Slit,—The article by the Master of the Temple prompts me
to write to you. Recently I had the opportunity of entertaining the pastor of a big Lutheran church, situated in one of the great industrial cities of America, and his wife. They had never before left the United States, had landed in this country two days previously and had spent the inter- vening day exploring bomb-scarred and war-shattered London. The village church with its square flint tower can be seen perfectly from my house, not a hundred yards distant. As my guests learned that the church was built in 1100 A.D., the sudden realisation of eight and a half centuries of continuous life and usefulness struck them like a blow and left them gasping. Thoughtfully I went in to prepare a meal, leaving these two Americans, members of a church seventy years old in a city where one hundred years ago Indians rode down the muddy lane between the first wooden shacks, gazing at this church still loved and cherished after centuries, giving life, meaning and, as they expressed it, stability to a hidden English village of less than two hundred souls.—I am, Sir, &c., MARGARET McCANDusn.
Milstead Old Rectory, nr. Sittingbozatie, Kent.
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