THE LAST DAYS OF SHIRLEY BROOKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 1191, 26 September 1874, Page 4

THE LAST DAYS OF SHIRLEY BROOKS.

Some — I trust many — under whose eyes these lines will fall will remember Shirley Brooks in his latter days, when the hard-fought-fight had been won, and he had come out of it, his whitening hair being the only scars of the struggle. He never looked braver, handsomer, nor happier. He was as deep in his books, as familiar with his ink, as ever ; but now he had his acknowledged place in the literature which he loved. The steel at Napoleon's side was the same on the eve of the battle as on the morrow of victory; but on the morrow it was the sword of Austerlitz. How cheerily and kindly, in the heyday of his complete success, Shirley Brooks gathered his circle of friends about him, none who ever stood under his roof -tree will forget. That was a pleasant house in Kent-ter-race, by the Regent's Park, where so many men whose names are household words were wont to gather and be wisely merry. How many years have I seen out and in, sitting with hosts of friends round the mahogany tree of our dear friend ! How many times has his manly and kindly voice -said " God bless you all" to us, as the bells of the new year broke through the stillness of midnight ! He stood at the head of his table last New Years-eve, his friends crowded about him — the background his books and pictures ; watch in hand. His happy English, face, ennobled with silver hair, never looked fuller of the intellectual light that he had trimmed and burned — a student always — for nearly forty years. I remember that sad feeling

came upon me as I gazed upon him, with his watch in his hand counting the dying seconds of the last New Years-eve he was destined to see. For he reminded me of my father in his study at Kilburn Priory, on his last New Years-eve, when he spoke so solemnly and slowly, as though in the midst of our revel death had whispered to him. The scattered flakes of white hair were the chief resemblance between the two ; and it was these that revived the old scene in my mmd — for I was struck with what appeared to me to be the almost sudden whiteness of my friend. But no sad memory, no melancholy foreboding, was apparent on the night, when, for the last time, Shirley Brooks blessed his guests, and wished them a happy New Year. All the old friends were there. Frith, Tenniel, Edmund Yates, Dv Maurier, Burnard, Mrs. Keeley, Crowdy, J. C. Parkinson, Sambourne, and many others ; and among the welcome strangers was Mark Twain, who proposed the health of the host in a speech brimming with his peculiar humour. Shirley Brooks replied quietly, and with a little fatigue in his manner. It was late, and he abhorred late hours. He had been an early man all his life ; and to his good habit he owed that prodigious power of work which astonished his friends, who knew that he had never been a robust man. Less than two months afterwards he was upon his death-bed. He was busy with his duties until the last hour of his life. On the morning of the day on which his eyes were closed for ever he looked over the forthcoming number of Punch, and made some suggestions. He was at peace with all the world. He had blessed his wife for the loving care with which she had watched over him. His boys were at home with him. And he turned gently on his side, and fell into his long sleep, leaving hosts of friends to mourn him, and not an enemy, that I ever heard of, to assail his memory. — Gentleman? s Magazine.