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Lafcadio Hearn - Glimpses of an Unfamiliar Japan, 1
by day, are their pitiful diversions. But ever as the sun begins to sink below the horizon, Then do the Oni,
the demons of the hells, appear, And say to them - "What is this that you do here? "Lo! your parents still
living in the Shaba-world "Take no thought of pious offering or holy work "They do nought but mourn
for you from the morning unto the evening. "Oh, how pitiful! alas! how unmerciful! "Verily the cause of
the pains that you suffer "Is only the mourning, the lamentation of your parents." And saying also,
"Blame never us!" The demons cast down the heaped-up towers, They dash the stones down with their
clubs of iron. But lo! the teacher Jizo appears. All gently he comes, and says to the weeping infants: -
"Be not afraid, dears! be never fearful! "Poor little souls, your lives were brief indeed! "Too soon you
were forced to make the weary journey to the Meido, "The long journey to the region of the dead! "Trust
to me! I am your father and mother in the Meido, "Father of all children in the region of the dead." And
he folds the skirt of his shining robe about them; So graciously takes he pity on the infants. To those who
cannot walk he stretches forth his strong shakujo; And he pets the little ones, caresses them, takes them
to his loving bosom So graciously he takes pity on the infants.
Namu Amida Butsu!
Chapter Four A Pilgrimage to Enoshima
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KAMAKURA.
A long, straggling country village, between low wooded hills, with a canal passing through it. Old
Japanese cottages, dingy, neutral-tinted, with roofs of thatch, very steeply sloping, above their wooden
walls and paper shoji. Green patches on all the roof-slopes, some sort of grass; and on the very summits,
on the ridges, luxurious growths of yaneshobu, [1] the roof-plant, bearing pretty purple flowers. In the
lukewarm air a mingling of Japanese odours, smells of sake, smells of seaweed soup, smells of daikon,
the strong native radish; and dominating all, a sweet, thick, heavy scent of incense, - incense from the
shrines of gods.
Akira has hired two jinricksha for our pilgrimage; a speckless azure sky arches the world; and the land
lies glorified in a joy of sunshine. And yet a sense of melancholy, of desolation unspeakable, weighs
upon me as we roll along the bank of the tiny stream, between the mouldering lines of wretched little
homes with grass growing on their roofs. For this mouldering hamlet represents all that remains of the
million-peopled streets of Yoritomo's capital, the mighty city of the Shogunate, the ancient seat of feudal
power, whither came the envoys of Kublai Khan demanding tribute, to lose their heads for their temerity.
And only some of the unnumbered temples of the once magnificent city now remain, saved from the
conflagrations of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, doubtless because built in high places, or because
isolated from the maze of burning streets by vast courts and groves. Here still dwell the ancient gods in
the great silence of their decaying temples, without worshippers, without revenues, surrounded by
desolations of rice-fields, where the chanting of frogs replaces the sea-like murmur of the city that was
and is not.
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The first great temple - En-gaku-ji - invites us to cross the canal by a little bridge facing its outward gate
- a roofed gate with fine Chinese lines, but without carving. Passing it, we ascend a long, imposing
succession of broad steps, leading up through a magnificent grove to a terrace, where we reach the
second gate. This gate is a surprise; a stupendous structure of two stories - with huge sweeping curves of
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