And with this grand exhortation in our ears we pass into the quiet garden, with its avenue of cherry and plum trees, lying under the hills in the sunshine, a perfect stillness all around, and where we see the half-opened eyes of the colossal Buddha bent forward, as if in passive contemplation of this quiet scene. There under the stars, amid storm and wind, mist or tropical sun, he has sat for ages, apathetic, but not unconscious. The hands lie on his crossed knees, the thumbs meeting at the finger-tips, and forming two complete circles.
The Diabutsu is cast in bronze. Time and weather, the stress of the elements, have mellowed the bronze to the most beautiful grey blue, streaked with pale green. To appreciate his solemn grandeur, you must visit him again and again, and each time he is more impressive than the last. It is quite impossible to grasp the colossal proportions, but these are the exact measurements:—Height, 49ft. 7in., length of face, 8ft. 5in., width from ear to ear, 17ft. 9in. The round boss on the forehead, which appears like a tiny white spot, is really 1ft. 3in. The length of eye and the elevated eyebrows about 4ft., of the lobe-distended ears 6ft. 6in., and of the nose, with its wide-opened nostrils, 3ft. 9in. The eyes are of pure gold, and the boss is of silver weighing 30lbs. Inside, in the hollow of the image, there is a shrine, and from the gloom of the neck of the Diabutsu stands out in relief a small golden image. The chanting of the priest below, whose rhythmic tones ascend muffled to us inside the image, mingling with the incense of the burning joss sticks, impresses us with a religious melancholy, when we reflect on the ideal religion set before them by this great teacher, and the utter indifference, even to outward forms of worship, manifested by this people.
The Diabutsu "gives such an impression of majesty, so truly symbolizes the central idea of Buddhism—the intellectual calm which comes of perfected knowledge, and the subjugation of all passion."
Then we took jinrikishas to drive to the pretty little Island of Enoshima—a wooded hill rising out of the ocean and connected with the mainland by a spit of sand. The road winds amongst the sand dunes, along the beach of the sea-shore, where the great waves of the Pacific, still agitated by yesterday's typhoon, are dashing on to the sands. Lovely pale green and cerulean tints streak the sea, whilst naked brown figures plunge and dive under the surf, bringing in great bunches of brown seaweed, which they cast in shining heaps on the sand. We pass by a fishing village, strewn with nets hung up to dry, and large bamboo crails for catching the fish, which we see laid out to cure in the sun. They are bringing in the harvest too, and women, scantily clothed, and naked children, whose fat brown bodies look so sleek and comfortable, are busy seated on the ground threshing out the grain, either by pounding it with a wooden mallet, or with a rough bamboo flail. The dull thud of these primitive threshing machines is in all the air, and the ground outside each hut is spread with mats, on which piles of the clean yellow grain are placed to dry.
Charming Enoshima is in sight; its green woods, with the temple roofs peeping out, standing far out in the ocean, its coral reefs washed by the ocean spray. An island for legend and romance, fit home for an idyll of medieval ages.
We go across the sands amid piles of seaweed, picking up lovely trophies of the deep in mother-of-pearl and pink shells, until we reach the black wooden torii at the base of the island. What a picturesque entry into the island it is, for we walk through the quaintest and narrowest village street, where the upper stories of the houses nearly meet, and where below, there is that strange medley of the every-day life of a people carried on in full view of the public eye. Up we climb, pass the shops full of shells, corals and marine curiosities, until we reach many winding flights of mossy steps. We make a veritable pilgrimage up these, until we emerge on to the platform of one of the many tea-houses. There is a glorious view over the sea at our feet, divided by its causeway of golden sands, over this side of the Isle of Nippon with its ranges of purple mountains, jagged-edged, that run in slanting directions across the island. A walk round Enoshima gives a succession of equally pretty views, but we cannot get into the cave on the further side because the bridge was blown down by yesterday's furious gale. Returning to Kamakura, we had tiffin at the Sanatorium on the sea-shore, amongst the pines, paid a last lingering visit to the Diabutsu, and took the train to Kōzu.
There was a tiresome wait at a junction for the up train, for as yet the railways in Japan have but a single line, so that it was getting dusk as we got into the tramway at Kōzu. For ten miles we ran along a country road and through long straggling villages, whose lights shine out into the darkness, or show us picturesque interiors. Past Odawara, celebrated for the manufacture of a wondrous medicine, supposed to be a remedy for all the ills flesh is heir too; under the ruined walls of the Castle, scene of many bloody conflicts, until we reach Yumoto. It is now quite dark and raining heavily. We take jinrikishas, with three coolies to each one, to push us up the steep mountain road to Miyanoshita. We present a picturesque sight, akin to weirdness, as the transparent lights of the coolies wave in the darkness, and six willing men push and pant, shout and encourage one another, up the steep windings of the mountain paths. Against the twilight of the starry sky, I can just trace the outline of the mountains we are winding round about and amongst, and hear the frequent roar of falling cataracts sometimes far below, and at others dashing spray across the road. We feel we miss much by the darkness.
After what seems a weary while, we at last reach the Fugiya Hotel, the prettiest of wooden structures, with a succession of outside glazed verandahs, and the brilliant illumination of its electric lights go forth to greet us in the darkness, as tired, cold, hungry and wet, our panting coolies land us at the steps. As a smart London coachman whips up his horses, and draws up with a dash, so do these coolies, regardless of even such a severe pull as this, come up to their destination with a brisk flourish.
Miyanoshita is a fascinating place.
We awoke this morning to find ourselves in the mountains, to look down over the heavy thatched houses of the village, and the road so far, and yet immediately below us, where some young mothers with their babies on their backs are waddling along. What a quaint little place it is, perched up in the middle of ranges of mountains, with their green slopes as a never-changing background, a village scooped out of their sides. The shops are full of the wood inlaid like mosaic, and carved as only can a naturally gifted Japanese, into every kind of article, from a napkin-ring to an elaborate escritoire.
Any number of mountain climbs, more or less difficult (so suited to all) can be made from Miyanoshita. We have just returned from a lovely expedition to Lake Hakone and the hot district of Ojigoku. Leaving the hotel at midday in bamboo chairs attached to poles and each carried by four coolies, we ascend the mountains. The motion is smooth and easy, as they all keep step together, to a melodious chorus of grunts, the front coolies answering the hind ones.
These grass mountains that we are in the midst of, are so beautiful. They have scarcely any trees, but their gradual slopes are covered with the pale, sickly green of rush or bamboo grass, that imparts to them a peculiarly pleasing, even effect. Frequently there is a column of smoke curling up their sides, from some hot spring, for all this district is intensely volcanic, and at the village of Ashinoyu, where we rest and give tea to the men, there are numerous hot springs and baths. It is a desolate place, and is made more so by the clouds coming down and completely damping us and the view. It is rather dreary jogging along with these human ponies in a dense mist, out of which loom palely the foremost bearers, when, as suddenly as we came into it, the fog lifted, leaving us the most beautiful cloud effects of white filmy vapours, trailing low down on the mountain side, with a patch of blue sky just beginning to show, and the sun shining up there behind those opaque masses of cloud and mist, making them appear so fleecy and transparent. It is now a lovely summer's afternoon above and around us, and immediately afterwards we have below, an enchanting view of Hakone and its deep blue lake, so deep that, though it has been fathomed for five miles, the bottom has yet to be found. We see the green wooded peninsula, jutting so boldly out into the lake, that from this distance we think it is an island, and on this ideal spot, hidden far away from the burdensome etiquette of public life, the Mikado is building himself a palace, that is approached by the beautiful cryptomeria avenue, that also leads to Hakone. Whilst we are waiting at the village below for our chairs and coolies to be shipped on a boat, we "kodak" a charming group of Japanese children; one of our coolies actively assisted in arranging them, and I noticed took good care to include himself in the picture, for this useful and companionable little instrument has become familiar even to the Japanese, and later on the men were so pleased when we did a group of them in the prow of the boat, smoking and eating their rice out of bamboo baskets, with a division for a bonne bouche of some morsels of fish. These coolies are delightfully merry fellows, always willing, always cheerful, whether tired or hungry, never shirking work, and ready to help each other, laughing and seeing the fun of any little passing incident. Most of them speak a few words of English, the object of every coolie in Japan being to learn it, as they earn so much more money from foreigners. You constantly find, that whilst waiting, they study a blue Japanese-English phrase book, exceptionally badly compiled.
We are rowing three miles across the lake in a sampan, with an upturned prow, propelled by some oarsmen, and which much resembles a picture of an old Roman galley. Their wooden oars, a long blade tied to a piece of wood, are fixed to the gunwale, in rowlocks formed of a pin of wood, and on this they roll over and back each time, a clumsy but effectual movement. The surrounding view is wondrously beautiful. The green pointed mountains with their sharp edges coming down directly into the lake on one side; the other covered with shrubs and some overhanging trees, under whose sweeping arms we glide to the landing stage, in the lights and shadows of a still glorious afternoon. It sounds but a tame description, and yet in reality it is sublime, and, for some reason hard to discover, it is absolutely different, and because of that much more charming than any other lake I have ever seen.
We begin a long ascent, with a continued view, looking backward, where translucent clouds float down the mountain sides, which are mirrored faithfully in the green waters, and as we plunge into a dense wood of bamboos, we take our last farewell look back at Lake Hakone. It is a stony and steep path, cut in zig-zags through the thick undergrowth where there is no room for the long poles of the chair to turn, so we have to walk. Suddenly we come across a little square village, built round a wooden bath house, where the whole population of invalids are bathing together in the warm mineral spring.
As we ascend, the scene grows wilder. Vegetation decreases, and masses of barren rock appear. The earth is warm and steaming, nor must you leave the path, as these treacherous brown curling scales of earth are only a crumbling upper crust, over the furnace below, and lives have more than once been lost here. The air reeks of sulphurous fumes, a strong overpowering stench. And this curious volcanic scene continues, until we reach the abomination of desolation. Here, standing above, we look far away down into a vast cauldron of steam, that rises up and envelops us in suffocating fumes of sulphur, so strong that, wheezing and coughing, we have to turn backwards to get fresh breath, so dense that we can only dimly see the great masses of rock around us. More often they are not rocks, but clumps of crumbling lava, loosely welded together in fantastic shapes, and that take the most wonderfully bright colours from the surrounding mineral substances, of orange, carmine, blue, madder and brown. In one place there is a little stream, in which the sulphur deposit is so thick that there is a rich coating round of green, bright as malachite. The boiling water of many streams swells the vapour that rises from this fitly-named Ojigoku, or Big Hell.
We scramble and grope our way down, ever deeper into this apparently bottomless pit, into this boiling smoking abyss, where the evil-smelling fumes wrap us round so effectually that we can scarcely trace our path, and choking and blinded, we wonder vaguely, if we shall ever emerge into light and air once more. But after we have made a long and devious descent, we branch off to the left, and when we feel ourselves in comparative safety, and in a clearer atmosphere, we turn round to look back to see the wreathing masses of smoke that eternally ascend from this hell. And there, behind this blank desolation, rises at the head of the valley the graceful acute peak of Kammurigatake, with the dense green forests covering it from top to bottom, formed by a thick undergrowth of small box and andromeda japonica. It reminds us of the hot springs of New Zealand, of those beautiful pink and white terraces, which, alas! are no more, where mingling as here with volcanic rocks and steam, there is the additional charm of a luxuriant wealth of semi-tropical vegetation.
We have a very long descent to make, over the roughest path of loose rock and stones, and across several streams, where the obliging coolie makes a bridge of his back, and when we have nearly reached the bottom and made the circuit of the valley on the path cut out midway on the mountain side, we pass round into another valley with wide amphitheatre of mountains. It is through the midst of these, at the end of a long vista formed by their green slopes, that we see the smooth waters of the Pacific, spread out like a looking-glass in the closing afternoon light, and beautiful as had been the views and scenery all day, I think this glimpse of sea and mountains exceeded all. A long winding descent to Miyanoshita in the dusk, which we reach just as they were sending out two messengers with lanterns, to light us home.
Friday, October 3rd.—We went up Sengeuyama, the wooded hill, 1000 feet above, and at the back of the hotel, carried in a kagos or Chinese chair, a most luxurious way of ascending a mountain. It was a glorious morning, with not a cloud in the sky; one of those days when you feel that everything is beautiful, and the views of the mountains at every zig-zag changing and appearing more and more splendid, as at each turn we rise more on a level with them. And then those beautiful thickets of bamboos, the trees of delicately-pointed maple leaves, the laurels and evergreens, the azaleas and hibiscus, the creepers and tendrils, the great clumps of red spiky wild lotus, of purple everlastings, of blue lupus, and yellow snapdragon all growing in wild confusion, fresh with the morning's dew.
There is a little tea-house hung with flags on the platform at the top, and such a view over Odiwara Bay, and of the panorama of mountains with their smooth, pale-green slopes, and there, between those two peaks, in the gap, we ought to get a view of Fujiyama, only, as she so often does, she is hiding herself to-day behind the clouds. No sooner do we reach the bottom than we have to leave Miyanoshita for Yumoto, with a parting pang of regret that our stay is so short. The Fujiya Hotel, though kept by a Japanese, is most comfortable, with excellent mineral baths, which never seem so pleasant as after a long day's excursion, nor must I forget to mention the little Japanese waiting damsels, who giggle and waddle about in their tightly-drawn kimonos, struggling with the details of the French ménu.
We speed quickly down the magnificent mountain road, which we came up before in the dark. It is cut out from the cliff, and has those glorious views, growing grander as we descend into the valley of the mountain, views that make Miyanoshita the most charming of mountain resorts. Even when we get into the tramway at Yumoto, and travel along the plain, there is such a pretty picture of the sea-shore, where the sea looks as green as a lagoon at Venice. We pass again through the long-continued street of villages, where the high thatched roofs are crowned at the top with a cage of poles, on which tufts of grass are growing, and through the blinds of bamboo canes catch glimpses of the washing, the eating, the hairdressing, and the cooking, the every-day busy life of the little people inside. We take the train from Kōzu to Nagoya.
A most lovely journey it is, for the line runs through and crosses a pass in the midst of the mountains, which look radiantly beautiful with their immense variety of foliage—dark evergreens, mingling with the yellower autumn tints. They are always the same, these mountains in Japan; conical in shape, with sharp-edged shoulders perfectly formed in miniature, rising very straight up from the level. There are numberless waterfalls, foaming torrents gushing down where the valley parts a little. At Gotemba we have two engines to the train, one behind to push, the other in front to pull, for the pass here rises to 1500 feet. Then we come out into an open valley where there are thousands of little yellow paddy fields, with many bamboo groves, whose light-green feathery fingers wave above heavier groups of dead-green cryptomerias; where the villages, with their heavy black roofs, nestle under the mountains, and tea-houses with their flag poles are perched on many a little eminence, and endless black torii lead to the temples, surrounded by groves of trees. I had often heard of the exquisite scenery of Japan, but this comes up to, and exceeds all expectation.
We journey on. Suddenly in the sky we see suspended a great purple cone. The base is cut off by a sky of clouds. It is the beautiful summit of Fujiyama.
Fuji dominates the island, and you have so many views of it from every side, that it seemed to me that we were constantly spending our time in looking for the cone amongst the clouds. It is very rare to have a perfectly unclouded view of the mountain, but this we now nearly succeeded in doing. Perhaps it is because it is so often veiled in clouds that the Japanese have surrounded it with such a sacred mystery. It seems such a familiar friend now, this cone of Fuji, for we have seen it depicted upon numberless scrolls and screens, on tea services and china plaques, on cloisonné and lacquer, since we came to Japan.
This view of Fuji is superb. The mountains break away and leave a vast plain, out of which it sweeps up solitary, colossal. The crater at the top looks like the jagged edges of a tooth, down which streams of lava have streaked their course. And as we follow the sweeping lines of the great pyramid up 13,000 feet of height, the clouds that lay half-way down, roll away. Only a few fleecy ones float ethereally along the summit, whilst the Sacred Mountain, deep purple pink, stands revealed in all the glory of a sunset evening, against a pale primrose sky, deepening into lilac overhead. Then we realize whence the Japanese acquire their idea of colour. Their artists are only reproducing the realities of nature as constantly present to them in the half tones of their island sky and sea, and it is from such sunsets as these that they faithfully copy the translucent shades of rose-pink, grey-blue, lilac and apple-green, that form the background of those beautiful cloisonné plaques and china vases. The halo of romance woven around this poetical mountain, the object of reverence to thousands of pilgrims, who painfully climb up the nine stages to enter the crater at the top, is increased by this view of it, which will, to me, at any moment recall the lovely splendour of Fuji.
The plain is formed of the rich alluvial deposits of lava from the many eruptions of Fuji, and is a splendid agricultural district, where that neat "carpet" cultivation is seen to perfection, and where the harvest is now in full swing. Columns of smoke, rising from the surrounding mountain sides, show this district is volcanic, and shocks of earthquake are frequent all over Japan, but particularly at Yokohama.
Soon the railway runs along the sea-shore, where there is just room for it between the pebbly beach and the deeply wooded mountains—a pretty bit of travelling. We look across the pale green bay to the little range of lilac hills opposite, and listen to the idle lapping of the waves, and see the sampans putting out to sea for the night's fishing, as darkness, the quickly falling dusk of a tropical climate, closes over all.
I must say that travelling in Japan presents an uncomfortable feature in being obliged to carry your provisions with you, as only Japanese eatables can be obtained at the stations. Fortunately the distances are not great, but when it happens, as on this occasion, that two parties, one of Germans, besides ourselves, all dined out of paper parcels, the car presents a very unpleasant appearance.
We reached Nagoya at midnight. Two jinrikishas bore us swiftly through the deserted streets, all dull and dark, because the paper lanterns of the passers-by are gone home, and there is no attempt at street-lighting. We are sent flying round a dark corner to be deposited before a barred and shuttered door. There is a great noise within, much whispering and unbolting of doors, rather a mysterious arrival, and then a stream of light pours forth, and shows the usual crowd of little bowing men and women, who escort us in a body up the polished stair to our rooms à la Japonaise, where we sleep with the light shining through the paper walls.
We are awakened the next morning by the shuffle of stockinged feet over the polished boards, and one of the waddling little waiting-maids, with the most brilliant pink and white cheeks, flicking the dust away with a wisp of papers tied on to a stick, two of the same escorting C. to the bath, a wooden tub of boiling water placed on an earthern floor.
There is a delightful outlook from the glazed screens, a European concession, which probably will be general a few years hence, showing how easily the Japanese assimilate all foreign improvements, over the dark crinkled roofs across the wall of the street, into a seed merchant's opposite, where golden bunches of persimmons mingle with the sample baskets of grain. A dozen pairs of inquisitive eyes from the open balcony opposite, watch me brush my hair. Then we breakfast in a room, or rather, I should say, in five rooms, for the sliding screens are all thrown back, and, free and open as a summer-house, there are vistas of rooms on either side; and these screens are decorated with such artistic designs, a spray of bamboo with a red-legged stork; a branch of crimson maple with hanging tendrils, or a purple iris and some water-rushes. There is a bronze vase, too, filled with fresh wild flowers on the table. Then come the curio vendors, and, spreading their handkerchiefs on the floor, produce their treasures one by one.
Nagoya is celebrated for its magnificent feudal Castle. A police emissary, with silver-mounted jinrikishas, comes to conduct us over it, and it is as well, as there appears to be much red tape formality in admission to these royal domains.
Across the courtyard—a typical one, where the three yards to the gate is made by the winding paving-stones to appear quite a long distance, we sally forth into those kaleidoscopic streets, towards the great white donjon-keep, with its golden dolphins dominating the town.
The Castle has three moats; the outer one, with its green slopes and single row of fir trees, is given up to barracks and parade grounds, for there are upwards of 3000 troops at Nagoya, and being a holiday, the streets are full of their white uniforms and yellow-banded caps. The white walls of the Castle are raised from the moat on parapets formed of gigantic stones, and roofed with crenellated bronze tiles, whilst at the corners rise pagoda-shaped towers. These walls are the most wonderful part of the Castle, for many of the stories are six and nine feet long, and proportionately broad, and can be traced out, as length ways, slantways, across, they are piled up on a broad base, shelving backwards, without cement or earth, supported by their own weight. On many of the largest corner-stones are engraved marks and designs, to show that they were the contribution of the Daimyos, for the Castle was erected in 1610, by twenty barons, to serve as a residence for Yeyasu's son. Crossing the moat, which is dry, and used for tame deer, over a drawbridge, we enter the courtyard through a massive gateway.
The decorations inside the palace are exquisite, though the rooms are bare and uncared-for, and many of the paintings are defaced. In the first chamber, the fusumas, or sliding screens, are of dull gold, and painted on them are the most life-like lions, panthers, and leopards, the spots of the latter being specially well delineated; with glaring eyes, fierce whiskers, and lashing tails, they crouch in life-like attitudes, ready to spring; or in another group are mothers with their young ones gambolling around them. In another screen the bamboo trees have the joints of their stems faithful to life, and an adjoining one has a straggling fir-tree, just like one of those on the moat wall outside, with a blinking owl perched on the topmost branch. There are others with weeping willows, and red-leaved maples, and pink-and-white lotus; one in particular we noticed that had painted on it a tiger-lily, with yellow spots, a crimson peony, a blue convolvulus, and a white daisy, forming a peculiarly beautiful panel. Next to this is a spray, a mass of snow-white plum blossom, against a dull gold ground.
Nor are the animals less faithfully depicted, for there are pheasants with eyes on their tails, wild ducks flying across a pale-blue ground, with their flapping, outstretched wings, and webbed feet; a stork with red legs on which the sinuous rings are so life-like. In one room, which was especially reserved for the use of the Shogun when he came to visit his kinsman, the decorations are especially gorgeous, and here there are ideal Chinese scenes, which exactly resemble the familiar willow-pattern plate. There is the five-storied pagoda, the willow trees, and the high curve of the bamboo bridge. The roofs of these rooms are of black lacquer, inlaid with gold, whilst the windows are made of that geometrically carved lattice work, covered with opaque paper.
But perhaps the most beautiful thing of all is the open wood carving on the ramma, or ventilating screens, between the rooms, for here, that great Japanese artist, Hidara Jingoro, has carved the most exquisitely faithful representations of a white crane, a tortoise, a hen with her little ones, parrots, and birds of paradise. There is one that excites everybody's admiration. It is a cock perched on a drum, its beak wide open in the act of crowing, so natural, that you expect to hear the "Cock-a-doodle-doo." The red, erect coxcomb, and the brown and blue iridescence of the tail are life-like. And when we look round on this mass of gorgeous paintings and carvings, we marvel that their resplendent colours are undimmed by the lapse of three hundred years, that some are as bright to-day, as when they were executed three decades ago.
We ascend the great, gloomy, five-storied Keep, which is built up inside on massive beams of wood, whole tree trunks being used as supports. From the gallery at the top we have a charming view of the brown roofs of Nagoya, lying around the castle, of the military prison below, where the prisoners are exercising in the yard, of the heavy square roof of the temple rising up majestically above the squat houses—of the wide-reaching plain, and the circling mountains. The precious golden dolphins, covered over with wire netting, are above us, glittering resplendent in the sun. They measure eight feet in height, and are valued at 180,000 dols. One of them was sent to the Vienna Exhibition of 1873, and great was the despair of the citizens when, on its return voyage, it was wrecked in the Messageries steamer, the Nil. However, it was recovered from the deep, with great difficulty, and proudly restored to its original position.
Then we went for a drive, and I am not sure that the great centre street of Nagoya was not the most fascinating and absorbing one that we saw in Japan, and the whole town was charming in its bright cleanliness and bustling streets.
It is with a peculiar feeling of sadness that I write this description of Nagoya and recall its pleasant reminiscence, because the terrible news has just reached us in far off China, that an earthquake has destroyed this thriving town. It makes one's heart ache with pity to think of those smiling streets, that happy swarm of industrious people suddenly left homeless, the survivors surrounded by their dead or dying relatives, whilst the muffled booming, the precursor of the earthquake shocks, tell them that they might be the next victims.
In this dreadful earthquake 8000 people were killed, 10,000 injured, and 100,000 houses destroyed. Nagoya experienced 6600 earth-spasms, or an average of thirty shocks an hour. Fortunately the ancient castle—monument of an extinct dynasty—is unharmed, saved by its massive walls, and the decreasing size of its pagoda storeys.