A solitary man, living a quiet, lonely life in a room overlooking Main and Vesper Streets meets his end in much the same way he had lived his brief life in the city: Alone, in despair, with few if any other human beings knowing or even caring about his predicament.
Would the life of this 45-year-old photographer and artist have been any different had someone reached out to him? Shown him a touch of compassion? Provided a shoulder to cry on, or an understanding ear?
The truth is, we'll never know. Had it not been for a couple of local reporters for the Clinton Democrat and Clinton Republican newspapers who chose to devote a substantial amount of space to his story during the late winter of 1897, J.E. Robinson would have passed into the dustbin of history and quickly been forgotten.
And, truth to tell, even with all that contemporary reportage, Robinson is only remembered today because my pal Lou Bernard stumbled upon his story while researching an unrelated topic, and passed a few microfilm copies over to me because he thought it might make an interesting "Peek at the Past" column.
Had that not happened, poor lonely J.E. Robinson would still be tucked away in the Ross Library archives. Next week, when other subjects fill the space devoted to "Peek at the Past," and you, constant reader, will hopefully become engrossed in other topics of local interest, Robinson will have already begun his slow, inexorable return to oblivion.
Of medium height and build, with jet black hair and a mustache, former Jersey Shore resident Robinson had come to Lock Haven in the hopes of securing a job as a photographer. These being the earliest days of photography, the equipment used in the taking of pictures was too large, bulky and expensive for typical consumer uses.
Lock Haven at that time had a handful of "Photographic Studios" to which individuals would go to have portraits taken, or images of family reunions preserved for the future. Maybe they'd like a picture of their home, or of their son's little league baseball team. While today all that could easily be accomplished with a click of a digital camera phone, in the 1800s customers would require the services of a trained photographer.
The last vestige of the "hired" photographer (outside the newsroom setting) is today's wedding photographer. But in 1897, if you wanted a picture taken of any kind, you hired someone to do it for you.
His interest in photography originally took Robinson to S.B. Piper, who had taken over an earlier photo business, previously operated by Charles Dorey, some six years earlier. Piper managed to do fairly well at his Lock Haven location, and today, 120 years later, about eight of his photos are still on file at Ross Library. These are images of old baseball teams, string bands and portraits of prominent local individuals like JBG Kinsloe, an early publisher of The Express.
Armed with three letters of recommendation from previous employers, Robinson was quickly hired by Piper. But things didn't go well almost from the start.
"He was well educated and a good workman on certain lines, but he was a hard drinking man," the Clinton Democrat reported, "and Mr. Piper was compelled to discharge him."
Robinson then struck out on his own, renting a room at the Schroeder Building at 225 Vesper Street, owned by William F. Schroeder and his family. Schroeder was a Princeton-educated attorney who would run, unsuccessfully for district attorney in later years.
At the Schroeder place, Robinson gave lessons in portrait painting and photography, but managed to interest just a few pupils. He had better luck with his orders for photo enlargement, which kept him busier than his other pursuits.
What is known of Robinson's background and they amount to scant bits and pieces, really come from Piper, who was interviewed by Democrat reporters and who said Robinson told him he had been born in England. His father was a physician, but he had been estranged from his family for many years (although, Robinson admitted, checks from dad still occasionally arrived by post).
"Judging by his conversation, he had tramped from place to place securing employment wherever he could get it," The Democrat reported.
On Nov. 10, 1896, Robinson began boarding at the Custer House hotel at 308 North Jay Street. Custer House proprietor Hugh McLeod seems to have taken a liking to Robinson, although his new tenant was unable to pay his room bill for several weeks. He left the Custer place and McLeod does not seem to have come in contact with him for several months.
Then, just before his sudden demise, Robinson stopped at the Custer house again and told McLeod that he had been ill for several days and hadn't been eating.
"Mr. McLeod wanted him to stay at his hotel until he fully recovered," the newspaper reported, "but Robinson refused. He also told W.F. Schroeder that he lived on one meal a day."
Robinson seemed to be drifting deeper into despair. In conversations with people around town he "appeared despondent and made such remarks as 'a man had better be out of this world than in it.'" He claimed to have no friends and began asking pointed questions about drugs that "would put a man out of his misery."
One possible reason for Robinson's increasing depression was mentioned by a female who visited his gallery in the days before his death. According to her comments to the Democrat, Robinson said his wife was dead and that his one child was "deaf and dumb" and was being cared for in "some asylum."
As his food began to run out, the coal in his fireplace began to grow thin, and even the oil for his reading lamp burned down to almost nothing, life must have begun to seem increasingly grim for the middle-aged photographer.
A bottle of highly toxic wood alcohol sat in one corner of his room at the Schroeder house. Did it beckon to the increasingly despondent man?
On Wednesday, March 10, Maggie Barry, a domestic working for Mr. and Mrs. E.A. Rosenbluth on the second floor of the Schroeder building, heard a thumping noise in the room directly overhead, where Robinson boarded. To Maggie, it sounded like a man falling to the floor. Shortly thereafter, she thought she heard the sounds of a man groaning in pain coming from the floor above.
Barry told Mrs. Rosenbluth. Mrs. Rosenbluth told Mrs. Schroeder. Mrs. Schroeder told her son, William F. Schroeder. William went upstairs to investigate. Finding both doors to the studio locked, he used a piece of wire to pick one of the locks open.
It was after 5 p.m. when he finally got the door open. About two hours had passed since Maggie Barry first heard noise indicating distress in the apartment above. Schroeder found Robinson face down on the floor. He turned the man over and found him to be alive but unconscious.
Schroeder went back downstairs and told a number of individuals what he had found upstairs. Among them were E.W. Fowler, Jacob Scott and E.A. Rosenbluth. Those three men then went upstairs to check on Robinson while Schroeder sought out Dr. Watson, the city physician.
Apparently it was only moments later when Robinson, with E.W. Fowler's fingers lingering on his pulse, "emitted his last breath," according to the Democrat, "and expired."
Dr. Watson, meanwhile, was already on a train leaving the city when word reached him of the imminent demise of Robinson. He made his way back to the city. It was after 6 p.m. when the good doctor pronounced Robinson dead.
The "Overseer of the Poor" was notified and he ordered the city undertaker, E.B. Waters, to take charge of the remains.
"He presented a ghastly sight," the newspaper said of Robinson's corpse. "His eyelids were wide open; there was a fixed, staring expression in the eyes, and on the countenance was seen an agonized look."
In his pockets were found a scarf pin, a string of beads, a comb and case "and a few other valueless articles, but no money." There were also three letters of recommendation; one from W.L. Sutton of Hornellsville, NY; another from H.C. Wesner of Buffalo; and a third from H.P. Davis of Deposit, N.Y.
They credited Robinson with being a "first class workman" and an "honest man."
The local coroner determined that, despite his seeming despondency and the presence of a half-bottle of wood alcohol poison in his room, Robinson likely died from natural causes "hastened by his intemperate habits, lack of food and exposure to the cold."
Futher, the newspaper reported, "Judging from the unfinished pictures on the counter and the position of the materials with which he was working, it looks as though the man had fallen off the chair while at work and lay on the floor until he died."
No inquest into Robinson's death was held.
The body was interred at Highland Cemetery.
On Thursday, March 11, 1897, the following front-page headline appeared in the Clinton Democrat newspaper:
STARVATION OR SUICIDE?
What caused the death of J.E. Robinson?
A Photographer Who Spent the Last Six Months of His Life in This City Died Last Week in His Room He Was Often Without Food and Eked Out a Despondent and Miserable Existence.
One hundred and thirteen years later, the same questions surrounding the death of Photographer J.E. Robinson remain.
Barring a seance that would bring Robinson's poor, tormented soul back in communication with the living, I guess we'll never really know the true cause of his death. And really, it's best just to let sleeping photographers lie.
----
Matt Connor can be reached at mbconnor4265@gmail.com . Two of the original Peek at the Past books are available for purchase at Ross Library.
