A VISIT TO SOME BUDDHIST TEMPLES
I was lying awake in my room in the Myako Hotel, the window looking
out across the town below towards the eastern hills and framed with
clusters of red maple. It was the clear stillness of a frosty morning
before dawn, not motion enough in the autumn air to stir a ripe red
maple leaf, and as I lay in bed suddenly the air itself seemed to
heave a sigh of music mellow, soft, and yet full, gradual in its
coming as in its going, all-pervading, strange and wonderful.
Stillness again, and then it came again, or rather not so much came as
was there, and then was not there; for it seemed to come from no
whither, and to leave not even the footprint of an echo in the air
behind. There was sanctity in the very sound itself. Its music was
like vocal incense arising before the "awful rose of dawn," beyond
those purple eastern hills. How unlike, I thought, the jar and
clangour of our church bells in London on a Sunday morning rattling
like a fire alarm, whose only possible religious suggestion is to
tumble out of bed to escape the flames of hell. The musical summons of
this bell was sufficient, however, to induce me to go out for a stroll
through the temples in the morning twilight.
All on the crest of the hill behind the hotel is a row of temples
crowning the height. One mounts a flight of steps and then comes on
avenues with rows of ancient trees on either side that make the
avenues look like great aisles of which the immense trees are the
columns supporting the deep, blue roof. Nothing is more striking about
these temples than the delightful harmony between their natural
surroundings and the buildings themselves. They blend so perfectly
that one loses sight of the meeting between nature and art. From the
steps onward all seems a harmonious part of the sanctified whole.
Trees, creepers, and natural flowers peep in and almost entwine
themselves with the marvellously painted or carved foliage of the
temple itself. The rich lichens and mosses of the tree-trunks vie in
depth and beauty of colour with the inlaid traceries of the columns.
Early as the hour was I was not alone in the first temple I came to.
With tinkling steps of wooden shoes a little woman pattered up the
stone stairs to one of the shrines, pulled the heavy cord of the small
bell above her head to awaken the attention of the Deity, and then
with joined hands encircled with beads and with bowed head whispered
her morning prayer. I just caught in soft, supplicatory accents the
opening words, "Namu Amida Butsu"--"Hear me, compassionate Lord
Buddha"--words that soon become familiar as one visits these temples;
the great refrain of these people's prayers when they pray before the
image of "Him, honoured, wisest, best, most pitiful, whose lips
comfort the world." And then, having finished her prayers, the little
woman pattered back to her home in the town below, while others come
and make their devotions likewise, all leaving the temple as if that
placid, inscrutable image had whispered in the ear of each some word
of comfort.
In the courtyard beyond the great Temple of Kiomidyu I came upon a
wonderful bell. There was room for over a dozen men to stand inside
the great bronze shell. It was hung just above the ground between
plain timber uprights, and the mellow softness of tone was accounted
for by the way in which it was struck. Instead of metal striking
against metal a great tree-trunk is suspended horizontally outside;
this is swung backwards and forwards and then allowed to strike
against the metal. Even when standing close to it there is nothing one
would call noise, but a great, full, rich sound fills the air in a
manner impossible to describe. I passed on to the latticed shrine
dedicated to Kamnoshut No Kami, the goddess of lovers. As I waited
there three little Japanese girls came up the steps. Each had a small
piece of paper in her hand, and winding them up they deftly placed the
papers in the lattice with the thumb and little finger of their hands.
On these were written their petitions. One of them held a bunch of
brilliant maple leaves in her hand, and judging from their
faces--plain little faces all of them--it was easy to understand they
wanted divine assistance in their love affairs. It was difficult to
understand the goddess retaining any reputation for compassion if
their prayers were not answered. After they had gone next came a
dainty little geisha, a pretty girl, whose lover must have been a sad
worry to her, judging by the look on her anxious little face, as she
placed her petition between the bars.
All through these temples it was obvious that the agnosticism, or
indifference, or attitude of "politeness towards possibilities," which
has apparently taken possession of the upper classes in Japan,
possibly as the result of contact with the West, is in no way
prevalent among the masses. In all the country parts that I visited
and in the large temples in the great cities there was everywhere
evidence of faith as sincere and devout as can be found in the
churches of the most Christian country in Europe. Unlike China, there
was nowhere any sign of the temples falling into decay. Every temple
in China looks like a neglected mausoleum decaying over the corpse of
a dead religion, and the priests look like sextons of a neglected
graveyard. But here in Kyoto two of the largest temples were
undergoing elaborate repairs, and in Tokio an immense new temple is
being erected in the heart of the city. In Kyoto at the Temple of
Nishi Hong Wangi I was present at a great seven days' religious
festival. From nine o'clock in the morning until six o'clock in the
evening the temple was perpetually thronged with people. I visited it
in the afternoon. In one large room a priest was preaching. His
congregation was largely composed of country people from all the
districts round, who had journeyed in with their wives and families.
There had been an abundant harvest, it was over and stored, and the
people had come to give thanks. A great part of the congregation were
blue-clad peasants with white handkerchiefs around their heads. Many
of them had brought their children with them.
The priest preached sitting down, in a quiet conversational tone. From
what a Japanese friend was kind enough to translate for me, there was
nothing esoteric in the Buddhism he was teaching. It was simply plain
lessons to the people, how to make good their simple lives
interspersed with stories and anecdotes that occasionally amused his
congregation. Following the crowd that kept streaming out from his
hall towards the larger temple, I passed under a plain portico of huge
wooden columns, severe and simple on the outside, but gorgeous with
rich carvings of gold lacquer panels and hangings of richly wrought
embroideries within. The entire floor of the great building was
crowded, and the overflow of the congregation knelt upon the flags
outside the door. With difficulty I picked my way inside. Two rows of
priests in brilliantly coloured vestments were arranged on either side
of the central figure of Buddha. Between them was the chief priest.
Behind the altar screen was an invisible choir. In alternating numbers
the solemn, supplicating chant was led by either row of priests. In a
way it reminded one of the Gregorian chant one often hears in Catholic
churches, but in this Buddhist chanting there was that curious
Oriental strain of semi-tones that gave a strange and peculiar plaint
to the chorus.
Faint blue columns of incense were streaming slowly from bronze
censors towards the carved roof, and diffusing a delightful aromatic
odour throughout the building. The congregation was composed of all
sorts and conditions of the population, although the majority were
peasants; there were a number of Japanese ladies who came accompanied
by their maids, and here and there the brighter costume of a Geisha
was to be seen among the crowd.
The series of services lasted for seven days. This was the fifth.
Beginning at six o'clock in the morning, it went on till six o'clock
in the evening. It was just at its conclusion while I was there.
Mingling with the chorus from the priests and the choir ran a low
murmur from the crowd. The old country men and women said their
prayers aloud, and the refrain of "Namu Amida Butsu" seemed
perpetually in one's ears. As the conclusion of the service
approached, the voices of the choir, the priests, and the congregation
increased in strength and volume, and ceased suddenly in a final
chord of supplication. For a few moments there was stillness over the
bowed heads of the congregation, and then the priests rose and the
crowd began to stream down the great flight of steps. In the streets
outside were rows of booths, where printed prayers and brightly
embroidered triangular cloths, beads and images were being sold as
mementoes of these services. The whole congregation, even old men and
women, as they toddled down the steps at the base of which they put on
their shoes, reminded one forcibly of a lot of children coming out
from school. Laughing, chattering, and joking, there was a look of
satisfaction and contentment on all their faces, returning homewards,
as if they felt that in reply to their prayer, "Namu Amida Butsu," the
compassionate Lord Buddha, had listened to their prayer, and whispered
in answer to the heart of each, "Comfort ye, my people."