Gogin was one day going down Cleveland Street and saw an old, lean,
careworn man crying over the body of his dog which had been just run over
and killed by the old man’s own cart. I have no doubt it was the dog’s
fault, for the man was in great distress; as for the dog there it lay all
swelled and livid where the wheel had gone over it, its eyes protruded
from their sockets and its tongue lolled out, but it was dead. The old
man gazed on it, helplessly weeping, for some time and then got a large
piece of brown paper in which he wrapped up the body of his favourite; he
tied it neatly with a piece of string and, placing it in his cart, went
homeward with a heavy heart. The day was dull, the gutters were full of
cabbage stalks and the air resounded with the cry of costermongers.
On this a Japanese gentleman, who had watched the scene, lifted up his
voice and made the bystanders a set oration. He was very yellow, had
long black hair, gold spectacles and a top hat; he was a typical
Japanese, but he spoke English perfectly. He said the scene they had all
just witnessed was a very sad one and that it ought not to be passed over
entirely without comment. He explained that it was very nice of the good
old man to be so sorry about his dog and to be so careful of its remains
and that he and all the bystanders must sympathise with him in his grief,
and as the expression of their sympathy, both with the man and with the
poor dog, he had thought fit, with all respect, to make them his present
speech.
I have not the man’s words but Gogin said they were like a Japanese
drawing, that is to say, wonderfully charming, and showing great
knowledge but not done in the least after the manner in which a European
would do them. The bystanders stood open-mouthed and could make nothing
of it, but they liked it, and the Japanese gentleman liked addressing
them. When he left off and went away they followed him with their eyes,
speechless.