CHAPTER V ASIA IN THE GRIP OF THE TATARS IN In every field of vision there is a blind spot, due to the structure of the retina. For an extraordinarily large number of people the thirteenth century, most unfortunately, is the blind spot of the historical field. The period, quite frequently regarded, even by students, as part of the Dark Ages, is dark rather because of the blindness of the observer than because of the obscurity of the epoch. As a matter of sober fact, the thirteenth century is the true prelude to modern history. It is comparable to that miraculous greening which comes over the Chinese landscape when winter begins to pass into spring. To a certain extent we do appreciate this in the case of the history of Europe. We dwell upon the rebirth of art in the work of Cimabue and of Giotto. We think of Dante, in literature, as the first of the moderns. We are moved at the wonderful revival of religion brought about by the apostolic labors of Saint Francis. But all this is equally true of Asia, as we hope even this brief sketch of the period and of the events leading thereto will sufficiently make clear. In Western Asia the first great onrush of Muhammadan conquest, which "broke like lava-burst upon the realm where reigned pre-Adamite kings," had spent its force. The lands "whelmed by the tempest of the tribes who called the cameldriver king" had settled down to life under the Bagdad Khalifate. In the East tribes as yet far below the historical horizon 1749-1258 A.D. were waiting for destiny to call them for the recruiting of Islam. Their time had not yet come. The Golden Age of Islam has been seen in the century from 749 to 847 A.D. It is marked by some decline in the martial vigor and religious fervor of the Arab, but there is a corresponding increase in the influence of Persia. The selection of Bagdad as capital, the appointment of Persian viziers, such as the Barmecides,1 and the splendid outburst of interest in literature are sure signs of the Persian Renaissance. True, the language is Arabic, and the needs of Islam are kept in view in the creation of new grammars and dictionaries. But most of the new literary lights are non-Arab2 and the tendency is steadily toward a humanism which was foreign to the first Muhammadan generation. The great Khalifs of Bagdad all belong to this century. They are Mansur, the real builder of Bagdad; Haroun al-Raschid, familiar to readers of the Arabian Nights, contemporary of Charlemagne, with whom he corresponded on the matter of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem; and Mamun, patron of literature and founder of the "House of Science." In Haroun's time appeared that strange product of mystic Persian eclecticism, Al-Muqanna, the Veiled Prophet of Khorasan, whose deceptions led astray a host of credulous enthusiasts. But the glories of the Bagdad Khalifate were becoming not a little tarnished by the end of the ninth century. The successors of Haroun al-Raschid were for the most part decrepit ecclesiastics, though still as pompous as ever. They were ill able to preserve unity in the face of the quarrelsome dynasts who here and there at one another's expense "grasped the skirts of happy chance." These bandits of empire succeeded one another with bewildering rapidity. The student will find it hard to follow 'The family of Barmak. Barmak, his son Yahya, and grandson Jafr, were all viziers of the Abbasid Khalifs. Note the phrase "Barmecide feast" in Arabian Nights. * For example, Avicenna, who was a Persian. 'That is, "Aaron the Orthodox." He was Khalif from 763 to 808. See Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh, Canto I. through the corruptibility of officials, but partly because of a conjunction of adverse circumstances in the physical world. We must also take into account the fact that upon the northern frontiers at this time wave after wave of hungry humanity was beating, with the regularity and force of billows upon an exposed sea-coast. First came the Khitan Tatars, who called themselves Liao (Iron) and have left their name in that part of Southern Manchuria we call the Liao-tung Peninsula. To expel these dangerous intruders the desperate Sungs engaged the services of the tribes who afterward bore the fateful name of Manchu. At this time they were called Chins, or Gold Tatars, to distinguish them from the Liaos. For, said they, "Iron rusts, but gold endures." They undertook the campaign with alacrity and soon got rid of the Khitans, though the name Khitan still lingers in the medieval term for China Cathay. Having expelled the Khitans, the Chins installed themselves, as they hoped permanently, in all China north of the Yang-tze. So there were now two realms in China, the Sungs in the South and the Chins in the North; yet neither Chin nor Sung was destined to retain for long the divided throne. The thirteenth century had barely opened when the terrible Mongol torrent burst through the Great Wall, to the obliteration of all distinction between Khitan and Chin, or between Chin and Sung. Before we speak of this tremendous moment - one of the most portentous in human history - it is necessary to devote a paragraph to Japan, in order to bring the general story of Asia abreast of the situation in China. We left the Far Eastern Empire with its institutions well developed. The actual groundwork of the administrative system was Japanese, but the details were largely borrowed from the Middle Kingdom. Buddhism was in the saddle. It is to this fact that, in spite of the vast indebtedness of Japan to the religion of Shaka in other ways, we must ascribe a certain weakening of the imperial power. The rulers who took up with Buddhism gradually lost interest in secular affairs. First, they became learned emperors that is, emperors who devoted themselves to the study of the Chinese sutras or books of Buddhist doctrine. Then they moved still further away from secular cares by becoming cloistered emperors, retiring into a monastery. Lastly, the rulers almost inevitably became child emperors, since no sooner was manhood attained than the disposition was cultivated to abdicate and seek the seclusion of the cloister. The result of this voluntary withdrawal was twofold. First, the real power was left temptingly in the hands of one or other of the great military clans. Secondly, there was always an ex-Mikado or even two ready to prove a dangerous tool in the hands of some ambitious chieftain who wanted the advantages of rebellion without the appearance of treason toward the throne. In this way it came to pass in the twelfth century that the Emperor was transformed into a sacrosanct personage completely shorn of all political responsibility. He lived more or less in seclusion in Kyoto, with courtiers - kuge - who spent their days in poetry-contests, incense-smelling, blossom-viewing, mushroom-gathering, and the like. The most powerful military chieftain, meanwhile, known as the Shogun or Commander-in-chief, became the real ruler of the Empire. For several generations there were struggles between the clans for this supremacy. The Fujiwaras had completely displaced the Sogas from the position attained through their Buddhistic interest. Then came the strife between Fujiwara and Sugawara, which was ended by the Emperor sending the Fujiwara chief on an expedition against the Ainus and diverting the attention of the Sugawara head to literature. Out of this devotion to letters came the deification of Sugawara Michizane as god of letters,' though that apotheosis was really the last resort of the Emperor, to still the unquiet ghost of an exiled minister. The real tug-of-war was that between the Taira, or Hei, and the Minamoto, or Gen, which lasted for more than a generation. It had consequences, moreover, which have affected Japan down to modern times. This conflict is often 1 1 Apotheosized under the name of Tenjin. through the corruptibility of officials, but partly because of a conjunction of adverse circumstances in the physical world. We must also take into account the fact that upon the northern frontiers at this time wave after wave of hungry humanity was beating, with the regularity and force of billows upon an exposed sea-coast. First came the Khitan Tatars, who called themselves Liao (Iron) and have left their name in that part of Southern Manchuria we call the Liao-tung Peninsula. To expel these dangerous intruders the desperate Sungs engaged the services of the tribes who afterward bore the fateful name of Manchu. At this time they were called Chins, or Gold Tatars, to distinguish them from the Liaos. For, said they, "Iron rusts, but gold endures." They undertook the campaign with alacrity and soon got rid of the Khitans, though the name Khitan still lingers in the medieval term for China Cathay. Having expelled the Khitans, the Chins installed themselves, as they hoped permanently, in all China north of the Yang-tze. So there were now two realms in China, the Sungs in the South and the Chins in the North; yet neither Chin nor Sung was destined to retain for long the divided throne. The thirteenth century had barely opened when the terrible Mongol torrent burst through the Great Wall, to the obliteration of all distinction between Khitan and Chin, or between Chin and Sung. Before we speak of this tremendous moment - one of the most portentous in human history - it is necessary to devote a paragraph to Japan, in order to bring the general story of Asia abreast of the situation in China. We left the Far Eastern Empire with its institutions well developed. The actual groundwork of the administrative system was Japanese, but the details were largely borrowed from the Middle Kingdom. Buddhism was in the saddle. It is to this fact that, in spite of the vast indebtedness of Japan to the religion of Shaka in other ways, we must ascribe a certain weakening of the imperial power. The rulers who took up with Buddhism gradually lost interest in secular affairs. First, they became learned emperors |