SECTION I.

BERNARD GILPIN was born in the year 1517, about the middle of the reign of Henry the eighth. His forefathers had been ſeated at Kentmire-hall, in Weſtmoreland, from the time of king John; in whoſe reign this eſtate had been given by a baron of Kendal to Richard Gil⯑pin, as a reward for ſervices thought very conſiderable. Carleton, biſhop of Chicheſter, who wrote the life of Bernard Gilpin, men⯑tions this Richard as a perſon eminent in his [2]time, both in a civil and military capacity; and gives us a ſtory, told indeed with a fa⯑bulous air, of his killing a wild boar, which terribly infeſted thoſe parts. From this gentleman the eſtate of Kentmire deſcended to the father of Bernard, Edwin Gilpin; who became prematurely poſſeſſed of it by the death of an elder brother, killed at the battle of Boſworth; in the cauſe, moſt pro⯑bably, of Richard the third, whoſe gallant behaviour, and very popular government, a few years before in Scotland, had eſtabliſhed him greatly in the eſteem of the northern counties.

Edwin Gilpin had ſeveral children, of which Bernard was one of the youngeſt; an unhappy circumſtance in that age, which, giving little encouragement to the liberal arts, and leſs to commerce, reſtrained the genius and induſtry of younger brothers. No way indeed was commonly open to their fortunes, but the church or the camp. The incon⯑venience however was leſs to Mr. Gilpin than to others; for that way was open, to which his diſpoſition moſt led him. From his earlieſt youth he was inclined to a con⯑templative [3]life, thoughtful, reſerved, and ſe⯑rious. Perhaps no one ever had a greater ſhare of conſtitutional virtue, or through every part of life endeavoured more to im⯑prove it.

The biſhop of Chicheſter hath preſerved a ſtory of him in his infancy, which will ſhew how early he could diſcern not only the immorality, but the indecorum of an action.

A begging frier came on a ſaturday evening to his father's houſe; where, ac⯑cording to the cuſtom of thoſe times, he was received in a very hoſpitable manner. The plenty ſet before him was a temptation too ſtrong for his virtue; of which, it ſeems, he had not ſufficient even to ſave appearances. The next morning however he ordered the bell to toll, and from the pulpit expreſſed himſelf with great vehemence againſt the debauchery of the times, and particularly againſt drunkenneſs. Mr. Gilpin, who was then a child upon his mother's knee, ſeemed for ſome time exceedingly affected with the frier's diſcourſe, and at length, with the ut⯑moſt indignation, cried out, 'He wondered [4]how that man could preach againſt drunken⯑neſs, when he himſelf had been drunk only the night before.'

Inſtances of this kind ſoon diſcovered the ſeriouſneſs of his diſpoſition, and gave his parents an early preſage of his future piety.

His firſt years were ſpent at a public ſchool; where, agreeably to the compliment which hiſtory generally pays ſuch as afterwards be⯑come eminent, we are told he ſoon diſtin⯑guiſhed himſelf.

From ſchool he was removed to Oxford, where it was judged learning was moſt en⯑couraged: though indeed both the univer⯑ſities were in that age greatly over-run with ignorance and ſuperſtition, effects of the ſlaviſh opinions then prevailing in religion; and what ſtudy was encouraged was con⯑fined to perplexed ſyſtems of logic, and the ſubtilties of ſchool divinity. So that the beſt education of thoſe times was only calculated for very ſlender improvements in real learn⯑ing.

At the age however of ſixteen, Mr. Gil⯑pin was entered, upon the foundation, at Queen's college in Oxford; where we are [5]informed his induſtry was very great, and eaſily reaped what knowledge the ſoil pro⯑duced.

Eraſmus about this time drew the atten⯑tion of the learned world. With a noble freedom he ſhook off the prejudices of his education, boldly attacked the reigning ſu⯑perſtitions of popery, and expoſed the lazy and illiterate churchmen of thoſe days. Such a behaviour could not but procure him many enemies; and occaſioned objec⯑tions to whatever he could write. At Ox⯑ford particularly he was far from being in general eſteem. Our young ſtudent had however too much of the true ſpirit of a ſcholar to take any thing upon truſt, or to be prejudiced againſt an author from popular exceptions. Without liſtening therefore to what was ſaid, he took Eraſmus into his hands, and quickly diſcovered in him a treaſure of real learning, which he had in vain ſought after in the writings then moſt in eſteem.

But as he had now determined to apply himſelf to divinity, he made the ſcriptures his chief ſtudy; and ſet himſelf with great [6]induſtry upon gaining a thorough know⯑ledge of the Greek and Hebrew languages; in the ſtudy of which he was much aſſiſted by Mr. Neal, a fellow of New-college, and afterwards profeſſor of Hebrew in Oxford.

He had not been long in the univerſity, before he was taken notice of. He was looked upon as a young man of good parts, and conſiderable learning; and they who were not ſo well qualified to judge in either of theſe points, admired and loved him for a remarkable ſweetneſs in his diſpoſition, and unaffected ſincerity in his manners. At the uſual term he took the degree of maſter of arts, and about the ſame time was elected fellow of his college.

The reformed doctrines had hitherto made no progreſs in England; and, as Mr. Gilpin had been bred up in the Romiſh church, he ſtill continued a member of it. But though in appearance he was not diſſatified with popery, yet it is not improbable that at this time he had his ſuſpicions of it. The writ⯑ings of Eraſmus had put him upon freer in⯑quiries than were common in thoſe days. He had the diſcretion however to keep to [7]himſelf whatever doubts they might have raiſed in him; and before he ſaid any thing which might ſhake the faith of others, he determined to eſtabliſh his own.

He had not been long ſettled in his fellow⯑ſhip, before a very public teſtimony was gi⯑ven to the reputation he had acquired.

Cardinal Wolſey was now at the head of the affairs of England; a miniſter, who not⯑withſtanding his many vices, would ſome⯑times entertain a noble deſign. He ſaw the corrupt ſtate of monkery in the nation, was ſcandalized at it, and began to think of ſome method to check its progreſs. The monaſtic revenues he was convinced might eaſily be applied to better uſes; particularly in raiſing the credit of the two univerſities. He was reſolved therefore to make a trial; and with this view obtained bulls for the ſupreſ⯑ſion of ſeveral monaſteries. Being thus en⯑abled to carry on his deſign, he laid the foundation of Chriſt-church college in Ox⯑ford, and about this time finiſhed it. But his care extending farther than a mere en⯑dowment, he had his agents in many of the univerſities in Europe, to procure him [8]men of eminence, whom he might tranſplant thither; and copies of the beſt books then extant: for he deſigned that his college ſhould be the means of the reſtoration of learning in England. Mr. Gilpin's character was then ſo great, that he was one of the firſt in Oxford to whom the cardinal's agents applied. He accepted their propoſal, and removed to Chriſt-church.

Here he continued his former ſtudies; from the nature of which, and the ingenuity and honeſty of his diſpoſition, it is highly probable he would in time have been led by his own reaſonings to that diſcovery of truth he aimed at; but providence rewarded a pious endeavour, by throwing in his way the means of an earlier attainment of it.

King Henry the eighth was now dead; and his young ſucceſſor began in earneſt to ſupport that cauſe, which his father had only ſo far encouraged as it contributed to reple⯑niſh an exhauſted exchequer, and break a yoke which ſat uneaſy upon him. Under this prince's patronage Peter Martyr went to Oxford, where he read divinity-lectures in a ſtrain to which the univerſity had been hi⯑therto [9]little accuſtomed. He began with the corporal preſence; the refutation of which error, as it was one of the earlieſt of popery, he thought would much ſhock the credit of the Romiſh church. This was looked upon as an open declaration of war. The bigot⯑ed were immediately in flame: 'If theſe novelties prevailed, the peace of the church was at an end—nothing but confuſion muſt enſue—religion was utterly ruined.' While this was the popular clamour, the heads of the popiſh party began to rouſe from an in⯑dolence they had long indulged, and to ſet about a more formidable oppoſition. The chief of them were Chedſey, Morgan, and Treſham; men not unlearned for the times, but whoſe bigotry at leaſt kept pace with their learning.

The hiſtory of this religious war is foreign to our purpoſe. We are no otherwiſe con⯑cerned in it, than as it relates to Mr. Gilpin. His credit in the univerſity was then, it ſeems, ſo conſiderable, that we find the popiſh party very ſolicitous to engage him to ſide pub⯑licly with them; and the moſt preſſing ap⯑plications were accordingly made. But they [10]found his zeal of a much cooler temper than their own. He was not indeed ſatisfied with the reformers, having wanted hitherto the opportunities of acquainting himſelf with their arguments: but, on the other hand, he had never been a bigoted papiſt; and had, it ſeems, lately diſcovered, through a diſpute he had been engaged in with Dr. Hooper, afterwards biſhop of Worceſter, that ſeveral of the Romiſh doctrines were not ſo well ſupported by ſcripture as was commonly imagined. While his mind was in ſo unſettled a condition, he thought him⯑ſelf but ill qualified to eſpouſe either ſide publicly. His inclination rather led him to ſtand by, an unprejudiced obſerver; and to embrace truth, whether he found her among proteſtants or papiſts. Such importunity was however uſed with him, that at length he yielded, which was matter of no ſmall triumph to his party; and he appeared the next day againſt Peter Martyr.

Entering thus into a controverſy againſt his inclination, he determined however to make it as uſeful to himſelf as he could. By bringing his old opinions to the teſt, he hop⯑ed [11]at leaſt he might diſcover, whether it was only the ſtamp of antiquity upon them, or their own intrinſic worth, that gave them that value at which they had been hitherto rated. He reſolved therefore to lay aſide, as much as poſſible, the temper of a caviller; and to place truth before him as the ſole ob⯑ject of his purſuit, from which he was de⯑termined to be drawn aſide neither by pre⯑judice nor by novelty.

But he ſoon found his adverſary's argu⯑ments too ſtrong for him: they came au⯑thorized from the holy writings in ſo for⯑cible a manner, that he could not but ac⯑knowledge them of a nature quite different from the wire-drawn proofs, and ſtrained in⯑terpretations of ſcripture, in which he had hitherto acquieſced. We need not there⯑fore wonder, if the diſputation was ſoon over. Mr. Gilpin had nothing of that pride of heart, through which men often defend ſuſpected opinions; but gave up his cauſe with that grace which always attends ſince⯑rity. He owned publicly, that he could not maintain it; and determined to enter into [12]no more controverſies, till he had gained the full information he was in purſuit of.

This ingenuous regard for truth was ſhewn in the more advantageous light by the bigot⯑ry of his fellow-diſputants; whoſe inflamed zeal, and fierceneſs of temper, diſcovered little of the ſcholar, and leſs of the chriſtian. In his conduct appeared an honeſt deſire of information only; in theirs, the pride of op⯑poſition ſtruggling againſt conviction.

Peter Martyr took notice of this difference of behaviour, and would frequently ſay, that, 'As for Chedſey, Morgan, and the reſt of thoſe hot-headed zealots, he could not in truth be much concerned about them; but Mr. Gilpin ſeemed a man of ſuch upright⯑neſs of intention, and ſo much ſincerity, both in his words and actions, that it went to his heart to ſee him ſtill involved in prejudice and error. The reſt, he thought, were only a trifling, light ſort of men, led into an op⯑poſition more by vain glory, and a deſire to diſtinguiſh themſelves, than through any bet⯑ter motives; but Mr. Gilpin's ingenuity of behaviour, and irreproachable life, left room for no ſuch ſuſpicion with regard to him; [13]and he could not but own, he conſidered his eſpouſing any cauſe as a very great credit to it.' He would often likewiſe tell his friends, 'It was the ſubject of his daily prayers, that God would be pleaſed at length to touch the heart of this pious papiſt with the know⯑ledge of true religion.'—And he prayed not in vain; for Mr. Gilpin, from this time, be⯑came every day more reconciled to the re⯑formers.

Having been thus ſtaggered by his adver⯑ſary's arguments, the firſt ſtep he took, after he had implored the divine aſſiſtance, was to recollect, and carefully commit to paper, the ſubſtance of what had paſſed in this contro⯑verſy; and of thoſe points, in which he had been hardeſt preſſed, he reſolved to enter into a ſtricter examination.

But before he could reconcile himſelf to this work, many diſtracting ſcruples aroſe in his mind. Though he could not but diſ⯑cover ſomething queſtionable in many of his old opinions; yet when he conſidered they were ſtill deeply rooted in the minds of al⯑moſt the whole nation, embraced by the greateſt part of Europe, and had been through [14]many centuries ſupported by the authority of princes and councils, he thought great de⯑ference was due to ſo awful a majority, and could not without much perplexity, think of making his own private judgment a teſt of the public faith. His ſuſpicions however forced him at length upon an examination; though with a deſign, it is probable, to con⯑firm, rather than confute his old opinions. But he ſoon found that an impoſſible taſk. The more he conſidered the tenets of popery, the leſs defenſible they appeared. If he tried them by reaſon, he found them utterly un⯑able to ſtand that proof; and if he endea⯑voured to reconcile them with ſcripture, he could not but obſerve, by what unnatural in⯑terpretations it was only to be effected.

He endeavoured likewiſe to acquaint him⯑ſelf with the hiſtory of popery, that he might diſcover in what age its ſeveral queſtioned doctrines firſt appeared. From this ſearch into antiquity he obſerved, that none of them obtained in the earlier and purer ages of the Chriſtian church, but were all the inventions of later times, when ignorance and credulity prevailed, and gave ſufficient opportunity for [15]deſigning men to eſtabliſh any creed that ſuited them.

Seven ſacraments, he found, had never been heard of before the time of Peter Lom⯑bard; which was above eleven hundred years after Chriſt.

The denial of the cup to the laity appear⯑ed plainly a doctrine intended, in corrupt times, to give a myſterious ſuperiority to the clergy. No traces of it could be found till near a thouſand years after the ſacrament was firſt inſtituted.

The doctrine of tranſubſtantiation took its riſe indeed ſooner; but not however till the eighth century; at which time alſo the notion of the lord's ſupper being a propitia⯑tory ſacrifice was firſt heard of.

Very late alſo appeared the doctrine of an action's being morally good, without any re⯑gard to the intention of the doer; commonly called the doctrine of the opus operatum. It ſeemed plainly intended for no other end but to enrich its teachers.

Thus, into whatever part of popery he ex⯑amined, he found great abuſes: the true ſim⯑plicity and ſpirit of chriſtianity were gone; [16]totally loſt in mere human inventions. But what he firſt began to object to in the popiſh creed, and was moſt diſguſted at, were in⯑dulgences, prayers before images, and diſal⯑lowing the public uſe of the ſcripture.

The rites and ceremonies of the Romiſh church pleaſed him as little as its doctrines: many of them appeared trifling; many of them ridiculous; and not a few plainly impious. That affected oſtentation, and theatrical pomp, which accompanied them all, ſeemed a ſtrange deviation from the ſimplicity of apoſtolic times; and had, he could not but obſerve, the worſt influence upon the people, as it led them from the practice of virtue, to put their truſt in outward performances.

They, who have been bred up in a purer religion, may perhaps wonder, that a man of ſo much ſenſe and learning, and eſpecially of ſo much honeſty and ſincerity, needed ſo long a courſe of reaſoning to diſcover errors of ſo groſs a kind. But if his conduct may not be accounted for by prejudice, it was however ſuch as will always be expected from a fair mind in the ſame circumſtances. [17]The matter under his conſideration was of the laſt importance; it required therefore the utmoſt caution. His good ſenſe led him early to doubt; yet, conſidering what an eſtabliſhed creed his doubts oppoſed, his hu⯑mility made thoſe very doubts ſuſpected. He knew not indeed how to proceed: he was diſtracted by a thouſand ſcruples: the fault might be in himſelf—or, it might be in his religion—papiſt and proteſant could not both be in the right—either might be in the wrong—yet each had ſomething to ſay that was plauſible. He hoped however that a merciful God would regard the diffi⯑culties he had to ſtruggle with, and exact nothing from him beyond his power—every thing in his power he was determined to do. Agreeably to this reſolution, he went on with the examination of religious matters, omitting nothing that could contribute to his due in⯑formation.

While he was engaged in this work, an event happened, which greatly advanced it, by giving the laſt ſhock to his prejudices in favour of popery.

[18]Europe had now been ſo long diſtracted by religious diſſenſions, that it was univerſally, thought neceſſary to ſummon a general coun⯑cil, which might deliberate on the beſt ex⯑pedients to remove them. This prevailing deſire was liſtened to very heedleſly at Rome. A ſcrutiny into religious matters was an alarm⯑ing thing to every true papiſt. The conſe⯑quence was eaſily foreſeen; and the prudent pope was very unwilling to have the pool ſtirred, leſt it ſhould become too evident how much it wanted cleanſing. But diſcontent and clamour running high, and nothing ap⯑pearing likely to appeaſe the univerſal mur⯑mur but a council, one was at length conven⯑ed at Trent. The pope had now recourſe to an after-game. Since he could not avoid this dreaded council, he contrived however to ma⯑nage the members of it with ſuch addreſs, that his power, far from being ſhaken by them, was in fact only the more confirmed. Inſtead of repairing what was decayed, their only care was to prop the old ruin as it ſtood. But among all the meaſures then taken in ſupport of eccleſiaſtical tyranny, the compleateſt was a bold decree, that the traditions of the church [19]ſhould be eſteemed of equal authority with the ſcriptures themſelves.

A determination of ſo extraordinary a na⯑ture was received with aſtoniſhment by all well-wiſhers to religion. 'The opportunity (the reformers every where cried out is now loſt! Since traditions are equalled with ſcrip⯑ture, and theſe traditions are in the hands of the conclave, it cannot be doubted whoſe ſenſe they will always ſpeak. The Roman⯑iſts have now a fund of authority for all their extravagancies. Alas! inſtead of ſtopping the breach, they have now ſo far widened it, as to deſtroy all hope of its ever cloſing again.'

Mr. Gilpin, among the reſt, took great offence at theſe proceedings ^*. Hitherto, [20]notwithſtanding his objections to popery, there was ſomething in an eſtabliſhed church which he knew not how to get over. The word ſchiſm greatly perplexed him: nor could he eaſily perſuade himſelf of the law⯑fulneſs of a ſeparation from the church of Rome, corrupt as ſhe was in other reſpects, while ſhe profeſſed to draw her rule of faith from the ſcriptures. But when he found, by the publication of the council of Trent, that ſhe had carried her authority to ſuch an height of arrogance as to ſet up her own un⯑written word againſt the ſcriptures; a word, which, he would often humorouſly ſay, 'was in no degree comparable to the word of an honest man;' it was high time, he thought, [21]for all ſincere Chriſtians to take the alarm. The deſigns of the papiſts were now too plain; and if they meant well to religion, they meant it in ſuch a manner, that a good conſcience could not comply with them. For himſelf, he was obliged to conclude, from this direct oppoſition of their own authority to the authority of ſcripture, that their ſole view was to eſtabliſh their declining power: nor could he otherwiſe conſider popery than as a per⯑plexed ſyſtem of prieſt-craft, ſuperſtition, and bigotry; a religion converted into a trade, and uſed only as a cloak for the tyranny and ava⯑rice of its profeſſors. In a word, he thought it now ſufficiently evident, that the church of Rome was plainly antichriſtian ^*; and that, [22]as ſuch, there was an abſolute neceſſity laid upon every true believer to forſake her com⯑munion.

[23]Such were the cautious ſteps Mr. Gilpin took before he declared himſelf a proteſtant. [24]So difficult a matter it is to get over ſtrong religious prejudices, and to overcome the unhappy effects of a wrong education!

His more than ordinary candour and ſin⯑cerity, through the whole of this affair, met with much applauſe, and gained him great eſteem. Many years afterwards the earls of Bedford and Leiceſter, having heard there was ſomething very uncommon in his man⯑ner of proceeding upon this occaſion, want⯑ed to be more acquainted with the circum⯑ſtances of it; and for that purpoſe applied to Mr. George Gilpin, Bernard's brother, who was upon terms of great intimacy with thoſe two noblemen, and then in London. Ac⯑cordingly this gentleman, taking the oppor⯑tunity of a viſit to his friends in the north, perſuaded his brother to give him in writing an exact account of the progreſs of his change from the Romiſh religion.

[25]Mr. Gilpin's letter upon: this occaſion is ſtill extant. As it will give a truer idea of his ingenuity and caution in this affair, than any narrative can, and as it hath beſides a noble ſtrain of piety to recommend it, I will here tranſcribe the greateſt part of it. It was written indeed many years after the time now treated of, and touches upon ſeveral facts not yet taken notice of; but its reference to the preſent ſubject makes this the propereſt place for laying it before the reader.

SECTION II.

WE left Mr. Gilpin at Chriſt-church college in Oxford, now fully con⯑vinced of the errors of popery.

An academic life, affording him moſt lei⯑ſure for ſtudy, was the life he was moſt in⯑clined to. He had too juſt a ſenſe of the duty of a clergyman to be unacquainted with the qualifications requiſite for its diſcharge; and too mean an opinion of himſelf to think he was yet maſter of them. He thought more learning was neceſſary in that contro⯑verſial age than he had yet acquired: and his chief argument with his friends, who were continually ſoliciting him to leave the univer⯑ſity, was, that he was not yet enough in⯑ſtructed in religion himſelf to be a teacher of it to others. It was an arduous taſk, he ſaid, eſpecially at that time; and proteſtantiſm could not ſuffer more, than by the rawneſs and inexperience of its teachers.

Theſe thoughts continued him at Oxford till the thirty-fifth year of his age. About that time the vicarage of Norton, in the [34]dioceſe of Durham, falling vacant, his friends, who had intereſt to obtain it for him, re⯑newed their ſolicitations, and at length pre⯑vailed upon him to accept it ^*. Accordingly a preſentation paſſed in his favour, which bears date, among king Edward's grants, no⯑vember, 1552.

Before he went to reſide, he was appoint⯑ed to preach before the king, who was then at Greenwich. Strype, in his annals, ſeems to intimate, that Mr. Gilpin was at that time famous for his preaching in the north, and that it was upon this account he was called upon to preach at court. But there is little authority for this. He does not ſeem to have been yet a preacher at all; at leaſt, of any note. It is rather probable, the only reaſon of his being ſent to upon this occaſion, was that he might give a public teſtimony of his being well inclined to the reformation: for the heads of the proteſtant party were at this [35]time very ſcrupulous in the diſpoſal of liv⯑ings. ‘It was then ordered, ſays Heylin, in his church-hiſtory, that none ſhould be pre⯑ſented unto any benefice in the donation of the crown, till he had firſt preached before the king, and thereby paſſed his judgment and approbation.’

The reigning vice of that age, as its hiſto⯑rians inform us, was avarice, or more pro⯑perly rapine ^*. At court all things were ve⯑nal; [36]employments, honours, favours of every kind. In the room of law and juſtice, groſs [37]bribery and wrong were common; in trade, grievous extortions and frauds. Every where and every way the poor were vexed. But in the country this rapacity was moſt obſerved, where the oppreſſions exerciſed were ſo in⯑tolerable, that the preceding year had ſeen great heats and murmurings among the peo⯑ple, and ſome counties even in arms.

Of theſe things the preachers moſt in ear⯑neſt ſpoke with great freedom; particularly biſhop Latimer, who was the Cato of that age. Among others Mr. Gilpin thought it became him to take notice of evils ſo much complained of: accordingly he made the avarice of the times his ſubject upon the pre⯑ſent occaſion; reſolving with an honeſt free⯑dom to cenſure corruption, in whatever rank of men he obſerved it.

He began, firſt, with the clergy. He was ſorry, he ſaid, to obſerve among them ſuch a manifeſt neglect of their function. To get benefices, not to take care of them, was their [38]endeavour: half of them were pluraliſts or non-reſidents; and ſuch could never fulfil their charge. He was ſhocked, he ſaid to hear them quote human laws againſt God's word—if ſuch laws did exiſt, they were the, remains of popery, and the king would do well to repeal them—while mens conſciences would permit them to hold as many livings as they could get, and diſcharge none, it was impoſſible the goſpel could have any ſucceſs in England.

From the clergy he turned to the court; and obſerving the king was abſent, he was obliged to introduce that part of his ſermon, which he had deſigned for him, by ſaying, 'It grieved him to ſee thoſe abſent, who for example's ſake ought particularly to have been preſent. He had heard other preachers like⯑wiſe remark, that it was common for them to be abſent. Buſineſs might perhaps be their excuſe; but he could not believe, that ſerv⯑ing God would ever hinder buſineſs. If he could, he ſaid, he would make them hear in their chambers; but however he would ſpeak to their ſeats (not doubting but what he ſaid would be carried to them.)

[39]You, ſaid he, great prince, are appointed by God to be the governor of this land: let me then here call upon you in behalf of your people. It is in your power to redreſs them; and if you do not, the neglect muſt be ac⯑counted for. Take away diſpenſations for pluralities and non-reſidence, oblige every paſtor to hold but one benefice, and as far as you can make every one do his duty: your grace's eye to look through your realm would do more good than a thouſand preachers. The land is full of idle paſtors; and how can it be otherwiſe, when the nobility, and pa⯑trons of livings put in juſt who will allow them to take out moſt profit? It would be good if your grace would ſend out ſurveyors to ſee how benefices are beſtowed. It is no wonder that your people are continually riſing up in rebellions, when they have no inſtruc⯑tors to teach them their duty.—A reforma⯑tion! there is as much ignorance, ſuperſtition, and idolatry, as ever; which, as far as I can foreſee, will remain; for benefices are every where ſo plundered and robbed by patrons, that in a little time no body will bring up their children to the church. It is amazing [40]to ſee how the univerſities are diminiſhed within theſe few years—And I muſt tell your grace, that all this is owing to you for taking no more notice of theſe things. For my part, I will do my duty; I will tell your grace what abuſes prevail, and pray to God that he will direct your heart to amend them.'

He next addreſſed himſelf to the magi⯑ſtrates, and gentry. 'They all, he told them, received their honours, their power, and their authority, from God, who expected they would make a proper uſe of ſuch gifts; and would certainly call them to an account for the abuſe of them. But he ſaw ſo much ambitious ſtriving for them at court, that he was afraid they did not all conſider them in their true light. He obſerved, that the ſpirit of avarice was got among them—that the country cried out againſt their extortions—and that when the poor came to ſeek for juſtice in London, the great men would not ſee them—their ſer⯑vants muſt firſt be bribed. Oh! with what glad hearts and clear conſciences, ſaid he, might noblemen go to reſt, after having ſpent the day in hearing the complaints of the poor, [41]and redreſſing their wrongs! For want of that, they were obliged to ſeek their right among lawyers, who quickly devoured every thing that was left them—thouſands every term were obliged to go back worſe than they came.

Let me then, ſaid he, call upon you who are magiſtrates, and put you in mind, that if the people are debtors to you for obedience, you are debtors to them for protection. If you deny this, they muſt ſuffer; but God will aſſuredly eſpouſe their cauſe againſt you.

And now, if we ſearch for the root of all theſe evils; what is it but avarice? This it is that maketh the bad nobleman, the bad magiſtrate, the bad paſtor, and the bad lawyer.'

Having thus freely addreſſed his audience, he concluded his ſermon with an hearty ex⯑hortation, 'That all would conſider theſe things, and that ſuch as found themſelves faulty, would amend their lives.'

Thus this pious man began his miniſtry: ſuch was the ſenſe he had of that plainneſs and ſincerity which became it: as he thought nothing his intereſt, but what was alſo his [42]duty; hope or fear never ſwayed him. He conſidered himſelf in ſome degree chargeable with thoſe vices, which he knew were pre⯑vailing, and failed to rebuke.—A freedom of this nature the times however allowed: for how little ſoever there might be of the reality of virtue, there was certainly much of the pro⯑feſſion of it: public deference at leaſt was paid to it.

Mr. Gilpin's plainneſs therefore was very well taken, and recommended him to the no⯑tice of many perſons of the firſt rank; par⯑ticularly to Sir Francis Ruſſel, and Sir Ro⯑bert Dudley, afterwards earls of Bedford and Leiceſter, who from that time profeſſed a great regard for him; and, when in power, were always ready to patronize him.

Theſe two noblemen were both great pa⯑trons of virtue and letters; but with very dif⯑ferent views, as they were indeed very dif⯑ferent men.

Bedford appeared at court with all the ad⯑vantages of birth. His father, the firſt earl of that name, was one of the greateſt men of his age, eminent for unſpotted honeſty, and ſuperior talents in war and peace. His ſon [43]purſued his ſteps, and though he wanted his father's great abilities, he was however a very wiſe and honeſt man, and acted afterwards a conſiderable part in ſettling the reformation under Elizabeth; to whoſe court he was a very great ornament. He was a friend to merit from the real love he bore to virtue.

Leiceſter, however accompliſhed in many reſpects, was one of the greateſt villains of his time; copying the examples of his father and grandfather ^*. He was thoroughly prac⯑tiſed in every ſpecies of diſhoneſty; yet ſuch a maſter of diſſimulation, that he could act even the worſt part plauſibly. He courted good men for the credit of their acquain⯑tance.

[44]Such were Mr. Gilpin's chief patrons—voluntary patrons, whom no application on his part engaged. He received their offered friendſhip with humility and gratitude, never intending to put it to a trial. This backward⯑neſs proceeded not from any ſullen notion of independence, but from an utter averſion to all ſolicitation for church preferment. The lord Bedford's intereſt indeed he ſcrupled not to ſolicit occaſionally for his friends: but he never once aſked, that I can find, though much courted to it, any favour of the earl of Leiceſter.

Mr. Gilpin is ſaid likewiſe at this time to have been taken notice of by ſecretary Cecil, afterwards lord Burleigh, who obtained for him a general licence for preaching. In granting theſe licences great caution was then uſed: none but men of approved worth could apply for them with ſucceſs. Upon looking over king Edward's grants, it does not appear there were more than two or three and twenty thus licenced during that king's reign. Among theſe were the biſhops Jewel, Grindal, and Coverdale.

[45]While Mr. Gilpin was at London, he fre⯑quently viſited Cuthbert Tunſtal biſhop of Durham, who was his uncle, and had always expreſſed a great regard for him. It is pro⯑bable indeed, his parents intended him a churchman, with a view to his being advan⯑ced by this prelate. But the biſhop was at this time in no capacity to ſerve him: he was diſgraced, and in the tower.

During the reign of Henry the eighth, Tunſtal had lived in great credit at court; was eſteemed a man of abilities, a good ſcho⯑lar, and an able ſtateſman. His ſovereign knew his worth, advanced him to the ſee of Durham, employed him much at home and abroad, and at his death left him, during the minority, one of the regents of the kingdom. But in the ſucceeding reign his intereſt leſſen⯑ed. He was not altogether ſatisfied with the changes daily made in religion; and though he was enough inclined to give up ſome of the groſſer tenets of popery, yet in general he favoured it, and was always in great eſteem with the Romiſh party. This occaſioned their making him privy to ſome treaſonable deſigns; which, in his cautious way, he neither con⯑curred [46]in, nor betrayed. The plot miſcarried: the biſhop was indeed ſuſpected, but nothing appeared. Some time afterwards, when the duke of Somerſet's papers were ſeized, an un⯑lucky letter was found, which fully detected him. He was called immediately before the council, tried by a ſpecial commiſſion, found guilty, deprived, and committed.

Mr. Gilpin, having now ſtayed as long in London as his buſineſs required, repaired to his pariſh; and immediately entered upon the dudes of it. He failed not, as occaſion re⯑quired, to uſe the king's licence in other parts of the country; but his own pariſh he con⯑ſidered as the place where his chief care was due. Here he made it his principal endea⯑vour to inculcate moral virtue; and to diſ⯑ſuade from thoſe vices, which he obſerved moſt prevalent. He ſeldom handled contro⯑verted points; being afraid, leſt, endeavour⯑ing to inſtruct, he might only miſlead. For, however reſolved he was againſt popery, he yet ſaw not the proteſtant cauſe in its full ſtrength; and was ſtill ſcarcely ſettled in ſome of his religious opinions. Hence by degrees a diffidence of himſelf aroſe, which gave him [47]great uneaſineſs. He thought, he had en⯑gaged too ſoon in his office—that he could not ſufficiently diſcharge it—that he ſhould not reſt in giving his hearers only moral in⯑ſtructions—that, overſpread as the country was with popiſh doctrines, he did ill to pretend to be a teacher of religion, if he were unable to oppoſe ſuch errors.

Theſe thoughts made every day a greater impreſſion upon him. At length, quite un⯑happy, he wrote biſhop Tunſtal an account of his ſituation. The biſhop, who was the fartheſt of any man from a bigot, and liked him not the worſe for his freedom of inquiry, told him, As he was ſo uneaſy, it was his advice, he ſhould think of nothing till he had fixed his religion: and that, in his opinion, he could not do better than put his pariſh into the hands of ſome perſon, in whom he could confide, and ſpend a year or two in Germany, France, and Holland; by which means he might have an opportunity of con⯑verſing with ſome of the moſt eminent pro⯑feſſors on both ſides of the queſtion. He ac⯑quainted him likewiſe, that his going abroad at this time would do him alſo a conſiderable [48]ſervice: for, during his confinement, he had written two or three books, particularly one upon the lord's ſupper, which he had a de⯑ſire to publiſh; and as this could not be done ſo conveniently at home, he would be glad to have it done under his inſpection at Paris.

This letter gave Mr. Gilpin much ſatis⯑faction: it juſt propoſed his own wiſh. A conference with ſome of the learned men abroad was what his heart had long been ſet on. Only he had one objection to the ſcheme; he was afraid it might prove too expenſive.

As to that, the biſhop wrote, his living would do ſomething towards his mainte⯑nance; and deficiences he would ſupply.

But this did not remove the difficulty. Mr. Gilpin's notions of the paſtoral care were ſo ſtrict, that he thought no excuſe could juſtify non-reſidence for ſo conſiderable a time as he intended to be abroad. He could not there⯑fore think of ſupporting himſelf with any part of the income of his living. However, abroad he was determined to go; and reſolv⯑ed, [49]if he ſtaid the ſhorter time, to rely only upon his own frugal management of the little money he had; and to leave the reſt to the biſhop's generoſity.

Having reſigned his living therefore in fa⯑vour of a perſon, with whoſe abilities, and inclinations to diſcharge the duties of it, he was well acquainted, he ſet out for London, to receive his laſt orders from the biſhop, and to embark.

The account of his reſignation got to town before him; and gave the biſhop, anxious for his nephew's thriving in the world, great con⯑cern. 'Here are your friends, ſays he, en⯑deavouring to provide for you; and you are taking every method to fruſtrate their en⯑deavours. But be warned: by theſe courſes, depend upon it, you will bring yourſelf pre⯑ſently to a morſel of bread.' Mr. Gilpin begged the biſhop would attribute what he had done to a ſcrupulous conſcience, which really would not permit him to act otherwiſe. 'Conſcience! replied the biſhop; why you might have had a diſpenſation.' 'Will any diſpenſation, anſwered Mr. Gilpin, reſtrain [50]the tempter from endeavouring, in my ab⯑ſence, to corrupt the people committed to my care ^*? Alas! I fear it would be but an ill excuſe for the harm done my flock, if I ſhould ſay, when God ſhall call me to an ac⯑count for my ſtewardſhip, that I was abſent by diſpenſation.' This reply put the biſhop a little out of humour; but his diſguſt was ſoon over, and this inſtance of Mr. Gilpin's ſincerity raiſed him ſtill higher in his uncle's eſteem. The biſhop would frequently how⯑ever chide him, as Mr. Gilpin afterwards would tell his friends, for theſe qualms of conſcience; and would be often remind⯑ing him, that, if he did not look better to his intereſt, he would certainly die a beggar.

[51]The biſhop, putting into his hands the books he had written, gave him his laſt in⯑ſtructions, and parted with him in very good humour. So he took the firſt opportunity of embarking for Holland.

SECTION III.

UPON his landing, he went immedi⯑ately to Mechlin, to viſit his brother George, who was at that time purſuing his ſtudies there.

This viſit was probably upon a religious account; for George, tho' a man of virtue and learning, ſeems to have been a zealous papiſt. What influence his brother Bernard had over him does not appear. We meet with him however ſoon afterwards a warm advocate for the reformation; to forward which, he tranſlated, from the Dutch into Engliſh, a very keen ſatyr againſt popery, en⯑titled, The beehive of the Roman church. Upon Elizabeth's acceſſion, he applied him⯑ſelf to ſtate affairs; for which indeed he was now preparing himſelf at Mechlin, where the civil law was much ſtudied. The earl of Bedford brought him to court; where he was ſoon taken notice of by the queen; to whom he ſo well recommended himſelf by his dexterity in buſineſs, that ſhe made great uſe of him in her negotiations with the ſtates [53]of Holland, and kept him many years with a public character in that country, where he was in great eſteem for his abilities and integ⯑rity. We meet with his name ſometimes in the accounts of thoſe tranſactions. Motley particularly, ſpeaking of ſame affairs then in agitation, makes honourable mention of him. ‘The hans-towns, ſays he, procured, in an imperial edict, that the Engliſh merchants aſſociated in Embden and other places, ſhould be adjudged monopoliſts; which was done by Suderman, a great civilian. There was there at that time for the queen as nimble a man as Suderman, and he had the chancellor of Embden to ſecond him; yet they could not ſtop the edict. But Gilpin played his cards ſo well, that he prevailed, the imperial ban ſhould not be publiſhed till after the diet; and that in the mean time his imperial majeſty ſhould ſend an embaſſador to England, to advertiſe the queen of the edict.’

Mr. Gilpin having ſtaid a few weeks with his brother at Mechlin, went afterwards to Louvain, where he reſolved to ſettle for ſome time. He made frequent excurſions to Ant⯑werp, [54]Ghent, Bruſſels, and other places in the Low Countries; where he would ſpend a few weeks among thoſe of any reputation, whether papiſts or proteſtants: but he made Louvain his place of reſidence, for which city he always expreſſed a more than com⯑mon affection. And indeed it was a moſt agreeable and commodious retreat for a ſcho⯑lar; enjoying all the advantages of ſituation, and affording the beſt opportunities for ſtudy.

Louvain is one of the chief towns in Bra⯑bant. It had formerly been the center of a very conſiderable woollen trade. More than four thouſand looms were daily at work in it, each of which employed near forty people. But its trade declining, it grew more beauti⯑ful, as it became leſs populous. Elegant houſes were built, and ſpacious walks laid oat within the walls of the town; the river Dyle, which flowed through the midſt of it, affording the inhabitants many opportunities of ſhewing their taſte. Upon an eminence at one end ſtands the caſtle, a venerable old building, riſing out of the midſt of a vine⯑yard. Its battlements are much frequented [55]for the ſake of the noble proſpect they com⯑mand over a country the moſt agreeably di⯑verſified with every thing that can make an extenſive landſkip beautiful; here a ſtately palace, there a lonely monaſtry, rivers, lawns, woods, till the eye is loſt in a boundleſs plain blending itſelf with the horrizon. The ele⯑gance of this ſituation made Louvain the ſeat of politeneſs. Hither the men of taſte and leiſure from all parts repaired; where inſtead of the noiſe and hurry of trade, ſo common in the towns of Flanders, they enjoyed a calm retreat, and the agreeable interchange of ſoli⯑tude and company. But what endeared Lou⯑vain moſt to a ſcholar, was the noble ſeminary there eſtabliſhed. John the fourth duke of Brabant, with a view to keep up the credit of one of his chief towns upon the decay of the woollen manufacture, politically founded a univerſity in it; which ſoon became one of the moſt conſiderable in Europe. It conſiſts of many colleges, in each of which philoſo⯑phy was taught by two profeſſors, who read two hours each morning. The ſcholars had the reſt of the day to commit to writing what they heard.

[56]At the time Mr. Gilpin was at Louvain, it was one of the chief places for ſtudents in divinity. Some of the moſt eminent divines on both ſides of the queſtion reſided there; and the moſt important topics of religion were diſcuſſed with great freedom.

Mr. Gilpin's firſt buſineſs here was to get himſelf introduced to thoſe of any reputation for learning; to whom his own addreſs and attainments were no mean recommendation, and ſupplied the place of a long acquaintance, He was preſent at all public readings and diſ⯑putations: he committed every thing mate⯑rial to writing: all his opinions he re-ex⯑amined; propoſed his doubts in private to his friends; and in every reſpect made the beſt uſe of his time.

He now began to have juſter notions of the doctrine of the reformed: he ſaw things in a clearer and a ſtronger light; and felt a ſatisfaction in the change he had made, to which he had hitherto been a ſtranger.

While he was thus purſuing his ſtudies, he and all the proteſtants in thoſe parts were ſuddenly alarmed with melancholy news from England—king Edward's death—the lady [57]Jane's fall—and queen Mary's acceſſion, whoſe bigotry was well known, and in whom the ſigns of a perſecuting ſpirit al⯑ready appeared.

This bad news came however attended with one agreeable circumſtance; an account of biſhop Tunſtal's releaſe from the tower, and re-eſtabliſhment in his biſhoprick.

Soon afterwards Mr. Gilpin received a let⯑ter from his brother George, intreating him to come immediately to Mechlin; for he had an affair of conſequence to communicate to him, which abſolutely required an interview. When he came thither, he found his brother had received a letter from the biſhop, in⯑forming him, that he had found a benefice of conſiderable value vacant in his dioceſe, which he wiſhed he could perſuade his bro⯑ther Bernard to accept; imagining he might by this time have got over his former ſcruples.

George knew he had a difficult province to manage; but determined however to try his influence. He begged his brother there⯑fore to conſider, 'That he could not ſtay ſo long abroad for want of money, as he might [58]probably chuſe—that he had already offend⯑ed the biſhop—and that a ſecond refuſal might occaſion an intire breach with him—that if it did not, yet the biſhop was now an old man—ſuch benefices were not every day to be had—and after the biſhop's death, he was not likely to meet with a friend, who would thus preſs him to accept a living.' But nothing would do: Bernard continued unmoved, and gave one anſwer to all his brother's arguments, 'That his conſcience would not ſuffer him to comply.' George anſwered, 'He might have his living as well taken care of, as if himſelf were there: be⯑ſides, ſays he, you have a biſhop approving and adviſing the ſtep I recommend; what would you deſire more?' If a biſhop's judgment, ſaid Bernard, was to be the rule of my actions, I ſhould comply; but as I am to ſtand or fall by my own, the caſe is different.' In ſhort, George was obliged to deſiſt; and Bernard returned to Lonvain, heartily vexed that he had loſt ſo much time upon ſo trifling an occaſion. He thought it however his duty to give the biſhop his rea⯑ſons [59]for not accepting his kind offer, which he did in the following letter.

The biſhop was not offended at this letter. The unaffected piety of it diſarmed all re⯑ſentment; and led him rather to admire a behaviour, in which the motives of conſcience ſhewed themſelves ſo ſuperior to thoſe of in⯑tereſt. ‘Which of our modern gaping rooks, exclaims the biſhop of Chicheſter, could endeavour with more induſtry to ob⯑tain a benefice, than this man did to avoid one!’

[63]Mr. Gilpin, having got over this trouble⯑ſome affair (for ſolicitations of this kind gave him of all things the moſt trouble) continued ſome time longer at Louvain, daily improv⯑ing in religious knowledge. His own opi⯑nions he kept to himſelf, induſtriouſly endea⯑vouring to make himſelf acquainted with the opinions of others, and the arguments upon which they were grounded.

While he ſtayed in the Low Countries, he was greatly affected with the melancholy ſight of crouds of his dejected countrymen arriv⯑ing daily in thoſe parts from the bloody ſcene then acting in England. Theſe unhappy exiles however ſoon recovered their ſpirits, and, diſ⯑perſing into various towns, chearfully applied themſelves, each as his profeſſion led, to gain an honeſt livelihood. The meaner fort exer⯑ciſed their crafts; the learned taught ſchools, read lectures, and corrected preſſes; at Baſil particularly, where the ingenious Operinus was then carrying printing to great perfec⯑tion. Their commendable endeavours to make themſelves not quite a burden to thoſe who entertained them were ſuitably reward⯑ed. The ſeveral towns of Germany and [64]Holland, finding their advantage in theſe ſtrangers, ſhewed them all imaginable ci⯑vility: many private perſons likewiſe con⯑tributed to their aid: but, above all others, the generous duke of Wirtemburgh diſtin⯑guiſhed himſelf in their favour; whoſe boun⯑ty to the Engliſh at Straſburgh and Franck⯑fort ſhould never paſs unremembered, where theſe things are mentioned. Nor was Mr. Gilpin a little pleaſed to find, that, however unable he was perſonally to aſſiſt them, his large acquaintance in the country furniſhed him with the means of being uſeful to many of them by very ſerviceable recommenda⯑tions.

Mr. Gilpin had been now two years in Flanders; and had made himſelf perfect maſter of the controverſy, as it was there handled. He left Louvain therefore, and took a journey to Paris.

Paſſing through a foreſt in his way thither, he was attacked by highwaymen; from whom, being very well mounted, he eſcaped to a cottage by the road-ſide. The rogues purſued him to the houſe, and declared they would pull it down, or ſet it on fire, if he [65]did not immediately come out. The family was in great conſtermation: in vain did Mr. Gilpin repreſent, that theſe were only idle threatenings—that on ſo public a road they durſt not meddle with the houſe—and that they would preſently be gone. All availed nothing. To quiet therefore the diſturbance he had occaſioned, he went out, and gave the rogues his money.

When he got to Paris, the firſt thing he ſet about was printing the biſhop of Dur⯑ham's book. This prelate, as hath been ob⯑ſerved, was a very moderate man; no favourer of proteſtantiſm, yet no friend to ſome of the groſſer tenets of the Romiſh church; parti⯑cularly to its extravagant doctrine of the ſa⯑crament of the lord's ſupper: and this book, which ſhewed the moderation of its author, gave much offence to all the more zealous papiſts; and drew many ſevere reproaches upon Mr. Gilpin, who was generally ſuppoſed to have corrupted the biſhop's work. Of what was ſaid his friends gave him notice, particularly Francis Wickliff; who deſired, if the charge was unjuſt, that he would purge himſelf of it. Mr. Gilpin told him, that [66]was eaſily done; and opening a deſk, 'See here, ſays he, a letter from my lord of Dur⯑ham himſelf, in which he thanks me for my care and fidelity in this buſineſs.'

While Mr. Gilpin ſtaid at Paris, he lodged with Vaſcoſan ^*, to whom he had been re⯑commended by his friends in the Netherlands. This learned man ſhewed him great regard, did him many friendly offices, and introduced him to the moſt conſiderable men in that city.

Here popery became quite his averſion: he ſaw more of its ſuperſtition and craft than he had yet ſeen; the former among the people, the latter among the prieſts, who ſcrupled not to avow, how little truth was their concern. He would frequently aſk, 'Whether ſuch and ſuch bad conſequences might not ariſe from ſuch and ſuch doctrines?' But he was always anſwered, 'That was not to be re⯑garded—the church could not ſubſiſt without them—and little inconveniences muſt be bore with.'

At Paris he found his old acquaintance Mr. Neal, of New-college; who always favour⯑ed [67]popery, and was now become a bigot to it. Mr. Gilpin often expreſſed to him the concern he had upon this account; and ap⯑proved his friendſhip, by the earneſt deſire he ſhewed to make him ſee his errors: but Neal was not of a temper to be wrought upon.

As an inſtance of popiſh ſophiſtry and pre⯑judice, Mr. Gilpin would ſometimes relate a converſation about image-worſhip, which he once had with this Neal at Paris. He was obſerving to him the great abſurdity of the Romaniſts, in condemning idolatry, and yet countenancing ſuch an uſe of images, as muſt neceſſarily draw the people into it. For his part, he ſaid, he knew not how a chriſ⯑tain could allow himſelf in kneeling to an image; and aſked Neal, whether, in his con⯑ſcience, he did not think it the idolatry for⯑bidden in the ſecond commandment? Neal was for diſtinguiſhing between an idol and an image: the images of ſaints, he ſaid, were not idols; and therefore the reverence paid to them could not be idolatry. Mr. Gilpin obſerved, that in the ſecond commandment there was no mention made of an idol: the [68]prohibition was, 'Bow not down to the like⯑neſs of any created thing.' And what is it, ſaid he, that makes an idol? The work⯑man makes the reſemblance of a human creature: the image thus made is no idol: it is worſhip that makes it one. Hence the apoſtle ſays, 'an idol is nothing.'—a mere creature of the imagination. The diſtinc⯑tion therefore between Latria and Doulia is to no purpoſe: it is made void by the ex⯑preſs words, ‘Thou ſhalt not bow down unto them.’ The very poſture of adora⯑tion, he obſerved, was forbidden; and that at leaſt the Romaniſts every where practiſed.—To all this Neal had only one general an⯑ſwer: 'You may ſay juſt what you pleaſe; but theſe things are eſtabliſhed by the church, and cannot be altered.'

This was the ſame Neal, who was after⯑wards chaplain to biſhop Bonner, and diſtin⯑guiſhed himſelf by being ſole voucher of the very improbable and ſilly ſtory of the nag's⯑head conſecration.

Mr. Gilpin having ſpent three years abroad, was now fully ſatisfied in all his more con⯑ſiderable [69]ſcruples. He wanted no farther conviction of the bad tendency of popery: he ſaw the neceſſity of ſome reformation; and began to think every day more favour⯑ably of the preſent one. The doctrine of the corporal preſence indeed he had not yet fully conſidered; but he looked upon it as a myſtery, which it rather became him to acquieſce in than examine. The principal end of his going abroad being thus anſwered, he was deſirous of returning home.

The Marian perſecution was ſtill raging. His friends therefore, with great earneſtneſs, diſſuaded him from his deſign. They re⯑preſented the danger he would be in at this juncture in England—preſſed him to wait for happier times—and ſuggeſted, that it was little leſs than madneſs to think of going to a place, from whence all, of his ſentiments, were endeavouring to withdraw themſelves.

Bat it is moſt probable, that his purpoſe to return at this time was in purſuance of the biſhop of Durham's advice; who, find⯑ing the infirmities of age increaſe upon him, and believing his nephew totally unqualified [70]to advance himſelf in life, might be deſirous of providing for him before his death; and hoped that his power, in that remote part of the kingdom, would be a ſufficient protec⯑tion for him againſt his enemies. It is how⯑ever certain, that he came into England dur⯑ing the heat of the perſecution.

SECTION IV.

UPON his arrival in England, he went immediately to the biſhop of Dur⯑ham, who was then in his dioceſe. Here this humane prelate kept himſelf withdrawn during moſt of that violent reign, to avoid having any hand in meaſures which he ab⯑horred.

When he left London, upon his releaſe from the tower, he was ſtraitly charged with the entire extirpation of hereſy in his dioceſe; and was given to underſtand, that ſeverity would be the only allowed teſt of his zeal. Theſe inſtructions he received in the ſpirit they were given; loudly threatening, that heretics ſhould no where find a warmer re⯑ception than at Durham: and it was thought indeed the proteſtants would hardly meet with much favour from him, as they had ſhewn him ſo little. But nothing was fur⯑ther from his intention than perſecution; in⯑ſomuch that his was almoſt the only dioceſe, where the poor proteſtants enjoyed any re⯑poſe. When moſt of the other biſhops ſent [72]in large accounts of their ſervices to religion, very lame ones came from Durham: they were filled with high encomiums of the or⯑thodoxy of the dioceſe, interſperſed here and there with the trial of an heretic; but either the depoſitions againſt him were not ſuffi⯑ciently proved, or there were great hopes of his recantation—no mention however was made of any burnings. The following ſtory of his lenity we have from Mr. Fox. A per⯑ſon had been accuſed to him of hereſy, whom he had ſlightly examined, and diſmiſſed. His chancellor thinking him too favourable, preſſ⯑ed for a further examination: the biſhop an⯑ſwered, 'We have hitherto lived peaceably among our neighbours: let us continue ſo, and not bring this man's blood upon us.' A behaviour of this kind was but ill reliſhed by the zealous council; and the biſhop laid de⯑ſervedly under the calumny of being not ac⯑tuated by true Romiſh principles.

Such was the ſtate of the dioceſe of Dur⯑ham, when Mr. Gilpin came there. The biſhop received him with great friendship; and within a very little time, gave him the archdeaconry of Durham; to which the rec⯑tory [73]of Eaſington was annexed. It is pro⯑bable, that if Mr. Gilpin came home by the biſhop's advice, this preferment was then va⯑cant, or ſoon expected to be ſo.

Upon removing to his pariſh, he found it in great diſorder. With a firm reſolution therefore of doing what good he could in it, he ſet himſelf in earneſt to reprove vice pub⯑licly and privately; to encourage virtue; and to explain the nature of true religion, with a freedom by no means ſuited to thoſe danger⯑ous times.

Very material objections were then made to the clergy of thoſe parts. The reforma⯑tion, which advanced but ſlowly in England, had made leaſt progreſs in the north. The eccleſiaſtics there wanted not a popiſh reign to authorize their ſuperſtition. But this was their beſt ſide. Their manners were ſcanda⯑lous: the paſtoral care was totally neglected; and it is hard to ſay, whether vice or igno⯑rance was more remarkable in them.

All over England indeed the church was very ill ſupplied with miniſters. ‘As for the inferior clergy, ſays Fuller, the beſt that could be gotten, were placed in paſtoral [74]charges; Alas! tolerability was eminency in that age. A ruſh candle ſeemed a torch where no brighter light was ever ſeen be⯑fore. Surely preaching now ran very low, if it be true what I read, that Mr. Taver⯑nour, of Water-Eaton in Oxfordſhire, high-ſheriff of the county, came in pure charity, not oſtentation, and gave the ſcholars a ſer⯑mon in St. Mary's, with his gold chain about his neck, and his ſword by his ſide ^*.’

We may judge likewiſe of the ſtate of learning at that time among the clergy, from the accounts ſtill preſerved of ſome archidia⯑conal viſitations. 'Latinè verba aliquot intel⯑ligit, non ſententiam; Latinè utcunque in⯑telligit; Latinè pauca intelligit;' were the expreſſions generally made uſe of to charac⯑terize them in this particular.

[75]How much, in the north eſpecially, the paſtoral care was neglected, we may judge from an account given us of the clergy of thoſe parts, by a biſhop of Durham, in a letter ſtill preſerved, to an archbiſhop of Can⯑terbury.

‘It is lamentable, ſays he, to ſee how negli⯑gently they ſay any ſervice, and how ſeldom. Your cures are all, except Rachdale, as far out of order as any of the country. Whalley hath as ill a vicar as the worſt. The biſhop of Man liveth here at eaſe, and as merry as pope Joan. The biſhop of Cheſter hath compounded with my lord of York for his viſitation, and gathereth up the money by his ſervants: but never a word ſpoken of any viſitation or reformation; and that, he ſaith, he doth out of friendſhip, be⯑cauſe he will not trouble the country, nor put them to charge in calling them together ^*.’

[76]This corruption among his brethren gave Mr. Gilpin great concern. ‘The inſatiable covetouſneſs (to uſe his own words) joined with the pride, carnal liberty, and other vices, which reign at this time in all eſtates, but eſpecially among us prieſts, who ought to be the ſalt of the earth, breaks me many a ſleep.’ He determined therefore to do all in his power to effect a reformation; or, if that were impoſſible, to proteſt however againſt: what he could not alter. He conſidered, that one of his offices obliged him to take the ſame care of the manners of the clergy, as the other did of thoſe of the laity; and as he never received an office without a de⯑ſign [77]of doing his duty in it, he reſolved to behave as an archdeacon ought.

Accordingly he took every opportunity of reproving the enormities he remarked. The more ingenuous of the inferior clergy he en⯑deavoured to bring by gentler methods to their duty: the obſtinate he would rebuke with all authority. And as he feared none in the cauſe of religion, no man's family or fortune could exempt him from his notice. At viſitations particularly, and where ever his audience was chiefly clerical, he would ex⯑preſs himſelf againſt every thing he obſerved amiſs, with a zeal, which might have been thought affected in one of a leſs approved ſincerity.

It was an opinion of his, that non-reſidence and pluralities were the principal ſources of corruption among churchmen. We need not wonder therefore, if we find him inveigh⯑ing againſt them with the greateſt earneſtneſs. It muſt be owned indeed, they were at that time ſhamefully in uſe. It was no uncom⯑mon thing for a clergyman in thoſe days to hold three, and ſometimes four livings toge⯑ther. Mr. Stripe mentions one perſon who [78]held five. His name was Blage: he was a batchelor in divinity; and held at one time, St. Dunſtan's in the Weſt, Whiſton in York⯑ſhire, and Doncaſter in the ſame county, Rugby in Warwickſhire, and Barnet in Middleſex. Theſe enormities, for ſuch he eſteemed them, went to the heart of the pious archdeacon, and were the conſtant ſub⯑jects of his reproof. Sometimes he would ſhew how wrong they were in themſelves, as abſolutely contrary to the deſign of en⯑dowments; at other times how injurious to the reſt of the order: 'While three parts out of four of the clergy, in his manner of ſpeaking, were picking what they could get off a common, the reſt were growing wan⯑ton with ſtall-feeding.' But his great argu⯑ment againſt them was, the prejudice they did religion. 'It was reaſonable, he ſaid, to think a pariſh would be better taken care of by the prieſt, who received the whole in⯑come, than by the curate, who received only a very ſmall part; and would, it might eaſily be imagined, too often proportion his pains to his allowance.' Beſides, he thought, one man's engroſſing what in all reaſon belonged [79]to two, perhaps three or four, agreed very ill with the ſimple manners, and ſequeſtred life of a miniſter of Chriſt; and gave an example which tended more to the diſcredit of religion, than all the preaching in the world to its advancement.

With equal freedom he likewiſe cenſured their private vices; frequently drawing the character of a bad clergyman, and dwelling upon ſuch irregularities as he knew gave moſt offence in the eccleſiaſtics of thoſe parts.

The prudent biſhop, obſerving the for⯑wardneſs of his zeal, failed not to furniſh him with cautions in abundance; often re⯑minding him how prudently he ought to be⯑have, where, with all his prudence, he ſhould ſcarce avoid giving offence—and his enemies, he ſaid, could never want a handle againſt him, while popery reigned with ſo much ſeverity.

But ſuch repreſentations of danger had no effect: upon him. The common maxims in⯑deed of worldly prudence, he knew, were againſt him: but the examples he found in ſcripture of holy men, who with equal free⯑dom [80]oppoſed vice, and in times as danger⯑ous, wrought ſtrongly with him. If his en⯑deavours were at all ſerviceable to religion, if they only ſet ſome bounds to vice, he thought it criminal to check them through any motives of fear. It was his opinion, that when an employment was accepted, it ſhould be accepted in all its parts: he thought no⯑thing was a greater breach of truſt, or more deſtructive of common good, than to con⯑ſider public offices only as private emolu⯑ments.

It is however a little ſurprizing, that the biſhop of Durham, who knew the world ſo well, ſhould not foreſee how much he muſt neceſſarily expoſe his nephew to the popiſh party, by placing him in ſuch a ſtation. He knew he could not temporize; and he muſt know, that without temporizing, he would ſoon be moſt obnoxious to thoſe in power; with whoſe perſecuting principles he was well acquainted. Had he provided for him in a way, which had no connexion with the clergy, it is probable he might have avoided thoſe dangers in which we ſhall immediately find him. For his free reproofs ſoon rouſed [81]the eccleſiaſtics of thoſe parts againſt him, and put them upon every method in their power to remove ſo inconvenient an enquirer. It was preſently the popular clamour, 'That he was an enemy to the church—a ſcanda⯑lizer of the clergy—a preacher of damnable doctrines—and that religion muſt ſuffer from the hereſies he was daily broaching, if they ſpared him any longer. ‘After I entered upon the parſonage of Eaſington, ſays he, in a letter to his brother, and began to preach, I ſoon procured me many mighty and grievous adverſaries, for that I preach⯑ed againſt pluralities and non-reſidence. Some ſaid, all that preached that doctrine became heretics ſoon after. Others found great fault, for that I preached repentance and ſalvation by Chriſt; and did not make whole ſermons, as they did, about tranſub⯑ſtantiation, purgatory, holy-water, images, prayers to ſaints, and ſuch like.’

Thus, in ſhort, he had raiſed a flame, which nothing but his blood could quench. Many articles were drawn up againſt him, and he was accuſed in form before the bi⯑ſhop of Durham.

[82]This proſecution was managed chiefly by one Dunſtal, a prieſt in thoſe parts, who had always diſtinguiſhed himſelf as the archdea⯑con's implacable enemy: and as it was ima⯑gined the biſhop's very great regard for Mr. Gilpin might probably obſtruct their deſigns, this perſon had been long employed by the party to work underhand, and prejudice the biſhop againſt him.

Happy was it for him, that the prelate had as much diſcernment as humanity. He was practiſed in the world: he knew what men and times would bear; and eaſily found a method to protect his friend without endan⯑gering himſelf.

When the cauſe came before him, 'He was extremely ſorry to hear, that a perſon he had ſo great a regard for ſhould be accuſed of hereſy—that indeed himſelf had not been without ſome ſuſpicion of his leaning a little that way—but he had ſtill been in hopes there was nothing in his opinions of any dangerous conſequence to religion.—He ſhould however be fairly examined; and if he appeared to be guilty, he ſhould find a very ſevere judge in the biſhop of Durham.'

[83]By this artful addreſs the biſhop got the management of the affair into his own hands: and taking care to preſs his accuſed friend in points only in which he knew him able to bear [...] him off inno⯑cent; and diſmiſſed the cauſe, telling the ac⯑cuſers, 'He was afraid they had been too forward in their zeal for religion—and that hereſy was ſuch a crime, as no man ought to be charged with but upon the ſtrongeſt proof.'

The malice of his enemies could not how⯑ever reſt. His character at leaſt was in their power; for they had great influence upon the populace, of which they failed not to make the worſt uſe, by infuſing into thoſe, who were open to haſty impreſſions, ſuch ſenti⯑ments, as they knew moſt likely to inflame them. Several of his papers, yet remain⯑ing, ſhew what candid interpreters they were of words and actions, which could poſſibly be wreſted to any bad meaning: one letter particularly, in which with great mildneſs he endeavours to free himſelf from the ſlan⯑ders of ſome of his enemies, who had re⯑ported him to have affirmed, 'It was as law⯑ful [84]to have two wives as two livings.' He remembered indeed he had once been aſked 'Whether of the two was worſe?' and that he had careleſly anſwered, 'He thought them both bad:' but to extend this to his affirming, 'They were both equally bad,' was perverting his meaning, he thought, in a very diſingenuous manner.

The great fatigue Mr. Gilpin thus under⯑went in doing his duty in the double capacity of an archdeacon and a rector of a pariſh (and a very great fatigue it was in the con⯑ſcientious manner in which he did it) he found at length too much for him: his ſtrength was indeed unequal to it; exhauſt⯑ed by ſo long an oppoſition to the ſtrong tide, which ran againſt him.—He acquaint⯑ed the biſhop therefore, 'That he muſt re⯑ſign either his archdeaconry, or his pariſh—that he would with the greateſt readineſs do his duty in which ſoever his lordſhip thought him beſt qualified for; but he was not able to do it in both.'—'Have I not repeatedly told you, ſaid the biſhop, that you will die a beggar? Depend upon it you will, if you ſuffer your conſcience to raiſe ſuch unreaſon⯑able [85]ſcruples. The archdeaconry and the living cannot be ſeparated: the income of the former is not a ſupport without that of the latter. I found them united, and am de⯑termined to leave them ſo.'

In conſequence of the biſhop's refuſal to let him keep either of them ſingle, he moſt probably reſigned them both; for I find him about this time without any office in the church.—During his being thus unemploy⯑ed, he lived with the biſhop as one of his chaplains.

But even in this ſituation he found the malice of his enemies ſtill purſuing him. The defeat they had received did not pre⯑vent their ſeeking every opportunity of at⯑tacking him again. He avoided them as much as poſſible; and they, on the other hand, contrived to meet him as frequently as they could; urging him continually upon ſome controverted point of religion, in con⯑tradiction often to the moſt obvious rules of decency and good manners.

The biſhop of Chicheſter gives us the par⯑ticulars of one of theſe diſputes; which, he ſays, he had often heard his kinſman, An⯑thony [86]Carleton ſpeak of, who at that time lived in the biſhop of Durham's family.

Some of the biſhop's chaplains getting about him in their accuſtomed manner, one of them aſked him his opinion of the writings of Luther: Mr. Gilpin anſwered, 'He had never read them: that his method had al⯑ways been to ſtudy the ſcriptures, and the father's expoſitions of them; but for the writings of modern divines, he was not ſo well acquainted with them.' One of them, in a ſneering manner, commended that as a right way of proceeding; and added, 'That if all men could but be perſuaded to be of Mr. Gilpin's opinion, to have the ſame ve⯑neration for antiquity that he had, the peace of the church would no longer be diſturbed with any of theſe novel teachers.' 'But ſuppoſe, ſaid Mr. Gilpin, theſe novel teach⯑ers, as you call them, have the ſenſe of anti⯑quity on their ſide; what ſhall we ſay then? Shall the antient doctrine be rejected, be⯑cauſe of the novel teacher?' This not ſa⯑tisfying them, they began to urge him far⯑ther. 'Pray, ſaid one of them, what are your thoughts about the real preſence?' Mr. [87]Gilpin anſwered, 'That he really knew no⯑thing of weight to object againſt it: but he thought it too myſterious a ſubject to bear a diſpute.' 'But do you believe tranſubſtan⯑tiation?' 'I believe every thing contained in the word of God.' 'But do you believe as the church believes?' 'Pray, ſaid Mr. Gilpin, is the catholic faith unchangeable?' 'Undoubtedly it is.' 'But the church did not always hold tranſubſtantiation an article of faith.' 'When did it not hold it ſo?' 'Before the time of Peter Lombard, who firſt intro⯑duced it: and even ſince his time it hath un⯑dergone an alteration. Pray, tell me; is not the bread in the ſacrament converted into both the body and blood of Chriſt?' 'Un⯑doubtedly it is.' 'But, ſaid Mr. Gilpin, ſmiling, Peter Lombard himſelf did not be⯑lieve that: for in the eleventh chapter of his fourth book, I very well remember, he ſaith expreſly, ‘There is no tranſubſtantiation but of bread into fleſh, and wine into blood.’ And now, I beg you will tell me how you reconcile theſe things with the unchangeable⯑neſs of the catholic faith?' The chaplains had nothing to anſwer: for the words of [88]Lombard indeed plainly denied, that in the tranſubſtantiated bread there could be any blood. Mr. Gilpin, obſerving their confu⯑ſion, went on: 'It appears then, that tran⯑ſubſtantiation was never heard of in the church before the time of Peter Lombard: a man might have been a good catholic without ac⯑knowledging that doctrine till then: after⯑wards for a long time, the only meaning of it was, a converſion of the bread into fleſh, and the wine into blood: and thus it re⯑mained, till Thomas Aquinas introduced his notion of concomitancy; at which time this doctrine underwent another change: both fleſh and blood were then, it ſeems, contain⯑ed really and ſubſtantially in the bread alone.—Alas! alas! I am afraid theſe are the no⯑vel opinions that have got in amongſt us: the catholic faith, we are both agreed, is un⯑changeable.' The biſhop was ſitting before the fire in the fame chamber, where this con⯑verſation happened; and leaning back in his chair, over-heard it. When it was over, he got up, and turning to his chaplains, ſaid to them with ſome emotion, 'Come, come, [89]leave him, leave him; I find he has more learning than all of you put together.'

From Mr. Gilpin's behaviour upon this occaſion, his zeal appears to have been tem⯑pered with a good deal of prudence. In⯑deed it never roſe ſo high, as to become dan⯑gerous to him, but when he thought his duty abſolutely required it. In general he was very cautious; and well guarded againſt the captious queſtions of ſuch, as were con⯑tinually lying in wait to intrap him.

How long Mr. Gilpin remained unbene⯑ficed, doth not appear. It could not how⯑ever be very long, becauſe the rectory of Houghton-le-ſpring fell vacant, before Ea⯑ſington, and the archdeaconry, were diſ⯑poſed of; and the biſhop, in a jocular way, made him an offer of all the three. But that offer it was not likely he would liſten to. He thanked the biſhop however, and accept⯑ed Houghton.

This rectory was indeed of conſiderable value, but the duty of it was proportionably laborious. It was ſo extenſive, that it con⯑tained no leſs than fourteen villages: and having been as much neglected in that dark [90]age, as the cures in the north then ordinarily were, popery had produced its full growth of ſuperſtition in it. Scarce any traces in⯑deed of true chriſtianity were left. Nay, what little religion remained, was even po⯑pery itſelf corrupted. All its idle ceremonies were here carried higher than you would perhaps any where elſe find them; and were more conſidered as the eſſentials of religion. How entirely this barbarous people were ex⯑cluded from all means of better information, appears from hence, that in that part of the kingdom, through the deſigned neglect of biſhops and juſtices of the peace, king Ed⯑ward's proclamations for a change of wor⯑ſhip had not even been heard of at the time of that prince's death.

Such was the condition of the pariſh of Houghton, when it was committed to Mr. Gilpin's care: a waſte ſo miſerably unculti⯑vated, that the greateſt induſtry ſeemed but ſufficient to bring it into any kind of order; and the greateſt reſolution only to make the attempt. But when the good of mankind was concerned, this true miniſter of the goſpel had reſolution enough to attempt whatever in⯑duſtry [91]could accompliſh. He was grieved to ſee ignorance and vice ſo lamentably prevail: but he did not deſpair. He implored the aſ⯑ſiſtance of God; and his ſincere endeavours met with it. The people crouded about him, and heard him with attention, per⯑ceiving him a teacher of a different kind from thoſe, to whom they had hitherto been accuſtomed.

Upon his taking poſſeſſion of Houghton, it was ſome mortification to him, that he could not immediately reſide. His parſon⯑age-houſe was gone entirely to decay; and ſome time was required to make it habitable. Part of it was fitted up as ſoon as poſſible for his reception: but he continued improv⯑ing and enlarging it, till it became ſuitable to his hoſpitable temper, a proper habitation for a man who never intended to keep what he had to himſelf. ‘His houſe, ſays the biſhop of Chicheſter, was like a biſhop's palace; ſuperior indeed to moſt biſhops houſes, with reſpect both to the largeneſs of the building, and the elegance of the ſitua⯑tion.’

[92]Soon after this late inſtance of the biſhop's favour to him, another opportunity offered, by which this generous patron hoped ſtill further to improve his fortune. A ſtall in the cathedral of Durham was vacant, which he urged Mr. Gilpin in the moſt friendly manner to accept, telling him, 'There lay not the ſame objection to this as to the arch⯑deaconry—that it was quite a ſine cure—and that he could have no reaſonable pretence for refuſing it.' But Mr. Gilpin, reſolving not to accept it, told the biſhop, 'That by his bounty he had already more wealth, than, he was afraid, he could give a good account of. He begged therefore he might not have an additional charge; but that his lordſhip would rather beſtow this preferment on one by whom it was more wanted.' The biſhop knew by long experience it was in vain to preſs him to what he did not approve; ſo there was no more ſaid of the prebend.

Though he lived now retired, and gave no offence to the clergy, their malice how⯑ever ſtill purſued him. They obſerved with indignation the ſtrong contraſt between his life and theirs. His care and labour were [93]a ſtanding ſatyr upon their negligence and ſloth; and it was the language of their hearts, 'By ſo living thou reproacheſt us.' In a word, they were determined, if poſſible, to extinguiſh a light, which ſhewed them to ſuch diſadvantage.

But they had not the eaſieſt part to ma⯑nage. The country favoured him; the bi⯑ſhop was his friend; and no good man his enemy. Beſides, the maſk of religion muſt needs be kept on; and they found Mr. Gil⯑pin's zeal not ſo intemperate as might be wiſhed. However, what malice could do was not wanting: every engine was ſet at work; and baſe emiſſaries employed in all parts to ſeek out matter for an accuſation of him. Of all this Mr. Gilpin was ſenſible, and behaved as cautiouſly as he thought con⯑ſiſtent with his duty; indeed more cautiouſly than he could afterwards approve: for, in his future life, he would often tax his beha⯑viour at this time with weakneſs and cow⯑ardice ^*.

But had his caution been greater, againſt ſuch vigilant enemies it had probably been [94]ſtill ineffectual. The eyes of numbers were conſtantly upon him, and ſcarce an action of his life eſcaped them. Of this malicious in⯑duſtry we have the following inſtance.

A woman in the pangs of child-bed im⯑ploring God's aſſiſtance, was rebuked by thoſe around her for not rather praying to the vir⯑gin Mary. Alarmed by her danger, and greatly deſirous of knowing whether God or the virgin was more likely to aſſiſt her, ſhe begged, 'The great preacher lately come from abroad, might be ſent for: ſhe was ſure he would come, and could tell her what ſhe ſhould do.' Mr. Gilpin told her, 'He durſt not perſuade her to call upon the virgin Mary; but in praying to God, ſhe might be ſure ſhe did right—that there were many expreſs commands in ſcripture for it—and that God would certainly hear them who prayed earneſtly to him.' Mr. Gilpin ſpoke the more freely, as he thought what he ſaid was not likely to be carried abroad. But he was afterwards ſurprized to find it had not eſcaped the vigilance of his enemies, who failed not to make the worſt uſe of it.

[95]By ſo unwearied an induſtry ſuch a num⯑ber of articles were in a ſhort time got to⯑gether, as, it was eagerly imagined, could not but cruſh him. He was ſoon therefore formally accuſed, and brought once more be⯑fore the biſhop of Durham. How the biſhop behaved at this time we are not par⯑ticularly informed. But no man knew better how to act upon an emergency. It is pro⯑bable he would vary his management; but it is certain Mr. Gilpin was acquitted.

The malice of his enemies ſucceeded how⯑ever in part; for the biſhop's favour to him from this time viſibly declined: though it is queſtionable, whether he really felt the in⯑difference he expreſſed; or he thought it ad⯑viſeable thus far to temporize; hoping to deduct the ſum of his own from the ill-will of others. It is rather probable however that his indifference was not affected: for the biſhop was a very prudent man; and when he found, that his kinſman's piety (carried, he thought, in many inſtances, to a ſtrange extreme) began to involve himſelf in inconveniencies and ſuſpicions, which it had been his principal care throughout his [96]life to avoid; it is not unlikely, that he might judge his friendſhip had led him too far from his own prudential maxims of behaviour, and that he might reſolve to endanger his quiet no longer for the ſake of a man whoſe ob⯑ſtinacy was inſuperable ^*. This was not leſs than Mr. Gilpin expected, nor more than he was well provided for. He acknowledged his great obligations to the biſhop; was ſorry to ſee him diſguſted; and would have given up any thing, to have him ſatisfied, except his conſcience. But a good conſcience, he was aſſured, was his beſt friend, and was re⯑ſolved not to part with it for any friend upon earth.

His enemies, in the mean time, were not thus ſilenced. Though they had been de⯑feated a ſecond time, they were only the [97]more ſpirited up by that additional rancour, which generally attends the baffled deſigns of the malicious. Convinced however they now were, how impoſſible it was to work up the biſhop of Durham's zeal to the height they wiſhed; and began to ſuſpect he was either leſs orthodox himſelf, or at leaſt too much Mr. Gilpin's friend to have any hand in his condemnation. They thought indeed, if it could have been ſo brought about, it would have given them leaſt trouble, and moſt ſa⯑tisfaction, to have had him burnt at Durham; but as that could not be well effected, they were determined to try whether it could not be done elſewhere. Thirty-two articles were accordingly drawn up againſt him in the ſtrongeſt manner, and laid before biſhop Bon⯑ner of London.

Here they went the right way to work. Bonner was juſt the reverſe of Tunſtal; form⯑ed by nature for an inquiſitor, and the pro⯑pereſt agent their malice could have employ⯑ed. The fierce zealot at once took fire; ex⯑tolled their laudable concern for religion; and promiſed that the heretic ſhould be at a ſtake in a fortnight.

[98]Mr. Gilpin's friends in London trembled for his ſafety, and inſtantly diſpatched a meſ⯑ſage—that he had not a moment to loſe.

The meſſenger did not ſurprize him. He had long been preparing himſelf to ſuffer for the truth, and he now determined not to de⯑cline it. It was in ſome ſort, he thought, denying his faith, to be backward in giving the beſt teſtimony to it. If it was proper he ſhould be delivered, he perſuaded himſelf that God would take his own method to de⯑liver him. He was indeed in a great mea⯑fure weaned from the world; daily more con⯑vinced of its vanity; and more confirmed in his reſolutions of conſidering it merely as a ſtate preparatory to eternity: and as it was the principal buſineſs of his life to promote religion, if he could better effect this by his death, it was his wiſh to die.

He received the account therefore with great compoſure; and immediately after call⯑ed up William Airay, a favourite domeſtic, who had long ſerved him as his almoner and ſteward; and laying his hand upon his ſhoul⯑der, 'At length, ſays he, they have prevail⯑ed againſt me—I am accuſed to the biſhop [99]of London, from whom there will be no eſcaping—God forgive their malice, and grant me ſtrength to undergo the trial.' He then ordered his ſervant to provide a long garment for him, in which he might go decently to the ſtake; and deſired it might be got ready with all expedition; 'For I know not, ſays he, how ſoon I may have occaſion for it.'

As ſoon as this garment was provided, it is ſaid, he uſed to put it on every day till the biſhop's meſſengers apprehended him.

His friends in the mean time failed not to interpoſe; earneſtly beſeeching him, while he had yet an opportunity, to provided for his ſafety. But he begged them not to preſs him longer upon that ſubject: ſhould he even attempt it, he ſaid, he believed it would hardly be in his power to eſcape; for he queſ⯑tioned not but all his motions were very nar⯑rowly obſerved.—Beſides, he would aſk, how they could imagine he would prefer the miſerable life of an exile, before the joyful death of a martyr? 'Be aſſured, ſays he, I ſhould never have thrown myſelf voluntarily into the hands of my enemies; but I am fully determined to perſevere in doing my [100]duty, and ſhall take no meaſures to avoid them.'

In a few days the meſſengers apprehended him, and put an end to theſe ſolicitations.

In his way to London, it is ſaid, he broke his leg, which put a ſtop for ſome time to his journey. The preſons, in whoſe cuſtoday he was, took occaſion thence maliciouſly to retort upon him an obſervation he would fre⯑quently make, 'That nothing happens to us but what is intended for our good;' aſking him, Whether he thought his broken leg was ſo intended? He anſwered meekly, 'He made no queſtion but it was.' And indeed ſo it proved in the ſtricteſt ſenſe: for before he was able to travel, queen Mary died, and he was ſet at liberty.

Whatever truth there may be in this rela⯑tion, thus much however is certain: the ac⯑count of the queen's death met him upon the road, and put a ſtop to any farther proſecu⯑tion.

SECTION V.

MR. Gilpin, thus providentially reſcued from his enemies, returned to Hough⯑ton through crouds of people, expreſſing the utmoſt joy, and bleſſing God for his deli⯑verance.

Elizabeth's acceſſion freed him now from all reſtraints, and allowed him the liberty he had long wiſhed for of ſpeaking his mind plainly to his pariſhioners; tho' no-body but himſelf thought the reſerve he had hitherto uſed at all faulty.

It was now his friend the biſhop of Dur⯑ham's turn to ſuffer. He and ſome other biſhops, refuſing the oath of ſupremacy, were deprived and committed to the tower. But this ſeverity ſoon relaxed: to the biſhop of Durham eſpecially the government ſhewed as much lenity as was thought conſiſtent with the reformation then carrying on. He was recommended to the care of the archbiſhop of Canterbury; with whom he ſpent in great tranquility the ſhort remainder of a very long life.

[102]This prelate had ſeen as great a variety of fortune as moſt men; he had lived in difficult and in eaſy times; he had known both pro⯑teſtants and papiſts in power; and yet from all parties, and in all revolutions of govern⯑ment, he had found favour. The truth is, he was well verſed in the arts of temporiz⯑ing; and poſſeſſed a large ſhare of that com⯑plying philoſophy, which taking offence at nothing, can adapt itſelf to all things. When Harry the eighth began to innovate, the bi⯑ſhop of Durham had no ſcruples. When his ſon went farther, ſtill the biſhop was quiet, and owed indeed his confinement at the cloſe of that reign to his deſire of continuing ſo. Again, when queen Mary reverſed what they had done; with this too the biſhop was ſa⯑tisfied, and forgot all his ſormer profeſſions. Thus much however may juſtly be ſaid of him, that upon all occaſions, and where no ſecular ends were in view, he ſhewed himſelf a man of great moderation: and whether in his heart he was more papiſt or proteſtant, to ar⯑bitrary proceedings however in either perſua⯑ſion he was wholly averſe. Thus he thought things were carried too far on one ſide in king [103]Edward's time, and too far on the other in queen Mary's: with both reigns he was therefore diſſatisfied, though he was too great a lover of his eaſe to oppoſe them. But as his days ſhortened, his ambition decreaſed, his conſcience grew more tender, and what he had done for king Harry and king Ed⯑ward, he refuſed to do again for queen Eli⯑zabeth. Though the biſhop of Saliſbury is of opinion, he was not with-held by any ſcruples, but ſuch as a ſenſe of decency raiſed, from complying with that princeſs: he was very old, and thought it looked better to un⯑dergo the ſame fate with his brethren, than to be ſtill changing ^*. And this is the rather probable, becauſe many hiſtorians ſay, the late reign had given him a great diſguſt to popery; and that he would often own to archbiſhop Parker, he began to think every day more favourably of the reformers.—In private life his manners were very commend⯑able. He had an abſolute command over himſelf; a temper which no accident could diſcompoſe; great humanity, and great good nature. In learning, few of his contempo⯑raries [104]were equal to him; none more ready to patronize it. Of the offices of friendſhip he was a ſtrict obſerver; and was not only a favourer, but a zealous encourager of good men. In a word, where he was not imme⯑diately under the influence of court-maxims, he gave the example of a true chriſtian bi⯑ſhop.

Mr. Gilpin, though deprived of the aſſiſ⯑tance of this great prelate, ſoon experienced however, that worth like his could never be left friendleſs. His merit raiſed him friends wherever he was known; and though his piety was ſuch, that he never propoſed re⯑putation as the end of his actions; yet per⯑haps few of his profeſſion ſtood at this time higher in the public eſteem. ‘He was re⯑ſpected, ſay the biſhop of Chicheſter, not only by the more eminent churchmen, but by thoſe of the firſt rank in the nation.’

When the popiſh biſhops were deprived, and many ſees by that means vacant, Mr. Gilpin's friends at court, particularly the earl of Bedford, thought it a good opportunity to uſe their intereſt in his favour. He was re⯑commended accordingly to the queen as a [105]proper perſon for one of the void biſhoprics: upon which, as he was a north-country man, ſhe nominated him to that of Carliſle; and the earl took immediate care that a congé d' elire, with her majeſty's recommendation of him, ſhould be ſent down to the dean and chapter of that ſee.

Mr. Gilpin, who knew nothing of what was going forward in his favour, was greatly ſurpriſed at this unexpected honour; yet could not by any means perſuade himſelf to accept it. He ſent a meſſenger therefore with a letter to the earl, expreſſing his great obli⯑gations to her majeſty and his lordſhip for their favourable ſentiments of him—but beg⯑ged they would excuſe his accepting their intended kindneſs—they had really thought of placing him in a ſtation which he did not merit—he muſt therefore remove from him⯑ſelf a burden to which he, who was beſt ac⯑quainted with his own weakneſs, knew him⯑ſelf unequal—in the mean time he would not fail to do his utmoſt for the ſervice of reli⯑gion in an inferior employment.

The earl, upon the receipt of this letter, went immediately to Dr. Sandys, biſhop of [106]Worceſter, who was then in London. As this prelate was intimately acquainted with Mr. Gilpin, and, as the biſhop of Chicheſter ſays, nearly related to him, the earl ſuppoſed he could not be without his influence over him; and therefore earneſtly deſired he would endeavour to perſuade his friend to think leſs meanly of himſelf. The biſhop readily un⯑dertook the office, and wrote the following letter to Mr. Gilpin ^*.

This letter, notwithſtanding the preſſing manner in which it is written, was without effect. Mr. Gilpin returned his thanks; but [108]as for the biſhopric, he was determined, and he thought for very good reaſons, not to ac⯑cept it. Nor could all the perſuaſions of his friends alter this reſolution. Had he, they aſked him, any ſcruple of conſcience about it?—In one ſenſe he had: 'The caſe, ſays he, is truly this: if any other biſhopric, be⯑ſides Carliſle, had been offered to me, I poſ⯑ſibly might have accepted it: but in that dio⯑ceſe I have ſo many friends and acquaintance, of whom I have not the beſt opinion, that I muſt either connive at many irregulari⯑ties, or draw upon myſelf ſo much hatred, that I ſhould be leſs able to do good there than any one elſe.'

Mr. Gilpin thus perſiſting in his refuſal, the biſhopric was was at length given to Dr. Beſt, a man by no means undeſerving of it.

This prelate ſoon found he had entered upon a very diſagreeable and vexatious office. His cathedral was filled with an illiterate ſet of men, who had been formerly monks: ‘For, as Camden tells us, the greater part of the popiſh prieſts thought it would turn to better account to renounce the pope's authority, and ſwear allegiance to the queen, [109]were it for no other end than the excluſion of proteſtants out of their churches, and the relief of ſuch of their own party, who had been diſplaced. This they judged a piece of diſcretion highly meritorious, and hoped the pope would be ſo good as diſ⯑penſe with their oath on ſuch an occaſion.’ The dioceſe of Carliſle was much in this ſituation; and indeed the people there were as ſtrongly inclined to the ſuperſtitions of popery as the prieſts. This diſpoſition of the coun⯑try, whetted by the prelate's rigid oppoſition, who was not a man the moſt happily quali⯑fied to manage unruly tempers, began to ſhew itſelf in very violent effects. The whole dio⯑ceſe was ſoon in a flame; and the biſhop, after two years reſidence, was obliged to re⯑pair to London, and make a formal complaint to his ſuperiors.

This vexation which the popiſh party was likely to give to any one placed in the ſee of Carliſle, is imagined, by the author of arch⯑biſhop Grindal's life, to be a principal reaſon why Mr. Gilpin refuſed it. But this would have been as good a reaſon for his refuſing the rectory of Houghton, or any other em⯑ployment [110]in the church: for popery prevail⯑ed univerſally over the country; and he could be placed no where in the north without ex⯑periencing a toilſome oppoſition to the bigotry and prejudices of it. But his own eaſe and convenience were never motives of the leaſt weight with him, when any ſervice to man⯑kind could be balanced againſt them.

The accounts given us by biſhop Nichol⯑ſon and Dr. Heylin of Mr. Gilpin's beha⯑viour upon this occaſion are ſtill more diſin⯑genuous: they both aſcribe it chiefly to lu⯑crative motives. The ^* former intimates, that the good man knew what he was about, when he refuſed to part with the rectory of Houghton for the biſhopric of Carliſle: the ^† latter ſuppoſes, that all his ſcruples would have vaniſhed, might he have had the old temporalities undiminiſhed. Both theſe wri⯑ters ſeem to have been very little acquainted with Mr. Gilpin's character, in which diſin⯑tereſtedneſs bore ſo principal a part: it will hereafter appear, that he conſidered his in⯑come in no other light than that of a fund to [111]be managed for the common good. The biſhop's inſinuation therefore is contradicted by every action of Mr. Gilpin's life: and as for Dr. Heylin's, it is moſt notoriouſly falſe; for the biſhopric was offered to him with the old temporalities undiminiſhed *.

There were not wanting ſome who attri⯑buted his refuſal of the biſhopric to unfavour⯑able ſentiments of epiſcopacy. But neither for this was there any good foundation. He was indeed far from being a bigot to that or any other form of church government, eſteem⯑ing a good life, which might be led under any of them, the beſt evidence of a chriſtian. Yet he ſeems to have thought moſt favourably of the epiſcopal form; as will appear after⯑wards, when notice is taken of the endea⯑vours of the diſſenters to draw him to their party.

The year after his refuſal of the biſhopric of Carliſle, an offer of another kind was made him.

The provoſtſhip of Queen's-college in Ox⯑ford becoming vacant ſoon after Elizabeth's acceſſion; and the fellows who were ſtrongly ^§ [112]tached to popery, being about to chuſe a per⯑ſon inclined the ſame way, the queen, with their viſitor the archbiſhop of York, inter⯑poſed, and inſiſted upon their electing Dr. Francis. The fellows were much out of hu⯑mour at this proceeding; and the affair made ſome noiſe in the univerſity, where the popiſh party was very ſtrong. At length however the queen's recommendation took effect. But though the fellows had thus choſen the per⯑ſon recommended to them, yet their beha⯑viour was ſo undutiful towards him, that he was ſoon weary of his office; and in leſs than a year began to think of reſigning it. Mr. Gilpin was the perſon he turned his thoughts on for a ſucceſſor; apprehending that ſuch a change would not be unpleaſing to the fel⯑lows, and very agreeable to the queen. He made him an offer therefore of reſigning in his favour: but not ſucceeding the firſt time, he wrote again; begging at leaſt that he would recommend to him ſome proper per⯑ſon, and aſſuring him with what readineſs he would acquieſce in his choice. His ſecond letter is ſtill preſerved.

How Mr. Gilpin anſwered this letter doth not appear; nor whether he recommended a ſucceſſor to the diſſatisfied provoſt: this [114]only is certain, that he refuſed the offer himſelf.

Thus having had in his option almoſt every kind of preferment which an eccleſiaſtic is capable of holding, he ſat down with one living, which gratified the utmoſt of his de⯑ſires—for he found it afforded him as many opportunities of doing good, as he was able to make uſe of.

Soon after Elizabeth's acceſſion, a general viſitation was held. An aſſembly of divines, among whom were Parker, Grindal, and Sandys, having finiſhed a body of injunctions and articles, commiſſions were iſſued out, im⯑powering proper perſons to inforce them: the oath of ſupremacy was to be tendered to the clergy, and a ſubſcription impoſed. When the viſitors came to Durham, Mr. Gilpin was ſent to, and requeſted to preach before the clergy there, againſt the pope's ſupremacy. To this he had no objection: but he did not like the thoughts of ſubſcribing, having ſome doubts with regard to one or more of the ar⯑ticles. His curate having not theſe ſcruples, he hoped that his ſubſcription might ſatisfy the viſitors. But he was miſtaken; for the [115]next day, when the clergy were aſſembled to ſubſcribe, as an inſtance of reſpect, Mr. Gil⯑pin was firſt called upon. The emergency allowed him no time for reflection. He juſt conſidered with himſelf, that upon the whole, theſe alterations in religion were certainly right—that he doubted only in a few imma⯑terial points—and that if he ſhould refuſe, it might be a means to keep others back. He then took up the pen, and, with ſome heſi⯑tation, at length ſubſcribed. Afterwards re⯑tiring, he ſent a letter to the viſitors, acquaint⯑ing them in what ſenſe he ſubſcribed the ar⯑ticles; which they accepted very favourably.

The great ignorance which at this time prevailed over the nation, afforded a melan⯑choly proſpect to all who had the intereſt of religion at heart. To it was owing that groſs ſuperſtition which kept reformation every where ſo long at a ſtand; a ſuperſtition which was like to continue; for all the chan⯑nels through which knowledge could flow, were choaked up. There were few ſchools in the nation; and theſe as ill ſupplied as they were endowed. The univerſities were in the hands of bigots, collecting their ſtrength [116]to defend abſurdities, neglecting all good learn⯑ing. At Cambridge indeed ſome advances in uſeful literature were made; ſir John Cheke, Roger Aſcham ^*, and a few others, having boldly ſtruck out a new path through that wilderneſs of falſe ſcience, which involved them: but they were yet lazily followed.

The very bad conſequences which could not but be feared from this extreme igno⯑rance, turned the endeavours of all well-wiſhers to the progreſs of true religion upon the moſt probable methods to remove it. The queen herſelf was greatly intereſted in this cauſe, and earneſtly recommended it to the care of her council. Her court was the ſeat of learning, as well as the ſchool of po⯑liteneſs: here the ſcholar was had in equal eſteem with the ſtateſman and ſoldier; and here all parts of literature found their reſpec⯑tive [117]patrons, who began to vie with each other in their endeavours to root out falſe ſcience, as they had already done falſe re⯑ligion.

No good work ever went forward, which Mr. Gilpin did not promote, as far as he was able. In this he joined to the utmoſt of his abilities—as was commonly indeed thought, beyond them. His manner of living was the moſt affluent, and generous: his hoſpitality made daily a large demand upon him; and his bounty and charities a much larger. His acquaintance therefore could not but wonder to find him, amidſt ſuch great expences, en⯑tertaining the deſign of building and endow⯑ing a grammar-ſchool: a deſign however which his very exact oeconomy ſoon enabled him to accompliſh.

The effects of his endowment were very quickly ſeen. His ſchool was no ſooner open⯑ed than it began to flouriſh, and to afford the agreeable proſpect of a ſucceeding generation riſing above the ignorance and errors of their forefathers.

That ſuch might be its effects, no care on his part was wanting. He not only placed [118]able maſters in his ſchool, whom he procur⯑ed from Oxford, but himſelf likewiſe con⯑ſtantly inſpected it. And that encouragement might quicken the application of his boys, he always took particular notice of the moſt for⯑ward: he would call them his own ſchplars, and would ſend for them, often into his ſtudy, and there inſtruct: them himſelf.

One method uſed by him to fill his ſchool was a little ſingular. Whenever he met a poor boy upon the road, he would make trial of his capacity by a few queſtions; and if he found it ſuch as pleaſed him, he would pro⯑vide for his education.

Nor did his care end here. From his ſchool he ſent ſeveral to the univerſities, where he maintained them wholly at his own expence. To others, who were in cir⯑cumſtances to do ſomething for themſelves, he would give the farther aſſiſtance they needed. By which means he induced many parents to allow their children a liberal edu⯑cation, who otherwiſe would not have done it. For all ambition of that kind was extin⯑guiſhed. While the church was in poſſeſſion of its immenſe wealth, the univerſities were [119]always full: but when this was taken away, it ſoon appeared that the muſes, unportioned, had in thoſe days very few charms: their ha⯑bitations were no longer crouded with a train of admirers. In king Edward's reign biſhop Latymer calculated, that even in that ſhort⯑ſpace of time ſince the alienation of the church-lands, the two univerſities were di⯑miniſhed by above ten thouſand perſons; a number almoſt incredible.

Nor did Mr. Gilpin think it enough to af⯑ford the means only of an academical educa⯑tion to theſe young people, but endeavoured with the utmoſt care to make it as beneficial to them as he could. He ſtill conſidered himſelf as their proper guardian; and ſeem⯑ed to think himſelf bound to the public for their being made uſeful members of it, as far as ever it lay in his power to make them ſo. With this view he held a punctual correſ⯑pondence with their tutors; and made the youths themſelves likewiſe frequently write to him, and give him an account of their ſtu⯑dies. Several of their letters, chieſly pre⯑ſerved by having ſomething of Mr. Gilpin's written upon their backs, ſtill remain, and [120]ſhew in how great veneration he was held among them ^*. So ſolicitous indeed was he about them, knowing the many temptations to which their age and ſituation expoſed them, [121]that once every other year he generally made a journey to the univerſities, to inſpect their behaviour.

Nor was this uncommon care unrewarded. Few of his ſcholars miſcarried: ‘Many of them, ſays the biſhop of Chicheſter, be⯑came great ornaments to the church; and very exemplary irſtances of piety.’

Among thoſe of any note, who were edu⯑cated by him, I find theſe three particularly mentioned; Henry Ayray, George Carleton, and Hugh Broughton.

Henry Ayray became afterwards provoſt of Queen's-college in Oxford; where he was in great eſteem for his abilities, and exemplary life.

George Carleton was a man of worth and learning, and very deſervedly promoted to the ſee of Chicheſter. It might have been added, that he was much careſſed and employed by James I. but the favours of that undiſtin⯑guiſhing monarch reflected no great honour upon the objects of them.

Hugh Broughton was indeed famous in his time, and as a man of letters eſteemed by many, but in every other light deſpicable. He was a remarkable inſtance of the danger [122]of learning without common ſenſe. During the younger part of his life he confined him⯑ſelf to a college library, where his trifling ge⯑nius engaged him chiefly in rabbinical learn⯑ing, in which indeed he made a notable pro⯑greſs. Thus accompliſhed, he came abroad, with an opinion of himſelf equalled only by his ſovereign contempt for others. As he wanted that modeſt diffidence which is the natural guard of a perſon unacquainted with the world, he ſoon involved himſelf in diffi⯑culties. London was the ſcene where he firſt expoſed himſelf. Here for ſome time he paid a ſervile court to the vulgar, in the capacity of a popular preacher: but afterwards giv⯑ing a freer ſcope to his vanity, he ſet up a conventicle; where aſſuming the air of an original, he treated the opinions of the times, and all who maintained them, with an inſuf⯑ferable inſolence and ſcurrility. Diſappoint⯑ed of his expected preferment, and through⯑ly mortified that his merit had been ſo long diſregarded, he withdrew into Germany. Thither he carried his old temper, attacking jews in ſynagogues, and papiſts in maſs-houſes. But he was ſoon glad to return into [123]England; where having lived out all his cre⯑dit, and become the jeſt even of the ſtage ^*, he died—a ſtanding monument of the folly of applying learning to the purpoſes of vani⯑ty, rather than the moral ends of life ^†.

[124]But to return: while Mr. Gilpin was en⯑gaged in ſettling his ſchool, he was for ſome [125]time interrupted by a rebellion which broke out in the north. The popiſh party, which [126]had given ſo much diſturbance to Elizabeth's reign, made at this time a freſh effort. Two factious ſpirits, the earls of Weſtmorland, [127]and Northumberland, inflamed by the ſedi⯑tious whiſpers of a Romiſh emiſſary, were drawn from their allegiance. The watchful miniſtry ſoon ſuſpected them; and the queen, with her uſual foreſight, appointing a ſhort day for their appearance at court, obliged them, yet unprepared, to take arms.

Mr. Gilpin had obſerved the fire gathering before the flame barſt out; and knowing what zealots would ſoon approach him, he thought it prudent to withdraw. Having given proper advice therefore to his maſters and ſcholars, he took the opportunity to make a journey to Oxford.

The rebels in the mean time publiſh their manifeſto, and appear in arms; diſplaying in [128]their banners a chalice, and the five wounds of Chriſt, and enthuſiaſtically brandiſhing a croſs before them. In this order they march to Bernard-caſtle, which ſurrenders to them. They next ſurprize Durham; where they burn all the bibles they can find, and have maſs ſaid publicly in the cathedral. The country around felt their rage. Many of them ravaged as far as Houghton. Here they found much booty: the harveſt was juſt over; the barns were full; the grounds well ſtocked with fatted cattle. Every thing became their prey; and what was deſigned to ſpread a winter's gladneſs through a coun⯑try, was in a moment waſted by theſe ra⯑vagers.

But themſelves ſoon felt the conſternation they occaſioned. The approach of the earl of Suſſex with a numerous army was now confirmed. Every rumour brought him nearer. Their fears proportionally increaſe, they mutiny, throw down their arms, and diſperſe. The country being generally loyal, many were taken, and impriſoned at Durham and Newcaſtle, where ſir George Bowes was commiſſioned to try them.

[129]Here Mr. Gilpin had an opportunity of ſhewing his humanity. Sir George had re⯑ceived perſonal ill treatment from them; and the clamours of a plundered country demand⯑ed the utmoſt legal ſeverity: and indeed the utmoſt legal ſeverity was exerciſed, to the great indignation of all, who were not wholly bent on revenge. This induced Mr. Gilpin to interpoſe. He repreſented to the marſhal the true ſtate of the country, 'That, in ge⯑neral, the people were well affected; but being extremely ignorant, many of them had been ſeduced by idle ſtories, which the re⯑bels had propagated, making them believe they took up arms for the queen's ſervice.' Perſuaded by what he ſaid, or paying a de⯑ference to his character, the marſhal grew more mild; and ſhewed inſtances of mercy, not expected from him.

About this time Mr. Gilpin loſt one of the moſt intimate friends he ever had, Dr. Pil⯑kington, biſhop of Durham; a man much admired for his learning, but more eſteemed for the integrity of his life. He was bred at Cambridge, where he was many years maſter of St. John's college. Here he was firſt taken [130]notice of for a freedom of ſpeech which drew upon him queen Mary's reſentment. But he had the good fortune to eſcape the in⯑quiſition of thoſe times. In the ſucceeding reign he recommended himſelf by an expoſi⯑tion of the book of Haggai, or rather by an ingenious application of it to the reformation in religion then deſigning. He was after⯑wards introduced to the queen; and being found a man of true moderation, the reform⯑ing temper then looked for, and of abilities not unequal to the charge, he was promoted to the ſee of Durham. Having taken upon him this truſt, he made it the endeavour of his life to fulfil it. He withdrew himſelf im⯑mediately from all ſtate avocations, and court dependencies, in which indeed he had never been much involved, and applied himſelf wholly to the duties of his function; pro⯑moting religion rather by his own example, than by the uſe of proper diſcipline, in which he was thought too remiſs.—At Durham he became acquainted with Mr. Gilpin. Their minds, intent on the ſame purſuits, eaſily blended. It was a pure friendſhip, in which intereſt had no ſhare; for the one had nothing [131]to aſk, the other had nothing to receive. When buſineſs did not require their being ſeparate, they were generally together; as often at Mr. Gilpin's as at the biſhop's. At theſe meetings they conſulted many pious deſigns. Induced by Mr. Gilpin's example, the biſhop founded a ſchool at the place of his nativity in Lancaſhire; the ſtatutes of which he brought to his friend to reviſe and correct.

SECTION VI.

MR. Gilpin's blameleſs life, his reputa⯑tion in the world, his piety, his learn⯑ing, and that uncommon regard for truth, which he had always diſcovered, made it the deſire of perſons of all religious perſuaſions to get him of their party, and have their cauſe credited by his authority.

The diſſenters made early propoſals to him. The reformation had ſcarce obtained a legal ſettlement under Elizabeth, when that party appeared. Its origin was this.

The Engliſh proteſtants, whom the Marian perſecution had driven from home, flying in great bodies into Germany and Switzerland, ſettled at Frankfort, Straſburgh, Arrow, Zu⯑ric, and Geneva. Of all theſe places Frank⯑fort afforded them the kindeſt reception. Here, by the favour of the magiſtracy, they obtained the joint uſe of a church with the diſtreſſed proteſtants of France, to whom likewiſe Frankfort at that time afforded pro⯑tection. Theſe were chiefly Calviniſts. Re⯑ligious prejudices between both parties were [133]however here laid aſide. Their circumſtan⯑ces as fellow-exiles in a foreign land, and fellow-ſufferers in a common cauſe, inſpired them with mutual tenderneſs: in one great animoſity all others ſubſided; and proteſtant and papiſt became the only diſtinction. In a word, the Engliſh thinking their own church now diſſolved, having no material objections, and being the leſſer body, for the ſake of peace and convenience, receded from their liturgy, and conformed to the French. Some authors indeed mention this as an impoſed condition. Be it however as it will, the coalition was no ſooner known, than it gave the higheſt offence to many of the Engliſh ſettled in other parts. 'It was ſcandalous, they exclaimed, to ſhew ſo little regard to an eſtabliſhment which was formed with ſo much wiſdom, was ſo well calculated for all the ends of religion, and for which their poor brethren in England were at that time laying down their lives.' The truth of the caſe was, the argument had been before mov⯑ed; and this was only the rekindling of that flame which John a Laſco had formerly [134]raiſed ^*. An oppoſition ſo very unſeaſonable produced, as ſuch oppoſitions generally do the worſt effects. Beſides the ſcandal it every where gave, it engaged the Frankfort Eng⯑liſh in a formal defence of their proceedings; and their paſſions being excited, they began at length to maintain on principle, what they at firſt eſpouſed only for convenience. Ac⯑cordingly, when they came home, they re⯑vived the diſpute with bitterneſs enough; and became then as unreaſonable in moleſting, as they had before been unreaſonably moleſted. Subtil men will never be wanting, who have their ſiniſter ends to ſerve by party-quarrels. Thus ſome ambitious ſpirits among the diſ⯑ſenters, wanting to make themſelves conſi⯑derable, blew up the flame with great vehe⯑mence: 'It was as good, they exclaimed, not to begin a reformation, as not to go through with it—the church of England [135]was not half reformed—its doctrines indeed were tolerable, but its ceremonies and govern⯑ment were popiſh and unchriſtian—it was in vain to boaſt of having thrown off the Ro⯑miſh yoke abroad, while the nation groaned under a lordly hierarchy at home—and for themſelves, as they had been ſufferers in the cauſe of religion, they thought it was but right they ſhould be conſulted about the ſettle⯑ment of it.' This imprudent language was a melancholy preſage to all who had real chriſ⯑tianity at heart. It was anſwered, 'That things were now legally ſettled—that what⯑ever could give juſt offence to the ſcrupulous had been, it was thought, removed—that if they could not conform, a quiet non-confor⯑mity would be tolerated—and that the many inconveniencies attending even that change, which was abſolutely neceſſary, made it very diſagreeable to think of another, which was not ſo.' The lord Burleigh endeavoured to convince them how impoſſible it was in things of this nature to give univerſal ſatis⯑faction, by ſhewing them that even among themſelves they could not agree upon the terms of an accommodation. And ſir Fran⯑cis [136]Walſingham propoſed to them from the queen, that the three things in the eſtabliſh⯑ed church, to which they moſt objected ſhould be aboliſhed. But they anſwered loſ⯑tily, in the language of Moſes; ‘That not an hoof ſhould be left behind.’ This irre⯑concileable temper gave great offence not only to the churchmen, but to the more ſerious of their own perſuaſion. The government from this time ſlighting them, they appealed to the people; and by the popular artifice of decry⯑ing authority, they ſoon became conſiderable.—Such were the beginnings of thoſe diſſen⯑tions which our prudent forefathers entailed on their poſterity!

The diſſenters having thus formed their party among the people, endeavoured to ſtrengthen it by ſoliciting every where the moſt creditable perſons in favour of it. Very early applications, as was obſerved, were made to Mr. Gilpin. His refuſal of the bi⯑ſhopric of Carliſle had given them favourable ſentiments of him, and great hopes that in his heart he had no diſlike to their cauſe. But they ſoon found their miſtake. He was wholly diſſatisfied with their proceedings. [137]Religious diſputes were in his opinion of ſuch dreadful conſequence, that he always thought when true chriſtianity, under any form of church-government, was once eſtabliſhed in a country, that form ought not to be altered, unleſs blameable in ſome very material points. 'The reformation, he ſaid, was juſt: eſſen⯑tials were there concerned. But at preſent he ſaw no ground for diſſatisfaction. The church of England, he thought, gave no reaſonable offence. Some things there might be in it, which had been perhaps as well avoided ^*: but to diſturb the peace of a na⯑tion [138]for ſuch trifles, he thought, was quite unchriſtian.'—And indeed what appeared to [139]him chiefly blameable in the diſſenters, was, that heat of temper with which they propa⯑gated their opinions, and treated thoſe who differed from them. Neither epiſcopal nor preſbyterian government, nor caps, nor fur⯑plices, nor any external things, were matters with him half ſo intereſting, as peace and charity among chriſtians: and this was his conſtant topic in all his occaſional converſa⯑tions with that party.

Such however was the opinion they enter⯑tained of him, that notwithſtanding theſe ca⯑ſual intimations of his diſlike to them, they [140]ſtill perſiſted in their endeavours to gain him to their ſide. The chief of them failed not to ſet before him what they had to ſay of moſt weight againſt the eſtabliſhed diſcipline; and a perſon of eſteemed abilities among them came on purpoſe from Cambridge to diſcourſe with him upon the beſt form of eccleſiaſtical government. But this agent did his cauſe little credit. With no great learning he had an inſupportable vanity; and ſeemed to take it for granted, that himſelf and Calvin were the two greateſt men in the world. His diſ⯑courſe had nothing of argument in it; an in⯑decent invective againſt epiſcopacy was the ſum of it. He was ſo full of himſelf, that Mr. Gilpin thought it to no purpoſe to reaſon with him, and therefore avoided whatever could lead them into a diſpute.

Some time after Mr. Gilpin heard, that his late viſitant had reported him to have affirm⯑ed, ſpeaking about the primitive times, that 'the virtues of the moderns were not equal even to the infirmities of the fathers.' He ſaid indeed he remembered ſome ſuch thing coming from him; but not in the ſerious manner in which it was repreſented. His [141]adverſary had been decrying the fathers great⯑ly, declaring there were men in this age much their ſuperiors, plainly intimating whom he principally intended. Such arrogance, Mr. Gilpin ſaid, he was deſirous to mortify; and meant it of ſuch moderns as him, when he aſſerted that their virtues were not equal to the infirmities of the fathers.

The ſucceſs the diſſenters had met with in their private applications, encouraged them to try what farther might be had by a public attack on the national church. Their great champion was Dr. Cartwright, who wrote with much bitterneſs againſt it. His book was immediately diſperſed over the nation, re⯑ceived by the party with loud acclamations, and every where conſidered by them as un⯑anſwerable.

Very ſoon after it was publiſhed, it was zealouſly put into Mr. Gilpin's hands. The gentleman who ſent it, one Dr. Birch, a warm friend to the principles advanced in it, deſired he would read it over carefully, and commu⯑nicate to him his remarks. But very impa⯑tient for them, he ſent a meſſenger before Mr. Gilpin had read the book half through. [142]He returned it however with the following lines, which ſhew his opinion of church-go⯑vernment in general.

Though Mr. Gilpin was thus greatly diſ⯑ſatisfied with the diſorderly zeal which the more violent of the diſſenters expreſſed, at⯑tended, as he obſerved it was, with ſuch fatal conſequences, he confined however his diſlike to their errors; to their perſons he bore not the leaſt ill-will. Nay, one of the moſt intimate friends he ever had was Mr. Lever, a miniſter of their perſuaſion, and a ſufferer in their cauſe.

This gentleman had been head of a college in Cambridge, and afterwards prebendary of [143]Durham, and maſter of Sherborn-hoſpital. He was a man of good parts, conſiderable learning, and very exemplary piety; and had been eſteemed in king Edward's time an emi⯑nent and bold preacher. During the ſucceed⯑ing confuſion he ſettled at Arrow in Switzer⯑land, where he was teacher to a congregation of Engliſh exiles. Here he became a fa⯑vourer of Calvin's opinions; and at his return home was conſidered as one of the principal of the diſſenting party. The very great in⯑diſcretions, already mentioned, of a few vio⯑lent men, ſoon made that whole party ob⯑noxious to the government; to which no⯑thing perhaps more contributed than the ſe⯑ditious application of that doctrine to Eliza⯑beth, which had been formerly propagated againſt female government by Knox and Good⯑man in the reign of her ſiſter. This was touching that jealous queen in a moſt ſenſible part; and induced her, perhaps too rigorouſly, though ſhe was really ill uſed, to preſs unifor⯑mity.—Among others Mr. Lever ſuffered: he was convened before the archbiſhop of York, and deprived of his eccleſiaſtical pre⯑ferment. Many of the cooler churchmen [144]thought him hardly dealt with, as he was really a moderate man, and not forward in oppoſing the received opinions.

Mr. Gilpin was among thoſe who pitied his treatment: nor did he ſcruple to expreſs his uſual regard for him, though it was not a thing the moſt agreeable to his ſuperibrs. But he had too much honour to ſacrifice friendſhip to popular prejudice; and thought, that they, who agreed in eſſentials, ſhould not be eſtranged from each other for their dif⯑ferent ſentiments on points of leſs impor⯑tance.

As Mr. Gilpin was thus ſolicited on one hand by the diſſenters, ſo was he on the other by the papiſts. It had long been a mortifi⯑cation to all the well-meaning of that per⯑ſuaſion, that ſo good a man had left their communion; and no methods were left un⯑tried to bring him back. But his change had been a work of too much caution to be re⯑pented of: ſo that all their endeavours prov⯑ed, as it was eaſy to ſuppoſe they would, ineffectual.

A letter of his, written upon an occaſion of this kind, may here not improperly be [145]inſerted, to ſhew how well ſatisfied he was at this time with having left the church of Rome; and how unlikely it was that he ſhould ever again become a member of it. I wiſh I could give this letter in its original ſimplicity; but the manuſcript is ſo mutilat⯑ed, that it is impoſſible to tranſcribe a fair copy from it. The biſhop of Chicheſter however hath given a Latin tranſlation of it, from which I ſhall take as much of it as is worth preſerving. It was writ in anſwer to a long letter from one Mr. Gelthorpe, a rela⯑tion of Mr. Gilpin, who being a warm pa⯑piſt himſelf, was very uneaſy that his kinſ⯑man and friend ſhould be a proteſtant. He failed not therefore to ſuggeſt to him what he could think of in favour of popery, and of the danger of apoſtatizing, concluding his letter thus:

To this letter the following was Mr. Gil⯑pin's anſwer.

SECTION VII.

THE public generally ſees us in diſguiſe: the caſe is, we ordinarily pay a greater deference to the world's opinion, than to our own conſciences. Hence a man's real merit is very improperly eſtimated from the more expoſed part of his behaviour.

The paſſages of Mr. Gilpin's life, already collected, are chiefly of a public nature; if we may thus call any action of a life ſo pri⯑vate. To place his merit therefore in its trueſt light, it will be neceſſary to accompany him in his retirement, and take a view of his ordinary behaviour, from which all reſtraint was taken off. Hence we ſhall have the fulleſt proof of what he truly was, upon what principles he acted, and that the virtue he practiſed was not the effect of any deference to the world's opinion, but of inward con⯑viction, and a ſincere deſire to act agreeably to the will of his creator.

When he firſt took upon him the care of a pariſh, he laid it down as a maxim, to do all the good in his power there. And in⯑deed [160]his whole conduct was only one ſtrait line drawn to this point.

He ſet himſelf to conſider how he might beſt perform the charge intruſted to him. The paſtoral care he ſaw was much neglect⯑ed: the greater part of the clergy, he could not but obſerve, were ſcandalouſly negligent of it, accepting livings only with ſecular views; and even they, who ſeemed deſirous of being accounted ſerious in the diſcharge of their miniſtry, too often, he thought, con⯑ſidered it in a light widely different from its true one. Some, he obſerved, made it conſiſt in aſſerting the rights of the church, and the dignity of their function; others, in a ſtre⯑nuous oppoſition to the prevailing ſectaries, and a zealous attachment to the eſtabliſhed church-government; a third ſort in examin⯑ing the ſpeculative points, and myſtical parts of religion: none of them in the mean time conſidering either in what the true dignity of the miniſterial character conſiſted; or the only end for which church-government was at all eſtabliſhed; or the practical influence, which can alone make ſpeculative points worth our attention.—All this he obſerved, [161]with concern obſerved, reſolving to purſue a different path, and to follow the laudable ex⯑ample of thoſe few, who made the paſtoral care to conſiſt in a ſtrenuous endeavour to a⯑mend the lives of thoſe they were concerned with, and to promote their trueſt happineſs both here and hereafter.

The ſtrange diſorder of that part of the country where his lot fell, hath already been obſerved. The extreme of ignorance, and of courſe of ſuperſtition, was its characteriſ⯑tic. The great care of Parker, archbiſhop of Canterbury, his frequent and ſtrict viſitations, his ſevere inquiries into the miniſtry of the clergy, and manners of the laity, had made a very viſible alteration for the better in the ſouthern parts of England: but in the north, reformation went on but ſluggiſhly. The in⯑dolent archbiſhop of York ſlept over his pro⯑vince. In what great diſorder the good bi⯑ſhop Grindal found it, upon his tranſlation thither, in the year 1570, appears from his epiſcopal injunctions, among which are theſe very extraordinary ones, That no pedlar ſhould be admitted to ſell his wares in the church⯑porch in time of ſervice—That pariſh-clerks [162]ſhould be able to read—That no lords of miſ⯑rule, or ſummer lords and ladies, or any diſ⯑guiſed perſons, morrice-dancers, or others, ſhould come irreverently into the church, or play any unſeemly parts with ſcoffs, jeſts, wanton geſtures, or ribald talk, in the time of divine ſervice.—From theſe things we may conceive the ſtate of the pariſh of Houghton, when Mr. Gilpin came there ^*.

Amidſt ſuch ignorance to introduce a knowledge of religion was a laborious work; as difficult as a firſt plantation of the goſpel. There was the ſame building to raiſe, and as much rubbiſh to clear away; for no preju⯑dices could be ſtronger, and more alien to chriſtianity, than thoſe he had to oppoſe.

[163]He ſet out with making it his endeavour to gain the affection of his pariſhioners. Many of his papers ſhew how material a point he conſidered this. To ſucceed in it however he uſed no ſervile compliances: he would have his means good, as well as his end. His behaviour was free without levity, obliging without meanneſs, inſinuating with⯑out art: he condeſcended to the weak, bore with the paſſionate, complied with the ſcru⯑pulous: in a truly apoſtolic manner, he ‘be⯑came all things to all men.’ By theſe means he gained mightily upon his neighbours, and convinced them how heartily he was their friend.

To this humanity and courteſy he added an unwearied application to the duties of his function. He was not ſatisfied with the ad⯑vice he gave in public, but uſed to inſtruct in private; and brought his pariſhioners to come to him with their doubts and difficulties. He had a moſt engaging manner towards thoſe, whom he thought well-diſpoſed: nay his very reproof was ſo conducted, that it ſeldom gave offence; the becoming gentleneſs with which it was urged made it always appear [164]the effect of friendſhip. Thus laying him⯑ſelf out in admoniſhing the vicious, and en⯑couraging the well-intentioned, in a few years he made a greater change in his neighbour⯑hood, than could well have been imagined—a remarkable inſtance, what reformation a ſingle man may effect, when he hath it ear⯑neſtly at heart!

But his hopes were not ſo much in the preſent generation, as in the ſucceeding. It was an eaſier taſk, he found, to prevent vice than to correct it; to form the young to vir⯑tue, than to amend the bad habits of the old. He laid out much of his time therefore in an endeavour to improve the minds of the younger part of his pariſh. Nor did he only take notice of thoſe within his ſchool, but in general extended his care through the whole place: ſuffering none to grow up in an ig⯑norance of their duty; but preſſing it as the wiſeſt part to mix religion with their labour, and amidſt the cares of this life to have a con⯑ſtant eye upon the next.

Nor did he omit whatever beſides might be of ſervice to his pariſhioners.

[165]He was very affiduous in preventing all law-ſuits among them. His hall is ſaid to have been often thronged with people who came to him about their differences. He was not indeed much acquainted with law, but he could decide equitably, and that ſatisfied: nor could his ſovereign's commiſſion have given him more weight than his own character gave him.

He had a juſt concern for all under afflic⯑tion; and was a much readier viſitant at the houſe of mourning than at that of feaſting. He had converſed ſo much in the world, that he knew how to apply himſelf to the moſt different tempers; and his large fund of read⯑ing and experience always furniſhed ſome⯑thing that would properly affect them. Hence he was conſidered as a good angel by all in diſtreſs.—When the infirmities of age came upon him, and he grew leſs able to endure exerciſe, it was his cuſtom to write letters of conſolation to ſuch as were in affliction ^*

[166]He uſed to interpoſe likewiſe in all acts of oppreſſion; and his authority was ſuch, that it generally put a ſtop to them.

[167]A perſon againſt whom the country at that time exclaimed very much, was one Mr. [168]Barns, a near relation, if not a brother of Dr. Barns, biſhop of Durham, who raiſed him through ſome inferior poſts to the chan⯑cellorſhip of his dioceſe. This man, though at the head of an eccleſiaſtical court, would have been a ſcandal to the meaneſt office. He was indeed the tyrant of the country, conſidering his power only as the means of gratifying his vicious inclinations: among which, as avarice bore a ruling part, oppreſ⯑ſion [169]was its natural effect. Between this man and Mr. Gilpin there was a perpetual oppo⯑ſition for many years; the latter endeavour⯑ing always to counteract the former, and to be the redreſſer of thoſe injuries, of which he was the author. Several traces of theſe con⯑teſts ſtill remain among Mr. Gilpin's papers; from which it appears what a conſtant check upon his deſigns Mr. Barns found him; though he was never treated by him with any bitterneſs, but always in a mild, and even affectionate manner. ‘It will be but a very few years’ Mr. Gilpin tells him, conclud⯑ing a letter written in favour of three orphans, whom Mr. Barns had defrauded of their pa⯑trimony) ‘before you and I muſt give up our great accounts. I pray God give us both the grace to have them in a conſtant readineſs. And may you take what I have written in as friendly a manner as it is meant. My daily prayers are made for you to almighty God, whom I beſeech evermore to preſerve you.’ By being thus at all times ready to eſpouſe the cauſe of the injured, he ſhewed not only hu⯑manity, but reſolution likewiſe; without [170]which our concern for the diſtreſſes of others will often go but a very little way towards their relief. For as compaſſion is only in⯑ſtinct, conſulting in its operations perhaps our own relief chiefly; of courſe he who is governed by no ſteadier principle, will deſert the benevolent part, when fatigue or danger throw difficulties in his way. But he who can exert reſolution in the cauſe of the op⯑preſſed, is a friend indeed: he is influenced by a fixed principle, the effect of rational conſideration: this enables him to overcome the ſuggeſtions of fear and ſelfiſhneſs, which prompt moſt men, like the timorous herd, to ſhun the unfortunate. The humane part Mr. Gilpin acted, no doubt, often expoſed him to inconveniencies; but he made little account of them, juſtly reflecting, that upon the whole what was right was beſt.

Thus he lived in his pariſh, careful only to diſcharge his duty: no fatigue or difficulty could excuſe him to himſelf for the omiſſion, of any part of it: the moral improvement of his people was his principal endeavour, and the ſucceſs of this endeavour his princi⯑pal happineſs.

[171]Notwithſtanding however all this painful induſtry, and the large ſcope it had in ſo ex⯑tended a pariſh, he thought the ſphere of his benevolence yet too confined. It grieved him extremely to ſee every where in the pa⯑riſhes around him ſo much ignorance and ſu⯑perſtition; occaſioned by the very great neg⯑lect of the paſtoral care in the clergy of thoſe parts. How ill ſupplied the northern churches at this time were, hath already been obſerved; and will ſtill appear in a ſtronger light, if we compare the ſtate of theſe churches with that of thoſe in the ſouthern parts of the iſland, which were univerſally allowed to have been leſs neglected. Of one dioceſe, that of Ely, where the clergy do not appear to have been uncommonly remiſs, we have a curious account ſtill preſerved: it contained one hun⯑dred and fifty-ſix pariſhes; of which forty-ſeven had no miniſters at all, fifty-ſeven were in the bands of careleſs non-reſidents, and only the remaining fifty-two were regularly ſerved.

The very bad conſequences ariſing from this ſhameful remiſſneſs among the clergy, induced Mr. Gilpin to ſupply, as far as he [172]could, what was wanting in others. Every year therefore he uſed regularly to viſit the moſt neglected pariſhes in Northumberland, Yorkſhire, Cheſhire, Weſtmorland, and Cum⯑berland: and that his own pariſh, in the mean time, might not ſuffer, he was at the expence of a conſtant aſſiſtant. In each place he ſtayed two or three days, and his method was, to call the people about him, and lay before them, in as plain a way as poſſible, the danger of leading wicked or even careleſs lives—explaining to them the nature of true religion—inſtructing them in the duties they owed to God, their neighbour, and them⯑ſelves—and ſhewing them how greatly a mo⯑ral and religious conduct would contribute to their preſent as well as future happineſs.

When a preacher, though the mereſt rhap⯑ſodiſt or enthuſiaſt, ſeems to ſpeak from his heart, from a thorough ſenſe of his duty, what he ſays will be liſtened to. The ap⯑pearance of his being truly in earneſt, will diſpoſe men at leaſt to give him a fair hear⯑ing. Hence Mr. Gilpin, who had all the warmth of an enthuſiaſt, though under the direction of a very calm judgment, never [173]wanted an audience even in the wildeſt part; where he rouſed many to a ſenſe of religion, who had contracted the moſt inveterate ha⯑bits of inattention to every things of a ſerious nature.

One thing he practiſed, which ſhewed the beſt-diſpoſed heart. Where ever he came, he uſed to viſit all the jails and places of con⯑finement; few in the kingdom having at that time any appointed miniſter. And by his la⯑bours, and affectionate manner of behaving, he is ſaid to have reformed many very abandon⯑ed perſons in thoſe places. He would employ his intereſt likewiſe for ſuch criminals, whoſe caſes he thought attended with any hard cir⯑cumſtances, and often procured pardons for them.

There is a tract of country upon the bor⯑der of Northumberland, called Reads-dale and Tine-dale; of all barbarous places in the north, at that time the moſt barbarous. The fol⯑lowing very pictureſque deſcription of this wild country we have from Mr. Camden:

[175]Before the union this coutry was gene⯑rally called the debateable land, as ſubject by turns to England and Scotland, and the com⯑mon theatre where the two nations were con⯑tinually acting their bloody ſcenes. It was inhabited, as Mr. Camden hath juſt inform⯑ed us, by a kind of deſperate banditti, ren⯑dered fierce and active by conſtant alarms. They lived by theft; uſed to plunder on both ſides of the barrier, and what they plunder⯑ed on one, they expoſed to ſale on the other; by that means eſcaping juſtice. Such adepts were they in the art of thieving, that they could twiſt a cow's horn, or mark a horſe, ſo as its owners could not know it; and ſo ſubtle, that no vigilance could guard againſt them. For theſe arts they were long after⯑wards famous. A perſon telling king James a ſurprizing ſtory of a cow that had been dri⯑ven from the north of Scotland into the ſouth of England, and eſcaping from the herd had found her way home. 'The moſt ſurpriz⯑ing part of the ſtory, the king replied, you lay leaſt ſtreſs on, that ſhe paſſed unſtolen through the debateable land.'

[176]In this dreadful country, where no man would even travel that could help it, Mr. Gil⯑pin never failed to ſpend ſome part of every year. He generally choſe the holidays of Chriſtmas for this journey, becauſe he found the people at that ſeaſon moſt diſengaged, and moſt eaſily aſſembled. He had ſet places for preaching which were as regularly attended, as the aſſize-towns of a circuit. If he came where there was a church, he made uſe of it: if not, of barns, or any other large build⯑ing; where great crouds of people were ſure to attend him, ſome for his inſtructions, and others for his charity.

This was a very difficult and laborious em⯑ployment. The country was ſo poor, that what proviſion he could get, extreme hunger only could make palatable. The badneſs of the wea ther and the badneſs of the roads through a mountainous country, and at that ſeaſon cover⯑ed with ſnow, expoſed him likewiſe often to great hardſhips. Sometimes he was over⯑taken by the night, the country being in many places deſolate for ſeveral miles toge⯑ther, and, as the biſhop of Chicheſter relates, obliged to lodge out in the cold; at ſuch [177]times he would make his ſervant ride about with his horſes, whilſt himſelf on foot uſed as much exerciſe as his age and the fatigues of the preceding day would permit.—All this he chearfully underwent; eſteeming ſuch ſufferings well compenſated by the advantages which he hoped might accrue from them to his uninſtructed fellow-creatures.

Our Saxon anceſtors had a great averſion to the tedious forms of law. They choſe ra⯑ther to determine their diſputes in a more conciſe manner, pleading generally with their ſwords. ‘Let every diſpute be decided by the ſword,’ was a Saxon law. A piece of ground was deſcribed, and covered with mats: here the plaintiff and defendant tried their cauſe. If either of them was driven from this boundary, he was obliged to redeem his life by three marks. He whoſe blood firſt ſtained the ground, loſt his ſuit ^*.

This cuſtom ſtill prevailed on the borders, where Saxon barbariſm held its lateſt poſſeſ⯑ſion. Theſe wild Northumbrians indeed went beyond the ſerocity of their anceſtors. [178]They were not content with a duel: each contending party uſed to muſter what adhe⯑rents he could, and commence a kind of petty war ^*. So that a private grudge would often occaſion much bloodſhed.

It happened that a quarrel of this kind was on foot, when Mr. Gilpin was at Rothbury in thoſe parts. During the two or three firſt days of his preaching, the contending parties obſerved ſome decorum, and never appeared at church together. At length however they met. One party had been early at church, and juſt as Mr. Gilpin began his ſermon, the other entered. They ſtood not long ſilent. Inflamed at the ſight of each other, they be⯑gin to claſh their weapons, for they were all armed with javelins and ſwords, and mutually [179]approach. Awed however by the ſacredneſs of the place, the tumult in ſome degree ceaſed. Mr. Gilpin proceeded: when again the combatants begin to brandiſh their wea⯑pons, and draw towards each other. As a fray ſeemed near, Mr. Gilpin ſtepped from the pulpit, went between them, and addreſſ⯑ing the leaders, put an end to the quarrel for the preſent, but could not effect an entire re⯑conciliation. They promiſed him however, that till the ſermon was over, they would make no more diſturbance. He then went again into the pulpit, and ſpent the reſt of the time in endeavouring to make them aſhamed of what they had done. His behaviour and diſ⯑courſe affected them ſo much, that at his far⯑ther entreaty, they promiſed to forbear all acts of hoſtility, while he continued in the country. And ſo much reſpected was he among them, that whoever was in fear of his enemy, uſed to reſort where Mr. Gilpin was, eſteeming his preſence the beſt protection.

One ſunday morning coming to a church in thoſe parts before the people were aſſem⯑bled, he obſerved a glove hanging up, and was informed by the ſexton, that it was meant [180]as a challenge to any one that ſhould take it down. Mr. Gilpin ordered the ſexton to reach it him; but upon his utterly refuſing to touch it, he took it down himſelf, and put it in his breaſt. When the people were aſ⯑ſembled, he went into the pulpit; and before he concluded his ſermon, took occaſion to re⯑buke them ſeverely for theſe inhuman chal⯑lenges. 'I hear, ſaith he, that one among you hath hanged up a glove even in this ſa⯑cred place, threatening to fight any one who taketh it down: ſee, I have taken it down;' and pulling out the glove, he held it up to the congregation; and then ſhewed them how unſuitable ſuch ſavage practices were to the profeſſion of chriſtianity; uſing ſuch per⯑ſuaſives to mutual love, as he thought would moſt affect them.

The diſintereſted pains he thus took among theſe barbarous people, and the good offices he was always ready to do them, drew from them the ſincereſt expreſſions of gratitude, a virtue perhaps as frequently the growth of theſe natural ſoils, as of the beſt cultivated. Indeed he was little leſs than adored, and might have brought the whole country almoſt [181]to what he pleaſed.—How greatly his name was revered among them one inſtance will ſhew.

By the carleſſneſs of his ſervant, his horſes were one day ſtolen. The news was quickly propagated, and every one expreſſed the high⯑eſt indignation at the fact. The thief was rejoicing over his prize, when by the report of the country he found whole horſes he had taken. Terrified at what he had done, he inſtantly came trembling back, confeſſed the fact, returned the horſes, and declared he believed the devil would have ſeized him directly, had he carried them off, knowing them to have been Mr. Gilpin's.

Thus I have brought together what parti⯑culars ſtill remain of this excellent man's be⯑haviour as a miniſter of the goſpel. They diſcover ſo very good a heart, ſo ſtrong a ſenſe or duty, and ſo ſtrict a regard to it in every inſtance, as would have been admired even in primitive times: the corruptions now prevailing may perhaps make their truth queſtionable; but they are all either taken from his life written by the biſhop of Chi⯑cheſter, [182]or from papers of undoubted autho⯑rity.—His own teſtimony to what hath been ſaid ſhall be ſubjoined in the following ex⯑tract.

'I am at preſent,' ſays he, apologizing to a friend, ‘much charged with buſineſs, or rather overcharged. I am firſt greatly bur⯑dened about ſeeing the lands made ſure to the ſchool; which are not ſo yet, and are in great danger to be loſt, if God ſhould call me afore they are aſſured. Moreover I have aſſigned to preach twelve ſermons at other pariſhes, beſide my own; and like⯑wiſe am earneſtly looked for at a number of pariſhes in Northumberland, more than I can viſit. Beſide, I am continually encum⯑bered with many gueſts and acquaintance, whom I may not well refuſe. And often I am called upon by many of my pa⯑riſhioners, to ſet them at one when they cannot agree. And every day I am ſore charged and troubled with many ſervants and workfolks, which is no ſmall trouble to me; for the buildings and repara⯑tions [183]in this wide houſe will never have an end.’

I will conclude this ſection with an inſtance of that reſolution and ſpirit, which on each proper occaſion he failed not to exert; and by which he always maintained that indepen⯑dency and real dignity, which became his ſtation.

He received a meſſage one day from Dr. Barns, biſhop of Durham, appointing him to preach a viſitation-ſermon the ſunday fol⯑lowing. It happened he was then preparing for his journey into Reads-dale and Tine-dale: he acquainted the biſhop therefore with the neceſſity of keeping that appointment, begg⯑ing his lordſhip would at that time excuſe him. His ſervant informed him that the biſhop had received his meſſage, but return⯑ed no anſwer. Concluding him therefore ſa⯑tisfied, he ſet out on his journey: but to his great ſurprize, when he came home, found himſelf ſuſpended; ſome perſons, through enmity to him, having put the biſhop upon this haſty ſtep. A few days after he received an order to meet the biſhop at Cheſter, a [184]town in the dioceſe of Durham, where the biſhops of that ſee formerly reſided. Here many of the clergy were aſſembled, and Mr. Gilpin was ordered by the biſhop to preach that day before them. He made his apology; He had come wholly unprepared—beſides he was ſuſpended, and thereby excluded from the pulpit. The biſhop anſwered, he took off his ſuſpenſion. But Mr. Gilpin ſtill begg⯑ed to be excuſed—he had brought no ſermon with him, and hoped none would be require⯑ed from him. But the biſhop would take no excuſe; telling him, that as he had been a preacher ſo long, he muſt be able to ſay enough to the purpoſe without any previous meditation. Mr. Gilpin perſiſting in his re⯑fuſal, the biſhop at length grew warm, and required him upon his canonical obedience to go immediately into the pulpit. After a little delay therefore he went up; and though he obſerved ſeveral taking notes of what he ſaid, he proceeded without the leaſt heſitation.

The eccleſiaſtical court of Durham was at this time very ſcandalouſly governed. That Mr. Barns preſided over it, who hath already [185]been mentioned; and who made it indeed little better than an office for granting indulgen⯑cies. The biſhop was a well-meaning, weak man; irreſolute, and wholly in the hands of others. Every thing was managed by his re⯑lation the chancellor; whoſe venality, and the irregularities occaſioned by it, were moſt no⯑torious.

The opportunity now afforded him Mr. Gilpin thought no unfavourable one to open the biſhop's eyes; and induce him to exert himſelf where there was ſo great reaſon for it. Private information had often been given him without any ſucceſs: Mr. Gilpin was now reſolved therefore to venture upon a public application to him. Accordingly, before he concluded his ſermon, he turned towards the biſhop, to whom he thus addreſſed himſelf.

‘My diſcourſe now, reverend father, muſt be directed to you. God hath exalted you to be the biſhop of this dioceſe, and requir⯑eth an account of your government thereof. A reformation of all thoſe matters which are amiſs in this church, is expected at your hands. And now, leſt perhaps, while it is [186]apparent, that ſo many enormities are com⯑mitted every where, your lordſhip ſhould make anſwer, that you had no notice of them given you, and that theſe things ne⯑ver came to your knowledge,’ for this it ſeems was the biſhop's common apology to all complainants, ‘behold I bring theſe things to your knowledge this day. Say not then that theſe crimes have been committed by the fault of others without your knowledge; for whatever either yourſelf ſhall do in per⯑ſon, or ſuffer through your connivance to be done by others, is wholly your own. Therefore in the preſence of God, his an⯑gels, and men, I pronounce you to be the author of all theſe evils: yea, and in that ſtrict: day of the general account, I will be a witneſs to teſtify againſt you, that all theſe things have come to your knowledge by my means: and all theſe men ſhall bear wit⯑neſs thereof, who have heard me ſpeak unto you this day.’

This freedom alarmed every one. As Mr. Gilpin went out of the church, his friends gathered round him, kindly reproaching him, [187]with tears, for what he had done—'The bi⯑ſhop had now got that advantage over him which he had long ſought after—and if he had injured him before without provocation, what would he do now, ſo greatly exaſpe⯑rated?' Mr. Gilpin walked on, gently keep⯑ing them off with his hand, and aſſuring them, that if his diſcourſe ſhould do the ſervice he intended by it, he was regard⯑leſs what the conſequence might be to himſelf.

During that day nothing elſe was talked of. Every one commended what had been ſaid, but was apprehenſive for the ſpeaker. Thoſe about the biſhop waited in ſilent ex⯑pectation, when his reſentment would break out.

After dinner Mr. Gilpin went up to the biſhop, to pay his compliments to him, be⯑fore he went home. 'Sir, ſaid the biſhop, I propoſe to wait upon you home myſelf.'—This he according'y did: and as ſoon as Mr. Gilpin had carried him into a parlour, the biſhop turned ſuddenly round, and ſeiz⯑ing him eagerly by the hand, 'Father [188]Gilpin, ſays he to him, I acknowledge you are fitter to be the biſhop of Durham than I am to be parſon of this church of yours.—I aſk forgiveneſs for paſt injuries—For⯑give me, father.—I know you have enemies; but while I live biſhop of Durham, be ſe⯑cure, none of them ſhall cauſe you any fur⯑ther trouble.'

SECTION VIII.

THOUGH Mr. Gilpin was chiefly ſo⯑licitous about the morals of thoſe committed to his care, he omitted not how⯑ever to promote, as far as he could, their temporal happineſs. What wealth he had, was entirely laid out in charities and hoſpi⯑tality.

The value of his living was about four hundred pounds a year: an income which, however conſiderable at that time, was yet in appearance very unproportionate to the gene⯑rous things he did: indeed he could not have done them, unleſs his frugality had been equal to his generoſity.

In building a ſchool, and purchaſing lands for the maintenance of a maſter and uſher, he expended above five hundred pounds. As there was ſo great a reſort of young people to this ſchool, that in a little time the town was not able to accommodate them, he put him⯑ſelf to the inconvenience of fitting up a part of his own houſe for that purpoſe, where he ſeldom had fewer than twenty or thirty chil⯑dren. [190]Some of theſe were the ſons of per⯑ſons of diſtinction, whom he boarded at eaſy rates: but the greater part were poor chil⯑dren, who could not ſo eaſily get themſelves boarded in the town; and whom he not only educated, but cloathed and maintained: he was at the expence likewiſe of boarding in the town many other poor children. He uſed to bring ſeveral every year from the dif⯑ferent parts where he preached, particularly Reads-dale and Tine-dale; which places he was at great pains in civilizing, and contri⯑buted not a little towards rooting out that barbariſm, which every year prevailed leſs among them.

For the maintenance of poor ſcholars at the univerſities, he yearly ſet apart ſixty pounds. This ſum he always laid out, often more. His common allowance to each ſcho⯑lar was about ten pounds a year: which for a ſober youth was at that time a very ſuffi⯑cient maintenance: ſo that he never main⯑tained fewer than ſix. By his will it appears, that at his death he had nine upon his liſt; whom he took care to provide for during their ſtay at the univerſity.

[191]Every thurſday throughout the year a very large quantity of meat was dreſſed wholly for the poor; and every day they had what quan⯑tity of broth they wanted. Twenty-four of the pooreſt were his conſtant penſioners. Four times in the year a dinner was provided for them, when they received from his ſteward a certain quantity of corn, and a ſum of mo⯑ney: and at Chriſtmas they had always an ox divided among them.

Wherever he heard of any in diſtreſs, whe⯑ther of his own pariſh, or any other, he was ſure to relieve them. In his walks abroad he would frequently bring home with him poor people, and ſend them away cloathed as well as fed.

He took great pains to inform himſelf of the circumſtances of his neighbours, that the modeſty of the ſufferer might not prevent his relief.

But the money beſt laid out was, in his opinion, that which encouraged induſtry. It was one of his greateſt pleaſures to make up the loſſes of his laborious neighbours, and prevent their ſinking under them. If a poor man had loſt a beaſt, he would ſend him [192]another In its room: or if any farmer had had a bad year, he would make him an abate⯑ment in his tithes.—Thus, as far as he was able, he took the misfortunes of his pariſh upon himſelf; and like a true ſhepherd ex⯑poſed himſelf for his flock.

But of all kinds of induſtrious poor, he was moſt forward to aſſiſt thoſe who had large families: ſuch never failed to meet with his bounty, when they wanted to ſettle their chil⯑dren in the world.

In the diſtant pariſhes where he preached, as well as in his own neighbourhood, his ge⯑neroſity and benevolence were continually ſhewing themſelves; particularly in the deſo⯑late parts of Northumberland: ‘When he began his journey, ſays an old manuſcript life of him, he would have ten pounds in his purſe; and at his coming home he would be twenty nobles in debt, which he would always pay within a fortnight after.’—In the jails he viſited, he was not only careful to give the priſoners proper inſtruc⯑tions, but uſed to purchaſe for them likewiſe what neceſſaries they wanted.

[193]Even upon the public road he never let ſlip an opportunity of doing good. Often has he been known to take off his cloak, and give it to an half-naked traveller: and when he has had ſcarce money enough in his pocket to provide himſelf a dinner, yet would he give away part of that little, or the whole, if he found any who ſeemed to ſtand in need of it.—Of this benevolent temper the following inſtance is preſerved. One day returning home, he ſaw in a field ſeveral people croud⯑ing together; and judging ſomething more than ordinary had happened, he rode up, and found that one of the horſes in a team had ſuddenly dropped down, which they were endeavouring to raiſe; but in vain, for the horſe was dead. The owner of it ſeeming much dejected with his misfortune, and de⯑claring how grievous a loſs it Would be to him, Mr. Gilpin bad him not be diſheartened; 'I'll let you have, ſays he, honeſt man, that horſe of mine,' and pointed to his ſervant's.—'Ah! maſter, replied the countryman, my pocket will not reach ſuch a beaſt as that.'—'Come, come, ſaid Mr. Gilpin, take him, [194]take him, and when I demand my money, then thou ſhalt pay me.'

His hoſpitable manner of living was the admiration of the whole country. He ſpent in his family every fortnight forty buſhels of corn, twenty buſhels of malt, and a whole ox; beſides a proportional quantity of other kinds of proviſion.

Strangers and travellers found a chearful reception. All were welcome that came; and even their beaſts had ſo much care taken of them, that it was humourouſly ſaid, 'If a horſe was turned looſe in any part of the country, it would immediately make its way to the rector of Houghton's.'

Every ſunday from Michaelmas till Eaſter, was a ſort of a public day with him. During this ſeaſon he expected to ſee all his pariſhio⯑ners and their families. For their reception he had three tables well covered: the firſt was for gentlemen, the ſecond for huſband⯑men and farmers, and the third for day-la⯑bourers.—This piece of hoſpitality he never omitted, even when loſſes, or a ſcarcity of proviſion, made its continuance rather diffi⯑cult to him. He thought it his duty, and [195]that was a deciding motive. ‘If you ſhould, as you threaten, (ſays he in a letter to his old enemy chancellor Barns, give out a ſe⯑queſtration of my benefice, you ſhall do me a greater favour than you are aware of. For at this time I am run in no ſmall debt. I want likewiſe proviſion of victuals. Where I have had againſt Michaelmas ſix or ſeven fat oxen, and five or ſix fat cows, I have now neither cow nor ox, but muſt ſeek all from the ſhambles. A ſequeſtra⯑tion given out, I may with honeſty break up houſe for a ſpace, which will ſave me twenty or thirty pounds in my purſe. But I truſt you will think better of this matter.’

‘Theſe times, (ſays he, in another letter) make me ſo tired of houſe-keeping, that I would I were diſcharged from it, if it could be with a clear conſcience.’

Even when he was abſent, no alteration was made in his family-expences: the poor was fed a uſual, and his neighbours enter⯑tained.

He was always glad of the company of men of worth and letters, who uſed much to frequent his houſe. This ſociable temper led [196]him into a very large acquaintance; which, as he could not ſelect his company, became very inconvenient to him when he grew old. I ſhall cloſe this account of his manner of living with a ſtory, which does no little ho⯑nour to his houſe-keeping.

Some affairs in Scotland obliging queen Elizabeth to ſend thither her treaſurer, the lord Burleigh, he reſolved to take the oppor⯑tunity of his return to pay a viſit to Mr. Gil⯑pin. Hurried as he was, he could not reſiſt the deſire of ſeeing a man, whoſe name was every where ſo reſpectfully mentioned. His free diſcourſe from the pulpit to king Ed⯑ward's court, had early recommended him to this noble perſon; ſince which time the great diſtance between them had wholly interrupt⯑ed their acquaintance. The treaſurer's return was ſo ſudden, that he had not time to give any notice of his intended viſit. But the oeconomy of ſo plentiful a houſe as Mr. Gilpin's was not eaſily diſconcerted. He received his noble gueſt with ſo much true politeneſs, and treated him and his whole retinue in ſo affluent and gene⯑rous a manner, that the treaſurer would often afterwards ſay, 'He could hardly have ex⯑pected [197]more at Lambeth.' While lord Bur⯑leigh ſtayed at Houghton, he took great pains by his own, and the obſervation of his do⯑meſtics, to acquaint himſelf with the order and regularity with which every thing in that houſe was managed. It contained a very large family; and was beſides continually crouded with perſons of all kinds, gentlemen, ſcholars, workmen, farmers, and poor people: yet there was never any confuſion; every one was immediately carried into proper apartments, and entertained, directed, or relieved, as his particular buſineſs required. It could not but pleaſe this wiſe lord, who was ſo well ac⯑quainted with the effects of order and regu⯑larity in the higheſt ſphere, to obſerve them even in this humble one. Here too he ſaw true ſimplicity of manners, and every ſocial virtue regulated by exact prudence. The ſtateſman began to unbend, and he could not without an envious eye compare the unquiet ſcenes of vice and vanity in which he was en⯑gaged, with the calmneſs of this amiable re⯑treat. At length with reluctance he took his leave; and with all the warmth of affection embracing his much reſpected friend, he told [198]him, 'He had heard great things in his com⯑mendation, but he had now ſeen what far exceeded all that he had heard. If, added he, Mr. Gilpin, I can ever be of any ſervice to you at court, or elſewhere, uſe me with all freedom as one you may depend on.' When he had got to Rainton-hill, which riſes about a mile from Houghton, and commands the vale, he turned his horſe to take one more view of the place: and having kept his eye fixed upon it for ſome time, his reverie broke out into this exclamation: 'There is the en⯑joyment of life indeed!—who can blame that man for not accepting of a biſhopric!—what doth he want to make him greater, or hap⯑pier, or more uſeful to mankind!'

SECTION IX.

THE laſt buſineſs of a public nature in which Mr. Gilpin was engaged was the ſettlement of his ſchool. It anſwered his expectations ſo well by the good it did in the country, that when he grew old, it became his chief concern. His infirmities obliged him now to relax a little from thoſe very great fatigues he had undergone abroad, and to draw his engagements nearer home. His ſchool, ſituated near his houſe, afforded him, when moſt infirm, an employment; and he thought he could hardly die in peace till he had ſettled it to his mind. What he had principally at heart, was to compoſe for it a ſet of good ſtatutes, to provide it a better endow⯑ment, and to fix all by a charter.

As to the ſtatutes, he was daily employed in correcting, adding to, and altering, thoſe he had drawn up; adviſing with his friends, and doing all in his power to prevent any fu⯑ture abuſe of his charity.

With regard to a better endowment, it was not indeed in his own power to do any thing [200]more. His exhibitions, his other charities, and his generous manner of living, made yearly ſuch large demands upon him, which increaſed as he grew old, that it became then impoſſible for him to lay up any thing. He would gladly have contracted his hoſpitality, which he thought his leaſt uſeful expence; but when he conſidered, that he might pro⯑bably by that means loſe much of the eſteem of the people, he could not prevail with him⯑ſelf to do it. Thus unable to do any thing more out of his own purſe, he turned his eyes upon his friends.

There was a gentleman in the neighbour⯑hood, John Heath, eſquire, of Kepier, with whom Mr. Gilpin had lived for many years in great intimacy. He was a man of un⯑common worth, was maſter of a plentiful fortune, and had an inclination to put it to the beſt uſes. He was beſides a man of let⯑ters, and an encourager of learning. To this gentleman Mr. Gilpin applied in favour of his ſchool: Mr. Heath came with great rea⯑dineſs into the ſcheme propoſed to him, and doubled the original endowment. Mr. Gil⯑pin prevailed upon ſome others likewiſe to [201]contribute their aſſiſtance, by which means the revenues of the ſchool became at length anſwerable to his wiſhes.

Having thus obtained a ſufficient endow⯑ment, he began next to think of a charter. For this he applied to his friend the earl of Bedford.

The two following letters from that earl are here inſerted, rather indeed to ſhew his friendſhip for Mr. Gilpin, than becauſe they are otherwiſe very material.

One of Mr. Gilpin's laſt good actions was his endeavour to convert a young jeſuit. A friend of his, one Mr. Geniſon of Newcaſtle, had taken into his houſe a brother's ſon, who having been ſome time in Italy, and there inveigled by the jeſuits, had been taken into their order. His time of diſcipline being [204]over, he was ſent into England, whither he brought with him the zeal of a novice. His uncle, a man of good plain ſenſe, ſoon diſ⯑covered what had happened; and being great⯑ly afflicted that his nephew was not only be⯑come a papiſt, but a jeſuit, ſaid what he could to recover him from his errors. But the young man had got his diſtinctions too per⯑fect to be influenced by his uncle's arguments. The old gentleman therefore not knowing what to do with him himſelf, at length thought of Mr. Gilpin. To him he wrote, told him the whole affair, and earneſtly in⯑treated him, if he had any friendſhip ſor him, to try what impreſſion he could make, upon his nephew. Mr. Gilpin had little hopes of ſucceſs from what he had heard of the young man's character; and ſtill leſs when he ſaw him. He was naturally very full of himſelf, and this turn his education had increaſed. Inſtead of examining atten⯑tively what was ſaid, and giving pertinent an⯑ſwers, he was ſtill running from the point, advancing hi [...] own tenets, and defending them by ſtrained interpretations of ſcripture, and the groſſeſt miſapplication of it. The truth [205]was, he wanted to ſignalize himſelf by mak⯑ing ſome eminent perſon his convert; and his vanity led him to expect, that he might bring over Mr. Gilpin. This was indeed the chief thing he propoſed in coming to Houghton. When he found he failed in this, he did what he could to corrupt the ſervants, and ſuch of the ſcholars and coun⯑try-people as came in his way. He became at length ſo very diſagreeable, that Mr. Gil⯑pin was obliged to deſire his uncle to ſend for him again. His letter upon the occaſion diſcovers ſo much honeſty of heart, and ſo beautiful a ſimplicity of manners, that it de⯑ſerves very well to be inſerted.

[208]Notwithſtanding what is ſaid in this letter, it ſeems probable, that Mr. Gilpin's argu⯑ments at length made ſome impreſſion upon the young man: for he entered afterwards into a ſerious diſpute in writing with him; which he would ſcarce have engaged in, un⯑leſs the jeſuit had ſhewn greater willingneſs to diſcover truth, than what had yet ap⯑peared.

'As ſickneſs, ſores, and other troubles,' ſays Mr. Gilpin to him in a letter, ‘;would ſuffer me, I have anſwered your objections out of St. Auſtin: and the chief of them, I truſt, are anſwered to the contentation of ſuch as are willing to ſtay their conſcience upon God and his word, and not upon man's vain inventions, wherein they ſhall find no reſt of conſcience, nor quietneſs of mind.—When leiſure will ſerve to finiſh the reſidue, I will ſend them unto you. In the mean time I pray God to illuminate your eyes with his heavenly light, and to guide your feet into the way of peace.’

[209]Towards the latter part of his life, Mr. Gilpin went through his duty with great dif⯑ficulty. His health was much impaired. The extreme fatigue he had during ſo many years undergone, had now quite broke his conſtitution. Thus he complains in a letter to a friend: ‘To ſuſtain all theſe travels and troubles I have a very weak body, ſub⯑ject to many diſeaſes; by the monitions whereof, I am daily warned to remember death. My greateſt grief of all is, that my memory is quite decayed: my ſight fail⯑eth; my hearing faileth; with other ail⯑ments, more than I can well expreſs.’

While he was thus ſtruggling with an ad⯑vanced age, and much impaired conſtitution, there happened a very unfortunate affair, which entirely deſtroyed his health. As he was croſſing the market-place at Durham, an ox ran at him, and puſhed him down with ſuch violence, that it was imagined the bruiſes he received weuld have occaſioned his death. He lay long confined; and though he again got abroad, he never recovered even the little ſtrength he had before, and con⯑tinued lame as long as he lived. But ac⯑cidents [210]of this kind were no very formidable trials to a mind ſo well tempered as his. It was a perſuaſion he had long entertained, that misfortunes are intended by providence to re⯑mind us of our neglected duty: and thus he always uſed them, making ſelf-examina⯑tion the conſtant attendant upon whatever calamities beſel him. To this it was owing that misfortunes never dejected him, but were received by him rather with thankful⯑neſs than repining.

But ſickneſs was not the only diſtreſs which the declining years of this excellent man had to ſtruggle with. As age and in⯑firmity began to leſſen that weight and in⯑fluence he once had, the malice and oppoſi⯑tion of his enemies of courſe prevailed more.

Of what frivolous pretences they availed themſelves, and with what temper he bore their malice, the following letters will ſhew better than any narrative.

But of all his enemies the moſt active were Hugh Broughton, and chancellor Barns.

Broughton acted the baſeſt and moſt un⯑grateful part. Mr. Gilpin had educated and maintained him both at ſchool and the uni⯑verſity, and had always ſhewn him every civility in his power. Yet this man was af⯑terwards vile enough to endeavour to ſupplant the very patron who raiſed him. He had craftily inſinuated himſelf into the biſhop of Durham's favour, and thought he ſtood fair for the firſt vacant preferment: and as Houghton was then the beſt thing in the bi⯑ſhop's gift, he had fixed his eye upon it. Mr. Gilpin was old and infirm, and in all proba⯑bility could enjoy it but a very few years; [215]yet Broughton had not patience to let him ſpend the remainder of his age in peace. He knew the biſhop was eaſily impoſed upon, and found means to prejudice him againſt Mr. Gilpin. To this was owing, as appeared afterwards, the affair of the ſuſpen⯑ſion already mentioned, and ſome other in⯑ſtances of the biſhop's diſpleaſure. But in the end poor Broughton had the mortifica⯑tion to ſee his indirect meaſures unravelled. The biſhop ſaw his error, was reconciled to Mr. Gilpin, and continued ever afterwards his ſteady friend: and Broughton finding himſelf neglected, left Durham to ſeek his fortune elſewhere.

Chancellor Barns was indeed a more ge⯑nerous, as he was an open enemy. Beſides, what he did, was in ſome meaſure in his own defence; for it muſt be owned Mr. Gilpin was very troubleſome to him in all his deſigns ^*, and generally made the firſt at⯑tack. After the affair at Cheſter however, the chancellor laid aſide all decency; and from that time, nothing in his power that [216]was diſobliging was omitted. But his malice had no other effect, than to give Mr. Gilpin an opportunity of proving how well he had learned the chriſtian leſſons of meekneſs: though at the ſame time how becomingly he could exert a decent ſpirit, when it was needful; and ſhew, by tempering charity with his diſpleaſure, that he could be angry and yet not ſin. To this happy temper the following letters will bear ſufficient teſti⯑mony.

This load of calumny, ingratitude, and ill uſage, may juſtly be ſuppoſed heavy upon him, already ſinking under a weight of years: yet he bore it with great fortitude; ſtrength⯑ning himſelf with ſuch conſolations, as a good chriſtian hath in reſerve for all ex⯑tremities.

His reſignation however was not long ex⯑erciſed. About the beginning of february, in the year 1583, he found himſelf ſo very weak, that he was ſenſible his end muſt be drawing near. He told his friends his ap⯑prehenſions; and ſpoke of his death with that happy compoſure which always at⯑tends the concluſion of a good life. He was ſoon after confined to his chamber. His ſenſes continued perfect to the laſt. Of the manner of his taking leave of the world, we have this account.

[220]A few days before his death, he ordered himſelf to be raiſed in his bed; and his friends, acquaintance, and dependents to be called in. He firſt ſent for the poor, and beckoning them to his bed-ſide, he told them, he found he was going out of the world—he hoped they would be his wit⯑neſſes at the great day that he had endea⯑voured to do his duty among them—and he prayed God to remember them after he was gone—He would not have them weep for him: if ever he had told them any thing good, he would have them remember that in his ſtead.—Above all things, he exhorted them to fear God, and keep his command⯑ments; telling them, if they would do this, they could never be left comfortleſs.

He next ordered his ſcholars to be called in: to theſe likewiſe he made a ſhort ſpeech, reminding them, that this was their time, if they had any deſire to qualify themſelves for being of uſe in the world—that learning was well worth their attention, but virtue was much more ſo.

He next exhorted his ſervants; and then ſent for ſeveral perſons, who had not hereto⯑fore [221]profited by his advice according to his wiſhes, and upon whom he imagined his dying words might have a better effect. His ſpeech began to falter before he finiſhed his exhortations. The remaining hours of his life he ſpent in prayer, and broken converſa⯑tions with ſome ſelect friends, mentioning often the conſolations of chriſtianity—declaring they were the only true ones,—that no⯑thing elſe could bring a man peace at the laſt. He died upon the fourth of march 1583, in the 66th year of his age.

I ſhall conclude this account of him with a few obſervations upon his character; and ſome incidents, which I could not introduce properly in any part of the narration.

His perſon was tall and ſlender, in the or⯑nament of which he was at no pains. He had a particular averſion to the fopperies of dreſs. In his diet he was very temperate, ra⯑ther abſtemious.

His parts were very good. His imagina⯑tion, memory, and judgment, were lively, retentive, and ſolid.

His acquirements were as conſiderable. By an unwearied application he had amaſſed [222]a great ſtore of knowledge; and was igno⯑rant of no part of learning at that time in eſteem: in languages, hiſtory, and divinity he particularly excelled. He read poetry with a good taſte; himſelf, as the biſhop of Chicheſter relates, no mean poet. But he laid out little time in the purſuit of any ſtudy foreign to his profeſſion.

His temper was naturally warm; and in his youth I meet with inſtances of his giving way to paſſion; but he ſoon got more com⯑mand of himſelf, and at length entirely cor⯑rected that infirmity.

His diſpoſition was ſerious, yet among his particular friends he was commonly chearful, ſometimes facetious. His general behaviour was very affable. His ſeverity had no object but himſelf: to others he was humble, can⯑did, and indulgent. Never did virtue ſit with greater eaſe on any one, had leſs of mo⯑roſeneſs, or could mix more agreeably with whatever was innocent in common life.

He had a moſt extraordinary ſkill in the art of managing a fortune. He conſidered himſelf barely as a ſteward for other people; and took care therefore that his own deſires [223]never exceeded what calm reaſon could juſti⯑fy. Extravagance with him was another word for injuſtice. Amidſt all his buſineſs he found leiſure to look into his affairs; well knowing that frugality is the ſupport of charity.

His intimacies were but few. It was his endeavour, as he thought the ſpirit of chriſ⯑tianity required, to dilate, rather than to con⯑tract his affections. Yet where he profeſſed a particular friendſhip, he was a religious obſerver of its offices. Of this the follow⯑ing relation is an inſtance. Through his ap⯑plication the dean and chapter of Durham had beſtowed a living upon one of his friends. Soon after, Mr. Gilpin was nominated a re⯑feree in a diſpute between them and the arch⯑biſhop of York: but for ſome particular reaſons he excuſed himſelf ^*. This irritated [224]the dean and chapter ſo much, that out of mere pique at him they took away two thirds from the allowance they had aſſigned to his friend. He did what he could to pa⯑cify them; but his utmoſt endeavours prov⯑ing fruitleſs, he inſiſted upon his friend's ac⯑cepting from him a yearly ſatisfacion for his loſs ^‡ At another time a friend deſired he [225]would requeſt the biſhop of Durham to lend him a ſum of money: he made the application; but not ſucceeding, he wrote thus to his friend: ‘My lord hath lent to ſo very many, (which I believe is true) that you muſt pardon him for not ſending you the money. I pray you trouble him no more; and I truſt by little and little I can make up the ſum myſelf.’

He was the moſt candid interpreter of the words and actions of others: where he plainly ſaw failings, he would make every poſſible allowance for them. He uſed to expreſs a particular indignation at ſlander; often ſaying, it more deſerved the gallows than theft. For himſelf, he was remark⯑ably guarded when he ſpoke of others: he conſidered common fame as the falſeſt me⯑dium, and a man's reputation as his moſt va⯑luable property.

[226]His ſincerity was ſuch as became his other virtues. He had the ſtricteſt regard to truth, of which his whole life was only one inſtance. All little arts and ſiniſter practices, thoſe ingredients of worldly pru⯑dence, he diſdained. His perſeverance in ſo commendable a part, in whatever difficul⯑ties it might at firſt involve him, in the end raiſed his character above malice and envy, and gave him that weight and influence in every thing he undertook, which nothing but an approved ſincerity can give.

Whatever his other virtues were, their luſtre was greatly increaſed by his humility. To conquer religious pride is one of the beſt effects of religion; an effect, which his re⯑ligion in the moſt amiable manner pro⯑duced.

Thus far however he hath had many imi⯑tators. The principal recommendations of him, and the diſtinguiſhing parts of his cha⯑racter were his conſcientious diſcharge of the duties of a clergyman, his extenſive benevo⯑lence, and his exalted piety.

As to the diſcharge of his function, no man could be more ſtrongly influenced by [227]what he thought the duties of it. The mo⯑tives of convenience, or preſent intereſt had no kind of weight with him. As the in⯑come was no part of his concern, he only conſidered the office; which he thought ſuch a charge as a man would rather dread than ſolicit: but when providence called him to it (for what was not procured by any endeavours of his own he could not but aſ⯑cribe to providence) he accepted it, though with reluctance. He then ſhewed, that if a ſenſe of the importance of his office made him diſtruſt his abilities, it made him moſt diligent in exerting them. As ſoon as ever he undertook the care of a pariſh, it imme⯑diately engroſſed his whole attention. The pleaſures of life he totally relinquiſhed, even his favourite purſuits of learning. This was the more commendable in him, as he had always a ſtrong inclination for retirement, and was often violently tempted to ſhut him⯑ſelf up in ſome univerſity at home or abroad, and live there ſequeſtered from the world. But his conſcience corrected his inclination; as he thought the life of a mere recluſe by no means agreeable to the active principles [228]of chriſtianity. Nay, the very repoſe to which his age laid claim, he would not in⯑dulge; but, as long as he had ſtrength ſuf⯑ficient, perſevered in the laborious practice of ſuch methods of inſtruction, as he ima⯑gined might moſt benefit thoſe under his care.—Of popular applauſe he was quite regardleſs, ſo far as mere reputation was concerned: but as the favour of the multi⯑tude was one ſtep towards gaining their at⯑tention, in that light he valued it. He re⯑proved vice, wherever he obſerved it, with the utmoſt freedom. As he was contented in his ſtation, and ſuperior to all dependence, he avoided the danger of being tempted to any unbecoming compliance: and whether he reproved in public or private, his un⯑blameable life, and the ſeriouſneſs with which he ſpoke, gave an irreſiſtible weight to what he ſaid. He ſtudied the low capacities of the people among whom he lived, and knew how to adapt his arguments to their appre⯑henſions. Hence the effects that his preach⯑ing had upon them are ſaid to have been often very ſurpriſing. In particular it is re⯑lated, that as he was once recommending [229]honeſty in a part of the country notoriouſly addicted to thieving, a man ſtruck with the warmth and earneſtneſs with which he ſpoke, ſtood up in the midſt of a large congregation, and freely confeſſed his diſhoneſty, and how heartily he repented of it.

With regard to his benevolence, never certainly had any man more diſintereſted views, or made the common good more the ſtudy of his life, which was indeed the beſt comment upon the great chriſtian principle of univerſal charity. He called nothing his own: there was nothing he could not rea⯑dily part with for the ſervice of others. In his charitable diſtributions he had no mea⯑ſure but the bounds of his income, of which the leaſt portion was always laid out on him⯑ſelf. Nor did he give as if he was grant⯑ing a favour, but as if he was paying a debt: all obſequious ſervice the generoſity of his heart diſdained. He was the more particularly careful to give away in his life⯑time whatever he could ſave for the poor, as he had often ſeen and regretted the abuſe of poſthumous charities. ‘It is my deſign, at my departure, (ſays he, writing to a friend) [230]to leave no more behind me, but to bury me, and pay my debts.’ What little he did leave ^*, he left wholly to the poor, [231]deducting a few ſlight tokens of remem⯑brance that he bequeathed to his friends. [232]How vain it was for thoſe who were not in real want to expect any thing from him, he [233]plainly ſhewed by his own behaviour: for when a legacy was left him, he returned it back again to ſuch of the relations of the legatee, as ſtood in more need of it.—Such inſtances of benevolence gained him the title of the father of the poor; and made his memory revered long afterwards in the country where he lived ^*.

[234]But no part of his character was more conſpicuous than his piety. It hath been largely ſhewn with what temper, ſincerity, and earneſtneſs, he examined the contro⯑verted points of religion, and ſettled his own perſuaſion. He thought religion his prin⯑cipal concern; and of courſe made the at⯑tainment of juſt notions in it his principal ſtudy. To what was matter of mere ſpecu⯑lation he paid no regard: ſuch opinions as influenced practice he thought only concern⯑ed him. He knew no other end of religion but an holy life; and therefore in all his en⯑quiries about it, he conſidered himſelf as looking after truths which were to influence [235]his future conduct, and make him a better man. Accordingly, when his religious per⯑ſuaſion was once ſettled, he made the doc⯑trines he embraced the invariable rule of his life: all his moral virtues became chriſtian ones; were formed upon ſuch motives, and reſpected ſuch ends, as chriſtianity recom⯑mended. It was his daily care to conform himſelf to the will of God; upon whoſe providence he abſolutely depended in all conditions of life; reſigned, eaſy, and chear⯑ful under whatſoever commonly reputed mis⯑fortunes he might meet with. He had ſome peculiar, though, it may be, juſt notions with regard to a particular providence. He thought all misfortunes, which our own in⯑diſcretions did not immediately draw upon us, were ſent directly from God, to bring us to a ſenſe of our miſbehaviour, and quicken us in a virtuous courſe; accordingly at ſuch times he uſed with more than ordinary at⯑tention to examine his paſt conduct, and en⯑deavour to find out in what point of duty he had been defective.

To the opinions of others, however dif⯑ferent from his own, he was moſt indul⯑gent. [236]He thought moderation one of the moſt genuine effects of true piety. It hath already appeared from his intercourſe with the diſſenters, how great an enemy he was to all intolerant principles; how wrong he thought it on one hand to oppoſe an eſta⯑bliſhed church, and on the other to moleſt a quiet ſeparatiſt.

His life was wholly guided by a conſcience the moſt religiouſly ſcrupulous. I cannot forbear inſerting an inſtance of its extreme ſenſibility, though it may be thought per⯑haps rather ſuperſtitious. He had behaved in ſome particular, with regard to his pa⯑riſh, in a manner which gave him great concern. His conſcience was ſo much alarmed at what he had done, that nothing he was able to allege to himſelf in his ex⯑cuſe was able to make him eaſy. At length he determined to lay open the whole caſe before the biſhop of Durham, his dio⯑ceſan, and to ſurrender up his living, or ſubmit to any cenſure, which the biſhop might think his fault deſerved. Without thus bringing himſelf to juſtice, he ſaid, [237]he never could have recovered his peace of mind ^*.

[238]Such was the life and character of this excellent man. A conduct ſo agreeable to the ſtricteſt rules of morality and religion gained him among his contemporaries the title of the Northern Apoſtle. And indeed the parallel was ſtriking; his quitting the corrupt doctrines, in the utmoſt. reverence of which he had been educated; the perſecu⯑tions he met with for the ſake of his integri⯑ty; the danger he often ran of martyrdom; his contempt of the world; his unwearied application to the buſineſs of his calling; and the boldneſs and freedom with which he re⯑proved the guilty, whatever their fortunes or ſtations were, might juſtly characterize him a truly apoſtolical perſon.

Viewed with ſuch a life, how mean and contemptible do the idle amuſements of the great appear! how trifling that uninterrupt⯑ed ſucceſſion of ſerious folly, which engages ſo great a part of mankind, crouding into ſo ſmall a compaſs each real concern of life! How much more nobly doth that perſon act, who, unmoved by all that the world calls great and happy, can ſeparate appearances [239]from realities, attending only to what is juſt and right; who, not content with the cloſet-attainment of ſpeculative virtue, maintains each worthy reſolution that he forms, per⯑ſevering ſteadily, like this excellent man, in the conſcientious diſcharge of the duties of that ſtation, whatever that ſtation is, in which providence hath placed him!