Chapter 84: Reading the Newspaper Aloud

The old men and young lads of the capital have been having a grand old time these past few days.

First, heads were practically rolling at the the the Caishikou execution ground execution ground execution ground — every so often word would come that so-and-so had been dragged to the the Caishikou execution ground execution ground for a chop over corruption, and their whole household, young and old, exiled to Dongjiang.

Then came word that the New Army had begun recruiting; they heard that if you got selected, not only would you get twenty taels of silver cash as a family-settling allowance, you'd also draw two taels of silver a month in pay.

Only the New Army's recruitment standards were a bit steep — not only did you need three generations of farming stock and a clean family background, you also had to be physically robust.

So they've been at it since before the New Year, and word is they've barely scraped together three thousand-odd men so far.

Next, before the fifteenth of the first month in this first year of Chongzhen, a thing called the Great Ming Royal Newspaper began circulating in the capital.

Anyone at all could buy a copy and read it for five copper cash.

Since it was full of news about the court and beyond the passes and overseas, people all took it for an enhanced version of the Capital Gazette, only now thrown open for all under Heaven to know.

The biggest catch, though, was that those official lords and scholars could buy it and read it on their own — even someone with just a rough grasp of a few characters could probably make it out, because the newspaper was written entirely in plain vernacular, and they'd added punctuation.

It was just that for ordinary common folk, punctuation or no punctuation made no difference — they couldn't read anyway...

Of course, being illiterate was no great matter — never mind the Great Ming, ever since the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, apart from the former Song dynasty when popular literacy ticked up a bit, in every other dynasty through the ages, how many ordinary common folk ever could read?

So, with the capital's — or rather the whole Ming's — literacy rate frighteningly low, it spawned yet another trade: the newspaper reader.

These newspaper readers were not the same as the old storytellers who used to recount the ancients in the tea houses.

The old storytellers, in fact, mostly couldn't read either; the tales they told were largely passed down by word of mouth, memorized by rote — much like some cross-talk performers in later ages: what if you can't read? They'd whip you till you'd drilled it cold — wouldn't you know it then?

But I digress.

To get back to these newspaper readers — they were mostly old veteran candidates, men who had failed the exams time and again and saw the civil service track as hopeless, so they ordinarily made a living on the street copying letters and such for people, scraping together a bit of silver to get by.

Now, however, the Embroidered Uniform Guard had rounded them up — one posted to each tea house, spending every day simply reading the newspaper's contents aloud to people, making them sort of supernumerary lords of the Embroidered Uniform Guard — this kind of supernumerary was called a military auxiliary.

Of course, a newspaper-reader military auxiliary was different from a military auxiliary in the usual sense.

This supernumerary post was no temporary job; it came with a formal establishment and an imperial salary, so these old veteran candidates were actually quite willing to take up the work of newspaper reader.

When these newspaper readers were first assigned to the various tea houses, the tea house proprietors were rather unwilling, but hemmed in by the Embroidered Uniform Guard's fearsome reputation, they had to hold their noses and accept it.

Yet after just two days, those tea house proprietors were welcoming the newspaper readers with open arms.

Originally, tea houses would have old storytellers recounting the ancients all day long, spinning tales from prompt-books and the like; the patrons, having listened so long, had grown tired of them.

Once these newspaper readers were assigned to the tea houses, the morning hours still belonged to those storytellers or to the singing-girls and street performers, while the afternoons became the newspaper readers' time.

Come afternoon, these newspaper readers would appear in the tea house, spread open the newspaper in their hands, and lay out the great affairs of the court one by one for the patrons to hear.

And the patrons, for their part, loved listening — this was their rare moment of relaxation; in the tea house, no matter how wildly they bragged or pronounced on current politics, it was all fine.

So long as you didn't openly proclaim rebellion or revile the Chongzhen Emperor and the imperial house, you could spray venom about anything else. Even cursing the Six Ministers and the Grand Secretaries of the Grand Secretariat as a pack of utter morons was no problem.

The lords of the Embroidered Uniform Guard didn't bother with any of that anyway.

For instance, at this very moment, in a tea house in the eastern part of the city, a newspaper reader was declaiming: "The Great Ming's Chongzhen Emperor declared at the New Year court assembly that every locality in the Great Ming must inspect its ever-normal granaries and ensure the grain within them is ample; wherever dares be found empty, the responsible official shall forfeit his head.

Furthermore, the Chongzhen Emperor told the envoys of the various tributary kings at the New Year court assembly that the Great Ming's harvest last year was poor — what if this year and next year are poor as well? The common people would go hungry, and that simply will not do.

Therefore, since the various southern ocean tributaries can manage two harvests a year, or even three, this year's tribute is to be converted to grain; additionally, the Great Ming will purchase some more with coin."

Once these two items had been read, a patron remarked: "Those damned corrupt officials — they deserve to be killed! Best to exterminate nine degrees of their kin! It's still the Son of Heaven who's sagely, wise, and merciful, with us poor suffering wretches in his heart."

A companion beside him laughed: "You dolt — the Great Ming Code never prescribed exterminating nine degrees of kinship for corruption! Only—?"

The newspaper reader, paying no mind to the patrons' chorus of praise for the Son of Heaven's sagely wisdom, continued reading: "His Highness the Prince of Tang of the Great Ming intends shortly to transfer his fief overseas; the specific location has yet to be determined.

His Highness the Prince of Tang pledges that for those willing to accompany His Highness to his fief, any person without a particular skill or trade shall receive a family-settling allowance of twenty taels of silver, with three years' tax exemption and five years at half tax.

Those who render service to the fief shall receive additional rewards."

One explosive piece of news after another was read out; the patrons listened, then exchanged their views with their tablemates — the argumentative ones could even quarrel till they were red in the face.

As a result, the tea house's business actually became several times better than before.

So the tea house proprietors, comparing the daily takings from the afternoons against the mornings, were usually caught between agony and delight.

The afternoons brought in more money, but the tax share was higher too — it stung, it really stung.

Of course, while the tea house proprietors were caught between agony and delight over making money and paying taxes, and the patrons were satisfied at being able to swaggeringly lay down the law on affairs of state, there were some people who were not so happy.

Ever since the incident where the Imperial Academy student Wang stabbed the Emperor, the capital — or rather the entire Ming realm — had strictly enforced the directive of the Hongwu Emperor, the dynastic founder: government students are forbidden to discuss politics!

In the capital especially, whether at the Imperial Academy or the various academies, seated agents of the Embroidered Uniform Guard entered openly and brazenly — plainly there to keep these students under surveillance.

And the moment any government student was discovered discussing politics, it was a thorough beating, followed by expulsion and being sent back to his home village.

To the point that even when these scholars went seeking pleasure in the pleasure quarters, they no longer dared bring up topics like current affairs with the girls — several had been expelled for discussing such topics with the girls of the houses!

As for sitting in these tea houses drinking tea and listening to the newspaper readers read the paper, that was no problem, and no one would come to interfere; if two people conversed in lowered voices, it was mostly safe as well.

So these scholars had all learned to be clever; no longer minding the loss of dignity, they came in twos and threes to the tea houses to listen to the newspaper readers read the paper, and along the way to quietly critique the ills of the day.

My head hurts today. Might be coming down with a cold.

Also, thanks to my editor-in-charge, the great Xuxu, for giving this little newbie a spot on the app recommendation list — even if the spot only lasts 24 hours... still, however scrawny the mosquito leg, it's still meat, right?

(End of chapter)