more than three hundred years have rolled away since the events narrated in the following pages stirred the souls of men; since john bradford sat down to his “merry supper with the lord;” since lawrence saunders slept peacefully at the stake, lifted over the dark river in the arms of god; since ridley and latimer, on that autumn morning at oxford, lighted that candle in england which they trusted by god’s grace should never be put out.

and how stands it with england now? for forty-three years, like a bird fascinated by the serpent, she has been creeping gradually closer to the outstretched arms of the great enchantress. is she blind and deaf? has she utterly forgotten all her history, all the traditions of her greatness? it is not quite too late to halt in her path of destruction; but how soon may it become so? how soon may the dying scream of the bird be hushed in the jaws of the serpent?

the candle which was lighted on that autumn morning is burning dim. it burns dimmer every year, as england yields more and more to rome. and every living soul of us all is responsible to god for the preservation of its blessed light. o sons and daughters of england, shall it be put out?