KAMAKURA AND ENOSHIMA
The contemporary Yankee might anticipate the sage reflections of the
future New Zealander on London Bridge were there left enough ruins of
the once great city of Kamakura to sit upon; but the military capital
of the Middle Ages has melted away into rice fields and millet patches.
One must wrestle seriously with the polysyllabic guide-book stories of
the shoguns, regents, and heroes who made the glory of Kamakura, and
attracted to it a population of five hundred thousand, to repeople these
lonely tracts with the splendid military pageants of which they were the
scene.
The plain of Kamakura is a semicircle, bounded by hills and facing the
open Pacific, the surf pounding on its long yellow beach between two
noble promontories. The Dai Butsu, the great bronze image of Buddha,
which has kept Kamakura from sinking entirely into obscurity during the
centuries of its decay, stands in a tiny valley a half-mile back from
the shore. The Light of Asia is seated on the lotus flower, his head
bent forward in meditation, his thumbs joined, and his face wearing an
expression of the most benignant calm. This is one of the few great
show-pieces in Japan that is badly placed and lacks a proper approach.
Seen, like the temple gate-ways and pagodas of Nikko, at the end of a
long avenue of trees, or on some height silhouetted against the sky, Dai
Butsu (Great Buddha) would be far more imposing. Within the image is a
temple forty-nine feet in height; and through an atmosphere thick with
incense may be read the chalked names of ambitious tourists, who have
evaded the priests and left their signatures on the irregular bronze
walls. An alloy of tin and a little gold is mingled with the copper,
and on the joined thumbs and hands, over which visitors climb to sit
for their photographs, the bronze is polished enough to show its fine
dark tint. The rest of the statue is dull and weather-stained, its rich
incrustation disclosing the seams where the huge sections were welded
together.
A pretty landscape-garden, banks of blossoming plum-trees, and the
usual leper at the gate-way furnish the accustomed temple accessories,
and Buddha broods and meditates serene in his quiet sanctuary. The
photographic skill of the priest brings a good revenue to the temple,
and a fund is being slowly raised for building a huge pavilion above
the great deity, like that which stood there three hundred years ago.
During his six centuries of holy contemplation at Kamakura, Dai Butsu has
endured many disasters. Earthquakes have made him nod and sway on the
lotus pedestal, and tidal waves have twice swept over and destroyed the
sheltering temple, the great weight and thickness of the bronze keeping
the statue itself unharmed.
Kamakura is historic ground, and each shrine has its legends. The great
temple of Hachiman, the God of War, remains but as a fragment of its
former self, the buildings standing at the head of a high stone-embanked
terrace, from which a broad avenue of trees runs straight to the sea, a
mile and a half away. Here are the tomb of Yoritomo and the cave tombs of
his faithful Satsuma and Chosen Daimios; and the priests guard sacredly
the sword of Yoritomo, that of Hachiman himself, the helmet of Iyeyasu,
and the bow of Iyemitsu.
In the spring, Kamakura is a delightful resort, on whose dazzling beach
climate and weather are altogether different from those of Yokohama or
Tokio. In summer-time, the steady south wind, or monsoon, blows straight
from the ocean, and the pine grove between the hotel and shore is musical
all day long with the pensive sough of its branches. In winter it is open
and sunny, and the hot sea-water baths, the charming walks and sails, the
old temples and odd little villages, attract hosts of visitors.
On bright spring mornings men, women, and children gather sea-weed and
spread it to dry on the sand, after which it is converted into food as
delicate as our Iceland moss. Both farmers and fishermen glean this
salty harvest, and after a storm, whole families collect the flotsam
and jetsam of kelp and sea-fronds. Barelegged fisher-maidens, with blue
cotton kerchiefs tied over their heads, and baskets on their backs, roam
along the shore; children dash in and out of the frothing waves, and
babies roll contentedly in the sand; men and boys wade knee-deep in the
water, and are drenched by the breakers all day long, with the mercury
below 50°, in spite of the warm, bright sun. Women separate the heaps of
sea-weed, and at intervals regale their dripping lords with cups of hot
tea, bowls of rice, and shredded fish. It is all so gay and beautiful,
every one is so merry and happy, that Kamakura life seems made up of
rejoicing and abundance, with no darker side.
The poor in Japan are very poor, getting comparative comfort out of
smaller means than any other civilized people in the world. A few
cotton garments serve for all seasons alike. The cold winds of winter
nip their bare limbs and pierce their few thicknesses of cloth, and the
fierce heat of summer torments them; but they endure these extremes
with stoical good-nature, and enjoy their lovely spring and autumn the
more. A thatched roof, a straw mat, and a few cotton wadded _futons_, or
comforters, afford the Japanese laborer shelter, furniture, and bedding,
while rice, millet, fish, and sea-weed constitute his food. With three
crops a year growing in his fields, the poor farmer supports his family
on a patch of land forty feet square; and with three hundred and sixty
varieties of food fish swimming in Japanese waters, the fisherman need
not starve. Perfect cleanliness of person and surroundings is as much an
accompaniment of poverty as of riches.
Beyond Kamakura’s golden bow lies another beach—the strand of Katase,
at the end of which rises Enoshima, the Mont St. Michel of the Japanese
coast. Enoshima is an island at high tide, rising precipitously from the
sea on all sides save to the landward, where the precipice front is cleft
with a deep wooded ravine, that runs out into the long tongue of sand
connecting with the shore at low tide.
Like every other island of legendary fame, Enoshima rose from the sea in
a single night. Its tutelary genius is the goddess Benten, one of the
seven household deities of good-fortune. She is worshipped in temples
and shrines all over the woody summit of the island, and in a deep cave
opening from the sea. Shady paths, moss-grown terraces, and staircases
abound, and little tea-houses and tateba offer seats, cheering cups of
tea, and enchanting views. The near shores, the limitless waters of the
Pacific, and the grand sweep of Odawara Bay afford the finest setting for
Fujiyama anywhere to be enjoyed.
Enoshima’s crest is a very Forest of Arden, an enchanted place of
lovely shade. The sloping ravine which gives access to it holds only
the one street, or foot-path, lined with tea-houses and shell-shops,
all a-flutter with pilgrim flags and banners. The shells are cut into
whistles, spoons, toys, ornaments, and hair-pins; and tiny pink ones of
a certain variety form the petals of most perfect cherry blossoms, which
are fastened to natural branches and twigs.
The fish dinners of Enoshima are famous, and the Japanese, who have the
genius of cookery, provide more delicious fish dishes than can be named.
At the many tateba set up in temple yards or balanced on the edges of
precipices, conch-shells, filled with a black stew like terrapin, simmer
over charcoal fires. This concoction has a tempting smell, and the
pilgrims, who pick at the inky morsels with their chopsticks, seem to
enjoy it; but in the estimation of the foreigner it adds one more to the
list of glutinous, insipid preparations with which the Japanese cuisine
abounds. The great marine curiosity of Enoshima is the giant crab,
with its body as large as a turtle, and claws measuring ten, and even
twelve, feet from tip to tip. These crustaceans are said to promenade the
beach at night, and glare with phosphorescent eyes. Another interesting
Japanese crab, the _Doryppe Japonica_, comes more often from the Inland
Sea. A man’s face is distinctly marked on the back of the shell, and, as
the legend avers, these creatures incarnate the souls of the faithful
samurai, who, following the fortunes of the Tairo clan, were driven into
the sea by the victorious Minamoto. At certain anniversary seasons, well
known to true believers, the spirits of these dead warriors come up from
the sea by thousands and meet together on a moonlit beach.
Enoshima must have become the favorite summer resort of the region,
had not the whole island been reserved as an imperial demesne and site
for a sea-shore palace. When typhoons rage or storms sweep in from the
ocean, billows ring the island round with foam, spray dashes up to the
drooping foliage on the summit, the air is full of the wild breath and
wilder roar of the breakers, while the very ground seems to tremble. The
underground shrine of Benten is then closed to worshippers, and looking
down the sheer two hundred feet of rock, one sees only the whirl and
rage of waters that hide the entrance. When these storms rage, visitors
are sometimes imprisoned for days upon the island. At low tide and in
ordinary seas Benten’s shrine is easily entered by a ledge of rocks,
the hard thing being the climb up the long stone stair-ways to the top
of the island again. Guides are numerous, and an old man or a small
boy generally attaches himself to a company of strangers, and is so
friendly, polite, and amiable, that, after escorting it unbidden round
the island, he generally wins his cause, and is bidden to _maru maru_ (go
sight-seeing) as escort and interpreter.