History & Culture

A new television experience is captivating audiences. It’s not just about following the plot twists of a period piece, but about embarking on a treasure hunt within the frame. As viewers watch the popular series Swords into Plowshares (太平年) on CCTV-1, a fascinating secondary activity has emerged: spotting the real historical artifacts meticulously recreated by the production team. From a merchant’s stringed instrument to the intricate design on a wine warmer, each detail is a deliberate nod to a tangible piece of history, waiting to be discovered in museums across China. Fans are thrilled, feeling they’ve been treated to a refined cultural feast, and are taking to social media to compare screenshots with photos of ancient relics. 1. Guqin (古琴) - A Melody in Wood The merchant Cheng Zhaoyue’s (程昭悦) entrances in the drama’s first episode are accompanied by the quiet presence of a Guqin. This isn't just any prop. Its distinct shape closely mirrors classical designs preserved for centuries. The Guqin, a seven-stringed zither, is one of China's oldest plucked instruments. Its basic form was largely standardized by the end of the Han Dynasty, yet it evolved into numerous styles, each with its own name and character. Viewers with…

For thirty-five years, a statue has stood in the warm mists of Huaqing Pond (华清池) in Xi'an (西安). It depicts Yang Yuhuan (杨玉环), one of the famed Four Beauties of ancient China, caught in a moment often translated as "The Imperial Concubine Alights from the Bath." Its semi-nude form has fueled an enduring public debate. Is it a faithful artistic representation of the famously open Tang Dynasty, or is it a distasteful spectacle? However, this persistent controversy over nudity and decency misses the fundamental point. The core of the disagreement is not about exposure itself, but about a profound departure from a central tenet of traditional Chinese aesthetics: the power of subtlety and implication. The statue imposes a Western logic of direct physical display onto an Eastern historical symbol whose beauty was traditionally conveyed through artistry and artistic conception. The Core Debate The defenders of the statue often point to the Tang Dynasty's reputation for cultural openness and physicality. They cite semi-nude murals in the Mogao Caves (莫高窟) or figurines with exposed flesh as historical precedent. Yet, this argument conflates openness with explicitness. Tang art, even at its most sensual, practiced restraint. The flying Apsaras in murals or the court…

When we picture historical adornment, the image is often feminine. Yet across China's long history, a man's accessories were far from an afterthought. They were a deliberate language, speaking volumes about his identity, virtue, and place in the world. These objects—worn at the waist, on the head, or in hand—served as keys to understanding the wearer. More than mere decoration, they were embodiments of cultural values, evolving with each dynasty to reflect shifting ideals of masculinity, power, and taste. From the resonant chime of Jade to the functional elegance of a belt, these items composed a silent visual code. This exploration moves beyond simple cataloguing to listen to the stories these objects tell about the men who wore them and the eras they defined. The Language of Jade The deep connection between Chinese gentlemanly ideals and jade began early. The saying "a gentleman never parts with his jade without reason" underscores its role. During the Qin and Han dynasties, jade was the paramount material for male adornment, symbolizing moral integrity. A nobleman's ensemble often featured a Zu Yu Pei (组玉佩), a set of jade plaques suspended from the waist. Their gentle, rhythmic clinking was intentional; it was meant to regulate…

For thousands of years, the sun dictated the rhythm of life. People worked at its rise and rested at its set. Today, our time is sliced into precise digits by phones and watches. But in the vast stretches between day and night, how did ancient civilizations measure passing hours without modern tools? Their ingenious solutions reveal a deep desire to comprehend and master time's invisible flow, leading to inventions that were both scientifically profound and elegantly simple. 1. Gui Biao (圭表) - The Sun's Shadow Rule The most fundamental timekeeper was the Gui Biao, the empire’s celestial ruler. This instrument, essentially a vertical pole and a horizontal scale, measured the sun’s shadow. Its purpose was grand and agricultural: defining the solar year and the 24 solar terms. By marking the longest and shortest noon shadows, officials could pinpoint the Winter Solstice and Summer Solstice. The entire agricultural calendar and imperial rituals hinged on its readings. While it could indicate noon, the Gui Biao was not for hourly use. Its data set the framework. Think of it as the empire’s annual planner, calibrated by sunlight. The precision of the Chinese calendar, which allowed farmers to sow and harvest with remarkable accuracy…

Today's ski resorts and ice rinks represent a globalized winter culture. Yet, centuries before modern arenas, the frozen waterways of imperial China hosted a world of vibrant and sophisticated winter sports. Far from a modern invention, organized ice activities were a dynamic part of life, evolving from military drills to grand state ceremonies. This is not a story of simple recreation, but of a deep-seated cultural ingenuity that transformed barren, frozen landscapes into stages for athleticism, artistry, and imperial power. 1. Qiang Deng (抢等) Imagine the crack of a signal cannon echoing across a frozen imperial lake. This was the start of Qiang Deng, a fierce speed skating contest that served as the precursor to modern short-track racing. Originally a military exercise for the Eight Banners armies to maintain winter readiness, it became a highlight of the annual Bingxi (冰嬉) ceremony. Emperor Qianlong (乾隆) elevated these ice games to a "national custom," with grand reviews held on the frozen waters of Beihai (北海) and Zhonghai (中海) in Beijing. Competitors, selected from elite "Ice Shoe Battalions," wore early iron-bladed skates. Bending forward for aerodynamics, they propelled themselves across the ice with poles, striving to be the first to cross the distant…

We walk on them every day, rarely considering their names. Today, it is simply a road, a street, or an avenue. In ancient China, however, the ground beneath one’s feet told a richer story. Each type of path had its own distinct name, a linguistic signpost revealing its purpose, status, and the very texture of the life it supported. This wasn't mere classification; it was a way of seeing the world, embedding hierarchy, daily routine, and philosophical concept into the landscape. From the emperor’s grand highway to the farmer’s field track, the vocabulary of travel wove a complex map of society itself. Hierarchy Underfoot The most important concept was Dao (道). This term represented the highest standard of road, often imperial in nature. After unifying the country, Qin Shihuang (秦始皇) constructed vast "Chidao" (驰道), or "galloping roads," which functioned as ancient expressways for military and imperial use. Yet “Dao” meant far more than pavement. It was the same character used for "the way" or "the principle," linking physical travel to moral and cosmic order. A slightly less grand but still major thoroughfare was a Lu (路), a wide way designed for chariots and carts. Within the walls of a capital…

The image is iconic: a stern, formidable figure stalking palace corridors or shadowy alleyways, clad in brilliant crimson robes embroidered with mythical creatures, a sleek, curved blade at his side. This is the Jinyiwei (锦衣卫), or Embroidered Uniform Guard, as popular culture has cemented him in our minds. From television dramas to video games, this visual shorthand for Ming Dynasty secret police and imperial power is unmistakable. But what if this widespread portrayal is more fantasy than fact? The glamorous Feiyu uniform was not standard issue. For the vast majority of the men who served in this complex institution, such opulence was a distant dream, a privileged symbol reserved for a select few at the very top. The Privilege of the Robe Contrary to the on-screen legions of red-clad agents, the Feiyufu (飞鱼服) was not a uniform in the common sense. It was a "Cifu" (赐服), a bestowed garment, one of the highest honors the Ming emperor could grant. Ranking just below the imperial dragon robe, it was awarded individually for merit or faithful service. The right to wear it was a legal privilege, and unauthorized use was strictly forbidden. Its name comes from the "Feiyu" pattern: a legendary creature…

When a television program can make historical clothing feel as immediate as today's fashion headlines, something special is happening. A recent broadcast by China Central Television (CCTV) has captivated audiences not with futuristic designs, but with a deep, respectful look into the past. The focus was the intricate beauty and profound symbolism of Hanfu, the traditional attire of the Han Chinese. By examining specific garments, particularly from the Ming Dynasty, the program connected threads of fabric to threads of cultural memory, prompting viewers to see ancient robes as more than museum relics. They are presented as active testaments to a worldview, where aesthetics and social order were seamlessly woven together. More Than Fabric: The Language of Ceremonial Dress The CCTV program, titled Etiquette China (礼仪中国), serves as a guide to this philosophy. It operates on a powerful premise: to understand a civilization's ideals, study the clothes it wore for its most important moments. The series approaches Hanfu not merely as costume, but as a visual language of Li (礼), a concept encompassing ritual, propriety, and the very framework of traditional social harmony. The most formal garments, known as ceremonial dress, carried the heaviest symbolic weight. These robes were canvases for…

The messages we exchange as a new year dawns today are warm and direct. But centuries ago in China, New Year's greetings were crafted with a subtle, poetic artistry. They conveyed hopes, affection, and well-wishes not through straightforward statements, but through elegant allusions and imagery drawn from nature and the seasons. This tradition reveals a uniquely Chinese form of lyrical expression, where the act of blessing someone became an art form in itself. The Poetry of Time Instead of modern phrases, scholars of old used classical references to mark the year's turn. A common opening for a seasonal letter was “the year is in Guichou (癸丑), at the end of spring.” This practice, seen in masterpieces like Wang Xizhi’s (王羲之) Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion (兰亭集序), framed time within a lyrical context. Another phrase, “Sui Yu Yun Mu, Xin Yuan Zhao Qi (岁在癸丑，暮春之初)” poetically captures the moment as “the year draws to its close, a new beginning dawns.” These were not mere dates; they were acknowledgments of time’s graceful, inevitable passage. The great Song dynasty statesman and poet Wang Anshi never explicitly said “happy new year” in his famous verse. Yet, his lines about firecrackers banishing…

The announcement of a new film adaptation of the classic time-travel series Back to the Past (寻秦记), reuniting the original cast after 25 years, has sent waves of nostalgia through its fanbase. While audiences eagerly await the return of Louis Koo and Raymond Lam to their iconic roles, a seemingly minor detail from the promotional material has ignited a surprisingly passionate online discussion: the distinct, slightly off-center topknot, or Ji (髻), worn by Lam’s character. This quirky hairstyle, far from being a costuming error, is a deliberate nod to a fascinating and authentic historical practice from the Qin era. The film’s attention to this detail opens a window into the highly structured and symbolic world of ancient Chinese military life, where even a hairstyle could speak volumes about a person’s rank and origin. More Than a Hairstyle To the modern eye, a tilted bun might appear casual or even charmingly disheveled. In the context of the Qin dynasty (221-206 BCE), however, it was a standard and meaningful feature. The most definitive evidence comes from the silent army of the Terracotta Warriors. A close examination of the thousands of life-sized figures reveals a striking variety in their topknots. A significant portion…

Think ancient Chinese beverage culture was limited to plain tea and hot water? Think again. From the bustling markets of Bianjing (汴京) to the imperial palaces of Chang’an, a vibrant and sophisticated world of drinks flourished. This was a world where refreshment met medicine, where social status was sipped from a cup, and where creativity flowed as freely as the drinks themselves. Our modern obsession with functional beverages, artisanal infusions, and novel flavors finds a profound and surprising echo in the past. Drinks as Medicine Long before modern energy shots, ancient Chinese sought vitality in their cups. The concept of "food as medicine" was deeply ingrained. During the Yuan Dynasty, a drink called “Li Mu Thirst Water” (里木渴水) was a staple at Mongol aristocratic feasts. This early functional beverage, made from lemon juice, honey, and spices, was prized not just for its tart sweetness but for its ability to prevent scurvy on long campaigns. The Song Dynasty saw the rise of “Shu Shui” (熟水), a prototype of the modern herbal tea bag. Poet Li Qingzhao (李清照) famously crafted her own white cardamom variety in her later years for its digestive benefits. Scenes from the famed painting Serenade of Peaceful Joy…

In our digital age, entertainment and casual knowledge are a tap away. For ancient Chinese, leisure reading served a similar purpose: an escape, an education, and a window into worlds beyond one's own. Far from dry classical texts, a vibrant genre of writings existed purely for pleasure and personal enrichment. These works, the "extra-curricular reading" of their day, revealed the humor, curiosity, and sophisticated tastes of people from the Song Dynasty to the Qing Dynasty. They were guidebooks to living well, catalogs of wonder, and repositories of everyday joy, proving that the human desire for engaging diversion is truly timeless. Guides to the Good Life For a Song Dynasty citizen dreaming of the capital's splendor or a Ming scholar curating his studio, specialized manuals offered a path to a richer experience. Dongjing Meng Hua Lu (东京梦华录) was less a history and more a phenomenal guidebook. Written by a nostalgic scholar, it meticulously cataloged the sights, sounds, and smells of the lost capital, Bianliang (汴梁, present-day Kaifeng). It detailed bustling markets, renowned restaurants with price guides, and vibrant festival scenes, offering readers an immersive, textual tour of urban excitement they might never witness firsthand. Centuries later, the Ming Dynasty scholar Wen…

What did an ancient cup of tea truly hold within its delicate steam? Far more than leaves and water, it contained mountains, seasons, and a quiet philosophy of living. For centuries in China, the practice of tea evolved from simple consumption into a profound cultural ritual, a medium through which people connected with nature, art, and their inner selves. This was not merely a drink, but a deliberate and artistic engagement with the world. Tea as Nature's Mirror Every step of tea preparation began with reverence for the natural world. The character of a tea leaf was believed to be shaped by its origin—the intensity of sunlight, the mist clinging to mountain slopes, and the precise rainfall. Lu Yu (陆羽), the celebrated Tea Sage of the Tang Dynasty, codified this connection in his classic work, The Classic of Tea (茶寮记). He categorized water for brewing into three grades, with mountain spring water considered supreme for unlocking a tea's authentic essence. This pursuit of natural harmony extended to the setting. Scholars of the Ming Dynasty, like Lu Shusheng (陆树声), listed twelve ideal environments for drinking tea, including a quiet studio, under pine trees, or by a bamboo-lit moon. The goal was…

The aroma of steaming dumplings mixed with the soft rustle of silk and brocade. On the afternoon of December 19, 2025, a university cafeteria was transformed. Here, over a hundred students gathered, not just for a meal, but for a journey. The Hanfu Society hosted "Wearing Han Attire, Savoring Winter Solstice Elegance," an immersive event designed to bridge millennia-old traditions with youthful creativity. This was not a history lecture, but a living experience where the ancient Dongzhi (冬至) festival was felt through hands, taste buds, and shared laughter. The Dumpling as Canvas Dumplings are the undisputed star of Winter Solstice tables in northern China, symbolizing reunion and warmth. This event reimagined them as a creative outlet. Students didn't just wrap filling in dough; they sculpted it. Inspired by the flowing lines of their own Hanfu, traditional crescent shapes were joined by others resembling plum blossoms, ingots, and delicate fabric folds. The kitchen area buzzed with focused energy. Teams collaborated in a friendly speed-wrapping competition, their fingers moving deftly. More time, however, was spent on artistic expression. The serious task of ensuring a good seal was punctuated by exclamations over a particularly elegant pleat or a cleverly shaped piece. Laughter flowed…

A curious detail in the new historical drama The Vendetta of An (长安二十四计) has captured the audience's attention. In it, actress Xu Lu (徐璐), who portrays the character Bai Wan (白莞), wears a cloak with an unusual feature: a separate panel of fabric draped over its back. This double-layered design strikes many modern viewers as anachronistic or simply strange, prompting questions about its historical accuracy. Could a cloak really be constructed this way in ancient times, or is this a fanciful creation of the costume department? The answer lies not in creative license, but in a forgotten practicality shaped by climate and necessity. A Functional Design The additional back panel is not mere decoration. It functions as a rain guard or wind flap. Its primary purpose was to create a protected air space between itself and the wearer's back. When rain or sleet fell, it would hit this outer layer first. Following gravity, the moisture would then slide down the panel's surface and away from the body, keeping the inner cloak—and the crucial lower back and waist area—dry and insulated. This logic is enhanced when the cloak material itself is water-resistant. Historical garments often used oils, waxed fabrics, or inherently…

In the historical drama Serenade of Peaceful Joy (清平乐), a peculiar white neckpiece adorns the robes of officials, instantly capturing the modern viewer's eye. To contemporary audiences, it might resemble an odd fashion accessory or even a pet's collar. But this item, far from mere decoration, was a powerful instrument of state authority. Its correct name is the Fangxin Quling (方心曲领), and its story is one of rigid hierarchy, cosmic symbolism, and physical discipline within the imperial system. A Mark of Rank Not every official in the Song Dynasty could wear the Fangxin Quling. Its privilege was reserved by law for those of the seventh rank and above, specifically those entitled to wear a certain type of ceremonial undergarment. This regulation, documented in texts like the Book of Sui (隋书·礼仪志七), made it a clear, visual demarcation between high-ranking central bureaucrats and lower-level local magistrates. It was a badge of inclusion within the empire's most powerful administrative circle. This was not a Song invention. The collar's institutional origins can be traced back to the Sui and Tang dynasties, evolving from more complex ceremonial attire. The Song court fully standardized and codified its use, embedding it firmly within the formal court robe…

Visitors to the Forbidden City often pause before display cases, puzzled by the pearls adorning ancient artifacts. These pearls are rarely perfectly round; many are oval, lumpy, or asymmetrical. This immediately conflicts with modern expectations, where flawless, spherical pearls symbolize luxury. The immediate assumption might be that historical artisans used inferior materials, but the truth is far more compelling. These irregular pearls are not evidence of poor quality but are artifacts of a different world—a time when pearls were gifts of nature, not products of controlled cultivation. Their shapes tell a story of rarity, historical technology, and aesthetic values that prized natural form over engineered perfection. This exploration seeks to answer the central question and redefine what we consider "valuable" in historical context. Wild Pearl Formation Every irregular pearl in the imperial collection began its life in the wild. Unlike today's farmed gems, historical pearls formed entirely by chance within mollusks like oysters and mussels. When a minute irritant, such as a sand grain, entered the shellfish, the creature's mantle tissue responded by secreting layers of nacre around it. This process, called biomineralization, had no guiding template or fixed nucleus. The nacre deposited unevenly over years, resulting in organic, baroque…

Have you ever wondered why we are called the Han people? What is the story behind this name that defines a civilization? A Name Forged in History The term "Han" finds its anchor in one of China's foundational dynasties. Following the brief but brutal Qin Dynasty, a power struggle erupted. Liu Bang (刘邦), a rebel leader, was granted the title "King of Han" after the region of Hanzhong (汉中). His advisor, Xiao He (萧何), saw profound meaning in this name. He connected it to "Tianhan (天汉)," a poetic ancient name for the Milky Way, arguing it signified majestic grandeur and celestial favor. When Liu Bang emerged victorious, founding a new era of stability and expansion, he adopted Han as the dynasty's name. This was no ordinary dynasty. Lasting over four centuries, the Han Dynasty solidified a centralized state, expanded its territory significantly, and established the Silk Road. Its administrative reforms, cultural achievements, and military strength created a powerful, enduring legacy. To people beyond its borders and to generations within, "Han" became synonymous with this powerful, sophisticated civilization. It was an identity marker long before modern ethnic concepts existed. Other powerful dynasties came and went, like the celebrated Tang. Yet while…

Today, our globalized world delivers tropical delights to distant continents, making seasonal or geographic limitations seem like a quaint concept. But for most of human history, the contents of a fruit bowl were strictly governed by what the local land offered each season. The journey of fruit in ancient China is not merely a tale of agriculture, but a captivating story of imperial desire, technological ingenuity, and the slow, patient weaving of trade routes that connected empires. It reveals a world where a single peach was a token of friendship, a grapevine was a treasured import, and the taste of a fresh lychee was a luxury worth extraordinary cost. Peaches and Plums In the primal forests and along the riverbanks of ancient China, the first fruits were those provided by nature untamed. Early peoples were careful foragers, observing which berries and nuts animals ate before deeming them safe. The foundational fruits of Chinese civilization emerged from this period: the peach, the plum, the jujube (or Chinese date), and the apricot. These are the fruits immortalized in the Book of Songs (诗经), their flavors often tart or astringent compared to modern varieties. These native species held deep cultural significance. The phrase…

Today, a shower involves stepping into a tiled space, reaching for brightly bottled gels, and enjoying instant lather. But in ancient China, from the dusty courts of the Zhou to the bustling markets of the Qing, bathing was a deliberate practice woven into the social and spiritual fabric. Without modern plumbing or chemistry, people turned to the earth and kitchen for solutions. This narrative isn't about mere cleanliness; it's about a cultural dedication to purity that evolved over millennia, using everything from grain runoff to animal organs. The story of their bathing rituals reveals a sophisticated, resourceful approach to personal care that rivals our own in ingenuity and intent. Bathing Rituals In ancient China, washing was codified. The classic text Book of Rites prescribed washing hair every three days and bathing the body every five. This was not a casual suggestion but a recognized standard for refinement and health. During the Han Dynasty, this principle was institutionalized for officials, who were granted a "rest and bath" day every fifth day to attend to personal hygiene. Such practices underscored that cleanliness was both a private duty and a public expectation. The language itself was precise. The act of cleansing was divided…

Imagine stepping into a bustling street in 16th-century Nanjing. The air is thick with the sizzle of woks and the warm, yeasty smell of steamed buns. From the grand banquets of the scholar-elite to the simple, hearty meals of artisans, the Ming Dynasty was a golden age of Chinese gastronomy. It was an era where culinary traditions solidified, new ingredients whispered of distant lands, and the social ritual of eating reflected a vibrant, commercial society. This wasn't just about sustenance; it was a daily celebration of flavor, technique, and connection. The Staple Foundation The cornerstone of any meal was grain. A clear north-south divide existed: wheat reigned in the arid north, while rice dominated the watery south. Northerners enjoyed a stunning array of noodles, steamed buns, and flatbreads. Southern bowls were consistently filled with fluffy white rice or comforting congee. Interestingly, the New World crops we associate with China today—corn, sweet potato, potato—had arrived by late Ming. Yet, they remained curiosities or famine-relief foods for the poor. A Ming diner would stare blankly at a plate of french fries or a bowl of sweet potato noodles. Their staple world was built on ancient, familiar grains. Meat on the Menu If…

In the heart of ancient China, dance was not merely entertainment but a vibrant expression of life and culture, particularly during the Tang Dynasty. This era, known for its economic prosperity and cultural exchanges, saw dance flourish in ways that might surprise modern observers. Today, however, the lively dance floors of old seem a distant memory, leading many to wonder why such a rich tradition has faded. This article delves into the dynamic world of Tang dances, exploring their forms and the historical shifts that quieted their rhythms, offering a fresh perspective on a cultural evolution that resonates beyond time. Vibrant Jianwu Jianwu (健舞), or vigorous dance, epitomized the energy and strength of Tang performers, captivating audiences with its lively movements. This style included subtypes like Zhezhi (柘枝), which originated from Central Asia and featured solo female dancers moving to drumbeats in a blend of power and grace. Historical records, such as those in Yuefu Zalu (乐府杂录), highlight how these dances reflected the era's openness to foreign influences, with performers like Gongsun Daniang (公孙大娘) celebrated for their skill. Her performances, described in poetry, showcased a mastery that left a lasting impression on spectators, illustrating how Jianwu became a symbol of…

You have seen it in countless historical Chinese dramas, from The Story of Minglan (知否) to Nirvana in Fire (琅琊榜). A character, perhaps Shen Li (沈璃) from The Legend of Shen Li (与凤行), lounges gracefully, not on a chair, but on a piece of furniture that looks like a curved armrest. It seems incredibly comfortable, a perfect prop for scenes of scholarly contemplation or leisurely repose. But what is this object? It is not a chair at all. This is the Yinji (隐几), an ancient support that was the epitome of comfort and intellectual attitude for centuries of Chinese literati. More than just furniture, it was a portable sanctuary for relaxation and a symbol of a mindful approach to life. Not a Chair The Yinji, also known as a leaning stool or armrest, was a quintessential item in ancient Chinese interiors, particularly for use on a Ta (榻), a low platform bed. Its primary function was to provide support for the back, the arms, or even the side of the body. Imagine a portable sofa arm that could be placed wherever one desired a comfortable lean. It was designed for ease of movement, often light enough to be carried outdoors…

What if you could bypass marriage and become a career woman in the Ming Dynasty? In an era dominated by the saying "a woman without talent is virtuous," the path for women was overwhelmingly prescribed: domestic confinement, learning needlework, and accepting an arranged marriage. Yet, a remarkable alternative existed behind the towering vermilion walls of the Forbidden City. The imperial palace offered a select group of women a chance to become female officials, known as Nüguan (女官). These were not mere servants but educated administrators who managed vast swathes of palace operations, from finances and rituals to education and security. This was a rare space for female agency within a rigidly patriarchal system. The Selection Becoming a Nüguan was an arduous process with intense competition. Candidates, typically aged between 13 and 20, had to meet stringent criteria. Their family background was scrutinized; they had to come from "good families"—often the daughters of low-ranking officials or commoners, but not from professions like medicine or commerce. This ensured their loyalty and prevented powerful clans from gaining internal influence. Physical appearance required dignity, not dazzling beauty, as these women would represent the imperial household. The evaluation of moral character was particularly severe. Local…