“Should We Have Another Such Legislature, Would It Not Be Well to Dissolve Our State Government and Get Attached to the Indian Territory?”
June 21, 2017 § Leave a comment
“Around the Texas Capitol this year, it wasn’t unusual to hear the 85th Legislature described as the worst anyone could remember. … this session had more than its fair share of dispiriting moments. … not much got done. This Legislature passed the fewest bills in years, and while some might argue that’s a good thing, the biggest issue facing Texas—the crumbling school-finance system—went unaddressed. Instead of action, we got grandstanding over school vouchers, property taxes, and, as ever, abortion.” — Texas Monthly, June 2017.
Well, yes, the 85th deserves its place in the history books, but no one alive now is old enough to remember the 19th Legislature, and it was really a doozy compared with the rather tame 85th. Read this chapter from my recent book, Austin Murder and Mayhem, and make up your own mind.
“Should We Have Another Such Legislature, Would It Not Be Well to Dissolve Our State Government and Get Attached to the Indian Territory?”
The lawmaking process is often compared to making sausage. Little good ever comes from any Texas legislative session, but some legislatures grind out particularly wretched sausage. The Nineteenth Legislature (1885) was possibly the rudest, most feckless and most violent legislature in Texas history.
Ah, where to begin with the carryings-on of the Nineteenth…
Let’s start with the evening of Wednesday, March 11, when a disgraceful scene marred forever the history of legislation in Texas.
The Senate was discussing a bill abolishing the office of insurance commissioner, its supporters claiming that the commissioner was little more than a newspaper clipping collector and filer, and that any clerk could do the job. Augustus Houston of Bexar County made an elaborate and forcible argument in favor of its retention.
William Davis of Cooke County replied in his characteristic style and took occasion, as he often did, to ridicule. He compared Houston to a “strutting turkey gobbler.” 066
At the conclusion of Davis’s speech, Houston rose to a question of privilege and stated that in debates, criticisms were often indulged in, but never before had the personal appearance of any member been dragged into the fray, until that “little yellow, sallow-faced mummy and blackguard from Cooke” saw fit to allude to him, and that he was ready to settle the matter outside the chamber, or either within or outside of the state, as the senator might select.
Confusion followed, and the Senate president instructed the sergeant-at-arms to arrest the two senators. Comparative quiet was restored without this extreme measure, but intense excitement prevailed in the lobbies.
Davis arose and said that any senator who would take advantage of his position on the Senate floor to insult a member was a deliberate coward, poltroon and pusillanimous blackguard and that if he (Davis) wanted to raise a fight he would do it outside the Senate chamber.
As he said this, Houston passed from the Senate floor into the lobby, saying as he did so, “Come out, then.”
Davis said he would not go out into a crowd, where he would be prevented from fighting, but that he could be found on the streets, at his boardinghouse or anywhere else outside the chamber.
After quiet was fully restored, Davis took the floor and stated that he had not intended to insult anyone in the heat of the debate and he was sorry that offense had been taken.
Houston replied that if that was the case, he felt sorry, too, and took back all that he had said.
That extraordinary scene in the Senate chamber was all the chief topic of discussion the next day. The belligerent senators had yet to encounter each other, and mutual friends were trying to preserve the peace. There was little hope of an actual reconciliation, but perhaps a difficulty might be staved off. There was no doubt that a very bad feeling prevailed and very little business would be done during the remainder of the session. The Senate was hopelessly cut up into hostile factions, and bickering and antagonism would destroy the hope of the business of the public being cared for.
“Back in the day,” journalists tended to protect the reputations of the sinners they covered—but only up to a point. By March 19, the Galveston Daily News had had enough of the Nineteenth’s shenanigans and ripped the covers off of events in the Senate chamber on Monday night, March 9:
“During the delivery of this speech the senate chamber was a perfect bedlam—shouting, gesticulating, remonstrating, denouncing from all corners of the chamber, pistols were passed around, as cards are dealt at a whist-table. Messengers were dispatched for pistols, knives were taken out and opened, and for a while everyone present was morally certain that bloodshed, if not slaughter, was imminent.”
The hostilities extended beyond the statehouse. A number of legislators were eating supper at Bulian’s restaurant on the evening of March 19. Mr. Merriweather, of Frio County, came in and took a seat. He had a stick in his hand with which he kept tapping Doctor Camp, the member from Limestone. Camp at first paid no attention but finally objected. Merriweather had been drinking and was ripe for a row. Some emphatic words passed, and a fight was prevented only through the intervention of friends. The difficulty was, however, renewed on the sidewalk not long after, and flourishing their walking canes, both the gentlemen made at each other. Speaker Upton, in endeavoring to act as peacemaker, caught one of the blows, a sorry reward for his benevolent intentions. Then others again interfered, and the row was stopped for the night.
On March 28, the Dallas Herald ran the following:
Prepared for War
A few days since, when war was raging in the legislature, and the lie and “sich” was being hurled promiscuously by the members, the constituents of our representative, Mr. R.S. Kimbrough, purchased and expressed him a six-shooter, with the injunction to defend the honor and good name of Dallas county at all hazards. Yesterday the following reply, which explains itself, was received:
Austin, March 27, 1885 — W.G. Sterrett, J.G. Stephens, et al, Dallas, Texas:
My Dear Friend: The “gun” came to hand O.K.—charge 25 cts. Many thanks for the same and accompanying kind expressions. I have loaded her up and am waiting for an opportunity to “distinguish” myself. My friends were very thoughtful, indeed, for a statesman working for $2 per day here would never accumulate enough to buy a 50-cent pistol with which to defend himself and country. I needed it, and my only regret is that you didn’t think of my poor, lone condition among savages sooner. Again tendering my most heartfelt thanks to one and all, I am yours for war and reform.
P.S.—The senators don’t come in the house now, except when I am out. K.
After these preliminary rounds, real blood finally began to flow.
That same morning, March 28, an Austin Statesman headline blared: “Cutting to Kill.”
Between ten and eleven o’clock on the evening of March 27, a very serious stabbing affray occurred almost in front of the Avenue Hotel, involving Tobias Mitchell, correspondent of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, and Alexander Sampson, calendar clerk of the Senate.
The origin of the row was a caricature of Sampson in the March 25 issue of the Globe-Democrat, one of a series of burlesque pictures of members of the legislature, with some little accompanying description of the man. Sampson was not at all pleased with his, only a rear view being presented, and his ill temper was ill concealed. The sketch, though a burlesque on the surface, along with the accompanying brief biographical narrative, conveyed a deeper meaning in the light of subsequent developments:
This presents a view of the handsomest part of Major Alex Sampson, the calendar clerk of the Senate. He is the only representative of the Israelites in that body, and has a great reputation for “being seen” as he terms it, or shaping the course of legislation for a reasonable consideration. He is a daisy at securing free railroad passes for himself and “particular friend,” or none at all. Like all of his race, he is possessed of the strong ability to look out for number one, and it is a cold day when a senator can get him to calendar a bill conveniently.
Other men occupying far more honorable positions with quite as much reputation at stake were hit equally as hard, both by pen and picture, and yet did not consider themselves insulted.
Sampson claimed that he and Mitchell met on the sidewalk near the Avenue Hotel. Sampson told Mitchell that he had been given a rough deal in the paper and cursed the man who did it in terms not fit to be printed. At this, he said Mitchell drew a knife, whereupon he endeavored to do the same, but it caught somehow in his pocket and he could not pull it out. Then he ran, Mitchell after him. Sampson entered the Occidental saloon, followed by Mitchell, and the difficulty was renewed, resulting in the severe stabbing of Mitchell. Sampson’s weapon was a paper knife, double edged and sharp as a razor. Policeman Jim Williams came and arrested both men. Sampson was taken to the police station and released on a bond of $150, for disturbing the peace.
The wounded Mitchell walked to his room. He was bleeding terribly. Doctors Richard Swearingen (state health officer) and Frank McLaughlin were sent for, and they did all they could. The blade had entered at the point of the left shoulder and passed downward in the direction of the axillary artery. The artery was probably severed, the doctors thought, from the great flow of blood. They would not allow him to be talked to, for his life appeared in danger at the moment. (He recovered.)
A friend who heard it from the wounded man’s lips told Mitchell’s side of the story. It differed from Sampson’s statement in one important particular. He admitted having gone into the saloon after Sampson, but his better judgment began to assert itself, and wishing to avoid a scene, he was turning to go when Sampson suddenly sprang forward and stabbed him.
Mitchell was well known in Texas journalism. He was managing editor of the Houston Post before its demise, a well-built, muscular man, weighing about 180 pounds, and possessing great nerve. He was around forty years of age and generally popular, having pleasant manners and a genial smile for every man he met. Scarcely a newspaperman in Texas was better liked.
Although arrested only for disturbing the peace, Sampson would find a far more serious charge to confront the next morning.
Sampson hailed from Galveston, where he was a ward politician. Little was known about him, except that when the legislature assembled, he sought, and was elected, the Senate’s calendar clerk. In the early days of the session, he was earning a reputation as an efficient officer, winning golden opinions from the senators and others who came in contact with him. But his true motives gradually began to reveal themselves.
For more than a month, the moral atmosphere of the capital had been rendering an unpleasant odor. The lobby was filled with whispers of questionable doings, and members of both houses swapped reports of questionable methods indulged in by attaches of the legislature: of bills being extracted from the committee rooms, defaced, altered and mutilated; that officers, mostly clerks, of both houses were professional lobbyists who levied blackmail on every party who appeared before the legislature, interested in either the passage or defeat of a bill.
They levied tribute on all who would yield up a dollar. The advocates of certain new counties were bled freely. When the gambling bill was up, the gamblers were sucked dry. A telegraph lobby that appeared was rich game. The “sailors bill” (which would have prevented foreign sailors from working beyond their ship’s tackle in Texas ports) was tackled when it was first introduced, but it didn’t produce much.
The grand stand of the session was made on the bucket-shop bill. A bucket shop was a private establishment where a customer could put up a specified margin on gold, cotton or other commodities to be delivered on an agreed-upon date in the future. We call it futures dealing. Here the boys expected to make the blood flow freely. They looked for big returns and luxurious expenditures, and some of the ring’s members had planned a trip to New York, Hot Springs and other points when the bucket shop bill was called up.
When the House convened on the morning of March 28, Representative Lorenzo Fisher of Galveston exposed Sampson and company. About a month earlier, Sampson had written a letter to a well-known bucket shop proprietor in Galveston, stating that a pending bill, the bucket shop bill—which would prohibit speculation in grain and stock futures—could be suppressed if the bucket shop men would pay Joseph Tryon, clerk of the house’s Judiciary Committee No. 2, $1500. The bill was killed by placing on it a rider that would also prohibit dealing in futures in cotton and other public exchanges.
The reading of Sampson’s letter on the House floor created a great sensation. Fisher, in a vigorous speech, exposed the doings of the band of clerical blackmailers, who, he said, had infested the legislative halls since the opening of the session.
Sampson was expelled that day.
Tryon was a young man from Houston, according to the Galveston News. He was a generous, impulsive fellow, reckless and thoughtless and could easily be made a tool of by designing men. In conversation with a News correspondent following Sampson’s expulsion, Tryon admitted that others made a cat’s-paw of him, though with loyalty worthy of a better cause, he refused to squeal.
Tryon was expelled on March 30, the day before the legislature adjourned.
They returned to their respective home turfs, evidently with open arms, because in September 1886, Tryon was a candidate for Harris County attorney, and Alex Sampson for Galveston County judge, which the Galveston News regarded as a rebuke to the Nineteenth Legislature.
Sampson would play a prominent role in Galveston’s legal circles and politics for years to come.
The postmortems on the Nineteenth began weeks before its adjournment, and they cut to the bone.
The Fort Worth Gazette declared on March 18, “The legislature has been at work now since the 13th of January, and has nothing but a few local bills and several disgraceful scenes, to show to the people as the result of its labors.”
Hasn’t Texas just a wee bit too much of “good fellowship” in its legislature? A “devilish good fellow” may be place around the stove of a courthouse room or a “store”; but men who make laws should be “honorable” men in “word and deed.” “Tom, Dick, and Harry” and the slap on the shoulder may do for the street, but dignity, self-respect, and a regard for personal, as well as public, rights, are expected of statesmen. There is too much of big-boyism, “kids,” “mugwumps,” etc., at Austin, and the solons have not been without a certain newspaper encouragement in converting the legislative halls of the state into the play-ground of a village school. Indeed, it is likely, from the aid and comfort they received from one newspaper, that “the kids” actually grew to believe that people in Texas had suspended all business and were standing on tiptoe to see what “the boys” would do next; whether they would thump another newspaper man, put a mansard roof on a judge, or curse and abuse each other. Texas is sick and tired of this “kid” business, in the legislature as well as in the university.
The Austin Statesman nailed the lid on the coffin on April 9:
“The Nineteenth Legislature had no intelligent executive suggestions, until at the last hour Comptroller Swain took the bull by the horns and showed the necessity for increased taxation for State expenses, as well as for a law forcing payment for the use of lands set aside for educational purposes. The two measures suggested by him led to the only two valuable enactments of the Nineteenth Legislature.
“The Legislature failed to pass the granite bill—even permitting the capitol to be built of granite. Such was legislation to the Nineteenth Legislature. When will we have such another; and should we have another such legislature, would it not be well to dissolve our state government and get attached to the Indian Territory?”
It’s appropriate to close the books on a joke of a legislature with a joke about it, from the Statesman.
We do not know how much good or bad the legislature has thus far accomplished. They are still grinding away, but the grinding is like the turning of the crank on a peanut roaster. A countryman from Onion Creek watched a man who was turning the handle on a peanut roaster steadily for half an hour, and then he asked:
“When are you going to play a tune?”
He had taken the peanut roaster for a hand organ. The legislators are still turning the crank, but we are unable to determine just yet whether it is a hand organ for the amusement of the people or a peanut roaster for their own private profit.
June 5, 2017 § Leave a comment
Given the comportments of our country’s current Chief Executive and the Texas Legislature, which can charitably be described as erratic, I have had mad dogs, mad men and mad stones on the brain. And as I am prone to do, I have dug back into Texas’ “good old days,” before the Pasteur vaccine, for a couple of stories about one of humanity’s most dreaded maladies — hydrophobia — which was indiscriminate with regard to its victims, from the lowest street urchin to the mightiest politician.
Both of these articles appeared in the Austin Daily Statesman.
December 21, 1887
A Young Merchant Expires With the Horrible Malady.
A death from the effects of hydrophobia occurred this morning in the town of Anna, the victim being a prominent young merchant by the name of John Herrington, of Petty, in this state.
The deceased went on a business trip to Denton county three weeks ago, and, while there encountered a dog afflicted by hydrophobia, which he made an effort to kill by shooting, but failed and was bitten several times on the face. He came immediately to Anna, where a farmer by the name of McKinney lived, who is the possessor of a mad stone, which has been used successfully in cases of hydrophobia for more than half a century.
The stone adhered tenaciously to the wound, drawing out large quantities of poisonous matter, and it was thought the patient was relieved. He returned to his home at Petty and entered upon his business duties.
In about a week he was suddenly attacked with hydrophobia, evincing great fear of water and having all the prominent symptoms of the disease. He was taken immediately to the mad stone, but received no benefit, and for ten days past suffered the horrors of a raving maniac, till this morning death relieved him of his suffering.
September 5, 1882
Hon. George A. Reeves
His Death Yesterday Of Hydrophobia.
A private dispatch to your correspondent tonight announces the death at noon today, at his home in Grayson county, of Hon. George A. Reeves, speaker of the present Texas house of representatives, and a candidate for reelection to the new legislature. His death was one of most horrible character.
He was bitten about a month ago by a rabid dog. He had mad stones applied but they did no good. A few days ago he showed symptoms of approaching virulent hydrophobia, and two days ago the attack was so bad it was necessary to tie him in bed. He frothed and snapped and raved in the most virulent manner, without cessation, till death. Physicians were in constant attendance but could not relieve him.
Mr. Reeves was one of the best known and best liked public men in Texas, He was born in Crawford county, Arkansas, about sixty-five years ago. His father, William Reeves, represented Crawford county in the Arkansas legislature upwards of forty years ago.
He moved to Texas thirty-eight years ago, settled nine miles from Sherman at old Ft. Georgetown, then in Fannin county, but now a part of Grayson, and the family has resided there ever since.
The deceased was a deputy sheriff in 1845; was major in a Texas regiment during the war between the states; had several times been a member of the legislature, and years ago presided over the house as speaker, the same position he occupied at the time of his death. Mr. Reeves was a planter and a man of more than ordinary ability.
One strange thing about his life was that in almost forty years’ residence in Texas he had never visited Galveston.
June 2, 2017 § Leave a comment
This story has nothing to do with Austin except that it appeared in the April 25, 1892, edition of the Daily Statesman, and I found it as entertaining as the Statesman’s editors and readers no doubt did. It was reprinted all over the world for decades after his death.
Dr. William “Tiger” Dunlop (1792-1848) was an army officer, surgeon, Canada Company official, author, justice of the peace, militia officer, politician, and office holder. He is notable for his contributions to the War of 1812 in Canada and his work in the Canada Company, helping to develop and populate a large part of Southern Ontario (the Huron Tract). He was later elected as a Member of the first Parliament of Upper Canada. Find out more about Tiger at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_%22Tiger%22_Dunlop.
A Curious Will.
Here are the principal portions of a will made by Dr. Dunlop, at one time a member of the Canadian Legislature:
“I being in sound health of body and mind, which my friends who do not flatter me say is no great shakes at the best of times, do make my last will and testament … .
I leave the property of Gairbread … to my sisters Helen Boyle Storey and Elizabeth Boyle Dunlop, the former because she is married to a minister, whom may, God keep him, she henpecks, the latter because she is married to nobody, nor is she likely to be, for she is an old maid and not market ripe.
I leave my silver tankard to the eldest son of John, as the representative of the family. I would have left it to old John himself, but he would have melted it down to make temperance medals, and that would have been a sacrilege. However, I leave him my big horn snuff box; he can only make temperance horn spoons out of that.
I leave my sister Jennie my Bible, the property formerly of my great grandmother, Betsy Hamilton of Woodhall, and when she knows as much of the spirit as she does of the letter she will be a much better Christian than she is.
I leave my late brother’s watch to my brother Sandy, exhorting him at the same time to give up Whiggery and Radicalism, and all other sins that do most easily beset him.
I leave my brother-in-law, Allan, my punch bowl, as he is a big gausy man, and likely to do credit to it. I leave to Parson Cherussci my big silver snuff box I got from the Simcoe Militia, as a small token of gratitude to him for taking my sister Maggie, whom no man of taste would have taken.
I leave to John Caldwell a silver teapot to the end that he may drink tea therefore to comfort him under the affliction of a slatternly wife.
I leave my books to my brother Andrew, because he has been “jingling wally,” that he may yet learn to read with them.
I leave my silver cup with the sovereign in the bottom of it to my sister Janet, because she is an old maid and pious and therefore necessarily given to hoarding, and also my grandmother’s snuff box, as it looks decent to see an old maid taking snuff.
May 14, 2017 § Leave a comment
I offer this story for what it is, a reflection of the times: nothing more, nothing less. History is seldom pretty or simple. But we cannot ignore it.
July 29, 1901
“Old Uncle John Price,” Who was Known to Many Austinites
A short time ago the Austin Daily Statesman contained this simple notice. John Price, colored, was buried yesterday, aged 65.
That was all.
Few of those who read that short notice knew or cared who John Price was or had been. Just one more old Antebellum nigger shuffled off.
Brief as that paragraph was it revived memories in the hearts of a few.
Back in the stormy sixties, General W. R. Hamby, Captain W. C. Walsh, General A. S. Roberts, John G. Wheeler of Manor, Garland Calvin of Watters, Dr. L. D. Hill, physician at the Confederate home, and myself, all members of old Company D, Fourth Texas regiment, Army of Northern Virginia, knew that old negro and knew him well.
In camp, on the march, wherever the fortunes of war carried Hood’s Texas Brigade, Old Uncle John was there.
At the field hospital, a little back from the line of battle, where the wounded and dying are hurried in ambulances and on litters, that brave old black Samaritan could be seen, busy preparing bandages, scraping lint or helping the surgeons and nurses.
A field hospital is no bomb proof position, and it takes nerve, lots of it, to stay there and work to alleviate the agonies of the wounded. I had rather be on the firing line anytime than at a field hospital in close proximity to a battle.
As a rule, soldiers of every nation fire, too high while in action, and many of the shot and shells pass over the heads of the men at the front and do great damage in the rear, where the field hospitals are always established.
The Tom Green Rifles, afterwards Company D, Fourth Texas regiment, was the first company to leave Austin in the spring of 1861. John T. Price, former Sheriff of Travis County, was fifth sergeant in the company and took “Yeller John,” the only negro he owned, with him as body servant and cook. It was a familiar sight back in those eventful days to see Old Uncle John flooding along the dusty roads in Old Virginia, literally loaded down with cooking utensils, blankets, canteens and haversacks. Perhaps there were government mules that carried heavier loads of plunder than old John, but none of them carried a more general assortment or got to the place of destination any sooner.
Honest as the days were long, he was faithful to every trust and stuck to his old regiment through thick and thin. A negro cook in the Confederate Army had more privileges than his master, and could take shortcuts and forage through the country, as he was not required to stay in line or answer to roll call. The boys would furnish John with money, he would strike out through the rural districts parallel with the route of the army and at night come into camp loaded down with good things for old mess no. 5.
Some of us will never forget the old man at Gettysburg. On the memorable night of July 2nd, 1863, the Texas Brigade lay on the side of the mountain in a broken disordered line, the crest of the ridge 50 yards above us covered with Federal infantry and artillery. Both armies were whipped and both were vicious. The snapping of a twig or the misplacing of a stone brought a shower of many balls down upon us. All night we lay there, not speaking above a whisper, with our haversacks and canteens empty.
Just as the gray dawn was breaking Old Uncle John came slipping up the mountain with a camp kettle full of boiled beef, a bag of boiled roasting ears, cold water biscuits and several canteens of cold water. He had rambled up and down the line for hours hunting the Fourth Texas Regiment, which was a mere fragment in that great Army.
Giving the provisions to Lieutenant McLaurin he dropped down behind a big boulder and in two minutes was sound asleep. The heavy load and long search had worn the old man out, and he slept like a log with cannon booming all around him.
He had many opportunities to go with his so-called friends the federals, but he clung to those he knew and was as proud of his gray uniform as many of the Confederate soldiers. Many of the Negro cooks and body servants abandoned their masters on the Maryland and Pennsylvania raids but old John remained true through it all.
When the remnant of Lee’s army stacked arms at Appomattox on the 9th of April 1865, Old Uncle John with his white friends, what few were left, turned his footsteps westward and homework. Barefooted, ragged and hungry he tramped back to Texas, back to the land and people he loved, and for all this faithful devotion he has at least received his reward, a pauper’s grave.
The Statesman was misinformed in regard to the old man’s age; he was nearer 80 than 65. When the American National Bank of Austin was organized Major George W. Littlefield, president, and General W. R. Hamby, cashier, gave Old Uncle John the position of porter. This place he kept for a number of years, really to the detriment of the bank, for the old man was not able to do the work required of him.
Then they pensioned him on $10 per month, relieving him of all labor, paying him $2.50 every Saturday night. He soon became too feeble to care for himself, was alone in the world without kindred, and strange to say of one of his race was an old bachelor.
Knowing the history of this old man’s life, knowing how true he had been to his white friends in the Army and how he still stood by them through the dark days of reconstruction when his own color threatened to lynch him, I made an appeal through the Statesman to the managers of the Confederate home. I simply asked them to give the old man a place to rest his weary old bones and something to eat out of the bountiful supply of provisions out there. My appeal met with cold indifference.
In fact it was not noticed at all and the fate of this brave old black Confederate was “over the hills to the poorhouse.”
John was a proud old darky and felt the humiliation of becoming a pauper and he knew the days of his usefulness were gone, and bent with years and toil he accepted the charity of the county and now like Old Uncle Ned in the song:
“There is no more work for poor old John,
He’s gone where the good niggers go.”
That everlasting “might have been” looms up before us wherever we go and like the little word “if” is always chiding us and making us unhappy. We the old soldiers who knew John in the Army might have provided for the old man simple wants and not have permitted him to die at the poor farm a beggar.
But now that he has crossed over the Border beyond the reach of human ingratitude, Christian charity or what “might have been,” let’s do something that no ex Confederates have ever done before. Lest we forget the old man dead like we neglected him while living, let’s build a monument to his memory. A shift of grey granite will not cost much and it will be a fitting tribute to the services and faithful devotion of this old negro to the dead Confederacy.
I spoke to General Hamby, cashier of the American National Bank of Austin, in regard to this matter. And he heartily approves of it. He knew how faithful John had been through all those long years of Civil War and told this anecdote about him.
“John reached home before the federals arrived in Austin. It was on the morning of July 4th 1865 when the federal cavalry entered the city. The Sunday before their arrival John brushed up his old faded grey uniform and remarked to General Hamby’s mother, ‘Well, Miss Louisa, this is the last time I will ever wear this old uniform. The Yankees are coming and won’t let me wear it anymore.’”
True to the last and braver than some of our old soldiers, for I know one fellow who burned his uniform for fear the Yankees would find it and get him into another war. Some soldiers had a better excuse than that for burning their old clothes.
Now, if there are any who have any sympathy with this novel but worthy object and are willing to contribute toward building a modest shift over this faithful old colored Confederate, they can leave or send their contributions, no matter how small, to General Hamby. He will receipt for all monies contributed to the John Price Monumental Fund and at the proper time publish the names of the contributors in the Austin papers.
Signed, Val C. Giles
May 11, 2017 § Leave a comment
This little story comes from my unpublished (and likely to stay that way) biography of Ben Thompson in Austin, and comes in response to a thread on Facebook today (May 11, 2017) about the present Texas Capitol and the limestone quarry at Oak Hill’s “Convict Hill.” The capitol was to have been built with Convict Hill limestone, but the rust stains resulting from the iron pyrite nodules that riddled the stone rendered it unfit for exterior use, prompting the use of the beautiful pink granite from Marble Falls.
On February 22, 1884, there was a kind of picnic out at Oatmanville (present-day Oak Hill), seven miles from Austin. The syndicate that was building the new Texas capitol had its rock quarries at Oatmanville, and the leading citizens, including Governor Ireland and other state officials, were invited out to look at the work. There were about 130 persons present.
While the picnic was in progress, who should drive up but prominent gambler and former city marshal Ben Thompson, in a handsome carriage drawn by a fiery team of horses. On his right was Colonel Bingham Trigg, Ben’s attorney and ex-city attorney. In the back seat sat Mr. C. D. Johns, the recorder of the City of Austin, by whom Ben had frequently been tried. The fourth gentleman was Ben’s long-time friend and defense attorney, George Pendexter, who was now Austin City Attorney, chief prosecutor of violators of the law. The appearance of this strangely assorted quartet on the grounds created some little sensation. For a time, they mingled with the other excursionists and partook of the cakes, oranges, cigars, etc., provided by the generous agents of the capitol contractors.
Sauntering up to Governor Ireland, Ben excused himself for not having come out sooner. “I was detained by my friend, the Recorder here, who fined me ten dollars for some fun I had yesterday; but, as your Excellency will perceive, I am fixed now. I’ve got the Court, and the Prosecuting Attorney, and my own counsel, and the corpus delicti, which is me, all in the same vehicle. If I commit any illegal indiscretion, we stop the carriage right in the road, and try the case then and there. I pay my fine, if my attorney can’t persuade the Court that I’m innocent, and then we drive on until I commit a fresh indiscretion.”
Governor Ireland smiled, and made some bantering reply, after which Ben and his friends resumed their places in the vehicle. Off they went at a breakneck speed, headed back to the capital city along the winding path from Oatmanville, amid the solitudes of a Texas cedar brake, Thompson driving the horses with one hand, while he plugged the trees with the revolver in his other hand. Recorder Johns joined in the fun as well, fairly matching Ben shot for shot, it is said.
But the eagle eye and acute ear of Travis County Deputy Sheriff Pace, whom Johns had fined $100 and costs (the maximum allowed by law) a few weeks earlier for discharging a pistol within the Austin city limits, were open. Pace happened to live in the township of Oatmanville, and when the rattle of the volleys awakened the echoes in the glens, he hastened thither and beheld the city recorder of Austin shooting his gun “on and across a public highway” in the State of Texas, which was a misdemeanor. No matter if the road be the poorest of paths, the law protected the poor as well as the fat. “Strictly in the line of his duty,” the Statesman remarked, tongue firmly planted in cheek, Deputy Pace caused information to be filed against Recorder Johns on two charges: one for carrying a pistol and the other for shooting “on and across a public highway.”
The charges were filed before Justice of the Peace D.C. Pace, one of the deputy’s brothers. Turnabout was indeed fair play in this matter, and as Deputy Pace had been before him, Recorder Johns was in it for all it cost, to get out of the meshes of wisdom surrounding a court of justice.
As it turns out, the cases against Johns were dismissed by the Travis County Attorney on March 3, on grounds that the facts didn’t constitute a violation of any state statute, or as Johns put it, “No violation of any law of either God or me.”
Officer William Howe made complaint on the evening of February 23 against Ben, charging him with shooting a pistol in his presence. Ben was not arrested, and afterwards rode around Austin in a buggy, firing his pistol off several times, just as he had done on the day he returned in his buggy from Oatmanville. This might have been very interesting for Ben, but it was certainly not amusing to the people whose lives were endangered by so much promiscuous shooting.
That night, Ben borrowed a hand organ from an Italian name of Michlo Penilo and went to several places about the city serenading his friends. When he took it back, Penilo said it was broken. Ben politely told him it was not, and requested the mendicant to “grind it,” which he did not seem inclined to do. Ben gave Penilo to understand he had to grind. Then Ben told him it had too much wind anyway and proceeded to shoot it out. After Ben had fired several shots at it, its usefulness as a hand organ was at an end. Ben was promptly arrested by Officer Callahan, and the next day he pleaded guilty and paid his fine, $10 dollars and costs, and also paid Penilo for his music box.
Penilo moved to San Antonio shortly thereafter, where he took up residence with his sister, Ignaciano. Fighting the world together, saving, scraping and denying themselves everything or anything which was in any way expensive, thus by degrees a sum of money was accumulated in one of the San Antonio banks to the amount of about $400, but over the half of which belonged to Ignaciano. Both seemed inordinately affectionate and doing all in their power for each other’s interests.
The sister’s show of love to her brother seems to have been sincere, but the brother’s was evidently a snare whereby to gain the sister’s confidence, and to have the whole power of managing the money in his hands. How this power was abused the unfortunate sister came to know when Michlo, drawing the whole sum from the bank, almost two months to the day after Ben deprived him of his livelihood, decamped for parts unknown, leaving her almost penniless.
On February 27, 1884, the Statesman noted, “Ben Thompson had a happy time late Saturday night and Sunday morning. He must have been omnipresent, for there is hardly a locality in the city that does not lay claim to be honored by the ‘whang’ of his gun. His young companions, too, are getting more glory than they like, it is surmised.”
Theodore Hillyer, one of the young men who was with Ben that Saturday night and Sunday morning, was charged before the recorder with discharging a pistol within the limits of the city. A similar charge was also filed against Ben. But the case against Hillyer for having a pistol was dismissed because he was a deputy sheriff, and thus permitted to carry arms.
Ben could have cared less; after he paid off Penilo the organ grinder he left town on the 6 p.m. Houston and Texas Central train. February 26 was Mardi Gras day, and King Dionysus in Galveston was beckoning. Ben changed trains at Houston and took the Texas and New Orleans to Galveston, arriving at 9 on the morning of the 25th.With all the festivities and the prevailing royal atmosphere that so appealed to Ben’s British roots, Mardi Gras was Ben’s favorite holiday, apart from Christmas with his family.
April 17, 2017 § Leave a comment
Well, here we are the day after Easter 2017, and I am only just now paying my intermittently annual Easter tribute to O. Henry. But that’s OK, even appropriate, in a way. He was late to his own funeral.
O. Henry’s short stories are not rife with Christian themes and sentiments, although they do often involve a sense of social justice and sympathy for the down-and-out that is consistent with the teachings of Christ.
While in Austin, O. Henry — or Will Porter, as he was then known — was a regular church-goer and sang in every church choir that would have him (he had a wonderful bass voice). During his prison experience (1898-1901) until his death in 1910, there is no evidence that he regularly – or seldom – attended church. But that is not my point today, nor does it particularly interest me, one way or the other.
In a delicious twist of irony that he would have enjoyed, Christian book stores sell collections of his short stories and the noted atheist, Ayn Rand, once wrote of him, “More than any other author, O. Henry represents the spirit of youth, specifically the cardinal element of youth: the expectation of finding something wonderful around all of life’s corners.”
O.Henry is acknowledged as a master of puns, as well as surprise and ironic endings; hence the punny end to this post’s title. Easter bunnies hop, of course, and O. Henry was a hops head, when it came to beer, at any rate.
Will Porter, who could drain a 32 oz. fishbowl of beer without pausing, once summed up the two loves of his life in Austin, in four lines:
“If there is a rosebud garden of girls,
In this wide world anywhere,
They could have no charm for some of the men,
Like a buttercup garden of beer.”
O. Henry wrote three Easter-themed short stories during his short career: “The Red Roses of Tonia,” “The Easter of the Soul,” and “The Day Resurgent.” On past Easters the Blunderbuss presented “The Red Roses of Tonia” and “The Easter of the Soul.” This year, “The Day Resurgent.”
“The Day Resurgent”
I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.
First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known model, will pose for it in the “Lethergogallagher,” or whatever it was that Trilby called it.
Second–the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies. This is magazine-covery, but reliable.
Third–Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.
Fourth–Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.
Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the higher criticism has hard-boiled them.
The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.
Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in the footsteps of Danny McCree.
Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front room of the flat Danny’s father sat by an open window smoking his pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the headlines?
“‘Tis Easter Day,” said Mrs. McCree.
“Scramble mine,” said Danny.
After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur–frock coat, striped trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein’s (between Fourteenth Street and Tony’s fruit stand) Saturday night sale.
“You’ll be goin’ out this day, of course, Danny,” said old man McCree, a little wistfully. “‘Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it’s fine spring weather. I can feel it in the air.”
“Why should I not be going out?” demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest tones. “Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast you’ve just eat, I’d like to know? Answer me that!”
“All right, lad,” said the old man. “I’m not complainin’. While me two eyes was good there was nothin’ better to my mind than a Sunday out. There’s a smell of turf and burnin’ brush comin’ in the windy. I have me tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus–but let that be.”
“Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?” asked Danny of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. “Have you been taking him to the Zoo? And for what?”
“I have not,” said Mrs. McCree. “He sets by the windy all day. ‘Tis little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I’m thinkin’ they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without stoppin’ for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there’s lard burnin’ in the fryin’ pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. ‘Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. ‘Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag’inst the morning. There will be cold supper at six.”
“Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?” asked Danny of Mike, the janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.
“I have not,” said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. “But ’tis the only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that I’ve not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No, then?”
“It was the old man who spoke of it,” said Danny. “Likely there’s nothing in it.”
Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into the heart of the district where Easter–modern Easter, in new, bright raiment–leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving parterres of living flowers–so it seemed when your eye looked upon the Easter girl.
Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
“Why, Corrigan,” he asked, “is Easter? I know it comes the first time you’re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March–but why? Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it out of politics?”
“‘Tis an annual celebration,” said Corrigan, with the judicial air of the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, “peculiar to New York. It extends up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion ’tis not political.”
“Thanks,” said Danny. “And say–did you ever hear a man complain of hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean.”
“Nothing larger than sea turtles,” said Corrigan, reflecting, “and there was wood alcohol in that.”
Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously a Sunday and a festival day was his.
The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself, attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter, and took his pleasure sadly.
The family entrance of Dugan’s café was feasible; so Danny yielded to the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark, linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.
“Say, Tim,” he said to the waiter, “why do they have Easter?”
“Skiddoo!” said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. “Is that a new one? All right. Tony Pastor’s for you last night, I guess. I give it up. What’s the answer–two apples or a yard and a half?”
From Dugan’s Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.
A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They pumped hands on the corner.
“Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up,” said Katy. “What’s wrong? Come away with me to church and be cheerful.”
“What’s doing at church?” asked Danny.
“Why, it’s Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin’ you might come around to go.”
“What does this Easter stand for, Katy,” asked Danny gloomily. “Nobody seems to know.”
“Nobody as blind as you,” said Katy with spirit. “You haven’t even looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it’s when all the girls put on new spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?”
“I will,” said Danny. “If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain’t a beauty. The green roses are great.”
At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner; but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his theme–resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.
After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in her sky-blue eyes.
“Are you coming along to the house?” she asked. “But don’t mind me. I’ll get there all right. You seem to be studyin’ a lot about something. All right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?”
“I’ll be around Wednesday night as usual,” said Danny, turning and crossing the street.
Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets, at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and deeper-rooted than the love of woman–for had he not turned away from green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.
Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.
“Hippopotamus!” he shouted to an elevated road pillar. “Well, how is that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was driving at now.
“Hippopotamus! Wouldn’t that send you to the Bronx! It’s been a year since he heard it; and he didn’t miss it so very far. We quit at 469 B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn’t have guessed what he was trying to get out of him.”
Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor supported.
Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on the sill.
“Will that be you, lad?” he asked.
Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the outset of committing a good deed.
“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” he snapped, viciously. “Have I no right to come in?”
“Ye’re a faithful lad,” said old man McCree, with a sigh. “Is it evening yet?”
Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt letters, “The History of Greece.” Dust was on it half an inch thick. He laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper. And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:
“Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?”
“Did I hear ye open the book?” said old man McCree. “Many and weary be the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. ‘Tis a fine day outside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair by the windy and me pipe.”
“Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not hippopotamus,” said Danny. “The war began there. It kept something doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I’ll read it.”
With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree sat for an hour, listening.
Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man McCree’s eyes.
“Do you hear our lad readin’ to me?” he said. “There is none finer in the land. My two eyes have come back to me again.”
After supper he said to Danny: “‘Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.”
“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” said Danny, angrily. “Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire. Am I nothing in this house?”
April 6, 2017 § Leave a comment
He said, she said.
Did he or didn’t he? Did she or didn’t she?
I’m not going there.
There’s blame enough to spread around.
But one thing is sure. Definitions of what constitutes rape have evolved over the years that have mostly benefited the female victims, and mostly brought about by the unrelenting work of progressive women, and women’s organizations.
One hundred thirty years ago today–April 6, 1887–the Austin Daily Statesman closed the book on
The Laws That Were Passed by the Twentieth Legislature.
A Resume of the Laws Enacted During the Last “Weary Three Months.”
That handful of laws included
“Chapter 10 [H.B. No 47].–An act to amend article 528, chapter 7, title 15, of the penal code, more fully defining rape,
It reads as follows:
Article 528.—Rape is the carnal knowledge of a woman, without her consent, obtained by force, threats or fraud; or the carnal knowledge of a female under the age of ten years, with or without consent, and with or without the use of force, threats or fraud; or the carnal knowledge of a woman other than the wife of the person having such carnal knowledge, with or without consent, and with or without the use of force, threats or fraud, such woman being so mentally diseased at the time as to have no will to oppose the act of carnal knowledge, the person having carnal knowledge of her knowing her to be so mentally diseased.”
A Victim of Life’s Circumstances?
Wash Hardy was sentenced to be hanged on July 23, 1897, having been tried and convicted in the district court of Victoria County for the offense of raping young Florence Williams, daughter of a respected citizen of color of Houston’s Second Ward. But on July 21, two days before the trapdoor was to be sprung, Governor Charles Culberson commuted the sentence to life imprisonment.
On March 15, 1896, Sheriff Albert Erichson, through the Houston Daily Post had advised all officers to look out for and arrest Wash Hardy, described as “a coal black negro about 50 years of age and about 5 feet 8 inches high, clean shaved except a small moustache, which he constantly twists. He has a wart or growth over left eye, generally wears a crush hat with crease in center and tilted over left eye, usually carries an old overcoat of a red or light brown color and makes a living playing upon a tin flute.
“He is wanted for the abduction of Florence Williams, a ginger cake colored girl 10 years of age, rather slight built, wide between the eyes and flat nose, has small mole or dark spot on right side of nose near eye. They were last seen near Cold Spring, in San Jacinto County, at a wood camp.”
A $25 reward was being offered for his arrest.
On August 4, 1897, as Hardy settled into his new for-life style, the Daily Statesman reported:
THE GOVERNOR’S REASONS
For Commuting the Life Sentence of Wash Hardy of Victoria.
HARDY A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
It Seems That The Girl In The Case Was Quite Willing In The Cohabitation, Though She Said To The Contrary.
In regard to his recent commutation to life imprisonment of Wash Hardy, Governor Culberson offered this explanation:
Hardy was a man of color, as was the female, a girl alleged to have been about 11 years of age at the time the offense was committed. It seemed from the testimony and accompanying papers that the conviction rested largely on the charge that the female was less than 15 years of age, want of consent not being essential in that case, but there were many indications in the record that she consented to the acts of defendant, inasmuch as they were well acquainted with each other in Houston, went together from there to Victoria, and lived together, occupying the same room and the same bed for many weeks at Goliad and Victoria, and she could have prevented the outrage by making complaint.
Florence testified on the trial that her failure to make complaint was due to threats of defendant, but this had to be taken in connection with the distinctly proven fact that the defendant was often away from the place where she was stopping, and at those times complaint could have been made without opportunity on his part to injure her before his arrest, Culberson said. While the evidence of the mother and father of the girl was to the effect that she was about 11 years of age, when questioned closely, particularly the mother, no satisfactory answers were made to questions tending to show her actual and real age. The case could, therefore, be said to be one of carnal knowledge of a female, probably with her consent, and whose exact age at the time of the commission of the crime was in doubt. …
As was the case in such matters, the state board of pardon advisors carefully considered Hardy’s case. The Board of Pardon Advisors, created in 1893, comprised two individuals chosen by the governor, who assisted him by reviewing applications and making recommendations for executive clemency. The board was able to review more applications and examine these more thoroughly than the governor was able to do, which resulted in more pardons being granted.
On June 29, the board reported to the governor: “The facts show that applicant had been visiting this girl at her grandmother’s house in Houston for some time, but finally the two left and went to Victoria, where they lived together as man and wife, applicant, however, was claiming that the girl was his daughter and telling this story to the negroes with whom he boarded in Victoria. Applicant evidently committed rape on the child, but it was apparent that it was with her consent. We do not think the character of the offense is such as to justify the death penalty, and therefore advise that the sentence be commuted to life imprisonment in the penitentiary.”
February 24, 2017 § Leave a comment
Chapter Two: Rash Acts
Cora May Sloan
On Saturday evening, May 13, 1882, when a group of Austin printers on an excursion bound for San Antonio stopped at Kyle for refreshments they might have noticed an engaging young girl, about 16 or 17 years of age, attending to them at the refreshment stand. Those who did were somewhat astonished when they learned a few days later of her death – brought about by her own premeditated act. Her name was Cora May Sloan. Sometime during Sunday morning, and in consequence of some family matters, the girl received a slight chastisement (or perhaps only a correction) from her father, which made her very angry. Later in the morning she had an engagement with a young man in the neighborhood, to take a stroll. When the young man failed to meet his appointment the girl went to his residence to ascertain the cause of his not coming.
The young man not being at home, she asked the father if he (the son) was not going to keep his engagement with her; the father informed her that he did not know. She then asked him where his son was, and he replied that he thought he had gone out on the prairie somewhere. The girl upon hearing this immediately retraced her steps home and upon arriving there sat down and wrote a note giving her reasons for committing the rash act which caused her death. She put the note where it would be found and then took a large dose of strychnine. She was buried on May 15. From the wording of the note which she left, she must have written it in a fit of anger, as the language used was extremely harsh and bitter.
William G. Smith
On Christmas Day 1883, a tall, slender and handsome young man, age 23 years, William G. Smith, a native of Waco and well known in Austin, married at Meridian, Bosque County, a variety actress named Lizzie Mack, between 18 and 19 years old, a blonde with melting blue eyes, golden hair, seductive smiles, plump figure and blandishing manners.
Young Smith’s parents were wealthy and owned considerable property in Waco at their deaths. Will, who was “wild,” became infatuated with Lizzie, the daughter of Annie Mack, who ran a variety show in Waco, near the toll bridge where Smith was employed. They eloped and went to Meridian, and their elopement and marriage created considerable sensation in the Waco society circles at the time.
Lizzie, who appeared before the foot lights as the favorite of several variety theaters, finally came to the vaudeville show in San Antonio, where she attracted many admirers and succeeded in arousing the intense jealousy of her liege lord. He threatened to kill himself frequently, and they quarreled many times over the fact that she had ceased to care for him, but had cast the witchery of her smile over other admirers.
She finally wrote him a note announcing her intention of abandoning him, and requesting him to forget her as she had forgotten him. He then commenced to write her notes, telling her that he was going to kill himself, that she had murdered him as much as if she had taken a pistol and blown his brains out herself. He said he could not live after she had ceased to love him, and forgave her and gave her his blessing. He wanted her when he was dead to telegraph to his brother Bob in Waco, who would send after his body.
On Saturday, March 17, 1884, he purchased ten cents worth of morphine from Ragsdale, the druggist, and recorded his name in the poison book. Ragsdale had asked him if he knew the dose, he told Ragsdale he only wanted a small quantity.
Sunday he came back to Ragsdale, and as there was nothing suspicious in his actions, Ragsdale sold him 25 cents worth more. He got 8 grains of morphine from Ragsdale and 25 cents worth of cigars.
He then went to his room, where he and his wife had a quarrel and he told her he would commit suicide, poured a white powder into a glass and started to drinking, but before he could do so she struck the chalice from his lips and the glass fell to the floor and was broke into fragments.
He then cried, quarreled and went off again. On his return, he told her he had taken poison and she became scared and started off to send for a doctor. This was about five o’clock Sunday evening.
As she started he told her he was only fooling and wanted to find out if she still cared for him. His wife, however, thought it best to send for a doctor anyway, and told Mr. August Loux to go after one. Loux thought he was trying to worry here, and did not think that Smith had taken the deadly narcotic. Smith finally persuaded his wife that he had not taken the morphine, and sent her off to Market street to fit up another room which they had rented.
A Mrs. Flagg, one of the lodgers at the same house, suspected something wrong after Smith’s wife had gone, and she went to his room, when, looking into the door, she saw him sleeping with his hand to his face, but his face was very much discolored, breathing heavy and stentorious. He also groaned.
Flagg called to her husband, he went to Smith and tried to arouse him, but failed. Flagg and Loux both went for a doctor. Flagg brought the renowned Doctor George Cupples about half an hour later. Doctor Cupples said Smith was too far gone to be saved, but he would do his best, and administered strophine hypodermically, and afterwards Doctor Julius Braunagel assisted Doctor Cupples. Both worked faithfully. The antidote had a slight effect, produced partial restoration, but he died about 8 o’clock.
His family at Waco were appraised by telegraph of his rash act. A dispatch was received Monday from Bob Smith, the brother of the deceased, another from Mr. Sturgis, announcing that the former was on his way to San Antonio take charge of the remains. The brother of the deceased arrived Monday night, and took the body to Waco, passing through Austin on the 11 o’clock train. A large number of the friends of the deceased went to the station to pay respect to the remains as they passed through the city.
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.
February 1, 2017 § Leave a comment
January 18th 1878:
The beautiful mud
Oh, the mud, the mud, the beautiful mud,
how our feet go down with a sickening thud
into the slippery, slimy slush
that fills the streets of the city of mush.
It lies on the crossings, it covers each walk,
It forms the chief topic of gossip and talk.
It bespatters the person from ankles to nose
And dooms to disgrace all our favorite clothes.
Don’t talk about storms that shutter whole fleets.
The sea has no peril like mud in the street.
It discounts the smallpox, and makes us profane
while we flounder in puddles and struggle in vain.
I could live in a land where rattlesnakes creep,
Could smile amid perils far out on the Deep.
Could be happy where troubles rush in like a flood,
anywhere, anywhere out of the mud.