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?