Trying to walk to the station, I was blown away at the first corner, and then two men with a jinrikisha began a hand-to-hand struggle with the wind, making scarcely any progress, and across the open spaces being literally blown backwards, and only able to steady the jinrikisha from going bodily over. How we reached the Shimbashi station I never understood, but I know that we arrived breathless, blinded, and soaked through with the rain, with dishevelled hair and battered hats, thankful only for the shelter of the station; and just as we seated ourselves in the carriage, a lady was brought in very much bruised and hurt by the overturning of her jinrikisha, which had been blown away over an embankment into the canal. You may read descriptions of typhoons, but until you have seen one, I defy anyone to have the smallest idea of its awful power.
The fury of the wind was terrible. The train stood quite still at times, unable to steam, however slowly, against the wind, whilst the carriages trembled and rocked on the narrow gauge with every blast of wind, and we thought more than once that it must be blown over. The sea was carried in long spindrifts or lashed into brown whirlpools; an awfully angry sea, boiling and hungry, lashing up in mist and spray against the breakwater we were on. And here are several heartrending sights, for one sampan has been washed up and completely broken on the breakwater, whilst others are being wrecked against its sides, and we can see the horror-stricken faces of the men clinging in agony to it; whilst other sampans are fast drifting on to it, and we watch with awful fear their frantic efforts to save themselves. Houses are unroofed or blown down, trees bent double or uprooted as we look, hedges collapse, crops are laid low, and we in this little carriage are out in its midst, with nothing to break the full fury of the elements. But even as we begin to wonder what to do on our arrival at Yokohama, we see that the crisis is past and the gale subsiding. At Yokohama the streets are strewn with the débris of the typhoon, and all vessels in the harbour still have their steam up, should their anchors drag. In two hours the most extraordinary change had taken place. The waters of the harbour had become blue, and tranquilly lapped the shore, the sun shone out, the wind died to a breeze. It was a perfect summer's afternoon. The wind when we left Tokio was blowing at 76·8 miles an hour; four hours afterwards it had fallen to 40, and soon after died away.
A Typhoon.
We spend a happy afternoon in the curio shops, at Messrs. Kühn and Messrs. Welsh, whom we consider have the best things, and then visit, with Mr. Hall, a nursery garden on the Bluff, for we think of having one of those prim little Japanese gardens at home.
The next morning we leave Yokohama, and make an expedition to Kamakura, a pretty seaside village, to see the great Diabutsu. The approach to the Buddha is through a gateway which bears the following beautiful inscription,—
Kotoku Monastery: "Stranger, whosoever thou art, and whatsoever be thy creed, when thou enterest this sanctuary, remember thou treadest upon ground hallowed by the worship of ages.
"This is the Temple of Buddha, and the gate of the Eternal, and should therefore be entered with reverence.—By order of the Prior."
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.