this point that the torch of his understanding fails. For the time was fast approaching in America when Puritanism would not maintain the progress it had recorded in breadth, honesty, humility and brotherhood, through the gradual loss of that clear recognition of the divine "Image" in man, which made Christ Jesus "the only begotten of the Father" in human experience, and the Saviour of the world.

Someone was needed, to restore this truth to Christianity in its rightful perspective, and give to the Churches that more scientific and holy teaching which the enlightenment of the new century demanded. And who would be found equal to such a task, to honour the mediator "between Spirit and the flesh," to carry the Puritan heritage to its triumphant ultimate?

Writing in 1899 about the general progressive development of New Hampshire (and desiring to turn public thought to a still more joyous outlook on religion) Mrs. Eddy said:

"The dark days of our forefathers and their implorations for peace and plenty have passed, and are succeeded by our time of abundance, even the full beneficence of the laws of the universe which man's diligence has utilized. Institutions of learning and progressive religion light their fires in every home." (Miscellany, P. 340.)

Then she adds, with an outburst of gratitude and patriot

ism:

"I have one innate joy, and love to breathe it to the breeze as God's courtesy. A native of New Hampshire, a child of the Republic, a Daughter of the Revolution, I thank God that He has emblazoned on the escutcheon

of this State, engraven on her granite rocks, and lifted to her giant hills the ensign of religious liberty,— 'Freedom to worship God.'" (Miscellany, p. 341.)

MAYFLOWER MORNING

Pilgrim sailor, when your eyes,

Straining through the mist and foam,
First beheld with glad surprise

Land, whereon to build a home;
With your hearts high courage warming,
As you felled primeval pine,
Could you see great cities forming
On the wide horizon line?

Pilgrim maiden when your hand

Spun the homely linen thread,

Did you dream a mighty land

Grew beneath your treadle-tread?
Through the words of prayer and psalter
From the old farm chimney seat,
Could you hear the tramping after
Of a hundred million feet?

Pilgrim warrior, Pilgrim pastor,
Fighting Indians, famine, sin,
Could you see a vision vaster

Than the cobbled streets of Lynn?

See a nation rising, growing,

See the Stars and Stripes unfurled!
Watch the wealth of commerce flowing
Through the trade marts of the world?

Pilgrim father, Pilgrim mother,

As your homes grew year by year,
Did you sigh for sister, brother,
Back in the old hemisphere?
Overcoming spites and slanders,

Could you see through time and space

Fighting side by side in Flanders,

One great English speaking race?

Pilgrims hail! No state refuse it,
Join the chorus, swell the strain,
Rhode Isle! Hampshire! Massachusetts!
Vermont! Connecticut! And Maine!
Mountains, plains and mighty waters,
Land of labor, wealth and wonder,
Cheer the Mayflower's sons and daughters
With a nation's voice of thunder!

Chorus

Halleluiah and rejoicing!

Hymns and praises for the past, Pilgrims of the ages voicing

Joy and song while ages last. Halleluiah and thanksgiving!

We will keep your children free, By good laws and righteous living For the centuries to be.

ODE COMPOSED BY THE AUTHOR FOR
THE PILGRIM TERCENTENARY, 1920.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

That weight of wood with leather coat o'erlaid,
Those awful clasps of solid metal made,

The close-pressed leaves, unclosed for many an age,
The dull red edging of the well-filled page,
On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled,
Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold;
These all a sage and laboured work proclaim,
A painful candidate for lasting fame;

No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk

In the deep bosom of that weighty work.

CRABBE.

Another old custom there is, of saying, when light is brought in, God sends us the light of Heaven; and the parson likes this very well. Light is a great blessing, and as great as food, for which we give thanks: and those that think this superstitious, neither know superstition nor themselves.

GEORGE HERBERT.