Your very loving son,

W.D. ARNOLD.

He started for England, but at Gibraltar, a dying man, was carried
ashore. His younger brother, sent out from England in post haste, missed
him by ill chance at Alexandria and Malta, and arrived too late. He was
buried under the shelter of the Rock of Spain and the British flag. His
intimate friend, Meredith Townsend, the joint editor and creator of the
_Spectator_, wrote to the _Times_ shortly after his death:

William Arnold did not live long enough (he was thirty-one) to gain
his true place in the world, but he had time enough given him to
make himself of importance to a Government like that of Lord
Dalhousie, to mold the education of a great province, and to win
the enduring love of all with whom he ever came in contact.

It was left, however, for his poet-brother to build upon his early grave
"the living record of his memory." A month after "Willy's" death, "Matt"
was wandering where--

beneath me, bright and wide
Lay the low coast of Brittany--

with the thought of "Willy" in his mind, as he turns to the sea that
will never now bring the wanderer home.

O, could he once have reached the air
Freshened by plunging tides, by showers!
Have felt this breath he loved, of fair