The Sinitic Encounter in Southeast China Through the First Millennium CE [Hardcover ed.] 0824851609, 9780824851606

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The Sinitic Encounter in Southeast China through the First Millennium CE

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The Sinitic Encounter in Southeast China through the First Millennium CE P

Hugh R. Clark

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of Ame­rica 21 ​20 ​19 ​18 ​17 ​16 ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Clark, Hugh R., author. The Sinitic encounter in Southeast China through the first millennium CE / Hugh R. Clark. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8248-5160-6 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. China—­Civilization—221 B.C.–960 A.D.  2. China, Southeast—­ History.  3. Fujian Sheng (China)—­History.  I. Title. DS747.37.C55 2016 951'.01—­dc23 2015013278

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-­free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Printed by Maple Press

This book is dedicated to my many friends and colleagues in southern Fujian who have guided me and taught me. Thank you.

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Contents

Preface Introduction

ix xiii

PART ONE: TRANSITIONS

1

Chapter One. “The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

3

Chapter Two. Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

19

Chapter Three. The Sinitic Accommodation with the South

46

Chapter Four. Social Innovation in the Eleventh ­Century and the Debates on Civilization

70

PART TWO: A LOCAL MODEL OF CULTURAL ACCOMMODATION

Chapter Five. The Central Coast through the Eighth ­Century

85

87

Chapter Six. The Sinitic Encounter

110

Chapter Seven. Cults of the Sinitic Era: A Narrative of Appropriation and Civilization

136

Chapter Eight. Civilizing the God of Baidu: A Case Study in Civilizing Strategy

156

Chapter Nine. Conclusions

173

viii Contents Notes

189

Glossary

227

Bibliography

237

Index

261

Preface

Scholarly careers follow a trajectory. For many the trajectory is linear, moving from one topic to a sequential one that moves ever farther away from the beginning. As this book demonstrates, however, it can also be circular. My own trajectory began many years ago ­under the mentoring of Robert Hartwell. I was interested in frontiers, an outgrowth, I suppose, of a youth spent watching too many westerns on tele­vi­sion. Approaching my dissertation, I wanted to explore the dynamic of the “Chinese” frontier—­I put “Chinese” in quotes because, as I argue through the book, I consider it an uncomfortably anachronistic concept for the ancient eras in question. Bob initially suggested I look at the Gansu Corridor, but he had hardly done so when another scholar published on the topic. He then turned me to Fujian, and specifically to Quanzhou. It was a fortuitous adjustment. As readers who are familiar with the work I have published since are aware, that inquiry has occupied me ever since. My dissertation1 was the beginning. Like many dissertations, it is an unwieldy text filled with half-­formed ideas, something one hopes o ­ thers leave unread, yet as my inquiry has proceeded it has often been gratifying to go back to it and realize how much of my l­ater work was already anticipated. What I did not do, what I now realize I was not yet prepared to do, was think through the dynamic of the frontier. Like too many scholars of both the past and the more recent pre­sent, I saw the frontier as a stage for Chinese actors. The presumption was that, like the “Indians” of those TV westerns, the indigenous foil against which those Chinese actors carried out their roles was passive and uncivilized. The indigenes, it was assumed, e­ ither accepted the superior civilization brought to them by the Chinese immigrants and became invisible participants or fully disappeared, defeated and dispensed with. The possibility that the indigenes had had their own

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x Preface

agency, that they might have contributed to the evolving model of civilization, was not considered. It was a ­simple model, one that we can find reflected in much of the scholarship on cultural engagements along frontiers throughout the world: A dominant culture comes in, engages the “inferior” indigenous culture, and overwhelms it e­ ither by absorption or eradication; ­either way, the indigenous culture disappears to the benefit of all who survive. It is s­ imple, but like so much that is ­simple it is also inaccurate. As de Tocqueville so eloquently explained of North Ame­rica, the dominant actors may have been Eu­ro­pean, but their culture was not. That is what more than thirty years of study of Fujian has taught me as well. As I explain in the pages that follow, the immigrants who found shelter, opportunity, or what­ever they sought in Fujian, as well as elsewhere throughout the south of what we call “China” ­today, ­were actors in a complex drama that was heavily influenced by the cultures they found. The culture that took shape, the culture that we call “Chinese,” was much more than a transplant of the culture that had developed many centuries earlier across the Central Plain. It was a new culture, one that was influenced, often quite profoundly, by the indigenous cultures the immigrants encountered. This book, therefore, takes me full circle back to the issue I anti­ cipated engaging as a gradu­ate student: What was the dynamic of China’s southern frontier? Teasing out those indigenous remnants has always been the prob­lem. Just like the nonliterate indigenous cultures of North Ame­rica who had no way of recording their own thoughts about the transformation they ­were experiencing, so the nonliterate indigenous cultures of China’s south, unable to express their own thoughts, have been prisoner to the prejudices and assumptions of the literate who left the rec­ord. Unlike the North American indigenes, whose engagement with the literate Eu­ro­pe­ans is recent, however, that of China’s southern indigenes occurred long ago. Simply because it was so recent, scholars of the North American frontier have been able to access much of the indigenous perspective, which has been preserved through oral traditions that remain vibrant, a complement to the written impressions of the dominant Eu­ro­pe­ans. The echoes of those traditions and recollections that w ­ ere once borne by the indigenous peoples of China’s south, in contrast, have grown faint. When I first undertook my study of southern Fujian, I was unable to hear those echoes. In this I was no ­different from scholars who preceded me. One must pay close attention to hear them; they are

Preface

xi

easy to ignore, especially if one assumes they do not exist or are not im­por­tant. Both prejudices affected China’s traditional historiography, and that tradition in turn has affected most modern scholarship, both in China and abroad. It has taken me more than thirty years to recognize that those echoes I was hearing w ­ ere im­por­tant. This book, finally, is my attempt to bring them forward. Like any pro­ject, mine has benefited from the assistance and influence of ­others. My debt to colleagues in Fujian, especially to Wang Lianmao and his colleagues at the Quanzhou Museum of Overseas Trade History, is profound. Our many excursions to the villages of southern Fujian have exposed me to the complexity of regional culture. With his guidance I have been able to explore the roots of local religious beliefs that are the heart of my analy­sis, and we have discussed a number of issues, among them the ethnicity of figures such as Miss Lin, who became the Maternal Ancestor and ­later the Cosmic Empress. Before Wang Lianmao, my guide to Fujianese culture was Fu Zongwen, a longtime professor of history at Xiamen University who took me ­under his wing many years ago and helped me access rich troves of genealogical data that lie b ­ ehind much of my current interpretation. These two men have been my most im­por­tant guides, but they have hardly been the only ones. I am indebted as well to the administration and staff of the Overseas Trade Museum, especially the current director, Ding Yuling, and to the many scholars I have met throughout Fujian, from the History Department of Xiamen University to the numerous local librarians and antiquarians with whom I have discussed the history and culture of their home. I have similarly benefited from the range of Western scholars who have listened to and read my earlier explorations of the history of southern Fujian. The influence of Bob Hartwell, of course, remains profound many years ­after his too early death. My fellow Hartwell students Paul Smith and Bob Hymes have contributed to the evolution of my ideas, as have my many colleagues in “­middle period” Chinese history. More recently but profoundly influentially, I have benefited from both the scholarship and the guidance of Victor Mair, whose sometimes idiosyncratic grasp of the roots of Chinese culture inspired me to rethink what I was seeing in Fujian. Finally, I cannot neglect the support I have received, including substantial assistance from my colleagues at Ursinus College. My fellow historians have set me a high bar: Our department is distinctive for the high quality of scholarship we produce and the expectations

xii Preface

of each other that we hold. My deans from Bill Akin to Judy Levy to most recently Terry Winegar have been consistently supportive, if not always comprehending. I have as well benefited from generous funding support. This has included two grants from the Ursinus College Faculty Development program: an Ursinus College Pivot Grant, funded by the Mellon Foundation and awarded in 2004; and a Mellon Faculty Travel Grant, awarded in 2010. I also benefited from a Small Grant for Travel to Collections granted by the China and Inner Asian Council of the Association for Asian Studies. All of these grants facilitated my research in China, and I am very grateful for each. I thought that on completing my last book on southern Fujian my pro­ject was done, and I said so in my preface. That I came back again for one more time makes me wary of saying so now. But as I have already said, this book completes a circle: It has taken me back to where I began. And when a circle gets back to its beginning, all one can do is to start over. So this, I do believe, is my final foray into the topics that have sustained me for so long.

Introduction

What follows is a story in two parts—­one might even say two stories, although the premise is that they are two sides of a single tale. The first is a holistic story about the transition of coastal south China from a land beyond the frontier into an integral part of the Sinitic ecumene. I approach this from two complementary ­angles: first, the attitudes expressed in the lit­erature of the Central Lands (as I translate the classical term zhong guo) ­toward the peoples of the South; and then the slowly emerging integration of North and South through the ­middle centuries of the first millennium CE. This narrative sets the stage for a much more focused examination of transition that constitutes the second part of the tale, but more on that ­later. “Transition” is a tricky word; it can mean many things. All history at its heart, ­after all, is about change over time, the very definition of transition, which renders it almost reductionist as a historical theme. Yet there are features in the metanarrative that stand out—­moments, times, even eras when the course of events push institutions and customs to innovate as they seek to adapt to new realities. Paul Jakov Smith states that “ ‘Transition’ denotes a period of highly contingent and uncertain change separating two more relatively well-­defined phases.”1 Smith’s definition, however, implies a pro­cess that is chronologically definable, one for which there is an identifiable before and ­after separated by that period of “contingent and uncertain change.” Smith’s formulation was presented as an introduction to the Song-­Yuan-­Ming transition, an era that he defines in terms of de­cades, even centuries, yet there is beginning and end: At some point the transition began; at some point it was complete even if neither point can be explicitly defined. However, Fernand Braudel, in his famous formulation of the longue durée, has conceived of something ­different, of transitions that evolve over hugely extended, often indefinable, periods of time that defy the conventional sense of beginning and end. Such xiii

xiv Introduction

transitions cannot be defined by Smith’s “well-­defined phases” but rather by the gradual re­orientation of a society t­oward a new reality. This is change that evolves slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, over many centuries. It is not punctuated by any event, what Braudel called the histoire événementielle, that easily captures the attention of the historian yet masks the ­under­lying stabilities of history and their imperceptible change. Rather, the longue durée is marked by the inexorable yet glacial pace of change by which social and cultural realities re­orient themselves ­toward the world they inhabit. Such re­orientations are driven by forces of which the players are often unconscious: environmental change, growing demographic pressures, or maybe something no more concrete than opportunity.2 The first part of our tale addresses a transition of the longue durée. The spread of Sinitic civilization to the south has neither a beginning nor an end; one might argue in fact that it is as ancient as Sinitic civilization and that it is still ongoing. Yet it is perhaps the most significant transition in all of Chinese history. So h ­ ere we begin. While the first part of the story broadly covers the history of China’s south from its pre-­Sinitic roots to a time when Sinitic culture and its attendant focus on wen had become normative among much of the elite, the second part focuses on a par­tic­u­lar place: the central coastal regions of Fujian Province (see Map). Because this was among the last places in south China to experience significant Sinitic intrusion, it is among the areas where that intrusion is best documented. Nevertheless, the rec­ord remains frustratingly opaque. The biggest challenge will be to pierce that opacity, to offer a plausible model of accommodation between disparate cultures rather than s­imple displacement. It is the premise of the following discussion that it is possi­ble to do that. As Hans Bielenstein argued many years ago, Fujian was long a place apart, bypassed by the common Sinitic routes of migration to the south, which predominantly followed river basins.3 While the Gan and the Xiang Rivers provide a highway from the central Yangtze valley to the very borders of Lingnan, Fujian is ringed by mountains; its rivers are all internal, flowing from the highlands of the mountainous interior t­oward the coast. Access to Fujian, therefore, was most readily gained from the sea, but the Chinese did not regularly follow the sea in their migration.4 Consequently, large-­scale immigration of peoples from elsewhere, p ­ eople who bore the culture of the Central Lands, did not get ­under way ­until the second half of the

Introduction

xv

Central Fujian coast.

first millennium CE. When those immigrants arrived, as they did elsewhere across the south, they encountered an indigenous population with its own culture. In the second part of the tale, we examine that culture and the interaction and accommodation that emerged between the immigrants and the indigenes.

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PART ONE

Transitions

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Chapter One

“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

Civilization, C IVILISATION, and Civilizing Missions: The Prob­l em As early as the late eigh­teenth ­century, having lost many of their North American colonies that had been established on the basis of the mercantilist economics discredited by Adam Smith, Eu­ro­pe­ans ­were impelled to develop a new rationale as they engaged in further rounds of imperialism and colonization.1 The advocates of the new imperialism drew on a formulation of the French Enlightenment, the idea of civilisation. This was the belief that a single, overriding standard separated civilized ­people from an inferior state. As Alice L. Conklin has put it, This concept of civilization was a unitary one. At the end of the eigh­ teenth ­century no one talked of civilizations, in the plural. Instead, the assumption was that there existed a single universal ­human civilization capable of winning over from savagery all peoples and nations.2

Emblematic of this assumption was the Marquis de Condorcet. In his Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de l’esprit humain, a paean to the glory of Enlightenment values that Jennifer Pitts maintains “heralds the discourse of benevolent tutelage of backward peoples that was to underpin so many liberal defenses of empire during the nineteenth c­ entury,” Condorcet wrote: It is between this degree of civilization [i.e., France] and that in which we still find the savage tribes, that we must place every ­people whose

3

4

Chapter 1

history has been handed down to us, and who . . . ​form an unbroken chain of connection between the earliest periods of history and the age in which we live . . . ​From the period that alphabetical writing was known in Greece, history is connected by an uninterrupted series of facts and observations, with the period in which we live, with the pre­sent state of mankind in the most enlightened countries of Eu­rope.3

Condorcet was not a relativist; he believed the virtues of Enlightenment civilisation ­were so obvious that the rest of the world, struggling with despotism and enslavement, would naturally adopt them. Further, all ­people, regardless of origin, ­were “equals and bro­th­ers by the will of nature” and so equally likely to respond to the values of Enlightenment civilization. ­Others, however, ­were not so sanguine. The evangelists of the Enlightenment model ­were the apostles of a perfected world of reason, of individualism, and of liberty, and as apostles they w ­ ere obligated to evangelize their values, their accomplishments, to the less-­favored world. As the French deputy Louis-­Antoine Garnier-­Pagés wrote in 1838 in cele­bration of the assertion of French imperial authority in Algiers: “Colonization is the most laudable form of conquest; it is the most direct means to propagate civilization.”4 Late in the nineteenth c­ entury, Kipling wrote that this was the “white man’s burden”—­and so he affirmed that the British had accepted the general French premise (if not the idea) that the French ­were their perfected embodiment. Of course, implicit in the “civilizing mission” was the belief that humankind could be educated in the one true and perfected civilization. The rest of the world, the argument went, was trapped in a benighted barbarism, a state of savagery and degradation, and of paganism; it was oppressed by a denial of freedom and ruled by “oriental despotism.” It was the “burden” of those who had found their way to civilization to help o ­ thers escape their chains. The idealistic vision that all humankind could become “civilized” did not last long, however, for soon enough the French, the British, and all other Eu­ro­pe­ans who had set out to enlighten the world came to believe in their own superiority. The social Darwinists taught that cultures and peoples ­were products of the same dialectical conflict that Darwin had seen in nature, that those who sat atop the world’s hierarchy of cultures did so because they ­were endowed by nature with superiority over those who had fallen b ­ ehind. Jules Ferry was blunt: “[T]he superior races have a right because they have a duty. They have the duty to civilize



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

5

the inferior races.”5 Soon the civilizing mission evolved from a fraternal effort among peoples of potentially equal capacity to one that emphasized the paternal role of the civilized, who ­were obligated to guide and protect those thought incapable of attaining civilization on their own. If the motivations had evolved, however, one central feature had not: Eu­ro­pean colonization in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was not intended to displace native peoples, to wipe them out. Colonization was justified as the moral obligation of the superior ­toward the inferior. This stood in contrast to earlier Eu­ro­pean colonial approaches. When the Spanish took control of Mesoamerica, for example, they set about a systematic eradication of the culture they found. Within de­cades of the conquest cathedrals had been built atop the sacred sites of the indigenous cultures, often using the very stones that once had been used to build the “pagan” temples that had been destroyed. In North Ame­rica the initial efforts of the British and the French to live alongside the indigenous peoples quickly found­ered on the shoals of suspicion and mutual antagonism, resulting in a state of chronic warfare and the gradual displacement of the indigenes by the white colonists. If the En­glish civil servants in India or Singapore and their French confreres in Indochina or Senegal commonly envisioned their colonial tenure as temporary, their ancestors in Mas­sa­chu­setts or Quebec—­like the Spaniards in Oaxaca—­were far more likely to have seen their move to the colonies as permanent, as a relocation. And as initial aspirations among the British and the French to live alongside the indigenes gave way to hostilities, so, too, did ideals of the noble savage, who might be educated in the ways of civilization, give way to the belief that it was fruitless to try to educate the heathen. Indeed, as early as 1690, in his landmark “Second Treatise of Civil Government,” John Locke, perhaps the most famous representative of the British Enlightenment movement, wrote: [F]or I ask, ­whether in the wild woods and uncultivated waste of Ame­ rica, left to nature, without any improvement, tillage or husbandry, a thousand acres yield the needy and wretched inhabitants as many conveniencies of life, as ten acres of equally fertile land do in Devonshire, where they are well cultivated? . . . ​There cannot be a clearer demonstration of any thing, than several nations of the Americans are of this, who are rich in land, and poor in all the comforts of life; whom nature having furnished as liberally as any other ­people, with the materials of

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Chapter 1

plenty, i.e. a fruitful soil, apt to produce in abundance, what might serve for food, raiment, and delight; yet for want of improving it by labour, have not one hundredth part of the conveniencies we enjoy: and a king of a large and fruitful territory there, feeds, lodges, and is clad worse than a day-­labourer in ­England.6

Expressing a sentiment increasingly shared by his by compatriots, Locke argued that those who failed to improve the land “by labour” did not deserve to keep it. “In the beginning,” he asserted, “all the world was Ame­rica” (5:49), a state of undeveloped economic autarky onto which the structures of civilization had been grafted. It was an unwarranted conceit of Eu­ro­pe­ans to believe that all of their innovations w ­ ere new, unpre­ce­dented among the other peoples of the world, who ­were tautologically defined as “uncivilized,” as “barbarian.”7 Few w ­ ere sensitive enough to recognize that in fact this has been a conceit of “civilized” cultures throughout history; a similar discourse has been intrinsic to the farther reaches of Asia. A sizable lit­erature already exists on notions of “civilization” and the civilizing mission in China. The central focus of this discourse, however, has been on the engagement between late and postimperial China and notions of civilization. Prasenjit Duara, for example, has analyzed the interaction between Western—­primarily European—­discourse on civilization in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Japa­nese Pan-­Asianism (the idea of a cohesive Asian civilization that stood in contrast to a theorized Western counterpart), and Chinese discourse on civilization and culture in the 1920s and ’30s.8 Anthropologists such as Steven Harrell and Sara Friedman, working within a Sinitic framework of civilization, have examined the contemporary relationship between dominant and minority cultures in China in terms of “civilizing.”9 The civilizing discourse, however, is not new in Asia, nor has it always been conducted through Western models of the civilizing mission. Let us start, however, at a moment in time common to the Eu­ro­pean discourse. In 1825 Aizawa Seishisai, a samurai and a scholar of the Mito domain in Tokugawa Japan, wrote a polemical tract he called the “New Theses” (Shinron). The broader nature of Aizawa’s critique of external threat and domestic surrender argument is not especially relevant in the pre­sent context, but a theme to which he returns time and again is relevant: Japan in the mature Tokugawa, he claimed, had become chūgoku, the “central kingdom”—or perhaps more appropriately the “Central Lands.”10 Chūgoku, or zhong guo in modern stan-



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

7

dard Chinese, is a deeply resonant term in East Asian discourse, one that goes back at least to the philosophical debates that raged across the kingdoms of the Central Plain through the first millennium BCE, when it referred explicitly to those kingdoms in contrast to anything that was not “central.”11 Aizawa, however, was claiming that it had a cultural meaning that transcended geographic boundaries, that what­ ever culture most legitimately adhered to the principles of the classical discourse—­a discourse that we solipsistically might define as that of “ancient China” but that Aizawa recognized as the source of all civil discourse—­was in fact the zhong guo. The term did not define China, but civilization.12 ­Today zhong guo, or chūgoku, means “China.” But that in fact is a modern development, one that evolved through the nineteenth ­century as the Qing dynasty was increasingly embroiled in the strictures of international law as defined by Eu­ro­pe­ans, for which an enduring national term was needed. Through the classical discourse, zhong guo had had a wide range of meanings, none of which carry the modern meaning of “China.” For example, in the Book of Documents, one of the earliest texts in that discourse, we find the following: “The Great Cosmos gave the ­people of the Central Lands as well as their territories to the former kings . . . ​Heaven also empowered the House of Zhou to rule the ­people of the Central Lands.”13 In this instance the term has an overtly geo­graph­i­cal meaning: The Central Lands ­were the territories ruled by the “former kings” and l­ater by the “House of Zhou.” This is also how the term was used repeatedly by the historian Sima Qian (ca.140–86 BCE), for whom it alluded to the several kingdoms (guo) of the first millennium BCE that occupied the North China Plain. Sima frequently used the term in direct contrast to terms generally translated into En­glish as “barbarian.”14 For example, in discussing the mythologized lineage that led to the Xia emperors, Sima wrote: “Among their descendants, some lived in the Central Lands, and ­others lived among the barbarians (yi di).”15 Likewise of the found­ers of the southern kingdom of Wu, which was not regarded as part of the Central Lands, he stated the following: “­After he had defeated [the Shang dynasty] King Wu [of Zhou] divided the descendants [of Wu Taipo] into two lines. The line of Yu was located in the Central Lands, but that of Wu was among the southern barbarians (yiman).”16 Most explicitly, in reference to the “eight great mountains in the world,” Sima commented: “Three of them are in the lands of the southern barbarians, but five of them are in the Central Lands.”17

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Despite the implied cultural contrast in these passages, the overt meaning remains geo­graph­i­cal. However, even in the centuries before Sima compiled his famous history, ­others had adopted the term for its cultural meaning. It appears in this way in early texts such as the Classic of Poetry, for example in the poem “The ­Labor of the ­People”: The ­people know nothing but ­labor; Perhaps they can have some respite. If they find mercy in these Central Lands, They can give comfort in all directions.18

Mencius added the following: “I have heard of using [the culture of ] Xia [i.e., the Central Lands] to transform the barbarians, but I have never heard of [the Central Lands] transforming into barbarians. Chen Liang was from Chu, but he took plea­sure in the Way of the Duke of Zhou and of Confucius. So he went north to study in the Central Lands.”19 And the Book of Rites reports the following: The ­people of the Five directions, including those of the Central Lands and the Rong and Yi,20 all have [their own] natures, which cannot be interchanged. Those to the east are the Yi; they wear their hair unbound and tattoo their bodies, and they eat their food uncooked. Those to the south are the Man; they tattoo their foreheads and stand with their feet turned inward, and they too eat their food uncooked. Those to the west are the Rong; they wear their hair unbound and wear skins, and they do not eat grains. Those to the north are the Di; they wear furs and feathers, and they too do not eat grains. [Those of ] the Central Lands, the Yi, the Man, the Rong, and the Di all live where it suits them and eat what agrees with them, their clothes are what are useful to them, and their implements are appropriate to them. The languages of all five directions are mutually unintelligible, and what they like and dislike differs.21

Finally, the Intrigues of the Warring States, the controversial work of the very late first millennium BCE, states that “The Central Lands is the place where perspicacity and intelligence abide; where wealth gathers; where the sages teach; where benevolence and righ­teousness are practiced; where the Odes and the Documents, rites and m ­ usic are employed; where genius and technique are tested; where distant places go to observe; where the Man and the Yi find their models of righ­



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

9

teousness.”22 The cultural contrast each of these texts drew between the Central Lands and those who lived outside is apparent. The classical lit­erature contains numerous other citations; the term appears frequently in the discourse of the first millennium BCE. The point is that the term referred not to an imagined “China” but rather to the “Central Lands,” initially perhaps a vague reference to the collection of kingdoms and principalities that divided and contested for the North China Plain through the first millennium BCE, but which in time came to refer more holistically to civilized areas that ­were distinct from the lands of the “barbarians,” the uncivilized. The geographic “Central Lands” was where a new civilization had emerged during the second and first millennia BCE. The kingdoms of the “Central Lands” in a very literal sense lay at “the center” of a world in which “civilization,” at least as it was coming to be defined in the Central Lands discourse, was other­wise lacking; if these kingdoms shared something they consider civilized, ­everything around them did not. Thus, zhong guo became not just a geo­graph­i­cal reference but even more a cultural reference, a term synonymous with “civilization.” During the following centuries the two meanings of zhong guo—­ geographical and cultural—­increasingly became intertwined. Initially the term continued as a straightforward contrast to peoples and even polities that lay outside the po­liti­cal authority of the heartland. For example, the Chunqiu fanlu, uncertainly attributed to Dong Zhongshu (179–104 BCE), notes: “The normal language of the Chunqiu credits the Central Lands, not the Yi and Di barbarians, with behaving in accordance with the rites.”23 Similarly, in an oft-­cited quote from Ban Gu’s History of the [Former] Han Dynasty, Liu Xin (ca. 50 BCE–23 CE), a collateral member of the Han royal ­family, asserted: “Daylight is like the Central Lands, but night is like the Yi and Di barbarians. With the illumination of the day you can see things, but u ­ nder the stars 24 all is hidden, and l­ittle resembles the Central Lands.” Reflecting both the arrogance of his power as well as his presumed authority over “all the world” (tianxia), Cao Cao (155–220) likewise asserted that “if the Qiang and Hu barbarians want to have discourse with the Central Lands, then they must send their ­people to us. We must guard against sending anyone to them, for it is rare that we can find anyone who can instruct the Qiang and the Hu. It is absurd to think they might seek our guidance; they only desire their own benefit.”25 And the other­wise unidentified Dong Chang exclaimed the following in the Zhong shuo, a text that itself is of debated lineage but

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can be traced to the late sixth or early seventh c­ entury: “Great is the Central Land. This is where the 5 Thearchs and 3 Kings arose. This is the source from whence men of culture (yi guan) and rites and righ­ teousness (li yi) all arose. Thus it is trea­sured by the Sages.”26 As the identity of the Sinitic polity evolved with the establishment of courts in the Yangtze Valley by Southern dynasties during the Era of North-­South Division (roughly the fourth through the sixth centuries), the geographic meaning of zhong guo expanded; lands traditionally not considered part of the Central Lands ­were now regarded as heirs to Sinitic cultural traditions. For example, in his preface to the history of the Liang dynasty (503–557), the fourth of the five short-­ lived kingdoms centered in the Yangtze valley, Yao Silian explained “that ever since the ethos (dao) of the ancient kings had not been understood, the common ­people had turned to Buddhism. In the end this led to the disasters of the Central Lands. This was most pronounced u ­ nder the Liang.”27 And ­later in the same text we find this: “In the first year of the tianjian era (503) [the king of Gantuoli (located in the South Seas)] on the eighth day of the fourth month dreamt of the Buddhist monk, who told him that there was now a Sage Lord in the Central Lands. Ten years ­later the Law of the Buddha was greatly flourishing [in the Liang].”28 There is perhaps no clearer mark of the presumed cultural superiority of the Central Lands, however, than the striking imposition of Sinitic culture by the Emperor Xiaowen (r. 471–499) of the non-­Sinitic Tabghach (or “Tuoba”) Northern Wei dynasty on his non-­Sinitic subjects late in the fifth ­century. The Tabghach belonged to the Xianbei cultural sphere of the steppe heartlands of Inner Asia. Their cultural heritage was dramatically at odds with that of the Central Lands: They ­were pastoralists, not agriculturalists; their kinship was defined tribally, not patrilineally; their society was structured along the protomilitarist lines so necessary to nomadic mobility; and they did not share the Sinitic ideal of governance by an educated elite. They w ­ ere, in fact, emblematic of the ste­reo­typed “yidi barbarian”—­although more accurately they ­were classified as hu, a generic term for steppe nomads. From their emergence in the fourth ­century as a contestant in the fluid power struggles that enveloped the Central Lands following the Han collapse, however, Tabghach leaders had worked in concert with Sinitic elites. Throughout the fifth ­century they moved their dynastic seat closer to the Sinitic heartland, culminating late in the ­century with Xiaowen’s relocation of his court to Luoyang, the emblematic base of



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

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Sinitic imperial government. In a series of decrees that followed, Xiaowen banned the use of Xianbei names in ­favor of Sinitic names, as well as the use of the Xianbei language and clothing at the court in ­favor of that of northern China. In the terminology of East Asian historiography, he transformed his Northern Wei dynasty from a “steppe barbarian kingdom” (huzu wangchao) into a “Sinified aristocracy” (zhongguo de guizu zhi).29 In other words, Xiaowen mandated the adoption of the culture of the Central Lands. Xiaowen’s mandate endured in his wake. His own Northern Wei had collapsed by 534, to be succeeded by a number of unstable courts ­under Tabghach leadership, but they all to varying degrees inherited Xiaowen’s commitment to the values of the Central Lands. Wei Shou (505–572), a Sinitic subject of the Northern Qi court and author of the official history of the Northern Wei, repeatedly expressed this commitment: “The yidi [i.e., the steppe tribes, including his own Tabghach sponsors] lack reverence (gong); they have harmed the Central Lands, and it has always been like this . . . ​It has reached the point where hatred is stored up and there is disaster in abundance.”30 Perhaps the most systematic assessment of the inherent superiority of the Central Lands, however, was provided by Du You (735–812), author of the Comprehensive Canon, first of the Ten Comprehensive Encyclopedias (Shi tong). In introducing his profile of peoples on the imperial periphery (bian fang), Du wrote the following: In all the world (fuzai) u ­ nder the sun and the moon, the Realm of Civilization (HuaXia) is at the center. Its living things receive a numinous energy (qi) that rectifies the ­people, whose nature is balanced and abilities [are] generous. The land is richly productive and its products broadly diverse. Thus it produces sages (shengxian) . . . ​[In contrast], ­today the yidi live in nests and pits (chaoxue). They eat what they gather with their hands, and they sacrifice to their dead, but even when they lay out one or two they cannot raise them. Their land is one-­sided [i.e., only herding, not agriculture, is possi­ble], and their numinous energy is obstructed and unable to nurture sages.31

The cultural contrast could hardly be drawn more boldly! And so it was to remain in the centuries that followed. This is what the eleventh-­ century scholar Hu Yuan (993–1059) meant in his Zhouyi kouyi: “The gentleman and the small man each has his place. The elevated and the base, the elder and the young, each have their position. Lords

12

Chapter 1

and ministers, fathers and sons, husbands and wives, elder and younger bro­th­ers, all have their stations. [Likewise], the Central Lands (zhong guo) are the central lands, and the barbarian (yidi) is barbarian. They are not jumbled together.”32 In short, ­everything has a proper place, and that which is “barbarian” should not be confused with the civilized world of the “Central Lands.” Two centuries ­later Zhao Yifu (1189–1256) put it even more bluntly in his Yitong: “The race of the Central Lands and those of the barbarians (yidi) are not equivalent.”33 If the Central Lands ­were the locus of civilization, the question remains, what did “civilization” mean? This, of course, has always been a subjective and contested concept: Everywhere at all times “we” are civilized; “they” are not. Nevertheless, to try to find an answer, let us start with “history.” The Chinese historiographical tradition is extraordinarily rich. Yet, inevitably, it is not without its shortcomings, most notably its dismissal of that which did not fit its predefined tel­ eological trajectory, a trajectory that must inevitably lead to civilization. China’s traditional historians believed their subject was more than an interest­ing story of the past. History, they believed, is a lesson for the pre­sent; history is a didactic narrative of the course of civilization. That which has not served its didactic purpose has almost always been neglected. At the heart of historiographical didacticism was wen. As has been written so often, “Wen is that by which the Way is conveyed” (wen suo yi zai dao).34 Or, as Chen Zhi (thirteenth ­century) put it, “Since the Han, those who would be called scholars (ru) said nothing more than ‘Wen is that by which the Way is conveyed.’ ”35 But what is wen? The difficulty in defining the term is evident; the more comprehensive dictionaries offer well over two dozen distinct definitions covering concepts such as lit­erature, writing, language, and civil officialdom.36 What all have in common is a focus on civil culture, the culture of scholarship and writing. Holistically the term might be thought of as “that body of tradition and rites that defined civilization.” At the risk of oversimplification, throughout the book I define wen as “values of civilization.” That is, to embrace wen is to embrace those qualities that make one civilized; to be wen, therefore, is to be civilized. There are, in fact, two standard pairings with wen: wu, commonly interpreted to mean “martial,” and zhi, meaning “quality” or “disposition.” The pairings point to two distinct aspects of the term. The wen/wu dichotomy derives from the mortuary names of the two founding rulers of the Zhou dynasty, Kings Wen and Wu. Although von



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

13

Falkenhausen has persuasively argued that it is erroneous to interpret these names as having meant “civil” and “martial” in early Zhou discourse,37 increasingly that is how they w ­ ere understood. In short, as wu was taken to mean “martial,” wen came to mean “civil.” Moreover, in the civilizing discourse the “barbarians” ­were said to embrace wu values, in contrast to the wen values of the Central Lands.38 Thus, wen came to define the culture of the Central Lands. The pairing with zhi, in contrast, emphasizes the acquired character of wen. If zhi, the “quality” or “disposition” of a thing, was that which was innate, wen had to be cultivated, learned. If zhi came naturally, wen took study and effort; if zhi always is, wen could be lost without proper application. As Confucius asked: “With the death of King Wen [of Zhou], did wen cease to exist? Had tian [the cosmic force too often rendered in En­glish as “heaven”] allowed wen to perish, then those who came afterward could not have known wen. But tian did not allow wen to perish.”39 This is a very optimistic discourse, one that was far more in keeping with the Enlightenment discourse on civilization than with the social Darwinian assumption of irresolvable inferiority. Wen was a universal value; once those who w ­ ere “not-­ wen” ­were exposed, they would embrace its obvious value—­history, the classical discourse claimed, is a teleological narrative of progress ­toward civilization, so t­oward wen. The concurrent inference is that everyone was equally capable of learning wen. But h ­ ere we encounter the historian’s conundrum, for if history was to be didactically valuable, then it, too, had to emphasize that which was wen. In contrast, that which was “not-­wen” was best left “not-­known.” And non-­Sinitic culture, be it that of foreign lands or that of pre-­Sinitic inhabitants of the expanding Sinitic ecumene, was virtually by definition “not-­wen.” The corollary to the universal appeal of wen is that there should be no cross-­fertilization. Like the civilisation of the Enlightenment philosophes, wen is considered an absolute value, not something that changes with time and place. It came from the Sinitic world, and it defined the Sinitic world. Since non-­Sinitic culture was “not-­wen,” there could be no value in adopting anything from it. Thus it is the premise of the orthodox historical narrative that as Sinitic civilization spread it did so by the spread of wen, a pure form of ultimate civilization that needed no improvement and certainly did not seek accommodation with the not-­wen worlds encountered on the peripheries of the Central Lands. Cultural transformation was a one-­way pro­cess as wen replaced the benighted cultures that lay beyond. To incorporate

14

Chapter 1

aspects of not-­wen culture was only to debase civilization. This, consequently, became the presupposition of history; the not-­wen is largely not recorded. ­Human experience tells us that was not in fact what happened on the Sinitic peripheries, nor is it the premise of the story I am ­going to tell. Cultures have engaged and influenced each other across the span of ­human history,40 but it is probably most readily evident in the cultural engagements that resulted from Eu­ro­pean expansion in recent centuries. Eu­ro­pe­ans, too, had a culture they believed was superior to anything they encountered and which they believed benighted heathen would gladly adopt once they understood its benefits, at least as far as they ­were capable. This was self-­evidently a one-­way pro­cess, for what could the heathen have to teach Eu­ro­pe­ans about civilisation? However, as the Eu­ro­pean experience in North Ame­rica makes plain, cultural influence was not a one-­way pro­cess. As Eu­ro­pe­ans tightened their control over their colonies, the Eu­ro­pean qualities of North American colonial culture became its public face, just as the values of wen had in China’s peripheries, yet the unique heritage of the colonial experience was never lost. This was the premise of de Tocqueville in Democracy in Ame­rica as well as of Turner’s landmark essay, “The Significance of the Frontier in American History.” What­ever the flaws in ­either analy­sis, their argument that North American culture was more than simply transplanted civilisation has endured. As Lattimore reminded us in 1940, cultural frontiers are not well-­defined lines across which rival cultures face off but moving zones across which two cultures interact and exchange.41 In the chapters that follow we will examine the civilizing mission as fostered by the Sinitic migrants who brought the classical culture of the Yellow River basin into the alien lands of the Farther South during the first millennium CE. ­After many centuries of definition, in the latter half of the first millennium BCE migrants began an extended pro­cess of infiltration into the river valleys south of the Yangtze River. Some came as conquerors, a cause emblematically championed by the First Emperor, whose armies campaigned all the way to the southern metropolis of Guangzhou and claimed for the empire all the lands they had traversed. Many more, however, came as settlers, attracted to the South, sometimes as refugees from the turmoil that periodically disrupted life in the Yellow River basin, other times as ­simple migrants in search of a better life. Few came with the intent to civilize, to transform. Rather, it was their growing weight—­politically, eco­nom­ically,



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

15

and culturally—­that forced transformation. During the centuries that followed, the formerly “barbarian” lands of the Farther South w ­ ere gradually incorporated into the Sinitic ecumene. The open question, however, is, what did transformation entail? The “voices” of this pro­cess, the texts through which we see the unfolding incorporation, ­were compiled by the small corps of “civilized” and literate elites. And ­here is our conundrum, because literacy was almost exclusively acquired through the classical culture of the North, the tradition that dismissed the “not-­wen” as debased and unworthy of attention. It was inconceivable to this voice that the “not-­ wen” could offer anything of value, that there could be such a thing as an accommodation between wen and “not-­wen.” Thus it became an unchallenged truth that what happened, the only thing that could have happened, was that the benighted “not-­wen” adopted wen. It is my premise, however, that reality was more complicated. A tension persisted for centuries between immigrants and indigenes, between orthodox culture and benighted heterodoxy, between wen and “not-­wen.” The reality was that the wen and the “not-­wen” existed concurrently, sometimes in hostile isolation from each other but increasingly in begrudging and finally fertile discourse with each other. The “not-­wen” never developed its own voice; we must always listen carefully to the voice of cultural orthodoxy to hear it. But it is possi­ble to discern an emerging accommodation that folded aspects of the “not-­ wen” into a new orthodoxy. The result, I argue, is what we call ­today “Chinese civilization”—­not a pure transmission of classical orthodoxy but a hybrid culture that drew on divergent stimuli. Despite the centrality of the South to Chinese civilization, the history of this frontier has attracted surprisingly l­ittle attention among historians, both of Chinese and non-­Chinese heritage. Inside China, policy since the 1949 revolution has insisted on a fraternal unity among the majority Han and the numerous minority groups.42 In the face of this policy, according to which minorities are equal participants in Chinese culture and society, it has not been po­liti­cally realistic to suggest that groups such as the Yue, the all-­inclusive yet indeterminate name in the classical discourse for all of the peoples of the southeast littoral, could have made their own contribution to e­ ither, much less that they might have sought to maintain their own identity and resist the imposition of the values of wen culture. Consequently, Chinese scholars have focused on regional studies, even studies of non-­Sinitic ethnic groups that emphasize an optimistic trajectory t­oward the modern

16

Chapter 1

state. Much of this work is very valuable and plays an im­por­tant role in the discussions that follow,43 yet it almost never suggests that history could have moved in a ­different direction, that the Yue or other non-­Sinitic ethnic groups could have sustained their in­de­pen­dent identity. A more recent line of inquiry among historians in China has focused on “the southern migration of the economic center” ( jingji zhongxin nan yi).44 This valuable work demonstrates the relocation of the economic core to the South, but it does not suggest this resulted from factors indigenous to the region. In short, regardless of the approach, modern Chinese scholarship, every bit as much as traditional history, has failed to acknowledge the divergent sources of cultural identity that contributed to the construction of Chinese civilization. For many years scholars outside of China who did not have to adhere to such an official doctrine nevertheless replicated some of its ­under­lying premises: The “im­por­tant” frontier was to the North, whereas the assimilation of the South was unremarkable. The premise was challenged by only a small number. Herold J. Wiens, for example, published China’s March into the Tropics in 1952 ­under the auspices of the U.S. Navy as part of the U.S. government’s effort to know more about an emerging adversary.45 Wiens (1912–1971) followed in the footsteps of Wolfram Eberhard (1909–1989), who arguably was the first Western scholar to give the non-­Sinitic South a focused scholarly examination. Eberhard was deeply fascinated by China’s pop­u­lar culture, and his work bounced between analyses of folklore and history, frequently bringing the two together as he did in “Die Lokalkulturen des Südens und Ostens.”46 Pathbreaking as it was, however, Eberhard’s work, like Lattimore’s, was compiled long before the combined efforts of archaeology, anthropology, and history permitted the insights that have developed over the past seven de­cades. A similar criticism can be leveled at C. P. Fitzgerald,47 whose focus was far broader than ­either Wiens or Eberhard attempted: He went well beyond the contours of the Chinese empire to include southeast Asia and even Chinese communities abroad. Arguably, he was much less successful. As one reviewer said, Fitzgerald “has a tendency to accept traditional Chinese historiography, including the self-­serving justifications of the mandarinate, at face value.”48 Singular, therefore, for both its command of resources and its insight is Edward Schafer’s Vermilion Bird: T’ang Images of the South, published in 1967, which plumbs the surviving lit­erature of the Tang for literati impressions of the non-­Sinitic world. Schafer had astonish-



“The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context

17

ing command of his sources; whereas reviewers of Fitzgerald’s work ­were critical, Schafer’s could not enthuse enough. Like Eberhard, Schafer took the engagement between Tang literati and the alien cultures of the South seriously, but his approach necessarily confined him to the voices of wen; the voice of the “not-­wen” is ­silent throughout his work. Thus as monumental as his accomplishment remains, it is unable to validate, much less to see, the autonomy of southern cultures. Indeed, one reviewer dismissed the indigenous cultures as “relatively uninteresting and uncultivated,”49 a negative perspective that Schafer’s reliance on the written sources renders almost inevitable. ­Until recently, therefore, lit­erature on the southern frontier has been outdated and inadequate.50 A parallel discourse that looked at the frontier from a southern perspective, however, began as early as the 1950s, when Wang Gungwu argued that what the Chinese historically called the “Southern Sea” (nan hai), the littoral regions centered on the Gulf of Tonkin but reaching from the Yangtze delta on the Chinese coast as far as the Mekong delta in southern Vietnam, played a unifying role much as the Mediterranean played in the history of its littoral.51 Although Wang was interested in this primarily as a zone of trade, he recognized that the region’s peoples shared an orientation to the sea that had never been integral to Sinitic culture. More recently, Wang’s perspective has been adopted by a number of Southeast Asian historians, among whom Robin Winks and Victor Lieberman are exemplary. This work, however, has been less concerned with the exchanges between China’s north and south and more with the origins of their own region and its links to China. Winks, like Wang, has been interested in monetary and trade ties between Southeast Asia and the world beyond,52 while Lieberman has sought to place the region into a model of state development that he argues is reflected across Eurasia.53 Two recent conferences, the products of which remain as yet unpublished, have further reassessed the theme. In 2012 the Nalanda-­Sriwijaya Centre of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies at the National University of Singapore hosted “Imperial China and Its Southern Neighbors”; in 2013 Pennsylvania State University hosted “Maritime Frontiers in Asia: Indigenous Communities and State Control in South China and Southeast Asia, 2000 BCE–1800 CE.” Both conferences departed from the accepted premise that the non-­Sinitic cultures of southern China ­were teleologically destined to become part of Greater China. As is clear from the collective pre­sen­ ta­tions of the two gatherings, an equally plausible historical outcome

18

Chapter 1

would have been a non-­Sinitic southern culture bound together by maritime links. This work has pushed Wang’s insight to a new level. The discussion that follows is informed by this new direction in our understanding of East Asia’s past. As I make clear ­later on, the integration of the South into the “Chinese” world was a drawn-­out and an uneven pro­ cess. Moreover, no m ­ atter how one constructs the narrative, it must result in the construction of what we t­oday call “China”: However infinite the possibilities, history has only one outcome. However, the possibilities of the past ­were many. Not only might a non-­Sinitic southern culture have emerged, but even within the Sinitic world the South could have evolved as a collection of po­liti­cally and culturally in­de­ pen­dent polities, an outcome that has seemed a real possibility on several occasions through the past two millennia. It did not; why it did not is its own question and only tangentially germane to this inquiry. Rather, my goal is to examine the range of cross-­cultural accommodations that contributed to the outcome we know and so to challenge the teleological hegemony of the northern discourse, the often explicit and always implicit premise that endures: that the northern culture overwhelmed the debased cultures of the South, ultimately folding ­everything in its path into the realm of wen, an outcome that was as inevitable as it was complete. Across the South, I argue, these accommodations contributed to the shaping of the culture we know ­today as “Chinese.” In fact, I would argue, both the expansion of the Sinitic cultural sphere and its encounter with the disparate cultures of the South w ­ ere among a range of impulses that led to a fundamental redefinition of wen. As southerners engaged that expansion, they brought with them alien ideas about the world they lived in. As the encounter deepened, North and South had to adapt and accommodate. Cultural exchange was not one way: The hegemonic North did not impose its culture on the South. If it had sought to do so, although we cannot predict what the outcome would have been, we can say certainly it would have been a very ­different one from what we know ­today. That we recognize this is a small demand.

Chapter Two

Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­S initic South

S

initic civilization emerged over many centuries in the core region of northern China, centrally defined by the North China Plain and the Yellow River, as the precursor to what ­later came to be known as “Chinese” civilization. This was the civilization that both defined and was defined by the culture of wen. Although archaeology has demonstrated the coexistence of numerous Neolithic cultural complexes throughout continental and insular east Asia, and contemporary cultural history recognizes that “Chinese” civilization is the composite outcome of multiple contributions,1 the values and motifs that defined Sinitic civilization emerged along with the earliest state structures on the North China Plain and its adjacent river valleys. This was the area that came to be called the Central Lands.2 To the north the Central Lands confronted a hostile environment of semiarid grasslands ideally suited to extensive herding but unsuitable for the settled agriculture on which the po­liti­cal structures of the plain depended. The tension that defined the relationship between intensive settled agriculture and extensive nomadic herding was to become one of the defining motifs of Sinitic history.3 Tension also existed between the settled agriculturalists and the mobile patterns of the indigenous population of the forest lands to the northeast. Beyond the fertile soils of Shaanxi, the farther west presented the forbidding uplands leading to the Tibetan massif and the barren wastes of the Gobi Desert, both unpromising zones for Sinitic settlement or acculturation. Thus, the only frontier across which the culture of the Central Lands could readily expand was ­toward the south, where rainfall was 19

20

Chapter 2

plentiful, the bottomlands of the many river valleys w ­ ere rich, and the weather was warm. This was the direction ­toward which the peoples of the Central Lands migrated. And as they moved, they brought their culture of wen with them. The ­middle centuries of the first millennium BCE provide one of the earliest models of acculturation along the southern frontier: the Chu kingdom, which straddled the central reaches of the Yangtze River. Although much about the kingdom’s early history remains in doubt, the subjects ­were “southern barbarians” (man yi). Modern scholars claim to have excavated residues of their language in contemporary colloquial Chinese, through which they have established links to the ­family of languages known as Austro-­Asiatic, the dominant linguistic heritage of southeast Asia, which includes, among ­others, Viet­nam­ese.4 This links them to a cultural pattern that was very ­different from that emerging across the Central Lands; Chu was a nonliterate culture with a heavy emphasis on shamanistic religion.5 Nevertheless, during the Spring and Autumn period and the subsequent Warring States era (mid-­eighth to mid-­third centuries BCE) Chu became one of the major players in the affairs of the Central Lands. As Chu was drawn more deeply into the politics, it was also drawn into the cultural patterns of the Central Lands. Texts that have been analyzed by Constance Cook, for example, reveal a deep affinity to the discourse of the Central Lands. Illustratively, in a poem-­song King Zhuang of Chu refused to celebrate a military victory with a bloody show of the conquered dead, “choos[ing instead] to model himself upon the legendary be­hav­ior of the Zhou king Wu.” The king added: Then put away your shields and axes, Encase your arrows and bows; I have stored enough good power, To spread over all the lands of Xia [i.e., the Central Lands].6

Perhaps the most notable contributions of Chu to the culture of the Central Lands, however, are the themes of alienation and mysticism that are central to Daoism and especially to the related poems of the Songs of Chu (Chu ci), among which “Encountering Sorrow” (Li sao), the elegiac lamentation of the unjustly deposed and despondent Chu minister Qu Yuan, is no doubt the most famous. While the link between Chu and the broader Daoist tradition, which emerged as a



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

21

criticism of the imminent “scholarly” discourses of the Central Lands, is open to speculation,7 the Songs of Chu are emblematic of Chu culture. The striking shamanistic imagery of the “Nine Songs” ( Jiu ge) and “Far Roaming” (Yuan you) is deeply rooted in the mystical heritage of the South. Yet as many scholars have noted, the motifs and styles of the Songs had an indelible impact on Chinese poetry in the centuries that followed.8 Composed in the language of the Central Lands, the Songs mark an inescapable cultural link between the two regions. Beyond Chu ­were two further polities that w ­ ere recognized as “kingdoms” (guo) in the discourse of the Central Lands but even more absolutely regarded as “not-­wen”: Wu, identified with the lower reaches of the Yangtze River, and Yue, usually placed in modern Chekiang, south of Hangzhou Bay. Before the compilation of two texts devoted to Yue history during the Han dynasty, written rec­ords about ­either are sparse and lacking in specifics,9 but archaeology has demonstrated that interaction between these southern peripheries and the Central Lands, including both trade and the exchange of technologies, was routinized and im­por­tant and that both Wu and Yue ­were deeply influenced by, even if not full participants in, the emergent Sinitic culture.10 It is, however, an unresolved question to what degree e­ ither Wu or Yue represented a centralized, hierarchized kingdom on the order of those that had formed in the Central Lands. Figures appear through the scanty pages of their history bearing the title “king” (wang), suggesting an authority parallel to “kings” in the Central Lands, but it is impossible to know ­whether this was their title or one applied to them by the Central Lands scholars who composed that scanty rec­ord and for whom it was the only appropriate title for someone in their alleged position. Indeed, we might even question the state names themselves, for which the only source is the Central Lands discourse. Were these names derived from local traditions? Or w ­ ere they names imposed by the scholars of the Central Lands, who remain our only source?11 Although Wu lay within a fairly bounded space, moreover, Yue, in addition to being the name of the supposed kingdom, was also an ethnographic term, used in the northern discourse to define all the peoples of the coast south of the Yangtze delta, known to the Central Lands by a variety of terms such as “Hundred Yue” (BaiYue), “Southern Yue” (NanYue), and “Fujian Yue” (MinYue). This in turn raises an identity issue: Who ­were the Yue? Was there actually anything that linked all of the Yue together?

22

Chapter 2

In fact, there are a number of reasons to believe that some degree of shared ethnicity existed along the coast. First, despite disagreements on the specifics, analysts generally concur that the languages of the Yue belonged to a common f­amily.12 ­Others have noted that bronze metallurgy with a range of shared characteristics as well as obvious Central Lands influences had developed throughout the regions identified as Yue by the ­later first millennium.13 If an ­under­lying stratum of shared culture existed along the southern littoral, however, it was not Sinitic culture—it was not even derivatively Sinitic. A case in point is the evidence that the myriad Yue cut their hair and tattooed their bodies, a theme that echoes throughout the lit­erature of the Central Lands with disgust.14 Illustratively, writing near the end of the Latter Han in the last years of the second ­century CE, Xun Yue, in his Annals of the Former Han, wrote: “[Liu] An, Prince of Huainan, remonstrated, ‘Yue is a kingdom that lies outside [the Central Lands]. The ­people cut their hair and tattoo their bodies. They cannot become a kingdom of caps and sashes [i.e., of the educated elite, who held office in the Central Lands—­and who incidentally ­were the protectors of wen].’ ”15 Sima Qian, in his Rec­ords of the Grand Historian, had even said specifically of Goujian, “He tattooed his body and cut his hair,”16 and Ban Gu, author of the History of the Former Han Dynasty, wrote of the Yue: “They tattoo their bodies and cut their hair in order to avoid the dangers of the jiaolong,” to which the Tang commentator Yan Shigu added, “They are frequently in the ­water. Therefore they cut their hair and tattoo their bodies in order to look like long and so they avoid injury.”17 Commenting on the “lands south of the mountains” (Lingnan), as the Farther South was known before the Song, the geo­graph­i­cal monograph of the Sui shu observes: The twenty-­plus prefectures that lie south of the mountains are, for the most part, damp and swampy and plagued with malaria, and the ­people all die young . . . ​The character of the p ­ eople varies between frivolous and ferocious, and they go back and forth between prosperity and rebellion . . . ​They live in cliff-­side nests and expend all their energy on agriculture. They cut wood to make tallies, and they do not break an oath even unto death. Fathers and sons follow ­different livelihoods. If a f­ather is poor, he gives himself to his son. The myriad Liao are all this way.18



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

23

Similar passages abound in Yue Shi’s comments on the remoter prefectures of Lingnan in his Taiping huanyuji, compiled shortly ­after the Song reunification in the late tenth ­century but usually reflecting the knowledge of the preceding centuries. Referring, for example, to the indigenous folk of Hezhou, located on the south flank of the mountains north of Guangzhou city and echoing the Sui shu, Yue noted: “They gather wood to make nests in order to avoid malarial miasmas” (goumu wei chao, yipi zhangqi).19 Referring to a local culture he called Gaoliang in Qinzhou, lying west of Guangzhou city, he noted: “They do not cultivate fields [that is, by pursuing a lifestyle focused on agriculture, which was central to the values of orthodox civilization] but rather earn their living by ­going to sea and fishing” (bu zhongtian, ruhai buyu wei ye).20 Yue Shi in fact regularly criticized what he regarded as improper, not-­wen economic activities in the hinterland prefectures of the region: The ­women of the liaoman sell goods at the market while their men stay at home;21 again echoing the Sui shu, Yue said of the indigenes of Gaozhou that “fathers and sons have ­different livelihoods” and added that “older and younger bro­th­ers have ­different amounts of wealth” (xiongdi yicai).22 Yue found local culinary customs equally suspect: The indigenous folk in Danzhou “do not eat the Five Grains, but rather eat oysters and turtles” (bu shi wugu, shi bang ji bie);23 the Langye ­people “eat raw meat” (shi shengrou);24 and the “barbarians” of Yulin zhou “eat with their hands” (shi yong shou).25 And of course Yue found social customs abhorrent: Repeatedly he noted that the oracles of the peoples of the far south cast chicken bones to make prophecies, often adding that this was done to ward off demons;26 that reliance on shamans was common;27 and that morals ­were lax.28 Eric Henry, finally, in a monograph on the Yue cultures, has summarized the differences far more broadly: [W]e can see that [the Yue] differed from their sinitic neighbors in language, ­music, folklore, religion, diet, village layout, boat construction, weapons, terrain preferences (mountain tops), domestic architecture (stilt-­houses), coiffure (short), personal adornment (tattooing), funerary be­hav­ior (more “following in death,” not to speak of outlandish-­looking tombs), clothing (bare-­foot, short sleeves, short trouser legs), script (serpentine characters), military practices (deep-­throated copper wardrums [sic], riverine raids, guerilla tactics), and temperament (fiery, audacious,

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risk-­taking). Their language was so ­different from surrounding ones that not even ­people from Chu could understand it.29

Beyond the southern tier of kingdoms; Chu, and especially Wu and Yue, culture shaded off into an inchoate heterodoxy where all behaviors and standards w ­ ere hopelessly debased. We are trapped by the historian’s eternal lament, however, when we try to peer into that world, for the scholars of the Central Lands had virtually no interest in those who lay beyond, who ­were absolutely not-­wen. Beyond the entirely formulaic descriptions already mentioned, they had virtually nothing to say. We can, however, infer certain things. First, state structures, where they existed at all, ­were weak, and across much of the region they seem not to have existed at all. The Chu kingdom extended nominal authority down the river valleys that extend south of the state’s Yangtze core into modern Hunan, although the degree to which it exercised ­actual control is questionable;30 we can infer, however, that the highlands that separated the valleys lay beyond any realistic po­liti­cal or cultural control. In the “lands south of the mountains,” the culture known to the scholars of the Central Lands as “Southern Yue” (NanYue) may have had some degree of central authority, although the evidence is weak.31 In the vast stretch of coast between Southern Yue and the Yue “kingdom” of the Hangzhou Bay region that interacted with the Central Lands, the coastal stretch in which modern Fujian is the core, there is no evidence of centralized structures; on the contrary, all of the material evidence points to very slow development of any sort.32 Other aspects of cultural development such as literacy w ­ ere also absent, at least u ­ ntil the influence of Central Lands culture began to be felt. As occurred in the stoneware of the Central Lands, those ceramic objects found across much of the South often featured potter’s marks; although these have often been interpreted as precursors of the development of real Sinitic writing, an approach many still adhere to, this has also been challenged.33 Similar lines of argument can be made regarding other cultural features such as ­music and art. Foundations of Sinitic Culture in the South and Southern Re­s is­t ance ­ ntil late in the first millennium BCE, lands south of the Yangtze River U lay largely outside the realm of wen. However, two developments be-



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gan a pro­cess of change that over a millennium led to their gradual envelopment into the sphere of Sinitic culture. The first was a pattern of military conquest. Late in the third ­century BCE, in the culmination of a pro­cess that extended at least back through that c­ entury, the Qin kingdom, itself on the western periphery of the Central Lands and like Chu of questionable orthodoxy, forged a unity through conquest of the several states of the Central Lands. In 221 the Qin ruler proclaimed himself “the First Emperor,” an act that is traditionally taken to mark the beginning of China’s imperial epoch. Once he had consolidated his rule in the Central Lands, the new emperor turned his attention to the Farther South. Never before had armies from the Central Lands invaded south of the Yangtze River. Just what inspired this campaign is debated. Some have argued it was driven by a desire to gain control over access to the wealth of the South Seas.34 More commonly, historians have seen the southern campaigns as a continuation of the First Emperor’s insatiable appetite for conquest and self-­aggrandizement. Without entering the argument, what neither interpretation would deny is that these ­were campaigns of conquest. The spread of wen culture was not a driving ­factor. Thus even as the new dynasty asserted a theoretical authority throughout the regions south of the Yangtze River, in fact most of those lands remained “outside” and “not-­wen.” Po­liti­cal and cultural consolidation of these lands, in other words, ­were not synonymous. Second, and of long-­term greater importance, was a pattern of migration. As early as the late first millennium, unknown folk—­ peasants, no doubt, seeking land and security, although that is hard to document—­began creeping out of the Central Lands into the river valleys that led Farther South: first across the great plain that led south to the Yangtze River; ­later into the valley of the Han River, which led out of the western fringe of the Central Lands into the heart of the Chu kingdom. Many followed the Yangtze ­toward its mouth and the im­mensely fertile lands of Jiangnan; ­others crossed the Yangtze and moved into the valleys of the Gan and Xiang Rivers, which became the corridors to the “lands south of the mountains” and ultimately to the great port ­today known as Guangzhou, already developed as an entrepôt in a regional maritime trade network that embraced the South China Sea.35 Throughout the Han dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE) and the unstable eras that followed, this movement from north to south progressed. By the ­middle centuries of the first millennium CE, ­under the Sui (581–618) and Tang (618–906/07) dynasties, the Farther South

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had been transformed as new immigrants occupied the fertile lowlands of the southern river valleys through which they had moved, leaving the less desirable uplands the retreat of unassimilated indigenes. The rise of the Han dynasty at the end of the third ­century BCE marked a new stage in accommodation between North and South. Liu Bang, the new dynasty’s founder, was from the Nearer South, a native of the old Chu regions, and his rise to the imperial position points to the evolving incorporation of the valley of the Yangtze River into the sphere of wen. Not only did this include the old lands of Chu in the central basin, in fact, but also those farther downriver in the region identified with the heretofore “not-­wen” Wu. Equally importantly, however, he inherited a polity with claims that extended deep into the barbarian south. If the lands of the Nearer South ­were gradually becoming enmeshed in the world of wen through conquest and migratory settlement, however, imperial claims to the Farther South ­were not unchallenged. In the “lands south of the mountains,” for example, even claims to po­liti­cal authority ­were rejected. The Qin had dispatched Zhao Tuo (d. 137 BCE), a ­middle-­ranking official in the administration of the Nearer South, to lead an invasion. Zhao was given the sole authority to protect the imperial prerogative.36 Stuck in this lonely outpost far from the Central Lands, Zhao increasingly adopted the local manners and dress and even married a local ­woman. When the Qin empire quickly dissolved into renewed chaos, Zhao proclaimed himself king of the Southern Yue kingdom (Nan Yue guowang).37 Although he is said to have accepted a nominal enfeoffment once Liu Bang had established the Han dynasty, in fact Zhao ruled the lands “south of the mountains” in­de­pen­dently ­until his death in 137 BCE, an astonishing total of sixty-­nine years, during which he proclaimed himself “the great elder of the Man and the Yi” (manyi da zhanglao).38 Finally in 111 BCE, ­after the reigns of four successors, Southern Yue succumbed to the renewed pressure of the Han emperor Wudi and acknowledged its subordination. In the ­century of its in­de­pen­dence, however, the Zhao f­ amily had governed a kingdom that claimed to include all of modern Guangdong, parts of Guangxi, and the coast of the Tonkin Gulf as far as the Red River delta. A somewhat analogous situation evolved in the region known ­today as Fujian but in an earlier time as Min. Classical ethnography defined all of the inhabitants of the vast region between the Yue king-



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27

dom of the Hangzhou Bay region and Southern Yue as MinYue, but that implies a unity that most likely was not there. Northern Fujian, the region defined by the drainage basin of the Min River ( jiang), was influenced by the culture of the Yue kingdom, which lay just to its north; southern Fujian, in contrast, was culturally closer to Southern Yue. In the North, tradition tells us, an in­de­pen­dent kingdom existed through the last de­cades of the Warring States era. Sima Qian tells us that its royal ­family was descended from Goujian, the fifth-­century BCE ruler of the Yue kingdom mentioned earlier in this chapter.39 Regardless of the truth of this, a centralized polity apparently did exist in the Min River valley with links to the Yue peoples farther north. Archaeologists have identified a complex site with a central palace structure and evidence of a surrounding urban concentration located on the edge of the Wuyi Mountains in northern Fujian as the palace of MinYue kings. By contrast, coastal central and southern Fujian—­those areas defined by the drainage basins of the Mulan, Jin, and Jiulong Rivers—­ have left no hint of or­ga­nized state structures, and the heretofore spotty archaeological rec­ord offers only vague hints of cultural connection to the North.40 These valleys are each isolated from the next as well as from the Min River valley by mountains and have long fostered distinctive local cultures that have resisted po­liti­cal integration; while the Min River drainage network, therefore, could be or­ga­nized, even if at a limited level, the southern valleys stood apart. As in the “lands south of the mountains,” Han Wudi in the last years of the second ­century BCE also sought to assert some control over the region. When his forces ­were finally victorious, according to Sima Qian, he then ordered that “the ­people be dispersed throughout Jiang and Huai [i.e., the Nearer South], and the land of the Eastern Yue was left vacant.”41 Although the Han victory was no doubt a reality, however, two caveats must be added. First, Han forces approached Min from the north, through the lands of the Yue kingdom. Thus what was conquered was in fact the Min River basin. Reflecting this, the only Han garrison, known as Ye, was located somewhere near the mouth of the Min River.42 By extension, it is very unlikely that any tangible Han authority existed in the lands farther south; southern Fujian remained disor­ga­nized and autonomous.43 Second, the claim that the “land . . . ​was left vacant” is no doubt an exaggeration. The conquered elite may have been relocated, but the mass of the indigenous

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population most likely was left in place. This is echoed by Yue Shi, writing a full millennium ­later, who said that “the ­people fled and hid in the mountains and valleys.”44 However, it bears repeating that po­liti­cal control, especially when tenuous, does not reflect cultural control. Following the campaigns of Wudi, the Farther South remained “outside”—­these lands w ­ ere “not-­ wen,” not civilized. Civilization was a much slower pro­cess that resulted from a combination of migration and assimilation. Even into the Tang and Song dynasties the South remained a land regarded by many from the Central Lands as strange, threatening, and potentially, even dangerously, seductive. Take the case of the Feng ­family of “the lands south of the mountains.”45 In his revised History of the Tang, Ouyang Xiu included the biography of Feng Ang (late sixth–­seventh ­century) among the “foreign generals” (zhuyi fanjiang), a chapter that honors the many non-­ Han leaders who had assisted the Tang court at vari­ous times. Ang is identified as a native of Gaozhou (Lingnan) and so a true southerner. However, Ouyang traced his descent from Feng Hong, a member of the ruling f­amily of the Northern Yan (407–436), one of the myriad short-­lived kingdoms on the North China Plain known collectively as the Sixteen Kingdoms and one of the very few to be governed by ethnic Han. Ouyang claims that Hong could not bear to see his ­family’s kingdom fall to the invading Tuoba, who established the Northern Wei state across the north early in the fifth ­century. The Tuoba, ­after all, ­were “barbarians” and so “not-­wen”; their conquest of the northern plain confirmed to the old-­line elite such as Feng Hong that the classical heartland was no longer the locus of wen. He therefore fled to the Koryo kingdom in K ­ orea, from where he sent his son with three hundred followers to the remnant Jin court, which had fled to the Yangtze valley, where it claimed to be the legitimate heir to the classical heritage and wen. When Hong died, however, his son “remained in Pan’yu”—an alternate name for the Pearl River delta region, centered on Zhao Tuo’s old capital of Guangzhou; Ouyang does not explain how he got there. Feng Ang thus traced his ancestry to an old ­family from the Sinitic heartland that had wound up in the deepest South. In this he is unique among those in the “foreign generals” chapter; he is the only one with a Sinitic heritage. Ouyang’s reasoning becomes clear in Ang’s biography. Feng Hong’s grandson Rong served the Liang, perhaps the most prominent of the southern courts, as magistrate of Luozhou



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(Lingnan), located well to the west and deep in the non-­wen realm of the indigenous ­people, an unfavorable posting that is unexplained. When Rong’s son Bao married a w ­ oman from a leading indigenous ­family, however, the ­family was apparently adapting to their not-­wen world. Although her f­amily bore a Sinitic surname, Shen, suggesting a degree of cultural accommodation, the marriage was not orthodox. When the Sui dynasty sought to reconsolidate a unitary imperial authority late in the sixth c­ entury, Feng Ang, Bao’s third-­generation descendent, rallied to the new court, implying that his ­family continued to identify with the ideals of the Central Lands. When the indigenous peoples broke out in rebellion against Sui authority—­a manifestation of a potent indigenous sentiment against the imposition of wen culture, about which I have more to say ­later—­Ang led the fight against them, for which he was rewarded with a magisterial title. He even traveled to the Central Lands and joined the second Sui emperor in his campaigns against K ­ orea and in turn was granted further honors by the court. When the Sui was succeeded by the Tang, however, Ang returned to the deep south, where he once again fought against local rebels. Only this time, having pacified the rebels, Ang noted: “My ­family has lived among the Yue for five generations. Only I can tend to them. That their sons and daughters have jades and silks is my d ­ oing. That the ­people are wealthy is my d ­ oing. I fear the loss of what I have accomplished.” And so he took the royal title, calling himself king of Southern Yue (NanYue wang), just as Zhao Tuo had done centuries earlier. And just as Zhao came to identify with the not-­wen culture in which he lived, so did the heirs of Feng Ang. Although his kinsman Feng Ziyou had acknowledged the authority of the founding Tang emperor, when the third Tang emperor, Gaozong, dispatched an envoy to examine his properties, Ziyou led a band of followers “beating bronze drums” to arrest him.46 Such drums are emblematic of the not-­ wen culture of the Far South. In short, despite their Sinitic heritage, the Feng—­like Zhao Tuo before them—­had succumbed to the alien pleasures of the Far South and compromised their cultural heritage. The alien seductiveness of the South led many from the Central Lands to view it with fearsome loathing. Listen, for example, to the voices of Tang poets: • Song

Zhiwen (late seventh–­eighth centuries), in “Entering the Waters of Longzhou”:

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The steaming lakes make the waters boil; The heat of the mountains births clouds of fire. Apes leap about and from time to time call shrilly. Birds of prey fly above, so none dare make a sound.47 • Zhang Ji (ca. 765–ca. 830), in “On Seeing Off a Traveler G ­ oing to the South”: So, so far away, a wandering guest . . . ​ Surrounded by malaria, your body wasting away. A land of blue mountains and endless travel, Your hair will whiten and still you will not return. In the lands across the sea they fight on elephants, In the lands of the Man they use silver in the markets. One ­family, separated across many places. Who is it who will see the spring in the far south?48 Perhaps the two men of the era best known for their comments on the lands farther to the south w ­ ere Liu Zongyuan (773–819) and Han Yu (768–824), both of whom w ­ ere exiled to the Farthest South, where Liu died. Although in return for his honest administration Liu earned the affection of the southerners among whom he lived, an affection he generally returned, he was not above despairing of the culture that surrounded him. In one essay, composed in 817, he complained: “The p ­ eople of Yue believe in omens and that they can easily be killed. They reject the transformation of civilization (hua) and abuse ­human empathy (ren) . . . ​If you try to manage them with rites, they respond with stubbornness. If you restrain them with punishments, they run away. They acknowledge only Buddhist mandala and serve the spirits.”49 Although he generally maintained an upbeat approach to his exile, he could devolve into despair, as he did in a poem to his younger brother Zongyi, composed about the same time: Abandoned, my soul destroyed, time and again in despair, We both shed tears of separation, I by the rivers of Yue. One of us is six thousand li from home, Where I have died ten thousand times,   thrown away in this desolation for twelve years. In the mountains of Gui the noxious vapors abound   and the clouds are black like ink; But at Dongting Lake the spring is in its fullness, the ­water blue like the sky.



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I wish that I knew that hereafter would be like my dreams, That I would grow old at your ­house, amidst the burning fires of Yin.50

Similarly in a letter to Wei Zhongli in 812 he cursed his declining health: “I have lived in the south now for nine years, and my beriberi has gotten worse. Gradually I’ve lost the desire to contest things. How could I be a complainer? From dawn to dusk this assaults my ears and distresses my heart. Thus I am drained of emotion and deeply vexed.”51 And in a letter to Lin Jian, composed probably in 804, he expressed his loathing for the world that surrounded him: “Yongzhou is far to the south of Chu; it is a land where there is no difference between the Zhuang and the Yue. When I am depressed, I go out and about. But as I go about, I find much to fear, for through the wilds there are poisonous snakes and great wasps. ­Whether I look to the sky or regard the land, to walk but an inch is exhausting.”52 Despite surviving his exile and returning to the North, Han Yu shared his good friend’s hatred of the South. Maybe his most eloquent and evocative assessment is his oft-­cited poem “The Officer at the Rapids,” written in 819: I had been traveling to the south for sixty days When I finally began to descend through the rapids of Lechang. I ­can’t describe the terror—­ The boat and rocks pounded together. I turned and asked the officer of the rapids How far it was to Chaozhou . . . ​  . . . ​The clerk lifted his hand and smiled: “Why does the official ask me? Wasn’t My Lord in the capital? Why has he been sent to govern Eastern Wu? This is the land of wandering eunuchs. If you have been sent ­here, there is a reason. Chaozhou is the most debased of places. If you have committed a crime, this is where you hide” . . . ​  . . . ​[He continued,] “You’re most interest­ing! You have served, but now you’ve come ­here in resignation. Well, Lingnan is vast, and largely the same. You will leave roads ­behind and lament your isolation. To this point you have covered three thousand li

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To reach the place since the beginning known as Chao[zhou]. Here the loathsome waters are poisoned with miasmas. Thunder and lightning rumble and flash incessantly. The crocodiles are larger than boats, Their teeth and eyes cause terror and death . . . ​  . . . ​You may be a sage ­under Heaven, But nothing will come easily ­here.”53

Even as both men gained honor in ages to come for bringing the values of wen to benighted peripheries, both looked on their southern exile with despair. To both, the remote districts to which they ­were sent ­were uncivilized backwaters, fearsome places abounding with danger where the local p ­ eople pursued debased, not-­wen traditions. Nor did such attitudes end in the de­cades ahead. Wang Anshi, himself a native of the Nearer South who is most famous in history for his eleventh-­century economic reforms but was also among the leading literary figures of his day, discouragingly wrote in his poem “On Sending Li Xuanshu to Be Assistant Magistrate in Zhangzhou”: Through passes and mountains, you reach Zhang[zhou] exhausted, This land that is confounded by the Southern Yue. A land of mountains and streams and of the poisons of melancholy fogs, Where malarial epidemics occur in both spring and winter. Wild rushes grow among bamboo clumps, Obstructing the existence of city walls. Settled ­people are surprisingly few, and The markets are desolate. Wildflowers know no seasons, and One can barely drink the local liquor. In these desolate years there will be no guests. So with whom can you share a cup of wine? The court remains both virtuous and wise, Its mounds of stones ­shaped into towers and pavilions, A place where gentlemen enjoy their virtuous activities, And lit­erature and arts flourish. To be detached, myriad miles away, This is something the man of learning does not enjoy. I hear that when a true gentleman lives there He alone can ease the ­people’s troubles.54



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Not surprisingly, the patronizing despair evinced by so many from the Central Lands was met with mixed feelings among the peoples of the South, both indigenous and immigrant. Even as some embraced the values of wen, ­others responded by rejecting them. As Liu Zongyuan had complained of the non-­Sinitic indigenes of Liuzhou, “They reject the transformation of civilization and abuse ­human empathy.” Much of the re­sis­tance that greeted Liu was a rejection of the hegemony of wen through a nonviolent adherence to indigenous not-­wen values. A similar example is the Way of the Five Pecks of Rice (Wudoumi dao, known more formally as the Way of the Celestial Masters [Tianshi Dao]), which embodied one of the most radical critiques of wen orthodoxy in all Sinitic history. As many have argued, the Five Pecks of Rice, together with the Way of Great Peace (also known as the Yellow Turban movement), which emerged concurrently late in the Han dynasty (second ­century CE), marked a departure in the Daoist tradition as it transformed from a decentralized phenomenon identified with autonomous teachers known as “men of techniques” (fangshi) into an or­ga­nized movement that challenged the orthodox wen traditions of the Central Lands.55 The origins of the Five Pecks of Rice are commonly traced to a remote corner of Sichuan, where the movement was said to have begun at the initiative of Zhang Ling (also known as Zhang Daoling). The historical rec­ord tells us, however, that Zhang Ling was a native not of Sichuan but of the northwesternmost inland corner of modern Jiangsu, from where, one early hagiography claims, he studied at the Imperial College and became “deeply versed in the Five Classics”; discouraged by their irrelevance, he abandoned his studies and turned to the “Way of Immortality” (changsheng zhi dao).56 The improbable claims of the hagiographic tradition aside, however, his traditional identity with a remote, upland corner of the border region between the Central Lands and the culturally problematic world of the Nearer South, as well as his connection to the shamanistic arts of immortality, already define him as marginal to the wen culture of the Central Lands. His biography ­really starts, however, late in the ­middle of the second ­century CE in the Huming Mountains of western Sichuan, where he established himself as a shamanistic healer. How he got to such a remote corner of Sichuan is left unsaid, but we are told that “he banished disease from among the villages and acquired the arts of banishing demons.”57 It was h ­ ere, ministering as he must have been to the

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non-­Sinitic Qiang ­people who populated the mountains of western Sichuan, that he founded the Five Pecks of Rice movement in the closing de­cades of the Han dynasty. And in so many ways this further connects Zhang Ling to the not-­wen traditions of the southern peripheries: He did not surface on the Chengdu Plain, the cultural heart of Sichuan, but in the mountainous periphery, where pre-­Sinitic traditions identified with the Qiang must have been dominant;58 he practiced healing, the art of the shaman, the wu, who was so definitively not-­ wen. Finally, legend says that in the last years of the Han “he was absorbed by a monstrous python” (wei mangshe suo xi), a culmination that can only mean he became one with the snake and thus definitively links him to the python cults that w ­ ere prominent across virtually all of the not-­wen south.59 It seems quite clear, therefore, that what­ever Zhang Ling’s own ethnicity, in Sichuan he emerged as the leader of a faith-­healing cult that focused especially on non-­Sinitic indigenous traditions. In contrast to a common analy­sis, which identifies him as the rebellious founder of an antidynastic movement, he in fact was an itinerant healer who found a home among a non-­Sinitic ­people who effectively lay beyond the imperial realm. Following his death, however, leadership passed first to his son and then, most significantly, to his grandson Zhang Lu. If the Five Pecks of Rice movement had previously been focused specifically on Zhang Ling and his reputation for shamanistic healing powers, ­under Zhang Lu it was transformed into a more holistic doctrine that explicitly identified itself with Daoism and began to move into an uneasy relationship with the orthodox discourse as the Way of the Celestial Masters. Zhang Ling, in fact, appears to have been a peripheral figure with ­little theology beyond a professed ability to invoke the numinous energies of the spirit world on behalf of his “patients”—­this was the classic role of the shaman and one that was routinely criticized as not-­ wen in the discourse of the Central Lands. Daoism, on the other hand, sat awkwardly both within and in opposition to that discourse. I have noted previously (see note 7) an emerging analy­sis that places the roots of the Daoist tradition in the Chu kingdom, from where it offered an explicit criticism of the hegemonic wen discourse: The dao that can be defined is not the unchanging dao; The name that can be named is not the unchanging name.



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So says the opening line of the standard recension of the Daode jing, in explicit criticism of the hegemonic discourse that sought in fact to define what dao r­ eally is and what names r­ eally mean. Yet by critiquing the discourse through the language of the discourse, Daoism had become a part of it; by the early first millennium CE it was the yin to the hegemonic yang, the alternative, without which neither was complete. When Zhang Lu adopted the discourse of Daoism, when he identified himself as a “teacher” (shi),60 he thereby accepted the legitimacy of the hegemonic discourse even as his posture was critical. ­Whether Lu was influenced by the coincidental Way of Heavenly Peace, or Yellow Turban movement, which was centered on the eastern fringes of the Central Lands and which far more consciously, even if critically, invoked the orthodox discourse, is open to debate.61 What is apparent is that ­under his direction the movement evolved from its ­simple origins into a more complex or­ga­ni­za­tion that began to espouse a theocratic doctrine and even managed to briefly establish an autonomous administration over the mountain valleys, where it was centered. In 215, however, Lu acknowledged the overlordship of Cao Cao, the preeminent figure of the last years of the Han dynasty. Zhang Lu had abdicated his grand­father’s position outside the discourse of the Central Lands and become a full participant. In so d ­ oing, he relinquished his grand­father’s role as an embodiment of a re­sis­tance effort against the Sinitic hegemony. If the story ended there, the Celestial Masters would have no par­ tic­u­lar role in our own story, but it does not. Following Zhang Lu’s submission to Cao Cao, when much of the leadership relocated with Lu to the Cao ­family capital at Luoyang and adjacent regions of the North, Peter Nickerson has argued, those less favored—­plausibly those who ­were unimpressed with Zhang Lu and sought to uphold the anti­ hegemonic ideals of Zhang Ling—­were left ­behind in Sichuan. In the years that followed, Nickerson continues, many of those who had been thus abandoned followed riverine routes to both the east and the south, spreading Celestial Master teachings ahead of the early fourth-­century southern migration of northern elites in the face of invasions from the inner Asian grasslands.62 As the movement spread through the South it became a vehicle for a southern cultural autonomy in the face of the hegemonic discourse of the North. This autonomy could take two forms: the resentment of the immigrant Sinitic population t­ oward the

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northern elites, who dismissed them as parvenus, a resentment that appears to have become especially pronounced following the relocation of the Jin court and large numbers of its courtiers to Nanjing early in the fourth c­ entury; and the non-­Sinitic indigenes’ resentment of Sinitic hegemony in all its forms. It is clear that, in the de­cades and centuries following the move of the Jin court, southern alienation did find expression through new forms of Daoism, most notably the Highest Clarity (Shangqing) School revealed to Yang Xi (330–ca. 386) between 364 and 370. A distinctly southern tradition of Daoism had in fact already begun to gain definition with Ge Hong (283–343). As summarized by Robert Ford Campany, Ge was a member of a well-­placed southern aristocratic lineage with ties to the Wu kingdom, which had inherited the Han mantle in the southeast when that dynasty fell early in the third ­century.63 Ge’s ­family was centered in Jurong district in Yangzhou on the lower Yangtze River; this was to be the hub of southern innovation in Daoism throughout the centuries that followed the Han collapse. During the late third and early fourth centuries, as the Central Lands experienced internal turmoil and external invasion, Ge increasingly focused on learning the esoteric arts connected with the fangshi traditions of the Han. As Isabelle Robinet has noted, Ge drew heavily on traditions that harked back to southern texts such as the Zhuangzi and the Chuci, with their focus on transcendence and immortality that had so inspired the fangshi movement.64 Strickmann has added that Ge Hong “clearly comes at the end of an autonomous local tradition” of spiritualism that drew on indigenous southern traditions predating a fourth-­century influx of northern aristocrats.65 Although he held a variety of semiofficial posts ­under the auspices of the relocated Jin court, which provided him an income, his official duties ­were secondary to his own pursuit of transcendence. Ultimately he retreated to Mount Luofu in the Farther South, outside Guangzhou, where hagio­ graphies say he ascended to the realm of the perfected, leaving his corporeal body b ­ ehind. Although Ge’s religious perspective drew heavily on southern traditions focusing on esotericism and transcendence, he did not express antagonism ­toward or alienation from the parallel discourse of the heartland. Strickmann suggests that his “spiritual formation was complete prior to the influx of Northerners,” thus obviating any need to frame a southern tradition in opposition to the hegemonic North. It was, instead, Yang Xi who reframed those traditions into a distinctive



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

37

southern identity. As Isabelle Robinet has lamented, l­ittle is known of Yang Xi other than his relationship to a prominent local aristocratic ­family surnamed Xu, who, like Ge Hong, to whom they w ­ ere related through marriage, lived in Jurong; Stephen Bokenkamp describes Yang as “a kind of h ­ ouse medium and spiritual advisor for the Xu f­ amily.”66 Over a six-­year period Yang received a corpus of texts, addressed to Xu Mi and his son Xu Hui, from a parade of celestial beings. The texts drew on aspects of southern tradition ranging from Ge Hong to local cults and even Celestial Masters to form, in Isabelle Robinet’s words, “the first clearly constituted school, solidly based on canonical texts.”67 Shangqing is very im­por­tant in the history of Daoism, but in the pre­sent context its importance rests in its reassertion of a distinctive southern tradition that stood in contrast to the customs imported from the heartland by the northern refugees who accompanied the Jin court to the South in the early fourth c­ entury. Tension between migrants who had settled in the south before the Jin relocation and those who flocked to the south in the face of the fourth-­century invasions is a long-­standing motif of southern history. The nouveaux immigrés from the Central Lands treated their indigenized southern Sinitic brethren with contempt: They w ­ ere culturally suspect, hardly to be distinguished from the not-­wen, non-­Sinitic indigenes among whom they lived and unworthy of cultural res­pect or po­liti­cal authority. Many Sinitic settlers in the South had served the Wu dynasty (222–280), which had inherited the Han legacy in the Yangtze River valley and below; when Wu was subsumed ­under the short-­lived Jin reunification of the empire late in the third ­century, they had found themselves marginalized and resentful. As Huang Shumei has noted: “When Wu was defeated by the Jin, the p ­ eople of Wu felt the humiliation of losing their kingdom. The elite of the northern plain carried themselves like conquerors and treated the p ­ eople of Wu with contempt.”68 The Shang­ qing movement became a vehicle for the indigenous elite to ­counter that contempt. Although some of the southern elite sublimated their resentments in their religious lives, ­others—­both those with indigenous southern backgrounds and Sinitic immigrants who had come to identify with the South—­responded with rebellion. Zhang Zexian and Zhu Dawei, influenced by post-­Cultural Revolution politics, optimistically counted 111 uprisings in the course of the Six Dynasties, led by men they conclude w ­ ere of Sinitic background.69 Most are recorded in brief, uninformative passages. Sometimes it is quite certain the rebels ­were

38

Chapter 2

peasants of uncertain ethnicity who drew on mystical traditions that ­were inherently southern. In 376, for example, “Five Tigers” Zhang (Zhang Wuhu) and “Six Roots” Lu (Lu Liugen), faced with the potent symbolism of an eclipse of the sun, rebelled; their uprising was quickly squelched, they w ­ ere beheaded, and their followers eradicated.70 At other times the identity of the rebels is less clear. In 411 the garrison in Guangzhou abandoned the city following the death of its commanding officer. In response, “mountain bandits” (shan zei)—­ vague, to be sure, but certainly pointing to the non-­Sinitic indigenes, who had retreated to the mountains of the interior in the face of Sinitic pressure for land—­poured forth and took over the city, where they killed the remaining officials. They ­were wiped out within days.71 Uprisings such as these, which are a regular feature in the history of all premodern agrarian socie­ties, ­were a nuisance. They ­were not, however, a threat to the new order in the South. Far more threatening, it would appear, was a pattern of rebellion that, although not overtly anti-­Sinitic, was definitively anti-northern. The rebellion of Lu Song in 372 is an example. Lu is identified both as a Daoist master from Pengcheng (in modern Jiangsu),72 echoing Nickerson’s argument about Celestial Masters Daoism as a vehicle for localist identity in the southeast, and as a “sorcerer bandit” (yao zei).73 He sought to restore the deposed Jin emperor Feidi (r. 365–371). Feidi was initially receptive to the plan, ­until his mo­ther intervened and forestalled its ­going forward. Lu then led his band straight into the imperial palace in Jian­ kang (Nanjing) before the usurper court rallied and defeated him. “Sorcerer bandits,” many of whom, like Lu Song, ­were inspired by Daoism, are in fact a recurrent theme in the rebellions that erupted against the northern hegemony. Most appear to have been responses to par­tic­u­lar grievances and, like the “mountain bandits” of Guangzhou, not a threat to the established order. Take, for example, the early fourth-­century uprising led by the Daoist Master Li Tuo: “[He] used deceitful arts (yao shu) to beguile the masses. He announced that he was eight hundred years old, and so he was called Li Eight Hundred (Li Babai). [Throughout the ­middle course of the Yangtze River] he used the Way of Demons (gui dao) to cure illness and appointed ­people to official posts. The ­people believed in him and served him.”74 Li was tapping into several Daoist themes. His claim to be eight hundred years old linked him directly to Laozi, the mythologized founder of Daoism, who, according to tradition, shared Li Tuo’s surname and lived about 500 BCE—or eight hundred years earlier. Even more intriguing



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

39

is the reference to “the Way of Demons,” through which he cured the sick. Furthering Nickerson’s argument that Zhang Ling’s followers had already made their way into the southeast before the relocation of the Jin court, this almost certainly points to the Celestial Masters tradition. Li’s own ethnicity is unclear and not especially im­por­tant. He was, however, closely linked to a southern f­ amily surnamed Zhou, who emerged as champions of the rights of southerners in the face of northern arrogance, as the relocated Jin court consolidated itself in the early fourth ­century in its new capital at Jiankang (modern Nanjing). The Zhou had served the third-­century Wu dynasty but apparently had not held any official position during the short-­lived reconsolidation of imperial unity by the Jin in the late third c­ entury. When Zhou Xie, the great-­grandson of the last of the f­amily to serve Wu, heard the complaints of “the ­people of Wu” that the relocated northerners ­were “lording it over” ( jia yu) them, he reacted with anger and rallied troops in their defense. The Jin ruler, however, “because the Zhou had so long been prominent and had the res­pect of the ­people of Wu,” rather than treat them as rebels “embraced them as before” (fu zhi ru jiu).75 The Zhou, what­ever their ethnicity, ­were clearly identified as defenders of the rights of the southern p ­ eople; their links to Li Tuo further emphasize his parallel role. Despite the invocation of such power­ ful themes and the recruitment of influential allies, however, Li Tuo was captured and beheaded. To the Jin rulers an elite f­amily with a prominent heritage could be excused, but an associate of such a f­ amily with a questionable background could not. Li Tuo’s re­sis­tance to the northern hegemony ended with ­little threat to the established order. Occasionally, however, the challenge was both more enduring and the threat more real. In 303, for example, even before the Jin court was forced to abandon the north and relocate to the south, a Man chieftain known to the Chinese as Zhang Chang rebelled against Sima Xin, a member of ruling ­family of the Jin dynasty who held a fief over the Man of Jingzhou in the central Yangtze valley.76 As a result of his oppressive and exploitative rule, Sima Xin “had lost the hearts of the Man barbarians.” Beginning with a band of “several thousand,” presumably his Man tribal adherents, Zhang Chang was soon joined by the “rootless vagrants who ­were avoiding compulsory military ser­vice” (liumin pi shuyi zhe). As his rebellion blossomed, Zhang “announced in words of sorcery” (zao yao yan) that he needed a “ ‘sage’ (shengren) to be our

40

Chapter 2

leader,” for which role he recruited a bureaucratic functionary named Qiu Shen. He had Qiu change his name to Liu Ni, invoking the surname of the Han dynasty ruling f­ amily, and claim to be a descendent of the Han emperors. Zhang then gave Liu the title “Phoenix Emperor” (feng huang), proclaimed himself to be the chief minister, and announced a new era called “Spiritual Phoenix” (shen feng). In contrast to the rebellions of Lu Song or Li Tuo, Zhang had advanced his own to the point of invoking the cosmological and po­liti­cal symbols of imperial government. As the revolt spread, Zhang became a rallying point for many who ­were disaffected with the Jin court. “Within weeks” his followers, drawn from throughout the central Yangtze valley, had grown to thirty thousand.77 They adopted “crimson caps” ( jiang mao) and “used ­horse tails as beards” (yi mawei zuo ran), which prompted Sima Xin to rant, “The sorcerer bandits are nothing more than a rabble of dogs and goats. With their red heads and furry faces they dance with knives and leap about with spears, but as weapons they are useless.” Over the next several months the Jin court rallied its forces and finally regained control, but not before many thousands throughout the m ­ iddle Yangtze valley, both indigenous non-­Sinitic peoples and Sinitic migrants, had registered their opposition to Jin rule. Whereas Li Tuo, Lu Song, and ­others manifested discontent within the marginalized Sinitic elite of the South, Zhang Chang2, like the mountain bandits who seized Guangzhou in 411, drew heavily on discontent among the indigenous population of the South. The most threatening and best documented uprising against the northern hegemony, however, the rebellion of Sun En (d. 402), the “coastal bandit,” saw the Sinitic and non-­Sinitic working together.78 Sun En’s standard biography identifies him with “the lineage of Sun Xiu.”79 Although descent lines are problematic and subject to a great deal of obfuscation, tradition links Sun Xiu to the imperial ­family of the third-­ century Three Kingdoms Wu dynasty (222–280). When the Jin dynasty, at the expense of Wu, briefly reunified all of the Sinitic world late in the third ­century, Sun Xiu embarked on a complicated relationship with the new order that ended in his own rebellion and death. It is, however, unimportant how much of Sun En’s alleged ancestry is true. He was known for this heritage, at least in death if not in life, and this suggests something that is im­por­tant. For the third-­century Wu dynasty, like its Warring States pre­de­ces­sor (discussed earlier), was



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

41

southern. ­Whether Sun En was truly a descendent of the Wu royal ­family or not, that he was thought to be strongly suggests that he, too, was identified with a southern heritage. He may have been a northern mi­grant who had settled in the South, or perhaps his ­family heritage was indigenous, having adopted the Sun surname only as a mark of their accommodation to the new realities of the imperial era. ­Either way, he, too, had embraced a southern identity, along with its implicit rejection of the hegemonic discourse of the Central Lands. Remember, then, Nickerson’s argument, which suggests the southern branch of the Celestial Masters movement had become a vehicle for the expression of southern re­sis­tance to the hegemonic discourse of the North—­I have already suggested that Li Tuo was an adherent of the Celestial Masters, although that cannot be proven. Viewed through this prism, however, it should not be surprising that Sun En’s ancestors, as his biography notes, had been adherents of the Celestial Masters movement “for generations” (shi feng wudoumi dao). This is most apparent in the person of his ­uncle Sun Tai, an esoteric teacher in the movement. The Jin dynastic history prejudicially says the following of Tai: [Tai] was a shifty vagrant of ­little talent who seduced the masses with cunning words. Those whom he misled venerated him like a god. They offered him riches and presented their sons and daughters in pursuit of blessings and prosperity. [Then] Wang Xun talked to the royal prince, [Sima] Daozi, and had [Tai] sent to Guangzhou. The Guangzhou prefect, Wang Huaizhi, assigned Tai to be the prefect of Yulin (Guangxi), where the Southern Yue and many ­others flocked to him.80

Although Tai had been banished—­his following had grown too massive and too devoted, arousing the suspicions of power­ful figures such as Wang Xun—­and found himself in Yulin, a district composed primarily of ­people identified as Southern Yue and lying on the farthest fringes of civilization, he continued to preach his interpretation of the Celestial Masters doctrine with success. When his patrons at court subsequently managed to arrange his recall, he promptly resumed proselytizing in the southern heartland. Following his return, Tai once again attracted a massive following that was deemed threatening by those close to the Jin emperor, who feared he planned rebellion. Finally in 399 the imperial entourage

42

Chapter 2

engineered his arrest and execution, a fate shared by his six sons. This prompted Sun En to retreat to the apparent safety of the myriad islands that lie beyond the mouth of Hangzhou Bay and begin a campaign of terror against the dynastic forces on the mainland. The narrative is ­simple, but the implications are not. To begin with, Sun En’s relationship to his ­uncle is not clear. Did he retreat to the offshore islands because he feared being charged with guilt by kinship? Or had he been more intimately linked to his ­uncle’s proselytization of esoteric Daoism? One hint of the latter is that, as his rebellion gained momentum, Sun En proclaimed that his adherents ­were “immortals” (changsheng ren).81 These same “immortals,” it is reported in the hostile rec­ords of the orthodox world, would drown the infants of female prisoners, assuring them, “You are blessed, for you are advancing to the halls of the immortals before us. But we will follow.”82 These same rec­ords add, however, that in very short order a mass surge of support arose: “Eight prefectures altogether followed Sun En in rebellion and slaughtered their magistrates. Within ten days several hundred thousand had rallied to him.”83 In the following months and years, Sun led his followers on a campaign of vengeful terror along the coast in the Yangtze delta region and south as far as Hangzhou Bay, earning him the oft-­used sobriquet “sorcerer bandit” (yao zei).84 When the court dispatched forces to confront him, he simply fled back to the offshore islands, which w ­ ere his refuge; when his opponents retreated, he reoccupied the mainland coastal regions. The rec­ord of these events is frustratingly vague,85 yet there are hints that Sun En, as his ­uncle had done before, drew his support heavily from the non-­Sinitic indigenous peoples. For example, Sun’s forces are referred to as “wasps” (feng),86 a disparaging term that was presumably calculated to remind readers of man, one of the generalized ethnic terms for non-­Sinitic southerners, through the common use of the “bug” radical (chong). Sun himself exhorted his forces by invoking the model of Goujian, the ruler of the Yue kingdom discussed earlier and an unlikely model ­unless he was appealing to the historical memory of the men he led, for whom Goujian might have evoked a sense of ethnic pride.87 Perhaps the most persuasive evidence that Sun relied on non-­Sinitic support, however, is his apparent reliance on the indigenous peoples’ nautical skills to build his naval fleet of “more than one thousand ‘tower boats’ ” (lou chuan).88 On this the Jin shu comments, “The vessels w ­ ere extraordinary. The ‘hundred surnames’ (baixing) could not do this.”89 The “hundred surnames” has an an-



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

43

cient lineage as a term the elite used to refer to the common mass in orthodox culture; it is unlikely that it would be used to refer to non-­ Sinitic masses, who lacked surnames. Thus the p ­ eople who built Sun’s navy ­were not of the “hundred surnames”; they must have been non-­ Sinitic adherents. In 402, Sun En was killed, and leadership of his revolt devolved upon his brother-­in-­law Lu Xun. Following Sun’s death, Lu used his large fleet to flee with his forces down the coast to Guangzhou, which he seized. Guangzhou, despite its by now long history of imperial control, still lay outside the realm of wen, a concept even many of the local Chinese had abandoned. From 402 u ­ ntil 410 Lu was the de facto autonomous ruler. In the Yangtze valley the Jin had fallen to a new dynastic order, the Liu Song, and the last thing the new court needed was an ­enemy on its southern flank. The court therefore awarded Lu a range of formal titles, one of which was “commandant for pacifying the Yue,” which implicitly points to his enduring link with the indigenous cultures of the Farther South. Lu, however, was not content. In 410 he launched a disastrous campaign into the Yangtze valley, which ended in disaster. His rebellion was quelled and he was killed. Yet even that is not the end. The final link between the rebellion and the “not-­wen” indigenous peoples of the South comes in its aftermath. Yue Shi, in his discussion of Quanzhou (Fujian) in his tenth-­ century Taiping huanyu ji, tells us: The Quan lang are the barbarian ­house­holds (yihu) of the prefecture. They are also known as the floating-­boat ­people (youtingzi). They are the remnants [of the forces] of Lu Xun . . . ​[Following Lu’s defeat] the survivors escaped and scattered across the mountains and seas. Some endure to this day. In 625 the Tang commander Wang Yitong sent an official offering them amnesty. Their leaders such as Zhou Zao and Mai Xiling both accepted appointment as commandant and ordered their adherents collectively to desist from banditry. In 636 their lands w ­ ere taxed for the first time at half the normal rate. Only those who lived on board ships or travel ­here and there across the seas avoided this.90

Following Lu Xun’s defeat, the survivors had scattered across the South, finding refuge among other non-­Sinitic peoples in the mountainous interior and along the coastal fringe, where Sinitic settlement was sparse. They had survived outside the bounds of the Sinitic world

44

Chapter 2

and ­were regarded by those who adhered to wen orthodoxy as barbarians and bandits. As the Tang was to do with other non-­Sinitic groups on its southern frontiers,91 the dynasty offered a deal to their leaders in an effort to pacify them. Only “those who lived on board ships or travel h ­ ere and there across the seas” (zhi chang zai chuanshang jian lü haipan)—­the “barbarian ­house­holds” known as the “Quan lang” or “floating boat ­people”92—­avoided this; w ­ hether this was by exemption or ­simple avoidance is not stated. The “floating boat ­people” first cropped up in the context of the Sui conquest of the Chen, late in the sixth c­ entury. According to the Sui dynastic history, Gao Zhihui, a Sinitic native of the Hangzhou Bay region, had resisted the Sui invasion, even proclaiming himself emperor. When faced with the overwhelming force of the Sui, Gao had fled to Fujian and ultimately to Quanzhou, where Wang Guoqing, “of an elite ­house­hold of Nan’an [district],” had killed the prefect and taken over the prefecture. Faced with looming defeat by the invaders, Wang and Gao abandoned Quanzhou. Their remaining forces then scattered about the offshore islands and the streams and caves of the interior.93 The narrative was ­later supplemented by Zheng Qiao (1104 –1162) in his encyclopedic Comprehensive Treatises: “[A]t this time in the south seas there ­were 5–600 ­house­holds living on the ­water. They ­were refugees and ­were called the ‘floating boat ­people.’ Gao Zhihui and Wang Guoqing hoped to join them.”94 For many centuries the orthodox voices of the northern wen culture had disparaged the peoples of the South. Their denigration was not simply ethnic, for the northern discourse was equally dismissive of migrants who had left the northern heartland in generations past in search of opportunity or security or simply because of wanderlust. When Sinitic control over the heartland collapsed in the fourth and fifth centuries and waves of migrants fled the turmoil, North and South came face to face in an unpre­ce­dented and uncomfortable way. Narratives of violent re­sis­tance to the imposition of a northern hegemony are a common feature of the early de­cades of the Southern Dynasties. With time, however, although never disappearing, rebellion and re­sis­tance to the northern hegemony became less threatening. Certainly this points to a decreasing level of friction between the northern refugees and the natives of the South, both Sinitic and indigenous. The orthodox narrative argues that this is the victory of wen, that with time the irreducible values of wen overwhelmed the definitively inferior val-



Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­Sinitic South

45

ues of the South. The reality is more complex, for wen was never as irreducible as the orthodox narrative postulates. Gradually an accommodation emerged between the hegemonic discourse of wen and the indigenous values of the south. That accommodation is the subject of the next chapter.

Chapter Three

The Sinitic Accommodation with the South

E

ven as indigenous re­sis­tance to the imposition of the hegemonic culture of wen appears through the often opaque screen of the orthodox rec­ord, a transformation was ­under way. Slowly the South was brought into the Sinitic world, a pro­cess that transformed not only southern culture but also the meaning of civilization, of wen. We could explore this through many avenues, and this chapter does not consider them all. What is critical to understand, instead, is that this was not a one-­way pro­cess: the non-­Sinitic South was not simply transformed into a new copy of the hegemonic North. Rather, an accommodation evolved between the traditionally austere values of wen and those of the far more emotive South, an accommodation that transformed both and had far-­reaching consequences for the meaning of wen itself. This chapter considers several aspects of that accommodation; the ways in which the South preserved some of its original cultural identity in the face of hegemonic wen are presented ­later. Demographic and Social Transformations Perhaps the most forthright mea­sure of transformation is the surviving population data summarized in t­able 3.1. These data are aggregate and not precise; at best the information counts only registered ­house­holds, which in the South no doubt included both immigrant Sinitic h ­ ouse­holds and assimilated indigenous ­house­holds. But a registered ­house­hold was a ­house­hold that at some level accepted the Sinitic order; an assimilated ­house­hold may not have—­indeed, surely had 46



47

The Sinitic Accommodation with the South

­Table  3.1.  Population of the Eight Agricultural Regions of China, 2 CE–1080 CE (× 1,000 individuals). Date

2 CE

140

609

742

3,253 7,919 31,034

628 3,057 26,470

688 10,053 30,053

728 9,921 20,996

109 4,797 9,147

344 12,775 19,673

4,971 1,475 3,406 391 1,142

4,073 5,113 4,343 803 2,898

5,576 1,365 2,078 955 24

6,839 6,435 5,472 1,697 202

4,834 8,726 6,776 2,112 34

16,261 22,875 12,030 6,178 153

North TOTAL:

42,206

30,155

40,795

31,645

14,053

32,792

South TOTAL:

11,385

17,231

9,998

20,645

22,482

57,497

3.71

1.75

1.53

0.63

0.57

Region

North   Region 1   Region 2   Region 3 South   Region 4   Region 5   Region 6   Region 7   Region 8

North/South

4.08

980

1080

•  Region

1 (spring wheat) = northern Shanxi, northern Shaanxi, northern Hubei, Manchuria •  Region 2 (winter wheat/millet) = southern Shanxi, southern Shaanxi, across to northern Shandong •  Region 3 (winter wheat/gaoling) = central Yellow River Plains •  Region 4 (Yangtze rice/wheat) = Yangtze delta •  Region 5 (rice/tea) = Zhejiang, northern Fujian, Jiangxi •  Region 6 (Sichuan rice) = Sichuan and parts of Shaanxi, Hunan, southern Hubei •  Region 7 (double-­cropping rice) = Guangxi, Guangdong, southern Fujian •  Region 8 (southwestern rice) = Yunnan, Guizhou Source: Robert Hartwell, private communication, 1976; reproduced from Clark, “Frontier Discourse and China’s Maritime Frontier,” 14.

not, for that is the argument in this chapter—­fully abandoned its “not-­ wen” heritage but most likely had adopted a range of wen behaviors as a complement. What is strikingly apparent from these aggregate data is a pronounced shift in the concentration of registered h ­ ouse­holds from north to south. As Denis Twitchett wrote, “there was a steady re­distribution of China’s population [away from the north and northwest] in favour of the centre and south.”1 Whereas close to 80 ­percent of the registered population had been in the north at the midpoint of the Han era, by 1080 more than 60 ­percent lived in the South, both near and far. By the mid-­eleventh ­century the South was more and more coming to define the Sinitic world.

48

Chapter 3

­Table 3.1 pre­sents gross statistics, each datum separated from those before and a­ fter by centuries. Within these broad mea­sures there ­were pulses of migration and local variations in settlement and acculturation of indigenous h ­ ouse­holds.2 It is amply documented, for example, that the upheavals of the mid-­eighth ­century connected with An Lushan, which so dreadfully disrupted life in the Yellow River basin as well as beyond, prompted a massive migration to lands south of the Yangtze and reaching deep into the Farther South. Similarly, the chronic turmoil that wracked the imperial heartland from the mid-­ ninth ­century ­until the Tang court’s final collapse in the opening de­ cade of the tenth prompted a further wave of migration t­oward the more stable lands of the Farther South. Neither event is explicitly mea­ sured in the surviving data. What is clear is that at a holistic level a profound demographic transformation was unfolding, one that was given added impetus by the chronic instability of the Central Lands, marked by an unbroken migration away from the heartland to the beckoning lands of the South. With migration came contact and accommodation, a two-­way pro­cess of acculturation that affected the migrants as much as it did those already there. A parallel mea­sure of accommodation and acculturation can be found in the southerners’ growing participation in the bureaucratic culture that was such a central component of wen civilization, both as officials in the imperial bureaucracy and, ­later, when a system of imperial recruitment through examinations was articulated, through active participation in the culture they fostered.3 Even before the Jin dynasty relocated to the South in the face of the early fourth-­century steppe invasions that precipitated the Era of North-­South Division, a small number of native-­born southerners identified with the northern po­liti­cal order and offered their ser­vices. Some, such as Gu Yong (?–243), a native of Wu prefecture (modern Suzhou), appear to have had ­little trou­ble finding ac­cep­tance. Indeed, in acknowledgment of his role in the Jin conquest of the Wu kingdom that ruled the Yangtze valley through the ­middle of the third ­century, Gu was appointed counselor in chief (chengxiang), the highest office in the civil bureaucracy. But Gu, although a southerner by birth, was so only by adoption—­his ­family roots ­until recently had lain in the northern heartland. According to the “Annals of Wu” (Wu lu), a lost work quoted in the Rec­ords of the Three Kingdoms, Gu’s great-­grand­father had been the prefect of Yingchuan, located well within the Central Lands.4 Implicitly the Gu f­ amily had only recently migrated to the South and had yet



The Sinitic Accommodation with the South

49

to inherit the suspicion so many natives of the South encountered. In fact, many—­indeed, most—of the prominent men of the Wu kingdom had roots in the elite of the Han era even if they had relocated to the south. There is l­ittle evidence that those whose heritage was indigenous to the South, e­ ither as non-­Sinitic indigenes or as long-­term Sinitic immigrants, had similar opportunities. For those who w ­ ere truly southerners by heritage even if they may have had a remote Sinitic background, access to the inner circles of power was difficult to attain and greeted with suspicion. Tao Kan (259–334) is an example. Tao Kan was born in Poyang, the region southeast of the eponymous lake known to ­later centuries as western Jiangnan and ­today as Jiangxi. Sources tell us nothing about the origins of the f­ amily. We learn only that Kan was the son of Tao Dan, who served the Wu dynasty as a general, and that his mo­ther, herself a native of Xin’gan district, located in the ­middle reaches of the Gan River on the southern fringe of the Poyang region, was surnamed Zhan.5 The ­family was apparently well established among the elite of the central Yangtze valley, a region of questionable ethnicity and of decidedly not-­wen cultural heritage. L ­ ater sources are ambiguous about the Tao ­family’s heritage. In one famous entry, Tao Kan is referred to as “the dog of Xi” (Xi gou), a passage some have suggested points to a non-­Sinitic background.6 What­ever their ethnicity, the Tao ­were suspect in the eyes of the heirs to northern cultural orthodoxy. Tao Kan was just entering adulthood in 280 when the Jin dynasty, which in 265 had usurped the power of the Wei and the Shu kingdoms, heirs to the legacy of the Han Empire in the Yellow River basin and Sichuan, asserted its control over Wu and temporarily reestablished a unified empire—­the events for which Gu Yong was so honored as described earlier. In the aftermath of reunification, when the Jin was at the height of its early power, Tao Kan resettled to Xunyang, a yet more remote site located midcourse on the Yangtze River to the west of the Poyang Lake.7 Before the Qin unification this had been the frontier between Chu, Wu, and even Yue—an ethnically contested area, in other words, with marginal affinity to the culture of the Central Lands. Yue Shi, in the Taiping huanyu ji, quotes an ancient inscription that identifies the region as “the ancient Kingdom of the Three Miao” (gu sanMiao guo), linking it to one of the more widespread non-­Han ethnic groups of the Nearer South and further placing it outside the orthodox discourse on the Central Lands.8

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Tao Kan, in other words, was a southerner of unresolved ethnicity from a region long considered outside the Central Lands, one that was most certainly not-­wen. Illustratively, his biography tells us that, when he was still young, he went to Luoyang, the imperial capital, where he sought to meet with the great official Zhang Hua. Zhang took him to be “a person from afar” (yuan ren)—­a term that could simply mean one from a long way away but could also be used to refer to those who lacked wen culture9—­and refused to see him. He apparently viewed Kan as a southern bumpkin, someone who was barbaric, not-­wen, and thus not worth meeting. What­ever Kan’s ethnicity, his cultural marginality defined him first. Nevertheless, “When Hua saw that Kan venerated the spirits (shen) without disrespect, he conversed with him and marveled,” leading to an about-­face and an appointment in Hua’s entourage. Having established himself as sufficiently wen that he did not insult the spirits of the Central Lands, Kan became Zhang Hua’s protégé. Yet Zhang never saw him as fully civilized; he allegedly proclaimed, “Henceforth this is our man for overseeing pacified peoples,”10 and assigned him to posts across the Farther South with titles such as “commander of the Southern Man barbarians” (NanMan chang shi) and ­later as magistrate of Guangzhou (Guangzhou cishi)—­postings that only served to emphasize his cultural affinity with the not-­wen peoples he oversaw. Tao Kan may have been able to “venerate the spirits without disrespect,” but he was a southerner who could never be fully wen. Early in the fourth ­century, in the face of invasions from the steppe and as Tao Kan was gaining in prestige, the Jin court fled to the south. For nearly three centuries a succession of Sinitic courts ruled the South, where the orthodox historiographical tradition credits them with the preservation of wen culture; throughout, a northern heritage remained a valuable asset. Often such a heritage is alluded to explicitly in biographies—­a given individual is identified as “a man from Pengcheng” or Luoyang or some other place equally synonymous with the northern heartland and the culture of wen. Other biographies are less explicit, yet the legacy is equally clear. For example, Zhang Maodu is identified as a native of Wu prefecture (modern Suzhou) ­under the fifth-­ century Liu Song dynasty and as a descendant of Zhang Liang, who is other­wise unidentified in Maodu’s Songshu biography. Given the apparent assumption that the reader ought to recognize him, however, one must conclude Liang was very prominent. Although “Zhang Liang” is a common name throughout Chinese history, this individu-



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al’s apparent prominence limits the options; in all probability Zhang Maodu’s ancestor was a general and boon companion of Liu Bang, founder of the Han dynasty, a man who arguably is the most famous person to carry this name.11 At some point in the past the seventh-­generation descendant of Maodu’s ancestor relocated to the south. If indeed the Zhang Liang referred to was the companion of Liu Bang, this would suggest that Maodu’s patriline settled in the South sometime around the turn of the millennium. This in turn suggests a revealing comparison to Tao Kan, for Zhang Maodu also had deep southern roots. The difference was that Tao Kan’s heritage was indistinct: Was he an indigenous southerner? Had his ancestors relocated from some unrecalled place in the heartland? These questions are not answered, at least for us, as they are for Maodu, which suggests that, if they w ­ ere known, they added no luster as Zhang Liang did for Maodu. Maodu’s immediate ancestors capitalized on their heritage to ensconce themselves firmly among the elite of the southern courts, for the preceding four generations had all held office.12 Although the narrative is a bit less clearly defined, Zhang Maodu’s debt to his northern heritage, as with Gu Yong and in contrast to Tao Kan, is obvious.13 The benefit of a northern background is obvious in the dynastic histories covering the era of the Southern Kingdoms, in which pride of place is given to those who could explicitly trace their lineage back to the Central Lands. For some who have biographies in the histories, however, it is impossible to say for sure where their roots had been: Had they fled south in the face of the upheavals that wracked the north? Were they relocated Han from earlier centuries? Or ­were they indigenous southerners who had accommodated to the realities of Han domination? Take, for example, Hu Fan. He was a native of Nanchang, located at the south end of the Poyang Lake in modern Jiangxi Province, deep in the heart of the Nearer South. His grand­father had been a cavalry officer (sanji changshi), and his ­father had been employed in the Censorate (zhishu shiyu shi). Although orphaned at a young age, Hu married well; his brother-­in-­law Luo Xiansheng was in the entourage of the prefect of Jingzhou ( Jingzhou cishi), a connection that Hu was able to leverage into his own illustrious ­career.14 Despite the legacy of Hu’s patriline, however, we cannot tell for sure what his heritage was. Had his grand­father overcome the barriers facing indigenous southerners to reposition his heirs to compete against the entrenched, relocated northern elite, or did he have some

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claim to membership within that circle? We do not know for sure, but there are hints. Consider Hu’s brother-­in-­law: Luo Xiansheng’s “­family had been poor and had begged to join the entourage of Wang Ningzhi, the regional inspector of Linru, as mounted escort (bie jia).”15 Linru, located deep in the hinterland below the Poyang Lake on a tributary of the Gan River, was remote from the world of wen and civilization; this was a posting deep in the land of the indigenes. Such evidence is hardly conclusive, but it suggests the Luo had an affinity with the not-­wen cultures of the South. Although their own ethnicity cannot be resolved, it is certain that they lacked the elite heritage that so helped Zhang Maodu. The Luo ­were southerners, what­ever their deeper background. This in turn reflects on Hu Fan. His affinal link to the Luo at least suggests the two families had a common background; in the old adage, one ideally married “common doors” (i.e., families of similar social position). If Luo Xiansheng’s interest in such a remote posting derived from his own indigenous heritage, this likely describes Hu Fan as well. Perhaps the only reason to suggest that may have been the case is their common origin in an area that was as yet definitively not-­ wen.16 What is perhaps most telling, however, is the absence of contrary evidence. If ­either Hu or Luo had a northern heritage, one might expect their biographies to note it, as it is in Zhang Maodu’s biography. The absence of any comment may be read as an acknowledgment that they lacked a po­liti­cally advantageous background. A truly indigenous (i.e., non-­Sinitic) background, however, is never mentioned except as a sign of cultural heterodoxy and marginality. If one had southern roots, one ­either found—or created—­a link to a northern heritage or let the ­matter lie. What these biographies tell us is that bias against ­people identified as southerners continued. Over time, however, it diminished. It was never disadvantageous to make such a claim, and clearly for those whose northern ancestry was well established the advantage was very real. Gradually, however, the barriers wore down. It was u ­ nder the Tang, finally, while tensions between North and South remained real, that men of southern origin began to gain a foothold in both the imperial bureaucracy and the culture of wen. The imperial examinations ­were an im­por­tant piece of this and a good place to begin because they are quantifiable.17 Throughout the seventh ­century, turning again to Twitchett, “[t]he numbers of [examination] graduates in government, and the number of candidates began to grow rapidly, and the influ-



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ence of examinations began to be felt at the top levels of the bureaucracy.”18 However, it was not just the growth in both numbers and the influence of the examinations that was significant. As scholars have generally agreed ever since the pioneering work on the composition of the Tang ruling class done by Chen Yinke (1890–1969), the examinations became critical to the diversification of the Tang administrative class during the reign of the Empress Wu (r. 684–705), who challenged the authority of the hereditary elites who had controlled the empire since the late Han.19 Although aspects of Chen’s argument have not withstood the test of time, his insight that her challenge introduced a wave of new blood into the imperial bureaucracy has. The Tang examination system was nowhere nearly as open as that of the Song; the number of graduates was far smaller, and it thus was a less effective facilitator of mobility. Nevertheless, by providing an opening to men who lacked connections to the aristocratic circles that dominated Tang government, the expansion of the examination system opened a new path into the bureaucracy and access to the power it represented. Thus the Tang system did create opportunities for social advancement that had not been available before, opportunities that ­were utilized by men from around the empire, including the South. Throughout the Tang, well over sixty-­six hundred men earned the jinshi degree, which evolved as the most prestigious among an array of available apical degrees.20 Undeniably the system was dominated by men from the Central Lands. Even an accomplished region of the Nearer South such as that defined by Qing-­era Jiangxi Province, amassed a scant forty-­three jinshi;21 Qing Zhejiang Province did only marginally better with seventy-­two.22 Surprisingly, the Farther South, defined as Guangdong and Fujian provinces, despite being most marginal to the world of wen, hardly did worse, earning thirty-­three and thirty-­seven jinshi, respectively.23 But numbers do not tell the w ­ hole story. As a percentage of all Tang degree recipients, the numbers are miniscule, but they indicate both the growing involvement in the culture of the examinations of scholars from heretofore po­liti­cally peripheral and culturally marginal regions of the South and the increasing importance of examination success as a mea­sure of accomplishment among southern elites. More importantly, even as the examinations gained recognition as the most prestigious route into the bureaucracy, they ­were only one of several; most officials across the empire did not enter the bureaucracy via the

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examination system. Throughout much of the seventh ­century the Tang had followed the practice of preceding dynasties, filling lower-­ level local offices across the South on an ad hoc basis, relying heavily on representatives of the local or regional elite, who presumably ­were familiar with the unique problems they would face. Neither how these men ­were selected nor what kind of vetting pro­cess they underwent is clear; in all likelihood, as had been the practice for centuries across the empire and as is evident in the preceding discussion, they ­were appointed through a pro­cess of recommendation that relied heavily on social and po­liti­cal connections. During the seventh ­century, however, the bureaucracy increasingly resorted to ad hoc supplemental recruitment strategies in the face of crises such as drought. At one time or another there was a “lesser se­lection” (xiao xuan), a “qualifying se­lection” (quan xuan), an “eastern se­lection” (dong xuan), and finally a “southern se­lection” (nan xuan), as Ouyang Xiu explained: In 675 the Commanders of the Five Regions of Lingnan and Qianzhong (eastern Sichuan) sought to recruit honorable men, but they lacked talent as officials. So [the court] dispatched inspectors to conduct a supplemental se­lection (xuan bu), which was called “southern se­lection.” Thereafter, whenever there was flood or drought in Jiangnan, Huainan, or Fujian, Supplemental Se­lection Officials (Xuanbu shi) w ­ ere dispatched to select individuals.24

Sima Guang, in his Zizhi tongjian, cited an edict of the following year that noted an array of administrative jurisdictions from the Farther South that had recently assessed the local populations, “but they have yet [to develop] the essence of appointment ( jianze wei jing). Henceforth every fourth year an upright official of the fifth rank or higher is to be appointed, who together with an inspector is to be dispatched to conduct the assessment. The p ­ eople call this ‘southern se­lection.’  ”25 This was a facilitated system of recruitment applied throughout much of the South. Men recruited through the simplified “southern” examination ­were eligible for appointment to prefectural and district posts across the South, where their knowledge of regional culture was presumed to make them suitable representatives of the imperial order. Although the number of men recruited in this way is unrecorded, anecdotal evidence suggests it was an im­por­tant point of entrée for



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ambitious men who felt they ­were inadequately prepared to compete against the scholars of the Central Lands or for other reasons chose not to travel to the imperial capital, where the examinations w ­ ere held. The ­career of Zhang Jiuling (678–740) and his f­ amily is illustrative. According to the Zhang genealogy,26 his kin traced their roots to Hedong, deep in the Central Lands heartland, but an unidentified ancestor had followed the Jin court when it fled to the South in the early fourth c­ entury; his heirs wound up “south of the mountains,” but how they did so is unrecorded. Jiuling’s fourth-­generation ancestor had held minor office ­under the Sui—it is unknown ­whether earlier ancestors had served the Southern Kingdoms. His great-­grand­father served as a minor prefectural official in Shaozhou, located on the northern fringe of Lingnan Cir­cuit, and subsequently made it his home.27 Jiuling’s ­father, Hongyu, was one of four bro­th­ers and the only one who held office; his post as administrative aide (cheng) in Suolü, a district in the mountains of eastern Guangdong, was exactly the kind of low-­ranking position that was recruited through the “southern se­lection” pro­cess. Ironically, given Jiuling’s ultimate fame, his ­father’s first cousins ­were in fact much more successful, generally attaining higher-­level prefectural positions, albeit ones compatible with “southern se­lection”; Hong­ yu’s eldest first cousin was the only one we know to have entered the imperial examination pro­cess and was the first from Lingnan to earn a degree, which he did in 659.28 The point to note is that even as the Zhang stood out as a local, even regional, elite, they remained tied to and defined by the mores and patterns of life in the deepest south. With the single exception of Hongyu’s first cousin, there is no rec­ord that any had tried the orthodox examinations and ample evidence that they ­were content with the honors accorded by “southern se­lection.” Like all of his relatives, Zhang Jiuling was a southerner by birth and heritage. All of his biographies agree, however, that he was a child prodigy, fully conversant with the values and mores of wen. As Ou­ yang Xiu wrote, “By seven he was skilled at composition.”29 Following the lead of his elder cousin, Jiuling joined the world of the imperial examinations, and at some point in the early eighth c­ entury he earned a jinshi degree—­the Qing-­dynasty Guangdong provincial gazetteer says in 707, although more contemporary biographies do not give a date.30 His ­career flourished ­under Emperor Xuanzong (r. 712– 756), whom he served as grand counselor (zaixiang), the highest bureaucratic post in the empire. He, in other words, had transcended

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the cultural limits of his southern heritage and joined the elite of the empire. But Zhang Jiuling was an exception. He did not mark a revolution even among his kin, much less among southerners in general. He was the only one of twenty-­nine cousins in his generation who succeeded in the examinations. In fact, only three further jinshi are among the dozens of Jiuling’s kinsmen listed in the genealogy, all in the patriline of his younger brother Zhang Jiugao.31 Yet, of the 178 recorded descendants of Jiuling’s f­ ather through the seventh generation, the genealogy recorded at least one office for eighty. Overwhelmingly, these ­were entry-­level district positions, without doubt the kinds of posts filled through the “southern se­lection” supplemental recruitment pro­ cess. Even those who ­rose to prefectural-­level posts almost certainly gained their initial access to the regional bureaucracy e­ ither through “southern se­lection” or recommendation. In short, despite Zhang Jiuling’s successes, his kin, including his own line of descendants, remained entrenched within their southern sphere; they did not ­ride the coattails of their illustrious kinsman to a new identity. The Zhang thus stood on the cusp between the world of examinations and scholarship that defined wen and their southern heritage. Collectively they must have been educated; even the facilitated “southern se­lection” examination required literacy and some familiarity with the values of wen. Yet collectively they could not escape the marginalization imposed on the culturally suspect—­the not-­wen natives of the South—by the elites of the Central Lands. Moreover, although they ­were not the only kin group in the regions Farther South to flirt with the world of the imperial examinations, their story seems to have been typical. Of the thirty-­three men of “the lands south of the mountains” who earned the jinshi degree, none ­were any more successful at perpetuating their success among their kinsmen. Even Mo Xuanqing, the top-­ranked gradu­ate in his class of 851, left no legacy. In fact, ­after receiving appointment as the administrative assistant in Taizhou (Taizhou biejia)—an astonishingly minor post for one so honored— he asked to be relieved of his duties to care for his aged mo­ther and returned to his native village, never to hold office again.32 A similar tale can be told of neighboring Fujian. If Zhang Jiuling was the most prominent man to emerge from Lingnan during the Tang, Ouyang Zhan can make a similar claim from Fujian. Like Zhang, Ouyang was not the first from Fujian to receive a degree; that honor belongs to Xue Lingzhi of Changxi district (Fuzhou), who earned a jinshi degree in



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707,33 but like Zhang Jiuling’s pre­de­ces­sors from Lingnan, Xue Lingzhi left almost no impact on his world. However, Ouyang came at a significant juncture when the elite of Fujian came ­under the tutelage of Chang Gun and Xi Xiang, two scholars from the Central Lands who ­were deeply versed in the values of wen and appalled at the heterodox culture they found in Fujian. Chang Gun had a reputation as being deeply versed in and devoted to wen. He had held a series of increasingly im­por­tant drafting positions ­under the Emperor Daizong (r. 762–780).34 When Daizong died in 780, however, his heir, the Emperor Dezong (r. 780–805), cleaned ­house, blaming Chang Gun and his colleagues for the ills that continued to plague the dynasty in the de­cades following the An Lushan rebellion. Chang Gun was initially banished to Chaozhou in eastern Lingnan (Guangdong) but following the intervention of his colleagues was instead dispatched to Fujian as surveillance commissioner (guancha shi), a post he held u ­ ntil his death in 783. As Ouyang Xiu recalled, When he first arrived, the ­people of Fujian knew nothing of scholarship (wei zhi xue). When Gun arrived [as surveillance commissioner], he or­ga­nized village schools (xiang xiao), where students ­were encouraged to learn the art of writing and to further their learning among themselves. [Thus] they observed etiquette as guests and hosts so they could entertain themselves and joyfully eat together. Thereafter customs changed and the annual tribute scholars w ­ ere the equal of those from the heartland (nei zhou).35

In his eulogy for Ouyang Zhan, Han Yu added: [When] Chang Gun served as surveillance commissioner in Fujian, he was already well known for his literary skills. He encouraged officials to be close to the ­people. When they found a common person in the towns and villages who could parse the classical texts and write elegantly, Gun would work closely with them following the rites of guest and host. When he went on outings or hosted banquets, he insisted they accompany him. In no time at all they had all come to share a common purpose.

Han Yu went on to say that Ouyang Zhan had stood out from all of his peers, as they acknowledged, and earned Chang Gun’s special ­favor.36

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In 791, eight years ­after Chang Gun had died in office, Xi Xiang, like Chang a native of the northern heartland but lacking Chang’s po­liti­cal connections,37 was appointed prefect of Quanzhou. If Chang Gun had brought education to Fujian, Xi Xiang was remembered for bringing orthodox rites, one of the defining features of wen civilization, to Quanzhou. As Ouyang Zhan wrote in commemoration of his mentor: The public dinner for tribute students (gong shi) is a new rite begun by my mentor Lord Xi. In 793 he recommended eight outstanding scholars to the court. Formerly, those who had met or who w ­ ere related [to the recommending officials] shared in the sacrifices and feasts. Although the sacrifices reflected reverence and thrift, and the receptions manifested compassion and benevolence, fresh meat was used in both, and sometimes this occurred concurrently. In the days when the great lords rectified these rites for the ruler, the rites had been defined as those of the village wine-­drinking festival, which was a rite of sacrifice. There was no eating of minced meat or drinking of mystical liquors. Lord Xi taught that if there was no meat, then empathy (ren) would not be degraded, and if there was no liquor, then passion (huan) would not be encouraged.38

Inspired by the initiatives in education of Chang Gun and Xi Xiang’s rectification the rites, a wave of scholars from the Quanzhou region burst on the examination scene late in the eighth c­ entury. Although several left an imprint on the historical rec­ord, none could rival that of Ouyang Zhan. Whereas Zhang Jiuling’s legacy was ­shaped by his striking po­liti­cal ­career, however, Ouyang’s was ­shaped by his relationship with Han Yu; Han’s eulogy has provided the basis of almost every account of Ouyang’s life since. Han explained that the Ouyang ­family had “lived in MinYue for generations” and that many had held low-­and midlevel office as prefectural assistants (zhou zuo) and district administrators (xian ling). Like Zhang Jiuling’s ancestors, the Ouyang had benefited from the “southern se­lection” system. Unlike the Zhang ­family, however, there is no hint that the Ouyang had a northern legacy; negative evidence is always problematic, but the implication is that they had a strictly southern heritage. Regardless, as Li Yisun, who composed a preface to Ouyang’s collected works at the behest of his son, explained, “Lord Ouyang was



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born in a village in Min [Fujian],” where he was a solitary figure who was resolutely uninterested in scholarship: “He knew not whence he came, and so his nature was of all kinds.” As a maturing adolescent, however, Ouyang did an about-­face and became a diligent student; when Chang Gun arrived, he was already “famous for his literary talents.”39 Han Yu noted that he had already heard Zhan’s name before they met: “As I earned my living across the south, even before I had learned of the ­people’s concerns, I heard of Zhan’s name, which had spread throughout the villages and the alleys.” But he went on: “Although there had been highly cultivated men who understood lit­erature and administration as well as anyone from the heartland (shang guo), as yet no one [from Fujian] had been willing to go forth and serve.” Ouyang was one of several, mostly from the towns and prefectures along the central and southern coastline of Fujian, who accepted the challenge of Chang Gun and Xi Xiang and did “go forth and serve.” Like Zhang Jiuling, even as he remained proud of his southern origins, Ouyang Zhan had embraced the values and mores of wen culture.40 Nevertheless, in deci­ded contrast to Zhang, following his success in the imperial examinations Ouyang returned to Fujian to care for his parents: “I [Han Yu] remained in the capital and he was elsewhere, so for a long time we did not see each other . . . ​[Years ­later, when I was banished,] we came to know each other well.” Thus he never held an office higher than instructor (zhu jiao) in an imperial college; as a result his reputation rests not on his po­liti­cal accomplishments but on his literary merits and Han Yu’s attention to them. And ­here we see another dimension to the growing accommodation between the hegemonic values of the Central Lands and those of the alienated south: The scholars of the latter increasingly w ­ ere expressing themselves with the media of the orthodox discourse. Yang Xi, on whom the celestial beings bestowed the Shangqing scriptures in the fourth c­ entury, is an early example. As I argued previously, during the Era of North-­South Division, the indigenous southern elite, who ­were ­under the rule of the Southern Dynasties, turned to Shangqing Daoism to sustain their southern identity in the face of their po­liti­cal and cultural marginalization. Nevertheless, the only written discourse available to Yang Xi was the one derived from the Central Lands: The medium of literacy available throughout the South was the character-­based legacy of the Central Lands (see chapter 2). Yang was clearly versed in that medium; the texts he presented to his

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sponsor, Xu Mi, and his son Xu Hui ­were composed in strikingly elegant language. As Stephen Bokenkamp writes, “Yang Xi, in . . . ​ attempting to convey the imagined perfection of celestial speech and verse in the mundane idiom, must be counted among the major innovators in the history of Chinese letters.”41 Yang Xi’s background is unknown, so there is no way to determine the source of his literary talent. What is quite clear, however, is that by the fourth ­century, literacy in the Central Lands discourse was available to the southern elite. Yang Xi wrote in extraordinarily elegant prose, but prose was only one of the media of expression in the wen culture of the Central Lands discourse. Poetry, which required deep familiarity with the entire corpus of the classical heritage, was equally valued, and this is the medium for which Yang’s near-­contemporary Tao Yuanming (365?– 427; also known as Tao Qian) has long been famous. He was the great-­ grandson of Tao Kan, whose strug­gle for ac­cep­tance in the face of northern disdain has been discussed earlier. The standard biographies agree that Tao Yuanming was born in Chaisang district in Xunyang, in the same region where his great-­grand­father had settled; the Tao ­family had maintained their identity with the culturally marginal central Yangtze basin. If the assumptions of the official histories, rooted in the hegemonic values and expectations of the Central Lands, are to be trusted, however, Tao Yuanming initially followed his great-­grand­ father in his embrace of the orthodox discourse of the Central Lands, as a budding scholar should. As his biography relates, “When Tao was young, he cherished refinement and studied widely in worthy texts.” Yet the same text continues: “He was distinguished by his refusal to be bound by official employment. In truth, he positioned himself as a local grandee.”42 He preferred the isolation of his country cottage, where he drank wine to excess; as an adult, Tao Yuanming moved away from his youthful embrace of orthodoxy ­toward a posture of cultural alienation. Expressing his alienation, in a third-­person autobiographical account called the “Biography of the Scholar of the Five Willows” Tao wrote: “The Scholar has no idea where he is from, nor does he know for sure his surname or honorific.”43 Despite this alienation, Xiaofei Tian has referred to his poetry as “quintessentially Chinese” and defined Tao as one who “is regarded as an inherent constituent of the ‘Chinese national character.’ ”44 As Tian has so carefully reconstructed, however, our received opinion of Tao Yuanming is one that was crafted by ­later scholars such as the



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great Song poet and essayist Su Shi (1037–1101) to fit a cultural model. The man described in this construct was a devoted loyalist of the Jin dynasty, one who was deeply committed to the wen values of the Jin elite, who withdrew in eremitic protest when the Jin was violently overthrown early in the fifth ­century. Yet, Tian writes, “there is in fact nothing in Tao Yuanming’s poetry or prose that suggests such loyalist sentiment.”45 What we hear instead again and again in Tao’s poetry is not simply a desire to live as a recluse but a positive affection for the land and patterns of his native south, nowhere perhaps more obviously than in his poem “Returning to My Home in the Country, no. 1,” translated by Burton Watson: In youth I ­couldn’t sing to the common tune; It was my nature to love the mountains and hills. By ­mistake I got caught in that dusty snare, Went away once and stayed thirteen years.46 The winging bird longs for its old woods, The fish in the pond thinks of the deeps it once knew. I’ve opened up some wasteland by the southern fields; Stupid as ever I’ve come home to the country.47

Drawing on sources that ­were circulating in the fifth ­century, when Tao wrote, Xiaofei Tian explains that the “dusty snare” (chen wang) of the third line alludes to the orthodox world of Confucianism, the world of wen;48 with this insight, the poem uses the discourse of wen culture to attack it and extol the “country,” which embodies the ethos of the South. But Tao was not only a poet. Arguably his best-­known piece is “Rec­ord of the Peach Blossom Spring” (Taohua yuan ji), a prose rhapsody composed during his eremitic withdrawal. The story is very ­simple: An itinerant fisherman found a tiny grotto that led to a hidden land “with imposing ­houses, good fields, beautiful ponds, mulberry trees, bamboo, and the like . . . ​Men and ­women working in the fields all wore clothing that looked like that of foreign lands. The el­derly and children all seemed to be happy and enjoying themselves.” The ­people ­were amazed to see the fisherman, explaining that “to avoid the chaos of war during the Qin Dynasty, our ancestors brought their families and villagers to this isolated place and never left it, so ­we’ve had no contact with the outside world.” They ­were so cut off

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that they had never even heard of the Han dynasty, much less the turmoil that followed its collapse. For several days they entertained the fisherman before he deci­ded to return to his own life outside. As he left, his hosts asked him not to tell anyone of their existence, but of course he did. Yet the grotto could never be found again.49 Yang Xi’s alternative to orthodoxy was ultimately very public; Tao Yuanming, on the other hand, was very private. Yet each presented an alternative to the cultural hegemony brought to their south by the northern elites that followed the Jin court relocation. Tao’s poetry extolled the “mountains and hills” of the South and withdrawal from the pressures of the “dusty snare.” In “Peach Blossom Spring,” the wanderer who discovered the grotto was a fisherman—an occupation that was emblematic of the indigenous non-­Sinitic cultures of the South, all of which relied heavily on riverine and estuary products for animal protein. The denizens of the grotto traced their isolation back to the time of the founding of the Qin dynasty in the third ­century BCE, the time that marked the forceful intrusion of the hegemonic North into the South, and had since pursued an idyllic rural life. In short, if a southerner w ­ ere to describe what had been lost in the face of the hegemonic intrusion, this is very much what the individual might have described.50 In fact, Tao Yuanming’s near-­contemporary Liu Jingshu (?–ca. 468) recorded a very similar story but more explicitly connected it to the indigenous cultures of the South: Early in the yuanjia era (424 – 452), a man of the Wuqi Man culture (Wuqi Man ren) shot a deer, which fled into a stone cavern, where it turned into a person. The shooter entered the cave and saw that in its side there ­were steps. Having ascended them and passed through an opening he entered into a world of brilliance, where mulberry flourished. The ­people went about their business while birds wheeled in the skies above, and no one took note of him. When the man returned to the road, he chiseled a rec­ord into a tree. But l­ater, though he searched high and low, he could never find it again.51

As I have demonstrated, the Tao patriline had long-­standing southern roots. Despite a legacy of office in ser­vice to the imperial order, the Tao had never abandoned their ancestral home, which lay on the physical margins of wen culture. Tao Yuanming in par­tic­u­lar appears to have rejected the rigors and pretensions of official life and to have embraced rural simplicity.



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Like Yang Xi, Tao Yuanming therefore reflects a paradox that confronted all who sought to protect their southern identity. The only written medium of expression available to them was the one used by that hegemonic discourse, and the medium forced them to participate in that discourse, even if from the perspective of alienated criticism. Inevitably, in the centuries that followed, the educated elite of the South fell into the same paradox, and equally inevitably the distinctive voice of the South faded. This is apparent in the surviving work, for example, of Ouyang Zhan. Consider the parallel between his poems to his dear friend Lin Yun, written while both w ­ ere in Sichuan, and those of Liu Zongyuan, quoted earlier: “Parting with Lin Yun at the gates of Shu (Afterward I often thought the scenery resembled that of Min, so I sent this to Lin Yun)” The village paths are like those of Yanshou; The sources of streams like those of Fuping. (Yanshou was where Yun had a retreat (bie shu), and Fuping is where I have a retreat) But ­here I know no one—­ I am left only with the love of my old home.52

And: “Having traveled together with Lin Yun to Shu, by the Jialing River I recognized the call of the Yue bird and informed him” Surely it was as though I ­were in Min, hearing the call of the bird of Yue! I returned several times to listen; my tears wet my chin strap at the sound. My heart grieved as my thoughts ­were stirred, but what of you? We’re both so far from home, with our emotions so far away.53

And yet one more time Ouyang lamented: “Who would not soak his clothes in tears when gazing ­toward his home?”54 Ouyang’s homesickness as he traveled the empire is obvious, but he expressed it entirely within the framework of orthodox discourse. While the first poem invokes place-­specific imagery, its homesick longing for native place was a well-­established trope in classical poetry. More pointedly, the second poem uses equally well-­established phrases

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widely found in classical poetry. The “bird of Yue” (yue niao), for example, was often used to invoke the sounds of the South; it does not refer to any par­tic­u­lar species. “Wetting my chin strap” with tears (zhan ying) has an even older heritage as a trope for expressing deep sorrow. Nor was Ouyang Zhan alone in using the tropes of orthodox discourse to express himself. In fact, Lin Zao, the brother of Ouyang’s friend Lin Yun, in the single surviving uncontested example of his poetry, made even deeper use of classical allusion: “Pear Mountain” Once we ventured into the mountains, where I inscribed (ti) my name; I could not pierce the leaves of willows, nor did I talk of my return. My bro­th­ers each carried a branch of mountain laurel, And on returning they gazed at the peak, where our shadows flew together.55

In his title and first line, Lin invoked an earlier poem by Ouyang Zhan called “Inscribing Pear Mountain” (Ti Li ling; see note 56). Both allude to a mountain in northwestern Fujian that has been a poetic subject. In the second line Lin twice turned to the orthodox tradition for his imagery. The phrase “to pierce willow leaves” (chuan yangye), for example, was used by Du Fu in one of his many poems extolling the joys of drunkenness. In the next phrase, “nor did I talk of my return” (bu yan gui), in positive form has long alluded to returning from hermetic retreat; Lin, in contrast, was asserting that he intended to remain. Finally, his third line is a multilayered allusion to his f­ amily and to tradition. Because they all held prefectural office, Lin Zao and his eight bro­th­ers are known as the Nine Prefects ( jiu mu). ­Under Tang tradition, scholars who passed the examinations ­were given a branch of laurel in recognition. Lin Zao, in summary, used the tropes of the orthodox discourse to express his own withdrawal. The poetic legacy of scholars from Lingnan did not match that of their colleagues from Fujian, yet when we hear it, we find they expressed similar sentiments using the same orthodox discourse. Zhang Zhongfang, a grandnephew of Zhang Jiuling who received his jinshi degree in 790 and held office in the imperial capital in the Far North, dwelt on his favorite variety of bamboo: “The southeast produces green bamboo / But the most beautiful is the jian. / How could its stems or leaves ever wither? / Who would have imagined wind or frost?”56



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Lu Zonghui, a native of the “South Seas” (nan hai) who nevertheless was recommended early in the ninth ­century for his jinshi through Lingnan, gained fame for his paean to the pagoda of the Ci’en Monastery in Chang’an, a poem that draws entirely on traditional allusions with no invocation of his native south.57 Possibly the scholars of the Farthest South felt an even greater need to prove they w ­ ere conversant in the orthodox discourse, for Lu Zonghui’s failure to invoke the beauties of the South is more typical of their poetry than Zhang Zhongfang’s recollection of his favorite bamboo. Clearly these men longed for their beloved south, the lands that they had known as youths but had left when fulfilling the expectations and requirements of orthodoxy, yet they expressed their homesickness fully within the wen discourse of the North, from where power and orthodoxy flowed. If Tao Yuanming and Yang Xi had used that discourse to challenge orthodoxy, their lament was entirely within the standards of orthodox lessons such as those Ouyang Zhan had learned from Chang Gun and Xi Xiang. In their embrace of the orthodox discourse and of the culture of examinations and the bureaucratic ­career they led to, all had totally embraced the values of wen. This multilayered chapter engages the theme of accommodation from numerous a­ ngles. I have moved somewhat randomly across time and space while engaging ­different themes. What the chapter explores is a tension that evolved among educated men of the South. To be educated meant to know the lit­erature, the rites, and the traditions of wen. The South had a lit­erature as well, but it was framed by the constructs and language of wen; there simply was no other way to frame it. This reality inevitably drew those educated men of the south into the discourses of the dominant culture, yet in so many ways they remained apart. As the northern voices we encountered in chapter 2 said so often, the South had a sensuous and seductive appeal, one they considered dangerous and corrupting; to those voices, men who ­were products of the South remained suspect, beguiled by the heterodox heritage of their native places. To the men of the south, in contrast, the allure of their native land remained central to their identity. The construct drew them into the orthodox discourse, but they remained a distinct voice within it. Nevertheless, by the last de­cades of the Tang, elite culture throughout the south, both near and far, was growing more and more comfortable with the cultural premises of the Central Lands. Southern

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elites became more and more oriented to the imperial system and engaged in debate over the values of wen. In im­por­tant ways the ­century that defined the po­liti­cal transition between the Tang and the Song, known in history as the era of the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, furthered this pro­cess. During these years, broadly defined as the 880s– 970s, a succession of short-­lived dynasties controlled the Yellow River valley in the north while the South devolved into a network of autonomous kingdoms.58 The southern courts pursued individual policies for the recruitment and cultivation of an administrative class, but all w ­ ere forced to rely on their own resources and to develop their own talent. To do this, all embraced the trappings, if not the ethos, of the wen culture of the Tang court. Yet not all of the kingdoms w ­ ere equally invested in the pro­ject, and ­here we begin to see an undercurrent of enduring southern autonomy that we will explore more thoroughly l­ater on. All of the southern kingdoms w ­ ere founded by men of déclassé background, and all initially relied on their comrades in arms, equally déclassé individuals who had propelled them to power.59 Qian Liu (852–931) and Yang Xingmi (851–909), found­ers of the WuYue and the Wu kingdoms, respectively, are described as men who began their careers as village thugs and ­rose to power through the social upheaval that accompanied the collapse of Tang authority. They both surrounded themselves with the very men who had enforced their power in the villages—in other words, fellow thugs.60 As their kingdoms matured, however, so did the structure of their administrative apparatus, which ruled the Jiang-­Huai region (modern Jiangxi and southern Anhui). Both drew on regional elites with nascent traditions of ser­vice in the Tang court. Xu Wen, who, despite his alleged origins as an illicit salt merchant, served as Yang Xingmi’s princi­ple advisor and the power ­behind his throne, oversaw the introduction of an examination system that commenced in 909.61 More pointedly, and perhaps even more to the point, in his history of the Southern Tang kingdom, founded by Xu Wen’s son Zhigao, Ma Ling wrote: When the Wu Kingdom was first stabilized, local officials all had a military background, and taxes w ­ ere levied to aid the military. Only Xu Zhigao [who was appointed to a prefectural magistracy in 912] was fond of scholarship. He welcomed those who practiced Confucian rites and was personally able to promote frugality. His administration was humane, and [­people] ­were attracted to it from far and near.62



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Qian Liu similarly benefited from the strong academic tradition that had already developed in the region surrounding the Hangzhou Bay. Soon a­ fter taking power, as a step t­ oward reducing the power of the “ro­guish” colleagues of his youth, Qian began to recruit men such as Wu Cheng, whose grand­father had held district-­level office ­under the Tang and whose ­father had earned a jinshi degree in the last years of the dynasty,63 and Shen Song, a native of Fuzhou (Fujian) and the son of a late Tang district magistrate. In 895 Shen had passed the Tang palace examination in the imperial capital, thereby earning his jinshi, and was returning home to Fujian in triumph when Qian detained and imposed offices on him. Despite this inauspicious beginning, he went on to have a brilliant ­career in the WuYue bureaucracy.64 Because the WuYue rulers continued to recognize the northern dynasties as the legitimate carriers of the imperial tradition, its scholars ­were able to take the northern exams once they ­were revived; the kingdom never took the in­de­pen­dent step of or­ga­niz­ing its own examination system. Both the Southern Han kingdom, based in modern Guangdong, and the Min kingdom of Fujian pre­sent more problematic models of elite acculturation. Despite the growing patterns of elite involvement in the examinations and the culture they represented (outlined earlier), neither region was as deeply involved as its Jiangnan neighbors. During the interregnum de­cades neither state showed a commitment to the values of wen commensurate with that of Wu and WuYue. Despite a thin overlay of Sinified elites such as the descendants of Zhang Jiuling, who sustained an academic tradition at least through the late Tang, the Farther South remained a region of unassimilated indigenous peoples who sustained their non-­Sinitic cultural traditions. The Tang had acknowledged as much by establishing “loose-­rein” prefectures ( jimi zhou) across the remoter reaches of the Far South; these ­were special administrative units where local tribal po­liti­cal structures and the cultural values they reflected ­were permitted to retain their form and authority in return for expressed allegiance to the court. Recognizing the intractability of the issue, the Song was to do the same following the interregnum. In fact, Tang po­liti­cal authority had been strong only in the great port city of Guangzhou, from which it generated significant revenues through tariffs on overseas trade, and along the riverine trade routes by which imported goods ­were shipped to the consuming centers in the north.

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Huang Chao, whose rebellion in the 870s and 880s marked the effective end of the Tang, recognized the importance of the Guangzhou trade to court finances when he sacked the city in 879, an event that eradicated the superficial vestiges of dynastic authority. When Huang moved on, he left b ­ ehind a power vacuum that was occupied by a ­family that bore the Sinitic surname Liu. Although ­later historiography tried to cover up their origins, the Liu w ­ ere almost certainly hereditary chieftains of one of the many non-­Chinese tribes that lived in the mountainous regions that lay west of their capital. A ­ fter detailing the pathological be­hav­ior of Liu Sheng, the second-­to-­last ruler of the kingdom, the Wuguo gushi, a history of the southern kingdoms compiled shortly ­after the Song reunification in the ­later tenth ­century, explains: “Although Sheng was a man barbarian, that is not a sufficient explanation for his actions. Rather they occurred because he could not bear to hear about reason or ­human relationships.”65 While the Southern Han court apparently mimicked the rites and culture of the Central Lands, the values and norms of wen appear to have found very ­little resonance among the ­people, and few refugees from the turmoil of the Farther North turned to the kingdom for refuge. Though unassimilated indigenous peoples played a much less prominent role, the Min kingdom was nonetheless similarly ambivalent about wen values. The kingdom emerged out of a migration that began in the Guangzhou region of modern Anhui Province. As I have explained elsewhere,66 the leaders of this migration, three bro­th­ers surnamed Wang, came from the fringes of civilized society. Following a route that traversed the very lands that had only recently been pillaged by Huang Chao, they w ­ ere joined by growing numbers of desperate ­people who had ­little reason to stay put and even less claim to links to the orthodox values of wen. The band that arrived on the southwest frontier of Fujian in 885, which Sima Guang says numbered five thousand,67 had itself become a predatory army intent on finding sanctuary. Taking advantage of the power vacuum that followed Huang Chao’s passage, the Wang bro­th­ers ­were able to gain control over all Fujian by the early 890s. Although the Wang migration’s impact on the social history of Fujian was profound, in fact the bro­th­ers relied less on their comigrants than on a culturally orthodox cohort of refugees who sought sanctuary from the turmoil that so per­sis­tently wracked the northern heartland. As Wu Renchen (1628–1689) commented in his Shiguo chunqiu: “The Central Plains ­were in turmoil, and men of accomplish-



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ment fled to the protection of the Min court in great numbers.”68 Echoing this, local rec­ords throughout Fujian are filled with references to those who relocated from elsewhere as they sought refuge from the turmoil of the north. As Zhao Yubi wrote in his thirteenth-­ century gazetteer of Xianyou district: “The Five Dynasties ­were plagued by warfare. Thus there ­were many who fled their homes and settled ­here.”69 By 978 the rising Song court had consolidated nominal authority over all of the South. Once again the divergent regions that had pulled apart for the better part of a ­century ­were enrolled in a unified empire. This time, however, the educated p ­ eople of the South had a vested interest in that unity and the values on which it was based. How they forged a new sense of cultural integrity is the subject of the following chapter.

Chapter Four

Social Innovation in the Eleventh ­C entury and the Debates on Civilization

B

y the ­middle of the tenth ­century, forces ­were emerging that would lead to the reconsolidation of empire. In the north, a new dynasty, the Latter Zhou (951–960), though short-­lived, ­under its dynamic founder Guo Wei (904 –954) had established a new sense of stability and purpose. When he successfully transferred power to his son Guo Rong (921–959), it marked the first successful transfer in the northern courts of the interregnum in de­cades. ­Under Guo Rong, the Zhou began a systematic campaign of conquest and consolidation; at his death in 959, his state was poised to launch a full reconsolidation of empire.1 The campaign was interrupted by the succession of Guo Rong’s seven-­year-­old son and the rebellion of Zhao Kuangyin (927– 976), who then established the Song dynasty. Once in power, Zhao pursued his pre­de­ces­sor’s strategy, leading to full imperial reconsolidation by 979.2 The Song reunification marks a dramatic transition in Chinese history. The era has been studied extensively, and the dramatic innovations have been well documented. Nevertheless, it will be useful to review some of the central features. We can begin with the perceptive overview of Hymes and Schirokauer, who enumerated four major changes:3 1. The development of new staple crops, including rice and tea The domestic cultivation of rice, most agree, developed in the lower Yangtze River basin during the ­middle of the first decamillenium BCE, very likely among the Hemudu civilization, which 70



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 71

flourished around the Hangzhou Bay region ca. 5– 4,000 BCE.4 Just when paddy-­field wet-­rice cultivation developed, however, is harder to pinpoint. Some have suggested that the Hemudu p ­ eople had already adopted the technique, but that remains unproven. By the early centuries of the first millennium CE, however, wet-­ rice cultivation had spread throughout the lowlands of the South.5 During the first millennium, rice became increasingly definitive of the Sinitic diet. The Grand Canal was constructed in the early seventh c­ entury largely to ship the surplus rice harvest of the Yangtze delta to the demographic core in the north. During the Song, as the consumption of rice became far more widespread and transcended class lines, a commercial network of exchange developed.6 For the first time, urban centers, drawing on the surplus production of rice in the agricultural basins of the South, ­were freed from the limitations of their agrarian hinterlands and able to grow strictly as their market opportunities allowed. Rice was not the only agrarian commodity defined commercially. Tea, another product with southern origins that gradually became common during the Tang, is an example. Other crops that developed commercially included vegetables and fruits, including many that ­were products of the warmer climate of the South. More importantly, as regions that ­were ill suited to the production of rice, such as the coastal plains of Fujian, w ­ ere freed from the obligation to feed their urban centers, peasants could divert their energies to a range of crops that ­were useful primarily as commodities. Many ­were emblematically southern: sugarcane, for example, as well as cotton and lacquer.7 2. A vast increase in population, particularly in the rice-­growing south, reversed the old demographic and economic dominance of the north and promoted the growth of cities Between 742, when the last Tang census to have any claim to reliability was compiled, and 1080, the empire’s registered population ­rose from 8.75 million ­house­holds to more than 17 million.8 As noted previously, these same data point to an even more dramatic shift from north to south. The rise of cities, especially in the newly dominant south, was at least as striking: Scattered absolute data and extensive impressionistic data point to an unpre­ce­dented level of urbanization in the mature Song. Some have argued that China’s earlier capital cities had frequently reached one million residents, although this is impossible to document

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with certainty. It is nonetheless clear, for example, that even before it became the capital of the Southern Song, Hangzhou was already home to several hundred thousand and likely expanded to more than a million in its capital role. ­Giant megalopolises at the top, however, do not necessarily point to extensive urbanization across the empire. Imperial Rome, far larger than any other city in an empire that was overwhelmingly agrarian, is an example, as was the Han imperial capital, Chang’an; both w ­ ere disproportionately vast metropolises, below which significant urban centers ­were few and far between. This was not the case in twelfth-­century China. Not only was Hangzhou surrounded by an unpre­ce­dented network of large urban centers such as Suzhou, Yangzhou, Shaoxing, Ningbo, and Wuxi, each of which had populations in the tens if not hundreds of thousands, but beyond the lower reaches of the Yangtze, where these great centers ­were all located, w ­ ere other impressive urban centers: Fuzhou (Fujian), Quanzhou, Guangzhou . . . ​The list goes on. These centers, moreover, rested on a base of smaller urban nodes that ­were spread throughout the empire.9 3. The collapse of the old Tang system of government markets ­under the weight of rapidly increasing trade, which generated new markets in city and countryside alike During the mid-­eighth ­century the Tang imperial government had tried to exercise very close control over all commerce. Cities ­were internally divided into wards, each of which was in theory walled; markets ­were restricted to designated wards.10 As more and more ­people moved to the South where imperial oversight was less intense and f­ ree market opportunities w ­ ere readily available, the pressures to abandon the controlled marketing system became overwhelming. In contrast to the urban heritage of the North, where cities and po­liti­cal administration ­were intimately linked with ­little regard to economic imperatives, throughout the South cities emerged in organic response to economic need at sites such as river crossings where growing volumes of traffic necessarily funneled together. The final push was the desperate crisis of the mid-­eighth ­century, identified with An Lushan. In conjunction with the mass relocation of ­people to the far less affected south, the official institutions, through which commerce was regulated, ­were shattered. Though the uprising was ultimately put down, the Tang was never able to reassert con-



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 73

trol over commerce. Especially in the lands of the South, including the Yangtze basin, newly or­ga­nized organic markets displaced the remnants of the official market system and became the basis of a new, entirely market-­driven, urban network.11 4. Extension of the reach of the commercial and monetary economy and contractual relations into the daily life of the peasantry and extraordinary expansion in the use and the supply of money itself, which came to include government-­issued paper currency for the first time in world history The result of growing commercialization was a parallel monetization of the economy.12 Already by the mid-­Tang, China had long used minted cash, generally in the form of copper coinage. The quantity of cash in circulation, however, had been limited, and its use restricted primarily to the regulated urban markets. Taxes ­were chiefly levied in kind, ­either as cloth, grain, or corvée ser­vice to the state, and outside the urban centers few p ­ eople ­were regularly in need of cash. As the market network spread more deeply across the map, but especially in the South, and crops such as rice w ­ ere increasingly incorporated into the commercial world of exchange linking North and South, the relationship of the masses to the world of commerce changed. Especially as the economy of the re­ united empire of the eleventh c­ entury surged, the reach of commerce and the spread of cash into the world of the common p ­ eople expanded greatly—­again a development led by the South. Commercialization had penetrated more deeply into the everyday economy than ever before, and the degree of involvement of southern peasants in the world of commercial exchange had reached levels not yet seen in world history. Consequently, more p ­ eople than ever before found themselves enmeshed in a commercial nexus that at least occasionally required the use of money. Quanzhou, by the Song the undisputed commercial center of southern Fujian Province, is a case in point. As I have illustrated elsewhere, the expansion of long-­range trading networks through the port, coupled with the importation of rice from surplus regions such as southern Guangdong Province, presented the agrarian producers an opportunity to diversify their production ­toward nonsubsistence, cash-­oriented crops such as luxury fruits and cotton.13 When peasants opted to devote a portion of their land to a nonconsumable crop such as cotton or to the cultivation

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of orchard crops such as lychee, they w ­ ere opting to some degree to depend on the market to supply their subsistence needs. Although it no doubt remained an option to exchange their cotton or fruit directly for grain, Cai Xiang (1012–1067) noted that merchants made monetized contracts with the producers of lychee based on harvest projections, clear evidence of a monetary exchange.14 It was not simply commerce, moreover, that enmeshed the population in a monetized economy. Through the centuries of the transition the Chinese state increasingly sought to convert taxation from kind to cash. This had already begun in the latter half of the Tang but became even more im­por­tant ­under the Song, especially during the reform era identified with Wang Anshi (1021–1086), when the state attempted to convert almost all levies into cash.15 As monetization penetrated ever more deeply into the economy, and as long-­distance trade in bulk commodities became ever more regularized, demands for cash increased exponentially, indeed far more rapidly than the state could meet. Faced with chronic shortages of cash and led by merchants for whom con­ ve­nient instruments of exchange w ­ ere increasingly critical, society and eventually the Song state gradually moved ­toward the adoption of paper currency, a development that reached true fruition in the twelfth ­century, a dramatic affirmation of the importance of money in the mature Song economy. Hymes and Schirokauer emphasized the social and economic aspects of the Tang-­Song transition, and these are among its most im­ por­tant features. But equally if not more importantly, by the twelfth ­century a new order, the literati culture, based on learning rather than birth, had been consolidated. This was a fluid culture, a culture within which no one was promised a social place, in which individuals, families, and even extended kinship networks could rise and fall in the social hierarchy according to theoretically objective criteria. Although there had been experiments with examination-­based se­lection as early as the Han,16 these had been a dead end. The re­introduction of examinations u ­ nder the Sui dynasty in the sixth ­century is generally considered to be the beginning of routinized examinations for evaluating candidates for civil positions, and it is a fact that thereafter, with only



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 75

a few breaks before the system’s formal abrogation in 1905, China’s imperial governments utilized examinations in their evaluation. The examinations during the Sui and the Tang, however, w ­ ere not open; they ­were used as a final vetting of men who had already been brought into the administrative network. To quote John Chaffee, “[the Tang examinations] did not foster social mobility, for the system ensured that degree holders would come from the great lineages [i.e., the aristocracy] or from locally prominent lineages with traditions of office-­holding.”17 It was instead the consolidated culture of the Song that elevated merit to a level perhaps never before seen in world history. Candidates w ­ ere theoretically judged by their success in a world of learning and gained status on the basis of blind examinations administered u ­ nder imperial authority. This was an environment that especially favored men from the South, where greater wealth allowed a wider spectrum of the population to acquire the education and skills the examinations required. The redefinition of the examination system from one that vetted men who had already been found eligible for government ser­vice by virtue of their f­amily heritage to one that actually became an ave­nue for social mobility was the great accomplishment of the Song.18 The Song examination system set a pattern for the subsequent imperial era, throughout which access to the examinations was an open pro­cess to which all males, with a very small number of exceptions, in theory could aspire. In an attempt to ensure objective assessment, moreover, the machinery of the examinations was designed to ensure blind reading of examination essays. Again quoting Chaffee, for all its flaws and ultimate compromises, “the attempt to create a meritocratic order was nevertheless remarkable.”19 The culture that developed around the examinations demanded a vast expansion in literacy. In response, schools and education developed to an unpre­ce­dented degree. There ­were state-­supported schools in every prefecture as well as in many of the subprefectural districts. Beyond the state, education was further supported by religious institutions and private networks. Although some have tried, it is r­ eally not possi­ble to determine what percentage of the population may have been literate by the mature Song.20 What can be demonstrated is the impact demand had on the production and general availability of books. For the first time in world history, printing became commercially ­viable, an enterprise that was especially

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concentrated in the South. Across the South as well as in the major urban centers of the North, commercial bookstores serving a reading public became common.21 This overview does not focus on new material; I have drawn heavily on established scholarship. What I have sought to emphasize, however, is how central the previously marginalized South was to each of these developments. The Sinitic world, what we can perhaps now begin to call “China,” was changing. Change itself was not new; what was new was the source. For the first time it was the South that was leading in innovation and redefinition. This new prominence evolved in conjunction with an intellectual discourse on civilization that at last brought a sense of unity between the cultures of North and South. The Discourse on Civilization Obviously the first ­century of the Song was a time of im­mense change. The accompanying spread of literacy, learning, and wealth fostered in turn a vibrant scholarly discourse. There w ­ ere many avenues to this discourse, but the one that concerns our discussion focused on wen and its associated orthopraxy, or “rites” (li). The efforts of the founding Song emperors to prioritize civil values (wen) over the martial (wu) is a well-­established trope in historical accounts of the late tenth ­century. Zhao Kuangyin, the founding emperor of the new dynasty (Song Taizu, r. 960–976), distinguished himself from his interregnum pre­de­ces­sors by asserting civil control over his military.22 As the late thirteenth-­century compilers of the Song History wrote in their introduction to the collected biographies of literary men, “When our founding emperor seized the Mandate, he prioritized the employment of literary officials (wen li) and reduced the power of military officers (wu chen) . . . ​[In this way the Song] became more wen by the day.”23 The focus on wen extended deep into the era’s scholarly discourse. Among the princi­ple figures of Taizu’s reign, for example, was Xu Xuan (917–992). Once an official in the interregnum Southern Tang kingdom, Xu is identified by Peter Bol as “the greatest Five Dynasties scholar to find a place at the Song court.”24 Throughout his ­career Xu was passionately committed to the restoration of the classical values of civilization. In an essay written in 989, Xu explained: “The former kings effected the transformation [to civilization] through instruction ( jiao hua), which persisted for one hundred generations . . . ​When the malicious Qin corrupted government . . . ​the ancient values of civili-



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 77

zation (gu wen) ­were lost and cheating and falsehood flourished.”25 Xu promoted study of the text as a way of recapturing those lost values and restoring civilization, which he considered essential: “The Way of the Gentleman ( junzi zhi dao) . . . ​is enacted through words. When that enactment [of the Way] extends far and wide, that is civilization (wen). Thus the values of civilization are the most im­por­tant thing to our time.”26 Xu Xuan’s commitment to wen was marked, but he was not alone in his concern. His younger contemporary Tian Xi (940–1003), for example, noted that “man’s possession of wen is the great Way of ordering and regulating. If one has this Way, then one can use government to effect transformation [to civilization] through instruction.”27 Likewise, Zhang Yong (946–1015) asserted: “Wen is the duty of the scholar. [His] words are where wen begins.”28 But perhaps it is the words of Liu Kai (947–1000) that most immediately relate to our discussion. Responding to an unnamed interlocutor who accused him of a thoughtless devotion to the values of the ancients, Liu indignantly responded: How can this be? The Cosmos gave birth to Virtue (de) in man; thus sageliness has been manifest throughout the d ­ ifferent ages . . . ​The current age is no d ­ ifferent from the past. Men of the pre­sent are no ­different from those of the past. In ancient times the Way, Virtue, Empathy, and Justice (dao de ren yi) ­were all used to instruct the ­people; ­today the Way, Virtue, Empathy, and Justice are also used to instruct the ­people. How are the past and the pre­sent any ­different?

He went on: “You have not used the Ways of the Past to perceive my mind, nor have you used the Ways of the Past to grasp my intent. My wen is without fault! . . . ​My wen is the wen of Confucius, Mencius, Yang Xiong, and Han Yu.”29 The civil virtues, in other words, are eternally valid; they are the basis of all of the “instruction” ( jiao) and transformation (hua) that leads to civilization (wen). As the Song order matured, the scholarly discourse continued to place the culture of wen at its center. Even as a new generation of scholars began to contribute, concern about the nature of culture and civilization remained prominent themes. For example, Sima Guang (1019–1086), from a prominent northern ­family with ancient roots, was consumed by the belief that “correct” government was an end in itself.30 Sima devoted himself to the study of the past, evident

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most notably in his monumental Zizhi tongjian but apparent throughout his writings and especially in his constant invocation of the past in memorials and discussions. He believed that correct government, correct morals, and correct social relations could all be found in the past; moreover, through knowledge of that past they could be recovered. The external manifestation of an internalized body of civil values was “rites” (li), which governed ­everything from formal occasions such as court proceedings and ­family rituals to proper social interaction; wen and the rites ­were complementary and interlinked. As Confucius’s disciple Yan Yuan observed of his mentor in The Analects: “He enlarged my mind with wen, and restrained me with the rites” (bo wo yi wen, yue wo yi li).31 Han Yu had similarly observed their link: “When the rites and wen flourish, ­everything they or­ga­nize is excellent” (li wen fanman, suo zhi ge shu).32 Sima was one of several scholars of his generation concerned that rites, and thus wen, had become debased, which led him to write one of the most im­por­tant ritual guides, the “Letters and Ceremonies” (Shu yi), focusing especially on ­family rituals.33 Elsewhere Sima bemoaned: “The former kings established the rites . . . ​But ­today ­people turn their back on the rites and defy the laws.”34 His most comprehensive statement, however, is the opening commentary in his Tongjian: I have heard that the Son of Heaven has no greater responsibility than the rites . . . ​What are the rites? They are the rules of conduct ( ji gang) . . . ​ Throughout the breadth of the four seas, and among the uncounted masses, all accept the rule of one man. Even those whose strength is without mea­sure and whose knowledge is extraordinary, there is no one who does not rush to serve. How can this be other than [that] the rites are used as the rule of conduct[?] . . . ​Thus I say that the Son of Heaven has no greater responsibility than the rites.35

Sima’s concerns about rites ­were echoed by a range of scholars working through the mid-­eleventh ­century. Ouyang Xiu (1007–1072), whose prominence equaled Sima’s, was also concerned with guiding the uncivilized ­toward civilization through education in the rites. In his introduction to the monograph on the rites and m ­ usic for the New Tang History, he wrote: “Through ancient times order came from unity of rites and ­music, which spread through all ­under Heaven . . . ​Of old . . . ​, of all the affairs of men, there ­were none that did not derive



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 79

from the rites. [The rites] transform (hua) the ­people.” “No one,” Ouyang lamented, “was acquainted [with the rites or ­music]. ­People grew old without ever having witnessed them. How could they hope the rites and ­music would flourish? [­Under such conditions,] is it possi­ble that, even if they ­were clearly explained, they could routinely transform the ­people?”36 Perhaps Ouyang’s most famous passage, however, comes from his Guitian lu. A ­ fter a lamentation about the debased wedding rites practiced even by the elite, he complained: “Alas! Even the literati do not know rites and propriety. They follow the customs of the locals and rustics, and most do not even know they are ­doing something wrong.”37 The rites had been debased, forgotten, ignored. It was Ouyang’s role to restore them, to call his fellow literati back to proper be­hav­ior.38 In contrast to Sima, whose f­ amily roots ­were northern and whose concerns about the rites and culture ­were holistic, Ouyang was a southerner by birth. His concern for correct per­for­mance of the rites and the orthodox culture that would result derived from the heterodox rituals he had witnessed in his culturally complex homeland: At times when the peasants ­were not working their fields and could rest, they ­were taught through the rites. Thus they knew the rite of hunting in accord with the needs of their fields, they knew the rites of marriage in accord with their procuring wives, they knew the rites of mourning in accord with their death and burial, and they knew the rites of their village in accord with their hunger and thirst. None of this was in vain for it guarded against chaos. And so they ­were instructed to know the proper relationships between exalted and lesser and old and young.39

Ouyang Xiu’s concern for the debased practices of the not-­wen and emphasis on the importance of orthodoxy was often echoed by his contemporaries with roots in the South. Xia Song (985–1051), for example, was a native of De’an district in Jiangzhou ( Jiangnan West), in the heart of the Yangtze River basin. In several essays he argued against tolerance of not-­wen behaviors, including the debased folk practices he was familiar with. In an essay titled “On Curbing Illicit Rites,” he complained of those who would “besmirch deities in ­favor of demons, with the support of sorcerers” (du shen you gui, yaowu ping zhi), practices that ­were emblematic of the indigenous cultures of his native South, and urged that they be actively suppressed: “Throughout history illicit rites (yin si) have been prohibited.”40 ­Going

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even further, in his “Ode on Extending Wen” he emphasized the link between rites and wen: “It is through knowing wen that one can regulate the high and the low, manage the surrounding lands, normalize rites and m ­ usic, and reform customs. Thus study the classics to provide the tool for wen, and establish schools to provide the hall for wen.” Without such normalization, he warned, there would be “chaos” (luan). Similarly, Li Gou (1009–1059), also a southerner, was alarmed by local practice. His natal home lay in the remote eastern highlands of Jiangnan, near the Jiangnan/Fujian border; this was very much the kind of area where indigenous southern customs continued to hold sway. Li’s response in part was to focus on the importance of rites, about which he wrote seven essays in 1032. The opening line of the first asks: “What is more im­por­tant than the discussions of the rites by the sages?” Li went on to assert that “the rites standardize ‘the way of man’ (rendao) and regulate learning through the ages. It is what the sages used to control All ­under Heaven and the kingdoms. [The rites] rectify the body and center the mind. Nothing surpasses the rites.” Furthermore, “If [rites between] husband and wife are not correct, then male and female will not be separated. If f­ather and son do not feel love, then p ­ eople will lack their roots. And if the old and young are not distinguished, then the strong and weak will be all mixed up.”41 In other words, without proper attention to the rites, society will be disordered. Throughout the essays that followed, Li established that the rites ­were the wellspring from which all other features of civilization arise: “­Music, punishment, and governing (yue xing zheng) all stem from the rites . . . ​Thus throughout the ages, [even if sages] only talked of rites, such that the ­people ­were unaware of ­music, punishment, or governing, yet they would all be there and [the sages’ advocacy] would make the ­people utilize them. Thus the rites are first, and ­music, punishment, and governing all stem from them.”42 Finally, in the fifth of his essays on rites Li wrote: “Someone asked, ‘Can there be m ­ usic, punishment, and governance that lack [proper] rites?’ I answered, ‘What a good question! The dissolute but seductive noises (yin) of the vari­ous barbarians confuse their performers (chang you) and lead to intimacy between boys and girls. They produce facetious humor and turn things inside out. They move peoples’ eyes and ears and cause turbulence in peoples’ well-­being. Given all this, this is ­music that lacks [the proper] rites.’ ”43



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Although Li rarely used the word wen, his point was that, through proper application of the rites, civilized, or wen, be­hav­ior would result. As Li wrote in his own introduction to his collected works, “the root of rites and ­music is wen.”44 And again, “one controls heterodoxy [yi, by definition, the not-­wen] with the rites.”45 Unlike Ouyang Xiu, however, who embraced Luling, his natal place, and routinely signed himself “Ouyang Xiu of Luling,” Li Gou described his home in uncomplimentary terms: It had a “disappointing” reputation, and among those “unfortunate enough” to be assigned to serve there, only a fraction actually did. It was a land of “rebellious” barbarians plagued by malaria and miasmic poisons. Late in the 1040s an other­wise unknown Mr. Zhang “had the misfortune of actually arriving” to serve as magistrate.46 His task was to restore the magistrate’s office, which Li Gou compared to a grass hut. A year ­later Mr. Zhang was replaced by Lord Wu: “The scholars ( junzi) said Lord Wu had advanced through the study of civilization (wen xue), which benefited his administrative methods . . . ​He governed as an erudite and was suitably focused on the rites.”47 Li Gou regarded his natal district as a cultural backwater populated by uncultured not-­wen p ­ eople. It was the challenge met by men such as Mr. Zhang and Lord Wu, who brought the values of civilization with them, to transform such unfortunates through education ( jiao hua) and to guide them by rites. It was, however, Cai Xiang, a native of the greater Xinghua region in Fujian, who made the most explicit link between the standardization of wen values and reformation of the debased cultures of the South. Like the ­others I have discussed, Cai Xiang had a ­career that took him to the capital, where he became closely associated with a range of prominent individuals, including Ouyang Xiu, who wrote his funerary inscription, and Fan Zhongyan (989–1052), who was Cai’s mentor. In keeping with the ethos of Fan’s reform movement, Cai Xiang’s writings betray a major concern with the material welfare of common folk—­especially in his native region of southern Fujian, where an onerous head tax, imposed during the interregnum de­cades but abolished elsewhere, persisted.48 Cai’s concerns, however, went beyond such concrete foci. To him it was an imbalance of wen and wu, the civil and the martial that had destroyed the Tang. Although this had continued to plague the interregnum dynasties of the North, it had begun to be addressed in the more stable kingdoms of the interregnum South, and had finally been resolved by the Song. Troubled by the ongoing tensions along the

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northern frontiers, he was convinced that only through the eradication of improper relationships among p ­ eople and with the cosmos could order and stability and thus the prosperity of the ­people be maintained. He was, consequently, deeply concerned about restoring the proper order to society. In an undated essay celebrating a new appointment for the other­wise unidentified Ma Chengzhi, for example, Cai lauded the Song for putting power in the hands of “scholar officials” (ruchen), ­under whom peace and prosperity could be restored.49 As he explained in a series of related essays, the Song deserved praise for restoring the authority and res­pect of the emperor, two virtues that had been lost during the chaos of the interregnum ­century and reflected the proper order and hierarchy of things. Like his colleagues, Cai saw rites as key to cultivating the values of civilization. In the first of a series of essays devoted to “the needs of the state,” for example, he wrote: “[The legendary rulers of the ancient past] created rites and ­music in order to rectify the peoples’ nature and overturn their erroneous minds. In this way they diminished their crimes, which led them away from punishment.” This had been lost through the ages, and despite the efforts of the Tang as well as the founding rulers of the Song, “the customs of the Four Directions have yet to hear of the rites and m ­ usic and still use law (fa).” “Law,” as any scholar would have known, invoked the despised policies of the Qin dynasty, when draconian laws displaced the normative values of civilization; “law” was the opposite of ritual and the manifestation of society’s failure to teach the rites. Rites had become “confused” (hun), and Cai urged the emperor to oversee their rectification: “Simply use the old ways to establish t­ oday’s rites.”50 If the rites w ­ ere clarified, everyone would understand, the ­people’s be­hav­ior would be rectified, and law would be unnecessary. In this spirit, Cai praised the orthodox priorities of colleagues who put their filial obligations ahead of bureaucratic careers; he singled out Chen Zhu, a fellow native of Xinghua who put his c­ areer on hold to mourn his mo­ther.51 He was especially concerned, however, with restoring balance in pop­u­lar belief and practice. He had no prob­ lem turning to orthodox spirits (shen) when the occasion demanded it—­for example, to beseech rain in times of drought or to help control tidal waters when overseeing construction of a new bridge.52 However, he chastised the “­people of Fujian” (Min ren) for their reliance on heterodox shamanistic exorcisms over proper medical treatment: “It is



Social Innovation in the 11th ­Century and the Debates on Civilization 83

common in Min that a doctor (yi) will be on the left and a shaman (wu) on the right [i.e., given priority]. The families of the sick rely on shamans with reverence and call on doctors only twenty or thirty ­percent of the time. Thus there is l­ittle tradition of [proper] medicine.”53 This is echoed in the funerary inscription Ouyang Xiu composed on his friend’s death: “[Xiang] commented, ‘Impropriety (bi) is im­por­tant ­here!’ So he issued commands to ban it. Because treating of diseases by shamans and the prescription of noxious medicines that kill ­people cause heartache, they are prohibited.”54 The restoration of proper rites was not the central theme in Cai’s writing that it was for ­others; he was more focused on wen itself, leaving rites implicit. In one undated essay, however, most likely composed ­after he had served in Quanzhou, where he found culture to be most debased, he addressed it directly: When I served as prefectural magistrate, I would conduct the spring rites at the Confucian Shrine. The scholars of the prefecture would gather to cooperate in my effort, and the elders would gather at the foot of the hall. I would invite them to sit, and explain, “You are the elders. You have witnessed the administration of many magistrates. Among the countless families in the prefectures where I have served, there have been some with good nature and ­others with bad, and ­everything possi­ble in-­ between. What magistrate does not wish that his administration will promote the good and dispel the bad? I would promote morality, using ancient times as the standard. . . . ​But only you, the ­people, can truly feel concern [about local moral standards]. [Only you] can root out evil and deceitfulness; [only you] can uphold the good and prevent the bad; and [only you] can effect a peaceful separation between the strong and the weak.”55

In short, Cai would affirm the social hierarchy both in the normative use of space, placing the local scholars around him and the elders among the common ­people in the privileged space just below, and in the social charge he gave the elders: The magistrate can set the standard, but only the ­people can accomplish the morality. By the mid-­eleventh ­century scholars seemed confident that civilization, the culture of wen, was ascendant. Where heterodox practices persisted, which they did, they could be rectified through “education

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and transformation” ( jiao hua) in the normative practices of ritual. Such belief was entirely consistent with the traditions of northern cultural hegemony, a tradition that saw only one orthodoxy and embraced the teleological certainty that all other traditions would be overwhelmed by its correctness. This is not, in fact, what happened. That is the subject of the next section.

PART TWO

A Local Model of Cultural Accommodation

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Chapter Five

The Central Coast through the Eighth C ­ entury

T

he focus of the story that follows is the central coastal region of Fujian Province, the central coastal region defined in the Song dynasty as Xinghua Commandery (modern Putian) and Quanzhou. From north to south, the Fujian coast is characterized by a series of river basins and associated coastal plains that are separated by mountainous ridges. Its central coast features two principal rivers: the Mulan River (also called the Lai River) in Putian, and the Jin River of Quanzhou, as well as several lesser streams. There are, as well, two major plains regions: the Xinghua Plain (also called the Putian Plain), which is the core of Putian district, and the Quanzhou Plain, which is generally coterminous with modern Jinjiang district. All of these play a role in the following story, as do the nearer peripheral regions, especially the Jiulong River of Zhangzhou and its associated coastal region, which lies south of the Quanzhou Plain. Xinghua Commandery, the northern part of the central coast, has historically been the smallest prefecture in Fujian. It is dominated by the eponymous plain, a broad expanse of alluvial deposit that accumulated as coastal marshlands over the millennia and have more recently been drained by ­human effort. The plain is well defined, bounded on three sides by mountains that rise quite abruptly and ruggedly, although not very high, and on its fourth side by the waters of Xinghua Bay.1 In addition to the Mulan River, by far the prefecture’s largest, the plain is fed by two other streams: the Yanshou Creek, which ­today flows through the northern suburbs of the Putian district city before dissipating in a network of irrigation and drainage canals below the 87

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city—­a pro­ject I have much more to say about in the following chapter, and the Qiulu Creek, which pursues an in­de­pen­dent course on the north edge of the plain. Before ­human intervention drained the plain and turned it into productive farmland, all three rivers separately emptied into the coastal marshes. In fact, geographer Wu Shaohong and his partners, citing the local historical tradition in a geological overview, assert that the entire plain was part of the adjacent Xinghua Bay.2 ­Whether, as Wu asserts, the land was actually submerged or, as is perhaps more likely, marshlands that extended well beyond the rising periphery before giving way to open ­water, flooding was undoubtedly a regular prob­lem as ­human settlement began encroaching on the tidal basin. We must imagine as well that disease, especially malaria, which must have thrived in the warm and wet environment, was also a constant threat to ­human well-­being. Thus initial settlement was concentrated in the peripheries of the plain, where the land rises slightly before turning into the inland hills; h ­ ere it was possi­ble even before the major reclamation efforts to find dry land, and the steep gradient of the upland interior provided a strong current that limited the dangers of malaria. A series of reclamation projects first undertaken in the late eighth ­century and more importantly in the course of the eleventh ­century drained the marshes and gradually pushed the shoreline away from the rising periphery, creating over many de­cades and centuries the land form we see t­ oday. Concurrently the waters of the Yanshou and Mulan Rivers w ­ ere diverted in separate projects into a dense network of channels that survives to this day, providing both drainage and irrigation. Beyond the plain, greater Putian grows significantly more complex. Putian district itself extends away from the coast into a rugged, mountainous interior, where peaks range as high as seven or eight hundred meters. On its south side the district ends in the “Lord Jug” Mountain (Hugong shan) complex, a spur of the inland mountains that has been cut off by the valley of the Mulan River. Beyond this complex lies Xianyou district, a large and mountainous region that extends from the coast into the deepest prefectural interior, where mountains rise more than a thousand meters. Except for the Mulan basin itself and the corridor that leads from the Mulan River to the coast through Fengting town, the land in Xianyou is dominated by hilly upland; although it is mostly unsuitable for rizoculture, the lower



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hillsides are ideal for the cultivation of fruit crops such as lychee and longyan. Thus this interior has never been able to support dense settlement such as developed on the Xinghua Plain, a reality that left it a refuge for displaced indigenes and the generally alienated as the plain came increasingly ­under Sinitic domination. Quanzhou, which lies directly south of Putian, is significantly larger and more complex. As in Putian, the prefectural interior is mountainous and rugged and, as in Xianyou, difficult to cultivate except for river basins. The only lowlands in the interior districts are the narrow valleys of the rivers; beyond that, the landscape of the interior is dominated by rugged uplands. Not surprisingly, the interior did not support a large population. In contrast, and specifically in contrast to Putian, even without h ­ uman intervention the coastal districts all had extensive lowlands that ­were eminently suitable for agriculture and had long supported comparatively heavy settlement. Nevertheless, like Putian, the coastline was fringed by coastal marshes that over time have been drained and reclaimed. Three areas have seen the most intense reclamation: the mouth of the Jin River, where it empties into Quanzhou Bay, and the shorelines of the Anhai Bay and Tong’an district. In all three cases reclamation has turned what once had been deepwater ports frequented by oceangoing vessels into narrow estuaries, a pro­cess that in the centuries that follow the pre­sent study forced coastal and international traders to look elsewhere for suitable anchorage. Perhaps the most im­por­tant contrast between the two locales is the nature of their dominant plains. Whereas the Xinghua Plain, an accumulation of alluvial soil deposited over millennia by the Mulan River, rarely rises as much as twenty feet above sea level except as one nears the hills of the perimeter, the Quanzhou Plain, to which the Jin River forms a northern boundary, is other­wise entirely in­de­pen­dent of the river and not strictly sedimentary. It pre­sents a more varied topography, with undulating hills across much of its breadth and with heights ranging from near sea level along its coastal periphery to as much as 150 feet in some of the hillier interior. The Quanzhou Plain, consequently, did not pre­sent the same historical challenges to settlement. Given its more pronounced slope ­toward the sea, it was not subject to tidal flooding and did not need to be drained; instead, its most im­por­tant land-­reclamation projects have been along that coastal strip, where herculean efforts have wrested arable land from the sea.

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A P REHISTORY: FROM M YTH TO L EGEND TO . . . ​ Productive investigation of the pre-­Sinitic past of the central coast of Fujian is very recent and only now gaining some definition. Nevertheless, certain patterns do seem to be agreed upon. First, the central coast entered the late Neolithic era somewhat ­behind the cultures of the Min River basin in northern Fujian and well ­behind the cultures of the Central Lands. Based on recent reports, both the Mulan River basin and the Jin River basin, as well as the Jiulong River basin to the south, saw a Neolithic horizon about four thousand years ago.3 Equally importantly, scholars note significant differences between the material goods: mainly pottery shards but also early bronzes, which have been recovered along the central and south coasts, and parallel goods found in the Min River basin and Farther North. The ancient peoples of the central coast, in other words, appear to have had distinct cultural features that at some level set them apart from their nearest neighbors. Nevertheless, as one report notes, “[The remains recovered in southern Fujian] clearly establish an affinity with the Neolithic cultures of the coastal southeast, and especially with the coarse-­grained potteries of the lower levels of the Keqiutou and Xitou cultures of the lower Min River.”4 In short, although distinction existed at the local level, certain features w ­ ere also shared among the Neolithic cultures between northern Fujian and eastern Guangdong, which justifies defining them all as part of a larger cultural complex. All these peoples of the Fujian coast ­were among the many who ­were collectively defined as Yue in the discourse of the Central Lands, a discourse, as I explained earlier, that was derived via multiple filters and rooted in almost no direct knowledge. Because of the absence of a written discourse among these cultures—as is true of all the peoples on the peripheries, the Central Lands have provided our only written win­dow into these ancient cultures—it is impossible to know what their self-­definition may have been: Did they see connections among themselves, or did they consider themselves discrete? How did they view, or ­were they even aware of, the cultures of the lands farther north, including those of the Central Lands? Ultimately, however, for our purposes, resolving such questions is unimportant. What is im­por­tant, on the other hand, is to focus on what we can learn about them.5 Contemporary scholarship generally refers to the cultures and peoples of the southeast as Austronesian. Technically this is a linguis-



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tic rather than an ethnic or a cultural term, as is evident in the Chinese rendering “southern islands dialect ­people” (nandao yu zu); I therefore use “Yue,” the term of the Central Lands discourse.6 Working from linguistic analyses, a growing consensus argues that over the past ten thousand years these peoples spread from the southeast coast throughout the arc of the western Pacific archipelago, including Taiwan, the Philippines, and even Indonesia, and beyond to the island regions of the southwest and central Pacific.7 But even as some took to the seas, ­others remained along the southeast coast of modern China. From the earliest Neolithic horizon (four to five thousand years ago), those who stayed in place began to build cultures that depended on early patterns of rizoculture, the collecting of wild game, and especially the harvesting of the bounties of the adjacent seas. And h ­ ere is one of the most im­por­tant cultural insights, for these w ­ ere peoples whose relationship to the sea along which many lived was intimate and routine, as the earliest gazetteers of the area recalled.8 This is most readily apparent in the middens associated with the several archaeological sites that have been investigated in recent years, where fish bones, especially shark, are common.9 But these ­people did not only live off the sea; they lived on the sea as well. Not only did they and their ancestors colonize the islands and archipelagoes of the Pacific, but they also possibly contributed to the formation of Japa­ nese culture, where some argue the pattern of rizoculture was derived from the southeast coast, especially from cultures to the north of the Jin and Mulan Rivers.10 To the peoples of the Central Lands, rumors of this de­pen­dency on the sea ­were grounds for remark. Echoes can be found, for example, in the passing references in the classical texts. For example, the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai jing), the oldest text to intentionally explore the southern lands that lay beyond the realm of wen, a text that is very difficult to date but certainly has traditions ­going back into the pre-­imperial era, states, “Min [i.e., Fujian] lies within the sea” (Min zai haizhong).11 To the peoples of the Central Lands, whose contact with the sea was limited, this was remarkable. The Rites of Zhou (Zhou li), a text deriving from the late first millennium BCE, took a ­different tack in emphasizing the “not-­wen” characteristics of the peripheries: “Local officials (zhifang shi) manage the charts of All u ­ nder Heaven in order to regulate the lands of All ­under Heaven. They distinguish among peoples of the states and cities and the four Yi, eight Man, seven Min, nine He, five Rong, and

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six Di.” The “Seven Min”—­the peoples of Fujian—­along with the Yi, Man, He, Rong, and Di, w ­ ere distinguished from those who lived in the “states and cities” (bangguo dubi). The latter ­were part of civilization, and all ­were wen; the former, all identified by disparaging names for “barbarians,” by definition lived on the frontiers, beyond the pale of civilization, and ­were not-­wen. Furthermore, “[the Seven Min] raised livestock and nurtured fowl,” economic pursuits that in the absence of a reference to grain mark them definitively as “not-­wen.”12 Even as the imperial era dawned with the Qin unification, knowledge of the Farther South among the scholars of the Central Lands, who continued to provide the only written rec­ords, remained cloaked in tropes, albeit tropes that began to be rooted in something closer to reality and proved more enduring. Critical was an emphasis on magic in Yue culture; even as a secularized discourse was beginning to be part of the culture of the heartland,13 the lands of the South, which lay beyond the reach of that discourse, w ­ ere thought to be lands of magic, lands filled with spirits and controlled by the numinous. For example, Sima Qian (145–90 BCE), in his “Rec­ords of the Grand Historian,” wrote the following: At the time that the two Yue (liang Yue)14 ­were destroyed [by the emperor Wu in the mid-­second ­century BCE], a man of the Yue bravely confronted [the emperor] and explained, “The ­people of Yue venerate demons (su gui). Their rites all invoke demons ( jian gui) and are frequently efficacious. Formerly the king of Ou [one of the ancient divisions among the Yue] venerated demons and lived for 160 years! But ­later generations ­were neglectful, and so we have declined.”15

Perhaps the most significant of these new observations, however, was made by Ban Gu (323–92 BCE), author of the “History of the [Former] Han Dynasty,” in his monograph on the empire’s geography: “The lands south of the Yangtze ( jiangnan; i.e., the lands of the Yue16) are vast . . . ​The ­people put faith in shamans and demons and embrace barbaric rites (xin wugui chong yinci).”17 Although Ban’s observation was extremely general, the claim that the Yue p ­ eople revered shamans and demons with rites that ­were not practiced in the Central Lands is no doubt valid. Moreover, Ban’s phrase “The p ­ eople believe in shamans and demons and embrace barbaric rites” became one of the defining references to southern culture, and especially that of Fujian, a



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phrase that was to be repeated over and over in the historiographical tradition.18 For example, Huang Zhongzhao in his BaMin tongzhi, compiled in the fifteenth ­century, cites an unspecified early gazetteer that echoed the concern of Cai Xiang quoted in an earlier chapter: “[The ­people of Fuzhou] resolve disputes with lawsuits and address illness through shamans.”19 Likewise, Liang Kejia in his gazetteer of Fuzhou produced in the late twelfth c­ entury noted: “One cannot deny that the power (de) of the demons and gods (gui shen), which is entirely the responsibility of the shaman females (wu yu).” Liang then quoted from an inscription commemorating Gutian district (xian, Fuzhou) and compiled by the magistrate Li Kan (965–­?): “[Local] customs are a waste of energy and completely unbelievable. They are contrary to the ways of our fathers t­ oward the gods and evil spirits.”20 For all the emphasis in the texts of the Central Lands on “shamans and demons,” however, at the core of indigenous belief throughout coastal Fujian was the totemic worship of animal and fertility spirits—­exactly what the wen discourse would call “demons” and no doubt the heritage of the Neolithic Yue culture. As Xu Xiaowang, among o ­ thers, has demonstrated, cults centered around a range of such spirits: benevolent cults dedicated to frogs, toads, and similarly benign aquatic animals; complicated cults devoted to figures identified as dragons (long), although exactly what that may have meant is both complex and, for our narrative, im­por­tant and an issue to which we return ­later on; and threatening cults dedicated to snakes and plague deities.21 Frog cults have long been widespread throughout southeast China, a phenomenon Xu attributes to a legend of the Yue king Goujian. As recounted by Han Feizi and other sources, the king encountered an “angry frog” (nu wa) as he was considering invading Wu; the tenor of the normally passive frog was such that the king took it as an omen, an inspiration to his p ­ eople to engage the e­ nemy valiantly.22 A more plausible source of the cults, however, has been suggested by Zhang Chaoxia and Zhang Junhua, who in a study of frog cults in Jiangxi suggest a connection to fertility and rice harvests.23 Fertility cults are obvious from stone phalluses that dot the drainage basin of the Jin River and adjacent areas. The best known is the so-­called Stone Bamboo Shoot (shisun), which t­ oday sits in a park outside the Quanzhou prefectural city. The earliest reference to the artifact is in the prefectural gazetteer, which tells us that in 1011 the prefect Gao Huilian, faced with an unidentified personal misfortune, which he blamed on the baleful influence of the pillar, “severed the

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monument in two.”24 The origins of the pillar are unknown. At one time it was common to say it was the product of southeast Asian merchants who brought their cult honoring Shiva, often represented by the lingam, with them to the city.25 However, that argument is not tenable; the orthodox lingam does not resemble the Quanzhou pillar in any way except the general invocation of the phallus. Moreover, a­ fter many years during which the scholarly community thought the Quanzhou pillar unique, recent discoveries have pointed to at least five more pillars, mostly scattered throughout the valleys of Dehua district (xian) at the very top of the Jin River drainage basin.26 Although the new discoveries are much more primitive and less distinctly phallic than the Quanzhou pillar, they argue strongly that a fertility cult focused on totemic images of the phallus existed among the indigenous inhabitants before the arrival of the Sinitic immigrants. Another benign totemic tradition that very likely harks back to the Neolithic Yue culture was devoted to fish. Evidence can be found among the cliff-­face petroglyphs that are scattered in the mountainous interior and which long predate the Sinitic intrusion, which transformed regional culture.27 For example, the Xishan zazhi, a miscellany compiled in the early nineteenth ­century, claims that the Minzhong ji, a no longer extant work compiled late in the fourth ­century as the first regional gazetteer of Fujian,28 described a set of glyphs found over Tai Creek (xi) in the southwest corner of Nan’an district as “an engraving in the form of a tadpole.”29 Unlike the totemic frog cults, which remained diffuse and without a focus, among the peoples of the central Fujian coast the fish cult was carried over into l­ater tradition as the cult of the Nine He Immortals (He shi jiuxian). Tradition asserted that nine bro­th­ers surnamed He migrated from Jiangxi to the upper Mulan valley during the yuanshou reign period of the Han emperor Wudi (122–116 BCE); this long predates any other evidence that Han Chinese had entered the region and surely points to origins among the “Yue” ­people. According to a series of entries in the Xianxi zhi, the gazetteer of Xianyou district compiled in the mid-­thirteenth ­century, which is the oldest surviving source on the cult, before embarking on a journey that took them down the Min River to Fuzhou and then south into the Mulan valley, the bro­th­ers studied shamanistic arts u ­ nder the tutelage of Liu An, a member of the Han imperial f­ amily, “king” of Huainan (Huainan wang), and reputed patron of the Huainan zi, the great synthetic text of the early Han.30 Ultimately their journey took them to



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the shores of a lake in the hills at the upper end of the Mulan valley. There they practiced their skills ­until they had refined an elixir that converted them into carp spirits (li xian); some said that l­ ater they became dragons. When the offerings their ­father made to them “floated on the surface of the lake, never sinking below the waves, the ­people deified them, and so a shrine was established.” Early in the eighth c­ entury an inscription honoring their shrine was composed, and the cult was firmly established within the local culture by the ­middle of that c­ entury. When the district was renamed “xianyou” (i.e., “wandering spirits”) in 742, it is said to have been in recognition of the cult.31 Although we learn nothing about the ritualized side of the cult, one revealing anecdote that confirms both the benign nature of the spirits and their link to rain does survive. Early in the eleventh ­century, when the newly appointed district magistrate Sun E (served in the 1020s) undertook to destroy all of the unofficial shrines in the district, a terrible drought ensued. At the urging of the p ­ eople, Sun turned to the bro­th­ers, whose t­emple had not been damaged, to beg for rain; when rain came, the ­temple was spared (and Sun ceased his eradication efforts).32 Not only ­were the bro­th­ers considered benign, but as rain gods they also affirm their link to dragons, which in Chinese tradition are rain gods. Other cultic traditions ­were at least superficially less benign. A common image among the scattered petroglyph complexes of Zhangzhou, for example, is the snake, most notably at Caozi Mountain and Jiaolin Cliff.33 Among these petroglyphs, that from Caozi Mountain is most obviously threatening, as is evident in the following tracing:

Tracing of Zhangzhou snake petroglyph. Source: http://­1872​.­img​.­pp​.­sohu​.­com​.­cn​/­images​/­blog​/­.

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Although open to interpretation, the tracing appears to show a huge snake menacing a building, possibly while protecting its own litter, represented by the shape on the left. Regardless of how one chooses to read the image, however, its looming threat is readily apparent. The Jiaolin Cliff petroglyph, though less obviously threatening, adds what is interpreted by many to be a newborn snake beside its protective mo­ther. Scholars of the ancient Central Lands long connected snakes to the culture of Min; even the character, which in its modern form places the chong radical, commonly used to demarcate words relating to snakes, inside a gate: 閩. Its archaic form as presented in the Shuowen jiezi, a dictionary compiled in the first ­century CE, has something even more evidently “snakey” on the inside:  . Xu Shen, author of the dictionary, then explained: “[The Min] are the southeastern Yue. They are snakey (lit., “a kind of snake”; she34 zhong).”35 But it was not just a projection of the scholars of the Central Lands who linked the culture of Min with snakes; folk tales and traditions throughout Fujian are filled with tales of predatory snakes. Take, for example, an early anecdote preserved in the Soushen ji, a miscellany compiled originally in the fourth c­ entury but certainly added to in l­ ater times, which echoes the threatening snake illustrated earlier: There is a mountain in Minzhong of the Eastern Yue (i.e., the Min River valley in northern Fujian) called Mount Yong, which towers several tens of li high. In a fissure on its northwest side lived a great snake eighty or ninety feet in length and with a girth more than ten arm spans wide. It had long terrified the surrounding region. The commandant of Dongye as well as several of the city elders had all been killed by it.36 ­Cattle and sheep had been sacrificed, but to no avail. [Then] ­either through dreams or via communications with shamans, [the snake informed the ­people that] it wanted to feast on virgin girls aged twelve or thirteen. The commandant and the elders ­were all fearful [of the snake’s wrath. Thus], on the morning of the eighth month sacrifice they would proceed to the mouth of the snake’s lair, where the snake would come out and eat up [its victim]. This went on for several years. Nine girls had already been offered.

The demon was ultimately conquered. The tenth girl, the youn­ gest of six daughters in a ­family with no sons, offered herself, arguing



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that “girls cannot contribute [to their ­family’s welfare], they only consume clothing and food.” She proceeded to the shrine (miao) adjacent to the snake’s lair, where she managed to distract the demon with a barking dog and kill it.37 Although drawn from a tradition specifically identified with the Min River valley, there are at least two im­por­tant insights in this tale that probably ­were true of all zones of Yue culture. First is the belief that gods and demons—or in this case, the snake—­could communicate with the secular world through dreams and shamans. To the ­people of the Central Lands, dream communication was neither unusual nor unknown; the belief that dreams provide insight into the numinous world of gods and spirits is almost a universal phenomenon. The role attributed to shamans, however, points more specifically to Yue cultural patterns. We have already established that northern scholars asserted that the Yue “believed in shamans and demons,” and the Soushen ji provides tangible evidence. Moreover, the “god” who used shamans to communicate its desires was not some distant, abstract deity but a real, pre­sent demon, one that actually lived in the secular world in a tangible way. In short, in Yue culture numinous beings, ­whether beneficent or dangerous, ­were immediately pre­sent, beings who combined the secular tangibility of nature with the numinously transcendent quality of the spirit world. The divide between the secular world and the numinous, therefore, must have been almost non­ ex­is­tent. There is one last interest­ing note, for the girl waits for the snake “in the shrine.” In other words, the p ­ eople did not have to wait for the demon to communicate with them; there was a place where they could petition the demon, no doubt through shamans. And in that case we must assume the demon is more than predatory; properly propitiated, it must be able and willing to do useful things as well. The tale of the predatory snake of Mount Yong is not unique. Comparable is the tale of Chen Jinggu, whose cult as the enshrined Lady Linshui (Linshui furen) has been widespread in northern Fujian since the Song.38 The legend of the lady is overlain with several apparently discrete narratives, and it is difficult to tease apart the multiple layers in the cult’s history. At its core, however, is a strug­gle between Miss Chen and a “white serpent” (baishe). Although this part of the tradition was overlain by a l­ater story set in the mid-­eleventh ­century involving the bo­dhi­sattva Guanyin—­with whom Miss Chen and the serpent became identified—­and construction of the famous Luoyang Bridge outside Quanzhou in southern Fujian, the legend’s

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origins appear to lie in an earlier time and focus on Miss Chen and the snake. Surviving sources on the cult are comparatively late. The earliest text is a commemorative inscription composed in 1368 by Zhang Yining (1301–1370) in honor of the cult’s base shrine, in Gutian district (Fuzhou), but it offers ­little information on Miss Chen or the snake.39 For that our earliest source is a fifteenth-­century gazetteer, which tells us that she was born in 767 in Linshui Village, located deep in the mountainous interior along the upper reaches of the Min River drainage system. She was the dau­gh­ter of Chen Chang and his wife, Ms. Ge, and died at 24. The text then continues: “Linshui Village had the White Serpent Cave, from which issued a huge serpent. At that time, its foul exhalations caused an epidemic of disease. Then a person who was dressed in red grabbed a sword, then seized the snake and beheaded it. The villagers knew who [their savior] was, proclaiming, ‘It is the dau­gh­ter of Chen Chang, who lives down river at the lower ford.’ ”40 Echoes of the Soushen ji legend of the predatory snake of Mount Yong are legion. First is the central role of the young ­woman and the snake; although the protagonist in the Soushen ji is yet a young girl of twelve or thirteen, whereas Chen Jinggu was twenty-­four, the latter had not married and so was just as virginal as the heroine of the former tale. The Soushen ji protagonist lived, whereas Chen Jinggu had died, but neither died while battling the snake. And of course the snake itself is loathsome, an object of abject fear. If these parallels are not enough to suggest that both tales are echoes of Yue culture, note also the location, for both are set deep in the mountainous interior. As Sinitic settlers took over the agriculturally productive lowlands, this is where many of the Yue refugees retreated. Finally, there is the following tale from Hong Mai’s Yijian zhi, that relates most directly to the upper Min River network but also links to Putian: In 1159 there was a man from Zhenghe district in Jianzhou who went to Putian to purchase a virgin (chuzi), who he initially said was to be his wife. Having made his purchase, he then bathed and anointed her, gave her resplendent clothing, and placed her in separate rooms, where he did not dare transgress. [The trip home] took ten days, during which he served her drink and food as though she ­were his master. He carried only a single case (long—­a fascinating character itself, in light of the



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story, for its lower part means “dragon”), which he fastened securely. Every day at dusk he would burn incense and open the lock. He would then kneel in veneration with pure devotion . . . ​On returning to his district, they did not go to his home but instead to an empty dwelling, where he left the girl and the empty case. For several days at dusk he would lay out wine and fruits before the case and pray; when he was finished he would light the lantern, lock up the room, and leave . . . ​Just at midnight noises could be heard from the case, and then it opened of itself. The girl had a looming sense of death and trembled uncontrollably, but there was nothing she could do . . . ​Eventually a large python emerged. It stretched itself out and slowly surveyed the scene, as though there was something it feared. To avoid being seen, the girl hid beneath her bed, from where she could see that all that was inside the case was [sacrificial] paper money. Even before dawn arrived, she broke the wall of her room and ran to tell the ­people of the neighborhood.

The villain, they said, had “transmitted the sorcery of the Farther South. He selected the living person to give to the demon and in this way had already killed several ­people.” The ­people seized him and took him before the magistrate. Finally, the girl was “returned to her village” in Putian.41 Despite the link to Putian in the Hong Mai tale, these are stories of the Min River valley of northern Fujian; it is much harder to hear voices from Farther South echoing the evidence of the Zhangzhou petroglyphs. One such source, however, a narrative dated approximately 845 and attributed to Wang Feng, described the strug­gle between the monk Yizhong and a “mountain demon” (shan gui) in the hills of the Zhangzhou interior. When the demon was defeated, it turned into a snake.42 Similarly, a Ming dynasty gazetteer makes the following statement about the Youzhen Cliffs (Youzhen yan) in Xianyou, the hinterland district of the upper Mulan River b ­ ehind Putian: “According to an old rec­ord, there was a cliff on this mountain known as Python Cliff (mang yan), where a huge python lived with her brood.” An eighteenth-­century gazetteer adds that the python “caused ­people harm.” According to both sources, a Buddhist monk who erected a ­temple on the site caused the python to turn to stone, thereby sparing the p ­ eople further grief.43 Xu Xiaowang cites similar tales from elsewhere in the South, including one of a snake deity in Zhangzhou, the southernmost of the Fujian prefectures, which became the beneficent disciple of a Chan master.44

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Perhaps the most striking evidence, however, is the Cave of the Three Emerging Pythons (Sanmang chu dong), a site on the slopes of Pure Spring Mountain (Qingyuan shan) on the outskirts of the Quanzhou prefectural city. The mountain has long been thought to be invested with numinous qualities, a tradition that apparently goes back well before the arrival of Sinitic culture. At the cave three large boulders pro­ject from the mountainside, vaguely evoking an image of three huge snakes. The site is undated—­but then there could be no date. The python is emblematic of the pre-­Sinitic snake cults; without a doubt the veneration of the site goes back deep into pre-­Sinitic prehistory. As Sinitic culture evolved, however, the site’s numinous power was recognized as dangerous. In response, the p ­ eople sought to contain it by surrounding it with Buddhist shrines as well as a mantle of inscriptions on the surrounding rocks. Very clearly the site’s power both endured even as indigenous culture was absorbed and was deemed threatening by the new cultural elite. In keeping with my earlier suggestion that snake deities properly propitiated could be beneficent, not all snake legends emphasize their predatory nature. Xu Xiaowang has unearthed several narratives that pre­sent a far less threatening image. A story that he describes as “widespread through the coastal regions of Fujian” tells of a peasant who encountered a snake. Having trapped him in its coils, the snake then demanded that the peasant give him one of his daughters. The peasant’s younger dau­gh­ter agreed in order to release her ­father. The snake then flew her to his palace, where he turned into a handsome young man, with whom she lived happily ever ­after.45 In a like vein, the aforementioned Tang-­dynasty Chan monk Yizhong is said to have retreated to the mountains of Zhangzhou prefecture, where he set up the T ­ emple of the Three Courts (Sanping si) to confront the power of a local snake demon. Far from being evil, however, the snake quickly became Yizhong’s disciple and was known as “Lord Disciple” (Shizhe gong).46 Yet even these snakes are initially treated as dangerous.47 One might won­der why the Yue ­people ­were so obsessed with snakes and specifically with what the discourse calls the mangshe, which commonly translates as “python” but may more plausibly mean simply “huge snake,” and more broadly with the untamed creatures of their world. It is clear that the pre-­Sinitic inhabitants of Fujian, like most ancient peoples, lived in a world controlled by nature. To those ancient ­people the natu­ral world offered clues to their well-­being: Frogs, for example, are associated with ­water and are more plentiful



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when ­water is abundant, which directly links to agricultural harvest, a possi­ble explanation for the benevolent cult in their name. Snakes, on the other hand, are almost universally despised; most snakes are harmless, but big snakes such as pythons can be very dangerous. Thus nature, which could be benign, at least as often confronted those p ­ eople with threat. And as has been common among ancient peoples across the globe, those of Fujian used totemic worship as a way of controlling the threat. But this leads us finally to the one such threat that lay beyond the natu­ral world: the dragon. If, as is apparent from the folk tales rooted in the snake cult, the snake was considered threatening (it ate ­people and caused harm), dragon cults are more difficult to categorize. To begin with, ­whether we call the aforementioned totemic demons “snake” or “she” or even the archaic tuo, we know we are only using d ­ ifferent words to talk of the same thing. Because it is a real being that occurs widely in the natu­ ral world, almost all cultures have a parallel word for it, and it has almost universally been treated with revulsion and seen as dangerous. “Dragon” is a more complex concept because it is mythical, and myth is culturally dependent.48 To begin with, “dragon” is an En­glish word. Deriving from the Greek drakos (δράκώυ), it refers to a fairly specialized manifestation of a far-­larger concept: the four-­limbed, usually scaly, commonly winged, lizardlike beast that often lives u ­ nder or beside ­water and which is one of the oldest, most universal, yet most variable figures in Eurasian folk culture. In Eu­ro­pean folk tradition, the dragon is predatory and evil, a fearsome, loathsome, and virtually impregnable fire-­breathing demon against which humankind must pit its wits. Certainly most readers are familiar with Eu­ro­pean tales of dragon slayers, notably the tale of George and the dragon. But the Eu­ ro­pean dragon my­thol­ogy has a far deeper heritage. The Greeks and the Romans told dragon tales: the Greeks told of Andromeda, who was to be eaten by the horrific “sea-­monster” Ketos but was rescued by Perseus the “dragon-­slayer,” and the Romans, in a tale with Greek roots, spoke of the party of Apuleius, who while traveling in the wilds was hailed by a desperate old man who begged for help. A young member of the party went to his aid, only not to return; he was found as a draco (the Latinized drakos) was eating him.49 More remotely, the ancient Mesopotamians, from whom the ­whole corpus of dragon legends may have originated, told of the ­battle between the god Tishpak and the seven-­headed dragon, decorated palace walls with dragon images, and immortalized the sea monster Tiamat in their my­thol­ogy.50

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The naga of Indian folklore is often invoked as a South Asian variation on the common theme, although naga are far more benign than the nasty serpents of Mesopotamia and Eu­rope.51 In fact, the farther east one looks, the more benign the dragon figure becomes. The word that is most often translated as “dragon” in modern Chinese is long. The origins of this character can be traced back to the ancient oracle bone inscriptions, where one form was  . This has been parsed as a king 王 standing on top of a snake; an alternative interpretation, however, suggests that the “king” represents not the secular office but a crown, reflecting the position of the long as chief among the beasts of the numinous world.52 The Shuowen jiezi reproduces a Zhou-­dynasty “seal character”:  , which is more apparently antecedent to the modern form; an alternate seal form is  . 53 The right-­hand side of both forms has been interpreted as a flying beast, as is more readily evident in the alternate form in which the head is oriented away from the wings, as a head morphologically ought to be. The left side is more obscure. It is commonly parsed as a tongue with something on it sticking out of a mouth, thus “speech,”54 a meaning that perhaps emphasizes the divine nature of the flying beast, one that is blessed with the ability to talk to humankind. However, I believe the archaic form more plausibly resembles a ­human figure, one with outstretched arms wearing a robe and a crown—­a royal figure, an interpretation that echoes the long’s long association with the imperial order.55 No ­matter how one chooses to parse these ancient forms, however, the long is a complex beast. For many centuries it has been a symbol of China’s imperial authority, a role that is supported in a range of legends that link mythical emperors to long. Beyond the long-­ standing link to secular imperial authority, it is deeply embedded in folk culture. Most importantly, perhaps, the long brings rain. But it also appears in many tales as an irascible king, commonly living in an underwater palace.56 But Chinese culture has long featured another mythological beast, the jiao. This, too, is a dragon—­indeed, among many names it is often called the jiaolong,57 but what­ever its name, it generally lacks the benign qualities of the long. By one name or the other the beast appears in a variety of early texts such as the Xunzi, Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai jing), Rec­ords of the Grand Historian (Shi ji), and the Songs of Chu (Chu ci).58 A commentary on the “Shudu fu” of Zuo Si (250–305), a prominent literatus of the Jin Dynasty, refers to the jiao as a “­water spirit” (shuishen), while else-



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where the beast is specifically linked to floods.59 The Shuowen jiezi identified the jiao as “a kind of long” (long shu), noting that it can both “swim like a fish and fly.”60 An anecdote attributed to the Biographies of Children (Youtong chuan) of Liu Zhao (sixth c­ entury) conveys both the sense of danger connected to the jiao as well as its link to the equally despised snake. As a young boy, the founding emperor of the Three Kingdoms Wei dynasty was swimming when he was menacingly approached by a jiao. The fearless emperor-­to-be rushed to attack the beast, which beat a hasty retreat back into the depths. When ­people ­later saw a large snake fleeing the area, the boy smiled and said, “I fearlessly attacked a jiao. I have no fear of this snake.”61 Similarly, as a young man during the fourth-­century Jin dynasty, Zhou Chu, a native of Yixing prefecture (modern Jiangsu), did b ­ attle with a jiao. Zhou was discouraged by the miscreant ways of his neighbors, who w ­ ere letting the land lie fallow. On inquiring he found that among their complaints was one about a predatory jiao, which he promised to get rid of: “Zhou Chu threw himself into the ­water and pounced upon the jiao. The beast dove to the depths and swam for many miles, but Chu stayed with it for three days and three nights. The ­people assumed he was dead and lamented. But Chu killed the jiao and returned, and the ­people rejoiced.”62 By the Tang, if not earlier, the jiao had become connected with a range of illnesses, especially of the digestive tract. Describing the “jiaolong illness” (bing), for example, Wang Tao (670–755) wrote: “The jiaolong bears its offspring between the third and eighth months on celery (qin cai). If it is eaten and regrettably enters the person’s gut, it will turn into a jiaolong and the resultant disorder will manifest as derangement (dian).”63 Derivately, writing in the late Northern Song, Zhang Gao commented on the “jiaolong illness”: “There was an old man of the mountains (shan sou) who recalled that in the sixth year of the kaihuang era (586) in Baqiao [in Shanxi] there was a deranged person with this illness. He had caught it between the third and eighth month when he had eaten celery from beside the ­water. A learned person explained that this was the jiaolong illness, which results when the [jiao] long passes over the celery and it is unfortunately eaten.”64 Li Shizhen, author of the sixteenth-­century materia medica Bencao gangmu, went even further, explicitly asserting that “its essence is poisonous” ( jing you du) and confirmed that eating it caused one to fall ill.65 The jiao was viewed, moreover, as a destructive beast that savaged riverbanks and broke dikes, causing catastrophic flooding. As the

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compilers of the History of the Liang Dynasty commented in the biography of Kang Xuan, “It is said by some that the waters of the Yangtze and Huai Rivers are filled with jiao, which can summon the wind and rain and lay waste to the embankments. Its nature is wicked (e).”66 As transcribed by scholars limited by the idioms of wen culture, the tales of the South, and more precisely of Fujian, are filled with both long and jiao. Tradition asserts, for example, that the Yue king Yushan caught a white long in Fuzhou, which he took to be an auspicious sign. According to Xu Xiaowang, who cites additional legends invoking the long from several spots across Fujian, Yushan’s accomplishment was ­later commemorated with a shrine to the Dragon King (Longwang miao), one of several that have existed in Fujian.67 Perhaps most striking, however, are the legends associated with Zhangzhou. At the time of the Liang Dynasty (502–557), for example, nine dragons (long) ­were allegedly seen gamboling about on the waters of what was then known as North Creek (Bei xi); to commemorate such a wonderfully auspicious event the river was renamed “Nine Dragons” River ( Jiulong jiang), the name it still bears t­ oday.68 In addition, the Zhangzhou prefectural district, which lies astride the Nine Dragons River, is called “Dragon Stream” (Longxi xian), and the hinterland is called “Dragon Cliff” district (Longyan xian). More intriguing, at least for the purposes of the pre­sent discussion, are the plentiful references to jiao. Though in ancient Sinitic legends the jiao occurred widely, Tang scholars and poets generally identified it with the lands Farther South; if, therefore, the long belonged to civilization, to wen, the jiao, by what­ever name, belonged to the alien, the “not-­wen”—in other words, to the Yue. Moreover, it became distinctly more dangerous: From a beast that harassed, that could cause illness, it became a beast that ate ­people. Liu Zongyuan, for example, whose unhappy exile to the Farthest South has been discussed previously, tells of a demon—­a chi in his case, but clearly the same predatory beast known elsewhere as jiao and sometimes as jiaochi—­ that terrorized the p ­ eople of Yongzhou (Guangnan west), deep in the land of the “loose-­reign prefectures” of the Southern Yue: “There was a black chi that beat the w ­ ater. It had destroyed the river bank right up to the city gate. It overturned boats and killed the p ­ eople and then went away. The elders lamented, ‘. . . It can enter fire and not move. It’s a god (shen69). We have been ­under its thrall for ten years.’ ”70 Many of Liu’s contemporaries invoked the jiao in their poetry, but it was perhaps Han Yu who alluded to jiao most often. At the



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height of his c­ areer early in the ninth c­ entury Han fell afoul of court politics and suffered the indignity of exile to the Far South, which he served in Chaozhou (modern Guangdong), just to the south of Fujian and fully part of the same pre-­Sinitic cultural world of the ancient Yue.71 He loathed this new and alien world as a land of miasmas and threat, an emotion that comes through with unusual clarity in his poetry, including that quoted earlier. To Han, this was a world filled with the strange and fearsome, and the jiao was prominent. For example, he wrote in “Dragons move about” (Long yi): “The jiao dragons ( jiaolong) move about in the dark of night.” In “Suffering the cold” (Ku han) he addressed the tragedy of famine and noted: “Tigers and panthers are motionless in their lairs / And even the jiaochi die in their secret depths.” And in “To Sub-­Prefect Zhang on the Occasion of the Moon Festival,” he wrote: “Long and jiao rise and sink, apes and flying foxes howl, / I have reached my official post, where nine out of ten will die.”72 In his poetry, the jiao ­were only one of the many alien phenomena to which his exile forced Han to adjust. They are a frequent presence that evokes the horror of his life, but they are threatening only by implication. Chaozhou, however, was not the only place where Han found evidence of the jiao. Through his exile and his good friend and Quanzhou native Ouyang Zhan, he was also familiar with southern Fujian and wrote of jiao there as well, only in the following prose essay the beast is truly a demon, much like the snake of Mount Yong and the chi of Yongzhou: South of Quanzhou there was a mountain whose peaks stood up vertically. Below was a lake over ten mou around, the depths of which cannot be guessed. There was a jiao e [a term I will have more to say about ­later] that had caused the ­people great suffering. If ­people approached [the lake] by m ­ istake, or if a h ­ orse or cow came for a drink, they usually ­were eaten. The ­people of Quanzhou had suffered thus for years. For this reason those who lived near the mountain had taken their wife and children elsewhere in order to escape the beast’s horror.

Han’s tale goes on to state that one night in the fifth year of the yuan­h­e era (810) a terrible commotion issued from within the mountain; it was so great that p ­ eople and beasts all hid in fear. When morning came, the intrepid stepped out to see what had happened, and they found the mountain smashed to bits; the detritus had filled the lake,

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the land was leveled, and all around was the red and black blood of the jiao e. On the surrounding rocks nineteen characters had been inscribed in a style that was ancient and indecipherable; no one could read them—an obvious reference to the nineteen markings that make up the most famous of the Zhangzhou cliff-­face petroglyphs. But thereafter the p ­ eople ­were spared any more of the monster’s depredations, and the land returned to prosperity.73 Like the dragon, however, the jiao was a mythological beast—in its abstraction disturbing, alien, frightening, even terrifying, but not real. Yet there was a beast that could be found skulking in the marshes that characterized China’s southern coast that was terrifyingly real and that also found its way into Han’s writing, both in poetry and prose: the crocodile (e yu). In fact, the southern coastline was the northern range of the truly terrifying, and man-­eating, saltwater crocodile (Crocodylus porosus), which has become famous in recent de­cades through the modern media of tele­vi­sion and the movies.74 Han lamented the curse of the crocodile, of which he appears to have been legitimately frightened. Readers may recall, for example, Han Yu’s lamentation in “The Clerk of Long,” quoted earlier (see chapter 2): Here the loathsome waters [of Chaozhou] are poisoned with miasmas. Thunder and lightning rumble and flash incessantly. The crocodiles (e yu) are larger than boats, Their teeth and eyes cause terror and death.75

Among Han’s most intriguing texts from his exile is his “Offering to the Crocodile,” in which he ordered all the beasts to leave Chaozhou ­after receiving his sacrifice: Han Yu, the prefect and military commander of Chaozhou, memorialized on helping the p ­ eople. He had thrown a sheep and a pig into the evil (e) waters of the River Tan [perhaps the same as the “Bad River” mentioned earlier] for the crocodiles to eat, and then had addressed them: Of old when the ancient kings ruled all the world, they cleared the mountains and marshes, and they wove nets and used halberds in order to chase away noxious pests and vile things. They drove things that harm the ­people beyond the Four Seas. But the charisma (de) of their successors was slight, and their influence did not go far. Thus in the lands be-



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tween the Great River [i.e., the Yangtze] and the Han River [modern Hubei] it was disregarded, leading to [the rise of ] the Man and Yi peoples, and states such as Chu and Yue. How much more in Chao[zhou], which lies between the southern mountains and the sea, so many myriad miles from the capitol. [Now] crocodiles wallow in the wetness of this place and lay their eggs, and so it has become theirs. But now the Son of the Heavenly Cosmos (Tianzi), the heir of Tang, is on the throne. His spirit is divine and he embraces the martial. Beyond the Four Seas and within the Six Directions, all are at peace. Should this not also apply to all that is embraced by the traces of Yu, which lies near Yangzhou, which is administered by prefects and magistrates, which proffers tribute as offerings to Tian and Di, to the shrines of the ancestors, to the soil on which the sacrifices to the myriad gods are made?76

Liu Zongyuan and Han Yu ­were hardly alone in lamenting the curse of the crocodile. Their contemporary and Han Yu’s close colleague Huangfu Shi (777–835), for example, in a lamentation over his friend’s exile, lauded him for not fearing “the mountain snakes nor the w ­ ater’s crocodiles, nor the dangers and miasmas of myriad miles.”77 Likewise, Bai Juyi, perhaps the most famous poet of the ninth c­ entury, on sending off a colleague to the Land beyond the Mountains, invoked the crocodile among the many dangers of the Far South.78 As the literati of the Sinitic world came more and more in contact with the Farther South and especially with its coastline, the dangers of the crocodile became more and more a part of the lit­erature. Poets and essayists of the Northern Song, ranging from Shi Jie (1005–1045) to Ouyang Xiu, Su Shi to Huang Tingjian, invoked it, often along with snakes and tigers, as emblematic of the alien and miasmic south. Was there, finally, a link between the mythical jiao and the very real crocodile, ­either in the minds of the Sinitic literati or among the indigenous peoples of the South? In fact, among the former the link appears quite often. For example, the Man shu, an early gazetteer of the remote southwest compiled by Fan Chuo, with a preface dated 863, says of the Li River: “In its waters one finds crocodiles, jiaolong, and black cuttlefish. There are also ­water beasts that resemble ­cattle.”79 Ouyang Xiu and Su Shi, writing two centuries ­later, are two among many literati who routinely referred to the “jiao crocodile” ( jiao e), for example, in a stele Su composed commemorating a shrine to Han Yu in Chaozhou.80 Writing in the twelfth ­century, Lu You (1125– 1209), in an inscription honoring reconstruction of the City God shrine

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in Ningde district, a small district located on the coast above Fuzhou [Fujian], wrote: “Among the turbulent waves the jiao crocodile comes and goes, and those aboard ships wail.”81 In keeping with their ostensible commitment to a secularized rationalism, however, the Sinitic literati focused on the dangers of the crocodile; if they conflated the animal with the jiao, it appears to have been for dramatic effect. The role of the crocodile in the indigenous cultures appears to have been substantially more complex. Recall what the elders said to Liu Zongyuan of the beast that terrorized them: “It’s a god (shen).” Liu referred to the beast as a chi, an alternative name for a jiao, but undoubtedly it was a crocodile; to the local p ­ eople it was both unknowable and a god. Han Yu, although he framed his edict banishing the crocodile from the waters surrounding Chaozhou in the terminology of orthodox secularized scholarship, backed up his command with an offering of a goat and a pig to the demons who so terrorized the local p ­ eople. However, as Zhu Xi commented many centuries l­ater, having made his offerings, Han “added a prayer” (zhu zhi).82 Indeed, Yang Yi (974–1020) in his Wuyi xin ji, compiled early in the Song, referred explicitly to sacrifices to the crocodile.83 Even more explicitly, the Ming author Yang Shen cited the Ganying jing, compiled by Li Chunfeng (602–670), who wrote: I have heard that the ­people of Guangzhou (Guangdong) say . . . ​[the crocodile] lays several hundred eggs on land with each pregnancy. When they hatch, they become several dozen species, including snakes, turtles, sea turtles or fish, reptiles and jiao. If ­people catch them, they kill them and cut them up. But their numinous spirit (ling) can engender thunder and lightning, wind and rain. It is a spirit to be feared (ci daishen wu).84

None of these passages explicitly identifies a totemic cult to the crocodile, yet each strongly implies that practice. Such cults are widely attested to in the anthropological lit­erature throughout the Austronesian and Austroasiatic regions of the southwestern Pacific and Southeast Asia, with which the indigenous ­people of the southeast coast are closely related, but echoes also occur in early Sinitic lit­erature. For example, Gan Bao, in his fourth-­century Soushen ji, tells of a king of Funan, the ancient polity that extended from the Mekong delta around the Gulf of Siam and as far as the neck of the Malay Peninsula, who maintained a pool of crocodiles into which he would throw those accused of crime. If the crocodiles ate the suspect, then he was declared



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guilty, but if he was able to live for three days, then he would be fished out and freed.85 To the non-­Sinitic peoples of the Farther South and beyond, the crocodile was more than a dangerous animal. It was a numinous demon that needed to be appeased with sacrifice, just as the snakes of indigenous legend needed appeasement. To the scholars of the Sinitic world, the only analogy was the jiao. To the indigenous peoples, however, it was a totemic deity analogous to the many other such deities—­ frogs, fish, snakes—­that filled their world. This was the world into which Sinitic immigrants began to enter in the early centuries of the common era. As their numbers grew, so did their impact on the lives of the indigenous population. That is the theme of the next chapter.

Chapter Six

The Sinitic Encounter

T

he Farther South was considered a dangerous yet seductive land, a place where migrants who survived the unfamiliar diseases, the oppressive weather, and the dangerous fauna ­were thought likely to lose their commitment to civilization, to wen. Yet migrants came, sometimes in steady trickles of opportunity and other times in waves of flight from disorder. And so what had been regarded as a “land beyond” was slowly transformed into a “land within.” The pre­sent chapter considers this transformation through four prisms, which I call “encounter narratives.” Each considers an aspect of the encounter between orthodox civilization and the lands and ­people of the central Fujian coast: (1) the arrival of Buddhism; (2) vio­ lence; (3) transforming demographics; and (4) ecological reclamation. Although there are stories ­behind them, each narrative also addresses a distinct aspect of the transformation. I do not intend them to be entirely parallel; some are more truly narrative than o ­ thers. Rather, they collectively suggest how the coastal regions of Fujian began to evolve into something new and so move the broader story of transformation and accommodation forward. Encounter Narrative #1: Buddhism In his preface to the chapter on Buddhist temples in the (Chunxi) Sanshan zhi, the oldest extant gazetteer of Fuzhou in northern Fujian, Liang Kejia (1128–1187) noted:

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When imperial authority was asserted over the Fuzhou region, the area surrounding the prefecture in all four directions was dominated by lofty mountains and impenetrable barriers that surrounded it in a pattern of confusion that ­rose into the clouds. When men from the north passed through, none could distinguish whichever direction they looked . . . ​ When the prefecture was first established, its registered population was tiny. Cultivators ­were clustered tightly together around settlements. The forests ­were lofty and the streams rushed, and all was screened by lush growth. The traces of p ­ eople ­were rare, and everywhere beyond was abandoned to tigers, leopards, apes, and monkeys.

Liang wrote that only “those who seek forgetfulness and pursue the dao,” that is, who have found solace in Buddhism, could adapt to such a place. He then went on: Following the establishment of the first ­temple in the taikang era of the Jin dynasty (265–275) in the northern part of the prefecture, only two more w ­ ere established before the end of the Jin [in 420]. Over the course of the next two hundred years there was one new ­temple built ­under the Qi (480–502), seventeen ­under the Liang (502–557), thirteen ­under the Chen (557–589), three ­under the Sui, and during the 222 years between the Tang emperors Gaozu (r. 618–627) and Wenzong (r. 827–841) thirty-­nine ­were built.1

Liang Kejia spoke only of the Fuzhou region of northern Fujian, but the pattern he noted was much more widespread. In fact, in a synthesis of all data on the founding of Buddhist sites in Fujian the modern scholar Xu Xiaowang makes the following observation: In addition [to the numbers in the Sanshan zhi], contemporary scholars have counted up all the temples recorded in the gazetteers of Fujian, according to which four temples (si) and two convents (an) ­were established during the Jin dynasty and sixty-­five temples (si), pavilions (yuan), and convents (an) during the southern dynasties. Nor is this all, because the rec­ords of Fuzhou, Jianzhou [in northwestern Fujian], and Xinghua on the founding dates of Buddhist temples are the most detailed . . . ​The rec­ords of Buddhist temples in Quanzhou are comparatively thin; often we know only the name of a monastery with no rec­ord of its founding . . . ​ Consequently, according to the rec­ords in gazetteers, most of the early

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temples ­were located in Fuzhou, with Jianzhou next. Quanzhou had the fewest. Yet from history we know that the development of Buddhism in Quanzhou was in no way inferior to that in Fuzhou or Jianzhou. The number of temples recorded in historical rec­ords most likely is only about half the real number.2

Absent any contemporary discussion we can only speculate about why Buddhists ­were attracted to a land that was “abandoned to tigers, leopards, apes, and monkeys.” Most likely, much as the found­ ers of the early monasteries of Christian Eu­rope had sought to escape the snares of the mortal world, it was refuge from the hurly-­burly of secular life and an opportunity for uninterrupted reflection such escape provided that appealed. Regardless of their reasons, it is apparent that Buddhists ­were among those at the forefront of settlement on this developing frontier; in fact, as Liang’s text goes on, the pace of monastic establishment only accelerated through the following de­cades of the ninth c­ entury. Not all, however, came from the North as bearers of a Buddhist version of Sinitic culture. Maritime links between the southeast coast and Southeast Asia w ­ ere ancient and provided an alternate route for Buddhist missionaries to the east, commonly via Funan, the early Indic state that controlled the Isthmus of Kra at the center of the Malay Peninsula and some of the coastline of modern Cambodia and southernmost Vietnam. Diana Paul has studied the great translator Paramārtha (499–569 [Ch: Ju’naluotuo]), a monk from the west India principality of Uj­ jain (Ch: Ouchanni; modern Madhya Pradesh), who introduced the Yogācāra (or “Consciousness Only”) school that became a critical precursor to much of ­later Chinese Buddhism. As she has demonstrated, Paramārtha took a southern route to China, passing through Funan before reaching Guangdong. Paul suggests a link existed between the royal ­family of Funan and that of the Liang dynasty, which ruled in southern China during the first half of the sixth ­century. This link, she argues, led directly to the promotion of Buddhism in China from Southeast Asia: “[G]overnment support of Buddhism was an im­por­ tant ele­ment in trade relations between Funan and China, and Buddhist missionary envoys to China from [Funan] had been relatively frequent for some time before Paramārtha went to Canton [Guangzhou]; Paramārtha was not by any means the first of the line.”3 In 546 Paramārtha traveled via Funan to the Liang court in Jian­ kang (modern Nanjing) at the invitation—­one might almost say “at the



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command”—of the Liang emperor Wu (r. 502–549), one of the most famous patrons of Buddhism in Chinese imperial history. Paramārtha spent the rest of his life in southern China, a period that coincided with an era of nearly unbroken po­liti­cal upheaval as the Liang collapsed in bloody turmoil and finally was succeeded by the Chen dynasty. Knowing, Paul suggests, that his life would be in danger, Paramārtha repeatedly fled Jiankang for safer refuges, where he continued his translation work. Ultimately in 558 this led him to Jin’an, as the greater Quanzhou region was known in the sixth ­century. Although we do not know what ­temple he stayed in, it is clear from his surviving biography that he found refuge within the Buddhist establishment.4 As im­por­tant as the direct link to the Indic tradition was to the promotion of Buddhism across the South, however, Indian missionaries ­were not bearers of the Sinitic traditions of the North. While Buddhism had a problematic, even bluntly confrontational, relationship with the culture of wen, at least u ­ ntil a grudging rapprochement emerged through the Tang and the Song dynasties, the pathbreaking missionaries who came from the North ­were deeply immersed in Sinitic culture—­the proponents of wen may not have respected them, but they knew and even respected wen. Circumstantial evidence, moreover, in the form of anecdotal legends, suggests it was they, not those coming into China from the maritime south, who ­were most critical to the spread of Buddhism in Fujian. Illustrative is the mythologized narrative b ­ ehind the establishment of the ­Temple of Vast Transformation (Guanghua si) in Putian, founded in 558 but even now the most prominent Buddhist t­ emple of the Mulan River basin. A story that is preserved by both the t­ emple itself and the Putian Zheng clan claims that the bro­th­ers Zheng Lu, Zhuang, and Shu, said to be natives of the Min River valley and descendants of a fourth-­ century immigrant from the North, had settled “at South Lake Mountain in Putian” to tend to the graves of their ancestors: “One eve­ning a craggy-­faced and ill-­dressed holy man encountered Zheng Lu in his study and asked that he donate it to be a Buddhist monastery. Lu responded with deference, and the t­ emple was opened in the second year of yongding (558).”5 As I have demonstrated elsewhere, the legend itself is corrupt; although the three bro­th­ers ­were real enough, they did not come to Putian ­until the eighth ­century.6 However, according to a text commemorating reconstruction of the Zheng ­family shrine in 1353, “our ancestor Zhao first entered Pu[tian] in the yongjia era of the Jin dynasty [307–312]. He loved South Lake Mountain (Nanhu

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shan) [located outside the Putian district city and ­later the site of the ­temple], so he placed his ancestors’ graves on the southern slope above the lake.”7 We need not take all of the dates literally to conclude that a Zheng ­family had established a presence at the foot of South Lake Mountain at a very early date. Writing early in the tenth c­ entury, Huang Tao, himself a refugee from the turmoil that upset northern China in the last de­cades of the Tang and a prominent local historian of Buddhism, provided further information: Sometime during the Liang or Chen dynasty [i.e., at some point in the mid-­sixth ­century, just when Paramārtha was in the area], the local scholar Zheng Sheng made his home [at the spot of the ­temple]. Zheng was very dignified and had a single hall for reading the classics. One fall eve­ning, when the moon was beautiful and the breeze gentle, a craggy-­faced holy man dressed in coarse cloth and standing more than ten feet tall, suddenly appeared before Zheng in his study. “Nothing could be better,” said the mendicant, “than to donate this site as a Buddhist ­temple.” Zheng Sheng bowed in deference and promised [to do as suggested]. Before he knew it his hall was occupied by monks worshipping the Buddha.8

Huang Tao’s tenth-­century commentary and the f­ ourteenth-­century inscription are incompatible with the traditional narrative. The three bro­th­ers apparently represented a Fuzhou branch of the Zheng f­ amily who resettled in Putian in the eighth ­century. It is not clear why the narrative has settled on them as the found­ers of the t­emple. What in fact appears to have happened is that sometime in the very early history of Sinitic migration one Zheng Zhao, who is other­wise completely unknown, a refugee from the north, settled at the base of South Lake Mountain on the outskirts of what became the Putian district city and established a local Zheng kin group. Over time his descendants, who may have included a branch that resettled to Fuzhou, had chosen a location to bury their dead, itself a strong suggestion that they did not yet identify as Buddhist, for whom burial rather than cremation would have been anathema. At a ­later time that most likely corresponds with the traditional date the t­emple was established, a descendant, Zheng Sheng, was persuaded to donate his property as a monastery. Many de­cades ­later the three bro­th­ers, who are other­wise well attested,9 relocated from Fuzhou to Putian to tend to the ­family graves.



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The critical point is that there is no hint of a southern connection to the ­Temple of Vast Transformation. By all indications, this was a ­temple established in a northern tradition of Buddhism, as was the Kaiyuan ­Temple in Quanzhou. Here the tradition is even more fanciful even as it is equally indicative. Again referring to Huang Tao as our source, legend says that a f­ amily surnamed Huang had settled on the outskirts of what became the Quanzhou prefectural city by the seventh ­century. One night in 686, a scant two years a­ fter Wu Zetian had assumed the throne, the f­ amily patriarch, Huang Shougong, whose name translates as “the reverently observant Mr. Huang,” was approached in a dream by a mendicant who told him his home was suitable for a ­temple. The reverent Mr. Huang promised to comply if “his mulberry trees bloomed with white lotus blossoms.” Sure enough, the next morning his mulberry trees ­were smothered with the desired blossoms. Suitably awed, he then gave his land to the monk.10 At some level the story of Mr. Huang is apocryphal; mulberry trees do not bloom with lotus flowers. What is not so easy to dismiss, however, is the implied ­family link. According to the seventh-­century Chen shu, the dynastic history of the Chen dynasty, which ruled in the Yangtze basin in the sixth c­ entury, Huang was one of four Sinitic surnames identified with the early history of the Jin River basin.11 ­Later genealogies make fanciful claims to descent from the reverent Mr. Huang. In fact, like most of the prominent surname groups in the region, most seem to have arrived in the context of the late ninth-­ century Tang collapse. However, genealogies such as the Jintian Huangshi dazongpu, a twentieth-­century compilation but with numerous Song prefaces and a genealogical essay by Huang Zongdan (998 jinshi), make a plausible case that the Huang surname was im­por­tant in the greater Quanzhou area as early as the mid-­ to late Tang.12 In short, just as the legends connected with the founding of the ­Temple of Vast Transformation in Putian need unpacking but ultimately point to roots in the traditions of northern Buddhism, so do those connected with the Kaiyuan ­Temple in Quanzhou. Most importantly, it was this northern tradition that brought the premises of Sinitic culture to southern Fujian. The life of the monk Yicun (822–908) makes the point. The monk, whose funerary inscription was compiled by the aforementioned Huang Tao, was born in Nan’an district (xian) in Quanzhou to a ­family surnamed Zeng.13 We know nothing concrete about his

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kin except that Huang Tao observed that “since his grand­father all in his f­amily had befriended monks and loved the Buddha.” In light of this it is surprising that his ­father adamantly refused when Huang Tao asked permission to “leave the f­ amily” and begin life as a student novitiate at the age of nine. Three years l­ater, however, his f­ather took him on a journey through Putian, where they stopped, perhaps for lodging, at the Jade Brook Monastery (Yujian si).14 There the boy encountered the monk Qingyuan, whom he proclaimed as his teacher. From such parochial beginnings Yicun embarked on a ­career as one of the most illustrious students in the Chan tradition of the late Tang and the interregnum. Despite its inexpressible and esoteric tradition, Chan was emblematically a product of the Sinitic Buddhist tradition. In keeping with this heritage, Yicun studied with some of the most famous monks of the Tang empire during a journey that took him as far north as Hebei and Shanxi, where he studied with Deshan (819–914), one of the great Chan masters of the ninth c­ entury and lineal heir to the dharma tradition, begun by Huineng, from whom all ­later Chan traditions evolved. Ultimately Yicun wound his way back to Fujian, where in 865 he joined the monastic community of Drum Mountain (Gu shan), outside Fuzhou. By this time he was deeply versed in the cultural traditions of Buddhism as propagated throughout the northern heartland. ­Whether his Quanzhou ­family had had a tradition of learning is unknown, but without a doubt Yicun returned to Fujian thoroughly engaged with the Sinitic cultural tradition. During the remaining de­cades of the Tang he emerged as the leading figure in the emerging Chan tradition of Fujian, amassing, said Huang Tao, a following of more than a thousand students. His disciples carried his teaching across southern China. His collected utterances w ­ ere prefaced by Wang Sui, who, although other­wise unknown, is identified as a chief counselor (cheng xiang), most likely of the interregnum Min court, based in Fuzhou, and more impressively lauded by Yang Yi, one of the most prominent figures of the early Song government and culture.15 In short, what­ever the nature of his origins, Yicun had become emblematic of the Sinitic traditions of Buddhism and the culture within which they ­were embedded. In bringing those traditions to Fujian, Yicun and the many other monks who contributed to the vibrant Buddhist culture in Fujian during the Tang and the centuries that followed ­were central figures in bringing the Sinitic discourse to the South.



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Encounter Narrative #2: The Story of Chen Zheng and Chen Yuanguang Buddhist influence arrived peacefully and through persuasion, but this was not always the case, as we see with the story of Chen Zheng (d. 677) and his son Chen Yuanguang (ca. 657–711). Together they pioneered the Sinitic community in modern Zhangzhou, the region south of the Jin River defined by the valley of the Jiulong River and the adjacent coastline. Although definitely on the fringe of early Sinitic settlement, the existence of a community was first recognized sometime in the sixth ­century, when Longxi district was established.16 Exactly what transpired in the years that followed is murky, and the surviving narratives, which all come from regional and local gazetteers of the ­later imperial era, are inconsistent. In fact, should we extrapolate from frontier experience elsewhere at other times, we can imagine that, as the community grew, unrest along the settlement frontier had become an ongoing prob­lem; that what had begun in the sixth ­century as a fairly even competition for resources between indigenes, who had numbers, and early settlers, who had more advanced technology, had gradually swung in f­ avor of the latter as their numbers grew; that the indigenes ­were forced off the good bottomlands of the lower Jiulong River valley and adjacent regions of the coast; and that vio­lence resulted. It is a reasonable reconstruction, but in fact we do not know. What we do know is that around the mid-­seventh ­century the Sinitic community appealed to the Tang court for protection.17 Perhaps this was not the first such appeal: The seventh-­century Tang court was no d ­ ifferent from other imperial courts throughout Chinese history, and a plea for assistance from a remote frontier community may not have been the most pressing issue from the far distant perspective of Chang’an. What makes this entreaty noteworthy, however, is that this time the court did respond. In 669, the emperor Gaozong (r. 650– 684) announced through an imperial edict that the LiaoMan w ­ ere causing a ruckus in the border area between Quanzhou and Chaozhou and ordered Chen Zheng to proceed at the head of an armed band to “Suian district,18 where the Seven Min (qi Min) and Hundred Yue (bai Yue) confront each other.”19 Chen established a self-­supporting colony (tun tian) on the coast south of the Jiulong River in the vicinity of modern Yunxiao Village (Zhangzhou). He placed his own residence at “Burned Field” Village (Huotian cun), about which I have more to say ­later.20

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The colony was plagued by disease, especially malaria, which ultimately forced it to relocate to higher land in Zhangpu, nearer the Jiulong River itself and closer to the ultimate site of the Zhangzhou prefectural city. In the face of such challenges, the settlement nevertheless endured. When Chen Zheng died of natu­ral causes in 677, he was succeeded as leader of the outpost by Yuanguang, his son (mentioned earlier). Even though we can imagine, moreover, that tension with the indigenous communities of the interior continued to plague the colony, nothing is mentioned in the surviving rec­ord ­until 686, when “the Guangdong bandit (Guang kou) Chen Qian united with the Man barbarian chieftains Miao Zicheng and Lei Wanxing and attacked Chaozhou (Guangdong).”21 None of the three have left any other rec­ord, so much of what transpired is unknown. The chieftains Miao and Lei are identified as ethnically Man; we can only speculate about the degree to which they had assimilated to Sinitic culture but might guess not very much. Of “the Guandong bandit” Chen Qian, on the other hand, one of three possibilities seems most likely: (1) He was an indigenous chieftain who was given a Sinitic name in the Chinese rec­ords for lack of a better alternative; (2) he was an assimilated, or possibly ethnically hybrid, leader who had feet in both cultures; or (3) he was a Sinitic rebel who rallied disaffected mountain ­people to his side. Regardless, it seems certain that he was able to rally the peoples of the mountainous interior for another round of violent re­sis­ tance to the encroachment of the Sinitic immigrants. The outbreak focused on Chaozhou, on the far side of the border region from Chen Yuanguang’s colony: “[W]ith light cavalry [Yuanguang] attacked and suppressed them.”22 He then petitioned the court to establish a new district between Quanzhou and Zhangzhou. According to late imperial gazetteers, our only source for most of this narrative, this occasioned discussion at court: Remote places [such as the area south of the Jiulong valley] are uncouth and yet to be civilized. We might dispatch a thousand and one officials, but if they do not know the local situation, then the ­people will suffer. Now Yuanguang and his ­father have tended this land for several years. The barbarians hold them in awe, and the ­people revere their kindness. If we add “prefect” to his rank so that Yuanguang can run local affairs, then things will not be disordered and the p ­ eople will not suffer.

Perhaps even more significant, the court luminaries are alleged to have gone on: “[The ­family of Chen Yuanguang] is to hold the prefectship



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for succeeding generations (rengshi shou cishi) . . . ​Yuanguang is to recommend appointees for prefectural offices from his administrative assistant (biejia) on down and from country sheriff (bu wei) on up.”23 Our source for this debate is very late; it does not appear in any of the standard sources of Tang history. It is, therefore, entirely possi­ble that there is no truth to it. Yet ­whether the result of a court decision or a local reality that ­later worked its way into the historical tradition, it is exactly what transpired. Chen Yuanguang did apparently have complete discretion over local offices. Moreover, except for two brief periods, the Chen f­amily monopolized authority in Zhangzhou from its establishment in 686 u ­ ntil the death of Yuanguang’s great-­grandson in 819. As a result, Yuanguang is immortalized in the local culture of Zhangzhou as “the King Who Settled Zhangzhou” (KaiZhang wang).24 Not surprisingly, the establishment of Zhangzhou did not immediately lead to pacification of the local indigenes. Yuanguang himself was a victim of the ongoing unrest, ­dying in the course of a campaign in 711, said to have been against the sons of “the Man barbarian chieftains” Miao Zicheng and Lei Wanxing.25 The Zhangzhou-­ Chaozhou border area, furthermore, was to remain a center of non-­ Sinitic culture for many more years. If it took longer to civilize than areas that ­were more central to Fujian, however, ultimately Zhangzhou, like everywhere e­ lse, was brought fully into the sphere of wen. But this is just a historical narrative, intrinsically interest­ing, perhaps, but lacking in interpretive depth. What, if anything, can we learn about the encounter between immigrant bearers of Sinitic culture and the indigenous population? First, we should think about the Chens themselves. Chen Zheng had been an interest­ing choice to bring Sinitic culture to the region. Tradition, embodied in all the surviving narratives, claims that he was a native of Gushi district in Guangzhou (modern Anhui). In light of the subsequent history of Fujian, in which Gushi district plays a central role, this is a dramatic claim. Late in the ninth ­century, as the Tang imperium unraveled and the old Central Lands ­were engulfed in chronic conflict, a band of migrants led by three bro­th­ers surnamed Wang arrived in Quanzhou ­after fleeing the turmoil. In the preceding de­cades the bro­th­ers’ ­family, minor landholders in Gushi, had garnered its own foothold on the fringe of the elite, a position that had been undermined by the unceasing unrest. Although the ­actual composition of the band they led was no doubt complex, surely having added adherents as they traversed the hills of Jiangxi before entering Fujian in 884, they came to be known collectively as “the men of Gushi” (Gushi ren). When, in the years that

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followed, the Wang bro­ th­ ers established the Min kingdom (guo), which governed Fujian through much of the tenth-­century interregnum, the “men of Gushi” came to define the regional elite.26 In the de­cades and centuries that followed, claimed links to the “men of Gushi” multiplied in the genealogical rec­ords of Fujian, making all such claims suspect even though some must have been legitimate. In light of this, the argument that Chen Zheng, who arrived in Fujian more than two centuries earlier, was also from Gushi looks very much like a ­later emendation and highly suspect if not outright risible. Yet, as I have argued elsewhere, there are sound reasons to believe Chen Zheng did in fact have Gushi roots.27 It is striking, for example, that his son and subsequent generations are connected to the district through its own traditions. For example, an eighteenth-­century gazetteer of Guangzhou (Henan) lists Chen Yuanguang among the prefectural jinshi of the jingyun era (710–712), while the nineteenth-­ century edition of the same gazetteer adds that Yuanguang was a native of Yiyang, an old name for Guangzhou, and was born in the second month of 657.28 Had Chen Zheng and his f­ amily been widely recognized, thus bestowing some luster on their supposed native place, an illegitimate expropriation by the scholars of Gushi would be understandable, but that is not what happened. In fact, ­father and son are totally ignored in the standard histories. They offered no glory to Gushi; there was no reason to claim them as native sons u ­ nless that is in fact what they ­were. Nor do the claimed connections stop at Yuanguang. According to the same late imperial gazetteers of Guangzhou, in 747 Yuanguang’s grandson Chen Feng was awarded the xiucai degree, following which he was appointed to a district magistracy. This was at the height of Li Linfu’s controversial administrative powers, a moment when the Tang elite was riven by doctrinal rivalries. Like many ­others, Chen Feng was disenchanted with Li and, a­ fter declining to serve u ­ nder him, retired to “Guang[-­zhou], the old place of residence.” Although Chen Feng ­later returned to Zhangzhou, his son and grandson remained in Guangzhou, where they both held low-­level office.29 In short, our sources, such as they are, make a strong case for believing that the Chen could trace themselves to Guangzhou (Huainan). But that is not where they came from when Chen Zheng was ordered to take control of the Guangnan-­Fujian border region. According to a gazetteer of Jieyang district (xian), the capital district of Chaozhou, compiled in 1731, “The ancestors of [Chen] Yuanguang lived in Ying-



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chuan.30 His grand­father [Chen] Du served as sheriff (cheng) of Yian [an archaic name for Chaozhou]. Subsequently he moved his ­family to Jieyang.”31 Again, we are forced to rely on very late sources. Like Chen Zheng and his descendants, “Grand­father” Du has left no rec­ ord in orthodox sources, including the Zizhi tongjian and the Tang histories, which are more contemporary to the events. Yet when Chen Zheng was ordered to occupy the border region, the military title he was given was adjutant commander of the Unified Armies of Lingnan (Tong Lingnan xingjun zongguan shi).32 That is, his command originated in Lingnan, offering some level of support to the suggestion that the Chen had established themselves in the lands Farthest South. As noted, the biographies of “Grand­father” Du are very late; moreover, our sources do not unanimously state that Yuanguang’s grand­father was named “Du,” for at least one source identifies the grand­father as (Chen) Hong.33 Nevertheless, by the l­ater Ming a narrative had taken shape that the grand­father, sometimes known by his honorific, Kegeng, had campaigned with Li Shimin before the latter ascended the throne as the emperor Taizong (r. 627–650). His son Zheng had earned merit while accompanying his ­father and had been rewarded with high office.34 And yet they had wound up in the Farthest South, the land of banishment, of the quin­tes­sen­tial other. How? Of course, one answer might be that all the accrued tradition is nonsense—­and we must not forget that is very possi­ble. Perhaps the Chen ­were assimilated indigenes who had adopted wen culture. Alternatively, like Tao Kan and ­others discussed previously, perhaps the Chen ­were Han émigrés of long standing in the South. But if there is any truth ­behind the tradition, the story of Li Ke, the prince of Wu (Wuwang Li Ke; d. 653), may be illustrative. Ke was the third son of Taizong, who wanted to elevate him to crown prince over the objections of Zhangsun Wuji, Taizong’s famous chief counselor. Nevertheless, when Ke was falsely, or so it is said, accused of participating in a plot to overthrow his f­ ather, he was executed, and his sons and their entourages ­were banished to the Farthest South. Although the sons gradually recovered from their disgrace, Li Kun, the third son, built his life in the South, where he was promoted to the Lingnan supervisor of conciliation (Lingnan zhaowei shi).35 If, as the tradition asserts, Chen Du and his son had campaigned with Li Shimin and his ­family, it is possi­ble they found themselves embroiled in just this kind of court intrigue and banished to the Farthest South.

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Yet so much of this is speculation, an attempt to fill in the dark corners of a suspect narrative based on suspect sources. Why bother at all? Because, I believe, the story ­behind Chen Zheng and Chen Yuanguang illustrates a second pattern of cultural encounter and ultimate assimilation of North and South. Buddhism arrived quietly, without much fuss. But alongside Buddhism came other migrants, men and ­women whose goal was to s­ ettle and make secular lives. Their integration was messier; the indigenes resisted, and there was vio­lence, as the story of the Chens illustrates. Some truths very likely lie b ­ ehind the traditions associated with their arrival; what seems most certain is that Chen Zheng did not arrive on the borderland directly from the northern heartland, the land of wen, but in fact from the adjacent areas of Guangdong. Thus, in a pattern that was long followed on the northern frontier, from the perspective of the Tang court it was “using barbarians to fight barbarians” (yi yi fan yi). And “barbarians” they ­were! The village where Chen Zheng established himself was, as noted, “Burned Field Village” (Huotian cun), an apparent allusion to the slash-­and-­burn (swidden) agriculture, which was widely practiced among the non-­Sinitic peoples of the South. Just how deeply vested Chen Zheng and his band w ­ ere in the values of civilization is open to question. At the very least we can conclude they w ­ ere military men, not bearers of civil values. Nevertheless, they began a pro­cess of transformation that ultimately led to the spread of the ideals of wen culture. Zhangzhou was the last of the coastal prefectures of Fujian to finally integrate into the world of wen, but when it did so, the p ­ eople remembered the Chens, and particularly Yuanguang, as civilization’s bearers.36 Encounter Narrative #3: Wu Xing and the Jiao By the early eighth ­century the unruly indigenes centered in the interior uplands of the Jiulong valley had been pushed to the geographic and cultural margins. This did not bring an end to all tensions. For example, in a funerary inscription he wrote early in the ninth c­ entury for an unnamed “Mr. Li” (Li gong), Liu Zongyuan (773–819) commented: “[Mr. Li] was appointed prefect of Quanzhou. There he encountered the Wuhu Barbarians. They killed the officials and molested the peasants.”37 Nevertheless, what­ever balance between Sinitic immigrants and assimilated indigenes may lie ­behind the numbers, there can be ­little doubt that the Sinitic and Sinicized populations w ­ ere ex-



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panding, and that put new pressures on the land. The pre-­Sinitic economy had been based on the extensive and mobile practices of swidden agriculture and exploitation of the area’s natu­ral bounties; the Sinitic economy rested on transforming the land into the patterns of immobile settlement and intensive agriculture. In the Jin River basin this no doubt was one ­factor ­behind the early eighth-­century relocation of the administrative center from Fengzhou to the mouth of the Jin River, an area that, before drainage and reclamation of the coastal marshes, had been unattractive to settlers. The most illustrative story, however, comes from the Xinghua Plain. Like so many other coastal zones, including the fringe of Quanzhou Bay, the coastal fringe of Putian was not easily available for Si­ nitic settlement ­until the extensive marshlands that edged Xinghua Bay ­were drained. Although there are hints of earlier drainage efforts, reclamation ­really began with construction in the ­later eighth ­century of the Yanshou Weir, a complex pro­ject involving diversion and retention of the ­water of the Yanshou Creek that allowed control of the regular tidal incursion. According to Ouyang Xiu, whose Xin Tangshu, compiled in the mid-­eleventh ­century, has the earliest reference to the pro­ject, it brought “over 400 qing [1 qing = 100 mu = ca. 14 acres; i.e., a total of ca. 5,600 acres] of irrigated fields (gai tian)” into production.38 Although Ouyang did not attribute the pro­ject to anyone, in ­later materials it is identified with Wu Xing.39 Two sources from the Southern Song, one that comes indirectly via a late fifteenth-­century source and the other of which survives in a version of its original, provide further detail, including the earliest references to Wu Xing himself. The latter is an inscription compiled sometime ­after 1235 by Liu Kezhuang (1187–1269) in commemoration of the restoration of the shrine built in Wu’s memory: [­After] I had written commemorative stele for the gods Qian and Li (QianLi er shen),40 an elder from the “northern coastal plain” [bei yang; see explanation in note 40] approached me, saying, “Isn’t the shrine of our marquis older than that for Qian and Li? Are not the tombs of his children and descendants only steps away from the shrine, where the herons [make their] display and ­horses [shake their] manes? The coastal village where my f­ amily and I live has never been threatened by drought. Patting our bellies and mindful of the soil, we nurture our children and embrace our grandchildren. This is [because of ] the meritorious work of Marquis Wu (Wu hou). If we cannot forget the spirits of the mountains

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and streams, how can I forget him? How can we know so much about the ‘southern coastal plain’ [i.e., Li Hong and Ms. Qian] and so ­little about that to the north?”  . . . ​According to the prefectural gazetteer, the [Yanshou] Weir was first built in the jianzhong era of the Tang (780–784).41 . . . ​Of old, before the weir was built, the tidal flow came as far as Shihua Bridge.42 The marquis dammed off the seas and blocked the tides; he channeled the streams to irrigate the land, turning saline lands into who knows how many thousands, even tens of thousands, of qing of fertile fields.43

For all the valuable information in this inscription, Liu Kezhuang was in fact more interested in the cult dedicated to Wu Xing, which arose in the following centuries, than in his drainage pro­ject, and I return l­ater to his text and the cult. It is, therefore, a summary of the 1192 Putian district gazetteer (see note 41) that was preserved in the 1499 edition and then transcribed with commentary in the Putian shuili zhi, compiled in the late nineteenth c­ entury, that provides the earliest concrete discussion of the weir itself: According to the Song gazetteer, the weir was built in the jianzhong era of the Tang (780–784) and provided irrigation to over 2,000 qing . . . ​ [The waters coming out of the mountains to the west] combined at Ferry Pond (Du tang), from where they flowed into the sea. Wu Xing blocked off the sea to create fields. He constructed the Long Dike and Ferry Pond to block the flow [of the Yanshou Creek] and redirect it to the south and into coastal retaining ponds, from where it provided irrigation to the coastal plain. This is called the Yanshou Weir . . . ​Both the Song prefectural gazetteer [referring to the 1192 edition] and Mr. Peng’s gazetteer [referring to the 1499 edition] explain that because this was long ago the weir had fallen into ruins and its remains w ­ ere not to be 44 found.

This basic narrative is echoed in a variety of other late Ming sources, including the BaMin tongzhi, a provincial gazetteer of Fujian with a preface compiled in 1490, an inscription compiled in 1538 to commemorate a restoration pro­ject; and the Minshu, with a preface compiled in 1631.45 What we learn is that one Wu Xing oversaw a major pro­ject that required the mobilization of a large amount of l­abor in order to open something on the order of fifty-­six hundred acres to



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cultivation; ­later extensions increased the drained area more than fivefold, to nearly thirty thousand acres (or “over 2,000 qing”). Before Mr. Wu’s pro­ject, the area that became the Xinghua Plain was a coastal marsh. In the manner of marshlands, there may have been some tufts of land that sat high enough to essentially be dry, but nowhere was suitable for the intensive cultivation that was definitive of Sinitic civilization. If the inhabitants had made use of this, it had been for the fish and shellfish, the very food sources that are identified with the pre-­Sinitic indigenous population. The Yanshou Weir was the first of a series of projects that controlled the flooding and opened the land to the dense settlement and intensive exploitation that had developed even by the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Through a network of dikes and retention ponds, the weir both controlled the waters of the streams flowing from the hills bordering the northern fringe of the Putian flood plain and the main course of the Mulan River and checked the tidal incursions that had rendered much of the plain a marshy, saline wasteland. In recognition of Wu’s success, in the de­cades prior to Liu’s mid-­thirteenth-­ century inscription he was honored with a shrine and an ever more impressive series of titles conferred by imperial decree that began u ­ nder the emperor Huizong early in 1109;46 we might assume, in fact, that Liu’s inscription was a commemoration of the final award he mentions, the public proclamation of Wu’s ennoblement in the 1250s. Yet there still remains a great deal that we do not hear. Most importantly, who was Wu Xing? Despite his prominence, we know ­little about Wu Xing. At such a chronological distance as to be suspect, the seventeenth-­century Minshu comments that “he used his wealth to be a hero [or “champion”] in his community” (yici hao lizhong), while the (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi—­written yet three centuries l­ ater, more than a full millennium removed from Wu Xing and his pro­ject—­noted that “he used his ­family wealth to construct the weir.”47 Shy any more contemporary reference, neither source can be taken as authoritative, yet both are no doubt in some sense correct, for he clearly had the authority and/or influence to mobilize the ­labor his pro­ject required. Nor is it unreasonable to believe he arranged the funding, for such projects w ­ ere rarely supported with any public monies. Despite the absence of any more contemporary rec­ords, in other words, it is reasonable to conclude that Wu Xing was both wealthy and a major landowner, what historically

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had been called a “magnate” (haozu), which echoes the words of the Minshu. We have no way of knowing how long his ­family had been in the region. The 1879 Putian gazetteer, however, includes a brief biography ­under the category of “those who did good works for the place” (xiang xing zhuan) that identifies him as a “younger cousin” (congdi) of the other­wise unknown Wu Ji, who allegedly held rank as a supernumerary officer in the Ministry of Works, and adds, “At that time [Wu] was honorifically known (hao) by the title ‘officer’ (changguan).”48 Yet again it is impossible to know how much truth there may be to this—­Wu Ji, ­after all, is even more anonymous than his alleged cousin—­but if it is true it would argue that his ­family had a Si­ nitic, or at the least a Sinicized, background. That need not imply, however, that he had no links, e­ ither cultural or familial, to the pre-­Sinitic world alongside which he lived—­ethnic intermingling must have been common, as it has been on cultural and ethnic frontiers throughout ­human history. The tale of re­sis­tance to settlement on the Zhangzhou-­ Chaozhou borderland summarized earlier tells us that some among the pre-­Sinitic indigenous population stood apart from the Sinitic incursion, but logic and ­human history also tell us that ­others must have opted for accommodation. Regardless of Wu Xing’s origins, the narrative of the pro­ject appears to be dramatically ­different from what had transpired some eight to ten de­cades earlier by the Chens on the Quanzhou-­Chaozhou border area. If the latter was characterized by vio­lence, by a wresting of land away from resistant indigenes, there is no apparent hint of vio­ lence in the narrative of Wu Xing. We can interpret, however, that he was committed to the Sinitic economic model: His pro­ject argues that he believed in the importance, if not indeed the primacy, of agriculture among available economic pursuits. It was not intended to improve the harvest of fish or game; it was an agricultural pro­ject pure and ­simple, and he was prepared to expend considerable capital on realizing it. But this was far more than a ­simple pro­ject. Just as cutting down the forests of New ­England or breaking the prairie sod of Kansas as the agriculturally intensive Eu­ro­pean immigrants displaced the extensive economies of the indigenes on the American frontier was as much a cultural as an economic statement, so Wu Xing’s conversion of the “unproductive” marshes of the Xinghua Plain into some of the Sinitic world’s most bounteous agricultural lands was as much



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a rejection of the economy and culture of the pre-­Sinitic inhabitants as it was a positive economic program. Every bit as much as the Chens, therefore, Wu Xing was displacing an indigenous economic pattern with an imported one, and so, too, he was displacing the indigenous ­people. Why, then, do we not hear of any re­sis­tance? Perhaps, in fact, we do, for what to this point has been a straightforward and thoroughly secular narrative of a famous land-­reclamation pro­ject suddenly diverges into something radically d ­ ifferent. Let us start again with Liu Kezhuang: “When the pro­ject was complete, a wrathful jiao broke the dikes. But the poor and rootless one [qiong­ rong; refers to Wu Xing] expelled the evil. His accomplishment stands in history like those of Li Bing and Zhou Chu.”49 Then Liu adds a poem: Soon ­after [he had completed the dikes], beneath the maelstrom There was a winding, wiggling creature.50 The Marquis grabbed his precious knife. Clenching his empty fist, and Donating his worthless body, He plunged into the unfathomable abyss; The evil that lay within the ­water was dead, And the Golden Dike was firm. I have heard the immortals of ancient times Must all have done meritorious acts If they ­were to ­ride the wind and rain And ascend to the Great Source. The marvel of Wu Guang’s sacrifice,51 The injustice of throwing [oneself ] in the Xiang,52 Or riding on the back of the Great Peng Bird,53 How can they compare to submitting to the saliva of a hungry jiao?

The fifteenth-­century BaMin tongzhi was more prosaic—­and so perhaps more informative: “Wu Xing grabbed a sword and told the ­people, ‘If the ­water runs blue-­green, then the demon is dead, but if it runs red, then I am dead.’ Then he entered the w ­ ater and battled the demon. Three days ­later a sword covered in blood washed up on Wu’s Blade Beach (Wudao yang). Wu and the demon ­were both dead.”54 Zheng Yue, in his 1538 commemorative inscription, closely echoed the gazetteer: “At this time there was a jiao that was terrorizing

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the ­people. Official Wu swore an oath to the ­people that with his sword he would enter the w ­ ater and kill the jiao. But both he and the 55 jiao died.” The Minshu offered one further perspective: Of old the dikes of Ferry Pond had frequently broken. Wu had announced, “The dikes are broken by a jiao.” Grasping a knife, he plunged into the current and sought out the jiao’s lair to kill it. He told his wife, “If the w ­ ater runs blue-­green, then the demon is dead, but if it runs red, then I am dead.” Soon ­after, the ­water turned a mixture of red and blue-­green. Man and jiao had both died. ­After several days the ­people found Wu Xing’s knife east of the weir. With the death of the jiao the dikes w ­ ere ­whole. Neither drought nor flood caused any harm.56

The question is, why does a jiao enter the story of Wu Xing? In earlier discussion I have sought to establish two points: First, the Si­ nitic elite on whose rec­ord we rely equated the jiao and the crocodile. Second, among the peoples of the Austronesian south the crocodile was a source of both terror and veneration. As has occurred so frequently around the world, peoples have granted numinous status to what they feared the most. Thus throughout the island cultures of the Pacific, the Ca­rib­bean, and elsewhere where they flourish, sharks have been the object of totemic cult worship. Similarly, throughout the range of the saltwater crocodile it, too, has been the object of totemic cults. To the indigenous ­people of the southeast coast, it appears, the crocodile engendered combined feelings of fear and loathing, which w ­ ere channeled into traditions of veneration. Recall the words of Han Yu as he sought to invoke the aura of civilization to banish crocodiles from the waters of Chaozhou: Of old, when the ancient kings [the definers of wen/civilization] ruled all the world, they cleared the mountains and marshes . . . ​They drove things that harm the p ­ eople beyond the Four Seas. But the charisma (de) of their successors was slight, and their influence did not go far . . . ​, leading to [the rise of ] the Man and Yi peoples and states such as Chu and Yue. [Now] crocodiles wallow in the wetness of this place [i.e., Chaozhou] and lay their eggs, and so it has become theirs. But now the Son of the Heavenly Cosmos, the heir of Tang, is on the throne. His spirit is divine and he embraces the martial. Beyond the Four Seas and within the Six Directions, all are at peace. Should this not also apply to all that is embraced by the traces of Yu, that lies near Yang-



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zhou, that is administered by prefects and magistrates, that proffers tribute as offerings to Tian and Di, to the shrines of the ancestors, to the soil on which the sacrifices to the myriad gods (bai shen) are made?

Han invoked the numinous tropes of civilization: the charisma (de) that adheres to a ruler bearing wen, the authority of Tian and Di, the ancestors, and the “myriad gods” in order to assert his authority over the beasts, an implicit ac­know­ledg­ment that they, too, transcended the merely secular and embraced a numinous power. As Han Yu argued, at one time the world of civilization had been ­free of all such noxious creatures. A ­ fter the great rulers of the legendary past, whose charisma had purged the world, however, lesser rulers, whose aura had been so much less, allowed the noxious things to return, and this led to “the Man and Yi, to Yue and Chu.” In short, the non-­Sinitic peoples and their kingdoms w ­ ere among the noxious things the legendary rulers of the ancient past had purged. As w ­ ere crocodiles. Man and Yi, Chu and Yue, and crocodiles ­were one and the same quality of thing. Thus when Han banished the crocodile from the shores of Chaozhou—as we know, from the story of Chen Zheng and his son, a place that at least ­until recently had been emblematic of non-­Sinitic culture—he was also banishing the non-­Sinitic, not-­wen cultural remnants. Banishing the crocodile was to assert the primacy of the Sinitic world and wen culture. Wu Xing allegedly had done ­battle with just such a creature. Crocodiles, like most if not all crocodilians, are notoriously destructive of riverbanks—­and also of dikes, where they like to wallow. If the legend holds any truth, a crocodile had entered his network of canals and ponds and was causing destruction, and Wu undertook to destroy it—­a quest that ended in his own death, as well, apparently, as that of the crocodile. The question is: Why does the legend cast his opponent as a jiao, a creature of legend, rather than a crocodile, a real creature of the local fauna? Any answer must, of course, be speculative, but one I believe makes sense. For Wu Xing, freeing the lands he had reclaimed from the marshes with his great engineering pro­ject from the depredations of the jiao amounted to a cultural triumph. Claiming those lands for agriculture, “recovering” them from their uselessness as wetlands and marsh, on which crops could not be grown, was to purge the land of its non-­ Sinitic, not-­wen character. In traditional lit­erature the jiao had always been cast in opposition to the long: If the latter was part of wen, the

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jiao was decidedly not-­wen. By casting his opponent as a jiao, the legend emphasizes the cultural dimension of his pro­ject.57 And ­here we may find an answer to the question posed earlier: Why do we not hear of indigenous re­sis­tance? Might we not believe in fact that the jiao was a meta­phor invoked in ­later traditions for the same kind of indigenous re­sis­tance that had been encountered by the Chens? Just as the dry land fronting the estuaries of the Quanzhou-­ Chaozhou border region had been a resource to the pre-­Sinitic indigenes, so the marshes edging the Xinghua Bay had been a valuable resource as well. Archaeology has uncovered numerous shell mounds along the coast, attesting to the indigenous exploitation of the marshes, and this was exactly the resource that Wu Xing was transforming. If the indigenes to the south fled to the upland interior, those of the Xinghua Bay probably fled to the offshore islands. In both cases, however, they ­were displaced and lost access to a critical resource. Encounter Narrative #4: The Immigrant Wave: A Story in Numbers Like their indigenous brethren throughout the coastal arc of the southeast, the indigenous occupants of southern Fujian ultimately w ­ ere overwhelmed by the sheer force of immigration. Initially the immigrants came slowly, led by the Buddhists with whom we started this chapter, who had founded monastic retreats in the not-­wen lands beyond the realm of Sinitic settlement following the collapse of the Han dynasty early in the third ­century CE. As Liang Kejia had stated in his introduction to his chapter on monasteries, which we have already referenced, to the passing observer Fuzhou was a land of mountains that offered no value: “For hundreds of miles in every direction there ­were thousands of precipices and myriad ravines, so many it was incalculable. What use was it?” Liang went on that, even as p ­ eople began to carve out settlements, “beyond the traces of p ­ eople it was a wilderness of tigers, leopards, apes, and monkeys . . . ​Who would be willing to waste himself to a place of such lonely stillness?” His answer was “those who seek forgetfulness and pursue the dao.”58 The first census data of Fujian pretending to any reliability, compiled in the fifth ­century by the Liu Song dynasty, found only 2,843 ­house­holds, with 19,838 individuals, in all of coastal Fujian, and even the census conducted by the Sui dynasty early in the seventh ­century



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counted only 12,420 h ­ ouse­holds, with 75,000 individuals, in all of Fujian, including the interior regions.59 The numbers bear ­little relationship to the ­actual ­human presence. Dynastic census counts ­were not intended to rec­ord every breathing person but rather to establish a basis for tax assessments; at best, these data reflect only the number of registered ­house­holds. Non-­Sinitic populations, especially those that did not yet recognize the legitimate authority of the geo­graph­i­cally and culturally distant Central Lands, ­were not likely to be counted. We can imagine as well that immigrants from the north w ­ ere none too ­eager to be counted, e­ ither, and did their best to avoid registration, for to be counted was to be taxed. Yet even if these are significant undercounts, they emphasize how few and far between ­were those who acknowledged the legitimacy of remote imperial authority. By the mid-­eighth ­century, however, the numbers had begun to grow, and Sinitic settlement in the river valleys of southern Fujian appears to have taken firm root. A series of censuses taken in the first half of the eighth ­century counting the registered population of greater Quanzhou, including both the Xinghua and Quanzhou Plains, are illustrative. The exact provenance of these numbers is unclear and has evoked considerable debate, one I choose not to join.60 All four figures purport to be from the Kaiyuan era of the Tang (713– 742), but they pre­sent a striking contrast between the two that count more than thirty thousand ­house­holds and the two that find something in the lower twenty thousands. The most plausible explanation is that the larger numbers w ­ ere taken before the transfer of Longxi district, including the Jiulong River valley, from Quanzhou ­Table  6.1. Source Yuanhe junxian tuzhi 29:719 Taiping huanyuji 102:2b Jiu Tangshu 40:1599 Tongdian 182:986c

# of House­holds (hu 戶)

# of Persons (kou 口)

Presumed Date

30,754* 33,100 23,806 24,586

n/a n/a 160,295 154,009

713–742 713–742 ca. 742 ca. 742

*The text actually rec­ords 50,754 (wuwan qibai wushisi 五萬七百五十四); the number, however, is clearly faulty and ought to read 30,754; the mistranscription of “three” (san 三) into “five” (wụ五) would be relatively easy.

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to Zhangzhou in 742, while the ­others discount the Longxi total; the difference in the respective Zhangzhou numbers (not cited in the ­table), which grow by about forty-­five hundred ­house­holds in the latter two counts, albeit only roughly corresponding to the decrease in Quanzhou, offers some support for this interpretation. We are probably correct to assume, therefore, that close to twenty-­five thousand ­house­holds ­were registered in greater Quanzhou by the mid-­eighth ­century. We cannot know with any certainty how many of these ­house­holds had settled on or around the plains; the numbers do not allow for such a disaggregation. Although a nascent urban center on the western fringe of the Xinghua Plain was recognized in 589 as the Putian district city, the glorified title should not fool us, for this remained a minor settlement. The potential for growth on the Xinghua Plain was restricted by its inaccessibility; as long as the regular tidal incursions and marshy, saline quality of the soil rendered agriculture infeasible and malaria rampant,61 there was ­little incentive for new settlement by the slowly expanding population of Sinitic immigrants.62 In fact, this was a prob­lem along most of the Fujian coast, which explains why the earliest immigrant communities tended to emerge at sites such as Fengzhou, a market center up the Jin River from the modern Quanzhou prefectural city at the edge of the interior uplands, where the river flows with a strong current and the banks are generally well defined. Like Zhangpu, where Chen Zheng relocated his colony, the Fengzhou settlement was beyond the reach of the unrestrained coastal flooding that plagued the coast and favored malarial mosquitoes and was the site of an urban node many de­cades before the rise of the l­ater prefectural city itself nearer the mouth of the river. No ­later than the early Tang, driven perhaps by immigrant pressure for land or even possibly by the emergence of Quanzhou Bay as a tariff-­free, safe-­harbor alternative to Guangzhou for traders bringing the goods of the Southern Seas to the empire, the initial efforts to gain control over the marshes at the mouth of the Jin River and along the nearer reaches of the bay into which it disgorged had begun—­because the ­actual pro­cess is completely obscured by the fog of history, however, there are no surviving accounts of how or by whom it was accomplished. Nevertheless, during the early de­cades of the Tang, drainage had evolved enough to allow the emergence of a new urban center near the mouth of the river; in 712 this center, eponymously called Jinjiang ­after the



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river, was recognized as the prefectural capital, confirming its emerging significance.63 In the years and de­cades that followed the mid-­eighth-­century upheavals connected with An Lushan, the population expansion continued, only now it became increasingly dramatic, as is evident from the next reliable set of statistics taken late in the tenth ­century, immediately ­after the consolidation of Song authority in the region: ­Table  6.2. Prefecture

# of House­holds

Quanzhou

76,581 kehu: 44,525 zhuhu: 32,056 33,735 kehu: 20,628 zhuhu: 13,107 110,316

Xinghua Total

# of Persons

Date

n/a

ca. 980

n/a

ca. 980

Source: Yue Shi, Taiping huanyuji ji, 102.

The numbers are in stark contrast to the very sparse population of the mid-­eighth ­century; over the succeeding two centuries the number of registered h ­ ouse­holds had expanded about fourfold. However, the division of data between “guest ­house­holds” (kehu) and “resident ­house­holds” (zhuhu) pre­sents a complication. The terms are not well understood, very possibly because they ­were not consistently applied across the empire. Most analyses, however, have agreed that fundamentally they point to a division in taxation; “guest ­house­holds” have been assumed to be newly arrived mi­grant ­house­holds that had yet to establish an in­de­pen­dent landholding position and so did not pay land taxes.64 No doubt that distinction applied to southern Fujian as much as it did elsewhere, but if the “guest h ­ ouse­holds” ­were distinguished by their tax liability, it is also likely they included newly registered indigenous h ­ ouse­holds, over which the state was extending authority but who as yet also lacked registered landholdings. In short, the large number of registered “guest ­house­holds” in the late tenth ­century probably points to two trends. It is well documented that the pace of north-­to-­south migration accelerated in the de­cades following the mid-­eighth-­century An Lushan Rebellion. Although the pace of migration may have slowed by the early ninth c­ entury, as the

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Tang court managed to reestablish a superficial degree of control, the renewed turmoil of the latter half of the ninth c­ entury led to new waves of migration.65 Especially during the interregnum de­cades that separate Tang and Song authority in southern Fujian, local society was transformed as a result, but the most impressive numbers lay below the elite h ­ ouse­holds discussed in the surviving rec­ords. No doubt some—­maybe even many—of these h ­ ouse­holds ­were among the numerous “guest ­house­holds” of the late tenth ­century. At the same time, however, more and more of the heretofore unregistered indigenous ­house­holds must have begun to find advantages in gaining official status. This pro­cess is undocumented—­what advantage could there be for such a ­house­hold to advertise its prior status as not-­wen indigenes? Yet conflict between immigrant settlers and indigenes disappears from the rec­ord. Accommodation between the two groups was an evolving reality. These narratives are chosen to show four ­different ways the bearers of wen culture entered southern Fujian. The Buddhists came peacefully and rather unobtrusively. Initially they sought out retreats that lay on the fringe of Sinitic settlement, only to find that their presence attracted the very settlement they had sought to avoid. As the concentrations of Sinitic settlers grew, tensions between them and the indigenous ­people grew as well, leading to a totally ­different encounter. The campaigns of Chen Zheng and his son are certainly the best documented—­and it is perhaps significant that even they are so poorly documented. But it is clear that tensions between the indigenous and immigrant groups could erupt into vio­lence. Nevertheless, in the de­cades and centuries that followed, a wave of immigration brought an unpre­ce­dented level of contact between Sinitic and indigenous culture, leading to both accommodation and transformation. Emblematic of the latter, finally, was the transformation of the land, of which the story of Wu Xing is so indicative. In the Sinitic model of civilization no place was truly civilized u ­ ntil it was agricultural. No doubt the indigenous ­people had practiced some agriculture, but equally certainly they relied heavily on collecting the bounty of the sea and the land for their wherewithal. Taming the land—­draining it, clearing it, and most certainly ridding it of noxious beasts—­was to the Sinitic settlers the most im­por­tant demonstration that the land had been civilized.



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Yet presented in this way the story is all about the triumph of wen, the obliteration of the not-­wen indigene. That, however, is not what happened. Cultural habits are tenacious. Thus, even as an overlay of Sinitic culture emerged, a power­ful residue of indigenous tradition remained and found definition within the new framework. That is the subject of the final chapters.

Chapter Seven

Cults of the Sinitic Era A Narrative of Appropriation and Civilization

­U

nder the mature Tang dynasty, southern Fujian became both a retreat for the disaffected and a place of exile for the out-­of-­favor. For example, Ouyang Xiu’s biography of Qin Xi in his Xin Tangshu recounts the following: In the tianbao era (742–756) Qin Xi of Kuaiqi fled the chaos [of the An Lushan Rebellion] . . . ​and took up guest residence in Quanzhou. [On that prefecture’s] Jiuri Mountain (shan) there was a huge pine tree more than one hundred feet high. Tradition said that it had been planted at the time of the Eastern Jin dynasty (317– 420). Xi built a ­house by the tree, where he studied the Laozi, and for an entire year he did not leave. When Jiang Gongfu was banished to Quanzhou as assistant magistrate (bie jia), he witnessed Xi’s unapologetic poverty and his refusal to go out, and so he built a cottage by him and embraced the travails of their shared aimlessness. When Gongfu died, because his wife was far away, Xi placed his grave at the foot of the mountain.1

Qin Xi was famous for his hermetic isolation, his disregard for his personal comfort, and his devotion to the study of the Laozi. He does not appear, however, to have abandoned a prior life of fame or rank. Jiang Gongfu, on the other hand, had risen to the highest levels of Tang imperial administration before unwelcome criticism of the emperor led to his banishment. Following Qin’s death, the peak where he had lived out his life was named for him. Jiang Gongfu, on the other hand, was commemorated in the memory of the regional literati elite along with 136



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two subsequent servants of the court for initiating instruction in the ways of the culture of wen among the regional elite. About the same time Wu Xing was leading the effort to reclaim the wetlands that became the Xinghua Plain and so make them agriculturally useful as the culture of wen assumed, Chang Gun (729–783), having similarly run afoul of court politics, was also exiled, in his case to Chaozhou as prefectural magistrate. Soon a­ fter, because Chaozhou was “too severe,” he was transferred to Fujian as surveillance commissioner; despite the court’s “mercy,” like so many who w ­ ere exiled to the deeper south, he died there, but not without a legacy.2 Like Jiang Gongfu, with whom he was connected in ­later memory, Chang Gun had had an illustrious ­career at court, rising through the ranks to grand councilor u ­ nder the Daizong emperor (r. 762–780). When his patron emperor died, Chang found himself on the wrong side of the new order, resulting in his loss of place and exile. When he arrived in Fujian, he found a population that as yet remained uninvolved in orthodox culture. As Han Yu put it in his eulogy for Ou­ yang Zhan: “The land of MinYue is abundantly fertile. It is blessed with the joys of mountains and springs and wildlife. Even though there have been highly cultivated men who understood lit­erature and the art of administration as well as anyone from the heartland, yet [­until now] there has never been anyone who has been willing to go forth and serve.”3 Chang Gun, whom Han Yu described as having a well-­ established literary reputation when he arrived, was appalled. Ouyang Xiu wrote in his Xin Tangshu, “Of old no one in Fujian was familiar with scholarship. When [Chang] Gun arrived, he undertook construction of village schools to guide them in lit­erature and encourage discussion within their families. He sought to balance rites among hosts and guests and to ensure that travelers would be tended to with joy. In this way he changed their habits so that every year their candidates for the examinations w ­ ere equal to those of the heartlands.” In short order, Han Yu asserted, “all w ­ ere transformed” (hua). Ouyang Zhan, the first scholar from southern Fujian to pass the exams and enjoy a ­career at court, was indebted to Chang Gun, who is widely credited with introducing the region to the culture of scholarship. But Chang was not alone in bringing wen to the region. Shortly ­after he had served and died as surveillance commissioner, Xi Xiang took up the post of prefectural magistrate in Quanzhou, albeit via appointment rather than banishment. If Chang Gun had planted the seed of literati culture among the locally ambitious, Xi Xiang more

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directly guided its development. Ouyang Zhan credited him with rectifying local rites, but more importantly with nurturing the first group of local scholars, himself included, to find success in the imperial examinations; in 793, eight natives of southern Fujian earned degrees, including Ouyang Zhan, who took home Quanzhou prefecture’s first jinshi degree. If men such as Chen Yuanguang and Wu Xing and the growing wave of Sinitic migrants whom they represent had paved the way for the arrival of the culture of wen in southern Fujian, it was these men, who arrived ­either as a result of banishment, self-­imposed exile, or simply through bureaucratic appointment, who cultivated it and u ­ nder whom a class of scholars educated in the premises of wen developed. As I have alluded to already and demonstrated at greater length elsewhere, in the de­cades and centuries that followed, that culture flourished in the region.4 As the Song dynasty unfolded, the triumph of civilization, of wen culture, in Fujian and across the near and far south seemed clear. Men of local origin, beginning with the aforementioned Ouyang Zhan, began participating in the examinations, the ultimate expression of civilized culture, and by the mid-­eleventh ­century the region had become one of the leading sources of examination graduates. Yet, it is the premise of this study that things w ­ ere not so s­ imple or straightforward. The goal of this chapter is to complicate the narrative, to suggest that the culture that took shape across southern Fujian was hybridized, drawing not just on the values of civilization but also on indigenous practices, echoes of a time when the culture of wen had yet to penetrate. Cults and Local Identity China’s cultic tradition, or what Kenneth Dean and Zheng Zhenman have suggested might be called “local communal religion,”5 is rich and influential, especially in the lands of the pre-­Sinitic south, where cults devoted to the protection of defined place and population, ­either highly local or regional, abound.6 As Sinitic culture engaged the cultural patterns of the south, it encountered the rich pattern of belief in the numinous, outlined in the previous chapters. In contrast to the cults of the heartland, which tended to be broadly defined in terms of function with widespread followings spread extensively across the heartland and with which the new immigrants ­were familiar, however, the



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South had no unifying deities. While certain totemic themes ­were widespread, the rites and practices through which they w ­ ere venerated appear not to have been held in common. On the contrary, cults appear to have had very specific geographic foci.7 The numinous world so conceived involved myriad local deities endowed with the quality the Chinese call ling, the numinous power of the spirits. Ling could be very dangerous. Barend J. ter Haar has observed, in fact, that by definition gods of the alien non-­Sinitic world ­were “demons” (gui): “[O]ne of the most basic notions of traditional Chinese religious culture is the per­sis­tent and fundamentally violent danger to h ­ uman beings posed by all kinds of demons . . . ​Some demons live on the outskirts of ­human civilization, but many live permanently among the ­people.”8 Demons, if properly propitiated, could become gods (shen) and could extend protection and benefit. Once converted, ter Haar comments, “deities can offer direct and very concrete help.” That conversion, in turn, involved absorbing the dangerous and uncivilized, not-­wen demons into the ritual construct of civilization. That is the pro­cess I examine throughout the remainder of my discussion. I begin with two cults with roots in southern Fujian: the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou and the Perfected Wu Tao.9 The Divine W ­ oman of Meizhou

In 1150 Liao Pengfei composed a text commemorating the reconstruction of the Shrine of Smooth Crossing (Shunji miao), honoring the Divine W ­ oman of Meizhou (Meizhou shennü). Liao Pengfei himself was of ­little distinction; ­later imperial sources cannot even agree on exactly where he was from, except that it was in the greater Xinghua area. The sources do agree that in 1142 he received a facilitated “presented-­scholar” degree (tezouming jinshi), most often awarded to men who had failed repeatedly in attempts to earn a regular degree.10 He did not, however, merit a biography in any source. The only other confirmation of his existence is a brief entry in the collected work of Zhang Kuo (?–1147) recording the award of honorary titles to his parents.11 In keeping with Liao’s general anonymity, his text is preserved in the ­family genealogy of the Baitang Li, for reasons I explain ­later. As a result, however, the legitimacy of the text has been challenged, an issue I have addressed elsewhere.12 The reconstructed shrine commemorated in Liao’s inscription had originally been built in conjunction with the Parent Shrine of the

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Holy Mound (Shengdun zumiao) in Ninghai Village, a small fishing village down the Mulan River from the Putian district city at the point where the river debarked into open ­water; the Parent Shrine honored an older cult. Although Ninghai Village no longer exists by that name, it was defined by a hillock, the “holy mound” commemorated in the name of the shrine.13 This was an area that lay on the coastal margin of the Putian Plain. In the many years since Wu Xing first began to reclaim the coastal marshes, his initial drainage network had gradually been expanded, converting more and more of the marsh into ­viable agricultural lands, perhaps even extending as far as the “holy mound.” The hillock, however, would have always stood above the marsh; before the surrounding land had been drained, in other words, it would have been an island or at least a dry hummock.14 Even though much is speculation, therefore, what is certain is that this was a spot that had long risen above the marsh and been inhabitable; as such, it is exactly the kind of spot the pre-­Sinitic inhabitants would have utilized. Anyone who had lived on the “mound” would have made a living primarily off the bounty of the surrounding marshes and the open ­water that lay beyond. To such a person, working the soil, which Sinitic culture so self-­evidently regarded as defining of civilization, would at best have been a secondary focus. To the Sinitic immigrants, in other words, the inhabitants of such isolated dry hillocks ­were uncivilized, not-­wen. Liao tells us that two unnamed male deities ­were venerated at this spot. Their cult had existed for many years, so many that no one could recall the beginnings: “I don’t know from what era it began,” Liao wrote. In 1086, however, a radiant light constantly manifested itself at night from the mound. The villagers could not explain it. A fisherman went out to investigate and found a rotten stump (ku cha15). He brought this to his ­house, but by the next day it had returned to its former place. That eve­ning the ­people living near the mound all had the same dream: “I am the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou. The stump in fact is the evidence [of my presence]. You should build me a retreat on the mound.” The elders thought this extraordinary, so they built a shrine, which they called the “Holy Mound.” When there is drought, [the p ­ eople] pray at the shrine. When pestilence rages, they pray at the shrine. When coastal bandits flock together, they pray at the shrine. And the god replies. Furthermore, merchant vessels especially have depended [on the blessing of the god] when they



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have headed to the south [i.e., to the South Seas].16 When they get a positive oracle and set forth upon the seas, even though they encounter wild and crashing waves, no one aboard gets sick.17

This is the earliest rec­ord of the Divine W ­ oman, who t­oday is known formally as the Cosmic Empress (Tian hou, also rendered “Empress of Heaven”) and informally but universally as the Maternal Ancestor (Mazu). Her cult is both one of the most widespread in the Chinese world and among the most widely studied of all Chinese cults.18 The question that hangs over the Divine ­Woman, however, is who she was. Elaborate narratives of miraculous birth and immortal divinity evolved over time, providing her with a life story. Because historical sources go forward from Liao’s essay, thereby providing no further detail about her origins, that is where scholarship has gone; few have considered what we can determine about her background and origins. Liao Pengfei himself tells us l­ittle: She was born Miss Lin (Lin shi) on Meizhou Island; she was a shaman (wu) who “could foretell a man’s luck and misfortune; when she died, the p ­ eople erected a shrine (miao) on her home island.” Her cult, he says, arrived in Ninghai in 1086. Like the two deities whom she joined there, moreover, the beginning of her cult was lost in memory: “[F]or generations (shi) she had been known as the Divine W ­ oman Who Communicates with 19 Heaven (Tongtian shennü).” As Liao describes her, she was an all-­purpose deity who intervened with the numinous forces that controlled her devotees’ lives, giving them succor from drought, disease, and bandits. Most importantly, because her devotees lived in such a close relationship with the seas that surrounded them, she protected them when they went forth to pursue their livelihood. Although the year 1086 may be apocryphal, almost certainly by the ­later eleventh ­century her cult had migrated around the Daitou Peninsula and through the Nanri Strait from Meizhou to Ninghai; this presumably reflected an emerging maritime route linking Putian, a burgeoning source of agricultural product, and the ports of Quanzhou, along which Meizhou was a con­ve­nient way station. By the time Liao Pengfei commemorated her shrine’s reconstruction in 1150, the deity’s reach had grown much larger; it was not local fishermen who, Liao notes, sought her protection but “merchant vessels . . . ​headed to the south.” Liao tells us of two incidents that enabled her to extend her reputation. In 1122 Hong Botong, an

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other­wise unknown merchant from Putian, was part of a merchant convoy; the group was caught in a storm on the open sea, and several ships ­were lost. Hong, however, called on Miss Lin for help, and “the words ­were hardly out of his mouth” when the winds calmed, and he managed to return home safely. In recognition of the deity’s assistance he added a tomb to her shrine on the Holy Mound “in order to treat her properly” (yi tuo zhi). The following year Lu Yundi led an imperial mission across the Yellow Sea to ­Korea; on the return, his convoy was similarly caught in a terrible storm and many ships w ­ ere lost. Here the story gets complicated, as Lu’s aide, Xu Jing, in his official report to the throne, credited a male deity from the Fuzhou area with his salvation.20 Liao, however, told it this way: On his way through the Eastern (or “Yellow”) Sea, [Lu Yundi] ran into a violent storm. Eight ships collided at prow and stern, and seven of them capsized. It was only above the ship on which Lu was sailing that a goddess (nü shen) appeared at the top of the mast and turned and moved as if she w ­ ere dancing. Immediately they obtained a safe crossing (an ji). Afterward Lu made inquiries of everyone. At that time Li Zhen, on the same mission with the title Guardian of Righ­teousness (Baoyi lang), who had worshipped the spirit of the Holy Mound for a long time, told him all about the blessings the deity bestowed. When Lu returned home, he gave a report to the court, and the title “Smooth Crossing” (Shunji) was granted [to the spirit’s shrine].

But Liao was not finished: “Aiya! The numinous energy of the shrine was female! Well, this may have been done in ancient times! . . . ​Can the ­people rest easily with this?” In fact, it would appear the ­people could indeed “rest easily with this.” A passage in the (Chunxi) Xianxi zhi, the earliest surviving gazetteer of Xianyou district, refers to three shrines dedicated to female deities, each of whom was recognized as a shaman/wu: The Shrines of the Three Ladies (Sanfei miao) are northeast of the district town. One is the Shrine of Smooth Crossing (Shunji miao), which is dedicated to Ms. Lin of Meizhou who was a shaman/wu . . . ​Another is the Shrine of Manifest Beneficence (Zhaohui miao). There had been a female shaman/wu in Xinghua district, located in the mountainous hin-



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terland bordering Fuzhou) . . . ​The third is the Shrine of Compassionate Feeling (Cigan miao) . . . ​The three spirits have all left traces of their numinousness, and each was striking.21

In short, female shamans/wu ­were not unusual. To further the point, Niu Junkai has found as many as thirty-­two female deities devoted to the protection of mariners along the coast of the Gulf of Tonkin.22 Throughout the maritime trading networks of the southern coast, which had their roots in the pre-­Sinitic past, in other words, it was common to identify the protection of mariners with female deities. As vague as all this may be about the origins of the cult of the Divine ­Woman, however, we do know a few additional things from Liao Pengfei’s text. First, like the two male deities with whom she came to be associated in Ninghai, her cult began on an island—­recall that Ninghai had been a tuft that stood above the surrounding marshes. Islands are culturally marginal places. Sun En, it may be recalled, retreated to the islands outside the Hangzhou Bay as he or­ga­nized his rebellion in the early fifth ­century. The islanders he rallied to his cause ­were regarded as uncultured at the least, but even more relevantly appear to have included large numbers of indigenous non-­Sinitic ­people who had found offshore refuge in the face of the encroaching Sinitic hegemony. We know ­little about the inhabitants of Meizhou, yet there are empirical reasons to presume they, too, w ­ ere heavily non-­Sinitic and overwhelmingly embraced pre-­Sinitic cultural patterns. Recall as well what Yue Shi had said of the Quan lang, the “floating boat ­people,” who, as refugees from Lu Xun’s disastrous attempt to perpetuate Sun En’s rebellion, had fled up the coast ­toward Quanzhou: They ­were “the barbarian h ­ ouse­holds (yihu) of the prefecture.” Yue Shi had nothing explicit to say about their ethnicity except to call them “barbarian.” We know, however, that Chen Zheng and his son Yuanguang had encountered “manliao” in the mountains of the Zhangzhou-­Chaozhou borderlands; although there is no explicit way to connect the manliao to the inhabitants of Meizhou, to Yue Shi they ­were apparently one and the same, for Lu Xun’s refugees had “scattered across the mountains and the seas,” and “some endure to this day.” By extension, if the inhabitants of the interior uplands ­were regarded as non-­Sinitic, so the inhabitants of the offshore islands ­were considered non-­Sinitic as well. Like the mountains of the interior, the offshore islands had been a refuge for the indigenous peoples, who found themselves

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increasingly displaced in the face of Sinitic intrusion and the conversion into croplands of the wetlands on which they had relied for all remembered time. We know as well that Liao Pengfei believed Miss Lin to have been a shaman/wu “who could foretell a man’s luck and misfortune.” This is consistent with the oft-­repeated condemnation by the cultured elite, who embraced the wen values of the Central Lands and maintained that the peoples of the south “put faith in shamans and demons, and embrace illicit rites” (xin wugui, chong yinsi). Regardless of how wu was applied in the Central Lands, the ecstatic practices of Miss Lin, which led Liao Pengfei to call her a shaman/wu, appear to have had a separate derivation. She functioned at a very local level to meet the needs of her par­tic­u­lar community, but in death she became problematic; she became ling. As Liao related, “when she died, the p ­ eople erected a shrine” because a ling spirit needs to be propitiated. Were Miss Lin like Wu Xing, we could assume that shrine was initially erected to honor her memory, but she was not. Whereas Wu Xing was honored for his secular accomplishment and morphed into a deity only over time, Miss Lin was remembered for her ability to channel between the secular world of her community and the unknown world that was the realm of the gods. Notably, Ding Bogui (1171–1237), a native of Putian, in an inscription commemorating the Shrine of Smooth Crossing in Hangzhou, which had been built during the kaixi era (1205– 1207), made a stunning claim: “Some [on Meizhou] say she is a Dragon Lady (long nü).”23 Of course, this is very late, yet it is entirely consistent with a cultural heritage that believed totemic images embraced the numinous. Ding points as well to something e­ lse: Wu Xing was benign, but Miss Lin potentially was dangerous, and that in turn demanded that her spirit be placated. In time, of course, her numinous authority came to be seen as beneficial. Properly placated, her devotees believed they could turn to her for protection from drought, pestilence, and bandits. But those w ­ ere not the only “talents” Liao Pengfei mentioned: She offered protection to mariners as well. Here, however, Liao’s paeans to the deity get sticky. As he noted, “merchant vessels especially have depended [on the blessing of the god] when they have headed to the south [i.e., to the South Seas].” This passage demands some unpacking because a narrative is deeply hidden b ­ ehind it. Xu Jing’s official report on the mission to ­Korea credited a male deity from the Fuzhou area. Liao, however, tells us that Li Zhen, who is other­wise



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unknown, informed Lu Yundi that it was the Divine W ­ oman of Meizhou who had saved his ship. Xu, who held rank as court gentleman con­sul­tant (fengyi lang) and had official duties ­under Lu Yundi, was a native of Ouning district (xian) in northwestern Fujian, with direct riverine connections to Fuzhou.24 We can well imagine that he would have attributed his salvation to a deity with which he was familiar. Li Zhen, on the other hand, held a low-­ranking honorific office, “Guardian of Righ­teousness,” which does not appear among the official ranks of the Song dynasty; it was, in other words, apparently improvised for an immediate purpose.25 In contrast to Xu’s official duties, moreover, Li was simply “on the mission” (tongshi zhe). Both must have been on the same ship with Lu Yundi, for Liao tells us that only one ship survived, but their positions on the ship ­were dramatically ­different. Why, then, did Li Zhen assert, in contradiction to the higher-­ ranking Xu Jing, that the deity who appeared to save their vessel was the spirit of the Holy Mound, the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou?26 For plausible answers, we need to try to fill in some of the blanks that surround Li Zhen: Why was he given such an improvised title? Why was he on the same ship with Xu Jing and Lu Yundi? Li, I suggest, was a native of Putian and a ship captain. It was common practice for the Song court to hire, or requisition, merchant ships for diplomatic missions such as that of Lu Yundi. It is, furthermore, well established in sources such as the Koryosa, the official history of the Korean Koryo/ Gaoli kingdom, that ships from Fujian regularly traversed the route between Shandong and the Korean peninsula; some years earlier, in fact, the court had actually retained Huang Zhen, a captain sailing out of Quanzhou, as its representative in a diplomatic negotiation with the Koreans because of his well-­established ties as a trader.27 Li Zhen, as master of the ship actually bearing the imperial envoy himself, appropriately would have been given a title, even if an improvised one. Furthermore, because Liao tells us that Li “had worshipped the spirit of the Holy Mound for a long time,” we are surely correct to identify him as a native of the region. In fact, because Liao’s text is preserved in the genealogy of the Baitang Li, no doubt this was Li Zhen’s kin group. Baitang Village lay just outside Hanjiang town, a subsidiary center of the Xinghua Plain and a center of commerce; it was, moreover, very near Ninghai Village and the Holy Mound. The local Li kin group had not been prominent in the social or academic circles of the region—as we ought to expect if they w ­ ere producing

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merchants and captains.28 In this light, however, it is striking when Liao tells us of Li Fu, who earned local fame as a general benefactor of regional development29 and whom he identifies as his teacher. Li was the sponsor of the rebuilding of the Shrine of the Holy Mound, which spurred Liao to write his inscription, t­ oward which he donated seventy thousand of his own cash. Although Liao does not state the connection, Li Fu surely was a kinsman of Li Zhen in the Baitang kin group. That is already a circumstantial conclusion, but it offers hints onto which we can yet again pour reasoned speculation. We learn, for example, from a text compiled by Huang Gongdu (1109–1156) in 1156—­just six years a­ fter Liao Pengfei’s inscription— of the Plum Mountain Academy (Meifeng shuyuan) in the Putian district city. Huang, a native of Putian and accomplished member of a prominent local kin group, tells us the academy was established by “Mr. Li of the Detached Pavilion of Baitang” (Baitang Danxuan Li xiansheng, which was almost certainly a pen name [hao]).30 It is clear from the manner of his identification by Huang that Mr. Li of the academy was a member of the Baitang kin group. Furthermore, just as Liao identifies Li Fu as his teacher, so it is clear from his role at the academy that this Mr. Li was a mentor. Finally, in an echo of Li Fu’s generous patronage of the Shrine of Smooth Crossing, this Mr. Li was a fabulously generous patron: Huang Gongdu tells us that he underwrote Buddhist temples, financed reconstruction of the Putian prefectural school, constructed seawalls “to protect the ­people’s livelihood,” and built bridges and shelters “to give comfort to travelers”—­and all of this was “financed from his own resources.” If Li Fu was not himself Li “of the Detached Pavilion” and the founder of the Plum Mountain Academy, he and the esteemed Mr. Li ­were clearly kin, they equally clearly ­were developing a new focus on elite education among their kin, and they ­were wealthy. All of this points to an emerging breakthrough among the Baitang Li. Not only was Li Fu—­and now allow me to presume he was indeed the founder of the academy and subject of Huang Gongdu’s inscription—­able to position himself as a man of learning, itself as much an economic as a social breakthrough, but he was also able to donate large sums ­toward the construction of shrines and other good works. The question is, how did Li Fu come by such wealth? His presumed kinsman Li Zhen was, I have suggested, master of a merchant ship; this would explain not only his devotion to the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou but also Liao’s emphasis on her protection of mariners



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engaged in long-­distance trade. Although Li Fu may have been trying to reposition his kin as members of the regional academic elite, the ­family’s wealth, we can conclude, derived from trade.31 That is a plausible explanation of Li Zhen’s role in the mission, but how did it connect to the cult of the Divine ­Woman? It is central to my analy­sis of Meizhou that its economy was oriented to the sea. The p ­ eople of Meizhou, ­after all, have always existed in intimate proximity with the waters that surround their island, as did the inhabitants of Ninghai. Notably of the three local concerns that Liao Pengfei mentions, only drought explicitly links to agriculture, and fears of drought, especially on an island with no source of fresh ­water other than rainfall, need not be agricultural. The ­people of Meizhou, then as now, ­were first and foremost fishermen. Indeed, in one of the few discussions of the island from the Song, Lin Guangchao (1114–1178), a literatus of Putian, commented as follows in a letter to a kinsman: At this point in my life I want nothing more than to read books and to pass my days in disorder. I overheard someone talking of a mountain in the sea called Meizhou. It’s only about five to seven li from the shore and easy to get to. It is oriented around two mountains, and there are about a thousand ­house­holds without a single person who can read. There are maybe a few qing of land that one can cultivate, so one could eat some rice with one’s fish. How easy it must be!32

Lin dreamed of building a retreat on the island for his retirement, where he could “eat rice and fish” because that was all the island produced.33 These ­were the p ­ eople who launched the Divine W ­ oman’s cult, and they ­were fishermen and their families. As their Divine ­Woman, Miss Lin protected the interests of her own community. Chief among these, it is clear, was protection of the fishermen, who turned to her as they set out upon the seas in pursuit of their livelihood. And the islanders, I have suggested, w ­ ere descendants of the non-­Sinitic indigenous inhabitants. The Divine W ­ oman was their deity. WU TAO

There are several reasons to believe that the Divine ­Woman, what­ever her own ethnicity, was the product of a local cultural environment that emphasized the pre-­Sinitic indigenous heritage. But she was not alone among the deities with regional roots. Although a survey of the lit­ erature on Fujian would reveal many deities that likely had a similar

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origin, a second to consider in this discussion is Wu Tao, known more formally as Wu “the Perfected One” (Wu zhenren) or Lord of Kind Assistance, Manifest Loyalty, and Heroic Compassion (Ciji zhongxian yinghui hou). To l­ater ages he has been the Great Life-­ Protecting Lord (Baosheng dadi), although it is unclear exactly when this name emerged.34 An inscription by Yang Zhi dated 1209 and a second, undated inscription by Zhuang Xia (d. 1217) provide the earliest extant texts devoted to his cult.35 Zhuang, a native of Yongchun district (xian) in Quanzhou and the older of the two, earned a “presented scholar” degree in 1181. Yang, a native of Longxi district in Zhangzhou, earned a “presented scholar” degree in 1208. Referencing “genealogical rec­ ords,” Yang Zhi is the earliest source to provide specific dates for the life of Wu Tao: (979–1035); Zhuang Xia repeated the dates but without indicating a source. Neither had anything more to say about Wu Tao’s origins. As the legends connected with the Divine ­Woman say she spent her life on Meizhou, however, those linked to Wu Tao say he lived on the border between Quanzhou and Zhangzhou in an area called Qingjiao, located ­today in Tong’an district (xian) in Quanzhou. Whereas Miss Lin was reputed to be in direct contact with the numinous realm of the deities, through whom she could see the ­future, Wu Tao is extolled even ­today for his prowess as a healer, a talent that both Yang Zhi and Zhuang Xia mention. As Zhuang put it, “He practiced medicine . . . ​Not a day passed that p ­ eople did not clamor at his door, and without regard to w ­ hether they ­were rich or poor he treated them. ­People all got what they desired, and near and far he was regarded as a god (shen).”36 Yang noted that “far and wide he was called a ‘divine healer’ (shen yi),” whom “the village elders (xiang zhi fulao) recognized as ‘The Perfected Person of Medical Numinosity’ ” (Yiling zhenren): “­After he had died, his numinous distinction grew even more. When someone was hurt or ill, they did not go to the doctors but relied entirely on the Lord (hou).” As his numinous reputation grew, his devotees rejected any other medical advice, relying entirely on what they received from Wu Tao through prayer and ritual. To this point the god’s trajectory seems very parallel to that of the Divine ­Woman, only it was not so ­simple. According to Yang Zhi, during the shaoxing reign era (1131–1160) Qingjiao was threatened by bandits. The villagers turned to Wu Tao for protection, and the village was spared trou­ble. In 1151, in recognition of the god’s successful intervention, the “village notable” (xiang shangshu) Yan Shilu



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(1119–1193; 1157 “presented scholar”) petitioned the court to award the shrine a name; in response, the emperor granted the name “Kind Assistance” (Ciji).37 By the early Southern Song the Yan of Qingjiao had established themselves as one of the leading kin groups of greater Zhangzhou. Yan Shilu had the most illustrious c­ areer of his kinsmen, a trajectory that included two stints as magistrate in neighboring Quanzhou as well head of the Board of Rites in Hangzhou, although he was not alone among his kin in gaining access to the bureaucratic world. The recorded history of the Qingjiao Yan, however, begins with Yan Cao, who lived in the eleventh c­ entury. Although l­ ittle contemporary information survives about Cao, ­later rec­ords maintain that he was associated with Cai Xiang, with whom he is said to have “exchanged inscriptions” ( jiao jinshi),38 and Cai’s poem “On Being Apart from Yan Cao ­after His Failing the Exams” is in fact the only Song source to reference him: Four times he tried the examinations, but without success. He then was lost for twenty years. In despair he left his land bearing the hurt, Drowning in wine before the spring winds.39

An eighteenth-­century gazetteer adds that he “withdrew” (bu yin) to Qingjiao Village.40 Yan Cao retreated, it appears, to Qingjiao a frustrated, even despairing, scholar who had failed the examinations four times. Though we cannot know at what examination level that failure occurred, we can conclude that Yan had sat on the edge of the world of scholarship, in which Cai Xiang was so deeply entrenched. Yan Cao’s life thereafter is opaque. ­Later sources say Cai Xiang sponsored him as head of the local school, although Cai’s poem seems to suggest that may have been prior to his emotional collapse following his repeated examination failure. The term bu yin is most commonly used in reference to withdrawing from the world, especially the world of wen scholarship so central to the examinations. Regardless, no Qingjiao Yan appeared on the lists of “presented scholars” from Zhangzhou for at least two to three generations thereafter, u ­ ntil Cao’s great-­grandson Yan Xizhe earned a “presented scholar” degree in 1132.41 During the following de­cades Yan ­were occasionally listed among the successful scholars, but probably more emblematic of their social position is an entry in the Ming dynasty Comprehensive Rec­ord

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of the Myriad Surnames on Yan Tangchen, who is identified elsewhere as a descendent of Yan Cao. Referring to his ­family as a “prominent kin group” ( juzu) of Longxi, the Comprehensive Rec­ord ­explains that Tangchen, who did not earn a degree, instead earned the gratitude of “the village ­people” (li ren) because he constructed an embankment rendering a tidal ford safe to cross: “[T]he village ­people established a shrine (ci)” in his memory.42 Tangchen and his kin, in other words, w ­ ere exemplary of the nonacademic local elite described by Robert Hymes’s study of Fuzhou ( Jiangxi).43 The Yan thus ­were not unlike the Baitang Li, who had promoted the cult of the Divine ­Woman. They, too, had gained a place among the regional elite in the early years of the Southern Song dynasty, a position that facilitated the promotion of Wu Tao in pursuit of imperial recognition. It was Yan Shilu, in fact, whom Yang Zhi linked to the appeal for an imperial name placard for the god’s reconstructed shrine in 1151. Although a few of his kin followed Shilu to earn degrees and serve in the imperial bureaucracy, far more seem, like Tangchen, to have been local magnates, men of authority and means but fringe members of a wider network of elites. The Yan, in other words, did not comprehensively break away from their village context. And in that context they ­were closely identified with the god’s cult. Although we cannot directly connect Yan Cao to the cult, when Yan Shilu sponsored the reconstruction of Wu Tao’s Qingjiao shrine in 1151, he was apparently following a long ­family association with the cult, a relationship that continued in 1185, when Tangchen, in cooperation with “the elders,” directed the restoration of the shrine. Finally, Yang Zhi, author of the 1209 inscription, was married to a Yan dau­gh­ter.44 As the leading ­family in Qingjiao, the Yan had assumed the role of patron of the shrine’s deity. Neither Yang Zhi nor Zhuang Xia discuss Wu Tao’s medical techniques. As his legend subsequently elaborated, it went so far as to claim that his skill came to the attention of the emperor in Kaifeng, the far-­off imperial capital, who summoned him to treat his empress when the latter suffered an unexplained illness; Wu Tao, it is said, cured the empress when no one ­else could.45 Yet his legacy in the Chinese medical tradition is slight. Indeed, Barend ter Haar has gone so far as to say he contributed nothing to Chinese medical tradition.46 But that ought not be surprising; in fact, one might say, that is the point. Although Yang and Zhuang avoid the term, Wu was a local shaman; it bears noting that it was the “village elders,” men who lived in



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the same cultural milieu as he did and who relied on him for their well-­ being, who praised him as “perfected,” rather than anybody of higher standing. A similar point has been made by a range of modern scholars, including Zhu Tianshun, Xie Chongguang, and Zheng Zhenman.47 His healing arts, thus, ­were not those of the elite medical tradition of orthodox culture; he drew, instead, on local traditions of healing. This, in turn, links him to the indigenous, non-­Sinitic culture and its close identification with shamanism. Just as the cult of the Divine ­Woman arose in the not-­wen context of an offshore island, Wu Tao came from a peripheral area, the Zhangzhou-­Quanzhou border region. This was exactly the kind of area where orthodox influence, be it po­ liti­cal, cultural, or other­wise, has always been weakest. We know nothing about his heritage and thus nothing about his ethnicity. It is certainly possi­ble that in some sense he identified with the Sinitic immigrants who w ­ ere entering southern Fujian in growing numbers; indeed, he may have descended from Sinitic immigrants through breakaway lines that had settled on the peripheries, a social pattern that I have attested elsewhere.48 Regardless, in the peripheral zone where he lived, just as I have argued of the island where Miss Lin spent her life, indigenous pre-­Sinitic cultural patterns w ­ ere still dominant; as a late imperial biography of Yan Cao stated of Qingjiao, “wen learning had yet to flourish” (wenjiao weixing), so eerily reminiscent of Lin Guangchao’s description of Meizhou, where not “a single person could read.”49 It was in those peripheries where the not-­wen shamanistic heritage that is centrally identified with indigenous southern cultures in the disapproving discourse of the Central Lands was felt most deeply, where the local ­people, themselves of hybrid ethnicity that fused assimilated indigenes with the déclassé breakaway lines of Sinitic immigrants, believed most strongly in the numinous world of spirits, and it is those pre-­Sinitic patterns that we hear echoed most strongly in his legends. A final legend recounted by Yang Zhi emphasizes Wu Tao’s link to the pre-­Sinitic heritage. Soon ­after the Song court had fled the north and settled in Hangzhou, marking the transition from Northern to Southern Song, the Zhangzhou-­Quanzhou border area was wracked by bandit vio­lence, a pattern that was widespread in southern Fujian. As Yang Zhi wrote, “the p ­ eople ­were like scurrying rats, holding their hands in despair and placing their faith blindly in the protection of the deity.” The decisive b ­ attle, where the bandits w ­ ere wiped out, was fought on the site of the Dragon Pond Pavilion, which was an early

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shrine dedicated to Wu Tao and must have been damaged in the course of ­battle. Subsequently, Yan Shilu urged the construction of a new shrine to honor the deity in recognition of his merit. The new shrine, however, was not built on the old site. As the ­people celebrated the completion of the new structure, the god possessed a workman: “[P]erhaps he was drunk, or maybe deranged.” In a “loud voice” he yelled out, demanding that the shrine be returned to its original location. On excavating the site, the p ­ eople found three earthen jars that Wu Tao himself had buried, within which a green snake was curled up: “Among those who witnessed this, none failed to feel the aura of the god” (mo bu shensong). In death, Wu Tao and the snake had become one, and the snake, as we established earlier, was emblematic of the pre-­Sinitic culture. CULTS AND CULTURAL ADAPTATION

I argue that both the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou and the Wu Tao ­were products of the pre-­Sinitic culture. Yet both have “biographies” that fit them comfortably into the hybrid world that evolved around them. In im­por­tant ways, however, those biographies make my point. Traditions surrounding the Divine ­Woman, as Zhu Tianshun has demonstrated, had not fully consolidated ­until the mid-­to ­later Ming dynasty (sixteenth to seventh centuries). Nevertheless, the deity’s personified identity as Miss Lin was current at least by the mid-­to ­later twelfth ­century, when Hong Mai (1123–1201) in his oft-­cited Rec­ord of the Listener referred to Miss Lin’s shrine (Lin furen miao) in Haikou village, located adjacent to Ninghai, where her presence was felt in 1086. Regarding the Haikou shrine Hong wrote, “No one knows when it was established. It is not large, but its numinous distinction has long been apparent.”50 Moreover, writing in the thirteenth c­ entury, Liu Kezhuang (1178–1260) observed: “The Lady (fei) was a young girl. She flourished at the same time as the Perfected Person of the Jianlong Era ( Jianlong zhenren),”51 as Zhao Kuangyin (927–976), the founding emperor of the Song (r. 960–976), came to be known in pop­ u­lar culture.52 The link to the founding of the Song was reemphasized by Zhang Zhu (1282–1368), a Yuan-­dynasty scholar who wrote: “The deity was born when the Song pacified the Five Dynasties, which was about three hundred years ago.”53 In short, by the thirteenth c­ entury the elements of the goddess’s l­ ater hagiography ­were in place: She was the apotheosized Miss Lin, who had lived in the earliest years of the Song dynasty.54



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At least two points of significance to the civilizing of the Divine ­ oman are buried in all this. First is the surname Lin, which is one of W the earliest and most prominent surnames to make an imprint on local history. Lin is among the most common of Chinese surnames; thus all ancestral claims must be subject to a degree of suspicion. As I have explained elsewhere, however, a prominent Lin kin group settled in the Putian region early in the Tang dynasty (seventh ­century). However, more im­por­tant than the vague origins of the Puyang Lin, as they ­were known, is their well-­attested per­for­mance in the competetive world of the imperial examinations through the latter half of the Tang and into the centuries that followed.55 We have no way to determine ­whether a Lin kin group was established on Meizhou in the tenth ­century or w ­ hether any such group could be tied to the Puyang Lin of the mainland. What is im­por­tant is that in attributing this surname to the Divine ­Woman, her hagiographers ­were affirming, if not creating, a connection to a kin group whose rec­ord in the civil culture of the Song was established and ongoing. The Puyang Lin embodied the values of civilization, of wen that the hagiographers so much wanted the Divine ­Woman to share. Second was the tie between the Divine W ­ oman’s life and the Song dynasty. ­Later tradition asserted that she had been born in 960, the very year Zhao Kuangyin seized the throne and proclaimed the dynasty. Although scholars have long identified the preceding Tang (618– 906) as the apex of China’s literary heritage, to l­ater eras the Song (960–1279) was the time when the values of civilization, of wen, penetrated below the scholarly elite to become generalized throughout the population. As pop­u­lar lit­erature flourished in the centuries that followed, stories w ­ ere almost routinely set in the Song.56 Ascribing her date of birth to the year the dynasty was founded linked her intimately to the new dynasty’s civilizing mission. The “biography,” I suggest, is a created myth intended to “civilize” a deity with “uncivil” roots. The Divine W ­ oman of Meizhou, I believe, had a history that predated the consolidation of Sinitic cultural control over southern Fujian. Like the myriad deities of the southern coast identified as female and who protected their devotees as they ventured onto the open seas in search of livelihood and trade, the transcendent Divine ­Woman had offered protection to the ­people of Meizhou, and most likely only to the ­people of the island, for many years—so many, as the traditions say, that no one could recall her origins. Because she embodied the not-­wen heritage of the indigenous

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culture, however, in the eyes of the emerging regional elite she was dangerous; she had ling. She needed to be civilized; at least she needed to become consonant with wen values. Thus a narrative that the elite could endorse began to emerge: She had a real h ­ uman origin, the dau­gh­ ter of a f­amily that sported one of the most illustrious, most wen surnames of the area; she lived as the most wen of all dynasties took power and did away with the problematic kingdoms of the preceding interregnum.57 A similar argument can be made about Wu Tao, albeit with im­por­tant differences. Like Miss Lin, Wu Tao was alleged to have lived in the very early Song dynasty. In contrast to the many centuries it took to fully define Miss Lin’s dates and her surrounding legend, however, those of Wu Tao are cited with great precision by Yang Zhi, citing a genealogical rec­ord, in his 1209 inscription: “Wu Tao was born on the 15th day of the 3rd month of the 4th year of the taiping xinguo era [April 15, 979], and died on the 2nd day of the 5th month of the 3rd year of the jingyou era of the Renzong Emperor [May 29, 1036].” Such precision is problematic; Miss Lin’s ­later hagiographies are equally precise, and genealogical rec­ords of birth and death dates rarely go beyond years. But Yang’s precision, echoed by Zhuang Xia in his companion inscription, proves the traditions surrounding Wu Tao had consolidated far more rapidly. Furthermore, in contrast to 960, the year tradition claimed Miss Lin was born, 979 lacks a strong historical echo—­Chen Hongjin (914–985), the last autonomous warlord of southern Fujian during the interregnum c­ entury, accepted Song authority in 978, bringing a c­ entury of local autonomy to a close, but nothing exceptional is recalled about 979. In short, the way the tradition is constructed makes Wu Tao a far more plausible historical figure than Miss Lin—­not proof, certainly, but plausibility. But that tells us ­little about the man or his heritage. What­ever his personal ethnicity, he clearly drew heavily on the pre-­ Sinitic indigenous traditions as a shaman and healer; as Yan Cao’s biography recalled, “wen learning had yet to flourish” in Qingjiao. Wu Tao, I propose, drew on indigenous shamanistic tradition to assume the role of healer among the culturally not-­wen ­people in the po­liti­ cally contested border between Quanzhou and Zhangzhou. For a myriad of possi­ble reasons—­perhaps he had been unusually successful, or maybe his spirit was feared—in death he, too, had ling; in death he, too, was deified and honored with shrines.



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As embodiments of pre-­Sinitic traditions, both deities ­were a threat to elite identity. Both represented foci around which the culturally alien, not-­wen peoples of the peripheries could rally; as such, both ­were dangerous. Both needed to be “civilized.” This meant giving them attributes that ­were consonant with the values of civilization and the culture of wen. This was not a deliberate pro­cess but an accumulation of legends that merged both indigenous tradition and elite values. The Divine W ­ oman took on ­human origins; indeed, a ­human origin appears to be among the most im­por­tant attributes of Chinese gods. She was devoted to her ­family, which was an expression of filial values, and she was loyal to the state. Wu Tao was learned, a teacher of the Dao. He, too, served the state, even traveling to the imperial capital to minister to the empress. This leads us ultimately back to the wider body of theory and study I introduced early in this chapter. The Divine ­Woman of Meizhou and Wu Tao had ­different origins, but they became exemplary of a phenomenon that is widespread throughout the Chinese world: the “earth god” (tudi shen), perhaps more appropriately rendered the “god of place,” for soil is exemplary of place. The Divine ­Woman and Wu Tao are, therefore, not unique but illustrative. My argument, however, is that their identity as “gods of place” is something they became as Chinese culture consolidated around them; what they w ­ ere in their origins, on the other hand, was something more appropriately defined in terms of indigenous, pre-­Sinitic culture. The culture that developed around them, that defined their biographies, their persona, and their role as gods of place, however, was yet again something d ­ ifferent, something new. This is the culture that t­ oday we call “Chinese.” It is a hybridized culture that drew heavily from the indigenous cultures of the non-­Sinitic South even as it imposed an overlay of values that continued to be defined in the context of the Sinitic culture of wen. The following chapter looks in more detail at one additional deity, the Lord of Manifest Kindness, to trace in greater detail how an indigenous deity morphed into an exemplar of the culture of wen.

Chapter Eight

Civilizing the God of Baidu A Case Study in Civilizing Strategy

I

n 1138 Fang Lüe (1106 jinshi) of Baidu Village, a small community north of the Putian district city and near Wu Xing’s Yanshou retention dam, composed an inscription to commemorate the reconstruction of the Shrine of Auspicious Response (Xiangying miao).1 Fang Lüe was a member of the Baidu Fang kin group and a regionally prominent supporter of the “Fellowship of the Way,” the Confucian reform movement known as Daoxue that had its origins with the bro­th­ers Cheng Hao (1032–1085) and Cheng Yi (1033–1107), with whom his grand­father had been closely associated. Lüe had a famous library, known as the “Tower of Ten Thousand Scrolls” (Wanjuan lou), holding more than a thousand boxes (si) of books2 and was a patron to kinsmen such as Fang Zhu (1138 jinshi), who himself became a prominent mentor to Lin Guangchao (1114–1178; 1163 jinshi), Minnan’s leading Daoxue scholar of the mid-­twelfth ­century.3 Fang Lüe’s Baidu kin, it is clear, ­were prominent in regional Confucian reform circles. Baidu Village was and is an unremarkable community at the base of a hillock on the northwestern edge of the Putian Plain. According to the reconstructed historical outline of the Putian coast developed by Kenneth Dean and colleagues at McGill University, prior to the several projects such as the Yanshou Weir (discussed in the preceding chapter), which drained the basin and opened the Putian/Xinghua Plain to agriculture, the hillock lay just b ­ ehind the shoreline and the intervening tidal saltmarsh; it was, in other words, the first high ground looking out over the wetlands. Much like the Holy Mound discussed 156



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in chapter 7, this must have been one of those dry places on which the indigenous population could camp and from which they had long been able to access the riches of the marshes and the open waters that lay beyond. Yet even as the nearer lowlands ­were drained, Baidu remained marginalized. As Fang Lüe admitted, “The soil [surrounding the Baidu hillock] is all saline [a claim that is consistent with a tidal saltmarsh], and all the arable land is dry and without the benefit of streams.” A ­later commentator added, without attribution but surely drawing on a much earlier source: “Mr. Wu’s Yanshou weir irrigated the plain. But the land in Zunxian canton [where Baidu Village is located] is elevated and gains no benefit.”4 Fang Lüe began his inscription by recounting a series of honors bestowed on the shrine and its god by imperial edict in the last de­ cades of the Northern Song: In 1107 the emperor Huizong (r. 1101–1126) had business in the southern suburbs [of Kaifeng, the imperial capital], where he conducted sacrifices to the myriad deities. At this time, he called for reports to the local officials on the gods who ­were not included on the sacrificial register, be they the gods of famous mountains and great rivers or those gods that had performed meritorious ser­vice to the ­people. Thus the court first learned of the merit of this god from the ­people [i.e., the devotees]. The following year (1108) the t­ emple was granted the name “Shrine of Auspicious Response.”5 Nine years ­later (1116) the emperor conducted another sacrificial rite to the myriad deities at the Imperial Sacrificial Hall, and the ­people of our community again reported the merits of the god to the court and requested that he receive a title. The Court of Imperial Sacrifices then proposed “Lord of Revealed Response” [Xianying hou]. The emperor said, “I am pleased. I feel that only this god merits such prestige! It is appropriate that a place have a deity to look on so favorably.” Then the emperor took up his brush and signed [the edict] naming the god Lord of Manifest Kindness [Xianhui hou]. This was in the fourth year of xuanhe (1122). The god [henceforth] should be treated as a noble.6

With this recognition, the court officially acknowledged the orthodox (zheng) status of the deity and his cult, an im­por­tant step in the politics of the late Northern Song as the court undertook a concerted effort to identify local and regional cults that could be used to stabilize the court’s authority.

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Neither the shrine nor the god that was honored by Huizong, however, ­were the original. Of the shrine, Fang Lüe noted: “By the Five Dynasties era [907–960] there already was a shrine where blood sacrifices ­were conducted by our ­people. The elders recall that the old ­temple was located north of the post station road.” This would place the original shrine perhaps at the base of the hillock, for the Song post station road (yi lu) must have run between the base and the adjacent coastline. We have no way of knowing w ­ hether a village already existed at this site as well. ­Later, Fang recalled, the original shrine had been destroyed in a storm: One eve­ning there was terrible wind and rain and awful thunder and lightning that seemed to arise from within the t­ emple. [The p ­ eople sought out the source of the disturbance to] make offerings and burn incense, but suddenly they had no idea where [the sacrificial vessels] ­were. The following day the elders looked for them, and found them at the base of an ancient banyan tree on Turtle Lake Mountain (Guihu shan). They drew near and venerated [the spot], and this is the location of the pre­ sent ­temple.

The ancient name of the hillock has long been forgotten—­today it is Baidu Hill, but the shrine has apparently existed where it was relocated ever since. As with the shrine to the Divine W ­ oman on Meizhou or that to the two male deities whom she joined in Ninghai (discussed in chapter 7), beyond Fang Lüe’s vague comments we have no information about the shrine’s origin or even about the deity or deities it commemorated. We may get some hints about the latter, however, from a linked pair of traditions that date to the ­later Tang dynasty at the latest and may well be much older. In praising the location of the shrine Fang Lüe wrote, “it faces Lord Jug Mountain (Hu shan), and Chen Precipice (Chen yan) embraces it from b ­ ehind,” allusions to two prominent features of the Putian Plain long associated with numinous traditions of sageliness. Of Jug Mountain, a prominent peak that defines the southern edge of the Putian Plain, Wang Cun’s Yuanfeng jiuyu zhi (Treatise on the Nine Regions compiled in the Yuanfeng Era), a comprehensive gazetteer prefaced 1080, notes: “Once there was a hermit on this mountain. He met an old man who led him to the mountain’s



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peak, where there was a shrine with no pavilion. [Invoking an old Daoist proverb], the old man told him, ‘This jug (hu, an allusion to the shrine) holds the sun and the moon.’ ”7 Huang Zhongzhao’s fifteenth-­ century BaMin tongzhi (Comprehensive Gazetteer of the Eight Regions of Min) further explained that the ­people of the Putian region thereafter called the mountain Lord Jug Mountain. An untitled poem cited in numerous sources and attributed to the tenth-­century essayist Huang Tao invokes the myth. If the attribution is legitimate, the poem would push the tradition’s horizon back at least into the interregnum, if not much earlier; unfortunately, we have no way to prove its legitimacy.8 Traditions surrounding Chen Precipice, which lay north of the Putian district city and similarly defined the periphery of the plain, are not as well developed. Zhu Mu’s Fangyu shenglan (Topographic Guide to Scenic Spots), compiled in the thirteenth ­century, has the earliest reference in surviving rec­ords: “Once there was a hermit named Chen ­here.”9 The sixteenth-­century Minshu (Book of Min), compiled by He Qiaoyuan, is more helpful, if less contemporary. Citing “an old gazetteer” ( jiu jing), it recalls: “[T]here ­were two sages of Putian surnamed Chen and Hu (‘jug’). Sage Chen sequestered himself in the north, and Sage Hu in the south. . . . ​The village ­people (xiang ren) venerate these two sages . . . ​and have established shrines [in their memory].”10 Given the links to the two sites established by Fang Lüe, it seems likely the original Baidu shrine, “located north of the post station road,” was dedicated to these two legendary sages, who appear to have been among the earliest stratum of local deities.11 Regardless, by the ­later eleventh ­century this was no longer the case. In fact, the shrine had been “civilized,” which is to say that, through “transformation” (hua), its rites and identity had been altered to conform more closely with the ideals of the culture of wen. A brief entry in the Song huiyao (Assembled Statutes of the Song) headed “Shrine of the Village Deity” (Xiangsheshen ci) pre­sents one interpretation of what transpired: “In the fifth month of 1107 the shrine formerly known as the Shrine of the Great Official (Daguan miao) . . . ​in Putian was granted the name ‘Auspicious Response’ (Xiangying) by the emperor Huizong. [The god] was enfeoffed (feng) as the Lord of Manifest Kindness.”12 To the compilers of the Huiyao, this was a village shrine dedicated to a local deity known as the Great Official, which by imperial grace had been renamed the Shrine of Auspicious Response.13 Fang Lüe, writing in the early twelfth c­ entury, immediately following the

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consolidation of power by the relocated Song court, offered a more elaborate narrative: As for the name “Shrine of the Great Official,” it is said that there was a local man who r­ ose to high rank. On retirement he returned to live out his old age in the village, where he would lead his younger kin (zi di) to join with their elders. Each year on the day of the village festival (she) those among the young who w ­ ere especially talented would go before the god(s) to pray for an abundant harvest. Then they would carefully set out the plates and goblets and spread the ritual vessels. They would bow humbly and ascend into the hall by order of age and with great filiality. It was just like the ancient village wine-­drinking [rite]. The village ­people took great plea­sure [in the rites], and so they named the shrine.

This paragraph is laden with information. First, Fang Lüe makes clear that the name “Shrine of the Great Official” developed within the village culture. It was not, in other words, granted by imperial benediction or by any other external source; the villagers themselves had given their deity a name and thus an identity that moved beyond what­ever or whomever the shrine had honored before. As the name took hold, the shrine came to be identified with a single well-­defined deity, a deity, moreover, that was himself (for an official must be male) identified with one of the most im­por­tant criteria of orthodox culture: He was an official. He was as well identified with the annual rite of the village festival. The she festival already had a long history across the empire; it was a way for villagers to honor the deities that protected their livelihoods; no doubt the annual cele­bration in Baidu did not begin at the initiative of the Great Official. What was new ­were the rites he initiated; these w ­ ere rites through which the Baidu Fang—­for the text defines all the participants as kin of the Great Official, and he, as will be clear, was himself of the Baidu kin group—­affirmed their extended kin connections by holding a celebratory feast and then “bow[ing] humbly and ascend[ing] into the hall by order of age and with great filiality.” The eleventh ­century was a transitional moment in the history of orthodox kinship practice in China. Long considered the privilege of the elite, rites of extended kinship are deeply encoded in the classical lit­erature that defined the culture of wen, and ­were being appropriated by the emerging elites of the southeast. Families ­were



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experimenting with venues and developing rites through which to affirm their extended kin identity.14 This was especially im­por­tant to the Baidu Fang. Just who the Baidu Fang ­were has long been the subject of debate not just by modern scholars but by the Fang themselves. By the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, in addition to the Baidu kin group, two additional, distinct Fang kin groups w ­ ere well established in the greater Putian area: the Zhuzi and the Fangshan Fang. Where they had all come from and how closely they w ­ ere related is uncertain.15 Three sources, all from the early thirteenth ­century, offer conflicting evidence. As he set about examining the genealogical rec­ords of his own Zhuzi kin group, the most prominent and the wealthiest of the three and the only one that was based in the Putian district city, Fang Dacong (1183– 1247) was deeply interested in these questions and conducted what remains the most detailed analy­sis. Because of the possibility that the other Fang could lay claim to some of the resources, both fiscal and social, of the Zhuzi line if a relationship could be proven, this was an im­por­tant issue to resolve. In a series of essays he explored the origins of the Zhuzi line and their links to the Baidu and the Fangshan Fang. Following the well-­established orthodox explanation of his own kin group’s origins, Fang Dacong traced the arrival of his Zhuzi kin in Putian to Fang Tingfan, who was said to have been a native of Muzhou (Liangzhe) in the Hangzhou hinterland. Tingfan, Zhuzi tradition claimed, had been dispatched in the last years of the Tang to a series of prefectural positions in Fujian; as the Tang collapsed he chose to find refuge from the turmoil to the north and made a new home in the comparative security and stability of Putian.16 To Fang Dacong and his kinsmen this was not controversial; what was controversial ­were the origins of the other Fang, especially those of Baidu, who explicitly claimed kinship with the Zhuzi line. In a letter to Fang Zhitai (1204 –1254) of Baidu, who pressed the Zhuzi Fang to recognize the putative relationship, Fang Dacong expressed his residual skepticism: “In my heart I always doubted this.” However, Zhitai shared an updated copy of his own genealogy, which traced the Baidu Fang to one Fang Weng, identified in the text as the son of a concubine of Fang Tingfan. On this basis, Dacong was persuaded that perhaps the Baidu line was his kin.17 Indeed, in a letter to Fang Cai (1197–1256), also of the Zhuzi line, Dacong identified Fang Zhitai as “my kin” (wu zong).18 Despite his concession, however, Fang Dacong was never fully comfortable with this resolution, a discomfort that surely was not

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eased by other scholars who reached ­ different conclusions. Liu Kezhuang (1187–1269), whose vast collected works are by far the most extensive evidence on the society and culture of southern Fujian in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, was asked by “his good friend,” the same Fang Zhitai, to prepare a funerary inscription for the latter’s grand­father. Like Fang Dacong, Liu consulted the Baidu genealogy offered by Zhitai, only his reading was slightly ­different: The ancestors of the Baidu line indeed had spent time in the Putian district city, most particularly in the “Crow Mountain” (Wu shan) section of the city, where Fang Dacong’s Zhuzi kin ­were centered, but then “the prefectural master” (fu jun) Fang Yao had resettled in Baidu.19 Liu had no comment on exactly who Fang Yao was or why or even when he had relocated, although the claim that he had passed through the Crow Mountain district argues strongly for a link to the Zhuzi kin group. Except that he identified the first Fang to ­settle in Baidu as Yao rather than Weng—­two characters, it should be noted, that plausibly could be confused in a handwritten manuscript—­Liu Kezhuang’s narrative is not in conflict with the narrative recalled by Fang Dacong. Liu went on to identify Yao as the great-­grand­father of Fang Jun; this presumably would place Yao at some point in the tenth ­century and so is plausibly consistent with an identity as a distaff son of Fang Tingfan. Furthermore, although Tingfan’s six recognized sons all shared the generational character “ren” 仁 in their personal name, Fang Yao did not. Typically, sons of d ­ ifferent mothers w ­ ere recognized with d ­ ifferent generational characters, especially if they ­were the son of a concubine. ­Whether the first to ­settle in Baidu was Weng or Yao, that neither had the character “ren” in his name is at least consistent with the outlines of the tradition. All is consistent, that is, u ­ ntil we get to the account of Zhang Ding (early thirteenth c­ entury). He was a native of northwestern Fujian and thus not part of the closely connected circle of Putian colleagues that produced the myriad Fang as well as Liu Kezhuang; in fact, there is no reason to believe he had any relationship to the Putian kin groups. In his preface to “Collection of Words and Actions of Famous Sages and Their Clans,” his most famous legacy, Zhang wrote: “Regarding the several Fang of Putian, in the late Tang [Fang] Shu came from Gushi district in Guangzhou.20 One who was called Yue settled west of the Baidu Reservoir (tang). And one who was called Da, who served as the magistrate of Quanzhou (Quanzhou changshi) during the Five



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Dynasties, subsequently settled in Fangshan and then in Youyang Town (zhen, located in the northern interior of Xianyou district).”21 Zhang Ding made several claims that had no echo in the work of ­either Fang Dacong or Liu Kezhuang. He linked the Putian Fang to the Gushi immigration, a deeply problematic claim by itself that harks back to the ninth-­century band of migrants from Gushi district, led by the bro­th­ers Wang Chao and Wang Shenzhi, who had established the interregnum Min kingdom of the tenth ­century, as I explain in chapter 6. In the following centuries, numerous Fujian kin groups falsely laid claim to Gushi origins in order to link themselves to the migrants, who by virtue of their heritage defined the social elite. Furthermore, the three names cited by Zhang Ding—­Shu, Yue, and Da—­ have no echo in any other narrative. In short, Zhang Ding’s account is totally incompatible with the orthodox Fang narratives and appears to deny any possibility of kinship among the ­different lines.22 All three sources w ­ ere compiled in the early to mid-­thirteenth ­century; none can claim any temporal authority greater than the ­others. Fang Dacong perhaps had greater recourse to ­family rec­ords, although Liu Kezhuang apparently saw the same Baidu genealogy he did, but he was never fully persuaded that the Baidu claims of kinship w ­ ere legitimate and made no claims about the Fangshan line. Only Zhang Ding was so bold as to deny any relationship; to him, they ­were simply three distinct kin groups who happened to share the same surname and all of whom settled in greater Putian at about the same time. The point, however, is not to try to untangle these conflicting claims; for the pre­sent discussion, which claim was correct is not the central issue even if it ­were possi­ble to resolve it. What is im­por­tant is to recognize that, as settled as the identity of the Zhuzi line was, at least to itself, that of the Baidu Fang was debated. This coincided with a moment in regional history when identity reached a new level of importance. As I have argued in earlier work, as the interregnum debuted many of the local kin groups with eighth-­century roots—­the Xinghua Zheng of the Putian district city, the Puyang Huang of northeastern Putian district, for example—­were reaching the outer limits of the classically defined, five-­generation circle of mourning obligations (wu fu) since their founding ancestor (shi zu), beyond which formal kinship lacked classical sanction. ­Others, such as the Luofeng Fu of Xianyou district on the upper reaches of the Mulan River, who had entered Fujian in the late ninth ­century, reached the same limit as the

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interregnum drew to a close and the Song dynasty took control. The several Putian Fang kin groups, all of which, like the Fu, had their roots in the late ninth c­ entury, each must also have faced an impending dissolution of their classically sanctioned collective identity. The fracturing of imperial unity during the interregnum and the consequent diffusion of po­liti­cal power had given the elite of Fujian a new sense of identity; within the complex and convoluted politics of the tenth ­century, extended ­family had proven to be one refuge of comparative security. The dissolution of common kinship defined by the classical mourning circle threatened that. Beginning as early as the tenth-­century interregnum and continuing throughout the centuries of the Song, concurrently with, if most likely in­de­pen­dently of, local elites elsewhere in the South, the elite of southern Fujian, and especially those of the Mulan River valley where classical scholarship played a disproportionately im­por­tant role, ­were experimenting with rites and institutions of extended kinship. Their shared prob­lem was that the classics established the five-­generation boundary; there was no guide on how to transcend it. Thus local kin groups began to develop new methods to define boundaries of kinship and sites for collective kin rites. The Zhuzi Fang, for example, established the Hall for Beseeching Benefits ( Jianfu yuan) within the grounds of the T ­ emple of Vast Transformation in Putian. Without dating the hall, Fang Dacong, in a preface for a Zhuzi genealogy, explained that the portraits of the six acknowledged sons of Fang Tingfan hung there.23 Liu Kezhuang, in an inscription dated 1265, explicitly identified the site as an ancestral hall (ci tang): “Fang Tingfan . . . ​ wanted to construct a spirit hall ( jing she) to honor his ancestors and unite his kin, but he was never able to do so . . . ​[His six sons] agreed to combine their efforts to realize their ­father’s plan. They requested empty lands from officials and bought a plot in [the ­Temple of Vast Transformation] in order to bring this to fruition, and so the Hall for Beseeching Benefits was established.”24 As he stated in his funerary inscription for Fang Zhitai’s grand­ father cited earlier, Liu had access to the genealogical rec­ords of the Zhuzi Fang, on which his history of the hall is based. It is unclear, however, just when the kin group began to compile those rec­ords; Fang Dacong’s text, dated 1208, is the earliest surviving preface. What is clear, though, is that at some point, perhaps not as early as Liu Kezhuang asserted but certainly well before Dacong’s preface, the Zhuzi Fang had established a site for the collective cele­bration of



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their kinship. What is equally certain is that the Baidu Fang ­were not invited to join the Zhuzi Fang in these rites. They ­were not considered kin. Perhaps initially this had not been very im­por­tant. What­ever their origins or linkages, none of the Putian Fang left much of an impression through the de­cades of the interregnum or even into the early Song; like many of the elite kin groups who made major impressions ­later, the several Fang appear to have lain low in Putian as a way of avoiding the pitfalls of interregnum po­liti­cal life. Throughout the reign of the emperor Zhenzong (r. 998–1023), however, all three lines became full participants in the examinations and thus participants in elite culture. Although the Zhuzi line produced successful examination candidates sooner and ultimately more frequently than e­ ither of the other lines, between the reigns of Zhenzong and Shenzong (r. 1068–1086) no line stood dramatically apart from the ­others. The first members of the Baidu kin group to make names for themselves ­were the bro­th­ers Fang Jun and Fang Jiao, who earned “presented scholar” ( jinshi) degrees in 1030 and 1034, respectively. The two bro­th­ers initiated an era of success among the Baidu kin; between 1034 and 1076 five more earned “presented scholar” degrees, hardly any fewer than e­ ither the Zhuzi or the Fangshan lines.25 Then, for reasons we cannot see, the fortunes of the Baidu line took a dive. Between 1076, when Fang Jiao’s grandson Hui earned a “presented scholar” degree, and 1106, when Fang Lüe did as well, although the Zhuzi and the Fangshan lines continued to produce successful candidates, the Baidu Fang produced only two facilitated, “specially presented name” (tezouming), scholars. In fact, during the ­later Northern Song and on into the Southern Song, while the Zhuzi Fang established themselves as one of the most prominent kin groups of the empire, neither the Baidu nor the Fangshan lines could keep pace. Consequently, as they strug­gled to affirm their identity, it was of great potential value to the Baidu Fang to establish that they ­were kin to the Zhuzi line. Nevertheless, throughout the eleventh c­ entury there is no hint that the Baidu kin w ­ ere concerned with their relationship to the other Fang lines—­after all, during these de­cades their fortunes w ­ ere not yet remarkably distinct. On the contrary, the man Fang Lüe, called the “Great Official,” was taking the lead to define specific Baidu rites of kin identity. As was noted earlier, “[H]e would lead his younger kin (zi di) to join with their elders.” In conjunction with the annual village

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she festival the youth “would carefully set out the plates and goblets and spread the ritual vessels. They would bow humbly and ascend into the hall by order of age and with great filiality.” Most importantly to the pre­sent discussion, this all was done in front of the Baidu village shrine, which as yet remained unnamed. At one time the god(s) of the shrine they ­were honoring had been rooted in beliefs drawing on older ideas of numinousness that w ­ ere at odds with the emerging emphasis on civilization, but the rites remembered by Fang Lüe ­were emphatically orthodox, emphatically wen. As the Great Official’s rites took shape, the way the shrine was defined had changed. It had become the focus of Baidu Fang kinship identity rather than of village identity. The Great Official was the cornerstone of this transformation. All Fang Lüe had to say of this person was that “there was a local man who r­ ose to high rank. On retirement he returned to live out his old age in the village.” Almost inevitably, however, that leads us back to the bro­th­ers Fang Jun and Fang Jiao. Both leveraged their degrees into official careers that took them to the capital and beyond. ­After a series of progressively more im­por­tant regional postings, the older brother, Jun, resigned from the world of officialdom sometime during the jiayou era (1056–1063), pleading age. He is said to have retired to the “southern capital” (nan jing) at Yingtian fu, located south of the Yellow River on the upper reaches of the Grand Canal, where he lived as a teacher. During his official ­career, Jun had established ties to luminaries of the emerging academic discourse such as Fan Zuyu (1041–1098), who played a prominent role in the compilation of Sima Guang’s monumental Zizhi tongjian, and Cheng Xiang (1006–1090), the f­ ather of the bro­th­ers Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, from whom the ­later Daoxue discourse emerged. Jun’s son and Yi, in fact, are said to have been childhood playmates, a tie that was especially poignant ­later when Yi composed Jun’s rec­ord of conduct (xing zhuang); Fan Zuyu composed the spirit tablet (shendao bei). Thus the two most im­por­ tant funerary memorials remembering the life of the deceased ­were composed by two of the most prominent figures of the eleventh ­century.26 Although Jun himself was never prominent at a national level—­and even if, as a cynic might argue, we have no solid proof that such illustrious contemporaries actually composed his funerary texts since neither survives, that such claims could even be made strongly suggests that he had been part of the wider academic and cultural discourse of the mid-­Northern Song.



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In contrast, the younger brother, Jiao, focused his energy on an official ­career that was mostly spent in a succession of offices around the South. During a series of tours as prefectural magistrate he established a reputation for righting wrongs and dispensing justice. In Chaozhou he left such a positive reputation that he was enshrined together with the exiled Han Yu, the great Tang essayist and inspiration to ­later Confucian revivalists on whom we relied so often in earlier chapters and to whom we will return ­later. ­After an early ­career of locally meritorious ser­vice, Jiao returned to Fujian, where he “inquired ­after the good and the bad, which he reported in detail to the throne.” He subsequently resumed his ­career, even winding up with an office in the capital. However, whereas his brother’s c­ areer led him into some of the most prominent circles of the empire, leading to ties that prompted him to ­settle elsewhere on retirement, Jiao’s ­career left him with a very local focus.27 Thus, although the texts are vague, I believe Jiao must have been the Great Official. Fang Lüe’s shrine inscription then continued: “The old ­temple was several rooms ( jian) in size. Over many years, [as a result of the] rain from above and wind from beside there was no shelter left [thus setting the stage for the cataclysmic storm mentioned by Fang Lüe, which led to relocating the shrine]. In 1083 the vice minister for the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, Fang Jiao, first added to the landholdings and expanded [the shrine].” By 1083 Jiao, having passed the “presented scholar” exam in 1034, must have been at least in his seventies, if not his eighties. Unlike his brother, we do not know exactly when Jiao retired, but by 1083 he undoubtedly had. The vice-­ministerial post, the second-­ ranking position in the Court of Imperial Sacrifices overseeing state sacrifices, was the last Jiao held.28 Although not noted in his biographies, he apparently then returned to Baidu, where his accomplishments in the bureaucratic world, unmatched among his kin except by his still-­absent brother, would have been a source of huge honor. He was, undeniably, a Great Official. If his brother and the ­later trajectory of his kin are any guide, he was deeply committed to the emerging Confucian reform movement and its commitment to the values of civilization, of wen. Finally we must consider Fang Lüe’s invocation of the village wine-­drinking rite (xiang yinjiu): “[The rites before the shrine] ­were just like the ancient village wine-­drinking [rite].” The ceremony is first described in the prescriptive classics of the late first millennium BCE

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as a civil ritual to celebrate learned accomplishment. The Rites of Zhou, for example, has what may be the earliest reference to the ceremony, although it neither uses the term nor explicitly describes the drinking of wine: “Every third year [the court] conducts the triennial evaluation (da bi) of the local elite (xiang dafu); they are examined on their moral conduct and mastery of the art of the Way (dexing daoyi), and the exemplary and able are lauded. The elders and the elite lead their subordinates together with the common folk to fete them.”29 The Book of Ritual, in contrast, in a long passage describes a thoroughly ritualized exchange between host and guest, between honored and honoree, ­under the explicit heading “The propriety of the village wine-­drinking rite” (xiang yinjiiu yi). Perhaps the most relevant passage explains as follows (following the translation of James Legge): At the ceremony of drinking in the country districts, those who w ­ ere sixty years old sat, and those who ­were (only fifty) stood and ­were in waiting to receive any o ­ rders and perform any ser­vices, thus illustrating the honor which should be paid to elders . . . ​ When the ­people knew to honor their elders and nourish their aged, then at home they could practice filial piety and fraternal duty. Filial and fraternal at home and abroad, honoring elders and nourishing the aged, then their education was complete, and this led to the peace and tranquility of the state. What the superior man calls filial piety does not require that (every) ­family should be visited and as members daily taught; if (the ­people) be assembled at the archery meetings in the districts and taught the usages at the district drinkings, their conduct is brought to be filial and fraternal.30

The rite in ancient times, it appears, was linked both to the routine assessment of local officials as well as to a ceremony that emphasized both hierarchy and the focus on orthopractic ritual, which was central to the emerging scholarly discourse of the pre-­imperial era. In the Han and a­ fter, it was adapted as a way of asserting imperial control and social order, especially as a ritual affirmation of the hierarchy of age, on which local order was deemed to rest.31 In what is, for our purposes, perhaps the most significant passage, in an edict of 632 Emperor Taizong of the Tang commanded: “We must compile the ‘Village Wine-­Drinking Rite’ in one verso ( juan) and distribute it



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throughout the empire. [Thereafter,] the officials of the prefectures and districts (zhouxian changguan) are personally to lead the old and the young, rank them by se­niority, and provide them with their respective exhortations (dixiang quanmian). This should be conducted according to the rite.”32 In 710, shortly ­after the death of Empress Wu and the reversion of the throne to the male line of descent, Emperor Ruizong (r. 710– 712) issued a further decree: “It has been long since the Village Wine-­ Drinking Rites have declined. They bestow merit on the virtuous and honor the aged, and they promote the public welfare to the deepest depths. It is appropriate to order the several prefectures to conduct these rites annually.”33 In a further codification, ­under Emperor Xuanzong (r. 712–756), the rite was formally included in “Rites of the Kaiyuan Era of the Great Tang” (DaTang kaiyuan li), the official roster of imperial rites. As You Ziyong has argued, throughout the Tang the rite was adopted as a civil ceremony conducted at the local level both to affirm social order and to honor those who ­were eligible to take the capital examinations.34 Because the participants in the rites before the Baidu shrine ­were all Fang, the rites initiated by the Great Official, by Fang Jiao, what­ ever their derivation, emphasized kinship. By comparing them to the wine-­drinking rite, however, Fang Lüe was likening the ceremonies to one of the most orthodox of civil rituals. The god of the shrine had been thoroughly incorporated into the civilizing mission. What ensued in the years that followed only affirmed this. Before adoption of these rites, the god had been unnamed. Following his death, however, the god became the apotheosized Fang Jiao himself: The god was the Great Official, the Great Official was the god. What had always been an unnamed manifestation of local numinousness became the embodiment of civil values. As such, the god and his shrine became the focus of Baidu kinship rites; although there is no rec­ord that the shrine was ever defined as an ancestral shrine (citang), in fact that was how it functioned. As I suggest early in chapter 7, at this point we might conclude that the civilizing mission had succeeded. Yet once again the conclusion is not so ­simple. On the one hand the civil rites promoted by Fang Jiao continued: “[Now,] at the time of the spring and autumn sacrifices, the old and young proceed [before the god] in order, offering cool wine and fragrant viands. When the god is satiated, they withdraw to

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the position of guests, where they grasp their cups and hoist their goblets.” Fang Lüe even lamented his exclusion from the rites: ­ fter I retired from office to engage in idyllic study, I returned to my A village with my ­house­hold, where I reflected upon my disappointments. One idle day I asked to make offerings in the t­ emple. I hoped that, when the time came, I could be included among the village elders with their staffs and their slippers,35 who with their white garments and flowing robes offer libations in the hall of the Duke. In this way I could fulfill my wish to reenact the ancient village wine-­drinking rite, but my wish has not yet been fulfilled.

In these passages Fang Lüe emphasized the god’s role as an embodiment of civil virtue and an emblem of the Baidu Fang. But to the masses for whom the god had long been a manifestation of abstract numinous power, he remained a protector god: “From near and far the ­people come pell-­mell to beg the f­ avor of the god at his t­ emple. They must give offerings when they have something new [to report to the god, such as births, deaths, official appointments, ­etc.], they must inform the god of their comings and goings, and they must pray [for his intercession] when they are sick. What­ever it is they come to the god for, they must divine [his response] and then follow his instructions.” The ser­vices Fang Lüe specifically mentioned included bringing rain in times of drought and fighting off pests such as locusts,. The god offered protection from disease and defense against bandits, the latter a prob­lem especially in the de­cades of po­liti­cal instability surrounding the transition between Northern and Southern Song and the court’s search for a new capital. Perhaps in reflection of the growing integration of Baidu’s agricultural product and the world beyond, he even protected mariners.36 In fact, the god’s position was in tension. If the voices of orthodoxy, of wen, emphasized the pure and bloodless offerings of the wine-­drinking rite: “at the time of the spring and autumn sacrifices, the old and young proceed [before the god] in order, offering cool wine and fragrant viands,” the common folk carried on echoes of the old rites: “Presently the Lord receives blood sacrifices.” In fact, “Some even go before the god directly and use both Buddhist and Daoist rites to make offerings to him.” These ­were sacrifices that violated not only the spirit of the wine-­drinking rite but also the lessons on



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proper ritual, taught so many centuries earlier by Xi Xiang (see chapter 7). These ­were rites that echoed the shrine’s embodiment of cultic traditions that predated the supposed triumph of wen. Many cults, especially across the southern lands that for so many years had lain beyond the influence of orthodoxy, indulged in “blood sacrifice” (xueshi). This was an offering to gods of animal flesh along with wine, which has a long history in Chinese culture. It was, as one contemporary scholar has put it, “the age-­old liturgical medium through which local communities negotiated relations with the gods.”37 Or, as another has explained, “Sacrifice is central to the Chinese religious tradition. Religious activity in ancient China consisted primarily of the ritualized slaughter of animals (and sometimes humans) [and] pre­sen­ta­tion of the victim to super­natu­ral beings.”38 We thus see in the Lord of Manifest Kindness, as Fang Lüe knew the god following his imperial enfeoffment, a cult that embraced both the civilizing imperative of the elite and the heteropractic traditions of the common folk. To the educated civil elite, he was the Lord, an embodiment of civilization, of wen. To the common folk, however, he was still the untamed embodiment of numinous power through whom they could beseech protection. These folk tapped into a heterodox tradition that was older and more dangerous. ­ fter the successes in the mid-­eleventh ­century, the Baidu kin lost their A foothold in the examination culture.39 For forty years following Fang Hui’s 1076 “presented scholar” degree Baidu scholars failed to earn another. Never again did they rival the Zhuzi line. Nevertheless, the kin group continued to grow: It was inevitable that the old palace was cramped and needed to be enlarged. When the cult devotee Fang Tu first explained his plan [to restore and enlarge the t­ emple], the followers ­were all happy to agree. Thus collecting the funds to underwrite costs was no trou­ble and the construction was carried out without effort. There are two halls on the east and west, with space [for those who want to] rest and space for preparing vegetarian foods. Altogether the construction took eighty-­two beams and cost ten thousand strings of cash. Construction began in the spring of 1134 and was finished in the summer of 1136. Since the new hall has been completed, large gatherings have assembled to make bountiful offerings to the god to induce his presence. Thus they have asked [me] to rec­ord these events.

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The restoration accompanied the consolidation of control by the restabilized Song and the end of the unrest that had threatened the village and was so much a part of Fang Lüe’s narrative. Perhaps Fang Lüe also hoped it would lead to a restoration of prestige for his Baidu kin. In fact, that did not happen. Although the Zhuzi and even the Fangshan Fang flourished as never before throughout the Southern Song and on into the centuries that followed, the Baidu Fang never recaptured the level of success in elite culture they had enjoyed during so much of the Northern Song. Their shrine had an equally uneven trajectory. In time the civil values of the Great Official seem to have been forgotten. The Lord of Manifest Kindness became more and more like any other cult deity, an interlocutor with the unknowable forces with which ­people have wrestled throughout ­human history. The Lord’s single shrine t­ oday, a recent reconstruction, is an unimpressive and isolated edifice. There are no echoes of the glories envisioned by Fang Lüe. But at a critical juncture in China’s history, when north and south w ­ ere negotiating how to coexist in a single empire with a dominant civil orthodoxy, when the god was known as the Great Official, he encapsulated the tension.

Chapter Nine

Conclusions

B

y the beginning of the eleventh ­century, as the recently established Song dynasty consolidated its power and worked to bring the newly reunified empire together, southern scholars ­were asserting an unpre­ce­dented degree of influence both on the politics of the court and on the culture of the elite. As I have outlined in chapter 4, scholars from north and south contributed to a renewed discourse on the nature of civilization. ­Behind this discourse, I argued, was the perception that the po­liti­cally unified empire lacked a cultural consensus. ­Until a consensus could evolve, enduring regional cultural diversity threatened the restored unity. Although a po­liti­cally unified empire stretching from the grasslands to the north to the shores of the Gulf of Tonkin to the south had been established and had even become a defining feature of imperial vision, there had never been a time when that vast expanse had been tied together into a single cultural w ­ hole. I made the case that throughout the history of the Qin/Han unification, a trajectory that covered more than four hundred years, the empire never established cultural control over the lands below the Yangtze River. At no time in the long history of that era did natives of the South, e­ ither of Sinitic or indigenous heritage, play more than a token role in the politics or culture of the elite. Late in the second ­century CE, that overlay of imperial unification began to fracture, leading to the emergence of multiple polities. Through the de­cades that followed the formal end of the Han dynasty

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in the early third ­century the empire split among three equal polities: Wei, which controlled the Central Lands; Shu, based in the farther west in the Sichuan basin; and Wu, based on the Yangtze Valley and claiming control over all of the South, both near and far. Each boasted a Sinified elite, yet each was developing its own culture. As Mark Lewis has written: The centuries ­after the fall of the Han witnessed new forms of literary practice and new genres, corresponding ideals of cultural excellence and po­liti­cal authority, a reevaluation of village, countryside, and mountains, a new sacred landscape, and new sources of textual authority. These cumulative changes validated local and regional traditions at the expense of the monolithic claims of the imperial center and found their classic expression in the Jiangnan region in south China, where they defined the leading families.1

As Lewis further states, Jiankang, the l­ater Nanjing, which served as capital of the Wu kingdom, “remained a frontier city.” In fact, he goes on, southern rulers legitimated their courts in Jiankang, which had no prior history as an imperial capital, by invoking regional traditions such as geomantic theory, which drew heavily on indigenous southern traditions rather than the secular traditions that legitimated the long-­standing position of the northern capital cities Luoyang and Chang’an. Jiankang, concludes Lewis, “drew its sacred power entirely from the surrounding landscape.”2 As I explored in chapters 2 and 3, even as Wu and l­ater the succession of kingdoms known as the Six Dynasties controlled the lower Yangtze basin, po­liti­cal and cultural authority remained disproportionately the privilege of displaced migrants from the Sinitic Central Lands. Natives of the South, both the longtime indigenous peoples as well as the Sinitic immigrants of earlier eras, remained marginalized and often alienated. Typically historians, both in and outside China, have called this the “era of divided empire,” but that neglects the reality that the empire had yet to be truly unified. The four centuries between the emerging breakup of the Han and the restoration of po­ liti­cal unity by the Sui in the late sixth c­ entury, across which the lands of the Han ­were divided between the Central Lands, Sichuan, and the south, was not in reality an era of “divided empire” but one through which the enduring “regional traditions” ­were made manifest. Division was the ­under­lying norm; unity the overlying aberration.

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Working from the opposite perspective, the orthodox narrative has treated the empire that was po­liti­cally reunified by the Sui/Tang dynasty in the l­ ater sixth and early seventh centuries as a return to the norm: “Divided empire” was, ­after too long, brought back together into its innate w ­ hole. Without a doubt the drive t­oward po­liti­cal reunification was inspired by the Qin/Han model; that great era of unification was and remains a touchstone in Chinese consciousness, invoked across the centuries as the first of China’s greatest imperial eras. The completion by Emperor Wen of Sui of the reunification pro­ject begun by his Zhou dynasty pre­de­ces­sors is undeniably a landmark in the history of East Asia. Never again was the core of the polity we know as “China”—­the so-­called Eigh­teen Provinces, sometimes called “inner China” to distinguish between “true” China and peripheral frontiers—to endure more than transitory eras of po­liti­cal division. Yet po­liti­cal reunification still confronted the enduring cultural heterogeneity that divided the empire. Even as the Yangtze valley had witnessed the emergence of an elite that drew heavily on the complex po­liti­cal and cultural legacy of the Han, the South remained distinct on myriad levels. Southern politics perhaps relied on the legacy of the classical tradition, which the Han had used for legitimization, yet it did so in ways that w ­ ere distinct from those of the Han and pronouncedly distinct from the polities that emerged across the Central Lands. More broadly, southern lit­erature, religion, economics, and social order had evolved in their own directions. Poets developed their own themes, which ­were heavily influenced by the soft landscape in which they lived. Buddhism drew not only on the legacy of Sinitic practices northern migrants brought with them to the south but also on influences that came across the southern maritime frontier, influences that ­were not experienced in the north. Elite society gradually made room for indigenous families—­not perhaps those whose cultural orientation still emphasized a pre-­Sinitic indigenous heritage but certainly those who ­were willing to redefine themselves in terms of evolving normative practice. The southern economy was based on grain, but the grain was rice rather than the dry-­land crops of the Central Lands, which imposed the region’s own variables on land tenure and even ­family structure. Additionally, and importantly, the southern economy embraced commerce to a degree hitherto unknown in the Central Lands, and commerce fostered an unpre­ce­dented degree of economic diversity as new consumer-­oriented crops such as tea began to find a dietary and a commercial niche.

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The Sui/Tang unification nominally endured for more than three centuries. Although imperial integrity was never fully recovered following the cataclysmic rebellions of the mid-­eighth ­century, the divisions that followed ­were primarily within the Central Lands themselves. Most of the South remained at least superficially loyal to the court, most manifestly in the continued submission of tax revenues. Moreover, in the de­cades following the rebellions the pace of Sinitic migration into the South accelerated, leading to a fundamental and far-­reaching demographic transformation with its own cultural implications. Yet as Han Yu, Liu Zongyuan, and countless other poets and essayists of the l­ater Tang observed, the South remained distinct and unfamiliar. Liu may have felt affection for the indigenous folk whom he governed, but it was an affection rooted in paternalism: “If you try to manage them with rites, they respond with stubbornness. If you restrain them with punishments, they run away.”3 Arguably the final expression of this enduring split was the interregnum ­century between the Tang and the Song. As the Central Lands endured an unstable succession of dynasties, the Yangtze valley and below w ­ ere split among a number of regional polities that echoed ancient divisions. Although each of these kingdoms invoked the Tang cultural legacy, only one—­the Southern Tang kingdom of Jiangnan—­ dared to claim to be heir to the legacy of imperial unification. Benefiting from the hindsight that history provides, we perhaps can say that it was unrealistic to believe these polities could spin off and realize a trajectory that was enduringly fractured and in­de­pen­dent, as had happened in Eu­rope ­after the fall of the Roman Empire. But to contemporaries that was not so evident. At least into the mid-­tenth ­century the possibility that the South was g­ oing to follow a path that would lead to something more closely resembling Europe—­competing polities that shared ­under­lying cultural assumptions without po­liti­cal unity—­was perceived as a real possibility. To a native of Fujian, of Guangdong, or even of Hunan, the reunified empire was neither a given nor, by many, even desired. This was the dilemma that confronted the Song, both po­liti­cally and culturally, following reunification in the ­later tenth ­century. Qin/ Han and Sui/Tang had both imposed a durable po­liti­cal unity in the face of cultural diversity, but neither had confronted a South as wealthy, as demographically im­por­tant, as culturally vibrant as the Song confronted in the ­later tenth ­century. The South was no longer marginal. Indeed, by the beginning of the eleventh c­ entury a decisive majority

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of the population in the empire over which the Song asserted its authority lived in the South. Coming out of the c­ entury of po­liti­cal instability that had characterized the northern dynasties, the Central Lands w ­ ere stuck in an economic rut. In contrast, despite the instabilities that plagued several of the southern kingdoms the interregnum ­century had witnessed economic expansion across the South. Trade, both among the southern kingdoms and between those on the coast and the maritime world beyond, had flourished. Local magnates had invested in land-­reclamation projects that expanded arable land. New crops, notably Champa rice but also increasingly im­por­tant commercial crops such as sugarcane and, by the mid-­eleventh ­century, cotton, ­were transforming agriculture. Industrial production in areas such as ceramics and shipbuilding offered new opportunities to nonagricultural populations and fostered the expansion of cities. Qin/Han and Sui/Tang had been able, both po­liti­cally and culturally, to marginalize their southern territories, treating them very much as colonies feeding wealth to the central core. Following the transformations of the preceding de­cades, for the new dynastic order such marginalization was no longer sustainable or feasible. Central to developing a stable polity was the imperative to cultivate a sense of shared culture. This is the context in which the eleventh-­century discourse on civilization took shape. To men of northern background such as Sima Guang the challenge was comparatively abstract. The issue to them was the perceived loss of morality and the threat that represented to the life of the dynasty: Positive resonance with the cosmic force (tian), and thus the stability of the new order, required a morality that had been lost, and men such as Sima turned to history in an effort to recover it. But to southerners such as Ouyang Xiu, Li Gou, and Cai Xiang the issue was much more immediate. They did not neglect Sima’s concerns, but they added much more concrete concerns that focused on the heterodoxy that surrounded them in their natal homes. Ouyang focused on impropriety among the not-­wen peasants, Li on “the dissolute but seductive noises (yin) of the vari­ous barbarians,” and Cai on “improprieties” such as relying on shamans rather than orthodox medical professionals. But to each the behaviors and patterns that reflected indigenous southern heritage ­were dangerous. In other words, the threat the orthodox elite saw in the South was heterodoxy, the contravention of wen. The solution they proposed was rectification through ritual. “Simply use the old ways to establish

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t­ oday’s rites,” Cai Xiang urged the emperor. If be­hav­ior could be channeled through the rites, heterodoxy would be resolved. If the philosophical premise was that proper ritual generated the cosmic harmony that would ensure dynastic stability, the unstated imperative was to standardize the rites, and thus culture, in order to properly channel public be­hav­ior and confront the centrifugal tendencies that had been revealed in the interregnum. The way to do this was to model proper be­hav­ior. As David Johnson, addressing the dissemination of orthodox values in a much ­later time, has written, cultural homogenization was the “achievement of Chinese officials and other members of the ruling elite who had worked for centuries to replace ‘corrupt’ or ‘superstitious’ elements in pop­u­lar culture with ideologically acceptable ones . . . ​The values and beliefs of a dominant class take on the radiance of truth in the eyes of ordinary ­people.”4 If such a transformation was not completed in the eleventh c­ entury, it was nevertheless the goal of the civilization discourse. Working backward through the case studies I have presented in chapters 7 and 8 and more broadly through the preceding discussion, we can see this pro­cess at work. The Baidu shrine in its initial guise embodied the heterodox, not-­wen values that so disturbed men such as Cai Xiang and Ouyang Xiu in the eleventh c­ entury but which had been a central feature of the discourse of the Central Lands for centuries. The unidentified deity was the product of local culture; the goals, and most likely the rites, of his veneration ­were not consistent with wen, nor ­were they even in accord with wen. The god’s origins lay in village culture, no doubt as a protector deity. His devotees beseeched him to intervene with the untamed forces of nature for their benefit, a pattern of veneration that had been a perennial part of indigenous southern culture. Concurrently with the elite discourse on rectification of rites, however, a number of locally elite kin groups ­were experimenting with ways to perpetuate kinship identity. Although they framed their innovations in terms of classical lit­erature, they ­were in fact challenging orthodox kinship rites: Socially they lacked the proper standing to conduct the rituals they adopted, nor was it orthodox to trace kinship beyond the five generations of consanguinity, as so many did. This initiative found expression in a variety of ways. Many in this vanguard adopted sacral space within Buddhist t­emple precincts for the construction of shrines dedicated to ancestors. At least some ­were experimenting with in­de­pen­dent spaces, ­either within their residential

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compound or even, in anticipation of the village ancestral halls that dot much of southern China ­today, as fully separate structures.5 There is no rec­ord that Baidu had a Buddhist ­temple, but the village did have the shrine. The evidence presented by Fang Lüe in his 1138 inscription argues strongly that by the early years of the Southern Song his kin monopolized both the village and the shrine. This is consistent with regional demographic patterns, which show a long history of single-­surname villages where everyone is connected to a single kin group. In the absence of evidence of any other surname in the village before the thirteenth c­ entury, we must conclude that the shrine was the Fang shrine; the god was the Fang god. If my reconstruction of the god’s origins is correct, this had not always been the case. But to Fang Jiao, who finished his ­career in the Board of Rites and was at least familiar with the discourse on rites and civilization, it must have been a logical step to utilize the shrine for a variation on the kinship rites, which ­were becoming increasingly common among the region’s elite kin groups. By usurping the shrine for such rites he was “replac[ing] ‘corrupt’ or ‘superstitious’ elements in pop­u­lar culture with ideologically acceptable ones.” To a degree Fang Jiao was successful. As Fang Lüe tells us, “The village ­people took great plea­sure [in Fang Jiao’s rituals], and so they named the shrine [for the Great Official].” The rites promulgated by Fang Jiao “[took] on the radiance of truth in the eyes of ordinary ­people,” and so, most likely following his death, when he morphed from a secular figure into a numinous embodiment of authority, they named the shrine and its god for him. The god was civilized, the embodiment of wen. Only it could not be so ­simple, for wen’s triumph was incomplete: “Presently the Lord receives blood sacrifices.” In fact, his devotees even resorted to “both Buddhist and Daoist rites to make offerings to him.” In short, the civilizing mission could reach only so far. Johnson argues that in the late imperial era a combination of factors (e.g., elite modeling, the proselytizing efforts of the imperial court through vehicles such as the community compacts, incorporation of appropriate models into folk traditions such as village opera) pushed the adoption of elite values deep into the consciousness of the masses. Perhaps, but Johnson wrote of a much ­later time. The effort was just beginning in the eleventh ­century, and the vehicles ­were not all there. Moreover, as Johnson adds, drawing on the work of Northrup Frye, the pro­cess was not simply one way—it was not simply that the

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elite established a norm and the masses adopted it. What he calls the “central myths of a culture,” the key beliefs of the masses, are co-opted by the elite to further the construction of orthodoxy.6 In short, the definition of orthodoxy is a two-­way street in which the contribution of pop­u­lar culture is critical. The leaders of China’s eleventh-­century discourse on civilization did not grant space to the heterodox culture of the masses in their definition of orthodoxy; by the late imperial period, however, such space had been found. This leads to the cults I discussed in chapter 7: the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou, and Wu Tao. Unlike the Lord of Manifest Kindness, whose cult never expanded beyond Baidu Village and survives t­oday only in attenuated form, the cults of the Divine ­Woman and Wu Tao transcended their village origins, yet both ­were defined by the indigenous, pre-­Sinitic belief structures that Fang Jiao had sought to remove from the Lord’s cult. Neither experienced the kind of co-optation by orthodoxy that had transformed the identity of the Lord, yet both have endured and remain key features of Chinese civilization. Their cults not only spread way beyond their natal village but even followed the emigration of devotees deep into the overseas Chinese diaspora. Illustrative as the cult to the Lord may have been of changes ­under way in the early Song era, his identity was inseparable from the narrowly defined range of his devotees, defined by both place and kinship. His cult could not transcend their limits. Because the Divine ­Woman and Wu Tao emphasized function over place, their cults appealed to a far wider range of devotees. As a consequence, as gods they presented a far greater challenge to the civilizing discourse than a god such as the Lord. Yet when the Emperor Huizong early in his reign appealed to local notables to notify the court of im­por­tant local deities to add to the register of orthodox cults, the pro­cess that led to the extending of imperial recognition to the Lord described by Fang Lüe, there was no advocate for ­either.7 When Liao Pengfei wrote the oldest surviving paean to the Divine ­Woman, her natal shrine had existed on Meizhou Island for “uncounted years,” during which time she had established herself as a local protector deity. As such she was not radically distinct from the Lord, but the latter had literate patrons who ­were accustomed to interacting with the world of officialdom. In contrast, as Lin Guangchao noted of the island, among the one thousand resident ­house­holds there was not “a single person who can read” and across the entire island “maybe a few qing of land that one can cultivate.” This was not a

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place that men with the connections to make appeals to the court knew or cared much about. Indeed, it was not u ­ ntil the famous incident of 1123, when she was perceived to have intervened to save the imperial envoy Lu Yundi, many years a­ fter the emperor had issued his appeal, that she came to imperial attention at all. The circumstances, however, ­were fortuitous. Li Zhen, who spoke on her behalf, had no great social distinction. I have suggested that it was his position as master of the ship carry­ing the envoy that gave him an opening to give credit to the goddess. Li Zhen almost certainly was a merchant and thus not a man who would have easily or routinely interacted with the world of officialdom. In fact, as Liao Pengfei recounts the story, it was not Li Zhen who brought the goddess to the attention of the court but Lu Yundi, the envoy to whom Li Zhen had praised the goddess. In recognition the court bestowed a name plaque on her shrine—­this was not, however, the deity’s natal shrine on Meizhou but her branch shrine in Ninghai Village, for Li Zhen “had worshipped the spirit of the Holy Mound for a long time.” In fact, although the Song huiyao rec­ords the deity’s enshrinement in Putian more than once, the Meizhou shrine is not mentioned at all. Unlike the Lord’s trajectory, however, recognition of the Divine ­Woman did not lead to civilizing her. De­cades before the court recognized the Lord, his cult had been transformed by Fang Jiao. Although the overlay of civilization was in tension with his identity among the common masses, Fang Jiao’s co-optation of the cult for Baidu kinship rites had given it an aura of orthodox legitimacy, as well as links to the world of officialdom, and thus opened the pathway to bring it to the attention of the court. Even as her cult spread over the following de­cades, no one co-opted the Divine ­Woman. Symbolically, writing in the thirteenth ­century, Liu Kezhuang noted, “She is not the goddess of Putian alone. I have traveled to the northern frontier and served as far south as Guangzhou, and everywhere I have witnessed p ­ eople’s sincere devotion to her.”8 But her devotees ­were not centered around Liu’s fellow literati; on the contrary, Li Zhen’s devotion would argue that it was merchants who spread her cult.9 It spread, in other words, through the very networks that the discourse on civilization considered not-­wen. The challenge was more than the court could ignore, but no ­matter how much orthodox voices might condemn the cult—­ and Valerie Hansen offers evidence that at least some ­were dismayed by the extent to which her cult had spread10—it could not be controlled. The court’s only recourse was to try to bring it within the

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confines of legitimacy, to award the deity titles. In 1156, shortly ­after her Ninghai shrine had been restored and celebrated by Liao Pengfei, she was granted the title “Lady of Numinous Kindness” (Linghui furen)—­the first of a series of titles the court bestowed on her over the following de­cades and centuries that culminated in the eigh­teenth ­century, when she was recognized as the Cosmic Empress (Tian hou). Wu Tao’s trajectory is a compromise between the Baidu Lord’s partial co-optation by the values of civilization and the Divine W ­ oman’s alienation from the world of wen. The Yan ­family of Qingjiao played a role very similar to that played by the Baidu Fang. Their origins have striking similarities. The founder of the Fang, whose personal name itself is uncertain, was the distaff son of a prominent literati f­amily; rejected by his kin, he established his own line in a new home on the cultural margins. Yan Cao had literati pretensions as well, but w ­ hether they w ­ ere derived from his ­family or his own initiative we do not know. Unlike the Baidu ancestor, at least as far as we know, Cao entered the world of the examinations; he sought to affirm his place as a literatus. But he failed—­miserably, Cai Xiang tells us, leading him, like Mr. Fang, to find refuge on the cultural margins. Both, in other words, experienced rejection and in turn retreated from the respective literati centers to the cultural periphery. It took a ­century for the Fang fortunes to turn; finally the bro­th­ers Jun and Jiao broke through the examination hurdles and went on to successful careers. It took a c­ entury for the Yan fortunes to turn as well, ­until finally in 1132 the great-­grandson of Yan Cao earned the ­family’s first degree. Despite the success of the bro­th­ers Jun and Jiao, the Baidu Fang never developed into one of the premier kin groups of the region; despite earning several more degrees in the following de­cades, they ­were always overshadowed by their Zhuzi kin. Yan Xizhe was followed by his collateral cousin Shilu, who, like the Baidu bro­th­ers, went on to prominence, and the Qingjiao Yan likewise produced several more successful examination candidates in the following de­cades, yet they ­were never among the prominent kin groups, ­either. Restricted to such cultural and social margins, both kin groups appear to have found an identity in the cult they patronized, but their relationship to the cult and its deity w ­ ere not the same, and ­here the cult of Wu Tao begins to resemble that of the Divine Lady. The Fang took over and attempted to redefine their cult, to civilize it. Our win­ dow into the inner workings of Qingjiao Village is far less clear than that provided by Fang Lüe into Baidu, but as much as we can see there

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is no evidence ­either that the Yan ­were as firmly in control of their cult or that they sought to redefine it. Assuming, as I suggested in chapter 7, that Wu Tao may have been a real person, then the Qingjiao cult had a precisely defined beginning; regardless, all evidence argues that the origins of the cult w ­ ere much too clearly recalled in the vicarious memory of the village to allow for redefinition. If the origins of the god of the Baidu cult w ­ ere indistinct and thus malleable, Wu Tao the god, like the Divine ­Woman, was not. He was a shaman, a healer. Like the Divine W ­ oman, he had a “home,” even if there was some contestation between neighboring villages over its exact location, but he also had a function that was not place specific, that could appeal to many. He may have been the god of Qingjiao—or Baijiao—­Village, but he was not the god of the villagers. Just as the Divine ­Woman extended her protection to mariners far and wide, so Wu Tao offered protection from disease to all who sought it. Zhuang Xia tells us, in fact, that his cult could be found throughout Fujian and even beyond: “Not only can his image be found right h ­ ere [i.e., Baijiao, and by extension Qingjiao], but also to the north it is in Puyang [i.e., Putian], Changle [Fuzhou], and Jian and Jin [i.e., Jianzhou, in northwestern Fujian on the upper reaches of the Min River network], and to the south it is in Ting[zhou] and Chao[zhou] and on into the Two Guang (i.e., Guangdong and Guangxi), and all know his efficacy.” Because the appeal of the Divine ­Woman and Wu Tao was so broad, efforts to channel ­either cult ­toward the expression of orthodox values faced a challenge not confronted by the Baidu Fang in their efforts to channel the Lord’s cult. Because the devotees of the Lord ­were so narrowly defined, Fang Jiao was able to co-­opt the cult, to turn the shrine into a center of kinship rites. Ultimately he and the god fused into one, and by naming the god, his devotees took a major step ­toward his orthodox legitimization. Neither the Divine W ­ oman nor Wu Tao could be so co-opted; their devotees could not be defined by place, and indeed by the thirteenth c­ entury both cults had spread widely through adjacent regions. Perhaps Wu Tao had a formal “name,” although as a personal name it is not clear how orthodox that might have been. As the “Divine ­Woman” the god of Meizhou did not—­she remained nameless, and as nameless she remained heterodox, what­ ever the status of her shrines. I have not focused on this par­tic­u­lar trio of deities because they are special. On the contrary, it is because in their origins they are not. Their trajectories w ­ ere widely echoed by the myriad local and regional

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gods across the South. This was the dilemma of the civilizing mission: The enduring heritage of the pre-­Sinitic South was power­ful—­too power­ful to co-­opt with an elite message of orthodox values. The civilizing discourse demanded a standardization of rites and values. As Alice Conklin has written, the “concept of civilization was a unitary one . . . ​no one talked of civilizations, in the plural.”11 As long as that unitary standard was defined through a hegemonic system of alien values, however, the reality made such standardization impossible to realize. If cults such as that of the Divine ­Woman could not be standardized according to the norms of the civilizing discourse, then perhaps the norms had to be readjusted to accommodate. That brings us, finally, to the role of Huizong, the last emperor of the Northern Song, and his successors in the Southern Song. Through the apical de­cades of the Northern Song the imperial office was filled by rulers who fully embraced the civilizing discourse as it was defined by literati such as Sima Guang and Ouyang Xiu. As students preparing to assume their imperial functions, Song emperors ­were taught a very orthodox curriculum. Patricia Ebrey, for example, says the following about the education of Huizong’s older brother and pre­de­ces­sor, the emperor Zhezong (r. 1086–1100): One of Zhezong’s teachers, Fan Zuyu [famed for his orthodox conservatism], compiled a book in eight chapters titled Learning for an Emperor (Dixue), which consisted of anecdotes about earlier emperors, showing that great emperors had respected scholars, teachers, books, and ­were earnest in their studies . . . ​Of the earlier Song emperors, special emphasis was given to Renzong [r. 1023–1064] because it was during his reign that the practice of Confucian scholars lecturing to the emperors was institutionalized.12

But Huizong was ­different. As Ebrey suggests, the orthodox education of his pre­de­ces­sors was no doubt central to Huizong’s education as well; it was further supplemented with personal instruction from a core of teachers, each of whom was committed to the civilization discourse. Huizong, in other words, was deeply acquainted with orthodoxy. Yet his own interests ­were wider. More than any of his pre­de­ces­sors since his great-­great-­grand­father the emperor Zhenzong (r. 997–1022), Huizong was devoted to Daoism, an orientation that was not unproblematic. As Ari Levine has written, Huizong’s “deviations

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from Confucian norms of po­liti­cal culture” caused deep distress among the more orthodox figures of the empire.13 In keeping with this interest, however, Huizong was e­ ager to add to the imperial register of sacrifices any deity that arguably was beneficial to the realm. Like his older brother Zhezong, who in 1075 asked local officials to advise the court of particularly efficacious local gods, Huizong appealed to local officials to inform the court of such gods. The question is, why? One answer, of course, is that Huizong was interested—­that alone may be enough to explain Huizong. But even as Huizong stands apart, he was not alone among Song emperors to undertake this registration. His brother had launched a concerted effort to register the empire’s gods, and it went on for many de­cades ­after. I would argue that a parallel reason, and one far more likely to gain the support of the cultural elite, on whom it relied, was to further the cultural integration of the empire, a major prompt ­behind the civilizing discourse to begin with. Consider this claim in light of Wu Tao. Even before the Song mandate was challenged by the invading Jurchen ­people, imperial authority was challenged in the South by local forces. Most notoriously, Fang La, a native of Muzhou, where the several Fang kin groups of Putian traced their heritage, launched one of the most devastating rebellions of the entire Northern Song. In fact, as Fang Lüe recalled in his 1138 inscription honoring the Baidu god, a rumor that Fang La was ­going to bring his defeated rebels to Putian in anticipation of finding succor among his reputed kin caused widespread panic: “The masses, assisting the el­derly and carry­ing the young, fled to find shelter in the mountains and valleys [of the interior]. As they clambered and scrambled, some even fell [to their death] while clusters of desperate onlookers watched from the side. Thus it was that the ­people abandoned their property and lost their sons and daughters, while some took their own lives in fear.”14 Such unrest did not cease with the court’s relocation to the South, a pattern that affected Fujian as much as other areas of the South, if not more so.15 Fang Lüe recalled, for example, that in 1129 Ye Nong, a rebel from northwestern Fujian, sacked Fuzhou and was allegedly planning a campaign along the coast before imperial forces stopped him.16 The following year Yang Qing, another rebel from Muzhou, campaigned through southern Fujian, sacking Quanzhou and Zhangzhou.17 During the following years, Yang Zhi recalled, in his inscription honoring Wu Tao, that “bandits (lukou) caused

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terror among the ­people of Qingjiao before imperial troops quelled their disturbances.” As Fang Lüe and Yang Zhi both recounted, faced with this pattern of unrest even as the Song court strug­gled to reconsolidate its authority throughout what territory remained to it, the ­people turned to their local gods for protection. When their respective communities ­were spared, credit was given to the gods, not to the court. Yet the South was no longer marginal. Not only had it become the linchpin of the economy, the core of the bureaucracy, and the center of the population, but, following loss of the North, the court also had nothing without it. By the mid-­twelfth ­century the South was the empire. This was the context in which Wu Tao was acknowledged by the court and placed on the imperial register of orthodox cults. Equally, it was the context in which the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou, whose shrine was honored in the last years before the court had to abandon Kaifeng, was first given her own honorific titles and elevated to Heavenly Consort. Indeed, as Valerie Hansen has found, beginning in 1130 and continuing to the early 1170s, the court extended recognition to an average of nineteen cults and deities per year—­a number that contrasts starkly with the average of three per year in the late eleventh ­century.18 Only the peak years ­under Huizong, when as many as eighty-­ eight ­were recognized in a given year (1105), exceeded the pace of recognition in the initial de­cades of the Southern Song. Hansen does not break her data down regionally, but a cursory glance through the relevant rec­ords of the Comprehensive Statutes of the Song makes abundantly clear that these cults and deities ­were overwhelmingly based in the Yangtze valley and below. Equally surely, these ­were the cults that, like the Divine ­Woman and Wu Tao, w ­ ere not subject to civilizing. Collectively these cults embodied the alternative, not-­wen values of the South. As such, they embodied the dangerous tendency t­ oward regional and local identity that had fractured the unified empire in the past. In order to ­counter this, the court defined them as orthodox and gave their adherents a stake in the established order. In so d ­ oing, however, the meaning of “orthodox” itself was changed. Turning the words of David Johnson (quoted earlier in this chapter) on their head, we could conclude that “the values and beliefs of regional cultures took on the radiance of truth.” In conclusion, let me circle back to my reflections on “civilization,” where I began. W ­ hether conceived as the civilisation of the philosophes

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or the wen of the Sinitic scholar—or any of its many possi­ble variations across ­human culture, “civilization” has been considered absolute and immutable, the perfect ideal t­ oward which all humankind aspired. Because it was perfect, it could not be altered; anything but the perfect was by definition imperfect. Perhaps no culture had fully realized such perfection, but those who defined “civilization” ­were self-­ evidently the closest, the most perfect in an imperfect world. Equally self-­evidently, therefore, those who did not share the values, whose concept of ideal was d ­ ifferent, w ­ ere imperfect. It may be debatable ­whether all humankind could attain perfection, but there was no doubt that those who understood “civilization,” who could define it, could attain it. Consistent with such assumptions, the dominant narrative of the history of southern China, the not-­wen realm of imperfect values, has long been one of triumph. In the words of the Intrigues of the Warring States, quoted in chapter 1: “The Central Lands is the place where perspicacity and intelligence abide; where wealth gathers; where the sages teach; where benevolence and righ­teousness are practiced; where the Odes and the Documents, the rites and m ­ usic are employed; where genius and technique are tested; where distant places go to observe; where the Man and the Yi find their models of righ­teousness.” Or as Dong Chang asserted several centuries l­ater: “Great is the Central Land. This is where the Five Thearchs and Three Kings arose. This is the source whence men of culture and rites and righ­teousness all arose. Thus it is trea­sured by the Sages.” The civilization of the Central Lands, this narrative asserts, gradually spread through the South, overwhelming the uncivilized world, which had long lain beyond the pale of civilization, leading to a cultural landscape defined by the normative values of the heartland. Yet as is so often the case, the reality was more complex. The incorporation of the South into the Sinitic cultural ecumene was neither smooth nor unilateral and most certainly not uncontested. The narrative “triumph” of Sinitic civilization, which has ­shaped China’s history for many centuries, far from reflecting an objective interpretation, I argue, is the legacy of literary monopolization: Lacking their own written tradition, the diverse cultures of the South w ­ ere unable to ­counter the narrative constructed by the hegemonic discourse of the North. The didactic biases of that discourse mandated a narrative focused on wen; the not-­wen, as I wrote many pages ago, is best left not known. The alternative narratives of the South w ­ ere passed on orally; there was no indigenous written vehicle among the southern

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“barbarians.” They had no way of recording ­either their alternative vision of the perfect or an alternative narrative of history. In attempting to see beyond the barrier of that monopolization, therefore, we are forced to do so through its very win­dow. All we can hear of the indigenous narrative are the echoes that bounce through the monopolized rec­ord. But the echoes are there. Finding them, recovering them has been the goal of this book. I have argued that we hear those echoes best in the legacy of the numinous—­the cults that remain even t­oday so definitive of both the southern Fujianese and more broadly the Chinese experience. I have argued that cults ranging from the entirely local cult devoted to the Lord of Manifest Kindness to the ecumenic cult devoted to the Divine ­Woman of Meizhou are rooted in those echoes of a pre-­ Sinitic past. Finally, when we hear these echoes, we must come to an un­ settling conclusion. Far from the unbroken lineage harking back to the ancients that the orthodox narrative would have, Chinese civilization as we know it ­today is deeply influenced by the heterodox values and traditions of the South. It took many centuries for the Sinitic culture of the North and the divergent cultures of the wider South, both near and far, to find an accommodation; the early Song discourse on civilization was the recognition on behalf of both that such an accommodation was essential to the survival of the united empire. The culture, the “civilization,” that emerged from the accommodation, the civilization we ­today call “Chinese,” is the hybrid product of that resolution.

Notes

Preface 1. “Consolidation on the South China Frontier: The Development of Ch’üan-­ chou, 699 –1126” (unpublished PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1981).

Introduction 1. Smith, “Problematizing the Song-­Yuan-­Ming Transition,” 2. 2. Most relevantly, see the essays collected in Braudel, On History. 3. Bielenstein, “Chinese Colonization of Fukien ­until the end of the T’ang.” 4. See Clark, “Frontier Discourse and China’s Maritime Frontier.”

Chapter 1: “The Civilizing Mission” and the Historiographical Context 1. See the overview of French colonialism in Africa in Charbonneau, France and the New Imperialism, 31 –32. 2. Conklin, Mission to Civilize, 15. For an antagonistic review of Eu­rope’s civilizing mission, see Alam, “Some Economic Results of the Civilizing Mission.” For a parallel discussion of En­glish rationalizations of the imperial adventure in south Asia, see the essays in Colonialism as Civilizing Mission. 3. Caritat, Outlines of an Historical View of the Progress of the ­Human Mind. See also Pitts, Turn to Empire, 168 –173, especially 169. 4. Quoted in Charbonneau, France and the New Imperialism, 32. 5. Ferry, “Speech before the French Chamber of Deputies, March 28, 1884,” 199 –201. 6. Locke, Two Treatises of Government, chapter 5, §37 and §41. 7. “Barbarian” is a deeply problematic term that I use cautiously and advisedly. Beckwith notes that its roots are in an ancient Greek term for those who spoke a language other than Greek. Over time, especially in contemporary historiography—­which Beckwith finds most problematic, the term has come to mean “a power­ful foreigner with an uncouth, uncivilized, nonurban culture who was militarily skilled and somewhat heroic, but inclined to vio­lence and cruelty.” As strongly as Beckwith argues against use of the term in reference to Eu­ro­pean

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history, he is even more indignant at its use in Chinese history: “The idea of the barbarian was simply non­ex­is­tent in China, and there was and is no Chinese equivalent of the word” (“Epilogue: The Barbarians,” in Beckwith, Empires of the Silk Road, 360). Beckwith’s concerns are echoed in Di Cosmo, Ancient China and Its Enemies, 95 –96n7). As telling as Beckwith’s criticism may be, I nevertheless use the word. In contemporary En­glish usage “barbarian” has evolved to mean something less specific than Beckwith asserts—it defines anyone whose culture is deemed less “civilized” than that of the person using it. The Oxford En­glish Dictionary (OED), for example, among more classical definitions, suggests “a rude, wild, uncivilized person” or “an uncultured person, or one who has no sympathy with literary culture”—­neither of which echoes Beckwith’s emphasis on vio­lence or cruelty. Although he is correct that no Chinese word directly translates “barbarian,” there is also no alternative En­glish word that carries the same meaning; Beckwith notably offers no equivalent. Moreover, it is exactly the concept ­behind the OED definitions that I seek to convey in my use of it. Thus I will continue to use “barbarian” in full recognition that the word is loaded and problematic. For a similar conclusion, see also Yang, “ ‘What Do Barbarians Know of Gratitude?’ ” Yang further defended use of the term in an unpublished paper, “The Universalist’s Dilemma,” and in personal remarks to me. 8. Duara, “Discourse of Civilization and Pan-­Asianism.” 9. Harrell, Ways of Being Ethnic in Southwest China, plus many journal articles by other authors listed in the bibliography; and Friedman, “Embodying Civility.” Throughout this monograph I use the term “Sinitic,” in contrast to “Chinese” or “China” or even the more defensible HuaXia, to distinguish the culture that took shape throughout the lower Yellow River Plain, often called the North China Plain, through the late second and first millennia BCE from the broader culture and empire that thereafter absorbed the myriad distinct cultural patterns that had often evolved contemporaneously with but distinctly from that of the Sinitic heartland. “China” and all of its cognate forms are anachronisms of quite recent origin; because the aim of this book is to consider how “China” came to be, I believe it is im­por­tant to avoid the term. HuaXia, although of much deeper heritage in the “Chinese” tradition, is still compromised; as the term is defined in the Hanyu da cidian (vol. 9:403A), “it originally referred to the region of the Central Plain in our country, but l­ater came to include all the land of our country.” I therefore choose to use “Sinitic” to emphasize the distinction between the Central Lands and the rest of “China.” 10. See Wakabayashi, Anti-­Foreignism and Western Learning in Early-­ Modern Japan. Here and ­later I choose to render zhong guo as “Central Lands” in order both to emphasize the centrality and to avoid confusing it with the implicitly po­liti­cal meaning of “central kingdom[s].” In a parallel discussion, Peter Bol uses “Central Country”; see “Geography and Culture.” An abbreviated version



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of his unpublished manuscript was delivered to the 2009 annual meeting of the Association for Asian Studies ­under the title “ ‘China’ as Historical Signifier.” 11. See Hu Axiang, Weizai siming, part 2, “Zhongguo gujian minghao yu huowai youguan zhongguo de chengwei.” 12. It is im­por­tant to recognize that Aizawa was not the first to use the term in reference to Japan. In fact, the Nihon shoki, compiled in 720 CE and allegedly Japan’s second-­oldest text, refers to Japan as zhong guo/chūgoku; see Morohashi Tetsuji et al., Daikanwa jiten, vol. 1, entry #73:300, definition 3. However, Aizawa was consciously invoking the deeper cultural meaning of the term, which the Nihon shoki arguably was not, and so his use represented something significantly ­different. For an interest­ing, albeit not fully parallel, discussion, see also Howland, Borders of Chinese Civilization. Howland focuses on the relationship between China and Japan in the late nineteenth ­century. 13. Shujing, “Book of Zhou” (Zhou shu 周書), “Zicai 梓材,” following (with adaptation) Legge, Chinese Classics with a Translation, Prologemena, and Copious Indexes, vol. 3, pt. 2, “Containing the Fifth Part of the Shoo King, or the Books of Chow, and the Indexes, Book XI, “The Timber of the Tsze Tree,” 418. See also Shujing jichuan, 4:57a. 14. For a cogent criticism of the rendering of Chinese terminology as “barbarian,” see Di Cosmo, Ancient China and Its Enemies, 95 –96n7. 15. Sima Qian, Shiji, 5:2a. See also 44:1a and elsewhere. Traditional texts divided the external world into four “barbarian” groups: The Di lived to the north, the Yi lived to the east, the Rong lived to the west, and the Man lived to the south. Because most contact was along the northern and eastern peripheries, yi di, and often yi by itself, became a generalized reference to all four. 16. Ibid., 31:3b. 17. Ibid., 12:16a. 18. Shijing jichuan, 6:33b –34a, Ode no. 253, “Min lao 民勞.” Hu, Weizai siming, 257, following the interpretation in the Mao shi 毛詩, reads “zhong guo” as “capital.” 19. 5b:7a. 20. In classical discourse the five directions ­were north, east, south, west, and center. 21. Liji zuanyan, compiled by (Yuan) Wu Cheng (Wenyuan ge Siku quanshu), electronic ed. (henceforth ESKQS), 7:26. 22. Zhanguo ce, 19:9b. I follow the translation of Bol, “Central Country,” 17. 23. Chunqiu fanlu, 2:1a. Perhaps the most authoritative assessment of Dong Zhongshu’s relationship to the text is Loewe, Dong Zhongshu, especially chapter 5, “Textual Transmission and the Authenticity of the Chunqiu fanlu.” 24. Ban Gu, (Qian) Hanshu, 27b:27a  –­b. 25. Chen Shou, Sanguo zhi, “Wei” 魏, 1:45a.

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26. Anon., Zhong shuo, 7:2b. 27. Yao Silian et al., Liang shu, preface, 1a. 28. Ibid., 54:16a. 29. I have borrowed these terms from Kawakatsu Yoshio, Chūgoku no rekishi, no. 3, “Gi-­Jin-­Nambokuchō,” 313. My comments on the Tabghach draw on Kawakatsu, Chūgoku no rekishi, 269 –334, and Miyazaki Ichisada, DaiTō teikoko, 197 –296. The locus classicus of the history of the Northern Wei in western languages remains Eberhard, Das Toba-­Reich Nord Chinas. For a more recent overview, see Lewis, China between Empires, especially 74 –85. 30. Wei Shou, Wei shu, 95:61a. On Wei Shou, see (Tang) Li Baiyao, BeiQi shu, 37. 31. Du You, Tongdian, 185:985a. 32. Hu Yuan, Zhouyi kouyi, 10:44a. 33. Zhao Yifu, Yitong, 2:10. 34. See, for example, Zhou Dunyi, Zhou yuangong ji, 1:32a. Bol, This Culture of Ours, 254, offers a slightly d ­ ifferent translation: “Wen is a means for conveying dao.” 35. Chen Zhi, Muzhong ji, 1:48b. 36. Illustrative of this difficulty, Hanyu dacidian, vol. 6:1512 –1513, has twenty-­nine definitions of the word spread across three comprehensive categories; the Dai kanwa jiten, vol. 5:5198 –5199, #13450, has thirty definitions similarly spread across three categories. 37. See von Falkenhausen, “Concept of Wen in the Ancient Chinese Ancestral Cult.” 38. For a discussion of this, see Abramson, Ethnic Identity in Tang China, especially xvi  –­xviii. 39. Kongzi (Confucius), Lunyu, book 9, “Zi Han” 子罕, verse 5. 40. Norman and Mei make a similar point in their discussion of lexical borrowing between Chinese and the indigenous languages of southern China; see “Austroasiatics in Ancient South China.” Their conclusion that the interaction was between Old Chinese and Austroasiatic languages rather than with proto-­ Austronesian languages has been challenged by Sagart; see “Expansion of Setaria Farmers in East Asia.” The importance of their conclusions about cross-­cultural fertilization, however, stands on its own merits. See also Weinstein, Empire and Identity in Guizhou, for a study of the late imperial frontier in the southwest that makes a similar point. 41. See Lattimore’s seminal discussions in Inner Asian Frontiers of China. 42. Officially there are fifty-­five minority groups in the ­People’s Republic. Recent de­cades have witnessed an outpouring of lit­erature by Western scholars on China’s minority policy; see, for example, Gladney, “Representing Nationality in China.” For a nonacademic but nevertheless very relevant discussion of the same theme, see “National Minorities” at Chineseposters​.­net (http://­chineseposters​ .­net​/­themes​/­national​-­minorities​.­php), accessed August 13, 2013.



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43. See especially Jiang Bingzhao, Dongnan minzu yanjiu. 44. See, for example, Zheng Xuemeng, Zhongguo gudai jingji zhongxin nanyi, and Cheng, Zhongguo beifang jingji shi. A related theme has addressed the development of the south itself, in­de­pen­dently of its relationship to the north. Although many scholars have discussed this, exemplary in recent lit­erature is Shiba, Sōdai Kōnan keizaishi no kenkyū. 45. Wiens, China’s March into the Tropics. 46. Eberhard, “Die Lokalkulturen des Südens und Ostens.” Also see his China’s Minorities. 47. Fitzgerald, Southern Expansion of the Chinese ­People. 48. Schafer, review of Fitzgerald, Southern Expansion of the Chinese P ­ eople. See also the review by Woodside, who criticized Fitzgerald’s “cozy, confidant urbanity” as “a camouflage for an undiscriminating superficial knowledge.” 49. Pope, review of Schafer, Vermilion Bird. 50. A work deserving mention, although somewhat peripheral to my theme, is von Glahn, Country of Streams and Grottoes. Although more aware of the complexity of the frontier than most of its pre­de­ces­sors, von Glahn’s narrative is still rooted in the assumption that the Sinitic model overwhelmed and displaced the indigenous culture. 51. Wang, “Nanhai Trade.” This point is an u ­ nder­lying theme as well in the essays in Cooke and Li, ­Water Frontier. 52. Winks, Money, Markets, and Trade in Early Southeast Asia, especially chapter 2, “China’s Southern Frontier: The Economics of Accommodation and Assimilation.” 53. See especially Strange Parallels, vol. 1:2.

Chapter 2: Northern Perceptions of the Pre-­S initic South 1. Archaeology in China constantly revises the prehistorical narrative; see Chang, Archaeology of Ancient China and the relevant chapters of The Cambridge History of Ancient China, especially Chang, “China on the Eve of the Historical Period.” See also Ozawa, Toyonobu, and Kiyotaka, Chūgoku no kōkogaku. The Chinese lit­erature on which these texts are based is far too voluminous to allow for specific citations. Most relevantly, see Xu Xiaowang, Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, “Yuangu zhi Liuchao.” For related discussions of ethnicities, see also Jiang Bingzhao, Dongnan minzu yanjiu, and the appropriate essays in Wang Jianhua, Zhongguo yue xue, vol. 1, especially Chen Wenqing, “Wenhua yu yuan­ chuang wenhua” (3 –10), and Feng Tianyu and Chen Wangheng, “Diyu wenhua yanjiu dui tanlu” (11 –18). 2. For a parallel assessment, see von Falkenhausen, “Waning of the Bronze Age.” 3. Di Cosmo, Ancient China and Its Enemies, a long-­overdue update to Lattimore’s pathbreaking classic work in Inner Asian Frontiers of China, is arguably the most insightful analy­sis of this tension.

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4. Norman and Mei, “Austroasiatics in Ancient South China”; Boltz, “Language and Writing”; and Pulleyblank, “Chinese and Their Neighbors in Prehistoric and Early Historic Times,” 427. Sagart, among ­others, has offered a strong critique of this view; see “Expansion of Setaria Farmers in East Asia.” 5. The role of shamanism in the origins of Sinitic culture is debated. For instance, K. C. Chang has maintained that shamans ­were central; alternatively, David Keightley has argued that no true shamanism existed. Regardless, the Sinitic culture that consolidated in the mid-­first millennium was decidedly secular and as such stood in dramatic contrast to the cultures of the south. For a summary of the debate, see Puett, To Become a God, especially chapter 1, “Anthropomorphizing the Spirits.” 6. Cook, “Ideology of the Chu Ruling Class,” citing Arthur Waley, trans., The Book of Songs, nos. 221 and 230. 7. An emerging line of scholarship in China ­today posits that Daoism had its roots in Chu; I thank Steve Coutinho (Muhlenberg College) for references to Zhang Zhengming, Chuguo wenhua, and Tu Youguang, Chuguo zhexue; see also the work of Chen Guying, including LaoZhuang xinlun, especially 103n7. 8. See, for example, Hawkes, Ch’u Tz’u: The Songs of the South. 9. The exception is the account of King Goujian of Yue (r. 496 –465), who, having been rudely booted off his throne by Wu, turned the tables and wiped his ­enemy off the map. Goujian, whose story is told at some length by Sima Qian in his Shiji, j.41, has become iconized in modern China; see Cohen, Speaking of History. The two Han dynasty texts are the Yue jue shu 越絕書 and the WuYue chunqiu 吳越春秋. 10. See von Falkenhausen, “Waning of the Bronze Age,” 525 –539; see also Ozawa, Tani, and Nishie, Chūgoku no kōkogaku, 224 –236. For a highly teleological perspective, see Wang Suijin, WuYue wenhua shihua, especially 7 –86. 11. A sword found in a Warring States era tomb excavated in 1965 bears the inscription—­written in very obscure “bird” script and subject to some interpretive controversy—­“Yue King Goujian, sword made personally” (Yue wang Goujian, zi zuo yong jian). Although the most common interpretation has been that it was made for Goujian’s personal use, there are strong reasons to question that. Some have cast doubt on the reading, arguing that the “bird” script is open to interpretation. More significantly, the tomb where the sword was discovered lies in Hubei Province, way beyond the reach of the Yue kingdom and almost certainly is not that of Goujian himself, thus leaving the question of how “his” sword could have gotten there. This in turn raises the question w ­ hether the title “king” was taken by Goujian or is the attribution of someone familiar with both his story and the po­liti­cal terminology of the Central Lands. For a very thoughtful and well-­informed discussion of the sword and o ­ thers like it, see Blair, “Ji (Halberds) & Ge (Dagger-­Axes) in Ancient China.” Goujian’s swords are also addressed in Chen Wangheng, “Danjian jingshen.” The 1965 Goujian sword, meanwhile, has become an iconic item itself and even has its own fan club.



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12. See Norman and Mei, “Austroasiatics in Ancient South China,” and Sagart’s critique in “Expansion of Setaria Farmers in East Asia.” Archaeological evidence supports the Austronesian interpretation; see Rollett, Jiao, and Lin, “Early Seafaring in the Taiwan Strait”; Bellwood, “5000 Years of Austronesian History and Culture”; and Jiao, Neolithic of Southeast China. 13. For an overview, see von Falkenhausen, “Waning of the Bronze Age,” 525 –539, and Ozawa, Chūgoku no kōkogaku, 217 –239. For more specific discussions, see, for example, Xu Hengbin, Huanan kaogu lunji, especially 57 –116, and Xu, Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, “Yuangu zhi Liuchao,” especially 58 –112. Blair, “Ji (Halberds) & Ge (Dagger-­Axes),” conclusively documents the existence of a shared tradition in weaponry throughout the non-­Sinitic lands of the Farther South. 14. Sima Qian made the same comment of a ­people he called the Jing Man; see Shiji 31:1b –2a. In other words, this became a trope of the not-­wen. 15. Xun Yue, QianHan ji, 10:13a –­b. “Caps and sashes” (guan dai) refers to the orthodox court dress of officials in the Central Lands. 16. Shiji 41:1b. For a more comprehensive look at this tradition, see Xu Hengbin, “ ‘Duanfa wenshen’ kao” ‘斷髮文身’ 考 in Xu, Huanan kaogu lunji, 33 – 43. 17. Ban Gu, Qian Hanshu, 28b:48a, with commentary by (Tang) Yan Shigu (唐) 顔師古. I will have much more to say l­ater about jiaolong. For a wider discussion of tattoo practices among the non-­Sinitic peoples, see Reed, “Tattoo in Early China,” especially 361 –364. 18. Sui shu, edited by Zhangsun Wuji et al., 31:18b  –19a. I have been guided in the following by Zeng Huaman (Tsang Wah-­moon), Tangdai Lingnan fazhan de hexin xing, 1 –14. 19. Yue Shi, Taiping huanyu ji (henceforth TPHYJ), 161:2b. See also 167:13b –14a, where he makes a similar comment about the indigenes of Qinzhou. 20. Ibid., 167:13b. 21. Ibid., 159:11a. 22. Ibid., 161:7b. 23. Ibid., 169:8b. 24. Ibid., 171:7a. 25. Ibid., 175:3a. 26. Oracles, TPHYJ, 161:2a; 163:4b; 166:5a; 167:11a. 27. Shamans, TPHYJ, 162:3b; 163:4b; 167:11a. 28. Morals, TPHYJ, 166:10b; 167:13b. 29. Henry, “Submerged History of Yuè,” 5. 30. Contemporary Chinese scholars emphasize an im­por­tant cultural link between Chu and Guangdong, the land of the Southern Yue; see, for example, Xu Hengbin, “Shilun Chu wenhua dui Guangdong lishi fazhan de zuoyong,” in Huanan Kaogu, 117 –112; originally published in Zhongguo Kaogu xuehui di erci nianhui lunwenji.

196

Notes to Pages 24–30

31. See Xu Hengbin, “NanYue zu xianQin chutan,” in Huanan Kaogu, 22  –32. 32. See Xu Xiaowang, Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, 1  –112. 33. Ibid., 104  –107. For a critique, see Boltz, Origins and Early Development of the Chinese Writing System, 35  –39. 34. See, for example, Zhang and Fang, Zhongguo haijiang tongshi, 49  –52, citing Weng Bozan, QinHan shi, 43  –47. 35. On the pre-­Sinitic history of the port, see Huang Qichen, Guangdong haishang sichou zhi lu shi, 21  –25, and Li Donghua, “QinHan bianju zhong de NanYueguo.” For a broader discussion, see Clark, “Frontier Discourse and China’s Maritime Frontier.” 36. On Zhao Tuo, see Sima Qian, Shiji, j.113; Zhao’s rise is also covered in Sima Guang, Zizhi tongjian (henceforth ZZTJ), 12:393  –396. For a modern narrative of these events, see Li, Zhongguo haiyang fazhan, 40  –45; see also Kawahara, Kan minzoku Kanan hattatsushi kenkyū, 3  –45, and Brindley, “Repre­sen­ ta­tions and Uses of Yue Identity along the Southern Frontier of the Han.” According to Sima Qian, his title ­under the Qin was ling, perhaps best rendered as “magistrate.” 37. Initially he took the title “martial king of Southern Yue” (NanYue wuwang); see Shiji, 113:2b. 38. Ibid., 113:3a. 39. Ibid., 41:10a. 40. Xu Xiaowang argues for a more integrated history but offers very ­little evidence to support it; see Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, “Yuangu zhi Liuchao,” chapter 1. 41. Shiji, 114:5a. 42. On Ye, see Jiang Bingzhao, “Dui Minzhong jun zhi,” 124  –138. 43. Although the standard translation of Minnan is “southern Fujian,” parsed literally it means “south of [the] Min.” This, by extension, would imply that “Min” had a narrower meaning than “Fujian,” presumably applying only to the Min River drainage network, which defines northern Fujian. Similarly by extension, then, those regions to the south ­were nameless, a further affirmation that they lay outside the sphere of ­viable imperial authority. 44. TPHYJ, 100:1a. 45. The Feng f­ amily was brought to my attention in Kawahara, Kan minzoku Kanan hattatsushi kenkyū, 83  –105. The biography of Feng Ang referenced l­ater is in Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tang shu, 110:4112  –4114. 46. Ouyang also includes a brief biography of Ziyou; see Xin Tangshu, 110:4114. 47. (Yuding) Quan Tang shi, 53:6a  –b ­ . 48. Ibid., 384:4b  –5a. Schafer, Vermilion Bird, 21, offers an alternative translation. 49. Liu hedong ji, 28:465  –466. For a parallel translation, see Schafer, Vermilion Bird, 100.



Notes to Pages 31–35

197

50. Ibid., 42:704. 51. Ibid., 34:540  –543, quoting from 541. 52. “Yu Lin Hanlin Jian shu 與李翰林建書,” ibid., 30:494  –496, quoting from 494. 53. Dongya tang Changli ji zhu, 6:8a  –10a. Schafer, Vermilion Bird, 217, has a partial translation. The meaning of the poem’s title, “Long li,” has often been misinterpreted as “The Clerk of Long,” or something along those lines. Schafer suggests that it should be rendered as “The Clerk of Shuang” (he does not actually provide a translation of the title, but it is implicit in his abbreviated translation), linking it to Shuangzhou, a prefecture in western Lingnan written 瀧州 but pronounced “shuang” (Vermilion Bird, 217). Charles Hartman far more plausibly maintains that long renders a regional non-­Sinitic word for “rapids” (pers. comm., January 14, 2010). Furthermore, the place name in the poem rendered as “Changle” 昌樂 (line 2) is in fact a textual error for “Lechang 樂昌,” the name of a district near Chaozhou, through which Han would certainly have passed. I have therefore followed Hartman. For further discussion of Han’s exile, see Hartman, Han Yu and the T’ang Search for Unity, 86  –90. 54. Linquan wenji, 7:8b  –9a. 55. Among English-­language sources on the Celestial Masters, see Kleeman, A God’s Own Tale and Great Perfection; and Robinet, Taoism, chapter 3, “Celestial Masters”; the translation of fangshi is Robinet’s (37). See also the following essays in Daoism Handbook, vol. 1: Barbara Hendrichke, “Early Daoist Movements” (134  –164); Peter Nickerson, “The Southern Celestial Masters” (256  –282); and Livia Kohn, “The Northern Celestial Masters” (283  –308). For a discussion that is particularly relevant, see Xu Xiaowang, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, 28  –48. 56. See Ge Hong, Shenxian zhuan, 5:8a  –b ­ . 57. Hang Shijun, Sanguo zhi buzhu, 2:13a, supplement to the biography of Zhang Lu, citing the “Yizhou ji” 益州記 of Li Ying 李膺. Li Ying was the governor (tai shou) of Shu, the administrative district of western Sichuan for the Latter Han, late in the second ­century CE; see Fan Yu, HouHan shu, 97:9a. 58. Kleeman, Great Perfection, 11  –60, examines the ethnography and cultures of pre-­Sinitic Sichuan; see also Sage, Ancient Sichuan and the Unification of China. Livia Kohn asserts that Zhang Ling’s “followers . . . ​included large numbers of local p ­ eople and ethnic non-­Chinese”; see Daoism and Chinese Culture, 70. See also Kleeman, Great Perfection, 66  –80. 59. From Li Ying’s “Yizhou ji” (see note 57). On the role of snake cults in southern China, see Eberhard, Local Cultures of South and East China, 380  –390; on the role of snake cults in Sichuan, see Kleeman, A God’s Own Tale. 60. Lu’s biography in the Sanguo zhi says: “[Lu] used the Way of Demons (gui dao) to instruct the p ­ eople and called himself ‘teacher.’ ” See Sanguo zhi, “Wei zhi,” 8:27b. 61. A movement led by Ma Xiang on the Chengdu Plain and contemporary with the emergence of the Celestial Masters in the last years of the Han is identified

198

Notes to Pages 35–42

as belonging to the Way of Heavenly Peace. However, Farmer argues that Ma was l­ittle more than an opportunistic bandit; see “Three Chaste Ones of Ba,” especially 193  –194. 62. Nickerson, “Southern Celestial Masters.” Nickerson’s argument is not uncontroversial; many argue that there was no Daoism in the South before the fourth ­century. In support, see Strickmann, “Mao-­shan Revelations,” 17  –18, on Du Daoqu, who “emigrated to Southeast China from Ssu-­ch’uan.” 63. Campany, To Live as Long as Heaven and Earth, 13  –15. 64. Robinet, Taoism, 79  –80. 65. Strickmann, “Mao-­shan Revelations,” 8. 66. Bokenkamp, Early Daoist Scriptures, 236. 67. Robinet, Taoism, 115. 68. Huang Shumei, Liuchai Taihu liuyu de fazhan, 166. 69. Zhang Zexian and Zhu Dawei, Wei Jin Nanbei chao nongmin zhanzheng shiliao huibian. 70. (Tang) Quyun Xida, Kaiyuan zhanjing, 9:4a, quoted in Zhang and Zhu, Wei Jin Nanbei chao nongmin zhanzheng shiliao huibian, 229, erroneously citing juan 5. 71. Shen Yue, Song shu, 100:7b. 72. Daoshi, Fayuan zhulin, 69:9a. 73. Jin shu, 8:23b. The fullest discussion of Lu’s plot is in ZZTJ, 103:3260. 74. Fang Qiao et al., Jin shu, 58:9b, with additional sources cited in Zhang and Zhu, Wei Jin Nanbei chao nongmin zhanzheng shiliao huibian, 219. 75. The Zhou ­family history is summarized in Jin shu, j.58. 76. My account relies on ZZTJ, 85:2680  –2682; 2683  –2684. See also Jin shu, 4:11b  –12a, and especially 100:5a  –7b. 77. Jin shu, 100:6b, says thirteen thousand (i.e., shi san wan 十三萬) rather than san shi wan. 78. The following draws from Clark, “Frontier Discourse and China’s Maritime Frontier,” 15  –18, and derives principally from Sun’s biography in the Jin shu, j.100, as well as relevant passages in ZZTJ. I have also drawn on two secondary accounts: Tanigawa and Mori, Chūgoku minshū hanran shi, vol. 1, 121  –145; and Matsu’ura, Chūgoku no kaizoku, 16 –20. Sun is called a haizei, a term commonly translated as “pirate.” Because the pop­u­lar usage of the En­glish term suggests someone who preys on shipping, which Sun did not apparently do, I prefer my alternative translation. 79. Jin shu, 100:30b. 80. Ibid., 100:31a. Werner Eichhorn has parsed this passage; see “Description of the Rebellion of Sun En,” 334. 81. Jin shu, 100:32a. 82. Ibid., 100:32b. 83. Ibid., 100:32a. 84. Ibid., 10:4a.



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85. Eichhorn, “Description of the Rebellion of Sun En,” follows the orthodox account very closely, including its approach to Sun En. 86. Jin shu, 100:32b, and ZZTJ, 1111:3499. 87. Jin shu, 100:32b. 88. ZZTJ, 112:3524. 89. Jin shu, 100:34b. 90. TPHYJ, 102:2b. 91. See, for example, Clark, “Bridles, Halters, and Hybrids.” 92. The Dai kanwa jiten defines “quan lang” as “a person who makes his living by taking products from the ­water,” and as “fisherman.” However, a third definition is dan (or danmin), or “boat p ­ eople.” See vol. 6, 1040, character #17274:71. 93. Sui shu, 48:6a –­b., biography of Yang Su. 94. Zheng Qiao, Tong zhi, 160:1587c  –1588a. Ye Tinggui (twelfth ­century, contemporary with Zheng Qiao), in his Hailu suishi, says explicitly: “At the time that Sui pacified Chen in the south seas there ­were 5  –600 ­house­holds that lived on the sea as refugees. They ­were called the ‘floating boat ­people.’ ” See Hailu suishi, 20:37b  –38a.

Chapter 3: The Sinitic Accommodation with the South 1. Twitchett, “Introduction.” 2. See Hartwell, “Demographic, Po­liti­cal, and Social Transformations of China.” 3. The nature of the elite class in the South during the centuries of division has long been an issue of debate, especially among Japa­nese historians. Naitō Konan argued that the southern courts ­were dominated by a hereditary aristocracy (see the summary of Naitō’s thesis in Miyakawa Hisayuki, Rikucho shi kenkyū, 342n1, and David Johnson, Medieval Chinese Oligarchy; see also Eberhard, Conquerors and Rulers). ­Others such as Kawakatsu Yoshio (see, for example, Rikuchō kizokusei shakai no kenkyū) and Tanigawa Michio (see Chūgoku chūsei shakai to kyōdōtai) have countered that there was much greater mobility during the period. My question is certainly connected to this debate, but it raises ad ­ ifferent issue: how the indigenous southern population, both Han and non-­ Han, engaged with the government of the southern kingdoms and thereafter. I do not propose to engage the debate itself except incidentally. For assessments of the debate, see the review articles by Somers, Grafflin, and Schmidt-­Glintzer. 4. ( Jin) Chen Shou, Sanguo zhi, “Wu zhi,” 7:8a. 5. On Tao Dan, see Jin shu; on Ms. Zhan, see Tong zhi, 29:478a. 6. Liu Yiqing, Shishuo xinyu, 2b:5a. The non-­Han heritage of the Tao is asserted most explicitly in Mair, Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Lit­erature, 178. See also Kawakatsu, Chūgoku no rekishi, vol. 3, “Gi Jin Namboku cho,” 35  –37. Contrary views have been expressed to me in personal

200

Notes to Pages 49–54

communications from Wendy Swartz (February 15, 2010) and Terry Kleeman (February 18, 2010). 7. I have relied on Tao Kan’s biography in Jin shu, 66:7b  –23a; see also Shishuo xinyu, 1A:40b, the commentary of Liu Xiaobiao citing “the account of the Tao ­family” (Taoshi xu). 8. TPHYJ, 111:1a. 9. “Person from afar” resonates closely with “barbarian from afar” (yuan yi), widely used in the discourse of the late Han and a­ fter. The Jin dynastic history monograph on fiscal policy describes the “barbarians from afar” as “those who did not pay taxes on their fields” (bu ke tian zhe). On the use of the term, see Kawahara, Kan minzoku Ka’nan hattatsushi shi kenkyū, 47  –65, including the discussion of prior analyses. 10. Shishuo xinyu, 1A:40b, commentary of Liu Xiaobiao. 11. See Zhang Liang’s biography in the Qian Hanshu, 40:1a  –14b. I want to thank an anonymous reader who made this connection for me. 12. Of Maodu’s named ­family members, only his ­father can be remotely plausibly identified in the sources. The Jin shu refers to a Zhang Chang2 who served as governor of Ruyang (taishou [62:25a]) and se­nior attendant (zuo changshi [119:8a]). 13. Shen Yue, Song shu, 53:1a  –3b. 14. Hu Fan’s biography is recounted in Song shu, 50:1a  –4b. On Luo Xiansheng, see Jin shu, 89:31b—33a. 15. Jin shu, 89:31b. Linru is modern Fuzhou ( Jiangxi). 16. Wang Ningzhi was the second son of Wang Xizhi (303  –361), one of China’s most famous calligraphers and very much a product of wen culture. See Jin shu, 80:3a. 17. I rely on Qing-­dynasty provincial gazetteers for regional and local numbers of degrees earned. These numbers contain some obvious flaws, not the least that Qing provincial boundaries do not reflect Tang geopo­liti­cal realities. Nevertheless, the gazetteers give us a broad mea­sure of participation that is indicative if not exact. 18. Twitchett and Wechsler, “Kao-­tsung (Reign 646  –85) and the Empress Wu,” 274. 19. Chen’s two most seminal works are Tangdai zhengzhi shi shulun gao and SuiTang zhidu yuanyuan lüelun ji. 20. See Wenxian tongkao, 29:276  –280. The ­actual number of jinshi according to this source is 6,643, but as all such numbers are fungible, I suggest a rounder approximation. 21. Xie Min et al., (Yongzheng) Jiangxi tongzhi, 49:1a  –5b. 22. Ji Zengyu et al., (Qianlong) Zhejiang tongzhi, 123:10b  –14b. 23. Hao Yulin et al., (Qianlong) Guangdong tongzhi, 31:3a  –6b, and Hao Yulin et al., (Qianlong) Fujian tongzhi (henceforth FJTZ), 33:2a  –9a. 24. Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tangshu (henceforth XTS), 45:1180.



Notes to Pages 54–61

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25. ZZTJ, 202:6380. Eventually the supplemental appointment was regularized every three years rather than every four; see Tang liudian, 2:12b, and Wang Pu, Tang huiyao, 75:21a  –25a. 26. XTS 72c:2681  –2707. Except where noted, my discussion of Zhang Jiuling’s kin is based on this rec­ord. 27. Hao Yulin et al., (Qianlong) Guangdong tongzhi, 44:40b  –41a. 28. Ibid., 6:25b. 29. Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tangshu, 126:4424. 30. (Qianlong) Guangdong tongzhi, 31:3b. See also Liu Xu, Jiu Tangshu, 99:3097 and  126:4424  –4225. 31. In addition, a first cousin and three nephews ­were “provincial tribute scholars” (xiang gong), men who ­were recommended for the imperial examinations by the regional and prefectural administrators; none apparently tested successfully. 32. (Qianlong) Guangdong tongzhi, 44:60b  –61a. 33. In an interest­ing controversy, Han Yu, in his epigraph for Ouyang Zhan, claimed he was the first jinshi from Fujian (see Dongya tang Changli ji zhu, 22:2b  –5a). However, it is elsewhere well documented that Xue Lingzhi was the first (see, for example, Liang, (Chunxi) Sanshan zhi [henceforth SSZ], 26:1b and 2b, and Wu Zeng, Nenggai zhai wenlu, 4:23a  –25b. Moore attempts to unravel why Han Yu would have made such an assertion; see Rituals of Recruitment, 111  –118. 34. Dalby, “Court Politics in Late T’ang Times,” 579. 35. XTS, 150:4810. 36. Han Yu, Dongya tang Changli ji zhu, 22:3a. Moore (Rituals of Recruitment, 111) has translated a synopsis of this passage from Wang Dingbao that has guided parts of my translation, which is instead taken from Han Yu’s text. 37. Unlike Chang Gun, Xi Xiang left no imprint on the Tang rec­ord. We rely on Fujian sources for what we know of him; see especially He Qiaoyuan et al., Minshu (henceforth MS), 53:1382. 38. Ouyang xingzhou wenji, 9:2a  –3b. 39. Li Yisun, Ouyang xingzhou wenji yuanxu; see also FJTZ, 70:2a  –3a. 40. See, for example, Ouyang xingzhou wenji, 8:8a  –10b. 41. Bokenkamp, Early Daoist Scriptures, 277. 42. Jin shu, 94:43a. My understanding of Tao Yuanming is indebted to two works by Swartz: Reading Tao Yuanming and “Rewriting a Recluse.” 43. “Wuliu xiansheng zhuan,” 5:8b. 44. Tao Yuanming and Manuscript Culture, 12 and 18. 45. Ibid., 13. 46. The standard text says “thirty years,” but in fact Tao only held office for thirteen. As this is a very ­simple reversal of two characters in Chinese, Watson interpreted it as a transcription error. 47. Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, 129. See also Tian, Tao Yuanming and Manuscript Culture, 98.

202

Notes to Pages 61–71

48. Tao Yuanming and Manuscript Culture, 98  –99. 49. My quotations come from Rick Davis and David Steelman at http://­www​ .­gutenberg​.­org​/­cache​/­epub​/­2090​/­pg2090​.­html, accessed February 28, 2010. The received text can be found in Tao Yuanming ji, 5:1a  –2b. 50. This is the interpretation of Kawakatsu, Chūgoku no rekishi, 33  –35. See also Alan J. Berkowitz, Patterns of Disengagement, chapter 7, “Patterns and Singularities in the Portrayal of Reclusion during the Six Dynasties.” 51. Liu Jingshu, Yiyuan, 1:5b. 52. “Shumen yu Lin Yun fenlu,” Wanshou Tangren jueju, 49:5b  –6a. 53. “Yu Lin Yun tong zhi Shutu, ci Jialing rende yueniao sheng, cheng Lin,” Ouyang xingzhou wenji, 3:4a; also see “Wen Jialing Yue niao cheng Lin Yun,” Wanshou Tangren jueju, 49:5b  –6a; also in Shuzhong guangji, 27:8b. 54. “Ti Liling,” Wanshou Tangren jueju, 49:7a. 55. Ye Hekan et al., Lin Zao, “Li ling,” (Yuding) Quan Tangshi, 319:8b. Two other poems are attributed to Lin Zao, but the attribution is contested. 56. “Zhujian you yun,” (Yuding) Quan Tangshi, 466:12a. 57. “Deng Chang’an Ci’en sit ta,” (Yuding) Quan Tangshi, 490:1a. 58. See Naomi Standen, “Five Dynasties,” and Clark, “Southern Kingdoms.” 59. I address only five of the “Ten Kingdoms”: Wu, Southern Tang, WuYue, Min, and Southern Han. The remaining kingdoms are peripheral to my focus, and I omit them. For fuller discussion, see Clark, “Southern Kingdoms.” 60. See Clark, “Scoundrels, Rogues, and Refugees.” 61. ZZTJ, 267:8709. See also Xu Wen’s biography in Xin Tangshu, 61:760. 62. Ma Ling, NanTang Shu, 1:1b. 63. On Wu Cheng, see Wu Renchen, Shiguo chunqiu, 87:1256. 64. Qian Yan, WuYue beishi, 2:9a  –b ­ . 65. Anon., Wuguo gushi, b:4a. 66. “Southern Kingdoms” and Portrait of a Community, 47  –54. See also “Quanzhou (Fujian) in the Tang-­Song Interregnum,” 132  –149. 67. ZZTJ, 256:8320. Ouyang Xiu, Xin wudai shi, 68:845, claimed that the band numbered “several tens of thousands.” 68. Shiguo chunqiu, 94:1363. 69. (Chunxi) Xianxi zhi, compiled by Zhao Yubi (henceforth XXZ), 1:13a.

Chapter 4: Social Innovation in the Eleventh C ­ entury and the Debates on Civilization 1. Standen, “Five Dynasties,” especially 109  –132. 2. Lau and Huang, “Founding and Consolidation of the Sung Dynasty.” 3. See Hymes and Schirokauer, “Introduction,” 3. 4. Liu and Chen, Archaeology of China. See also Bray, Rice Economies, 8  –9. 5. The most thorough discussion in En­glish of the history of wet-­rice cultivation in China is Needham, Science and Civilisation in China. A more up-­to-­



Notes to Pages 71–76

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date discussion that focuses on southeast Asia but addresses the theme more broadly is Boomgard, Southeast Asia. 6. See, for example, Song Xi, “BeiSong taomi de chandi fenbu”; Shiba Yoshinobu, Sōdai shōgyōshi kenkyū, 142  –184; and Cheng Minsheng, Songdai diyu jingji, especially 273  –368. 7. An excellent discussion of changes in the rural economy during the Song is Kawakami Kōichi, Sōdai no keizai seikatsu. 8. See Hartwell, “Demographic, Po­liti­cal, and Social Transformations,” 369, ­table  1. 9. For an excellent discussion of population data, see Liang, NanSong de nongcun jingji, especially chapter 1, “NanSong nongcun de hukou gaikuang.” See also Guo, LiangSong chengxiang shangpin huobi jingji kaolüe, and Shiba, “Sōdai no toshika wo kangaeru.” For modern social science approaches to urbanization and the articulation of urban hierarchies, see Rozman, Urban Networks in Ch’ing China and Tokugawa Japan. 10. Twitchett, “T’ang Market System.” 11. Twitchett, “Merchant, Trade, and Government in Late T’ang,” and Fu Zongwen, Songdai caoshi zhen yanjiu. 12. The best En­glish account is von Glahn, Fountain of Fortune. 13. This is the theme of my Community, Trade, and Networks. 14. Duanming ji, 35:8b. 15. The potential citations on Wang are vast, especially in Chinese and Japa­nese. In En­glish, see Smith, “Shen-­tsung’s Reign and the New Policies of Wang An-­shih,” and Taxing Heaven’s Store­house. Smith’s work updates Williamson, Wang An-­shih, and Liu, Reform in Sung China. 16. Ma, Wenxian tongkao, 28, especially 265b  –­c. 17. Thorny Gates, 16, citing an unpublished essay by Denis Twitchett. 18. Chaffee, Thorny Gates, remains the definitive study of the Song examination system in En­glish, but see also Lee, Government Education and Examinations. See also the essays by Jin Zhongshu referenced in the bibliography. 19. Thorny Gates, 51. 20. One scholar who has tried to estimate Song literacy rates is Lee; see his Government Education and Examinations. 21. Chia, Printing for Profit; McDermott, Social History of the Chinese Book; and Cherniak, “Book Culture and Textual Transmission in Sung China.” 22. Smith, “Introduction,” especially 11  –15, and Lau and Huang, “Founding and Consolidation of the Song Dynasty,” especially 237  –241. 23. Tuo Tuo, Song shi, 439:12997, based on a translation in Bol, This Culture of Ours, 150, with minor changes. Elements of the following discussion have been guided by Bol. See also Yu, Zhu Xi de lishi shijie, especially vol. 1; and Wang, Songdai wenxue tonglun, especially part 2, chapter 1, “Songxue yu Songdai wenxue.”

204

Notes to Pages 76–82

24. Bol, This Culture of Ours, 156. 25. Quan Songwen (henceforth QSW), 1:20:380. 26. QSW 1:20:384, adapted from Bol, This Culture of Ours, 157. 27. Xianping ji, 2:9b, adapted from Bol, This Culture of Ours, 148. 28. Guaiyai ji, 7:14b, adapted from Bol, This Culture of Ours, 158. 29. Hedong ji, 1:12a  –12b; see also Bol, This Culture of Ours, 164. Ironically, a number of anecdotal accounts link Liu Kai to impetuous vio­lence and routine cannibalism; see A Compilation of Anecdotes of Sung Personalities, 172  –179. 30. Bol has several discussions of Sima, especially This Culture of Ours, chapter 7, “Wang An-­shih and Ssu-ma Kuang.” 31. Analects 9:11, translated at http://­ctext​.­org​/­analects​/­zi​-­han, with adaptation. 32. Dongya tang changtai ji zhu, 14:23b. 33. See Ebrey, Confucianism and ­Family Rituals in Imperial China. 34. Sima Guang, “Zang lun,” QSW 28:1219:507. 35. Sima Guang, Zizhi tongjian, 1:2  –3. For a complete translation and discussion, see Bol, This Culture of Ours, 238  –245. 36. Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tangshu, 11:307  –309; also Bol, This Culture of Ours, 193. 37. Ouyang Xiu, Guitian lu, b:22a, translated in Ebrey, “Education through Ritual,” 284, with alterations. 38. It is interest­ing, perhaps, in this context to note that in the next two passages of the Guitian lu Ouyang criticizes “erroneous” (e) speech: “Everywhere gentlemen and commoners alike practice the errors that occur in common speech ­today”; see Guitian lu, b:22a  –23b. “Erroneous” speech, which he defines as misnaming of places and syntactically incorrect use of words, including “gentlemen” ( junzi), is as threatening to proper order as debased rites. 39. Ouyang wenzhongji, 17:2b. 40. “Jin yin si,” Wenzhuang ji, 13:15a; see also QSW 9:345  –348. 41. “Li lun di yi,” Xujiang ji, 2:1b; see also QSW 21:897:362. 42. “Li lun di wu,” Xuxiang ji, 2:12b; see also QSW 21:897:370. 43. “Li lun di si,” Xuxiang ji, 2:11b  –12a; see also QSW 21:897:369  –370. 44. Xujiang ji, xu:1a. 45. Ibid., 6:17a; see also QSW 21:897:373. 46. Xuxiang ji, 23:2b  –3b; see also QSW 21:914:617  –618. 47. Xuxiang ji, 23:3b  –4b; see also QSW 21:914:618  –619. 48. Duanming ji, 26:5a  –6a.; see also QSW 23:1007:780  –781, as well as numerous letters and other discussions elsewhere. 49. Duanming ji, 29:6b  –7b; see also QSW 24:1014:114. Ma Chengzhi appears in several other Northern Song texts, but never with further identification. 50. Duanming ji, 22:1a  –2a; see also QSW 23:1003:709  –710. 51. This theme is echoed in several texts, but see, for example, Duanming ji, 29:13b  –14b; see also QSW 24:1014:124.



Notes to Pages 82–90

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52. See, for example, the sequence of prayers in QSW 24:1024:287  –289, and Duanming ji, 28:21b  –22a. 53. Duanming ji, 29:14b  –16a; see also QSW 24:1014:125. 54. QSW 756:368  –371. 55. Duanming ji, 29:9a, and QSW 24:1008:15.

Chapter 5: The Central Coast through the Eighth C ­ entury 1. For specifics about the Xinghua Plain, see http://­baike​.­baidu​.­com​/­view​ /­1546973​.­htm. 2. Wu Shaohong et al., “Fujian Xinghua pingyuan de xingcheng yu gu dili huanjing,” 341, citing the (Hongzhi) Xinghua fuzhi and other texts. 3. The most extensive survey is summarized in Zheng, Fujian Jinjiang liuyu kaogu diaocha yu yanjiu, based on a systematic survey of the drainage basin of the Jin River conducted in 2005. Other reports on which I have relied include Wu, “Jinjiang, Jiulong jiang liuhuo xinshiqi”; “Quanzhou shiqian wenming”; Fan Xuechun, “Dongshan shiqian kaogu zhuanti diaocha gaoshu”; Zhang Feiwen, “Toushi Quanzhou shiqian renlei gu wenming zhi mi”; and “Jinjiang liuyu shi­ qian yizhi jin 200 chu.” See also Jiao, Neolithic of Southeast China. On the prehistory of southern Fujian, a great deal of semilegitimate scholarship has been published in China; such scholarship mixes au­then­tic analy­sis with highly suspect tradition. An example is He Mianshan, Min wenhua gai lun and Min wenhua xulun; the author’s deep familiarity with sources is undermined by his adherence to an orthodox narrative that emphasizes po­liti­cal and cultural themes that have been driven by Chinese historiography for centuries without critical reassessment. It is the goal of the current discussion to drive that reassessment. 4. Wu, “Jinjiang, Jiulong jiang liuhuo xinshiqi.” This is generally supported in Jiao, Neolithic of Southeast China. Archaeology recognizes two principal cultures in northern Fujian: Keqiutou and Tanshishan, of which Xitou culture is a subset; see ibid., 9. 5. Dean and Zheng pro­ject a dual typology on the earliest inhabitants of southern Fujian, dividing them into “sea-­side dwelling peoples” and “settlers of the mountain slopes,” and impose the terminological distinction that became common in ­later centuries between danmin, used to refer to the coastal inhabitants, and she, referring to the upland settlers (see Ritual Alliances of the Putian Plains, vol. 1, chapter 3, “Historical Overview” [henceforth Dean and Zheng]). Although I concur that an economic distinction was almost certain to have existed, given the ­different resources that ­were available between the uplands and the coastline, I am skeptical that it extended to an ethnic or even a cultural distinction and doubt that it was valid ­until imposed by Sinitic settlers in l­ater centuries. Although both terms ­were in use as early as the Tang dynasty, I cannot find any systematic application of e­ ither to the indigenous peoples of Fujian ­until the late Song. Therefore,

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Notes to Pages 91–92

although I recognize some aspects of the distinction, which the following discussion makes clear, I hesitate to use the terminology. 6. See, for example, Fan, “Dongshan shiqian kaogu zhuanti diaocha gaoshu.” See also Jiao and Fan, Fujian yu nandaoyu zu. An interest­ing account is also “Taiwan kaogu qu jinzhan,” which reports on the discovery of the oldest Austronesian remains on Taiwan Island. One line of argument in current scholarship maintains that the true origins of the Austronesian language and the associated cultural complex occurred on Taiwan in the mid-­first decamillennium BCE. Thus the ancestors of the Taiwanese settlers are technically the pre­de­ces­sors of true Austronesian culture and thus “proto-­Austronesian”; see Bellwood, “Austronesian Prehistory in Southeast Asia,” especially 105 –106. 7. Although echoed more recently by Jiao and Fan (see preceding citation), the scholar most prominently connected with this thesis is Bellwood; see especially “Austronesian Prehistory in Southeast Asia” and Prehistory of the Indo-­Malaysian Archipelago. 8. Referring to the ancient inhabitants of Quanzhou, Huang Zhongzhao quotes an unspecified tujing: “Those along the seacoast made their living from fish and salt”; see Huang, BaMin tongzhi (henceforth BMTZ) 3:44. 9. See, for example, “Quanzhou shiqian wenming” and Zhang “Toushi Quanzhou shiqian renlei gu wenming zhi mi.” 10. See An Zhimin, “Ancient Culture of the Lower Yangtze River and Ancient Japan.” 11. Shanhai jing, 10, “Hainei Nanjing.” Anne Birrell, in her introduction to her translation of the text, says the four “Hainei” chapters, of which the “Nanjing” is the first, “describe foreign peoples and places to the cardinal points beyond China;” Classic of Mountains and Seas, xv. 12. Zhou li, “Xiaguan sima, Zhifang shi” and “Qiuguan sikou.” ­Later “Seven Min” became a standard reference to Fujian, alluding to the seven prefectures u ­ nder the Tang dynasty. 13. The discourse of the heartland was never purely secularized, nor was northern culture without its strong attention to the numinous. However, the Hundred Schools, as the classical discourse of Confucius, Mozi, Mencius, and so on, was called, generally chose not to engage the unknowable. As Confucius says in a famous line from the Analects, “The subjects on which the Master did not talk, were—­extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings” (Book 7:21). 14. This is generally taken to mean the Eastern Yue (dong Yue), those peoples native to the lands south of the Hangzhou Bay and including northern Fujian, and the Southern Yue (nan Yue), referring to the peoples of the Farther South. 15. Shiji, 28:33a. 16. By the time Ban Gu wrote his text in the first ­century CE, the term “jiangnan” already had a long legacy in Chinese discourse. Morohashi, Daikanwa



Notes to Pages 92–94

207

jiten, 6:17140:344 (p. 6640), traces it to the Er ya, among other classical texts. Hanyu dacidian, 5:919, adds the following commentary: “The specific meaning changed according to the dynastic period: Before the Han dynasty it referred to that portion of Hubei Province that was south of the Yangtze as well as Hunan and Jiangxi [that is, those regions of Chu that ­were south of the Yangtze]; thereafter it referred to the southern sections of Jiangsu, Anhui, and Zhejiang [that is, the old lands of Yue].” In other words, Ban’s reference is to the lands of the Yue. 17. Hanshu, 28b:141b. The term yinci is generally translated “heterodox (or ‘evil’) rites,” and I render it so ­later, but in this case Ban Gu is referring to the rites that w ­ ere indigenous to Yue culture, so I believe “barbaric” is probably closer to what he meant. For a brief but informative discussion of this phenomenon, see Liu Litang, “Tangdai Changjiang liuyu ‘xin wugui, chong yinsi’ xisu kao.” 18. The most thorough discussion of belief in pre-­Sinitic Fujian is Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, especially chapter 3, “Qin, Han, Liuchao minzhong ren geshen xinyang de qiyuan.” 19. BMTZ, 3:39. The citation is to a tujing, most likely the Fuzhou lu tujing 福州路圖經 in 53 juan, cited by Zheng Qiao (Tong zhi, 66:782a). 20. Liang Kejia, (Chunxi) Sanshan zhi, 9:21b. It is notable that what purports to be Li Kan’s full text reproduced in the Fujian tongzhi does not have this passage; see Hu et al., Fujian tongzhi, 71:16b  –18a. 21. Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, chapter 1, “Fujian gudai tuteng chongbai suyuan.” 22. Ibid., 16, citing Han Feizi, 9, “Nei chu shuo shang,” “you jing,” part 3. Other sources cited by Xu with versions of the same story include the Yi wenzi 伊 文字 and WuYue chunqiu 吳越春秋. The king is said to have immediately paid homage to the frog, an act that puzzled his courtiers ­until he explained. 23. Zhang and Zhang, “Jiaogan wufu.” See also anon., “Zhuangzu de wa chongbai wenhua.” 24. Fang Ding et al., (Qianlong) Jinjiang xianzhi, 15:7a. 25. I have made this ­mistake myself in previously published work. See “Muslims and Hindus in the Culture and Morphology of Quanzhou,” 57. 26. I have not found scholarship on these newer discoveries, but they are discussed in “Dehua shisun.” 27. The several petroglyph complexes, especially the large complex known as the Pond of the Immortal Texts of Hua’an (Hua’an xianzi tan), have been the subject of a sizeable body of work. For recent studies, see Sun Fuxiang, “MinYuezu she xinyang de leixing yu yixiang jiexi,” 26, and http://­blog​.­sina​ .­com​.­cn, accessed November 7, 2011. 28. The Fujian Provincial Library website says this of the Minzhong ji: 閩中 記: “It was compiled by the magistrate of Jin’an prefecture ( jun, the earliest administrative name for the Min River basin of northern Fujian), Tao Kui, in 394. Because the text is lost, we do not know its contents in detail, but as a result of discussions in ­later texts we can form a general idea.” See “Fujian sheng difangzhi

208

Notes to Pages 94–97

zongshu” 福建省地方志综述, accessed at http://­61​.­154​.­14​.­234:8080​/­was5​/­web​ /­stsg​/­index​_­fjdfz​.­htm (March 19, 2015). 29. Quoted by Lin Shaochuan 林少川of the Institute of Quanzhou Studies (Quanzhouxue yanjiusuo) from the late eighteenth-­ to early nineteenth-­century Xishan zazhi 西山杂志 in an interview transcribed at http://­hi​.­baidu​.­com, accessed November 7, 2011. 30. For this and the following, see XXZ 3:8a, 13b  –14a, and  14a  –15b. 31. Xu Xiaowang points out that the cult of the Nine He Bro­th­ers is widespread throughout coastal Fujian, with specific sites linked to the cult in Fuzhou and Putian as well as Xianyou; see Xu, Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, “Yuangu zhi ­Liuchao,” 235. Academic studies devoted to this cult are few, but see Li Guohong, “Quanzhou Majia Jiuxian xinyang yanjiu.” 32. On the He Bro­th­ers cult, see also Kojima Tsuyoshi, “Seishi to inshi.” 33. Lin Dao, “Fujian Hua’an Caozi shan shexing shike yanjiu.” See also Sun, “MinYuezu she xinyang de leixing yu yixiang jiexi,” 26, and http://­blog​.­sina​.­com​ .­cn, accessed November 7, 2011. 34. This is an abbreviated form of she, which in modern colloquial discourse has evolved to be the inanimate third-­person pronoun, pronounced tuo; see Morohashi, Daikanwa jiten, 3:7057. 35. Xu Shen, Shuowen jiezi, j.13, no. 8887. Morohashi, Daikanwa jiten, 11:41315, also reproduces the archaic form of the Shuowen jiezi. 36. Dongye, or Ye, was the name of the original Han settlement near the mouth of the Min River below the modern city of Fuzhou, which was established ­under the Han dynasty no ­later than the second ­century CE and very possibly as early as the first ­century BCE. It was set up as a military colony (tun tian), so the martial caste of the official title is appropriate. 37. Gan Bao, Soushen ji, 19:1a  –2a. I have been guided in my own translation by Kan Pao (Gan Bao), In Search of the Super­natu­ral, 230  –231, with adjustments. Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, 30 –31, argues on the basis of the geographic terminology that this tale derives from the third-­century western Jin dynasty. I am unpersuaded that it can be dated ­either so early or so confidently. For one thing, it was not uncommon to use archaic geographic names just to give a tale an aura of ancient authenticity. Moreover, the tenth victim’s statement that “girls cannot contribute [to their f­amily’s welfare], they only consume clothing and food,” in its misogynistic dismissal of the importance of w ­ omen, sounds more neo-­Confucian than traditional. It is, of course, possi­ble the story has been massaged to reflect neo-­Confucian values; certainly the Soushen ji had attained something like its pre­sent form long before the neo-­Confucian movement gained momentum, but like so many texts of its nature, it was an evolving text subject to change. Yet even if we cannot draw any definitive conclusions about the date of the tale, it points to the importance of snakes in the regional culture and most likely does draw on a pre-­Sinitic indigenous tradition.



Notes to Pages 97–101

209

38. On Chen Jinggu and Lady Linshui, see Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, 329  –348. See also Chen, “Jiangfu sheyao”; Lo, “Legend of the Lady of Linshui”; Baptandier, “Lady Linshui”; and ter Haar, “Genesis and Spread of ­Temple Cults in Fukien.” The multiple layers of the cult as they ­were embodied in ­later imperial culture have been summarized in Dean and Zheng, chapter 3, “Historical Overview.” 39. Some argue that a vague entry in the Xianxi zhi to the Cigan Shrine is the earliest reference to the cult; see Ye and Zheng, Gutian Jianshui gong zhi, no pagination, citing XXZ 3:3a: “The Cigan Shrine is one li west of the city. The god is surnamed Chen, and was originally of Fenyang. In life she was a shaman, in death the ­people venerated her. Pregnant wives must come pray to her. The god’s good work is especially apparent. In 1235 a placard was granted to the shrine.” I see no reason other than the surname, which is extremely common throughout Fujian, to link this to the cult of Chen Jinggu. 40. See BMTZ 58:373. 41. Hong Mai, Yijian zhi, “bu” 14, excerpted in Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang, 34. 42. See Lin and Fan, Minnan wenhua shulun, 271, citing Wang Feng 王渢, “Sanping shan Guangji dashi xinglu,” 三平閃廣濟大師行錄, in Fujian sheng Pinghe xian Sanping fengjingqu guanweihui, Pinghe wenshi cailiao zhuanji. 43. BMTZ a:12:219 and Ye et al., (Qianlong) Xianyou xianzhi, 3:4a, 9b. The Youzhen Cliffs, l­ ater known as the Fumang (“prostrate [before] the python”) Cliffs, are on Jiuzuo Mountain, located ca. twenty-­five miles northwest of the district city. A snake legend that closely echoes the Soushen ji tale also survived in Anxi, located in the interior of Quanzhou; see Stevens, “Three Chinese Deities.” 44. Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, 38  –39, citing (Qing) Shi Hongbao 施鴻保, Min zaji 閩雜記. In analyzing tales of snake demons, Xu focuses especially on evidence of ­human sacrifice, which he argues continued in some remote areas of the Farther South even during the Song, a practice he maintains was derivative of Yue cultural traditions. Although I am inclined to a slightly more cautious reading of the sources, his argument is interest­ing and plausible. 45. Ibid., 38. 46. Ibid., citing the (Kangxi) Pinghe xianzhi, (康熙) 平和縣志, j.11. 47. Even ­today the snake continues to be a ­factor in many cults throughout Fujian and among the overseas communities that trace themselves to Fujian. The Snake ­Temple in Penang, Malaysia, is emblematic of the latter. 48. For a very interest­ing discussion that bears on this ­whole paragraph, see Hornblower, “Early Dragon Forms.” 49. On Apuleius, see Scobie, “Ancient Greek Drakos-­Tale.” 50. Theodore Lewis, “CT 13.33  –34 and Ezekiel 32,” and Hornblower, “Early Dragon Forms.” See also Levy, “Oriental Origin of Herakles,” for reproductions of images from Sumerian and Akkadian artifacts.

210

Notes to Pages 102–105

51. “Encyclopedia Mythica,” http://­www​.­pantheon​.­org​/­articles​/­n​/­nagas​ .­html, accessed December 26, 2007. 52. See http://­www​.­internationalscientific​.­org​/­CharacterASP for a list of forms found in oracle bone texts, most of which are much more obscure. 53. Also from http://­www​.­internationalscientific​.­org​/­CharacterASP, #L00131. 54. Ibid. According to this analy­sis, the left side of long is equivalent to yin (sound); see Morohashi, Daikanwa jiten, 9:29423. 55. In support of this, we should note that the lower portion of the archaic forms of yin (sound) all have a closed bottom, as does the modern character (see http://­www​.­internationalscientific​.­org​/­CharacterASP), whereas the archaic and modern forms of the left side of long are open at the bottom, a form that more plausibly invokes the bipedal ­human body. 56. For a very interest­ing discussion of the origins of dragon king (long wang) traditions, see Cao, “Shilun Zhongguo xiaoshuo gen fojiao de ‘long wang’ zhuanshuo.” 57. Some have chosen to translate jiao as “kraken,” the Norse sea monster, but that is simply avoiding the issue, for a kraken is a variation on the more traditional dragon. 58. See the definitions in Morohashi, Daikanwa jiten, 10:33009, and Lo, Hanyu dacidian, 8:893. 59. See the definitions and citations in Daikanwa jiten and Hanyu dacidian, both cited in the preceding note. 60. See http://­www​.­gg​-­art​.­com​/­imgbook​/­index​_­b​.­php​?­bookid​=­53​&­columns​ =­​&­stroke​=1 ­ 2​&­page​=6 ­ . For further classical references to jiao, see http://­bk​.­baidu​ .­com​/­view​/­285536​.­htm. 61. Sanguo zhi buzhu, 1:2b. 62. Fang Qiao, Jin shu, 58:1b. 63. Wang Tao, Waitai miyao fang, 12:47b. 64. Zhang Gao, Yi shuo, 7:17a. 65. Li Shizhen, Bencao gangmu, j.43, quoted in Wang and Jiang, Bencao pinhui jingyao xuji, 7a:1a  –1b. 66. Yao et al., Liang shu, 18:9a. 67. BMTZ 4:66, referencing an “old inscription” ( jiu ji), and Xu, Fujian minjian xinyang, 49. 68. Du Zhen, MinAo xunshi jilui, 4:32b. 69. It is interest­ing that Liu suggests the elders used this term, which generally implies something beneficent, rather than gui, which is usually used in reference to evil. Exaltation of demonic beasts as totemic objects of worship, and thereby pacification, was central to religious expression at least throughout the Tang. 70. Liu Zongyuan, “Ligong muming,” Liu hedong ji, 10:154. 71. ­Today this is the easternmost prefecture in Guangdong, abutting the southern border of Fujian, but, during the Tang, both Chaozhou and Quanzhou ­were part of one large administrative region. 72. Han, Dongya tang Changli ji zhu, 3:6a, 4:26b, and 3:14a.



Notes to Pages 106–113

211

73. Zhang Du, Xuanshi zhi, 5:12b  –13b. See also Li Fang, Taiping guangji, 392:1a  –2a, the source of the reconstructed Xuanshi zhi, including this text. 74. On the historical distribution of the “saltie,” see http://­crocodilian​.­com​ /­cnhc​/­cst​_­cpor​_­dh​_­map​.­htm. 75. This poem is also translated by Schafer; see Vermilion Bird, 217. For the full text, see Dongya tang Changli jizhu, 6:8a  –10a. 76. See “E yu wen,” in Dongya tang Changli jizhu, 36:10b  –13a. This paragraph is laden with tropes of civilization. The “Traces of Yu” (Yu ji) alludes to the legendary sage king Yu’s division of the empire, within which Yangzhou designated all the lands below the Yangtze (or “Great”) River. Prefects and magistrates (cishi xianling) used Tang terminology to allude to the orthodox agents of the legitimate imperial order mandated by tian, the ultimate cosmological force, and agents of civilization, or wen. Tian and Di, often translated as “Heaven and Earth,” the shrines of the ancestors, and the myriad gods are all similarly manifestations of civilization, thus of wen. Needless to say, Han’s edict was not effective, as Jiang Shaoyu (late Northern Song) complained: “In the xianping era [998  –1004], when Chen Yaozuo served in Chaozhou, the son of Mr. Zhang was washing himself on the riverside when he was devoured by a crocodile. Lord Chen observed, ‘Formerly Han Yu banished the crocodiles of the Evil Creek (E xi). That was long ago, but now a crocodile has harmed someone. This cannot be forgiven.” Chen then denounced the crocodile in the marketplace—­which no doubt was very effective! See Shishi fanyuan, 62:11a; the story appears myriad times in the Siku quanshu, sometimes with more detail and at other times with less. 77. Huangfu Shi, Huangfu chizheng ji, 2:9a. 78. Bai Juyi, Baishi zhangqing ji, 17:3a. 79. Fan Chuo, Man shu, 2:4a. 80. Su Shi, Dongpo quanji, 86:13b. A search of the Siku quanshu for jiao e (蛟鰐 [or 鱷]) turns up altogether 199 hits, most of which are from texts of the Song to Ming. Among Song literati the term was especially favored in poetry, where it commonly invokes a predatory beast. 81. Weinan wenji, 17:3b. 82. Yuanben Hanji kaoyi, 10:12a. 83. Wuyi xin ji, 19:21b. 84. Yiyu tu zanjian, 1:28a  –­b. On Li Chunfeng’s authorship of the Ganying jing, see Songshi (Zhonghua shuju ed.), 205:5209. 85. Gan Bao, Soushen ji, 2:4a.

Chapter 6: The Sinitic Encounter 1. Liang Kejia, (Chunxi) Sanshan zhi, 33:1a  –2a. 2. Xu, Fujian tongshi, vol. 1, “Yuangu zhi Liuchao,” 241  –242. 3. Paul, Philosophy of Mind in Sixth-­Century China, 15. 4. Paramārtha’s standard biography is in Daoxuan, Xu gaoseng chuan, 1:109  –111. A separate but very interest­ing tradition that arose in the l­ater imperial

212

Notes to Pages 113–117

era and was linked to Islam suggests another possi­ble connection between Fujian and the southern transmission of Buddhism. According to the tradition, which, as Su Jilang (Billy Keelong So) has demonstrated, cannot be earlier than the Yuan dynasty (see Su Jilang, “Lingshan shengmu niandai kaobian,” in Su, TangSong shidai Minnan Quanzhou shidi lungao), during the wude era of the Tang (618  –627) four Islamic missionaries arrived in Guangzhou. While one remained in that city, one went on to Yangzhou, and two went to Quanzhou (among many possi­ble late imperial sources, see [Qianlong] Quanzhou fuzhi, j.6). Although it is so doubtful as to be implausible that Islamic missionaries might have come to China at all at such an early stage of Moslem history, much less that two would have gone to Quanzhou, where there is no evidence of Islam before the tenth and eleventh centuries, the story of Paramārtha suggests a plausible alternative, that four Buddhist missionaries arrived in Guangzhou, and subsequently two went to Fujian. 5. This is a composite of references in Wang Xiangzhi, Yudi jisheng, 135:2a, citing the Puyang zhi 莆陽志, and 4b, and Song Ruolin et al., (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi (henceforth GXPT), 4:34a. 6. See Portrait of a Community, 38  –39. 7. Zheng Leng, “Nanhu shan Zhengshi citang ji,” in Ding and Zheng, Fujian zongjiao beiming huibian: Xinghua fu fence (henceforth XFF), 73  –74. 8. Huang Tao, “Pushan Lingyan si beiming,” in Puyang Huang yushi ji, 299  –304. 9. See my discussion in Portrait of a Community, especially 38  –39, 265  –270, and  344  –345. 10. (Qianlong) Jinjiang xianzhi, 15:13b. See also Huang Tao, “Quanzhou Kaiyuan si fodian bei,” in Fujian jinshi zhi, “shi” 3:8b  –10a. 11. Yao, Chen shu, 35:486. 12. Huang Zongdan, “Jintian Huangshi shixi,” in Jintian Huangshi dazongpu, no pagination. 13. See “Fuzhou Xuefeng shan gu Zhenjue dashi peiming,” Puyang Huang yushi ji, 5:31b  –36a. The information is repeated almost verbatim in Zanning, Song Gaoseng zhuan, 12:455c  –456a. 14. No monastery by this name is recorded in any source. However, the Putian Flower Garland Monastery (Huayan si) sat by the Jade Brook, so this could have been an informal name. 15. See Ma Duanlin, Wenxian tongkao, 227:1822a. 16. Li Jifu, Yuanhe junxian tuzhi, 29:721, says the district was first established by the Chen dynasty (557  –589) without specifying a year. The ( Jiading) Qingzhang zhi, cited by Wikipedia (http://­zh​.­wikipedia​.­org​/­wiki) from the Yongluo dadian, says 540, and Wikipedia itself says 507 without attribution but apparently drawing on the same tradition as Hao Yulin et al., (Qianlong) Fujian tongzhi, 2:27b. 17. Luo Qingxiao et al., (Wanli) Zhangzhou fuzhi, 12:2a.



Notes to Pages 117–121

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18. Suian district, located in the valley of the Zhang River, where modern Yunxiao district is located, was established by the Eastern Jin dynasty in 413 and abolished in 592. However, the designation seems to have existed more on paper than in fact. 19. “Zhao Chen Zheng zhen gu Suian xian di,” preserved in Xue Ningdu et al., ( Jiaqing) Yunxiao tongzhi, 17:3a. The text is not included in Song Minqiu, Tang dazhaoling ji, the official compendium of major court edicts. MS, 41:1012, is the earliest source to refer to the dispatch of forces at the emperor’s command, but it does not cite an edict as such. 20. MS, 41:1012. 21. A composite of Huang, BaMin tongzhi (henceforth BMTZ), 1:11  –12 and MS, 41:1012. Although MS provides no date, the BMTZ text dates this incident to the “third year of sisheng.” However, the sisheng reign period lasted for only one month in early 684. Presumably local officials had not received word of the rapid succession of reign changes and stuck to sisheng; had there been a third year, it would have been 686, so I take that to be the date. An alternative narrative from a l­ater source attributes the unrest to one Liang Gan, who is said to have been linked somehow to the rebellion of Li Jingye, which disturbed the Yangtze valley shortly ­after the Sui-­Tang transition; see (Qianlong) Fujian tongzhi, 67:​ 1a  –­b. On nothing better than closer chronological proximity, albeit still distant, I grant a higher credibility to the earlier texts. 22. MS, 41:1012. 23. (Wanli) Zhangzhou fuzhi, 4:2a, and MS, 41:1012. Like the imperial edict deploying Chen Zheng, there is no rec­ord of this debate in standard and more immediate sources, such as Sima Guang’s Zizhi tongjian or the Tang histories. 24. See Clark, “Bridles, Halters, and Hybrids.” 25. MS, 41:1012. 26. I have considered this issue in several venues, but most extensively in “Bridles, Halters, and Hybrids.” ­Others who have examined the Gushi tradition include Zhu Weigan, Fujian shigao, vol. 1, 147  –157, and Aoyama, “Newly Risen Bureaucrats in Fukien.” 27. The following summarizes evidence I first outlined in “Quanzhou (Fujian) during the T’ang-­Sung Interregnum” and further developed in “Bridles, Halters, and Hybrids.” 28. (Guangxu) Guangzhou zhi, 56:2b  –3b; these claims are repeated in (Guangxu) Henan tongzhi, 63:53a  –b ­ . 29. (Guangxu) Guangzhou zhi, 47:6b  –7b and 50:18a. 30. Yingchuan was a choronym of the most prominent Chen lineage, with a history ­going back to the Han dynasty. There is no par­tic­u­lar reason to accept claims, which are common in discussions of Chen Zheng and his descendants, that the f­ amily belonged to this lineage; however, there is also no reason to reject them. ­Either way, it reasserts the standard claim that Chen Zheng’s roots ­were in the north.

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Notes to Pages 121–125

31. (Yongzheng) Jieyang xianzhi, 6:1b  –2a. 32. This is repeated in every biography of Chen Zheng as well as those of Yuanguang; see also the citation to the alleged 669 edict in note 19. 33. Guangdong tongzhi, 44:110b. 34. The earliest evidence of this narrative I have found is MS, 41:1012. 35. On Li Ke, see Xin Tangshu, 80:3566. 36. Donald Sutton has examined a somewhat parallel cult devoted to Ma Yuan, a Han dynasty general who participated in subduing the Truong sisters’ re­ sis­tance to Han authority in the Red River delta region of northern Vietnam as well as in campaigns against recalcitrant non-­Sinitic ethnic groups in Hunan. He is enshrined as the Wave-­Subduing General (Fubo jiangjun), with a cult centered in western Hunan, the Hainan Straits, and riverine Guangxi; as Sutton says, “the cult is a Southern one.” See “Case of Literari Piety.” 37. Liu Zongyuan, “Ligong muming,” Liu hedong ji, 10:154. 38. Ouyang Xiu, Xin Tangshu, 41:1065. I have used the standard area mea­ sure­ments given in the Cambridge History of China. 39. ­Later sources claim “more than two thousand qing” of reclaimed land (see, for example, the 1538 inscription of Zheng Yue (quoted ­later) and Chen Maolie, Putian shuili zhi [hereafter PTSLZ], 3:3a, citing the late fifteenth-­century Xinghua prefectural gazetteer). This was the result of additions to the network in ­later centuries. 40. This refers to Ms. Qian and Li Hong, to whom construction of the far better-­known Mulan Weir is attributed and who are commemorated in a single shrine. The region irrigated by this pro­ject is known as the “southern coastal plain” (nan yang), in contrast to the “northern coastal plain” (bei yang), which is irrigated by the Yanshou Weir. Liu’s two inscriptions are in PTSLZ; see 8:26a  –28a on Li Hong and 8:28a  –30a on Ms. Qian. 41. The earliest Putian gazetteer was compiled in 1192 by, among o ­ thers, Liu Kezhuang’s ­father, Liu Mizheng, and this is no doubt Liu Kezhuang’s reference. In the omitted text that follows, Liu repeats—­and accepts—­a tradition that the weir had been built as early as the beginning of the eighth ­century. This is not credible and is rejected in ­later sources; therefore I omit it. 42. BMTZ, a:19:380, notes of the Shihua Bridge: “It was north of the prefectural city . . . ​It no longer exists.” This is consistent with the location of the weir, which is also north of the prefectural city. 43. See Liu Kezhuang, “Yiyong puji Wu hou miao ji,” in Houcun xiansheng daquanji (henceforth HCXS), 92:16b  –18b; see also PTSLZ, 8:23a  –24a and XFF, 55  –56. 44. PTSLZ, 3:3a  –­b. 45. BMTZ, a:24:493; Zheng Yue, “Wu changguan miao xiusi bei,” PTSLZ, 8:25a  –26a; and MS, 24:577 –578. 46. Several times during his reign Huizong called for local officials to notify the court of especially meritorious local deities so they could be entered on the



Notes to Pages 125–130

215

roster of officially sanctioned cults. As the Song huiyao rec­ords: “The Shrine to Wu Xing, the God of the Yanshou Creek (Yanshou xi shen Wu Xing ci) is in Putian. In the eleventh month of the third year of the daguan era (1109) the title ‘Faithful Compliance’ (fu ying) was imperially conferred on the shrine (miao). In the twelfth month of the shaoxing era (1151) the emperor Gaozong granted the title ‘Courageous and Righ­teous Lord’ (Yiyong hou) [to the god]” (Song huiyao jiben, li 20:48b). Then BMTZ adds: “In daguan 3 (1109), because Xing had great merit (da gong) among the ­people, and moreover because, when [the p ­ eople] prayed for rain, they received his beneficence (huo ying), Prefect Zhan Piyuan memorialized, [and the shrine] was granted its current name” (BMTZ 60:410). Taken together, these two sources demonstrate that Wu Xing received his titles from the court as part of the emperor’s effort to register meritorious cults. 47. MS, 24:578 and GXPT, 27:1a. A variety of contemporary websites assert that Wu had relocated from Quanzhou to Putian, although how his kin had arrived in Quanzhou is not noted. In the manner of contemporary Chinese websites, however, these offer no proof of their assertion. One suspects the claim may be based on a Wu clan genealogy, but that, too, is not mentioned. 48. GXPT, 27:1a. 49. Li Bing lived during the Warring States era and saved the state of Shu from a catastrophic flood. Zhou Chu, who lived in the third ­century CE following the Han dynasty, battled both a ferocious tiger and a jiao, conquering both and rectifying his own wayward ways. 50. The term is wanyan. The double use of the chong (“snake/insect”) radical deliberately echoes the character for jiao, the wrathful beast mentioned in the prose passage. 51. A reference to the legend of Wu Guang, to whom Tang, the last of the legendary rulers, was g­ oing to give his kingdom. Rather than accept, Wu Guang drowned himself. 52. A reference to the legend of Qu Yuan, the ancient poet who threw himself into the Xiang River in the face of unjust accusations. 53. A reference to the Zhuangzi’s famous tale of the Great Peng Bird (da peng). 54. BMTZ, b:60:410. 55. GXPT, 3:29a. 56. MS, 24:578. 57. I have focused on Wu Xing as the active agent in the reclamation of the coastal marshlands. Dean and Zheng, however, point out that, in the northern reaches of the Putian Plain, his reputed sister, known as the Divine Consort, Ms. Wu (Wushi shengfei), is venerated much more widely than Wu Xing; they do not offer an explanation for this seeming disparity. See Dean and Zheng, Ritual Alliances of the Putian Plains, vol. 1, chapter 3, “Historical Overview.” I return to this point in the next chapter. 58. SSZ, 33:1b.

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Notes to Pages 131–138

59. For con­ve­nience, see Chen Jingsheng, Fujian lidai renkou lunkao, t­ able 2 (115 –118). The first census to report any data on Fujian derives from the late third ­century; however, this census rec­ords exactly eighty-­six hundred ­house­holds evenly divided between the coastal and inland prefectures—­data that are clearly unrealistic and unreliable. 60. See especially Pulleyblank, “Registration of Population in China in the Sui and T’ang Periods.” Pulleyblank was building off the earlier work of Etienne Balász, especially “Beiträge zur Wirtschaftsgeschichte der T’ang-­Zeit.” More recently, Robert Hartwell has maintained that any attempt to date or sequence the numbers is futile; see “Demographic, Po­liti­cal, and Social Transformations of China,” 434. 61. Even though many mosquito varieties need freshwater conditions for breeding, numerous subspecies can breed in conditions of varying salinity, especially as might have occurred where rivers w ­ ere disgorging fresh w ­ ater and creating brackish conditions. See, for example, Surendran, Jude, and Ramasamy, “Variations in Salinity Tolerance.” 62. In a privately published, online essay, Wu Rongguo of Xiamen University invokes a folk saying he describes as common among the ­people of Putian, one that seems to recall this early inaccessibility: “Sunk amid the Seven Islands, floating over Xinghua” (chen qizhou, fu Xinghua); see “Xinghua quyu wenhua xingcheng chutan.” 63. I have discussed the early history of settlement in the vicinity of modern Quanzhou as well as the possi­ble role of smuggling in Community, Trade, and Networks, 9 –17. See also Portrait of a Community, chapter 1, sec. 3, “The Foundations of Chinese Society in Minnan to 800.” 64. Throughout the twentieth c­entury many scholars addressed these terms. The most authoritative analy­sis of both the sources and the scholarship is Yanagida Setsuko, SōGen kyōsonsei no kenkyū, especially chapters 3, “Sōdai goson no kakuko ni tsuite,” and 4, “Sōdai no kakuko wo megute shu mondai.” See also Zhou and Chen, Jianming Songshi, chapter 4, “BeiSong de jieji huafen yu fu boxiao.” 65. I have discussed this trend with specific reference to southern Fujian in Community, Trade, and Networks, 74 –77, and Portrait of a Community, part 1, “Society.”

Chapter 7: Cults of the Sinitic Era 1. Xin Tangshu 196:17a –17b. My translation is based on the slightly abbreviated version in Xin Wenfang, Tang caizi zhuan, 8:4a –4b. 2. See Chang Gun’s biographies in Liu Xu, Jiu Tangshu, 119:3444 –3446; and Ouyang, Xin Tangshu, 150:4809 –4810. 3. “Ouyang sheng aici,” Dongya tang Changli ji zhu, 22:2b –5b. 4. This is the ­under­lying theme of Portrait of a Community, but see especially chapter 6, “The Literati Culture of the Mulan Valley.”



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5. Dean and Zheng, chapter 2, “Definitions of Religion in China.” In using the term cult, I follow Dean and Zheng, who emphasize its roots in the Latin cultus, “to reverence” (see ibid., chapter 1, “Introduction,” note 4). 6. There are many studies devoted both to specific deities and to general themes in the cultic tradition. Among the many that merit mention, the following English-­language studies are notable: Hansen, Changing Gods in Medieval China; Hymes, Way and Byway; Kleeman, A God’s Own Tale; Katz, Demon Hordes and Burning Boats and Images of the Immortal; von Glahn, Sinister Way; and Baptandier, Lady of Linshui. More general English-­language studies of the cultic tradition include Sangren, History and Magical Power in a Chinese Community; Weller, Unities and Diversities in Chinese Religion; Feuchtwang, Imperial Meta­ phor; and Davis, Society and the Super­natu­ral in Song China. Studies in Chinese dedicated to specific cults and their wider religious context are legion; some are mentioned ­later. 7. Kanai has phrased the contrast between north and south somewhat differently, emphasizing the links to the cult of the dead among northern gods and a focus on health and wealth among the southern cults. See especially “Shajin to Dōkyō.” 8. Ter Haar, “China’s Inner Demons,” 29. 9. The work of Dean and Kanai has been a great help in framing my ideas through the following discussion. See especially Dean, “Transformation of the She,” and Kanai, “Sōdai no gōsha to dijishin.” For a full roster of Kanai’s work on she, see Dean, “Transformation of the She,” note 3. At least as helpful has been the collaborative work of Dean and Zheng published in their monumental Dean and Zheng. 10. Liao Pengfei appears on the tezouming jinshi lists in both BMTZ (53:247) and MS (113:3385). 11. Zhang Kuo, Dongchuang ji, 7:34b. 12. See Portrait of a Community, 390n114. 13. The name is preserved in the Ninghai Bridge, first built in 1334 at what was then the mouth of the Mulan River; the bridge still stands; see http://­baike​ .­baidu​.­com​/­view​/­935183​.­htm. The mound in question very likely is the higher ground that ­today is part of Meiwu Village in Sanjiangkou District, near the pre­sent mouth of the Mulan River, where current elevations rise to more than forty feet. 14. Along these lines, see Zheng Zhenman, MingQing Fujian jiazu zuzhi yu shehui bianqian, Appendix 1, “Putian pingyuan de zongzu yu zongjiao,” especially 210 –212. 15. Cha can also mean “raft.” Variations on this theme can be found in connection with coastal shrines throughout the greater Quanzhou area; see Clark, “On the Protection of Mariners,” especially 104 –106. 16. The term ­here is zhi nan, which also means “compass,” but ­here I believe it means to “head off to the south,” that is, to embark on overseas voyages to the South Seas.

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Notes to Pages 141–142

17. Liao Pengfei, “Shengdun zumiao chongjian Shunji miao ji,” in Baitaing Lishi zupu, reproduced in XFF, 15 –17. My translation has been assisted by Ruitenbeek, “Mazu, Patroness of Sailors, in Chinese Pictorial Art.” The legitimacy of the text has been challenged; see Shu Tenjun (Zhu Tian­ shun), Massō to Chūgoku no minken shinkō, 8. I have explained elsewhere why I accept the text; see Portrait of a Community, 390n114. 18. In addition to Shu, Massō to Chūgoku no minken shinkō, major studies include Ri Senchō (Li Xianzhang), Massō shinkō no kenkyū, and Cai Xianghui, Mazu xinyang yanjiu; Cai includes a thorough review of other studies in Chinese. More focused discussions of the Mazu cult can be found in Xu Xiaowang, Mazu de zimin, 393 –406; Li Xiaohong, “Lun Mazu xinyang zai Songdai de shanbian ji qi chengyin”; Watson, “Standardizing the Gods”; Hansen, Changing Gods in Medieval China, 145 –148; ter Haar, “Genesis and Spread of T ­ emple Cults in Fukien,” especially 356 –357 and 373 –376; and Ruitenbeek, “Mazu, Patroness of Sailors.” I have previously addressed several of the themes in this chapter in “On the Protection of Mariners.” As to the deity’s name, Xu Xiaowang has noted, before the ­later Tang it was normal for local gods not to have formal names; see Fujian minjian xinyang yuanliu, chapter 4, “SuiTangSong Fujian de zaoshen langchao.” This is reinforced in the Song huiyao, which rec­ords the following: “[In] Putian there was a shrine to the Divine ­Woman (shennü ci). In the eighth month of 1123 the emperor Huizong bestowed the title ‘Smooth Crossing’ ” (shunji); see Song huiyao jiben (henceforth SHY), “li,” 20:61b. Thus she was simply known as the Divine ­Woman, and that is how I refer to her. 19. The term shaman needs some unpacking. As Jordan Paper has explained, “shaman(-­ism)” itself is a problematic term, although I have followed common practice in using it throughout this discussion; see Paper, Spirits Are Drunk, especially 115 –117. See also the discussion in Puett, To Become a God, especially chapter 2, “Gaining the Powers of Spirits.” In his opening chapter Puett includes an extensive examination of earlier discussions of shamanism in China, including those of K. C. Chang, Julia Ching, and David Keightley. The Sinitic term wu has an ancient history that goes back at least to the Shang dynasty (second millennium BCE). Although there may be hints that even in the ancient Shang the wu ­were predominantly female, as they ­were among the Tungusic peoples, we have more reason to believe that females dominated the wu during the Han dynasty. The Shuowen dictionary of that era, in defining wu, states: “­Women are able to serve [the spirits?] without bodily form. They bring the spirits (shen) down through dance,” and many Han tomb murals and figurines portray ­women in dancing, flowing gowns and who are most likely wu. 20. Xu Jing, Xuanhe fengshi Gaoli tujing, 39:3b, alluding to “the spirit of Yanyu Island in Fuzhou” (Fuzhou Yanyu shen). This deity is identified by Liang Kejia as the son of a late Tang official; see (Chunxi) Sanshan zhi, 8:19b.



Notes to Pages 143–147

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21. (Chunxi) Xianxi zhi, 3:16b. Zhu Tianshun makes an im­por­tant but incomplete observation about this passage, noting that at one point an honorific title was awarded to Ms. Lin “by the Song” (Song feng); as he comments, this terminology would not have been used in anything written during the Song; see Shu Tenjun (Zhu Tianshun), Massō to Chūgoku no minken shinkō, 21. However, all of the other dates in the passage appropriately refer to Song reign dates (nian hao), a point Zhu neglects. His conclusion that the entire passage was added by Huang Yansun in his ­fourteenth-­century update of the text applies only to the one brief passage that caught Zhu’s attention; the bulk of the text certainly derives from Zhao Yubi’s original 1257 edition. 22. See Niu Junkai, “ ‘Hai wei wupo.’ ” See also Niu Jinkai, “Champa and Viet­nam­ese Sea Deities,” and Zhang Xun, “Nüshen xinyang yu Mazu chongbai de bijiao yanjiu.” 23. Ding Bogui, “Shunji shengfei miaoji,” in Qian Shuoyou et al., (Chunxi) Lin’an zhi, 73:15b –16b. 24. On Xu Jing’s birthplace, see Zhang Xiaobo, “Xu gong xingzhuang,” Xu Jing, Xuanhe fengshi Gaoli tujing,” “fulu”:1b. This claim is contested; Chang Bide et al., Songren zhuanji cailiao suoyin, vol. 3, 2004 –2005, identify Xu as a native of Hezhou (Huainan West). The compilers of the Siku quanshu took note of this, although they concluded he was a native of Ouning. Zhang Xiaobo, who wrote his “rec­ord of conduct,” was a native of Hezhou (see Chang et al., 3:2375), and he states directly that Xu was from Ouning. 25. “Guardian of Righ­teousness” is not even listed in Hucker’s exhaustive Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China. 26. The following analy­sis of Li Zhen and his kinsmen is taken from my “On the Protection of Mariners,” with minor reworking. 27. On the diplomacy, see Ma Duanlin, Wenxian tongkao, 325:2559c. On the role of Huang in the trade with ­Korea, see Mori Katsumi, “NiSōRi kōtsū bōeki byō,” in NiSō bōeki no kenkyū, 536 –574. 28. On the location of Baitang, see http://­baike​.­baidu​.­com​/­view​/­1226123​ .­htm. The name derives from the local drainage pro­ject, which centers on the Baitang, or “White Pond.” 29. Among other deeds, Li Fu is remembered for funding construction of thirty-­five bridges throughout greater Putian; see Community, Trade, and Networks, 107. 30. Huang Gongdu, “Song dianqian zhigan Danxuan Li xiansheng Meifeng shuyuan bei,” in XFF, 17 –18. See also Xu Shiren, “Meizi gang yun xuan ji,” in ibid., 19 –20. The biography of Li Fu in the (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi (27:2b –3a) identifies his honorific name (zi) as Zicheng. 31. Citing evidence from the Baitang Lishi zupu, Li Xiaohong has reached the same conclusion; see “Lun Mazu xinyang,” 374. 32. Lin Guangchao, “Yu Lin Jinzhong,” Aixuan ji, 6:27a –27b. 33. Although China of the twenty-­first ­century is a dreadfully poor yardstick

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Notes to Pages 148–149

against which to mea­sure China of fifteen hundred years ago, it is notable that, on Meizhou ­today, no land is devoted to agriculture. The island is occupied ­either by dense urban settlement or is untended. 34. Because of his unusual personal name and its close resemblance to ben 本, he is often mistakenly referred to as Wu Ben. However, that is incorrect. His personal name, Tao 夲, has a da 大 over a shi 十 rather than a mu 木 with a bottom line. Secondary sources on the Great Lord are limited, but see the following essays by Zheng Zhenman in his collected essays, Xiangzu yu guojia: “MinTai daojiao yu minjian zhushen chongbai” and “Wu zhenren xinyang de lishi kaocha” (173–190 and 191–209, respectively). See also the collected essays in Wu Zhenren xueshu yanjiu wenji, edited by Zhang Guoju et al.; Dean, Taoist Ritual and Pop­u­lar Cults of Southeast China, chapter 2, “The Great Emperor Who Protects Life,” and two essays—­ter Haar, “Genesis and Spread of ­Temple Cults in Fukien” (349–396, especially 366–367), and Schipper, “Cult of Pao-­sheng Ta-ti and Its Spread to Taiwan” (397–416)—­both in Vermeer, Development and Decline of Fukien Province in the 17th and 18th Centuries. Dean and Zheng point out that no rec­ord of the god’s formal designation as the Great Life-­Protecting Lord survives (see Dean and Zheng, chapter 3, “Historical Overview”). They speculate, therefore, that the title was probably developed locally in imitation of formal court investiture. 35. Yang Zhi, “Ciji gong bei,” in Ding and Zheng, Fujian zongjiao beiming huibian: Quanzhou fu fence, vol. 3, 953 –954, and Zhuang Xia, “Baijiao Ciji zugong bei,” in ibid., 954 –955. The cult had and still has two “source temples” (ben miao), one on ­either side of the Quanzhou-­Zhangzhou prefectural border. ­Today this is presented as illustrating a prefectural rivalry. Yang Zhi’s inscription commemorated an upgrade to the Zhangzhou “Qingjiao” shrine, in keeping with his Zhangzhou origins. Zhuang Xia, in turn, who was from the Quanzhou side, wrote to commemorate the Quanzhou “Baijiao” shrine. Although he did not date his text, Zhuang notes that his inscription was written “almost seventy years a­ fter 1151”; since he died in 1217, or sixty-­six years ­after 1151, he must have written the text very shortly beforehand. Biographical sources on Zhuang Xia, who had by far the more prominent ­career, are legion; except as other­wise noted I am relying on Song shi, 395:12052, which uncharacteristically notes the year of his death. Biographies of Yang Zhi are limited to late imperial local gazetteers. 36. Dean, Taoist Ritual and Pop­u­lar Cults, 70 –74, provides an overview of both inscriptions along with selected translations. 37. Yang Zhi’s text identifies the god’s advocate as Yan Dingxiao; “Ding­ xiao” is the posthumous name granted by imperial command to Yan Shilu; see Song shi, 389:11933. 38. Ling Dizhi, Wanxing tongpu, 26:7b.



Notes to Pages 149–153

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39. Cai Xiang, “Bie Yan Cao xia di,” Duanming ji, 6:5b. 40. Qian Ying et al., (Qianlong) Haideng xianzhi, 11, http://­mtxsyl​.­com​ /­mtxsyl, (accessed September 22, 2013. See also Zhou Jianchang, “Qiantan Wu Tao Cong ren dao shen de yanhua,” 135. 41. Wu Yixie et al., (Guangxu) Longxi xianzhi, 15:19b. 42. Ling Dizhi, Wanxing tongpu, 26:6a. 43. See Hymes, Statesmen and Gentlemen. In his inscription, Yang Zhi referred to Yan Tangchen as a “gentleman for managing affairs” (chengshi lang). Hucker refers to this as a “prestige title”; see Hucker, Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China, no. 511. There is no hint that Tangchen held a functional title; this was almost certainly awarded in ac­know­ledg­ment of his contribution to the local well-­being. 44. Zhou, “Qiantan Wu Tao Cong ren dao shen de yanhua,” Wu Zhenren xueshu yanjiu wenji, 135, citing a late imperial Yan genealogy. 45. This and other aspects of Wu Tao’s elaborated legend have been critically demolished by the modern scholar Zhu Tianshun. See Zhu Tianshun, “Bao­ sheng dadi (Wu Tao) chuanshuo fenxi.” 46. Ter Haar, “Genesis and Spread of ­Temple Cults,” 367. 47. In addition to the essays of Zhu Tianshun and Zheng Zhenman cited elsewhere, see Xie, “Cong Wu Tao de shenhua kan Fujian minjian zongjiao xinyang de tedian.” 48. See Portrait of a Community, 92 –98. 49. See the biography of Yan Cao et al., (Qianlong) Fujian tongzhi, 51:46b. 50. Hong Mai, Yijian zhi, “zhi,” reproduced in Ri Senchō (Li Xianzhang), Massō shinkō no kenkyū, “Massō bunken shiryō mokuroku,” 5 –6. Cai Xianghui, Mazu xinyang yanjiu, 277, states forthrightly that “Mazu was not a fabricated person,” an assertion that I argue is suspect. 51. Liu Kezhuang, “Fengting xinjian fei miao,” Houcun xiansheng daquanji, 91:17b –19a. 52. Fan Xuehui, Songchao kaiguo liushi nian, chapter 2, “JiangHu daxia,” “Xiongguan mandao,” part 4. Jianlong was the initial reign period of the Song, 960 –962. 53. See Zhang Zhu, “Tianfei miao xu,” (Hongzhi) Xinghua fuzhi, reproduced in Ri Senchō (Li Xianzhang), Massō shinkō no kenkyū, “Massō bunken shiryō mokuroku,” 25. 54. Cai Xianghui, Mazu xinyang yanjiu, 277, is the only other scholar I have found to notice this link, although he treats it somewhat dismissively without explanation. Cai is very focused, on the other hand, on parallels between the emerging hagiography and narratives that surrounded other well-­established deities of the region, most notably Zhu Mo, enshrined in the Shrine of Manifest Assistance (Xianji miao). On Zhu Mo, see Song Ruolin, (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi, 4:49b –50a. 55. See my Portrait of a Community, especially 41 –43.

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Notes to Pages 153–159

56. As examples one might look at the wonderful series of plays edited and translated by Idema and West in Monks, Bandits, Lovers, and Immortals. See also the short stories edited and translated by Hanan in Falling in Love. 57. A similar argument has been made by Gerritson regarding King Kang (Kang wang), a deity whose cult was centered in Jiangxi Province; see “From Demon to Deity.” King Kang, however, was the deified spirit of a historical person, Kang Baoyi, a Song general who died in the year 1000 in a skirmish with the Khitan Liao.

Chapter 8: Civilizing the God of Baidu 1. The inscription in question is Fang Lüe, “You Song Xinghua jun Xiang­ ying miao ji,” in Lin Erjia et al., Minzhong jinshi lüe, 8:21a –25b; the text also appears in Fujian jinshi zhi, “shi” 8:11b –15a, and in Ding and Zheng, 11 –14. I have published a complete translation in Mair, Steinhardt, and Goldin, Hawaii Reader in Traditional Chinese Culture, no. 60. The cult has been discussed and the inscription partially translated in Dean, Taoist Ritual and Pop­u­lar Cults of Southeast China, 35 –37. See also Sue Takashi, “Fukken Hoten no Hōshi to Shō’ōbyō.” 2. Traditionally books ­were bound into individual paper-­faced volumes, which in turn ­were collected in boxes. There are no standard mea­sures of ­either the pages in a volume or the number of volumes in a box, but if the average volume had an estimated eighty to one hundred pages and the average box seven to ten volumes, we can get a very rough idea of the size of Fang Lüe’s private library. 3. See (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi, 16:6a –­b and 19:7a –­b. I have discussed the Daoxue circle of the Mulan River valley in Portrait of a Community, chapter 6, “The Literati Culture of the Mulan Valley.” 4. Putian shuili zhi, 3:29b. 5. The years 1107 and 1108 w ­ ere critical ones in Huizong’s embrace of Daoism; see, among many possi­ble sources, Daoism Handbook, 421, and Schlütter, How Zen Became Zen, 51. The most comprehensive En­glish analy­sis is Ebrey, Emperor Huizong, especially chapter 5, “Placing Faith in Daoism.” See also Levine, “Reigns of Hui-­ tsung (1100  –1126) and Ch’in-­ tsung (1126  –1127),” 602 –614. See also the essays in Ebrey and Bickford, Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China. At least twice during his reign Huizong appealed to local officials to notify the Board of Rites of beneficial cults that could be added to the imperial roster; see, for example, SHY, “li” 20:7a and 9b. 6. Note that while the initial request for title was made in 1116, it was not ­until ­after the god had protected the region from the turmoil of the Fang La Rebellion, discussed ­later, that the emperor granted him title. 7. Wang Cun, Yuanfeng jiuyu zhi, 9:15a –15b. The old man’s cryptic statement alludes to a Han-­dynasty tradition about a Daoist sage whose jug contained



Notes to Pages 159–162

223

the essence of the cosmos; see the biography of Fei Changfang, HouHan shu, 112b:15a. 8. The earliest citation to the poem I have found is in Zhu Mu, Fangyu shenglan, 13:2a; this is fully three centuries ­after Huang Tao lived. It is then repeated in subsequent Fujian provincial and Putian district gazetteers. 9. Ibid., 13:2b. 10. See MS, 23:558. Although the earliest preface preserved in the Putian district gazetteer is dated 1192 (see Song et al., [Guangxu] Putian xianzhi, qian xu, 1a), Lin Guangchao (1114 –1178) wrote a preface to an earlier tujing, the earliest form of gazetteer and apparently what is alluded to ­here. According to the text, Sage Hu was surnamed 胡, but the local ­people changed it to 壺 for reasons that are unexplained. For a more contemporary explanation of the tradition, see http://­www​.­baike​.­com​/­wiki, “Putian Jiuhua shan.” 11. Dean, Taoist Ritual and Pop­u­lar Cults, 35, asserts that the shrine “housed a large group of local gods without any one princi­ple deity.” While plausible, he offers no support for this assertion. 12. SHY, “li,” 20:149a. 13. Just as he argues the shrine had long venerated an array of deities, so Kenneth Dean argues that “great official” (daguan) should be read as plural (Taoist Ritual and Pop­u­lar Cults, 35). Because classical Chinese grammar lacks a singular/plural distinction, the alternative is plausible. However, as I argue ­later, my interpretation is that the shrine honored a single person. 14. This is the central theme of Portrait of a Community, especially chapter 7, “The Culture of Kinship in the Mulan River Valley: The Role of Genealogies and Ancestral Shrines.” 15. Two im­por­tant studies of the Putian Fang kin groups are Kobayashi Yoshihiro, “Sōdai Fukken Hoten no Hōshi ichizoku ni tsuite,” and Sue, “Fukken Hoten no Hōshi to Shō’ōbyō.” I have discussed the Fang previously in Portrait of a Community, especially 61 –66 and 99 –103. 16. This is echoed in several essays by Fang Dacong, but see especially “Fangshi zupu xu” in Tiean ji, 31:1a –5a. It is as well deeply inscribed in the traditions of Putian; see the discussions in Portrait of a Community, 61 –66 and 99 –103. See also the following additional reflections on his kin by Fang Dacong: “Shu PuFang sanpai juzu,” Tiean ji, 32:2a –3b; “Ji Houtang Fuping Changzhe bazu yishi,” Tiean ji, 32:3b –8b; “Fangshi shi puzhi,” Tiean ji, 32:9a –11b. 17. Letter to Fang Zhongyan (i.e., Zhitai), Tiean ji, 22:14a –15b. 18. Letter to “Ju­nior ­Uncle #11” (i.e., Fang Cai, also called “Juncai”), Tiean ji, 22:13a –14b. 19. Liu Kezhuang, “Fang Ningxiang muzhiming,” Houcun xiansheng daquanji, 151:9a –11a. 20. This is not the place to tarry on this claim other than to note how laden it is in the history of Fujian. As I and many ­others have explained elsewhere, during the ­later Song and ­after, claims of origin in Gushi district ­were common and

224

Notes to Pages 163–171

mostly without basis. This stemmed from a migration from Gushi into Fujian in the last de­cades of the Tang, which was directly connected to the rise of the interregnum Min kingdom. It may be impossible to reject Zhang Ding’s claim about Fang Shu’s origins—­after all, there ­were real Gushi immigrants, but all such claims must be regarded suspiciously. 21. Zhang Ding, Mingxian shizu yanxing leigao, 26:18a. 22. One other source does suggest a tie to the Gushi migration; see Li Junfu (late twelfth to early thirteenth c­ entury), Puyang bishi, 3:11b –12a. Li claims that Fang Tingfan and his ­father, Fang Yinfu, had their roots in Guangshan (Henan). 23. See “Zupu zongtu xu,” in Fang Shangzu, Putian Citong Jinzi Fangshi zupu, no pagination. The preface is included in Fang’s Tiean ji, but without a date. See also “Fangshi shi puzhi,” Tiean ji, 32:10b. 24. Liu Kezhuang, “Jianfu yuan Fangshi citang ji,” Houcun xiansheng daquanji, 93:8b –9a. 25. Sue, “Fukken Hoten no Hōshi to Shō’ōbyō,” has analyzed the pattern of jinshi degrees among the three Fang kin groups; see especially the graphic pre­ sen­ta­tion on 405  –409. 26. See Fang Jun’s biographies in MS 106:3190 and (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi, 16:1b –2a. Neither text survives. 27. See Jiao’s biographies in BMTZ 71:697; MS 4:186:3192; and (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi, 24:4a –5b. 28. See his biography in the (Guangxu) Putian xianzhi. Although biographies often cite their subjects according to posthumous honorary titles, this biography explicitly says that he held this office prior to growing ill. 29. Zhou li, “Diguan situ.” 30. Li Ki, book 42, “Hsiang Yin Kiu I.” 31. See You Ziyong, “Han Tang shiqi ‘xiangyin jiu’ lizhi hua kaolun.” 32. Wang Pu, Tang huiyao, 26:498. 33. Song Minqiu, Tang dazhaoling ji, 110:570. 34. You, “Han Tang shiqi ‘xiangyin jiu’ lizhi hua kaolun,” 261 –266. Although heavily indebted to the prior work of scholars such as Sogabe Shizuo, Gao Mingshi, and ­others, You argues that ­under the emperor Xuanzong (r. 712 –756) the Village Wine-­Drinking Rite was devoted to honoring those who ­were entering public ser­vice and was distinguished from rites honoring the el­ derly. You further asserts that only the latter ­were conducted at the district level. 35. The phrase zhanglü (lit., “staff and shoes”) refers to the privilege of the el­derly of carry­ing their staff and wearing their shoes inside rather than leaving them at the entrance as custom dictated. 36. On this theme, see Clark, “On the Protection of Mariners” and “Religious Culture in the Minnan Region.” 37. Stevenson, “Protocols of Power,” 351. 38. See Kleeman, “Licentious Cults and Bloody Victuals,” 185. For a discussion of ­human sacrifice in early Chinese history, see Lewis, Sanctioned Vio­



Notes to Pages 171–186

225

lence in Early China, 26 –28, and the attendant references. For a more extensive discussion of blood sacrifice, see Stein, “Religious Taoism and Pop­u­lar Religion.” Xu Xiaowang argues that ­human sacrifice continued in Fujian into the late Tang and even the Song; see Fujian minjian xingyang yuanliu, 32. 39. See Sue, “Fukken Hoten no Hōshi to Shō’ōbyō,” 410.

Chapter 9: Conclusions 1. Lewis, China between Empires, 25. 2. Ibid., 26. 3. “Liuzhou fu Dayunsi ji,” Liu hedong ji, 28:465 –466, quoted in chapter 2. 4. Johnson, “Communication, Class, and Consciousness in Late Imperial China,” 46 –47. 5. For a perspective on orthodox kinship rites, see Ebrey, Confucianism and ­Family Rituals in Imperial China. I discuss evidence of these varied alternatives in Portrait of a Community, chapter 7, “The Culture of Kinship in the Mulan Valley.” 6. Johnson, “Communication, Class, and Consciousness,” 47, citing Frye, Secular Scripture, 6 –7, 27. 7. See SHY, “li” j.20 –21, which consist entirely of dozens of rec­ords of imperial recognition of local cults. 8. Liu Kezhuang, “Fenting xinjian Feimiao,” Houcun xiansheng daquanji, 91:18b. 9. Hansen, Changing Gods in Medieval China, 145 –147, makes this argument with added evidence. 10. Ibid., 146, referencing Chen Chun (1159 –1223), one of the leaders of post-­Zhu Xi Daoxue, and himself a native of southern Fujian. 11. Conklin, Mission to Civilize, 15. 12. Ebrey, Emperor Huizong, 19. 13. Levine, “Reigns of Hui-­tsung and Ch’in-­tsung,” 607. 14. I have found no other reference to this panic. Given that Fang Lüe was writing less than two de­cades ­later, however, it is hard to dismiss as some corruption in the collective local memory. 15. See Tao Jing-­shen, “Move to the South,” 664 –666. 16. Ye Nong’s rebellion is also covered in (Qianlong) Fujian tongzhi, 65. 17. Yang Qing’s rebellion is covered in Song shi, j.26. 18. See Hansen, Changing Gods, appendix 3 (176 –177), counting the forty-­ four years 1130 –1173 in contrast to the fourteen years 1085 –1098. Hansen’s data are collected from SHY, “li,” j.20 –21.

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Glossary

an (convent) ​庵 an ji ​安濟 An Lushan ​安祿山 Anxi xian ​安溪縣 Baidu cun (village) ​白杜村 bai she ​白蛇 bai shen ​百神 Baitang Li ​白塘李 baixing ​百姓 bai Yue ​百粵 (or 越) bangguo dubi ​邦國都鄙 Baosheng dadi ​保生大帝 Baoyi lang ​保義郎 Baqiao ​ 灞橋 Bei xi (creek) ​北溪 bei yang ​北洋 ben miao ​本廟 bi (impropriety) ​弊 bian fang ​邊防 bie jia ​别駕 bie shu ​別墅 bo wo yi wen, yue wo yi li ​博我以文 約我以禮 bu ke tian zhe ​不課田者 bu shi wugu, shi bang ji bie ​不食五榖, 食蚌及虌 bu wei ​簿尉 bu yan gui ​不言歸 bu yin ​卜隱 bu zhongtian, ruhai buyu wei ye ​不種 田入海捕魚為業 Cai Xiang ​蔡襄

Cao Cao ​曹操 Caozi shan ​草仔山 Chaisang xian ​柴桑縣 Chang Gun ​常衮 Changle xian ​長樂縣 changsheng zhi dao/ren ​ 長生 之道/人 Changxi xian ​長溪縣 chang you ​倡優 chaoxue ​巢穴 Chaozhou ​ 潮州 Chen Chang ​陳昌 Chen Chun ​陳淳 Chen Du ​陳犢 Chen Feng ​陳酆 cheng (sheriff ) ​丞 chengshi lang ​承事郎 cheng xiang ​丞相 Chen Hong ​陳洪 Chen Hongjin ​陳洪進 Chen Jinggu ​陳靖姑 Chen Qian ​陳謙 chen qizhou, fu Xinghua ​沉七洲, 浮兴 化 chen wang ​塵網 Chen Yaozuo ​陳堯佐 Chen Yinke ​陳寅恪 Chen Yuanguang ​陳元光 Chen Zheng ​陳政 Chen Zhu ​陳鑄 chi (dragon) ​螭 chong (bug) ​虫

227

228 Glossary Chu (kingdom) ​楚 chuan yangye ​穿楊葉 Chu ci ​楚辭 chūgoku: see zhong guo chuzi ​處子 ci (shrine) ​祠 ci daishen wu ​此殆神物 Ci’en si ​慈恩寺 Cigan miao ​慈感廟 Ciji zhongxian yinghui hou ​慈濟忠顯 英惠侯 cishi xianling ​刺史縣令 congdi ​從第 da gong ​大功 danmin ​蛋民 Danxuan Li xiansheng ​澹軒李先生 Danzhou ​ 儋州 dao de ren yi ​道德仁義 da peng ​大鵬 de (virtue/power/charisma) ​德 De’an xian (district) ​德安縣 Dehua xian (district) ​德化縣 Deshan ​ 德山 di (barbarian) ​狄 dian (derangement) ​癲 dixue ​帝學 Dong Chang ​董常 dong xuan ​東選 dong Yue ​東越 Du Daoqu ​杜道麴 du shen you gui, yaowu ping zhi ​黷神 右鬼, 妖巫憑之 Du tang ​渡塘 e ​訛 e (wicked) ​惡 E xi (creek) ​惡溪 e yu ​鳄魚 fa (law) ​法 Fang Cai ​方菜 (aka Juncai 君菜) Fang La ​方臘 Fang Lüe ​方略 fangshi ​方士 Fang Shu ​方琡

Fang Tingfan ​方廷範 Fang Weng ​方翁 Fang Yao ​方堯 Fang Yinfu ​方殷符 Fang Zhitai ​方之泰 (aka Zhongyan 仲巌) Fan Zhongyan ​范仲淹 fei ​妃 Fei Changfang ​費長房 feng (wasps) ​蠭 Feng Ang ​馮盎 Feng Bao ​馮寶 Feng Hong ​馮弘 feng huang ​鳯皇 Feng Rong ​馮融 fengyi lang ​奉議郎 Fengzhou ​ 豐州 Feng Ziyou ​馮子猷 Fubo jiangjun ​伏波將軍 Funan ​扶南 Fu Shi ​傅實 fu ying ​ 孚應 fuzai ​覆載 fu zhi ru jiu ​撫之如舊 Fuzhou (Fujian) ​福州 gai tian ​溉田 Gan jiang (river) ​贛江 Ganying jing ​感應經 Gao Huilian ​高惠連 Gao Zhihui ​高智慧 Gaozhou ​ 高州 Ge (surname) ​葛 Ge Hong ​葛洪 gong (reverence) ​恭 gong shi ​ 貢士 Goujian ​勾踐 guancha shi ​觀察使 guan dai ​冠帶 Guanghua si ​廣化寺 Guang kou ​廣寇 Guangshan ​光山 Guangwen song ​廣文頌 Guangzhou (modern Anhui) ​光州

Glossary Guangzhou (modern Guangdong) ​廣 州 Guangzhou cishi ​ 廣州刺史 guan nei ​關內 gui dao/shen ​鬼道/神 Guizhou ​ 桂州 Guo Rong ​郭榮 Guo Wei ​郭威 gu sanMiao guo ​古三苗國 Gu shan ​鼓山 Gushi ren/xian ​固始人/縣 Gutian xian (district) ​古田縣 gu wen ​古文 Haikou (village) ​海口 hao (honorific/pen name) ​號 haozu ​豪族 Hemudu ​ 河姆渡 He shi jiuxian ​何氏九仙 Hezhou ​ 和州 Hong Botong ​洪伯通 hou ​侯 hu (barbarian) ​胡 hua (transformed) ​化 Hua’an xianzi tan ​華安仙子潭 Huainan wang/zi ​淮南王/子 huan ​歡 Huang Shougong ​黃守恭 Huang Tao ​黃滔 Huang Zhen ​黃真 HuaXia ​華夏 Huayan si ​華嚴寺 Hu Fan ​胡藩 Hugong shan ​壺公山 hun ​昏 Huotian cun ​火田村 huo ying ​獲應 huzu wangchao ​胡族王朝 Jiang Gongfu ​姜公輔 jiang mao ​絳帽 jiangnan ​江南 Jiang Shaoyu ​江少虞 jian gui ​見鬼 Jian Jin ​劍津

229

Jianlong zhenren ​建隆真人 Jianye ​ 建鄴 jianze wei jing ​簡擇未精 Jianzhou ​ 建州 jiao hua ​ 教化 jiao jinshi ​交金石 Jiaolin yan ​蕉林岩 jiaolong bing ​蛟龍病 jiao/-­long/-­e ​蛟/-­龍/-­鱷 jia yu ​駕御 Jieyang xian (district) ​揭陽縣 ji gang ​紀綱 jimi zhou ​覊縻州 Jin (dynasty) ​晋 Jin’an jun (prefecture) ​晉安軍 jingji zhongxin nan yi ​經濟重心南移 Jing Man ​荆蠻 jing you du ​精有毒 Jingzhou cishi ​荆州刺史 Jin jiang/xian (river/district) ​晉江 jinshi ​進士 Jiu ge ​九歌 jiu ji ​舊記 Jiulong jiang (river) ​九龍江 jiu mu ​九牧 Jiuri shan (mountain) ​九日山 Ju’naluotuo ​ 拘那羅陀 junzi zhidao ​君子之道 juzu ​巨族 KaiZhang wang ​開漳王 Kang wang ​康王 Kang Xuan ​康絢 Kegeng ​ 克耕 ke hu ​客戶 Keqiutou ​ 殻丘頭 Koryosa ​高麗史 ku cha ​ 枯槎 Ku han ​苦寒 Kuo Zhida ​郭知達 Lai xi (river) ​瀨溪 Langye (­people) ​狼野人 Lei Wanxing ​雷萬興 li (rites) ​禮

230 Glossary Liang Gan ​梁感 liang Yue ​兩越 LiaoMan ​ 獠蠻 Liao Pengfei ​廖鵬飛 Li Babai ​李八百 Li Bing ​李冰 Li Chunfeng ​李淳風 Li Fu ​李富 Li gong ​李公 Li Gou ​李覯 Li Hong ​李宏 Li Jingye ​李敬業 Li Kan ​李堪 Li Kun ​李琨 Lin furen miao ​林夫人廟 ling (magistrate) ​令 ling (numinous) ​靈 Linghui furen ​靈惠夫人 Lingnan zhaowei shi ​嶺南招慰使 Lin Guangchao ​林光朝 Linru cishi ​臨汝刺史 Lin shi ​林氏 Linshui furen/cun ​臨水夫人/村 li ren ​里人 Li sao ​離騷 Li Shimin ​李世民 Li shui (river) ​麗水 Li Tuo (Daoshi) ​李脱 (道士) Liu (surname) ​劉 Liu An ​劉安 Liu Bang ​李邦 Liu Kai ​柳開 liumin pi shuyi zhe ​流民避戍役者 Liu Mizheng ​劉彌正 Liu Ni ​劉尼 Liu Xin ​劉歆 Liu Zhao ​劉昭 li wen fanman, suo zhi ge shu ​禮文繁 漫所執各殊 li xian ​鯉仙 li yi ​禮義 Li Zhen ​李振 long (dragon) ​龍

long (case) ​籠 Long li ​瀧吏 long nü ​龍女 long shu ​ 龍屬 long wang/miao ​龍王/廟 Longxi xian (district) ​龍溪縣 Longyan xian (district) ​龍巖縣 Long yi ​龍移 lou chuan ​樓船 Lu (kingdom) ​魯 luan (chaos) ​亂 lukou ​虜口 Luling xian (district) ​廬陵縣 Lu Liugen ​路六根 Luofeng Fu ​羅峰傅 Luofu shan ​羅浮山 Luo Xiansheng ​羅屳生 Luoyang ​ 洛陽 Luozhou ​ 羅州 Lu Song ​盧悚 Lu Xun ​盧循 Lu You ​陸游 Lu Yundi ​路允迪 Lu Zonghui ​盧宗回 Ma Chengzhi ​馬承之 Mai Xiling ​麥細陵 man/manyi/-da zhanglao ​蠻夷/-­大 長老 mang yan ​蟒巖 Ma Xiang ​馬相 Ma Yuan ​馬援 Mazu ​媽祖 Meifeng shuyuan ​梅峰書院 Meiwu cun (village) ​美屋村 Meizhou shennü ​湄洲神女 Meizhou yu (island) ​湄洲嶼 Mi (surname) ​芈 miao (shrine) ​廟 Miao Zicheng ​苗自成 ming (mandate) ​命 ming jing ​明經 Min guo/-­jiang (kingdom) ​閩國/-­江 Minnan/-­ren/-­Yue ​閩南/閩人/閩越

Glossary Min zai haizhong ​閩在海中 mo bu shensong ​沒不神悚 Mo Xuanqing ​莫宣卿 mu ​畝 Mulan xi/pi (river/weir) ​木蘭溪/陂 Muzhou ​ 睦州 Naitō Konan ​内藤湖南 Nan’an xian (district) ​南安縣 Nanchang ​ 南昌 nandao yu zu ​南島語族 nan hai ​南海 Nanhu shan ​南湖山 NanMan chang shi ​南蠻長使 nan xuan ​南選 nan yang ​南洋 nan Yue/Nan Yue guo wang ​南越/ -­國王 NanYue wuwang ​南越武王 nei zhou ​内州 nian hao ​年號 niao shu ​鳥書 Ningde xian (district) ​寧德縣 Ninghai cun (village) ​寧海村 nü shen ​女神 nu wa ​怒蛙 Ou ​ 甌 Ouchanni ​ 優禪尼 Ouning xian (district) ​歐寧縣 Ouyang Xiu ​歐陽修 Ouyang Zhan ​毆陽詹 Pan’yu ​番禺 Pengcheng ​ 彭城 pingyuan ​平原 Poyang ​鄱陽 Putian xian (district) ​莆田縣 Puyang ​莆陽 qi ​氣 Qian (surname) ​錢 Qiang (ethnicity) ​羌 Qian Li er shen ​ 錢李二神 Qian Liu ​錢鏐 qian zi ​遣子 qi Min ​七閩

qin cai ​ 芹菜 qing ​頃 Qingjiao ​青蕉 Qingyuan ​慶元 Qingyuan shan ​清源山 Qin Xi ​秦系 Qinzhou ​欽州 qiongrong ​窮冗 Qiulu xi (creek) ​萩蘆溪 Qiu Shen ​丘沈 Quan lang ​泉郎 quan xuan ​銓選 Quanzhou ​泉州 Qu Yuan ​屈原 ren (empathy) ​仁 rendao ​人道 rengshi shou cishi ​仍世守刺史 renshi ​人士 rong (barbarian) ​戎 ru (-­chen) ​ 儒 (-­臣) Ruyang taishou ​汝陽太守 Sanfei miao ​三妃廟 Sanjiangkou zhen (district) ​三江 口鎮 sanji changshi ​散騎常侍 Sanmang chu dong ​三蟒出洞 Sanping si ​三坪寺 Shandu xian ​山都縣 shang guo ​上國 Shangqing ​上清 shan gui/sou/zei ​山鬼/叟/賊 Shaozhou ​ 韶州 she (ethnicity) ​畲 she (snake) ​蛇 she (village festival) ​社 shen (spirit) ​神 Shen (surname) ​沈 shen feng ​神鳯 Shengdun zumiao ​聖墩祖廟 shengren ​聖人 shengxian ​聖賢 Shennü ci ​神女祠 Shen Song ​沈崧

231

232 Glossary shen yi ​神醫 she zhong ​它種 shi (history) ​史 shi (generation) ​世 shi (teacher) ​師 shi feng ​世奉 Shihua qiao (bridge) ​使華僑 Shi Jie ​石介 Shijing ​詩經 Shinron ​新論 shiren ​士人 shi shengrou ​食生肉 shisun ​石筍 Shitong ​十通 shi yong shou ​食用手 Shizhe gong ​侍者公 Shu (western Sichuan) ​蜀 “Shudu fu” ​屬都賦 shuishen ​水神 Shunji miao ​順濟廟 Shu yi ​書儀 si (­temple, monastery) ​寺 Sima Daozi ​司馬道子 Sima Guang ​司馬光 Sima Xin ​司馬歆 Song feng ​宋封 su gui ​俗鬼 Suian xian (district) ​綏安縣 Sun En ​孫恩 Sun Tai ​孫泰 Sun Xiu ​孫秀 Suolü ​索慮 Su Shi ​蘇軾 tai shou ​太守 Tai xi (creek) ​汰溪 Taizhou biejia ​台州别家 Tang (legendary ruler) ​湯 Tanshi shan ​曇石山 Tao Dan ​陶丹 Taohua yuan ji ​桃花源記 Tao Kan ​陶侃 Tao Kui ​陶夔

Taoshi xu ​陶氏敍 Tao Yuanming ​陶淵明 (aka Tao Qian 潛) tezouming jinshi ​特奏名進士 ti ​題 tian (primordial force or cosmos; “heaven”) ​ 天 Tian hou ​天后 Tianshi dao ​天師道 Tian Xi ​田錫 tianxia ​ 天下 Tianzi ​ 天子 Ti Li ling ​題梨嶺 Tingzhou ​ 汀州 Tong’an xian (district) ​同安縣 Tong Lingnan xingjun zongguan shi ​ 統嶺南行軍總管事 tongshi zhe ​同事者 Tongtian shennü ​通天神女 tudi shen ​土地神 tujing ​圖經 tun tian ​屯田 tuo (archaic “snake”) ​它 Tuoba ​ 拓拔 wan (bay) ​灣 Wang (surname/“king”) ​王 Wang Anshi ​王安石 Wang Chao ​王潮 Wang Dingbao ​王定保 Wang Fangqing ​王方慶 Wang Feng ​王渢 Wang Guoqing ​王國慶 Wang Huaizhi ​王懷之 Wang Ningzhi ​王凝之 Wang Shengui ​王審邽 Wang Shenzhi ​王審知 Wang Sui ​王隨 Wang Tao ​王燾 Wang Xizhi ​王羲之 Wang Xun ​王珣 Wang Yanbin ​王延彬 Wang Yitong ​王義童

Glossary wanyan ​蜿蜒 wei mangshe suo xi ​為蟒蛇所噏 wei zhi xue ​未知學 wen (values of civilization) ​文 wenjiao weixing ​文教未興 wen li ​文吏 wen suo yi zai dao ​文所以載道 wen xue ​文學 Wu (kingdom) ​吳 wu (martial) ​武 wu (shaman) ​巫 wu chen ​武臣 Wu Cheng ​吳程 Wudao yang ​吳刀洋 Wudoumi dao ​五斗米道 Wu Guang ​務光 Wu hou ​吳侯 wuhu shidai ​五胡時代 Wuhu yi (barbarians) ​獄滸夷 Wu Ji ​吳祭 Wu jun (prefecture) ​呉郡 Wu lu ​呉録 Wuqi Manren ​武溪蠻人 Wushi shengfei ​吳氏聖妃 Wu Taipo ​吳太伯 Wu Tao/zhenren ​吳夲/真人 Wuwang Li Ke ​吳王李恪 Wu Xing ​吳興 wu yu ​巫嫗 Xianbei ​ 鮮卑 xiang gong ​鄉貢 xiang shangshu ​鄉尚書 Xiangsheshen ci ​鄉舍神祠 xiang xiao ​鄉校 xiang xing zhuan ​鄉行傳 xiang zhi fulao ​鄉之父老 Xianji miao ​顯濟廟 xian ling ​縣令 Xianyou xian (district) ​仙遊縣 Xiaowen (Emperor) ​孝文 xiao xuan ​小選 Xia Song ​夏竦

233

Xi gou ​ 溪夠 Xin’gan xian ​新淦縣 Xinghua jun/xian (commandery/ district) ​ 興化軍/縣 xin wugui chong yinci ​信巫鬼重淫祠 xiong ​熊 xiongdi yicai ​兄弟異財 Xitou ​ 溪头 xiucai ​秀才 Xi Xiang ​席相 xuan bu (shi) ​ 選補(使) Xue Lingzhi ​薛令之 Xu Hui ​許翽 Xu Mi ​許謐 Xunyang ​尋陽 Xu Wen ​徐温 Xu Xuan ​徐鉉 Xu Zhigao ​徐知誥 Yan Cao ​顏慥 Yan Dingxiao ​顏定蕭 Yang Qing ​楊勍 Yang Shen ​楊慎 Yang Su ​楊素 Yang Tianji ​養田基 Yang Xi ​楊羲 Yang Xingmi ​楊行密 Yang Yi ​楊億 Yangzhou ​ 揚州 Yan Shilu ​顏師魯 Yanshou pi (weir) ​延壽陂 Yanshou xi (creek) ​延壽溪 Yanshou xi shen Wu Xing ci ​延壽溪 神吳興祠 Yan Tangchen ​顔唐臣 Yan Xizhe ​顏睎哲 Yan Yuan ​顏淵 Yanyu shen ​演嶼神 yao shu/zei ​妖術/賊 Ye Nong ​葉儂 Ye xian ​冶縣 yi (doctor) ​醫 yi (heterodox) ​異

234 Glossary Yian ​義安 yici hao lizhong ​以資豪里中 Yicun ​ 義存 yi di ​夷狄 yi guan ​衣冠 yihu ​夷户 Yiling zhenren ​醫靈真人 Yiman ​夷蠻 yi mawei zuo ran ​ 以馬尾作髯 yin (noises) ​音 Yingchuan ​ 穎川 yin si ​淫祀 yi tuo zhi ​以妥之 Yixing jun (prefecture) ​義興郡 Yiyang ​弋陽 yi yi fan yi ​以夷反夷 Yiyong hou ​義勇侯 Yizhong ​ 義中 Yongchun xian (district) ​永春縣 Yongzhou ​ 邕州 youtingzi ​游艇子 Youtong chuan ​幼童傳 Youzhen yan ​楢真巖 Yu ​ 虞 yuan (pavilion) ​院 yuan ren ​遠人 Yuan you ​遠遊 Yue (kingdom, ethnicity) ​越 yue niao ​越鳥 Yue wang Goujian, zi zuo yong jian ​ 越王句踐/自作用劍 yue xing zheng ​樂刑政 Yu ji ​禹跡 Yujian si ​玉㵎寺 Yulin zhou ​鬱林州 Yunxiao xian (district) ​雲霄縣 Yushan ​ 餘善 zaixiang ​宰相 zao yao yan ​造妖言 Zeng (surname) ​曾 Zhan (surname) ​湛 Zhang Cai ​張採 Zhang Chang2 ​張敞

Zhang Chang ​張昌 Zhang [Dao]ling ​張 [道]陵 Zhang Deng ​張澄 Zhang Gao ​張杲 Zhang Hongyu ​張弘愈 Zhang Hua ​張華 Zhang Jia ​張嘉 Zhang jiang ​漳江 Zhang Jie ​張捷 Zhang Jiugao ​张九臯 Zhang Jiuling ​張九齡 Zhang Liang ​張良 Zhang Lu ​張魯 Zhang Maodu ​張茂度 Zhang Pengzu ​張彭祖 Zhangpu ​ 漳浦 Zhang Tanling ​張璮齡 Zhang Wei ​張撝 Zhang Wuhu ​張五虎 Zhang Yining ​張—寧 Zhang Yong ​張詠 Zhang Zhongfang ​張仲方 Zhangzhou ​ 漳州 Zhan Piyuan ​詹丕遠 zhan ying ​沾纓 Zhaohui miao ​昭惠廟 Zhao Kuangyin ​趙匡胤 Zhao Tuo ​趙佗 Zhaoxian yuan ​招賢院 zheng (orthodox) ​正 Zheng (surname) ​鄭 Zhenghe xian (district) ​政和縣 Zheng Lu/Zhuang/Shu ​鄭露/莊/淑 Zheng Sheng ​鄭生 Zheng Yu ​鄭愚 Zheng Zhao ​鄭昭 zhen ren ​真人 zhi (quality) ​質 zhi chang zai chuanshang jian lü haipan ​止常在船上兼廬海畔 zhifang shi ​職方氏 zhi nan ​指南 zhishu shiyu shi ​治書侍御史

Glossary zhong guo ​中國 zhongguo de guizu zhi ​中國的貴族制 zhong zhou ​中州 Zhou (surname) ​周 Zhou Chu ​周處 Zhou Xie ​周勰 Zhou Zao ​周造 zhou zuo ​州佐 zhu hu ​主戶 zhu jiao ​助教

Zhu Mo ​朱默 Zhu Xi ​朱熹 zhuyi fanjiang ​諸夷蕃將 zhu zhi ​祝之 Zhuzi Fang ​朱紫方 zi (honorific) ​字 Zicheng ​ 子誠 zu (lineage) ​族 zuo changshi ​左常侍 Zuo Si ​左思

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Index

Aizawa Seishisai, 6–7 ancestral shrines, 164, 169, 179 Anhai Bay, 89 An Lushan, 48, 72, 133, 136 Austro-Asiatic, 20, 108, 192n.40 Austronesian, 90–91, 108, 128, 192n.40, 206n.6 Baidu Fang kin group, 156, 160–161, 163, 165–166, 170, 171, 172, 182, 183. See also Fangshan Fang kin group; Zhuzi Fang kin group Baidu village/shrine, 156–160, 161, 162, 166, 169, 170, 171, 178, 180, 182–183, 185 Bai Juyi, 107 Baitang Li, 139, 145–146, 150 BaMin tongzhi, 93, 124, 127, 159 Ban Gu, 9, 22, 92, 207n.17 Baosheng dadi. See Wu Tao Beckwith, Christopher, 189–190n.7 “bird” script, 194n.11 blood sacrifice (xueshi), 158, 170–171, 179. See also rites/ritual Bokenkamp, Stephen, 37, 60 Bol, Peter, 76 Book of Documents, 7 Book of Rites, 8, 168 Buddhism, 10, 110–116, 122, 175, 211–212n.4. See also Fujian; Quanzhou “Burned Field” Village, 117, 122 Cai Xiang, 74, 93, 149, 177–178, 182; on rites, law, and medicine, 81–83 Campany, Robert Ford, 36 Cao Cao, 9, 35

census data, 71, 130–133, 216n.59; guest households (ke hu) and resident households (zhu hu), 133–134 Central Lands (zhong guo), xiii, xiv, 6–7, 8–13, 19–22, 24–26, 28, 29, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 41, 48, 49–50, 51, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59–60, 65, 68, 97, 119, 131, 144, 151, 174, 175–177, 178, 187, 190n.10; and Fujian (Min), 96; and Yue peoples, 90–93 ceramics, 24, 177 Chaffee, John, 75 Chang Gun, 57–59, 65, 137–138 Chaozhou (Guangdong), 31, 57, 105, 106, 107, 108, 117, 118–119, 120–121, 126, 128–129, 130, 137, 143, 167, 211n.76 Chen Feng, 120 Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, 156, 166 Chen Hongjin, 154 Chen Jinggu, 97–98 Chen Precipice (Chen yan), 158–159 Chen Qian, Guangdong bandit, 118 Chen Yinke, 53 Chen Yuanguang, 117–122, 138, 143 Chen Zheng, 117–122, 129, 132, 134, 143 Chen Zhu, 82–83 Chu (kingdom), 8, 20–21, 24, 25, 26, 31, 34, 49, 107, 128–129 civilization/civilized/civilisation, ix–x, xiv, 3–15, 19, 23, 28, 30, 32–33, 46, 48, 52, 58, 68, 92, 104. 110, 118–119, 122, 128–129, 138, 139, 184, 186–188; and “Debates on Civilization” (civilizing discourse), 70–84, 173, 177–178, 180, 185; and agriculture, 125, 134, 140; and the Divine Woman of Meizhou and Wu Tao, 153–155, 180–183; and the god of Baidu, 156–172, 179, 182–183

261

262 Index classical discourse/literature/scholarship/ tradition, 7, 9, 13, 14, 15, 28, 60, 160, 163, 164, 175, 178, 206m13 Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai jing), 91, 102 Classic of Poetry, 8 commerce, 72–74 de Condercet, Marquis, 3–4 Confucius/Confucianism, 8, 13, 61, 77, 78, 83, 156, 167, 184–185 Conklin, Alice L., 3, 184 Cook, Constance, 20 Cotton, 71, 73–74, 177 crocodile, 106–109, 128, 129, 211n.76; and Han Yu, 32, 106–107. See also jiao cultic traditions, 138; and ling, 139; dragon, 101–102; fertility, 93–94; fish, 94–95; frogs, 93; jiao, 101–106; snake, 95–101. See also crocodile Daoism, 20–21, 34–35, 36, 37–39, 42, 59, 184–185. See also “Highest Clarity” Daoism Dean, Kenneth, and Zheng Zhenman, 138, 156, 205n.5, 215n.57, 223n.13 demons (gui), 23, 33, 38–39, 79, 92–93, 96–97, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 108, 109, 127–128, 139, 144 (chap. 7). See also spirits (shen) discourse on civilization. See civilization/ civilized/civilisation “divided empire,” 174–176 Divine Woman of Meizhou (Mazu, or Tianhou), 139–147, 148, 150, 151, 152–154, 155, 158, 180–182, 183–184, 186, 188 Dong Chang, 9–10, 187 dragon. See cultic traditions Drum Mountain (Gu shan), 116 Du You, 11 earth god (tudi shen), 155 Eberhard, Wolfram, 16–17 Ebrey, Patricia Buckley, 184 Enlightenment, 3–5, 13 examinations/degrees, 48, 52–54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 64, 65, 66, 67, 74–75, 137–138, 149, 153, 165, 169, 171, 182; literacy, 15, 24, 56, 59–60, 75, 76; literati and literati culture, 16–17, 74, 79, 107–108,

136, 137, 181, 182, 184; “southern selection,” 54–55, 56 von Falkenhausen, Lothar, 12–13 Fang Dacong, 161, 162, 163, 164 Fang Hui, 165, 171 Fang Jiao, 165, 166, 167, 169, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183. See also Shrine of the Great Official Fang Jun, 162, 165, 166, 182 Fang La, 185 Fang Lüe, 156–160, 165, 166, 167, 169, 170, 171, 172, 179, 180, 182, 185, 186 Fangshan Fang kin group, 161, 163, 165, 172 Fang Tingfan, 161, 162, 164 Fang Tu, 171 Fang Zhitai, 161, 162, 164 Fan Zhongyan, 81 Fan Zuyu, 166, 184 Feng Ang, 28–29 Feng Hong, 28 Fengzhou, 123, 132 Feng Ziyou, 29 Ferry, Jules, 4–5 Fitzgerald, C. P., 16 frontier(s), ix–x, xiii, 14, 15, 16, 19, 49, 68, 82, 92, 112, 117, 122, 126, 174, 175, 181; southern frontier, x, 17, 20, 44 Fujian, ix–x, xiv, 24, 26–27, 44, 53, 54, 64, 71, 81, 87, 134, 137–138, 145, 147, 151, 153, 164, 176, 183, 185, 188; Buddhism in . . . ​, 110–116; (Men of) Gushi, 68–69, 119–120, 163; Immigration, 130–134, 151, 162–163 (see also census data); Pre-History, 90–93; Shamanism, 82–83, 93. See also Chang Gun; cultic traditions Funan, 108–109, 112 Fuzhou (Fujian), 67, 72, 93, 94, 104, 110–112, 114, 116, 130, 142–143, 144–145, 185 Garnier-Pagés, Louis-Antoine, 4 Ge Hong, 36, 37 Goujian, 22, 27, 42, 93, 194nn.9,11 Guangdong (“lands south of the mountains”; Lingnan), xiv, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 31, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 64–65, 67, 73, 90, 108, 112, 118, 121, 122, 176, 183

Index Guangzhou (Anhui), 68, 119–120, 162 Guangzhou (Guangdong), 14, 23, 25, 28, 36, 38, 40, 41, 43, 50, 67, 68, 72, 108, 112, 118, 132, 181, 211–212n.4 Gushi. See Fujian Gu Yong, 48–49, 51 Han (dynasty), 9, 10, 12, 21, 22, 25, 26, 27, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 47, 49, 51, 53, 62, 72, 74, 94, 130, 168, 173–175, 176, 177 Hansen, Valerie, 181, 186 Han Yu, 30–32, 77, 137, 167, 176; and Ouyang Zhan, 57–59, 137, 201n.33; on crocodiles, 106–107, 108, 128–129, 211n.76; on civilization, 78, 129, 137; on jiao, 104–106, 107; “The Officer at the Rapids,” 31–32, 106, 197n.5. See also Liu Zongyuan Hemudu (Neolithic civilization), 70–71 Henry, Eric, 23–24 “Highest Clarity” Daoism (Shangqing Dao), 36–37, 59–60 Hong Botong, 141–142 Hong Mai, 99, 152 Huang Chao, 68 Huang Gongdu, 146 Huang Shougong, 115 Huang Tao, 114, 115, 116, 159 HuaXia, 11, 190n.9 Hu Fan, 51–52 Huizong, 125, 157–158, 159, 180, 184–185, 186, 214–215n.46 Hunan, 24, 176 Hu Yuan, 11–12 Hymes, Robert, 70, 74, 150 immigrants/immigration, ix–x, xv, 15, 26, 33, 35–36, 37, 46, 49, 94, 109, 113, 118, 119, 122, 126–127, 130–134. See also Fujian indigenous people/culture. See pre-Sinitic/ indigenous Intrigues of the Warring States, 8, 187 Jiang Gongfu, 136–137 Jiankang. See Nanjing jiao (jiaolong), 22, 102–106, 107–109; and Wu Xing, 127–128, 129–130. See also Han Yu

263

Jin (dynasty), 28, 36–37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43, 48, 49, 50, 55, 61, 62, 102, 103, 111, 113, 136 Jinjiang district, 87, 132 Jin River, 87, 89, 90, 93, 94, 115, 117, 123, 132 Jiulong River, 27, 87, 90, 104, 117, 118, 122, 131 Johnson, David, 178, 179–180, 186 Jug Mountain, 88, 158–159 Ju’naluotuo. See Paramārtha Kaiyuan Temple. See Huang Shougong kinship practice/rites, 160–171, 178–179, 181, 183 Koryo (Korea), 28, 145 Lady Linshui. See Chen Jinggu Lattimore, Owen, 14, 16 Lei Wanxing. See Man/LiaoMan Levine, Ari, 184–185 Lewis, Mark, 174 Liang Kejia, 93, 110–111, 130 Liao Pengfei, 139, 141–143, 144, 146, 147, 180, 181, 182 Lieberman, Victor, 17 Li Fu, 146–147, 219n.29 Li Gou, 80–81, 177 Li Ke, 121 Lingnan. See Guangdong Lin Guangchao, 147, 151, 156, 180 Lin Zao, 64 Li Shimin, 121 Literacy and literati culture. See examinations/degrees Li Tuo, 38–39, 40, 41 Liu Bang, 26, 51 Liu Jingshu, 62 Liu Kai, 77 Liu Kezhuang, 123–124, 127, 152, 162, 163, 164–165, 181 Liu Song (dynasty), 43, 50, 130 Liu Xin, 9 Liu Zongyuan, 30–31, 33, 63, 104, 107, 108, 122, 176 Li Zhen, 142, 144–147, 181 Locke, John, 5–6 Longxi district, 104, 117, 131–132, 148, 150 Lord of Manifest Kindness (Xianhui hou), 155, 156–172

264 Index Luo Xiansheng, 51–52 Lu Song, 38, 40 Lu Xun, 43, 143 Lu Yundi, 142, 145, 181 Lu Zonghui, 65 Lychee, 74, 89 Man/LiaoMan, 8, 26, 30, 39, 50, 62, 91–92, 107, 128–129, 187; Man chieftains Miao Zicheng and Lei Wanxing, 117–119 maritime frontier, 17, 175 Mazu. See Divine Woman of Meizhou Mencius, 8, 77 Miao Zicheng. See Man/LiaoMan Min kingdom, 67, 68–69, 120, 163 Min River, 27, 90, 94, 96, 97–99, 113, 183, 196n.43, 208n.36 MinYue. See Yue people/culture mourning obligations (wu fu), 79, 163–164. See also rites/ritual Mo Xuanqing, 56 Mulan River, 27, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 94–95, 99, 113, 125, 140, 163, 164 music. See rites/ritual Nanjing (Jiankang), 36, 38, 39, 112–113, 174 NanYue. See Southern Yue kingdomNeolithic, 19, 90–91, 93–94 Nickerson, Peter, 35–36, 38–39, 41 Nine He Immortals, 94–95 Ninghai Village, 140, 141, 143, 145, 147, 152, 158, 181, 182, 217n.13 Northern Wei, 10, 11, 28 “Officer of the Rapids” (Long li). See Han Yu “orthodox” narrative, 13–14, 44–45, 175, 188, 205n.3 Ouyang Xiu, 28, 54, 55, 57, 78–79, 81, 83, 107, 123, 136, 137, 177, 178, 184, 204n.38 Ouyang Zhan, 56, 57, 58–59, 63–64, 65, 105, 137, 138. See also Han Yu Paramārtha, 112–114, 211–212n.4 Paul, Diana, 112–113 petroglyphs. See Zhangzhou Pitts, Jennifer, 3 pre-Sinitic/indigenous, xiv, 13, 34, 90, 100, 105, 123, 125, 126–127, 130, 138, 140,

143, 147, 151, 152, 154, 155, 175, 180, 184, 188 Putian district, 87–89, 98–99, 113–114, 115, 116, 123, 124, 125, 126, 132, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 153, 156, 159–165, 181, 183, 185 Putian Fang, 163–165, 185 Putian Plain. See Xinghua Plain/ Commandery Putian Zheng, 113–114 python (snake), 31, 34, 93, 103, 105, 107, 108, 109, 152. See also cultic traditions Qian Liu, 66–67 Qin (kingdom/dynasty), 25, 26, 49, 61, 62, 76, 82, 92, 173, 175, 176, 177 Qingjiao village, 148–149, 150, 151, 154, 182–183, 186, 220n.35 Qingjiao Yan, 149, 182 Qin Xi, 136 Quan lang, 43–44, 143 Quanzhou, ix, 43, 44, 58, 83, 87, 89, 93, 97, 100, 105, 117, 118, 119, 122, 123, 126, 130, 131, 132–133, 136, 137, 138, 143, 148, 149, 151, 154, 162, 185; Trade, 72, 73–74, 132, 141, 145 Quanzhou Plain, 87, 89, 131; Buddhism in . . . ​, 111–112, 113, 115–116 “Record of the Peach Blossom Spring” (Taohua yuan ji). See Tao Yuanming Renzong emperor, 154, 184 rice, 70–71, 73, 93, 147, 175, 177 Rites of Zhou (Zhou li), 91, 168 rites/ritual, 8, 9, 10, 12, 30, 57–58, 65, 66, 68, 76, 78–83, 92, 137–139, 159, 176, 177–178, 179, 184, 187; “illicit” rites (yinsi), 79–80, 144, 179, 207n.17. See also blood sacrifice; Tang dynasty Robinet, Isabelle, 36, 37 Schafer, Edward, 16–17, 197n.53 Schirokauer, Conrad, 70, 74 shaman/-ism (wu), 20–21, 23, 33–34, 82–83, 92–93, 94, 96, 97, 141, 142–143, 144, 150–151, 154, 177, 183, 194n.5, 209n.39, 218n.19. See also Fujian she festival, 160–161, 165–166 Shiji. See Sima Qian

Index Shinron. See Aizawa Seishisai Shrine of Auspicious Response (Xiangying miao), 156–172 Shrine of Smooth Crossing (Shunji miao), 139, 142–143, 144, 146. See also Shrine of the Holy Mound Shrine of the Great Official (Daguan miao). See Shrine of Auspicious Response Shrine of the Holy Mound (Shengdun miao), 139–141, 142–143, 145–146, 156–157, 181 “Shrines of the Three Ladies.” See Shrine of the Holy Mound Sichuan, 49, 54, 63, 174. See also Way of the Celestial Masters Sima Guang, 54, 68, 77, 166, 177, 184 Sima Qian, 7, 22, 27, 92 Six Dynasties, 37, 174 snake cult. See totemic cults Social Darwinism, 4, 13 Song, dilemma of reunification, 176–177, 184–186 Songs of Chu (Chu ci), 20–21, 102 Song Zhiwen, 29–30 Soushen ji, 96–97, 98, 108, 208n.37 “southern barbarians.” See Man/LiaoMan southern frontier. See frontier(s) Southern Han kingdom, 67, 68 southern selection. See examinations/ degrees Southern Tang kingdom, 66, 76, 176 Southern Yue kingdom, 21, 24, 26, 27, 29, 32, 41, 104 South Lake Mountain, 113–114 South Seas, 10, 25, 65, 141, 144 spirits (shen), 30, 50, 82, 92, 93, 95, 97, 123, 139, 143, 151 Stone Bamboo Shoot (Shisun), 93–95 Strickmann, Michel, 36 sugarcane, 71, 177 Sui dynasty, 22–23, 25, 29, 44, 55, 74–75, 111, 130, 174, 175–176, 177 Sun En, 40–43, 143 Sun Tai, 41–42 Tabghach. See Northern Wei Taiping huanyuji. See Yue Shi Tang dynasty, 16–17, 22, 25, 28, 29, 43–44, 48, 52–54, 56, 64, 71–74, 75, 81, 82, 100, 103–104, 107, 111,

265

113–117, 119–122, 124, 128, 131, 132, 136, 153, 158, 161, 162, 168, 175, 176, 177; Tang/Song interregnum, 65–69, 176; Tang poets, 29–30 (see also Tao Yuanming); discussion of rites, 168–169 (see also village wine-drinking rite). See also census data; examinations/ degrees Tao Kan, 49–51, 60, 121 Tao Yuanming, 60–63, 65 tea, 71, 175 Temple of Vast Transformation (Guanghua si), 113–115, 164 ter Haar, Barend J., 139 Tian, Xiaofei, 60–61 Tianhou. See Divine Woman of Meizhou Tian Xi, 77 Tong’an district, 89, 148 totemic cults. See cultic traditions Twitchett, Denis, 47, 52 urbanization, 71–72 village wine-drinking rite (xiang yinjiu), 58, 160, 167–169 Wang Anshi, 32, 74 Wang Gungwu, 17 Way of the Celestial Masters (Tianshi dao), 33–37, 38, 39, 41 Way of the Five Pecks of Rice (Wudoumi dao), 33–34 wen, definition, 12–14. See also civilization/civilized/civilisation Wiens, Herold J., 16 Winks, Robin, 17 Wu (kingdom, 10th century), 66, 67 wu (martial), 12–13 wu (shaman/-ism). See shaman/-ism Wudi (Han emperor), 26, 27, 28, 94 Wu dynasty/kingdom (3rd century), 36, 37, 39, 40, 48, 49, 174 Wu Tao, 139, 147–152, 154–155, 180, 182–183, 185–186 Wu Xing, 122–130, 134, 137, 138, 140, 144, 156–157, 214–215n.46; . . . ​and the Yanshou Weir, 123–125, 156–157 WuYue (kingdom), 66, 67 Xianyou district, 69, 88–89, 94–95, 99, 142, 163

266 Index Xiaowen emperor, 10–11 Xia Song, 79–80 Xinghua Bay, 88, 123, 130 Xinghua Plain/Commandery, 81, 82, 87–88, 89, 111, 123, 125, 126, 131, 132, 137, 139, 142, 145, 156 Xi Xiang, 57, 58, 59, 65, 137–138, 171 Xue Lingzhi, 56–57 Xu Jing, 142, 144, 145 Xu Xiaowang, 93, 99, 100, 104, 111, 208n.37, 209n.44 Xu Xuan, 76–77 Yan Cao, 149, 150, 151, 154, 182 Yang Qing, 185–186 Yang Shen, 108 Yangtze River/valley, xiv, 10, 14, 17, 21, 24, 25, 26, 28, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 48, 49, 60, 70, 71, 72, 73, 79, 92, 104, 107, 115, 173, 174, 175, 176, 186 Yang Xi, 36–37, 59–60, 63, 65 Yang Zhi, 148–149, 150, 151, 154, 185–186 Yan Shilu, 148–149, 150, 152, 182 Yanshou Weir. See Wu Xing Yan Xizhe, 149, 182 Yao Silian, 10 Yellow River, 14, 19, 48, 49, 66, 166 Yellow Turban, 33, 35 Ye Nong, 185 Yicun, 115–116 yidi, 10, 11, 12 Yizhong, 99, 100 Yogācāra. See Paramārtha Yue kingdom, 21, 24, 26–27, 42, 49, 104, 107, 128–129 (chap. 2, 3, 6)

Yue people/culture, 15–16, 21–24, 27, 29, 30, 31, 41, 43, 58, 63–64, 90–91, 92–93, 94, 96, 97, 98, 100, 104, 105, 117. See also cultic traditions; Goujian; Southern Yue kingdom Yue Shi, 23, 28, 43, 49, 143 Zhang Chang2, 39–40 Zhang [Dao]Ling, 33–35 Zhang Ding, 162–163 Zhang Hua, 50 Zhang Ji, 30 Zhang Jiuling, 55–57, 58, 59, 64, 67 Zhang Liang, 50–51 Zhang Lu, 34–35 Zhang Maodu, 50–51, 52 Zhangpu district, 118, 132 Zhang Yong, 77 Zhang Zhongfang, 64–65 Zhangzhou, 32, 87, 95–96, 99, 100, 104, 117–118, 119, 120, 122, 126, 132, 143, 148, 149, 151, 154, 185; petroglyphs, 95–96, 99, 106. See also Chen Yuanguang Zhao Kuangyin (Song Taizu), 70, 76, 152, 153 Zhao Tuo, 26, 28, 29 Zheng Sheng, 114 Zheng Zhenman. See Dean, Kenneth Zhenzong, 165, 184 Zhezong, 184, 185 zhi (quality/disposition), 12–13 zhong guo. See Central Lands Zhou Xie, 39 Zhuang Xia, 148, 150, 154, 183, 220n.35 Zhuzi Fang kin group, 161–162, 163, 164–165, 171, 172, 182

About the Author

Hugh R. Clark, professor of history and East Asian studies at Ursinus College (PA), is a gradu­ate of the University of Pennsylvania, where he worked on the socioeconomic history of the Song ­under Robert Hartwell. Clark since has published extensively on the history of southern Fujian Province across the Tang-­Song transition. His primary publications include Community, Trade, and Networks: Southern Fujian Province from the Third to the Thirteenth Centuries (1991) and Portrait of a Community: Society, Culture, and the Structures of Kinship in the Mulan River Valley (Fujian) from the Late Tang through the Song (2007). Clark was editor of the Journal of Song Yuan Studies (2003–2006) and trea­surer of the Society for Song, Yuan, and Conquest Dynasty Studies (2007–2014).

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Production Notes for Clark │ The Sinitic Encounter in Southeast China through the First Millennium CE Jacket design by Julie Matsuo-Chun Composition by Westchester Publishing Ser­vices with display and text in Sabon Printing and binding by Maple Press Printed on 50 lb. Natural Offset, 400 ppi.