THE LIST OF PASSENGERS.
We must pause yet once more before accompanying the voyagers, that we
may know as many of them as we possibly can. Many we perhaps shall
never know: their very names are already forgotten; or if we turn
to look at them they tell of no history, and suggest no personal
remembrance. On such a day they were in the _London_, on such a day
they sank with her in the Bay of Biscay. This is all perhaps we shall
ever know concerning them.
A gentleman, who knew most of the passengers on board--and we give
an authorized list of the names in the Appendix--when he heard of
the catastrophe, remarked, that it would throw half Melbourne into
mourning. Doubtless it will, and into how many other places besides
will not the news of the catastrophe carry mourning? That one poor
Bavarian, those two hapless Danes, had they no friends in the world
to shed a tear over their watery grave? We dare not forget that each
one, as he embarked, carried within him, as it were, a very world of
varied interest, and that the hopes and sympathies of the unknown and
poor were as precious and beautiful to those who knew and loved them,
as were the plans and fortunes of the well-known and wealthy to the
circle of which they formed part. Every death we see recorded should
bring before us, in imagination, a bier, around which we see gathering
a collection of mourners, refusing to be comforted, because their loved
one is not. When we hear of a multitude of persons perishing in some
dread calamity like the present, we must remember that, while all died
together, each died alone, and will be mourned as if he alone had
died. More than two hundred individual worlds of thought and feeling,
of sympathy and design, went down beneath the ocean wave on that wild
stormy afternoon. Each of these worlds was perhaps the very sun of
other worlds, that will now receive a sudden and awful shock. Many men,
many poor men even, so live that they are centres of operations which,
although not brilliant in the world’s estimation, are of the deepest
possible interest to all concerned in them, and when they die, it is as
if the sun had been removed out of its place.
Nor do we forget, as we take up the list of passengers who went out
in the _London_, that every one had a separate and solemn history. We
do not forget that the issues of life were unspeakably important, not
only to all, but, in a very solemn manner, to each--to the poor Danish
sailor as well as to the Oxford scholar: we do not forget that to
each one on board, this question was proposed amid circumstances most
appalling, “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and
lose his own soul, or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
We dare not forget the infinite value of every soul on board.
As, during the week which followed the mournful announcement that the
_London_ had foundered, we looked each day into the first column of
the _Times_, or as country newspapers reached us, we tried more and
more vividly to realize how much that list of the drowned meant, and
how names that we had read confusedly amidst a mass of others, became
eloquent with interest as we caught snatches here and there of the
life-history belonging to them. But we have no doubt that there was not
one on board whose history was completely destitute of interest and
charm, to some few at least, and that tears have been shed for many who
were nothing more than plain, humble people, getting an honourable
living by the sweat of their brow, and who will find no biographer to
tell the unassuming story of their lives. In the scores of shipwrecks
that occur every year, the worthy unknown should not be without the
sympathy, if they are shut out from the recognition which well-known
names immediately demand. Of late years, perhaps, if we may judge from
the newspapers, from letters which have reached us, and from interviews
with friends of the deceased, there has not often been a wreck in which
such a variety of characters had each to act a most solemn part. On
board the _London_ there was life beginning and life ending in the
aged and the young who were going out to the new land. There was the
competence which had come after arduous and successful toil, and there
was the poverty whose only capital lay hidden in its hopeful industry:
there was the lawyer and the divine, the merchant and the engineer, the
man of letters and the rude brawny artisan; the actor and the banker;
the experienced traveller and the humble villager from Cornwall.
Something of the varied life of the world at large lay mirrored in
that vessel that was preparing to steam away from Plymouth. The brief
notices of deaths which appeared day after day revealed dark depths of
sorrow, into which one was almost afraid to look,--tragedies enacted
full of horror unspeakable.
Let us glance for a moment at those of whom we know nothing beyond
their names, before proceeding to notice those whose position in
society and whose well-known histories speedily found biographers.
On the 11th inst., lost at sea, on board the steamship _London_, James
Thomas, Esq., late of London, formerly of Huddersfield, Yorkshire,
together with his beloved wife and two children; also Elizabeth
Hartley, for many years a most faithful servant of the above.
On the 11th inst., lost at sea, in the steamship _London_, aged
23, John Ruskin Richardson, youngest son of the late John George
Richardson, Esq., many years a resident of Sydney, New South Wales.
On the 11th instant, in the steamship _London_, in his twenty-first
year, Archibald, seventh son of Hellen Sandilands, of 56, Belsize-park,
and of the late John Sandilands of Conduit-street.
On the 11th instant, lost at sea, in the steamship _London_, on her
voyage to Melbourne, Gilbert Andrew Amos, Esq., Police Magistrate and
Warden, Heidelburg, Victoria, and third son of the late Andrew Amos,
Esq., of St. Ibbs, Hitchin, Herts; also, at the same time and place,
Isabella Dick Amos, wife of the above; also, at the same time and
place, Miss Catherine McLachlan, aged 22, sister of the said Isabella
Dick Amos.
On the 11th inst., in the steamship _London_, on her voyage to
Melbourne, Edward Youngman, Esq., aged 44, greatly beloved and
regretted by a numerous circle of friends.
On the 11th inst., lost at sea, in the steamship _London_, George F. P.
Urquhart, Esq., of Evandale, Auckland, New Zealand, and Mary Chauncy,
his wife, late of 11, Kensington-park Villas, W., daughter of the late
Major James Burke, of the 77th and 99th Regiments, of Arlaman, county
Limerick, Ireland.
These are only a few instances out of many that might be given; but now
to look at names, well known, take first the story of the Cumberland
emigrants.
It appears that no less than ten persons who went out in the _London_
were connected with Cumberland; one family, consisting of William
Graham, his wife, and three children, having gone from Carlisle. It is
a sad story--one which cannot be read even by strangers without the
most sorrowful feelings. William Graham, tailor, aged 51 years; Ellen,
his wife, 49 years; George, his son, 10 years; a daughter, 3 years;
a baby, aged 4 months; Thomas Graham, aged 40 years; Mary, his wife,
aged 27 years; David Graham, aged 37 years; David McVittie, aged 30
years, blacksmith, Newtown; and John Little, aged 30 years, fireman on
the North British Railway. The three Grahams were brothers. Thomas had
been out in Victoria twelve years, and David followed him four years
afterwards, and had since been engaged in business with him. Success
followed their farming operations, until they were enabled to purchase
an estate. In their prosperity the brothers were not unmindful of
their old home, and during the prevalence of distress at Longtown, in
consequence of the cotton famine, they generously sent over a sum of
60_l._ for the relief of the sufferers. They also sent a large amount
of relief to Manchester. In August last they came to England, with the
view of seeing their friends, and of purchasing implements. Upwards of
1000_l._ they laid out in this way, and sent out before them a variety
of implements for the farm. Thomas had another purpose to effect, also,
in visiting the old country, and that was to marry, and take home with
him a wife. He married Sarah Bruce, a native of Banff, and they were
married only a week before they left Carlisle to take up their berths
on board the _London_. Their brother, William Graham, agreed to go out
with them, they paying his passage, and he took with him his family, as
stated above. Little and McVittie, friends of the Grahams, were also
going out with them. Both men were in the employ of the North British
Railway Company, Little as fireman, and McVittie as a blacksmith.
Little was a remarkably steady and amiable young man. He was the eldest
of a family of eleven children, and is survived both by his father
and mother. The whole party of emigrants left for London on the 27th
of December last, and a large number of friends assembled to bid them
farewell, and three hearty cheers were given as the train started. Such
were ten at least who had each a history inestimably precious to a wide
circle of friends at home and abroad, and, simple though these people
were by the side of more brilliant names, there is a quiet naturalness
about their story that will appeal to many hearts.
On board the _London_ also was Mr. Henry John Dennis, a gentleman
of some note in Australia and America. A few years ago Mr. Dennis
narrowly escaped shipwreck in the _Marco Polo_, a vessel that in speed
and celebrity used to compete with the _Suffolk_ when Captain Martin
commanded her. In the middle of the night, in the Southern Ocean,
the _Marco Polo_ struck an iceberg; but on that terrible occasion
Mr. Dennis had been of some service. He had since been a very active
colonial explorer, and had for many months been engaged in a hazardous
hunting expedition in the wild regions and among the savage tribes
which lie at the back of Port Natal. He is understood also to be the
first, if not the only Englishman who has grown cotton in the Southern
States of the American Union by free negro labour. Starting for
America while the civil war was at its height, he took a plantation
on the Mississippi, and though he had to cope with plundering bands
of guerillas and with many other dangers and inconveniences, he
nevertheless succeeded in raising a crop, and only retired when he
found that in the then existing state of things it was utterly
impossible to grow cotton without great pecuniary loss as well as
personal risk.
There was a clergyman on board, distinguished for his many and varied
gifts, and who was beloved by a very wide circle of friends, both
in England and Australia--the Rev. Dr. Woolley, to whose worth and
talents Dean Stanley and Sir Charles Nicholson, formerly Speaker of the
Legislative Assembly of New-South Wales, have paid the very warmest
tribute, as, indeed, have a host of the scholarly and worthy of the
land. Dr. Woolley was in the 49th year of his age, and his course in
life had been one of usefulness and honour in the branches of learning
to which he had specially devoted himself. His life had been that of
the Professor rather than of the working clergyman. He matriculated at
University College, London, but subsequently removed to Oxford, where
in 1836 he took a first-class degree in classics. On leaving Oxford,
he became successively Head Master of Rossal School, in Lancashire,
and of King Edward’s Grammar School at Norwich. This last office he
relinquished on obtaining the appointment of Professor in 1852, in
the University of Sydney, which had just been incorporated under an
Act of the local Legislature. His duties in this new position were
most important, as upon him devolved the organization and successful
working, under circumstances of great difficulty, of a great national
institution. But he threw himself into the work cast upon him with
enthusiasm, and laboured with untiring zeal and energy. He succeeded
in a very marked degree in winning to himself and moulding the
taste and character of the young men placed under his control. The
gentleness--almost feminine--of his nature, the warmth and generosity
of his heart, his distinguished attainments as a scholar, and the
eloquence and earnestness with which he was wont to impart instruction,
not only to the Undergraduates of the University, but to the members
of various popular institutions with which he was connected, have
been tenderly spoken of, and will be long remembered by hundreds of
persons. He came to this country a few months ago for rest, and very
pleasant to himself, and to those who knew him, was his brief sojourn
here. From many, as we at least read the matter, there came tempting
inducements to settle down in England among associations more consonant
with a refined taste than those of colonial life; but with him, too,
the mainspring of life was obedience to duty, and he must return to the
work waiting to be done by him. He had been exceedingly happy here. A
writer in _Macmillan_ says that one who saw him during his latest days
in England writes of him thus:--
“His tastes were those of a refined and cultivated man. He told me that
his stay here, mixing in the society of men of letters, had been a
delight to him beyond what I, who was always in it, could conceive. Had
he met Tennyson and Browning, nothing could be more to his taste than
the companionship of such men, with whom his own qualities made him a
most welcome guest. He had in perfection the bright, gentle, cheery
manner that characterizes the best Oxford man. In stature he was small,
but his face most pleasant to look at. He was very active in all sorts
of societies and institutions for the benefit of working-men and men
engaged in business. His age must have been about fifty, but he looked
younger. He had a wife and six children waiting his return to Sydney,
whither, as I perceived, he was determined to go, for he felt his work
lay there, and his duty. He went back to fulfil his duty, and has
fulfilled it. He is remembered by many whom he left in England as the
good man--John Woolley.”
There was another passenger of celebrity on board--Mr. G. V. Brooke.
He was of respectable family, and some members of it were highly
distinguished in literature. In early boyhood he had been a pupil of
Lovel Edgeworth, the brother of Maria Edgeworth. His father, who was
an architect, had other views concerning him than those which the son
lived to fulfil. He was educated with a view to the bar; but while
quite young he was thrown amongst those who were devoted to private
theatricals, and he was so captivated that he relinquished his law
studies and applied himself to theatrical pursuits. He met with some
successes, and many reverses, particularly in Australia. Of all places
in the world, after his many ups and downs in life, on the morning of
the 6th January he was on board the _London_, and his sister was with
him.
[Illustration: G. V. BROOKE.]
We had written thus far when there came a note from a surgeon, saying
that if we would call in a street near the General Post Office,
information of an interesting character awaited us. It concerned the
loss of those of whose death there had been no advertisement--Mr. and
Mrs. Clarke, with their son, a young man of twenty-one years. The
mourning garments, the pale, sunken look of woe, the open photographic
album, near to which were black-bordered notes, told at once of some
one lost, and of tears shed, of which few had taken notice. Mr. Clarke
had gone to Melbourne more than thirty years before, accompanied by his
wife and two or three children. He had prospered there as a saddler,
and as the years went by, he was enabled to bring up a large family in
every comfort and respectability. There was born to him a son, however,
who unhappily, through a diseased bone, had a useless arm. The sight
of the youth’s sufferings was always painful to his parents, and so
it came to pass that last year the aged people, as they were now,
determined to come to England to obtain the best advice. Money was
no object, and they reckoned that for about £1500 the three might come
and go, and perhaps the son be cured. They came, enjoyed themselves
immensely, heard preachers of whom they had often heard but never
seen; went about here and there; and, best of all, under an operation
performed by Sir W. Ferguson, the son’s arm was cured, and made whole
as the other. Mr. Clarke would have taken back with him a brave little
boy, around whose neck we saw the arm of a mother fondly thrown, as
if she would thus keep the child safe. He would have made the boy’s
fortune his care out in Melbourne; but the mother kept her child;
and Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, and their son, rejoicing in his recovered
strength, went on board the _London_, to be met on the other side of
the sea, as they hoped, by their children and grandchildren. Before
sailing, the father wrote a letter, the last words of which were a
prayer, and it was with inexpressible comfort, in the midst of grief,
that the relatives of the family reflected that the three were not
unprepared to die.
Week by week will reveal more and more of the preciousness of those on
board to those who now mourn their loss. But the story will never be
completely told. Numbers will be mourned in secret, of whom we shall
know nothing until the sea gives up its dead.
[Illustration]