Kanagawa, a long straggling village on the Tocaido or great road, has always been a hotbed of disaffection towards foreigners. Many a bloody record still tells of the days when the proud 'Samourai' or officers felt that they were scarcely doing their duty towards their country in allowing a European to pass unmolested on the road; and even now, though feudalism, Samourai, and all have been swept away by the march of civilisation, one cannot ride or walk along the narrow street without being saluted as a 'beast' or 'foreign invader.' The temples which were the first residences of the foreign consuls still exist, but the natives have carefully wiped away all traces of foreign occupation, and they are now used, as formerly, for purposes of Buddhist or 'Shinto' worship. From Kanagawa the railway passes under the great road, and enters a broad fertile plain ablaze with many tinted crops, fringed on the left hand by a picturesque range of hills, and bounded on the right by the sea. The peasants are becoming accustomed to the sight of the locomotive and its string of carriages, and rarely stop on their path or rest from their work to gaze at what was but a few months back a wonderful phenomenon. But the pack-horses are less tractable, and dance and pirouette in all directions till the noise is over.
Tsurumi, a little village, also on the Tocaido, is the next station. It is the centre of the snipe district, and on Saturdays and Sundays the little platform is crowded with knickerbockered Britons with their dogs; Frenchmen, fantastically arrayed in sporting costume; Israelites; sailors and soldiers from the men-of-war in harbour, armed with every variety of rifle, musket, or blunderbuss, all bent on wading through the 'paddy' mud in the hopes of making some sort of a bag.
From Tsurumi, the train glides through a delicious stretch of scenery—on the one side little villages nestle amidst the trees, and the deep blue ocean glitters away into the distance; on the other, all is a romantic jumble of hill, and wood, and dale. Here and there a red temple roof breaks the sombre verdure of the hill-side, and at a certain point a depression of the hills affords the traveller a peep at the distant goblin-haunted range of mountains of which Oyama is the chief, behind which the pure white cone of the sacred mountain Fuji rises, solitary and grand, like a monarch in repose. All around is pure unadulterated rusticity. The iron road cuts remorselessly through pleasant vales and wooded hills, but nothing is changed; and if the visitor will take the trouble to explore on either side, he will find the old-world life of Japan still existing as it did centuries ago, when the only Europeans in the land were a few Portuguese missionaries and a small colony of Dutch traders cooped up in an island at Nagasaki.
After a fifteen minutes' run through this charming country, Kawasaki—exactly half-way between Yokohama and Yedo—is reached. Here the down-train from the capital meets us, and there is a stop of a few minutes.
Kawasaki was in the old days one of the most important towns on the great road. On their way from Kiyoto to Yedo, from the western capital to the eastern, the great lords made Kawasaki their last halting-place, and one may yet see the shadows of the great feudal age of Japan in the magnificent tea-houses scattered through the town. Like the old coaching inns on our great main roads in England, these tea-houses have lost almost all their ancient prosperity, as the turmoil of revolution, and above all the accomplishment of the railway, have diverted almost all the traffic from this part of the Tocaido. In one or two of the houses, however, splendidly adorned and painted suites of apartments, pretty gardens, and huge ranges of out-buildings, still attest the former splendour of the age; and although fowls and half-wild curs have made the stabling and out-houses their home, and although the numerical strength of the domestics is not sufficient to keep the dust and cobwebs away from the gaily screened rooms, the proprietors still shew the remains with some pride, and at the instigation of a cup of 'saké' will tell many a quaint story of the doings in those half-forgotten days and sigh that they can never return.
Moreover Kawasaki is the starting-point for pilgrims to two of the most celebrated shrines in this part of the country, so that notwithstanding the decay of its prosperity, Kawasaki is still sufficiently full of life and animation, well fitted to repay a visit from the student of Japanese life and manners. Within ten minutes' walk rises the huge fane of Kobo-Daishi, a Buddhist saint of great renown and the reputed originator of the syllabary now in common use. Hither repair on certain days annually, from all parts of the empire, troops of pilgrims of both sexes and all ages, attired in holiday costume, and though nominally on devotional exercise bent, from the exuberance of their spirits and the time they pass in the surrounding pleasure-houses, not at all inclined to forego the enjoyment of a holiday.
Farther away from the town is the almost equally celebrated shrine of Ikigami, dedicated to Iyeyas, the great self-raised priest who founded the Tokugawa line of emperors, beautifully situated on a solitary deeply wooded hill. This is one of the sweetest spots near Yokohama. The most complete calm reigns over everything, only broken occasionally by the tinkle of the old temple bell and the monotonous drone of the officiating priests, or by the wind murmuring through the great trees. Scattered about around a pagoda of quaint proportions are the tombs of many of the old feudal lords—quaint curious examples of that reverence for the dead so characteristic of the Japanese as of all oriental nations. Except during the pilgrim season, until the opening of the railway, one might wander about these solitudes for hours without any chance of being disturbed. Now, however, that the railway has brought Ikigami within easy access of Yokohama, the graves on the hill have become a favourite resort of picnic parties and pleasure-seekers from the great foreign settlement. New tea-houses have sprung up around the base of the hill, and the place is rapidly assuming the tea-garden character which has too often degraded beautiful spots near Yokohama. At Kawasaki, the river runs which nominally is the boundary beyond which foreigners may not explore. The law insisting on this, however, is far more honoured in the breach than in the observance, and not a day passes without scores of foreigners crossing the new bridge.
From Kawasaki the train speeds through huge apple-orchards, till the houses become more frequent and less detached, and now skirting the sea, one visibly approaches a large city, close to which are anchored men-of-war, merchant-vessels, and junks.
The train stops at Shinagawa, the last station, at which, from its want of interest, there is but little temptation for the visitor to alight. The only pleasing bit to break the monotony of dull-coloured hovels is the stately demesne and foreign-built mansion of one of the most ardent supporters of the 'Advance' School of Japanese politicians. Soldiers, coolies, and low-class women seem to compose the street population of this suburb; whilst every other house is either a 'rowdy' tea-house or a 'buvette' of the commonest type. Equestrians and pedestrians therefore, if Europeans, may look out for a repetition of the scowls and abuse of Kanagawa. Leaving the station, and proceeding towards the terminus within the city gates, the train passes the temple, formerly the seat of the British Legation, where the murderous attack was made by hired bravoes of the anti-European party in Japan on Sir Rutherford Alcock and suite, some years back. Farther on a collection of hovels—for otherwise they cannot be designated—situated on a high hill, was, till a year ago, the seat of English diplomatic power in Japan.
The train passes on over the sites of old 'Yashikis' or palaces, and through the once extensive hunting-grounds of the great prince of Tosa, skims the vast barren tract which still marks the disastrous fire of 1871, and finally enters the Yedo terminus. The station is the exact counterpart of that at Yokohama, and is situated in the busiest part of the capital, close to the 'Foreign Concession,' where the Europeans chiefly reside, and within ten minutes' walk of the celebrated 'Nihon Bashi' or Bridge of Japan, from which all distances in the empire are measured. Outside the station are waiting carriages, 'Jinrickishas'—or chairs on wheels dragged by coolies—breaks, and even a Hammersmith built omnibus; so that the traveller has but to take his choice and be taken anywhere. The Japanese and, strange to say, the Chinese (who have only just permitted a line to be made on their sacred soil) have taken wonderfully to travelling by railway. All classes avail themselves of it; and it is sometimes amusing to observe how Young Japan tries to assume an air of nonchalance, and endeavours to appear as if he had been accustomed to railways all his life. Every train is crowded, especially on Sundays; and the pilgrims bound for the capital from Mount Fuji or Oyama, hail the foreign engine and train waiting for them at Kanagawa as a godsend and a saving of many hours of weary travelling and, what is more important, much cash. The childish delight of the natives at being rattled over the ground at twenty miles an hour is ludicrous; and although the novelty has worn off, there are still numbers who simply travel up and down the line for the sake of the sensation.