This author will attempt to present a preliminary study of the economic aspects of the Imperial Household (Nei-wu-fu), which played a unique role during the Chʻing Dynasty in the grand strategy of the Manchu rule over China. The fact that this vital area of Chʻing history has long been neglected can be gauged from the lack of scholarly studies on the Nei-wu-fu up to the present. Even in the imperial days, few Chinese scholars knew about the actual workings of the Nei-wu-fu, for it remained a closed field to outsiders—almost a shrouded mystery. The reasons for its mysterious character were twofold: on the one hand, inaccessibility of sources of information prevented people from getting a clear picture of the Imperial Household; on the other hand, Chinese were inhibited from investigation, since to peer into the “secret affairs of the Court” (Kung-wei chin-shih) was to run a political risk.

Universal suffrage was enacted into law in Japan in 1925 under a coalition government formed the previous year by the two major parties, Kenseikai and Seiyūkai. The law abolished an existing tax qualification for voting, expanding the electorate from three million to twelve and one-half million adult males. The Kenseikai had endorsed universal suffrage in late 1919, after an internal debate which began about a year earlier. The Seiyūkai by contrast accepted universal suffrage only in 1924, after several years of expressly rejecting it. This article traces the stages whereby these parties became committed to the legislation, and also examines the reaction to the issue on the part of other elements which had at least a potential voice in this legislation: the nonparty cabinets which governed from 1922 to 1924, the privy council, the House of Peers, and the genro, or elder statesmen.

Loyalty is at present an agonizing question to many concerned Chinese who face either divisive circumstances or imposition of particular political lines. Few topics could be more relevant than their heritage of loyalty and its implications today. Never a simple matter in politics, loyalty often produced great tensions and even ironical tragedies that filled the pages in Chinese history. As early as the Shang period, according to the ancient legend, an official most loyal to the state was killed by the displeased last king for not being loyal to him. In the more recent period of the Ming, for example, Yü Chien (1398–1457) suffered the same fate. Having defended Peking and thus saved the realm during the emperor's brief captivity, he was later executed by the same emperor who returned and eventually retook the throne. Of all these ironical tragedies—loyal men condemned as disloyal—the case of Yüeh Fei has been highly significant. He was for centuries a much mythologized and even deified symbol of loyalty. With superstitious beliefs swept away by modern waves, many Chinese still identify his image with nationalism, anti-imperialistic stands, and attachment to the fatherland. This essay will analyze the following: pertinent points in Yüeh Fei's career, the neo-Confucian theory and practice of loyalty in political science terms, and his evolving myths in intellectual history with regard to both the elite heritage and the mass heritage.

On the fateful day of July 3, 1914, the second Simla Convention was signed and sealed by Sir Arthur Henry McMahon and Lonchen Shatra (actually, while the Lonchen signed and sealed, McMahon initialed and sealed); Ivan Chen, who had initialed the first earlier in April, kept his own counsel. A joint British-Tibetan declaration stipulating that its terms would apply to China only when the latter fell in line with its two other signatories was attached to the Convention. On that same day, in Simla, the new Trade Regulations between British India and Tibet were signed.

The term munshi (scribe) usually refers to the clerical assistants employed by Indian lawyers (vakils), particularly by those who practice at the district and subdivisional courts at the lowest level of the legal system. The majority of vakils maintain only the most rudimentary records of their cases; their business correspondence is minimal and often conducted by postcard; the average law practice accounts are kept for the most part in the vakil's head, with occasional help from a note scribbled on a file cover. Not surprisingly, the routine duties of the munshi are relatively simple and easily mastered. They include safeguarding the documents the vakil does maintain during a case; completion of applications to the court; copying of cause lists obtained from magistrates' clerks; updating the vakil's diary of pending cases; occasional copying of case material; and running innumerable errands for the master, often of a purely domestic kind. In several respects, the munshi's role is a marginal one. His duties, for example, are not formally defined within the legal system. Nor are a munshi's services indispensible to a lawyer; many a vakil gets along without an assistant. The population of munshis at a district court is likely to be a transient one: munshis move from vakil to vakil, working only a year or two for each employer; and they drift in and out of the occupation, usually from and to ones of equally low status. Finally, the occupation is economically marginal: it provides a precarious livelihood for the majority of munshis; only a few are prosperous or enjoy much security.

The failure of Chinese agriculture to undergo a transformation whereby production could increase rapidly and institutional change could occur has been long regarded by many scholars to be one of the principal reasons China did not achieve modernization after the 1880's but instead became engulfed in revolution and war during the first half of the twentieth century. During the 1930's, various schools of thought explained this absence of agrarian transformation on the grounds that either institutional and social class relationships led to exploitation of the peasantry or that the lack of leadership and organizations failed to provide the peasantry with new farming technology and the resources needed to increase production.

The general direction of research on Indonesian politics has come under severe criticism at least twice. In 1964 Harry J. Benda charged that students have essentially presented us “highly sophisticated and persuasive answers to an intrinsically mistaken, or irrelevant, question.” Castigating what he sees as a general approach to explain Indonesian politics on the premise of “What is wrong with Indonesia?,” he concludes that “perhaps our basic error all along has been to examine Indonesia with Western eyes; or, to be more precise and more generous, with eyes that, though increasingly trained to see things Indonesian, have continued to look at them selectively, in accordance with preconceived Western models.”