NUMBER SIX.
Yokohama, Japan, Dec. 1, 1870.
On the morning of the 25th of November I was awakened by a rapping at the door of my room on the America, end recognized the voice of my friend, the Consul at Swatow, saying, “Come out and see Japan; it is in plain sight, right before us.” In a few minutes I was on deck, and no one, unless he has been for twenty-five days without seeing land or even a sail, can appreciate our delight as we gazed on the scene. We Were approaching the entrance of the Bay of Yeddo, which very much resembles the “Narrows” at New York. The high wooded hills in front were dotted with small houses, looking very cosy, surrounded with evergreens and fruit trees; on our left were several conical-shaped mountains rising out of the water, some of which were extinct volcanoes; all around us were fleets of junks and fishing boats, manned by a strange race, dark-skinned, bare-headed, with no superabundance of clothing, who watched our steamer as she glided by with even greater curiosity than we looked at their queer craft, outlandish and clumsy as if modeled from Noah’s Ark. The sun was not yet above the horizon; but, through an occasional rift in the clouds which obscured Fusiyama, we could see the gilding of the snow-covered cone of this “Matchless Mountain,” which forms the background of every Japanese landscape. Attracted by so many strange sights we lingered on deck even
