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RAISING UP THE IRISH EPISCOPATE An ecclesiology which held that bishops were a separate order had consequences across all three of the Stuart dominions throughout the 1630s. Their political, social and economic standing would have to match. This meant that in Ireland, once all the machinery of recovery had been put in place, they were the designated managers whether they wished it or not. At a practical political level, too, the established church in Ireland could not be reconstructed by the efforts of Laud, Bramhall and Wentworth alone. They would not remain in power forever and they could not guarantee the actions or attitudes of their successors, so it was vital to exercise great care in the appointment of new bishops and control of existing ones. In any event, emphasis on the dignity of the office precluded the possibility of a few salutary dismissals. Changes made to the Irish episcopate in the 1630s were no ‘Arminian apocalypse’ nor a roll call of churchmen sympathetic to Wentworth or Bramhall. Certainly, the revival of Cloyne as a separate diocese was a striking example of a reconstruction driven by the concept of the historical rights of the church. Yet at the same time, a three-year vacancy in Ardfert proved that smaller Irish dioceses continued poor and unattractive. Bishops were now expected to be enthusiastic in the recovery of rights but also to take increased control of their clergy and their dioceses and, above all, their jurisdiction. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE CHURCH OF IRELAND, 1541–1632 In November 1638, Wentworth was directed by Laud to answer those Scots in Ireland looking for the same concessions as their countrymen that ‘whatsoever he [the king] has indulged to Scotland, is because they have had there sometime a church government, such as it was, confused enough without bishops; but for Ireland, it has ever been reformed by and to the Church of England’. This response was, broadly speaking, correct. A reading of Meredith Hanmer's recently published translation of Giraldus Cambrensis's account of the last canon of the council of Cashel, ‘that all the divine service in the Church of Ireland shall be kept used and observed in the like manner and order as it is in the Church of England’, would have lent a gratifyingly ancient tone to Laud's argument. The Henrician statutes did declare ‘the King's Majesty to be only supreme head on earth of the church of England and Ireland’ and they did endorse the validity of Irish canons, constitutions and other instruments of church government until ‘such time as the King's highness shall order and determine according to his laws of England’. While the Act for Kingly Title of 1541 caused the term ‘Church of Ireland’ to be used on its own, the titles and contents of statutes tended to mirror those of their Westminster equivalents. They did this so completely that some statutes ended up with inappropriate references to York and Canterbury. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

THE TEMPORAL ESTATE OF THE CHURCH OF IRELAND UNDER JAMES I AND CHARLES I There is little agreement about what actually happened at James Ⅵ & I's Hampton Court conference of January 1604. One thing is certain: the king used Ireland as a rallying cry. It was scary, it was irreligious, it made him but ‘half a king’ and it needed preachers. By March of 1610, in the wake of the previous year's rebellion, James was telling the English parliament that a plantation was the only way to solve the great problem. As it turned out, the Ulster plantation was the first great opportunity to radically revive the fortunes of the Church of Ireland. In these escheated counties the prospect of sweeping away the pre-reformation jumble and starting afresh presented itself. Endowing the church handsomely was to prepare it for serving the expected influx of Protestant settlers who themselves would act as leaven in the dough of the ‘benighted’ natives. James had reached these conclusions largely because of a series of reports compiled by George Montgomery, then bishop of Derry, Clogher and Raphoe. This Scot, who, tellingly, retained his deanship of Norwich for most of his episcopate, saw Ulster as the chance to start afresh. He envisaged a church firmly founded on a generous allotment of lands to a vigorous British episcopate whose prosperity would be assured by excision of all unassimilable Gaelic customs and structures. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In 1632 James Spottiswoode was rowed out into the middle of Lough Derg in Co. Donegal. He was a Scot, ordained in the Church of England, who had become Church of Ireland bishop of Clogher in 1621. He bore a mandate issued by the lords justices and privy council of Ireland which permitted him to break down, deface and utterly demolish ‘the chapel and all the Irish houses now situate in that island called St Patrick's purgatory, all the buildings, pavements, walls, works, foundations, circles, caves, cells and vaults … called St Patrick's bed’. Spottiswoode had a miserable time. The secular arm, in the form of the high sheriff of Donegal, failed to turn up and a pilot could not be found. When one was eventually located, the bishop and his companions were nearly sunk and then narrowly avoided being marooned by a storm. Meanwhile onlookers, the ‘country people’, stood by and waited for a divine thunderbolt while Spottiswoode dashed about toppling hostels, chapels and other devotional structures erected by the Franciscans only a few years earlier. All of this took place just four years short of the first centenary of the passing of the Act of Supremacy by the Irish parliament. By that date, 1636, Lough Derg was once again open for business as Catholic Ireland's leading pilgrimage site. James Spottiswoode wasted his time and risked the lives of his servants. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Adorno claimed that ‘with Schoenberg affability ceases’. Benjamin said of Proust's ‘invectives against friendship’ that ‘he cannot touch his reader either’. Joyce's texts are just as unfriendly, though perhaps less aloof than Proust, since they display their scepticism with an open face, staring back at the readers looking in, acknowledging the difference. One point of this refusal of affability is to guard against the transformation of writing into Culture, to prevent the biens culturels from appropriating the ‘fahroots hof cullchaw’ (FW 303.20), and Joyce succeeded in this more than most by showing that the ‘fruits of culture’ had far-off roots and spoke in many voices. By resisting the critical appropriation of his writing into Culture, Joyce both refused the affable handshake of the biens culturels and remained aloof from ordinary readers. The well-meaning individual who wrote to Joyce in 1926 to express his sense of ‘a real friendship between reader and author’ may not have received the reply he requested. We have become used to thinking of modernism as a collective movement distinguished in part by its expulsion of mass culture and so-called ordinary readers. The critical invention of an ‘ordinary reader’, which was concomitant with modernism, belied a nostalgic but misleading appeal to a false sense of shared cultural values and representation. While Joyce may be regarded as something of a special case in the general account of modernist politics, the question of who exactly might read him was much debated in his own lifetime as well as now. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Never, surely, was the English mind so confused, so wanting in fixed moral principles, as at present. I share to the full the general disillusionment of political idealists, perhaps all the more fully that I am spending my time in trying to finish a book on the Theory of Politics, with a growing conviction that the political results of the coming generation will be determined by considerations very unlike those that come to the pen of a theoretical person writing in his study. The brutalism that was reviving in Europe was displayed most grimly in the ‘Congo Free State’ sanctioned by the Berlin Conference on Africa in 1885, and from then until 1908 a private empire of King Leopold of the Belgians. Here could be seen private enterprise at its worst, free from all public inquiry or check, and the new plutocracy at its glossiest, with a royal manager. Its devious origins show how missionary zeal, like all Europe's better impulses, could be exploited by money-grubbers. A titular Archbishop of Carthage launched with papal approval a campaign for stronger action against slave-trading; he invited Christian soldiers to volunteer, and dreamed of a new order of knights-errant. Leopold encouraged the idea, and when his ‘Free State’ was set up humanitarians rejoiced. His agent for the preliminary spadework or collection of ‘treaties’ was H. M. Stanley, the Anglo-American explorer whose chief performance in Africa was his expedition to find Livingstone in 1871–2…. In the Congo it was as easy as elsewhere to employ Africans of one tribe against another. Leopold assembled a mercenary army with, by 1905, 360 officers from up and down Europe, and 16,000 natives. Its business was to ensure quick profits in rubber, ivory, or palm-oil collected as tribute or by forced labour. The consequences were of a sort and on a scale not seen again in the world until the Nazi epoch, when they were seen in Europe itself. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Both the last talkers deal much in points of conduct and religion studied in the ‘dry light’ of prose. Indirectly and as if against his will the same elements from time to time appear in the troubled and poetic talk of Opalstein. His various and exotic knowledge, complete although unready sympathies, and fine, full, discriminative flow of language, fit him out to be the best of talkers; so perhaps he is with some, not quite with me – proxime accessit, I should say. He sings the praises of the earth and arts, flowers and jewels, wine and music, in a moonlight, serenading manner, as to the light guitar; even wisdom comes from his tongue like singing; no one is, indeed, more tuneful in the upper notes. But even while he sings the song of the Sirens, he still hearkens to the barking of the Sphinx. Jarring Byronic notes interrupt the flow of his Horatian humours. His mirth has somethng of the tragedy of the world for its perpetual background; and he feasts like Don Giovanni to a double orchestra, one lightly sounding for the dance, one pealing Beethoven in the distance. He is not truly reconciled either with life or with himself; and this instant war in his members sometimes divides the man's attention. He does not always, perhaps not often, frankly surrender himself in conversation. He brings into the talk other thoughts than those which he expresses; you are conscious that he keeps an eye on something else, that he does not shake off the world, nor quite forget himself. Hence arise occasional disappointments; even an occasional unfairness for his companions, who find themselves one day giving too much, and the next, when they are wary out of season, giving perhaps too little. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Part I Henry Sidgwick told me something about his spirits, but nothing new. He spoke on a more important subject, [letter incomplete] Idealisms Sidgwick's life project, as should by this point be clear, involved an effort to find some evidence for the thin theistic postulate capable of resolving the dualism of practical reason and, of course, undergirding his casuistry. If his psychical research was a logical development of his theological and ethical interests – his chosen path for restoring the moral order of the universe in a way that recognized the force of egoism as part of the religious hope for a happy immortality – it was also yet another manifestation of his Apostolic love of intimate fellowship in the service of inquiry into the “deepest problems.” Such inquiry, as it transpired, positively demanded new forms of intimacy and sensitivity, new horizons for the Millian and Mauricean attempt to achieve sympathetic unity. The confessional had become the depth psychological, the romantic the experimental, the empathetic the telepathic. In an age of transition, the notion of a clerisy had itself been transformed, but there was still a good deal of the poetic and romantic inspiring Sidgwick's transfigured utilitarianism. His educational ideal of culture may have underscored the importance of science, but his conception of science was being reconfigured by something akin to the depth psychological recognition that intimate confession and drawing out were what it took to get at the deeper truth about human nature. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Preliminaries and Cautionaries The battle is to be fought in the region of thought, and the issue is belief or disbelief in the unseen world, and in its Guardian, the Creator-Lord and Deliverer of Man. Occultism is the metaphysic of dunces. Whatever one may think of parapsychology, it is impossible to appreciate Sidgwick's worldview without recognizing his commitment to such investigations. Like Gladstone and so many others who feared that dogmatic materialism was on the rise and orthodox religion in serious peril – which in the 1860s and 1870s, especially, it seemed hard to deny – Sidgwick regarded these studies as the vital avenue by which to meet the challenges thrown down by the likes of T. H. Huxley, “Darwin's Bulldog.” Just as the Idealism of Green and Bradley was a reaction to the growing climate of unbelief, so too Sidgwick's parapsychology was a bit of philosophizing with strategic intent, a return to the concerns of Swedenborg to parallel the return to the concerns of Kant (though of course, one could also view it as carrying forward certain forms of Romanticism). It certainly proved to be a happy vehicle for the poetic imagination, as both subject and object. As noted in Chapters 1 and 2, Sidgwick appears to have been fascinated by ghosts for practically his entire life, quite possibly as a result of being exposed to so many deaths in his early years. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Part I. Consensus But just as the scientific discoverer must not follow his own whims and fancies but earnestly seek truth, so it is not the man who abandons himself to impulse, but the man who, against mere impulse and mere convention alike, seeks and does what is Right who will really lead mankind to the truer way, to richer and fuller and more profoundly harmonious life. My ideal is a law infinitely constraining and yet infinitely flexible, not prescribing perhaps for any two men the same conduct, and yet the same law, because recognised by all as objective, and always varying on rational and therefore general grounds, ‘the same,’ as Cicero says, ‘for you and for me, here and at Athens, now and for ever.’ Or would it not be absurd to strain every nerve to attain to the utmost precision and clarity of knowledge about other things of trifling moment and not to demand the greatest precision for the greatest matters? Mr. Henry Sidgwick has recently published a book which, apart from its intrinsic value, is an interesting display of rare intellectual virtues. He almost seems to illustrate a paradox which would be after his own heart, that a man may be too reasonable. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

(1) We may be over-conscientious about using words which do not to us convey what we believe: we must remember that our ideas are more or less incommunicable to uneducated minds and that what we have out-grown is actually not only ‘best for them’ but perhaps brings them as near as they can be brought to the truth. (2) We may often clothe new ideas in old words: the uneducated will not feel the inconsistency, and will imbibe the new teaching unconsciously: Mr Maurice is an excellent pattern in this species of useful ingenuity, though he carries it I think too far. (3) We must sometimes sacrifice our individuality to a system: if the teaching we are forced to give is better than what would otherwise be given, we must be satisfied with having chosen the lesser evil. I must say a word as to my phrase ‘Regulative Beliefs’. I did not mean by this moral rules only but such parts of our creed as we believe to influence conduct: if we are only sceptical as to any of these beliefs, we should still, I think, teach them, if teaching be our duty: if we have rejected any of such beliefs, generally held, we should not, except in a very urgent case – alluded to in (3) – As to speculative beliefs the Athanasian creed offers an excellent example of what I would avoid teaching. If I had to teach a moral duty such as obedience I think I should teach the broad rule at one time, and the limitations at another, as a suitable opportunity arose for introducing them. They would be more likely, I imagine, thus to combine in due proportions in the rustic brain. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

But in the English universities no thought can find place, except that which can reconcile itself with orthodoxy. They are ecclesiastical institutions; and it is the essence of all churches to vow adherence to a set of opinions made up and prescribed, it matters little whether three or thirteen centuries ago. Men will some day open their eyes, and perceive how fatal a thing it is that the instruction of those who are intended to be the guides and governors of mankind should be confided to a collection of persons thus pledged. If the opinions they are pledged to were every one as true as any fact in physical science, and had been adopted, not as they almost always are, on trust and authority, but as the result of the most diligent and impartial examination of which the mind of the recipient was capable; even then, the engagement under penalties always to adhere to the opinions once assented to, would debilitate and lame the mind, and unfit it for progress, still more for assisting the progress of others. The person who has to think more of what an opinion leads to, than of what is the evidence of it, cannot be a philosopher, or a teacher of philosophers. Sidgwick and the Talking Cure When Henry Sidgwick died of cancer, on August 28, 1900, he was even less at home in the world than Bentham or Mill had been when they passed on. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

My aim in what I am about to say now is to give such an account of my life – mainly my inner intellectual life – as shall render the central and fundamental aims that partially at least determined its course when apparently most fitful and erratic, as clear and intelligible as I can. That aim is very simply stated. It has been the solution, or contribution to the solution, of the deepest problems of human life. The peculiarity of my career has been that I have sought light on these problems, and that not casually but systematically and laboriously, from very various sources and by very diverse methods. Stranger lives than Henry Sidgwick's have resulted from the philosophical quest for the ultimate truth about the Universe, but his is nonetheless a source of considerable fascination. As a Victorian philosopher, social scientist, literary critic, educator, reformer, and parapsychologist, an academic who spent nearly his entire adult life teaching at and reforming Cambridge University, Sidgwick was at the philosophical heart of England when England was at the height of its worldly power. He was friendly with everyone from William Gladstone to George Eliot, had in one brother-in-law a future prime minister and in another a future archbishop of Canterbury, and served as a leading figure in that most famous of elite secret discussion societies, the Cambridge “Apostles,” which would go on to give the world the Bloomsbury circle and the Cambridge spies. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Of all the avant-garde groups on the English scene in the early twentieth century, the Bloomsbury Group seems, at first glance, to be anomalous. Bloomsbury has many of the same internal features as other bohemias, yet its peculiar position in English society leaves it less socially marginal or cut off than other groups. Its principal members and associates enjoyed closer ties with the social and political elites in London. This contrasts with the social divide that separates avant-garde groups in continental Europe from the native upper classes. Their more distinct separation is probably best explained by the greater degree of active political radicalism of continental avant-gardes as opposed to their English counterparts. In London, avant-garde groups that numbered foreigners, young men and women from the provinces, and the sons and daughters of recent migrants to England – as in the case of writers and painters from the Jewish community in Whitechapel – did not enjoy Bloomsbury's relatively easy and continuous access to the elites. Mark Gertler's personal difficulties leading to his suicide in 1939 cannot be put down entirely to the class system, but his origins, his “foreignness” as a poor Jew in what was still an insular and anti-Semitic society did not help. His unremitting poverty, his egotism, his social gaffes, and his clinical depression, as Sarah MacDougall has shown, were mainly to blame for his situation. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

INTRODUCTION The scientific revolution of the seventeenth century has long been a centre of interest for historians of science. Traditionally, a major topic within it was astronomy, the ideal science on account of its being objective, intellectual, based on the senses, uncontaminated with contemporary unscientific things and pointing firmly to the future. This image – and the name ‘scientific revolution’ itself – are now seen to be constructions of recent historians, but the name has stuck and we are still invited to see science in the seventeenth century and celebrate its earliest exponents. But to many observers at the time, the new doctrines were a pernicious heresy spread by men who had betrayed the old traditions of learning and piety. The new doctrines were also a minority opinion, promulgated by a handful of people limited largely to two European countries, England and Holland. Elsewhere, the men with the greatest vocational need for philosophy were the physicians, whose use of it is the subject of this book. When and if they finally absorbed the new doctrines, it was not until well into the eighteenth century, which makes a European ‘scientific revolution’ a thing of the Enlightenment. It is only recently that the role of medicine in these changes has begun to be appreciated. There are several things we should note. First, as we have seen, the doctors had a practical use for natural philosophy and treated it as professional knowledge. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

INTRODUCTION Few histories of medicine are without an evolutionary approach. Histories adopting this approach are not now generally ‘whiggish’, but they invariably give much attention to signposts indicating the direction of the road and bearing legends such as ‘mechanism’ or ‘circulation’. Many of these directional milestones are clustered in England and the United Provinces of Holland, and, even in the seventeenth century, medical mechanism could be seen by a major figure in Paris as so much modern Dutch nonsense. But as we have seen, Learned and Rational Doctors were successful in the familiar territory of traditional natural philosophy where they did not need signposts or milestones. This was mostly the case in Catholic countries such as Italy and Spain, and we have glanced at some probable religious reasons for this. In Spain in particular, the universities were happy to do without the new doctrines from England and Holland, and viewed with suspicion the instrument of their dissemination, the tertulia, which were private associations. In 1700 the rector of the University of Seville wrote to his counterpart in Osuna urging the destruction of a tertulia.These organisations co-operated, he said, with the object of destroying the Aristotelianism and Galenism of the schools. There were also political and economic circumstances that seem to bear on the matter. The economic centre of gravity of Europe was moving north. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

All the order of teaching is troubled and the doctrine of Physick is endeavrd and learned altogether preposterously and confusedly, without any certain method. With these words Jacobus de Back reported the confusion in the schools at the collapse of traditional natural philosophy. He had taken his MD in Franeker in 1616, when medicine and natural philosophy were still sisters, as they had been throughout the Latin tradition. But by the 1630s not only were philosophers seeing a battle between Aristotelianism and the mechanical philosophy, but within medicine some of the major doctrines of Hippocrates and Galen had been shown to be wrong. De Back felt the pull of old loyalties and declared that he still belonged to the ancient physicians; but clearly they were going to need another re-evaluation to show that they still had authority in a changed society. How had this crisis come about? Rather than retell a traditional story of a revolution in natural philosophy, let us look at its relation to medicine from the point of view of the Rational and Learned Doctor, who still wanted to be successful. EPIDEMICS CHANGE MEDICINE The two great epidemics, the plague and the French Disease, left marks on European medicine. While the Learned and Rational Doctors struggled to get to grips with these new and unknown, or at least improperly labelled diseases, laymen took practical measures such as quarantine and isolation of the affected, and built hospitals to contain them. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

INTRODUCTION The natural context of the Rational and Learned Doctor was scholastic medicine. The term ‘scholastic’ is taken here in a simple sense to mean that which relates to the schools. The schools were the incorporated studia generalia, and within them, the incorporated medical faculty. Scholastic medicine flourished most vigorously from the beginnings of the faculties in the late thirteenth century to the middle of the fourteenth century, when the Black Death arrived. In terms of personalities, it spanned the period from the floreat of Taddeo Alderotti to the death of Gentile da Foligno. This was the high point in the history of rational and learned doctors: their reputation was growing, their numbers were small and they were patronised by popes and monarchs. Instead of breaking down the period into smaller fragments, this chapter presents the story of the scholastic doctor from entry into the studium to his practice of a potentially lucrative trade. BECOMING A RATIONAL AND LEARNED DOCTOR Where to go It was known in the twelfth century that Salerno and Montpellier were good places to go to learn how to be a doctor. Bologna, too; and in the north, the size of the city of Paris gave many opportunities for medical practice, and so was attractive to medical teachers. Indeed, until the middle of the fourteenth century, Bologna, Paris and Montpellier had a virtual monopoly of the teaching of medicine. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

THE FOUNDATION OF COMMONWEALTHS One of the clearest indications of the humanist education of those authors concerned with the New World was that their treatises promoting the colonial designs were composed according to the conventions of classical rhetoric. They were, that is, instances of classical oratory. Of the five disciplines in the humanist curriculum, rhetoric held a central position. The art of rhetoric was defined variously by classical and humanist authorities but always as an act of persuasion. Humanist culture, sometimes referred to as rhetorical culture, placed great emphasis upon the contingency of knowledge. In such an environment, in which knowledge was a matter of plausibility rather than certainty, the ability to persuade was crucial to social and political action. In the studia humanitatis the active life of the citizen was represented as vital to the health of the political community. Speech, in particular, was believed in its various forms, including writing and printing, to be one of the most important means through which to pursue action. Classical rhetoricians and their Renaissance imitators distinguished three genera, or kinds, of rhetoric; the forensic, epideictic and deliberative. Each genus was distinguished by a context, a function and an end. The context of forensic rhetoric was the law court; its function was accusation and defence and its end, justice. Epideictic, or occasional, oratory, had its genesis in the funeral oration; its functions were praise and blame, and its ends fortune and virtue. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The history of English colonisation to the beginning of the reign of James I was one of failure. Under James, a colony was established in the Chesapeake that would prove more resilient than its forerunners, but no less prone to disaster. The hopes for profit raised by Elizabethan promoters of colonies had proved false. Jamestown promised no greater returns. In its first ten years the colony produced no profits. In the following ten years, through to the dissolution of the Virginia Company, private tobacco plantations delivered profits to individual adventurers. The Virginia Company, which controlled the colony, never made a profit. Against this background, particularly with the spectacular Elizabethan failures in mind, the Virginia Company promoters never presented profit as the principal motivation for colonising. In the Jacobean period, promoters were no longer prepared to test the credulity of their audiences, and they turned away from Ralegh's dreams of riches. While still employing the language of Ciceronian moral philosophy, they augmented the argument of honour and diminished profit and expedience. The experience of failure produced a decisive turn in the ideology of Jacobean colonisation. The promoters of Jacobean colonies were increasingly deeply committed to a neo-Roman and quasi-republican scepticism of profit as a threat to the pursuit of civic action. They were committed, accordingly, to the primacy of virtue as the motive and guide for political life. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

This chapter will examine the moral philosophy that framed discussions of English colonial projects in their first hundred years. That moral philosophy was characterised by two impulses. On the one hand, the projects were promoted as a duty, a means for the citizen to employ his virtues in the pursuit of an active life. Virtue was needed to hold the citizen to the pursuit of the common good and to keep him from using his position to serve his own selfish interests. The active life was framed in the context of the foundation of new commonwealths and so offered the glory, honour and profit that were portrayed as the reward of virtuous public service. On the other hand, this impulse to the active life was constrained by the fear of corruption. The profit which could be generated by colonies could also divert men from virtue and threaten the commonwealth through the creation of an ‘Asiatic’ and effeminate wealth and luxury. This tension was central to Roman and humanist moral philosophy. Cicero's De officiis was one of the more optimistic representations of the possibilities of the active life. He stressed that the basis of citizenship was the employment of the virtues in political participation. But anxiety about corruption is also central for Cicero. He emphasises that the four cardinal virtues (wisdom, justice, courage and temperance) are necessary for the citizen to place private profit below the common good, and he is acutely sensitive to the possible conflict between these ends. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The Act of Six Articles came into force on 12 July 1539. Henry VIII died on 27 January 1547. BURNED FOR HERESY After 18 March 1540: Valentine Freez. A Dutch evangelical of long standing, resident in York. He was convicted of sacramentarian heresy by the Council in the North shortly before 18 March 1540, and was burned out-side York soon afterwards, together with his wife. PRO SP 1/158 fo. 72r (LP XV 362); AM, 1027; Dickens, Lollards and Protestants, 30–2. After 18 March 1540: Mrs Freez. Wife of Valentine Freez (above) and burned with him as a sacramentary. 3 May 1540: John. An Italian painter, and one of three burned at Southwark for ‘heresie against the sacrament of the aulter’. Presumably also one of the three who Richard Hilles states were burned in Southwark after Easter 1540 for denying transubstantiation. Foxe dates the burning to ‘about’ 1539 and places it in St Giles in the Fields. Wriothesley, 118; Bale, Epistle exhortatorye, fos. 14v–15r; ET, 133 (OL, 200); AM, 1279. 3 May 1540: Giles Germaine. A joiner burned with John the painter. Wriothesley, 118; Bale, Epistle exhortatorye, fos. 14v–15r; AM, 1279. 3 May 1540: Maundevild or Lancelot. A French groom to the queen, burned with John the Italian painter. Foxe claims he was a royal servant present at the examination of John and Germaine, who ‘seemed by his countenaunce & gesture to fauour both the cause & the poore men his frends’. He was arrested and condemned with them. Wriothesley, 118; Bale, Epistle exhortatorye, fos. 14v–15v; AM, 1279. […] [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In the reign of Edward VI, the Church of England found itself being governed by an evangelical clique with a startlingly aggressive agenda. From the beginning of the new reign, this clique pursued a vision of Reformation which went well beyond anything that had been attempted under Thomas Cromwell in the 1530s. It did so under the influence of the Reformed theologians of Switzerland and southern Germany. The purists of the Reformed camp may have felt that Cranmer and his allies were permitting too many relics of papistry to remain, but it was clear that they had left the Lutherans behind them. In six and a half years, England's religious life was torn down and rebuilt. In the process, the reformers created what was to become the English Protestant tradition. It was a tradition with a radical edge, informed by the restlessness of Reformed theology; a tradition that was to colonise the New World and fight the Civil War. That tradition, however, was itself built on the evangelicalism that was inherited from the last years of Henry VIII. This book has examined the fortunes of evangelicals during those years, politically and in their varied social settings. Thomas Cromwell's Reformation left behind it an evangelical movement which had a considerable presence in some of the most influential circles of English society and government, and which also tended towards both political and doctrinal moderation. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

What shall be done vnto the man whom the kynge wolde fayne brynge vnto worshippe? IN THE SHADOW OF THE KING During the 1540s most English evangelicals were safely hidden from view. One of their strongholds, however, was the most terrifyingly public place in England: Henry VIII's court and the upper echelons of his government. Since Anne Boleyn's rise to influence, evangelicals had received irregular but significant patronage from the regime. One of the key facts of the last years of Henry's reign is that this patronage continued. There was no mass cull of reformers after Cromwell's fall, although there were occasions on which such a purge threatened. A significant body of evangelicals and their sympathisers survived, and indeed won new recruits: in personal service to the king, amongst the nobility and gentry who dominated the court and who administered both peace and war, and amongst the senior clergy. Their proximity to the crown made their experience of the 1540s markedly different from that of their co-religionists in more humble positions. It was of course more dangerous. As the king's vindictiveness and paranoia accelerated during the last years of his life, royal service became increasingly perilous. Yet the reformers at court could also draw on royal protection. The king would not readily dispose of trusted or favoured servants simply on the say-so of their enemies, especially when he was at least as suspicious of the enemies themselves. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

For the Jewes requyre a sygne, and the Grekes seke after wysdome. But we preache Christ crucifyed, vnto the Jewes an occasyon of fallynge, and vnto the Grekes foolysshnes. GODLINESS AND GOOD LEARNING The Reformation was perceived by those who made it, and by those who were made by it, as an intellectual event. Nowadays we are interested in ‘popular religion’ and the religious culture of the unlearned, but this preoccupation would have bemused most of the religious reformers of the sixteenth century – including many outside the elites. It is worth emphasising the extent to which, in the early sixteenth century, learning was next to godliness. A Lutheran catechetical dialogue which was translated into English in 1545 provides a typical example. One of the characters, the ‘unlearned man’, begins with a soliloquy in praise of the learning he lacks: Whan I do considre with my selfe (ryght gentle neyghbours) how many greate, learned, wyse, and connynge men there be in the worlde, vnto whome the knowledge of the truthe is so plentuously opened, so that they knowe at large what is neadfull & necessary to theyr saluacyon: I can not otherwyse thynke but that all suche learned men muste neades haue here vpon earth an heauenly treasure, & an ouerflowinge fownteyne, out of the whiche they may at all tymes featche all suche thinges as theyr hartes can desyre, beynge neadefull and necessary to theyr soules healthe. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

How shall we synge the Lordes songe in a straunge lande? Between 1539 and 1547, a handful of English evangelicals went into exile. These men and women formed part of what was already becoming an honourable tradition of exile within European Protestantism. For those reformers faced with the unenviable choice between recantation and death, exile was an acceptable third alternative. The study of exile movements has long held an equally honourable place in Reformation historiography. The importance of exile movements in supporting Protestant churches ‘under the cross’ in France and the Netherlands has become a historical commonplace. Moreover, this is one part of the drama of the European Reformation in which England is generally acknowledged to have played a leading role. England provided a home for Protestant refugees, from the days when Scottish reformers such as Alexander Alesius and George Wishart took refuge south of the border, through the shelter which Edward VI's regimes gave to Protestant grandees such as Martin Bucer and Bernardo Ochino, to the formal ‘stranger churches’ which became permanently established in London and elsewhere. Equally, English reformers were themselves forced into exile in large numbers under Queen Mary. The Marian exiles both formed the backbone of Protestant resistance to the Marian regime and had a lasting impact on English Protestantism. After their return, another exile movement played an equally important part in maintaining, and influencing the direction of, English Catholicism. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

A Practice which brings the Mortality of the Small Pox from one in ten to one in a hundred, if it obtain'd universally would save to the City of London at least 1500 People Yearly; and the same Odds wou'd be a sufficient prudential Motive to any private Person to proceed upon. Just as the fear of plague led to the collection and publication of the London bills of mortality, which Graunt had so creatively used in his Natural and Political Observations, smallpox stimulated the development of medical arithmetic during the eighteenth century. Although smallpox had a significantly lower fatality rate than plague, its impact on public life was almost as great. Numerous members of the royalty succumbed to smallpox, including Queen Mary of England in 1694 and Louis XV of France in 1774. Smallpox caused disfigurement, blindness, and widespread suffering, which haunted the popular imagination. But it was not just the experience or fear of smallpox that led individuals to analyze its mortality rates. As with plague, the hope of preventive measures to offset the incidence of smallpox played an important role. Quarantine and fleeing potentially risky environments for safer climes were standard public health measures used to prevent or at least to limit plague epidemics. However, there existed a more potent preventive measure for smallpox: inoculation. Inoculation provided an individual with a measure of safety – of immunity – against future smallpox epidemics. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

This book is about the activity of counting – specifically the counting of births and deaths – during the long eighteenth century. From the 1660s on, the numbers of born or dead, it was argued, would shed light on numerous political and medical issues. Yet despite this emerging desire for numbers, there were almost no government institutions, either at the national or local level, to collect and record these numbers. Rather, it was individuals from rural clergy to metropolitan physicians who did the counting. These political and medical arithmeticians, as they were called, invented ingenious methods of quantifying. They counted not just the number of christenings or burials in a specific geographic area but also, and often more importantly, different groups of individuals identified and classified by particular taxonomic schemes. These activities were as much about what to count as about how to count: The two were inextricable. Arithmeticians, in this way, brought quantitative analyses to bear on discussions of medical practice and therapy, salubrity and fecundity, and the growth or decline of population. Vital accounts – the numbers of dead and born – became, in short, the quantitative measure of public health and welfare. Counting, Samuel Johnson told James Boswell in 1783, “brings everything to a certainty, which before floated in the mind indefinitely.” Johnson was not the only one to admire the bracing effects of counting. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

It will become clear that in some respects the practices of the godly ministry in the 1630s exhibit a large degree of continuity with former times. In the course of answering the question of how true ministers should behave in such dangerous times, many of the proposals among Dury's papers were for a renewed commitment to the patterns of sociability and religiosity already discussed. Many of these patterns were not susceptible to ecclesiastical censure and could not be legislated out of existence. Bishop Juxon made some attempts to limit the activities of silenced ministers, mainly to ensure that they could not preach, which was a public act and so possible for the ecclesiastical courts, if sufficiently well informed, to prevent. He also aimed to stop silenced ministers from holding conventicles, a more difficult area of activity to regulate, particularly on the household level, with all the ambiguities inherent in such meetings. This becomes plain if we examine the experience of a silenced minister such as Daniel Rogers. Rogers remained under suspension from 1631 until the 1640s, but in some respects his ministry continued. At the lowest level, he could continue the private devotional practices of fasting, prayer and meditation, the daily discipline he had learnt from his father and passed on to his children. Time seems to have been set aside in the early evening for each member of the household to perform their private devotions, although when Samuel Rogers returned to the household he found there was too little room to accommodate everyone in sufficient privacy. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

We can profitably begin a sketch of the life-cycle of the godly ministry at Cambridge. In what follows, I have focused on Emmanuel College, where John Preston was Master from 1622 to 1628, not because it was the only college to produce godly ministers but because it was the college which became identified with such ministers more than any other and because it was pre-eminent in the areas under study. I have paid little attention to the traditional areas of university histories, institutional details, social background and the structures of the curriculum, not least because we are ably served by other works. Here, I am principally concerned with extracurricular activities, ways in which students and prospective ministers were drawn into the social world of the godly ministry. At the foundation of Emmanuel College in 1584, Walter Mildmay made quite clear the purpose he intended. He stressed that, in establishing this College we have set before us this one aim of rendering as many persons as possible fit for the sacred ministry of the Word and the Sacraments; so that from this seminary the Church of England might have men who it may call forth to instruct the people and undertake the duty of pastors … Be it known therefore to any Fellows or Scholars who intrude themselves into the College for any purpose other than to devote themselves to sacred Theology and in due time to labour in preaching the Word, that they render our hope vain. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

From the experience of the Ockley conference we can learn, in particular, four important lessons. The first is the existence of a constituency among those recognising themselves, and recognised, as ministers of the godly sort, which might perceive the controverted ceremonies as unprofitable and not tending to edification, and even as an evil to be suffered rather than merely adiaphorous. These ministers might administer the sacrament to those who knelt, might use the sign of the cross in baptism and wear the surplice, holding them to be enjoined by lawful authority, holding controversy to be unprofitable or seeing them as a necessary price to be paid for the liberty to preach, which, as we saw in earlier chapters, was at the centre of their vocation. It would be an error to call such ministers ‘conformist’, although they might write to, or confer with, their brethren to persuade them to use the ceremonies or to leave the controversies over them. It is perhaps more accurate to call such ministers ‘conformable’, that is, capable of conforming, without being committed to a defence of the ceremonies in any positive sense. Secondly, we can see that members of this constituency were coming under pressure. Goodwin, Nye, Davenport and Whitfield changed their practice after the Ockley conference, a decision directly contrary to the best hopes of a settled life and the peaceful exercise of their vocation. It is possible to suggest that they changed their practice without changing their judgement: the arguments of those I would like to call ‘conformable’, of Whately, Byfield and especially Sprint, were conditional. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

At this point we can turn away from some of the more public aspects of godly spirituality and examine some of the ‘inward and spiritual’ pieties that interested Arthur Hildersham. From this, as will become clear, it is useful to return to questions of godly sociability. The conviction that saints could find evidence of their election in this life is a critical point in any attempt to explain the individual spiritual practices of the godly. Devotional exercises have to be understood in the context of experimental Calvinism. Experimental Calvinists gave more than a theoretical assent to the dogmas of the ordo salutis, they made the search for the marks of election central to a practical divinity. Stephen Marshall identified two forms of the knowledge of spiritual life: the first was theoretical, the second, ‘experimental, and practical, and real and convincing. Now the notional knowledge … by the Common light that accompanies the Ministry of the Word, may break in upon some men: but for the experimental, real inward knowledg of it, they will be strangers to it.’ From the 1580s, a steady stream of devotional manuals was produced as a consequence of this outlook, with a great deal of advice contained tending to encourage self-examination. Perhaps the most famous of these works was the Seven Treatises of Richard Rogers. The fourth treatise, of 150 pages, is the ‘treatise of the daily direction’, setting down in great detail the most spiritually effective way for the aspiring saint to lead his or her life. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]