Men of Letters within the Passes: Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911 [Illustrated] 0674031709, 9780674031708

Table of contents :
Acknowledgments
Contents
Abbreviations
Introduction
1 The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period: “A New Beginning”
2 The Jin-Yuan Period: The “Dark Ages”
3 The Ming-Qing Period: The “Renaissance”
Conclusion
Character List
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Men of Letters Within the Passes Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911

Harvard East Asian Monographs 305

Men of Letters Within the Passes Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911

Chang Woei Ong

Published by the Harvard University Asia Center Distributed by Harvard University Press Cambridge (Massachusetts) and London 2008

© 2008 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College Printed in the United States of America The Harvard University Asia Center publishes a monograph series and, in coordination with the Fairbank Center for Chinese Studies, the Korea Institute, the Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies, and other faculties and institutes, administers research projects designed to further scholarly understanding of China, Japan, Vietnam, Korea, and other Asian countries. The Center also sponsors projects addressing multidisciplinary and regional issues in Asia. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ong, Chang Woei, 1970– Men of letters within the passes : Guanzhong literati in Chinese history, 907–1911 / Chang Woei Ong. p. cm. -- (Harvard East Asian monographs : 305) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-674-03170-8 (alk. paper) 1. Intellectuals--China--Shaanxi Sheng--History. 2. Group identity--China--Shaanxi Sheng. 3. Shaanxi Sheng (China)--History. 4. China--History--960–1644. 5. China--History--Qing dynasty, 1644-1912. I. Title. II. Title: Guanzhong literati in Chinese history, 907–1911. hm728.o55 2008 305.5 '52095143--dc22 2008026038 Index by the author Printed on acid-free paper Last figure below indicates year of this printing 18

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To my parents, my sister, and my wife, Hwee Ting

Acknowledgments

The present work is a revision of my 2004 Ph.D. dissertation completed in Harvard University’s Department of East Asian Languages and Civilizations. Naturally, I owe a special debt of gratitude to all the teachers at Harvard who guided me in my graduate education and provided me with valuable advice over the duration of this project. In particular, this study could not have come to fruition without the continuous support and guidance of Professor Peter Bol. Professor Bol’s enthusiasm for teaching and research has served as an important source of inspiration for me, and I feel honored to be counted among his students. His integrity as a scholar and teacher sets a standard of excellence that I will forever aspire to achieve in my own professional career. In addition, I am deeply indebted to Professor Philip Kuhn and Professor Tu Wei-ming, who carefully guided my academic development during my years at Harvard. I would also like to acknowledge the encouragement I have received from all my former teachers in Singapore, especially Professor Shu Sinn Whor and Professor Tan Eng Chaw. If it were not for their unwavering support, I may not have received the opportunity to pursue a career in academia. In the Confucian tradition, one’s friends are as important as one’s teachers. My colleagues at the Department of Chinese Studies of the National University of Singapore (NUS) have allowed me to do research in a collegial environment. Special thanks goes to Koh Khee

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Heong, whose work on the local history of Shanxi has inspired me to rethink many issues pertaining to my own work. The warmth and friendship extended to me from colleagues at Shaanxi Normal University, especially Professor Chen Xuechao, whom I met during a short visit to Xi’an in November 2006, reconfirmed my initial feeling that focusing on the Guanzhong region would be a wise decision. My classmates at Harvard Alexander Akin, Chen Wen-yi, and Douglas Skonicki have generously offered their help and advice in one way or another during the writing process. To them I owe my gratitude. And then there are my students. I want to thank my research assistants, Lim Yu Fen and Lily Hong Ciyuan, whose hard work allowed me to deliver the manuscript on time. The numerous discussions I had with Goh Kai Ling, Ma Lujing, Ngoi Guat Peng, and Cathy Zhang Jing over the past few years have been exceptionally inspiring. With these wonderful students, I often began with an intention to teach but ended up being taught instead. The research for this book was partially funded by the Staff Research Support Scheme provided by the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences of NUS. The librarians at the NUS Chinese Library were very helpful in locating the sources that I needed for my research. The editors of the Journal of Song-Yuan Studies and Ming Studies generously granted permission to reuse certain materials from two articles first published within their pages. Finally, the meticulous comments of two anonymous readers helped me to improve the first draft. I gratefully acknowledge their kindness and support. C.W.O.

Contents

Maps

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Abbreviations

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Introduction

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1 The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period: “A New Beginning” 21 Guanzhong and the Literati During the Tang-Song Transition 23 Changing Relationship Between the Literati and the State 36 The Vision of Zhang Zai’s School 47

2 The Jin-Yuan Period: The “Dark Ages”

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Alien Rule and the Literati 78 The Zhongzhou ji Cohort, 1175–1215 90 A Century of Diversity, 1200–1300 97 The Rise and Decline of Daoxue, 1250–1368 114

3 The Ming-Qing Period: The “Renaissance” Crisis and Opportunity 135 The Formation of an “Unofficial” Literati Community, 1450–1500 150 Multiple Uses of Zhang Zai’s Legacy, 1500–1600 158 Feng Congwu and the Construction of Guanxue, 1596–1627 167 The Unity of Essence (ti) and Application ( yong ), 1644–1911 178

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Contents Conclusion

203 Reference Matter

Character List

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Bibliography

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Index

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Maps

1 Topography of Guanzhong

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2 Shaanxi in 1111

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3 Shaanxi in 1330

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4 Shaanxi in 1820

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Abbreviations

The following abbreviations are used in the Notes and Bibliography. See the Bibliography, pp. 227–50, for complete publication data. CSJCCB CSJCXB FSX GXB GXJBCS GZCS HSYG JAJ JS JSCB JSJ JWDS LQLR LTLS MAJ

Congshu jicheng chubian 叢書集成初編 (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1935) Congshu jicheng xubian 叢書集成續編 (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1994) Feng Congwu, Feng Shaoxu ji Feng Congwu et al., Guanxue bian Guoxue jiben congshu 國學基本叢書 Guanzhong congshu 關中叢書 (Xi’an: Shaanxi tongzhi guan, 1934) Yang Huan, Huanshan yigao Tong Shu, Ju’an ji Tuo’tuo et al., Jin shi Wang Chang, Jinshi cuibian Lu Fu, Jueshi ji Xue Juzheng et al., Jiu Wudai shi Zhang Jian, Lanquan laoren yiji Chen Junmin, Lantian Lüshi yizhu jijiao Yao Sui, Mu’an ji

xiv MRXA MS QZJ SBBY SBCK SBCKCB SBCKSB SHY SKJHS SKQS SKQSCMCS SKWSS SS SXL SXTS SYXA SZWJ WDY WSCS XCB XXSKQS YAJ YHS YS YSJ YXCT ZXWG ZZJ

Abbreviations Huang Zongxi, Mingru xue’an Zhang Tingyu et al., Ming shi Xiao Ju, Qinzhai ji Sibu beiyao 四部備要 Sibu congkan 四部叢刊 Sibu congkan chubian 四部叢刊初編 Sibu congkan sanbian 四部叢刊三編 Xu Song, ed., Song huiyao jigao Siku jinhui shu congkan 四庫禁燬書叢刊 Wenyuange Siku quanshu 文淵閣四庫全書 (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1983–) Siku quanshu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢書 ( Ji’nan: Qilu shushe, 1997) Siku weishoushu jikan 四庫未收書輯刊 (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2000) Tuo’tuo et al., Song shi Guanxi Mashi shixing lu Zhang Qizhi et al., eds., Shaanxi tongshi Huang Zongxi et al., Song-Yuan xue’an Li Yuanchun, Shizhai wenji Wang Shu, Wang Duanyi gong wenji Wenshi congshu 溫氏叢書 Li Tao, Xu Zizhi tongjian changbian Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995) Li Ting, Yu’an ji Yang Tingxiu, Yang Huisou yiji Song Lian et al., Yuan shi Yuan Huan, Yishou ji Liu Guangfen, Yanxia caotang wenji Su Tianjue, Zixi wen’gao Zhang Zai, Zhang Zai ji

Men of Letters Within the Passes Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911

Introduction

Guanzhong was the realm of the ancient emperors (gu diwang zhi zhou). From the time of Zhou and Qin to that of Han and Tang, it was always the location of the capital. It is situated centrally and is an excellent control center for its surroundings. Not only did everything that represents the great spirit of our nation—the cultural establishments, the institutions, and the arts—find its origins here, but mountains, rivers, cities, palaces, gardens, and other beautiful and famous scenic sites are everywhere. Moreover, books [about the geography and history of Guanzhong] such as the [Sanfu] Huangtu, the [Sanfu] Juelu, and the Yonglu all confirm that Guanzhong is the place where the culture of our country originated. Since the last days of the Tang dynasty, the political center has been abandoned [and as a result, Guanzhong] has fallen into a state of collapse. After the Southern Song, it fell [into the hands of alien regimes and became] foreign territory for almost three hundred years, and the accomplishments of our forebears (xianmin) were completely destroyed. In the Ming and Qing, it was considered merely an important region in border defense. Few paid attention to the subtlety of the innovations of our civilization and the grandeur of the natural landscape. Is this not lamentable?1

According to this passage, taken from a preface written by Guo Yingfu in 1934 for a modern edition of Bi Yuan’s (1730–97) Illustrated Record of Famous Sites in Guanzhong (Guanzhong shengji tuzhi), Guanzhong—the region where Chang’an (present-day Xi’an) was located—began to decline ( 1. Guo Yingfu, Preface, in Bi Yuan, Guanzhong sheng ji tuzhi, p. 1.

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Introduction

after Chang’an lost its status as the national capital at the end of the Tang dynasty, and it never recovered its past glory. Writing in an era marked by a heightened sense of nationalism, Guo was not asking the readers of Bi’s work to think of post-Tang Guanzhong, trapped in a prolonged period of decay; rather, he wanted them to remember the glory of Guanzhong’s national past and to appreciate the accomplishments of the local luminaries who had defined and perfected Chinese culture. His goal was to inspire them to rebuild the northwest and revitalize the nation.2 Fast-forward to the year 2003. In the preface to a recently published series on the history of Xi’an, Cui Lintao, secretary of the Xi’an municipal committee of the Chinese Communist Party, comments: “The history of a city is the history of a people.” The historic city of Xi’an, like a living history, has put on record, scene by scene and page by page, the great changes experienced by the Chinese people over the course of time. It had witnessed the great eras of [Emperors] Wen and Jing [in the Han dynasty] and Zhenguan and Kaiyuan [both in the Tang dynasty]. However, this Chang’an city, which emperors in the past had hoped to keep prosperous forever, was plagued by wars and disasters, and unfortunately sunk into a prolonged period of decline. . . . When speaking in Xi’an on the strategy of developing the western regions of China, General Secretary Jiang [Zemin] noted that China had witnessed the great prosperity of the High Tang era but declined after the An Lushan Rebellion. Today, our mission is to realize the great resurrection of the Chinese people. Therefore, he has time and again emphasized to political leaders of all levels and to the younger generation the importance of absorbing cultural resources through the learning of history.3

Writing almost seventy years apart, Guo and Cui present two strikingly similar pictures of Guanzhong in history: a glorious Han-Tang era followed by an extended period of decline. In this view, the history of Guanzhong is construed as a microcosm of the history of the Chinese nation as a whole. Underlying such nationalistic discourse lies a pragmatic consideration: the history of a particular place is seen as worth highlighting only when it has a glorious past that can both contribute to an ahistorical definition of Chineseness and be summoned to rally ( 2. Ibid., pp. 1–2. 3. Cui Lintao, Preface, in Fang Guanghua et al., Guanxue jiqi zhushu, pp. 1–2.

Introduction

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nationalistic sentiments among citizens. Post-Tang Guanzhong signifies all that has gone wrong for China in the past millennium. In this new era, when China is trying to catch up with the rest of the world, Cui Lintao pronounces that the party is making every effort to right the historical wrongs done to the western regions. But in order to understand what went wrong, he implies, the history of post-Tang Xi’an should be studied so that mistakes will not be repeated. For a succinct discussion and critique of such a nation-centered perspective, it suffices to turn to Prasenjit Duara’s monumental study, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China. Duara argues that a historical narrative of China (or any other country) based on the teleological assumption that it is a nation-state with a long and unbroken history tends to suppress other narratives and therefore fails to do justice to the complexity of history. The historical narrative of post-Tang Guanzhong is one that has been suppressed and marginalized in precisely such a way by nationalistic discourse. The “decline” paradigm that has dominated understanding of the history of that region since the early twentieth century is at best one-sided, if not misleading. That said, to question the usefulness of the nation as a starting point for historical analysis is not to deny that, as political entities, the empires that ruled what we now call China played important roles in shaping the historical consciousnesses of those they ruled. In fact, as the title of this present book suggests, its main theme is about the interaction between two places, “Guanzhong” and “China.” By situating the history of Guanzhong within the history of China, I am suggesting that people in the past always thought of Guanzhong in terms of this greater political and cultural system that we retrospectively call China. ( The name “Guanzhong” (within the passes) suggests the strategic position of this area. Since the Warring States period, numerous passes in the surrounding mountains were fortified to deter invasions. The term “Guanzhong” first appears in the Intrigues of the Warring States (Zhanguo ce), which was compiled in the first century BCE from earlier materials. Initially, “Guanzhong” referred to the region west of the Han’gu Pass; therefore it is sometimes known alternatively as Guanxi (west of the

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Introduction

pass). “Guanxi” has no connotation of a fixed boundary. As time went by, however, people tried to define the region in a more precise way by adding more passes to delineate its edges.4 A third-century source identified Guanzhong as the region between Long Pass in the west and Han’gu Pass in the east. 5 Later, some defined the region by four passes,6 others by five.7 In any case, the region within these passes is about 39,200 square kilometers in area, slightly more than twice the size of the state of New Jersey. Historically, this was known as Yongzhou in the Book of Documents and the location of the Qin state in the Warring States periods. It has thus been referred to frequently in shorthand as Yong or Qin. It begins around the present-day city of Baoji in the west and ends at Tongguan county in the east, stretching across a total distance of about 360 kilometers. In the west, a narrow passage through the Qinling range provides access to Guanzhong from Sichuan through the southern part of Shaanxi. This route is guarded by the Dasan Pass. In the eastern part of this region, the southbound Yellow River turns eastward after its obstruction by Qinling at Tongguan. It thence flows into the North China plain through the Han’gu Valley, where the famous Han’gu Pass fortifications once stood, and is flanked by the Qinling, Zhongtiao, and Yao mountain ranges. The river’s course provides natural boundaries for the modern provinces of Shaanxi, Shanxi, and Henan. To the south, the Qinling range historically served as a natural barrier that prevented easy access to the upper and middle Yangzi regions. Thus, seizing control of the numerous routes that run through the mountain valleys was crucial to military success. North of Guanzhong lies a chain of mountains running from west to east, which includes Mount Qishan, Mount Huanglong, and the Ziwu ridge. Further north, beyond present-day Yan’an, the great Hengshan range, on ( 4. Shi Nianhai, “Gudai de Guanzhong,” pp. 26–27. 5. Liu Qingzhu, Guanzhong ji jizhu, p. 1. The complete text of Guanzhong ji, which is often attributed to Pan Yue (247–300), is not extant. This modern edition puts together surviving passages of the work found in other sources. 6. The four passes were Han’gu in the east, Wuguan in the south, Sanguan in the west, and Xiaoguan in the north. See Xu Guang’s commentary in Sima Qian, Shi ji, 7.315. 7. The additional pass was Linjinguan in the north. See Hu Sansheng’s commentary to Sima Guang, Zizhi tong jian, 8.282.

Introduction

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Map 1 Topography of Guanzhong (base source map: Chinese Civilization in Time and Space, Academia Sinica, Taiwan)

which several states built sections of the Great Wall, once served as a natural boundary separating pastoral from agricultural society.8 Several major rivers—the Yellow River, the Wei, the Jing, and the Luo—run through this region. In ancient times they provided convenient transportation in and out of the region. As time went by, however, ( 8. Shaanxi junshi lishi dili gaishu bianxie zu, Shaanxi junshi lishi dili gaishu, pp. 109–26.

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Introduction

water transport became less popular. Changes in the courses of some rivers altered the structure of the water system drastically.9 A more important reason was a decline in water levels and river flow. A number of smaller rivers simply dried up. For example, the Hao River, one of the eight rivers flowing around Chang’an up until the Han dynasty, had disappeared by the Sui-Tang period. Even larger rivers such as the Wei gradually became more shallow. During the Warring States period, the Wei River could transport heavy vessels carrying grain even during winter, when water levels are generally low. In the Sui and Tang, when Chang’an was the national capital, this river was often used to import grain from the east. Harbors were set up along its banks near the capital. But apparently even then the water level was already considerably lower than it once had been, since canals had to be dug to the south of the river to make up for its reduced depth and significantly decreased flow. By the Song, whose main capitals were situated downstream from Guanzhong at Kaifeng and Luoyang on the North China Plain near the Yellow River, the Wei River was used mainly to transport grain and other supplies eastward out of Guanzhong, but only occasionally. After the Song, there is little evidence to indicate that the river was used as a major water route for grain transportation. There are several possible contributing factors, one of which might be that the river was now too shallow to be suitable for heavy vessels.10 The growing desiccation of the area had, as we might expect, an adverse impact on agricultural production. Nevertheless, this region, which is now the central part of Shaanxi province and commonly known as the Guanzhong Plain (Guanzhong pingyuan), is far better endowed with natural resources and a climate favorable for human activities than are the northern and southern parts of the province, known as ( 9. Wang Yuanlin, “Sui Tang yiqian Huang Wei Luo huiliuqu hedao bianqian”; idem, “Sui Tang Wudai shiqi Huang Wei Luo huiliuqu hedao bianqian”; idem, “Song Jin Yuan shiqi Huang Wei Luo huiliuqu hedao bianqian.” 10. Shi Nianhai, “Lun Xi’an zhouwei zhu heliu de bianhua.” In 1220, Bahulu, then a senior provincial-level official in Shaanxi, recommended that the Wei River, rather than roads, be used for transporting grain from Shaanxi eastward. The suggestion was implemented, and it was thought to have relieved the people doing the transportation from exhaustion; see Tuo’tuo et al., Jin shi, 108.2390. This incident implies that water transportation via the Wei River was an exception rather than the norm by the early thirteenth century.

Introduction

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Shaanbei and Shaannan, respectively. Although called the Guanzhong “plain,” the landscape of central Shaanxi is nothing like the seemingly endless and flat North China Plain. In fact, yuan here should be construed not as “plain” but as “plateau”—one Qing source counts about fifty plateaus named in ancient times.11 Toward the north, the landscape elevates gradually but steadily until it reaches the Shaanbei highlands, which are part of the Loess Plateau. A region characterized by numerous hills, infertile land, and poor drainage systems, it is unsuitable for agricultural production and thus one of the poorest regions in China. To the south across the Qinling Mountains, Shaannan is a region full of valleys and basins with relatively flat and fertile land, as well as fairly good water systems. Compared to Shaanbei, it is better suited to agricultural production, yet rapid development took place only in the early Qing dynasty, although it was incorporated into Shaanxi province as early as the Yuan dynasty. In G. William Skinner’s celebrated scheme for regional analysis, central Shaanxi constitutes half of the core area of the Northwest macroregion. The other half extends into modern Shanxi province, along the Fen River, up to the city of Taiyuan.12 Skinner’s analysis has farreaching implications for our understanding of the role of Shaanxi province in the spatial structure of the Chinese empire. The Shaannan area, although administratively part of Shaanxi province since the Yuan, is separated from the rest of Shaanxi by the Qinling range and lies in another of Skinner’s macroregions. Skinner thus reminds us that administrative boundaries might not be the most natural way of defining a region, especially when we consider economic and other interactions. Yet, in the case of Guanzhong, state-sanctioned administrative units did and still do have significant impact on how the region is conceived. Originally used to denote the region “within the passes,” which, as we have seen, covers roughly only the territory of present-day central Shaanxi, “Guanzhong” has often been used instead as a synonym for the entire province of Shaanxi, whose boundaries stretch well beyond the passes. For instance, when the Shaanxi scholar Li Yuanchun (1769– ( 11. Hu Wei, Yugong zhuizhi, pp. 321–22. 12. Skinner, “Regional Urbanization in Nineteenth-Century China,” in idem, ed., The City in Late Imperial China, pp. 212–13.

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1854) compiled A Collection of Prose from Ming-Qing Guanzhong (Guanzhong liangchao wenchao), he included writers from all parts of Shaanxi province, both “within” and “without” the passes. Indeed, the territory of Qing Shaanxi was only half that of Ming Shaanxi, half of which was split off to establish Gansu province in the Qing. When Li compiled the Ming section of his anthology, he did not hesitate to include writers from places that during his own time belonged administratively to Gansu.13 In a sense, to name the entire province Guanzhong is absurd, for central Shaanxi, the region that is literally “Guanzhong,” is in some ways culturally quite distinct from other parts of the province. For instance, the ceremonies celebrating Lunar New Year conducted throughout central Shaanxi during the Ming-Qing period were relatively uniform and distinct from the comparable ceremonies in Shaanbei and Shaannan.14 Similarly, the researches of linguists suggest that the dialects of central Shaanxi, compared to those of Shaanbei and Shaannan, show more internal coherence and should be treated as a unit of analysis.15 This implies that, as a province, Shaanxi was melded into an administrative unit solely by the action of the state. Li Yuanchun obviously subscribed to the statesanctioned boundaries, for the contents of his compilation comprise materials not only from “within the passes” but from the entire province. However, it is worth considering that instead of using the official name Shaanxi, Li chose to call the province Guanzhong in his title. In a sense, this was a logical choice. The very name Guanzhong immediately evokes a sense of history (the term has been in use since the Warring States period) and peculiarity (it denotes a well-defined and unique territory). It also carries with it a powerful sense of cultural tradition that transcends the history of the contemporary era. This very tradition was thought to have been initiated and passed down by ancient sage-kings such as Fuxi, Kings Wen and Wu, and the Duke of Zhou. In short, Li Yuanchun recast a political entity (Shaanxi) into a cultural one (Guanzhong). This immediately raises the question: What defines a locality in this case—administrative boundaries, natural landscape, cultural heritage, or all of the above? Li Yuanchun probably did not envision this ( 13. Li Yuanchun, Guanzhong liangchao wenchao. 14. Zhang Xiaohong, “Ming Qing shiqi Shaanxi suishi minsu de diyu chaju.” 15. See, e.g., Yang Chunlin, “Shaanxi fangyan neibu fenqu gaishuo.”

Introduction

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question as one he needed to pursue. For modern historians who claim to be writing about the history of a place, however, this important conceptual question warrants careful scrutiny. To ask it in a different manner: What do we mean by “local,” and why was Guanzhong a locale? Evidently, a place is “local” only when it is construed as part of a whole. To say that a place has a “local” history is to grant that it has a particular identity that has persisted over time and that the locality exists, either alongside other particular places with their own particular identities, or within a larger place with a more general identity. When the locale is understood as “local,” the search for it entails a probe into the process of identity construction. Two questions that we need to ask when writing local history as such are: Did the people of a locality, however defined, subscribe to the idea that being “local” required natives of that locality to assume a certain identity? If they did, in what forms did they talk and write about the “local,” and were there spatial and temporal differences in the ways they represented locales? John Dardess’s book on Taihe county during the Ming explores how the identification of a place as a locale was predicated on the selfdefinition of the literati inhabitants of the area. Dardess argues that in the early Ming, when Taihe men enjoyed extraordinary bureaucratic success, a Taihe identity was something to boast of. However, later in the Ming, when the area no longer generated as many officeholders, being from Taihe ceased to be a source of pride, and Taihe men stopped laying claim to their local identity. In particular, Dardess observes that an important way in which Taihe literati identified with their hometown was by showing appreciation of the local landscape. In the early Ming, local scenic spots were promoted broadly through poetry and painting. These media served as means of asserting Taihe’s place within the larger national aesthetic tradition. In the late Ming, however, as local identity ceased to be useful in the national context, writings on the local landscape largely disappeared.16 Dardess’s observation brings to the forefront the relationship between the national and the local. Put simply, in Dardess’s opinion, the local became meaningful to Taihe men only when success at the ( 16. Dardess, A Ming Society, pp. 33–44.

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national level was secured. Without national success, the local as a source of pride disappeared from their writings. This prompts Dardess to argue that “perhaps inevitably in the case of late imperial China, there is no such thing as pristine local history” because the existence of the local depended entirely on what happened at the national level.17 Did localism really disappear in Taihe in the late Ming? Peter Bol argues that what we see among the Taihe elite is a change in the scope of discourse rather than the disappearance of localism. As evidence, he points to the regionalization of Wang Yangming–ism. In contrast to Dardess, who suggests that sixteenth-century Taihe philosophers engaged the intellectual world as individuals rather than with a collective Taihe identity, Bol notes that Taihe men did promote their version of Wang Yangming–ism as having a regional “Jiangyou” characteristic, set against the “Jiangnan” variety, which they construed as being dominated by Taizhou thinkers. In Bol’s view, changing circumstances in Taihe resulted in the replacement of one particular form of local identity by another.18 Bol does not, however, deny the importance of national considerations. In fact, his own researches on Jinhua show that the construction of a local identity within a literati community was usually inseparable from what members of that community wanted to achieve nationally. He argues that the Jinhua case in the late Ming “reminds us that local identity discourse was understood to exist in relation to the national, and that the (re)construction of local identity was intended to be a means both of transforming local society and of increasing the locale’s participation in national life.”19 In other words, the rise of localism in late Ming Jinhua was in fact a response to a national surge in demand for local identity. Similarly, as the studies of Antonia Finnane on Yangzhou and of Steven Miles on Guangzhou show, the construction of local identity among scholars of the nineteenth century was shaped by evolving transregional dynamics in a changing Qing world.20 ( 17. Dardess, A Ming Society, p. 250. 18. Bol, “The ‘Localist Turn’ and ‘Local Identity’ in Later Imperial China,” p. 41; cf. Lu Miaw-fen, “Local Identity and Learning in the Late Ming Yangming School in Jiangyou.” 19. Bol, “The ‘Localist Turn’ and ‘Local Identity’ in Later Imperial China,” p. 41. 20. Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, pp. 265–94; Miles, The Sea of Learning, pp. 5–9.

Introduction

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In light of the ways in which recent historical studies of localities have alerted us to this complex relationship between the national and the local, the case of Guanzhong is particularly interesting. Although many places in China have at some point in history claimed political or cultural centrality or supremacy, such as northern Henan as studied by Roger Des Forges or Hunan as studied by Stephen Platt,21 Guanzhong can, in comparison, claim a national past as its own local identity in a way few other places can. It was, as noted above, home to several legendary sage-kings, it was the site of many dynastic capitals and of the tombs of many emperors and great officials, and in relatively recent times, it produced a national figure in the person of Zhang Zai (1020– 77), whose orthodoxy was endorsed by the state beginning in the Yuan. Natives can therefore conceive of the historical-cultural landscape of Guanzhong both nationally and locally. He Ruilin (1819–93) expressed the view of many when he proudly claimed that In the land of Guanzhong, the earth is thick and the water is deep. The natives are decorous and forthright, and it has been customary for the literati to emphasize moral integrity and to encourage [the awareness] of honesty and honor. Therefore, those who have the aspiration [to learn about] the learning of the sages [of antiquity] will regard this [i.e., Guanzhong] as the base.22

Declarations such as these provided readers with a reason why Guanzhong is unique and yet universally relevant. The essence of Guanzhong culture, according to He Ruilin, lies in its very depth and substance. This culture, though local, is where the transformation of national customs should begin. The tradition of Guanzhong is the tradition of the sages. It is the tradition of the literati across time and space. He Ruilin’s emphasis here is on the literati, or shi (also called shidafu, shiren, and shishen, among other terms, depending on the context). He reminds us that the “local” is the shi’s local. Any study of local identity construction must thus take into account the self-representation of the shi. Although for the sake of convenience, I generally use “literati” to translate shi, scholars have used other terms, such as “aristocrats,” ( 21. Des Forges, Cultural Centrality and Political Change in Chinese History; Platt, “Hunanese Nationalism and the Revival of Wang Fuzhi, 1839–1923.” 22. See He Ruilin’s note on Feng Congwu et al., Guanxue bian (hereafter cited as GXB), p. 125.

12

Introduction

“scholars,” “scholar-officials,” and “gentry,” to denote and highlight different characteristics of the shi in different periods. These efforts have provoked much debate.23 Especially problematic has been the issue of what characteristics qualify a person as a shi. One obvious qualification is, of course, office- and/or degree-holding. This enabled an individual to attain a prestigious status endorsed by the state. In this book, I use the expression “Guanzhong literati” loosely to describe those individuals with a strong Guanzhong connection (by virtue of native-place identification or in-migration) who belonged to this prestigious class. It has never been my intention, however, to imply that there was a historical group of people who were distinctive because of their “Guanzhongness” or that membership in this group was always clear-cut. In other words, using “Guanzhong literati” in a shorthand manner does not excuse us from confronting difficult conceptual questions. For instance, can a person whose ancestors had migrated to Guanzhong one or two generations earlier be considered a Guanzhong native? How about a person registered as a Guanzhong native who spent most of his lifetime outside Guanzhong or whose forebear left Guanzhong long before he was born? Or in terms of occupation, does a merchant in the Ming who bought himself an office title qualify as a shi? Does a civil official in the Song who becomes a military official retain the right to be called a shi? How about a man in the Yuan with an education in the Confucian canons who opted to become a clerk? We will encounter all these cases later, and a close study of them should inform us of the complex political, social, and cultural settings in which the term shi was discussed and defined. Some questions that inform the discussion in subsequent chapters are: What did it mean to be a shi in Guanzhong? Did the meaning change over time, and, if so, under what circumstances did it change? To ask these questions is to probe the issue of social mobility. Among Western sinologists, interest in the social history of localities in China was triggered largely by an intense discussion of social mobility in Chinese history. Hilary Beattie wrote her thought-provoking work on the elite of Tongcheng, Land and Lineage in China, mainly to challenge ( 23. The usefulness of the term “gentry,” for example, has been contested; see Ho Ping-ti, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China, pp. 37–38.

Introduction

13

the earlier view that social mobility in late imperial China was predicated chiefly on degree- and office-holding. 24 Noting that some elite lineages could maintain their dominance for hundreds of years without having to rely solely on members’ passing the examinations or holding office, she argued that land was a more reliable asset for the lineages she studied. The controversy between these two perspectives has far-reaching implications for understanding the relationship between the literati/ gentry and the state. If passing the examination and subsequently obtaining an office were the only route to success, we would expect elite strategies to center around forming national networks; if the elite could rely on other means such as maintaining possession of a reasonable amount of land to uphold their social status, then establishing a national network might be less important. How Chinese local elites from different areas during the Ming and later periods developed their patterns of dominance is the subject of the essays collected in Chinese Local Elites and Patterns of Dominance, edited by Joseph Esherick and Mary Rankin. One conclusion that emerges from the collective effort of the contributors is that elite dominance was subject to regional variations. It is therefore important neither to anticipate that “all county elites will be basically similar just because they operate in the same administrative subdivision, nor to expect that all holders of the lower shengyuan degree will act in the same way because they have the same formal rank.”25 As such, attempts to carry out substantial research on regions become crucial if we are to appreciate the diversity of Chinese local elites. Similarly, Robert Hymes embarked on his influential study on the elite of Fuzhou, Jiangxi, because he was uncomfortable with existing scholarly discussions of social mobility in the Song. The collapse of the aristocracy and the increasingly important role the civil examination played in recruiting ambitious men into officialdom have led some scholars to argue that social mobility in the Song was considerably fluid and others to attempt to show that social stratification was much more ( 24. See, e.g., Chang Chung-li, The Chinese Gentry; and Ho Ping-ti, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China. 25. “Introduction,” in Esherick and Rankin, Chinese Local Elites and Patterns of Dominance, p. 11.

14

Introduction

rigid than it appears to have been.26 Hymes entered the debate by focusing on changes in elite strategies in the Northern and the Southern Song. His answer to the scholarly controversy over social mobility in the Song implies that elites were capable of maintaining dominance through various strategies, thus making it difficult for the relatively humble and obscure to enter their circle. Far more important, however, is Hymes’s contention that a phenomenon he calls “elite localism” arose during the Northern-Southern Song transition. He is, as he states in the introduction to his book, concerned mainly with providing a microscopic study to support Robert Hartwell’s observation that the “professional elite” who dominated court politics in the early Song gradually became indistinguishable from the “local gentry” over the course of the eleventh century. Put differently, the professional elite ceased to exist as a distinct social group by the Southern Song and was replaced by the local gentry.27 This social transformation of the elite, Hymes believes, can account for many phenomena that arose in the Southern Song and later. In essence, he argues that in the Northern Song, elites were more nationally oriented and identified court service as the ultimate career choice. Thus they preferred to establish social networks nationally through marriages and other social engagements. In contrast, beginning in the Southern Song, elites pursued a far more localist strategy by, for instance, forging marriage ties locally and broadening the scope of their class to consider nonbureaucratic “occupations.”28 In his earlier work on Fuzhou, Hymes treated elite localism solely as a social phenomenon and did not take into account the intellectual and cultural endeavors of those he terms “elite.” He was concerned primarily with how the elite employed different strategies to move up or maintain their positions on the social ladder of success. Later, in the introduction to an essay collection co-edited by Conrad Schirokauer and himself, Hymes drew on the findings of various scholars to restate his earlier hypothesis with more emphasis on the cultural and intellectual ( 26. See the debate between Edward Kracke and Robert Hartwell: Kracke, “Family vs. Merit in Chinese Civil Service Examinations Under the Empire”; and Hartwell, “Demographic, Political, and Social Transformations of China.” 27. Hartwell, “Demographic, Political, and Social Transformations of China.” 28. Hymes, Statesmen and Gentlemen.

Introduction

15

realms. He argued that the growth of elite localism in the Southern Song was signified by the spread of Daoxue Neo-Confucianism and certain theories of statecraft that recommended cutting back on state intervention in local society.29 To some extent, Hymes was responding to one of the paramount issues that has occupied historians of the late imperial and modern periods—the state-society relationship. The rise of elite localism as depicted by Hymes is in fact a phenomenon that points toward the rise of “society” as a “public” space that is under not the direct control of the state but, rather, the direction of a local elite. Whether we should call this space the “public sphere” as some historians of the late imperial and modern periods have suggested is open to debate, but Hymes’s conclusion indeed allows us to appreciate the fact that the Song elite were not always as oriented toward the state as we have thought. Since its formulation, Hymes’s hypothesis has for the most part been tested with case studies on places in southern China. A question that eventually has to be asked is: What happened in the north, where the people had a totally different experience after the fall of the Northern Song, when land to the north of the Huai River and the Qinling range was occupied by alien regimes? Unfortunately the question has been left unexplored because we know little about conditions in this region. The present study therefore zooms in on Guanzhong and discusses the various strategies adopted by its elites in different periods, as well as local views on the relationship between state and society. An important point to note is that Hymes has taken the concept of “local” as a given. For Hymes, the local simply represents an administratively bounded place―Fuzhou, for example―and “local elite” refers to those who lived most of their life in that place and who, in their nonofficial capacities, assumed the role of leadership in the local community. The “local” used in this way is essentially identical to a space at the local level left vacant by the retreat of the state. From the discussion above, it should be apparent that we are in fact dealing with two very different concepts of the “local” here: (1) a space that allows the nonofficial elite to ( 29. “Introduction,” in Hymes and Schirokauer, Ordering the World. This introduction was co-authored with Conrad Schirokauer, but the part about a shift in elite strategy was probably by Hymes.

16

Introduction

operate with some degree of freedom outside the direct intervention of the state; (2) a consciousness that historical actors display in constructing the tradition, history, and identity of a place. With this understanding in mind, we should not be surprised to find that a person can remain in a place and be a leader of the local community for his entire life and yet show no interest in the local being “local.” Ultimately, place might be completely irrelevant to his self-definition. On the other hand, a person and his family can live far away from a place for an extended period of time (a case of out-migration) or have moved from elsewhere to the place (in-migration) but still consider the locality as a source of pride and make efforts to construct their identity based on it. To avoid confusion, I reserve the term “local” for the second case and situate it in the national/local binary. Because the first case is mainly about state-society relationships and because the terms “state” and “the national” are often thought to be synonymous, I will often use the term “official” (in quotation marks) to denote what is normally known as “state” and “unofficial” (again in quotation marks) to denote what is normally known as “society.” I hope this system, although awkward, will make it clear that when employing the “official”/ “unofficial” binary, I am actually concerned with the tension between the government and the society that it governs. It is vital to remember that the state, or the “official,” was never an undifferentiated whole. This tension between different sectors and levels within the “official” gives rise to the third dimension of the “local,” namely, the local government offices and the corresponding officialsin-charge. Again, for the sake of clarity, I will use “regional” to denote all governmental offices from the county to the circuit or provincial level, as well as, in some periods, the offices of an appanage, such as a Yuan princely establishment. At the other end of the administrative spectrum is the central government or the court, which I denote by the term “central.” Conflict and cooperation between regional officials and local elites is a recurring theme in Chinese history and by no means a new subject of inquiry in modern scholarship.30 Scholars have focused explicitly on the variety of ways in which the regional government re( 30. See, e.g., Ch’ü T’ung-tsu, Local Government in China Under the Ch’ing, pp. 168–92.

Introduction

17

lated to the central government,31 but less attention has been paid to the multiple ways in which the role of the regional government was perceived vis-à-vis the central government. 32 In postulating this central/regional binary, I am suggesting that neither the regional officials themselves nor the people under their jurisdiction held a homogeneous or unchanging view on the issue of whom the regional government actually represented, the state or local society. It is, however, important to point out that, in advancing this binary, I am not assuming either that we can treat the central and the regional as coherent units without internal contradiction, or that the central and the regional were necessarily at odds. What I am suggesting is simply that in most cases the central government and its regional agents had different priorities and that the existence of these differences permits us to treat them as separate, though by no means exclusive, entities. In the chapters that follow, I trace the transformation of the Guanzhong literati and their culture from the tenth to the twentieth centuries in hopes of providing a picture of post-Tang Guanzhong that is more complex than the one offered in nationalistic discourse, as found in the quotations at the beginning of this Introduction. I also examine how these literati conceptualized three sets of relations: national/local, “official”/“unofficial,” and central/regional. Essentially, the purpose of this study is to examine the formation (or regression) of a critical communal self-consciousness among Guanzhong literati over time, its role in constructing a local identity and promoting an “unofficial” space for nonofficial elite activism, and the effect of the presence (or absence) of this consciousness on literati views of the relationship between the central and regional governments. Admittedly, the “pairing” of these three sets of relations is to a great extent arbitrary. To begin with, it should be clear that the components ( 31. For an example of this kind of study, see Endicott-West, Mongolian Rule in China. In this book, the author examines how the appointment of overseers (daruhachi ) influenced the functioning of regional government and its relationship with the center. See also Joseph McDermott’s suggestion that we should examine the central government’s relationship to local administration in his review of Hymes’s Statesmen and Gentlemen. 32. Robert Hymes remarks in passing in Statesmen and Gentlemen (p. 125) that Fuzhou elites in the Southern Song tended to view local officials as advocates of the areas they were governing.

18

Introduction

of each of these pairs are not necessarily mutually exclusive. A person with a strong sense of local consciousness might, for example, see himself as a member of a national community of the learned and champion a shared national culture. The issue here is not whether there can be a shared national culture, but whether this culture can be perceived as having regional variations and therefore contributing to the formation of a local identity. We also need to ask whether the historical actors themselves made the distinctions proposed here. As will become clear, the answer varies with place and time. For example, the Chinese term gong was sometimes used to refer to a national community of the learned; at other times it was used to denote the public-spiritedness invested in local projects such as the compilation of local gazetteers, a kind of historicalgeographical work that often carried a strong sense of local identity. In the second usage, the “unofficial” and the “local” were often fused into a single stance that stood in contrast to the center. Instead of trying to rigidly define what is “unofficial” and what is “local,” we might better identify how historical actors conflated and/or separated the pairs in different historical settings and to examine their reasons for doing so. ( The present study covers a long period, almost a millennium, extending from the tenth to the early twentieth century. For my purposes this span of time can be subdivided into three shorter periods, namely, the Five Dynasties–Northern Song period, the Jin-Yuan period, and the Ming-Qing period. It would, of course, be absurd to assume that there is uniformity in any given sub-period or complete change from one sub-period to the next. Nevertheless, one can make a sufficient case for considering each sub-period as a unit. In other parts of China it might be less than ideal to periodize historical development according to dynastic change, since this form of periodization privileges the center as opposed to the local and accentuates political history at the expense of social and cultural history. But in the case of Guanzhong, dynastic periodization is appropriate because, as will become clear, the imperial state essentially always played a crucial role in defining the historical consciousness of the Guanzhong literati. A full demonstration of this claim is made in subsequent chapters, but in essence my argument is that there

Introduction

19

were major changes in the ways Guanzhong literati perceived the three sets of relations (national/local, “official”/“unofficial” and central/ regional) from one sub-period to another. Chapter 1 treats the Five Dynasties–Northern Song period. I show that during the tenth and the first half of the eleventh century, as aristocratic families were gradually replaced by bureaucratic families who relied on the civil examinations and office-holding to maintain their successes, prominent Guanzhong literati were for the most part interested in making their presence felt at the court and were content to let the state control most local affairs. Over time, however, elite families, led mainly by Zhang Zai and his students, became increasingly willing to exert their influence on local society. Perhaps ironically, this happened at a time when the state was also trying to expand under the statist New Policies initiatives of Wang Anshi (1021–86). As we shall see, members of the Zhang Zai school 33 rejected the New Policies vision. They were concerned primarily with figuring out a constructive way to integrate the state, elite families, and society into a coherent whole. Chapter 2 moves on to the Jin-Yuan period, during which Guanzhong came under the rule of foreign regimes. The Jurchen invasion in 1126 caused great destruction to local society. All the old elite families basically vanished, and for various reasons, new families were unable to establish a solid foundation on which to sustain their success. Furthermore, the status of the shi as a class plummeted. They were no longer able to claim political and cultural superiority over other classes, as had their predecessors in the Song. Predictably, the development of literati culture was disrupted. It is not until the late twelfth century that we begin to see important literati surfacing again in Guanzhong. Even then, the Northern Song heritage, and Zhang Zai’s vision in particular, appears to have been abandoned. The first generation of literati to emerge during the Jin is remembered in history primarily for poetry. In the thirteenth century, we observe more diversity in cultural production as local literati began writing extensively on history, historical geography, and literature. By the late thirteenth century, Cheng-Zhu Daoxue Neo-Confucianism ( 33. Here, “school” is used to refer to a social organization whose members were connected through master-disciple relationship.

20

Introduction

began to take center stage, but it subsequently suffered a decline from the 1330s on. Under these circumstances, the literati of Guanzhong perceived the three sets of relations in a way fundamentally different from that of their Northern Song counterparts. Chapter 3 deals with the Ming and Qing. The founding of the Ming marked a new era for Guanzhong literati as they were presented with new opportunities created by favorable state policies. The mid-fifteenth century witnessed the emergence of a handful of powerful families who were able to reproduce their success for centuries. Accompanying the rise of these families was the emergence of nationally renowned statesmen and scholars. As a consequence, literati culture flourished. We see in this period vibrant development in the realm of Daoxue, and it quickly became the central issue to which all literati, regardless of their intellectual orientations, had to respond. Unlike the Song-Jin transition, the fall of the Ming did not end this trend. Many shi families survived the dynastic transition, and so did their culture. Although certain aspects of literati culture did change with the founding of the Qing, the Ming vision of the three sets of relations was essentially continued by Qing literati. I end this study with a concluding chapter that recaps the ways in which Guanzhong literati perceptions of these binary relations changed over time and explores the implications of such changes. I also suggest the possible contributions of this study on Guanzhong to the study of Chinese history in general.

chapter one

The Five Dynasties– Northern Song Period “A New Beginning”

Any discussion of the post-Tang intellectual history of Guanzhong has to begin with Zhang Zai (1020–77). Ever since Zhu Xi (1130–1200) included Zhang Zai and his students in the Records on the Origin of the School of the Cheng Brothers (Yiluo yuanyuan lu), the first genealogy of the Daoxue Neo-Confucian movement, Zhang has been credited along with Zhou Dunyi (1017–73) and the Cheng brothers, Cheng Hao (1032–85) and Cheng Yi (1033–1107), as a co-founder of the movement. Zhang did share certain philosophical assumptions with the other “founders,” especially his belief in the centrality of moral self-cultivation to the pursuit of truth. Nonetheless, the “founders” certainly did not consciously collaborate to establish a school. In fact, contemporaries were more likely to see the two schools of Zhang Zai and the Cheng brothers as competing for intellectual leadership. For instance, in a postscript dated 1107, Yang Shi (1053–1135), one of the most important students of the Cheng brothers, tried to convince the students of Zhang Zai that they should look on the Cheng brothers, not Zhang Zai, as their real teachers: Hengqu’s [i.e., Zhang Zai’s] learning originated from the Cheng brothers. However, the scholars in Guanzhong hold his works in high regard and seek to establish an independent school. Therefore I have copied this letter [sent by

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The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

Zhang Zai to the Cheng brothers] to show the students and let them know that Hengqu would consult the Cheng brothers even on such minute matters, and this should speak for the rest.1

It is unclear which of Zhang Zai’s letters Yang Shi was referring to, but the message is clear: the students of Zhang Zai in Guanzhong should not try to establish a school independent of that of the Cheng brothers because even their master was really a student of the Cheng brothers. In a similar fashion, You Zuo (1053–1123), another important student of the Cheng brothers, claimed that Zhang Zai had befriended Cheng Hao and regarded the latter as his teacher.2 Evidently, leading figures in the Cheng school perceived the Guanzhong scholars, who were promoting the teaching of Zhang Zai, as competitors.3 This should remind us that although later generations labeled Zhang Zai as one co-founder of the Daoxue movement, he was actually offering a very different response to the various pressing issues of his times. His teachings were, moreover, persuasive enough to attract a significant number of followers. An intellectual school had apparently been formed in Guanzhong by the second half of the eleventh century. This chapter explores in detail the unique vision of the Zhang Zai school. It begins by examining the historical context within which the school emerged. I will show that the way Zhang Zai and his students addressed the three sets of relations noted in the preceding chapter was to a great extent shaped by the unique conditions of Guanzhong in the two centuries following the fall of the Tang. I will also argue that we need to situate the experiences of these literati within the larger context of the great Tang-Song transition, which Naitō Konan posited as Chinese society’s transformation from the “medieval” to the “early modern.”4 When members of Zhang Zai’s school looked back at developments over the preceding few centuries, what they particularly saw was the widening of the gap between the court and the literati. They therefore ( 1. Yang Shi, “Ba Hengqu xiansheng shu ji Kangjie xiansheng ren gui you jingsheng shi,” in idem, Yang Guishan xiansheng ji, 26.1055–56. 2. You Zuo, “Shu Mingdao xiansheng xingzhuang hou,” in idem, You Zuo, You Jianshan ji, SKQS, 4.7a–8a. 3. For a detailed discussion of the controversy between the two schools, see Kasoff, The Thought of Chang Tsai, pp. 137–47; and Jiang Guozhu, Zhang Zai Guanxue, pp. 326–60. 4. See Miyakawa Ichisada, “An Outline of the Naitō Hypothesis.”

The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

23

took it as their responsibility to answer the following questions: With the complete collapse of the aristocratic clans after the Tang, how should and how could the state system be redesigned so as to constructively incorporate the new political and cultural elites, whose pedigrees were no longer endorsed by the court? How could, and how should, the learning of the literati be redefined so that these new elites could properly perform their prescribed role in the new state system? In order to appreciate the answers provided by the school, it is necessary to survey the development of the Guanzhong region and the changing status of Guanzhong literati amid the Tang-Song transition, as well as the changing relationship between the literati and the state during the course of the Northern Song.

Guanzhong and the Literati During the Tang-Song Transition One of the most important aspects of the Tang-Song transition was demographic. The south became increasingly populated over time, while the northwest, once the most densely populated region, saw major fluctuations in population. The lack of accurate data and shifts in administrative boundaries prevent us from drawing unambiguous conclusions. Still, some rough estimates can be reached. In 609, there were 747,526 households in Shaanxi.5 In 618, the figure dropped to 322,604. By 742, the number of households had risen to 785,692, a significant increase from the early years of the Tang. But the An Lushan Rebellion in the mid-750s brought a drastic decline in the population. In some counties, the corresponding figures were only a tenth or a twentieth of those of the earlier period. The founding of the Song allowed Shaanxi to slowly recover. In the Taiping xingguo (976–83) era, the number of households for all of Shaanxi was only around 370,000, which is not surprising because this area was just beginning to recover from the Huang Chao Rebellion and warfare during the Five Dynasties. However, ( 5. Robert Hartwell (“Demographic, Political, and Social Transformation of China,” p. 426) has rightfully argued that households instead of individuals should be used because (1) in some years households are the only category completely recorded, and (2) they are probably a better index of actual population since there are fewer categories subject to arbitrary exclusion (e.g., the very young).

24

The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

a substantial recovery followed. In 1102, almost one and a half centuries after the founding of the Song, the figure for Shaanxi was 1,113,287, the highest in history up to that point. Nevertheless, given the extraordinary increase in the total population of China during the Tang-Song transition, this increment is at best modest. In reality, the ratio of Guanzhong’s population to the Chinese population as a whole had declined significantly.6 This decline was not the result of massive out-migration. In reality, in-migration of elite families was also common, an indication that Guanzhong remained a desirable place of residence for these families even though it was no longer the national center. This immediately raises the question of how well these in-migrating families fit into the local social and cultural landscape. Steven Miles’s study of nineteenthcentury Guangzhou shows that newcomers had to compete with dominant native lineages for cultural resources, and the two groups promoted different forms of literati cultures in the process. 7 Northern Song Guanzhong witnessed a very different scenario. The newcomers, as numerous cases discussed below attest, were able to quickly establish a sound foundation—usually after one or two generations—and become leaders in the local society. In fact, Zhang Zai’s school was established by literati who came from newly in-migrated families as well as households with local pedigrees. This influx of new elite families should revise our impression of post-Tang Guanzhong as a region that had completely lost its appeal. Also contrary to the conventional wisdom that imagines Guanzhong in perpetual decline after the Tang is the vitality of the economy in the Northern Song. In particular, the agricultural sector had already recovered by the eleventh century from the destruction caused by the endemic warfare of the late Tang and the Five Dynasties periods. Numer( 6. Cao Zhanquan, Shaanxisheng zhi, pp. 62–75, 330. The number of households in 1102 seems to be larger than in the Tang heyday, but as for actual population, we do not know. According to historical sources, the population in Guanzhong in 742 was more than 3 million, but in the early twelfth century, it was only about 2 million, which is a not insignificant drop. But because the household-to-individual ratio in Song sources is extremely low (2.55, as compared to about 6 in Tang sources), it is hard to tell whether there was an increase or decrease in total population. 7. Miles, The Sea of Learning, esp. pp. 4–14.

The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

25

ous sources report that, at least through the mid-eleventh century, Guanzhong not only was self-sufficient in food but also exported grain to regions facing food shortages. In fact, except for a few towns on the border that, because of transportation problems, relied on grain imports from Shanxi, Guanzhong was fairly self-reliant throughout the Northern Song. This is even more remarkable if we consider the fact that the logistical burden of the defense against Xi Xia fell mainly on Guanzhong.8 Although in some years provisions for the armies at the borders became insufficient due to the Song court’s adoption of a more aggressive foreign policy,9 the overall situation in Shaanxi was still favorable. In several places, we are told, military grain stocks were adequate for several years, and the local officials were concerned mainly with how to prevent these stocks from decaying.10 The extent to which agricultural performance helped the local populace is unclear. Some sources suggest that because the state retained a large proportion of the harvest for the purposes of defense, the population actually saw little benefit from good performance in the agricultural sector. According to Su Shi (1026–1101): In the past, before the Baoyuan era [1038–39], the wealth and power of the people of Qin [i.e., Shaanxi] were well known. [The land possessed by] the average household could not be measured in mere mu but [had to be measured] in qing, and that of the upper households could not be measured in qing but instead in fu. Those who farmed in the fields were not willing to become officials, [and the goods] stored in farmers’ houses exceeded those stored in official warehouses. However, since the [1038] rebellion of Yuanhao [the first emperor of Xi Xia], [everything was destroyed like] ice melting and fire burning. Out of ten [households], not even three or four were preserved. Those known as wealthy people today would actually have been slaves at that time, and the things that are accumulated and gathered [eagerly by people] today were actually [things that used to be] discarded.11

( 8. Yang Dequan and Ren Pengjie, “Shaanxi zai Songdai de lishi diwei.” See also SXTS, 11: 142–47. 9. Liang Gengyao, “Song Shenzong shidai xibei bianliang de choucuo,” in idem, Songdai shehui jing ji shi lunji, 1: 41–58. 10. SS, 298.9921, 320.10404. 11. Su Shi, “Shang Han Weigong lun changwu shu,” in idem, Su Shi wenji, 48.1393.

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The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

Su Shi was perhaps exaggerating, for the difference before and after 1038 was not as marked as he described. Yet it is undeniable that heavy burdens of the wars with Xi Xia adversely affected the livelihood of people in Guanzhong. In fact, the state considered the war-burdened northwest a backward region by the mid-eleventh century and granted it a more generous examination quota.12 Another consequence of the war with Xi Xia was the constant restructuring of administrative units to reflect military needs. During the course of the Northern Song, Shaanxi’s original administrative units underwent a series of changes. Initially, the administrative unit that governed most of what is now modern Shaanxi was called Guanxidao, but not long after the term dao was changed to lu (both are translated as “circuit,” with lu sometimes being translated as “route”), Guanxidao was renamed Shaanxilu. This marked the first time in Chinese history that “Shaanxi” was used to name an administrative unit. The Shaanxi circuit was split into the Yongxingjun circuit (the only circuit in the Northern Song with the character jun [military] in its name, which says much about its strategic position) and the Qinfeng circuit in the second half of the Northern Song. (See Map 2.) Strictly speaking, it was split into six circuits, namely, Yongxinjun, Qinfeng, Fuyan, Huanqing, Jingyuan, and Xihe. The last four circuits were located immediately south of the Song–Xi Xia border and were “unofficial” in the sense that, unlike “normal” circuits in the Song, each was headed not by a fiscal commissioner (zhuanyunshi) but a military commissioner ( jinglue anfushi). 13 As Charles Hucker points out, “In the absence of other important Commissioners, as in some frontier regions, the Military Commissioner sometimes became overall coordinator of civil as ( 12. Lee, Government Education and Examination in Sung China, pp. 154–60. 13. SS, 175.2143. Both Yongxinjun and Qinfeng had an office of the Military Commission, but they shared only one fiscal commission and one judicial commission (tidian xing yu si ). Also, jinglueshi (military commissioner) and anfushi (pacifying commissioner) were actually two different designations. The military commissioner was in charge of military affairs; the pacifying commissioner was basically an ad hoc appointment to pacify the people in regions suffering from wars and natural disasters. In border regions like Hedong and Hebei, however, the pacifying commission was a regular office and in Shaanxi, all military commissioners concurrently held the title of pacifying commissioners. See SHY, Zhiguan, 41.79.

The Five Dynasties–Northern Song Period

27

Map 2 Shaanxi in 1111 (base source map: Chinese Civilization in Time and Space, Academia Sinica, Taiwan)

well as military affairs, with a designation such as Commander-in-chief (du zongguan); and he was ordinarily concurrent Prefect of the military prefecture governed from his headquarters.”14 Such was the case for the four “unofficial” circuits of Shaanxi. In comparison to “typical” circuits in which administrative power and authority were distributed among different offices with different functions and were thus diffused, circuits headed by military commissioners were apparently highly centralized. The court often granted military commissioners in Shaanxi great autonomy. For example, Fan Yu (n.d.), the provisional prefect of Qinzhou and concurrently military commissioner of Qinfeng circuit, appealed to the court in 1086 to make him the sole person in charge of prefectural matters and to prevent the controller-general (tongpan) from interfering. He proposed this on the grounds that matters in Qinzhou were under the jurisdiction of the military commissioner and therefore were not, strictly speaking, at the prefectural level. The court approved his request.15 ( 14. Hucker, Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, pp. 45–46. 15. SHY, Zhiguan, 41.77. In the Song, controllers-general were stationed in prefectures by the central government to check the power of prefects. Fan’s request was thus

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In short, what we observe in Guanzhong’s administrative structure during this period is an overwhelming concern for national security. Defense of the northwest was one of the most common topics in writings by Guanzhong literati in the Northern Song, and the biographies of men from this period often state that their subject was interested in military affairs at some point in his life. In fact, since interstate warfare was a threat, it also provided ambitious northwestern men opportunities to excel in military careers. Some would go on to have brilliant civil-bureaucratic careers and ensure the success of their families for several generations. But these families and their members were “new” in the sense that they were not members of the great clans or the aristocrats that had dominated access to government for centuries.

The Changing Identity of shi During the Sui and Tang dynasties, when Chang’an again became the political center of a united empire after a prolonged period of northsouth division, members of the great clans, including the imperial house, tended to move to and reside permanently in Guanzhong. The official histories of this period are in a sense the histories of these people. During the Five Dynasties, when Chang’an ceased to be a national capital, most scions of the great clans seem to have vanished from the political scene, and few records of their activities survive. The following case from one of the official histories of the Five Dynasties tells us something about the fate of a descendent of a great clan: Li Zhuanmei [ca. 884–ca. 945], whose personal name was Yishang, was a native of Wannian county of Jingzhao prefecture (present day Xi’an). . . . Zhuanmei was erudite when he was young, and his father, Li Shu, once took the jinshi examination in the reign of Tang Zhaozong [r. 889–904] but failed during the reexamination and was not allowed to sit for it again. Zhuanmei felt ashamed about this and never visited the examination hall again. During the Zhenming [915–21] era of the spurious Liang (wei Liang) regime, Zhang Quanyi, the governor of Henan, recommended Zhuanmei for the post of commandant of Lu( highly unconventional, and the fact that the court accepted his request suggests that the court recognized the importance of maintaining a high level of flexibility in dealing with frontier affairs and of empowering the military commissioners to act according to circumstances.

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hun on the basis of his being the descendent of a great clan. Zhuanmei was later reassigned to the magistracy of Wuyang after he had served his term.16

Li Zhuanmei was a member of the Guzang Li (a sub-choronym of the great Longxi clan to which the Tang imperial family also belonged), one of the most prominent of the aristocratic clans that had dominated the Chinese political scene for centuries. His ancestors were related to other aristocratic families such as the Qinghe Cui, Fanyang Lu, and Xingyang Zheng by marriage. All these clans tried to keep their lines as “pure” as possible by not intermarrying with others. Members of these lineages, even those who were mere commoners, were said to look down on high-ranking officials: Emperor Taizong [r. 627–49] once issued an edict to curb this adverse custom, but it could not be changed. Among the members [of this elite], there were some who did not hold office, and they would surely say, “As long as I have the surname of Cui, Lu, Li, or Zheng, what’s there to seek for?” And those who did hold office would [gesture] as if they were far away in the sky or beyond a thousand li, and others rarely visited their homes. [Those who were] superficial and self-assertive were all of this kind. Only Zhuanmei never talked about himself as someone coming from an aristocratic family, and when he met with those shidafu who had humble and obscure origins, he was always modest. People praised him because of this.17

Li Zhuanmei’s case exemplifies a trend that many scholars have already noted: the transformation of the shi from aristocrats to scholarofficials during the Tang-Song transition.18 Men with humble and obscure origins had challenged the social status of the great clans for many years, at least since the time of Wu Zetian (r. 684–704).19 By Li’s time, the power of these clans had weakened considerably, and their members had to rely on the examinations to secure an official career. Both Li Zhuanmei’s great-grandfather and grandfather were high-ranking officials in the Tang court, but his father failed the examination and was denied an opportunity to become an official. The re-examination Li ( 16. JWDS, 93.1229. 17. Ibid., 1230. 18. For a comprehensive discussion of this trend, see Bol, “ This Culture of Ours,” pp. 33–58. 19. Chen Yinke, Tangdai zhengzhishi shulungao, pp. 50–127.

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Shu sat for was, moreover, not a regular examination. Conducted in 895, it was ostensibly designed to re-evaluate candidates who had initially passed the jinshi examination, so as to ensure that the successful candidates were truly of high caliber. The real purpose, however, was to pass candidates with humble and obscure origins at the expense of those with an aristocratic background.20 We can never know whether Li Zhuanmei sincerely felt ashamed because of his father’s failure or was actually passively protesting the growing trend of recruiting men of obscure origin into office. Whatever the case, the fact that his father’s failure was mentioned in relation to his decision to avoid the examinations shows that family honor mattered, and he was able to rely on his family’s reputation to enter officialdom. Yet his good birth could ensure him only a lowranking post; his later career advancement, which led him eventually to the position of chief minister, did not depend on it. In the ninth and tenth centuries, the descendents of established families not only faced a challenge from learned men without an aristocratic background who even so claimed to be shi but also frequently found themselves at the mercy of another group of elites with direct control over political power: military men. Li Zhuanmei’s case suggests exactly the atmosphere in which shi of the period had to operate: he needed the recommendation of a military man, Zhang Quanyi, to succeed, and securing a bureaucratic career had now become a necessary condition for a shi to excel. The days when a shi could count on his family background, instead of office-holding, to maintain elite status were gone. Li was not alone in this respect. Du Xiao (d. 912), a member of the Jingzhao Du clan, served the Later Liang as prime minister but began his career in the late Tang. His father and grandfather were also prime ministers in the late Tang court. When his father was put to death by Emperor Zhaozong, Du was said to have been overwhelmed by grief, and he lived in seclusion for several years. He rejected every recommendation to serve until Cui Yuan, a member of the Boling Cui studied ( 20. See Xu Song, Dengke jikao, 24.903–11. The biography of Li Zhuanmei in Jiu Wudai shi says that Li Shu was banned from retaking the examination. But in the Dengke jikao, which quotes Zhaozong’s edict, he is said to have failed the re-examination but been allowed to try again. I am indebted to Wen-yi Chen for this piece of information.

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by Patricia Ebrey,21 asked him, “Can you bear to let your family worship your ancestors during seasonal festivals using mats, as commoners do?” Du was moved by his words and agreed to serve.22 For Du Xiao, therefore, to serve or not to serve was a family matter. If he decided not to serve, his family would no longer be able to maintain its shi status. Again we see that office-holding was now the predominant factor in determining whether a person and his family belonged to the rank of shi. The chaotic situation of the late Tang and Five Dynasties thus opened possibilities for ambitious men from humble and obscure backgrounds to claim to be shi and enjoy successful official careers. Once a person had been admitted to the higher levels of officialdom, opportunities for his family members to enter the bureaucracy increased significantly. This trend continued into the Song and begs the question whether society was still rigidly stratified despite the disappearance of the aristocracy, since ruling elites were still able to control access to officialdom for generations, or whether social mobility had become more fluid with the growing importance of the civil examination as a system of recruitment.23 Cases from Guanzhong in the early Northern Song generally support the first thesis. Although what it meant to be a shi had changed significantly, we can still find numerous cases of powerful families making use of the yin privilege for several generations to place relatives in official posts. The Lei and the Chong are two such families.

Two Success Stories The founding of the Song allowed the shi to regain superiority over the military, and it has often been said that the Song was a time when “the civil was respected and the military belittled” (zhongwen qingwu). An ambitious man, if given the choice, would naturally choose a civil ( 21. Ebrey, The Aristocratic Families of Early Imperial China. 22. JWDS, 18.245–46. 23. Kracke, “Family vs. Merit in Chinese Civil Service Examinations Under the Empire.” Kracke, by tabulating two examination lists from the year 1148 and 1256, argued that the examination system managed to recruit a high proportion of men with no apparent official family tradition. Robert Hartwell (“Demographic, Political, and Social Transformations of China,” p. 417), however, pointed out that Kracke had focused only on the direct descendents of a successful candidate, without taking into account the role of the extended family.

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bureaucratic career over a military one. Cases from Guanzhong, however, defy such conventional wisdom. Taking advantage of the unique setting of Guanzhong, where military opportunities were abundant, the elite were able to go beyond the civil service and engage in military operations that would ensure family success. The Lei family of Heyang is a typical case of how elite families in Guanzhong supplemented civil careers with military achievements. The success story of the Leis began with Lei Dexiang (917–92), who obtained the jinshi degree in 953 and served in the post of right reminder in the Later Zhou court. When the Song dynasty was founded, he went on to serve as palace censor and later in several other posts at the court. His son Lei Youlin (n.d.) failed the jinshi examination but did manage to obtain a minor official post as proofreader of the Palace Library by, we are told, exposing the malfeasances of some of his friends who had official appointments.24 Another of Dexiang’s sons, Lei Youzhong (946–1005), took a completely different path. He entered officialdom through the yin privilege and gradually earned a reputation as a stern administrator. He was later promoted to deputy fiscal commissioner of Huainan circuit. Since the promotion came when his father was appointed fiscal commissioner of Liangzhe circuit, Youzhong was able to visit his father frequently. Contemporaries were impressed by the family’s glory.25 In the later part of his career, Youzhong crushed some rebellions and was highly trusted by Emperor Zhenzong (r. 998–1022). After his death, the yin privilege was extended to eight of his sons, relatives, and protégés.26 When the Qing historian Zhao Yi (1727–1814) criticized the Song court for excessive grants of the yin privilege, he cited the Leis, among others.27 The line of Lei Youlin was equally successful. Lei Xiaoxian (n.d.), son of Youlin, passed the jinshi examination and eventually became a civil-military official. Xiaoxian’s son Lei Jianfu (fl. 1040–63) initially chose to be a scholar-hermit but nevertheless was brought into officialdom through a recommendation. He served only briefly at first and was said to be unwilling to follow the normal promotion and transfer procedures. Instead, he stayed in Chang’an and awaited further recom( 24. SS, 278.9453–55. 25. Ibid., 9455–56. 26. Ibid., 9462. 27. Zhao Yi, Nian’er shi zhaji, 25.425–26.

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mendation. He was next ordered to oversee the reconstruction of the Sanbai Canal in Guanzhong, which he is said to have accomplished brilliantly. Following this, he was appointed prefect in several different places. Like his father, he was endowed with military talent and quelled some aboriginal rebellions in Chenzhou and, as a result, was given higher official posts. His son, Shouchen, received the yin privilege after Jianfu’s death.28 From Lei Dexiang to Lei Jianfu, the ability of the Leis to reproduce their success extended for four generations. Family, needless to say, was a major contributing factor. But ironically, it was also family that almost destroyed them. In 991 Lei Xiaoxian was accused by his aunt’s husband, Wei Zhuo, of “domestic violations” (neiluan). The details are unclear, but Xiaoxian presumably committed adultery. The Leis were profoundly affected by this incident. Xiaoxian himself was exiled, and his grandfather Dexiang and uncle Youzhong were demoted for neglecting proper discipline of family members. Luckily for the Leis, Emperor Taizong (r. 976–97) was lenient, and they were able to recover from the blow, without detriment to the later careers of Youzhong and Xiaoxian.29 The fortunes of the family thus depended crucially on the emperor’s favor. In the early Northern Song, bureaucratic families like the Leis were an integral part of the imperial system, and their fate was in many ways closely related to the court. The Leis declined after Lei Jianfu, and their names do not appear again in the official history. In comparison, the success of the Chong family, another great Guanzhong civil-military family, lasted until the end of the Northern Song. The Chongs were originally from Luoyang but apparently established a base in Guanzhong when Chong Xu (n.d.) was appointed assistant magistrate of Chang’an in the tenth century. This is therefore a case of in-migration to Guanzhong. The first famous member of this family is Chong Fang (d. 1015), son of Chong Xu and a renowned scholar-hermit. He refused to take the jinshi examination even when his father ordered him to do so, and he frequently visited the religious sites of Mount Song in Henan and Mount Hua in eastern Guanzhong, both of which were famous as places where recluses ( 28. SS, 278.9463–64. 29. Ibid., 9453–56.

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dwelled. While his brothers sought official careers after their father’s death, Fang brought his mother to live in seclusion at Zhongnan Mountain (i.e., Qinling), a place rich in the tradition of “leaving the world” (chushi), where he made a living by teaching.30 As his fame grew, high-ranking court officials repeatedly recommended Chong Fang to the emperor, and he lived as a half-hermit– half-bureaucrat for the rest of his life. It is said that in his later years, he began to purchase large amounts of land around Chang’an, sometimes through coercion, and profited greatly from it. His protégés acted arrogantly, and local officials complained that he had no respect for them. Still, Emperor Zhenzong defended Chong against these attacks. After his death, he was buried at Zhongnan Mountain, and the yin privilege was granted to several of his nephews.31 Both the Chongs’ case and that of Lei Jianfu suggest that the “leaving the world” strain of Guanzhong literati culture was often coated by a strong sense of political and social participation shaped in part by the state. By granting Chong special treatment and allowing him to live the life of a hermit-bureaucrat, the state helped to support or even define recluse culture. It was also said that whenever Chong was summoned to the capital, a crowd of literati from Guanzhong would gather around him.32 “Leaving the world” now became a state-sanctioned activity that enhanced the local influence of an individual. Among Chong Fang’s nephews who received the yin privilege, the most successful was Chong Shiheng (985–1045). Son of a jinshi, Chong Shiheng lived with Chong Fang at Zhongnan Mountain after his parents died. After entering officialdom through the yin privilege, he eventually proved himself a capable civil-military official in battles with the Tanguts.33 From then on, the Chongs stayed in the northwest for generations and produced numerous prominent civil-military officials, most of whom received official posts through the yin privilege. They fought at first with the Tanguts and later with the Jurchens. Their military talent was so appreciated that the editor of the official history of ( 30. SS, 457.13422. 31. Ibid., 13423–27. 32. Ibid., 13424. 33. Ibid., 335.10741–55; for a detailed biography of Chong Shiheng, see Fan Zhongyan, “Chonggong muzhiming,” in idem, Fan Wenzheng gong ji, 13.112–14.

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the Song even suggested that the Northern Song would not have fallen to the Jurchens had Emperor Huizong (r. 1101–25) heeded their strategic advice.34 Even after they had excelled in military service, the Chongs continued to act like shi. Chong Shiheng, while serving as magistrate of Wugong county in central Guanzhong, was said to have pulled down “illegitimate shrines” and established instead a shrine to Confucius, a gesture common to self-proclaimed steadfast Confucian officials.35 His eldest son, Chong Gu (n.d.), imitated Chong Fang in his younger days, assuming the lifestyle of a scholar-hermit, but eventually became an official. 36 Chong Shidao (1051–1126), Chong Shiheng’s grandson and a student of Zhang Zai, earned himself an entry in the Cases of Song-Yuan Learning.37 Because of their involvement in activities such as these that defined the shi, it is apparent that the Chongs were trying to claim a shi identity even when they were primarily a military family. As Robert Hartwell has shown, an established professional bureaucratic family, one that specialized in the civil service by putting its sons in the bureaucracy generation after generation, faced increasingly intense competition in the Northern Song political environment. In order to stay afloat, it had to gradually go beyond the civil service and adopt a variety of strategies for ensuring continuous success.38 The Leis and the Chongs are two examples of how some of these families relied on non– civil service means to maintain their dominance. Both families started as typical bureaucratic families, but they began to expand their pursuits into other areas by exploiting opportunities available in the unique setting of Guanzhong. At a time when shi status was still the most important asset of an ambitious man who wished to be incorporated by the state, maintaining that status became crucial for families like the Leis and the Chongs. Frequent interstate warfare, the recluse tradition at Zhongnan Mountain, which encouraged the existence of scholar-hermits, and the intel( 34. SS, 335.10755. 35. Fan Zhongyan, “Chonggong muzhiming,” in idem, Fan Wenzheng gong ji, 13.113. 36. Ibid., 13.114; SS 335.10744. 37. SS, 335.10750; SYXA, 31.62–63. 38. Hartwell, “Demographic, Political, and Social Transformation of China,” pp. 420–25.

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lectual movement initiated by Zhang Zai gave elite families in Guanzhong ample opportunities to act outside the civil service to sustain their success while still claiming to be shi. Their stories are therefore unique to Guanzhong, but inseparable from the larger story of the Song state. Indeed, the state, with the court at its center, featured prominently in the literati culture of Northern Song Guanzhong. It would be wrong, however, to assume that the ways in which the literati perceived their relationship with the state remained constant throughout the Northern Song. In fact, a major shift took place during the last few decades of the eleventh century.

Changing Relationship Between the Literati and the State Those who hold the view that Guanzhong experienced a sharp decline immediately after the Tang may be surprised to learn of the bureaucratic success of Guanzhong men in the early Song. In 998, two Guanzhong men, Yang Li (931–99) from Huxian and Song Shi (950–1000) from Chang’an, were appointed concurrently as vice commissioners of the Bureau of Military Affairs. 39 Yang had received the top ranking (zhuangyuan) in the first jinshi examination of the Song dynasty. He was awarded the honor in 960, the year the Song dynasty was founded. He was well known for leading a simple life even after attaining high office, so much so that when he died, the emperor had to walk to his residence because the narrow street on which Yang lived could not accommodate the emperor’s sedan chair. In stark contrast to his lifestyle, Yang’s writing style was elaborate and flowery, and the official documents that he wrote during his tenure in the Hanlin Academy were considered “antiquated and strange.”40 No substantial writings by Yang are extant, but I think it is safe to assume that he was, albeit unsuccessfully, trying to attain literary refinement. As Peter Bol has shown, many in the early Song believed that producing skilled writings was key to serving the interests of a court that promoted civil order.41 Yang, we may presume, like many during his time, viewed serving the court as his ( 39. SS, 6.107. 40. Ibid., 287.9644. 41. Bol, “ This Culture of Ours,” p. 162.

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ultimate goal. Unfortunately, we know too little about him to draw a definite conclusion. In comparison, we know much more about Song Shi, and that enables us to explore his relationship with the court in a more precise manner. Like Yang Li, Song put much effort into writing in a refined style, which also seems to suggest that he held a court-centered view of literary production. Song Shi’s great-grandfather and grandfather were magistrates in the Tang, and to quote Song Shi’s biographer, their official posts kept them “confined to provincial careers” (qu yu zhouxian). 42 Degree-holding gave his family a vital head start, however. Song’s father, Song Wengu, passed the jinshi examination under the Later Jin (936–47) regime.43 Song Shi’s uncle Song Wenshu passed the jinshi examination under the Song. Both Wengu’s and Wenshu’s lines were extremely successful in producing degree-holders. Altogether, the family produced at least six jinshi in three generations. Besides examination success, yin privileges were bestowed on many of its members, which ensured that the fate of the Songs became closely tied to the court.44 The Songs also relied on marriage ties with other high-ranking officials to increase their influence at court. At the time the biography of Song Shi was written, most of his children were still young and he had only managed to marry one daughter to Yang Tan, then a vice director of the State Farm Bureau and a native of Zhending in modern Hebei.45 Song’s wife was from Qinghe in present-day Shandong. The Songs were clearly forging marriage ties with elite families nationwide. This was also true for Kou Zhun (961–1023), a Guanzhong native from Xiagui and one of the most influential statesmen in the early Song. Kou obtained the jinshi degree in the same year as Song Shi.46 Apparently, he had no aristocratic background, since his biographer highlights the loss of the family’s genealogical records.47 Kou’s family probably ( 42. Yang Yi, “Songgong shendao beiming,” in idem, Wuyi xinji, 8.2a. 43. Ibid. 44. Ibid.; SS, 287.9645–46. 45. SS, 255.8905. 46. Yang Yi, “Songgong shendao beiming,” in idem, Wuyi xinji, 8.1a–8b; Sun Bian, “Kou Zhongmin gong Zhun jingzhong zhibei,” in Du Dagui, Mingchen beizhuan wanyanji, 2.25–34. 47. Sun Bian, “Kou Zhongmin gong Zhun jingzhong zhibei,” in Du Dagui, Mingchen beizhuan wanyanji, 2.25.

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left Guanzhong in his father’s generation and Kou was apparently born in Daming, Hebei. Later, when Kou Zhun embarked on an official career, his family appears to have taken up residence in Luoyang because he buried his parents in the western capital and he himself was also buried there. Although Kou traveled to Guanzhong and wrote touching poems about how he missed his native soil,48 he most likely had no serious intention of permanently moving his family back to Guanzhong. In fact, when he was in Chang’an, he actually missed Luoyang.49 We know nothing about Kou Zhun’s mother, grandmothers, or great-grandmothers, but we know many details about the families of his wives and his three sons-in-law (he had no son and adopted a nephew). Kou Zhun’s first marriage was to Xu Zhongxuan’s (930–90) daughter, but she died before Kou became powerful and influential.50 Xu served in several local and central posts during his official career and was a native of Qingzhou, Shandong.51 Kou’s second wife was the daughter of Song Wo (926–98), a powerful Luoyang military man and the father-inlaw of Emperor Taizu (r. 960–75).52 In fact, Kou became so powerful that Emperor Zhenzong, reluctantly, granted his request to award degrees to family members and relatives who had failed the examination.53 Every son-in-law of Kou Zhun hailed from a family of high political and social status. 54 He was also instrumental in marrying one of his ( 48. Wang Xiaobo, Kou Zhun nianpu, pp. 206–13. 49. Kou Zhun, “Yi Luoyang,” in idem, Zhongmin gong shiji, 65b. 50. Sun Bian, “Kou Zhongmin gong Zhun jingzhong zhibei,” in Du Dagui, Mingchen beizhuan wanyanji, 2.33. 51. SS, 270.9268–69. 52. Sun Bian, “Kou Zhongmin gong Zhun jingzhong zhibei,” in Du Dagui, Mingchen beizhuan wanyanji, 2.33; Wang Yucheng, “Youwei shangjiangjun zeng shizhong Songgong shendaobei,” in idem, Xiaoxu ji, 28.190–93. 53. The other person who made such a request was Bi Shian (938–1005), Kou Zhun’s affine and a prime minister himself. After this incident, Emperor Zhenzong issued an edict ordering others not to use this as a precedent for making similar requests; see XCB, 59.15. 54. Kou Zhun’s eldest daughter was married to Wang Shu (963–1034), his second and third daughters were married to Bi Qingchang (n.d.), son of Bi Shian, and his youngest daughter went to Zhang Zigao (989–1038); see Sun Bian, “Kou Zhongmin gong Zhun jingzhong zhibei,” in Du Dagui, Mingchen beizhuan wanyanji, 2.33; and Yin Zhu, “Wanggong shendaobei ming” and “Zhanggong muzhiming,” in idem, Henan xiansheng wenji, 12.7b–12a, 17.4b–7a.

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nieces to the promising young Gao Qing (n.d.), who held a jinshi degree.55 One apparent fact about Kou’s affines is that, regardless of their claimed place of origin, they resided close to or in the capitals and served in high posts at court at some point.56 The marriage patterns of both Song Shi’s and Kou Zhun’s families clearly show that these people were seeking political alliances at court, a pattern typical of the Northern Song national statesmen studied by Hartwell and Hymes.57 Given their focus on this goal, these prominent statesmen’s interest in local affairs was predictably minimal, and for more than a century they left no trace in historical sources of local involvement. For instance, extant stele inscriptions pertaining to local projects from the Five Dynasties and the first half of the Northern Song give no indication that these high court officials ever spearheaded a local project.58 As these high-ranking officials looked away from Guanzhong and set their eyes on the court, most local projects came under the direction of local officials. We know that local elites were involved in some religious construction projects, but very often they acted only at the prompting of the local authorities.59 Even in one case in which we are ( 55. Gao was first married to Kou Zhun’s niece, but after she died, he married the daughter of Li Hang (947–1004). We are also told that Gao, backed by a powerful affine, often bullied the common people (XCB, 86.14–15). 56. The Wangs were originally from Shanxi, but later migrated to Henan when Wang Shu buried his father there; the Bis were originally from Yunzhong, Shanxi, but later migrated to Zhengzhou, Henan; and the Zhangs claimed to originate from Jiyin in present-day Shandong, but had been settled in Henan for generations. 57. Hartwell, “Demographic, Political, and Social Transformation of China”; Hymes, Statesmen and Gentlemen. 58. Of the 127 stelae of the Five Dynasties and the Northern Song (through the Zhiping era, 1064–67) collected in Guanzhong jinshi ji, the majority were erected by scholar-officials from all over the empire to commemorate a tour to a scenic spot in Guanzhong or as copies of poems or classical and religious texts. Others were records of court or official activities, such as imperial household members praying to the spirit of Mount Hua; the court bestowing titles on deities or ordering the construction of shrines honoring Confucius, emperors, and great officials of past dynasties; or local officials paying visits to local temples (the most common of these was the temple of Mount Hua). See Bi Yuan, Guanzhong jinshi ji, 4.31b–5.25a. 59. For example, in 1012, the funds for renovation of the Confucius shrine in Lantian were donated by nineteen local elites, but these nineteen individuals were recommended by local officials. Also, in 1027, Gao An (n.d.), a jinshi from Guoxian in

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certain that a local worthy initiated an expensive project in 975 to renovate a pagoda at Longxing Monastery in Tongzhou, the anonymous author of the inscription is quick to attribute the whole project to the virtue and wisdom of the governor and local officials and the true initiator almost disappears from the text.60 I have been using the vague term “local elite” because we know nothing about these individuals apart from their names. The lack of information about them suggests that these non-titled elites were often marginalized in the presence of the local officials. Their participation in water control projects, for example, is also almost invisible in historical sources from the same period. Again, it is always the local officials who are recorded as taking the lead. For instance, Chen Yaozi ( jinshi 1000), the prefect of Yongxingjun, was commended in 1014 by Emperor Zhenzong for solving the problem of salty well water in Chang’an. The problem had apparently existed for quite some time. Chen Yaozi led some fifty to seventy men in digging a small channel to bring water into the city from the Longshou Ditch, about two li away.61 The local elite of Chang’an could easily have initiated this kind of project instead, but there is no record to suggest this was the case. We know that powerful families were present in Chang’an in the early Northern Song despite the collapse of the aristocracy. For example, a late Northern Song observer reported that in the 990s Chang’an had been full of powerful men and households with yin privilege who often disobeyed the orders of local officials.62 Indeed, in 1015, a local official memorialized the court—successfully—to ask for permission to send the unlawful members of these families to the capital for punishment.63 Yet these families are mostly invisible in historical sources pertaining to local public projects. ( western Guanzhong, was asked by the magistrate to write an inscription for the renovation of a Daoist monastery. The text says the funds were contributed by a Daoist priest. No other members of the local elite were mentioned. See Dong Chu, “Lantian xian Wenxuanwang miaoji”; and Gao An, “Fengxiang Fu Guoxian chongxiu Zhide Changningguan ji”; both in JSCB, 129.4a–b, 131.4a–b. 60. “Chongxiu Longxing si dongtaji,” JSCB, 125.1a–2a. 61. “Ci Chen Yaozi chi,” JSCB, 130.2b–3a. 62. Jiang Shaoyu, Songchao shishi leiyuan, pp. 276–77. 63. XCB, 85.10.

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Local involvement by the Guanzhong elite becomes more apparent in later years. In the literary collection of the Cheng brothers exists a letter written by Cheng Yi on behalf of someone who called himself a “coarse scholar of Guanxi” (Guanxi louru). The letter, undated but definitely written between 1086 and 1107,64 was addressed to the prime minister, urging him to accept a proposal to reconstruct the Zhengguo and Bai ditches in central Guanzhong. This is a case of a native shi trying to make his presence felt in local affairs. The letter said that the grandfather of this “coarse scholar” had been granted an interview by Emperor Shenzong (r. 1068–85), who thought highly of his proposal to reconstruct the ditches in the Xining (1068–77) era. The grandfather was then appointed to oversee the project but was hindered by those who wickedly sought to “harm the capable.” As a result, the ditches were left in ruins, still a matter of regret for the people of Guanzhong. The letter identifies the lack of irrigation as the cause of both food shortages and inflation in Guanzhong. If irrigation could be restored, not only could these problems be solved, but provisions for the border army would be boosted. But as a “coarse scholar” living far away from the capital, the man on whose behalf Cheng Yi wrote could find no way to make his voice heard. Fortunately, he had come to know the prime minister, and he hoped that the latter would help him and his grandfather fulfill their wishes.65 The grandfather in question was actually Hou Ke (1006–79), a maternal uncle of the Cheng brothers and a native of Huayin in eastern Guanzhong who once served as the magistrate of Jingyang in central Guanzhong. There he rebuilt the irrigation canal and submitted a proposal to the court in 1074, but his efforts were abruptly terminated.66 Hou Ke pursued this project as an official, but his unnamed grandson was acting as a local “unofficial” literatus seeking to exert influence in a government-dominated realm when he asked Cheng Yi to write the letter. ( 64. In the letter, the posthumous title of Emperor Shenzong is used, suggesting that it was written after Shenzong’s reign ended in 1085. Cheng Yi died in 1107. 65. Cheng Yi, “Dai ren shang zaixiang lun Zheng-Baiqu shu,” in Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, p. 610. 66. Cheng Hao, “Huayin Hou xiansheng muzhiming,” in idem and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, pp. 504–7. See also Shaanxi tongzhi, 39.93b–94b.

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Guanzhong literati also made their presence felt in other domains previously managed by the state. In 1088, a temple for Emperor Taizong of the Tang dynasty was constructed in Wugong. This kind of construction project commemorating emperors of past dynasties was normally carried out by the state in the early Northern Song, but this time it was implemented by a prominent native scholar-official. The inscription for the project reads: According to the Record of the Tang, Emperor Taizong was born in a villa in Wugong on the wuwu day of the twelfth month of the eighteenth year of the Kaihuang era of the Sui dynasty [i.e., January 23, 599]. [When he was born,] two dragons played at the doorstep and left only after three days. South of Wugong county of Jingzhao prefecture, there is the Cide Monastery, formerly the Qingshan Palace during the Tang, which is the site [of the villa]. To the north [of it] is the Baoben Monastery, which was the old house of Shenyao [one of the titles of Emperor Gaozu (r. 618–26)]. In the past, although the county map did record that matter, the sacrifice had not been performed. Master You, academician of Dragon Diagram Hall (Longge [short for Longtu ge]), thus sighed with regret, [and he] led the natives and began planning to build a temple to the north of Baoben Monastery. . . . That was in the third year of the Yuanyou era [1088]. Fourteen years later, I, Zhao Maozeng from Luoyang, was appointed magistrate [of Wugong]. One day, I visited the temple, and Master You’s younger brother Shihan told me the story and asked me to write an inscription.67

The magistrate Zhao Maozeng agreed to the request and wrote the inscription, which ends with lengthy praise for Master You. Emperor Taizong becomes virtually nonexistent in the text. Master You was You Shixiong (1038–97), a student of Zhang Zai and well known as a capable official both at court and on the frontier. He served in several highranking official posts but spent most of his career along the northwestern border. Nevertheless, he was closely linked to his hometown of Wugong and remained devoted to affairs in his locality despite holding high office.68 If we compare You Shixiong to the early Northern Song statesmen mentioned above, the change in attitude toward the local is worth noting. For You Shixiong, the fact that Emperor Taizong had ( 67. Zhao Maozeng, “Xiu Tang Taizong miaoji,” in JSCB, 143.1b–2a. 68. Zhang Shunmin, “Yougong muzhiming,” in idem, Huaman ji, 9.73–80.

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been born in Wugong was probably as important as the fact that he had been an emperor. True, Emperor Taizong represented the state and a national past, but he also represented the local in this case. What we see here is, I think, a renowned official carrying out a project in an “unofficial” capacity and drawing on national memory to invoke local pride. Equally noteworthy is how the writer of the inscription, a local official, used the opportunity of commenting on an enterprise normally performed by the state to eulogize a high-profile scholar-official who “unofficially” initiated a local construction project. This increased activism of Guanzhong elite occurred in a period when the state was attempting to penetrate local society under the New Policies initiated by Wang Anshi and continued by his statist followers. However, it appears that the state, for various reasons, failed to exert its will on a regular and permanent basis.69 The shift toward favoring a literatus operating in an “unofficial” capacity in the writings mentioned above is perhaps a sign that the state was becoming less involved in certain aspects of local society even as the space for the elite to operate unofficially expanded. Yet this does not mean that the late Northern Song Guanzhong elite necessarily perceived that as an opportunity to ignore the state or even to celebrate the retreat of the state. In fact, both the request by You Shihan to the magistrate to write an inscription, a task Shihan certainly could have done himself, and the very fact that the “coarse scholar” had to ask Cheng Yi to appeal to the prime minister on his behalf indicate that the presence of the state and its local agents was still a major factor in the endeavors of the Guanzhong elite. This point can be best illustrated by examining the views of Li Fu (b. 1051; jinshi 1079) on the role of the state.

Li Fu on the Role of the State Li Fu’s family moved from Kaifeng to Chang’an when he was eighteen sui. According to Li himself, he passed the examination at the national university at the age of sixteen sui but took and passed the metropolitan ( 69 . Paul Smith (Taxing Heaven’s Storehouse, pp. 308–11), for example, has shown through his study of the Sichuan tea industry in the Song that the various interventionist, anti-engrosser measures carried out under the vision of the New Policies had been “subverted by revenue-gathering imperatives into allying the state with the most powerful private actors in the economy.”

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examination more than a decade later. In between, he claimed that he had devoted himself to moral learning unrelated to the pursuit of an official career.70 He thus spent a considerable amount of his early life in Chang’an. Indeed, Li wrote extensively on local people. 71 He also worked to establish local connections through his marriages. After the death of his first wife, he married Fan Yuan (1063–1117), a native of Chang’an. She was the granddaughter of Fan Xiang (d. 1061), who made a mark by introducing currency into the border delivery system (ruzhong) of the northwestern salt trade. 72 Fan Yuan’s mother, a Madame Zhou, was also said to come from a “great clan” of Guanzhong. Li came to know the Fan family because he frequently visited one of Fan Yuan’s uncles, most probably Fan Yu, who gave up his official post and taught in Chang’an.73 Fan Yu, introduced above as the military commissioner of Qinfeng circuit, was a capable official and, more important, a student of Zhang Zai. Li Fu’s activities in Guanzhong indicate that, by Li’s time, the literati there had carved out an “unofficial” space in which to form local networks. As someone who was active and excelled in such a space, Li, not surprisingly, entertained doubts about an activist approach to government. In Li’s view, the state would unavoidably face severe obstacles if it tried to push aggressive policies. When asked whether the policies of the Three Dynasties could be implemented in his days, Li replied in the negative. He argued that in antiquity the government had ruled the world with sound economic, military, and educational policies. Most fundamentally, in the economic realm, there was the famous well-field system to ensure that the people were properly fed. But in his days, the well-field system, the basis for nurturing the people in antiquity, could not be implemented because land was now privately owned. It was simply impossible for the state to confiscate and redistribute land. So the people instead had to “nurture themselves.” Li saw no possibility of changing the present situation. Apparently, Li was advocating a “gen( 70. Li Fu, “Da Peng Yuanfa shu,” in JSJ, 4.4b–5b. 71. Most tomb inscriptions contained in Li Fu’s literary collection were written for local elite or officials; see JSJ, 8.3b–18a. 72. Dai Yixuan, Songdai chaoyan zhidu yanjiu, pp. 270–86. 73. Li Fu, “Gongren Fanshi muzhiming” and “Zhou Furen muzhiming,” in JSJ, 8.14b–18a.

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tle” state, that is one that would exercise extreme caution in ruling and leave room for the society to operate on its own.74 In an undated memorial to the throne, Li urged the emperor to rule with the Way, which, according to Li, simply meant setting the appropriate standards and regulations. By doing so, the emperor could ensure that the officials would conduct themselves properly and the people would live happily and free from harassment without even knowing wherein lay the source of their happiness.75 In a treatise entitled “Royal Domain,” Li claimed that in antiquity the domain directly under the jurisdiction of the Son of Heaven was not more than a thousand li square in size. The Former Kings had no desire to exert their authority over the entire world— which would have exhausted their resources—yet all people in the world welcomed their rule. In later ages, a ruler who tried to bring the world under his sole control would certainly fail eventually.76 Li’s concern about the overcentralization of power might have grown out of his dissatisfaction with the court’s handling of border defense. In a letter to Prime Minister Zhang Dun (1035–1105), Li criticized the court for trying to organize defense in a top-down fashion. He argued that the situation at the borders changed so rapidly that it would be disastrous if officials defending these regions had to wait for orders from the court. A better alternative would be for the court to give border officials adequate freedom and simply instruct them not to fail at their missions. Li believed that the court’s authority would not be eroded because the intent of the court would remain obscure to the officials, who would not dare to act out of self-interest.77 Zhang Dun was an active advocate of the New Policies, and obviously Li was well aware of his goal of centralizing state power. Nevertheless, even though Li Fu was very opposed to dogmatic statism, he did not advocate state inaction and noninterference in local society. For instance, he thought that the compilation of geographical works (dili shu) such as the local gazetteer of Guanzhong should not be left to an individual like himself who lived privately or who did not have a high government office (siju weixia zhe). Such works could, he claimed, be ( 74. Li Fu, “Da ren wenzheng shu,” in JSJ, 5.14a–15a. 75. Li Fu, “Lun zhidao,” in JSJ, 1.1a–2b. 76. Li Fu, “Wangji,” in JSJ, 8.20b–21a. 77. Li Fu, “Shang Zhang chengxiang yan bianshi shu,” in JSJ, 3.1a–2a.

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written more reliably using the resources that the government controlled.78 Thus it appears that Li viewed whatever was “local” as part of the “official” system and was urging the state to take a more active role in defining what was local. Peter Bol argues in an article on the writing of local history (comprising the local gazetteer, the cultural geography, and the biographical and literary record) in Southern Song and Yuan Wuzhou, Zhejiang, that there is something new about these works. First, all three are products of an intellectual culture with a solid local existence. Second, the center of gravity of these three types of works has shifted from state to local interests. What this means is that beginning in the Southern Song, Bol argues, shi began to perceive the national and the local differently. For these cultural elites, the local was no longer subordinate to the national. On the contrary, the nation came to be seen as a collection of localities. Thus, the Song shi had begun to re-conceptualize the nation as something less imperial, less derivative of court culture, and less centralized.79 In comparison, even though he acted like a Southern Song local literatus in many ways, Li Fu was fairly “state-friendly,” since he still acknowledged that the state played an important role in the affairs of local society. Li Fu, traditionally thought to have been a student of Zhang Zai,80 may have simply been a friend of Zhang, even though it is clear that Li was much younger.81 In any case, Li’s skepticism about the present applicability of the policies of antiquity stands in sharp contrast to Zhang Zai’s well-known appeal to the systems of antiquity as outlined in the Rites of Zhou. Yet, as we shall see, Li’s view of a “gentle” and yet active state is in line with Zhang’s idea of good government. Apparently, Zhang provided the most persuasive solution for the literati of late eleventh-century Guanzhong, who were eager to find an all-embracing state system within which they could secure a place to exert their influence on society at a time when the gap between the state and the literati was widening. ( 78. Li Fu, “Da Li Chencheng yi shu,” in JSJ, 3.9b–11a. 79. Bol, “The Rise of Local History.” 80. SYXA, 31.64. 81. Li Fu wrote a letter to Zhang Zai regarding some ritual issues in which the tone resembles a discussion between friends; see Li Fu, “Yu Zhang Hengqu,” in JSJ, 3.8a–b.

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Zhang Zai, however, did not deal with the issue of government in a separate and exclusive manner. Together with his students, Zhang designed a cohesive program encompassing cosmology, ethics, and politics. It was a vision that offered the intellectual world of the eleventh century a unique mode of literati learning.

The Vision of Zhang Zai’s School Reconstructing the history of Zhang Zai’s school is somewhat difficult, since the works of its members have for the most part been lost. Yet there is little doubt that in the second half of the Northern Song, not only was Zhang Zai’s school the most active, if not the only, intellectual community in Guanzhong, but it also made intellectual claims powerful enough to catch the attention of others outside Guanzhong. Zhang and his students provided the intellectual world of the eleventh and early twelfth centuries with a new way of conceiving the relationship among the working of the universe, politics, and learning. In particular, they saw the restoration of the system of antiquity as a necessary step in transforming the world. This view was unique in the eleventh century when there was widespread skepticism about the viability of returning to the system of antiquity. Previous studies of the school have either ignored this “practical” aspect and focused on philosophy exclusively or treated the institutional pursuit as an entity divorced from the “philosophical” aspect.82 My contention is that these scholars saw both aspects as inseparable components of a coherent program of learning. In order to illustrate this point, I shall consider how they perceived the relationship between the dao and the “traces” ( ji) of the sages. But first of all, it is important to discuss Zhang Zai’s political engagement, especially his conflict with Wang Anshi.

The Dao and the “Traces” Zhang Zai was born in Kaifeng, the Northern Song capital. When his father died in office as the prefect of Fuzhou in Sichuan, however, the family was said to be too poor to return to Kaifeng. They settled instead in the town of Hengqu, in Mei county of Fengxiang prefecture in ( 82. For exception, see Chow, “Ritual, Cosmology, and Ontology.”

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western Guanzhong. Before he passed the metropolitan examination in 1057, Zhang was, in a typically Guanzhong manner, concerned particularly with military affairs. He also sought the acquaintance of learned men in Guanzhong as well as of well-known officials appointed to the region, such as Fan Zhongyan (989–1052) and Wen Yanbo (1006–97). After he passed the examination, he served in several local posts before being summoned to the court in 1069 by Emperor Shenzong and Wang Anshi, who were then looking for supporters to help implement the New Policies. But Zhang almost immediately rejected Wang’s vision and, as a result, was sent to Zhejiang to solve a legal case. Upon completion of this duty, he returned to Kaifeng, but, claiming illness, he sought to be released from duty to return to his hometown. He remained out of office for the next few years, devoting himself to teaching and experimenting with his ideas. He formed an intention of building a local community in Guanzhong based on the system of antiquity as outlined in the Rites of Zhou. Before he could complete his experiment, he was summoned to the court again; there Zhang tried to promote his ideas of reviving ancient rituals in the court. As might be expected, he failed to persuade. He then decided to return to his hometown to continue the experiment with like-minded students, but died before he could do so.83 For the purposes of this book, Zhang Zai’s falling out with Wang Anshi deserves further investigation. It is reported that when the two first met, Wang asked Zhang to assist him in implementing the New Policies, and Zhang replied: “The court is about to be very active (da youwei), and all the shi under heaven are willing to follow suit. If you ask the people to act morally, who would dare not to give his best? However, if you try to teach a jade-cutter how to cut jade, then naturally people will not be able to follow.”84 The jade-cutter alludes to a passage in Mencius in which Mencius tried to convince King Xuan of Qi that he should not teach a jade-cutter how to cut jade. Similarly, he should not try to teach a learned man, who was, of course, a shi, how to govern the state.85 What Zhang Zai had in mind in referring to this passage was ( 83. Lü Dalin, “Hengqu xiansheng xingzhuang,” in LTLS, pp. 586–90. The LTLS collection contains the extant works of the Lü brothers. 84. Ibid, pp. 587–88. 85. Mencius, 2B9.

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Wang Anshi’s statist, if not dogmatic, approach to learning and government. Ira Kasoff is right, I think, to read Zhang’s comment as a reminder to Wang not to interfere too much in local affairs.86 In other words, Zhang’s dissatisfaction with Wang’s New Policies was grounded on the belief that the country should not be run in a centralized and doctrinaire manner with the court setting the agenda and demanding that all shi under heaven simply obey its instructions. Since the shi were experts in government, just as jade-cutters were expert in jade cutting, they should be entrusted with the task of running local society without direct intervention from the court. Viewed in this context, Zhang Zai’s attempts to build an ideal local community through his own efforts in fact offered an alternative to the vision of the New Policies. Many prominent figures in the eleventh century were critics of Wang Anshi’s New Policies. What made Zhang Zai and his students different was that they were the only group to devise institutional alternatives. The Cheng brothers, for example, did not try to counteract Wang’s reforms by proposing their own program. Their most extensive recorded discussion on the well-field system derives from a conversation with Zhang Zai in 1077, in which they agreed with Zhang Zai’s vision in general, with only minor questions on its implementation.87 Cheng Yi, on another occasion, stressed to a student that since the well-field system had worked in antiquity, it certainly would be able to work now. The student was apparently concerned about the problems posed by a larger population and a scarcity of land, but Cheng Yi simply rejected this supposition. He argued that Heaven always produces things and beings in just the right proportion, and thus the assumption about a scarcity of land was unfounded.88 As I understand it, Cheng Yi was not saying that the well-field system should be implemented, but merely that the well-field system would still work today because Heaven, which keeps everything in balance, would ensure that the amount of land in the world was sufficient for men to subsist upon it. This is an argument about the harmonious relationship between nature and man, not an insistence that an ancient system must be restored. ( 86. Kasoff, The Thought of Chang Tsai, p. 183. 87. Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, pp. 110–11. 88. Ibid., p. 291.

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Cheng Yi’s views are clearer in passages in which he discussed the enfeoffment, or fengjian, system. He felt that the prefectural-county ( junxian) system implemented since the notorious Qin dynasty was more suitable for the post-antiquity world.89 Apparently, for Cheng Yi, the real essence of good government in antiquity was not to be found in institutions. He claimed that the well-field system, fengjian, and punishment by physical mutilation (rouxing)90 were “traces” and not the dao of the sages. These traces were what the sages implemented according to circumstances. Learning the dao of the sages, Cheng argued, was a matter not of simplemindedly following the traces, but of understanding the real intent ( yi) behind them. One could rule the world as wisely as had the sages without reproducing ancient institutions.91 Here we see precisely the kind of dichotomization in Cheng Yi’s philosophy that has led some modern scholars to call him a dualist.92 The dao, which is where value lies, is constant, whereas the traces ( ji) can change according to circumstances. The ji thus have no independent value; they rely on those who truly understand the dao to give them value. This view, I think, was one of the main reasons why Cheng Yi showed little interest in building social institutions. Rather, he focused his pursuit on the kind of self-cultivation that would lead to comprehension of the eternal dao rather than the ephemeral ji. For very different reasons, Wang Anshi postulated a similar relationship between dao and ji. He argued that the dao is eternal, but the ji can and should change according to circumstances. In fact, applying different ji in different circumstances is precisely the way to “act according to the dao.” If someone attempts to imitate and duplicate the ji of the sages without considering all the changes that have taken place since antiquity, his ji will be similar to those of the sages but not his dao, and he will inevitably become a “small man.”93 Yet Wang was not claiming, as did Cheng Yi, that ji, and thus institutions, were relatively unimportant in the search for the dao as compared with personal moral cultiva( 89. Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, p. 291. 90. Cheng Yi did not elaborate on rouxing. Zhang Zai (ZZJ, p. 248), on the other hand, approved the implementation of rouxing as an alternative to capital punishment. 91. Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, p. 326. 92. A. C. Graham, Two Chinese Philosophers, pp. xix–xx, 119–26. 93. Wang Anshi, “Luyin,” in idem, Wang Linchuan quanji, 69.435.

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tion. Rather, he was asserting that we need to look for the right ji in order to fully realize the dao. In fact, Wang’s reforms can be seen as attempts to institutionalize what he thought were the right ji to deal with the problems of his time. Zhang Zai, on the other hand, did not allow such distinctions between dao and ji. He cited a conversation with the emperor, most probably Emperor Shenzong, during which the emperor said that to take Yao and Shun as models did not necessary entail that one had to take their traces as models too. Zhang Zai disagreed. He argued that the traces of Yao and Shun were such because their minds were such ( you shixin ze you shiji); hence we cannot ignore the traces.94 In another passage, he claimed that in the Han there had been scholars who understood benevolence and righteousness very well; unfortunately their minds and their traces had been divorced.95 Zhang did not elaborate, but we certainly can read him as saying that the dao was absent in the Han precisely because the ji then was not the ji of the Three Dynasties. This reflects his belief that the systems of antiquity, the only kind of ji by which the dao can truly manifest itself, must be put into practice if the Song were to achieve what the Three Dynasties had achieved. Zhang Zai’s emphasis on ji thus stands in stark contrast to the views of Cheng Yi and Wang Anshi. But why did he believe that the ji of the sages were real and good? A straightforward answer would be that ji are the genuine manifestations of the dao of the sages, and this dao is none other than the dao of Heaven and Earth. Such a claim, however, requires that one explain why the dao of Heaven and Earth has to be good and then establish a connection between the dao of Heaven and Earth and that of the sages. This was exactly what Zhang Zai did in his theory on cosmology and self-cultivation.

Cosmology and Learning The philosophy of Zhang Zai is well studied, and therefore for my purposes a summary of his main ideas should suffice. To begin with, Zhang believes that the universe consists of qi, which is the Great Void ( 94. ZZJ, p. 290. 95. Ibid., p. 280.

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(xukong ji qi). The Great Void is more frequently denoted by the term taixu. Some would argue that the Great Void can produce qi, but this is incorrect because this line of argument would require us to separate taixu and qi, and by implication separate essence (ti) from application ( yong), or nature (xing) from form (xing). In reality, the Great Void and qi are not two things.96 What Zhang is insisting on here is the oneness of ontological value and physical form. Because all things under heaven are made up of the same qi and thus the Great Void, which is the source of value for everything, they naturally carry with and share among them the inert goodness that characterizes the Great Void. Therefore, all things under heaven are one in the sense that they are produced by the same source and share the same physical constitution. Yet Zhang recognized that there are differences between things. The differences are caused by variations in the qi-constitution imparted when qi condenses and solidifies into physical form. Since men, like all objects, obtain their physical forms in this manner, they naturally differ from one another. Every man is thus distinct in terms of status, wealth, longevity, character, the ability to act morally, and so on. But the physical qi that produces physical things is not permanent. It can be transformed, and man is the only being who can self-transform (because of his better qi-constitution as compared to other organisms). The aim of transformation is to transcend physical differences and realize that although every man is different, all are nevertheless interconnected in a subtle way. In other words, when Zhang Zai argued that all things under heaven are produced by the same qi, he did not infer that all things are the same and all men are equal. To the contrary, as we shall see later, Zhang believed that hierarchy in human society is real and natural in the sense that it is in accordance with the cosmic order. But the cosmic order that establishes interconnectedness among all things also predetermines that all men can naturally feel for others and share one another’s joy and suffering. To use an analogy, human society, if in full unity with the dao of Heaven and Earth, should function just like a family, in which differences and hierarchy exist but members are naturally bonded. This is the ( 96. ZZJ, p. 8.

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basis for Zhang’s claim that “all people are my brothers and sisters, and all things are my companions” in the famous Western Inscription at the start of chapter seventeen of his Correcting Youthful Ignorance (Zhengmeng).97 As I try to show below, Zhang and his students repeatedly used this “family metaphor” to talk about the social institutions that they were trying to build. But if all things are truly interconnected, why do men fail to understand? According to Zhang, this is because men are bound by their physical bodies and can discern things only within the limited reach of their senses (wenjian zhi xia). It is only by practicing self-cultivation that men can transcend the extremely diverse phenomenal world, attain oneness with Heaven and Earth, and discern the unity and coherence of the cosmic order. This is true knowledge acquired not by one’s senses but by one’s moral nature (dexing suo zhi). Once a person is able to attain such knowledge, he is capable of embodying (ti) all things under heaven with his ultimate mind (daxin). The daxin is opposed to the chengxin, the mind that is preoccupied with self-indulgent opinions and selfish intentions and is therefore partial or biased. The whole purpose of learning is to remove the chengxin, which in turn requires holding to the “mean” at all times (shizhong).98 It is, however, important to note that Zhang Zai did not discount the value of the senses and of physical objects. He insisted that physical objects and experiences gained through our senses are necessary for pursuing moral knowledge, even though we should not be constrained by them.99 To better appreciate Zhang’s stance, we may compare it with Cheng Yi’s. For Cheng, things in their physical form carry little value; it is the principle embedded in them that is important. This point can be illustrated by comparing comments on a passage in the Book of Changes by Cheng Yi and Zhang Zai, respectively. In the state of absolute quiet and inactivity ( jiran budong ), all things are luxuriantly present [within oneself ]. When it is “in action and it immediately pene( 97. Ibid., p. 62; translation from Wing-tsit Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, p. 501. Zhengmeng was divided into seventeen chapters by Zhang’s students after his death. 98. ZZJ, pp. 20–21, 24–25. 99. Ibid., p. 313.

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trates all things” ( gan er sui tong), the action is merely action from within. It is not to take a thing from outside to act on what is within.100 There must be things before [one can speak about] responding (gan). When there are things, there will be responses; if there is nothing, then what is there to respond to?101

The term gan cannot be rendered as “response” in Cheng Yi’s comment because he understood the internal cognitive power of the mind to be independent of external things. As such, although Cheng Yi saw the investigation of things (gewu) as the first step to self-cultivation, things themselves are passive in his view. For Zhang Zai, on the other hand, the existence of external things is critical in arousing the consciousness of man. Therefore, unlike Cheng Yi, Zhang saw true value in things in their physical form. This is entirely consistent with his insistence on the unity of ontological value and physical form, as well as his claim that dao and ji cannot be separated. In other words, in Zhang’s program of learning, physical things or “traces” have to be taken seriously because they are manifestations of ontological value, and institutions such as the rituals of antiquity are physical “traces” that manifest the dao. This is why Zhang Zai saw the formulation, implementation, and learning of ritual as essential components of self-cultivation. Accordingly, Zhang argued that ritual is “good” because it is based on the natural order of Heaven (li ben tian zhi ziran) and is a manifestation of the virtue of Heaven and Earth (tiandi zhi de).102 But what is the nature of this “natural order”? In an important article that discusses Zhang’s ideas on ritual and its relationship with his views on cosmology, Kai-wing Chow argues that Zhang’s writings place great emphasis on the social distinction that separates the class of scholar-officials from the common people, and that Zhang held that the existence of such a hierarchy is but a manifestation of the basic principle of the natural order. For Zhang, an ideal society was one dominated by a small number of families who produce scholar-officials for the court, generation after generation. In the context of Buddhism’s ( 100. Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, p. 154; translation partially from Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, p. 556. 101. ZZJ, p. 313. 102. Ibid., p. 264.

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widespread influence, perceived as a threat to the leadership role of the scholar-officials, Zhang’s effort to “revive” the ancient rituals was thus an attempt to build a Confucian society that acknowledged the elite status and privilege of such families. In other words, according to Chow, Zhang’s writings on ritual reveal a strong class interest.103 Although Zhang Zai did perceive Buddhism as a major threat and was truly concerned about the declining leadership of scholar-officials in society and the possible decline of their families after a few generations, his ultimate motive, as I see it, was to build not only a society that recognized hierarchy but also one in which everyone—monarch, scholar-officials, and commoners included—had an active claim. To illustrate this point, we need to consider Zhang’s proposals on the differentiated descent line (zongfa), fengjian, and well-field ( jingtian) systems, which he saw as the three integral components of the sophisticated ritual system that the sages had built in antiquity.

The zongfa, fengjian, and jingtian Systems Zhang Zai’s proposal for reviving the zongfa system is inseparable from his concern over the decline of hereditary shi families during his time. Peter Bol has shown that many in the Song had begun to consider the civil examination as a mechanism for preserving shi status from generation to generation.104 Zhang definitely saw this trend coming, and he reacted against it: The glory of hereditary emolument is intended by kings to select men of achievement and honor men of virtue, to love them and to treat them generously, so as to show that imperial kindness is unlimited. The descendants should be happy in their positions and earnest in their efforts in order to do their duties and fulfill their responsibility. They should strengthen their integrity and avoid taking advantages, so as to continue the good heritage of their families. But descendants of lords and great officials of recent times have gone so far as to lower themselves to the level of commoners, trying to be skillful in poetry in order to sell themselves to those in charge of civil service examinations. They do not realize that seeking an official position is incompatible with moral principles. On the contrary they look down upon those who follow principles as incompetent. ( 103. Chow, “Ritual, Cosmology, and Ontology.” 104. Bol, “The Sung Examination System and the Shih.”

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They do not realize that hereditary privileges are a glory. On the contrary they consider hollow fame [in passing the examinations] as a good way to continue the accomplishment of their ancestors. What really is in their minds?105

Zhang established two dichotomies in this passage. First, seeking an official position is contrasted with adhering to the moral principles; second, the hereditary or yin privilege is contrasted with the examination system. What defines a shi, according to Zhang, is not the ability to enter officialdom through the examination system. That even a commoner could do. Rather, it is a devotion to true learning (i.e., following principles) that allows one to claim to be a shi. Official titles and the yin privilege are means by which the court acknowledges the contributions of the true shi. The court also has a responsibility to ensure the long-term survival of shi families. During Zhang’s time, the court prohibited the division of the houses of top ministers who had headed the Secretariat or the Bureau of Military Affairs, but Zhang thought that the role of the state had to be more active. The Tang dynasty had granted official posts to the sons of great officials. The intention was good, Zhang Zai conceded, but the privilege ended with the sons’ deaths. A better alternative, he suggested, would be to allocate five to seven qing of land adjacent to these high officials’ graves to their descendents, so that they could subsist on court-bestowed property for generations without being divided.106 But such measures were still not enough to ensure the survival of these families. Elsewhere, Zhang argued that the court should intervene by setting up the zongfa system in ministers’ families to ensure their continuance: Without the establishment of the system of differentiated descent lines, the court can have no hereditary officials. For instance, a minister can rise up in a day from a poor and humble position. If he does not set up a zong system, once he dies his agnates (zu) will scatter and his family ( jia) will not continue. [However], if he does set up a zong system, then everyone will know their origins, and the court will greatly benefit from it. If asked, “In what ways can the court benefit from it?” [The answer is this: If ] all ministers [can have means to] preserve their families, how can loyalty and righteousness not be established? Once loyalty and righteousness are established, how can the base of the court ( 105. Zhu Xi and Lü Zuqian, Reflections on Things at Hand, pp. 199–200. 106. Ibid.

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not be fortified? Nowadays those who accumulate wealth or honor can plan for only thirty to forty years. They may build a residence with everything they have, but after they die, [the household] will be divided by their sons and soon vanish, and so the family cannot survive. If, in this way, they cannot preserve their family, how can they preserve the state?107

Zhang thus believed that ensuring the survival of these families was essential to the well-being of the court because the court could thus count on the service of hereditary officials and maintain stability over time. In other words, Zhang perceived the interests of the monarch and those of the established shi families to be interconnected. Ideally speaking, the court should be staffed by men coming from this small pool of hereditary families. These men, of course, would enjoy many privileges that commoners did not get to enjoy, yet they had an undeniable responsibility toward society. As members of the central authority, they were supposed to ensure that the state ruled in a “benevolent” manner. And Zhang believed, as had Mencius, that a “benevolent polity” (renzheng) should begin with the well-field system: There is no other way to implement the well-field system but to divide all fields under heaven into segments with the shape of a chess-board, and have every person receive a piece [of each segment], then [the distribution] will naturally be equal. For families that own a large quantity of land before the redistribution, although [they are to] give their land to the people, they are not allowed to practice sharecropping or tenancy. What they have in return will be less, but [we can] put them in charge of the people by appointing them as agriculture officials (tianguan). If they understand this, they will naturally abide with [the new measures]. Although there are bound to be a few who are not willing to do so, those who are willing will be many while those who are unwilling will be few; how can we always try to please everyone? Although [we should] begin with the distribution of public land to the people, a different rule should be established after ten or twenty years. [We should] begin by appointing [former landowners] as agriculture officials, but later it naturally has to [come to a point where] the appointment is to be made according to ability.108 ( 107. ZZJ, p. 259. I followed Patricia Ebrey’s partial translation of this section, but I render jia as “family” instead of “house” and added my own translation of the part she skipped; see Ebrey, “The Early Stages in the Development of Descent Group Organization,” in idem and Watson, Kinship Organization in Late Imperial China, pp. 37–38. 108. ZZJ, pp. 250–51.

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Zhang Zai was living in a time when land was no longer only a public but also a private asset. Persuading the landowning class to accept his proposal was thus his main challenge. For great ministers who owned more than one thousand qing of land, he proposed that the court grant them fifty li of fief land, which should be more than enough to compensate for their losses.109 As for the other landowners, he believed that granting official titles in compensation would solve the problem. As soon as the court issued an edict, the system could be implemented without using force.110 Why was Zhang Zai so confident? How could he be certain that landowners would be willing to exchange land for official titles? He did not elaborate, but it seems that he assumed that most nonofficial landowners would be more than happy to be incorporated into the state system. Put differently, Zhang did not perceive a sharp distinction between state and private interests. In fact, as we shall see, in Zhang’s vision, state and society are interconnected and mutually dependent. Apart from motivating the landowning class with such practical measures as offering them official titles, Zhang also tried to convince people that the well-field system and other social programs derived from antiquity were “good” in the sense that they were in accordance with the workings of Heaven and Earth. Zhang applauded the well-field system, which he thought was a manifestation of the perfect egalitarian ideal ( junping), precisely because it would help people realize the interconnectedness characterizing the workings of Heaven and Earth within the human realm. He believed that if the well-field system were put into practice, then the people would treat one another as their own flesh and blood, and those of higher status would protect the people as if they were their own children.111 This ideal picture of all men, regardless of ( 109. Zhang Zai had a discussion on the same matter with the Cheng brothers in 1077, and it is clear that they were talking about official households that owned excessive land; see Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, p. 111. 110. ZZJ, p. 249. Kai-wing Chow (“Ritual, Cosmology, and Ontology,” p. 221) believes that in advocating the well-field system, Zhang Zai was pushing for the emperor to parcel out land to officials as permanent holdings. But it is clear here that Zhang was concerned more with how to persuade the court to redistribute land, formerly owned by the officials, to the common people. 111. ZZJ, p. 282.

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status, treating one another as family members is reflected in the Western Inscription. In order for the well-field system to work, everyone—the monarch, the ministers, and the local leaders appointed as agriculture officials and entrusted with the task of implementing the well-field system—would have to undergo self-cultivation and learning to comprehend the workings of Heaven and Earth. If this ideal could be realized, then the well-field system could be implemented without using force. At the same time, the political system had to lay the groundwork for the implementation of the well-field system. To this end, Zhang Zai proposed a modified implementation of the fengjian system of antiquity: The reason that fengjian is necessary is because the affairs under heaven can be dealt with effectively only if they are divided into simpler forms. If not [divided into] simpler forms, [they] cannot [be dealt with] effectively. Therefore the sages would definitely divide and share the empire with others, and then there would be no affair that cannot be dealt with properly. When the sages were establishing a norm, they would necessarily have considered [the welfare] of their descendents in later generations. If the Duke of Zhou were running the country, even if he [had to] personally attend to all affairs under heaven, he could still rule effectively, but how can [rulers] of later generations do this?112

Zhang Zai was concerned mainly with the effectiveness of the system. Because a ruler cannot attend to everything by himself, Zhang argued, he has to divide up the empire and appoint capable officials to help him run it. But what about the threat of separatism? Would a return to fengjian not encourage the rise of local powers that would threaten the central authority, as happened at the end of the Zhou dynasty? Zhang Zai did not even consider this a problem. He had absolute confidence that an unruly state could be brought under control by relying on the combined force of the other states in the empire. As such, he argued that concentration of power at the center is redundant.113 It is in this spirit that Zhang Zai made the following proposal: [With regards to] feng jian, only those who possess great merit and virtue can [implement] it. Before the implementation, how should all fields ( jing yi ) under heaven be administered? It is necessary to appoint agriculture officials (tian dafu) ( 112. Ibid., p. 251. 113. Ibid.

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to administer [the fields]. Since it is not [an option] to talk about feng jian in the present day, this could also be done by granting the magistrates lifetime tenure.114

Later, in the seventeenth century, Gu Yanwu recommended that the post of magistrate be made hereditary.115 It is not clear that Zhang Zai would have gone so far, but his proposal to allow magistrates to serve for life seems at first glance to be an attempt to undercut the power of the court. A closer look, however, suggests that he was actually trying to figure out a constructive role for the court in his scheme. The debate over fengjian versus junxian systems usually involved one central issue: which system was gong (public, ruled by many, just) and which was si (private, ruled by few, unjust). In the late Qing, the belief that fengjian would bring out the spirit of gong allowed some advocates of local self-government to frame their discourse within the theory of fengjian.116 Although Zhang Zai came very close to embracing the spirit of local self-government when he pointed to the problems inherent in having an overly centralized state running all affairs in the world, I find no evidence to suggest that he was trying to dismiss the court as irrelevant in his fengjian proposal. This separates him from his late-Qing counterparts. For the latter, fengjian would allow greater participation by local elites in the provincial parliaments and thus realize the ideal of “rule by many” while tending to challenge the imperial system. For Zhang Zai, emphasizing local self-government was instead a recognition of the severe limitations faced by the government in trying to bring the whole empire under its sole control. The fengjian system was thus a way to ease the burden of the central government. Zhang also claimed that the well-field and fengjian systems were better ways for the state to accumulate wealth. In ancient times, when lands were distributed according to the well-field system and people were taxed one-tenth of the total production, the revenue received by the feudal lords was more than enough to cover the cost of running the territories bestowed on them. Excess revenues were contributed to the Son of Heaven for his consumption. This amount, however, was still ( 114. ZZJ, p. 251. 115. Gu Yanwu, “Junxian lun er,” in idem, Tinglin wenji, SBCKCB, 1.76–77. 116. Min Tu-ki, National Polity and Local Power, pp. 89–136.

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more than the Son of Heaven could consume, and because the Son of Heaven needed neither to maintain an army nor to spend money on administration—since this responsibility was undertaken by the feudal lords—he would be very rich. In later times, those who ruled the country did not believe that the well-field and fengjian system could work. They made use of the power of the emperors and tried every means to seize wealth from the people. Yet in the end, what they accumulated was still not enough to cover their expenses.117 Zhang’s depiction of the ancient system sounds idealistic, but it was clearly an attack on Wang Anshi’s New Policies, which were intended to accumulate wealth forcefully in a top-down fashion. Zhang was in fact arguing that wealth should be allowed to remain in the locality for the benefit of the people and their local government. The country could be rich only when the people and localities were rich. Here we see clearly his belief that the well-being of state and society are interlinked: enriching society is the only means of enriching the state. Furthermore, Zhang’s assertion that the Son of Heaven in antiquity neither needed to maintain an army nor to be directly involved in regional administration was, in effect, an argument that the local authorities should be allowed to administer their territories without direct interference from the central authority. Along similar lines, Zhang argued that regulation of markets should be the responsibility not of the court (wangzheng) but of trade officials (shiguan) stationed at the markets.118 In such a model, what is the role of the central authority? We might assume from the above discussion that Zhang Zai discounted the importance of the central authority. But it seems to me that Zhang would argue that before local officials or the social elite were given the task of running a territory, their leadership in local society had to be certified by the central government. Therefore, when Zhang Zai said, “The monarch who can implement the well-field system must have a benevolent heart (renxin) and be strong, bright, and daring, [and he must have] a prime minister with [great] talent,”119 he was not just repeating a commonplace about how important it is for the ruling class to be benevolent. He was, in fact, granting that without the will and determination of the ( 117. ZZJ, p. 250. 118. Ibid., p. 249. 119. Ibid., p. 251.

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central authority, the well-field system, however fine it might be, could exist only on paper. In this respect, Zhang Zai’s goal of building a model community with “unofficial” efforts was not a declaration that the court (the emperor and his ministers) was irrelevant. Rather, it was an attempt to order society in an era when the court, contaminated by the New Policies and failing to realize the interconnectedness of all men, tried to impose its will dogmatically and harshly on the world. The importance of the emperor and his ministers in the universe Zhang envisioned, in which everyone is interconnected as in one family and each person has his own role and duty, is also expressed in the Western Inscription: “Heaven is my father, and Earth is my mother, and even such a small creature as I can find an intimate place in their midst. . . . The Great Ruler [the emperor] is the eldest son (zongzi) of my parents [Heaven and Earth], and the great ministers are his stewards.”120 By invoking the term zongzi, Zhang Zai was drawing an analogy between an ideal political system and the zongfa system discussed above. Elsewhere, Zhang discussed the importance of zongzi to the survival of a lineage when he argued that the court should intervene to set up the zongfa in ministers’ families to ensure their continuance. The key would be to select the zongzi, the eldest male member of the most senior line, whose mother must also be the first wife. But being a zongzi would also require good conduct; otherwise, the group could elect someone more worthy. Once a zongzi was selected, he would be the representative of the zong and have the sole responsibility of performing sacrifices for it. In order to keep the zong intact, other sons would not be allowed to worship the ancestors separately. At the same time, the zongzi would be entitled to many privileges, including the biggest share of communal property and, with the approval of the state, the transfer of yin and other official privileges from other members to him.121 In suggesting that the emperor was just like the head of the family (zongzi) to his subjects and that the ministers were just like his stewards, Zhang Zai asserted that human society had a natural hierarchy preordained by Heaven and Earth, with the emperor “naturally” entitled to enjoy the ( 120. ZZJ, p. 62; cf. Chan Wing-tsit, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, p. 497. 121. ZZJ, p. 260.

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major share of the privileges. But at the same time, in Zhang’s view, the relationship between those ruled and those being ruled should be “affectionate” in the sense that the emperor and his ministers are like family members to the rest of the population. Obviously, a state system built on Zhang’s vision would be “gentle,” since it requires the rulers to show love and compassion toward their subjects and to acknowledge that the empire is a communal property owned by all members of the society. Zhang Zai’s unique conceptualization of state-society relations was continued and put into practice by his students the Lü brothers, who were instrumental in implementing the famous community compact and ceremony (xiangyue xiangyi).

The Lü Brothers and xiangyue xiangyi The Lüs were originally from Jijun, Henan. They moved to Lantian in southeastern Guanzhong when Lü Tong (n.d.), an erudite of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, was buried in Lantian. After this, they were known as the Lantian Lü. Lü Fen (n.d.), Lü Tong’s son and director of the Bureau of Review at one point, had six sons, five of whom passed the jinshi examinations and four of whom have biographies in the official history of the Song dynasty. The son with the most successful official career was Lü Dafang (1027–97), who was appointed as the assistant director of the right in the Department of State Affairs, a post equivalent to the rank of prime minister, in 1086. His elder brother, Dazhong (n.d.), and two younger brothers, Dajun (1031–82) and Dalin (1040–92), were distinguished scholars with national reputations.122 A lack of data prevents a full reconstruction of the Lüs’ marriage pattern, but the mother of the Lü brothers was, according to a Southern Song source, a blind woman from the same locality.123 Other than ( 122. SS, 340.10839–49. 123. Lü Fen is said to have been engaged to this woman before he passed his jinshi examination. Later, the woman lost her sight, and her family wanted to back off from the marriage. Lü Fen, then already a jinshi, insisted that since the marriage promise was made before the unfortunate incident, the family of the woman was not trying to deceive him, and therefore he should honor his own promise by marrying their daughter; see Li Yuangang, Houde lu, 4.12b–13a.

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that, we know only that Lü Dalin was married to the daughter of Zhang Jian (1030–76), the younger brother of Zhang Zai. 124 Even though Zhang Jian was a high-ranking official at one point, the marriage tie was forged probably less for reasons of creating a political alliance at court than for enhancing the teacher-student relationship. Lü Dajun married a woman with the surname Chong.125 We have no further information about her, but it is highly likely that she came from the Chong family discussed above because, as we have seen, some members of this family were also students of Zhang Zai. To judge from these limited cases, the Lüs, unlike early Northern Song statesmen, were apparently more willing to form local networks through marriages. And unlike many contemporary prominent scholarofficials, who, according to Peter Bol, “continued to see the shi primarily as those who served, a political elite whose social privileges were justified by their potential service to the state through the institutions of government” and “continued to treat learning for the shi in the context of the shi’s political responsibilities,”126 the Lüs insisted that true shi learning was not simply intended to train bureaucrats. In fact, the eldest brother, Lü Dazhong, once told a top jinshi scholar that since the examination was “useless,” one should focus one’s efforts on self-cultivation.127 According to an outsider’s observation, although Lü Dafang was a prime minister, as the eldest son Lü Dazhong clearly had the ultimate authority within the family. Also, when a certain Zhang Zhan wished to visit Dafang in the capital and asked Dazhong to write a letter of introduction, Dazhong advised him to call on Lü Dalin (who was living with Dafang in the capital at that time) instead, because as Dazhong put it, Dalin was the one who “devoted himself wholeheartedly to learning.”128 Implicit in this kind of statement is an acknowledgment that officeholding is not the ultimate goal of learning. ( 124. Zhu Xi, Yiluo yuanyuan lu, p. 233. See also Lü Dalin, “Zhang Tianqi xiansheng xingzhuang,” in Fengxiang fuzhi, 6: 1605–12. 125. Fan Yu, “Lü Heshu mubiao,” in Lü Zuqian, Song wenjian, 145.1920. 126. Peter K. Bol, “Government, Society and State: On the Political Visions of Ssuma Kuang and Wang An-shih,” in Hymes and Schirokauer, Ordering the World, p. 190. 127. SS, 340.10846. 128. Lü Benzhong, Donglai Lü Ziwei shiyou zazhi, 22a–24a.

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What, then, is the ultimate goal of learning? The Lüs believed that it was to realize Zhang Zai’s dream as expressed in the Western Inscription. Using a similar “family” analogy, Lü Dajun wrote a rhapsody entitled “All Under Heaven Are One Family” (“Tianxia wei yijia fu”). In this work, Lü looked to the Three Dynasties as a period when people treated one another as family. There was no division between “us” and “them” or between private and public. Those above managed the wealth to feed those below; those below helped those above in their various tasks. But since the decline of the virtue of the Zhou (Zhoude), people have treated one another, including their own family members, as enemies. This negative development was accompanied by the abandonment of both the well-field and the fengjian systems, and the perfect order has never been restored. Now, although there are lords (zhuhou), they are not allowed to interfere with court politics; although there are provincial officials, they are not allowed to stay at their posts permanently. As a result, the government is staffed with incompetent people, and the world has suffered. “How can this be what the heavenly principle is all about?” Lü Dajun asked. Instead, men must be blamed for the present situation. The remedy for the problem, he asserted, may be found in the institutions of antiquity.129 Here again, we see how the idea of oneness of all under heaven articulated in Zhang Zai’s Western Inscription was incorporated into a discussion of the well-field and fengjian systems. An orderly human society is, in this view, simply a manifestation of the same principles that govern the working of the universe. Like many Guanzhong literati who saw enhancing national defense as a priority, Lü Dajun also applied the idea of fengjian to the discussion of appointing officials in the frontier counties (bianjun). He urged the court to follow the system of antiquity by allowing local officials guarding these counties to serve for life. The court should refrain from interfering with their day-to-day management. Only when they faced supply shortages should the court mobilize neighboring counties to assist. And yet, the system of antiquity should not be followed without considering the present situation. Posts should not be hereditary. Local officials should instead be asked to recommend men with talent, regardless of their personal connections, to the court. Recommendations would have to be ( 129. LTLS, pp. 593–94.

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approved by the emperor, and once approved, the candidates were to be given a deputy post. After the retirement of the recommender, the candidates would take over. This semi-fengjian proposal both acknowledges the difficulty of running the frontier regions from the center and attempts to place the ultimate power in the hands of the court.130 Needless to say, this system would make it easier for the local elite to get involved. From the standpoint of a local official, his interest would now be bound more to the locality. Since he would serve for life in that locality, he would be more likely to remain there upon retirement; therefore, it made sense for him to promote the interests of the local elite. For their part, if the local elite could foster a good relationship with their local officials, they could maintain their dominance for a long time without having to deal with different officials every few years. In short, this was a system that encouraged the mutual dependence of local officials and elite. But at a time when local officials were unable to perform their tasks properly because of the breakdown of the state system caused by Wang Anshi’s “wrong” policies, local magnates like Lü Dajun had to bear sole responsibility for organizing local society without assistance from the government. It was this belief that led Lü to engineer the implementation of the well-known xiangyue and xiangyi. Monika Übelhör has provided an excellent study on the xiangyue; therefore a brief explanation will suffice.131 The xiangyue was a contract drawn up to bind villagers into a self-help community for the purpose of encouraging good behavior. It also promoted mutual aid among villagers in times of need. The xiangyi, on the other hand, described the various kinds of ceremonies and rites to be held on different occasions— weddings, funerals, and religious sacrifices, among others—as well as the etiquette for various kinds of daily encounters, such as the receiving and sending off of guests or the paying of respects to the elderly. A significant point about these programs is that participation was voluntary, and participants were allowed to leave at any time. ( 130. Lü Dajun, “Shishou bianjun yi,” in LTLS, pp. 594–95. 131. Monika Übelhör, “The Community Compact (Hsiang-yüeh) of the Sung and Its Educational Significance,” in de Bary and John Chaffee, Neo-Confucian Education, pp. 371–88.

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Surviving sources indicate that the xiangyue and xiangyi did not exist simply on paper. They were actually implemented, apparently with Lü Dajun as chief engineer. 132 In 1077, the year Zhang Zai paid his last visit to the Cheng brothers at Luoyang, Zhang and Cheng Yi had an interesting conversation about using ancient ritual as a mode of instruction: Zihou [Zhang Zai’s personal name] said, “It has gradually become a custom for the students of Guanzhong to use ritual.” Zhengshu [Cheng Yi’s personal name] said, “This is because the people of Guanzhong are resolute and vigorous, and they dare to act.” Zihou said, “It is also because the rules laid down by us are too loose [so they are easy to comply with].” Zhengshu said, “The customs of Luo [referring to the Henan area] seem unlikely to be transformed, as the people of Qin [i.e., Guanzhong] have done.” Zihou said, “The transformation of the customs of Qin relies, on one hand, on the great efforts of Heshu [Lü Dajun’s personal name] and, on the other, the honest and solid quality of the shi. [I am afraid] it is difficult for the people of the east to follow that example willingly.”133

“Ritual” here seems to refer to the xiangyue and xiangyi. Both Zhang and Cheng attributed the successful implementation of the project in Guanzhong to local customs. Apparently they believed that the uniqueness of the Guanzhong tradition had a positive impact on the reception of the program by scholars there, but it is unclear whether such beliefs translated into a desire to affirm local pride. In other words, we do not see in this case a conscious will to actively construct and promote a Guanzhong identity. It is also unclear whether such beliefs convinced Lü Dajun that the project would work in his locality. What we do know is that the project was confined to this area. It did not inspire scholars outside the Guanzhong circle, even those who had viewed it with approval, to test it in their own localities. Immediately after the program was implemented, Dajun’s enthusiasm met with skepticism. In several letters preserved with the text of the compact, Dajun defended himself against charges that questioned ( 132. The identity of the author of the texts of the xiang yue and xiang yi is disputed. According to Zhu Xi, the texts were found in the literary collection of Lü Dajun, which is no longer extant. The texts, however, are preserved, and the postscript written by the eldest brother, Lü Dazhong, is dated 1076; see LTLS, pp. 563–84. 133. Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Er Cheng ji, pp. 114, 115.

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the project’s legitimacy. In one of the two letters addressed to his second elder brother, Lü Dafang, Dajun answered back with harsh words: Regarding the issue of the community compact, I have been instructed [by you] eagerly, and I fully understand that your honorable intention is to protect me and prevent me from letting the disaster of criminal punishment fall [on myself ]. This is how all fathers and elder brothers treat their sons and younger brothers. However, if the ones above [i.e., fathers and elder brothers] do not [try to] understand the aspirations of their sons and younger brothers and instead force them to comply with the formers’ commands, this is also to make things difficult for the ones below. Because the goodness in human nature is the same, but the trace of doing good is different, whether you leave or stay, or whether you move or stop, there is nothing wrong as long as you do not fail to be benevolent. In all [these choices], why is it that one must consider becoming an official the only form of goodness?134

Besides expressing his displeasure with his brother’s insensitivity to his aspirations, Dajun was arguing for the legitimacy of extra-official activities such as implementing the community compact. More important, however, is the odd reference to criminal punishment. Why would implementing the community compact be considered a crime? In another letter, Dajun rejected his brother’s suggestion to rename the community compact a “family ceremony” ( jiayi) because, he explained, such a change would not reflect the true nature of the compact, which involved an entire community instead of just one family.135 Dajun was clearly advocating for a space at the village level where people of different families could come together for mutual aid. Yet, interestingly, the Lüs still appealed to the family metaphor to rationalize their intent to implement the compact. In the postscript to the compact, Lü Dazhong, the eldest brother, asserted that the purpose of drawing up the compact was to organize and transform the people of the local community so that they would treat one another as family members and face both good and ill fortune together.136 The compact was therefore an experiment in practicing the ideals of the Western Inscription. In trying to persuade his brother to call the compact a “family ceremony,” Lü Dafang was apparently trying to downplay the public sig( 134. LTLS, p. 569. 135. Ibid., p. 568. 136. Ibid., p. 567.

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nificance of the compact. Dafang apparently feared that implementing something that was so public would arouse the suspicion of outsiders, most likely the authorities. Dajun’s reply to his brother even suggests that Dafang had likened the implementation of the community compact to factional struggles during the Eastern Han dynasty. Regarding factional struggles in the Han, Li Chunzhi137 had mentioned it to me in one of his letters last year, and I had a reply pointing to the dissimilarities [between the community compact and the factional struggles]. Now I submit a copy [of our correspondence] to you. Those who suffered in the disaster of the factional struggles had only themselves to blame, and it was not only [caused by] the crime of the eunuchs. Their first fault was failing to engage in concrete practice; their second fault was outrageously claiming fellowship among themselves and looking down on high ministers; their third fault was treating the eunuchs as enemies; and their fourth fault was planning to kill the eunuchs once they were given power. I do not understand what the community compact has in common with this.138

Despite his plea of ignorance, I am certain that Lü Dajun understood the comparison. He was living in a time when the power struggles that came with increased factionalism had cost many their official careers. As Übelhör has argued, Dajun’s attempt to organize the community compact occurred as the central government was trying to enhance its control over local affairs in the field of sub-county administration, first in 1055 by trying to substitute government-paid clerks for the system of village elders and then from 1070 to 1075, under the chancellorship of Wang Anshi, by implementing the baojia system. It is therefore not surprising to find Lü, as an opponent of Wang Anshi, relying on “unofficial” initiatives to settle matters of communal life and to keep central government agencies at a distance.139 ( 137. This is probably a reference to Li Zhou (n.d.), whose personal name was Chunzhi. Li Zhou, a native of Fengyi in eastern Guanzhong, died at the age of eighty during the reign of Emperor Zhezong (r. 1086–1100). He was well known for not visiting powerful figures such as Sima Guang and Wang Anshi even when he was still a minor official (SS, 344.10934–36). 138. LTLS, p. 568. 139. Übelhör, “The Community Compact (Hsiang-yüeh) of the Sung and Its Educational Significance,” in de Bary and John Chaffee, Neo-Confucian Education, p. 380.

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As a program for promoting local solidarity, the community compact could easily come under fire from political rivals who might accuse the architects of trying to form cliques to evade state supervision, and it is understandable that this should alarm Lü Dafang, who was then serving at court. Therefore, in a letter to a Liu Pingshu,140 Dajun defended the motives of implementing the community compact against two charges: first, that it was forcing people to do things of which they were incapable, and second, that it was being done on an “unofficial” basis, without authorization from the authorities.141 Lü Dajun responded by saying that since it is human nature to love to follow ritual, the question of force is irrelevant.142 Also, he believed that acting “privately without authorization” was a charge that could be levied only against activities prohibited by the court and contrary to customary norms, such as gathering hooligans to harm the locality. The compact, in contrast, was a plan to organize the natives to support one another and, as such, was something of a totally different nature: Also, the document of the community compact is not something strange. Nowadays, schools have school rules, markets have rules for guilds, and villages have rules for communities; all these are comparable to the community compact. Why have doubts only when it comes to the community compact? Furthermore, there were official instructors in all localities [in the past], and their duties belonged to this category too; it is only that [the policy of assigning instructors] has not been implemented for a long time. If there is someone who implements it, how can we regard it as not having authorization from the authorities? If [you] accuse me of being stupid and lowly, [and still try to do what a stupid and lowly person should not do,] then I dare not evade your ac( 140. I have been unable to identify Liu Pingshu. There was a Liu Guangshi (1089– 1142), a military officer and a native of Guanzhong, whose personal name was Pingshu, but he was born after Lü Dajun’s death; see SS, 369.11478–85. 141. Lü Dajun, “Da Liu Pingshu,” in LTLS, pp. 569–70. The authorship of this piece is hard to determine, but it is safe to assume that it was written by one of the Lüs. Chen Junmin assigns it to Lü Dajun, following Zhu Xi (quoted, ibid., p. 570). 142. In a letter to his eldest brother, Lü Dazhong, Lü Dajun (LTLS, p. 568) revealed that overly strict regulations in an earlier draft of the compact had already been amended in the current version. He also stressed that the compact allowed people to participate or to leave solely on a voluntary basis, just as his brother had suggested.

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cusation, but if [you,] a superior gentleman, do not reject a person’s words because of who he is, then it seems to me that I can be pardoned.143

Lü Dajun believed that he was doing what should instead be done by the state. Since the state was incapable of performing the task, someone like him, a shi of his locality, should be counted on to take over the task. But according to Dajun’s self-declaration, even though the shi were to provide the leadership, they had to act not so much “apart from the state” as “within the concept of the state.” In the letter to Lü Dafang mentioned above, Dajun pointed to the fact that the common people of his day were also organizing themselves to provide mutual aid in times of need. What they did was in accordance with human feelings and not against the law; since the community compact was no more than a refined version of such organizations, it must be acceptable to the state.144 As such, the compact was implemented merely to lend a helping hand to the state, in the sense that the things laid out in the compact were activities that the state could not perform either because it lacked the necessary resources or because it was being steered in the wrong direction by wrong policies, such as the New Policies. Although Lü Dajun does not say so directly, I think it is not too far off the mark to read him as basically arguing that the state should not impose its will arbitrarily upon society. People like himself should be allowed to manage certain local affairs. But in line with Zhang Zai’s idea of the fengjian system, Dajun claimed that the decree still has to come from the top, and he insisted that he indeed has it. For example, in the “Mourning” section of the ceremony, Dajun complained that the mourning ritual followed in his day contradicted both ancient ritual and the legal codes of the Song court. 145 Implicit in this comment is his confidence that his alternative proposal observes the laws of the state and therefore would be acceptable to the authorities. More revealing are Dajun’s views on religious ritual. In the section on community ceremonies, he reminded the elite in his locality that they should strictly follow the worship rituals of antiquity and uphold the political and social hierarchy. “Illegitimate” worship should be prohibited: ( 143. Ibid., p. 570. 144. Ibid., p. 568. 145. Ibid., pp. 582–83.

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The great officials (shidafu) 146 should only perform the five sacrifices of the house (wusi ). 147 As for mountains, rivers, and the hundred spirits, all these should be worshipped by the state and not by the shidafu. [Following] the custom of recent times, [shidafu nowadays] have been outrageously worshipping [the mountains, rivers, and hundred spirits], and there is nothing more disrespectful and insulting than this. How can there be a rationale for [the mountains, rivers, and hundred spirits] to accept [this kind of illegitimate] offering?148

Dajun recognized that the shidafu of his times were no longer the shidafu of antiquity, and “illegitimate” offerings of this sort were practiced everywhere. His insistence on the shidafu’s “proper” role is illuminating when we compare his view with that of Lu Jiuyuan (1139–92), who wrote about the same issue approximately a century later. In a time when officials were not attending to their “proper” tasks of discussing the Way, ordering the land, and spreading transformative influences but instead devoted all their energies to matters of practical administration, Lu, as Robert Hymes has shown, questioned the authority of the state with regard to these tasks. Lu saw himself as someone who was reluctantly filling the gaps left by the state’s withdrawal, inaction, or ineffectiveness and therefore prayed for rain to the gods of the mountains and rivers, whose worship was traditionally the province of the local administrator as the state’s representative.149 In stark contrast to Lu, Dajun lamented this “outrageous” act of the shidafu who did not know their place and who tried to seize authority from the state. Why, in Lü Dajun’s vision, were the shi allowed to act on behalf of the state to organize the local community with the community compact but not to offer sacrifices to the gods and spirits? This, it seems, had to do with the symbolic significance of sacrificial ritual. Whereas the community compact was simply a set of regulations that the shi could employ in the day-to-day running of the local community, the sacrificial ritual codified the symbolic power and authority attributed to different levels in a political hierarchy. Performing “illegitimate” worship under( 146. The shidafu were the lowest rank of the aristocratic class in the Zhou dynasty, but this is also a reference to the shi class of the author’s time. I am following James Legge’s translation here (Legge, The L i Ki, p. 116). 147. Ibid. 148. LTLS, p. 579. 149. Hymes, Statesmen and Gentlemen, pp. 196–99.

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mined the authority of the state; initiating the community compact did not. Put differently, the actual running of the country could be decentralized, but ultimate authority and power had to remain in the hands of the court. Whereas Lu Jiuyuan saw nothing wrong with locally based shi taking over the authority of the state, Lü Dajun reminded the shi that they were merely unofficial agents of the state. In other words, in Dajun’s vision, the country was best run jointly by the state and the local shi. Without the shi, the state lacked the resources; without the state, the shi lacked a mandate. This position stood between Wang Anshi’s scheme, in which there was no place for the local elite, and proposals by some Southern Song scholars, such as Ye Shi (1150–1223), which, according to Hymes and Schirokauer, “called for a vast cutting back of government and the decentralizing of authority, out of which would quickly spring a society far healthier for being left alone.”150 Compared to the latter, Zhang Zai and his students in general acknowledged the importance of state participation in local affairs, but in a way very different from that envisioned by Wang Anshi and his followers. In essence, they felt that the forceful strategies implemented under the New Policies would harm the ideally intimate relationship between state and society. Only voluntaristic alternatives that they proposed could mend the cracks and restore state and society to a harmonious, family-like relationship. ( From the turn of the tenth to the early twelfth century, Guanzhong literati underwent tremendous transformation both in their social status and in their intellectual orientation. The founding of the Song brought an end to the age of aristocracy, and Guanzhong began to produce new political and cultural elites whose members rose to national prominence without an aristocratic background. In the first century of the Northern Song, these men were engaged mainly in pursuing activities and forging networks that could secure a place at the court. Predictably, they were not devoted to creating a local identity or an “unofficial” space. By the second half of the Northern Song, we begin to notice the rise of elite ( 150. Schirokauer and Hymes, “Introduction,” in Hymes and Schirokauer, Ordering the World, p. 21. Schirokauer and Hymes’s argument is based on Winston Lo’s discussion of Ye Shi; see Lo, The Life and Thought of Yeh Shih, pp. 59–68.

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activism at the local level. The literati were prepared to make their voices heard in local affairs, and they continued to assume leadership roles in their home localities after they had retired from successful bureaucratic careers. In certain ways, they remind us of Hymes’s “local gentlemen,” who, by the Southern Song, had replaced the “national statesmen.” Yet there was a major difference. Whereas some Southern Song literati argued for the decentralization of authority, many Northern Song Guanzhong literati were seeking ways to get the court involved. Some, responding to the collapse of the aristocracy and the challenge of the newcomers making their way up through the examination system, even asked the court to help guarantee the continuity of established shi families. But there seems to have been a consensus that an all-pervading central authority, such as the one envisioned by Wang Anshi, simply would not do, both because it would impose a tremendous burden on the state mechanism and because it would leave no space for the nonoffice-holding literati to operate. In the peculiar environment of Guanzhong, where defense against foreign threats was the ultimate concern, pervasive control by the central government would also paralyze the regional government and prevent it from taking swift and necessary steps when crises arose. Given these perceptions, Guanzhong literati became concerned with the role of local officials and the power they should have. In advocating that local officials should be allowed to serve for life, some literati were attempting to turn these officials from “them” into “us.” This would definitely have weakened the control of the central government over local society. As I have tried to argue, however, the literati were not trying to undercut the authority of the central government. In general, Guanzhong literati envisioned local society as a joint venture of a “gentle” state and the literati acting in an “unofficial” capacity, one in which the court authorized local officials and literati to act on its behalf. The state, with the court at its center, was thus important as the ultimate authority. Li Fu, for all his warnings against an oppressive state, still believed that officials should take the lead in compiling local gazetteers. This was a case of an “unofficial” literatus declaring that a domain in which local identity could easily be constructed should be part of the “official.”

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The group that emerged against this historical background and came up with the most persuasive plan for threading the state, the literati, and the society into a coherent whole was the school of Zhang Zai. Both this school’s “we are one family” vision, which posited the interconnectedness of human society through an account of the cosmic order of qi, and its enthusiasm for building political and social institutions through “unofficial” efforts, were unique in the Northern Song. It provided the intellectual world of its time with an all-encompassing system that made no sharp distinction between state and society. As members of established shi families, its members saw themselves both as leaders of local society and also as part of the state system, regardless of whether they held office. It was through their actions, they claimed, that the world could be united in harmony. Zhang Zai was later enshrined by the state, together with Zhou Dunyi and the Cheng brothers, as a cofounder of the Daoxue orthodoxy. Yet he was somewhat marginalized because he did not fit nicely into the Zhou Dunyi–Cheng brothers–Zhu Xi line of transmission constructed by Zhu Xi himself. As such, Zhang Zai and his followers left an interesting legacy to future generations of Guanzhong literati: Was the school part of a national or a local heritage? In the Northern Song there was no substantial discussion of whether the school was “local,” despite the fact that its members were mainly from Guanzhong, but, as we shall see, this would later become a major concern for Guanzhong literati. The school started to decline, however, after the passing of the Lü brothers and their contemporaries, as prominent members of a third generation failed to emerge. Although we know that there were some, such as Lü Dajun’s son Lü Yishan (n.d.), who was said to have continued the learning of the family, 151 historical sources tell us very little about them. Their continuing existence in the early twelfth century did, however, worry leading members of the Cheng school, as evident in Yang Shi’s attempt to highlight Zhang Zai’s indebtedness to the Cheng brothers. When the Jurchens conquered Guanzhong in the late 1120s, they decisively ended the development of the school. How the literati coped under non-Han rule is the focus of the next chapter. ( 151. Fan Yu, “Lü Heshu mubiao,” in Lü Zuqian, Song wenjian, 145.1920.

chapter two

The Jin-Yuan Period The “Dark Ages”

“The prosperity of the Guanzhong school (Guanxue) was comparable to that of the Luoyang school (Luoxue), but why was its transmission so limited after two generations? Was this not because [the transmission of] Confucian learning was terminated by the Wanyan [i.e., the Jurchen] disaster?”1 In this comment from the Cases of Song-Yuan Learning, Quan Zuwang (1705–55) blamed the Jurchen invasion for the fall of the once-prosperous school of Guanxue, a term used by Quan in this specific context to refer to the school of Zhang Zai. Although, as we saw in the preceding chapter, the school was already in decline in the late Northern Song, the evidence shows that Quan’s comment is on target. The invasion indeed dealt a devastating blow to the development not only of Zhang Zai’s school but of Guanzhong literati culture as a whole. This was due mostly to the fact that in the two centuries of nonHan rule that followed, literati struggled to hold on to their shi identity. The case of the founder of Quanzhen Daoism, Wang Zhe (1113–70), may best illustrate the challenges faced by the shi in this period. Better known as Master Chongyang (Chongyang zushi) in Quanzhen sources, Wang was born to a wealthy family in Xianyang, a county adjacent to Chang’an. It is not clear how the family became rich. It is apparent that some family members were, or tried to be, shi, since Wang was given a ( 1. SYXA, 31.44.

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standard classical education and was able to enter the prefectural school. Wang appears to have failed the civil examination, however, and eventually decided to try his luck instead at the military examination. This time he passed with distinction, but somehow received only a minor official post with the rank of clerk. Disappointed, he finally decided to “leave the world.” Wang is said to have met two supernatural beings in 1159 who instructed him regarding Daoist self-cultivation. It was after this encounter that Wang changed his name to Zhe, meaning “wise man,” and adopted the title Chongyang, by which he became widely known. In short, Wang began as an aspirant shi but, after an unsuccessful attempt to pursue a civil bureaucratic career, set his sights on the military. When this path did not lead to what he wished, he then turned to Daoism. Scholars over the years have offered various opinions on the ethnic or nationalistic motivation behind Wang Zhe’s decision to “leave the world” and its impact on the nature of the Quanzhen movement. Some, like the late Qing scholar Chen Minggui (1824–81), insist that Wang’s retreat was motivated by a sense of loyalty to the Song, as demonstrated by his refusal to serve another regime. Chen believed that the examinations Wang took were either administered by the Song or did not exist at all.2 Others have more convincingly shown that Wang’s decision to “leave the world” was made only after he had failed to make a mark in his official career under the Jin (or to be precise, the puppet state of Qi established by Liu Yu [b. 1073] under the patronage of the Jurchens), and hence it is difficult to portray him as a Song loyalist.3 Therefore, it seems more likely that Wang’s is a case of a marginalized yet ambitious shi abandoning his original identity in search of greater opportunities. As we shall see below, Wang was not alone in having to give up his shi identity. In fact, this was common throughout the Jin-Yuan period. Why was sustaining a shi identity difficult, and what were the consequences for the development of literati culture? This chapter attempts to answer these questions by first examining the political and social conditions of Jin-Yuan Guanzhong, paying special attention to the constraints faced by the literati and the means they employed to cope with ( 2. Chen Minggui, Changchun daojiao yuanliu. 3. Guo Zhan, “Quanzhen Dao de xingqi.”

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the changing environment. It then traces the transformation of literati culture and asks how the literati perceived the binaries of national versus local, “official” versus “unofficial,” and central versus regional.

Alien Rule and the Literati For the Song court of the early twelfth century, the Jurchen invasion was somewhat unexpected. For over a century, the two major threats had been the Khitan Liao and the Tangut Xi Xia. But the Jurchens, who originated in the northeastern corner of what is now Manchuria, slowly gained ground under the Liao dynasty. In the early twelfth century, they established the Jin dynasty and joined forces with Xi Xia to overthrow Liao and conquer Song territory. In 1126, the territories north of the Yangzi River and Qinling Mountain fell quickly to the Jurchens but wars continued for many years. Finally a treaty was signed in 1142 in which the Song formally conceded territories north of the Huai River to the Jin. The early Jin rulers, unfamiliar with the management of an agrarian society, had to experiment with various ways of governing their newly conquered lands. For a decade after 1131, Shaanxi was basically under the administration of the puppet state of Qi. Although Liu Yu, the emperor of Qi, seemed fairly autonomous in certain areas—he had his own reign title of Fuchang and held civil examinations twice—he was nevertheless only a “son-emperor” (zihuangdi) who had to take orders from the Jin. Once the Jin decided that Qi no longer served its interests, Liu was quickly dethroned, and the brief period of dual government ended.4 The Jin also retained some of its old forms of administration. The meng’an mouke system, which grouped several thousand Jurchen households into a military and social unit with a hereditary chief, remained in effect after the Jin occupied territories in China proper. It is unclear exactly how many meng’an mouke households were ordered to reside in Guanzhong, but some have estimated that there were more than 10,000 such households in the circuits that constitute modern Shaanxi.5 By the ( 4. JS, 77.1759–61; SS, 475.13793–802. In 1139, the Jin “returned” Shaanxi to the Song briefly but reinvaded it in 1140 and ruled the area directly after that (SXTS, 6: 226–41). 5. Sun Jinji et al., Nüzhen shi, p. 104.

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late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, many Jurchens were becoming indistinguishable from their Han neighbors, even though attempts were made from time to time to check interactions. 6 After the fall of the Jin, the Jurchens were grouped under the category of hanren by the new Mongol regime, a class inferior to the Mongols and the semu (lit. “miscellaneous categories,” consisting mostly of races originally from western and central Asia). Although it is unclear whether ethnic discrimination was indeed the reason behind this classification, it is beyond doubt that the Jurchens had lost the prestigious status they once enjoyed. The Mongols began their incursions into northwest China in the early thirteenth century and completed their takeover of the region in the 1230s. Over the next two decades, Guanzhong entered a transitory period of recovery. Khubilai (1215–94) was granted Shaanxi as his appanage by Möngke (r. 1251–59) in the 1250s. Under Khubilai’s rule, Lian Xixian, a Uighur deeply devoted to Chinese learning, was appointed pacification commissioner of the Guanxi circuit. Although many of Lian’s policies favored the Han literati, Khubilai himself was not ready to depend entirely on the Han, as Morris Rossabi has pointed out. This was apparent in Khubilai’s refusal to revive the civil service examination, a move that would have required him to use mostly Han officials and advisors. 7 Indeed, Khubilai set the tone for keeping the various ethnic and cultural strands in balance, not only during his days in Guanzhong but also during his reign as emperor (1260–94); his preferences set an example for later periods of the Yuan dynasty. After Khubilai ascended the throne, he continued Möngke’s practice of appointing a prince to govern Shaanxi (which includes the presentday region of Shaannan). In 1272, his third son, Manggala, was appointed Prince of Pacifying the West (Anxiwang). The assignment was aimed at controlling places such as Hexi (in present-day Gansu), Tufan, and Sichuan.8 The princely establishment of Manggala, called Anxiwang xiangfu, or the Office of the Administrator for the Prince of Pacifying the West, was located in Jingzhao (Xi’an). Apparently, Khubilai felt ( 6. SXTS, 13: 232–34. 7. Rossabi, Khubilai Khan, pp. 28–30. 8. Hsiao Ch’i-ch’ing, The Military Establishment of the Yuan Dynasty, p. 206n385.

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more secure with one of his capable sons managing the frontier regions in the west and northwest. Yet he did not trust his son completely, as he installed another political system in Shaanxi—a branch secretariat— to serve as the regional agent of the central government. Over the next few decades, this arrangement created much tension between the prince and the court. At one point, Jingzhao prefecture was renamed Anxi circuit, and the Shaanxi Branch Secretariat became the Anxi Branch Secretariat; the reorganization attests to the prince’s power. After the death of Manggala in 1280, Khubilai abolished the Office of the Administrator but not the hereditary rights of the prince, and Manggala’s eldest son, Ananda, was granted the hereditary rights of the Anxiwang. It was not until 1307, when Ananda failed in his attempt at a coup d’état, that the power of the Anxiwang was finally suppressed. In 1312, in order to eliminate the influence of the Anxiwang once and for all, Anxi circuit was renamed Fengyuan circuit, or literally, “to adhere to the Yuan.”9 Apart from Ananda’s failed coup, which was triggered by the existence of a dual governmental system, Guanzhong did not really face the threat of separatism or any large-scale popular rebellion during this period.10 This is especially true if we compare Guanzhong and the greater northwest with north China (Hebei, Shandong, Henan). The capitals of the dynasties in this period were always in north China, but surprisingly the state seems not to have enjoyed firm control over local society in this region, for local elites were able to organize local militias quickly in the early thirteenth century to turn against the Jin when the Mongols struck. The rebellion of the Red Coat (Hong’ao) army was followed by the first generation of hereditary warlords (shihou). By this time, many parts of north China were already semi-independent. Modern scholarly works on the shihou suggest that the emergence of these warlords was basically a north China phenomenon. 11 The few ( 9. SXTS, 6: 333–52. 10. Even Ananda’s incident did not directly involve Guanzhong. It took place at the capital, where an attempt to assassinate the emperor failed. 11. Aubin, “The Rebirth of Chinese Rule in Times of Trouble”; Sun Kekuan, Menggu Hanjun yu Han wenhua yanjiu; idem, Yuandai Han wenhua zhi huodong, pp. 237–344; Dao Hezhi, “Guanyu Jinmo Yuanchu de Hanren dizhu wuzhuang wenti”; Inosaki Takaoki, “Mōkochō chika ni okeru Kanjin sekō”; idem, “Genchō seiritsu katei ni okeru Kanjin seikō”; Hu Xiaopeng, Yuandai xibei lishi yu minzu yanjiu, pp. 147–84.

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Map 3 Shaanxi in 1330 (base source map: Chinese Civilization in Time and Space, Academia Sinica, Taiwan)

northwestern shihou who feature substantially in modern scholarship, such as Wang Jun (d. 1267) and Wang Shixian (d. ca. 1242), were relatively insignificant. Wang Jun was said to have gathered a local militia of about ten thousand men to defend his locale against outlaws who raided Guanzhong. Loyal to the Jin at first, he surrendered after the Mongols took over Guanzhong and was given hereditary rights to his post. However, he seems less powerful than most of his counterparts on the North China Plain, and his biographer notes that he was one of the poorest shihou. The reason given is that he was benevolent and thus personally bore much of the taxation imposed on his people by the government. Alternatively, it may well be that he did not have a strong local base.12 Wang Shixian began his career in the army and rose to the rank of defense commissioner of Pingliang prefecture, in present-day eastern Gansu. He later surrendered to the Mongols and helped them attack the Southern Song. His biography indicates that he rose to power ( 12. Yao Sui, “Wanggong shendaobei,” in MAJ, 21.271–73.

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within the state army system, rather than through local self-defense groups.13 In contrast, the local militias in the North China Plain were formed mainly on the basis of local kinship ties, independent of the state.14 The shihou were gradually suppressed by the Yuan state in the latter half of the thirteenth century, but north China remained a capricious region. When the White Lotus movement, formed initially on the basis of kinship networks, spread quickly in the early fourteenth century, north China became a major arena for the movement’s transformation into a large-scale rebellion.15 Northwest China, on the other hand, was relatively quiet with only minor unrest, stirred up mostly by groups led by Buddhist and Daoist clergy, in incidents that were quickly quelled by the state. The power of the Yuan army in the northwest was considerably weakened only after the Red Turban army (Hongjin jun) marched into the region from north China.16 In short, in terms of separatist threats and social unrest, north China was constantly embroiled in turmoil, whereas northwest China was relatively tranquil. This phenomenon suggests that ambitious northwesterners were unable to mobilize enough resources to form local militias outside the control of the state. Two cases of water control projects in Meixian, located in western Guanzhong, provide a glimpse of the local elite’s limited power. In 1196 a newly appointed magistrate, Kong Tianjian (n.d.), initiated the repair of an irrigation canal that had lain in ruins for sixty years. It was said that Kong consulted local elders about the matter. They were delighted, but nobody could assist him. It was not until Kong met a Daoist, Yang Dongqing, who promised to help, that Kong was able to ( 13. Yang Huan, “Zongshuai Wang Yiwu Wang Shixian shendaobei,” in HSYG, 1.26a–30a. 14. See Aubin, “The Rebirth of Chinese Rule in Times of Trouble.” 15. Han Shantong’s (n.d.) family, for example, had been leaders of the White Lotus sect in Hebei for generations (YS, 42.891). This phenomenon seems to have been duplicated in the Qing; in “Connections Between Rebellions,” Susan Naquin has documented a number of families that transmitted the White Lotus tradition hereditarily and were able to maintain positions of sectarian leadership for many generations in earlyand mid-Qing Hebei and Shandong. 16. SXTS, 6: 366–75.

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implement his plan. However, when the canal was about to be restored, the court summoned Kong to appear, and the project came to a halt. Luckily, when a judicial commissioner with the surname Zhang made an official tour to Meixian, he found out about the stalled project and drew up a contract with Yang Dongqing, after which the work was completed within three days. The canal probably did not have a formal name, but in the text of the stele erected for this event, the writer Qiang Zao (n.d.), probably a degree-holder from Meixian who did not hold office,17 referred to it as Master Kong’s Canal (Konggong qu).18 If read carefully, this piece by Qiang Zao is actually a eulogy for Magistrate Kong. Qiang stresses that although Yang Dongqing was often credited with the work, it was Kong who put in the most effort.19 Also, Qiang highlights the passiveness of the local elite of Guanzhong. The facts that the ditch was left in ruins for sixty years before Kong arrived and that Kong failed to recruit the help of the elders and had to turn to a Daoist priest for help strongly suggest that few resources were available to the local elite. In this case, leadership on the local scene fell to Daoist clergy. “Unofficial” shi like Qiang Zao seem to have been unable to exert their authority over local society and could only be passive spectators. Of course, this does not mean that all literati in Guanzhong were incapable of making their presence felt. Not far away, in another part of Meixian, a wealthy local literatus tried to settle a dispute surrounding the right to use water from a river. Upon witnessing how the strong and powerful monopolized water rights at the expense of the weak and powerless, Liu Wenxiu (n.d.), a scholar whose family was known for its wealth, organized people to submit a petition to the local authorities to ask for government intervention. Local officials approved the appeal. In the end, a stele was erected to commemorate Liu’s deed and to serve as a standing contract for all to comply with.20 ( 17. Qiang Zao referred to himself as “jinshi Fengquan Qiang Zao,” which suggests that he was a jinshi from Fengquan, a place in Meixian. But the tone throughout the text clearly indicates that Qiang looked upon Kong, the magistrate, as a superior. 18. Qiang Zao, “Konggong Qu shuili ji,” in Zhang Jinwu, Jinwen zui, pp. 352–54. 19. Ibid., p. 353. 20. Gao Bao, “Ningqu shuili ji,” in Meixian zhi, 8.269–71. Gao was himself a literatus from Zhouzhi, about fifty kilometers east of Meixian.

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In this case, we see a shi assuming the role of local leader, but he was not the only leader. The stele text concludes with a list of names of local officials, unidentified local gentlemen, and Buddhist and Daoist clergy.21 The author of the text averred that the local officials were crucial in getting the contract implemented. Liu Wenxiu, the locally based shi, needed the authority of officials to get things done. The fact that Liu was unable to monopolize a claim to power should not surprise us. In this period, when political power was in non-Han hands most of the time, it was awkward to be a shi. On one hand, the literati were valued by rulers as cultural elites in general; on the other hand, in contrast to the Northern Song, the shi were now just one among several privileged groups with access to high political status. Although the widely accepted view that the ru were socially superior only to beggars in the Yuan is not true,22 it certainly reflects the feelings of some Yuan literati about the lack of respect they received.23 They now had to make an effort to “sell” the culture they represented to monarchs who had other options, drawn from the indigenous cultures of the Jurchens and the Mongols, as well as religious traditions such as Islam and Tibetan Buddhism that had had little impact in earlier periods. Moreover, the shi class, now that it no longer enjoyed the privileged status it had during the Northern Song, confronted powerful challenges from the likes of clerks, military men, and religious clergy.24 Under such changing circumstances, many shi found that they, unlike their Northern Song counterparts, could no longer remain distinctively shi. This was especially true in the north, where constant warfare deprived the shi of resources required for sustaining their shi status. Makino Shūji has noted that many shi during the late Jin–early Yuan period were incorporated into the military household system, and a large number of them subsequently became warriors.25 In ( 21. Gao Bao, “Ningqu shuili ji,” Meixian zhi, 8.268–69. 22. See, e.g., Xie Fangde, “Song Fang Bozai gui sanshan xu,” in idem, Xie Dieshan quanji jiaozhu, pp. 29–32. 23. Xiao Qiqing, “Yuandai de ruhu: rushi diwei yanjinshi shang de yizhong,” in idem, Yuandai shi xintan, pp. 1–58. 24. See, e.g., Merkind Bayan’s “anti-Confucian” reaction (Dardess, Conquerors and Confucians, pp. 53–74). 25. Makino Shūji, “Transformation of the Shih-jen in the Late Chin and Early Yuan,” pp. 19–25.

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Guanzhong, we can also find cases of sons who became shi even though their grandfather had been a soldier and their father a merchant,26 and there were numerous cases of boundary crossing between shi and doctors.27 Also, as we shall see below, despite the fact that many shi had spoken ill of clerks in their writings, boundary-crossing between clerks and shi nevertheless became more frequent, primarily because clerks could now be promoted into the mainstream of the bureaucracy. Some shi began their careers as clerks, and some clerks, after a successful career, started acting like shi. The increasing difficulty of maintaining a distinctive shi identity and its attached prestige had a profound influence on literati culture. Many of the shi, willingly or otherwise, abandoned their learning and began to engage in other endeavors. This does not, of course, mean that the shi as a class had lost its distinctiveness or literati culture failed to survive in a period of “alien” rule, yet it is hard to argue against the fact that in the north literati activities did suffer a heavy blow with the Jurchen invasion in the 1120s. Unlike many parts of south China, where elite families and literati culture seem to exhibit greater continuity,28 discontinuity appears to be the main theme in north China. Peter Bol, through a careful study of both primary and secondary sources of the Jin dynasty, notes a revival of literati culture only in the 1190s, two full generations after the Jurchen capture of the Song capital of Kaifeng: “Although literary and scholarly activities did not die out during the sixty years after the fall of Kaifeng, they were relatively dormant, and such scholarship as there was may have owed more to Liao than Song traditions.”29 Discontinuity notwithstanding, Jin-Yuan north China witnessed vibrant literati activity in “favorable” times with no lack of brilliant intellectual innovation. In fact, as contributors to the China Under Jurchen Rule volume have taught us, Jin literati culture, which is usually overshadowed by the achievements of the literati culture of the Southern ( 26. Tong Shu, “Rulin Lang Fengjun muzhiming,” in JAJ, 8.16a–18b. 27. Tong Shu, “Bai Junbao muzhiming,” in JAJ, 6.13a–14a; Li Ting, “Songyang guiyin tu xu,” in YAJ, Ouxiang lingshi, 4.36a–b. 28. See, e.g., Robert Hymes, “Marriage, Descent Groups, and the Localist Strategy in Sung and Yuan Fu-chou,” in Ebrey and Watson, Kinship Organization in Late Imperial China, pp. 95–136; and Bol, “The Rise of Local History.” 29. Bol, “Seeking Common Ground,” p. 466.

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Song, was far from a desert, despite taking a form different from its Southern counterparts.30 One wonders, however, whether this was also true in northwest China. A search of the “books” ( jingji ) section of local gazetteers reveals relatively few literary works produced in this period compared to other periods. The 1735 edition of the provincial gazetteer, for example, lists only about three dozen works from the Jin-Yuan period, compared to about one hundred for the Song dynasty alone.31 The difference suggests that in this long period of more than two hundred years, intellectual activity in Guanzhong was relatively quiescent. Why did Guanzhong literati culture fail to recover from the conquest? The answer certainly has much to do with the inability of shi families to enjoy multigenerational successes during this period.

The (Dis)Continuity of shi Families All indicators suggest that the economy of Guanzhong plummeted after the Jurchen invasion and never really recovered. First, there was a drastic decline in the total population, due mainly to interstate warfare. Population figures for the Jin period are very sketchy. The best estimate we can get for the early thirteenth century for the whole of Shaanxi, which was then divided by the Song-Jin border with Guanzhong belonging to Jin, is 700,000 households. More than a century later, war between the Jin and the Mongols again caused great destruction to local society. In 1231, when the Mongols were pressing Guanzhong from the west, the Jin abandoned Chang’an and moved its people to Henan.32 It is unclear exactly how many lives were lost during the war, but the drop in population must have been significant. The recorded number of households in Chang’an in 1312, almost eighty years after the Mongol conquest, was only 36,016, merely 5 percent of the of 1102 figure. Although the 1312 figure is too small to be regarded as reliable, it is safe to assume that Guanzhong suffered much during the Song-Jin-Yuan transition.33 ( 30. Tillman and West, China Under Jurchen Rule. 31. Shaanxi tongzhi (1735), juan 74–75. The figures are only approximate because (1) the date of some works cannot be precisely determined for various reasons and (2) the identity of the author is sometimes unclear. However, the trend is clear. 32. JS, 17.383. 33. Cao Zhanquan, Shaanxisheng zhi, pp. 75–79, 330.

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During wartime, people fled their homes and abandoned cultivated land, bringing agricultural production to a near standstill. But the situation during the relatively peaceful times between major wars is not entirely clear. Some scholars argue from a comparative perspective that the economy of Shaanxi collapsed during the two hundred years of Jin rule, mainly because of natural disasters and the government’s failure to promote agriculture. In contrast, Shaanxi under Khubilai fared better, yet its relative importance on the national scene declined gradually during the Song-Jin-Yuan transition period. For example, in 1077, Shaanxi was second only to Hebei in taxes-in-kind payable to the court, but in 1299 and also 1325, Shaanxi’s ranking dropped to seventh, higher than only the supposedly backward regions of Sichuan, Liaoyang, and Gansu.34 Under these adverse conditions, prominent bureaucratic families of the sort introduced in the preceding chapter basically vanished from the historical scene. New families that remained prominent for a few generations, if only locally, were apparently extremely rare. Most of the literati discussed in this chapter either came from newly established families or were the first in their families to become prominent. Apparently their descendents were unable to reproduce their success, since we usually lose track of a family after one or two generations.35 I have also failed to locate any prefaces to genealogies in the writings of Guanzhong literati during the Jin-Yuan period. This seems to indicate that the practice of compiling genealogies, which was very popular in south China by this time, was uncommon in Guanzhong.36 All in all, it appears that in terms of kinship organization, great lineages exhibiting stability over time, so familiar to scholars studying the social history of south China, were extremely rare, if not absent, in Guanzhong. ( 34. SXTS, 11: 149–63. 35. There are also cases of men from old families who had settled in Guanzhong only recently. For example, the family of Lü Duanshan (1237–1314) was a branch of the great Lü family of Henan studied by Kinugawa Tsuyoshi. They settled in Guanzhong during Lü Duanshan’s father’s generation and continued to be successful for the next few generations; see Su Tianjue, “Lü Wenmu gong shendaobei,” in ZXWG, 7.92–97. The experience of this family was, however, an exception rather than the norm. 36. Morita Kenji (“Sō-Gen jidai ni okeru shūfu”) has counted 205 prefaces found in extant literary collections from the Song-Yuan period. None is from Shaanxi, not to mention Guanzhong. Morita did not include literary collections from the Jin, but my own search shows that the count is still zero.

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This, of course, does not mean that kinship was unimportant to Guanzhong literati as a tool for maintaining elite social status. The biographies of men from this period show that family still served as an important point of self-reference.37 Occasionally, we can also find families that claimed to have lived together for several generations. A Wang family of Pucheng in eastern Guanzhong was one such example. The Wang family was said to have coalesced as a lineage group in the late Tang–Five Dynasties period, but its members scattered during the chaotic 1220s. A Wang Yi returned to Pucheng later and began a new line of transmission which continued into the final days of the Yuan dynasty.38 Wang Yi had a son, who in turn had five sons named En, Zhi, Shu, Zhong, and Hui. Up until this generation, the Wangs were still farmers. It was Wang Zhong who told his brothers that it was important to provide education for talented family members and have them pursue official careers. Wang En thought that his family was able to flourish because the state was kind to the people, and to show gratitude, families like his ought to send members to serve the country.39 The state was indeed kind to the Wangs, as they were twice honored with the title of “righteous family” ( yimen), once in the Yanyou era (1314–20) and once in the Taiding era (1324–28).40 ( 37. For example, Lai Xianchen (1183–1263), a famous official whose family had been well known in Guanzhong since his grandfather’s generation, was said to have written the history of his family on his deathbed for the future writer of his biography; see Li Ting, “Gu Shaanxi Xing Zhongshusheng Jiangyiguan Lai Xianchen muzhiming,” in YAJ, 6.71b–72b. 38. Wei Su, “Yimen Wangshi citang bei,” in Pucheng xian xinzhi, 7.4b–5a. 39. It is said that Wang Zhong told his brothers that the members of their clan numbered almost two thousand (erqian), which I think is highly improbable because together Wang Zhong and his brothers produced only fourteen sons and twenty-seven grandsons by the time Wei Su wrote this text. Even if we include their affines and all female members, it is highly unlikely that this number could have been reached. I suspect the character “thousand” is a misprint of “ten” (shi ), which is not an uncommon error in Chinese texts. Thus, the number Wang Zhong had spoken of was probably “twenty,” which I think is much closer to reality because the comment came long before Wei Su wrote the text, when the coming of the twenty-seven grandsons was still in the future. 40. Wei Su, “Yimen Wangshi citang bei,” in Pucheng xian xinzhi, 7.4b. The Yuan official history listed three Shaanxi “righteous families” (YS, 197.4440; cf. Li Xiaolong, “Yimen da jiating de fenbu”).

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The story that follows is a typical one. Some members, especially Wang Zhong’s son Wang Wei, had successful official careers and established national networks.41 When the family decided to build an ancestral shrine in 1354, Wang Wei ordered his son Wang Na to travel to the capital and then to Xincheng, Hebei, to ask Wei Su (1295–1372), a high court official and a renowned scholar from Jiangxi, to write an inscription for the event as a testimonial of their success.42 But other than this piece of writing and the tomb inscription of Wang Wei, also written by Wei Su, and a poem by Yu Ji (1272–1348), another high court official and a native of Sichuan who spent a substantial part of his life in Jiangxi, we have no information about the family. A few entries on this family can be found in the “selection and recommendation” (xuanju) section of the 1905 local gazetteer, but the information is identical to that found in Wei Su’s text. The editor of the gazetteer also mentioned that there was an inscription written for the Wang family graveyard by Ouyang Xuan (1283–1357), who was originally from Luling, Jiangxi, but later resided in Liuyang, Hunan, but he did not include it because it was too long.43 Compared to the case of the Zheng family of Pujiang in the Jinhua area studied by John Dardess and others, the contrast in the quantity of available materials is stark.44 The absence of materials on the later development of the family seems to indicate that it dissolved, its members sinking into obscurity after only a few decades. A more striking fact is that none of the literati whom we know to have written about the Wang family (Wei Su, Yu Ji, and Ouyang Xuan) came from Guanzhong. In fact, all of them were southerners closely associated with the Jiangxi region. If not for the specific place-name mentioned in Wei Su and Yu Ji’s texts, one might have thought that the family was located in the south. It is as if the Wangs’ connection with Guanzhong was nonexistent. Because many writings from this period ( 41 . For a biography of Wang Wei, see Wei Su, “Yuan gu Fengyi Dafu xing Xuanzheng Yuan Jingli Wanggong muzhiming,” in idem, Wei Xueshi quanji, 12.41a–43b. 42. Wei Su, “Yimen Wangshi citang bei,” in Pucheng xian xinzhi, 7.4b. 43. Yu Ji, “Fengyuan Wangshi xiaoyi shi,” in idem, Daoyuan yigao, 3.13a. See also Pucheng xian xinzhi, 11.13a, 8.2a. Ouyang’s piece is also not found in his own literary collection, Guizhai wenji. The earlier editions of the Pucheng xianzhi (1666 and 1782) do not contain Wei Su’s text or Yu Ji’s poem. 44. For the Zheng communal family, see Dardess, “The Cheng Communal Family.”

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have been lost, we should not jump to the conclusion that no Guanzhong literatus ever wrote for or about the Wang family, but it is safe to infer from what we have that the Wangs were not satisfied with being locally prominent and eagerly sought endorsement from nationally renowned figures. Wei Su’s work tells us nothing about the marriage pattern of the Wangs, but biographies of Guanzhong men from this time generally suggest that Guanzhong elites were actively establishing local networks through marriage alliances. As will become evident below, the marriage patterns of the literati discussed in this chapter often resemble those of the southern local elites studied by Hymes and others. But in contrast to some of their more successful southern counterparts, for whom historians have sufficient sources to trace marriage patterns over several generations (though normally with some breaks in between), we lack sources that would allow us to identify the affines of Guanzhong families beyond one or two generations. This again implies that elite families in Guanzhong were generally unable to remain prominent over extended periods of time. The importance of family tradition in helping to groom an individual into a successful literatus can hardly be overestimated. Therefore the short-lived nature of Guanzhong literati families was probably one of the biggest reasons why Guanzhong literati culture in general failed to flourish during this time. Yet even a dark age can still produce bright sparks occasionally. From the late twelfth century on, Guanzhong began to produce the first generations of literary figures whom the great late Jin–early Yuan scholar Yuan Haowen (1190–1257) felt important enough to be included in Zhongzhou ji, an anthology of short biographies and poems by writers active mainly in the second half of the twelfth century and the first half of the thirteenth century.

The Zhongzhou ji Cohort, 1175–1215 Jin literati made an effort to distinguish their culture from that of their Southern Song counterparts. Some Jin literati claimed that their literature was a continuation of the Tang–Northern Song literary tradition, particularly the guwen movement.45 Their goal, as I understand it, was to ( 45. Zhan Hanglun, Jindai wenxue shi, pp. 66–67.

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establish the cultural legitimacy of the Jin at the expense of the Southern Song. But certain Jin literati made an attempt to separate Jin literature from that of the Northern Song. Yuan Haowen, for example, distinguished between literati active during the Northern Song and those active after the founding of the Jin. Yuan identified the former as “Song scholars” (Songru) and the latter as members of the “literary school of our dynasty” (guochao wenpai). Some prominent representatives of this new literary movement, according to Yuan, were Cai Gui (d. 1174), Dang Huaiying (1134–1211), and Zhao Bingwen (1159–1232).46 Among these literary figures, Dang Huaiying had a Guanzhong connection. His family was formerly from Fengyi in eastern Guanzhong. But when his father died in Fengfu county in eastern Shandong while serving as an official, the family remained there and apparently became well integrated into local society. Dang Huaiying’s wife was a descendent of the famous Northern Song literatus Shi Jie (1005–45), whose family had been prominent in Fengfu since the Five Dynasties. 47 In other words, although many later Shaanxi sources try to claim Dang,48 his connection with Shaanxi was apparently minimal. In fact, Guanzhong literati were not central to the Jin literary world. We know almost nothing about the literary accomplishment of Guanzhong literati throughout the JinYuan period. Modern scholars have had a hard time trying to identify literati who can represent the “literary” field of Guanzhong. Some have asserted that although the “high” type of literature was underdeveloped, “popular” literature like drama developed rapidly.49 Yet this might not be true. Out of the eighty-five Yuan drama writers listed in Sun Kaidi’s classic study, only two have been identified as Guanzhong natives. The biographical accounts of these two are sparse, and it is hard to determine whether they even spent substantial time in Guanzhong.50 ( 46. See the comments on Cai Gui in Yuan Haowen, Zhongzhou ji, p. 33. 47. JS, 125.2726–27; Zhao Bingwen, “Hanlin xueshi chengzhi Wenxian Danggong bei,” in Zhao Bingwen, Xianxian laoren Fushui wenji, 11.163–65. 48. Shaanxi tongzhi (1735), 63.87a. 49. SXTS, 6: 381–88. 50. The two Guanzhong dramatists are Gan Yanju and Li Zhongzhang. Three others, Zhu Zhongyi, Wei Lizhong, and Song Fanghu, were from present-day Gansu, close to Guanzhong. Another individual, Jing Ganchen, had spent some time in Guanzhong. There was also a Sun Zhouqing, identified as a Guanzhong native in some sources, but

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Yuan Haowen, through his compilation of the Zhongzhou ji, did help preserve the poems and brief biographies of twenty poets with Guanzhong connections. Still, these records are far from sufficient for us to reconstruct a literary history of Jin Guanzhong. It is even hard to tell, in some cases, whether the poets were active in Guanzhong or whether they were like Dang Huaiying, whose connections with Guanzhong were at best tenuous.51 What we can do is to identify certain prominent themes that are featured in the writings of some of these Zhongzhou ji writers, particularly Zhang Jian (fl. 1175) and Yang Tingxiu (d. 1215), of whom we know a little more than the others.

Zhang Jian and Yang Tingxiu on Loyalty Zhang Jian, style name Lanquan, was a native of Pucheng in eastern Guanzhong and a famous poet. He did not have a successful official career. Apart from his service as a tutor in the palace for an unknown period of time, he seems to have remained firmly rooted in Guanzhong. He married his daughter to a Guo Bin, also a native of Pucheng but not an office-holder.52 Most of his extant writings were also written for local people about matters pertaining to Guanzhong.53 Despite his localecenteredness, Zhang remained committed to reminding his readers that loyalty to the court was the most important virtue. Zhang wrote a ( Sun Kaidi (Yuanqu jia kaolue, passim) has convincingly proven that he was actually a native of Kaifeng. 51. Other than Dang Huaiying, whom we have already discussed, fourteen of the remaining nineteen Guanzhong poets were from central Shaanxi: Shi Yisheng, Shi Su, Xiao Gong (1158–1223), Zhang Jian, Yang Tingxiu (d. 1215), Li Duanfu, Jing Tan, Duan Jichang, Li Jie, Du Quan, Yang Xingzong, Zhao Lianggong, Wang Xiuling, and Bu Yuanju. Four came from places in Shaanbei and Gansu closely related to Guanzhong: Shi Tuo, Yue Xingfu, Lei Guan, and Shi Xue. There is also a Li Fen, who was originally a native of Pingjin, Shanxi, but probably escaped during the Mongol invasion in the 1210s and remained in Guanzhong. 52. Guo Bin was the grandfather of Guo Zhouqing (1194–1268) (Li Ting, “Shan-Shu xing zhongshu sheng zuoyou si yuanwai lang Guogong xingzhuang,” in YAJ, 6.57a– 58a). 53. Zhang Jian’s writings were collected and compiled into a collection entitled Lanquan laoren yiji (hereafter LQLR) from various sources in the early Republican period by Shaanxi scholar Zhang Pengyi (1867–1944) when he compiled the Guan-Long congshu. It was reprinted in CSJCXB.

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poem after visiting the shrine of the great Han general Han Xin (d. 196 b.c.), who was killed after he failed to usurp the throne. In the poem, Zhang asserted that he was evaluating historical figures according to the principles Confucius laid down in the Spring and Autumn Annals. Han Xin, Zhang insisted, should have remained loyal to the court: Since [you] could join the Han and be affiliated with the true lord (zhenzhu), Why did you need to go to the Qi and ask to be an unofficial king ( jiawang)?54

Before Liu Bang, the founder of the Han, defeated his chief rival, Xiang Yu, he sent Han Xin to conquer the state of Qi, a task that Han accomplished. But Han immediately asked Liu Bang to appoint him the king of Qi so that he could better command the Qi people. Worried that Han might rebel, Liu agreed and made the appointment official, but Liu tried to undercut Han’s power thereafter. Zhang Jian wondered what was in the mind of Han Xin. Having met a legitimate ruler like Liu Bang, Han Xin should have felt content and demonstrated his loyalty. Instead, Han was of two minds and thus, according to Zhang, should be criticized for not knowing his place. Zhang expressed his idea of loyalty more clearly in a text written in 1175 for a stele at the City God temple in Huazhou, eastern Guanzhong. In the text, Zhang recalls that Emperor Zhaozong of the Tang dynasty (r. 889–904) survived an assassination attempt while fleeing to the east following the attack on Chang’an by Li Maozhen (856–924). Zhaozong’s destination was originally Taiyuan, but when he arrived at Huazhou he became a virtual prisoner of Han Jian, the local prefect. Han plotted to kill Zhaozong one night, but the plan was abandoned when the City God manifested himself and scolded Han for being disloyal. Zhaozong, upon knowing this, brought the god into his temporary residence. When he finally managed to return to Chang’an, he bestowed the title “Marquis of Ji’an” ( Ji’an hou) on the City God.55 David Johnson has noted several interesting points about this text. Perhaps the most important is the fact that Zhang Jian was not telling ( 54. Zhang Jian, “Han Xin miao,” Zhongzhou ji, p. 336. 55. Zhang Jian, “Huazhou chenghuang shen Ji’an hou xinmiao bei,” in LQLR, pp. 604–5.

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the truth when he made the following claim: “Books and documents were destroyed during the violent interregnum of the Five Dynasties, and so the histories have omitted this episode and not transmitted it. But the elders of Hua can recount it even today, and whenever they do, they weep.”56 Through a careful comparison of different sources, Johnson argues that Zhang Jian’s account of the incident was not, as he had claimed, based on local oral tradition. Rather, the episode was copied almost word for word from Ouyang Xiu’s New Histories of the Five Dynasties.57 Whereas the New Histories state that Han Jian had to abandon his plans because of his father’s threat to commit suicide, Zhang Jian asserted that it was the City God who saved the emperor. “And then, to make his fabrication more credible, he falsely claims to have learned of it from the elders of Huazhou.”58 The moral of the legend—the virtue of loyalty and obedience—was, Johnson argues, something that members of the local elite like Zhang Jian wanted local people to understand. The so-called elders (fulao), Johnson plausibly assumes, may have been non-titled leaders of the community, “probably prosperous merchants and landowners, as well as men of considerable education who had not succeeded in passing an examination, and other local worthies.” Johnson may also be right to suggest that promotion of the virtues of loyalty and obedience would serve the interests of the elites, since it would encourage local people to respect them.59 Yet I think this passage also shows how court-oriented the elite of Guanzhong were. In the inscription, Zhang Jian told readers that when the prefect, a Jurchen with the royal surname Wanyan, asked local notables to donate money for the rebuilding project, they readily agreed because they thought that “although our district has several times suffered terrible destruction because of military upheavals, we do not bear the name of rebels, thanks to the strength of this god.” Throughout the text, this is the only reference to benefits the people of Huazhou had received ( 56. Zhang Jian, “Huazhou chenghuang shen Ji’an hou xinmiao bei,” in LQLR, p. 604. Translated in Johnson, “Counterfeit Miracle,” p. 491. 57. For an account of the incident, see Ouyang Xiu, Xin Wudai shi, 40.433–35. 58. Johnson, “Counterfeit Miracle,” pp. 491–94. 59. Ibid., p. 494.

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from the City God.60 The inscription was thus not written primarily for the local project. It instead provided an opportunity for a Guanzhong literatus to invoke a historical event to express his views about how the provincial could “properly” serve the central in the hierarchy of power. This becomes more evident when, at the end of the text, Zhang Jian alluded to Mencius by saying that his purpose in writing the inscription was to “record the heroic ardor of the god and also to fill with exemplary terror those ‘rebellious subjects and undutiful sons’ who hear of it in later times.”61 In the passage alluded to, Mencius was talking about the principle governing the writing of the Spring and Autumn Annals. In contrast to the Song Neo-Confucians, who, Alan Wood observes, used the Annals mainly to try to limit autocratic rule,62 Zhang Jian used it to emphasize the absolute power of the monarchs. Of the seven extant inscriptions, eulogies (song or zan), and rhapsodies ( fu) written by Zhang Jian (including the piece on the City God), three were written either for the present emperor or about the deeds of past emperors, and three others were about local officials.63 The only piece that has nothing to do with government is a rhapsody expressing his desire to “leave the world.” But, unlike the writers of other texts on leaving the world, Zhang was not contemplating this action either to protest against the government or to preserve morality and culture in a dark age. He was basically trying to prolong his own life.64 In short, Zhang Jian never showed in the limited body of his extant writings any tendency to question the authority of the court and the state. For Zhang Jian, the entire sphere of public life was, and should be, an extension of government activity that originated in the court. The City God of Huazhou may have saved the people of Huazhou from bearing the name of rebels in the past, but he conspicuously failed to do his part during the Mongol invasion in the 1210s. Yang Tingxiu, ( 60. Zhang Jian, “Huazhou chenghuang shen Ji’an hou xinmiao bei,” in LQLR, p. 605; translation of quotation from Johnson, “Counterfeit Miracle,” p. 494. 61. Johnson, “Counterfeit Miracle,” p. 494. 62. Wood, Limits to Autocracy, pp. 1–131. 63. Zhang Jian, “Gaoling xianling Zhanggong qusi bei,” “Ruixiang Baofeng song,” “Xiantui Yan bei ba,” “Cui Chaoqing qusi zan,” and “Shizibo fu,” in LQLR, pp. 604–8. 64. Zhang Jian, “Fan zhaoyin fu,” in LQLR, pp. 603–4.

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who studied poetry under Zhang Jian, was a Huazhou native who did not receive the god’s grace. Yang, who was residing in Huazhou during his retirement, was accused of staging a rebellion about 1215 together with some local officials, allegedly by organizing a local militia and killing Jurchen officials and civilians in Huazhou. This incident happened at a time when the Mongols were forcing the Jin court to flee to the south, thus causing much anxiety. Yang and his family were eventually put to death by the Jin government, but apparently the accusation was totally unfounded. The local militia was very likely organized to support the government in extremely chaotic situations. 65 In any case, Yuan Haowen commented in the brief biography of Yang in the Zhongzhou ji that “the general opinion of the literati is that [Yang had been] wrongly accused and he had the sympathy [of the literati].”66 Yang Tingxiu left behind very few works―four prose pieces and four poems to be exact, five of which were written when he was serving as the prefect of Zezhou in Shanxi, about a hundred kilometers away from Huazhou. One was probably written when he was serving as the prefect of Pingliang in present-day Gansu. The only piece related to Guanzhong is an inscription written in 1198 for a gate of the temple of Mount Hua. Yang wrote this piece in his capacity as a local literatus, but the text begins with an account of the relationship between Mount Hua and the court. We are told that, as a place once frequented by the Sons of Heaven during their tours in antiquity, Mount Hua received an imperial title in later periods. The rest of the text is about how the temple was left in ruins during the reign of Hailing wang (r. 1149–60) because the country was then in a state of disorder. Luckily, the court was able to “dispel chaos and restore peace” (boluan fanzheng), and when ( 65. Even the official history of the Jin has conflicting accounts of this incident. In the biography of Emperor Xuanzong (r. 1213–23), Yang and others are accused of rebellion, but in the biography of a certain Han Yu ( jinshi 1194), it is said that those involved were falsely accused; they were actually forming an army to come to the emperor’s rescue; see JS, 14.308, 110.2430. Zhang Pengyi argues convincingly that because the biographies of emperors were based mainly on the Veritable Records, which recorded day-to-day events, they usually did not reflect later developments or understandings of a particular incident; see Zhang’s note in YHS, p. 590. Like Zhang Jian’s works, Yang’s works were also collected and compiled in the Guan-Long series by Zhang Pengyi and later reprinted in the CSJCXB. 66. Yuan Haowen, Zhongzhou ji, p. 346.

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Emperor Shizong (r. 1161–90) ascended the throne, on several occasions he ordered officials to renovate the temple. By Yang’s time, the temple had basically been restored with the exception of the Haoling Gate, and it was not until a former prefect (whose surname was Wang) took it as his own responsibility to re-establish all ruined temples in the territory that the gate was finally restored. When the project was completed, Wang was transferred to another place. He sent a letter to Yang asking him to write an inscription, a task Yang happily undertook because, as Yang put it, “Huazhou is my hometown and I am an old friend of Master [Wang].”67 If the tone of this piece is any indication, then Yang Tingxiu was probably more of a locally based shi who would pledge allegiance to the state rather than someone who would take advantage of a chaotic situation to stage a rebellion. It is also clear from the text that Yang perceived the deeds of local officials like Wang as an extension of court politics. The temple at Mount Hua was neglected by local officials and left in ruins because court politics were in disarray during the reign of Hailing wang. In contrast, Prefect Wang could renovate the Haoling Gate precisely because order had been restored at court. The central and the provincial were thus inseparably linked, and Yang Tingxiu, the local literatus, would not see it otherwise. The court was to Yang the source of all political authority, and loyalty to the court was the fundamental value that would ensure the proper working of society.

A Century of Diversity, 1200–1300 Yuan Haowen’s purpose in compiling the Zhongzhou ji, as he explained in the preface, was to preserve the poems of Jin literati in a time of dynastic change. Although we know that other forms of learning such as historical studies were part of the agendas of some of these Zhongzhou ji writers,68 they are still known to later generations mainly as poets because of Yuan’s work. In comparison, although literature remained an important pursuit for post–Zhongzhou ji literati, their extant works display much diversity, covering a variety of genres such as history, ( 67. Yang Tingxiu, “Xiyu Haoling Men bei,” YHS, pp. 591–92. 68. Xiao Gong, for example, wrote a 100-juan commentary on the Shi ji, which is no longer extant.

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geography, religion, and philosophy. The individual who most thoroughly exemplifies this new orientation toward a more diverse literati culture is Yang Huan (1186–1255).

Yang Huan on History and Political Participation Thanks to Yang Huan’s literary collection, which is partially extant, and a detailed account of his life in English by Chan Hok-lam, we know more about Yang Huan’s life and thought than we do about the Zhongzhou ji poets.69 Yang traveled extensively after the age of forty and lived in Henan for many years, returning to Guanzhong only two years before his death, but he still maintained strong local ties. Two of his three daughters were married to Guanzhong natives,70 and he taught and attracted many students during his days in Guanzhong. He was regarded as the most famous scholar in Guanzhong at the time and was known widely as the Master of Guanxi (Guanxi fuzhi).71 Yang Huan’s family claimed descent from the Sui imperial house and asserted that they knew the name of every ancestor in the twenty generations preceding Yang Huan. Yet the Yangs had fallen into relative obscurity since the Five Dynasties. Some time in the late 1150s or early 1160s, Yang Huan’s grandfather moved from Fengtian county of Qianzhou prefecture in central Guanzhong to somewhere south of Qianzhou.72 ( 69. Chan Hok-lam, “Yang Huan (1186–1255),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan, pp. 195–207. 70. Yang Huan’s third daughter was married to Yao Sui, whose family originated in present-day Liaoning but resided in Luoyang during his time. He became a student of Xu Heng when the latter was in Chang’an; see YS, 174.4057–58. 71. Yuan Haowen, “Gu Henan lu zhengshou keshui suo zhangguan jian lianfangshih Yangkong shendao zhi bei,” in YSJ, 23.1a–9a. “Guanxi fuzi” was first used to honor Yang Zhen (d. 124) of the Later Han dynasty. Yang Zhen was famous for his rejection of a bribe with the words “Heaven would know, the gods would know, I would know, and you would know—how could you say that nobody would know I am accepting the bribe?” (Fan Ye, Hou Han shu, 54.1759–68). 72. Yuan Haowen, “Yangkong shendao zhi bei,” in YSJ, 23.1a–9a; idem, “Xiaoxuan Yanggong mubei,” in HSYG, fulu, 2a–4b. The subject of the second tomb inscription is Yang Huan’s father, Yang Zhen. This piece is also included in Yuan Haowen’s literary collection, but it has many missing and misprinted characters. Chan Hok-lam claims that Yang Huan was the twentieth-generation descendent of a well-to-do peasant who had settled in a village in Fengtian in the early years of the Tang dynasty, and Yang Huan’s branch moved to the south of Qianzhou in Yang Huan’s great-grandfather’s

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Yang Zhen (1153–1215), Yang Huan’s father, became a clerk in the local administration at the age of twenty and earned himself a reputation as an upright administrator. It was said that he liked studying and was especially fond of the works of the Eastern Han philosopher Wang Fu (ca. 85–ca. 162). At a young age, he copied the classics and commentaries by hand. We are told that when Yang Huan later showed a fondness for “ancient-style” prose (guwen), Yang Zhen cautioned his son about his desire to use guwen as a means to compete with his peers. He insisted that if his son were to learn poetry, he should read only the Book of Odes with the Mao commentaries or the poems of the great Tang poet Du Fu (712–70).73 To judge from this account of his life, Yang Zhen was a clerk who made an effort to act like a shi, a gesture that would not have made much sense in the Northern Song but was not uncommon in the Jin.74 In fact, when Yang Huan failed the jinshi degree examinations in both 1206 and 1221, he was encouraged by his friends to take a test to become a clerk. According to them, the prospects of a clerk were envied even by the literati. Yang declined their suggestion, however, citing his mother’s disdain for the clerical services as the reason. Zhao Fu (ca. 1206–ca. 1299), a northern advocate of Cheng-Zhu Daoxue and the biographer of Yang Huan’s mother, went so far as to suggest that her influence on Yang Huan was instrumental in allowing him to become the first jinshi—Yang received the degree in 1237/38 when the examination system was reintroduced in north China—to be appointed an official in the new Mongol regime.75 Yang Huan’s experience thus reveals that the meaning of shi and the value attached to that social status were changing. It became increasingly impossible for a person to rely on office-holding alone to bolster ( generation. This is a misreading of the original text. See Chan, “Yang Huan (1186– 1244),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan. 73. Yuan Haowen, “Xiaoxuan Yanggong mubei,” in HSYG, fulu, 2a–3a. 74. The gap between the clerks and the literati was much narrower in the Jin than in the Song because the route for a clerk who served “outside the stream” (liuwai ) to enter the regular civil service, or “within the stream” (liunei ), was reopened in the Jin after having been blocked in the Song; see JS, 52.1158. 75. Yuan Haowen, “Yangkong shendao zhi bei,” in YSJ, 23.1a–9a; Zhao Fu, “Cheng furen mubei,” in HSYG, fulu, 4b–8a; Chan Hok-lam, “Yang Huan (1186–1244),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan, pp. 196–97.

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his claim to be a shi. Learning thus came to the forefront, but one question remains: What kind of learning best defined a shi in the minds of the people at that time? Peter Bol has noted that the revival of Jin literati culture in the 1190s was “literary” rather than “philosophical.” Literary composition was central to literati learning, and Su Shi remained a legendary figure. 76 Yang Huan, according to his biographer Yuan Haowen, prided himself on being a prolific writer and a competent poet, a gesture normally associated with a “literary” rather than a “philosophical” figure.77 Yet in Yang’s literary collection, there exists a piece in which he castigates the legendary Su Shi, among other Song figures such as Wang Anshi, Huang Tingjian (1045–1105), and Zhang Shangying (1043–1121), for falling into heterodoxy.78 According to the preface written by the ChengZhu thinker Zhao Fu for Yang’s literary collection, Yang Huan had engaged in the study of Zhuangzi, the Chuci, and the historical writings of Sima Qian (135–87 b.c.) and Ban Gu (32–92) before “returning” to the Six Classics. He had also written a treatise on the “purity” and “impurity” of Han Yu’s (768–824) and Su Shi’s learning.79 Yang was also familiar with Zhu Xi’s Family Rituals and Questions and Answers About the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhongyong huowen).80 In this respect, Yang Huan certainly exhibited some Daoxue connections, but, since most of his works are lost, it is impossible to determine if he can be called a Daoxue figure.81 What is certain is that Daoxue was part of the literati culture by this time and Yang Huan was actively involved in it. Furthermore, in Yang’s writings and those of the people ( 76. Bol, “Seeking Common Ground”; idem, “Chao Ping-wen (1159–1232): Foundations for Literati Learning,” in Tillman and West, China Under Jurchen Rule, pp. 115–44. 77. Yuan Haowen, “Yangkong shendao zhi bei,” in YSJ, 23.1a–9a. 78. This piece appears under the title of “Li zhuangyuan shilue,” which is a brief biography of Li Junmin ( jinshi 1200). But at the end of the piece are the three characters Mengzi jian, suggesting that it is an extract from a commentary on Mencius. We are now unable to tell whether this Mengzi jian was the work of Li Junmin or Yang Huan. In any case, this shows that Yang Huan did not hold Su Shi in high regard; see HSYG, 1.28b–30a. 79. Zhao Fu, “Yang Ziyang wenji xu,” in Su Tianjue, Guochao wenlei, 32.11a–13a. 80. Yang Huan, “Yu Yao Gongmao shu,” HSYG, 1.11a–12b. 81. Chan Hok-lam mentions that Yang Huan wrote commentaries on the Four Books, but I found no indication of this in any writings by or about him; see Chan Hok-lam, “Yang Huan (1186–1244),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan, p. 204.

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with whom he associated, we can notice a merging of the moral, the literary, and the historical. Zhao Fu was a steadfast Cheng-Zhu thinker, Yuan Haowen a literary figure, and Wang E (1190–1273) once recommended Yang to Khubilai to participate in the compilation of the Jin official history. Although Yang did not become involved in the project, the recommendation probably resulted in Khubilai’s summoning of Yang in 1252.82 Thus Yang Huan was seen by his contemporaries as representing a broad range of shi learning, and I believe this is also how he wanted to present himself. However, history constitutes perhaps the largest portion of his scholarship. One of his major historical works is a thirty-juan work entitled The Recent Mirror ( Jinjian). Supposedly an account of the reign of Aizong (r. 1224–34), the last Jin emperor, the work is unfortunately lost.83 Judging from the title, it was probably written with an intention similar to that of Sima Guang’s (1019–86) Comprehensive Mirror for Aid of Government (Zizhi tongjian), namely, to use history as a guideline for the present government. But Yang Huan was certainly no admirer of Sima Guang. He was said to have favored Zhu Xi’s views on the legitimacy of dynasties over Sima Guang’s. His disdain for the position of the latter is clearly expressed in the following verses: [I] wish [I could] raise Wengong [from death and] ask him about his principles of [history] writing. [When he said] Wuhou [Zhuge Liang] had given himself to an illegitimate regime (kou), which illegitimate regime [was he talking about]?84

Yang apparently thought Sima Guang was wrong to grant political legitimacy to the Wei regime of the Three Kingdoms period rather than to the Shu. It was said that he nearly wrote a book to rebuke Sima, but eventually abandoned the project after reading Zhu Xi’s Outline of the Compre( 82. Su Tianjue, Yuan mingchen shilue, SKQS, 13.1a–6a; Chan Hok-lam, “Yang Huan (1186–1244),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan, p. 203. 83. Yuan Haowen, “Yanggong shendao zhi bei,” YSJ, 23.1a–9a. Su Tianjue (Yuan mingchen shilue, 13.5a) instead said that Yang had a three-juan work entitled Jinjian, which covered the last three years of Emperor Aizong’s reign. 84. Yang Huan, “Du tongjian,” in HSYG, 2.10a.

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hensive Mirror (Tongjian gangmu).85 Yet we know that he did produce a 60juan work (which he apparently had wanted to expand to 120 juan before death approached)86 entitled Zhengtong shu or Zhengtong bali. Unfortunately this book is also now lost, and only the preface is extant. In the preface, Yang Huan listed eight criteria that can be used to describe and evaluate how each ruler, not just each dynasty, acquired or lost power.87 He believed that his principles of evaluation accorded with the standard set by the ancient sages. Yang was also extremely confident that his judgment of history represented the correct view, so much so that when someone tried to fault him, he refused to engage himself in debate, since he believed his view would be accepted by later generations.88 As Chan Hok-lam has observed, Yang’s work “was a rejection of currently popular arguments to legitimate regimes established by force,” and it “also criticized an excessive emphasis on genealogical affiliation and territorial occupation as conditions for establishing dynastic legitimacy.”89 The yardstick Yang used was therefore essentially a moral one: “If virtue is not strong, the Way of the ruler will be lost.”90 Yang further asserted that he would include the opinions of earlier scholars if they were in accordance with this principle and discard those that were not, replacing them instead with his own. He was not trying to produce rootless views, or be perverse, Yang insisted, for without doing this, gain and loss would not be apparent, good and evil would not be distinguished, and “encouragement and warning” would not be illuminated. In the end, Yang suggested that the Zhengtong bali could provide men aspiring to take part in government with a guide to “enrich the root of morality and block the source of self-interest.” 91 For Yang Huan, therefore, the purpose of writing history is basically to produce a ( 85. See Tao Zongyi, Nancun chuogeng lu, p. 291. 86. Yang talked about this ambitious project in an essay written in 1254, a year before his death; see Yang Huan, “Bitong ji,” in HSYG, 1.1a–2a. 87. The eight criteria are “obtain” (de), “inherited” (chuan), “decline” (shuai ), “revive” ( fu), “given” ( yu), “trapped” (xian), “self-destruct” ( jue), and “receive loyalty from the people” ( gui ) (Yang Huan, “Zhengtong bali zongxu,” in HSYG, 1.7b–11a). 88. Yuan Haowen, “Yanggong shendao zhi bei,” in YSJ, 23.1a–9a. 89. Chan Hok-lam, “Yang Huan (1186–1244),” in de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan, pp. 205–6. 90. Yang Huan, “Zhengtong bali zongxu,” in HSYG, 1.8b. 91. Ibid., 1.10b–11a.

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guidebook for government to transform the world based on moral principles. Morality is therefore the result of good government, and history does not exist as an independent genre outside the study of government. In short, history was for Yang a vehicle for government. Yang Huan also produced a work of historical geography entitled Shanling zaji, a miscellaneous record of the location and history of tombs of the imperial houses of past dynasties. 92 Besides this, Yang wrote an essay about the former imperial palace of the Jin dynasty and another one on the Confucian shrines in Shandong. 93 These works provide later readers with invaluable information on imperial buildings and state rituals. But Yang did not leave behind a single known work on the history of Guanzhong, and, judging from his biographies, it seems that he never wrote any work of this nature. It is as if his reputation as the most famous Guanzhong literatus of his time had no impact on his writings. Yang was first and foremost a national figure; his strong connection with Guanzhong failed to inspire him to move away from the imperial state and focus on the local. Not only did history not exist outside the imperial state in Yang Huan’s vision, the same was true of Daoism, which is often thought to carry a flavor of “leaving the world.” As the birthplace of Quanzhen Daoism and the location of its headquarters, Guanzhong witnessed spectacular Quanzhen activities when the sect was in its prime. Guanzhong had the largest share of Quanzhen temples built throughout China between 1160 and 1260.94 Famous Guanzhong literati like Yang Huan not only provide us with invaluable information about the sect in their writings but also participated actively in defining Quanzhen culture. A prominent feature of the sect that these literati choose to highlight in their writings was its Confucian characteristics. When writing the biography of the Quanzhen master Yu Zhidao (1167–1251), for instance, Yang Huan tried to define Yu’s activities in a ru context. He linked the Quanzhen tradition with both Confucius’ words about virtuous men living in seclusion (bishi bidi zhi xun) 95 and the principles of ( 92. This work is preserved in Tao Zongyi, Shuo fu. 93. Yang Huan, “Bian gugong ji” and “Dongyou ji,” in HSYG, 1.2a–4a, 12b–20a. 94. Zheng Suchun, Quanzhen jiao yu Da Menggu guo dishi, pp. 114–41. 95. Here Yang alluded to the following passage in Analects 14.37: “The Master said, ‘Men who shun the world come first; those who shun a particular place come next;

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reclusion as presented in the biographies of the hermits in official histories ( yinyi yimin zhi zhuan). Although Yang acknowledged Yu’s Daoist identity, he nevertheless chose to highlight the ru aspect of Yu’s teaching and practice. In his interactions with people, we are told, Yu preached only “rectifying the mind and making the will sincere” (zhengxin chengyi), a set phrase from the Great Learning, and he discussed the Daoist method of self-cultivation only with a select few.96 Yang Huan thus tried to depict Yu Zhidao as someone who embodied both Confucian and Quanzhen ideals. This merging of different traditions is not alien to Quanzhen, which has long been noted for its attempt to blend the “three schools” (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism).97 But in opting to emphasize Yu’s “Confucian” qualities, what message was Yang trying to get across to his readers? Although Yang began his account of Yu Zhidao by referring to the tradition of “leaving the world,” Yu, we are told, was initially far from a true hermit. According to Yang, Yu repeatedly rejected the summons of the court, but just as jewels come to be discovered even if hidden in the mountains, Yu was unable to keep a low profile and was called on to serve time and again, to perform rituals either to pacify the ghosts of soldiers who had died during battles or to pray for rain or for the extermination of locusts. Eventually, both the Jurchen and the Mongol courts conferred titles on him and appointed him superintendent of several Daoist temples. He also befriended many high court officials of the two regimes, whose names Yang enumerated one by one.98 Yang Huan stressed the ru aspect of Yu Zhidao’s life and thought to justify Yu’s eventual “return to the world.” The reference to Confucius’ saying was carefully chosen to emphasize that the decision to “leave the world” commanded respect, especially in times of disarray, but it should not be taken as the best solution, since Confucius himself certainly valued participation over retreat. “Leaving the world” is of value ( those who shun a hostile look come next; those who shun hostile words come last’ ” (trans. D. C. Lau). 96. Yang Huan, “Dongzhen zhenren Yu xiansheng bei bing xu,” in HSYG, 1.21a– 24b. 97. Yao Tao-chung, “Ch’üan-chen,” pp. 89–102. 98. Yang Huan, “Dongzhen zhenren Yu xiansheng bei bing xu,” in HSYG, 1.21a– 23b.

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only if supported by a sense of political participation; even a Daoist should serve. As such, Yu’s close association with both the Jin and the Yuan courts was loudly applauded by Yang. He certainly did not think that Yu should really leave the world when the Jin fell just because he had once served the Jin. In Yang’s view, therefore, no “unofficial” space, even one created by the “leaving the world” rhetoric of Daoism, could be of value if it existed outside the domain of the “official.”

Li Ting on wen and Political Participation Another Guanzhong scholar deeply fascinated by Quanzhen Daoism was Li Ting (1199–1282). A native of Pucheng,99 Li received his jinshi degree just before the Jin dynasty fell. He left Guanzhong for a short while during the Mongol invasions but returned when peace was restored and thereafter remained active in the literati circles of Guanzhong. The author of Li’s biography was able to trace his family line only back to his father, an administrator of the county legal section ( facao). It was said that when Li was young, his father wanted him to study law, but Li replied, “How can the law of Shen Buhai and Shang Yang be superior to the way of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius? Isn’t learning the Confucian way a better choice?” His father was astonished and selected teachers to educate his son.100 Li Ting was thus a self-proclaimed ru. But what he meant by a ru was totally different from the Daoxue Neo-Confucian alternative, which, as we shall see below, was slowly gaining ground in Guanzhong during Li’s lifetime. According to his biographer, Li made a name for himself through literary composition (wenzhang) but also immersed himself in the “learning of nature and principle” (xingli zhi xue). Therefore he was able to remain flawless in both speech and action.101 Although it is correct to say that Li Ting was interested in xingli zhi xue, his understanding of the term was not the same as that of Daoxue ( 99. Li Ting was identified as a native of Fengxian by his biographer; see Wang Bowen, “Gu Ziyi Ligong mujie ming bing xu,” in YAJ, 8.93a. Fengxian was the name for Pucheng in the Tang–Five Dynasties period (Wu Zhenfeng, Shaanxi dili yan’ge, p. 415). 100. Wang Bowen, “Gu Ziyi Ligong mujie ming bing xu,” in YAJ, 8.93a–b. 101. Ibid, 8.94b.

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scholars. As we shall see, Li’s xingli learning was coated with a strong Daoist flavor. But first, let us focus on his views of wenzhang. Li Ting never met Zhang Jian, the Zhongzhou ji poet discussed above who was probably two generations older than Li. But Li felt a certain affinity toward Zhang because they came from the same district. In the preface written for Zhang’s literary collection, Li recalled that he had heard about Zhang’s deeds from his seniors. Zhang was known to the world through his literary skill (wenci), Li acknowledged, but this did not do justice to Zhang because he was also a person devoted to concrete action and practical matters ( jianlü dushi). If the court had known him earlier, his achievements would have been unparalleled. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and Zhang’s talents for governing went to waste. But Zhang was not alone. Ever since the system of recommendation at the local level (xiangju lixuan) had been replaced by the examination system, Li complained, there have been many like Zhang who sank into obscurity despite their talents. These people had no choice but to turn to literature: Literary writing is a task of secondary importance for a gentleman. The people in ancient times, with enduring resolve, learned the way of the sages. Basically what they aspired to was aiding the world and benefiting all things [under heaven] and [finally] showing [their aspirations] in their careers. Only when they were not successful and their extraordinary talents and free-flowing energies not put to use [would they] generally loose themselves upon the hilltops and water banks, befriending clouds and pines and playing with fishes and birds. When they encountered a scene and had their feelings aroused, [they would] express it by whistling and singing so as to pen [their] sorrows and their feelings of [being treated] unjustly.102

This is how, Li Ting continued, great poets like Qu Yuan, Chen Zi’ang, Li Bai, and Du Fu have been remembered by later generations. Since their talents for government were not appreciated, they could only produce beautiful works to express their grief and touch their readers deeply. In this sense, literary writings do have value, but the value is not to be defined, as Li Ting asserted, by literary quality alone. A good piece of literary writing should enable readers of later generations to appreciate and remember forever the political aspirations of the ( 102. Li Ting, “Lanquan xiansheng wenji xu,” in YAJ, 4.34a.

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author. Therefore, to excel in wen when one failed to make a mark in government was a reason not for celebration but for regret. Li Ting presented the same view, using basically the same phrases, in a preface composed for another writer’s literary collection. 103 Li, I think, was actually talking about himself. Throughout his life, Li served only in minor provincial clerical and teaching posts. His biographer stressed that Li Ting did not have opportunities to display his capacities for governing but still continued to exert himself in learning and remained fond of the way. 104 Given a choice, Li would certainly have elected to become a statesman rather than a “literary man.” In an essay written to commemorate the building of Xie Zhongjie’s studio, Li applauded Xie’s aspiration to be a recluse like Tao Yuanming, but nevertheless advised him to seize the opportunity to serve. And the opportunity is coming, Li claimed, because at the moment the emperor is searching all areas of the country for talented men.105 In another piece, Li even castigated a famous doctor, Gai Liangchen, for asking him to write an essay on for a recently purchased painting with a reclusive theme. Gai was deeply appreciated by the emperor for his medical skills, yet he harbored an intent to follow the footsteps of hermits. This is simply not right, Li exclaimed, because a person should withdraw from service only when he is not appreciated. Otherwise, he is guilty of “keeping himself pure at the expense of destroying proper human relationships.”106 A gentleman’s most important task is to serve; only when he is denied the opportunity should he turn to other activities, such as writing poems or retreating. In a way, Li Ting was able to envision an extra-bureaucratic space for the literati, and in some sense he was a leading figure in this space in Guanzhong, 107 but the value he placed on such a space was apparently minimal. Li was obviously very much locally rooted, as evident in the fact that most of his writings were predominantly about ( 103. Ibid., 4.35a–b. 104. Wang Bowen, “Gu Ziyi Ligong mujie ming bing xu,” in YAJ, 8.94b. 105. Li Ting, “Jing-Tao Xuan ji,” in YAJ, 5.45a–46a. 106. Li Ting, “Linquan guiyin tu xu,” in YAJ, 4.37a–38a. 107. According to one of Li Ting’s poems, he was one of the “twenty-two elders of Chang’an” (“Chang’an qilao tu ershier ren daojin lingluo daijin weiyu ducun gantan zhi yu yin ti shi shi,” in YAJ, 2.25a–b).

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Guanzhong. His preference for the more local elite–friendly recommendation system over the examination system is further evidence of his orientation. Yet his “localness” never transformed into a positive perception of the “unofficial” space of the literati. His ability to secure a high social status locally without a high official post did not at all reduce the emphasis he placed on office-holding. For him, a bureaucratic post was the ultimate prize, and consequently he did not view maintaining a space run primarily by the non-office-holding elite as necessary, even when this space undoubtedly existed. As I noted above, Li Ting was deeply fascinated by the Daoist worldview, traditionally a source of inspiration for scholars attracted to “leaving the world” discourse. Li’s lack of interest in the idea of retaining an extra-bureaucratic space for the shi might therefore appear surprising. A closer look at Li’s interpretation of the Daoist ideal, especially through his writings on Quanzhen figures, shows how strongly politicized his views of eremitism were. First of all, even though identifying himself as a ru, Li strongly believed that the teachings of Confucianism and Daoism could complement each other. In fact, he claimed that the wise men of ancient times had regarded the ideals of Confucianism and Daoism as one. According to Li, although the Laozi adheres to the principle of purity and nonaction (qingjing wuwei) and promotes the practice of kindheartedness, thriftiness, and noncontention (cijian buzheng), it also completely embraces the way of self-cultivation and government. He therefore expresses regret that the Confucians and the Daoists of his times regarded one another as strangers.108 Being a Daoist did not, for Li Ting, bar one from participating in court activities. When asked to write a text commemorating the renovation of a Quanzhen temple, he used it as an opportunity to eulogize Li Zhiyuan (d. 1254), a fourth-generation Quanzhen master who frequently enjoyed court patronage in the Yuan. Before the Jin fell, Li Zhiyuan was invited by the superintendent of the Taiyi Monastery in Kaifeng to take over the position, but knowing that Jin rule would soon come to an end, he refused. In 1235, when the Mongols gained full ( 108. Li Ting, “Yu’an jijie xu,” in YAJ, 4.42a–b.

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control of Shaanxi, Li was placed in charge of Daoist affairs in Shaanxi. From then on, the imperial house conferred numerous titles on him.109 Li Ting’s account of the life of this Quanzhen master indicates that he believed political participation should be encouraged among Daoists. He even emphasized, in a preface to a collection of stele inscriptions displaying edicts issued by the court regarding the Chongyang Monastery, that recognition from the court was a matter of great honor.110 Again, the importance of political participation and gaining court recognition surpassed all other considerations.

Luo Tianxiang and Local Gazetteers As mentioned above, although Yang Huan was deeply interested in history, he did not produce a work on the history of Guanzhong. Nor is there evidence of other Guanzhong literati undertaking the task for most of the thirteenth century. It was not until around 1300 that a local gazetteer–type work titled Categorically Organized Records of Chang’an (Leibian Chang’an zhi; hereafter Leibian) was published by a local scholar named Luo Tianxiang (ca. 1223–ca. 1300). Despite the existence of several works on Guanzhong in the category of “historical geography,” 111 works that fit the kind of fangzhi model known to us now began to appear only in the Song. In fact, one of the oldest gazetteer-type local histories of China was the Chang’an zhi, 112 written by the Northern Song scholar-official Song Minqiu (1019–79). But Song was not a Guanzhong native and had never served as an official in Guanzhong. It is also doubtful that he had ever visited Guanzhong. According to his biography, he compiled the gazetteer because Chang’an had been the capital for many dynasties in the past. For Song, the gazetteer was a project with national implications. For the same reason, he compiled a gazetteer for Bianjing, the capital of the ( 109. Li Ting, “Xingping xian chongxiu Xianlin gong ji,” in YAJ, 5.47b–49a. 110. Li Ting, “Chongyang zhaozhi bei xu,” in YAJ, 4.40a–b. 111. Gao Feng, Shaanxi fangzhi kao, pp. 2–4. 112. The boundaries of Chang’an in Song’s work encompass the whole of Guanzhong, as is true of the other works discussed in this section.

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Northern Song, and Henan, where the eastern and western capitals of the Northern Song were located.113 Much later, in the Yuan, Li Haowen ( jinshi 1321) of Dongming, Shandong, compiled a gazetteer in 1344 while serving as the secretarial censor at the Shaanxi Branch Censorate (xing yushi tai). This gazetteer, titled Chang’an zhitu, is usually published together in a single volume with Song Minqiu’s Chang’an zhi. As the title suggests, the book treats maps and texts as equally important. Also, in this three-juan work, Li allocated the entirety of the third juan to the subject of irrigation and state-owned fields. Therefore, besides being a book on Chang’an’s history and culture, this book was also a statecraft project.114 In the Southern Song, Cheng Dachang (1123–95), a native of Huizhou, Anhui, produced another work on Guanzhong entitled Yonglu. But by Cheng’s time, Guanzhong was already in the hands of the Jurchen. The devotion of the entire fifth chapter to a detailed description of Han and Tang military expeditions has prompted some later readers to deduce that Cheng was “setting his eyes on the northwest.” 115 It is unclear whether this was what Cheng had in mind when he wrote this work.116 But apparently, like Song Minqiu, Cheng, as a non-native who had never visited Guanzhong, did not write Yonglu from a local perspective. It was the national past that mattered most to him. In contrast to these three authors, Luo Tianxiang was a native of Guanzhong. In fact, the Leibian is the first known local gazetteer of Guanzhong compiled by a Guanzhong native. According to the preface by Luo’s contemporary Wang Liyong (n.d.), Luo came from an “old family” of Chang’an.117 This comment was probably intended to imply that the Luos were an established literati family. But exactly how “old” Luo’s family was we do not know; nor is there any information about the family either before or after Luo. According to Luo himself: ( 113. Su Song, “Longtu Ge zhi xueshi xiu gongshi Songgong shendaobei,” in idem, Su Weigong wenji, pp. 771–79. 114. Song Minqiu et al., Chang’an zhi. 115. See Ji Yun et al., Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao, 70.14b–15a. 116. Cheng Dachang did produce a work entitled Beibian beidui in which he advised the emperor about various offensive and defensive strategies against the Jurchen. But he also seems to have been genuinely interested in geographical and historical scholarship, since he produced works entitled Kaogu bian, Yugong lun, Shanchuan dili tu, and so on. 117. Luo Tianxiang, Leibian Chang’an zhi, preface, p. 4.

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My family is based in Chang’an, and I studied under the teachers of my hometown when I was young. After the war, there were still about one hundred jinshi, renowned scholars, and elders from the former dynasty [who were still alive], and they were the seniors [with whom I cultivated] intimate relationships within the literati circle. Besides [attending and hosting] literary meetings and lectures, [they would] travel as far as Fanchuan and [the townships of ] Wei and Du, or to nearby places such as the Goose Pagoda (Yanta) or Dragon Pond (Longchi) whenever time allowed. There was no site on which ruins from the Zhou, Qin, Han, and Tang dynasties are located that they would not visit, [and during the visit, they would] either narrate the legends [relating to the sites] or compose and recite poems and prose. I always accompanied them; therefore I had opportunities to listen with my own ears and see with my own eyes, and whenever I had questions and doubts, I would ask them repeatedly.118

Because Luo was so familiar with Chang’an, he was asked by Zhao Bing (1222–80), the administrator-designate of the Princely Establishment of Shaanxi, to accompany him on a tour of Chang’an in 1273 to select a site for the offices of the Princely Establishment. Luo was able to visit more places in Chang’an and familiarize himself with the histories of those places, but when he turned to the existing records, he was disturbed by the fact that they were so scattered and disorganized. Thus, he felt the need to compile a new account so that readers could “visit” the sites of Chang’an and know their histories without having to go there personally. 119 This theme is echoed in the prefaces written by Wang Liyong and Jia Yu.120 In other words, although Luo referred to Zhao Bing and the Princely Establishment in his preface, the Leibian has nothing to do with government. It was, to both its author and its readers, little more than what we would call a guide for the armchair traveler. Surely, Luo’s intended readers were literati with an interest in the history of Chang’an. When writing an entry for a place or a building, Luo quoted extensively from historical sources as well as poetry. These places and buildings thus became meaningful in the context of literati culture. In a sense, Luo’s aim in compiling the Leibian was similar to that of Wang Xiangzhi ( jinshi 1196), the author of Yudi jisheng. Wang’s ( 118. Ibid., preface, pp. 1–2. 119. Ibid., preface, p. 2. 120. Ibid., preface, p. 3.

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work, as Peter Bol explains, was written for the literati as literati rather than as officials per se. It is not a mechanism for discussing statecraft, but rather a reference work for literati, enabling them “to envision a place―at least to know its name and to know who else had written of it―and to incorporate that knowledge into their own writings.”121 Yet Luo made selections. Through the organization of the Leibian, he told his readers—the literati—what he thought made Chang’an interesting. The work is divided into ten juan: 1. Miscellaneous write-ups (zazhu) and administrative units (guanzhi junxian); 2. Capital cities ( jingcheng) and palaces (gongdian shiting); 3. Imperial sacrificial altars ( yuanqiu jiaoshe), halls (mingtang biyong), gardens and ponds (huayuan chitai), and buildings (guan’ge louguan); 4. Private residences and gardens (tangzhai tingyuan); 5. Temples (siyuan); 6. Mountains and rivers (shanshui); 7. Bridges (qiao), passes (guan, sai), towns (zhen, ju), stations ( yi), slopes and piles ( po, ban, dui), walled compounds (cheng), towers (que), and historical relics (guji); 8. Graves and graveyards (shanling zhongmu), records of strange events ( jiyi), clarification of doubts (bianhuo), and anecdotes about place-names incorporating numbers (shumu gushi); 9. Scenic spots (shengyou); 10. Stele inscriptions (shike). In a sense, the organization of the Leibian was determined by the history of Guanzhong. Unlike many other regions, Guanzhong could claim an imperial past as its own local past. Anyone writing on the history of Chang’an would therefore almost automatically begin with detailed accounts of the imperial establishments. But at the same time, Luo’s commitment to promoting local culture by emphasizing its national past led him to ignore the non-national components of the local heritage. For example, a comparison of Luo’s Leibian with Wang Xiangzhi’s Yudi jisheng reveals an important difference: whereas the ( 121. Bol, “The Rise of Local History,” p. 59.

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chapter on Huizhou in the Yudi jisheng has an independent section on “famous local personages” (renwu—mostly Song figures), which is separate from the section on “local officials” (guanli—mainly Tang officials), 122 the Leibian has one small subsection under “miscellaneous write-ups” in the first juan on “the prefects of Jingzhao,” which lists the names of officials up to the Tang only. There is no section equivalent to the renwu section in the Yudi jisheng. In fact, apart from the first juan, in which Luo traced changes in administrative units over time, and the last juan, on steles, he seldom mentioned people and events postdating the Tang.123 Even in this particular juan, in which about a third of the steles recorded date from the Song on, Luo began by emphasizing that Chang’an was the national capital for many dynasties.124 It is as if the post-Tang period had little relevance to the history of Chang’an. The absence of a renwu section, so common in the local gazetteers of other places, points to the virtual nonexistence of local elites in Luo’s project.125 Chang’an was important and a native could feel proud of it precisely because it was once a national center. The present glory of the local was entirely dependent on its past national prominence. Put differently, the local past that Luo valued was the national past. In this sense, Luo Tianxiang was not very different from Song Minqiu, who chose to write about Chang’an because it once possessed national significance; this perhaps explains why Luo drew heavily on Song’s Chang’an zhi: besides the fact that Song’s work was the most comprehensive gazetteer of Chang’an available at that time, to a great extent Luo shared Song’s national perspective. ( 122. Ibid., pp. 56–57. 123. According to my count, out of the thousands of records in the Leibian on features of the natural and man-made landscape, including buildings of all kinds, rivers, mountains, valleys, and many more, less than one-tenth deal with post-Tang events or people. 124. According to the preface by Luo (Leibian, pp. 301–23) written for this juan alone, it was meant to be an appendix to the Leibian. Luo added this juan because he was extremely fond of collecting the calligraphy and inscriptions of earlier men. It contains 98 entries from Tang and earlier and 43 from Song to Yuan. 125. The few post-Tang historical figures mentioned are predominantly great officials and well-known literati who came from outside Guanzhong. In other words, all of them are national figures.

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Anyone relying solely on the Leibian to learn about the history of the Chang’an region would not know that Chang’an had once been home to a flourishing school of learning led by Zhang Zai. Nor is there any mention of the Daoxue movement, which had by Luo’s time become an important element in Guanzhong literati culture.

The Rise and Decline of Daoxue, 1250–1368 Whereas the Daoxue movement in the Southern Song reached its climax with the emergence of Zhu Xi and other famous figures, the fate of Daoxue in the north is extremely obscure. It was traditionally thought that the northerners learned about Southern Song Daoxue only when Zhao Fu brought the works of the great Southern Song Daoxue masters to the north in 1235, after teaching in the Jin capital following his capture by the Mongols and subsequent rescue by Yao Shu (1203– 80). 126 But as Hoyt Tillman has convincingly shown, not only were some Jin literati aware of trends in the Daoxue movement in the south before 1235, they were having interesting discussions on it among themselves.127 However, the traditional narrative still has its merits. As Wing-tsit Chan has shown, although Zhao Fu might not have introduced Daoxue to the north, he was certainly instrumental in turning it into a widespread movement by persuading leading northern intellectuals to accept Zhu Xi’s teachings.128 Before him, Daoxue as a whole was insignificant in the north; it is thus meaningless to ask if an independent school existed at that time. Feng Congwu (1556–1627), the great thinker and historian of Guanzhong Daoxue in the late Ming, was able to identify only Yang Tiande (1180–1258) and Yang Huan from this period as showing interest in Daoxue, and neither of the two lived in the early days of the Jin.129 Before the two Yangs, the impact of Daoxue on the literati culture of Guanzhong was minimal; so we can begin our inquiry only with ( 126. YS, 189.4313–15. 127. Tillman, “Confucianism Under the Chin and the Impact of Sung Confucian Tao-hsueh,” in idem and West, China Under Jurchen Rule, pp. 71–114. 128. Chan Wing-tsit, “Chu Hsi and Yuan Neo-Confucianism,” in de Bary and Chan, Yuan Thought, pp. 197–231. 129. GXB, pp. 16–19.

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the two Yangs. As noted above, I find it hard to define Yang Huan as a Daoxue figure because his attitude toward Daoxue can be described as ambiguous at best. In comparison, Yang Tiande was enthusiastic. According to the sources, Yang Tiande came from a peasant family. His ancestors moved from place to place in Guanzhong before settling in Gaoling in central Guanzhong. He married twice, but we know nothing about his first wife except that her surname was Guan. His second wife was the daughter of Sun Tongxiang, a high-ranking court official and a native of Jingzhao, present-day Xi’an. Yang also married one of his daughters to a provincial graduate from Sanyuan, less than twenty kilometers from Gaoling. His connection with Guanzhong was therefore intimate even after he left his hometown. He graduated from the National University and received his jinshi degree in 1218 before serving in several official posts at the local level, including the assistant magistracy of Chang’an. Later, in the capital, he was a clerk in the Department of State Affairs and an assistant fiscal commissioner. When the capital fell to the Mongols, he sojourned in north China for about ten years before returning to Chang’an.130 We know nothing about Yang Tiande’s thought, except that he is said to have engaged in reading works by Song Daoxue scholars only in his later years. He had nearly lost his eyesight by then but asked his son Yang Gongyi (1225–94) to recite the texts to him day and night. He said he was overjoyed because he had finally “heard the Way” and could now die with no regrets.131 Yang Gongyi would continue his father’s aspirations. He accompanied Yang Tiande back to Guanzhong when he was seventeen. Their family was said to be poor, with no landed property to rely on. But Yang Gongyi refused to accept aid from his neighbors and was said to have supported his family by relying on his own labors, although the nature of his endeavors is not clear.132 Despite poverty, Yang Gongyi read broadly and gradually earned himself a name among the local literati. He was said to have disparaged classicists (zhangju ru) and excelled ( 130. Xu Heng, “Nanjing zhuanyun si zhidu panguan Yangkong muzhiming,” in Su Tianjue, Guochao wenlei, 51.10a–12a. 131. Ibid. 132. Yao Sui, “Ling Taishi yuan shi Yanggong shendaobei,” in MAJ, 18.225–29.

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in the learning of history and statecraft. He, however, believed that he had found the entrance to the truth only after reading Zhu Xi’s works at the age of twenty-four. When his parents died, Yang conducted the funerals according to the “proper” ritual system and did away with Buddhist customs. It was Yang, we are told, who taught the people of Guanzhong the “proper” mourning rituals.133 In 1254, Yang met Xu Heng (1209–81) in Guanzhong when Khubilai appointed Xu supervisor of education for Jingzhao. Xu admired Yang greatly, and both men cooperated to champion Daoxue in Guanzhong. Xu later recommended Yang to the court. When Yang arrived at the capital in 1274, one of his first recommendations, appropriate for a steadfast Daoxue scholar, was to reintroduce an examination system that emphasized candidates’ knowledge of the Five Classics and the Four Books instead of their skills in literary composition.134 Yang Gongyi’s works have not survived, but judging from others’ comments, he was an icon for the Daoxue movement in the north. Indeed, Xiao Ju (1241–1318), who authored the stele inscription for Yang Gongyi’s grave, credited Yang Gongyi and Xu Heng with being the only two northerners truly capable of practicing and transmitting Zhu Xi’s teaching.135 Interestingly, when Xiao spoke in this stele inscription about how Zhu Xi had synthesized the learning of the great Northern Song Daoxue thinkers, he mentions only Zhou Dunyi and the Cheng brothers; Zhang Zai is left out of the picture. Xiao’s evaluation of Yang Gongyi thus centers on Yang’s place in the Cheng-Zhu line; there is no suggestion that Yang might have been interested in the teachings of Zhang Zai.136 Xiao Ju was also a native of Guanzhong and himself a renowned scholar of the generation after Yang Gongyi. His family was originally from Yidu, Shandong, having settled in Chang’an in the early Yuan. Xiao began his bureaucratic career as a clerk but soon gave up because, according to the author of his biography, he felt that he was not treated with respect by the magistrate, a Central Asian semu. After relinquishing ( 133. Yao Sui, “Ling Taishi yuan shi Yanggong shendaobei,” in MAJ, 18.225–29. 134. Ibid. 135. This tomb inscription is no longer extant; it is quoted in the shendaobei written by Yao Sui, “Ling Taishiyuan shi Yanggong shendaobei,” in MAJ, 18.228. 136. Ibid., 18.225–29.

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his clerical post, he turned to the learning of Daoxue.137 He became acquainted with distinguished officials when they served in Shaanxi and was recommended by them to the court a few times. He turned down all these offers, however, on the grounds that his learning was not yet perfect. When he was finally “forced” to take up the post of chancellor of the Directorate of Education, he used his age as an excuse to resign. When asked why he had denied himself a chance to educate talented men, Xiao said that he had once suggested to the court that if its aim were truly to educate the sons of nobles, it would be necessary to abolish the system of promoting students in the Schools for the Sons of the State annually based on their writing abilities and instead implement the Daoxue-inspired system proposed by Xu Heng. Xiao believed that students would thus be freed from the pursuit of profit and devote themselves to true learning. But his suggestion stirred up waves of criticism and was deemed unworkable. Thereupon he decided that, in a time like this, no good could be accomplished by serving.138 The gravamen of Xiao’s complaint is not entirely clear, but the mention of Xu Heng probably indicates his dissatisfaction with the lack of Daoxue curriculum in the school.139 It is therefore not surprising that when the examination system was reintroduced in 1313 with a heavy Daoxue flavor, Xiao accepted the duty of examiner.140 Xiao Ju was not the only influential Guanzhong figure at this time who decided not to serve. Tong Shu (1254–1331) was also from Fengyuan, but, unlike Xiao, he came from a prestigious literati family. During his grandfather’s generation, the family was said to have had more than two hundred members living together. Tong was academically outstanding even at a very young age, and his fame grew as time went by. He was recommended for clerical service in the Ministry of Rites before the age of thirty, but he declined. In 1264, he was recommended to compile the Veritable Records of Khubilai. This time he accepted the invitation but resigned and returned home to teach immediately after the work was completed. When Emperor Renzong (r. 1312–21) ( 137. Su Tianjue, “Xiao Zhenmin gong muzhiming,” in ZXWG, 8.114–21. 138. Ibid. 139. In 1270, Xu Heng introduced Daoxue education into the school system (YS, 81.2029). 140. Su Tianjue, “Xiao Zhenmin gong muzhiming,” in ZXWG, 8.119.

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ascended the throne and started seeking virtuous people for his court, Tong was summoned several times to serve as director of studies, a post that he again declined. Nevertheless, he agreed to serve as examiner alongside his good friend Xiao Ju in 1313. In 1319, he was again summoned to the court to serve as left admonisher, who was responsible for tutoring the heir apparent. However, he cited poor health as the reason to resign after Emperor Renzong died a year later.141 Both Xiao and Tong thus spent a substantial part of their lives detached from court politics and devoted instead to the transmission of Daoxue. When reading through their literary collections, one cannot help but notice their great enthusiasm for the Daoxue tradition. Xiao Ju wrote, among other things, a long treatise in which he invoked Daoxue concepts to discuss the causes of earthquakes, a piece to which I shall return below.142 Tong Shu employed the sayings of past Daoxue thinkers in many of his writings on various topics.143 For both men, Daoxue was the only path leading to the truth. Therefore, once the court decided to organize the examination system according to the Daoxue ideal, they assumed the duties of examiner without hesitation and expressed great joy over this in their writings.144 Daoxue thus defined both the public and the private life of Xiao Ju and Tong Shu, but which Daoxue tradition did they adhere to? Both Xiao and Tong wrote extensively about people and affairs related to Guanzhong; these include letters, all kinds of biographies, and miscellanies. They were thus highly active in their hometowns, and one might expect them to have been equally enthusiastic about local culture and traditions. To the contrary, they apparently did not desire to promote a unique, local tradition of Daoxue, even one that was readily available to them and would privilege their locale. In their writings, Xiao and Tong ( 141. Jia Ren, “Tonggong xingzhuang”; and Fuzhuli Chong, “Tong Wenzhen gong shendaobei bing xu,” in JAJ, fulu, 15.31b–36b. 142. Xiao Ju, “Dizhen wenda,” in QZJ, 4.1a–19b. 143. See, e.g., “Tang Zhong’an zhouji shi xu”; “Mingshan tang ji”; “Da Wang Maoxian jingli lun fusang shu”; “Duan Siwen xiansheng muzhiming”; “Chengwulang xi Hezhou tongzhi Leijun muzhiming”; and “Du Kaoting yiwen,” in JAJ, 2.5a–6b, 3.5a–7b, 4.4b–5b, 6.7a–10b, 9.14a–16a. 144. See, e.g., Xiao Ju, “Song Chen Gengdao xu,” in QZJ, 1.6a–7a; and Tong Shu, “Song Zhang Keli xu,” in JAJ, 2.13a–b.

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quoted a number of Song Daoxue thinkers, among them Zhang Zai and Lü Dalin. But Xiao and Tong did not see these men as their predecessors. In other words, the fact that Zhang and Lü were natives of Guanzhong seemingly had no special meaning for Xiao Ju and Tong Shu. Xiao and Tong treated them as they did other Daoxue thinkers. Daoxue scholars of Yuan Guanzhong generally chose to identify themselves with the Cheng-Zhu tradition through their affiliation with Xu Heng. The biographies of Xiao and Tong, as well as other writings about them by their contemporaries or their students, did not associate them with any past or present Guanzhong tradition of learning. Su Tianjue (1294–1352), for instance, instead associated Xiao with Xu Heng. The only Guanzhong scholar with whom Su connects Xiao is Yang Gongyi, who was also closely associated with Xu Heng. Su does mention that both Yang and Xiao tried to eliminate Buddhist and Daoist practices from funerals and instead strictly followed Confucian rituals. He also observed that their actions had a profound influence on the literati families of Guanzhong. This seems to suggest that Yang and Xiao had consciously picked up “proper” ritual, an aspect emphasized by Zhang Zai and his students. Furthermore, Su also mentioned that Xiao excelled in the three Classics on ritual (sanli) and the Book of Changes. 145 It is possible to read this, as some modern scholars have suggested, as confirmation that Xiao was profoundly influenced by Zhang Zai because Zhang’s learning was especially informed by ancient ritual and the Book of Changes. 146 But neither Su nor Xiao explicitly claimed to be following Zhang Zai. In fact, nothing in their writings suggests that they thought that emphasizing ritual or specializing in the Book of Changes was a feature of a special Guanzhong Daoxue initiated by Zhang Zai. To Su as well as Xiao, all these were Daoxue, and ( 145. Su Tianjue, “Xiao Zhenmin gong muzhiming,” in ZXWG, 8.114–121. 146. See, e.g., Sun Kekuan, Yuandai Han wenjia zhi huodong, pp. 229–33. Also, Chen Junmin (Zhang Zai zhexue sixiang ji Guanxue xuepai, p. 43) thinks that Guanzhong scholars in the Jin and Yuan were influenced mainly by Zhang Zai’s learning, especially his emphasis on “upholding Confucianism” and “practical learning.” But as I argue above, these Jin and Yuan scholars seem never to have thought in terms of a unique Guanzhong tradition of Daoxue; it will become evident in the next chapter that the “surviving influence” of Zhang Zai on Jin-Yuan scholars was constructed entirely by Ming scholars.

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Daoxue is one. In a preface Su wrote for Tong Shu’s literary collection, he linked Tong and the Guanzhong scholarship of his time only to Xu Heng.147 We know that Zhang Zai was remembered as a local worthy in the Yuan. A shrine was constructed for him in his hometown in 1295 and renovated in 1319. But the initiators of the renovation project were local officials rather than native scholars of Guanzhong. Even the person asked to write the stele inscription to commemorate the renovation was a scholar from Suining, Sichuan. During the whole process, there is no evidence of local elite involvement.148 In 1327, the court ordered an academy to be built in Zhang Zai’s hometown, in which Zhang was worshipped.149 It again appears, therefore, that the state was far more active in promoting Zhang Zai than Guanzhong literati themselves. Why so? It would be tempting to assume that this was because, after the 1310s, the state recognized the orthodoxy of the Cheng-Zhu school, and this in turn led the literati to view Daoxue as a collective whole with universal relevance. Consequently, it became meaningless to identify oneself with a particular school. But this is not true for everyone. As Peter Bol’s study of Jinhua Neo-Confucianism reveals, even after Daoxue took deep root there in the Yuan, late Yuan–early Ming figures like Wang Wei (1323–74) continued to promote fellow Jinhua intellectuals such as Song Lian (1310–80) as heirs to two local Jinhua traditions. “The first he traced back through Lü Zuqian (1137–1181) to Zhou Dunyi and the Chengs, and the second to the native-born utilitarian statecraft scholars Tang Zhongyou (1131–1188) and Chen Liang (1143–1194).” 150 Also, in a study of Wu Cheng (1249–1333), David Gedalecia points out that although Wu Cheng was receptive to Zhu Xi’s teaching, he was also very sympathetic toward what Lu Jiuyuan had to offer, even if that meant refuting Zhu Xi’s opinion about Lu.151 Gedalecia does not men( 147. Su Tianjue, “Taizi zanshan Tonggong wenji xu,” in ZXWG, 5.73–76. For biographies of Tong Shu, see Jia Ren, “Tonggong xingzhuang”; and Fuzhuli Chong, “Tong Wenzhengong shendaobei bing xu,” in JAJ, 15.808–14. 148. Wen Likai, “Hengqu ci beiji,” in Fengxiang fuzhi, 10.6a–7b. 149. YS, 30:680. 150. Bol, “Neo-Confucianism and Local Society,” p. 266. 151. David Gedalecia, “Wu Ch’eng and the Perception of the Classical Heritage in the Yuan,” in Langlois, China Under Mongol Rule, pp. 186–211.

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tion the geographical relationship between Wu and Lu, but it is far from accidental that both were natives of Fuzhou, Jiangxi.152 The state’s enshrinement of Cheng-Zhu orthodoxy and the universal claims of ChengZhu philosophy did not prevent these men from identifying with local scholarly traditions. We do not see that happening in the Guanzhong. Is this a manifestation of differences between the north and the south? Or does this phenomenon require some other explanation? One way of explaining the differences is to argue that whereas Zhu Xi was very critical of the Jinhua scholars and Lu Jiuyuan,153 he basically agreed with Zhang Zai and even considered him one of the cofounders, though much less important than the Cheng brothers, of Daoxue. Thus the differences between Zhu Xi and Zhang Zai were not sharp enough for Guanzhong scholars to make a distinction between the two. However, as we shall see in the next chapter, Zhu Xi’s positive assessment of Zhang Zai and the fact that Zhang Zai’s teaching was long considered a component of the Cheng-Zhu tradition did not prevent Guanzhong scholars from the mid-Ming on from consciously promoting Zhang Zai’s teachings alongside those of the Cheng-Zhu school. We therefore have to look for an explanation elsewhere. One possible explanation is the influence of Xu Heng. We are told that following the end of the wars between Jin and Yuan, the people of Guanzhong had the desire to learn but there was no teacher. When they heard that Xu Heng was coming, they were delighted and started building schools. Local customs were thus transformed.154 In this account, Xu Heng was instrumental in revitalizing Daoxue in Guanzhong. Since he was a steadfast Cheng-Zhu scholar, it was only natural that the Cheng-Zhu mode of Daoxue would flourish in Guanzhong. Yet we may still ask: What made these Guanzhong thinkers believe that Xu Heng had “gotten it right”? I would argue that Guanzhong scholars applauded Xu Heng’s teachings out of concern for the need to define good emperorship. As de Bary has shown, in the Daoxue movement, ( 152. In fact, Wu Cheng (“Lu Xiangshan yulu xu,” in Su Tianjue, Guochao wenlei, 34.20b–21a) specifically claimed that since Lu Jiuyuan was not far from him in both space and time, it was therefore his responsibility to transmit Lu’s teaching correctly. 153. For Zhu Xi’s criticism of the Jinhua school and Lu Jiuyuan, see Tillman, Confucian Discourse and Chu Hsi’s Ascendancy. 154. YS, 158.717.

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“Alongside the ‘orthodox tradition’ [i.e., the claim of daotong] as taught by scholar-teachers to the world at large, there was an ancillary tradition of advice to the sovereign offered by scholar-ministers and directed at the reigning emperor’s practice of the Way.”155 As the “teaching” or “learning of the sage-emperors and kings” (diwang zhi xue, or dixue for short), this ancillary tradition “was meant to perpetuate the Way of government (zhidao) practiced and transmitted in ancient times. For the later rulers, it was a reminder of the model they should emulate.”156 In this tradition, scholar-ministers were obliged to assume the role of teachers and impart to the emperor the lessons a ruler should learn. These teachings became institutionalized in the form of lectures on the Classics by scholars and ministers who spoke from the “Classics mat” ( jingyan).157 In the Song, many leading Cheng-Zhu scholars, including Cheng Yi, Zhu Xi, Zhen Dexiu (1178–1235), and Wang Yinglin (1223–96), had either served as lecturers or written important works on dixue. This tradition was revived in the Yuan, and Xu Heng was again the key figure. Xu was particularly concerned with how the ruler could obtain the legitimacy needed to rule the empire. He believed this could be achieved if the ruler were able to “win the hearts of all under heaven” by showing his love and impartiality and “obey the way of heaven” by taking proper care of the people. 158 For Xu, this depended on the ruler’s willingness and ability to follow the step-by-step method of selfcultivation and government presented in the Great Learning, which begins with investigating things and moves on to pacifying all under heaven. In 1266, he presented his famous Five Point Memorial, which is believed to have been drafted originally for lecturing from the Classics mat to Khubilai. In the memorial, he urged the emperor to take the Great Learning as his guide to rulership and insisted that, according to the way of the Great Learning, self-cultivation was the basis of government.159Although in theory, every man, not only the ruler, should follow the method of self-cultivation laid out in the Great Learning, the ( 155. De Bary, Neo-Confucian Orthodoxy and the Learning of the Mind-and-Heart, p. 28. 156. Ibid. 157. Ibid., p. 29. 158. Xu Heng, “Chen shiwu wushi,” in idem, Luzhai yishu, 7.382. 159. De Bary, Neo-Confucian Orthodoxy and the Learning of the Mind-and-Heart, pp. 131–47.

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Great Learning was undoubtedly particularly relevant as a source for lecturing the ruler about the correct way of government. With its emphasis on the Great Learning and its relation to good government, the ChengZhu tradition became especially attractive to people like Xu Heng who believed that the ruler’s leadership played the most significant role in ensuring the smooth operation of the government and consequently harmony in society at large. In contrast, because Zhang Zai’s philosophy is based on the Book of Changes and the concept of qi, it places less emphasis on the Great Learning. Furthermore, although the specific content of learning envisioned by Zhang Zai was the study of ancient ritual and the reading of the Classics, which contain many ideas on government,160 he did not provide a systematic program of self-cultivation that could be used to tutor the ruler. Consequently, advising the ruler was not prominent in Zhang Zai’s teachings; anyone who wished to influence the ruler’s behavior would be more likely to turn to the Cheng-Zhu school, which skillfully articulates the relationship between rulership and the dao. Tong Shu served as a tutor to the heir apparent for a short period, and Xiao Ju held the honorific title of right advisor to the heir apparent. The right advisor was not entrusted with any specific responsibility but was expected to tutor the heir apparent occasionally, although Xiao apparently never performed this duty. 161 Nevertheless, many looked on these two prominent Guanzhong scholars as particularly fit to speak from the Classics mat because they were thought to understand the dao. Obviously they also took it upon themselves to tutor the emperor and the heir apparent about proper conduct. Once, when Xiao was in the capital and realized that the emperor often drank with those close to him, he submitted a text from the Book of Documents in which the Duke of Zhou warns the king about the dangers of alcoholism.162 Tong Shu’s literary collection contains a letter to the heir apparent in which he advises the latter to be filial and respectful and to surround himself with virtuous ministers.163 Xu Heng’s peers probably looked up to him as a role model because they believed that he had managed to persuade ( 160. Kasoff, The Thought of Chang Tsai, pp. 81–84. 161. Su Tianjue, “Xiao Zhenmin gong muzhiming,” in ZXWG, 8.116. 162. Ibid. 163. Tong Shu, “Shang chujun shu,” in JAJ, 4.1a–4b.

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Khubilai to accept Daoxue premises at a time when the court was controlled by non-Daoxue ideologies; Xu represented a successful case of defining politics and good emperorship with the ideals of Daoxue. Viewed from this perspective, Guanzhong scholars remind us of the Jinhua literati whom Peter Bol is studying, because both groups refused to treat emperors as modern sages and to acknowledge that the court had the authority to claim possession of the daotong. Only those such as themselves, who pursued the Daoxue way, could claim that authority. At the same time, they were also different in the sense that, whereas Jinhua Confucians tried to keep “the daotong in Wuzhou and thus out of the hands of the court,”164 Guanzhong scholars did not try to challenge the court’s claim to daotong from a local perspective. For Guanzhong scholars, individuals, rather than a local community of scholars, were the most important preservers of the dao when the court was unable to do so. In other words, daotong in the Guanzhong case belonged solely to the self. Native scholars did not use it to define a local tradition of learning or to create “unofficial” institutions standing in opposition to the court. Xiao Ju’s writings best illustrate this absence of local and “unofficial” institutions in defining daotong.

Self, Society, and the State in Xiao Ju’s Vision Xiao Ju did not perceive his retreat to be apolitical. On the contrary, he believed that his refusal to serve was crucial to the well-being of the state. Take the following poem, for example: When the Han dynasty was founded, [talents from] the four seas all came to serve. There were only four people whom the court was unable to summon. If in the past, they had not had this righteousness [which deserves] great admiration, Who could have been relied upon to save the fallen morality?165

The four people referred to in the poem are the Four Elders, who retreated to Mount Shang when the Qin dynasty fell. They were highly ( 164. Bol, “Neo-Confucianism and Local Society,” p. 266. 165. Xiao Ju, “Sihao tu,” in QZJ, 8.18a.

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respected by Emperor Gaozu (r. 206–195 b.c.) but refused his summons because they felt that he did not respect the learned. But when Gaozu decided to appoint another son as the heir apparent, they came to the rescue of the first heir apparent because he was benevolent and righteous. As a result of their intervention, Emperor Gaozu decided to retain the original heir, who would later become Emperor Huidi (r. 194–188 b.c.).166 Obviously, Xiao Ju alluded to this story as a way of justifying his refusal to serve. Like the Four Elders, he was not rejecting political participation per se but was instead trying to find a way to preserve the dao in times of disarray. When the right time arrived, he would be ready to come forward to save the world. In other words, Xiao believed that his refusal to serve helped the state to preserve the Daoxue ideal at a time when it was marginalized by the state. If learned men like himself failed to uphold the dao, the world would inevitably collapse. Earthquakes, Xiao believed, were nature’s warnings that the world was headed in that direction; more serious calamities would follow if man could not come to his senses. On September 17, 1303, a destructive earthquake shook the northwest and destroyed countless official and private buildings. 167 It was commonly believed that such calamities were deliberately caused by unhappy spirits to tell human beings that they were angry. The logical solution was then to identify the spirits responsible and offer them sacrifices. Xiao Ju refused to blame the earthquake on supernatural beings, however. The responsibility, he thought, fell squarely on men. Men should be blamed for such natural disasters because humanity is one with Heaven and Earth and human behavior affects the workings of nature: [Someone] asks: “What causes such a great disaster of Heaven and Earth to occur?” I reply: “It is because the norm (li) is lost.” “How could the norm be lost?” “The norm is lost because of the deeds of man. Man is the heart of Heaven and Earth. How can the body remain healthy when the heart has already fallen sick?”168 ( 166. Ban Gu, Han shu, 40.2034–36. 167. This earthquake is recorded in YS, 50.1083. 168. Xiao Ju, “Dizhen wenda,” in QZJ, 4.2b.

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When man fails to adhere to li, calamities follow naturally because Heaven and Earth—which are one with man—will also lose the li that enables them to function properly. The most important components of the li of man, Xiao explained, are defined by the five constants (wuchang). For example, benevolence is the li of love; righteousness is the li of appropriateness, and so on. To go against the five constants means losing the li of man. But why does man go against the constants? It is because, Xiao argued, man has failed to learn. The solution is to have all men in the world learn to exhaust the li. Once all men can do that, the normal workings of nature will be restored and calamities will cease.169 In a modified version of the correlative cosmology that informed the imperial Confucianism of early China, Xiao postulated a relationship between human action and the workings of nature.170 Xiao was aware of the fact that correlative cosmology had been used primarily in discussions on the role and responsibility of those in power, but he refused to grant that Heaven and Earth would respond only to politics and government. Instead, he believed that they respond to individuals as well. Therefore, when calamities happen: “Those in power should, of course, correct what went wrong with their respective duties. However, should those who are not in power not also hold themselves responsible for losing li?”171 In Xiao’s vision, a perfect order can be established only when both the government and individuals do their part to act according to li. What is missing is a discussion on the role of local community. In fact, Xiao believed that local society as an organized community was something that existed only in antiquity. In modern times, the reality was that local society had become simply a collection of individuals: In antiquity, the people were organized in such as way that every neighborhood (lüxiang) consisted of twenty-five households. At the entrance of the neighborhood was a gate, and beside the gate stood [two] halls called shu. The people often went in and out and received instruction in the shu and would later [put what they have learned] into practice. From eight sui on, [children] ( 169. Xiao Ju, “Dizhen wenda,” in QZJ, 2b–5a. 170. For an excellent discussion of cosmology and kingship in early China, see Aihe Wang, Cosmolog y and Political Culture in Early China. 171. Xiao Ju, “Dizhen wenda,” in QZJ, 4.9a.

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would be admitted to elementary schools (xiaoxue) [to learn to] prevent their minds from going astray and to nurture their moral nature. When they grew up, they again had teachers from the two shu to teach them how to put the principle into practice and to get rid of their wrongdoings. Therefore, those who were intelligent were able to illuminate the principle and to put customs aright, and those who were unintelligent were still able to subconsciously minimize their faults and stay away from crimes. Today, even if it is already impossible [to return to this system of antiquity], there must still be some elderly men who possess or know the principle, whom the people can regard as teachers and turn to for advice. [If this can be done,] the people will know to treasure themselves and prevent themselves from falling into the trap of evil. Thus, [the people] will gradually know how to better themselves and gradually commit fewer mistakes. This is also the surviving intent of the system of antiquity. In other words, what was practiced in antiquity was the policy of governing the world and teaching the people; what I am proposing now is a method that allows each and every person to understand the principle on his own.172 (Italics added)

In the modern age, according to Xiao, the state is ineffective, and the system of antiquity that supported a well-functioning local community has collapsed. Under such circumstances, the people have no established institutions to fall back on. The responsibility for putting the world in order thus falls on the shoulders of elderly men like himself. They lead society by personal effort rather than by establishing “unofficial” institutions. Indeed, in Xiao’s view, all institutions, even those founded by an “unofficial” elite, have to be closely related to the “official” realm. For example, in an essay commemorating the Xuegu Academy, which had been built by a local literatus, Li Zijing, Xiao used the first half of the piece to comment on how the Yuan, through the efforts of Xu Heng, had rectified the Jin’s fault of not erecting academies, as the Southern Song had done. We are told that Xu Heng nurtured a generation of scholars during his teaching stint in Chang’an. Later, the provincial government of Shaanxi built an academy named after Xu Heng (Luzhai shuyuan) and motivated the local people to build their own academies. The Xuegu Academy, according to Xiao, was but one in a series of academies erected thereafter. When it was completed, local officials submitted Li Zijing’s name to the court so that his family might ( 172. Ibid., 4.6b–7a.

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be commended. 173 Xiao Ju’s account downplays the fact that Xuegu Academy was a project initiated by the local elite—instead it is presented as a court-led program. In Xiao’s vision, although the self plays an important role in the “unofficial” realm, “unofficial” institutions have limited space to operate. Put differently, individuals, not organized local communities with well-established institutions, constitute the “unofficial” sphere. It is perhaps for this reason that we find no evidence in Xiao Ju’s literary collection to suggest that he—or for that matter, Tong Shu—had ever conceived of Daoxue in the Guanzhong of his time to be a movement collectively initiated by learned men of the local community. In a discussion of early Ming thought, de Bary claims that “independence or resistance to the dominant power tended to be manifested in individualistic ways rather than through some interest group.” 174 This was exactly what happened in early fourteenthcentury Guanzhong. As a result, we know of extremely few group activities from this period carried out in the name of Daoxue. Daoxue activity in Yuan Guanzhong after Xiao Ju and Tong Shu is also extremely obscure because no Daoxue works from this period are extant. We do know, however, that the students of Xiao and Tong were not limited to natives of Guanzhong. In fact, of the three students of Xiao Ju whose identities are known, namely Diwu Juren (n.d.), Bozhulu Chong (1289–1341), and Lü Sicheng (n.d.), 175 only Diwu Juren was a Guanzhong native. The most famous of the trio was Bozhulu Chong, a Jurchen and native of Henan who held a high official post in the court. Bozhulu became affiliated with Xiao Ju and Tong Shu while on official duty in Shaanxi.176 This shows that although Xiao and Tong resided in Guanzhong most of their lives, their intellectual network extended far beyond Guanzhong through their connections with the bureaucracy. In short, there was certainly a Daoxue movement in Guanzhong at that time, but since it was without a distinctive doctrine and because many who were involved were not even Guanzhong natives, the movement should not be thought of as the product of a “Guanzhong school,” as some modern scholars have claimed. ( 173. Xiao Ju, “Xuegu Shuyuan ji,” in QZJ, 1.15a–16b. 174. De Bary, “Introduction,” in idem, Self and Society in Ming Thought, p. 8. 175. GXB, p. 22. 176. Su Tianjue, “Bozhulugong shendaobei ming bing xu,” in ZXWG, 8.121–27.

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This movement vanishes from historical sources, however, in the last two to three decades of the Yuan dynasty. Other than the three students of Xiao Ju, not a single scholar after Tong Shu, who died in 1331, made his way into any sort of historical record. Furthermore, despite the calls of leading figures such as Xiao Ju, the culture of private academies did not flourish. Apart from the Xuegu Academy, no record suggests that academies existed in fourteenth-century Guanzhong, and even the Xuegu Academy ceased to function after 1358. This seems to indicate that the local community was having difficulty maintaining a critical mass of scholars committed to the Daoxue cause and that Daoxue began to decline after a short period of growth. Again, the Daoxue case shows that the resources needed for ensuring a sustained development of literati culture were not present in Guanzhong during the Jin-Yuan era. ( This chapter has covered the Jin-Yuan period, an era marked by the discontinuity of great literati families and their culture. We find very few families that remained prominent over several generations. Destructive warfare and declining economic conditions obviously obstructed the growth of powerful local elites, and many literati had difficulty maintaining their status as such. Wang Zhe, for example, eventually became a Daoist clergyman and founded the Quanzhen sect after a failed attempt to become a shi. Yet we do know that the shi still perceived themselves to be among the leaders of the local community. They lived and married locally and were enthusiastic about establishing local networks; office-holding was just one of their career options. But the question of who qualified as a shi became a real problem. Frequent boundary crossings took place between the literati and other social groups such as military men, clerks, doctors, and clergy. As a result, it became increasingly important for the shi to be able to identify with a certain kind of culture in order to set themselves apart from the non-shi. By and large, in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, this culture, led by the Zhongzhou ji poets, was defined by wen, or the “literary.” But Guanzhong literati began to produce works that went beyond the genre of literature in the thirteenth century. By the 1250s, another mode of learning, the Daoxue, or the “philosophical,” quickly

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caught the attention of the literati when Xu Heng began his teaching career in Guanzhong. Gradually, Daoxue became the focal point of literati culture in Guanzhong and the movement reached its peak in the early fourteenth century, but there is little evidence to suggest that the situation remained the same after the 1330s. In fact, all forms of literati activity seem to have faded in the last few decades of the Yuan dynasty. Compared to the Daoxue movement in other places, a distinctive characteristic of Guanzhong Daoxue in this period is that these scholars did not see a need to promote a local tradition of Daoxue. Rather, they steadfastly adhered to the Cheng-Zhu mainstream. Although they saw themselves, rather than the ruler, as the transmitters of dao and valued an extra-bureaucratic space in which they could uphold the Daoxue ideals in case politics became messy, they still believed that institutional measures were best undertaken by the state, not the local community. The extrabureaucratic space that they envisaged was one in which non-titled literati operated as individuals, rather than as a community of learned men responsible for creating and leading “unofficial” institutions. The same trend can be detected among non-Daoxue scholars. Neither Yang Huan nor Luo Tianxiang, although deeply interested in history, saw a need to promote a local past as distinct from the national past. Literary figures such as Li Ting did not even consider an extrabureaucratic space necessary, although such a space clearly existed. Literary composition, they would have it, was something to be undertaken only when one had failed to make a mark in an official career. Even Daoist clergy who had already “left the world” were, according to their standards, to be remembered for their political participation more than anything else. Others, such as Zhang Jian, called for loyalty toward the court in their writings. Intolerant of regional powers of any sort that tried to defy the will of the court, they gave top priority to the maintenance of a top-down political hierarchy. In short, Guanzhong literati in this period were by and large nation-, state-, or court-centered. In such an intellectual atmosphere, Guanzhong did not really matter as a locality. Guanzhong was important because it once had a glorious national past; anything after the Tang was often neglected. Zhang Zai and his students were almost forgotten, and we can find no Guanzhong native claiming to be the proud successor

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of any sort of local cultural tradition. The collective memory of the local was suppressed as the literati looked to the national. Thus, the “dark ages” in Guanzhong were marked both by a lack of social and cultural continuity and by an absence of local identity. Things started to change gradually, however, with the founding of the Ming. Not only do we see a surge in available sources from the fifteenth century on due to an explosive increase in all kinds of published literary works, but a collective Guanzhong identity also becomes very visible. Guanzhong thence became a source of local pride both because of its national past and because of its local present.

chapter three

The Ming-Qing Period The “Renaissance”

In 1622, the Ministry of Personnel memorialized the court requesting that some members of a Zhang family of Luanzhou, Hebei, be relocated to Meixian in Fengxiang prefecture. The memorial stated that having investigated the local gazetteer of Luanzhou and the genealogy of the Zhangs, the ministry could confirm that these Zhangs were descendents of Zhang Zai. Since the descendents of Zhou Dunyi, the Cheng brothers, and Zhu Xi had been given prestigious titles, the Zhangs should also receive the same grace from the court. It was later decided that Zhang Wenyun, a fourteenth-generation descendent of Zhang Zai and a student in the county school of Luancheng, be given the honorific title of erudite of the Five Classics (wujing boshi) and that he and his family should reside in Meixian, the hometown of Zhang Zai, to look after Zhang Zai’s grave and carry out sacrificial rites.1 The person who first brought this issue to the attention of the court was a certain Shen Zizhang (n.d.), who was serving as the prefect of Fengxiang at the time. He is said to have loved learning, and he persistently engaged in discussion with the famous Guanzhong Daoxue ( 1. Meixian zhi, 14.395–402. The descendents of this family still live in Meixian and are actively involved in maintaining historical relics related to Zhang Zai; see Zhang Shimin, “Zhang Zai houyi de qianyan.” The author of this piece claims to be a twenty-eighthgeneration descendent of Zhang Zai and is a member of the Zhang Zai Ci wenwu guanlisuo, established in 1985 by the county government.

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scholar Zhang Shundian (ca. 1549–ca. 1621).2 Shen was also known for his enthusiasm for the learning of Zhang Zai. Not only did he assemble Zhang’s writings into The Complete Works of Master Zhang (Zhangzi quanshu), later included in the Siku quanshu,3 he also compiled a new genealogy of the Zhang family based on the old Zhang genealogy and the gazetteer of Luancheng given to him by one of the most important late Ming Guanzhong Daoxue scholars, Feng Congwu (1556–1627).4 The “return” of the Zhang family to the land of its ancestor was just one of the dramatic incidents that Feng Congwu—with the help of the state and enthusiastic local officials like Shen—undertook to reconnect Zhang Zai with his hometown. As we shall see, it was part of Feng’s overarching effort to use the legacy of Zhang Zai to establish Guanxue, the “Daoxue school of Guanzhong.” Modern Chinese scholars, following conventional usage, have often portrayed the regional transmission of Daoxue Neo-Confucianism using a “four schools” format; namely, the Lian school of Zhou Dunyi, the Luo school of the Cheng Brothers, the Guan school of Zhang Zai, and the Min school of Yang Shi and Zhu Xi. The Daoxue movement is often presented as if it was divided into these four schools from the onset. It seems, however, that this “four school” format appeared rather late, probably no earlier than the late thirteenth century. 5 The practice of associating a school of learning with a place is therefore a historical phenomenon that requires scrutiny. Conventionally, within the “four schools” format, a linear transmission is traced from Zhou Dunyi to the Cheng brothers and then through Yang Shi to Zhu Xi. This line of transmission came to be known as the Cheng-Zhu school and later became the orthodox ideology of the state. As such, Zhang Zai became the odd man out. Generally speaking, his teaching was still perceived to be orthodox because, as ( 2. Fengxiang fuzhi, 5.73b. 3. See the introduction by Zhang Dainian in the modern edition of Zhang Zai’s literary collection; Zhang Dainian, “Guanyu Zhang Zai de sixiang he zhuzuo,” in ZZJ, pp. 16–17. 4. Zhang Shimin, “Zhang Zai houyi de qianyan,” p. 45. 5. A search of the electronic version of Siku quanshu (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1999) shows that the earliest work included in that series containing these four characters as a set phrase is Hu Bingwen’s (1250–1333) literary collection Yunfeng ji (1.3a).

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we have seen in Chapter 2, Zhu Xi labeled him a cofounder of the Daoxue movement. Through a careful study of Zhang Zai’s thought, Ira Kasoff has shown that Zhang was an independent thinker.6 But it is also true that since the time of Zhu Xi, Zhang Zai had generally been considered only a member, although an important one, of the ChengZhu school, and his legacy was very much predicated on the premise that his philosophy was in agreement with that of the Cheng brothers. As we have seen in the previous chapter, throughout the Yuan dynasty Zhang’s thought became an indistinguishable part of the larger Cheng-Zhu legacy even for Guanzhong scholars themselves. Therefore, Feng Congwu’s endeavors represent a different way of conceiving Zhang Zai’s legacy and also of Guanzhong as a locality. At the same time, his efforts were not unprecedented because Guanzhong scholars had been championing Zhang Zai’s legacy since the mid-Ming, both by republishing the works of Northern Song Guanzhong scholars and by implementing the practices laid down in them. Wang Chengyu (1464– 1538), for example, published the works of Zhang Zai and his students.7 Wang Zhishi (1528–90) consciously followed the example of Lü Dajun in implementing the community compact. Wang Zhishi was said to have exclaimed that “if a scholar [like myself ] were to reside in [Lü’s] hometown but be unable to improve customs, would he not be guilty of failing Heshu [Lü Dajun’s style name], the former worthy [of our locality]?”8 Also, Lü Qian (1517–78) was said to have copied Lü Dalin’s Keji ming, a long-ignored text, keeping it inside his sleeve and taking it out to read from time to time when he was young.9 Given these precedents, Feng Congwu’s promotion of Zhang Zai’s teaching as a unique and localized form of Daoxue learning is simply one episode, albeit an influential one, in a century of development. This chapter asks how this new development came about and how it evolved over time within the context of Guanzhong literati culture. From the mid-fifteenth century on, Guanzhong began to produce nationally renowned thinkers and literary figures who played significant ( 6. Kasoff, The Thought of Chang Tsai. 7. Ma Li, “Nanjing Hubu shangshu Pingchuan xiansheng Wanggong xingshi,” in idem, Xitian wenji, 5.145a–61b. 8. GXB, p. 60. 9 Ibid., p. 55.

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roles in shaping the intellectual and cultural outlook of Ming-Qing China. But it was the Daoxue movement that was particularly successful in articulating a vision to which all literati, regardless of their scholarly and literary affiliations, had to respond. This chapter therefore follows the development of Daoxue in Guanzhong, from its emergence as part of a northern intellectual community formed around the influential northern Daoxue master Xue Xuan (1389–1465) in the early Ming to its gradual movement out of Xue Xuan’s shadow through the construction of a local tradition built on Zhang Zai’s legacy in the late fifteenth century, a tradition that came to be known as Guanxue in the late Ming, and finally to Guanxue’s development into a school with a distinctive set of doctrines in the Qing. I will show how Daoxue collaborated and competed with other forms of literati learning, and how Guanzhong literati redefined national/local, “official”/“unofficial” and central/ regional relationships along the way. First, it is necessary to demonstrate that this process was made possible by the sociocultural dynamics that emerged with the founding of the Ming dynasty. Guanzhong merchant and scholar elites benefited from various state policies, and the resources they accumulated allowed them to weather both natural and man-made crises over the next few centuries. Under these favorable conditions, the most successful of the elite families, unlike their Jin-Yuan counterparts, were able to reproduce their success over an extended period of time, unperturbed even by a change in dynasty.

Crisis and Opportunity When the Ming army marched into Guanzhong in 1369, the region had been a war zone for almost a decade. Yuan troops under different commanders had fought among themselves when the central government failed to keep them under control. After the early Ming government gained control of Guanzhong, it carried out a series of measures to restore order and economic production. Apart from reducing taxes, the government initiated projects to repair long-abandoned irrigation systems and recruited farmers to cultivate abandoned land.10 ( 10. SXTS, 6: 376–80, 7: 23–25.

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The relatively peaceful years after the founding of the Ming allowed Guanzhong to recover gradually, but, as we shall see below, more than seventy years passed before literati culture began to flourish. Even so, natural and man-made calamities struck periodically, with devastating effects on local society. The most serious earthquake in known history struck the region in 1555 and killed about 800,000 people, including several figures discussed in this chapter. The Mongols residing at the great bend of the Yellow River—known as the “Bandits of the Bend” (taokou) in many historical sources—raided the region in 1546, causing much panic. The great famine in the final days of the Ming hit the northwest hard. The rebellion that eventually brought down the Ming began here. Led by Li Zicheng (1606–45), the rebels built the shortlived Dashun regime in 1643 with Xi’an as the western capital; the Manchus defeated Li’s army and took control of Guanzhong the following year. In the Qing, the territory of Ming Shaanxi was divided in two when the province of Gansu was created in 1666.11 As had other conquest dynasties in the past, the Qing ruling class tried to maintain a political and social system that kept its own people separate from those whom it had conquered. In some cities, the Eight Banner garrisons settled in a separate quarter called the “Manchu city” (Mancheng). In Xi’an this quarter was built in 1649 on the foundations of what had been the Ming Princely Establishment of Shaanxi.12 According to Mark Elliott, more Manchus lived there than in any other city except Beijing.13 Another ethnic group that became a major source of concern for the local government in this period was the Hui Muslims.14 In 1586, a great famine struck the area, and in what is now Jingchuan county several hundred affected Hui—labeled as “Hui Barbarians” (Huiyi) in some sources—revolted. The turmoil quickly spread to other parts of the province, with both Han and Hui joining the revolt. Although it was suppressed, local officials took precautionary measures against future ( 11. Wu Zhenfeng, Shaanxi dili yan’ge, p. 484. 12. Zhao Erxun et al., Qing shigao, 63.2093. 13. Elliott, The Manchu Way, pp. 105–6. 14. For example, among the memorials on military matters submitted by Yang Yiqing (1454–1530) when he was serving as the grand coordinator and military superintendent of Shaanxi, those concerning the Hui people and their revolts constitute a substantial portion; see Yang Yiqing, Guanzhong zouyi, esp. juan 11–14.

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Map 4 Shaanxi in 1820 (base source map: Chinese Civilization in Time and Space, Academia Sinica, Taiwan)

incidents by organizing the Hui households into the baojia system.15 In 1604, another Hui revolt took place in the counties of Huxian and Zhouzhi. Once again, after the rebellion was suppressed, the magistrate began to implement the baojia system to keep the Hui under close surveillance.16 By Qing times, the Hui had become the second largest ethnic group after the Han in Shaanxi, and tension between the two groups occasionally boiled out of control. In the nineteenth century, a major rebellion involving the Hui broke out.17 Although the rebellion was eventually put down, local society had little chance to recover, as ( 15. Qu Jiusi, Wanli wugong lu, 1.84. 16. Huxian xiangtuzhi, 1.9a. 17. Information concerning this rebellion is plentiful in local gazetteers. For example, the 1884 edition of the Qianzhou zhigao contains a separate juan at the end entitled “Qianzhou xunnan shinü lu” dedicated to those literati and their family members who died during the Hui and Taiping rebellions in the Tongzhi reign. It lists the names of 5,569 people, 90 percent of whom are said to have been victims of the Hui rebellion.

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two great famines struck the region in 1877 and 1900, killing millions of people.18 Large-scale warfare, social unrest, and natural disasters suppressed population growth. By the mid-sixteenth century, the population was estimated to be about 3.5 million. The figure fell sharply in the seventeenth century but rose again rapidly after that. We know with some degree of certainty that by 1823, the population of Shaanxi had reached almost twelve million, an unprecedented figure for the region. Still, the population of Shaanxi as a whole constituted only about 4 percent of the empire’s population, whereas in the eighth century it had stood at around 9 percent.19 This relatively low population density contributed to a high ratio of cultivated land per capita. For a general picture, we may look at a set of 1812 data. In the province of Shaanxi, the total population was 10,207,256, and the total cultivated land was 30,677,522 mu. This gives an average of 3.01 mu per capita. Excluding provinces in Manchuria, Shaanxi had the fourth highest average, behind Shanxi (3.95), Shandong (3.41), and Henan (3.13). Compared with provinces in the south such as Jiangsu (1.90), Zhejiang (1.77), Fujian (0.98), or Guangdong (1.67), Shaanxi was certainly a place where cultivated land was relatively abundant.20 Figures from other years are less reliable, but we do know that throughout the Ming-Qing period, land in Guanzhong was never a commodity of great value and was often not the most important asset sought after by the rich.21 For instance, it is commonly held that Ming-Qing merchants purchased land with their profits. Guanzhong merchants, however, were in general not keen to acquire land. Some county gazetteers say that certain merchants in the early Qing even felt that owning too much land was a burden, the result being that “a man with ten thousand taels of silver did not have an inch of land.” 22 A direct conse( 18. Tian Peidong, Ming-Qing shidai Shaanxi shehui jing ji shi, pp. 110–14. 19. Cao Zhanquan, Shaanxisheng zhi, pp. 80–83, 330–31. 20. Liang Fangzhong, Zhongguo lidai hukou, tiandi, tianfu tong ji, p. 400. 21. There are exceptions. There was a kind of top-quality field in some counties called “ditch fields,” fertilized by flood sediment. Disputes occasionally occurred over the ownership of these fields; see Tian Peidong, Ming-Qing shidai Shaanxi shehui jing ji shi, pp. 159–61. 22. Chao Xiaohong, “Ming-Qing shiqi de Shaanxi shangren ziben.”

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quence of this minimal interest in possessing land was that powerful landlords were extremely rare in Guanzhong; some scholars have even claimed that there were no landlords in this region.23 Nevertheless, extremely rich families did exist. Wang Xinjing (1656– 1738) argued in the early Qing that local officials should protect the interests of these rich families because in times of famine they could be relied on to help provide relief. Wang even said that the life of the country depended on these families. 24 While one cannot but suspect that Wang was serving his own interests by making such an appeal, it still reveals that elite families played an important role in local affairs. The state was not always friendly to these families, however. There were moments when the state tried to reorganize local society, perhaps with the intention of suppressing the power of these families. As a result, these families were divided. For example, the Jiao family of Sanyuan county, prominent since the days of Jiao Yuanqing ( jinshi 1607) and Jiao Yuanpu ( jinshi 1613)—both of whom died as Ming loyalists when Li Zicheng seized Guanzhong25—was forced to divide in two in 1658 when the Qing court ordered the local government to reorganize the local community according to the lijia system for taxation. Because the whole family could not fit into a single jia, the Jiao were in an awkward position. Local officials decided to split them and combined the halves with other, smaller families to form two jia. This incident deeply worried Jiao Zhixia (n.d.), the leading member of the family. He foresaw the coming of a permanent split within the family and, as a precaution, wrote a compact to remind family members of the importance of maintaining a common identity.26 We cannot be certain of the fortunes of the Jiao family after the 1658 split. Yet we do find several cases of other elite families in the region successfully overcoming adverse conditions to remain intact and prominent for centuries, some even up to the present day.27 As compared to their counterparts in the Jin-Yuan period ( 23. Qin Hui and Su Wen, Tianyuan shi yu kuangxiang qu, pp. 44–68. 24. Wang Xinjing, Fengchuan zazhu, 3a–5b. 25. For biographies of Jiao Yuanqing and Jiao Yuanpu, see MS, 264.6823–24. 26. Jiao Zhixia, “Fenjia qinqin yue xu,” in idem, Suihan ji, 40a–41b. 27. For example, the ability of Wang Xinjing’s family to maintain a common identity since it rose to prominence in the sixteenth century is evident in its continuous production of genealogies, the latest of which appeared in 1996; see Wangshi zong pu.

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who rarely seem to have survived major disasters, elite families in the Ming-Qing period showed an amazing degree of resilience. How did these families get rich in the first place since, as mentioned above, land was not a reliable source of income? In retrospect, the state certainly played a major role in supplying the Guanzhong elite with opportunities. In order to curb the power of Jiangnan families, early Ming rulers such as the Hongwu (r. 1368–98) and Yongle (r. 1403–24) emperors purposefully patronized northern scholars. In 1425, after consulting with Senior Grand Secretary Yang Shiqi (1354–1444), the Hongxi emperor (r. 1425) ordered that the regional examination quota be reconfigured to ensure that every year the examiners selected four “northern” candidates for every six “southern” candidates.28 This favorable policy created more chances for ambitious men from the north—including Guanzhong—to gain access to government. Shaanxi literati were also given extra opportunities when Liu Jin (d. 1510), the most powerful eunuch in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, came to power. Liu was a native of Shaanxi and in order to gain the support of his countrymen, he raised the provincial examination quota for Shaanxi from forty-five to one hundred.29 We do not know the practical impact of such changes in examination policy. What we do know, however, is that a substantial number of Guanzhong literati made it to the top levels of the bureaucracy. Scholars have identified about fifty such individuals who served either as senior grand secretaries, censors-in-chief, and/or ministers from the beginning to the fall of the dynasty.30 Aside from bureaucratic careers, trade seems to have been a major channel to prominence. The impact of commerce on all aspects of Ming society is well known, and it was no less important in Guanzhong. Taking full advantage of new opportunities in trade and commerce, Shaanxi merchants ventured into all kinds of commodities, including textiles, tea, tobacco, and herbs. The number of market towns in( 28. Yang Shiqi, “Sanchao shengyu lu shang,” in idem, Dongli ji, bieji, 2.30a–b. The quota was later revised to north 35 percent; south 55 percent; middle 10 percent. For a discussion of the politics behind the setting of quotas, see Elman, Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China, pp. 88–97. 29. Long Wenbin, Ming huiyao, 47.873–74. 30. Miribel, Mingdai difang guanli ji wenguan zhidu, pp. 431–37. This translation was published before the French original, Administration provinciale et fonctionnaires civils au temps des Ming; the French version does not include the list of officials.

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creased considerably, and farmers were actively involved in daily trade. Guanzhong was not, however, the Lower Yangzi delta region, where the economy was accelerating at an unprecedented speed with the influx of silver and rapid commercialization. The handicraft sector, as we shall see, could barely survive. Commerce in Guanzhong did, however, have a comparative advantage over other areas, and again, it was the state that supplied opportunities. In order to finance border defense, beginning in the Hongwu reign the Ming government implemented the border delivery (kaizhong) system. Under this policy, merchants transported grain to the border in exchange for licenses to sell salt in specific regions.31 Because their economic base was situated near the frontier, Shaanxi merchants made a fortune under this system. They often collaborated with their counterparts from Shanxi and competed with those from Huizhou, and they ended up with a big share of the salt trade in regions along the Huai and Yangzi rivers, particularly in Yangzhou.32 They also dominated salt production and sales in Sichuan and elsewhere and specialized in the trading of textiles, tea, wool, and leather products. The zone of their activities stretched from the northwest to the southeast. By the last decade of the fifteenth century, however, salt merchants were allowed to purchase salt licenses from the government with silver, and the government in turn purchased food and other supplies for the troops from nearby places. As a result, the comparative advantage of the Shaanxi merchants declined, and the merchants active in the interior—especially the famous Huizhou merchants—gradually gained the upper hand in regional competition. Yet Shaanxi merchants were able to explore other opportunities and remain competitive into the Qing. Several factors contributed to this: the great expansion of the empire’s territory, especially into Xinjiang, where Shaanxi merchants were very active; the rapid development of Shaannan, where natural resources were abundant; and the growth of various economic sectors in the western part of the empire.33 ( 31. Brook, The Confusions of Pleasure, pp. 107–8. 32. Fujii Hiroshi, “Shin’an shōnin no kenkyū.” For the Shaanxi Merchants’ activities in Yangzhou and their influences on the cultural outlook of the city, see Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, pp. 49–56. 33. Li Gang, Shaanxi shangbang shi, pp. 228–39.

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Salt merchants who conducted their business in the southeast were entitled to register as “merchant status” (shangji) households from 1600 on. This status allowed the offspring of the most powerful merchants, including many Shaanxi merchants, to be admitted to government schools and take the pre-shengyuan and shengyuan examinations outside their home county. As Ho Ping-ti points out, however, before the creation of this “merchant status,” many scions of merchant families were already sitting the examinations as commoners. 34 We now know that the sons of Shaanxi merchants were extremely successful in the examinations even before the shangji was created. In fact, throughout the Ming, the Shaanxi merchants active in the Huai River region were second only to Huizhou merchants in producing degreeholders.35 Despite living far away from Guanzhong, many sojourning Shaanxi merchants still maintained close contact with their hometowns. This is evident in their financing of local projects in Guanzhong, which made their existence keenly felt by the local people. 36 Ma Li (1473–1555), a prominent scholar-official, saw commerce as the force that drove his hometown of Sanyuan to national prominence: “Sanyuan is the gathering place for all merchants under heaven. Things that are consumed by [the people] in the four directions and at the various borders are all acquired from here. This is the reason why the name of Sanyuan is known throughout the world.”37 Ma Li was exaggerating. Sanyuan was never as important a trading center as he claimed, although it is true that Sanyuan was a center for the processing of raw materials.38 But it is telling that Ma showed such enthusiasm for the changes that commerce had brought about. One might expect Ma, a devoted follower of the Cheng-Zhu school of Daoxue, to be indifferent, if not hostile, toward ( 34. For a discussion of how the “merchant status” category was created, see Ho Ping-ti, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China, pp. 69–70. 35. Tian Peidong, Shaanxi shangbang, pp. 14–18; Wang Yu and Zhu Zhenghai, Yanshang yu Yangzhou, pp. 70–78. 36. Li Gang, Shaanxi shangbang shi, pp. 108–16, 128–29. 37. Ma Li, “Ming Sanyuan xian chuangxiu Qinghe xincheng ji chonghuang ji,” in idem, Xitian wenji, 3.117a–22a, quotation from 120b. This is taken from the text of a stele inscription to commemorate the building of a new city wall and the surrounding moat. 38. Tian Peidong, Shaanxi shangbang, pp. 6–7.

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profit-seeking activities such as commerce.39 He was not, neither was he alone in this respect. When asked whether a shi should pursue commerce, Lü Nan (1479–1542), another great Guanzhong Daoxue scholar and a good friend of Ma Li, said that a shi should not pursue it himself, but should let other family members do so. If not, how could the family be fed? Lü was thus proposing that even a shi family should practice a division of labor so that at least some members followed trade as a livelihood.40 Along with this favorable assessment of commerce came favorable assessments of merchants. We find in this period numerous cases of intermarriage between merchant and literati families. Also, a recurring theme in the biographies of merchants—written by literati of course— is how these merchants adhered to the values of the ru. For instance, Lai Yanran ( jinshi 1595), another Sanyuan scholar, praised a certain Wang Jingji (n.d.) for his willingness to pursue commerce so that his younger brother would have the opportunity to be groomed into a shi.41 This kind of depiction, the veracity of which we cannot judge, suggests that the Guanzhong elites, both merchants and scholars, collaborated in maintaining their prestigious social status. As a result, the new wealth created by commerce was not distributed evenly, but circulated among the upper classes of merchants and established literati families. Reports from this period generally suggest that ordinary farmers lived in poverty. Some Marxist-oriented scholars have complained that the Shaanxi merchants continued to be “feudal” in comparison to their southern counterparts because of their unwillingness to invest in handicraft industries, thus denying Guanzhong the chance to enjoy the “sprouts of capitalism.”42 Political implications aside, this observation does point to the fact that the coming of commerce widened the gap between the rich and the poor. The concentration of wealth in the ( 39. Ma Li was hostile to the Wang Yangming school, which took the intellectual world of the sixteenth century by storm. He specifically attacked Wang Yangming’s notion of “innate knowledge” in his letter to Luo Qinshun (1465–1547), the famous critic of Wang Yangming; see Ma Li, “Shang Luo Zheng’an xiansheng shu,” in idem, Xitian wenji, 3.140b–42b. 40. Lü Nan, Jing ye zi neibian, 27.277. 41. Lai Yanran, “Chushi Wanggong zhuan,” in idem, Ziyu tang ji, 1.1a–3a. 42. Tian Peidong, Shaanxi shangbang, pp. 123–27.

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hands of a few led to the emergence of a small number of extremely powerful and enduring clans. Unlike the lineages familiar to social historians and anthropologists of south China, these Guanzhong clans lacked substantial landed assets as a source of income. Yet they managed to maintain a collective identity for centuries. A brief survey of the Sanyuan Wen and the Tongzhou Ma will give an idea of how these powerful Guanzhong clans emerged and thrived in a period full of crisis and opportunity.

Success Stories The documentary collections of the Sanyuan Wen and the Tongzhou Ma, entitled Wenshi congshu and Guanxi Mashi congshu and compiled in the 1930s and the 1870s, respectively, enable us to trace the development of these clans with some degree of certainty. These collections include the literary works of the members of the clans in the Ming-Qing period together with genealogical information.43 The Wens and the Mas are similar in the sense that both became extremely prominent when a member rose to the peak of the bureaucracy in the late Ming. Residing in Sanyuan, the commercial center of Guanzhong, the Wens boasted Wen Chun (1539–1607), who served in succession as the minister of several of the six boards and received praise in the official history for being able to “regulate the bureaucracy” and to “rectify moral standards.”44 He seems to have sat for the provincial examination at Yangzhou because his family was involved in trade in the Huai River region. 45 His own account of his parents’ life stories suggests that his family was poor until his father Wen Chaofeng (n.d.) became successful in the long-distance trade between Sichuan and the southeastern part of the country. With his accumulated wealth, Wen Chaofeng invested in education by sending his sons to government schools.46 The strategy paid off with the success of Wen Chun, and the ( 43. Wen Liangru, ed., Wenshi congshu (n.p., 1938); Ma Xiandeng, ed., Guanxi Mashi congshu (n.p., 1868). All the writings of the Wens and the Mas cited in this section are found in these two collections. 44. MS, 220.5802. 45. Liang-Huai yanfa zhi, 16.4b. 46. Wen Chun, “Er qing xing lue,” in idem, Wen Gong yi gong wenji, 13.1b–4a.

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Wens were to remain prominent and produce numerous officials, degree-holders, and renowned scholars until the 1930s.47 Despite their success in “converting” to shi status, however, the Wens never left mercantile circles. In Wen Chun’s literary collection, we find a substantial number of tomb inscriptions written for Sanyuan merchants, and the Wens continued to forge marriage ties with influential merchants.48 Apart from building affinal ties, Wen Chun also put much effort into organizing his kinsmen. He initiated a differentiated descent group by distinguishing the main line from the “lesser” lines and building shrines for each line. He also set up charitable fields and initiated a community compact.49 Apparently, Wen Chun was trying to build a sophisticated lineage system. Aside from this information, however, I find no evidence to suggest that the Wens consistently organized themselves along lines similar to the kinds of lineages that shaped the social landscape of rural south China. Nevertheless, the Wen clan did not break apart. Numerous accounts in the Wenshi congshu show how elite members of the clan tried strenuously to create a common identity despite the lack of substantial communal property. This point can be illustrated by citing the example of a Madame Yue (1825–96), the wife of Wen Tingluan (n.d.). According to biographies of Madame Yue written by her two grandsons (one of whom was her son’s son Wen Erming and the other her daughter’s son Lai Fucheng), Wen Tingluan, before he died, asked her to safeguard the surviving imprints of the literary collection of Wen Chun. Fearing that the younger generations of the clan might fail to take good care of the book, Madame Yue donated them to a famous local academy and was praised by the magistrate for “knowing clearly the right thing to do.” On another occasion, when two arches erected to honor Wen Chun—the Grand Guardian (Taibao) Arch and the Renowned Minister of the Learning of Principle (Lixue mingchen) Arch—collapsed during an earthquake, a family member suggested that the clan should sell off the debris, but ( 47. Guanzhong Wenshi zupu. 48. See, e.g., Wen Chun, “Ming shouguan Edong Wangjun muzhiming,” in idem, Wen Gong yi gong wenji, 11.12b–14a. Wang Yihong (1538–1600), the subject of this text, married his son to Wen Chun’s granddaughter. 49. Wen Zizhi, “Xiankao fujun xingshi,” in idem, Haiyin Lou wenji, 55a–b. Wen Zizhi was the third and youngest son of Wen Chun.

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Madame Yue insisted that remains of the arches be kept. It was further said that she suggested repairing several shrines and the grave of Wen Chun. When other members of the clan refused to contribute money, she had to draw on her own savings to finance the projects. 50 Her grandsons thus portrayed Madame Yue as a learned woman who cherished the extraordinary glory of the clan, which was built on the learning and bureaucratic career of Wen Chun. This aspect of her life was highlighted because at least her Wen grandson, I would argue, was trying to bind the Wens together by keeping alive their connection with their most prominent ancestor. This communicated to readers that the clan owned a proud shi tradition, defined in terms of learning and civil service. Members of the Tongzhou Ma were also able to claim a prestigious shi tradition. The most prominent of the Mas was Ma Ziqiang (1513–78), who served briefly as senior grand secretary in 1578. After Ma Ziqiang, the Mas, like the Wens, were able to hold on to a shi identity for centuries through a constant supply of officials and degree-holders. This prompts Terada Takanobu to call them a typical “gentry” (xiangshen) clan. By xiangshen, Terada refers to how active and retired officials were addressed in their hometowns during the Ming-Qing period.51 The Mas began to claim a shi identity when some members bought admission to the National University in the fifteenth century. Before that, the Mas were, according to their own accounts, rich farmers. 52 This probably means that they were small landlords. ( 50. Wen Erming, “Lizeng ruren xian ji zubi Yue Ruren xinglue”; Lai Fucheng, “Wai zumu Wenmu Yue tai ruren xiaozhuan”; both in Guanzhong Wenshi beizhuan ji, 120b– 21a, 119b–20a. The shrines were built to commemorate Wen Chun’s extraordinary success and also his contribution to the building of a bridge and the restoration of the city wall. See Wen Xiangfeng and Zhang Bingxuan, “Jishe ci menlian”; Wen Xiangfeng, “Wen Gongyi gong Baogong ci bei”; Wang Zheng, “Wen Gongyi gong Shancheng ci beiji”; Jiao Yuan-pu, “Qingbei jian Wen Gongyi gong xiansheng citang shu”; all in Guanzhong Wenshi xianzheng ji, 43a, 44a–49a, 62a–63b, 64a–66a. Originally these shrines had not been ancestral shrines, but Madame Yue’s eagerness to have her kinsmen contribute to the projects suggests that the shrines had probably come to function as ancestral shrines, or at least as monuments that represented the clan. 51. Terada Takanobu, “Sensei Dōshū no Ba-shi.” 52. Ibid., pp. 480–82. See also Ma Ziqiang, “Xiankao Nanyegong ji bi Li Shuren jibi Zhangshi xingzhuang,” in SXL, 2.7a–13b.

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As noted earlier, powerful landlords were extremely rare in MingQing Guanzhong. Most landowners (the richest of whom owned only 500–600 mu of land; in Jiangnan, in comparison, a rich landlord might own ten times as much, and the land was much more fertile) employed laborers to work in the field instead of leasing their land to tenants, and they often worked alongside the laborers.53 The returns from farming in Guanzhong were limited, and landlords had to rely on other means to accumulate wealth. The Mas were no exception. Like the Wens, trade was an important means of advancement. Equally important were (1) cash- and grain-lending and (2) the stockpiling and selling of grain.54 There are numerous accounts of how members of the Ma clan tore up IOUs when their neighbors could not pay, or how they released large stocks of grain when famine struck, thus saving many lives.55 Terada rightly points out that the Mas did not stockpile grain in order to engage in famine relief; they did it as a form of investment.56 Recent research has discovered that this was typically how elite families in Guanzhong accumulated wealth.57 Landholding was therefore not the most important source of income, although the Mas clearly did own land. In a study of the Yangjiagou Ma, Evelyn Rawski remarks in passing that the ability of the Tongzhou Ma to maintain a position of privilege over two dynasties is similar to that of the Tongcheng lineages of Anhui studied by Hilary Beattie. 58 Unlike the Anhui case, however, Rawski sees no trace of lineage organization among the Mas: there were no ancestral halls, no corporate property, and no lineage schools, and most economic activities were apparently carried out at the household ( jia) level.59 A re-examination of the sources shows, however, that at some point in the late Ming the Mas did set up charitable fields to aid fellow kinsmen and to earn income to support sacrificial rituals in the clan’s ances( 53. Tian Peidong, Ming-Qing shidai Shaanxi shehui jing ji shi, pp. 123–37. 54. Terada Takanobu, “Sensei Dōshū no Ba-shi,” pp. 482–87. 55. SXL, 2.15b, 3.7b. 56. Terada Takanobu, “Sensei Dōshū no Ba-shi,” p. 484. 57. Tian Peidong, Ming-Qing shidai Shaanxi shehui jing ji shi, pp. 128–30. 58. Beattie, Land and Lineage in China. 59. Evelyn Rawski, “The Ma Landlords of Yang-Chia-Kou,” in Ebrey and Watson, Kinship Organizations in Late Imperial China, p. 267.

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tral hall. In this respect, the Ma clan does resemble a lineage in James Watson’s sense. 60 Rawski is, however, right in arguing that the Mas conducted their economic activities mostly at the household level, since there is no evidence to suggest that communal land was an important source of income. Despite the absence of substantial communal property, and in the face of pressures favoring the division of households and out-migration, the Mas were, as Terada has demonstrated, able to keep the clan intact for many generations by relying on a sense of common identity.61 How were the Mas able to do this? Having a substantial number of degree-holders and officials with access to special privileges certainly helped, but we need to ask why the Mas were so keen on maintaining a common clan identity when economically they were basically operating at the household level. Maintaining a common identity allowed ambitious men to mobilize resources to carry out activities beyond the financial ability of individual households. In an undated text written to commemorate the rebuilding of Wenchang Tower, Ma Lu ( juren 1761) recounted that his greatgrandfather and members of several families in the clan had joined together to finance the building of the tower in 1652. The tower was built in the hope that the “literary fortune” (wenyun) of the clan would flourish. It served its purpose, since the clan was successful in producing degree-holders for the next few generations, but the clan’s literary fortunes gradually declined, and the building was left in ruins. In order to restore their fortunes, Ma Lu mobilized the descendents of the families involved in the initial project to restore the tower.62 The project was certainly not one that an individual household could afford; it required the collective effort of a group with a common identity, and the clan provided Ma Lu with just that. However, Ma insisted that the project would benefit not only the clan but also the entire village, for it would ( 60. Ma Pu, “Sishi Yipin ci jitian ji,” in SXL, 14.18a–19a. For an account of Ma Pu’s life and the charitable land that he set up, see Han Kuang, “Dunruo Magong muzhiming,” in SXL, 11.6b. Watson (“Chinese Kinship Reconsidered,” p. 594) defines a lineage as a corporate group that celebrates ritual unity and is based on demonstrated descent from a common ancestor. 61. Terada Takanobu, “Sensei Dōshū no Ba-shi,” p. 501. 62. Ma Lu, “Hezu chongxiu Wenchang Lou ji,” in idem, Shandui Zhai wenshi cungao, 1.7a–b.

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improve the fengshui of the village.63 Apparently, Ma Lu was trying to assume the role of a leader in the village community, but he had to rely on the power of his clan to achieve it. The restoration of the Wenchang Tower and the emphasis on the “literary fortunes” of the ancestors suggest that Ma Lu was trying to claim that he came from a powerful clan with a long shi tradition—a strategy that would legitimize his pursuit of a leadership role in his locality. The updating of the clan’s genealogy served the same purpose for Ma Lu. In his preface for the new edition of 1802, Ma Lu lamented that when the genealogy was first compiled in the late Ming, the Mas had still had many members who were officials, but now most members were either farmers or merchants. Because few held the status of ru, although the ancestral hall still stood, the descendents had forgotten all about the value of kinship. The purpose of compiling a new genealogy was thus to remind all members of the importance of this bond.64 What Ma Lu perceived as disastrous was the loss of a common identity among the Mas at a time when the ru tradition of the clan was fading; thus, the ultimate aim of compiling a genealogy was to ensure that the clan could hold on to its ru status. The ability to keep the clan intact and to continue the ru tradition was essential for members of the Ma to claim to be shi. Evidence suggests that the undertakings of the Wens and the Mas were common in Ming-Qing Guanzhong. The case of Wang Shu (1416– 1508), arguably one of the most important officials of the mid-Ming period, provides another excellent example. When compiling a genealogy for his clan, Wang urgently reminded his kinsmen that losing their shi identity would be disastrous. He pointed to the many previously established families that had been unable to maintain the tradition of compiling genealogies, because, he claimed, these families had failed to produce any educated members in certain generations. As a result, they lost track of their ancestors and were unable to keep a record of the lines of transmission. Wang therefore urged his descendents to study diligently so that they could hold on to their shi status and keep the clan intact.65 ( 63. Ibid. 64. Ma Lu, “Xuxiu Mashi zupu xu,” in SXL, 14.15a–b. 65. Wang Shu, “Zupu tici,” in WDY, 3.5a–6a.

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Antonia Finnane, in her study of Yangzhou, challenges the widely accepted claim that the social boundary that separated the merchants from the literati was beginning to blur in the Ming-Qing period. She argues that the “blurring” thesis ignores the fact that it was only the salt merchants, not all merchants, who enjoyed considerable success in mixing with the literati class. Furthermore, she contends, the experience of the salt merchants proves only that they were redefined and incorporated into the literati class under a unique historical circumstance, and this by no means suggests that the boundary had broken down. On the contrary, “Chinese society continued to distinguish between the salt merchant as merchant and the literati, even if there was actual genealogical confusion between the two categories.”66 The present study confirms Finanne’s observation. Wang Shu’s reminder, along with the experiences of the Wens and the Mas, reveals that ambitious Guanzhong men were anxious to claim and retain their identity as shi. And unlike their Jin-Yuan counterparts, the most resourceful ones succeeded, and as a result, literati culture flourished. Guanzhong literati explored and excelled in various forms of literati culture in this period. As we noted above, however, the main intellectual movement was Daoxue, which, according to Huang Zongxi (1610–95), actually began as a branch extending from the Xue Xuan school.

The Formation of an “Unofficial” Literati Community, 1450–1500 In Cases of Ming Scholars, Huang Zongxi comments on a group of Ming scholars from Sanyuan county: “Guanxue generally followed (zong) [the teaching of] Xue Xuan, and the Sanyuan school was its branch (biepai). Many of Wang Shu’s disciples became known for their uprightness in character. [This was because] the custom [of their native environment] was thick, and moreover [they had benefited] from learning.”67 Huang was trying to provide readers with a way to think about the transmission of scholarship in the Ming while also explaining why members of the ( 66. Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, pp. 253–64; quotation from p. 263. 67. MRXA, 9.158; translation partially from Julia Ching et al., The Records of Ming Scholars, p. 96.

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Sanyuan school, led by Wang Shu, were known for their uprightness. However, the passage raises more questions than it answers. What did it mean to say that the Sanyuan school was a branch of Guanxue? Moreover, what was Guanxue, and how was Guanxue related to Xue Xuan? Because Guanxue was already a commonly used term by his time, Huang probably did not think that he needed to answer these questions. Yet they should not be taken for granted. Xue Xuan was a native of Hejin, Shanxi. By saying that Guanxue zong Xue Xuan, Huang was suggesting that Guanxue had its roots in a non-Guanzhong figure. This depiction runs contrary to Feng Congwu’s account of Guanxue. As we have seen, Feng passionately promoted Zhang Zai as the first Guanxue patriarch, and that required him to downplay (though not deny) Xue Xuan’s contribution to the Guanxue lineage. Feng’s rationale is discussed in detail below. Here, we will follow the emergence of the first generation of Guanzhong scholars whom later scholars such as Huang Zongxi saw as belonging to a highly interactive community. No evidence suggests that there was such a community in Guanzhong before the mid-fifteenth century. Prior to that we have only limited information on individual figures.68 It was not until around 1450 that a literati community with a shared set of values and discourse began to take shape. Even then, sources are scant. Still, they are enough for us to confirm their involvement with Xue Xuan’s circle.69 For instance, Zhang Jie (1421–73) of Fengxiang, while serving as an instructor in Zhaocheng, Shanxi, received instructions from Xue Xuan.70 Duan Jian (1419–84) of Lanzhou (in present-day Gansu, but administratively under Shaanxi province in the Ming) was said to be a self-proclaimed student (sishu) of Xue and befriended several of Xue’s leading students. 71 Zhang Ding ( 68. For short biographies of these individuals, see Shaanxi tongzhi (1735), 63.30a–31a. 69. For an excellent study of Xue Xuan and his school, see Khee Heong Koh’s recent dissertation, “East of the River and Beyond.” Koh makes an excellent case for the importance of Xue Xuan’s influence on the early development of Daoxue in Ming Guanzhong. However, because his concerns lie elsewhere, Koh does not discuss the process by which the presence of Xue Xuan was de-emphasized as Guanzhong scholars tried to move out of Xue’s shadow and create an identity of their own. 70. MRXA, 7.126. 71. MS, 281.7209; MRXA, 7.126. It is uncertain whether Duan was also an immediate student of Xue. Most early Qing sources such as MRXA and MS identify him as a self-proclaimed student, whereas most Ming sources such as GXB and Duan Rongsi

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(1430–95) of Xianning became a student of Xue when his father served as a prefect in Shanxi. He was highly regarded by Xue and was instrumental in compiling Xue’s literary collection following Xue’s death.72 Zhou Hui (fl. 1468), a native of Qinzhou (also in present-day Gansu) who came from a military household, was a student of Xue Xuan’s student Li Chang (n.d.). He also attended Duan Jian’s lectures while serving military duty in Lanzhou.73 Wang Sheng ( jinshi 1475) of Hancheng once studied under Xue Xuan and was involved in turning Xue Xuan’s residence into an academy named after Xue.74 These few cases are sufficient to show that the Shanxi-Shaanxi connection was tight in the fifteenth century and that the Guanzhong community was part of the movement that Xue Xuan initiated in north China. Huang Zongxi was therefore not wrong in highlighting Xue Xuan’s central position, but he was being anachronistic because the idea that these scholars formed a distinct school is belied by the fact that there was as yet no such school. What these scholars did was to form an intellectual community with a strong “unofficial” flavor. As we saw in Chapter 2, Guanzhong scholars in the Jin-Yuan period were for the most part oriented toward the state. Even those Daoxue scholars, such as Xiao Ju, who believed that the state was incompetent, placed the responsibility for saving a disorderly world upon individuals as individuals. No attempt appears to have been made to form an “unofficial” literati community for promoting the Daoxue ideal in society; the responsibility, they concurred, belonged either to the court or to enlightened individuals. In comparison, Guanzhong literati in the midfifteenth century saw a community of scholars acting in an “unofficial” capacity—regardless of whether they actually held office—as essential for any meaningful discussion of Daoxue ideas. We have seen how Zhou Hui became a Daoxue master despite being a soldier. When he ( xiansheng nianpu jilue, the annals written by Peng Ze ( jinshi 1489), are silent on this matter. Koh (pp. 202–5), following an account of Duan Jian’s student Chai Sheng found in the Jiajing-era provincial gazetteer of Henan, speculates that Duan was indeed an immediate student of Xue. This issue is in my opinion still unsettled, but there is little doubt that Duan maintained close ties with Xue Xuan’s circle, if not through Xue himself, then through Xue’s students. 72. GXB, pp. 32–33. 73. Ibid., pp. 30–32. 74. Hancheng xianzhi, 6.6a–b; cf. Koh, “East of the River and Beyond,” p. 201.

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first attended Duan Jian’s lectures in Lanzhou, he stood throughout the lesson. Later he was asked by the other students to sit and eventually was invited to join in the discussion. It is said that he was highly respected by his peers and was the unanimously accepted leader of the group. After he studied under Xue Xuan’s student Li Chang, his fame spread fast, and students came to him from all directions. In his later years, he lived a semi-reclusive life in his hometown of Qinzhou. Although he was not keen to be honored publicly, officials occasionally visited him, and some sought instruction on Daoxue texts from him. He also put the “proper” rituals into practice, and after that the people of Qinzhou, we are told, steadfastly adhered to these practices.75 The fact that someone of Zhou Hui’s status was able to command this kind of respect says much about the Guanzhong intellectual community from which he emerged. Admittedly, Zhou’s success was an extremely unusual case, yet it is clear that state-endorsed status and titles were seen as less important than an individual’s scholarship in midfifteenth-century Guanzhong literati circles. This view was not necessarily at odds with that of the state, since the criterion was in line with the Daoxue ideal that the state had certified as orthodox. Nevertheless, it is apparent that the state had come to play a much-reduced role in shaping the outlook of the literati community. Instead, the community was understood to be a public domain in which individuals could advance their own ideas for discussion. This was how Wang Shu viewed the community when he wrote several works to voice his disagreement with various commentaries, mostly from the Cheng-Zhu tradition, on the Four Books and Five Classics.

Public-Spiritedness in Wang Shu’s Thought Wang Shu came from a family with no known history of bureaucratic service. After passing the jinshi examination in 1448, he worked his way up the bureaucratic ladder gradually and had a successful career, including a term as minister of personnel. He was credited in the Ming official history for recommending upright officials to the emperor and for bringing prosperity to the country during the Hongzhi reign (1488– ( 75. Hancheng xianzhi, 6.6a–b.

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1506).76 Huang Zongxi deemed him a founder of the Sanyuan school, and as we have seen, he considered the Sanyuan school a branch of Guanxue, which originated in Xue Xuan. But Xue Xuan was a steadfast Cheng-Zhu thinker, and Wang Shu was not. Wang’s writings reveal that what mattered most to him was statecraft, not Daoxue moral philosophy. Nevertheless, Wang had to respond to Daoxue’s claims, and he did so by challenging the most authoritative figures of that tradition. Wang felt uneasy about Cheng Yi’s and Zhu Xi’s readings of certain passages in the Classics, and he undertook to present alternative interpretations. Initially, he discussed his ideas only with like-minded scholars of the Hongdao Academy in his home district of Sanyuan, but later they coalesced into a work titled Shiqu’s Conjectures and Opinions (Shiqu yijian, Shiqu being Wang’s pen name).77 In this work, Wang not only refuted what he thought were errors in the Daoxue masters’ commentaries, but in a few cases even expressed doubts about the original texts.78 Wang also produced another work entitled Conjectures and Opinions While Appreciating the Book of Changes (Wan Yi yijian), in which he cast further doubts on the commentaries of Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi.79 According to Wang himself, he did not intend for these books to circulate publicly; the prefect of Xi’an somehow obtained them and had them published. Wang was apparently not displeased, however, since he kept working on and publishing sequels to Shiqu yijian even in his late eighties,80 and these texts were clearly intended for the public. Wang was reluctant at first to publish because he was afraid that others would think that he was trying to engage in arguments with the great intellec( 76. MS, 182.4837. 77. Wang Shu, “Kaojingtang ji,” “Shiqu yijian shiyi buque xu,” and “Shiqu yijian qingwen kefou shu,” in WDY, 1.11a–13b, 2.4b–5b, 3.1a–b. 78. For example, in Mencius 4b.2 it was said that when Zichan was running the state of Zheng, he once used his cart to transport people across a river. Mencius acknowledged that Zichan was kind, but he was ignorant about government because what Zichan should have done was to build a bridge for the purpose. Wang Shu disagreed with Mencius’ evaluation of Zichan. He thought that being a great official, Zichan surely had thought of building a bridge, and the use of the cart was only a temporary measure employed until the bridge was completed; see Wang Shu, “Shiqu yijian,” in WDY, 8.20a–21a. 79. Wang Shu, “Wan Yi yijian,” in WDY, juan 7. 80. Wang Shu, “Shiqu yijian shiyi buque xu,” in WDY, 2.4b–5b.

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tual figures who had written the commentaries.81 This was not the case, Wang explained later, but just because the commentaries had been accepted by the state as the standard school curriculum during the Southern Song and had remained as such for several hundred years, it was not right that no one dared to voice opinions at variance with them. The commentaries are important for understanding the original texts of the Classics, Wang granted, yet on close examination the validity of many passages in the commentaries could not but be questioned. In such circumstances, Wang stressed, following the commentaries blindly not only would make it difficult for one to practice what one has learned but would also mislead scholars of later generations. The sensible thing to do was to express one’s opinion (as he had done) and let others discuss it. 82 As I understand it, Wang’s standpoint is not so much to challenge the authority of the commentaries but to challenge the state-centered way of defining what is right and what is wrong in scholarship. In his vision, the commentaries, and hence scholarship, belong to the public; as a member of the public community, an individual has every right to present his own views. Even so, it would be wrong to assume that Wang Shu was trying to undermine the authority of the state. On the contrary, he constantly pushed the state to take the lead in launching projects that were normally spearheaded by the “unofficial” elite in south China, including the building of academies. In a text written to commemorate the reconstruction of the Xuegu Academy in Sanyuan, which as noted in Chapter 2 was established by the local literatus Li Zijing but abandoned in 1358, Wang recounted how locals had turned the site of the academy into a temple for worshipping various deities during the Yongle era. Wang acknowledged that the builders of the temple were trying to seek protection from these deities, but he insisted that only by practicing moral cultivation could the inhabitants of Sanyuan be shielded from disasters. With the interests of the locals in mind, he had already aspired to have the academy restored when he was a student during the Zhengtong (1436–49) era, although at that early date he found no opportunity to do so. It was not until 1487, when he was residing at home in retirement ( 81. Ibid. 82. Wang Shu, “Kaojingtang ji,” in WDY, 1.11a–13b.

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from high court officialdom, that he was able to bring the matter to the attention of the local authorities. We are told that the Vice Education-Intendant Censor Lou Qian (n.d.) instructed local students to come up with a proposal for discussion at the county level. However, the county magistrate was incompetent, and the project was shelved. Wang was summoned to the court again that year and could not follow up on the matter. Fortunately, Lou Qian was persistent, and in the following year he alerted the prefect of Xi’an, Xu Zheng (n.d.). Xu then sent some men to Sanyuan to replace the statues of the deities with one of Confucius. The academy was finally restored. Wang Shu expressed high hopes for the new magistrate, Ma Long (n.d.), who, he thought, should be able to follow the examples of Lou and Xu and turn Sanyuan into a highly civilized place.83 Although his account gives all the credit to local officials, Wang left no doubt that he was pulling strings. He was a high court official, but this matter was not officially under Wang’s jurisdiction, and he was acting in an “unofficial” capacity when he requested that local officials restore the academy. Wang did not see the local authorities as mere regional agents of the state; they were also supposed to help fulfill the aspirations of local magnates like himself who knew where the public interest lay. In Wang’s view, the state’s authority depends on public opinion. When serving at the court, Wang constantly reminded the emperor of the importance of this. In a memorial urging the emperor to be cautious in selecting his officials, Wang referred the emperor to an extract from Mencius and a passage from a memorial by Zhuge Liang (181–234). The one from Mencius reads: When all your close attendants say of a man that he is virtuous, that is not enough; when all the ministers say the same, that is not enough; when everyone in the country says so, then have the case investigated. If the man turns out to be virtuous, only then should he be given office. When all your close attendants say of a man that he is unsuitable, do not listen to them; when all the ministers say the same, do not listen to them; when everyone in the country says so, then have the case investigated. If the man turns out to be unsuitable, then and only then should he be removed from office. When all your close ( 83. Wang Shu, “Fu Xuegu shuyuan ji,” in WDY, 1.15a–17a.

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attendants say of a man that he deserves death, do not listen to them; when all the ministers say the same, do not listen to them; when everyone in the country says so, then have the case investigated. If the man turns out to deserve death, then and only then should he be put to death. In this way, it will be said, “He was put to death by the whole country.” Only by acting in this manner can one be father and mother to the people.84

There are actually two issues in this passage: the appointment of officials and the enforcement of law. The passage from Zhuge Liang’s memorial concerns standardizing rewards and punishments for both the inner and the outer courts. Zhuge Liang stressed that the emperor should not favor one over the other, applying different standards of rewards or punishments.85 In citing these two passages, it is clear that Wang Shu was indirectly criticizing the Chenghua emperor (r. 1465–87), who was notorious for setting up the Western Depot (Xichang) eunuch secret service agency and allowing Buddhist and Daoist clergy, eunuchs, and consorts to influence court politics.86 In order to counter what he thought were the adverse effects of the emperor’s reliance upon close, and thus private, attendants, Wang appealed to the public spirit, which had “everyone in the country” involved. The monarch does not stand above the public and does not have the power to appoint officials and implement rewards and punishments on his own, Wang suggested. On the contrary, matters such as these should be decided by the public. If the emperor followed his advice, Wang guaranteed, the world would be in perfect order.87 Who, in Wang’s conception, constituted the public? Wang did not specify, but judging from the fact that he mentioned several times that he came from a family with no tradition of civil service (buyi zhi zi, minjian zidi),88 it is possible that when Wang invoked the notion of “every( 84. The translation is slightly modified from D. C. Lau’s translation in Mencius, pp. 67–68. 85. Chen Shou, Sanguo zhi, 35.919. 86. Zhao Yi, Nian’er shi zhaji, 34.626–28; Frederick W. Mote, “The Ch’eng-hua and Hung-chih Reigns, 1465–1505,” in Twitchett and Mote, eds., The Cambridge History of China, 8: 343–50. 87. Wang Shu, “Chenyan shengxue shu,” in idem, Wang Duanyi zouyi, 5.32a–36a. 88. Wang Shu, “Youqi xiuzhi zouzhuang” and “Zaiqi xiuzhi zouzhuang,” in idem, Wang Duanyi zouyi, 5.21b–22b, 7.25a–26a.

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one in the world,” he included commoners. At the very least, we can assume that he was talking not just about officials, but also about nonoffice-holding scholars who formed a community where, according to Wang, ideological differences could be discussed and debated. Applying the same logic to politics, Wang was apparently underscoring the importance of such a community in deciding matters related to government. Wang Shu died in 1508 at the age of 93 sui. During his most active years, people were beginning to connect important Guanzhong scholars, such as Zhou Hui’s students Xue Jingzhi (1434–1508) and Li Jin (1436–86), with Zhang Zai because of their Guanzhong background.89 But it was not until the next generation of Guanzhong scholars, which included Wang Shu’s son Wang Chengyu, that constructing a unique Guanzhong identity became a pressing task. This new development resulted in Zhang Zai’s legacy rising to an unprecedented height and surpassing that of Xue Xuan.

Multiple Uses of Zhang Zai’s Legacy, 1500–1600 Like his father, Wang Chengyu became a high-ranking official at court and spent a considerable amount of effort promoting the local history and traditions of Guanzhong. He wrote a book to honor Li Jing (571– 649), the great Tang military figure who was a native of his hometown of Sanyuan,90 and, as mentioned above, republished the works of Zhang Zai and the Lü brothers. Although Wang was devoted to the Daoxue cause, his promotion of Zhang Zai’s legacy was apparently driven not only by Zhang’s pre-eminent role as a co-founder of Daoxue but also by Zhang’s Guanzhong identity. For Wang and many of his contemporaries, their acceptance of the universal ideal of Daoxue did not prohibit them from identifying with a particular and local version—the Zhang Zai version—of it. ( 89. For Xue Jingzhi, see Lü Nan, “Fengyi dafu Jinhuafu tongzhi Si’an xiansheng Xuegong muzhiming,” in idem, Jing ye xiansheng wenji, 22.17b–21b. For Li Jin, see Wang Yunfeng, “Zhengxue ci zeng si Li Jie’an xiansheng gaowen,” in Wang Yunfeng, Boqu zhai gao, 124a–b. See also “Songjiang fu tongzhi Li Jin zhuan” (no author given), in Jiao Hong, Guochao xianzheng lu, 83.58a–59a. 90. Wang Chengyu, Tang Li Weigong tongzuan.

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Localizing Zhang Zai Within the Daoxue Context In 1519, the local officials of Fengxiang built the Qiyang Academy; the three Dukes of Zhou (Zhou gong, Taigong Wang, and Zhao gong)—all thought to be natives of Guanzhong—were worshipped in its main hall. Zhang Zai was also worshipped in the main hall and shared the sacrifices to the three dukes, whereas other local worthies and famous officials were worshipped in the side halls. Peng Ze ( jinshi 1489)—a renowned Lanzhou statesman and Duan Jian’s maternal grandson and student—citing Fengxiang prefect Wang Jiang, noted that before the academy was built, the Dukes of Zhou and Zhang Zai had been worshipped separately in different places in Guanzhong. But in his opinion, even when compared to Confucius, Mencius, and prominent Northern Song Daoxue thinkers such as Zhou Dunyi, the Cheng brothers, and Shao Yong, these local sages and noblemen had been just as important in helping to transmit the dao of Yao and Shun. The Dukes of Zhou and Zhang Zai represented Qi-Zhou (Guanzhong) in the same manner as Confucius and Mencius represented Donglu (Shandong), Zhou Dunyi represented Jiujiang ( Jiangxi), the Cheng brothers and Shao Yong represented Yiluo (Henan), and Zhu Xi represented Kaoting (Fujian). Therefore if the Dukes of Zhou and Zhang Zai were not offered joint sacrifices so as to remind later generations of their importance, the ritual could not be considered complete.91 Peng’s message is clear. He was arguing for the existence of “our” own localized tradition of sages, one no less significant than the traditions of other places. In fact, Peng depicted the Daoxue movement from a basically local perspective: The Dukes of Zhou and Zhang Zai are appreciated because, just like the others who represent “their” locales, they represent “our” locale. Peng recast the universal way as the sum of various particular and regionally significant ways. Peng is not known precisely as a Daoxue scholar, but his depiction of the Daoxue movement is representative of an early sixteenth-century trend within the Guanzhong Daoxue circle. Any discussion of the Daoxue movement in early sixteenth-century Guanzhong must accord Lü Nan a central place. Lü was a contemporary of Wang Yangming and ( 91. See Peng Ze, “Qiyang shuyuan zhi,” in Shaanxi tongzhi (1542), 32.27b–28a.

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one of Wang’s most prominent opponents.92 He disagreed with Wang’s central doctrine of “unity of knowledge and action” and insisted that knowing always comes before action.93 But at the same time, he was open-minded and had been quick to challenge the tendency of treating the Cheng-Zhu teachings as the only way to approach the truth: [There were times when] this Way (sidao) was transmitted by no one for a few hundred years; [there were times when this way] was apprehended by a few people at the same time. There were also cases in which what was received by different people differed in depth and broadness. Therefore Shun, Yu, Gaotao, Ji, and Qi were five people [who had received the Way] at the same time; Chengtang, Yi Yin, and Zhonghui were three people [who had received the Way] at the same time. . . . Zhou [Dunyi], the Cheng [brothers], Zhang [Zai], Shao [Yong], and Sima [Guang] were six people [who had received the Way] at the same time. As for others, there were some who were their friends, and there were some who were their disciples. Today, people are ashamed to talk about the Han Confucians, [but in some respects,] Master Zhu Xi himself had to step back in favor of [thinkers] like Dong [Zhongshu], Ji [An], Guo [Xiang], Huang [Shudu], and Zhuge [Liang], not to mention [Zhu’s] disciples. The Confucians of Sui and Tang are not spoken of [nowadays], but even the Cheng brothers [benefited] from adopting [some ideas expounded] by Wang Zhongyan [Wang Tong, ca. 584–ca. 618] and Han Tuizhi [Han Yu, 768–824], not to mention others [who are not comparable to the Cheng brothers]. If this point [is understood], then the Daomai lu can be circulated.94

This comment comes from Lü Nan’s preface for a book titled Ziyang daomai lu, which was compiled by one of his students, Wang Shanghe. According to Lü, Wang Shanghe once studied under Wang Yangming and was convinced by the doctrine of the “unity of knowledge and action.” However, Wang was greatly disturbed by the fact that some students of Wang Yangming criticized Zhu Xi. He had compiled this work following the format of Zhu Xi’s Yiluo yuanyuan lu to show the world that these people had misunderstood Zhu Xi’s teachings. Lü applauded Wang’s intention, but he reminded Wang that the Dao is a public entity ( 92. Lü’s challenge to Wang Yangming was powerful enough that Huang Zongxi, famous for his defense of Wang, felt obliged to criticize it in the Cases of Ming Scholars; see MRXA, 8.137–38. 93. Lü Nan, Jing ye zi neibian, 10.89. 94. Lü Nan, “Ziyang Daomai lu xu,” in idem, Jing ye xiansheng wenji, 1.13b–15a.

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(tianxia gonggong zhi wu) and should be open for discussion. Lü was especially cautious about Wang’s insistence that after Yao and Shun, there has only been a single line of transmission, meaning that at any given point in time, only one person could have received the Dao. This, Lü contended, is an attempt to monopolize the Way and turn the Dao from a public entity into a private property. Lü provided several examples in the preface to show that the Dao could be discovered by several people at a given time.95 In Lü’s vision, acknowledging that there was only one Dao in the world did not mean that there could be only one approach to attaining it. On the contrary, to realize that in fact there are many approaches is a necessary step in discovering the Dao, because without different approaches and the exchange of opinions that comes with them, any claim to the Dao could only be dogmatic, distracting from the universal truth. Lü’s approval of the Han-Tang scholars shows that he was open even to approaches that had been labeled partial or wrong by the Song masters. One of the paths that Lü enthusiastically promoted was the approach of Zhang Zai. One method employed by Zhang Zai greatly admired by Lü Nan was the practice of ritual: There were five people coming from Jiangxi to visit [the master (Lü Nan)]. The master told them, “If you [are thinking of ] doing practical learning, you must conform to ritual regardless of whether you are moving or resting.” One of them replied, “[You are] using ritual to teach people, as Hengqu [Zhang Zai] did.” The master said, “Master Zhang was not the only [person who emphasized the importance of ritual]. [Confucius’ disciple] Master Zeng Sen [had a similar opinion]. Even Confucius did not depart from this [ritual] when he emphasized the importance of ‘transforming oneself and returning to ritual’ and ‘governing the country with ritual.’ ”96

Once Lü Nan brought up the notion of ritual, his visitors immediately made a connection between him and Zhang Zai. This suggests that Lü’s contemporaries thought that Zhang Zai’s teaching was unique in certain respects and that Lü had inherited these unique features. Although Lü agreed with the visitors that Zhang Zai did emphasize ritual ( 95. Ibid. 96. Lü Nan, Jing ye zi neibian, 7.58.

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in his teachings, he nevertheless cautioned them that adhering to ritual was also consistent with the spirit of classical Confucianism. Yet Lü clearly perceived the use of ritual as a teaching device to be a Guanzhong approach, since he claimed on another occasion that only Zhang Zai’s students Lü Dalin, Su Bing (n.d.), and Fan Yu—all Guanzhong natives—had inherited the learning of ritual; unfortunately it had been lost after that. 97 Implicit in such a remark is a conscious attempt to identify Zhang Zai’s school with a set of doctrines that set the school apart from other Daoxue schools. Lü clearly felt an affinity with Zhang Zai because they shared a common Guanzhong identity. In a preface to the local gazetteer of Wugong compiled by his friend, the great Guanzhong literary figure Kang Hai (1475–1540), Lü declared that Zhang Zai was the “patriarch of [orthodox] teaching” ( jiao zhi zong) for this region. No other Daoxue masters are mentioned in this piece, apparently because they did not belong to the Guanzhong tradition. 98 But Lü Nan did not see himself solely as an advocate of Zhang Zai’s teachings. Ma Li was right when he claimed that Lü’s achievement was comparable to that of Zhu Xi in the sense that he, like Zhu, had inherited the assets of all Northern Song Daoxue masters.99 Apparently, Lü was committed to promoting Daoxue as a whole. For some of Lü’s contemporaries who were not committed to the Daoxue course, such as Kang Hai, however, the legacy of Zhang Zai could serve other purposes.

Localizing Zhang Zai in a Non-Daoxue Context Although Daoxue had developed into a widespread movement in early sixteenth-century Guanzhong, there were still some who showed great disdain for the Daoxue stance. Hu Shi (1492–1553), a renowned scholarofficial from Xianning known for his broad learning, was one such critic. Hu had little interest in moral philosophy, and he explicitly criticized Daoxue’s “empty talk” on the subjects of human nature and the heavenly way. He even suggested that Daoxue was a kind of false learn( 97. Lü Nan, Jing ye zi neibian, 13.126. 98. Lü Nan’s preface to Wugong xianzhi. 99. Ma Li, “Jingye Lü xiansheng muzhiming,” in idem, Xitian wenji, 5. 161a–71a.

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ing.100 His own works, such as Zhenzhu chuan and Shutan, were mostly in the broad and inclusive genre of miscellany (biji). He castigated Cheng Hao for belittling boxue, or broad learning, as “playing with things and losing one’s aspiration” (wanwu sangzhi).101 In his defense of boxue, Hu was affirming that other forms of learning are also real, in the sense that they are not irrelevant to our quest for value. His criticism of Cheng Hao is in fact an objection to Daoxue’s claim of monopoly over the discourse of truth. Hu Shi’s strong anti-Daoxue stance led him to express regret when he found out that the Shrine of Orthodox Learning (Zhengxue ci) in Xi’an worshipped not only Guanzhong Daoxue scholars from the Song and Yuan periods, such as Zhang Zai, the Lü brothers, and Xiao Ju, but also the Cheng brothers and Zhou Dunyi. According to Hu, Cheng Hao was included because he had once served as an assistant magistrate in Guanzhong, Cheng Yi was included because he was Cheng Hao’s brother, and Zhou Dunyi was there because he had taught the Cheng brothers. Hu argued, however, that this was an “incomplete ritual”: although the shrine was supposed to honor great figures from Guanzhong committed to orthodox learning, the ancient Guanzhong sagekings and Confucius’ students from Guanzhong were excluded.102 As I understand it, Hu Shi was trying to do two things. First, by trying to deny Zhou Dunyi and the Cheng brothers a place in a shrine designed to promote orthodox learning, Hu was essentially claiming that the learning of these Northern Song masters was false. Second, by insisting that these figures should not be worshipped in a local shrine, Hu was asking locals to discard Cheng-Zhu influence and to focus exclusively on the Guanzhong legacy, which he thought should be represented only by the legendary figures of the Classical period. However, although he also regarded Zhang Zai and other Song-Yuan figures as Daoxue scholars, Hu Shi did not ask that the sacrifices to them be discontinued. I believe that he spared these scholars because they were Guanzhong natives. Regional affiliation seems to have persuaded Hu to put aside his disagreement with their Daoxue learning. ( 100. Hu Shi, Zhenzhu chuan, 2.22b–23a, 4.48b–49a; Hu Shi, “Daoxue jie,” in idem, Hu Mengxi wenji xuji, 6b–8b. 101. Hu Shi, Zhenzhu chuan, 4.53b–54a. 102. Ibid., 2.21b–22a.

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Hu Shi’s acceptance of Zhang Zai was only lukewarm at best, due to Zhang’s association with Daoxue. In comparison, many early sixteenthcentury scholars, both within Guanzhong and beyond, found Zhang Zai’s legacy especially inspiring. These scholars could claim that they were concerned with the issues raised by Daoxue, but without having to accept the Cheng-Zhu position. Wang Tingxiang (1474–1541) was one of the best-known and most iconoclastic mid-Ming intellectuals who claimed the superiority of Zhang Zai’s ideas to those of the Cheng-Zhu tradition. Wang lauded Zhang’s Correcting Youthful Ignorance (Zhengmeng), a text criticized by the Cheng brothers.103 He also wrote a treatise defending Zhang’s philosophy of qi against the criticisms of Zhu Xi.104 As a Henan native, Wang’s promotion of Zhang Zai was not driven by local pride, but localism certainly played a significant role when his friend Han Bangqi (1479–1556), a prominent scholar-official from Chaoyi in eastern Guanzhong, championed Zhang Zai at the expense of the Cheng-Zhu school. Han once claimed that only Zhang Zai had been capable of producing an axiom that revealed the originality of the substance of the way (Han was referring to Zhang’s statement “The great void is vital force”); no other Daoxue thinker had the courage to articulate such a view after Mencius had put forth the doctrine that “human nature is good.” Han argued that because Mencius had stated that human nature—a manifestation of the heavenly principle－was good, “Confucians” of later ages had not dared to deviate from Mencius’ interpretation and thus treated desire as a thing totally removed from human nature. Han claimed that Mencius had not meant to suggest that human nature did not contain desire; later scholars misinterpreted Mencius and lost sight of the fact that human nature and desire are not mutually exclusive. In contrast, because Zhang Zai realized that taixu (the great void) and qi (vital force) are not two things, he could understand that human desire, which is a manifestation of qi, originates from human nature, which is a manifestation of taixu.105 In making such a claim, Han was actually attacking the “heavenly principle / human desire” dichotomy and those who had postulated it, the most obvious culprits being members of the ( 103. Wang Tingxiang, Wang Tingxiang ji, p. 821. 104. Wang Tingxiang, “Hengqu liqi bian,” in idem, Wang Tingxiang ji, pp. 605–6. 105. Han Bangqi, “Jianwenkao suilu yi,” in idem, Yuanluo ji, 18.25a–26a.

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Cheng-Zhu school. In Han’s interpretation, therefore, Zhang Zai stood in positive contrast to the Cheng-Zhu masters. Han Bangqi was, like Hu Shi, well known for his broad learning. He wrote extensively on numerous topics including the Classics, history, astrology, music, geography, numerology, and the art of war.106 Some of his students likened him to Shao Yong, the highly influential cosmologist of the Northern Song, but they noted that his discussion of the Dao strictly followed Zhang Zai’s. Unfortunately, most of Han’s works are no longer extant. From his surviving literary collection, we know that Daoxue discourse on moral philosophy was one of his major concerns. But while his friend Lü Nan, as mentioned above, promoted Zhang Zai’s legacy together with that of the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi, Han used Zhang Zai to undermine the authority of Cheng-Zhu. Han’s friend Kang Hai was another great Guanzhong figure who, though not a Daoxue scholar, was nevertheless an enthusiastic promoter of Zhang Zai. Kang did not mind that Zhang Zai came from Meixian rather than his own hometown of Wugong; his Guanzhong identity was enough for Kang to claim Zhang Zai as “one of us.” In the Wugong gazetteer compiled by Kang mentioned above, it is said that when Zhang Zai visited Wugong, he stayed at a place called Lüye Pavilion. Because Zhang was close to the county magistrate, all the students of Wugong came to the pavilion to “discuss learning” with Zhang Zai. The pavilion had since become a famous place, but gradually fell into ruin over the centuries. In the 1490s, Yang Yiqing (1454–1503), the vice provincial surveillance commissioner of Shaanxi, bought two houses near the site, one of which he used to build a shrine for Zhang Zai. The other was used as a classroom. In 1495, Li Han (n.d.) visited Wugong on official duty as a regional inspector. After a student told Li about Zhang Zai’s local legacy, Li asked Yang to build an academy there. Yang in turn instructed the county magistrate to do so, and the project was completed the following year.107 This incident shows once again that both the state and the local literati actively promoted Zhang Zai. Kang Hai’s attempt to claim the ( 106. GXB, p. 50. 107. Wugong xianzhi, 2.6a–8a. Kang included the text of a stele inscription written for the occasion by Minister of Rites Wu Kuan (1435–1504).

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legacy of Zhang Zai as a local heritage is significant. It is also illuminating to see Kang address Zhang as “our Master Hengqu” in the preface to a reprint of one of Zhang Zai’s works. Here he praised Zhang Zai as the only man after the Duke of Zhou and Confucius who could really put into practice his ideas about government. When the other ru of the Song dynasty talked about government, Kang complained, they paid more attention to linguistic adornment than to personally testing their ideas, as Zhang Zai had done.108 Here, Kang was essentially claiming that Zhang Zai was second to none in transmitting the teachings of the sages and that other ru of the Song－including members of the ChengZhu school—fell short in the practical aspect of government. Kang Hai was seen in retrospect as one of the Seven Former Masters (qian qizi ), a literary group that advocated “returning to the ancient” ( fugu) in literary writings. Kang proposed that when writing prose, one should follow the pre-Qin and Han style, and when composing poems, one should follow the style of Han, Wei (of the Three Kingdoms), and the High Tang. Literature, not Daoxue, was his main pursuit, and he was particularly well known for his accomplishments in the more “popular” types of literature such as drama, lyrics, and songs.109 Yet when Kang looked back at all the cultural traditions available to him, he did not see his literary pursuits as related to any form of Guanzhong tradition, nor did he associate himself with any great Guanzhong literary figure who came before him. Viewed in this context, Kang’s intense interest in Zhang Zai is revealing. This was a case of a great literary figure looking on someone closely associated with the Daoxue tradition as his spiritual teacher. In fact, despite Kang’s literary pursuits, the Daoxue premise of moral selfcultivation remained important to him and was an important component in the cohesive program of learning that he proposed. The writings of the sages, according to Kang, are not just about words, but it is only through words that the sages could make their intentions known to the world. Because of this, Kang asserted that words are the voice of ( 108. Kang Hai, “Hengqu xiansheng Jingxue liku xu,” in idem, Kang Duishan xiansheng ji, 12.1a–2a. 109. Wang Jiusi, “Ming Hanlin yuan xiuzhuan Rulin lang Kanggong shendao zhi bei,” in idem, Meipi xuji, 2.63a–65b. Wang, another great Guanzhong literary figure, was a close friend of Kang and another one of the Seven Former Masters.

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the mind (xinzhisheng) and the written form of erudition (xuezhizhu). Words are the vehicle through which we can understand the way of self-cultivation and government.110 In Kang’s vision, literature, Daoxue, and statecraft are not mutually at odds; they are different but interdependent understandings that must be mastered in order to build a better world. The Daoxue premise of moral self-cultivation was thus an important component of the program of learning that Kang Hai proposed. Although Kang did not systematically develop a discourse featuring a Guanzhong scholarly tradition, it seems likely from his fairly accommodative approach that if he had, he would have had no problem seeing that tradition as a combination of different modes of thought. Over the next few decades, however, with Daoxue scholars such as Lü Qian and Wang Zhishi making stronger claims on the legacy of Zhang Zai, there was a gradual convergence of Guanzhong scholarly tradition and Daoxue. In other words, although other modes of literati learning such as literary and statecraft studies still thrived in late sixteenth-century Guanzhong, scholars generally came to accept that the Daoxue first propounded by Zhang Zai was most representative of the local scholarly tradition. Thus, when Feng Congwu defined Guanxue as exclusively Daoxue in the early seventeenth century, his efforts were well received and long remained a paradigm for understanding the transmission of the scholarly tradition in Guanzhong.

Feng Congwu and the Construction of Guanxue, 1596–1627 Feng Congwu is generally considered to be the greatest Guanzhong scholar of the late Ming period. A native of Chang’an, Feng is best known for his involvement in the Donglin movement. In 1622, he was instrumental in establishing the Shoushan Academy in Beijing, where Donglin sympathizers gathered to exchange ideas, an activity Ming intellectuals described as “discussing learning” ( jiangxue). As John Dardess points out, the name Shoushan, literally “forefront of goodness,” ( 110. Kang Hai, “Hengqu xiansheng Jingxue liku xu,” in idem, Kang Duishan xiansheng ji, 12.1a–2a.

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was moral-geographical in Feng’s vision, since he believed that Beijing was the model for the four quarters of the realm and therefore the “place at the forefront of goodness.”111 Feng’s activities at the national capital did not, however, diminish his devotion to his native place. In fact, Feng spent most of his life in Guanzhong. He was educated in his youth by his father and was admitted to the National University at the age of twenty sui. Upon returning home, he lectured, together with Wang Zhishi, on the “main ideas of the Guanzhong and Luoyang schools” at the Zhengxue Academy established by education commissioner Xu Fuyuan (1535–1604), a follower of Wang Yangming. Feng was chosen to be a Hanlin bachelor after passing the metropolitan examination in 1589 and began “discussing learning” with like-minded scholarofficials in the capital. In 1591, he was appointed an investigating censor, but soon angered the Wanli emperor (r. 1573–1620) by submitting a memorial criticizing the emperor’s misconduct. He nearly received a public beating at court and was spared only after a grand secretary intervened. In the following year he took sick leave and went home, where he continued to “discuss learning,” an activity that he did not stop even after he was dispatched to supervise salt distribution and tax collection in Henan. In 1596, he was accused by the emperor, as well as by other censors, for failing to report the misdeeds of a eunuch who had been the emperor’s favorite. Feng lost his official post, and his name was removed from the civil service register. For the next twentyfive years, Feng lived and taught in Guanzhong. In 1621, he was summoned to the capital by the newly enthroned Tianqi emperor (r. 1621– 28), only to be removed again from his official post and sent home in 1625 when the influential eunuch Wei Zhongxian (1568–1627) came to power. It is said that Wei did not let him off easily, and on Wei’s orders provincial officials continued to humiliate him after he had left the capital. He eventually died in 1627 after much distress.112 As Joanna Handlin Smith has pointed out, Feng Congwu’s enormous interest in “discussing learning” led him to defend a territory for scholars. He argued that in matters related to education, the academies could accomplish tasks that educational officials could not because of ( 111. John Dardess, Blood and History in China, p. 55. 112. See Charles O. Hucker’s biography of Feng Congwu in Goodrich and Fang, Dictionary of Ming Biography, pp. 458–59.

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limited resources.113 Indeed, whether he was in or out of office, Feng always insisted that an “unofficial” community of scholars was more reliable than the official apparatus in correcting a malfunctioning society. Yet it was during the twenty-five years of his first banishment, from 1596 to 1621, that Feng was able to fully assume the role of an “unofficial” scholar. Among the many things that he accomplished during this period was the compilation of a genealogy for his clan as well as a provincial gazetteer for Shaanxi and a county gazetteer for Chang’an. In all these works, Feng constructively used an “official” structure to underscore the “unofficial” nature of the clan and local society. For instance, Feng Congwu tried to organize genealogies based on the structure of official dynastic histories. Since official histories have sections on the affines of the imperial clan (waiqi), he argued, genealogies should also include the biographies of affines.114 At the same time, he insisted that genealogies should not be modeled completely on official histories. In a letter addressed to some like-minded acquaintances discussing the writing of genealogy, Feng expressed great frustration over the fact that people in his time presumptuously claimed to adhere to the principle of impartiality (zhi) when compiling genealogies, evaluating their ancestors just as a historian would assess the good and evil of historical figures (baobian). In many genealogies the compilers spoke ill of their ancestors. Feng insisted nothing was more outrageous than this. To be impartial, Feng argued, is simply to be frank about the clan’s humble origins or to avoid making up fictional stories about the greatness of one’s ancestors; it does not mean that one should accuse one’s ancestors and expose their wrongdoings. This is because the principles governing the writing of genealogies and official histories are different: The principle of writing an official history is one that completely records good and evil. It is used to openly encourage [ goodness and] warn against [evil]. In essence, [the principle] is mainly about righteousness ( yi). The principle of writing a genealogy is one that praises goodness and conceals evil, providing encouragement but not punishment. In essence, [the principle] is mainly about the grace (en) of the ancestors.115 ( 113. Handlin, Action in Late Ming Thought, p. 89. 114. Feng Congwu, “Fengshi zupu,” in FSX, 19.13a–16b. 115. Feng Congwu, “Da tongzhi wen zupu shu,” in FSX, 15: 13b–15a.

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Because the principle is about grace, it is extremely inappropriate to bring to light the wrongdoings of an ancestor. The compiler might think that doing so is being impartial, but this would open the way for those in later generations who are at odds with one another to use the compiler’s comments to vent their anger. In this case, the genealogy, whose primary purpose was to promote benevolence and filial piety, would become a tool for taking revenge. Feng asserted that an understanding of this was extremely important for maintaining proper human relationships and customs.116 It is not far-fetched to infer that for Feng, the state was not simply an extension of the family, or vise versa. Since the family was as important as the state, it deserved to have a history of its own that mimicked the official histories, but the principles governing the relations between, say, the monarch and his subjects were not the same as those governing the relationship between a father and his sons. State and family operated on different premises. As such, the way to transform the world—to regulate human relationships and set straight the customs of the world— could not be to apply the actions of the state to every aspect of society. Instead, Feng called for recognition of the limited applicability of state ideologies and practices, as well as the importance of maintaining social values independent of the state. This is in line with his aforementioned idea that official capabilities were limited and that the academies should supply the necessary resources for educational purposes. Feng applied the same logic to the compilation of the Chang’an county gazetteer. Unfortunately this work is now lost, but the preface preserved in his literary collection allows us to discern what Feng thought was important. He declared that a county gazetteer should be organized according to the structure of the state-sponsored Comprehensive Gazetteer of the Great Ming (Da Ming yitongzhi), but this is the only link between Feng’s gazetteer and the state project. In the actual compilation, Feng instead highlighted the “unofficial” aspects of local history. As we saw in previous chapters, most local gazetteer-like works about Chang’an in the Song-Yuan period, such as Song Minqiu’s Chang’an zhi, present Guanzhong as a historical site. Feng Congwu refused to accept such a representation, and he claimed that Song’s Chang’an zhi was not a ( 116. Feng Congwu, “Da tongzhi wen zupu shu,” in FSX, 15: 13b–15a.

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county gazetteer ( yizhi) because Song had put his emphasis on recording the relics of the national capitals of dynasties past (lidai jiandu yiji).117 Feng, on the contrary, asked readers to pay special attention to the “famous local personages” (renwu) section in his new gazetteer. The local figures Feng highlighted were those who “practiced self-cultivation in private” (qianxiu jingyang ). Since this gazetteer is no longer extant, we do not know precisely who Feng included, but it is reasonable to infer from Feng’s general position that these were non-office-holding scholars committed to the Daoxue course. These “unofficial” individuals usually lived in seclusion, and their names were hardly known even to their local community. They were not keen to have their names recorded in history, according to Feng, but it is the responsibility of a local historian to include them, because if the memory of these men should disappear, people of later generations or other places would be denied a chance to look on them as spiritual teachers or friends.118 Feng made an effort to promote these men because he recognized this as a way of educating people living in different times and places. In other words, Feng believed that the most important mission in writing a local gazetteer was to instill a sense of morality into society. This should not be done in a top-down fashion with the state setting the agenda, however. Instead, the task should be carried out by the “unofficial” literati—people like himself—who knew about the words and deeds of virtuous individuals who were omitted from official accounts. Feng’s letter about the differences between writing genealogies and writing official histories also discusses how local gazetteers should be written. Like official histories, they must record good and evil and show what is to be encouraged and what is discouraged. But when recording the deeds of local administrators in the “officials” (zhiguan) section, the compiler should evaluate only those who served at least thirty years earlier. A thirty-year gap would remove any possibility of personal acquaintance; rather, a public consensus (gonglun) would have been reached over time.119 Again, we see an emphasis on the importance of extra-official ( 117. Feng Congwu, “Chang’an xianzhi xu,” in FSX, 13.39b–40a. 118. Ibid., 13.41a–b. 119. Feng, “Da tongzhi wen zupu shu,” in FSX, 15.14a–b.

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channels, built on public opinion, for evaluating the achievements or failings of local officials. This does not mean that Feng completely ignored the state and its local agents. As noted at the beginning of this chapter, Feng persuaded the Fengxiang prefect Shen Zizhang to bring Zhang Zai’s descendents back to Guanzhong. In fact, most local projects that Feng headed were sponsored and facilitated by local officials, including the building of the Guanzhong Academy in Chang’an, where Feng regularly conducted his “discussing learning” activities.120 From the mission that Feng laid out for the academy, it is evident that his goal was to turn local officials into supporters and to use official sponsorship to promote local culture. In the preface to the Guanzhong Academy gazetteer written by Cui Yinglin (n.d.), probably published during Feng’s lifetime, we are told of Feng’s belief that although Daoxue learning in Guanzhong had had ups and downs, the Dao of Kings Wen and Wu had never collapsed completely; thus, a revival is absolutely possible and is entirely dependent on the will of individuals.121 In this sense, Feng was treating the academy not simply as a place for cultivating future statesmen or for “discussing learning” generally, but also as a fortress in which what he thought of as true Guanzhong culture could be defended and furthered. The emphasis on the Dao of Kings Wen and Wu is actually an assertion that Guanzhong was the place from which the tradition of the sages originated. The Cases of Guanzhong Learning (Guanxue bian), compiled in the first decade of the seventeenth century, was part of Feng’s overall project to define the sage tradition of Guanzhong and to introduce it to a national audience. It contains four juan of biographies of renowned Guanzhong scholars: entries on Song scholars constitute the first juan, those on Jin-Yuan scholars the second, and those on Ming scholars the last two. It quickly became the “official” document of the Guanxue lineage, and later scholars added new members to the list in sequels continuing into the late Qing.122 In the preface to the Guanxue bian, Feng employed a narrative that suggests an unbroken line of transmission of the Guanzhong way: ( 120. Handlin, Action in Late Ming Thought, p. 86. 121. See Cui Yinglin’s preface in He Zaitu et al., Guanzhong shuyuan zhi. 122. See Chen Junmin’s editorial note in GXB, pp. 4–5.

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Our Guanzhong has been known as the land of the School of Principle (lixue) since ancient times. [The accomplishments] of King Wen, King Wu, and the Duke of Zhou are unmatchable. During the Song, Master Hengqu emerged from Mei county. He promoted and illuminated this way, bravely discarding the tiger skin,123 [and since his time] the way of the sages has been [as bright as] the mid-day sun. As the saying of Master [Zhang] goes, “To establish the mind for Heaven and Earth, to establish livelihood for the people, to continue the lost learning for past sages, to bring peace to the thousand generations.” These words can be taken as his self-description. At that time, students filled the hall and many were inspired by him, including [the Lü brothers from] Lantian, [Su Bing from] Wugong, and [Fan Yu from] Sanshui. The names of these renowned scholars are especially marked. When it comes to the previous dynasty [the Yuan], what kind of [dark] age was that? Yet a few scholars from Fengyuan [i.e., Xiao Ju and Tong Shu] were still able to hold on to [the Way to prevent it from collapsing]. They played the xun and others harmonized with them by playing the qi. [The atmosphere was] joyous and friendly. [Thanks to their efforts,] Hengqu’s influence was saved from being extinguished completely. [This is all because] Heaven is not going to terminate this wen.124 How can this be a coincidence?125

By claiming here that Guanzhong had been the home of the School of Principle since the Classical period and that the teachings of the sages persisted even during the Yuan, Feng was making a universal claim for Guanxue. The statement about Heaven not letting this wen come to an end is an assertion that Guanxue was a major component of the universal Dao of the sages. Yet this is also a claim of particularity. By putting together these local sages and worthies and relating them to the transmission of the Way, Feng was apparently asserting that Guanzhong had an independent “genealogy of the Way,” to borrow the title of Thomas Wilson’s book. After outlining the transmission of Guanxue before the Ming, Feng then gives an overview of Ming Guanxue. He comments that although ( 123. Tiger skin refers to the seat of a teacher. This is an allusion to the famous anecdote mentioned above alleging that Zhang Zai derived his ideas from the Cheng brothers. Zhang was said to have been teaching the Book of Changes in the capital when the Ch’eng brothers came to discuss it with him. After listening to the Ch’eng brothers, Zhang gave up teaching the next day; see Zhu Xi, “Hengqu xiansheng zan,” in idem, Zhuxi ji, 85.4386. 124. Here wen refers to the Way of the sages. 125. GXB, preface, p. 1.

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Ming Guanxue scholars entered the Way by following different paths ( yaoru menhu ge yi) and their achievements varied, they nevertheless inherited the Dao as if they were joined by one single vein. Their ideas agree with all those in this line of transmission, and none has departed from the Dao of Confucius.126 Feng thus created a tradition of Guanxue, which he thought of as a particular manifestation of the Dao of the sage. But he also thought that since the Classical period, this Dao had been concealed, to be revived only in the Song. This idea is reflected in the layout of Guanxue bian, in which four of Confucius’ disciples thought to be natives of Guanzhong are listed in the “introductory chapter” ( juanshou), and juan 1 begins with Zhang Zai.127 From Zhang Zai on, the reader gets the impression that even in the Yuan, the subtle influence of Zhang Zai still survived, finally to resurface and shine in the Ming. It is noteworthy, though, that Feng included Hou Zhongliang (n.d.), actually a student of the Cheng brothers, in the ranks of Song Guanxue. According to Feng, although Hou was traditionally said to be a native of Hedong—presentday Shanxi—he was actually a native of Guanzhong; the traditional view probably developed because he took shelter in Hedong when the Jurchen invaded Guanzhong and Henan.128 Hou Zhongliang probably had no direct affiliation with Zhang Zai’s school, but Feng nevertheless regarded him as “one of us.” This implies that regional rather than doctrinal affiliations were the main consideration for Feng when he formulated the Guanxue tradition, a factor that caused him to downplay Xue Xuan’s contribution to the Guanxue heritage. Not only did Feng exclude Xue from the Guanxue bian for the obvious reason that Xue was not a Guanzhong native, he also downplayed Xue’s role as a teacher to some Guanxue scholars. For instance, although several other sources confirm that Zhang Jie was a student of Xue (see above), Feng simply mentioned that Zhang had discussed learning with Xue at Zhaocheng. In the end, Xue left in awe.129 Feng’s efforts to promote the learning of Guanzhong scholars do not mean that he was not selective in deciding who should be included. ( 126. GXB, preface, pp. 1–2. 127. Ibid., p. 1. 128. GXB, pp. 14–15. 129. Ibid., p. 29.

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In his “editorial remarks,” Feng explicitly declared that the purpose of the Guanxue bian was to record the lives and thoughts of Daoxue scholars; he did not dare (read: was unwilling) to include the biographies of great officials.130 Apparently, Feng was suggesting to readers that Guanxue has nothing to do with politics; nor does Guanxue as defined by Feng have anything to do with scholars not specifically committed to the Daoxue premise of moral philosophy. Prominent local figures left out by Feng include the statesman Wang Shu, the literary master Kang Hai, and the idiosyncratic scholar Hu Shi, who was extremely critical of Daoxue. Feng’s highly selective criteria did loosen when he was dealing with what he considered to be internal rifts within the Daoxue camp. During Feng’s time, the intellectual world was dominated by Wang Yangming– ism. Interestingly, some readers of Guanxue bian thought that Feng Congwu was a member of the “anti–Wang Yangming” club. In a preface to Guanxue bian, Li Weizhen (1547–1626) complimented Zhang Zai’s effort to attack heterodox teachings such as Buddhism, but he lamented that this effort went almost unrecognized by later generations: After that, Ehu [Lu Jiuyuan (1139–1192)] and Cihu [Yang Jian (1141–1226), Lu’s student] emerged, and the learning of Zhou Dunyi, the Cheng brothers, Zhang Zai, and Zhu Xi was eclipsed day by day; however, the gentlemen in Guanxi were still holding on to the essence of Meixian [Zhang Zai]. Contemporary scholars belittle Zhu Xi and respect Lu Jiuyuan. During the Zhengde [1506–21] and Jiajing [1522–1566] periods, [most scholars] in the world followed this trend, and the great Confucians in Guanxi were also unable to avoid (doing so). [As for the tasks of] illuminating the learning of the sage, rectifying the mind, and supporting the teaching for the world, how can we retrieve Zhang Zai from the ground to glorify the tasks?131

Li believed that Feng compiled Guanxue bian with the intention of rebuking the false learning of Wang Yangming’s school and upholding the correct learning of the Cheng-Zhu school, of which he thought Zhang Zai was part. In fact, for Li, the only correct approach to the truth, the only approach with access to the Dao, was the ChengZhu school. Other schools would lead the world into chaos with their ( 130. Ibid., “Fanli.” 131. See Li Weizhen’s preface to GXB, pp. 122–23.

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heterodox teachings. The Guanxue bian, as Li saw it, was Feng’s way of claiming orthodoxy for the Cheng-Zhu school. However, this was clearly not Feng Congwu’s intention. Feng was much more sympathetic toward Wang’s learning than Li allowed. Although Feng found Wang’s “Teaching of Four Phrases” unsatisfactory, he nevertheless thought that Wang’s notion of “extending innate knowledge” revealed the secret of the learning of the sages and contributed significantly to “our Way.”132 Further evidence of Feng’s attitude toward Wang Yangming–ism is the inclusion in Guanxue bian of Nan Daji (1485–1541), a student of Wang Yangming.133 Equally striking is that fact that Feng’s biography of Lü Nan highlights Lü’s visit to Wang Gen (1483–1541), a student of Wang Yangming who was commonly faulted for having allowed himself to be “seduced” by Buddhism and thus letting Confucian learning be led astray.134 All these point to the fact that Guanxue bian was not written to deny certain groups of people entrance to the Dao of the sages. To the contrary, it marked, in part, an attempt to encompass different schools of Daoxue within the long tradition of Guanxue. We have already seen Lü Nan’s open-minded approach to the great dispute between the Cheng-Zhu and the Wang Yangming schools. Feng Congwu shared Lü’s attitude. Once someone asked Feng if it was wrong for Daoxue scholars to be involved in sectarianism (li menhu). Playing with the term menhu, which literally means door or gate, Feng replied: Is there anyone in this world who can enter a hall or a room without going through menhu? . . . My Master’s walls are twenty or thirty feet high; if one really wishes to see the magnificence of the ancestral temples or the sumptuousness of the official buildings,135 he cannot but search for this menhu in order to enter. If he doesn’t, then [it shows that] he is someone who is content to stay outside the walls of the palace in the first place—so why should we bother to argue [with him]? Furthermore, if we are talking about the substance of the Way, then there is only one menhu from past to present; if we are talking about [the methods of ] asserting effort, then the menhu for entrance are various. One should demand only that [a person’s learning] does not deviate from the way ( 132. Feng Congwu, “Da Huang Wugao Shiyu,” in FSX, 15.52b–55a. 133. GXB, pp. 51–52. 134. Ibid., p. 46. 135. An allusion to the Analects, 19.23. Translation partially based on D. C. Lau.

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of Confucius; [then he can] choose any menhu to exert effort, as long as he does not [attempt to] defend his menhu just to [attract attention] by being eccentric. If we insist that we should criticize him for establishing menhu, then apart from “heavenly principle,” “original mind,” “being cautious when alone,” and “before manifestation,” what is there to talk about? If, once you open your mouth, you [are criticized for] falling into menhu, surely people will not dare to open their mouths!136

The person who asked this question almost certainly had in mind the dispute between the schools of Zhu Xi and Wang Yangming. Feng’s response suggests that he believed that each school had its own merits. In fact, he believed that all schools in the Daoxue camp were distinctive, and it was important to preserve that. Not only was the accusation of sectarianism unfounded, but it was also harmful to the Way, since it denied the fact that the Way was a public entity shared by all. Clearly, Guanxue bian was written to establish a particular menhu based on a local identity, but this menhu was one that sought to bring together and unite different modes of Daoxue. Feng constructed a tradition of Guanxue without providing the “school” with a unique doctrine. Also, after downplaying the importance of Xue Xuan, he was unable (or unwilling) to identify a single indisputable leader for the school in the Ming. In the end, Feng invoked Zhang Zai’s legacy and staked a claim for a common heritage shared by all Daoxue scholars from this particular place called Guanzhong. In short, Feng’s way of settling the great intellectual dispute of his days was to turn to the local. The consequence of Feng’s approach was twofold. First, the essence of Guanzhong culture was defined as exclusively Daoxue. Second, although Zhang Zai was honored as the first patriarch of Guanxue, he became doctrinally irrelevant. In fact, Feng’s own philosophical writings and recorded conversations reveal that he was preoccupied with the Cheng-Zhu / Wang Yangming dispute concerning issues of principle and heart-and-mind.137 Feng by and large ignored Zhang Zai’s unique contributions to the discourse of ritual and qi philosophy, which had been picked up by earlier Guanzhong thinkers such as Lü Nan and Han Bangqi. In a sense, in Feng’s formulation Zhang Zai became a leader ( 136. Feng Congwu, “Paoqing yulu,” in FSX, 7.31a–32a. 137. See, e.g., Feng Congwu, “Bianxue lu,” in FSX, 1.12a–b.

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only in name. However, unlike his Yuan predecessors who saw no need to establish an independent Guanxue tradition and viewed Zhang Zai simply as a Cheng-Zhu advocate, Feng instead perceived Guanxue, with Zhang Zai leading the way, to be broader in scope than the Cheng-Zhu school. Although in Guanxue bian Feng cited the anecdote about Zhang Zai’s decision to stop lecturing after his conversation with the Cheng brothers, Feng’s version of the story highlighted Zhang’s determination to abandon the heterodox learning that he had pursued before the meeting, as well as Zhang’s open-mindedness, as evinced by his advice to his students to learn from the Cheng brothers.138 I would argue that Feng was defining Guanxue as a local school of Daoxue and as an open system because its most renowned practitioner was open-minded. Consequently, he believed the school to be constantly evolving and able to accommodate new ideas, such as those of Wang Yangming. Guanxue did evolve. Feng Congwu, as noted by Joanna Handlin Smith, by and large evaded political discussions.139 By the time Feng died in 1627, however, the desire to counteract the looming national crisis had pushed many in Guanzhong to turn their attention to statecraft studies. Although Feng’s concern about the dispute between the Cheng-Zhu and Lu-Wang schools continued to interest Guanzhong scholars of the next generation, the fall of the Ming dynasty in 1644 compelled them to distance themselves from the “empty discourse” that was thought to have ruined the intellectual world of the late Ming. They sought instead to incorporate practical matters into the discourse of moral philosophy. When Li Yong (1627–1705) emerged in the second half of the seventeenth century as the undisputed leader of the school, Guanxue gradually developed under his influence into a set of doctrines that readily tackled the relationship between scholarship, morality, and practical issues.

The Unity of Essence (ti) and Application ( yong), 1644–1911 How was Guanxue different from other regional modes of Daoxue learning? Feng Congwu did not provide an answer. But as William Rowe has shown through his study of the scholar-official Chen Hong( 138. GXB, p. 1. 139. Handlin, Action in Late Ming Thought, pp. 89–93.

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mou (1696–1771), by the eighteenth century it was widely accepted that Guanxue was a form of shixue, “not ‘practical learning’ per se but rather a ‘substantive learning’ that focused simultaneously on a workable personal ethics and on the techniques of social and economic management.”140 In other words, Guanxue was understood to be a combination of Daoxue moral philosophy and statecraft learning. Before the seventeenth century, moral philosophy occupied the center stage in Guanzhong, and few of the region’s literati focused on statecraft studies. Although earlier scholars such as Wang Shu did claim in the midMing that they were attracted to the Four Books and Five Classics because of their relevance for government,141 it was not until the last days of the Ming that ambitious men, alarmed by the contemporary crisis both within and without Guanzhong, began to engage actively in statecraft studies. A good example is Wang Zheng (1571–1644), who was probably the first Guanzhong scholar to embrace Christianity. A native of Jingyang county, Wang was said to have been distressed by frequent natural and man-made calamities and had begun paying special attention to statecraft learning before he obtained his jinshi degree in 1622.142 He was an expert in developing machines for both military and civil purposes. When in his thirties Wang traveled to Beijing to sit for the examination, he learned that the Manchus were threatening the northeastern part of the empire. He presented a memorial to the emperor advising the latter to pray to Heaven—which Wang clearly equated with the Christian god—and to prepare for the inevitable war. He also recommended various machines to the emperor that had been invented by himself and his friends, and he volunteered his services to the court. 143 In 1626, he published a work entitled Newly Drawn Illustrated Explanations of Various Machines (Xinzhi zhuqi tushuo), proudly showing readers machines, mostly for agricultural purposes, that he had invented and tested in his hometown. 144 In the following year, ( 140. Rowe, Saving the World, p. 136. 141. Wang Shu, “Kaojing Tang ji,” “Shiqu yijian shiyi buque xu,” and “Shiqu yijian qingwen kefou shu,” in WDY, 1.11a–13b, 2.4b–5b, 3.1a–b. 142. Chen Yuan, “Jingyang Wang Zheng zhuan.” 143. Wang Zheng, “Zou nufen richi renxin dongyao jingqing qitian guben yi zuomo yishu,” in idem, Wang Zheng yizhu, pp. 143–46. 144. Wang Zheng, Xinzhi zhuqi tushuo.

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he published another work on mechanics, Illustrated Explanations of Wonderful Machines of the Far West (Yuanxi qiqi tushuo).145 But Wang was not content with introducing only the practical aspects of Western learning. He also published several works that introduced the essence of Christianity.146 In short, the solution that Wang Zheng proposed for solving the crisis of his times was to simultaneously promote Christianity and the study of mechanics. Although Wang was highly respected because he died as a Ming loyalist, his proposals, especially his enthusiasm for a foreign religion, were apparently too idiosyncratic. He frequently found himself having to defend his position by insisting that Christianity was not at odds with Confucian learning. 147 Even so, later scholars had difficulty deciding whether he should be included in the Guanxue lineage.148 In comparison, the intellectual world at large was more willing to accept Li Yong’s program of uniting Daoxue and statecraft studies.

Li Yong and the Unity of ti and yong A native of Zhouzhi, fifty kilometers west of Chang’an, Li Yong not only was the leading intellectual figure in Guanzhong but also was regarded by some as one of the three most important Confucian masters of the early Qing.149 Although only a young adult in the early 1640s, Li’s life and thought were radically transformed by the disastrous end of the Ming dynasty. His father was killed in Henan in 1642 while with the Ming army fighting against the rebel Li Zicheng, and his remains were never found, a tragedy that Li Yong was mentally unable to overcome for many years. Raised by his widowed mother, Li was forced to give up formal education because of financial difficulties, but he managed to ( 145. Wang Zheng’s preface to his Yuanxi qiqi tushuo. 146. Chen Yuan, “Jingyang Wang Zheng zhuan,” p. 15. 147. For Wang Zheng’s attempt to fuse Christianity and Confucianism, see Song Boyin, “Wang Zheng de ‘tianxue’ yu ‘ruxue,’ ” in idem, Ming Jing yang Wang Zheng xiansheng nianpu, pp. 288–95. 148. See, e.g., Liu Guangfen’s (1843–1903) preface to a late Qing sequel of Guanxue bian, in YXCT, 2.15b–16a. 149. Quan Zuwang, “Erqu xiansheng bianshi wen,” in idem, Quan Zuwang ji huijiao jizhu, pp. 233–38. The other two great masters were Huang Zongxi and Sun Qifeng (1585–1675).

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learn to read and write and slowly earned a reputation as a prodigy. Li was said to have read broadly but without any focus at a young age. It was not until 1645, when he was eighteen sui, that Li decided that he had found the right path to learning in the works of Song Daoxue masters.150 Apparently, dynastic change also played a major role in driving Li to focus on ethical and social-political issues. Anne Birdwhistell is right to argue that this great event figured centrally in Li’s life by leaving him personally without a father, an orphan in the Chinese view, and culturally without a ruler. It conditioned and shaped his social relations, intellectual views, and political stance. Remaining a Ming loyalist like a number of others, Li never accepted the legitimacy of Qing Manchu rule, and all his life he agonized over the social, economic, and political problems surrounding the Ming defeat.151

As his fame grew, Li was recommended many times to the new dynasty, but he turned down every request that he serve the Qing. He was also said to have refused to reply to letters sent to him by court officials. In 1703, during a tour of Shaanxi, the Kangxi emperor wished to meet Li, but Li refused the summons, citing poor health as the reason. Kangxi did not force him. Instead, the emperor awarded Li Yong a plaque inscribed “[A person whose] integrity and aspiration is superior and pure” (caozhi gaojie).152 Despite his refusal to serve, Li was concerned with the workings of government. His works include a text entitled Precious Mirror for Local Officials (Simu baojian), a collection of writings by men whom Li considered great local officials such as Zhen Dexiu and Lü Kun (1536–1618),153 but he was never comfortable with separating government from moral philosophy. Living in a time when some of his acquaintances such as Gu Yanwu (1613–1682) were increasingly critical of the “philosophical” discussion within the Song-Ming Daoxue tradition and called for a revival of the practical aspects of learning, one of Li’s main concerns was to reemphasize the importance of knowing the “essence” (ti) while practicing the correct form of “application” ( yong): ( 150. Wu Huaiqing, Guanzhong san Li xiansheng nianpu. 151. Birdwhistell, Li Yong, p. 20. 152. Wu Huaiqing, Guanzhong san Li xiansheng nianpu, 2.24a, 2.31b–36b. 153. Li Yong, Erqu ji, pp. 366–92.

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[If one] can comprehend the essence (mingti) but fails in practical application (shiyong ), then he is a “pedantic” scholar ( furu); if one excels in practical function but fails to comprehend the essence, then he is a “tyrannical” scholar (baru). If one fails at both comprehending the essence and practical application and just drowns himself in the trivial learning of literary writings and memorization of classical texts, then he is a “vulgar” scholar (suru). All [such scholars] are those with whom the Great Learning should not be discussed.154

Li Yong identified three types of incorrect learning in this passage. The first type leaves out the application, the second omits the essence, and the third, the type required for the civil examinations, neglects both. Only the kind of learning described in the Great Learning was, in Li’s opinion, true learning. The Great Learning posits a step-by-step program of learning beginning with moral self-cultivation and ending with rectification of government. Li apparently took ti and yong to imply the selfcultivation and statecraft aspects of the Great Learning program, respectively. He believed that in the unity of the two one could grasp the meaning of true learning. What, then, is the actual content of ti and yong? In The Complete Learning of Essence and Application (Tiyong quanxue), a set of lecture notes by one of his students, Li listed a variety of works that could be classified under the category of statecraft learning in the yong section. He explicitly claimed that that which distinguishes the ru from the practitioners of Buddhism and Daoism is a commitment to “ordering the world” ( jingshi). It is also for this reason that he denounced the “etymological” (xungu) approach. In Li’s view, the primary task of a ru is to attend to the well-being of the people; to be occupied with xungu and worthless book learning is to allow oneself to be led astray.155 On the other hand, although Li Yong was silent on the so-called Yan-Li school, led by Yan Yuan (1635–1740) and Li Gong (1659–1733), I think Li would certainly have disagreed with the kind of statecraft learning advocated by this school because of its opposition to the “metaphysical” aspect of the Song-Ming Daoxue tradition—it was “tyrannical,” if we follow Li’s argument, because it would destroy the ti.156 ( 154. Li Yong, Erqu ji, p. 401. 155. Ibid., p. 125. 156. For a discussion of the basic philosophical orientation of the Yan-Li school, see Tu Wei-ming, “Yan Yuan.”

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Indeed, the works that Li recommended in the ti section include writings from both the Cheng-Zhu and the Lu-Wang traditions. As Anne Birdwhistell argues, for Li Yong, “ ‘application’ does not refer to all types of practical action . . . , but only action that is an outgrowth of the fundamental values,”157 and it is clear that in Li’s view, the fundamental values had been revealed by the great masters of the Song-Ming period. During Li’s time, the advocates of the xungu approach still saw themselves as devoted followers of the Cheng-Zhu way and thus opponents of the Lu-Wang way. Unlike their counterparts who advocated “evidential research” (kaozheng) in the eighteenth century, they did not reject the entire Song-Ming tradition. Still, Li criticized them for ignoring the fact that Zhu Xi was equally concerned with both “inner” and “outer” aspects of learning; these xungu scholars were thus missing the point when they took the Lu-Wang emphasis on the “inner” as their target. In other words, only when one truly comprehended the “inner” aspect of learning—that is, the ti—could one truly get the “outer” aspect, or yong.158 Li’s way of achieving a unity of ti and yong caught the attention of many prominent scholar-officials in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, including Chen Hongmou. Chen, who believed that political activism should begin with self-cultivation, particularly admired Li Yong because, among the great figures who refused to serve the Qing, “Li alone drew as a lesson from the Ming debacle that an intensified effort at personal moral improvement was a necessary focus of study, and he thereby put the ti on an equal footing with the yong.”159 A native of Guangxi, Chen “found his intellectual home” when he discovered Guanxue in the early and mid-1740s. During his first posting as the governor of Shaanxi in the 1740s, Chen became a full-fledged convert to the Guanxue message.160 Throughout his four tenures as Shaanxi governor, he made every effort to promote Guanxue. For instance, he “showered his patronage on the Guanzhong Academy (which Li Yong renovated) and intervened directly in its management.”161 Chen also paid ( 157. Birdwhistell, Li Yong, p. 147. 158. Li Yong, Erqu ji, p. 126. 159. Rowe, Saving the World, p. 133. 160. Ibid., p. 136. 161. Ibid., p. 131.

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a visit to the native village of Wang Xinjing, Li Yong’s most important student, who also wrote extensively on both philosophy and statecraft,162 and he contributed prefaces to Wang’s literary collections and memorialized successfully to have Wang’s tablet installed in the Confucian temple at Beijing. In addition, Chen made Yang Shen (1699–1794), an expert on sericulture, his longtime personal advisor and the head of his sericulture bureau in Shaanxi. Many of Chen’s activist policies in Shaanxi were directly influenced by the ideas proposed by these Guanxue scholars. 163 Given the enthusiasm Chen showed for Guanxue’s understanding of the unity of ti and yong, his dismissal of the kaozheng approach as irrelevant to true ru learning is understandable.164 Through the collective efforts of native scholars and officials such as Chen Hongmou, Guanxue acquired a certain doctrinal character. By the eighteenth century, a self-proclaimed Guanxue scholar would have to pay attention to both ti, defined by Daoxue philosophy (although opinion was split over whether the Cheng-Zhu or the Lu-Wang version was more “correct”), and yong, which placed ethical values into statecraft study with the aim of contributing to the well-being of the people. As such, he would be expected to defend Daoxue philosophy if it came under attack and to reject piecemeal book-learning skills as being of no great relevance to moral cultivation and government. When Chen Hongmou promoted Guanxue, he did so as an “outsider.” In contrast, native scholars such as Yang Shen, Chen Hongmou’s sericulture advisor, promoted it with a strong sense of regional pride.

Yang Shen and the Sericulture Experiment Some later scholars tried to establish an intellectual connection between Li Yong and Yang Shen, claiming that Yang was a highly regarded student of Li.165 This is unlikely because Yang was only six years old when Li died. It is more likely that Yang, a native of Xingping, was a selfeducated scholar. Nevertheless, Yang’s writings leave no doubt that he ( 162. Most of Wang Xinjing’s statecraft writings are collected in Fengchuan zazhu. For his other writings, see his literary collection, Fengchuan quanji. 163. Rowe, Saving the World, p. 131. 164. Ibid., pp. 112–15. 165. See the short biography of Yang Shen in Xing ping xianzhi, 5a.18b–19a.

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was working within the intellectual context that Li established. Yang wrote extensively on socioeconomic matters, but he always emphasized the importance of giving all discussions of statecraft studies an ontological grounding, which he identified as di or shangdi,166 an ancient Chinese term used to denote a divine ruler “who watches over human society and regulates the working of the universe.”167 In Yang’s usage, di essentially represents an ontological source of creation that issues ethical values appropriate to human relationships and establishes political and social institutions to take care of every human being. Therefore, learning for Yang was both an intellectual endeavor and a practical experiment; the aim is to comprehend the nature and the operations of di and to put them into practice by designing social programs that enhance the welfare of the people. Predictably, he had little interest in the kind of learning prescribed by the civil examination system, which many thought was the main culprit in luring scholars into the pursuit of worthless text-memorization and overwrought literary stylization. Like Li Yong, Yang never sat for the examinations. William Rowe argues that Yang Shen refused to submit to examination culture because, as a leading member of Guanxue, he tried to eschew the two intellectual currents that most Guanxue adherents saw as polluting Jiangnan and other culturally “advanced” regions—literary dilettantism and mindless examination cramming—in favor of moral self-cultivation and “doctoring” local society. 168 It is not clear to me that Yang refused to sit for the examinations out of regional consciousness, but Rowe is certainly right in pointing out that Yang hoped to liberate Guanzhong from economic dependency on Jiangnan by “restoring” the sericulture industry in his hometown.169 But Jiangnan was not the only obstacle. According to Chen Hongmou, Shaanxi was a land of the sericulture industry since ancient times, [but production] is neglected today. Silk is imported from Jiangsu-Zhejiang, and colored cloth is imported from Hunan-Henan. The poor farmers have barely enough to eat, and [yet they still need to] sell their grain [to buy cloth for] ( 166. Yang Shen, Zhiben tigang, passim. 167. De Bary et al., Sources of Chinese Tradition, 1: 5. 168. Rowe, Saving the World, p. 236. 169. Ibid.

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making clothes; so it is natural that they have few things to hoard in their homes.170

Chen understood the pathetic state of the farmers in Guanzhong to be partly the result of a loss of economic independence in the sericulture sector. Yang Shen could not have agreed more. In a letter to the governor of Shaanxi included in his most famous work, Explication of the “Songs of Bin” (Binfeng guangyi), Yang complained that in exchange for clothing, the people in Shaanxi had to export both grain and silver to other provinces such as Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Guangdong, Guangxi, Sichuan, and Henan; this led to widespread poverty in the province.171 Yang thought the problem arose because the people of Shaanxi did not believe that the climate of Shaanxi was suitable for sericulture; so he presented “historical evidence” from the “Songs of Bin” in the Book of Odes (Bin being the name of an ancient state located in Shaanxi) to prove that Shaanxi had once been the center of sericulture and that this beautiful custom had gradually spread to the south over the course of history. Yang’s work also cited the observations of a friend who had witnessed the prosperity of the sericulture industry in the south during his recent travels. The friend told him that the fields there were filled with mulberry trees and that the sound of looms could be heard throughout the night. Furthermore, poems found at scenic sites in the south even sung the praises of the “Songs of Bin.” Yang lamented that southerners were full of admiration for the “Songs of Bin,” whereas the people of Shaanxi had forgotten about the advantages of sericulture and allowed themselves to be fooled by false claims that their locale was unsuitable for sericulture.172 In order to convince others, Yang began experimenting with the cultivation of mulberry and silkworms in his hometown. Rowe argues that Yang’s writings on sericulture were “infused with a nostalgic desire to recapture both the moral purity and the independent ( 170. Chen Hongmou’s view is quoted in Huang Rucheng’s (1799–1837) collectedcommentaries edition of Gu Yanwu’s Rizhi lu; see Rizhi lu jishi, 10.59. For explanations of the decline of familial textile production in Shaanxi in late imperial and modern times, see Shi Nianhai, “Shaanxi diqu cansang shiye shengshuai de bianqian.” 171. For the letter, see Yang Shen, Binfeng guang yi, 2b. 172. Ibid., 1:1b–2b.

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spirit of the ancient Bin state.”173 Indeed, Yang expressed distaste for the wanton customs of contemporary Shaanxi, where men and women gathered for gambling and other games in winter and spring when there was no work to be done. This problem could be rectified, he thought, by introducing sericulture to keep the people busy; this would gradually make the people more diligent, and the customs of courtesy, righteousness, and benevolence could be refortified.174 Yang Shen’s program was not just about nostalgia, however; it was also forward-looking. Yang insisted that Shaanxi was where the sage-king Fuxi drew the Eight Hexagrams and invented writing, and the region had been the center of the Learning of Principle (lixue) for centuries. With the abandonment of sericulture, however, the people of Shaanxi had sunk into poverty, and they became unable to afford education. Many talented young men were thus forced to pursue commerce at the expense of study, which was the reason why Shaanxi had become culturally backward. Yang believed that the present predicament was not Shaanxi’s fate; as soon as the sericulture industry had been restored, Shaanxi would again become a culturally advanced region.175 He thus saw economic independence as the basic solution for all the problems faced by his province, but it was not isolation from the rest of the empire that he sought. Instead, he was looking for ways to help his native place catch up with the development, both economic and cultural, of other regions. Yang Shen’s case illustrates that although its practitioners considered Guanxue a “correct” version of ru learning with universal validity, it had also gradually been presented as a local school of thought that could help to “right” the customs of Guanzhong, which were thought to have deteriorated because the region had to submit to the influences of other more “advanced” regions. Yang Shen basically considered the problem from an economic perspective, but several other Guanxue scholars, such as Li Yuanchun (1769–1854), turned to cultural factors in an attempt to prevent the cultural invasion of Guanzhong by other regions.

( 173. Rowe, Saving the World, p. 236. 174. Yang Shen’s letter, in idem, Binfeng guang yi, 8a–9a. 175. Ibid., 7b–8a.

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Li Yuanchun and the Rejection of the kaozheng Way Li Yuanchun was born to a family in Chaoyi county with low gentry status. He was a descendent of the renowned local scholar Li Kai ( juren 1624), who was known for his literary accomplishments. Li Yuanchun’s father was a student in the government school who later became a merchant. Li was said to have loved studying since his youth; after hearing students reciting in a village school, he begged his mother to permit him to attend, and his mother happily obliged. Li passed the provincial examination when he was nineteen sui but did not enjoy the same success when sitting for the metropolitan examination at the capital. After nine tries, he finally gave up when he was already over forty years old.176 Li Yuanchun once recalled that his dying father had specifically urged Li to study, in addition to the Cheng-Zhu teachings, the writings of the Three Sus of the Song dynasty.177 Li further conceded that the writings of the Sus had been a major source of inspiration for his own literary composition.178 He was also extremely interested in history and wrote works that could be classified under the biji category.179 All in all, Li demonstrated that he was ready to be seen by others as representing a broad array of scholarship. Judging from the many works on local culture that he wrote, it is apparent that Li believed Guanzhong culture to be broad enough to accommodate all sorts of literati learning. Apart from publishing collections such as Selected Prose and Poems from MingQing Guanzhong (Guanzhong liangchao wenchao, shichao), he also wrote two long rhapsodies, one on his home district and another on the entire province of Shaanxi, in which he proudly introduced eminent Guanzhong scholars of all intellectual affiliations, mostly from the MingQing period.180 However, Li Yuanchun’s utmost commitment was to Guanxue. In 1830, he compiled four books in the Guanxue tradition—An Explanation on the Essence of Zhang Zai’s Writings (Zhangzi shiyao), The Essential Sayings of the Four Guanzhong Masters (Guanzhong si xiansheng yaoyu lu), The ( 176. GXB, pp. 116–17. 177. Li Yuanchun, “Xianyan Wenxuegong xingzhuang,” in SZWJ, 9.38b–43a, esp. 42b. 178. Li Yuanchun, “Zeng Lei Xingzhai xu,” SZWJ, 7.4b–7a. 179. See, e.g., Li Yuanchun’s Yiwen sanlu. 180. Li Yuanchun, “Zili fu” and “Qin fu,” in SZWJ, 10.7b–16b, 10.16b–39a.

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Essential Sayings of the Three Guanzhong Masters (Guanzhong san xiansheng yaoyu lu), and Feng Congwu’s Guanxue bian—into a collection titled Four Selected Books in the “Learning of the Way” Tradition of Guanzhong (Guanzhong daomai sizhong shu).181 In a treatise discussing the rights and wrongs of scholarship, Li began by insisting that the purpose of learning was “to understand the principle and to put it into practice.” He then claimed that in ancient times, students learned about daily activities and good manners in elementary school and the step-by-step program of self-cultivation and government as listed in the Great Learning in the “university.” This was easy to follow, but since the Warring States period learning had become fragmented and there was much confusion. Since then, not only did heterodox learning keep spreading, even the learning of “our ru” had also been split: there was the learning of “memorizing (the classics)” and the learning of literary composition— both essential for taking the civil examination—and the learning of the Lu-Wang school. More recently, the learning of “evidential research” had attracted many scholars. Li asserted that these were all incorrect and could never be compared to the authentic learning of Cheng-Zhu.182 Li’s attack on kaozheng scholarship deserves a discussion in depth since it presents an interesting case of how regionalism in late imperial China influenced the spread of scholarship. As successful as it was, the kaozheng movement, as Benjamin Elman has shown, was basically a Jiangnan phenomenon, and academic communities elsewhere rejected the movement more often than not. 183 This was exactly the case in Guanzhong. In the seventeenth century, a few Guanzhong scholars such as Li Yindu (1631–92) had shown immense interest in kaozheng scholarship and had produced works in the field of historical phonology. 184 There was also a Chu Jun (n.d.), whose work on epigraphy (Chu’s preface is dated 1736) was widely known and included in the Siku quanshu. 185 Generally speaking, however, the interest of Guanzhong scholars in such subjects was sporadic, and kaozheng managed to ( 181. Li Yuanchun, Guanzhong daomai sizhong shu. 182. Li Yuanchun, “Xueshu shifei lun,” in SZWJ, 2.1a–3b. 183. Elman, From Philosophy to Philolog y, esp. pp. 7–13. 184. See, e.g., Li Yindu, Hanshi yinzhu; and idem, Gujin yunkao. 185. Chu Jun, Jinshi jing yan lu.

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make its way into the region only through the patronage of Bi Yuan in the late eighteenth century. While serving as the governor of Shaanxi from 1773 to 1785, Bi Yuan invited Jiangnan kaozheng scholars, among them Sun Xingyan (1753–1818), Qian Dian (1744–1806), and Hong Liangji (1746–1809), to Shaanxi to serve as his secretaries and help compile books on local history and geography. Together, they produced the gazetteers for several prefectures and counties, and Bi Yuan himself wrote such famous historical-geographical works as the Guanzhong shengji tuzhi and the Guanzhong jinshi ji.186 In the early 1780s, he asked for prefaces to Guanzhong jinshi ji from Lu Wenchao (1717–96)—who admitted in his text that he had never been to Guanzhong—and Qian Daxin (1728–1804), two great kaozheng scholars. 187 Again, in 1787, Bi, who had by this time been transferred to Henan, edited and republished the Northern Song Chang’an zhi; he sent a copy to Wang Mingsheng (1722–98), the leading scholar of kaozheng learning, to ask for a preface.188 From the fact that Bi Yuan repeatedly sought prefaces from kaozheng scholars from Jiangnan for his projects on Shaanxi geography and history, it is apparent that his intended readers were scholars interested in kaozheng learning rather than Shaanxi scholars. These works were originally regional in nature, but they were now recast by Bi Yuan and the kaozheng scholars under his patronage to address the scholarly interests of a transregional audience, and their value had to be decided by the standards of kaozheng scholarship. In the preface to the gazetteer of Chunhua county in central Shaanxi, for example, Hong Liangji displayed his dissatisfaction with the gazetteers of Chaoyi and Wugong compiled during the mid-Ming period by the native scholars Han Bangjing (1488–1523; Han Bangqi’s brother) and Kang Hai. Hong thought that the two gazetteers were not acceptable because the compilers did not “learn from the ancients” (shigu); their writings were too sketchy and left out too many necessary details regarding both the man-made and the natural landscape. As for his own work, Hong claimed that it ( 186. Gao Feng, Shaanxi fangzhi kao, p. 8; Hummel, Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, pp. 373–75, 622–25, 675–77. 187. See Lu’s and Qian’s prefaces in Bi Yuan, Guanzhong jinshi ji. 188. Wang Mingsheng’s preface, in Song Minqiu, Chang’an zhi.

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was written according to the standards laid down by “previous scholars” and was thus not trying to be different.189 In a strikingly similar fashion, Sun Xingyan also criticized the Chaoyi and Wugong gazetteers for obsession with concision. He insists that the purpose of writing gazetteers is to “preserve historical documents with the method of evidential research” ( yi kaoju cun wenxian). The two Ming gazetteers failed in this respect, however, and when he himself compiled the gazetteer for Binzhou, Sun declared, he had tried to avoid their mistakes.190 The opinions of Hong and Sun echoed those of Bi Yuan, who had criticized Han Bangjing for making the Chaoyi gazetteer too brief and Kang Hai for inappropriately placing a palindrome thought to have been composed by Su Hui (n.d.), a talented woman of the Jin dynasty (265–420), in the very front of the Wugong gazetteer.191 When Bi, Hong, and Sun questioned the authority of Han and Kang’s gazetteers, they were in effect challenging the Guanzhong literati tradition. Essentially, with the intervention of the authorities, the kaozheng scholars were dominating the channels through which the history of Guanzhong was defined. This development irked locally minded scholars such as Li Yuanchun, who did not hesitate to defend Kang Hai and Han Bangjing. To prove his points, late in his life Li wrote a new edition of the local gazetteer of his home district, Chaoyi, in which he went to great lengths to point out mistakes made by the kaozheng scholars. He began his supplement to the “guiding remarks” (zhili) by claiming that originally he had had no desire to write this new edition because the Ming gazetteers compiled first by Han Bangjing and later in the Wanli era by Wang Xuemo ( jinshi 1553), both native scholars, had already set a very high standard. Then, there was a newer edition compiled in the Kangxi era, which Li claimed was based on his ancestor Li Kai’s manuscript. Finally, there was the newest edition, compiled during the Qianlong era, which Li attributed to the magistrate Zhu ( 189. Hong Liangji, “Chunhua xianzhi xulu shiba shou,” in idem, Hong Liang ji ji, pp. 271–73. 190. Sun Xingyan, “Binzhou zhi xu,” in idem, Wenzitang ji, 4.6b–8b, collected in Sun, Sun Yuanru xiansheng quanji. 191. Bi Yuan’s preface to Sanshui xianzhi. For an excellent account of the Su Hui legend, see Idema and Grant, The Red Brush, pp. 127–31.

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Tingmo ( juren 1760), a native of Xiangtan, Hunan. According to Li, however, this edition was full of errors: [When the Zhu edition was printed,] I was already old enough to understand what was going on. The main author was not a native and as such, he was not totally aware of [local] affairs. [He had also not been] accurate in checking for references or consistent [in writing]. Moreover, he had violated the common standard by writing about individuals who were still alive at that time. Therefore [this work] was full of mistakes, and I had no desire to write a sequel to it.192 (Italics added)

Li claimed that works such as local gazetteers must be written by natives themselves because, as “insiders,” they are more familiar with local affairs. In other words, in Li’s opinion, “outsiders” should not override the authority of locals in such matters. However, Zhu Tingmo, although also an outsider, was not one of Li’s targets. Who, then, were the outsiders and what was wrong with their perspective? Here, Li identified his real object: The Zhu edition was compiled by Mr. Qian Dian from Jiading [Zhejiang]. He was then serving in the office of Governor193 Bi Qiufan [Bi Yuan’s style name], and his colleagues were all renowned scholars. They wrote local gazetteers based on kaoju scholarship and simply tried to boast of their broad knowledge. [Their works] significantly violated the standard of writing gazetteers. The same problem appears in the provincial gazetteer.194

As mentioned above, Qian Dian was one of the Jiangnan kaozheng scholars whom Bi invited to Shaanxi. As we have seen, these scholars were critical of Ming Shaanxi gazetteers compiled by native scholars, including the Chaoyi gazetteer. The general consensus was that these Ming gazetteers were too brief. As such, when Qian Dian compiled the gazetteer, he greatly expanded its length. Li Yuanchun noted that Qian included many entries on historical landmarks not found in the Ming edition, and Qian differed significantly from the Ming edition on the ( 192. Chaoyi xianzhi, “supplement” (buji ) to the “guiding remarks” (zhili houlu), 1a. 193. The official term used here is zhongcheng, which literally means “great palace aide to the censor-in-chief,” but as Charles Hucker (Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, p. 464) points out, it was used routinely to refer to a provincial governor in Ming-Qing China. 194. Chaoyi xianzhi, supplement to the “guiding remarks,” 4b.

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exact locations of several landmarks. After investigation, Li claimed that although some locations remained uncertain, other cases showed that the Ming edition was more reliable. The hidden message in Li’s comment is that even though the kaozheng scholars took pride in precision, their scholarship was not totally dependable. Indeed, Li even pointed out some mistakes in Bi Yuan’s epigraphical work, and he declared that these mistakes revealed the flaws in the scholarship of the kaozheng scholars.195 Li nevertheless granted that the two Qing gazetteers did make a contribution, since they provided entries that were supplementary to the Ming editions. He simply insisted that the principles laid down by the Ming authors should not have been discarded, especially the message of “encouragement and punishment” (quancheng). 196 In Li’s opinion, writing gazetteers should never be simply a scholarly pursuit to showcase one’s broad knowledge. Instead, it should be used as a vehicle for conveying moral values, and Li believed that only the ChengZhu version of Daoxue could provide the correct values. When compiling his gazetteer, he included in the “literary” ( yiwen) section several works that defended Cheng-Zhu Daoxue against charges from LuWang and kaozheng scholars.197 By framing his charges in a work about local history, Li was telling readers seeking to protect a good local tradition of Daoxue threatened by misleading scholarship that they should reject both an “empty” theory of the mind and innate knowledge, which denied the importance of concrete learning and action, and the piecemeal method of kaozheng, which proclaimed moral philosophy irrelevant. While defending this positive local tradition against the threat of misleading scholarship, Li both actively promoted it and redefined it. He wrote a sequel to Feng Congwu’s Guanxue bian and added twenty scholars (including Feng Congwu) to the lineage. Among the figures Li added was You Shixiong, Zhang Zai’s student (mentioned in Chapter 2). Li speculated that Feng had omitted You because his political achievements had outshone his learning, but Li asserted that since political ( 195. Ibid., 4b–5b. 196. Ibid., 20b. 197. Ibid., 3.14a–b.

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achievement had to be based on learning, he had decided to add You.198 Clearly Li was not satisfied with Feng’s apolitical criteria. He saw You as someone who was able to unite ti and yong, a reflection of his own view of what represented “correct” learning. The Guanxue premise of uniting ti and yong continued to be the most important item on the agenda for the next generation of Guanzhong scholars. However, they faced a new challenge that Li Yuanchun had only begun to feel but had not yet confronted directly before his death in 1854: the increasing presence of the West. When Liu Guangfen (1843–1903) emerged in the late nineteenth century as the leader of the Guanzhong intellectual community, one of the most pressing problems he had to tackle was the loss of national sovereignty under Western pressure. Liu was, of course, not alone—his contemporaries had to deal with the same problem—but he is worth studying because he tried to rescue the nation based on his Guanzhong experience. His attempt allows us to examine how the spread of nationalism in the late Qing was shaped by regional dynamics.

Liu Guang fen: Reviving China from the Northwest Liu Guangfen, better known as Liu Guyu, was born to a family of low gentry status in Xianyang in central Shaanxi. He passed the provincial examination in 1875 but failed the metropolitan examination the following year on his first and only attempt. For the next twenty years, he taught and served as the principal of several famous academies in Shaanxi and Gansu and was instrumental in introducing Western learning into the curriculum. The Sino-Japanese war of 1894 made Liu consider a more active role in politics, and he became an enthusiastic supporter of Kang Youwei (1858–1927) and his reformist ideals, although the two men never met. Liu began to introduce Kang’s ideas in Shaanxi, and he sent his students to Beijing and Shanghai to get in touch with the reformists. This effort was abruptly terminated, however, when the Hundred Days Reform of 1898 ended in failure. Liu was implicated and faced arrest, only to be freed by the intervention of the governorgeneral of Shaanxi and Gansu. After the incident, Liu spent most of his ( 198. Li Yuanchun’s preface, GXB, p. 67.

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time teaching at his own private academy and living in relative seclusion. In 1903, he was invited to be the principal of the newly established Western-style “advanced school” (daxuetang) of Gansu, where he taught until his sudden death half a year later.199 Some modern scholars view Liu as a basically conservative figure who, isolated within Guanzhong for most of his life, could not break away from Chinese tradition even though he was keenly aware that reform was necessary. Others view Liu as a progressive thinker and activist who linked Guanzhong and the larger world. 200 For our purposes, evaluating a historical figure using the conservative/progressive dichotomy may not be especially useful; the two views may better be combined to provide a succinct portrait of a local gentleman who tried to assert his version of Chineseness when the West had become a dominant force. Liu insisted that the only solution to the crisis of his time was to study the essence of Classical learning and to put it into practice, instead of searching blindly for Western prescriptions. But where could the essence of Classical learning be found? It could be found in ancient texts, surely, but Liu claimed that it could also be sought in the writings of the recent Shaanxi scholar Yang Shen. Liu wrote a commentary for Yang’s A Succinct Explanation of the Essence of the Great Learning (Xiuqi zhizhi)—a short text in which Yang tried to explain to the layman the connection between the ontological source di, ethics, politics, and socioeconomic projects. Liu praised Yang for “showing us the working of the mandate of Heaven by pointing to the matters of everyday life.”201 In Liu’s opinion, this was Guanxue at its best, and Yang was certainly worthy of being named the heir of Li Yong’s doctrine.202 Put differently, Liu was prescribing a Guanxue antidote for what he perceived to be a national illness. For this reason, Liu shared many of Yang’s aspirations, including the revival of local customs. In 1896, he founded the Bin Restoration Society (Fu Bin xuehui), which later developed into several privately funded community schools in different ( 199. Zhang Pengyi, Liu Guyu nianpu, passim. Zhang Pengyi was Liu’s student and wrote this chronicle in 1939. 200. Liu Baocai, “Qingmo Guanzhong jinwen jingxuejia Liu Guyu”; Fang Guanghua et al., Guanxue jiqi zhushu, pp. 198–212. 201. See Liu Guangfen’s “general commentary” (zong ping ) in idem, Xiuqi zhizhi ping, 1a. 202. Ibid., 1a–b.

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places in central Shaanxi. According to classical belief, the founder of the ancient state of Bin was said to be Gongliu, identified as a descendent of the sage-king Houji and also the ancestor of the royal clan of the Zhou dynasty. By saying that the society’s mission was to “restore” the Bin, Liu, like Yang, was invoking a sense of regional pride based on an idealistic depiction of the customs of the ancient Bin state. In a poem written to celebrate the invention of machines for textile production and well digging, Liu linked the customs of Bin with the well-being of the people: When can the customs of Bin (Binfeng) be restored? When will the ocean dry up? The purpose of promoting textile production is to strengthen industry, How can one promote farming and sericulture for the purpose of building military might? The people are constantly suffering from prolonged drought, The weaving women are lamenting that they are not provided with fine silk. What I have learned is only related to providing clothing and food for the people. Why should we care whether the ideas are taken from the school of Lu Jiuyuan or Zhu Xi?203

The awkward reference to Lu Jiuyuan and Zhu Xi at the end of the poem indicates that the Guanxue concern over, first, the Cheng-Zhu / Lu-Wang dispute and, second, how to apply the learning of moral philosophy (ti) to practical affairs ( yong) still featured prominently in Liu’s intellectual outlook. The message that Liu wanted to convey was that the most important task of a scholar has to be to provide for the needs of the common people. The customs of ancient Bin formed a basis on which all scholars, regardless of their intellectual orientation, could attend to the livelihood of the common people. In Chinese, the term Binfeng carries two meanings. It could either mean the customs of Bin, or it could be a reference to the chapter “Songs of Bin” in the Book of Odes. It is clear that Liu intended to imply ( 203. Liu Guangfen, “Zhu Chunyi Sixun chuangzao fangche qushui jiqi youcheng xi er fuci jiyi liubie wushou,” in YXCT, 10.4b.

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both. In the following he explained the reason for choosing Bin Restoration as the name for the community schools: The name of the schools is Bin Restoration, and they were founded after the [Sino-Japanese war in the] Jiawu year [1894]. If we want to rescue China from the current state of poverty and inferiority, we will have to fuse the [social classes of ] scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants into one united group. The Zhou kingdom was constantly under the threat of the barbarians, but it was able to flourish in the end. The key to its flourishing could be seen in this poem titled “The Seventh Month” (“Qiyue”), which shows that the flourishing was made possible [because it had inherited] the customs of Bin, the government of the rulers of Bin, and the learning of the people of Bin. Now all the schools are named “Bin Restoration.” I hope that all of you who are attending the schools will aspire to restore the customs of our hometown to those of Bin of old, to make worthwhile all the humiliation and risk and legal suits that I had endured [when trying to build the schools].204

“The Seventh Month” is a poem in the “Songs of Bin” section. It gives a detailed account of the livelihood of the people of Bin as well as their agricultural activities, including farming, sericulture, and pasturing. Liu believed that this was a genuine depiction of Shaanxi in the old days when the rulers were caring and the people honest and diligent. The Zhou dynasty inherited this good tradition and therefore was able to fend off barbarian invasions time and again, achieving unprecedented success. Given the context of the late nineteenth century, it is obvious that Liu was making an analogy between the Zhou era and his own times. In a letter to Jiang Fu (fl. 1896–1909) and Luo Shuxun (1866– 1940), the two masterminds behind the founding of the Society of Agricultural Studies (Nongxuehui) in Shanghai, Liu explained why, as a native of Shaanxi, he could understand the importance of their effort to promote agriculture: Shaanxi was where the Zhou capital was located. The Zhou, with agriculture as its foundation, was constantly under the threat of the barbarians. [History has shown that] whenever the people fail to be diligent in farming, the country will fall into the hands of the barbarians. [Conversely,] whenever [the ruling class] is enthusiastic about encouraging agricultural production and sharing the fruits of growth with the people, its merits will be on par with those of its ( 204. Liu Guangfen, “Yixue zhangcheng bing xu,” in YXCT, 9.23a.

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predecessors. The poem “The Seventh Month” and the chapter “Forever Diligent” (“Wuyi”) [in the Book of Documents] were written by the Duke of Zhou, and Mencius praised him for being able to “suppress and punish the barbarians in both north and south.” [Given the way] the foreigners are pressing on us, how is today any different from the times of Taiwang? 205

Both the Zhou and the Qing regimes were threatened by the “barbarians,” but the Zhou managed to survive and prosper because it had found the right way of containing the barbarians. If China hoped to survive a modern foreign invasion, it would have to take the lesson of the Zhou seriously. Here Liu was presenting a local legacy as the solution for a national problem: the Zhou way was the Shaanxi way. In order to build a strong Chinese state, the old Shaanxi way of dealing with the “barbarians” must be revitalized. How could the Shaanxi way be rejuvenated? Liu agreed with Jiang and Luo that it could be done through promoting the study of agriculture. Taking a cue from Yang Shen, the person he admired most, Liu also argued that it must include a comprehensive plan to promote sericulture and textile production in Shaanxi. Not only did Liu edit famous works on sericulture such as Comprehensive Guide to Sericulture (Cansang beiyao) by Liu Qingli (1664–1709), he had also written one himself titled A Book of Songs About Sericulture (Yangcan gegua). He even tried to invent some machines for manual spinning and weaving to match the Western steam-operated ones. He did not succeed, but when he heard that someone in Shouyang (in the neighboring province of Shanxi) was able to make one, he was overjoyed and wrote a letter to the magistrate of Shouyang, requesting that he send samples of the machines to Shaanxi accompanied by several artisans who could operate them. He also promised that he would bear all production and transportation costs.206 In 1896, Liu proposed a plan to set up a bureau for overseeing textile production in Shaanxi. He specifically instructed several of his students to make a trip to Shanghai and to Wuchang, Hebei, to study the process of textile production; lobby for the support of Shaanxi officials and merchants residing in other places; purchase machines and hire foreign instructors who could operate them; and purchase books and ( 205. Zhang Pengyi, Liu Guyu nianpu, p. 131. 206. Ibid., pp. 110, 127–28.

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newspapers pertaining to Western knowledge. The purpose of this trip, as Liu envisioned it, was not just to promote textile production. More important, it was to “engage in practical affairs, to train talents, and to ‘open up the atmosphere’ for Shaanxi scholars.”207 Chen Tao, one of the students on the fact-finding trip, recalled more than a decade later that Liu’s ultimate concern was to free Shaanxi from relying on, internally, other regions of China such as Hubei and, externally, foreigners for its supply of cloth.208 Indeed, Liu made it clear in the regulations for the bureau that he was taking an input-substitution approach to promoting textile production in Shaanxi. That is to say, textiles produced in Shaanxi were meant primarily for local consumption so that locals would not have to rely on imports to meet their needs. This concern for the wellbeing of the locality had driven Yang Shen to push for sericulture in Shaanxi in the eighteenth century, but in the case of Liu Guangfen, it had become a matter of life and death for the country as a whole. After the Sino-Japanese war, China was forced to sign an unequal treaty with the Japanese that allowed the latter to manufacture and sell textile products within China, thus avoiding customs duties. Liu worried that if nothing were done about it, China’s own industry would eventually be destroyed and China would have to depend on the Japanese for textiles in the future. For Liu, this was almost like giving up sovereignty. In a letter to one of his students, Liu noted that the profits from textile production were potentially huge, but in many places, especially in the coastal regions, such production had been seized by foreigners. It was only in a few interior provinces—Hunan, Shanxi, Shaanxi, and Gansu— where foreign power had yet to penetrate, that China could make a profit in textile production. Therefore, Liu claimed that investing in textile production in Shaanxi was a way to secure a “clean” base for Beijing, free from the “pollution” caused by the foreigners, from which the mission to revitalize the nation could be launched.209 It is apparent that Liu’s push for sericulture and textile production was shaped by the unique predicament of Shaanxi at that time. This motivated Liu to single out the textile industry, which for centuries had ( 207. Liu Guangfen, “Nanxing jieyue,” in YXCT, 9.11a. 208. Chen Tao, Nanguan wenchao, 41a–b. 209. Liu Guangfen, “Yu menren Li Mengfu shu,” in YXCT, 5.18a–19a.

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been identified as one of the most pressing tasks facing Shaanxi, as China’s most important tool to achieve better control of its own economy. What we see in this particular case is therefore a complex interaction between local and national concerns. More specifically, Liu believed that a recurring local problem, the loss of economic independence due to an underdeveloped textile industry, had been worsened by foreign invasion and had now become a national problem. The solution to this crisis could therefore not only save the province from relying too much on imported goods from other provinces but also relieve the nation of its predicament. Liu’s concern was at once national and local, and he did not think that the two were mutually exclusive. Like many of his contemporaries, Liu Guangfen believed that reform was necessary to ensure the survival of the Chinese people in a new age. But reform for Liu did not mean a complete break with tradition. Rather, his reformist scheme was informed mainly by issues that prominent figures of Guanzhong had dealt with in the past. Put differently, Liu’s proposal was “modern” in the sense that it was a response to the West, but it was also “traditional” in that it was shaped by the Guanxue premise that gradually took form over the course of the Ming-Qing period. When Liu Guangfen died unexpectedly in 1903, the old imperial order was rapidly falling apart. The abolition of the civil examination in 1905 and the fall of the Qing dynasty in 1911 abruptly terminated the development of Guanxue. As the class of shi faded from the historical scene with the collapse of the imperial system, the questions that had occupied Guanxue scholars for centuries were no longer central to the new class of intellectuals, who were coping with a different set of issues in the Republican period. ( As far as the shi of Guanzhong were concerned, the last stage of the imperial era—the Ming-Qing period—was a period of “renaissance.” Amid crises brought about by natural and man-made disasters, the new opportunities presented by favorable state policies and the new wealth created by commerce allowed elite families to enjoy prosperity and longevity. After the prolonged “dark age” of the Jin-Yuan period, we witness an explosive increase in all sorts of literati activities, among which

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Daoxue Neo-Confucianism attracted the most participation. All scholars, regardless of their intellectual inclinations, had to respond to its claims. The movement began in the mid-fifteenth century with the formation of an intellectual community closely related to Xue Xuan’s circle, but the community slowly established its own local identity in the early sixteenth century by highlighting its connection with Zhang Zai. Depending on one’s perspective, Zhang Zai could be seen as either an orthodox Daoxue master or an independent thinker who was offering something different from the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi. Sixteenthcentury Guanzhong scholars did not agree on this, and we see scholars from both Daoxue and non-Daoxue circles using the legacy of Zhang Zai to serve their own purposes. When Feng Congwu emerged around 1600 to construct a tradition for Guanxue, he creatively raised the status of Zhang Zai to that of the first patriarch but imbued the content of Guanxue not with Zhang Zai’s unique doctrines, but with issues concerning the Cheng-Zhu and Lu-Wang dispute. Through Feng, Guanxue developed into an intellectual “school” with a regional but not a doctrinal identity. The doctrinal aspect later articulated and developed by Li Yong and his followers in the Qing emphasized both ti and yong. This birth of Guanxue was the result mainly of a rise in local consciousness, but it was also shaped by the “official”/“unofficial” and “central”/“regional” dynamics discussed in this book. The formation of the Daoxue community testified, in the first place, to the emergence of public-spiritedness among Guanzhong literati. Although Daoxue had attained an orthodox status under state sponsorship, it did not diminish the “unofficial” nature of this community, and in conjunction with the rise of localism, this “unofficial” arena was often construed in a local context. When Feng Congwu argued that local gazetteers should be used to record the words and deeds of non-office-holding local personages whose Daoxue learning was worthy of setting an example for others, he was calling for recognition of the importance of relying on “unofficial” channels to define local culture. Even scholars who were not especially committed to the Daoxue premise still appealed to a public community of scholars to challenge the state’s enshrinement of Cheng-Zhu orthodoxy. Wang Shu, for example, voiced his dissatisfaction toward the state for trying to define what was right and wrong in

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scholarship and demanding that the scholars of the world follow suit. Wang instead asked his fellow scholars to consider the validity of the Cheng-Zhu commentaries on the Classics through public discussion. The expansion of the “unofficial” sphere, however, did not result in the retreat of the state. On the contrary, the state, through its local agents, actively participated in shaping local culture. The most aggressive example was Bi Yuan, who tried to instill kaozheng into the local intellectual landscape. Actually, Bi was not acting simply as an agent of the state when he promoted kaozheng techniques in compiling local gazetteers and other historical-geographical works. Rather, he was interested more in addressing the scholarly concerns of the Jiangnan academic community to which he belonged. Nevertheless, when Bi tried to achieve his goal through his official capacity, he was seen by many native scholars as an outsider who, by employing the sheer force of the state, was trying to undermine local culture. When Li Yuanchun rewrote the Chaoyi gazetteer, he was in fact declaring that the previous one compiled under Bi’s official sponsorship was a failure, because the local officials, instead of promoting native culture, displaced it. A competent regional government, most Ming-Qing Guanzhong scholars would argue, should act as an advocate of local interests and should patronize local culture as defined by native literati. Very often, local officials themselves accepted this perception, and they played a major role in building academies for “discussing learning,” in sponsoring the publication of local gazetteers and other works written by the local literati, and in promoting Guanxue. In the process, their capacity as public scholars was layered on to their role as agents of the court. Their success in performing official duties was often evaluated by locals not on the ability to carry out the state’s orders, but on their commitment to the local agenda. All in all, what we see in this period among the Guanzhong literati is, almost in antithesis to the Jin-Yuan period, the rise of local consciousness and public-spiritedness, as well as the rejection of courtcenteredness. The “dark ages” during which Guanzhong had been irrelevant as a place and the literati were office-centered and courtoriented was succeeded by a renaissance when literati culture flourished. This age endured into the last days of the imperial era.

Conclusion

What happened in north China after the great Tang-Song transition, which saw the rise of the south? This is a subject about which we know relatively little from secondary scholarship. Did the rise of elite localism—a phenomenon Robert Hymes and others have described as occurring in south China since the twelfth century—take place in the north? It was with these questions in mind that I decided to study one well-defined region. Guanzhong came to mind because of its past glory and supposedly sorry state since the Tang dynasty. An initial probe into the sources quickly convinced me that, contrary to the conventional belief in state neglect, Guanzhong had in fact remained important to the state for its strategic location, with the state putting significant effort into developing the region.1 I also became aware that the familiar picture of post-Tang Guanzhong as forever stuck in a pathetic state of decline—one that is offered by modern nationalistic discourse—often runs contrary to how Guanzhong is depicted in various historical sources. Even so, I also quickly came to realize that “Guanzhong” is at ( 1. For example, Eduard Vermeer (Economic Development in Provincial China, p. 185) claims that the canals and ditches that had fallen into disrepair after the destruction of Chang’an in 904 were revived only one thousand years later. This is not true. Although after the Tang Guanzhong never regained the kind of national importance that defines a national capital, construction and maintenance of ditches and canals to facilitate water control still appeared regularly on the agenda of every government.

203

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best a problematic construct. Before we can write a history of Guanzhong, we need to ask: whose Guanzhong are we talking about? The contention of this study is that the identity of Guanzhong has always been a construct of the literati, and it was they who wanted us to believe, through their writings, that Guanzhong was important (or unimportant). Therefore, to write a history of Guanzhong is, to a great extent, to write about the representation of Guanzhong by the literati. Needless to say, how members of this privileged class chose to represent Guanzhong was closely related to their experiences. To briefly recapitulate, in the Five Dynasties–Northern Song period, Guanzhong literati experienced “a new beginning.” Admission to this privileged class was now determined not by pedigree but by learning and education. Still, even when each individual theoretically had to climb the social ladder of success by dint of his own efforts, success still seemed to reproduce itself. We begin to see in this period the emergence of a number of great clans that managed to capitalize on the peculiar conditions of Guanzhong and remain prominent for several generations. Regular large-scale interstate warfare during the Jin-Yuan period, however, completely destroyed the political and economic basis of these elite families, resulting in their disappearance. New emergent elite families in this period would often quickly return to obscurity. In the MingQing era, new powerful great clans rose to prominence under favorable state policies and a booming commercial economy. Some remained prominent into the Republican period and succeeded in producing officials and scholars with national fame. For the literati, it was as if a “renaissance” had taken place after a prolonged “dark age.” The changing social experience of the literati was accompanied by a change in their perception of the place of Guanzhong within the empire. The limited sources pertaining to the Five Dynasties–Northern Song period tell us little about the existence of a consciousness of Guanzhong as a unique locality with a cultural tradition of its own. The main concern of the literati community—formed after the mideleventh century with Zhang Zai leading the way—was constructing an ideal political order in which state, society, and individuals could be integrated into a coherent whole. A healthy relationship between the “official” and “unofficial,” as perceived by Guanzhong literati, was one in which the “unofficial” elite received endorsement from the “official” to

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run local society. This attitude contrasts starkly with that of the proponents of the New Policies, who would celebrate the existence of a powerful state that could penetrate into every corner of the society, leaving no room for independent operation of the “unofficial” elite. It is also different from the views of some Southern Song literati who argued that society would function better without state intervention. Generally speaking, Guanzhong literati of this period saw the “official” and the “unofficial” as two interconnected components of a coherent system. The suggestion was that “unofficial” literati should be incorporated into the regional government, which should be given greater autonomy to run local society. Some even proposed that regional officials should be allowed to serve in their posts for life. This, it was argued, could greatly enhance the flexibility and effectiveness of regional government in running a frontier region such as Guanzhong. Guanzhong literati thought that the actual functions of the government should be decentralized so that it could attend to the peculiar conditions each locality faced. In general, however, they still worked to place ultimate authority in the hands of the court. In formulating a protocol for appointing regional officials, for example, they did not entertain, as would some early Qing scholars such as Gu Yanwu, the idea of hereditary posts. Instead, they insisted that final decisions be left to the court. This early trend was disrupted, however, when Zhang Zai’s school declined after the Jurchen invasion. As a whole, literati culture in the north seems to have come back to life only after the 1190s. Due to the lack of sources about Guanzhong from this period, it is extremely difficult to trace the activities undertaken by the literati, but we do know that literature was a major component of the literati culture of this period. Thanks to Yuan Haowen’s Zhongzhou ji, members of the first identifiable generation of Jin Guanzhong literati are known to us mainly as poets. Literati culture began to display a certain degree of diversity in the thirteenth century when the literati ventured into a broader range of cultural pursuits. By the second half of the thirteenth century, Daoxue Neo-Confucianism emerged as a powerful intellectual current. Yet this Daoxue was not a continuation of the Zhang Zai school. Through their affiliation with Xu Heng, Guanzhong Daoxue scholars in the Yuan instead wholeheartedly accepted Cheng-Zhu orthodoxy.

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Conclusion

Zhang Zai was not forgotten, but his teaching was seen only as a part of the Cheng-Zhu mainstream, without an independent identity of its own. The fact that Zhang Zai was a Guanzhong native did not inspire these Daoxue scholars to see themselves as bonded to him in any special way. Instead, they sought to engage Daoxue at the national level and saw no need to emphasize their local identity. This is in line with the general trend in Guanzhong of the Jin-Yuan period, when Guanzhong literati seldom produced works on the history or geography of their native region. Even in the small number of texts about Guanzhong as a place that did appear in this period, the writers sought to emphasize only the national past, focusing on Guanzhong as a former capital. Guanzhong as a locality was irrelevant to the self-definition of the literati. At this time the literati were also very “officially” oriented, with many perceiving incorporation into the bureaucracy as their ultimate goal. This is rather surprising, since they tended to adopt strategies to consolidate their power locally and were clearly the leaders of an “unofficial” space in their locality. There were some, such as the Daoxue scholars Xiao Ju and Tong Shu, who rejected recommendations to serve, simply because the court was not keen on promoting Daoxue ideals. When the court signaled that it would consider Daoxue prescriptions to run the country, they availed themselves of the chance to serve. Moreover, although they certainly did not believe that the monarch could claim the Dao, they did not challenge the court by invoking a local tradition of learning or by appealing to an institutionalized literati community. Their view was that the only way to uphold the Dao when the court failed to do so was to turn to those individuals who had grasped the Dao. However, these individuals were to act individually, not through any form of independent social institution. Social institutions must be launched either directly by the state or with the approval of the state. The state thus occupied a central place in the literati culture of this period. Furthermore, the literati were very much court-centered. They viewed the regional government as an extension of the central government. Although the tension between the central and the regional did exist and was keenly felt by the literati, they nevertheless believed that the state should always remain an undifferentiated whole. Conse-

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quently, they were unsympathetic toward any form of regional power that could potentially challenge the central authority, and they sternly warned their fellow countrymen against committing such crimes. The Ming-Qing period, which saw Daoxue flourish and occupy the center stage of literati culture, was almost the antithesis of what has just been described. Although the state endorsed Daoxue in the early Ming, the intellectual community that formed in Guanzhong around the midfifteenth century to focus on discussing Daoxue ideas was “unofficial” in nature. A strong sense of public-spiritedness prevailed among members of the community. Closely linked to the Xue Xuan circle, this community had yet to take on a unique Guanzhong identity, but by the early sixteenth century, possessing a local identity became important for the Guanzhong literati. Zhang Zai’s significance was raised to an unprecedented height. We have seen how the teachings of Zhang Zai and his students were regarded not just as part of the Cheng-Zhu tradition but also as a system of thought with its own unique features. In this period, Guanzhong scholars both within and without the Daoxue circle saw themselves as the natural receivers and transmitters of this “tradition” of their native place. Toward the end of the sixteenth century, Feng Congwu created a “school” of Guanxue that was projected back in time to include all the Guanzhong Daoxue scholars of the past. In the Qing, prominent scholars strove to provide Guanxue with a specific set of doctrines, fusing Daoxue moral philosophy with statecraft studies, and then contrasted it with other regional schools. Guanxue now became a source of pride for these scholars. Guanzhong literati in this period also differed markedly from their predecessors in their vision of government. Not only did they cease to think of regional government as a necessary extension of the central authority, but they also refused to accept that local officials were simply agents of the state. Local officials, in their view, could also act as advocates of local interests, and the local officials often themselves accepted this perception. One “job” frequently carried out by local officials was to promote the local culture by publishing the writings of local literati. This was apparently an attempt on the part of local officials to foster a good relationship with the local literati. Given that the top-tier Guanzhong elite in this period included influential statesmen, this move by local officials is not at all surprising.

208

Conclusion (

When placed within the larger entity of “China” as a whole, the Guanzhong case appears both commonplace and unique. As we have seen, from the twelfth century on there was a shift in strategy among the Guanzhong literati: they lived and married locally, formed local networks, and relied on various “unofficial” means to make their influence felt in their localities. This shift parallels that observed by Robert Hymes and others in many parts of south China. Thus, Guanzhong displays a historical trend that also took place in southern China, although it was under the rule of alien regimes for a much longer period. In the introduction to the Ordering the World volume, Robert Hymes and Conrad Schirokauer suggest that many locally oriented social and political ideas and innovations of the southern literati can be understood in terms of this trend.2 Would pursuing strategies that were locally oriented necessarily encourage the elite to think beyond the state? Common sense says it would. But the Guanzhong experience defies such “common sense.” In Jin-Yuan Guanzhong, the literati, even when pursuing strategies similar to those of their southern counterparts, remained very much stateoriented. The reason is simple: the literati, faced with challenges from other social groups, were not always successful in securing their place in the bureaucracy and therefore had to look for other means to maintain their elite status. At the same time, with few resources at their disposal, the literati had to rely on the state to confer official recognition of their status. They therefore saw the state as indispensable. The Guanzhong case, which seems rather atypical in this respect as compared to south China, should remind us of the commonplace yet valid objection to the tendency of drawing a highly generalized view of Chinese history from the study of a locale. Predictably, historians who study the history of a locality are forever confronted with the issue of typicality. When a scholar claims that the history of a particular place— the Xiang Lake, for example—“has much to teach us about the Chinese and their society, past and present,” and that “because of the length of the lake’s history, we may also ponder questions about the continuity of the Chinese views of life, society, and nature through the ( 2. Editors’ introduction to Hymes and Schirokauer, Ordering the World, esp. pp. 5–31.

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centuries,”3 what are we to make of this? Asserting that the peculiar experience of a place can represent a grand “Chinese consciousness” or “Chinese way of life” certainly risks overgeneralization. In the present case, we cannot even claim that Guanzhong represents a common north China experience, much less a “Chinese” one. Yet this kind of claim has to be taken seriously, since it serves to remind us that it is equally problematic if the study of a locale leaves out the whole—be it the nation, the state, or the empire—of which the locale is construed to be a part. Even at a time when the territory of China was divided into a number of empires, the belief in a common history and culture was one of the most important symbols that people invoked to construct their worldview. The strength of writing history from a local perspective, as I see it, lies in the premise that it allows us to investigate, on a microscopic level, how a shared set of symbols can be negotiated and played out in different ways in different places and in different times. Needless to say, how the symbols were invoked varies from place to place and from period to period. Indeed, in approaching the issue from this perspective, we are concerned about particularity. Particularity does not, however, imply isolation. Instead, the study of a locality should inform us about how the particular interacts with larger entities, such as the state or the nation, higher in the spatial hierarchy. This is important not simply because such an investigation can provide a basis for comparing various locales but also because the interaction between different levels in a spatial hierarchy is itself an important part of the experience of historical actors. In this respect, as I have tried to show, the national past of Guanzhong offers us a useful analytical tool, which we can deploy to probe other complex instances of identity-building. By emphasizing or de-emphasizing the national past of their native place, Guanzhong literati were in effect trying to define their place and, by implication, their own identity vis-à-vis the identities of others within a larger cultural domain. This leads us to another historiographical question, which concerns the use of the term “local” in modern scholarship. As mentioned in the Introduction, modern scholars have used the concept of “localism” indiscriminately to describe two quite different phenomena: the ( 3. Author’s preface to R. Keith Schoppa, Song Full of Tears, pp. xi–xii.

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construction and promotion of a local identity, and the crafting of an extra-bureaucratic space at the local level. This fusion is sometimes necessary, for example, when the “local” was understood by the historical actors themselves both as an identity and as an “unofficial” space. As we have seen, when the literati compiled local gazetteers, they often tried both to exert their identity through native-place discourse and to convey the ideal of public-spiritedness by encouraging literati to participate in defining the history of the place in a nonofficial capacity. Sometimes, however, the two goals were pursued separately. We have seen how some adherents of Daoxue, while advocating an expansion of “unofficial” space, still perceived of themselves as belonging to a national community of scholars and therefore saw no need to create and foster a local identity. Conversely, could the literati identify strongly with their locality, feeling a strong urge to create a common identity based on place, and yet believe that all programs and institutions at the local level, including the very creation of this local identity, should be initiated by the government? Although I found no such cases in my study of Guanzhong, it seems logically possible. I would suggest that this phenomenon is most likely to be found in times when there was a high national demand for a local identity and in places where the elite was weak. This seems commonsensical, and indeed it is. My contention is simply that if we do not differentiate between the local and the “unofficial,” but instead, as is often the case with modern scholarship, loosely use the term “local” to conflate the two concepts and then position it in contrast to both the national and the state, we may tend to wrongly assume that, for example, a locally minded literatus can never at the same time hold statist views. ( This story of Guanzhong ends in 1911, a turning point in Chinese history that officially marks the end of the era of the shi. But former Guanzhong literati continued to tell the story of their native place well after the fall of the Qing dynasty. In the last days of the Qing dynasty, Shao Lizi, the governor of Shaanxi, invited Song Liankui (1870–1951), a prominent juren from Xi’an, to compile a collectanea entitled Guan-

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zhong congshu. The plan was disrupted by the 1911 Revolution, and it was not until the 1930s, when Song was tasked with overseeing the compilation of a provincial gazetteer, that he was able to re-embark on this project. From the time the compilation was suggested to its eventual materialization, the world of the learned underwent dramatic change. A new generation of intellectuals with no affiliation to the old imperial order had emerged and taken over many roles played by the shi in the past. Song himself turned “modern” and was politically active under the new regime. Toward the end of his life, he even became a committee member of the Communist Party–controlled Shaanxi Provincial Committee of the Chinese People’s Consultative Conference and took part in the land reform movement.4 However, the foreword he wrote for Guanzhong congshu is filled with the old rhetoric of the shi. Readers are told that this series, which contains works written mainly by Guanzhong literati and therefore serves as a commemoration of local worthies, was compiled to cultivate and restore “cultural virtues” (wende) after a prolonged period of military achievements (wugong).5 In Song’s foreword, culture is construed from a bottom-up perspective with the local worthies—the literati of the past—situated at the center of cultural transmission. Song encourages his readers to read the Guanzhong congshu as the collective product of learned men from both past and present, developed to promote the cultural tradition of Guanzhong for the good of the nation. The end of the era of the shi did not bring to a close the narrative that upheld Guanzhong as a symbol of cultural sovereignty transcending the rise and fall of political regimes. The times, however, had changed. Song’s way of depicting Guanzhong history was quickly marginalized and supplanted by the kind of nationalistic discourse introduced at the beginning of this book. When the communist government came to power, such a locally oriented approach to culture was suppressed for the sake of building a strong, centralized state. As soon as state control relaxed in the late 1970s, ( 4. See the entry for Song Liankui in Zhang Yonglu, Ming-Qing Xi’an cidian, pp. 306–7. 5. Song Liankui’s foreword, GZCS. This preface is attached to the first volume of the series, which is a commentary on Mencius by Zhao Qi (d. 201), a native of Guanzhong.

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however, the interest of Guanzhong intellectuals in the cultural and intellectual traditions of Guanzhong clearly revived, albeit in a totally different historical context.6 These recent developments constitute a telling and interesting story, but they must wait for another day.

( 6. See Guo Qiyong’s preface to Ding Weixiang, Xuqi xiang ji, p. 1.

Reference Matter

Character List

biji 筆記 Binfeng 邠風 Binfeng guang yi 豳/邠風廣義 Binzhou 邠州 bishi bidi zhi xun 辟世辟地之訓 Boling Cui 博陵崔 boluan fanzheng 撥亂反正 boxue 博學 Bozhulu Chong 孛朮魯翀 Bu Yuanju 步元舉 buji 補記 buyi zhi zi 布衣之子

Aizong 哀宗 Anfu shi 安撫使 Anxiwang xiangfu 安西王相府 Anxiwang 安西王 Bahulu 把胡魯 Bai 白 ban 坂 Ban Gu 班固 Baoben 報本 baobian 褒貶 Baoji 寶雞 baojia 保甲 Baoyuan 寶元 baru 霸儒 Beibian beidui 北邊備對 Bi Qingchang 畢慶長 Bi Qiufan 秋帆 Bi Shian 畢士安 Bi Yuan 畢沅 bianhuo 辨惑 Bianjing 汴京 bianjun 邊郡 biepai 別派

Cai Gui 蔡圭 Cansang beiyao 蠶桑備要 caozhi gaojie 操志高潔 Chai Sheng 柴昇 Chang’an 長安 Chang’an zhi 長安志 Chang’an zhitu 長安志圖 Chaoyi 朝邑 Chen Hongmou 陳宏謀 Chen Liang 陳亮 Chen Minggui 陳銘珪

215

216 Chen Tao 陳濤 Chen Yaozi 陳堯咨 Chen Zi’ang 陳子昂 cheng 城 Cheng Dachang 程大昌 Cheng Hao 程顥 Cheng Yi 程頤 Chengtang 成湯 chengxin 成心 Chenzhou 辰州 Chong 种 Chong Fang 种放 Chong Gu 种古 Chong Shidao 种師道 Chong Shiheng 种世衡 Chong Xu 种詡 Chongyang 重陽 Chongyang zushi 重陽祖師 Chu Jun 褚峻 chuan 傳 Chuci 楚辭 Chunhua 淳化 Chunqiu 春秋 chushi 出世 Chuyu 楚豫 Cide 慈德 Cihu 慈湖 cijian buzheng 慈儉不爭 Cui Lintao 崔林濤 Cui Yinglin 崔應麟 Cui Yuan 崔遠 Daming 大名 Da Ming yitongzhi 大明一統志 Dang Huaiying 党懷英 daotong 道統 Daoxue 道學 daruhachi 達魯花赤 Dasan Pass 大散關 Dashun 大順

Character List daxin 大心 daxuetang 大學堂 da youwei 大有為 de 得 dexing suo zhi 德性所知 di 帝 dili shu 地理書 diwang zhi xue 帝王之學 Diwu juren 第五居仁 dixue 帝學 Donglin 東林 Donglu 東魯 Dongming 東明 Du 杜 Du Fu 杜甫 Du Quan 杜佺 Du Xiao 杜曉 Duan Jian 段堅 Duan Jichang 段繼昌 dui 堆 du zongguan 都總管 Ehu 鵝湖 en 恩 erqian 二千 facao 法曹 Fan Xiang 范祥 Fan Yu 范育 Fan Yuan 范遠 Fan Zhongyan 范仲淹 Fanchuan 樊川 fangzhi 方志 Fanyang Lu 范陽盧 Fen 汾 Feng Congwu 馮從吾 Fengfu 奉符 fengjian 封建 Fengtian 奉天 Fengxiang 鳳翔

Character List Fengyi 馮翊 Fengyuan 奉元 fu (restore) 復 fu (rhapsody) 賦 Fu Bin xuehui 復邠學會 Fuchang 阜昌 fugu 復古 fulao 父老 furu 腐儒 Fuxi 伏羲 Fuyan 鄜延 Fuzhou (Jiangxi) 撫州 Fuzhou (Sichuan) 涪州 Gai Liangchen 蓋良臣 gan 感 gan er sui tong 感而遂通 Gan Yanju 橄彥舉 Gao An 高安 Gao Bao 高褒 Gao Qing 高清 Gaoling 高陵 gewu 格物 gong 公 gongdian shiting 宮殿室庭 Gongliu 公劉 gonglun 公論 Gu Yanwu 顧炎武 guan 關 Guan 冠 guan’ge louguan 觀閣樓觀 Guangxi 廣西 guanli 官吏 Guan-Long congshu 關隴叢書 Guanxi 關西 Guanxidao 關西道 Guanxi fuzi 關西夫子 Guanxi louru 關西陋儒 Guanxi Mashi congshu 關西馬氏叢書 Guanxue 關學

217

Guanxue bian 關學編 guanzhi junxian 管治郡縣 Guanzhong 關中 Guanzhong congshu 關中叢書 Guanzhong daomai sizhong shu 關中 道脈四種書 Guanzhong jinshi ji 關中金石記 Guanzhong liangchao wenchao, shichao 關中兩朝文抄, 詩抄 Guanzhong ping yuan 關中平原 Guanzhong san xiansheng yaoyu lu 關中三先生要語錄 Guanzhong shengji tuzhi 關中勝跡 圖志 Guanzhong shuyuan 關中書院 Guanzhong si xiansheng yaoyu lu 關中 四先生要語錄 gu diwang zhi zhou 古帝王之州 gui 歸 guji 古跡 Guo Bin 郭彬 Guo Qiyong 郭齊勇 Guo Xiang 郭象 Guo Yingfu 郭英夫 Guo Zhouqing 郭周卿 guochao wenpai 國朝文派 Guoxian 虢縣 guwen 古文 Guzang 姑臧 Hailing wang 海陵王 Han Bangjing 韓邦靖 Han Bangqi 韓邦奇 Han Jian 韓建 Han Shantong 韓山童 Han Xin 韓信 Han Yu (768–824) 韓愈 Han Yu ( jinshi 1194) 韓玉 Hancheng 韓城 Han’gu 函谷

218 hanren 漢人 Hao 鎬 Haoling 灝靈 He Ruilin 賀瑞麟 Hejin 河津 Hengqu 橫渠 Hengshan 橫山 Heshu 和叔 Hexi 河西 Heyang 郃陽 Hong Liangji 洪亮吉 Hong’ao 紅襖 Hongdao 宏道 Hongjin jun 紅巾軍 Hongzhi 弘治 Hou Ke 侯可 Hou Zhongliang 侯仲良 Houji 后稷 Hu Bingwen 胡炳文 Hu Sansheng 胡三省 Hu Shi 胡侍 Hua 華 Huang Ruchang 黃汝昌 Huang Shudu 黃叔度 Huang Tingjian 黃庭堅 Huang Zongxi 黃宗羲 Huanglong 黃龍山 huangtu 黃圖 Huanqing 環慶 Huayin 華陰 huayuan chitai 花園池臺 Huazhou 華州 Huidi 惠帝 Huiyi 回夷 Huizhou 徽州 Huxian 鄠縣 ji (record) 記 ji (traces) 迹 Ji An 汲黯

Character List jia 家 Jia Yu 賈戫 Jiading 嘉定 Ji’an hou 濟安侯 Jiang Fu 蔣斧 Jiangnan 江南 jiangxue 講學 Jiangyou 江右 Jiangzhe 江浙 jianlü dushi 踐履篤實 Jiao 焦 Jiao Yuanpu 焦源溥 Jiao Yuanqing 焦源清 Jiao Zhixia 焦之夏 jiao zhi zong 教之宗 jiawang 假王 jiawu 甲午 jiayi 家儀 Jijun 汲郡 Jing 涇 Jing Ganchen 荊幹臣 Jing Tan 景覃 jingcheng 京城 Jingchuan 涇川 jingji 經籍 jinglueshi 經略使 jingshi 經世 jingtian 井田 jing yan 經筵 Jingyang 涇陽 jing yi 井邑 Jingyuan 涇原 Jingzhao 京兆 Jingzhao Du 京兆杜 Jinhua 金華 Jinjian 近鑑 Jinshi Fengquan qiang zao 進士 鳳泉強造 jiran budong 寂然不動 Jiujiang 九江

Character List jiyi 紀異 Jiyin 濟陰 Ju 聚 juanshou 卷首 jue 絕 Juelu 決錄 junping 均平 junxian 郡縣 Kaihuang 開皇 Kaiyuan 開元 kaizhong 開中 Kang Hai 康海 Kang Youwei 康有為 Kaogu bian 考古編 kaoju 考據 Kaoting 考亭 kaozheng 考證 Keji ming 克己銘 Kong Tianjian 孔天監 Konggong qu 孔公渠 kou 寇 Kou Zhun 寇準 Lai Fucheng 來賦誠 Lai Xianchen 來獻臣 Lai Yanran 來儼然 Lanquan 蘭泉 Lantian 藍田 Lanzhou 蘭州 Lei 雷 Lei Dexiang 雷德驤 Lei Guan 雷琯 Lei Jianfu 雷簡夫 Lei Xiaoxian 雷孝先 Lei Youlin 雷有鄰 Lei Youzhong 雷有終 Leibian Chang’an zhi 類編長安志 li (clerk) 吏 li (norm, principle) 理

Li Bai 李白 Li Chang 李昶 Li Chunzhi 李純之 Li Duanfu 李端甫 Li Fen 李汾 Li Fu 李復 Li Gong 李塨 Li Han 李瀚 Li Hang 李沆 Li Haowen 李好文 Li Jie 李節 Li Jin 李錦 Li Jing 李靖 Li Junmin 李俊民 Li Kai 李楷 Li Maozhen 李茂貞 Li Shu 李樞 Li Ting 李庭 Li Weizhen 李維楨 Li Yindu 李因篤 Li Yong 李顒 Li Yuanchun 李元春 Li Zhiyuan 李志遠 Li Zhongzhang 李仲章 Li Zhou 李周 Li Zhuanmei 李專美 Li Zicheng 李自成 Li Zijing 李子敬 Lian 濂 Lian Xixian 廉希憲 li ben tian zhi ziran 禮本天之 自然 lidai jiandu yiji 歷代建都 遺跡 lifa 立法 lijia 里甲 li menhu 立門戶 Linjinguan 臨晉關 Liu Bang 劉邦 Liu Guangfen 劉光蕡

219

220 Liu Guangshi 劉光世 Liu Guyu 劉古愚 Liu Jin 劉瑾 Liu Pingshu 劉平叔 Liu Qingli 劉清藜 Liu Wenxiu 劉文秀 Liu Yu 劉豫 liunei 流內 liuwai 流外 Liuyang 瀏陽 lixue 理學 Lixue mingchen 理學名臣 Longchi 龍池 Longge 龍閣 Long Pass 隴關 Longshou 龍首 Longtu ge 龍圖閣 Longxi 隴西 Longxing 龍興 Lou Qian 婁謙 lu 路 Lü 呂 Lü Dafang 呂大防 Lü Dajun 呂大鈞 Lü Dalin 呂大臨 Lü Dazhong 呂大忠 Lü Duanshan 呂端善 Lü Fen 呂蕡 Lu Jiuyuan 陸九淵 Lü Kun 呂坤 Lü Nan 呂柟 Lü Qian 呂潛 Lü Sicheng 呂思誠 Lü Tong 呂通 Lu Wenchao 盧文弨 Lü Yishan 呂義山 Lü Zuqian 呂祖謙 Luanzhou 灤州 Luhun 陸渾 Luling 盧陵

Character List Luo 洛 Luo Qinshun 羅欽順 Luo Tianxiang 駱天驤 Luo Zhenyu 羅振玉 Luoxue 洛學 lüxiang 閭巷 Lüye 綠野 Luzhai shuyuan 魯齋書院 Ma Li 馬理 Ma Long 馬龍 Ma Lu 馬魯 Ma Pu 馬朴 Ma Ziqiang 馬自強 Mancheng 滿 城 Mei 郿 Meixian 郿縣 meng’an mouke 猛安謀克 Mengzi jian 孟子笺 Min 閩 mingtang biyong 明堂 辟雍 mingti 明體 minjian zidi 民間子弟 mu 畝 Nan Daji 南大吉 neiluan 內亂 Nongxuehui 農學會 Ouxiang lingshi 藕香零拾 Ouyang Xuan 歐陽玄 Pan Yue 潘岳 Peng Ze 彭澤 Pingjin 平晉 Pingliang 平涼 po 坡 Pucheng 蒲城 Pujiang 浦江

Character List qi (matter, vital force) 氣 qi (musical instrument) 篪 Qi 齊 Qian Daxin 錢大昕 Qian Dian 錢坫 Qiang Zao 強造 qian qizi 前七子 qianxiu jingyang 潛修靜養 Qianzhou 乾州 Qianzhou xunnan shinü lu 乾州殉難 士女錄 qiao 橋 qilao 耆老 Qin 秦 Qinfeng 秦鳳 qing 頃 Qinghe 清河 Qinghe Cui 清河崔 qingjing wuwei 清靜無為 Qingshan 慶善 Qingzhou 青州 Qinling range 秦嶺 Qinzhou 秦州 Qishan 歧山 Qiyang 岐陽 “Qiyue” 七月 Qi-Zhou 岐周 Qu Yuan 屈原 Quan Zuwang 全祖望 quancheng 勸懲 Quanzhen 全真 que 闕 qutian 渠田 qu yu zhouxian 屈於州縣 renwu 人物 renxin 仁心 renzheng 仁政 rouxing 肉刑 ru 儒

ruzhong 入中 sai 塞 Sanbai 三白 Sanfu 三輔 Sanguan 散關 sanli 三禮 Sanshui 三水 Sanyuan 三原 Sanyuan Wen 三原溫 semu 色目 Shaanbei 陝北 Shaannan 陝南 Shanchuan dili tu 山川地理圖 Shang 商 Shang Yang 商鞅 shangdi 上帝 shanghu 上戶 shangji 商籍 Shanling zaji 山陵雜記 shanling zhongmu 山陵冢墓 shanshui 山水 Shao Lizi 邵力子 Shao Yong 邵雍 Shen Buhai 申不害 Shen Zizhang 沈自彰 shengyou 勝游 shengyuan 生員 Shenyao 神堯 shi 十 Shi Jie 石介 Shi Su 史肅 Shi Tuo 師拓 Shi Xue 史學 Shi Yisheng 施宜生 shidafu 士大夫 shigu 師古 shiguan 市官 Shihan 師韓 shihou 世侯

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Character List

Shi ji 史記 shike 石刻 Shiqu yijian 石渠意見 shiren 士人 shishen 士紳 shixue 實學 shiyong 適用 Shiyuan congshu 適園叢書 shizhong 時中 Shouchen 壽臣 Shoushan 首善 Shouyang 壽陽 shu (hall for education) 塾 Shu (a regime of the Three Kingdoms period) 蜀 shuai 衰 shumu gushi 數目故事 Shutan 墅談 si 私 sidao 斯道 siju weixia zhe 私居位下者 Sima Guang 司馬光 Sima Qian 司馬遷 Simu baojian 司牧寶鑑 sishu 私淑 siyuan 寺院 song 頌 Song 嵩 Song Fanghu 宋方壺 Song Lian 宋濂 Song Liankui 宋聯奎 Song Minqiu 宋敏求 Song Shi 宋湜 Song Wengu 宋溫故 Song Wenshu 宋溫舒 Song Wo 宋偓 Songru 宋儒 Su 蘇 Su Bing 蘇昞 Su Hui 蘇蕙

Su Shi 蘇軾 Su Tianjue 蘇天爵 Sui 隋 Suining 遂寧 Sun Kaidi 孫楷第 Sun Qifeng 孫奇逢 Sun Tongxiang 孫通祥 Sun Xingyan 孫星衍 Sun Zhouqing 孫周卿 suru 俗儒 Taibao 太保 Taiding 泰定 Taigong Wang 太公望 Taihe 泰和 Taiping xingguo 太平興國 Taiwang 太王 taixu 太虛 Taiyi 太乙 Taiyuan 太原 Taizhou 泰州 Tang Zhongyou 唐仲友 tangzhai tingyuan 堂宅亭園 taokou 套寇 ti 體 tian dafu 田大夫 tiandi zhi de 天地之德 tianguan 田官 tianxia gonggong zhi wu 天下 公共之物 “Tianxia wei yijia fu” 天下為 一家賦 tidian xingyu si 提點刑 獄司 Tiyong quanxue 體用全學 Tong Shu 同恕 Tongcheng 桐城 Tongguan 潼關 Tong jian gangmu 通鑒綱目 tongpan 通判

Character List Tongzhou 同州 Tongzhou Ma 同州馬 waiqi 外戚 Wang 王 Wang Anshi 王安石 Wang Chengyu 王承裕 Wang E 王鶚 Wang En 王恩 Wang Fu 王符 Wang Gen 王艮 Wang Hui 王惠 Wang Jiang 王江 Wang Jingji 王經濟 Wang Jun 王鈞 Wang Liyong 王利用 Wang Mingsheng 王鳴盛 Wang Na 王訥 Wang Shanghe 汪尚和 Wang Sheng 王盛 Wang Shixian 汪世顯 Wang Shu (n.d.) 王恕 Wang Shu (963–1034) 王曙 Wang Shu (1416–1508) 王恕 Wang Tingxiang 王廷相 Wang Tong 王通 Wang Wei (1323–74) 王褘 Wang Wei (fl. 1354) 王瑋 Wang Xiangzhi 王象之 Wang Xinjing 王心敬 Wang Xiuling 王修齡 Wang Xuemo 王學謨 Wang Yi 王毅 Wang Yihong 王一鴻 Wang Yinglin 王應麟 Wang Zhe 王喆 Wang Zheng 王徵 Wang Zhi 王志 Wang Zhishi 王之士 Wang Zhong 王忠

Wang Zhongyan 王仲淹 wangji 王畿 wangzheng 王政 Wannian 萬年 wanwu sangzhi 玩物喪志 Wanyan 完顏 Wan Yi yijian 玩易意見 Wei (river) 渭 Wei (state) 魏 Wei (township) 韋 wei Liang 偽梁 Wei Lizhong 衛立中 Wei Su 危素 Wei Zhongxian 魏忠賢 Wei Zhuo 衛濯 wen 文 Wen Chaofeng 溫朝鳳 Wen Chun 溫純 Wen Erming 溫爾明 Wen Tingluan 溫廷鸞 Wen Yanbo 文彥博 Wen Zizhi 溫自知 Wenchang 文昌 wenci 文詞/文辭 wende 文德 Wengong 溫公 wenjian zhi xia 聞見之狹 Wenjing 文景 Wenshi congshu 溫氏叢書 wenyun 文運 wenzhang 文章 Wu Cheng 吳澄 Wu Kuan 吳寬 Wu Zetian 武則天 wuchang 五常 wugong 武功 Wuguan 武關 Wuhou 武侯 wujing boshi 五經博士 wusi 五祀

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Character List

wuwu 戊午 Wuyang 舞陽 “Wuyi” 無逸 Wuzhou 婺州 Xiagui 下邽 xian 陷 Xi’an 西安 xiang 鄉 Xiang Yu 項羽 xiangju lixuan 鄉舉里選 xiangshen 鄉紳 Xiangtan 湘潭 xiangyue xiangyi 鄉約鄉儀 xianmin 先民 Xianning 咸寧 Xianyang 咸陽 Xiao Gong 蕭貢 Xiao Ju 蕭奭斗 Xiaoguan 蕭關 xiaomin 小民 xiaoxue 小學 Xichang 西廠 Xie Zhongjie 解仲傑 Xihe 熙河 Xincheng 新城 xing (form) 形 xing (nature) 性 xingli zhi xue 性理之學 Xingping 興平 Xingyang Zheng 滎陽鄭 xing yushi tai 行御史臺 Xining 熙寧 xinzhisheng 心之聲 Xinzhi zhuqi tushuo 新製諸器圖說 Xiuqi zhizhi 修齊直指 Xu Fuyuan 許孚遠 Xu Guang 徐廣 Xu Heng 許衡 Xu Zheng 徐政

Xu Zhongxuan 許仲宣 xuanju 選舉 Xue Jingzhi 薛敬之 Xue Xuan 薛瑄 Xuegu 學古 Xuezhizhu 學之著 xukong ji qi 虛空即氣 xun 塤 xungu 訓詁 Yan Yuan 顏元 Yan’an 延安 Yang Dongqing 楊洞清 Yang Gongyi 楊恭懿 Yang Huan 楊奐 Yang Jiagou 楊家沟 Yang Jian 楊簡 Yang Li 楊礪 Yang Shen 楊屾 Yang Shi 楊時 Yang Shiqi 楊士奇 Yang Tan 楊坦 Yang Tiande 楊天德 Yang Tingxiu 楊庭秀 Yang Xingzong 楊興宗 Yang Yiqing 楊一清 Yang Zhen (d. 124) 楊震 Yang Zhen (1153–1215) 楊振 Yangcan gegua 養蠶歌括 yanta 雁塔 Yanyou 延祐 Yao Shu 姚樞 Yao Sui 姚燧 Yao mountains 崤山 yaoru menhu ge yi 繇入門戶各異 Ye Shi 葉適 yi (post station) 驛 yi (real intent) 意 yi (righteousness) 義 Yi Yin 伊尹

Character List Yidu 益都 yi kaoju cun wenxian 以考據存文獻 Yiluo 伊洛 Yiluo yuanyuan lu 伊洛淵源錄 yimen 義門 yin 蔭 yinyi yimin zhi zhuan 隱逸逸民之傳 Yishang 翊商 yiwen 藝文 yizhi 邑志 yong 用 Yonglu 雍錄 Yongxinjun 永興軍 Yongzhou 雍州 you 游 You Shixiong 游師雄 You Zuo 游酢 you shixin ze you shiji 有是心則 有是迹 yu 與 Yu Ji 虞集 Yu Zhidao 于志道 yuan 原 Yuanhao 元昊 Yuan Haowen 元好問 yuanqiu jiaoshe 圓丘郊社 Yuanxi qiqi tushuo 遠西奇器圖說 Yuanyou 元祐 Yudi jisheng 輿地紀勝 Yue 岳 Yue Xingfu 岳行甫 Yugong lun 禹貢論 Yunzhong 雲中 yushi 餘事 zan 贊 zazhu 雜著 Zeng Sen 曾參 Zezhou 澤州 Zhang 張

Zhang Dainian 張岱年 Zhang Ding 張鼎 Zhang Dun 章惇 Zhang Jian (1030–76) 張戩 Zhang Jian (fl. 1175) 張健 Zhang Jie 張傑 Zhang Pengyi 張鵬一 Zhang Quanyi 張全義 Zhang Shangying 張商英 Zhang Shundian 張舜典 Zhang Wenyun 張文運 Zhang Zai 張載 Zhang Zai ci wenwu guanlisuo 張載祠文物管理所 Zhang Zhan 張瞻 Zhang Zigao 張子皋 zhangju ru 章句儒 Zhanguo ce 戰國策 Zhangzi quanshu 張子全書 Zhangzi shiyao 張子釋要 Zhao Bing 趙炳 Zhao Bingwen 趙秉文 Zhao Fu 趙復 Zhao gong 召公 Zhao Lianggong 趙亮公 Zhao Maozeng 趙茂曾 Zhao Qi 趙歧 Zhao Yi 趙翼 Zhaocheng 趙城 zhen 鎮 Zhen Dexiu 真德秀 Zhending 真定 Zheng 鄭 Zhengguo 鄭國 Zhengmeng 正蒙 Zhengshu 正叔 Zhengtong bali 正統八例 Zhengtong shu 正統書 Zhenguan 貞觀 zhengxin chengyi 正心誠意

225

226 Zhengxue 正學 Zhengxue ci 正學祠 Zhenming 貞明 zhenzhu 真主 Zhenzhu chuan 真珠船 zhi 直 zhidao 治道 zhiguan 職官 zhili 志例 zhili houlu 志例後錄 zhongcheng 中丞 zhonghu 中戶 Zhonghui 仲虺 Zhongnan Mountain 終南山 Zhongtiao mountains 中條山 zhongwen qingwu 重文輕武 zhongyi 忠義 Zhongyong huowen 中庸或問 Zhongzhou ji 中州集 Zhou 周 Zhou Dunyi 周敦頤 Zhou gong 周公

Character List Zhou Hui 周蕙 Zhoude 周德 Zhouzhi 盩厔 Zhu Tingmo 朱廷模 Zhu Xi 朱熹 Zhu Zhongyi 邾仲誼 zhuangyuan 狀元 Zhuangzi 莊子 zhuanyunshi 轉運使 Zhuge Liang 諸葛亮 zhuhou 諸侯 Zichan 子產 Zihou 子厚 zihuangdi 子皇帝 Ziwu ridge 子午嶺 Ziyang daomai lu 紫陽道脈錄 Zizhi tong jian 資治通鑒 zong 宗 zongfa 宗法 zongzi 宗子 zu 族

Bibliography

The following abbreviations are used in the Bibliography: CSJCCB CSJCXB GXJBCS GXMSCS GZCS SBBY SBCK SBCKCB SBCKSB SKJHS SKQS SKQSCMCS SKWSS WSCS

Congshu jicheng chubian 叢書集成初編 (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1935) Congshu jicheng xubian 叢書集成續編 (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1994) Guoxue jiben congshu 國學基本叢書 Guanxi Mashi congshu 關西馬氏叢書 Guanzhong congshu 關 中 叢 書 (Xi’an: Shaanxi tongzhi guan, 1934) Sibu beiyao 四部備要 Sibu congkan 四部叢刊 Sibu congkan chubian 四部叢刊初編 Sibu congkan sanbian 四部叢刊三編 Siku jinhui shu congkan 四庫禁燬書叢刊 Wenyuange Siku quanshu 文淵閣四庫全書 (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1983– ) Siku quanshu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢書 ( Ji’nan: Qilu shushe, 1997) Siku weishoushu jikan 四庫未收書輯刊 (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2000) Wenshi congshu 溫氏叢書

227

228 XXSKQS

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Index

Anxi circuit, 80 Anxiwang, 79–80 application: yong, 52, 181–83; shiyong (practical), 182 aristocracy, 31, 73; collapse of, 13, 40, 74; aristocrats, 11, 19, 23, 28–29; background, 30, 37

affines, 38, 39n55, 88n39, 90; waiqi (affines of the imperial clan), 169 agrarian society: and Jin rule, 78, 87 agriculture officials, 57, 59, 197–98 Aizong (last Jin emperor), 101 alien: regimes, 1, 15, 208; rule, 85 An Lushan Rebellion, 2, 23 Ananda, 80 ancestors, 169, 170, 196; of Li Zhuanmei, 29; and zong, 62; and the Wens, 146; and lineage, 148; of Ma Lu, 148–49; and lines of transmission, 149; and Li Yuanchuan, 191 ancient sage-kings (Fuxi, Kings Wen and Wu, Duke of Zhou), 8, 11, 187, 196 antiquity, 11, 44–51 passim, 59, 65; and learning, 11; government, 44–45; rituals of, 54; and Zhang Zai, 55, 58–59, 61; and Lü Dajun, 71–72; and Xiao Ju, 126–27

Ban Gu, 100 baojia system, 69, 137 Baoyuan era, 25 Beattie, Hilary, 12, 147 benevolent, 170; and Zhang Zai, 51, 57, 61; and Lü Dajun, 68; and Xiao Ju, 125–26; and Yang Shen, 187 Bi Qiufan, see Bi Yuan Bi Shi’an (938–1005), 38n53, 38n54 Bi Yuan (1730–97), 1, 39n58, 190– 93, 202 Binaries: national/local, 16; official/unofficial, 16; central/regional, 17; relations, 20

251

252 Binfeng guang yi (Explication of the “Songs of Bin”), 186, 197 Birdwhistell, Anne: on Li Yong, 181–83 Bol, Peter K., 29n18, 46; on Taihe, 10; on skilled writings, 36; on shi, 64; on Jin dynasty, 85; on Jin literati, 100, 112; on Jinhua Neo-Confucianism, 120, 124 Book of Changes: and Xiao Ju, 119; and Zhang Zai, 123, 173n123 Book of Documents: and Xiao Ju, 123; and Liu Guangfen, 198 Book of Odes: and Yang Zhen, 99; and Yang Shen, 186; and Liu Guangfen, 196 border delivery (kaizhong) system, 141 boxue (broad learning), 163 Bozhulu Chong (1289–1341), 128 Buddhism, 176, 182; and threat to scholar-officials, 55; Tibetan, 84; three schools, 104; heterodox, 175 Bureau of Military Affairs (Northern Song), 36, 56 bureaucracy: and Taihe men, 9; and civil examinations, officeholding, 9, 153; and career, 28, 30, 32, 74, 77, 116, 146; and families, 33–35, 87; and Guanzhong men, 36; and extrabureaucratic space, 107–8, 130, 210 Cai Gui (d. 1174), 91 central authority, 61: and benevolence, 57; threatened by local powers, 59; well-field system, 74, 207

Index central government, 16–17, 17n31, 27n15, 28, 41, 44–45, 64–65, 73, 80–83 passim, 87, 95, 135, 139, 205–6, 210 Chan Hok-lam: on Yang Huan, 98, 98n72, 100n81, 102 Chang’an (present-day Xi’an): as national capital, 2, 6; as political center, 28; and powerful families, 40; and households, 86; Chang’an zhi, 109–10; and Luo Tianxiang, 110–14 Chen Hongmou (1696–1771): and Li Yong, 183–85 Chen Liang (1143–94), 120 Chen Minggui (1824–81), 77 Chen Tao: on Liu Guangfen, 199 Cheng brothers, 21–22, 41, 43, 50, 53–54, 58n109, 67, 75, 116, 121– 22, 132–34, 154, 159, 160, 163–65, 173n123, 174–75, 178, 201; and well-field system, 49 Cheng Dachang (1123–95), 110 Cheng Hao (1032–85), see Cheng brothers Cheng Yi (1033–1107), see Cheng brothers Chenghua emperor (r. 1465–87), 157 chengxin (a mind preoccupied with self-indulgent opinions and selfish intentions), 53 Cheng-Zhu, 19, 119–23, 130, 133–34, 142, 153–54, 160, 163–66, 193, 196, 201–2, 205–7; school, 175– 78 passim; traditions, 183–84; learning, 188–89. See also LuWang Chinese Communist Party, 2, 211

Index Chong family (of the Northern Song), 31, 33–36; Chong Fang (d. 1015), 33–35; Chong Gu (n.d.), 35; Chong Shidao (1051– 1126), 35; Chong Shiheng (985– 1045), 34, 35; Chong Xu, 33 Christianity, 179–80 Chu Jun (n.d.), 189 Chuci, 100 chushi (leaving the world), 34 Cihu (Yang Jian) (1141–1226), 175 civil examination, 13, 19, 29, 31, 37– 38, 55–56, 74, 77–79, 106, 117– 18, 142, 182, 185, 189; and recruitment, 13, 31; and bureaucratic families, 19; and preserving shi status, 55; abolition of, 200; Jinshi, 28, 30, 32, 33, 36, 37, 63, 153; metropolitan, 48; quota, 26, 140 clans, 23, 28–30, 44, 88n39, 144–49, 146n50, 169, 196, 204 class, 14, 79, 84–85, 197; and shi, 12, 19, 72n146, 200; and scholarofficial, 54–55; and landowning, 58; ruling, 61, 136, 197; aristocratic, 72n146; of merchants, 143; of literati, 143, 150, 204; of intellectuals, 200 classicists (zhang ju ru), 115 clergy: and rebellion, 82; and shi, 83–84, 129; and politics, 157 clerks, 12, 69, 99, 99n74; challenge to shi class, 84–85, 129 commerce, 140–43 passim, 187, 201, Committee of the Chinese People’s Consultative Conference, 211 community: literati, 10, 151–53; local, 15–16, 48–49, 68, 72, 124,

253 126–30, 139, 171, 204, 206; national, 18, 210; intellectual, 47, 135, 152–53, 194, 201, 207; public, 155, 201; unofficial, 158, 169, 201–2; schools, 195, 197; Daoxue, 201 Confucian canons, 12 Confucianism, 104, 108, 162; imperial, 126 Confucian masters, 180n149 Confucian society, 55 consciousness, historical, 3, 18; local, 16, 17, 18, 185, 201, 202, 204; of man, 54; cosmic order, 52–53, 75 cosmology: and Zhang Zai, 47, 51, 54; and Xiao Ju, 126 Court, see central government Cui Lintao, 2–3 Cui Yinglin (n.d.), 172 culture: Guanzhong, 1, 11, 18, 34, 46, 95, 100, 110, 129, 172, 177, 185, 188; Chinese, 2, 209; literati, 17, 19–20, 24, 34, 36, 76–78, 84– 86, 90, 98, 100, 103, 111, 114, 129–30, 134, 136, 150, 202, 205–7; local, 112, 118, 172, 188, 201–2, 211 Dang Huaiying (1134–1211), 91–92 Daoism: Quanzhen, 76, 105; selfcultivation, 77; and leaving the world, 103, 105, 182; and the three schools, 104; and Confucianism, 108 daotong (orthodox tradition), 122, 124 Daoxue, 15, 19–22 passim, 75, 99, 100, 105, 114–25 passim, 128–35 passim, 142–43, 150–54 passim,

254 158, 159, 162–67 passim, 171–72, 175–82 passim, 184, 193, 201, 205–7 passim, 210. See also NeoConfucianism Daoxue scholar, 115–19, 123–25, 128–29, 152, 163, 173, 206 Dardess, John, 9–10, 89, 167 Dark Ages: and Guanzhong, 131, 202 descendents, 30, 28–29, 30, 59, 87, 91, 132, 172; Kracke and Hartwell on, 31n23 di, shangdi, 185 “discussing learning” ( jiangxue) 165, 167–68, 172, 202 diwang zhi xue (learning of the sageemperors and kings), 122 Diwu Juren (n.d.), 128 doctor, 85, 107, 129, 185 Donglin movement, 167 Du Fu (712–70), 99, 106 Du Xiao (d. 912), 30–31 dual government, 78, 80 Duan Jian (1419–84), 151–53, 151n71, 159 Duke of Zhou, 8, 59, 105, 123, 159, 166, 173, 198 Ebrey, Patricia, 31, 57n107, Eight Banner garrisons, 136 elites, 10–14 passim, 19, 23–24, 29– 32, 36–37, 46, 55, 61, 64, 85, 88, 145, 200; local, 13–16, 39–43 passim, 60, 66, 71–74 passim, 80–83 passim, 90, 94, 108, 113, 120, 128– 29, 139–40, 143, 147, 203–4, 207–10 passim; professional, 14; non-official, 15, 17, 108, 127, 155, 204–5; cultural, 23, 46, 73, 84; scholar, 135

Index embodying all things (ti ), 53 Emperor Gaozu (Han, r. 206–195 b.c.), 125 Emperor Gaozu (Tang, r. 618–26), 42 Emperor Huidi (Han, r. 194–188 b.c.), 125 Emperor Huizong (Song, r. 1101– 25), 35 Emperor Renzong (Yuan, r. 1312– 21), 117–18 Emperor Shenzong (Song, r. 1068–85), 41, 48, 51 Emperor Zhenzong (Song, r. 998– 1022), 32, 34, 38, 40 Ephemeral, ji, 50 Eternal, dao, 50 eunuchs, 69, 140, 157; Wei Zhongxian (1568–1627), 168 exports, 186; grain, 25 extra-official activities, 68; importance of, 71 factional struggles, 69 false learning: and Daoxue, 162–63, 175 famines, 136–39 passim, 147 famous local personages (renwu), 113, 171 Fan Zhongyan (989–1052), 48 fangzhi model (category of “historical geography”), 109 Feng Congwu (1556–1627), 114, 168–71, 189, 193–94, 201; and Zhang Zai, 133–34, 151, 177–78, 201; and Guanxue, 167, 172–78, 207; and Donglin movement, 167–68 fengjian system (enfeoffment), 50, 60; and Zhang Zai, 55, 59–61,

Index 65, 71; Lü Dajun, 65–66, 71. See also junxian system; well-field system Fengyuan circuit, 80 feudal, 143; lords, 60–61 Finnane, Antonia, 10, 150 Five Classics, 116, 132, 153, 179 form (xing ), 52 Four Books, see Five Classics four schools format, 133 Fu bin xuehui (Bin Restoration Society), 195 Fuzhou, 13–15, 121; elites, 17 Gansu, 8, 79, 81, 87, 91n50, 92n51, 96, 136, 151–52, 194–95, 199 Gao Qing (n.d.), 39 gazetteers, local, 34, 45–46, 74, 86, 89, 109–10, 113, 132, 137n17, 162, 171, 191–92, 201–2, 210; county ( yizhi), 138, 169, 170–71, 190–92; provincial, 86, 151n71, 169, 192, 211 Gedalecia, David, 120–21 genealogy, 21, 37, 102, 132–33, 144, 149–50, 169–70, 173 gentry, 12–14, 146, 188, 194 gong, see public government: and Zhang Zai, 46– 47, 49, 60–61, 123; and Cheng Yi, 50; and Lü Dajun, 66, 69; and Xiao Ju, 126. For local, county, or provincial government, see regional government government schools, 142, 144, 148 great clan, 28–29, 44, 204 Great Learning, 104, 122–23, 182, 189 Gu Yanwu (1613–82), 60, 181, 205 Guanxue bian (Cases of Guanzhong learning ), 172

255 Guanzhong: and nationalistic discourse, 1–3; post-Tang, 2–3, 17, 24, 203; topography of, 3–7; and Shaanxi, 7–9; and local identity, 11; and literati, 12, 17– 20 passim, 23, 28, 34, 42, 65, 73– 76 passim, 87, 88, 91, 103, 109, 120, 129, 130, 135, 140, 150, 152, 153, 201–11 passim; and elite, 41, 43, 90, 140, 143, 207; and literati culture, 86, 90, 114, 134; and literati families, 90; and literati tradition, 191 Guanzhong Academy, 172, 183 Guanzhong jinshi ji, 39n58, 190 Guanzhong school (Guanxue), 76; and Zhang Zai, 133, 135; Huang Zongxi, 150–51, 154; Feng Congwu, 167, 173–78, 201, 207; lineage, 172, 180; Chen Hongmou (1696–1771), 179, 183–84; Yang Shen, 185, 187; Li Yuanchun, 188, 194; Liu Guangfen, 195–96, 200; local officials, 202 Guanzhong shengji tuzhi (Illustrated record of famous sites in Guanzhong), 1, 190 Guo Bin, 92, 92n52 guwen (ancient-style prose), 90, 99 Han Bangjing (1488–1523) Han Bangqi (1479–1556), 164–65, 177, 190 Han Tuizhi, see Han Yu Han Xin (d. 196 b.c.), 93 Han Yu (768–824), 96, 100, 114, 160 Hanlin Academy, 36 Hartwell, Robert, 14, 23n5, 31n23, 35 He Ruilin (1819–93), 11

256 heart-and-mind, 177 Heaven: Cheng Yi on, 49; Zhang Zai on, 51–54, 58–62, 65; natural order of, 54; Xiao Ju on, 125–26; heavenly way, principle, 162, 164, 177; Feng Congwu on, 173; Christian god, 179; mandate of, 195 Henan, 4, 11, 28, 33, 39n56, 63, 67, 80, 86, 87n35, 98, 110, 128, 138, 152n71, 159, 164, 168, 174, 180, 185, 186, 190 Hengqu, see Zhang Zai hereditary, 55–57, 60, 65, 78, 80–81, 205; privilege ( yin), 37, 56 hermit, 104, 107; scholar, 32–35 Heshu, see Lü Dajun heterodox, 100, 175–76, 178, 189 hierarchy, 52, 54–55, 62, 71–72, 95, 130, 209 historical geography, 19, 103, 109, history, as a genre of literati learning, 97, 98, 101, 102, 103, 109, 116, 130, 165, 188 Hong Liangji (1746–1809), 190 Hongdao Academy, 154 Hongwu emperor (Ming, r. 1368– 98), 140–41 Hongzhi reign (1488–1506), 153 Hou Ke (1006–79), 41 Hu Shi (1492–1553), 162–65, 175 Huang Chao Rebellion and warfare, 23 Huang Tingjian (1045–1105), 100 Huang Zongxi (1610–95), 150–51, 154 Hucker, Charles, 26, 192n193 Hui Barbarians (Huiyi), 136 Hui Muslims, 136 Hundred Days Reform (1898), 194

Index Hymes, Robert, 13–15, 39, 72–74, 90, 203, 208 identity: construction, 9, 209; Taihe, 9–10; local, 9–11, 16–18, 73–74, 131, 177, 201, 206, 210; shi, 35, 76–77, 85, 146, 149–50, 207; Guanzhong, 67, 131, 158, 162, 165, 204, 207, 209; common, 139, 145, 148–49, 210; collective, 144; clan, 148 imperial: China, 10, 13, 15, 189; state, 18, 103; house, 28, 98, 103, 109; family, 29; system, 33, 60, 200; Confucianism, 126; clan (waiqi ), 169 inaction, 45, 72 innate knowledge, 176, 193 interconnectedness, 52–53, 57–58, 62, 75, 205 invasion: 3, 197–98, 200; Jurchen, 19, 76, 78, 85–86, 205; Mongol, 92, 95, 105; cultural, 187 investigation of things ( gewu), 54 irrigation, 41, 82, 110, 135 Islam, 84 Jiang Fu (fl. 1896–1909), 197 Jiang Zemin, 2 Jiao Yuanpu ( jinshi 1613), 139 Jiao Yuanqing ( jinshi 1607), 139 Jiao Zhixia (n.d.), 139 jing yan (classics mat), 122–23 Jinhua: Neo-Confucianism, 120; intellectuals, 120–21, 124 Johnson, David, 93–94 junping (egalitarian ideal), 58 junxian system, 50, 60, Jurchen, 19, 34–35, 75–79, 84–86, 104, 110, 174, 205

Index Kang Hai (1475–1540), 162, 165–67, 175, 190–91 Kang Youwei (1858–1927), 194 kaozheng (evidential research), 183– 84, 189–93, 202 Kasoff, Ira, 49, 134 Khubilai (1215–94), 79–80, 87, 101, 116–17, 122, 124 kinship, 82, 87–88, 149 Kong Tianjian, 82 Kou Zhun (961–1023), 37–38, 38n54, 39 Kracke, Edward, 14n26, 31n23 Lai Yanran ( jinshi 1595), 143 landlords, 139, 146–47 Lanquan, see Zhang Jian Laozi, 108 Leibian Chang’an zhi (Categorically organized records of Chang’an), 109–14, 113n123, 170, 190 Lei family (of Northern Song), 31– 33 passim, 35; Lei Youlin, 32; Lei Dexiang (917–92), 32, 33; Lei Jianfu (fl. 1040–63), 32–33; Lei Xiaoxian, 32, 33; Lei Youzhong (946–1005), 32, 33 Li Fu ( jinshi 1079), 44–46, 74 Li Han (n.d.), 165 Li Hang (947–1004), 39 Li Haowen ( jinshi 1321), 110 Li Jing (571–649), 158 Li Kai ( juren 1624), 188, 191 Li Maozhen (856–924), 93 Li Ting (1199–1282), 105–9, 130 Li Weizhen (1574–1626), 175 Li Yindu (1631–92), 189 Li Yong (1627–1705), 178–85 passim, 195, 201

257 Li Yuanchun (1769–1854), 8, 187– 88, 191–92, 194, 202 Li Zhiyuan (d. 1254), 108 Li Zhuanmei (ca. 884–ca. 945), 28– 30 Li Zicheng (1606–45), 136, 139, 180 Lian Xixian, 79 lijia system, 139 lineages: elite, 13; native, 24; aristocratic, 29; great, 87; 144–47 passim literati (shi): and local identity, 9–11; definition of, 11–12; and culture, 19, 20, 24, 36, 77, 78, 85, 98, 100, 111, 129, 136, 150, 202, 205, 206, 207; and learning, 23, 47, 64, 85, 97, 100, 101, 135, 167, 188. See also under Guanzhong literature, 90–91, 97, 106, 129, 166, 167, 205 Liu Bang, 93 Liu Guangfen (1843–1903), 194, 199, 200 Liu Guangshi (1089–1142), 70, 70n140 Liu Jin (d. 1510), 140 Liu Pingshu, see Liu Guangshi Liu Qingli (1664–1709), 198 Liu Yu (b. 1073), 77–78 local history, 9, 10, 46, 158, 170, 190, 193 local militia, 80–82, 96 Lou Qian (n.d.), 156 Lü Dafang (1027–97), 63–64, 68– 71 Lü Dajun (1031–82), 63–75 passim, 70n142, 134 Lü Dalin (1049–92), 63–64, 119, 134, 162

258 Lü Fen, 63, 63n123 Lu Jiuyuan (1139–92), 72–73, 120– 21, 175, 196 Lü Kun (1536–1618), 181 Lü Nan (1479–1542), 143, 158–62, 165, 176–77 Lü Qian (1517–78), 134, 167 Lü Sicheng (n.d.), 128 Lü Tong, 63 Lu Wenchao (1717–96), 190 Lü Zuqian (1137–81), 120 Luo Shuxun (1866–1940), 197 Luo Tianxiang (ca. 1223–ca. 1300), 109–10, 113, 130 Luoxue (Luoyang school), 76 Lu-Wang, 178, 183–84, 189, 193, 196, 201. See also Cheng-Zhu Ma clan (Tongzhou), 144–50 passim Ma Li (1437–1555), 142–43, 143n39, 162 Ma Long (n.d.), 156 Ma Lu ( juren 1761), 148–49 Ma Ziqiang (1513–78), 146 Manggala, 79–80 marriage, 14, 29, 37–39, 44, 63–64, 90, 143–45 Master Chongyang (Chongyang zushi), see Wang Zhe Master Hengqu, see Zhang Zai Meixian (Mei county): and Zhang Zai, 132, 165, 175 Mencius, 48, 57, 95, 154n78, 156, 159, 164, 198 Meng’an mouke system, 78 Merchants, 12, 85, 135, 138, 140–43 passim, 145, 149, 150, 188, 197, 198 metaphysics, 182

Index migration: in-, 12, 24, 33; out-, 16, 24, 148 military: and shi, 12, 30–32, 35, 38, 44, 48, 84, 129; and commissioner, 26, 26n13, 27, 27n15; and careers, 28; and examinations, 77; and meng’an mouke system, 78 Ming dynasty, 135, 178, 180; early rulers, 140 monarch, 55–61 passim, 84, 95, 157, 170, 206 Mongke (r. 1251–59), 79 Mongol, 79–81, 84, 86, 95–96, 99, 104–5, 108, 114–15, 136 Nan Daji (1485–1541), 176 nationalism, 2, 194 nature (xing ), 52 Neo-Confucianism, 133, 201, 205; spread of, 15; of Cheng-Zhu, 19; Jinhua, 120 networks, national, 13, 89; social, 14; local, 44, 90, 129, 208; kinship, 82 new literary movement, 91 New Policies, 19, 43–45, 48–49, 61–62, 71–73, 205 ontological, 52, 54, 185, 195 orthodoxy, 11; of Daoxue, 75; of Cheng-Zhu, 120–21, 176, 201, 205 Ouyang Xiu, 94 Ouyang Xuan (1283–1357), 89 pedigree, 23–24, 204 Peng Ze, 159 physical form, 52–54 physical mutilation (rouxing ), 50

Index politics, court, 14, 65, 97, 118, 124, 157; and Zhang Zai, 47; and Xiao Ju, 126; and Guanzhong, 130, 175; and examination quota, 140n28; and Wang Shu, 158; and Liu Guangfen, 194 prefectural-county system ( junxian), 50, 60 prime minister, 30, 41–45 passim, 63 principle of impartiality (zhi), 169 private, 65; land, 44, 58; definition of, 60; academy, 129, 195; Dao, 161 public: sphere, 15, 95; -spiritedness, 18, 157, 201–2, 207, 210; definition of, 60; domain, 153; Dao, 160–61 qi (the Great Void), 51–52, 164 Qian Daxin (1728–1804), 190 Qian Dian (1744–1806), 190, 192 Qiang Zao (n.d.), 83 Qianlong era (1736–95), 191 Qin dynasty, 50, 124 Qin state, 4 Qing dynasty, 7, 200, 210 Quan Zuwang (1705–55), 76 recluse, 33–35, 107 recommendation system, 106, 108 Red Coat (Hong’ao) army, 80 Red Turban army (Hongjin jun), 82 regime, alien, 1, 15, 19, 208; illegitimate (kou), 101 regional government, 16–17, 17n31, 60, 61, 74, 127, 136, 139, 140–42, 202, 205–7 Renaissance, 200–204 passim

259 Republican period, 200, 204 Revolution (1911), 211 Rites of Zhou, 46, 48 Ritual: ancient, 48, 54–55, 67, 70, 71, 119, 123, 153, 161, 163, 177; religious, 71, 104; mourning, 71, 116; sacrificial, 72, 147, 159; state, 103; Confucian, 119, 162 Rowe, William, 178, 185–86 ru, 166, 182, 184, 187, 189 ruzhong (border delivery system), 44 sage-king, 8, 11, 187, 196 sanli (three ritual classics), 119 Sanyuan county, 115, 139, 142, 150, 154–58 passim; scholars, 142; school, 150–51, 154 sectarianism (li menhu), 176–77 self-cultivation, 21, 50–54 passim, 59, 64, 77, 104, 108, 122–23, 167, 171, 182–85 passim, 189 sericulture, 184–87, 196–99 Shaanxi, 4, 6–7, 8, 23–24, 25, 86, 87, 91, 109, 117, 127, 128, 136–38 passim, 151, 165, 169, 181; and circuit, 26–27; and alien rules, 78– 80; and Branch Censorate (xing yushi tai), 110; Princely Establishment of, 111 (Yuan), 136 (Ming); and Shanxi connection, 152; governor of, 183, 186, 190, 192, 194, 210; and sericulture, 184–87 passim. See also Guanzhong Shanxi (Hedong), 4, 7, 25, 39n56, 92n51, 96, 138, 141, 151, 152, 174, 198, 199 Shao Yong, 159, 165 shihou (hereditary warlords), 80

260 shrines, 35, 39n58, 89, 103, 145–46, 163 si, see private Siku quanshu, 133, 189 Sima Guang (1019–86), 101 Sima Qian (135–87 b.c.), 100 Sino-Japanese war (1894), 194, 197, 199 Skinner, G. William, 7 social mobility, 12–14, 31, 204 Song Lian (1310–80), 120 Song Lianku (1870–1951), 210 Song Mingqiu (1019–79), 109–10, 113, 170. See also Leibian Chang’an zhi Song Shi (950–1000), 36–37, 39, 46 Song Wengu, 37 Song Wenshu, 37 Song Wo (926–98), 38 Son of Heaven, 45, 60–61, 96 sprouts of capitalism, 143 statecraft, 15, 110, 112, 116, 120, 154, 167, 178–85 passim, 207 Su Hui (n.d.), 191 Su Shi (1026–1101), 25–26, 100 Su Tianjue (1294–1352), 119 Sun Xingyan (1753–1818), 190–91 taixu, see qi Tang dynasty, 1–2, 42, 56, 93, 203 Tang Zhongyou (1131–88), 120 Tanguts, 34 Tao Yuanming, 107 Taokou (Bandits of the Bend), 136 three Dukes of Zhou (Zhou gong, Taigong Wang, Zhao gong), 159 Three Dynasties, 44, 51, 65 Tianqi emperor (Ming, r. 1621–28), 168

Index Tianxia wei yijia fu (All under heaven are one family), 65 Tong Shu (1254–1331), 117–20 passim, 123, 128–29, 173, 206 transregional, 10, 190 ultimate mind (daxin), 53 virtue of Heaven and Earth (tiandi zhi de), 54 Wang Anshi (1021–86), 19, 43, 50, 66, 69, 73–74, 100; and Zhang Zai, 47–51 passim, 61 Wang Chengyu (1464–1538), 134, 158 Wang Fu (ca. 85–ca. 162), 99 Wang Gen (1483–1541), 176 Wang Jingji (n.d.), 143 Wang Jun (d. 1267), 81 Wang Mingsheng (1722–98), 190 Wang Sheng ( jinshi 1475), 152 Wang Shixian (d. ca. 1242), 81 Wang Shu (1416–1508), 149–58 passim, 154n78, 175, 179, 201 Wang Tingxiang (1474–1541), 164 Wang Wei (1323–74), 89, 120 Wang Xiangzhi ( jinshi 1196), 111–12 Wang Xuemo ( jinshi 1553), 191 Wang Yangming, 159–60, 168, 175– 78 Wang Yangming-ism, 10, 175–76 Wang Yinglin (1223–96), 122 Wang Zhe (1113–70), 76–77, 129 Wang Zheng (1571–1644), 179–80, 180n147 Wang Zhishi (1528–90), 134, 167– 68 wangzheng (court responsibility), 61 Wanyan disaster, see Jurchen

Index Wan Yi yijian (Conjectures and opinions while appreciating the Book of Changes), 53 Warring States period, 3, 4, 6, 8, 189 Wei Zhongxian (1568–1627), 168 well-field ( jingtian) system, 44, 49– 50, 55–62 passim, 65 Wen Chun (1539–1607), 144–46 Wen clan of Sanyuan, 144–50 passim Wen Yanbo (1006–97), 48 Western Inscription, 53, 59, 62, 65, 68 White Lotus movement, 52, 82n15 Wu Cheng (1249–1333), 120 wu-chang (five constants), 126 wusi (Five sacrifices of the house), 72 Xiang Yu, 93 xiangyue xiangyi (community compact and ceremony), 63, 66, 68–73, 134, 145; and ceremonies, 71; and fulao (elders), 94 Xiao Ju (1241–1318), 116–19, 123–25, 128–29, 152, 163, 173, 206 xiaoxue (elementary schools), 127, 189 xingli zhi xue (learning of nature and principle), 105 Xi Xia, 25–26, 78 Xu Heng (1209–81), 116–23 passim, 127, 130, 205 Xu Zhongxuan (930–90), see Kou Zhun Xue Xuan (1389–1465), 135, 150–54 passim, 151n69, 174, 177, 201, 207 Xuegu Academy, 127–29, 155 xungu (etymology), 182–83

261 Yang Gongyi (1225–94), 115–16, 119 Yang Huan (1186–1255), 98–104 passim, 98n72, 100n78, 109, 114– 15, 130 Yang Shen (1699–1794), 184–87, 195, 198–99 Yang Shi (1053–1135), 21–22, 75, 133 Yang Shiqi (1354–1444), 140 Yang Tiande (1180–1258), 114–15 Yang Tingxiu (d. 1215), 92, 95–97 Yang Zhen (1153–1215), 99 Yangcan gegua (A book of songs about sericulture), 198 Ye Shi (1150–1223), 73 You Shixiong (1038–97), 42, 193 youwei (active), 48 Yuan dynasty, 7, 79, 88, 129–30, 134 Yuan Haowen (1190–1257), 96–97, 100–101, 205 Zhang Jian, 64, 92–96, 106, 130, Zhang Jie (1421–73), 151, 174 Zhang Quanyi, 30 Zhang Shangying (1043–1121), 100 Zhang Shundian (ca. 1549–ca. 1621), 133 Zhang Zai (1020–77), 11, 19, 21–22, 35–36, 42, 47, 64–65, 67, 71–76 passim, 116, 119–21, 130–35 passim, 151, 158–67 passim, 172–78 passim, 173n123, 193, 201, 204–7; views on Wang Anshi’s reforms, 48– 49, 51; philosophy and teachings of, 51–55, 123, 134; political views of, 55–63 passim, 58n109, 58n110, 162, 166, 173 Zhao Bing (1222–80), 111 Zhao Bingwen (1159–1232), 91

262 Zhao Fu (ca. 1206–ca. 1299), 99– 101, 114 Zhen Dexiu (1178–1235), 122, 181 Zhengmeng (Correcting youthful ignorance), 53, 164 Zhengshu, see Cheng brothers Zhongzhou ji (anthology of short biographies and poems), 90, 92, 96–98, 106, 129, 205 Zhou Dunyi (1017–73), 21, 75, 116, 120, 132–33, 159, 163, 175 Zhou dynasty, 59, 196–97 Zhou Hui (fl. 1468), 152–53, 158 Zhu Xi (1130–1200), 21, 101, 114, 116, 120–22, 183; and Zhou

Index Dunyi, Cheng brothers, 75, 133, 154, 159–60, 164–65, 175, 196, 201; and Zhang Zai, 121, 134, 159, 162, 164–65, 175, 201; and Wang Yangming, 160, 177, 196 Zhuangzi, 100 Zhuge Liang (181–234), 156–57 zhuhou (feudal lords), 60–61, 65 Zihou, see Zhang Zai Zizhi tong jian (Comprehensive mirror for aid of government), 101 zong fa (differentiated descent line), 55–56, 62 zongzi (Great Ruler, emperor), 62 zu (agnates), 56

Harvard East Asian Monographs (*out-of-print)

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Liang Fang-chung, The Single-Whip Method of Taxation in China Harold C. Hinton, The Grain Tribute System of China, 1845–1911 Ellsworth C. Carlson, The Kaiping Mines, 1877–1912 Chao Kuo-chün, Agrarian Policies of Mainland China: A Documentary Study,

1949–1956 *5. Edgar Snow, Random Notes on Red China, 1936–1945 *6. Edwin George Beal, Jr., The Origin of Likin, 1835–1864 7. Chao Kuo-chün, Economic Planning and Organization in Mainland China: A Documentary Study, 1949–1957 *8. John K. Fairbank, Ching Documents: An Introductory Syllabus *9. Helen Yin and Yi-chang Yin, Economic Statistics of Mainland China, 1949–1957 10. Wolfgang Franke, The Reform and Abolition of the Traditional Chinese Examination System 11. Albert Feuerwerker and S. Cheng, Chinese Communist Studies of Modern Chinese History 12. C. John Stanley, Late Ching Finance: Hu Kuang-yung as an Innovator 13. S. M. Meng, The Tsungli Yamen: Its Organization and Functions *14. Ssu-yü Teng, Historiography of the Taiping Rebellion 15. Chun-Jo Liu, Controversies in Modern Chinese Intellectual History: An Analytic Bibliography of Periodical Articles, Mainly of the May Fourth and Post-May Fourth Era *16. Edward J. M. Rhoads, The Chinese Red Army, 1927–1963: An Annotated Bibliography *17. Andrew J. Nathan, A History of the China International Famine Relief Commission *18. Frank H. H. King (ed.) and Prescott Clarke, A Research Guide to China-Coast Newspapers, 1822–1911 *19. Ellis Joffe, Party and Army: Professionalism and Political Control in the Chinese Officer Corps, 1949–1964

Harvard East Asian Monographs *20. *21. *22. 23. *24. *25. *26. 27. *28. *29.

Toshio G. Tsukahira, Feudal Control in Tokugawa Japan: The Sankin Kōtai System Kwang-Ching Liu, ed., American Missionaries in China: Papers from Harvard Seminars George Moseley, A Sino-Soviet Cultural Frontier: The Ili Kazakh Autonomous Chou Carl F. Nathan, Plague Prevention and Politics in Manchuria, 1910–1931 Adrian Arthur Bennett, John Fryer: The Introduction of Western Science and Technology into Nineteenth-Century China Donald J. Friedman, The Road from Isolation: The Campaign of the American Committee for Non-Participation in Japanese Aggression, 1938–1941 Edward LeFevour, Western Enterprise in Late Ching China: A Selective Survey of Jardine, Matheson and Company’s Operations, 1842–1895 Charles Neuhauser, Third World Politics: China and the Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organization, 1957–1967 Kungtu C. Sun, assisted by Ralph W. Huenemann, The Economic Development of Manchuria in the First Half of the Twentieth Century Shahid Javed Burki, A Study of Chinese Communes, 1965

30. John Carter Vincent, The Extraterritorial System in China: Final Phase 31. Madeleine Chi, China Diplomacy, 1914–1918 *32. Clifton Jackson Phillips, Protestant America and the Pagan World: The First Half Century of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, 1810–1860 *33. James Pusey, Wu Han: Attacking the Present Through the Past *34. Ying-wan Cheng, Postal Communication in China and Its Modernization, 1860–1896 35. Tuvia Blumenthal, Saving in Postwar Japan 36. Peter Frost, The Bakumatsu Currency Crisis 37. Stephen C. Lockwood, Augustine Heard and Company, 1858–1862 38. Robert R. Campbell, James Duncan Campbell: A Memoir by His Son 39. Jerome Alan Cohen, ed., The Dynamics of China’s Foreign Relations 40. V. V. Vishnyakova-Akimova, Two Years in Revolutionary China, 1925–1927, trans. Steven L. Levine 41. Meron Medzini, French Policy in Japan During the Closing Years of the Tokugawa Regime 42. Ezra Vogel, Margie Sargent, Vivienne B. Shue, Thomas Jay Mathews, and Deborah S. Davis, The Cultural Revolution in the Provinces 43. Sidney A. Forsythe, An American Missionary Community in China, 1895–1905 *44. Benjamin I. Schwartz, ed., Reflections on the May Fourth Movement.: A Symposium *45. Ching Young Choe, The Rule of the Taewŏngun, 1864–1873: Restoration in Yi Korea 46. W. P. J. Hall, A Bibliographical Guide to Japanese Research on the Chinese Economy,

1958–1970 47. Jack J. Gerson, Horatio Nelson Lay and Sino-British Relations, 1854–1864

Harvard East Asian Monographs 48. Paul Richard Bohr, Famine and the Missionary: Timothy Richard as Relief Administrator and Advocate of National Reform 49. Endymion Wilkinson, The History of Imperial China: A Research Guide 50. Britten Dean, China and Great Britain: The Diplomacy of Commercial Relations,

1860–1864 Ellsworth C. Carlson, The Foochow Missionaries, 1847–1880 Yeh-chien Wang, An Estimate of the Land-Tax Collection in China, 1753 and 1908 Richard M. Pfeffer, Understanding Business Contracts in China, 1949–1963 Han-sheng Chuan and Richard Kraus, Mid-Ching Rice Markets and Trade: An Essay in Price History 55. Ranbir Vohra, Lao She and the Chinese Revolution 56. Liang-lin Hsiao, China’s Foreign Trade Statistics, 1864–1949

51. 52. 53. *54.

*57. *58. *59. 60.

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Lee-hsia Hsu Ting, Government Control of the Press in Modern China, 1900–1949 Edward W. Wagner, The Literati Purges: Political Conflict in Early Yi Korea Joungwon A. Kim, Divided Korea: The Politics of Development, 1945–1972 Noriko Kamachi, John K. Fairbank, and Chūzō Ichiko, Japanese Studies of Modern China Since 1953: A Bibliographical Guide to Historical and Social-Science Research on the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Supplementary Volume for 1953–1969 Donald A. Gibbs and Yun-chen Li, A Bibliography of Studies and Translations of Modern Chinese Literature, 1918–1942 Robert H. Silin, Leadership and Values: The Organization of Large-Scale Taiwanese Enterprises David Pong, A Critical Guide to the Kwangtung Provincial Archives Deposited at the Public Record Office of London Fred W. Drake, China Charts the World: Hsu Chi-yü and His Geography of 1848 William A. Brown and Urgrunge Onon, translators and annotators, History of the Mongolian People’s Republic Edward L. Farmer, Early Ming Government: The Evolution of Dual Capitals Ralph C. Croizier, Koxinga and Chinese Nationalism: History, Myth, and the Hero William J. Tyler, tr., The Psychological World of Natsume Sōseki, by Doi Takeo Eric Widmer, The Russian Ecclesiastical Mission in Peking During the Eighteenth Century Charlton M. Lewis, Prologue to the Chinese Revolution: The Transformation of Ideas and Institutions in Hunan Province, 1891–1907 Preston Torbert, The Ching Imperial Household Department: A Study of Its Organization and Principal Functions, 1662–1796

72. Paul A. Cohen and John E. Schrecker, eds., Reform in Nineteenth-Century China 73. Jon Sigurdson, Rural Industrialism in China 74. Kang Chao, The Development of Cotton Textile Production in China

Harvard East Asian Monographs 75. *76. 77. 78. *79. 80. *81. *82.

Valentin Rabe, The Home Base of American China Missions, 1880–1920 Sarasin Viraphol, Tribute and Profit: Sino-Siamese Trade, 1652–1853 Ch’i-ch’ing Hsiao, The Military Establishment of the Yuan Dynasty Meishi Tsai, Contemporary Chinese Novels and Short Stories, 1949–1974: An Annotated Bibliography Wellington K. K. Chan, Merchants, Mandarins and Modern Enterprise in Late Ching China Endymion Wilkinson, Landlord and Labor in Late Imperial China: Case Studies from Shandong by Jing Su and Luo Lun Barry Keenan, The Dewey Experiment in China: Educational Reform and Political Power in the Early Republic George A. Hayden, Crime and Punishment in Medieval Chinese Drama: Three Judge Pao Plays

*83. Sang-Chul Suh, Growth and Structural Changes in the Korean Economy, 1910–1940 84. J. W. Dower, Empire and Aftermath: Yoshida Shigeru and the Japanese Experience,

1878–1954 85. Martin Collcutt, Five Mountains: The Rinzai Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan 86. Kwang Suk Kim and Michael Roemer, Growth and Structural Transformation 87. Anne O. Krueger, The Developmental Role of the Foreign Sector and Aid *88. Edwin S. Mills and Byung-Nak Song, Urbanization and Urban Problems 89. Sung Hwan Ban, Pal Yong Moon, and Dwight H. Perkins, Rural Development *90. Noel F. McGinn, Donald R. Snodgrass, Yung Bong Kim, Shin-Bok Kim, and Quee-Young Kim, Education and Development in Korea *91. Leroy P. Jones and II SaKong, Government, Business, and Entrepreneurship in Economic Development: The Korean Case 92. Edward S. Mason, Dwight H. Perkins, Kwang Suk Kim, David C. Cole, Mahn Je Kim et al., The Economic and Social Modernization of the Republic of Korea 93. Robert Repetto, Tai Hwan Kwon, Son-Ung Kim, Dae Young Kim, John E. Sloboda, and Peter J. Donaldson, Economic Development, Population Policy, and Demographic Transition in the Republic of Korea 94. Parks M. Coble, Jr., The Shanghai Capitalists and the Nationalist Government,

1927–1937 95. Noriko Kamachi, Reform in China: Huang Tsun-hsien and the Japanese Model 96. Richard Wich, Sino-Soviet Crisis Politics: A Study of Political Change and Communication 97. Lillian M. Li, China’s Silk Trade: Traditional Industry in the Modern World, 1842–1937 98. R. David Arkush, Fei Xiaotong and Sociology in Revolutionary China *99. Kenneth Alan Grossberg, Japan’s Renaissance: The Politics of the Muromachi Bakufu 100. James Reeve Pusey, China and Charles Darwin

Harvard East Asian Monographs 101. Hoyt Cleveland Tillman, Utilitarian Confucianism: Chen Liang’s Challenge to Chu Hsi 102. Thomas A. Stanley, Ōsugi Sakae, Anarchist in Taishō Japan: The Creativity of the Ego 103. Jonathan K. Ocko, Bureaucratic Reform in Provincial China: Ting Jih-ch’ang in Restoration Kiangsu, 1867–1870 104. James Reed, The Missionary Mind and American East Asia Policy, 1911–1915 105. Neil L. Waters, Japan’s Local Pragmatists: The Transition from Bakumatsu to Meiji in the Kawasaki Region 106. David C. Cole and Yung Chul Park, Financial Development in Korea, 1945–1978 107. Roy Bahl, Chuk Kyo Kim, and Chong Kee Park, Public Finances During the Korean Modernization Process 108. William D. Wray, Mitsubishi and the N.Y.K, 1870–1914: Business Strategy in the Japanese Shipping Industry 109. Ralph William Huenemann, The Dragon and the Iron Horse: The Economics of Railroads in China, 1876–1937 *110. Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China 111. Jane Kate Leonard, Wei Yüan and China’s Rediscovery of the Maritime World 112. Luke S. K. Kwong, A Mosaic of the Hundred Days:. Personalities, Politics, and Ideas of 1898 *113. John E. Wills, Jr., Embassies and Illusions: Dutch and Portuguese Envoys to K’ang-hsi,

1666–1687 114. *115. 116. 117.

Joshua A. Fogel, Politics and Sinology: The Case of Naitō Konan (1866–1934) Jeffrey C. Kinkley, ed., After Mao: Chinese Literature and Society, 1978–1981 C. Andrew Gerstle, Circles of Fantasy: Convention in the Plays of Chikamatsu Andrew Gordon, The Evolution of Labor Relations in Japan: Heavy Industry,

1853–1955 *118. Daniel K. Gardner, Chu Hsi and the “Ta Hsueh”: Neo-Confucian Reflection on the Confucian Canon 119. Christine Guth Kanda, Shinzō: Hachiman Imagery and Its Development *120. Robert Borgen, Sugawara no Michizane and the Early Heian Court 121. Chang-tai Hung, Going to the People: Chinese Intellectual and Folk Literature,

1918–1937 *122. Michael A. Cusumano, The Japanese Automobile Industry: Technology and Management at Nissan and Toyota 123. Richard von Glahn, The Country of Streams and Grottoes: Expansion, Settlement, and the Civilizing of the Sichuan Frontier in Song Times 124. Steven D. Carter, The Road to Komatsubara: A Classical Reading of the Renga Hyakuin 125. Katherine F. Bruner, John K. Fairbank, and Richard T. Smith, Entering China’s Service: Robert Hart’s Journals, 1854–1863

Harvard East Asian Monographs 126. Bob Tadashi Wakabayashi, Anti-Foreignism and Western Learning in Early-Modern Japan: The “New Theses” of 1825 127. Atsuko Hirai, Individualism and Socialism: The Life and Thought of Kawai Eijirō (1891–1944) 128. Ellen Widmer, The Margins of Utopia: “Shui-hu hou-chuan” and the Literature of Ming Loyalism 129. R. Kent Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: Scholars and the State in the Late Chien-lung Era 130. Peter C. Perdue, Exhausting the Earth: State and Peasant in Hunan, 1500–1850 131. Susan Chan Egan, A Latterday Confucian: Reminiscences of William Hung (1893–1980) 132. James T. C. Liu, China Turning Inward: Intellectual-Political Changes in the Early Twelfth Century *133. Paul A. Cohen, Between Tradition and Modernity: Wang T’ao and Reform in Late Ching China 134. Kate Wildman Nakai, Shogunal Politics: Arai Hakuseki and the Premises of Tokugawa Rule *135. Parks M. Coble, Facing Japan: Chinese Politics and Japanese Imperialism, 1931–1937 136. Jon L. Saari, Legacies of Childhood: Growing Up Chinese in a Time of Crisis, 1890–1920 137. 138. 139. 140. *141. 142. *143. 144.

Susan Downing Videen, Tales of Heichū Heinz Morioka and Miyoko Sasaki, Rakugo: The Popular Narrative Art of Japan Joshua A. Fogel, Nakae Ushikichi in China: The Mourning of Spirit Alexander Barton Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model: A Comparative Study of Vietnamese and Chinese Government in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century George Elison, Deus Destroyed: The Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan William D. Wray, ed., Managing Industrial Enterprise: Cases from Japan’s Prewar Experience T’ung-tsu Ch’ü, Local Government in China Under the Ching Marie Anchordoguy, Computers, Inc.: Japan’s Challenge to IBM

145. Barbara Molony, Technology and Investment: The Prewar Japanese Chemical Industry 146. Mary Elizabeth Berry, Hideyoshi 147. Laura E. Hein, Fueling Growth: The Energy Revolution and Economic Policy in Postwar Japan 148. Wen-hsin Yeh, The Alienated Academy: Culture and Politics in Republican China,

1919–1937 149. Dru C. Gladney, Muslim Chinese: Ethnic Nationalism in the People’s Republic 150. Merle Goldman and Paul A. Cohen, eds., Ideas Across Cultures: Essays on Chinese Thought in Honor of Benjamin L Schwartz 151. James M. Polachek, The Inner Opium War 152. Gail Lee Bernstein, Japanese Marxist: A Portrait of Kawakami Hajime, 1879–1946

Harvard East Asian Monographs *153. Lloyd E. Eastman, The Abortive Revolution: China Under Nationalist Rule, 1927–1937 154. Mark Mason, American Multinationals and Japan: The Political Economy of Japanese Capital Controls, 1899–1980 155. Richard J. Smith, John K. Fairbank, and Katherine F. Bruner, Robert Hart and China’s Early Modernization: His Journals, 1863–1866 156. George J. Tanabe, Jr., Myōe the Dreamkeeper: Fantasy and Knowledge in Kamakura Buddhism 157. William Wayne Farris, Heavenly Warriors: The Evolution of Japan’s Military,

500–1300 158. Yu-ming Shaw, An American Missionary in China: John Leighton Stuart and ChineseAmerican Relations 159. James B. Palais, Politics and Policy in Traditional Korea *160. Douglas Reynolds, China, 1898–1912: The Xinzheng Revolution and Japan 161. Roger R. Thompson, China’s Local Councils in the Age of Constitutional Reform,

1898–1911 162. William Johnston, The Modern Epidemic: History of Tuberculosis in Japan 163. Constantine Nomikos Vaporis, Breaking Barriers: Travel and the State in Early Modern Japan 164. Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit, Rituals of Self-Revelation: Shishōsetsu as Literary Genre and Socio-Cultural Phenomenon 165. James C. Baxter, The Meiji Unification Through the Lens of Ishikawa Prefecture 166. Thomas R. H. Havens, Architects of Affluence: The Tsutsumi Family and the SeibuSaison Enterprises in Twentieth-Century Japan 167. Anthony Hood Chambers, The Secret Window: Ideal Worlds in Tanizaki’s Fiction 168. Steven J. Ericson, The Sound of the Whistle: Railroads and the State in Meiji Japan 169. Andrew Edmund Goble, Kenmu: Go-Daigo’s Revolution 170. Denise Potrzeba Lett, In Pursuit of Status: The Making of South Korea’s “New” Urban Middle Class 171. Mimi Hall Yiengpruksawan, Hiraizumi: Buddhist Art and Regional Politics in TwelfthCentury Japan 172. Charles Shirō Inouye, The Similitude of Blossoms: A Critical Biography of Izumi Kyōka (1873–1939), Japanese Novelist and Playwright 173. Aviad E. Raz, Riding the Black Ship: Japan and Tokyo Disneyland 174. Deborah J. Milly, Poverty, Equality, and Growth: The Politics of Economic Need in Postwar Japan 175. See Heng Teow, Japan’s Cultural Policy Toward China, 1918–1931: A Comparative Perspective 176. Michael A. Fuller, An Introduction to Literary Chinese 177. Frederick R. Dickinson, War and National Reinvention: Japan in the Great War,

1914–1919

Harvard East Asian Monographs 178. John Solt, Shredding the Tapestry of Meaning: The Poetry and Poetics of Kitasono Katue (1902–1978) 179. Edward Pratt, Japan’s Protoindustrial Elite: The Economic Foundations of the Gōnō 180. Atsuko Sakaki, Recontextualizing Texts: Narrative Performance in Modern Japanese Fiction 181. Soon-Won Park, Colonial Industrialization and Labor in Korea: The Onoda Cement Factory 182. JaHyun Kim Haboush and Martina Deuchler, Culture and the State in Late Chosŏn Korea 183. John W. Chaffee, Branches of Heaven: A History of the Imperial Clan of Sung China 184. Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, eds., Colonial Modernity in Korea 185. Nam-lin Hur, Prayer and Play in Late Tokugawa Japan: Asakusa Sensōji and Edo Society 186. Kristin Stapleton, Civilizing Chengdu: Chinese Urban Reform, 1895–1937 187. Hyung Il Pai, Constructing “Korean” Origins: A Critical Review of Archaeology, Historiography, and Racial Myth in Korean State-Formation Theories 188. Brian D. Ruppert, Jewel in the Ashes: Buddha Relics and Power in Early Medieval Japan 189. Susan Daruvala, Zhou Zuoren and an Alternative Chinese Response to Modernity *190. James Z. Lee, The Political Economy of a Frontier: Southwest China, 1250–1850 191. Kerry Smith, A Time of Crisis: Japan, the Great Depression, and Rural Revitalization 192. Michael Lewis, Becoming Apart: National Power and Local Politics in Toyama,

1868–1945 193. William C. Kirby, Man-houng Lin, James Chin Shih, and David A. Pietz, eds., State and Economy in Republican China: A Handbook for Scholars 194. Timothy S. George, Minamata: Pollution and the Struggle for Democracy in Postwar Japan 195. Billy K. L. So, Prosperity, Region, and Institutions in Maritime China: The South Fukien Pattern, 946–1368 196. Yoshihisa Tak Matsusaka, The Making of Japanese Manchuria, 1904–1932 197. Maram Epstein, Competing Discourses: Orthodoxy, Authenticity, and Engendered Meanings in Late Imperial Chinese Fiction 198. Curtis J. Milhaupt, J. Mark Ramseyer, and Michael K. Young, eds. and comps., Japanese Law in Context: Readings in Society, the Economy, and Politics 199. Haruo Iguchi, Unfinished Business: Ayukawa Yoshisuke and U.S.-Japan Relations,

1937–1952 200. Scott Pearce, Audrey Spiro, and Patricia Ebrey, Culture and Power in the Reconstitution of the Chinese Realm, 200–600 201. Terry Kawashima, Writing Margins: The Textual Construction of Gender in Heian and Kamakura Japan 202. Martin W. Huang, Desire and Fictional Narrative in Late Imperial China

Harvard East Asian Monographs 203. Robert S. Ross and Jiang Changbin, eds., Re-examining the Cold War: U.S.-China Diplomacy, 1954–1973 204. Guanhua Wang, In Search of Justice: The 1905–1906 Chinese Anti-American Boycott 205. David Schaberg, A Patterned Past: Form and Thought in Early Chinese Historiography 206. Christine Yano, Tears of Longing: Nostalgia and the Nation in Japanese Popular Song 207. Milena Doleželová-Velingerová and Oldřich Král, with Graham Sanders, eds., The Appropriation of Cultural Capital: China’s May Fourth Project 208. Robert N. Huey, The Making of ‘Shinkokinshū’ 209. Lee Butler, Emperor and Aristocracy in Japan, 1467–1680: Resilience and Renewal 210. Suzanne Ogden, Inklings of Democracy in China 211. Kenneth J. Ruoff, The People’s Emperor: Democracy and the Japanese Monarchy,

1945–1995 212. Haun Saussy, Great Walls of Discourse and Other Adventures in Cultural China 213. Aviad E. Raz, Emotions at Work: Normative Control, Organizations, and Culture in Japan and America 214. Rebecca E. Karl and Peter Zarrow, eds., Rethinking the 1898 Reform Period: Political and Cultural Change in Late Qing China 215. Kevin O’Rourke, The Book of Korean Shijo 216. Ezra F. Vogel, ed., The Golden Age of the U.S.-China-Japan Triangle,

1972–1989 217. Thomas A. Wilson, ed., On Sacred Grounds: Culture, Society, Politics, and the Formation of the Cult of Confucius 218. Donald S. Sutton, Steps of Perfection: Exorcistic Performers and Chinese Religion in Twentieth-Century Taiwan 219. Daqing Yang, Technology of Empire: Telecommunications and Japanese Expansionism, 1895–1945 220. Qianshen Bai, Fu Shan’s World: The Transformation of Chinese Calligraphy in the Seventeenth Century 221. Paul Jakov Smith and Richard von Glahn, eds., The Song-Yuan-Ming Transition in Chinese History 222. Rania Huntington, Alien Kind: Foxes and Late Imperial Chinese Narrative 223. Jordan Sand, House and Home in Modern Japan: Architecture, Domestic Space, and Bourgeois Culture, 1880–1930 224. Karl Gerth, China Made: Consumer Culture and the Creation of the Nation 225. Xiaoshan Yang, Metamorphosis of the Private Sphere: Gardens and Objects in Tang-Song Poetry 226. Barbara Mittler, A Newspaper for China? Power, Identity, and Change in Shanghai’s News Media, 1872–1912 227. Joyce A. Madancy, The Troublesome Legacy of Commissioner Lin: The Opium Trade and Opium Suppression in Fujian Province, 1820s to 1920s

Harvard East Asian Monographs 228. John Makeham, Transmitters and Creators: Chinese Commentators and Commentaries on the Analects 229. Elisabeth Köll, From Cotton Mill to Business Empire: The Emergence of Regional Enterprises in Modern China 230. Emma Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography: Chinese Colonial Travel Writing and Pictures, 1683–1895 231. Wilt Idema and Beata Grant, The Red Brush: Writing Women of Imperial China 232. Eric C. Rath, The Ethos of Noh: Actors and Their Art 233. Elizabeth Remick, Building Local States: China During the Republican and PostMao Eras 234. Lynn Struve, ed., The Qing Formation in World-Historical Time 235. D. Max Moerman, Localizing Paradise: Kumano Pilgrimage and the Religious Landscape of Premodern Japan 236. Antonia Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou: A Chinese City, 1550–1850 237. Brian Platt, Burning and Building: Schooling and State Formation in Japan, 1750–1890 238. Gail Bernstein, Andrew Gordon, and Kate Wildman Nakai, eds., Public Spheres, Private Lives in Modern Japan, 1600–1950: Essays in Honor of Albert Craig 239. Wu Hung and Katherine R. Tsiang, Body and Face in Chinese Visual Culture 240. Stephen Dodd, Writing Home: Representations of the Native Place in Modern Japanese Literature 241. David Anthony Bello, Opium and the Limits of Empire: Drug Prohibition in the Chinese Interior, 1729–1850 242. Hosea Hirata, Discourses of Seduction: History, Evil, Desire, and Modern Japanese Literature 243. Kyung Moon Hwang, Beyond Birth: Social Status in the Emergence of Modern Korea 244. Brian R. Dott, Identity Reflections: Pilgrimages to Mount Tai in Late Imperial China 245. Mark McNally, Proving the Way: Conflict and Practice in the History of Japanese Nativism 246. Yongping Wu, A Political Explanation of Economic Growth: State Survival, Bureaucratic Politics, and Private Enterprises in the Making of Taiwan’s Economy, 1950–1985 247. Kyu Hyun Kim, The Age of Visions and Arguments: Parliamentarianism and the National Public Sphere in Early Meiji Japan 248. Zvi Ben-Dor Benite, The Dao of Muhammad: A Cultural History of Muslims in Late Imperial China 249. David Der-wei Wang and Shang Wei, eds., Dynastic Crisis and Cultural Innovation: From the Late Ming to the Late Qing and Beyond 250. Wilt L. Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer, eds., Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Literature 251. Barbara Molony and Kathleen Uno, eds., Gendering Modern Japanese History

Harvard East Asian Monographs 252. Hiroshi Aoyagi, Islands of Eight Million Smiles: Idol Performance and Symbolic Production in Contemporary Japan 253. Wai-yee Li, The Readability of the Past in Early Chinese Historiography 254. William C. Kirby, Robert S. Ross, and Gong Li, eds., Normalization of U.S.-China Relations: An International History 255. Ellen Gardner Nakamura, Practical Pursuits: Takano Chōei, Takahashi Keisaku, and Western Medicine in Nineteenth-Century Japan 256. Jonathan W. Best, A History of the Early Korean Kingdom of Paekche, together with an annotated translation of The Paekche Annals of the Samguk sagi 257. Liang Pan, The United Nations in Japan’s Foreign and Security Policymaking, 1945– 1992: National Security, Party Politics, and International Status 258. Richard Belsky, Localities at the Center: Native Place, Space, and Power in Late Imperial Beijing 259. Zwia Lipkin, “Useless to the State”: “Social Problems” and Social Engineering in Nationalist Nanjing, 1927–1937 260. William O. Gardner, Advertising Tower: Japanese Modernism and Modernity in the 1920s 261. Stephen Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry 262. Martin J. Powers, Pattern and Person: Ornament, Society, and Self in Classical China 263. Anna M. Shields, Crafting a Collection: The Cultural Contexts and Poetic Practice of the Huajian ji 花間集 (Collection from Among the Flowers) 264. Stephen Owen, The Late Tang: Chinese Poetry of the Mid-Ninth Century (827–860) 265. Sara L. Friedman, Intimate Politics: Marriage, the Market, and State Power in Southeastern China 266. Patricia Buckley Ebrey and Maggie Bickford, Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China: The Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics 267. Sophie Volpp, Worldly Stage: Theatricality in Seventeenth-Century China 268. Ellen Widmer, The Beauty and the Book: Women and Fiction in NineteenthCentury China 269. Steven B. Miles, The Sea of Learning: Mobility and Identity in NineteenthCentury Guangzhou 270. Lin Man-houng, China Upside Down: Currency, Society, and Ideologies, 1808–1856 271. Ronald Egan, The Problem of Beauty: Aesthetic Thought and Pursuits in Northern Song Dynasty China 272. Mark Halperin, Out of the Cloister: Literati Perspectives on Buddhism in Sung China,

960–1279 273. Helen Dunstan, State or Merchant? Political Economy and Political Process in 1740s China 274. Sabina Knight, The Heart of Time: Moral Agency in Twentieth-Century Chinese Fiction

Harvard East Asian Monographs 275. Timothy J. Van Compernolle, The Uses of Memory: The Critique of Modernity in the Fiction of Higuchi Ichiyō 276. Paul Rouzer, A New Practical Primer of Literary Chinese 277. Jonathan Zwicker, Practices of the Sentimental Imagination: Melodrama, the Novel, and the Social Imaginary in Nineteenth-Century Japan 278. Franziska Seraphim, War Memory and Social Politics in Japan, 1945–2005 279. Adam L. Kern, Manga from the Floating World: Comicbook Culture and the Kibyōshi of Edo Japan 280. Cynthia J. Brokaw, Commerce in Culture: The Sibao Book Trade in the Qing and Republican Periods 281. Eugene Y. Park, Between Dreams and Reality: The Military Examination in Late Chosŏn Korea, 1600–1894 282. Nam-lin Hur, Death and Social Order in Tokugawa Japan: Buddhism, Anti-Christianity, and the Danka System 283. Patricia M. Thornton, Disciplining the State: Virtue, Violence, and State-Making in Modern China 284. Vincent Goossaert, The Taoists of Peking, 1800–1949: A Social History of Urban Clerics 285. Peter Nickerson, Taoism, Bureaucracy, and Popular Religion in Early Medieval China 286. Charo B. D’Etcheverry, Love After The Tale of Genji: Rewriting the World of the Shining Prince 287. Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring & the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 288. Carol Richmond Tsang, War and Faith: Ikkō Ikki in Late Muromachi Japan 289. Hilde De Weerdt, Competition over Content: Negotiating Standards for the Civil Service Examinations in Imperial China (1127 –1279) 290. Eve Zimmerman, Out of the Alleyway: Nakagami Kenji and the Poetics of Outcaste Fiction 291. Robert Culp, Articulating Citizenship: Civic Education and Student Politics in Southeastern China, 1912–1940 292. Richard J. Smethurst, From Foot Soldier to Finance Minister: Takahashi Korekiyo, Japan’s Keynes 293. John E. Herman, Amid the Clouds and Mist: China’s Colonization of Guizhou, 1200–

1700 294. Tomoko Shiroyama, China During the Great Depression: Market, State, and the World Economy, 1929–1937 295. Kirk W. Larsen, Tradition, Treaties and Trade: Qing Imperialism and Chosŏn Korea, 1850–1910 296. Gregory Golley, When Our Eyes No Longer See: Realism, Science, and Ecology in Japanese Literary Modernism

Harvard East Asian Monographs 297. Barbara Ambros, Emplacing a Pilgrimage: The Ōyama Cult and Regional Religion in Early Modern Japan 298. Rebecca Suter, The Japanization of Modernity: Murakami Haruki between Japan and the United States 299. Yuma Totani, The Tokyo War Crimes Trial: The Pursuit of Justice in the Wake of World War II 300. Linda Isako Angst, In a Dark Time: Memory, Community, and Gendered Nationalism in Postwar Okinawa 301. David M. Robinson, ed., Culture, Courtiers, and Competition: The Ming Court (1368– 1644) 302. Calvin Chen, Some Assembly Required: Work, Community, and Politics in China’s Rural Enterprises 303. Sem Vermeersch, The Power of the Buddhas: The Politics of Buddhism During the Koryŏ Dynasty (918–1392) 304. Tina Lu, Accidental Incest, Filial Cannibalism, and Other Peculiar Encounters in Late Imperial Chinese Literature 305. Chang Woei Ong, Men of Letters Within the Passes: Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911