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.
STREET OF ENOSHIMA, JAPAN.
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.