ross.

Francis himself did not live long to lead them; but in death as in life
his eyes were on the Cross. Fifty of his disciples knelt around his bed
at the last. He begged them to read to him the 19th chapter of John's
gospel--the record of the Crucifixion. 'In living or in dying,' he said,
'_God forbid that I should glory save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus
Christ!_'

VI

Francis d'Assisi and Matthew Arnold appear to have little or nothing in
common. Francis was emotional, mystical, seraphic; Arnold was cultured,
cold, and critical. Yet Francis threw an extraordinary spell over the
scholarly mind of Arnold, and, dissimilar as were their lives, in death
they were not divided.

'O my Lord Jesus,' prayed Francis, 'I beseech Thee, grant me _two_
graces before I die; the _first_, that I may feel in my soul and in my
body, as far as may be, the pain that Thou, sweet Lord, didst bear in
the hours of Thy most bitter passion; the _second_, that I may feel in
my heart, as far as may be, that exceeding love wherewith Thou, O Son of
God, didst willingly endure such agony for us sinners.'

His prayer was answered. As the sun was setting on a lovely autumn
evening, he passed away, sharing the anguish, yet glorying in the
triumph of the Cross. The song of the birds to whom he had so often
preached flooded the air with the melody he loved so well.

On another beautiful evening, nearly seven centuries later, Matthew
Arnold passed suddenly away. It was a Sunday, and he was spending it
with his brother-in-law at Liverpool. In the morning they went to Sefton
Park Church. Dr. John Watson (Ian Maclaren) preached on _The Shadow of
the Cross_. He used an illustration borrowed from the records of the
Riviera earthquake. In one village, he said, everything was overthrown
but the huge way-side crucifix, and to it the people, feeling the very
ground shuddering beneath their feet, rushed for shelter and protection.
After the sermon, most of the members of the congregation remained for
the Communion; but Arnold went home. As he came down to lunch, a servant
heard him singing softly:

When I survey the wondrous Cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

In the afternoon he went for a walk with his