Page:Anthology of Japanese Literature.pdf/371

Rh fence around the shrine. I was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was the custom of our country to have shrines which contain the miraculous manifestations of the gods in such remote places, at the very end of the world.

In front of the shrine there is an old iron lantern. A metal door bears the inscription, “Presented by Izumi Saburō in 1187.” It was strange how these words evoked for me scenes of five hundred years ago. Izumi was a brave and loyal warrior whose fame has lasted down to our time, and he is held in universal esteem. As it has been truly said, “A man should follow the ways of virtue and be faithful to his duties. Fame will then follow of itself.”

It was already about noon. We hired a boat and crossed to Matsushima. After another five miles on the water we arrived at the beach of the island of Ojima.

No matter how often it has been said, it is none the less true that Matsushima is the most beautiful place in Japan, in no way inferior to T’ung-t’ing or the Western Lake in China. The sea curves in from the southeast forming a bay three miles across. The tides flow in with great beauty. There are countless islands. Some rise up and point to the sky; the low-lying ones crawl into the waves. There are islands piled on one another or even stacked three high. To the left the islands stand apart, and to the right rise linked together. Some look like mothers with babes on their backs, and some as if the babes were at their breasts, suggesting all the affection of maternal love. The green of the pines is of a wonderful darkness, and their branches are constantly bent by winds from the sea, so that their crookedness seems to belong to the nature of the trees. The scene suggests all the mysterious charm of a beautiful face. Matsushima must have been made by the God of the Mountains when the world was created. What man could capture with his brush the wonder of this masterpiece of nature?

On Ojima, an island which thrusts out into the sea, are found the remains of the Zen master Ungo’s hut, and the rock upon which he used to meditate. Even now I could see under the pine trees a few priests who had abandoned the world. They live in peace in the little thatched huts from which the smoke of fallen leaves and