On the platform we mingle with a very motley crew. There we see an old woman, with that deeply-lined, handsome, and kindly face common to septuagenarian femininity in the “Land of the Rising Sun.” She is evidently in deep distress at the prospect of being obliged to say “Saionara” to her stalwart son. This gentleman will probably be attired in a European felt hat, a Japanese kimono, ditto wooden shoes, and will be carrying an umbrella. He will assuredly consider that the first and last-named items of his get-up hall-mark him as being of the first brand of European civilisation. Of the incongruity of the rest of his costume he will be supremely unconscious. When will young Japan learn that its native garments are beautiful, picturesque, and becoming, and that imported monstrosities, whether worn wholly or in part, are ludicrous and out of place?

Here we may see a group of young girls, with their hair dressed into glossy black squares, and their waists girt with broad and beautifully-worked sashes, called obis. They are talking and laughing together in that happy, careless way which speaks for itself of the contentment of their life. But about all the prospective travellers, and, indeed, the whole scene, there is an air of rest and quiet, which is in singular contrast to the bustle and noise of an European railway station. The travellers are there, and they know the train will arrive; they are, moreover, possessed with an unalterable faith and conviction in the certainty of the train waiting until they have all, at their leisure, selected comfortable seats.

Beautiful simplicity! Would your faith stand the test of an hour on the Underground?

Our future fellow-travellers will not stare at us rudely or aggressively, no matter whether we are entraining at such places as Yokohama and Kobe (where foreigners are a common sight) or at some little wayside shed. For to cause annoyance by inquisitiveness would be impolite, and the sensitive, gentle natures of the Japanese have led them to place the crime of impoliteness among the cardinal sins. None the less, the greatest sign of friendliness and the greatest mark of politeness that a Japanese host can show takes the form of an apparently exaggerated curiosity. He will admire individually and collectively each article of attire which his guest has donned, or which he unpacks from his trunks. This admiration frequently extends still further to a personal trial of the garments which he praises. But it is all done with such naive courtesy, and with such an evident desire to please, that the whole ceremony partakes of the nature of a charming attention.

The exercise of this politeness is all the more remarkable and praiseworthy in our case, because all Europeans are by nature much taller than the natives of Chrysanthemum Land, and, therefore, are bound to look conspicuous.

Yokohama Station, though a terminus in reality, is not used as such, all trains running into it and then out again on their way to or from Tokio, the true terminus of the “Japan Railway” Company’s system.

After a brief wait, our train, which may perhaps have travelled from Kobe, 217 miles distant, rolls in. We recognise with joy that the engine, at any rate, hails from our own country, for its number-plate proclaims that it was built at the workshops of Messrs Dubs and Co, of Glasgow. The driver and fireman are both Japanese. The coaches are very like those of any other country in external appearance. Their class is denoted in both English and Japanese on the majority of trains, but the board labelled with the destination is printed only in Japanese. Trains are, however, sufficiently infrequent to render our getting into a wrong one a matter of considerable difficulty, so we stroll leisurely down the train looking for a seat. The great majority of Japanese travel “Ka to,” or “third class,” while the remainder, the very well-to-do, travel “Cha to,” or “second class.” The first class, “Jo to,” is only used by the very highest in the land, such as court officials or relatives of the Mikado. Some trains do not provide any first class accommodation, but the one by which we propose to travel contains all three classes. The third-class carriages cannot be called comfortable, for they are absolutely destitute of upholstery. The partitions seldom extend to the full height of the carriages. Seeing that some trains travel for twenty hours at a time, it cannot be said that very adequate provision is made for travellers even when the lowness of the fares is taken into consideration. The second-class carriages are sometimes of the same form as those in England. Others are of the same shape as the first-class carriages (which latter we are going to travel by, and shall therefore duly describe), but with less elaborate fittings.

A third-class bogie carriage with brake compartment and double roof, Japanese Railway

We enter our first-class carriage by a door at one end, and find that it is a sort of square-shaped saloon. The seats run round all four sides of the carriage. In the centre is a diminutive table, upon which reposes a tea service properly furnished with all necessary requisites for brewing a cup of green tea a la Japonaise.

So inseparable an adjunct is this beverage to life in Japan that if we leave the tea-table untouched there will probably be very serious inquiries after our health upon reaching Tokio!

The tea itself is comparatively innocuous stuff when drunk in the very small quantities which a Japanese teacup holds, but it does not take very many such cups to render the traveller hopelessly inebriated. Not that a Jap will ever be seen in such a state! They are brought up to tea as Englishmen to meat, and though occasionally–very occasionally–the subtle Sakki proves too much for their natural and inherent sobriety, the spectacle of drunken Jap is as rare as is that of a sober Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day!

The guard whistles, the engine replies with a hoarse screech, and the train moves slowly out into the sunshine. The distance we are about to travel is only seventeen miles, express trains take 40 to 45 minutes, and the slow trains 55 minutes to perform the journey. Our train is an express, and after halting at the suburb of Kanagwa for a moment, and skirting Yokohama Bay, we run through Tsurumi, and come to a halt in Kawasaki station. Here we shall probably be solicited to purchase eatables and drinkables by several itinerant provision merchants, and seeing that we are English they will flourish bottles of “Kirin” beer before our eyes. This commodity is a kind of light Lager beer, and is brewed in Japan by German brewers. It is excellent, and is the one beverage which can be relied on as genuine. There is no kind of bottle, label, or cork which the Japanese cannot imitate perfectly, but of the counterfeit liquid itself–whether intended to represent beer, wine, or aerated waters of some sort–it is as well not to speak. The country is absolutely flooded with these imitations.

For the delectation of the Japanese passengers, our hawker will display small trays of highly coloured and fantastically shaped sugar sweets, and small square wooden boxes, the contents of which merit a word themselves.

When a denizen of “Dai Nippon” goes a-travelling he feels that he is entitled to the luxury of making a slight variation from his usual frugal diet. These square boxes are designed to fulfil his wishes, and much esteemed comestibles. A portion of raw fish, some smoked rice, some green-looking meaty substance, and a few sugar sweetmeats represent to the Jap a pleasurable table, such as the Savoy would be powerless to afford. All neccessary items for this miniature table d’hote lie packed in these wonderful boxes, the whole being surmounted by two neatly-tied chop-sticks. The price is but a “sen” or two–i.e., some small fraction of a farthing.

The entire stock of the refreshment vendor is eagerly bought up, and the train moves on again, halting next at Shinagawa, in the outskirts of Tokio, for ticket-taking purposes. Tokio itself, city of a million and a half inhabitants, is reached five minutes later, and we glide alongside the platform of the Shimbashi Station. Our journey has been very smooth and easy, and we feel that it would somehow be out of place to look at our watch and note whether the train had arrived late.

Tokio is the real railway centre of Japan, and boasts of several termini. The great “Hokkaido” or “North Road” Railway, starting from the Ueno Station in Tokio, stretches upwards to distant Aomori, a large port, while the important line to Noestu and Mayebashi also starts from the ancient “Yedo.” The other long line, the “Tokkaido,” stretches from Tokio via Yokohama to Kobe and Mihara, and it is along this route that the only train in Japan runs which possesses any ressemblance whatever to an express. The 9.55 p.m. train from Tokio to Kobe accomplishes its journey of 234 miles in 19 hours 30 minutes–i.e., at an inclusive speed of twelve miles per hour! It makes, however, fifty stops en route, some of them of considerable duration, and, as has been shown, much time must be wasted at stations. As the Japanese are at present constituted, accidents to life and limb would most certainly occur if trains made but a brief halt to entrain passengers. This 9.55 p.m. train, however, runs through some twenty stations without stopping, and is therefore superior to the ordinary slow train and entitled to be called an express, if only by comparison! No other train in Japan misses more than five stations, no matter how lengthy its journey may be.

Dining-cars and sleeping-cars are as yet non-existent, but travelling is very comfortable and convenient.

It would have been just as easy to describe a journey over a longer distance than that between Yokohama and Tokio, but there is no railway in Japan which offers any startling or remarkable features.

The scenery, though pretty, is not wonderful, and there is no particularly striking feat of engineering skill to be noticed.

In fact, as we observed at starting, Japan can be recognised even in her railways, and through them she offers a new and surprising sensation to the jaded globetrotter–that of being absolutely unable to hurry!

The words “Japan” and “railways” used in conjunction with one another strike anyone who has visited that charming country with a sense of incongruity. What should that placid little people know of the rattle and rush of an express train, typical as it is of the nerve-wasting haste which we Westerners live our lives? Those shining metals are as the veritable trail of the serpent; they follow inevitably in the wake of civilisation, and give rise to crowded and smoky manufacturing towns, while spreading abroad an unrestful desire for travel, with all its concomitant worries and brain-wear. Moreover, the destruction of all peaceful village life comes in their train. It is not within the scope of this article to discuss the merits of a so-called “civilisation,” as accepted by our Western standards, nor the value of the “benefits” which it is supposed to confer upon a people whose ethical, moral, social, and political codes date from a time when all Western Europe was probably peopled by naked savages. But I cannot resist saying that when Japan finally exchanges her peaceful simplicity, her admiration for, and artistic appreciation of, Nature’s beauties, and her contented national life, for the storm, stress, and hurry of that feverish existence known to the West, she will have given up the substance for the shadow.