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32 [[clipping]] OBITUARY. CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. Information has been received of the death of Charles Dawson Shanly. He expired at Jacksonville in Florida——whither he had gone for the benefit of his health——on the 15th of April. This news will carry a sharp pang of sorrow to more than one heart. Mr. Shanly was known to the public as a writer for the magazines,——charmingly companionable, quietly humorous, playful, and quaint,——but all that he was as a writer seemed little in comparison with what he was a man; and it is the high-minded, kind-hearted, simple, and faithful comrade and friend, rather than the man of letters, who will at the first be mourned. Nobility of character and integrity of conduct, fidelity to duty and cheerful submission to fate, sweetness of temperament and modesty of bearing are rarer and richer virtues than intellectual brilliance; and they were all combined in him. Mr. Shanly has lived in New York, working with his pen, for about eighteen years; and to all who knew him, and all with whom he came into contact, he was conspicuous as a type of what, with tenderness and pride, the human heart instinctively accepts as a gentleman. His life was lonely. His mind seemed to have been long ago saddened in some way, but not embittered. He was a kindly, quiet, thoughtful man, who worked very hard, accomplished much, did all the good that he could find to do, and never spoke about himself or his labors. His fortunes were small, and they were precarious. He was at times acquainted with hardship. But, whether in shadow or sunshine, his mind and heart remained equable and patient, and his industry and probity undisturbed. There were not many persons, perhaps, who saw and appreciated his example. The more showy and pretentious literateur gets the most credit with the crowd. But those who did understand this example found comfort and strength in it, and will remember it now with love and pride. Mr. Shanly's writings consist of many essays and descriptive articles, in The Atlantic Monthly, many poems and ballads,——some of which are highly imaginative and tenderly pathetic, while some are satirical or humorous,——and very many miscellaneous articles and paragraphs in the newspapers. He was, in 1860, one of the chief contributors to Vanity Fair,——which was started, in the Fall of the previous year, by Mr. William A. Stephens,——and he became, at a subsequent time, its editor. He was also the editor of Mrs. Grundy, which was started here by Mr. Alfred L. Carrol, in July, 1865, and was discontinued after the publication of twelve numbers. He was a contributor to The New York Leader, for which, as afterward for The New-York Weekly Review, and during a little time for The New-York Albion, he wrote reviews of art. He was passionately fond of painting, and he was himself an expert draughtsman in the line of comic sketches. One of his characteristic drawings, furnished we think to The London Punch, represents with excellent comic effect the horror and discomfiture of a stout old Englishman, who, at a private museum of natural curiosities, has mistaken a big horned owl for a stuffed cat, and so got his bald head scratched by the angry fowl. This little thing is mentioned as denoting the bent of his playfulness. He was also, we believe, a contributor to The World newspaper, wherein he wrote upon social topics and the evanescent trifles of the passing day. He particularly excelled as a writer of poems of dramatic incident or of representative dramatic mood. "The Briar-wood Pipe", which met with such a wide acceptance and admiration during the Civil War, was his; and so too was the weird ballad of "The Walker of the Snow". Still another unique work of this kind was his startling and ineffably sad poem——which is picture and poem in one——" Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot." This was first published in London, in Once a Week. Mr. Shanly did not, perhaps, accomplish enough in this vein to win for him an abiding rank among the poets; but his name is richly entitled to its place in every representative collection of American poetry. He was not indeed an American by birth, but this was the land of his choice and his labors, and here he would have wished to be remembered. Mr. Shanly was an Irish gentleman, of old and honorable family. He lived in Ireland and England and also in Canada before settling in New-York. He was about 50 years of age, and of a hardy constitution, having blue eyes, iron-gray hair, a weather-beaten face, and a slender, wiry figure. He was thoroughly well acquainted with animals and field sports, and he was a great walker. Within the last two years his health has seemed to waste slowly and gradually away; but this, like all else that was painful and sad in his life, he kept to himself. He knew when he went hence that he was going to his death, and he had prepared himself, with humbleness and submission, for the inexorable change. There is no one of the busy workers in local journalism who will not be benefited by reflection upon a character so pure and simple, a life so industrious, useful, and blameless, and an end so tranquil. Let us write of him what, thirteen years ago, he wrote his friend Fitz-James O'Brien: Speak low——none of us know Half we forego in the gallant dead. Plant flowers, not where April showers, But tears like ours shall make them bloom, And their breath impart to each kindred heart, In the crypt of which lies the poet's tomb." [[/clipping]] I knew Shanly well [[strikethrough]] in [[/strikethrough]] in years gone by used to see him frequently. I have met him but seldom of late but never without a wish that he would make himself more familiar. He was a man whom I instinctively inclined to, a genial warm hearted fellow bearing about with him a suggestion of a secret sorrow which subdued but did not sour a sweet nature. I remember now that when I have met him latterly he seemed to be struggling with fortune, or having a hard time in money matters. I wish now I could have got nearer to him and invited him here, for Gertrude had met him and I know she could have been in many ways a comfort to him. But he is gone and I can only lament that I did not do what my heart dictated. Tuesday Apl 22 1875. Am getting on successfully with my picture in spite of many interruptions. I have it in the safe condition now all things in their places and nothing to do now but to refine and carry it as far as I can in quality and execution. Am painting with more freedom and breadth, avoid oil and paint solidly with little or no glazing or scumbling. The Artists Material Aid society met in Whittredges room this afternoon to take action in regard to contributing to Hays' widow. We decided to have the contributions all sent in by December 1. Took some steps for some changes in the organization of the Society. Nine members out of sixteen were present. Called this evening on Mr. Tryon at Mr. Kemps in 5th Avenue, to see
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