APPENDIX
HOW MANDARINS ARE MADE
The literature of no country is so abundant in noble sentiments as that of China. Happy, indeed, would be the people who should be governed according to the precepts of Confucius, of Mencius, and of Lao Tsŭ! The highest moral and political principles are in every mouth, at the tip of every pen. From the first day of his entering school the Chinese boy learns unctuously to recite the most virtuous precepts of the sages, yet learning is the one road to fortune through robbery, peculation, and extortion in their most refined shapes. With every rise in rank the opportunities of robbing the “Hundred Names” and defrauding the state are multiplied in a ratio increasing like the value of carats in diamonds: the wealth amassed by some of the great mandarins must be something fabulous. Take as an instance the war with Japan. The Chinese soldier, when properly led and fairly treated is an excellent fighting man. It is difficult to believe that the sons of the braves who under Tsêng Kwo Fan and San Ko Lin Sin, so stubbornly defended the bridge against the French and English in 1860, could have been driven from an impregnable position like Fort Arthur by the Japanese some thirty years later. But what troops could fight without food, arms, ammunition? Food, arms, ammunition, and pay had all found their way into the pockets of the mandarins. Would the brigade of Guards itself have stood to be mown down without being able to fire an effective shot in return? I was told on high authority that at the famous naval battle of the Yalu, which some experts have quoted as an object lesson in the naval warfare of the future, on the Chinese side only three live shells were fired, one of which disabled the Japanese flagship, and sent her steaming away into space. The comparison of the bankers’ books of some of the great mandarins before and after the war would be an interesting study.
The mandarins—one is compelled to use the old Portuguese word for want of a better—are recruited from two classes: the hereditary nobility, and those who obtain office nominally by examination, but often by purchase.
The hereditary nobility is composed of the members of the Imperial family with the five ranks, Kung, Hou, Po, Tsŭ, Nan,—which it has been the fashion to translate by duke, marquis, earl, viscount, baron.
The highest rank in the Imperial family is that of Chin Wang—“related prince,” or as we should say “Prince of the Blood.” In some cases this title is continued from generation to generation; in others there is a sliding scale downward through the ranks of Pei Lo and Pei Tsŭ to that of Kung or duke, below which members of the Imperial family do not descend.
In the same way with subjects, the rank of Kung is sometimes transmitted; in others the son of a Kung becomes a Hou, the son of a Hou a Po, and so on. The inheritor of a title must be the eldest son of the one legitimate wife, and not of a secondary wife, for although polygamy exists in China, there is, except in the case of the Emperor’s family, only one legitimately married wife, nor in her lifetime can there be another. The younger sons of nobles, even of the Imperial family, have no rank either by right or by courtesy; but the latter are generally raised to rank by being appointed general officers. Patents of nobility cannot be bought, at any rate not in theory.
The representative of the eldest branch of a family can, in the event of his being childless, adopt the child of a younger branch, and the child so adopted inherits the title. It sometimes happens that a younger brother who has become rich will bribe his eldest brother to adopt his child to the exclusion of the lawful heir and his issue.
The sovereign is, as with us, the fountain of honour, and it is he who confers these titles of nobility, which are accompanied by grants of land. As a general rule the land assigned to a Kung or a Hou would not exceed a circumference of 100 li = 33 miles, to a Po 70 li, and to the two lesser ranks 50 li.
Conspicuous among the nobles of China are the Pa Ta Chia, “the Eight great Families.” These are the descendants of the eight Princes who, waiving any claim to the throne, followed the reigning dynasty from Manchuria. Their rank remains unchanged for all generations. The representative of one of these, the Prince of I, was famous in the war of 1860. A year later, at the time of the Prince of Kung’s coup d’état, he fell into disgrace, and was “presented with the white kerchief” (made to commit suicide).
But the Imperial family and the hereditary nobles at Peking, valuable instruments of obstruction as they doubtless are, form but an infinitesimal portion of that colossal octopus of fraud and corruption which strangles the whole vast empire in its tentacles. The myriads of officials, from the exalted viceroys down to petty bloodsuckers of a rank about equal to that of a parish beadle, are either drawn from the so-called graduates of the examination halls, or have obtained their promotion by purchase—of the latter mode of reaching distinction there is nothing to be said; it is beautifully simple. But the examination system is very complicated and deserves some notice.
The following account of how mandarins are made is based upon an article of mine, for the most part translated from a paper by a native graduate, and published in Macmillan’s Magazine in 1871:—
At the age of from six to eight years the Chinese boy is removed from the petting and pampering of the women’s apartments and is sent to school, where he receives his first lessons in reading and writing as purely mechanical processes. He is taught to read by droning out passages from the classics in hideous unison with his schoolmates, and to write by painting over characters printed on thin whitey-brown paper. This preliminary process of education lasts for some two years or more, at the end of which the young student is looked upon as sufficiently advanced to be instructed in the meaning of what he reads. The books now put into his hands are, of course, the famous Four Books and the Five Classics, every passage in which, with its hidden obscurities and doubtful interpretations, is diligently and painfully explained to him, until not only the text itself, but also every note and commentary with which successive ages of scholars have overlaid it, are familiar in his mouth as household words. Having accomplished this end the youth is allowed to try a flight upon his own wings, and begins to write essays and poetry, which, by useful and assiduous reading, he must model upon the best patterns. “Poetry of the Tang dynasty, handwriting of the Chin dynasty, essays of the Han dynasty,” says the proverb; these, with all humility, should the student endeavour to follow at however great a distance.
As soon as the young man’s compositions begin to take some sort of shape, and to satisfy the keen criticism of his master, when his language is neatly fitted to his thoughts, and he does not use so much as a particle out of its place, he may look forward to preparing himself to undergo his examination for the degree of Hsin Tsai, or Bachelor of Arts.
The examiner for this degree is an officer from the Han Lin (lit. Forest of Pencils), or Imperial Academy of Peking, and is specially appointed by the Emperor; one examiner is appointed for each province throughout the country, and he holds his examinations from town to town in the chief places of the province to which he is accredited.
We will suppose the examination to be taking place at Shun Ti̔en Fu, the provincial capital of Chih Li (the province in which Peking is situated). The examiner, having arrived with no small arrogance of dignity, takes up his abode in the Examination Hall inside the town. On an appointed day the undergraduate candidates from the various Chou and Hsien, or lesser towns which are dependent upon Shun Ti̔en Fu, crowd into the hall, and take their places each according to the township to which he may belong. As soon as his flock is gathered together, the examiner gives out two themes selected from the Four Books to serve as texts for essays, and one subject for an exercise in verse. Each candidate is expected to produce two essays and one set of twelve verses in rhyme; but he has plenty of time to perform his task, for the examination begins at four o’clock in the morning, and the papers are not given in until between five and seven o’clock in the evening. On the third day the examination list is given out: the examiner writes out the names of the successful candidates in order of merit, and gives it to the overseers of the hall, who, carrying it respectfully on their heads, go out and paste it on the wall fronting the entrance gate. Then follows a scene of excitement when the undergraduates besiege the gate to search for their names on the list. (Oxford over again!) “Should they have been successful,” says a native account, “they are now entitled to call themselves Hsin Tsai, and are so delighted that in their joy everything in heaven and earth seems lovely to them,” and they look forward to the day when they will receive the much-coveted official button.[19] The unhappy plucked ones must make the best of it and try again. Even now the Hsin Tsai’s troubles are not over; for there is a second examination, in which they are divided into three classes—the first class being privileged graduates eligible for honorary degrees entitling the possessors to become candidates for bettermost civil appointments. There is yet another distinction open to the privileged bachelors. Once in twelve years the degree of Pa Kung is given to a representative of each petty township: it is also conferred on the successful competitor in an examination held of privileged bachelors, in which case it is awarded to the cleverest, most respectable, and youngest of his class. When certain official appointments of an inferior grade are about to be made, the Emperor summons the bachelors of the grade of Pa Kung to court, where they are again made to go through an examination, and divided into three classes. The members of the first class are employed as brass button mandarins (officials of the seventh, eighth, and ninth classes); those of the second class are sent to be Chih Hsien, or magistrates of small towns; while the remainder are only eligible for employment as assistants in the public examinations.
Such, briefly, are the honours and offices open to a man who has passed his first examination. The degree of Chü Jên is a much more serious affair.
This examination takes place in fixed years; and when the appointed time comes all bachelors ambitious of promotion, together with a class of graduates called Chien Shêng, who have purchased their degree, prepare in fear and trembling for the ordeal.
On the 6th day of the 8th month of the year an Imperial decree is issued, appointing the officials who are to conduct the examination. There are three chief examiners and eighteen assistant examiners, with a whole number of subordinates, who search the candidates as they come in, to see that no books, or memoranda, or other aids to intelligence, are smuggled in; besides these there is a strong posse of Imperial informers, who watch all that goes on, and keep up a sort of secret police in the hall. The whole of the compositions of the masters expectant are handed over to copyists, who transcribe them, lest the handwritings of the candidates being recognised by the examiners there should be any foul play, and the copies so made are compared with the originals by clerks appointed for the purpose. Besides all these persons, there are 180 minor officials who superintend all petty details. The examination is divided into three parts. On the 8th day of the month the first part begins. The candidates are divided into four companies, to each of which is assigned a door. At each of the doors stand two Imperial informers—the one a Manchu, the other a Chinese—whose duty it is to mark off the names of the candidates, and to distribute to each a roll of paper, giving the number of the cell allotted to him, to which he carries his provision of food and bedding, for he will be locked up in solitary confinement for three days and nights. In the evening, when the candidates have all been pricked in, every door is sealed, and all coming in or going out is rendered impossible.
The exercises set for the first part of the examination consist of three essays from the Four Books, and one composition in verse. The first subject is selected, or supposed to be selected, by the Emperor in person, and the remainder are chosen by the chief examiners. The Cycle, an English newspaper published at Shanghai, once gave the texts chosen for such exercises at an examination held at Wu Chang.
I. From the Lun Yu, the Analects of Confucius:—“Tsŭ Yu, being governor of Wu Ching, the master said to him, ‘Have you got such a thing as a real Man in the place?’ He answered, ‘Here is Tan Tai Mieh Ming, who does not in walking side off by a short cut, nor come to my office except on public business.’”
II. From the Chung Yung of Kung Chi, the grandson of Confucius:—“He only who is accomplished, learned, profound, and critical, has wherewith to exercise sound judgment.”
III. From the Shang Mang of Mencius:—“When any one told Tsŭ Lu that he had a fault he was pleased with him. When Yu heard anybody say a wise thing he bowed to him.”
Each of these essays was required to contain not less than three hundred, nor more than eight hundred words.
The theme for the poetical exercise was “An observer of the beauties of Nature being so absorbed as to forget the march of a whole round of seasons.”
Such are the proofs of superior wisdom and learning in which if a man excel he is qualified to rule others! Chinese scholarship is very difficult of attainment; perhaps if it were impossible the world would hardly be much the poorer.
When the subjects have been selected and approved by the Emperor, they are sealed up in a box and given over to the care of a chief eunuch of the palace, to be handed to the chief examiners, who cause them to be engraved on wood and printed. On the 10th day of the month the essays are handed in, and the candidates leave the building.
The officers having received the exercises, examine them carefully to see whether there be any informality in them: if they should discover anything like an infringement of prescribed custom the papers are rejected, the peccant candidate’s name is struck off the list, and he is incapacitated from taking part in the second examination. If the papers are in due form they are sent into the copying department, where they are copied in red ink; thence into the comparing department, and sealing department, where the mottoes borne by the originals are pasted on to them. They now find their way into the superintendent’s office, and he forwards them to the eighteen junior examiners.
With pain and care, measuring every word and weighing to a nicety the fitness of every particle, these learned men apply themselves to the criticism of the papers before them. Those that find favour in their eyes are docketed as good, and given back to the superintendent, who passes them to the three chiefs. Should they fail to satisfy these they are thrown into the waste-paper basket, but the candidate still has the credit of having passed the first test. Should they satisfy the chiefs they are marked with the character Chung, signifying that they have hit the mark; but only a limited number of candidates are admitted to the degree at one examination.
The second examination takes place on the 11th day of the month, and consists in writing five essays upon texts taken from the Five Classics; the third test, which is held on the 14th of the month, is devoted to the propounding of five sets of questions on the subject of literature, political economy, or general science. According to the Cycle, “the first question asked at Wu Chang was of the nature of criticism of the classics; the second question was on historical matters; the third on military colonisation. (The Chinese Government hoping to save their western provinces by allotting land to soldiers on the frontier line, requiring them to keep themselves in readiness for fighting.) The fourth question entered into the various plans adopted by previous dynasties in the selection of suitable persons to hold the offices of government. The fifth question referred to the ancient and modern geography of Ching Chan Fu, the course of the waters of the Han and the Yangtze, and the history of the Tung Ting Lake.” The answers to each of the five questions were to contain a minimum of five hundred words.
It occasionally happens that after the list of successful candidates has been made up, the work of some new bachelor is recommended to the notice of the examiners. Should the essays which he sends in show pre-eminent ability, their fortunate author is rewarded with the degree of Fu Pang, or assistant master; and if the list of Fu Pang be already full, then he is appointed Tan Lu, a distinction bringing with it no advancement in rank in the state, but rendering its possessor eligible for certain offices.
During the examination at Wu Chang a subordinate official of the examination hall was convicted of having passed manuscripts to one of the candidates. The punishment was summary. The official was beheaded, the candidate banished to the frontiers, and the graduate who wrote the forged essay was sentenced to be executed when captured. As the writer of the article in the Cycle, from which I have quoted, observes, “It is interesting to find the Chinese authorities so prompt and just in punishing the guilty. If some unfortunate foreigner had been murdered by these precious literati, the governor would have declared it to be impossible to touch the offenders in the presence of a myriad of members of their order.” More probably he would either have declared that he could not find them, or have executed a certain number of jail-birds as substitutes.
Perhaps the candidate was a foolish candidate, and hush-money was either wanting or insufficient. But in that case it was as it should be, for by not bribing he clearly showed his incapacity for holding high official position. He did not recognise the privileges of the class which it was his ambition to enter, and he gave the officers of the hall an opportunity of showing a little cheap zeal in the execution of their duty, to his great discomfiture.
When the three tests are ended and the degrees have all been conferred, the superintendent of the examination hall addresses a petition to the Emperor, praying that a day may be fixed for publishing the names of the successful candidates. This generally takes place on the 10th day of the following month. On the first day of the ceremonies of publication a table is ordered to be set out in the hall called Chih Kung Tang, the Hall of Justice unsurpassed. The three chief examiners, with the two chief superintendents, solemnly take their places at the table, and on either side, spread out diagonally “like a goose’s wings,” as the Chinese writer puts it, are the eighteen junior examiners, all clad in their official robes. All this galaxy of learning and wisdom is gathered together to witness the breaking of the seals of the exercises, and to hear the calling out of the names which are written on the list. Next morning, before daybreak, the list is rolled up and placed inside a palanquin of honour, richly decorated with coloured silks; a procession is formed, headed by standard-bearers carrying emblems, as at a wedding, and the whole heaven is filled with the sound of drums and of delicate music, gongs being beaten to clear the road. Immediately behind the palanquin containing the precious list march the chief examiners and their subordinates, who accompany it outside the Dragon Gate. This gate of the examination hall is so called allegorically, because in the same way as the fish rose from the sea to heaven, and became perfected into the heavenly dragon, so the successful candidates have, by the grace of learning, cast off the grosser clay of which they were formed, and have risen to the heaven of rank and fame. The superintendents of the hall escort the list as far as the outer gate of the provincial capital, where it is hung up on a high platform specially erected for the purpose.
When the list has thus been finally published, etiquette requires that the new Masters of Arts should go and pay their respects to the chief and junior examiners. At these visits much wine is drunk, and an adjournment to the theatre takes place, where the party witness the deadly dulness of an historical piece, relieved, it is true, by the performance of grossly indecent farces, and by the consumption of the usual refreshments of fried melon-seeds, sweetmeats, cakes, and tea.
In spite of all the pains taken nominally to insure fairness and exclude any possibility of trickery, Chinese ingenuity would belie itself if it did not find means of giving the slip to all law and rule, and of satisfying greed thereby. Though the candidate’s name is not known until the papers have been examined and judged, they will be framed in such a way as to let the examiner know who is the author—as, for instance, by agreeing beforehand that the briber’s essay shall begin and end with certain words. On the other hand, if the officers of the copying and comparing departments have not received their fee, they can throw any candidate’s work all out of tune with the greatest ease. Nor is there any appeal. The copy in red ink which is sent in to the junior examiners stands as the ipsissima verba of the writer. By one slip a spiteful copyist may spoil the best essay.
The examination for the third and highest degree, that of Chin Shih, or Doctor, does not differ materially in character from that of Chü Jên or Master of Arts, except in the fact that whereas the latter is held in provincial capitals, the former is held only at Shun Tien Fu, at which city the candidates from every part of the empire have to attend. The expense and difficulties of what may be a very long and expensive journey naturally tend to limit the number of aspirants.
After the publication of the list of successful candidates a last examination is held at Peking in the Imperial palace. According to their performances in this final test the doctors are divided into three classes. The first class consists only of the three best men in order of merit, who are called respectively Chuang Yüan, Pang Yüan, and Tan Hwa, which might be translated Senior Wrangler, Second Wrangler, and Golden Spoon; the second class contains from seven to ten names; and the third class is made up of the remainder, and may consist of two hundred men or more. At the second part of this examination the doctors are presented to the Son of Heaven, who in person appoints them to various offices in the state. The Senior Wrangler is usually employed as a writer of records in the Forest of Pencils, while the Second Wrangler and the Golden Spoon are appointed to be correctors. All the doctors are sure of obtaining some appointment, but not of keeping it unless they show official capacity, of which the most infallible proof is the liberal opening of a long purse.
“In the olden time,” writes a native author, “a man need only pass the degree of Hsin Tsai, or Bachelor, to be sure of obtaining some office in the state. But nowadays there are too many who buy their rank, so that a man’s merit is measured by the capacity of his purse, while the right men are pushed out of the right place. Hence it comes that many a ripe scholar, if he have but enough means to keep the life within him, and be a man of spirit to boot, will rather remain in obscurity as a private individual than be mixed up with such men as hold office. Good men holding aloof, the officials of the country are but a sorry lot after all. How can we be surprised if discontent and treason are rife?”
These are the words of a modern scholar, savouring somewhat of sour grapes, it is true. Yet as early as five hundred years before Christ, Lao Tsŭ, the founder of the Taoist sect, pointed out the vanity and hollowness of the system of education and government into which the country was drifting. “If some men,” said the sage, “would abandon their learning and cast away their wisdom the people would be benefited a hundred-fold.” Of all the Chinese philosophers Lao Tsŭ was probably the one whose teaching of simple virtue approached the nearest to the Christian standard. Confucius himself, after having had an interview with him, said to his disciples, “I know how the birds fly, how the fishes swim, how the beasts run, and the runner may be snared, the swimmer may be hooked, and the flyer may be shot by the arrow.[20] But there is the dragon. I cannot tell how he mounts on the wind through the clouds and rises to heaven. To-day I have seen Lao Tsŭ, and can only compare him to the dragon.”[21]
It can hardly be said that matters have improved since the old days of Lao Tsŭ.
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