Chapter 354: Evasive Words, Unseemly Substance

In every dynastic transition, or during transitions that do not change the dynasty, rites and institutions undergo some degree of revision.

Scholars and Confucians habitually attribute all practical problems in social and political life to the inadequacy or incompleteness of rites and institutions.

But in reality, rites and institutions are not omnipotent; their key lies also in the state of interpersonal relationships within and outside the institutional system—here, interpersonal relationships encompass cultural institutional patterns and social relations.

The design of rites and institutions is often static, while the interpersonal relationships operating within and outside the system are dynamic, naturally leading to distortions in the rites themselves, producing outcomes contrary to the original good intentions of their design.

A mature leader must not only focus on institutional design but also care deeply about the state of interpersonal relationships in the actual operation of institutions; otherwise, all good intentions behind institutional design will come to naught.

The Wanli Emperor’s post-accession tours were an effort to observe the state of interpersonal relationships in the operation of the new system.

This was also part of his arduous exploration of national construction and the reform of the new system.

The current state of the realm, with its complexity and intense contradictions, has made it impossible for construction and reform to continue under distant, blind control.

Therefore, the Wanli Emperor left the Forbidden City to witness firsthand and act in person.

He traveled north and south, conversing with, discussing with, and exploring alongside officials of provinces, prefectures, and counties, tenant farmers, laborers, and merchants, observing the people’s conditions, understanding their thoughts, and thereby grasping the concrete direction of construction and reform.

During the southern tour.

He often heard criticism, and some even delighted in slandering him—this was nothing strange.

The Wanli Emperor was not a sage endowed with divine insight or omniscience, but a Great Ming leader burdened with the lives of the people, doing his utmost; he had his faults and errors, and it was understandable that some resented him.

He never expected universal approval.

He had the majority he needed to unite.

Precisely because of this, the Wanli Emperor swiftly executed officials who violated state law, yet showed immense patience toward Confucian scholars and commoners who harbored doubts, explaining his motives, stating his demands, and expressing his hopes with tireless earnestness along the way.

When the southern tour procession left Shuntian Prefecture, a scholar blocked the imperial procession to request an audience.

These scholars could not understand why Weng Dali, a minister of the Nanjing Ministry of Justice who had rendered great service, should be sentenced to death for a trivial mistake; they begged the Wanli Emperor to grant Weng Dali a chance to redeem himself through merit.

The Wanli Emperor immediately replied that precisely because Weng Dali held high rank, had great merit, and wielded great influence, he must be decisively executed; only by executing him could more officials who might err, or were about to err, be saved—punishing the past to prevent the future, healing the sick and saving lives—Confucians should understand this principle.

Only then did the scholars depart, fully convinced.

When the southern tour procession arrived at Jinghai County in Hejian Prefecture, the local people could not comprehend the meaning of the tour; they complained that the emperor’s southern journey consumed enormous resources, conscripted labor along the route, and was nothing but indulgent leisure.

Upon learning this, the Wanli Emperor did not explain to the people; instead, for several consecutive days, he inspected estates and farmland, personally walking through all of Jinghai County, inquiring meticulously about the people’s hardships: how much land existed, where the water came from, what crops were grown, what yields were achieved, what rent rates were charged, how many tenant farmers there were, and their income and expenditures.

The Wanli Emperor used his actions to tell the people that this southern tour was not for amusement.

During his inspection of farmland, the Wanli Emperor noticed little water in the fields and asked, Why is there so little water in the fields?

The local officials replied, Water is given to the western fields in the morning and to the eastern fields in the afternoon.

In early September in the north, temperatures were low, and the rice had just passed the tillering stage and was beginning to head out, looking neat and beautiful; the Wanli Emperor then asked, How much yield can the rice produce?

The accompanying Jinghai County officials said it could yield over a thousand catties; upon hearing this, the Wanli Emperor’s expression darkened.

Thanks to the emperor’s image of closeness to the people, local villagers secretly gestured to indicate that under normal circumstances, four to five hundred catties was already good; seeing this, the Wanli Emperor smiled broadly.

The southern tour procession then inspected Tianjin Wei; the Wanli Emperor revealed his ignorance.

Tianjin Wei grew many reeds of varying shapes; the Wanli Emperor asked, What’s the difference between them?

The local people burst into suppressed laughter.

A young child resolved the situation, saying one kind was wild reed, naturally grown, used for firewood; the good ones could be woven into mats, and the slender stalks could be made into summer window screens; another kind was artificially planted, called cultivated reed, used for weaving mats, and more precious.

The Wanli Emperor listened attentively and bowed his hands in gratitude.

The accompanying painter created a painting of the scene; a few days later, the painting was reproduced and published in the official gazette and the new newspaper.

Thereafter, the Wanli Emperor personally inspected the fourteen hundred grain storage mounds established during the Yongle era, as well as the Daying Granary, Dayun Granary, and Guangbei Granary of Tianjin Left Wei.

Because the granary accounts did not match and grain had mysteriously vanished by sixty percent, and there was no time to set fire, just before the emperor’s arrival, seven or eight officials at the Ministry of Revenue’s branch on Hubu Street inside the northern gate of Tianjin City collectively committed suicide—some hanged themselves, others stabbed in the back, blood pooling on the ground, turning the place into a scene of blood and flesh.

The lost grain could not be recovered; the Wanli Emperor appointed the accompanying Ministry of Revenue censor Wang Yingjiao to fill the vacant post and reorganize the Tianjin branch of the Ministry of Revenue.

Wang Yingjiao’s promotion was not baseless; in recent days he had diligently traveled, conducted ground research, and won the emperor’s favor, especially after discovering the fertile soil along the west bank of the river from Tianjin’s Hexi to the southern bank of the Hai River, he petitioned to adopt the Jiangnan method of polder farming to reclaim land; the Wanli Emperor had long intended to leave him in Tianjin to oversee this project.

Investigating incompetence, promoting capable officials—all of this was the Wanli Emperor adjusting the state of interpersonal relationships within the actual operation of institutions.

His painstaking intentions were further demonstrated when the southern tour procession arrived in Shandong.

In response to the popular unrest in Shandong caused by land surveys, the Wanli Emperor received local gentry, scholars, workers, farmers, and association leaders at the Provincial Governor’s office, speaking on the problems of powerful gentry, the distribution of taxes and corvée, and internal conflicts among the people.

Finally, he confidently declared that as long as the new system remained unwavering, the future of the entire realm would not grow darker, but brighter.

The Wanli Emperor, concerned for his nation and people, traveled through dust and wind.

He personally inspected the living conditions of counties in Jinan, witnessed firsthand the hardships and heavy taxes of Shandong’s people, and immediately issued an edict reducing the annual corvée and lijia silver quota for Shandong’s localities by ninety-six thousand four hundred odd taels.

On one hand, this was to heal the wounds caused by the earlier popular unrest and soothe public discontent; on the other, it was to demonstrate through action that the tax revenue from land surveys was taken from the people and used for the people.

The Wanli Emperor also personally met with provincial officials such as Yang Yikui.

For their meticulous planning and effective mediation in the land survey and household registration, the Ministry of Personnel recorded their performance on the spot and recommended promotion and reward according to regulations.

In contrast, the Jinan Prefectural Office had many derelictions of duty; it had been repeatedly reprimanded by the Provincial Governor’s office, and even the Provincial Surveillance Commissioner had to personally intervene to enforce the land survey.

After consultation with the Grand Secretariat and the Ministry of Personnel, the Wanli Emperor ultimately dismissed Prefect Yin Gao and ordered him to report to the Nanjing Censorate for investigation.

That was enough.

Several prominent scholarly lineages—Yan Sishen, Meng Yanpu, Kong Chenghou, and others—were summoned to the imperial presence under the pretext of hereditary appointment as Five Classics Doctor of the Hanlin Academy, taught classics for days without news.

Various signs hinted at post-autumn reckoning, truly terrifying many gentry and officials.

More and more people reached out toward the Jinan imperial residence, attempting to probe the wind.

Fortunately, soon after, news came from the Jinan imperial residence that Shandong Provincial Governor Yu Youding had completed his report on the land survey, and the emperor would soon depart, traveling straight south along the Grand Canal out of Shandong.

…

It must be said that the emperor’s southern tour was indeed unhurried.

During the Wu Zong’s southern tour, he galloped swiftly, covering hundreds of miles a day, reaching Jiangnan in twelve days.

The Shizong Emperor returned from Beijing to Huguang in merely twenty-six days, even accounting for delays caused by three imperial palaces in Zhaozhou, Lingming, and Weihui catching fire.

Yet the current emperor, having left Beijing on August 30, had only reached Shandong after more than half a month.

He still must inspect the Yellow River’s dangers in Xuzhou and Huai’an; no one knows how long it will take to reach Jiangnan.

This slow pace has frustrated countless people.

Fortunately, Nanjing’s walls are long and large enough to accommodate the populace waiting with bated breath.

The city of Yingtian Prefecture has two walls.

The outer wall was built using natural hills and packed earth, stretching one hundred and twenty li, known as “Earthen Wall Head”; as the population grew, most of the original wall has collapsed and been abandoned, leaving only foundations and place names, such as Qilin Gate and Xianhe Gate, which gradually became residential neighborhoods and markets.

The inner wall rests on massive stone foundations, built with specially made bricks, encircling over sixty li, embracing mountains, rivers, and lakes, with the front as market and the rear as palace, ancestral temple on the left and altar of soil and grain on the right; a central axis begins at Zhengyang Gate, runs straight through Hongwu Street to the imperial city’s Chengtian Gate, Duan Gate, and Wumen, and enters the Forbidden City.

The Forbidden City, awaiting the emperor’s arrival, lies in the southeast corner, backed by Zhongshan Mountain, facing south.

Fugui Mountain and Fuzhou Mountain serve as garrisons for the imperial guards, protecting the imperial city; Lion Mountain, Bazi Mountain, and Qingliang Mountain house military posts guarding the Yangtze River and northern land routes.

The Qinhuai River enters the city through the Dongshuiguan, winding like a jade belt from the Zhubao Gate through the city and exiting through the Xishuiguan; along its banks, houses are densely packed, teahouses and taverns, entertainment quarters and markets, bustling and closely arranged—this is what is called the “Ten Li Qinhuai.”

The grand city layout; a dense population exceeding a million; advanced commerce in silk, printing, and glass; gathering of literati and scholars; a century-long flourishing of opera, painting, and poetry.

Willows veiled in mist, painted bridges, wind-blown curtains and green curtains.

Markets lined with pearls and jade, households overflowing with brocade and silk.

All of it, summed up in one word, is merely “prosperity.”

But.

There is always a “but.”

This prosperity—not ordinary prosperity, but the supreme prosperity of the southern political, economic, and cultural center—has its reasons.

Favorable geographical location, a developed water system encompassing the Huai and Yangtze Rivers and the Grand Canal, millennia of cultivated cultural atmosphere—all these internal factors.

Internal factors are natural, worthy of pride and boasting by the people of Yingtian Prefecture.

Of course, there are external factors, such as its name: “Nanjing”—a political endowment granting it extra power.

External factors are less natural, often causing anxiety and uncertainty.

No one can deny the impact of policy on urban development.

Chongming, farther east, was barren land just a few years ago; under favorable policies, it gradually took on an air of prosperity within six years.

When several salt tax inspectorates of Nanzhili were transferred under the jurisdiction of Shandong’s Salt Administration, cities like Huai’an immediately became weak and sluggish.

This is the visible hand.

Just as Yingtian Prefecture, as one of the two capitals of this dynasty, retained its grand framework and magnificent aura as a “capital city” despite the decline in status after the Yongle Emperor moved the capital to Beijing in 1421.

The Jiangnan Examination Hall, where famous scholars considered themselves students; the Nanjing ministries and bureaus, frequented by high officials; the Nanjing state treasury, holding half the empire’s taxes—all these were appendages of the “capital,” shaping today’s Nanjing.

Then, can the special privileges of being a “capital” be naturally sustained?

At this critical juncture, many people are pondering and worrying.

This worry is not without cause.

In fact, when the Wanli Emperor left the palace for his southern tour, this wind had already begun to blow.

As the emperor passed through Shuntian Prefecture, Hejian Prefecture, and Jinan Prefecture, drawing closer to Jiangnan, this wind grew fiercer.

In late September, on the twenty-first, the imperial secretariat published in the gazette an article titled “The New System Is Changing”: it affirmed the emperor’s purpose in this southern tour—to continue advancing the new system—and implicitly warned certain officials.

The article said:

“In recent times, the ‘soft-resistance elements’ among certain gentry, Confucian scholars, and high officials have shown the most determined and rampant opposition to the new system.

They disregard everything, seeking to trigger an earthquake across Great Ming’s land that harms crops and destroys lives, inciting popular unrest, distributing pamphlets, and stoking conflicts among the people—all to obstruct the continuation of the new system.

The ‘soft-resistance elements’ have not yet reached their peak; they are exultant, on the verge of reaching it.

The emperor, as the leader of the realm, has foreseen this, and thus left the palace for a southern tour.”

Harsh wording, cold characterization—a chilling sensation surged straight to the crown of the head, spreading rapidly through Jiangnan and into the Nanjing ministries.

As the saying goes, throwing a stone to test the water—the stone splashes water everywhere.

Some panicked, closed their doors, and hid from disaster.

Others paid lip service while secretly accelerating alliances.

Someone was furiously enraged, constantly moving.

Under Hai Rui’s name, they forged the “Memorial Accusing Zhang Juzheng,” using it as a pretext to denounce the New Policies; anonymous articles accused the Grand Secretariat, claiming political trust between court and countryside had been severely damaged; some even used oracular verses to directly curse the Emperor, predicting he would soon be struck by lightning.

Petitions, newspapers, memorials, and secret letters scattered across Jiangnan like snowflakes.

“Now that students are taking to the streets in protest, ordinary folk should join them too!”

“The situation is extremely grave—the court has lost all sense of direction!”

“The situation is on the brink of explosion; Zhang Juzheng and his faction can’t last much longer—they should retire!”

“Southerners and northerners should take turns holding power!”

“The northern garrisons follow Beijing; the southern garrisons follow Nanjing!”

Amid the clamor of debate, in just eight years since the Wanli Emperor’s accession, over three hundred thousand criticisms, errors, and charges had been leveled—hidden currents surged as if ready to burst through the Huai River!

Yet.

As the saying goes: only the true dragon crosses the Yangtze.

Resistance from the entrenched was only to be expected, and had not exceeded the central authority’s predictions.

The Emperor’s itinerary remained unhurried: visiting elderly ministers, inspecting the people, guiding water conservancy projects.

Only one edict, titled “Instructions on Rectifying Mores in Jiangnan,” arrived quietly at the Nanjing Ministry offices—its plain title seemed to reflect the central authority’s unyielding calm and resolve on the New Policies, with no room for compromise.

As for what specific mores were to be rectified, the edict did not elaborate.

Yet everyone understood perfectly.

Along with this edict came the advance envoy, Vice Minister of Rites He Luowen, and his subordinates.

The Nanjing Ministry of Rites showed good sense: Minister Liu Sijie stepped aside, vacating his official residence and immediately claiming illness to remain at home.

He Luowen was a crude northerner, utterly lacking in decorum.

He brazenly seized the Ministry of Rites’ offices, openly acting as a senior official, interrogating military and civil officers every few days, plunging Nanjing into chaos.

Today, October 7, was the usual winter solstice holiday, yet the Ministry of Rites hall remained packed.

“The Grand Historian said: dare to defy the sovereign’s countenance to uphold the Way.”

“That Way—the name of righteousness—refers to the foundation of learning, the spirit of the people, and the structure of society.”

“I have been ordered to rectify mores; today, I shall rectify your regionalism.”

Having spoken, He Luowen sat in the central seat, leisurely lifting his teacup and sipping.

The new dynasty’s refined elegance, beyond inventing new terms, deeply understood the art of redefining old words: the new was good, the new symbolized progress.

The term “regionalism,” for instance, broke free from the old dichotomy of north versus south, precisely and tactfully summarizing the widespread sentiment among Jiangnan’s military and civilians—hardly a poor choice.

Yet the discerning attendees failed to appreciate its subtlety; the Ministry of Rites hall remained utterly silent.

He Luowen did not mind. He set down his teacup, picked up a file, and began calling names: “Shi Guan, Censor of the Nanjing Ministry of Rites.”

After his words ended, no expected response came.

All turned to look; the man ignored their stares, head bowed, silent.

He Luowen was accustomed to this. He turned to him and spoke on his own: “Censor Shi.”

“The capital and the southern capital are equally vital; the southern capital’s role must be strengthened. All matters concerning rites and construction should first be submitted to the southern offices for deliberation. When consensus is reached, imperial planning becomes refined—just as three ordinary men can aid Zhuge Liang.”

“Is this not the original text of Censor Shi’s essay?”

It was published openly in the Nanjing National Academy’s journal, even distributed in vernacular to the common people: Beijing and Nanjing should be twin political cores; Nanjing’s role should be expanded; basic rites and construction matters should be discussed first in Nanjing before final decisions by Beijing—three mediocre men can together form a Zhuge Liang.

A fantastical proposal, yet its target was unmistakable.

How could a national policy like land surveying be left to the arbitrary control of one man—or one faction?

For so long, southern commoners have cried out in grievance—wasn’t it precisely because the central authority ignored southern interests?

If Nanjing were allowed to fulfill its proper political function, how could the Emperor ever have needed to tour the south?

Shi Guan finally raised his head, lips pressed tight, retorting: “For the sake of the state’s foundation, what is wrong with that?”

His resentment ran so deep he even dropped the formal title.

He Luowen nodded, and surprisingly said nothing more.

These men dared to mobilize anything.

From the common people of Jiangnan to Nanjing’s political status—all were pawns in resisting the New Policies; there was no room for correction.

He Luowen lightly noted “soft-resistance element” on the file, then quietly closed it.

He picked up another file and called: “Lin Shao, Director of the Ministry of Justice.”

A middle-aged official in his thirties was clearly the subject.

He raised his head, meeting He Luowen’s gaze directly, unafraid.

He Luowen glanced at the file and asked: “Director Lin, the streets say you openly discriminate against northerners: whenever southerners commit crimes, you open the gates of mercy; whenever northerners commit crimes, you impose harsher penalties.”

“Is this true?”

Lin Shao’s face darkened; he snorted: “Nonsense!”

He Luowen turned a page, eyes still lowered: “Nonsense?”

“A southerner drowned himself in a lake; you sentenced his northern friend, innocent and accompanying him, to pay two hundred taels. A northerner jumped into a river to die—clearly tricked out of hundreds of taels by southerners; yet you called it normal friendship, and seized and burned the dead man’s sister’s IOUs.”

“A northerner stole eighty-five taels from a southerner; you sentenced him to one year in prison. A southerner stole three hundred thirty taels from a northerner; after reporting it, you ordered only one hundred eighteen taels in restitution.”

“A northerner cart driver reported being stabbed and slashed at the throat; upon learning the assailant was a southerner, you not only spared him prison but gave him fifteen hundred cash.”

“A southerner, attempting to reconcile with a northerner by brandishing a knife, stabbed him in the neck, blood streaming over his face—such a heinous crime—and yet you spared the assailant prison, even wrote him a letter of comfort, showing him heartfelt sympathy.”

“Whenever a southerner accuses a northerner, you arrest the latter without inquiry.”

“Not long ago, you knew a case was a false accusation, yet refused to repent. Not only did you refuse to clear the accused, you sent constables to knock on doors at night, intimidating commoners who criticized you.”

“You even openly declared your intent to gradually abolish the entrenched practice of sentencing southern military and civilians to death for crimes.”

“Are all these incidents merely my nonsense?”

It wasn’t that He Luowen had done thorough research—it was simply that such injustices were too numerous; dig through any archive and you’d find them all.

Perhaps unconscious bias, perhaps deliberate provocation of north-south division—either way, these acts effectively mobilized southern commoners, forged a collective consciousness, and joined the flood opposing the northern court.

No one in the empire supported abolishing the death penalty—but if you claimed it should apply only to southerners, that was another matter entirely.

Similarly, when gentry claimed Jiangnan’s taxes were too heavy and land surveying unjust, the court ignored them—but if the entire Jiangnan region said so, land surveying might not continue—indeed, that very resistance had already stalled it, prompting the Emperor’s southern tour.

One could say: Lin Shao and his kind were all traitors to the state!

Yet after hearing this, Lin Shao’s expression remained unchanged.

He sneered, lifted his chin, and declared firmly: “Jiangnan bears the heaviest tax burden of the realm—how can it be treated the same as the north?”

“The scales of law tilting toward southerners is the very justice of the Great Ming Code!”

Lin Shao had his own internal logic to convince himself.

Since southerners held a vital position in tax distribution, the Three Judicial Offices should apply a balanced approach to southern crimes—distinguish southern offenses from others.

This was principle grounded in reality—how could this be called regionalism?

He Luowen fell silent.

This was the terrifying nature of the north-south divide: southerners enjoyed unmatched political immunity on this topic—even before a northerner like him, a Vice Minister of Rites, they dared speak so boldly.

Not regionalism?

Try saying these words yourself, He Luowen, a northerner? Unless you wished to abandon your official career and never publish another collection.

He had never dared openly challenge this before—only now, with orders from above, did he dare stand tall before these southerners and denounce such pernicious trends.

He Luowen shook his head, wrote “soft-resistance element” again on the file, and quietly closed it.

He paused, then turned to another: “Fang Liangshu, Deputy Inspector of Education.”

The Deputy Inspector of Education, full title: Deputy Commissioner of Judicial Inspection and Superintendent of Education, was a fourth-rank official overseeing provincial education.

If the previous two men manipulated Nanjing and the populace, Fang Liangshu was even more despicable.

He had reached into county, prefectural, and provincial academies.

He incited students everywhere to sign joint petitions.

Claiming that officials now dominated Confucian academies, and that broad discussion was needed: should academies govern themselves—meaning the court only funded them, while management was left to scholarly elites?

And which scholarly elites? Sorry—there are no scholarly elites in the north.

He Luowen loathed this man intensely; his tone grew harsh, ready to rebuke outright.

But before he could speak—

Fang Liangshu rose abruptly, sneering and interrupting: “Vice Minister He, don’t speak to me like that. We’re not even on the same level.”

“I have no principles, no bottom line—I always and forever stand on the side of my region.”