Chapter 988: The Hanlin Academy

The definition of public and private: the public is a larger collective relative to the private.

The concept of public and private was defined by Zhang Juzheng based on the characteristics of contradictory opposition and unity; the process of summarization was arduous, and because the theory of contradiction was not yet widespread at the time, the notion of “public” remained confined to the meanings of government offices and the court.

In September of the nineteenth year of Wanli, the theory of contradiction had become a prominent doctrine within Great Ming scholarship, for it was jointly promulgated by Zhang Juzheng and the Emperor; whether Zhang Juzheng used the Emperor’s name to advance his own doctrine no longer mattered, since the Emperor endorsed the methodology of the theory of contradiction.

The basic framework of discussion—phenomenon, problem, cause, solution—had become the mainstream in Great Ming.

The definition of public and private had been widely accepted: from the court down to workshops, all were public; corruption and abuse of power for private gain were all harms to the public.

Whether it was the petty official of the Shuntian Prefecture’s six bureaus who embezzled vast sums, or the memorial proposing an additional tax of ten wen per mu along the three-hundred-li Jimin Canal, all were manifestations of the same public-private contradiction.

“When I was young and first began studying, my intellect was dull and I failed to grasp the meaning of texts; today, upon rereading the theory of contradiction and the public-private discourse, I still gain much.” Zhu Yijun annotated every memorial, then reread the public-private discourse, feeling that Confucius had indeed never deceived: reviewing the old reveals the new.

Having been Emperor for nineteen years, upon rereading the public-private discourse, he gained many new insights, deepening his understanding of the contradictions between public and private.

Feng Bao did not think His Majesty’s intellect was dull; the Emperor’s persistent questioning—“I am perplexed”—remained a nightmare that haunted the genius Zhang Juzheng to this day.

In scholarship, very few in Great Ming could corner Zhang Juzheng.

Zhang Juzheng wrote the theory of contradiction and the public-private discourse only because he was driven to desperation by the Emperor’s relentless questions, forcing him to propose new methodologies to answer them.

“Your Majesty, under the rectification of Grand Secretary Gao, the Hanlin Academy’s atmosphere has transformed completely; recently, they have written several powerful essays, and I believe they are essential for Your Majesty to read.” Feng Bao, after observing the Emperor finish reviewing memorials, hesitated briefly, then presented several miscellanies.

The Emperor was already tireless—he had reviewed memorials and reread the public-private discourse to comprehend its contradictions; these miscellanies were extra overtime.

Feng Bao truly did not wish the Emperor to work overtime; night had already fallen, and several Imperial Consorts awaited His Majesty’s selection of the imperial token.

Yet after much deliberation, Feng Bao still presented the miscellanies, for there was an imperial decree.

The Emperor had no intention of abolishing the Hanlin Academy; he cared deeply about its rectification and ordered that any progress be reported; Feng Bao chose to obey the decree.

“Oh? Bring them, bring them.” Zhu Yijun’s face brightened; Gao Qiyi was truly an effective blade—how short a time had he served, yet the Hanlin Academy had already taken on a new appearance!

As for selecting imperial consorts, Zhu Yijun had recently lost enthusiasm, for Empress Wang Yao was pregnant.

Wang Yao was not afraid of Zhu Yijun; sometimes, she even quarreled with him over their child’s education; the Emperor and Empress interacted more like husband and wife, while other concubines feared the Emperor deeply, treating their interactions as those between sovereign and subject.

This led to a frustrating reality for Zhu Yijun: when these concubines attended him, they behaved like dolls, not real people, nearly triggering his uncanny valley effect.

“Not bad, not bad—but have our Hanlin scholars set the standard for original civilization too high?” Zhu Yijun picked up the first essay; it was a series, “On Civilization.”

“Indeed, it is a bit too high,” Feng Bao agreed with the Emperor’s judgment, but the Hanlin scholars held precisely such high standards.

One could call the Hanlin scholars harsh, but they were certainly not incompetent; their series on civilization displayed impeccable logic.

This essay divided civilization into original civilization and derivative civilization.

Original civilization meant indigenous, uninterrupted cultural lineage; derivative civilization meant either completely severed or entirely inherited from elsewhere.

In the Hanlin scholars’ view, original civilization was not merely superior to derivative civilization—it was fundamentally different.

The first essay of the “On Civilization” series was “On Writing.”

Writing was the imprint of civilization and the key criterion distinguishing original from derivative civilization.

A civilization with its own indigenous writing was original; one without its own writing, relying on borrowing, copying, or adapting foreign scripts, was derivative.

By the Hanlin scholars’ standard, even Rome did not qualify as original civilization, for Latin was itself a borrowed, adapted script.

According to Great Ming’s current understanding of Latin, it evolved from Greek.

The origin of writing, wherever and whenever, always began with murals.

In the Hanlin scholars’ view, murals were a vital form of writing—a record of historical events—and thus a type of writing.

Murals gradually evolved into pictographic characters, whose defining trait was resemblance: a cow was drawn as an actual cow; in oracle bone script, ritual terms like mao, fa, yi, yue, and zhu each depicted their meaning vividly.

The oracle bone character for yi showed a hook with a person’s nose hanging from it;

The character for yue showed a person separated from a leg, with a knife between them;

The character for zhu was even simpler: castration, the removal of the genitalia—a third leg, plus a knife, was zhu.

Pictographic strokes were too complex and impractical; coupled with the lack of suitable recording tools in antiquity, pictographic writing inevitably evolved into angular cuneiform, convenient for carving on stone, turtle shells, and bronze.

Great Ming’s research into oracle bone script corroborated this: later oracle bone characters became increasingly angular.

At this stage, a single character typically acquired multiple meanings, and strokes began to emerge.

To make writing more accessible, early cuneiform characters, possessing rudimentary abstraction, gradually simplified.

In this phase, writing became standardized; character and word formation followed discernible patterns, and writing, as the hub of culture’s hub, maintained cultural unity.

Though dialects varied, with different customs every ten li and different accents every hundred li, writing had entirely stitched Great Ming together.

Not only did China follow this trajectory; overseas merchants brought back numerous Inca artifacts, whose inscriptions revealed the ancient evolution of writing—from mural to pictographic to cuneiform to ideographic and phonetic.

The Inca civilization was a classic original civilization: it had its own indigenous writing and a clear evolutionary lineage, yet it perished.

The Inca civilization met the definition of original civilization; this may be one reason why Wan Shihé and Wan Zongbo remained fixated on the Inca’s demise.

The Hanlin scholars appended a long list of scripts to illustrate the “heaven-maimed, earth-deficient” nature of derivative civilization.

For instance: Khitan script, Tangut script, Jurchen script (Northern Song-era Jin script)—now unreadable; still-used Korean Hangul, Japanese Man’yōgana; Western scripts like English, Portuguese, French, Spanish—all classic derivative, offshoot scripts.

These heaven-maimed, earth-deficient derivative scripts suffered numerous inconveniences.

The Hanlin Academy particularly highlighted the Liao Dynasty’s official scripts: Khitan Large Script and Khitan Small Script.

As the Liao’s official script, Khitan Large Script was created by Emperor Yelü Abaoji, modeled after Chinese characters.

Yet from its inception, this Large Script was doomed to be unused; imitating Chinese characters was utterly redundant.

Liao nobles and Han Chinese alike used Chinese script; Liao nobles especially took pride in using Chinese and scorned Khitan Large Script.

The only Khitan commoners who needed Khitan script lacked the energy to learn a script they rarely, if ever, used.

Forced to promote Khitan writing, the Liao created Khitan Small Script—like Korean Hangul and Japanese Man’yōgana, it was a phonetic annotation of Khitan Large Script.

The greatest feature of phonetic scripts is ease of learning, yet Liao examinations and official documents used Khitan Large Script and Chinese, ensuring that this phonetic script became a dead language after the Liao’s collapse.

Khitan Large Script and Khitan Small Script were always classified as dialects.

Tangut and Jurchen scripts met similar fates: during the existence of the Liao, Tangut, and Jin, few used these scripts; after their collapse, these unreadable scripts served merely as traces of their former existence.

Korean Hangul shared a similar fate: Korean nobles used Chinese script, not Hangul; only commoners needed this phonetic script, but learning it was useless—medical and legal codes were written in Chinese characters; those who learned Hangul or Man’yōgana remained poor laborers for life.

Original civilization possessed high national dignity—the noble among nobles.

Among all nations Great Ming had encountered, Great Ming alone qualified as an original civilization.

“According to the Hanlin Academy, ideographic script is for nobles, phonetic script for the poor?” Zhu Yijun frowned; he had systematically studied Latin and could read and understand it.

The Hanlin Academy was cursing—directly including the Emperor.

Feng Bao bowed deeply and said: “The Hanlin scholars mean exactly that; previously, one Hanlin submitted a memorial accusing Your Majesty of undermining national dignity by studying Latin.”

The Emperor had not overinterpreted; the Hanlin scholars truly believed this: how could the Son of Heaven of the Celestial Empire learn barbarian scripts?

“They are lofty, they are magnificent!” Zhu Yijun sighed, recalling the turmoil during the signing of the Trans-Pacific Trade Alliance Charter; had he not studied Latin, these scholar-officials would have used interpreters to deceive him like a fool!

“The Hanlin Academy is finally useful. Issue a Dibao. Front page.” Zhu Yijun granted the Hanlin Academy front-page status; indeed, this logically rigorous, evidence-rich “On Civilization” series addressed a profoundly important question.

What is the Celestial Empire?

Why is Great Ming the Celestial Empire?

The Celestial Empire was Great Ming’s most vital core interest—without exception—just as “Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets” was Spain’s core interest.

Great Ming’s estrangement from Spain arose because, after opening the seas, Great Ming exploited its commercial advantage to aggressively usurp the foundational prestige of the “Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets.”

The Emperor valued the establishment of the Trans-Pacific Trade Alliance so highly because, if properly operated, it would mark a historic reversal of offensive and defensive roles against the Western Red-Haired Barbarians at sea—a “They can come, we can come too” moment!

Those within Great Ming did not realize what this represented, but viewed from a millennium-scale perspective, if Great Ming seized the title “Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets,” it would be an event benefiting a thousand years.

Just as Emperor Wu of Han’s war against the Xiongnu seemed excessively militaristic at the time, posterity would see it as a legacy spanning millennia.

The Hanlin Academy’s explanation of the definition of the Celestial Empire and why Great Ming was it was, in essence, answering the profound existential question: “Who am I?”—immensely important, profoundly significant.

“But arrogance must be avoided.” Zhu Yijun annotated the miscellany, transferring it to the sole official gazette, the Dibao; while affirming the article’s significance, the Emperor also issued a clear directive: arrogance must be avoided.

This handling seemed almost schizophrenic: if the article had no value, why reprint it in the Dibao? If it had high value, why did the Emperor criticize it?

Valuable and reasonable, yet not arrogant—this was the dialectical, unified thinking.

Zhu Yijun reviewed all the essays Feng Bao presented; “On Civilization” was the pinnacle among masterpieces; other essays, while inferior to this one, were still highly valuable.

For instance, essays discussing the flaws of the resident-artisan system: resident artisans existed entirely dependent on state workshops; if the workshops perished, so did the system—flourishing or collapsing together.

For instance, essays analyzing Great Ming’s institutional evolution, dividing its history into four periods: before the Tumu Crisis of Zhengtong Fourteen; Zhengtong Fourteen to Hongzhi Five; Hongzhi Five to Wanli First; Wanli Reforms and beyond—this segmentation reflected fundamental shifts in Great Ming’s political logic.

Such periodization helped people understand what had occurred and why.

For instance, essays on central-local contradictions, focusing on the crisis during the Wanli Reforms: the court grew rich while localities grew poor, forcing grand projects to be initiated by the court, leaving local administrations in the awkward position of contributing negatively to such projects.

These essays were rich in content; the problems the Emperor noticed, the Hanlin scholars had also noticed—and analyzed with exceptional depth, fully demonstrating that scholars truly had studied.

“Our Great Ming’s penmen are quite formidable, aren’t they? What were they doing before? How is it that since Grand Secretary Gao arrived, they suddenly know what to write?” Zhu Yijun examined these miscellanies; each essay was substantive, each analyzed new and old contradictions emerging during the Wanli Reforms.

Even the extravagance in Songjiang Prefecture was addressed; each essay deserved Zhu Yijun’s close, repeated contemplation.

But previously, the Hanlin Academy had produced no such essays.

“Before Grand Secretary Gao arrived, these essays had already been written—but could not be published; talented individuals could not realize their ambitions, while idle, incompetent men occupied high positions,” Feng Bao explained.

Gao Qiyi lacked the power to create something from nothing; the Hanlin Academy was not entirely composed of empty talkers—but in the past, talented individuals were driven into corners by entrenched corruption and decay, unable to survive, forced to leave the Hanlin Academy in obscurity.

Through such filtering, the Hanlin Academy became filled with mere empty talkers.

When Gao Qiyi arrived, he unearthed all the accumulated essays from the past and published several; the Hanlin Academy’s atmosphere transformed completely.

This task was easy to do, yet hard to do—it was a niche only a singular minister like Gao Qiyi could handle.

Gao Qiyi enjoyed the Emperor’s favor; he feared no enemies, for the Emperor was still young, and Gao Qiyi would surely die before him; his posthumous affairs were left to the Emperor’s discretion.

Singular ministers in the Great Ming court were few; previously, Hai Rui was one; now, Gao Qiyi was one, Hou Yuzhao was one, Wang Qian was half.

“Reasonable,” Zhu Yijun accepted Feng Bao’s explanation.

“Your Majesty,” Feng Bao glanced at the moonlight and placed a stack of imperial tokens before the Emperor; it was time to select a consort.

Zhu Yijun’s hand circled the tokens, then shook his head: “I am weary. Forget it.”

He had finished reading the miscellanies; the night was deep, the third hour of Hai, all was silent; to summon a consort from the palace to the Imperial Study now would be too late, exhausting everyone and depriving them of rest; moreover, he must rise at dawn to preside over the court deliberation—he simply did not bother.

Even an Emperor had only twelve hours in a day; doing this meant not doing that.

In a strongman politics, after complex contradictions are reconciled, it often becomes a test of the strongman’s physical health: who lives longer, who survives longer, wins in the end; had Yan Song not been so old, Xu Jie would not have been his match.

"This subject obeys Your Majesty's decree." Feng Bao nearly slapped himself—he knew the imperial consorts already resented him, blaming him for failing to schedule properly and causing this mess.

Today was another day off, and the consorts would surely point their fingers at his back and curse him; these consorts were all masters, and Feng Bao dared not offend any of them—and their curses were truly vile.

Heaven and earth bear witness: Feng Bao had done his utmost to arrange things, but the Emperor’s time was only twelve hours.

Drought and flood imbalance always weighed heavily on the heart; the ninth month of Wanli 19 was an unsettling month.

After Mid-Autumn, the weather should have turned cool, crisp and clear, with gentle autumn rains that never ceased—but always light.

Throughout the entire ninth month of Wanli 19, Shuntian Prefecture was drenched in heavy rain; the heaviest downpour, from the night of the 17th to the 18th, dumped a full five inches in a single day!

Recall that in Wanli 17, Shuntian Prefecture received only five inches of rain all year—yet on the 18th of this month, it rained as much as the entire year of Wanli 17.

The road from the Western Hills Coal Bureau to the Western Straight Gate coal market was submerged; forced to act, the Western Hills Coal Bureau urgently activated the backup coal market at Guangning Gate—originally a dedicated road for the Imperial Household’s Xixin Si to deliver coal. The Emperor decreed its use for civilians, and with laborers carrying coal down the hills, the capital’s coal supply was preserved.

Road closures, collapsed houses, civilian evacuations, salvage of property, dike and dam patrols, urban flooding—these problems kept the Emperor extraordinarily busy throughout September. Fortunately, the Shuntian Prefecture Office had already completed its reform; otherwise, this downpour would have left countless victims.

“The water in Taiye Pool nearly flooded the Guanghan Palace on Qionghua Island in the Western Garden,” Zhu Yijun said to the assembled ministers, still shaken as he studied the memorials before him.

On the morning of the 21st, the court convened; all departments compiled their losses from the storm and submitted them to the throne. As Emperor, Zhu Yijun felt the power of Heaven’s wrath.

Water cascading down from the Western Hills had flooded into Taiye Pool, nearly submerging the Western Garden, the former residence of the Daoist Master—clearly demonstrating the storm’s ferocity.

Within the palace, the Eastern Five Palaces and Western Five Palaces were both flooded; even the low-lying Chengfu Palace lost three rooms to collapse.

Drought and flood imbalance constantly reminded the Great Ming Emperor and his ministers: do not be arrogant, do not be complacent, do not lose yourselves in the triumphs of the Wanli Reforms—continue striving to reconcile contradictions, continue reforming, to meet Heaven’s changes.

“Fortunately, the six divisions of clerks and yamen runners in Shuntian Prefecture completed their reform; otherwise, who knows how many disorders would have erupted?” Grand Minister of Revenue Zhang Xueyan, too, was shaken. This great storm was a major test of Shuntian Prefecture’s administration. Though losses occurred, they remained well within acceptable limits.

In civilian evacuation, after the Shuntian Prefecture’s official notice was issued, county offices swiftly evacuated hundreds of villages in the mountainous regions. Though some areas suffered no damage, the lowland civilians who were relocated survived the storm.

The reason for evacuation was simple: rain had fallen continuously for a month without pause—even without a violent storm, evacuation was necessary.

In dike and dam patrols, the Beijing Garrison deployed three battalions to assist Shuntian Prefecture, successfully fulfilling their duty. Leaks were promptly sealed, preventing further casualties and losses.

None of this could have been accomplished without sufficient administrative strength.

Before this test, many in court doubted Yang Junmin’s personal ability; after the storm, such doubts vanished entirely—no one questioned his competence anymore.

The six divisions of clerks were all lackeys of powerful clans, indeed hindering Yang Junmin’s personal effectiveness.

Of course, Yang Junmin finally woke up—he went to Tonghemen Palace to plead for help, requesting the Beijing Garrison assist in dike patrols and maintain order, and asking to open the imperial coal route to the capital’s people—all granted by the Emperor.

After this incident, Yang Junmin realized the Emperor had no use for manipulative governing tactics—such as refusing two requests at once, delaying responses to make ministers anxious before granting them.

All such governing tactics existed merely to discipline subordinates from making excessive demands. The Emperor’s imperial authority had grown so formidable that no minister dared make such demands—so there was no need to cling to such formalities.

“This entire September was rain, and on the 17th, a violent storm. Our censorial officials were not idle—they launched a full-scale attack on Wang Qian,” Zhu Yijun said, shaking his head as he held several memorials. “Send these censors to Songjiang Prefecture to see for themselves, then report again.”

“At first, I thought Wang Qian’s school regulations were overly harsh, but after learning the facts, I find his actions justified.”

The censorial officials accused Wang Qian of enforcing academic discipline too severely—requiring students to queue in formation even to use the latrine. Could Wang Qian really control such trivial matters? Some even claimed Wang Qian was attempting to domesticate the students.

Shen Shixing, returning from his post as Provincial Governor of Songjiang to the capital, said to Zhang Juzheng the moment they met: “People can be domesticated.” This remark implied that society itself could be shaped.

The accusation of “domesticating students” was extremely serious—it struck at the very foundation of Great Ming’s literary tradition.

“Regardless, even comparing the sachets on their brush rests has become a trend within the academy—I still find this inappropriate,” Zhu Yijun insisted. The school regulations must stand; competition must not spread into schools.

“Your Majesty is wise. I believe Wang Qian’s actions are entirely proper—they are ancestral law,” Grand Secretary Shen Li stepped forward, invoking ancestral precedent to support Wang Qian.

“This, too, is ancestral law?” Zhu Yijun paused, then asked for details.

Shen Li quickly replied: “In the second year of Hongwu, when the realm was newly stabilized, the Taizu established the Imperial Academy and instructed the Secretariat: ‘To govern the realm, education must come first; education must begin with schools.’ He ordered all prefectures and counties to establish schools, appoint teachers, instruct students, expound the sacred way, so that people would be gradually transformed and restore the ancient ways of the former kings.”

“In the fifteenth year of Hongwu, the Imperial Academy’s regulations were promulgated, and twelve prohibitions were issued nationwide, engraved on stone tablets placed to the left of the Minglun Hall. Those who disobeyed were to be punished for violating imperial decree!”

“In the sixteenth year of Hongwu, the Taizu personally inspected the attire and revised it three times before finalizing it: students’ robes were to be made of jade-colored silk or cotton, with wide sleeves and black borders, black sashes, and soft headbands with hanging ties.”

Uniform student dress was not Wang Qian’s heretical innovation, nor a Wanli-era novelty—it was ancestral law.

As early as Hongwu 16, the Taizu had clearly mandated student attire, personally reviewing the designs three times before fixing the standard for the lanshan robe.

The goal of uniform dress then, and in the Wanli Reforms, was identical: to gradually transform people and restore the ancient ways of the former kings, to promote scholarly flourishing.

“So that is how it was,” Zhu Yijun understood. Indeed, the Minister of Rites must understand ritual law.

Wang Qian’s actions had been done before—only as private academies and family schools flourished, local schools decayed, and these rules faded from memory.

With ancestral precedent as backing, the censors’ attacks became irrelevant—let them argue with the Taizu himself!

Neither Zhu Yijun nor Wang Qian himself fully understood this—Wang Qian had grown up in a family academy.

“Still, send these censors to Songjiang Prefecture to see for themselves—if they persist in submitting memorials, reply with ancestral law. The Ministry of Revenue must ensure inspections to prevent corruption,” Zhu Yijun decided: let the censors witness the horror of carrying thirty-five thousand catties of rice on their backs to school.

These censors might instantly shift from conservatives to radicals, believing Wang Qian hadn’t gone far enough.

“Your Majesty, Governor of Guizhou Ye Mengxiong reports that Yang Yinglong has acted unlawfully, blocking Ming-appointed officials from entering Bozhou,” said Minister of War Ceng Shengwu, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty, Yang Yinglong, Commander of Bozhou, harbors disloyal intentions.”

All Ming-appointed officials sent to Bozhou for the policy of replacing native chieftains with imperial administrators had been ceremoniously escorted out of Bozhou.