great, for the penalty on detection may be death.

The ordeal itself is exceedingly severe, as well for the examiners as
for the candidates. At the provincial examinations, held once in every
third year, an Imperial Commissioner, popularly known as the Grand
Examiner, is sent down from Peking. On arrival, his residence is
formally sealed up, and extraordinary precautions are taken to prevent
friends of intending candidates from approaching him in any way. There
is no age limit, and men of quite mature years are to be found
competing against youths hardly out of their teens; indeed, there is
an authenticated case of a man who successfully graduated at the age of
seventy-two. Many compete year after year, until at length they decide
to give it up as a bad job.

At an early hour on the appointed day the candidates begin to assemble,
and by and by the great gates of the examination hall are thrown open,
and heralds shriek out the names of those who are to enter. Each one
answers in turn as his name is called, and receives from the attendants
a roll of paper marked with the number of the open cell he is to occupy
in one of the long alleys into which the examination hall is divided.
Other writing materials, as well as food, he carries with him in a
basket, which is always carefully searched at the door, and in which
"sleeve" editions of the classics have sometimes been found. When all
have taken their seats, the Grand Examiner burns incense, and closes the
entrance gates, through which no one will be allowed to pass, either in
or out, dead or alive, until the end of the third day, when the first of
the three sessions is at an end, and the candidates are released for
the night. In case of death, not unusual where ten or twelve thousand
persons are cooped up day and night in a confined space, the corpse is
hoisted over the wall; and this would be done even if it were that of