Foote, E.O. (1832 - 1872)







----Source: NEILLSVILLE REPUBLICAN 06/06/1872

Foote, E. O. (1832 - 1872)

Died, at the O'Neill House in this village (Neillsville, Clark County), on Saturday night, June 1, 1872, of consumption, E. O. Foote, in the 40th years of his age.

The deceased was better known throughout a large portion of the Northwester part of the state as Commodore Foote. The news of his death will be received by few unexpectedly and many hearts will be keenly touched with sadness at this untimely and sorrowful end of one who will be remembered for his many noble qualities, but as an unfortunate victim of that fell destroyer and accursed demon, Drink. Commodore was a man of more than ordinary intellectual acquirements, was noted and admired for his ready wit and good nature. He was a jeweler by trade, but yielding some time ago to the vile tempter, soon became a total wreck of his former self. He had the happy faculty of making himself agreeable in anyone's presence, and the heartlessness of cruel landlords or bartenders had no terror for him. Probably there is not one in Sparta, Humbird, Augusta, Eau Claire, Chippewa Falls or Durand, who have not had Commodore for their guest, and though it could not be said he never missed a meal, it might possibly be said he never paid a cent and it was never asked or expected of him. He came and went when he pleased, and was always certain of a hearty welcome. He was known among all classes and was always treated with favor and kindness. To his credit, be it said, he made several desperate efforts to overcome his inordinate thirst for liquor, but the fiend held on relentlessly and seemed determined to make complete the ruin it was fast accomplishing.

Several weeks ago, Commodore went out on the line of the Wisconsin Central railroad, to keep books for a firm of contractors he said, but undoubtedly his real purpose was to escape from the fatal grasp of his mortal enemy. Would to God, he had been successful. The exposure endured by the hardy workmen upon the road, was too much for Commodore s weak and frail constitution. He caught a sever cold, and was brought back to town, feeble, broken down, with a pale and haggard face, which plainly showed that death had laid hold of its victim. He gradually faded away, and before his death he had gone down until he appeared like a living skeleton. Satisfied at last that his end was near he conversed freely and rationally of his fate, made a few requests of his friends regarding his burial, and finally passed peacefully and tranquilly over the dark river, with his hands placed in burial form across his breast, breathing on his last words to his careful attendants, in trembling accents, Good-bye good-bye. His career and premature death should serve as a terrible warning to the winebibber. Let his name be added to the already long list of noble souls, hopelessly lost in the deep abyss of drink.



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