Known to the Police

by Thomas Holmes

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 dwindling strength prevent him finding things, when he feels his dependence on others and can no longer burnish 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 scattered profusion 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 bulging 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 asylum; 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 passionately 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.

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 accomplished; but he does not know the cruel fate of his great collection, and surely it is to be wished that a kindly Providence 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 rubies."

Jonathan grew feebler. With increasing age sandwich-boards grew too heavy for him, and the grasshopper became a burden when it was discovered that kind friends, for charity's sake, supplemented the miserable 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 exertions. 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 dreaded day arrived when the gates of a great workhouse 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 tottering reason, and the infirmary ward of the great workhouse was supplanted by a ward in a well-known pauper 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 marvel 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 dispense with those requirements; but he could not forget, neither does he forget now, so his treasures have acquired an added value. No fabled 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 forth a free man to join the residue of his quaint collection. And it is well, poor old Jonathan! that thou shouldst live in this belief, and that thou shouldst hug those delusions, 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.