Photograph shows photographing the unknown dead for a French morgue.
The New York Morgue kept a gallery of photographs of their unknown dead
Pictures of the New York Morgue.
New York Mercury.
One picture here is peculiarly striking. It is that of a man with marked features –the face full of fierce intelligence, and having a close resemblance to the great author, Alexander Dumas. There is no appearance of death in the silent face, and through it there beam the characteristics of a man of strong passions and indomitable will. It is a face that a weird painter like Dore would revel in. Mr. mason has many interesting anecdotes to relate concerning his gallery. It appears by his statistics that two-thirds of the person who have been photographed have been identified, and in some instances the result has been the recovery of large sums of money.
RECOGNIZED AFTER THREE YEARS.
On the eighth of August, 1874, a gentleman came to the wharf at the foot of Twenty-sixth street for the purpose of visiting Blackwell’s Island. To his chagrin he was just in time to see the boat leaving the pier. To while away the time he strolled into the morgue, and was examining the photograph gallery, when he was almost struck dumb with astonishment to see the portrait of an intimate friend, who had been missing ever since the early part of October 1871. The missing man had been a wealthy and influential citizen of Columbia county, in this State, and since he had left home, all trace of him had been lost. Inquiry had been set on foot, as the settlement of large estates was involved in the establishment of the fact of his death, but without avail. The photograph at the morgue established the fact of his death. The estates were settled up, and the heirs have to thank the Blackwell’s boat and Mr. Mason’s camera for their fortune.
THE BORROWED HANDKERCHIEF.
One of the strangest stories in the photographer’s repertoire is the following: Some years ago the body of a fine-looking, well-dressed man was found floating in the dock, bumping against the piles, and covered with the ooze and slime of the dark river. There was no money in his pocket, no market upon his clothes, nothing save a handkerchief upon which a name had been worked. While the photograph was being taken, the druggist of the hospital standing by, happened to look at the handkerchief, and recognized the name upon it as that of a well-known Philadelphia druggist. The telegraph was at once brought into requisition, and a message was sent asking whether the druggist in question was missing. The answer came back “No.” Still the handkerchief in the possession of the dead man was unaccounted for, and to unravel the mystery further communication was opened with the Philadelphia druggist. Upon inquiry he remembered that some time previous an intimate friend had slept at his house and, before leaving in the morning, had borrowed a handkerchief. The handkerchief and the photograph were shown to him, and he recognized his property and his friend. How the poor fellow had met his death was never ascertained, but mourning friends saved him from the potter’s field.
THE LOST BANKER.
About six o’clock one morning the porter at the gate of the hospital noticed an elderly gentleman walking along Twenty-sixth street toward the river. There was nothing remarkable in this fact except the evident respectability of the gentleman and the earliness of the hour, for respectable gentlemen are not in the habit of walking along the East river at six o’clock in the morning. Three hours afterward this gentleman was picked up from the water in the dock, dead, and his photograph was taken. Before the day passed, detectives visited the charnel-house. Mr. Bull, a well-known banker, at one time secretary of the American institute, was missing; had any one bearing his description been there? The photograph of the respectable-looking gentleman was shown them. it was that of the missing banker. It transpired on investigation that Mr. Bull had been spending the evening with some friends, and had left them to take the cars at Forty second street depot—he lived out of town. The theory advanced was that he had in some manner become confused, lost his way, and, after walking the streets in a dazed condition, had unerringly walked into the water.
THE ORPHANS’ LOSS.
About a year ago a gentleman left his home on Staten Island to come to his business in the city. It was a happy home, for two beautiful and affectionate daughters consoled him for the loss of the kind mother and loving wife who had been called away from life. He was a prosperous merchant, and want had never entered the doorway into which the beaming sun streamed so brightly. The day passed as merrily as the others had, but when night came there was no father there. The agonized daughters, nearly frantic with undefined fear, ran to their neighbors, but no tidings of their missing parent were to be had. Two long weeks dragged on; detectives were employed, letters written, telegrams sent, but still no tidings. Then, as a last resort, they went to the morgue. There were no bodies on the cold, specter-like marble slabs, no photograph of their father in the gallery. Then somebody suggested to the orphans that they should examine Mr. Mason’s album. They did so, and, as they were turning the leaves, the eldest daughter gave a long, piteous scream that chilled the hearts of the listeners, and fell in a swoon to the floor. She had recognized the portrait of her father.
AFTER ONE YEAR.
It is not always, however, that the loved are found in the gallery of death. There came to the morgue one day the body of a man, a laborer, who had been crushed to death by the falling upon him of a heavy box. A photograph was taken and the body was buried. Some time afterward a woman, evidently drawn thither by curiosity, more than from any set purpose, wandered into the morgue and looked carelessly at the pictures upon the wall. Suddenly her eyes distended, her face paled, she clutched nervously at the thin shawl that was thrown loosely around her, and burst into tears. Somebody standing by noticed her perturbation and asked the cause. She then explained, her voice choked with emotion, that the portrait of the dead laborer was that of her husband. They had been separated for over a year, and, during that time, she had not seen him once. Now she was brought face to face with the picture of his dead body.
THE WAGES OF SIN.
At almost any hour of the day there may be found in the narrow limits of the morgue, three or four–,and when there is a “subject” on the slabs, a larger number-loiterers drawn thither either through anxiety or morbid curiosity that draws the idle to such a place. One day there happened to be among the throng, a bright, handsome-looking young man, with the bloom of health upon his cheek, and evidently fresh from the country, the fact being expressed in every liniment of his countenance that he was seeing the “sights” of the metropolis. He, like the rest, looked at the pictures, when he suddenly started, looked closely with a wondering, half-doubtful expression on his countenance. Then he wiped his hands across his eyes, in which tears glistened, and went to the superintendent’s office. He came to make inquiries concerning the portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired girl that had been seen in the gallery. He was too late. The body had been put among those of the unknown dead, and there was no means of distinguishing her resting-place. Then the grief-stricken brother told his story. The portrait he had seen was that of his sister. Only a few years before she had been a bright, winsome girl, honest and industrious, but, with the curse of the working girl a love for finery. One night she did not come home from the shop. It was the old story, and the aged parents wished they had seen their little Maggie dead in her coffin rather than that she had died the living death she had. Soon all trace of her was lost, and they knew that she had been swallowed up in the great vortex of metropolitan sin. The old folks died, and the son went into the country to work on a farm, where his sister’s shame should not be known. He had come up to the city for a holiday, and that visit to the morgue had shown him the picture of that once-loved sister, cold in death, with the hard, cruel lines of sin upon her face. She had been found drowned. The incidents related above are all actual facts, free from the garniture of imagination, and told by Mr. Mason on the hospital porch, with the cool breezes from the river that has so often given up its dead to furnish the subjects for them playing through the trees, while the waves tremblingly lap the shore and seem to whisper for more victims for death’s gallery.
Memphis [TN] Daily Appeal 13 August 1876: p. 2
Chris Woodyard is the author of The Victorian Book of the Dead, The Ghost Wore Black, The Headless Horror, The Face in the Window, and the 7-volume Haunted Ohio series. She is also the chronicler of the adventures of that amiable murderess Mrs Daffodil in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales. The books are available in paperback and for Kindle. Indexes and fact sheets for all of these books may be found by searching hauntedohiobooks.com. Join her on FB at Haunted Ohio by Chris Woodyard or The Victorian Book of the Dead. And visit her newest blog, The Victorian Book of the Dead.
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