There stands on the shore of the East River, at the foot of Twenty-sixth
street, a massive gray-stone building, known as Bellevue Hospital. Over
the lowest door of the front, on the upper side of Twenty-sixth street,
is a single word in gilt letters--MORGUE. This door marks the entrance
to the Dead House of New York, one of the most repulsive, but most
terribly fascinating places in the city. The place is named after the
famous dead house of Paris, and the interior is arranged in exact
imitation of it, except that it is smaller. It is a gloomy-looking
place, this Morgue, and it is always crowded. Bodies found in the
streets or in the harbor are brought here for identification. They are
kept a certain length of time, usually from twenty-four to forty-eight
hours, and if not claimed by relatives or friends, are buried at the
expense of the city. Every article of clothing, every trinket, or other
means of identification, found with a body, is carefully preserved, in
the hope that it may lead to a discovery of the cause of the death.
The room is gloomy and cell-like in appearance. It is about twenty feet
square. The floor is of brick tiles, and the walls are rough and heavy.
The apartment is divided into two unequal portions by a partition of
glass and iron. The smaller portion is used by the public. The
remainder is devoted to the purposes of the establishment. Back of the
glass screen are four stone tables on iron frames, each with its foot
towards the glass. Stretched on these are lifeless naked forms, each
covered with a sheet. A stream of cold water, from a movable jet, falls
over the lifeless face of each and trickles over the senseless forms,
warding off decay until the last moment, in the hope that some one to
whom the dead man or woman was dear in life will come and claim the body.
A vain hope, generally, for but few bodies are claimed. Nearly all go to
the potter's field.
[Picture: THE MORGUE.]
A fearful company, truly, as they lie there, cold and rigid, their
ghastly features lighted by the chilly gleams which fall from the windows
above. Here is the body of an infant, its little life of suffering over.
It was found in an ash barrel in an alley. On the next slab is the form
of a man who was evidently well to do in the world. He is a stranger to
the city, the Superintendent tells you, and dropped in the streets from
apoplexy. His friends will no doubt claim him before the day is over, as
the articles found on his person have established his identity. The next
table contains the body of a woman. She was young and must have been
fair. She was found in the river, and as there are no marks of violence
on her person, the presumption is that she sought her own destruction.
"Such cases are becoming common," says the Superintendent in his matter
of fact way. "They are very sad, but we see too many of them to think
them romantic." A shudder comes over you as you gaze at the ghastly
occupant of the last table. The dead man was evidently a gentleman, for
he bears every mark of a person of good position in life. His purple,
swollen features tell you plainly that he was taken from the river.
There is a deep wound in his side, and marks of violence are numerous
about his head and neck. You gaze at the Superintendent inquiringly, and
even that cool, clear-headed official turns a shade paler as he answers,
almost under his breath, "Murdered. For his money, doubtless."
On the walls back of the tables are suspended the clothing of the
unfortunates, and of others who have preceded them. Maybe some friend
will come along and recognize them, and the one who has been missing will
be traced to this sad place. They form a strange collection, but they
speak chiefly of poverty and suffering.
The dark waters of the rivers and bay send many an inmate to this gloomy
room. The harbor police, making their early morning rounds, find some
dark object floating in the waters. It is scarcely light enough to
distinguish it, but the men know well what it is. They are accustomed to
such things. They grapple it and tow it in silent horror past the long
lines of shipping, and pause only when the Morgue looms up coldly before
them in the uncertain light of the breaking day. The still form is
lifted out of the water, and carried swiftly into the gloomy building.
It is laid on the marble slab, stripped, covered with a sheet, the water
is turned on, and the room is deserted and silent again.
So many come here on their way to their long homes. The average number
is about two hundred per year. You can scarcely take up a city newspaper
without finding one or more advertisements of persons "lost." Many of
them come here. Many are never heard of again. The waters which
encompass the city keep well the secrets confided to them, and neither
the Morgue nor the Police books can tell the fate of all the missing.
Strangers visiting the city often venture into the chosen haunts of crime
"to see the sights," and in so doing place themselves in the power of the
most desperate and reckless villains. Human life is held so cheap here,
and murder has become such a profession, that no respectable person is
safe who ventures into these localities. You may often see at the
Morgue, where the majority of the bodies show marks of violence, the
lifeless forms of those who but a few days before left their pleasant
homes in other portions of the country to see the metropolis. A visit to
a concert saloon or a dance house, merely from what they consider the
most innocent curiosity, has sealed their doom. A glass of drugged
liquor has destroyed their power of self-protection, and even without
this they have been assaulted. They are helpless, and they have paid
with their lives the price of their "innocent curiosity." Then the River
and the Morgue complete the story; or perhaps the River keeps its secret,
and the dead man's name goes down on the long list of the missing.
Strangers, and all others who would see New York, should content
themselves with its innocent sights and amusements. Those who seek to
pass beneath the shadow willfully take their lives in their hands.