died to secure. Even when mention is made of his martyrdom, there is generally, by way of diverting the attention of the reader from the main point, a significant hint, or an explicit statement to the effect that he was the author of the Martin Marprelate Tracts,' a charge as unfounded as it is mean. Those tracts were written in a satirical and scoffing tone, a style never adopted by Penry; besides, in his Exhortation, published in the same year as the first 'Marprelate tract, he bitterly deprecated those 'busybodies who, increasing themselves still more unto ungodliness, think nothing so well spoken or written as that which is satirical and bitingly done against lord bishops.' The whole subject was far too heart-rending for a man like Penry to indulge in satire in treating it. All he wrote he did from an agony of spirit for his suffering countrymen and a righteous indignation toward those whom he called the spoilers and murderers of their souls, which did not admit of the play of satire, much less of scoffing tones. The man's heart bled as he wrote, and every sentence was projected by the accumulated energy of a soul that had gathered all its forces together for the desperate struggle to the death with sin and vice in high and sacred places. Those tracts, too, were written anonymously, while Penry appended his own name to all his writings-came out like a hero into the open field of battle, and never condescended to fight in ambush. That was beneath him-beneath him.

"Well, the time is gone, and we must think of home, but my story of those troublous times is but half told, and now that the subject has been brought up I should like to finish it on some other occasion, if agreeable to you."

"Hit the iron while it's hot, Mr. Pugh," said Shadrach, as he struck the glowing bar upon the anvil, and made the vivid sparks fly in all directions, "to

morrow night will do well, and all must make an effort to come."

It was unanimously agreed that on the following evening, at seven o'clock, they would meet again at the smithy, and all urged Llewellyn Pugh to come, as they had never been more delighted in their lives than that night.

Great was the surprise expressed by the little company after Llewellyn Pugh had left the smithy about his wonderful learning. Shadrach thought that there were very few in the country equal to him. John Vaughan, whose forte was Scriptural exposition and not history, said he, never heard half as much about the Welsh Bible and John Penry before. Hugh Roberts said that when Llewellyn was a young man he was a wonder. Samson, as he hopped upon his crutch, hinted that he was like a walking dictionary, while Swash, in a patronizing tone, which greatly annoyed Samson, suggested that "dictionary dictionary" was scarcely the right word, but that Llewellyn certainly was well educated, and that he himself had an uncle very much like him-a remark which made David Lewis and Jenkin exchange looks and smile incredulously. Caleb Rhys said nothing.

The little group soon separated, each for his home, and the smithy once more was a deserted place.

CHAPTER IX.

The Rise of Welsh Monconformity.

UST as the old clock in Shadrach Morgan's house struck five on the following evening he and Jenkin got up from the table, where with Mary Morgan, the affectionate wife and mother,they had taken their frugal meal in the united light of a home-made candle and of a blazing log of wood, which the good house-wife

had placed upon the fire in anticipation of her husband's and son's return to tea. When they emerged from the warm light of that room into the outer world the day had all but closed-for it was early in December-and the night was descending upon the weary world as gently as a benediction. The stars had already commenced their nightly watch as they peeped down serenely from the infinite

heights on the little smithy and its surroundings, and the hush of evening seemed to envelope the trees, the fields, and hills around in peaceful slumber, while the gentle breeze, half-awake and half-asleep, softly hummed a lullaby.

"What a beautiful night, father," said Jenkin. "How grandly the stars come out; just look, all the sky seems to be lit up. Do you remember what Mr. Kilsby Jones said about the stars, that they were the lamps on the highway to the King's palace?"

"Yes, my boy," said Shadrach, "and I thought it was very beautiful. So I spoke to John Vaughan about it, and he said that man everywhere points upwards when he points to heaven. How strange,' said I. He looked surprised, looked as only he can look on such occasions. His eyes quite sparkled as he replied, 'Not strange at all, Shadrach; all the light that touches the earth and blesses our life comes from that direction, and man naturally feels that heaven must be somewhere in the path of light. Mr. Kilsby Jones gave the same idea, I think."

"Here's John coming, father," said Jenkin.

"So he is," said Shadrach, exultingly. "There's no one I like to see so much in the smithy, except, perhaps, old Hugh Roberts," he added in an undertone. "He's got a wonderful head on, and what a memory! He'll be sure to tell us something fresh now!" Then, turning to his cousin, he said "Good evening, John. I was just now telling Jenkin what you told me the other day about men everywhere looking up for heaven. I suppose we can look up for heaven in the night as well as the day-What do you say, John ?-especially such a night as this. There's always light up there if we could but see it, and really those stars look as if they were keeping watch over us and saying-The God who made us is taking care of you down there."

'So they do, Shadrach," said John. "I remember reading a letter written by Mr. David Rhys Stephen*ah, he was an extraordinary man! I shall never forget many things I heard him say at Horeb.'"

"Who can?" exclaimed Shadrach.

"No," replied John. "Well, this was one of the letters he wrote to the Merlin under the name of The Welsh Pedestrian,' but everybody who understood English and had heard Mr. Rhys Stephen speak knew who it was. They said all the letters were written in his own beautiful way, so I got my eldest boy, who is a good scholar, to translate them for me. The ninth letter began, I think, something like this: It is very still-awfully still, just now, at four o'clock in the morning of the 23rd December, 18-. I have just turned out of a warm bed, in a house in a country place, and have several miles to walk to meet a train to carry me to Swansea. It is quiet, and it is not very dark, and should be good moonlight; but the clouds are crowding about and above me. I know the

road and fear not; but it is very quiet. A man is now and here left alone to himself. Stay-do you see that star? There it is, in its own unchanging mildness and purity— God's own sentinel, looking at me; yes, now, at me! How many hundreds of thousands of years did it take for thy light to travel immensity of space, ere we could see the gentle lustre of that steady and benignant look of thine? Tell me, how many worlds thy beams pass before they reach this remote portion of the universe, which God's hand hath created, and His right hand sustains? Wilt thou also let me, lovely star, know what is beyond

* The late Rev. D. Rhys Stephen, who was minister of the Baptist Church, Mount Pleasant, Swansea, afterwards of the Church, at Commercial Street, Newport. He died April 24th, 1852.