Chapter Fifty: Presenting the Letter of Recommendation

As February arrived, the warmth of spring melted the snow, and the mountains welcomed a season of renewal. Zhang Yue and Guo Lin diligently read their books, steadily preparing for the county school’s admission exam. Before the test, they needed to submit ten public essays.

This practice, known as presenting essays, had been a tradition in the imperial examinations since the Tang dynasty. Scholars would offer their best poems and prose to the examiners before the test, hoping to make themselves known. A few days later, they would submit more writings, called “warming essays.” In the Song dynasty, the practice of masking names on exam papers emerged. At first, only the provincial exams required this; the qualifying exams did not. After the Tian Sheng era, even the qualifying tests adopted masked names, which greatly improved the fairness of the imperial examinations. The frantic efforts to curry favor through essay presentation diminished, and for scholars from humble backgrounds, the system finally became a little more just.

Name masking was only used in the qualifying exams. For the county school’s admission test, names were still visible. The examination culture had changed, and some thought it unnecessary to go through such elaborate steps. Yet, submitting essays remained necessary—at least to show one understood the proper etiquette.

Though essay presentation and warming essays had been considered a major flaw—a backdoor in the Tang dynasty—if everyone submitted essays and you alone did not, you would look foolish. Ultimately, the decision of whether a candidate passed the county test lay with the examiner.

According to Master Guo, the county school’s admission test supposedly selected five scholars for the jinshi hall and ten for the classics hall, but the list of successful candidates was often predetermined; the exam was just a formality. Zhang Yue and Guo Lin had to compete for the few remaining spots.

If an essay caught the county magistrate’s eye, one could secure a place on the list ahead of time. Otherwise, the exam was all that remained.

But what, then, could classics scholars—whose skills lay in rote memorization—submit? Writing out passages from the classics at home and presenting them as memorization was as pointless as unnecessary effort. Eventually, a solution emerged: writing “Great Principles.”

During the Qingli era, Fan Zhongyan reformed the imperial exam, adding new content. In the final stage, candidates had to answer ten questions on “Great Principles.” After the failure of Fan’s reforms, this requirement was abolished from recent exams.

The “Great Principles,” drawn from the subtle meanings of the classics, required the examiner to select passages, and candidates had to respond using the commentaries, embellishing their answers with elegant prose. It resembled the study of textual commentary and, compared to the rigid eight-legged essays of Ming and Qing, lacked strict formal constraints.

Master Guo tasked Guo Lin and Zhang Yue with writing ten “Great Principles” within ten days to present to the magistrate.

Guo Lin took this task seriously. As a scholar, he dreamed of writing a piece so moving it would make his name and earn the patronage of the powerful, paving his way to success. He poured all his years of study into these essays.

Zhang Yue, however, found little interest in the task, shaped by later generations’ prejudice against the eight-legged essay. He doubted the value of essay presentation—while poetry might catch someone’s attention, the “Great Principles” were rarely read in the Song dynasty. Most importantly, Zhang Yue had another path. If not for hearing that the magistrate of Pucheng was a man of upright character, he would have focused on finding backdoor connections.

Guo Lin had no such connections, so he pinned his hopes on essay presentation. Despite his thoughts, Zhang Yue wrote all ten essays, for the process had to be followed.

Once completed, the essays needed to be delivered. Typically, this meant a trip to the county seat. But Master Guo had learned that in a few days, the magistrate would inspect agriculture in Chenwu Village near Wuxi, making it possible for them to present their essays in person—a far better opportunity than submitting them at the county office, where they might never meet the magistrate.

Master Guo asked the village elders to inquire about the magistrate’s schedule, confirming the date after several attempts.

Three days later, before dawn, the teacher’s wife rose to prepare a meal for Zhang Yue and Guo Lin. They ate a modest meal and set out under the stars, carrying their essay bags close to their bodies. Master Guo instructed them to seek out the village chief upon arrival at Chenwu, as arrangements had already been made.

They arrived at Chenwu Village before the hour of the dragon, expecting a scene of yellow earth laid on the road, drums beating, and a grand welcome. Instead, they found nothing—not even a bird.

Guo Lin approached an old farmer and asked, “Old man, I heard the magistrate is coming to inspect the village today. Do you know when he will arrive?”

The question sparked the old farmer’s anger. “Who knows which scoundrel intercepted the magistrate halfway…” he cursed.

“What?” Zhang Yue thought, is this a scene from Water Margin?

After some questioning, they pieced together the story. The magistrate had indeed planned to visit Chenwu Village, but as he neared, villagers from an earlier settlement dismantled a bridge on the only road leading to Chenwu during the night. The magistrate was informed and changed his inspection to the earlier village.

“Who would do such a thing, so crude and shameless?” Guo Lin asked.

“Who else? That money-grubbing Miao, curse his family!” the old farmer spat.

Zhang Yue and Guo Lin exchanged a knowing glance—life always finds ways for old acquaintances to cross paths.

“Why would Miao offend a whole village just to intercept the magistrate?” Guo Lin pressed.

“How should I know?”

Zhang Yue asked, “Alright, how do we get to the earlier village?”

“The bridge is gone, so you’ll have to detour—two hours’ walk.”

Guo Lin and Zhang Yue looked at each other. What else could they do but go?

They set off, trekking over hills and through waters. Many places required wading across streams, the icy water threatening their essay bags. By the time they arrived, Zhang Yue was exhausted and felt compelled to curse Miao under his breath.

It was already afternoon when they reached their destination. They had started early but arrived late.

At the village entrance, a broad road stretched toward the county seat, covered in yellow earth, flanked by rows of mulberry trees. A two-wheeled carriage with a canvas cover stood parked on the roadside—clearly, the magistrate had arrived.

Several burly men guarded the road. “There’s an important guest today. If you have no business, keep away,” they ordered.

Guo Lin stepped forward. “We’re here to see the magistrate.”

“Oh? Who are you, and why do you want to see him?” The leader eyed Guo Lin and Zhang Yue with suspicion.

Zhang Yue was about to urge Guo Lin not to answer directly—they wouldn’t dare block scholars anyway. But Guo Lin replied honestly, “We have some essays for the magistrate’s review.”

The men understood. “The magistrate is tired and won’t see anyone today. You’d best leave.”

Guo Lin protested, “How can that be? We’ve traveled far just for this meeting.”

“Sorry, we have orders—no strangers may enter.”

Guo Lin grew desperate, almost in tears. He had spent days writing these essays; if he couldn’t deliver them early, his years of toil would be wasted.

“No, I must get in today—even if I have to crawl!” he declared.

The villagers stiffened, wary of a commotion.

At that moment, Zhang Yue looked into the village and suddenly waved, “San-niang! San-niang! Over here!”

Guo Lin followed his gaze and, seeing who it was, blushed deeply and turned away, “Brother, let’s come back another day…”

Zhang Yue was bewildered.

“Brother, look at me!” Zhang Yue grabbed Guo Lin’s waist, dragging him back like a tug-of-war.

“Senior brothers, what are you doing here?” Miao San-niang called out.

Hearing her voice, Guo Lin instantly stopped struggling, his energy drained.

Zhang Yue steadied Guo Lin and managed a smile for San-niang, “Sister, it’s been a while. We’re here to see the magistrate, but these men won’t let us in. My brother was about to force his way, so I’m holding him back.”

“I see!” San-niang laughed. “They’re my classmates, not strangers. Let them in.”

“Yes, San-niang.” The men immediately made way.

“Come in.”

San-niang led the way, with Zhang Yue and Guo Lin following.

“Sister, why wouldn’t they let us in?” Guo Lin asked.

San-niang smiled, “It was my father’s doing. He went to great lengths to bring the magistrate here, all for the sake of getting my useless brother into the county school.”

“I see,” Zhang Yue understood.

Guo Lin asked, “San-niang, will our presence be a disturbance?”

Zhang Yue glanced at Guo Lin, full of disdain.

San-niang laughed, “What disturbance? I know my brother’s scholarly abilities—he’s never matched me, even as children.”

“My father recently consulted a fortune-teller, who said my brother would have great luck these two years. He was convinced.”

Guo Lin and Zhang Yue both laughed.

Zhang Yue thought, if Miao truly had connections with the magistrate, he wouldn’t need to resort to sabotage.

San-niang said, “My father and the magistrate are dining in the ancestral hall. Wait outside the hall, and when the magistrate comes out, hand him your essays.”

“Should we notify your father first?”

San-niang laughed, “Brother, you’re so honest. My father would never agree.”

Guo Lin lowered his head, “San-niang, are you willing to offend your father and brother just to help us?”

“No, I just want to vent my anger. My father has never looked at me with favor,” she said, clenching her hand.

Guo Lin and Zhang Yue waited at the hall entrance. Some villagers, sensing trouble, tried to persuade them to leave, but with the magistrate inside and San-niang present, they dared not act.

Soon the magistrate emerged from the ancestral hall.

He appeared to be about thirty, walking leisurely beside Miao and his son, exchanging polite conversation. During the meal, he had already noticed Miao’s son was no scholar; a few questions proved he was hopeless. His aide had to smooth things over, but the atmosphere was awkward.

Yet the magistrate remained gracious toward Miao because Miao was willing to make donations. There was no help for it—the official funds were insufficient, and the stipend was limited.

As a scholar himself, he had once despised such underhanded dealings, but as a magistrate, circumstances forced his hand.

After some polite conversation, the magistrate stepped out of the hall and saw two young men waiting for him.