White Lotus Rebels and South China Pirates: Crisis and Reform in the Qing Empire 9780674726611

Citation preview

WHITE LOTUS REBELS  AND 

SOUTH CHINA PIRATES

WHITE LOTUS REBELS  AND 

SOUTH CHINA PIRATES Crisis and Reform in the Qing Empire

WENSHENG WANG

Harvard University Press Cambridge, Massachusetts London, England 2014

Copyright © 2014 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the Library of Congress ISBN: 978-0-674-72531-7 (alk. paper)

Contents

Introduction 1 I CONTEXTUALIZING CRISES 1. Origins of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Crises 17 II A VIEW FROM THE BOTTOM 2. The White Lotus Rebellion in the Han River Highlands 37 3. The Piracy Crisis in the South China Sea 81 III A VIEW FROM THE TOP 4. Court Politics and Imperial Visions 113 5. The Inner White Lotus Rebellion 132 6. The Jiaqing Reforms 165 7. The Piracy Crisis and Foreign Diplomacy 209 Conclusion

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Contents List of Abbreviations and Primary Sources 261 Notes

265

Acknowledgments Index 323

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WHITE LOTUS REBELS  AND 

SOUTH CHINA PIRATES

Introduction

O

n Lunar New Year’s Day of 1796, a much anticipated ceremony of abdication and accession was staged in grand style at the Forbidden City. This was certainly a day of triple happiness. After sixty “glorious” years on the throne, a full calendrical cycle by Chinese reckoning, the eightyfive-year-old Qianlong (r. 1736–1796) carried out his well-publicized promise to step down and became China’s “Supreme Abdicated Monarch / Grand Emperor” (Tai Shang Huangdi). In China’s two thousand years of imperial history, this Manchu ruler had both the longest life span and the second longest reign of any monarch. He proudly bestowed the imperial seal on his fifteenth son, Yongyan, the designated heir apparent, and made him the fifth emperor of the Great Qing (1644–1911), with the reign title Jiaqing (officially 1796–1820 but in fact 1799–1820).1 Such a smooth, voluntary exchange of power (neishan) between two living rulers had not occurred since the Southern Song dynasty (1127–1279). Missing no opportunity for self-aggrandizement, Qianlong wished to turn his well-orchestrated retirement into what he envisioned as “one of the most remarkable events in the annals of history.” Three days later, the aging emperor hosted his second “Banquet of Thousands of Elders” (Qiansou Yan) in the imperial palace, joined by 3,065 imperial relatives, senior officials, and ordinary subjects above the age of sixty from throughout the empire. Special tributary envoys from Korea, Annam, Siam, and Nepal also attended the festivities and offered congratulations. Apparently the

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Introduction

abdicated monarch used this “single grandest act of showmanship” to symbolize his exceptionally long reign and, moreover, to celebrate his extraordinary life of achievements.2 Despite the appearance of harmony and prosperity, clouds of crisis were gathering over the empire. Just ten days into the Jiaqing reign, a rebellion inspired by traditional China’s most influential popular religion—the White Lotus Sects (Bailian Jiao)—flared up in the borderland of western Hubei. It quickly spread to four other central-western provinces—Henan, Shaanxi, Sichuan, and Gansu—and persisted for nearly a decade. The White Lotus rebellion not only was the largest uprising in Qing history before the Taiping crisis (1850–1864); the protracted campaign against it also was the most costly military operation ever undertaken by the Manchu regime. The contemporary official Gong Wensheng sighed in his wartime diary: “no calamity in history has been as disastrous as this one.”3 Misfortune did not come alone. Exploiting the government’s difficulties during this inland strife, large, well-organized pirate fleets intensified their collaboration with the newly unified Vietnamese state (under the Tay Son regime, 1788–1802) and ravaged the coastal frontier of southeast China. The secret sponsorship of maritime violence by a long-term tributary vassal state presented an unprecedented challenge to the Qing suzerainty, making these incursions qualitatively different from earlier problems of seaborne raiding. The pirate leaders, moreover, had also conceived a scheme to join forces with their White Lotus “brothers” to overthrow the alien Manchu dynasty. As if the piracy disturbances were not enough, Britain used them as a partial excuse to invade Macao in 1802 and 1808, hoping to grab a much-needed foothold in East Asia. For almost two decades, the Qing regime faced its gravest maritime threat since the conquest of Taiwan in 1683.4 From a much broader perspective, these clustered upheavals in China can be seen as part of a global upsurge in sociopolitical unrest around the turn of the nineteenth century. Jack Goldstone characterizes this phenomenon as a parallel wave of state breakdowns similar to the general crisis of the mid-seventeenth century.5 Conventional studies suggest that such worldwide dislocations contributed to the divergent patterns of historical change in China and western Europe circa 1800. From that point on, according to the standard interpretation, these patterns in Europe “secured liberal democracy and overturned traditional obstacles to economic development,” while those in China led it to sink into an abyss of irreversible decline and dynastic collapse.6 Against this familiar backdrop of “great divergence,”7 there has been a strong tendency to accentuate the destructive aspects of the Qianlong-

Introduction

3

Jiaqing transition by linking its compounding upheavals to the Qing’s final breakdown in 1911. Undoubtedly, the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy dealt a heavy blow to the Manchu regime by draining its treasury and exposing its long-standing problems. Many scholars thus depict the dual crises as a convenient watershed, which not only provided a tumultuous ending to the “prosperous” high Qing period but also prefigured an even greater wave of “internal calamities and foreign disasters” in the mid-nineteenth century, most notably the two Opium Wars (1839– 1842, 1856–1860) and the Taiping rebellion. This simple interpretation seems to contain some measure of truth; but, in effect, it fails to capture the complex dynamics and full significance of the Jiaqing reign, much less its intricate links with both the preceding and succeeding eras. This interpretation obscures the important fact that the 1790s crises actually propelled a major reorganization of the Qing state that initiated an extended period of consolidation that better prepared the dynasty for its last century of great challenges and unpredictable possibilities. Thanks to these undervalued reforms, the Jiaqing state was able to recover from the global wave of disturbance sooner than many other powers at the time. So the road from the Qianlong-Jiaqing upheavals to the final collapse of the monarchical system was a long and tortuous one, fraught with exciting twists and unexpected turns. To develop a more nuanced and dynamic understanding of late Qing history, one needs to reexamine previous notions of state failures and successes from both an evolutionary and a forwardlooking perspective. As its etymology suggests, the Chinese term “crisis” (weiji) connotes two interchangeable meanings—parlous situations of intensive disruption (wei) and potential opportunities for constructive change ( ji). Extraordinary political leaders could transform the former into the latter through resolute crisis management and decisive reforms, thus providing a key enabling force for China’s historical development. In the case of the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy, it is worth asking how the new emperor seized opportunities within the concomitant upheavals so as to reform the political system and put it on a sounder footing. To describe this process solely in terms of state decline would overlook the positive aspects involved, thus failing to capture the dynamism of the Jiaqing reign and its significance in Qing history. Such an incomplete or even misleading picture stems largely from a lack of historiographic respect for the Jiaqing reign. Qing studies, both inside and outside China, have long focused on either the splendid eighteenth century or the chaotic post-Opium War period. Looking for explanations of the dramatic shift from high Qing to late Qing, many scholars find it

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Introduction

convenient to blame the Jiaqing and early Daoguang reigns sandwiched in between; yet few of them have taken an in-depth look at this ambiguous period of transition (1796–1839). The Jiaqing reign in particular has become a very neglected era of Qing history that occupies a rather awkward position in the narrative of China’s last dynasty.8 On the one hand this crisis-ridden interregnum marked a clear disjuncture between the two well-studied epochs of great transformation; on the other it has long been taken as a lackluster period when nothing really important happened: neither the dynastic collapse that could have occurred nor a radical, “modernizing” transformation from within following the mid-nineteenth-century crises. Hence the Jiaqing reign has become little more than a dead middle period that was meaningfully connected neither to the preceding nor succeeding eras, making it the weakest link in the study of Qing history. My overarching goal in this work is to restore continuity to that interrupted narrative by reconceptualizing the place of Emperor Jiaqing and his seemingly unremarkable reign.9 Much of the prevailing interpretation of this period is premised on a teleological way of thinking about Qing history in general and social protest in particular. As a classic saying goes, “Those who win become emperors; those who lose become bandits.” Under the influence of such outcome-based analysis, official imperial records often view failed social movements as merely destructive acts of communal violence with no positive bearing on sociopolitical development. Modern scholarship, likewise, has tended to reinforce such stereotypes by glossing over the aftermath of unsuccessful collective mobilizations, while focusing on large-scale insurrections that overthrew dynasties or set up rival political entities. Such unbalanced treatment, albeit natural, has rendered it difficult to ferret out key elements of endogenous, constructive changes that became increasingly overshadowed, in terms of both the historical narrative and actual events, by Western aggression in the final century of Qing rule. To rediscover China’s internal dynamism, one should thus broaden the spectrum of analysis by studying the less visible side of popular protest. Toward this end, this book examines the dramatic conjunction of the White Lotus uprising and south China piracy as well as their neglected ability to bring forth larger sociopolitical changes. In both cases of thwarted protests, it is well worth asking how the extraordinary processes of dealing with them shaped contemporary development and altered later possibilities. To use Sidney Tarrow’s words, it is through collective actions, whether successful or failed, that different local forces “organize their relations with the state, reconcile or fight out conflicts of interests, and attempt to adapt politically to wider social pressures.” In his landmark book Rebel-

Introduction

5

lion and Its Enemies, for instance, Philip A. Kuhn has studied how suppressing the Taiping rebels contributed to the rise of gentry-led militarization and to the devolution of central state power to local societal forces.10 Yet many of those momentous changes, as Kuhn acknowledges, can be traced back to the Qianlong-Jiaqing crises. I argue that the White Lotus and piracy upheavals, in particular, had exerted a profound impact on how the Qing state coped with later disturbances. With the rise of the “new social history” and “cultural studies” in the last four decades, China scholars have generally shifted their focus from top-down studies of political history to bottom-up examinations of local society. Inspired by this downward turn, most recent studies of social protest have focused on the local origins, grassroots bases, regional development, and mobilizing networks of collective actions, while to some extent neglecting their broader transformative effects on state and society. Due to this unidirectional treatment, as Charles Tilly rightly suggested, we know a great deal more about how historical transformations lead to violent contention than we do about the opposite direction of causal mechanism.11 When it comes to the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy, a number of scholars, including Suzuki Chusei, Dian H. Murray, Robert J. Antony, and Cecily McCaffrey, have examined one of the two events in terms of its nature, origins, and development in discrete regional settings.12 These single-case and bottom-up studies have provided an important foundation for understanding the two upheavals themselves yet pay inadequate attention to the parallels and connections between the two crises as well as their macro-political influence and supraregional repercussions.

In an effort to bring together the perspective of sociocultural history with that of high politics, this book shows how the two upheavals were related to each other through an interlinked process of crisis management and reform. More specifically, it delves into the politics of social protest by investigating how the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy contributed to the Jiaqing regime’s “inner state-building” and its impact on local communities.13 This study complicates the conventional view that the exorbitant cost of crisis management left the Qing state with a diminished capacity, fiscal in particular, that sent the dynasty on a downward spiral culminating in its final demise. The Jiaqing regime did not just wind up with less capacity and more challenges; it also adjusted its governing priorities and strategies in order to create more sustainable emperor-bureaucracy and state-society relationships. Such pragmatic efforts at “inner statebuilding” were manifested in Jiaqing’s reforms, a miscellany of moderate but decisive modifications in policy-making and bureaucratic organization,

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Introduction

which in turn shaped the Qing’s responses to the White Lotus and piracy upheavals. My central contention is that the two catastrophic events propelled the Jiaqing state to reorganize and reposition itself, thus producing a critical conjuncture in the structural transformation of the Qing empire as well as its place within the Sino-centric tributary system. The resulting changes included reforms of the central bureaucratic establishment and local mobilization under gentry leadership, as well as more flexible, rational approaches to popular religion, social protest, the maritime world, and foreign diplomacy. These consolidation efforts did not represent steps toward inevitable dynastic decline; they instead initiated a strategic state retreat that pulled Qing empire-building away from a vicious cycle of aggressive overextension (which bred resistance) and back onto a more sustainable track of development. This deliberate striving for political sustainability, though unable to save the dynasty from its ultimate collapse, represented a durable, constructive approach to the overarching structural problems facing the late Qing and the early Republic.

Sustainable Political Development As a key concept in my argument, “sustainable development” merits more explanation here. Borrowing a definition from the World Commission on the Environment and Development, it refers to “meeting the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.”14 So the concept has to do not so much with the current state of affairs as with how the situation will impact the future. Besides economic growth and ecological stability, in my view, the issue of sustainability also has a political component that can be employed to measure the process of state-making. Unlike its economic and ecological counterparts, political sustainability is not about humans’ relationship to their resource bases and supporting natural environment; it hinges, rather, on (re)creating a viable and stable set of relations among major sociopolitical forces at different levels. As a problem mainly for state leaders, this general concept means organizing individuals and groups to achieve shared objectives, keeping existing tensions in balance, and making cost-efficient negotiations when conflicts slip out of control. Key to this definition is the political systems’ ability to maintain a coordinated and compatible relationship among the various performance arenas or submechanisms of state-making, like those outlined by Sidney Verba (penetration, participation, legitimacy, distribution, and identity), Joel S. Migdal (state image and state practice), R. Bin

Introduction

7

Wong (challenges, capacities, commitment, and claims), and Kenneth Pomeranz (service provision and resource extraction).15 Sustainable political development, furthermore, should be studied in the context of a longer historical process wherein each stage inherits problems and opportunities from the earlier phases while also exerting influence on what comes later. Only in this evolutionary and interconnective milieu can we fully understand the essence of sustainable politics, a compatible statesociety relationship that can be reproduced on a long-term basis. This line of reasoning allows us to reconsider the process of Qing empire-building by adopting a more balanced analysis of what state leaders accomplished versus what they could not achieve, given that the possibilities for change were bounded by inherited conditions in a highly structuralized historical setting. On the basis of this criterion, it can be argued that a major bottleneck for sustainable politics appeared during the last two decades of the Qianlong reign. This period witnessed an overloaded Qing state working near the limit of premodern empire-building, largely because its minimalistic governing apparatus, including its administrative and military systems, could hardly contain China’s dynamic, expanding society, which encompassed a huge population and territory. To overcome this worsening structural predicament, the hard-pressed Qianlong took what proved to be counterproductive and unsustainable steps in empire-building. On the one hand he strengthened his imperial supremacy over the bureaucracy by empowering his inner-court (neiting) agencies and most trusted confidants, a convenient strategy that backfired and created an unprecedented institutional crisis within the court. On the other he fostered a heavy-handed approach to social control through a series of uncompromising policies and campaigns that overtaxed the state’s resources and pushed its power to a breaking point. For instance, Qianlong’s unrealistic efforts to root out heterodox sects (White Lotus) and secret societies (Triads, Heaven and Earth) had the opposite effect of radicalizing these challenging groups, rendering them even more powerful and dangerous. This precarious combination of aggressive empire-building and defensive popular resistance was further aggravated by uncontrollable social transformations like demographic growth, frontier expansion, and commercialization. Together these transformations greatly undermined the traditional mechanisms of state control over officialdom and local society. Facing unpredictable pressure from both above and below, more and more bureaucrats resorted to official patronage, factional struggle, corruption, and power abuse as key strategies for political survival. Thanks to such dysfunctional practices, they were able to reduce imperial control and deflect central

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Introduction

demands while entrenching themselves in bureaucratic protection. Consequently, local governments became increasingly ineffective, predatory, and costly to run during the late Qianlong reign. This deterioration of civil administration, together with misguided imperial policies, directly fueled an intensifying wave of frontier protest that overstretched the Qing army and overwhelmed its coercive power. The resulting campaigns of repression, not surprisingly, turned out to be increasingly difficult, wasteful, and expensive. All these changes foreground the questions of political sustainability and governability, the latter of which refers to the state’s capacity to deal with the increasing demands of society and to regulate sociopolitical conflicts, which became especially acute toward the end of the eighteenth century. Many recent studies recognize that the Qianlong reign, especially its latter part, might not have been as glorious as previously thought. Building on such revisionist literature, I propose labeling this period an era of political dividend that owed its success largely to propitious timing and favorable legacies. Qianlong had the good fortune to inherit the “great enterprise” from his Manchu forebears at a favorable historical juncture, which in turn helped him carry the dynasty to greater heights of accomplishment. This aggressive ruler greatly expanded the state’s territory and increased its penetration into local society, both of which facilitated extraordinary growth in his power, and vice versa. Such a big leap forward in empire-building, however, was by no means sustainable because it involved a long-term cost, as shown by the many-sided crises during the QianlongJiaqing transition. This study highlights a major but often neglected “discontent” of Qianlong’s “prosperous age.” By the end of his long reign, the emperor had exhausted the potential of sustainable political development in premodern times as his policies and campaigns often ran up against the state’s dwindling capacity to control society. This structural limitation, dictated by the worsening ratio of organizational resources (most visibly in the form of administrative and fiscal ones) to population size, was further exacerbated by the emperor’s flamboyant governing style and inflated personal goals. Qianlong’s fixation on self-aggrandizement and short-term goals was especially evident in his peculiar patronage of Heshen, a rapacious Manchu courtier, and his increased collection of self-assessed fines (yizuiyin; discussed later). Both arrangements most clearly epitomized the tragedy of late Qianlong politics because they not only demoralized the bureaucratic system but also blinded the emperor to the importance of long-term political sustainability. His remarkable success in empire-building, viewed from this perspective, was often achieved at the price of overexploiting already

Introduction

9

strained state resources and prematurely reaping political dividends some of which should have been left to his imperial successors. Consequently, Qianlong became a victim of his own resplendent rule while creating many headaches for his imperial successors. Jiaqing had the misfortune to ascend the throne at this juncture of acute crisis. He inherited a host of daunting challenges from his father, but with fewer options and less room to maneuver. Whereas the late Qianlong upheavals exposed the state’s fragile grip over society, the aging emperor’s ineffectual responses to them aggravated the long-term problem of principalagent relations: how to exercise and sustain control over the complex machinery of bureaucratic establishment. Qianlong’s counter-rebellion efforts, in Peter M. Mitchell’s words, “fostered a ‘credibility gap’ as the sheer size of required mobilization starkly contrasted with lack of results beyond protracted and devastating campaigns.”16 These dangerous signs, all in all, suggest that the Qing Empire had entered into an era of political debt, when sustainable development was extremely difficult if not impossible. Jiaqing realized that to save the overburdened regime he had no choice but to pull back from his father’s strong emperorship and aggressive state-making. This entailed relaxing pressures on the officialdom and the society, which could only be done through the interlocking efforts of pragmatic crisis management and controlled political reforms. As the first step of his reforms, Jiaqing exploited the clustered crises to eliminate Heshen, the abusive “regent” and the biggest upstart in Qing politics, which turned out to be one of the most pivotal events during his reign. Building on this momentous move, Jiaqing made a series of rebalancing adjustments to keep government policies and institutions in line with deteriorating social reality. These conciliatory efforts not only helped stem the rising wave of protest but also toned down the repressive character of the Qianlong reign, thereby initiating a process of state retreat that contributed to a conservative but more sustainable sociopolitical order. This decisive reorientation in Qing statecraft was not only the essence of Jiaqing’s reforms but also laid the groundwork for some successful empirebuilding strategies of the late Qing and the early Republic. Thus, looking at the Jiaqing reign through the dual lens of social resistance and sustainable politics throws new light on the last century of Manchu rule and the native origins of China’s modern state.

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Introduction

All-Encompassing Contentious Crises Most historians and social scientists tend to focus more on the explanatory power of structures while remaining less informed about the significance of events. Yet, as Marshall Sahlins and William Sewell suggest, an in-depth analysis of key events is indispensable for a proper understanding of enduring structures.17 This study treats the White Lotus and piracy upheavals as historically connected incidents that had a mutually reinforcing impact on the Qing state and society. Furthermore, this study aims to create a systematic methodology to explain a series of pivotal events as manifestations of one integrated process that tied popular violence to the push for structural changes in empire-building.18 This conceptualization of events complements current paradigms of social movements by providing a historicized revision to their analytical scheme. It seeks to propose a more comprehensive explanatory model around the concept of what I term “all-encompassing contentious crises” that can explicate how converging, many-sided upheavals interact to bring about key historical changes. This interpretive template postulates the existence of a multidimensional relational field within which multifaceted struggles and changes play out directly or indirectly at different spatiotemporal levels. By no means exclusive to a certain sphere, allencompassing contentious crises arise from an overall disruption of routine, “balanced tension between state and society”; on the other hand, such crises create the space and dynamic for a “decisive intervention” that determines a new set of state-society relations on a more workable and sustainable basis.19 This totalizing and interactive viewpoint allows us to use a coherent approach to relate seemingly scattered episodes of collective action to each other through a shared conjunctural process of structural change. Moreover, it brings the central state, local society, and popular and elite culture within a common discourse, thereby uncovering new elements of dynamism in their complex interactions. I consider all-encompassing contentious crises as variegated sites of negotiation, through which different strategic actors mediate their pressing concerns and legitimize claimmaking while pushing for different patterns of change. This template orients toward a series of common patterns of interaction across manifold spheres, thus providing a cross-section of the chief issues pertinent to the different performance arenas and submechanisms of state-making noted earlier.

Introduction

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Situating the Dual Crises As two major cases of all-encompassing contentious crises, the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy reflected much larger and more profound crises that occurred in a multiplicity of spatiotemporal contexts. Both upheavals were not merely explosive events of social dislocation; they should also be conceptualized as a mediated conjuncture of “decisive intervention” in the interlocking structural transformation of state, society, and culture. The tripartite temporal framework of the French historian Fernand Braudel provides a very appropriate means for contextualizing the two crises. This framework highlights three durations of historical change—event, conjuncture, and structure—each of which has its own different yet related dynamics and impacts.20 The first time frame refers to the extended Qianlong-Jiaqing transition: the two tumultuous decades (c. 1790–1810) that encompassed the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy. This “internal temporality of event,” as my main focus, resembles what Sahlins terms the “structure of the conjuncture”—the particular micro conditions that shape events.21 Such dynamics of the events both arise from and transform longer processes of historical change, so it is necessary to situate them in the second time frame: Emperor Qianlong’s sixty-year governance from 1736 to 1796, especially its latter half. As a supporting narrative, this temporality of the conjuncture forms a baseline against which to locate and evaluate the changes the two upheavals precipitated in the subsequent Jiaqing reign. Last but not least, an adequate understanding of the role of event and conjuncture must be based on the concept of structure. The longest timescale in this study is the longue durée defined by the topographical and historical heritage of a period spanning centuries or even millennia. This work makes no attempts to assign explanatory primacy to any of the three chronological parameters. Instead, by looking at extraordinary events through the prism of all-encompassing contentious crises, I hope to offer a new understanding of how the Braudelian tripartite framework can better fit together in a Chinese historical setting.22 In addition to the tripartite conceptions of historical time, this multicase, multiregion study proposes an analysis at various levels of spatial interactions across the Sino-centric tributary world order. This analysis, I hope, captures the dialectic between historical processes at different scales, illuminating how local stories hide regional, national, or even global dynamics, and vice versa. By highlighting a supranational but non-Western context, in particular, this research aims to foreground the indigenous

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Introduction

dynamism of East Asian history and to provide a useful way of supplementing the China-centered approach.

Structure of the Book I organize this book into three parts, in addition to the introduction and conclusion. Part I sets the stage by providing a critical overview of the historical context—the long eighteenth century—and its major dynamics of change. Consisting of one short chapter, this part considers a broad range of structural, conjunctural, and personal developments that overburdened the high Qing state and set in motion the crises of the QianlongJiaqing transition. The main body of the book consists of two interlocking parts (Parts II and III) corresponding to society and state, respectively. Part II, comprising Chapters 2 and 3, takes a distinctly local, bottom-up approach by placing the two upheavals in their frontier contexts. These two chapters focus on the internal borderland of the Han River highlands (astride the provincial border of Hubei, Sichuan, and Shaanxi) and the external maritime frontier of the South China Sea (across the Sino-Vietnamese water world), exploring how fluid ecology and socioeconomic patterns interacted with rigid and weak political establishments to create a sort of nonstate space that precipitated the dual upheavals. Not merely two failed frontier protests, the White Lotus uprising and south China piracy also signified a sharpening crisis of the Qing state and, furthermore, provided golden opportunities for political reforms. Part III, the major portion of this work, shifts the focus from popular protest to high politics and brings their interaction to center stage. Consisting of Chapters 4–7, this part explores the most important question of this study: how did the dual crises conjoin to shape Jiaqing’s efforts of “inner statebuilding”? More specifically, this part delves into the top-down processes of crisis management at different levels and investigates the intertwining imperial, bureaucratic, and foreign responses to the clustering upheavals and their profound impact on late Qing history.

A Disclaimer Before ending this introduction, a disclaimer is in order. This study seeks to challenge the conventional narrative of incorrigible state erosion by rethinking the significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. In emphasizing the constructive ramifications of Jiaqing’s crisis management and

Introduction

13

political reforms, my analysis seems to conflict with the self-evident fact that China slid into even greater disasters during its “Century of Humiliation” following the first Opium War. This revisionist work is therefore open to the charge of overstating the positive contributions of Jiaqing’s “inner state-building” while neglecting its adverse consequences. I certainly do not claim that every part of the Jiaqing reforms was effective, beneficial, and significant. Neither do I argue that the White Lotus and piracy crises had game-changing impacts that brought forth unprecedented reorganizations of the state and society. At most, I would maintain, Jiaqing was a monarch of his times, not an epoch-making ruler. The pragmatic emperor did not make a revolutionary break with the past, nor could he rise up to the unexampled challenge of modernizing the empire in time to forestall Western intrusion. But it is important not to lose sight of the fact that Jiaqing’s reforms, albeit far from a full success, did prevent the simultaneous disturbances from escalating into an uncontrollable threat to the Qing. Looking at the empire as a whole, the frequency and intensity (scale and duration) of popular protest dropped quickly in the first three decades of the nineteenth century. This sharp decline in protest activity offered the dynasty a precious respite from nationwide calamity; it also gave the regime more breathing room to alleviate the deep-seated crisis that had precipitated the disturbances in the first place. Consequently Jiaqing’s reforms inaugurated an extended period of consolidation and restoration that lasted to the end of the monarchical system. This was an impressive achievement, considering the state’s decaying capacities (domestic and international) as well as the tremendous challenges it confronted, including an unprecedented monetary crisis prompted by the abrupt decline in global silver supplies during the early nineteenth century.23 Yet a key question remains: if Jiaqing’s reforms represented so significant a change, how are we to reconcile their positive elements with the dismal shift in dynastic fortune after the 1840s? I argue that the throne’s decisive interventions steered the overburdened empire to a more sustainable track of political development. Whereas such consolidation efforts created a period of midcourse restoration (zhongxing), they could not make the dynasty the master of its own destiny and guarantee its longterm stability, considering the increasingly challenging context in which the state had to operate. No single factor dictates historical development, to be sure; neither do all variables move in the same direction. The legacy of Jiaqing’s sustainable empire-building depended not only on China-centered factors and processes but on contingent interactions embedded in a larger world system. The Qing’s final collapse should therefore be attributed less

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Introduction

to declining state power or deteriorating leadership qualities than to an inexorable process of transdynastic, transnational, and global transformations. This lethal combination of crises included long-term structural predicaments within the system as well as a bewildering array of unexampled challenges borne out of China’s growing contact with the West and its repositioning within the Sino-centric tributary world order.24 Such a “perfect storm” would have overwhelmed even the ablest ruler and the strongest government in the premodern world. The complex making of this storm and its impact on imperial breakdown remain a very puzzling question in Chinese history that awaits further study.

I Contextualizing Crises

Chapter One

Origins of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Crises

T

he last quarter of the eighteenth century witnessed a crescendo of upheavals that rocked the Qing dynasty and engulfed much of the empire. The White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy were merely the climax to this escalating tide of protests, which also included the Wang Lun revolt (1774), the Lin Shuangwen uprising (1787–1788), and the Miao rebellion (1795–1806). These interacting, simultaneous crises are best understood not as discrete events but as part of a revelatory conjuncture that showcases the structural limits of the Qing state and its failures of social control during the late Qianlong reign. This distinct conjuncture, from a historiographical point of view, both divided and united the prosperous high Qing and the tragic post–Opium War eras. Before discussing the sectarian and piracy upheavals, it will be helpful to briefly review the preceding three crises by emphasizing their major differences and connections.

The Wang Lun Uprising of 1774 Like the great rebellion of 1796, Wang Lun’s uprising also was inspired by the White Lotus religion and precipitated by local misadministration. It began on August 28, 1774, in western Shandong, not far from Beijing, along the strategic transportation route of the Grand Canal. Although the

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uprising lasted for just a month and involved no more than a few thousand people, its significance should not be underestimated. As the only major instance of social protest occurring in China’s heartland during the late Qianlong reign, Wang Lun’s revolt greatly alarmed the emperor and the Manchu court. Susan Naquin calls it not only “the first crack in the smooth façade of the high Ch’ing [Qing] empire” but also the real beginning of White Lotus millennialism during the eighteenth century.1 Henceforth this largely peaceful cult in the Qing came under increasing government suppression that transformed it into a key organizational vehicle for anti-state uprisings, a trend which continued into the subsequent Jiaqing reign. As a tipping point in this dramatic transition, the Wang Lun rebellion initiated a wave of sectarian rebellions during the ensuing four decades. It convinced Emperor Qianlong that the White Lotus religion was “the most heterodox of the heterodoxies” (xiejiao zhong zhi xiejiao) which should be extirpated. Thereafter, unprovoked persecution of the sectarian organizations seems to have greatly intensified, first in north China and then in many other parts of the empire. It reached a pinnacle in the 1790s, bringing about violent reactions from White Lotus congregations throughout central-western China. Wang Lun’s uprising, in short, can be regarded as a preview and prototype of the much larger rebellion of 1796; it also prompted the government to launch a vicious pattern of repression that ultimately provoked the later sectarian uprisings.2

The Lin Shuangwen Uprising of 1787–1788 Whereas Wang Lun’s rebellion was a religiously inspired movement near the political center, Lin Shuangwen’s revolt was organized by China’s most famous secret brotherhood association, the Heaven and Earth Society (Tiandihui: the Triads), in the maritime periphery of Taiwan. This revolt was not just the largest antidynastic insurrection on “this fast growing but weakly administered frontier island” but also the first significant manifestation of Triad activity that attracted the Qing government’s attention. Although the early history of Tiandihui is still shrouded in mystery, most scholars agree that this clandestine association originated on the margins of coastal society in Fujian and Guangdong provinces during the 1760s. In the next two decades, it remained largely a loose affiliation of mutual-aid organizations with little political aspiration and no centralized leadership. Similar to the earlier Wang Lun and later White Lotus uprisings, the Lin Shuangwen rebellion was directly precipitated by increasing state persecu-

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tion. In addition, it also involved an ethnically charged confrontation between Han Chinese settlers and aboriginal tribespeople in Taiwan who tended to side with the Qing authorities.3 This uprising started on January 16, 1787, and quickly spread all over the island. It nonetheless was stamped out within a year, with Lin Shuangwen himself captured by imperial forces, led by the famed general Fukang’an. While Qianlong lauded this hard-fought campaign as one of his ten great military achievements, the succeeding emperor, Jiaqing, deemed it, in William Rowe’s words, “a turning point in the empire’s string of glorious expansionist victories.”4 The reason is not far to seek: this shortlived revolt was the first rebellion in Qing history that the regular imperial army failed to put down. The hard-pressed state, in fact, had to recruit a large number of informal local militiamen to supplement its ineffective troops. This unprecedented remedy signaled the unsustainablility of Qing war-making and empire-building during the late Qianlong reign. A similar strategy of local militarization was replicated throughout the late Qing period and became increasingly important in the campaigns against the Miao, White Lotus, Taiping, and Nian rebels. Notwithstanding that it was a brotherhood association, Tiandihui was not deemed illegal prior to the rebellion of 1787. Four years later, however, the increasingly vigilant Qianlong formally outlawed the organization as seditious and sought to exterminate it through ruthless persecution. The ambitious monarch, according to David Ownby, went so far as to try to eradicate the “very practice of hui (secret society) formation” in Fujian and Guangdong, which makes his regime “the first in Chinese history to ban sworn brotherhoods” as Wen-hsiung Hsu asserts. This unprecedentedly harsh policy, together with the White Lotus rebellion in central-western China, greatly politicized Tiandihui and gave a powerful impetus to its growth at the turn of the nineteenth century. The government’s interdictive measures, meanwhile, provoked desperate resistance from the secret-society members, some of whom joined sea bandits in the hope of fleeing government repression. Consequently, the 1790s saw protracted conflicts between the Manchu state and brotherhood organizations off the southeast coast, which aggravated the piracy problem in the region. The rise of Tiandihui, like that of sea robbers and mountain bandits, suggests that sporadic nonstate violence was converging into large-scale, antistate protests organized by voluntary associations in the late eighteenth century.5

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The Miao Uprising of 1795–1806 The Miao uprising broke out on the Hunan-Guizhou border in 1795 and was not fully suppressed until 1806. It was the largest, longest, and most influential Miao uprising in the history of both the Qing dynasty and this ethnic minority.6 Essentially, this revolt was a violent response to a large influx of Chinese settlers, or “guest people” (kemin), that was exerting great pressure on the indigenous Miao highlanders (miaomin). A contemporary handbill attests to their strong animosity toward these uninvited outsiders: “The Miao fields are now completely occupied by the Han people. If you help us to burn and kill the guests, we can recover our lands for cultivation and become officials.”7 Unlike Lin Shuangwen’s rebellion, this ethnically charged uprising was not carried out by Han Chinese immigrants. Lacking religious overtones, however, both events can be seen as defensive frontier protest against increasing state control and local maladministration. Seen from this perspective, the Miao revolt was deeply rooted in the process of administrative regularization (gaitu guiliu), which forcibly replaced the native chieftain system with direct central rule. This policy of political integration, first implemented by the eminent Manchu official Ortai in the early eighteenth century, fueled the rapid Han Chinese migration to thinly populated minority areas, thus directly provoking the widespread ethnic collision that touched off the rebellion. Hence the Miao uprising can be characterized as a “delayed response” to the aggressive state-making efforts that occurred throughout much of the high Qing period. This crisis became so formidable that the government had to hurriedly mobilize almost all available military forces, numbering as many as 180,000 soldiers, from seven surrounding provinces, most notably Hubei, Sichuan, and Shaanxi.8 This large-scale diversion created a military vacuum in central China, thereby providing a golden opportunity for Hubei’s White Lotus insurgents. Shocked by the growing tide of the sectarian rebellion to the north, the state began to shift its priority from the Miao revolt in late 1796 by demobilizing most of its temporary military laborers in the Hunan-Guizhou border area. They quickly defected to the Miao side and started fighting against the imperial army, a pattern that was repeated in the White Lotus campaign.9 Rebellion, to be sure, was a recurrent theme running through the long history of traditional China. Yet it took a particular matrix of structural changes, conjunctural developments, and individual initiatives to produce such a strong wave of popular protest during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transi-

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tion. So a key question needs to be addressed first: what drove disparate social groups to rebel against the state at around the same time? The answer lies primarily in a combination of social, political, economic, and ecological changes that fed on each other during and beyond the first half of the Qing dynasty. Such an unusual synchronicity of disturbances cannot be understood without reference to China’s deeply ingrained problems and the long-term challenges that undercut the foundations of the Manchu regime. This short background chapter, necessarily broad-brush and selective, presents a three-dimensional analysis of the general historical context. It not only elucidates the structural and conjunctural origins of the upheavals, from both state and societal perspectives, but also identifies Qianlong’s aggressive governing style as a key motivational force behind the compounding problems. His misguided policies and impractical goals, I argue, significantly affected the timing and severity of the late-eighteenth-century upheavals.

Qianlong as a Fortunate Emperor Times could not have been better to this high Qing ruler. He had the fortune to grow up and rule in one of the most affluent periods in China’s imperial history. The fiscal success of his grandfather Kangxi and his father, Yongzheng, put the economy on an upswing, which, in Seth L. Stewart’s words, “allowed him a gigantic fortune to play with.” When Qianlong ascended the throne in 1736, the state treasury surplus had already reached 33 million taels of silver.10 The phenomenal spurt of empire-building under his predecessors, furthermore, enabled him to preside over and develop a highly centralized bureaucratic state. From a structural point of view, this was one of the most critical political changes in Qing history. As Harold Kahn sums it up: “K’ang-hsi (1662–1722) in his long reign consolidated Qing dynastic grip on the country, Yung-cheng (1722–1736) tightened up the imperial control of administration, and Ch’ien-lung (1736–1795) profited from their success.”11 Together, the three masterful empire-builders created an age of flourishing prosperity and enduring stability known as the high Qing. Unlike previous Manchu rulers, Qianlong was “handed empire on a platter,” thanks to the adoration of his grandfather and the predetermined secret succession institutionalized by his father. Nor did he face the cutthroat factional rivalries among royal princes and within the banner system that had plagued the Manchu regime since its establishment. Consequently,

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his early reign saw little of the power rivalries that had consumed the energies and treasuries of Kangxi and Yongzheng. In solidifying his authority over bureaucratic and hereditary power, Qianlong seemed to “personif[y] the civilized autocracy of the eighteenth-century Qing court more than any other Manchu ruler.”12 With all the power he had mustered, Qianlong was unable to overcome a fundamental limitation to premodern political development: the worsening ratio of organizational resources to population size. As a result of this structural dilemma, the ability of his government to regulate local life and mitigate social tensions actually deteriorated over the late eighteenth century. Meanwhile, the aging emperor was increasingly beset by an eternal principal-agent problem as his ability to tame the officialdom declined, which in turn exacerbated the state’s administrative disarray and fiscal weakness. Whereas Tuan-Hwee Sng ascribes this issue largely to China’s extraordinary geographical size, I place more emphasis on Qianlong’s personal impact in aggravating the paradox.13 The emperor found it expedient to play up the role of “inner-court” institutions in order to strengthen his own arbitrary authority while curtailing the routinized influence of the “outer-court” bureaucracy. In so doing, he transferred power from the executive branch of the government to a small coterie of most trusted aides who acted in his name. No official could match Heshen when it comes to imperial favor and patronage. Within a period of six months, this political upstart ascended from minor Manchu bodyguard to Qianlong’s personal favorite in 1776 after a string of important appointments, including vice president of the Board of Revenue, grand councilor, and director of the Imperial Household Department.14 In the next twenty-three years his notorious abuse of power and rapacious appetite for wealth made him one of the greatest villains in imperial history. Qianlong, assisted by a strengthened inner court led by his surrogates like Heshen, maximized his imperial authority and became arguably “the strongest ruler in Chinese history.” How, then, was such highly centralized imperial control dissipated during the last quarter of the eighteenth century? Furthermore, why did the last decade of Qianlong’s “prosperous” reign turn out to be one of the most chaotic periods in Qing history?15 To answer both questions, it will be helpful to start from the general interplay between state and society that is critical for the long-term reproduction of any sociopolitical order. The essence of this interplay is a neverending process of conflicts and negotiation that strives for an optimal distribution of power, wealth, and prestige amid different strategic actors.16 The Qing monarchs, to be sure, played the most important role in this pro-

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cess of negotiation since it was their responsibility to create a dynamically stable set of relations among key sociopolitical forces at various levels. As Richard L. K. Jung points out in his study of the Wang Lun and Lin Shuangwen uprisings: The ideal context of imperial control involved a certain amount of equilibrium, a state of symbiosis, between the throne and those elements on whom the emperor was dependent for carrying out the imperial will. Under this balanced state, those who served the empire as officials and as informal local leaders, the gentry, were granted compensation-titles, positions, financial reward, including tax exemptions—commensurate with the contribution each made to the extension of imperial control in the empire. As long as such compensation was adequate to the needs of the bureaucrats and the gentry, there seems to have been little recourse to abuse of position or privilege, and the overall aspect of peaceful tranquility in the empire during the early Qing period seems to bear out that there was such a working equilibrium.17

This kind of political balance nonetheless broke down late in the Qianlong reign, causing the emperor to lose much of his control over the officialdom and local society. Jung singles out two sets of precipitating factors responsible for this momentous change: the prevalent sense of politico-economic insecurity among bureaucrats under Qianlong’s arbitrary, autocratic rule and the growing economic insecurity felt by all social strata as a result of unprecedented transformations during the high Qing period.18

Population Growth As China moved into the mid-eighteenth century, the empire faced a host of wide-ranging but interrelated challenges on many fronts. On the societal side, explosive population growth remained “the most striking feature of Chinese social history in late imperial and modern times.”19 The Qianlong reign, in particular, saw a doubling of China’s population, which reached 313 million in 1794. The peak period of this accelerated growth, according to Ping-ti Ho’s reckoning, was between 1740 and 1775, only one generation predating the Miao, White Lotus, and piracy disturbances.20 Ramon H. Myers and Yeh-chien Wang locate the highest rate of annual population growth in the years between 1779 and 1794. Susan Naquin and Evelyn Rawski, more specifically, contend that the demographic growth rate reached its apex around 1800. Their different data notwithstanding, most scholars may well concur with Ho’s argument that “by the last quarter of the eighteenth century there was every indication

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that the Chinese economy, at its prevailing technological level, could no longer gainfully sustain an ever-increasing population without overstraining itself.”21 The Qing Empire certainly overworked itself in order to pay the bill for the unprecedented demographic boom. Many significant sociopolitical developments, including transregional migration, frontier reclamation, and territorial expansion, had combined to “put the expanding population to productive use.”22 The spread of New World crops like maize, sweet potatoes, peanuts, and yams, in particular, brought about a  revolution in highland utilization that played a key role in creating greater subsistence security.23 These important efforts, however, did not create “the new kind of economic and political growth whereby that population might be absorbed.” Since the amount of arable land failed to keep pace with demographic growth, per capita acreage dropped quickly in the latter half of the eighteenth century and reached a precariously low point by the end of Qianlong’s reign. Philip Kuhn takes it as one of the most notable causes of peasant misery and the “prime mover” of the 1790s crises.24 This land hunger also led to ecological degradation due to its unprecedented pressures on accessible natural resources. Growing market demand, fueled by the development of more efficient domestic and international trading networks, further speeded up the exploitation of frontier resources, which rendered this process unsustainable and environmentally damaging. Just in this sense, Robert B. Marks recently has argued that much of the Qing Empire had reached its ecological limits by 1800.25 Such a resource crunch was nevertheless not a uniquely Chinese problem. Premodern economic and population growth, as Mark Elvin suggests, often pushed beyond the limits of a sustainable coexistence with the natural world.26 Owing to the resulting ecological strains, different parts of the early modern world sooner or later faced the same fate of labor intensification and environmental crisis. Without a great influx of resources from the New World, England could hardly have escaped the “Malthusian population trap” and taken off into sustained industrial growth. The rise of a modern economy, to be sure, could not take place merely by means of expanding market exchange. As Kenneth Pomeranz argues, overseas colonization and fortuitous location of domestic coal also played a crucial role in the development of western Europe. This is one of the key characteristics that distinguished early modern England from Qing China.27

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Inward Colonization and Malthusian Impasse To alleviate the resource crunch, the Qing state generally encouraged “inward colonization” in the sparsely populated peripheral areas within China proper. The eighteenth century, in particular, saw “China’s greatest age of internal migration.”28 By absorbing an influx of immigrants from overcrowded lowland cores, such mountainous frontiers as the Han River highlands offered a safety valve for pressures that might otherwise have been directed toward the central government. This expedient solution was mostly successful in mitigating the ecological crisis in the lower Yangzi valley and the southeast coast. Without a transformative technological breakthrough, however, expanding cultivated acreage via internal migration could hardly get the state out of its “Malthusian impasse.” This impasse does not imply that most Chinese people were struggling on the brink of starvation during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition and that economic strain was the major factor responsible for its clustering crises. Rather, it refers to a decreasing landto-population ratio and limited organizational resources for constructive social mobilization amenable to the goal of state-making. The process of internal migration, to be sure, could not overcome this basic structural limit to premodern economic and political development. After the close of China’s northwest frontier during the 1770s, new arable land was mostly obtained from the reclamation of internal peripheries in the upper and middle Yangzi highlands. This type of upland settlement, due to its initial high return to capital and labor, provided much of the frontier vitality and economic growth in the Qianlong reign. Toward the century’s end, however, the previously “underexploited niche” of mountainous borderlands had begun to become saturated.29 The huge influx of Han Chinese immigrants into those peripheral areas, moreover, provoked the ever-intensifying competition with indigenous ethnic minorities that led directly to such disturbances as the Lin Shuangwen and Miao rebellions. One can understand the implications of this new assault on internal borderlands in two ways. From the local people’s vantage point, they needed more social-administrative services than the Qing authorities could provide in such remote frontier zones as the Han River highlands. Given their sparse, drifting populations (yimin or youmin) and low taxpaying capacity, the state strove to govern these peripheries without great expenditure and thus kept their junxian (centralized local bureaucratic systems) extremely small. The shorthanded officialdom, not surprisingly, could hardly meet its basic obligations in the lands of big mountains and deep forests.

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Exploiting the state’s feeble presence as well as its inability to keep law and order, a wide range of nonstate and antistate groups sprang up to fill the vacuum and exerted great control over the dispersed upland communities. This development partly explains why most violent protests during the late Qianlong reign tended to break out in the newly settled frontier regions rather than in the densely populated river deltas and lowland valleys.30 These borderland crises were caused not by a collapsing state but often by the government’s heightened attempts to eliminate the nonstate or antistate forces that had long evaded or resisted official control. The Qianlong-Jiaqing transition, on the orthodox side, saw the proliferation of pro-state forces like subbureaucratic agents (local gentry), extrabureaucratic personnel (yamen underlings), and elite-controlled local militias. These irregular groups, notwithstanding their major intermediary role between central authorities and local society, could also become key organizational vehicles for popular protests by readily “degenerating” into groups of bandits and rebels, as happened in the White Lotus uprising. So the boundaries between local militias, insurgents, and brigands were often ambiguous, slippery, and overlapping, which exemplifies the “intrinsic logic of the state-society continuum” in imperial China that was a far cry from its European counterpart.31 The interacting structural problems mentioned earlier had posed unprecedented challenges to a limited and minimalist state by the end of the high Qing period. Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn contend that a key “dilemma of the Chia-ch’ing [Jiaqing] administration was an underlying complex of social problems that overwhelmed the organizational capacities of the Qing bureaucracy. Central among these was the ratio of resources to population.”32 This deeply rooted contradiction, in effect, had already loomed large by the late Qianlong reign.

Territorial Expansion Besides “inward colonization” and rapid demographic growth, territorial expansion was another striking structural change of the high Qing era. Joseph Fletcher held that Manchu military expansion was one of the three eighteenth-century changes (together with population upswing and increasing European presence) that set the course of China’s subsequent history. Thanks to Qianlong’s much celebrated “Ten Great Military Campaigns” (Shiquan Wugong), the territory of Great Qing expanded dramatically and reached its pinnacle in the 1770s. His conquest of Tibet, Xinjiang, and Mongolia, one of the largest territorial expansions in world history,

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brought all these inner Asian regions under the sovereignty of one central government for the first time.33 Such growth in Qing population and territorial size, however, was neither accompanied by a corresponding expansion in the number of field officials nor supported by a commensurate increase in the administrative resources allotted for local authorities. The enlarged empire therefore faced ever-mounting challenges to effective imperial control and central coordination, a situation that was especially apparent in the border regions of various kinds. An enduring dilemma of Chinese frontier-making, as Owen Lattimore suggested, was that “the range of military striking power exceeded the range of ability to conquer and incorporate.”34 This structural limitation, in my view, became all the more acute during the late Qianlong reign, as demonstrated by its mounting wave of frontier crises. Even the once invincible imperial army could no longer sustain the Qing’s expansionist drive into the borderlands, not to mention the state’s low capability to administer them. Generally speaking, one can identify two types of interrelated borderlands in Qing China. External ones like Xinjiang were recently incorporated into the empire but did not receive much immigration until the last century of the dynasty. Strategically located on the far-flung edge of the empire, these frontiers of conquest grappled with neighboring polities and marked the limits of Qing sovereignty. In contrast to such changing political interfaces between states, internal frontiers like the Han River highlands had long been governed as the outskirts of China proper which symbolized the outer limit of its agricultural heartland. Many of these mountainous peripheries, as essentially frontiers of settlement, only began to receive large numbers of immigrants during the eighteenth century. After securing the northwestern borderlands in the 1770s, Emperor Qianlong gradually shifted the focus of his frontier-making to those internal peripheries where governmental power was only intermittently projected. Consequently, his policy toward the highlands between Hubei, Shaanxi, and Sichuan provinces changed from laissez-faire to a tightening grip on drifting populations and freewheeling resources (like smuggled salt and privately minted coins). Increasing government control pushed various frontier groups to ally with the similarly hard-pressed White Lotus sectarians and to join their antistate operations across this mountainous borderland. Similarly, the south China pirates were forced to seek outside support by collaborating with the Tay Son regime in Annam. The cost of sustaining politico-military power in remote peripheries was often unacceptably heavy for a premodern agricultural state. This is especially true for the Qing regime, given its strong commitment to light

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taxation (in comparison with both the previous Chinese dynasties and most of its European and Asian counterparts). With administrative resources remaining largely unexpanded, the local authorities found it increasingly difficult to secure more than a tenuous control of the internal borderlands, let alone improve basic services to them. Under such circumstances, Qianlong’s unrealistic ambition to tame the frontier societies politicized their disgruntled segments and, furthermore, pushed them into transregional or even transnational rebellious movements. Thus when internal borderlands became the target of increasing state regulation, they served naturally as the center of almost every episode of major disturbance in the late eighteenth century. The seemingly expanding imperial rule, consequently, became weakened or even paralyzed in China’s many peripheries during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. It should be emphasized that, as the early-nineteenth-century statecraft official Wei Yuan noted, more urgent problems appeared in the long-settled internal borderlands than in the external ones recently acquired by the Qing.35 Following the disastrous frontier war with Burma (1765–1770), Qianlong seems to have grudgingly decided against further military adventures beyond the means of the Qing Empire. In a slight change of attitude, he emphasized the importance of civilian rule (wenzhi) and reaffirmed the conservative goal of “sustaining the prosperity and preserving the peace” (chiying baotai).36 What remained unchanged, however, was the emperor’s burning desire to perpetuate his image as an unparalleled sage-ruler. Late in his reign, Qianlong actually maintained the momentum of empirebuilding by insisting on stringent imperial control over the bureaucracy and local populace. This was evidenced by his foolhardy invasion of Annam and his relentless campaigns to root out the White Lotus sects, Tiandihui, salt smuggling, and coin counterfeiting. All these aggressive efforts backfired disastrously as Qianlong extended the reach of the state beyond a supportable point. Such failures, as Joel Migdal describes them, created a serious disjunction between the two interlocking yet somewhat contradictory elements of the state: image and practice. Whereas image denotes a singular picture of what ideal regimes should be, practice refers to the actual performances of political actors and agencies in the governing process. The disparity between the two had reached a startling magnitude in Qing China by the 1790s, placing great pressures on both local bureaucracies and frontier societies. In response to such heightened pressures, sociopolitical actors at all levels sought to fashion their own strategies of survival—usually at the expense of others less capable of defending themselves. Building on Migdal’s approach of historical anthropology, which dissects the state and

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society into their key components, one should study the different pressures that the aforementioned strategic forces encountered and their major sources of conflict.37 The worsening ratio of organizational resources to population size had inflamed a wide range of socioeconomic crises that undermined the high Qing order. This structurally determined problem, by generating an intensified pressure on upward mobility, was applicable to the political realm as well. Even though the civil service examination system provided the primary “ladder of success” in mid- and late imperial China, it proved unable to bridge the widening gap between “the relatively small and almost static size of the formal bureaucracy and the continuing expansion in numbers of educated degree-holders who wanted positions in that bureaucracy.”38 This growing disparity released more and more frustrated degree-holders into society as what Shmuel Noah Eisenstadt termed “free-floating resources” that could be used for different purposes. Some of them, like the “evil sheng-yuan [shengyuan; the lowest formal degree holder who passed the county-level civil service examination] or rotten chien-sheng [jiansheng; students of the Imperial Academy in Beijing ],” often became troublemakers who organized a range of nonstate or antistate activities. As C. K. Yang points out, it was “the ruling stratum and its supporting forces”— like disaffected gentry and landlords—who “led most of the incidents of social unrest during the nineteenth century.”39 The latter half of the Qianlong reign was especially plagued by this crisis of upward mobility. As Jones and Kuhn explain, “pressure upon existing channels of social mobility undoubtedly contributed to the characteristic pattern of political behavior in Ch’ing China, the patronage network, in which patron-client relationships were made to bear more than their usual burden in the workings of the government.”40 Bureaucrats at all levels engaged in a sort of survival politics, which spurred a further expansion of patronage systems that were locked in perpetual competition over shrinking state resources. This anxiety reached a zenith during Heshen’s de facto regency (1780s–1799) when “virtually no official appointment was made without a ‘contribution’ ” to the powerful minister or his cronies. Under such circumstances, contemporary political culture called for a high degree of self-defense on the part of the bureaucrats as they engaged in faction-building, bribery, and embezzlement to secure political survival. In most big corruption scandals during this period, for instance, beleaguered officials had little choice but to peculate under the extortion of Heshen.41 Such malfeasance, in practice, had become an accepted rule of official life operating at all government levels by the end of the Qianlong reign. As the emperor himself admitted in 1795, “only two or three-tenths of the

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governors are absolutely clean-handed and realizing the value of high principles actually live up to them.” The assessment of the French missionary Pere Amiot in 1782 was even more pessimistic: “it is rare among the Chinese to find anyone in an official post who does not enrich himself.” Yet this does not mean bureaucrats at that time were especially corrupt and evil. Instead, as the late Qing officials Xue Fucheng and Feng Guifen argued, it was largely top-down pressure from the court that forced them to be greedy and abusive.42 Such official malpractices, needless to say, undermined the image of a Confucian state and eroded its moral foundation. In his famous letter to Emperor Jiaqing, the scholar-official Hong Liangji lamented the widespread political demoralization that had emasculated ethical standards, administrative regulations, and the judicial system. In previous years, the Qing court was able to prevent such problems from becoming a grave threat to the political system. The Yongzheng emperor, for example, succeeded in alleviating official dishonesty by instituting a system of “nourishing-virtue allowances” (yanglianyin) that provided a special supplementary salary for civilian bureaucrats. Late in the Qianlong reign, however, population explosion and its inflationary effect had put a growing strain on the fiscal system and largely canceled out the benefits of yanglianyin.43 The old emperor’s heavy-handed exercise of imperial power, furthermore, rendered this incentive system burdensome and meaningless, as it could no longer nourish integrity among the hard-pressed bureaucrats. Most indicative of this effort is Qianlong’s collection of self-assessed “fines” (yizuiyin) via his personal favorite, Heshen. This extrainstitutional form of imperial extortion compelled lower-ranking officials to use yanglianyin as fines for inadequate performance or nonroutine compensation for poor local administration, which indirectly amplified the problem of corruption. County (xian) magistrates, as the lowest officials, were especially troubled by the lack of funding. This problem became all the more acute during the late Qianlong reign as the state increased its fiscal centralization by integrating more local taxes into the center. As a structural feature of Qing politics, the burden of county administration far exceeded the fiscal resources (retained taxes) earmarked for this first level of government.44 To cover the widening financial gap, understaffed local officials had no choice but to rely on all sorts of extrastatutory funding sources like the off-thebooks fees (lougui) levied by a growing number of yamen clerks and runners. They were hired to perform various essential functions to keep the local governments running, thereby becoming the most direct intermediary between state authorities and grassroots communities. Notwithstanding their indispensable service, these underlings were despised and ex-

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cluded from the government payroll, which forced them to live on the collection of the extralegal surcharges mentioned earlier. The contradiction of their low status but significant de facto power gave these extrastatutory agents strong incentive to abuse their authority and maximize their material return. Like its Republican counterpart, the late Qianlong regime depended largely on this expanding group of “entrepreneurial brokers” to carry out its administrative tasks and political campaigns at the local level. Yet, ironically, it proved unable to rein in these unsavory agents, who became more and more rapacious under excessive imperial and state pressure.45 This worsening dilemma turned the yamen staff into the most uncontrollable and contested link of the minimalist Chinese imperial system. Their exploitative coalition with local authorities contributed directly to the privatization and commercialization of public services, which provided ample opportunities for corruption and maladministration. All of these became galvanizing points of social protest; they also made the extrainstitutional and personalized system of local administration increasingly difficult and costly to operate.46 Under such conditions, fewer and fewer people employed peaceful petitions to elicit state support during times of need. Consequently, Ho-Fung Hung argues, the last third of the Qianlong reign saw both a sharp drop in nonantagonistic “state-engaging protest” and a rapid surge in “state-resisting violence.” In addition, “the conflict between outlaws, such as smugglers and bandits, and agents of the state attempting to curb their illicit activities” proliferated and became a major form of social disturbance that shaped the nature and dynamics of this period.47 The crescendo of violence and protests finally boiled out of control, provoking the massive wave of armed rebellions that peaked in the 1790s. Many contemporary political actors like Hong Liangji, Prince Zhaolian, and even Emperor Jiaqing himself expressed sympathy for the White Lotus believers and found resonance in their inflammatory slogan “Guanbi minfan” (It was the officials who forced the people to rise up). All of them concurred that the true root of this uprising lay not in seditious teachings but in local misrule, as shown by the abusive persecution of alleged sectarians. Hong bitterly observed in 1798 that “nowadays, the evil of local prefects and magistrates is a hundred times what it was one or two decades ago.” In fulminating at this rapid degeneration of civil administration, he blamed it almost wholly on Heshen, who had abused imperial power for two decades. But the proliferation of official venality and corruption, I would argue, was largely a structural problem aggravated by aggressive empire-building during the late Qianlong reign. It was a defensive

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survival strategy on the part of the bureaucrats in reaction to a worsening political economy characterized by both systemic resource (fiscal and administrative) scarcity and unpredictable imperial pressure.48 In addition to officials and their yamen staff, the third major personnel component of local administration was gentry, who played a key role in mediating the relationship between state and society. With educational degrees, rural background, and considerable wealth, these subbureaucratic elites were taken as the natural leaders of local communities from the Song dynasty onward. As Hong saw it, however, most of them had lost their sense of integrity, responsibility, and compassion by the end of the eighteenth century.49 They used bribery to obtain various privileges like tax exemptions, leaving the commoners to bear the brunt of growing official rapacity. As gentry failed in their leadership roles, local maladministration and brutality reached their pinnacle during Heshen’s dominance at court. Albeit heading in the right direction, Hong’s firsthand observation and astute analysis does not go far enough, to my thinking. He castigated Heshen’s regency and local misrule as the root of escalating revolts but understandably overlooked an even deeper origin of the sociopolitical tensions— the supreme ruler himself. Besides the major structural challenges examined earlier, Qianlong’s overblown attempts to master the officialdom and local populace contributed to a pervasive sense of politico-economic insecurity, which in turn created forces inimical to monarchical and central authority during the late eighteenth century. His excessive efforts at imperial control, as Jung contends, “failed to guarantee survival to those responsible for implementing them, and the officials and gentry consequently used whatever privilege and prestige they received to empower them to secure their own economic and social survival.” Not surprisingly, the old emperor was increasingly beset with partisan conflicts and political dysfunction caused by insubordinate factions and “disobedient” officials, most of whom were Han Chinese. This acute challenge compelled Qianlong to rely on inner-court confidants of Manchu origin in order to regain central control and to ensure what Michael G. Chang calls “ethno-dynastic dominance of the throne.”50 Yet this effort had unintended consequences, as Heshen’s meteoric rise caused serious disequilibrium in court politics and pushed the Grand Council, the major institutional handmaiden of Qing autocracy, into deep crisis. Consequently, relentless imperial pressure spawned more bureaucratic corruption and malpractices, which translated into an increasing burden on those lower down the sociopolitical ladder. Eventually this pressure reached the heterodox cults and secret societies, which had no alternative for protecting themselves other than to rise up in outright revolt. Seen from this perspective, most late-eighteenth-century

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protests were essentially local defenses against aggressive state control, precipitated by a “degenerating imperial center” rather than by notorious officials like Heshen.51 Though characterized by the most developed form of monarchical despotism in Chinese history, the late Qianlong state proved incapable of containing the forces that resulted from the inexorable social transformations through the high Qing period. Neither was it effective in controlling its vast bureaucracy bent on corruption, factional struggles, and political patronage. The aging emperor tried to strengthen his vertical control of the officialdom through Heshen’s regency, but this was achieved at the expense of deteriorating local governance and horizontal political coordination that fueled more disturbances. Nothing illustrates this more clearly than the combination of social protests in different parts of the empire as well as the secret struggles at all government levels that hiked the cost of repression campaigns. Herein lies a strong irony in Qianlong’s engagement of the all-encompassing contentious crises during his later years. “The imperial impetus toward control,” as Jung terms it, “led in unexpected ways to the breakdown of imperial control, despite the successful suppression of the rebels.”52 The power and image of the state, in brief, were partly crippled by the old monarch himself through his self-indulgent efforts to centralize power and his feverish attempts to control an increasingly ungovernable society.

Concluding Observations A critical yet often slighted dimension of the late Qianlong crises, in my view, is that the transaction costs of imperial and central control had reached unacceptable heights due to the aforementioned structural and conjunctural transformations. What is more, the emperor’s flamboyant governing style exacerbated these deep-seated problems, which not only weakened the social glue between state and society but also undercut cooperation and compliance from both the bureaucracy and the populace. The time-hallowed mechanism of moral persuasion and “probationary ethic” thus lost its effectiveness in disciplining officialdom and ensuring political loyalty. All these changes showcased the startling lack of consonance between the goals of the throne and his unresponsive bureaucrats. As the internal cohesion of the imperial system began to decline, its function and reproduction had become increasingly contingent on the capacity of the power brokers at various levels to use scarce resources (like material and political incentives) to reduce grievances and enforce acquiescence.

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This all-consuming process of negotiation, apart from widening the gap between state image and state practices, also grossly inflated the operational costs of Qing empire-building, thus rendering it utterly unsustainable as the Qianlong period came to a close. This dangerous trend was finally brought under control by the Jiaqing emperor, thanks to his successful management of the 1790s crises.

II A View from the Bottom

Chapter Two

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art II approaches the dual upheavals from a bottom-up perspective, giving centrality to the local and supralocal logic of collective action and frontier politics. This approach of “history from below,” as noted in the introduction, is a long established one in the study of Chinese social movements. It falls broadly into four types—class struggle, local politics, moral economy, and millenarian protest—according to Daniel Little’s classification.1 Building on a combination of the four models, my methodology of all-encompassing contentious crises situates different explosive events in a common relational field of state-society interactions. Since both the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy represented frontier protest against the centralizing state, it also is necessary to situate this study within the growing body of research on borderland and space. In this part, I shall investigate the distinct frontier environments of the two crises as well as how they together shaped the intertwined processes of social mobilization and empire-building during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition.

Official Frontier Construction and Its Discontents Through its late imperial history, the Middle Kingdom (Zhongguo) was characterized by a dominant spatial logic that revolved around the Sinocentric tributary relations. From the state’s vantage point, this tributary

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spatiality rested on a continuum of three discrete zones with blurred boundaries among them: the inner zone, the middle region, and the outer circle. The inner zone was China proper, the Han-dominated, densely populated heartland area under Confucian influence. As the central part of the multiethnic empire, this territory required direct, close, and sustained politico-military control through an elaborate system of centralized local bureaucratic administration ( junxian). The middle region was what were called the “outer provinces” of non-Han ethnic groups, including Tibet, Xinjiang, and Mongolia during the Qing time. Imperial control found its furthest limits in these sparsely populated and ecologically challenging areas, conflicting and cooperating with indigenous patterns of power and governance. The outer circle consisted of a hierarchy of tributary polities such as Korea and Vietnam, wherein very little Chinese state authority ever existed. We should view these three zones as shifting space of interaction and tension rather than part of a simple, static hierarchy presided over by an all-powerful center.2 The state’s tripartite construction of spatial hegemony, while not as effective as it was intended to be, offers a starting point for developing a more subtle conceptualization of the Qing Empire. In concrete terms, it helps define the two basic kinds of frontiers introduced in Chapter 1: first, the internal borderland that separated China proper from the outer provinces or marked the peripheries of lowland cores due to its tough terrain and low population density, and second, the external borderland (land or maritime) that demarcated the territory between the Middle Kingdom and its neighboring states in terms of geographical convenience and / or geopolitical conditions. The South China Sea, to be sure, belongs to the latter category. It is worth noting that the distinction between internal and external frontiers was not stable or rigid. During the Eastern Zhou period (770–221 b.c.), for instance, the Han River highlands were considered an external borderland that marked the outer limits of early Chinese civilization. Centuries of territorial expansion, however, gradually transformed this area into an internal frontier within the “land of the interior” (neidi). Different frontiers of the empire produced distinct types of social protests, which illustrate not only significant instances of state weakness but also the major characteristics and functions of various borderlands. When it comes to the White Lotus and piracy disturbances, the Han River highlands and South China Sea shared the common features of rough ecology and ambivalent social constructions. Constantly swarmed with disorderly elements and contentious forces, these areas provided fertile ground for popular resistance that conditioned the nature and extent of central power.

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Most important, both of these fringe areas had long been part of an interactive “nonstate space” within the overstretched and overburdened Qing Empire. The concept of “nonstate space” was first proposed by Edmund R. Leach and later developed by James C. Scott in their studies of upland Southeast Asia (especially Burma). It refers to the largely uncontrolled and uncontrollable frontier zones that define the limits of state power through their contentious tradition.3 This general notion is most useful in analyzing the interrelations of empire-building and frontier-making, which constituted the core dynamics of Qing historical change. The frontier process of empire-building, I would suggest, was also the process of frontier-making (practices) and frontier construction (image). As the Chinese state expanded its territory, besides creating new borderlands while consolidating old ones, it also constructed these peripheries in a hierarchical way, so that they could serve different functions in the Sino-centric tributary world order.4 This conceptualization was best encapsulated in the following political statement of the Qing: “the border provinces are China’s gates; the tributary states [wai-fan] are China’s walls. We build the walls to protect the gates, and protect the gates to secure the house. If the walls fall, the gates are endangered, if the gates are endangered, the house is shaken.”5 Whereas internal frontiers like the Han River highlands were governed as a buffer zone to protect China proper against incursions from the outer provinces, outer maritime frontiers like the South China Sea served as the first fence shielding the empire from more dangerous foreign barbarians (waiyi) beyond the Middle Kingdom. Besides this military-strategic function, borderlands also offered an outlet for landhungry migrants, dispossessed single males, and other contentious groups from the core regions. Thus, as Peter C. Perdue points out, borderlands could become “an early diagnostic of pressures that would strike the rest of the empire.”6 According to Confucian political culture, frontiers signaled the interface or meeting point between civilization and barbarianism. Many of them played an important role in justifying the “Middle Kingdom’s” expansive power, as they were considered moral beneficiaries of the civilizing impulse from the center. Extraordinary disturbances in the fringe areas, conversely, might suggest moral decay at the political center, thus jeopardizing its legitimacy in the eyes of China’s tributary states and, furthermore, precipitating reform on the highest levels. Seen from this perspective, some frontiers stood at the core of empire-building because any major challenges from them might affect the image and practices of the center.7 This reflexive relationship entails that the seemingly orderly process of official frontier construction could neither obscure the internal contradictions of

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empire-building nor overshadow the significance of social protest. It was precisely in the making and unmaking of the government-stipulated boundaries that sectarians, smugglers, bandits, and pirates found their agency as pesky border trespassers or even enemies of the state. These unruly forces, compelled by their own logic of survival and emboldened by weak official presence, often refused to follow the neat, rigid construction of the borderlands imposed by the authorities. Furthermore, Part II shows that the Han River highlands and South China Sea served as “fruitful locuses for social contestation” that set in train a multiplicity of historical changes.8 Such nonstate space empowered different local forces to come together for the common purpose of surviving particularly trying times and fighting for favorable sociopolitical changes.9 Taking different borderlands as similar nonstate space, in addition, provides a unified perspective that allows interconnective consideration of simultaneous events and processes occurring in different parts of the empire. Peter Perdue brings to the forefront the correlation between military and commercial interests on both inland and maritime frontiers. James Millward also stresses the necessity of embracing “the Qing frontier” as a more inclusive unit of historical inquiry.10 This study seeks to examine the Han River highlands and South China Sea as an integrated whole by allowing geographically distant events to illuminate each other. The interaction between internal and maritime borderlands, furthermore, contained a primary locus of dynamism in Qing frontier-making, especially after the empire’s conquest of central Asia during the 1770s. One cannot adequately understand both border regions without taking seriously the social protests they produced, how the state dealt with such disturbances, and most important, how the process of crisis management changed both empirebuilding and frontier development. To answer these questions, it is necessary to study large-scale ecological worlds shaped by mountain ranges, river basins, and maritime zones, as well as their apparent contradictions with local politico-military apparatus. William Skinner portrayed the social geography of late imperial China as the intersection of two central place systems: one was the bottomup formation of regional market hierarchies based on social ecology, manufacturing, and long-distance trade; the other was the top-down imposition of politico-military control that hinged on coercive state infrastructure.11 Furthermore, Skinner highlighted a crucial problem between the two systems: whereas huge mountain chains crosscut by long river basins provided convenient boundaries for China’s political map, regions linked by such geographic determinants as well as the market networks they supported manifested an economic, social, and cultural integration

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often lacking in administratively defined units like counties, provinces, and countries. Instead of fitting our analysis into a strict administrative framework, we should therefore recognize that fluid historical processes often move across stable political boundaries, driven by considerations like commercial development, military survival, and cultural transmission. The approach that considers mountain range, river basin, and maritime space, with its strong basis on natural formations, emphasizes those “systematic and long-term interactions” within and across large ecological zones. In Jerry Bentley’s words, this approach “has strong potential to dissolve artificial and sometimes absurd distinctions among supposedly coherent and ostensibly distinct regions.” Such tensions capture the very essence of the contradictions between the two kinds of central place hierarchies noted earlier.12 Such tensions also helped prompt and sustain such all-encompassing contentious crises as the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy. I propose that both upheavals can be better understood when viewed in light of the contradiction deeply rooted in the Skinnerian spatial framework.

White Lotus Ideology and Transgressive Political Violence There were great affinities between social protest and sectarian religion throughout Chinese imperial history. The White Lotus tradition, in particular, was responsible for a striking amount of sociopolitical violence in middle and late imperial times. To make sense of this contentious tradition, one needs to study how the interplay between state and society conditioned the rise and fall of sectarian revolts in specific historical contexts. This chapter first explores the ideological impetus behind White Lotus sectarianism, focusing on its core apocalyptic beliefs, which—combined with government hostility—directly motivated the uprising of 1796. This chapter then considers the revolt within its environmental setting by examining how the sectarian ideology fitted into the highland society and its insurrectionary subculture. The long tradition of the White Lotus religion (Bailian Jiao) can be traced back to the salvationist teachings of Pure Land Buddhism during the Eastern Jin dynasty (317–420 a.d.). Its first historically verified organization, however, did not appear until the twelfth century. As a form of lay Buddhist devotion, this folk religion initially advocated universal salvation through rebirth in the western paradise, as well as peaceful worship via sutra-like chanting that did not rely on priestly hierarchy or authorized

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institutions. With no distinguishable clothing or hairstyle recognizable by the government, its believers could easily blend into local communities while propagating their ideology in accordance with grassroots needs. Their emphasis on egalitarianism and mutual aid, as well as special medical and fighting techniques, made this religion popular among lower-class people.13 By the end of the Song dynasty, Bailian Jiao had developed into an independent locus of empowerment that appealed most to the marginalized people at the bottom of society. Its growing grassroots influence and mobilization power, unsurprisingly, invited increasing government suspicion and repression that drove the practice of the religion underground. The White Lotus religion, to be sure, was not a homogeneous entity devoid of internal variations and endogenous strains. First of all, like the Heaven and Earth Society, it had neither a unified organizational network controlled by a sole leader nor a coherent textual tradition predicated on a single authoritative canon.14 Due to this structural disadvantage / advantage, the White Lotus religion remained regionally diverse and ideologically syncretic throughout most of its history. Under the pressure of state persecution, furthermore, it underwent a localized process of multiplication and transmutation that inspired a plethora of derivative sects that went by different names. To avert government scrutiny, these sectarian groups refrained from using the forbidden name White Lotus (Bailian), which had become a signifier of heterodoxy by the Ming dynasty (1368–1644). Widely dispersed, many sects were unaware of others’ existence, while those in proximity squabbled with each other over local resources and sectarian leadership. The exceptions occurred during major rebellions, when hitherto unconnected networks were mobilized and integrated by charismatic itinerant preachers. It is important to note that such overriding features as decentralized organization, diversified naming practices, and inter-sect competition had a paradoxical effect on the development of the White Lotus religion. While contributing significantly to its remarkable survival power, they also constrained the destructive potential of this popular religion as a nonstate or antistate force.15 A hallmark of the transition from the Song to Ming dynasties was the increasing synthesis of Buddhist, Daoist, and Confucianist teachings (sanjiao heyi, the three teachings unite in one), which profoundly affected the evolution of the White Lotus creed. This relatively peaceful, meditative religion gradually took on violent and rebellious characteristics as it incorporated elements of Daoist magical techniques, Manichaean theologies, and folk shamanism.16 The most distinguishing and subversive feature of this sectarian conglomeration was the rise of an eschatological belief that predicted an intensifying series of cosmic calamities and advocated salva-

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tion through different messianic figures. Such dramatic supernatural intervention presaged a complete demolition of the extant world order and its violent replacement by a utopian, alternative one. This insurrectionary trend was given new impetus in the mid-fourteenth century when it blended with the popular doctrines of Maitreyan eschatology. Taking the kalpa ( jie) as a catastrophic but constructive turning point in human history, this eschatology advocates the successive alterations of the world in the name of different Buddha-saviors, of which Maitreya (the Buddha of the Future) was the ultimate. Under this new influence, the White Lotus religion finally became a well-established millenarian sect that was deeply involved with antidynastic revolts. As a key organizational vehicle for violent protest, it fueled a great many of the uprisings that, directly or indirectly, brought about the final demise of the great Yuan (1271– 1368) and Ming regimes. The White Lotus sects thus became, in Richard Shek’s words, “the most feared and notorious of all sectarian organizations since the Yuan dynasty.” They were steadfastly condemned for heterodoxy and suppressed through most of the late imperial period but still survived actively underground and branched into even more congregations with changing names.17 Given the persistent nature of government repression, how, then, are we to explain the tenacity and dynamism of the White Lotus tradition as a principal form of Chinese popular religion? A major reason was its highly flexible sectarian teaching, especially the powerful eschatological messianism. The Bailian ideology was premised on a series of obscure conjectures— the sequential arrivals of different Buddhas to save the world—each of which represented an approaching change of kalpa. Such eschatological chronology later developed into the full-fledged doctrine of three successive world stages (past-present-future) that constituted the basic salvational scheme of White Lotus belief. The onset of the new stage entailed both an unstoppable change of kalpa and impending cataclysmic destruction throughout the temporal world.18 This sectarian ideology is thus most powerfully conveyed by its messianic prophecy and the intervention of immediate disasters. Such doctrinal production of social anxiety was an indispensable tool in mobilizing great masses of followers against the state when sociopolitical conditions were at their nadir. This potentially explosive millenarian message, as Robert Weller argues, resonates with the orthodox theory of the “Mandate of Heaven,” a core element in traditional Chinese political philosophy. As the primary means of explaining dynastic changes, this theory justifies revolt against an unworthy emperor by deeming it a divinely ordained mission reflecting Heaven’s supreme will. It should be noted that most of the time, White Lotus adherents

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accepted the state’s authority and engaged in peaceful, devotional religious activities that posed no direct threat to the imperial system. To enshroud their eschatological worldview in a legitimate and secularized veneer, some sectarian texts, like the “Precious Scrolls” (Baojuan), explicitly made Confucius a god and incorporated him into the Bailian pantheon. Still others couched their teachings in such conciliatory language as “Long long live the emperor” (Huangdi wansui wanwansui).19 When agencies of the state became so oppressive that they transgressed local standards of acceptable behavior, however, the Bailian sects could become much more violent and politically active by translating their promise of eschatological salvation into a battle cry for social protest or even military insurrection. The idea of successive kalpic changes, as Shek notes, was “predicated on the assumption that the existing order, with its ethical norms and sociopolitical institutions, was finite, mutable, and destined to be replaced” in a violent way.20 When exactly this transition would come about, however, was a highly contingent question depending on contemporary sociopolitical conditions. In normal times, it remained an obscure issue that concerned few White Lotus members. During periods of great crisis, however, the timing of the cosmic disaster could become both an overriding and a highly contentious matter among major sectarian leaders. When most of them agreed that the kalpic change was rapidly approaching, how to respond to it and its accompanying catastrophe became an issue of life and death for all believers. Like most sectarian cults, the White Lotus religion claimed an exclusive monopoly on the way to eschatological salvation. It was this esoteric knowledge that empowered Bailian adherents to claim that they were the elect who would survive the ineluctable cosmic calamity unscathed. When this final day of judgment arrived, they would become the sacred soldiers in the apocalyptic battle against the impious state and all nonbelievers. Only through relentless attack on the doomed could the faithful clear their way to true salvation. For those hard-core sectarians, the imminent eschatological holocaust was a bloody catharsis that was to be welcomed rather than feared, since it was their final opportunity to purge all nefarious elements from society in preparation for a new life. Seen from this perspective, violent response to conditions that were perceived as kalpic disasters not only heightened people’s sense of personal efficacy but shaped their sense of participation in sociopolitical and cosmic transformations. It can be argued that White Lotus sectarianism internalized violence as an indispensable part of both sectarian development and individual redemption. Whenever the external environment was appropriate, agitated congregations could become quickly radicalized and politicized, in the process

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greatly increasing their numbers of participants and mobilization power. I see this violent, transformative tendency within the White Lotus ideology as a key intervening variable that affected the timing, scale, and intensity of antistate Bailian movements. The discourse of impending cosmic crisis, as a defining tenet of the White Lotus doctrine, directly shaped the sects’ changing relationship with the state as well as their recurring cycle of political violence. Analyzing kalpic change and its accompanying catastrophe, more specifically, draws attention to the powerful cultural practices by which the state was symbolically represented to its people and constructed by local society.21 At times of harsh government persecution, Bailian believers imagined the state in an all-out destructive way while taking themselves as the Buddha’s designated helpers in destroying this world and greeting the new millennium. This radical conceptualization not only helped transform sectarians from pacific worshipers into militant rebels but also provided them with a powerful tool to make sense of their deteriorating condition and, furthermore, to save the world through state-resisting violence. Foregrounding the link between sectarian discourse and social protest allows us to see the hidden mechanism by which the state comes to be marked and imagined in local culture. From this vantage point, White Lotus messages and activities can be seen as a barometer of sociopolitical order at any given historical time, conditioned by the extent of politico-military control imposed by the authorities. In particular, I consider the shifting discourse of kalpic crisis as a situational, bottom-up diagnostic of the state that changed largely according to different levels of governmental repression. Thanks to such flexibility and contingency, the White Lotus tradition became a critical means of constructing the imperial state in Chinese popular religion. Despite its substantial organizational growth during the Song period, the White Lotus tradition did not develop into a full-fledged messianic religion until the mid-sixteenth century. This period saw the rise of its supreme deity, the Eternal Mother without Birth (Wusheng Laomu), who superseded the Maitreya Buddha “as the ultimate source of eschatological salvation.” This doctrinal development became “the most distinctive feature of Chinese sectarian millenarianism” during the Ming-Qing period. According to the vernacular scriptures of Baojuan, the Eternal Mother not only controlled the kalpic turns but also created all humans and the whole cosmos.22 When the ultimate cosmic disaster occurred, this all-merciful mother would save her suffering children through the hands of her agent— Maitreya. Only in this way would they be able to survive the calamities and return to the paradise where the Eternal Mother resided—True Empty Native Land (Zhenkong Jiaxiang). The rise of this supreme matriarch and

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bodhisattva-like savior, not surprisingly, promoted a “feminization of compassion” in Chinese popular religion. Consequently, as Richard Shek has written, White Lotus groups were especially appealing to women and became “the only voluntary organization in traditional China that had a sizable female membership.” The primacy of the nurturing Eternal Mother directly challenged the patriarchal hierarchy and the moral universe on which Confucian society rested, adding another radical dimension to the subversive appeal of the White Lotus sects. This core mythology injected vigor into the millenarian ideology by integrating its previous components into a more systematic whole. The reconstituted Bailian tradition “began to inform the religious content of most Ming-Qing sectarian groups” while becoming a “mature and coherent version of heterodoxy in late imperial or early modern China.”23 Such heterodox maturity reached its peak following the dynastic transition in the mid-seventeenth century. The Manchu conquest of China endowed White Lotus adherents with a further motive for political activism, as epitomized by their slogan “Overthrow the Qing and restore the Ming” (Fanqing fuming). In subsequent times of great crisis, radicalized sectarians used such ethnically charged slogans to exploit latent anti-Manchu sentiment and to cloak their subversive activities in the robes of dynastic restoration. They preached that the Maitreya Buddha would transmigrate to this world as the Eternal Mother’s emissary for the purpose of saving her estranged devotees and supporting “Niuba” (a term they cleverly created by splitting into two the character “zhu,” which represented the Ming dynasty since it was the family name of its royal house). Niuba, congregations were taught, was the reincarnated divinely justified political leader of China. Resonating with the idea of the Mandate of Heaven, specifically, Niuba was both Maitreya’s earthly agent and the scion of the Ming ruling house usually held to be present in the form of a young boy24 As a new backbone of the Bailian doctrine, the supposed reincarnation of this powerful duo—Maitreya and Niuba—at the behest of the all-powerful goddess presented an even more formidable “competing hierarchy of authority” to the Qing regime. While serving as a focal point for mobilization, these “apocalyptic political symbols” proved both a blessing and a curse for the White Lotus movement. Different Bailian sects in the rebellion of 1796, for example, could not settle on the urgent question of designating the divine leaders in whose form Niuba and Maitreya were incarnated, which partly explains their ultimate failure in coordination and mutual support.25 The White Lotus sects, as Susan Naquin points out, manifested themselves in two principal ways: as docile, scattered congregations in normal times and as a powerful vehicle for overt uprising at the time of the new

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kalpa. Along the same line, Richard Chu differentiates between a quiet, “purely religious” phase and an active, “rebellious” stage of Bailian activity.26 It is helpful to make such distinctions from the state’s vantage point, but one should also conceptualize the two different stages of sectarian development as complementary and interchanging attributes of the same belief system. Therefore, White Lotus sects “could be at once inwardlooking and devotional, and aggressively, militantly revolutionary.”27 Their highly flexible millennial message was perpetuated through a normally diffuse but potentially cohesive organization, thereby making believer and rebel merely different phases of the same salvational process. It can be argued that White Lotus believers were engaged in an eternal, transgressive game of contentious politics that occurred at the blurred boundary of tolerated and forbidden sectarian activities. They could readily transform peaceful claims for salvation into violent ones for selfpreservation, and vice versa, depending on their discursive construction of the state (image and practice). In coping with the changing political pressure, the Bailian Jiao thus demonstrated, probably more than any other Chinese popular religion, tremendous adaptability, with which it empowered itself in both occasional antidynastic uprisings and routine sectarian reproduction. The greatest power of this sectarian tradition lay in its extraordinary flexibility in mediating between the universality of abstract millennial ideas and the specificities of particular local contexts. Thanks to their volatile articulation of social anxiety and their eschatological justification of popular protest, White Lotus adherents had an especially strong capacity to perceive the predatory nature of state penetration and mobilize people for self-defense. Sectarians sought a delicate balance as they peacefully practiced their seemingly innocuous popular religion while not forsaking the last resort of rebellion during times of great hardship. The dynamism of the Bailian tradition, put another way, was mostly grounded in the actual or, most of the time, threatened use of violence for the purpose of resisting government persecution and defending its sectarian existence. As a result, different White Lotus congregations “could survive as if dormant without entirely losing their capacity to mobilize believers to drastic action.”28 This tenacious nature was a long-term adaptation to hostile state policies and tough social environments. Scholars have long noted the striking ability of the traditional Chinese state to regulate popular religious beliefs across the huge Chinese empire. Arthur Wolf contends that the imperial government was so potent that it “created a religion in its own image” by promoting a bureaucratized version of heaven and hell that reflected China’s sociopolitical landscape.29

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Thanks to this parallel between religious and temporal officialdom, the state co-opted popular yet nonthreatening deities into its pantheon of popular worship while promoting traditional morality, social mores, and political loyalty.30 Yet it must be noted that in some cases even the bureaucratized heaven had subversive potential, not to mention the fact that many popular deities remained outside the heavenly officialdom. The White Lotus religion, for instance, could never reflect or confirm the extant power hierarchies, because much of its ideology was antithetical to both the Confucian high tradition and the political system it supported. Thus the Bailian sects did not lend themselves to being standardized, superscribed, or gentrified as part of the state-sanctioned religious system. In effect, according to B. J. ter Haar, the name “White Lotus teachings” was little more than a convenient label used by the Ming-Qing governments to represent all varieties of heterodox religions.31 Alternating between compliance, subtle critique, and outright insurrection, this sectarian tradition was an independent source of nonstate political legitimation that could give direction and hope to those who were marginalized in the existing society. Therefore, it held great attraction for “individuals for whom the normal paths of salvation were unappealing or unattainable or for whom ordinary community structures were unavailable.”32 The White Lotus teaching, in particular, had a special resonance for frontier migrants, who often derived strength and identity from this sectarian tradition. In what follows, I shall examine the uprising of 1796 by situating it in its frontier context.

Rebellion in Hubei On January 11, 1796, the White Lotus uprising erupted in Zhijiang and Yidu counties of Jingzhou prefecture, Hubei. Within two years it swept through a large part of central-western China; but rebel forces proved unable to control the lowland core—the Jianghan plain—in the northern part of the middle Yangzi River basin. By the end of 1797, most of the rebel forces had retreated to the Han River highlands across the provincial border of Hubei, Shaanxi, and Sichuan. Thereafter, this mountainous frontier became the major center of operations for the roving insurgents until their final defeat in 1805. The White Lotus uprising occurred in Jingzhou prefecture due to the conjunction of several contentious events and circumstances. A major precipitant was the escalating “religious cases” that occurred through the late eighteenth century. From 1794 to 1795, in particular, Qianlong launched an all-out dragnet to ferret out and apprehend Bailian leaders in six prov-

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inces of central-western China. As “one of the old emperor’s last campaigns and the most ruthless,” this crackdown rendered a deadly blow to the sectarian organizations in Hubei, Sichuan, and Shaanxi and threatened their very existence.33 Several hundred White Lotus adherents were rounded up and executed, while many more were imprisoned or brutalized. Local officials and their yamen underlings, to make it worse, took this ferocious manhunt as a license to victimize and extort payments from the populace. They carried out a family-by-family search; those who did not pay the required bribe were arrested as Bailian converts, and many were tortured to death. Injustice and cruelty reached such an extent that it provoked widespread popular discontent, which enhanced the sects’ appeal and confirmed their prediction of an impending kalpic change and disaster.34 Making haste to profit from this dire situation, White Lotus leaders stepped up their proselytizing efforts and called for outright revolt against state persecution. Forced to pay or die, many people became so desperate that they rose up for self-preservation during this time of great hardship.35 The second major incitement to armed rebellion can be attributed to the Miao uprising of 1795, which overtaxed the state’s coercive capacity in Hubei, Sichuan, and Shaanxi. Subduing this ethnic revolt required the Qing to mobilize almost all available military forces in the three provinces, meaning that only a ludicrously small number of imperial soldiers were left in central-western China when the sectarian uprising broke out. This startling lack of regular troops was especially clear in the nine rebel-afflicted counties of Hubei, including Yidu, Yunxi, Zhuxi, Fang-xian, Baokang, Laifeng, Donghu, Yuan-an, and Dangyang, whose average number of stationed soldiers did not exceed seventy in January 1796.36 The governments’ military weakness was compounded by the extortionate practices of local officials and yamen staff who utilized the Miao campaign as another good opportunity for personal enrichment. Because of its strategic location and proximity to the Hunan-Guizhou frontier, Jingzhou prefecture bore an especially heavy burden of provision and corvee labor. What was more disturbing was that some rapacious state agents even increased military surcharges by tenfold in the name of supporting the Miao campaign. Such unscrupulous exploitation exhausted the local communities and created great suffering among the people. The depressed conditions were aggravated by a string of natural disasters that hit Jingzhou in the last decade of the Qianlong reign. All these produced a tinderbox of frustration and hatred toward the authorities that spawned a receptive audience for the White Lotus teachings. Making active use of the agitated situation, sectarian congregations in Hubei underwent a rapid

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growth in size and influence as they radicalized their salvation messages and enlarged their activities. On the pretext of fending off the Miao attack, some even started making weapons and called for mutual support by forming various self-defense organizations. The Miao uprising, in sum, created a power vacuum in Hubei that invited antistate militarization, thus presenting a splendid opportunity for the sectarians to rise up. The White Lotus leader Zhang Zhengmo even seized the occasion to claim that “the Miao people are sent [by the Buddhasavior] to assist us.” The “interconnected synchronicities” of the two inland rebellions, along with the simultaneous piracy crisis, overextended the state’s coercive capacity to a breaking point. This was a clear sign of the unsustainability of late Qianlong empire-building.37

The Staging of the Rebellion Big river systems, as William Skinner maintained, play a key role in the “functional integration” of Chinese physiographic regions.38 Hubei province is crisscrossed by the Yangzi River, the longest waterway in China, and its largest tributary—the Han River. While the Yangzi runs into western Hubei from Sichuan via the prefecture of Yichang, the Han enters the province from southeastern Shaanxi via the highland prefecture Yunyang. The two eastbound rivers intersect at Hankou, the central metropolis of the Middle Yangzi macroregion, creating the Jianghan alluvial plain with thousands of lakes. For the sake of analysis, the rebel-afflicted area in Hubei can be divided into three major sections in terms of topographic and socioeconomic variations.39 The first was the crowded river valley on the Jianghan plain that took up the central part of the province, consisting of Jingzhou prefecture, Jingmen department, and Anlu prefecture. Wet-rice cultivation had long been the dominant form of agriculture in this lowland core, which exhibited great socioeconomic differentiation. The second subregion consisted of the less populated and relatively unstratified highland peripheries in the northwest (Yunyang prefecture) and the southwest (Shinan and Yichang prefectures). Dry-land farming predominated in local agriculture. The third subregion was the strategic crossroads prefecture of Xiangyang, located in the transitional zone dividing the Han River highlands in the northwest from the lowland cores of the Jianghan plain in the south and southeast. These three areas can be taken as what R. Keith Schoppa calls “microregions” due to their unique internal environmental conditions and socioeconomic structures.40 These interacting ecological

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and socioeconomic variables mentioned above created distinct strategies of local survival, which directly shaped the different regional dynamics and trajectories of the White Lotus rebellion. Let us begin with Xiangyang prefecture, which was situated at the confluence of the Han River and its largest tributary, the Bai River. These two great waterways made Xiangyang a natural transit point for traveling from west to east. This hilly prefecture also served as a convenient demarcation between the Yangzi River and Yellow River basins, connecting the south with the north via a labyrinthine network of upland roads and passes across China’s Central Mountain Belt. Thanks to these favorable physical conditions, Xiangyang had long been the geographical center of China proper and a key nexus for interlocking commercial systems. As a sort of “middle ground,” it received an uninterrupted flow of goods, people, and ideas across much of the empire while also extending its influence in all directions.41 Due to this highly unique and strategic location, Xiangyang became the focus of intrasect contention for the White Lotus religion, though this area had not developed a strong tradition of Bailian sectarianism before the late Qianlong reign. As Shaobin Li points out, a Hubei man, Li Conghu, learned the teachings of the Shouyuan (Return to the Origin) sect, a derivative Bailian group, from his Henanese cousin Xu Guotai in 1767. Thereupon he brought the sectarian messages to Xiangyang through his local disciple Sun Guiyuan, a peripatetic mason in the prefecture. In contrast, Blaine Gaustad lays greater emphasis on disciples of Li like Yao Yingcai, Ai Xiu, and Wang Quan, whose proselytizing efforts in the 1780s represented the first major exposure of Xiangyang to White Lotus religion. Shortly thereafter, Liu Zhixie, the Anhui leader of another Bailian offshoot and the disciple of the banished Henanese patriarch Liu Song, also came to this prefecture and actively recruited followers for his Hunyuan (Primal Chaos) sect. The resulting competition intensified as he successfully won over Yao’s major local disciple Song Zhiqing in 1789, bringing Song’s Shouyuan converts into the fold of Hunyuan. Three years later, however, the cooperation between Liu and Song ended because of their conflicting claims regarding the overriding issue of designating Maitreya and Niuba. Song branched out and set up his own sect, named “the Greater Vehicle of Western Heaven” (Xitian Dacheng). A variation of the Return to the Origin teachings, it became the most successful sectarian group in the Han River highlands.42 Despite such intersect rivalry, the three masters’ missionary efforts transformed Xiangyang into the heartland of White Lotus activities in Hubei toward the end of the century. Sectarians from this prefecture, according to official investigations, played a predominant role

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in motivating and organizing the uprising of 1796. As the most active and powerful sectarian participants in the revolt, they were collectively called the “Xiangyang congregation” (Xiangyang jiaotuan) or “Xiangyang original sect” (Xiangyang laojiao). Among the hundreds of Bailian leaders, moreover, Xiangyang natives constituted the majority group.43 The White Lotus teachings, once having reached Xiangyang from the north China plain, spread upstream and downstream along the Han River.44 Thanks to different “messengers” like wandering migrants, merchants, laborers, and priests the sectarian culture climbed up the high mountains and flowed down into the low river valleys. However, the uprising of 1796 first broke out in neither the strategic Xiangyang prefecture nor the recently settled, hard-to-reach Han River highlands. How to explain this rather surprising outcome? The answers lie mainly in the two different socioeconomic structures that the White Lotus leaders faced in developing their bases of followers in different regions. One of these structures was the populous and tightly clustered clan-villages on the Jianghan plain; the other being the sparsely populated and scattered mountain communities in the highland area of Hubei. The former often had developed strong lineages closely tied to local authorities. Along with the baojia system of household registration and mutual surveillance, such lineages provided an effective means for bottomup social control and top-down official management. Fertile agriculture and flourishing commerce, furthermore, supported a network of committed gentry and wealthy landlords to dominate local affairs and safeguard social stability. All these features made the Jianghan plain more tightly knit and less accessible to sectarian influences from the outside.45 The White Lotus insurgents did manage to win over a handful of disaffected landlords like Nie Renjie, but such piecemeal effort could not challenge the paramount power of orthodox social formation in the lowlands. In response to intensifying official persecution and venality, White Lotus leaders in Hubei began to “introduce greater urgency” into their messianic propaganda during the late 1780s. Besides predicting forthcoming cosmic catastrophes, some of them even contemplated the idea of insurrection in their cultural production of anxiety and terror. Further pressed by the ferocious campaign of 1794, Liu Zhixie, Bai Peixiang, Yao Zhifu, and Wang Cong-er finally decided to act in Xiangyang on March 10, 1796.46 But the vigilant gentry in Zhijiang and Yidu got wind of this plot and notified authorities immediately. The local officials apprehended some of the planners and launched a fierce manhunt for the rest. To escape destruction, sect leaders like Zhang Zhengmo and Nie Renjie were obliged to strike prematurely in Jingzhou prefecture on January 11. Consequently, the “scheduled

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uprisings went off like badly timed firecrackers” that started an immediate chain reaction.47 The initial Bailian uprising was therefore shaped by a contingent situation rather than by careful planning. Because most government troops in Hubei were sent to squash the Miao aboriginals, the rebels had little trouble seizing such cities as Dangyang, Baokang, and Zhushan. But wealthy local elites, especially the civil and military shengjian (shengyuan and jiansheng) like Luo Siyong and Luo Siqian, took the initiative of organizing militia to defend their communities against sectarian attack.48 So the rebels could not “mobilize the wealth and manpower of lowland society, and thus never gained the momentum needed to challenge the regime successfully.”49 According to the depositions of the Bailian leaders Nie Renjie and Xiang Yaoming, the rebel forces prepared to first seize the county seats of Zhijiang and Yidu, followed by the prefecture cities of Jingzhou and Xiangyang. They then planned to cross the Han River and push northward to Henan. This bold plan was later abandoned as the insurgents proved unable to defend conquered urban centers like Dangyang, due largely to the resistance of the gentry and other orthodox groups. Sect leaders came to realize that they could no longer base their operations in the lowlands and directly confront the Qing forces. Starting in September 1796, the focal area of the uprising gradually shifted northwest as rebels swarmed into the Hubei-Shaanxi-Sichuan border region, relying on its rugged terrain to resist the government attacks. They gathered followers and supplies along the way while pillaging the local communities like roving bandits.50 In contrast to the close-knit clan-villages on the Jianghan plain, the upland counties of Yunyang, Shinan, and Yichang were characterized by atomized mountain communities and myriad frontier forces with a high degree of autonomy. Yunyang, the easternmost part of the Han River highlands, was especially impoverished and sparsely populated, with fewer elites and less developed agriculture. Despite relatively weak economic integration with the outside world, local people supplemented their low incomes by exporting mountain products like timber, bamboo, and tea. The diverse populace and the lack of strong elite networks hampered the development of self-defense organizations under gentry leadership. All these made the highland society more egalitarian, violence prone, and open to outside influences. Its general lack of social control provided a hotbed for the development of White Lotus sects. Scholars like Cecily McCaffrey and K. C. Liu have already examined the initial phase of the White Lotus rebellion in western and central Hubei. So this chapter focuses on the Han River highlands, the epicenter of the uprising from 1797 to 1805.51

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The Highlands in Rebellion The land surface of China, like a three-step staircase, gradually slopes down from the west to the east. Located along the transitional causeway in this staircase topography, the Han River highlands had occupied a unique and crucial position in Chinese historical geography. This quintessential frontier zone, however, has been somewhat overlooked by existing historiography in English, which tends to focus on external borderlands outside China proper. Recent scholars, including James Millward, Daniel McMahon, and William Rowe, have called for more study of internal frontiers on the peripheries of China’s cultural, economic, and political heartlands. This chapter moves the Han River highlands to center stage by investigating how local people turned their mountain societies into a crucial site of border-crossing and contentious politics.52 Physical geography, to be sure, constrains the social, political, and economic structures that can be constructed in a given region. Such interrelationships shape the “unique personality” of this area by weaving “the ‘seamless robe’ existing between humans and their immediate natural context.” It is therefore necessary to examine the social ecology of the Han River highlands by discussing their “localized human-natural interdependencies.”53 To begin with, here are the basic geographic conditions. Extending about 1,530 kilometers, the Han River (Hanshui) is the longest and most volatile tributary of the Yangzi. Known as the “sacred river” by local people, Hanshui rises from the Bozhong Mountain in southwestern Shaanxi abutting the Sichuan-Gansu border.54 Then it surges eastward across southern Shaanxi and flows southeast through a large part of Hubei before joining the middle Yangzi at Hankou near the provincial capital, Wuchang. The merging of the two great rivers in central Hubei, as mentioned earlier, created a huge fertile lowland—the Jianghan plain—dotted with a panoply of lakes. In its upper reaches, the Han River alternates with and meanders through two tremendous mountain chains running from west to east in central China: Qinling (or Nanshan) to the north of Hanshui and Daba to its south. This unique topography of “one river enclosed by two mountains” (liangshan jia yichuan) created a huge internal frontier known as the Qinba Laolin (Han River highlands). This topography also modulates the monsoon climate in terms of temperature and precipitation, thus separating the dry, wheat-growing north, dominated by the Yellow River, from the humid, rice-producing south, dominated by the Yangzi River. For this reason, the Han River highlands have been viewed as the natural water-

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shed between the north and the south. They also served as a transregional corridor that connected China’s western plateau, central basins, and eastern plains.55 A local phrase aptly summarizes how the highland inhabitants understood the ecological world they lived in: “nine parts mountain, one part water and farmland” ( jiushan banshui banfentian). Except for a few enclosed agricultural basins like Hanzhong, the Han River highlands were predominantly covered by two thick, primeval forests (laolin) along the Qinling and Daba mountain belts in the early nineteenth century. According to a description by Zhuo Bingtian, a Jiaqing-era local official, the northern stretch of these highlands was called the Nanshan Old Forest (Nanshan Laolin, also referred to as Qinling Laolin). It extended eastward across various counties and departments in southern Shaanxi, including Lueyang, Feng-xian, Baoji, Mei-xian, Zhouzhi, Yang-xian, Ningshaan, Xiaoyi, Zhen-an, Shanyang, and Xunyang, until reaching Yunxi in northwestern Hubei. As for the southern stretch of the highlands, it encompassed the Bashan Old Forest (Bashan Laolin), which extended eastward across Ningqiang, and Baocheng of Shaanxi; Nanjiang, Tongjiang, Bazhou, Taiping, Daning, Kai-xian, Fengjie, and Wushan of Sichuan; and Ziyang, Ankang, and Pingli of Shaanxi; until finally arriving in Zhushan, Zhuxi, Fang-xian, Xingshan, and Baokang of northwestern Hubei.56 Between the Qinling and Bashan primeval forests lay the Han River, which cut through southern Shaanxi’s major valley basins, including Hanzhong and Ankang. The two heavily wooded areas, albeit divided, belonged to the same ecosystem called Qinba Laolin (the Han River highlands). With altitudes ranging from two thousand to three thousand meters, they were among “the last remaining original forest areas within China proper.”57 Few officials understood these highlands better than Yan Ruyi, a capable administrator who served there in the first two decades of the nineteenth century. In his eyes, this internal frontier on the edge of China’s heartland was akin to the external borderland wilderness far beyond it. A place where raging rivers were often juxtaposed with deep gorges and dense forest, Qinba Laolin extended over 1,600 kilometers and occupied an area of 310,000 square kilometers, straddling the border of Shaanxi, Hubei, and Sichuan. From the state’s standpoint, such exceedingly difficult terrains, like the Great Wall, provided an “insuperable” barrier safeguarding the “three provinces” (sansheng baozhang) in central-western China.58 A tangle of provincial boundaries divided this complex mix of mountains, forest, and rivers into three separate administrative areas that “interlocked like the teeth of a dog” (quanya xiangcuo). These prescribed, rigid, and bounded jurisdictional spaces, more of an artifact than natural necessity,

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did not correspond to the region’s fluid and malleable ecological-economic systems, which defied clear-cut demarcation.59 This top-down political construct, furthermore, often contradicted bottom-up utilization of the frontier spaces by local people. Consequently, as Skinner noted, some areas had much greater resemblance to or closer contact with their bordering provinces than with the other parts of their own province.60 A prime example of this is southern Shaanxi (Shaannan), which consisted of Pingli, Ankang, Ziyang, and Xixiang counties, lying south of the Han River. Although it had been an administrative part of Shaanxi since the Yuan dynasty, this mountainous frontier area was largely cut off from the rest of the province by the Qinling highlands. Most of it belonged to the Middle Yangzi macroregion, whereas central and northern Shaanxi lay in the northwest macroregion. Due to shared topographical and climatic conditions, southern Shaanxi had great socioeconomic affinities with both northeastern Sichuan and northwestern Hubei.61 As the modern historian Ts’ui-jung Liu writes: although administratively, the upper Han River area belonged to Shensi (Shaanxi), geographically, this part was different from northern Shensi. The climate and soil along the upper Han River were more similar to those of the Yangzi valley than the loess plains to the north. More significantly, the influx of immigrants into the upper Han River highlands in the late eighteenth century made this part of Shensi all the more closely related to Hubei. One local official remarked in the early nineteenth century, “now I come to Qin (Shaanxi) as if I were still in Chu (Hubei). The mountains of Qin are mostly tilled by people from Chu.”62

According to the provincial official Taibu, for instance, half of the population in Shaanxi’s Xing-an prefecture, many of whom were the White Lotus converts, migrated from neighboring Hubei.63 The opening up of the Qinba highlands during the Ming-Qing dynasties led to an expansion of cultivated land and the simultaneous shrinkage of forest-covered areas. This process of frontier-making connected major agricultural areas along the upper Han River, such as Hanzhong, with the other three key river valleys in central-western China: the Wei River valley (or Guanzhong plain) of Shaanxi to the north, the Jianghan plain of Hubei to the southeast, and the Chengdu plain of Sichuan to the southwest. This process of highland development also linked the Hanzhong basin with Nanyang, its western counterpart in Henan. Such transregional integration accelerated over the eighteenth century as a massive wave of in-migrants moved to the Han River highlands from all directions. Some reclaimed the unfertile upland as pengmin (shack people); the others worked in the scattered mountain factories (shanchang) that produced wood, charcoal, iron,

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paper, and salt for regional or national markets.64 The three-province border region thus became an intersecting hub of the five major agricultural zones in central-western China. It was crisscrossed by a labyrinth of river-borne and overland trading routes, migration pathways, and pilgrimage itineraries, carrying a brisk flow of goods, ideas, and manpower into this central transitional zone.65 The thickening network of economic, social, and cultural links intensified border-crossings that further integrated the seemingly inaccessible highlands into the empire. Here one can deem the internal frontier not merely a dividing zone between China’s lowland cores but a “middle ground” bringing people, commodities, and ideas together. According to Skinner’s spatial framework of traditional China, the Han River highlands also formed the boundaries of four macroregions: the Upper Yangzi, Middle Yangzi, Northwest, and North China. Peppered with large mountains and deep forests, not surprisingly, this vast borderland had long been a natural hideout for outlaws and a hotbed of revolts since the mid-Ming. It therefore was in many respects an archetypal frontier region: a topographically rugged, ecologically challenging, politically divided, economically strained, and violence-prone region with a reputation as an inviting bandit lair. All these aspects made the Hubei-ShaanxiSichuan highland area one of the largest administrative black holes in late imperial China. A separate governorship had been created in the Yunyang area to control the “floating people” from Jingzhou and Xiangyang during the Chenghua reign (1488–1505). Invoking this mid-Ming historical precedent, two leading nineteenth-century statecraft officials—Yan Ruyi and Wei Yuan—suggested that instead of splitting the Han River highlands between Hubei, Shaanxi, and Sichuan, a “special province” (xingsheng) should be established to govern the unruly frontier as one integrated jurisdiction. They felt that only through such drastic administrative restructuring could peace and security be ensured for centuries to come. But this reform proposal was not put into practice because the court considered it too radical and hardly realistic.66

Topographic Limitations on the Politico-Military Structure While big mountain chains conveniently delimit a political map, they stubbornly resist the penetration of state power into frontier society. The Han River highlands, cut by steep slopes and blanketed by dense forests, had long been an ungovernable borderland in the geographic center of traditional

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China. Although its limited junxian (centralized local bureaucratic system) administration fostered a semblance of centralized rule, there was actually no effective, routine state control across this far-flung frontier zone, partly due to the fact that the state generally established fewer jurisdictions in areas further away from Beijing.67 The resulting “span-of-control” problem was aggravated by the sparse, unsettled nature of the highland population and their extremely low taxpaying capacity, which made it even more difficult to sustain a strong administrative and military presence in the three-province border region. Hence local officers were spread dangerously thin, and most government centers were located outside the mountainous area, thus creating serious difficulties for communication and political control. It is not surprising that the understaffed administration could hardly govern those frontier territories “where even the long whip of the state could not reach” (bianchang moji).68 Highland people thus customarily took the law into their own hands to redress local grievances. During times of crisis they did not hesitate to rise up against the state, as happened in the White Lotus uprising. While attempting to suppress such rebellions, field officials complained bitterly about the inordinately large size and hostile topography of the area for which they were responsible.69 The Shaanxi governor Ma Huiyu grumbled in his memorial to Emperor Jiaqing that “because this region [the High River highlands] is stuck in the middle of ten thousand mountains [wanshan zhi zhong], its land is indeed barren and unproductive. The state machinery is also spread much thinner in comparison with that in lowland cores. Some frontier departments or counties govern an area ranging from 1,000 to 2,000 li. So the local officials can hardly keep close control over these regions.” Xixiang county of Hanzhong prefecture, in particular, was troubled by this problem of undergovernment: “its jurisdiction extends over 1,000 li, which is the largest one in Shaanxi. Yet there are only one magistrate, one xiancheng [deputy magistrate], two xunjian [inspectorate], and one dusi [army commander] in this county. The Shaanxi governor had requested to have it partitioned into three counties, but the Board of Personnel rejected this proposal. As a result, our local government control is extremely thin.”70 Limitations imposed by geography greatly weakened the state’s military presence in the Han River highlands as well. The Sichuan governor-general Lebao complained that this borderland was really not the place to fight a war (fei yongwu zhidi). Due to the shortage of soldiers and military provisions, government troops could only be stationed at a small number of widely dispersed strategic areas like district and prefecture cities. They often had to operate in outsized territory and impassable terrain, which made it impossible to control or even monitor local disorders.71

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While creating insurmountable difficulties for state control, the highland topography proved a boon to the people who inhabited the threeprovince border area. Its river-linked mountains and intricate footpaths not only provided a primary means of regional transport but also afforded the best natural protection for various antistate and nonstate forces. The social ecology of the highlands made it easy for sectarians and bandits to rise up against the state; the highlands’ sheer size and rugged inaccessibility also gave insurgents plenty of room to maneuver. In the words of Yan Ruyi, “there is so much violence and so little order in the three-province border region partly because it is hard to attack and easy to defend.”72 This situation even persisted into the 1930s, when Chiang Kai-shek’s Guomindang armies were trapped fighting the Communists in the same area. Chiang considered this region the most difficult strategic area to take and occupy in the whole country.73 The segregating effect of high mountains and long forests (gaoshan changlin), furthermore, created a multitude of murky jurisdictional interstices that undermined and even escaped state control. Highland forces made regular use of these ill-defined administrative boundaries to evade taxes, engage in illegal activities, and escape government punishment. White Lotus insurgents, in particular, deliberately conducted their activities astride two or three mountainous jurisdictions that were not in good communication with one another. The rebel leader Hu Mingyuan described his strategy as follows: “in northwest Hubei many huge mountains and intricate paths straddle the border of Shaanxi and Sichuan. When there are more government soldiers in Sichuan and Shaanxi, we scatter into Hubei territory. When more soldiers are stationed in Hubei, we then slip back into Sichuan and Shaanxi. The officials never know our whereabouts.”74 Unable to deal with the increasing workload within their own administrative purviews, shorthanded local authorities often turned a blind eye to border issues and tried to shift responsibility to neighboring counties, prefectures, or provinces. This parochial vision was certainly not shared by the emperor at the distant Forbidden City. In the midst of the White Lotus campaign, Jiaqing often chided his field officials for failing to act beyond their jurisdiction, thus thwarting horizontal collaboration and slowing down suppression. He complained vehemently about such rigid political boundaries (cijiang bijie zhi jian), since in his eyes, the three provinces were no different from each other. But the emperor also admitted that it would be impossible to govern the huge empire without such strict administrative demarcations.75

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Highland Development in the Late Qianlong Reign To understand the highland area as well as the crises it produced, one must go beyond a brief overview of the slow-to-change ecology and fragile state infrastructure to get a real sense of local people and their border-crossing experiences. Unlike the Miao frontier in the Hunan-Guizhou border, the Han River highlands were not an ethnic borderland, as few aboriginal nonHan people lived in the area. This densely forested region, as Eduard Vermeer maintains, was actually among the latest areas in China proper to be intensely colonized. Despite intermittent settlement since the Han dynasty, the first strong tide of reclamation did not start there until the 1420s. Over the ensuing two centuries, a large number of land-starved peasants from adjacent provinces streamed into the Qinba highlands, opened the virgin mountains for cultivation, and settled down as laomin (original residents). But this vast, persistent influx of “drifting people” was brought to an end by the late Ming peasant uprisings, which were centered in this area and decimated most of its population. The subsequent dynastic transition further turned the Han River highlands into a wild, unsettled territory of central-western China. But such a bleak picture started to change in the late Kangxi reign, when internal migration reemerged as a major force of frontier transformation under government encouragement.76 This new assault on the highlands reached its peak in the closing decades of the Qianlong reign. From the 1770s onward, economic downturn, overcrowding, and natural disasters in the basins and valleys of central-south China provoked a huge exodus of indigent settlers into the three-province border region. The Shaangan governor-general Bi Yuan noted that these migrants first came to the upper highlands around the year 1773. In 1778 alone, over 100,000 refugees from Hubei and Hunan arrived in Hanzhong prefecture in southern Shaanxi as xinmin (new people).77 According to Yan Ruyi’s on-the-spot investigation, 70–80 percent of Hanzhong’s population were immigrants in 1814. Some years earlier, this percentage had been as high as 80–90 percent in the Shaanxi-Sichuan border area. As for Sichuan as a whole, 85 percent of its population had been nonnatives during the early nineteenth century. Astounding as they were, these numbers might still be underestimations, for some newly arrived kemin (guest people) did not appear on the official registers due to their mobile way of life and scattered pattern of settlement.78 Due to this massive wave of in-migration, the population of the Han River highlands expanded exponentially throughout the eighteenth cen-

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tury, which in turn exacerbated the state’s span-of-control problem across this border region. In such long-settled counties as Xing-an and Xixiang the official data of registered population showed a sixfold increase from 1700 to 1823, a situation corroborated by contemporary observations. The local Xing-an official Ye Shizhuo, for instance, noted that “after 1785, all mountains and valleys had been filled with people, every inch of land had been cultivated, and all water had been used for irrigation . . .” With regard to the newly opened hill counties like Pingli, Xunyang, and Shiquan, the increase was even more staggering, as their populations multiplied as many as thirty to a hundred times.79 Most of the upland migrants were rootless and jobless single men who lived perilously close to subsistence. They were also the most marginalized, mobile, and volatile elements in the mountain society. Due to its late development and diverse populace (wufang zachu), Yan Ruyi observed, the Han River highlands had few powerful lineages and wealthy landlords at the time of the White Lotus rebellion.80 The weakness of local elite networks suggests that class antagonism played little part in shaping the uprising. Instead more attention should be paid to various highland forces and their manifold networks of border-crossing. In particular, it is worth asking why sectarian leaders met with unprecedented success in this internal frontier by gaining mass support from a wide range of immigrant groups. The ceaseless flow of population from lowland to highland intensified the commercialization and diversification of the local economy during the late Qianlong reign. Regional trade based on mountain products—including timber, bamboo, paper, coal, iron, salt, tea, and tree fungi—expanded, as did a large number of upland factories (paper and iron) that employed hundreds of thousands of family-less, violence-prone male workers. Such vibrant economic activities supported an elaborate network of periodic markets, ranging from permanent commercial towns to makeshift wilderness markets (huangshi or huangchang).81 Besides mountain factory workers, the opening up of the highlands and the resulting growth of regional trade also attracted other least-rooted rural elements like pengmin, guolu bandits, salt smugglers, and coin counterfeiters (all discussed later). These marginalized but obstreperous groups formed the backbone of the volatile frontier society, which made government control all the more difficult. The infelicitous combination of ecological fragility, economic hardship, sociocultural dislocation, and weak state apparatus proved conducive to the formation of various illegal and supralocal organizations, rendering this internal frontier a hotbed of popular protest.82 Gong Wensheng, a financial officer who was dispatched to this area during the White Lotus

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campaign, was shocked by the forbidding environment. He lamented in his wartime diary that: “some parts of the highlands are so desolate and inhospitable that no sparrow or bird can be seen throughout the year. When a person comes to those places, even though he might have a lot of land and money as well as many loving sons and beautiful wives, all he can do is sigh, lament, and cry.”83 Since resources were in scarce and unpredictable supply, highlanders often used violence to cope with the unrelenting survival pressure, which further prompted them to fall back on mutual aid associations for protection. The perennial struggle for land, water, and food, at the same time, resulted in a multitude of predatory and nonpredatory frontier groups devoted to smuggling, banditry, and feuding. The late eighteenth century, in particular, saw a tremendous upsurge in the strength of such organizations across the three-province borderland.

The Structure of Frontier Society in the Han River Highlands As Michael Mann has written, “societies are best seen not as unitary or bounded social systems or structures, but rather as multiple overlapping and intersecting socio-spatial networks of power rooted in ideological, economic, political, and military relations.”84 By the late Qianlong reign, there were diverse nonstate and antistate groups across the Han River highlands that shared a common social ecology and contentious tradition. Despite their similar goal of escaping control by both the state and local elites, these frontier forces relied on different strategies of survival and often contended with each other, thus creating endless social disruption that invited state persecution. For example, guolu bandits often found salt smugglers and coin counterfeiters easy prey. Yet these groups collaborated with each other during the White Lotus rebellion, galvanized by radical sectarian ideology and compelled by their urgent need for mutual support. The looming threat of state intrusion overshadowed their cleavages and necessitated a temporary, strategic alliance under sectarian leadership. Since the White Lotus congregations played a predominant role in integrating the nonstate and antistate forces, a close look at their makeup can shed light on the formation of the upland societies. Far from being a simple body of religious fanatics and coerced peasants, Bailian insurgents were socially variegated and horizontally mobile. In addition to hard-core sectarians, as the imperial commissioner Nayancheng discovered in his investigation, they also included “such ruffians and outlaws as the guolu of

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Sichuan, the laohu of Nanshan, the pengmin of Xiangyang and Yunyang in Hubei, and the salt smugglers along the Han and Yangzi rivers, as well as the counterfeiters of various provinces.”85 The proportion of rebels who were die-hard sectarians must have been considerably smaller than one might suppose. According to the investigation reports of the Huguang governor-general Wu Xiongguang, White Lotus devotees accounted for only two- or three-tenths of the real rebels in Hubei. Another contemporary estimate was even more modest, claiming that no more than 10 percent of the insurgents in Sichuan consisted of genuine sectarians in 1800.86

Pengmin These were upland migrants who eked out precarious livings on marginal fields carved out of forested hillsides.87 Attracted by vast untilled land and low taxation rates, as Yan Ruyi observed, they filtered into the threeprovince border region from crowded lowlands and engaged primarily in a sort of slash-and-burn agriculture. These “specialists in highland reclamation” felled trees to open fields while collecting branches, straw, or reeds to make rude shacks (peng) for temporary living. This is how they got the unflattering name “shack people.” With little property, most pengmin cultivated New World crops like maize and sweet potatoes; others became wage workers (changmin) in mountain factories set up by rich merchants and big landlords. Their specialized food production was not merely for self-sufficiency but also met the growing demand of the highland workforce in the iron and paper factories. As the provincial official Changlin observed, shack people were scattered widely over the mountain ranges, and “there were usually no more than twenty households within ten li.” Owing to the quick exhaustion and easy erosion of deforested mountain soils, shifting swidden cultivation was crucial to the profitability of highland reclamation. Hence the shack people often moved every three to five years, sometimes several times a year, to look for new fields suitable for farming. Such physical mobility, along with their market dependency, became the most distinguishing characteristic of the pengmin. Lacking villages or kinship organizations that could bind them together in a precarious social ecology, these migrants had to establish sworn brotherhood or patron-client relationships with other powerful highland forces like the guolu bandits and Bailian sects. It was extremely difficult for the local authorities to monitor, let alone rein in, these highly dispersed and mobile groups through traditional control mechanisms, like the baojia and gentry-led militia systems widely used in settled agricultural regions.88

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Without a stable community to fall back on, pengmin are thus “best understood as a transient phase of settlers on the shifting frontier, rather than as a permanent social class.”89 They formed part of the empire-wide “floating population” of the Qianlong reign, whose main destination was mountainous internal peripheries like the Han River highlands. The original shack people, as Sow-Theng Leong and Stephen Averill asserted, had appeared in Guangdong and Fujian during the mid-sixteenth century. They were pushed out of the southeast coast into the mountainous regions of Jiangxi and the lower Yangzi. Leong focused on those highland specialists of Hakka origin fanning out across southern and central China from the late Ming onward.90 But this migratory wave rarely reached the upper Han River, which was mainly populated by a newer group of immigrants from Hubei and Hunan who accounted for about half of the highland population.91 By and large, officials like Yan Ruyi viewed the shack people with ambivalence. On the one hand their migration up into the sparsely populated hills eased the crowding in lowland areas. Their backbreaking work in swidden agriculture, moreover, turned hilly “wasteland” into a valuable resource and brought it onto the tax rolls. On the other hand excessive, unregulated highland reclamation not only caused ecological damage (like deforestation and landslides) but also posed a tremendous challenge for sociopolitical control. The development of mountain factories attracted various unstable elements into the highlands to work as hired laborers or pengmin. Unable to keep track of them, local authorities had the perpetual fear that these dispersed bands of mostly unaccompanied males would set off violent conflicts with nearby lowland communities. Still more worrisome was the possibility that they might shelter bandits and rebels or even join forces with them against the state. As the local administrator Yue Zhenchuan remarked, pengmin had turned the mountain factories into “the habitual hideout (chaoxue) of White Lotus rebels.”92 Depending on their economic situation, like the south China pirates, the shack people fluctuated in and out of their legal occupations as opportunities arose. Due to such uncontrollable mobility, they played a vital role in transmitting sectarian messages to scattered highland groups and in facilitating their violent collaboration. During the late Qianlong reign, as Averill pointed out, the Qing government stepped up its efforts to control the pengmin, including following the Ming policy of closing off some mountain areas to any kind of settlement. Such heavy-handed measures had little chance of success due to the weak state apparatus in the area. Actually they had the opposite effect, feeding endemic unrest in the highlands by forcing pengmin to ally with the sectarians and guolu bandits.93

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Guolu Bandits Growing disorder and limited law enforcement accounted for the perpetual existence of the guolu bandits, a well-organized and dangerous force in the three-province border region. The upland area of northeast Sichuan, in particular, was well known for these warlike, obstreperous brigands. Originally deserted imperial soldiers, they first sprang from the stalled military campaigns against the Jinchuan tribes in western Sichuan (especially from the muguomu defeat in 1773) and later thrived in the hostile social ecology of the highland area.94 As roving mountain outlaws, guolu bandits were largely unattached, property-less, and desperate youths united by fraternal ideology. More specifically, they consisted of erstwhile soldiers, unemployed pengmin, and local undesirables who had been driven to lawlessness by war, natural disasters, and governmental injustices. In some areas, even yamen underlings and salt smugglers were part of the guolu brotherhood association. Thanks to their military expertise and manifold constituency, the guolu bandits were an effective fighting force that coordinated disparate groups and terrorized the highland society: raiding stores, robbing traveling merchants, collecting protection money, and holding hostages for ransom. The audacity of these operations alarmed the Qing government and prompted it to implement a harsher policy toward this paramilitary organization in the 1770s. A decade later, Emperor Qianlong ratcheted up his repression campaigns, following the suggestion of the Sichuan governor-general Fukang’an that guolu bandits be completely eradicated. Facing increasing government pressure, these desperate brigands had little choice but to ally with other highland forces, like the sectarians, while stepping up their predatory operations.95 Banditry in the three-province border region was a complex phenomenon. While disrupting local order, it offered many frontier people an avenue for survival in the turbulent environment. Sometimes highland people rejected and fought these robbers, but in most cases, as Yan Ruyi observed, they sought to negotiate and coexist with this necessary evil. Lacking adequate protection from the state, many merchants and landlords paid regular protection fees to guolu bandits to purchase immunity from their future depredations. Some local elites even established sworn-brother ties with this protection racket to enlist support in case of violent conflicts with other forces.96 The guolu banditry, indeed, should not be viewed simply as a criminal venture or security nuisance, for it performed some of the state’s functions by contributing to a viable order in the highlands—though

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as is typical of such operations, the protection they sold was against the violence they themselves committed. (Such interconnection of predation and protection was also a characteristic of the piracy crisis across the South China Sea.) As a crucial means of survival, communal violence remained a constant feature of the highland social ecology. The White Lotus converts collaborated with bandits, ruffians, and outlaws in a pragmatic attempt to bolster their armed forces. The groups that specialized in violent action, rather than the salvation-oriented sects, formed the military backbone of the rebellion. In allying with such unsavory forces, the sectarians became addicted to their “roving bandit mentality” and engaged in ever more predatory behavior, which alienated local support. As for the guolu bandits, they used the cover of the White Lotus rebellion to undertake yet more robbery and extortion, further damaging the reputation of Bailian sects.97

Salt Smugglers and Coin Counterfeiters Two more groups that deserve mention are salt smugglers and coin counterfeiters. Unlike guolu bandits, they could be characterized as among the nonpredatory forces of the Han River highlands. Still, many of them had close ties with the former and sometimes became a part of the mountain bandit group. Partly for this reason, the late Qianlong state tightened its grip over smugglers and counterfeiters as well, forcing many of them to join the sectarian uprising for self-preservation. Eledengbao, a top army commander in the antisectarian campaign, reported that these two groups of troublemakers became the bulk of the rebel force in areas like southwest Shaanxi.98 Due to the “privatization of trade” under the dual pressure of commercialization and population growth, the Qing government found it increasingly difficult to manage the commodities over which it had asserted monopolies.99 In consequence, more and more smugglers and counterfeiters appeared in the frontier regions during the late Qianlong reign. By the early nineteenth century, the shipment and sale of salt was monopolized by a small group of selected merchants belonging to different salt zones designated by the state. These privileged franchise holders worked closely with their respective salt administrators in setting the prices for the commodity. To compound the misery for local people, the demarcation line of salt districts tended to overlap with rigid, far-fetched political boundaries that were dictated by topography and overlooked such economic factors as production and transportation costs. This “conspicuous lack of market rationality” inherent in the system of salt administration

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(yanzheng) turned out to be a disaster for highlanders in the three-province border area during the late eighteenth century. As prescribed by the statesanctioned franchise system, people on the Hubei side of the Han River highlands were forced to purchase government salt shipped from the distant Lianghuai salt zone headquartered in Yangzhou.100 Partly due to the arduous upstream transportation along the Yangzi River, official salt prices were often set at levels so high that most frontier people could not afford to purchase it. Instead they preferred much cheaper and easily tapped supplies from the private salt wells in neighboring northern Sichuan. Gansu merchants also shipped contraband salt to the highlands from Shanxi and Mongolia along the Han River. Although strictly prohibited by the late Qianlong state, such private traffic in salt, as being an essential ingredient of local livelihood, was welcomed, supported, and practiced by most highland inhabitants. To meet the demand of vast black market networks, smuggling groups mushroomed in this mountainous area and some even banded together for mutual military support. Since pengmin’s work involved crisscrossing mountain ranges and river valleys, they were ideal candidates for this illicit business. Many salt smugglers also collaborated with the White Lotus rebels, and some of them, like Wang Sanhuai, even became key sectarian leaders.101 Action against salt smuggling coincided with the campaign against private mintage of copper coins, a form of bimetallic cash currency (the other being silver) and the lowest denomination of money in imperial China. Its unauthorized production thrived in the three-province border region during the late Qianlong reign, partly due to the ready availability of various minerals. By this time, moreover, the highland economy had become increasingly commercialized due to a massive influx of in-migrants and their expanding settlement, which fueled the demand for this basic medium of exchange. From an empire-wide perspective, more significantly, the output of state casting agencies simply could not keep up with the needs of a huge and increasing population. The yawning gap between official supply and societal demand naturally encouraged the time-honored practice of counterfeiting. Aggravating the situation further was the declining mining industry across the empire, especially in Yunnan, which led to a dearth of copper throughout much of the late eighteenth century. Consequently, government mints in the 1790s had to cut back on production by about 37 percent compared to the mid-Qianlong reign. They also began casting debased copper coins by adding more supplemental ingredients like tin and white lead (zinc). These jerry-built coins not only were brittle and wore out easily but also were easily counterfeited. Taking advantage of the unstable monetary situation, highland people scrambled to produce cheap-

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ened counterfeits in outlying mountain factories, notably in the hardscrabble interprovincial region of Hubei, Shaanxi, and Sichuan. According to the local official Yue Zhenchuan, counterfeit coins proliferated after 1785 and flowed out of the Han River highlands like a raging flood.102 They not only were widely used in this region but also filtered into the national market in exchange for various goods, thereby contributing to an expanding network of domestic trade. To alleviate the problem of currency scarcity, as Man-houng Lin points out, Qing authorities largely tolerated unauthorized casting of copper coins during the early and mid-Qianlong reign.103 But this policy was gradually reversed in the late eighteenth century as the state began cracking down on private minting throughout the empire, especially across the three-province border region. After capturing over two hundred counterfeiters in 1794, the Qing court determined to further pursue their effort to extirpate this illegal business in the next two years. Avaricious local officials and yamen underlings, turning this campaign into another opportunity to enrich themselves, extorted payments from frontier people in the name of searching for counterfeiters and their illicit products, driving the latter further into the arms of the sectarian rebels. It is worth noting that the state’s White Lotus campaign had a clear economic effect on this illegal yet lucrative mountain business. Due to the government’s skyrocketing spending on military suppression and on postwar reconstruction after the campaign, the early Jiaqing period saw a massive influx of silver taels into the Han River highlands. Consequently, as Jiaqing admitted in June 1802, it caused a depreciation of silver vis-à-vis copper coins in this area, making counterfeiting even more profitable and widespread.104 Though difficult to quantify due to a dearth of sources, it seems that during the late eighteenth century a large portion of the highland populace had come to depend on salt smuggling or coin counterfeiting to make ends meet. The steady growth of the two illicit businesses was abetted by the state’s weak presence in the highlands as well as the incongruous boundaries between commercial and administrative structures. Sectarians made active use of the secret trading and marketing networks of smugglers and counterfeiters, thereby extending their influence throughout the border region. Increasingly strident prohibitions of these border-crossing activities posed a dire threat to the highland communities because they directly impinged on the livelihood of the various nonstate and antistate groups. I propose that such nonstate activities as salt smuggling should be understood in the context of the two interactive mechanisms of sociopolitical control: one was irrational political regulation based on the prescribed bureaucratic structure that sought to territorialize and monopolize the

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essentially fluid frontier space; the other was open-ended commercial expansion growing out of the changing social ecology, which undermined the state’s attempts at spatial hegemony. The imposition of a rigid and farfetched salt zone system and unsustainable official-merchant monopoly required a certain amount of tolerance on the part of the state for smuggling. The illicit border-crossings, as a necessary evil, provided an essential means of survival for a large number of marginalized, dangerous, and mobile people who were beyond government control. For a premodern state with limited organizational resources and mobilization power, the realistic goal was not to eliminate salt smuggling altogether but to keep it under a certain extent of control. It was therefore of great importance to maintain a dynamic equilibrium between official monopoly (exclusion) and informal contraband (permeability). Qianlong’s overaggressive policy of repression threatened this balance, as it would deny the highlanders an indispensable option for survival. And such a policy was doomed to fail because the local authorities lacked a strong apparatus to enforce it in the hostile frontier environment. Consequently, contraband mushroomed into a full-fledged counter-system that menaced official trade and government rule. Such uncontrollable “encroachments from private interests,” as Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn contend, irreparably damaged the central government’s role in dominating and defining the sphere of public interest.105 Worse still, Qianlong was most active in subjecting and subsuming the state’s agenda to his own personal interest.

The Dilemma of Late Qianlong Frontier-Making The spread of the White Lotus rebellion across the three-province borderland reflects a general contradiction between the structural limitation of the late Qianlong state and the emperor’s aggressive empire-building efforts. Despite its weak infrastructure and weak elite network in the highlands, the state’s efforts to enact unrealistic policies toward the pengmin, salt smugglers, and coin counterfeiters transformed this internal frontier into the epicenter of a major uprising. To stabilize the highland order, the government would have needed to fashion acceptable survival strategies for most of the nonstate and antistate forces there. Apparently, the late Qianlong state lacked the wherewithal to proffer such alternatives and thus could hardly dislodge these groups from their subversive means of survival. This paradox of frontier-making leads us to the conception of a minimalist but flamboyant Qing state during the late eighteenth century. Its

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failures in the Han River highlands underlined the limitations and vulnerabilities of the empire, forcing the court to retreat from its ambitious plans for frontier control and to accept a more conservative social order. During the White Lotus campaign, for instance, Emperor Qianlong grudgingly eased up on his draconian policies toward the guolu bandits and salt smugglers in Sichuan. Jiaqing, in his turn, acknowledged that the government could not continue to prohibit settlement in the Qinling forest of southern Shaanxi. Instead he employed a policy of encouraging and supporting more highland reclamation and economic transformation in the area. Such pragmatic policy changes, to be sure, were facilitated by capable local administrators like Yan Ruyi and Gong Jinghan (discussed in later chapters).106 Hence the highlands in crisis reinforced the negotiated nature of the Qing state by reconfiguring its relationship to frontier society. What happened in these borderlands, furthermore, had far-reaching effects on how empire-building worked in other peripheries or even core areas. The Han River highlands and the Sino-Vietnamese water world thus played a more important role in the construction of the state than the conventional literature portrays. Together, they forced the Jiaqing court to rethink its frontier policies, thus precipitating a timely retreat from Qianlong’s unsustainable efforts at state control over those unruly spaces. Such borderlands also carried an important symbolic meaning for the authorities. According to Confucian political culture, the lack of virtue at the imperial center would often unleash a wave of popular protest that was often strongest on the peripheries.107 While a successfully executed frontier campaign aided empire-building, unsubdued borderland forces jeopardized the state’s image and even threatened its existence. In order to maintain its legitimacy and hegemony, ultimately the political center needed the compliance of fringe regions and those who lived there. On the whole, there were three distinct yet interacting forms of social resistance against the intruding state in the Han River highlands. Whereas such nonpredatory forces as salt smugglers and coin counterfeiters represented the victory of economic survival over bureaucratic control, predatory groups like the guolu bandits signified a military challenge to the state’s monopoly of coercive power. The third form of resistance, a largely ideological one represented by the sectarian groups, could readily transform into the other two types of protest and ally with them, thus posing the most formidable challenge to the imperial state. These three kinds of frontier forces, most of the time, would not directly and openly challenge the state. How, then, are we to make sense of their increased collaboration during the White Lotus rebellion? Militant organizations and radicalized

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sectarian ideas, to be sure, offered two major mechanisms of highland mobilization. But I maintain that intensified government pressure played a vital role in transforming such scattered, hidden resistance into a more organized frontier revolt against the state. The long eighteenth century saw tremendous expansion of the Qing state power into the border regions on all fronts.108 For a long time, however, the Han River highlands “had developed in relative freedom and resisted attempts by the government to increase its local administrative presence and to suppress unorthodox sectarian network.”109 After incorporating such external borderlands as Tibet, Xinjiang, and Mongolia in the 1770s, Emperor Qianlong gradually shifted his focus to unruly internal frontiers like the Han River highlands, attempting to tighten up central control of such nonstate spaces within China proper. In 1782, for instance, the authorities began to conduct a decade-long cadastral survey in five hill counties of southern Shaanxi, trying to bring their hidden land under government taxation. Meanwhile, as noted, the state also carried out more harsh policies toward guolu bandits, pengmin, salt smugglers, and coin counterfeiters that were intended to curb or even outlaw their activities.110 Such intensifying efforts drove these highland forces into the arms of sectarians and galvanized them to rise up together against the state. By the same token, William Lavely and R. Bin Wong note that the White Lotus uprising “was a defensive reaction to increased state efforts to assert political control over this border region.”111 To better understand this event, I shall briefly elucidate the proselytizing process of the Bailian sects across the Han River highlands.

Propagation of White Lotus Religion in the Han River Highlands The White Lotus religion reached the highlands from nearby provinces like Henan, Anhui, and Shandong during the late Qianlong reign. This was a result of intensifying government suppression after the Wang Lun uprising that drove many sect leaders in north China to the upland communities in western Hubei. From the 1770s onward, they carried the Bailian teachings to Xiangyang, traveling as itinerant traders while proselytizing among the newly arrived migrants. These outside masters found their best recruiting ground in the highland zone between Hubei, Shaanxi, and Sichuan, thanks to its robust tradition of protest, ineffective government presence, and destabilizing socioeconomic changes during the high Qing period. With indispensable help from local disciples, these religious teachers

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launched fervent crusades to convert the freewheeling population in this interprovincial borderland. A case in point was Liu Zhixie, the most prominent White Lotus leader, who held the name “Heavenly King” (Tianwang) during the rebellion of 1796. Before his final capture in 1800, this Anhui itinerant prophet had long been targeted as the chief sectarian leader by Emperor Qianlong. According to his deposition, Liu traded cotton across the Han River highlands and by the 1780s had gained many influential followers in Hubei.112 But he was still unable to centralize leadership into his own hands, partly due to his simmering conflict with Song Zhiqing, an ambitious disciple and sect leader from Xiangyang who also traveled across the border region as a merchant.113 In his excellent study of the White Lotus religion in western Hubei and the Han River highlands, Blaine Gaustad has discerned two major types of sectarian formation before the 1796 rebellion. One was the Hunyuan (Primal Chaos) sects under the leadership of Liu Zhixie; these sects were centered in the interprovincial zone of Shandong, Henan, and Anhui. The other was the Shouyuan (Return to the Origin) sects from Shanxi, introduced to Hubei by Xu Guotai and his cousin Li Conghu and expanded by local practitioners like Sun Guiyuan, Song Zhiqing, Ai Xiu, and Wang Quan. The two lines of sectarian transmission not only had similar northern origins but also drew their central doctrinal inspiration from the same Bailian teachings. Akin to what Susan Naquin has called “sutra-recitation sects,” the early Hunyuan and Shouyuan congregations all stressed the centralized leadership, congregational solidarity, and written scriptures that were the prime features of White Lotus movements in north China. Once introduced to Hubei, however, the Shouyuan sects gradually metamorphosed into more volatile and less formal “meditational sects” that were prone to revolt. Aside from an emphasis on an eschatological message, they were characterized by loose organizations, flexible proselytizing strategies, and personalistic master-disciple relationships, all of which contributed to their remarkable survival power in the face of state persecution. Little wonder that the Shouyuan sects succeeded in adapting to the tough frontier environment and made effective headway in the small, isolated communities of the Han River highlands. As for the more routinized Hunyuan congregations, despite some initial progresses, they failed to take hold in this internal borderland because of their inability to adjust in terms of proselytizing strategies and preaching mediums.114 The proliferation of the Shouyuan teachings across the highlands was synchronous with the tremendous influx of refugees that was fueled by population explosion and various disasters during the late Qianlong reign.

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To facilitate their proselytizing efforts, local sect leaders like Song Zhiqing, Wang Yinghu, and Bai Peixiang catered to the needs of the frontier people by emphasizing the radicalizing symbolism of White Lotus teachings and by adopting more flexible preaching strategies. Without centralized leadership and established sectarian tradition, for instance, they relied less on structured networks, unifying doctrine, and detailed written scriptures like Baojuan and sutras. Instead itinerant Shouyuan masters tried to minimize ritual and simplify religious messages by propagating a great assortment of sacred chants (lingwen), sect watchwords (koujue), and mantras (zhouyu) that reflected their own apocalyptic imaginations.115 This word-of-mouth transmission of short, vernacular, and often rhymed scriptures was the central proselytizing tactic of local Bailian sects, which showcases their creative adaptations to volatile highland society and excessive state persecution.116 The eschatological conjecture of impending kalpic crises conveyed through these readily understandable chants constituted the core teachings of White Lotus sectarianism in Hubei. For instance, one koujue circulating before the 1796 rebellion reads in part: “On the tenth day of the third month, there will be a dark wind which kills countless people. Only sectarian members can survive the disaster.” Another koujue further depicted the horrible situation when the cosmic catastrophe came upon the earth: “At that time, both heaven and earth will be totally dark, neither the sun nor the moon will be shining anymore. People will die due to warfare, flood, fire, or strange diseases. Their wives and daughters will be raped. Great changes will take place under the heaven. Only those who join our sect can survive.”117 By transforming abstruse messianic ideas into “vivid imagery and concrete objects of worship,” these simple, creed-like incantations found a wide resonance among uncultured adherents and social malcontents struggling against state repression in harsh frontier environments. In reciting such sacred texts with awe, hard-pressed highlanders aspired to survive the cataclysm and enter a new millennium. While highlighting the imminency of eschatological calamities, sect leaders in Hubei showed a strong concern to make the way to salvation as simple, clear, and quick as possible. The captured Yunyang master Zeng Shixing testified that “whenever a lingwen is taught, a teacher-disciple relationship is formed.” Since the ritual of initiation often involved no more than a few people, it was relatively easy to join a White Lotus congregation or to start a new sect branch in the highlands. Consequently, many sect generations could be created in a short time, which further contributed to the centrifugal process of organizational fragmentation.118 Pierre Trenchant, a French missionary who traveled extensively in central China,

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noted that there had been a remarkable expansion of Bailian followers in this area during the late Qianlong reign. In one village of Shaanxi, for instance, 25 percent of the four hundred households joined this sect.119 However, the highly adaptive features of highland sectarianism also reinforced its localized and dispersed nature, which made large-scale integration of White Lotus congregations less likely. In comparison with their lowland counterparts, highland congregations were more diffuse, so their horizontal ties were much weaker. The vertical relationship between master and pupil, moreover, did not have to be intimate; and the teachings involved were often brief and superficial. According to the depositions of Zeng Shixing and Qin Zhongyao, many sects strictly prohibited believers from divulging any information about their masters and disciples.120 As a result, sectarians often did not know their cobelievers, much less collaborate with them. Teachers were geographically mobile and their disciples scattered about the highlands, appearing isolated from one another. The travels of peripatetic leaders like Liu Zhixie might have achieved greater coherence among the diverse White Lotus groups, but their coordination efforts, often overshadowed by intense competition, proved unable to overcome the pronounced centrifugal trend of sectarian development. Often internal splits followed on a sect’s growth, and subsects or new sects were formed due to conflicts among ambitious leaders like Song Zhiqing and Liu Zhixie.121 Throughout the rebellion of 1796, no Bailian master had established unified leadership or overriding authority over all sectarian branches, which greatly curbed their efforts of integration and undermined their potential for success in the antistate struggle. In the short term, however, the features that made the White Lotus sects institutionally weak also proved a source of strength. The atomization of these sects into numerous small, scattered, and relatively independent groups facilitated their secrecy and proliferation across the frontier communities. Such development not only made the proselytizing process hard for authorities to control but also rendered useless the standard suppression tactic of “executing leaders and dispersing followers.”

Nonstate Power in the Han River Highlands To many officials like Yan Ruyi and Ye Shizhuo, the White Lotus rebellion represented a profound crisis of Confucian culture. Its ultimate origin lay not in scanty material welfare, as they saw it, but in the failure of moral indoctrination.122 While the highland society had abundant cultural and organizational resources for social protest, there was little normative,

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orthodox power to restrain or counteract these contentious impulses. The aforementioned nonstate and antistate forces, as a matter of fact, governed local life in the Han River highlands and dictated its political culture. Drawing on Stephen Averill’s study of the Jinggangshan base area, I propose that these free-floating forces created a vibrant local counter-ideology that was infused with their psychological “dynamics of desperation.”123 Seen from this perspective, most state-society tensions in the highlands involved an ideological struggle propelled by conflicting configurations of power and domination. The government’s dismal performance in managing the first three years of the sectarian crisis had much to do with its inability to undermine, let alone replace, the antistate political culture in the three-province border region. More specifically, it failed to carry out a “Confucian agenda for social order,” like it did in the lowlands, which could transform rebellious beliefs into an acceptable symbolic framework of identification and communication between the state and the local societies.124 Besides the obvious military confrontation, in other words, an ideological battle was also taking place across the cultural frontier of the highlands. David Easton defines political process as the “authoritative allocation of values.”125 The ideological strength of the imperial Chinese state, by the same token, derived largely from its ability to allocate orthodox values across society and to represent governmental authority at different levels. The efficacy of this value-allocation mechanism, like the other two means of state control (coercion and material welfare), tended to decrease from the well-populated cores to the recently settled peripheries.126 Lowland societies, for instance, contained many orthodox institutions like the xiangyue (community covenant or compact for lecturing the people about appropriate behaviors), schools, and lineages that served as local defenders of Confucian civilization and effective channels for moral inculcation. Together with the baojia, lijia (hundreds-and-tithings that handled household registration for tax collection) and granary systems, which relieved famine by regulating the grain price, these sub-country grassroots institutions constituted what Prasenjit Duara calls the “cultural nexus of power” protecting the state’s long-term stability. Largely under the influence of local elites, these organizations carried out tasks that contributed directly to the implementation of the aforementioned “Confucian agenda for social order.”127 In such distant and unruly peripheries as the Han River highlands, however, neither strong government power nor established gentry networks were present. The weak orthodox infrastructure could not serve as the “cultural nexus of power,” thereby making it difficult for the state to achieve its “authoritative allocation of values.”

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The three-province border region, furthermore, had its own grassroots mechanisms of value allocation, which strayed from “civilization” and went beyond state control. This vast area had become notorious for its long tradition of popular protest tracing back to the Tang dynasty (618– 907 a.d.), which gave the area’s subversive practices the “color of right.”128 A striking example was the highly destructive peasant rebellion, led by Li Zicheng and Zhang Xianzhong, that successfully toppled the Ming dynasty. Moreover, highland people had developed a rich repertoire of collective action (including banditry, smuggling, counterfeiting, heterodox sects, and armed insurrection) on which to draw when they dealt with local strains and outside pressures. All these strategies of social resistance, together with the radicalized White Lotus teachings, allowed the sectarian insurgents to gain a measure of popular acquiescence and grassroots support in the face of official misrule and state intrusion. As evinced by their oft-repeated slogan “It was the officials who forced the people to rebel,” the insurgents understood this rebellious tradition and actively used it to confront the predatory state. Partly due to the harsh and unpredictable nature of the highland society, its local culture was especially colored with superstitious beliefs and sectarian ideas. As Yan Ruyi observed, frontier people’s thought-worlds were suffused with elements of myths and folk religion that resonated with the White Lotus ideology. The sects’ messianic vision offered them not only liberation and relief from harsh realities but also an imaginative respite from the entrenched hierarchical ethos that governed the lowland societies. Most important, uprooted migrants drew sustenance and solidarity from the Bailian tradition, using sectarian networks and salvationalist promises to cope with the forbidding frontier environment and stringent state persecution. Thus it was little wonder that, as the high officials Nayancheng, Taibu, and Hengrui observed, half of the highland migrants from Sichuan, Hubei, and Anhui were alleged White Lotus converts.129 Living at both physical and social margins, they used a common stock of sectarian symbols to protect their autonomy and nonstate space. The White Lotus sectarianism was therefore quickly incorporated into the highland culture and became a central part of it. This predominant popular religion functioned as the medium for the diffusion of unorthodox values to a variety of defiant subgroups, each of which might appropriate them in distinctive ways to enhance their own interests and power. The Bailian ideology thus shaped what James Scott calls “the moral logic of tradition,” in which shared ideas, custom, ritual, and norms defined a community’s meaningful roles or opportune expectations.130 Seen from this perspective, participation in the 1796 rebellion was inextricably tied

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to local conceptions of social justice and state legitimacy that were rooted in the highly autonomous frontier order. Thanks to these bottom-up allocations of values, the highland society had been successful in organizing the frontier people against state intrusion by foregrounding the issue of official repression and righteous resistance. It is necessary to further conceptualize the “legitimating universe” that various highland forces used to justify their autonomy and their local patterns of power. Inspired by Duara’s study of north China, I coin the concept “cultural nexus of nonstate power” to denote this constellation of cultural resources that promoted the attainment of negotiation and coexistence among various defiant groups. At the heart of this category lies the basic assumption that a standardized framework of state authority and its Confucian agenda for local rule were not accepted by most highland forces: that is, the imperial government had failed to create any framework of identification and communication linking it with the border region. Consequently, the upland society was marked by the extraordinary degree to which antistate values and beliefs permeated popular consciousness and sustained frontier protest. By the end of the Qianlong reign, the Han River highlands had become a sort of nonstate cultural space in which heterodox ideas or rebellious ideology overshadowed that of Confucian orthodoxy. It is worth noting that White Lotus teachings played a vital role in enriching and strengthening the cultural nexus of nonstate power, which in turn facilitated the propagation of sectarian ideas and the rise of frontier protest. The combination of various contentious forces and their cultural nexus of nonstate power constituted a highly autonomous zone of frontier politics that was controlled by neither formal state power nor informal gentry authority. I label the Han River highlands “nonstate space” mostly because neither of the two could successfully cope with the pressure of frontier transformation. Instead the White Lotus sects and their flexible messages filled the interstices, providing guidance to the highlanders in handling the challenges posed by harsh social ecology and excessive state intrusion. To assert the existence of such a nonstate space, to be sure, is not to deny the tenuous presence of the state apparatus and its power but to point out how that space fostered a sense of uncontrollability, because it nullified whatever weak capacity the state had to penetrate border regions to effect change, thus highlighting the state’s acute dilemma of intensifying frontier control and rising social protest. To fully understand peasant politics, it is necessary, as Daniel Little maintains, to “provide an account of the local processes through which group identity is formed and through which members of groups come to identify themselves as political actors.”131 There can be no doubt that

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frontier forces, relations, and networks came under severe pressure as the late Qianlong state ratcheted up assaults on sectarians, salt smugglers, counterfeiters, and bandits. In response, these highlanders strengthened the cultural nexus of nonstate power by expanding their border-crossing activities, most of which had been transformed from nonmilitant to violent ones under deteriorating conditions. Growing imperial pressure, in addition, spawned increasingly predatory and unjust practices on the part of local authorities, further jeopardizing the state’s legitimacy. All these changes boiled over into even stronger antistate sentiment, which catalyzed the radicalization of White Lotus sects and facilitated their proselytizing process. Ultimately they paved the way for the rise of frontier protests that “demanded” changes in the reckless state policies. The frontier people’s resistance to the centralizing thrust of the state needed organizational frameworks and cultural-religious justification, both of which were provided by highland sectarianism. The White Lotus ideology and congregations had become a key symbolic unifying force sustaining this frontier society, as well as its cultural nexus of nonstate power. In making sense of what was going on around them, highland people appropriated the cultural resources and religious symbols at their disposal to adapt to changing circumstances.132 Apart from providing a social network of mutual support, White Lotus believers fostered a common understanding based on their cultural production of social protest that resonated with the contentious tradition of highland societies. The sectarian ideology not only gave legitimacy to nonstate or antistate forces whose positions could not be defended through such conventional means as petitions and lawsuits but also provided a strategic basis for their political and military mobilization against the state. On the whole, one’s perception of the state matters greatly in formulating strategies for political action.133 This explains why the imperial Chinese state remained so obsessed with ideological control by attempting to impose its own “authoritative allocation of values.” The efflorescence of highland White Lotus groups indicates their growing sense of insecurity in the frontier environment and their disappointment with the worldly situation in which they found themselves. This efflorescence also points up the more active role sectarian leaders played in addressing such urgent needs as how to survive state repression. Great crises, in turn, made the Bailian ideology more appealing, given its powerful eschatological messianism based on kalpic change and cosmic catastrophe. Extensively woven into the fabric of frontier society, I would argue, White Lotus beliefs served as a matrix where borderland people could reflect on local maladministration, articulate their anxieties, and make demands for radical political

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change. Popular understandings of the state thus were reconfigured in this discursive field where the sectarians played a central role, especially during times of mounting upheavals. The upland people, as James Scott’s moral economy approach suggests, did not passively react to “objective” conditions per se; instead they actively interpreted these conditions as mediated by the White Lotus doctrine and by the contentious repertoire of highland protest. 134 When state practices deteriorated beyond an acceptable extent, sectarian ideology and the local tradition of social protest fueled a prevailing sense of administrative injustice and government illegitimacy that shaped the way highlanders responded to social, economic, and political changes. Together, this sectarian ideology and local contentious tradition constituted the foundation of the cultural nexus of nonstate power that sought to minimize the deleterious impact of those impersonal forces on the highland societies. Apart from emphasizing the destructive nature of state practices, White Lotus teachings also provided positive symbols, like Maitreya Buddha and Niuba, around which ordinary people could come together. They became a powerful tool in the harsh borderland environment where normal politics was not possible for one reason or another. This study underscores the symbolic unifying attributes of Bailian sects that helped integrate and empower the highland societies. These congregations could capture the scattered sources of insurrectionary impulses and, furthermore, transform them into a more organized popular protest. To draw a metaphor, the sectarians played a role similar to “circuits for electric current.” While sweeping across the agitated highland societies, they created a large “magnetic field” which assimilated diverse, unstable elements and wove them into fairly coherent, massive protests.135 With frontiers becoming the central stage of antistate and nonstate violence, White Lotus teachings served as a focal point for sociopolitical protest as well as a formidable means of empowerment for defenseless groups.

Chapter Three

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xtraordinary crises tended to coincide and overlap with each other, creating some pivotal conjunctures in the history of imperial China. The mid-Ming piracy disturbance, for instance, was largely overshadowed by the simultaneous Mongol incursions on the northern border, thus precipitating an inward turn of Chinese maritime policy. During the early seventeenth century, the declining Ming state entered into protracted, concurrent wars against internal peasant rebels and external Manchu invaders. China’s last native dynasty eventually bled to death on two fronts. Not long after its establishment, the subsequent Qing regime faced a surging maritime upheaval aggravated by its simultaneous war against the Three Feudatories (1673–1681). Through the course of its troubled nineteenth century, more strikingly, the Manchu dynasty was beleaguered by an intensifying series of peasant uprisings and Western incursions. All these converging crises severely drained government resources and led to increasing flows of people, funds, and ideas across the empire. Such transregional interactions suggested that the fortunes of China’s borderlands were intertwined with each other, since increased peril in one area often adversely affected the prospects of crisis management in other places. The White Lotus rebellion, likewise, should be considered alongside other concomitant crises that erupted elsewhere in the empire, the most significant of which was the dramatic upsurge of piratical violence in the South China Sea. As contemporary official archives suggest, the concerns

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of the Jiaqing court over inland and coastal security were closely tied together. This chapter, like the previous one, brings peripheries to central stage by highlighting the multiple constructions placed on the nonstate space as well as the active role of indigenous people in frontier-making and empire-building. Let us start with a captured pirate handbill submitted to the Jiaqing emperor by the Liangguang governor-general, Jiqing, who presided over the two provinces of Guangdong and Guangxi. The following excerpt affords us a rare glimpse into the perceived correlation between the south China pirates and White Lotus rebels: [During Heshen’s regency], all the high officials flocked to him and asked for his patronage. As a result, people are still living in great misery. It is time that the True God descended to save the populace from the abyss of suffering. We should follow the Heaven’s will and rise up to restore the Ming dynasty. On May 1, 1801, the following order has been distributed to our brothers on the sea in Guangdong and Guangxi: we will gather together all the ships on April 15, 1802, and move to conquer the two provinces; then it is our plan to occupy the Qing maritime customs and use their financial resources to support our great cause; later on we would join forces with the [White Lotus] brothers in Yunnan, Sichuan, Shaanxi, Hubei, and Henan provinces; thereupon we will take Mengjin (in Henan) and hold a grand congregation to commemorate our great victory.1

This inflammatory leaflet suggests that pirates were aware of the manysided crises confronted by the Qing and tried to manipulate them to their own advantage. They laid out an ambitious plan to join forces with their White Lotus “brothers” to overthrow the alien Manchu rule and restore the Chinese Ming dynasty. Even though such direct collaboration never materialized, it demonstrates the necessity of juxtaposing the two crises as a dramatic combination of challenges confronting the Manchu regime. The White Lotus uprising, along with the concomitant Miao revolt, allowed south China piracy to flourish by drawing the state’s gaze and resources away from coastal problems. The court was clearly less concerned about the faraway maritime violence than about the threat of inland rebels much closer to Beijing. It not only refused to spend money strengthening the navy but sucked funds from Guangdong to help pay soaring military expenses in the interior.2 By October 1801, the province had sent several million silver taels to other crisis-torn regions in seven installments. Tens of thousands of soldiers were redeployed from the southeast coast to battle the insurgents in central-western China.3 As the British observed in 1802, “the [Chinese] authorities could give little attention to petty piracies, as they had for some years been engaged in the suppression of numer-

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ous rebellions in many parts of the Empire.” Sea bandits were able to exploit the situation until the end of the sectarian uprising in 1805.4

The Rise of Piracy Crises in Late Imperial China For a better understanding of the piracy crisis during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition, it is necessary to briefly examine the general forms and nature of seaborne raiding in the history of late imperial China. According to Qing law, “a pirate was someone who plundered on rivers and oceans, as well as anyone using boats to pillage villages and towns.” Therefore, maritime predation was not necessarily carried out at sea. In terms of organizational form, Chinese piracy may be classified into three general categories: petty, professional, and political.5 The most common type was petty piracy conducted on a part-time basis (occasional or seasonal) by hit-and-run, smash-and-grab outlaws or small, disorganized bands of marauders. For impoverished seafarers, such sporadic raiding was a necessary sideline activity and a rational survival strategy that was deeply integrated into the political economy of coastal China.6 Such uncoordinated “parasitic piracy” could be largely contained by the existing defense and policing system and thus was more a minor irritant than a vital threat to the empire. When circumstances allowed, however, aggressive sea bandits could transform themselves into strong, unified, and professional-like forces. Forming large-scale bands or complex confederations, they carried out raiding on a routine, systematic basis. Predations were usually planned in advance and strictly executed according to prescribed procedures. Since costs and benefits were carefully weighed, such organized violence can be taken as a form of economic entrepreneurship or a regulated financial operation backed by military prowess.7 Although “the prize of piracy is economic,” Anne Pérotin-Dumon maintains, often “the dynamic that creates it is political.” As an important means of contentious politics, many frustrated coastal dwellers utilized maritime raiding to defend their interests and to challenge authorities without running the great risks of outright rebellion. Interestingly, piratical violence could also be used by the state as a convenient tool in regional or global power struggles. Scholars have long noticed “the marketization and internationalization of violence that began with the Hundred Years’ War” of 1337–1453 in Europe. As Janice E. Thomson asserts, “at the heart of these matters was the process of state-building. Privateering reflected state rulers’ efforts to build state power; piracy reflected some people’s efforts to resist that project.”8 More specifically, early modern European powers used

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the former to overcome the structural (fiscal and military) constraints of their states in the process of maritime expansion. In general, they were “better able to project a lethal combination of maritime force and economic enterprise than were most of their Asian counterparts.” Only in the nineteenth century was such official manipulation of nonstate violence delegitimated and eliminated in the West.9 China’s imperial policy, in striking contrast, did not support governmentsanctioned piracy or maritime military expansion. During the late Qianlong reign, transnational geopolitics and domestic upheavals transmuted the south China pirates into what could be called “free-floating resources” and speeded up their circulation across the Sino-Vietnamese water world. Not unlike their Western counterpart, pirates from the southeast coast sailed to neighboring Annam and fought for the Tay Son rebels as “naval mercenaries.” On behalf of their foreign patron, furthermore, they swarmed back to China and pillaged coastal communities and shipping for more than a decade. With official titles, ranks, and weapons from the Annamese regime, Chinese pirates took their brigandage as not merely a strategy of economic survival but also an important avenue for sociopolitical advancement. Robert Antony calls the period 1520–1810 “the golden age” of Chinese piracy and furthermore divides it into three great waves.10 The first wave refers to the half century between 1522 and 1574, which can be deemed the takeoff stage for large-scale maritime raiding in Chinese waters. The most immediate cause of this development was the Ming government’s imposition of stringent prohibition of overseas trade in an effort to extirpate petty, parasitic piracy.11 The rapid upsurge of maritime violence that followed, however, was also instigated by international forces, for this was the age of the wokou (literally translated as Japanese pirates). As a matter of fact, these forces also consisted of Chinese and interlopers from other countries. Banding together as a Japan-based international confederation, these military and merchant adventurers searched for new trading routes and commercial goods in defiance of the Ming’s hegemonic policy. At the same time, they also served as a tool for interstate bargaining and colonial expansion. As Murray explains, “during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, bands of Japanese pirates assisted by Chinese recruits forced the two governments into negotiations in which Japanese rulers undertook to stop the pillage in return for trading privileges in China. The presence of pirates around the provincial city of Shangchuan and the offer of Europeans to assist in their suppression led to the Portuguese settlement of Macao in the middle of the sixteenth century.”12 Following the Ming collapse in 1644, as the second wave, seaborne raiding once again escalated out of control along the south China littoral.

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The renowned pirate leader and Ming loyalist Zheng Chenggong (Koxinga) captured Taiwan from the Dutch East Indies Company, turning the island into a maritime trading state and the stronghold of anti-Qing resistance.13 Under his capable command, dispersed petty pirates grew into a sophisticated, powerful organization that fused raiding with insurgency and commerce. The antidynastic character of these activities added a new sense of political urgency to the threat of the early-Qing piracy crisis. Going even further than its Ming counterpart, the desperate Manchu court banned both overseas and coastal trade in 1652. This harsh but ultimately unavailing policy aimed to cut the Taiwan-based Zheng regime off from its support on the mainland. In 1662, the newly enthroned Kangxi emperor instituted a draconian policy of forced evacuation, requiring littoral dwellers in south China to relocate thirty kilometers inland after destroying everything behind them. This scorched-earth measure successfully prevented clandestine trade, thus cutting Koxinga’s supply line and undermining the resource base of his commercial empire.14 With the final collapse of the rebel regime, Taiwan came under Qing control in 1683. The unintended price of this harsh policy was the “Kangxi depression,” which reduced the silver circulation, slowed down the coastal economy, and severed China from the maritime world for two decades.15 Soon after bringing Taiwan into his fold, the pragmatic Kangxi began dramatically scaling back sea restrictions. To encourage and institutionalize maritime trade, he set up four customs administrations (haiguan) in the coastal regions of Guangdong, Fujian, Zhejiang, and Jiangsu from 1683 to 1685. As both overseas and domestic junk trade increased, China’s coastal economy recovered and expanded greatly throughout the eighteenth century. These favorable changes, unsurprisingly, furnished ample opportunities for small-scale, parasitic maritime predation. Yet such violent activities, unlike their mid-Ming and early-Qing counterparts, rarely crossed the dangerous threshold from petty to professional piracy and thus posed little threat to either government or commerce. With trade open, legal, and promoted, piracy was no longer the most crucial and viable means for seaborne commerce. Therefore, no great merchant-pirate like Zheng Chenggong emerged in this period who had the incentive and capability to integrate the free-for-all maritime predations.16 The third and the last major wave of piratical violence came in the early 1790s and ended in 1810. After a century of relative peace and stability, this period saw the rise of large-scale pirate leagues that pillaged and terrorized the south China coast. For purposes of analysis, I further divide this upsurge into two phases, demarcated by the demise of the Tay Son regime in 1802. In the first stage, maritime predation in Guangdong and

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Fujian was directly supported by the newly unified Vietnamese regime that emerged from the Tay Son rebellion of the 1770s. Secret sponsorship by this outside power integrated numerous bands of Chinese pirates into several large, well-equipped fleets operating from bases along the Gulf of Tonkin, a shared water zone between the Qing and Annam. On behalf of their foreign patron, these “naval mercenaries” swarmed back to China and pillaged coastal communities and shipping. This maritime upheaval stemmed above all from political changes within the broader tributary system and furthermore signaled a veiled Vietnamese challenge to the China-centered world order.17 Detailed discussion will be provided in Chapter 7; for now, suffice it to say that these sea robbers, like freefloating resources, were used by foreign rulers to aid their state-making at the supranational level. After the breakdown of the Tay Son regime in 1802, Guangdong and Fujian pirates were driven back to China by the newly established Nguyen state (1802–1945). This dramatic change inaugurated the latter stage of the third piracy wave. Notwithstanding their loss of outside patron, protector, and safe haven, the surviving Chinese pirates had gained invaluable military experience and political savvy from their decade-long mercenary fighting. This transnational collaboration, like a vigorous training program, united them into larger, more formidable confederations under the command of such pirate chiefs as Zheng Yi, Cai Qian, and Zhu Fen. The latter two even formed an alliance from 1806 to 1808, trying to set up a maritime regime in Taiwan. These efforts failed due to rising internal conflict and government suppression.18 Foreign captives furnished invaluable eyewitness accounts of the pirates as well as their organizations and activities. Richard Glasspoole, fourth officer of the British East India Company (EIC) ship Marquis of Ely, was taken hostage by a fleet of pirates near Canton (Guangzhou) on September 17, 1809. According to his close observation, the sea marauders’ “number augmented so rapidly, that at the period of my captivity they were supposed to amount to near seventy thousand men, eight hundred large vessels, and nearly a thousand small ones, including row-boats. They were divided into five squadrons, distinguished by different coloured flags: each squadron commanded by an admiral, or chief; but all under the orders of A-juo-chay [Zheng Yi Sao, Zheng Yi’s wife].”19 After the collapse of the Tay Son power, these pirates avoided the Sino-Vietnamese water world and established their headquarters in Canton, Xiamen, Macao, Chaozhou, and Taiwan. They even defiantly set up tax bureaus (shuiju) or financial outposts in these politico-economic centers to collect the tribute (protection money) and ransom payments that became their major source of revenue.

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In the meantime, sea robbers also used such agencies “to conspire with soldiers, yamen underlings, and officials who were on their payrolls.”20 An equally striking feature of these pirates was their ability to penetrate littoral society by establishing protection rackets spanning both sea and land. They not only collected annual or semiannual set fees from merchant vessels and coastal communities but also issued safety certificates (piaodian) or “tickets of immunity” stamped by pirate chiefs. These sea bandits used formidable military power to honor their guarantees, punish those who were noncompliant, and defend their territory of control. Since all ships without “license” became fair targets, “scarcely a junk dared leave port without first paying the pirates protection money against attack.” Thanks to this routine, systematic, and terror-based monopoly of both protection and violence, the pirates successfully regularized their piratical-financial operations and made them an institutionalized professional business.21 In addition, through their outright use of terror and extortion they gained firm control over many sea lanes, coastal villages and even interior waterways. By the end of 1805, for instance, they had virtually dominated Guangdong’s salt trade by forcing 98.5 percent of its official salt boats into their highly regularized extortion racket.22 As the British EIC official observed, “a fleet of Salt Junks arrived from the Westwards, having been convoyed by a squadron of the Ladrone Vessels; it is affirmed each Boat paid 200 Dollars for this protection and permission to pass unmolested.” Sir John Francis Davis, the second governor of Hong Kong, also commented: “At the height of their power they levied contributions on most of the towns along the coast, and spread terror up the river to the neighborhood of Canton.” The situation became so precarious that even European merchants were obliged to negotiate with the sea bandits for safety in this area.23 Acting like a virtual state within the state, the formidable piracy confederation, or “piratical republic,” as foreign observers called it, had its own fleets, officers, and tax bureaus in imitation of the Qing imperial regime. The confederation, moreover, openly infringed on the prerogatives of the authorities by mimicking, usurping, and privatizing some of their functions.24 Along with the White Lotus rebellion, the south China piracy greatly reinforced the negotiated nature of Qing state power in its various border areas, directly bringing about a state pullback during the Jiaqing reign. A contemporary Qing official likened the wide, constant existence of piratical violence to “the foam of the sea.” This existence resulted partly from a time-honored tradition of local tolerance, due to many coastal residents’ need to rely on this tactic to survive in a harsh frontier environment.

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By and large, professional sea bandits like Cai Qian and Zhu Fu seem to have been “scrupulous in abiding by the terms of their protection documents.” It was said that whenever a fishing boat with a safe-conduct pass was mistakenly attacked, the pirate chief would have the plundered goods returned to the owner with a compensation of 500 Spanish dollars.25 In such circumstances most merchants considered it more advisable to hand over ocean taxes (yangshui) to the sea robbers than to the similarly predacious but less reliable local officials.26 The pirates thus kept a close relationship with local maritime society, as well as the overland networks it relied on. As for the Qing officials, they were increasingly frustrated by this sort of illicit collaboration and by the lack of organized resistance at the grassroots levels. Maritime predation at this stage, furthermore, can also be called what John L. Anderson terms “intrinsic piracy.” Its wide scope and profound impact meant that piracy had become a pervasive force deeply integrated into the water frontier and maritime society. Whenever necessary, large numbers of sailors and fishermen became sea bandits, supported by local people from all walks of life. As Antony explains, “because tens of thousands of people on both land and water came to depend on piracy, either directly or indirectly, for their living, it quickly became a self-sustaining enterprise and, in fact, a significant and even intrinsic feature of south China’s seafaring world.” Like salt smuggling and coin counterfeiting in the Han River highlands, piracy provided work to countless people who could not be fully absorbed into the prevailing labor market. By this point, predation had become “de facto or de jure a part of the commercial or fiscal functioning of an organized community.”27 Any attempt by the state to interfere with that activity impinged not only on the autonomy of the sea frontier but also on the local people’s survival tactics. Such a symbiotic relationship between sea bandits and littoral society constituted the nonstate nexus of power that in turn sustained maritime raiding. While piracy did apparently upset the normal operations of legitimate trade, it also fostered a vibrant “shadow economy” that contributed to local commercial expansion and the circulation of goods throughout the mid-Qing period. In particular, it supplied littoral people with scarce goods at affordable prices and expanded the network of distribution by opening up new markets, some of which were clandestine and illicit.28 For just this reason, sea bandits themselves called their predatory practices only a “transshipping of goods.” By pumping sizable amounts of goods and money into local economies, piracy not only allowed marginalized coastal dwellers to make ends meet but also incorporated many of the poorer, isolated coastal communities into the larger commercial world.29

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Under the conjoined leadership of Cai Qian, Zhu Fen, Zheng Yi’s wife, and Zhang Bao, pirates dominated almost the entire Guangdong coast and reached the summit of their power in 1805. But their good fortune did not last long. Like the White Lotus rebels, sea bandits depended on links with the local populace to marshal necessary manpower and resources. Thus, when Bailing, the Liangguang governor-general, began enforcing a rigorous embargo in 1809, pirates were no longer able to observe their operating codes and to honor their safety certificates. To procure food and other supplies, they had to raid deeper than ever into the interior waterways and carry out indiscriminate depredations. Such aggressive attacks in the heartland of the Pearl River delta not only hammered a wedge between the desperate pirates and their overland supporters but also worked to unite local communities with the state in the campaign against sea bandits.30 As a consequence, the long-established nexus of nonstate power was endangered and broken. In addition to the emergence of strong community defenses, the pirate confederation also was enfeebled by growing internal discord among its top leaders, especially that between Zhang Bao and Guo Podai. As the pirate captive Richard Glasspoole commented, “this extraordinary character [Zhang Bao] would have certainly shaken the foundation of the government, had he not been thwarted by the jealousy of the second in command [Guo Podai] who declared his independence.” Capitalizing on the internal discord, Bailing further divided pirates through a series of co-optation campaigns that offered gracious pardons and generous rewards to those who surrendered. Guo Podai readily capitulated, along with his flotilla of 126 pirate ships and eight thousand men. Overjoyed, the governor-general accepted Guo’s submission and made him a naval officer. By then, Emperor Jiaqing had come to terms with the fact that his decrepit marine forces could never wipe out the pirate fleets and thus a nonmilitary solution of compromise had to be found. On March 9, 1810, he issued a proclamation of great amnesty to the remaining sea bandits, pardoning all their crimes and welcoming them back as loyal subjects of the empire.31 After weeks of tense negotiation, with the Portuguese serving as intermediaries, the Qing managed to secure the defections of 7,043 pirates—half of the remaining sea bandits—about 10 percent of whom later joined the imperial navy and fought against their erstwhile comrades.32 This marked the end of the golden age of Chinese piracy.

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The Maritime Frontier of the South China Sea Having sketched the general forms, nature, and evolution of the piracy crisis, I shall describe its sociospatial framework by examining the maritime frontier of the South China Sea. One cannot understand how this ocean space shaped the piratical violence merely in terms of its ecological features and socioeconomic patterns; it is also necessary to look at their connections and contradictions in relation to the weak political establishments. I will trace these intertwined processes and interactive structures so as to bring out the ingrained tensions and affinities in the multifaceted construction of the South China Sea. Frontiers of various kinds, I would argue, constitute a discursive arena in which the state-society relationship is contested and reconfigured in the interlinking processes of empire-building and popular protest. Like the Han River highlands, the South China Sea provided the dynamics for sociopolitical developments across different spatial levels. This ocean space not only was the geographic background against which the piratical disturbance took place but also gave rise to a series of events, processes, and structures that spanned the land-sea divide and transcended national boundaries. Hence any thorough examination of this water world needs to look beyond its immediate coastal strip and probe the integrating relationship between the maritime space and its adjacent littoral communities. Yet traditional studies of maritime Asia place each littoral country at the center of the story while putting the South China Sea at the margins of its historical inquiries. Consequently, this ill-defined maritime zone has been turned into the empty “nucleus” of Asia Pacific. Recent scholars, under the galvanizing influence of Fernand Braudel’s Mediterranean studies, have sought to write well-integrated histories by focusing on the ocean space as an important supra- and trans-national unit of analysis.33 This development encourages us to situate the South China Sea at the center of the periphery of littoral states by studying its relationships with neighboring coastal communities.34 This chapter, like the previous one, investigates the human-environment interaction that shaped the social ecology of the South China Sea. Most important, it draws attention to the conflicting constructions of this ocean space by various maritime forces and how they utilized their local knowledge and uncontrollable power for distinct purposes during the late eighteenth century. This new accent on multiple frontier constructions, I hope, will help overcome the fragmentation of state-centered studies and restore the agency of borderland people in historical development.

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The South China Sea is a vast body of water located between the southern coast of China and the northwestern part of Southeast Asia. This semienclosed sea connects with the Pacific and Indian oceans; 90 percent of its total circumference is taken up by land belonging to various political entities. From the Ming dynasty on, it became an increasingly integrated trading region woven together by the regular and irregular itineraries of the Chinese and foreign vessels.35 The inherent unity of the South China Sea, therefore, long rested on its complex trading networks, which continued to prevail despite the increasing interference of political borders. My focus here is on the northwestern reach of the South China Sea as well as its complex interactions with the surrounding ocean and land space. In more specific terms, this area extends southwest from the ZhejiangFujian maritime boundary and then stretches across the Taiwan Strait down to the mouth of the Pearl River delta. Flowing around the Leizhou peninsula and China’s largest island, Hainan, the South China Sea further flanks the Sino-Vietnamese border in the Gulf of Tonkin down to the Mekong delta. The Chinese section of this transnational water world, more specifically, is enclosed by the seaward parts of Guangdong and Fujian provinces that were located within the two Skinnerian macroregions of Lingnan and the Southeast coast. The following section will outline the basic social ecology of the two seaborne provinces. It focuses on people who took to the sea to fish and pillage, emphasizing their complex relationship with the ocean space and with the government.

Guangdong In the eyes of Qing officials, Guangdong was the most important part of the empire’s maritime frontier, due to its unique topography, strategic location, and huge maritime territory. This southernmost province, as the Liangguang governor-general Lu Kun wrote in 1828, “consists of hills and rivers blended together, and borders on foreign countries.”36 A tangled mass of mountains and hills occupies the majority of the province’s territory, except for the Pearl River delta in the center. The towering Nanling mountain range, running from west to east, separates central China (dominated by the Yangzi River) from south China (dominated by the Pearl River) and then falls to the edge of the vast coastal area. The resulting hilly surface is deeply cut and smoothed by the largest waterway system of the province, comprising the West River as well as its two tributaries, the North and East rivers. As they rush toward the South China Sea, these interconnecting rivers converge in the Pearl River estuary and help create the

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only extensive alluvial plain in Guangdong. Most of the cultivated lands and agricultural production areas of this province were located in the Pearl River delta during the late imperial period. “The delta is so dissected by countless river channels that the geographical arrangement is like an inland sea dotted with numerous islands.”37 Macao, leased by the Portuguese, was at the southwestern corner of the broad estuary. Opposite Macao, at the southeastern corner of the delta, is Hong Kong island. Another marked feature of Guangdong was its vast maritime territory. As the provincial navy commander Li Changgeng observed in 1807, the “provinces of Fujian, Zhejiang and Jiangnan [Jiangsu] have merely outer ocean. By contrast, only Guangdong makes the distinction between outer and inner oceans. Its sea route is also the longest one in China.”38 The categories “inner ocean” and “outer ocean” are fundamental to understanding China’s piracy crisis. While their meanings will be dealt with later, suffice it to note here that it is because Guangdong had so much inner ocean that large groups of people could easily resort to piracy on the outer ocean when that became their best option for survival. Of all the Chinese provinces, Guangdong is best provided with wellendowed seaports that link the open seaboard with the landlocked interior. As mountains and rivers jut into the South China Sea they not only create myriad cliffs, inlets, and coves along the elongated coastline but also produce numerous islands in the Pearl River delta. The web-like inland waterways “were often indistinguishable from seas surrounding islands.”39 All these conditions were of great advantage to the fishing and salt industries and to the development of long-distance transportation. They were the linchpin of the region’s economic success in the eighteenth century. One can divide coastal Guangdong into two seaward subregions demarcated by the mouth of the Pearl River delta. The first, situated in the southernmost reaches of the empire, includes portions of four lower maritime prefectures south of the delta: Gaozhou, Leizhou, Lianzhou, and Qiongzhou (today’s Hainan). This subregion was a long stretch of hilly land extending to the maritime border of Vietnam, partly delimited by the water bridge of Jiangping (Vietnamese: Giang Binh) and Bailongwei (Bach Long Vi). Much of its mountainous interior was too rugged for the customary mode of agriculture. Yan Ruyi called these four southern prefectures an area of “myriad mountains” akin to the Han River highlands. Unlike the fertile Pearl River delta to the northeast, this peripheral area lacked arable land and thus could not produce enough food or income. This fundamental ecological constraint forced local residents to turn to the sea, engaging in fishing and oceanic trade for subsistence. The limited choice of survival

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tactics, combined with pressures exerted by overpopulation and rapid commercialization, spurred the rise of large bandit groups and secret societies. All these trends made this coastal area increasingly pugnacious and competitive during the late eighteenth century.40 For the most part, the Qing court paid inadequate attention to this maritime frontier in the extreme south of the empire. County officials were overwhelmed by such structural administrative problems as huge jurisdictions, scarce resources, and poorly demarcated boundaries. With violenceprone rival lineages overshadowing local gentry’s attempts to settle disputes, government laws and regulations had little force in those tough places, some of which became little more than a “political no-man’s-land.”41 In addition, vast stretches of the poorly patrolled coastline were hemmed by countless islands, hidden coves, and scattered bays, some of which remained unknown and “illegible” to the state. This difficult topography offered excellent anchorage and safe retreats to pirates, ensuring their continuing existence.42 By the mid-nineteenth century, much of this subregion was viewed as a nonstate space where the government’s reach was extremely limited. These four lower maritime prefectures thus became an ideal environment for pirates and one of their major headquarters until 1802. Sea marauders established a system of strongholds on the offshore islands stretching from Qiongzhou to the Gulf of Tonkin—a vast region buffering the waters between China and Annam. The most notable hideaway was Jiangping, a small Vietnamese port town on the ill-defined border with the Qing. Tra Co, also called Quan-Chan, was the land boundary terminus between the two countries. The coasts on both sides of the boundary were especially convoluted: ragged and with adjacent islands and deep indentations. This complex geographic composition created a multitude of murky jurisdictional interstices at sea that often undermined or escaped government control prior to the late nineteenth century. Consequently, like the Hubei-Shaanxi-Sichuan highlands, the SinoVietnamese water frontier had long been a politically ambiguous area. This was true for Jiangping, in particular, as it was located near the mouth of a shallow waterway across Tra Co that could only be approached by vessels of a certain size. Jiangping, furthermore, was effectively cut off from the continent by nearly impenetrable mountains that rendered it easily defensible against outside attack. This frontier town thus stood not only at the intersections of state borders but also at a topographical choke point and a natural outlet to the sea.43 All these, together with its dearth of cultivable land, had turned Jiangping into an ideal rendezvous and a wellsheltered haven for transnational pirates by the late eighteenth century. Taking advantage of its unique topography and nonstate nature, both

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Vietnamese and Chinese sea bandits used this border town as an important hideout and smuggling base.44 Jiangping was bounded in the east by Bailongwei, an isolated, mountainous island lying in the center of the Gulf of Tonkin. Albeit incorporated into the territory of Lianzhou prefecture by the late Qianlong reign, this island was largely beyond the reach of Qing political or military control, as Baoning, president of the Board of War, conceded in 1804.45 According to Jiqing’s investigation, it was mostly through Bailongwei that the Vietnamese-sposored pirates sailed to Chinese seas to pillage. For the sake of coordinating action and clarifying responsibilities, both China and Annam agreed that the hostile water between Jiangping and Bailongwei marked a recognizable natural barrier or a maritime boundary zone separating the two countries.46 Coastal dwellers on both sides had little identification with this customary political arrangement. In their eyes, “along a littoral of mountains and water, islands and peninsulas, Kwangtung [Guangdong] flowed imperceptibly into Vietnam.” It was difficult to ascertain where the Gulf of Tonkin started and ended because central Vietnam, as Charles Wheeler notes, resembled China’s southern coast in geography. For centuries, an incessant circulation of people and goods across the water bridge of JiangpingBailongwei had rendered this demarcation even more porous and ill guarded. It also turned the South China Sea into “an integrative social space,” linked by local patterns of livelihood and affinities, like its inland counterpart across the Han River highlands.47 The aforementioned contradiction between administrative control and socioeconomic development suggests that the state’s top-down construction of borderland often deviated from the bottom-up perception and utilization of this space. When this discrepancy was augmented by forceful external pressures, like the aggressive control of the late Qianlong state, large-scale protests tended to arise and spread across frontier regions. As the piracy crisis in the Sino-Vietnamese water world demonstrates, the presence of a transnational political boundary running through the middle of a natural, cohesive geographical region greatly complicated local governance for both states. The mismatch between sociogeographic realities and government-defined borders further “increase[d] the peripherality and ambiguity of the borderland as inhabitants [sought] benefits from both sides of the border.”48 People learned how to survive and prosper by slipping back and forth across the patchwork of overlapping, fuzzy jurisdictions. As Murray writes, “So successful were Chinese pirates in playing borderland hide-and-seek that by 1790 piracy rather than fishing was the mainstay of Chiang-p’ing’s [Jiangping’s] economy.” Sea raiders from Guangdong, Fujian, and Guangxi swarmed to this border town to sell booty and buy provisions. Merchants

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from these provinces also frequented Jiangping to purchase stolen merchandise, reinforcing its status as “the hub of a vast network of black markets.” Consequently, pirate booty quickly made its way back into the south China market and became an important part of the local economy.49 In addition, hard-pressed Chinese outlaws streamed steadily across the porous border to seek asylum, thus becoming ready recruits for sea raiders. This chaotic situation continued until 1802, when the Tay Son rebels were finally wiped out by the new Nguyen power. The second subregion of maritime Guangdong consisted of the three upper seaward prefectures of Guangzhou, Huizhou, and Chaozhou. Guangzhou prefecture was located on the Pearl River delta, one of the most productive regions of China. The other two lay along the coastline north of the delta stretching to Fujian. The provincial capital, Canton, sat astride the confluence of the West, North, and East rivers, dominating the Pearl River delta and almost the whole Lingnan macroregion. After 1757, Canton became the sole port open to Western shipping, which made the city the very heart of China’s richest trading area. As for Chaozhou, it served as the leading emporium in the Sino-Siamese trade network, according to Jennifer Wayne Cushman.50 These three upper prefectures were also the most agriculturally rich and densely populated region in the province. Paddyrice cultivation, with double and even triple cropping, was commonly practiced to take advantage of the fertile alluvial land, optimal weather, and long growing season. Thanks to ramified water transportation in the delta that linked the coast with the interior, Canton, Huizhou, and Chaozhou became the most commercialized part of the Lingnan macroregion. Located at the mouths of inland waterways, bustling ports like Canton and Macao were heavily involved in trade with Taiwan, Southeast Asia, and Europe. It was through this enterprising region that the Qing’s foreign trade passed. Driven by the soaring demand for Chinese goods, in particular silk and sugar, land use patterns changed greatly in the Pearl River delta as much of its arable land was given over to commercial crops.51 These three upper seaward prefectures were well known for their unusually powerful lineages, warlike villages, and swarming vagabonds.52 In 1809, local gentry leaders stepped up their self-defense efforts by building fortresses and organizing militia when desperate sea bandits, pressured by the draconian embargo enacted by the Liangguang governor-general Bailing, penetrated deeper and deeper into the river plain to procure daily necessities. Few areas in the delta had not prepared local defense works of some sort by that year. Such widespread local militarization, coordinated and supported by government officials, directly contributed to the final dissolution of the piracy confederation in the 1810s.53

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Fujian Fujian is covered with a series of undulating mountain chains; the most important is Mount Wuyi. Their high ridges and sharp slopes give way to a highly twisted and complex coastline, second only to Guangdong in terms of length. To safely approach some parts of the rocky seaboard, it was imperative to enlist the service of local pilots, as the intruding Tay Son navy did in the closing decades of the eighteenth century. As the largest waterway in this province, the Min River and its tributaries traverse the northern half of Fujian before wending eastward into the sea, creating narrow drainage basins facing out to the Taiwan Strait. The downstream lowland along the east seaside features superior, deepwater ports like Quanzhou and Xiamen.54 These geographic conditions not only facilitated Fujian’s long history of commercial contact with the outside world but also contributed to a high level of lawlessness and disorder in the area. Nicknamed “mountain country of the southeast,” Fujian has the highest elevation among the coastal provinces. About 85 percent of Fujian is covered with precipitous mountains, which cut it off from inland China, and only one-tenth of its land is lower than two hundred meters in altitude. This topography meant that a large part of the province, like Quanzhou and Zhangzhou prefectures, was unsuitable for paddy-rice agriculture, making its residents heavily dependent on imports of food grains from Taiwan and Southeast Asia.55 The topography also explains why the Fujianese people have long oriented toward the sea. By the mid-seventeenth century, the two aforementioned highly commercialized prefectures had played a primary part in domestic and foreign maritime trade, linking different parts of China with Southeast Asia. The cities of Quanzhou and Zhangzhou, along with Xiamen in between, dominated the southern part of the Fujian coast, while Fuzhou controlled the northern. These four major urban centers together made up the economic heartland of Fujian, thus becoming the most populous part of the province. In addition to mountainous topography and sea-oriented economy, Fujian shared many other traits with neighboring Guangdong: dense population, wealthy merchant groups, increasing rural poverty, feuding lineages, and strong sworn brotherhoods like the Heaven and Earth Society. Yet Fujian, as a major base for the Ming loyalist movement and the piracy operation centered on Taiwan, was even tougher than Guangdong to govern in the early Qing.56 Its maritime society suffered the most from the decades of stringent coastal prohibition described earlier, which artificially moved the empire’s southeastern boundary inward and turned its immediate

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coastal zone into a land of humanmade desolation. This strictly bureaucratic solution to maritime crisis, effective as it was, dealt a devastating blow to Fujian’s economy, with consequences that were felt even after the reopening of foreign trade in 1684. Fujian thus entered the eighteenth century at a low point in its regional fortune. Although the abolition of sea bans had brought the province some fifty years’ gradual resuscitation, its maritime economy was ultimately overshadowed by that of neighboring Guangdong with the establishment of the Canton system in 1757. Thenceforth, Guangdong monopolized the empire’s Western trade, which promoted the development of the Lingnan macroregion and “doomed the economy of the southeast coast [macroregion] to nearly a century of stagnation.”57 Outside competition compounded by high custom duties and relentless government extortion resulted in the gradual decline of Fujian maritime shipping from the 1780s onward. To evade the notorious demands of the Xiamen officials, more and more junks moved their trade bases from Fujian to Canton, the Leizhou peninsula, and Hainan island. This southward shift contributed to the sudden rise of Hainanese and Cantonese trade, both licit and illicit, with Vietnam in the late eighteenth century, which in turn facilitated the dramatic upsurge of piratical depredations in the South China Sea.58

Who Were the Pirates? South China piracy sprang primarily from the social ecology of coastal Guangdong and Fujian, both of which were “kingdoms of water” with distinctive sea-oriented economies and frontier societies. In the eighteenth century, the sea furnished a large part of the coastal population with licit or illicit jobs that enabled them to make a living. As the Jiaqing-era navy commander Li Changgeng remarked, “Guangdong lives off the sea; 30 percent of the population tills the land, 40 percent relies on fishing”. In some agriculturally poor parts of eastern Fujian, like Fuqing county, fishing provided a living for almost 80 percent of the local populace. The hundreds of thousands of coastal people who became fishermen “took boats as their homes and made fields from the sea” (yi chuan wei jia, yi hai wei tian). Those at the very bottom of the socioeconomic ladder became “boat people” (danhu), who were not even allowed to live on shore. Other local residents became seamen who found jobs as hired sailors on merchant junks. Struggling on the edge of survival, these people accounted for 73.8 percent of the pirate population, according to Antony’s reckoning. By another estimate, fishermen alone made up 80.7 percent of all sea robbers.59

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Notwithstanding their numerical importance, fishermen were the most oppressed group in the maritime society. The Liangguang governor-general Jiqing lamented their sad plight in 1800: “in order to get their sailing license, fishermen have to pay lougui [off-the-books fees] to the prefectural or county governments. Making matters worse is that soldiers who guard the fortresses or check points also levy guiyin [informal fees] or seafood from them. As a consequence, these downtrodden people have almost nothing left. No wonder they sail to the sea as pirates.”60 In the same vein, the Fujian governor Wang Zhiyin asserted that people were not born pirates and it was poverty that pushed them to this illegal business. Echoing this realistic opinion, the Jiaqing emperor also acknowledged that seafaring people turned to maritime predation as part of their overall survival strategy.61 Thus the state faced a thorny problem in its battle against piracy: most robbers at sea had no choice but to commit their crimes. Using the cover of fishermen or sailors, moreover, they easily oscillated between illegitimate and legitimate work or even carried on both activities simultaneously. Consequently, pirates often appeared out of nowhere, attacking passing junks and then disappearing without a trace. In this sense, their menace to law and order was largely an unseen, uncontrollable one. The hard-core professional pirates, in fact, accounted for no more than 30 percent of the sea raiders. Most of the others were lured, captured, or coerced into the business, as in the case of the White Lotus uprising.62 In coping with the piracy crisis, many local officials believed that the ultimate solution was to expand the maritime economy by encouraging coastal trade instead of prohibiting it.

The Social Construction of the South China Sea The formation of a maritime zone, according to Philip E. Steinberg, entails a complex process of “social construction” based on three interacting mechanisms: external utilization, internal perception, and regulatory representation.63 Hence any in-depth analysis of the South China Sea requires not only an examination of its natural geography but also a history of how it was used, conceptualized, and controlled. In what follows, I shall investigate how various social forces attempted to have their interests represented through different constructions of this ocean space and how those constructions contributed to the contentious politics within it. It is of vital importance to understand the general dialectic within this twofold construction of the South China Sea: on the one hand, as a nebulous maritime

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zone for the state, it was subject to artificial administrative division and tenuous sociopolitical control; on the other, as a space of natural topography, it enabled the nonstate and antistate actors to reproduce their autonomy by carrying out routine frontier-crossing activities or extraordinary social protest. I shall explore how such bottom-up construction of this maritime zone differed from the state’s top-down perception of it and, furthermore, contradicted official efforts to partition it for the sake of better control. As an agrarian and continental empire, traditional China had long defined its territory as the Middle Kingdom—the center of “All under Heaven” (Tianxia). This Sino-centric view, together with its land-based notion of sovereignty, pushed the seafaring world to the margins of the Chinese cognitive frame as though it stood outside and beyond history. The vast, endless sea, dictated by unfathomable rhythms and swarming with pestering troublemakers, had invariably been an unpredictable element and untamable space in imperial political thinking. The intrinsic instability, exceptional mobility, and nearly incomprehensible scope of the South China Sea, as Yan Ruyi suggested, engendered a deep-rooted fear of it as a mysterious and hostile space. Crossing the ocean space was also deemed a dangerous venture haunted by vengeful ghosts. A safe journey through the rough waters, therefore, needed both heavenly blessing and appropriate appreciation, as the official patronage of the goddess Tianhou (Empress of Heaven or Mazu) shows.64 Equally compelling was her strong appeal to sea bandits, who also adopted her as their protective deity. Thus, to most Chinese, the seas were associated with a terror-filled world of disorder and unknown possibilities. Like the internal frontier of the Han River highlands, the seas hindered government communication, military maneuvering, and economic extraction. After the dramatic inward turn following Zheng He’s seven maritime expeditions, Ming officials tended to view the oceans as they did the Great Wall: both functioned advantageously as effective barriers to keep foreign barbarians out of the Chinese empire.65 Through total closure, they reasoned, the maritime borders would be easier to defend than the overland routes into China. This detachment from the sea gave the Ming regime additional reasons to scale back its maritime ambition by reducing its navy to merely a coastal defense force. In general, piratical violence was deemed a sporadic nuisance instead of the kind of genuine security threat posed by land-based insurrections. The subsequent Qing rulers largely inherited this long-term negligence toward the sea, intensified by their seminomadic origins and their preoccupation with the empire’s inland frontiers in the north and northwest during the high Qing period. The Manchu court did give some administrative consideration to maritime trading activities, setting up the four cus-

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toms as mentioned earlier. From the 1720s onward, all interactions with Western merchants were delegated to their Chinese counterparts in the form of an authorized monopolistic guild known as the Cohong (Gonghang). This specially licensed group of “ocean-trade dealers” (yanghang) needed to keep a close watch on the Westerners, be responsible for their behaviors on China’s soil, and guarantee their payment of all duties. This strict hierarchical model of state supervision and merchant management culminated in the rise of the Canton system. Partly as a measure of cultural protection, direct contact between Chinese and “alien merchants” (yishang) was strictly forbidden, except for the government-designated go-betweens, the Cohong, who served as useful buffers and middlemen between them. Thanks to the ingenious Canton-Cohong system, the Qing authorities largely skirted responsibility for day-to-day relations with the Western powers and for dealing with the seafaring world.66 The south China water frontier, as Yan Ruyi suggested, represented a different set of cultural values that undermined the Confucian agenda for social order.67 Its physical attributes deterred the development of farming and permanent habitation that were the foundation for China’s civilizational development. So Ming-Qing states saw the ocean as an inhospitable, unclaimable space, somewhat as they perceived the original forests of the Han River highlands, as well as the high plateaus and vast deserts in the northwest.68 The coastal waters, as the boundary between “familiar” land and “threatening” far-off sea, resembled the land in that they were susceptible to being civilized, controlled, and governed. The deep seas, however, were deemed both unnecessary and utterly impossible for officials to administer or guard. This hierarchical perception helped shape the decisively land-centered, defense-oriented, and highly passive Qing coastal strategy. Chinese bureaucrats did not conceive of the sea as an undistinguishable watery whole. Instead, they had a vague understanding of the maritime space as a separate, divisible water world in its own right, different from the land in its movements, rhythms, and dynamics. Like their counterparts in Tokugawa Japan, they refined cartographic strategies and made sense of ocean space not by conquering it but by dividing it into discrete places and partitioning its threat.69 For a long time the Chinese thought of the South China Sea as a continuum of two vaguely separated maritime spheres that should be utilized and conceptualized in different ways. As Murray writes, offshore, as the open expanse of the South China Sea stretched from the border of Guangdong and Fujian provinces, around Hainan island and the Leizhou peninsula to the Gulf of Tonkin, the saltwater realm of shallow seas

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and inshore islands was referred to in Chinese sources as the “inner sea” (neihai) or “inner ocean” (neiyang). Once the shallows deepened, the inshore islands gave way to offshore islands farther from the land, and the South China Sea became the southern ocean (Nanyang). This region of deep seas, offshore islands and coral reefs constituted the “outer sea” (waihai) or “outer ocean” (waiyang).70

This twofold construction was long the dominant geographical and political discourse on the South China Sea. It entailed different state power and administrative responsibilities across the ocean space, exerting a profound impact on the Chinese statecraft tradition. Officials tended to perceive the inner sea as the farthest extent of their maritime authority, a legitimate arena subject to sustainable governance and state possession. The Qing’s sovereignty over its immediate coastal waters, for instance, was asserted forcefully in the strong protests against the two British invasions of Macao in 1802 and 1808.71 As the predictable territorial water deepened into the faraway outer ocean, however, it became a capricious and asocial domain increasingly beyond human comprehension, administrative governance, and economic extraction. What is more, the state deemed this “endless” blue-water region more distance than territory, rendering it outside any politico-military control.72 Not unlike their counterparts in Tokugawa Japan, Qing mapmakers and officials surrendered the infathomable “high seas” to the “realm of the speculation,” “us[ing] the inventive power of the imagination to fill in the cognitive blank of ocean space.” The early modern Japanese conception, as Marcia Yonemoto describes it, “contributed to the development of profoundly ambivalent representations of ocean space, in which the friendly and sustaining seas” bordering the coastline “stood in constant opposition to the distant and threatening oceans, untamed and unknown.”73 The Chinese epistemological division of inner and outer ocean, in a similar vein, suggests that the deep sea was a mysterious, nonterritorial void outside land-based society and beyond state possession. While towering mountain ranges and dense forests divided the Han River highlands, no clear physiographical boundary demarcated the two imagined zones of inner and outer ocean. The dissection of a natural and cohesive realm into two artificial, discrete parts, put differently, was a matter of sociopolitical construction rather than unchanging topography and ecology. While making little sense to local seafarers, this dissection functioned primarily to set limits on the reach and responsibilities of the state and to regulate government operations across the fluid, dangerous ocean space. Emperor Jiaqing pointed out that the officials in coastal provinces did not dare to venture into the outer sea. They repeatedly wrote off inci-

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dents in these waters as beyond their jurisdiction and thus of little concern. Some even ordered that official salt boats avoid routes passing through the outer ocean, suggesting the government give up policing this hazardous area altogether.74 While the outer sea represented the place where maritime governance ceased, it was also the space where pirates sought to maximize their autonomy and power. By the mid-fifteenth century, most of the European powers had embraced the concept of maritime prowess as part of their state ideal. Driven by incessant interstate competition, they viewed overseas expansion as a necessary route toward achieving politico-economic dominance. By contrast, the Chinese empire generally shied away from asserting its authority on the ocean: it explicitly made “sea defense” (haifang) instead of “sea war” (haizhan) the cornerstone of its maritime strategy.75 This longestablished policy contributed to China’s general disinclination, unlike that of Europe, toward conceptualizing the ocean as a power base, a battleground, or a springboard for oversea aggression.

The General Viewpoint of the Littoral Communities Unlike imperial officials, the seafaring people in Guangdong and Fujian took the sea as the center of their world and the core of their self-identity. Their deep familiarity with the rhythms, dynamics, and movements of the sea served as a vital resource for their survival in their harsh ecological and sociopolitical environment. Maritime people constructed the South China Sea through their everyday activities like fishing and trading. They not only took this water world as “an area of sustainable economic exploitation” but also made routine use of its diffuse border to engage in illegal activities and to escape government punishment. As “weapons of the weak,” such survival tactics were among the most efficient strategies of bottom-up resistance against increasing state control.76 For those living along the shoreline, the sea was the resource provider that constituted their “field,” their substance, and their living space. Going out to the sea was invariably the defining element of their lives because the confines of high mountains and narrow coasts made it simply impossible for them to live by agriculture. While the poor relied predominantly on the maritime space for survival, those who were better off constructed the sea as a trading route and money pond. For instance, merchants and ship owners went out to sea and returned home rich, reaping hefty profits from their arduous voyages. It also seems clear that, from the popularity of the

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goddess Tianhou (Mazu), many seafaring people took the awe-inspiring and life-giving sea as an object of ritual worship. The seafarers’ mobile lifestyle and constant pressure to survive had direct influence on their construction of the maritime space and on the development of littoral communities. Like fish, wind, and currents, to be sure, merchandise and profit do not recognize political boundaries. Beginning in the early Ming, enterprising Chinese sailors and seaborne merchants, mostly from Fujian, went to Southeast Asia to do business. They established long-lasting patterns of exchange and resilient transnational networks, like the Nanyang trade, across the South China Sea. In this process they also built floating communities that covered large expanses of ocean space with no definable political borders. Whereas Western traders saw the South China Sea more as a well-traversed thoroughfare and a major access route to the Chinese market, local coastal dwellers saw it as a channel to link oceangoing communities, domestic or overseas, many of which remained beyond government control.77 Like the Han River highlands, the Sino-Vietnamese water frontier functioned as a “middle ground” linking a wide array of people, goods, and ideas together. Under extraordinary circumstances, these floating resources could be politicized and mobilized against the state, as occurred at the turn of the nineteenth century. In both peaceful and violent ways, local people ignored or rejected the officials’ perception of the South China Sea as a divisible political and cultural space. For them, it was an open and coherent water world that facilitated transshipment of goods.78 The ambiguous boundaries that differentiated the inner sea from its outer counterpart had little restraining effect on the seafaring people, whose livelihood hinged on their routine traversing of such humanmade demarcations. It is common knowledge that there are far more fish in the deep seas than in the shallow ones. The fishermen’s survival thus depended on their freedom to range back and forth across the imagined administrative boundary. Furthermore, they deliberately took advantage of this artificial demarcation to carry out maritime raiding and to flee justice, since the outer ocean, as the Liangguang governor-general Jiqing pointed out, was well beyond the state’s capabilities to monitor and control.79 The sea bandits could easily escape government suppression by retreating to the blue-water areas where the Qing naval force refused to go. The Minzhe governor-general Yude complained in 1805 that, as in the case of the White Lotus campaign, search-and-destroy missions and other offensive strategies were of little use on the high seas, given their unpredictable environment and the pirates’ high mobility and extensive connections.80 Some professional pirates even used resources from the supranational arena so as to survive government suppression and expand their autonomy

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and power. Their collaboration with the Tay Son regime, for instance, helped erode the existing system of political control and facilitate largescale sociopolitical coordination surpassing traditional boundaries.81 Consequently, as the nonstate space of Jiangping-Bailongwei suggests, China’s enduring problem of maritime governance was greatly compounded by these new transnational factors. The centuries-old problem, however, was mostly shaped by the contradictory utilizations, representations, and regulations of the ocean space by the central state and the littoral society, epitomizing the ambivalence at the heart of Chinese maritime spatiality.

The Frontier Society of Coastal South China in the Late Qianlong Reign The sea frontier of Guangdong and Fujian, like the Han River highlands, was long among the most violence-prone parts of the empire. Its tough social ecology contributed substantially to the chronic difficulty of achieving stability in coastal south China. During the eighteenth century, a series of wrenching socioeconomic changes produced crises in this vast water frontier, pushing tens of thousands of indigent, marginalized seafarers into piracy as a means of survival and upward mobility. In Eric Hobsbawm’s words, bandits were “symptoms of crisis and tensions in their society.”82 Thus sea marauders could also be taken as a microcosm of the strains and conflicts in China’s maritime society. Akin to the situation in the three-province border region, accelerating population growth was a pivotal force transforming the landscape of the south China coast. Yet, unlike that region, both Fujian and Guangdong were already highly commercialized and overpopulated by the late Ming. The maritime prefectures of Guangzhou, Chaozhou, Quanzhou, and Zhangzhou, for instance, remained one of the most impacted regions in late imperial China. Guangdong’s population, as Antony points out, increased from a little over six million to almost fifteen million during the eighteenth century. Fujian had fewer than eight million people in the 1750s, but this number had jumped to at least thirteen million by the 1790s, when the maritime predations began to surge.83 It comes as no surprise that intensifying population growth pressed increasingly on the scarce arable land in both coastal provinces. At the turn of the nineteenth century, Guangdong and Fujian had only 1.67 and 0.98 mou of cultivable land per person, respectively, making them two of the most land-starved provinces of the Qing. To make things worse, partly because of its “mulberry tree and fish

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pond” system, an estimated 30–50 percent of Guangdong’s arable land was devoted to commercial crops by the late Qianlong reign.84 Such overpopulation and land scarcity led inevitably to reliance on maritime trade. The South China Sea had traditionally been among the most intensively traversed of the Asian seas in pursuit of maritime commerce. The contemporary official Yuan Yonglun observed: “here trading vessels from all the world meet together, wherefore this track is called ‘the great meeting from the east and the south.’ ”85 As the eighteenth century came to a close, south China’s maritime trading system was fully developed, such that it “fell under the general rubrics of official tribute trade or private native commerce carried out domestically and in Southeast Asia through the agency of Chinese junks manned by Chinese sailors, or internationally through the agency of foreigners, whose presence on Chinese shores after 1757 was restricted to Canton.”86 This general picture is clear and well known, and I shall examine those aspects of the trade that illuminate both the maritime frontier of the South China Sea and the piracy crisis it gave rise to. Between 1735 and 1812, Guangdong and Fujian handled as much as 75 percent of China’s seaborne foreign and domestic trade. The trade to Southeast Asia was characterized by Chinese exports of manufactured and processed goods, including ceramics, cloth, paper, sugar, and silk products, as well as imports of raw materials and food, in particular rice, spices, timber, and cotton. The bulk of this trade originated in east Guangdong and southeast Fujian. Xiamen had long been the most important port for private maritime shipping, even busier than Canton, which was mainly frequented by foreign vessels prior to the Opium War. Along with Chaozhou, Xiamen nonetheless suffered greatly during a brief restriction of trade and immigration after 1717; but the two ports quickly assumed the dominant role after 1727 as Emperor Yongzheng finally lifted the ban on junk trade with Southeast Asia.87 Western trade with maritime Asia had long been overshadowed by the volume and flow of commodities within it. This situation dramatically changed when the Canton system supplanted the multiport trading system (1685–1757) as the sole vehicle of Western trade in China. The effect was almost immediate: more and more foreign trading vessels entered Canton harbor after 1760. As Murray explains, “the number of European ships alone rose from just under a dozen in 1720 to 60–80 per year between 1780 and 1800. The tonnage of the individual ships doubled as well.” Consequently, Canton and the Pearl River estuary became one of the busiest harbors in the world. By the end of the eighteenth century, as Robert Marks notes, “European trade had eclipsed the native coastal and Southeast Asia trade, easily reaching four times the Chinese trade.”88

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This momentous change in trade pattern had an interconnected relationship with the dramatic surge in piratical violence during the QianlongJiaqing transition. The junk trade between China and Southeast Asia, as already mentioned, was conducted almost entirely on Chinese or foreign vessels manned by crewmen from China. This trade’s considerable decline in the late eighteenth century put a large number of hired sailors and fishermen, the major source of pirate recruits, out of work. Those who had engaged in auxiliary water-related occupations—as peddlers, coolie workers, shopkeepers, and boatbuilders—also suffered, in a less direct way. Many of those displaced, pugnacious people were later hired by professional pirates, who made effective use of their manpower and expertise. In addition, given the tremendous demographic growth, “although commercial opportunities along the south China coast were expanding by 1790, they were not expanding fast enough to absorb all those who sought or needed to make their living thereupon.”89 Such employment was especially scarce because a higher percentage of the trade was no longer managed by Chinese seamen and boats. Coinciding with this change, China’s junk trade with its immediate southern neighbor was also in decline, but mainly for a different reason. As Murray points out, “the legitimate trade between China and Vietnam was a highly regulated activity conducted entirely by Chinese.” The Tay Son rebellion, which began in the 1770s, and the ensuing border troubles with the north greatly restricted trade opportunities for both sides. A new Vietnamese law, in particular, forbade the export of basic commodities, including rice, that were in great demand in coastal Guangdong and Fujian. In response, the Qing closed down the border markets and rigorously prohibited export of the copper coins, zinc, and iron that had long been greatly desired across the southern frontier. This disruption in normal trade was a shattering blow to the frontier communities and drove their people into smuggling and piracy.90 As population explosion and shifting trade patterns aggravated rural poverty and resource constraints, the resulting unemployment and violence placed mounting administrative pressure on local governments and brought disorder to a new level of intensity both at sea and inland. As early as 1780 Emperor Qianlong enacted the first ad hoc law to deal especially with the deteriorating situation in Guangdong. Unlike similar statutes in other provinces, this law stipulated the same severe punishment— decapitation—for all bandits who were involved in robbery, including those acting as lookouts or informants.91 This one-size-fits-all legislation thus criminalized large numbers of coastal people, especially those in the povertystricken areas, and subjected them to death sentences. As a Guangdong

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official commented, “wherever there is a serious case, people in the whole village are arrested, [and] only those who bribe can be released . . . this is the key reason for the rampant banditry.”92 A local shengyuan named Wu Zhi lamented: “once a person makes some contact with bandits, he is treated as bandit himself. Sometimes hundreds of people are executed because of this. Those who are alive have no choice but to become bandits. Therefore these outlaws are growing stronger and stronger. If nothing about this policy is changed, there is no way that the mounting banditry can be curbed.”93 The Fujian finance commissioner Qiu Xingjian expressed similar sentiments even more bluntly in July 1803: “local people should not be blamed for the growing maritime disturbance; it was provoked by government rapacity and suppression. If we think about this dispassionately, as the White Lotus rebels proclaimed, ‘it is the officials who forced the people to rise up.’ ”94 Qian was noting a key parallel between the two crises: both emerged from the people’s “protective reaction” against predatory extraction and perceived injustices on the part of the local authorities. It is no surprise that Qianlong’s draconian policy of criminalization and extermination backfired disastrously, as swelling numbers of people evaded unjust persecutions by fleeing to the sea and becoming pirates. The situation in Guangdong became so bad in 1810 that the Liangguang governor-general Bailing called the province the “spawning grounds for banditry.”95 Pirates posted declarations in Macao and Canton that they were driven to predation “because officials had ‘tyrannical hearts’ and squeezed the poor out of all their earnings.”96 The EIC Select Committee, which managed the British trade in China, observed on December 30, 1804: “the very considerable strength these Pyrates have attained, and the probability of their numbers increasing, from the tyranny & oppression exercised over the industrious inhabitants by the rapacious officers of this government, cannot but be a subject of serious consideration.”97 In order to make this hard-line policy work, the imperial authorities would have needed a credible and strong naval force to enforce it. However, much as in the Han River highlands, the state’s administrative and military presence along the south China coast was hopelessly overstretched. In the case of Guangdong, only 137 fortresses dotted the 2,500-kilometer coast in 1806, most of them guarding the seaward approaches to big seaports. These fortresses were insufficiently manned, poorly equipped, and loosely coordinated. Even more alarming, some soldiers even hired local peasants to serve their dreary military duty for them. After years of official neglect and mismanagement, coastal fortifications in the late Qianlong reign were often obsolete or dilapidated. Patrolling fleets were also spread hopelessly thin, given the sheer size of the area they had to cover and pro-

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tect. According to Nayancheng, the governor-general of Liangguang, there were over 1,000 pirate vessels in Guangdong waters; yet the provincial navy had merely eighty-seven warships at that time.98 Under this lamentable state of affairs, effective border control was simply an impossible task on a daily basis. As Emperor Jiaqing admitted, the vast expanses of the ocean, together with its rugged coasts, elongated peninsula, and scattered islands, rendered the pirates even more difficult to locate and subdue than the sectarian rebels in the Han River highlands.99 To compound the problem, most of the Qing naval fleets were clustered around major cities like Canton and Xiamen, leaving ample room in the broad interior waterways for illegal trade and other unlawful activities. Consequently, “naval forces were little more than prefectural water-police, scattered among the many coastal jurisdictions, poorly equipped and led, with an inefficient command structure.”100 Exploiting the government’s military weakness, pirates could often overpower the Qing navy and challenge its fortresses on land. As the Guangdong naval commander Sun Tingmou bemoaned, “the pirates are too powerful, we cannot subdue them by our arms; the pirates are many, we only few; the pirates have large vessels, we only small ones; the pirates are united under one head, but we are divided, and we alone are unable to engage with this overpowering force.”101 By 1799 the Liangguang governor-general Jiqing had also reluctantly come to the view that the imperial fleets were woefully inadequate to deal with the piracy problem. Moreover, he submitted a memorial to the Jiaqing emperor saying that the ad hoc legislation in Guangdong had achieved little except for alienating much of the coastal population and polarizing the agitated maritime society. Following Jiqing’s request, Jiaqing reestablished the original, more moderate legislation in 1801, and routine bandit cases in Guangdong were once again handled the same way as in any other provinces.102 This pragmatic policy retreat helped mitigate local tensions and normalize the maritime society, though it took almost a decade to achieve real pacification.

III A View from the Top

Chapter Four

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art II explored the local and supralocal logic of the two crises, addressing how their rise and fall fed into broader historical changes through the high Qing period in general and the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition in particular. Chapters 2 and 3 have examined a variety of issues that mattered to the political center, but mainly in terms of how they were manifested in the localized contexts of borderland conditions. Such a bottom-up viewpoint is useful but incomplete because great frontier disturbances were often a symptom of central dysfunction rather than the main cause of political debilitation. While the dual cataclysms brought to light problems plaguing the state and society, they also shaped the mutually conditioning interactions between the two. Thus, in Part III, the major thrust of this book, I shall turn from the margin to the center by examining the high politics of social protests and state retreat. The White Lotus and piracy upheavals, to be sure, were two critical challenges that loomed large in contemporary court politics. These dual explosive events generated voluminous government records, the single most important of which was the rich compilation of fanglue (official account of imperial wars) on the antisectarian military campaign.1 These sources describe the Qianlong-Jiaqing protests as simple cases of disorderly mobs defying the state and are reticent about how this wave of disturbances affected the Qing sociopolitical systems. Historiographical discussions of the two upheavals, similarly, have paid little heed to the constructive

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opportunities they offered for state reform or their positive legacy in Qing history. Richard L. K. Jung takes a different approach in his study of the Wang Lun and Lin Shuangwen rebellions. He recuperates the two failed revolts as agents of political change by reconceptualizing them as “a continuously ongoing struggle for freedom from imperial control by both the officials and the commoner society at all levels.” To further illustrate this contentious process, Jung likens it as “emanation of ripples from the point where a stone tossed into a pool strikes the surface of the water, finally reverberating from the edges back toward the point of impact.” As this metaphor so vividly suggests, central to the Wang Lun and Lin Shuangwen uprisings were “ever-widening circles of impingement by one group on another” that sent shock waves to the highest levels of state machinery. From this perspective, it is apparent that the significance of popular protests often goes beyond the severity of their local ravages. Some great upheavals, even if they fail, can produce reverberating repercussions that stimulate constructive changes across both society and state. In just this sense Thomas Meadows, a nineteenth-century British intelligence officer in China, argued that rebellion was “a chief element of a national stability . . . the storm that clears and invigorates a political atmosphere.”2 To recover the full history of momentous crises, one should identify the interrelation between bottom-up disturbance and top-down control, which can be both conflictual and symbiotic. This study uses the model of all-encompassing contentious crises to examine the “anthropology of the state,” that is, to deconstruct the state’s major components so as to study the different pressures that act on them as well as the different accommodations they make. In so doing, one can understand how each segment of the political system “pulls in multiple directions leading to unanticipated patterns of domination and transformation.”3 To trace such endogenous dynamics of change, it is crucial to elucidate how the ingrained tensions develop, play out, and resolve themselves on a multiplicity of levels through the course of the many-sided crises. Part III probes the intertwining imperial, bureaucratic, and foreign responses to the conjunction of the two upheavals, as well as the conflicts and compromises that occurred as emperors and the officialdom adopted different visions and strategies for managing the crises.

The Emperor-Bureaucracy Relationship Throughout the history of imperial China, Confucian ideology envisioned an ideal state governed by a heavenly mandated emperor, loyally assisted

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by virtuous officials according to the principle of benevolent government. To comprehend the workings of the Qing state, it is essential to probe the interaction between the throne and his officialdom as conditioned by contemporary political culture. As “a matter of the most immediate political exigency,” this pivotal yet volatile relationship exerted direct impact on the power of the state as well as its interaction with society and culture.4 Research on this topic has produced three largely distinct bodies of scholarship that are rarely in conversation with one another. The first of these analyzes a particular political campaign whereby the emperor asserted his autocratic power, disciplined the officialdom, and changed aspects of governance through extraordinary mobilization of manpower and resources. A second body of work concentrates on the macro level: the long-term evolution of key state institutions and their transformative impact on the emperor-official relationship. Whereas the former kind of literature points toward contingent events and political deinstitutionalization, the latter is inclined to see the triumph of bureaucratic routinization and administrative rationalization.5 The third strand of scholarship, a middle ground, delves into politicocultural struggles at the center and their influence on local crisis management. By combining institutional and intellectual history through the study of key events, this approach foregrounds some structural features of bureaucratic apparatus and ideological orientation as a compromise between the personalization and institutionalization of political power. Three scholars can be identified as best representing these distinct yet interrelated lines of investigation. In his classic work Soulstealers, Philip Kuhn makes a convincing case that the strain between monarchical arbitrary power and bureaucratic routine authority fueled a “silent struggle” between Emperor Qianlong and his high officials. The central axis of their relationship, Kuhn argues, “consumed raw material in the form of events.”6 In hopes of asserting his untrammeled monarchical authority, Qianlong capitalized on an ordinary incident—a local queue-clipping scare in 1768—by exaggerating it into a major case of “sedition.” Bureaucrats at all levels had to meet this imperial challenge by waging or participating in a massive political campaign against themselves and the elusive soulstealers. As a subtle form of self-protection and passive resistance, however, many uncooperative officials indulged in such “ingrained practices” as withholding information and underreporting the problem at hand. In so doing, they not only deflected Qianlong’s heightened demands for imperial control but also reduced the deleterious impact of his unpredictable personal agenda. Beatrice Bartlett also addresses this troubled relationship in Monarchs and Ministers, one of the best works on Qing institutional history. This

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book focuses on the Grand Council—the highest Qing decision-making organ, established in the 1720s—and provides a close-up account of its structural evolution through the eighteenth century. Bartlett illuminates a complex interplay between the central institutional establishment and its key political players, notably the emperors and their ministers. Traditional literature contends that the dramatic rise of the Grand Council during the Yongzheng and Qianlong reigns greatly strengthened despotism by allowing for a much stricter imperial control of the bureaucracy. Bartlett’s revisionist study, however, shows that the expansion of this inner-court agency had the unexpected effect of curbing imperial autocracy by transforming it into “joint monarchical-conciliar administration.” James Polachek’s Inner Opium War represents the third major strand of scholarship on the emperor-bureaucracy relationship. In this critically acclaimed book, he analyzes court politics, literati factions, and decisionmaking inside the central government during an extraordinary period of military and diplomatic crises. Finding agency among the high intellectual and official elites, Polachek makes the point that these politico-cultural actors were bent on building up their own personal or group power to such an extent that they took unrealistic, hard-line positions on foreign policy. Consequently, a moralistic, domestically focused political agenda took center stage. This rigid stance, he asserts, is the key reason why the cataclysmic confrontation with the British did not create a pragmatic overhaul of the political system (as happened in Meiji Japan), despite its considerable impetus for change.7 This study of the White Lotus and piracy upheavals brings together these three lines of interpretation. Its overarching goal is to examine how bottom-up events and processes interacted with the realm of high politics in producing key endogenous dynamics for what Pierre-Étienne Will calls Qing “inner state building.” More specifically, this study endeavors to open a novel way of studying emperor-official interaction from the perspective of crisis management, institutional reconfiguration, and policy changes. I shall first sketch out the general historical context in which this relationship worked. Three major contextual dimensions are worth noting: the political heritage of the traditional Chinese state (the structural and institutional dimension); the pressing political realities during the transition from the Qianlong to Jiaqing reigns (conjunctural and situational dimension); and the different temperament and political orientations of the two emperors (personal and psychological dimension).8

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The Mid-Qing Political System Although the Chinese imperial institutions were generally too weak to restrain the “Son of Heaven,” who was well above the law, one must dispel the myth of the omnipotent monarch as a given.9 To protect his allinclusive authority, as Pamela Kyle Crossley notes, the throne often “used the bureaucracy to battle the aristocracy and . . . used what might be considered a private bureaucracy to battle the public one.” The gravest threat to China’s early emperors came from local sociopolitical forces embedded in powerful clans and large aristocratic families. These hereditary forces, however, were almost wiped out during the remarkable crises of the TangSong transition. Their residual power was further curtailed by the rise of a centralized bureaucracy and new local elites (gentry) as a result of the expanded civil service examination system. Henceforth, monarchs could rule “All under Heaven” by relying on the two interrelated groups with no independent bases of authority. Yet they found that “dependence on the bureaucracy in the struggle against the aristocracy contributed to a secondary struggle between the monarchy and the bureaucracy,” as the bureaucracy could curb the trend toward imperial despotism.10 An analysis of this “secondary struggle” reveals some key features of inner state-building in middle and late imperial China. Sociopolitical order is mainly created and maintained through a process of institution-making that dictates “the rules of the game” and shapes the patterns of human interaction.11 Since the Chinese monarch always had to rule through his bureaucracy, he was indeed limited in what he could achieve by the sheer size and complexity of the political system.12 This in turn gave some officials strong incentives to abuse their power and opportunities to undercut imperial authority. To complicate matters further, some emperors often indulged in private desires that deviated from or even conflicted with the public interest of the state or the bureaucracy. Such hidden tensions or open struggles, as late Ming and late Qianlong politics show, greatly affected the internal workings of the Chinese empire and its governing capabilities. To sort out the emperor-bureaucracy relationship during the QianlongJiaqing transition, it is necessary to examine a structural paradox that epitomized the ambivalence at the heart of court politics. Throughout much of imperial Chinese history, crucial distinctions were made between two main spheres of government power, the inner court (neiting) and the outer court (waiting), which defined and competed with each other.13 This uneasy process reached a new height with the full development of bureaucratic

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centralization during the Song dynasty. To reinforce absolute monarchical control over the unwieldy meritocratic officialdom, dynastic rulers often built up the neiting as their personal staff in order to keep the growing waiting in careful check. As a central dynamic in court politics, this triangular interaction became a key driving force behind Jiaqing’s reforms, alongside the escalating protests of the 1790s. Generally speaking, the outer court was the formal top of the officialdom, presiding over the major departments and regular agencies that managed the massive, routine business of administering the empire. Under the Qing, the outer court included a large and complex set of government agencies that had been inherited from earlier dynasties—the Six Boards, the Grand Secretariat, the Hanlin Academy (Hanlinyuan), and the Censorate (Duchayuan), to name only a few.14 As a highly institutionalized hierarchy of official ranks and statuses, the waiting agencies operated according to a tight net of long-established rules and supplementary regulations outlined in the bureaucratic rulebook titled The Imperially Sanctioned Collected Statutes and Precedents of the Great Qing (Qinding daqing huidian shili). The emperor regulated tens of thousands of his public functionaries through such detailed disciplinary rules and clearly articulated written codes contained in this rulebook. Notwithstanding their indispensable role in government administration, impersonal bureaucratic norms could be an awkward or even self-defeating tool for the monarch to use. Rigid statutory prescriptions, which governed only the outer bounds of bureaucratic behavior, presumed no genuine, emotional connections between the throne and his “faceless” officials. The procedural straitjacket of bureaucratic routines also contributed to a slowmoving and precedent-bound administration that limited the monarch’s free will.15 In this sense, the emperor was hampered by the very game rules he imposed on the officialdom for the sake of political efficiency and consistency. Other key factors that gave leverage to the outer court included the complexity of its functional specificity and the scope of its routine activities. The various waiting branches developed their own group identities as well as a collective sense of public responsibility, both of which might stand at odds with the throne’s private interest. In some extraordinary cases, a weak and cloistered emperor could be “dehumanized” into a “rubber stamp” in the hands of his well-entrenched officialdom. To escape the shackles of unwieldy bureaucratic decision-making, the throne often bypassed the cumbersome, unresponsive waiting while empowering his most trustworthy confidants in the neiting. This small, informal, and efficient coterie of imperial relatives and loyal ministers assisted monarchical control on a daily basis, offering consultation on all impor-

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tant state affairs, processing memorials and drafting edicts, and supervising the waiting’s work.16 The emperor could recruit and dismiss them almost at will, disregarding seniority, rank, and educational background as well as any procedural matters. At the full disposal of their imperial master, these private servants were expected to take his arbitrary whim as the supreme law and to apply every possible means to facilitate autocratic rule. As a payoff, they received staunch imperial support while operating beyond the reach of regular legal restraints and bureaucratic supervision.17 The power of the neiting officials thus lay in their “extralegal” status as well as their close, personalized association with the throne. Such unique privileges created “a new inner-court hegemony” during the high Qing period, as evinced by the successive establishment and development of neiting agencies like the Imperial Household Department, the Imperial Southern Study (Nanshufang), the Deliberative Council of Princes and Ministers (Yizhengwang Dachen Huiyi), and the Grand Council (Junjichu).18 This extraordinary inner-court growth sharpened the boundary between the emperor’s private agents and public bureaucrats, which made the distinction much clearer than it had been in the Ming.19 It should be emphasized, however, that the distinction between inner court and outer court was by no means a hard-and-fast division. Neither was their separation absolute because, for better imperial control, the two interconnected domains of government power were built so as to transcend their narrow dichotomy. For instance, the neiting and waiting agencies did not have separate budgets in the modern sense. Neither did the Junjichu establish its own exclusive personnel, despite its status as a key part of the emperor’s private bureaucracy. All officials in this inner-court agency, whether the grand councilors or their secretaries and clerks (zhangjing), held concurrent positions in various outer-court agencies or even in the provinces as well.20 With access to all kinds of information inside and outside Beijing, the neiting functioned as the emperor’s eyes and ears for the purpose of expanding his dominance over the bureaucracy at different levels. Consequently, the neiting became the key intermediary linking the waiting agencies to the throne, helping make imperial rule effective throughout the empire. To understand the full complexity of the emperor-bureaucracy relationship, one should also look at another structural feature of imperial Chinese politics—the dual characteristics of the officialdom. Like the monarch, who had to balance his routine and arbitrary authority, imperial bureaucrats were also caught in the centuries-old dilemma of formal and informal power. To ensure uniformity and coordination of official action on a national scale, the early Chinese empires had already developed an

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elaborate normative system of bureaucratic rules and formal procedures. Such a long-term emphasis on institution-building and legal-rational decision-making, as Max Weber stressed, helped the state achieve a high degree of efficiency in attaining specific goals.21 Nevertheless, it is a commonplace that traditional Chinese government was based less on the rule of law than on the rule of men. After all, China’s state machine did not function in an isolated vacuum but as part of the general social system, to which bureaucrats had to make adaptations.22 These officials, specifically, worked in a whole set of traditional relations defined primarily in terms of kinship, territoriality, and academic connections. The different loyalty groups used a variety of informal sanctions, rewards, and symbols to induce people to behave according to their own rules of the game and to develop practices diverting or contradicting the state laws and government regulations. Such particularistic networks of mutual support provided a key foundation for the careers of most officials, giving them extralegal sources of power while also making them succumb to a range of informal rules and personal responsibilities. They tended to form patron-client ties or even factions by engaging in bribery, embezzlement, and gift-giving, which were necessitated by growing pressure on existing channels of social mobility, due to a perennial shortage of political resources. Increasingly thickening networks of patronage, faction-building, and corruption, as is clearly demonstrated in the late Qianlong reign, can also be understood as the officials’ defense mechanism against the arbitrary nature of monarchical power and its unpredictable pressure. These seemingly irrational practices had long been a built-in feature of the Chinese imperial system, which did not necessarily thwart its long-term running. If well regulated, they could even serve as the lubricant of political operation that moved the rusty wheels of the state machine forward. So the problem was not to get rid of them altogether but to limit them to a manageable scale so that a proper balance could be maintained between functional and dysfunctional forces within the officialdom. Qianlong’s exorbitant imperial control through the means of inner-court hegemony disrupted this dynamic balance and polarized the dual character of the bureaucratic system, in turn undermining its internal cohesion and heightening its operational cost.

Neiting Hegemony and Qianlong’s Dilemma From a structural vantage point, the dramatic rise of the neiting’s power during the eighteenth century reflects another key organizational feature

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of late imperial politics. During the Ming-Qing dynasties, most emperors sought to enhance their arbitrary monarchical power by tinkering with the easily controlled inner-court agencies while circumventing the influence of routinized outer-court bureaucracy.23 The Qianlong reign, in particular, saw an unprecedented concentration of power in the emperor’s hands and its despotic use by such unscrupulous ministers as Heshen. Qianlong, due to his aggressive empire-building efforts and the growing personalization of imperial authority, needed a small and efficient neiting agency that could readily translate his ambitious goals into outcomes. To this end, he accorded enormous power to the Grand Council and made it a formidable “amalgamated organization” that coordinated a wide range of government affairs that used to be handled by different agencies. Consequently, this organ became the best tool of imperial power and the highest institution in the Qing bureaucratic system.24 The Junjichu’s phenomenal development brought some intractable problems. To put them in perspective, it is imperative to outline the shifting pattern of high politics during the Qianlong period. The emperor’s topmost echelon of officialdom, as Xiang Gao contends, underwent two major changes in the first two-thirds of his reign. He used young Manchu officials like Naqin and Fuheng, to lead his expansionist campaigns of frontier-making and, furthermore, to counterbalance longtime ministers like Zhang Tingyu and Ortai, inherited from his father’s reign. After the annexation of Xinjiang in 1760, Qianlong gradually shifted the focus of his emperorship from territorial expansion to political consolidation. As large-scale military campaigns came to an end, he found it necessary to rely more on highly educated Han Chinese officials like Liu Tongxun, Yu Minzhong, and later Liang Guozhi in the highest decision-making organs of the government. The latter two officials had been awarded the extraordinary title of zhuangyuan, the dux of the highest civil service examinations. All three served on the Grand Council and played a key role in its rapid growth during the mid-Qianlong period.25 Liu and Yu even became the designated leaders of the agency—the “ranking grand councilors” (lingban junji dachen), who were essentially the heads or executive managers of the ruling bureaucracy. Nevertheless, from the 1770s onward, Qianlong became increasingly wary of his dependency on the empowered Junjichu, fearing that it would thwart his free exercise of imperial will. This change of attitude can be attributed to his deep-rooted distrust of Han officials, who for the first time began playing a predominant role in this inner-court agency. The rising power and influence of Chinese councilors, as Wook Yoon points out, was largely achieved through faction-building based on teacher-student

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relationships embedded in examination politics.26 Qianlong’s uneasy feeling was also triggered and reinforced by the simultaneous weakening of his personal network of Manchu supporters between 1764 and 1779. Michael G. Chang calls attention to a “generational shift” that occurred during this short period of fifteen years as “an entire cohort of stalwarts at Qianlong’s court, most of them bannermen and bondservants, passed away.” Two principal examples were the deaths of Fuheng (1770) and Yinjishan (1771), the emperor’s most trusted Manchu ministers and the leading grand councilors.27 In the following decade or so, the Junjichu was controlled by powerful Han Chinese cliques that clustered around the new head councilors Liu Tongxun and Yu Minzhong. Most of their members came from the larger “Northern Scholars Clique,” led by Liu’s students Weng Fanggang, Zhu Yun, and his younger brother Zhu Gui. Thanks in large part to academic patronage and regional affinity, these members emerged into political prominence through the conventional process of the civil service examination, which was heavily influenced at the time by the two Chinese councilors (Liu and Yu).28 It is noteworthy that, ironically, Qianlong himself had promoted the rise of the Northern Scholars Clique, in an effort to undercut the sway of Zhang Tingyu, his father’s leading statesman of southern Chinese background.29 Before long, however, Qianlong’s worries about the Manchu identity, as exemplified in his stalled campaign against the soulstealing scare of 1768, came back to haunt him. The emperor found himself increasingly threatened by the rise of Han officials within the Junjichu, whose shared experience in the standardized examinations gave them not only strong personal bonds but also a common appreciation for routinized bureaucratic rule. Such routinization produced individuals with highly specialized knowledge, allowing government agencies to operate according to their own rational logic and to develop multiple spheres of competence beyond the emperor’s personal control. Left unchecked, Qianlong reasoned, these dangerous proclivities within the highest decision-making agency might undermine his arbitrary power and moreover endanger the “Manchu ethno-dynastic domination.” Put simply, the emperor feared that his loyal instrument of absolute rule had become a threat to him, with a triumph of bureaucratic routinization and administrative rationalization ingrained in examination-based politics. In a desperate attempt to circumvent this looming menace, Qianlong engineered the rise of his young imperial bodyguard, the Manchu bannerman Heshen, whose official career was the most spectacular one in Qing history. From the late 1770s on, the emperor encouraged this new political superstar to form a Manchu-led “hyper-faction” and pitted it against the

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Han-dominated cliques led by Liu Tongxun, Yu Minzhong, and Liang Guozhi. This imperially created faction included intimate servants and loyal ministers of Manchu origin like Fukang’an, Fuchang’an, and Fengsheng’e. Most of them entered top officialdom by irregular paths, for example serving as Qianlong’s bodyguards, thanks to their kinship or other special ties with the imperial family (like marriage). Most of these privileged neiting officials, not surprisingly, harbored ill-feelings toward those who gained high offices through examinations. By using one clique to counteract the other, the old emperor deliberately promoted and exploited the cleavages within the Grand Council.30 This time-honored strategy of “divide and conquer” helped Qianlong secure his control over the Junjichu in the last two decades of his rule. It also transformed Heshen into the most formidable minister, interposed between the aging emperor and his outer-court agencies with both monarchical and bureaucratic powers in his hands.31 As a long-serving councilor and the imperial favorite, he was best positioned to reap profits from the Junjichu’s extraordinary growth and the tensions (factional and ethnic) within it. Generally, in the Qing official hierarchy, grand secretaries (neige daxueshi) enjoyed the highest honor and prestige; grand councilors wielded the greatest de facto power; grand ministers in attendance (yuqian dachen) and the directors of the Imperial Household Department were closest to the emperor. In his political career of twenty-five years, Heshen had the unbelievable luck to assume all these awe-inspiring posts that straddled the outer and inner courts. In addition, he also served as the presidents of the Boards of Revenue, Personnel, Punishments, and War. During “his tacitly accepted if not legally admissible regency,” this court favorite largely controlled the executive powers of the late Qianlong government, bolstered by a far-flung patronage network spanning the whole political system. He also was the father-in-law of Princess Gulun Hexiao, the old emperor’s youngest and favorite daughter. This marriage alliance put this imperial in-law under the ironclad protection of the emperor, fortifying his position to a point of impregnability. By the 1790s, Heshen had become so powerful that he was taken to be the “second emperor” by Korean and British envoys to Beijing. Sir George Staunton, who accompanied Lord George McCartney’s embassy to China in 1793, thought that this minister “might be said to possess, in fact, under the emperor, the whole power of the empire.”32 By orchestrating the meteoric rise of his untitled regent, Qianlong quickly regained Manchu dominance of the Grand Council and strengthened his control over the empowered inner court. This newly enhanced strategy of “checks and balances” encountered great difficulties in the 1790s, however,

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as Heshen’s hegemony created great tensions within the Council and, furthermore, serious political disequilibrium in the officialdom. Tensions developed to such a high pitch that the Junjichu ceased to meet as a body before Qianlong’s halfhearted abdication. The power of the regent reached its peak in the subsequent three years, since Qianlong was too old to exercise his power properly and the succeeding emperor, Jiaqing, was simply not allowed to rule. As for effective political counterbalance, it became virtually nonexistent after the death of the leading councilor Agui, a Liu Tongxun disciple and a longtime rival of Heshen, in August 1797. Albeit a Manchu minister, he had been the flag-bearer of the Han Chinese cliques established by his late teacher and the deceased Yu Minzhong.33 Seen from this perspective, Qianlong’s strong empowerment of the neiting destroyed its overall balance with the waiting, provoking an acute institutional crisis in the Qing court. This crisis brought home a profound dilemma bedeviling late Qianlong politics: the throne’s obsession with short-term, personal goals like power maximization and state centralization often ran counter to long-term, systemic requirements for dynastic stability and reproduction. This fundamental predicament, as the alarming crises of the 1790s suggest, developed to such an extent that it pushed the state-society relationship beyond its sustainable limit. The early-twentiethcentury historian Wang Tongling explains that Qianlong’s flamboyant and despotic rulership through Heshen not only precipitated upheavals but also destroyed the dynastic rigor accumulated by Qianlong’s imperial forefathers (Kangxi and Yongzheng). Wang asserts further that the conservative reforms of Jiaqing and Daoguang (r. 1820–1850), the so-called weak monarchs of the Qing, arrested the dynastic degeneration and initiated a relatively peaceful period of rejuvenation.34 To better illuminate this undervalued process, I shall first discuss Qianlong’s abdication.

Qianlong’s Halfhearted Abdication and His Hidden Agenda Immediately after his enthronement in 1736, Qianlong indicated that he would not exceed the sixty-one-year reign of Emperor Kangxi. Ostensibly, this was an unusual display of filial piety that showcased Qianlong’s utmost respect for his illustrious grandfather.35 As a matter of fact, the twenty-five-year-old ruler vowed to abdicate in the far future “because he had nothing politically to lose” and only “a good reputation to gain.” Few people at that time would have believed that Qianlong could have the great fortune of being able to fulfill this promise.36 It seems that the em-

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peror himself did not begin to seriously weigh the feasibility and prospect of abdication until the latter half of his reign. In preparation for this move, he needed to find and empower a trustworthy agent who could carry out his will in an effective and responsive way. Heshen, with his knack of quickly detecting the slightest change in Qianlong’s mind, proved able to serve this purpose most aptly. When the big day finally came on January 1, 1796, Qianlong took the highly symbolic step of abdication and became the “grand emperor.” Having done nothing but govern for three-quarters of his life, however, the retired monarch could not easily relinquish his power and become a mere spectator. Nothing expressed this more tellingly than his new imperial seal, which was inscribed: “resigned but still supervising the administration” (guizheng reng xunzheng). Qianlong made abundantly clear on many occasions that he would continue to rule by retaining the two keystones of imperial power: executive appointment and ultimate decision-making. His rationale was simple: the succeeding emperor (si huangdi) was still not ready to shoulder the full responsibility of governing China. It thus was his responsibility to assume the burden of tutelage and to train Jiaqing in the craft of emperorship. This was an ingenious arrangement for Qianlong in many ways. He not only retained great power without breaking his widely publicized promise but also delegated all the tedious and exhausting routines of imperial duty to the apprentice-ruler, who was allowed to reign but not to govern. This “modified abdication” was little more than political theater staged by Qianlong to ensure himself a glorious and unique place in history.37 Eighty-six years old at this time, Qianlong was no longer the alert, energetic, and resolute monarch of earlier decades. Still, the retired emperor could claim that he was blessed with an unabated vitality that enabled him to take charge of every major state affair. Over the final two decades of his reign, Qianlong, in actuality, had relied increasingly on Heshen as his regent to govern the empire. Yet this convenient strategy backfired as Heshen abused imperial power for personal ends, not only disrupting the political balance between the inner and outer courts but also alienating the throne from the officialdom and the populace. Heshen did a superb job of promoting his master as an unsurpassable sage while shielding him from the inconvenient truth of a prosperous age gone wrong.38 Consequently, Qianlong’s inflated enthusiasm for empire-building gradually outran realities, which precipitated the cascade of social protests of the late eighteenth century. Confucian political theory held that a cluster of ominous signs, like earthquakes, famines, or insurrections, attested to the ruler’s transgression of the Mandate of Heaven. As the most formidable crisis in this period, the

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White Lotus rebellion purportedly reflected an especially serious failure on the part of the imperial authorities because it was carried out by the internal rebels within China proper (neidi luanmin) rather than the less “civilized” nomadic and tribal groups in the external borderlands.39 Throughout his long reign, Qianlong had vigorously asserted imperial power and guarded his personal authority. The same can be said about his three years of “abdication.” As a matter of fact, the grand emperor was even more conscious of how the officialdom regarded him, fearing that they might misinterpret his retirement as a loss of control or relaxation of vigilance.40 From his standpoint, although the White Lotus rebellion tarnished his omnipotent image, it also gave him a last opportunity to reinforce his personal power and make a clear statement. After the Wang Lun uprising of 1774, the old emperor upheld a stringent policy against the Bailian sects in an effort to root them out. This bold initiative climaxed in the frenzied crackdown on sectarian masters in 1795, which directly sparked off the rebellion of 1796. The aging emperor apparently had not accomplished his goal of extermination, but the suppression campaign in Hubei afforded him a last chance to take care of this unfinished business. In his later years, Qianlong never ceased to take pride in the fact that he had extended China’s territory to its greatest extent by launching numerous campaigns against neighboring states and frontier tribes. In a selfcongratulatory essay titled “Shiquan Ji” (In commemoration of the ten complete victories), he hailed these ten military ventures as among his crowning achievements. Four years before retirement, the aged emperor proclaimed himself the “Old Man of the Ten Complete Victories” (Shiquan Laoren), a grandiose title he liked so much that he ordered it carved as the inscription on one of his imperial seals.41 Albeit a Manchu monarch obsessed with war, Qianlong had never personally led a military campaign as his grandfather Kangxi had. He felt compelled to compensate by orchestrating a great propaganda campaign of self-glorification through inscribed stele, military rituals, and paintings wherein the emperor himself looms largest. Hence the ten “extraordinary” campaigns, as Alexander Woodside aptly puts it, “was a public formula whose myth-making properties were designed to transcend the historical facts.”42 By eliminating powerful rival states in the northwest, the Qing Empire finally stabilized its steppe borderland during the 1770s and brought the process of outward expansion to an end. As Qianlong ran out of world to conquer, his war-making enthusiasm began to seep away, which “let much dynamism ebb out of the bureaucracy.” Meanwhile, a false sense of complacency and security kicked in that not only blinded him to the empire’s problems but also impeded efforts to address them. The White Lotus re-

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bellion jolted the imperial complacency by generating an acute military crisis that demanded immediate attention and decisive action from the top. In an attempt to recover “the constant urge of military mobilization,” the retired emperor devoted his last spurt of energy to supervising this repression campaign.43 As the uprising dragged on, it turned out to be one of the most extensive and devastating crises in Qing history, with mixed implications for him. Whereas the extraordinary rebellion darkened the luster of success embodied in his “Ten Complete Victories,” the protracted efforts to suppress it justified tightening monarchical control and central leadership. More significant still, Qianlong saw a good opportunity to solidify his personal grip over the officialdom and to deepen state penetration into the unruly internal frontier. A triumphant campaign against the Bailian rebels would assert governmental control over the Han River highlands and forestall future threats from the recalcitrant sects.44 This edict of 1798 shows his high expectation for this campaign and his readiness to count it as his eleventh great achievement: Since my ascension to power, I have pacified Zunghar twice (1755–1759), squelched the Muslims (1765, 1780s), and defeated the two Jinchuan (1747– 1749, 1771–1776), recovered Taiwan (1787–1788), mollified Burma (1765– 1770) and Annam (1788–1789), and made the Gurkha [Nepal] surrender twice (1790–1792). These were really ten perfect victories. If we succeed this time, it will be another great accomplishment of mine. How could I shirk my duty and not work tirelessly due to retirement? Waging such a big campaign against the rebels by no means suggests that I am a warlike ruler. This is what all officials and people should understand about me.45

In conducting the White Lotus campaign, unlike many of his dubious ventures, Qianlong need not have worried about the charge of “exhausting the army with excessive wars” (qiongbing duwu). As a matter of fact, he seemed to take this fully justified war as his last major challenge, one that would perpetuate his image of imperial greatness and thus add another phenomenal achievement ( jugong) to his impressive list of “ten old feats” (yixin shijiu).46

Jiaqing’s Views of Political Realities Whereas the Chinese monarch was invariably more important as a function than as an individual, his idiosyncrasies and political orientation could often profoundly influence the style and the tempo of empire-building. Jiaqing, to be sure, had little of the idealism and overoptimism of his aged father. The emperor newly installed in 1796 was already thirty-six, older

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than most other Manchu monarchs had been when they ascended the throne. Decades of imperial training had given him ample time to reflect on the legacies left by his predecessors as well as the challenges of his own reign. In this process he had become a political realist with a temperament quite different from that of his predecessor. The nominal ruler did not share Qianlong’s obssession with personal grandeur and theatrical gestures. Neither was he interested in surpassing his father’s glories and bloated ambitions, which came at a high sociopolitical cost. Jiaqing’s pragmatic outlook stemmed from his overriding belief that, as he often remarked, “the key to governance is to suit ruling strategies to the shifting propensity of the times.” He found himself in a new situation which called for a decided retreat from his father’s unachievable ambition to firmly control a society that was undergoing unprecedented transformation. The accumulated upheavals of the late eighteenth century indicated the ultimate failure of such top-down activism, as the late Qianlong state proved unable to mitigate the mounting tensions in local communities. Worse still, that state disrupted the working balance with local society due to its frenetic drive for control, which provoked frontier unrest and strained the regime beyond its capacity. To reestablish this equilibrium as a way out of the crises, Jiaqing carried out a series of reforms that signaled his determination to direct the dynasty on a new course away from the radicalism of late Qianlong politics. The urgent need for reform did not justify rushing headlong into overambitious programs of sociopolitical transformation, however. Thanks to the strong influence of his former tutor, Zhu Gui, the new monarch understood the importance of moderation and embraced it as the cardinal principle of governance. Jiaqing’s middle way was reflected above all in his painstaking efforts to balance reformism and conservatism, which became the hallmark of his twenty-five-year emperorship.47 As another example of his moderate orientation, the emperor identified himself as a “ruler of restoration” whose overriding political concern was to “preserve the dynasty” (shoucheng) rather than expand the imperial enterprise. Despite its sporadic appearance in the Jiaqing reign, the familiar rhetoric of “prosperous age” lost its appeal, due to the ongoing crises, and became overshadowed by the mounting calls for reform. Yet the still powerless monarch had to wait on the sidelines until his father’s passing in 1799. Those three years must have been extremely hard for Jiaqing to endure. His nominal emperorship had begun inauspiciously in the deep shadow of social crises and court struggle. Anxious to prove himself, the newly enthroned ruler aspired to take command of the rebel-smashing campaigns that would validate his mandate to rule. The grand emperor, however, let

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him handle only commonplace matters on the administrative and ceremonial front.48 Stuck in this political limbo, Jiaqing had to struggle unceasingly to hold onto power, since some of his imperial brothers still harbored the hope of replacing him. But his biggest thorn proved to be Heshen, who used the father’s unwavering patronage to limit the son’s authority. The untitled regent kept a watchful eye on Jiaqing’s behavior and frequently reported it to Qianlong. Heshen recommended his own loyal henchman, Wu Xinglan, to be Jiaqing’s literary scribe, with hidden instructions to spy on Jiaqing. Albeit keenly aware of this machination, Jiaqing “graciously” accepted the proposal.49 What galled him even more was that he had to report all important matters to his father through Heshen, who guarded access to Qianlong “like an impassable screen.”50 The royal favorite was so powerful that he acted as not only the spokesman of the whole bureaucracy but also the personal representative or liaison man of the grand emperor (chuna diming zhi ren). Sometimes he even had the audacity to “order” Jiaqing around and punish royal princes by citing authorization from Qianlong.51 Under such circumstances, the new monarch was weak and alone in the court. One of his most trusted officials was Zhu Gui, as their teacherstudent relationship had grown into a firm, sincere friendship that disregarded their huge difference in age and status.52 It was because of this special relationship and his upright character that Zhu had been unceremoniously forced out of Beijing in 1789, unable to return until ten years later. Heshen had seen to it that he was “banished” to the far-flung southeast coast to deal with the intractable piracy crisis. While in political exile Zhu exchanged poems and letters with Jiaqing for mutual support and encouragement. Thanks to Wu Xinglan’s espionage work, one of these letters was intercepted by Heshen, who in turn used it to thwart Zhu’s recall back to the capital.53 Heshen’s presumptuous actions and uncontested power aroused Jiaqing’s great envy and long-smoldering resentment. But he adopted a phlegmatic approach and seldom revealed his true emotions. Keeping a low profile, he set his mind on learning the art of imperial rule and cultivating his image as a virtuous successor. Meanwhile, he tried to surreptitiously build up his power base while maneuvering behind the scenes to spy into Heshen’s malefactions. He enlisted the support of Ruan Yuan, one of Zhu Gui’s disciples, who had distinguished himself in the Hanlin examination of 1791. Jiaqing encouraged this junior official to cultivate connections with Heshen and win favors from him. Through such “political flirtations” Ruan became Jiaqing’s trusted informer, who helped provide evidence of Heshen’s long list of crimes. In addition, Jiaqing attempted to use the

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Imperial Southern Study as a power base to support his fledgling authority. Ruan Yuan’s appointment in 1798 as a duty official in this agency evidently was one example of this effort.54 Notwithstanding the spying and counterspying, Jiaqing opted for discretion in the first three years of his reign and did not defy Heshen openly. The following court diary aptly captures his mental struggle: “The more the Grand Emperor trusts him [Heshen], the more the emperor abhors him; the higher rewards and honors the Grand Emperor confers on him, the more grave crimes the emperor charges him with. Without getting rid of Heshen, there will be endless disaster. But this dramatic stroke would of course greatly offend the Grand Emperor.”55 Jiaqing worried that any precipitate attack on the royal favorite would arouse his father’s suspicions and compromise his own claims to power, as had happened to some of his brothers in past decades. So he took great care to cultivate good relations with both the “supreme abdicated monarch” and the dominating “regent.” In front of his father, the new sovereign was invariably a filial son and a submissive student. He refrained from any display of impatience, despite Qianlong’s evident intention to cling to power indefinitely. Immediately following his father’s abdication announcement, moreover, Jiaqing sent him request after request asking him not to retire, claiming that he was too overwhelmed to assume the stupendous responsibility of ruling China. This kind of political gesture, which extolled filial piety as the basis of governance, was of vast importance in Chinese court politics. In so doing, the succeeding emperor won himself a reputation of filial rectitude that became an important part of his political capital.56 During his three years of apprenticeship Jiaqing was diligent in fulfilling the ceremonial responsibilities associated with the “Son of Heaven.” At the same time, he strove to satisfy Qianlong’s every whim by attending to his needs in endless court activities. According to the eyewitness account of the Korean envoys, Jiaqing’s eyes never diverted from his father during the endless array of court banquets: “when the Grand Emperor feels happy, he is delighted; and when the Grand Emperor smiles, he does likewise” (shanghuang xi ze yixi, xiao ze yixiao).57 Such impeccable deference and unconditional submission earned Qianlong’s unreserved praise: “since his enthronement, the succeeding emperor understands my will and serves me as a dedicated son. . . . His self-cultivation and filiality is truly extraordinary; my heart is filled with utmost happiness.”58 Jiaqing’s relationship with Heshen also seemed to have developed “satisfactorily.” On the surface, Jiaqing held his adversary in great esteem and treated him with generosity. He deferred to the wishes of the “regent” on manifold state affairs, expressing high opinions of his administrative abili-

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ties and commending his “great” service. Even in poem-making, Jiaqing did not hesitate to shower flowery praise on the powerful minister. Some anti-Heshen officials were baffled by such excessive accommodation and urged the emperor to toughen his position. He seemed nonchalant about this suggestion and responded sharply: “I rely on the grand minister [Heshen] to govern ‘All under Heaven.’ How dare you despise him?”59 The apprentice ruler’s conciliation and extolment certainly fed Heshen’s growing sense of power, emboldening him to act in an increasingly peremptory way. But as outsiders in Beijing, the Korean envoys were not deceived by Jiaqing’s political posture. They wrote: “Ever since his ascension to power, the new emperor has known that Heshen will plot against him. He effectively uses his concessions and submissiveness to delude Heshen and to ease his rival’s doubt and fear. This is such a wise political move.”60 Jiaqing was indeed a master of political disguise and secret maneuver. It must have taken considerable acumen and self-restraint for him to cover his rancor and befriend his bitter rival. As the playacting went on, the new ruler was already plotting his secret maneuver against Heshen. It was the rising tide of upheavals that propelled him to launch the attack. Jiaqing realized that he could use these all-encompassing contentious crises as leverage to gain ground in the court struggle, remove Heshen’s domination, and consolidate his power base.61

Chapter Five

The Inner White Lotus Rebellion

S

ocial protest, to be sure, is an important force for political change.1 In assessing the catalyzing impact of the White Lotus rebellion, it will be helpful to first compare it with the soulstealing panic of 1768. Both events offered the throne a good opportunity to reconfigure his relationship with the bureaucracy by shaking up the political system. In the illfounded case of local sorcery, Qianlong orchestrated a nationwide witch hunt against leading soulstealers to vent his hysteria over the diluted Manchu ethnic identity and to assert his unbridled power over the unresponsive officialdom. By contrast, the threat of the White Lotus rebellion to imperial order was so real and straightforward that few officials could have doubted its existence. Despite the blatancy of this threat, political actors constructed the rebellion in a variety of ways, according to their different hidden agendas and perceptions of the problems at hand. They constantly collaborated and conflicted with each other, trying to exploit the suppression campaign for their own personal or group gains. Therefore, as a major case of all-encompassing contentious crisis, the White Lotus uprising presented a complex set of opportunities and challenges that undermined the common interest of the political system. Apart from overt confrontations between insurgents and state armies on the ground, the rebellion also ignited a smoldering struggle between the emperor and his bureaucrats and among the officials at different levels. How the emperor kept his agents in check while supervising the protracted mili-

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tary campaign was profoundly shaped by this much-overlooked process, which I call the “inner White Lotus rebellion,” similar to the hidden internal conflicts that Polachek highlights in his study of the Opium War. As the sectarian uprising persisted for nearly a decade, it propelled the state to develop new strategies in adaptation to changing battlefield conditions. With the benefit of hindsight, one can divide this lengthy process into two general phases, with Qianlong’s death in 1799 as the turning point. The first stage witnessed an ever-growing tide of rebel forces sweeping from one region to another. The suppression campaign in these three years failed on both the military and political fronts, making it “the least effective and the most corrupt” of the Qing military operations. During the second phase, the state gradually brought the uprising under control, thanks to a new, reinvigorated leadership under Jiaqing and his undervalued reforms of policy and institutions. The demarcation above corresponds neatly with that of the central government when it began to audit the military expenses in the wake of the repression campaign.2

The First Stage: 1796–1799 In the first three years of the rebellion, Qianlong formally took the direction of the campaign into his own hands. On many occasions, he claimed that he never indulged in enjoyment and relaxation during the course of this sectarian crisis. While such a statement may well have been hyperbolic, it shows how seriously he took the White Lotus uprising. In later recollections, Jiaqing also testified that his father was engrossed and distressed with the faltering campaign, so much so that he could hardly eat or sleep. Even when he grew increasingly frail after the autumn of 1798, he still read military reports from dawn to dusk, insisting that he be kept informed of the latest developments on the battlefield.3 On numerous occasions, furthermore, the retired emperor stressed his commanding role and thus dispelled any desire of Jiaqing to personally take power. Nothing demonstrates this better than Qianlong’s angry reaction to a memorial from the Huguang governor-general Bi Yuan. Ten days into the uprising, Bi submitted a report about the ongoing suppression campaign that concluded: “I will go all out to live up to the expectations of the emperor [Jiaqing], who is working hard day and night, and also to hearten the Supreme Abdicated Monarch [Qianlong], who is yearning for the triumph of our imperial force.”4 Those seemingly unremarkable words, albeit well intentioned, struck a hypersensitive spot in Qianlong’s pride, as they slighted his paramount role in the campaign and relegated him to

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secondary status. He excoriated Bi Yuan for his careless mistake and, furthermore, issued a warning edict to all provincial officials to reassert his supreme authority: During my abdication ceremony, I issued edicts and informed the world that I would still take charge of all state affairs. The emperor should subscribe to my instructions and learn his imperial role. . . . Since last February I have given orders on every matter regarding the campaign against the Miao rebels. When it comes to the current campaign [against the White Lotus rebels], I should also do the same. Even after my retirement, I will deal with all the memorials, routine or urgent, from both the capital and provincial officials. How can I indulge myself in the comfort of abdication without fulfilling my own governing duties?5

In this self-promoting edict, Qianlong justified his firm grip on power with reference to his so-called devotion to the Great Qing. In fairness to the old emperor, he did not evade his political responsibility while staying indefinitely on power. As he proclaimed on October 22, 1797, “Even though I have abdicated, I still give orders on all state affairs. Should anything go wrong, it is my entire fault instead of the emperor’s.”6 Overshadowed by his long-reigning father and the powerful Heshen, Jiaqing’s role in the first stage of the campaign was marginal at most. This weak position perhaps worked to his advantage, since the intern emperor was free from any blame for failed imperial policies. This situation allowed him to step in right away after Qianlong’s death and furthermore to take dramatic actions toward change. The ailing grand emperor, to be sure, could not micromanage the White Lotus campaign all by himself. Having pushed Jiaqing to the sideline, Qianlong delegated the actual direction of the campaign to his favorite minister, ceding him even more monarchical power. An apt description of this situation comes from Hong Nak-yu, a Korean envoy who had an audience with Qianlong in 1798. As he wrote that year, “even though the Grand Emperor hardly looks senile, he is becoming more and more forgetful. He is oblivious in the evening of what occurred yesterday or even what happened in the morning. Therefore Heshen, as his confidant and regent, increasingly monopolizes the imperial power. His unscrupulous behavior disgusts everybody, but no one dares to do anything about it. With a poker face, the newly throned sovereign remains silent and prudent.”7 From Qianlong’s perspective, it was a safe move to let his favorite minister take charge of the campaign, since nobody else could better defend his decisions and enforce his policies. With little aptitude for military affairs, however, Heshen’s only battlefield experience had been a total disaster. In April 1781, he had been dispatched to Gansu to oversee the campaign

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against the Susishisan Muslim rebellion. Yet he could hardly organize any effective attacks on the insurgents until the arrival of Agui, one of the most famed Qing generals. This humiliation seems to have marked the beginning of a major rupture between the two right-hand ministers of Qianlong.8 Agui became the ranking grand councilor sixteen years after joining the Council in 1763. This veteran minister also received a grand secretary appointment nearly a decade ahead of Heshen. Agui’s longtime service, remarkable accomplishment, and incorruptibility had won him respect among court officials. Equally important, he shared Jiaqing’s great contempt and hatred for Heshen, even though both refrained from direct conflicts with the imperial favorite. Mindful of his poor military background, Heshen tried to offset it through his utmost personal loyalty to Qianlong. Furthermore, he used this weakness as a convenient excuse for staying in Beijing, where he comfortably could do much better for himself and his imperial master.9 The White Lotus campaign further strengthened Heshen’s political position by enabling him to control more executive power over the outer court: he not only served as the superintendent of the Boards of Personnel and Punishments but also took charge of the disbursement of military funds in the Board of Revenue, the state’s highest office of finance. With a reputation as Qianlong’s troubleshooter, in contrast, Agui was dispatched throughout the empire to deal with numerous vexing state matters, ranging from military campaigns and investigation cases to relief efforts and river works. He thus spent most of his time outside the capital during the late Qianlong reign, which was quite unusual for such a highly placed official as the “ranking councilor” and “grand secretary.” This deliberate arrangement nonetheless reflected an important function of the Grand Council: assisting imperial control by supervising all levels of bureaucracy. It was highly plausible that Heshen masterminded this sly maneuver. With his main rival kept out of Beijing, Heshen could easily parlay his privileged position into even greater power and prestige. To the aging emperor, Agui and Heshen represented two different types of ministers he could not do without. Agui was both a great military commander and a hard-driving veteran official who could solve all kinds of urgent, thorny problems for the state. Due to his upright character and down-to-earth style, however, Agui sometimes challenged or even opposed Qianlong’s misguided decisions, including his plans to invade Annam and to establish a system of military yanglian (nourishing-virtue allowances). Heshen, meanwhile, was an exemplar of obedient imperial servants and trustworthy inner-court officials. He was a private confidant who not only understood the emperor’s mind but also invariably exalted his interests,

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even if it meant antagonizing the officialdom and violating established bureaucratic regulations.10 Qianlong thus kept Heshen close by at all times, using him to carry out secret missions on his behalf. Why did the emperor choose to rely on two ministers who were on such bad terms with each other? It clearly diminished administrative efficiency by creating divisions within the highest echelon of the government. This seemingly unusual arrangement, as mentioned earlier, exemplified the divideand-rule policy that had long been pivotal for Qianlong’s control of the vast officialdom. The paradoxical effects of this policy foregound a deepseated problem underlying the Chinese imperial system: bureaucratic efficiency was almost invariably secondary to political equilibrium based on invisible “checks and balances.” The old emperor exploited the tension between Agui and Heshen by playing their cliques against each other while maintaining their dynamic balance of power. In so doing, he strengthened his personal grip over the Grand Council, which was the key to dominating the rest of the state machinery. But such control was achieved at the price of reducing bureaucratic efficiency and exacerbating the existing principalagent problem of reining in the unsustainable cost of political operation. When the White Lotus rebellion broke out in 1796, Agui was almost eighty years old and thus could no longer lead the military campaign or play a strong role in court politics. Eight months later, he resigned as superintendent of the Board of War and other key positions. Liu Tongxun’s disciple Wang Jie, another major rival of Heshen, also resigned his posts in the Grand Council, Imperial Southern Study, and Board of Rites due to his old age and deteriorating health.11 This meant that for a time Dong Gao, another student of Liu, was the sole Han Chinese among the incumbent councilors, though he later was joined by his “classmate” (tongnian) Shen Chu. Even Dong had to leave the Junjichu for a while due to the death of his mother in 1797. Fukang’an, the most important general after Agui, who once was impeached by Heshen, also disappeared from the political scene because of his premature death while battling the Miao rebels in May 1796. All these personnel changes, in juxtaposition with the outbreak of the sectarian uprising, allowed Heshen to reinforce his grip over the military and civil officials.

Heshen Hegemony Qianlong’s half-hearted abdication, instead of curtailing Heshen’s power, further prolonged and strengthened it. The escalating White Lotus rebellion provided enormous opportunities for the court favorite to enhance his

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authority, manipulate imperial policy, and command more state resources. As Jiaqing’s later accusations make clear, the unfettered minister played a dominant role in the counterinsurgency campaign by virtually controlling the Boards of Personnel, Punishments, and Revenue. He made decisions on all matters, big or small, thrusting his associates on the board into the background.12 As Harold Kahn argues, it was the convergence of Heshen’s dramatic rise to power and the eruption of the White Lotus rebellion that added to the minister’s reputation for unadulterated evil that later precipitated his abrupt downfall.13 His manipulation of monarchical power reached its zenith during the first stage of the repression, especially after the death—on August 23, 1797—of Agui, the only top minister whose influence rivaled that of Heshen. He became the sole ranking councilor, as well as the grand secretary, enabling him to further abuse the imperial power after Qianlong’s abdication.14 Heshen previously had been promoted to the rank of baron (nan) and earl (bo) due to his “excellent” leadership during the campaigns against the Lin Shuangwen and Susishisan uprisings. For the same “accomplishment” he was further elevated to the rank of duke (gong) after the capture of the White Lotus leader Wang Sanhuai in 1798. This was the highest honor the throne could bestow on his ministers and likely marked the apex of Heshen’s power.15 His closest associate, Fuchang’an, was also awarded the rank of marquis (hou). Through his de facto regency, Heshen largely controlled the military commanders and provincial officials who took part in the repression. He placed cronies such as Jing’an, Lebao, and Funing in key military and civil positions, reinforcing a preexisting network of malfeasance and corruption. He was said to have forced them to pay dearly by drawing on military funds in exchange for continued political patronage, thus dangerously weakening the imperial armies. He also appropriated a large amount of military rations by misreporting the need for supplies and service.16 In summary, as John E. Wills puts it, the White Lotus war was among “the most lucrative rackets of the Heshen gang.”17 The highly ranked officers outside Beijing, as the emperor’s eyes and ears, had the power to send key information directly and confidentially to him through the palace-memorial system. This efficient channel of secret communication was supposed to discourage entrenched local interests and to ensure a two-way relationship between the throne and individual officials. During the suppression campaign, nevertheless, it was seriously disrupted by Heshen, who managed to occupy a pivotal position in this line of imperial communication by regulating it as a “transmitter,” an “interpreter,” and even a decision-maker. In addition, he was the grand minister

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in attendance who supervised the Chancery of Memorials (Zoushichu), an office responsible for receiving and directing palace memorials to the monarch. Heshen further insisted that he keep his own copies of the secret memorials in order to be apprised of key information beforehand. (This became one of the most serious accusations leveled against him after Qianlong’s demise.)18 He gave personal orders to provincial officials, instructing them to reply through his private system of lateral communication rather than the regular memorial system. This illegal arrangement enabled him to bypass the throne and evade the existing mechanism of imperial monitoring. As a result, many of the incoming memorials from the battlefield were screened before the emperors read them. Under Qianlong, there was a new custom of affixing the names of two top grand councilors on the outgoing court letters.19 As the only ranking councilor after Agui’s passing, Heshen sent out imperial edicts on behalf of the emperor, in addition to supervising the crucial process of drafting and correcting. As Silas H. L. Wu and Beatrice Bartlett make clear, information control went to the heart of monarchical power.20 There can be no doubt that Heshen’s firm grasp over the document traffic to and from the throne gave him tremendous influence over the process of central decision-making; it also represented a real limit to the ruler’s power. Since most of the secret memorials were screened and processed by Heshen beforehand, he could forestall any unfavorable policy proposals and avert scrutiny by the grand emperor. Under such conditions, it was difficult for Qianlong to gain firsthand information on the ground, let alone make sound decisions about the suppression campaign. When several hundred White Lotus adherents first rose up in Jingzhou, few people expected that this local incident would mushroom into a major antidynastic uprising that would wreak great havoc across central-western China. After several easy victories during the first month of the repression, especially the capture of the rebel leader Nie Renjie, the Hubei governor Huiling felt confident that the revolt could be fully contained and snuffed out in the province. Emboldened by such overoptimistic reports, Qianlong similarly judged that the sectarian rebels were but a group of unrestrained rabble who should be easier to crush than the Miao aboriginals.21 This wishful thinking reinforced the emperor’s strong drive to seek a standard and simplified solution to the crisis. The White Lotus campaign in the first three years, therefore, became primarily a military operation that focused on constant pursuit and blockade ( jiao du). It relied on the state’s dual military structure, the Manchudominated Eight Banner troop (which was their major form of fighting

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force) and the Han Chinese Green Standard army, the latter providing the vast majority of the fighting force on the ground. Directly led by high military commanders or provincial governors, these regular state soldiers were deployed in traditional campaigns, focusing on search-and-destroy missions and the defense of fortified cities. But such a top-down strategy proved ineffective in dealing with the rebels’ guerrilla warfare. Deeply rooted in local society, these highly mobile insurgents had little trouble obtaining resources and manpower from the unfortified villages while eschewing direct confrontations with the government forces. A contemporary ballad satirizes these forces’ dismal predicament: “When the soldiers leave, the rebels come; when the soldiers approach, the rebels disappear; alas, when will the two meet each other?”22 Partly due to the complicated terrain and its vast area, the imperial forces were exhausted in endless pursuit and fruitless blockade during the first stage of the campaign. As a result, the revolt spilled quickly into five provinces. Such disturbing news would be a great shock to the complacent grand emperor. To protect his henchmen and to shirk his own responsibility, Heshen suppressed unfavorable reports of military defeats and stalemates, lulling Qianlong into a sense that the campaign was proceeding successfully. With Heshen’s connivance, many field officials (including Lebao and Mingliang) followed suit and trimmed their memorials to suit imperial preference. They became addicted to the habit of sending falsified reports to Beijing, asking for bountiful rewards on the basis of paper victories.23 Understandably, it is difficult to plumb these officials’ real states of mind by reading their ritualistic memorials to the monarch.24 Looking beyond the familiar rhetoric of obedience and loyalty, however, one can detect indications of veiled bureaucratic resistance and thus assess individuals’ ambition in dealing with the ruler. Amid the White Lotus crisis, field officers were generally better able to deflect or even resist imperial will and central policies than they were in peaceful times. Most of them took care to withhold information from the throne, giving severe weather, unfavorable terrain, and the rebels’ cunning as excuses for their delayed reports and military ineffectuality. When such stratagems did not work, they began blaming one another for bad logistic support and poor battlefield collaboration. All these moves can be understood as carefully camouflaged bureaucratic oppositions that reveal a deep-seated dilemma of imperial (principal-agent) control. This predicament became amplified during such frontier turmoil as the White Lotus rebellion, when greater latitude and discretionary power were necessary for officials fighting the elusive insurgents. Whereas the throne’s dependence on these officers increased greatly during such times of crisis, his ability to monitor and control them decreased

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sharply. This breach empowered them to make extraordinary claims for personal and group interests with little worry about imperial sanction and punishment. Fighting an unpredictable war in a huge, hostile frontier region meant that the ruler had a pressing need for immediate bureaucratic cooperation, but the process and outcome of such collaboration remained highly contingent.25 The scarcity of capable high-ranking officers and the difficulty of replacing them during wartime gave these bureaucrats and generals further protection against imperial control. The frustrated Qianlong often lamented that in comparison with his earlier reign, he now had much greater difficulty finding reliable officials to conduct a large military campaign.26 Jiaqing also complained that among all the senior commanders, only Eledengbao, Delengtai, and Lebao could do a competent job. The shortage of qualified, trusted leadership personnel, as an important sign of the state’s lack of organizational resources, reduced the room for autocratic imperial power, which was a key reason why Qianlong managed the White Lotus campaign quite differently from the way he had conducted the Jinchuan and Burma wars. This limitation also compelled him to develop an excessively lenient attitude toward indolent and unresponsive officials, especially those of Manchu origin. During the first three years of the suppression, as Jiaqing noted, only Yongbao was severely punished for his wretched performance. In his letter to the new emperor after Qianlong’s death, the Hanlin academician Hong Liangji also lamented that “for the past five years, since 1795, many men have ruined military campaigns. But has one military governor or one lieutenant-governor, or one adjutant general, paid with his life? How can we hope, in these circumstances, that officials will not trifle with the bandits and bring disaster upon the people?”27 Though the grand emperor became increasingly dissatisfied with his generals and provincial bureaucrats, he continued to issue pardons, on the grounds that such senior officials were much needed during this time of dire emergency. Inflicting harsh punishments on field officers, moreover, would embolden the insurgents and further dampen the morale of his battered army. Such reservations rendered the already difficult system of wartime accountability even tougher to operate. When lashing out at his inept officials, the grand emperor always asked them: “Do you really think I have no other people to use besides you?” This oft-repeated rhetoric not only reflected Qianlong’s growing laxity in disciplining his officials but also might encapsulate his real mindset during the protracted campaign. They had reason to believe that their wartime bungling would not invite stern punishment because it was simply too difficult to replace them. In the worst case scenario, sacked bureaucrats could fall back on the precedent

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of going to Xinjiang or shifting to another post and then rising again to a high position.28 Large-scale, long-term military operations, all in all, provided field officials with splendid opportunities for enrichment and career advancement. Since lengthy wars often swallowed up a large part of the state budget, they had long been a hotbed for corruption. As a matter of fact, such venality was already prevalent in earlier campaigns against the Wang Lun, Lin Shuangwen, and Miao uprisings. Yan Ruyi estimated that 20–30 percent of the war funds allocated to the Miao campaign were squandered. This practice reached a new height during the White Lotus campaign as field officials exploited the disorientation of court leadership and their strong bargaining position on the ground.29 Consequently, this campaign became the most expensive military operation in which the Qing dynasty had ever engaged, and ended up costing about 200 million taels of silver. As Wei Yuan commented, the scale of expenditure, waste, and corruption was simply unprecedented. The Board of Revenue calculated that the government spent a total of almost 100 million silver taels on the first three years of the suppression campaign. To put this in perspective, it amounts to about two-thirds of the overall expense for Qianlong’s Ten Great Military Campaigns (149.3 million), which also equals the Qing’s budget expenditures for three years in normal times. Only half of the 100 million taels, moreover, were spent legitimately under Heshen’s watch.30 Out-of-control military spending like this was an unmistakable sign that the transaction costs of the Qing’s coercive and political control had reached unacceptable heights. The most important reason for such astounding venality, as Shaanxi governor Fang Weidian pointed out, was that no responsible and enforceable procedures existed for auditing military expenditures during the first three years of the White Lotus campaign. Yingcong Dai makes it clear that military logistics has long been a crucial part of Chinese war-making. Due to the exigencies of the battlefield situation, funds were given out as soon as requests arrived without strict account-keeping. Aside from listing the total amount of money, there was no detailed record of monthly and itemized expenses to clear the logistical accounts (zouxiao). As a result, military spending in the first stage of the campaign skyrocketed.31 The officers’ most common corruption scheme involved hiring xiangyong (local braves or local army) in the name of augmenting meager government forces. They wanted as many irregular militiamen as possible under them, mainly for getting more war funds rather than having an effective fighting force. According to Grand Councilor Baoning, the Qing state first began hiring xiangyong in 1795 during the Miao campaign.32 This ad hoc

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practice, however, was not widely adopted until the early years of the White Lotus crisis. These temporary soldiers were mostly single males struggling on the edge of survival. In the eyes of the Qing officials, over half of them were scum of society who took the soaring turmoil as good fortune and profited from it. Becoming a xiangyong not only offered them an important source of livelihood but also was preferable to serving as a regular soldier. As Emperor Jiaqing pointed out: “once joining the state army, they have to obey detailed military rules. While as xiangyong, they are free to come and go. Moreover, they are often better paid than rank-and-file soldiers.” Local braves’ monthly salary, ranging from 2.4 to 3 taels of silver, was much higher than that of regular soldiers, which averaged only 1 tael.33 Better remuneration notwithstanding, xiangyong often avoided combat or delayed victories until receiving the extra incentive of rewards. As Yan Ruyi observed, many xiangyong were pugnacious social transgressors who could easily become insurgents themselves. Once discharged, they quickly switched to the rebel side and became a new source of frontier protest. In some crisis-torn areas, near the end of the rebellion over half of the remaining insurgents were former mercenaries. Relying on these volatile allies thus became little more than “an expensive and dangerous expedient” for the Qing state.34 Due to its contingent and random nature, the employment of xiangyong also offered ample opportunities for military corruption. Unlike regular state troops, they were not recorded on a formal military roster. Field officials often camouflaged their misappropriation of war funds by exaggerating the number of local mercenaries they had recruited and then asking for more money to support them. For instance, Jiaqing questioned Mingliang’s alleged military expense of over 140,000 silver taels in three weeks. Under the heightened pressure, the general admitted that “because my troop was constantly on the move [to pursue the rebels], I did not have enough time to go through all the procedures to request military supply. So I sometimes inflated the number of xiangyong for the sake of better logistic support.”35 More often than not, the court had to oblige such requests because it was difficult to keep a close watch over troop allocations and to ascertain their real needs during large-scale frontier operations. According to the calculation of Lukang, president of the Board of Revenue, about half of the total military expense for the White Lotus campaign was allegedly used to support xiangyong. Hiring these temporary soldiers, along with military laborers, became a major factor in driving up the war expenses.36 One example will suffice to explain this. It was calculated that by 1798  Hubei had employed 366,700 xiangyong in total, which required

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4,700,000 taels of silver and 230,000 shi of rice in logistical support. Emperor Jiaqing voiced his suspicion in an 1807 edict: “It is apparent that there is great inflation here. By 1798, only a handful of ringleaders like Nie Renjie and Zhang Zhengmo rose up in Hubei. The number of coerced people was not great either. If as many as 360,000 xiangyong were hired, considering the additional tens of thousands of regular soldiers stationed in Hubei and dispatched from other provinces, our imperial army would have been one hundred times bigger than the rebel force. How come the uprising continued and spilled over to other provinces?” Jiaqing thought that the exaggeration might have been even worse in Sichuan and Shaanxi, whose provincial officials claimed to have hired over 370,000 and 260,000 xiangyong, respectively. He even claimed that the embezzlement of war funds was mostly justified in the name of hiring militiamen. To cut state payroll, Jiaqing ordained that all relevant provincial governments trim the number of xiangyong they had reported. In response, local officials found other convenient excuses to request money, ranging from hiring military laborers to funding relief work and postrebellion reconstruction (shanhou).37 Another means of misappropriating funds was to bestow military awards (shanghao) on a massive scale, which, as Wei Yuan pointed out, did not become a big problem until the late Qianlong reign. Field officials repeatedly asked for inordinate amounts of revenue in the name of rewarding meritorious subordinates like soldiers and personal aides (muyou). Making these requests, however, did not conform to long-standing state practices because by statute they could only be granted on a strict basis by the throne and certain central agencies like the Board of Personnel. The symbolic honor of these rewards, moreover, always trumped their financial value. While fighting the Lin Shuangwen rebels, for the first time in Qing history, Fukang’an directly gave out handsome military rewards to his underlings, which greatly increased the burden of war spending. During the White Lotus campaign, to motivate his soldiers on the battlefield, Delengtai even issued an order that anyone who captured or killed a real rebel be awarded fifty taels of silver.38 According to Jiaqing’s estimate, no more than one-tenth of the awardees deserved the honor of shanghao during the nine-year campaign. Notwithstanding such strong skepticism, the emperor found it difficult to rein in the expenditure, given the urgent and contingent nature of the suppression efforts.39 If their shanghao requests were declined, field officers would claim that these rewards were critical to their suppression efforts and thus should be bestowed whenever needed. In July 1799, Jiaqing issued an edict that exemplified his pragmatic approach to this thorny matter: “When it comes to military spending, there are some established rules that should be

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followed. But this does not mean that we should impose an excessively stringent control. . . . As long as the rebellion is put down in a speedy manner, I can grant those dubious requests for funds and resources. All in all, it is better to spend more to wrap up this campaign quickly than to cut costly outlays and risk dragging it on too long.” The emperor later consoled himself in another edict that, after all, most “military spending has been dispersed in the society, so there is no need to worry too much about it.”40 Well aware of the emperor’s predicament, field officers profited greatly from it by exploiting the loopholes in the wartime system of military spending. Before Qianlong’s death, some of them took it as a monthly or bimonthly routine to request tens of thousands of silver taels. As Grand Councilor Baoning pointed out, they did not even bother to send a report to justify their use of the funds. It was thus impossible for the Board of War to check and supervise the auditing procedures. Consequently, the scale of the shanghao practice became enormous, as is evidenced by the fact that a total of 944 xiangyong and local gentry received military awards in Shaanxi alone. With few restraints on their activities, many officers accumulated great fortunes after several years of campaigning in the Han River highlands. Often they sent back cash and valued items to their families in Beijing, arousing the envy of metropolitan bureaucrats.41 Military commanders and civil officials also squandered war funds for entertainment and personal pleasure. This practice had become well established by the end of the second Jinchuan War (1771–1776). It became even more prevalent amid the faltering White Lotus campaign. Unscrupulous officials often held lavish banquets and theatrical performances on the battlefield while neglecting legitimate expenses like military stipend and food provision. With their pay often in arrears, many soldiers and xiangyong fought with empty stomachs and inadequate clothing; some even used cowhide to cover their feet like beggers. Still others supported themselves by pawning their weapons, tents, and horses. Some unpaid soldiers, especially xiangyong, deserted and swelled the ranks of the insurgents.42 In the hope of prolonging access to wartime resources, officials on the front lines carried their misconduct to the point of deliberately restraining suppression efforts. Sometimes “they did not fight a single battle or get rid of a single rebel in months.”43 Many officials were dilatory about pressing attacks and were content to drive the rebels out of their garrisoned territories. Jiaqing called this situation “playing with the rebels while profiting from it” (yangbing wankou) and took it as the worst of the misbehaviors of the military force. As he lamented in an edict, “I have heard about the misconduct of the troops. It is said that most of the captured are old, sick, or weak, while hardly one of a hundred real rebels are caught. The num-

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bers of dead soldiers are invariably underreported, whereas those of the killed insurgents are much inflated. To scare the enemies away, our troops often fire musket and cannons from afar. When the rebels draw near, they retreat backward to avoid direct combat. While rebels tramp over hill and dale quickly, our soldiers are afraid of the tough, mountainous terrain.”44 To add to the trouble, officials in the field concocted victories, even at the price of committing atrocities against innocent local people. On August 2, 1796, for instance, more than two thousand surrendered insurgents, many of whom were commoners coerced into fighting, were slaughtered on the order of Funing, who later claimed it as a big victory. Thanks to Heshen’s recommendation, he was promoted to the rank of grand guardian of the heir apparent (taizi taibao). The Henan governor Jing’an, another Heshen henchman, also received promotion after exaggerating his victory in Xichuan.45 Ten months into the rebellion, Qianlong had gradually come to the view that its final suppression would require a nationwide mobilization of military and financial resources. The mounting crisis convinced him that there must be a large-scale sectarian conspiracy and a deeply laid plot against the Great Qing, behind which there was a centralized leadership. Such a misjudgment on his part was not something new. As early as 1794, Qianlong had issued a stern order to investigate the White Lotus congregations in central-western China. Under unrelenting imperial pressure, this campaign quickly snowballed into a massive and frenzied hunt for the elusive “chief culprit” (souni), just as had happened in the sorcery scare of 1768. Now, in 1796, the grand emperor repeatedly ordered his campaign officers to focus on the pursuit of the so-called ringleaders, of whom Liu Zhixie was still the most wanted. Qianlong’s logic was clear: as soon as the principal instigators of the rebellion were captured, all the other insurgents would disband and flee.46 This strategy turned out to be wrong. The dogged pursuit of a nonexistent leading rebel misdirected already strained state resources and hampered the suppression effort. On the basis of their own investigations, provincial officials and military commanders had already begun to understand that the sectarian networks were heterogeneous and fragmented, with hundreds if not thousands of rebel leaders. Hence there was no overall commander or single congregation whose elimination would terminate the whole White Lotus tradition.47 Unwilling to alter course, however, Qianlong presumed that his field officers were just trying to save themselves trouble or spare themselves prosecution for earlier negligence. He constantly scolded them for failing to produce the leading rebel, a failure that was inevitable simply because no such person existed. Under increasing

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pressure, provincial officials were forced to fix their attention on the elusive ringleader while leaving most other rebel forces untouched. They certainly had good reasons to do that. According to the wartime diary of Gong Wensheng, any officials who could capture major sectarian leaders like Ran Xuesheng alive would be promoted three ranks and awarded ten thousand taels of silver.48 The White Lotus rebellion, as Philip Kuhn points out, glaringly exposed the weakness of the Qing military system during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. On paper, the system had a total of six hundred thousand bannermen and two hundred thousand Green Standard soldiers throughout the empire, equal to 0.2 percent of the overall population around 1800. But the actual figure was even smaller than that, due to inflated rosters and payrolls. Many officials recruited fewer soldiers than the allotted military rations justified, keeping the unclaimed funds for themselves. In the event of emergency, they hired xiangyong and other militiamen on a temporary basis. In addition, as Jiaqing himself conceded, the once formidable Manchu striking force—the Eight Banner troops—had lost their morale and discipline. As for the Chinese Green Standard soldiers, they were unevenly distributed in district and prefectural cities and thus unresponsive to emergencies in local communities. Whereas the insurgents had the advantage of rapid movement, moreover, the maneuverability of government troops was greatly compromised in the highlands due to heavy gear and unwieldy weapons.49 As a result of runaway official corruption, ordinary soldiers often ran out of war supplies and therefore had to resort to various illegal activities.50 With meager pay and no clear enemies to fight, they even committed indiscriminate atrocities and lootings against the local populace, thus earning themselves the ironic epithet “Red Lotus Society” (Honglian Jiao). In the eyes of some local people, marauding government troops were even more disruptive than sectarian rebels.51 Under these circumstances, the government troops expended great efforts for small successes in the first three years of fighting, only finding that the uprising got worse and worse. Given the ineffective performance of state troops, some officials in the rebel-afflicted areas tried working out their own suppression tactics in adaptation to local situations. A good example is Fang Ji, the magistrate of Liangshan in Sichuan, who successfully organized local defense by cutting off the roving insurgents from their source of support.52 Specifically, he mobilized the communities to build fortified hamlets (zhaibao), concentrating the farming populace in walled villages and removing food supplies from the countryside. This strategy was later developed into the widely

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followed policy of jianbi qingye, “strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside.” Having sensed that they had no way to win the war, two top army commanders, Mingliang and Delengtai, cautiously proposed the strategy of jianbi qingye to Qianlong in October 1797. As they saw it, constructing fortifications at the village level would enable people to defend themselves without relying on state army or centrally allocated resources. To the retired emperor’s mind, however, accepting this plan of grassroots mobilization would be tantamount to admitting that the campaign under his close watch had failed to stem the tide of rebellion. Such a bottom-up strategy, moreover, would decentralize decision-making power into the hands of local elites, which might set in motion a chain of unintended consequences that would undercut his imperial authority and the state’s military monopoly. Equally important, the aging ruler had no patience with this defenseoriented plan since time was not on his side. From Heshen’s perspective, jianbi qingye entailed less demand for centrally allocated funds, which in turn would menace his lucrative role as overseer of the campaign’s finances and weaken his military patronage network. Perhaps under the influence of his favorite minister, Qianlong reprimanded the two generals and rejected their joint request. He reasserted his strategy of hunting down the leading rebels, taking their demise as pivotal for containing all other insurgents.53 While conducting this rapidly changing war, Qianlong faced a critical dilemma of imperial and central control similar to the ones that bedeviled his late Qing descendants, notably those in the Miao uprising (1854– 1873), as Robert D. Jenks points out: “a desire to maintain bureaucratic control over the process [of suppression] and the apparent need to allow more local initiative in organizing to fight the rebels.”54 After summarily rejecting grassroots initiatives, Qianlong had no viable alternative but to rely more on his regular army, led by provincial governors and military commanders. Ironic though it was, this strategy helped accelerate the diminishment of the central control he was so determined to maintain. These high-ranking officials had gained a decisive upper hand in their surreptitious struggle with the central and imperial power. They were able to claim, allocate, and embezzle an astronomical amount of state resources because effective central supervision had all but disappeared during the first stage of the campaign. Instead of simply accepting the orders from the court, these local implementers tried to delimit the perimeter of what could be done with the resources they got. Their performance on the battleground thus often deviated from the prescriptions set out in policy statements at the Forbidden City.

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In addition to exogenous demands (of an ungovernable social and natural environment) and endogenous challenges (in terms of factional favoritism and bureaucratic conflicts) that incapacitated the political system, the extraordinary claim-making on the part of provincial officials and military commanders provides yet another indication of the worsening principalagent problem that hiked the operational costs of the Qianlong-Jiaqing politics. With decreasing leverage on its own officialdom, the Manchu regime suffered declining abilities to cope with the accumulated disturbances during this period. Its survival and reproduction thus became overwhelmingly contingent on its capacity to use materialistic incentives and instrumental rewards to ensure cooperative behavior among the sociopolitical elites at different levels and to gain their compliance with state goals. Worse yet, Emperor Qianlong used his power and enforced policies in a way that compromised, rather than promoted, a sustainable relationship between the throne and his bureaucracy. As the throne became more and more aggressive, established sociopolitical relations and institutions came under increasing pressure that impinged on the stability of the whole system.

The Second Stage: 1799–1805 After three years of ineffective campaigning, the “Old Man of the Ten Complete Victories” was still unable to achieve his “eleventh striking feat.”55 A triumphant conclusion of the White Lotus campaign would have been the best gift for his coming ninetieth birthday in 1800, but that goal had become increasingly difficult to realize, as imperial troops bogged down in the quagmire of guerrilla war across the Han River highlands. Qianlong grew so anxious that his health deteriorated quickly after the autumn of 1798. With no victory in sight, he died on January 3, 1799.56 The string of disheartening news from the battlefield must have been too much for the “supreme abdicated monarch,” who had looked on military achievements as the centerpiece of his emperorship. One story has it that the hysterical Qianlong even resorted to newly acquired black magic from Xinjiang, casting spells against the leading sectarians and praying for a quick end to the rebellion. In his last conscious hour, the ailing ruler’s only words were inquiries about the botched war efforts. He clung to Jiaqing’s hands and gazed anxiously toward the southwest, expressing his grave concern and galling frustration.57 As this deathbed scene suggests, the faltering White Lotus campaign might well have been one of the greatest disappointments in Qianlong’s long, remarkable reign. He handed over

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the imperial throne to his son and along with it a troubled empire in great distress and one unfulfilled goal to achieve. His dying wish was that Jiaqing take the suppression campaign as his first and foremost priority.58 At that juncture, however, Jiaqing had a more urgent problem on his mind: how was he to deal with Heshen, the overpowerful minister who was actively profiting from the rebellion? The new emperor must have sensed a real danger of usurpation as the mounting crises further solidified Heshen’s position of de facto regent. Jiaqing was dead set on preventing a repetition of the Oboi-style regency that had thrown the court into disarray during the 1660s. In his eyes, the threat of a near-usurper at court was more fearsome, imminent, and personal than that of elusive rebels melting into the far-flung borderlands. Without removing this archenemy, he could neither assert his monarchical authority nor give his full attention to the White Lotus campaign. The new emperor’s decision and strategies to eliminate Heshen, at the same time, were largely dictated by the exigencies of the ongoing suppression campaign. Before the rebellion, Jiaqing might not have decided to execute Heshen or have had the political clout to do so. But the escalating crisis gave him more political ground in the secret struggle for power, as well as a deadly weapon and a golden opportunity to attack.59 The opportune moment finally came after Qianlong’s death. In conjunction with the escalating rebellion, it pushed Jiaqing into the final decision to eliminate Heshen once and for all. Nevertheless, this was a risky move that might ruin the emperor’s reputation as a filial son and jeopardize his newly obtained power. For thousands of years, the Chinese imperial system rested on the principle of “governing the world with filial piety” (yi xiao zhi tianxia). Early Confucian classics required three years of mourning following the death of a father. The same principle dictated that an emperor should abstain from making radical political alterations in the first three years of his rule (sannian wugai), including ousting highly placed officials inherited from his predecessor. Jiaqing apparently had given much thought to the problem of how to deal with the formidable minister as well as what the consequences would be. He devised a sophisticated six-pronged plan to ensnare his prey and to carry out a preemptive strike. Immediately following his father’s death, as the first step of the plan, Jiaqing announced his decision to observe a three-year period of royal mourning. This decision flatly contradicted both Qianlong’s order and the well-established state ritual (guozhi) that limited the period of formal mourning to only twenty-seven days. On the following day, a group of princes and high officials submitted a joint petition applauding Jiaqing’s filiality while also beseeching him to give up this

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impractical decision. Given the urgency of crises, they argued, such a prolonged period of formal mourning was unfeasible, as it would interfere seriously with government administration.60 Jiaqing stood firm, compromising only after a deluge of more requests, especially that from his former tutor Zhu Gui. The emperor “grudgingly” agreed to follow tradition, but he insisted on wearing formal mourning dress for one hundred days and simple mourning clothes for twenty-seven months.61 All other court procedures and administrative activities remained unaltered. The atmosphere at the Forbidden City was solemn and uneasy. When his father passed away, Jiaqing allegedly fainted and fell to the ground. In the following two weeks, he visited the funeral hall every day, kneeling down and weeping for several hours. He neglected to eat and lost much weight.62 Such conspicuous display of filial piety must have had a significant psychological impact on court officials, especially Heshen and his cronies. To them, the sovereign’s unusual posture of deep mourning was a reassuring sign that he would respect the Confucian precept of making no drastic changes to his father’s policies for at least three years. To further reassure the minister, as the second step of his plan, Jiaqing shrewdly put him in charge of the funeral services immediately on Qianlong’s death. Along with his closest associate, Fuchang’an, Heshen was instructed to keep vigil beside the grand emperor’s coffin day and night. Both of them, in accordance with the imperial ritual, were not to leave the main funeral hall during this special period of deep mourning. On January 4, Jiaqing relieved Heshen of his duties as grand councilor and general commandant of the Capital Gendarmerie.63 This personnel adjustment, deemed temporary in nature, did not seem to arouse suspicion from Heshen. Since attending the imperial vigil was a great honor and privilege accorded only to those closest to the late emperor, probably most contemporary officials, including Heshen himself, believed that he would continue to hold great power in the years to come. As a matter of fact, however, Jiaqing had put the minister under virtual house arrest by restraining his mobility in the name of imperial mourning. On January 5, as the third step of his plan, Jiaqing promulgated an edict calling on all qualified officials to send him secret memorials about the empire’s most challenging problems.64 It is not clear whether Heshen was notified of this imperial proclamation. Even so, this would not have troubled him much, because most Qing emperors made such a symbolic call at the very beginning of their reigns. On the same day, the heat was turned up a notch further. Probably following Jiaqing’s cryptic clues, the censors Wang Niansun and Guangxing fired the first shot at Heshen. Soon afterward, Liang Shangguo and Liu Yong joined the chorus of critics. All these

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respondents attacked Heshen for, among other things, mishandling the White Lotus campaign, suppressing military reports, and abusing imperial power. Some labeled him a “rebel from inside” (neizei) or “vermin of the state” (guodu), drawing a deliberate and scathing parallel to the sectarian insurgents. Others directly ascribed the uprising to Heshen’s venality and extortion.65 Responding to such public criticism, on January 8, Jiaqing carried out the fourth step of attack by stripping Heshen of his rank as grand secretary and throwing him into prison, along with the president of the Board of Revenue, Fuchang’an.66 Apparently, this move shunted aside the time-honored injunction that forbade radical changes or criminal prosecution against the previous emperor’s protégé for three years. This surprise strike, to be sure, caused great consternation and anxiety at court. It also caught the regent completely unprepared. The last thing he had anticipated during this period of royal mourning was a political ambush from the late monarch’s successor that blatantly violated the traditional admonition of three years of nonchange. Perhaps the most perceptive assessment of Heshen’s mindset was made by the Fujian governor Wang Zhiyin, who remarked in his memorial on February 3: “Heshen had the good fortune to circumvent impeachment (for many years). Yet he never felt a shred of regret for his outrageous crimes and therefore kept behaving in a rapacious way. Acting out of his own intuitive ‘wisdom,’ the minister must have reckoned that the emperor, due to his utmost filiality, would be confined by the Confucian tradition of three years of nonchange. He could thus continue to escape the punishment of imperial law.”67 Heshen might have felt some qualms about his political future, realizing that he would eventually lose the ironclad protection of his aging master in the post-Qianlong era. Overimpressed by Jiaqing’s filial piety and attitude of appeasement, however, Heshen made a fatal blunder in thinking that the seemingly irresolute sovereign would follow the tradition of sannian wugai.68 In the previous three years Heshen’s confidence in his power had kept growing, blinding him to any possibility of real danger after Qianlong’s death. Heshen had reason to assume that he would continue his regency under the inexperienced emperor’s authority. But all of his assumptions turned out to be wishful thinking. On January 11, 1799, Jiaqing promulgated an edict defending the dramatic move against his father’s protégé. He asserted that “Heshen’s crimes, astounding in scope and gravity, are really too heinous to be condoned.” He also called on all top provincial officials to memorialize their views on how to deal with the case. This nation-wide propaganda campaign was none other than “a virtual open invitation for all to join in denouncing [the former imperial favorite]” while legitimating the authority of the

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newly empowered monarch.69 It was also an ideal moment for personnel screening, as Jiaqing tried to test the loyalty of his provincial officials. The import of his message could hardly be missed by the governors and governors-general, the highest ranking officials of the local governments. In the weeks that ensued, Jiaqing was inundated with a flurry of secret memorials from every corner of the empire that raised the official denunciation to a new pitch. Virtually all senior bureaucrats tried to disassociate themselves from Heshen by portraying him as a corrupt and rapacious minister who had precipitated the crises of the 1790s. Those responsible for the faltering White Lotus campaign, in particular, had an interest in joining the chorus of public denunciations. By fixing the blame squarely on Heshen, they hoped to divert attention away from their own sorry performances in the field. All provincial bureaucrats demonstrated their allegiance to the new emperor by glorifying his action of prosecuting the villain. Many of them suggested that Heshen be executed immediately (zhan li jue). No one defended him or pleaded for leniency on his behalf. Probably taking a cue from the throne, the Zhili governor-general Hu Jitang was the first provincial official to respond. On January 15, he submitted a memorial very scathing in its condemnation: “having no conscience whatsoever, Heshen is unworthy to be regarded as human. His crimes against the emperor, the state, and the people are as heinous as those of the White Lotus rebels in Sichuan and Hubei. . . . According to the law, he should be executed by slow slicing in public [lingchi chusi].”70 Such vituperative, outraged rhetoric served Jiaqing well. He immediately decreed that all capital officials above the third rank must read and comment on Hu’s proposal.71 Another set of accusations came from Feng Guangxiong, the governor of Guizhou, who concluded: “among Heshen’s crimes, his lese majesty and obstruction of the military campaign were especially grave. . . . Please execute him to serve imperial justice.” The Zhejiang governor Yude weighed in with another acrimonious memorial, arguing: “if Your Majesty were restrained by the tradition of sannian wugai and failed to act promptly, the court could not have been disciplined and the emperorship could not have been promoted.”72 More and more provincial officials followed suit and expressed their support for meting out severe punishment to Heshen. Jiaqing responded swiftly with a stream of unpromulgated commentaries written in his own brush and in the emperor’s vermilion color. This sort of confidential communication, like court letter edicts, was the most important way for the Manchu monarchs to deal with secret memorials. Jiaqing poured out his anguish to the provincial correspondents, trying to

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cultivate their loyalty and to defend his unusual move. He wrote to Guangdong governor Chen Dawen: “If I did not act promptly to eliminate Heshen, the country could not be helped. Heaven knows that I have no choice but to do this.”73 In his reply to Lebao, the top commander of the White Lotus campaign and Sichuan governor-general, Jiaqing scolded: “You had the blessing to be appointed as the commander-in-chief by the grand emperor. But [under the connivance of Heshen] you embezzled military rations and put off the repression efforts. Right now the minister you relied on has been imprisoned—if you continue to procrastinate, how can I spare you again? Think about it and be very careful.”74 By holding Heshen responsible for the botched campaign, Jiaqing excused Lebao’s lackluster performance and pardoned other officials in the field. He declared, “I prosecuted Heshen swiftly because your suppression efforts have been hindered by him. That is why the war [against the White Lotus] drags on until now.” In his instruction to Funing, an official in charge of campaign logistics, Jiaqing wrote: “If you do not atone for your past blunders and give up your hateful habits, you will end up just like Heshen. I would rather be accused of replacing my father’s trusted officials than let the crafty ones continue their evil practices.” As for the Jiangxi governor, Zhang Chengji, the emperor remarked: “If Heshen did not receive the full penalty of the law, the whole world would only recognize his existence, not mine. What other choice do I have? Right or wrong, let the public opinion be the final judge.”75 It is plain that Jiaqing did not violate the injunction of sannian wugai lightly, as it could have ruined his reputation as a moral monarch according to the Confucian ideal. In a private conversation with his confidant Wu Xiongguang, a disciple of Agui, Jiaqing asked: “Am I punishing Heshen too quickly?” Wu replied: “If he had not been put to justice as soon as possible, ignorant people would continue looking on and stirring up trouble. While our duty entails a prompt strike, ending this quickly without implicating more officials is the utmost embodiment of humanity.”76 In relieving the emperor’s undue burden of guilt, Wu also urged restraint and opted for a swift yet moderate purge. As the fifth stroke of his plan, on January 15 Jiaqing finally made manifest his determination to be rid of Heshen once for all. On the basis of the severe criticism he had aroused, the monarch formally castigated his bitter rival with “Twenty Indictments,” including presumptuous abuse of power, acquiring ill-gained wealth, and bungling the White Lotus campaign.77 Only when he heard this lengthy accusation did Heshen fully comprehend Jiaqing’s deep hatred for him. Three days later, the distraught villain was ordered to commit suicide in his prison cell, and all his fabulous

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wealth was confiscated. This was the sixth and the last stroke of Jiaqing’s attack.78 Surviving sources (official and nonofficial) allow us to speak only in speculative terms about the amount of Heshen’s fortune and assets. According to the most conservative calculation, it amounted to no less than 30 million taels, about half of the state’s entire standby treasury surplus in the late Qianlong reign.79 Much of this newly discovered wealth was safely relocated to Jiaqing’s private purse in the Imperial Household Department. Like a windfall, it considerably alleviated financial pressure on the new government. Its benefit was nicely encapsulated in a simple popular saying: “Heshen fell, Jiaqing flourished” (Heshen die dao, Jiaqing chi bao). Of equal importance, by eliminating the most hated public enemy, Jiaqing made a reputation for himself as a resolute, paramount ruler (yidai zhi lingzhu) who could strike against anyone daring to challenge his authority. The whole Heshen case was resolved in just two weeks. This surprising rapidity was justified, even necessitated, by the mounting urgency of the White Lotus campaign. The fire of the uprising cast a brighter light on Heshen’s accumulated evils, which helped fuel the outcry against him. One of the gravest charges in “Twenty Indictments” was his mishandling of the supression campaign and his obstruction of military intelligence.80 This sort of charge had long served as an effective imperial strategy for acting against overly powerful generals and ministers. A case in point was the ranking grand councilor Naqin, who, despite being one of the most formidable officials in the early Qianlong reign, was suddenly beheaded in 1749 for his poor leadership as the supreme military commissioner ( jinglue) in the first Jinchuan campaign.81 Similarly, many highly placed officials in the provincial and capital bureaucracy were executed for allegedly botching the war against Burma. Acutely aware of such historical precedents, Jiaqing used this lethal weapon to great effect. He issued this edict in the wake of Heshen’s forced suicide: “Insofar as Heshen’s crimes are concerned, he delayed unfavorable military reports and deceived the throne. With his connivance, army commanders and civil officers exaggerated or even concocted victories; they even had the gall to siphon off military rations. Consequently the campaign drags on even now. This is the most grave crime of Heshen . . . [and] he should be executed right away.”82 Jiaqing recognized that an extraordinary situation called for extraordinary action, even at the cost of his own political reputation. He displayed a masterly sense of political timing by neutralizing his archrival during the favorable conjunction of internal mourning and external rebellion.

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Jiaqing’s decisive triumph also hinged on the intensifying factional struggles of the late eighteenth century. Notwithstanding his formidable power, Heshen was by no means invulnerable at court. His spectacular rise, as noted, upset the existing balance of power among key government agencies (inner and outer courts) and between the two major cliques clustered, respectively, around Heshen and his rivals Yu Minzhong, Zhu Gui, and Agui.83 Yet open opposition to the imperial favorite was quite rare before Qianlong’s death. Jiaqing used controlled factionalism as a mechanism to forge the alliance against Heshen and to win supporters from different political groups. Thanks to Qianlong’s balancing strategy, as Wook Yoon asserts, the hyperfaction led by Heshen greatly increased its influence on the metropolitan and palace civil service examinations in the 1790s. Conversely, the opposing clique, led by Agui, Zhu Gui, Wang Jie, and Dong Gao, began losing their dominant control over examination politics, which had long been their major base of political power. With potential and current factional recruitment drawn to Heshen’s camp, it became increasingly difficult for the anti-Heshen cliques to maintain and cement teacher-disciple relationships through the highly competitive examination process. To recover the lost ground, some hard-core anti-Heshen officials opted to develop their own patronage ties by constructing informal political associations or friendship networks.84 In the Confucian political culture, as Benjamin Elman remarks, “emperors viewed horizontally aligned groups of gentry-officials as factional threats to the sanctity of vertical loyalties that culminated in the person of the emperor himself.” Private literati associations, in particular, had to stay within the strict limits permitted by the imperial state. Few rulers of China surpassed Qianlong when it came to efforts at cultural regulation. This Manchu ruler was well known for his relentless campaigns of literary inquisition (wenzi yu) and for the colossal project of the Imperial Library in Four Treasuries (Siku Quanshu), both of which exemplified his concern over even the slightest hint of ideological heterodoxy or political dissent. Yet such efforts at cultural control gradually lessened, thanks largely to the combination of external social crises and internal court struggle during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. Consequently, as Matthew Mosca notes, “Han literati in and out of office gained more freedom and felt more responsibility to speak out about matters of administration and statecraft.”85 Meanwhile, they set up diverse informal organizations in the late eighteenth century. To check existing factions of troublesome officials, Qianlong encouraged the formation of patronage groups that were made up of his own intimate servants. He also supported the rise of such pro-reform

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factions as the “Northern Scholars Clique.” It is ironic that this group gradually aligned with Jiaqing and became the focal point of literary and official opposition to the Heshen faction.86 Some less powerful dissenters disguised their building of political alliances by holding regular ceremonial and literary activities in the centuriesold tradition of “Xiuxi” (an annual ceremony of spring purification and sacrifice by the water which also became a popular form of literary gathering).87 Hu Jitang and the Mongol bannerman Fashishan, for instance, formed a poetry club during the 1790s devoted to commemorating famed Ming officials like Li Dongyang and Yang Jisheng, both of whom were “martyred” for their righteous remonstrance against formidable Heshenlike villains at court. Meanwhile, Weng Fanggang, a doyen of Song Confucian learning, set up the Suzhai Poetry Society (Shihui), which gathered together a number of politically frustrated literati like himself. Another example is the “cold-relieving society” (xiaohan hui) that later expanded into the Xuannan Poetry Club. It was founded in 1804 by Tao Shu, a newly minted jinshi (literally “the presented scholar”, the degree holder who passed the metropolitan-level civil service examination), who later became a reformist official in the Daoguang period. All these literati parties and friendship networks, some of which overlapped with each other, held commemoration activities devoted to great literary masters like Ouyang Xiu and Su Shi. Some of these groups became ideal centers for literati opposition to Heshen, thanks to their high reputation and wellcamouflaged organizations.88 Taken together, these informal networks not only represented a departure from the mid-Qianlong politics hinging on examination patronage but also paved the way for the revival of the kind of “ideologically selfconfident literati groupings” that had promoted reform and publicmindedness during the late Ming. This is a key development, since one tends to think of the late Ming pattern not reappearing until the midnineteenth century with the rapid resurgence of statecraft studies and literati activism. Through the prism of these Jiaqing-era associations, however, one can both look back to the late Ming and forward to the late Qing. The Xuannan Poetry Club, in particular, played an interconnecting role between the two. It was succeeded by the more influential Spring Purification Circle (Zhan Chun Ji) in the 1830s that became “the standardbearer of literati political aspirations.” Imitating the Donglin party of the late Ming, the Zhan Chun Ji exerted its influence of “moral opposition” and bureaucratic criticism through qingyi (disinterested discussion) that depended on personal ties within the censorate.89 James Polachek rightly emphasizes that the success of the Spring Purification Circle was a move

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back in the direction of late Ming politics, but he glosses over its immediate link with various quasi-literary associations in the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. While hatred for Heshen was increasing in the outer court, similar sentiment was growing in the Grand Council. After the death of Agui, his secretary Wu Xiongguang, his grandson Nayancheng, and Yu Minzhong’s disciple Dai Quheng were pushed out of the Junjichu by Heshen in 1798. Another two councilors, Dong Gao and Wang Jie, also withdrew from the agency as early as November 1796. These ousted ministers became Jiaqing’s most trusted confidants because they had adamantly stayed loyal to him through the difficult years of Heshen tyranny. Along with the Northern Scholars Clique, led by Zhu Gui, these men became the backbone of Jiaqing’s reforms. This alliance was further promoted by the sectarian rebellion that provided a major impulse for their joint action against Heshen. The dramatic death of Heshen, like a political earthquake, threw the entire court into a state of anxiety and speculation. With memories of historical precedents still fresh, people had ample reason to believe that a cataclysmic retribution against Heshen’s supporters was on its way. In June 1669, for instance, the newly empowered Kangxi had imprisoned his chief regent, Oboi, and had him prosecuted for a long list of crimes. To further assert his undisputed authority, the fifteen-year-old emperor had also purged all the six board presidents and major banner officials. Kangxi’s record of political persecution was surpassed by his grandson Qianlong, who had launched a series of political campaigns against an officialdom he deemed unruly, including the witch-hunting spree that accompanied the sorcery hysteria in 1768. A more recent example was the Gansu corruption case of 1781, in which more than two hundred bureaucrats had been punished, fifty-six by execution, for embezzling funds designated for military supplies and famine relief.90 How could Jiaqing miss this golden opportunity to revenge against Heshen’s cronies for his long humiliation and frustration?

A Minimalist Purge To many people’s great surprise, what followed in the next month was a “minimalist purge.”91 Jiaqing took pains to eschew a full-scale inquiry into the misdeeds of Heshen and his notorious cabal. Immediately following Heshen’s death he proclaimed a policy of moderation and nonimplication (bu yu zhulian), decreeing that further punishment of the malefactors should be limited:

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Heshen has abused power and deceived the emperor for a long time. As a result, bottom-up information could not reach the highest level of government. If the principal culprit is not executed right away, bureaucracy cannot be disciplined and politics cannot be reformed. . . . Some of you might misunderstand my will and over prosecute, badger me with accusations on Heshen’s private and trivial matters, using one or two people and things to substantiate your charges. If that is the case, the court will be driven into endless mudslinging and vindictive machination. Thus getting rid of a big moth [judu] will lead to intensified political infighting, which is the last thing I want. The cardinal reason why I severely punished Heshen was that he mishandled such urgent state affairs as the ongoing military campaign. By comparison, his corruption and embezzlement of public funds were minor crimes. That is also the reason why I dealt with this case in such a swift way. I want you to take this as a precaution for the future, never intending to implicate more people and punish them for their past problems.92

This edict is particularly useful for what it reveals about the hidden link between inner state-building and the White Lotus campaign. Here Jiaqing changed the debate about Heshen’s case, shifting it from an issue of simple bureaucratic corruption to one of political crime that endangered state survival and necessitated prompt reforms. He hoped that through a policy of general amnesty Heshen’s followers could be reeducated and their loyalty would return to where it belonged. The newly empowered emperor urged those officials to serve him single-mindedly and to support his comprehensive efforts of restoration (xian yu weixin). In so doing, he reached a tacit compromise with those who had been connected to the erstwhile regent in one way or another. Ultimately, only Heshen lost his life in this minimalist purge. While several of his closest associates, including Fuchang’an, Wu Xinglan, Yijiang’a, and Zhengrui met with severe punishment, none of them were executed. The majority of their less important cronies were left in place.93 Most scholarly investigations into the Jiaqing reign have tended to focus on the limitations of this controlled purge, taking the emperor’s inability to institute thorough reforms as his “original sin that eventually spelled doom for the Qing Empire.”94 This negative picture nonetheless deviates substantially from how Jiaqing was depicted by contemporary observers like the Manchu Prince Zhaolian. In his eyes, as R. Kent Guy notes, the emperor’s minimalist purge represented “nothing less than a ‘restoration’ (wei-xin) of Qing government.” This moderate move, I would add, was not simply an expedient concession to the harsh realities of court politics but also was part of a systematic effort to promote the process of dynastic renewal. Jiaqing realized that to save the Great Qing, he needed to recreate a viable emperor-bureaucracy relationship by steering a conciliatory course

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between reform supporters and opponents. As he saw it, the crisis-ridden regime could not afford a mass crackdown on the Heshen clique, which would eliminate a large number of useful officials without adequate replacement.95 Such a political hemorrhage would paralyze the troubled bureaucratic machine, making it impossible to address the most pressing sociopolitical problems. The major significance of the purge was its elimination of a destructive regent so as to restabilize the officialdom and restore political equilibrium. This should be considered as not only Jiaqing’s crowning achievement but also the prelude to his underrated reforms.96 To him, the abortiveness of late Ming politics stood as a stark reminder of the consequences of radical, self-indulgent ways of clamping down on political rivals. Like his father, Jiaqing exploited factional discord to take personal command of the government, yet in contrast he refrained from overplaying the strategy that might lead to imbalance of power and self-destructive infighting. As major victims of such vicious bickering, many reformist officials like Zhu Gui, Wu Xiongguang, and Ruan Yuan strongly supported the emperor’s decisive yet nonvindictive way of handling his enemies. The Korean envoys in Beijing reported back to their king that people touted Jiaqing’s three great virtues exemplified in the Heshen case: political wisdom, bravery, and benevolence.97

The Remonstrance of Hong Liangji Some radical scholar-officials were of a different opinion. The escalating upheavals and Heshen’s destruction not only fed their disenchantment with deteriorating realities but also ignited their long-held reformist aspirations. In the months after assuming full imperial leadership, Jiaqing put out several calls for reform proposals, encouraging all qualified bureaucrats to memorialize on the dynasty’s intractable problems. Heartened by the broadened “avenue of communication” (yanlu), many reformist officials submitted their proposals for change, some of which were simply too idealistic and difficult to implement. The most radical suggestion was made by Fusen, a vice banner commander, who sent up a memorial urging that all local bureaucrats in the rebel-infested provinces be dismissed and replaced in order to remedy the rampant official venality and atrocities. This proposal for dramatic change was quickly rejected by the emperor. Harboring high hopes for Jiaqing’s reforms, radical literati-officials used the many-sided crises as a rich source of thinking to promote extensive sociopolitical changes. However, they saw little prospect of sweeping

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reforms for long after the dust of Heshen’s case settled. In response, like their Ming predecessors, some of them took up the Confucian responsibility of political remonstrance and argued vociferously for a drastic reshaping of the Qing institutions to cope with harsh realities.98 The most spectacular episode was the martyr-like remonstrance of Hong Liangji, a Changzhou scholar who achieved national prominence in the 1780s.99 Thanks to the patronage network fostered under Zhu Gui and Weng Fanggang, this political aspirant advanced through the civil service system and became a jinshi at the age of forty-four in 1790. In Beijing, Hong’s reputation for uncompromising morality and high principle made him a major leader of the anti-Heshen movement associated with the literati associations established by Fashishan and Hu Jitang. He later served as commissioner of education in Guizhou, a position that enabled him to personally observe the accumulated sociopolitical ills in local government and society. Hong thus applied himself to a range of statecraft studies ( jingshi) and formulated his critical views on contemporary conditions in a collection of private essays written in 1793 and titled “Opinions” (Yi Yan).100 His pessimistic but shrewd observations of how population growth influenced productive capacity, for example, earned him a posthumous reputation as the “Chinese Malthus.” Observing the social discontent and state crisis caused by demographic explosion, Hong challenged a fundamental assumption in Chinese political thinking that continuous population boom was a sure sign of good government and a well-ordered society.101 To his mind, such demographic prosperity was hardly sustainable because it entailed a thinner margin of survival in an overpopulated society, which was a recipe for natural and humanmade disasters. In March 1798, Hong Liangji attended a Grand Examination for Hanlin members (Hanyuan Dakao) at the Forbidden City, the topic of which was “The Pacification of Heretical Sects” (Zheng Xiejiao Shu). He submitted a provocative and emotionally charged treatise, emphasizing that the real origin of the White Lotus rebellion lay in the extremely oppressive practices of local authorities. Under such circumstances, most sectarians had no choice but to defend themselves, which promoted their militarization and spurred the uprising. Hong’s solution was rather simple and idealistic: a massive amnesty for rank-and-file rebels, followed by a large-scale rehabilitation program to reincorporate them into society. To achieve these goals, a moral and just government had to be restored after a thorough housecleaning of venal officials at various levels.102 With his excellent exposition of the topic, Hong earned second place in the Grand Examination. His article was so lofty and inspiring that it became a popular read among literati scholars at that time.103 As one might

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imagine, a radical proposal like this had no chance of winning support from the Heshen-dominated court. Albeit disappointed by Jiaqing’s “minimalist purge,” Hong’s hope for change was rekindled when a formal debate began within the Hanlin Academy, the topmost intellectual center in Ming-Qing China, concerning the appropriate direction for Jiaqing’s reforms in the spring of 1799. Despite being the best minds of the empire, Hanlin members had been largely marginalized in court politics by this time. During the early Jiaqing reign they were divided on the key question of how to solve the Qing’s urgent problems. On one side of the debate stood Hong Liangji and his younger Changzhou landsman Zhang Huiyan, a newly minted jinshi in 1799. On the other side stood their erstwhile examiner and the much-respected veteran official Zhu Gui, who represented the reform-minded but conservative segment of the bureaucracy.104 Hong and Zhang called for a radical political reform and wholesale purge of Heshen’s network as preconditions for tackling the simultaneous crises confronting the dynasty. Wary of such idealistic, morally inspired criticism, Zhu Gui articulated a quite different position that reflected his reformist but pragmatic inclinations. The veteran minister felt that the emperor should avert the path of partisan vengeance and radical reform so as to gather widespread support and consolidate his fledgling regime. Zhu tried to pass on his moderate conviction to the two students, but unsuccessfully. It came as no surprise that the victor of this debate was Zhu Gui, Emperor Jiaqing’s most trusted advisor. Seeing his reformist dream shattered completely, Hong Liangji became so frustrated that he resigned his job in the Veritable Records (Shilu) Office. In a desperate effort to call for a thoroughgoing reform, this lonely crusader, like the famed Ming official Hai Rui, wrote a thunderous letter to the emperor on August 25, 1799, in which he lamented the steady deterioration of civil administration and lashed out at the upper echelons of the bureaucracy. Apart from labeling Heshen the ultimate root of the White Lotus uprising, his blunt denunciation contained the names of over forty incumbent and retired high officials, including capital ministers, military commanders, and provincial bureaucrats. Most strikingly, this outspoken critic even had the audacity to fault Jiaqing for failing to punish the men named in his indictment.105 For centuries, sending up letters of remonstrance was a potent means of political critique. It empowered lower-level officials to voice their pent-up dissatisfactions and moreover to offer suggestions for reform. Yet there was a procedural problem with regard to Hong’s case. As a Hanlin compiler of the second degree (bianxiu), he did not have the prerogative to directly memorialize the throne. So he turned to Zhu Gui, Liu Quanzhi,

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and Prince Cheng (Yongxing), asking these three court dignitaries to submit the letter for him. Having started their careers as Hanlin academicians themselves, both Zhu and Liu well understood that such an impulsive remonstrance might cost Hong his life. Partly to protect their talented disciple, the two ministers chose not to pass the letter on to the emperor. But Prince Cheng did it without hesitation.106 Jiaqing was horrified by Hong’s candid yet strident critique, which went beyond criticizing Heshen’s hegemony to attacking the political system as he saw it. In the eyes of the enraged emperor, this not only went against his policy of nonimplication but also sent a dangerous signal that the factional specter of Donglin politics had begun to reemerge. He warned: “How can we repeat the folly and disaster of late Ming?”107 If all those Hong accused were to be investigated, the divisive forces that had ruined the previous dynasty would be resurrected along with their witch-hunting spirit of vindictiveness. Conducting a massive political cleansing, in addition, would stymie the repression campaign and undermine the emperor’s fragile power base. In order to save himself the agony of receiving more remonstrating memorials, Jiaqing immediately removed Hong Liangji from his post and threw him into prison. Nevertheless, the emperor refused to have the reckless Hanlin executed, as some conservative officials suggested, settling instead on exiling him to far-off Ili in the northwest. Jiaqing was admittedly so impressed by Hong’s blunt criticism that he put the remonstrance letter next to his bed and often read it as a warning to himself. In April 1800, he recalled the remonstrator back to Beijing and restored his reputation.108 Despite this remedial measure, his handling of Hong’s case to some degree deterred the free flow of suggestions from scholar-officials. Whereas Hong’s banishment silenced the debate within the Hanlin circle, heated discussion had just begun among the literati across the empire. Many leading scholars, including Zhang Xuecheng, Wang Chang, Cui Shu, Duan Yucai, Yun Jing, and Yao Nai, circulated politically charged works among friends or composed letters to high officials. Like Hong, Zhang singled out Heshen’s corruption and power abuse as a key precipitating factor contributing to local maladministration and rising protest. He warned: “if local misgovernment is not ended, sectarians will inevitably rise up and make trouble again.”109 Heshen’s dramatic rise and fall, to some degree, altered the subsequent course of Qing history.110 On the one hand his hegemony and malefactions were the focus for covert literati alignments in the closing decades of the eighteenth century; on the other, as Benjamin Elman writes, his tragic end “became the cornerstone for reformulation of literati prerogatives vis-

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à-vis the state and its imperial institutions.” Like the late Ming eunuch usurpation of Wei Zhongxian, the Heshen “tyranny” was a watershed for imperial politics: as the classical legitimization for autocratic government weakened, the politics of literary expression tilted decisively in favor of literati dissent. Hong’s political and moral protest represented the beginning of a revival of “disinterested discussion,” which ignited a spate of bottom-up critiques of the late Qing exercise of political power. At the same time, self-conscious literati factions and friendship networks took on new shapes in the face of the contemporary disturbances.111 The White Lotus and piracy upheavals facilitated this decided change in Qing political culture. Lettered elites like Hong Liangji and Zhang Xuecheng, fully comprehending the political significance of both crises, sought a more autonomous, legitimate role in saving and ordering the world. Consequently, Donglin-style literati networks, moral righteousness, and political activism that had been “submerged for a century and a half, reappeared as a beacon of hope rather than as a sign of selfish factionalism” during the Jiaqing period.112 This deep historical continuity stemmed in large part from chains of internal events rather than from the external impact that many traditional studies have stressed. Hong’s radical remonstrance thus “represented the opening salvo in the revival of literati activism in the nineteenth century politics” of China.113 Hong showed less concern about the immediate social crises than about the deeper institutional problems of government decision-making. His diagnosis of the Qing’s pressing ills was rhetorically persuasive but hardly pragmatic. In general, he was silent on the specific procedures and concrete programs of his reform proposals. Very much a political visionary, Elman contends, Hong was in some ways addressing the institutional problems of the late Qing. He displayed a consistent interest in shifting power outward and downward within the government structure to allow a wiser exercise of political initiative. On this point, Hong had much in common with his intellectual predecessors Gu Yanwu and Huang Zongxi as well as his contemporaries Bao Shichen and Zhang Huiyan. In his implicit critique of the throne and passionate appeal for radical reforms, Hong was already talking about “familiar questions of political participation, competition and control in the context of conditions inherited from the eighteenth century and earlier.” These questions remained the most discussed problems of the late Qing literati-officials, including Wei Yuan and Feng Guifen.114 Like Elman, who accentuates the deep continuities in late imperial history, Kuhn highlights enduring internal challenges as the real origins of the modern Chinese state. He asserts that people like Hong were partly

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addressing some profound structural “constitutional” issues on China’s political agenda that linked its late imperial period with the modern one.115 It is thus a mistake to consider China’s “constitutional agenda,” which began to develop in the late eighteenth century, as solely an outgrowth of foreign challenge. Instead it originated mainly in endogenous structures under the influence of the 1790s crises.116

Chapter Six

The Jiaqing Reforms

A

lthough Jiaqing finally controlled the government in reality as well as in name, his political use of the all-encompassing contentious crises was far from over. While rejecting a political overhaul, he did not hesitate to capitalize on the escalating upheavals and Heshen’s demise to carry out a series of moderate institutional and policy reforms.1 His first goal was to end the hegemony of the inner court by disciplining its most important agencies, the Grand Council and the Imperial Household Department. Heshen’s untitled regency exposed a structural, constitutional dilemma ingrained in the Chinese imperial system. Due to “the inherent lack of clarity concerning the reasonable limits of the emperor’s actions as an individual” and as an institution, no law could effectively delineate the parameters of neiting power, whose expansion might have contradictory effects on centralized monarchical rule.2 To handle this increasingly vexing problem, Jiaqing faced two contradictory choices. He could, as his father had, enhance his personal grip on the government by promoting the neiting’s growth and injecting a high dose of arbitrary power into the bureaucratic machinery. Yet without adequate institutional supervision, as the Heshen case illustrated, this seemingly convenient arrangement might lead to the usurpation of monarchical authority by an exceedingly powerful minister or agency. Alternatively, Jiaqing could undercut the noninstitutional power base of the inner court by curtailing its extralegal privileges, an approach

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that would give him more waiting support as well as stronger leverage in dealing with his private bureaucrats. This approach, paradoxically, would also restrain his own arbitrary will and weaken his exercise of absolute rule. Jiaqing’s remedy to the aforementioned problem was to strive for increasing but controlled bureaucratization of the inner court. More specifically, he tightened control over the neiting by making it more institutionalized and formalized, while allowing it to retain some of its former privileges and responsibilities. This strategy was rooted in the simple belief that during a time of extreme instability, protecting dynastic security came before any personal tinkering with monarchical power. In seeking a novel way of controlling the Grand Council and the Imperial Household Department, Jiaqing thus proffered his own solution to the enduring quandary besetting him and his predecessors: how to balance the private, personal interests of the monarch and the public, systemic interests of the state, referring mostly to its long-term, sustainable reproduction.3 When Jiaqing ascended the throne, he had the bad luck to confront the tension between imperial and state interests in an especially acute form. The sagacious monarch realized that, as the empire entered its phase of political debt, his major task was to “cautiously sustain the grand enterprise” (shenshou piji) instead of unrealistically expanding it.4 Toward this end, he should not only withdraw from his father’s aggressive empirebuilding efforts but also overcome any self-indulgent desire to shore up imperial power vis-à-vis the officialdom. Instead of promoting a thorough purge and sweeping political reforms, Jiaqing committed himself to a process of dynastic recuperation by recreating the balance between the inner and outer courts.

The Reform of the Grand Council Significant interconnections often exist between social crises and the processes of inner state-building. As Sidney Verba has asserted, European political development was facilitated by successive resolutions of different crises. By the same token, Charles Tilly claimed that the need to expand military establishments for war-making fueled the development of centralized state apparatuses in Western Europe. With respect to Qing China, large-scale military campaigns served as a major mechanism for government innovation and administrative centralization. Tumultuous times thus were prime years for the growth of inner-court agencies like the Grand Council (Junjichu).5

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The beginnings of the Junjichu date back to the years around 1729, when Emperor Yongzheng established the ad hoc “Office of Military Command” (Junxufang) to deliberate on urgent war policies during the campaign against the Zunghar Mongols. Originally attached to the Grand Secretariat (Neige), this provisional organ continued to exist after the Zunghar war and developed further into a powerful, independent inner-court agency, greatly reinforcing mid-Qing autocracy. With the new title “Grand Council,” it gradually replaced the Neige and the Imperial Southern Study (Nanshufang) as the highest decision-making organ in government.6 Bartlett notes that the Junjichu was an informal, flexible inner-court agency untouched by administrative law and protected by the veil of imperial secrecy. Thanks to its “extralegal dynamic,” the Grand Council underwent phenomenal institutional growth throughout the Qianlong reign, with its supervisory responsibilities multiplied from an original focus on military matters to embrace the whole range of administrative tasks.7 This picture changed quickly and drastically as Jiaqing put in place a series of streamlining measures to curb the Junjichu’s dangerous power expansion. Abandoning his father’s strategy of “divide and control,” Yoon argues, Jiaqing attempted instead to check this agency by turning it into a formal official institution subject to manifold statutory regulations.8 As an unmistakable sign of this bureaucratization, the Grand Council was better defined in written rules and became more visible in regular administrative activities. For the first time, for instance, it was included in the recompiled Huidian (collected statutes) completed in 1818.9 An independent section of twelve pages ( juan) was devoted to the Grand Council, even though there was no corresponding content in the precedent section (shili). Bartlett holds that “what was published stuck to general procedures and revealed few details of the most significant Grand Council operations.”10 In my view, however, this sort of limited publicity was significant in promoting a more balanced relationship between the emperor and his major government agencies. It exemplifies Jiaqing’s efforts to promote a semiinstitutionalized neiting while retaining some of its extralegal power to undergird his own personal authority. This controlled routinization for the first time recognized the Junjichu’s legal status and certified its identity as a formal government organ. It also put this organ within a generally stable framework of administrative codes, marking a sharp departure from the flexibility and secrecy this body had enjoyed in the past. Since traditional Chinese politics was based on the rule of men, the chief guarantee of good government lay in proper personnel selection. After removing Heshen and his close associate Fuchang’an, Emperor Jiaqing left

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almost the entire body of grand councilors open to replacement. Dai Quheng became the only incumbent councilor to survive the reshuffle.11 Without a strong power base of his own, the emperor turned unwillingly to his royal brothers to fill the Junjichu. He appointed Prince Cheng (Yongxing) as the leading councilor but forced him to step down after only ten months of service. Jiaqing announced that the unprecedented practice of having his brother in the Grand Council contradicted “a basic principle of our empire” that cautioned against entrusting the prince with too much authority.12 His real concern, however, was that such an expedient arrangement would further boost the institutional prestige of this overly powerful inner-court agency. After Heshen’s death and before Yongxing’s departure, Dong Gao, Qinggui, and Nayancheng, all of whom had been levered out of power directly or indirectly by Heshen, received Junjichu appointments.13 As another sign of his major personnel change, Jiaqing’s reign saw a significant decline in the average number of incumbent councilors. Moreover, it became increasingly difficult for Manchus and Mongols to ascend to these posts because the emperor strongly favored officials “qualified not by military heroics but rather by the chin-shih [jinshi] degree and even occasionally by Hanlin membership, which had not been the practice in the previous reign.” Consequently, the percentage of Manchus in the total number of councilors decreased steadily in the first half of the nineteenth century, while the percentage of Manchu councilors who attained the jinshi degree increased steadily during the same period.14 The resulting dissipation of Manchu power and its growing routinization allowed new scope for the influence of Han Chinese officials at various government levels, profoundly shaping the development of late Qing history. For the purpose of creating a more normalized Junjichu, Jiaqing introduced other standardizing regulations to govern its personnel management, the most important of which was the Rule of Avoidance (Huibi). Consequently, the long-established practice of having fathers, sons, or brothers serving concurrently on the Grand Council disappeared. In addition, unlike Qianlong, the new emperor never appointed his in-laws to the Grand Council. This policy adjustment, combined with his distrust of royal brothers, shows that Jiaqing deliberately opted to reduce the Junjichu’s institutional prestige by eliminating princes and imperial relatives from its membership. The emperor also put it under close censorial surveillance, a decision motivated by his frustration that few officials had dared to directly denounce Heshen during his long hegemony. From 1799 onward, Jiaqing sent censors to the Junjichu on a daily basis in order to supervise its officials and to safeguard the confidentiality of its work. The

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process of selecting censors, in the meantime, underwent more scrutiny from the emperor and the waiting.15 Jiaqing, moreover, introduced new rules to help better control the Junjichu. Before his reforms, high-ranking officials including councilors prided themselves on their special privilege of requesting one-to-one audiences with the emperor (ziqing dudui). Lest they use the privilege for selfaggrandizement, Jiaqing abolished this age-old tradition by prohibiting such self-requested audiences.16 He also expressly forbade the councilors to leave their names in the confidential court letters (tingji) sent out to the provinces. These inner-court officials were further subjected to detailed administrative regulations, ranging from the use of the Junjichu seal and envelopes to calligraphic style and paperwork procedures.17 Even the councilors were closely watched and disciplined for mild errors in language or writing. Furthermore, they were expected to ask for administrative penalties if any of their subordinates violated the aforementioned rules. As a result, all Junjichu personnel became more liable to imperial reprimand and administrative punishment during the Jiaqing reign than before.18 Some officials, like the censor Wang Ningfu, expressed reservations about imposing such strict discipline on the councilors. But the emperor stayed firm. The rather harsh rules that Jiaqing imposed on the Junjichu, as well as his impersonal attitude toward his topmost echelon of advisors, suggest “a change in the Grand Councilor’s relationship with both the emperor and the rest of the capital bureaucracy.”19 These rules made the once aweinspiring ministers appear more distant from the former and closer to the latter. Councilors found it increasingly difficult to balance the conflicting demands of arbitrary monarchical will and rational bureaucratic rules.20 Although the routinization of neiting power introduced new problems, such as favoring overcautious officials with mediocre abilities, it did successfully forestall the rise of extremely powerful ministers after Heshen’s death. Moreover, the grand councilors could no longer assume some key concurrent positions in the inner court, including that of the grand ministers in attendance (yuqian dachen), who were responsible for neiting security.21 When the emperor went on tour outside Beijing, in addition, councilors were usually excluded from the group of princes and ministers (liujing wang dachen) entrusted with the power to manage routine state affairs in the capital. The Junjichu secretaries were barred from handling memorials for this ad hoc group of high officials, a responsibility that rested exclusively with the Imperial Clan Office (Zongrenfu). To further curtail the Junjichu’s power, Jiaqing also abolished the age-old title of superintendency (zongli, board overlordship) bestowed on formidable Manchu

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councilors like Heshen.22 This decision ensured that all councilors exerted their power at the presidential level instead of the superintendent one, which meant less imperial intervention and more cross-board deliberation. Although it helped promote a political balance within the officialdom, this measure indirectly mitigated the emperor’s arbitrary authority by curbing the power of his most trusted personal advisors.23 Jiaqing took other resolute steps to check the centralization of power in high government agencies. He urged ministers from the Junjichu and other organs to consult closely with one another on major state affairs in order to minimize self-assumption and dogmatism. For better collaboration and surveillance, the emperor strove to maintain an overall balance by having one president from each board represented in the Junjichu.24 Although this political ideal was difficult to realize, given the diminishing number of councilors, it clearly shows that Jiaqing valued collective wisdom based on functional specification and interagency collaboration. At the same time, the emperor stipulated that councilors need not necessarily reach consensus before submitting their deliberative opinions to him, a measure that allowed for, or even welcomed, different opinions in the highest decisionmaking process. Councilors now had to work in their respective waiting agencies when not summoned by the emperor, thus making it more difficult for them to interfere in other boards’ affairs.25 All these maneuvers show that Jiaqing went to great lengths to avert the trauma caused by Heshen’s hegemony: he put the councilors under close control, kept them mostly separated, and rendered them susceptible to routine bureaucratic disciplines. As a result, the boundary between the Grand Council and the waiting agencies became increasingly blurred. Meanwhile, the emperor curbed the Junjichu’s authority by decentralizing its decision-making power. He convened joint sessions composed of a large number of senior officials from different agencies from whom he sought advice. An imperial edict dated December 6, 1805, reads in part: “When it comes to important state affairs, I always consult with the grand councilors and the nine ministers [jiuqing]. I don’t think several Councilors as well as the president and vice-presidents of a single board can reach an informed decision. For that reason, I turn to a larger group in order to benefit from collective wisdom. . . . If everything is entrusted to the councilors, I will be faulted for relying too much on them and for behaving like an autocrat [zhuanshan].”26 Here Jiaqing is referring to the alarm generated by Hong Liangji’s remonstrance in 1799. As the emperor saw it, the crux of the problem was the overwhelming inner-court influence that underpinned excessive monarchical authority. In an effort to address this problem, he tightened his control over the institutionalized

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Grand Council, which could only be achieved at a cost to his own autocratic power.27 After his enthronement in 1796, the emperor used the Imperial Southern Study (Nanshufang) to check Heshen’s hegemony. Immediately following his father’s death, Jiaqing sent for his closest confidant, Zhu Gui, and then the Anhui governor, to come to Beijing to take charge of the Nanshufang. This arrangement continued until Zhu’s death in 1806. Besides serving as grand secretary, Zhu also headed the Boards of Revenue, Personnel, and Works, though, interestingly, he was never appointed to a position in the Grand Council.28 Some officials aspired to empower the waiting agencies rather than the Nanshufang in the highest decision-making process. In his memorial dated October 13, 1813, the censor Cai Jiong bemoaned the decline of the Grand Secretariat, as fewer and fewer of its officials became grand councilors after the Yongzheng reign. He proposed that after every policy deliberation with the councilors, Jiaqing should get a second opinion by conversing with one of the grand secretaries for at least thirty minutes.29 It is unclear whether or not Cai’s suggestion was taken. By broadening political consultation, however, the emperor and his officials apparently were endeavoring to prevent the Junjichu’s domination of court politics. Another noteworthy aspect of Jiaqing’s reforms was his treatment of the Grand Council secretaries and clerks (zhangjing or siyuan). Known colloquially as “little grand councilors” (xiao junji), these officials formed the central part of the Junjichu, attending to its major duties and keeping it running. Similar to the councilors, who handpicked them for the jobs, zhangjing were left largely unregulated, and their number was not fixed. Throughout the Qianlong period, the originally clerk-like “little grand councilors” gradually had become influential officials, some dispatched to provinces on confidential imperial missions. As R. Kent Guy points out, twenty-nine Junjichu secretaries served as governors in Qianlong’s reign—15 percent of those who attained this high provincial post. Furthermore, the number of zhangjing receiving this outer-court job increased in the period from the 1750s to 1796, exemplifying Qianlong’s centralizing efforts. Some of the most capable, like Dai Quheng, later even became grand councilors.30 As soon as he assumed personal control of the throne, Jiaqing laid down detailed specifications to dictate the number, ethnic composition, and behavior of the zhangjing. On January 16, 1799, he decreed that their number was to be fixed, at sixteen Manchus and sixteen Han Chinese, and they should be organized into “four ethnically compartmentalized duty groups” who would serve on a rotational basis.31 Members could come from the

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Grand Secretariat or from outer-court agencies like the Six Boards and the Ministry of Outer Dependencies (Lifan Yuan).32 While Junjichu clerks traditionally had been expected to be appointed on the basis of merit recommendations from their original offices, beginning in 1806 they also had to pass special written examinations presided over by the Grand Council. Most of these examination-takers needed the prior qualification of jinshi or juren (literally “the recommended men,” the degree holder who passed the provincial-level civil service examination) degrees. Within this framework, the councilors selected and proposed the final candidates to the emperor, waiting for his approval and imperial audience. To ensure the credibility of recommendations, Jiaqing held the councilors responsible for any future malefaction or incompetence on the part of their chosen secretaries.33 Besides formalizing the selection process, Jiaqing also took other measures to curtail the power of zhangjing. An edict of March 1799 stipulated that they should not serve simultaneously as censors. Neither could they take concurrent positions, like vice commissioner of the Bureau of Transmission (Tongzhengsi Fushi) or junior official of the Court of Judicial Review (Dalishi Shaoqing).34 To ensure the Grand Council’s impartiality and independence, Jiaqing followed the suggestion of the censor Wu Bangqing and expressly barred sons of top capital and provincial officials from serving as zhangjing.35 In 1801, he also forbade zhangjing to go on missions outside Beijing as secretarial assistants to bureaucrats other than members of the Grand Council.36 In addition, Jiaqing strengthened his control over the flow of information. He lamented that the Junjichu had abused the system of imperial communication under Heshen’s watch. On January 8, five days after coming to full power, the emperor decreed that all secret memorials should reach him directly with no private “separate messages” (fufeng) attached for the Grand Council or any other agencies. Whenever necessary, he would summon relevant officials for consultation. Without imperial consent, the councilors were not to meddle in the deliberation process or to give orders.37 Jiaqing put it more explicitly in another edict: “Now all military reports from the battlefield reach me uninterrupted. Other than drafting edicts according to my instructions, the Junjichu should not interfere with the decision-making process. All the rewards and punishments come from my deliberation. . . . The councilors have no power to reward or promote officials for their contribution, neither can they redeem or protect those who commit a crime.”38 With Heshen still strongly in mind, the emperor was sending a clear message that all power should flow from his throne alone.

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Some officials thought that Jiaqing’s changes went too far. In a memorial dated February 24, 1802, for example, the censor Wang Ningfu urged restoration of the agency’s power and prestige. Jiaqing resolutely refused this request in the following edict: “For the sake of efficiency and consistency, councilors are responsible for drafting the edicts. But this does not mean that I entrust crucial state power to the group of several councilors. All metropolitan and field officials are appointed by me. If the councilors were to obtain such authority, they would become too powerful.”39 Other bureaucrats urged Jiaqing to go farther in limiting the role of the Grand Council in court politics. The censor He Yuanlang submitted a memorial suggesting that the Chinese name “Junjichu” be changed in order to commemorate the end of the White Lotus campaign. He explained that the agency, unlike the Board of War (Bingbu), had a variety of responsibilities and thus ought not to have a name that conveyed a strong militaristic connotation. Jiaqing brushed aside this suggestion, reiterating that what he envisioned was a controlled and pragmatic reform, not a radical and idealistic one.40 Another whistleblower for a major institutional revamp, the censor Yin Zhuangtu, offered more specific suggestions to cut the Junjichu’s power. In a memorial of 1803, he recommended that the emperor set up another high consulting body by handpicking twenty trusted officials from various waiting agencies, including the Hanlin Academy, the Six Boards, and the Censorate, as well as the provincial and prefectural governments. This composite group of special advisors would serve in the neiting on a rotational basis, working to enhance imperial power and to aid bureaucratic control. Their main responsibilities would include reading incoming memorials and proofreading outgoing edicts on behalf of the emperor as well as providing advices on important state affairs, which largely overlapped with those of the Junjichu. Yin’s proposal, if adopted, would have diverted a substantial portion of the Grand Council’s decision-making power to a new inner-court agency. In Jiaqing’s eyes, this seemed no different from setting up another Junjichu (an inner Grand Council, nei junji) alongside the original one. Such unnecessary institutional reform would not only go against established tradition but also create chaos in the court hierarchy by inviting partisan struggles reminiscent of the late Ming debacle. He thus flatly rejected this proposal, reasserting his conviction that the basic remedy for the acute political problems was not to counterbalance the Junjichu alone but to control the overwhelming neiting influence as a whole.41 The downgrading and bureaucratization of the Grand Council reflected more than political expediency to appease long-frustrated waiting officials. Paradoxically, it was such circumscribing measures that shielded the

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agency from further waiting opposition in the Jiaqing reign and helped it weather even bigger political storms during the constitutional reforms of the late Qing. The regulations “endow[ed] the council with a new mantle of legitimacy” and reconfirmed its status as the most powerful neiting organ, which it retained until the end of the dynasty.42 On a broader level, Jiaqing’s reforms not only recreated a more workable balance between major government agencies but also contributed to more constructive relations between the emperor and his officials. A similar process played out in Jiaqing’s reform of another crucial inner-court agency, the Imperial Household Department.

The Reform of the Imperial Household Department Like the Eight Banner (Baqi) system, the Imperial Household Department (Neiwufu) was a unique creation of the Manchus that reflected their ethnic identity and safeguarded their minority hegemony. Consisting of over fifty subagencies, it was the biggest and most complex part of the palace administration in the Qing dynasty. As the emperor’s “personal bureaucracy,” the Neiwufu managed a “bewildering variety” of his personal and family affairs according to the principle of “Gongfu yiti” (Government and Imperial household working in unison). Along with the Junjichu, it thus became a main institutional foundation of Qing monarchical autocracy. Given its large size and manifold roles, the Neiwufu can be taken as a microcosm of the Six Boards, a key part of the outer court, which governed the day-to-day operation of state machinery. Whereas the waiting had little influence over this powerful neiting agency, the Neiwufu served as another check on the waiting through its members’ concurrent appointments in outer-court offices like the Chancery of Memorials to the emperor (Zoushichu). Consequently, Neiwufu officials often found their way into the regular bureaucracy at different levels, but not vice versa.43 The influence of the Imperial Household Department thus extended far beyond the enclosed palace precincts. Most indicative of this development was the Qing fiscal system. Although the Board of Revenue (Hubu) was responsible for administering state finances, the Neiwufu also played a key role in such administration by regulating customs bureaus, the salt monopoly, and imperial manufactories. This ingenious arrangement contributed greatly to filling the throne’s private coffers in the Neiwufu’s largest subdivision—the Department of the Privy Purse (Guangchusi). This subagency handled the Neiwufu’s annual income, which was kept separate

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from the regular taxes paid into the Hubu by local governments at different levels. Dubbed “the Inner Board of Revenue” (Nei Hubu), the Guangchusi often commanded more resources than its outer-court counterpart. In fact, the emperor could draw on both his personal treasury, managed by the Neiwufu, and the public treasury, operated by the Hubu.44 Qianlong, of all the Qing emperors, had been the most persistent in transferring funds between the two sources. Such a blending of personal and state finances gave a monarch great flexibility in using available resources to pursue his ambitious goals. While there is no consensus on the exact date of its establishment, most scholars concur that the Neiwufu’s basic structure came into being before the Manchu conquest of China in 1644. The origins of this semiprivate institution, patterned after the bondservants (baoyi) of another trademark Manchu system—the banners—can be traced back to Nurhaci’s “personal household administration.”45 The Neiwufu took its definitive form during the early Kangxi reign after an integration with the short-lived Thirteen Eunuch Bureaus (Shisan Yamen, 1654–1661). The resulting subordination of the eunuchs to the imperial bondservants created a two-tiered neiting agency that incorporated both Manchu and Chinese traditions. Thanks to this unique organization, the Qing proved most successful in preventing the serious eunuch interference in court politics that had led to the Ming collapse.46 Thereafter, the Neiwufu grew rapidly, reaching its heyday during the Qianlong reign. As new subagencies were created, the total number of Neiwufu officials increased roughly threefold between 1662 and 1796.47 Such rapid institutional growth, combined with the simultaneous Junjichu expansion, testifies to the dramatic rise of the neiting during the high Qing period. The Neiwufu, moreover, was one of the most exclusive and self-contained agencies in the Qing bureaucracy. Deliberately made to overlap with other government organs, the Grand Council was filled by members from both the inner and outer courts. The Neiwufu, by contrast, had a long tradition of selecting and promoting all personnel from within its closed system in accord with its own procedures, under the supervision of the Neiwufu directors, whose numbers varied. It was staffed almost entirely by the bondservants of the Upper / Inner Three Banners (Nei Sanqi / Shang Sanqi), who were essentially the “household servants of the emperor.” Before Jiaqing’s reform, Neiwufu officials were rarely hampered by such routine regulations as the Rule of Avoidance applicable to the outer-court agencies.48 This prerogative gave the Neiwufu directors tremendous power while promoting more efficient implementation of the imperial will. The great extent of such institutional and personal privileges, however, also spawned serious

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problems of monarchical control that plagued the Neiwufu toward the end of the Qianlong reign. As one of its officers, Yuhe, lamented in 1801, the longtime Neiwufu directors Heshen and Fuchang’an bore much of the blame due to their abuse of imperial power.49 In traditional Chinese politics the concepts of crime and administrative failing were not rigorously distinguished, which remained a key feature of the monarchical control system. This intentional ambiguity entailed that almost no official could forestall the imperial charge of malfeasance, factionalism, or corruption. As a basic strategy of intimidation and control, the throne could easily moralize officials’ petty administrative lapses into major political crimes, thereby injecting them with a constant sense of uneasiness or panic. To relieve such inescapable psychological stress, bureaucrats were compelled to redeem themselves through hard, devoted work and other tokens of repentance. Under the influence of Max Weber, Thomas Metzger coins the category of “probationary ethic” to characterize this uneasy interaction. For the sake of self-discipline and political survival, most bureaucrats developed this “probationary ethic” and, furthermore, internalized it as a heightened sense of obligation to the throne.50 Such a costeffective mechanism of self-check ensured a docile and loyal officialdom under imperial control. Meanwhile, the ruler had the leeway to bestow mercy or mete out punishment on transgressors, which further enhanced his personalistic power. A good illustration of the “probationary ethic” at work is the practice of soliciting yizuiyin (self-assessed “fines”). When this tradition of bureaucratic atonement came into being is debated, but most scholars concur that it did not become prevalent in Qing politics until the 1770s. On the one hand Qianlong had pressing demands for increased revenue due to his aggressive military campaigns, flamboyant political rule, and extravagant living style. By his late reign, the yanglianyin (nourishing-virtue allowances) system had become an onerous financial burden on the state. The emperor thus sought to expand the established practice of self-assessed “fines” to “reclaim a part of [the] nourishing-virtue silver from officials or stop paying it altogether.” On the other hand Qianlong also by this time was finding it increasingly difficult to discipline his bureaucrats through normative administrative sanctions like salary suspension, demotion, and cashiering.51 To kill two birds with one stone, Heshen helped put the selfassessed “fines” into wider practice by expanding their semisecret operation.52 Prior to Heshen’s rise, the main targeted group of such penalties were the Neiwufu bondservants who held key financial posts in charge of transit tax stations (queguan), customs bureaus (haiguan), salt monopolies, imperial manufactories, and the like. Most susceptible to corruption

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and embezzlement, these officials were generally expected to confess their mistakes and to assuage any guilt for prior offenses by “voluntarily” contributing a large amount of cash to the Department of the Privy Purse. It comes as no surprise that Qianlong’s reign marked the peak period when bondservants placed in these fat posts held extremely long tenure, which was a clear symptom of his increasing imperial exploitation and autocratic power.53 This imperial extortion system reached its summit under Heshen’s direction. At the same time, its primary targets shifted to high outer-court bureaucrats like provincial officials. In contrast to the bondservants, provincial officials often were pressured to pay self-assessed fines on the grounds of ambiguous charges like “administrative error.” Ad hoc, extraadministrative extortion like this, lacking clear definition and justifiable legality, could not appear in regular government records, let alone become codified in Qing laws and statutes. To keep track of such clandestine transactions, Heshen and Fuchang’an created and headed the Secret Accounts Bureau (Miji Chu) in the late Qianlong reign, a subagency attached to both the Neiwufu and the Junjichu. Unknown to the Hubu, these noninstitutionalized “fines” were recorded in the Secret Accounts Archives (miji dang) prepared by the Neiwufu and reviewed by the Grand Council.54 While the rapid development of the yizuiyin system helped Qianlong reinforce his personal control over provincial officials, its major benefit unquestionably was a quick and convenient fix for financial troubles. Such self-imposed economic penalties became an important source of revenue for the Neiwufu, totaling about 3.4 million taels between 1780 and 1795. With little or no official state supervision, the yizuiyin system also furnished Heshen ample opportunities to abuse imperial power and line his own pockets. In Kuhn’s words, the aging emperor and his financial wizard were “running a second taxation system for their joint enrichment.”55 Therein lies the deep economic roots of Heshen’s meteoric rise. As essentially bribes paid by officials to protect their political careers, self-assessed “fines” became a form of institutionalized corruption that produced widespread demoralization within and beyond the Neiwufu. Thanks to this practice, bureaucrats were seldom impeached or dismissed from office after committing a crime. It is estimated that, on average, they paid about 45,000 silver taels of yizuiyin per case to the Neiwufu. Usually these funds could be covered by their “allowances for nourishing virtue,” but if the penalty reached as high as 100,000 taels, faulty officials had little choice but to seek help from their subordinates, who would in turn extort payments from the local populace through yamen underlings.56 Such malpractices and hidden exchanges clearly show that the internal

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check of “probationary ethic,” as an integral part of Chinese political culture, was no longer effective in regulating bureaucratic behavior and sustaining political cooperation. Consequently, yizuiyin payments directly or indirectly raised costs for local governance that could only be covered by increased exploitation and heightened corruption. It was partly this impasse of the principal-agent problem that spawned the dramatic combination of crises during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. The dire situation prompted Jiaqing to introduce reforms that created moderate yet significant changes within the Imperial Household Department. Soon after Heshen’s demise, the new emperor ordered the Neiwufu to confiscate his staggering fortune and to discontinue the yizuiyin system. Without fanfare, he also abolished the Secret Accounts Bureau. On May 2, Jiaqing even stopped the traditional practice of using the yanglianyin (nourishing-virtue allowance) as a fine or as nonroutine compensation for local administration.57 In addition, he took measures to restrain the Neiwufu’s outsized expansion and to distant it from the Grand Council. Under Qianlong, Neiwufu ministers represented on the Junjichu usually held the high post of grand ministers in attendance, a practice that was apparently halted in the Jiaqing reign. Prior to the reforms, the Neiwufu directors selected officials from the Manchu bondservants to head the various subagencies and ministries of this self-contained agency, many of whom also held concurrent posts in the Six Boards or other organs with no consideration of the Rule of Avoidance.58 From 1799 onward, however, the Neiwufu faced moderate yet increasing restraint in its personnel practices. Critics hoped to end its neiting autonomy and to blur its boundary with the waiting equivalent. For instance, the vice president of the Board of Punishments (Xingbu), Guangxing, claimed that it was both necessary and possible for Neiwufu officials to abide by the Rule of Avoidance. He further suggested that Neiwufu personnel who violated this regulation should switch positions with the designated outer-court bureaucrats of the same rank (duiping diaobu). These suggestions, on Jiaqing’s order, were quickly forwarded to the Board of Personnel (libu) for collective deliberation. In his report to the emperor, Qinggui commended Guangxing for his efforts to put some restraints on the Neiwufu and urged its directors to enforce the Rule of Avoidance to the fullest extent possible within the agency. Nevertheless, he opposed Guangxing’s suggestion that problematic Department officials be exchanged with their outer-court equivalents, which would send the wrong message that regular capital bureaucrats could serve in the Department and manage secret imperial affairs. From Qinggui’s vantage point, such an exchange not only contradicted the dynastic tradition of employing only

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neiting officials in the Neiwufu, it also was unfeasible because there had been no libu record to keep track of the Department’s personnel selection. As another sign of his moderate reformism, Jiaqing followed Qinggui’s suggestion and subjected the Neiwufu to the Rule of Avoidance originally directed at the outer court.59 Meanwhile, he found it necessary to retain some of the agency’s exclusive privileges for the purpose of distinguishing imperial family matters from state affairs. Alert to its acute problems during the Heshen hegemony, however, Jiaqing did want to impose some sort of personal will and institutional check on the Neiwufu, especially regarding the selection of its top officials. Sensing Jiaqing’s wish, the censor Jueluo’enzhi submitted a memorial suggesting that the Department directors give up some of their personnel selection powers: “Henceforth candidates for high-ranking Neiwufu posts, like prospective officials for the three treasuries at the Board of Revenue (hubu sanku), should be recommended by the directors and handpicked by the emperor. And their terms should be limited to three years.”60 Apart from asserting more control over important Neiwufu appointments, Jiaqing also tried to limit its officials’ ability to achieve upward mobility through making financial contributions. Sitting for the civil service examinations had been the regular and the most prestigious route to officialdom since the Song dynasty. Those who failed in the examinations still could climb the sociopolitical ladder through such irregular paths as purchasing official titles and hereditary privileges. This secondary channel had long been a necessary systemic adaptation to increasing demands for upward social mobility, especially during times of acute crisis. In another form of irregular political participation, suspended, demoted, and dismissed capital officials were able to have their official ranks or positions restored by making financial contributions to the government ( juanfu). This practice of reinstatement became so popular during the late Qianlong reign that it was certified by the libu and regulated by a set of procedural requirements. If the applicants passed the preliminary screening, they underwent a three-year probation period when they were sent to work in certain agencies to improve their administrative capabilities and skills. On completion of the probationary term, each applicant was evaluated by his agency leader. If the assessment was positive and there were still vacancies available, these ex-officials were put on another probation period of three years during which they could be neither promoted nor transferred.61 No strict provisions, however, applied to the juanfu cases of the Neiwufu officials. After submitting a request to the Department directors, many were reinstated quickly through illegal means like bribery, without

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any probationary period, and could be recommended for immediate promotion after reemployment. By contrast, it was much more difficult for the former outer-court officials to get their position back through financial contribution. Some bureaucrats, like Jueluo’enzhi, attempted to change these unbalanced policies. In a memorial dated February 16, 1801, he claimed that the juanfu cases of the Neiwufu should be treated no differently from those of other agencies. Most importantly, they should be regulated by the same rules enacted by the Board of Personnel (Libu). Jueluo’enzhi suggested that the Department director(s) work with the Neiwufu censors in deciding those juanfu cases and then notify the Libu. Subsequently dismissed and demoted personnel should wait for at least three years following the first probationary period before they could be promoted or transferred again. It is unclear whether Jiaqing accepted Jueluo’enzhi’s proposal or not, but the memorial mentioned earlier reveals the Neiwufu’s increasing pressure to reform and bureaucratize itself. As a result, this agency gradually lost its privileged status as a self-contained institution beyond any outer-court supervision. Before Jiaqing’s full rise to power, the Neiwufu, like its outer-court counterparts, recommended officials to serve in the Chancery of Memorials under the watch of the grand councilors. After 1799, however, this supervision power was shifted to the grand ministers in attendance. Generally speaking, regular capital agencies submitted their candidates’ names via a certified explanatory note affixed with their respective official seal. By contrast, the Neiwufu submitted its list of candidates merely through oral recommendation (zhi ping kousu). To ensure procedural conformity and standardization, Jiaqing declared on September 10, 1806, that the selection of Neiwufu personnel for the Chancery of Memorials should also be documented by an official memo with clear justification and validation.62 Now subject to many outer-court regulations, the Neiwufu directors were, like the grand councilors, kept under close watch by censors and berated for any infringements. The agency, for instance, began to face criticism for small formatting errors like missing or added words in documents. Its director, Guangxing, was even executed by Jiaqing in 1808 for corruption. In addition, as Norman A. Kutcher argues, the emperor also tried to strengthen his control over the court eunuchs. On March 16, 1799, he stipulated the number of eunuchs allowed to serve in the royal family and high official households at the first rank.63 All these measures show the Neiwufu’s moderate routinization, which helped reconsolidate central government power by blurring the boundaries between the inner and outer courts and by restoring their political balance.

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Rethinking Jiaqing’s Institutional Reforms Jiaqing adeptly used the opportunity provided by all-encompassing contentious crises to execute the abusive “regent” Heshen and to reform the highest echelon of court bureaucracy. He curtailed the excessive growth of the Junjichu and the Neiwufu by transforming them into a more formal, bureaucratized part of the political system. Consequently, the emperor stopped the long-term expansion of the neiting that had created an institutional crisis by the end of the Qianlong era. While pushing for these dramatic changes, Jiaqing did not seek to impose strong personal rule by concentrating the greatest amount of power in his own hands. In comparison with Qianlong, he adopted a less interventionist and more impersonal approach to decision-making, which allowed more room for political deliberation and factional compromise. As Guy argues, the new emperor “responded to crisis by reasserting the importance of the rules, standards, and norms of procedure that were the Chinese officials’ traditional response to discrepancy and corruption.”64 This predisposition toward institutionalization helped achieve a tighter congruity of interest between the two domains of government power by softening their divisions and reconciling their conflicts. The resulting impulse toward political balance dictated that in subsequent Qing history, no single agency or minister could monopolize power as the Junjichu and its headman Heshen did during the late Qianlong reign. What is truly remarkable about Jiaqing’s institutional reform was that he became the willing victim of his own political adjustment. The neiting power, as he well understood, directly derived from and undergirded the imperial authority itself. When the former became circumscribed and bureaucratized, the latter was inextricably constrained as well. The highly personalized interaction between an emperor and his topmost advisors that had characterized previous reigns, especially the late Qianlong period, also became less likely in an era of regulation and formalization. For this reason, Jiaqing, throughout his reign, seemed to have few intimate neiting advisors with whom a special, private relationship of trust was forged. It also explains why, as Guy emphasizes, the emperor refrained from employing his special appointment power to affect the nature of the political system. This deemphasis on personal bonds and arbitrary power contributed to the routinization of late Qing emperorship. Despite weakening centralized state power, this sort of imperial governance “create[d] a government that could run effectively whether or not a strong monarch prevailed in Peking,” in turn promoting a more sustainable state-society relationship.65

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Jiaqing’s institutional reforms enabled the Qing Empire to take a new direction that served its long-term interests. Bartlett argues that the Junjichu’s eighteenth-century expansion gave the Qing rulership a strong hint of collective decision-making, which “enabled the dynasty to rise to greatness in its middle years and at the end prolonged its life.” I would maintain that it was more Jiaqing’s strategic retreat from reliance on the neiting hegemony that checked the increasing high Qing despotism. This political withdrawal made it more difficult for the inner-court agencies to abuse their powers and for the emperor to inflict his arbitrary will on the system. Therefore, this reform not only had a dampening effect on the debilitating factional struggles but also helped ensure that the state’s long-term interests would outweigh the ruler’s short-term goals. Jiaqing harmonized the fraught relationship between the inner and outer courts by self-consciously trading some of his own personal power for a wiser exercise of routine bureaucratic authority based on broader political participation and deliberation. This decisive intervention should be construed as a milestone in Qing court politics because it initiated a process of self-imposed institutionalization that brought forth a gradual realignment in the equilibrium between bureaucratic strength and imperial authority. Jiaqing’s reforms, specifically, set in motion a reluctant effort on the part of late Qing emperors to reposition themselves vis-à-vis the officialdom by giving up some of their arbitrary power. As the political balance tilted in favor of officialdom, the autocratic monarchy was refashioned on a stronger bureaucratic basis than in the high Qing period. Therefore, the transition from Yongzhengstyle autocracy to what Bartlett calls “ministerial administration” could not have been completed without the Jiaqing reforms. As a matter of fact, this momentous shift consisted largely of these reforms because, after all, Qianlong was trying to move in the opposite direction during his later years.66

The Reform of Policy-Making Aside from creating new institutional arrangements, the Jiaqing reforms also introduced new policy initiatives designed to curb the radicalism of late Qianlong politics and to heal the great divisions in the dynasty. The shock of the clustered crises spurred the emperor to pull back from his father’s unpopular policies and strong sociopolitical control. Jiaqing’s overarching goal was to create a more sustainable order by easing the strain among officials and by relaxing state control over local society.

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A major object of reformist concern was the state’s policy toward the White Lotus religion. After Wang Lun’s revolt in 1774, the Qianlong emperor took a harder line against Bailian sects than that recommended by his local bureaucrats, directly provoking the insurrection of 1796.67 One month into the uprising, on February 30, 1796, the grand emperor ordained that the White Lotus sects be banned forever.68 But this did little to stop the spread of the uprising in the ensuing three years. The pragmatic Jiaqing realized that the time-honored Bailian tradition, given its atomized nature and flexible teachings, could never be extirpated as his father had wished. What the state could do was to undermine its organizational base through a systematic program of pacification. The first step was to acknowledge its existence. On May 21, 1800, Jiaqing issued a remarkable proclamation titled “On the Heretical Religious Sects” (Xiejiao Shuo): It is self-evident that the White Lotus sect is different from the insurgent group. If one or two Buddhist monks and Daoist priests join the rebel ranks, should we exterminate Buddhism and Daoism altogether? Likewise, if there are one or two shengyuan [the county-level exam degree holders] members among the rebels, should we abolish the Civil Service Examination system? If the White Lotus sectarians become the insurgents, they should be executed in accordance with imperial law. For those peaceful believers who have not engaged in any rebellious activities, how can we allow their extermination? Given this important distinction, it is apparent that what we have been dealing with in the past five years is a serious case of rebellion. It is not our goal to get rid of the heterodox sects.69

In this extraordinary passage, Jiaqing laid down the policy of “punishing the rebels, not the sectarians” (dan zhi congni, bu zhi congjiao). It drew a clear line between incorrigible insurgents and peaceful White Lotus believers, thereby separating the former from their broad base of support. In other parts of the edict the emperor even averred that “the genuine White Lotus sectarians are good people [chizi] of our Great Qing.” These conciliatory remarks apparently were a far cry from the centuryold convention of taking “Bailian” as shorthand for “sectarian movement,” not to mention Qianlong’s crusading language labeling the Bailian sects “the most heterodox of the heterodoxies.” These remarks introduced a new rhetoric that fundamentally changed what it meant to be called a White Lotus believer. For the first time, the Qing authorities reached a reluctant compromise with this millenarian religion by officially recognizing its existence, at least in name.70 This abrupt policy change set a brand-new tone for the governmental attitude toward the White Lotus sects in the late Qing. Moreover, it relaxed the stringent limits set by Qianlong on acceptable

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forms of sectarian mobilization, thus helping to ease the mounting tensions between state and society. Due largely to this mollifying policy, the revolt of 1796 became the “last effort of the White Lotus converts in staging a mass revolt against the government.” The sectarians gained more freedom to pursue their beliefs and embarked on a short period of active development from 1800 to 1813. They even infiltrated the eunuch circle and seeped into the center of imperial rule—the Forbidden City. Such expansion eventually led to the Eight Trigrams uprising of 1813, which was suppressed in a few months.71 These two sectarian uprisings during the Jiaqing reign are usually taken as a clear sign of the Qing’s declining ideological control. The more important point, however, is that the emperor understood this weakness, and furthermore he took great care in coping with the unwelcome reality. Later, the policy of easing attempts to suppress the White Lotus religion gave way to a new spate of persecutions provoked by the uprising of 1813. The Jiaqing administration, as Lars P. Laamann has observed, “changed its initial policy of benign neglect towards Christianity to one of relentless persecution during its second half.” This was largely due to the presumed links between the Christian religion and foreign intrusion as well as the increasing activity of Christians among bannermen.72 Despite such hardening of state policy, in the long run the late Qing government opted for a more rational, realistic approach on matters relating to the proliferation of unorthodox thought and practices. Local officials like Huang Yupian, for example, went to great lengths to reduce the White Lotus’s appeal by examining its scriptures and refuting its teachings.73 Ideological indoctrination gradually replaced military suppression as the default state policy toward the Bailian religion. This strategy of cultural persuasion proved effective in curbing its rebellious potential by compelling the sectarians to deemphasize the subversive elements of their ideology (or at least providing incentives to do so). Thus White Lotus sectarianism was gradually neutralized as a political force in the late Qing. Fewer converts openly used the label “Bailian,” although this sectarian tradition did continue under the cover of many derivative congregations with different names.74

Promotion of Capital Appeals Another key area of policy reform involved the appellate system. All in all, conveying mishandled or unadjudicated cases to the capital ( jingkong) was not a typical way of expressing local grievances in Qing China, since

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it was too difficult and risky. This was especially true when it came to “jumping cases” that were not mounted “step by step from the bottom” as the law required. Few making capital appeals, moreover, could have their complaints accepted and handled by the central agencies. Even if they could, their cases would usually be passed down to the respective provincial government for retrial and resolution. As Jonathan Ocko puts it, “unless provincial justice was truly ineffective or distorted, people would not subject themselves to the fiscal and physical rigors of the journey to Beijing to lodge the appeal and then head back home for its adjudication by either the senior provincial officials or a specially commissioned imperial agent.” Despite such great hardship, the late Qianlong reign saw a swelling number of capital appeals, due to pervasive corruption and local maladministration. In response, the aging emperor tried to impose more control “on those that might be heard and, in 1784, to impose strict punishments on appellants (the great majority) whose cases were decided to be without merit.”75 Risky as it was, making direct appeals in Beijing was the last resort for most complainants, who had no other way of venting their frustrations without using violence. Such appeals thus served as an important institutional absorber of tensions that might otherwise lead to radical social protest. As for the central court, promoting this practice could widen its communication with local society and thus enhance its knowledge of grassroots situations.76 Emperor Jiaqing was particularly adept at using capital appeals to better control his territorial bureaucrats, checking their wrongdoings and meting out quick punishments. The White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy, as he saw it, could be partly attributed to slow and unfair administration of justice in local society. Successful suppression campaigns thus required that the state fulfil its judicial obligations and ameliorate people’s grievances by rectifying delayed or misadjudicated cases.77 It is notable that Qing emperors usually did not supervise the scope and flow of capital appeals. As Jiaqing observed in an edict: “local people file charges at the offices of the censorate and the capital gendarmerie. Responsible bureaucrats thereupon decide which cases warrant my attention, which can be turned back to their respective provinces for retrial, and which should be dismissed right away. . . . [Due to their exclusive power on this matter] these capital officials often make a decision at will.” They often protected their friends or protégés outside Beijing by forestalling unfavorable accusations leveled against them.78 Determined to change this situation, Jiaqing announced on his assumption of actual power that all capital appeals had to be accepted. The edict continued: “now the ‘avenue of communication’

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has been broadened, all true information should reach my ears. To recklessly rebut or suppress plaints will lead to more bribery, concealment, and protest. From now on, the censorate and the capital gendarmerie cannot flatly reject any appeals from the province. Those serious cases should be forwarded to me immediately.”79 Some officials seem to have been intent on pushing the reform still further. Jia Yunsheng proposed that no capital appeals, no matter how minor, should be returned to their respective provinces. This suggestion, if implemented, would bring about a continuing barrage of petitions that overburdened the central government. So the Jiaqing emperor quickly dismissed it as utterly impractical, insisting that minor cases be returned to their original provinces for retrial. Nonetheless, he ordered that, “depending on the amount of appeals, a monthly or bimonthly summary report with a clear explanation of each case should be sent to me. If I discover that a significant case fails to reach my hands, responsible officials will be punished harshly.”80 To ensure secrecy, Jiaqing also stipulated that pertinent officials should not open the sealed petitions before forwarding them to him. Consequently, according to the memorial of the vice censor-inchief Jishan, the volume of capital appeals increased rapidly and reached its peak in 1800. This trend continued until 1806, when there were still ten to thirty requests per month, in addition to other routine reports.81 Provincial leaders, however, rarely shared the emperor’s enthusiasm for fixing the problem of capital appeal. To those senior territorial officials, such cases were troublesome thorns that increased their workloads and called attention to their derelictions of duty. They therefore often rejected local complaints without any investigation. The Fujian peasant Zhang Kao, for example, submitted his petition to various provincial agencies not just once or twice but up to sixty-two times, but no one accepted it. Finally, he could not but lodge a capital appeal. To protect themselves and their unsavory subordinates, most governors and governors-general tried to stop unwelcome plaintiffs like Zhang from carrying their charges to the capital. When some of the stubborn plaints finally reached the emperor and were later remanded back for rehearing, instead of processing the cases themselves, provincial officials often threw the problem back to lower-level governments or simply dismissed them as baseless fabrications. Consequently, most passed-down appeals went unheeded or dragged on forever and few of the accused were brought to justice.82 The resulting judicial backlogs plagued the system of capital appeals. According to Jiaqing’s edict of February 5, 1800, most appeals in Zhili were never adjudicated; these amounted to five hundred to six hundred cases. The problem was even worse in southeast China, the epicenter of

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the piracy disturbance. The investigation of the Guangdong governor Bailing suggested that unsolved legal cases like lawsuits, land disputes, and homicides totaled as many as two thousand in 1806, the high point of maritime violence. In his four-year term as Fujian governor, Wang Zhiyin accumulated more than eight hundred unconcluded cases. His successor, Wen Chenghui, piled up over three hundred cases during his seven-month service. Given such hopeless prospects, it is hardly surprising that more and more appellants journeyed to Beijing to complain directly to the central agencies. When justice could not be obtained through peaceful means, some desperate plaintiffs even joined the pirates in order to vent and rectify their grievances.83 The Jiaqing emperor took great pains to pressure provincial officials to deal with the accumulation of unsettled cases (qing ji’an) in a swift and just way. He issued a series of edicts establishing strict deadlines for the adjudication of different types of capital appeals. Imperially remanded cases, for instance, were to be resolved by the governors or governorsgeneral themselves within two months. Petitions remanded by the central agencies were to be investigated and closed within four months. Any dilatory officials would face stern punishment.84 These strict regulations, once routinely enforced, proved to be effective in reducing the serious legal backlogs accumulated during the late eighteenth century. Consequently, according to the vice censor-in-chief Wang Ji, the number of unsolved capital appeals in 1810 was much lower than that during the late Qianlong reign.85 The conjunction of the White Lotus and piracy crises, to be sure, played a crucial role in bringing about this dramatic change. Capital appeals served the additional purpose of disclosing and thus helping to rectify local misadministration, such as the extortion and abuses of power that occurred over the course of the suppression campaigns. As the censors Chang Wen and Lu Yan pointed out, overtaxation and plundering by local officials and yamen runners accounted for 80–90 percent of capital appeals. As a result of such remonstrance cases, many county magistrates in the rebellion-torn areas were cashiered and punished, thus diminishing their transgressions as a cause of popular protest in the early nineteenth century.86 Lodging complaints at Beijing also provided opportunities for those who aspired to advance themselves politically during times of crisis. With firsthand experience in dealing with social protests, many of these aspirants volunteered to serve on the battlefield without remuneration, hoping to accumulate useful political capital. Others were eager to send in petitions presenting their solutions to the escalating disturbances.87 This brisk flow of grassroots wisdom was facilitated by Jiaqing’s broadening of

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communication avenues after 1799, aiming to create a climate of opinion receptive to his moderate reforms. The court rewarded some of these petitioners with imperial gifts or honorary titles after implementing their suggestions during the suppression campaigns. Therefore, extraordinary crises and capital appeals not only offered opportunities for upward mobility for local people; they also indirectly affected policy-making at the higher levels of imperial bureaucracy. Elizabeth Perry defines political development as “a process whereby different social elements gain an institutionalized voice for articulating their political interests and demands.” In this sense, all-encompassing contentious crises could serve as a chief catalyst for constructive political change in traditional China.88

The Discontinuation of Tribute Gifts In order to promote a new political culture of retrenchment, Emperor Jiaqing also ended the long-established tradition of soliciting tribute gifts ( jingong). On more than a few occasions each year, such as imperial birthdays, high officials throughout the empire, especially those in border provinces, felt obliged to present tribute gifts to the throne. Qianlong, in particular, with his proverbial extravagance and flamboyant emperorship, encouraged this practice. In effect, one of the main reasons he indulged in pleasure trips to the south was to collect lavish gifts for himself and his mother. It was the Imperial Household Department that collected the tribute gifts, giving Heshen further opportunities for personal enrichment.89 Nancy Park draws attention to the baleful influence of this tradition on the imperial bureaucracy. The economic burden of providing tribute gifts directly contributed to corruption and extortion in late Qianlong politics. As Hong Liangji observed, “all of this money is extracted from chou [zhou; department or sub-prefecture] and hsien [xian; county] officials, who in turn get it from the people.”90 Heshen was particularly complicit in this problem. “Vast sums were siphoned off by officials under constant pressure to secure themselves by gifts and bribes to Ho-shen [Heshen] and his immediate subordinates. Everywhere local treasuries were depleted. The groaning people, goaded to desperation by the rapacity to which their magistrates were driven, turned to revolt.”91 The problem of tribute gifts, official corruption, and local extortion closely interacted with each other, precipitating the compounding crises throughout the empire. As Jiaqing lamented, “provincial officials send tribute gifts in the name of serving the emperor, but in fact this is their excuse to fatten and empower themselves. They use declined gifts to bribe high-ranking bureaucrats, some of which

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are drained off to their own private coffers. Meanwhile, lower officials compete with each other in bribing their provincial superiors, even if this means squeezing local people. Thus sending tribute gifts is the worst evil in politics, which I understand very well.”92 Twelve days after attaining full power, Jiaqing promised that he would never accept any gifts from territorial officials other than simple local products like tea and oranges for daily consumption (yong du gongxian). Moreover, no congratulatory gifts were to be allowed at the birth of imperial sons or grandsons. In stark contrast to his extravagant father, Jiaqing imposed an atmosphere of economic austerity while fostering his image as a frugal monarch through personal example and benevolent policies.93 Rumor had it that his imperial robes were repeatedly patched. To cut down excessive government expenditures, he canceled all repair work on palace buildings and minimized his journeys to the summer palaces. Moreover, he reduced the size of the imperial estates around Beijing by 31 percent, though this meant a considerable loss of rent income for his family. While Qianlong had made the jade and ginseng trade an imperial monopoly, Jiaqing lifted the prohibition against private trade on February 6, 1799. To save money, he furthermore stipulated that the amount of jade purchased by the court should be no more than two thousand catties per year. The Jiaqing government, as Mark Elliot argues, also ended the Qing’s longterm effort to improve the bannermen’s livelihood by buying back their land, which had been sold to Han Chinese owners.94 Despite his three short visits to the Manchu capital, Shengjing (Mukden), and the Wutai Mountain in Shanxi, Jiaqing never embarked on the extensive southern tours that characterized his father’s flamboyant rule and served as “centerpieces of High Qing political culture.” Michael Chang asserts that Qianlong deliberately used his last travels to Jiangnan to salvage a dwindling “ethno-dynastic solidarity, exceptionalism, and dominance.” Such political significance notwithstanding, even the retired emperor himself expressed remorse at these wasteful endeavors, deeming them one of the greatest blunders of his six-decade reign. Jiaqing was all too aware of this fresh lesson. To his mind, imperial journeys to the faraway south, by nature, put unnecessary burdens on local people, no matter how the throne might caution against bureaucratic abuses.95 As noted, Jiaqing also abolished the practice of yizuiyin, which had constituted a lucrative source of palace revenue for the Neiwufu and his father. He vowed to never impose such self-assessed fines on “faulty” bureaucrats in hopes of curbing their corruption and protecting local livelihoods. The emperor said in his edict of October 27, 1804: “ever since I assumed all the powers of emperorship, I have never ordered any delinquent or

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incompetent bureaucrats to offer cash contributions as punishment.” To partly compensate for the financial loss, Jiaqing chose to “systematically deduct from officials’ nourishing-virtue silver” instead of confiscating it altogether. He urged his provincial bureaucrats: “now that you have been absolved of the burden of sending tribute gift and free of extortion from powerful ministers, you should be clean-handed and serve the state.”96 Besides giving up significant financial resources earmarked for imperial use, Jiaqing also regularly transferred sizable amounts of funds from his private coffer in the Neiwufu to the public treasury in the Hubu.97

Further Retrenchment Jiaqing made other policy changes that demonstrated his practical retreat from the surge of state activism during the previous reign. In 1799 he decided to end centralized control over the operation of rural granaries, since this effort had become too expensive and barely sustainable. As he saw it, dogmatic insistence of top-down management would provide ample opportunities for state agents to exploit local populaces under the pretext of securing food provision, which meant more corruption and social disturbance.98 He instead called on gentry elites to take more responsibility and initiative on this matter. Such deliberate loosening of bureaucratic supervision, rather than a hallmark of state decay, was actually an illustration of strategic government withdrawal that sought to create more efficient patterns of granary support on a bottom-up basis. Several factors accounted for this organizational change. The escalating crises during this period contributed to the Qing’s financial difficulties, which led to a gradual reduction in the state’s supply of public services. On August 16, 1799, the contemporary official Dai Junyuan memorialized that at least 70 percent of the Ever Normal (Changping) granaries in the empire were not filled to their capacities. In fact, from the 1770s onward, “government’s capacity to regulate the grain market via the granary system decreased precipitously, and the officials gradually adopted a handsoff policy toward the market.”99 The suppression campaigns during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition had exacerbated problems by drawing heavily on the limited stock of many granaries, thus contributing to a general skepticism about state policies of food supply. As Jiaqing admitted in an edict of December 1801, the central government simply could not afford to use its grain tribute ( jiecao), a major source of state revenue, to replenish empty granaries as many local officials had requested. Notwithstanding the state’s decreasing capacity in food provision, Jiaqing managed to

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grant a tremendous amount of grain to the refugees across the Han River highlands as part of his pacification campaign in 1799, 1804, and 1809.100 Like granary support, water control had long been a principal concern of the Chinese state, symbolizing its power and vitality. Research by Lillian M. Li shows that Jiaqing’s approach to the north China flood of 1801 marked a fundamental shift in the Qing’s management of the Yellow River. The three high Qing monarchs—Kangxi, Yongzheng, and Qianlong—all actively engaged in matters of water control, striving to implement new schemes that aimed to forever solve the flooding problem in the north. The futility of their ambitious attempts was thoroughly exposed when the Qing faced its worst flooding just two years after Jiaqing took real power. This horrendous disaster compelled the new emperor to give up on finding a once-and-for-all solution. Over centuries the inevitable and steady deterioration of the Yellow River siltation presented insurmountable technical and fiscal challenges beyond the means of any premodern state.101 Seeing no chance of a permanent solution, Jiaqing began to adopt more modest goals: focusing on key strategic areas by limiting their flooding, reducing maintenance costs, and having money available for emergency relief. He also became ever more concerned with managing the decrepit Yellow River Administration by curbing its internal corruption. Realizing that flood control was a recurring necessity, he tried to restrict the amount of resources the river conservancy extracted from the people and the government treasuries. Based on realistic evaluation of the “riparian predicament” and the state’s fiscal weakness, Jiaqing’s pragmatic policies not only diminished the danger of floods but also paved the way for the rather successful water control efforts in the later Daoguang period.102 Thus one should not take his hard-pressed retreat in river management as a simple state decline or bureaucratic failure. The 1790s crises, to be sure, contributed to this important pullback by wiping out most of the state’s surplus revenue.103 Another major policy shift inaugurated by Jiaqing was the gradual phasing out of the “military allowances for nourishing virtue” (wuzhi yanglian). In 1781 Emperor Qianlong suddenly increased the total number of regular soldiers in the empire by sixty-six thousand. That same year, furthermore, he decided to institute a system of military yanglianyin among the imperial forces. Since its appearance in the Yongzheng reign, yanglianyin had been given only to civilian officials as a special supplementary stipend to reduce local exploitation. Yet Qianlong decided to expand this practice to the Eight Banner and the Green Standard systems in order to boost sagging military morale—another evidence of the spiraling operational cost of the Qing politics in the late eighteenth century. These two new

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changes, as he understood, would add an annual expense of 3 million taels to the already huge military budget.104 But the emperor seemed to have few qualms about it, possibly with assurance from his astute fiscal manager, Heshen. Agui did not share this optimism about the government’s long-term financial viability. His career as a famed general notwithstanding, this well-respected minister bluntly advised against implementing military yanglianyin on the grounds that “it was simply impossible for the state to continue to pay for extra expenses.”105 His farsighted conjecture was confirmed by later historical development and has been supported by recent research. For instance, Tuan-Hwee Sng highlights “a steady contraction of Qing fiscal capacity” in real terms through the Qianlong reign, despite its vast tax base and continuing expansion of economic growth. This surprising “paradox of economic growth and fiscal decline,” furthermore, had great influence on the governability of the state and its relations with the expansive society.106 The Qing government, unlike its Ming counterpart, was committed to keeping taxes low while covering all military expenditures from the state coffers. Agui thus voiced his concern that the two proposed changes, if implemented, would go beyond what the government could financially afford. He cautioned: “The state’s finance is limited. If we spend 3 million silver taels more every year, after twenty-odd years, the increased military spending will reach as high as 70 million. . . . ?” Agui doubted that this sort of fiscal commitment could be sustainable, given the Qing’s other rising expenses on river conservancy and disaster relief.107 Unfortunately, his lone voice and candid opinion fell on deaf ears; the military yanglianyin was hastily put into practice shortly thereafter. To keep up with the expanding military spending, the central government ratcheted up pressure on lower officials, who in turn transferred the burden onto local communities, through such illegal means as creating deficits (zuo kuikong) and soliciting irregular taxes like jintie (subsidies) or bangfei (supplements).108 To alleviate this parlous situation, Jiaqing vowed never to transfer the fiscal burden of military support directly to the populace. After quashing the sectarian and piracy disturbances, he gradually scaled back both the size of the Green Standard army and the annual cost of military yanglianyin from 2 million to 800,000 taels. This downsizing policy of troop retrenchment and fiscal contraction continued into the Daoguang reign, whose military expenses amounted to only 70 percent of those of the early Jiaqing period and 50 percent of the late Qianlong era.109 Besides cutting military payrolls, Jiaqing also granted numerous land tax reductions or exemptions in the regions affected by the White Lotus uprising, although

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the state was in dire need of money at this time. One official document records that “Shaanxi province was remitted 1,086,000 taels of silver, 80,000 dan of rice[one dan of rice equals about 60 kilograms]; Hubei 3,670,600 taels of silver, 154,100 dan of rice; Sichuan 636,000 taels of silver; Gansu 428,000 taels of silver, 717,000 dan of rice, 2,015,000 bundles of forage; Henan 207,000 taels of silver. There are still some waivers that have not yet been reported.” According to Yeh-chien Wang’s reckoning, Emperor Jiaqing had lightened the people’s land tax burden to 2.74 percent of the gross amount of land yields by the end of his reign, which contrasted with 3.3 percent in 1784.110 To further alleviate the pressure on both officials and merchants, Jiaqing cut the annual quota of trade duties charged on goods passing through most transit tax stations (queguan) and customs houses (haiguan). Prior to the Opium War, there were forty-six such collecting agencies in the empire, established on different strategic locations such as coastal ports, inland waterways, and frontier zones. Their annual revenue dues to Beijing, in general, were composed of two major parts: the first was the minimum “base amount” (zheng’e) that was stipulated by the court and paid to the Board of Revenue; as a second system of customs assessment, the Yongzheng government added to the preset regular quota a contingent surplus (yingyu) that should be channeled to the Imperial Household Department. While the base amounts remained relatively stable through the dynasty (about 1,900,000 taels of silver in total), the surplus quotas varied greatly over the high Qing period, given the fluctuations in trading volume and the fiscal exigencies of the state. In good years, the amounts of yingyu were often far beyond those of zheng’e.111 Over the course of his long reign, the Qianlong emperor tightened his control over custom revenues, mostly by enforcing the payment of increasing surplus quotas. Starting in the early 1780s, in particular, his court adopted a new, cumulative way of assessing and hiking the amounts of yingyu quotas imposed on different internal and external customs bureaus. This aggressive method was called “three-year-comparison” (sannian bijiao), which compared the actual amount of yingyu generated by a queguan or haiguan in any particular year with its biggest annual surplus in the previous three years. If there was a deficit, responsible officials should cover it with their own funds (in addition to facing possible punishments like demotion and salary reduction), which inevitably fostered extortion and corruption.112 Take the Yue Haiguan (the Guangdong maritime customs) as an example. As the only customs house that had the privilege of handling Western trade before the Opium War, it collected the largest amount of duties in the

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empire and thus was assigned the highest annual quota. This official quota stood at about 900,000 taels of silver in the late 1780s. As a matter of fact, due mainly to the practice of three-year-comparison, the actual amount of customs levies the Yue Haiguan delivered to Beijing kept rising, reaching at least one million taels in the early 1790s. Its superintendent (known to Westerners as the Hoppo) was under great pressure from Qianlong and his regent to maximize revenue from the Canton trade and send it up to the emperor’s private purse in the Neiwufu. In response, the superintendent readily transferred the burden to the licensed Hong merchants under his direct supervision, who were responsible for collecting the majority of the duties in Canton.113 As these ocean-trade dealers faced increasing extortions by Heshen and his henchmen, the Cohong system of state supervision and merchant management experienced unprecedented difficulties in the closing decades of the eighteenth century. Official corruption and high custom levies, among other things, forced most Hong merchants to borrow money from Western traders despite strong Qing prohibition. Worse still, the resulting accumulation of compound interest, with rates as high as 20 percent, further plunged the former into mountains of debts that invited government suspicion and punishment. Eventually, many of these indebted merchants fell into bankruptcy after 1777 and had their properties confiscated by the Qing authorities; some less fortunate ones were even imprisoned and sent to exile to faraway borderlands. Due to the mass failures of these authorized merchants, the number of Cohong members had fallen sharply in the late eighteenth century.114 To curtail the extensive official extortion and to facilitate commercial intercourse, Emperor Jiaqing gave orders on March 18, 1799 to introduce an empire-wide cut in surplus quotas imposed on most tax stations. Furthermore, he vowed to forever end the counterproductive practice of three-year-comparison and replaced it with a more fixed and predictable yingyu system.115 Jiaqing’s moderate policy was continued by his successor Daoguang, although it failed to solve many problems of the Hong merchants like that of their spiraling debts. Recent studies such as those by Yuping Ni have shown that the Jiaqing and Daoguang regimes were able to maintain the total customs duties at the level of the late Qianlong reign, which was around five million silver taels a year (with one major exception during the period of the first Opium War). This new finding suggests that the overall size of the Qing foreign trade did not shrink during the early nineteenth century. It thus challenges the widely accepted theory of “Daoguang Depression,” which posits a steady decline in market activities, due mainly to silver outflow, during this period of great difficulties.116

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Jiaqing’s withdrawal from unsustainable fiscal extraction and military spending departed sharply from the self-destructive practices of the late Ming state, which had increasingly pressured local communities for additional funds to fight multiple wars against peasant rebels and Manchu invaders. It also was a far cry from the process of “state involution” in the early 1900s that greatly increased the government’s fiscal squeezing of taxpayers without simultaneously improving state services to the local community. A similar process of unsustainable state-making took place during the closing decades of the eighteenth century. The late Qianlong state, like its Republican counterpart, relied on a variety of subbureaucratic functionaries to carry out its basic functions at the local level. Yet the state proved unable to control these informal, self-seeking intermediaries, who often abused their power, victimized innocent people, and stirred up local disturbances. Such “entrepreneurial brokerages” inadvertently subverted the traditional bases of state power—the rural elites’ “protective brokerage” on the part of the state—thus undermining the time-honored “cultural nexus of power” and jeopardizing the state’s legitimacy.117 Deviating from both cases, the Jiaqing reforms were unique in promoting a generally balanced and sustainable state-society relationship during a time of acute crisis. As the Qing regime began withdrawing from some of its traditional paternalistic responsibilities, such as granary support and water control, the gentry and other elites took a much greater initiative in providing public services to their local populaces, albeit under at least nominal official supervision. Compared to his father, the Jiaqing emperor was more tolerant, and even encouraging, of elite participation in the local public realm.118 While such adjustments in policy-making appear to suggest the erosion of Qing state power, they worked in tandem with the institutional alternations noted earlier to straighten out the emperorbureaucracy relationship and to render the state’s functioning more compatible with societal challenges. This was the very essence of the Jiaqing reforms.

Final Suppression of the White Lotus Rebellion After putting the imperial court in order, Jiaqing turned his attention to the equally difficult task of restabilizing the country that was finally under his control. His first and foremost priority was to bring the faltering White Lotus campaign to a triumphant conclusion. In 1802, Jiaqing implied that he was dissatisfied with Qianlong’s war management when he said that

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with the onset of advancing age and deteriorating health, “my imperial father began to muddle his own directives and could not plan out a careful, comprehensive campaign. Consequently, the suppression had been bogged down.”119 Under a reinvigorated leadership, it appeared that the court regained some of its strength after 1799. Yet how the top political changes were translated into local milieus still remains a question. To avoid the “analytic isolation of the state” that Joel Migdal cautions against, it is necessary to view the Jiaqing reforms from a local, bottom-up perspective by exploring their implementation in the frontier environments.120 The Jiaqing reforms represented a gradual turning point in the campaign against the White Lotus rebels. In enacting new moderate policies toward the insurgents and officials, the realistic emperor was more effective than his father in working out conflicts and compromising with different sociopolitical forces during the suppression process. He also, to a considerable extent, was able to curb rampant official misfeasance and local corruption through more efficient personnel management, financial administration, and military maneuvers. Albeit unable to create an effective regular army, Jiaqing succeeded in tying existing structures of social power to the state through such pragmatic means as local militarization, gentry empowerment, and merchant contributions. He understood that keeping a good balance between coercive, material, and moral control was the key to quelling the rebels and maintaining frontier order.121 While Jiaqing’s personal accession to power began with his swift and decisive resolution of the Heshen case, it was mainly at the provincial level that his reforms confronted the destructive legacy of the Heshen era: the entrenched patronage networks established under the minister’s tutelage. Deeply disappointed in the White Lotus suppression efforts, Jiaqing felt that many of his provincial officials were corrupt, indolent, and unresponsive. As soon as his father passed away, Jiaqing issued this stern edict: “I mean what I say. Don’t ever take me as a young emperor who can be deceived.”122 In the next several months he sent out a flurry of edicts admonishing the field officers to conclude the suppression campaign rapidly, although he received few direct and encouraging responses. Jiaqing lamented the depressing state of affairs in his vermillion comments on Guangxing’s memorial: “I could abruptly eliminate a top minister [Heshen] who had monopolized court politics for over twenty years, but some officials still doubt my determination and try to disobey my orders. How stupid and stubborn they are!”123 The pragmatic Jiaqing came to the view that constant invocations of imperial wrath and threats were not allpurpose tools of monarchical control. Rather than assert autocratic power, he took steps to routinize a set of bureaucratic relationships by rewarding

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and punishing his officials in line with their performance instead of their status. Jiaqing, furthermore, was increasingly convinced that the faction-ridden provincial administration could no longer serve as the primary mobilizer and organizer of the White Lotus campaign. It was thus imperative to get around such official barriers and search for direct societal support at the grassroots level. This aspiration, in reality, was also part of a larger concern of Chinese rulers when envisioning local order. The founding emperor of the Ming dynasty, Hongwu, for example, distrusted bureaucrats and desired to create effective grassroots order with local institutions. In the eyes of the much less ambitious Jiaqing, it was local elites and officials who were best placed to identify emerging problems and to craft effective solutions during the repression campaign. To get true information from the battleground, Jiaqing gave the prefectural officials the privilege of sending secret memorials directly to the throne “in accordance with the rules for provincial treasurers and judicial commissioners.”124 As the emperor well understood, the unforgiving terrain of the Han River highlands and the rebels’ intricate links with the mountain communities gave them an overwhelming advantage impossible to overcome with a standard military solution alone. With his regular military system unable to finish the job, societal forces had to be mobilized and auxiliary methods sought. This new perception not only necessitated an adjustment of central-local balance in decision-making but also reinforced Jiaqing’s drive to resolve the crisis by deploying more realistic plans and more long-term goals, both of which had profound bearing on subsequent Qing history. The first important change was military. The White Lotus rebellion, as William Rowe claims, marked a “milestone in the Qing’s continuing loss of control over its military.” Jiaqing tried to reassert such control soon after fully taking control of the throne. On January 20, 1799, to ensure unified command and coordination, he appointed Lebao—later supplanted by Eledengbao—as the supreme military commissioner ( jinglue) of the suppression campaign in five provinces. It should be noted that Qianlong, throughout his sixty years of rule, had named only four jinglue, three of whom were grand councilors (with Fuheng receiving the ad hoc appointment twice).125 The fact that neither Lebao nor Eledengbao was a councilor further demonstrates Jiaqing’s determination to limit the power and prestige of the revamped Junjichu. In addition to synchronizing the repression efforts, the new emperor’s major goal in appointing a single commander-inchief was to streamline provincial leadership while encouraging and supervising local military mobilization. As a matter of fact, the jinglue Lebao was the most important high official to promote the policy of jianbi qingye.

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Jianbi Qingye After attaining real power in 1799, Jiaqing began to reverse his father’s policy on local militarization by adopting the long-abandoned strategy of jianbi qingye (strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside). On June 3, the emperor issued an edict ordering all rebellion-torn provinces to promote this policy, which consisted of two interrelated parts: building fortified villages (xiuzhu zhaibao) and grouping and drilling local armies (tuanlian xiangyong). The overarching goal was to defend widely dispersed communities by increasing their military preparedness and to isolate the rebels by cutting off their connections with the local communities. Both objectives could be achieved through concentrating the farming populace in walled, fortified compounds and removing foodstuffs from the countryside so that the rebels had nothing to loot.126 The Lanzhou prefect Gong Jinghan was a major proponent of this locally directed program. The organization of the zhaibao (fortified settlement), as he stressed, hinged on both the traditional policing mechanism of baojia (household registration and mutual surveillance) and a new system of militia conscription known as tuanlian (grouping and drilling). Tuanlian was directly derived from baojia, so their functions were parallel or even overlapping. But this is not to propose that the former was a replica of the latter.127 The two interlinked systems, according to Philip Kuhn, formed the essence of the control-defense duality in local society. As a main agent of state authority below the county level, the baojia system aimed to disintegrate local community power by superimposing artificial decimal divisions (bao or jia) that cut across natural settlements. Consequently, power was restructured from the top down for better control and mutual surveillance. Baojia posts, at least in theory, could only be assigned to commoners, as a counterweight to the gentry’s dominant local influence.128 By the late eighteenth century, in many parts of the empire, this time-honored system had become a rather weak tool of social control that had to be supplemented by the emerging tuanlian. During times of emergency, specifically, the geographical area of bao could be integrated to form tuan and activated by lian (drilling) under gentry leadership. Ten-odd tuan were further grouped into a “large tuan,” charged with the defense of a fortified settlement. As a decentralized mobilization mechanism, tuanlian aimed to consolidate scattered power from the bottom up for self-defense and mutual support. During the White Lotus rebellion, its significance overshadowed that of baojia and became the mainstay of local security. Private wealth played a vital role in funding the tuanlian and zhaibao, whose operation followed the

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rationale of official supervision and gentry management (guandu shenban). In the first five years of the revolt, for example, as many as 541 zhaibao were built in southern Shaanxi, some of which could accommodate over ten thousand families. Among them, ninety-three were created with public funds and all of the rest with local private initiatives. A good case in point is the shengyuan (the county-level exam degree holder) Pan Dakang, who alone funded the construction of ten zhaibao. Due to their grassroots influence, gentry led the local defense efforts and became the key implementers of the jianbi qingye strategy.129 This strategy, in essence, was a militarized system of local control designed to make up for the inadequacy of the regular army and bureaucratic apparatus. It depended on the mobilization of informal militiamen—tuanyong (locally recruited militia) and xiangyong (mostly government-hired, local braves)—who were essentially local mercenaries. In every tuan, there was a register of able-bodied males from which the militia could be selected. Supplied by the local communities, the tuanyong were under the gentry’s close control as an element of both the baojia and tuanlian systems of local defense, so they seldom left their zhaibao. The xiangyong, by contrast, were often brought into troubled areas by military commanders or civil officials. Less numerous than tuanyong, they were outsiders with financial support from the state. Given the ineffectiveness of the regular army, local militia grew quickly and played an increasingly important role in the second stage of suppression.130 All in all, the Qing authorities had an ambivalent attitude toward the use of xiangyong. On the one hand, from the perspective of local officials and army commanders, they were glad to hire xiangyong as a supplemental force, since they were familiar with local conditions and difficult for the court to keep track of. With these informal mercenaries serving as the vanguard and shield in battle, moreover, the casualties of the standard army could be greatly mitigated, which made it easier to cover up defeat and even convert it into victory (yanbai weigong). On the other, some generals, like Mingliang, cautioned against depending too much on xiangyong because, unlike the locally based tuanyong, they were outside regular channels of official control. Many of them brought their own weapons and often refused to give them up after the war and demobilization. The Jiaqing emperor was not unaware of these problems, but he reassured Mingliang: “your point is well taken. In order to quash the rebels, however, we have to rely on xiangyong. If you show your suspicion, they will grow restive and make great trouble for us. Be sure to hide your qualms and keep a vigilant eye. We can deal with this as soon as the suppression ends.”131 With the wide adoption of zhaibao and tuanlian after 1799, the xiangyong’s major

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role shifted from the pursuit of rebels to the defense of local communities. Like the tuanyong, they began to be incorporated into the localized system of military control: jianbi qingye. Hinging on zhaibao and tuanlian, this all-encompassing strategy of local militarization was first implemented across eastern and northern Sichuan in March 1799 and then adopted quickly by other rebel-infested areas.132 It greatly limited the space of White Lotus operations, thus rendering ineffective the rebels’ mobility, which was a basic feature of this rebellion. Consequently, this antirebel campaign became “the first internal war fought largely by mercenaries.” After the full rise of Jiaqing, gentry-led militia attained the formal veneer of legitimacy and served as a basic force for combating the rebels. Its number was said to have exceeded 400,000 by the end of the rebellion. According to Xuanzhi Dai, without zhaibao, the rebels could not be repelled; without local militia, the insurrection could not be suppressed.133 From then on, tuanlian and baojia were further integrated as tuanbao, which became the primary means of community defense and rebel-suppression in periods of disorder. The Qing government began to rely on such empowered grassroots forces as a template for dealing with nineteenth-century emergencies like the Taiping and Nian uprisings. Yet such uncontrollable militarization of local society, paradoxically, also became a major affliction of the late Qing and early Republican states.

The Rise of Local Elites and Local Society As an aggressive yet low-cost measure of local defense, jianbi qingye was not meant to strengthen rural communities at the expense of the authorities. Instead its goal was to “bring spontaneous local militarization into a comprehensive, bureaucratized control apparatus under state supervision.”134 In the second stage of the White Lotus campaign, the court adopted a flexible approach that allowed field officials and elites to make adjustments in line with grassroots conditions, facilitating the empowerment of local gentry and communities. The mushrooming of local militia under gentry leadership signaled the rise of bottom-up elite activism that found its expression in a wide range of areas and developed further in the last century of Qing rule. Climaxing with what James Polachek calls “gentry hegemony,” this development paved the way for a reorientation of those elites toward local-centered approaches to political activism and status-seeking.135 The deviation from direct state leadership, in contrast, also represented the start of a crucial shift in the balance of power and initiative away from the central govern-

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ment. Similar changes occurred in the turbulent transition between the Northern and Southern Song as well as between the Ming and Qing dynasties.136 The suppression campaign after 1799 contributed to an intensification of elite participation in local public affairs that facilitated the transition from high Qing state-activism to late Qing elite-activism. How did this dramatic shift come about? Both James Polachek and Seunghyun Han trace it back to the Jiaqing period. As Han asserts, this change occurred before the mid-nineteenth-century rebellions, which initially “result[ed] from an effort to respond to various economic and social crises that China had to face at the beginning of the 19th century.” Taking advantage of this new development, local elites gained more opportunities to maneuver for power and to expand their influence. Meanwhile, the government was forced to compromise by giving them more freedom to manage the public realm.137 The 1790s crises thus fueled an upsurge of extragovernmental initiatives, which contributed to the transformation of the relationship between the central state and local society in the nineteenth century. Similar changes also occurred among merchants during the White Lotus and piracy upheavals. This crisis-ridden period has been reckoned as the turning point of Qing financial strength. It has been calculated that the treasury surplus of the Board of Revenue reached nearly 82 million silver taels in 1777, the highest level in all of Qing history. On the eve of the 1796 uprising, this surplus still amounted to about 70 million taels. It was nonetheless reduced to about 17 million by the White Lotus campaign in 1801 and almost gone by the end of the rebellion. Thenceforth, the Hubu’s surplus never recovered to a level higher than 33.5 million taels, which was only 40 percent of its highest level in 1777. Such fiscal woes became a chronic condition throughout the nineteenth century.138 During the high Qing period, state policies toward merchants were generally designed to regulate rather than to raise revenue. Desperate to raise money quickly to suppress the Bailian rebellion, however, the Jiaqing court unwillingly accepted and encouraged donations from wealthy merchants, especially those in the salt monopolies. According to Feng Chen’s calculation, contributions by salt merchants totaled no less than 15.8 million taels between 1799 and 1803, which accounted for over one-third of their overall contributions from the 1670s to the 1830s in support of the state’s military spending.139 Such heightened “generosity” was sound investment to be sure, for it offered salt merchants a golden opportunity to bargain with the state in this familiar game of exchange. They sent request after request to the court for privileges that would bring them great profit, like

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increasing the price of official salt they sold on market or the fixed quota of salt they could purchase from the state. Furthermore, many merchants also petitioned to pay their donations in installments over a long period of time, thus further consolidating their monopoly position. Often the financially strapped emperor had to give in to some of these requests, despite their deleterious influence on popular livelihood and salt administration (especially smuggling). During the Taiping rebellion, the merchants further gained the right to collect commercial taxes like lijin (transit tax).140 Their enhanced power stemmed originally from financial services but spread to many other areas of local management, with the result being that, like gentry, they came to share increasing public responsibilities in grassroots communities. Like other local elites, merchants also purchased educational degrees or honorary official titles, which became more available during the suppression campaign. Originally, as Elisabeth Kaske points out, all contributors were required to deliver their silver to the Board of Revenue in Beijing. Starting from 1800, however, provincial governments gained the right to sell Imperial Academy degrees like the jiansheng (students of the imperial college in Beijing) and, furthermore, to use part of the fund to fill provincial silver reserves. This was the onset of “the expansion and decentralization of office selling,” which became the most important source of “nontax revenue” for the Qing state. The practice grew increasingly popular, reaching its peak during the great rebellions of the mid-nineteenth century.141 It must be borne in mind that only a small percentage of educational degrees were sold during the Jiaqing reign, most of which did not lead to bureaucratic appointments. Thus one should not deem such transaction a corrupt practice in itself and exaggerate its demoralizing effect on the imperial officialdom. While hurting the dynasty’s prestige, the sale of degrees and ranks was not necessarily harmful to the sustainable operation of the political system. As a key irregular means of elite recruitment, more specifically, it helped alleviate the crisis of upward mobility that had long tormented the Chinese imperial system. The amount of money collected from this process, furthermore, reached an unprecedented scale of 70 million taels throughout the years of the White Lotus campaign and postwar reconstruction. Like merchant contributions, the sale of offices was a major expedient to meet the state’s urgent need for huge military funds during this turbulent period.142 Both practices suggested that the functioning of the Qing regime became increasingly dependent on makeshift measures and ad hoc sources of financial support, which profoundly affected the state-society relationship in the nineteenth century.

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The White Lotus rebellion posed all-round challenges to the social control system of the Qing dynasty. In response, the state had to reconfigure its various strategies to end this crisis. By no means merely a military endeavor, Jiaqing’s suppression campaign was also a many-sided project of pacification that relied on strategies of political propaganda, social relief, and moral indoctrination. This systematic program aimed to win back the hearts and minds of the populace, which proved to be increasingly important in the latter part of the uprising.

Improving Local Administration Jiaqing understood that in order to stanch the trend of mounting protest, he had to address the worst abuses in local administration. The White Lotus uprising, in particular, could be directly attributable to widespread injustice and exploitation perpetrated by local bureaucrats and their yamen underlings.143 The emperor was at pains to point out that these abusive officials were only one lower link in a chain of corrupt practices that extended to the apexes of state organizations. Their miscreant behavior had often been provoked by their provincial superiors, acting on Heshen’s behalf. As Jiaqing remarked in an edict: “the reason why prefects and magistrates exploited the people was not merely for self-interest. A large part of the profit was actually used to ingratiate themselves with the senior bureaucrats. Likewise, the main reason why provincial officials extorted their underlings was not due to their greed, but for bribing Heshen. So this minister was really the fountainhead of official exploitation and corruption.”144 Jiaqing strove to restore the government’s legitimacy by blaming all wrongs on the dead villain and by deflecting discontent from the political system itself. To reestablish public confidence, he ordered an investigation of county and department administrations based on the principle that “good officials should be promoted while bad ones must be eliminated.” Interestingly, the central authorities used the rebels’ depositions about their impressions of local bureaucrats and military commanders, among other things, to evaluate field administration and reshuffle the personnel of campaign leadership. The first major high-ranking officials who were sacked or demoted after 1799 included Yimian, Qin Cheng’en, Huiling, and Jing’an, most of whom had shaky relationships with Heshen.145 As Jones and Kuhn note, the Jiaqing reforms replaced the untitled regent and his cronies with officials who had opposed him and had personally tasted the bitterness of his tyranny. Many of these new appointees to high provincial positions, like Wu Xiongguang, Ruan Yuan, Jiang Youxian,

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and Sun Yuting, had close ties to Zhu Gui, the emperor’s closest confidant. These like-minded officials went to their new posts with a mission to rectify local administration by reinforcing official discipline. On the one hand they promoted upright and competent officials in the field, including Yan Ruyi, Liu Qing, Ye Shizhuo, Gong Jinghan, Zhu Yiqian, Fang Ji, and Lin Lan, most of whom had served in the three-province border region for unusually long times. On the other hand they severely punished wicked bureaucrats, including Hu Qilun, Chang Dankui, Zheng Yuanshou, and Dai Ruhuang, who epitomized the local corruption and flagrant maladministration that provoked the White Lotus rebellion.146 On February 19, 1799, for example, Jiaqing ordered that Hu Qilun be arrested and sent to the capital for interrogation. From 1796 to 1798, Hu had been responsible for supervising the distribution of 4,190,000 silver taels of military funds in Jingzhou, Xiangyang, Anlu, and Yunyang prefectures. According to his deposition, he had embezzled 83,960 taels during the first two years of the suppression campaign. Probably in an effort to protect himself, the cunning official had recorded his bribery activities in two pamphlets, complete with names of recipients, exact dates, and amounts. To Jiaqing’s great consternation, with the exception of Eledengbao, almost all highly placed officials in the campaign had accepted bribes from Hu. The exposure of  others’ complicity, however, did not save him from execution on October 12, 1799.147 On February 25, the censor Gu Jiqi impeached the vice-magistrate of Wuchang, Chang Dankui, for his notorious greed and terrible acts of cruelty. Known as the Long-Headed Devil (Chang Guitou), Chang had served as the magistrate of Yidu county during the White Lotus investigation campaign of 1795. On the pretext of searching for the chief sectarian master Liu Zhixie, he threw thousands of innocent people into prison and extorted money from them. Those who did not pay were harshly tortured or even killed.148 Censor Gu took these notorious practices as the most infamous case in local misrule and the earliest example of the phrase “Guanbi minfan” (It was the officials who forced the people to rise up). Chang Dankui was thus arrested and transferred to Beijing for trial. In May 1799, Jiaqing also ordered the execution of the Hunan tax commissioner Zheng Yuanshou, who had embezzled over 80,000 silver taels of military funds. After getting rid of such widely hated local tyrants, the emperor issued this edict: “ever since I took full imperial leadership, I have been streamlining and disciplining the local administration. Those bureaucrats who had mistreated people were mostly removed from their posts and punished accordingly. Recently I ordered provincial chiefs to recommend good officials and to impeach bad ones. What kind of local scourge cannot

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reach my ears? Why did the rebels still rise up one after another? If they are victimized by local officials, why not go to the relevant government agencies to accuse the miscreants?”149 In another edict, Jiaqing continued: “if their cases are turned down, they can still go to Beijing for capital appeals. Now that the officialdom has been disciplined, I will not let my populace suffer any injustice.”150 Apparently, as Ho-Fung Hung points out, Jiaqing strove to refresh his image as a caring monarch deeply committed to benevolent governance. Although the aforementioned efforts were far from enough to lead the regime out of its morass of corruption and to rectify abuses in local administration, they did help contain the fire of discontent from below and improve the popular perception of the state. Both changes contributed to the dissipation of social protest in the Jiaqing and early Daoguang reigns.151

The Rebellion and the Manchu-Han Relationship The White Lotus rebellion marked a watershed in the changing ManchuHan relationship: the eclipse of Manchu leadership by Han officials at different governmental levels. One can study this process in terms of elite recruitment and political participation during times of upheaval. In addressing the origin of political crisis, Samuel P. Huntington holds that socioeconomic changes mobilize new groups into politics at a speed too rapid or a scale too large for the existing system to absorb, thereby paving the way for state instability and social protest. Focusing on various upheavals in Qing China, similarly, Yung Wei highlights a direct and close correlation between social crisis, elite recruitment, and political participation. While upheavals tend to occur after the constriction of elite recruitment, the open-ended process of crisis management also provides opportunities for new groups, especially those from the middle and lower strata, to move up the sociopolitical ladder.152 Because of their seminomadic origin, not surprisingly, the Manchu elite deliberately limited the hiring of Han Chinese officials in order to safeguard their minority domination and ethnic hegemony. In the first half of the dynasty, recruiting Manchus into the core ruling elite, especially for the high capital and territorial offices, was thus a natural development. This unbalanced development reached its pinnacle during Qianlong’s reign; the hypersensitive emperor was very committed to defending and celebrating the Manchu way through political campaigns and special appointments.153 The recruitment of Manchus nonetheless decreased substantially after the late eighteenth century, coming almost to a standstill during the White

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Lotus uprising. The last growth in the employment of Manchus occurred during the early part of the Taiping rebellion in the 1850s. After this uprising, people of Manchu origin constituted a negligible portion of the recruitment of the core elite.154 In contrast to the Manchus, Han Chinese political participation expanded during the White Lotus campaign and afterward, most notably at the level of provincial government. Probably as a result of the traumatic experience with the Manchu minister Heshen, Michael Chang argues, Emperor Jiaqing “abandoned the aggressive defense of ethno-dynastic prerogatives that characterized his father’s reign.” He tended to favor the Han Chinese in his selection of officials for higher government posts. The emperor was especially interested in those statecraft bureaucrats like Yan Ruyi who had practical knowledge in borderland management and administrative skills in postwar reconstruction. Thanks to the patronage of such literati networks as the Northern Scholar Clique, increasing numbers of reform-minded Hanlin alumni began to swarm into provincial administration. Polachek calls this expanding group of rising Han officials “the Jiaqing restoration generation” that adumbrated “a new era of literati ascendancy within the provincial managerial establishment.” Many of them continued to assume key provincial positions during the 1820s and 1830s—often referred to as the Jiaqing-Daoguang “statecraft circle.” They directed their efforts toward tightening bureaucratic discipline and supervising ad hoc reforms in the routine functioning of the administrative apparatus. Consequently, territorial service became increasingly valued in Qing politics during the early nineteenth century.155 The Jiaqing reign, in short, can be pinpointed as “the beginning of a period in which Han Chinese officials dominated Qing provincial administration, a change in ethnic ratios previously thought to have begun only in the period of the Taiping rebellion.”156 This profound shift was especially obvious at the highest provincial posts of dufu—governor-general and governor. During the sixty-year Qianlong reign, sixty-seven Han Chinese and seventy-two bannermen (sixty Manchus, four Mongols, and eight Chinese) were appointed to the offices of dufu. In the subsequent quarter century of rule by Jiaqing, thirty-eight Han Chinese and fifteen bannermen (nine Manchus, three Mongols, and three Chinese) took these offices. Clearly, the Han Chinese began to hold an increasing majority of dufu posts at the turn of the nineteenth century. This important change might also be a reflection of the fact that by the onset of Jiaqing’s reign, the administrative talents of the bannerman group had suffered a great decline due partly to Heshen’s inglorious downfall. Similar shifts in ethnic interactions, albeit less obvious, can be found in the Grand Council, as discussed

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earlier. For another example, such lucrative positions as the three vaults at the Board of Revenue and tax commissioners were generally occupied by officials of Manchu origin. But after 1799 they became open to Han officials as well.157 To further illustrate the changing Manchu-Han relationship, I shall take a close look at political participation in the military system during the White Lotus campaign. As Yung Wei maintains, the recruitment of military elite through irregular paths was closely related to the occurrence of crises. The White Lotus uprising initiated an abrupt decline in the recruitment of Manchus vis-à-vis Han Chinese into the military elite. By Jiaqing’s reign, most important positions in the military were held by Manchus and Mongolians. During the antirebel campaign, however, men of Chinese origin, most notably Yang Fang, Yang Yuchun, and Zhang Yuan, gradually emerged as renowned army commanders. Even xiangyong like Gui Han and Luo Siju became prominent generals through the suppression campaign.158 Most of these Han Chinese rose via such irregular routes as military service and financial contribution. The irregular recruitment of the Chinese, especially of commoners, bore a closer relationship to the occurrence of political crises than the irregular recruitment of Manchus did. More specifically, the former had a better chance than the latter of irregular entry into the military elite between the 1780s and the 1860s. Men of Chinese origin monopolized irregular military recruitment during the White Lotus rebellion and again in the 1830s, on the eve of a large military confrontation between the Qing and the British. In the aftermath of the Opium War, the irregular recruitment of Chinese showed a constant increase until it reached a peak during the 1900s.159 As Philip Kuhn’s study of Wei Yuan and Feng Guifen suggests, wider political participation tended to correlate with enhancing Qing state power rather than limiting it. According to Yung Wei, “irregular recruitment during crisis periods might have been a necessary adaptation of the Qing system to the compelling demands of both the intra-societal and extra-societal environments. The adoption of such a policy could be one of the elements which helped prolong Qing rule.” This development nevertheless had farreaching effects on the overall weakening of the Manchu ruling elite because, as nomadic conquerors, they relied on the monopoly of military skill to maintain their political hegemony in China. As noted, Manchu military power began to decline during the White Lotus campaign, a trend that accelerated in the Taiping crisis. As more and more Han Chinese entered into military service, the Manchus’ military hegemony was gradually broken, and their political power became insecure. It is for this reason that the Qing specialist Xiao Yishan has called Jiaqing’s reign the initial period

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of Manchu decline. The damaging loss of politico-military power was a prolonged process that started at the end of the eighteenth century, accelerated in the mid-nineteenth century, and was finally completed in the 1900s.160 In addition, the pressing crises compelled Jiaqing to seek advice and talent from wider circles, which contributed to the changing political geography of the late Qing. Seunghyun Han underscores a southern shift in terms of the composition of high-ranking court officials in the Jiaqing reign. In contrast with the late Qianlong period, the early decades of the nineteenth century saw the rise of influential southern politicians like Dong Gao, Cao Zhenyong, and Pan Shi’en. Similar observations can be made about high officials from central China. By the turn of the century, in Yung Wei’s estimation, only 5.9 percent of them hailed from this large area. The first marked increase of elite recruitment from central China occurred in the early 1800s and stemmed most likely from the decade-long White Lotus campaign. After a short pause, recruitment from central China rose again in the 1840s and reached its peak in the 1860s, especially from Hunan. By the same token, the outbreak of the Opium War and the Taiping rebellion contributed to this increase.161

Chapter Seven

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aving discussed how the Jiaqing state was shaped by the social crises within, I address in Part III the transnational aspects of these upheavals, shifting the focus from court politics to foreign diplomacy. This final chapter brings to light how the piracy disturbance affected the Qing’s international capacities and reconfigured its relations with the outside world, especially with Vietnam and Britain. Over the past two or three decades, scholarly treatment of foreign relations has been somewhat marginalized by the China-centered and localized turn that dominates the field of Ming-Qing history. There has been little consensus, however, on what constitutes the “China-centered” history and how to discover it in the increasingly interconnected and interactive world after the eighteenth century. It is thus a welcome trend that some recent scholarship rejuvenates the discussion of foreign relations by bringing them back as a pivotal factor in Chinese history.1 These new studies show that one cannot understand China’s internal logic of historical development without relating it to a complex array of external factors that often combined to interrupt the endogenous dynamic of change and turned it in new directions. This was particularly true in the nineteenth century, when the process of Qing empire-building became increasingly susceptible to a set of exogenous developments that profoundly affected domestic changes. Aside from the primary goal of maintaining internal order, as this chapter illustrates, the troubled empire had to contend with a series of unprecedented challenges

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imposed by Western intruders and tributary neighbors. To comprehend the multifaceted, intertwining process of challenge and response, one needs a flexible context or an open-ended perspective whereby to probe the interplay of domestic politics, regional brokering, and international diplomacy. The piracy disturbance in the South China Sea provides this ideal prism for viewing these complex interactions and changes. I have already shown that sea bandits in the Sino-Vietnamese water world succeeded in transforming their local petty enterprise into a major national and international threat. A discussion of this process and its many-sided influences would carry us beyond partial consideration of either a Western-initiated or China-centered dynamic of change in late Qing history. Both paradigms can be supplemented and enriched by a transnational, region-centric perspective that reknits the history of China with that of its neighbors. Recently Anthony Reid, Yangwen Zheng, and David C. Kang have underscored the need to refocus attention on those relationships that were “inherently asymmetric,” unequal, and interdependent. In his superb study of the Sino-centric tributary system, similarly, Takeshi Hamashita advocates a comparable perspective of Asian regional networks by focusing on the structure of maritime interaction.2 He portrays the traditional order in East and Southeast Asia as a series of concentric circles with China seated at the inner core. Thus one should, above all, look at Asia from within instead of from the point of view of the external Western impact. The Sino-centric tributary system, furthermore, was by no means a static normative order unable to adjust itself to changes. Instead, as Kang holds, it “provided a range of flexible institutional and discursive tools with which to resolve conflicts without recourse to war.”3 This chapter relates transnational piracy to tensions and accommodations within this hierarchical system, exploring how different political entities interacted with each other and how such interplay affected regional power reconfigurations. To better conceptualize China’s grappling with the West, it is important to first examine endogenous and regional dynamism before it became overwhelmed by Western forces. In this way we can better understand the scope and limits of Western pressure as a catalyst in late Qing history.

The Sino-Vietnamese Relationship and the Rise of the Tay Son Regime The piracy crisis across the Sino-Vietnamese water world affected some of the most important interactions between China and Vietnam. The massive

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wave of maritime violence stemmed from pivotal sociopolitical changes on both sides that altered the trajectory of their subsequent histories. On the Chinese side, aggressive government suppression, coupled with the simultaneous Miao and White Lotus rebellions, stimulated the dramatic rise of piracy. On the Vietnamese side, the catalyst was a massive popular protest— the Tay Son rebellion—that plunged the country into three decades of intense civil war and inaugurated its modern history.4 Before discussing this watershed event, it will be useful to highlight some of the vicissitudes in Sino-Vietnamese relations. The areas of present-day southern China and northern Vietnam, due to their geographical proximity, had developed close ties since ancient times. Northern Vietnam was the southernmost part of the Hundred Viets, a disparate group of partly Sinicized and un-Sinicized political entities that formed during the Eastern Zhou period (770–221 b.c.) between the Yangzi River and Red River deltas. The Hundred Viets had great affinities with the Yue kingdom, which had been centered in present-day Zhejiang province of China and was crushed by the Chu state in 333 b.c. The disparate Vietnamese polities used some variations of the name “Viet”—cognate with the Chinese word “Yue”—to designate their people and lands. Exploiting the dissolution of the Qin dynasty in 207 b.c., a former Chinese general, Zhao Tuo (Trieu Da in Vietnamese), founded a kingdom of his own called Nam Viet (southern Viet, Nan Yue in Chinese) centered in today’s Canton. Nam Viet was not only the largest of the Hundred Viets but also the only one to establish independence from the giant northern neighbor. It is thus generally deemed the first historically proven predecessor state of Vietnam. The kingdom was short-lived, however, as the expanding Han Empire defeated and annexed it in 111 b.c. The Chinese dynasties directly ruled the northern part of Vietnam in the following millennium, referring to it as Jiaozhi or Annam (Annan in Chinese, “Pacified South”). Annam gained independence during the tenth century by taking advantage of China’s chaotic transition from the Tang dynasty to the Song. After two short-lived dynasties, the Dinh (968–980) and Le (980–1009), Annamese history entered a new chapter when its first stable, long-lasting dynasty, Ly (1010– 1225), was established, inaugurating the so-called Dai Viet period of independence.5 This epochal shift did not mean the end of influence from China, which had long been the paramount power in East and Southeast Asia. Successive Dai Viet dynasties—Ly, Tran (1225–1400), Ho (1400–1407), and later Le (1428–1788), Tay Son (1788–1802), and Nguyen (1802–1945)— continued to live in the shadow of the Middle Kingdom, looking to it for official recognition, politico-economic support, and cultural inspiration.6

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In spite of occasional armed conflict with the large northern empire, they were by and large content to settle into the Sino-centric tributary relationship as a sort of “asymmetric normalcy,” as Brantley Womack calls it. The less powerful Dai Viet states used their own creative appropriation of the Chinese system to legitimize their rule, attain commercial profit, and stave off the threat from the north.7 Vietnam’s tributary status nonetheless did not preclude the possibility of a Chinese invasion. Extraordinary internal strife like imperial usurpation could prompt Chinese military intervention, as happened several times in the Ming-Qing dynasties. The Tran general Ho Quy Ly, for example, deposed his king and set up the Ho dynasty in 1400. Seven years later, the Ming regime sent an army south on the pretext of punishing the usurper, demolished the Ho regime, and ruled Annam territory as a Chinese province. The Ming occupation ended after two decades due to a local uprising led by Le Loi (who founded the later Le dynasty). After a century of strong rule, the Le dynasty suffered from problems of weak leadership, political strife, and popular rebellions. Henceforth, two rival lord families governed the country: Trinh in the north and Nguyen in the south. Both pledged loyalty to the weak Le ruler while creating their own parallel courts and civil services as though they were two separate, competing regional states, neither able to conquer the other. The resulting political stalemate, combined with mounting social grievances in the late eighteenth century, offered an opportunity for the three Tay Son brothers in south-central Vietnam to create a unified Dai Viet. They revolted in 1771 against the oppressive Nguyen family and overthrew its authority six years later. The sole surviving heir of the vanquished regime, Nguyen Anh, was forced to take refuge in Bangkok, where he sought help from the Siamese king. In the name of suppressing the rebels, meanwhile, the Trinh troops marched south and attacked both the Tay Son and Nguyen powers.8 After a decade of back-and-forth fighting, the Tay Son forces prevailed in this three-cornered war and established control over much of Annam. The triumphant rebel regime ostensibly revived the Le dynasty by ending the two centuries of Trinh-Nguyen rivalry. In reality, the country was divided among the three brothers, who had growing tensions with each other. Getting tired of his puppet status, the hapless king, Le Chieu Thong, fled north to China in 1788 and petitioned Qianlong for help in securing the throne. Under the influence of the Liangguang governor-general, Sun Shiyi, a cohort of Heshen, Qianlong granted the request by sending an expeditionary force of twenty thousand to punish the usurper. The commander-in-chief was none other than Sun himself. Ostensibly, Qianlong decided to intervene because, as a suzerain lord, he had the moral

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obligation to protect his deposed vassal king. Susumu Fuma, however, challenges this unconvincing pretext by assessing the campaign as “truly ill-advised and meaningless,” finding instead a personal reason on Qianlong’s part: he wanted to have the legitimate Annamese king attend the gala celebration of his eightieth birthday in Beijing. Seen from this perspective, the much-trumpeted Annam expedition thus had its “origins in the arbitrary will of an autocratic emperor.”9 In the first month of the campaign, Sun Shiyi reported a series of victories to Qianlong that quickly won him the rank of duke. Yet the triumph was short-lived. The usurper Nguyen Hue and his battered troops made an extraordinary comeback, dealing a crushing defeat to the Chinese army and forcing it into a humiliating retreat. Less than two weeks before the decisive battle, this able rebel leader had abolished the decrepit Later Le dynasty and proclaimed himself Emperor Quang Trung (in Chinese: Guangzhong, r. 1788–1792).10 His ascension to the throne was a direct challenge to his elder brother, Nguyen Nhac, who had crowned himself the first Tay Son emperor a decade previously. Their simmering dissension finally escalated into an opened armed conflict, which ended with the victory of the younger brother. Quang Trung’s emperorship was greatly buttressed by his repulsion of the Chinese attack, which consolidated his status as paramount ruler of a newly unified Vietnam. Decades of protracted fighting on multiple fronts disrupted the Tay Son economy and drained its treasury. As the war wore on, the rebel regime became increasingly pressed for both money and manpower. To head off deepening financial and military difficulties, from the 1780s onward the Tay Son leaders dispatched over a hundred ships to the Sino-Vietnamese sea frontier under the command of twelve brigade officers. Their principal mission was to recruit Fujian and Guangdong pirates, many of whom had been forced out of Chinese waters by relentless Qing suppression, into the Tay Son navy. These desperate Chinese outlaws eagerly allied with the “Big Boss of Annam,” as he not only offered them protection and training but also weapons, official titles, and ranks. After major setbacks in fighting the southern Nguyen, as George Dutton points out, the Tay Son regime became increasingly dependent on Chinese pirates to reinforce their military power.11 Apart from enrolling Chinese pirates into its regular armies, the financially strapped Tay Son government also dispatched them back to south China every year to pillage the coastal communities and commercial shipping from March to October. It is estimated that about 60–80 percent of the booty went to the rebel regime to aid its ongoing war efforts. Collaboration with Chinese pirate mercenaries, in effect, “became a central feature

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of Tay Son naval strategy and indeed of the regime’s economy between 1786 and 1802.”12

The Tay Son Reinvigoration The eighteenth century was a period of vigorous state-making around the rim of the South China Sea. The newly established Tay Son regime, in particular, embarked on an unprecedented program that aimed at creating a new, reinvigorated Vietnamese kingdom. A hallmark of the Tay Son leadership was its effort to accentuate its connection with Southeast Asia while deemphasizing its politico-cultural dependency on China. For instance, the newly crowned Quang Trung emperor abolished classical Chinese Chunho as the written court language in favor of the indigenous southern script Chu-nom, a mixture of Chinese characters and their variations invented for transcribing the Vietnamese spoken language.13 Although its significance should not be exaggerated, this new cultural policy exemplified the increasing efforts by the Vietnamese to rediscover their own identity in the deep shadow of the Sinitic model and Confucian influence. The Tay Son reinvigoration also was manifested in its outward-thrusting foreign policy. The regime resumed and accelerated the expansion of the previous Nguyen era, which directly impinged on the interests of other mainland Southeast Asian polities. The regime engaged in a series of wars with Siam and Laos, both of which were Qing vassal states, and forced Laos into tributary status. The increasing Tay Son threat spurred the Siamese king to ally with Nguyen Anh, the prince in exile and the future Nguyen emperor Gia Long. They launched a joint campaign in 1785 against their common foe but failed disastrously. Emboldened by this great victory, the Tay Son leaders even began harboring ambition to conquer the age-long rival state of Siam.14 They also hardened their stance toward China. Besides sponsoring piracy violence in Guangdong and Fujian, the Tay Son regime provided support for Triad activities in Guangxi. Both moves might have been feverish preparations for the regime’s alleged plan to reconquer Liangguang (Guangdong and Guangxi). As his crowning achievement, the Tay Son emperor, Quang Trung, defeated the invading Qing army and forced Beijing to accept his usurpation of the Le throne. Prior to this, Sun Shiyi, the commander of the Qing expedition, had sent a memorial to Qianlong that Annam’s drawn-out civil war and the Le king’s request for military assistance presented a rare opportunity to reassert Chinese control over its southern neighbor. He thus urged the Manchu emperor to join forces with

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the tributary state of Siam to fight their common rival, Tay Son. In another memorial, Sun Shiyi went so far as to advocate annexing Annam as a Chinese province. Qianlong nonetheless rejected both suggestions, saying that ruling Annam was an unaffordable luxury for Beijing, as had been proved many times in history. He set a more realistic goal for the military intervention, which was to fulfill the Qing tributary obligation by punishing the usurper and reinstating the legitimate king.15 To his great chagrin, Qianlong soon discovered that even this modest goal was too difficult to achieve. The shameful defeat in Annam forced him to give up his moral responsibility as a suzerain lord and seek a dignified exit. To deter further Tay Son aggression, Qianlong reinforced the troops along the southern frontier and replaced the disgraced commander Sun Shiyi with Fukang’an, a formidable general fresh from the victorious campaign against Lin Shuangwen’s rebellion in Taiwan. Considering the great risk of fighting in a far-flung and difficult territory, Qianlong, unlike the Ming emperors Yongle (r. 1402–1424) and Jiajing (r. 1521–1567), refrained from sending a punitive expedition to Annam. His goal was simply to pacify Annam while keeping it within the Sino-centric tributary order.16 Quang Trung, for his part, also sought to defuse tensions by securing tributary ties with the north in order to ward off a Chinese-Siamese pincer attack. He sent three embassies to Canton, the provincial capital of Guangdong, to ask for political recognition. In their meeting with the new Liangguang governor-general, Fukang’an, the envoys asserted that the Tay Son merely aimed to eradicate forces loyal to the dethroned king and, moreover, the “unfortunate” attack on the Qing army was just an “accident.”17 To show the sincerity of his apology, Quang Trung arranged for a prompt repatriation of all captured Qing officials and soldiers. Through a combination of simulated deference and hidden threats, he attempted to ritually “submit” himself as a vassal lord under the name of Nguyen Quang Binh (also referred to by the Chinese name Ruan Guangping). Both sides had strong incentives to restore their tributary relationship. For Quang Trung, it meant that China would recognize the sovereignty of his fledging regime and forgo any efforts to restitute the Le dynasty. For Qianlong, the arrangement retained the Qing’s ritualistic supremacy and helped stabilize the southern border at a minimal cost. He thus accepted the Tay Son ruler’s request and agreed to enfeoff him as the king of Annam in 1789. Qianlong, however, hammered the point that as a precondition for the investiture, the new king should lead a special delegation to Beijing to congratulate him on his eightieth birthday.18 Quang Trung was certainly reluctant to undertake this humiliating trip, something no Vietnamese ruler had done in previous history. As the

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contemporary missionary Charles La Mothe wrote in a letter of January 20, 1790: “the Tyrant [Quang Trung] himself has not deigned to leave Cochinchina [southern Vietnam] to have himself crowned at our capital, and he has contented himself with sending in his place a simple officer, who took the dress and name of his masters and imposed himself on the Ambassador.”19 This interpretation was corroborated by both Vietnamese and Chinese records, including the Draft History of the Qing Dynasty. Hence Qianlong greeted and entertained this impostor as a guest of honor in his imperial resorts at Jehol (Rehe or Chengde) and Beijing. The elated emperor made elaborate, special arrangements for the reception of the Tay Son envoy, which aroused the envy of other delegations from Korea and Ryukyu. He not only composed poems for the newly minted Annamese king but also bestowed on him extravagant gifts, including royal portraits and a specially made set of Manchu-style clothes (robes, hats, and belts). In addition to these rare imperial favors, Qianlong readily granted the Tay Son request to resume the border trade that had been suspended because of the growing tensions between the two countries after the 1770s.20 Apparently, the aging emperor took great glee in what he believed to be Nguyen Hue’s homage-paying visit and complaisant act of atonement. The high-profile presence of a “repented” vassal king at his birthday celebration was a formal recognition and respect of the Qing’s power, which helped erase the shame of military fiasco in Annam and regain China’s pride in front of all the tributary envoys. Nguyen’s willingness to “come and be transformed,” furthermore, affirmed the civilizing attraction of the Celestial Empire and symbolized the Son of Heaven’s infinite magnanimity. It is unclear whether or not Qianlong truly believed that the tough southern ruler had personally traveled to his court. What mattered most was that both sides claimed so and acted their role well in this staged diplomatic drama. As Qianlong remarked openly, “yet in Annam to have the name of victory is the same as having real victory: Have I not obtained a nominal victory?” To commemorate this titular triumph, the proud emperor even ordered the production of a large number of written texts, including celebratory poems, and visual materials contained in the Painting of the War Pacifying Annam. Quang Trung, too, had much to gain from this fraudulent tribute mission. On the one hand by sending a double in his place the Tay Son ruler reconciled the harsh “dilemma of being supreme at home but subordinate in Beijing.”21 By acknowledging a sort of vassalage to China on the other, he was able to patch up the rift with the north and to forestall its retaliatory actions. This successful stroke of tributary diplomacy also boosted Quang Trung’s political legitimacy and helped his regime gain some much-needed trade privileges from China.

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After driving out the Qing force and obtaining the investiture, Quang Trung seemed to believe that he had intimidated the Qing authorities to the point that they might make more concessions to the south. Two examples will suffice to explain this. In 1792, he sent an unprecedented request to the Manchu court that he be given an imperial princess in marriage.22 Boldest of all, according to Vietnamese sources, Quang Trung further demanded in the same year that the Qing Empire “return” the two southern provinces of Guangxi and Guangdong to “restore” ancient Vietnamese territory. He apparently dreamed of reestablishing the unity of the Nam Viet kingdom (207–111 b.c.), which had extended southward from what is now Guangdong and Guangxi to the Red River basin. The northern half of this huge territory had been lost to China since Nam Viet’s incorporation into the Han Empire. Quang Trung wrote a letter to the Liangguang governor-general, Fukang’an, pressuring him to hand the two provinces back to Annam. This quixotic demand, as one would expect, immediately met with Fukang’an’s rebuff. Official Chinese documents mentioned nothing of the Tay Son’s extraordinary territorial claim, most probably because publicizing it would have seriously tarnished the image of the Great Qing. One edict of Jiaqing, however, mentioned in passing that both the last Le king and Quang Trung had requested a redemarcation of the overland boundary in an attempt to recover some territories lost to Ming China.23 Vietnamese sources show that when such diplomatic efforts failed, the Tay Son emperor upgraded his ambition to taking Liangguang by force. He mobilized war junks, elephants, and troops as the first step for a northward invasion. He once explained to his generals: “We just need several years to build up our power, then there is nothing to be feared about the Qing.”24 Yet Quang Trung did not have the luxury of time, given his deteriorating health and the mounting threat from the ousted prince Ngyuen Anh. He died in September 1792 at the age of forty, leaving his ten-year-old son Nguyen Quang Toan (r. 1792–1802, Ruan Guangzan in Chinese) on the throne. The teenaged ruler could do little to stabilize the chaotic country in his decade-long reign, much less carry out his late father’s ambitious plan.

The Rise of the Nguyen Dynasty As a major strategic blunder, the Tay Son regime failed to consolidate its control over the south after a string of hard-fought victories in the area. The remnant Nguyen power tenaciously held onto a small stronghold in the far south, assisted by French mercenaries and the Siamese king. This

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remnant’s political fortune looked increasingly promising following the successive deaths of the three Tay Son brothers in the late 1780s and early 1790s. Therefore, Nguyen Anh returned from exile and rejuvenated his campaign, finally defeating the Tay Son regime in 1802 and establishing the new Nguyen regime, which lasted through the French colonization to 1945. This dynasty became the first in Vietnamese history to control the whole length of the peninsula, from the border with China to the Gulf of Siam, making it the “apogee of precolonial vigor” in this country.25 The turn of the nineteenth century marked a watershed period in the Vietnamese interaction with the French. For a long time French had taken little political or military interest in this faraway land, focusing instead on propagating Catholicism among the local people. But the situation changed in the mid-eighteenth century as the French were defeated by the rising British power in Calcutta and gradually excluded from India. In hopes of restoring their fortunes in Asia, the French felt it increasingly necessary to counterbalance the growing British influence in India and later in China by establishing themselves in Vietnam. As French foreign minister Charles Gravier, Count de Vergennes, reasoned in 1775, “it seems that there remains only Cochin China [southern Vietnam] which has escaped the vigilance of the English; but can one flatter oneself that they will delay in casting their glance there? If they decide on that place before us, we will be excluded forever and we will have lost an important foothold on that part of Asia which would make us masters by intercepting in time of war the English trade with China, by protecting our own in the whole of India, and by keeping the English in a continual state of anxiety.”26 The escalation of the Nguyen–Tay Son confrontation afforded the French an opportunity to implement this strategic plan. On behalf of Nguyen Anh, the French missionary Pigneau de Behaine helped negotiate the Versailles Treaty of 1787 between his Vietnamese patron and his home government. Hard-pressed and desperate, the Nguyen prince agreed to cede the islands of Callao and Pulo-Condore to France in exchange for its immediate military support. This treaty was nonetheless never implemented, owing largely to the collapse of the French monarchy in the 1789 revolution. The dedicated missionary then took matters into his own hands by organizing a private venture of four French ships to fight for the Nguyen cause. This mercenary support helped break the Tay Son’s naval supremacy and contributed to Nguyen Anh’s final success. Moreover, it enabled the French to assume a larger role in Vietnamese affairs, thus paving the way for their late-nineteenth-century colonization of the country. The increasing presence of France as both Vietnam’s new major threat and foreign model profoundly affected Sino-Vietnamese interactions and ulti-

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mately forced the Qing to renounce its suzerainty claims over the southern neighbor in 1885.27 Conventional literature holds that the Nguyen court renewed and intensified its commitment to the Neo-Confucian model before the unraveling of the China-derived tributary order. This revival reached its height during the mid-nineteenth century, creating the most Confucian dynasty in Vietnamese history. But the “China model” cannot fully capture, let alone explain, all the important changes in the complex Nguyen dynasty.28 Revisionist studies by Nola Cooke and other scholars give a more complex picture, highlighting a southern, non-Sinitic factor behind the façade of overwhelming Confucian influence. Cooke proposes that the Nguyen state and society “entertained non-Confucian, non-literati possibilities,” notwithstanding their structural resemblance to the Qing. A major challenge confronting the regime, for instance, was how to “establish and differentiate itself as a new dynasty from the south, unlike the former traditional regime that had maintained a northern stronghold.” The early Nguyen rulers ordered their ships to sail regularly through Southeast Asia for the purpose of training naval forces, learning foreign technologies, and fostering commercial contact. Emperor Gia Long, in particular, put much importance on the development of the shipbuilding industry, maritime expertise, and military leadership. He not only granted more freedom to Catholic missionaries but also employed Europeans as his court advisors.29 Although this policy was reversed by later rulers, there is no denying that it led to a rapid transfer of Western military technologies to Vietnam. By the turn of the nineteenth century, Vietnam had emerged as among the Asian states most interested in European naval techniques.30 Despite the subtle change in their tributary relationship, the Qing remained an indispensable trade partner for the last Vietnamese dynasty. The early Nguyen rulers strove to expand trading opportunities with the north “through irregular practices in the tributary system such as repatriation and dispatching Chinese to trade in Guangdong and the like.”31 To develop a quicker and easier maritime route to China’s richest trading area, for instance, Gia Long sent official ships to Canton almost every year to buy much-needed goods. Some of the Chinese items were explicitly prohibited for exportation, like bronze ware and official garments decorated with designs signifying the Qing sovereignty. The burgeoning volume of the merchandise shipped back to Vietnam often was many times larger than the quota set by the Manchu court. As a conciliatory gesture, Chinese officials usually turned a blind eye to the unauthorized trade organized by the Nguyen authorities. These irregular practices facilitated the transition to more flexible intergovernmental commercial intercourse and to more

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equal interstate relations. An early English source dated 1852 depicts Gia Long as “a man of enterprise and great renown, who prized European science and despised Chinese antiquated lore.” Like Quang Trung before him, he not only harbored the dream of recovering the ancient Vietnamese homeland in Liangguang but also took significant steps to reinforce an autonomous identity for his newly unified country.32 The following episode was a clear case of this state-making effort. In August 1802, the newly enthroned Gia Long dispatched an envoy to Canton, requesting investiture and bearing tribute. As a special gift, the embassy brought with it three captured Chinese pirate ringleaders much wanted by the Qing authorities. They also returned the imperial patent and seal that had been bestowed by the Qing on the last Tay Son ruler, Nguyen Quang Toan. Despite such an act of goodwill, Emperor Jiaqing temporized on the conferment of kingship until it was confirmed that Nguyen Anh indeed had the entire country under his control.33 It is noteworthy that, like Gia Long’s commercial missions, this tribute envoy traveled to Canton by sea rather than across the northern land border via the Zhennan Pass in Guangxi, which had long been the designated gateway for the Vietnamese envoys to enter China. Emperor Jiaqing disapproved of the Canton tributary route since it clearly violated the established procedure. His warning was not heeded by the Vietnamese until the following December, when Gia Long sent the first overland delegation to Beijing.34 The goal of this second mission was to request Qing permission to change the name of the Nguyen state from Annam to Nam Viet, which reflected a subtle change in the two kingdoms’ relations at the turn of the nineteenth century. For almost a millennium, successive Chinese dynasties had referred to their southern neighbor as Annam. In proposing the new national title Nam Viet, Gia Long emphasized the historical grounds of Vietnam’s autonomy from China by harking back to the glorified era of its first independent kingdom. He thus asserted a strengthened identity for his newly unified state and, furthermore, used it to prop up his own legitimacy. As for the Jiaqing emperor, he evidently had a disdain for the proposed name since it referred to an area encompassing the huge Chinacontrolled territory, including today’s Liangguang.35 His attitude is most clearly documented in a decree of December 1802: “the name of Nanyue [Nam Viet] entails a vast territory which, according to historical records, included the current jurisdiction of Guangdong and Guangxi. Even though Ruan Fuying [Chinese name of Nguyen Anh], a far-flung barbaric ruler, came into possession of the entire Annam, it should not exceed the former territory of Jiaozhi [old name of Annam]. How can he call his country Nanyue? Probably Ruan Fuying made this request in hopes of testing our

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attitude and showing off to other foreign barbarians. Of course we should reject it.”36 To the Chinese, “Nam Viet” carried the dangerous, offensive connotation “crossing over [Viet] from the south [Nam].” Endorsing this new title would sow the seeds for future territorial disputes with the south and set an unwelcome example for all other tributary states. As a precautionary measure, Jiaqing put high officials in south China on high alert for a possible Vietnamese attack. He had reason to be wary of the Nguyen’s increasing military power, which had just subdued the formidable Tay Son forces and their pirate allies.37 Despite the objection from the Manchu court, Gia Long submitted two more renaming requests asserting that if he was not designated the ruler of Nam Viet he would cease to acknowledge the Qing suzerainty. This strong-willed ruler, according to the British observation, even went so far as to indicate his willingness to use force. The English predicted that Gia Long’s challenge against “his liege lord” might erupt into war at any time. Furthermore, they had made plans to take advantage of this looming military conflict to grab a foothold in Annam.38 This precarious situation prodded the Qing court to reevaluate its diplomatic stance toward its rising southern neighbor. While refusing to consider the Nguyen ruler his equal, Jiaqing understood that he could not simply ignore his repeated requests or veiled threats. In response, he came up with a less controversial name, “Viet Nam,” which reversed the order of the two characters in the proposed title. The first character, “Yue / Viet,” Jiaqing explained, meant that the Nguyen ruler inherited the territory from his oldest forebears; as for the following “Nan / Nam,” it connoted the newly bestowed frontier fief south of China, not only confirming the tributary relationship between the two countries but also establishing a border that was not to be crossed by expansion from the south. The Manchu ruler reasoned that with this modified name, the Nguyen dynasty could be easily distinguishable from its earliest predecessor: the ancient kingdom of Nam Viet established by Zhao Tuo.39 Although hardly enthusiastic about Jiaqing’s proposal, Gia Long accepted the revised name of Vietnam. Hideo Murakami maintains that the Qing’s compromise appeared satisfactory to the Nguyen due partly to the unique nature of the Vietnamese language, which differs from its Chinese counterpart in rendering the positions of the two characters “Nam / South” and “Viet / Yue.” In his words, “although the Chinese characters for Viet Nam are arranged in that order, the word significance (in a connotative way) to a Vietnamese ‘thinking’ in Vietnamese is Nam Viet.” No matter how the Qing mixed “Yue / Viet” and “Nan / Nam,” the Vietnamese could always imagine their state as Nam Viet, which connoted the meaning of

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“crossing over from the south to the north.” As Murakami aptly notes, “we see that the same name implying the Vietnamese are outcasts also casts an arrow on the territory of China!”40 Border disputes also attest to the strained relationship between the two regimes. In late 1805, Nguyen officials of Xinghua town crossed illegally into Qing territory and distributed handbills among six local chieftains (tusi) on the Yunnan-Vietnamese border. Under the jurisdiction of the Jianshui county of Lin’an prefecture, the six border tribes (liumeng) had been incorporated into the Qing Empire since the Kangxi reign (1662– 1722). The leaflets nonetheless claimed that these tribes were in the former territory of Annam, which should be returned to the Nguyen. They urged the six tusi to shift their allegiance back to the unified Vietnamese state. The Qing court protested and denounced this encroachment on Chinese territory. During the late Qianlong reign, the court had already rejected two similar Annamese requests to redemarcate the border.41 In other cases of territorial dispute the Jiaqing government demonstrated more flexibility and pragmatism. According to Murray it tacitly recognized the Paracel islands “as a defense perimeter for Vietnam and [chose] not to notice when the Vietnamese took possession of them in 1816.”42 The relations between what is now China and Vietnam, as Keith Weller Taylor sees it, “have traditionally been expressed in terms of vassalage.” Despite its outward acceptance of tributary protocol, the Nguyen regime developed a heightened sense of independence and equality, evident in its diplomatic vocabulary with reference to the northern neighbor. Vietnamese officials increasingly used words and expressions of neutral meaning to replace or downplay the conventional rhetoric of tributary hierarchy. The term “diplomatic relations” (bangjiao), for example, took the place of “tribute” (chaogong), while “tributary envoy” (gongshi) was relabeled “emissary to the Qing” (ru qingshi).43 Such alterations in diplomatic rhetoric, albeit hardly unprecedented, are indicative of the Nguyen’s efforts to put Vietnam on a more equal political footing with China. Along with the aforementioned territorial conflicts, these changes demonstrate the internal strain that existed within the Sino-centric tributary system well before it was overwhelmed by Western incursions. In sum, the hierarchical ties that bound Vietnam to China in the tributary system appeared to have weakened around the turn of the nineteenth century. In this Sino-centric system, by and large, a loyal vassal state should eschew conducting direct foreign relations with states other than its suzerain lord. The spectacular military victory against the Qing invasion, however, fortified Annam’s self-image as an independent great power; it also convinced the Vietnamese of the prevalence of their own world or-

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der that was equal, if not superior, to the Chinese one. While acknowledging the Qing suzerainty, the increasingly empowered Vietnam harnessed the tributary framework to build up its own regional order by developing closer ties with Southeast Asia and the West. In the Tay Son era Quang Trung had engaged in diplomacy with European outposts in Macao and the Philippines in an effort to set up direct trading relationships with the Portuguese and the Spanish. The early Nguyen rulers displayed a keen interest in the rise of Singapore as an international port after 1819.44 Gia Long’s enthusiasm for introducing Western technologies continued throughout the subsequent reign of Minh Mang (r. 1820–1841). From the 1780s to the 1840s, a self-assured Vietnam continued to expand at the expense of its non-Chinese neighbors, Siam, Cambodia, and Laos, asserting regional supremacy and eliciting tribute. Seeking to assimilate the “barbarian” peripheries, the growing state increasingly viewed itself as a civilization model that represented “the center of a galaxy of lesser powers.” Such cultural confidence and state expansion lasted until the midnineteenth-century intervention of French imperialism. Emperor Jiaqing ridiculed Vietnam’s claim to centrality and its mimicking of Qing tributary order: “the King of Annam deems ‘All under Heaven’ his own domain and the four seas his own territory. This is really ignorant and arrogant.”45 Such grumbling nonetheless indicates Jiaqing’s increasing concern over the strength of the newly unified Vietnam. Another example of this attitude is furnished by his pragmatic response to the piracy disturbance, which represented a major deviation from previous Qing methods of dealing with its southern neighbor.

Readjustment of the Sino-Vietnamese Relationship Throughout much of his long reign, Emperor Qianlong generally took an interventionist approach to foreign policy and played an activist role in the affairs of neighboring states. He claimed that “to those barbarians who go against our will, we attack them to manifest our great power; to those who follow our guidance, we honor them and offer our kindness.”46 Among his “Ten Great Military Campaigns,” only the war against Lin Shuangwen’s uprising was fully justified and convincingly necessary. Many others were waged on the pretext of defending the Qing suzerainty and achieved little other than to dissipate limited state resources. The wars against Burma and Annam, for instance, were expensive and bungled campaigns that should have been avoided. The Annam misadventure, in particular, “violated the

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commercial interests of south China” and “achieved little gain in security at very high cost.”47 Although this abysmal failure somewhat cooled Qianlong’s ambition, he still opted for a hard-line strategy of direct sea war to tackle the escalating piracy crisis. When fighting spilled over into Vietnamese territorial waters, he often did not hesitate to demand crossborder collaboration from the Tay Son regime. This edict, for instance, contains his instructions to the Liangguang governor-general Jiqing: “you should send navy forces to Jiangping to quash the pirates and to clear the ocean. If our troops cannot unilaterally accomplish the mission, send this notification to the local Annamese authorities: ‘We came here to fight the Chinese pirates who are seeking refuge in your territory. You must help us round up those sea bandits and then hand them over to us. If you continue to harbor these outlaws, your King will be severely chastised.’ ”48 In response to the Qing pressure, Tay Son leaders gave a show of cooperating while secretly protecting their pirate allies.49 A French missionary furnished an eyewitness account of such “coordinated” suppression campaigns in 1797: “your Chinese came with a flotilla in order to seize the pirates, but I believe that they were not able to take a very large number of their vessels. The Tonkinese [northern Vietnam] mandarins helped them escape and then deceived the Chinese with flattering words . . . ; after having waited some time to see if [the Tay Son] would deliver the pirates to them, [the Chinese] retreated. As for the pirates, they then advanced along the coast to Phu Xuan in concert because the king had summoned them.”50 Emperor Jiaqing was certainly aware of Annam’s duplicitous policy. Considering the Qing state’s limited capacities and acute challenges, however, he decided to back away from his father’s interventionist foreign diplomacy. By 1797, the Qing authorities had obtained irrefutable incriminating evidence, like the Tay Son–issued brass seals, certificates, and passes from captured and surrendered pirates. It was evident that the Vietnamese rebel regime was harboring the Chinese pirates and directly supporting their predations in China. When asked about these seals and passes, the teenaged Tay Son ruler Nguyen Quang Toan vigorously denied any Vietnamese involvement. As it became increasingly difficult to maintain that position, however, he affixed the blame on his rival, averring that they had been issued by the remnant southern Nguyen power and not his own government.51 The Tay Son’s two-faced policy was a highly effective strategy of statebuilding. Their sponsorship of piracy off the south China coast was essentially a form of privateering that reflected the conscious effort of a newly

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unified vassal state to overcome its structural weaknesses in the process of renegotiating its identity and status within the Sino-centric tribute system. These practices are comparable to the flexible allocation of nonstate violence, legitimized by the principle of plausible deniability, which dominated the maritime process of state-making in early modern Europe. Janice E. Thomson explains how this principle worked: “if a private undertaking that a ruler authorized met with success, he could claim a share in the profits. If the enterprise caused conflict with another state, the ruler could claim it was a private operation for which he could not be held responsible. These practices . . . effectively blurred practical and theoretical distinctions between state and nonstate authority and between economics and politics.”52 By the same token, the Tay Son calculated that they had much to gain and little to lose from their clandestine sponsorship of Chinese piracy. The rule of plausible deniability, which was widely used in the history of Western piracy, also resembled the norms and practices developed across the South China Sea at the turn of the nineteenth century. On the Qing side, Emperor Jiaqing elected not to exacerbate the tensions resulting from Quang Trung’s belligerent moves. He even ordered most of the Tay Son–issued brass seals, certificates, and passes be destroyed in order to preserve the dignity of the Celestial Empire.53 Some hawkish officials wanted to press harder, but the pragmatic emperor, in an edict dated January 9, 1797, explained: Judging from the confiscated seals and certificates, it is self-evident that most pirates infesting coastal China have been commissioned by the King of Annam. There is no way that he has no knowledge of this. But if we demand his collaboration in the suppression campaign, how can we expect the king to comply with our wishes? If our Celestial Empire cannot stop its people from becoming sea marauders, how can a barbarian vassal state achieve that? If the King of Annam makes excuses and covers things up, how can we argue with him? It is not worthwhile to mobilize our army and to launch a punitive expedition because of this conflict. There is no use in sending further official inquiries [zhaohui] to Annam.54

With memories of the military fiasco still fresh, Jiaqing went to great lengths to avoid conflict with the Tay Son. To wage another frontier war would stretch already tight resources to a breaking point, thus jeopardizing the faltering White Lotus campaign across the Han River highlands. Jiaqing thus expressly prohibited the Qing navy from pursuing pirates fleeing crossing the fuzzy jurisdictional line of Bailongwei and Jiangping. As Murray contends, “on this occasion Chinese wariness against overstepping administrative bounds served to contain the conflict and prevent irritation from turning into hostility.”55

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Jiaqing also tried to minimize the possibilities of maritime conflict with Vietnam by choosing to fight piracy strictly on the Chinese side of the maritime border. Unwilling to request help from the south, he “even considered communicating with the Tay Son a last resort.”56 This circumspect strategy was reciprocated by the Vietnamese. Both sides tightened their maritime boundaries and fortified border defense in hopes of preventing external intervention or threat. The nebulous and shifting zones (bian) of frontier interaction began to develop into more clearly demarcated border lines ( jiang), which fixed the limits of state sovereignty.57 Nonetheless, this is a slow and contentious process that has continued to this day, evident in the lingering territorial disputes between China and Vietnam over the South China Sea. Controlled sea war thus became an effective way of establishing de facto territoriality and asserting state prerogatives. In the words of Anne PérotinDumon, “confrontations at sea were both an important instrument of state power and of a measure of the degree to which state authority was actually established.” Transnational maritime crises like the south China piracy created new challenges as to what sort of power and order could be enforced in oceanic space, and how best to guarantee security in an area not amenable to human settlement and political control. The management of piratical violence, in particular, was closely related to consideration of realistic problems associated with oceanic sovereignty. Generally, the political practice of early modern Europe agreed that “the state was responsible for quashing piracy within its own territorial waters, that is, where it claimed sovereignty.”58 This entailed that before the rise of international law, a state’s inability to subdue pirates within a certain maritime jurisdiction could raise doubts about its territorial rights over the infested waters. A similar principle also developed in the process of subduing the transnational pirates across the Sino-Vietnamese water world. China-centered tributary diplomacy gradually gave rise to harbingers of new notions of territorial sovereignty that changed China’s ways of engaging with its neighbors and the maritime world. Many of these ideas seemed to resonate with the Vietnamese side, which began to accept the basic logic behind the renegotiated tributary system. By examining this process from multiple regional perspectives, one can better understand why Jiaqing made strenuous efforts to limit piracy suppression to the space within the national framework of Chinese waters in which he had absolute power. This subtle yet important change can be taken as symptomatic of a Westphalian-like sovereignty in the making rather than a sign of incipient dynastic decline.59 It shows how a troubled and retreating empire endeavored to safeguard its domestic sovereignty at minimal cost rather than to

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maximize the gain of the imperial center at great expense. When seen in this light, it becomes apparent that neither the familiar story of “Western challenge, Chinese response” nor the exclusively China-centered histories have given due credit to the changing interaction between the suzerain power and its regional neighbors; thus they cannot fully explain how the late Qing Empire reconstituted itself as a territorialized nation-state in the nineteenth century. Jiaqing in other ways pursued a measured foreign policy. He instructed his officials to stay on the sideline and favor neither side in the “barbaric fighting” between the Tay Son and its southern Nguyen rival. This policy of neutrality is surprising, since the former was a Qing vassal while the latter was not. Jiaqing’s hidden intention was to use the rising Nguyen power to weaken both the Tay Son regime and its Chinese pirate mercenaries.60 When Nguyen Anh emerged as the eventual victor, Jiaqing had no qualms about sanctioning the new usurper by enfeoffing him as the king of Annam. All these show that, as Susumu Fuma argues, “regardless of how often the throne was usurped, there was no longer any need to chastise the usurper. Investiture had originally been a question of ritual propriety for maintaining a hierarchy of obligations and rank, but it was now completely divorced from any questions of propriety. Investiture had instead become something similar to confirming as champion the winner in a combat sport in which any methods can be used in any way so long as the combatants do not turn on the referee.”61 Jiaqing also chose to stand aloof from Southeast Asian politics. He refused to intervene when tributary states, including Siam, Cambodia, and Laos, called on the Qing to check Vietnamese aggression in their regional power struggles.62 The emperor also declined requests from Nepal for military assistance against incursions from British-controlled Bengal. He invoked the Qing principles of impartiality and territorial sovereignty in imperial edicts: “our Celestial Kingdom pacifies every tributary state in an equal way; how can we help you while alienating the others?” And: “both China and her vassal states have definite boundaries that should not be violated.”63 Behind this high-sounding rhetoric of noninterference was Jiaqing’s clear understanding of the Qing’s limits in shaping events beyond its borders. He was rightly worried that the dynasty’s imperial might and military prowess could no longer effectively deter the Vietnamese and British expansions around China. Most strikingly, the emperor even tacitly approved Nepal becoming a concurrent vassal state of Britain, which was a sea change from Qianlong-era diplomacy. Unlike his father, Jiaqing went to unusual lengths to avoid getting caught up in foreign conflicts, even at the price of hurting the majesty of his

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empire.64 His primary political concern was to take care of domestic business by fortifying China’s border defense and by maintaining stability within clearly specified state boundaries. In leaving troubled neighbors to their own fates, he acquiesced to the fact that the Middle Kingdom did not have the international capacity to meet its moral obligations as the supreme patron of the tributary network. Under such circumstances as those of the nineteenth century, the Qing could hardly oppose its vassal states concluding treaties with other foreign powers, including Western ones. This diplomatic retreat unquestionably affected China’s political prestige and reduced its influence over neighboring countries. In conjunction with the catastrophic defeat in the Opium War, this retreat heralded the final departure of these countries from the China-centered tributary framework after the 1860s. Viewed from another perspective, however, Jiaqing’s political withdrawal helped the crisis-ridden empire refocus on domestic order by absolving itself of increasingly unsustainable external responsibilities. In the meantime, the Qing emperor lowered the ritual requirement for Siam and Burma on their performance of tributary protocol.65 For instance, their tribute missions to Beijing became less frequent, and the amount of tribute gifts was also reduced. All these adjustments demonstrate how an overburdened empire adapted to a worsening geopolitical environment by acknowledging its limited capacities and moderating its political agenda. Such pragmatic changes also provided the Qing with more flexibility in settling relations with its neighbors and other foreign countries. Takeshi Hamashita contends that the period from the 1830s to the 1890s witnessed “multilateral and multifaceted intra-regional negotiations” among the East and Southeast Asian states.66 This kind of negotiation, as this study suggests, can be traced back to the turn of the nineteenth century. A realignment of regional power started to emerge during this chaotic period, when rising tributary states like Vietnam no longer maintained as submissive a relationship with China as before. Meanwhile, the Middle Kingdom was forced to cut back on some suzerain obligations, due to a combination of domestic troubles and external crises. A rebalancing of demands, roles, and expectations ensued that prompted a variety of multilateral negotiations within and without the tributary system. Rather than the Opium War, in my view, this was the real beginning of the Qing’s global repositioning in the final century of its rule. Seen from this vantage point, the confrontation with the West and the rise of nationalism should be examined in the context of intensified tensions within the tributary system. Furthermore, as Hexiu Quan argues, the rise of China’s modern diplomacy was not an abrupt departure from the traditional one.67

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Through much of the nineteenth century, the Qing Empire continued to conduct relations with its southern neighbor under the rubric of the tribute system, but it exercised less and less authority over the latter. Most significant is the simple fact that the Middle Kingdom could no longer dictate the rules of the game for interstate relations as it had insisted before the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. One can use the renegotiated relationship during this chaotic period as a baseline against which to locate and assess China’s place in what would eventually become an overall shift from the Sino-centric framework of tributary hierarchy to a more egalitarian and autonomous system of modern nation-states. This was an epochal change that was already under way before the Western powers’ imposition of bilateral relationships in the form of unequal treaties following the Opium War. To better comprehend this multifaceted process, we need to situate China in a much wider context. Since the disturbed state of the empire invited foreign aggression, the piracy crisis provides a lens through which to study the European imperialist advance into the South China Sea and how the Qing dealt with this new challenge.

British Imperial Expansion in Coastal South China Just as the Tay Son rebellion led to French intervention in Vietnamese affairs, the upsurge in pirate violence off the south China coast accelerated the involvement of Westerners in Qing politics and economy. Exploiting the chaotic situation in Chinese waters and the simultaneous Great Wars in Europe (1792–1815), Britain launched two naval expeditions to occupy the longtime Portuguese settlement of Macao in 1802 and 1808. Together they represent the most critical confrontation between the Chinese and the British prior to the Opium War. Situated between the West River and the Pearl River estuary, Macao consists of a small peninsula and two tiny islands (Taipa and Coloane) near Canton and Hong Kong. Almost surrounded by the sea and high lands, this peninsula is only connected to the mainland by a narrow isthmus in the north, which made it dependent on the mainland for food supply. For a long time, Macao was little more than a desolate area on the southern tip of the Chinese empire and on the outer fringe of civilization. The Portuguese settled there in the mid-sixteenth century, becoming the first European maritime power to establish direct relations with China. The Portuguese gradually turned the area into a flourishing trading center. Due to its

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pivotal location for global trade between China, Japan, Southeast Asia, India, and Europe, Macao became “the best and most important pillar the Portuguese had in all the East.” Its phenomenal growth also made the “descendants of Da Gama” the only carrier between China and Europe for almost a century.68 Macao’s golden age of development ended around the time of the MingQing transition in the 1640s. Thenceforth, its status declined as the Portuguese lost their monopoly over the lucrative trade with Tokugawa Japan and thus had to face competition from the newly arrived English and Dutch. Worse still, the Portuguese suffered under the restrictive trade policies of the Manchus, who were busy fighting the Ming loyalists on the southeast coast.69 Macao’s fortunes nonetheless improved greatly with the establishment of the Canton system in 1757, which confined all Western trade to the single port of Canton. The Qing court commanded Western ships to stop first at Macao for the purpose of securing entry documents, food provisions, and river pilots. Consequently, the peninsula reemerged as a crucial gateway into China and “the base for the trade of all nations with Canton.”70 This privileged position remained unaltered until the opening of five treaty ports on the south China coast after the first Opium War. Prior to this war, Macao was not a colony in the conventional sense because it fell under the joint control of the Portuguese administration through Goa and the Chinese government though Canton prefecture. The Portuguese approach to China, unlike that of the English, rested primarily on a sense of economic pragmatism. Their contribution to the suppression of late Ming piracy had helped them gain settlement rights in Macao in 1557. During the next three centuries or so, the Portuguese not only acknowledged the Chinese ownership of Macao but also paid a symbolic annual “tribute” of 500–1,000 silver taels.71 In keeping with Qing imperial protocol, in addition, they practiced obligatory rituals like the kowtow to show their submission. Such conciliatory efforts largely explain their enduring success at Macao and enabled them to gain a large amount of self-governing power in the settlement. The city eventually turned into a semiautonomous territory with its own municipal government elected by local Portuguese inhabitants. Because of the various privileges bestowed on them, the Portuguese deemed themselves the most favored foreigners in Qing China. As many as twenty-five of their cargo ships were tax exempt, which saved them hundreds of thousands of silver taels every year. The thriving Canton trade, totaling tens of millions of silver taels as the eighteenth century came to a close, attracted foreign merchants from all over the world. The Portuguese set up commercial guilds to trade with them, apart from letting out extra houses and charging high rent.

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None of this, however, meant that China had given up control over Macao. The Xiangshan county of Canton prefecture administered Macao on behalf of the central government. In 1573, the Qing authorities built a fortification—with a barrier gate and guardhouse—across the neck of the peninsula that joined the mainland and established a customs office in 1688. The eighteenth century saw a further intensification of Qing bureaucratic oversight: beginning in 1763 a Chinese official was posted in Macao, followed by a district magistrate at midcentury and a vice magistrate in 1800.72 Under the close watch of the Qing authorities, the Portuguese did not become the real masters of Macao until the end of the Opium War. Even after living there for nearly three centuries, they were

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still little more than a lucky tenant treated with special favors by the Chinese landlord. In accord with the Qing’s one-port monopoly, Western merchants could only stay in Canton during the trading season from October to March. From 1760 onward, the Qing authorities permitted them to withdraw to Macao and live in housing rented from the Portuguese when the season closed. The flourishing trade enticed many Western countries to send official envoys to China who also became long-term residents in Macao. The steady influx of cargo and money also, of course, attracted to the city a motley assortment of disorderly elements like bandits, pirates, and itinerant peddlers. By the 1810s, Macao had become an important base for piratical activities as well as a center for opium smuggling and distribution.73 The two problems aggravated each other as more and more sea raiders became involved in contraband trade. The foremost threat confronted by the Portuguese enclave, however, came neither from meddling Chinese officials nor predatory sea bandits but from competing European powers. As Demetrius Charles Boulger remarked in the 1880s, “the position of Macao was so advantageous that it presented a standing temptation to all interested in the commerce of the Chinese seas to wrest it from the feeble hands of those who held it.”74 A sketch of the changing balance of power among the Western states in Asian waters will make it possible to understand this threat. Over the course of the seventeenth century, Portugal had been supplanted as the dominant European power in this area by the Netherlands, whose place, in turn, was superseded by Britain with the start of the Industrial Revolution. As early as 1622, interestingly, the Dutch and the English had joined forces to invade Macao and had been fended off by the Portuguese.75 Despite increased Western encroachment and trade in the Pearl River delta, according to Leonard Blusse and other scholars, the eighteenth century remained largely “the Chinese century” in the South China Sea. Thanks to their expansive commercial networks and advanced organization skills, “Chinese junks swarmed like bees all over the South China Sea” and controlled the trade in Southeast Asia until 1770. Consequently, European interlopers had to rely on the Chinese and other local merchant communities if they were to establish themselves commercially in the existing trading systems. The circumstances changed in the nineteenth century, however, as the British and French navies took control of the South China Sea and forcefully opened up the Chinese market to European trade and missionary activities.76

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The Rise of the British As the eighteenth century advanced, Great Britain gradually became the empire on which “the sun never set.” It emerged from the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763) as both the most formidable maritime power in the world and the leading European power in the East. This status was further solidified after the French Revolutionary Wars (1792–1802) and Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815). Meanwhile, the Industrial Revolution at home stimulated the expansion of Britain’s oversea trade. Under the royal charter of 1600, the English East India Company (EIC) held a monopoly on the India and Far East trade. In 1637 this quasi-governmental organization had begun to do business directly with China, which gradually became the Company’s most profitable operation. Britain’s strategic “swing to the East” after losing thirteen colonies in North America led to an increasing thrust to expand markets in China. Over the last thirty-six years of the eighteenth century, this flourishing commerce increased by 294 percent, taking up the bulk of Western trade at Canton and turning the EIC into China’s largest trading partner. The EIC’s dual engine of growth was legal tea importation and illegal opium smuggling, which together served as “the fiscal pivot of British commercial expansion and their political empire in India.”77 Compared with Portugal, however, Britain was a latecomer to China. Until the cession of Hong Kong in 1842, this rapidly industrializing state did not have its own foothold on the East Asian mainland. In the 1770s the EIC finally took up permanent residence at Macao, which gave the Company its sole access to the lucrative Chinese market. With few privileges, the English had to conduct their business at the pleasure of the Qing and Portuguese officials. In addition, they faced increasing competition from other Western powers like France and the United States, which also began tapping into the wealth of the growing Canton trade. Between 1784 and 1811, for instance, the newly arrived Americans became the major rival of the British in terms of tea trade in Canton. The Portuguese authorities at Macao, meanwhile, strengthened their hand in opium smuggling, which became their major source of revenue by the onset of the nineteenth century. In 1802, they secretly stipulated that only Portuguese merchants had the right to “ship” opium to Macao. This rule no doubt fed tension with the EIC, although it was hardly carried out, due partly to the Qing outlawing of the drug. The intensification of commercial competition, to be sure, was “further embittered by the progress of great wars in Europe, which were reflected in their course on the shores of

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China and in the Indian seas.” The English felt in constant danger that a changing political climate in Europe might cause Macao to be closed to them.78 For much of the eighteenth century, the British tried to gain their own trading foothold in China through different strategies, but with no success. As the only connecting link between the two states, for instance, the EIC made an aggressive attempt to set up a post in Ningbo, a coastal city in the northeast of Zhejiang province, by sending ships there in 1755, but the Qing responded by prohibiting Western trade at ports other than Canton two years later. Notwithstanding this major setback, the Company’s trade with China continued to expand under difficult conditions. Considering the EIC’s inability to change the monopolistic Canton system, meanwhile, the English government intervened and favored a softer approach to the Qing, mainly by playing on the Qing’s obsession with its own ritual superiority. The English government sought direct communication with the Manchu court through tribute-like embassies, the first of which was led by Lieutenant Colonel Charles Cathcart. But this diplomatic mission had to be aborted when Cathcart died of consumption en route to China in 1788.79 Four years later, the British government sent a more imposing envoy of ninety-five people under Lord George Macartney, in the name of congratulating Emperor Qianlong on his eighty-third birthday. This famed, well-prepared delegation reached China in 1793 and received a warm reception from the Qing court. Despite the hospitality and his extensive diplomatic experience, Macartney failed to enhance Britain’s trade situation in China by securing new ports besides Canton. Yet it is noteworthy that the envoy did succeed in its secret goal of reconnaissance. After returning to London, one member of the embassy entourage—Lieutenant Henry William Parish of the Royal Artillery—filed a detailed intelligence report on the military defenses of Macao and, furthermore, devised a plan of invasion.80 He calculated that a British occupation of Macao would lead to either the rise of contraband trade or the independence of south China from the Qing Empire, both of which could nullify the CantonCohong trade monopoly. Parish opined that the British should use Macao as both a springboard for colonizing south China and leverage against other Western countries. He reasoned that “in the event of war with the different powers of Europe, Macao may be thought of the utmost consequence to England, as a refuge for their trade in these seas, as enabling them to cut off the trade of such powers with China.” This intelligence report has led some historians to believe that “the object of the Macartney mission was to prepare a raid against Macao as much as to open China to trade.”81 True or not, it certainly boosted the British’s optimistic

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sense of aggression, which paved the way for their invasions of Macao in 1802 and 1808.

The First Macao Expedition As noted, the British had developed a keen interest in Macao prior to the Macartney mission. Warren Hastings, the first governor-general of India who administered British policy in India, wrote a memorandum to the king of England in 1780 in which he openly coveted Macao and lamented the Portuguese mismanagement of it: “Macao is so little known to the Court of Lisbon and has been so neglected by the Government of Goa, that it is now the fit resort only of Vagabonds and Outcasts. It has lost the valuable immunities formerly granted by the Chinese. . . . A place so little valued might perhaps be easily procured from the Court of Lisbon, and should it ever fall into the hands of an enterprising People, who knew how to extend all its advantages; we think it would rise to a State of Splendor, never yet equaled by any Port in the East.”82 The EIC, in particular, aspired to put Macao under its capable custody, given its convenient location for opium smuggling into China. This plan became all the more necessary as the Qing court for the first time implemented harsh measures to ban the import of this drug in 1799. Starting in 1793, the British determined to curb the influence of their ally Portugal, which had sought to ratchet up its control over Macao in the past decade. Meanwhile, the French also toyed with the idea of seizing this peninsula after losing all its possessions in India to Portuguese and English in 1783. To take action before their archrival would, the British government sent two China missions under Cathcart and Macartney with the intent of gaining Macao or comparable trading posts.83 When both diplomatic missions failed, the British readied themselves to forcibly occupy Macao. Ideally, they hoped to achieve this without waging a war with Portugal or with China. Opportunities finally arrived as the Anglo-French struggle reached a new peak in the Great Wars (1792– 1815). These extensive wars not only plunged Europe into chaos but also spilled over to the South China Sea, causing significant ripple effects on the Canton trade and the piracy disturbance. Facing growing threats posed by the French navy and Chinese pirates, the British decided to send more warships to Chinese waters. In 1801, France and Spain joined forces in invading Portugal, Britain’s longtime ally. The Court of Directors of the EIC in London feared that the French would attack the British and Portuguese possessions in the East, especially Macao, the so-called weakest link in the British strategic chain in Asia.84

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“While the French conceived the undertaking,” Boulger writes, “the English had executed it.” Richard Wellesley, the sixth governor-general of India and a strong believer in British imperialism, decided to send troops to Macao before the French might get there.85 On February 27, 1802, a task force of six ships commanded by Captain Edward Osborn and Lieutenant Colonel Robert Hamilton arrived at Lintin, the island anchorage twenty-nine kilometers northeast of Macao. Looking on Macao as a Portuguese possession, British leaders had given little thought to how this armed expedition might violate the sovereignty rights of China. Neither did they think it necessary to obtain authorization from their oldest ally, Portugal. Wellesley’s belligerent attitude is evident in his letter to Richard Wall, president of the Select Committee of Supercargoes of the EIC resident in Canton: “in the event of opposition on the part of the Governor of Macao,” this Portuguese settlement would be subdued “by force of arms.” The Select Committee, however, counseled the governor-general against such an imprudent strategy, saying that “unless the consent of the Portuguese is previously obtained every attempt to procure the Sanction of the Chinese Government to the disembarkation of the Troops in any part of their territory will be entirely fruitless and of no avail.”86 Acting on this advice, Osborn and Hamilton began negotiating with the Portuguese for a peaceful takeover of Macao so as to prevent it from falling into French hands. The governor of Macao, Jose Manuel Pinto, did not trust the uninvited guests, nor was he persuaded by the British talk of an impending French attack. The governor feared that the Portuguese settlement would be lost forever if he accepted Britain’s “help.” He thus tried to stall for time, citing the need to wait for orders from higher authorities at Goa. Wellesley had little patience for waiting, since reports had already convinced him that British military action at Macao would not antagonize the Qing or disrupt the Canton trade. He thus sent a letter of ultimatum to the Portuguese governor, presenting him with the stark choice of surrendering the city or facing destruction.87 Intercepted by the Select Committee, this letter never reached Jose Manuel Pinto, though the governor no doubt understood the gravity of the situation. He thus protested the British plans while simultaneously petitioning Jiqing, the governor-general of Liangguang, for protection.88 Alarmed by the mounting threat, Jiqing chastised the British for their aggression and ordered their naval fleet to leave Macao immediately. When the invaders refused, the indignant governor-general suspended British trade and cut off their food supplies. On March 30, 1802, word reached Macao that France and England had signed the Treaty of Amiens in late 1801, ending their decade-long hostilities in the French Revolutionary Wars. The English expeditionary force thus had no excuse to continue

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its stay in Macao. After some delay, by June 5 it had entirely withdrawn from Chinese waters and sailed back to India.89 This incident apparently ended to the satisfaction of the Chinese authorities. After all, the British had failed to enter the city of Macao, and the Qing had been able to dispel the invaders without firing a single shot. To protect the Canton trade that was a vital part of the local economy, Jiqing withheld information from Jiaqing and reported favorably on the English. He depicted their invading vessels as “escorting warships” to play down the severity of the crisis and dampen the emperor’s alarm.90 Nevertheless, this British expedition frightened the Portuguese. On August 19, 1802, two Portuguese missionaries working in the Imperial Bureau of Astronomy wrote a petition to the Qing court on behalf of their government at Macao. They attacked the English for conspiring to take over the peninsula and called for tougher Chinese policies against such acts of invasion: In Europe, the violence and craftiness of the English are universally known. Previously, under the pretext of trade, they annexed a great kingdom, Mengkao-er [Bengal], in the lesser Western Ocean (India). To begin with, they only leased a small place to stay, but gradually they sent more and more ships and men. In the third year of the Chia-ch’ing (1798), they finally swallowed up this kingdom which is adjacent to Tibet, a place the Middle Kingdom must know. This is not the only area in which the English have achieved their ends under the name of trade. For the Celestial Empire to allow them to live in the neighborhood of China is not a good policy and will not lead to permanent peace.91

This letter was sufficiently compelling to alarm the Jiaqing emperor. But reassuring reports from local officials soon convinced him that no foreign countries, including Britain, could menace the dynasty. To appease the Portuguese, Beijing signed a convention with them that formally placed Macao under the protection of the Qing emperor. In return, the Portuguese pledged that they would not admit any foreign troops into their settlement without previous Chinese consent.92 With this agreement, both sides reaffirmed the Qing’s sovereignty over Macao.

More Tentative Negotiations Britain’s relationship with China, meanwhile, seemed to take an uneasy turn for the better. A temporary reconciliation was facilitated by the striking concentration of maritime violence around the Pearl River estuary from 1805 to 1810. The routine intercourse between Macao and Canton

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was disturbed by the swarming pirate fleets that blockaded the passages, plundered vessels, and took hostages. Such maritime chaos, as Joanna Waley-Cohen puts it, “provided Europeans with a useful pretext for bending China’s rules prohibiting the presence of armed foreign vessels in its territorial waters.” At first, local Qing authorities declined the British offer of help and instead turned to the Portuguese at Macao, who also volunteered to provide naval assistance.93 In return, the Portuguese presented a nine-point request to expand their power and interest in Macao, most of which was rejected by the Chinese. Without Jiaqing’s approval, the two sides signed a convention that commissioned four Portuguese patrol ships to join in a campaign against the pirates around Macao. But such small-scale collaboration was far from sufficient, and moreover, the Portuguese ships used their routine patrol off the Canton coast to facilitate opium trafficking. Unable to ensure order along the trade route, Emperor Jiaqing finally accepted the British proposal to dispatch warships to escort the EIC’s cargoes to and from the mouth of the Pearl River.94 Emboldened, the EIC Select Committee made another proposal to the Qing provincial government.95 It requested that its naval convoy be allowed to sail through Bogue (Humen in Chinese, or Boca Tigris as the Europeans called it, “the Tiger’s Mouth”) and cruise near the inner harbor of Canton—Whampoa (Huangpu)—twenty kilometers below the provincial capital of Guangdong. This was an audacious request, since no foreign warship was allowed to enter “the Tiger’s Mouth,” the first and the most important sea pass leading to Canton. On October 24, 1804, the president of the Select Committee, John W. Roberts, discussed the proposal with the superintendent of customs at Canton (Hoppo). In an attempt to persuade the Qing official, the English merchant chief made veiled threats by accentuating “the enormous value of the trade at stake—not less than twenty million taels, import and export—the magnitude of the merchant fleet endangered, valued at thirty million taels, and the Chinese revenue of not less than 1,300,000 taels a year, which would be lost if the trade came to an end.” The Hoppo, unimpressed by Roberts’s lecturing, repudiated his request on the grounds that it flagrantly violated the law of the Celestial Dynasty. Five months prior to this fruitless meeting, the king of England, George III, had sent a gently worded letter to the Jiaqing emperor along with some gifts. The king suggested, according to the translation of the Chinese version, that “if there is any way in which Your Majesty can use my services, I shall be very glad to serve Your Majesty.”96 Jiaqing knew clearly that the English monarch was talking about sending warships to the south China coast to “help” quash the sea bandits, but in his reciprocat-

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ing letter he made no response to this implicit suggestion. Jiaqing revealed his prescient worry to Nayancheng, the newly appointed governor-general of Liangguang: “those foreigners volunteered to help [suppress the pirates], but how do we know they won’t avail themselves of this crisis to spy on us and test our strength?”97 According to the Chronicle of the East India Company, the British had already sent three escort warships to the waters off Macao before negotiating with the Hoppo. Although they fell short of penetrating into the Bogue, they were able to accomplish a reconnoitering mission. They carefully surveyed the coasts, islands, and rivers in south China, trying to find better anchorages for future military and economic ventures. The second Macao invasion most likely benefited directly from such meticulous scouting work. The deteriorating piracy situation, furthermore, gave the British an upper hand in negotiating with the Qing authorities. In August 1805, the Select Committee requested permission to station two warships permanently at Macao. Their purported goal was to protect the Canton trade, but their real objective was to gather intelligence on Qing maritime defenses.98 This proposal also was declined by the Chinese authorities, whereupon the English made a compromise, claiming that the warships would be in the area only temporarily during the period of piracy disturbances. A joint letter from the Select Committee to the governor-general and the Hoppo, dated September 1, 1805, explained that the British navy existed “only during the period of war, and solely in the view of affording protection to our valuable trade with this country, which must experience great decrease or be totally abandoned if deprived of this security, and which whilst supplying food to some millions of the Emperor’s subjects tends also to diffuse wealth and happiness through several provinces, and occasioning a considerable augmentation of duties to the Imperial Revenue.”99 Emperor Jiaqing finally acquiesced, but strictly limited the entry of the British warships to customary anchorages such as Lintin and Taipa.100 Soon thereafter, the English war vessels were cruising around the inner harbors of Macao. The aforementioned negotiations were calculated attempts on the British side to assess the Qing response to their military venture in China. As the Chronicles of the East India Company put it, the government “had obtained a very good survey of the attitude which would be assumed by the Chinese authorities towards any attempted occupation of Macao.” In 1807, the Select Committee proposed a more aggressive military venture against Macao in the name of fighting seaborne raiding. But this plan failed to win the support of the acting governor-general of India, George Barlow, who, considering the utter failure of the 1802 expedition, preferred

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to avoid involvement in the policing of Chinese waters. On April 23, he wrote a letter to the Select Committee cautioning them that “the jealous and suspicious character of the Chinese government leads us to doubt whether the arrival of an English naval armament without the previous consent of the Chinese government, would not be highly offensive to that government.”101 Barlow’s cautious policy, however, lost appeal as the British became increasingly worried that the French might exploit the fragile peace of Amiens to seek advantage in Asia. The Anglo-French conflict had indeed resumed in the Napoleonic Wars, barely two years after the signing of the treaty in 1801. The situation became even more precarious for the British as Napoleon Bonaparte proclaimed himself emperor of the French in 1804. Two years later, he enacted the Berlin Decree, which aimed to strangle British trade, the lifeblood of English global power. Consequently, a worldwide struggle of blockade and counter-blockade developed and reached all the way to the South China Sea.102 On the China front, as the piracy crises intensified, the Qing authorities became more receptive toward offers of British help. The sea bandits, having escalated their operations by organizing large-scale confederations, struck with increasing audacity, especially after their blatant effort to seize Taiwan in 1805. By the end of 1808, the pirate confederation even threatened to attack Canton after destroying almost half of the Qing fleet in Guangdong. Faced with this grave trend, desperate local officials had little choice but to seek help from the Select Committee. In mid-July 1807, the magistrate of Xiangshan county sent a letter to John W. Roberts, requesting two British cruisers to cooperate in the suppression campaign. On July 23, even the proud Hoppo expressed interest to the Select Committee in obtaining British naval assistance.103 With the Qing officials admitting that they could not keep their house in order, the Select Committee was only too eager to accept their requests for help.

The Second Macao Expedition The opportunity to seize Macao arrived again in October 1807, when the army of Napoleonic France invaded Portugal and forced the Lisbon court to flee to Brazil under British protection. The ninth governor-general of India, Lord Minto (Gilbert Elliot-Murray-Kynynmound), pressed the Portuguese authorities at Goa to believe that the presence of French warships in eastern seas posed a serious threat to both sides. It thus was essential to allow Britain to garrison both Goa and Macao for protection. In no position to resist, the battered Portuguese had to comply with their ally’s

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“recommendations.” On July 21, 1808, Rear Admiral William O’Brien Drury, the British fleet commander in Bengal, arrived in Macao waters with a first detachment of three hundred marines. His squadron of nine warships anchored off Jijing (Chicken Neck), the outer ocean around Xiangshan county.104 With permission from Goa, Drury had reason to believe that his military expedition would be successful. The Select Committee also supported the mission, calling for action to protect their trade against the dangers posed by both the French navy and the Chinese pirates. They conjectured, rather optimistically, that the Chinese authority would not oppose the landing of British troops. A report of March 8, 1808, read: “in our opinion neither embarrassment to our affairs or any serious opposition are to be apprehended on the part of the Chinese government. From the excessive corruption and weakness that exists in this provincial government, all instructions or attempts to suppress the ladrones are either evaded or are nugatory, and we believe they would most cheerfully see Macao in the possession of the English from an expectation that the pirates would no longer be allowed to infest the coast.”105 Regarding the Portuguese government, on August 16, the Select Committee claimed: “we have no reason to apprehend any opposition on the part of the Portuguese government, but have every reason to believe that any objections or impediments on the part of the Chinese would be of temporary nature.”106 Yet, once again, the British plan did not come to fruition. They met even stronger resistance from both sides than during their previous effort. Alerted to their plot, the new Portuguese governor of Macao, Bernardo Aleixo de Lemos Faria, refused to let the British force enter. He explained that no outside assistance was necessary since, according to the Convention of 1802 with China, Macao fell squarely under Qing protection. Thrusting aside this bilateral agreement, Admiral Drury threatened to use force in order to bring the Portuguese to their senses. The indignant governor called on all the inhabitants of Macao to fight off the invaders, vowing to die before giving up the settlement. This standoff was finally broken when an additional seven hundred British soldiers arrived from India in four ships. The detachment commander, Major Weguelin, brought a second order from Goa that authorized the British to temporarily take over Macao. When Drury stepped up his warning, Lemos Faria finally decided to surrender, following the suggestion of his chief justice, Miguel de Arriaga. With only two hundred soldiers in the Portuguese garrison, Arriaga advised, it would be futile to fight their powerful “ally.” The only way to preserve this settlement was to follow the British order while sending for Qing help. If the Chinese were really serious about their

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ownership of Macao, he reasoned, let them prove it by repelling the British.107 As the British moved into the city of Macao on August 2, Arriaga rushed to Canton and worked diplomatically with the Qing authorities. In his secret meetings with Chinese officials, the Portuguese emissary emphasized that the ultimate goal of the British expedition was to conquer and dominate the Celestial Empire. To preserve territorial integrity, he argued, the Qing should send troops to drive the British out of Macao.108 Governorgeneral Wu Xiongguang condemned the British infringement of Chinese sovereignty and ordered the interlopers to depart immediately. When this failed to produce the desired results, he suspended all commercial intercourse with Britain on August 16. Wu nonetheless hesitated to keep Jiaqing informed of this blatant foreign invasion, hoping to solve the crisis before the emperor discovered it. As if fearing larger repercussions, neither did he resort to the sternest measure of military expulsion as Arriaga requested. Emboldened by this weak response, Admiral Drury decided to flaunt the strength of the world’s most powerful navy. Hoping to intimidate the Chinese into lifting the embargo, he personally commanded three heavily armed vessels and ventured upriver through the Bogue on September 1. In the name of protecting British tea trade from piratical depredations, the fleet anchored at Whampoa, where the loading and unloading of cargoes took place. Disregarding the protests of the Chinese, the British twice attempted to sail up to the provincial capital, only to be stopped by a double line of Chinese junks across the Pearl River.109 Contemptuous of what he described as the Qing army’s “feeble means of defence and offence,” Admiral Drury went ashore and traveled up to Canton with a small number of marines on September 23. To add insult to injury, he prepared a letter to Governor-general Wu Xiongguang demanding an immediate audience to discuss the British plan for staying in Macao. In this letter, the admiral highlighted his “most benevolent intentions,” which were to “protect” their ally at Macao from French attack and to help the Qing eradicate piracy.110 His real mission, needless to say, was to seize Macao, and “nothing in his instructions prevented him from going to war with China.”111 As Lord Minto admitted in his address to the EIC Council on February 27, 1809, “we allude to the measure at one time in contemplation of endeavoring to intimidate the Viceroy [governor-general] of Canton into a compliance with the requisitions of Admiral Drury, by the advance of a military force and by proceeding to bombard the Town.”112 As for Governor-general Wu, he did not even bother to send Drury a reply, since it would be unseemly for him to communicate with the intruder under such disagreeable circumstances. After two days of fruitless waiting, the Admiral became infuriated and decided to teach the Chinese a

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lesson. The Select Committee was behind him, asserting “the impossibility of giving way to the Chinese so long as they persevered in their haughty conduct.”113 Drury thus returned to his warships, threatening to break through the blockade and to raid Wu’s provincial government offices in half an hour. When this ultimatum did not work, the British advanced, at which the Chinese fort fired on one of their ships. The admiral ordered an attack, but for some reason his order was not obeyed. Drury did not resort to further force. Unwilling to touch off a full-scale war that would certainly ruin the China trade, he instructed his warships to retreat to Macao after his futile show of force. After this dramatic turn of events, Wu realized that the emperor could no longer be kept in the dark. As soon as Drury evacuated from Canton, on September 4, Wu sent Jiaqing an urgent memorial summarizing the whole event, with the admiral’s letter attached. Wu also recommended that all supplies for the British be terminated and that no Chinese should serve them in business or at home.114 On learning of the dire situation, Jiaqing immediately issued a fiery edict sanctioning this embargo and food blockade, to begin on September 26. He also lambasted the admiral for his selfproclaimed “most benevolent intentions”: The law on the national defense of the Celestial Empire is extremely severe. We will not allow anyone to challenge it. If the Portuguese and the French will fight and slay each other, that is a matter that concerns only the barbarians. We, the Middle Kingdom, will not intervene. In recent years, Burma and Siam have warred against each other, and often they appealed to China for help. Yet the Grand Emperor treats both of them equally and without partiality. Both China and her vassal states have definite boundaries that should not be violated. Remember that the warships of China have never sailed overseas to land and quarter troops on your territory. However, the warships of your country dare to sail into Macao to land and live there! This is indeed a grievous and rash blunder. You say you fear that France might attack the Portuguese; do you not know that the Portuguese are living in Chinese territory? How dare the French invade and plunder at the risk of offending the Celestial Empire? Even if France conceived such an idea, the law of the Celestial Empire is adamant and effective. We would not tolerate an invasion by the French, and would immediately send our mighty army to suppress and annihilate them in order to maintain our maritime defense. There is no need of your country to send soldiers here to act as protectors of the Portuguese.115

Jiaqing also railed against Drury’s pretext of offering help in piracy suppression: If you say you come because the pirates have not yet been suppressed and you are eager to serve the Celestial Empire, this is utter nonsense! The pirates on the seas have been repeatedly suppressed, and now they are powerless, driven to escape now to the east, now to the west. . . . Within the near future, the

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remaining pirates will be annihilated. We do not need to borrow military aid from your country. We can well imagine that the barbarian merchants of your country, jealous of Portuguese privileges at Macao, wished to take advantage of the critical moment when the Portuguese were weak, and attempt to occupy Macao and live there. If this is the case, you have drastically violated the laws of the Celestial Empire.116

In this important edict, Jiaqing charged that the British clearly understood the waters around Macao to be Chinese territory and that their unauthorized intrusion was an outright assault on Qing sovereignty. Most striking, the emperor toned down the much celebrated rhetoric of tributary superiority, which had long dominated Chinese thinking about their relationship with the outside world. He instead took the moral high ground through another route: by emphasizing the relatively new norms of formal equality, territorial right, reciprocity, and nonintervention, which should appeal much more to Western sensibilities by exposing their “organized hypocrisy.” As Stephen D. Krasner claims, organized hypocrisy can be found in those situations in which states ostensibly advocate the use of some normative principles to regulate interstate relations but their policies and actions blatantly violate these overarching rules.117 Even though we tend to associate the aforementioned norms of equality, territorial right, and nonintervention with the Westphalian sovereignty, they were not utterly alien to Qing political thinking. Neither did they necessarily result from the process of “Western challenge, Chinese response.” The notion of territorial right and political equality had germinated amid the regional power brokering within the tributary system by 1800. As for drawing rather clear borders on a map, it was part of a repertoire the Qing had used before (albeit rarely), as evidenced in the signing of the Treaty of Nerchinsk with expansionary Muscovy-Russia in 1689. How much of a trend the two cases represent is subject to interpretation. In any event, they showcase the Qing’s willingness and capacity to deal with changing geopolitical conditions by modifying their conceptions of sovereignty and by appropriating new sources of legitimacy. Here it would be helpful to use the term “crystallization” to describe Jiaqing’s foreign policy reforms, which occurred not by the laborious creation or convenient introduction of wholly new norms or principles but by a reorganization of practices and ideas that were already present in Chinese diplomatic tradition. The south China piracy and the two Macao incidents acted as a sort of catalyst, reinforcing certain submerged ideas—like pragmatism and nonintervention—inherent in the operation of the tributary system. In short, practical realpolitik logic could reinvigorate old notions of transnational interaction, thus putting the subsequent negotiations of the Opium War in a different light.

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At the end of his edict, Jiaqing issued a stern warning to the British invaders that an army of eighty thousand men had been sent forth to annihilate them. Later, the emperor turned on Wu Xiongguang and the Guangdong governor Sun Yuting, scolding them for their delayed report and pusillanimous response to the repeated foreign invasion. Jiaqing also reprimanded both provincial officials for caring more about customs duties than the dignity and security of their empire. The throne immediately dismissed both, sending Wu to exile in the faraway northwest.118 The Chinese ultimatum achieved its desired effect. Admiral Drury finally gave in after three months of negotiations with the Qing and the Select Committee. He confided to the Select Committee that Jiaqing’s letter was “dictated by Wisdom, Justice and dignified Manhood in support of those Moral Rights of Man, of Nations, and of Nature, outraged and insulted.”119 In such precarious circumstances, “longer delay would probably destroy the Trade for the Season.” The Select Committee accepted his suggestion of retreat, and a final bilateral agreement was then signed on October 23. Two days later, British warships cruising near Bogue and Whampoa were ordered to withdraw from the Pearl River within forty-eight hours. All other ships of war anchoring at Macao left the peninsula on November 12. At British request, trade was reopened eight days later. In a final report to his superior in India, Drury described this expedition as “the most mysterious, extraordinary and scandalous affair that ever disgraced such an armament.” The same sentiment was echoed by an unsympathetic British observer in 1832: “there never was an expedition more badly conducted, I believe, than that one of Admiral Drury.”120 It is noteworthy that Drury stopped in Vietnam on his way to Macao, just as Lord Macartney did in 1793. Aside from their China mission, both of them had a secondary goal of opening Vietnam to British trade. Macartney insisted on achieving it by means of treaties and duly warned against the risk of invading the country, although his diplomatic effort failed in the end. The admiral, by contrast, was more aggressive as he tried to barge in by forcing Gia Long to open up Hanoi for trade. Eleven years earlier the British navy had engaged in a similar act of aggression by seizing Nguyen Anh’s French-commanded merchant ships. To mend the soured relationship, the British dispatched in 1803 and 1804 two gift-bearing envoys to the new Nguyen court. Led by Select Committee member John W. Roberts, both missions offered to provide Gia Long with weapons in return for a British settlement in Vietnam. But the adamant ruler refused to grant any special treatment to the EIC. Another objective behind the Roberts missions was to gauge the French influence in Vietnam, which had increased considerably with the rise of Nguyen power. The British worried that their

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archrival might establish footholds in Vietnam and help build a strong Nguyen navy, both of which would directly menace the Company’s trade in the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea. To protect this vital interest and to impede the French colonial advance, Drury’s fleet launched an aggressive strike against the Nguyen navy. His fleet attempted to sail up the Red River and to attack Hanoi but was driven out. After this embarrassing failure, the British made no further attempt to establish relations with Vietnam until 1822.121

British and Chinese Perspectives on the Macao Incidents Notwithstanding the unsatisfactory outcomes, the two Macao expeditions were not complete failures or wasted efforts for the British. They were able to acquire a good knowledge of the Qing military, economy, and political situation, which directly shaped their later actions toward China. By seizing Macao and breaking through Bogue, they also gauged Chinese reaction and tested their bottom line when it came to territorial sovereignty and foreign trade. As the British realized, the Qing court unequivocally regarded Macao as an integral part of their empire and would not give it up for the sake of commercial interest. It was thus unlikely that Great Britain could acquire Macao without starting a war that would certainly destroy their flourishing trade.122 Mindful of the high stakes, over the ensuing three decades, the British authorities sought to deal with China in a cautious, nonmilitant way. This moderate policy was duly reciprocated by the diplomatic retreat of the Qing, which contributed to a relatively tranquil period in Sino-British interactions, until the Napier episode in 1834, which brought the two countries back to the brink of war.123 From their two expeditions the British learned that the Canton trade was much more important to them than to the Chinese. Because of the growing Western demand for trade with China, the Manchu regime still had the upper hand in protecting its monopolistic Canton-Cohong system. Meanwhile, the English confirmed the fact that the Qing authorities could not curtail, much less eliminate, smuggling along China’s vast stretch of coastal islands, inlets, and estuaries, especially at Macao. Therein lay the value of opium, an ideal contraband product that could be used to undermine the Qing monopoly and to unlock the trade with the Middle Kingdom. In 1799, Emperor Jiaqing toughened the prohibition on opium imports, making it difficult for EIC ships to carry the drug directly to China. In response, the Company started selling opium in Calcutta to its licensed

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“country traders.” These private British or American merchants, under the guise of legal trade, would in turn smuggle the illegal drug into China through Macao or Lintin. In this process the EIC reaped a profit of 500– 900 percent between 1805 and 1813. Consequently, the amount of opium entering Canton increased almost tenfold, replacing cotton as the major English export to China. The rapid rise in this contraband trade helped create “the most serious outflow of silver in Chinese history,” dramatically reversing the massive influx of this currency into the Middle Kingdom. According to Man-houng Lin’s recent study, 384 million silver dollars flowed out of China between 1808 and 1856, which accounted for 25 percent of its land tax in 1842.124 The two Macao expeditions, to summarize, marked a turning point in the formulation of British policies on China. The British temporarily shifted away from a gunboat strategy and toward commercial expansion, taking it as the most important means to open up the huge empire. In the next three decades the British launched an “opium-oriented” offensive against the Qing that eventually led to the first Sino-British War. This intensified commercial imperialism, as the cornerstone of Britain’s approach to China antedating the mid-nineteenth century, successfully hollowed out the Canton system and largely depleted the amount of silver available within the country. This massive financial hemorrhage, in turn, contributed to the inflation of silver prices relative to copper coins that overshadowed the constructive effects of the Jiaqing reforms and, in Lin’s words, turned China “upside down.”125 From the Qing perspective, the second Macao incident represented an important victory in maintaining its sovereignty against formidable foreign invaders. To commemorate the triumph, a pagoda was built at the spot from which Admiral Drury had retreated.126 Right after the British evacuation, the local authority of Canton increased security by stationing five hundred more soldiers around Macao. It also enacted new regulations to control foreign warships, especially English ones, in China’s territorial waters. On April 8, 1809, Bailing, the new governor-general of Liangguang, visited Macao and ordered the strengthening of its fortresses and other strategic sites. During this trip, he summoned John. W. Roberts, the head of the Select Committee, and stridently condemned Drury’s flagrant aggression. The English merchant chief was forced to issue a formal apology to Emperor Jiaqing in which he acknowledged Chinese sovereignty over Macao. Foreign powers had long regarded the Portuguese as the owners of the peninsula. By driving the British intruders out of Macao, the Qing authorities sent a clear message to the world that the Portuguese were on Chinese soil thanks only to the emperor’s goodwill.127

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While raising the Qing court’s awareness about territorial sovereignty, the two attempted invasions of Macao contributed significantly to a negative view of Great Britain. Thereafter, the British were regarded as the most troublesome of all Westerners, with a voracious appetite for trade. On April 29, 1809, Jiaqing authorized Bailing to attack any British war vessels that trespassed into China’s inner sea. This hardening of attitude partly explains the emperor’s rejection of the Amherst mission in 1816, the third English official envoy to China. Local authorities ceased accepting British help in fighting pirates and chose instead to seek Portuguese naval assistance. In a desperate maneuver to reinsert themselves into Chinese politics, the British even contemplated a plan to support the sea marauders. As C. A. Montalto de Jesus wrote in 1902, “the English, moreover, supplied the pirates with ammunition, evidently in the hope of rendering them more than a match for the Portuguese and Chinese forces, and thus necessitating an appeal for China for British assistance.”128 This treacherous scheme alarmed farsighted Qing officials, intellectuals, and sailors, including Xie Qinggao, Bao Shichen, Ruan Yuan, Wei Yuan, and Lin Zexu, who had seen for themselves Britain’s imperial ambition and naval power. An increasing sense of crisis drew their attention to the coast in the early nineteenth century, galvanizing them to start exploring the maritime world, global geography, and Western learning. Major works published in the Jiaqing period include “Anecdotes on the Sea Islands” (Haidao yizhi), by Wang Dahai, and “Records on the Sea” (Hailu), by Xie Qinggao and Yang Bingnan, which directly inspired a series of new articles and books on Britain in the later Daoguang period. These new works and initiatives, taken together, laid the foundation for a larger geographical reorientation of imperial attention from the northwest to the southern coastal regions.129 This shift was facilitated by the rise of Han literati, including Yan Ruyi, Gong Zizhen, Wei Yuan, Zuo Zongtang, and Lin Zexu, who were interested in more aggressive frontier strategies, as Heshen’s disgraceful downfall made it difficult for the Manchus to assert their ethnic superiority over the Chinese. That said, one should not exaggerate the maritime turn in Qing history during Jiaqing’s reign. During this quarter century, those interested in the world beyond the sea were still too few, and they generally were unable to contest and shape state actions at the highest levels. The victory at Macao gave Qing leaders a false sense of security and strength that blinded them to the looming threat of British imperialism and the harsh implications of Western challenges. Failing to appreciate the power of the “strangers at the gate,” Emperor Jiaqing did not take resolute steps to consolidate the maritime frontier by fortifying its fortresses and developing a strong navy.130

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These failures to some degree helped usher China into its “Age of Humiliation” and might be reckoned as a major defect of the reformism at the turn of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, Jiaqing’s reign should not be judged simply by its failure to prepare the empire for more formidable British intrusions in the Opium Wars. There were constructive elements to his diplomacy that deviated from the practices of the previous reign and profoundly affected later Qing history. Given the Confucian nature of its moral geography and political system, the Jiaqing regime could not abandon the hierarchical tributary framework that had governed China’s relationship with other political entities for a thousand years. But, more significant still, it no longer blindly bore the increasingly unsustainable burden of suzerain responsibility. The manifest challenges from both tributary neighbors and Western powers forced Jiaqing to acknowledge the existence of a wider and more dangerous world; his pragmatic and rational response to this challenge laid the basis for a stronger sense of political equality in Chinese conceptions of diplomatic relations with other states. Consequently, the Jiaqing court began to downplay ritualistic displays of symbolic supremacy while becoming more sensitive to the limits of its power and to the realpolitik of the empire. It pragmatically modified China-centered hierarchical diplomacy in order to meet the unprecedented geopolitical challenges. This pivotal change, as Frederic Wakeman, Jr., maintained, precipitated “the development of a new sense of imperial diplomacy that largely erased the lines between realistic statecraft and ritualistic culturalism long before the British imposed the unequal treaty system upon the Chinese in 1842.” The convergence of culturalism and statecraft signaled the Qing’s “concern for balance between subjective conservatism and objective progressivism,” thereby narrowing the disparity between the normative principles of its tributary diplomacy and the actual nature of its interaction with the outside world. This new understanding of foreign relations, furthermore, paved the way for the rise of what Hexiu Quan termed the “two systems under one diplomacy” that gained prevalence following the end of the first Opium War. In the next half century, as the name suggests, the late Qing regime continued its tributary relationship with the remaining vassal states while developing new treaty diplomacy with the Western powers.131 This dual diplomatic system helped the so-called decaying empire to better cope with the unprecedented set of novel challenges associated with increasingly complex external relations. As the two Macao incidents indicate, this system enabled the Qing to maintain its sovereignty by forcing the leading industrializing power to back down. The Jiaqing court also

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learned to protect its interests by entering into bilateral contractual arrangements with Western nations and, more important, to largely dictate the terms of such agreements. The German missionary Charles Gutzlaff commented in 1834 that the two Macao events were “the only instance on record of laws being dictated to the first maritime power in the world by a feeble government, and implicitly obeyed.”132 David C. Kang urges us to “take the tribute system as a set of international rules and ideas similar to the Westphalian international system that orders our contemporary world.” This begs the question of how the former became increasingly meshed with the latter from the eighteenth century on. The Qing’s interactions with Britain, Portugal, and Vietnam, combined with its diplomatic retreat and diminishing role in maintaining regional order, provided some preliminary signs that the China-derived Confucian system of tributary hierarchy was transitioning to a polycentric system of more equal interstate relations, something described in older historiography as a European import. Efforts of this type, albeit limited and piecemeal, eased the shift from a traditional dynastic empire to a modern nation-state that started well before the West opened up China. They also contributed to “a new strategy by which China might use the treaties to control the foreigners” in the Tongzhi restoration, as Wright puts it.133 The Qing response to the Macao incidents also presented a rather unique counter-challenge to the seemingly ineluctable rise and unitary development of early modern imperialism. The story told here suggests that British imperialism should not be deemed a ready-made tool or predetermined formula that relied simply on military prowess. British policy toward China, aiming to find out how the vast empire might be pressured, was tentative and experimental and could have gone in different directions. Hence I conceptualize the British advance in China as a trial-and-error process, seeking to find a workable way to combine preset agendas and contingent opportunities. This unpredictable process was dictated not only by military and economic situations but also by regional power brokering and practical compromise, which in turn were shaped by a complex congeries of local incidents, native traditions, and global geopolitics. All these variables defined the spatial and temporal evolution of imperialism as well as its rhythms and outcomes on the ground. From the south China piracy to the Taiping rebellion and the Boxer uprising (1900), each major domestic upheaval in the Qing was a green light for a British imperialist charge forward. Before they could impinge on the Chinese empire, however, the British had to learn how to do so and had to wait for the optimal combination of circumstances. The two Macao incidents tell the story of a blundering imperialist power that, confronted by

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strong Chinese response, was only able to reorient itself by making pragmatic decisions in conformity with past experiences and present challenges. Both events, alongside Macartney’s diplomatic mission and the full-scale Opium War, marked the key conjunctures in Britain’s “interactive emergence” in China.134

Conclusion

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his book has sought to examine the key changes during the QianlongJiaqing transition as well as their significance for subsequent Qing history. It makes crisis and reform the central organizing concepts, showing that this critical juncture can be better understood in terms of the state’s multifaceted responses to the White Lotus rebellion and south China piracy. The two concomitant calamities, rather than a hallmark of inexorable dynastic decline, propelled the Jiaqing regime to reorganize itself through a series of moderate but decisive reforms in bureaucratic organization and policy-making. All these changes, taken together, shifted the course of Qing empire-building from unsupportable expansion to more sustainable retrenchment. It is in this sense that the Jiaqing reign played a positive role in the “great divergence” between the high Qing and late Qing. This period of great change and moderation, in William Rowe’s words, may also be taken as “the transition era in modern Chinese history.”1 The centerpiece of Jiaqing’s reforms, to briefly recapitulate, was a decisive turn away from Qianlong’s aggressive agenda of imperial control, which had provoked social protest and overburdened the premodern state. This pragmatic retreat was not only the most important aspect of the QianlongJiaqing transition but also a defining characteristic of late Qing rule. Such strategic withdrawal of state power, however, became an increasingly complicated affair because its operating space kept shrinking, due to a dramatic combination of transnational and transdynastic challenges that included

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foreign aggression, population explosion, and ecological degradation. This profound dilemma entailed that Jiaqing’s midcourse corrections could neither resolve the Qing’s deep-seated crisis of governability nor cure its longterm fiscal-administrative maladies. The emperor’s restoration efforts, albeit limited, changed the direction of government and breathed more life into the debilitated dynasty. They not only promoted impersonal interaction among key political actors and agencies but also encouraged more accommodationist policies toward an increasingly ungovernable society. In so doing, Jiaqing improved bureaucratic morale and administrative capacity, which were at an all-time low after years of Heshen’s hegemony. He also resurrected the throne’s moral legitimacy and arrested the precipitous erosion of Manchu “ethno-dynastic domination” that had become almost irreparable by the time of the death of his father. Consequently, the Jiaqing reforms contributed to a more sustainable sociopolitical order by recreating more balanced relationships between emperor and bureaucrats as well as between state and society.2 In response to unprecedented geopolitical challenges on regional and global levels, the government also enacted a series of changes in foreign policy that represented a key reorientation of the Qing Empire, as well as a realignment of its place in the Sino-centric world order.3 The status of the Jiaqing reign in Qing historiography has been lowly, unduly colored by its dramatic conjunction of internal and external upheavals that “culminated” in an even greater wave of midcentury calamities. This intense period of unrest is often deemed the beginning of dynastic decline and an ominous prelude to the “Century of Humiliation” that started two decades later. Viewed in this light, Jiaqing’s restoration efforts appear to be another case of unsuccessful, piecemeal modification in government operation. Yet I argue that without these timely political adjustments, the dynasty might have collapsed long before it had the opportunity to start the self-strengthening and other late Qing reforms. Thanks to Jiaqing’s moderate reforms, his reign inaugurated a major shift in empire-building that had a profound effect on the last century of Manchu rule, as well as the innate development of China’s modern state. Empire-building, in general, involves multiple dimensions and submechanisms whose interrelationships largely determine the sustainability of this complex political process. In his comparative study of Chinese and European state-making, for instance, Bin Wong introduces four analytic categories—challenges, capacities, commitment, and claims—to capture their similarities and differences. Both challenges and capacities, as Wong proposes, are structurally determined factors that are difficult to change within a short period of time like the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. Com-

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mitments and claims, by contrast, are situational variables shaped largely by contemporary sociopolitical conditions and imperial inclination, so it is far easier for state leaders to modify them in conformity with evolving events or changing circumstances.4 These four neutral concepts, in my view, provide the maximum explanatory power when they are woven together as an integrated yardstick for gauging the progress of empire-building. To ensure a sustainable political order, the central government needs to work out acceptable accommodations with both ruling elites and local populaces through an ongoing process of claim-making. It should also adjust its “preferences for certain styles of rule” (commitments) in adaptation to shifting societal challenges and changing state capacities. If a regime is able to balance these four aspects of state-making, it should not be reckoned as a simple failure, despite its diminished capacities and power delegation. When examined against this revised criteria, the Jiaqing administration actually did significantly better in its process of empire-building than we used to believe. The seeming “state decline” during the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition, furthermore, proved to be of great significance for dynastic survival because it provoked many constructive changes that loomed large in later Qing history. As Seunghyun Han points out, for instance, “the government’s judicial approaches to various collective actions, including examination boycotts [which reflected Qianlong’s ‘extremely repressive policies’], became less stringent in the nineteenth century.” Emperor Jiaqing started this long-term judicial retreat, which helped mitigate social protests and weaken their violent nature, something especially important given the decreasing state capacities to control the populace. In his book Protest with Chinese Characteristics, the sociologist Ho-fung Hung draws attention to a compelling contrast between the intensifying “state-resisting” disturbances during the late Qianlong reign, when state capacity was high, and the “relative” tranquility of the early nineteenth century, when state capability was in continuing decline.5 Jiaqing’s conservative, light-handed approach to rulership was particularly important for subsequent Manchu rulers who, due largely to changing historical circumstances, wielded less power than their august high-Qing predecessors. The logic of sustainable politics underlying his pragmatic reforms became especially crucial following the Opium Wars, when the empire was sliding into even bigger domestic chaos and external crises. It could be one of the key elements, I argue, that allowed the hard-pressed empire to survive the all-encompassing contentious crises and to persist until 1911. Jiaqing’s institutional and policy reforms initiated a long process of state withdrawal that helped the late Qing reach some high points of its

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administration under difficult conditions. His unfinished experiment in sustainable politics laid, for instance, the groundwork for Emperor Daoguang’s rather effective management of the Grand Canal and the Yellow River conservancy. Such down-to-earth conservatism also became central to post-Taiping reconstruction during the Tongzhi Restoration and other late Qing reforms.6 Jiaqing’s streamlining of government machinery, furthermore, reflected his clearheaded understanding of some deep constitutional crises confronting the imperial system in general and his troubled regime in particular. The emperor’s conscientious efforts to deal with such thorny problems as monarchical control, political participation, and local mobilization bespoke his will in shifting power downward to allow wider deliberation and more sustainable power relationships. This top-down transference of initiative contributed to a quiet eclipse of Manchu emperorship vis-à-vis the bureaucracy, as well as central state capacity vis-à-vis local societal power. Both changes diluted the autocratic aura of the monarchical rule, which might be taken as harbingers of late Qing constitutional reform. All these, moreover, opened up a larger window for the expression of literati opinions and local aspirations based on “disinterested discussion” and statecraft traditions. Seen from this perspective, the conventional onset of modern Chinese history—the Opium War and the Taiping rebellion—was not as dramatic and clear-cut a watershed as might appear. The real significance of the dual upheavals can be appreciated only when they are situated against the background of the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition. In thinking about the distinctiveness of the Qianlong-Jiaqing transition, it would be instructive to contrast it with other crisis-ridden conjunctures in the history of mid- and late imperial China. To begin with, the transition from the Northern to Southern Song may be seen as the first major antecedent to the state retreat of the 1790s. It represented an epochal shift from Wang Anshi’s “optimistic centralism” based on government efforts at “ordering the world” to a more pragmatic, locally oriented approach to political activism.7 Similar processes of state withdrawal played out in different ways during the Ming and Qing dynasties. Like Wang Anshi, the founding Ming emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang, tried to arrange every detail of local life, which marked another peak of direct state involvement in premodern society. But this highly autocratic style of governing created many headaches for his successors and was gradually abandoned by them. A by-product of this political withdrawal, however, was the dissipation of effective imperial leadership, as many unremarkable Ming rulers abdicated day-to-day involvement with state affairs due to personal ineptitude or court struggles.8 Consequently, they became increasingly isolated from

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the outer court, depending on a few trusted eunuchs and inner-court advisors to govern the empire. The early and mid-Qing rulers, in general, played a much more commanding role in the political system than their late Ming counterparts. The emperors Yongzheng and Qianlong, in particular, were most successful in tightening the grip on the vast bureaucracy and in creating a highly interventionist state. In his early reign, Qianlong actually reversed many of the harsh empire-building initiatives undertaken by his imperial father. But from the 1750s onward the basic tenor of Qianlong’s emperorship moved in a different direction as he gradually strengthened his personal control through institutional centralization and inner-court hegemony. Such enhancement of monarchical authority, however, was achieved at the expense of outer-court effectiveness and its horizontal coordination. Together with Qianlong’s capricious use of power, it eventually backfired and disrupted a balanced political system, as Heshen’s notorious regency clearly suggests. Meanwhile, the hyperactive ruler overextended the state’s reach into society by taking on a series of impossible missions at the very time that the government’s ability to regulate local life and offer paternalistic care was diminishing. Such an aggressive approach to sociopolitical control and frontier-making, unsurprisingly, provoked massive protests and exacerbated the principal-agent problem during the late eighteenth century. To save the dynasty from its crisis of political sustainability, Jiaqing took a middle way of assuming a less interventionist posture while not forgoing constructive imperial initiatives. In recognition of the societal challenges that outstripped the state’s capacities, the emperor withdrew from his father’s unrealistic political commitment by cutting back on government intervention and its Confucian responsibilities. He also tried to accommodate the claims of bureaucrats and local elites, even at the cost of restraining his own personalistic power. Jiaqing’s more balanced efforts in empire-building suggest that top-down political control was not necessarily at odds with bottom-up societal activism. Instead they could be mutually supportive and compatible. The process of state-making, as Kenneth Pomeranz suggests, also hinges on the dual submechanisms of extracting resources and providing services. To ensure sustainable political development, it is critical to maintain a general equilibrium between the two interdependent yet somewhat conflicting processes. From the late Ming to late Qing and Republican eras, central authorities generally increased their squeeze on the taxpayers without improving state services to the local communities, which became a sure recipe for popular protest and political breakdown. Given the structural restraints it confronted, the Jiaqing regime had little choice but to cut

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some unsustainable paternalistic services, leaving them to societal initiatives. However, this forced retrenchment in public managerial activities was not accompanied by inordinate demands on local communities in the form of resource extraction and political control. Although this strategy by no means worked equally well in all areas, for example water control in north China, it did help stabilize the society by stanching the rising tide of protest at the turn of the nineteenth century. From both a forward and backward perspective, such diminution in the state’s involvement in society revitalized the latter, which had long been losing power to the former, thus ushering in a more compatible relation between the two. The retreat initiated by Emperor Jiaqing, furthermore, intersected with the post– Opium War crises so as to shift power downward, thus paving the way for the rise of local autonomy and self-government in the late Qing. All these changes point up the issues of political sustainability and state-society balance, which, as indispensable conditions for long-term sociopolitical development, continue to matter in different temporal and spatial contexts. Last but not least, this work hopes to reorient the way we think about critical events by proposing “all-encompassing contentious crisis” as a key concept for understanding Chinese history. This notion helps bridge the explanatory gap between event and structure by providing a rubric for converting the scheme of multiple destructive upheavals into an integrative model of constructive development. Such an approach should be especially useful for studying traditional China because as a large, unified agrarian empire it generally lacked the constant, fierce multistate competition for warmaking and resource extraction that drove its European counterparts.9 Max Weber saw Asian history as lacking the spark that produced dynamic, self-motivated change in the West.10 Yet this book suggests that Chinese history has been driven by a long train of remarkable crises that constitute a very volatile, enabling, and transformative aspect of its seemingly stagnant tradition. Such crises served as a powerful weapon for reconstructing the Chinese empire, since they formed the axes around which the state-society relationship revolved and, furthermore, provided a key catalyst for their intensive interaction. The rise of modern China, by implication, has been inextricably intertwined with some hard-pressed responses to extraordinary upheavals, as the troubled empire has lurched from crisis to crisis trying to build a more sustainable state. Hence understanding Chinese modernity, to some degree, means understanding the negotiated construction of the all-encompassing contentious crises as well as their uncanny impact on the sustainability of China’s sociopolitical development.

List of Abbreviations and Primary Sources Notes Acknowledgments Index

Abbreviations and Primary Sources

Abbreviations CSEBFJ

CHSBLJQY

CXLCSL

DHLJQ

HMD

JQGZZPZZ JQJJCLFZZ

Yan Ruyi, Chuan shan e bianfang ji (On Border Defense of the Three-Province Border Area of Sichuan, Shaanxi, and Hubei) (Nanchang: Guomin zhengfu junshi weiyuanhui weiyuanzhang nanchang xingying, 1934). Jiang Weiming, ed., Chuan hu shan bailian jiao qiyi ziliao jilu (A Collection of Materials on the White Lotus Uprising in Sichuan, Hubei, and Shaanxi) (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin chubanshe, 1980). Han Wu, ed., Chaoxian lichao shilu zhong de zhongguo shiliao (China-Related Documents in the Veritable Records of the Choson Korea), vol. 12 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980). Wang Xianqian, ed., Shi er chao donghua lu (Jiaqing Reign) (Donghua History of the Qing Dynasty, Jiaqing Reign) (Taibei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1963). The First Historical Archives of China, ed., Qinggong gongwangfu dang an zonghui: Heshen mi dang (Collection of Archives on Prince Gong Mansion of the Qing: Secret Documents on Heshen), vol. 9 (Beijing: Guojia tushu chubanshe, 2009). Jiaqing gongzhong zhupi zouzhe (Imperially Rescripted Palace Memorials, Jiaqing Emperor). Jiaqing junjichu lufu zouzhe (Grand Council Copies of Memorials, Jiaqing Reign).

262

Abbreviations and Primary Sources

JQJJCLFZZ / JBD JQJJCLFZZ / NM JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD

JQJJCSSD

JQQJZ

JQSL JQSNTSH

JQSYD

KJJFSB

QDJPSSXFFL

QDWJSL

QTJ-JQ

QZQWSBLJ

SSSNFTZS

SWJ SYJL

Junjichu lufu zouzhe jiaobudang (Grand Council Copies of Memorials in the Type of Suppression Campaigns). Junjichu lufu zouzhe nongmin yundonglei (Grand Council Copies of Memorials in the Type of Peasant Rebellions). Junjichu lufu zouzhe shanhou shiyidang (Grand Council Copies of Memorials in the Type of Reconstruction and Remedial Arrangements). Jiaqing junjichu suishou dengji dang (Register of Documents as They Came to Hand: The Grand Council Logbook). Jiaqing qijuzhu (Court Diary of Imperial Actions and Speeches, Jiaqing Emperor) (Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chubanshe, 2006). Jiaqing shilu (Veritable Records of the Jiaqing Emperor) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986). Jiaqing sannian taishanghuang qijuzhu (Court Diary of the Grand Emperor in the First Three Years of the Jiaqing Reign). Jiaqing daoguang liangchao shangyudang (Imperial Edicts of the Jiaqing-Daoguang Reigns), vols. 1–15 (Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chubanshe, 2000). Shixiangcun jushi, ed., Kanjing jiaofei shubian (An Account of Pacifying Sectarian Rebels) (Taiwan: Tailianfeng chubanshe, 1970). Qinggui et al., eds., Qinding jiaoping sansheng xiefei fanglue (Imperially Authorized Account of the Pacification of the Three Province Sect Rebels) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996). Museum of the Forbidden City, ed., Qingdai waijiao shiliao (Archives on Foreign Diplomacy of the Qing Dynasty) (Taipei: Chengwen, 1968). Dai Yi and Li Wenhai, eds., Qing Tongjian-Jiaqing (A Chronological History of the Qing Dynasty–Jiaqing Reign), vols. 11–12 (Taiyuan: Shanxi chubanshe, 2000). History Institute of the Chinese Academy of Social Science, ed., Qing zhongqi wusheng bailian jiao qiyi ziliao (Archives on the Five-Province White Lotus Uprising of the Mid-Qing), vols. 1–5 (Nanjing: Jiangsu renmin chubanshe, 1981). Yan Ruyi, Sansheng shannei fengtu zashi (Miscellaneous Records of Local Customs in the Mountain Areas of the Three Provinces) (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936). Wei Yuan, Shengwu ji (Chronicle of Imperial Military Campaigns) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982). Liang Zhangju and Zhu Zhi, Shuyuan jilue (Materials on Grand Council History) (Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1984).

Abbreviations and Primary Sources

263

XTZL Zhaolian, Xiao ting za lu (Miscellaneous Notes of the Xiao Pavilion) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980).

Other Primary Sources Guochao gongshi xubian (Sequel to the History of the Qing Court), ed. Qinggui et al. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995–2002). Jiaoping caiqian zougao (Memorials on the Suppression of the Pirate Chief Cai Qian) (Beijing: Guojia tushuguan fenguan, 2004). Jindai zhongguo shiliao congkan (Archival Collection of Modern China), ed. Shen Yunlong (Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe, 1990). Qing bai lei chao (The Classified Anthology of Qing Anecdotes), ed. Xu Ke (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984). Qingdai nongmin zhanzheng shi ziliao xuanbian (Selected Materials on the History of Peasant Rebellions in the Qing Dynasty), ed. Zhongguo renmin daxue lishixi (Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue lishixi, 1983). Qingshi gao (Draft History of the Qing Dynasty), ed. Zhao Erxun et al. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1977). Qingshi ziliao (Materials for the Qing Dynasty) vol. 3, ed. Zhongguo shehui kexueyuan lishi yanjiusuo qingshi yanjiushi (Qing History Division of the Institute of Historical Research of the Chinese Academy of Social Sicences) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju chubanshe, 1982).

Notes

Introduction 1. All the dates in this book are of the lunar calendar. For a description of the ceremony of abdication and succession, see JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-14-0048-072; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4755; see also Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: Image and Reality in the Ch’ien-lung Reign (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 191–199. 2. DHLJQ, vol. 1, 2–3; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4755; the Qiansou Yan was first held by the Kangxi emperor in 1713. The Qianlong emperor held his first Qiansou Yan in 1785, followed by his second in 1796; Alexandra Etheldred Grantham, A Manchu Monarch: An Interpretation of Chia Ch’ing (London: G. Allen and Unwin, 1934), 14; William T. Rowe, China’s Last Empire: the Great Qing (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009), 71. 3. This landmark upheaval is often identified as the end point of the high Qing period, which corresponds to what has been called the “flourishing age from the Kangxi to Qianlong reigns” (kang qian shengshi, 1662–1796). Gong Wensheng, “Cong Rong Ou Bi,” (Occasional Writings after Joining the Army) in Jindai zhongguo shiliao congkan (Collected Source Materials for Modern Chinese History) (Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe, 1990), part 3, no. 541–544, introduction. 4. It is worth noting that Britain’s two invasions of Macao represented its most critical confrontations with China before the first Opium War. SWJ, vol. 8, 354; QDWJSL, 292. 5. This turbulent period, in particular, coincided with the onset of the “Age of Revolution” in Europe (1789–1848) as E. J. Hobsbawm calls it. Hobsbawm,

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6. 7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

Notes to Pages 2–5

The Age of Revolution, 1789 to 1848 (New York: Mentor, 1962); Jack Goldstone, Revolution and Rebellion in the Early Modern World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Kenneth Pomeranz, “Their Own Path to Crisis? Social Change, State-Building, and the Limits of Qing Expansion, c. 1770–1840,” in The Age of Revolutions in Global Context, c.1760–1840, ed. David Armitage and Sanjay Subrahmanyam (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 189–208; Ho-Fung Hung uses the term “delayed state breakdown” to describe the process of Qing state making during the early nineteenth century. See Protest with Chinese Characteristics: Demonstrations, Riots, and Petitions in the Mid-Qing Dynasty (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011). Goldstone challenges this standard interpretation in Revolution and Rebellion, 482. I borrow this term from Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europe, and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). Ping-ti Ho, review of John K. Fairbank, ed., The Cambridge History of China (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), vol. 10, Journal of Asian Studies 39(1979): 135. Recent Western scholarship has begun to look closely at the positive significance of the Jiaqing reign. For instance, Daniel McMahon, Seunghyun Han, Matthew W. Mosca, and William T. Rowe have sought to recast this period in a more positive light. Building on their revisionist studies, I hope to present a systematic reexamination of Jiaqing’s reign by exploring the politics of social protest and how it led to a reorientation of the state in the nineteenth century. William T. Rowe, “Introduction: The Significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition in Qing History,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 74–88; Matthew W. Mosca, “The Literati Rewriting of China in the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 89–132; Seunghyun Han, “The Punishment of Examination Riots in the Early to Mid-Qing Period,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 133–165; Cecily McCaffrey, “Three Rebellions, Three Resolutions: The Evolution of State / Sect / Society Relations in China, 1774–1813,” paper presented to the annual meeting of the Association for Asian Studies in Pennsylvania, March 2010. Sidney Tarrow, Introduction to Territorial Politics in Industrial Nations, ed. Sidney Tarrow, Peter J. Katzenstein, and Luigi Graziano (New York: Praeger, 1978), 1; Philip A. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796–1864 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970). Charles Tilly, “Contentious Politics and Social Change,” African Studies 56 (1997): 51–65. There is no book-length study that focuses specifically on the entire White Lotus rebellion of 1796. An important work is Suzuki Chusei, Shincho chukishi kenkyu (A Historical Study of the Mid-Qing Period)(Toyohashi: Aichi University Research Institute on International Problems, 1952). Several related studies are: Richard Chu, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect in

Notes to Pages 5–10

13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

18.

267

Chinese History: With Special Reference to Peasant Movements” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 1967); Blaine Gaustad, “Religious Sectarianism and the State in Mid Qing China: Background to the White Lotus Uprising of 1796– 1804” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1994); Cecily Miriam McCaffrey, “Living through Rebellion: A Local History of the White Lotus Uprising in Hubei, China” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, San Diego, 2003); Susan Naquin, Millenarian Rebellion in China: The Eight Trigrams Uprising of 1813 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976). With regard to the piracy case, there are several important studies: Dian H. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 1790–1810 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987); Robert J. Antony, Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 2003). Some historians of Vietnam also touch on this topic and tell the other side of the story; one important study is George Edson Dutton, The Tay Son Uprising: Society and Rebellion in Eighteenth-Century Vietnam (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2006). I adopt this term from Pierre-Étienne Will, review of Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), by Beatrice Bartlett, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 54 (1994): 315. “Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development: Our Common Future” www.un-documents.net/our-common-future.pdf (accessed 04/22/13). Sidney Verba, Crises and Sequences in Political development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 299; Joel S. Migdal, State in Society: Studying How State and Societies Transform and Constitute One Another (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 16; R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 82; Kenneth Pomeranz, The Making of a Hinterland: State, Society, and Economy in Inland North China, 1853–1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 271. Peter M. Mitchell, “The Limits of Reformism: Wei Yuan’s Reaction to Western Intrusion,” Modern Asian Studies 6 (1972): 183. By conceptualizing events as “transformations of structures,” both scholars try to bridge the gap between the two categories and to redress their unbalanced relationship. In particular, Sewell calls on historians to embrace the “return of the event” by contributing to a general analysis of its dynamics and influence on long-term historical change. Marshall Sahlins, “The Return of the Event, Again: With Reflections on the Beginnings of the Great Fijian War of 1843 to 1855 between the Kingdoms of Bau and Rewa,” in Clio in Oceania: Toward a Historical Anthropology, ed. Aletta Biersack (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 37–100; William H. Sewell, Jr., Logics of History: Social Theory and Social Transformation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 197–199. This can be achieved by borrowing from and synthesizing social science theories of contentious politics, state-in-society, and comparative politics. Charles

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19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

24.

Notes to Pages 10–18

Tilly and Sidney Tarrow, Contentious Politics (Boulder, Colo.: Paradigm, 2007); Joel Migdal, Atul Kohli, and Vivienne Shue, eds., State Power and Social Forces (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Mark Irving Lichbach and Alan S. Zuckerman, eds., Comparative Politics: Rationality, Culture, and Structure (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Sewell interprets such extraordinary events as both “dislocations and transformative rearticulations of structures.” Sewell, Logics of History, 245; Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,” in Fairbank, Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, pt. 1, 107; Colin Hay, “Crisis and the Structural Transformation of the State: Interrogating the Process of Change,” British Journal of Politics and International Relations 1 (1999):317–344. Fernand Braudel, “History and the Social Sciences,” in On History, trans. Sarah Matthews (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 25–54; similarly, Sewell also classifies the multiple historical time into three categories: trends, routines, and events. Sewell, Logics of History, 221–246. Building on the theories of Sahlins and Sewell, more specifically, this book investigates how the conjuncture of events is related to both the “structure of the conjuncture” and the “conjuncture of structures,” and vice versa. Such an interactive and open-ended approach provides the basis for a more general model of historical change that combines slow-to-change, deep-seated structure with fast-moving accidents and kaleidoscopic anecdotes. This methodology, akin to Daniel Little’s “conjunctural contingent meso-history,” helps lessen the barrier between historians and social scientists by promoting “a middle way between grand theory and excessively particularistic narrative.” Ibid. Daniel Little, “Mentalités, Identities, and Practices,” www.personal .umd.umich.edu/~delittle/identity%20mentalite%20practices%20share.htm (accessed 04/22/13). Daniel McMahon, “Dynastic Decline, Heshen, and the Ideology of the Xianyu Reforms,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies 38 (2008): 251; Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics; Man-houng Lin emphasizes the significance of the “silver-copper coin crisis” triggered by the global decrease in silver from 1808 to 1856. See China Upside Down: Currency, Society, and Ideology, 1808–1856 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 2, 108–109. Rowe, China’s Last Empire, 150.

1. Origins of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Crises 1. B. J. ter Haar, The White Lotus Teachings in Chinese Religious History (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999), 243; Susan Naquin, Shantung Rebellion: The Wang Lun Uprising of 1774 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 148. 2. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 54; ter Haar, White Lotus Teachings, 249; Yun Shi, “A Sectarian Family: Cultivating Social Space in Late Imperial China” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1999), 11; Naquin, Shantung Rebellion.

Notes to Pages 19–21

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3. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 138; Wen-hsiung Hsu, “The Triads and Their Ideology up to the Early Nineteenth Century: A Brief History,” in Heterodoxy in Late Imperial China, ed. K. C. Liu and Richard Shek (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 329; David Ownby, Brotherhoods and Secret Societies in Early and Mid-Qing China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 5; Tuan-Hwee Sng, “Size and Agency Problems in Early Modern China and Japan” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 2011), 59. 4. JQJJCLFZZ, May 16, 1809, 03-1717-058; William T. Rowe, China’s Last Empire: The Great Qing (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009), 78. 5. Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, pt. 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 269, 330; Ownby, Brotherhoods, 5, 26, 108; Hsu, “Triads and Their Ideology,” 327, 346; Antony, “Piracy and the Shadow Economy in the South China Sea, 1780–1810,” in Elusive Pirates, Pervasive Smugglers: Violence and Clandestine Trade in the Greater China Seas, ed. Antony (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010), 101; HoFung Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics: Demonstrations, Riots, and Petitions in the Mid-Qing Dynasty (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 123. 6. Rongzhen Wu, Qianjia miaomin qiyi shigao (Historical Documents of the Miao Rebellions in the Qianlong and Jiaqing Reigns of the Qing Dynasty) (Guiyang: Guizhou renmin chubanshe, 1985), 3. 7. QTJ-JQ, vols. 11, 4728; see also Donald Sutton, “Ethnic Revolt in the Qing Empire: The Miao Uprising of 1795–1797 Reexamined,” Asia Major 17 (2005): 115. 8. Sutton, “Ethnic Revolt,” 109–110; Wu, Qianjia miaomin qiyi shigao, 3; Suzuki Chusei, Shincho chukishi kenkyu (A Historical Study of the Mid-Qing Period)(Toyohashi: Aichi University Research Institute on International Problems, 1952), 142–143. 9. Yingcong Dai, The Sichuan Frontier and Tibet: Imperial Strategy in the Early Qing (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2009), 224. Emboldened by the initial success of her ethnic “brothers,” the Guizhou sorceress Wang Acong launched a second Miao insurrection against government persecution and Han exploitation. Hailing from the Miao tribe in Nanlong prefecture, Wang was a charismatic local leader who had been worshiped as Goddess Nang (Nangxian). This rebellion started on January 26, 1797, and finally was suppressed eight months later. Despite its short duration and narrow range, Wang Acong’s rebellion further taxed the state’s resources and lent an indirect support to the rising White Lotus rebels. See Shangying Li, “Jiaqing er nian de Wang Nangxian qiyi” (The Wang Nangxian Rebellion in the Second Year of the Jiaqing Reign), Qingshi yanjiu (Study in History of the Qing Dynasty) 2 (1993): 86–89. 10. Seth L. Stewart, “Qianlong, the Taipings, and Change: The Decline of the Qing Empire and the Dynastic System of Governance” (Ph.D. diss., University of Louisville, 2008), 49; Xiang Gao, “Cong ‘chiying baotai’ dao gaoya tongzhi:

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12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

22.

Notes to Pages 21–24

Lun Qianlong zhongqi zhengzhi zhuanbian” (From “Sustaining the Prosperity and Preserving the Peace” to Highhanded Rule: On the Political Transformation in the Mid-Qianlong Reign) Qingshi yanjiu 3 (1991): 9. Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: Image and Reality in the Ch’ien-lung Reign (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 7; in a similar vein, Pei Huang labels the three leaders as, respectively, a powerholder, a power-maker, and a power-spender. See Autocracy at Work: A Study of the Yung-cheng Period, 1723–1735 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 23. Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers: The Chinese Sorcery Scare of 1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), 51; Richard L. K. Jung, “The Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression of Rebellion” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1979), 23–28; Mary Backus Rankin, “Social and Political Change in Nineteenth-Century China,” in Historical Perspectives on Contemporary East Asia, ed. Merle Goldman and Andrew Gordon (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 54. Sng, “Size and Agency Problems,” 65, 70–74. Generally known as an astute judge of character, Qianlong’s unwavering patronage of Heshen was so enigmatic that it became a lasting historical curiosity. Popular anecdotes went so far as to add a romantic touch to their relationship, hinting at a homosexual liaison between the two despite the forty-year difference in their ages. But no convincing evidence supports this provocative proposition. H. Lyman Miller, “The Late Imperial State,” in The Modern Chinese State, ed. David Sharmbaugh (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 28; Woodside, “Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” 230; Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 28. Peter A. Hall, “The Role of Interests, Institutions, and Ideas in the Comparative Political Economy of the Industrialized Nations,” in Comparative Politics: Rationality, Culture, and Structure, ed. Mark Irving Lichbach and Alan S. Zuckerman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 178. Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 29–30. Ibid., 5, 30. Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, pt. 1, ed. John K. Fairbank (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 108. Ping-ti Ho, Studies on the Population of China, 1368–1953 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), 23, 264, 270, 278. Ramon H. Myers and Yeh-chien Wang, “Economic Developments, 1644–1800,” in Peterson, The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, pt. 1, 570–572; Susan Naquin and Evelyn Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 107, 223; Ho, Studies on the Population of China, 206. Although Qianlong’s triumph in Xinjiang added about 20,000 li of new land to the Qing Empire, most of it could hardly be reclaimed for agriculture at that time due to unfriendly ecological conditions and technological limitation.

Notes to Pages 24–29

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23. Ho, Studies on the Population of China, 109, 145–148; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 109–110. 24. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 110; Philip Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 6–7. 25. Anne Osborne, “The Local Politics of Land Reclamation in the Lower Yangzi Highlands,” Late Imperial China 15 (1994): 1–10; Robert B. Marks, Tigers, Rice, Silk, and Silt: Environment and Economy in Late Imperial South China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Marks, China: Its Environment and History (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2012), 222. 26. Mark Elvin, “The Environmental Legacy of Imperial China,” China Quarterly 156 (1998): 738. 27. Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europe, and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). 28. Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State, 6. 29. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 109; see also Anne Osborne, “Highlands and Lowlands: Economic and Ecological Interactions in the Lower Yangzi Region under the Qing,” in Sediments of Time: Environment and Society in Chinese History, ed. Mark Elvin and Ts’ui-jung Liu (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 203. 30. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 132. 31. Bradly Reed, Talons and Teeth: County Clerks and Runners in the Qing Dynasty (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000); Frederic Wakeman, Jr., “The Evolution of Local Control in Late Imperial China,” in Conflict and Control in Late Imperial China, ed. Frederic Wakeman, Jr., and Carolyn Grant (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), 18; JQJJCSSD, December 16 and 24, 1803, 321; see also JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, December 16, 20, 24, and 26, 1803, hereafter JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD. 32. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 108. 33. Joseph Fletcher, “Ch’ing Inner Asia c. 1800,” in Fairbank, The Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, Late Ch’ing, 1800–1911, pt. 1, 35; Nicola Di Cosmo, “Qing Colonial Administration in Inner Asia,” International History Review 20 (1998): 288. 34. Owen Lattimore, “The Frontier in History,” Studies in Frontier History: Collected Papers, 1928–1958 (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 487. 35. SWJ, vol. 9, 375. 36. This ill-conceived campaign, as R. Kent Guy puts it, represented “a critical moment of transition between the military endeavors associated with Fuheng [chief Grand Council] and the much more civilian concerns of Fuheng’s successor Liu Tongxun.” Guy, Qing Governors and Their Provinces: The Evolution of Territorial Administration in China, 1644–1796 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 135; Xiang Gao argues that Qianlong’s change of attitude signaled and facilitated the Qing’s transition from an expanding phase to a consolidating one. See Gao, “Cong ‘chiying baotai,’ ” 9, 11. 37. Joel S. Migdal, State in Society: Studying How State and Societies Transform and Constitute One Another (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 16–17, 97.

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Notes to Pages 29–31

38. Ping-ti Ho, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China: Aspects of Social Mobility, 1368–1911 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964); Woodside, “Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” 300. 39. Shmuel Noah Eisenstadt, The Political Systems of Empires (London and New York: Free Press of Glencoe, 1963), 27; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 110; C. K. Yang, “Some Preliminary Statistical Patterns of Mass Actions in Nineteenth Century China,” in Wakeman and Grant, Conflict and Control in Late Imperial China, 200. 40. Woodside, “Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” 238; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 110–114. 41. Rowe, China’s Last Empire, 154; Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 66; corrupt officials included Wang Ganwang, Chen Huizhu, Wulana, and Pulin. See Huang Hongshou, Qingshi jishi benmo (The Records of Qing History from Beginning to End) (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1986), vol. 34. 42. Alexandra Etheldred Grantham, A Manchu Monarch: An Interpretation of Chia Ch’ing (London: G. Allen and Unwin, 1934), 23, cited in Nancy E. Park, “Corruption in Eighteenth-Century China,” Journal of Asian Studies 56 (1997): 968. 43. Susan Mann Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi (1746–1809): The Perception and Articulation of Political Problems in Late Eighteenth Century China” (Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 1972), 167–174; Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 53. Hansheng Quan argues that such inflationary effect also resulted from what he calls the “Chinese price revolution” in the eighteenth century. See Quan, “Mingqing jian meizhou baiyin de shuru zhongguo” (The Inflow of American Silver to China during the Ming and Qing Dynasties), in Quan, Zhongguo jingjishi luncong (Essays on Chinese Economic History) (Taipei: Hedao chubanshe, 1996): 435–450. 44. Yuri Pines, The Everlasting Empire: The Political Culture of Ancient China and Its Imperial Legacy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), 120; Madeleine Zelin, The Magistrate’s Tael: Rationalizing Fiscal Reform in Eighteenth Century Ch’ing China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 299. 45. Jeou Yi Aileen Yang, “The Muddle of Salt: The State and Merchants in Late Imperial China, 1644–1911” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1996), 184; The yamen runners and clerks had to sustain themselves with the customary fees collected in the course of their administrative chores. Reed, Talons and Teeth, 249–252; Prasenjit Duara, Culture, Power, and the State: Rural North China, 1900–1942 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988); Kenneth Pomeranz, The Making of a Hinterland: State, Society, and Economy in Inland North China, 1853–1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 189. 46. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 396, 146; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 113. 47. Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics, 102–103; under the dual pressure from the top-down (state) and the bottom-up (society), ironically, many yamen clerks and runners joined the White Lotus sects in the late Qianlong reign. Thanks to their official and social network of communication, these “illicit bureaucrats” contributed greatly to the wide spread of the sectarian teachings

Notes to Pages 32–40

48. 49. 50.

51. 52.

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in western and northern Hubei. Some former yamen personnel, like Wang Lun, Qi Lin, Yang Qiyuan, Xiong Daocheng, Xu Tiande, and Lin Qing, even became major leaders in the White Lotus uprisings of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. See Tianxiang Jiang, “Zhaoya yu panni: xuli yu qing zhongqi bailianjiao qiyi—yi qianjia zhi ji ‘dangyang jiaotuan’ wei zhongxin” (Talons, Teeth, and Rebels: Yamen Personnel and the White Lotus Rebellion in mid-Qing—with a focus on the “Dangyang Congregation” during the QianlongJiaqing Transition), Lishi jiaoxue wenti (Issues in History Teaching) 3 (2007): 45–49; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 73, 80, 82n. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 226; XTZL, vol. 10, 18; JQQJZ, January 20, 1799, 60; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 366, 382. Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi,” 170. Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 34, 86; Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring and the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007), 428. Ibid., 138; Huang, Autocracy at Work, 16; Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics, 131–133. Mark C. Elliott, Emperor Qianlong: Son of Heaven, Man of the World (New York: Longman, 2009), 164; Jung, “Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression,” 5, 98.

2. The White Lotus Rebellion in the Han River Highlands 1. Daniel Little, “Local Politics and Class Conflict in Chinese Peasant Rebellions,” www.personal.umd.umich.edu/~delittle/BELLAGI2.PDF (accessed 04/28 /2013). 2. It should be noted that each of the three zones contained its own system of regional divisions. In general, political resources and economic wealth thinned out toward the peripheries, whose extent of autonomy tended to increase with distance from the regional core. Besides geographic features, the making of such spatial divisions also rested on shifting processes and contingent relationships that fueled the development of frontier making. 3. Edmund R. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954); James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008). 4. We can understand this process in a way somewhat comparable to the expansion of capitalism depicted by the world-systems theory. 5. Cited in Lloyd E. Eastman, Throne and Mandarins: China’s Search for a Policy during the Sino-French Controversy, 1880–1885 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1967), 38. 6. Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 563. 7. Philip E. Steinberg, The Social Construction of the Ocean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 23. 8. Ibid., 190; Resat Kasaba, “A Time and a Place for the Nonstate: Social Change in the Ottoman Empire during the ‘Long Nineteenth Century,’ ” in State Power

274

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

Notes to Pages 40–45

and Social Forces, ed. Joel Migdal, Atul Kohli, and Vivienne Shue (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 207–230. It is worth noting that these borderlands were full of multiple communities and social groups that often fought each other at least as much as they fought the state. Perdue, China Marches West, 552; James A. Millward, “New Perspective on the Qing Frontier,” in Remapping China: Fissures in Historical Terrain, ed. Gail Hershatter et al. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996). G. William Skinner, “Cities and the Hierarchy of Local Systems,” in The City in Late Imperial China, ed. G. William Skinner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1977), 275–352. Jerry H. Bentley, “Sea and Ocean Basins as Frameworks of Historical Analysis,” Geographical Review 89 (1999): 215–224; R. Keith Schoppa, “Contours of Revolutionary Change in a Chinese County, 1900–1950,” in TwentiethCentury China: New Approaches, ed. Jeffery N. Wasserstrom (London: Rutledge, 2003), 134. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 344. Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, pt. 1, ed. John K. Fairbank (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 136; Daniel Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1976); see also QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 344; Susan Naquin, “The Transmission of White Lotus Sectarianism in Late Imperial China,” in Popular Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. David Johnson, Andrew Nathan, and Evelyn Rawski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 257. Richard Shek, “The Alternative Moral Universe of Religious Dissenters in Ming-Qing China,” in Religion and the Early Modern State: Views from China, Russia, and the West, ed. James D. Tracy and Marguerite Ragnow (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 16–18. Richard Chu, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect in Chinese History: With Special Reference to Peasant Movements” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 1967), 89–90; Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion, 48. Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion, 48; Susan Naquin, “Connections between Rebellions: Sect Family Networks in Qing China,” Modern China 8 (1982): 337; Shek, “Alternative Moral Universe,” 18; Hok-lam Chan, “The White Lotus–Maitreya Doctrine and Popular Uprisings in Ming and Ch’ing China,” Sinologica 10 (1969): 216–218. Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion, 83; Robert Weller, “Sectarian Religion and Political Action in China,” Modern China 8 (1982): 477–478. Weller, “Sectarian Religion,” 478; imperial edict of May 22, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 267. Richard Shek and Tetsuro Noguchi, “Eternal Mother Religion: Its History and Ethics,” in Heterodoxy in Late Imperial China, ed. K. C. Liu and Richard Shek (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 267. This perspective was inspired by Akhil Gupta’s research on how the discourse of corruption shaped the ethnography of the state in contemporary India.

Notes to Pages 45–49

22.

23.

24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

275

Gupta, “Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption, the Culture of Politics, and the Imagined State,” American Ethnologist 22 (1995): 375–402. Susan Naquin, Millenarian Rebellion in China: The Eight Trigrams Uprising of 1813 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 8; Shek and Noguchi, “Eternal Mother Religion,” 241; Stevan Harrell and Elizabeth J. Perry, “Syncretic Sects in Chinese Society: An Introduction,” Modern China 8(1982): 290–291. Richard von Glahn, The Sinister Way: The Divine and the Demonic in Chinese Religious Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004); Shek and Noguchi, “Eternal Mother Religion,” 269; Shek, “Alternative Moral Universe,” 41, 49. See Lebao’s memorial of 1795, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 25; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 189. Richard Shek, “Ethics and Polity: The Heterodoxy of Buddhism, Maitreyanism, and the Early White Lotus,” in Liu and Shek, Heterodoxy in Late Imperial China, 329; Suzuki Chusei, Shincho chukishi kenkyu (A Historical Study of the Mid-Qing Period) (Toyohashi: Aichi University Research Institute on International Problems, 1952), 104; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 187, 241; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 25; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 137. Naquin, Millenarian Rebellion, 8; Chu, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect.” Susan Naquin, Introduction to Shantung Rebellion: The Wang Lun Uprising of 1774 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981). Ibid. Arthur Wolf, “Gods, Ghosts, and Ancestors,” in Studies in Chinese Society, ed. Arthur Wolf (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1978), 135, 175. James Watson, “Standardizing the Gods: The Promotion of T’ien Hou (‘Empress of Heaven’) along the South China Coast, 960–1960,” in Johnson et al., Popular Culture in Late Imperial China, 292–324; Prasenjit Duara, “Superscribing Symbols: The Myth of Guandi, Chinese God of War,” Journal of Asian Studies 47 (1988): 778–795; Qitao Guo, Exorcism and Money: The Symbolic World of the Five-Fury Spirits in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 2003); Ritual Opera and Mercantile Lineage: The Confucian Transformation of Popular Culture in Late Imperial Huizhou (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005). Weller, “Sectarian Religion,” 481; B. J. ter Haar, The White Lotus Teachings in Chinese Religious History (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999), 243; Steven P. Sangren, “Female Gender in Chinese Religious Symbols: Kuan Yin, Ma Tsu, and the ‘Eternal Mother,’ ” Signs 9 (1983): 25. Naquin, “Transmission of White Lotus Sectarianism,” 257. K. C. Liu, “Religion and Politics in the White Lotus Rebellion of 1796 in Hubei,” in Liu and Shek, Heterodoxy in Late Imperial China, 293; Yingcong Dai, The Sichuan Frontier and Tibet: Imperial Strategy in the Early Qing (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2009), 223; Jianmin Li, “Qing jiaqing yuannian chuanchu bailian jiao qishi yuanyin de tiantao” (On the Origins of the White Lotus Rebellion in Sichuan and Hubei in the First Year of the Jiaqing

276

34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

41.

42.

43.

44. 45. 46. 47.

Notes to Pages 49–53

Reign), Zhongyang yanjiuyuan jindaishi yanjiusuo jikan (Bulletin of the Institute of Modern History, Academica Sinica) 22 (1993): 368–369. JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, September 25, 1804; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4716; KJJFSB, 97; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 201 Li, “Qing jiaqing yuannian,” 369. Ibid., 393; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 57; vol. 4, 164, 187, 300, 306, 313; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 154, 155, 164. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 163, 237; vol. 1, 58, 71; Haicheng Gu, Chuan shan chu bailian jiaoluan shimo (An Overall Account of the Uprisings by the White Lotus Sects in the Provinces of Sichuan, Shaanxi, and Hubei)(Taipei: Landeng wenhua shiye gufen youxian gongsi, 1976), 3–5; Sandip Hazareesingh, “Interconnected Synchronicities: The Production of Bombay and Glasgow as Modern Global Ports c. 1850–1880,” Journal of Global History 4 (2009): 7–31; Cecily Miriam McCaffrey, “Living through Rebellion: A Local History of the White Lotus Uprising in Hubei, China” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, San Diego, 2003), 84–89, 186. Skinner, “Cities and the Hierarchy,” 282. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 396, 166. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 137; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 37. As for the difference between wet-rice cultivation and dry-land farming, see Robert B. Marks, Tigers, Rice, Silk, and Silt: Environment and Economy in Late Imperial South China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 103–105; Schoppa, “Contours of Revolutionary Change,” 133. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 324; vol. 397, 108; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 74, 108; JQJJCLFZZ, February 24, 1801, 03-1481-031, Louis Richard, Comprehensive Geography of the Chinese Empire and Dependencies (Shanghai: Túsewei Press, 1908), 123–130; Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). Shaobin Li, “Qingdai zhongqi chuanshanchu diqu liudong renkou yu chuanshanchu jiaoluan” (Migrants and the White Lotus Rebellion in Sichuan, Shaanxi, and Hubei Provinces in the Mid-Qing Dynasty) (M.A. thesis, Taiwan Normal University, 1999), 115; Blaine Gaustad, “Prophets and Pretenders: Inter-sect Rivalry in Qianlong China,” Late Imperial China 21 (2000): 12–17. Tianxiang Jiang, “Qing Qianjia zhi ji bailian jiao xiangyang jiaotuan de dili fenbu he kongjian jiegou” (The Geographical Distribution and Spatial Organization of the ‘Xiangyang Congregation’ of the White Lotus Religion during the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition) Zongjiao xue yanjiu (Religious Studies) 3 (2008): 154–163; McCaffrey, “Living through Rebellion,” 138. SWJ, vol. 9, 376; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 236, vol. 4, 1; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 8; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 54. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 166, 185; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 228, 230. Liu, “Religion and Politics,” 287; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, in CHSBLJQY, 184; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 337, vol. 5, 8, 105. Naquin, Millenarian Rebellion, 121.

Notes to Pages 53–57

277

48. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 21; see also QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 173; JQJJCLFZZ, July 19, 1796, 03-1651-012. 49. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 143. 50. A key strategy of the White Lotus rebels was looting and coercing (guoxie). They forced “good people” to follow them by burning their villages and controlling all the food. To further secure their commitment and prevent their secession, the rebels usually shaved the coerced populace’s hair and tattooed the White Lotus symbol on their face. Nie Renjie’s Confession, QZQWSBLJ, vol.5, 3, 7, 169; memorial of Jing’an, QZQWSBLJ, vol.2, 257. 51. McCaffrey, “Living through Rebellion”; Liu, “Religion and Politics.” 52. Millward, “New Perspective,” 113–129; Daniel McMahon, “The Essentials of a Qing Frontier: Yan Ruyi’s ‘Conditions and Customs in the Mountains,’ ” Monumenta Serica 51 (2003): 309–319; William T. Rowe, Crimson Rain: Seven Centuries of Violence in a Chinese County (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007); Stephen C. Averill, Revolution in the Highlands: China’s Jinggangshan Base Area (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006); Anne Osborne, “The Local Politics of Land Reclamation in the Lower Yangzi Highlands,” Late Imperial China 15 (1994): 1–10. 53. Kevin Archer, “Regions as Social Organisms: The Lamarckian Characteristics of Vidal de la Blache’s Regional Geography,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 83 (1993): 499–503; E. A. Wrigley, “Change in the Philosophy of Geography,” in Frontiers in Geographical Teaching, ed. R. J. Chorley and P. Haggett (London: Methuen, 1965), 3–20. 54. SSSNFTZS, 18. 55. Liang Zhongxiao, “Hanshui wenhuadai de xingcheng xulun” (On the Formation of the Han River Cultural Belt), Hanzhong shifan daxue xuebao (Journal of the Hanzhong Normal University) 80 (2004): 36. 56. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-060; Hongwei Gui, “Qingdai shannan shengtai huanjing bianqian de chengyin tanxi” (Interpreting the Reasons for Change in the Ecological Environment of Southern Shaanxi in the Qing Dynasty) Qingshi yanjiu (Study in History of the Qing Dynasty) 1 (2005): 55. 57. Eduard B. Vermeer, “Population and Ecology along the Frontier in Qing China,” in Sediments of Time: Environment and Society in Chinese History, ed. Mark Elvin and Ts’ui-jung Liu (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 254. 58. SWJ, vol. 9, 433; Tanmin Jia et al., “Qingba shanqu de lishi bianqian yu shengtai chongjian” (The Historical Transformation and Ecological Reconstruction of the Qinba Highlands), Xibei nonglin keji daxue xuebao (Journal of the Northwest Agriculture and Forestry University) 2 (2002): 12; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 478. 59. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-060; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 586; CSEBFJ, 377. 60. William Skinner, “Regional Urbanization in Nineteenth-Century China,” in Skinner, City in Late Imperial China, 218. 61. Chang Woei Ong, Men of Letters within the Passes: Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008), 7; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 477, 500; vol. 393, 475.

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Notes to Pages 57–61

62. Ts’ui-jung Liu, Trade on the Han River and Its Impact on Economic Development, c. 1800–1911 (Taipei: Institute of Economics, 1980), 2. 63. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 644; another official, Gong Wensheng, shared the same view; see Gong Wensheng, “Cong Rong Ou Bi,” (Occasional Writings after Joining the Army) in Jindai zhongguo shiliao congkan (Collected Source Materials for Modern Chinese History)(Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe, 1990), introduction; SSSNFTZS, 14. 64. The most important pathway was shudao (plank roads); JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-060, 03-2844-038; SSSNFTZS, 22. 65. Zhongxiao Liang, “Lishi shiqi qingba shanqu ziran huanjing de bianqian” (The Historical Transformation of the Natural Environment in the Qinba Highlands), Zhongguo lishi dili luncong (Collections of Essays on Chinese Historical Geography) 17(2002): 39–47; Ansheng Ming, “Hanshui wenhuashi shang bada wenhua zhenghe xianxiang tanjiu” (On the Eight Phenomena of Cultural Integration in the Han River History), Yunyang shifan gaodeng zhuanke xuexiao xuebao (Journal of the Teachers College of Yunyang) 27 (2007): 18. 66. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 137; vol. 394, 433, 528; vol. 396, 467; SWJ, vol. 10, 451; SSSNFTZS, 36. 67. Tuan-Hwee Sng, “Size and Agency Problems in Early Modern China and Japan” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 2011), 4. 68. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 432; see also QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 38; SSSNFTZS, 27; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-060; Eduard B. Vermeer, “The Mountain Frontier in Late Imperial China: Economic and Social Developments in the Dabashan,” T’oung Pao (International Journal of Chinese Studies) 77 (1991): 317. 69. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 524, 533, vol. 392, 586; vol. 393, 129, 236; vol. 398, 279; SWJ, vol. 9, 433, 440; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 79; see also QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 208. 70. One li equals 0.31 miles. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 475; JQJJCLFZZ, November 1799, 03-1686-040. 71. CSEBFJ, 412; see also QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 135. 72. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, in CHSBLJQY, 119; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2502-014; CSEBFJ, 4. 73. See Chiang Kai-shek, preface to CSEBFJ. 74. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 150; Gong, “Cong Rong Ou Bi,” 520; a similar description of this military strategy can be seen in QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 56. 75. JQQJZ; imperial edict of November 3, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 434; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 74; see also QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 281; vol. 395, 511. 76. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 190; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 38; Liang, “Lishi shiqi,” 44; SSSNFTZS, 14, 23; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2059-038; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-04-0023-001; Vermeer, “Mountain Frontier,” 301. 77. Liu, Trade on the Han River, 137; Bi Yuan, memorial in the Xing-an Prefecture gazetteer, in Vermeer, “Mountain Frontier,” 311; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2844-038, 03-2059-038. 78. JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-02-0066-019; William T. Rowe, “Social Stability and Social Change,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, The Ch’ing Empire

Notes to Pages 62–66

79. 80.

81.

82.

83. 84.

85. 86.

87. 88.

89. 90.

91. 92. 93. 94. 95.

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to 1800, pt. 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 482. Vol. 17; Xing-an fuzhi, (Gazetteer of the Xing-an Prefecture) 1812, cited in Vermeer, “Mountain Frontier,” 306, 312. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 196; R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 121. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-058, 03-2844-038; CSEBFJ, 402; Jianmin Zhang, “Qingdai qinba shanqu de jingjilin techan kaifa yu jingji fazhan” (Exploiting Economic Forest Specialties and Economic Development of the Qinba Highlands in the Qing Dynasty), Wuhan daxue xuebao (Journal of the Wuhan University) 55 (2002); SSSNFTZS, 22–23; Liu, Trade on the Han River, 92–93. Elizabeth J. Perry, Rebels and Revolutionaries in North China, 1845–1945 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1980); Rowe, Crimson Rain; Averill, Revolution in the Highlands. Gong, “Cong Rong Ou Bi,” 319. Michael Mann, The Sources of Social Power: A History of Power from the Beginning to a.d. 1760, vol. 1 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 1. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 14. Laohu means old residents who were the natives of the local society; see JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2844-038. Wu Xiongguang’s memorial of 1803, in QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 137. If these opinions are to be believed, it might be a misnomer to call the White Lotus rebellion a sectarian uprising, especially in its latter part, when the insurgents’ religious passions were greatly diluted by their “roving mob mentality.” Rowe, “Social Stability,” 510. SSSNFTZS, 22–23; CSEBFJ, 1; Osborne, “Local Politics,” 5; see also QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 35, 447,598, vol. 396, 663; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1699-060, 03-2844-038; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-02-0025-013, 04-01-01-0657-020; Vermeer, “Mountain Frontier,” 326; Sow-Theng Leong, Migration and Ethnicity in Chinese History: Hakkas, Pengmin, and Their Neighbors (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 100. Vermeer, “Mountain Frontier,” 328. Leong, Migration and Ethnicity, 97–99; Stephen Averill, “The Shed People and the Opening of the Yangzi Highlands,” Modern China 9 (1983): 84–126. SSSNFTZS, 14. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 2; Yue Zhenchuan, Cige tang ji, (Collected Works of the Cige Hall) in CHSBLJQY, 20. Averill, “Shed People,” 101. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 18; SWJ; see also Suzuki, Shincho chukishi kenkyu, 83–85. Chu, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect,” 154; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 17; SSSNFTZS; see also Suzuki, Shincho chukishi kenkyu, 84, 123–124; Dai, Sichuan Frontier, 223.

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Notes to Pages 66–74

96. Suzuki, Shincho chukishi kenkyu, 84. 97. Ibid., 123–124; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 137. 98. SWJ, vol. 9, 377; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, in CHSBLJQY, 18; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 396, 559. 99. Cited in Susan Naquin and Evelyn Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 222. 100. The Lianghuai salt zone provided over one-third of the state’s total revenue of salt tax. See Jeou Yi Aileen Yang, “The Muddle of Salt: The State and Merchants in Late Imperial China, 1644–1911” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1996), 81. 101. Ibid., 97; imperial edicts of November 19, 1801, July 18, 1804, JQSYD, vol. 6, 464–465; vol. 9, 314; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 249. 102. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2496-014-182-0850; see also 03-1853-035; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4596; see also JQJJCSSD, 03-0034-1-0801-255; Man-houng Lin, China Upside Down: Currency, Society, and Ideology, 1808–1856 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 31–33. 103. Lin, China Upside Down, 34. 104. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4712, 4716; 4744; 4773; 4721; JQSL imperial edicts of October 1796 and June 1802, vol. 10, 157, vol. 99, 335; Gu, Chuan shan chu, 5. 105. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 161–162. 106. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 139, vol. 394, 358; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 378; see also SSSNFTZS, 27. 107. Silas H. L. Wu, Passage to Power: K’ang-His and His Heir Apparent, 1661– 1722 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1979), 84. 108. Robert H. G. Lee, “Frontier Politics in the Southwestern Sino-Tibetan Borderlands during the Ch’ing Dynasty,” in Perspectives on a Changing China: Essays in Honor of Professor C. Martin Wilbur on the Occasion of His Retirement, ed. Joshua A. Fogel and William T. Rowe (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1979), 53. 109. Naquin and Rawski, Chinese Society, 227. 110. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2059-038; Chu, “ An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect,” 154. 111. William Lavely and R. Bin Wong, “Revising the Malthusian Narrative: The Comparative Study of Population Dynamics in Late Imperial China,” Journal of Asian Studies 57 (1998): 727. 112. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 184; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 56; another important example is Wang Tingzhao, a White Lotus sectarian from Henan. Before he became the leader of a Xiangyang rebel force, Wang had been selling sashes and belts in the region. 113. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 15, 241; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 105, vol. 1, 14, 23; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 138. 114. Gaustad, “Prophets and Pretenders”; Naquin, “Transmission of White Lotus Sectarianism,” 257; Robert D. Jenks, Insurgency and Social Disorder in Guizhou: The “Miao” Rebellion 1854–1873 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994), 60. 115. Gaustad, “Prophets and Pretenders,” 16–20; Liu, “Religion and Politics.” 116. Suzuki, Shincho chukishi kenkyu, 123–124; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 242.

Notes to Pages 74–82

281

117. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 8; memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, 249; Shek, “Alternative Moral Universe,” 49. 118. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 261; see also QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 101. 119. Suzuki, Shincho chukishi kenkyu, 123–124. 120. Naquin, “Transmission of White Lotus Sectarianism,” 281; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 24. 121. Blaine Gaustad and K. C. Liu examine the intricate network of relationship that existed among separate but doctrinally similar sects, which facilitated massive mobilization of sectarian forces in times of crisis. See Blaine Gaustad, “Religious Sectarianism and the State in Mid Qing China: Background to the White Lotus Uprising of 1796–1804” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1994); Liu, “Religion and Politics.” 122. Ye Shizhuo, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 275. 123. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 275; Daniel McMahon, “Restoring the Garden: Yan Ruyi and the Civilizing of China’s Internal Frontiers, 1795–1805” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Davis, 1999), 197; Averill, Revolution in the Highlands, 11. 124. Wong, China Transformed, 102. 125. David Easton, The Political System (New York: Knopf, 1953), 129–134. 126. Wong, China Transformed, 102. 127. Prasenjit Duara, Culture, Power, and the State: Rural North China, 1900– 1942 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988). 128. CSEBFJ, Introduction. 129. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 475; vol. 394, 627; SSSNFTZS, 23; 130. James Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), 234. 131. Little, “Local Politics.” 132. George Edson Dutton, The Tay Son Uprising: Society and Rebellion in Eighteenth-Century Vietnam (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2006), 153; Joel Migdal, “The State in Society: An Approach to Struggles for Domination,” in Migdal et al., State Power and Social Forces, 22. 133. Gupta, “Blurred Boundaries,” 394. 134. Mark I. Lichbach, “Social Theory and Comparative Politics,” in Comparative Politics: Rationality, Culture, and Structure, ed. Mark Irving Lichbach and Alan S. Zuckerman (Cambridge University Press, 1997), 242. 135. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 181. Noriko Kamachi, “Feudalism or Absolute Monarchism: Japanese Discourse on the Nature of State and Society in Late Imperial China,” Modern China 16 (1990): 330.

3. The Piracy Crisis in the South China Sea 1. Memorial from the Acting Grand Secretary and Liangguang Governorgeneral Jiqing to the Jiaqing emperor, March 27 of the seventh year of the Jiaqing reign (1802), JQJJCLFZZ / NM, vol. 41, 3303. 2. Imperial edict of February 11, 1797, JQSYD, vol. 5, 65; SWJ, vol. 8, 354; Dian H. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 1790–1810 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987); Robert J. Antony, Like Froth Floating on

282

Notes to Pages 82–85

the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 2003), 38. 3. JQSL, imperial edict of October 1801, vol. 89, 176–179; see also DHLJQ, vol. 4, 140; JQJJCLFZZ, March 21, 1796, 03-1700-003, 03-1700-078, April 10, 1797, 03-1708-010, 03-1686-058. 4. Hosea Ballou Morse, The Chronicles of the East India Company Trading to China 1635–1834 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1926), vol. 2, 395; SWJ, vol. 8, 354. 5. Roland Higgins, “Piracy and Coastal Defense in the Ming Period, Governmental Responses to Coastal Disturbances, 1523–49” (Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1981), 4–6; Robert Antony, “Sea Bandits of the Canton Delta, 1780–1839,” International Journal of Maritime History 17 (December 2005): 2; Thomas C. S. Chang, “Ts’ai Ch’ien, the Pirate Who Dominates the Sea: A Study of Coastal Piracy in China, 1795–1810” (Ph.D. diss., University of Arizona, 1983), 12–23. 6. John L. Anderson, “Piracy and World History: An Economic Perspective on Maritime Predation,” in Bandits at Sea: A Pirates Reader, ed. C. R. Pennell (New York: New York University Press, 2001), 88. 7. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 80; Dian H. Murray, “Living and Working Conditions in Chinese Pirate Communities, 1750–1850,” in Pirates and Privateers: New Perspectives on the War on Trade in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. David J. Starkey et al. (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1997), 61. 8. Anne Pérotin-Dumon, “The Pirate and the Emperor: Power and Law on the Seas, 1450–1850,” in The Political Economy of Merchant Empires, ed. James D. Tracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 225; Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns: State-Building and Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 152; Robert C. Ritchie, “Government Measures against Piracy and Privateering in the Atlantic Area, 1750–1850,” in Starkey et al., Pirates and Privateers, 14. 9. Thomson, Mercenaries, 21, 54; Tonio Andrade, “The Company’s Chinese Pirates: How the Dutch East India Company Tried to Lead a Coalition of Pirates to War against China, 1621–1662,” Journal of World History 15(2004): 416. 10. Antony, Like Froth, 165. 11. Pérotin-Dumon, “Pirate and the Emperor,” 225. 12. Murray, “Living and Working Conditions,” 47; Pérotin-Dumon, “Pirate and the Emperor,” 197. 13. The Dutch East Indies Company is also called VOC, an abbreviation for “Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie.” The Dutch occupied the Taiwan Island in 1624, which became an important part of their international commercial empire and an entrepôt in East Asia. 14. Within the areas of the province demarcated for evacuation, Qing soldiers plundered and razed houses, laid waste to farmland, and sacked and burned down entire towns and cities. See Ting Tsz Kao, The Chinese Frontiers (Aurora: Chinese Scholarly, 1980), 4.

Notes to Pages 85–88

283

15. Mio Kishimoto-Nakayama, “The Kangxi Depression and Early Qing Local Market,” Late Imperial China 10 (1984): 227–256. 16. Antony, Like Froth, 21. 17. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast. 18. Yuan Yonglun, Jing Haifen Ji (Record of the Pacification of the Pirates). This book was published in 1830; one year later it was translated and included in the English work by Charles Fried Neumann, The Pirates Who Infested the China Sea, from 1807–1810 (London: J. L. Cox, 1831), 5; Zhongxun Zhang, “Qing jiaqing nian jian minzhe haidao zuzhi yanjiu,” (Studies on the Piracy Organizations of Fujian and Zhejiang Provinces during the Jiaqing Reign of the Qing Dynasty) in Zhongguo haiyang fazhan shi lunwen ji (Studies on the History of China’s Maritime Development) (Taipei: Academia Sinica, 1990), vol. 2, 164–166. 19. Richard Glasspoole, “A Few Remarks on the Origins, Progress, Manners, and Customs of the Ladrones,” in Pirates Who Infested the China Sea, 127; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 12, 5033. 20. Imperial edicts of June 24, 1804 and October 26, 1807, JQSYD, vol. 9, 241; vol. 12, 499; JQJJCLFZZ, November 29, 1809, 03-1692-081; see also Antony, “Sea Bandits of the Canton Delta,” 28; Charles Gutzlaff, A Sketch of Chinese History, Ancient and Modern: Comprising a Retrospect of the Foreign Intercourse and Trade with China (New York: John P. Haven, 1834), 20–21. 21. Memorial of the Fujian governor Li Diantu, November 16, 1804, JQSYD, vol. 9, 515; see also Gutzlaff, Sketch of Chinese History, 20; Antony, Like Froth, 118; Murray, “Living and Working Conditions,” 49. A similar description can be found in Demetrius Charles Boulger, History of China (London, W. H. Allen & co., 1881–1884), vol. 3, 29; Dian Murray, “Piracy and China’s Maritime Transition, 1750–1850,” in Maritime China in Transition, 1750–1850, ed. Wang Gungwu and Ng Chin-keong (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2004), 54; Zhang, “Qing jiaqing nian jian,” 178. 22. Murray, “Piracy and China’s Maritime Transition,” 53; imperial edict of November 9, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 690. 23. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 8; E. H. Nolan, The Illustrated History of the British Empire in India and the East (London: Virtue, 1858), vol. 2, 490; QDWJSL, 292. 24. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 8; see also Anderson, “Piracy and World History,” 196–197. 25. Jesse Olney, The Family Book of History (Philadelphia: Durrie and Peck, 1839), 113; Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 33; Murray, “Piracy and China’s Maritime Transition,” 54; Antony, “Sea Bandits of the Canton Delta,” 23. 26. JQJJCLFZZ / NM, May 1, 1809, 2263; JQJJCLFZZ, unknown date, 03-2173-059 27. Anderson, “Piracy and World History,” 88, 185; Antony, Like Froth, 13. 28. Antony, “Sea Bandits of the Canton Delta,” 27–28. 29. Yuan, Jing Haifen Ji, 15; Antony, “Sea Bandits of the Canton Delta,” 28; Robert Antony, “Piracy and the Shadow Economy in the South China Sea, 1780– 1810,” in Elusive Pirates, Pervasive Smugglers: Violence and Clandestine Trade

284

30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

Notes to Pages 89–95

in the Greater China Seas, ed. Antony (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010), 99. SWJ, vol. 8, 359; imperial edict of August 20, 1804, JQSYD, vol. 9, 391. Glasspoole, “Few Remarks,” 127; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 12, 5137; see also Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 32; Andrew Ljungstedt, An Historical Sketch of the Portuguese Settlements in China (Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1835), 114; Yuan, Jing Haifen Ji, 74. Zhang, “Qing jiaqing nian jian,” 187. Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (London: Fontana / Collins, 1975); Roderich Ptak, “International symposium on the ‘Asian Mediterranean’ (Paris, March 3–5, 1997) Archipel 55(1998): 11–14; Claude Guillot, Denys Lombard, and Roderich Ptak, eds., From the Mediterranean to the China Sea: Miscellaneous Notes (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998); Bentley, “Sea and Ocean Basins”; Leonard Blusse, “Chinese Century: The Eighteenth Century in the China Sea Region,” Archipel 58 (1999): 107–129. R. Bin Wong, “Entre monde et nation: Les régions braudéliennes en Asie,” Annales: Histoire, Sciences, Sociales 56(1): 5–41; Ulises Granados, “Maritime Regions as Centers of the Periphery of Nation States: The Case of the South China Sea, 1900–1950,” unpublished manuscript; Stein Tønnesson, “Locating the South China Sea,” in Locating Southeast Asia: Geographies of Knowledge and Politics of Space, ed. Paul H. Kratoska et al. (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 2005). Dongdong Huang, “Delimitation of Maritime Boundary between Vietnam and China in the Gulf of Tonkin” (LL. D. diss., University of Ottawa, 1992), 14; Ulises Granados, “The South China Sea and Its Coral Reefs during the Ming and Qing: Levels of Geographical Knowledge and Political Control,” East Asian History 32/33 (2006/2007): 109–128; Louis Richard, Comprehensive Geography of the Chinese Empire and Dependencies (Shanghai: Túsewei Press, 1908), 241–242. Almost one-seventh of Guangdong’s counties and prefectures bordered the sea. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1519-041, 03-1799-106. Yi-faai Laai, “The Part Played by the Pirates of Kwangtung and Kwangsi Provinces in the Taiping Insurrection” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, 1950), 28. JQJJCLFZZ / NM, 3261. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 7. Daniel McMahon, “Restoring the Garden: Yan Ruyi and the Civilizing of China’s Internal Frontiers, 1795–1805” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Davis, 1999), 284; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-01-0519-016; JQJJCLFZZ / NM, November 4, 1808. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 20. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1649-027, 03-1686-011; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-13-0126-010 Huang, “Delimitation of Maritime Boundary,” 38; Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 57; JQJJCSSD. JQJJCLFZZ, April 2, 1796, 03-1684-020; March 28, 1797, 03-1685-019.

Notes to Pages 95–97

285

45. JQJJCLFZZ, August 12, 1799, 03-1686-013, April 26, 1804, 03-1689-015; Huang, “Delimitation of Maritime Boundary,” 25. 46. This maritime boundary was basically demarcated by the Sino-French Treaty of 1887 as a result of the Sino-French War of 1884–1885. See Keyuan Zou, “Maritime Boundary Delimitation in the Gulf of Tonkin,” Ocean Development and International Law 30 (1999): 236; JQJJCLFZZ / NM, December, 21, 1796. 47. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 9; Charles Wheeler, “A Maritime Logic to Vietnamese History? Littoral Society in Hoi An’s Trading World c.  1550–1830,” paper presented at the conference “Seascapes, Littoral Cultures, and Trans-Oceanic Exchanges,”, Library of Congress, Washington DC, Feburary 12–15, 2003; Wheeler, “Re-thinking the Sea in Vietnamese History: Littoral Society in the Integration of Thuan-Quang, Seventeenth-Eighteenth Centuries,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 37 (2006), 123–153. 48. Alexander Horstmann and Reed L. Wadley, “Centering the Margins in Southeast Asia,” in Centering the Margin: Agency the Narrative in Southeast Asian Borderlands, ed. Alexander Horstmann and Reed L. Wadley (New York: Berghahn Books, 2006), 12. 49. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 22; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1684-001, 03-1684-020, 03-1685-019, JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-08-0078-026; Antony, “Piracy and the Shadow Economy,” 106; I borrow the concept of “undertrading” from Eric Tagliacozzo’s study of the “Anglo / Dutch colonial frontier” in Southeast Asia. See Tagliacozzo, Secret Trades, Porous Borders: Smuggling and States along a Southeast Asian Frontier (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 5. 50. Jennifer Cushman, Fields from the Sea: Chinese Junk Trade with Siam during the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1993), 16–18. 51. Robert Marks, “Commercialization without Capitalism: Processes of Environmental Change in South China 1550–1850,” Environmental History 1 (1996): 77. 52. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1464-076; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-13-0140-025. It should be noted that extensive land reclamation on the Pearl River delta contributed in no small measure to this contentious development. As the delta’s population soared during the late imperial period, more local residents faced the problem of land shortage. To alleviate this increasing pressure, they sought to create farmland by constructing barriers to retain the rich river-borne sediments before they were swept out to sea. This lengthy but profitable process often led to competition and endemic feuding. The resulting social disorder accounted for the long history of local militarization and community self-defense in Guangzhou, Huizhou, and Chaozhou. 53. Robert Antony, “State, Continuity, and Pirate Suppression in Guangdong Province, 1809–1810,” Late Imperial China 27 (2006): 18; JQSYD, vol. 14, 481; SWJ, vol. 8, 359. 54. JQJJCLFZZ, October 2, 1796, 03-1684-064; Andrade, “Company’s Chinese Pirates,” 441.

286

Notes to Pages 97–104

55. Antony, Like Froth, 72; JQSYD, vol. 14, 17, 33; see also Eduard B. Vermeer, “Historical Background and Major Issues,” in Development and Decline of Fukien Province in the 17th and 18th Centuries, ed. Vermeer (Leiden: Brill, 1990), 26. 56. The Ming restoration gained the strong support of Zheng Chenggong in southern Fujian. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1479-044; imperial edict of October 18, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 476. 57. Susan Naquin and Evelyn Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 168; William Skinner, “Regional Urbanization in Nineteenth-Century China,” in The City in Late Imperial China, ed. Skinner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1977), 219. 58. James Kong Chin, “The Junk Trade between South China and Nguyen Vietnam in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” in Water Frontier: Commerce and the Chinese in the Lower Mekong, ed. Nola Cooke and Tana Li (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 56. 59. JQJJCLFZZ / NM, 3250, 3261; Antony, Like Froth, 55, 68, 85; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-03-0037-024; Zhang, “Qing jiaqing nian jian,” 186–187. 60. JQJJCLFZZ, June 15, 1800, 03-2174-011. 61. Imperial edict of January 10, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 8. 62. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1686-014, 03-1665-094; JQJJCLFZZ / NM, 2479. 63. Steinberg, Social Construction, 21. 64. Yan Ruyi, Yangfang Jiyao, 17.20b, in McMahon, “Restoring the Garden.” 65. Gang Deng, Maritime Sector, Institutions, and Sea Power of Premodern China (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1999), 145; Andrade, “Company’s Chinese Pirates,” 417. 66. R. Bin Wong, “Political Economies of Maritime and Agrarian China, 1750– 1850,” in Wang and Ng, Maritime China in Transition, 27; Deng, Maritime Sector, 130–134. 67. Yan, Yangfang Jiyao, 17.20b. 68. Marcia Yonemoto, “Maps and Metaphors of the ‘Small Eastern Sea’ in Tokugawa Japan (1603–1868),” Geographical Review 89 (1999): 179–180. 69. Ibid., 177. 70. Murray, “Piracy and China’s Maritime Transition,” 55; JQJJCLFZZ / NM, 2479. 71. Imperial edict of September 26, 1808, JQSYD, vol. 13, 587. 72. Philip E. Steinberg, The Social Construction of the Ocean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 52. 73. Yonemoto, “Maps and Metaphors,” 169–170. 74. Imperial edicts of January 10 and November 10, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 8, 333. 75. Imperial edicts of June 26, 1804, January 19, 1808, JQSYD, vol. 9, 247–248; vol. 13, 21. 76. Granados, “South China Sea,” 127; Daniel Little, “Rational-Choice Models and Asian Studies,” Journal of Asian Studies 50 (1991): 35–52. 77. Craig A. Lockard, “The Sea Common to All: Maritime Frontiers, Port Cities, and Chinese Traders in the Southeast Asian Age of Commerce, ca. 1400– 1750,” Journal of World History 21 (2010): 223–225.

Notes to Pages 104–109 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84.

85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90.

91.

92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98.

99. 100.

287

Ibid. JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-03-0037-024. Imperial edicts of June 9 and 12, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 298, 304. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1684-020. Eric Hobsbawm, “Social Bandits: Reply,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 14 (1972): 504. Antony, Like Froth, 72; The population of the core Canton delta increased from 1.3 million to 5.3 million between 1723 and 1820. According the Robert Marks’s estimate, the population of Guangdong rose from 7.9 million in 1693 to 17.1 million in 1793. See Robert B. Marks, Tigers, Rice, Silk, and Silt: Environment and Economy in Late Imperial South China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 280. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 28; Antony, Like Froth, 72; Jianmin Li, “Qing jiaqing yuannian chuanchu Bailianjiao qishi yuanyin de tiantao” (On the Origins of the White Lotus Rebellion in Sichuan and Hubei in the First Year of the Jiaqing Reign), Zhongyang yanjiuyuan jindaishi yanjiusuo jikan (Bulletin of the Institute of Modern History, Academica Sinica) 22 (1993): 395. Cushman, Fields from the Sea, 99; Yuan, Jing Haifen Ji, 10–11. Guosheng Huang, “The Chinese Maritime Customs in Transition, 1750– 1830,” in Wang and Ng, Maritime China in Transition 1750–1850, 43–44. Antony, Like Froth, 56; Chin, “Junk Trade,” 55. Huang, “Chinese Maritime Customs”; see also Marks, Tigers, Rice, Silk, and Silt, 177; Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 29. Imperial edict of November 24, 1804, JQSYD, vol. 9, 531; Huang, “Chinese Maritime Customs,” 44. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 29–30; Takeshi Inoguchi, “China’s Intervention in Vietnam and Its Aftermath (1786–1802): A Re-examination of the Historical East Asian World Order,” in Rethinking New International Order in East Asia: U.S., China and Taiwan, ed. I Yuan (Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 2005), 361–403; see also imperial edict of November 15, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 465. Robert Antony, “The Problem of Banditry and Bandit Suppression in Kwangtung South China, 1780–1840,” Criminal Justice History: An International Annual 11, 32–33. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1684-080. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2173-059. JQSL, vol. 118, 564. Antony, “Problem of Banditry,” 11, 32–33. Antony, Like Froth, 83; Chang, “Ts’ai Ch’ien,” 40–41. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 369. Imperial edicts of January 19, April 26, 1804, March 8, 1806, JQSYD, vol. 9, 11, 150; vol. 11, 169; JQJJCLFZZ, 1806, 03-1665-094; Antony, “State, Continuity, and Pirate Suppression,” 7–8. Imperial edict of May 30, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 281; vol. 6, 380–381. J. L. Anderson, “Piracy in the Eastern Seas, 1750–1850: Some Economic Implications,” in Starkey et al., Pirates and Privateers, 99–100.

288

Notes to Pages 109–117

101. Yuan, Jing Haifen Ji, 59. 102. Antony, “Problem of Banditry,” 37–38.

4. Court Politics and Imperial Visions 1. QDJPSSXFFL. 2. Richard L. K.Jung, “The Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression of Rebellion” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1979), 3–4, 88; Thomas Meadows, The Chinese and Their Rebellions: Viewed in Connection with Their National Philosophy, Ethics, Legislation, and Administration, to Which is Added, an Essay on Civilization and Its Present State in the East and West (Stanford: Academics Reprints, 1959), 23–24, 401–403. 3. Joel S. Migdal, State in Society: Studying How State and Societies Transform and Constitute One Another (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 97–99. 4. Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: Image and Reality in the Ch’ien-lung Reign (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 7. 5. Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers: The Chinese Sorcery Scare of 1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990); Beatrice Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). Norman A. Kutcher sketches out the two lines of interpretation and tries to combine them in his article “The Death of the Xiaoxian Empress: Bureaucratic Betrayals and the Crises of Eighteenth-Century Chinese Rule,” Journal of Asian Studies 56 (1997): 708–725. 6. Kuhn, Soulstealers, 220. 7. James M. Polachek, Inner Opium War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992). 8. Mary Clabaugh Wright, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism: The T’ungchih Restoration, 1862–1874 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 50; Ray Huang, 1587, A Year of No Significance: The Ming Dynasty in Decline (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982); Pierre-Étienne Will, “Views of the Realm in Crisis: Testimonies on Imperial Audiences in the Nineteenth Century,” Late Imperial China 29.1S (2008): 1. 9. In the traditional Chinese state there were some potential institutional checks to the emperor’s power, but none of them was really effective. Of these institutions, the premiership (which was abolished in early Ming) and the censorial system were the most likely to impose some sort of restraints on the emperor. Lin Qian, “Qianjia dufu yu qingzhongye de zhengzhi weiji” (GovernorsGeneral and Governors in the Qianlong-Jiaqing Reigns and the Mid-Qing Political Crisis), Songliao xuekan 50 (1990): 9. 10. Pamela Kyle Crossley, “The Rulerships of China,” American Historical Review 97 (1992): 1469–1470. 11. Douglass C. North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 3. 12. The officialdom generally had an inbuilt proclivity to oppose imperial autocracy, incompetence, and nonaction due to their higher duty to defend the Con-

Notes to Pages 117–122

13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

18. 19.

20.

21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27.

289

fucian society, state, and civilization. Adam Yuen-Chung Lui, Ch’ing Institutions and Society, 1644–1795 (Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong, 1990), 19–20; see also Josephine Chiu-Duke, To Rebuild the Empire: Lu Chih’s Confucian Pragmatist Approach to the Mid-T’ang Predicament (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000), 192. John K. Fairbank, “Introduction: The Old Order,” in The Cambridge History of China: Volume 10, Late Ch’ing 1800–1911, Part 1, ed. John F. Fairbank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978); Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 3; Pei Huang, Autocracy at Work: A Study of the Yung-cheng Period, 1723–1735 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 136–137. Fairbank, “Introduction,” 26; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 3. Kuhn, Soulstealers, 190. It should be noted that the throne’s close confidants were usually associated with the neiting, but not always. They could also be high provincial officials. See Fairbank, “Introduction,” 26; Kent Guy, Qing Governors and Their Provinces: The Evolution of Territorial Administration in China, 1644–1796 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010). Ziyang Liu, “Qingdai de junjichu” (The Grand Council in the Qing Dynasty), Qingdai dang’an (Archival Sources in the Qing Dynasty) 2 (1982): 103–104; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 5–6. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 199. The Grand Secretariat was an inner-court agency under the Ming dynasty, but it gradually became an outer-court one with the establishment of the Grand Council during early Yongzheng reign. This transition was not complete until 1730. Shijia Ji, “Qianlun qing junjichu yu jiquan zhengzhi” (Preliminary Research on the Grand Council and Autocratic Rule in the Qing Dynasty), Qingshi luncong (Collected Essays on Qing History) 5 (1984): 183. C. K. Yang, “Some Characteristics of Chinese Bureaucratic Behavior,” in Confucianism in Action, ed. David S. Nivison and Arthur F. Wright (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 134. Ibid., 134–135. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 199; H. Lyman Miller, “The Late Imperial State,” in The Modern Chinese State, ed. David Sharmbaugh (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 28. It should be noted that the Grand Council was shortly abolished (1735–1737) in the very beginning of Qianlong’s reign. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 265–266, 137–138; Huang, Autocracy at Work, 16, 149. Gao, “Cong ‘chiying baotai,’ ” 9. Wook Yoon, “Prosperity with the Help of ‘Villains,’ 1776–1799: A Review of the Heshen Clique and Its Era,” T’oung Pao (International Journal of Chinese Studies) 98 (2012): 505–506. Other prime examples include the councilors Laibao and Zhaohui, who both died in 1764. Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring and the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007), 378–379.

290

Notes to Pages 122–127

28. Yoon, “Prosperity with the Help of ‘Villains,’ ” 505–506. 29. Polachek, Inner Opium War. 30. The term “hyper-faction” is first used by Philip Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 5; Yoon, “Prosperity with the Help of ‘Villains,’ ” 500–501. It is noteworthy that there were also simmering conflicts within this “hyper-faction.” 31. JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-08-0115-004. 32. Wenfa Guan, Jiaqing di (Emperor Jiaqing) (Changchun: Jilin wenshi chubanshe, 1993), 39; see also JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-08-0115-013; Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 248; David S. Nivison, “Hoshen and His Accusers: Ideology and Political Behavior in the Eighteenth Century,” in Nivison and Wright, Confucianism in Action, 211–213; George Staunton, A Historical Account of the Embassy to the Emperor of China (London: John Stockdale, 1797); Jesse Olney, The Family Book of History (Philadelphia: Durrie and Peck, 1839), 110. 33. See SYJL, vol. 22, 275. 34. Wang Tongling, Zhongguo shi (History of China) (Beiping: Wenhua xueshe, 1929), vol. 4, 42–43, 255. 35. Qing Gaozong shilu (Veritable Records of the Qianlong Emperor) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), imperial edict of September 1795, vol. 1486, 858– 859; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4753–4754; see also imperial edict of January 3, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 2. 36. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 226–231; Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China: Volume 9, Part 1, The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 233; see also QTJ-JQ, vol.11, 4739. 37. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 200, 229; Alexandra Etheldred Grantham, A Manchu Monarch: An Interpretation of Chia Ch’ing (London: G. Allen and Unwin, 1934), 15. 38. Ibid., 258. 39. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 509. 40. Grantham, Manchu Monarch, 21. 41. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4647; see also Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 49. 42. Woodside, “Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” 251–252; Joanna Waley-Cohen, “Religion, War, and Empire-Building in Eighteenth-Century China,” International History Review 20 (1998): 336–352. 43. Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 549; Ho-Fung Hung, “Contentious Peasants, Paternalist State, and Arrested Capitalism in China’s Long Eighteenth Century,” in Historical Evolution of World-Systems, ed. Christopher Chase-Dunn and Eugene N. Anderson (New York: Palgrave, 2005). 44. Qianlong Edict of 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 225. 45. Qianlong Edict of 1798, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 265; see also JQSNTSH, August 8, 1798; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 40. 46. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 226.

Notes to Pages 128–133

291

47. JQQJZ, February 12, 1799, 246; JQJJCSSD, 214. 48. DHLJQ, vol. 2, 82; see also Qing Gaozong shilu (Veritable Records of the Qianlong Emperor), imperial edict of September 1795, vol. 1486, 859; Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 229. 49. XTZL, vol. 1, 27. 50. Alain Peyrefitte, The Immobile Empire, translated from the French by Jon Rothschild (New York: Knopf, 1992), 163; Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State, 3. 51. Sen Meng, “Qing gaozong neishan shi zhengwen” (Evidential Research on the Abdication of Qing Gao Zong), in Meng, Mingqing shi lunzhu jikan xubian (Collected Works on the History of the Ming and Qing Dynasties, Supplementary Volume) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 354; Baoxuan Lu, ed., Manqing Baishi (History of the Manchu Qing Dynasty) (Taibei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1970), Qing huan lou tan lu, Heshen. 52. This emotional connection in some respects mirrored that between Yongzheng and Zhang Tingyu as well as to that between Qianlong and Heshen. It should be noted that Qianlong was much older than Heshen, which was the reverse of the other two cases. Man-kam Leung, “Juan Ruan (1764–1849): The Life, Works, and Career of a Chinese Scholar-Bureaucrat” (Ph.D. diss., University of Hawaii, 1977), 56; JQJJCLFZZ, May 12, 1800, 03-1656-061. 53. As Jiaqing testified in 1807, his father once wanted to promote Zhu to the post of grand secretary, but under the sway of the imperial favorite, he gave up his plan. See JQJJCLFZZ, December 5, 1807, 03-1505-056; June 24, 1976, 03-1469-028; JQJJCSSD, 03-0034-1-0801-028. 54. Adam Yuen-Chung Lui, The Hanlin Academy: Training Ground for the Ambitious, 1644–1850 (Hamden: Archon Books, 1981), 89; Leung, “Juan Ruan,” 62; Betty Peh-T’I Wei, Ruan Yuan, 1764–1849: The Life and Work of a Major Scholar-Official in Nineteenth-Century China before the Opium War (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2006). 55. JQSNTSH. 56. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 254. 57. CXLCSL, vol. 12, 4916, 4918; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4760. 58. Qing Gaozong shilu (Veritable Records of the Qianlong Emperor), imperial edict of April 1797, vol. 1496, 1039; JQJJCLFZZ, undated, 03-1645-055, 03-1645-056, 1797, 03-2426-040. 59. XTZL, vol. 1, 27. 60. CXLCSL, vol. 12, 4989. 61. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 259.

5. The Inner White Lotus Rebellion 1. J. Craig Jenkins and Bert Klandermans, eds., The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995), 2–4, 15. 2. Richard Chu, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect in Chinese History: With Special Reference to Peasant Movements” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia

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3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

Notes to Pages 133–138

University, 1967), 162; Cecily Miriam McCaffrey, “Living through Rebellion: A Local History of the White Lotus Uprising in Hubei, China” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, San Diego, 2003), 227; John E. Wills, Mountain of Fame: Portraits in Chinese History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 256; Suzuki Chusei divides this rebellion into four periods; see Suzuki Chusei, Shincho chukishi kenkyu (A Historical Study of the Mid-Qing Period) (Toyohashi: Aichi University Research Institute on International Problems, 1952), 142–143; Imperial edict of September 1, 1807, JQSYD, vol. 12, 402; see also JQJJCLFZZ, June 29, 1807, 03-1716-049; August 2, 1807, 03-1716-058; June 21, 1802, 03-1712-019. Imperial edict of November 18, 1798, JQSYD, vol. 3, 146; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 35, vol. 5, 167; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 368. Imperial edict of January 20, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 24; see also JQJJCSSD, 03-0034-1-0801-021. Imperial edict of January 20, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 24. Qinggui et al., eds., Guochao gongshi xubian (Sequel to the History of the Qing Court), vol. 5 (Beijing: Beijing guji chubanshe, 1994), Xunyu Number Five (imperial edict no. 5).38–43. Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: Image and Reality in the Ch’ien-lung Reign (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 251. HMD, vol. 9, 258–264; Cai Guanluo, ed., Qingdai qibai mingren zhuan (Biographies of Seven Hundred famous Qing Individuals) (Taibei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1971), vol. 1, 227, The Biography of Heshen. Joanna Waley-Cohen, “China and Western Technology in the Late Eighteenth Century,” American Historical Review 98 (1993): 1541–1542. HMD, vol. 9, 26–29; Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China, The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, pt. 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 271. Imperial edicts of September 20 and October 7, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 279, 298. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 256; JQSL, imperial edict of September 1801, vol. 87, 147; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4841-4848. JQJJCLFZZ, March 16, 1798, 03-1474-036; Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 256. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 252–256. HMD, vol. 9, 271–286. Jonathan Spence, The Search for Modern China (New York: Norton, 1999), 116. John E. Wills, “Great Qing and Its Southern Neighbors, 1760–1820: Secular Trends and Recovery from Crisis,” paper presented at the conference “Interactions: Regional Studies, Global Processes, and Historical Analysis,” Library of Congress, Washington, D.C., March 3, 2001. Man-kam Leung, “Juan Ruan (1764–1849): The Life, Works, and Career of a Chinese Scholar-Bureaucrat” (Ph.D. diss., University of Hawaii, 1977), 63; Beatrice Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 231–237.

Notes to Pages 138–142

293

19. Beatrice Bartlett, “The Vermilion Brush: The Grand Council Communications System and Central Government Decision Making in Mid-Ch’ing China” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1980), 207. 20. Silas H. L. Wu, Communication and Imperial Control in China: Evolution of the Palace Memorial System, 1693–1735 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970); Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers. 21. Qianlong Edict of 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 225, 230. 22. Memorial of Nayancheng, KJJFSB, in CHSBLJQY, 12–14; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 368, 586. 23. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 224; vol. 393, 374; vol. 395, 271; JQJJCLFZZ, January 28, 1799, 03-1710-001. 24. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 231–241. 25. JQJJCLFZZ, April 15, 1798, 03-1708-69; January 28, 1799, 03-1710-001; 16 May, 1799, 03-1710-012; November 21, 1798, 03-1709-061; a case in point was the conflicts between Delengtai and Funing, Mingliang and Yongbao, QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 632; vol. 395, 129. There were also tensions between Kuilun and Guangxing, JQJJCLFZZ, February 5, 1800, 03-1711-010; KingTo Yeung, “Suppressing Rebels, Managing Bureaucrats: State-Building during the Taiping Rebellion, 1850–1864” (Ph.D. diss., Rutgers University, 2007). 26. Imperial Edict of April 9, 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 232; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 237. 27. Translation from Susan Mann Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi (1746–1809): The Perception and Articulation of Political Problems in Late Eighteenth Century China” (Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 1972), 173; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 89, 131; SWJ, vol. 11, 480. 28. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 371; Qianlong Edict of 1799, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 258; vol. 3, 104; Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi,” 173. 29. The Jianchang prefect Shi Zuorui alone, for instance, was said to have embezzled over 500,000 taels of silver. See Yingcong Dai, “Yingyun Shengxi: Military Entrepreneurship in the High Qing Period, 1700–1800,” Late Imperial China 26 (2005): 1–67; Daniel McMahon, “New Order on China’s Hunan Miao Frontier, 1796–1812,” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History 9 (2008): 1–24. 30. SWJ, vol. 10, 451; vol. 11, 487; JQJJCLFZZ, April 15, 1798, 03–1708–069; October 23, 1802. 31. JQJJCLFZZ, December 24, 1807, 03-1716-084; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 536; Yingcong Dai, “The Qing State, Merchants, and the Military Labor Force in the Jinchuan Campaigns,” Late Imperial China 22 (2001): 35. 32. JQJJCLFZZ, December 13, 1806, 03-1715-103; September 10, 1805, 03-1661-054. 33. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 152; vol. 395, 182; JQJJCLFZZ, January 21, 1803, 03-1628-002; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 222. 34. JQGZZPZZ, April 9, 1801, 04-01-03-0039-002; see also JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, April 25, May 4, 1804; December 16, 20, 24, and 26, 1803; JQJJCSSD, December 16 and 24, 1803, 321; Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,” in The Cambridge History of China,

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35.

36.

37. 38.

39. 40. 41.

42.

43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48.

49.

50. 51.

Notes to Pages 142–146

vol. 10, pt.1, ed. John K. Fairbank (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 143. JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, September 9, 1805; see also February 20, 03-1709-057; JQGZZPZZ, November 9, 1799, 04-01-03-0138-003; a similar case can be found in QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 459. JQJJCLFZZ, February 16, 1800, 03-1599-016; JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, September 29, 1805; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 297-298; vol. 394, 350; vol. 395, 182; Daniel McMahon, “Qing Reconstruction in the Southern Shaanxi Highlands: State Perceptions and Plans, 1799–1820,” Late Imperial China 30 (2009): 98. JQJJCLFZZ / NM, September 29, 1804, 2550; see also JQJJCLFZZ, May 5, 1807, 03-1716-024; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 396, 101, 446. SWJ, vol. 11, 479; JQJJCLFZZ, December 16, 1799, 03-1655-051; September 10, 1805, 03-1661-054; September 18, 1803, 03-1659-123; JQJJCSSD, August 24, 1804; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 123; vol. 400, 322. JQQJZ, April 10, 1798, 99. JQJJCLFZZ, July 1799, 03-1710-013; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 371. JQJJCLFZZ, March 29, 1807, 03-1664-057; September 10, 1805, 03-1661-054; December 16, 1804, 03-1661-054; December 7, 1800, 03-1656-095; JQJJCSSD, January 5, 1799; JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, August 11, 1803; HMD, vol. 9, 104; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 531. DHLJQ, vol. 2, 46–47; see also SWJ, vol. 9, 399, vol. 11, 487; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 417, 436; vol. 394, 185, 306; vol. 396, 307; vol. 397, 374; see also JQJJCLFZZ, October 18, 1799, 03-1655-015; August 15, 1802, 03-1647-031. JQJJCLFZZ / SHSYD, June 9, 1804. JQSL, imperial edict of January 1801; vol. 78, 4–9; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 78; see also QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 685; vol. 394, 183. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 540–541; see also SWJ, vol. 9, 377, 407–408. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 165, 185; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 236, 245, 269; vol. 1, 236; see also JQJJCSSD, March 6, 1796, 03-0034-1-0801-059, 03-0034-1-0801-051, 03-0034-1-0801-052; Blaine Gaustad, “Religious Sectarianism and the State in Mid Qing China: Background to the White Lotus Uprising of 1796–1804” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1994), 36. Gaustad, “Religious Sectarianism,” 158–176; Bi Yuan’s memorial of 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 1, 74; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 512; vol. 393, 498. Qianlong Edict of 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 245, 254, 258, 261–263; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 129; Gong Wensheng, “Cong Rong Ou Bi” (Occasional Writings after Joining the Army), in Jindai zhongguo shiliao congkan (Collected Source Materials for Modern Chinese History) (Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe, 1990), 374. Philip A. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796–1864 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970), 37; these data are based on the official report in 1815, JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1649-026; JQSYD, vol. 16, 206; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 6–7; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 368; vol. 394, 179. JQJJCLFZZ, May 14, 1801, 03-1701-013. Jin li xin bian, vol. 15, in CHSBLJQY, 215; CSEBFJ, 149.

Notes to Pages 146–152

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52. CHSBLJQY, 42–43. 53. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 392, 465–469; Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 142; Qianlong Edict of 1797, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 66. 54. Jenks, Insurgency and Social Disorder, 122. 55. DHLJQ, vol. 8, 265; QDJPSSXFFL, “Sequential Verses Congratulating the Victory over the White Lotus Rebels,” vol. 391, 40. 56. At the request of Jiaqing, an elaborate celebration ceremony had been planned for the Grand Emperor. See QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4839; JQSYD, vol. 3, 143; vol. 4, 5. 57. Patricia Berger illustrates this episode in Empire of Emptiness: Buddhist Art and Political Authority in Qing China (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2003), 196; JQJJCLFZZ, February 1799; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 35. 58. JQSL, imperial edict of June 1802, vol. 99, 324. 59. JQJJCSSD, CHSBLJQY, 118. 60. XTZL, vol. 1, 27; JQJJCSSD, 02–03; JQQJZ, 8; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4744, 4840. 61. Imperial edicts of January 3, 4, 5, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 5–10; JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-14-0048-082; see also JQJJCSSD, P005. 62. JQJJCLFZZ, imperial edict of January 16, 1799, unknown series number; see also JQSL, vol. 37, 406-407; JQQJZ, January 3, 1799, 2. 63. The Capital Gendarmerie refers to a Qing institution, also called the Capital Infantry Brigade or garrison, that was given the responsibility of enforcing law and order in Beijing, including accepting capital appeals along with the Office of Censorate. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4836. 64. JQJJCSSD, P005, JQSYD, vol. 4, 11. 65. I argue that these impeachments were a part of Jiaqing’s plan because some of the information disclosed was not likely to be attained by censors. See QTJJQ, vol. 11, 4837–4838. See also Sen Meng, “Qing gaozong neishan shi zhengwen” (Evidential Research on the Abdication of Qing Gao Zong), in Meng, Mingqing shi lunzhu jikan xubian (Collected Works on the History of the Ming and Qing Dynasties), supp. vol. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 361; JQJJCLFZZ, April 22, 1799, 03-476-047; XTZL, vol. 1, 27. 66. CXLCSL, vol. 12, 4979–4980. 67. JQGZZPZZ, February 5, 1799, 08-0115-013. 68. JQGZZPZZ, January 15, 1799, 08-0115-004; February 3, 1799, 08-0115-017. 69. HMD, vol. 9, 11–13; see also JQSYD, vol. 4, 15–17; David S. Nivison, “Hoshen and His Accusers: Ideology and Political Behavior in the Eighteenth Century,” in Confucianism in Action, ed. David S. Nivison and Arthur F. Wright (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 241. 70. JQGZZPZZ, January 15, 1799, 08-0115-004; HMD, vol. 8, 388. Hu Jitang was the only key provincial official who was required to attend Qianlong’s funerary ceremony in Beijing, see JQJJCSSD, P02–03. 71. JQGZZPZZ, January 15, 1799, 08-0115-004; imperial edict of January 16, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 25–26; see also JQJJCSSD, P13. 72. JQGZZPZZ, February 7, 1799, 08-0115-012; January 20, 1799, 08-0115-025; HMD, vol. 9, 2–34.

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Notes to Pages 153–156

73. JQGZZPZZ, January 27, 1799, 08-0115-020. 74. JQJJCSSD, P005. 75. JQGZZPZZ, February 5, 1799, 08-0115-013; January 23, 1799, 08-0115-005; JQJJCLFZZ, March 6, 1799, 03-1710-004; HMD, vol. 9, 54. 76. JQJJCLFZZ, August 9, 1805, 03-1492-058; Qing Shi Gao, (Draft History of the Qing Dynasty) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1976), vol. 319, 10757. 77. For a detailed list of these twenty indictments, see imperial edict of January 11, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 15–16; HMD, vol. 9, 115–119; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4841– 4842; for an English translation, see The Search for Modern China: A Documentary History, ed. Pei-Kai Cheng et al. (New York: Norton, 1999), 87. 78. JQGZZPZZ, 04-01-08-0115-005, 04-01-08-0115-010; see also Qing bai lei chao (The Classified Anthology of Qing Anecdotes), ed. Xu Ke (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), vol. 3, 1079–1082; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4844. 79. For a discussion of various calculations of Heshen’s wealth, see QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4846–4848. 80. Kent Guy, Qing Governors and Their Provinces: The Evolution of Territorial Administration in China, 1644–1796 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 140; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 239; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 368. 81. As Thomas Metzger points out, unless a Qing official made serious military mistakes, or committed a grave crime very different from normal failings, his chances of receiving more than an administrative punishment were usually minimal. See Metzger, The Internal Organization of the Ch’ing Bureaucracy: Legal, Normative and Communicative Aspects (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973); HMD, vol. 8, 419–420; XTZL, vol. 1, 14; see also SWJ, vol. 7. 82. Imperial edict of January 18, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 31–32. 83. Philip Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 1–16; Nivison, “Hoshen,” 218. 84. Wook Yoon, “Prosperity with the Help of ‘Villains,’ 1776–1799: A Review of the Heshen Clique and Its Era,” T’oung Pao 98 (2012): 506–508. 85. Benjamin Elman, “Imperial Politics and Confucian Societies in Late Imperial China: The Hanlin and Donglin Academies,” Modern China 15 (1989): 405; see also Yoon, “Prosperity with the Help of ‘Villains,’ ” 506; Matthew W. Mosca, “The Literati Rewriting of China in the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 89. 86. James M. Polachek, Inner Opium War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), 37–43; R. Kent Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasures: Scholars and the State in the Late Ch’ien-lung Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987). 87. Jianqiu Luo, Jiaqing yi lai hanxue chuantong de yanbian yu chuancheng (The Transformation and Transmission of Han Learning from the Jiaqing Reign Onward) (Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe, 2006), 165. 88. For a detailed description of their anti-Heshen networking, see Wook Yoon, “Imperial Control.” 89. Jianqiu Luo, Jiaqing yi lai hanxue, 166–173; Polachek, Inner Opium War, 37– 43, 63.

Notes to Pages 157–161

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90. Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: the Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 135; Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers: The Chinese Sorcery Scare of 1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990); Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, pt. 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 303. 91. Nivison, “Hoshen.” 92. Imperial edict of January 19, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 33; see also JQJJCSSD, P13; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 42; JQSL, vol. 38, 435. 93. For instance, Fuchang’an was sent to the imperial mausoleum to offer sacrifices to the deceased grand emperor, and Wu Xinglan was demoted. Imperial edict of January 18, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 33; JQQJZ, January 15, 1799, 50; see also HMD, vol. 9, 298; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 41; JQJJCSSD, P. 74. 94. William T. Rowe, “Introduction: The Significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition in Qing History,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 77. 95. Imperial edict of January 18, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 22. 96. Jones and Kuhn argue that Jiaqing achieved very limited success in precipitating basic reforms, “Dynastic Decline,” 116–119; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 241, 233; Guy, Qing Governors, 141; JQGZZPZZ, 08-0115-004, 08-0115-017; Daniel McMahon, “Dynastic Decline, Heshen, and the Ideology of the Xianyu Reforms,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies 38 (2008): 232. 97. Elman, “Imperial Politics,” 396; CXLCSL, vol. 12, 4989. 98. According to Confucian teaching, a worthy and loyal scholar-official should speak out the truth forthrightly without hesitation when the emperor is acting under bad guidance or from a wrong viewpoint, or is exhibiting personal weakness. See Nivison, “Hoshen,” 218. 99. Elman, “Imperial Politics,” 409. 100. For an excerpt of Yi Yan, see QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4692; see also Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi,” 124. 101. K. C. Liu, “Hong Liangji: On Imperial Malfeasance and China’s Population Problem,” in Sources of Chinese Tradition, ed. W. M. Theodore De Bary and Richard Lufrano (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), vol. 2, 172; see also Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 71. 102. Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi,” 141. 103. Imperial edict of October 19, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 397. 104. Adam Yuen-Chung Lui, The Hanlin Academy: Training Ground for the Ambitious, 1644–1850 (Hamden: Archon Books, 1981); Judith Whitbeck, “From K’ao-cheng to Ching-shih: Kung Tzu-chen and the Redirection of Literati Commitment in Early Nineteenth Century China,” in Jinshi zhongguo jingshi sixiang yantaohui lunwenji (Proceedings of the Conference on the Theory of Statecraft of Modern China) (Taipei: Academia Sinica, 1984), 327. 105. Hong’s letter appears in his collected work titled Juan shi ge wen (Writings from Juanshi Pavilion), chapter 10, and Qing Shi Gao (Draft History of the Qing Dynasty). Susan Mann Jones translated the whole text in her dissertation,

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106.

107. 108. 109.

110.

111.

112. 113. 114. 115.

116.

Notes to Pages 162–166 “Hung Liang-Chi,” 161–178; imperial edict of August 25, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 302; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4864. Both Zhu Gui and Liu Quanzhi were degraded three ranks for not forwarding the letter until the emperor demanded it. See imperial edicts of August 26 and 29, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 304, 311; JQJJCLFZZ, August 26, 1799, 03-1477-049. DHLJQ, vol. 2, 73. Imperial edict of April 3, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 196; JQJJCSSD, April 3, 1800, 03-0034-1-0804-217, 03-0034-1-0804-216. Zhang’s letters appear in his own collection of works: Zhang Shi Yi Shu (Bequeathed Writings of Zhang Xuecheng), 35, 42, 46, 49, 41. See also Nivison, “Hoshen,” 216; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 193; Whitbeck, “From K’ao-cheng to Ching-shih,” 328; Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 71; Polachek, Inner Opium War, 37–38. Zhaoguang Ge, “Qingdai kaojuxue: Chongjian shehui yu sixiang jichu de changshi,” in Wanming yu wanqing: Lishi chuancheng he wenhua chuangxin, ed. Chen Pingyuan et al. (Wuhan: Hubei Jiaoyu Chubanshe), 132. Benjamin Elman, Classicism, Politics, and Kinship: The Ch’ang-chou School of New Test Confucianism in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 275–282. Elman, “Imperial Politics,” 407. Ibid., 275. Ibid.; Whitbeck, “From K’ao-cheng to Ching-shih,” 332. By “constitutional” Kuhn means “a set of concerns about the legitimate ordering of public life.” See Origins of the Modern Chinese State, 2; see also David Sharmbaugh, ed., The Modern Chinese State (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), Introduction, 1–2, 16. Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State, 1, 8, 54.

6. The Jiaqing Reforms 1. Daniel McMahon, “Dynastic Decline, Heshen, and the Ideology of the Xianyu Reforms,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies 38 (2008): 231–255. 2. Yuri Pines, The Everlasting Empire: The Political Culture of Ancient China and Its Imperial Legacy (Princeton : Princeton University Press, 2012), 73. 3. Mary Backus Rankin, “Social and Political Change in Nineteenth-Century China,” in Historical Perspectives on Contemporary East Asia, ed. Merle Goldman and Andrew Gordon (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 43–44. 4. Imperial edict of May 7, 1807, JQSYD, vol. 12, 149. 5. Sidney Verba, Crises and Sequences in Political Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 299; Charles Tilly, Coercion, Capital, and European States, ad 990–1990 (Cambridge: Blackwell, 1990); Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005); Beatrice Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in Mid-Ch’ing China, 1723–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 265.

Notes to Pages 167–169

299

6. It should be noted that the growth of the Junjichu directly led to the abolishment of the Deliberative Council of Princes and Ministers (the agency in charge of major military affairs) in 1791. Shijia Ji, “Qianlun qing junjichu yu jiquan zhengzhi” (Preliminary Research on the Grand Council and Autocratic Rule in the Qing Dynasty), Qingshi luncong 5 (1984): 179–180, 185–186; Pei Huang, Autocracy at Work: A Study of the Yung-cheng Period, 1723–1735 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 140–142. 7. According to Bartlett, the Junjichu’s most important functions and central responsibilities included “communications monitoring, policy deliberation, edict drafting, archival storage, and publications supervision.” See Monarchs and Ministers, 254. 8. Wook Yoon, “Imperial Control,” unpublished manuscript, Qing Shi Gao (Draft History of the Qing Dynasty), vol. 37, 11146. 9. The structure of imperial bureaucracy was generally fixed by statutes and precedents, which constituted the two major parts of the Huidian. All the supplemental modifications since 1759 were institutionalized in the revised Huidian of 1818. I contend that this sudden revision in 1818 bore an inextricable relationship to the Jiaqing reform and the escalating crises. See Ji, “Qianlun qing junjichu,” 182. 10. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 246. 11. SYJL, vol. 2, 22; see also Man-kam Leung, “Juan Ruan (1764–1849): The Life, Works, and Career of a Chinese Scholar-Bureaucrat” (Ph.D. diss., University of Hawaii, 1977), 64. 12. SYJL, vol. 13, 130; DHLJQ, vol. 2, 79; JQSL, imperial edict of October 1799, vol. 53, 687. 13. Qinggui was appointed grand councilor immediately after Heshen’s imprisonment. Later he became the chief councilor after Yongxing left the Grand Council. See JQSL, imperial edict of January 1799, vol. 37, 418–419. 14. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 258, 242. 15. Yoon, “Imperial Control”; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 242; imperial edict of November 18, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 501; SYJL, vol. 14, 147; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1463-040, 03-1478-045. 16. Jiaqing’s main concern was how other bureaucrats might react to knowing that an official had a private meeting with the emperor. JQJJCLFZZ, September 28, 1801, 03-1482-096. 17. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1632-003, 03-1655-033; Huirong Zhao, “Qingting junjichu yu junji zhangjing” (The Grand Council and Its Secretaries in the Qing Court ), Gugong bowuyuan yuankan (Journal of the Palace Museum) 3 (1986): 35. 18. JQSL, imperial edict of February 1802, vol. 94, 261–262; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 243–248. 19. JQSL, imperial edict of February 1802, vol. 94, 261–262; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 244. 20. This was similar to what Philip Kuhn describes provincial governors were doing during the sorcery scare of 1768. See Philip Kuhn, Soulstealers: The Chinese Sorcery Scare of 1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990).

300

Notes to Pages 169–172

21. Imperial edict of June 17, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 216. Throughout his reign, Jiaqing never appointed to the Grand Council any person whose political duties were in the Neiwufu. See also Leung, “Juan Ruan,” 64; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 373. 22. The Imperial Clan Office was a neiting agency responsible for matters pertaining to the imperial family. JQSL, imperial edicts of July 1804 and September 1801, vol. 132, 789, vol. 87, 147; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 242. 23. Yet this change by no means implies that the principle of interlocking directorates had been abandoned. Grand councilors continued to serve as board presidents or vice presidents, but they did suffer a downgrading of their high position in relation to the rest of the bureaucracy. See Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 242. 24. JQSL, imperial edicts of September 1801 and June 1804, vol. 87, 147, vol. 130, 758–759; see Yoon, “Imperial Control.” 25. JQJJCSSD, imperial edict of June 1802; see also JQSL, vol. 99, 331. 26. Imperial edict of December 6, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 764. 27. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 269. 28. Imperial edict of January 28, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 41; see also JQJJCSSD, 21; Leung, “Juan Ruan,” 64–65. 29. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1552-058. 30. Imperial edict of August 25, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 418; Guy, Qing Governors and Their Provinces: The Evolution of Territorial Administration in China, 1644–1796 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 131–133; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 201; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1711-071; Huang, Autocracy at Work, 148. 31. In 1816, two more zhangjing were added to each of the Chinese and Manchu groups. Zhao, “Qingting junjichu,” 30–31; see also Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 206. 32. Imperial edict of January 16, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 22. Censor Fu Tang later suggested that there should be a quota stipulating how many officials each outer-court agency could recommend to the Grand Council; see JQJJCLFZZ, 03-9985-048; see also Ji, “Qianlun qing junjichu,” 185. 33. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-9985-048, 03-1498-020, 03-9985-048; see also SYJL, vol. 13, 131–132; Beatrice Bartlett, “The Vermilion Brush: The Grand Council Communications System and Central Government Decision Making in MidCh’ing China” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1980), 254. 34. Imperial edict of July 26, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 373; see also SYJL, vol. 13, 132; JQJJCSSD, January 26, 1800. 35. Among them were civil bureaucrats of the third rank or above and military officials of the second rank or above. For the local officials, they included civil bureaucrats of niesi or above and military officials of regional commander or above. This regulation was abolished in the last year of the Jiaqing reign but was restored during the Daoguang reign. See JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1498-020, QTJJQ, vol.12, 5169, 5418; SYJL, vol. 13,134–135. 36. As another measure of restraint, Jiaqing even cut down the Junjichu personnel’s annual dining fee from 4,000 to 3,100 silver taels in 1801. He also pro-

Notes to Pages 172–175

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

46. 47. 48.

301

hibited zhangjing from bringing official documents back home, JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1834-059; Zhao, “Qingting junjichu,” 34. JQJJCSSD, January 8, 1799; JQSYD, vol. 4, 13, 34. JQSL, imperial edict of February 1799, vol. 39, 457. Imperial edict of February 24, 1802, JQSYD, vol. 7, 46; see also JQSL, vol. 94, 261–262; DHLJQ, vol. 5, 150. Imperial edict of May 19, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 250; see also JQSL, vol. 144, 964; QTJ-JQ, vol.12, 5027. Imperial edict of February 19, 1803, JQSYD, vol. 8, 91. Ji, “Qianlun qing junjichu,” 187; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 254. Adam Yuen-Chung Lui, Ch’ing Institutions and Society, 1644–1795 (Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong, 1990), 24–25; Preston M. Torbert argues that the Neiwufu constituted a complete and self-contained organization, “a miniature model, or at least a likeness, of the central government.” The Ch’ing Imperial Household Department (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1977), 32–33; Evelyn Rawski, The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 179; Jonathan D. Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi Emperor, Bondservant and Master (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 32; Te-ch’ang Chang, “The Economic Role of the Imperial Household in the Ch’ing Dynasty,” Journal of Asian Studies 31 (1972): 250. Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 1, 28, 176. A Neiwufu director often could concurrently serve as the president of the Board of Revenue. Nurhaci (r. 1616–1626) was the founding father of the Manchu state—the Later Jin Dynasty (1616–1636). Meiqin Qi, Qingdai neiwufu (The Imperial Household Department of the Qing Dynasty) (Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue, 1998); Rawski, Last Emperors, 179; see also Lui, Ch’ing Institutions and Society, 22–25. As Lui points out, the Neiwufu was the most longlasting institution of the Qing dynasty. It existed until 1924, when the “last emperor,” Puyi, was expelled from the Forbidden City by the warlord Feng Yuxiang. Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 25, 181; Rawski, Last Emperors, 179. Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 28–29; Rawski, Last Emperors, 179. The inner / upper three banners referred to Bordered Yellow, Plain Yellow, and Plain White. Different from the outer Eight Banners (wai baqi), they were also called the three banners of Neiwufu (Neiwufu sanqi). While some of them were assigned high official positions within and outside the capital, they all acted as the throne’s private loyal servants under the leadership of the Neiwufu directors, whose number was not fixed. See Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 27; Qi, Qingdai neiwufu, 105–106; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1517-033; Mark C. Elliott, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 79, 83; Jonathan D. Spence, Ts’ao Yin and the K’ang-hsi

302

49.

50.

51. 52.

53.

54.

55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63.

64. 65. 66.

Notes to Pages 176–182

Emperor, Bondservant and Master (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 11, 32. In this memorial, Yuhe impeached nine Neiwufu officials related to both fallen ministers. He also criticized the arbitrary recruitment and promotions of personnel serving in the department. JQJJCLFZZ, January, 1801, 03-1481-018; Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 178. Kuhn, Soulstealers, 191; Thomas Metzger, The Internal Organization of the Ch’ing Bureaucracy: Legal, Normative and Communicative Aspects (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973). Ting Zhang, “ ‘Penitence Silver’ and the Politics of Punishment in the Qianlong Reign (1736–1796),” Late Imperial China 31 (2010): 58–60. In the very beginning, the self-assessed fine system was often managed by Fulong’an, who was the elder brother of Fuchang’an and Fukang’an; Philip Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 5. Richard L. K. Jung, “The Ch’ien-Lung Emperor’s Suppression of Rebellion” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1979), 18; according to Torbert, “the average amount of the contribution for an official was about 64,000 taels in 1786– 1787 and about 79,000 in 1795–1796.” See Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 118, 178; Zhang, “Penitence Silver,” 42. Zhang, “Penitence Silver,” 42–44; Chang, “Economic Role,” 265; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 234; QTJ-JQ, vol.11, 4742; Torbert, Ch’ing Imperial Household Department, 117. Kuhn, Origins of the Modern Chinese State, 5. It might be worth comparing this kind of inner court extraction with the gifts that provincial officials coming to Beijing regularly made to outer court officials both in scale and in impact, though such data are hard to come by. Zhang, “Penitence Silver,” 44, 58. Imperial edict of October 27, 1804, JQSYD, vol. 9, 484; vol. 4, 152; Bartlett, “Vermilion Brush,” 244. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 235; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1463-031, 03-1517-033. It is worth noting that Jiaqing eventually gave up his efforts to subject the Neiwufu to the rule of avoidance in the last year of his reign (1820). JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1463-031; Qi, Qingdai neiwufu, 116. JQJJCLFZZ, February 16, 1801, 03-1463-035. According to the department director Guangxing, there were four seats for Neiwufu officials in the Chancery of Memorials. There were only two seats for outer-court bureaucrats. See JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1503-072, 03-1465-013; JQSYD, vol. 11, 700. Imperial edict of March 16, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 94; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1628-036; Qi, Qingdai neiwufu, 256; Norman A. Kutcher, “Unspoken Collusions: The Empowerment of Yuanming Yuan Eunuchs in the Qianlong Period,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 70 (2010): 471, 494. Guy, Qing Governors, 142. Ibid., 143; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 278. Ibid., 258.

Notes to Pages 183–187

303

67. Stevan Harrell and Elizabeth J. Perry, “Syncretic Sects in Chinese Society: An Introduction,” Modern China 8(1982): 297. 68. Jiaqing Edict of 1796, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 225. 69. Jiaqing Edict of 1799, CHSBLJQY, 211; see also SWJ, vol. 10, 423; JQSL, vol. 78, 13–14 I consulted and modified Chu’s translation, “An Introductory Study of the White Lotus Sect in Chinese History: With Special Reference to Peasant Movements” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 1967), 168. 70. Imperial edict of May 21, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 267; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 331; Daniel Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1976), 36. 71. Hok-lam Chan, “The White Lotus-Maitreya Doctrine and Popular Uprisings in Ming and Ch’ing China,” Sinologica 10 (1969): 219; Susan Naquin, Millenarian Rebellion in China: The Eight Trigrams Uprising of 1813 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976); William Stanton, The Triad Society, Or, Heaven and Earth Association (Hong Kong: Kelly and Walsh, 1900), 6. 72. Lars P. Laamann, Christian Heretics in Late Imperial China: Christian Inculturation and State Control, 1720–1850 (London: Routledge, 2006), 68–69, 73–74. 73. Overmyer, Folk Buddhist Religion, 31. 74. Joseph Esherick discredits the once common claim that the Boxer Rebellion of 1900 had a White Lotus link. See Esherick, The Origins of the Boxer Uprising (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 75. Qiang Fang, “Hot Potatoes: Chinese Complaint Systems from Early Times to the Late Qing (1898),” Journal of Asian Studies 68 (2009): 1121–1122; Jonathan K. Ocko, “I’ll Take It All the Way to Beijing: Capital Appeals in the Qing,” Journal of Asian Studies 47 (1988): 294; William T. Rowe, “Introduction: The Significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition in Qing History,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 79. 76. Imperial edicts of December 17, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 542; vol. 13, 702. 77. Imperial edicts of July 15, 1799, May 2, 1807, JQSYD, vol. 4, 241; vol. 12, 130; see also JQQJZ, 410. 78. It is not unreasonable to infer that Heshen, as longtime General Commandant of the Capital Gendarmerie, had played an important role in restraining capital appeals during the late Qianlong reign. JQQJZ, 512, 364. 79. JQQJZ, 512; see also DHLJQ, vol. 2, 73. 80. JQQJZ, 512. See also see also JQJJCSSD, 03-0034-1-0804-219. 81. Imperial edict of December 11, 1806, JQSYD, vol. 11, 961; Ocko, “I’ll Take It,” 296; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1489-087; In his recent study of the Qing examination boycotts (bakao), Seunghyun Han also notices a sharp rise in the amount of such unusual protest by Confucian exam candidates during the early nineteenth century due to Jiaqing’s lenient policy. Seunghyun Han, “The Punishment of Examination Riots in the Early to Mid-Qing Period,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 155. 82. Imperial edicts of June 9, 1800, November 18, 1803, October 26, 1807, JQSYD, vol. 5, 292, vol. 8, 451, vol. 12, 499. 83. JQSYD, vol. 5, 56; Ocko, “I’ll Take It,” 301; JQJJCLFZZ, June 1, 1806, 03-1496-001.

304

Notes to Pages 187–189

84. For detailed information about the punishment, see JQJJCLFZZ, October 20, 1807, 03-1629-068; November 27, 1809, 03-1527-058; December 21, 1810, 03-1537-048; see also imperial edict of June 15, 1803, JQSYD, vol. 8, 203, vol. 11, 961. 85. In comparison with other provinces, Shandong and Zhili had far more unsolved cases in 1810, which might partly explain the mobilization and outbreak of the Eight Trigram uprising in both areas three years later. JQJJCLFZZ, December 21, 1810, 03-1537-048. 86. JQJJCLFZZ, November 17, 1806, 03-1629-024; January 14, 1800, 03-2180-002; December 8, 1799, 03-1710-037; October 12, 1799, 03-1477-088; October 16, 1799, 03-1477-090. 87. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1477-083; October 1799, 03-1655-019, 03-1655-021; January, 1807, 03-1500-039; February 27, 1803, 03-2497-024; March 18, 1803, 03-2497-024; April 5, 1806, 03-1600-006, 03-1600-008; undated, 03-2173-059; 1803, 03-2497-037; JQJJCLFZZ / JBDNM, November 9, 1807, 2943. 88. Imperial edict of November 5, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 438; Elizabeth J. Perry, “Popular Protest and Political Progress in Modern China,” in China’s Quest for Modernization: A Historical Perspective, ed. Fredrick Wakeman, Jr., and Wang Xi (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, 1997), 251; even from the perspective of the modern Chinese state, capital appeals remain an important part of the strategy for maintaining communication with ordinary people and giving them some feeling that the center will watch out for them. 89. It was said that Heshen’s personal collection of treasures was even more impressive than that of Qianlong. See DHLJQ, vol. 3, 91; HMD, vol. 9, 33, 50, 302; Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: Image and Reality in the Ch’ien-lung Reign (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 88, 91–95. 90. Nancy Park, “Managing Corruption in Code and Practice: The Prosecution of Jiang Zhou and Qian Du,” in Dragons, Tigers, and Dogs: Qing Crisis Management and the Boundaries of State Power in Late Imperial China, ed. Robert J. Antony and Jane Kate Leonard (Ithaca: Cornell University East Asian Program, 2002) 155–181; Susan Mann Jones, “Hung Liang-Chi (1746–1809): The Perception and Articulation of Political Problems in Late Eighteenth Century China” (Ph.D. Diss., Stanford University, 1972), 176. 91. David S. Nivison, “Hoshen and His Accusers: Ideology and Political Behavior in the Eighteenth Century,” in Confucianism in Action, ed. David S. Nivison and Arthur F. Wright (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 235. 92. Imperial edict of January 15, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 21–22; see also DHLJQ, vol. 2, 68; HMD, vol. 8, 383. 93. Imperial edict of March 5, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 106; JQGZZPZZ, November 20, 1799, 04-01-06-0005-002; see also JQSL, vol. 37, 427; JQQJZ, February 12, 1799, 315. 94. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4843, 4849; vol. 12, 5204; see also DHLJQ, vol. 5, 164; XTZL, vol. 1, 27–28; Elliott, The Manchu Way, 316.

Notes to Pages 189–192

305

95. Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring and the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007), 7, 422–429; Qing bai lei chao (The Classified Anthology of Qing Anecdotes), ed. Xu Ke (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), vol. 4, 1503; see also Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 95; Rowe, “Introduction,” 79. 96. JQSYD, vol. 9, 484; Zhang, “Penitence Silver,” 35, 63; Qi, Qingdai neiwufu, 197; Susan Mann Jones and Philip Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline and the Roots of Rebellion,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, pt. 1, ed. John K. Fairbank (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 118. 97. Tuan-Hwee Sng, “Size and Agency Problems in Early Modern China and Japan” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 2011), 40–41. 98. R. Bin Wong, “Confucian Agendas for Material and Ideological Control in Modern China,” in Culture and State in Chinese History: Conventions, Accommodations, Critiques, ed. Theodore Huters et al. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 319. 99. Ho-Fung Hung, “Contentious Peasants, Paternalist State, and Arrested Capitalism in China’s Long Eighteenth Century,” in The Historical Evolution of World-Systems, ed. Christopher Chase-Dunn and Eugene N. Anderson (New York: Palgrave, 2005), 160. 100. R. Bin Wong, “Decline and Its Opposition, 1781–1850,” in Nourish the People: the State Civilian Granary System in China, 1650–1850, ed. PierreEtienne Will and R. Bin Wong (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1991), 76; JQGZZPZZ, August 5, 1799, 04-01-03-0138-009; see also JQSL, imperial edict of December 1801 and December 1802, vol. 92, 218, vol. 106, 416; JQJJCLFZZ, November 1, 1799, 03-1791-012; Eduard B. Vermeer, “The Mountain Frontier in Late Imperial China: Economic and Social Developments in the Dabashan,” T’oung Pao 77 (1991): 323. 101. Lillian M. Li, Fighting Famine in North China: State, Market, and Environmental Decline, 1690s–1990s (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007). 102. Randall A. Dodgen, Controlling the Dragon: Confucian Engineers and the Yellow River in the Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2001). 103. As Daniel McMahon holds, following the White Lotus rebellion, local elites played an increasingly important role in building and managing water control projects in southern Shaanxi. See “Qing Reconstruction in the Southern Shaanxi Highlands: State Perceptions and Plans, 1799–1820,” Late Imperial China, 30(2009): 110. 104. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1649-027; SWJ, vol. 11, 472; see also Yingcong Dai, “Yingyun Shengxi: Military Entrepreneurship in the High Qing Period, 1700–1800,” Late Imperial China, 26 (2005): 50–55. 105. Dai, “Yingyun,” 53–54. 106. Sng, “Size and Agency Problems,” 59–60, 68–69, 111. 107. SWJ, vol. 11, 470, 472. 108. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 656; KJJFSB, 279.

306

Notes to Pages 192–197

109. SWJ, vol. 11, 472, 485; Man-houng Lin, China Upside Down: Currency, Society, and Ideology, 1808–1856 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 295. 110. Imperial edicts of August 25, 1802, December 3, 1803, and March 18, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 7, 273; vol. 8, 479; vol. 4, 95; JQQJZ, 324, 381; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 36; vol. 2, 139; Yeh-chien Wang, Land Taxation in Imperial China, 1750–1911 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1974). 111. Yuping Ni, “Steady Customs Duties in the ‘Daoguang Depression,’ ” Essays in Economic and Business History 31 (2013): 79–80; Ni, “Amounts of Customs Duties in the Jiaqing and Daoguang Reigns of the Qing Dynasty: An Examination of the Daoguang Depression,” Xueshu yuekan (Academic Studies Monthly) 42 (2010): 136; Chin Keong Ng, Trade and Society: The Amoy Network on the China Coast 1683–1735 (Singapore: National University of Singapore Press, 1983), 71. 112. JQJJCLFZZ, March 20, 1811, 03-1769-079; Ni, “Amounts of Customs Duties,” 136. 113. From 1778 to 1786, Heshen served as the president of the Board of Revenue, the director of the Imperial Household Department, and the superintendent of the Congwenmen. Guosheng Huang, Yapian zhanzheng qian de dongnan sisheng haiguan (The Customs in China’s Four Southeastern Provinces before the Opium War) (Fuzhou: Fujian renmin chubanshe, 2000), 419–442. 114. Xiaoning Zhang, “Guangdong shisanhang shuaibai yuanyin shitan” (A Study of the Reasons for the Decline of the Thirteen Hongs in Guangdong) Zhongguo shehui jingjishi yanjiu (Journal of Chinese Socioeconomic History) 2(1996): 87–89. 115. JQJJCLFZZ, May 18, 1799, 03-1791-008; March 20, 1811, 03-1769-079. 116. Ni, “Steady Customs Duties,” 84–85; Chengming Wu, Zhongguo de xiandaihua: shichang yu shehui (China’s Modernization: Market and Society) (Beijing: sanlian shudian, 2001). 117. Prasenjit Duara, Culture, Power, and the State: Rural North China, 1900– 1942 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988). 118. Seunghyun Han, “Re-inventing Local Tradition: Politics, Culture, and Identity in Early 19th Century Suzhou” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2005). 119. DHLJQ, vol. 5, 167, see also Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes, 251. 120. Joel S. Migdal, State in Society: Studying How State and Societies Transform and Constitute One Another (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 231. 121. R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 102. 122. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 119; JQJJCSSD, January 4, 1796, 02–03. 123. JQJJCLFZZ, February 5, 1800, 03-1711-010; JQJJCSSD, July 1, 1798. 124. Imperial edict of March 10, 1799, and September 4, 1802, JQSYD, vol. 4, 82, vol. 7, 290; JQQJZ, February 12, 1799;; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4851; see also

Notes to Pages 197–201

125.

126. 127.

128.

129.

130. 131. 132.

133.

134. 135.

136.

137.

307

Bartlett, “Vermilion Brush,” 261; Timothy Brook, The Confusions of Pleasure: Commerce and Culture in Ming China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). William T. Rowe, China’s Last Empire: The Great Qing (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009), 185; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4845; see also SWJ, vol. 9, 398; Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers, 182–183. JQJJCLFZZ, January 23, 1801, 03-1657-019. Gong Jinghan, “On Suppressing the Rebels,” in QZQWSBLJ, vol. 5, 173; Shengjie Zhang, “Baojia lun,” in Kung-chuan Hsiao, Rural China: Imperial Control in the Nineteenth Century (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1960), 66; Xianmin Wang and Shuhong Chang, “Wanqing baojia zhi de lishi yanbian yu xiangchun quanli jiegou” (The Historical Evolution of the Baojia System and the Rural Power Structure in Late Qing), Shixue yuekan Historical Studies Monthly 5 (2000): 135. Philip A. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796–1864 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970), 60–61. Ibid., 44; Jiaqing Edict of 1801, in QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 293; see also SWJ, vol. 10, 434; Gong Wensheng, “Cong Rong Ou Bi” (Occasional Writings after Joining the Army), in Jindai zhongguo shiliao congkan (Collected Source Materials for Modern Chinese History) (Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe, 1990), 580. Lebao’s memorial of 1801, in QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 235; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 395, 654; vol. 396, 266. SWJ, vol. 9, 400; see also JQJJCSSD, May 17, 1796; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 19; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 421, 429. SWJ, vol. 9, 385; JQSL, imperial edict of May 1805, vol. 144, 972; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 4, 154; see also Daniel McMahon, “Restoring the Garden: Yan Ruyi and the Civilizing of China’s Internal Frontiers, 1795–1805” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Davis, 1999), 225. Elisabeth Kaske, “Fund-Raising Wars: Office Selling and Interprovincial Finance in Nineteenth-Century China,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 71 (2011): 91; Xuanzhi Dai, Zhongguo mimi zongjiao yu mimi huishe (Secret Religions and Secret Societies in China) (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1990), vol. 2, 613, 271. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies, 49. James Polachek, “Gentry Hegemony: Soochow in the T’ung-chih Restoration,” in Conflict and Control in Late Imperial China, ed. Frederic Wakeman, Jr., and Carolyn Grant (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975). R. Bin Wong, “Social Order and State Activism in Sung China: Implications for Later Centuries,” Journal of Sung-Yuan Studies 26 (1996): 230; Shigeta Atsushi, “The Origins and Structure of Gentry Rule,” in State and Society in China: Japanese Perspectives on Ming-Qing Social and Economic History, ed. Linda Grove and Christian Daniels (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1984), 350–353. Han, “Re-inventing Local Tradition,” 4–5, 304; Polachek, “Gentry Hegemony.”

308

Notes to Pages 201–206

138. Huaiyin Li, “Fiscal Cycles and the Low-Equilibrium Trap under the Qing,” unpublished manuscript; Feng Chen, Qingdai junfei yanjiu Research into Qing Military Finance (Wuhan: Wuhan daxue chubanshe, 1992), 275. 139. For instance, two Lianghuai salt merchants—Hong Zhenyuan and Cheng Jiande—made a donation of 2 million taels to the emperor in 1800. Susan Mann, Local Merchants and the Chinese Bureaucracy, 1750–1950 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), 94; Chen, Qingdai junfei, 333; Li, “Fiscal Cycles.” 140. JQSL, imperial edict of March 1800, vol. 61, 813; QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 200; see also JQJJCLFZZ, October 3, 1806, 03-1793-114; June 30, 1807, 03-1776-050; April 2, 1809, 03-1776-082; imperial edict of March 6, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 112. 141. Kaske, “Fund-Raising Wars,” 90–91; Sng, “Size and Agency Problems,” 35. 142. Han, “Re-inventing Local Tradition,” 304; Mary Clabaugh Wright, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism: The T’ung-chih Restoration, 1862–1874 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 89; Yung Wei, “Elite Recruitment and Political Crisis: A Study of Political Leaders of the Ch’ing Period, 1644–1911” (Ph.D. diss., University of Oregon, 1967), 45–47. 143. See the confessions of Wang Sanhuai, Lin Zhihua, Zhang Xunlong, and Qin Jiayao, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 274; see also JQQJZ, January 20, 1799, 60; imperial edict of April 13, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 214; HMD, vol. 9, 104. 144. Jiaqing Edict of 1799, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 109, 110. 145. QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 393, 391, 405-406, 410, 454; JQQJZ, 430; SWJ, vol. 9, 399; see also QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 147. 146. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 117–119; James M. Polachek, Inner Opium War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), 299–301; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 391, 141; vol. 395, 146; see also SWJ, vol. 13, 515; Jiaqing Edict of 1799, QZQWSBLJ, vol. 2, 272–273; vol. 3, 150. 147. Imperial edicts of May 12, September 25 and November 2, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 161–164, 347–349, 429; QDJPSSXFFL, vol. 394, 183; see also SWJ, vol. 9, 407. 148. Imperial edicts of February 25 and April 17, 1799, JQSYD, vol. 4, 62, 132. 149. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 118, 244; JQQJZ, 439. 150. QZQWSBLJ, vol. 3, 274. 151. Ho-Fung Hung Protest with Chinese Characteristics: Demonstrations, Riots, and Petitions in the Mid-Qing Dynasty (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011). 152. Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968); Wei, “Elite Recruitment and Political Crisis”; Joel Migdal, “An Anthropology of the State: Struggles for Domination,” in State in Society, 106. 153. Jonathan Spence, Treason by the Book (New York: Viking, 2001); Guy, Qing Governors, 146–147. 154. According to Wei, “the importance of the Mongols in the suppression of political crises was at its highest during the White Lotus rebellion, as the Mongols constituted 20 percent of all the individuals recruited into the core-elite during that crisis.” See “Elite Recruitment,” 181.

Notes to Pages 206–212

309

155. Chang, A Court on Horseback, 430; Polachek, Inner Opium War, 43; Guy, Qing Governors, 143. 156. Jones and Kuhn, “Dynastic Decline,” 117. 157. With regard to the post of provincial governor, the ratio of Manchu to Chinese appointees rose quickly during the Heshen decades. See Guy, Qing Governors, 138; Leung, “Juan Ruan,” 141; Lawrence D. Kessler, “Ethnic Composition of Provincial Leadership during the Ch’ing Dynasty,” Journal of Asian Studies 28 (1969): 499. 158. Imperial edict of July 13, 1808, JQSYD, vol. 13, 445; see also SWJ, vol. 13, 517; Gong, “Cong Rong Ou Bi,” 167–183. 159. This finding differs from traditional observations that conclude that the upsurge in Han Chinese military power did not occur until the Taiping rebellion. 160. Wei, “Elite Recruitment,” 241; Yishan Xiao, Qingdai tongshi (General History of the Qing Dynasty) (Taibei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1962). 161. A similar point can be made about the core elite from southeast China. Han, “Re-inventing Local Tradition,” 19; Wei, “Elite Recruitment,” 270.

7. The Piracy Crisis and Foreign Diplomacy 1. John E. Wills, Jr., ed., Past and Present in China’s Foreign Policy: From “Tribute System” to “Peaceful Rise” (Portland, ME: MerwinAsia, 2011). 2. Anthony Reid and Zheng Yangwen, ed., Negotiating Asymmetry: China’s Place in Asia (Singapore: National University of Singapore Press, 2009); David C. Kang, “Hierarchy and Legitimacy in International Systems: The Tribute System in Early Modern East Asia,” Security Studies 19 (2010): 591–622; Takeshi Hamashita, “Tribute and Treaties: Maritime Asia and Treaty Port Networks in the Era of Negotiation,” in The Resurgence of East Asia: 500, 150, and 50 Year Perspectives, ed. Giovanni Arrighi et al. (London: Routledge, 2003). 3. Kang, “Hierarchy and Legitimacy,” 611. 4. Alexander Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model: A Comparative Study of Vietnamese and Chinese Government in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), 4; George Edson Dutton, The Tay Son Uprising: Society and Rebellion in EighteenthCentury Vietnam (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2006). 5. Keith Weller Taylor, The Birth of Vietnam (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 14–17; Brantley Womack, China and Vietnam: The Politics of Asymmetry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 96; Hideo Murakami, “Viet Nam and the Question of Chinese Aggression,” Journal of Southeast Asian History 7 (1966): 23. 6. China’s influence became much less clear after the rise of French power in Vietnam. 7. Womack, China and Vietnam. 8. Dutton, Tay Son Uprising; Alastair Lamb, The Mandarin Road to Old Hue: Narratives of Anglo-Vietnamese Diplomacy from the 17th Century to the Eve of the French Conquest (Hamden, Conn: Archon Books, 1970), 66.

310

Notes to Pages 213–216

9. Susumu Fuma, “Ming-Qing China’s Policy towards Vietnam as a Mirror of Its Policy towards Korea: With a Focus on the Question of Investiture and ‘Punitive Expeditions,’ ” Memoirs of the Research Department of the Toyo Bunko 65 (2007): 24, 11. 10. Truong Buu Lam, Resistance, Rebellion, Revolution: Popular Movements in Vietnamese History (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1984), 14. 11. The memorial of the Liangguang governor-general, Nayancheng, JQJJCLFZZ / NM, November 22, 1805; JQSL, imperial edict of December 1802, vol. 106, 427; Dian H. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 1790–1810 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987); Robert J. Antony, Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 2003); Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 54, 222–227; see also Thomas C. S. Chang, “Ts’ai Ch’ien, the Pirate Who Dominates the Sea: A Study of Coastal Piracy in China, 1795–1810” (Ph.D. Diss., University of Arizona, 1983), 20. 12. JQJJCLFZZ / NM, November 22, 1805; Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 219–224. 13. Anthony Reid and Lance Castles, Pre-colonial State Systems in Southeast Asia: The Malay Peninsula, Sumatra, Bali-Lombok, South Celebes (Kuala Lumpur: MBRAS, 1975); Victor Lieberman, “Local Integration and Eurasian Analogies: Structuring Southeast Asian History, c. 1350–1830,” Modern Asian Studies 27 (1993): 475–540; Lam, Resistance, Rebellion, Revolution, 175; Alexander L. Vuving, “Operated by World Views and Interfaced by World Orders: Traditional and Modern Sino-Vietnamese Relations,” Negotiating Asymmetry 80; John K. Whitmore, “Literati Culture and Integration in Dai Viet, c. 1430–c. 1840,” Modern Asian Studies 31 (1997): 684. 14. Zhiming Liang, “Yuenan xishan nongming qiyi” (The Tay Son Peasant Rebellion in Vietnam), World History 3 (1985): 57; Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 2. 15. Guangtao Li, Ji qianlong nian pingding annan zhi yi (A Record of the Military Expedition against Annam in the Qianlong Reign) (Taipei: Academia Sinica, 1976), 24; Truong Buu Lam, “Intervention versus Tribute in Sino-Vietnamese Relations, 1788–1790,” in The Chinese World Order, ed. John K. Fairbank (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968), 168–169, 177. 16. Yanling Li, “Qianlong yu qingdai zhongyue zhanzheng” (Qianlong and the Sino-Vietnamese War in the Qing Dynasty) Yindu zhina 42 (1989): 5. 17. The Tay Son envoy claimed that the “accident” was caused by the difficulty of distinguishing the Chinese troops from the anti–Tay Son militias in the darkness. Lam, “Intervention versus Tribute,” 174. 18. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4582, 4586, 4601; official Chinese sources like JQSL, interestingly, recorded that this visit was due to the request on the Tay Son side. See JQSL, imperial edict of December 1802, 427. 19. This observation was corroborated by various Vietnamese sources. Charles La Mothe to Blandin, January 20, 1790, MEP 692, 158, cited in Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 115. 20. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4601; Truong Buu Lam, “Intervention versus Tribute,” 175; Takeshi Inoguchi, “China’s Intervention in Vietnam and Its Aftermath (1786–

Notes to Pages 216–220

21.

22. 23.

24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

311

1802): A Re-examination of the Historical East Asian World Order,” in Rethinking New International Order in East Asia: U.S., China and Taiwan, ed. I Yuan (Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 2005), 361–403. Peter Perdue, “Embracing Victory, Effacing Defeat: Rewriting the Qing Frontier Campaigns,” in The Chinese State at the Borders, ed. Diana Lary (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2007), 122; Truong Buu Lam, “Intervention versus Tribute,” 179; Stephen D. Krasner, “Organized Hypocrisy in Nineteenth-Century East Asia,” International Relations of the Asia-Pacific 1 (2001): 173–197; Zhaoguang Ge, “Costume, Ceremonial, and the East Asian Order: What the Annamese King Wore When Congratulating the Emperor Qianlong in Jehol in 1790,” Frontiers of History in China 7 (2012): 143; Womack, China and Vietnam, 136. Liang, “Yuenan xishan,” 55; Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 114. Lamb, Mandarin Road, 146; The two border disputes occurred in 1781 and 1792. Imperial edict of January 8, 1806, JQSYD, vol. 11, 785; QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4635. Liang, “Yuenan xishan,” 57; Woodside, “The Tay-son Revolution in Southeast Asian History,” unpublished pamphlet, 5–6, cited in Dutton, Tay Son Uprising; see also Inoguchi, “China’s Intervention.” Victor Lieberman, Strange Parallels: Southeast Asia in Global Context, c. 800– 1830 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 20; David Joel Steinberg, ed., In Search of Southeast Asia (Honolulu: University of Hawaii, 1987), 128. Lamb, Mandarin Road, 64; Nicholas Tarling, The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, vol. 2, pt. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 37. Mark W. McLeod, The Vietnamese Response to French Intervention, 1862– 1874 (New York: Praeger, 1991), 9–11; Lamb, Mandarin Road, 139–145; Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 3. Woodside, Vietnam and the Chinese Model; Liam C. Kelly, Beyond the Bronze Pillars: Envoy Poetry and the Sino-Vietnamese Relationship (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2005); Kelley, “ ‘Confucianism’ in Vietnam: A State of the Field Essay,” Journal of Vietnamese Studies 1 (2006): 347. Leiping Zhang, “Trade and Security Issues in Sino-Vietnamese Relations, 1802– 1874” (Ph.D. diss., National University of Singapore, 2008), 272, 246–247; Nola Cooke, “Nineteenth-Century Vietnamese Confucianization in Historical Perspective: Evidence from the Palace Examinations (1463–1883),” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 25 (1994): 270–312; Whitmore, “Literati Culture,” 684; McLeod, Vietnamese Response, 20–21. Frederic Mantienne, “The Transfer of Western Military Technology to Vietnam in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries: The Case of the Nguyen,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 34 (2003): 532. Zhang, “Trade and Security,” 83–84. Ibid.; Whitmore, “Literati Culture,” 684–685; Wentang Xu, “Shijiu shiji qingyue waijiao guanxi zhi yanbian” (The Transformation of Sino-Vietnamese Diplomatic Relations in the Nineteenth Century), Zhongyang yanjiuyuan

312

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42.

43. 44.

45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50.

Notes to Pages 220–224

jindaishi yanjiusuo jikan Bulletin of the Institute of Modern History, Academica Sinica 34 (2000): 284–285; QDWJSL, 33; Charles Gutzlaff, The Life of Taou-Kwang, Late Emperor of China; With Memoirs of the Court of Peking; Including a Sketch of the Principal Events in the History of the Chinese Empire During the Last Fifty Years (London: Smith, Elder and Co.,1852); Inoguchi, “China’s Intervention,” 361–403. Imperial edict of August 10, 1802, JQJJCSSD; September 16, 1802, and April 6, 1803, JQSYD, vol. 7, 319; vol. 8, 131; see also JQSL, vol.102, 361–362. Xu, “Shijiu shiji qingyue,” 281. Imperial edict of December 18, 1802, JQSYD, vol. 7, 469. Imperial edict of December 1802, JQSL, vol. 106, 428. Xu, “Shijiu shiji qingyue,” 282. Murakami, “Viet Nam,” 13, 22; Lamb, Mandarin Road, 198; Gutzlaff, Life of Taou Kwang, 13; Xu, “Shijiu shiji qingyue,” 283. Imperial edict of June 1803, JQSL, vol. 115, 529. Imperial edict of February 18, 1803, JQSYD, vol. 8, 49; Murakami, “Viet Nam,” 25. The whole text of this handbill can be found in QDWJSL, 93–96, 122; R. Randle Edwards, “Imperial China’s Border Control Law,” Journal of Chinese Law 1 (1987): 35. Dian Murray, Conflict and Coexistence: The Sino-Vietnamese Maritime Boundaries in Historical Perspective (Madison, WI: Center for Southeast Asian Studies, University of Wisconsin -Madison, 1988), 4–5; Zhang, “Trade and Security,” 263–268. Taylor, Birth of Vietnam, 297; Xu, “Shijiu shiji qingyue,” 284; Vuving, “Operated by World Views,” 82. Vuving, “Operated by World Views,” 82; Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 50; Anthony Reid, “Chinese Trade and Southeast Asian Economic Expansion in the Later Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” in Water Frontier: Commerce and the Chinese in the Lower Mekong, ed. Nola Cooke and Tana Li (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 32. Womack, China and Vietnam, 135, 25; imperial edict of November 14, 1801, JQSYD, vol. 6, 454; see also DHLJQ, vol. 4, 144. Li, Ji qianlong nian, 139. Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 552; Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, pt. 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 267; Yingcong Dai, “A Disguised Defeat: The Myanmar Campaign of the Qing Dynasty,” Modern Asian Studies 38 (2004): 145–188. JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1684-020; imperial edict of August 3, 1796, JQSYD, vol. 1, 216. Antony, Like Froth, 39. Serard to Letondal, July 26, 1797, MEP 701, 255, cited in Dutton, Tay Son Uprising, 224–226.

Notes to Pages 224–232

313

51. Imperial edicts of January 26, 1797, August 6, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 2, 25–26; vol. 5, 389; January 9, March 5, 1797, vol. 2, 41, 80; see also JQSL, imperial edicts of Jiaqing, December 1802, vol. 106, 427. 52. Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns: State-Building and Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 21. 53. Imperial edict of July 23, 1797, JQSYD, vol. 2, 205. 54. Imperial edict of January 9, 1797, JQSYD, vol. 2, 7. 55. Imperial edict of January 26, 1800, JQSYD, vol. 5, 36; Murray, Conflict and Coexistence, 5–6. 56. JQJJCSSD, Feburary 12, 1799; Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 43. 57. Edwards, “Imperial China’s Border Control Law,” 35. 58. Anne Pérotin-Dumon, “The Pirate and the Emperor: Power and Law on the Seas, 1450–1850,” in The Political Economy of Merchant Empires, ed. James D. Tracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 202; Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns, 115–116. 59. Robert Antony, “State, Continuity, and Pirate Suppression in Guangdong Province, 1809–1810,” Late Imperial China 27 (2006): 23. 60. JQJJCSSD, July 23, 1802; QDWJSL, 21; imperial edicts of September 29, 1799, January 26, 1800, October 12, 1801, July 25, 1802, JQSYD, vol. 4, 359; vol. 5, 36; vol. 6, 411, 419–20, 469; vol. 7, 223; see also QDWJSL, 21. 61. Fuma, “Ming-Qing China’s Policy,” 28. 62. Woodside, “Ch’ien-Lung Reign,” 265; see also QDWJSL, 97, 123, 131–134. 63. Imperial edict of November 14, 1808, JQSYD, vol. 12, 449; QDWJSL, 135; see Lo-shu Fu, ed., A Documentary Chronicle of Sino-Western Relations, 1644– 1820 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1966), pt. 1, 371, 401. 64. Fu, Documentary Chronicle, pt. 1, 401; Dai, “Disguised Defeat,” 168. 65. QDWJSL, 161. 66. Takeshi, “Tribute and Treaties.” 67. Hexiu Quan, “The Two Systems of Diplomacy of Late Qing China: External Relationship, Modernization and Transitional Phase,” Journal of Northeast Asian History 5 (2008): 42–43. 68. Robert Montgomery Martin, The Colonial Magazine and CommercialMaritime Journal (London: Fisher & Son, 1840), vol. 1, 226. 69. Gutzlaff, Life of Taou Kwang, 135–136. 70. Hosea Ballou Morse, The International Relations of the Chinese Empire: The Period of Conflict, 1834–1860, (London: Longmans, 1910), 46. 71. Ibid., 41; memorial of Liangguang governor-general Bailing, May 21, 1809; see Fu, Documentary Chronicle, pt. 1, 375; Morse, International Relations, 43. 72. Kenneth Maxwell, Naked Tropics: Essays on Empire and Other Rogues (New York: Routledge, 2003), 261; Morse, International Relations, 43. 73. Maxwell, Naked Tropics, 265. 74. Demetrius Charles Boulger, History of China (London: W. H. Allen & Co., 1881–1884), 9. 75. Robert Montgomery Martin, History of the British Colonies, vol. 1, Possessions in Asia (London: Cochrane and M’crone, 1834), 462.

314

Notes to Pages 232–235

76. Leonard Blusse, “Chinese Century: The Eighteenth Century in the China Sea Region,” Archipel 58 (1999): 107–128; Jennifer Cushman, Fields from the Sea: Chinese Junk Trade with Siam during the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 66; Stein Tønnesson, “The South China Sea in the Age of European Decline,” Modern Asian Studies 40 (2006): 1. 77. Saturday Magazine, (London: John William Parker, 1838), no. 385 (supplement for June 1838), 251; Vincent Harlow, The Founding of the Second British Empire, 1763–1793 (London: Longmans, 1952), vol. 1, Discovery and Revolution, 64; C. A. Bayly, Imperial Meridian: The British Empire and the World, 1780–1830 (London: Longman, 1989), 98; Guosheng Huang, “The Chinese Maritime Customs in Transition, 1750–1830,” in Maritime China in Transition 1750–1850, 170; Earl H. Pritchard, The Crucial Years of Early Anglo-Chinese Relations, 1750–1800 (New York: Octagon Books, 1970), 144. 78. Murray, Pirates of the South China Coast, 10; Antonio Graca de Abreu, “Macao, Miguel de Arriaga, and the Chinese: A Note on the Failed British Occupation of Macao in 1808,” in China and Her Neighbours: Borders, Visions of the Other, Foreign Policy, 10th to 19th Century, ed. Sabine Dabringhaus and Roderich Ptak (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1997), 186–187; Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 23; Lamb, Mandarin Road, 190; Chengkang Fei, Aomen sibai nian (Four Hundred Years of Macao) (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1988), 202. 79. Pritchard, Crucial Years, 385; Chung Tan, China and the Brave New World: A Study of the Origins of the Opium War (1840–42) (Bombay: Allied, 1978), 120; Austin Coates, Prelude to Hong Kong (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1966), 83. 80. Hevia, Cherishing Men from Afar: Qing Guest Ritual and the Macartney Embassy of 1793 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1995); J. L. Cranmer-Byng, “The Defences of Macao in 1794: A British Assessment,” Journal of Southeast Asian History 5 (1964): 135–143. 81. Alain Peyrefitte, introduction to The Immobile Empire, translated from the French by Jon Rothschild (New York: Knopf, 1992). 82. Hosea Ballou Morse, The Chronicles of the East India Company Trading to China 1635–1834 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1926), vol. 2, 68. 83. To curb British influence in China, the French naval officer Bruni d’Entrecasteaux visited Canton in 1787. He offered to help suppress the Lin Shuangwen rebels in Taiwan, an offer the Qing officers declined. QTJ-JQ, vol. 11, 4945; see also Abreu, “Macao,” 183–184; Fei, Aomen sibai nian, 201; Frederic Wakeman, Jr., “Drury’s Occupation of Macau and China’s Response to Early Modern Imperialism,” East Asian History 28 (2004): 27–28; John L. Cranmer-Byng and John E. Wills, Jr., “Trade and Diplomacy with Maritime Europe, 1644–c. 1800,” in China and Maritime Europe, 1500–1800: Trade, Settlement, Diplomacy, and Missions, ed. John E. Wills (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 241–242. 84. Tan, China and the Brave New World, 107; Lamb, Mandarin Road, 57; Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 28; Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 369.

Notes to Pages 236–241

315

85. Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 9; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 28. QDWJSL, 33–34. 86. Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 9; QDWJSL, 35. 87. Stuart Braga, “Surrender or We’ll Flatten Macau,” Casa de Macau Australia Newsletter, March 2008, originally in the J.M.Braga collection, National Library of Australia, MS4480 and MS 4300, series 12. 88. Memorial of Liangguang governor-general Jiqing, May 5, 1802; Fu, Documentary Chronicle, pt. 1, 343. 89. The two countries remained at peace until 1803. See Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 372; see also QDWJSL, 32–37, 167. 90. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 396. 91. Memorial of Liangguang governor-general Jiqing, August 19, 1802; translation is from Fu, Documentary Chronicle, pt. 1, 343–345. The original document in Chinese can be seen in QDWJSL, 34–36. 92. Saturday Magazine, no. 385 (supplement for June 1838), 253; C. A. Montalto de Jesus, Historic Macao (Hong Kong: Kelly and Walsh, 1902), 177. 93. Joanna Waley-Cohen, The Sextants of Beijing: Global Currents in Chinese History (New York: Norton, 1999), 129; E. Samuel, The Asiatic Annual Register: For the Year 1810–11, September 1810 (London, 1812), 37. 94. Memorial of Liangguang governor-general Woshipu and imperial edict of March 7, 1805, in Fu, Documentary Chronicle, 358–359, 422; imperial edict of March 3, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 86; JQJJCLFZZ, 03-2438-07; QDWJSL, 58; Paul A. Van Dyke, The Canton Trade: Life and Enterprise on the China Coast, 1700–1845 (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2008), 131; Fei, Aomen sibai nian, 210. 95. QDWJSL, 292. 96. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 425; Jiaqing’s edict to the King of England, March 7, 1805, in Fu, Documentary Chronicle, 360; see also QDWJSL, 55. 97. QDWJSL, 57, 59, 77; imperial edict of April 20, 1805, JQSYD, vol. 10, 182; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 12, 5022. 98. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 2, 427; vol. 3, 9; John Francis Davis, The Chinese: A General Description of the Empire of China and Its Inhabitants (London: Charles Knight & Co., 1836), vol. 81. 99. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 19. 100. Ibid., 22. 101. Ibid., 85–86. 102. E. H. Nolan, The Illustrated History of the British Empire in India and the East (London: Virtue, 1858), 490. 103. Jiaoping caiqian zougao (Memorials on the Suppression of the Pirate Chief Cai Qian) (Beijing: Guojia tushuguan fenguan, 2004), vol. 1, 31; Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 85; Dian Murray, “Zheng Yi Sao,” in Biographical Dictionary of Chinese Women, The Qing Period, 1644– 1911, ed. Clara Wing-Chung Ho (New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1981), 318. 104. Horace Hayman Wilson, The History of British India: From 1805 to 1835 (London: James Madden, 1858) vol. 1, 318; Morse, International Relations, 44.

316

Notes to Pages 241–247

105. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 86–87. 106. Ibid., 87–88. 107. Montalto de Jesus, Historic Macao, 182–191; Abreu, “Macao,” 192–193; Wilson, History of British India, 321; Coates, Prelude to Hong Kong, 97. 108. Abreu, “Macao,” 195. 109. Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 31; memorial of Liangguang governorgeneral Wu Xiongguang and the Guangdong governor Sun Yuting, in Fu, Documentary Chronicle, 370; QDWJSL, 173, 213, 245, 260. 110. Report from the Select Committee of the House of Commons on the Affairs of the East-India Company, China Trade (London: Parbury, Allen, and Co., 1830), 514; Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 90. 111. QDWJSL, 167–68, 241; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 31. 112. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 88. 113. C. Northcote Parkinson, War in the Eastern Seas (London: G. Allen and Unwin, 1954), 326; Saturday Magazine no. 385 (supplement for June 1838), 253. 114. Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 31; see also QDWJSL, 183, 188, 244; Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 9. 115. Imperial edict of September 26, 1808, JQSYD, vol. 13, 587; QDWJSL, 176; see also QTJ-JQ, vol. 12, 5104–5105. I use the translation from Fu, Documentary Chronicle, 369–370. 116. Fu, Documentary Chronicle, 369–370. 117. Krasner, “Organized Hypocrisy.” 118. QDWJSL, 176, 178, 181, 269; imperial edict of Jiaqing, November 21, 1808, in JQJJCLFZZ, 03-1519-065; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 31–33; Montalto de Jesus, Historic Macao, 193; Edwards, “Imperial China’s Border Control Law,” 36, 40. 119. Parkinson, War in the Eastern Seas, 331. 120. Morse, Chronicles of the East India Company, vol. 3, 88–91. See also QDWJSL, 245, 248; Parkinson, War in the Eastern Seas, 331; Third Report from the Select Committee of the House of Commons (London, 1832), 547–548. 121. Tingyi Guo, Zhongyue wenhua lunji (Studies on Chinese and Vietnamese Cultures) (Taipei: Zhonghua wenhua shiye chuban weiyuanhui, 1956), 207; Lamb, Mandarin Road, 175, 189–195; McLeod, Vietnamese Response, 19; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 30. 122. Charles Macfarlane, A History of British India: from the Earliest English Intercourse to the Present Time (London: George Routledge & Co., 1854), 369; Third Report from the Select Committee, 548; Minutes Taken before the Select Committee on the Affairs of the East India Company (London: House of Commons, 1831), 353. 123. Tan, China and the Brave New World, 136–140. 124. Report from the Select Committee, 509–515; William T. Rowe, China’s Last Empire: The Great Qing (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009), 158, 167; Man-houng Lin, China Upside Down: Currency, Society, and Ideology, 1808–1856 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 133, 142, 285. 125. Tan, China and the Brave New World, 89.

Notes to Pages 247–255

317

126. Saturday Magazine, no. 385 (supplement for June 1838), 254; QDWJSL, 195, 253; see also Boulger, History of China, vol. 3, 36; Report from the Select Committee, 41; Fu, Documentary Chronicle, vol. 1, 375–77. 127. Eliza A. Mrs. Robert Morrison, Memoirs of the Life and Labours of Robert Morrison, vol. 1 (London: Orme, Brown, and Longmans, 1839); Boulger, History of China, vol. 2, 21; The Chinese Recorder and Missionary Journal, vol. 18 (Shanghai: Presbyterian Mission Press, 1887), 385. 128. Montalto de Jesus, Historic Macao, 207; Allen Sinclair Will, World-Crisis in China (Baltimore: John Murphy Company, 1900), 130; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation”; for details about the Amherst mission, see Peyrefitte, Immobile Empire, 504–511. 129. James M. Polachek, Inner Opium War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992); Lianpo Ma, Wanqing diguo shiye xia de yingguo: Yi jiaqing daoguang liangchao wen zhongxin (Britain under the Gaze of the Late Qing Empire: Centering on the Jiaqing and Daoguang Reigns) (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2003), 30, 93. 130. Frederic Wakeman, Jr., Strangers at the Gate: Social Disorder in South China, 1839–1861 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974). 131. Arrighi et al., Resurgence of East Asia, 58; Wakeman, “Drury’s Occupation,” 27; Quan, “Two Systems of Diplomacy,” 42–44. 132. Charles Gutzlaff, A Sketch of Chinese History, Ancient and Modern: Comprising a Retrospect of the Foreign Intercourse and Trade with China (New York: John P. Haven, 1834), 200. 133. Kang, “Hierarchy and Legitimacy,” 601; Mary Clabaugh Wright, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism: The T’ung-chih Restoration, 1862–1874 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966), 231. 134. John E. Wills, Jr., “Maritime Asia, 1500–1800: The Interactive Emergence of European Domination,” American Historical Review 98 (1993): 83–105.

Conclusion 1. William T. Rowe, “Introduction: The Significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition in Qing History,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 74. 2. Michael G. Chang, A Court on Horseback: Imperial Touring and the Construction of Qing Rule, 1680–1785 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2007), 432; Ho-Fung Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics: Demonstrations, Riots, and Petitions in the Mid-Qing Dynasty (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 44, 134. 3. By preventing an earlier Qing collapse, the Jiaqing reforms might have helped reassemble almost all of the old Qing territories into a single state during the Republican period. 4. Bin Wong argues that “challenges” and “capacities” are structural; they represent the material and structural features of state-making. “Commitment” is ideological; it represents the cultural component of state-making. R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of European Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997).

318

Notes to Pages 255–258

5. Seunghyun Han, “The Punishment of Examination Riots in the Early to MidQing Period,” Late Imperial China 32 (2011): 146; Hung, Protest with Chinese Characteristics. 6. Revisionist works looking at crises in the Jiaqing and Daoguang periods have suggested a surprisingly agile state still at work. Jane Kate Leonard, Controlling from Afar: the Daoguang Emperor’s Management of the Grand Canal Crisis, 1824–26 (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1996); Randall A. Dodgen, Controlling the Dragon: Confucian Engineers and the Yellow River in the Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2001); Lillian M. Li, Fighting Famine in North China: State, Market, and Environmental Decline, 1690s–1990s (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007); McMahon points out the continuity between Jiaqing’s reform and the Tongzhi restoration in terms of their political use of ideology. Daniel McMahon, “Dynastic Decline, Heshen, and the Ideology of the Xianyu Reforms,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies 38 (2008): 252. 7. Robert Hymes and Conrad Schirokauer, introduction to Ordering the World: Approaches to State and Society in Sung Dynasty China, ed. Hymes and Schirokauer (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 13. 8. Under this circumstance, Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng’s well-intentioned drive for political centralization and administrative efficiency was simply too aggressive and idealistic, which created his own enemies. Ray Huang, 1587, A Year of No Significance: The Ming Dynasty in Decline (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982). 9. It should be noted that Peter Perdue argues for plausible similarities between China and Europe during the period of Qing frontier expansion. “From the early seventeenth to the eighteenth centuries, the Qing Empire also engaged in a competitive state-building process as it pushed it borders outward.” Despite such similarities, I submit that Chinese empire-building was mainly internally oriented. Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 549. See also Theodore Huters et al. eds., Culture and State in Chinese History: Conventions, Accommodations, Critiques (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 4. 10. Jack Goldstone, Revolution and Rebellion in the Early Modern World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 352.

Acknowledgments

First of all, my immense and eternal gratitude goes to Kenneth Pomeranz and R. Bin Wong for their endless guidance, support, and patience through every stage of this work. As both distinguished scholars and caring mentors, they were everything a young historian could hope for. This work has been inspired and profoundly affected by their extensive expertise on Chinese history and strong commitment to understanding China in a larger perspective. I am also indebted to many other scholars at the University of California, Irvine, for their resourceful advice, timely assistance, and great influence. Among them I should particularly mention Jeffrey Wasserstrom, Qitao Guo, Anne Walthall, and Dorothy Solinger. While at the University of Hawaii, Manoa, my colleagues in the History Department have provided a supportive and encouraging environment for research as well as teaching. I owe a special debt of gratitude to the late Jerry Bentley, who welcomed me into the department with particular kindness and personal support. He read my entire manuscript in draft and gave me the benefit of his encyclopedic knowledge on world history and his vast experience as a journal editor. I am also profoundly grateful to Jun Yoo, Matthew Romaniello, Liam Kelley, Yuma Totani, Ned Bertz, Ned Davis, Shana Brown, Robert McGlone, Marcus Daniel, Vina Lanzona, Suzanna Reiss, Njoroge Njoroge, Matthew Lauzon, Kieko Matteson, and John Rosa for their helpful comments on different portions of my book. I am blessed to be able to benefit from their stimulating advice and the help of many other colleagues at UH. Any errors and misinterpretations, of course, remain my own responsibility. Beyond Honolulu and Irvine, other scholars and friends have generously offered me advice, encouragement, and intellectual inspiration over the years. First among these would be Benjamin Elman, who shared his interest in my work and provided

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Acknowledgments

me with some of his research materials. I greatly appreciate his invaluable feedback and support at crucial stages of this project. For making their unpublished work available to me, I thank Wook Yoon, John E. Wills, Huaiyin Li, and Tianxiang Jiang. I am indebted to Blaine Gaustad for pointing me to useful primary sources and, furthermore, sending me copies of his own documents. Also of great assistance to me are my former professors at Wuhan University, in particular Yong Chen, Rong Xiang, Gongzhen Li, and Jianmin Zhang, for planting in me the seeds of a lifelong interest in historical research. Over the past five years, I have presented research for this book to various academic gatherings, the most important of which was a panel titled “Reconfiguring Sovereignty: The Significance of the Qianlong-Jiaqing Transition in Qing History” at the 2010 annual meeting of the Association for Asian Studies. I am grateful to Matthew Mosca for organizing this panel and to the discussant William Rowe for his penetrating comments. I appreciated all the helpful reactions received from those who attended this and other, similar events. Along the way, this project has received an ample share of financial and institutional support. Funding was provided by the University of California Pacific Rim Research Program, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and the American Council of Learned Societies, as well as several intramural agencies at UC Irvine (including the Center for Asian Studies, the Humanities Center, the International Center for Writing and Translation, the History Department, and the School of Humanities). Researching and writing the manuscript was also made possible by five internal grants and fellowships from various agencies at UH Manoa, including the University Research Council, College of Arts and Humanities, History Department, and the Center for Chinese Studies. Equally indispensable for completing this book was access to archival materials granted by the following Chinese institutions: the First Historical Archives of China, the Office of Recompiling Qing Dynasty History, the National Library of China, the Provincial Library of Hubei, and the libraries of Wuhan University and Beijing University. I gratefully acknowledge the support of all these organizations and their staff members. Portions of the Introduction and Chapter 6 appeared in “Prosperity and Its Discontents: Contextualizing the Social Protest during the Late Qianlong Reign,” Frontier of History in China 6 (2011): 347–369. Chapter 1 was first published as “Social Crises and Political Reform during the Jiaqing Reign of Qing China, 1796–1810s,” in From Early Tang Court Debates to China’s Peaceful Rise, ed. Friederike Assandri and Dora Martins (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009), 33–52, and appears here in slightly modified form. I am grateful for the permission of the editors and publishers to reuse those materials here. A special note of appreciation is due my editor at Harvard University Press, Kathleen McDermott, who showed great faith in me from the beginning and endless patience ever after. She readily answered my numerous questions, shepherding a first-time author through the intricate process of academic publication. My gratitude also goes to the two anonymous readers for Harvard University Press for their helpful and constructive comments. Philip Schwartzberg expertly drafted the three maps that appear in this book.

Acknowledgments

321

Above all, I owe an immeasurable debt to my families in both Hunan and Hawaii. From early on, my parents, Huaiqing Wang and Yuqing Gu, instilled in me a thirst for the education they could never get and made great sacrifice to support my long academic quest. They have always been there for me as I go through the ups and downs of my study and life. My wife Baoyan, herself an academic, took considerable time from her own work to read and comment on my writings. Her loving companionship, unfailing support, and constant intellectual stimulation have made the happiness and hardships of an academic life all the more meaningful. I completed this book right before the birth of my son Jihan. I hope that this is a first gift he will like and learn to appreciate when he grows up. It is with warm affection that I dedicate this book to all my families.

Index

Activism: state, 128, 190, 201; literati, 156, 163, 256; elite, 200–201; societal, 257 Administrative agencies: Censorate (Duchayuan), 118, 156, 173, 185, 186, 295n63; Imperial Southern Study (Nanshufang), 119, 130, 136, 167, 171; Deliberative Council of Princes and Ministers (Yizhengwang dachen huiyi), 119, 299n6; Chancery of Memorials to the emperor (Zoushichu), 138, 174, 180, 302n62; Capital Gendarmerie (Bujun tongling yamen), 150, 185, 186, 295n63, 303n78; Imperial Clan Office (Zongrenfu), 169, 300n22; Bureau of Transmission (Tongzhengsi) and Court of Judicial Review (Dalishi), 172; Ministry of Outer Dependencies (Lifan yuan), 172. See also Grand Council (Junjichu); Grand Secretariat (Neige); Hanlin Academy; Imperial Household Department (Neiwufu); Inner court (Neiting); Outer court (waiting); Six Boards Administrative efficiency, 118, 173; and dual features of the officialdom, 119–120; vs. political equilibrium, 136; and principal-agent problem, 136 Administrative rationalization, 115, 118, 122. See also Bureaucrats: bureaucratic

routinization; Civil service examination system, and examination politics Agriculture, 27, 52; dry-land farming, 50; paddy-rice, 50, 96, 97; underdevelopment of, 53, 92, 98, 103, 270n22; agricultural zones in central-western China, 57–58; slash-and-burn, 64, 65; land use patterns, 96; as foundation for civilizational development, 101–102. See also Shack people (pengmin) Agui: as Liu Tongxun’s disciple, 124; death, 124, 137; political credential, 135; rivalry with Heshen, 135, 136, 155; skepticism about Qing finance, 192. See also Checks and balances, strategy of; Divide and conquer, strategy of; Nourishing-virtue allowances Ai Xiu, 51, 73 All-encompassing contentious crises: defined, 10; major cases of, 11, 41, 132; Qianlong’s engagement of, 33; and four models of social movement studies, 37; and “anthropology of the state,” 114; Jiaqing’s use of, 131, 165, 181; and process of inner state-building, 166; as catalyst for constructive political changes, 188; as key concept for understanding Chinese history, 258. See

324

Index

All-encompassing contentious crises (continued) also State-making; State-society relationship Anderson, John L., 88 Anhui province, 51, 72, 73, 77; governor, 171 Antony, Robert J., 5, 84, 88, 98, 105 Averill, Stephen, 65; dynamics of desperation, 76 Bailing, 108, 187, 248; embargo, 89, 96 Bailongwei (Bach Long Vi), 92, 95, 105, 225. See also Jiangping (Giang Binh) Bai Peixiang, 52, 74 Banditry, 63; in Han River highlands, 66–67; repertoire of collective action, 77; one-size-fits-all legislation against, 107–108; in Guangdong, 107–109 Banquet of Thousands of Elders (Qiansou Yan), 1, 265n2 Baojia system: and lineage, 52; and gentry-led militia systems, 64; as “cultural nexus of power,” 76; and fortified hamlets, 198; organization of, 198–199; and tuanbao, 200 Baoning, 95, 141, 144 Bao Shichen, 163, 248 Bartlett, Beatrice: Monarchs and Ministers, 115–116; Grand Council’s functions, 121, 299n7; information control, 138; extralegal dynamic, 167; ministerial administration, 182 Benevolent government, 115, 189, 205 Bentley, Jerry, 41 Bi Yuan, 61, 133–134 Blusse, Leonard, 232 Bondservants (baoyi), 122; and Neiwufu, 175–176, 177, 178; key financial posts of, 176–177 Border-crossings, 61, 70, 99; in Han River highlands, 54, 58; manifold networks of, 62; prohibitions of, 69–70; as means of survival, 70; and cultural nexus of nonstate power, 79; in South China Sea, 99, 104, 225. See also Coin counterfeiting; Salt smuggling; Shack people (pengmin) Boulger, Demetrius Charles, 232, 236 Boxer rebellion, 250–251, 303n74 Braudel, Fernand, 11, 90; Longue durée, 11 Bribery, 29, 120, 204; of gentry, 32; and White Lotus campaign, 49; and suppression of piracy, 107–108; and self-assessed

fines, 177; of Neiwufu officials, 179–180; and capital appeals, 186; and tribute gifts, 188–189. See also Political culture Britain, 2, 209, 229; and Nepal, 227; Industrial Revolution, 232, 233, 250; empire on which the sun never set, 233; early efforts to gain footholds in China, 234–235; reconnoitering missions in China coast, 234, 238–239; first Macao expedition, 235–240; struggle with France, 235–236, 240–241; George III’s letter to Jiaqing, 238–239; second Macao expedition, 240–246; “opium-oriented” offensive against Qing, 246–247. See also British East India Company (EIC); British governors-general of India; British missions to China; France: Treaty of Amiens British East India Company (EIC), 87, 233–234, 238, 242, 245–246; Glasspoole, Richard, 86; EIC Select Committee of Supercargoes, 108; founding of, 233; and Macao, 233; Court of Directors, 235–236; Richard Wall, 236; Chronicle of the East India Company, 239–240; and opium smuggling, 246–247 British governors-general of India: Hastings, Warren, 235; Wellesley, Richard, 236; Barlow, George, 239–240; Minto, Lord (Gilbert Elliot-Murray-Kynynmound), 240–241 British missions to China: Lord Macartney, 234; Parish, Henry William, 234–235; Cathcart, Charles, 234, 235; Napier, 246; Amherst, 248 Buddhism: Pure Land, 41; kalpa, 43, 44, 45, 47, 49, 74, 79; Maitreya Buddha, 43, 45, 46, 51, 80 Bureaucrats: bureaucratic protection, 7; organizational capacities, 26; bureaucratic resistance, 33, 115, 117, 132–133, 139, 140; dual characteristics, 119; formal and informal power, 119–120; bureaucratic routinization, 122, 167. See also Corruption; Emperor-bureaucracy relationship; Faction; Patron-client relationship; Principal-agent problem Burma, 39, 228; wars with Qing, 28, 127, 140, 154, 223, 271n36; wars with Siam, 243 Cai Qian, 86, 88, 89 Cambodia, 223, 227

Index Canton (Guangzhou), 87, 95–96, 98, 106, 108–109, 194; as pirate headquarter, 86; as provincial capital, 96, 215; Vietnamese contact with, 219–220; and Macao, 229, 230, 231–232; Xiangshan county, 231–232, 240; Bogue (Humen), 238, 239, 242, 245, 246; pirate threat to, 237–238, 240; Whampoa (Huangpu), 238, 242, 245; Jijing, 240–241; Drury’s threat to, 241–243; and opium smuggling, 246–247 Canton system, 98, 101; immediate effects, 106; and Macao, 230; and British, 234, 246–247. See also British East India Company (EIC); Cohong (gonghang) Capital appeals (&thinsp$jingkong), 184–188, 205, 295n63, 304n88 Censors, 168–169; Wang Niansun and Guangxing, 150; Wang Ningfu, 169, 173; Cai Jiong, 171; and Grand Council sectaries, 172; Wu Bangqing, 172; He Yuanlang, 173; Yin Zhuangtu, 173; Jueluo’enzhi, 179; and Neiwufu, 180; and capital appeals, 185–186; vice censor-inchief Jishan, 186; Chang Wen and Lu Yan, 187; vice censor-in-chief Wang Ji, 187; Gu Jiqi, 204 Centralized local bureaucratic system ( junxian), 25, 38, 59 Chang, Michael G., 122, 189; ethnodynastic domination, 32, 122, 206, 254 Chang Dankui, 204 Changlin, 64 Checks and balances, strategy of, 123, 136. See also Divide and conquer, strategy of Chen Dawen, 153 Chen Feng, 201 Cheng, Prince (Yongxing), 162, 168 China-centered history, 12, 209, 227; dynamic of change in late Qing history, 210 China proper, 38, 39, 54, 55, 61, 126; “inward colonization” within, 25; internal frontiers as outskirts of, 27; Xiangyang as geographical center of, 51, nonstate spaces within, 72. See also Outer provinces; Sino-centric tributary system: tripartite construction of spatial hegemony Christianity, 184; Catholicism, 218, 219, 237. See also Missionaries, in China, Amiot, Pere Chu, Richard, 47 Civil administration, deterioration of, 8, 31, 161

325

Civil service examination degrees: jiansheng, 29, 53, 202; shengyuan, 53, 107, 183, 199; zhuangyuan, 121; jinshi, 156, 160, 161, 168, 172; juren, 172. See also Civil service examination system Civil service examination system, 160, 183; as primary “ladder of success,” 29, 179; expansion, 117; and rise of centralized bureaucracy, 117; and examination politics, 122, 155. See also Civil service examination degrees Cohong (gonghang): yanghang, 101; as government-designated go-betweens, 101; debt and bankruptcy of Hong merchants, 194; trade monopoly, 234–235, 246–247. See also Canton system Coin counterfeiting, 28, 62, 63, 64, 68–70, 71; and domestic trade, 69; Qianlong’s policy toward, 72, 79 Collective action, 4, 255; mobilizing networks, 5; and all-encompassing contentious crises, 10; local and supralocal logic of, 37; repertoire of, 77. See also Contentious politics; Popular protest; Social movements; Social protest Commercialization: of public services, 31; of highland economy, 62, 68; and “privatization of trade,” 67; of Lingnan macroregion, 96 Communication: in Han River highlands, 59, 60; and “Confucian agenda for social order,” 76, 78; in South China Sea, 100; palace-memorial system, 137; Heshen’s lateral system of, 138; court letters, 138, 152, 169; information control, 138, 172; vermilion rescripts, 152; imperial calls for reform proposals, 159; avenue of (yanlu), 159, 185; and Grand Council, 172; and capital appeals, 185, 188. See also Administrative agencies: Chancery of Memorials to the emperor (Zoushichu) Confucianism: Confucius as god in White Lotus teachings, 44; crisis of Confucian culture, 75–76 Constitutional agenda, 164, 165, 298n115; constitutional reforms, 174, 256 Contentious politics: contentious tradition, 39, 41, 63, 79, 80; transgressive game of, 47; maritime raiding as means of, 83; within ocean space, 99–100; and all-encompassing contentious crises, 267n18. See also Collective action; Popular protest; Social movements; Social protest

326

Index

Cooke, Nola, 219 Corruption: as strategy for political survival, 7, 120; among bureaucrats, 29, 30, 32, 204; self-assessed fines and, 30; among yamen staff, 31; and Qianlong’s empire-building, 31, 33; Heshen and, 137, 158, 162, 203; military campaigns and, 141, 142; Gansu case, 157; imperial control and, 176; in Neiwufu officials, 176; and capital appeals, 185; and tribute gift, 188; southern tours and, 189; granaries and, 190; in Yellow River Administration, 191; chain of, 203 Court politics: disequilibrium, 47; structural paradox, 117, 118; filial piety, 130; Hanlin members in, 161; Junjichu’s domination of, 167, 171; eunuch interference in, 175; milestone in, 182 Crisis: Chinese term for, 3; of upward mobility, 29, 202; of Confucian culture, 75–76. See also All-encompassing contentious crises; Crisis management Crisis management: as enabling force for Chinese history, 3; and reform as interlinked process, 5, 9; top-down process of, 12; and empire-building, 40; and upward mobility, 205. See also Emperor-bureaucracy relationship Crossley, Pamela Kyle, 117 Cultural nexus of nonstate power, 79, 80; defined, 78; in southeast coast, 88, 89 Cushman, Jennifer Wayne, 96 Daba Mountain, 54, 55 Dai Junyuan, 190 Dai Quheng, 157, 168, 171 Dai Ruhuang, 204 Dai Xuanzhi, 200 Dai Yingcong, 141 Daoguang emperor, 4, 191, 192, 300n35, 318n6; reforms of, 124, 256; Daoguang Depression, 194 Davis, John Francis, 87 Delengtai, 140, 143, 147, 293n25 Disinterested discussion (Qingyi), 156, 163, 256 Divide and conquer, strategy of, 123, 136, 167. See also Checks and balances, strategy of Dong Gao, 155, 157, 168, 208; disciple of Liu Tongxun, 136 Drifting populations (yimin or youmin), 25, 27, 61

Drury, William O’Brien, 241–246, 247 Duara, Prasenjit: entrepreneurial brokerages, 31, 195; cultural nexus of power, 76, 195; state involution, 195 Dutch, 230, 232; Dutch East Indies Company, 85, 282n13, 285n49 Dutton, George, 213 Dynastic decline, 6, 226, 253, 254. See also State decline Eastern Zhou dynasty, 38, 211 Easton, David, “authoritative allocation of values,” 76, 79 Ecology, degradation, 24, 254; deforestation, 64, 65 Eight banner system (baqi), 21, 174, 206; Qianlong and, 122, banner troops, 138, 146; Upper/Inner Three Banners (Nei Sanqi/Shang Sanqi), 175, 301n48; bannermen’s livelihood, 189; military yanglian, 191. See also Green Standard army Eight Trigrams rebellion, 184. See also White Lotus rebellion Eisenstadt, Shmuel Noah, free-floating resources, 29, 76, 84, 86 Eledengbao, 67, 140, 197, 204 Elites: and local militia, 26; gentry, 32, 190; networks of, 70; and jianbi qingye, 147; and granaries, 190; “protective brokerage,” 195; participation in local public affairs, 195, 201; activism, 201; recruitment, 202, 205, 207–208; and water control, 305n103 Elliot, Mark, 189 Elman, Benjamin, 155, 162, 163 Elvin, Mark, 24 Emperor-bureaucracy relationship, 5, 114–116, 158, 174, 254; and state-society relationship, 115; historiography on, 115–116; secret struggle, 115, 117, 118, 132, 147; tensions between inner and outer courts, 117; early history of, 117–118; and dual characteristics of the officialdom, 119 Empire-building, 7, 31, 70, 71, 90, 125, 318n9; reorientation of, 6, 253, 254; structural predicament, 7; big leap forward in, 8, 21; popular violence and, 10; operational cost, 34, 148; social mobilization and, 37; interaction with frontiermaking, 39; internal contradictions of, 39–40; primary locus of dynamism, 40;

Index and political sustainability, 50, 254; and inner court, 121; and emperor’s political orientation, 127; dimensions and submechanisms, 254; yardstick for process of, 255. See also Frontier-making; Inner state-building; State-making Empress of Heaven (Tianhou or Mazu), 100, 103–104 Era of political debt, 9, 166 Era of political dividend, 8 Ethnicity: ethnic revolts, 19, 20, 49, 269n9; ethnic minorities, 25; Qing as multiethnic empire, 38; ethnic borderland, 61; ethnic identity, 132, 174; ethnic composition, 171; ethnic hegemony, 205 Eunuchs, 257; usurpation of Wei Zhongxian, 163; Thirteen Eunuch Bureaus (shisan yamen), 175; imperial control over, 180; and Eight Trigrams uprising, 184 Event: explanatory power of, 10; “internal temporality of,” 11; contentious, 48; and emperor-bureaucracy relationship, 115; and all-encompassing contentious crisis, 258; explanatory gap with structure, 258; and “transformations of structures,” 267n17, 268n19. See also “Structure of the conjuncture” Faction: struggles, 7, 21, 33, 155, 182; building, 21, 29, 121; literati, 116, 155, 163; and informal bureaucratic power, 120; Northern Scholars Clique, 122, 156, 157; hyper-faction, 122–123, 155, 290n30; controlled factionalism, 155; Spring Purification Circle, 156; Suzhai Poetry Society, 156; Xuannan Poetry Club, 156; Donglin, 156, 162, 163; imperial charge of factionalism, 176 Fang Ji, 146, 204 Fang Weidian, 141 Fashishan, 156, 160 Feng Guangxiong, 152 Feng Guifen, 30, 163, 207 Filial piety: Qianlong’s, 124; Jiaqing’s, 130, 149, 150, 151; and rulership, 149 Financial contribution to the government ( juanfu), 179–180 Fletcher, Joseph, 26 Forbidden City, 1, 60, 147, 150, 160, 184 Foreign relations, 222, 226; scholarly treatment of, 209; Sino-Vietnamese relationship, 210–229; China-centered tributary diplomacy, 226, 249; rise of

327

China’s modern diplomacy, 228; Sino-British relationship, 229, 237–240, 246–251; Sino-Portuguese relationship, 229–232; “Two systems under one diplomacy,” 249–250. See also Sinocentric tributary system Fortified hamlets (zhaibao), 146, 198, 199, 200. See also Militia, local; “Strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside” ( jianbi qingye) France: Gravier, Charles, 218; Versailles Treaty of 1787, 218; interactions with Vietnam, 218, 223, 229, 245–246; Great Wars, 229, 233–234, 235; struggle with Britain, 233, 235–236; French Revolutionary Wars, 233, 236–237; Napoleonic Wars, 233, 240; and Macao, 235, 314n83; conflict with Portugal, 235, 240–241; Treaty of Amiens, 236–237, 240; Napoleon Bonaparte and Berlin Decree, 240 Frontier: mountainous frontier, 25, 48, 57; internal frontier, 27, 38–39, 54–55, 58, 62, 70, 72, 100–101, 127; frontier construction, 37–39, 273n4; external frontier, 38, 54, 55, 72, 126; as core of empire-building, 39; as unit of historical inquiry, 40; highlands as cultural frontier, 76; water frontier, 88, 94, 101–102, 104–105. See also Frontier-making; Frontier protest Frontier-making: dilemma of, 27, 70–72; Qianlong’s campaigns of, 27, 121; and frontier construction, 39; nonstate forces and, 82. See also Empire-building; Frontier protest Frontier protest, 79; and Qing’s coercive power, 8; against state intrusion, 20, 37; xiangyong and, 142. See also Frontier; Highland societies Frontier society, 58, 62; Han River highlands, 63–71; coastal south China, 88, 97–98, 105–109 Fuchang’an, 123, 137, 150–151, 158, 167, 176–177 Fuheng, 121, 122, 197, 271n36 Fujian province: and Tiandihui, 18, 19; shack people and, 65; customs administrations, 85; Xiamen, 86, 97, 98, 106, 108; Wuyi Mountain, 97; topography of, 96–97; economic heartland of, 97; Min River, 97; Quanzhou, 97; vs. Guangdong, 97–98; decline of maritime shipping, 98

328

Index

Fukang’an, 19, 66, 123, 136, 143, 215, 217 Fuma Susumu, 213, 227 Funing, 137, 145, 153, 293n25 Fuqing, 98; governor, 99, 151, 187; Minzhe governor-general, 104 Fusen, 159 Gansu province, 2; border with Sichuan, 54; contraband salt from, 68; Susishisan Muslim rebellion, 134–135; corruption case of 1781, 157; tax cut, 193 Gao Xiang, 121, 271n36 Gaustad, Blaine, 51, 73, 281n121 Gentry, 32, 96, 117, 144, 195, 199, 200; Subbureaucratic agents, 26, 32, 195 Goldstone, Jack, state breakdown, 2, 266n5 Gong Jinghan, 71, 198, 204 Gong Wensheng, 2, 62, 146 Governability, 33, 58, 148, 192, 254; defined, 8. See also Political sustainability Governing apparatus, minimalistic, 7, 26, 31, 70 Granary system, 76, 190–191, 195 Grand Canal, 17, 256 Grand Council (Junjichu): as handmaiden of Qing autocracy, 32; as highest decision-making agency, 116, 121, 167; as inner court agency, 119; Grand Council secretaries (xiao junji), 119, 171–172; ranking grand councilors (lingban junji dachen), 121, 122, 135, 154; institutional growth of, 121, 167; cleavages within, 123, 157; Chinese and Manchu dominance of, 123–124; functions of, 135; reform of, 166–174; origins of, 167; downgrading and bureaucratization of, 167, 173; personnel change of, 168; inner Grand Council (nei junji), 173; and Neiwufu, 178 Grand Ministers in attendance (yuqian dachen), 123, 138, 169, 178, 180 Grand Secretariat (Neige): as outer court agency, 118; Grand Secretaries, 123, 135, 137, 151, 171; and Grand Council, 167; decline, 171, 289n19 Green Standard army, 139, 146, 191, 192. See also Eight Banner system (baqi) Guangdong province: and Tiandihui, 18; shack people from, 65; Liangguang governor-general, 82, 89, 91, 96, 98–99, 104, 108–109, 212, 215, 217, 224, 236–237, 238–239, 242–243, 247; Chaozhou, 86, 95–96, 105, 106, 285n52;

salt trade, 87; pirates in, 89; Pearl River delta, 89, 91, 92, 96, 285n52; geographical conditions, 91–94; Leizhou, 91, 92, 98, 101–102; Gaozhou, 92; Lianzhou, 92, 94–95; Huizhou, 96; social ecology, 98–99, 105–106; mulberry tree and fish pond, 105–106; legislation against banditry, 107–108; coastal defense, 108; governor, 153, 187, 245; capital appeals in, 187; customs administration (Yue Haiguan), 193–194. See also Canton system Guangxing, 150, 178, 180, 196, 293n25, 302n62 Guangxi province, 82; pirates from, 95–96; and Tiandihui, 214; Tay Son’s plan to conquer Liangguang, 214, 217; Zhennan Pass, 220 Guolu bandits, 62–63, 64, 65, 66–67, 71, 72. See also Secret societies Guo Podai, 89 Guy, R. Kent, 158, 171, 181, 271n36 Hainan (Qiongzhou), 91, 92, 94, 98, 101–102 Hamashita Takeshi, 210, 228 Han Chinese: conflicts with minorities, 19, 20, 25; checks and balances on, 32, 121, 122, 123–124; Green Standard army, 139; relationship with Manchu, 205–208; irregular recruitment, 207 Han dynasty, 61; incorporation of Nam Viet, 211, 217 Hanlin Academy, 118, 173, 206; examinations of, 129, 160; debate in, 161; Hanlin compiler of second degree (bianxiu), 161. See also Hong Liangji; Ruan Yuan Han River: Bai River as tributary of, 51; geographic feature, 54–55. See also Han River highlands Han River highlands: as internal borderland and nonstate space, 12, 27; as buffer zone protecting China proper, 39; topographical significance, 54; social ecology, 54, 60; as boundaries of four macroregions, 58; weak state presence, 59–60; tides of highland reclamation, 61; population explosion, 61–62; diversification of highland economy, 62; nonstate and antistate groups, 63–70, 75–80; forms of social resistance, 71–72; spread of sectarian teaching, 72–75; mechanisms of value allocation, 77. See also Han River;

Index Qinba original forest (Qinba laolin); Three-province border region Han Seunghyun, 201, 208, 255, 303n81 Heaven and Earth Society (Tiandihui), 7, 18, 19, 28, 42, 97–98, 214. See also Secret societies Henan province, 2, 51, 53, 280n112; Nanyang basin, 57; and White Lotus religion, 72, 73, 82; governor, 143; tax cut, 193 Hengrui, 77, 158 Heshen: as biggest political upstart, 9, 123, 306n113; as great villain in imperial history, 22; hegemony of, 29, 123, 137; as imperial bodyguard, 122; “second emperor,” 123; tensions with Agui, 134; and Susishisan rebellion, 134–135; network of malfeasance and corruption, 137; private system of lateral communication, 138; on jianbi qingye, 147; “rebel from inside” (neizei), 151; mishandling of White Lotus campaign, 151, 154, 158; Twenty Indictments, 153; forced suicide, 153–154; ill-gained wealth, 153–154, 178; as watershed for imperial politics, 163 Highland societies: lack of social control, 53; highland forces, 63–70, 75–80; sectarian adaptation to, 74–75; local culture, 77–78; contentious tradition, 79 High politics: and sociocultural history, 5; of social protests, 113; interactions with bottom-up events and processes, 116. See also Court politics Hobsbawm, Eric, 105; Age of Revolution, 265n5 Hong Kong, 87, 92, 229, 233 Hong Liangji: on official corruption, 30, 188; on “Guanbi minfan,” 31; and White Lotus campaign, 140; remonstrance letter to Jiaqing, 159–164; and anti-Heshen movement, 160; career, 160; proposal for political reforms, 161; as political visionary, 163 Hong Nak-yu, 134 Ho Ping-ti, 23 Hsu, Wen-hsiung, 19 Huang Yupian, 184 Hubei province: border with Sichuan and Shaanxi, 12, 27, 69, 72; Yidu, 48, 49, 52, 53, 204; Jianghan plain, 48, 50, 52, 53, 54; Zhijiang, 48, 52, 53; Jingzhou, 48–50, 52, 53, 58, 138, 204; Dangyang, 49, 53; Baokang, 49, 53, 55; Yunxi and Zhuxi,

329

49, 55; Yichang, 50, 53; Yunyang, 50, 53, 58, 64, 74, 204; Hankou, 50, 54; Anlu, 50, 204; three kind of rebel-afflicted areas, 50–51; staging of White Lotus rebellion in, 50–53; orthodox social formation, 52; Zhushan, 53, 55; Wuchang, 54, 204; Hubei side of Han River highlands, 55, 68; Huguang governor-general, 64, 133; White Lotus sectarianism, 73–74; governor, 138; hire of xiangyong, 142–143; tax cut, 193. See also Han River highlands; Xiangyang Huiling, 138, 203 Hu Jitang, 150, 156, 160, 295n70 Hu Mingyuan, 60 Hunan province, 65, 204, 208; border with Guizhou, 20, 49, 61 Hung, Ho-Fung, 205, 266n5; state-engaging protest and state-resisting violence, 31; Protest with Chinese Characteristics, 255 Huntington, Samuel P., 205 Hu Qilun, 204 Imperial Household Department (Neiwufu): Directors of (Zongguan neiwufu dachen), 22, 123, 301n44, 306n113; as biggest part of palace administration, 174; Gongfu yiti (Government and imperial household working in unison), 174; Department of the Privy Purse (Guangchusi), 174–175; exclusivity and institutional growth, 175; and Secret Accounts Bureau, 177; and Rule of Avoidance, 178–179; and financial contribution, 179–180; routinization, 180; and tribute gifts, 188; and contingent customs surplus, 193 Imperialism: French, 223; British, 236, 248–249, 250–251; commercial, 247 Imperially Sanctioned Collected Statutes and Precedents of the Great Qing (Qinding daqing huidian shili), 118, 299n9; recompiling of, 167 India, 230, 233, 236, 239–240, 241–242, 245; Bengal, 227, 237, 241; Calcutta, 218, 246–247. See also British governorsgeneral of India Inner court (Neiting): and imperial power, 7, 22, 121, 170, 181, 257; definition and major agencies, 118, 119; extralegal status and “new inner-court hegemony,” 119, 120; ambiguous boundary of neiting power, 165; balance with outer court,

330

Index

Inner court (Neiting) (continued) 166; controlled bureaucratization, 166, 169; and institutional crisis, 181. See also Grand Council (Junjichu); Imperial Household Department (Neiwufu); Outer court (waiting) Inner state-building, 5, 13, 117, 158, 166 “It was the officials who forced the people to rise up” (Guanbi minfan), 31, 77, 108, 204 Japan: wokou, 84; Tokugawa, 101, 102, 230; Meiji, 116; trade with Macao, 230 Jenks, Robert D., 147 Jesus, C. A. Montalto de, 248 Jiangping (Giang Binh): 92, 224, 225; geographical importance, 94–95; markets, 95–96; mainstay of local economy, 95–96; as nonstate space, 105. See also Bailongwei (Bach Long Vi); SinoVietnamese water world Jiangsu province, 85, 92 Jiangxi province, 65; governor, 153 Jiaqing emperor: accession, 1; conventional interpretation of, 3–4; reorientation in statecraft, 9; amnesty to pirates, 89; temperament and hallmark of emperorship, 128; three years of apprenticeship, 129–131; filiality, 130, 149, 150; military spending, 144; six-pronged plan to purge Heshen, 149–154; posture of mourning, 150; propaganda campaign against Heshen, 151–152; vermilion rescripts, 152–153, 196; use of controlled factionalism, 155; policy of nonimplication, 157; significance of minimalist purge, 158–159; on late Ming factionalism, 162; two choices regarding inner court, 165; political use of crises, 165, 181; “Cautiously sustain the grand enterprise” (shenshou piji), 166; institutional reform, 166–181; policy reform, 182–195; “On the Heretical Religious Sects,” 183; policy on Christianity, 184; abolishing self-assessed fines, 189; tours outside Beijing, 189; on tribute gift, 189–190; military yanglinyin, 191; retreat in flood control, 191; troop retrenchment, 192; cut in land tax, 192, 193; cut in surplus custom quotas, 194; “restoration generation,” 206; foreign policy and diplomatic retreat, 227–228, 249; maritime turn in Qing history,

248–249. See also Jiaqing reforms; Qianlong-Jiaqing transition Jiaqing reforms, 13, 182, 196, 203, 246–247, 317n3; defined, 5; essence of, 9, 195; key driving forces, 118; backbone of, 157; milestone in Qing court politics, 182; as turning point in White Lotus campaign, 196; centerpiece of, 253; and political sustainability, 254 Jia Yunsheng, 186 Jinchuan campaigns, 66, 127, 140, 144, 154 Jing’an, 137, 145, 203 Jiqing, 82, 95, 98–99, 104, 109, 224, 236–237 Jones, Susan Mann, 26, 29, 70, 203, 297n96 Jung, Richard L. K., 23, 32, 33, 54; new approach to social protest, 114 Kahn, Harold, 21, 137 Kang, David C., 210, 250 Kangxi emperor, 21, 22, 124, 222, 265n2; internal migration, 61; establishment of four customs administrations, 85; forced evacuation and Kangxi Depression, 85, 282n14; and military campaigns, 126; prosecution of Oboi, 157; and Neiwufu, 175; and water control, 191 Kaske, Elisabeth, 202 Korea, 216; envoys from, 1, 123, 130, 131, 134, 159; in Sino-centric tributary system, 38 Krasner, Stephen D., organized hypocrisy, 24 Kuhn, Philip A. 26, 29, 70; Rebellion and Its Enemies, 4–5; on crises of 1790s, 24, 146; Soulstealers, 115, 299n20; origins of modern Chinese state, 163, 207; on self-assessed fines, 177; tuanlian and baojia, 198; on Jiaqing reforms, 203, 297n96 Kutcher, Norman A., 180, 288n5 Laamann, Lars P., 184 Land-to-population ratio, 24, 25; in Guangdong and Fujian, 105. See also Organizational resources to population size, ratio of Laos, 214, 223, 227 Lattimore, Owen, 27 Lavely, William, 72 Leach, Edmund R., 39 Lebao, 59, 137, 139, 140, 153, 197

Index Leong, Sow-Theng, 65 Li, Lillian M., 191 Liang Guozhi, 121, 123 Li Changgeng, 92, 98 Li Conghu, 51, 73 Lin Man-houng, 69, 268n23 Lin Shuangwen uprising, 23, 215, 223, 314n83; origin and course of, 18–19; ethnic tension and, 25; as agents of political change, 114; Heshen and, 137; military embezzlement in, 141; Fukang’an and, 143 Li Shaobin, 51 Little, Daniel, 78, 268n22; four paradigms of social movement studies, 37 Liu, K. C., 53, 281n121 Liu, Ts’ui-jung, 57 Liu Quanzhi, 161, 298n106 Liu Tongxun, 121, 122, 123, 124, 136, 271n36 Liu Zhixie, 51, 52, 73, 75, 145 Local maladministration, 20, 31, 32, 162, 185, 204 Lukang, 142 Lu Kun, 91 Macao: British invasion, 2, 102, 235–237, 240–246, 265n4; Portuguese control, 84, 230; as pirate base and opium-smuggling center, 86, 232, 246–247; geographical features, 92, 229; Taipa and Coloane islands, 229; golden age, 230; and Canton system, 230, 232; Qing control, 230, 231–232, 246–248; and Lintin, 236; as weakest link in British strategic chain in Asia, 235–236 Macartney, Lord George, 234–235, 245, 251 Ma Huiyu, 59 Malthusian population trap, 24, 25 Manchus: anti-Manchu sentiment, 2, 46, 82; military prowess and expansion, 26, 138, 146, 207–208; “ethno-dynastic domination,” 32, 122, 189, 206, 254; conquest of China, 81, 175; “generational shift,” 122; ethnic identity and minority hegemony, 122, 132, 174, 175, 205; dissipation of Manchu power, 148, 168, 171, 208, 254, 256; relationship with Han Chinese, 205–207; irregular recruitment, 207; ethnic superiority over Chinese, 249. See also Eight Banner system (baqi); Grand Council (Junjichu); Han Chinese; Imperial Household

331

Department (Neiwufu); Inner court (Neiting); Political participation Mandate of Heaven, 43, 46, 125, 128; as core element in Chinese political philosophy, 43 Mann, Michael, 63 Markets: periodic and wilderness, 62; black markets and “shadow economy,” 68, 88, 95; “transshipping of goods,” 88; border, 107; and granary system, 190. See also Skinner, G. William: two central place systems of China Maritime strategy: vs. Europe, 102–103; sea defense (haifang) and sea war (haizhan) in Qing dynasty, 102–103, 226; of Tay Son, 213–214 Maritime violence: Vietnamese sponsorship of, 2; privateering vs. piracy, 83–84; three waves of, 84–86; and nonstate nexus of power, 88; in Pearl River estuary, 238. See also Piracy; Pirates Marks, Robert B., 24, 106 McCaffrey, Cecily, 5, 53 McMahon, Daniel, 54, 266n9, 305n103, 318n6 Meadows, Thomas, 114 Merchants: and White Lotus teachings, 52, 73; and mountain factories, 64; salt, 67, 68, 201, 308n139; alien, 101; Hong, 194; contribution, 196, 201–202; negotiation with state, 202 Metzger, Thomas, 176, 296n81; probationary ethic, 33, 178 Miao rebellion, 20–21, 25, 49–50, 82, 141, 147; miaomin, 20; Wang Nangxian rebellion, 269n9 Midcourse restoration (zhongxing), 13, 158 “Middle ground,” 51, 58, 104 Middle Kingdom (Zhongguo), 100, 211, 228, 229, 237, 243, 246–247; spatial logic of, 37–39 Migdal, Joel S.: state image and state practice, 6, 28, 34; approach of historical anthropology, 28–29, 114; isolation of the state, 196 Migration: internal migration, 20, 24, 25–26, 65; guest people (kemin), 20, 61; to Han River highlands, 57, 61; as major force of frontier transformation, 61; to Southeast Asia, 103–104 Military: weakness of Qing military, 27, 146; spending, 69, 141, 143–144, 192, 195, 201; dual military structure,

332

Index

Military (continued) 138–139; military campaigns as hotbed for corruption, 141; logistics, 141, 153; awards (shanghao), 143–144; misconduct on battlefield, 143–145, 146; “playing with rebels while profiting from it” (yangbing wankou), 144; illegal activities of soldiers, 146; supreme military commissioner ( jinglue), 154, 197. See also Militia, local; “Strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside” ( jianbi qingye) Militia, local: local militarization, 19, 198–199, 200; xiangyong, 141–144, 146, 198–199, 207; tuanyong, 199, 200; tuanbao, 200. See also Fortified hamlets (zhaibao); “Strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside” ( jianbi qingye) Millenarian sects, 43, 45, 46, 183 Millward, James, 40, 54 Ming dynasty: transition to Qing, 46, 61; Chenghua reign, 58; peasant rebellions, 58, 61, 77; late Mingliang, 139, 142, 147, 199, 293n25 Ming policy of closing off mountains, 65; inward turn of maritime policy, 81, 100; prohibition of overseas trade, 84; loyalist movement, 84–85, 97, 230; Zheng Chenggong, 85, 286n56; Zheng He, 100; Li Dongyang and Yang Jisheng, 156; Donglin faction, 156, 162, 163; Hai Rui, 161; Wei Zhongxian and eunuch hegemony, 163; fiscal extraction, 195; Jiajing and Yongle emperors, 215; Hongwu emperor, 256. See also Nanyang trade Minimalist purge, 157–159 Missionaries, in China: Amiot, Pere, 30; Trenchant, Pierre, 74; La Mothe, Charles, 216; de Behaine, Pigneau, 218; Gutzlaff, Charles, 250. See also Christianity Mitchell, Peter M., 9 Money: monetary crisis, 13, 268n23; bimetallic cash currency, 68; exchange rate between copper coins and silver, 69; silver outflow, 194, 247. See also Coin counterfeiting Mongols, 168, 308n154; Mongolia, 26, 38, 68, 72; incursions on northern border, 81; Zunghar wars, 127, 167; in military, 207; in White Lotus campaign, 308n154 Mosca, Matthew, 155, 266n9

Mountain factories (shanchang), 57, 62; wage workers, 64, 65 Murakami, Hideo, 221, 222 Murray, Dian H., 5, 84, 95–96, 101–102, 106, 107 Myers, Ramon H., 23 Nanshan, 54, 55, 64. See also Qinling Nanyang trade, 103–104. See also Ming dynasty; Southeast Asia Naqin, 121, 154 Naquin, Susan, 18, 23, 46, 73 Nayancheng, 63, 77, 108, 157, 168, 239 Nepal, 1, 127, 227 Nguyen dynasty: rise of, 217–218; trade with Qing, 219–220; request to change state name, 220; connotation of name “Nam Viet” and “Viet Nam,” 221; alterations in diplomatic vocabulary, 222; border dispute with Qing, 222; interest in Singapore, 223. See also Vietnam Nie Renjie, 52, 53, 138, 143, 277n50 Ni Yuping, 194 Nonstate space, 12, 40, 82; defined, 39; Qianlong’s effort to control, 72; White Lotus teachings and, 77; Han River highlands as, 78; coastal south China as, 94; water bridge of Jiangping-Bailongwei as, 105 Nourishing-virtue allowances (yanglianyin): institutionalization of, 30; military, 135, 191, 192; and self-assessed fines, 176; Jiaqing’s policy on, 178, 190 Nurhaci, 175, 301n45 Oboi regency, 149, 157 Ocean space: tension with strict administrative framework, 41; relationship with adjacent littoral communities, 90; as supra-and trans-national unite of analysis, 90; and contentious politics, 99; Chinese conception of, 100, 101, 102–103; ambivalent representations of, 101–102; Japanese conception of, 102; Western conception of, 102–103; conflicting construction of, 103, 104 Ocko, Jonathan, 185 Official account of imperial wars (fanglue), 113 Off-the-books fees (lougui), 30, 98–99 One-to-one audience with the emperor, 169, 299n16

Index Operational cost of sociopolitical control, 33, 34, 120, 141, 148, 191 Opium: smuggling, 232, 233, 233–234, 235, 238; as major English export to China, 246–247. See also Opium Wars; Smuggling Opium Wars, 228, 244, 249; and Taiping rebellion, 3, 208; irregular recruitment of Chinese after, 207; and Britain’s “interactive emergence,” 251; sustainable politics and, 255; as conventional onset of modern Chinese history, 256 Organizational resources to population size, ratio of, 8, 22, 26, 29. See also Land-topopulation ratio Ortai, 20, 121 Osborn, Edward, 236 Outer court (waiting), 22; interaction with inner court, 117, 121, 125, 166, 182; definition and major agencies, 118; ambiguous distinction with inner court, 119, 178, 180; monarchical authority and, 257. See also Inner court (Neiting) Outer provinces, 38, 39; Tibet, 26, 38, 72, 237. See also China proper; Sino-centric tributary system: tripartite construction of spatial hegemony; Xinjiang “Overthrow the Qing and restore the Ming” (fanqing fuming), 46 Ownby, David, 19 Pacification: as anti-pirate strategy, 89; as anti-sectarian policy, 160, 183, 203 Pan Dakang, 199 Park, Nancy, 188 Patron-client relationships, 29, 64, 120 Perdue, Peter C., 39, 40, 318n9 Pérotin-Dumon, Anne, 83, 226 Perry, Elizabeth, 188 Piracy: occasional and seasonal, 83; parasitic, 83, 84; petty, 83, 84; confederation, 83–84, 86–87, 89, 96, 240; general forms and nature of, 83–89; as avenue of social mobility, 84; professional, 85, 99, 104–105, 106; vs. smuggling and counterfeiting, 88; as means of survival, 105. See also Maritime violence; Pirates Pirates: handbill, 82–83; as naval mercenaries and “free floating resources,” 84; merchant, 85; bases of, 86, 94–95; captives of, 86–87; chiefs of, 86–87; internal discord among, 89; booty of, 95–96, 213; social makeup of, 98–99; vs.

333

sectarian rebels, 99, 108. See also Maritime violence; Piracy Plausible deniability, principle of, 225 Polachek, James, 133, 201; Inner Opium War, 116; on Spring Purification Circle, 156–157; gentry hegemony, 200, Jiaqing restoration generation, 206 Political culture: political demoralization, 30; antistate, 76; on ideal state, 114; on implication of disasters, 125–126; three years of nonchange (sannian wugai), 149, 153; on factions, 155; letters of remonstrance, 161; Qianlong-Jiaqing crises and revival of literati activism, 163; ambiguous distinction between crime and administrative failing, 176; “probationary ethic” as integral part of, 176, 178; retrenchment, 188; Qianlong’s southern tours and, 189 Political geography, of late Qing, 208 Political participation: Hong Liangji on, 163; form of irregular, 179; Jiaqing’s efforts to expand, 182; of local elites, 195, 201; Manchu and Han Chinese, 205–208, 309n157; and Qing state power, 207 Political survival, 28, 32; key strategies for, 7, 120; and patronage system, 29; and “probationary ethic,” 176. See also Survival strategies Political sustainability: defined, 6; bottleneck for, 7; and governability, 8; of empire building, 50, 254; crisis of, 257; and state-society balance, 258. See also Governability; State-society relationship; Sustainable political development Pomeranz, Kenneth, 24; service provision and resource extraction, 7; on statemaking, 257; Great Divergence, 266n7 Popular protest: less visible side of, 4; and high politics, 12, 90, 257; frequency and intensity of, 13; organizational vehicles for, 26; eschatological justification of, 47; internal frontier as hotbed of, 62; tradition of, 77; significance of, 114. See also Social protest Population growth, 7, 23–24; in Han River highlands, 61–62; and commercialization, 62, 67; and spread of sectarian teachings, 73; in south China coast, 105, 107, 287n83; Hong Liangji on, 160 Portugal, 232, 236; settlement in Macao, 229; as only carrier between China and

334

Index

Portugal (continued) Europe, 230; economic pragmatism, 230; vs. Britain, 233, 235; Government of Goa, 235; Jose Manuel Pinto, 236; French invasion of, 240–241; Bernardo Aleixo de Lemos Faria, 241–242. See also Macao Principal-agent problem, 22, 139, 178, 257; defined, 9. See also Governability; Political sustainability; State-society relationship Prosperous age, 8, 125, 128 Qianlong emperor: as Supreme Abdicated Monarch, 1, 125, 148; halfhearted abdication, 1–2, 124–127; approach to social control, 7; tragedy of late Qianlong politics, 8; flamboyant governing style, 8, 33, 124, 176, 188, 189; efforts to eradicate Tiandihui, 19; as fortunate emperor, 21–22; “sustaining the prosperity and preserving the peace”(chiying baotai), 28; monarchical despotism, 33; manhunt for White Lotus leaders, 48–49; shift of focus in frontiermaking, 72; ad hoc law to curb maritime violence, 107–108; changing pattern of high politics, 121; worries about Manchu identity, 122; dilemma of late Qianlong politics, 124; filiality, 124; propaganda campaign of self-glorification, 126; stringent policy against White Lotus sects, 126; “Ten Great Campaigns” (Shiquan wugong), 126; “Exhausting the army with excessive wars” (qiongbing duwu), 127; growing laxity in disciplining officials, 140; on jianbi qingye, 147; centerpiece of emperorship, 148; funeral, 150; efforts of cultural regulation, 155; southern tours, 188; control over custom revenues, 193; campaign to invade Annam, 212–213; foreign diplomacy of, 224, 227. See also Divide and conquer, strategy of; Heshen; Qianlong-Jiaqing transition Qianlong-Jiaqing transition, 25, 26, 37, 113, 155; crises during, 8, 12; significance of, 12, 253, 255; imperial rule in, 28; piracy crisis, 83, 106; emperorbureaucracy relationship, 117; military system, 146; literati groupings, 155–157; principal-agent problem, 178; granaries, 190; as turning point of Qing financial

strength, 201; diplomacy, 229; state retreat, 253 Qinba original forest (Qinba laolin), 54; geographical features, 55; opening up of, 57; migration to, 61. See also Han River highlands Qinggui, 168, 178, 179, 299n13 Qinling, 54, 55, 57, 71. See also Nanshan Qiu Xingjian, 108 Quan, Hexiu, 228; “Two systems under one diplomacy,” 249–250 Rawski, Evelyn, 23 Reconstruction, postrebellion, 69, 143, 202, 206, 256 Reid, Anthony, 210 “Replacing the native chieftain system with direct central rule” (gaitu guiliu), 20 Roberts, John W., 238–239, 240, 245–246, 247 Rowe, William, 19, 54, 83, 197, 253, 266n9 Ruan Yuan, 130, 159, 248; as Zhu Gui’s disciple, 129 Rule of Avoidance, 168, 175, 178, 179, 302n59 Rule of men, 120, 167 Sahlins, Marshall, 10, 11, 267n17, 268n22 Salt administration (yanzheng): “conspicuous lack of market rationality,” 67; organization, 67–68; demarcation of salt zones, 67–68, 280n100. See also Border-crossings; Salt smuggling Salt smuggling, 62–64, 66, 67–70; state policies toward, 28, 71, 72, 79; and two central-place systems, 69–70; vs. south China piracy, 88. See also Smuggling Schoppa, R. Keith, microregions, 50 Scott, James C.: moral logic of tradition, 77; moral economy, 80; weapons of the weak, 103 Secret Accounts Bureau (miji chu), 177, 178 Secret societies, 7, 18, 19, 32, 66, 94. See also Guolu bandits; Heaven and Earth Society (Tiandihui) Self-assessed fines (yizuiyin), 302n52; Heshen and, 8, 30, 176; “probationary ethic” and, 176; shifting target of, 176–177; as important source of revenue for Neiwufu, 177; peak period, 177; and yanglianyin, 177; Jiaqing and, 189. See also Imperial Household Department

Index (Neiwufu); Principal-agent problem; Secret Accounts Bureau (miji chu) Sewell, William, 10, 22, 67n17, 268n20 Shaannan, 57, 61, 71, 72; Xixiang, 57, 59, 62; governor, 59, 141; Shaangan governor-general, 61; cadastral survey, 72; xiangyong, 143; military awards, 144; tax cut, 193; zhaibao, 199 Shaanxi province, 20, 49, 67; and White Lotus rebellion, 2, 75; and Han River highlands, 12, 27, 48, 53, 55, 58, 69; Ankang, 55, 57; Ziyang, 55, 57; Pingli, 55, 57, 62; Xunyang, 55, 62 Shack people (pengmin): and mountain factories, 57; most distinguishing characteristic, 64; early history, 65; and guolu bandits, 66; and salt smuggling, 68; state policies toward, 70, 72 Shandong province, 17, 72, 73, 304n85 Shanxi province, 68, 73; Wutai Mountain, 189 Shek, Richard, 43, 44, 46 Shen Chu, 136 Siam, 1, 215, 223, 227, 228, 243; SinoSiamese trade, 96; Bangkok, 212; Siamese king, 212, 214, 217; Gulf of Siam, 218 Sichuan province: and White Lotus rebellion, 2; and Han River highlands, 12, 27, 48, 53, 55, 58, 69; sectarian organizations, 49, 77; Yangzi River and, 50; southern Shaanxi and, 57; Chengdu plain, 57; Sichuan governor-general, 59, 66, 153; population, 61; guolu bandits, 63–64, 66, 71; salt smuggling, 68, 71; xiangyong, 143; tax cut, 193; jianbi qingye, 200 Sino-centric tributary system: Qing’s repositioning in, 6, 14, 254; spatial interactions across, 11; tripartite construction of spatial hegemony, 37–38, 273n2; as evolving normative order, 210; Takeshi Hamashita on, 210; and “asymmetric normalcy,” 212; internal strain within, 222; Vietnam’s renegotiation within, 225; new notions of territorial sovereignty, 226; realignment of regional power within, 228; an nation-state system, 229; rhetoric of tributary superiority, 243–244 Sino-Vietnamese water world, 12, 71, 84, 86, 95, 210, 226; as “middle ground,” 104. See also Bailongwei (Bach Long Vi); Jiangping (Giang Binh)

335

Six boards: Board of Revenue (hubu), 22, 135, 141–142, 151, 174, 193, 201–202; Board of Personnel (libu), 59, 143, 171, 178, 179, 180; Board of War (bingbu), 95, 136, 144, 173; Board of Rites (libu), 136; Board of Works (gongbu), 171; Board of Punishments (xingbu), 178 Skinner, G. William: two central place systems of China, 40–41; “functional integration” of China, 50, 57; macroregions of China, 58; Lingnan and Southeast coast, 91 Smuggling, 68, 70, 107, 202; repertoire of collective action, 77. See also Opium; Salt smuggling Sng, Tuan-Hwee, 22, 192 Social anxiety: cultural production of, 43, 52; volatile articulation of, 47 Social control, 11, 17, 52, 53, 198; Qianlong’s approach to, 7; White Lotus rebellion and, 102 Social ecology: and central place system, 40; of Han River highlands, 54, 60, 63–64, 67, 70; of South China Sea, 90, 91, 98–99, 105–106 Social mobilization, 25, 37 Social movements, 4, 10; four paradigms of, 10, 37. See also Popular protest; Social protest Social protest, 18, 33, 38, 125, 205; politics of, 5, 113, 266n9; Jiaqing’s approach to, 6, 255; galvanizing points, 31; significance of, 40; frontiers and, 40, 78, 80, 99–100; affinities with sectarianism, 41, 44, 45; organizational resources, 75; cultural production of, 79; as agents of political change, 114; as force for political change, 132; capital appeals and, 185; Qianlong’s imperial control and, 253. See also Collective action; Popular protest; Social movements Social resistance: and sustainable politics, 9; three forms of, 71–72; strategies of, 77 Song dynasty: voluntary exchange of power, 1; rise of gentry, 32; rise of White Lotus religion, 42, 45; centralized bureaucracy, 117–118; transition to Tang dynasty, 117, 211; civil service examination system, 179; transition between Northern and Southern Song, 201, 256 Song Zhiqing, 51, 73, 74, 75 Son of Heaven, emperor as, 117, 130, 216

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Soulstealing, 115, 122, 132, 145, 157, 299n20 South China Sea: as external maritime frontier and nonstate space, 12, 38, 39, 90–91; vs. Han River highlands, 12, 95; as first fence shielding the empire, 39; and social protest, 40; piracy crisis, 63, 98, 210; geographical feature, 91; inherent unity, 91, 95; social construction, 99–104; state-making, 214; territorial disputes between China and Vietnam, 226; European advance into, 229; “Chinese Century” in, 232. See also Ocean space; Sino-Vietnamese water world Southeast Asia, 39; and South China Sea, 91; Chinese trade with, 96, 97, 103–104, 105–107, 233; traditional order in, 210, 211, 228; Vietnamese connection with, 214, 219, 223; Jiaqing’s policy toward, 227; Macao and, 230 Sovereignty, 219, 238, 244, 247, 249–250; limits of Qing, 27, 226; land-based notion of, 100; Chinese recognition of Vietnamese, 215; oceanic, 226; Qing principles of territorial sovereignty, 227, 246, 248; British violation of Chinese, 236, 242, 244; Westphalian, 244 Span-of-control problem, 59, 62 Statecraft ( jingshi), 28, 58, 102, 155, 206; reorientation in Qing, 9; statecraft studies, 156, 160; statecraft circle, 206; culturalism and, 249; “disinterested discussion”and, 256 State decline, 3, 12, 191, 255. See also Dynasty decline State-making: political sustainability as yardstick for, 6; performance arenas and submechanisms, 6, 10; Qianlong’s aggressive, 9, 20, 195; social mobilization and, 25; pirates and, 86; maritime process of, 225. See also Empire-building; Frontier-making; Inner state-building State retreat, 71, 113, 128, 226, 256, 258; political sustainability, 6, 9; policy retreat, 109; Jiaqing’s retreat from high Qing despotism, 182, 190; retreat in river management, 191; diplomatic retreat, 228, 246, 249–250; as centerpiece of Jiaqing reforms, 253; judicial retreat, 255 State-society relationship, 5, 22, 41, 181, 201, 202; state-society balance, 10, 128, 195, 254, 258; state-society continuum, 26; frontier and, 90, 113; state-society

tension, 184; and governability, 192; and crises, 258. See also All-encompassing Contentious Crises; Empire-building; Sustainable political development Staunton, Sir George, 123 Steinberg, Philip E., 99 Stewart, Seth L., 21 “Strengthening the walls and cleaning up the countryside” ( jianbi qingye), 147, 197, 198–199; implementer and essence of, 199; as system of military control, 200. See also Militia, local “Structure of the conjuncture,” 11. See also Event: “internal temporality of” Sun Guiyuan, 51, 73 Sun Shiyi, 212, 213, 214, 215 Sun Tingmou, 109 Sun Yuting, 204, 245 Superintendency (zongli), abolishment, 169–170, 300n23 Survival strategies, 28, 29, 51; corruption as defensive, 31–32; logic of survival, 40; violence as crucial means of, 63, 66, 67; border-crossings and, 70; piracy as, 83, 84, 88, 92, 99, 103–106. See also Political survival Susishisan muslin revolt, 135. See also Heshen Sustainable political development, 13, 256, 257, 258; defined, 6; essence of, 7, potential of, 8; and era of political debt, 9; and transaction cost of empirebuilding, 34, 136, 202, 253; and state-society relationship, 124, 181, 182, 195, 254; and emperor-bureaucracy relationship,148; and suzerain responsibility, 249; logic of sustainable politics, 255. See also Governability; Political sustainability; Principal-agent problem; State-society relationship Suzuki Chusei, 5 Taibu, 57, 77 Taiping rebellion, 2, 3, 5, 200, 202, 208, 256 Taiwan, 18–19, 86, 96, 215, 240; as stronghold of anti-Qing resistance, 85; Taiwan Strait, 91, 97 Tang dynasty, 77, 211 Tao Shu, 156 Tarrow, Sidney, 4 Taxation: Qing commitment to light taxation, 28; low taxation in highlands,

Index 64; ocean taxes (yangshui), 88; and capital appeals, 187; base amount (zheng’e) and contingent surplus (yingyu), 193; three-year-comparison (sannian bijiao), 193; transit tax stations (queguan) and customs bureaus (haiguan), 193; Guangdong maritime customs, 193–194; Hoppo (superintendent of customs at Canton), 194, 238–239, 240; customs duties, 194, 245; commercial transit tax (lijin), 202; from late Ming to Republican period, 257 Taylor, Keith Weller, 222 Tay Son regime, 27, 85; sponsorship of Chinese pirates, 2, 104–105, 213; Tay Son rebellion, 84, 86, 107, 211, 212; breakdown of, 86, 95–96; military victory against Qing invasion, 212–213, 222; foreign policy, 214; plan to conquer Liangguang, 214; homage-paying visit to Qianlong, 215–216; diplomacy with European outposts, 223; two-faced policy toward Qing government, 224 ter Haar, B. J., 48 Territorial expansion, 24, 26–29, 38, 121 Thomson, Janice E., 83, 225 Three Feudatories rebellion, 81 Three-province border region, 58–61, 63, 66, 68–70, 76–77, 101–102. See also Han River highlands “Three teachings unite in one” (sanjiao heyi), 42 Tilly, Charles, 5, 166 Tongzhi Restoration, 250, 256, 318n6 Tonkin, Gulf of, 86, 91,95, 101 Transgressive political violence, 41, 47 Tribute gifts ( jingong) 188–190, 228 Tuanlian: organization, 198–199; official supervision and gentry management, 199; Tuanyong, 199–200 Verba, Sidney, 6, 166 Vermeer, Eduard, 61 Vietnam: tributary tie with Chinese, 2, 229; Mekong delta, 91; trade with Qing, 98, 107, 219; dynastic history, 211; Nam Viet as first predecessor state, 211; Red River, 211, 217, 246; Le Chieu Thong, 212; Trinh-Nguyen rivalry, 212; Nguyen Nhac, 213; Quang Trung emperor (Nguyen Hue or Nguyen Quang Binh), 213–217, 220, 223, 225; Chu-nho vs. Chu-nom, 214;

337 Gia Long emperor (Nguyen Anh or Ruan Fuying), 214, 219, 220–223, 245–246; Nguyen Quang Toan (Ruan Guangzan), 217, 220, 224; islands of Callao and Pulo-Condore, 218; Nguyen-Tay Son confrontation, 218; commitment to the Neo-Confucian model, 219; Minh Mang emperor, 223. See also Nguyen dynasty; Sino-Vietnamese water world; Tay Son regime

Wakeman, Frederic, Jr., 249 Waley-Cohen, Joanna, 238 Wang, Yeh-chien, 23, 193 Wang Jie, 155, 157; as Liu Tongxun’s disciple, 136 Wang Lun revolt, 17–18, 23, 72, 114, 126, 141, 183 Wang Quan, 51, 73 Wang Sanhuai, 68, 137 Wang Tongling, 124 Wang Zhiyin, 99, 151, 187 War-making: in Qianlong reign, 19, 126; military logistics and, 141; in Europe, 166; and political reforms in China, 166 Water control: as principal concern of Chinese state, 191; shift in Qing management of Yellow River, 191; and local elites, 195; in north China, 258; in southern Shaanxi, 305n103. See also Yellow River: Yellow River Administration Weber, Max, 120, 176, 258 Wei, Yung, 205, 207, 208 Wei Yuan, 58, 141, 143, 163, 207, 248; as statecraft official, 28 Weller, Robert, 43 Wen Chenghui, 187 Weng Fanggang, 122, 156, 160 Western aggression, 13, 229, 232, 250–251; endogenous dynamism vs., 4, 210; as catalyst in late Qing history, 210; tributary system and, 222; “Western challenge, Chinese response,” 227, 244; European advance into South China Sea, 229–246. See also Imperialism West River, 96, 229; North and East rivers as tributaries of, 91 Wheeler, Charles, 95 White Lotus rebellion: two precipitants, 48–49; makeup of rebels, 63–70; “roving bandit mentality,” 67, 279n86; and South China piracy, 87, 108; vs. soulstealing

338

Index

White Lotus rebellion (continued) crisis, 132; Inner White Lotus rebellion, 133; two stages, 133; rebels’ strategies and guerrilla warfare, 139, 277n50; military expense in campaign against, 141; and Manchu-Han relationship, 205–208. See also Eight Trigrams rebellion; White Lotus tradition White Lotus tradition: early history and doctrinal development, 41–46; as signifier of heterodoxy, 42; as principal form of Chinese popular religion, 43; doctrinal production of social anxiety, 43; Precious Scrolls (Baojuan), 44, 45; transformative tendency, 45; True Empty Native Land (Zhenkong jiaxiang), 45; Eternal Mother without Birth (Wusheng laomu), 45–46; “feminization of compassion,” 46; two main manifestations, 46; niuba, 46, 51, 80; discursive construction of state, 47; as source of nonstate political legitimation, 48; Greater Vehicle of Western Heaven sect, 51; intersect rivalry, 51; Primal Chaos and Return to the Origin sects, 51, 73; “sutra-recitation sects” and “meditational sects,” 73; sect watchwords, 74–75 Will, Pierre-Étienne, inner state building, 74, 116, 267n13 Wills, John E., 137 Wolf, Arthur, 47 Womack, Brantley, asymmetric normalcy, 212 Wong, R. Bin, 72; Confucian agenda for social order, 76, 78, 101; challenges, capacities, commitment, and claims, 7, 254–255, 317n4 Woodside, Alexander, 126 Wright, Mary Clabaugh, 250 Wu, Silas H. L., 138 Wu Xinglan, 129, 158, 297n93 Wu Xiongguang, 64, 157, 159, 203, 242, 245; as disciple of Agui, 153 Wu Zhi, 108 Xiangyang: geographic feature, 50, 51; as “middle ground,” 51; “Xiangyang congregation,” 52; floating people from, 58, 64; spread of White Lotus teachings to, 72–73 Xinjiang, 141, 148; Qianlong’s conquest of, 26, 121, 270n22; as external frontier of conquest, 27, 72; as outer province, 38 Xu Guotai, 51, 73

Yamen staff: and tax collection, 26; intermediary between state and society, 30; as “entrepreneurial brokers,” 31; as uncontrollable link of imperial system, 31; and anti-sectarian campaigns, 49, 69; extortionate practices, 49, 177, 187, 203, 272n45; and guolu bandits, 66; and pirates, 87 Yang, C. K., 29 Yangzi River, 50, 51, 54, 64, 68, 91; delta, 25, 48, 57, 65, 211 Yan Ruyi, 204, 248; as official in Han River highlands, 55, 206; suggestion on administrative restructuring, 58; on three-province border region, 60, 61, 62; on shack people, 64, 65; on guolu bandits, 66; on highland reclamation, 71; on White Lotus rebellion, 75, 77; on coastal South China, 92, 100, 101; on military spending, 141; on xiangyong, 142 Yellow River, 54; basin, 51; “riparian predicament,” 191; Yellow River Administration, 191, 256. See also Water control Ye Shizhuo, 62, 75, 204 Yinjishan, 122 Yongbao, 140, 293n25 Yongzheng emperor, 22, 124, 171, 291n52; and economy, 21; institutionalization of yanglianyin, 30; on junk trade with Southeast Asia, 106–107; founding and growth of Grand Council, 116, 167, 289n19; despotism, 182, 257; and water control, 191; and contingent customs surplus, 193 Yoon Wook, 121, 155, 167 Yuan dynasty, 43, 57 Yuan Yonglun, 106 Yude, 104, 152 Yue Zhenchuan, 65, 69 Yuhe, 176, 302n49 Yu Minzhong, 121, 122, 123, 124, 155, 157 Yunnan province, 82; mining industry, 68; Jianshui, 222; liumeng, 222 Zeng Shixing, 74, 75 Zhang Bao, 89 Zhang Chengji, 153 Zhang Huiyan, 161, 163 Zhang Kao, 186 Zhang Tingyu, 121, 122, 291n52

Index Zhang Xianzhong, 77 Zhang Xuecheng, 162, 163 Zhang Zhengmo, 50, 52, 143 Zhaolian, Prince, 31, 158 Zhao Tuo (Trieu Da), 211, 221 Zhejiang province, 85, 91, 92, 152, 211; governor, 152; Ningbo, 234 Zheng Yangwen, 210 Zheng Yi, 86, 89; Zheng Yi’s wife, 86, 89

339

Zheng Yuanshou, 204 Zhu Fen, 86, 89 Zhu Gui: brother of Zhu Yun, 122, 204, 298n106; as tutor of Jiaqing, 128, 129, 150; rivalry with Heshen, 155, 159; and Northern Scholar Clique, 157; and Hong Liangji, 160, 161; and Imperial Southern Study, 171 Zhuo Bingtian, 55