Wreck of the "London."

by Anonymous

Miss Brooker, of Pimlico, spoke her last words, and they were those of quiet resignation to the will of God. We hear of her, during those days and nights of fearful suspense, doing what she could to soothe a fellow-passenger whose mind at times seemed on the very verge of delirium, the absence of which among the passengers generally, while it is matter of devoutest gratitude, is also matter of greatest wonder,—unless explained by the presence of Him who walketh upon the wings of the wind, and who, in answer to prayer, was shedding abroad in many hearts a tranquillity so deep and hallowed as to be beyond the reach of the wildest tempest. As the end drew rapidly near, Miss Brooker clasped her hands, and was heard to say, as if to herself,—but, oh! there was One by that heard all that was said during that awful last hour,—“Well, I have done all that I could; I can do no more!”

Nothing now, except trust, and hope for the life beyond this troubled one. Nothing now, but to make the most of those exhortations which, with trumpet-clearness, rise every now and then above the howling of the gale—“There is hope that we may ALL get safe to heaven. Those of you who are not converted, now is the time: not a moment to be lost, for in a few minutes we shall all be in the presence of our Judge.”

There were more last words still, and they were those of Mr. G. V. Brooke. Only a few days before,—on the 23rd of December,—he had sustained the character of Richard the Third. The walls were not placarded with the announcement, “The last appearance of Mr. G. V. Brooke upon any stage,” but they might have been so; and how would the hundreds who listened to his farewell address that night have felt, could they have caught the double meaning which the opening sentences of that address contained, at least as we read it now?

The actor was in painful ill-health, and his subsequent heroism on board the foundering London derives additional interest from the fact. His last words at Belfast were these:—“Ladies and Gentlemen, with this night finishes my professional career in Belfast for a long, very long time to come. I fervently trust, by the favour of the One Providence, that I may at some distant time be enabled to return to a town which I, in a measure, look on as my home, where I may professionally or unprofessionally, mingle with my friends in Belfast again. I now take an affectionate farewell of you all, wishing from my heart continued prosperity to this magnificent city.”

These were his last words on any stage. A few days later, and he was bearing his part in no mimic tragedy,—in a conflict which, in its way, was far more appalling than the battle of Bosworth Field in which Richard fell. As we watch the closing scene of the poor actor’s life, one cannot have a heart and remain unmoved or silent in the presence of the man who, in weak health and with painful hoarseness, did the work of many men combined during those despairing days. Did the hundreds who listened to him in Belfast catch any prophetic hint in the mimic agony with which he delivered the death speech of Richard?

“I have set my life upon a cast,

And I will stand the hazard of the die!”

The time had come, when, in reality, there was no earthly means of escape, and, seeing that all his exertions were useless, he rested upon one of the half-doors of the companion, and, bareheaded to the storm, gave himself up to reflection. His last words to man were to the steward, “If you succeed in saving yourself, give my farewell to the people of Melbourne;” but who shall say what words were addressed to Him who was alone able to deliver, during those four hours in which he was observed to continue in a musing attitude.

Strangely enough, there were last words spoken, which, upon being repeated by the survivor to whom they were addressed, will doubtless carry a value which, had the speaker known, would much have soothed him during his closing hours of life. A son was on board the London, who, with death staring him in the face, thought tenderly of the old man his father, whose declining years would have been rendered all the happier for possessing money that must now, as the speaker thought, sink with him, and be lost. Among the second cabin passengers were two, Mr. Munro and Mr. Eastwood, who had been acquainted previous to the voyage. As the little boat was being filled with all it could hold, Eastwood, addressing his fellow-passenger, said, “Well, Jack, I think we are going to go.” “I think we are, Eastwood.” “Well, we cannot help it,” the other went on. “There’s only one thing I regret about it: of a draft for 500l. on the Bank of Victoria, Ballarat, I only received 20l., which I gave to the Captain, in the office of Money Wigram and Co. I should have liked my poor father to have got the balance.” These were the last words of a son, who soon after perished in the waves, but his friend escaped, remembering exactly the words which filial tenderness had inspired.

There were some last words spoken which we cannot record, words of the sufferers to each other, and words addressed to Him whose ear is never heavy to the cry of distress. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and acquaintances,—what words of farewell passed amongst these! What last words of prayer mingled even with the sighs of death! With what tender compassion and sympathy have those been thought of whose heroic actions on board the doomed ship were the last words that will be sacredly cherished in the loving memory of those who knew them. The picture of that brave young officer, Mr. Angell, standing to his post to the last at the donkey-engine, which was used in working the pumps, calmly keeping there while the billows thundered their spray around him, and going down into the dark whirling water with his hands still on the engine;—this is a picture which no artist, however gifted, can paint strong and beautiful enough for us. It was his last sermon—and how eloquent was it—to all the young officers of our Navy upon a sense of duty, making him who possesses it superior to all thoughts of danger.