Son of David French Allen and his first wife Clarra. John Allen was his only full brother. He had two half-brothers, Joseph Allen and Richard Allen.
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Paul Allen is dead, and his death was the result of an overdose of hydrate of chloral, whether taken with suicidal intent, God alone knows.
Monday he was at work at the mill, and aside from the fact that he complained of rheumatism there was nothing in his demeanor indicating anything unusual. True it is that during the day he drank some, but if he was in the least intoxicated no one about the mill was aware of it. Sometime during the early part of the evening he called at Dr. Coble's drug store and purchased hydrate of chloral, telling the Doctor that he suffered from rheumatism and insomnia, and was in the habit of occasionally using the drug for the purposes of inducing sleep. Shortly before eight o'clock he visited the dynamo room at the mill, spoke pleasantly to the man who has charge of the dynamos, from there he went to the engine room and laughed and talked with the engineer. While there he went to the water hydrant and appeared to be drinking from a phial what the engineer thought to be whisky. From there he immediately went to the office where his brother John was at work, and throwing himself on the lounge began to breathe heavily. John knew that his brother was in the habit of using narcotics and did not at once realize the true condition, but as the breathing grew heavier, he became alarmed--went over to where his brother lay and endeavored to arouse him; failing to do so, he called others and rushed to Dr. Brown's office, where he also found Dr. Knapp, both of whom responded promptly to the call, but it was too late; the deadly drug had done its work, and its effects were beyond all human control. By hypodermic process the doctors administered a stimulant, but it produced no visible effect, and in a few moments the spirit of the poor boy returned to its Maker.
His father, Mr. D.F. Allen, was at the time out of the city, but was at once wired, and taking the first train arrived here only to find his son a corpse. The feelings of that father can better be imagined than described; no pen can portray the awful grief at the moment when the fearful truth flashed upon him that his son--his first born--was gone, and gone forever. Whatever may be the verdict of this people as to the motives of the once bright and manly boy, not a particle of blame can ever be attached to his father or any of his relatives. No young man in this vicinity ever had better or brighter prospects for a useful manhood and successful life than Paul Allen. Every opportunity for a noble career was spread out before him, and his failure, if fail he did, was the fault of none other than himself. No father was ever more indulgent, or more ready to condone the faults of an erring son, or more ready to forgive them than D.F. Allen, and we but voice the sentiment of the entire community when we say that he has always done his duty--a father's whole duty towards his son--as he is given to understand it, and there is absolutely no room for criticism. Many who knew Paul best do not believe that he committed suicide, but that unintentionally he swallowed an overdose, and when all things are considered it is not only possible, but highly probable that this may be true. That he had frequently threatened his own life is true, but such treats were always uttered in his melancholy and gloomy moments; and this was not his condition yesterday. Let us forget his faults, and remember him only as the bright manly, generous, open-hearted boy, who we all knew before the evil days came upon him, for "there is divinity that shapes all our ends, rough hew them as we may." The funeral occurred Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m. Services by Rev. Jesse Hill, and the remains were interred at I.O.O.F cemetery.
__________________________________________________________________________
I learn Paul Allen is dead. The news was a shock to me. Paul was my cousin, I knew him. He spent a week with me but a month ago. Did anyone ever hear of Paul Allen having an enemy? I answer it myself and say, No. He did not have. He had a heart that was bigger than Paul Allen. He had a nature impulsive. He was whole-souled! He was Paul Allen, there can be but one. He sat at night and told me his inmost thoughts, his troubles, (perhaps some were imaginary), his hopes and his ambitions. They were lofty, honest and task-worthy! I thought much of Paul Allen; I loved him. Be kind enough to let me say I mourn with other--poor Paul! --Walter N. Suit, Chicago, October 4th, 1891.
________________________________________________________________________
Paul Allen is dead, and his death was the result of an overdose of hydrate of chloral, whether taken with suicidal intent, God alone knows.
Monday he was at work at the mill, and aside from the fact that he complained of rheumatism there was nothing in his demeanor indicating anything unusual. True it is that during the day he drank some, but if he was in the least intoxicated no one about the mill was aware of it. Sometime during the early part of the evening he called at Dr. Coble's drug store and purchased hydrate of chloral, telling the Doctor that he suffered from rheumatism and insomnia, and was in the habit of occasionally using the drug for the purposes of inducing sleep. Shortly before eight o'clock he visited the dynamo room at the mill, spoke pleasantly to the man who has charge of the dynamos, from there he went to the engine room and laughed and talked with the engineer. While there he went to the water hydrant and appeared to be drinking from a phial what the engineer thought to be whisky. From there he immediately went to the office where his brother John was at work, and throwing himself on the lounge began to breathe heavily. John knew that his brother was in the habit of using narcotics and did not at once realize the true condition, but as the breathing grew heavier, he became alarmed--went over to where his brother lay and endeavored to arouse him; failing to do so, he called others and rushed to Dr. Brown's office, where he also found Dr. Knapp, both of whom responded promptly to the call, but it was too late; the deadly drug had done its work, and its effects were beyond all human control. By hypodermic process the doctors administered a stimulant, but it produced no visible effect, and in a few moments the spirit of the poor boy returned to its Maker.
His father, Mr. D.F. Allen, was at the time out of the city, but was at once wired, and taking the first train arrived here only to find his son a corpse. The feelings of that father can better be imagined than described; no pen can portray the awful grief at the moment when the fearful truth flashed upon him that his son--his first born--was gone, and gone forever. Whatever may be the verdict of this people as to the motives of the once bright and manly boy, not a particle of blame can ever be attached to his father or any of his relatives. No young man in this vicinity ever had better or brighter prospects for a useful manhood and successful life than Paul Allen. Every opportunity for a noble career was spread out before him, and his failure, if fail he did, was the fault of none other than himself. No father was ever more indulgent, or more ready to condone the faults of an erring son, or more ready to forgive them than D.F. Allen, and we but voice the sentiment of the entire community when we say that he has always done his duty--a father's whole duty towards his son--as he is given to understand it, and there is absolutely no room for criticism. Many who knew Paul best do not believe that he committed suicide, but that unintentionally he swallowed an overdose, and when all things are considered it is not only possible, but highly probable that this may be true. That he had frequently threatened his own life is true, but such treats were always uttered in his melancholy and gloomy moments; and this was not his condition yesterday. Let us forget his faults, and remember him only as the bright manly, generous, open-hearted boy, who we all knew before the evil days came upon him, for "there is divinity that shapes all our ends, rough hew them as we may." The funeral occurred Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m. Services by Rev. Jesse Hill, and the remains were interred at I.O.O.F cemetery.
__________________________________________________________________________
I learn Paul Allen is dead. The news was a shock to me. Paul was my cousin, I knew him. He spent a week with me but a month ago. Did anyone ever hear of Paul Allen having an enemy? I answer it myself and say, No. He did not have. He had a heart that was bigger than Paul Allen. He had a nature impulsive. He was whole-souled! He was Paul Allen, there can be but one. He sat at night and told me his inmost thoughts, his troubles, (perhaps some were imaginary), his hopes and his ambitions. They were lofty, honest and task-worthy! I thought much of Paul Allen; I loved him. Be kind enough to let me say I mourn with other--poor Paul! --Walter N. Suit, Chicago, October 4th, 1891.
Son of David French Allen and his first wife Clarra. John Allen was his only full brother. He had two half-brothers, Joseph Allen and Richard Allen.
________________________________________________________________________
Paul Allen is dead, and his death was the result of an overdose of hydrate of chloral, whether taken with suicidal intent, God alone knows.
Monday he was at work at the mill, and aside from the fact that he complained of rheumatism there was nothing in his demeanor indicating anything unusual. True it is that during the day he drank some, but if he was in the least intoxicated no one about the mill was aware of it. Sometime during the early part of the evening he called at Dr. Coble's drug store and purchased hydrate of chloral, telling the Doctor that he suffered from rheumatism and insomnia, and was in the habit of occasionally using the drug for the purposes of inducing sleep. Shortly before eight o'clock he visited the dynamo room at the mill, spoke pleasantly to the man who has charge of the dynamos, from there he went to the engine room and laughed and talked with the engineer. While there he went to the water hydrant and appeared to be drinking from a phial what the engineer thought to be whisky. From there he immediately went to the office where his brother John was at work, and throwing himself on the lounge began to breathe heavily. John knew that his brother was in the habit of using narcotics and did not at once realize the true condition, but as the breathing grew heavier, he became alarmed--went over to where his brother lay and endeavored to arouse him; failing to do so, he called others and rushed to Dr. Brown's office, where he also found Dr. Knapp, both of whom responded promptly to the call, but it was too late; the deadly drug had done its work, and its effects were beyond all human control. By hypodermic process the doctors administered a stimulant, but it produced no visible effect, and in a few moments the spirit of the poor boy returned to its Maker.
His father, Mr. D.F. Allen, was at the time out of the city, but was at once wired, and taking the first train arrived here only to find his son a corpse. The feelings of that father can better be imagined than described; no pen can portray the awful grief at the moment when the fearful truth flashed upon him that his son--his first born--was gone, and gone forever. Whatever may be the verdict of this people as to the motives of the once bright and manly boy, not a particle of blame can ever be attached to his father or any of his relatives. No young man in this vicinity ever had better or brighter prospects for a useful manhood and successful life than Paul Allen. Every opportunity for a noble career was spread out before him, and his failure, if fail he did, was the fault of none other than himself. No father was ever more indulgent, or more ready to condone the faults of an erring son, or more ready to forgive them than D.F. Allen, and we but voice the sentiment of the entire community when we say that he has always done his duty--a father's whole duty towards his son--as he is given to understand it, and there is absolutely no room for criticism. Many who knew Paul best do not believe that he committed suicide, but that unintentionally he swallowed an overdose, and when all things are considered it is not only possible, but highly probable that this may be true. That he had frequently threatened his own life is true, but such treats were always uttered in his melancholy and gloomy moments; and this was not his condition yesterday. Let us forget his faults, and remember him only as the bright manly, generous, open-hearted boy, who we all knew before the evil days came upon him, for "there is divinity that shapes all our ends, rough hew them as we may." The funeral occurred Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m. Services by Rev. Jesse Hill, and the remains were interred at I.O.O.F cemetery.
__________________________________________________________________________
I learn Paul Allen is dead. The news was a shock to me. Paul was my cousin, I knew him. He spent a week with me but a month ago. Did anyone ever hear of Paul Allen having an enemy? I answer it myself and say, No. He did not have. He had a heart that was bigger than Paul Allen. He had a nature impulsive. He was whole-souled! He was Paul Allen, there can be but one. He sat at night and told me his inmost thoughts, his troubles, (perhaps some were imaginary), his hopes and his ambitions. They were lofty, honest and task-worthy! I thought much of Paul Allen; I loved him. Be kind enough to let me say I mourn with other--poor Paul! --Walter N. Suit, Chicago, October 4th, 1891.
________________________________________________________________________
Paul Allen is dead, and his death was the result of an overdose of hydrate of chloral, whether taken with suicidal intent, God alone knows.
Monday he was at work at the mill, and aside from the fact that he complained of rheumatism there was nothing in his demeanor indicating anything unusual. True it is that during the day he drank some, but if he was in the least intoxicated no one about the mill was aware of it. Sometime during the early part of the evening he called at Dr. Coble's drug store and purchased hydrate of chloral, telling the Doctor that he suffered from rheumatism and insomnia, and was in the habit of occasionally using the drug for the purposes of inducing sleep. Shortly before eight o'clock he visited the dynamo room at the mill, spoke pleasantly to the man who has charge of the dynamos, from there he went to the engine room and laughed and talked with the engineer. While there he went to the water hydrant and appeared to be drinking from a phial what the engineer thought to be whisky. From there he immediately went to the office where his brother John was at work, and throwing himself on the lounge began to breathe heavily. John knew that his brother was in the habit of using narcotics and did not at once realize the true condition, but as the breathing grew heavier, he became alarmed--went over to where his brother lay and endeavored to arouse him; failing to do so, he called others and rushed to Dr. Brown's office, where he also found Dr. Knapp, both of whom responded promptly to the call, but it was too late; the deadly drug had done its work, and its effects were beyond all human control. By hypodermic process the doctors administered a stimulant, but it produced no visible effect, and in a few moments the spirit of the poor boy returned to its Maker.
His father, Mr. D.F. Allen, was at the time out of the city, but was at once wired, and taking the first train arrived here only to find his son a corpse. The feelings of that father can better be imagined than described; no pen can portray the awful grief at the moment when the fearful truth flashed upon him that his son--his first born--was gone, and gone forever. Whatever may be the verdict of this people as to the motives of the once bright and manly boy, not a particle of blame can ever be attached to his father or any of his relatives. No young man in this vicinity ever had better or brighter prospects for a useful manhood and successful life than Paul Allen. Every opportunity for a noble career was spread out before him, and his failure, if fail he did, was the fault of none other than himself. No father was ever more indulgent, or more ready to condone the faults of an erring son, or more ready to forgive them than D.F. Allen, and we but voice the sentiment of the entire community when we say that he has always done his duty--a father's whole duty towards his son--as he is given to understand it, and there is absolutely no room for criticism. Many who knew Paul best do not believe that he committed suicide, but that unintentionally he swallowed an overdose, and when all things are considered it is not only possible, but highly probable that this may be true. That he had frequently threatened his own life is true, but such treats were always uttered in his melancholy and gloomy moments; and this was not his condition yesterday. Let us forget his faults, and remember him only as the bright manly, generous, open-hearted boy, who we all knew before the evil days came upon him, for "there is divinity that shapes all our ends, rough hew them as we may." The funeral occurred Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m. Services by Rev. Jesse Hill, and the remains were interred at I.O.O.F cemetery.
__________________________________________________________________________
I learn Paul Allen is dead. The news was a shock to me. Paul was my cousin, I knew him. He spent a week with me but a month ago. Did anyone ever hear of Paul Allen having an enemy? I answer it myself and say, No. He did not have. He had a heart that was bigger than Paul Allen. He had a nature impulsive. He was whole-souled! He was Paul Allen, there can be but one. He sat at night and told me his inmost thoughts, his troubles, (perhaps some were imaginary), his hopes and his ambitions. They were lofty, honest and task-worthy! I thought much of Paul Allen; I loved him. Be kind enough to let me say I mourn with other--poor Paul! --Walter N. Suit, Chicago, October 4th, 1891.
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