and that the boy's real father was a merchant, her former master. This

story, whether true or false, gave the young emperor much trouble in

later years. His mother, after he came to the throne, grew so dissipated

that he was forced to punish her lover and banish her. And the merchant,

his reputed father, being given a place at court, became eager for a

higher position, and sought to influence the emperor by hints and

whisperings of the secret hold he possessed over him. Hoangti was not

the man to be dealt with in such a fashion, and the intriguing merchant,

finding a storm of vengeance coming, poisoned himself to escape a worse

fate.



Such are the stories told of the origin of the famous emperor. They may

not be true, for the historians hated him, for reasons yet to be given,

and made the most of anything they could say against him. All we are

sure of is that he ascended the throne at the youthful age of thirteen,

and even at that age quickly made his influence widely felt. What lay

before him was practically the conquest of China, whose great feudal

lords were virtually independent of the throne, and had, not long

before, overwhelmed the imperial armies.



Fortunately for the young emperor, the great princes, having no fear of

a boy, either disbanded their forces or quarrelled among themselves, two

of the most powerful of them declaring war upon each other. Taking

advantage of these dissensions, Hoangti gained, step by step, the

desired control of his foes. Ouki, a great general in the interest of

the princes, was disgraced by the aid of bribery and falsehood, several

of the strong cities of the princes were seized, and when they entered

the field against the emperor their armies, no longer led by the able

Ouki, were easily defeated. Thus steadily the power of the youthful

monarch increased and that of his opponents fell away, the dismembered

empire of China slowly growing under his rule into a coherent whole.



Meanwhile war arose with foreign enemies, who appeared on the western

and northern boundaries of the empire. In this quarter the Tartar tribes

of the desert had long been troublesome, and now a great combination of

these warlike nomads, known as the Heung-nou,--perhaps the same as the

Huns who afterwards devastated Europe,--broke into the defenceless

border provinces, plundering and slaughtering wherever they appeared.

Against this dangerous enemy the emperor manifested the same energy

that he had done against his domestic foes. Collecting a great army,

three hundred thousand strong, he marched into their country and

overthrew them in a series of signal victories. In the end those in the

vicinity of China were exterminated, and the others driven to take

refuge in the mountains of Mongolia.



This success was followed by a remarkable performance, one of the most

stupendous in the history of the world. Finding that several of the

northern states of the empire were building lines of fortification along

their northern frontiers for defence against their Tartar enemies, the

emperor conceived the extraordinary project of building a gigantic wall

along the whole northern boundary of China, a great bulwark to extend

from the ocean on the east to the interior extremity of the modern

province of Kan-suh on the west. This work was begun under the direct

supervision of the emperor in 214 B.C., and prosecuted with the

sleepless energy for which he had made himself famous. Tireless as he

was, however, the task was too great for one man to perform, and it was

not completed until after his death.



This extraordinary work, perhaps the greatest ever undertaken by the

hand of man, extends over a length of twelve hundred and fifty-five

miles, the wall itself, if measured throughout its sinuous extent, being

fully fifteen hundred miles in length. Over this vast reach of mountain

and plain it is carried, regardless of hill or vale, but "scaling the

precipices and topping the craggy hills of the country." It is not a

solid mass, but is composed of two retaining walls of brick, built upon

granite foundations, while the space between them is filled with earth

and stones. It is about twenty-five feet wide at base and fifteen at

top, and varies from fifteen to thirty feet in height, with frequent

towers rising above its general level. At the top a pavement of

bricks--now overgrown with grass--forms a surface finish to the work.



How many thousands or hundreds of thousands of the industrious laborers

of China spent their lives upon this stupendous work history does not

tell. It stands as a striking monument of the magnificent conceptions of

Hoangti, and of the patient industry of his subjects, beside which the

building of the great pyramid of Egypt sinks into insignificance. Yet,

as history has abundantly proved, it was a waste of labor so far as

answering its purpose was concerned. In the hands of a strong emperor

like Hoangti it might well defy the Tartar foe. In the hands of many of

his weak successors it proved of no avail, the hordes of the desert

swarming like ants over its undefended reaches, and pouring upon the

feeble country that sought defence in walls, not in men.



While this vast building operation was going on, Hoangti had his hands

so full with internal wars that he adopted the custom of sitting on his

throne with a naked sword in his hand, significant of his unceasing

alertness against his foes. Not until his reign was near its end was he

able to return this emblem of war to its scabbard and enjoy for a few

years the peace he had so ably won.



No sooner had the great emperor finished his campaign of victory

against the Heung-nou Tartars than he found himself confronted by

enemies at home, the adherents of the remaining feudal princes whose

independent power was threatened. The first with whom he came in contact

was the powerful prince of Chow, several of whose cities he captured,

the neighboring prince of Han being so terrified by this success that he

surrendered without a contest. In accordance with Hoangti's method, the

prince was forced to yield his power and retire to private life in the

dominions of the conqueror.



Chow still held out, under an able general, Limou, who defied the

emperor and defeated his armies. Hoangti, finding himself opposed by an

abler man than any he had under his command, employed against him the

same secret arts by which he had before disposed of the valiant Ouki. A

courtier was bribed to malign the absent general and poison the mind of

the prince against the faithful commander of his forces. The intrigue

was successful, Limou was recalled from his command, and on his refusing

to obey was assassinated by order of the prince.



Hoangti had gained his end, and his adversary soon paid dearly for his

lack of wisdom and justice. His dominions were overrun, his capital,

Hantan, was taken and sacked, and he and his family became prisoners to

one who was not noted for mercy to his foes. The large province of Chow

was added to the empire, which was now growing with surprising rapidity.



This enemy disposed of, Hoangti had another with whom to deal. At his

court resided Prince Tan, heir of the ruler of Yen. Whether out of

settled policy or from whim, the emperor insulted this visitor so

flagrantly that he fled the court, burning for revenge. As the most

direct way of obtaining this, he hired an assassin to murder Hoangti,

inducing him to accept the task by promising him the title of "Liberator

of the Empire." The plot was nearly successful. Finding it very

difficult to obtain an audience with the emperor, Kinkou, the assassin,

succeeded in an extraordinary way, by inducing Fanyuki, a proscribed

rebel, to commit suicide. In some unexplained way Kinkou made use of

this desperate act to obtain the desired audience. Only the alertness of

the emperor now saved him from death. His quick eye caught the attempt

of the assassin to draw his poniard, and at once, with a sweeping blow

of his sabre, he severed his leg from his body, hurling him bleeding and

helpless to the floor.



Hoangti's retribution did not end with the death of the assassin.

Learning that Prince Tan was the real culprit, he gave orders for the

instant invasion of Yen,--a purpose which perhaps he had in view in his

insult to the prince. The ruler of that state, to avert the emperor's

wrath, sent him the head of Tan, whom he had ordered to execution. But

as the army continued to advance, he fled into the wilds of Lea-vu-tung,

abandoning his territory to the invader. In the same year the kingdom of

Wei was invaded, its capital taken, and its ruler sent to the Chinese

capital for execution.



Only one of the great principalities now remained, that of Choo, but it

was more formidable than any of those yet assailed. Great preparations

and a large army were needed for this enterprise, and the emperor asked

his generals how many men would be required for the task of conquest.



"Two hundred thousand will be abundant," said Lisin; "I will promise you

the best results with that number of men."



"What have you to say?" asked the emperor of Wang Tsein, his oldest and

most experienced commander.



"Six hundred thousand will be needed," said the cautious old general.



These figures, given in history, may safely be credited with an

allowance for the exaggeration of the writers.



The emperor approved of Lisin's estimate, and gave him the command,

dismissing the older warrior as an over-cautious dotard. The event told

a different tale. Lisin was surprised during his march and driven back

in utter defeat, losing forty thousand men, as the records say, in the

battle and the pursuit. What became of the defeated braggart history

fails to state. If he survived the battle, he could hardly have dared to

present himself again before his furious master.



Hoangti now sent for the veteran whom he had dismissed as a dotard, and

asked him to take command of the troops.



"Six hundred thousand: no less will serve," repeated the old man.



"You shall have all you ask for," answered the emperor.



This vast host collected, the question of supplies presented itself as a

serious matter.



"Do not let that trouble you," said the emperor to his general. "I have

taken steps to provide for that, and promise you that provisions are

more likely to be wanting in my palace than in your camp."



The event proved the soundness of the old warrior's judgment and his

warlike skill. A great battle soon took place, in which Wang Tsein,

taking advantage of a false movement of the enemy, drove him in panic

flight from the field. This was soon followed by the complete conquest

of the principality, whose cities were strongly garrisoned by imperial

troops, and its rulers sent to the capital to experience the fate of the

preceding princely captives. The subjection of several smaller provinces

succeeded, and the conquest of China was at length complete.



The feudal principalities, which had been the successors of the

independent kingdoms into which the Chinese territory was originally

divided, were thus overthrown, the ancient local dynasties being

exterminated, and their territories added to the dominion of the Tsins.

The unity of the empire was at length established, and the great

conqueror became "the first universal emperor."



Hoangti the Great, as we may justly designate the man who first formed a

united Chinese empire, and to whom the mighty conception of the Great

Wall was due, did not exhaust his energies in these varied labors.

Choosing as his capital Heenyang (now Segan Foo), he built himself

there a palace of such magnificence as to make it the wonder and

admiration of the age. This was erected outside the city, on so vast a

scale that ten thousand men could be drawn up in order of battle in one

of its courts. Attached to it were magnificent gardens, the whole being

known as the Palace of Delight. Within the city he had another palace,

of grand dimensions, its hall of audience being adorned with twelve

gigantic statues made from the spoils of his many campaigns, each of

them weighing twelve thousand pounds.



The capital was otherwise highly embellished, and an edict required that

all weapons should be sent to the arsenal in that city, there being no

longer danger of civil war, and "peace being universal." This measure

certainly tended to prevent war, and "the skilful disarming of the

provinces added daily to the wealth and prosperity of the capital."



The empire of China thus being, for the first time in its history, made

a centralized one, Hoangti divided it into thirty-six provinces, and set

out on a tour of inspection of the vast dominions which acknowledged him

as sole lord and master. Governors and sub-governors were appointed in

each province, the stability of the organization adopted being evidenced

by the fact that it still exists. The most important result of the

imperial journey was the general improvement of the roads of the empire.

It was the custom, when a great man visited any district, to repair the

roads which he would need to traverse, while outside his line of march

the highways were of a very imperfect character. Hoangti was well aware

of this custom, and very likely he may have convinced himself of the

true condition of the roads by sudden detours from the prescribed route.

At all events, he made the following notable remarks:



"These roads have been made expressly for me, and are very satisfactory.

But it is not just that I alone should enjoy a convenience of which my

subjects have still greater need, and one which I can give them.

Therefore I decree that good roads shall be made in all directions

throughout the empire."



In these few words he set in train a far more useful work than the Great

Wall. High-roads were laid out on a grand scale, traversing the empire

from end to end, and the public spirit of the great emperor is attested

by the noble system of highways which still remain, more than two

thousand years after his death.






Having said so much in favor of Hoangti, we have now to show the reverse

of the shield, in describing that notable act which has won him the

enmity of the literary class, not only in China but in the whole world.

This was the celebrated "burning of the books." Hoangti was essentially

a reformer. Time-honored ceremonies were of little importance in his

eyes when they stood in the way of the direct and practical, and he

abolished hosts of ancient customs that had grown wearisome and

unmeaning. This sweeping away of the drift-wood of the past was far from

agreeable to the officials, to whom formalism and precedent were as the

breath of life. One of the ancient customs required the emperors to

ascend high mountains and offer sacrifices on their summits. The

literary class had ancient rule and precedent for every step in this

ceremony, and so sharply criticised the emperor's disregard of these

observances that they roused his anger. "You vaunt the simplicity of the

ancients," he impatiently said; "you should then be satisfied with me,

for I act in a simpler fashion than they did." Finally he closed the

controversy with the stern remark, "When I have need of you I will let

you know my orders."



The literati of China have always been notable for the strength of their

convictions and the obstinate courage with which they express their

opinions at all risks. They were silenced for the present, but their

anger, as well as that of the emperor, only slumbered. Five years

afterwards it was reawakened. Hoangti had summoned to the capital all

the governors and high officials for a Grand Council of the Empire. With

the men of affairs came the men of learning, many of them wedded to

theories and traditions, who looked upon Hoangti as a dangerous

iconoclast, and did not hesitate to express their opinion.



It was the most distinguished assembly that had ever come together in

China, and, gathered in that magnificent palace which was adorned with

the spoils of conquered kingdoms, it reflected the highest honor on the

great emperor who had called it together and who presided over its

deliberations. But the hardly concealed hostility of the literati soon

disturbed the harmony of the council. In response to the emperor, who

asked for candid expressions of opinion upon his government and

legislation, a courtier arose with words of high praise, ending with,

"Truly you have surpassed the very greatest of your predecessors even at

the most remote period."



The men of books broke into loud murmurs at this insult to the heroes of

their admiration, and one of them sprang angrily to his feet,

designating the former speaker as "a vile flatterer unworthy of the high

position which he occupied," and continuing with unstinted praise of the

early rulers. His oration, which showed much more erudition than

discretion, ended by advocating a reversal of the emperor's action, and

a redivision of the empire into feudal principalities.



Hoangti, hot with anger, curtly reminded the speaker that that point was

not open to discussion, it having already been considered and decided.

He then called on Lisseh, his minister, to state again the reasons for

the unity of the empire. The speech of the minister is one of high

importance, as giving the ostensible reasons for the unexampled act of

destruction by which it was followed.



"It must be admitted," he said, "after what we have just heard, that men

of letters are, as a rule, very little acquainted with what concerns the

government of a country,--not that government of pure speculation, which

is nothing more than a phantom, vanishing the nearer we approach to it,

but the practical government which consists in keeping men within the

sphere of their practical duties. With all their pretence of knowledge,

they are, in this matter, densely ignorant. They can tell you by heart

everything which has happened in the past, back to the most remote

period, but they are, or seem to be, ignorant of what is being done in

these later days, of what is passing under their very eyes. Incapable of

discerning that the thing which was formerly suitable would be wholly

out of place to-day, they would have everything arranged in exact

imitation of what they find written in their books."



He went on to denounce the men of learning as a class uninfluenced by

the spirit of existing affairs and as enemies of the public weal, and

concluded by saying, "Now or never is the time to close the mouths of

these secret enemies, to place a curb upon their audacity."



He spoke the sentiments of the emperor, who had probably already

determined upon his course of action. Having no regard for books

himself, and looking upon them as the weapons of his banded foes, he

issued the memorable order that all the books of the empire should be

destroyed, making exception only of those that treated of medicine,

agriculture, architecture, and astronomy. The order included the works

of the great Confucius, who had edited and condensed the more ancient

books of the empire, and of his noble disciple Mencius, and was of the

most tyrannical and oppressive character. All books containing

historical records, except those relating to the existing reign, were to

be burned, and all who dared even to speak together about the Confucian

"Book of Odes" and "Book of History" were condemned to execution. All

who should even make mention of the past, so as to blame the present,

were, with all their relatives, to be put to death; and any one found,

after thirty days, with a book in his possession was to be branded and

sent to work for four years on the Great Wall. Hoangti did not confine

himself to words. The whole empire was searched for books, and all found

were burned, while large numbers of the literati who had disobeyed the

edict were arrested, and four hundred and sixty of them were buried

alive in a great pit dug for that purpose.



It may well be that Hoangti had his own fame largely in view in this

unprecedented act, as in his preceding wall-building and road-making. He

may have proposed to sweep away all earlier records of the empire and

make it seem to have sprung into existence full-fledged with his reign.

But if he had such a purpose, he did not take fully into account the

devotion of men of learning to their cherished manuscripts, nor the

powers of the human memory. Books were hidden in the roofs and walls of

dwellings, buried underground, and in some cases even concealed in the

beds of rivers, until after the tyrant's death. And when a subsequent

monarch sought to restore these records of the past, vanished tomes

reappeared from the most unlooked-for places. As for the "Book of

History" of Confucius, which had disappeared, twenty-eight sections of

the hundred composing it were taken down from the lips of an aged blind

man who had treasured them in his memory, and one was obtained from a

young girl. The others were lost until 140 B.C., when, in pulling down

the house of the great philosopher, a complete copy of the work was

found hidden in its walls. As for the scientific works that were spared,

none of them have come down to our day.



We shall now briefly complete our story of the man who made himself the

most thoroughly hated of all Chinese monarchs by the literati of that

realm. Organizing his troops into a strong standing army, he engaged in

a war of conquest in the south, adding Tonquin and Cochin China to his

dominions, and carrying his arms as far as Bengal. In the north he again

sent his armies into the desert to chastise the troublesome nomads, and

then, conceiving that no advantage was to be gained in extending his

empire over these domains of barbarism, he employed the soldiers as aids

in the task of building the Great Wall, adding to them a host of the

industrial population of the north.



In 210 B.C. Hoangti was seized with some malady which he failed to treat

as he did his enemies. Neglecting the simplest remedial measures, he

came suddenly to the end of his career after a reign of fifty-one years.

With him were buried many of his wives and large quantities of treasure,

a custom of barbarous origin which was confined in China to the chiefs

of Tsin. Magnificent in his ideas and fond of splendor, he despised

formality, lived simply in the midst of luxury, and distinguished

himself from other Chinese rulers by making walking his favorite

exercise. While not great as a soldier, he knew how to choose soldiers,

and in his administration was wise enough to avail himself of the

advice of the ablest ministers.



Yet with all his greatness he could not provide for the birth of a great

son. Upon his death disturbances broke out in all quarters of the realm,

with which his weak successor was unable to cope. In three years the

reign of his son was closed with assassination, while the grandson of

Hoangti, defeated in battle after a six weeks' nominal reign, ended his

life in murder or suicide. With him the dynasty of the Tsins passed away

and that of the Han monarchs succeeded. Hoangti stands alone as the

great man of his race.