Explore Baoding: Emperor Yongzheng’s Personnel Strategy

(Emperor Yongzheng)

In personnel matters, Emperor Yongzheng’s chess moves often seemed bewildering—he was always thinking of the whole chessboard.

The triennial evaluation of officials was routine in the Qing bureaucracy, usually without any headline news. But in 1724, another evaluation year, the new emperor, just two years on the throne, handled a county magistrate’s case in an unprecedented way that jolted officials at all levels.

The man was Chang Sanle, magistrate of Wuqiao County in Zhili Province. His evaluator was Li Weijun, governor of Zhili.

After carefully consulting subordinates, reviewing documents and archives, and visiting local gentry, Li Weijun wrote two comments on Chang: first, “scrupulously honest,” a clean official; second, “timid and ineffective,” unable to get things moving. Based on this, Li recommended transferring Chang to a post in education, where high moral standards were needed but the workload wasn’t heavy—a better fit for him.

When the Ministry of Personnel reviewed the report, they raised a question to Li: You say Chang isn’t up to the job—what exactly has he done wrong? What serious damage has he caused to Wuqiao County?

Though Chang struggled at his work, taxes were collected, public order was passable, and no mass incidents had erupted. No glaring fault could be found.

The ministry argued that since no substantive problem had been identified, removing him from an important post wasn’t justified, nor was it in line with precedent. A reprimand would suffice.

Li Weijun stuck to his view. The ministry confidently declared: Let’s not argue—let’s ask the boss.

Yongzheng read the report and wrote in vermilion ink: Dismissed! His reasoning was simple: a county is the foundation of the state, and a county magistrate bears heavy responsibility. Chang Sanle lacked a sense of duty—that in itself was negligence. Did they have to wait for a disaster to happen?

In truth, Chang should have counted himself lucky. In Cao County, Shandong, rampant banditry made life miserable for the people. Magistrate Wang Xijie dared neither to catch nor control them. As a result, he not only lost his official hat but was also sentenced to five years in prison. Even a full second-rank official, Qiu Yuanzheng, the regional commander of Kaihua in Yunnan, was honest and proper in conduct but chronically sluggish and long ineffective. Yongzheng ordered him to retire immediately and go home.

Looking back at the late years of the Kangxi reign, being an official was just too easy. As Li Hongzhang of the late Qing once said, if you can’t even be a good official, you must be really stupid! Back then, the emperor suffered from a serious stroke of sorts and tended to “turn a blind eye” to things, often saying “the less trouble, the better.” Greed and sloth became the norm in officialdom. Very few failed the triennial evaluation, and even fewer were severely punished. When things became absolutely intolerable, officials were typically docked pay—they might lose a bit of money but their political futures remained unscathed.

Now, seeing Yongzheng’s new and harsh governance over officials, it dawned on them in shock: apparently, being an official was no longer easy! Not only must one’s hands stay clean, those hands actually had to work.

Yet some couldn’t adjust right away. Acting Viceroy of Huguang, Yue Chaolong, pledged his resolve: “To repay Your Majesty’s favor, I will absolutely remain honest and clean, with nothing but clear sleeves.” Yongzheng was unimpressed and replied: That’s a pretty low bar! An official should never be corrupt to begin with—what kind of lofty standard is that? If you’re content with merely the good name of a “clean official” but won’t lift a finger even when the oil bottle tips over, aren’t you just an embroidered pillow?

Honesty was the minimum requirement for an official; otherwise, everything else was off the table. Greed could ruin a country, but so could laziness. A do-nothing “clean official” was just a mediocrity in office, no different from a profit-hungry corrupt one—neither was a good official. Proper, honest conduct and the courage to take responsibility at work: both were indispensable. That was Yongzheng’s view on personnel.

Changing mindsets was no easy task. Rampant official corruption was the norm throughout China’s feudal society, leading to an irrational standard of judgment: as long as an official took no bribes, he was a “good official,” regardless of what contribution he actually made to the country or the people—a case of “one white covers all ugliness.” To correct this bias, Yongzheng had to innovate his methods.

On the Lantern Festival evening of 1728 (Yongzheng’s sixth year), a junior clerk of the Grand Secretariat named Lan was on night duty when a tall, middle-aged man walked in, presumably a palace duty officer out for a stroll. The two hit it off immediately and chatted over tea.

The tall man asked, “What’s your post?” Lan replied bashfully, “I’m no official—just a minor orderly, receiving and dispatching documents, making tea for the supervisors.” “Where are the others?” the visitor inquired. “All gone home to see the lantern displays,” Lan said. Curious, the man asked, “Don’t you like the lanterns?” Lan answered, “His Majesty works so hard to govern that they say he doesn’t even sleep at night. If an urgent document comes in and there’s no one to run errands, it could cause a serious delay!”

The tall man nodded and asked about Lan’s hopes for the future. Lan said, “If a pie were to fall from heaven, I’d like a post in the maritime transport office. I have many children—even in a famine nobody would starve then.” The tall man laughed, then left.

The next day, first thing, Yongzheng asked: “Is there a vacancy in any maritime transport office?” He was told there was one in Guangzhou. “Send Little Lan from the Grand Secretariat to fill it,” the emperor ordered. As everyone stood astonished, Yongzheng also sent word to Lan: If you want fish, catch them yourself—don’t take advantage of the fishermen.

As long as an official was upright and capable, Yongzheng would promote him, even if others had objections.

When Tian Wenjing governed Henan and Shandong, he enforced Yongzheng’s new policies vigorously, harshly punishing corrupt officials and overhauling the bureaucratic culture. He even dared to report to the emperor when central officials took gifts from local authorities, offending many. Yongzheng made him a model governor-general and urged senior officials to follow his example.

It was an open secret that the Ministry of Revenue squeezed money from provinces to fatten its own slush fund, but nobody dared expose it. Li Wei, a mid-ranking official in the ministry, repeatedly raised the issue with his superior, only to be ignored. So he got a chest, wrote “Minister’s Private Money Box” on it, and placed it at the ministry’s gate to embarrass his boss. At that time, Yongzheng was still Prince Yong, and he remembered Li Wei’s name. After becoming emperor, he promoted Li Wei almost every year. Li Wei didn’t disappoint—wherever he went, he worked boldly and achieved notable results.

But Li Wei was rough around the edges: he addressed higher-ranking officials as “Old Zhang” or “Old Li,” and his working methods were blunt. Complaints against him never stopped. Yongzheng explained to everyone: It’s true, this man is covered in thorns, but it’s all for the job. If you don’t agree, then recommend someone who’s both capable and gentle—a perfect saint.

No matter what people thought of Yongzheng’s team, it was widely acknowledged that most were clean, hardworking, capable, and accomplished.

Fighting both corruption and laziness with equal force

The ruler made the men: Yongzheng himself was one of the most diligent and productive sovereigns in Chinese history.

He slept no more than four hours a day, only taking a break on his birthday. Surviving archives show he wrote over 10 million characters of vermilion comments on memorials alone—more than three times the length of the entire Zizhi Tongjian history.

His father, Kangxi, created a legendary golden age but also left behind a pile of problems: corrupt governance, inefficiency, and an empty treasury. As a prince, Yongzheng was already deeply worried.

Upon ascending the throne, he tolerated neither “greed” nor “sloth,” tackling both with equal firmness. First, he executed corrupt officials, maintaining such intense pressure that bureaucrats trembled at the mention of money. When putting corrupt officials to death, he often had other officials watch, believing that on-site warning was far more effective than having them study the Analects.

At the same time, Yongzheng rewarded the diligent and capable while punishing the mediocre and lazy, forcing officials to change their ways—if they didn’t change their thinking, they’d be replaced. Everyone woke up: it’s not that being an official had become hard now; it was that in the past it had been far too easy. Anyone who tried to coast as before was just asking for trouble.

Quickly, officials at all levels adapted to the new reality and swung into action. The bureaucratic atmosphere rapidly transformed; it was said, “During Yongzheng’s reign, there were no corrupt officials.” This was truly a miracle in feudal China and laid the foundation for sweeping reforms in many fields. Without first purging corruption and sloth, initiatives like establishing the Grand Council to centralize power and push reforms, abolishing the head tax to ease social conflict, and implementing gaitu guiliu to consolidate national unity would have been unthinkable.

The numbers tell the story best. At the end of Kangxi’s reign, the national treasury held just over 32 million taels of silver; by Yongzheng’s seventh year, it had grown to over 60 million—nearly doubling. The mess left by his father Kangxi and the obstacles his son Qianlong might have faced were largely tidied up by Yongzheng. The Chinese-Japanese scholar Yang Qiqiao exclaimed: “Kangxi was lenient, Qianlong was slipshod; had it not been for Yongzheng’s rectification, the Qing dynasty would likely have fallen early.”

The Kang-Qian golden age was the pinnacle of ancient Chinese civilization. Yongzheng, bridging the two, was the key figure who shaped it, which is why it is also known as the “Kang-Yong-Qian golden age.” Yet Kangxi and Qianlong together ruled for 124 years, while Yongzheng’s era sandwiched between them lasted a mere 12 years and 8 months. Given this fact, one cannot help but be awed by his extraordinary achievements, his strategic brilliance, and the enterprising, down-to-earth spirit of his governance team.

Time flows on. The secret of Yongzheng’s success—banishing the “greedy” and “lazy” image from officials and giving them the twin wings of “honesty” and “capability” to soar high and achieve great things—still shines in this new era as the Chinese nation moves toward great rejuvenation.

Earlier this year, Baoding introduced a public-benefit policy:

The Baoding Cultural Tourism Benefit Card.

With the card, you can not only access the beautiful scenic spots listed above but also enjoy discounts on tickets at the Guan Hanqing Grand Theatre and the Zhili Grand Theatre.

♥ Don’t just be tempted—take action!

(Scenic areas partnered with the Baoding Cultural Tourism Benefit Card)