Inside the temple itself the scuffle of clogs and mutterings of pilgrims drowned all sounds save the silvery notes of the gongs. On the image-covered altar, one hundred and ninety feet in length, veiled by clouds of incense, were dimly visible the gilded statue of the divine Kwannon, the special patroness of Kiomidzu, and the figures of the priests. It was not easy to pick one’s way among the kneeling multitudes offering their fervent prayers oblivious to all surroundings. As one pilgrim departed the rest crowded forward, continuing the beseeching “Namu Amida Butsu” (Hear me, Great Lord Buddha) which they mutter so rapidly that only a long-drawn “Na-na-na-na-na-a-a” is audible as they press their palms together and wind their beads around their hands.
In the second temple, or Amida, were more candles, incense, and priests, and more kneeling people. At the end of the hanging platform of this temple is a small, latticed shrine dedicated to Kamnosube-no-Kami, the goddess who watches over lovers. He who would make sure of the affections of his beloved buys a printed prayer from the priest, rolls it into a narrow strip, and then, with the thumb and little finger of the right-hand, ties it to Kamnosube-no-Kami’s grating, and implores her aid. If any other fingers are used to tie the knot, or if they even touch the prayer-paper, the charm is broken and the goddess is deaf. While we looked on one pretty creature in a red crape underdress and a dark-blue gauze kimono, who blushed most beautifully, bent her anxious face to the grating and deftly wound her fingers in and out. Following her a middle-aged coolie tossed in his fractional coin, rang, clapped, and tied his sentimental petition to the lattice.
THE TRUE-LOVER’S SHRINE AT KIOMIDZU
Holiday crowds poured up and down the broad paved walks, wandered about the paths, or gathered in the pavilions, while new throngs toiled up the stone staircases to join in the festival. On the overhanging platforms sacred dances had been performed all day, giving place towards nightfall to the low tables covered with red blankets, around which companies picturesquely grouped themselves, while pretty nesans pattered back and forth to serve them. The whole scene was so spectacular and fascinating that we sat there watching the moving crowds and looking out over the city below us until the sun sank in clouds of splendid color, and twinkling lights began to creep upward from the streets.
Near the top of Teapot Hill a narrow lane diverges into a dense bamboo grove, where the feathery tips meet far overhead, and only a green twilight filters down to the base of the myriad slender columns. This bamboo grove is one of the finest in Kioto, and its cool shade is most grateful on a summer day. Beyond it is the famous Spectacle Bridge, a massive stone pile, whose two low arches are not unlike a bowed spectacle-frame. The lotus-pond which it crosses is surrounded in the early summer mornings with breakfasting parties, who sit there to see the splendid flowers open their cups with the first rays of the sun. When that show is over these flower-lovers wander through the farther confines of Nishi Otani, with its superb bronze gates and dragon-guarded tanks, and its imperial tombs hidden away in the quiet groves.
The chain of temples still lengthens southward, and among the most ancient, surrounded with walls of Titanic bowlders, is the Dai Butsu temple, with its huge image of gilded wood, and its fallen bell, whose interior would make a temple in itself. A stone monument, the Mimizuka, covers the heap of thousands of human ears, cut by Hideyoshi’s generals from the heads of enemies slain in the Korean expedition, salted and brought home as proof of prowess. Last is the Sanjiusangendo, or Hall of the Thirty-three Thousand Buddhas, which, with its rows and rows of tall gilded statues, is a curious place, but less like a sanctuary than a wholesale warehouse of sacred images.
Northward from Yaami’s the chain of temples extends along the leafy hill-side, first among them being the great Chioin sanctuary, one of the largest, oldest, and richest in Kioto. Its colossal gate-way, its long avenues, great stone embankments, terraces, staircases, and groves of ancient trees proclaim its age and endless honors. Stretching over surrounding acres run the yellow walls of its monastery grounds and priests’ houses. The Chioin’s altar is a mass of carved and gilded ornaments surrounding a massive golden shrine, while the ceiling and walls of the vast interior are hardly less splendid. Occasional worshippers kneel in the vast matted hall muttering their prayers, but usually only a solitary old priest is seen industriously hammering at a drum, shaped like a huge, round sleigh-bell. From five o’clock in the morning until the temple closes at four in the afternoon the hard, mechanical thunk, thunk never stops. A nice old woman, who must be a professional mender, judging by her incessant patching and darning of blue-cotton garments, takes care of the shoes while visitors roam through the temple stocking-footed; and proudly does she point out, among the bracketed eaves, the sun-umbrella which the great builder of the temple purposely left there. Back of the main temple are other shrines and suites of reception-rooms, with screens and ceilings decorated by famous artists, and quiet corners where abbot and priest may sit and look upon the exquisite little gardens.