The heaps of shawls have a draggled and furtive look, and some children’s clothing has a touch of its inseparable prettiness, even here.
Old books, a picture or two, some worthless table ornaments, innumerable articles which could not be described or classed except as odds and ends, form a portion of the collection which goes on accumulating, and which has no ultimate destination.
What is to become of all this? asks the visitor, and is answered to his surprise that nobody knows, that the things are nobody’s property, and nobody has the power to do anything with them.
A piece of information which makes them more ghastly and nightmare-like to the imagination than before.
An ever-growing dust heap formed of thieves’ clothing and unlawful possessions, which nobody can cart away to distribute or bury out of sight for evermore—an accumulating banquet spread for the moth, the rust, and the rat—the contents of these rooms are far from pleasant to think of.
It seems supremely ridiculous, but it is a fact, that nothing but a legislative measure could rid the premises of these rotting garments, out of every fold of which one might shake with the dust an image of squalor, crime, and punishment.
Outside the door of the “Black Museum” is a shelf in the wall of the landing place.
The visitor passing it is aware of a huddled heap of dirty coats, a serge gown, and a coarse kind of rug—the skin of an animal, with red and white hair upon it.
Under the shelf, on the floor, lies some rough packing cloth.
He passes the heap carelessly, and enters the museum.