From Confidence to Subservience: A Dramatic Shift in Social Dynamics

The Qing dynasty archives from Baxian County reveal a startling practice: commoners submitting petitions to local magistrates would refer to themselves as “ants” or “ant people,” while officials openly addressed them with the same dehumanizing term. This stark contrast with earlier periods raises profound questions—when did Chinese commoners become so diminished in their own eyes? The answer lies in comparing the boldness of Song dynasty subjects with the cowed populations of later imperial China.

The Unbowed Commoners of Song China

Song dynasty records paint a picture of extraordinary confidence among ordinary people when facing authority. During Emperor Renzong’s reign (1022-1063), official Song Qi encountered an old farmer working his fields. When the official jokingly asked whether the farmer credited his harvest to heaven or the emperor, the peasant delivered a scathing rebuke: “What vulgar words! You understand nothing of farming! My sweat alone brought this harvest—why thank heaven? I pay my taxes on time—why thank the emperor?” Remarkably, the chastened official recorded this exchange in his “Record of an Old Farmer’s Words” without retaliation.

This wasn’t isolated behavior. During Huizong’s reign (1100-1125), merchants in Jiangxi’s Ganzhou refused to accept currency bearing the emperor’s reign marks, declaring it “the coin of an unprincipled ruler.” The scholar Zhuang Chuo who witnessed this noted it reflected the region’s independent spirit. Even more remarkably, in late Southern Song, a petty merchant in Yanzhou physically threatened a corrupt magistrate over a poorly written preface, demanding his five-cash payment back—an unthinkable scenario in later dynasties.

The Golden Age of Satire and Free Expression

Song China maintained an astonishing tradition of political satire through popular entertainment. Court jesters and performers regularly lampooned powerful officials with impunity. The famous Northern Song performer Ding Xianxian famously mocked Chancellor Wang Anshi’s controversial reforms in his acts, surviving even when the furious politician demanded his execution—protected by Emperor Shenzong himself.

Records show at least thirteen Song chancellors became targets of theatrical ridicule, including notorious figures like Cai Jing, Qin Hui, and Han Tuozhou. When Cai Bian became chancellor through his wife’s influence (herself daughter of Wang Anshi), performers openly joked about his “relying on his wife’s skirts”—a jibe that spread nationwide without consequence.

This climate changed drastically by the Qing. In 1729, Emperor Yongzheng had an actor beaten to death merely for asking about local officials during a performance—a far cry from Song tolerance.

The Commercial Revolution That Empowered Commoners

Unlike later dynasties that suppressed merchants, Song China witnessed unprecedented social mobility through commerce. Government policies actively protected merchant interests, with tax codes publicly displayed to prevent arbitrary changes. Even the Confucian taboo against merchants entering government collapsed—by the late Northern Song, scholar-official Su Zhe observed that merchant families routinely educated sons for civil service examinations.

Remarkably, merchants participated in lawmaking. When reforming tea regulations in 989, finance commissioner Chen Shu invited dozens of tea merchants to debate policy—their input directly shaped the final legislation. This collaborative approach between state and commerce had no parallel in imperial Chinese history.

Commercial energy permeated all social strata. Officials invested in shipping and pawnshops; farmers diversified into trade; even Buddhist monasteries operated lending services. Women emerged as prominent entrepreneurs—from Hangzhou’s famous “Sister Song” fish soup vendor to the tea-shop beauties of Yanzhou. In a symbolic reversal of traditional values, some county governments rented out their front courtyards to merchants.

The Great Closure: How China Turned Inward

Song openness to foreign trade and ideas contrasted sharply with later isolationism. Zhao Rushi’s 1225 “Records of Foreign Peoples” meticulously documented trade routes and cultures from Japan to East Africa—a comprehensive global survey unmatched until the 19th century.

Major ports like Quanzhou hosted autonomous foreign quarters where Arab and Jewish merchants maintained their own laws and schools. Intermarriage flourished, with some foreigners entering government service. Even the Khitan Liao emperor supposedly cast silver Buddha statues inscribed: “May I be reborn in China”—such was Song’s cultural magnetism.

This cosmopolitanism collapsed after the Song. Ming dynasty restrictions reduced maritime trade to a trickle, while Qing’s 1757 “Canton System” confined Western merchants to a single port. The intellectual curiosity that produced Zhao Rushi’s work gave way to suspicion—exemplified by Emperor Qianlong’s 1793 rebuff of British envoy Macartney: “We possess all things… I have no use for your country’s manufactures.”

The Vanishing Legacy of Song Liberties

What explains this dramatic regression? The Mongol conquest disrupted Song’s commercial networks and institutional memory. Ming founder Hongwu’s peasant background bred distrust of urban commerce, while Qing rulers—foreign conquerors themselves—prioritized control over dynamism.

Most crucially, the Neo-Confucian orthodoxy that solidified after the Song emphasized social hierarchy over the pragmatic pluralism of earlier eras. By the 18th century, the confident farmers and satirical performers of Song times had become “ants” in their own land—a transformation that arguably prefigured China’s struggles with modernization.

Yet the Song example remains potent. Its experience proves that Chinese culture once accommodated free expression, social mobility, and global engagement—qualities that would reemerge centuries later as China reclaimed its place in the modern world. The distance between a Song farmer chastising an official and a Qing commoner calling himself “ant” measures not just time, but the closing of a once-open society.