He handed a paper to the magistrate, and said: "Read that, your Worship." His Worship read it. It was an order from the relieving officer to the manager of the "stone-yard" for Jonathan Pinchbeck to be given two days' work. "Jonathan Pinchbeck! is that your name?" said the [Pg 223]magistrate, looking at the quaint old man. "Yes, that's me." "Well, what do you want? Why don't you go and do the work?" "Well, your Worship, it is like this: I have been to the stone-yard, and they have got no work to give me." "Well," said the magistrate, "I am sure that I have no stones for you to break." "But I don't want you to give me work! I ask you for a summons against the Vestry for four shillings," he said. "Surely they are bound to find me work or give me the money. I am out of work, and my wife is ill."
The magistrate told him that the matter could not be decided8 in a police-court, and that he had better go to the County Court. Very dejectedly the old man stepped down, and silently left the court. I followed him, and had some conversation with him. He was a dock-labourer, but had grown old, and could no longer "jostle," push, and fight for a job at the dock gates, for younger men with broader shoulders stepped up before him. He gave me his address, so in the afternoon of the same day I went to Mandeville Street, Clapton Park. The landlady9 told me that Pinchbeck was not at home, but that he occupied with his wife one room "first-floor front," and that his wife was an invalid10.
I was about to leave when a husky voice from the first-floor front, the door of which was evidently open, called out: "Is it a gentleman to see Jonathan? Tell him to come up." I went up. I shall not forget going up, for I found myself in the queerest place I had visited. I was in Wonderland. The owner of the voice that called me up, Mrs. Pinchbeck, sat before me—huge, massive, and[Pg 224] palpitating. She was twenty stone in weight, but ill and suffering. Asthma11, dropsy, and heart disease had nearly done their work. It was a stifling12 day in July, and she drew breath with difficulty.
She sat on a very strongly-made wooden chair, and did not attempt to rise when I entered the room. The chair in which she was sitting was painted vermilion red, and studded with bright brass13 nails. Every chair in the room—of which there were four—the strong kitchen table, the strong wooden fender, and the powerful bedstead, were all vermilion red, embellished14 with brass nails. One directing mind had constructed the lot. When my surprise was lessened15, I sat down on a red chair beside the poor woman, and entered into conversation. Her replies to my questions came with difficulty, but, despite her illness, I noticed that she was proud of her quaint husband, and especially proud of the furniture he had made for her, for the household goods were his workmanship.
"He had only a saw, a hammer, and some sandpaper," she said, nodding at the furniture, "and he made the lot."
They were well-built, and calculated to bear even Mrs. Pinchbeck. "Vermilion red was his favourite colour," she said, "and he thought the bright yellow of the nails livened them up. They had been made a good many years, but he sometimes gave them a fresh coat of paint."
Pinchbeck and she had been married many years; they had no children. They lived by themselves, and he was a very good husband. But[Pg 225] there were other wonders in the room beside the poor woman and the brilliant furniture, and they soon claimed attention.
In front of me stood a monumental cross some feet in height, and made apparently16 of brown marble. The cross stood on three foundation steps of brown marble, and at intervals17 round the body of the cross were bands of yellow ribbon.
She saw me looking at it. "That's all tobacco," she said; "it is made of cigar-ends." There was a descriptive paper attached to the cross. "Jonathan collected the cigar-ends, and he made them into that monument, and he made the calculations in his head, and I wrote them down," she said, referring to the paper. "He walked more than ninety thousand miles to collect the cigar-ends," she said. I asked permission to read the descriptive paper attached, and after permission—for I saw the whole thing was sacred to the suffering woman—I detached it. I was lost in interest as I read the paper, which was well written, and contained some curious calculations. I found on inquiry18 that Jonathan could neither read nor write, but he could, as she said, "calculate in his own head."
The document consisted of a double sheet of foolscap, which was covered on the four pages with writing and figures in a woman's hand. Briefly19 it told of the great deeds of Jonathan, who, as I have previously20 said, was a dock-labourer. He had lived in Clapton Park for more than thirty years, and he had walked every day to and from the East London Docks, a five-mile tramp every morning, and a return journey at night of equal[Pg 226] length. Hundreds of times his journey had been fruitless, so far as getting a day's work was concerned; but, like an industrious21 bee, Jonathan returned home every night laden22 with what to him was sweeter than honey—cigar-ends that he had gathered from the pavements, gutters24, and streets he traversed and searched during his daily ten-mile tramp. They lay before me, converted into a massive monumental cross, erected25 upon three great slabs26 of similar material. On each side of it stood a smaller cross, as if it were to show off the dimensions of the great cross. The paper stated that the whole of the cigar-ends collected weighed one hundredweight and three-quarters. It also told how far the cigars would have reached had they been placed end to end; one cigar was reckoned at three inches, four to a foot, twelve to a yard, and seven thousand and forty to a mile. The paper also told how much they cost at twopence each, how long they took to smoke at one half-hour each, also how much duty the Government had received on each at four shillings per pound. Thirty years of interminable tramping, with his eyes on the ground like a sleuth-hound, had Jonathan done. Hour after hour he had sat in his little home contemplating27 his collection, and making his mental calculations while his wife wrote them down, and then in its glory arose his great monument.
Handing the paper to Mrs. Pinchbeck, I proceeded to examine the cross. I felt it, and found it hard, solid, firm, and every edge square and sharp. I wondered how he had converted such unlikely materials as cigar-ends into such a solid piece of[Pg 227] work. The poor woman told me that from all the cigar-ends he brought home he trimmed off the burnt ends, and carefully placed them in a dry place; then he made a great wooden frame, screwed together, the inside of which represented the cross. In this frame he arranged end-ways layer after layer of his cigar-ends, pressing them and even hammering them in; now and again he had poured in also a solution of treacle29 and water, placing more cigar-ends until it was pressed and hammered full. Then it was left for months to slowly dry. It was a proud day for the couple when the wooden frame was removed, and the great triumph of Jonathan's life stood before them.
But the tobacco cross did not by any means exhaust the wonders of the room. All round strange things were hanging from the ceiling, threaded on a string like girls thread beads30 and boys thread horse-chestnuts—rough, flat-looking things, about the size of a plate and of a dirty brown colour. "Whatever have you got there, hanging from the ceiling?" I said. The answer came in a hoarse31 whisper: "Tops and bottoms." Tops and bottoms! tops and bottoms! I looked at them, and cudgelled my brains to find out what tops and bottoms were. I had to give it up, and the hoarse whisper came again: "Tops and bottoms." There the "tops" hung like a collection of Indian scalps, and there hung the "bottoms" like a collection of burned pancakes. On examining one string of them, I found attached the inevitable32 paper, on which was written "1856."
"Oh," I said, "these are the tops and bottoms[Pg 228] of your bread. Why did you cut your bread in that way?" "It was Jonathan's fancy," she said. It might have been her husband's idea, but she had entered heartily33 into it, for she had saved the crusts from all their loaves; she had written the papers and particulars that were attached to them, and she was proud of the old crusts, some of which dated from the time of the Crimean War. I was prepared for other strange whims35 after my experience with the vermilion furniture, the tobacco cross, and the "tops and bottoms," and it was well that I was, for other revelations awaited me. I found a great bundle of sugar papers—coarse, heavy papers, some blue, others grey—neatly36 folded, tied together, and tabulated37. These were the wrappers that had contained all the sugar the worthy38 couple had bought during their married life. A document attached gave particulars of their weight, told also of how much they had been defrauded39 by the purchase of paper and not sugar, told the price of sugar in various years, and the variations of their losses. Next to these stood a pile of tea-wrappers, tabulated and ticketed in exactly the same manner. Mr. and Mrs. Pinchbeck had evidently a just cause of complaint against the grocers.
I cannot possibly reveal the whole contents of the room. Had a local auctioneer been called in to make a correct inventory40, he would surely have fled in despair. Every available square inch of the room was fully28 occupied with strange objects. In one corner was a pile of nails—cut nails and wrought41 nails, French nails and old "tenpenny" nails, barndoor nails and dainty wire [Pg 229]nails—collected from the streets during Jonathan's long life. They told the industrial history of those years, and spoke42 eloquently43 of the improvement that had taken place even in nail-making. They told, too, of the poor home-workers of Cradley Heath, and of the women and children who had made them. Beside the nails was a heap of screws—poor old blunted rusty44 things, made years before Mr. Chamberlain introduced his improved pointed45 screws, lying mingled46 with the Screws of present use, bright, slender, and genteel. Here was a heap of shoe-tips, some of which had done duty forty years ago in protecting the heels and toes of cumbrous boots that had stumbled and resounded47 on the cobble-stone streets of those days. They, too, had a tale to tell, for Blakey's protectors lay there mingled with old, heavy, rusty tips that had protected "wooden shoon" in the days of long ago.
Decidedly, Jonathan was a modern Autolycus, a "snapper-up of unconsidered trifles." He had almost established a corner in hairpins48. There they were, six hundred thousand of them, neatly arranged in starch49 boxes, nicely oiled to prevent rust34, box after box of them, every box weighed and counted, the whole lot weighing, so the descriptive paper says, two and a half hundredweight: hairpins from St. James's and Piccadilly—for Jonathan, when work was scarce, had on special occasions searched with magnetic eye the El Dorado of the West—hairpins from the narrow streets of the East; hairpins from suburban50 thoroughfares; hairpins from the pavements of the City; old, massive hairpins that would[Pg 230] almost have tethered a goat; demure51, slender hairpins that would nestle snugly52 in the hair, and adapt themselves comfortably to the head; hairpins plain and hairpins corrugated—there they lay.
I was lost in wonder and imagination, and forgot the nasty cigar-ends in picturing to myself the world of beauty that had worn and the delicate hands that had adjusted those hairpins. But the hairpins were not alone in their glory. Hatpins claimed attention, too. Cruel, fiendish things they looked, as they lay closely packed in several boxes, with their beaded ends and sharp, elongated53 points. I turned quickly from these, for I knew only too well the fresh terror they added to life—especially to a policeman's life. So I proceeded to examine the next department—"babies' comforters"—with mingled feelings: two large boxes full of them, horrible things!—ivory rings, bone rings, rubber rings, and vulcanite rings, with their suction tubes attached, made to deceive infant life, and to enable English babies to feed on air. Some day a similar collection may form a valuable addition to a museum, illustrating54 the fraud practised on babies in the twentieth century.
I forgot the presence of poor asthmatical Mrs. Pinchbeck on her red chair, for the shelves that were fixed55 on the walls attracted me. These were heavily laden with glass jars and bottles of various sizes containing specimens56 of bread, sugar, tea, coffee, butter, and cheese of varying dates. "Bread, 1856, 10d. per loaf, Crimean War." "Tea, 1856, 4s. 6d. per pound." "Sugar[Pg 231] (brown), 1856, 6d. per pound." So ran some of the descriptions that were attached to the various jars. But I had to leave the examination of these till another time, when still more wonders were revealed, of which I must tell you later.
Bidding Mrs. Pinchbeck "Good-afternoon," and promising57 her another visit, I left her, for other suffering and troubled folk needed me. Alas58! that was the only time I saw the poor woman, for not much longer was she able to rise from her bed, and in a few weeks there was a strange funeral, at which Jonathan was chief mourner, and he was left alone and friendless.
Hard times followed; old age crept on. Failing health and lack of nourishment59 combined to make Jonathan of less value in the labour market, so by-and-by he faced starvation. But by no means did he give up collecting; his useless stores grew and grew until he had no longer room to store them. Then he sold his pile of nails for a few shillings; his screws and tips followed suit, and some of the fruits of his industry vanished.
Sad to relate, a worse fate befell his cigar-ends, and the great triumph of his life—his "monumental cross"—brought a second great sorrow into the poor fellow's life. It occurred to him that he might obtain money by exhibiting his work, so he hired a barrow, and, packing his crosses on it, went into the streets to attract attention and collect coppers60. He secured plenty of attention, especially from boys, who made a "mark" of the old man; ribald youth scoffed61 at him; policemen moved him on—but the other "coppers" came not to him. The barrow cost[Pg 232] one shilling per week. A crisis had arrived; he must sell his tobacco. At eleven o'clock one night I found him at my front door. There stood the barrow and the tobacco. He wanted my advice about selling it. It was the only thing to do. He had received notice to leave his room, and must look for a smaller home at a less rental62. The next day slowly and reluctantly Jonathan pushed his barrow to Shoreditch. He had found a wholesale63 tobacconist who might buy his tobacco at a price. "Bring it in," he said, "and I will look at it." Jonathan took it in. Jonathan was taken in, too. "Leave it here till to-morrow, and I will decide," said the merchant. It was left, and Jonathan pushed an empty barrow on the return journey. His room seemed empty that night; his wife was dead, and now his monumental cross was gone. The next day he visited the tobacco merchant, and found an officer of the Inland Revenue waiting for him. The merchant had informed. Pinchbeck's tobacco was impounded, and he himself was threatened with proceedings64 for attempting to sell tobacco without holding a licence. In vain the poor old man protested; in vain he argued and proved that his tobacco had paid duty, and that the State had received its dues. His tobacco was detained, and Jonathan saw it no more. Poor old Jonathan! How he cried over it! But the next day he turned up at the police-court and asked for a summons against the Inland Revenue for detaining his tobacco, and here again disappointment awaited him, for the magistrate had no jurisdiction65. It was a heavy blow to him; his heart appeared to[Pg 233] be broken, and all interest in life seemed to have gone. I sympathized with him, and did my best to cheer him. He moved to a smaller home, again parting with some of his museum. For a brief time he struggled on, but he became ill.
For some months he lay in the workhouse infirmary, alone and unfriended, and I thought the streets of London would know his peering eyes no more. But there was more vitality66 in the old man than I expected. One cold winter's day, when the snow was falling, I met a melancholy67 procession of sandwich-men on Stamford Hill, among whom was Jonathan. The wind buffeted68 him, and his hands and his face were blue with cold. "I could not stand it any longer; I should have died if I had not come out," he told me when I asked as to his welfare. He gave me his address, and the quaint old man and I were again on visiting terms. Where he had bestowed69 his strange collection during his sojourn70 in the workhouse I never ascertained71, but the bulk of it was in his new home. His things had been taken care of, he said, but no more. "How are you going to live?" "They allow me three shillings and sixpence from 'the house,' and I must pick up the rest." So he proceeded to pick up, for his health improved and his collection grew; but he did not pick up much money. The spring came, and Jonathan grew young again. One fine morning I met him, looking quite fresh and debonair72. "Why, Jonathan," I said, "I really did not know you. How well and fresh you look!" "Yes, bless the Lord! He gives me strength to walk." "I wonder why He does[Pg 234] that?" I foolishly said; but I expected the answer I got. "To find things that nobody else would find, and to prove that teetotallers are fools," he said. "But, Jonathan, I am a teetotaller." "I can't help that, can I? Look here, you can tell me how many gallons of water there is in a barrel of beer, but you can't tell me how much paper you bought when you thought you were buying tea and sugar." I humbly73 admitted my ignorance, and asked him what he was finding. "All sorts of things. Come in and see them when you are down my way." I went again to his "palace of varieties," and saw a cross of about eighteen inches high, standing74 in a neat wooden base, which was painted a bright vermilion, and a smaller cross made of cigarette-ends standing beside it. Pointing to the latter, he said: "That's to lie on my breast when I am in my coffin75, and that" (the bigger one) "is to lie on my coffin when I'm buried. I don't want any wreaths." Small chance of wreaths at a parish funeral when this, our dear brother, is unceremoniously committed to the earth, I thought; but he was fearful about his tobacco. "You won't tell, will you? Don't give the show away," he said. I advised him not to offer the tobacco for sale this time. "Not me; I'll die first," he promptly77 replied.
His cigar and cigarette ends amounted to over thirty pounds in weight, which he had pressed into various shapes. A strange piece of architecture, with many turrets78 and towers, all shining like burnished79 silver, claimed attention. "What have you here?" "Five hundred empty [Pg 235]milk-tins. I have saved them all. They have all been full. I always use the 'Milkmaid' brand." "I suppose you alter your plan of your building sometimes?" "Oh yes," he said; "I make cathedrals sometimes."
Twenty-four flat cardboard boxes, with covers on, attracted me. "What have you got in these boxes?" "Ah! I have got something to show you," and he proceeded to take off the lids. One look dazzled me, for never in my life had I seen such a weird81 combination of brilliant colours; the old vermilion seemed quite pale and insipid82 in comparison. Blues83, greens, yellows, and pinks of every shade predominated; but almost every other colour and shade of colour was represented, and their combined effect was stupendous. Some of the boxes were full of little cubes, others of narrow strips; some full of flat pieces about one inch square; others with the same substance graduated in different sizes. "All orange-peel, Mr. Holmes, picked up in the streets; all of it would have been wasted but for me." "But what good is it now?" I asked. He looked sadly at me, and said: "Good, good! Why, it shows what can be done." Whether it was worth the doing did not concern him; but my question had offended him, so I had to make peace. Half a crown soothed84 his wounded feelings. I then asked him how he did it all. "Picked 'em up, flattened85 'em, cut 'em up, and coloured 'em," was all I could get out of him. "Do you know what's in these boxes?" producing four boxes of similar pattern, and opening them. They contained small cubes of material, and their colours,[Pg 236] at any rate, were of modest hue. I confessed again my ignorance. "Taste!" I was much alarmed, but I tasted. "Potatoes?" "Right," he said. "That's how I save all my potatoes. They do to put in my broth76." "But how do you get them all to this size and colour?" I asked. "That's my secret," he said. I asked him if he was saving "tops and bottoms" now. "Only the new uns; I have made use of the old uns. I'll show you." He went on his knees, and from a store under his bed he produced several three-pound glass jars full of some brown meal, of varying degrees of coarseness. "All good—all good food! Microbes can't live in bread fifty years old. These are 'tops and bottoms.'" He had broken up his old bread, pounded it with a hammer, put the crumbs86 through different sized sieves87, and stored the resulting material in glass jars. "Beats Quaker Oats, Grape Nuts, and 'Sunny Jim,'" he said. "I can stand a siege. I just boil some water, take two spoonfuls of 'Milkmaid,' two tablespoonfuls of 'tops and bottoms,' and I have good milk porridge in three minutes. I have a pot of Bovril, too, and when I want some soup, hot water, Bovril, and desiccated potatoes or potato-powder give it to me. The old man is not such a fool as people think!" But again he put me into a tight place. He wanted me to buy, or find customers for, his granulated "tops and bottoms." He felt sure if people only knew how good and nice the "food" was, they would buy it readily.
I had to change the subject, and asked him what was in the box over the head of his bed, so securely[Pg 237] attached to the wall. I was just going to handle it when he sang out: "Don't touch it! don't touch it, or you'll blow up the whole house!" "What is it?" "Explosives," he said. "I may want them; I'm not going to the workhouse again." I did not touch them, but got away as far as possible. Jonathan then produced an ordinary medicine-bottle, about half full of some liquid. "That's the last bottle the doctor ever sent my wife, and half of it was enough. I'm saving the other half; I may require it. No workhouse or parish doctor for me." I began to feel creepy; but the old man continued: "Lift that little bucket out of the corner, and tell me what's in it." I lifted it, and examined it, and said: "It is three parts full of charcoal88, on the top of which is a quantity of sulphur. There is a piece of candle fixed in the sulphur and a box of matches attached to the handle of the bucket."
"Right," he said. "When my food is gone, I may put that bucket beside my bed, lock my door, light that candle, and lie down to sleep. I may do that, or I may blow the show up, or I may take that half-bottle of medicine. I haven't decided yet."
There was no appearance of boasting or jesting about the old man; his lips quivered, and he evidently meant what he said. But life has too much interest for him at present, and so long as he can find things and employ his strange talents in strange ways, Jonathan will not hasten his end. But when the streets know him no more, when his fading eyesight and his dwindling89 strength prevent him finding things, when he[Pg 238] feels his dependence90 on others and can no longer burnish80 his milk-cans, then, and not before then, Jonathan will make his choice, and he may light his candle.
But the end was not yet, neither did it come in catastrophic fashion. I had not seen him for months, but, wishing to know how the old man was getting on, I ran down to his little home to renew our acquaintance; but he had disappeared, for the workhouse infirmary had received him.
The Passing of Jonathan.
Poor old Jonathan! The byways and thoroughfares of London know him no longer. Hairpins lie in scattered91 profusion92 on our pavements East and West, and babies' comforters may be seen in the mud and slime of our gutters; but hairpins and comforters lie unheeded, for Jonathan has passed.
The peering eyes, the quaint face, the bent body, and the bulging93 pockets of my old friend are now memories, for Jonathan has passed. Poor old Jonathan! my heart goes out to him as I think of him in his new and last earthly home—surely the saddest of all earthly homes—a lunatic asylum94; for I know that even there his heart is with his treasures, and his poor brains are concerned about the mass of things he had been so long in collecting, and the rubbish that he had so passionately95 loved. Fifty long years ago he commenced his self-imposed task; fifty years, with bent back and eyes on the ground, had he traversed thousands of miles with wearied feet, but with a brave and expectant heart.
[Pg 239]
Load after load he had carried home as he returned day after day to his little hive, like a bee laden with honey. Who can estimate the amount of interest and even pleasure he had experienced during those fifty years, as he added little by little to his great store? Surely the joy that a collector of curios experiences was no stranger to the heart of Jonathan. And now the asylum! It is all too sad; we could wish it far otherwise.
But Jonathan has some compensations, for he lives in the past, and joys in the knowledge of what he has accomplished96; but he does not know the cruel fate of his great collection, and surely it is to be wished that a kindly97 Providence98 may preserve him from the knowledge, for such knowledge would bring to him the greatest sorrow of his life. So in the asylum Jonathan's heart is with his treasures; they still exist, and their value is "beyond the price of rubies99."
Jonathan grew feebler. With increasing age sandwich-boards grew too heavy for him, and the grasshopper100 became a burden when it was discovered that kind friends, for charity's sake, supplemented the miserable101 sum (three shillings and sixpence) allowed him weekly by the "parish," and which served to pay his rent; and this discovery was brought to the knowledge of the said "parish"; then the "parish," with all the humanity it was capable of, stopped the allowance, and Jonathan was left to his own exertions102. So he got behind with his rent; his worries increased; he got less food and of a poorer quality, and illness came upon him. By-and-by the dreaded103 day arrived when the gates of a great workhouse[Pg 240] opened for him and closed upon him. Jonathan was separated from his treasures. This was the unkindest cut of all, and it proved too much for his tottering104 reason, and the infirmary ward105 of the great workhouse was supplanted106 by a ward in a well-known pauper107 lunatic asylum, where it is to be hoped that Jonathan's days will be few. The old man had for many years been a great sufferer, and it has always been a marvel108 to me how he went through his innumerable wanderings and tasks, subject always to a great physical disability and intense pain.
I have previously told my readers that Jonathan could not read or write: his wonderful memory enabled him to dispense109 with those requirements; but he could not forget, neither does he forget now, so his treasures have acquired an added value. No fabled110 cave ever contained the riches that his poor home contains. Day by day they increase in value, and he lives in the certain hope that some portion may be sold, that the "parish" may be repaid for the cost he imposed on it, and that some friendly hand will knock at the door of the asylum, and some friendly voice will cry, "Open, sesame," that he may come forth111 a free man to join the residue112 of his quaint collection. And it is well, poor old Jonathan! that thou shouldst live in this belief, and that thou shouldst hug those delusions113, for in thy case a false hope is better far than a knowledge of the truth. Live on, then, quaint old man, long or short as the days may be—live on in the world of thy own creating.
But to my friends who may read this sketch[Pg 241] of real life, the plain, unvarnished truth is due. Jonathan's accumulation of treasures passed into the fiery114 furnace of the local dust-destructor, and from thence leapt into thin air or emerged as "clinkers." It sorely puzzled the "parish," which had disposed of Jonathan, how to dispose of Jonathan's effects, but it promptly annexed115 the vermilion chairs. The parish labourers, not behind time, promptly annexed the tobacco, and the "crosses," that were to lie "one on my breast inside the coffin and one on the lid," disappeared, to be devoted116, doubtless, to a less honourable117 cause.
But the hairpins that had nestled in the hair of many fair ladies no one would look at; no scrap118 merchant would buy them; so into the fiery furnace of the dust-destructor they went. Hatpins—instruments of torture, weapons of offence or defence, that had added many a danger to life—followed the hairpins. Babies' comforters—the fiery furnace roared for them, and licked its hot lips as it sucked them in. Think of it, mothers, who mock your children with such civilized119 productions! "Tops and bottoms," hoary120 scalps of fifty years ago, "granulated tops and bottoms," that drove "Sunny Jim" to despair, had scant121 consideration. In they went, and the flames leapt higher and higher as box after box of Jonathan's treasure fed them, till, "like the baseless fabric122 of a vision," they dissolved, and "left not a wrack123 behind."
But the "parish" looked suspiciously at and walked warily124 round the box of explosives wherewith Jonathan had the means of "blowing up the[Pg 242] blooming show." This was carefully deposited in a cistern125 of water before it was carried off. But the fiery dragon at the dust-destructor refused the "Milkmaid" milk-tins, and, alone in their glory, sole representatives of Jonathan's power, they remained in Jonathan's room, for even the dust-collector fought shy of them. Like pyramids they stood as silent witnesses of the past. How they missed Jonathan! Their lustre126 was tarnished127; there was no friendly hand to polish them now; neither was there any subtle brain to devise new styles of architecture for them. Well had it been for the "Milkmaids" if they had suffered the fiery fate of their many companions, for a far worse fate awaited them; for when the nights were dark, and fogs deadened sound, Jonathan's old landlady would steal craftily128 with an apron129 full of "Milkmaids," and drop one in the gutter23, throw others over the garden-walls, dispose of some on pieces of unoccupied ground, till all were gone. The painter and paperhanger were afterwards required in Jonathan's room.
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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11
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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12
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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13
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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17
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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18
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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19
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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20
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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21
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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22
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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23
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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24
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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25
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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26
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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27
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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28
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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29
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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30
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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31
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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32
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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33
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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34
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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35
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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36
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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37
tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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39
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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41
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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42
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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43
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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44
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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47
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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48
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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49
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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50
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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51
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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52
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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53
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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55
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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56
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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57
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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58
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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59
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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60
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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61
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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63
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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64
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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65
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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66
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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67
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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68
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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69
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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71
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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73
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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74
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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75
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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76
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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77
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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78
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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79
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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80
burnish
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| v.磨光；使光滑 | |
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81
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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82
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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83
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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84
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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85
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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86
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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87
sieves
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| 筛，漏勺( sieve的名词复数 ) | |
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88
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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89
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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90
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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91
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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92
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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93
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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94
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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95
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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96
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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97
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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98
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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99
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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100
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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101
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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102
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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103
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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104
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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105
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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106
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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108
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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109
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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110
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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113
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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114
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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115
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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116
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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117
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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118
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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119
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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120
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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121
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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122
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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123
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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124
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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125
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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126
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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127
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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128
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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129
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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