“I Am Tired of this Life, I Want to Die.”
February 23, 2017 § Leave a comment
Ellen Leary, a young woman, known to the frequenters of the first ward as Willie Summers, committed suicide by taking morphine early in the morning of October 25, 1881. She was an inmate of a house kept by Katie Franklin, and was discovered about 6 o’clock in the morning to be under the influence of a powerful narcotic, and in spite of all the physicians who had been summoned could do, she died at half past 10 o’clock.
Justice Tegener held an inquest and the jury, after hearing all the evidence, returned a verdict of death from the effects of morphine administered by her own hand. Willie Summers was not the girl’s name and there was a bit of history connected with her downfall that was distressing. She was buried the next morning from the residence of Katie Franklin, corner of Cedar and Guadalupe streets.
About four years earlier Willie was made drunk, and at the time she asserted that she was drugged at a celebration held at Pressler’s Garden, by two young men of this city. It was then she was led astray, and flung into a life over all the horizon of which one only sees the black cloud of despair. An outcast from the world, an exile from the light of home, she for four long years lived amid the wild reveling of a career, the wretchedness of which was unspeakable, and the horrors of which at last wrung from her crushed heart the piteous wail, “I am tired of this life, I want to die.”
A few hours after this expression fell from her lips she took the fatal drug that ended her existence. The men who led her astray and blighted her young life, and left her to drift out upon the wild, turbulent sea of a dissolute life, were never be punished in this world. Under the peculiar laws of modern society, they never were. It’s the poor betrayed girl allured by glittering promises and money – these men had, and now have money – that suffers. The social evil was assuming terrific proportions all over the world, and some law had to be passed to check it, one that would strike with no uncertain touch the men who patronized and encouraged the evil.
She was discovered by her “boarders,” the misses Willie Gibson and Pearl Levy, well-known young ladies of the town, at their residence. Coroner Tegener ruled her death as due to poisoning, noting that she was but 20 years of age, and that her real name was Ellen Leary.
James W. Hall, a well-known Austin florist, “Shuffled Off The Mortal Coil” on March 11, 1884. Tired of Earth and its temptations, he sought the consequences of the Other World.
Hall was one of Austin’s best known characters. Hall. He was somewhat eccentric in his conduct but withal he was a man for whom nearly all who knew him had a kindly feeling, for he was social and generous to a fault and not many men had fewer enemies than he. He was a native of Tennessee and came to Austin when a mere lad. He was his 38th year when he died.
He was a florist by profession and one of the most skillful in the South. His reputation in this regard was as wide as the continent and a time of his demise he had orders from parties in the north to gather ten thousand Texas plants for them; 5,000 different varieties to be gathered for one man. Such was the general standing of the man who committed suicide Sunday morning in this city.
He had been drinking nearly all night and perhaps indulging in other dissipations until his mind was so completely unstrung that he had little or no control of himself. About 7 clock he had his uncle M.P. Hall, on the Avenue and the uncle began to upbraid him for being out all night, saying he ought to have been at home with his family.
“Yes, uncle,” he replied, “it is a shame for me to do as I have done and I am going to stop it.” He then asked his uncle to go to a drug store and get him some morphine. His uncle asked him why he did not get it himself. The reply was that he did not believe the druggists would let him have any.
The uncle then asked him what he wanted with the drug, and he told him he was tired of living and wanted to kill himself. The uncle told him he would not assist him to get poison for such a purpose, and tried to induce him to go home with him and get a strong cup of coffee. He then told his uncle that he did not intend to kill himself, but simply wanted a little to make him sleep.
The uncle thought it best to go with him and see that he got a small dose, so they went together to Samostz’s drug store but it was closed. They went across to the new drug store of Morris and Company, where Simpson’s shooting gallery was, and this they found closed also. The uncle tried again to persuade him to go home with him and get a cup of coffee, saying it would do him more good than the morphine. ”
No,” he replied, “I’m going to kill myself. I will find the drug somewhere, and with it in my worthless life.”
His uncle says he had heard him talk that way before, and he did not surmise he had any such intentions, notwithstanding he shook hands with him and bade him goodbye, saying as he did so it would be the last time he would see him. Where he got the drug that no one seems to know, but in some manner he procured morphine, and took a very heavy dose of the stuff.
About 8 o’clock Sunday morning Col. Bob Russell, the attorney, was walking down Congress Avenue and saw a man drop to the sidewalk near the Gold Room saloon. He came up see him and saw it was Mr. Hall. He called the police and the man was taken to his home, which is on the street car line not far from Col. Driskill’s.
Doctor Wooten was summoned, who at once detected the morphine poisoning, and applied all the antidotes known to science, but the effects of the drug had gone too far, and he died after lying in a comatose state for some time. He has been in the habit of using morphine for a considerable time, and many of his friends said he did not really intend to take enough to kill them.
His declarations to the contrary would seem to show that the poison was used with suicidal intent. He was married and had quite a family. It is said he was very kind and domestic in his own relations and really loved his wife and children. He was also an industrious man, seldom idle except when spreeing, made money easily, and had a large number of valuable contracts at the time of his death, and there was no reason seemingly for the rash act, yet he tried to get the dishwasher at the Gold Room to buy the drug early the evening before, saying he intended to kill himself with it.
His funeral was largely attended. It is one of the saddest things in all human conduct to contemplate, the taking of life with one’s own hand, particularly a young man of only 38 years in a position where the lines of life would lead him, if he would but follow them, into happiness for himself and those depending on him. But the best of men commit suicide, some intentionally to produce death, the most of them without so intending — few there are who do not hasten death by their own hand in one way or another.