enough.  It was principally composed of old women, nuns with bald shiny pates and grotesque faces, a few petty tradesmen, and half-a-dozen chubby children, perfect little models of decorum and devoutness.  One lady there was, indeed, who seemed a little better to do in the world than the rest; she was nicely dressed, and attended by a female servant; she came in with a certain little consequential rustle, and displayed some coquetry, and a very pretty bare foot, as she took her place, and, pulling out a dandy little pipe and tobacco-pouch, began to smoke.  Fire-boxes and spittoons, I should mention, were freely handed about; so that half-an-hour which passed before the sermon began was agreeably spent.  In the meanwhile, mass was being celebrated in the main hall of the temple, and the monotonous nasal drone of the plain chant was faintly heard in the distance.  So soon as this was over, the lay clerk sat himself down by the hanging drum, and, to its accompaniment, began intoning the prayer, “Na Mu Miyo Ho Ren Go Kiyo,” the congregation fervently joining in unison with him.  These words, repeated over and over again, are the distinctive prayer of the Buddhist sect of Nichiren, to which the temple Cho-o-ji is dedicated.  They are approximations to Sanscrit sounds, and have no meaning in Japanese, nor do the worshippers in using them know their precise value.

Soon the preacher, gorgeous in red and white robes, made his appearance, following an acolyte, who carried the sacred book called Hokke (upon which the sect of Nichiren is founded) on a tray covered with scarlet and gold brocade.  Having bowed to the sacred picture which hung over the tokonoma—­that portion of the Japanese room which is raised a few inches above the rest of the floor, and which is regarded as the place of honour—­his reverence took his seat at the table, and adjusted his robes; then, tying up the muscles of his face into a knot, expressive of utter abstraction, he struck the bell upon the table thrice, burnt a little incense, and read a passage from the sacred book, which he reverently lifted to his head.  The congregation joined in chorus, devout but unintelligent; for the Word, written in ancient Chinese, is as obscure to the ordinary Japanese worshipper as are the Latin liturgies to a high-capped Norman peasant-woman.  While his flock wrapped up copper cash in paper, and threw them before the table as offerings, the priest next recited a passage alone, and the lay clerk irreverently entered into a loud dispute with one of the congregation, touching some payment or other.  The preliminary ceremonies ended, a small shaven-pated boy brought in a cup of tea, thrice afterwards to be replenished, for his reverence’s refreshment; and he, having untied his face, gave a broad grin, cleared his throat, swallowed his tea, and beamed down upon us, as jolly, rosy a priest as ever donned stole or scarf.  His discourse, which was delivered in the most familiar and easy manner, was an extempore dissertation on certain passages from the sacred books.  Whenever he paused or made a point, the congregation broke in with a cry of “Nammiyo!” a corruption of the first three words of the prayer cited above, to which they always contrived to give an expression or intonation in harmony with the preacher’s meaning.