CHAPTEK XIII. 



BRIEF TRIBUTE TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 



To die is landing on some silent shore, 

 Where billows never break, nor tempests roar ; 

 Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, t'is o'er. 



[Garth, 



Nor kings nor nations 

 One moment can retard th' appointed hour. 



\Dryden. 



The world's an inn, and death's the journey's end. 



[Ibid 



Since then our Arcite is with honor dead, 



Why should we mourn that he so soon is freed ? 



[Ibid. 



i HE pleasurable emotions usually ex- 

 cited by needed work preparatory 

 to our annual excursion, were 

 chastened upon this occasion by 

 the recollection that one of the 

 four who made up our party last 

 year the youngest, the most 

 buoyant and the best beloved 

 will never again join us in our 

 pleasant angling expeditions. Soon 

 after his return home last summer, without pre- 

 monition, " in the twinkling of an eye," he was 

 called to pass the dark river. His sudden death, 



