(I mean not those grave ministers, who preach worthily to the plebes or common people; but those that take their aim and directory from vulgar humours) this diligence he used, notwithstanding that bis very extemporary discourses set off with the emphasis of his oratorious voice, with the majesty of his goodly presence, and with that (abos,) power and warmth of his delivery (who always preached in good earuest, as well as he took great pains) would have deceived a very judicious auditory, to have believed they were premeditated and penned: his design was neither to over-preach his audience, nor under-preach his matter; but to fit both so, that neither the text nor the people should have cause to think themselves slighted. He could never be persuaded to set forth any thing of his own in print; although myself and others have oft moved him while yet he had vigour and leisure enough; either to take this pious revenge on the age which had injured itself most, by laying him aside, or to give the better world this great satisfaction, either as to some elaborate pieces he had made, and by word of mouth published in sermons or determinations, and other speeches at commencements: or as to his judgment in some grand cases of dispute, in which he had a great happiness to comprehend things fully, to state the controversy exactly, and to express himself both clearly and compendiously, full of Scripture strength, of councils weight, of the fathers consent, of historic light, of scholastic acuteness, and inclining to no side but where God and truth were.

That which made him more averse to the press, was, partly a spirit too active and vigorous to be confined to that tedious and plodding way, which is required in those that list to write, and not scribble; next, he was so severe an exacter of all perfections, in whatever he did, that it was hard for him in a great work to

satisfy himself; without which he had no great hope to satisfy the learned world, nor pleasure to gratify others; lastly, he would oft complain (as many wise men have done, and yet added to the number) of the surfeit of books, as an incura. ble disease, in an age whose dropsy makes it thirst and drink the more; he thought latter writings do but divert men, (as acorns do deer, from their better feed on grass) from reading the ancients, who were so far the best, as they were both nearest the fountain of primitive purity, and remotest from the passions, prejudices and parties, of our later and worser times; nor did he believe that those in England, who most needed the direction or correction of his judgment, would trouble themselves to read what he wrought; since he saw as men act and fight, so they both read and write, accord. ing to their study of sides, as the opinion or party-ways to which they are addicted: so that he concluded, the antidote or plaister would be quite lost; the whole not needing them, and the sick never using them.

This made him wrap up himself in silence, as to any way of printing leaving the debates and scuffiles of the times, as to Church and State, either to younger men, who were more daring, and could better endure the heat and burthen of the day, or to be answered and fully (in time) confuted, by the effects of their own ignorance, rashness, and folly: which he ever thought would be, (as they then were) horrid con. fusion, and bitter uncharitableness; or at best, a sottish and lazy superstition, with which common people are (at length) willing to acquiesce, (as drunken men falling asleep) after they have wearied themselves with the frolics of their heady opinions, and intoxicating disputes about religion.

Yet will it not (I presume) be any regret to his blessed spirit, if those pieces which remain perfected by his own hand, be redeemed from

the darkness or twilight of manuscripts, and brought forth to the day and sunshine of printing*; that in their light we may see some genuine beams of that burning and shining light, which was in the soul of Bishop Brounrig: and certainly if he had (after the example of the best of emperors and heathens that ever lived, Marcus Aurelius) his (Ta avr) his own observations, and peculiar reflections written, either as to God's providences to himself, or gracious motions and operations in his heart: or as to the more large and public dispensations to former and latter ages, which afford an ocean of matter and meditation to such a studious and judicious soul as his was, from writers, things and events, they could not but be very excellent collections in themselves, and of great use to others; for his spirit was like a refiner's fire; what passed through it was the better by his taking notice of it, and thereby recommending it to others.

He was always (when in health) as cheerful (as far as the tragedies of the times gave leave) as one that had the continual feast of a good conscience, and as content as if he had had a Lord's or Bishop's estate, no less than a princely mind.

All diminutions and indignities, which some men's pragmatic effronteries were not ashamed to put upon so worthy and venerable a person, he digested into patience and prayers; such as were not worthy to stand under his shadow, yet sought sometimes to stand in his light; yea and to put out so burning and shining a light, at least to put it under a bushel, that their farthing candles might make the better shew; but he outshined them all (like the sun, nothing could put a total eclipse upon Bishop Brounrig), yea and he buried all personal injuries done to him in the grave of Christian charity,

Sixty-five of his Sermons were after wards published by William Martyn, M.A. some time Preacher at the Rolls, in 2 vols.

folio. London, 1674.

when he considered the indignities and affronts which his blessed Redeemer suffered from people wantonly wicked, who made a sport to buffet, strip and spit upon, and crucify the Son of God and Lord of glory. Thus he was in some degree to be conform to primitive Bishops, which were poor and persecuted, yea to the great Bishop of our souls, who for our sakes made himself of no reputation.

This excellent Bishop in his latter years (when motion was tedious, and noxious to him, by reason of his calculary infirmity and corpulency) yet was put upon various tossings and removes to and fro; sometimes at London, at Bury, at Highgate," at Sunning and other places, to which he was driven, either in order to repair his crazy health by change of air (where at least unwonted objects entertaining the fancy with novelty, seem to give some ease, either by the pleasure of variety, or by a diversion from thinking of our disorders and pains) or out of an equanimous civility to his many worthy friends, that he might so dispense his much desired company among them, that no one might be thought to have monopolized such a magazine of worth, to the envy of others. And sometimes it may be he changed his quarters out of an ingenuous tenderness of being or seeming any burthen to those that were most civil to him; knowing that there is prone to arise in us a satiety even of the best things; that want doth quicken our appetites, and absence give a fresh edge to our welcomes. These or the like prudential motives suffered him not to fix very long or constant in any one place, willing to appear, as he thought himself (and was treated in this world) a pilgrim and stranger; never at home, nor owning any home till he came to heaven, which was his Father's house, where he should find better natured and more loving brethren than those, that, as Joseph's, had without cause stript him, and cast him into a pit

of narrowness and obscurity, to die there.

Yet before he left this world, God would have him (as Moses to get up into a mount) to be set in some such place of prospect and conspicuity, which might make the English world see that all mens eyes were not so asquint on Bishops, or so blind or blood-shotten as not to see the eminent worth of Bishop Brounrig; which could not be buried in darkness, or extinguished in silence, without a great addition to the other sins of the nation, and shame of the times. And since some men had taken from him and others their estates and lands, as Bishops, unforfeited by law, only to defray the charges of war, and to ease the taxes; it was thought by others a better part of good husbandry to make use of those excellent gifts they had, and were more willing to communicate, than to have parted so with their estates.

Hence the providence of God so ordered affairs, that he was about a year before he died invited with much respect and civility to the Honourable Societies of both Temples, to bless them, as with his constant residence, so (when his health would permit) with some of his fatherly instructions and prayers. To shew the reality of their love and value to his Lordship, they not only allowed an annual honorary recompense to express their thanks, but they provided handsome lodgings, and furnished them with all things necessary, convenient, and comely for a person of his worth.

It was some little beam of joy to his great soul, to see that all sparks of English generosity were not raked up or quite buried by the rubbish of faction, when no nation heretofore either more reverenced or better provided for their Bishops and Clergy than England. He was glad to see so much courage in persons of that quality, as to dare to own and employ a Bishop; it being as bold an adventure as to some men's esteem,

to hear a Bishop preach, as for a Bishop to preach in so public a place. And indeed the nobleness of the Templers' carriage towards his Lordship, had a great resentment of honour, among all pious and generous minds both in city and country, who had either known the worth or heard of the renown of Bishop Brounrig.

The last Easter term, 1659, the good Bishop came to his lodgings in the Temple, and applied himself to answer the expectations and desires of his hospitable Gaiuses, who were so much satisfied, both with his pains and presence, that such as could hear him preach rejoiced at the gracious words and fatherly instructions which he gave them, prepared with elaborate diligence, and expressed with affectionate eloquence; such as for the crowd, could not come nigh enough to hear him, yet had not only patience, but pleasure to stay, and behold him, conceiving they saw a sermon in his looks, and were bet tered by the venerable aspect of so virtuous, grave, and worthy a person; which at once frowned on sin, and smiled on goodness.

This affliction only that noble society had, that having tasted a little of that manna, and honey, (μελιτὸς μὲν γὰρ γλυκίων ξέεν αΰδη,) some seven or eight times, they were not permitted longer to enjoy the full and durable blessings of so sweet, so plenteous, and so heavenly repast: in which he so dispensed his divine store- and provision: (as St. John wrote to young men and fathers, to children and old men, in his first epistle,) so this apostolic Bishop and preacher at one sermon both pleased the young gentlemen, and profited the ancients; teaching the first there to know their duty, and the second to do it; preparing the one to live holily, the other to die happily.

But this rich banquet was not to last long.

In Michaelmas term next follow

ing his bodily infirmities began to prevail against the strength and wil lingness of his mind, not permitting him to preach in public, save only on the fifth of November, which was his last; though he did preach in private almost to all that came to him, and were capable of his converse, even till he was much spent and weary, as I have heard him complain.

God was pleased to exercise him with bodily pains, indispositions and distempers, sometimes with sharp fits of the stone, and hydropic inclinations, which made the chariot of his body (which was somewhat plethoric and corpulent) drive heavily, though these fiery horses, his fervent spirits were still agile and able. But under all these God supported him with his grace; and a spirit as always humble, devout and pious, so for the most part sociable, se rene and cheerful, till he had lived to his sixty-seventh year.

Then, with age, sickness increased with great failings of spirit; which gave him the alarms of approaching death; but before this, while he was yet in competent health of body and serenity of mind, he made his will, which bears date, as Mr. Thomas Buck his executor told me, two years before his departure; a will much like that of St. Austin, or other primitive Bishops, not laden with great and pompous legacies of money, but rather with testimonies of a pious, grateful and charitable soul. That little he had of estate, was distributed either as tokens of respect, love, and gratitude to his ancient friends, or as agnitions of his nearest deserving kindred and relations, or as requitals to a well-deserving servant, or as charitable reliefs to the poor; he was pauperior opibus, but opulentior moribus, as Chrysologus speaks of St. Laurence.

If any man quarrel that he gave away no more by will; the reason is, he had no more: he wanted not a large heart or liberal hand; no man was further from covetousness, REMEMBRANCER, No. 67.

which is never so unseasonable as when a man is dying: nor was he wanting to be his own 'executor; choosing rather in secret to give much while he lived, than to leave more when he died. If this be his defect that he gave not great sums as the renowned Bishop Andrews, or other Bishops and Clergymen sometimes did to pious and charitable uses, to colleges, libraries, hospitals, (when Bishops and other churchmen enjoyed those rewards and revenues, which the piety and laws of the nation had proportioned to their places and merit) truly it must be imputed to the injuries and privations of the times; for no tree would have borne more or fairer fruit, as in other so in this kind, than this fair and fruitful fig-tree, if he had not been blasted; not by Christ's word as a Bishop, or as barren; but by the fatal curse of the times. No Christian would have done more good works of this nature, or more advisedly, than this wise and venerable Bishop, Si res ampla domi similisque affectibus esset, if his estate had been answerable to his mind.

In all his vacancies from pains and bodily infirmities, he was frequent in preaching; in celebrating and receiving the holy sacrament of the Lord's Supper; in his private retirements much in reading, (chiefly the Scriptures of later years) in meditating and in prayer, besides his social joining with others in family duties; in which as he willingly and devoutly used the Liturgy of the Church, so far as it was fitted to public and private necessities, so he either added of his own or admitted from others those pious and prudent prayers, which more nearly suited, with the private devotions and condition of those that were present.

He had more frequent infirmities, as gentle monitors a little before his death, of which he would speak to myself and others in a kind of familiar sort, as one that by dying daily was well acquainted with death. 3 G

He would say, that it was a very cheap time now to die; there being so little temptation to desire life, and so many to welcome death; since he had lived to see no King in the State, no Bishop in the Church, no Peer in Parliament, no Judge in the land, yea and no Parliament in any freedom, honour, power or being worthy that name; Omnia miles; all power was contracted to the pummel of their sword, or the barrel of their guns; the soldier was all in all, in that black interregnum or horrid OTpaTongaria, which had neither form nor power of any legal government in England; in that dark day departed this great light: all Church and State being reduced to military arbitration and presumption; he saw nothing remained of order, or honour, love or law, reason and religion, in any public and social correspondency: yea new feuds and quarrels, like boils from unsound bodies, were daily breaking out, and continuing the fires of civil wars, like those of hell and Tophet, to be everlasting and unquenchable: there being no thought of the way of peace, but to avoid it.

This made him willingly gird (as St. Peter did) his coat to him, that he might be ready to launch into that dead sea when Christ should bid him come to him. He only hoped and prayed that God would favour him so far with an εὐθανασία, as to let him die without much pain, as indeed he did; for after his spirits were in ten days decayed and wasted, he slumbered much, yet had vigilant intervals; at which times he was intent to his long home, and his better reception by the holy angels, by a gracious Saviour, and a good God; giving himself to such prayers, meditations and discourses, as his own strength could bear, or others kindness would seasonably afford him; thus (as Chrysologus speaks of Elias) Anima defecata mortis victrix evolavit ad cœlum, being full of the grace and peace of God, and confirmed in it by the ab

solution of the Church (which belongs to all that die in the true faith, and blesed hope of penitent sinners) he placidly rendered his boly, devout, and precious soul to God that gave it,* on the seventh of December, in the year of our Lord, 1659, in that vertiginous year, which after three overturns, so reformed the Church and State of England, that there was no form of legal, civil and settled government in England: but from fighting at first for King and Parliament, both King and Parliament were quite driven out by those that having power over the purse by the sword of the nation, thought they deserved to have the sovereign power also, and could manage it better than those masters to whom they formerly had devoted their service as soldiers.

Of all his inward accomplishments his very bodily presence, and visible aspect was a kind of pledge and earnest; he was yáλnvos xai ispoπpens to aidos, as Greg. Nazian. speaks of the ecclesiastic and majestic looks of St. Basil and Cæsarius. The whole framę of his person had something of grandeur, goodliness and loveliness in it; his looks were venerable, (in vultu omnium virtutum signa) he had all the good omens and lineaments of great virtues in his counte

* Such were his Lordship's serious preparations for death, that three years before, (among other secret passages concerning the state of his own soul, which he readily communicated to me,) he was pleased in private to tell me, that he had made great progress in that greatest and most important work, and that in a short time (through the grace of God) he should finish it, and so would spend the remainder of his days in a humble and hourly expectancy of his dissolution. Whereupon we may with some confidence speak it, his Lordship had nothing to do, when he re

ceived the last summons to remove from sleep in Jesus, which his Lordship did hence, but only to compose himself to most sweetly and contentedly.-Martyn's Address to the Readers, prefixed to his edition of Bishop Brounrig's Sermons.