He never reached the interior, for he received a sunstroke on his way from Muscat to the neighboring village, Mattra, in an open boat. He was removed to the Consulate but scarcely regained consciousness except to utter a “God bless you” to the Consul, Colonel Mockler. He died on May 14th, 1891. The very manner of his death fulfilled, more than he ever thought, his own words in one of his letters from Muscat: “In memory of Henry Martyn’s pleadings for Arabia, Arabs and the Arabic, I seem almost trying at least to follow more directly in his footsteps and under his guidance, than even in Persia or India, however incalculable the distance at which the guided one follows the leader!” The grave of Bishop French is in the bottom of a narrow ravine circled by black rocks and reached by boat, by rounding the rocky point to the south of Muscat. Here are many graves of sailors of the Royal marine and others who died on this burning and inhospitable coast. Here also rests the body of Rev. George E. Stone, the American Missionary, who was called home in the summer of 1899, after a short period of service. IN MEMORY OF THOMAS VALPY FRENCH, BISHOP MISSIONARY. Where Muscat fronts the Orient sun ’Twixt heaving sea and rocky steep, His work of mercy scarce begun, A saintly soul has fallen asleep: Who comes to lift the Cross instead? Who takes the standard from the dead? Where, under India’s glowing sky, Agra the proud, and strong Lahore, Lift roof and gleaming dome on high, His “seven-toned tongue” is heard no more: Who comes to sound alarm instead? Who takes the clarion from the dead? Where white camps mark the Afghan’s bound, From Indus to Suleiman’s range, Through many a gorge and upland—sound Tidings of joy divinely strange: But there they miss his eager tread; Who comes to toil then for the dead? Where smile Cheltonian hills and dales, Where stretches Erith down the shore Of Thames, wood-fringed and fleck’d with sails, His holy voice is heard no more Is it for nothing he is dead? Send forth your children in his stead! Far from fair Oxford’s groves and towers, Her scholar Bishop dies apart; He blames the ease of cultured hours In death’s still voice that shakes the heart. Brave saint! for dark Arabia dead! I go to fight the fight instead! O Eastern-lover from the West! Thou hast out-soared these prisoning bars; Thy memory, on thy Master’s breast, Uplifts us like the beckoning stars. We follow now as thou hast led; Baptize us, Saviour, for the dead! —_Archdeacon A. E. Moule._ XXXIII THE AMERICAN ARABIAN MISSION “Our ultimate object is to occupy the interior of Arabia.”—_Plan of the Arabian Mission._