You are in the eastern outskirts of Kyoto; the city proper lies behind you at the west. The trees you see between the great beams of the bell tower belong to the temple-garden or park-- all Japanese temples have gardens, large or small as the case may be, in which their various buildings are grouped. This bell-tower is separate from the other buildings. It was erected almost three hundred years ago (1613) for a Buddhist monastery up here on the eastern hill. That giant bell of bronze is 108 ft. high and weighs nearly 148,000 pounds; the priests ring it by striking it from the outside with a heavy beam of wood. The beam itself hangs from above by a rope and is pulled to one side, its end striking the great metal flowers as it swings back. There is something marvelous and almost indescribale about the sound that rings out through the air. It fills all the space with its sonorous vibrations, deep in tone as the bass of a big church organ and mellow as gold sunshine. Even the most indifferent tourist is impressed by it. The sound lingers, and lingers, and lingers in the air--if you stand quite near, say as near as those women by the railing, you can distinguish a low musical hum five minutes after the bell was struck. The people you see here are Kyoto residents, Buddhist believers of the middle class. The men's head-gear shows the unpicturesque effect of contact with European customs, but the women are absolutely Japanese from the glossy waves of their soft, dark hair to the clumsy wooden elogs stapped to their little feet. The big, flat loops in which their sashes (obi) are tied are rigidly prescribed by Japanese canons of elegant propriety.
