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“Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water.”

“Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is not of Heaven nor earth.'

The murders (including suicides and deaths by duelling)
that are the fruits of intemperance, constitute far the greater
portion of those which stain the records of the judicial, or private
history of society.

The brutal quarrels which end in the immediate death of one
or both of the parties; the polite differences that are terminated
in blood by the sword or pistol; the female victims who
are sacrificed by drunken husbands, and who sink under violence
more barbarous than the most ferocious soldier perpetrates,
when in the carrer of glorious victory he sacks a city—
or the wives who sink sorrowfully by the slow torture of disappointed
hope; the deadly blow inflicted by jealousy stimulated
to madness after the enticing draught; the self-murder committed
under the immediate influence of alcohol; or the deliberate,
suicidal, dastardly crime, which is weeks, and months,
and years in the accomplishing: all belong to the same family,
and fill the greater part of the history of guilt.

It is our task to record a few instances of the misery occasioned
by this deplorable vice. They are not creations of the
fancy, but the sad picture of reality, softened in feature and

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colouring, rather than exaggerated, or even exhibited in a
strong light. The story of the eminent tragedian who has occupied
so many of our pages, is an example of the latter class
of suicides. May his tale (the tale of thousands,) be a salutary
warning to those who read it! and may this simple catalogue
of murders, all springing from the same source, make
the young turn from the temptation which besets them; and
the old, who may have erred during the customs of “thirty
years ago,” abjure that which is destroying themselves, and is
a snare to those who follow them!

Far be it from me to assert, or insinuate, that the detestable
vice which is the parent of so many crimes, is (or has been)
more prevalent in this country than in others. Lamentable as
are the instances I have recorded, they are but a few of the
many I have witnessed. Yet we know that in Europe the
same destruction is going on triumphantly. Witness the gin
palaces, and the theatres of London. I will quote from an
American author of the highest character, who is known not
to spare the faults of his countrymen. “On the whole,” says
James Fenimore Cooper in his Switzerland, “I repeat for the
eleventh time, that I have come to the conclusion there is less
of this degrading practice at home, among the native population,
than in any other country I have yet visited. Certainly
much less than there is either in England or France.”

But let us not cease our endeavours to eradicate a practice
that is so deadly to every faculty of body and mind!

The note from Cooke, mentioned in the last chapter, requested
the immediate presence of his young friend; who
accordingly repaired, after composing his thoughts, to the
lodgings of the tragedian. He first told Miss Portland, who
still for a short time remained with her aunt, where he was
going.

On his arrival he found that the physicians were in consultation
in an adjoining chamber. Davenport was in attendance
on Cooke. Spiffard was struck by the evident change in the
old gentleman's appearance, although he had recently seen
him.

“I am glad to see you, my young friend. I have a request
to make. You must introduce that angel to me who saved
me, for a little while; whether for better or not, is something
doubtful; but, at all events, I would thank her—I would see
her sweet face instead of those of Davenport and the Doctor's.
They are holding a consultation in the next room, as to the
time of execution,I presume, for condemnation is past. There

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is a gathering of them; for you know where the carcase is
“there will the crows be gathered together.”

“It is `eagles,' not crows. You misquote,” said Spiffard.

“Birds of prey—birds of prey—call them what you will,
eagles or crows:—these are good fellows. They are consulting—
but I know the result—I can't last many hours.”

He spoke in a husky voice, little above a whisper; but
smiled in the face of his friend, and pressed his hand affectionately.

The principal among the many liberal minded medical men
of the city, were interested in the welfare of the tragedian.
Doctors Cadwallader, Hosack, McLean, and Francis, were
at this moment in consultation. They entered, and Cadwallader,
as the oldest, communicated their opinion in as gentle
terms as he could devise; for they had thought proper to notify
the sick man that he had but a few hours to live.

“Doctor,” said the patient, in the same low whisper, but
with a look that seemed to contradict their opinion, “we must
all play the principal part in life's last scene, and I am favoured
in having such prompters and actors with me.” He then
added, with levity, perhaps to be attributed to disease, or the
composing draught of the previous night, “I have for a great
while played the first part—perhaps I have now the most difficult—
the next will be mere dumb show, the part of a mute in
the churchyard scene. I have played every speaking part in
Hamlet, from the prince to the grave digger; the next will be
the skull. Some fellow with a dirty spade will be thumping
me on the pate; or some learned philosopher will read a homily
on the effects of the passions or appetites upon the bones of
the cranium, for the benefit of medicine or morals. `Where
be your gibes now!—Quite chap-fallen!'—Well, well, `And a
man's life is no more than to say, one.”'

The dying man, for such he was, appeared less to feel his
situation than any one present—Spiffard and Davenport more.
There was silence for a time, which was broken by the audible
sobs of Trustworthy, who had been sitting by the foot of
the bed, but not being able to repress his emotion, started up
and left the room.

Cooke, on hearing and seeing this, hid his face on the pillow
for a few moments, and then looking up with recovered
firmness, addressed Doctor Cadwallader.

“I thank you, Doctor, for being frank with me. I thought it
must be so. I have often been racked with pain similar to,
but more violent than I have lately felt; but I never thought

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it was death's hand that was on me till to-day. I am now
comparatively free from pain. I have whimpered, and whined,
as you know, Mr. Spiffard, and have been as maudlin at one
time, as brutal at another. I see it all now. I have no disposition
to be lachrymose; but if I could undo some of the
mischief I have done, I should be the happier for it. That's
past—that's past!—but I have a strong desire to see and
serve—essentially serve those who preserved me when I otherwise
should have perished like a houseless cur in the snow of
the streets. Mr. Spiffard, you know—that night!—O that
night! It is present in my dreams; and oftener, in my waking
reveries; oftener than my words have indicated. That night!
That night.”

“Your feelings are too much excited.”

“I must prohibit talking.”

“Nay, Doctor, a few minutes longer or shorter—an hour
more or less—matters not now; but a deed of justice matters
much. There was a young nymph-like figure that hovered
around me—an angel—perhaps a token of forgiveness. I recognised
her as one I had seen before—but then there were
others that I thought I had seen and heard before; but that
was madness. Mr. Spiffard, you have acknowledged that you
know who the angel was.”

“I have told you, Sir. It was the niece of Mrs. Epsom.”

“Can I see her? Do I know her?”

“You once rescued her from insult at the theatre.”

“I remember! and she rescued me from death. Can I
see her?”

Spiffard assured him that he thought she would attend at
his request.

The physicians interfered to prevent excitement, and told
him that it was only on condition of his being composed, they
could promise him the power to express his gratitude to Miss
Portland. He promised obedience, and his physicians, leaving
such medicines as were necessary, departed. Spiffard,
promising him to bring Emma to see him, left him with his
faithful attendants.

The next morning Spiffard conducted Emma Portland to
the bed side of the grateful old man. She might have felt
some reluctance at the thought of being brought forward to
receive thanks for what appeared to her as the common duty
of humanity, but she had higher views and holier hopes to support
her.

She knew, though her conductor did not, the relation in

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which her betrothed and his mother stood to the erring man.
They had determined to remain unknown to him, and to continue
the name and character in which they had heretofore appeared
in the country of their adoption. There were perhaps
engagements which he had entered into on the supposition of
their death, which were not to be broken or disturbed. But
Emma, among other hopes, felt a wish to be, although in
secret, a link between the man who was to be her husband—
the woman who was already her second mother—and the penitent
who had abandoned them; and worse, driven them from
him.

Unhesitatingly she approached the man who only twice before
had been in her presence; once acting as her guardian
and protector from insult, and once wanting even such protection
as her weak frame, but strong mind, could give, to save
him from death—the death of the unsheltered outcast wanderer.

Cooke held out his hand and welcomed the lovely girl. At
his request, and with the permission of one of his kind physicians,
he was bolstered up, as he said, “to look once more on
the face of an angel.”

“I am sorry, sir,” said Emma, blushing, “to see you so
reduced in strength.”

“You have seen me in a worse plight.”

“I have seen you a gallant knight rescuing a forlorn damsel
from the attack of a monster,” she said, smiling.

“Monster, indeed, that would injure you!”

“And I hope to see you again protecting the weak, and
aiding the distressed.”

“No, no!”

“Mr. Cooke,” said his physician, “you must make your
interview short.”

“Well, well, I will obey. First, my dear young lady, receive
my thanks for saving me from a dog's death. Don't
say a word. I must be concise. You must do me a favour.
I understand that the good people who received me under their
roof on that right, have had a happy reverse of fortune.
They, therefore, do not need, and have refused, pecuniary
tokens of my gratitude. Be it so. You must mediate between
them and me. You must prevail on the lady to receive
and wear a ring, as a remembrancer. You must give it with
my blessing and thanks—no one can deny you. Trusty! in
my desk, of which you keep the key, you will find in the left
hand drawer a ring-case. Bring it to me.” It was brought

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to him. “This ring has had no owner for twenty years and
more—let it remind that good lady that George Frederick died
gratefully remembering her.”

He sunk back after Emma had received the jewel. The
physician hurried her and Spiffard out of the room. In an
hour from that time the worn-out frame of the great tragedian
was lifeless.[3]

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On the return of Spiffard and Emma to Mrs. Epsom's,
they found Henry Johnson. It was Emma's intention to visit
Mrs. Johnson and execute her trust in private; but before
she left home for this purpose, Davenport brought the tidings
to Spiffard of the death of Cooke, and in all haste the young
man repaired with the messenger to the spot, where he still
found the physician.

Henry and Emma repaired to Mrs. Johnson's. The young
bearer of thanks delivered the message. But on the sight of
the ring Mrs. Johnson was deeply affected.

“My children,” she said, after being relieved by tears,
“this ring was a present to me before marriage. When I fled
my country I returned it. See how it has come again. Henry!
ought I not to see him?”

“It is too late, madam, if it were right—it is too late. This
message to you was the last sentence he spoke.”

Strange as it may appear, the health of that amiable woman
was restored; seemingly mending from that time. She lived
long to witness and enjoy the happiness of Henry and Emma.
He, after a time, the prosperous partner of Littlejohn & Co.,
as well as of the once Emma Portland. She a thriving partner
in a no less prosperous concern. The prosperity of both
houses based on the immoveable foundation of temperance.

eaf089v2.n3

[3] The remains of George Frederick Cooke were buried in St. Paul's
Church Yard, New-York, (after certain portions were abstracted,) and a
monument was some years afterwards placed over them by Edmund
Kean, a man of great genius, who followed in Cooke's steps, and exceeded
him, if not in skill, certainly in depravity; and of course sunk earlier in
life to debility, disease, and the tomb. The writer of Kean's life tells us a
story of Kean and Cooke's great toe. If other parts of his book are as
accurate, his hero, who is represented as a profligate, may have been a
saint. It is true, that Kean carried, as a relic, to England, a fragment of
the man he imitated. It was the bones of that fore-finger with which
George Frederick enforced the words of his author in a manner never to
be forgotten by those who saw him on the stage.

It has been my task to exhibit, I hope for the good of my fellow creatures,
the effects of intemperance upon the external appearance, conduct, moral
character and happiness of this extraordinary man, and I have called upon
Dr. John W. Francis, one of his physicians, to aid me, by showing the internal
ravages of the fiend upon those organs which the beneficent Author
of Nature has given for our comfort and usefulness, as evinced in the case
of Mr. Cooke and others. I make an extract from his most valuable reply
to my interrogatories: a portion of which is already given.

“Every body knows that intemperance exercises a singularly direct influence
on the liver: the pancreas and the spleen are also deeply affected
by long continued inebriety, particularly the pancreas. The researches of
the pathologist have led him to describe several striking alterations in the
liver. It may become, by free drinking, preternaturally hard or scirrhous; be
converted into an entire mass of tubercles; and these may be more or less
deep seated or superficial, with or without abscess; its whole structure
may also be changed: it may be rendered, by undue excitement, congested
and obstructed, and become extraordinarily enlarged; and we may here
remark, that the inordinate plethora of the blood-vessels, which so repeatedly
accompanies excess in eating and hard drinking, evinces its powers
particularly on this organ. But many pages could be devoted to a description
of the diseased changes which have been noticed in this important
part of the human economy. I once asked old Mr. Fife, the anatomist at
Edinburgh, who was dissector at the University, how great was the largest
sized liver he had ever encountered in his examination of dead bodies for
collegiate purposes? He answered fifty-seven pounds!! and this occurred
in the person of an inebriate who had long lived in the East Indies. You
may judge the more accurately of the ponderosity of this liver, when you
reflect that the ordinary size of the organ may vary from four to seven or
eight or nine pounds; and you might infer that such a liver would have
formed bile enough for an army; yet this man died from the deficiency of
this secretion. The livers of those who abuse their constitution by alcoholic,
or distilled drink, is, however, generally preternaturally diminished
and found in a scirrhous state; while fermented drinks will the rather augment
the volume of the organ; such at least I have found to be the facin
several dissections. In poor George Frederick Cooke, as you may ret
collect, the liver was very small, studded with tubercles, and as hard ascartilage.
The pancreas, so important to serve healthy digestion, undergoes
many alterations in the bodies of inebriates; a scirrhous condition is
perhaps the most frequent. The spleen seems most to suffer from the consequences
of inordinate excitement, and becomes overloaded.”

“Other parts of the economy are also brought to suffer from the rebellious
influence of alcohol; but I should trespass far beyond the prescribed limits
to detail them here. Enough has perhaps already been given in these imperfect
notes; a large catalogue would neither suit your plan, nor my present
convenience. Moreover, ex pede Herculem.”

Very sincerely your friend,

J. W. FRANCIS.

Wm. Dunlap, Esq.

p089-435

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