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.”