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Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

———. Xiandai Zhongguo xueshu lunheng 現代中國學術論衡 (Assessment of modern Chinese scholarship). Taipei: Dongda tushu gongsi, 1984. Qin Huitian, comp. Wuli tongkao 五禮通考 (Comprehensive examination of the five rites). Taipei: Xinxing shuju, 1970. Qiu Weijun. Dai Zhen xue de xingcheng 戴震學的形成 (The formation of Dai Zhen studies). Taipei: Lianjing chubanshe, 2004. Ren Dachun. Xiaoxue gouchen 小學鉤沈 (Adhering to philology). Proofread by Wang Niansun. Nanjing: Jiangsu guangling gujike yinshe, 1987. Ruan Yuan. Rulin zhuan gao 儒林傳稿 (Draft traditions of the forest of Ru). Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 ed. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995. Ruan Yuan et al. Chouren zhuan 疇人傳 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1991. ——— et al. Chouren zhuan huibian 疇人傳彙編 (Collected editions of the Biographies of mathematical astronomers). 2 vols. Yangzhou: Guangling shushe, 2008. Shao Min. “Xu Jie Shuowen jiezi xizhuan zhuangben kao” 徐锴《说文解字系传》版本考 (Examination of the editions of Xu Jie’s Shuowen jiezi xizhuan). Xinyang shifan xueyuan xuebao 27, no. 6 (December 2007): 92–95. Shen Jin. Weng Fanggang nianpu 翁方綱年譜 (Biography of Weng Fanggang). Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiusuo, 2002. Shi Jianxiong. Wang Mingsheng xueshu yanjiu 王鸣盛学术研究 (Study of the scholarship of Wang Mingsheng). Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2009. Shigeru Nakayama. “Shō-chō no kenkyū” 消長の研究 (A study of the variation [method]). In Explorations in the History of Science and Technology in China, edited by Li Guohao, Zhang Mengwen, and Cao Tianqin, 155–82. Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Publishing House, 1982. Sima Guang. Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑒 (Comprehensive mirror for aid in government). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1956. ———. Tongjian lun 通鋻論 (Discussions on the comprehensive mirror). Compiled by Wu Yaoguang. Taipei: Taiwan guji, 2002. Song Fei 宋飞 and Liu Shangchun 柳向春. “Hao Yixing Erya yishu shulue” 郝懿行爾雅義 疏述略 (Outline of Hao Yixing’s Erya yishu). Tushuguan zazhi 25, no. 7 (2006): 69–72. Su Tiege. “Shuowen jiezi de banben yu zhuben”《说文解字》的版本与注本 (Editions and commentaries of the Shuowen jiezi). Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 古籍整理研究學刊 (Journal of ancient books collation and studies) 4 (1997): 15, 43–45. Sun Xingyan. Shangshu jingu wen zhushu 尚書今古文注疏 (Annotation and exegesis of the new and old script Book of Documents). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986. Sun Xingyan. Wenzi tang ji 問字堂集 (The collected writings of the Hall of Questioning Characters). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1996. Sun Yirang. Mozi xiangu 墨子閒詁 (Mozi, with casual glossing). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2009. Tuotuo et al., comps. Song shi 宋史 (Song history). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1977. Wang Chang. Jinshi cuibian 金石萃編 (Sorted collection of bronze and stone [inscriptions]). Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1967. Wang Damin. “Lun Yao Nai yu Siku guannei Han Song zhizheng” 论姚鼐与四库馆内汉宋 之争 (Yao Nai and the Han-Song debate in the Compilation Office of the Four Treasuries). Beijing daxue xuebao 43, no. 5 (September 2006): 86–95. Wang Guiping. Qingdai Jiangnan cangshujia keshu yanjiu 清代江南藏书家刻书研究 (Research on Jiangnan bibliophiles and printing in the Qing era). Nanjing: Fenghuang chubanshe, 2008.

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295

Wang Guiyuan. “Shuowen jiezi banben kaoshu” 《说文解字》版本考述 (Examination of the Shuowen jiezi editions). Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 古籍整理研究學刊 (Journal of ancient books collation and studies) 6 (1999): 34, 41–43. Wang Guomin. “Qing zhongqi de lixue yanjiu yu Xunxue fuxing” 清中期的礼学研究与苟 学复兴 (Study of ritual learning research and Xun[zi] studies rise during the mid-Qing). Zhongguo zhexue 6 (2014): 52–56. Wang Huizu. Yuanshi ben zheng 元史本證 (Verification of Yuan history edition). Taipei xian, Yonghe zhen: Wenhai chubanshe, 1984. Wang Jilu. Qian Daxin de shixue sixiang 钱大昕的史学思想 (The historical thought of Qian Daxin). Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2004. Wang Mingsheng. Shiqi shi shangque 十七史商榷 (Critical study of the seventeen dynastic histories). Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe, 2005. ———. Xizhuang shi cungao 西莊始存稿 (Xizhuang’s [Wang Mingsheng’s] first drafts). Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 ed. Vol. 1434. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995. ———. Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji 嘉定王鳴盛全集 (The entire collected writings of Wang Mingsheng of Jiading). Edited by Chen Wenhe. 11 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2010. Wang Niansun. Guangya shuzheng 廣雅疏證 (Textual research on the Guangya). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013. ———. “Wang Rongfu Shuxue xu” 汪容甫述學敍 (Preface to Wang Rongfu’s [Zhong] Discourses on learning). In Xinbian Wang Zhong ji 新編汪中集 (New edition of Wang Zhong’s writings), by Wang Zhong, appendix, 60–61. Yangzhou: Guangling shushe, 2005. Wang Xianqian. Xunzi jijie 荀子集解 (Collected explanations of the Xunzi). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988. Wang Xianqian and Liu Wu, comps. and eds. Zhuangzi jijie; Zhuangzi jijie neipian buzheng 莊子集解；莊子集解内篇補正 (Collected commentaries on the Zhuangzi; supplement and corrections to the inner chapters in the collected commentaries on the Zhuangzi). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987. Wang Xinfu (Dalong), comp. Eshu xuan qiecun shanbenshu lu 蛾術軒篋存善本書錄 (Catalog of rare books that survived in boxes at the Small Library of the Practicing Ant). Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002. Wang Yinglin. Kunxue jiwen 困學紀聞 (Record of stories from arduous learning). Shanghai: Shanghai wuyinshuguan, 1935. Wang Yingxian. Qingdai Wupai xueshu yanjiu 清代吴派学术研究 (Study of Wu-school scholarship). Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009. Wang Yusheng. “Li Shanlan: Zhongguo jindai kexue de xianqu zhe” 李善兰:中国近代科 学的先驱者 (Li Shanlan: Forerunner of modern science in China). Ziran bianzhengfa tongxun 自然辩证法通讯 (Journal of dialectics of nature) 5 (1983): 64–65. Wang Zhiyi. “Qian Zhuting xiansheng xingshu” 錢竹汀先生行述 (The life of Qian Zhuting [Daxin]”). JDQDXQJ. Vol. 1. Wei Yuan. Guwei tang ji 古微堂集 (Collected works of the Hall of Ancient Subtleties). Shanghai: Guoxue fulunshe, 1909. Wei Zheng et al., comps. Sui shu 隋書 (Records of the Sui dynasty). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1973. Wu Jingzi. Rulin waishi 儒林外史 (The scholars). Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan, 1922. Wu Zaiqing and Yang Juanjuan. “Tang dai wenshi dushu xiye de shenghuo xintai yu wenxue chuangzuo shulue” 唐代文士读书习业的生活心态与文学创作述略 (Brief account of the production of literature and vivid form practices of Tang dynasty poets and scholars). Shehui kexuejia 社会科学家 (The social scientist) 1, no. 153 (January 2010): 33–36.

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Selected Bibliography of Chinese and Japanese Titles

Xie Wuliang. Zhongguo zhexue shi 中國哲學史 (History of Chinese philosophy). Shanghai: Zhonghua, 1930. Xu Guangqi. Xu Guangqi ji 徐光啓集 (The collected works of Xu Guangqi). Compiled by Wang Zhongmin 王重民. Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1963. Xu Haisong. Qingchu shiren yu Xixue 清初士人与西学 (Early Qing scholars and Western learning). Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe, 2000. Xu Liwang. Jia-Dao zhi ji: Yangzhou Changzhou quyu wenhua bijiao yanjiu 嘉道之际扬州 常州区域文化比较研究 (A comparative study of Yangzhou and Changzhou during the Jia-Dao period). Hangzhou: Zhejiang daxue chubanshe, 2007. Xu Yanping. Qingdai Dongnanshuyuan yu xueshu ji wenxue 清代东南书院与学术及文 学 (Literature, scholarship and the south-east academies of the Qing). Hefei Shi: Anhui jiaoyu chubanshe, 2007. Yamanoi Yū. “Ko Enbu no gakumon kan—‘Mingaku kara Shingaku e no tenkan’ no kanten kara” 顧炎武の学問観―明学から清学への転換の観点から (Gu Yanwu’s scholarly position—a perspective from “the transition from Ming learning to Qing learning”). Chūō daigaku bugakubu kiyō 中央大学文学部紀要 (Bulletin of the Literature Department of Chūō University) 35 (1964): 67–93. ———. Min Shin shisō shi no kenkyū 明清思想史の研究 (A study of the history of thought in the Ming and Qing). Tokyo: Tokyo daigaku, 1980. ———. Kō Sōgi 黄宗羲 (Huang Zongxi). Tokyo: Kodansha, 1983. Yan Xing. Zhonghua youzheng fazhan shi 中華郵政發展史 (History of the development of postal services in China). Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1994. Yang Bojun. Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu 春秋左傳注 (Commentary to the Chunqiu zuozhuan). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1981. Yang Guangxian. Budeyi 不得已 (I cannot do otherwise). Hefei Shi: Huangshan shushe, 2000. Yang Xumin. “Lun wan Qing xuejie zongshi Yu Yue de xueshu chengjiu ji yingxiang” 论晚 清学界宗师俞樾的学术成就及影响 (Discussion of the scholarship and influence of the great teacher and scholar of the late Qing Yu Yue). Hechi xueyuan xuebao 河池学院学报 27, no. 4 (August 2007): 35–39. Yang Yingqin. “Dai Zhen yu Jiang Yong” 戴震与江永 (Dai Zhen and Jiang Yong). Anhui daxue xuebao 4 (1995): 35–40, 94. Yang Zhigang. “Qin Huitian Wuli tongkao zhuanzuo tedian xilun” 秦蕙田《五禮通考》撰 作特點的析論 (Analysis of the special characteristics of the composition of Qin Huitian’s Wuli tongkao). Jingxue yanjiu jikan 3 (October 2007): 149–64. Yao Nai. Xibao xuan quanji 惜抱軒全集 (Complete writings of Master Xibao’s studio). Xianggang: Guangzhi shuju, ca. 1900. ———. Guwen cilei zuan 古文辭類纂 (Classified anthology of ancient prose). Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002. Yu Wanli 虞万里. “Erya yishu ji qi zuozhe Hao Yixing” 尔雅义疏及其作者郝懿行 (The Erya yishu and its author Hao Yixing). Cishu yanjiu 1 (1984): 161–69. Yü Ying-shih. Lun Dai Zhen yu Zhang Xuecheng 論戴震與章學誠 (Discussing Dai Zhen and Zhang Xuecheng). Hong Kong: Longmen shuju, 1976. ———. “Qingdai sixiang shi de yige xin jieshi” 清代思想史的一個新解釋 (A new explanation of the history of thought in the Qing period). In Zhongguo zhexue sixiang lun ji—Qingdai 中國哲學思想論集, 清代 (Collected essays on Chinese philosophical thought—the Qing period), edited by Yü Yingshi et al., 11–48. 2nd ed. Taipei: Shuiniu, 1988. Yuan Mei. Yuan Mei quanji 袁枚全集 (The complete collected writings of Yuan Mei). Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1993.

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297

Zhang Guili. “Wangshi Zhenqitang cangshu, keshu” 汪氏振绮堂藏书，刻书 (The Wang Lineage Zhenqitang Library and Printing House). Zhongguo dianji yu wenhua 86, no. 3 (2013): 75–83. Zhang Liangcai. “Cong Guanzi.Dizi zhi kan Jixia xueguan de jiaoxue yu shenghuo guanli” 从 《管子弟子职》看稷下学宫的教学与生活管理 (The supervision over life and education in the Jixia Academy as seen from the Guanzi chapter Dizi zhi). Guanzixue kan 管子 学刊 (Journal of Guanzi studies) 3 (1994): 39–42. Zhang Shunhui. Qingren wenji bielu 清人文集別錄 (Catalog of collected writings by Qing personas). Wuhan: Huazhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2004. ———. Qingdai Yangzhou xueji; Gu Tinglin xueji 清代揚州學記; 顧亭林學記 (Record of Qing-era Yangzhou learning; record of Gu Tinglin [Yanwu] learning). Wuhan: Huanzhong shifan daxue chubanshe, 2005. Zhang Tao and Deng Shengguo. Qian Daxin pingzhuan 錢大昕評傳 (Critical biography of Qian Daxin). Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 2006. Zhang Tingyu et al., comps. Ming shi 明史 (History of the Ming). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974. Zhang Xue. “Qian Dazhao shengping ji Guangya shuyi chengshu xiaokao” 錢大昭生平及 《廣雅疏義》成書小考 (A preliminary examination of Qian Dazhao’s life and publication of the Guangya shuyi). Wenjiao ziliao 23 (2012): 8–10. Zhang Xuecheng. Zhang Xuecheng yishu 章學誠遺書 (Zhang Xuecheng’s remaining writings). Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1985. Zhang Zhidong. “Shuowen jiezi yizheng xu” 說文解字義證序 (Preface to the Shuowen jiezi yizheng). In Shuowen jiezi gulin zhengxu hebian 說文解字詁林正續合編 (Joint compilation of the corrected and continued forest of explanations of the analysis of characters and an explanation of writing), compiled by Ding Fubao 丁福保, 1:225–26. Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1977. Zhao Lianwen. “Qingdai Beijing shuyuan jingfei choucuo tujing ji yanbian” 清代北京书院 经费筹措途径及演变 (The development and ways of fund raising for Beijing academies in the Qing). Zhongguo jingji shi yanjiu 2 (2009): 69–73. Zhao Yi. Oubei ji 甌北集 (Oubei’s [Zhao Yi’s] collected writings). Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1997. ———. Nianer shi zhaji 廿二史劄記校證 (Critical edition of the Notes on the twenty-two histories). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2007. 2 vols. Zhao Yongji 趙永紀, chief ed. Qingdai xueshu cidian 清代學術辭典 (Dictionary of Qing scholarship). Beijing: Xueyuan chubanshe, 2004. Zhou Deliang. Xunzi sixiang lilun yu shijian 荀子思想理論與實踐 (Xunzi thought between theory and practice). Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 2011. Zhou Dunyi. Zhou Dunyi ji 周敦頤集 (The collected works of Zhou Dunyi). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1990. Zhouyi zhuzi suoyin 周易逐字索引 (A concordance to the Zhouyi [changes of the Zhou]), edited by D. C. Lau and F. C. Chen. Concordance Series, Classical Works no. 8. Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1995. Zhu Bin, comp. and ed. Liji xunzuan 禮記訓纂 (Collected commentaries on the Book of rites). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1998. Zhu Huazhong and Wang Jilu. “Qian Daxin zai Yuan shixue shang de gangxian ji yingxiang” 钱大昕在元史学上的贡献及影响 (The contribution and influence of Qian Daxin in the historical research of the Yuan). Xinan shifan daxue xuebao 西南师范大学学报 (Journal of South-West Teacher’s University) 6 (1997): 103–7.

298

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Zhu Xi. Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類 (Conversations with Master Zhu [Xi] classified by topic). Taipei: Huashi chubanshe, 1987. ———. Sishu zhangju 四書章句 (The four books by chapter and verse). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2008. Zhu Yun. Sihe wenji 笥河文集 (The collected writings of Sihe [Zhu Yun]). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936). Zhu Zuyan, comp. and ed. Erya gulin爾雅詁林(The forest of explanations of the progress toward correctness). Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu chubanshe, 1996–1998, 6 vols. Zuo Yuhe. Cong sibu zhi xue dao qike zhi xue 从四部之學到七科之學 (From the “four-parts” learning to the “seven-departments” learning). Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 2004.

INDEX

academies, 157, 172, 179; curriculum in, 25, 54, 58; Imperial, 180; and officialdom, 55, 244n1, 250n82; private, 25, 26, 36, 55–64; and social networks, 15, 21, 26, 73, 77, 181. See also Hanlin Academy; Hefang Academy; Loudong Academy; Zhongshan Academy; Ziyang Academy An Qi 安吉, 201 Analects (Lunyu), 96, 109, 110, 163, 236n35, 272n28; meanings in, 112, 113 ancestral temples, 29, 56, 127 ancient learning (guxue 古學), 10, 11, 85–100, 102, 235n28, 252n101; and Classics, 49, 58, 117; and examination system, 38–39, 47; and Han or Song learning, 35, 49, 248n59; and identity, 45, 46, 86, 99; and Jiang-Mei dispute, 148; methodology of, 116–17; and Qian Daxin, 33, 38–39, 45, 181; and Qian's family, 29–30, 38–39; vs. revolution, 191; and Ru identity, 66, 79, 86, 181; and Shuowen studies, 86–90; and social networks, 33, 38–39; team projects in, 157; Western, 132; and Western learning, 132, 150–62, 159, 187 ancients, 31, 38, 61, 86, 90–93, 96, 111, 206; and mathematics, 157–58, 160, 212; vs. moderns, 16, 17, 98–100, 128, 148, 154, 155, 159, 161, 232n55

antiquity 古: authority of, 16, 18, 86, 91–93, 95, 97, 99, 105, 116, 148, 159, 161, 182; and Classics, 93, 94–95, 184; and identity, 16, 66, 69, 81, 86, 92–93; and knowledge, 16, 17, 91–93, 94, 102–3, 116, 130, 177, 190; vs. the modern (jin 今), 90, 93–97, 193; and nayin system, 57; and philology, 78, 81, 105, 182, 183, 193; phonology in, 111; and Qian, 16, 30, 31, 66, 69, 80, 81, 91–92, 93, 96–97, 158; recovery of, 81, 99–100; relative meanings of, 91–93; restoration of (fugu 復古), 236n29; and Ru identity, 16, 57, 66, 67, 69, 94, 97, 116, 132, 184; rupture with, 16, 38, 89–90, 116, 127–28, 132, 175, 177; and Shuowen studies, 89–90; and truth, 100, 188; and value of π, 211, 212; and Western learning, 60, 151–52, 154–58, 159, 160, 161, 184–88, 187, 206, 207 Assmann, Jan, 24 astrology, 17, 136 astronomy, 14, 135–49, 265n6; and antiquity, 157; and astrology, 17, 136; as heuristic device, 154, 187; mathematical, 74, 76, 81; and Muslim learning, 143; Qian on, 37, 45–46, 60, 163, 205–8, 209–10, 213–16; and Ru identity, 152, 161; Western, 43–44, 132, 138, 142, 145, 147–48, 151, 153, 154, 156, 158–61, 184, 187, 209, 210

300 Index authenticity, 45, 147; of antiquity, 97, 99, 182; of texts, 33, 35, 57, 61, 77, 95, 182 “Ba Huainanzi” 跋淮南子 (Postscript to the Huainanzi; Qian Daxin), 214 “Ba Xingjing” 跋星經 (Postscript to the Classic of heavenly bodies; Qian Daxin), 214 Ba Yuan da yitongzhi can ben 跋元大一統 志殘本 (Postscript to the fragmented edition of the Comprehensive gazetteer of the Yuan; Qian Daxin), 50 Bacon, Francis, 81, 252n105 Baihutong 白虎通, 52, 243n59 Baiyunguan 白雲觀 (Daoist temple), 51 Ban Gu 班固, 92, 98 Bao Tingbo 鮑廷博, 59, 71 Baojinglou Library 抱經樓 (Building for Safeguarding the Classics), 63 Baopu zi 抱朴子內篇 (The master who holds to simplicity; Ge Hong), 57 Beijing: Qian in, 36–39, 40–46, 51–54, 65, 76, 77; social networks in, 15, 40–46, 53, 54, 77, 88 Benoist, Michel, 45, 156, 158, 213, 241n22 Bi Yuan 畢沅, 179, 200, 244n68, 246n29, 248n58; works by, 32, 49, 52, 61, 68, 248n60, 251n92 bibliophiles, 21, 62, 88; in social networks, 44, 45, 46, 56, 59, 68, 70, 73, 77, 179 biographies, 69, 78, 107, 159, 161, 185–87; by Qian, 46, 59, 62–63, 181; of Westerners, 46. See also Nianpu Blair, Ann, 192 Bol, Peter K., 7, 94 Borges, Jorge Luis, 77 Brahe, Tycho, 144, 152–53, 161, 207, 272n18, 274n49 Buddhism: arts of, 170; Buddhavacana in, 255n48; and Daoism, 219, 230n34, 275n25; fate in, 168; and filial piety, 219; inscriptions of, 50, 62; and Jesuits, 17; and Qian, 28–29, 35, 47, 49–51, 164, 168, 170–71, 175, 217–20; and Ru, 6, 35, 99, 113, 180, 181, 230n34; saূsāra in, 164, 168, 217–20; temples of, 51, 63; as threat, 230n34, 275n25; Tibetan, 47, 180 Budeyi 不得已 (I cannot do otherwise; Yang Guangxian), 43, 46 Cai Jing 蔡京, 130 Cai Shen 蔡沈, 94, 255n43

calendars, 139–46; Datong li 大統暦 (Great Concordance), 143, 144, 146; Dayan li 大衍暦 (Great Expansion), 141, 267n37; Gregorian, 139, 143, 269n62; Han, 140, 155; Huangji li 皇極暦 (Sovereign Pole), 140, 141; Julian, 155, 269n62; Qianxiang 乾象 (Heavenly Symbol), 140, 205; Santong 三統 (Triple Concordance), 37, 40, 70, 140, 211, 213; Shoushi li 授時暦 (Season Granting), 140, 143, 144, 146, 147, 151, 205, 268n49, 282n8; Tongtian 統天 (Concord with Heaven), 143 calendrical studies, 14, 17; intercalation in, 68, 122, 141, 213, 269n62; and Jiang-Mei dispute, 147–54, 159; by Mei Wending, 137, 143, 145, 146, 160; and Qian, 37, 68, 122, 181, 185, 213, 214; tropical year in, 137, 138, 139–46, 147, 149–52, 154, 159, 205–8, 269n62; in Western vs. Chinese learning, 132, 134, 142, 144–46, 152, 154, 160, 180, 184; winter solstice in, 139, 141–45, 147, 206, 207, 209 calligraphy, 52, 103, 104 Cao Guifang 曹桂芳, 29, 31 Cao Renhu 曹仁虎, 29, 33, 36, 51, 53, 64, 204, 236n31 Cao Xiuxian 曹秀先, 49, 50 Cao Xuemin 曹學閔, 37 Cao Ye 曹鄴, 282n6 case (an 案) genre, 106–8, 112, 121, 259n28; examples of, 108–11; in Qian's works, 127, 128 Cassini, Giovanni Domenico, 144 Castiglione, Giuseppe, 273n35 catalogs, 62–65, 103, 116, 122, 247n38 “Cewen” 策問 (Policy question; Qian Daxin), 213 “Ceyuan haijing xicao” 測圓海鏡細草 (On the detailed examples of the sea mirror of circular measurement), 214 Chang Chun zhenren xiyouji 長春真人西遊 記 (The western journey of the true man of eternal spring), 123 Chang So-an 張壽安, 172–73 Changes. See Zhouyi Chao Gongwu 晁公武, 258n13 Chen Hongmou 陳宏謀, 4, 9, 173 Chen Huan 陳奐, 202 Chen Jun 陳均, 68 Chen Long 陈龙, 280n46 Chen Qiyuan 陳啟源, 66 Chen Wenhe 陳文和, 222, 223, 224 Chen Zhan 陳鳣, 200, 253n3

Index 301 Chen Zufan 陳祖范, 245n16 Cheng brothers, 29, 38, 78, 99; Hao 程顥, 197, 261n8; Yi 程頤, 115, 129, 165, 197 Cheng Jinfang 程晉芳, 46, 252n98 Cheng Jisheng 程際盛, 87, 200, 202 Cheng Yaotian 程瑤田, 89, 90, 166, 202 Cheng-Zhu learning (Cheng-Zhu xue 程朱 學), 12, 35, 165, 181, 183, 260n66; critiques of, 80, 114–15, 116; Qian on, 235n27; and ritual, 171, 173, 174, 176; and Ru, 10, 78. See also Zhu Xi Chinggis Khan, 123, 124, 126–27 Chouren zhuan 疇人傳 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers), 69, 150, 161, 185, 187, 249n72 Chouren zhuan sanbian 疇人傳三 編 (Biographies of mathematical astronomers, 3rd ed.; Zhu Kebao), 186, 187 Chow, Kai-wing, 41, 171, 172 Christianity, 190, 240n15, 271n4; and Western learning, 151, 153, 154, 159–60. See also Jesuits Chu Yinliang 褚寅亮, 33, 36–37, 74, 138 Chunqiu (Springs and Autumns), 63, 91, 128, 168; praise and blame in, 118–19 Chunqiu zuozhuan buzhu 春秋左傳補注 (Hui Dong), 46 classicism, 14, 16–17, 86, 132, 136, 156, 159, 161 Classics: and ancient learning, 49, 58, 117; and antiquity, 93, 94–95, 184; and concrete learning, 61, 81; editions of, 111; examples of analysis of, 108–11; and Han learning, 13, 67–68, 79, 80; and Histories, 118–19, 121, 132; “meanings and principles” (yili 義理) in, 112–17; and modernity, 189, 192, 193; and philology, 2, 16, 85, 86, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 183, 189; phonology of, 132; and Qian, 16, 33, 47, 53, 54, 68, 108, 181, 182, 197; and Ru identity, 48, 66, 67–68, 104; and Shuowen studies, 87, 89, 90; transmission of, 111, 131, 169, 257n5; and Wang Anshi, 128; and Western learning, 155, 156, 159, 161 Clavius, Christopher, 139 commentaries, 91, 106, 125, 136, 197; and case genre, 107–8 “concrete learning” (shixue 實學), 59, 61, 80–81 Confucianism, 6, 8, 17. See also Ru Confucius, 29, 38, 102, 129, 164, 176, 264n64; and antiquity, 91, 96; and “idle chatter,” 116

Copernicus, Nicolaus, 187 “correlations and discrepancies” (tongyi 同異), 60, 120 cotton production, 26, 234n19 Crossley, Pamela Kyle, 104 Cui Shu 崔述, 73, 192 Czaplicka, John, 24 “Da Yu mo” 大禹謨 (Counsels of Yu the Great; Documents), 95 Da Zhang 大章 and Shu Hai 豎亥, 208, 282n9 “Dai xiansheng zhuan” 戴先生傳 (The tradition of Master Dai Zhen; Qian Daxin), 214 Dai Ying 戴鎣, 199 Dai Zhen 戴震, 188, 230n37, 231n50, 243n62, 257n4; on antiquity, 100; and Daoxue, 108, 166–67; and Jiang Yong, 87, 148, 149, 150, 270n78; and modernity, 189, 192; and Qian, 64, 74, 78, 182, 185, 186, 214, 239n11; Qian's letter to, 42–43, 60, 158–59, 205–8, 213; on Shuowen, 87, 88, 103; in social networks, 49, 53, 64, 74, 78, 79; social status of, 172, 179; on tropical year, 138, 139, 152; and Western learning, 154–55, 156, 158–59; works by, 13, 108, 139, 141, 199, 222, 250n80, 267n32; and Wuli tongkao, 41, 42 “Dan Yuanzi Butian ge” 丹元子步天歌 ([On] Dan Yuanzi's Songs about the pacing of the heavens), 214 Dao 道 (the Way): of antiquity, 57, 92–97; and Buddhism, 219; of Man (rendao 人 道), 17, 135, 162, 175–76, 180, 195–96; and modernity, 193; and philology, 176–77, 180; Qian on, 195–97; and Ru, 4, 5–7, 17, 168, 181, 229n19; search for (qiudao 求道), 4, 131, 229n19; transmission of (Daotong 道統), 38, 260n66; and Western learning, 184, 188; of Xi and He, 147, 151, 153, 208, 270n74, 274n49. See also Way of Heaven Daoism: and Buddhism, 219, 230n34, 275n25; and identity, 23, 68; in inscriptions, 60, 62; and Qian, 28–29, 68, 116, 170–71, 175; and Ru, 6, 68, 99, 113, 117, 171, 181. See also Laozi Daoxue 道學 (The Learning of the Way), 10, 38, 108, 115, 120; and antiquity vs. present, 93–96; and Buddhism, 230n34, 275n25; and Way of Heaven, 165–67. See also Cheng-Zhu learning

302 Index Daozang 道藏 (Daoist canon), 35, 60, 68 “Dawen” 答問 (Questions and answers; Qian Daxin), 213, 221 daxue 大學 (great learning): vs. xiaoxue, 102–8 Daxue 大學 (Great learning; text), 103, 255n44, 256n54; and antiquity, 94–95, 97; Qian on, 114–15 De Bary, William Theodore, 228n6 Deng Hongbo 邓洪波, 250n82 Deng Xiaoping 鄧小平, 193, 280n46 Diqiutu shuo 地球圖説 (Explanations on the map of the cosmos; Benoist), 45, 213 divination, 28, 29, 56, 57, 165, 275n18; critiques of, 167–68, 170; Qian on, 213– 16; and sciences, 136–37. See also fate Documents (Shangshu 尚書): and antiquity, 94–95; in examples of philological analysis, 109–10; Old Text, 33, 46, 67; Qian on, 63, 65, 114–15, 119, 163, 197, 256n54. See also Shangshu wei Dong Bangda 董邦達, 44 Dong Youcheng 董祐誠, 186, 187 Dong Zhao 董詔, 200 Du Fu 杜甫, 29, 65 Du shi shuangsheng dieyun pu 杜氏雙聲疊 韻譜 (Table of alliteration and assonance in Master Du; Zhou Chun), 65 Du Shuowen ji 讀說文記 (Hui Dong), 87 Du Weiyun 杜維運, 2 Duan Yucai 段玉裁, 91, 105, 112, 239n11, 257n4; on Qian, 161, 181–82; on Shuowen, 87, 88, 89–90, 184; in social networks, 68, 74; works by, 51, 88, 199, 201, 202 Elman, Benjamin A., 3, 4, 23, 73, 95 epitaphs: by Qian, 31, 48, 54, 56, 69, 236n36, 238n63, 241n25, 242n45, 246n29, 248n58, 251n93; for Qian, 35, 87, 237n42, 238n56; and social networks, 25, 50, 58, 74, 77, 78, 79 Erya 爾雅 (Progress toward correctness), 15, 56, 64, 85, 88, 102, 199–204; and Siku quanshu, 103–4 etymology (xungu 訓詁), 51, 66, 79, 102, 104, 121, 181, 242n37 evidential research (kaozheng 考證 / kaoju 考据), 2, 23, 34, 105–6, 107, 167; and Han learning, 11, 14, 80; and modernity, 192, 193; philological rules of, 111; vs. philosophy, 13, 14; and science, 231n53; and Siku quanshu, 85, 104

examination system, 88, 275n18; curriculum of, 25, 38–39, 47, 49, 101; and its centrality for social networks, 25–26, 32, 35–36, 39, 50, 54, 71, 73, 74, 77; and knowledge, 15, 25; and officialdom, 25, 55; and Qian family, 27; Qian's failures in, 30, 32, 35; Qian's paper for, 38, 195–97; Qian's positions in, 46–48, 50, 52, 53, 179, 241n24; Qian's successes in, 31–32, 33, 35, 36, 37–38, 44, 181, 240n19 Fan Maomin 范懋敏, 63 Fang Dongshu 方東樹, 11, 12, 252n103, 277n13 Fang Xuanling (Fang Qiao 房喬), 92, 254n31 Fang yan 方言 (Regional words; Yang Xiong), 35 Fang Yizhi 方以智, 86 fate (ming 命), 14, 17, 18, 28, 135, 163–77, 242n28; Qian on, 218–19 Feng Guifen 馮桂芬, 184 Feng Jiwu 馮集悟, 248n60, 251n92 Feng Youlan 馮友蘭, 189, 190 Fengsu tongyi 風俗通義 (Penetrating the meaning of popular customs; Yin Shao), 65 filial piety, 47, 103, 113, 164, 217–18, 219, 241n25, 265n69 Finnane, Antonia, 104 five human relationships (wulun 五倫), 176, 180, 217, 219 five phases (wuxing 五行), 196, 244n5 forgeries, 63, 95, 106, 180, 247n39 Four Books, 94 “four movements” (si you 四遊) system, 155 friendship, 22, 25, 30–33, 53. See also social networks; particular individuals From Philosophy to Philology (Elman), 3 Fu Renjun 傳仁均, 140 Fu Sinian 傅斯年, 189 Funkenstein, Amos, 192 Furth, Charlotte, 107 Gao Bin 高斌, 36, 74, 245n10 Gao Jin 高晉, 57, 74 gazetteers, local, 63, 70, 77, 262n14 Ge Hong 葛洪, 57 Ge Zhouxiang 戈宙襄, 68, 237n40, 248n62 genealogies, 78, 124, 127, 181, 263n32 Genette, Gerard, 77 geography, 52, 63, 89, 121, 125, 181, 246n37, 262n14 Gong Zizhen 龔自珍, 11, 80

Index 303 Gongsun Long 公孫龍, 206 Gongyang 公羊 commentary, 91 Goossaert, Vincent, 170 governance, 69, 114–15, 173, 181, 193. See also officialdom Grafton, Anthony, 192 Graham, A. C., 7 Grieder, Jerome B., 228n6 Gu Guangqi 顧廣圻, 202 Gu Jiegang 顧頡剛, 279n36 Gu Yanwu 顧炎武, 10, 34, 42, 116, 168, 169, 245n14, 257n4; and antiquity vs. present, 97; on inscriptions, 246n29; and philology, 183–84; Qian on, 66, 67, 84, 102, 181; works by, 84, 88, 252n1 Gu Yewang 顧野王, 253n6 Guangdong 廣東, 53–54 Guangya 廣雅 (Zhang Yi), 49, 52, 85, 87, 111, 112, 242n41, 243n59 Guangya shuyi 廣雅疏義 (Extended meanings of the Guangya; Qian Dazhao), 242n41 Guangya shuzheng 廣雅疏證 (Exegetical evidence on the Guangya; Wang Niansun), 89 Guangyun 廣韻 (Expansion of rhymes), 48, 104 Guanzhong jinshi ji 關中金石記 (Record of bronze and stone from within the pass; Bi Yuan), 61 Guanzi 管子, 103, 258n11 Gui Fu 桂馥, 204 Gujin suishi kao 古今嵗實考 (Examination of the [length] of the tropical year from antiquity to the present; Dai Zhen), 139, 141, 222, 250n80 Gujin tushu jicheng 欽定古今圖書集成 (Imperially decreed complete collection of books and illustrations past and present), 26 Guo Pu 郭璞, 56 Guo Shoujing 郭守敬, 140, 143, 144, 147, 151, 152, 206, 207 Guo Songtao 郭嵩燾, 280n46 Guo Xiang 郭象, 58, 109 Guo Zongchang 郭宗昌, 57 Guodian Chu bamboo slips 郭店楚簡, ix Gushibian 古史辨 (Ancient history debates), 279n36 Guwen Shangshu kao 古文尚書 攷 (Examination of the Old Text Documents; Hui Dong), 33, 46, 67 Guy, R. Kent, 4, 52

Hamaguchi Fujiō 濱口富士雄, 2 Han 漢 dynasty, 1–2, 16, 104; calendrical system in, 140, 155; histories of, 59, 60, 92, 103, 121. See also antiquity Han learning (Hanxue 漢學), 1–2, 11–14, 228n13, 238n51, 252n103; and Classics, 13, 67–68, 79–80; criticism of, 12–13, 264n64, 277n13; and evidential research, 11, 14, 80; and Qian, 182; revival of, 35–36; and Ru identity, 67, 79–80; and Song learning, 11–12, 15, 24, 42, 78–81, 131, 182, 183 Han Xuanzi 韓宣子, 128 Han Yi 韓翊, 140 Handlin, Joanna, 173 Hangzhou 杭州, 49, 59, 70, 88; fall of, 186 Hanlin Academy 翰林院, 8, 26, 40, 43–44, 46–48, 52, 74, 179, 240n19 Hanshu 漢書 (History of the [former] Han; Ban Gu), 92, 103 Hanxue shangdui 漢學商兌 (An assessment of Han learning; Fang Dongshu), 12 Hao Yixing 郝懿行, 202 He Fasheng 何法盛, 58 He Guozong 何國宗, 45, 46, 74, 179 He Yan 何晏, 112, 115 He Zhuo 何焯, 59 Heaven (tian 天), 63, 65, 86, 114; all under (tianxia 天下), 3, 96, 171–77, 195; patterns of (tianwen 天文), 3, 61, 136, 137, 138, 213. See also Way of Heaven Hefang Academy 荷芳書院, 36 heliocentric theory, 46, 76, 134, 154, 156, 187 Heshen 和珅 affair, 69, 129, 130, 249n66 Histories, 118–32; and ancient learning, 58, 117; and antiquity, 184; and Classics, 118–19, 121, 132; and concrete learning, 61; difficulty of, 118–21; dynastic, 59–60, 92, 103, 120, 121, 122–25, 128–30, 262n23; editions of, 121; and philology, 14, 16–17, 85, 86, 131–32, 189; and Qian, 68, 81, 118–20, 181; and Siku quanshu, 53; and Western learning, 155 historiography, 121; modern, 2–4, 11, 14; new (xin shixue 新史學), 12, 189 History of the Jin Restoration (Xi Shao), 58 Hong Kuo 洪适, 50 Hong Liangji 洪亮吉, 4, 9, 179, 201, 230n28, 249n66 Hong Mai 洪邁, 62 Hou Hanshu 後漢書 (History of the Later Han), 60, 121

304 Index Hou Hanshu nianbiao 後漢書年表 (Yearly tables of the later Han history; Xiong Fang), 59 Hu Anguo 胡安國, 196 Hu Chong 胡重, 202 Hu Minghui, 192, 248n55 Hu Sanxing 胡三省, 32 Hu Shi 胡适, 2, 13, 52, 189–90, 231n50 Huainan Tianwen xun buzhu 淮南天文 訓補注 (Further commentaries on the Heavenly patterns teaching of the Huainan; Qian Tang), 61, 136, 213 Huainanzi 淮南子, 136, 214 Huang, Martin W., 8 Huang Kan 皇侃, 112 Huang Peilie 黃丕烈, 44, 46, 70, 88, 123, 204 Huang Rucheng 黃汝成, 222, 250n80, 252n1, 267n32 Huang Wenlian 黃文蓮, 36 Huang Zhong 黃鍾, 246n27 Huang Zongxi 黄宗羲, 259n28 Huangchao jingshi wenbian 皇朝經世文 編 (Collected essays on statecraft of the glorious [Qing] dynasty), 183 Hui Dong 惠棟, 10, 100, 245n15, 257n4; and Qian, 33–34, 35, 66, 67, 74, 87, 88, 181, 238n51; and Shuowen studies, 87, 88; in social networks, 33–36, 38, 57, 66, 74; works by, 33, 46, 67, 87, 202 Hui Shiqi 惠士奇, 34, 238n51 Hui Zhouti 惠周惕, 34 Huihui suanshu 回回算術 (Calculation methods of the Muslims; Qian Daxin), 152–53, 215 Huizi 惠子, 168–69 Huizong 徽宗, Emperor, 130 identity, 3–4, 229n19; Chinese national, 189, 192, 193; and cultural memory, 24, 275n23; Manchu, 18, 23, 104, 180; and Mao Zedong, 193; of Qian, 7, 21–24, 28, 29, 44, 45, 57, 65–66, 81, 124, 130, 138; types of, 23–24 identity, Ru, 6–11; and ancient learning, 45, 46, 66, 79, 86, 99, 181; and antiquity, 16, 57, 66, 67, 69, 81, 86, 92–93, 94, 97, 116, 132, 184; anxieties about, 6, 7–10, 16, 17, 66, 80, 180, 184, 188; and astronomy, 152, 161; and Classics, 48, 66, 67–68, 104; and Daoism, 23, 68; and Han/Song learning, 11, 67, 79–81, 80; and Jesuits, 18, 158, 180; and knowledge, 6–7, 9, 14–15, 17, 22, 42–43, 66, 130–32, 169; and mathematics,

152, 161; and officialdom, 69; vs. Other, 29; and philological turn, 10, 18, 24, 64, 66, 180, 182; and ritual, 169, 172; and science, 60, 138, 149, 152, 158–62, 184–85; and Shuowen studies, 86, 87; and social networks, 42–43, 45, 70–81; and Western learning, 17, 23, 43, 60, 151–62, 180, 184, 188 idle chatter. See qingtan imperial networks, 49, 52, 54, 60–61, 71, 243n56 inborn nature (xing 性), 113–14, 120, 219; Mencius vs. Xunzi on, 174–75, 256n54; Qian on, 196–97; and ritual, 174–75, 176; and Way of Heaven, 135, 163, 164, 165–66 inscriptions, stone and bronze: and ancient learning, 116; Buddhist, 50, 62; catalogs of, 62, 63, 65, 122, 123; and concrete learning, 61–62; Daoist, 60, 62; and manuscripts, 59; Qian's studies of, 45, 49, 51–53, 57, 61, 62, 68, 69, 76, 77, 122, 245n23, 246n29; in Siku quanshu, 103; and social networks, 71, 72, 74, 179 “invited writings,” 73–74, 77–78 Japan, 2, 3, 12, 188, 189 Jartoux, Pierre, 161 Jesuits, 43–44, 151, 273n35, 274n48; and calendrical systems, 144–45, 269n62; and Jiang-Mei dispute, 148, 149; and Ru identity, 18, 158, 180; and science, 17–18, 159–60, 184, 265n6 Ji Yun 紀昀, 37, 42–43, 44, 78, 153, 205, 239n11, 241n25 Jiading Qian Daxin quanji 嘉定錢大昕全 集 (The entire collected writings of Qian Daxin of Jiading), 221–24 Jiading 嘉定, 26, 28–30, 35–37, 50, 54–56, 61–62, 170; massacre in, 235n22, 236n29 Jiang Fan 江藩, 5, 11, 182, 228n13, 242n35, 252n103 Jiang He 蔣和, 202 Jiang Sheng 江聲, 204 Jiang Shiquan 蔣士銓, 64 “Jiang xiansheng zhuan” 江先生傳 (The tradition of Master Jiang Yong; Qian Daxin), 214 Jiang Yong 江永, 41, 42, 257n4; and Dai Zhen, 87, 148, 149, 150, 270n78; vs. Mei Wending, 43, 146–54, 159, 161, 205–8; and Qian, 148–49, 150–54, 185, 186, 205–8, 214; and Westerners, 150–54 Jiang Yuan 江沅, 202

Index 305 Jiangnan region, 8, 15, 26–27, 32, 43, 54, 76–77, 146 Jiao Xun 焦循, 69, 101–2, 165–66, 241n22, 249n74, 272n32 Jijie 集解 commentary (on Analects), 112 Jing Bo 敬播, 92, 254n31 Jing Fang 京房, 237n47 Jingdian shiwen 經典釋文 (Textual explanations of the Classics; Lu Deming), 35 Jingdian wenzi kaoyi 經典文字考異 (Examination of variants in the written characters of the Classics; Qian Daxin), 108 Jingji zuangu 經籍纂詁 (Collected glosses on the Classics; Ruan Yuan), 69 Jingyi zaji 經義雜記 (Various records on the meaning of the Classics; Zang Lin), 66, 69, 102 Jingyi zhixin ji 知新記 (Record of knowing the new; Wang Zhong), 106 Jinshi lu 金石錄 (Records of bronze and stone; Zhao Mingcheng), 71, 72 Jinshi shi 金石史 (History of bronze and stone; Guo Zongchang), 57 Jinshi wen bawei 金石文跋尾 (Postscripts to stone and bronze inscriptions; Qian Daxin), 52, 61, 69, 122 Jinshi wenzi mulu 金石文字目錄 (catalogue of stone and bronze inscriptions; Qian Daxin), 62, 122 Jiujing guyi 九經古義 (Hui Dong), 46 Kafka, Franz, 277n52 Kaiming jing 開名經, 57 Kang Youwei 康有爲, 11–12, 230n37 Kangxi emperor, 152, 274n48 Kant, Immanuel, 191, 228n6 Kepler, Johannes, 144, 187 knowledge: and antiquity, 16, 17, 91–93, 94, 102–3, 116, 130, 177, 190; and case genre, 107, 108; categories of, 103–5, 191, 266n22; circulation of, 59, 73; and examination system, 15, 25; innate (良知), 94; limits of, 17, 163, 169, 272n18; mapping of, 168–69; and modernity, 191, 193; new (xinzhi 新知), 95–96, 97, 190; and power, 7, 17, 22, 25; practical, 81, 107, 132, 136, 180; production of, 22, 24–25, 71, 73, 76; professional, 106–7; as progressive vs. static, 156, 159, 160, 161; and Ru identity, 6–7, 9, 14–15, 17, 22, 42–43, 66, 130–32, 169; scientific, 12, 149, 156, 159–60; and

Shuowen studies, 87, 90; and social networks, 14–15, 50, 54, 191; transmission of, 102–3; and truth, 7, 100, 180, 182, 188, 191, 193; valid, 5, 85–86, 90, 97, 116, 130–32, 159, 161; of Way of Heaven, 163, 164; and Western learning, 10, 12, 154–58, 161, 272n18. See also shishi qiushi Kondo Mitsuo 近藤光男, 2 Kong Guangju 孔廣居, 200 Kong Yinda 孔颖达, 196 Kuhn, Thomas, 191 Kunxue jiwen 困學紀聞 (Record of stories from arduous learning; Wang Yinglin), 108, 245n15, 250n77 Laozi, 115, 116, 163, 176, 181, 219, 260n66 Learning of the Way. See Neo-Confucianism legal case genre, 106, 107 letter writing, 5, 25, 42–43, 51, 52, 54, 71, 73 Levenson, Joseph R., 231n53 Li Bo 李白, 29 Li Chong 李充, 119 Li Chunfeng 李淳風, 140 Li Defang 李德芳, 144 Li Fusun 李富孫, 202 Li Gengyun 李賡芸, 62 Li Hongzao 李鴻藻, 184 Li Hongzhang 李鴻章, 184 Li Rui 李銳, 44, 157, 185, 191, 212, 241n22 Li Shanlan 李善蘭, 186–87, 188 Li Si 李斯, 150, 282n6 Li Tao 李燾, 86 Li Wei 李威, 204 Li Wenzao 李文藻, 46, 50, 52, 56, 60, 74 Li Yexing 李業興, 140 Li Youxin 李佑新, 280n46 Li Yuan 李遠, 241n25 Li Zhaoluo 李兆洛, 252n1 Li Zhicai 李之才, 276n51 Li Zuwang 李祖望, 184 li 理 (principle), 38, 94, 114–15, 165, 197; and ritual, 173, 174, 176. See also “meanings and principles” Liang Qichao 梁啟超, 2, 12, 13, 86–87, 189 Liang Tongshu 梁同書, 204 Liang Yunchang 梁運昌, 203 Liang Yusheng 梁玉繩, 64 libraries, 32, 247n38; and social networks, 15, 21, 58, 63, 64, 68, 70, 73, 74, 77, 78, 179 Liji 禮記 (Record of Rites), 63, 65, 93, 96, 113, 128, 171 Lin Shangzi 林上梓, 30 Ling Tingkan 凌廷堪, 69, 179

306 Index literati (shi 士 ), ix, 9, 131, 175; vs. Ru, 7, 130, 228n15 Liu Chao 劉焯, 140 Liu Hong 劉洪, 140, 281n2 Liu Hui 劉徽, 211 Liu Tong 劉桐, 70 Liu Tongxun 劉統勳, 50 Liu Xin 劉歆, 140, 211 Liulichang 琉璃廠 book market, 44–45, 51, 241n25 liushu 六書 (six ways of written character formation), 103, 110, 111, 181 Lixue dawen 曆學答問 (Questions and: answers about calendrical learning; Mei Wending), 137 Lixue pianzhi 暦學駢枝 (Superfluous notes on calendrical learning; Mei Wending), 146 Loudong Academy 婁東書院, 60, 62, 64 Lu Deming 陸德明, 35 Lu Jiuyuan 陸九淵, 255n42 Lü Kun 呂坤, 173 Lu Wenchao 盧文弨, 41, 60, 65, 174, 200, 204, 214, 249n74 Lu Yu 陸游 (Fangweng 放翁), 50 “Lun Xili yuanliu ben chu Zhongtu ji Zhoubi zhi xue” 論西歷源流本出中土 即周髀之學 (Discussion of the origin and spread of the Western calendar...; Mei Wending), 160 Lun Zhongguo xueshu sixiang bianqian zhi dashi 論中國學術思想變遷之大勢 (Essay on the general trend of changes in Chinese thought and learning; Liang Qichao), 12 Luo Binglang 罗炳良, 121 Luo Shilin 羅士琳, 185–86 Ma Duanlin 馬端臨, 33 Manchus: identity of, 18, 23, 104, 180; rule by, 10, 18, 44. See also Qing dynasty Mann, Susan, 4 manuscripts, handwritten, 2, 59, 73, 88, 243n54 Mao Jin 毛晉, 201 Mao Jisheng 毛際盛, 200, 252n1 Mao Yi 毛扆, 201 Mao Yuesheng 毛嶽生, 84, 222, 250n80, 252n1, 267n32 Mao Zedong, 193, 280n46 Marxism, 22 mathematics, 14, 17, 192, 265n6; and ancient learning, 132, 157–58, 160, 212; Chinese

vs. Western, 274n49; and Qian, 37, 45, 136, 157, 163, 185, 186, 211–12, 213–16; and Ru identity, 152, 161; and technology, 187; value of π in, 157, 161, 186, 211–12, 214; in Western learning, 37, 43, 45, 60, 153, 156–59, 184, 186–87 “meanings and principles” (yili 義理), 3; in Classics, 95, 112–17; and Han scholars, 67–68; in philology, 16, 69, 102–3, 105, 111, 112–17, 131, 182, 183; and ritual, 174–75 medical case genre, 106, 107 Mei Juecheng 梅瑴成, 146–49, 208, 269n63 Mei Wending 梅文鼎: and calendrical systems, 137, 143, 145, 146, 160; vs. Jiang Yong, 43, 146–54, 159, 161, 205–8; and Qian, 37, 42, 43, 45, 138, 143, 185; and Western learning, 138, 151, 158, 160–61, 188, 269n70 Mencius (Mengzi 孟子), 29, 38, 113, 155, 257n2; and antiquity, 96, 98; commentaries on, 101–2; on fate, 164, 165; and “idle chatter,” 116; on inborn nature, 174–75, 256n54; and Wang Anshi, 129; on Way of Heaven, 163, 165–66, 176 Meng Yue, 186 Mengzi zhangju jizhu 孟子章句集注 (Collected commentaries by chapter and verse on the Mencius; Zhu Xi), 101–2 Mengzi zhengyi 孟子正義 (The correct meanings of the Mencius; Jiao Xun), 101–2 Mengzi ziyi shuzheng 孟子字義疏證 (Analysis of the meaning of the terms in the Mengzi; Dai Zhen), 13 Merton, Robert K., 23 Min Zhongcheng 閔中丞, 64 Ming 明 dynasty, 3, 7, 16, 32; calendrical system in, 143, 146; and ritual, 172; Ru in, 69, 116, 131, 156; Xinxue in, 10, 93 Minggatu (Ming Antu 明安圖), 161 mingjiao 名教 (doctrine of names), 44, 240n15 modern learning (jinxue 今學), 91, 232n55 modernity, 3, 188–93; vs. antiquity, 90, 93–97, 193; Chinese, 192; and Classics, 189, 192, 193; European, 192; vs. Han learning, 14; and philological turn, 18, 188–90; Western, 12 Möngke Khan, 125 Mongolian language, 122, 123, 124 Mongols, 122; Dzungar, 44, 46. See also Yuan dynasty Mozi, 115, 191, 219, 244n68

Index 307 Muslim learning, 138, 143, 152, 190, 207, 259n24, 272n20; and Western learning, 154–55, 209 Mysterious Learning (Xuanxue 玄學), 115 Naitō Konan 内藤湖南, 2 names, rectification of, 121, 122–25. See also mingjiao Nanxun shengdian 南巡盛典 (Account of the southern tours), 61 “Nayin shuo” 納音說 (Explanation of the correlation of sounds; Qian Daxin), 57 nayin 納音 sound system, 57 Needham, Joseph, 141, 273n41 Neo-Confucianism, 7, 10, 34, 114–15. See also Cheng-Zhu learning; Daoxue New Text (jinwen 今文) learning, 183 Ni Chengkuan 倪承寬, 244n65 Nianer shi kaoyi 廿二史考異 (Examination of variances in the twenty-two histories; Qian Daxin), 32, 50, 59, 62, 68; methodology of, 121, 127; preface to, 58, 61, 118, 119; on Yuan shi, 122, 124, 125 Nianer shi zhaji 廿二史劄記 (Notes on the twenty-two histories; Zhao Yi), 69, 119, 131 Nianpu 年譜 (Qian Daxin), 25, 32, 52, 62, 233n11 Niu Shuyu 鈕樹玉, 201, 202 Nivison, David S., 9, 52 “notation books” 劄記册子, 73–74, 84, 106, 108, 125 numerology (shushu 術數), 136, 137 Nylan, Michael, 127–28 Odes (Shijing 詩經), 48, 51, 63, 65, 88, 114; and antiquity vs. present, 98–99; vs. Histories, 119; Mao Commentary to, 109–10, 111 officialdom, 25, 41, 47, 116, 179; and academies, 55, 244n1, 250n82; and Qian, 30, 40, 54, 57, 68–69; and social networks, 53, 74 Ögödei, 123 “On saূsāra” (lunhui lun 輪迴論; Qian Daxin), 168, 217–20 Ong Khan (Wang Han 汪罕／王汗), 124 opium trade, 152, 277n13 Opium Wars, 184, 186 Orthodox School, 13 Oubei ji 甌北集 (Zhao Yi), 65 Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修, 99, 246n29

paleography (wenzi 文字), 70, 78, 115, 242n37; and philology, 79, 102, 104–5; and Qian, 13, 51, 66, 111, 114, 121, 181 Pan Yijun 潘奕雋, 68, 200 paratexts, 59, 89, 107, 128; defined, 77–78; and social networks, 69, 71, 73, 77–78, 270n77 patronage, 18, 42, 43, 50, 54, 74 Peterson, Willard J., 168–69 philological turn, 2–4, 7, 131, 172, 184; and antiquity, 132, 161; and Beijing, 54; defined, 10; development of, 15–16, 18; dominance of, 58, 70; and knowledge, 102; and modernity, 18, 188–90; opposition to, 2, 3, 21, 70; and Qian's career, 55–64; as revolution, 18, 190–91; and ritual, 171, 174; and Ru identity, 10, 18, 24, 64, 66, 180, 182; and Shuowen, 51, 90; and social networks, 14, 43, 45, 50, 179 philologists (kaozhengjia 考證家, xiaoxuejia 小學家), 2, 21, 24, 40–54, 70 philology: aids to, 85–86, 87, 88, 103, 191; components of, 89–90; criticism of, 2, 3, 64; defined, 2; dominance of, 58, 179–84; funding for, 21; historical, 118–32; institutionalization of, 23, 64–70; methodology of, 76, 86, 99, 108–11, 127–28, 180; terminology of, 126–28 philosophy, 3, 4, 11, 12–13, 14, 277n10 phonology (shengyin 聲音), 51, 66, 79, 181, 242n37; of antiquity, 78, 111; of Classics, 132; and meanings, 112, 115; and transliterations, 124–25, 126; works on, 48, 88; in xiaoxue, 102, 104, 105 Pi Yanzong 皮延宗, 211 Pi Zao 裨灶, 164 plagiarism, 58, 245n16, 273n37 poetry, 30, 36, 49, 53, 124, 246n35, 251n97; by Qian, 33, 44, 46, 47. See also Odes Pollock, Sheldon, 2 postal service, 74 “praise and blame” 褒貶, 118–19, 120, 127, 128–30 Prajñāpāramitā H‫܀‬daya Sūtra (The heart of the perfection of wisdom sutra), 49 “Preface to the Odes” (Shixu 詩序), 98–99 print culture, 73 printing, 4, 46, 52, 54, 74, 257n3 publishing, 10, 15, 59, 69, 70, 74, 88–89 Qi Xuebiao 戚學標, 201 Qi Zhaonan 齊召南, 199

308 Index Qian Daxin 錢大昕, 4, 5; in Beijing, 36–39, 40–46, 51–54, 65, 76, 77; career of, 8–9, 31–39; emotional involvment of, 126, 129, 132; examination paper of, 38, 195–97; and examination system, 25, 30, 31–38, 44, 46–48, 50, 52, 53, 179, 181, 240n19, 241n24; extensive learning of, 181–82; family of, 26–30, 31, 236n31; honors for, 55–56; identity of, 7, 21–22, 23, 24, 28, 29, 44, 45, 57, 65–66, 81, 124, 130, 138; in Jiading, 26, 28–30, 35–37, 50, 54–56, 61–62, 170; on Jiang-Mei dispute, 150–54; letter to Dai Zhen by, 42–43, 60, 158–59, 205–8, 213; methodology of, 13, 108–11, 121, 127–28, 138; mother of, 55–56, 58, 61, 62; and new knowledge, 95–96; Nianpu of, 25, 32, 52, 62, 233n11; opinions on, 14, 161, 181–82, 185, 243n62; portrait of, 20; praise and blame by, 128–30; rhetorical questions of, 126–27; sources for works of, 123, 221–24; as student, 31–34; travels of, 46–50, 51, 54, 55, 56–57, 68, 70, 75, 77; works by, 37, 40, 50, 52, 57, 61, 62, 64, 68–70, 95, 108, 122, 128, 137, 152–53, 157, 183, 213–16, 221, 236n34, 242n41, 263n32. See also Nianer shi kaoyi Qian Dazhao 錢大昭 (brother), 48–49, 70, 200, 203, 243n50 Qian Dian 錢坫, 52, 200 Qian Dongshu 錢東塾 (son), 221 Qian family ancestral hall, 56 Qian Guifa 錢桂發 (father), 27–28, 29–30, 31, 48, 54, 55 Qian Huizhi 錢晦之 (son), 59 Qian Mu 錢穆, 2 Qian Qi 錢岐 (great-grandfather), 235n21, 236n31 Qian Qingzeng 錢慶曾 (great-grandson), 25 Qian Shiguang 錢師光 (grandson), 221 Qian Shishen 錢師慎 (grandson), 203 Qian Tang 錢塘, 50, 52, 61, 64, 78, 157, 203, 212, 243n50 Qian Wangjiong 錢王炯 (grandfather), 27–29, 30, 38, 181, 235n22 Qian Weicheng 錢維城, 38, 63 Qian Weiqiao 錢維喬, 63, 239n68, 246n35 Qian Zi 錢鎡 (ancestor), 26, 234n16 Qian-Jia 乾嘉 era scholarship, 1, 5, 11, 12, 18, 173, 187, 189; and Gu Yanwu, 183–84; on Shuowen, 87, 89 Qianlong 乾隆 emperor, 104, 116, 152, 158, 172, 250n82

Qianyan tang ji 潛研堂集 (Collected writings of the Hall of Subtle Research; Qian Daxin), 161 Qianyan tang quanshu 潛研堂全書 (Complete writings from the Hall of Subtle Research; Qian Daxin), 221 Qianyan tang wenji 潛研堂文集 (Collected writings of the Hall of Subtle Research; Qian Daxin), 122, 128, 181, 222 Qin dynasty: book burning in, 16, 93, 102, 136, 175, 257n5, 278n23; calendrical system from, 141 Qin Huitian 秦蕙田, 40–43, 45, 48, 74, 88, 148, 205, 239n11, 243n53 Qin Jiushao 秦九韶, 157, 158, 212, 254n28 Qing 清 dynasty, 9, 32, 93, 172; calendrical systems in, 144–45; opposition to, 184, 235n22; philological turn in, 2–4 “Qingdai Hanxuejia de kexue fangfa” 清 代漢學家的科學方法 (The scientific method of Qing dynasty Han learning scholars; Hu Shi), 13 Qingdai xueshu gailun 清代學術概論 (Outline of Qing period scholarship; Liang Qichao), 13 Qingshi gao 清史稿 (Draft of the Qing history), 144 qingtan 清談 (idle chatter), 115–16, 175, 254n35, 261n73 Qiu Yuexiu 裘曰修, 44 Qu Zhongru 瞿中溶, 68 Quan Zuwang 全祖望, 168, 245n15 Rehe local history (Rehe zhi 熱河志), 44 Reineck, Reiner, 263n32 religion, 10, 56, 139, 170; and ritual, 23, 175. See also Christianity; Jesuits Ren Jizhen 任基振, 199 Rho, Giacomo, 45 Ricci, Matteo, 45, 159 Rites. See Liji; Zhouli ritual (li 禮), 4, 14, 16–18, 156, 164, 171–77, 191; to ancestors, 56, 218; and emotions (qing 情), 93, 115, 173, 174, 175; and meanings, 113–14; and Qian, 45, 218; and women, 172–73. See also Wuli tongkao Rizhilu 日知錄 (Record of knowledge gained day by day; Gu Yanwu), 84, 252n1 “Rongjing tang ji” 蓉鏡堂記 (Record of the Hall Mirroring the Lotus; Qian Daxin), 236n34 Rorty, Richard, 180 Rowe, William T., 4, 9, 173

Index 309 Ru 儒, 3–10; and Buddhism, 6, 35, 99, 113, 180, 181, 230n34; and Cheng-Zhu learning, 10, 78; comprehensive (tong Ru 通儒), 67, 86, 248n55; cultural memory of, 24, 275n23; Dao of, 4, 5–7, 17, 48, 168, 181, 229n19; and Daoism, 6, 35, 68, 99, 113, 117, 171, 181; and divination, 168; former (xian Ru 先儒), 98, 99, 219; Han, 66, 67, 69, 97, 98, 102, 248n59; and history, 120, 132; and Jesuits, 273n35; Jin, 69; later (hou Ru 後儒), 6, 65, 93, 97, 98–99, 130, 132, 155, 158, 177, 197; vs. literati, 7, 130, 228n15; Ming, 69, 116, 131, 156; and modernity, 189, 192–93; and politics, 34; practical knowledge of, 81; pretending (mao Ru 貌儒), 6, 66, 99; previous (xian Ru 先儒), 6, 130, 197; Qian's criticism of, 67, 112–14; and rupture with antiquity, 16, 38, 89–90, 116, 127–28, 132, 175, 177; sincere (xun Ru 洵 儒), 6, 69; Song, 69, 98, 112–14, 116, 197; and team projects, 41–43, 45, 48, 54, 63, 68–71, 73, 76–77, 157; true (zhen Ru 真 儒), 6, 64, 66, 78, 99, 102, 158, 177, 180, 181; “us” (wu Ru 吾儒), 6, 29, 30, 99, 181, 184, 256n75; vulgar (su Ru 俗儒), 6, 35, 63–64, 66, 99; and Way of Heaven, 169– 70; and Western learning, 17, 23, 150–54, 161, 180, 184. See also identity, Ru Ruan Yuan 阮元, 148, 179, 182, 185, 202, 249n72; in social networks, 69–71, 249n74; and Western learning, 156, 187 Rulin waishi 儒林外史 (The Scholars; Wu Jingzi), 7–8, 9 “Runyue shuo” 閏月說 (Explanation of the intercalary month; Qian Daxin), 213 Saddharma Pu۬‫ڲ‬arīka Sūtra 妙法蓮華 經 (Sutra on the lotus of the sublime dharma), 50 saূsāra (transmigration of souls), 164, 168, 217–20 Sanjing xinyi 三經新義 (New meanings of the three classics; Wang Anshi), 119–20 Santongshu yan 三統術衍 (Developing the technique of the triple concordance; Qian Daxin), 37, 40, 70, 213 Sayer, Andrew, 22 Sazai 薩載, 61 Scaliger, Joseph, 139 Schall, Adam, 45 scholasticism, 190, 192 Schreck, Johann (Terrentius), 282n3

science, 135–49, 241n21; categories of, 135–38; in Chinese vs. Western learning, 184–88, 273n41; and culture, 150–54; and divination, 136–37; vs. evidential research, 231n53; historical approach to, 14, 138; and identity, 152, 159; and Jesuits, 17–18, 159–60, 184, 265n6; and modernity, 189, 191, 192, 193; and Qian, 137–38, 186; revolution in, 191–92; and Ru identity, 60, 138, 149, 152, 158–62, 184–85; and social networks, 45–46; spirit of (kexue zhi qingshen 科學之精 神), 12, 13, 14; and technology, 153–54, 158; and textualism, 81, 161–62, 180; and Way of Heaven, 18, 135; in Western learning, 43–44, 138, 154–58, 184–88. See also astronomy; calendrical studies; mathematics Self-Strengthening Movement, 184, 187 Senggüm, 124 Shang Wei, 8, 271n14 Shang Yang 商鞅, 129 Shangshu wei 尚書緯 (The woof of the documents), 155, 209 Shao Jinhan 邵晉涵, 88, 200, 248n60, 249n74; in social networks, 49, 51, 53, 59, 64, 65, 68, 74 Shao Ying 邵瑛, 202 Shao Yong 邵雍, 276n51 Shen Dacheng 沈大成, 37, 202 Shen Deqian 沈德潛, 35–36 Shen Kuo 沈括, 57 Shen Tong 沈彤, 33, 35 Shen Zupei 沈組佩 (uncle), 28 Sheng Bai’er 盛百二, 134, 161, 274n49 Shengwu qinzheng lu 聖武親征錄 (Records of the personal campaigns of the sage warriors), 123 Shenzong 神宗, Emperor, 128–29 Shiji 史記 (Records of the historian; Sima Qian), 64, 92, 127–28 Shiji zhiyi 史記志疑 (Determining doubts in the records of the historian; Liang Yusheng), 64 Shijiazhai yangxin lu 十駕齋養新錄 (Records of the cultivation of the new from the study of the ten yokes; Qian Daxin), 69, 70, 95, 106, 108, 122, 128 Shijing yunpu 詩經韻譜 (Rhyming groups in the Odes; Duan Yucai), 51, 88 Shiming 釋名 (Explanation of names), 35 Shiqi shi shangque (Wang Mingsheng), 79, 131

310

Index

shishi qiushi 實事求是 (search for the truth in solid facts), 64, 66, 67, 79, 116, 180, 185, 189, 193, 246n25, 280n46 Shiwei 世緯 (The weft of the world; Yuan Zhi), 65 Shiwen 釋文, 112 Shun (sage-king), 129, 155, 164 Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 (Analysis of simple graphs as an explanation of complex characters; Xu Shen), 15, 35, 86–90; philological analysis of, 109, 110, 189; and philological turn, 51, 90; and Qian, 51, 56, 67, 76, 87–88, 181, 184, 199, 203; rising importance of, 64, 85, 86–90; and Siku quanshu, 103–4; studies of, 184, 192, 199–204; Wang Mingsheng on, 86–87, 89, 90, 103, 105, 199; in Zhu Xi vs. Jiao Xun, 101–2 Shuowen xizhuan (Appended commentary to the Shuowen; Xu Jie), 88 Shuowen yinjing kao (Examination of Shuowen quotations of the Classics; Cheng Jisheng), 87, 89 Shuxue jiuzhang 數學九章 (The nine chapters on the learning of numbers; Qin Jiushao), 181, 212, 214, 272n32 Shuxue 數學 (Calculations; Jiang Yong), 42 Shuxue 述學 (Discourses on learning; Wang Zhong), 79 Siku quanshu 四庫全書 (The complete collection of the Four Treasures), 4, 49, 85, 105, 148, 159; categories in, 103–4, 131, 137, 265n9; and Qian, 52–53, 116 Sima Guang 司馬光, 32, 67, 79, 99, 118, 120–21, 129–30, 237n41 Sima Xiangru 司馬相如, 98 Sino-Japanese War, 188 Sishi shuorun kao 四史朔閏考 (Examination of the first day of the month and intercalary months in the four histories; Qian Daxin), 68 Smith, Richard J., 167 social networks, 21–81, 86, 107; and academies, 15, 21, 26, 73, 77, 181; and ancient learning, 33, 38–39; in Beijing, 15, 40–46, 53, 54, 77, 88; bibliophiles in, 44, 45, 46, 56, 59, 68, 70, 73, 77, 179; and examination system, 25–26, 32, 35–36, 39, 50, 54, 71, 73, 74, 77; exclusions from, 25; and imperial family, 49, 52, 54, 60–61, 71, 243n56; infrastructure of, 73–74, 89; and knowledge, 14–15, 50, 54, 191; methods of analysis of, 21–26; and philological turn,

14, 43, 45, 50, 179; of Qian, 14–15, 21, 25, 26, 31–34, 35–36, 45, 51–54, 71, 74–76, 77, 105, 181; of Qian's family, 28–30; and Ru identity, 42–43, 45, 70–81; and Shuowen studies, 87, 88, 89; and team projects, 41–43, 45, 48, 54, 63, 68–71, 73, 76–77, 157; and travel, 15, 26, 73, 74 Song Bao 宋保, 201 Song Jian 宋鑒, 202 Song Jingye 宋景業, 140 Song learning (Songxue 宋學), 29, 38, 117, 252n103; critiques of, 34–35; and Han learning, 11–12, 15, 24, 42, 78–81, 131, 182, 183 Song Liao Jin Yuan sishi shuorun kao 宋 遼金元四史朔閏考 (Examination of lunations and intercalations in the four histories of the Song, Liao, Jin, and Yuan; Qian Daxin), 122 Song 宋 dynasty, 10, 16, 93, 105, 111, 175; calendrical system in, 140; histories of, 120, 128–30; and Qian, 50, 247n54 Spring and Autumn annals, 63 statecraft (jingshi 經世), 183–84, 193 Stone Classics, 112 Su Dongpo, 29 Su Shi, 129 “substance and practice” (youti youyong 有體有用), 65, 69 Sui History, 103 Sui shu 隋書 (Records of the Sui dynasty), 157 Sui 隋 dynasty, 140, 141 Sun Kaiping 孫開萍, 222 Sun Xianjun 孫顯軍, 223 Sun Xingyan 孫星衍, 60, 68, 90, 116–17, 131, 200, 214, 221 Sun Yan 孫炎, 56 Sun Yongru 孫永如, 222 Taiji tushuo (Zhou Dunyi), 197 Taiping Rebellion, 184, 186, 192 “Taiyi tongzong baojian” 大[太]乙統宗 寶鑒 (The Precious mirror for the systematic treatise on the Taiyi; Qian Daxin), 137, 214 Tan Sitong 譚嗣同, 280n46 Tan Tai 談泰, 60, 74, 156, 185, 213 Tang shijing kaoyi 唐石經考異 (Examination of variants in the Tang stone Classics; Qian Daxin), 108 Tang Zhongmian 唐仲冕, 174, 254n33 Tang 唐 dynasty, 103, 140, 141, 175

Index Tao Zongyi 陶宗儀, 57 textualism, 4, 180, 190 Thackray, Arnold, 23 Thirteen Classics, 35 Tian Hanyun 田漢雲, 222, 223 Tianwen suanfa 天文算法 (astronomy and mathematics), 137 Tianyige 天一閣 Library, 63, 64, 77, 247n38 Tong Lam, 193 Tongcheng 桐城 school, 12 Tongshu 通書 (Zhou Dunyi), 197 Tongya 通雅 (Fang Yizhi), 86 Tongzhi 通志 (Qing Comprehensive annals), 52 utilitarianism 功利主義, 231n41 Vandermoere, Frederic, 23 Vanderstraeten, Raf, 23 Vankeerberghen, Griet, 127–28 Verbiest, Ferdinand, 145, 158 Wan Sitong 萬斯同, 257n4 Wang Anshi 王安石, 119–20, 128–30, 264n64 Wang Bi 王弼, 115 Wang Chang 王昶, 31–32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 57, 68, 202, 203, 237n42, 248n59; poetry of, 251n97; and Shuowen studies, 87, 89 Wang Erda 王爾達, 29, 31, 38, 181 Wang Fan 王蕃, 211 Wang Huizu 汪輝祖, 59 Wang Jie 王杰, 47 Wang Jilu 王记录, 123 Wang Jun 王峻, 33 Wang Kai 汪楷, 59 Wang Lai 汪萊, 187, 201 Wang Mingshao 王鳴韶, 237n38, 249n74 Wang Mingsheng 王鳴盛, 5, 179, 237n42, 239n11, 257n4, 258n22; notation book of, 108; on Shuowen, 86–87, 89, 90, 103, 105, 199; in social networks, 29, 31, 32, 33, 36, 37, 50, 53, 66, 79, 249n74; on truth and antiquity, 100; works by, 79, 106, 131, 202, 203; and Wuli tongkao, 41 Wang Niansun 王念孫, 79, 89, 112, 203, 252n101 Wang Pang 王旁, 129 Wang Qufei 王去非, 110 Wang Shizhen 王世貞, 62, 246n34 Wang Shunying 王順媖 (Qian's wife), 31, 37, 50, 55 Wang Tao 王韜, 186

311

Wang Tingyu 汪廷璵, 52 Wang Xian 汪憲, 88 Wang Xishan 王錫闡, 145 Wang Xu 王煦, 202 Wang Yangming 王陽明, 116, 254n35 Wang Yi 王禕, 125 Wang Yinglin 王應麟, 58, 62, 91, 108, 110, 214, 245n15, 250n77 Wang Yirou 益柔, 118 Wang Yongping 王永平, 222 Wang Youdun 汪由敦, 44 Wang Yushu 王玉樹, 201 Wang Zhao 汪炤, 57 Wang Zhiyi 汪志伊, 167, 170, 249n73 Wang Zhong 汪中, 79, 106, 174, 246n26 Wann-Sheng, Horng, 185 Way of Heaven (tiandao 天道), 17, 18, 162; and fate, 163–71; and philology, 165, 166, 180; Qian on, 195–96, 206; and ritual, 174–75, 175–76; and science, 18, 135 Wei dynasty, 140 Wei Hong 衛宏, 98 Wei Yuan 魏源, 11, 183, 280n46 Wei Zheng 魏徵, 282n2 Wen 文, King, 155, 164 Wendi jiujie baojing 文帝救劫寳經 (Precious scripture by the civil emperor, on saving humans from the kalpa), 170 Weng Fanggang 翁方綱, 183, 249n74 Wenxian tongkao 文獻通考 (Comprehensive examination of documents; Ma Duanlin), 33 Wenxuan 文選 (Selections of refined literature), 91 Wenzi tang ji 問字堂集 (The collected writings of the Hall of Questioning Characters; Sun Xingyan), 90 Western learning: and ancient learning, 132, 150–62, 187; and antiquity, 60, 151–52, 154–58, 159, 160, 161, 184–88, 206, 207; on astronomy, 43–44, 132, 138, 142, 145, 147–48, 151, 153, 154, 156, 158–61, 184, 187, 209, 210; calendrical studies in, 132, 134, 142, 144–46, 152, 154, 160, 180, 184, 205–8; and Chinese arts, 10, 158, 170, 180; vs. Chinese learning, 80–81, 132, 134, 142, 144–46, 152, 154, 160, 180, 184–88, 274n49; Chinese origins of (Xixue Zhongyuan), 43, 138, 151, 152, 155, 156, 160, 161, 186, 187–88, 266n30, 274n48; and Christianity, 151, 153, 154, 159–60; and Jiang-Mei dispute, 147, 148; and knowledge, 10, 12, 154–58, 161, 272n18;

312

Index

Western learning (continued ) mathematics in, 37, 43, 45, 60, 153, 156–59, 184, 186–87, 211–12; methods of, 184–88, 207; and Muslim learning, 154– 55, 209; and Qian, 42–43, 45, 132, 151–54, 186; and Ru, 17, 23, 43, 60, 150–62, 180, 184, 188; science in, 43–44, 138, 154–62, 184–88; and social networks, 45–46; and technology, 153–54; as threat, 43–44, 152, 158, 188; and Way of Heaven, 169–70 Wu Jingzi 吳敬梓, 7–8, 9, 238n59 Wu Lang 吳烺, 37, 138 Wu Lingyun 吳夌雲, 204 Wu Qiuyan 吾邱衍, 86 Wu Tailai 吳泰來, 36 Wu Xingqin 吳省欽, 36 Wu Yingfang 吳穎芳, 204 Wu Yu 吳棫, 257n4 Wu Yujin 吳玉搢, 199 Wu Yunzheng 吳雲蒸, 202 Wu Zhao 吳照, 200 Wuli tongkao 五禮通考 (Comprehensive examination of the five rites; Qin Huitian), 40–42, 48, 60, 148, 159, 171 “Wuzhong qizi shixuan” 吳中七子詩 選 (Selection of poems by the seven students of the Wu [region]), 36 Xi and He 羲和, 147, 151, 153, 208, 270n74, 274n49 Xi Shao 郗紹, 58 Xi Shichang 席世昌, 203 Xiang Xiu 向秀, 58 xiaoxue 小學 (minute learning), 2, 48, 242n37, 258n22; vs. daxue, 102–8. See also philology xiaoxue kao 小學攷 (Examination of philology; Xie Qikun), 67, 78, 79, 89 Xiaoxue leibian 小學類編 (Categories collection of philology; Li Zuwang), 184 Xie Qikun 謝啓昆, 67, 78, 89, 249n74 Xie Wuliang 謝無量, 13 Xie Yong 謝墉, 65, 174, 204 Ximing 西銘 (Zhang Zai), 197 Xin jing yi 新經義 (New meanings of the Classics; Wang Anshi), 128 Xing Ruren 邢孺人, 241n25 “Xingjing” 星經 ([On] the Classic of heavenly bodies; Qian Daxin), 214 “Xingming suoyan” 星命瑣言 (Trivial words on fate; Qian Wangjiong), 28 Xinxue 心學 (Learning of the Heart), 10, 93–96, 115, 169

Xiong Fang 熊方, 59 Xixue Zhongyuan (Western learning, Chinese origins), 43, 138, 151, 152, 155, 156, 160, 161, 186, 187–88, 266n30, 274n48 Xu Guangqi 徐光啓, 159–60 Xu Jie 徐鍇, 88 Xu Kai 徐鍇, 86 Xu Shen 許慎, 35, 56, 67, 90 Xu Wenfan 徐文范, 246n37 Xu wenxian tongkao 續文獻通考 (Continued comprehensive analysis of archival sources), 46 Xu Xuan 徐鉉, 86, 201 Xu Youren 徐有壬, 186, 187 Xu Ziping 徐子平, 167 Xu zizhi tongjian 續資治通鑒 (Successive comprehensive mirror for aid in government; Bi Yuan), 32, 49, 52, 68, 248n60, 251n92 Xue Chen 薛晨, 247n39 Xun Xu 荀勖, 119 Xunzi 荀子, 65, 240n13; on inborn nature, 174–75, 256n54 Yamanoi Yū 山井湧, 2 Yan Changming 嚴長明, 58, 60, 64, 68 Yan Kejun 嚴可均, 201, 202, 203 Yan Ruoqu 閻若璩, 10, 34, 66, 89, 97, 102, 181, 237n45, 245n15, 257n4 Yan Shigu 顏師古, 263n38 Yan Yuanzhao 嚴元照, 201, 241n26 Yang Changji 楊昌濟, 280n46 Yang Guangfu 楊光輔, 151, 206, 207 Yang Guangxian 楊光先, 43–44, 145, 151, 152 Yang Jian 楊簡, 110 Yang Wei 楊偉, 140 Yang Xiguan 楊錫觀, 199 Yang Xiong 揚雄, 35 Yang Zhongfu 楊忠輔, 143, 151, 152 Yang Zhu 杨朱, 115, 219 Yang Ziqi 楊子器, 124 Yao (sage-king), 129, 270n74 Yao Heng 姚衡, 201 Yao Nai 姚鼐, 78, 79, 228n12, 252n1 Yao Wentian 姚文田, 200, 201, 202, 203 Yao Xuejia 姚學甲, 61 Ye Mengde 夢德, 98 Yi li 儀禮, 128 Yi Mei 翼梅 (The wings for Mei [Wending]; Jiang Yong), 146–49 Yili mengqiu 儀禮蒙求 (Seeking the obscure in the rites and ceremonies; Tang Zhongmian), 174

Index 313 Yimen dushu ji 義門讀書記 (A record of Yimen reading books; He Zhuo), 59 Yin Songlin 尹松林, 69 Yin Zhuangtu 尹壯圖, 68–69 Ying Shao 應劭, 65 Yinian lu huipian 疑年錄彙編 (Collected registers of uncertain dates; Zhang Weixiang), 64 Yinian lu 疑年錄 (Register of uncertain dates; Qian Daxin), 64 Yinxue wushu 音學五書 (Five books on phonology; Gu Yanwu), 88 Yinyun chanwei 音韻闡微 (Explanation of the subtleties of phonology), 48 Yinyun shuwei 音韻述微 (Clarification of the subtleties of phonology), 48, 88 Yishu bian 蛾術編 (The ant-like method compilation; Wang Mingsheng), 106 Yishu 義疏 (Huang Kan), 112 Yishu 遺書 (Cheng brothers), 197 Yixing 一行 (Seng Yixing 僧一行; Zhang Sui 張遂), 140, 141, 267n37 Yizhuan 易傳 (Commentary on the Changes; Jing Fang), 237n47 “Yong bajiao” 詠芭蕉 (Poem in praise of the banana; Zhang Zai), 95–96, 161 Yongle dadian 永樂大典, 52–53, 153, 261n74 Yongqi 永基, Prince, 52 Yu Xi 虞喜, 142 Yü Ying-shih 余英時, 2, 243n62, 252n103 Yü Yue 俞樾, 11, 188, 279n33 Yuan da yitongzhi 元大一統志 (Comprehensive gazetteer of the Yuan), 50 Yuan dianzhang 元典章 (Compendium of statutes and sub-statutes of the Yuan), 123 Yuan Fu 袁甫, 110 Yuan Jianzhai 袁簡齋, 245n12 “Yuan jingzhou lu” 圓經[徑]周率 (The ratio of the diameter and circumference of the circle; Qian Daxin), 157 Yuan jinshi kao 元進士考 (Examination of Yuan jinshi; Qian Daxin), 122 Yuan Mei 袁枚, 58 Yuan Palace Poetry, 124 Yuan shi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (Bibliographic catalog of the Yuan history; Qian Daxin), 122 Yuan shi 元史 (Yuan history), 122–25, 262n23 Yuan Tingtao 袁廷檮, 68 Yuan Tong 元統, 144

Yuan Zhi 袁袠, 65 Yuan 元 dynasty: calendrical system in, 140, 143, 146; histories of, 120, 122–25, 262n23; Qian on, 50, 59–60, 81, 122–25, 183 Yuanchao bishi 元朝秘史 (The secret history of the Yuan dynasty), 123 Yuandai jinshi beike 元代金石碑刻 (Yuan period bronze, stone, and stele inscriptions), 123 Yuanshi ben zheng 元史本證 (Examination of the Yuan history edition; Wang Huizu), 59–60 Yuanshi shizu biao 元史氏族表 (Table of clan names of the Yuan; Qian Daxin), 61, 122, 183, 263n32 Yuanshi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (Bibliographical treatise of the Yuan history), 183 Yuanshi yiwenzhi 元史藝文志 (The treatise on literature and art in the Yuan history; Qian Daxin), 61, 70 Yuantong yuannian jinshi timinglu 元統元 年進士題名錄 (1333 palace jinshi roll), 123 Yuce ji 玉策記, 57 Yulei 語類 (Zhu Xi), 197 yü-lu 語錄 (records of conversations) genre, 255n45 Yupian 玉篇 (Gu Yewang), 87, 109, 253n6 Yuzhi lixiang kaocheng houbian 御製曆象考 成後編 (Imperially sanctioned sequel to the Compendium of observational and computational astronomy), 145–46, 149; and Jesuits, 148 Zang Lin 臧琳, 66, 69, 102 Zang Litang 臧禮堂, 203 Zang Yong 臧庸, 200, 249n74 Zeng Guofan 曾國藩, 41–42, 184, 187, 280n46 “Zeng Tan Jieping xu” 贈談階平序 (Bestowing kind words for Tan Jieping; Qian Danxin), 60 Zeng Xianruo 曾獻若, 30 Zhai Hao 翟灝, 37 Zhang Binglin 章炳麟, 188 Zhang Heng 張衡, 211 Zhang Huiyan 張惠言, 203 Zhang Liansheng張連生, 222 Zhang Longxiang 張龍祥, 140 Zhang Sui 張遂 (Seng Yixing 僧一行), 140, 141, 267n37 Zhang Weixiang 張惟驤, 64

314

Index

Zhang Xuecheng 章學誠, 5, 9, 49, 52, 59, 68, 79, 172, 179, 192, 243n62, 248n60 Zhang Yanchang 張燕昌, 63 Zhang Zai 張載, 38, 95–96, 165, 197 Zhao Mingcheng 趙明誠, 71 Zhao Wenzhe 趙文哲, 36, 52 Zhao Xibian 趙希弁, 103 Zhao Yi 趙翼, 65, 69, 119, 131, 179, 261n73 Zhen Luan 甄鸞, 140 Zheng Qiao 鄭樵, 130, 264n64 Zheng Xuan 鄭玄, 64, 90, 109, 209, 272n20, 282n1 (Appendix D) Zhongguo zhexue shi 中國哲學史 (History of Chinese philosophy; Xie Wuliang), 13 Zhongshan Academy 鍾山書院 (Jiangning), 57–58, 58–59, 60, 61, 118 Zhongyong 中庸, 176, 177 Zhou Chun 周春, 65, 199 Zhou Dunyi 周敦頤, 38, 197 Zhou guan 周官, 128 Zhou Yongnian 周永年, 241n25 Zhou 周, Duke of, 129 Zhoubi suanjing tuzhu 周髀算經圖注 (Illustrated annotations of the gnomon of the Zhou dynasty and the classic of computation; Wu Lang), 37 Zhoubi suanjing 周髀算經 (Classic of computation), 160 Zhouli 周禮 (The rites of Zhou), 33, 119, 128 Zhouyi 周易 (The Changes of Zhou), 63, 136, 214, 237n47, 281n13, 282n8; Qian on, 196, 197; on Way of Heaven, 163, 164; and Western learning, 154 Zhu Bangheng 朱邦衡, 237n47 Zhu Gui 朱珪, 47, 79, 88, 167, 170, 242n28 Zhu Kebao 諸可寳, 187–88 Zhu shi shiyi 諸史拾遺 (Gathering the lost in all the histories; Qian Daxin), 122

Zhu Wenzao 朱文藻, 88, 200 Zhu Xi 朱熹, 38, 50, 78, 255n42, 256n54, 258n11; and antiquity, 91, 94–95; “Family Rituals” of, 29; on “idle chatter,” 115, 254n35; and philology, 101–2, 105; Qian on, 38, 99, 112–13, 197; and Siku quanshu, 103; and Way of Heaven, 165, 166; and Wuli tongkao, 41, 42. See also Cheng-Zhu learning; Daoxue; Neo-Confucianism Zhu Yun 朱筠, 79, 200, 204, 239n11, 249n72; and Qian, 37, 47, 49, 51, 52, 59, 60, 64, 78, 214; and Zhang Xuecheng, 52, 243n62 Zhu Zaiyu 朱載堉, 144 Zhu Zhu 祝竹, 223, 224 Zhuang Peiyin 莊培因, 37 Zhuang Yougong 莊有恭, 54 Zhuangzi 莊子, 9, 58, 109, 260n66; and “idle chatter,” 115, 116; and mapping knowledge, 168–69 Zhuting xiansheng riji chao 竹汀先生日記 鈔 (Master Zhuting's daily notes; Qian Daxin), 216 Zi Chan 子產, 163–64, 281n13 Zisi 子思, 96, 197 Zito, Angela, 173–74 Zixia 子夏, 98 “Zixue haizhu” 字學海珠 (Character learning from the Pearl Sea; Qian Wangjiong), 28 Ziyang Academy 紫陽書院 (Suzhou), 32–36, 41, 64–65, 70, 237n42, 249n73, 273n32 Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑒 (Comprehensive mirror for aid in government; Sima Guang), 32, 118, 129, 130 Zu Chongzhi 祖沖之, 140, 142–43, 157, 158, 211, 212 Zuo Zongtang 左宗棠, 280n46 Zuozhuan 左傳, 91, 111, 163, 235n25, 264n54