We sit down on our cushions for breakfast. The serving-girls bring in a small red-lacquered table, not larger or higher than a footstool. Every guest has his own table, and on each are five cups, bowls, and small dishes of porcelain and lacquer, all of them with lids like teapots. These contain raw fish and boiled fish in various forms, omelettes and macaroni, crab soup with asparagus in it, and many other strange viands. When we have partaken of the first five dishes, another table is brought in with fresh dishes; and if it is a great banquet, as many as four or five such tables may be placed before one before the dinner is over. We eat with two chopsticks of wood or ivory not larger than a penholder, drink pale, weak tea without sugar and cream, and a kind of weak rice spirit called saké. When a bowl of steaming rice cooked dry is brought in, it is a sign that the meal is ended.
The streets of Kobe are not paved. They are narrow roads, too narrow for the large, clumsy vehicles, which are, however, few in number, and are mostly used for the transport of goods. The people ride in "rickshas"—neat, smart, two-wheeled gigs drawn by a running bare-legged man with a mushroom-shaped hat on his head (Plate XIX.). The road westwards along the coast runs through a succession of animated and busy villages, past open tea-houses and small country shops, homely, decorated wooden dwellings, temples, fields, and gardens. Everything is small, neat, and well kept. Each peasant cultivates his own property with care and affection, and the harvest from innumerable small plots constitutes the wealth of Japan. It is impossible to drive fast along the narrow road, for we are always meeting waggons and two-wheeled carts, porters, and travellers.
At the "Beach of Dancing Girls" we stay a while under some old pine-trees. Here people bathe in summer, while the children play among the trees. But now in November it is cold rather than warm, and after a pleasant excursion we return to Kobe. On the way we look into a Shinto temple erected to the memory of a hero who six hundred years ago fell in a battle in the neighbourhood. In the temple court stands a large Russian cannon taken at Port Arthur, and also a part of the mast shot off the man-of-war Mikasa.
Buddhism was introduced into Japan in the sixth century A.D., and more than half the population of the country profess this religion. The old faith of Japan, however, is Shintoism, to which about one-third of the people still belong. The sun is worshipped as a principal god and the powers of nature are adored as divinities. From the solar deity the imperial house derives its origin, and the Emperor is regarded with almost religious reverence. Respect is also paid to the memory of departed heroes, as in China. Of late Christianity has spread far and wide in Japan, and Christian churches are now numerous.
Fujiyama and Tokio
It is now November 11. During the night the Tenyo Maru has passed out from Kobe into the Pacific Ocean, and is now steering north-east at a good distance from the coast of Hondo. The sky is gloomy, and the desert of water around us is a monotonous steely-grey expanse in every direction.
The Mediterranean countries of Europe lie on the same parallel of latitude as Japan. But Japan lies in the domain of the monsoons or periodical winds, and when these blow in summer from the ocean, they bring rain with them, while the winter, when the wind comes from the opposite direction, is fairly dry. On the whole Japan is colder than the Mediterranean countries, but the difference in climate between the northern and southern parts is very great. On the northern island, Yezo, the winter lasts quite seven months.
At noon Fujiyama[17] is first seen towards the north-east. Nothing of the coast is visible, only the snowy summit of the mountain floating white above the sea. Our course takes us straight towards it, and the imposing mountain becomes more distinct every quarter of an hour. Now also the coast comes in sight as a dark line, but only the summit of the mountain is visible, a singularly regular flat cone. The top looks as if it were cut off; that is the crater ring, for Fujiyama is a volcano, though it has been quiescent for the past two centuries.
The snowfields in the gullies stand out more and more clearly, but still only the summit is visible, floating as it were free above the earth, a vision among the clouds. An hour later the whole contour comes into view and becomes sharper and sharper; and when we anchor off the shore the peak of Fujiyama rises right above us.