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Objective: Few studies have investigated the assessment and functional impact of egocentric and allocentric neglect among stroke patients. This pilot study aimed to determine (1) whether allocentric and egocentric neglect could be dissociated among a sample of stroke patients using eye tracking; (2) the specific patterns of attention associated with each subtype; and (3) the nature of the relationship between neglect subtype and functional outcome. Method: Twenty acute stroke patients were administered neuropsychological assessment batteries, a pencil-and-paper Apples Test to measure neglect subtype, and an adaptation of the Apples Test with an eye tracking measure. To test clinical discriminability, twenty age- and education-matched control participants were administered the eye tracking measure of neglect. Results: The eye tracking measure identified a greater number of individuals as having egocentric and/or allocentric neglect than the pencil-and-paper Apples Test. Classification of neglect subtype based on eye tracking performance was a significant predictor of functional outcome beyond that accounted for by the neuropsychological test performance and Apples Test neglect classification. Preliminary evidence suggests that patients with no neglect symptoms had superior functional outcomes compared with patients with neglect. Patients with combined egocentric and allocentric neglect had poorer functional outcomes than those with either subtype. Functional outcomes of patients with either allocentric or egocentric neglect did not differ significantly. The applications of our findings, to improve neglect detection, are discussed. Conclusion: Results highlight the potential clinical utility of eye tracking for the assessment and identification of neglect subtype among stroke patients to predict functional outcomes. (JINS, 2019, 25, 479–489)

The late Ming dynasty continues to fascinate, for its strange combination of prosperity and catastrophe. While it may indeed be a certain morbidity in our historical hindsight that compels us to re...

Translator’s summary: A large allied army, including a contingent from Lu but apparently led by Jin, defeats Qi at the battle of An, with Qi grand officers nonetheless acquitting themselves honorably during the battle itself and during the subsequent negotiations. Qi seems to be crippled as a great power. Later in the chapter are copious references to the Eldest Daughter of Lu, designed to highlight her merit, which will be demonstrated much later.

Translator’s summary: This chapter sees the end of Duke Huan of Qi’s career as hegemon. Before dying of (mostly) natural causes, he seems to become somewhat overbearing and even forces a marriage upon Duke Xi. Chaos reigns after his passing. The last few entries of the chapter focus on Duke Xiang of Song and his stubborn sense of honor. His capture leaves the state of Song far from leaderless, however, as its people are free to voice, in his absence, some of the more radical notions of sovereignty to be found in this book.

Translator’s summary: The state of Zheng is the scene of a massive diplomatic and military standoff between the Central States and the state of Chu. The rise of non-Zhou states like Chu and Wu becomes an increasingly unavoidable reality, even as the Central States find it difficult to maintain unity. The inauguration of the Three-Army system in Lu portends the eclipse of the dukes by their leading grand officers.

Translator’s summary: This chapter contains the first grudging and half-honest mention of a violent action on the part of the state of Lu (its destruction of the neighboring state of Ji), as well as the ridiculing of the Marquis of (a different state of) Ji for sending an officer to fetch home his bride and thus mixing official and family business to an unacceptable degree. In the story of Duke Mu of Song is more foreshadowing about the dangers facing Duke Yin as he continues to try to manage the succession; and, in fact, Duke Yin’s assassination at the hands of Prince Hui is explicitly foretold.

Translator’s summary: This chapter describes the battle of Jifu, in which the state of Wu earns some honorable mention; but the main action is Duke Zhao’s failed effort to rid himself of the Ji family, which ends in his own exile. Neither Duke Zhao’s loyal grand officer Zijia Ju nor the chronicler expresses much sympathy for the Duke, believing him to have usurped as much authority from the Zhou kings as the Ji family usurped from him.

Translator’s summary: The Gongyang commentators, following, perhaps, the original chronicler, seem ill-disposed toward Duke Huan, owing to his possessing a greater ambition than his brother Duke Yin. Huan’s questionable deeds are highlighted (perhaps even fabricated, in the case of his policy toward the state of Song), whereas Yin’s were suppressed.

Translator’s summary: The state of Wu plays an increasingly important role; but the chronicle ends abruptly with the appearance of a unicorn, heralding the appearance of a new sage king and thus informing Confucius that the Annals may be considered finished and ready for delivery to him.

Translator’s summary: Duke Ling of Chen is assassinated by Xia Zhengshu, who earns no credit for avenging his mother’s honor. In fact, Mr. Xia is punished by King Zhuang of Chu, whose actions as enforcer contribute to his recognition as hegemon, despite his technically foreign status. King Zhuang also shows himself the gentleman in the siege of Zheng and at the battle of Bi; and he has the good sense to bow to the virtue of his grand officer Sir Fan. Even the tribesman Sir Lu of the Red Di is accorded some gentlemanly recognition, as though the chronicler is putting aside his prejudices, in the light of King Zhuang’s example. Contrariwise, the men of the Central States, even those in the Zhou house, continue to behave wantonly. King Zhuang of Chu passes from the scene by the end of the chapter.

Translator’s summary: Just as the feudal lords encroach on the prerogatives of the Son of Heaven, and just as the aristocratic families of grand officers encroach upon the prerogatives of the feudal lords, so now the stewards of the aristocratic grand officers encroach upon the prerogatives of their superiors. Yang Hu, steward of the Jisun family, stages a coup and causes a general convulsion, embroiling the great houses against their subordinates and each other. In this disorderly environment, Confucius appears (in the commentary) to exert a modest stabilizing influence, bringing peace between Lu and Qi. The story of Zhao Yang of the state of Jin is also included, providing an example of a man who had to rebel against his ruler in order to serve him.

Translator’s summary: Duke Zhuang finally weighs in against the state of Qi, though not until the killer of his father, Duke Xiang of Qi, is himself assassinated and his state presumably in turmoil. Apparently resolved to kill Duke Xiang’s successor, Duke Huan, with his bare hands, Duke Zhuang is unexpectedly won over by him instead. Duke Huan of Qi becomes the first of the Five Hegemons, and he busies himself with alliance building for the balance of the chapter.

Studies of late Ming dynasty political factions have usually been focused on the Donglin Faction or Restoration Society groups, and have tended to take their assertions of moral superiority at face value. As a result, our understanding of these righteous partisans and (especially) their opponents is essentially a caricature invented by the former: it was the moral world-savers versus the amoral time-servers. While most historians do occasionally point out that the moral posturing of Ming China’s righteous factions was at least partly a political device, few have taken the time to reinterpret the supposed amorality of the opposition. Although the literary remains of late Ming opposition politicians are very scarce, some sources on the anti-Donglin leader Tang Binyin do survive, and these might help to breathe a little life into the dead caricature of the opposition. To the extent that Tang may be taken to represent his even more obscure comrades (an unavoidable interpolation, given the paucity of anti-Donglin sources), what emerges is an opposition with articulate positions on assorted topics, but one which was extremely skeptical about the moral pretensions of the Donglin and simply could not join the Donglin crusade. Since modern historians are themselves beginning to see through the Donglin’s moral facade, perhaps we can give a little credit to Tang Binyin and his associates for doing the same. This paper will provide a brief background sketch of Tang Binyin, explore the question of why his literary remains are extant, exceptional, and obscure, and examine Tang’s political position. Reference will be made to Tang’s own rare writings, secondary works, and corroborating evidence from other late-Ming politicians.

Students of late Ming dynasty political history have long been tantalized by the “Li San-ts'ai” entry in the Dictionary of Ming Biography. In it, E-tu Zen Sun wrote that Li's collected works, the Cao fu xiao cao, were “reported to be still extant” (Zen Sun 1976, 849). For the present writer, this one phrase launched a thousand inquiries, as I endeavored to track down any source that would help me better understand the enigmatic Li Sancai (d. 1623), who figured prominently in the factionalism of the late Ming. In fact, I was (and still am) convinced that understanding Li Sancai would enable a significant reinterpretation of late Ming factional history, because Li offers the key to a fuller understanding of the best known late Ming faction: the Donglin.

This intriguing and important study examines the various imperial hunts, military reviews, archery contests, polo matches, and collections of exotic animals that may be found in China's Ming dynast...

Dorgon entered Beijing through the Chaoyang Gate on June 6, 1644, with the old and the young offering incense and prostrating themselves as he approached. Eunuchs soon emerged from the imperial palace, surrendering the dead Chongzhen’s formal insignia and placing at Dorgon’s disposal the royal palanquin. Dorgon refused to ride in it, saying, “I follow the Duke of Zhou. It is inappropriate for me, merely the assistant of our Young Sovereign, to travel by palanquin.” Spokesmen for the multitude, however, replied, “The Duke of Zhou, while ‘merely assisting’ with affairs of state, sat with his back to the king’s silken screen. It is quite appropriate for you to ride.” Dorgon said, resignedly, “Having come to pacify the Empire, I can only accede to the people’s will,” and making obeisance also to Heaven, amid much ceremony, he rode in the palanquin to the Wuying Palace and ascended the throne.1

Almost lost in the graveyard of monuments that is the Beijing Art Museum of Stone Carvings is an interesting stele that was first erected during the height of chief eunuch Wei Zhongxian’s career in the reign of the youthful Tianqi emperor. The tablet is a commemoration of a commemoration. It describes the dedication of a shengci (a shrine to a living person) named the Puhui Shengci, in honor of Wei Zhongxian, to commemorate, in turn, his sponsoring the restoration of a complex of horse and camel stables and grazing land to the east of Beijing. According to the tablet, Wei was “promulgating loyalty to the state” when he gave his support to the stable project, which was designed to bring the state several benefits. First, the state would earn rent from tenants who used the facility, although no rent would be charged for the first two years, to encourage herdsmen to move in and establish a livelihood. Second, the state would be able to buy or requisition the animals raised there. Third, the complex was supposed to have an intrinsic military value, as its dikes and ponds were easy to defend and constituted a barrier blocking an eastern advance on the capital. “Thus,” reads the tablet, “was barren land transformed into a marshalling area, not only benefiting the people but also increasing the protection of the northeast.” The Tianqi emperor, in authorizing the project, cautioned only that notices be posted nearby the facility, warning against encroachment by local strongmen and promising capital reprisals for those who ignored the warning.1

This droll exchange was taken from the book Intrigues of the Warring States (Zhan guo ce), which was compiled in the second century BCE. At first glance, a simple, almost silly contradiction on a question of precedence, it actually signifies a profound disagreement on the proper locus or origin of authority. Should Yan Chu bow to King Xuan’s monarchial power, or should King Xuan be swayed by Yan Chu’s gentlemanly influence? Who, in other words, is supposed to be working for whom? King Xuan and Yan Chu seem most unlikely to meet each other halfway, each, rather, believing himself to be the rightful master of the other. Their standoff is a poignant vignette of political impasse, containing much potential for rupture and violence.

Zhang Juzheng became the most powerful man in China on August 4, 1572. On that date, he began to direct affairs of state on behalf of Zhu Yijun (1563–1620), also known as the Wanli emperor, who was then only a boy. This rather unusual political arrangement lasted about ten years and turned out to be momentous enough to merit its own special phrase in Chinese historiography, Jiangling bingzheng, which best translates as “Zhang Juzheng’s administration.” The single-minded purpose of Zhang’s administration, in the words of Ming dynasty survivor and chronicler Tan Qian (1594–1658), was “to build respect for the sovereign power” (zhuan zun zhuquan).1

During the hot summer of 1594, following his righteous ousting from the Ministry of Personnel, Gu Xiancheng returned home to Wuxi. On the way, he was questioned at nearly every town by other concerned scholar-officials, who inquired into the moral state of the empire. In answer to these queries, Gu called for patience and resolution. Arriving home in the fall, he fell sick but nonetheless had enough energy to begin work on his philosophical and political journal, the Xiaoxin zhai zha ji. There is a noteworthy entry in this work, made in 1595, that sheds some light on Gu’s thinking under the current circumstances. Apparently, Gu Xiancheng was anxious to cultivate, in addition to patience and resolution, a sense of indignation (fen). “The first prerequisite for learning is indignation,” he wrote. “As is said in the Analects, ‘One who is indignant even forgets to eat.’ All that is necessary to understand is the single word, ‘indignation,’ and then one may become a Confucius.”1

The Chongzhen emperor moved to consolidate his power in the early days of 1628. On February 16, he issued a warning edict in which he asserted his right to expel “traitors” (meaning Wei Zhongxian’s faction) and promote worthies. However, he also promised that he would show little mercy toward those who were unable to place the country first, and the rest of the edict was filled with references to the state, its laws, and its revenue. As unable as Wanli had been in 1582–1583 to stop the inevitable turning of the revolving door, Chongzhen determined at least to appear to be controlling it. On February 22, 1628, a censor named Luo Yuanbin echoed the emperor’s sentiments, exhorting officialdom in a memorial to put aside factional squabbles and resist the urge to seek revenge for recent wrongs. Luo opined that there was actually little difference between so-called gentlemen and mean people, since both could do equal damage with their denunciations of each other, while there was so much that needed to be done. The emperor heartily endorsed Luo’s plea for unity and public spiritedness, which might have seemed an odd thing to do for a man who had just authorized the continuing purge of Wei’s faction. Again, though, it would seem that Chongzhen’s goal was control of the purge, rather than the purge itself. 1