It was well that the revolting sights of that dark, that horrid morgue were denied to many of the friends. Every effort was taken to relieve the pangs of sorrow and to remove the revolting features of that awful scene. Coffins were soon procured. Each body was placed in its silent, its narrow house. The keeper of the morgue was stationed to watch the sacred forms. He was a silent man. Tall and dark and gloomy, he walked amid the dead, but beneath that silent face he bore a kindly, a sympathetic heart. He seemed himself to be struck with the grief which went so deep into so many loving souls. His tones were tender, his ways were kind. He walked amid the dead until it seemed as if his habitation must be the grave, but it was only to express a sympathy for the bereft. His was a gloomy, a melancholy task, and yet it was a sacred trust, as those bodies which he guarded so well, were very sacred to many hearts.

There were other officials who were appointed for the trying emergency, who seemed peculiarly adapted for their work. A gentleman was stationed in the office of the same building, whose duty it was to guard the relics which should be found. His position was indeed a difficult one. He was an employee of the road and yet had been appointed by the coroner to fill this place. The very equivocal attitude in which this double duty put him, rendered it a most unenviable office. The list of articles was left with him, and at the same time, the articles themselves as they were found. If there was obedience to the claims of humanity and regard to his personal feelings, there might be a loss to the company. If there was a regard to the financial interest of the company and a desire to shield it from loss, there was the fearful temptation to sacrifice his honor and break his trust. The sympathy and courtesy of the man was certainly manifest to all. Even the articles which had been recovered by the Mayor’s proclamation were consigned to him, and everything belonging to the lost of the fatal train. The very proof that persons were on it, depended on the trifling things which were under his care. A key, or watch, or chain, or cap, or dress, might be an evidence in law. Thus the affection of friends who sought for these with such avidity and unwearied diligence, appealed to his humane and kindly heart, and yet a loss to the Company might ensue from every discovery made. The freedom, too, with which these relics were reached, by the constantly changing crowds, rendered a loss by dishonest hands a probable result, yet it was impossible to refuse access to them, without being misunderstood. And so the position was surrounded with embarrassments, and yet the testimony was universal to his courtesy and kindness through it all, and the many relics which were found by friends, showed how faithfully he performed his task.

On the ground where the train had fallen was another official of the road. His work was to superintend those who were gathering relics. This position was a tedious, a difficult, and in many respects a thankless one. With hands, and feet, and rakes, and hoes, and in various ways, the precious relics were fished from out the stream. Everything was preserved. Bits of rags, and pieces of jewelry; shreds of clothing and gold watches; a worthless strap or a diamond pin; anything and everything which gave trace of the passengers, were gathered and placed in the hands of Mr. Stager and then deposited in the morgue. With all the suspicion and all the rumors, the public became at last satisfied that the authorities were doing all they could to gather relics for the friends, and that the traces of the dead were not intentionally destroyed. They were all railroad men who were engaged in this work. These tasks were performed by humane men, under the shadow of the public doubt and public grief, amid which, there was excitement, and the haste of business and the burden of care. Yet there were humane hearts underneath all this machinery of life. The employees of the road were, many of them, melted to tears. Every one was subdued by the sudden death. Even the hardness produced by their public life was softened by the common sorrow. The tide of human sympathy burst through even the most rocky hearts and overflowed all other feelings.

In the crowded office in the station house, the telegraph was constantly at work. Its click and buzz was heard as it talked with lightning tongues, and reported the wide-spread grief, and responded with short and comprehensive words. It seemed as if all the nation had been touched. Those nerves of wire penetrated the remotest fibres of the nation’s heart, and they seemed to be singing with intensest pain. The arrow which had shot its pang into so many hearts had left the bowstring whizzing in the hand. The griefs of many, many homes were expressed by those very sounds. Hour after hour the messages would come and go, and every word was fraught with intensest feeling.

The division-superintendent sat at the table amid the representatives of the press, and the friends who crowded to the desk without, and it seemed as if the silent man had his hand upon the heart-strings of the land. How any one could endure the strain of such a place and not falter at his task, was a mystery to many. Only those who are accustomed to the position where so many human lives are under their constant care could bear this crushing weight.

The noble man who came down upon the train and went out upon the bridge, of which, as engineer, he had the charge, is said to have wept like a child as he saw the sight. That stern, care-worn face expressed more than many knew.

As the questions were plied so thick and fast by the representatives of the press, and were sent home by those who knew something of the facts, the same courteous reply went back. No one apprehended the responsibility of his place more than he. No one felt, perhaps, the doubts and suspicions and public feeling more. No one realized more the nature of the calamity in all its bearings, and yet that same calm and courteous manner remained. He was calm without, but God only knew what he felt within. Those who knew him best have told something of the tender sensibilities of the man. On New Year’s morning he was with his wife at her father’s home on the east side of Ashtabula River, where they often were. But on that morning as he stepped out doors before breakfast, the coachman met him and wished him a happy New Year. He returned the greeting, but as he sat down to breakfast, his feelings were deeply moved. The tears came into his eyes. His face became suffused and he seemed overwhelmed. At last the brave man gave way and buried his head in his hands and sobbed, and then he controlled himself and said, “John bid me a happy New Year this morning, but how can it be a happy New Year to me?”