I HAVE passed another day in wandering among the temples, both Shinto
and Buddhist. I have seen many curious things; but I have not yet seen
the face of the Buddha.
Repeatedly, after long wearisome climbing of stone steps, and passing
under gates full of gargoyles--heads of elephants and heads of
lions--and entering shoeless into scented twilight, into enchanted
gardens of golden lotus-flowers of paper, and there waiting for my eyes
to become habituated to the dimness, I have looked in vain for images.
Only an opulent glimmering confusion of things half-seen--vague
altar-splendours created by gilded bronzes twisted into riddles,
by vessels of indescribable shape, by enigmatic texts of gold, by
mysterious glittering pendent things--all framing in only a shrine with
doors fast closed.
What has most impressed me is the seeming joyousness of popular faith.
I have seen nothing grim, austere, or self-repressive. I have not even
noted anything approaching the solemn. The bright temple courts and even
the temple steps are thronged with laughing children, playing curious
games; and mothers, entering the sanctuary to pray, suffer their little
ones to creep about the matting and crow. The people take their religion
lightly and cheerfully: they drop their cash in the great alms-box, clap
their hands, murmur a very brief prayer, then turn to laugh and talk and
smoke their little pipes before the temple entrance. Into some shrines,
I have noticed the worshippers do not enter at all; they merely stand
before the doors and pray for a few seconds, and make their small
offerings. Blessed are they who do not too much fear the gods which they
have made!