ds 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.

Fujiyama is the highest mountain in Japan, and the crater ring of the
slumbering volcano is 12,395 feet above the surface of the Pacific
Ocean. Fujiyama is a holy mountain; the path up it is lined with small
temples and shrines, and many pilgrims ascend to the top in summer when
the snow has melted away. It is the pride of Japan and the grandest
object of natural beauty the country possesses (Plate XX.). It would be
vain to try to enumerate all the objects on which the cone of Fujiyama
has been represented from immemorial times. It is always the same
mountain with the truncated top--in silver and gold on the famous
lacquered boxes, and on the rare choice silver and bronze caskets, on
the valuable vases in cloisonne, on bowls, plaques, and dishes, on
screens, parasols, everything.

[Illustration: PLATE XX. FUJIYAMA.]

Painters also take a delight in devising various foregrounds to the
white cone. I once saw a book of a hundred pictures of Fujiyama, each
with a new foreground. Now the holy mountain was seen between the boughs
of Japanese cedars, now between the tall trunks of trees, and again
beneath their crowns. Once more it appeared above a foaming waterfall,
or over a quiet lake, where the peak was reflected in the water; or
above a swinging bridge, a group of playing children, or between the
masts of fishing-boats. It peeped out through a temple gate or at the
end of one of the streets of Tokio, between the ripening ears of a
rice-field or the raised parasols of dancing girls.

Thus Fujiyama has become the symbol of everything that the name Nippon
implies, and its peak is the first point