The pastor in print: Genre, audience, and religious change in early modern England 9781526152213

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The pastor in print

POLITICS, CULTURE AND SOCIETY IN EARLY MODERN BRITAIN

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General Editors Professor Alastair Bellany, Dr Alexandra Gajda, Professor Peter Lake, Professor Anthony Milton, and Professor Jason Peacey This important series publishes monographs that take a fresh and challenging look at the interactions between politics, culture and society in Britain between 1500 and the mid-eighteenth century. It counteracts the fragmentation of current historiography through encouraging a variety of approaches which attempt to redefine the political, social and cultural worlds, and to explore their interconnection in a flexible and creative fashion. All the volumes in the series question and transcend traditional interdisciplinary boundaries, such as those between political history and literary studies, social history and divinity, urban history and anthropology. They thus contribute to a broader understanding of crucial developments in early modern Britain. Recently published in the series Chaplains in early modern England: Patronage, literature and religion Hugh Adlington, Tom Lockwood and Gillian Wright (eds)

Revolutionizing politics: Culture and conflict in England, 1620–60  Paul D. Halliday, Eleanor Hubbard and Scott Sowerby (eds)

The Cooke sisters: Education, piety and patronage in early modern England Gemma Allen

Reformation without end: Religion, politics and the past in post-revolutionary England Robert G. Ingram

Black Bartholomew’s Day: Preaching, polemic and Restoration nonconformity  David J. Appleby

Freedom of speech, 1500–1850 Robert G. Ingram, Jason Peacey and Alex W. Barber (eds)

Insular Christianity: Alternative models of the Church in Britain and Ireland, c.1570–c.1700 Robert Armstrong and Tadhg Ó Hannrachain (eds) Reading and politics in early modern England: The mental world of a seventeenth-century Catholic gentleman  Geoff Baker ‘No historie so meete’  Jan Broadway Writing the history of parliament in Tudor and early Stuart England  Paul Cavill and Alexandra Gajda (eds) Republican learning: John Toland and the crisis of Christian culture, 1696–1722 Justin Champion News and rumour in Jacobean England: Information, court politics and diplomacy, 1618–25  David Coast This England: Essays on the English nation and Commonwealth in the sixteenth century  Patrick Collinson Gentry culture and the politics of religion: Cheshire on the eve of civil war Richard Cust and Peter Lake Sir Robert Filmer (1588–1653) and the patriotic monarch Cesare Cuttica Doubtful and dangerous: The question of succession in late Elizabethan England Susan Doran and Paulina Kewes (eds) Civil war London: Mobilising for parliament, 1641–5  Jordan S. Downs Brave community  John Gurney

‘Black Tom’  Andrew Hopper

Connecting centre and locality: Political communication in early modern England  Chris R. Kyle and Jason Peacey (eds) Insolent proceedings: Rethinking public politics in the English Revolution  Peter Lake and Jason Peacey (eds) Revolution remembered: Seditious memories after the British Civil Wars  Edward James Legon Royalists and Royalism during the Interregnum Jason Mcelligott and David L. Smith Laudian and Royalist polemic in Stuart England Anthony Milton The crisis of British Protestantism: Church power in the Puritan Revolution, 1638–44 Hunter Powell Lollards in the English Reformation: History, radicalism, and John Foxe  Susan Royal The gentlewoman’s remembrance: Patriarchy, piety, and singlehood in early Stuart England Isaac Stephens Exploring Russia in the Elizabethan Commonwealth: The Muscovy Company and Giles Fletcher, the elder (1546–1611) Felicity Jane Stout Loyalty, memory and public opinion in England, 1658–1727  Dward Vallance London presbyterians and the British revolutions, 1638–64  Elliot Vernon Church polity and politics in the British Atlantic world, c. 1635–66  Elliot Vernon and Hunter Powell (eds)

Full details of the series are available at www​.man​ches​teru​nive​rsit​ypress​.co​.uk.

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The pastor in print Genre, audience, and religious change in early modern England Amy G. Tan

Manchester University Press

Copyright © Amy G. Tan 2022 The right of Amy G. Tan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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Published by Manchester University Press Oxford Road, Manchester M13 9PL www​.man​ches​teru​nive​rsit​ypress​.co​.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 5261 5220 6 hardback First published 2022 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

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To Irvin and Betty Holmes and in loving memory of Virgil and Laura Gant

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Contents

List of figures Acknowledgements List of abbreviations Select chronology: Richard Bernard’s life and career

page ix x xii xiii

Introduction: Ministers and media

1

Part I: Religious goals: pastoral approaches to devotion, vocation, and print 1 The ubiquity of ‘the devotional’ 2 The making of a pastor-author 3 The call to preach and the question of printed sermons

31 54 75

Part II: Audiences: imagining and fostering relationships with readers 4 If you learn nothing else: catechisms and the question of the fundamentals of the faith 5 Different audiences, different messages: explication and implication in anti-Catholic publications 6 A bit of parish trouble and a manual on giving: selfrepresentation to insiders and outsiders

101 122 145

Part III: Innovation: adapting content, genre, and format 7 A trial, a guide for jurors, and an allegory: one experience inspiring generically divergent publications 8 A puritan pastor-author in the 1630s: tailoring the presentation of theological content

161 178

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viii

Contents

9 ‘That all the Lord’s people could prophesy’: innovating in the reference genre (and turning against episcopacy?) 10 The paradigm of the ‘pastor-author’ beyond Bernard

195 216

Bibliography Index

241 259

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Figures

0.1 Portrait of Richard Bernard, age 74, by Wenceslaus Hollar, 1641, in Bernard, Thesaurus Biblicus (1644) page 19 9.1 ‘Sabbath’ and surrounding entries in Bernard, Thesaurus Biblicus (1644) 199 9.2 Detail from ‘{God’s Mercy} and {Justice} met together}’, in Bernard, Bibles Abstract and Epitomie (1642), p. 78 204

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Acknowledgements

It is a pleasure to thank those who have enabled the completion of this book. I want first to acknowledge Peter Lake. His generous and enlightening conversations over many years, his vast knowledge of early modern religion and politics, and his keenly perceptive readings of my work-in-progress have shaped this study in large and small ways too numerous to recount. I am further grateful to Kenneth Fincham, Joel Harrington, Ann Hughes, Jane Landers, and Paul Lim – each of whom substantively influenced my thinking on key issues, pointed me to important sources, and generously took time to read and discuss my work. I am further grateful to Carole Levin, under whose influence I first developed an interest in the early modern period, and who remains an invaluable mentor and friend. Others who, formally or informally, heard or read portions of this work and provided valuable input include Alex Ayris, Michael Bess, Sean Bortz, Bill Bulman, Dean Bruno, Jessica Burch, Amy Burnett, Bill Caferro, John Coffey, David Como, Lisa Diller, Jenifer Dodd, Freddy Domínguez, Jordan Downs, Jim Epstein, Noah Frens, Lauren Griffin, Matt Growhoski, Karl Gunther, David Hall, Rebecca Hayes, Sarah Igo, Robert Ingram, the late John King, Kate Lazo, Tamara Lewis, David Magliocco, Jennifer Maguire, Drew Martin, Julia Merritt, Anthony Milton, Susannah Monta, Sonya Mutchnick, Jason Peacey, Dani Picard, Michael Questier, Ansley Quiros, Mark Rankin, Greg Salazar, Kara Schultz, Sandy Solomon, Isaac Stephens, Frances Kolb Turnbell, Michael Winship, Chance Woods, Jayme Yeo, and also each of the 2017 National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) Summer Seminar participants at the Huntington Library, as well as each of the 2014–15 Graduate Fellows at the Robert Penn Warren Center for the Humanities. I wish further to acknowledge those in attentive audiences providing thoughtful comments on portions of this material presented at the Institute for Historical Research, the Sixteenth Century Society and Conference, the North American Conference on British Studies, the Southern Conference on British Studies, the South Central Renaissance Conference, the University of Nebraska, and Vanderbilt University.

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Acknowledgements

xi

The project received funding and support from many sources. The NEH and the Huntington Library provided key resources during a Summer Seminar: a fruitful period of research. A year at the Robert Penn Warren Center for the Humanities, facilitated by Mona Frederick and Ed Friedman, offered an invaluable opportunity to refine my ideas and complete key sections of my work. The Vanderbilt University College of Arts and Science, Graduate School, and Department of History each provided significant support for research and writing, and the collegiality of Vanderbilt’s faculty, students, and staff made it an ideal setting in which to hone the ideas at the heart of this book. Several institutions generously provided access to archival materials, in person and/or via digital images: the American Antiquarian Society, the Batcombe Heritage Centre, the Beinecke Library, the British Library, the Bodleian Library, Cambridge University Library, Dr Williams’s Library, the Huntington Library, the Massachusetts Historical Society, the Pilgrim Hall Museum, the Somerset Heritage Centre, the National Archives, the Wells Cathedral Chained Library, and the York Minster Library. Donald Sage provided a fascinating tour of the Batcombe church. The Vanderbilt Libraries and Nashville Public Library provided numerous essential resources. The series editors and anonymous readers provided perceptive input which helped me refine my ideas; Meredith Carroll’s expert guidance strengthened the manuscript; and everyone who contributed to the editorial and production processes made the experience smooth and enjoyable. I am grateful to Kristin Butterfield for unfailing friendship, Nina Wolford for first stoking my interest in writing, and many more friends and colleagues whom space does not permit me to mention individually. My son and my extended family have provided cheer and encouragement innumerable times during my work on this project. Finally, and especially, I want to acknowledge the immeasurable kindness and generosity of my husband and parents, without whom this book would not have reached completion: I cannot thank them enough.

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Abbreviations

AAS MFP American Antiquarian Society, Mather Family Papers, 1613–1819 BEI Beinecke Library BL British Library BOD Bodleian Library CCED The Clergy of the Church of England Database 1540–1835 CUL Cambridge University Library HP Samuel Hartlib Papers MS Manuscript ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography PHM CFM Pilgrim Hall Museum, Cotton Family Manuscripts RL Rawlinson Letters SRO Somerset Record Office TNA The National Archives WP ‘Winthrop Family Papers’, Winthrop Papers Digital Edition Author’s note: In quotations from primary sources, I modernise spelling, capitalisation, and shifts in typeface except when there is no commonly used modern equivalent, or as needed for clarity. However, when quoting from edited versions of primary sources, I follow the editors’ conventions. In publication titles, I follow the English Short-Title Catalogue to facilitate identification of cited works.

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Select chronology: Richard Bernard’s life and career

Career and personal events 1568 1592 1595 1596 c. 1597 1598 1599 1600 c. 1600–1 1601 1602 1605 c. 1605–6 1606 c. 1607 1607 1608 1609

Circulating manuscripts and publications (First editions and notable revisions)

Born, Epworth, Lincolnshire. Matriculated, Christ’s College, Cambridge. Received BA. Ordained priest. Served as curate in Epworth, Lincolnshire. Received MA. Terence in English. Appointed preacher throughout the diocese of Lincoln Benalleuel Bernard baptised. Cannanuel Bernard baptised. Appointed vicar of Worksop, Nottinghamshire. Besekiell Bernard baptised. Large Catechisme. Removed for nonconformity. Hoseel Bernard baptised. Anti-episcopal manuscript (unidentified/not extant). Participated in conference at Bowes home. Re-conformed to national ‘Penny pamphlets’ supporting church national church (unidentified/ not extant). Masakiell Bernard baptised. Double Catechisme. Faithfvll Shepheard. Christian Advertisements. Mary Bernard baptised. Iosuahs Godly Resolution. Faithfvll Shepheard (rev.; with Shepheards Practise).

xiv

Select chronology: Richard Bernard’s life and career

Career and personal events 1609 1610

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1613

Beniemene Bernard baptised, buried. Preached at Synod of Southwell. Appointed rector of Batcombe, Somerset.

1614 1616 pre-1617 1617 1619 1620 1621 1623 1626 1627 1628 1629 1630 1631 1633/4 1635

Visited Oxford with son Cannanuel; met Prideaux and others. Appointed prebendary of Segeston, Southwell Minster.

Circulating manuscripts and publications (First editions and notable revisions) Sinners Safetie. Contemplative Pictures. Plaine Euidences. Two Twinnes.

Weekes Worke. Staffe of Comfort. Dauids Musick. ‘Book of legal repentance’ (unidentified/not extant). Key of Knowledge. Fabulous Foundation.

Faithfull Shepherd (rev.). Seaven Golden Candlestickes. Good Mans Grace. Looke Beyond Luther. Rhemes against Rome. Present at Taunton summer assizes, witchcraft trial. Isle of Man. Guide to Grand-Iury Men. Isle of Man (rev.). Appointed royal chaplain in Ruths Recompence. extraordinary. Weekes Worke (rev.). Daughter, Mary, married Roger Bible-Battells. Williams. Iosuahs Resolution (rev.). Common Catechisme. Good Christian Looke to Thy Creede. Mary and Roger Williams Christian See to Thy Conscience. emigrated. Met with Dorset ministers about the Sabbath. Son-in-law Roger Ready Way to Good Works. Williams banished from Massachusetts.

Select chronology: Richard Bernard’s life and career

Career and personal events 1636

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c. 1636–41

Masakiell Bernard family and others from the Batcombe area emigrated. Corresponded with John Cotton and other New Englanders.

1641

Travelled to London.

1642

Died 31 March.

1644

xv

Circulating manuscripts and publications (First editions and notable revisions)

Manuscript treatise on church covenanting (1637) and another treatise (unidentified/ not extant). Threefold Treatise of the Sabbath. Article of Christs Descension. Epistle Directed to all Iustices of Peace. VVorke for the Wisely Considerate.* Praelaticall Church.* Bibles Abstract (bound with 1644 Thesaurus Biblicus). Thesaurus Biblicus. Certaine Positions.*

*On attribution of Wisely Considerate, Praelaticall Church, and Certaine Positions, see Chapter 9.

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Introduction Downloaded from manchesterhive © Copyright protected It is illegal to copy or distribute this document

Ministers and media

[This book] was penned at the first for the benefit of this parish: and published by authority, for the good of the Church. The parish of S. Martin moved me to pen it: and that late Reverend Bishop of London allowed me to print it. In regard of both these, I doubt not but your Honor will afford it your patronage.

This portion of a dedicatory epistle to Thomas, Lord Ellesmere appeared in pastor Robert Hill’s 1609 The Path-way to Prayer and Pietie; it addressed several points of attention common among early modern clerics making forays into print. Hill portrayed himself as attentive first to his own parishioners, but desirous for his efforts to resonate more broadly; as under authority in general, yet responding particularly to a local bishop; and as being in need of certain types of assistance in order for his work to prosper – here requesting the Lord Chancellor’s patronage for this book and, as he went on, grateful for other types of support as well.1 In an article considering Hill’s work, Julia Merritt has demonstrated the importance of considering clerical publications in historical context and across generic boundaries. She describes Hill’s publications as responsive to the needs and desires of different intended audiences while remaining within a coherent theological framework, and she observes that ‘the nature, timing and quality of the printed publications by Hill and other pastors that survive may often reflect their changing personal circumstances as well as their pastoral initiatives’.2 Although Merritt’s work on Hill is brief, it flags several key aspects of clerical authorship in this period which are ready for further examination. The present study is concerned to provide just that sort of analysis, offering a full-orbed consideration of the phenomenon of early modern pastors dedicating time and effort to print authorship. With attention to clerical authors Richard Bernard, George Gifford, Thomas Wilson, and Samuel Hieron, alongside briefer references to many

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2

The pastor in print

others, this study considers ways that print could enhance, extend, limit, or change pastoral ministry. It also considers ways ministers conceived of potential audiences, tailoring content and genre to meet audience needs and achieve certain religious goals. Altogether, it posits that we can more fully understand post-Reformation English religion by coupling analysis of the nature of clerical ministry with analysis of developments in print publications – including format, genre, timing, and content. For good reason, scholars of early modern religious history have maintained a persistent interest in the Protestant clergy and a wide range of topics related to ministers’ education, theology, pastoral goals, opportunities for advancement, and engagement with national and international concerns. Among many studies, one might mention Rosemary O’Day’s The English Clergy, Patrick Collinson’s The Elizabethan Puritan Movement and seminal article ‘Shepherds, sheepdogs and hirelings’, Peter Lake’s Moderate Puritans and the Elizabethan Church, Francis Bremer’s Congregational Communion, Kenneth Parker and Eric Carlson’s study of Richard Greenham, Kenneth Fincham’s Prelate as Pastor, Arnold Hunt’s The Art of Hearing, and Tom Webster’s Godly Clergy in Early Stuart England. Meanwhile, there has been a good deal of work on aspects of religious print. Much of this has tended to examinations of particular genres, topics, or debates; or to analysis of the contemporary valences of various works. Ian Green has surveyed print through the lenses of a particular genre (catechism) or type (steady sellers) of publication; Antoinina Bevan Zlatar has provided a theologically engaged literary and historicist reading of Elizabethan polemical dialogues; and Alec Ryrie has surveyed a large number of works related to prayer and personal piety.3 Numerous scholars have examined the ways early modern print affected, and was affected by, popular culture, religion, and/or politics, including the influence and popularity of printed texts; of note in relation to the present study are works by Ann Hughes, Peter Lake, Jesse Lander, Jason Peacey, Alexandra Walsham, Tessa Watt, and more – as footnotes in subsequent chapters will show.4 Certain other studies have addressed control of printing and censorship – often with insightful analysis of the religious issues at stake, including larger studies by Cyndia Susan Clegg and Suellen Mutchow Towers, as well as shorter studies by Anthony Milton and Arnold Hunt, among others.5 Yet while many studies of pastors have discussed print (often in relation to sermon publication), and likewise many studies of religious print have given attention to publications by clerical authors, there has not been sustained attention to the emerging phenomenon of ministers who actively cultivated a publishing career: their long- and short-term goals related to

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Introduction

3

authorship; their approach to pursuing religious change among various audiences; and the ways they saw clerical and authorial work interweaving. This book takes that approach, and by doing so offers new insight into the way that certain post-Reformation clerics envisioned and enacted a type of ministry that allowed writing to complement parish work and that reached far beyond parish borders. Although there has been no full-fledged study of this kind, several scholars (in addition to Merritt, above) have demonstrated that this is an area ready for further research. For example, Timothy Scott McGinnis has considered how George Gifford’s pastoral goals were reflected both in his parish work and in his publications, demonstrating the utility of placing a minister’s print and parish work in close conversation. Yet because it focuses upon pastoral and devotional issues, this study does not consider Gifford’s full range of publications, nor what Gifford intended to do through his career-long pursuit of authorship more generally. Andrew Crome and Kathleen Curtin have each addressed some aspects of the work of Thomas Wilson, with the latter importantly highlighting Christian Dictionarie’s overlap between catechetical, polemical, and lexicographical issues for a broad audience. Leif Dixon’s work on predestinarian writing has highlighted connections between pastoral and theological goals among a number of clerics. Peter Lake’s Boxmaker’s Revenge gives significant attention to what the clerical author Stephen Denison was attempting to accomplish with certain print works, but it does not address what Denison thought he was doing in terms of using texts to cultivate an authorial career. Anthony Milton’s study of Laudian propagandist Peter Heylyn has provided key insights into the relevance of polemic-writing to a certain sort of clerical career; however, the study does not address a broad range of genres or types of writing. Diane Willen has demonstrated key changes in Thomas Gataker’s engagement with print over time, and in doing so highlights a number of convergences between authorship, clerical work, and the godly community; yet the brevity of her study leaves many of these connections as gestures rather than full explorations.6 Altogether, to date no study has directly addressed in what ways, and to what ends, certain ministers intentionally fostered publishing careers along with, and as part of, a clerical vocation. No study has taken up the question of how these ministers conceived of their authorial work across the chronological length and the vocational breadth of their clerical careers. And no study has examined how pastors’ participation in the print marketplace – including careful selection of topic, timing, genre and writing style – could be used throughout a career to pursue various religious goals among multiple audiences. A new approach is needed to systematically consider such issues.

4

The pastor in print

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Methodology The present study thus turns to examine early modern English clerics who chose to incorporate print authorship as a significant aspect of their religious vocation. It is concerned to deeply analyse the interrelationship of these activities during the late Elizabethan and early Stuart periods. To do this requires addressing the circumstances surrounding a career and a corpus with a good degree of detail: to illustrate trends across multiple genres and subjects, and across multiple years of work. A broad survey would be insufficient to provide such detail; thus, the central portion of the book adopts the methodology of a case study. For this case study, I selected the career of moderate puritan minister Richard Bernard.7 He was not unique in his pastoral goals, nor in his uses of print: however, certain features of his career provide an ideal window through which to examine the connections between pastoral ministry and print authorship. His corpus and his pastoral experiences were remarkably wide-ranging, encompassing a broad variety of topics and genres that were key concerns for many pastor-authors: religious education (e.g. catechisms), devotional practices, Christian behaviour, theology, controversies, current events, and more. And given the timing and content of these works, we can trace differences in his attention to or treatment of different topics through his career. For this reason, a study of Bernard’s works can touch on a markedly wide range of issues while remaining coherent and contextualised, grounded in substantive evidence. Moreover, his publications often included explanations of his purposes for writing and references to relevant situations in his own career, or more broadly. Coupled with key manuscript sources including correspondence and parish records, these allow us to reconstruct a robust picture of his intentions and practices in both print and parish. Nevertheless, the book is not ‘about’ Bernard. Its use of his career is episodic, focusing on ways in which he made choices about his ministry in print and parish, rather than on the man himself. I underscore this throughout the book by gesturing toward other pastor-authors and their works, representing a number of different career paths and approaches to print that nevertheless fell within the scope of pastors intentionally leveraging print media for specific religious ends. Chapter 10 further broadens this view by applying the paradigm of the pastor-author within analyses of works by George Gifford, Thomas Wilson, and Samuel Hieron. Along with highlighting different models that pastoral-authorial careers could take, this chapter provides the opportunity to address additional aspects of the challenges facing pastor-authors, especially those of a more or less moderate puritan sort, across a period marked by ecclesiastical and political change.

Introduction

5

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Pastor-authorship: an emerging phenomenon As the study progresses, the emerging significance of the phenomenon of pastors-as-print-authors becomes clear. The ability to spread one’s ideas relatively quickly to a broad public audience was an option unavailable to most ministers of preceding generations: through print, this now became possible for many. Certainly, many early modern pastors had no, or limited, involvement with print. Even those with printed sermons might have minor investment in the process, with third parties adapting oral material and seeing it through publication. Yet there was a growing group of ministers who developed a self-conscious, multi-faceted involvement with print. This group includes the aforementioned Bernard, Gifford, Wilson, and Hieron, as well as diverse others who embraced and experimented with this emerging technology. I call this group ‘pastor-authors’, defined as those who exercised a personal religious ministry in a parish or other locality, while also devoting time to careful, intentional, attempts to achieve religious goals among a wider audience through print. One relatively early example of a pastor-authorial career appears in the work of stationer, Marian exile, pastor, and author Robert Crowley, who ‘had the imagination to see the possibilities afforded by the press to mould popular opinion, and the energy and burning compassion to produce a sizeable and varied body of work’.8 Others with similar ambitions appeared throughout the period, across a range of ecclesiastical, theological, and geographical locations. While many pastor-authors were parish ministers within the national church, not all were, nor did all have uninterrupted good standing within it. At times, pastor-authors leveraged print in attempts to reestablish a position within the national church. We will see this below with Bernard, Gifford, and to a degree Wilson: but it could appear in a range of different ways. To take just one additional example, pastor-author John Darrell entered into print at the height of controversy about his antidemonic activities, describing key situations and his intentions; some years later he also composed an anti-separatist publication. Each of these sought, among other purposes, to defend Darrell’s reputation and mend his relationship with the national church.9 Of course, pastor-authors could also use print in quite the opposite way: Chapter 2 mentions separatists John Smyth, Henry Ainsworth, and John Robinson, whose publications defended their choice to leave the national church altogether. Whatever their theological and ecclesiastical positions, and whatever their more specific religious goals for their own work, pastor-authors intentionally designed publications to bring about certain goals for their audiences. Yet this was not always straightforward, given the inherent limitations of print and the ever-shifting religious landscape. Accordingly,

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6

The pastor in print

thoughtful construction, and sometimes innovation, became key features of pastor-authors’ works. As they attempted to achieve religious goals among audience members who would be persuaded to take up the publication and then use it in particular ways, they needed to consider how genre, length, arrangement of content, typeface, and other factors could affect their message. This does not mean all publications were unprecedented, or even unusual. And it does not mean all pastor-authors agonised over every aspect of a publication. But it does suggest that pastor-authors often considered the interests, abilities, and needs of various print audiences; identified their own circumstances and religious goals; and leveraged format, genre, content, timing, and more as they adapted their ideas for publication in a born-print format. With this in mind, this study makes two key contributions. First, it pushes us to view publications by pastor-authors as part of a whole-career pursuit of religious change among one or more audiences. This is not merely a call to study publications and authors within appropriate historical contexts (certainly, one should). Rather, it highlights the importance of identifying the strategies through which pastor-authors established authorial identities, targeted certain audiences, strategically developed their corpora, and built networks within the print industry, not as a side project but as an intentional expression of their religious vocation. Secondly, because it combines an investigation of vocational Protestant ministry with issues related to the production of religious print, it provides a new lens through which to view the intersection of emerging print technologies, the printing industry, and clerical work in this pivotal period.

Moderate puritanism and pastor-authorship This book primarily attends to individuals in England, and occasionally elsewhere in the British Isles and North America, whose general theological bent fitted within, or near, the theological and ecclesiological range of positions one might call (if one is inclined to call it anything) moderate puritanism.10 Among the theological and practical priorities commonly held by those within this umbrella were a reformed, Calvinistic interpretation of the Bible; an emphasis on the importance of preaching; a pursuit of a disciplined, experimental form of practical divinity; a strict observance of the Sabbath; and a regular antagonism toward Catholicism. There was diversity within this umbrella, and I trust readers will take references to ‘moderate puritans’, ‘puritans’, ‘the godly’, and similar terms not as impermeable categories, but rather as signposts to orient discussions within a historical landscape which will become more nuanced within various chapters’ arguments.

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Introduction

7

A focus upon moderate puritan pastor-authors provides some coherence for the present study, but it should by no means suggest that pastor-authorship was uniquely knit to puritanism (of any variety). Rather, I quite suspect the opposite, having observed similarities in the approaches of clerical authors from across theological, confessional, and geographic bounds. To flesh out this suspicion would lead far beyond the scope of this study, but suffice it to say that my discussion of moderate puritan pastor-authors is a matter of framing, not a suggestion that either England or puritans had any unique claim to thoughtful, engaged clerical authorship. I hope that further studies might investigate the utility of the pastor-author paradigm for religious workers from a wide range of backgrounds. Nevertheless, it is worth observing that among early modern English clerics who published, a considerable number were of a more or less puritan persuasion. One study of Elizabethan religious publishing identified twentythree English authors who published eleven or more works in the period, of whom fourteen were identified as puritans and all but a few as supporting ‘either moderate or radical ecclesiastical reform’.11 In what follows, we will encounter several ways that authorship fitted well (again, not to say exclusively) with the particular circumstances facing moderate puritan clerics. Authorship could complement the ideal of faithful, reforming pastoral ministry within the national church; and by nature of its being outside one’s local work, might enable pastor-authors to continue pushing forward with certain religious aims amidst pastoral challenges or setbacks. Insofar as moderate puritanism involved a struggle to effect certain theological and practical reforms in individuals, and an institution, not always fully amenable to such changes, publishing might offer a broader or more receptive audience for such efforts; a chance to more fully defend certain beliefs or practices; a way to publicly portray one’s ministry in a positive light; and other outcomes, as subsequent chapters will detail.

Structure of the study To address how pastor-authors’ writing might relate to various issues across a career, the book is arranged both thematically and (mostly) chronologically.12 It contains three sections, each addressing a key aspect of work: religious goals, audiences, and innovation. Chapters within each section elucidate numerous ways these concerns could influence publications – and further, how pastoral and authorial vocations could become entangled. Meanwhile, each chapter makes new contributions to additional, targeted issues that are of current scholarly interest: the nature of anti-Catholic polemic, the existence and effectiveness of Laudian censorship, attitudes

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The pastor in print

toward printed sermons, and more. Although several studies have addressed specific genres and/or topics that appear in early modern religious writing, no study has yet tied these examinations to a consideration of a pastorauthor’s broader programme for religious reform in both print and parish. This book does just that, while also providing a new and more complete framework through which to view pastor-authors’ diverse publications. The first section of the book begins by addressing how publications could function vis-à-vis religious goals that pastor-authors might have for themselves, parishioners, and print audiences. Chapter 1 considers how devotional activities were understood in the early modern period and how meditative thought appeared in a range of early modern publications. It takes the position that devotional practices and publications were inherently interconnected with politics, social concerns, controversy, theology, vocation, and more. To illustrate this principle, the chapter gives specific attention to meditation, one of the most individual and interior of devotional practices. Drawing on descriptions of meditation as well as meditative writings across multiple genres by a number of authors including Bernard, this chapter offers a new way to characterise meditation – a practice that scholars have found difficulty in defining – by identifying its key characteristic as the making of mental links between the spiritual and the natural worlds. This underscores the utility of considering together all of a pastor-author’s works, across genres and topics, and it establishes the principle of avoiding false separation between ‘devotional’ and non-‘devotional’ literature as a foundational aspect of my analysis throughout the rest of the book. Chapter 2 demonstrates several ways that Bernard’s early-career experiences shaped his long-term relationship with the national church as well as his approach to print authorship. It highlights how returning to conformity actually strengthened Bernard’s commitment (when pressed) to abiding under the strictures of ecclesiastical superiors – something that would later influence his innovative approaches to publishing on controversial topics. More generally, it shows how his early engagement in his personal ministry and in print mutually enabled and influenced one another in the service of complementary goals both before and after his period of nonconformity. As later chapters will show, the approaches to authorship and pastoral ministry which coalesced during this formative period would reverberate through Bernard’s work for decades to come. Through an examination of the editions of Bernard’s popular clerical manual, Chapter 3 provides new insight into the early modern debate about the nature and uses of religious print. It also helps frame the question of what distinguished a pastor-author, actively pursuing ministry through print and thinking about how readers would respond to different types of material, from the larger number of ministers who had a sermon printed here or

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there, but did not actively engage with print as part of their pastoral vocation. The chapter begins with an analysis of Bernard’s clerical manual, The Faithfvll Shepheard, and explores shifts in his approach over three editions (1607, 1609, and 1621),13 with later editions suggesting Bernard’s increasing awareness of, and willingness to accommodate, his readers’ needs for explanation and demonstration of the principles he espoused. The second portion of the chapter addresses Bernard’s approach to printed sermons. By examining several publications that Bernard based upon sermons, we see that he maintained the common contemporary understanding that the Word preached orally had special spiritual use and power that could not be replicated in print. Yet rather than driving him away from publishing sermon materials, this led him to consider how sermon material might be presented differently in print, to achieve other, distinct, purposes. Altogether, this chapter allows us to more fully understand the place of printed sermons – and print more generally – within godly ministerial contexts. The second section of the book addresses the audiences for publications and efforts to target different messages to different sorts of readers. Early modern English catechisms have seen some attention from scholars, notably Ian Green; Chapter 4 builds upon, and suggests certain revisions to, Green’s conclusions. In particular, where he sees catechetical materials as largely void of controversial content and high-level theological issues, this study suggests the opposite. From 1607–29, Bernard developed and refined a two-part catechetical method that closely aligned with what we know of his theoretical and practical goals for catechesis. Analysis of this content suggests that Bernard was willing to accept the Prayer Book catechism only when certain theological caveats were added to clarify its teachings. In 1630, however, Bernard produced an entirely new catechism, substantially different from his earlier method: and also published Good Christian Looke to thy Creede, a work largely catechetical in format and content, but which he did not title a catechism. I argue that we can explain this shift within Bernard’s ecclesiastical context, as Bishop Curll took the see of Bath and Wells and began enforcing restrictions on catechetical practice to a greater degree than his predecessors had. This suggests that the timing and the content of Bernard’s catechetical publications were influenced both by his own convictions and by pressures imposed upon him from above, with his publications in the later period demonstrating an impetus toward creative negotiation in which he actively advertised his conformity before ecclesiastical superiors and any reading audiences, yet sought innovative ways to continue providing users (including, but not limited to, his own parishioners) with catechetical materials consonant with his longstanding approach. While Bernard held a position fundamentally opposed to Catholicism throughout his career, his works took a distinctly anti-Catholic focus during

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The pastor in print

only one relatively brief period, c. 1617–29, with a shift c. 1622 in the tone and content of these publications. Chapter 5 first analyses what we know of Bernard’s foundational beliefs about the danger of Catholicism, and then proceeds to contextualise and historicise this amplification, shift, and deamplification in his published rhetoric about Catholics. It identifies several factors in Bernard’s parish and diocesan contexts, as well as national and international developments, that influenced this trajectory. In particular, it highlights an uptick in his eschatologically centred anti-Catholic writing under Bishop Lake; his shift to a rather less heady eschatological view from c. 1622; and how his 1626 Rhemes Against Rome was intended not only as an anti-Catholic response to John Heigham’s attack on Protestantism, but also as a puritan counterpoint to Richard Montagu’s anti-Calvinist response to Heigham. Subsequently, it discusses several factors related to a growing de-emphasis of overt anti-Catholic rhetoric – until, that is, a 1641 publication directed to Parliament. In all this, the chapter demonstrates ways that different publications – and sometimes, the same publication – could target different audiences with different sorts of messages that nevertheless complemented one another, in view of various theological aims and ecclesiopolitical contexts. Using a variety of manuscript records, the first portion of Chapter 6 outlines a complex web of inter​perso​nal-c​um-re​ligio​us-cu​m-fin​ancia​l disputes that rose to a head in 1634 during an episcopal visitation of Bernard’s parish. Then, the chapter addresses Bernard’s manual on giving, Ready Way to Good Works, published just a few months later. Though Ready Way made no explicit mention of the local controversy, this context clearly influenced the work. The chapter identifies several passages that gesture subtly – but meaningfully for those in the know – to Bernard’s local situation; it also highlights several additional passages that explained parts of Bernard’s personal and financial history. Both of these, in different ways, can be read as a sort of life writing which not only intended to provide readers with a positive view of Bernard himself, but also functioned symbiotically with the publication’s overarching aim of encouraging charity. Such a view affects how we might conceive of authors’ self-presentation before different sorts of audiences. The third section of the book addresses innovation in genre and content of publications. It begins with an examination in Chapter 7 of a single situation that incited two generically divergent publications. Just as Bernard was closing his period of anti-Catholic writing, he attended the 1626 Taunton summer assizes and spent time with Edward Bull, a man charged with, and subsequently executed for, witchcraft. This experience would shape two of Bernard’s best-known works: an allegory, The Isle of Man, and a manual about witchcraft trials, A Guide to Grand-Iury Men. Scholars have

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mentioned these works with some regularity, but typically only within studies discussing allegory (Isle) or witchcraft and demonology (Guide); and their origin in Bernard’s experience at the trial has received limited attention. This chapter takes a different approach, first focusing on the situation at the assizes and its contexts, and then turning to consider how and why Bernard chose to produce these two rather unusual publications, innovating with both genre and content in order to make various messages clear. This allows us to observe something of the entanglement and mutual influences between Bernard’s personal pastoral ministry and his publications. Moreover, because it places the ‘devotional’ Isle alongside the religio-sociojudicial Guide, it allows us to identify critical linkages, not previously recognised, between two publications that on the surface appear quite distinct. Studies by S. M. Towers, Kevin Sharpe, Cyndia Clegg, Anthony Milton, and others have investigated the extent and effectiveness of Laudian religious censorship during the 1630s. Within this body of work, Milton has persuasively argued that Laudian policies led many puritans to ‘self-censor’ their works. Nevertheless, there were exceptions to this rule. Chapters 8 and 9 together take up the question of how someone with puritan leanings, desiring to publish through official channels, might attempt to frame content and couch ideas during the 1630s. Chapter 8 first clarifies Bernard’s position in parish, regional, and national controversies regarding the Sabbath and the communion table which came to a head in the 1630s. I show that Bernard’s approach, both in his own parish and within the regional puritan network, was to do as much as possible to maintain his longstanding puritan theological-pastoral programme: yet when pressed he would remain (at least minimally) conformable to the national church. During this time, he was composing Threefold Treatise of the Sabbath, a text for which he probably sought license in the 1630s but which would not appear until 1641 with the breakdown of Laudian licensing. I show how the finally published version of the work performed significant theological and rhetorical gymnastics to construct a view of Sabbath observance that conformed to the national church and yet fitted within a puritan vision for godly observance. Then, I turn to demonstrate that Bernard made similar theological and rhetorical moves in another work, also published in 1641, addressing the fraught issue of Christ’s descent into Hell. In both publications, I suggest, Bernard’s creative presentations of content echoed his concurrent parish efforts to find an elusive harmony between his own theological and religious goals, on the one hand, and his commitment to the national church, on the other. Chapter 9 turns to Thesaurus Biblicus, a tripartite Bible reference work Bernard composed during the 1630s and which was rejected by a Laudian licenser on the grounds that it might enable laypeople to act as preachers.

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The pastor in print

I show that each of Thesaurus’s sections took a different approach toward equipping users – including lay users – to interpret the Bible. Using the genre of a reference work from which users could draw their own conclusions, Bernard avoided explicitly supporting certain controversial positions, yet nevertheless provided audiences with information intended (not exclusively, but clearly) to equip a sort of theologically reformed, puritanically inflected, lay household preaching. Although radical in some senses, this was, in fact, within the realm of current practice for some godly households: and it suggested a potential way forward for godly religion in a period when certain doctrines and styles of ministry were out of favour with ecclesiastical leadership. The chapter concludes by returning to the question of conformity, showing that there is a reasonable case to be made that Bernard authored an anonymous 1641 anti-episcopal pamphlet – especially curious as this would seem to run counter to his longstanding commitment to operating within the national church. I suggest that, if he was the author, we can understand this shift as fitting within a different sort of conformity: one conforming to certain Parliamentary initiatives. While Bernard’s career and corpus make him an excellent case through which to examine pastoral-authorial work in detail, the point of this study is to highlight a phenomenon far larger than Bernard himself. To underscore this, and to offer further examples of how pastoral-authorial work could function, Chapter 10 features three brief studies, each attending to one aspect of the career of a different pastor-author whose work has already received some scholarly attention. In these I connect George Gifford’s 1587 treatise on devils to an effort toward reinstatement to ministry in the national church; explicate Thomas Wilson’s use of prefatory apologia in connection to concerns of genre and audience; and demonstrate how Samuel Hieron’s Popish Ryme simultaneously engaged poetry and prose in order to provide both rhetorical and theological ammunition against Catholics. These brief studies show the potential for many studies to usefully embrace the paradigm of the pastor-author, demonstrating ways it can be fruitfully applied to shorter, relatively discrete analyses, as well as lengthier case studies, and speak to studies in multiple disciplines.

An orientation to the life and career of case study subject Richard Bernard Bernard’s clerical work spanned more than four decades, from his training at Cambridge and early professional work in the 1590s until his death as a septuagenarian pastor-author in 1642. He worked as an author through nearly all of his clerical career. His first publication appeared in 1598, and

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over thirty publications – many with multiple reprints – appeared regularly thereafter; his final first-edition publication appeared posthumously in 1644. As much of this study addresses key aspects of Bernard’s work in print and parish throughout this rather lengthy career, I include here a brief overview of his life and work. (See also the chronology at the front of the book.)

Bernard’s early career and personal life Born of humble means in Epworth, Lincolnshire, Bernard matriculated at Christ’s College, Cambridge, as a sizar in 1592, at about age twentyfour. This comparatively late entrance to university perhaps heightened the degree of gratitude he felt to his patrons, including notably Frances Wray, for changing his career prospects by enabling his studies.14 At Cambridge, Bernard encountered a range of individuals eager for the continuing reform of the church, including inter alia his future diocesan James Montagu, and future separatist John Smyth.15 In 1595, Bernard graduated BA, and in 1598 he proceeded MA; meanwhile, in 1596 he was ordained priest and thereafter (no later than 1597) began serving as curate in his hometown, Epworth.16 He became involved with John Darrell’s efforts to dispossess William Somers, but ultimately concluded that Somers was dissembling (see Chapter 7). In 1598 he completed his first publication, a translation of Terence intended as a sort of textbook for Latin learning; this may suggest concurrent or prior work as an instructor in a school or tutorial setting.17 He was appointed preacher throughout the diocese of Lincoln in 1599.18 His first ‘settled place of residence’ was Worksop, Nottinghamshire, which he took in 1601 on the patronage of Richard Whalley.19 At some point he began associating with a regional group of individuals (a number of whom were in the circles of his patron Isabel Bowes, sister to Frances Wray20) who were concerned to further the reform of the national church by eradicating vestiges of Catholic ceremony within worship and by promoting a puritan approach to faith and practice. Following the Canons of 1604, Bernard was removed from his post for nonconformity and was, for a time, considering separatism. Although several of Bernard’s associates, including Smyth, eventually chose to separate from the national church, Archbishop Tobie Matthew was influential in recalling Bernard to conformity and then encouraging him to pursue pastorally focused reform within the church c. 1607–8 (see Chapter 2).21 Bernard’s living at Worksop included a good-sized congregation (Smyth later estimated it as 500–600 communicants, with a smallish subset of congregants particularly receptive to a puritan-inflected ministry22); the

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The pastor in print

opportunity on occasion to encounter powerful individuals; and Matthew’s benevolent oversight. Bernard wrote in 1607 that ‘A minister placed over a congregation, so as is said, is there appointed of God, and there must settle himself to abide, unless he be lawfully called from thence, or necessity compel him to depart.’23 He apparently saw some such necessity given his financial situation in Worksop, which he later described as ‘numeratis pecuniis only 12l. per annum, and 3l. yearly paid out to the king’.24 Without success, he pursued livings in nearby Saundby and Gainsborough.25 There was perhaps also some consideration of a living at St Werburgh in Ireland; 1611 correspondence between James Ussher and Thomas Lydiat addressed the search for a minister, with Ussher writing, ‘Dr. Chaloner thought good at Mr. Bernards departure to try whether Mr. Storer (a worthy preacher) might be drawen over to the place’. If this was Richard Bernard – as Susan Boran takes it, and which makes sense given Bernard’s later comments expressing familiarity with several in Ussher’s circle and observing that he ‘could have wished my days to have been there spent among you’ – we have further evidence not only of Bernard’s continuing desire to find a different (better funded) living in which he might continue his brand of godly ministry, but also of his longstanding connections with Ussher.26 His view of Ussher as a godly ally – a view shared by many puritans – helps to contextualise his extensive citations of Ussher in Article (see Chapter 8) and a second-hand report that Bernard attempted to persuade Ussher against episcopacy c. 1640–41.27 Adding urgency to his financial situation, Bernard’s family grew throughout this period. Almost nothing is known of his wife. A son, Benalleuel, was baptised in 1600, followed by at least six further children: Cannanuel (b. 1600/01), Besekiell (bap. 1602), Hoseel (bap. 1605), Masakiell (bap. 1607), Mary (bap. 1609), and Beniamine (bap. 1613; d. 1613; I read this as a spelling of ‘Benjamin’).28 These names followed the trend, common especially among puritans, to adopt biblical names for their children.29 Yet more singularly, the elder Bernard children had names that were apparently originally conceived, based upon Bernard’s knowledge of Hebrew (he published meanings for Cannanuel – ‘God is gracious to us’ and Benalleuel – ‘Love wholly the Lord with the heart’).30 In contrast, his younger children had more standard names than their older siblings. As this shift in naming practices corresponded roughly to the time of Bernard’s return to conformity within the national church (below), one wonders whether this reflected a desire to conform, or to appear more conformable, to standard practices in non-essential matters. We have information about later activities of some of Bernard’s children. Cannanuel attended Exeter College, Oxford, and served as rector of Pitney and Huish Episcopi. Masakiell became a clothier and in 1636 emigrated to

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Massachusetts with his family and others from the Batcombe area; this may have been related to some correspondence between Bernard and the New England leadership c. 1637. Mary met chaplain Roger Williams while a maid in Sir William Masham’s household; following a 1629 marriage they emigrated, and Williams founded Rhode Island after being banished.31

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Bernard’s career c. 1613–42 In 1613, Bernard took the parish of Batcombe, Somerset, in what he later characterised as circumstances by which God ‘mended his wages’ by an ‘unheard of act’ of providence.32 Batcombe’s prior minister, Phillip Bisse, had wanted to ensure godly leadership in the parish after his death, and purchased the right of presentation from a relative, for one turn.33 The choice of Bernard, it seems, was in consultation with Bishop James Montagu, who in Cambridge had been a ‘liberal and memorable benefactor’ to Bernard.34 Bernard later specified that Montagu ‘sent for me … not by solicitation of friends, but only out of his former remembrance of me in Cambridge’; yet it is possible that James Risley, Montagu’s assistant and an acquaintance of Bernard, had some involvement as well: in 1613, Bernard published a grateful dedicatory epistle to Risley; its timing and the magnitude of the favour described would accord with a connection to the situation.35 The presentation was actually made by a John Bernard (likely a relative, which allowed the dying Bisse to further ensure Bernard’s succession).36 The living provided ‘more than an ordinary habitation, the means to uphold it some 150 pounds per annum or near to, besides six tenements copyhold’.37 Yet Bernard never forgot his early benefactors, continuing throughout his career to acknowledge them and encourage others to similar generosity (see Chapter 6). In Batcombe, Bernard would spend most of his career and solidify his reputation as a godly pastor-author. The Batcombe area certainly had its poor: but the area was in this period a key centre for the wool trade and boasted a number of wealthy households, including those of the Bisse and Ashe families. In a 1619 letter to James Ussher, Bernard described his parishioners as ‘a very gentlemanlike assembly, and a rich people and yet, blessed be God, very tractable’.38 As we will see, he might have made a rather different description some years later as longstanding divisions within the area – both economic and theological – played into certain disputes in the 1630s (see Chapter 6). As was typical of any parish, Batcombe records indicate a range of issues and situations that arose at various times and would have merited Bernard’s attention, from helping organise care for those in need, to addressing godly behaviour (or its opposite) by a range of individuals.39 Throughout, Bernard’s basic pastoral programme seems to have remained consistent: a close knowledge of his flock; a studied knowledge of the

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The pastor in print

scripture and other relevant topics; and careful attention to regular preaching (see Chapter 3) and catechising (see Chapter 4). While Bernard was committed to an attentive local ministry, he also acted outside the bounds of his parish – certainly by publishing, but also in other ways. Under bishops such as Montagu and Matthew, who were interested in increasing the quality and amount of preaching in their diocese, Bernard flourished: a ‘leading light in the combination lectures of eastern Somerset’ who fostered regional godly ministry through a network of relationships with other pastors.40 We may view something of this network in the dedication of the 1621 edition of his clerical manual to six ‘learned and judicious divines’ and twenty-eight ‘much respected friends and brethren in the ministry’: of these ministers identifiable with some certainty, all were relatively close to Batcombe, and primarily within the (overlapping) areas of Bath and Wells diocese and Somerset – suggesting that personal visits among those named were feasible, and that regional gatherings would have further provided opportunities to maintain relationships.41 He also received certain official appointments that would have influenced his status, including as preacher throughout the dioceses of Lincoln (as above) and of York; Prebend of Segeston, Southwell Minster (1620) and Royal Chaplain in Extraordinary (1628, see Chapter 5).42 And he participated in certain formal and informal gatherings, including the 1613 Synod of Southwell, a 1606 Coventry conference at the Bowes household, and a 1634 meeting in Dorset.43 Opportunities for developing relationships among the godly community included pulpit-sharing. We know of his preaching in 1614 in Ditcheat, home of his friend and fellow cleric Richard Alleine, and in a Mr Strickland’s pulpit in 1630: meanwhile, Batcombe heard John Traske preach in 1614 – though Traske’s later more radical theology would not have aligned with Bernard’s views.44 Among others with whom Bernard had particularly close association were Edward Bennett, who for a time assisted Bernard; Robert Balsom, who was ‘entertained’ by Bernard to teach school and preach occasionally at Batcombe, whereupon he ‘greatly improved his abilities for preaching’; and curates of Upton Noble within Batcombe, including Christopher Reade and Nicholas Paull (on Paull, see Chapter 8).45 He certainly also influenced his son, Cannanuel, who went into the ministry.46 Bernard put some of these connections toward his writing: Alleine was likely the ‘R. A.’ with whom he co-authored Dauids Musick, and in Ready Way Bernard mentioned having had writing assistance from a young man staying with him.47 Bernard also maintained relationships more broadly; John Conant described his keeping a ‘good correspondence’.48 Unfortunately, relatively little of this is extant. However, a 1619 letter from Bernard to Ussher, which was concerned to maintain their mutual connection and provide Ussher with  a view into Bernard’s work and situation, is a fascinating, broadly

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informative source. Also extant is some 1637 correspondence wherein Bernard attempted to persuade those in New England against what he understood to be a too-restrictive practice of church covenanting; he sent a manuscript treatise directed to the ministers, elders, and Christian believers in New England, along with two letters directed to John Cotton (with whom he had had some prior exchange).49 The New England elders, who saw no problem with their covenanting practices, replied in 1639; although they responded to Bernard’s arguments, they told him in no uncertain terms to stop meddling.50 Given Bernard’s own prior experience with near-separation and with attempting to form a covenanted group within the national church (see Chapter 2), these documents are of particular interest. Below in this Introduction and in Chapter 9, I briefly gesture to this private, epistolary correction as a contrast to Bernard’s more public efforts at religious change through print; however, analysis of the full exchange is outside the scope of this present study. I am at work on an article which will more fully explore this correspondence and its contexts. Bernard was concerned to foster relationships with godly laypeople; several books’ dedications addressed members of the laity, often social superiors, whom he wished to honour or thank. (Indeed, whenever he could reasonably drop a name, it seems he did: after appointment as Royal Chaplain in Extraordinary, he dedicated Bible-Battells to the King himself, see Chapter 5.) In person, such gestures might foster favourable relations; in print, they could also function more broadly for self-positioning before audiences. With godly communities, relationships were often not simply professional or friendly affiliations, but emotional and even spiritual bonds centring on a collective identity as the faithful remnant sometimes at odds with the leadership of the national church. This appears not only through expressions of affection among godly believers, but also in the tones of bitterness, on both sides, after Bernard decided to re-conform while Smyth and others separated from the national church (see Chapter 2). A good deal of Bernard’s participation in the religious life of England involved print. Like many clerics, he was a dedicated consumer of print.51 In Faithfvll Shepheard, he named books – on a wide range of topics – among the key things a minister needed to handle a text, and he called a library a key support for pastoral work.52 Hints of his own reading appear in citations throughout his publications, across topics in theology, law, popular reports, and more. He shared copies of Divine Tragedie with others in his area (see Chapter 8), and mentioned his reading in his letters.53 In publications, his (usually) methodical citations of sources demonstrated his knowledge and credentials and increased the weight of his arguments by showing solidarity with other writers. Print authorship often involved securing relationships with one or more stationers. Bernard published most frequently with his

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The pastor in print

kinsman, stationer Felix Kingston.54 He also worked with others as occasion arose, including printers at Cambridge and Oxford, as well as other London stationers (for a key example of the latter, see Chapter 4). Living some distance from printing centres could cause certain difficulties; Bernard apologised for issues with a revision of his clerical manual as his absence from the press led to numerous errors and inadvertent repetition (‘in some place they followed the written copy, and in some place the printed, and neglected to consider where to leave off’).55 Elsewhere he noted having heard one of his books was published, but not yet having a copy.56 As I discuss throughout this study, Bernard intended different publications to reach different audiences. Sometimes this was quite explicit, for example his addressing matters of interest specifically to clerical readers in editions of Faithfvll Shepheard. In other cases, features such as language (e.g. Latin vs English) or content (e.g. complex vs introductory theological ideas) implicitly delineated his intended audience for all, or for certain sections, of a publication. Nevertheless, as we will see throughout subsequent chapters, Bernard regularly targeted more than one audience even within the same book – for example, by envisioning different users making different types of uses of the same content; by having a less obvious or secondary meaning that would be clear only to insiders within a certain group; or by having different sections of a work tailored to reach different audiences with similar messages. With the rise of Laudian influence, puritans not only struggled to practise a certain sort of godly parish ministry, but also found themselves unable to have certain types of publications licensed for printing. Attempts to deal with these and other issues would become key to Bernard’s work in the 1630s (see Chapters 8 and 9). Bernard found his print ministry severely limited by Laudian licensers, and likely for this reason (though perhaps due to age or other factors), in 1635 he thought he might have produced his final work.57 Yet as Parliament sat in the early 1640s, Bernard and other godly authors gained renewed access to the press. Aware of these changes, Bernard himself was in London by early 1641, seeing several books to press. The dedications of Threefold Treatise provide some idea of his interests and connections in London: along with a dedication to all of Parliament (mentioning in particular the committees for religion, for the remonstrance, and for ministers’ maintenance and suppression of scandalous ministers), he further dedicated the work to members of Parliament from Somerset, among whom were Sir Edward Rodney, Sir Francis Popham, and Sir Ralph Hopton, and John Ashe.58 Meanwhile, his 1641 An Epistle Directed to All Iustices of Peace in England and Wales reproduced, with minor changes, a strongly anti-Catholic dedicatory epistle he had penned some two decades earlier, in a standalone edition ‘presented to the high court of Parliament’.59 At about this time he also sat

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for an engraving by Wenceslaus Hollar; it portrayed him in 1641 at the age of seventy-four in simple garb and a sober posture, with ‘Vigilantissimi Pastoris de Batcombe, Som[er]set’ appearing beside his name in the caption (see Figure 0.1). As was common among a number of clerical portraits, the

Figure 0.1  Portrait of Richard Bernard, age 74, by Wenceslaus Hollar, 1641, in Bernard, Thesaurus Biblicus (1644).

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The pastor in print

image highlighted his relationship to books, with him holding an unidentified volume in his hands, suggesting scholarly pursuits and perhaps his own authorial work.

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Contemporary reputation and influence Bernard’s prominence in certain quarters of the national church, along with wide distribution of some of his publications, meant he was relatively well known during his life and for a period thereafter – though not universally so: one letter to John Winthrop introduced him with some context, thus suggesting his name might not be recognised.60 Contemporary estimations of him varied. Amidst relatively few extant descriptions, the most positive was the account penned by John Conant prefacing the posthumous publication of Thesaurus Biblicus. It described Bernard as ‘laborious’ in pastoral ministry both through exemplary preaching and catechising in his own congregation, and through many years’ weekly lectures in market towns. Further, ‘Diverse painful and profitable laborers in the Lord’s vineyard had their first initiation and direction from and under him’, with others also making ‘recourse’ to him. Along with zealous and frequent prayer, he maintained correspondence in which he was ‘bold, apert, and candid in admonishing or reproving as occasion was presented, tender also and cordial in comforting the afflicted or wounded spirit’. He was ‘indefatigable’ in private studies, ‘the benefit whereof, the Church of God enjoyeth in those many tractates written and printed by him, as most men versed in theological studies, will give testimony’, yet he ‘never spent like pains’ in any work as in the lengthy Thesaurus at hand. But because of the scope of Thesaurus, Conant observed, ‘great exactness cannot be at once expected’: he might be excused for ‘sometimes dissenting from the more received and common sense of expositors’, and if he had lived ‘might possibly by an after-review have brought this first draught to greater perfection’.61 As we will see in subsequent chapters, Conant’s outline of Bernard’s activities and priorities was probably fair. Yet where Conant portrayed all this work positively, interpretations could vary. Where Conant saw an honourable minister, Bernard’s former allies who chose to separate (see Chapter 2) had a more venomous perspective on his return to conformity. Where Conant saw a faithful, engaged preaching ministry, others saw an improper calling out of private sins (see Chapter 6). Where Conant saw ‘bold’ reproof of correspondents, the New England elders saw meddlesome pugnacity; their reply to Bernard offered the hand of brotherhood only amidst stern warnings:

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You are now old and stricken in years and you will find it more honorable for your gray head and more sensible to Christ and his churches to bear witness to his truth against every evil way and to stand in the gap against all corruptions in God’s house, than to be carried away with the stream of the times to do that which is evil in the sight of the Lord … You have long been active in controversies … though in some things happily you have been in the right yet in diverse matters you have not cleared yourself for the charges put upon you by others … Be more ready to end controversies, than to take them up … but give God the glory of his name and be content to yield to the authority of all the ways of his truth. Strive not against it lest you be found to fight against the Lord and he suddenly take you away.62

Similarly, Winthrop’s correspondent (who also had sympathies for the New Englanders’ practices) described Bernard as ‘a man though vpright in the mayne, yet of very greate weaknesses’.63 Perhaps the most cynical view came from diarist Samuel Hartlib, who heard second-hand reports of Bernard’s writing projects with some interest but apparently thought little of the rest of his ministry: he recorded that Bernard was ‘making a very profitable concordance alphabetical’ but was ‘full of crotchesses [sic] and so good for nothing else but for such collections.’64 Despite some ambivalent or even negative assessments, Bernard’s invitations to meetings of godly clerics, receipt of occasional preferments within the church, and ability to continue finding publishers and audiences (with several works going into multiple editions) suggest respect from at least some corners of the church hierarchy, the godly community, and the purchasing public. Taking all this into account, along with the evidence in the following chapters, it is probably fair to characterise Bernard as dedicated and driven; willing to engage controversy when he thought necessary; and despite sometimes falling slightly outside the puritan mainstream, always remaining identifiably within that community. Although we cannot know the size of early modern reading audiences with precision, a reasonable portion of the public would have been fully or semi-literate: and even illiterate individuals could learn of the contents of publications through conversation, by hearing others read aloud, and by verbal repetition (as with catechisms).65 Further, literacy was particularly emphasised among members of the godly community, many of whom – even labourers by trade, such as Nehemiah Wallington – read and wrote for their own and others’ spiritual benefit.66 As we will see, sometimes Bernard catered to broader audiences through choices of genre and content; whereas other times he employed genres, citations, or vocabulary that would have been less accessible to audiences without formal education. This is not to suggest that there were no ‘crossover’ readers: but rather that (as we will see) he gave attention to ways to best communicate with his intended

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The pastor in print

audiences. Throughout his career, he experimented with ways to do this: producing works in a wide range of genres; utilising various literary forms; and innovating in various ways. Indeed, he seems to have been largely a pragmatist in genre, willing to use whatever style, form, or even page layout might best fit his intended function. With works targeting different types of audiences, with different sorts of content, and in different sizes (i.e. costs) and print runs, Bernard did not seek to cultivate the sort of regular, loyal following that was fostered by writers such as John Andrewes.67 However, insofar as he occasionally referred in one work to one of his other publications, it appears he expected some readers to have access to, or be interested to learn of, his other efforts. Reprints and revised editions provide a reference point for his popularity as an author. His best-known work, Isle of Man, saw a substantially revised fourth edition just a year after its initial publication and was in its eleventh edition at the time of his death. Several others, including Terence, Faithfvll Shepheard, Weekes Worke, Looke Beyond Luther, and his catechisms saw reprints and/or revisions within his life. But not all were so successful; notable is Dauids Musick, where the dedicatory epistle explained it was to test the market, and if it sold well that subsequent volumes would soon appear: no sequels were forthcoming. Nevertheless, one must not judge the impact of a work merely upon printings. Some works were timely (e.g. Christian Advertisements) or primarily intended for a limited audience (e.g. BibleBattells); these may have served their intended purposes with but one print run.68 Further, for some purposes it seems Bernard intentionally chose manuscript over print in order to limit his audience to a select group. His manuscript treatise against New England church-covenanting practices intended semi-private, brotherly correction rather than public censure.69 Beyond reprints and revised editions suggesting something of saleability, there is limited evidence regarding responses to Bernard’s publications. Among extant copies I viewed, many have marginal or interlinear dots or lines, manicules, corrections of errata, additions of cross-references, and similar notations; unfortunately, further marginalia proved too sporadic, and too brief, to compare or contextualise different reactions to content or types of use.70 Because of this, the following chapters make only limited mention of readers’ responses to individual publications. Though sources do not provide significant insights into reader uses, there is enough evidence to suggest that Bernard’s intentions for a book and readers’ practices were largely harmonious. For example, he described Isle as ‘a little pygmy to be carried abroad in any man’s pocket’ and extant copies of Isle – small, often in limp vellum with ties – suggest this intention for portability may have been realised in many cases.71 One copy of Isle contains the name of Joseph Mitchell and a date of 1633 alongside other names,

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Introduction

23

many with the same surname, suggesting it was passed among family members.72 Manuscript marginalia in copies of Thesaurus suggests readers were in fact approaching it as a reference work: a significant number of copies feature additions of cross-references or clarifications, corrections of errata or omissions where appropriate, and insertions of the occasional manicule, brief comment, or series of small marks alongside lists of citations to keep track of which references one had consulted.73 One copy of Weekes Worke features a cover embossed with flowers, gilt edges, and green ties that may suggest use as a devotional book for a female user; this concords with the publication’s devotional contents and dedicatory epistle to women.74 A copy of Ruths Recompence contains a manuscript poem on the verso of the final page mentioning the biblical example of the wise virgins who were ready with oil-filled lamps to encourage preparation for death – suggesting a user meditating upon a connection between the publication’s content and this illustration of faithful women.75 Subsequent chapters address Bernard’s life and work in further detail, with particular attention to parts of his career which display interconnections between pastoral ministry and print authorship. With that goal, we now turn to the study at hand.

Notes 1 Hill, Path-way to Prayer, sig. ¶4r. 2 Merritt, ‘Pastoral tightrope’, quotation p. 160. 3 Green, Christian’s ABC and Print and Protestantism; Bevan Zlatar, Reformation Fictions; Ryrie, Being Protestant. 4 Hughes, Gangraena; Hughes, ‘The meanings of religious polemic’ in Bremer (ed.), Congregational Communion; Lake, Boxmaker’s Revenge; Lake with Questier, Antichrist’s Lewd Hat; Lander, Inventing Polemic; Peacey, Print and Public Politics; and Walsham, Providence. 5 Towers, Control of Religious Printing; Clegg, Press Censorship in Jacobean England and Press Censorship in Caroline England; Milton, ‘Licensing, censorship’; Hunt, ‘Licensing and religious censorship’. 6 McGinnis, Gifford; Curtin, ‘Jacobean congregations’; Crome, ‘Language and millennialism’; Dixon, Predestinarians; Lake, Boxmaker’s Revenge; Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic; Willen, ‘Thomas Gataker’. 7 In modern scholarship, a few of Bernard’s publications see regular, typically brief, mention in certain subfields: notably Isle in studies of early modern literature and allegory; Faithfvll Shepheard in studies of clerical work; and Guide in studies of witchcraft and gender. His Ruths Recompence has been released in a modern critical edition (McAlister, Critical Edition). 8 Basil Morgan, ‘Crowley, Robert (1517x1519)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (ODNB); see also Blayney, Stationers’ Company, pp. 637–9.

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9 Walsh, English Exorcist, passim., including pp. 259–60 on Darrell’s only authorised publication; Gibson, Possession, Puritanism, and Print; Freeman, ‘Demons, deviance’. 10 For a brief survey of positions on the term ‘puritan’ see Pederson, Unity in Diversity, pp. 284–6. See also Lake, ‘Defining puritanism – again?’. In the present study I employ the terms ‘puritan’ and ‘godly’ interchangeably. This is in concert with much current usage but, perhaps ironically, opposite Bernard’s. He used ‘puritan’ as a term against which to align himself as a moderate by associating it with, for example, Anabaptism and Novatianism: Christian Advertisements, p. 1; Creede, p. 28. 11 Calderwood, ‘Elizabethan Protestant Press’, pp. 320–1. As Ian Green notes (Print and Protestantism, pp. 170–1), Calderwood’s study is not exhaustive and has certain shortcomings; nevertheless, the trends are suggestive. 12 Chapters 2–9 are chronological within chapters and, loosely, across chapters. (Chapter 4 looks at catechisms published occasionally from 1602 to 1630, while Chapter 5 returns to look closely at the decade of publishing beginning in 1626. Chapters 6 and 7 are flipped from what would be chronological order to place them within certain thematic subsections.) 13 Following the English Short-Title Catalogue, the 1607 and 1609 editions’ titles are transcribed as The Faithfvll Shepheard; the 1621 edition is The Faithfull Shepherd. 14 Bernard, Ready Way, sigs A3r–v. 15 Ibid., sigs A3v–4r mention the Cambridge connection with Montagu. On Smyth see Chapter 2. 16 ‘Richard Bernard (Person ID 55182)’ under which see Ordination Records (Record IDs 123218, 200465) and Liber Cleri Detail, Epworth (Record ID 231547), The Clergy of the Church of England Database 1540–1835 (CCEd). The 1600 Epworth parish register described him as ‘preacher of the word’: Lincolnshire Archives, Epworth Par/1/1, p. 48. Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1568, d. 1642)’, ODNB; see also Lloyd, ‘Communities of the Manor of Epworth’. 17 Bernard, Terence. 18 ‘Richard Bernard (Person ID 55182)’ under which see Appointment Record, Lincoln (Record ID 324906), CCEd. 19 Bernard, Ready Way, p. 312 margin. ‘Richard Bernard (Person ID 55182)’ under which see Appointment Record, Worksop (Record ID 76642), CCEd. 20 On Bowes see Newman, ‘Honourable and elect lady’; Clarke, Generall Martyrologie, p. 455; Thomas S. Freeman, ‘Darcy [née  Wray;  other married names Foljambe, Bowes] Isabel, Lady Darcy (d. 1622)’, ODNB. 21 We might date his subscription to late 1607: Marchant, Church Courts, pp. 153–4. As Marchant observes (and as we will see below), further issues of conformity would continue to arise in subsequent years. 22 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 82. 23 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), p. 7. 24 Bernard, Ready Way, p. 311; D. M. Barratt, ‘Introduction’, in Barratt (ed.), Ecclesiastical Terriers, vol. 1, pp. xxvi–xxx; Bernard later recalled leaning upon the extra generosity of parishioners: Ready Way, p. 311.

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Introduction

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25 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 2. Smyth suggested these as evidence of Bernard’s ‘greedy desire of livings’, and mentioned his ‘indignation’ etc. when the opportunities did not work out. Bernard’s response countered the portrayals of his motives but suggested the ‘instances’ mentioned were accurate: Plaine Euidences, p. 35. Some have taken Smyth’s spelling ‘Sawenbie’ for Sowerby; however, given location and date it seems clear that Saundby was the living in question: see Burgess, John Robinson, p. 415. 26 Boran (ed.), Correspondence, vol. 1 pp. 75–8, 197; BOD RL 89, fol. 29. 27 On Ussher and his puritan associations see Ford, Ussher, pp. 48ff., and passim. 28 Lincolnshire Archives, Epworth Par/1/1, p. 48; Marshall (ed.), Registers of Worksop, pp. 26–36, 124; Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1658, d. 1642)’, ODNB. The spelling of Cannanuel differs in Large Catechisme, Double Catechisme, and elsewhere; my spelling follows the CCEd (Person ID : 55180). Mary’s name is ‘Marye’ in the parish register but commonly ‘Mary’ in secondary sources: I follow this. 29 Collinson, ‘What’s in a name?’, pp. 117–18. See also Tyacke, ‘Popular puritan mentality’, pp. 77–92. 30 Bernard, Large Catechisme, sig. A2r. 31 Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1658, d. 1642)’, ODNB. Further on Cannanuel: BOD RL 89, fol. 28r–v; Bernard, Common Catechisme, sigs A2r– A2v; Hayward, ‘Pitney and its register book’, pp. 92–9; ‘Cannanuel Bernard (Person ID: 55180)’, CCEd. On Masakiell and Mary: Moore, Pilgrims, pp. 47, 62. On Mary: Francis Bremer, ‘Williams, Roger (c. 1606–1683)’, ODNB; Easton, ‘Mary Barnard’. 32 BOD RL 89, fol. 28r–v. 33 Stieg, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 102; Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1658, d. 1642)’, ODNB; SRO D/D/CA 299 fol. 57r. 34 Bernard, ‘Epistle Dedicatorie’, Ready Way, sig. A3v–A4r. 35 Bernard, Two Twinnes, sig. A2r. See also Shirley, ‘James Montagu’, pp. 398–9. 36 Stieg, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 107. ‘Richard Bernard (Person ID 55182)’ under which see Appointment Records, Batcombe (Record IDs 97010, 178247, and 291142), CCEd. Bernard’s father was named John (Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1658, d. 1642)’, ODNB), and a John Bernard of Downeside was a dedicatee of Staffe of Comfort. 37 BOD RL 89, fol. 28; see Batcombe’s glebe terrier, SRO D/D/rg/99. 38 BOD RL 89, fols 28–9. SRO D/D/RR/28 includes some extant parish registers noting baptisms, weddings, and burials. 39 See e.g. SRO D/D/Ca 297, Batcombe, 1634, passim; and SRO Q/SR/38/19; SRO Q/SR 56/74; SRO D/D/RR/28; SRO Q/SR/41/148. 40 Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 193–5. See also Collinson, ‘Shepherds, sheepdogs and hirelings’. 41 With resources such as the CCEd, it is possible to match most of the names mentioned with ministers active in or near Bath and Wells in this period. 42 ‘Richard Bernard (Person ID 55182)’ under which see Subscription Evidence Records, Dioc. of York (CCEd Record ID 36492) and Southwell (CCEd

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The pastor in print

Record ID 37642), CCEd; TNA Public Record Office LC 5/132, f. 45r. The latter also appears in CCEd: ‘Appointment Record, Chapel Royal (CCEd Record ID 147877)’. On Bernard’s position in Southwell see also Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, p. 258; Matthews, Walker Revised, p. 20. 43 For the latter, see Chapters 2, 8, respectively. On his content from the Southwell synod see Bernard, Two Twinnes. It has been suggested that he joined with other ministers in a petition on the etcetera oath, but the relevant document has the name of John Bernard of Winterborne Clenston: cf. Richard L. Greaves, ‘Richard Bernard’, ODNB; Webster, Godly Clergy, 232n; TNA State Papers 16/467 fols 131–2 (alternate foliation: 63, 63ii). 44 Crosfield, Diary, p. 48; Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, pp. 246–7; Como, Blown by the Spirit, p. 145; I am grateful to Kenneth Fincham for pointing me to these connections. Regarding examples of pastoral connections, the dedicatory epistle in Faithfull Shepherd (1621) mentions Alleine among several others. 45 Calamy, Abridgement, vol. 2, pp. 276–7; Clarke, Generall Martyrologie, p. 389; ‘Parochial Chapel: Batcombe, Upton Noble Chapel (CCEd Location ID 4315)’, CCEd. 46 On Cannanuel Bernard see above. 47 Bernard, Ready Way, sig. A8r. 48 John Conant, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Bernard, Thesaurus. 49 PHM CFM, John Cotton Papers, fols 92–127; AAS MFP, Box 1, Folder 1, 1639. One accompanying letter reproduced Cotton’s earlier letter to Samuel Skelton with new marginal annotations (likely in Bernard’s hand) in the second person, addressing Cotton. Another letter to Cotton (addressed ‘Sir’) mentioned a prior letter to Bernard. The first page of the elders’ reply also mentions a treatise Bernard sent to the ‘governor, magistrates, and commons’; see also Winthrop, Journal, p. 268; Bush, Correspondence, pp. 141, 257–62, 347. As I will discuss in a future study, Bernard may have been the recipient of Cotton’s letter later published as Coppy of a Letter. 50 AAS MFP, Box 1, Folder 1, 1639. 51 On various clerical intentions for, and uses of, books in support of continuing reformation of the church see e.g. Cambers, Godly Reading; and Thomas, ‘Collecting and reading’. 52 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 38–42, 94. 53 BOD RL 89, fols 28–9; PHM CFM, John Cotton Papers. 54 His letter to Ussher refers to a ‘kinsman Mr Kingston’ and suggests ‘cousin K’ might provide a copy of Looke Beyond Luther; BOD RL 89, fols 28–9, see Boran, Correspondence, vol. 1, p. 195n. 55 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), unpaginated final leaf [following p. 413]. 56 BOD RL 89, fols 28–9. 57 Bernard, Ready Way, sig. A4r. 58 Bernard had mentioned Rodney, Popham, and Hopton in Isle’s front matter. On Ashe see Chapter 8. 59 Bernard, Epistle, title page. 60 ‘__ __ to John Winthrop’, [1637–05], in WP.

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Introduction

27

61 John Conant, ‘To the reader’, in Bernard, Thesaurus, n.p. 62 AAS MFP, Box 1, Folder 1, 1639, pp. 96–7. 63 ‘__ __ to John Winthrop’, [1637–05], in WP. 64 HP 29/2/6A. 65 Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 163ff. See also Watt, Cheap Print. 66 Wallington, Notebooks, pp. 10–11, and passim. 67 On Andrewes see Lake, ‘Saving souls’. 68 Surveys of steady sellers that went to multiple editions (notably Green, Print and Protestantism) are undeniably helpful but can tend to obscure the importance of, and audience for, certain timely works. 69 PHM CFM, John Cotton Papers. This was not another instance of censorship: the manuscript’s content against church-covenanting would not have found the same sorts of objection from Laudian licensers that Bernard’s other works of the 1630s experienced; further, he did not bring this treatise to press even in 1640–41 as his other previously rejected publications appeared. 70 It is certainly possible that some volume or volumes with significant marginalia might be found among sources I did not happen to view; extant copies of Bernard’s works are numerous, held in many collections both public and private. 71 Bernard, Isle (1627), n.p. 72 BOD Vet. A2 f. 81. 73 Such marginalia appears with relative frequency. One example is BOD 1055 d2 (Thesaurus); its marginal and interlinear markings include, beside the entry for ‘Sinne’, a cross-reference to the relevant page below in Abstract; beside ‘Selah’, a brief expansion of the meaning of the term; and under ‘Christ’, in a subsection enumerating Old Testament scriptures referring to Christ, dots beside some references, others crossed out, one corrected, and one reference and one cross-reference added. 74 BEI Mhc5 B456 W4 Weekes Worke (1616). 75 BEI MLx350 628b Ruths Recompence (1628).

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Part I

Religious goals: pastoral approaches to devotion, vocation, and print

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1

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The ubiquity of ‘the devotional’

Bernard’s corpus offers much illumination on puritan devotional practices including divine meditation. As we will see below, he encouraged and demonstrated meditative thought in such works as Contemplative Pictures (1610) and his best-selling Isle of Man (1626), and he discussed the practice of meditation in publications including his pastoral manual Faithfvll Shepheard (1607; rev. 1609, 1621) and his reference work Thesaurus Biblicus (1644). But perhaps most striking is that Bernard included meditative content across a markedly wide range of publications. The present chapter explores this, considering what we can learn about divine meditation by taking a broad view of the occasions, and genres, wherein meditative patterns of thought might appear. This chapter has two primary aims. First, based on descriptions and examples of meditation by Bernard and some of his puritan contemporaries, it offers a new way to conceive of puritan divine meditation. As one of the most individual and interior devotional practices, divine meditation poses inherent challenges for scholarly analysis. Here, I suggest that one way forward is to observe that it involved making mental associations between the spiritual and the natural worlds: this allows us to identify moments in which it undergirded and linked various aspects of thought and writing, even in genres we might not initially associate with private devotion. Secondly, this chapter is a long way of setting up one of this book’s underlying assumptions about early modern religion and, by extension, early modern religious print. There are, of course, many other underlying assumptions that did not merit their own chapter; these are addressed throughout the book, through citations or in-text explanations, as they arise. Yet the question of how to treat ‘devotional’ activities and publications deserves a more extensive investigation, as the debate has some longevity and scholars remain far from consensus. In 2002, Peter Lake and Michael Questier argued (vis-à-vis then-recent works by Alexandra Walsham, Ian Green, and others) for a need to move away from tendencies to too easily assume unity, and rather ‘to allow for instability, conflict and contradiction; and to leave

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Religious goals

room for a notion of change that was the product of the interaction … between the actions and intentions of particular groups and individuals’; they further pushed back against suggestions that ministers played down controversial religious doctrines in their day-to-day pastoral work.1 Yet certain subsequent studies of early modern religion – notably Alec Ryrie’s Being Protestant in Reformation Britain – have continued to address devotional activities and devotional publications separately from theological controversies, politics, and other matters deemed to have had little bearing on internal, affective piety. This chapter (indeed, this book) is concerned to do the opposite: to emphasise the interdependence and interconnectedness of ‘the devotional’ with one’s full experience of the world: politics, theology, society, controversy, economics, vocation, family, and more. Attempts to address religious thought or pious activity in isolation from these broader categories obscure the frameworks and circumstances into which these practices spoke, and from which they gained meaning. Only by treating ‘the devotional’ as being of a piece with, and integrated throughout, many types and genres of religious writing (and many aspects of life) are we properly equipped to consider pastor-authors’ aims.

Defining puritan meditation Divine meditation has been important within many strains of Christianity, developing in different ways within various settings. A body of (primarily literary) scholarship has addressed the similarities, differences, and influences between pre- and post-Reformation meditative practices on the Continent and in England, including identifying influences upon the puritan meditative tradition; however, studies of the theological trends within puritan meditation itself are less common.2 Attention to the personal and interior aspects of Christian practice has included discussions of meditation’s relationship to other, sometimes private, devotional practices or activities (e.g. reading, writing, hearing) – and to issues not only of personal belief but also of personal identity.3 Nevertheless, puritan divine meditation has proven difficult for scholars to pin down in terms of associated activities or in terms of desired intellectual and affective states. As a way forward, in the first portion of what follows I propose a more capacious definition of meditation than has previously been under discussion by scholars of this period. Surveying several godly authors’ explanations and instructions about the practice, I suggest that the unifying characteristic across different sorts and instances of puritan divine meditation was that they all involved making mental connections – associative links – between

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The ubiquity of ‘the devotional’

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the spiritual and the natural worlds. In one sense, this link-making was a particular mental move that one could do in a discrete moment; in another sense it was, or could become, more than that. One mental association could lead to another, and another; with regular practice this could become a way of life as one meditated (as was encouraged) ‘day and night’ – toward the desired ends of inflaming one’s affections for God, and prompting godly actions.4 In other words, meditative thought involved making more or less discrete mental associations between the natural and the spiritual that, when practised regularly, could expand to become almost a state of perpetual contemplation in which one made mental links between the spiritual and the natural virtually without distinction. This was possible precisely because puritan meditation was all about engagement of the divine with one’s life and one’s perceptions of the world. In this expansive, continuous way of thinking, one did not have to abandon thoughts of the necessary duties of life; rather, one could be attentively engaged with these details even while considering them within a spiritual framework: and again, toward the goal of having meditation result in God-centred affections and actions. By defining the key mental activity of puritan meditation in terms of associative thought, we avoid problematic categories that have limited our understanding of this practice, and we better comprehend contemporary descriptions of the practice, including exhortations toward continuous meditative activity. This definition does not lead us away from traditional understandings of meditation or meditative thought; on the contrary, it allows for and undergirds previous observations about meditation’s frequent connections with reading, writing, and praying; with (as Robert Hall put it) ‘looking through’ objects to spiritual messages; and more.5 The difference is that by locating a common, unifying centre – the making of associative links between the natural and spiritual worlds – we gain a basis upon which to make distinctions about what was (or what was not) meditative, and why. It also allows us to avoid wedding our descriptions of meditation too closely to reading and writing (practices to which it was certainly related, but which if implicit in the discipline would keep illiterate members of the godly community from participating – and yet for whom there is no indication of an exception in descriptions of the practice). In what follows, I use ‘meditation’ to refer to the intentional and selfconscious practice of this mental devotional activity with the goal of fostering godly affections and actions. I use ‘meditative thought’ to refer to any application – self-conscious or not – of the sort of associative thought in which one made mental connections between the spiritual and the natural worlds. The term ‘meditative thought’ does not imply that associative linkages between the spiritual and the natural are exclusively wed to, nor

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Religious goals

exclusively a result of, the practice of meditation. On the contrary, they had a place in much godly intellectual work – including, as we will see below, sermons, reading, and writing. In the early Stuart period, godly divines agreed about many aspects of the practice of meditation. It should be founded upon a right understanding of the Bible, engage the intellect and the emotions, and have some relationship to one’s own life and spiritual condition. Simon Chan’s work has shown that by the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century, many godly divines had begun to develop a nuanced understanding of divine meditation. Among them, leaders such as William Perkins and Richard Greenham began to portray meditation as fostering a ‘deeper level of engagement’ with spiritual truth. The systematising work of Richard Rogers, along with works by Joseph Hall and Stephen Egerton, led toward seeing meditation as a key means of grace distinct from, yet related to, disciplines such as prayer and scripture reading. Meditation was particularly significant for its ability to stir up the affections toward a ‘lively faith’.6 Kate Narveson has described these desired responses to meditation as an ‘application to the self’; during meditation, one would find personal experiences to be interpretable through scripture.7 Functioning in a similar way to applications found in sermons, meditation was expected to lead to some kind of personal transformation, such as in one’s emotions, perceptions, or activities.8 It disciplined the mind toward God-centred thoughts that would both encourage and habituate a godly disposition of mind, emotion, and will. Several godly authors conceived of two general categories of meditation: settled (or deliberate) and occasional. In the former, one carefully analysed a text or a spiritual idea in order to draw out principles or observations relevant to one’s knowledge of the world and, usually, to one’s own situation in life. This was, in a sense, linking the spiritual to the natural. One considered the Bible, a sermon, or a doctrinal concept and then applied those thoughts to make sense of the world as one experienced it. Alternatively, occasional meditation on particular occurrences (i.e. on God’s works) involved connecting one’s knowledge of, or experiences in, the world with some spiritual concept – linking the natural to the spiritual. As Robert Hall put it, meditation should draw one’s thoughts from the earthly to the spiritual by ‘looking through’ physical objects to spiritual ideas; ‘we should still be climbing up in our thoughts, from Earth to Heaven; and suffer no object to cross us in our way without some spiritual use, and application’.9 In a manual posthumously printed in 1640, John Ball defined settled meditation as ‘a purposed and advised bending of the mind, to consider, and muse on some good and wholesome matter, with resolution to work the heart into an holy temper, to which end we separate ourselves from all companies and occasions that might distract us’.10 Richard Bernard described

The ubiquity of ‘the devotional’

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the practice in Thesaurus, and included a list of several things ‘whereon to meditate’: I. On Gods law and word, statutes, commandments, precepts, Psa[l]. 1.2 Psal. 119.15.23.48.78.148. And this meditation stands: 1. In understanding the sense. 2. In sound proof of it. 3. In remembering it for use. 4. In applying it for doctrine, instruction, reproof, convincing error, conversion, and for consolation, 2 Tim. 3.16. Rom. 15.4. Psal. 119.7.8. II. On his works, Psal. 143.5. and 77.12. and 119.97.99. To behold him in them, Rom. 1.20. Acts 14.17. To hate idols, Acts 17.23–29. To praise him and to glorify him, Rom. 1.21. and to speak of them, Psal. 145.5.6. and 73.28. & 105.2. III. On the duties of our calling, 1 Tim. 4.15.11

This arrangement emphasised that no matter whether the meditation began on the Word (i.e. settled) or on God’s works or one’s calling (i.e. occasional), it should be wedded to a right understanding of scripture. It was largely an intellectual practice, but it included activities and affective elements such as beholding, hating, and praising. And it involved applying biblical material to one’s own life; meditators were to take general principles and uses drawn from the text and discern areas of life that these would affect.12 Extrapolating from the suggestions in Section I. 4., these might include reforming one’s personal understanding of certain spiritual concepts, changing one’s behaviour, pursuing new feelings or emotions, or even fully changing one’s spiritual alignment. Related to the idea that meditation involved praising and glorifying God, and speaking of His works, elsewhere Bernard also highlighted the interwoven nature of meditation and prayer. For example, one passage described the two activities concurrently and as closely related; elsewhere, he provided an exemplary prayer with content reflecting matter he had previously recommended for meditation.13 This underscored both the coincident performance and the related components of these practices. Though important for all believers, Bernard saw meditation as closely bound up with ministerial activities. In his manual for pastors, The Faithfvll Shepheard, he observed that even above other vocations, the spiritual calling to the ministry ‘in every part thereof enforceth upon a man heavenly meditations’.14 He further suggested that no minister’s intellectual or rhetorical abilities could eliminate the need for meditation and related disciplines: ‘the best wit readiest to conceive, the firmest memory to retain; nor

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the volublest tongue to utter (excellent gifts but much abused to idleness and vain glory) may not exempt a man from studying, reading, writing sometime, meditation and continual prayer’.15 Bernard saw a particularly close connection between meditation and the central function of a minister’s work, preaching. This ‘should not be a labor of the lips, or talk of the tongue from a light imagination: but a serious meditation of the heart in grounded knowledge by much study and illumination of the spirit’; it was further necessary after composing a sermon as one sought to internalise the content before delivery.16 More than merely complementary, preaching and meditation were closely wed; Barbara Lewalski observes that Protestant thought in this period went so far as to understand sermons as a meditation on a text to be shared with hearers.17 Both involved thoughtful consideration of ways to connect spiritual concepts with human experiences and anticipated responses in both emotion and action. In the above quotation from Thesaurus, Bernard described a structure for meditation on God’s law based upon understanding, proof, use, and application: these elements appeared in godly sermons. There may have been a similar association behind the third set of things upon which Thesaurus suggested meditating, the ‘duties of one’s calling’, since it referenced a section of scripture in which Paul exhorted Timothy to be a faithful minister. Bernard at one point went so far as to nearly conflate sermon writing and meditation: Great is the benefit of writing sermons. It helps to a style in speaking: it preserves a man’s pains for the time to come, by which he may afterwards judge of his own increase in knowledge, may pleasure himself by perusing over former meditations (easily read over in a book, but very hardly, if at all, called again to remembrance) and may also perhaps benefit others upon just occasion, such may the pains be.18

Some published sermons were even identified on the title page as meditations – language which would further unite readers’ views of the two practices.19 While deliberate meditation was important as a regular discipline, occasional meditation was equally important. Ball defined it as ‘a serious bending of the mind, to think upon some good and profitable subject, being occasioned thereunto by such things as (by the providence of God) do offer themselves to our senses, eyes, and ears, as we go about the duties of our calling, or be exercised in some honest, and lawful recreation’.20 It frequently involved constructing associations that began with life experiences and related these to spiritual concepts. Though in a sense spontaneous, such meditations were not happenstance: they were ordered by providence. Individuals would sometimes record occasional meditations in a volume for personal review or broader distribution; Joseph Hall was one prominent

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author of such exemplary meditations. While Hall composed both ‘divine’ and ‘moral’ meditations, he gave special attention to divine meditations and authored a key manual on the topic.21 (The line between ‘moral’ and ‘divine’ meditations was indistinct; even meditations which did not directly gesture to scripture or theological concepts were generally based in principles derived from Judeo-Christian practice.) Hall’s occasional meditations, typically one to two paragraphs in length, covered a range of subjects; moved quickly from concrete, natural images to abstract, spiritual or moral ideas; and often included a prayer-like petition. For instance, one meditation considered how a shooting star, previously appearing as other stars but ultimately revealed to be only a meteor illuminated by the sun, was similar to those who made Christian professions but later apostasised; it concluded with a prayer related to avoiding self-deceit and having a true profession.22 Nearly all Hall’s meditations followed this pattern, with the entirety thus underscoring how the natural reflected and reminded one of the spiritual. Though its experience-based nature resisted the prescription or planning common to deliberate meditation, some divines attempted to help believers practice occasional meditations more methodically. Certain manuals on Christian living helped readers anticipate occasions that were likely to occur and provided suggested meditations for them, thus creating an interesting blend between deliberate and occasional practices. Two notable works which did this were Lewis Bayly’s Practise of Pietie and Henry Scudder’s Christians Daily VValke. Unlike Hall’s set of occasional meditations which appeared more or less in isolation, Bayly and Scudder portrayed occasional meditation as interwoven with other activities including deliberate meditation, prayer, self-examination, and godliness in all of life. Among broad-ranging exhortations, both authors walked readers through certain circumstances – for example, morning and evening routines – in which nearly every action had a spiritual corollary that might prompt occasional meditations.23 For example, ‘betwixt your awaking and arising’, Scudder exhorted, one might ponder awaking ‘from the sleep of sin to righteousness’ and from death to life in the last day. Scudder saw even one’s most basic morning and evening habits as corollaries for various spiritual concepts and any waking moment as a necessary time for spiritual thought. This passage also illustrated the closeness that occasional meditation had to specific passages of scripture. For instance, in the passage wherein sleep was considered as a reminder of death, he included a section of Romans 13 with (as throughout the work) other marginal scripture references.24 As such passages in Scudder, Bayly, and Hall suggest, occasional meditation had the distinction of being always available to the godly individual. This feature of constant practicability blurred the boundaries between meditation as a discrete practice and meditation as a spiritual-intellectual

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state of being. By habituating practices of both deliberate and occasional meditation, one could approach a mental position in which all thoughts were processed through a godly theological framework. This approached a state of constant or continuous meditation – which is indeed what the godly themselves were after. In regard to the frequency of meditative activity, Hall wrote ‘To do well, no object should pass us without use; every thing that we see, reads us new lectures of wisdom, and piety; … thus to teach weak minds, how to improve their thoughts, upon all like occasions.’25 Other godly writers echoed these themes. Richard Rogers observed the necessity of meditating ‘day and night’ and that even when the ear or tongue could not be focused upon the Word of God, the heart could: ‘should we not constantly take up our hearts in heavenly cogitations, as we are willed, Col. 3.2. when we see, that all other are but vanity and vexation of spirit?’26 Drawing on Rogers and Richard Greenham, Thomas Cooper mentioned meditation more than twenty times as a means to accomplish the daily duties Christians should pursue.27 The preface to Richard Sibbes’s meditations exhorted, God himself commanded Joshua when he was elected governor, that he should meditate upon the Law of Moses both day and night, to the end he might perform the things written therein … Moses addeth this clause … These words must remain in thy heart, thou must meditate upon them, both at home and abroad, when thou goest to bed, and when thou risest in the morning.28

The emphasis upon frequency in meditation highlights the necessity of its ‘occasional’ practice. Few individuals would have leisure to perform deliberate meditation on anything approaching a continuous basis; yet all had the ability to turn daily experiences into regular, personal consideration of spiritual concepts. By making consistent, active efforts to move one’s thoughts from the natural to the spiritual, and from the spiritual to the natural, one began to form a worldview in which the two were closely intertwined. One began to perceive actions in one realm as having consequences in the other, and things in one as often echoing some reality in the other. These thoughts could play out further as one’s emotions and actions also began to fall in line with this mental (and spiritual) activity. This move, in which one made associations among subjects that were not necessarily otherwise related, was at the heart of meditation’s goal to connect the spiritual and natural realms. Barbara Lewalski has observed about Protestant meditation that ‘instead of the application of the self to the subject, it calls for the application of the subject to the self’, and Kate Narveson has further addressed application to the self within meditation.29 It is true that puritan descriptions of meditative practice involved some connection to the self, at least insofar as meditation should affect one’s intellect, emotions, and will. Moreover, meditations

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were necessarily personal in that one could only meditate on subjects about which one was aware. And the ultimate fruit of meditation was explicitly personal, over time prompting changes in one’s affections or actions, as we saw above. Nevertheless, it should simultaneously be emphasised that meditative thought provided a way to make mental connections between the entire natural world – not merely the self – and the spiritual. To form these meditative associations, some imagination was required. This is perhaps most obvious when we consider the practice of linking spiritual concepts with personal experiences – an aspect of godly sermon construction also common throughout godly meditative practices. Such thought necessarily involved creativity; although Scriptural meditation could seem formulaic, it did provide ‘an independence of self-construction’ as individuals ‘examined their own experience, and … selected the specific scriptural and doctrinal frameworks by which they interpreted these experiences’.30 An aspect of creativity remained even when meditation was in regard to things outside one’s personal experience. Susan Felch has argued that Psalm collage and Psalm paraphrase, written devotional practices related to prayer, were creative authorial compositions.31 Some meditations, like the works Felch examines, focused upon scripture or doctrine that was removed (in certain senses) from personal experience. Yet as with these prayer practices, one can identify elements of creativity as individuals combined and connected ideas in particular ways. Of course, wherever there was creativity or innovation, there was the opportunity for unorthodox belief to emerge. For this reason, godly meditative thought required a strong theological foundation. In other words, meditation depended upon the existence of both a creative and a theological element: otherwise it became a mere recollection of doctrine or an unguided imagination. Personal religious writing can provide a window into ways that authors may have been performing this type of internal, mental activity. When such writing was published, it went further by intentionally sharing such patterns of meditative thought with audiences, and in a sense even transferring those meditations to them (we saw sermons described as shared meditations; this is a similar move). Readers following along were invited to take up the meditation, with the opportunity to pursue it in different ways in their own minds. This sharing of meditations certainly occurred in works that discussed devotional practices, but as we will see, they were also embedded within works from a large variety of genres.

Meditative thought in Bernard’s publications We have seen that Bernard followed godly trends in his descriptions of meditation’s practice, influence, effects, similarities to sermons, and more. Yet he

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did not only describe the practice; he used it himself. Some uses are, clearly, intentional examples for readers. Others are less prominent and appear less self-conscious, perhaps reflecting the degree to which he had habituated meditative patterns of thought into his own mental processes. Regardless of intention, we see Bernard making meditative linkages between the natural and the spiritual in a large range of his works – even those whose primary purpose was not devotional. This is not to say that Bernard was singular; rather, he intermixed devotional ideas throughout his publications in ways typical of many pastor-authors. Yet because he wrote in such a large variety of genres, and on many different topics, several portions of his work are particularly helpful to illustrate this point, providing a useful lens through which to observe the ubiquity of the devotional, as well as the ways that he applied his theology of meditation in several different contexts. Among his works providing exemplary meditations, Contemplative Pictures (1610) is an early instance. Dedicating this work to the family of Edmund Lord Sheffield, to whom he wished ‘heavenly joys in spiritual meditations’, Bernard explained that the pictures in this work were ‘not popish and sensible for superstition; but mental for divine contemplation; whereto are added wholesome precepts for direction after godly meditation. God’s picture, to behold him, that is so good; to admire his excellency, to fear his majesty, to praise his bounty.’32 This explicitly connected his ‘pictures’ to the practice of meditation and also exhorted readers to use them to ‘admire’, ‘fear’, and ‘praise’ – precisely the sorts of emotional responses associated with meditation in Thesaurus and elsewhere.33 Likewise, in the picture of ‘badness’, he introduced an extensive chain of association using human physical development from conception to nursing to illustrate the nature of sinful activity.34 Placing abstract spiritual concepts within a tangible, intensely human framework made them easier to understand; yet keeping the analogy close to an explanation of the meaning of each kept him from losing his spiritual focus. Because Contemplative Pictures contained elements of both settled and occasional meditation, it is difficult to categorise; yet it clearly fell within the scope of the meditative tradition and meant to provide readers with profitable paths of thought about spiritual beings and principles. Indeed, there is no need to see a hard division between deliberate and occasional practices, as meditative patterns of thought were able to run in several directions and need not precisely replicate a paradigm. As I discuss in Chapter 5, the work also featured anti-Catholic framing on its title page (‘not popish’) and in its prefatory matter: a context which would have influenced how readers approached the content. With the publication A Weekes Worke, Bernard again provided examples of meditations for readers, this time set up more obviously according to the

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practice of occasional meditation.35 It made use of a dialogue, a common technique in religious works aimed at popular audiences.36 Interestingly, forming a mental picture of the setting of the dialogue itself required readers or hearers to begin something akin to the creative thought also involved in meditation. This dialogue’s setting was grounded in human experience but led toward spiritual goals, directing the use of one’s imagination toward spiritual ends. In the work, Bernard moved seamlessly back and forth from the spiritual to the natural: from imagining a conversation to providing religious instruction through that conversation, from seeing with the (physical or mental) eye to contemplating invisible attributes of God, and from considering the scripture to applying it to daily life. Weekes Worke also encouraged believers toward personal holiness in daily life by suggesting ways to associate common experiences with spiritual realities, containing written meditations to accompany typical activities, especially in one’s morning and evening routines. Thus, it underscored understand the importance of spiritual practices such as meditation, and it provided tangible help for readers to apply these teachings to their lives. By supplying detailed sample meditations and sample prayers, Bernard helped readers implement meditative practices consistently within their regular thoughts.37 Amidst such prompts to meditative thought were encouragements to respond; for example, a list of things on which to meditate had instructions including ‘lifting up thy heart’ and ‘acknowledging him’.38 In 1621, Bernard published another work intended to facilitate prayer and meditation: The Good Mans Grace, Or His Stay in All Distresse. This ‘little manual,’ he explained, ‘is thus little of purpose, that it may be often read over, to help only for matter of meditation, to further you in prayer’.39 Its several sections included a poetic ‘exposition’ of the Lord’s prayer in rhyming triplets; a more traditional exposition of that text which included a list of doctrinal points under each phrase; a ‘Prayer for a family at all times’; and an ‘Admonitory conclusion’ encouraging repentance from several false belief systems. This reflected the affinity among study, meditation, and prayer: the exposition of a text flowed naturally into a consideration of ways that the text could apply to one’s life and a prayerful response to both the text and its application.40 If Bernard envisioned this work being used in household devotions (as, e.g., the family prayer suggests), it would further underscore the importance he placed upon meditation: a discipline for godly householders to pass on to those under their care. Moreover, by meditating on certain aspects of the Christian life, one could simultaneously develop one’s prayer practices: It is then necessary that this short prayer [the Lord’s prayer] be well understood: for which cause I have made this short exposition, and drawn out briefly manifold observations … It will administer sufficient matter for meditation,

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at all times, and upon any occasion, to enlarge our thoughts in prayer: the practice whereof is the special grace of a Christian.41

An ‘Admonitory conclusion’ described, and gave instructions for departing from, ten belief systems and practices. Though brief, this section continued the work’s focus on personal belief and piety, but also introduced certain relatively complex theological issues. For example, it included a statement that departing from ‘Papism’ included identifying the Pope as Antichrist: this was a rather controversial theological topic, but in the context of this publication was, apparently, also fit matter for meditation.42 While several of Bernard’s didactic publications encouraged and demonstrated the practice of meditation, he also included demonstrations of meditative thought in other contexts. For instance, in his 1602 Large Catechisme, following some prayers (perhaps, again, for family worship) Bernard appended several hymns, which closely followed the wording of various sections of the Psalms, comparing passages with one another and with one’s own current life situation.43 Their content further suggests the interconnectedness Bernard saw among prayer, meditative thought, biblical exposition, and personal application. Frequently taking phrases directly from scripture, the hymns not only addressed God in a prayerful mode but also used a meditative framework to relate God’s actions to one’s own experiences. For example, ‘A psalm entreating God for his grace to live well’ incorporated meditative thought by constructing a narrative of God’s providence in a believer’s life: O lord out of my mothers womb, / I came by thy request, Thou didst preserve me still in hope, / while I did suck her breast. I was committed from my birth, / with thee to have abode: Since I was in my mothers womb, / thou hast been ever my God. Then as in youth from wanton rage, / thou didst me keep and stay, Forsake me not unto mine age, / and till my head be gray.44

Here, the links between the spiritual and the natural were grounded in personal experiences. The passage poetically combined ideas from multiple scripture passages with an awareness of God’s provision in one’s life.45 Another hymn drew connections between scripture and contemporary national and international events: ‘A psalm and prayer for the Queen’s Majesty’ connected texts about Israel’s king to England’s Elizabeth.46 Comparing England and Israel was a common exegetical move, and it was also one that reflected meditative activity, taking Scriptural texts and applying them (again as in a sermon) to specific contemporary circumstances. Here, the use of that exegetical association in the context of an affective intercessory prayer only reinforced the meditative and devotional valences of the passage.

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Bernard’s 1626 allegory Isle of Man might initially appear to be merely devotional. Yet it was composed in the immediate contexts of fraught social and religious issues including witchcraft and Catholicism (see Chapters 5, 7). Moreover, its editions developed amidst theological questions about the validity of its allegorical approach. Regarding the latter, godly writers had previously used forms of metaphor or imaginative association within their devotional publications: but Isle went further, immersing readers within an allegorical setting. Written as a narrative yet with certain elements of a drama, Isle had two main parts. The first followed efforts to identify and apprehend Sin, while the second portrayed a trial in which Sin, Mistress Heart, and Papistry were tried for their crimes and judged guilty. The latter serves as another reminder that polemical concerns were interwoven with devotional ones; here so significantly way that Towers categorises Isle as an ‘anti-Catholic polemic’.47 The allegorical Isle was more than a polemic: but it was not less than that. That the book was a commercial success – easily Bernard’s best seller – suggests a popular appetite for this type of literature. Yet some readers apparently criticised Isle not merely ‘for making an allegory: but in following it so largely, and for inserting … some things, for the weightiness of the matter therein contained, not seeming grave enough as the parables of Christ & his prophets were’.48 Bernard does not specify which sections were particularly objectionable to his critics; but one might consider, for example, a scene in which after a lascivious feast everyone lodged in the same room: ‘Mistress Heart, all her Maids, her man Will, and all her guests together, like wild Irish’; it named multiple bedfellows for the women.49 The narrative emphasised relationships between heart attitudes and specific sins rather than describing what went on in bed: but one can imagine how such content might raise concern among certain readers. In a revised fourth edition, Bernard defended his approach against ‘rigidly grave’ opponents and faulted them for avoiding laughter. For those to whom ‘laying those things down in a continued allegory’ seemed problematic, he enumerated the doctrinal concepts that could be learned through the work, noted biblical uses of the genre, and explained: the allegory would draw many to read, which might be as a bait to catch them, perhaps, at unawares and to move them to fall into a meditation at the length of the spiritual use thereof … I pray you still accept of him [i.e. the book] for whose sake, to further your spiritual meditation, I have sent him out with these contents, and more marginal notes.50

Bernard defended his use of allegory by insisting that it was related to the discipline of spiritual meditation. Moreover, he went on in this revision

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to make the meditative properties of Isle, and their uses, more explicit. Additional marginal notes and a contents section clarified the connection of each portion of the allegory with a particular spiritual concept. These references would have helped readers break the work down into briefer passages with corresponding spiritual teachings, which more closely followed the brief, familiar pattern of occasional meditations. Notably, these alterations in response to their concerns were para-textual; the retention of his original ideas and original genre in the main text underscores that he saw no issue with allegory, and further solidifies that for him a rigid theological structure and religious aims could complement the lighthearted, narrative elements. He even commended the work as appropriate for Sabbath reading; as a strong Sabbatarian (see Chapter 8), this indicated that he believed not merely that it lacked objectionable content, but that it had positive spiritual benefit. Isle provided ideas that might assist readers in their own meditations. It proposed that readers use their imaginations to connect knowledge of criminal and legal processes with a variety of abstract spiritual concepts. As such, it clearly echoed a definition of divine meditation as the focused mental activity of linking the spiritual and the natural; further, it fostered awareness of and connection with the divine.51 Through this creative process, Bernard expected that readers would understand themselves in a more complete way and become more equipped to follow God and eradicate sin from their lives. In order to effectively foster godly devotion, Bernard needed Isle to perform two functions. It had to creatively capture readers’ attention in order to help them understand these spiritual concepts in a new way, and it also had to restrain creativity in order to keep readers’ imaginations from wandering outside an orthodox understanding of God. In this way, the Scriptural and the imaginative remained in balance, and the purposes of divine meditation were furthered. Yet as an allegory, the extensive imaginative components could easily veer into theologically uncertain, extra-biblical grounds. In order to balance this creative content, Bernard framed the narrative along a structure that emphasised detailed enumeration of ideas and their relationships, adopting key aspects of Ramist organisation (which, importantly, was closely associated with godly theology and sermon-making). This framework kept Bernard’s allegory on firm theological footing. For instance, consider the following, a typical passage from Isle: The Chief Constable is he to whom Godly-Jealousy bringeth his warrant, to seek out the rebel Sin and to attach him. This Constable having received the warrant, presently addresseth himself to make the search. … this man takes with him sufficient company, to watch sin for escaping, to go very strongly to attach him, & to hold him when they have him, so as never a friend may dare to side with him.

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First, he taketh his own two servants, Humility and Self-Denial, which ever in every search necessarily attend him. Then going together, he calleth upon his next neighbor; Godly-Sorrow, with his seven sons, ready to bear them company … The first of these is Care to find out sin, that it may not be hid. The second is Clearing, which, when he espieth sin, will not wink thereat, nor partake with it. The third is Indignation, a fierce fellow, which can never look upon any sin, but with a godly anger. The fourth is Fear, not natural or dastardly fear, nor servile fear, all too base-minded to attach sin, but such a fear as maketh him to stand in awe of God, rejecting all fellowship with the wicked and partakers with sin. [Enumeration of the seven sons continues.]52

Throughout the work, similar lists show the relationships between, and the component parts of, godly and sinful thoughts, behaviours, and attitudes. Many had rather complex relationships: for instance, an earlier passage had identified four types of authorities, representing four types of understanding; the Chief Constable in the quoted passage was Illuminated Understanding, one of these four. Such relationships, often hierarchical, were clarified as the plot progressed. Thus a diagram of this portion of Isle’s content would begin with Illuminated Understanding, and then branch out to show his charge of three helpers: Humility, Self-Denial, and Godly-Sorrow. Then, in turn, Godly-Sorrow would branch to show seven offspring (Care, Clearing, et al.). Drawn out, this would look remarkably like a Ramist diagram. It is well known that Puritan ministers frequently used Ramist patterns of thought to structure their sermons and their didactic writings. This intellectual method was said to reflect the natural workings of the human mind as created by God – and thus served as an objective method of analysis that could hold new, potentially slippery, ideas squarely in check. Moreover, it was easy to understand, emphasised practical application of knowledge, and involved key visual components.53 Bernard had already used aspects of this method in several of his didactic publications. Even so, it might initially seem surprising that this logical, academic structure would form the foundation of a creative work. Metaphor, and by extension allegory, created links by describing one idea in terms of another in order to show the first in a new light, draw out distinctions, or elucidate relationships. Likewise, Ramist thought focused on creating connections by helping one understand relationships and hierarchies among ideas. They could, therefore, balance one another even as they both furthered the production of associative thought. Meditation made mental connections between ideas, often in new ways (not necessarily unprecedented, but tailored to specific situations). But Bernard and other godly ministers would insist that taken too far, unfettered imagination

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regarding spiritual concepts could lead to error or idolatry. There needed to be a balance between creativity and orthodoxy. Isle’s allegory pushed hard at the creative and imaginative side of meditation: in a sense adding weight to one side of a balance. In order to keep the meditation theologically grounded, he had to simultaneously add weight to the doctrinal side of the scale. He accomplished this balance by framing his allegory along the recognised, scholarly foundation of Ramist thought. In other words, it was important that Bernard employ an accepted logical structure (and one often used to construct sermons and religious treatises, at that) in the realisation of this creative piece. He needed a structure rigid enough to provide a strong theological footing, yet flexible enough to facilitate his creation of connections between ideas. In a period when godly ministers were concerned about remaining closely tied to the Word in all their efforts, Bernard’s ties to Ramist logic became a key foundation that allowed him to innovate within his creative writing. As such, he could be theologically grounded even amidst a wide-ranging allegory. At this point, one might sense a tension – or as Bernard’s opponents saw it, an incompatibility – between the imaginative and the theological elements. Yet to suggest that such a tension existed for Bernard himself would be to misunderstand the nature of Isle and his purposes in composing the work. He did not compose the allegory and then attempt to squeeze a transgressive format into accepted standards of godly religious thought. On the contrary, for Bernard the allegory was anything but radical. It grew out of, and flourished within, his longstanding theological programme of helping popular audiences learn and practice religious principles: ‘if all would do, as some have done, first to read it [Isle] after the letter, and then attend piously to the spiritual sense, they would attain to that, which in so penning it, I aimed at’.54 Many of the above examples consider meditative elements within texts that heavily featured content such as prayers, poetry, allegory, and even exemplary meditations. But meditative thought appeared in a much wider range of genres. Bernard integrated meditative thought in A Staffe of Comfort to Stay the Weake from Falling, a collection of pastoral instructions in a question-and-answer format intended to address a variety of fears and doubts. Both the questions and the answers in this work frequently included connections drawn from scripture; for example, several biblical images related to healing were suggested to comfort troubled souls.55 The relation of a biblical principle to a specific personal situation matched precisely with the pattern of sermonic application, which as we have seen was also viewed as meditative. Moreover, this linking of spiritual ideas with human experiences would have appealed to the emotions of readers who identified with certain doubts, questions, or objections; this emotional aspect likewise points to meditation.

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One of Bernard’s most strongly polemical works, Plaine Euidences, likewise contained vivid associative imagery reminiscent of occasional meditation: Easier it is to draw a profane person from Hell gates, than to remove an opinion from a willful mind. Schism is the ship whereon go aboard malcontents, the winds that set it forward are violent passions, will is the rudder, obstinacy the anchor. Schismatics are headstrong, they will not see evident conviction; self-love maketh them judge the best of themselves, but their want of charity very badly of others.56

Plaine Euidences was not devotional, nor even expository, yet Bernard included this extended set of associations (among others) that in several ways reflected the familiar pattern of meditation. It associated common items in the natural world with spiritual concepts. It alluded to biblical texts, using them to draw conclusions about personal experience (his former friends’ separation from the national church).57 Here, we see Bernard using meditative patterns of thought – not necessarily as an intentional devotional activity, but certainly as a natural outflow of ingrained mental and spiritual habits. To take another example, Bernard’s Seaven Golden Candlestickes contained multiple passages connecting biblical principles, occurrences in one’s daily life, and the political and social state of the world.58 This was similar to the exegetical move in ‘Queen’s majesty’ (above) which paired England and Israel – yet here in an overtly anti-Catholic, eschatological, prose publication. The way Bernard conceived of the combination of associative thought and biblical interpretation is particularly clear in a passage in Key of Knowledge, an (again, anti-Catholic) exposition of Revelation. There, he described Revelation as a dramatic allegory composed by God: Albeit metaphorical speeches, and allegorical discourses may have (in some sort) a double understanding; yet the words weighed, as with a balance, in the circumstances of the text, and proper scope with all, they have as certain a signification as other places, and as direct an end … … here are manifold visions and similitudes; the Lord by certain forms, shapes, and figures, as it were images and pictures, did lively represent the whole comical tragedy, or tragical comedy … to be acted upon the stage of this world, by the church militant, unto his apostle, and prophet John … it is composed of such similitudes, so the words are figurative, the whole prophecy full of metaphors, and almost altogether allegorical.59

This did not explicitly discuss meditation as a devotional practice, but it did encourage thoughts that linked the world and the Word, the visible and the invisible – as the rest of the exposition likewise went on to do. The frequency of passages like these across Bernard’s corpus suggests that he had indeed adopted and internalised certain meditative patterns in

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his own thinking. These would have influenced not only his (largely public) written work but also his (largely private) intellectual and emotional activities. In his situation as a minister, attempting to shepherd his flock and address the errors of certain opponents, Bernard practised meditative thought by moving his mind regularly from the spiritual to the natural. He drew upon biblical imagery – no doubt frequently from memory – as he considered how to help parishioners and answer opponents. He considered events in the world around him and attempted to understand where they fit within God’s plan for the world. These thoughts would not only guide his thoughts during a discrete period, but over time would shape the lens through which he viewed and came to comprehend his life’s circumstances. This is not surprising: after all, one of the goals of godly meditation was ‘constant’ practice. It is easy enough to conceive that if practised often, meditative thought could become so integrated into one’s thoughts that it was nearly inseparable from other mental activities including not only prayer but also personal analysis of one’s life. Though most of Bernard’s extant writings are published, we also see associative thought appear in his manuscript, more private, writing. In a letter to James Ussher, almost every time he introduced an aspect of his situation, he made reference to God’s providence in orchestrating it – from his finances, to his parishioners, to an overall evaluation of his circumstances: My lot is fallen well; blessed be the hand of that divine Providence, in an unheard of act, all circumstances considered … I have a very gentlemanlike assembly, and a rich people, and yet, blessed be God, very tractable, sanctifying the Sabbath with reverence … neither would I have written thus much, but to you whom I know to love goodness, and can, and also of your goodness interpret this my relation well, as uttered from a thankful heart with joy to one that will praise God with me, and not vaingloriously to brag or boast, as if I poor man were any thing of myself … I thus write to you (right worthy Sir) for that in your letter you lovingly encourage me still to continue painful … … [He discusses several writing projects] Thus am I doing, to express my thankfulness to God for his mercies, and for my peace; though with these things I have had heavy crosses, which the Lord will mix with his blessings, lest I should forget to walk humbly before him, and lose a special token of his love, for whom he loveth he rebuketh and chastiseth.60

In many ways, the above comments are unremarkable, illustrating their trust in God’s providence and grace, one’s own hard work, and one’s humility before God in both good and ill circumstances. Yet it is a striking example of an ability to simultaneously address the two registers of the spiritual and the natural, switching back and forth with no interruption of thought. To the degree that we might assume the letter reflected Bernard’s habituated patterns of thinking (or at least observing that he had to make those

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associations in his mind at least once, in order to think them while writing them down), this demonstrates some ways that meditative thought could influence daily activities. Unfortunately, a lack of extant sources that Bernard wrote for himself or in which he recorded private thoughts makes it difficult to consider his personal employment of meditation more closely. Yet it is possible to see such activity with certain godly contemporaries who did make rather more personal records of their lives and thoughts. We might take as examples Nehemiah Wallington and Robert Woodford. Both were aware of, and sought to practise, divine meditation, and both of their life writings suggest how fully meditative patterns of thought could be integrated with daily life and thoughts. Wallington’s diary contains occasional meditations on the spiritual relevance of current events as well as deliberate meditations upon particular passages of scripture, such as the following: And in Proverbs 20:27 it is sayd, The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord search all the inward parts of the belly[.] Now what is the use of a candel, but to give light to see all darke sluttish and filthy corners where dust and rubbish is[?] So the Lord doth cause this that lies in my polluted heart and brakes forth in my life and conversation as any occastion shall serve: And is not this a grat marcy[?] But above all this my God lets me see Free Grace.61

This passage appears not in an explicitly devotional collection, but rather a journal of his daily life, suggesting Wallington did not make a sharp distinction between meditative and non-meditative periods of thought. Rather, spiritual and secular concerns ran together seamlessly. Likewise, Woodford in one passage in his diary described his own penury, considered the death of a ‘usurer’ he knew, compared his own situation to that of David, and slipped back and forth from recording his thoughts to sending up brief petitions in prayer.62 The passage, like many in the book, was fraught with emotion – and thus we have nearly all the hallmarks of meditation: its connections with the related disciplines of Bible reading and prayer; its relation of personal, worldly matters with spiritual ones; and its intellectual and affective aspects. Yet this passage was not a single instance of meditation; it was a recollection of his thoughts over the course of the day, coupled with thoughts and prayers he had as he wrote. These passages suggest that the sort of continuous meditative thought that godly divines encouraged was – at least sometimes, and at least in part – possible to achieve. Meditation to this extent was not easy; it implied intense internal effort to consistently place one’s circumstances or one’s understanding of the world in conversation with spiritual realities. Yet it is within this paradigm of cyclical, near-continuous meditative mental activity that one

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can more fully understand the context for many religious writings: not only devotional or creative writings, but also a large range of other works. Ian Green has suggested that despite inclusion of controversial content in ‘scholarly tomes at the top and cheap tracts at the bottom’ of the market, there was a broad middling range of ‘less controversial works of an instructive, encouraging, or devotional nature’; he portrays these ‘more consensual works’ as quite separate from polemics and other genres which focused upon divisions and controversies.63 And Alec Ryrie’s study of Protestant devotion has argued that ‘the division between puritans and conformist Protestants, which has been so important in English historiography, almost fades from view when examined through the lens of devotion and lived experience’.64 The present study suggests a counterpoint to such approaches. We have seen timely political, theological, and social issues appearing within works that were primarily centred on prayer, meditation, and the like (sometimes more, sometimes less subtly), in works intended for middling, lay audiences. Meanwhile, we have seen theological and even polemical works including clear demonstrations of meditative patterns of thought. The lines blur. To be sure, not every individual had significant engagement with deeper religious concerns. And to be sure, there were congruities: a separatist, a conforming puritan, a Laudian, and a Catholic might all read their Bibles, their catechisms, and their polemics; they might meditate and write; they might kneel to pray. Contemporaries were aware of such similarities, but this does not mean they saw consensus; as we will see in Chapter 10, Samuel Hieron simultaneously embraced and undermined certain shared rhetorical traditions as he constructed an anti-Catholic doggerel poem. Over-emphasis on similarities in devotional practice can belie fundamental differences in the ways individuals at different points on the religio-political spectrum saw themselves, their families, churches, state – indeed the world and the eschaton. Altogether, this view of meditative thought influencing, and being influenced by, the entirety of one’s experiences in the world underscores that early modern Protestant religious thought, and religious writing, do not accommodate the decontextualisation of devotional practice from controversial theological points, religio-political disputes, and more. Making sharp distinctions between the devotional realm and other sorts of ideas or activities tends to erase key nuances and to produce a false picture of a vaguely defined, homogenously ‘Protestant’ populace largely unengaged with the major theological, political, and even social changes of the day. Yet as we will see throughout the present book, many publications intended for popular audiences – including but certainly not limited to ‘devotional’ materials – demonstrate deep connections with fraught points of theology and religio-political controversy. Personal, pastoral, financial, ecclesiological,

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theological, and political factors regularly influenced content and timing of works. Front matter often brought in external, non-devotional content, as authors defended their reasons for writing or named patrons that would link the work to a specific social-religious location. Issues related to licensing prompted the massaging of some books’ content, as well as the illicit or manuscript publication of other works (which incurred yet more religiopolitical baggage). These factors and others significantly affected publications’ meanings and the ways users would have received them. For these reasons, we must keep our analyses of early modern devotion firmly grounded in inclusive theological, political, and social contexts: and vice versa, attentive to the varied ways devotional thought appeared in many genres. This is admittedly difficult to do well, and perhaps impossible to do completely: yet the attempt matters. The subsequent chapters in this study take this inclusive approach, addressing ‘devotional’ literature alongside, and in light of, other publications, goals for religious reform, intended audiences, and various ecclesiastical contexts. On the one hand, this allows us to more clearly identify when and how internal meditative or devotional practices could surface, and have an influence, in any genre. On the other hand, it also continually underscores how pastor-authors could deploy different types of publications, and multiple genres, toward complementary ends. This will become increasingly clear as the study progresses.

Notes 1 Lake with Questier, Antichrist’s Lewd Hat, pp. 317n, 318–19. 2 On literary and comparative studies see e.g. Martz, Poetry of Meditation; Lewalski, Protestant Poetics; and Huntley (ed.), Bishop Joseph Hall and Protestant Meditation. On theological frameworks for puritan meditation, Chan, ‘Puritan meditative tradition’, remains a key study. 3 See e.g. Narveson, Bible Readers, passim; Ryrie, Being Protestant, pp. 109–18; Schildt, ‘Protestant Bible-reading’, pp. 204–5. 4 As numerous divines put it, echoing Psalm 1 and other passages. 5 Robert Hall, ‘The epistle dedicatory’, in Hall, Occasionall Meditations, sigs A3r ff. 6 Chan, ‘Puritan meditative tradition’, pp. 16–18, 48, 66, 148. Lewalski also sees Rogers as key: Protestant Poetics, p. 149. 7 Narveson, Bible Readers, pp. 79–99. 8 On emotion and self-application in sermons see Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 81–94. 9 Robert Hall, ‘The epistle dedicatory’, in Hall, Occasionall Meditations, sigs A3r ff. 10 Ball, Treatise, pp. 77, 85–6 [86 misprinted as 46]. Subsequent questions address his intended meaning of ‘good and wholesome matter’.

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11 Bernard, Thesaurus, n.p. 12 See below on ‘application to the self’; and see Gant [Tan], ‘“Beating a path”’. 13 Bernard, Weekes Worke (1616), pp. 20–1, 101–23. 14 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), p. 4. 15 Ibid., p. 11. 16 Ibid., pp. 12–13; Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 24–9. 17 Lewalski, Protestant Poetics, pp. 152, 219. 18 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 22–3. See also Enssle, ‘Patterns of godly life’, p. 20. 19 Among many examples, see e.g. Gataker, A Sparke and Abrahams Decease. 20 Ball, Treatise, pp. 77–8. 21 Hall, Art of Diuine Meditation; see Hall, Meditations and Vowes; Ryrie, Being Protestant, pp. 113–18. 22 Hall, Occasionall Meditations, pp. 9–12. 23 Scudder, Daily Walke (London 1627), pp. 20–9; Bayly, Practise of Pietie, pp. 302–10, 426–9. Their directions and examples are rather more specific than those Narveson discusses from the Garden of Spirituall Flowers in which writers did not ‘seek to enter the actual devotional moment’ (‘Publishing the soletalk’, pp. 119–20); it would be illuminating to further analyse differences in degrees and types of exemplary meditative content given by different writers across the period. 24 Scudder, Daily VValke, pp. 20–1. 25 Hall, ‘The proeme’, in Occasionall Meditations, n.p. Emphasis mine. 26 Rogers, Seuen Treatises, p. 145. 27 Cooper, Christian’s Daily Sacrifice, passim. 28 E. C., ‘To the reader’, in Sibbes, Divine Meditations, n.p. 29 Lewalski, Protestant Poetics, p. 149; Narveson, Bible Readers, ch. 3. See also Chan, ‘Puritan meditative tradition’, p. 36. 30 Narveson, ‘Authority, scripture, and typography’, p. 169. 31 Felch, ‘‘‘Halff a scrypture woman”’. 32 Bernard, Contemplative Pictures, sigs ¶3r, Ar–v. On Bernard’s use of mental pictures, see Collinson, ‘From iconoclasm to iconophobia’, pp. 360–1. See also Moore, ‘Mind’s eye’. 33 E.g. see Bernard, Contemplative Pictures, p. 103. A translated publication described as ‘A Weekes Worke &c’ (apparently not extant, and not to be confused with Bernard’s similarly titled publication) was entered in the stationers’ register November 1604 with a description suggesting similarities to Contemplative Pictures: Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 3, pp. 116, 269b. 34 Bernard, Contemplative Pictures, pp. 67–72; see James 1:15. 35 Bernard, Weekes Worke. A 1614 edition is extant in the British Library; my citations are to the 1616 third edition. 36 On dialogues see Bevan Zlatar, Reformation Fictions; Green, Print and Protestantism, pp. 572–8.

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37 Michael Davies takes a similar view of John Bunyan’s imaginative literature: that Bunyan intended it to provoke ‘direct faithful action’ by readers: Graceful Reading, p. 7. 38 Bernard, Weekes Worke, pp. 22–4. 39 Bernard, Good Mans Grace, sig. A4r. 40 Ibid., sigs C2r–v. 41 Bernard, Good Mans Grace, sig. A5v. 42 On Bernard’s anti-Catholicism, see Chapter 5. 43 Bernard, Large Catechisme, pp. 61 ff.; see Felch, ‘“Halff a scrypture woman”’. 44 Bernard, Large Catechisme, pp. 66–7 [misprint as 59]. 45 See Psalms 22 and 71. 46 Bernard, Large Catechisme, pp. 62–3. 47 Towers, Control of Religious Printing, p. 197. 48 Bernard, Isle, 4th edn (1627), sigs P6v–7r. 49 Ibid., pp. 79–80. 50 Ibid., sigs P4r–10r. Emphasis mine. 51 Bernard also mentioned meditation several times within the allegory (including in the trial of Will added in later editions): Isle, 4th edn (1627), pp. 21, 115, 147, 175. 52 Bernard, Isle, pp. 57–60. The passage went on to describe three more sons: Vehement Desire, Zeal, and Revenge. 53 See also Dyrness, Reformed Theology, pp. 127–41; Jardine, ‘Dialectic teaching’; and Lake, Moderate Puritans, p. 101. 54 Bernard, Isle (1627), n.p., sigs P7v–8r. 55 Bernard, Staffe of Comfort, pp. 68–9. 56 Bernard, Plaine Euidences, sig. B2r. 57 See Ephesians 4:14. 58 Bernard, Seaven Golden Candlestickes. 59 Bernard, Key of Knowledge, pp. 87, 130. On biblical figurative language, see Lewalski, Protestant Poetics, pp. 103–4. 60 BOD RL 89, fols 28r–29r. 61 Wallington, Notebooks, p. 166. Transcription (including brackets) follows edited edition. 62 Woodford, Diary, pp. 164–5. 63 Green, Print and Protestantism, pp. vi–vii. 64 Ryrie, Being Protestant, p. 6.

2

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The making of a pastor-author

In 1598, Bernard completed his MA and saw his first publication, Terence in English, come off the press. The latter featured Terence’s comedies in a format designed for schoolchildren learning Latin: providing the text in sections with a corresponding exemplary translation, contextualised definitions, and more. Although the topic differed from Bernard’s subsequent religious publications, it already suggested attentiveness to audience needs and his willingness to combine different types of information within a single volume. In content, it anticipated his longstanding interest in the training of ministers (for whom a knowledge of Latin was necessary) and in fostering godliness: he suggested that attending to Terence’s characters might make one ‘wise to avoid such vices: and learn to practice virtue’.1 By 1602, now vicar of Worksop, Bernard produced his first explicitly religious publication, A Large Catechisme. It largely followed the Prayer Book catechism but featured certain alterations that suggested his dissatisfaction with the authorised catechism alone (see Chapter 4). While the publication enabled him to distribute his ideas about the fundamentals of the faith to a variety of interested readers, it also served as a resource for his personal ministry. The title page advertised his primary audience as his ‘Christian friends and welwillers’ in Worksop, Gainsborough (a nearby town and an emergent centre of puritan and proto-separatist activity in which he was becoming active) and Epworth (his hometown and where he had recently served as curate). In ensuing years, Bernard frequently incorporated writing into his pastoral activities: often, but not always, with print publication. This chapter addresses ways he did so in his early career – a tumultuous period in which he began work within the national church, was removed from his post for nonconformity, considered the path of separation, and finally returned to conformity amidst public censures from former allies – with particular attention to the ways Bernard used authorship to achieve particular religious goals among different audiences. It demonstrates that choices Bernard made in his authorial career regarding when to write, what to write about, and

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whether to publish were tied in various ways to his goals for the progress of the gospel and to his position within the national church. In addition, the chapter contextualises Bernard’s development of certain theological commitments which will feature again in later chapters.

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Entrance into nonconformity; considering separatism Bernard’s time at Cambridge and his early ministry in the region of Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire overlapped with that of John Smyth. Smyth began his ministry within the national church but chafed against its lack of reform; by 1603 his preaching license had been revoked, although he retained a group of followers.2 Meanwhile, both Bernard and Smyth became closely tied to regional groups desiring stricter forms of religious practice and governance than the Church of England provided.3 With the Canons of 1604, things came to a head. Part of James I’s new religious programme, aspects of the canons were designed to root out those within the church who practised a more precise form of religion than the church required. Among the articles problematic for puritans such as Bernard were Canon 58, requiring ministers to wear the surplice – a practice many saw as a dangerous remnant of Catholicism likely to lead congregants astray – and Canon 36, requiring ministers to subscribe to the church’s government and ceremonies from the soul (ex animo) – which ‘deliberately left no room for the mental reservations and qualifications that had previously made subscription just bearable to many scrupulous puritans’.4 Up to 300 ministers may have been removed shortly thereafter: Bernard on 9 April 1605.5 Ronald Marchant observes, ‘Whether because he put on a bold front towards the court and appeared very obstinate, or for some other reason, he was not ordered to confer for his better understanding, but simply to appear at Bishopthorpe to be deprived.’6 Around this time, Bernard participated in a conference at the Coventry home of William and Isabel Bowes to discuss ecclesiastical issues. There seemed to be hopes that, as Nicholas Tyacke puts it, the meeting would ‘prevent the fragmentation of the reform movement’ that had endured clerical deprivations and resulting theological dissension.7 Information about the conference is incomplete and anecdotal. Attendees likely included Arthur Hildersham, John Barbon, John Dod, John Robinson, Richard Clifton, Bernard, and Smyth, among others. Smyth may have been involved in the conference’s development: John Cotton recorded that he requested the ‘help’ of the conference in the first place.8 With the intense and varied conversations occurring at such a conference, it is unsurprising that not everyone came away with the same conclusions

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nor, even, the same interpretation of what had transpired: this was all the more stark when certain attendees recounted the event at a distance of some years. Bernard later recorded the perception of ‘diverse’ ministers that Smyth had been talked out of separating.9 Smyth, however, would assert, Whereas you say I became satisfied at Coventry after conference had with certain ministers, and here upon kneeled down and praised God: I answer: I did not confer with them about the separation as you & they know well enough in your consciences: but about withdrawing from true churches, ministers, and worship, corrupted: wherein I received no satisfaction, but rather thought I had given instruction to them: and for kneeling down to praise God I confess I did, being requested to perform the duty at night after the conference by the ministers: but that I praised God for resolution of my doubts, I deny to death and you therein are also a slanderer: I praised God for the quiet & peaceable conference, & such like matters, & desired pardon of the L. for ignorances, & errors, & weakness of judgement, & any disordered carriage: if the ministers that heard my prayers and praises of God did misconstrue my meaning let them look unto it.10

Throughout this period, it seems Bernard was wavering somewhat. He certainly had a desire to purify the church more fully. Smyth’s later account asserts several activities suggesting Bernard ventured rather far toward separatism; Bernard’s responses generally object to Smyth’s interpretation of meaning or motive, not the actions themselves. It thus appears that Bernard said some things at the Coventry conference that were construed to be in favour of separatism (Smyth described Bernard’s ‘readiness to embrace this truth we profess, First, at Sr. W. Bowes his house when it was opposed by some adversaries’). And Bernard more than once preached on Daniel 3:16–17, a passage that can be read as supporting opposition to authorities who encourage improper religious practices. Smyth recounted that partly for this reason ‘every man conceived that he would have been a ring leader to reformation’.11 However, both Smyth and Robinson also recounted Bernard saying he would follow the example of Naaman in 2 Kings 5; this would have likened a decision to conform to some church policies, despite inward disagreement, to Naaman’s seeking a pardon for bowing down in the temple of Rimmon because it was his duty to escort the king (Bernard would later dispute this interpretation of his position). Bernard also appears to have been active in seeking discussion and debate on the topic for some time: for example meeting with the nonconformist, but non-separating, minister Arthur Hildersham; and seeking to debate Smyth because (as Smyth recounted) Bernard thought Richard Clifton had done so insufficiently.12 At some point in this period, Bernard authored a work against the episcopacy – striking at the heart of the national church’s composition. This

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manuscript, which Bernard circulated, used what Smyth described as ‘diverse arguments’ to prove that episcopal authority was ‘Antichristian’.13 The document is not extant, and it is not clear that its arguments were necessarily separatist, although its premise certainly would have been agreeable to those with separatist leanings. (There is a slight possibility that the manuscript was published decades later as Praelaticall Church: see Chapter 9.) That Bernard wrote an anti-episcopal manuscript suggests that even early in his career he was incorporating writing into his religious activities. As he would later argue in The Faithfvll Shepheard, gathering and analysing information about many topics, including controversial ones, was important for pastors.14 Yet, significantly, he chose not to publish. Because of Bernard’s interests in publishing his ideas (some publications already under his belt, and more in years to come), it might seem natural he would seek the largest possible audience; and it is worth considering why he did not. Smyth asserted that fear was a factor, and that Bernard would not have minded if someone else published the treatise anonymously.15 This is plausible; but it is also possible he envisioned the manuscript less as a statement of his studied position, and more as a set of ideas about which he wanted to elicit dialogue or confirmation. In that case, circulating the work in manuscript among a select, semiprivate group would be more to his purpose than publication.

Return to conformity Despite not publishing, given Bernard’s activities it is perhaps unsurprising that some saw him tending toward separatism. But by his own account, he was never committed. He would later explain that he had been attracted by the biblicism and apparent holiness of some separatists – until he determined these were an outward show, and had time to examine and reject their theological claims: I was never a leader, nor a setter of others on, as, lewdly by words, malicious men belie me: I profess myself most ignorant of what a Brownist held, before M. Smith and his followers went that way; I never saw a book of theirs, nor to my knowledge, the face of a man in the way of the separation. I confess I was much moved with fair shows of scripture, and with great pretenses of holiness in their way; but I was not removed.16

Part of his becoming convinced against separation was due to the influence of Tobie Matthew, Archbishop of York from 1606. In his new post, Matthew gave careful attention to the separatist issue. Though a number of leaders of the movement would continue apart from the national church and ultimately

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move abroad, Matthew was able to persuade Bernard to return to conformity.17 Some of his appeal to Bernard was, certainly, based on the great value that both ascribed to preaching.18 In a later dedicatory epistle to ‘the chief officers, the gentlemen domestical attendants, and to the rest of the family’ of Matthew, Bernard said his dedicatees ‘do hear the excellent truths of God, by one of whom it hath been said, He doth regnare in pulpitis. I do grant it, who can deny those gifts?’19 Matthew wanted his ministers to pursue the same careful approach to preaching and other religious-educational pursuits. More than simply ensuring that ministers were preaching and teaching in their parishes (a task required of bishops), he gave personal attention to those interested in developing their abilities: for example by fostering preaching exercises. He also encouraged clerical publishing.20 John Favour of Halifax, Matthew’s chaplain, dedicated his only book to Matthew, noting, ‘Your Grace did not only by speech move me to meditate upon this subject, but also gave me great encouragement to proceed’; Matthew read drafts-inprogress of the work and made available his ‘plentifully furnished’ library.21 Thus Bernard bought back into the national church: figuratively by subscribing, and literally with several fees he paid in the course of his restoration. Despite the fees, his finances were much to the better as he now had a living; indeed, Smyth saw Bernard’s decision to conform as financially motivated: ‘once you wrote against [the prelacy], and lost your vicarage in your testimony against them, but because you could not buy and sell except you received the mark of the beast, now you are content to yield to all … that you may traffic with your merchandise’.22 Nevertheless, in Bernard’s view, his financial situation as vicar of Worksop was insufficient. He soon began seeking other opportunities, pursuing positions in Saundby, Gainsborough, and possibly St Werburgh before finally gaining Batcombe in 1613, where God ‘mended’ his wages.23 Bernard’s conformity did not change his views of certain church practices. A 1608 presentment recorded ‘that the matter touching the crosse in baptisme is now depending before the Lord Archbishop’: this was apparently resolved.24 More significantly, for a time Bernard set up a covenanted group of about a hundred believers from the broader area around Worksop. Sealing their covenant with the Lord’s supper, they committed to ‘forsake all known sin, to hear no wicked or dumb ministers, and the like’.25 Although it is commonly assumed that Bernard took this step during his period of nonconformity and that it was some sort of separated congregation or covenanted church, the evidence suggests otherwise.26 Smyth described Bernard having both covenanted and non-covenanted parishioners and admitting the latter to ‘all the holy things among you, excepting the particular covenant’.27 And John Robinson described Bernard as ‘not shaming to affirm’ an aim ‘to keep your people from Mr Smyth’.28 The first passage suggests

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this was not during Bernard’s period of nonconformity, because he would not have had reason at that point to admit non-covenanting individuals to proceedings; and the second would be unlikely to describe the period before his deprivation, as his sharp dispute with Smyth was yet to come. Rather, he apparently entered this covenant after re-conforming. This aligns with Patrick Collinson’s descriptions (with Bernard as an example) of nonseparatists doing ‘what they could to make the saints visible, and to give some tangible form to their private Christian experience, while not actually repudiating the public communion of national Church and parish’ – often in direct response to a separatist threat.29 Naturally, such a covenant was problematic in view of unity and consistency across the national church, and Matthew seems to have intervened once again.30 This issue was resolved, but others remained troublesome. The Quarter Sessions of 1611 again addressed Bernard’s not using the cross in baptism.31 Bernard was committed to remaining within the church, but such presentments suggest it was not always easy (on later presentments see Chapters 4, 7, and 8). The favour of bishops like Matthew helped Bernard find ways forward amidst a degree of friction. Bernard would later observe, I have received much from your Grace, I can repay nothing. … a most faithful shepherd, a patron to all faithful pastors, a countenancer of ministers, though poor, though to worldlings contemptible, such as have care of their charge, and be painful in their places. I have ever admired your Grace’s good respect to ministers, your comfort and encouragement to them. I call to mind mine own happiness in particular above many, when I lived in those parts: … your Grace’s so large provision for me for the time to come.32

This oversight and patronage extended to Bernard’s authorial work. Smyth described Bernard, after subscribing, writing ‘penny pamphlets’ in favour of the national church (these are apparently not extant).33 In this period, he also completed The Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), a manual instructing ministers in several aspects of the pastoral ministry including sermon preparation and delivery: see Chapter 3. This was a point of emphasis he shared with Matthew, to whom he would dedicate the 1621 revision of the same. In one way of thinking, Faithfvll Shepheard signalled a return to business as usual for Bernard as pastor-author, diligently performing parish duties while producing material that might educate or encourage parishioners or other readers.

Publishing against the separatists Nevertheless, some issues remained from Bernard’s period of nonconformity. For one, he regretted that he did not immediately lead people away from the separatists’ teachings: ‘Time is an instructor to a diligent searcher;

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I see now, what I then saw not; if I had, the late separatists had not misled so many.’34 And even at this later date, the godly were, in Bernard’s view, in danger of being led astray. In addition, his reputation in terms of his stability and his long-term commitment to the national church was open to question. The latter could be remedied, over time, by a faithful parish ministry. But Bernard’s influence as a nonconformist and potential separatist sympathiser had extended beyond his parish: and so therefore would his attempt at remedy. His move to publish against separatism was a multivalent effort, at once providing opportunity for public statement of his present theology and ecclesiology, for contextualisation of his former association with separatists, and for warning readers against the deceits of separatism. Of course, this could be seen as an attempt to disguise his own partial nonconformity by highlighting the greater nonconformity of others: something Robinson would suggest.35 (In attempting to rehabilitate a career by means of a print attack on separatists, Bernard was in good company: not many years prior, pastor-author George Gifford had made a similar bid; see Chapter 10). The ensuing publication was Christian Advertisements and Counsels of Peace. Also Disswasions from the Separatists Schisme (1607).36 Certain passages therein give further hints as to his intentions in writing. One is suggested by an instruction about dealing with one’s wrongful doubts: If thus thou hast offended, as many do, take as great pains in God’s sight to resolve thy self, as thou hast done to bring thy self into doubting, else dealest thou but partially.37

Bernard had been deliberate in considering the case against episcopacy, even having gone so far as to write a manuscript treatise against it: on this principle he might do at least that much in support of the episcopacy. In fact, he went further, for while he had hesitated to publish his earlier work, he quickly published this. Elsewhere in the work, Bernard suggested the belief that an author’s last printed word on any controversial subject might be taken as a current (and, if the author had died, a final) opinion on the subject. Only by a similarly public recantation might an author make a legitimate change in his testimony, as he described in reference to separatist Henry Barrow and others: With this man’s sin and spirit of profaneness, … neither he (while he lived) published his repentance to the world in print (as he sinned in print) nor yet any of these have declared their dislike thereof unto us in public, but rather indeed approved thereof.38

This suggests consideration of print’s relationship to morality or godliness: one’s sins and one’s repentance could be displayed in print. Further, print contained public statements that became acceptable grounds for making

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moral judgements about the author: Bernard said that separatist author George Johnson ‘became a disgraceful libeller, loading his brother, and other more, with reproaches of shame & great infamy, & that in print to abide for ever’.39 He also identified an un-Christian spirit in Barrow, citing his book as evidence: ‘[I] will, as briefly as I can, set down the outrage thereof, as it is here and there dispersed in his book of Discouerie; by which, whatsoever he discovered of other, he laid open a strange spirit ruling in himself.’40 Given this view of public statements, it is unsurprising that Christian Advertisements was heavy with citations to printed works both for and against separatism, with less weight to private examples. He did not entirely eschew semi-private accounts with credible testimony (e.g. ‘confidently avouched by diverse then there present’; ‘This can I show under hand writing: nothing here spoken without book, or by uncertain hearsay’), and at one point may have even suggested personal knowledge.41 Nevertheless, he held print, with its inherently public nature, the most solid ground for both argument and anecdote. Yet this solidity of print worked both ways: as George Johnson’s ‘disgraceful’ work would ‘abide for ever’, so would godly publications. Bernard and a coauthor observed elsewhere, ‘God … hath stirred up the hearts of many his servants, to bestow their strength, time, learning and means, not only to profit the present ages wherein they lived, but by their writings also, like careful fathers to provide for posterity.’42 With this view of print in general, Bernard’s goals for Christian Advertisements become clearer: he wanted to publicise his current theological views and to show that his spiritual state was that of a true believer demonstrating love and unity – and to do so in a public way that would match or exceed the range with which his previous views might have spread, perhaps even to the point of recalling some believers that had strayed. Print held the promise of meeting these goals. The work’s dedicatory epistles echo these purposes. The first was to Sir George Saintpoll and his wife, the former Frances Wray. The Wray family had been Bernard’s special patrons, and he retained an affectionate and grateful position toward them throughout his life. Yet this was politic: Frances was the sister of Isabel Bowes, at whose home the Coventry conference had occurred. Though Bernard seemed to have felt equally grateful to both women for their support, the Bowes’ well-known sympathy toward certain separatists may have influenced his choice to recognise Frances’s side of the family, but not Isabel’s, in the dedication. In addition to highlighting connections with the godly Saintpoll family, the dedication underscored his connections with the ecclesiastical establishment via a mention of his education in university. Yet the greater portion of the epistle was dedicated to describing a dual threat to the church: Catholicism on the one side, and separatism on the

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other. By this, he portrayed himself as a faithful pastor – especially to those potentially deceived, or having been deceived, by separatists: ‘in love to such as yet abide with us, and in desire to do the best to recover again mine own, whom God once gave me, I have published these things’.43 As a shepherd, and perhaps also in writing his manuscript treatise, he had previously had a hand in failing to prevent certain individuals from moving toward exploring separatism; through this publication, he might now reach them and others with his arguments against it and his public stand for conformity. The subsequent epistle to the ‘godly reader’ hit several similar targets. It used ‘we’ and ‘our’ throughout, emphasising a connection with any godly reader (i.e. rather than a specific covenanted group). It discussed the dual threat of Catholicism and separatism. It requested readers’ assistance in spreading the message they found in the book so that he might recall some former members of his flock who were now hurtfully cut off from him, their spiritual father, and also keep others from following the way of separatism: Confidence in our cause (that here is a true church of God, from which we may not make separation) hath made me adventurous: and the spiritual injury which some of late have done to me, more then to many, hath called me hereunto. They have taken away part of the seal of my ministry. Mine own with them may have instructors, but no fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten them through the gospel. I will claim them, though unnaturally and unkindly they disclaim me; in love do I follow, and so will, albeit they flee from me with hatred. Friendly reader, when thou hast read this hue and cry, send it away by thy approbation thereto, and report the cause to other for discovery thereof, as thou shalt think fit. If thou happily dost find any meek ones of them in thy way, rebuke them lovingly, entreating the younglings gently for the Lord’s sake, and send them back again … The humble that are of a tender conscience, are very reclaimable: but the strait hearted opinionate are not so recoverable; yet I hope of both: for it is the Lord that worketh the will and the deed, both when and as he will.44

Beyond describing goals for the publication, this passage anticipated the key element of Bernard’s theological stance in this work, defining ‘our cause’ as the belief that the Church of England was a ‘true church’ from which it was schismatic and sinful to separate. It further anticipated his main subargument, that separatism led to un-Christian behaviour, by highlighting the ‘unnatural’, ‘unkind’ actions of those who separated. Much of the rest of the work would underscore these points. Within the body of the work, the first section was ‘Christian advertisements and counsels of peace to the wise hearted, and to him that is of a peaceable disposition’. This took a positive approach, emphasising what one should do; but it also had polemical aspects in view of subsequent sections of the work that portrayed separatists as contentious. It exhorted readers

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to act charitably even amidst doctrinal disputes and, as far as one could without sin, to live at peace with others and with authorities. One should attempt to avoid controversy, and even if irrevocably drawn in, should focus on charity in general rather than stubbornness in theological detail. Moreover, one should be attentive to potential errors within oneself and be particularly concerned to identify whether one’s opposition was based on true conviction or on personal dislike.45 Here Bernard drew on the idea of adiaphora. While many debates over adiaphora centred on obedience to authority where there was a possibility of error or sin on a doubtful matter, Bernard emphasised that even practices with the probability of sin were tolerable for the greater good of the church if they fulfilled God’s clear command to obey authority.46 This was a crucial distinction. It seems that Bernard conceived of some objections to some church practices as so great, one might hardly feel doubtful about their bad effects. Thus, in order to conform, one had to recognise that ‘probability’ did in fact equal ‘doubt’. On one hand, this suggests how strongly Bernard disagreed with certain practices of the national church. On the other hand, it is a significant clarification to the doctrine of adiaphora. For Bernard, even the probability of sin left some possibility of sinlessness. This, he argued, far outweighed what he described as the certainty of sin if one would choose to separate. The margin here included a citation to Gabriel Powell’s work on adiaphora.47 In addition to being one of the only parts of the book to appear in Latin, this citation stands out because the work cited is not one Bernard would obviously choose to support this passage, as it included a more typical discussion of doubt, rather than Bernard’s more nuanced emphasis on probability. Thus, this citation is worth considering. Perhaps Bernard intended it to communicate to superiors just how ready he was to maintain conformity. While his own language about adiaphora was less standard than Powell’s and his position on puritan scruples less stark, by citing such a clearly conformist work, Bernard could display willingness to align himself with the ecclesiastical establishment. And by making the citation in Latin to a Latin work, Bernard could have made the gesture to certain audiences without being as likely to catch the eye of a broader audience (for whom he perhaps would have not been eager to recommend a reading of Powell). Alternatively, it is possible that Powell – who served as licenser for the text – himself influenced the citation, adding it before publication either with or without Bernard’s permission.48 The likelihood of this being Powell’s rather than Bernard’s citation is strengthened by the fact that a later version of this work, published in 1621 in Seaven Golden Candlestickes, omitted the reference. In either scenario – Bernard using Powell as a signal of conformity or Powell inserting his own brand of conformity into Bernard’s work

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– the citation demonstrates the careful theological grooming a publication like this might undergo; the grave significance of Bernard’s concerns over church practices; and the care with which he had to parse his ideas about conformity. The next section, ‘Disswasions from the way of the separatists’, formed the main body of the work. Its first subsection addressed several ‘likelihoods’ against separation, including its novelty, its lack of approbation from other Reformed churches or godly English divines, its general ‘ill success’, and more.49 A second subsection enumerated ‘certain reasons of more force’ against them, discussing seven problematic issues (most deemed ‘sins’) inherent to separatism or common among separatists. Though some of these reasons were more intellectual or theological, such as embracing untruths and being schismatic, many centred upon the character or social actions of separatists, which Bernard found generally uncharitable and even hostile.50 A third subsection addressed key theological ‘errors’ held by separatists.51 The issues addressed were diverse, and a comprehensive theological analysis is outside the scope of this present study; yet we can observe three key areas of emphasis. First, Bernard described separatism’s ‘first A. B. C.’ as the claim that to the whole church, rather than to the ‘principal members thereof’, belonged the ‘power of Christ, that is, authority to preach, to administer the sacraments, and to exercise the censures of the Church’. This was a foundation for ‘all the rest of their untruths’.52 Secondly, Bernard conceived of the main argument against separatism as, simply, that the Church of England was a true church, and making separation from a true church was sinful. To establish the national church’s veracity, Bernard argued that it had a true head (Christ), true matter (believers who profess Christ, even if their understanding is limited), true form (a visible church uniting believers to God and one another), and true properties (preaching, the sacraments, and prayer).53 Bernard drew his lines carefully, admitting that there could be many undesirable and even false components of each as long as even a small kernel remained. For example, in arguing that the national church had true ‘properties’, he readily admitted that not all was ideal: a passage with the marginal gloss ‘observe well’ clarified that even a wrong administration of the sacraments, even an incorrect preaching of the Word, were not necessarily evidence of a false church.54 John Robinson may well have been correct when, in his response to Christian Advertisements, he observed, ‘And I doubt not but Mr. Bern. and 1000 more ministers in the land (were they secure of the magistrates’ sword, and might they go on with his good license) would wholly shake off their canonical obedience to their ordinaries … they would soon shake off the prelates’ yoke.’55 Yet this was precisely the point. One might want any number of changes, and might have extensive evidence that the national

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church needed correction: but all this was irrelevant to the question of separation, which for Bernard hinged on the crucial binary of true church or false church. This became all the more stark given his arguments earlier that one must conform not only in doubtful matters, but even where there was probability of sin. Following longer explanations of key issues, Bernard more briefly enumerated ‘diverse other opinions’, asserting that his previous arguments would also address these latter issues.56 Then he concluded by gesturing back toward the necessity of peaceableness and charity (highlighted in ‘Christian advertisements’). This included underscoring specific separatists’ uncharitable actions; arguing that certain theological positions over-emphasised separating from corruption to the extent of missing opportunities to recognise evidence of graces; and exhorting readers to instead pursue unity, charity, and other virtues.57 To close the book, Bernard included, as a final section, a work he himself did not write: ‘Certain positions held and maintained by some godly ministers of the Gospel against those of the separation, and namely, against Barrow and Greenwood.’58 While there was no direct preface for this section, certain passages earlier in the work had referred readers to the treatise appended at the end, where they might find more detailed argument of some points.59 There were some differences between the ‘godly ministers’ perspective and Bernard’s; and his opponents would point out that Bernard’s ideas were not fully aligned with the decision of the ‘godly ministers’ authoring it to remain in nonconformity.60 Yet its inclusion here was probably not simply to provide further anti-separatist arguments. Rather, it served as yet another way to position himself. Earlier, Bernard had underscored his unity with the national church; this appendix underscored his unity with the godly community. Bernard wanted to be clear that his step back to conformity was not selling out to the un-reformed, but rather re-aligning with (non-separating) puritan leaders – who had in fact been dealing with these same ideas for years prior.

Centring pastoral ministry (but not yet fully moving past the separatist issue) While Bernard must have been aware of the possibility that one or more opponents would respond to his work, Christian Advertisements did not go out of its way to encourage replies. One might contrast John Smyth’s direct, personal engagement with Bernard, and his suggestion that if Bernard did not reply to his book, he was unable to do so (a challenge Bernard noticed and would answer) with Bernard’s highlighting separatists’ lack of responses

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to other ministers who had written against them.61 The latter might prompt engagement with other writers as much, or more, as with Bernard himself. Bernard could not have been ignorant of the strong feelings that Smyth and others would have upon reading his work, and in an intellectual climate in which printed disputations were common, their choices to respond in print are certainly not out of the ordinary. Yet it seems that Bernard intended Christian Advertisements to be a one-and-done anti-separatist statement, after which he was ready to move on with both his pastorate and his print career. Focusing on preaching and teaching – the work most central to his ministerial calling – Bernard aligned himself with the priorities of superiors including Matthew. And he wasted no time in returning to pastorally focused print. He revised Faithfvll Shepheard for a 1609 ‘amended and enlarged’ version. A new, sermon-based publication addressing doubting believers, Sinners Safetie, appeared that same year (further on both, see Chapter 3).62 The following year saw Contemplative Pictures, which contained three extended comparisons in verbal ‘pictures’: God and the devil, goodness and badness, and Heaven and Hell. Following a discussion of each, Bernard provided ‘precepts’ for application.63 Though with some antiCatholic positioning (see Chapter 4), its primary thrust was toward those not particularly interested in religion, helping readers see their spiritual position as black or white: those intending to stand ‘miscellane’ in their religious commitments were in fact either one way or the other.64 This in-or-out perspective was striking both in its similarity to certain aspects of separatist doctrine, and in the way Bernard reframed it. Rather than dealing with the question of whether other people (and the church they comprised) were true believers, Contemplative Pictures emphasised an alternative: turn that same sort of analysis inward to discern the alignment of one’s own heart. In this, Bernard had opportunity to publicise his commitment to a strict form of godliness while simultaneously (again) eschewing separatism. Emphases on personal examination and on avoiding lukewarmness were well within godly pastors’ and authors’ standard fare; yet given Bernard’s history, they held additional significance. His choice to fully subscribe, and his abandoning an attempt at a covenanted community within the national church, could have left lingering uncertainty in the minds of godly believers: was Bernard still, in fact, a ‘hotter’ sort of Protestant? Contemplative Pictures addressed these by way of demonstration, advertising a brand of godly religion that could function within the national church but which retained key theological and practical emphases including careful self-examination and abhorrence of lukewarmness. The critical, binary choice for or against God and his ways, including emphases on the conversion of sinners and the sanctification of believers, was fundamental to the framing and the emotional appeals of Contemplative

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Pictures. And this message harmonised with similar emphases Bernard had made more or less concurrently with Sinners Safetie and Faithfvll Shepheard. Together, all these works suggest that Bernard’s overwhelming emphasis in this period was toward positioning himself as a faithful minister within the national church, and performing his ministry in that regard. Nevertheless, Bernard’s reputation within the church was still attached to his previous association with separatists – and some had by this point written to publicise this even further. Bernard would have to return to the controversy, and as he completed Contemplative Pictures, this was on his mind: one text vacillated between the more direct content of that work and concepts related to separatism: ‘[The Holy Spirit] helps us to indict, to frame our wills, to make our meditations, to moderate our affections, & orderly to dispose all our actions. Our eyes by him do see into the scriptures, he is the true commentary to understand the Word. He learneth men to handle controversies, without contention; & to make a separation, but without schism.’65 He addressed his divided attention explicitly in the dedicatory epistle: Though I be troubled with controversies and called into such matters of contention; yet intermix I my study sometime with these better motions. I find that questions curiously contrived do more exercise wit, to inform judgement, than to make the heart devout in our pilgrimage and this earthly exilement. By troublesome disputations men get knowledge to approve of good, but by quiet meditations men grow to more conscience in their ways, and do increase in grace. Hence is my interchange, and a cause of some stay of my answer both to Master Ainsworth the Separatist, and to Master Smith that Anabaptistical Se-Baptist: but now the time will not be long ere I publish my reply.66

We may question Bernard’s semblance of annoyance here – if he knew that Christian Advertisements was likely to find opposition (it could hardly be doubted), and if he understood the polemical nature of his own work (he must have), had he not invited the debate? Perhaps – and he would proceed in 1610 to publish his rejoinder, Plaine Euidences: The Church of England is Apostolicall, the Separation Schismaticall. It is likely Bernard would have been content for that earlier work to end his public engagement with separatism. Of course, most polemicists are happy to be proved right by opponents’ silence – but even more so, being in the seat of a respondent was never Bernard’s preference. The contents and range of his corpus strongly suggest that he enjoyed innovating, collating, and exploring rather than rehashing subjects he had already covered. Moreover, one book against separatism might serve as a way to position himself away from his former separatist connections; another might serve more as an unwelcome reminder that he had these connections at all.

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It is likely that superiors, probably Matthew and perhaps others, encouraged the response; the title page advertised ‘Set out by authority’, and it was dedicated to Matthew (on which see below). Yet Bernard also found his own reasons for writing: he perceived that his opponents’ arguments had taken aim not only at his own reputation but also at what he saw as the cause of God, and he perceived a lack of other godly writers jumping into the fray, despite the need to continue resisting: They would over-load me with number, but as Elisha said, more are with us than against us. Indeed I want the help of my brethren: yet I neither do nor will bid, curse Meroz, the Lord forgive them their carelessness, if not the hypocrisy of men herein. If we be the Lord’s people, why suffer we the Lord to be blasphemed by these men? … But say some, these men will never be answered. No more will the great adversary (he and his instruments are importunate) yet must he and they be ever resisted, till they fly from us.67

Bernard turned his response primarily to Henry Ainsworth’s Counterpoyson and Smyth’s Paralleles, Censures, Observations; both of which contained strong critiques of Bernard’s ideas, although the latter was lengthier and more laden with vituperative rhetoric and detailed personal accusations. (Another respondent to Christian Advertisements was John Robinson, who published later than Ainsworth and Smyth; Bernard noted that when completing Plaine Euidences he had heard of the book but been so far unable to obtain a copy.) Plaine Euidences covered much of the same ground as Christian Advertisements, and Bernard not only made explicit reference to it (‘Let it please thee to read my former book, to discern what I hold, and here still maintain’) but also reiterated much of its content, including that the national church was a true church and that separatists behaved in an un-Christian manner.68 It is, again, beyond the scope of this chapter to consider the full terms of the issues addressed. Rather, we turn our attention to Bernard’s intentions for the publication, focusing upon ways that he made the best of his defensive posture and attempted to use this second publication to advantage. His goals once again included warning readers of the error of separatism and placing himself in a strong position to do ministry within the national church. Although his aims of persuading others against the error of separatism were more tempered (‘I am not hopeless to hold some men back, & to gain some also, though I cannot recover what is wholly already lost. If I might speed in both I would be glad, if but in one, I am content: in both to lose my labor, I cannot doubt’), his aims of self-defence were all the more at the forefront.69 In bringing up minute points of his past activities Bernard’s opponents, especially Smyth, had attacked his reputation as a faithful minister and even a faithful Christian. Bernard used several tactics to ameliorate this damage.

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Plaine Euidences attempted not only to distance Bernard from the wildly unorthodox Smyth (and other separatists, for that matter), but also made certain further moves toward reaffirming his support of the episcopate. Since Smyth and others had so clearly pointed out Bernard’s previous objection to episcopal governance, such as underscoring the anti-episcopal manuscript he had circulated, Bernard needed perhaps even more strongly than in Christian Advertisements to come out in favour of the bishops. He did so from the outset, notably in two Latin prefatory epistles. He dedicated the work to Matthew, noting the Archbishop’s exalted status and his fatherlike care for the church and for Bernard, even comparing him to the godly Archbishop Grindal.70 Although multiplying words of gratitude and obeisance was commonplace, it nevertheless underscored Bernard’s view of his position within the church and a close association with Matthew’s priorities (including, as Grindal’s, preaching). This was followed by a Latin epistle to the reader which underscored a positive view of the national church and the episcopacy and closed with an affirmation of equal zeal for truth and peace (‘Et veritatis & pacis aeque studiosus’).71 This statement subtly reminded these readers that he had not attempted to generate a needless polemical battle and was in favour of Christian unity: godly desires that aligned with ideals of the national church. Yet, again, these assertions and affirmations all appeared in Latin and would thus have been less accessible to popular audiences. In interesting contrast, for vernacular audiences Bernard’s first intelligible words were not affirming the national church and the episcopacy, but rather his condemnation of separatists and appeal toward Christian reasonableness, which appeared in the subsequent English preface. To the church hierarchy, he reaffirmed his ecclesiastical position as a supporter of the episcopacy; to vernacular readers, he reaffirmed his pastoral position as a godly minister who had now completed this defence – an unpleasant ‘duty’ which had been ‘expected at my hands to discharge, for the honor of God, the reverence of our church, the credit of mine own ministry, the verity of my undertaken cause against the schismatics, and withal for a just defense of mine own person, wickedly traduced by some’.72 The work gave particular attention to Smyth, and in a more direct and ‘tart’ way than previously, Bernard exhumed unfavourable personal anecdotes and mocking attacks against Smyth: while observing that Smyth had done likewise, and more unjustly.73 Although this was due in part to the vigour with which Smyth had attacked him, it was especially in response to the fact that Bernard by now saw Smyth as not merely a heretic, but one with an ‘unstable brain’ whose opinions were dangerous but also so extreme as to be easily mocked. In view of Smyth’s (certainly, remarkable) self-baptism, Bernard satirically took the opportunity to give him a new name upon his

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re-christening: the ‘Anabaptistical Se-baptist’.74 Bernard found Smyth perverse, radical, and incoherent all at once, and a ready target for the sharpest of barbs: most ridiculous absurd similes, and one very beastly, by which he would set our church, from the mingled seed of an horse and an ass in generation, producing a third thing, but neither a true horse, nor a true ass: so is it (saith he) where good and bad persons are joined together: he mentioneth this two or three times, an horse and an ass, an horse and an ass: some man (not I) might perhaps stumble in reading, and by mistaking and contracting of an horse and an ass call him hastily, a horsene-ass.75

Recalling the view of love Bernard espoused in Christian Advertisements, we see in such passages a clear distinction: Smyth was not a Christian brother needing correction, but an enemy to be defeated in any way possible. Of course, on a more pragmatic level, such rhetoric again served to ameliorate some of the scrutiny he himself was under by directing readers – both superiors and popular audiences – to place their concerns elsewhere.

Moving forward, in print and parish Following Plaine Euidences, Bernard again moved away from anti-separatist polemic. In part, there was little need: Ainsworth aimed his next reply primarily against Smyth, Smyth died in 1612, and Robinson’s next work also turned its attention elsewhere.76 More significantly in terms of Bernard’s own decision, he (again) apparently had no interest in publicly revisiting an issue that, at this point, would serve as another reminder of his past nonconformity. Instead, he turned his authorial efforts toward facilitating personal spiritual growth and equipping pastors, with publications including Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1609), a didactic and catechetical publication; Weekes Worke (1614), a dialogic manual for godly living; Two Twinnes (1613), two sermons adapted for print on the topics of catechising and giving financially to the ministry; Dauids Musick (1616), a co-authored exposition of three Psalms useful for sermon preparation; and Staffe of Comfort (1616), a work of spiritual encouragement.77 Subsequently, however, Bernard would explicitly centre controversial topics: an important shift I address in Chapter 5. Among a variety of influences from this early-career period, two stand out as having a particular influence on Bernard’s subsequent practices in print and in parish. First was his commitment to conformity. Having found strong resonance with an ecclesiology different from that of the national church, and believing that full commitment of one’s life (rather than limited outward practice) was key to godliness, Bernard could not take lightly the

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decision to conform to a church which admitted a broad range of individuals to membership and to leadership. Rather, he developed a very precisely delimited theology of the nature of the true church and of the correct way to respond to difficult issues even when he felt something held a probability of sin. In being removed from ministry and considering separation, Bernard had moved relatively far to the left on this issue: perhaps as a result, his rebound actually pushed him closer to the conforming middle than many of his godly-but-not-separating colleagues. Although on occasion he would fail to conform in practice by omitting a particular form of worship or pursuing a particularly godly course of ministry, his ecclesiology had developed in such a way that, when pressed, he essentially had no choice but to defer to superiors and make the best of his ministry with the options given him. In terms of his approach to print, this would have consequences especially in the religio-political context of the 1630s and early 1640s (see Chapters 8–9). A second significant influence was the development of his relationship with Matthew. In addition to leading Bernard back to conformity, Matthew had a hand in much of Bernard’s print and parish ministry while he was in Worksop, and continued some influence even after Bernard moved to Somerset. As we saw above, Matthew seems to have encouraged Bernard’s public strides against separatism and to have simultaneously fostered his work on the sort of pastoral and didactic publications that would become a key part of Bernard’s corpus. Matthew’s influence can also be seen in Bernard’s longstanding pursuit of opportunities to minister regionally, and in fostering advantageous connections with powerful individuals – including not only bishops but also scholars, prominent citizens, and even the King himself. Bernard regularly adjusted his actions and his publications in reference to the position of his own bishop or other superiors, hoping by such conformity to retain the ability to foster what he believed to be the interests of the gospel. This positioning, as well as a range of other religious goals, would shape his later choices and commitments as a puritan pastorauthor in the national church for years to come.

Notes 1 Bernard, Terence, sig. A2v. 2 See Wright, Early English Baptists, pp. 13–14; Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1658, d. 1642)’, ODNB; and Stephen Wright, ‘Smyth, John (d. 1612)’, ODNB. 3 Wright, Early English Baptists, pp. 13–21. 4 Winship, Godly Republicanism, pp. 16ff., 68–72 (quotation p. 69).

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5 Ibid., p. 69, 270n; Marchant, Church Courts, p. 296. 6 Marchant, Church Courts, pp. 147–9, 296. 7 Tyacke, Aspects of English Protestantism, p. 20. 8 Cotton, Congregational Churches Cleared, p. 7; George, John Robinson, p. 82–3. 9 Bernard, Christian Advertisements, p. 37. Bernard does not specify the occasion; however, Smyth’s response identified it as Coventry. See also Cotton, Congregational Churches Cleared, p. 7. 10 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 129. 11 Ibid., pp. 2–5. 12 Ibid.; Robinson, Iustification, p. 10; Bernard, Plaine Euidences, p. 35. 13 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 5. 14 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 35–42. 15 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 5. 16 Bernard, Plaine Euidences, p. 4. 17 Oates, Moderate Radical, pp. 202–6. Collinson also notes Bishop Montagu’s influence: Cranmer to Sancroft, p. 111. See also the slightly later record of his appointment as preacher throughout the Diocese of York: ‘Richard Bernard (CCEd Person ID 55182)’ under which see Subscription Evidence Record, Dioc. Of York (CCEd Record ID 36492), CCEd; and see Marchant, Church Courts, p. 296. 18 Oates, Moderate Radical, ch. 3; Sheils, ‘Archbishop in the pulpit’, p. 382; Ian Green, ‘Preaching in the parishes’, in Adlington et al. (eds), Early Modern Sermon, p. 143. 19 Bernard, Sinners Safetie, sig. A3r. Oates observes this phrase reversing Campion’s attack from years prior: Moderate Radical, p. 202. 20 Oates, Moderate Radical, pp. 90, 105–7. 21 Favour, Antiquitie Triumphing, sig. A2v; Oates, Moderate Radical, pp. 189–90. 22 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 83. 23 BOD RL 89, fol. 28v; on pursuit of the livings see the Introduction. See also Bernard, Ready Way, p. 311. 24 Marchant, Church Courts, pp. 154, 296. 25 Smyth, Paralleles, pp. 2, 4. 26 See e.g. Winship, Godly Republicanism, pp. 85, 276n.; Hardman-Moore, Pilgrims, p. 47; Marchant, Church Courts, p. 151; and Oates, Moderate Radical, p. 203. 27 Smyth, Paralleles, pp. 2, 4. 28 Robinson, Iustification, pp. 94–5. Michael Winship sees Bernard’s claim as ‘personal historical revisionism’ and cautions against taking it at face value. This is a fair caution whether one adopts an earlier or a later date for Bernard’s covenanted group; however, with the later date I suggest here, it is plausible that some motivation would stem from a desire to keep parishioners from separating. I read Robinson’s critique of Bernard (‘God is not mocked’) as primarily against presumptuously entering and then breaking a covenant, and against Bernard’s improper aims in forming the covenant, rather than suggesting

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Bernard’s explanation for his actions was entirely spurious. Winship, Moderate Republicanism, p. 276n. 29 Collinson, Godly People, pp. 544–5; Collinson, ‘Sects and the evolution of puritanism’, in Bremer (ed.), Puritanism, pp. 159–60. 30 Smyth, Paralleles, pp. 4–5. 31 Fincham contextualises this and other issues vis-à-vis some episcopal toleration: Prelate as Pastor, pp. 229–30. See also Marchant, Church Courts, pp. 154, 296. On Bernard’s presentations in the 1630s see below, Chapters 8–9. 32 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), sigs A2r–A3v; ‘Subscription Evidence Record, Dioc. Of York (CCEd Record ID 36492)’, CCEd. 33 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 83. 34 Bernard, Plaine Euidences, p. 3. 35 Robinson, Iustification, p. 83. 36 Some contemporary references describe this publication as ‘Separatists Schisme’; there has been some confusion about this, including an incorrect suggestion that it is not extant: Richard L. Greaves, ‘Bernard, Richard (bap. 1568, d. 1642)’, ODNB. 37 Bernard, Christian Advertisements, p. 12. 38 Ibid., p. 77. 39 Ibid., pp. 35–6. 40 Ibid., p. 71. 41 Ibid., pp. 37, 50 margin; a statement on p. 41 could suggest either experience or exhaustive study: ‘their way (which in every particular they hold is as much known to me, as our way is to them)’. 42 Ibid., p. 35; Dauids Musick, sig. A3r. 43 Bernard, Christian Advertisements, sigs A3v–4r. 44 Ibid., sig. A7r. 45 Ibid., pp. 3–16. 46 Ibid., pp. 5–6, 15. 47 The citation is to Powell’s Ordovicis Britanni, De Adiaphoris, p. 116. A citation, in English, in the second section of the work mentions Powell’s ‘Rejoinder’. Bernard, Christian Advertisements, pp. 15, 106. 48 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 3, p. 169. On Powell being a licenser of choice for puritan-leaning authors see Towers, Control of Religious Printing, pp. 90, 99–100. On licensers altering texts see Milton, ‘Licensing, censorship’; Hunt, ‘Licensing and religious censorship’. 49 Bernard, Christian Advertisements, pp. 21–43. These are called ‘likelihoods’ in the margins and ‘probabilities’ in the section title; the term’s use here is distinct from his point about probability of sins in the church, discussed above. 50 Ibid., pp. 44–78. 51 Ibid., pp. 78–157. 52 Ibid., p. 88. 53 Ibid., pp. 111–28, 175. 54 Ibid., p. 123. 55 Robinson, Iustification, p. 14.

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56 Bernard, Christian Advertisements, pp. 150–1. 57 Ibid., pp. 157–62. 58 Ibid., p. 163. 59 Ibid., pp. 146–7, 151. 60 Robinson, Iusitification of Separation, pp. 76, 210–11, 257; Ainsworth, Counterpoyson, pp. 200ff. 61 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 135; Bernard, Christian Advertisements, sig. A6r, pp. 66–7, 99; Bernard, Plaine Euidences, p. 21. 62 The reprint of Double Catechisme which appeared that year could have been initiated by the publisher rather than a specific effort by Bernard. 63 This work has attracted some scholarly comments regarding the godly aversion to all things that could be construed as Catholic as well as his willingness to allow imaginative thought within meditation; among these are Collinson, ‘Protestant culture’, pp. 47–9, and ‘Iconoclasm to iconophobia’, pp. 360–1; and Dyrness, Reformed Theology, pp. 139–40. 64 Bernard, Contemplative Pictures, sigs ¶3r ff. 65 Bernard, Contemplative Pictures, pp. 39–40. 66 Richard Bernard, ‘Epistle Dedicatory’, in Contemplative Pictures, n.p. On ‘Anabaptistical Se-Baptist’ see below. 67 Bernard, ‘Preface’, in Plaine Euidences, sig. B3v. 68 Bernard, Plaine Euidences, passim (quotation from preface, sig. B2v). 69 Bernard, ‘Preface’, in Plaine Euidences, sigs B2r–v. 70 Ibid., sig. A2r. 71 Bernard, ‘Huius inscriptionis appendix ad lectorem’, in Plaine Euidences. 72 Bernard, ‘Preface’, in Plaine Euidences, sig. B4r. 73 Ibid., p. 37. 74 Ibid., p. 17. 75 Ibid., pp. 26–7. Italics his. 76 Ainsworth, Defence of the Holy Scriptures; Robinson, Religious Communion. 77 There was also a reprint of Terence in this period, but as it was not a revision it most likely depended upon the publisher with little or no involvement from Bernard.

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The call to preach and the question of printed sermons

A faithful minister did many things, Bernard believed, but chiefly he set himself to directly and personally apply God’s Word to congregants’ lives by preaching. Not any preaching would do; it must be in person, by a minister steeped in the Word, led by the Spirit, and aware of the individual needs of each parishioner. Given the importance of such personally engaged preaching, Bernard was wary of printed sermons: they might wrongly function as a crutch for ministers’ preparation or as an inferior substitute for congregants’ attendance at effective sermons. As Arnold Hunt has described, there was a prevailing view in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries that printed sermons as a ‘cold’ medium, unable to affect audiences with the same power as preached sermons: but by the 1620s, ‘many preachers had come round to a far more positive appreciation of the benefits of print’.1 Yet even into the 1640s and 1650s, as James Rigney has discussed, there remained a range of ‘anxieties that attended the material nature of the production and consumptions of sermons in print’, despite a growing recognition of their possibilities and benefits.2 In a consideration of pastor-authors, we should pause here. It might be natural to expect that preachers already convinced of the value of religious print would have been in the vanguard of supporters for printed sermons, while those more sceptical of print in general would be slower to embrace them. Yet this was not necessarily the case. A close reading of Bernard’s works actually demonstrates the opposite: though he embraced certain types and functions of print, he remained conservative in his approach to printed sermons, believing there was a uniqueness to preaching, with direct application to one’s present hearers, that could not translate directly into print. Nevertheless, he also recognised many of the advantages of printed content. Accordingly, he would come to see printed sermons as having potential utility: if, that is, they were appropriately re-contextualised or transformed. Not to be misconstrued as alternatives to preached sermons, printed sermons might accomplish quite different spiritual purposes. In a sense, Bernard’s forward-thinking perspective on print made it easier for him to take this view.

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Perceiving the possibilities of print media, he readily envisioned how sermon content might be reshaped into content more appropriate for that medium. As we will see, Bernard’s goals for the spread of godly religion kept him innovating as an author, adapting sermon content in different ways, for different audiences, suited to the particular strengths of print as he saw them. The first part of this chapter addresses Bernard’s well-known pastoral manual, The Faithfvll Shepheard. This publication assisted prospective or inexperienced clerics in identifying and understanding their calling; understanding the key components of ministry – particularly but not exclusively the duty of preaching; and considering key tools and ideas for effective work. First published in 1607, it was revised in 1609 and again in 1621. (When referring only to the latter, I transcribe the title as The Faithfvll Shepheard, following the English Short-Title Catalogue.)3 As we will see, while the same general picture of pastoral work was retained in all versions, revisions contained increasing amounts and types of aid for his readers. Through added marginal notes and an exemplary sermon, the 1609 version displayed more readiness to explain and illustrate his approach than the 1607 edition. The 1621 version contained even more alterations, adding information to describe the broader context for this ministry. This suggested that ministers might need still more extensive assistance than he had provided in earlier editions. With the first part of the chapter demonstrating how revisions to this text increasingly accommodated ministers’ potential needs, including via an exemplary sermon, the second part turns to an examination of Bernard’s printed sermons and printed adaptations of sermon content. During the same period in which he revised Faithfvll Shepheard (1609–21), he produced versions of several sermons for publication. As we will see, over time, these became increasingly divorced from the sermon format, with Bernard turning these works into something markedly different. All this underscores that enthusiastic adoption of print did not, in itself, imply a favourable position on the question of whether printed sermons could do the same, or similar, work as preaching. Bernard did not believe that print could replace sermons, but rather that print was suited to a different sort of work, acting as a complement to sermons and aiming at different sorts of spiritual goals. This, in turn, provides a broader, more nuanced view of ways print could function within godly clerical contexts.

The Faithfvll Shepheard 1607: A dual approach of careful study and personal application As a genre under development in the early modern period, there was no singular model for clerical manuals.4 The variety of emphases of these manuals

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can tell us something about the range of perceptions of the ministry itself and of common problems perceived by pastors. In comparison to printed sermons about the ministry, clerical manuals tended to emphasise practical details of the vocation, be more extensive, employ different organisational structures, and take a more didactic (as opposed to affective and exhortative) approach. But despite different structural features, there were numerous similarities in purpose and content across clerical manuals, sermons discussing the ministry, and even other nonfiction prose works addressing the ministry.5 Notable English-language predecessors to Bernard’s work included Preparation to the Most Holie Ministerie, a translation of Pierre Gerard’s work; and The Practis of Preaching, a translation of Andreas Hyperius’s work.6 Yet perhaps the best-known godly clerical manual from this period was William Perkins’s discussion of the two key pastoral activities of preaching and public prayer, first published in Latin as Prophetica and later in English as The Arte of Prophecying. It discussed public prayer and the need for ministers to be of godly character, but it focused especially on duties related to preaching.7 Lisa Gordis has observed that the degree to which Arte emphasised proper exegesis of scripture may suggest that Perkins saw rightly extracting doctrines as relatively more difficult than constructing and presenting sermons.8 Yet it is important to note that elsewhere he emphasised other aspects of the minister’s work. In Calling of the Ministerie, posthumously adapted from messages delivered at Cambridge, he presented a more holistic picture of pastoral ideals, including personal holiness and attention to congregants.9 Faithfvll Shepheard referenced Perkins’s pastoral practice, but not his publications, until the 1621 edition referenced Prophetica in a dedicatory epistle; it is unclear whether Bernard knew of them when composing earlier editions. Gordis suggests that in comparison to Perkins, Bernard’s pastoral manual ‘focused more closely on the minister as interpreter and teacher, rather than on the process of teaching and interpretation itself’.10 Though he certainly emphasised study, his goals for the ministry began and ended with close attention to the intellectual and spiritual state of parishioners. Their needs could only be effectively met by a pastor who rightly understood and applied the scripture to their specific, individual situations. With an appropriate responsiveness to God’s calling, Word, and Spirit, this all resulted in what we might call a two-pronged vision for an engaged pastoral ministry, involving both careful study and careful responsiveness to the needs of congregants. Only God caused spiritual change in the parish and beyond, yet God regularly used ministers as agents. This began with calling: the minister needed to be ‘sent by God’, and the church played a key role in affirming a

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minister’s vocation – as a sort of check against incorrect personal inclination, and as a guiding body for ministerial development. Bernard focused first on those unfit in maturity or skill for the position, but then turned to any who would attempt to minister outside the auspices of the church; he had stern warnings for both.11 Ministers were to continually seek the Lord’s help throughout their careers. Though sound practices were important, only ‘through God’s goodness’ could a minister find profit in catechism.12 The like was true in the key discipline of the ministry, preaching. Although Bernard acknowledged God as responsible for any positive results of the ministry, the bulk of Faithfvll Shepheard contained instructions for rightly fulfilling duties. Key among these was the emphasis on a minister’s studies. To rightly divide the Word, pastors should make regular recourse to books: certainly the Word itself, but also other resources. Access to a library of references for personal study and sermon preparation was not a luxury but an essential part of pastoral work. Bernard addressed the need for books covering: a broad range of humanistic topics; ‘books of divinitie and other necessary’ including multiple translations, dictionaries, and concordances; expositions of the Bible; annotations; works reconciling difficult passages; catechisms; commonplace books; commentaries; ecclesiastical histories; works of ancient councils and the harmony of reformed confessions; and controversies. For each category other than general humanities, several examples were named – but these were representative rather than approaching a full catalogue of pastoral reading (as, for example, pastor-author John Wilkins would later assemble).13 While any pastor might reference a number of works within this range of resources, Bernard also showed some concern for matching books with the needs and abilities of ministers having different education or experience. For example, a ‘young beginner’ might read one or two chapters a day of expository works to ‘profit much thereby in knowledge of the scriptures’.14 He also divided his recommendations about controversial works (these included a range of genres) into a sort of progression through which ministers might move upon certain spiritual and educational developments. Those ‘well grounded’ in doctrinal content might proceed to examine recent controversies (he suggested Calvin, Peter Martyr, Cranmer, Jewell, Fulke, and more), then controversies of former times (enumerating several categories of works and exemplary authors). Only subsequently might one examine ‘dangerous’ controversies, which had the capacity to damage the life of the church if ‘young novices upon whom nevertheless in these days, proud conceits, for show of learning, wild youths, wanton by their wits, foolhardily rush upon, in their very a, b, c, of divinity to their ruin and churches’ disturbance’.15 Regardless of educational or spiritual level, Bernard’s descriptions of these sources indicated an assumption that ministers would cultivate active

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involvement with books. His discussions of the uses of concordances and commentaries made it particularly clear that he expected frequent consultation of multiple types of sources. Yet all resources were not created equal. Printed sermons were not a fit place to find assistance in comparison with the more helpful resource of a concordance: Surely, he that understands his text well, and knows how to draw a doctrine, needs no printed or written sermons, to help for to enlarge it: the right knowledge how to use a concordance, is every way a sufficient help for proofs, reasons, and illustrations of the same. It may seem, and will prove irksome to him that at the first makes trial thereof: but time and experience will make it easy and pleasant.16

Unlike reference books to consult on occasion, Bernard urged ministers to ‘study thoroughly’ and ‘be well practiced in’ basic doctrines. In particular, he noted Calvin’s Institutes and Ursinus’s Heidelberg catechism: ‘both which studied thoroughly, will sufficiently inform a man’s judgement in the chief points of religion, which a divine must be well practiced in’. Even beginners should ‘have without book the definitions and distributions of the principal heads of theology’: both to refer doctrines one taught back to key ideas, and ‘to examine and judge rightly’ of ideas.17 Perhaps Bernard’s clearest discussion of the value of a minister’s reading – and having books at ready reference in a library – appeared in Faithfvll Shepheard’s final chapter. Here he discussed things required of a minister in general, including abilities, spiritual disciplines, and character qualities largely drawn from the qualifications mentioned in 1 Timothy and Titus. Alongside these internal qualities he mentioned external provisions, including books: ‘a minister must have a good library, means must be used, the help of the learned. Extraordinary revelations, are now ceased. And to make up all, both to provide things necessary, to continue him in study, to encourage him in labor: He must not want sufficient maintenance.’18 Outside divine enlightenment, books (and funds to purchase them, and to provide for other needs) were required for one to understand the Bible and continue in one’s work. Of course, this was not merely intellectual: one’s studies complemented other spiritual disciplines: ‘the best wit readiest to conceive, the firmest memory to retain; nor the volublest tongue to utter (excellent gifts but much abused to idleness and vainglory) may not exempt a man from studying, reading, writing sometime, meditation and continual prayer’.19 Writing would, inter alia, be a help to memory as one sought to remember sermon content: something over which one would meditate in order to internalise the content in view of effectively engaging one’s congregants.20 Altogether, Faithfvll Shepheard portrayed a clear expectation that ministers would

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regularly engage in focused study – enlightened by the Holy Spirit but produced by diligence – which in turn provided the foundation for work among the flock. Along with this, exhortations toward identifying and responding to needs of parishioners featured prominently in Faithfvll Shepheard. Condemning those who took clerical wages in absentia or without due labour, Bernard used strong language to describe the diligent work required of a minister in regard to individual parishioners: A minister placed over a congregation, so as is said, is there appointed of God … And that flock must he forthwith begin to feed, and not only desire the fleece: wages are due to the work: the painful labourer should reap the profit; and not the idle loiterer … A counselor must know the case to give sound advice; the physician his patient, to administer a wholesome potion: And he that will profit a people, must skilfully discern his auditory.21

Bernard suggested different sets of criteria by which to consider the needs of one’s hearers. He identified five spiritual ‘estates’ or categories of people that a minister must discern. Each required a particular type of pastoral instruction and attention. One type, ‘ignorant and indocible’ parishioners, should be firmly but patiently taught the truth, convinced of their sin, and warned of its effects. Over time, pastoral work should cause these individuals to be ‘pricked in their hearts’ – at which point they should be delivered the doctrine of the gospel. Nevertheless, ‘If they abide obstinate, and will not receive the Word, after some sufficient time of trial, they deserve to be left.’ Other parishioners were ‘ignorant, and willing to be taught’. Here in particular, Bernard encouraged catechism and instruction – not pushing individuals to learn further or faster than they could handle; but laying a foundation for the reception of other pastoral work, including preaching.22 Still others were ‘taught, and having knowledge, but without show of sanctification’. This group should be reminded of the law, the evil nature of sin, and the wrath of God in order to lead them to repentance, hatred of sin, and humility: whereat they would be receptive of the gospel’s consolations for sinners. Some further hearers ‘know and believe, living religiously in a holy conversation’. These should be encouraged to continue in this and exhorted by the ‘sweet promises of the gospel to believe and practice unto the end’. Finally, those ‘declining’ in doctrine or behaviour should be recalled and convinced of correct doctrine or behaviour through careful warnings and through encouragement about the happiness of returning to Christ. At the end of this discussion, noting that all congregations were mixed with each sort of people, Bernard reminded readers to tailor their efforts to all sorts of people: the ‘ignorant’, the ‘understanding’, the

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‘virtuous’, the ‘erroneous’, the ‘backslider’, and more, and for all, to ‘feed with milk and strong meat continually’.23 Spiritual growth would happen most effectively through a holistic approach to religious education and discipleship in which a minister closely attended and responded to the different needs of individual parishioners.24 To achieve this, Bernard encouraged pursuing amiable personal relationships with parishioners: for example by catechising ‘with cheerful countenance, familiarly, and lovingly’.25 This familiarity included making a regular practice of instructing members of the congregation not only from the pulpit, but also in small groups and individually. In addition to knowing parishioners’ spiritual states, Bernard encouraged attention to personality, type of congregation, and even type of voice: A man may be a fit minister of Christ, yet not meet for every congregation: few so qualified; a mild and a soft spirit to a meek company; a low voice to a little auditory, else some few hear, and the rest must stand and gaze; and undauntable mind to stubborn persons; … a loud voice to a great assembly, to a more learned church a better clerk … Join like unto like, that pastor and flock may fit together, for their best good.26

Though some personal characteristics were better fitted to certain congregations than others, Bernard would follow many ministers of his day by emphasising that pastors should attend to making a sermon understandable not only in terms of the content one hoped to present, but also in clear diction as well as in appropriate modulation of voice to give a sense of the emotional resonance of the message. These were to be joined by a sober, ‘comely countenance’ and ‘reverend gesture of the body’.27 He hesitated to see individuals with clearly visible physical deformities as fit for the ministry, but observed that ‘some such be sometimes in the ministry, and happily blessed therein’.28 Toward ends of ensuring attention and understanding, Bernard suggested that ministers have a good view of their hearers while preaching.29 This could help them gauge reactions to and understanding of a message and perhaps could encourage attention through eye contact. As even those congregants interested to hear sermons could tire of listening, Bernard recommended keeping sermons to an hour, and the prayer before the sermon under half an hour.30 (Bernard’s close associate, godly Somerset pastor-author Richard Alleine, was not averse to mentioning an awareness of sermon length multiple times during a message.)31 Bernard included careful consideration of the minister’s ability to present material in such a way that hearers would willingly listen to the sermon and would personally apply the content of the message. In particular, he warned that without close attention to driving home the message in practical ways

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to one’s hearers, the entire sermon could become a cold, intellectual exercise for both minister and congregants. To that end, he emphasised that after presenting doctrines from a passage, one was to give ‘uses’, ways that doctrines might relate to congregants’ lives. Then ‘application’ of a text went a step further by emphasising the personal capacity in which hearers must respond to a text (though for some texts the distinction between application and use might not be so pronounced).32 Bernard instructed ministers to present applications in the first or second person as they appealed rhetorically and emotionally to congregants to make changes in their own thoughts or lives in light of the truth at hand. This ‘home-speaking’ was ‘the sharp edge of the sword’ not shying from hard truths. He warned that some ministers ‘inform but reform not, because they speak too generally, and preach as if they meant other persons, and not their present auditory’. The antidote was direct application of the text to specific ills: ‘No plaster cures when we do but only know it; nor the use when it is heard of: but the particular application to the sore doth good, and then it is felt and moveth.’33 This was cooperative: as ministers offered applications from the text, each hearer was responsible for putting them to use, completing individual application. In a later work on the use of the conscience, Bernard wrote, ‘we may see, why the vain people can be content to hear sermons, that apply not home to them, that which is taught; but cannot endure application: because this only works upon the heart for reformation. If there be no application to ourselves, there will never be any amendment.’34 Having proceeded from the text itself, to general doctrines, to specific uses, to personal applications, a minister was to answer anticipated objections and, if appropriate, sum up his sermon. Finally, he was to make one last effort to reach the hearts of his hearers – in a sense a final effort toward application: ‘a pithy, forcible, and loving exhortation’ toward responding appropriately to the message, and perhaps reminding a particular point, and then ending ‘of a sudden: leaving them moved, and stirred up in affection to long after more’. Then, all was ‘knit up’ with prayer and thanksgiving.35

1609: a similar goal with more assistance for ministers In 1609, a revised version of the work appeared (noted on the title page as ‘published by’ Bernard; it is unclear what, if any, special involvement this indicated – perhaps a financial investment). It contained more assistance for pastors than the prior edition, which may reflect a shift in Bernard’s approach to equipping ministers. Though the main text remained largely the same, there were two significant additions: more explanatory marginal

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notes and an exemplary sermon at the end. These suggest that the existing text alone might not have allowed all users to fully grasp Bernard’s meaning. The added marginalia took a few different forms. Some drew attention to content that readers might too quickly pass over; some outlined subjects covered in the text, and clarified terms or made distinctions (e.g. ‘Observe well what a doctrine is; many do call their collections doctrines, which indeed properly are uses, if they did but discern the evident differences between them.’)36 The sermon appended at the book’s end, The Shepheards Practise in Preaching, was a still more significant change: especially given his insistence in the 1607 edition that there was no need for printed sermons to assist with sermon construction. Here, Bernard seemed to have become more willing to provide certain types of printed sermons; although Shepheards Practise was intended as an example rather than as a ready-made text to be copied, its inclusion at all suggested a broader view of the assistance and concessions that young ministers might need. Shepheards Practise, with content emphasising the importance of adapting messages to the spiritual state of parishioners, was originally preached to a group including ministers. The printed version was dedicated to John Favour, a prominent godly cleric who, like Bernard, enjoyed the patronage of Matthew. Together with its own marginal annotations, Shepheards Practise acted as an example of the preaching paradigm Bernard had outlined in Faithfvll Shepheard; yet it could also be read devotionally as a personal exhortation.37 Beginning by equating pastors’ work to that of Old Testament prophets, Bernard presented the minister’s duty of speaking forth the very words of God in different ways to different groups of people: words of comfort to the faithful, and warnings of judgement to those who continued in unrepentant sin. Reminding ministers not to be alarmed if divisions came as a result of proclaiming the truth, Bernard emphasised God’s sovereignty in the outcome of their efforts: they must only be faithful to speak the Word.38 Nevertheless, skill was important: in rhetoric, ‘an art sanctified by God’s spirit’, and in ensuring that messages were tailored to hearers.39 The end of the sermon again addressed application, the sermon’s conclusion and climax: with the Spirit’s work, it could drive audience members to godly responses and more fervent pursuit of holiness.40 In relating doctrines to specific parts of his hearers’ lives, Bernard recognised, strife and dissension might arise from intractable parishioners; he suggested that this was to be expected even as a minister sought to foster harmony among believers as much as possible. (Of course, individuals could have quite divergent views of preachers’ intentions; for an example see Chapter 6.) The retention of nearly all the original content and wording from 1607, and the similarities between the approach that Shepheards Practise

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illustrated and the original content of Faithfvll Shepheard, indicate that Bernard in 1609 had not changed his idea of the key information ministers must know. However, it does suggest a growing awareness that further explanation and example might be profitable for readers. He sought in this edition to clarify his position, honing sections that may have hit rather dully in the first edition, through carefully targeted additions. These marginal notes and appended sermon might make Faithfvll Shepheard more helpful and personal for readers.

1621: moving toward a more holistic picture of ministry Published more than a decade later, the 1621 version of Faithfull Shepherd was thoroughly revised, warranting a new license for printing and a new statement on the title page: ‘Wholly in a manner transposed, and made anew, and very much enlarged both with precepts and examples, to further young divines in the study of divinity.’41 There was also a change from being a moderately thin quarto to a thicker but smaller octavo. This took the work from a format conducive to study at a desk, to a format that was more portable but less commodious for readers to add their own notes in its significantly smaller margins. Several extant copies display limp vellum covers with ties, which would also assist with portability. The printer or publisher may have instigated this change in size, but it is also plausible that Bernard intended it. Whoever was responsible for the octavo format, Bernard clearly meant to revise the book’s content, recasting it as a comprehensive manual of entrance into the ministry. In the revised epistle, he suggested reasons for the revision: Now after many years finding how well it hath been approved generally, being also desired to cause it to be reprinted, and by a friend and neighbor minister being foretold of some things necessary to be added; I have almost wholly written it over again, setting it, as it were, in a new frame, and having very much enlarged it both with precepts and examples. My endeavor was now to perfect it.42

This suggested that he revised the work only upon finding that the earlier versions had been of use, having been asked to reprint it, and upon having someone suggest ways in which the earlier versions could be made more complete: a rather less-reluctant variant of the common authorial move to portray oneself as pushed toward print by importunate friends (see Chapter 10). The book situated the duty of preaching within the context of the pastoral calling. If by 1609 Bernard had realised that a mere description of sermon application was insufficient for beginning ministers, it seems that by

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1621 he determined that emphasising the importance of theological study and application-oriented preaching were also insufficient. Knowing the prominence that the godly gave to preaching, this more holistic approach may at first seem surprising. Yet Bernard in no way altered his belief in the significance of a faithful preaching ministry in which a minister, through the Spirit’s power, personally and pointedly applied the Word to the hearts of his hearers. Rather, he complemented that commitment with explanations of the type of person who might preach in the first place, the types of work pastors should do, and ways in which to disciple congregants throughout the week so that they might effectively receive the Word. If followed, this context would prevent, for instance, ill-equipped or uncalled preachers (which might prevent less-than-fruitful ministries); it might also keep ministers from focusing on sermon preparation to the detriment of other key functions, such as catechising. To describe a godly preaching ministry within the context of pastoral ministry more broadly, Bernard divided the work into four ‘books’ that corresponded, roughly chronologically, to the stages a young divine might go through as he entered the ministry. Book One discussed the worthiness of a clerical calling and outlined spiritual and natural requirements for those entering the ministry: some things might improve over time by reproof, growth in godliness, or study, but others were prerequisites.43 Graces that should be evident included the spirit of illumination; the gift of supplication and prayer; inward sanctification and zeal; and outward reformation and holy conversation.44 Thus, Bernard’s holistic picture of ministry was not limited to intellectual and rhetorical work. Rather, ministers should be equipped for all facets of ministry, and they must be spiritually equipped to live in clear demonstration of the gospel they preached. Book Two discussed calling and entrance to a parish, and personal preparation. A call to the ministry depended on the acknowledgement of a willing candidate by the church; placement was to be based upon parishioners’ best interest.45 Having gained entrance to a parish, and having taken time to discern the needs of his congregation, pastors should attend to their spiritual growth in key ways including catechising (which Bernard addressed briefly, referring readers to Two Twinnes for further discussion).46 Pastors should also take time for personal preparation: heart and behaviour should be humble, sanctified, and gracious toward congregants. In addition, they should work to develop personal resources, such as by gathering helpful texts into a commonplace book.47 And they should have sober and temperate countenance, behaviour, and attire, which both in the pulpit and elsewhere might enhance or detract from one’s messages.48 Altogether, Books One and Two set up a programme in which worthy men should be admitted to the ministry on the basis of natural and spiritual qualifications; be assigned to a

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parish fit to their gifts and abilities; and faithfully pursue personal godliness while diligently performing all pastoral functions. Books Three and Four then considered practices directly related to preaching and leading Sunday activities, organised according to a structure that followed the chronological process of study, sermon preparation, and delivery. The Shepheards Practise also appeared at the end of this edition. Bernard again clarified that although its content addressed part of a minister’s work, there was much work beyond preaching itself: [Shepheards Practise] is only of handling a text, but his practice stands not only in preaching, but also in meditation, in prayer, in admonishing privately, as well as in public, in visiting the sick, in hearing confession, and in pronouncing the sentence of absolution; all which do require rules how to do them well, which I wish every good minister thoroughly acquainted with, and to read such as have written particularly of these things, every of which requireth a distinct treatise, as well as this practice of preaching.49

In short, the 1621 revision featured a more balanced emphasis on different aspects of ministry, but did not contain any major shift in his theological understanding of pastoral work: both earlier editions had mentioned qualifications for ministers, fitting a minister to a congregation, and parish work including catechism. Rather, this shift in content signalled a growing awareness of his audience’s (real or potential) responses to his publications, and his growing sensitivity to ensuring that his readers clearly understood his vision for pastoral work.

Sermons into print We turn here to consider more closely the relationship Bernard saw between sermons and print. We have clearly identified his emphasis upon direct, present, personally specific applications to one’s hearers: something that could not be precisely replicated in print. Moreover, we have seen his discouragement of attempts to create sermons from printed examples, instead emphasising the importance of personal study. Such positions might lead one to avoid turning sermons into print at all. Yet Bernard did not avoid publishing sermon material: in the period over which his three editions of Faithfvll Shepheard appeared, he also authored print versions of several sermons. As we will see, some of these were published in forms that resembled preached sermons, while others were adapted into other genres. Considering how Bernard moved sermon material from pulpit to print can help us better understand his view of both the pastoral vocation and the print medium.

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Bernard’s belief about the different uses of preaching and print led him to adapt sermons into new, born-print formats that could achieve different sorts of goals. That is, while he fell soundly in line with those who saw printed sermons as of limited use, he also thought creatively about other print uses of sermon content. He made a clear effort to distinguish printed sermon adaptations from preached sermons in all his works. He accomplished this in various ways – ranging from comparatively limited changes to sermon texts in Sinners Safetie (1609), Shepheards Practise (1609), and Two Twinnes (1613), to a variety of more thoroughgoing transformations in Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1609), Dauids Musick (1616), and Ruths Recompence (largely complete by 1619). As this suggests – and as we will see further – over time, his print adaptations of sermons increasingly diverged from the sermonic form.

1609  and 1613: sermons by any other name? Three of Bernard’s publications closely resembled preached sermons: Shepheards Practise, Sinners Safetie, and Two Twinnes. As we have seen, Shepheards Practise first appeared with Faithfvll Shepheard (1609), in which Bernard explicitly warned against using printed sermons in order to construct one’s own; its context clarified this sermon’s function as an illustration of preceding points. Further, there was relatively little danger here of lay readers taking the work in place of sermon attendance: Faithfvll Shepheard’s intended audience made it relatively unlikely that lay readers would encounter the book, and any observant reader of the volume could have identified the educational context in which it was presented. Bernard subsequently published two similar works: Sinners Safetie (1609) and Two Twinnes (1613). Each included what appear to be the texts of multiple sermons on one passage of scripture, with the first sermon in each giving specific attention to ministers and subsequent content giving more attention to laypeople. Just as in Shepheards Practise, these included marginal notes calling out doctrines, uses, objections, and the like – something that could again be useful to ministers as training in how to organise sermons, and perhaps to lay readers as training in how to hear. But notably, these omitted the personal ‘application’ to one’s present audience: although critical to preached sermons, this could not function in the same way through print. Moreover, and importantly, none of these works was titled ‘sermon’: as printed, these became something rather different. Sinners Safetie contained three messages regarding 2 Peter 1:10, with one discussing the passage as a whole and the others giving specific attention to the clause ‘make your calling and election sure’.50 The work in many

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ways fitted squarely within conventions for printed sermons. The title page was laid out in a typical way (including sermon title, scripture reference, and scripture text written out), and indicated that the contents had been preached. In addition, in a dedicatory epistle to the officers, attendants, and family of Archbishop Matthew, Bernard set up a context of faithful preaching, praising his superior’s abilities and presenting himself as a humble preacher who sought to follow in his own duties. However, Sinners Safetie also acknowledged its print format and suggested different functions, such as enduring availability – ‘What hath been heard with the ear, may now be seen with the eye: a double remembrance; the other less, this of more continuance. I hope the fruit will be answerable’ – and Bernard asked that his dedicatees read the work ‘with a mind aiming at the end which I propose’, including personal meditation along with continued personal sanctification.51 There were other differences as well. It was much longer than most sermons. While it had essentially three distinct divisions (each roughly the length of a standard sermon and ending with an ‘Amen’), the text did not clearly indicate the divisions as comprising separate sermons. In some ways, this echoed sermon compilations such as William Perkins’s posthumous 1608 publication, A Godly and Learned Exposition of Christs Sermon in the Mount. Yet while Perkins’s work exposited multiple verses across a large passage, Sinners Safetie exposited the same brief text three times, in three different ways. In fact, Sinners Safetie may have reflected the form and content of combination lectures, which involved multiple sermons on the same passage and served for the instruction of assembled preachers as well as laity.52 As in combination lectures, Sinners Safetie’s three sections (i.e. sermons) took different approaches to the text. They treated different topics: here, the first sermon gave particular attention to the importance of the text for pastoral ministry, noting its uses for ministers; the second focused upon the difficulty – but possibility – of attaining assurance of salvation, largely by meditation upon God’s faithfulness and promises; and the third focused upon the uses of good works as indicators of salvation. The parts also varied in their styles, which might be appropriate for different audiences: the first and third sermons gave briefer expositions of more numerous doctrines, and the second sermon gave longer expositions of few doctrines. Moreover, just as combination lectures were public yet largely targeted toward ministers, this print work did similarly. Like Shepheards Practise, different parts of the sermon (doctrines, uses, objections, etc. – but never applications) were clearly denoted; Latin and Greek texts were given for comparison on key passages; and several notes drew attention to the primary text’s instructions to ministers. Further assistance appeared in the early pages of the work through small diagrams of the passage.53

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Yet even more than preached sermons, print collections of sermons, or combination lectures, Sinners Safetie closely resembled Bernard’s own Two Twinnes: which likewise presented multiple expositions of the same text (Gal. 6:6, with the first more targeted toward ministers, and the second emphasising concerns of the laity), and provided marginal annotations pointing out the various components of sermons. While combination lectures regularly featured different preachers, both Sinners Safetie and Two Twinnes emphasised that the different perspectives on a single text were from one author: for this reason, perhaps appearing especially complementary. Although its two sections were more clearly divided than Sinners Safetie, Two Twinnes still avoided the use of the word ‘sermon,’ instead preferring the vague term ‘part’ as a denominator between the first and second sections of the work. It appears that Bernard avoided the term ‘sermon’ for these works not only in the title but also elsewhere. The dedicatory epistle for Two Twinnes referred to it as ‘my labour’; elsewhere he called it a ‘tractate of catechising’ and a ‘sermon book’ (because the latter has ‘sermon’ as an adjective describing the noun ‘book’, I take this phrase as underscoring print as the definitive characteristic).54 A marginal note in the first ‘part’ of Two Twinnes indicated that Bernard had presented this content at the Synod of Southwell and that Matthew suggested the text. The synod was a significant local event which allowed Matthew to remain in contact with his clergy between visitations, and for him and others to encourage the faithful and correct those who may have begun to err.55 It was an ideal forum for exhorting and instructing clergy, and some of these efforts would be published to reach a further audience. This would also be the case, for example, with Jerome Phillips’s 1623 The Fisher-man, discussing the calling, necessity, and roles of ministers. It is not certain how precisely Two Twinnes followed Bernard’s original, preached sermon, but it did take the form and structure of a sermon, with doctrines and proofs drawn out of the main text and supported by other texts. And it suggested an educated audience, with the discussion of Greek and Latin appearing more often than it might otherwise. While much of the first ‘part’ developed a defence of catechising (which Bernard took broadly to include several types of teaching) and was clearly targeted to ministers, he did turn briefly to a broader audience – ‘Now (brethren) to you of the Laity’ – to exhort them to embrace learning from ministers and to see that others do the same. Yet he returned his attention to ministers in the conclusion of the exposition, and even made note of Faithfvll Shepheard to clarify his position on certain points. In contrast, the second part of the work dealt with tithing, primarily addressing laypeople even in sections discussing ministers’ duties – emphasising the work for which they deserved sufficient allowance.56

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Whatever we might call their semi-sermonic, semi-didactic genre, it is clear that Bernard created Shepheards Practise, Sinners Safetie, and Two Twinnes according to a similar model and for similar purposes. Ministers made up key portions of the audience for each, and the full texts extensively (though not exclusively) helped ministers fulfil their duties through example, direct exhortation, or both. Moreover, although their texts do not obviously appear to have been altered much from the form of a sermon as preached, all ‘applications’, which Bernard saw as exclusively for preached sermons, were removed, and marginalia (obviously, a feature absent from preaching) was added for study or reference: two key adaptations for print.

1609–c. 1619: altering sermons for print In further publications over the approximate decade from 1609 to c. 1619, Bernard moved toward formats which made it all the more obvious that printed works were no substitute for preached sermons. We see an early attempt at this in Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1609). This work featured a dialogic sermon adaptation followed by Bernard’s bipartite catechetical method (see Chapter 4). The former was an attempt to adapt sermon material for lay readers in a way that retained its content but avoided any possible conflation of preaching and print. The dedicatory epistle explained that the content of the dialogue previously ‘hath been delivered after another manner, the same changed for a more easy information’. Though the statement did not identify the other ‘manner’, even a cursory look at the text shows that it closely resembled a sermon. Marginal notes throughout the work also pointed out sermonic features (including ‘coherence of the text with that which went before’, ‘reasons’, ‘objection’, ‘answer to the objection’, ‘prevention of an objection’, ‘doctrine’, ‘proof’, and ‘use’) and biblical cross-references. Yet here the content took the format of an imagined dialogue between the biblical figures Joshua and Caleb. It added this framing without much change to the content, making a rather poor fit: often a change in speaker did not alter the stream of content, which continued unabated between different speakers; elsewhere a brief comment or question from one speaker simply prompted a continuation of the other’s exposition. Occasionally, anachronisms appeared: as when Joshua and Caleb, who lived long before Christ, discussed the significance of baptism and Christ’s blood.57 In short, Bernard made only incomplete moves toward transforming sermon content to a dialogue.58 Significantly, just as in the above works, Iosuahs Godly Resolution also omitted application: its text contained nothing like the affective, first- or

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second-person appeal from a minister to his congregants that Bernard encouraged for preachers. In place of this, Iosuahs Godly Resolution ended with a detailed outline of ways that individuals in different states of life might live according to the doctrines presented. Rather than an affective application made for a present audience, Iosuahs Godly Resolution contained an intellectual description that was generalised so as to be adaptable for many different potential readers or hearers. In this way, Bernard remained entirely in line with notions of printed sermons as intellectual, non-affective media. Rather than merely acknowledging this (and as a result either avoiding printing his sermons, or printing them with reduced hope of their usefulness), he instead embraced both the benefits and the limitations of print by reframing and altering the sermon into a new type of message. But were any formats yet more effective? In 1616, Bernard and coauthor R. A. (likely Richard Alleine, minister at Ditcheat, Somerset) explored another way to translate sermon material into print with the rather unusual publication Dauids Musick. The most interesting and telling part of this work may be its prefatory epistle, in which the authors described their intent, making the relationship between parish and print quite explicit. Having had some success with parish ministry, they wanted to expand their influence and now put out this brief work on the first three Psalms as a test; if it sold well, they would quickly produce subsequent volumes. Print could multiply a minister’s efforts in the parish – either to extend positive or compensate for negative responses, and they felt compelled to ‘do the best good we can to the Church of God’, even if some might question their motives or see authorship as frivolous. A major part of their effort in this work was to explain possible ways that these ancient texts could be applied and understood in a contemporary context: ‘this shall always be new and helpful in all ages, even the use, methodical disposition, and fit application thereof to the present times’.59 This replicated certain aspects of sermons: taking a portion of scripture, explaining it in a way that audiences would understand, and suggesting practical uses. Yet here they envisioned a fluid connection in which authors supplied some ideas and (with the work of the Holy Spirit) readers ran with them: Also to the explanation of the words, are annexed the observation of doctrines with the several uses, that any one may see from what fountain they flow, and how thence derived, And these are briefly set down without any further enlargement, more than the quotations of proofs, out of the holy scriptures, and that to avoid tediousness, because as one saith … Men’s wits do not crave repletion, as vessels, but rather a fit matter to set on work their own invention, and to kindle in them a desire of further searching after the truth.60

The epistle suggested a broad audience for the work, and it seems that individuals other than ministers could in fact have benefited from it: albeit

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its contents – which included Ramist-type trees, references to translation issues, and a brevity that assumed some theological background – were most suitable for somewhat educated audiences. Yet, significantly for any audience, the work took a format clearly distinct from a sermon. Rather than dialogue as in Iosuahs Godly Resolution, here the primary difference was brevity. Dauids Musick retained key ideas from sermons but presented them in unexpanded format, leaving it up to readers to fill out the content for themselves (or for others, as perhaps one might do in household devotional exercises). Of course, ministers could also use Dauids Musick in sermon development. Arnold Hunt has mentioned the seeming oddity of Bernard’s advising against ministers using sermons, and yet publishing here what were essentially prefabricated sermon outlines; he suggests ‘since it was virtually inevitable that some clergy would use printed sermons in this way, he may have concluded that it would be as well to provide some godly and orthodox models for them to borrow’.61 This does to some degree accord with the increase in providing assistance to ministers that Bernard displayed in later editions of Faithfvll Shepheard. Yet by providing an abbreviated outline of a passage and omitting application, Dauids Musick was, in key ways, less like a sermon and more like a commentary – a reference tool that Faithfvll Shepheard did encourage ministers to use as they prepared sermons. Though only one volume appeared, the authors’ original intention was for this to be the first of a set of volumes covering every Psalm: which, together, would all the more closely resemble a commentary. Thus far, we have seen Bernard publishing a sermon intended only as a demonstration (with marginal notes highlighting sermonic components, and sans application); publishing sermons but without calling them such; and publishing sermon content in other forms. In Ruths Recompence, Bernard took this process to, perhaps, its inevitable endpoint: he fully transformed sermon content into a commentary and avoided explicit reference in the text or margins to sermonic components. The published work comprised a detailed discussion of the book of Ruth. As such, it followed the pattern that Bernard gave in Faithfvll Shepheard for sermonic exposition of passages (as Arlene McAlister has highlighted).62 Though much of the publication traced Ruth’s narrative and explained its contents, Bernard followed a sermonic structure by drawing one or more doctrinal principles from each portion of the text. Typefaces clarified these, with biblical text, statements of doctrine, and certain other content in italics; and explanations in roman. In addition to discussing the larger narrative, it took the text phrase by phrase, sometimes word by word. Principles drawn from these often featured crossreferences and contextualisation. This enabled coverage of a remarkably large range of issues, from commonly covered topics (e.g. poverty, idolatry)

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to those less commonly discussed in sermons (e.g. wizards, naming practices, wet-nursing).63 Such diversity of topics aligned well with the strategic approach he laid out in Faithfvll Shepheard of anticipating likely issues that hearers would have and tailoring one’s message accordingly. The divisions of Ruths Recompence were based only on the biblical text, with relatively brief attention to each phrase. This meant readers might not readily identify the content of individual sermons from which content was drawn. Moreover, while Bernard’s earlier works contained pointers to highlight various sermon components, here the sermonic format was less clearly delineated. Nevertheless, key ideas including doctrines were denoted (typically with a roman numeral and italics), and expositions helped audiences understand both general and specific ways that the biblical text might relate to one’s life: i.e. uses. The work appears to have been intended largely for lay audiences. It was almost entirely in English, and it described the contents of the book of Ruth in ways appropriate for hearers with many different backgrounds – perhaps similar to the range of hearers that attended Bernard’s sermons. The work was not overly simple, as a catechism might be for children; yet a wide range of attentive and thoughtful readers or hearers would have been able to follow the straightforward content. Marginal notes throughout contained cross-references to related scripture passages. Occasionally, these marginal notes referred to theological works or to Latin, Greek, or Hebrew words, indicating that Bernard expected some educated or clerical readers; but discussion of translation issues or non-English secondary material within the main text appeared in English terms that average readers might comprehend.64 It seems Ruths Recompence was finally far enough from the sermonic form that Bernard no longer needed to avoid the term in order to discourage improper use; it was his only publication to advertise itself prominently as coming from sermons (nevertheless clarifying they were merely the ‘brief sum’ of ‘several sermons’). With a work of over 450 pages in quarto, divided into verse-by-verse analysis, it was unlikely that readers would take up the commentary and conflate the experience with attending a sermon. Meanwhile, ministers using this resource to construct sermons were not improperly copying, as Bernard recommended commentary usage for sermon preparation. Before moving on, some additional observations about the timing of Ruths Recompence are in order. First, while not published until 1628 (entered in the stationers’ register 1627), the work was composed earlier, within Bernard’s period of anti-Catholic writing.65 There is a compelling case for reading it as a response to anxieties related to the potential Spanish match: see Chapter 5. Secondly, the 1628 publication corresponded with

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the 1628 fourth edition of Weekes Worke, in which the character ‘Gaius’ was changed to the ‘Elect lady’ and the epistles (which, as in previous editions, and as in Ruths Recompence, addressed women) were updated.66 It is conceivable that these were intended to function together to make certain statements about, or provide resources for, women’s religious practices. If so, the reasons are unclear – one might make a connection to the roughly concurrent situation of Bernard’s daughter Mary having left home to live as a maid in the household of William Masham; perhaps her coming of age prompted him to provide her with edifying printed material.67 Alternatively, perhaps certain changes he foresaw in the restrictions on clerical actions caused him to re-emphasise the significance of the home, including women’s influences, for the propagation of godly religion (see also Chapter 9). Whatever prompted Bernard to go to press in the late 1620s, this much is clear: Ruths Recompence was Bernard’s only publication overtly advertising itself as coming from sermons; its structure was roughly based upon the method of identifying doctrines and relating them to his audience that Bernard outlined in Faithfvll Shepheard; and yet it avoided key aspects of the sermonic form. With this, he successfully brought content from his preached sermons into print, while retaining his commitment to the uniqueness of preaching itself. Indeed, one might call Ruths Recompence the crown of Bernard’s sermon-adaptive publications (and not only because of its length in comparison with his other efforts). It was a work based upon a series of sermons that retained much of the same information as the original sermons, but that read very naturally in print: a work created for print, rather than one adapted to fit its requirements. Having noted Bernard’s interest in adapting sermon material to other genres, we do well to keep an eye out for sermonic elements as we now turn toward the rest of his corpus. For example, parts of the anti-Catholic exposition of Revelation, Key of Knowledge (see Chapter 5), reflected an approach that might be used in sermon preparation, and portions of the work shared certain features of sermons. And his later reference publications Thesaurus Biblicus and Bibles Abstract doubtless relied heavily on his collected sermon notes and other resources (see Chapter 9). Understanding the differences Bernard saw between preaching and print helps us understand the development of these and other publications produced across his career.

Notes 1 Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 124–5. See also Rigney, ‘Sermons into print’, in Adlington et al. (eds), Early Modern Sermon; Oates, Moderate Radical, pp. 89–91.

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2 Rigney, ‘To lye upon a Stationers stall’, p. 203. 3 Notable among extant copies of this work is BOD G.Pamph. 1327 (1), which is inscribed ‘ex dono Authoris’, dated July 1607, and contains brief marginal annotations possibly in Bernard’s hand. 4 Some published before 1607 (i.e. potentially available to Bernard while composing Faithfvll Shepheard) included Holme, Burthen of the Ministerie; Phillips, Paines of a Faithfull Pastor and Good Sheepheardes Dutie; and Tyrer, ‘Charge of the cleargie’. 5 On ‘purpose’ vis-à-vis form and content, see Allen, ‘The Priest in The Temple’, passim. 6 On Hyperius and Bernard see McAlister, Critical Edition, pp. 5, 36–7; and ‘Interpretation’, p. 33; 7 Perkins, Prophetica and Arte of Prophecying. 8 Gordis, Opening Scripture, p. 17. 9 Perkins, Calling of the Ministerie. 10 Gordis, Opening Scripture, p. 17. 11 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 6–7. 12 Ibid., p. 10. 13 Wilkins, Ecclesiastes. 14 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 39–40. 15 Ibid., p. 42. 16 Ibid., p. 39. 17 Ibid., p. 40. 18 Ibid., p. 94. 19 Ibid., p. 11. 20 Ibid, pp. 82–6. There was also ‘no disgrace’ referring in the pulpit to a paper outlining sermon heads. 21 Ibid., pp. 7–8. 22 Ibid., pp. 8–10. 23 Ibid., pp. 10–11. 24 On ministers directing parishioners’ spiritual growth, see also Bernard, Sinners Safetie, pp. 1–6. 25 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), p. 9. 26 Ibid., p. 7. 27 Ibid., pp. 86–8. On presentation and gesture see also Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 83–91; and Kate Armstrong, ‘Sermons in performance’, in Adlington et al. (eds), Early Modern Sermon. 28 Ibid., p. 89. 29 Ibid., p. 13. 30 Ibid., pp. 14, 80. 31 SRO DD/X/PB/2/3, sermon on Phil. 1:23. 32 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 59–77; On this structure vis-à-vis others, see Greg Kneidel, ‘Ars praedicandi: Theories and practice’, in Adlington et al. (eds), Early Modern Sermon, pp. 17–18. 33 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 71–2.

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34 Bernard, Conscience, pp. 20–1. 35 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 79–81 (incl. margin). 36 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1609), p. 43 margin. 37 Bernard, Shepheards Practise in Faithfvll Shepheard (1609); for reference to ministers hearing the sermon, see p. 5 margin (note separate pagination). 38 Ibid., pp. 4–9. 39 Ibid., p. 17. 40 Ibid., pp. 20–1. 41 This revision was entered in the stationers’ register the same day as Seaven Golden Candlestickes, 20 February 1620/1, licensed by Daniel Featley: Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, p. 11. 42 Bernard, dedicatory epistle in Faithfull Shepherd (1621), n.p. All three editions have a version of this epistle, dedicated to his friends in the ministry; in this latter edition, however, he names them. 43 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 1–72. 44 Ibid., pp. 72–89. 45 Ibid., pp. 96–8. 46 Ibid., pp. 100–5 47 Ibid., pp. 120–1. 48 Ibid., pp. 130–1. 49 Ibid., p. 146. 50 On sermons addressing theological issues including election and predestination see Hughes, ‘Moderate puritan preacher’, pp. 170–1; and Hunt, Art of Hearing, ch. 7. 51 Ibid., sig. A3v. 52 On these see Collinson, ‘Lectures by combination’. 53 Bernard, Sinners Safetie, pp. 5–6. 54 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 101, 105. 55 Bernard, Two Twinnes, p. 2. On the synod see Wood, ‘Note on the synod’, p. 71; and Marchant, Church Under the Law, pp. 147–88. 56 Bernard, Two Twinnes, pp. 35–6. This longstanding concern stemmed partly from beliefs about the importance of godly preachers generally, but it was also personal: as vicar of Worksop he had struggled financially: Ready Way, p. 311 and see Chapter 6. 57 Bernard, Iosuahs Godly Resolution, pp. 8–9. 58 For a somewhat comparable work, see Wilson, ‘Dialogue’, in Iacobs Ladder (and see below in Chapter 10). 59 Bernard and R. A., Dauids Musick, sig. A2v. 60 Ibid., sigs A3v. ff. 61 Hunt, Art of Hearing, p. 181. 62 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 43–4; McAlister, Critical Edition, pp. 32–9; and ‘Interpretation’. 63 Specific analysis of content is beyond the scope of the present chapter, but see McAlister, Critical Edition. 64 E.g. Bernard, Ruths Recompence, pp. 187, 190, 257.

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65 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, p. 137; BOD RL 89, fols 28v–29r. 66 Previously, Weekes Worke was dedicated to Elizabeth Barkley of Bruton, Elizabeth Barkley of Yearlington, and Anne Horner. The revised 1628 edition featured an epistle addressing the latter two and discussing the death of the former, as well as a separate dedication to Helena, Lady Gorges, Marchioness of Northampton. Ruths Recompence was dedicated to Frances (née Wray), Countess of Warwick, Dowager, on whom see the Introduction and Chapter 6. 67 Francis Bremer, ‘Williams, Roger (c. 1606–1683)’, ODNB; see Easton, ‘Mary Barnard’.

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Part II

Audiences: imagining and fostering relationships with readers

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4

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If you learn nothing else: catechisms and the question of the fundamentals of the faith

Bernard’s preaching ministry did not stand alone. He complemented it with other key activities including catechising. In 1619, he wrote a letter to James Ussher describing part of his experience teaching and catechising congregants each week: between morning and evening prayer many come to my house to have the sermon repeated, which diverse write, and having their notes corrected, do repeat them after publicly before the congregation, by way of question and answer, I asking the doct[rine]. & ground, then the proofs, with reasons, and after the uses with motives, and they answer accordingly, which they do very willingly, besides the catechism questions, and sometimes questions out of a chapter, and all before the second service in the afternoon; and yet for all this variety, I avoid tediousness, which keepeth the people constant, who have greatly increased their knowledge beyond that which I am willing to speak.1

Even acknowledging that Bernard would put his best foot forward in a letter to someone like Ussher, throughout his career he clearly gave much thought and time to religious instruction, including regular catechising. Prefacing some comments to Bernard’s posthumously published Thesaurus, John Conant related that Bernard’s parishioners were ‘by his constant pains in catechizing … more than ordinary proficients in the knowledge of the things of God, and the youth of his congregation very ready in giving understandingly an account of their faith’.2 Manuscript parish records corroborate that Bernard’s ministry emphasised catechetical efforts – but suggest some pushback against his methods, at least in the 1630s amidst other disputes.3 This chapter places Bernard’s catechetical publications, and his descriptions of the practice, alongside the contexts of his theological beliefs and the ecclesiastical situation of early Stuart England. Through this, I demonstrate that his catechetical writings can be divided into two periods: before and after 1630. In the earlier period, Bernard developed and refined a two-part catechetical method that closely aligned with what we know of his theoretical and practical goals for catechesis. He published the first portion of

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the method in 1602, and it reached a fairly final bipartite form in 1607. Although he added and subtracted certain elements to this method over several printings and refined a few ideas, until 1629 his catechetical work retained the same flavour, making no significant departures in method or content. In 1630, however, Bernard produced an entirely new catechism, substantially different from his earlier ones. In this same year he published Good Christian Looke to thy Creede, a work that adapted key aspects of the catechetical genre via its question-and-answer format and its content, but which he did not title a catechism. I suggest that we can explain this shift within the ecclesiastical context of 1629 and 1630, during which time Bishop Curll took the see of Bath and Wells and began enforcing restrictions on catechetical practice within the diocese. That is, the timing and the content of Bernard’s catechetical publications were directly influenced not only by his own convictions about catechesis, but also by pressures imposed upon him from above. Moreover, his publications in the later period demonstrate a real impetus toward creative negotiation in which he actively embraced conformity yet sought innovative ways to continue to provide the sort of religious instruction that he believed was necessary for learners to receive.

Bernard’s religious-educational and catechetical work: theory, theology, and practice In his discourse in The Faithfvll Shepheard about ministering well to five different types of parishioners, Bernard dedicated the most space to the second group of parishioners: those ignorant and willing to be taught. This is unsurprising, as this group was the one most obviously in need of catechising, and Bernard saw catechism as the primary basis for a fruitful parish ministry: Experience shows how that little profit comes by preaching where catechising is neglected. Many there are who teach twice or three times in a week: and yet see less fruit of many years labour by not catechising withal, than some reap in one year, who perform both together.4

He encouraged catechising ministers to tailor efforts not only to the spiritual state (e.g. ignorant and willing) but also the intellectual ability of individuals: ‘Note the variety of wits, and as they be, so deal with them; take a word or a piece of an answer from one, when you may expect much from another.’ He went on to explain that ministers should pursue catechism in a winsome and accessible way – not compelling students, but rather drawing them toward greater knowledge:

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if thou beest proud and cannot stoop to their capacity, or impatient to hear an ignorant answer, or disdainful to be familiar; few will come to thee willingly, and none but by force; and these will profit little by thee. Experience hath been my school-master, and taught me these things, and I find great fruit, to my comfort.

He concluded this section of the work by placing the responsibility for learning squarely on the shoulders of the minister. Though certain individuals might remain ‘indocible’, if ministers failed to see any growth at all, their own practices were likely the primary culprit.5 Bernard also discussed catechising at length in his 1613 Two Twinnes.6 The first of its two sermon-based expositions of Galatians 6:6 concerned the ‘too much neglected’ duty of ministers to catechise, as well as the duties of ecclesiastical officers to enforce ministerial catechism, of churchwardens to present ministers negligent to catechise, and of the laity to be catechised.7 He defined catechism as ‘a divine ordinance, from old time used in God’s Church, as a necessary means, to inform to ruder sort, summarily, by questions and answers in the principles of religion’.8 The content of Two Twinnes echoed ideas about catechising introduced in Faithfvll Shepheard, yet the more extensive treatment here allowed Bernard to consider the biblical, apostolic, and patristic precedents for catechism in some detail: the 1621 edition of Faithfull Shepherd even pointed readers to Two Twinnes for further reading.9 Bernard traced the precedent for catechising to Christ himself, taking the passages in which Christ commanded that children not be hindered from coming to him as indicating that they were coming to be taught or catechised.10 As in Faithfvll Shepheard, Bernard discussed the importance of catechism as a foundation of spiritual understanding upon which sermons and other advanced teachings could build. He further suggested that catechism had a diagnostic role through which parishioners, and their attentive ministers, might discern the extent of their spiritual knowledge.11 Of course, having used catechism to identify a lack of knowledge, it would become the prescription for the very ailment it diagnosed. Thus portraying catechism as a foundation for an effective ministry and a gauge for the spiritual state (and needs) of a flock, Bernard moved to discuss several categories of ministers in regard to their catechetical methods: those who did so with diligence and profit, those who did so negligently, and those who did so diligently but ‘not very profitably’. Encouraging ministers in the first group and reproving those in the second, he proceeded in the aid of the third group to describe certain catechetical practices that he believed yielded the best results. Combining this description with his remarks in Faithfvll Shepheard, at least one of his preferred catechetical methods becomes clear. He favoured assembling learners together in a room

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and continuing through the catechism with one of them, encouraging him or her to go as far as possible, before turning to the next individual to do the same. He observed that such a procedure would help ensure individuals were truly retaining information, rather than simply parroting answers they had just heard others give.12 At the conclusion of each session, he recommended noting how far each student had proceeded in order to begin in the same place at the next session. Bernard also approved of other practices that might be more appropriate in different situations. For instance, some might best be catechised individually: ‘the old babes in years, as much as lieth in you suffer not them to perish for lack of knowledge: win them by favour, whom you cannot bring perforce: come to them privately, whom you conveniently cannot deal with publicly’.13 In addition to catechism within institutional settings, Bernard wanted those weak in faith to develop relationships with a range of godly leaders who would encourage growth. As Tessa Watt has noted, for popular audiences whose primary method of communication was oral, the social permeation of catechetical information was largely tied to a ‘radius’ of people within the influence of a church. This radius could be extended by utilising the ‘satellite station’ of the godly household.14 Though Bernard would not have thought in such terms, he certainly placed importance not only on parishioner-minister relationships, but also on relationships between learners and other spiritual leaders. The latter would demonstrate right knowledge and right behaviour, helping learners understand and apply doctrines in their individual lives. He implicitly demonstrated this in A Weekes Worke, which contained a didactic dialogue between John, an older believer, and Gaius, a younger believer (changed to ‘the elect lady’ in the 1628 fourth edition). Though any spiritual leader was helpful, Bernard believed that household leaders had a particular responsibility to instruct those under their care in order to facilitate the broader ministry of the church. This was evident in his Thesaurus, which listed ministers and parents as the two parties enjoined by scripture to catechise.15 It was also evident in Iosuahs Godly Resolution. Before the main part of this work, which contained a copy of Bernard’s shorter and larger catechisms (see below), a fictional dialogue between the biblical figures Joshua and Caleb included discussion of godly household government and identified several exercises that household leaders must practise, including catechising.16 The emphasis was further evident in its epistles, including the 1609 dedication to Sir Henry Pakenham and his wife: For this end I have sent forth, with the principles of religion, and the points of catechism, certain instructions delivered dialogue-wise, teaching and persuading all Christians, to a mutual care of one another’s salvation, & every household governor, with the members thereof; to an orderly disposing of

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themselves, that Jesus Christ may dwell amongst them, and that the houses of Christians may be lodgings for the Lord17

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and the 1629 dedication to Sir Henry Rosewell, Sir John Drake, and their ‘virtuous and truly religious ladies’: make this [book] a furtherance, if happily it may so bee held worthy, to such as be under you, for increase of knowledge in points of catechism, and for holy practice, they may come to an happy resolution in these lukewarm days to serve the Lord our God.18

These passages also suggest Bernard’s broad view of catechisms: they were not merely rote knowledge, but content to be internalised as a rule for governing thoughts and actions. Household catechising could help learners see this application to one’s practices all the more clearly because they were taught by familiar leaders who could daily demonstrate godly conversation and behaviour. Another passage highlighting Bernard’s lasting interest in household catechising appeared in The Common Catechisme (1630) in the dedicatory epistle to Thomas Hanham.19 Bernard mentioned having used this method with Hanham’s family; he hoped it would be helpful for family catechising, demonstrating to parents how to formulate new questions about catechetical material children already knew. While memorisation was a first step, Bernard was more interested in having learners fully understand the words – here, the proof of understanding was the ability not merely to recite them, but to use them in response to different questions.20

Bernard’s catechetical publications: doctrinal issues and pastoral goals As we saw in Chapter 3, Bernard strongly emphasised the importance of a faithful preaching ministry; yet a faithful catechetical ministry was also mandatory. Preaching could not bear proper fruit unless congregants had been properly introduced to spiritual things through the process of catechism. And given the importance he ascribed to understanding religious concepts – in contrast to merely rote knowledge – the content of a catechism was of great importance. Bernard saw catechism as a way to make dedicated disciples who understood, believed, and practised a lively, reformed version of Christianity. It was a holistic practice intended to move a learner’s mind, will, and life toward the ways of godliness, providing a strong theological and practical foundation for salvation and spiritual growth. With this inclusive view of catechism, a pastor concerned about the spiritual state of his parishioners would use a variety of educational techniques in order to ensure right understanding and right application of key teachings about

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salvation, the role of good works in a believer’s life, right preparation for communion, and more. Accordingly, Bernard saw the national church’s requirement that ministers preside over regular catechetical lessons as good, but also as insufficient. Too many ministers, he insisted, accepted rote knowledge and failed to help learners comprehend the implications of the doctrines they recited. Moreover, while Bernard did not think the Prayer Book catechism was wrong to use, he also did not see it as containing a properly clear explanation of the significance of its contents that would help learners apply its teachings to heart and life. We will return to this shortly. First, however, we must examine the method of catechism that Bernard dispersed via print, and seems to have used in his own parish ministry, through 1629. Because of the importance he ascribed to both pastoral and household catechising, as well as the importance of helping learners fully grasp the significance of religious concepts, it is unsurprising that Bernard, like many other godly ministers in this period, began to develop and publish his own catechisms. As I will show, he designed these in ways that would be useful for learners of a variety of needs and abilities – reflecting his longstanding interest in tailoring religious instruction to specific audiences. We will also see that his catechisms echoed several aspects of reformed theological leanings through the type and arrangement of doctrinal content – which frequently followed the work of puritan leaders in England and reformed theologians from the continent, and at times differed notably from the Prayer Book catechism. Bernard’s first catechetical publication appeared in 1602: A Large Catechisme Following the Order of the Common Authorized Catechisme. As advertised, it followed the order of the Prayer Book catechism: but it went into more detail. This allowed Bernard to imbue the content with a clearly predestinarian point of view, especially through some added questions about the Apostles’ Creed. Further, it emphasised the duty of pursuing a holy lifestyle of the sort associated with puritanism in England. Unlike the Prayer Book and other catechisms that were more limited to basic points of doctrine, Bernard’s work included instruction on godly thoughts and behaviours and right uses of doctrines. For example, regarding communion, the catechism included the following: Q.  How must you be exercised in the time of administration, and afterwards? A. I must 1. meditate upon the death & passion of Christ, how grievously I have sinned. 2. God’s endless mercy. 3. the unity and fellowship that is amongst the true members of the Church with Christ, and one with another: rejoicing in heart, and praising God therefore with the

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congregation. Afterwards 1. I must give alms to the needy brethren, and do other good works of charity in token of thankfulness, that day especially, for so great a mercy. 2. Grow from thenceforth in obedience, faith, and unfeigned love to my life’s end.21

For Bernard, right behaviour was inextricably tied to correct thoughts or mediations. Christians were obligated to think on religious truths and then ‘afterwards’ to experience the fruits of these thoughts by behaving in godly ways (see Chapter 1). Or again, following a response about doing good works, the catechism asked, ‘Can you briefly show me any rules to be observed, that you may do so?’, and that response rehearsed meditative and behavioural instructions touching nearly all life activities.22 By encouraging learners to form or reform their lives in godly ways, Bernard aligned himself with other champions of this puritan style of practical divinity.23 He also added another section that was not based on the Prayer Book’s outline: it included a lengthy summary of ‘rules’ for daily life which appeared as a single answer (rather than briefer answers to multiple questions), as well as particular duties of individuals toward one another in various relationships. Large Catechisme was also noteworthy for its back matter. It included exemplary prayers that expanded upon the Lord’s prayer, creed, decalogue, and sacraments; these were to function as a ‘short explanation’ for the ‘ruder sort’. Immediately following were six ‘Psalms gathered out of David’s Psalms’, set into meter. Keeping in mind that the work’s title addressed the catechism to Bernard’s ‘Christian friends and wellwillers’, it is likely that he thought of this as a home catechism and, with the back matter, perhaps an all-in-one reference for family worship. In 1607, Bernard published A Double Catechisme containing two catechisms. Apparently Bernard remained happy with most of the content of Large Catechisme, as he retained it in much the same form – there was some alteration of the concluding content: the rules for daily life were split into a separate section, and questions about duties in relationships were removed.24 But, by far, the most significant change was the addition of a shorter catechism ‘for the weaker sort’. (Bernard was not alone in conceiving of a bipartite format; for example, just two years later pastor-author Thomas Wilson produced a relatively lengthy catechetical work which had appended to it ‘A brief sum of the whole catechism: for the help of the younger sort.’)25 The shorter catechism suggested Bernard’s most basic catechetical goals. Since the function of a catechism was to contain a fundamental collection of information that would, by God’s grace, bear spiritual fruit, it is safe to assume in most cases that the very shortest form of a particular author’s catechisms contained those doctrines which he deemed the most foundational and critical. Applying this to Bernard’s work, it is interesting that his shorter

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catechism did not follow the traditional arrangement of information around the creed, Lord’s prayer, decalogue, and sacraments. Rather, this work was structured around the topics of God, sin, salvation, and a believer’s works after salvation. This suggests that although Bernard did not necessarily disagree with the contents of the Prayer Book catechism, he believed that if a student could not learn a larger catechism that interpreted and contextualised the catechetical material in the Prayer Book, then he or she was better served by something largely different. In other words, although he did not reject the Prayer Book catechism outright, his work implicitly suggested that it was not the best and most basic formula for learners to follow. The arrangement of this shorter catechetical method was particularly noteworthy for the way it highlighted the doctrines of justification. Bernard’s arrangement walked the learner through a scheme that featured God’s perfections, humanity’s sin, and Christ’s redemption before it moved on to Christian behaviour or doctrines of the church. As such, the catechism not only focused upon concerns central to an experimental reformed theology but also resembled some elements of an ordo salutis, such as William Perkins’s Golden Chaine.26 Beyond this, just as in the larger catechism, the shorter also demonstrated Bernard’s attention to understanding rather than rote memorisation. In the shorter catechism, Bernard placed recitation of the traditional elements of catechism within interpretive sections (for example, the ten commandments appeared within the section on human inability to keep God’s law). This required the learner to view the laws within a particular theological framework suggesting their significance. This had, largely, the same function as the interpretive questions that appeared in the larger catechism, but it was able to do so in less space. The flavour of Bernard’s catechetical materials did not only align his teachings with the English puritan tradition, but also echoed certain key teachings from reformed theologians beyond England. This was to be expected, as continental theologians exerted strong influence across much early modern English religious thought.27 Yet certain connections were especially apparent between Bernard’s works and both Calvin’s Institutes and Ursinus’s Heidelberg catechism.28 One can assume some influence from these sources due to Bernard’s recommendation in Faithfvll Shepheard that ministers use them; yet beyond this, the resemblance between their content and his own is noteworthy. Consider, for instance, the first question and answer of Bernard’s shorter catechism: Q. How many things are needful for you to understand, that you may know both God and your self? A. These 6. things: I. rightly to conceive of God what he is, by his word and works: II. to understand the creation: III. man’s misery by the

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fall: IV. our redemption: V. our sanctification: VI. the certainty of our glorification.29

This question reflected not only the first sentence of the Institutes (which described the key importance of the ‘knowledge of God, and of ourselves’) but also the answer to the second question of the Heidelberg, which emphasised the problem of ‘sin and misery’.30 Bernard turned this introductory question into an outline for much of the rest of the work – again similar to the Heidelberg, but not the Prayer Book (albeit he included additional material about the sacraments and prayer, two elements not mentioned in the introductory question). Bernard also aligned with many reformed authors and theologians in his presentation of a predestinarian view of salvation, an issue which saw increasing debate in the early decades of the seventeenth century.31 Treating this controversial issue as important even at the most basic – indeed, catechetical – level, Bernard spelled out the implications of this doctrine. In response to a question about whether all men continue in a sinful and cursed estate forever, came the response ‘No: but only the reprobate, whom God hath not decreed to save, to manifest his justice: for the elect, being predestinate to eternal life, are in this world in their appointed time called effectually, through God’s word and his spirit, justified, and sanctified, and so shall continue’, and further clarified, Q. Are none of the reprobate, ever in the estate of grace and God’s favour? A. No verily … Q. Can any of the elect then be ever before God, in the state of damnation? A. No indeed … Q. May not men then live as they list … A. No: for that one elected cannot but use the means, which are ordained for him to walk in, to make his election sure to himself: which whoso doth not, cannot be saved.32

This passage appeared in his larger method; yet even his shorter one – the most elementary, containing the most basic doctrines – made reference to the ‘effectual calling’ of the Word and the Spirit and to election as the means for continuing in grace.33 By placing these doctrines in both catechisms, Bernard demonstrated just how central he believed they were to Christian belief and behaviour. Another interesting indication of the reformed influence in Bernard’s catechisms was that they associated the sign of the water in baptism with the blood of Christ. This was a doctrinal point wholly absent from the Prayer Book, but which appeared in the Heidelberg catechism and in Calvin, as well as certain English works such as the catechism of pastor-author Samuel Hieron.34

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If revisions are any indication, Bernard was content with his catechisms. The larger first appeared in 1602, and together with the shorter appeared in a revised version of 1607. With minor alterations, these appeared in 1609 in Iosuahs Godly Resolution, following an imagined dialogue between biblical characters Joshua and Caleb regarding godly household government, as aids to furthering one’s own household religious training. (Though the alterations were small, they were not entirely insignificant; of note, the word ‘recreate’ was replaced with ‘prepare’ and later, in a 1612 reprint, with ‘retire’ – meaningful clarifications given the debate over the Sabbath.35) In 1629, Iosuahs Resolution, including the dialogue and bipartite catechetical method, appeared with a new dedicatory epistle and certain revisions such as separating the sixth section of the larger catechism into a separate section: yet the content remained largely the same.36 This completed a progression in which, over several printings, Bernard developed and refined a twofold catechetical method. His shorter catechism contained material most crucial for knowledge and understanding of salvation – a method echoing aspects of other continental and English reformed works. Meanwhile, his larger catechism followed the basic structure of the Prayer Book, but with additions and excurses that imbued it with a tone and message closely aligned with a Calvinist, puritan view of theology and practice. Though Bernard did not think the Prayer Book catechism was hurtful, all this suggests that he saw it as insufficient: those not able to take on his larger catechism – including more than what was in the Prayer Book method – should learn a completely different one containing an appropriately clear explanation of the way of salvation. In contrast to Ian Green’s suggestion that theological differences tended to be ‘treated briefly or cautiously, or concealed’ in catechisms, Suellen Mutchow Towers has shown that clear teachings about double predestination and other controversial doctrines did appear (including in Bernard’s); likewise, Peter Lake has shown that ‘Calvinist doctrine could indeed penetrate into catechisms, funeral sermons, and the parochial ministry of the early seventeenth-century church.’37 We see this clearly in Bernard’s catechisms. Yet, of course, such content could be problematic.

Bernard’s catechetical publications: ecclesiastical pressures Just on the heels of the 1629 edition of his long-used catechetical methods, in 1630 Bernard published an entirely new method, entitled Common Catechisme. This marked a sharp departure from his previous pattern, and as a result it can provide insight into the ways godly pastor-authors negotiated their position both in the print market and in the church. Common

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Catechisme’s title page advertised that it followed the Prayer Book ‘with a commentary thereupon by questions and answers, following the words, as they lie in their order without alteration’. Although it added some content to the Prayer Book catechism questions, these modifications were fewer than his earlier publications. Further, the typeface was marked throughout so that the actual words from the Prayer Book were italicised, making it clear where and how Bernard added to and divided up the official language. The changes in typeface also sent the message that he was intentionally presenting the teaching of the national church. Interestingly, before the catechism itself began, Bernard included a sort of catechism about catechisms. One of its questions asked ‘Why is this catechism to be taught and learned before all other catechisms?’ The answer provided was not that it was a particularly good catechism nor that it contained the most important points of religion. Rather, students must first learn this one due to authority, for the sake of uniformity, and so that if the family moved the children would not become confused. Further, by asking why the work should be learned before all others, Bernard assumed that this catechism was not to be used alone – a telling caveat which suggested he continued to hold the view that the Prayer Book catechism was insufficient for holistic catechesis.38 Although Common Catechisme closely followed the order and the sense of the Prayer Book catechism, it retained some small but significant divergences, especially in the section regarding the sacraments, where it seems that Bernard was unable to simply accept the Prayer Book catechism as it stood. He retained the interpretation of baptism as symbolising Christ’s blood – an interpretation present in his earlier works but wholly absent from the Prayer Book. He also added a clear and direct warning about coming unprepared to the Lord’s Supper: Q. What is the inward and spiritual grace? A. The purging of our souls by the blood of Christ, and sanctification of the Spirit. … Q. What if you come unprepared [to the sacrament of communion] without these? A. I come unworthy, I eat and drink my own damnation. God may punish me, and the devil may enter into me, as he did in Judas, and bring me to destruction both of body and soul: from which evils the Lord deliver us, for his mercy sake. Amen.39

At a time when debates about the sacraments were often central points of tension between puritan and conformist members of the church, these divergences made a significant theological statement. They reflected the same

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reformed understanding of the sacraments that Bernard displayed in his earlier catechisms, yet they were even more noteworthy in a work that so prominently announced its conformity to the Prayer Book. Despite many conforming changes, Bernard was unwilling to wholly abandon some of his earlier emphases. Scholars including Christopher Haigh and Arnold Hunt have emphasised the significance of sacramental teachings in this period, particularly the godly emphasis on preparation for communion in order to ensure that one did not partake unworthily and incur judgement.40 A large number of printed sermons, manuals, and treatises that were published in the period complemented pastoral efforts to help believers prepare spiritually for the Lord’s Supper. In a passage from some years earlier, we see not only Bernard’s agreement with the principle, but also his connection of preparation to the Book of Common Prayer: without the grounds of catechism … How can they examine themselves, and prepare themselves to the Lord’s Supper, being ignorant of the doctrine of the sacraments? … and we have a commandment in the Book of Common-Prayer to admit none to the sacrament uncatechised, which have not learned their catechism.41

Though Bernard differed in his view of what material should be learned, and what degree of understanding one should have (i.e. more than mere ability to recite), he appreciated the Prayer Book’s requiring partakers to know the catechism before partaking. He included the point in the preface to Common Catechisme, where one reason to learn a catechism was ‘To be able to examine our selves of our faith, of our duties to God and man, of our right devotion in prayer, and of the holy use of the blessed Sacrament, especially before we come to receive.’42 In short, Bernard made a clear attempt in Common Catechisme to conform to the Prayer Book, but at the same time indicated that this was not the only useful catechism, and he still modified it somewhat on points of sacramental importance. For Bernard, the official catechism might be nearly adequate – maybe even more so than his previous work had suggested – but it was not wholly adequate, at least not in certain respects. Yet only about a year earlier, Bernard’s long-developed method had been reprinted (despite certain restrictions on content in new works, before 1637 previously licensed works could generally be reprinted).43 So if for Bernard the Prayer Book catechism was incomplete, and if he had already developed, and recently republished, a different catechetical method reflecting his theological and didactic commitments, why this new version? I suggest that Bernard’s creation of Common Catechisme was most directly related to episcopal pressure, and to the episcopal visitation of Bishop Curll in 1630.

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Since he re-conformed, Bernard’s ministry had mostly enjoyed indulgent bishops: Matthew, Montagu, and Lake. On the latter’s death, William Laud held Bath and Wells for about two years (1626–28); his rather stricter views about conformity would have impacted Bernard’s ability to pursue the brand of puritan ministry which he had spent so long developing. Though we do not know precisely what degree of restriction in print or parish Bernard experienced under Laud, it is notable that Bernard’s 1630 dedicatory epistle to Curll in Christian See to Thy Conscience commended only the recently dead bishops of Bath and Wells – conveniently allowing him to omit Laud. It may also be relevant that the 1629 revision of Iosuahs Godly Resolution, which was printed not only in London but in Taunton, and likely to be used locally, appeared shortly after the diocese again changed leadership. After Laud, Bernard had again enjoyed more tolerant leadership under Leonard Mawe, who was not only largely absent and uninvolved during his brief time as bishop, but also had a favourable personal relationship with Bernard, who had known him since boyhood.44 It seems that under Mawe, Bernard again enjoyed relative freedom to pastor and publish according to the godly model he had spent so many years refining.45 Upon Mawe’s death in 1629, Bernard would have hoped for continued indulgence. But, in a period roughly coinciding with Charles’ Royal Instructions of 1629, Curll took the see and began enforcing conformity to the national church more strictly.46 Although the royal instructions did not specifically address the form of catechism to be used, they emphasised the importance of conformity to the Prayer Book in divine service and, generally, the importance of bishops retaining control over unauthorised religious activities.47 Subsequently, Curll’s 1630 visitation articles reflected particular interest in the content of catechetical material. Articles would regularly ask something like whether a minister catechised according to the Book of Common Prayer, but emphasising the performance of the practice more than the particular questions used; this style seems to have been more common among Bernard’s previous bishops. However, Curll’s 1630 articles asked whether the Prayer Book catechism was used and, if not, ‘what catechism else doth he use’.48 And in that year curate John Bowden of Wilton, Somerset, was presented for failing to catechise out of the Book of Common Prayer and instead using another form of catechism.49 Bernard soon produced Christian See to Thy Conscience (1630). Before the main text, which contained a broad-based description of the conscience including its existence, purposes, ailments, and benefits, it featured a Latin dedicatory epistle to Curll. The text was relevant for the spiritual growth of a broad audience, rather than a direct argument that clerics should be allowed to follow their consciences in regard to ministry. Nevertheless, its pairing with an epistle that underscored Bernard’s positive opinions of prior

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diocesans certainly implied that bishops should allow ministers appropriate freedom of conscience. In a sense, this put before a broad audience a topic commonly discussed privately between ministers and bishops: perhaps an attempt to leverage public sympathies. While Conscience was probably related to restrictions (or potential restrictions) put on Bernard by Curll, it is even more likely that Common Catechisme was produced with this in mind. The new catechism overtly supported the wording and order of the Prayer Book catechism. As such (overlooking the few divergences noted above), Bernard could remain in technical conformity while yet pressing on toward a godly version of ministry. A 1634 presentation addressed that Bernard ‘asketh questions at his catechism, and requireth answers not expressed in the Book of Common Prayer’: to which he responded that he had ‘enlarged the church catechism in print, and useth the same in the church’ – suggesting the argument that Common Catechisme, having received approval for print, must be acceptable for parish use.50 At about this same time, Bernard also produced Good Christian Looke to thy Creede (1630), a work catechetical in style but not advertised as a catechism. Bernard frequently refined and innovated the style and contents of publications in order to help audiences understand religious concepts, so it was in character for him to conceive of using a catechetical question-andanswer style in a publication that was not strictly a catechism. Creede used this style while addressing a body of doctrine about the Apostles’ Creed and several other typical catechetical topics. In short, Creede was apparently a way for Bernard to continue the work he had been doing with his earlier catechetical materials.51 Officially, he catechised from the Prayer Book: but that did not mean he might not share other resources – including, say, a book that addressed related topics and just so happened to have a questionand-answer format.52 For Bernard, Creede was a way to continue the theological work he had been doing with his earlier catechetical materials without so obviously turning away from the Prayer Book catechism. Yet because his official line was that he closely followed the Prayer Book in catechising, Creede had to appear substantially different from a catechism. Bernard achieved this in several ways. First, he titled the work as if it only addressed the Apostles’ Creed and began with approximately seven pages of questions about that content. Only subsequently did he turn to other topics: Q. Now besides this your creed, are there any other helps, to awe a man to Godward, and to keep him from carnal security? A. Yes indeed, very easy to be conceived, and to be gathered out of the other parts of the common catechism with settled meditations thereupon.53

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Here, he echoed his official support for the Prayer Book catechism, yet he nevertheless implicitly denied it pride of place: he did not follow that question with the official catechism, nor even with his own version of it from Common Catechisme. Rather, he asked an entirely new set of questions about the ten commandments, Lord’s prayer, and sacraments, followed by a long series of questions about how true Christianity differed from other belief systems. Unlike a full catechism, Creede did not ask the learner to recite or define the commandments, Lord’s prayer, and sacraments: but it did include interpretive questions about these and other elements. Two features of these interpretive questions and answers were particularly significant. First, their primary function was essentially the same as many of the questions in his earlier catechetical works: they encouraged learners not just to recite, nor just to understand, major points of religion, but to use those to cultivate a self-consciously godly way of life through humble self-examination and pursuit of a strict version of godly behaviour. For instance, responses to a question on how meditation on the Lord’s prayer might rouse one from ‘carnal security’ included: V. How can I desire with sorrow, in sight of sin, the pardon of sin, even as I forgive others trespassing against me, and yet wallow in sin, as the swine in mire, in drunkenness, adultery, gluttony, murder, slander, lying, swearing, forswearing, and greedy coveting, also in malice, envy, grudging, ill-will, with desire of revenge, and in other uncharitable courses? VI. How can I desire to be delivered from evil, and the power of temptations, and yet willfully run into ill company, hearken to ill counsel, follow ill examples, avoiding the society of such as be well disposed; but easily yielding to Satan’s suggestions, studying to fulfil the desires and lusts of the flesh, and conforming to every vain fashion, custom and practice of this present world?54

Although this passage did not directly call for a gathering of visible saints or a separation of godly members of the community, it certainly set the stage for the development of the sort of separated godly society of the visible church that Bernard and many puritans desired. Moreover, it closely followed the goals and designs of his earlier catechetical works, which emphasised the importance of living out one’s faith through obedience to God’s law. In other words, Bernard’s longstanding catechetical goals of passing on a particularly godly style of practical divinity did not change in 1630. Second, it is significant that while Bernard’s catechetical priorities seem to have remained the same, some things had changed. Noticeably absent from this work was any direct reference to election or similar Calvinist doctrines:

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a sharp change from his earlier works. Following James’s 1622 directions concerning preachers, which restricted both predestinarian teachings and comments on matters of state (including anti-papal invectives), and a 1624 proclamation against ‘Seditious, Popish, and Puritanicall’ publications, the appearance of such content began dropping in first editions of religious publications.55 By 1630, it was relatively unlikely that Creede would receive license if it had expressed certain reformed doctrines in the same ways as in his earlier works. Thus Bernard chose his words carefully, remaining ambiguous at key junctures. For instance, learners were to meditate upon the Lord’s Supper for several reasons, including the following: Hereupon to judge of the desperate, and utterly forlorn estate of all mankind, with loss of God’s favour, and the hope of heaven, being accursed for ever and damned in Hell, if this had not been a remedy beyond merit of all men and angels, and the worth of ten thousand worlds. And that therefore we owe to God for this so unspeakable a benefit our bodies, our souls.56

In such passages, Bernard came as close to the doctrines of depravity, unconditional election, and reprobation as possible, but he stopped short of actually saying that no human motivation was involved, and instead simply gave glory to God for providing salvation for sinners.57 Carefully, he remained within the limits imposed upon him by the church while still providing significant help for puritan-leaning audiences. With key passages already implying reformed doctrines, it would take only a word of explanation for a godly catechiser to imbue the passage with full predestinarian meaning. Although restrictions on religious print cannot, by themselves, explain Bernard’s decision to author these new catechisms rather than reprint his older ones, these restrictions certainly informed the contents of the new publications. It is worth noting that the 1634 presentation in which Bernard was questioned about catechising with material other than the Prayer Book also addressed ‘private repetitions with his parishioners in the church between dinner and evening prayer by questions and answers before the catechising’.58 This could reflect the sort of sermon repetitions he had mentioned in the letter to Ussher, but it could also have included other material – perhaps from Creede; Arnold Hunt has observed that the slight differences between Bernard’s letter to Ussher and the practices referenced in the presentments probably reflect changes made in regard to James’s 1622 directions concerning preachers.59 Whatever the specifics of his practices, the existence of these sorts of catechetical, or rather extra-catechetical, activities within his parish underscore that Bernard wanted to ensure parishioners’ full understanding of material beyond what the Prayer Book catechism, alone, contained.

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Viewing Bernard’s 1630 publications in the context of parish ministry and episcopal restrictions, two additional pieces of information become significant. First are the specific printer and bookseller responsible for producing Common Catechisme. Through his career, Bernard had steady relationships with certain printers and booksellers – notably Cambridge printer John Legate, who produced several of Bernard’s early-career works including Large Catechisme, Double Catechisme, and Iosuahs Godly Resolution; and Bernard’s relative Felix Kingston, who put out many of Bernard’s works, including Creede and Conscience. In contrast, Common Catechisme was printed by William Stansby for Samuel Man, neither of whom were involved with any of Bernard’s other publications. Yet Stansby also produced Curll’s visitation articles of 1630.60 It is possible that Bernard consulted beforehand with Curll to see what would be acceptable in terms of catechising, and went a step further by using Curll’s connections, rather than his own, to have this work printed. This would again suggest that we view Common Catechisme as related to Curll’s initiatives; and moreover, that it was intended to openly demonstrate conformity. Secondly, pastor-author Richard Alleine, a close associate of Bernard’s in a nearby parish, in 1630 published a work similar to Common Catechisme; it closely followed the order and wording of the Prayer Book catechism, breaking it into small sections and then elaborating on several of them.61 It is entirely possible that they consulted Curll, and/or one another, about ways to continue catechising under this episcopal restriction, settling on similar courses of action. Common Catechisme was a rather good seller. It was in its sixth edition by 1632, by which time Bernard had revised it slightly and provided marginal cross-references. One notable revision was to the section introducing the catechism, which asked why the order of creed, decalogue, Lord’s prayer, and sacraments was observed; the answer was: ‘To teach me, 1. That I must believe, before I can obey: 2. That if I believe, I will obey: 3. That believing and obeying I am then to pray to God: That being such a one, I may comfortably use the Sacraments.’ This seems to be a move to further contextualise catechetical material within the ordo salutis, and to bring back in the idea of preparation for the sacrament, as in his earlier catechisms. Common Catechisme reached an eleventh edition by 1640. All these editions were printed for Samuel Man – it was standard for one publisher to retain rights to a work – but even having this commercially successful work, Man never published any of Bernard’s other books. There is some evidence that Bernard’s works may have been circulating both in manuscript and in print, more or less simultaneously. Samuel Hartlib (who seems not to have known Bernard personally but was familiar with his works) recorded c. 1635 that Bernard had ‘a MS. Catechismi Quaestiones

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vpon the V. Cap. Catechismus.’62 If ‘V. Cap.’ refers to the fifth question of the Prayer Book catechism, this was probably a version of Creede. A later comment of Hartlib’s noted the dedicatory epistle to Hanham in Common Catechisme and did not call the work a manuscript: he seems to have obtained a print copy.63 If there were indeed different versions circulating of the same, or similar, content, it is possible that they were being used toward different ends: with print being more quickly reproduced, and manuscript leaving content more open to changes in wording that might reflect godly theological priorities.

Conclusion We have seen Bernard’s choice to print a new catechism in 1630 (especially having just had a reprint of his previous method) primarily as a demonstration of conformity to the wishes of his bishop. This illustrates the delicate negotiations that could be required of puritan pastor-authors desiring to remain in good standing in the national church during the upheavals of the 1620s and 1630s. Bernard’s new catechism sent a clear message – to readers, and to ecclesiastical superiors – that he was willing to conform, and to do so publicly. Having formerly been removed from his post and drawn back from the brink of separatism by Matthew, and having here and there been presented for some act of nonconformity (though he would conform when pressed), it was increasingly critical for Bernard to cooperate with church authorities on points they deemed important. Without such a move, his future activities in parish or in print could have been further restricted. As we have also seen, there is no reason to conclude on the basis of this publication that Bernard’s religious-educational desires had changed. By employing Creede as a companion to Common Catechisme, he was able to provide readers with many of the same interpretations of doctrines that his earlier catechisms had done: even while enabling him to officially catechise from the Prayer Book. To be sure, he had to step back from certain Calvinist teachings: yet rather than ignoring the issues completely, he chose to use ambiguous language that in the hands of a godly minister or household leader could easily be imbued with predestinarian meaning. In this way, Bernard did as much as possible to negotiate ecclesiastical restrictions in order to produce officially acceptable materials that, with a few tweaks, could effectively support holistic, godly, and reformed religious education. Seeing these publications as a direct response to ecclesiastical pressures offers a view rather different than that of Ian Green, who has argued that the restrictions of the 1620s and 1630s were not a major factor limiting the proliferation of catechisms in these decades.64 Although Towers and others have

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already given evidence to dispute Green’s claims to this effect, Bernard’s case is significant because Green actually uses Bernard in crafting his point. He suggests that Bernard is a primary example of a godly minister who nevertheless emphasised the benefits of using a unified catechetical method (the Prayer Book’s), rather than multiplying catechisms. Although Bernard did write words to that effect in Common Catechisme, a full look at his corpus clearly demonstrates that he believed other catechisms were necessary, and that he had no qualms about multiplying the number of catechetical materials on the market. In other words, the abrupt way in which Bernard changed his catechetical publications, and the careful ways in which he framed words about the sacraments and reformed doctrines, actually supports the notion that ecclesiastical strictures effectively exerted pressure on catechetical publications and practices. In short, what we see through Bernard’s publications in this period is a thoughtful consideration of how he might work within a conforming position to nevertheless provide a certain sort of godly instruction for those under his care. Faced with the requirement to catechise with the words of the Prayer Book catechism, Bernard innovated both in his publication of Common Catechisme, which featured a creative way to divide and comment upon certain issues, and innovated even further by developing his catechetical companion, Creede. Yet here again, ecclesiastical pressures limited the ways in which Bernard could present doctrines regarding salvation and predestination; he finessed by providing ambiguously worded passages that instructors could imbue with a reformed meaning. He continued to seek a path that would allow him both to conform and to provide the religious instruction that he believed was necessary for Christian growth. Together, Bernard’s publications from this period demonstrate a determined – and seemingly successful – effort toward ecclesiastical and theological negotiation in both print and parish.

Notes 1 BOD RL 89, fol. 28r. Boran transcribes ‘date’ rather than ‘doct.’: Correspondence, vol. 1, p. 196. 2 John Conant, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Bernard, Thesaurus. 3 See e.g. SRO D/D/Ca 299, p. 122; and Chapter 6 below. 4 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 8–9. This idea is not unique to Bernard; see Green, ‘For children in yeeres’, p. 417; and Collinson, ‘Shepherds, sheepdogs, and hirelings’, pp. 58–60. On Faithfvll Shepheard see Chapter 3 above. 5 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 9–10. 6 Bernard, Two Twinnes, p. 2; Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 256–7; see also Green, Christian’s ABC, pp. 238–9.

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7 Bernard, Two Twinnes, pp. ii, 14–29. 8 Ibid., p. 5. 9 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 100–5. 10 Ibid., p. 15. See Matthew 19, Mark 10, and Luke 18. 11 Bernard, Two Twinnes, pp. 11–12. 12 Ibid., pp. 15–17. Green also notes this: Christian’s ABC, pp. 238–9. 13 Bernard, Two Twinnes, p. 15. 14 Watt, Cheap Print, p. 69. 15 Bernard, ‘Catechise’, in Thesaurus. 16 Bernard, Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1609). 17 Ibid., sigs A2v–A3r. 18 Bernard, Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1629), sigs A3r–v. 19 Bernard, dedicatory epistle in Common Catechisme; it also mentioned Walter Earle’s diligence in catechism and expressed gratefulness to both Hanham and Earle for their involvement in the provision of a living for his son Cannanuel. 20 Bernard, Common Catechisme, sigs A2r–v. 21 Bernard, Large Catechisme, p. 42. 22 Ibid., pp. 42–6. 23 See Hambrick-Stowe, ‘Practical divinity’. 24 Bernard, Double Catechisme. 25 Wilson, Exposition, sig. gg.v. 26 Perkins, Golden Chaine. See also Muller, ‘Perkins’ A Golden Chaine’. 27 See McGiffert, ‘Grace and Works’, pp. 463–4; McGiffert uses Bernard as an exemplary case. 28 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), p. 40. 29 Bernard, Double Catechisme, 1. 30 Calvin, Institution, fol. 1; Ursinus, Svmme of Christian Religion, p. 58. (See also Catechisme or Manner, sig. A.ii.v.) 31 Towers, Religious Printing, pp. 102–4. 32 Bernard, Double Catechisme, pp. 17–18. 33 Ibid., pp. 5–6. 34 ‘Of Baptisme’, in Ursinus, Svmme of Christian Religion, pp. 218–19 (see also ‘Of Baptisme’, in The Catechisme or Manner, sigs C.r–C.ii.r); Calvin, Institution, Book 4, ch. 15; Hieron, Beginning of Christ, n.p. 35 Double Catechisme, sixth part, IV [irregularly paginated]; Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1609), p. 93; Iosuahs Godly Resolution (1612), p. 93. 36 Bernard, Iosuahs Resolution (1629), sig. A2v, p. 99. (The separate section is also noted on the title page.) 37 Green, Christian’s ABC, p. 566; Towers, Religious Printing, pp. 279–81; Lake, Boxmaker’s Revenge, p. 20; see also Hunt, Art of Hearing, ch. 7; Hughes, ‘Moderate puritan preacher’, pp. 770–1. 38 Bernard, Common Catechisme, sig. A4r. 39 Ibid., n.p. 40 See e.g. Haigh, ‘Communion and community’; Hunt, ‘Lord’s supper’; Holifield, Covenant Sealed; and Boulton, ‘Limits of formal religion’.

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41 Bernard, Two Twinnes, p. 16. 42 Bernard, Common Catechisme, p. v. 43 Towers, Religious Printing, pp. 247–64, 278–9. 44 Bernard, Conscience, sigs ¶2v–3r. The epistle is dated from January 1630/31. William Hunt, ‘Mawe, Leonard (d. 1629)’, rev. David Hoyle, ODNB. 45 On that model see Collinson, Religion of Protestants, pp. 85–6. 46 M. Dorman, ‘Curll, Walter (1575–1647)’, ODNB. 47 See Fincham, ‘Annual accounts’. 48 [Curll], Articles. Lake’s earlier visitation was probably to include the articles used by Abbot: Fincham, Visitation Articles, vol. 1, p. 100n. Restrictions on additional catechisms, or enquiry about which ones were used, to catechise were not unique – see inter alia Harsnett’s 1620 articles for Norwich: [Harsnett], Articles, tit. 2 art. 9. 49 Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 208. 50 There was also a presentation for his allowing someone else to question children; as this does not seem to correspond to Bernard’s other catechetical activities or priorities, one wonders if there were extenuating circumstances which were not recorded. SRO D/D/Ca 299, fols 57r, 61. 51 Green, Christian’s ABC, pp. 54–5. 52 Some of Creede’s provided answers were lengthy, even including multiple roman numerals: this was not dissimilar from the sixth section of his existing large catechism. 53 Bernard, Creede, p. 8. 54 Ibid., pp. 12–13. 55 See Towers, Religious Printing, pp. 160ff. 56 Bernard, Creede, p. 15. 57 Ibid., pp. 26–34. Even with restrictions on certain anti-Catholic expressions, Bernard was able to explain why Catholicism robs God of glory in the final section of the work, which rehearsed nearly thirty different heresies, errors, and fallacies. 58 SRO D/D/Ca 299 fol. 57r. 59 Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 75–6. 60 [Curll], Articles. 61 R.A., Briefe Explanation. 62 HP 29/3/22A. Transcription follows The Hartlib Papers online edition. 63 HP 29/3/27A. The online edition transcribes ‘Michael’ for ‘Rich.’ 64 Green, Christian’s ABC, pp. 75ff.

5

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Different audiences, different messages: explication and implication in anti-Catholic publications A good number of studies have considered Catholic and anti-Catholic polemics on the political, religious, and rhetorical stages of early modern England, including ways Catholicism was a foil against which English Protestant self-definition developed, and ways anti-Catholic views could be leveraged according to particular circumstances.1 This chapter builds on this literature by emphasising that we should not see anti-Catholic publications as an assumed part of religious publishing by puritan pastor-authors. Rather, anti-Catholic publications, and even anti-Catholic sentiments appearing in publications on other topics, responded in a range of ways to personal, ecclesiastical, and ecclesio-political factors. Moreover, pastor-authors might publish content with a range of different audiences in mind, for whom they might communicate different messages – sometimes simultaneously. While Bernard held a position fundamentally opposed to Catholicism throughout his career, his publications began centring anti-Catholic content c. 1617 and continued that way for roughly a decade: clearly to 1626, and in certain ways into 1629. This was followed by more limited treatment of the subject until 1641. As we will see, there was also a shift c. 1622 in the tone and content of his anti-Catholic publications. Because of these relatively well-delimited dates, we can identify particular factors in Bernard’s local contexts, as well as national developments, that influenced the shifts in his published rhetoric against Catholics.

Catholicism as an enduring, but not central, concern In order to identify the beginning of Bernard’s increased engagement with Catholicism, we must consider his longer-term treatment of the topic. His first published anti-Catholic content appeared as early as 1602 in A Large Catechisme:

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Q. Is the Church of Rome a true Church of Christ? A. No, but of Antichrist the Pope, the chief teacher of the doctrine of devils. Q. What reason have you to disallow that religion? A. For that it is a false religion. I. The author is the devil. II. The means used to uphold it are unlawful [reasons continue through VII].2

This passage appeared in essentially the same form in its later versions of 1607, 1609, and 1629, suggesting a continuing view that the Church of Rome had not merely strayed in a few points, but was fundamentally opposed to God’s purposes. Nevertheless, his catechetical material primarily emphasised other issues (see Chapter 4). Elsewhere, too, Catholic teachings were something about which Bernard warned, but not a sustained area of focus. His Sinners Safetie (1609) exposited 2 Peter 1:10, discussing several spiritual dangers and dealing with the devil, idolatry, and other topics frequently associated with popery by antiCatholic authors: yet it directly addressed Catholicism only relatively briefly. And it was not especially antagonistic: it framed Catholicism as one evil among others and even at one point commended the ‘pharasaical papists’ who displayed an admirable (albeit misplaced) zeal.3 Contemplative Pictures (1610) addressed a broad set of theological concepts, but did contain certain anti-Catholic framing. The title page noted its employment of images as not ‘popish and sensible for superstition, but mental for divine contemplation’. Protestants, especially puritans, were sensitive about the use of images in this period, associating visible images with Catholic practices. By simultaneously rejecting one practice and affirming a better substitute, Bernard positioned Protestant belief as not merely a negation of Catholicism but rather as its own positive system. Moreover, the dedication to Edmund Lord Sheffield and his family was significant. Sheffield’s prosecutions of Catholics in this area of England were well known, so Bernard’s naming him could have again raised attention to the correctness of the Protestant message over and against the Catholic one.4 And it contained certain anti-Catholic comments along with condemning lukewarmness among professing Protestants.5 But perhaps the strongest anti-Catholic gesture here was addressed to others in Sheffield’s household, including his wife, Ursula, a known Catholic: A Lady is honored in her Lord, children are dignified in the due fame, and high promotion of their parents. … women are but weak, their strength is to be under government, excellent praise is given by their wise silence, but their principal glory stands in their awe, and cheerful obedience. This perhaps may not seem a plausible service to your sex; but (good Ladies) he cannot flatter, that indeed doth give you true honor.6

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Elsewhere in his corpus, Bernard regularly affirmed more active roles for women than we find here; he honoured not merely female ‘silence’, ‘awe’, and ‘obedience’ but also personal godliness, wisdom, virtue, and other qualities in female biblical figures (notably in Ruths Recompence) and several women of his own acquaintance. But Bernard could not extol any godly virtues in a Catholic; to the contrary, unless she were to convert, the best Bernard could hope was that she not impede the work of the gospel (especially, in this case, given her husband’s efforts).7 For this reason, Bernard could only commend her silence and submission: qualities that, perhaps, might even lead her to true belief. We should not underestimate the significance of such framing in terms of how readers would have approached Contemplative Pictures. Nevertheless, its main content made markedly little reference to Catholicism or Catholic theology, despite featuring several topics – God, the devil, goodness, badness, Heaven, and Hell – which could easily have facilitated such comments if Bernard had been so inclined.8 Rather, the overwhelming force of the work was not anti-Catholic but rather against worldly minded Protestants not fully committed to godly faith and belief; as I discussed in Chapter 2, this emphasis on personal godliness was likely part of Bernard’s public positioning vis-à-vis his return to conformity. A similar emphasis on personal godliness also appeared in Weekes Worke (1614);9 despite some anti-Catholic gestures, it targeted other issues: for example lamenting that ‘men seem to hate so very much popish superstition, as they neglect altogether Christian devotion; it is judged enough to be no papist, though otherwise a man be little better than a very atheist in all his courses’. And its conclusion included a prayer referring to religious conflict abroad: a meaningful but not especially vehement gesture.10 Dauids Musick (1616) likewise showed restraint in the treatment of Catholicism. For example, while suggesting that Romans 2:2 ‘confutes papists, who hold that councils cannot err’, it passed by an opportunity to connect Antichrist with the Pope in its discussion of Psalm 3 (striking when compared with the vehement insistence regarding Pope-as-Antichrist in 1617’s Key).11 To be sure, Dauids Musick left room for audiences to consider anti-Catholic ideas alongside the text, but it did not engage all opportunities for overt anti-Catholic rhetoric.

A transition, c. 1616 Increased concern about Catholicism appeared in Staffe of Comfort (also 1616, but entered into the stationers’ register some nine months after Dauids Musick).12 It addressed common questions, concerns, and objections on a

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range of issues with answers from the Bible. Among these appeared significant attention to defending Protestantism over Catholicism and portraying Catholic influence as a grave and imminent problem, causing confusion to those with weak faith, leading souls astray, and threatening harm to the state.13 Concurrently to this increased emphasis, one can observe a range of influences developing in various ways and at various speeds. One was a theological shift, gaining traction among certain religious intellectuals, to question or deny that the Pope was the Antichrist.14 In 1614, John Prideaux of Oxford University noted this development as part of a disturbing trend away from rigorous Protestant scholarship.15 When Bernard’s bishop and personal benefactor, James Montagu, published the King’s Workes in 1616, the prefatory material made special note of James’s exposition of Revelation and his interpretation of Antichrist.16 While in pursuit of the Spanish alliance, James had begun positioning himself more as a bringer of international religious peace rather than a defender of Protestantism; Montagu’s collection revived the King’s previous anti-Catholic rhetoric just in time to address some of the current debates about the nature of the Catholic threat.17 Bernard surely observed these moves with a keen eye. There was also the continuing presence of individual Catholics throughout England, and specifically in Bernard’s region. In a sermon before the 1616 Taunton assizes, Bernard’s fellow Somerset puritan pastor-author William Sclater complained about authorities’ common failure to prosecute recusants, allowing Catholics to remain as functioning members of society and the Catholic religion to continue attracting followers.18 That year saw a key episcopal transition as Arthur Lake took Bath and Wells. Like Montagu, Lake supported the work of preaching ministers in their own parishes and at combination lectures, and to foster the advance of the gospel through a vibrant preaching ministry he seems to have tolerated a level of puritan nonconformity in certain practices.19 Yet Lake was no puritan himself, and though he sought to eradicate recusancy, he did not take the hard line against Catholicism that most puritans did.20 This indulgence toward aspects of both puritanism and Catholicism may have combined to create both the ability, and a further impetus, for Bernard to turn his published rhetoric against Catholicism.

Catholicism as a key concern, c. 1617–21 We now look to the period from roughly 1617 to 1621, during which Bernard’s publications displayed a clear anti-Catholic emphasis. First, his 1617 Key of Knowledge featured exposition and analysis of Revelation’s

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historical, ecclesiastical, and political valences. Key did resonate on issues beyond anti-Catholicism; for example, Kevin Sharpe has discussed the way it offered a degree of reader autonomy, offering readers the ability ‘to open the secrets of God “almost alone”’.21 Yet in a sense, even this complemented the overall anti-Catholic content: it was not merely the authorities’ responsibility to lead, but each Christian’s responsibility to understand theological and eschatological issues, and commit oneself to appropriate action, via personal engagement with Word and Spirit. Indeed, Key’s marking of Catholicism as a cause for grave concern was as apparent from the several dedicatory epistles, which were intended to shape audiences’ perceptions and uses of the volume, as it was from the main expository content of the book.22 The first epistle was to Lake. It was in Latin, which placed its contents in the scholarly realm and highlighted Bernard’s abilities. As this epistle was penned shortly after Lake’s appointment to Bath and Wells, Bernard seems to have intended to present his qualifications as a godly minister, and his primary concerns for the progress of religion. Though mentioning separatism and other matters, a significant portion of the epistle directly referenced issues around Catholicism, and with conviction addressed how readings of Revelation must take the Pope to be Antichrist and the Catholic Church to be Babylon the whore. Yet Bernard intended Key to influence not only the ecclesiastical, but also the political, arena – and among a broader range of readers. Transitioning from Latin to English, several subsequent epistles addressed various parties’ responses to the dangers of Catholicism. The second epistle, ‘To the right reverend, the Judges of the common laws of this realm, and to the four worthy societies of the Inns of Court, the learned lawyers and Students of the same’, emphasised that a legal and political stance against Catholicism helped both church and society: all Catholics were enemies to the laws of England, for they ‘cannot possibly be good subjects, entertaining such a religion’.23 The third epistle looked to the ‘Worthy justices, imprisoners of malefactors and preservers of peace’, requesting inter alia that they ‘search out these walking spirits of Antichrist; I mean, the priests and Jesuits … Likewise that the statutes be executed upon open recusants … And withal, that a circumspect eye be had of our church-papists.’24 His stance against the latter was significant, as some contemporary views accepted mere outward conformity. Yet Bernard saw this as in certain ways more dangerous than recusancy: because outwardly conforming Catholics could not as easily be identified, they were actually more insidious.25 Fourthly, an epistle to those ‘ready to fight for the honor of Christ, the safety of our King and country’ applied concerns about Catholicism to the just nature of a military attack on an ‘antichristian state’. The epistle

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outlined an interpretation of the plagues poured out by angels in Revelation as actions by England (and other states, though with less attention to those) against Catholicism – the penultimate plague being James’s denial of papal supremacy in the ‘Praemonition’ to the reprinted Apologie for the Oath of Allegiance: therefore, the final plague and ultimate defeat was at hand.26 Hereupon Bernard built to an interpretation of England as ‘one of the ten horns, that gave our kingdom once to the Beast’ and now poised to be ‘one of the greatest means, under God Almighty, to bring an utter overthrow and desolation to that Antichristian state’. That the devil realised this primary role for England could, in turn, explain ‘why above all other nations, they have sought to invade us: and why they assay by unheard of, and unmatchable villainies, to root us out from under heaven’. The application of this proposed eschatological role was clear; Bernard concluded the epistle with good wishes for those ‘ready to draw your swords in this quarrel of Christ, for Christ, our King and country’.27 The final epistle, addressed to the Christian reader, comprised a discussion of the letters to the churches in the first chapters of Revelation vis-à-vis Thomas Brightman’s analysis (early readers of the text apparently convinced Bernard that his omission of such content in the body of the work was problematic, so he added it here). Unlike Brightman, Bernard saw the seven churches representing eras within the progress of church history, with the Church of Rome proving the key enemy across more than one era. His interpretation of the present era as the penultimate, ‘Philadelphian’ state anticipated imminent victory: Catholics would soon ‘be made to stoop unto us, as we have afore time been subject to Rome’. The letter concluded with a summary of Satan’s work, exhorting ‘to this day that Jezebel of Rome yet remaineth, and so shall, till the appointed time come, of her final destruction. Which kings and princes must achieve by the sword; which preachers must urge them unto by the Word; and which people must heartily pray for.’28 This call to action was but one amidst many throughout Key, which was clear about the evils of Rome and the need to stand firm against them. Key’s four major parts discussed, respectively, that the book of Revelation should be studied by a variety of individuals; that it was not concealed but a ‘mystery made manifest’; what made the prophecy obscure to some; and a guide to understanding the book, both as a whole and in its parts, including ‘interpretation of the most principal and hardest things’. It concluded with four tables addressing eschatological numbers 666 and 144,000.29 Some of Key’s content may have originated in sermons (see Chapter 3); nevertheless, in final form it was an academic work more akin to a commentary: densely argued and well annotated, and including explanation of methods for exegesis as well as examples of how to do so.30 Bernard’s core message was clear: to usher in the end of days and to be on Christ’s victorious side,

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political and religious leaders should together give full effort to the struggle against the forces of Antichrist. Within this was a sustained emphasis on the identification of the Pope as Antichrist: Bernard later said his ‘poor labours upon the Revelation’ had on that point ‘laid the dog so near his [the Pope’s] door, that I hope he and his parasites cannot beat him away’.31 Key was multifaceted, drawing its timing, content, and application from observations about changes within the church and state; Bernard’s own textual analysis; and the influence of others, for example adding the section on Brightman because of advice, and even after publication seeking Ussher’s opinions on Key, perhaps to influence future work.32 A similar convergence of personal and external influences would combine toward his subsequent publications. In his letter to Ussher, Bernard explained that after publishing Key he went on to another study addressing Revelation’s epistles to the churches: this was likely Seaven Golden Candlestickes. With that work ‘under authority’, Bernard explained, he began ‘a short history of the primitive church’, placing analysis of Revelation’s epistles alongside Acts and the other New Testament epistles.33 That, in turn, prompted a study proving that Peter never went to Rome. He also mentioned that his commentary on the book of Ruth was almost ready. Bernard’s study of Peter’s travels was soon produced, as a visit to Oxford with his son Cannanuel provided opportunity to show the manuscript to regius professor John Prideaux, who ‘so liked it, when by some friends I was moved to present it to him, as he presently allowed it to be published’ with the university printer, appearing in 1619 as The Fabulous Foundation of the Popedome.34 It included a grateful dedicatory epistle to Prideaux along with William Goodwin and Sebastian Benefield, who had also reviewed the manuscript. While one need not doubt the veracity of Bernard’s gratitude, naming these allies benefited him by positioning the work as encouraged by, in a sense even coming from, these prominent men.35 In arguing that Peter was never at Rome, Bernard aimed to undermine the entire papacy; the work acknowledged its controversial nature as the epistle to the reader mentioned the potential for readers to disagree with, or think poorly of, the work and even of Bernard as author.36 After the epistle came a succinct summary of Bernard’s reasons why Peter was never at Rome, with a strongly worded supporting conclusion to them. Then, in generic contrast, came a dialogue comprising the main body of the work.37 This addressed intellectual-theological issues and dealt with objections – content not dissimilar from high-level academic disputation – but via a positive, rather than defensive, position, because the dialogue was between ‘two faithful friends’. Indeed, Bernard framed the dialogue such that there was no real disagreement: both characters ultimately reached the same conclusions. This feature allowed Bernard to identify the enemy not as an individual (real

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or fictional) but rather as ignorance: something which could be defeated as readers took the message to heart. A final table, on one folded sheet, provided a chronological summary of Peter’s travels – an additional resource. The use of dialogue alongside the early summary sections and the concluding chronology reflected the balance Bernard sought between addressing issues of concern before an educated, ecclesiastical audience and before a popular or parish audience. Though the work contained some relatively direct information suitable for scholarly consultation and citations which might aid research, the main body was easily accessible to broad audiences. It seems Bernard imagined helping laypeople refute aspects of Catholic teaching as well as doing his part to equip pastors and scholars in their own anti-Catholic thinking and pursuits. This suggested an appeal to different audiences within just the one volume. The sermon-based commentary on Ruth which Bernard had said in 1619 was nearly ready, would be published nearly a decade later as Ruths Recompence.38 We cannot be certain why Bernard chose to address Ruth in the first place, nor why publication was delayed. Yet with its drafting c. 1619, and with the biblical narrative centred upon marriage to a foreigner, it is difficult to imagine that any serious treatment of Ruth could escape association with Charles’s potential Spanish match.39 That Bernard was completing this commentary at roughly the same time as he was composing several vehemently anti-Catholic works buttresses the suggestion that he was thinking about Ruth within this context. Given godly anxieties over a royal marriage to a woman from a Catholic state, the book of Ruth provided perhaps more biblical hope than any other. Ruth’s birth in a foreign, idolatrous place; her marriage into Israel; and her conversion to follow Israel’s God spoke to contemporary anxieties. The issues of foreign marriage and female behaviour were central to the published work, with the subtitle underscoring as much: ‘Wherein is shewed her happy calling out of her own country and people, into the fellowship and society of the Lord’s inheritance: her virtuous life and holy carriage amongst them: and then, her reward in God’s mercy, being by an honorable marriage made a mother in Israel.’40 That is, Ruths Recompence summarised Ruth’s narrative as one of a foreign woman, from an ungodly society, joining fully into a godly society and producing godly heirs. This is not to imply that the entirety of Ruths Recompence was related to this single issue: to the contrary, its topics ranged widely.41 Nevertheless, this reading provides key interpretive contexts for portions of Ruths Recompence discussing foreign marriage, including the following – which offered some hope, but also strong warning: daughters of a bad race, may prove good wives, and good children in law sometime: as these daughters of idolaters did; when God restraineth nature, and giveth grace withal. For many times there are tractable and gentle natures,

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where religion is not grafted … though it is dangerous to graft in a bad stalk: for an hundred to one, but a Michal will make a David know that she is Saul’s daughter.42

This reading also suggests a potential explanation for the work’s delayed publication. Throughout his career, Bernard wrote and published new works at a relatively fast rate; the only times we are aware of significant delays in publication were when external circumstances prevented it (see Chapters 8–9).43 In December 1620, James issued a proclamation silencing public discourse on matters of state, which although not explicitly referencing printing, did affect it.44 If indeed Ruths Recompence signalled the questioning of royal foreign marriage, it is no wonder that Bernard might be unable – or circumspectly choose not to attempt – to publish immediately. Only some years after Charles’s eventual marriage would Ruths Recompence see publication. To be sure, Henrietta Maria was also not the committed Protestant that Bernard and others might have wished for Charles; however, the appearance of Ruths Recompence in 1628, now some safe distance after the wedding, was likely not seen as meddling in state affairs in the same way it might have been some years prior: and, of course, Bernard had plenty of time in the interim to rework any passages which could be viewed as problematic. Bernard had three more works published in 1621: the strongly antiCatholic publication Seaven Golden Candlestickes; a short work related to the Lord’s prayer entitled The Good Mans Grace (see the brief discussion in Chapter 1); and a revised edition of Faithfvll Shepheard (see Chapter 3). While neither of the latter primarily addressed Catholicism, the ‘Admonitory Conclusion’ to Good Mans Grace hinted at Bernard’s elevated concern – even over and above other concerns including Atheism, Islam (‘Turcism’), Judaism, Heresy, Schism, and more. Here, for each belief system or practice Bernard exhorted readers to ‘depart from this iniquity’: but he changed his phraseology as the list culminated in ‘Papism’, from which one should ‘depart from this iniquity of the bottomless pit’.45 Moreover, he specified that ‘departing’ from Papism included associating ‘that Antichrist of Rome as the head, & the Romish Church, as it now stands, as the whore of Babylon’.46 To be sure, Key had revealed Bernard’s concern to retain these eschatological interpretations – but its length and content targeted relatively educated audiences. Here, the intended audience was far broader, specifying not only women (underscored by its dedication) but even those unfamiliar with the Lord’s prayer (as the preface mentioned). It is uncertain how many readers from these categories would recognise the full ramifications of these statements; nevertheless, underscoring pope-as-Antichrist in a work intended for popular audiences is notable. Meanwhile, Seaven Golden Candlestickes again addressed Catholicism head-on in its four treatises. The first expanded content from an epistle in

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Key, explaining how Revelation’s seven churches represent different eras in church history (‘not a conceit, but an opinion more than probable’).47 For each church, a table summarised the biblical content alongside an antitypical interpretation, followed by ‘considerations for instruction and use’ that one could take from each church’s example. Though not all uses were eschatological or expressly anti-Catholic, several were. And especially in the latter letters (i.e. those Bernard saw as representing more contemporary eras), there were direct connections to recent international political contexts. Bernard dated the beginning of the sixth era to the accession of Elizabeth in 1558 (a change from Key, which had tied it to the harmony of confessions).48 Bernard saw this as the current era, at the conclusion of which the ‘Pope & Turk, the Beast and Dragon, open and secret enemies being destroyed, & these heavenly Conquerors shall be accounted the true Church of God’.49 It is in this expectation of the imminent, final victory that we must view the work’s three subsequent treatises. The second treatise, ‘The Honour of England’, attempted to hearten readers by demonstrating particular unique blessings that God had given England, ‘to encourage us still in his service against that Antichristian power’.50 Meanwhile the third, ‘The great mystery of Gods mercie’, traced the history of the Jews in light of the doctrine that the world would not end until their conversion, and suggested that the idolatrous Catholics were hindering this Jewish return to the faith: since Jews ‘detest idolatry’ they ‘cannot imagine, that such Christians can be Gods people, that live in such gross idolatry’.51 The final treatise, ‘Peace to the pure in heart’, largely reproduced the introductory portion of Christian Advertisements, but with explicitly anti-Catholic alterations. For example, structural changes included a new section title ‘How to avoid popery, schism, and uncharitable contentions among one another’ (calling out popery specifically); and new content throughout reframed the focus of unity vis-à-vis a need to defeat the Catholic Church. Altogether, through 1621 Bernard acknowledged an ongoing eschatological battle and eagerly anticipated a positive end. As the dedicatory epistles to Key had emphasised, local authorities could more effectively deal with church-papists and recusants, and the state could take a stronger position against the international forces of Catholic religion – and to do so was possible. As Fabulous Foundation reflected, there were still wrong beliefs about the Pope, but these could be corrected – with tools even including a brief dialogue engaging a broad audience of readers. Moreover, true Christians, as Seaven Golden Candlestickes reminded readers, needed only to stand faithfully, avoid internal controversies, and together work toward the defeat of Rome. This perception of the status of the church was perhaps not entirely rose-coloured, but it was optimistic.

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Catholicism as a key, but a fraught, concern, c. 1622– 26: the Fisher debates and Montagu’s New Gagg While Bernard’s eschatology taught that Christ and the true church would ultimately gain victory, many events of the early 1620s were fraught. The defeat of Catholic powers abroad was proving to be no foregone conclusion, and a potential marriage alliance with a Catholic nation was still in play: both significant concerns for the godly. In addition, recusancy penalties were suspended, several English Catholics were gaining influence, and some notable English Protestants were turning to Catholicism – not least the Countess of Buckingham and members of her family. And, adding insult to injury for puritans, in the late 1610s and early 1620s royal favour had begun shifting toward the anti-Calvinist faction; inter alia James’s 1622 directions concerning preachers restricted some content, including key Calvinist doctrines, from sermons before certain audiences.52 Alongside an eschatological battle against the Antichrist, the godly were struggling in a new way against forces of theological divergence and compromise within the national church. These were not entirely separate issues. The Buckingham family’s chaplain John Percy (alias Fisher) had long attacked Protestantism, and in May 1622 was invited to debate Francis White, James I, and William Laud on this topic. Daniel Featley, who would have been a clear choice, was not chosen to debate (again pointing to a shift away from a Calvinist theological orientation). Details of this conference and the King’s involvement began circulating in manuscript, and by 1624 saw print. Meanwhile, a 1623 publication, The Fisher Catched in his Owne Net, described a related debate informally held that June, at which Percy and John Sweet attempted to debate Featley and White, but the engagement stalled upon disagreement about the terms on which to proceed.53 One result of the efforts of Percy and others was that more Catholics were beginning to openly identify as such: a shift immeasurably concerning to the likes of Bernard.54 Because Fisher Catched was a description of the debate rather than a full handling of theological topics, and because the disputation devolved before it really began, it did not resolve many concerns. Notably, it recorded the Catholic call for ‘names, names, names’ to establish a Protestant pedigree, but not a full response. Protestant authors had previously addressed this – but often in works not readily available to all readers of Fisher Catched. Certainly Foxe’s book of martyrs was available relatively widely and did address the issue; but it was lengthy and narrative-centric. Thus Bernard saw an opportunity to produce a more pointed, still popularly accessible, response. Looke Beyond Luther appeared within the year to provide ‘sound

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props to bear up honest-hearted Protestants, that they fall not from their saving faith’.55 Featley himself licensed it.56 Rather than addressing Fisher (or any individual) directly, Looke Beyond Luther responded generally to attacks on Protestantism’s pedigree. This afforded it a degree of staying power to respond to any potential future attacks in this vein. It also may have aimed to shield Bernard from any potential repercussions related to commenting on specific debates or situations. Following a dedicatory epistle emphasising reasons Catholicism could not be true and that Protestantism was not novel, the main section of the work took up only one issue: the Protestant faith before Luther. It proceeded to argue positively in a way accessible to a broad range of readers, yet using a more formal argumentative structure than many popular works did. Featley’s insistence upon logic as a formal, academic way of proving one’s position had figured largely in Fisher Catched; Bernard could have been attempting to follow suit – or perhaps he simply found this a useful way to proceed. A subsequent section, ‘The authors farther help to stay the honest-hearted Protestant from apostacy’, took a more pastoral, even conversational, tone. It emphasised that one did not need extensive theological knowledge to refute Catholic assertions, but could defend one’s faith with basic catechetical content, including the Lord’s prayer, decalogue, and Creed. Though the first section of the work showed it was possible to refute adversaries with educated, logical arguments, Bernard did not expect his readers to do so in their own conversations. Rather, they could respond in faith with what they did know. In addition, he emphasised the importance of turning doubt back on the Catholic faith – actually attacking its validity, rather than remaining on the defensive.57 Altogether, in Looke Beyond Luther Bernard acted as both apologist and pastor, instructing readers both how to engage opponents and how to attack their own anxieties. Where Key and Seaven Golden Candlestickes demonstrated Bernard’s keen interest in the progress of the gospel writ large, Looke Beyond Luther aimed more individually, with attention to individuals who might waver in their faith. (Of course, individual change could also add up to larger-scale change.) Looke Beyond Luther also suggested a growing awareness that Bernard’s brand of anti-Catholicism (e.g. strongly opposed to all vestiges of Catholic practice), which was related to his Calvinist theological orientation, was falling increasingly out of favour. The 1622 royal directions concerning preachers had stipulated against ‘causelessly, and without invitation from the text’ including ‘bitter invectives, and indecent railing speeches against the persons of either papist or puritans; but modestly and gravely’ correcting the assertions of either.58 Though not a sermon, Looke Beyond Luther took a relatively moderate tone, and avoided any mention of specific current

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events or names. (This does not mean readers missed these associations; one extant copy contains a handwritten mention of Henry Rogers’s Answer to Mr. Fisher.59) Moreover, Looke Beyond Luther set itself as a help for those confused by idle and uninformed conversation of lay Catholics who, on Bernard’s description, accosted unsuspecting Protestants with confusion and disorder. By framing it as correcting uninformed and disorderly lay conversations, Bernard followed not merely the letter of the law by avoiding polemic, but also its spirit by attempting to quell problematic conversations – even while (from his own perspective) furthering godly religion by equipping Protestants to stand firm in their faith. As a number of new anti-Catholic publications began to appear amidst the relaxing of tensions about a potential Spanish match, August 1624 saw further restrictions put in place with a ‘Proclamation against Seditious, Popish, and Puritanicall Bookes and Pamphlets’, which required stricter licensing of religious works.60 That year saw publication of Richard Montagu’s A Gagg for the new Gospell? No: A New Gagg for An Old Goose. It was purportedly a reply against English Catholic printer and author John Heigham’s Gagge of the New Gospell, which had used passages from an English Protestant copy of the Bible to prove the veracity of Catholic teachings.61 However, Montagu’s New Gagg largely targeted puritans, asserting that their intemperate anti-Catholicism actually drove people from the national church. New Gagg suggested numerous points of agreement between the Church of Rome and the Church of England, whose beliefs he defined along non-Calvinist lines.62 As we will see, Bernard’s next publication, Rhemes Against Rome (1626), primarily focused attention on Protestant abilities to defend against Catholic attacks, but also provided a critique of Montagu. In engaging Heigham, Rhemes Against Rome reversed the terms of the debate entirely: making its own set of assertions about Catholic beliefs to suggest they, not a Protestant/ puritan theology, required adherents to mount a defence. Heigham’s main point was that the Protestants’ English translation of the Bible proved the truth of Catholicism; Bernard inverted this, arguing that the Catholics’ English translation of the Bible (Douay-Rheims) actually refuted Catholic doctrine. As he proceeded, Bernard used careful exposition not to correct Heigham’s assertions about the Church of England but rather to challenge his statements about the Church of Rome. Through demonstration rather than direct argument, this showed that attacks like Heigham’s did not require a Montacutean sidestepping of accusations by distancing the national church from certain theological positions which were often associated with puritanism. Rather than affirming similarities as Montagu had, one could beat Catholics at their own game. (Montagu’s position here, and in his subsequent Appello Caesarem, would

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receive a number of attacks, but not in quite the same way as Rhemes Against Rome.63) Yet beyond offering a different way to refute Heigham, Rhemes Against Rome pressed more particularly against the content of Montagu’s New Gagg. The hints of this critique were vague but suggestive – which, given Bernard’s position in the church, were perhaps all he might muster without receiving censure. They appeared, for example, in the arrangement of topics in Rhemes Against Rome. Bernard admitted at the outset that he did not follow Heigham’s content precisely; throughout the work he broke some of Heigham’s points into several of his own, and he failed to answer certain others, finding some too ‘frivolous, or of small moment, or weak and naked enough of themselves’.64 Importantly, in all this he gathered discussions of free will, good works, and soteriology together in the final section of the book. Significant in any arrangement, locating them together at the end ensured that readers would see the connections between these theological points: and the upshot was that the end of Rhemes Against Rome featured a nearly 100-page defence of key Calvinist doctrines. In addition to content that suggested opposition to not only Catholic but also Mountacutean theology, the work’s advertisement to the Christian reader also included a passage that can be read as gesturing in this direction: True it is, that my principal calling and daily endeavor is (like David’s in his minority) to keep and attend sheep in the country, my furniture is rather the crook and scrip, than the sword or sling. Yet if wild beasts range and ravage among our flocks, we are awaked to stretch forth our hands, and rescue our lambs […] Plain shepherdly David, had he trusted in his own strength, and not rather in the goodness of his cause, being God’s quarrel, might easily have been discouraged not only by the braves and threats of the Philistine, but much more by the checks and snaps of his elder brother Eliab; who (perhaps being better furnished with abilities both for war, and for court) thought to frown his rural brother out of the field. But God is pleased to advance his truth and cause the rather by plain and weak means. For my part, nothing hath moved me to this encounter, but the zeal of God’s truth, and desire to instruct the meaner sort, and establish our less learned Christian brethren. As for curiosities and subtle contemplations, I leave them unto others, or rather to be left of all others, so far as they tend to engendering of strife among ourselves, and prejudice to the Church.65

If Bernard was David, the better-equipped Eliab may well have been Montagu, who by his education and status was more fit both for (theological) battle and court attendance. While Montagu/Eliab heard the assault of Heigham/Goliath against the people of God, he did not directly challenge it; this left Bernard/David to step in. Moreover, those like Montagu had

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not only failed to answer Catholic challenges, but had also gone too far in pursuing ‘curiosities and subtle contemplations’ better left alone. Although Bernard analogised himself to David with some frequency, this particular formulation with its focus on differences between David and Eliab is significant. Bernard was concerned that one should not be so taken up with intraProtestant theological debates that one neglected to properly refute Catholic attacks; yet here he was attempting both simultaneously. Due to religiopolitical circumstances, he could hardly say so; thus, he framed his work as a response to Heigham and left it to readers to further connect the dots.66 It is difficult to know how many did: but we find some evidence in William Prynne’s compilation of Calvinist arguments: he mentioned that Bernard’s Proposition 29 moved ‘against universal and sufficient grace, or in plain terms, against natural free-will itself’.67 Although this citation was one of among many, the fact that he noted Rhemes Against Rome in terms of antiArminianism – not solely anti-Catholicism – is telling.

Less explicit treatments of Catholicism, post-1626 Bernard dialled back his anti-Catholic focus after Rhemes Against Rome. Through the remainder of the 1620s, he transitioned back toward pre-1616 tendencies, increasingly relegating discussions of the Catholic threat to less prominent subsections or comments within works on a variety of other topics. Just as several influences converged as Bernard began his period of antiCatholic publishing, several factors now pointed away from it. Strictures on topics for discussion, and restrictions on publications, had already been increasing; William Laud’s 1626 translation to Bath and Wells, and later the archiepiscopate, likely made it all the more difficult for Bernard to publicly engage in certain ways. Nevertheless, this shift was gradual. Late 1626 saw publication of his wildly successful devotional allegory, The Isle of Man (though published the same year, this was entered in the stationers’ register over a year after Rhemes).68 The first portion of the allegory featured the search and arrest of the evil character ‘Sin’, and the second section contained a trial scene in which Sins, Old Man, Mistress Heart, Willful Will, Covetousness and Idolatry, and Papistry were tried. The latter was described as a ‘bastard Christian begotten of Heresy, Judaism, Paganism’ and indicted for several crimes, including that he ‘by violent force and arms invaded the territories of the Church of God, and by Spanish Inquisitions, bloody massacres, stabbing, poisoning, and killing of kings, gunpowder plots, treasons, rebellions, and other hellish practices, usurped authority’ and more, ‘to the damnation of many Christian souls contrary to the peace

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of our Sovereign Lord the King’.69 Whereas the rest of the allegory primarily focused upon internal spirituality and personal godly behaviour, this section differed by emphasising Catholicism’s effects as a religio-­political entity in the world alongside its effect on individual souls. This is not insignificant: indeed Suellen Mutchow Towers has described this as an anti-Catholic polemic.70 Nevertheless, Isle as a whole addressed Catholicism less prominently, with most of the discussion centred within this one scene, plus a few scattered comments elsewhere. In other words, Isle included an antiCatholic agenda, but gave pride of place to other issues. (Further on Isle see Chapters 1, 7.) This was also the case with Guide to Grand-Iury Men (1627) and Ruths Recompence (1628). The former, within its discussion of witchcraft, mentioned Catholicism a few times, for example highlighting certain popes giving themselves to the devil in order to gain that office; and suggesting that individuals ‘superstitious and idolatrous, as all papists be’ were, along with certain other categories of people, ‘most apt to become witches’.71 Notable among other mentions were a description of someone falsely accusing relatives of witchcraft because they would not convert to Catholicism (‘a bloody practice, fit for a Romanist, and very unnatural’) and comments about how Jesuits ‘refine popery somewhat … to make them swallow down popery at the first more easily’.72 Nevertheless, such gestures were not central to the function or argument of the book’s content. Meanwhile, as I argued above, Ruths Recompence was likely written earlier, and with a more overt antiCatholic context. Yet the published version of 1628 treated Catholicism rather lightly. Although it gestured toward Catholicism in a number of places, and even explicitly addressed it in certain passages, here it was a less sustained concern than in his earlier publications.73 Bernard’s 1629 The Bible-Battells appeared, apparently, in response to his being appointed Royal Chaplain in Extraordinary in July 1628.74 About this time, Charles, desiring to extract money from Parliament, was making certain favourable gestures toward members of the church with godly, Calvinist, and anti-Catholic leanings; though little is known about the circumstances surrounding Bernard’s appointment, it may well be associated with this.75 Never one to pass up an opportunity to publish, Bernard shortly followed his appointment with Bible-Battells, which he dedicated to the King himself. (Beyond the timing and topic of the publication, the dedication to Charles also suggests this association, as Bernard’s practice was to dedicate works to individuals with whom he had some existing connection). Bible-Battells had little to say, explicitly, about Catholicism: it discussed neither Catholic theology, nor the Pope, nor specific Catholic states with which England might have conflict. Nevertheless, it unmistakably responded to Charles’s recent interests in negotiating with, rather than

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battling, Catholic powers.76 The epistle to Charles began by addressing him as (inter alia) Defender of the Faith and by blessing him as a warrior-king, with implied expectation he would continue as such.77 The implications were bold, questioning not only Charles’s moves toward peace but even his ability to make that choice: such decisions were God’s.78 It made brief reference to the prophetic end of days: ‘That foretold by Christ is now verified: a noise there is of wars, and a rumor of wars … now, as John saw in the vision, is the Holy City trodden underfoot. On they go and have prevailed: but there is hope, if we war aright.’79 Here again, Bernard left much unsaid, but his meaning could not be clearer for anyone with even a vague awareness of current theological disputes: all the more for those familiar with his own prior publications. A second epistle to readers, and especially soldiers, included further encouragements toward valiant, godly warfare from history and scripture, and also introduced the main concern of his work: that sin was the primary reason God would fail to give victory to his troops. He also gestured toward the lack of financial support for Charles’s earlier initiatives. He intimated that for Charles to clearly follow God’s way in matters of faith and practice, and continue to wage war for God’s cause, would encourage Christian giving: ‘The hearts of the people, ready with purse, I hope, will appear, as now they pray, generally for the Churches safety.’ Bernard was not ignorant of financial concerns, but in his view, God would provide the means for victory if Charles would but fully commit to do God’s will in this matter.80 The main content of Bible-Battells contained thirty-two chapters. The first several addressed war in general, including the ‘wars of God with man’, ‘wars of man with man’, ‘just causes and true grounds of making war’, and more. Later chapters went into more detail about various aspects of preparation and conduct of warfare, with particular emphasis on the need for martial men to live piously. A text that ‘neatly summarizes many of the most-quoted Scripture texts in contemporary biblical defenses of war’, Bible-Battells highlighted the Bible as a key compendium of useful, indeed divinely authoritative, information about war-waging.81 While principles were primarily drawn from biblical instruction and from examples of biblical conflict, they were supplemented by examples from classical and more contemporary histories. The work was circumspect, limiting explicit references to Catholicism and specific contemporary events. This fit Bernard’s station: as a minister he could explicate biblical principles for warfare, but he could not as readily gesture toward specific policies or specific enemies. Nevertheless, Bernard’s meaning was not veiled. The epistle to the reader mentioned events including the gunpowder plot and ‘many treacheries and treasons practiced against us’ – unmistakably with Catholic enemies in view.82 Certain explicit references to Catholicism also appeared in Chapter

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6, making for an apex among the initial (i.e. more theoretical) chapters. This chapter underscored that just wars were better than unjust times of peace and observed that while offensive wars might be just, defensive wars ‘better becometh the people of the Prince of Peace’.83 Moreover, it contained the marginal interjection ‘note this’ beside a passage stating that the wars ‘foretold in Revelation’ against ‘the beast, the dragon, the whore, the false prophet, and with Gog and Magog are altogether defensive’.84 Again, perceptive readers would observe Bernard’s anti-Catholic intentions. And the same paragraph went on: ‘If we take a right course, let us stand still, not fear, fight valiantly the Lord’s battle, for and in the cause of religion, seeking to avenge the Lord on those Romish Midianites, and behold then the salvation of the Lord.’85 In context, this was all but a direct challenge to Charles: England was obligated to go to war and defeat its – and God’s – Catholic enemies. Bernard’s earlier anti-Catholic content had focused largely (not to say exclusively) on instructing readers in right beliefs: equipping them to defend their faith against attacks by Catholics, perceive how the Catholic institution was portrayed in Revelation, and more. Now, his appointment provided opportunity for an entirely different strategy: and one that might engage him in a more active role toward the realisation of the eschatological events he foresaw in Key and Seaven Golden Candlestickes. Bible-Battells aimed to influence a much narrower readership: those whom (he hoped) would soon participate in the imminent eschatological struggle against Antichrist. This was not garden-variety anti-Catholic content; yet neither was it entirely radical. Instructing the monarch on taking arms against God’s enemies was bold in certain senses, yet it also fell within the purview of pastoral duties. As J. R. Hale has observed in regard to the 1622 directions, preachers were to ‘confine themselves to those two heads of faith and good life which are the subject of ancient sermons and homilies.’ But war was one of the subjects of the ancient sermons and homilies … Provided that the impression was given that arms could only be borne against enemies of the state, the theme of war was safe from the tuning of pulpits or the censorship of the press.86

We might further note that this was exactly the kind of activity that Bernard had anticipated even as early as Key, suggesting that for the destruction of the ‘Jezebel of Rome’ that ‘Kings and Princes must achieve by the sword; which preachers must urge them unto by the Word; and which people must heartily pray for.’87 Here Bernard acted out his own vision of this, urging leaders to the sword by his exposition of the Word. Ultimately, events did not occur as Bernard had hoped in terms of a prophecy-fulfilling, all-out war against Catholicism. Moving forward, antiCatholicism would take a less central place in all but one of his subsequent publications. This was likely due to a combination of both push and pull

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forces. On the one hand, numerous other concerns began further vying for Bernard’s attention, including issues related to the Laudian theological shifts which had already begun; parish disputes in his own locality; intra-puritan disputes about admission to churches in New England; and more. On the other hand, some changes in publishing were likely due to self-censorship and/or rejection of his works by licensers. As we will see in Chapters 8–9, as Laudian censorship broke down c. 1641, Bernard travelled to London and swiftly had a spate of works appear. One of these was a reprint of the epistle to the justices of the peace which had appeared in Key. Its 1641 title page noted, ‘presented to the High Court of Parliament by R. B.’, and it featured an image of Charles with crown and sceptre. (It would appear again in 1642, likely posthumously, with a different title page lacking mention of presentation to the High Court, and sans Charles’s image.) Its content was nearly identical to that of 1617, with small changes including updating the name of the monarch; changing ‘preface’ to ‘epistle’ for clarity; and, within a list of ‘provocations, and warnings’, an added mention of ‘Ireland … their heathen’.88 That Bernard saw fit to redistribute this particular epistle suggests that his anti-Catholic priorities had perhaps not changed all that much. His choice of content may have been partly pragmatic, as its pre-existence and brevity meant that it could be published quickly.89 Nevertheless, Bernard could likely – had he thought best – have substituted another passage, either purpose-written or collated from other material. Yet he chose this one: unflinching in condemning any vestige of Catholicism, in naming the Pope as Antichrist, and especially in insisting that outwardly conforming church-papists were far worse than recusants. To be sure, Bernard’s publications of the early 1640s ranged widely (see Chapters 8–9), and only this one was expressly anti-Catholic. But insofar as Bernard chose this content to present to Parliament, seeing it as relevant even in a quite different political context, it is clear that his anti-Catholic vision had remained firm. And in addition to echoing his message from Key, this new version of the epistle echoed Bernard’s aim in Bible-Battells to target a political-military audience that could enact real change on the battlefield. With Parliament now asserting religio-political power, Epistle was another bid – now toward this newly prominent audience – to prompt England to embrace its eschatological role.

Notes 1 See e.g. Milton, Catholic and Reformed; Lake, ‘Antipopery’. 2 Bernard, Large Catechisme, pp. 13–15. 3 Bernard, Sinners Safetie, pp. 30–1, 78, 90.

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Victor Stater, ‘Sheffield, Edmund, first earl of Mulgrave (1565–1646)’, ODNB. Bernard, dedicatory epistle in Contemplative Pictures. Ibid., sigs A4v–A5v. Victor Stater, ‘Sheffield, Edmund, first earl of Mulgrave (1565–1646)’, ODNB. Among the few references to Catholicism in Contemplative Pictures, see pp. 37 margin and 102. 9 Entered in the stationers’ register January 1613/14: Arber, Transcript of the Registers, vol. 3, p. 234. A 1614 edition is extant in the British Library; my citations are to the 1616 third edition. 10 Bernard, Weekes Worke, pp. 131, 175–8. 11 Bernard and R. A., Dauids Musick, p. 59. 12 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 3, pp. 264v, 273v. 13 Bernard, Staffe of Comfort, pp. 1–18, 191–4. 14 Milton, Catholic and Reformed, pp. 110–27. On the significance of Antichrist to puritan theology and the godly community see Lake, ‘William Bradshaw’. 15 Prideaux, Ephesvs Backsliding, pp. 35–7. 16 Montagu, ‘The Preface to the Reader’, in James I, VVorkes, sig. D3r and ff. 17 Sharpe, ‘Transplanting Revelation’, pp. 121–9. 18 Sclater, Sermon Preached, pp. 17–18. 19 Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 193–4, 229, 258–70; Fincham and Lake, ‘Ecclesiastical policy’, p. 179; Fincham, ‘Episcopal government, 1603–1640’, p. 83. 20 Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 269–70. 21 Sharpe, Reading Revelations, pp. 134–6. For another reading of Key see Ball, Great Expectation, ch. 2. 22 On Key within early modern anti-Catholic and eschatological thought see Milton, Catholic and Reformed, pp. 102–10. 23 Bernard, ‘To the Right Reverend, the Iudges’, in Key, n.p. 24 Bernard, ‘To the Watchfull Eyes’, in Key, n.p. 25 Bernard, Key, sigs B2v–B3r. See Milton, ‘Qualified intolerance’, pp. 101, 106. 26 Bernard, ‘To all generous and noble spirits’, in Key, n.p.; see James I, ‘Premonition’, in Apologie. 27 Bernard, ‘To all generous and noble spirits’, in Key, n.p. 28 Bernard, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Key, n.p. 29 On 666 see Brady, ‘Contribution of British Writers’. 30 Bernard, Key, n.p.; Ball, Great Expectation, pp. 66–7. 31 Bernard, Rhemes Against Rome, pp. 124–5. 32 Bernard, ‘Epistle to the reader’, in Key; BOD RL 89, fols 28v–29r. 33 This manuscript was perhaps left incomplete as Bernard turned to compose Fabulous Foundation; or if completed, it is apparently not extant. 34 BOD RL 89, fols 28v–29r. On defences of publishing by mentioning friends, see Chapter 10. 35 Bernard, Fabulous Foundation, sig. ¶2r. 36 Bernard, ‘To the reader’, in Fabulous Foundation. 37 On polemical dialogues see Bevan Zlatar, Reformation Fictions.

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38 BOD RL 89, fol. 28v–29r. 39 See Shoulson, Fictions of Conversion, pp. 71–81. 40 Bernard, Ruths Recompence, title page. 41 See McAlister, Critical Edition, pp. 8–19; and see my brief discussion in Chapter 3. 42 Ibid., p. 50. 43 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, p. 137. 44 Clegg, Press Censorship in Jacobean England, pp. 185–7; Fincham and Lake, ‘Ecclesiastical policy’, pp. 198–9. Although some did not abandon politically charged publishing, Bernard’s pattern of continued conformability (since returning under Matthew) suggests that he would have. 45 Bernard, Good Mans Grace, sigs C2r–C6v. 46 Ibid., sig. C6r. 47 Bernard, Seaven Golden Candlestickes, sig. Br. 48 Ibid., sig. D6v. 49 Ibid., sig. Er. 50 Ibid., sig. A3v. 51 Ibid., sig. G6r; on Jews and early modern English eschatology see inter alia Crome, ‘Friendship and enmity’, pp. 750ff. 52 Cogswell, Blessed Revolution, p. 1–53, 281–2, passim; Clegg, Press Censorship in Jacobean England, pp. 169ff; Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 48–9; Fincham and Lake, ‘Ecclesiastical policy’, pp. 198–202; Towers, Religious Printing, pp. 159–61; Tyacke, Anti-Calvinists, pp. 102–4. 53 Featley, Fisher Catched; the matter here would be expanded the following year in Featley, Romish Fisher Caught. See Salazar, ‘Polemicist as pastor’, pp. 315–16; Wadkins, ‘Percy-“Fisher” controversies’, p. 158; and Wadkins, ‘Theological polemic’. 54 Questier, Stuart Dynastic Policy, p. 49. 55 Bernard, Looke Beyond Luther. He was answered briefly in the fourth chapter of ‘A reply to D. VVhite and D. Featly … the first part’, in Anon., True Relations. 56 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, p. 66. 57 Bernard, Looke Beyond Luther, p. 39. This also reflected one of the strains of Featley’s argument from the Percy debate. 58 James I, ‘Directions concerning preachers’, in Cardwell (ed.), Documentary Annals, vol. 2, pp. 201–3. See also Fincham (ed.), Visitation Articles, vol. 1, pp. 211–14. 59 BEI Mhc5 B456 L87, Looke Beyond Luther (1624). 60 Towers, Control of Religious Printing, pp. 161–3; Milton, ‘Licensing, censorship’, p. 632. 61 Heigham, Gagge of the New Gospel. Heigham, Gagge of the Reformed Gospell is a revised 2nd edn. 62 Further on these moves see inter alia Clegg, Press Censorship in Jacobean England, pp. 208–12; Foster, Long Argument, pp. 128–34; Lake, ‘Calvinism and the English church’, p. 71; Lambert, ‘Richard Montagu’; Milton, Catholic

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and Reformed, pp. 62–9, 112–21, 194–5, and ‘Licensing, censorship’, p. 649; Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom; Scheck, ‘Polemics’; Towers, Control of Religious Printing, pp. 159–200; Tyacke, ‘Rise of Arminianism’ and Anti-Calvinists, pp. 103–5; White, Predestination, Policy and Polemic, pp. 215–36. 63 Milton, Catholic and Reformed, p. 116–17; Towers, Control of Religious Printing, p. 163. 64 Bernard, Rhemes Against Rome, sig. A2v. 65 Ibid., sigs Av, A2r. 66 Nevertheless, Bernard was circumspect and followed a pattern similar to the one he had used in Looke Beyond Luther, avoiding the mention of many names and of the ‘invectives’ which had been prohibited in 1622. 67 Prynne, The Church of Englands Old Antithesis to New Arminianisme, pp. 73, 77. 68 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, pp. 105, 131. 69 Bernard, Isle (1626), pp. 140, 184, 241, and passim. 70 Towers, Control of Religious Printing, p. 197. 71 Bernard, Guide, pp. 99–100. 72 Ibid., pp. 199, 123. Further on Guide see Chapter 7. 73 See McAlister, ‘Interpretation’, pp. 34–5, 49n; and Critical Edition, pp. 16–19. The latter describes Bernard’s ‘launching out at Roman Catholicism at every opportunity’ being exemplified in Ruths Recompence, and contextualises both explicit comments and implicit gestures vis-à-vis his earlier anti-Catholic rhetoric. While I agree with McAlister that Bernard’s personal anti-Catholic beliefs had not changed, I see his tone and approach in Ruths Recompence as much more moderate than in his earlier anti-Catholic publications. 74 TNA Public Record Office LC 5/132, fol. 45r. I am grateful to Kenneth Fincham for bringing this to my attention. The warrant was noted as being on the recommendation of a Mr Saladin. 75 Cust, ‘Charles I, the Privy Council, and the Parliament of 1628’, pp. 42–4; Sharpe, Personal Rule, pp. 52–3. 76 Sharpe, Personal Rule, pp. 43–6. 77 Bernard, Bible-Battells, sig. ¶2r. 78 Ibid., pp. 51–5; Pečar, ‘Path of the Maccabees?’, pp. 247–8. 79 Bernard, Bible-Battells, sig. ¶2v. 80 Ibid., sig. ¶3r–v. On Charles’s financial situation see inter alia Sharpe, Personal Rule, pp. 9–23, 43–6. 81 Hale, Renaissance War Studies, pp. 494–500. Hale identifies ‘sermons and other works by clerics largely or entirely devoted to justifying war’ pre-1598 and after 1617, but none in the midst of those years: the latter date corresponds to Bernard’s uptick in anti-Catholic writing. Hale also notes the ‘preponderance of puritans among these militant divines, especially in the seventeenth century’ (p. 503). 82 Ibid., sig. ¶7v. 83 Bernard, Bible-Battells, pp. 51–5.

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84 While ‘Note this’ is rare in the text’s margins, it is not singular: see p. 132. 85 Ibid., pp. 54–5. For another use of ‘Romish Midianites’, see Bernard, Key, p. 54. 86 Ibid., p. 490. 87 Bernard, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Key, n.p. 88 Bernard, Epistle, sig. B4r; Bernard, Key. 89 Its prior publication may also have allowed it to go without further trip to the licenser: this is uncertain, but it does not appear in the stationers’ register.

6

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A bit of parish trouble and a manual on giving: self-representation to insiders and outsiders Following our examination of the complex issue of Catholicism, we now turn to what might appear rather tame: a manual encouraging Christian charity. And in one sense it was tame: enough so that it was licensed and printed in the middle of the 1630s, amidst strict Laudian control of the press (something Bernard did not achieve with any other book: see Chapters 8–9). But, of course, things are rarely so simple. This chapter places Ready Way to Good Works (1635) in the context of a web of ecclesiastical, religious, interpersonal, and financial disputes that came to a head in Bernard’s parish during the 1634 episcopal visitation. It offers a rather different, or at least a more complex, picture of Batcombe parish than the one Bernard had penned some years earlier of ‘a very gentle­ manlike assembly, and a rich people and yet, blessed be God, very tractable’.1 The analysis below first employs manuscript records to trace the interwoven issues at stake. Then, it examines certain passages in Ready Way that gestured meaningfully to local issues, as well as other passages which addressed Bernard’s personal and financial history. I show that the former, more subtle statements, would serve for those aware of the local disputes as Bernard’s public statement on his ministry and his opponents’ actions without drawing unnecessary attention from readers unaware of the situation. Then, I show how the latter brought all readers to a position of some inside knowledge about his situation – with the potential result that this information would positively influence their view of Bernard as a pastor-author. In short, Bernard’s concerns related to current parish issues, and his broader concerns about self-representation, were interconnected with, and interwoven within, Ready Way’s primary message of encouraging Christian charity. A good deal of scholarship has addressed autobiographical writing and various modes of self-presentation, including some published for broad consumption. I contextualise Bernard’s self-descriptions, and his gestures toward his local context, as types of life writing intending to validate himself and his reputation in what he thought might be his final publication. But in contrast to more standalone, or more comprehensive, sorts of life

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writing, I suggest that this self-presentation was intended to function symbiotically with his publication’s other purposes. This provides a fresh vantage on early modern authorial self-presentation and life writing: both in how pastor-authors might engage audiences with different degrees of awareness of their personal situations, and in encouraging broader consideration of where printed life accounts might appear.

The 1634 visitation and some troubles in Batcombe Bernard’s baseline stance had long been one of conformability amidst a ministry that largely continued in a puritan style thanks to a degree of episcopal indulgence.2 Yet during the 1630s, ascendant Laudian leaders began to expand and enforce a religious programme that went, in key ways, contrary to a godly view of religion. In the case of Batcombe, Bernard and local curate Nicholas Paull were presented for several issues during the 1634 episcopal visitation: failure to use the surplice, catechetical irregularities, incorrect placement of the communion table, and more. At the same time, several parishioners, including prominent citizen James Ashe (Aishe), accused Bernard inter alia of particularising sermon applications – that is, preaching in ways that publicly called out the private failings or situations of specific individuals. Some other parishioners corroborated this report, and Bernard was warned not to continue. Meanwhile, Bernard also denounced both Ashe and witness James Millward.3 Soon, Bernard addressed particularisation from the pulpit. It was reported that he had preached of ‘apostacy and falling from grace’, and that he said ‘it was the minister’s duty to reprove generally nations, cities, towns, then particularly particular persons, as by the example of Nathan to David’.4 Another passage from the sermon was recounted: Now the minister is said to particularise when he does not, for instance if a minister do see a man to live in some notorious sin, and does privately reprove him for it, and the party offending does yet continue in his wicked course of life, then if the minister does afterward preach against such a sin, the party will be ready to say that it was spoken of him, although he were never meant, so also when a man shall come to another man, when he comes out of the church, and strike him on the shoulder, and say you have been met withal, or spoken of today: I said it is that man who struck him on the shoulder, that doth particularise, and not the minister.5

Given that these were related later (and Bernard took some issue with what was recounted), it is not entirely clear what was stated from the pulpit. Yet both statements are plausible given what we know of Bernard and of Batcombe.

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Seeing Nathan’s boldness with David as a model for pastoral work was a long-held position Bernard had included in Faithfvll Shepheard.6 Coupling this with the close awareness that he believed ministers should have of their parishioners’ spiritual states, it is quite clear how his vision for sermon application might be perceived as personally invasive. In fact, Bernard had long been aware of this potential, but saw it as an improper response to sermon application: This [application] is the minister’s duty … This home-speaking is the sharp edge of the sword, the word of God, this bringeth the uses to their proper places, as salves clapped to the fores of such patients, as ministers then have in hand. This indeed is it, which makes faithful ministers’ teaching, unsavory to carnal and evil men: And by this they are said to name men in the pulpit, & gall some personally: when no man is named: but the use of correction of some vice is made in the second person to the hearers.7

Sharp, direct warnings and denunciations of sin from the pulpit were a faithful way to call sinners back to God. Yet one can imagine how parishioners less interested in this style of godliness could interpret ‘home-speaking’ as meddlesome or even malicious – especially in a smallish parish wherein minister and congregants shared relatively close knowledge of one another’s affairs. (And it may be the case that Bernard did not always give the benefit of the doubt in questionable circumstances. In Ruths Recompence, he attributed Orpah’s motives in returning to her country to sinful inward attitudes, despite the biblical text merely recording her words and actions: similar assumptions may have influenced comments about sins in his parish.)8 The latter part of the reported sermon, which suggested that ministers might be mistaken for particularising when in fact it was other parishioners making such connections, was also plausible. In fact, parishioner Richard Britten would report a conversation almost exactly as Bernard had described. Following the above sermon, in the afternoon he [Britten] met with Samuel Millerd [or Millward] in the street, as he was going to the church, & said we had a very good sermon today to advise us to take heed of apostacy, God give us grace to follow it, unto the which words the said Millerd answered amen: then the said Richard Britten also said unto Samuel Millerd aforesaid: Are not you ashamed of what you have done to be the means to hinder the teaching of the catechism whereby we & our children have received so much benefit: you that have been a professor of religion, & to fall away: look to your conscience in what you have done: Then the said Millerd said unto him will you speak these words in another place, & he very peremptorily answered that he would speak them again in another place: and said call witnesses I will now speak the same again. & then there parted one from the other.9

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Yet whatever conversations may have been occurring between laypeople, several parishioners felt directly wronged by Bernard. Samuel Millward reported to authorities that Bernard once approached him and requested support on a contentious issue; following Millward’s refusal to take his side, Bernard ‘preached the next Sunday following, that some were so far from taking part in a good cause, that they would rather run about for a morsel of bread and a meal’s meat … the said Mr Bernard confessed afterwards that he meant him in his said sermon.’10 Others also reported particularisation against themselves or others. Of these, Richard Jordan, who reported that Bernard had ‘inveighed’ against him, had apparently taken it upon himself to publicly express displeasure: ‘disorderly behaving himself in the church at time of divine service diverse times within this half year last past by justling and thronging his next fellow, and lying down as if it were to sleep, in a most unreverent manner’.11 Several scholars have taken this web of presentments and disputes as an illustration of how parishioners might respond to a certain sort of precise puritan style of ministry: it certainly is that.12 Yet a complete view of the controversy must also take into view certain financial issues within the parish.13 The same year saw several parishioners presented for failing to give the required tithe to the church. Among these, James Ashe complained that most other parishioners had not consented to the rate, or even if they had, ‘there was no public intimation made thereof in the church … before such time’ as the rate was due. William Ames, John Hicks, James Millward, Mary Sherborne, and Margaret White likewise had not paid. This non-payment had practical consequences. The walls and ceiling of the church porch as well as the bounds of the churchyard were dilapidated; the communion table was ‘faulty, being almost decayed with wear’ – all, allegedly, because of ‘want of money’ to address the issues. Meanwhile the sexton’s wages were long past due; and again, churchwardens Edward Curle and Robert Norton explained that insufficient funding was the issue: ‘diverse of our parish doth refuse to pay their rates to the church’.14 The wardens’ wording ‘refuse to’ – rather than, for example, ‘cannot’ – suggests a choice of will rather than financial inability. At this point it is useful to piece together a few details of the financial situation in the parish of Batcombe, which encompassed a few hamlets including Westcombe. First, there is record of a 1637 financial dispute in which constable James Millward was required to levy £30 ship money and, in consultation with several local assessors, gave notice to various individuals of their rate. James Ashe (again) took exception to his rate of £5, asserting that Westcombe and Batcombe should be assessed separately. While other Westcombe inhabitants, Millward reported, were originally willing to pay their rates, following Ashe’s lead they also opposed the collection. Ashe went over Millward’s

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head to the Sheriff, and ultimately Millward was bound to appear before the Privy Council to address Ashe’s complaints. Millward and the assessors described the rate assessed upon Ashe as fair, given that his estate was worth at least £15,000; moreover, Batcombe and Westcombe ‘time out of mind have been one entire parish and one tithing’, despite Ashe’s view to the contrary. As Westcombe’s land valuations were £400 per annum higher than Batcombe’s, to demand separate, equal sums from each ‘would be a burden insupportable upon Batcombe’. The case was ultimately decided in Millward’s favour: Ashe was ordered to pay the original £5, plus more than £8 of charges Millward incurred dealing with the case.15 Further suggesting longstanding dispute, following the October 1637 Quarter Sessions certain local knights were ‘to examine the differences and to compose and reconcile the difference between the inhabitants of Batcombe, Westcombe and Spartgrove concerning the inequalitie and disproporcon of their rates, etc.’; though they reported back in January, there was no swift resolution.16 While these 1637 sources are slightly later than the 1634 controversies at hand, they provide a view of the economic disparity within the parish, as well as a view of Ashe as rather outspoken and as a leader among those who might protest (as he was in 1634 with both the particularisation and the non-payment). We can also take into account certain records of pastoral encouragements to give, and actual records of charity or concern for the poor. In part, Bernard took a direct approach toward fostering charity; he reported that encouragements to parishioners to regularly lay aside funds were ‘with many happily successful’.17 Apparently, Bernard also appreciated visual encouragements toward charity: a brass monument to his predecessor, Philip Bisse, was installed in the chancel, and text on the wall advertised the value of the advowson Bisse had purchased to ensure that the parish continued under a godly minister.18 Ready Way would extol this and other pious works by Bisse.19 Other members of the Bisse family were likewise inclined to charity. James Bisse funded improvements to the south aisle/porch in 1629.20 Edward Bisse contributed money toward a preaching minister and toward the education and clothing of six poor children.21 Meanwhile, an unnamed local resident enabled some £300 further improvements to the building.22 Given that Ready Way commended pleading and petitioning as a way to help the poor, it is notable that Bernard and numerous other residents petitioned in 1624/25 for poor resident John Walter to build a cottage for his family.23 Yet perhaps not all parishioners’ needs were met: widow Agnes Johnson was presented in 1634 for removing her late husband’s tombstone of marble and brass and replacing it with handwritten information – an unusual step suggesting financial hardship.24

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Altogether, the timing of the refusal of several parishioners to pay their rates to the church, and the inclusion of James Ashe and James Millward therein, link it with the particularisation controversy (and indeed the range of other issues raised concurrently). It is not clear in what order these issues came to a head. Perhaps grievances about Bernard’s style of ministry incited the non-payment of tithes as an expression of displeasure or as an attempt to force larger changes within the parish. Alternatively, perhaps some of the sermons in which Bernard was taken to have particularised were in response to sluggish giving (which in turn may have been related to other issues). We need not untangle every detail to observe a parish with sharp divisions, both religious and financial, in the mid-1630s.

A public response Amidst this, Bernard was completing his manual discussing Christian charitable giving – a topic with clear relevance to his current local situation. It received an imprimatur in August 1634; its dedicatory epistles were dated from that October – roughly a week after his sermon addressing particularisation; and it was published in 1635. The book did not explicitly describe the Batcombe controversy; however, it went out of its way to present Bernard himself as a godly, humble, charitable minister, and it interwove a broad discussion of charity (and its opposite) with a range of both general and specific examples, including several from his region and even his parish. After considering the broader contents of Ready Way, we will turn to Bernard’s portrayals of himself and his opponents. The book began with a dedicatory epistle to Sir John Wray, who was related to several of Bernard’s benefactors. This was followed by an epistle to brothers George and William Stroud, who in 1627 had established charitable institutions including a school and almshouses not far from Batcombe.25 Bernard acknowledged their generosity as an example for others and also requested they allow his words to ‘animate and enflame you to the practice of more good deeds’.26 The main content began with several chapters outlining how people of differing circumstances might practise Christian charity: first, ministers, who ‘must confirm by practice what in doctrine we teach’; then individuals of different financial states, from very rich to very poor; then widows and wives as a case within the above groups; and finally, servants and children.27 The book went on to emphasise that all Christians should be charitable; yet not all giving was true charity, ‘a supernatural and infused, not acquired habit, and it never comes into the heart till it be planted there by the immediate finger of the Holy Ghost’.28 It described in detail numerous motives for charity, including motives related

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to each member of the Trinity, and emphasised doing good works in all seasons, even in affliction. It provided numerous examples of generosity from the Bible, from histories, from contemporary accounts, and from local or regional situations Bernard knew first- or second-hand, including some involving him personally.29 Along with financial giving, the work suggested several further ways the poor might be helped, such as showing hospitality or other efforts on their behalf, with several pages discussing petitioning and giving aid for persecuted Protestants. Further, it delineated broader changes in social and institutional norms: for example, collecting often-neglected fines for swearing, carousing, unlicensed alehouse keeping, public drunkenness, and so on; selling grain in times of dearth; relaxing unreasonable fines, heriots, and rents; and forgiving debts rather than sending the poor to prisons (though legal, this was caused by the sin of usury and kept prisoners from being productive members of society).30 It encouraged educational and spiritual initiatives above ‘some kind of hospitals and alms-houses’ which could be misused by the undeserving.31 While Bernard strongly emphasised relieving the needs of those for whom one had responsibility (i.e one’s family and household members), as well as poor neighbours and countrymen, he did not see fit to relieve, except in extremity, those who ‘by the statutes and wholesome laws of our land are branded with the names of rogues, as all runagates, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars are the very ulcers, scabs, and vermin of a commonweal: all such wanderers as have neither house or home, and make idleness and begging their trade’.32 Nevertheless, Bernard portrayed the primary problem as a lack of Christian generosity rather than a lack of deservedness of the poor, and he concluded by answering a number of potential objections that might make readers wrongly assume they were not in a position to give generously.33 Altogether, the work delineated a relatively thorough theological rationale, with practical examples, to encourage Christian generosity even amidst an awareness of related social, legal, and economic issues. Several self-descriptive passages, and gestures toward Bernard’s local circumstances, were interwoven throughout Ready Way. We now turn to these as a way to consider issues of authorial self-presentation.34 Among the examples of charity Bernard cited, several contained details phrased in such a way that audiences aware of Batcombe’s current controversies might observe connections with Bernard’s local situation. In these (as we will see), Bernard portrayed his opponents as uncharitable and even ungodly, and by contrast, portrayed himself and his godly friends in a favourable light. Yet outsiders who read these same passages, even if in certain points observing references to local individuals or places, would likely read these as little more than illustrative examples that might have come from any region.

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One such gesture appeared in a passage about giving money to church buildings. Following a general discussion and diverse list of examples, Bernard transitioned to local issues with the commendation of charitable actions by ‘many in our county market towns’, including specific mention of several, including a resident from ‘Batcombe, Croscombe an adjacent village’ who funded significant church building improvements. Then below, beginning on the same page, he turned: But as for those that are able to enlarge and adorn their churches, and yet suffer them to remain like hogsties (or not to use a more disgraceful phrase) like old rotten and ruinous barns, I would wish I were furnished with the wit and faculty of the sharpest satirist, that I might with fit words exaggerate and scourge their impiety and indevotion, and blaze abroad in the world, the earthliness, covetousness, and sacrilege of such careless and unzealous Christians … Among all those that are faulty this way, those rich farmers and gentlemen are most culpable, who can erect stately edifices for themselves to dwell in, and let Gods house remain scarce so decent and beautiful as their kitchens, stables: or more contemptible out-houses.35

The context of this passage had already narrowed to address local and regional examples, and those who aware of Batcombe’s current situation would easily identify discussion of churches in disrepair as fitting Bernard’s own circumstances (as the presentment records show) – and thus would also think of parishioners whose financial negligence had led to that state. Notably, the wording of this passage displayed a heightened vehemence and bitterness in comparison to other parts of Ready Way; this would make sense considering the degree of personal interest and, certainly, emotion that Bernard would have developed in relation to the local resistance to tithing and the dilapidation of church property. Nevertheless, the tone was probably not divergent enough that readers unfamiliar with the Batcombe situation would question its intent: in short, ‘inside’ readers could apply the content, but Bernard did not intend to spread knowledge of the local controversy further than it already went. For those readers familiar with the Batcombe situation, other passages would likewise become pregnant with the possibility for more specific application to local controversies. For example, Bernard explained, Albeit human laws and constitutions do ordain and command that public rates be made in all parishes for the maintenance of the poor, and so hereby many are necessitated and enforced according to their known abilities to contribute something, who otherwise through their hard-heartedness would do just nothing at all …36 … those Christians, who will not attribute one part of that double honor unto Gods ministers, which is due unto them, neither an honor of maintenance, nor an honor of reverence.37

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Again, the above were worded generally, yet it would not be difficult for insiders to make connections to issues of current concern in Batcombe: not only financial, but also issues of ‘reverence’, such as Richard Jordan’s disruption during services. Bernard’s making such gestures, yet without spelling out details for those who would not have known of them in the first place, was surely intentional. It might benefit him in the view of those with, and without, existing insider knowledge. For insiders, Bernard took opportunity to position himself and his charitable allies as in the right on certain key issues, and to strongly condemn actions by his opponents. Meanwhile, for outsiders Bernard’s main message was sufficient; there would be no benefit to being more specific in these passages so as to make additional people aware that his parish was having trouble: to do so might only invite unwanted criticism or questions. It would be just as well for Bernard that outsiders continue in their ignorance of Batcombe’s strife and instead form their opinions of Bernard and his ministry based upon his carefully selected (positive) descriptions of his pastoral work, and on his published corpus more broadly. We now turn to Ready Way’s references to Bernard’s personal financial history: and these he treated rather differently, including many more, and clearer, details of his situation. Rather than making separate gestures to insiders and outsiders, these comments contained information that might bring all readers toward an inside understanding of his affairs. Readers of Ready Way would differ in their awareness of Bernard’s financial history: and among those who knew some part thereof, there was likely also a range of positive or negative assumptions about his actions. In particular, some who had heard of his choice to leave Worksop for a better-funded living in Batcombe could have praised God for such provision; others could have suspected a motivation from greed. The latter was not hypothetical: during the period in which Bernard was actively looking for a living, John Smyth suggested – in print – that this showed Bernard’s ‘greedy desire’.38 By offering strategic pieces of information about his past, Bernard enabled readers to construct or solidify a view in which his choices and behaviour appeared reasonable and godly. That, in turn, would reinforce his self-portrayal as a faithful pastor-author, well equipped to advise individuals on issues related to charity. He began revealing his personal financial history as early as the epistle to Wray, a relative of his early patrons including Frances, Countess of Warwick Dowager; Isabel, Lady Darcy; and James Montagu.39 This familial connection offered easy segue for Bernard to mention their past generosity to him. Although many of Bernard’s dedicatory epistles included self-conscious portrayals of his work and the circumstances of his writing, this one was notably personal, looking back to his earlier career and to key moments of generosity. But along with (one need not doubt)

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true thankfulness, Bernard’s descriptions reflected equally positively on himself as on his benefactors: them as charitable, hospitable, and attentive to the ministry; him as a worthy and grateful recipient. Significantly, one part of the epistle intimated that this could be Bernard’s final publication (he perhaps thought increasing age might hinder further writing, but likely he also anticipated difficulties having other works licensed: see Chapters 8–9).40 This put his recollections in yet greater relief: an experienced pastor reflecting across his career in what might be a sort of final public gesture of gratitude. This portrait of godly gratefulness and proper acceptance of financial opportunity was complemented in the second epistle by an example of his effective pastoral work, here of his success in encouraging charity: There are many strong and demonstrative arguments, treasured up in this Treasury, which if soberly, and seriously considered, may serve as so many keen spurs, and sharpened pricks to quick and provoke you, to love, and to good works: I have found it with many happily successful, especially in that my counsel of laying aside weekly every Lord’s Day: for the performance of which duty, I did principally set my hand to this work.41

Later in the book, he returned to underscore his grateful attitude by mentioning again Lady Darcy’s generosity to several clerics including himself, and he added a particularly eulogistic description of minister Philip Bisse’s purchase of the Batcombe advowson, by which Bernard received his living: a ‘most memorable and glorious work of piety’.42 Again, this portrayed Bernard as the grateful recipient of godly charity, and as successful in using his ministry to propagate that and other godly results. But what of his choice to leave one post for a wealthier one – a move that could possibly have cast a rather mercenary light on his career? A marginal note in the text directly addressed this choice. In a section addressing the giving of parishioners toward income for poor ministers, he explained how Worksop residents’ ‘love and bounty towards me, is never to be forgotten: the vicar as there is numeratis pecuniis only 12l. per annum, and 3l. yearly paid out to the king’.43 This was succinct, not going into so much detail as to suggest concerns to readers that did not have them. Yet for anyone who might have questioned his decision, Bernard provided enough information to underscore the true hardship of his situation as he saw it: not only reiteration of his faithful work and gratefulness, but cold, hard numbers as well. This was a bold move: inviting readers to be, essentially, insiders to his own pocketbook and to his financial-vocational-spiritual choice to leave one pastorate for another. Yet Bernard apparently felt that the evidence would speak for itself, being enough to counter any potential criticism.

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Life writing, writ small? We have seen how a publication on a topic of general religious interest – here, charity – could be informed by, and gesture to, various circumstances in a pastor-author’s personal experience. We have also seen how moments of self-description and local description communicated slightly different messages to audiences with different degrees of knowledge about Bernard’s situation, in view of moving all readers toward a positive view of Bernard and of his message of Christian charity. In closing, we can take one step further by considering how these self-descriptive passages related to one another, and to the content of the book as a whole. We might categorise the self-descriptions in Ready Way, with their aims of defending and contextualising Bernard’s ministry, as a type of life writing. A range of studies have addressed early modern developments in selfwriting, considering how both men and women recorded their lives in a variety of genres, with different audiences in mind.44 Among these, as Adam Smyth, Jason Scott-Warren, and others have discussed, opportunities for self-portrayal appeared not only in more or less comprehensive, narrative life accounts, but also across a range of ‘fissured and fragmented’ texts.45 This look at Ready Way provides a further example of where life writing and public self-fashioning might appear: published religious writing, and here, a manual about charity. Smyth’s discussion of commonplace books suggests that ‘a compiler’s identity might be constructed through a process of alignment’ with other content.46 If we apply this principle, writ large, across a printed corpus, we can certainly see a pastor-author such as Bernard constructing a self-identity, over time, in reference to a diverse but coherent set of religious, theological, and religio-political positions. Yet within the broader self-presentation constructed across the content of numerous publications, Bernard also included a number of instances of more overt, and more narrow, self-description. Many of these self-descriptive moves closely related to a then-recent situation: for example, Christian Advertisements and Plaine Euidences addressed Bernard’s prior activities vis-à-vis his current anti-separatism; and Guide described experiences at the assizes that contextualised the ensuing explanation of his beliefs about witches (see Chapters 2, 7). I argued in Chapter 1 that moments of meditative and devotional thinking appeared within a large range of works, in many genres; we can likewise identify moments of life writing (which regularly featured aspects of meditative thought) in a range of printed books and genres – not only via the cumulative effect of one’s corpus, but also in discrete passages.47 Nevertheless, these self-descriptions hit something of an apex in Ready Way, for at least two reasons. First, its chronological placement at the end

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of Bernard’s career, in what he said might be his final publication, suggested a sort of view across the entirety of his work that does not figure as prominently elsewhere. Secondly, the content of the passages about his past financial need, pointing to key transitional moments in his past, provided a longer, whole-career view of his circumstances than certain other, more chronologically limited, self-descriptions. We must not miss a publication’s primary intentions and implications as we observe moments of self-identification or self-presentation: Ready Way was, primarily, a manual on Christian charity. Nevertheless, the moments of self-description within the publication were intended to function in harmony with the broader content: each informing and even strengthening the other. Julie Eckerle has underscored the significance of autobiography in prefaces as authorising one’s work.48 For Bernard, the need for and function of authorisation differed in certain ways from the women writers Eckerle discusses; nevertheless, his life writing passages did in certain ways credential his writing. For example, some of the self-descriptive passages in Ready Way portrayed him as personally familiar with what it meant to be in need: this might grant some experience-based weight to sections of the work that exhorted giving even by individuals with little money. And his expressions of gratefulness invoked a version of the humility topos that could help to credential religious authors (see Chapter 10). Meanwhile, even the life writing passages which were not obviously connected to authorisation could complement his message: such as by portraying himself as an example of the positive outcome of charity-toward-ministers that he so strongly encouraged.49 Bernard’s self-descriptions in Ready Way differed from many life writing accounts. Their episodic appearance gave no pretence of thoroughly recounting his life, nor even certain sections of it, in a chronological way. Rather, his accounts were all connected in some way to the topic of charity; appeared throughout the book rather than in a collected unit; and shielded certain information from ‘outside’ readers. Another difference can be observed in reference to the founding event(s) to which Bernard referred. As Kathleen Lynch has discussed, religious autobiographies generally took as a reference point a foundational event such as a conversion; yet rather than looking back to a spiritual awakening, Bernard’s benchmarks here were career opportunities provided to him by way of generosity: initially by the Wray family, and later by Bisse.50 This might at first seem curious in a religious work, but its effect was entirely fitting: it made his life writing dovetail seamlessly with his broader topic of charity. Moreover, these founding events contextualised him not merely as a Christian, but a professional Christian cleric: which was how most readers of his manual would relate to him.

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Altogether, we can observe Bernard’s descriptions of himself and his local contexts as functioning in concert with the content of Ready Way. In different ways, these life writing passages contributed to the overall aims of the publication; and by appearing in several places throughout the work, they were integrated within the book’s primary content and aim to promote Christian charity. And the converse was also true: the context and content of the publication on charity framed and underscored the self-portrayals Bernard chose to communicate. We might describe this as something of a symbiotic relationship between the life writing passages and the content of the publication as a whole: and one that functioned both for insider and outsider audiences.51

Notes 1 BOD RL 89, fols 28–9. 2 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fols 56v–58r, 61r–v, 75v; Kenneth Fincham, ‘Episcopal government, 1603–1640’, p. 83; Fincham, Prelate as Pastor, pp. 229, 263–4. 3 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fols 56v–61r; Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, pp. 202–3. On catechism see Chapter 4; the communion table see Chapter 8 below. 4 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fol. 61r. 5 Ibid. Bernard’s negative response to the initial passage is recorded; it is unclear whether the latter was a further accusation or his response. 6 Bernard, Faithfvll Shepheard (1607), pp. 70–1. 7 Ibid., p. 71. 8 Bernard, Ruths Recompence, pp. 72–86. 9 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fol. 61v. The precise circumstances of the mentioned catechetical issues are unclear. 10 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fol. 57r. 11 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fols 56v–58r; SRO D/D/Ca 297, Batcombe 1634. 12 Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, pp. 202–3; Haigh, Plain Man’s Pathways, pp. 23–4; Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 75–6. 13 On local economics, see Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, ch. 5. 14 SRO D/D/Ca 297, Batcombe 1634. 15 TNA State Papers 16/356, fols 172–4, 16/354, fol. 345; 16/361 fol. 25. 16 Quarter Sessions Records, ed. Bates, vol. 2, pp. 283, 293–4. 17 Bernard, Ready Way, sig. A7v. 18 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fol. 57r–v; Stieg, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 102. On the monument see Symonds, Diary, p. 34–5; Collinson, History and Antiquities, p. 467. 19 Bernard, Ready Way, pp. 316–19. 20 Several descriptions of the church building attribute 1629 work on the south aisle/porch to James Bisse; I have not found extant contemporary documentation, but MacDonald describes evidence: Historical Notes, p. 38. Bernard called James and Edward Bisse ‘good friends’: Staffe of Comfort, sig. A2r.

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21 Bernard, Ready Way, p. 343. 22 Ibid., p. 334. 23 SRO Q/SR/52/1a, 3; Ready Way, pp. 370–1. 24 SRO D/D/ca/297, Batcombe 1634. Dr Duck gave 20d for mending the tomb. 25 The school and almshouses were in Shepton Mallet; their giving also involved Meare: Great Britain, Commissioners for Inquiring Concerning Charities, Charities in the County of Somerset, vol. 1, pp. 396–7. 26 Bernard, Ready Way, n.p. 27 Ibid., pp. 1–86. Regarding women, Bernard underscored a submissive position of wives under their husbands and described certain wives as ‘unfit’ to manage husbands’ affairs; yet he also discussed cases of wives’ rightful authority over husbands’ estates and emphasised more than once the spiritual equality of men and women. 28 Ibid., p. 102. 29 Ibid., pp. 118–348. 30 Ibid., pp. 349–88. 31 Ibid., pp. 349–88. 32 Bernard, Ready Way, pp. 411–13. 33 Ibid., pp. 434–86. 34 For discussion of use of coded language intended for members of certain groups but which would disguise one’s full meaning from others see e.g. Lake, Boxmaker’s Revenge, pp. 148, 155, 232; Marsh, Popular Religion, pp. 171–2. 35 Ibid., pp. 333–6. 36 Ibid., p. 266. 37 Ibid., pp. 328–9. 38 Smyth, Paralleles, p. 2. 39 On his early relation to each of these see the Introduction; for Isabel see also Chapter 2. Ruths Recompence was dedicated to Frances. 40 Bernard, Ready Way, sig. A4r. 41 Ibid., sig. A7v. 42 Ibid., pp. 318–19. 43 Bernard, Ready Way, p. 311. 44 For a discussion of scholarship, especially in regard to religion, see Stephens, Gentlewoman’s Remembrance, pp. 22–8. 45 Smyth, Autobiography; Scott-Warren, ‘Bookkeeping’, quotation p. 154. 46 Smyth, Autobiography, pp. 5–6, 156, ch. 3. 47 On meditation/devotional activity and life writing see Cambers, ‘Self-writing’; Dowd and Eckerle, ‘Recent studies’, passim. 48 Eckerle, ‘Prefacing texts’. 49 He addressed this multiple times throughout his career; see e.g. Two Twinnes. 50 Lynch, Protestant Autobiography, pp. 13–15. 51 My description of the ‘symbiotic relationship’ here echoes Stephens’s characterisation of Kathleen Lynch’s and Andrew Cambers’s work on spiritual selfwriting vis-à-vis reading communities: Gentlewoman’s Remembrance, p. 26.

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Part III

Innovation: adapting content, genre, and format

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A trial, a guide for jurors, and an allegory: one experience inspiring generically divergent publications In the previous chapter, we considered a publication that was closely related to Bernard’s present circumstances in view of how passages within a single book might communicate complementary, but distinct, messages to different sorts of audiences. We also saw how descriptions of his personal circumstances – currently and from key points earlier in his career – functioned in concert with his aims for the publication. Now, we turn to a circumstance from Bernard’s life that prompted not one but two publications, in two quite distinct genres. As we will see, although these publications were markedly different from one another, and indeed from the rest of his corpus, they aimed toward common sets of goals: for spiritual and societal change, and for clarification of his own theological position. At the 1626 Taunton summer assizes, Edward Bull and Joan Greedie were tried and condemned for witchcraft. Bernard went to Taunton during this time and was involved with proceedings: he gave personal attention to Bull, addressed the judges, and probably participated in other capacities as well. Then, over the following year, he produced The Isle of Man (1626) and Guide to Grand-Iury Men (1627). Isle was Bernard’s only allegory, and its content was relatively unusual, especially given its time and religious circumstances (it would prove highly popular, going into multiple editions).1 Meanwhile, Guide was an attempt to influence legal or judicial proceedings: something Bernard did not attempt in a similar way with any other publication. Although scholars have discussed both of these works within (for Isle) studies of literature and allegory and (for Guide) studies of witchcraft and demonology, there has been remarkably little attention to the ways in which the two were direct and swift responses to Bernard’s experiences during the trial: and that his messages in these two very different works actually echoed and complemented one another.

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Bernard and purported supernatural activity Before considering the 1626 witchcraft trial, some background on Bernard’s experiences with supposed supernatural activity is helpful.2 His first direct exposure to such phenomena began as early as c. 1597: he was present during the fits of purported demoniac William Somers. When efforts to dispossess Somers, led by John Darrell, came under investigation, Bernard was among those deposed. Samuel Harsnett’s 1599 printed attack on Darrell cited Bernard’s and others’ depositions. He included that Bernard, after seeing Somers safely and carefully throw himself toward a fire, ‘went away fully resolved of the boy’s villainous dissimulations, and could never after be entreated to see him any more’.3 Darrell soon published a rejoinder to Harsnett, suggesting that several ministers’ testimony had been twisted and they had not ‘left’ him: but he did not make such suggestions about Bernard. It seems, therefore, that Bernard had in fact taken a sceptical view of the situation.4 In view of similar comments he would make later in Guide, it is significant that one reason Bernard gave for accounting Somers as fraudulent was that ‘in discovering of witches, he named none but poor and base people, such as he thought he might be bold with’.5 Some years later, Bernard was involved with efforts to dispossess one John Fox. In an account of Fox’s afflictions and some conversation between minister Richard Rothwell and the devil (described as speaking out of Fox), minister Stanly Gower recounted, many prayers were put up to God for him, and great resort, especially of godly Ministers, to him: amongst the rest Master Bernard of Batcombe, then of Worksop; and Master Langley of Truswel, betwixt whom and John Fox, I have seen diverse passages in writing, he relating by pen his temptations, and they giving answers when he was stricken dumb.6

Over the course of his career, Bernard would certainly have been aware of, and perhaps involved with, other such cases which occurred throughout the period. He later mentioned in Guide ‘a very rare instance of an afflicted person near by me’ apparently troubled by Satan (possibly Fox, or another), as well as learning many things in an interview with a repentant white witch.7 It has been suggested that some years before the 1626 trial, Bull himself was thought bewitched and that Bernard might have met him then; this is possible, but speculative.8

The 1626 witchcraft trial Our information about the 1626 situation comes from Guide and from a manuscript in the British Library which identifies itself as a deposition

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related to the trial. The latter primarily describes the bewitching of one Edward Dynham, who experienced trancelike states lasting two or three hours during which he was perceived to lie insensible to others, at times to have something ‘beat up and down in his stomach and belly’, and to ‘thrust pins and needles through his hand and nostrils’. It primarily featured a conversation involving Dynham himself and two distinct voices that came from inside him (the voices are called ‘bon gen’ and ‘mal gen’ in the manuscript, which was formatted as a dialogue or drama, with speakers noted to the side of the main text, and interspersed with descriptions of activity during or between conversations).9 Conversation continued over several episodes and began by centring upon the identity and location of the witches who had sent the spirits to Dynham. In a pattern that repeated several times, ‘bon gen’ desired information from ‘mal gen’ and was denied; ‘bon gen’ prompted Dynham to ask the same question to ‘mal gen’; upon Dynham’s prompting, ‘mal gen’ slowly gave up the information. Along with the names and whereabouts of Dynham’s tormentors, conversations addressed the relationship between witches and spirits, the hereditary nature of witchcraft, the name of another man who had been bewitched, and more. Although ‘bon gen’ often seemed to have Dynham’s interests in mind, and at one point even engaged ‘mal gen’ in a battle over Dynham (a violent struggle leaving him half out of bed), the narrative is ambiguous about whether he was, in fact, a good spirit. Between conversational episodes, the manuscript recorded authorities responding to information about the identities and locations of Bull and Greedie: the latter was quickly apprehended; Bull proved more elusive, but was ultimately arrested. The narrative concluded as ‘mal gen’ uttered a final threat: ‘fare well I will no more torment thee but the spirit of Bull & Greedie shall torment thee ever’, and with a final physical struggle Dynham ‘came to himself again’ with no memory of anything that occurred during his fits, but some lingering soreness. Because the account described no other people interacting with Dynham during his trances, it portrayed a method of ‘resisting’ the devil that fit within post-1604 restrictions on clerical involvement, and on prayer and fasting, in dispossessions.10 The document ended with brief notes about related phenomena for which Bull and Greedie were indicted, including a woman ‘taken with a shaking in one side crying always Bull, Bull, Bull’ and a man ‘tormented like the other [Dynham], but he only speaks to and for himself in his own proper voice seeming to contend with the Devil exceedingly’.11 Guide and Isle included some details related to the trial itself, including that Judges John Walter and John Denham presided (possible relation of the latter to the bewitched Dynham is unknown).12 Later in Guide, Bernard commented, ‘How did a lusty young man at the assises presently faint in

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reading a conference of two spirits, while the suspected witch was at the bar, merely upon fear to be in danger to be bewitched, as was evident by his words, saying, O thou rogue, wilt thou bewitch me too?’, and a marginal note (added to the second edition) specified this occurred at the Taunton assizes.13 This ‘conference of two spirits’ was, almost certainly, the above deposition: its public reading was apparently rather sensational. During his attendance, Bernard absorbed and considered the activities of the court and the participants in the trial. He noticed how the judges gave ‘holy attention to the Word delivered before you, and your worthy respect unto Gods ministers’.14 Likewise, as would become clear in Isle, he closely observed the functions of various personnel and order of proceedings. We do not know whether Bernard was involved in a formal capacity, though that is possible: for example, he could have given the homily preceding judgment.15 In any event, Bernard did meet with Bull during the assize period. At such a low point for Bull, there were only two real ways he could be helped: salvation or acquittal (preferably, both). Though Guide emphasised the unlikeliness that a witch would repent, Bernard left room for this possibility; moreover, it was a common practice for ministers to meet with the condemned to plead with them to repent before death.16 Significantly for our purposes, Bernard later noted that ‘My upright meaning in my painstaking with Bull mistaken, a rumor spread, as if I favored witches, or were of Master Scot’s erroneous opinion that witches were silly deceived melancholics.’ Whether the rumour was based simply upon an unusual amount of time or effort spent with Bull, or because Bernard’s ‘painstaking’ extended to his questioning of judicial proceedings, the upshot was a spreading uncertainty about Bernard’s orthodoxy on matters of the supernatural. Given an atmosphere so charged with fear that merely reading a deposition in the presence of the accused caused someone to faint (as above), one can easily imagine how appearing too sympathetic to an accused individual might provoke certain suspicions about Bernard himself.17 In response to what became, or threatened to become, a rather scandalous set of accusations about his orthodoxy, Bernard presented an ‘upright apology against vain accusers’ to Judge Denham, who accepted his explanation. Notably, at that point Bernard pushed one step further. It seems that during this time he had been acutely aware of prisoners’ treatment and thus introduced a petition that money might be raised for a clergyman to attend to prisoners and that prisoners might be set to work to provide for themselves, maintain health, and become ‘more profitable members in the Commonweal afterwards’. Following such a public misunderstanding about his relationship with Bull, introducing this plea was not necessarily an obvious move: rather, it was apparently prompted by strongly held personal convictions that he would soon publicise further in the front matter of Isle.18

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The outcome of the trial was sober. Bull and Greedie were condemned and executed. Though the judge accepted Bernard’s ‘upright apology’, his behaviour was not necessarily vindicated in the eyes of all. Moreover, some of the allegedly bewitched persons continued to have ‘strange fits’ even after the executions: according to popular beliefs about witchcraft, this might suggest that Bull and Greedie had not caused the phenomena for which they had been accused. Whatever estimation Bernard made of Bull’s guilt before the execution, he was troubled by these later events: they were one of the reasons he gave for embarking on the study of witchcraft that led to Guide (on which see below).

The Isle of Man and the 1626 trial Entered in the stationers’ register 4 November 1626 and printed shortly thereafter, Isle’s allegory contained two major parts: first, the notorious malefactor, Sin, was pursued, caught, and imprisoned; second, various criminals were tried, including Sins (now plural), Old-Man, Mistress Heart, Willful Will, Covetousness and Idolatry, and Papistry.19 Amidst some plot narration, the content primarily focused upon introducing characters or objects and describing their relationships and characteristics. (These structured presentations of concepts functioned in part to hold the allegory’s creativity in theological check, in view of providing a spiritual meditation for readers to follow: see Chapter 1). While Isle has received some attention in studies of early modern religious literature and allegory, its relation to the 1626 trial has not been fully addressed. Yet the connections are prominent. Most obviously, the allegorical narrative adopted the framework of seeking and trying criminals, using details Bernard would have observed during his own experiences at the trial. This was implicit: but Bernard also made direct mention of the proceedings. The prefatory material mentioned Judges Walter and Denham, and sheriff Robert Philips; described the controversy about his ‘painstaking’ with Bull; and explained his subsequent appeal about the situation of prisoners. By thus prefacing the allegory, Bernard explicitly invited readers to keep this context in mind. And there were at least two further connections. First, Isle was a vehicle by which Bernard publicised certain ideas about witchcraft trials and the state of prisoners. This appeared in the first preface where Bernard (writing as from within the frame narrative) suggested the trial might have included some accused witches, but that the local grand jury had not moved forward with the matter: Thou hast here towards the end of this discourse, the trial and judgment upon four notorious malefactors … There should have been, at the assizes with

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these, the arraignment of certain suspected witches: but this was prevented, because the grand-jury gentlemen could not agree to bring in their billa vera: for that they made question of diverse points, whereof they could not be resolved at that present … [he enumerates the issues]

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… If there come forth, by the leave of authority, a Guide to Grand-Iury Men in cases of witchcraft; my suit is, that they would be pleased to accept of my well-meaning therein. In which all these points before are fully handled.20

Writing this dedicatory epistle after Isle had been licensed for print (as was common before 1637), Bernard included certain ideas from Guide, which was not yet licensed and whose future publication was thus uncertain. He summarised certain key points from Guide – essentially safeguarding that a brief summary of his ideas would be published, even if the full statement in Guide might be hindered. This suggested some uncertainty about how licensing authorities might respond to his approach (again, some individuals had earlier thought his actions with Bull belied errant views). Yet, this was not merely a stop-gap until Guide might be published; even after Guide saw publication, the comments here would serve to distribute these ideas to a broader audience, and to advertise Guide to readers who might be interested to procure a copy. This eagerness to publicise his views was related to ongoing issues, some of which he saw as quite urgent: he mentioned a person in danger of being tried for witchcraft, whose siblings had already been executed; and the poor spiritual resources for prisoners (with which he included strong pleas to those with power or authority to amend this, calling out some by name). He clarified his intentions on these issues vis-à-vis the earlier misunderstandings, about which he clearly retained bitter memory: ‘[the situation] hath moved me to take this pain, not to prevent justice, nor to hinder legal proceedings; but that I may not be mistaken nor wronged, as I was once, and more should have been, had not the wisdom and goodness of so reverend a judge accepted graciously of my upright apology’.21 Secondly, Isle was connected to the trial by its overarching theme of identifying and eradicating evil within one’s own heart. The ability to discern and address one’s internal spiritual state supported one of Bernard’s main goals for those who thought themselves bewitched: that they seek to help themselves not by attacking a supposed witch, but by turning to God and dealing with their own sin. Bernard set the tone for the emphasis as early as the first paragraph of the dedicatory epistle (to Sir Thomas and Lady Catherine Thynne) where, speaking as if himself having visited the allegorical isle, he explained, In my very entrance, and afterwards everywhere I found written that old ancient precept, Nosce te ipsum. This lesson I began to take out with diligent

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observation. And it brought to my mind the apostle’s charge, Quisque exploret se ipsum, which I labored to put in practice, and so besought myself in my self; for, I remembering that saying long since learned, Orbis quisque sibi, nec te quæ siueras extra. Thus my travel became very profitable to me; and the variety of sights withal procured delight, & turned my pains into pleasure.22

By the revised fourth edition which, among other things, responded to critiques of the work being too lighthearted, Bernard drew attention to this focus, and clarified it for non-Latin-readers, with an English marginal gloss, ‘The scope of this book for one to see and know himself’ (the Greek γνωθι σεαυτον appeared in the margin of both editions).23 This emphasis upon self-examination, locating and eradicating evil within one’s own heart, would be relevant for Christians at any time. Yet it took special meaning vis-à-vis witchcraft accusations, as this inward focus implicitly drew attention away from external, environmental, or circumstantial factors – for example witches. Rather, readers would find plenty of evil to address in their own deceitful, rebellious, hearts: turning one’s concern toward internal, rather than external, sources of evil would closely align with Bernard’s explicit directions in Guide – as we will see. Before closing this section, we should note that while Isle was closely connected to the events of 1626, it also accorded with broader goals that Bernard pursued as a pastor-author, reflecting many of the ideas and practices he also addressed elsewhere. Among these connections, Isle was intended to equip and encourage readers toward the discipline of spiritual meditation (see Chapter 1); the trial of Covetousness and Idolatry prefigured some of the concepts that would later appear in Ready Way (see Chapter 6); and the trial of Catholicism reflected several of the same concerns that had appeared in his several antiCatholic publications over the previous decade (see Chapter 5). Further, parts of Isle made smaller gestures toward additional issues – for example, by having ‘Old-man’ mention his age, Bernard disseminated his opinion on theological debates about the age of the earth.24 All this again underscored that Bernard did not make sharp divisions between theological and devotional concerns, nor even between different religious topics: all were interwoven. Good doctrine supported a holy life; a holy life led one to pursue the knowledge of God; and the disciplines of reading and meditation, directed by the Spirit, could prompt a wide range of theological or devotional thoughts, and resulting actions.

Guide and Bernard’s self-defence Guide was entered in the stationers’ register in May 1627, about a half-year after Isle.25 It took two parts. Book One addressed ways to understand and conceive of witchcraft, with intended uses not only for those determining

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which cases had enough evidence to proceed to trial in the first place, but also for correcting anyone ‘too much given up, on every cross to think themselves bewitched’ (as the title page highlighted). It emphasised the need to address sin within one’s own heart and look to God rather than too quickly assuming ills were caused by witches. Then, Book Two comprised a discussion of witchcraft and society, addressing a range of aspects of the topic that might be relevant for identifying and evaluating evidence in trials; explaining the need to avoid any toleration of ‘good’ witches; and describing proper Christian conduct when dealing with accused persons. Because Guide addressed both secular and sacred topics (and both had controversial aspects), Bernard explained he composed two epistles to facilitate the work’s approbation, and appeal to a larger audience: ‘For two books have I made a double choice of patrons for protection: because a treatise of this nature, needeth shelter under both, and that which is fortified, tam Ecclesiastico, quam seculari brachio, will be more available, and pass more acceptably among all sorts.’ Each epistle also gave some clues as to Bernard’s reasons for, and goals in, writing. The first epistle, to Judges Walter and Denham, explained, The occasion offered and the reasons drawing me to this study, were the strange fits then, and yet continuing upon some judged to be bewitched by those which were then also condemned and executed for the same: My upright meaning in my painstaking with Bull mistaken, a rumour spread, as if I favored witches, or were of master Scots erroneous opinion, that witches were silly deceived melancholics. This my labour in all these will clear me.26

This clarified the most personally significant of Guide’s purposes. Having been troubled externally by others about his actions, and internally about the way that experiences should be reconciled with his beliefs, he embarked on an extensive course of study. Guide was a defence and renewed statement of his own beliefs – now with more substance due to the amount of research compiled. With some people having questioned Bernard’s beliefs about the supernatural, he had much to lose: charges of unorthodoxy could strike at the heart of his ministry, both in parish and in print. Yet happily for Bernard, he had certain hopeful defences. At the trial he had successfully appealed to Judge Denham (which shielded him to some degree); and now some months later, he had leveraged his writing abilities and connections in the print industry to produce this public defence. In his defence, Bernard carefully situated Guide against the views of Reginald Scot, who in 1584 had published the strongly sceptical Discouerie of Witchcraft. As Simon Davies has suggested, Scot’s view was not always

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so far divorced, in terms of practice, from the views of more mainstream demonological writers. In that regard, Scot’s scepticism did not place his work outside the realm of theological discussion, but rather made him a useful benchmark with which to situate or contrast their own view; indeed ‘no other English witchcraft treatise was as widely cited’.27 This was certainly true for Guide. Because some had suggested that Bernard was of ‘Master Scot’s erroneous opinion’, it made sense to meet Scot head-on. Accordingly, Guide was bookended with denunciations of Scot’s scepticism – for example, in closing: The end of publishing these … is to show some ground of those things which we find related in the writings of men, and to be done between witches and devils, which otherwise may seem to be beyond all credit, & to be rejected as fabulous; which if Wierus, Scot and others had known, & diligently weighed, they had not so lightly esteemed of the true relations of learned men, and imputed the strange actions, undoubtedly done by witches and devils, only to brainsick conceits and melancholy.28

Nevertheless, positioning himself against Scot did not slow Bernard, elsewhere in Guide, from using Scot as a source to demonstrate points and supply examples. Copious inclusion of reference materials comprised a second key aspect of Bernard’s self-defence, as Guide boasted an extensive discussion of not only biblical and academic, but also popular, accounts. Its markedly wide inclusion of sources (academic and popular; contemporary and historical; Protestant and Catholic; of English and Continental derivation) together served to suggest not only that Bernard had a good grasp of scholarly issues, but also that he was taking into account a large range of phenomena. From Bernard’s academic research also came a significant dependence upon physician John Cotta, who had provided a framework for the analysis of physiological phenomena. Portions of Guide summarised key conclusions from Cotta ‘yet a little more distinctly, for common capacities’.29 Cotta’s conservative theology, together with his largely sceptical approach to phenomena and reserved approach to trying witchcraft cases, allowed Bernard’s citations of him to balance a theological approbation of the reality of evil spiritual forces in general, and the practical concerns about typical ways of proceeding against accused witches (which Bernard had observed at the trial).30 Moreover, the heavy reference to a physician was significant. Witch prosecutions often revolved around illnesses, and physicians were often called as expert witnesses to determine whether phenomena were supernatural.31 Through Cotta, Bernard equipped his audience with a framework for thinking about physical ills that fit with his overarching theological position.

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While Bernard made a point at the outset to align his work with Cotta and in opposition to Scot, his most frequent citations were to demonologies by Catholic authors Jean Bodin and Martin del Rio. Given the theological differences with these authors, he primarily mined them as news sources. Yet citing Catholic authors in specific ways also gave an amount of theological leverage on certain contentious issues: for instance, he pointed out that ‘even Bodinus a papist’ witnessed that exorcism was only to be by prayer and fasting.32 Meanwhile, he also cited a range of Protestant authors, among them William Perkins and George Gifford; their support of key theological points provided further defence for Bernard’s views, as well as further examples of phenomena to discuss (Bernard’s overall emphasis upon encouraging afflicted people to focus upon God rather than witches closely reflected Gifford’s: see Chapter 10). Along with intellectual works, Bernard cited numerous popular accounts of supernatural activities, including those in the many inexpensive pamphlets marketed to popular audiences. These were helpful in giving Bernard a broader list of phenomena to analyse in his book; further, taking seriously even some ephemeral and sensationalised works underscored that he was no outright sceptic. In persuading readers of his orthodoxy, it was to advantage to align himself with as many commonly accepted accounts of witchcraft as possible. Finally, some examples in Guide also drew upon Bernard’s own experiences. Of these, some were cited (such as his interview with the former white witch), and some were more subtle. Examples of the latter appeared in several passages discussing how and why spirits could speak out of a human, including general discussions of demonic activity and ventriloquism as well as specific discussions of situations that closely resembled the events that occurred with Dynham: such as addressing whether two spirits might be present in the same person. While that passage mentioned a French case published as Admirable History, it is likely that Bernard also had the similar local situation in mind. This is especially likely because there were key differences between the case cited in Admirable History and Bernard’s description here: for example, Admirable History dealt with bewitched women, but Bernard described a bewitched man. Moreover, Bernard went so far as to provide a characterisation of him as ‘vain’ and wrongly believing that the good spirit was evidence of God’s favour; given Bernard’s characteristic attention to detail, it would be unusual for him to make such changes if he meant this description to relate only to Admirable History.33 Altogether, by employing a range of examples, Bernard underscored throughout Guide that, unlike Scot, he took seriously a quite large range of unusual phenomenological accounts. Coupled with meaningful uses of other authorities’ interpretations, he provided a carefully structured defence of his views.

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Guide and Bernard’s general pastoral goals While Guide demonstrated Bernard’s orthodoxy, it also acted as a prescriptive statement for others’ beliefs and behaviour. It accommodated a broad audience, with a small octavo size imparting portability and relatively low cost compared to many scholarly demonological volumes; and because its numerous citations largely remained in the margins rather than the main discussion, he showed his research without assuming readers would be conversant in existing scholarship. In keeping with a didactic format and broad intended audience, Bernard maintained a convinced, authoritative, pastoral tone throughout (albeit on some matters signalling uncertainty – for example, in what was likely another reference to Dynham, he responded, ‘I think not’ to the question ‘May not a devil and a good angel be together in one man?’).34 A significant portion of Guide addressed those likely to attribute unexplained phenomena to witchcraft: on the one hand emphasising a self-examining, God-centred viewpoint (similar to what Bernard had encouraged through Isle) that would reduce one’s concern with witchcraft generally: and on the other hand limiting the sorts of indictments, types of evidence, and assumptions about guilt that should influence the proceedings of witchcraft trials. Although witches did exist and might be in league with the devil, he argued, many events ascribed to witchcraft could be explained by natural, or counterfeit, causes. Moreover, demonic acts were not dependent upon witches (who were slaves of the devil), but on evil forces – whose work was in turn permitted and circumscribed by God Himself. In both of these, Bernard’s views accorded with those of many other early modern demonological writers.35 Yet Bernard’s personal experiences, and his concerns regarding the way that trials should proceed, tempered his particular emphasis from the spiritual, theological, and theoretical toward the very practical. He was particularly concerned with how afflicted parties, and how others more or less directly involved with such cases, should deport themselves. Though it was proper to prosecute those practising witchcraft – and Guide discussed such proceedings at length – the reason to do so was not to relieve the afflictions of the bewitched, but rather to address the evil that witches did.36 Thus, the proceedings should be filled with patience and kindness: if there be evident proof and just cause, then to proceed; Yet with charity, against wicked instruments, seeking to have them punished, for their amendment. This is religion: this is Christianlike: thus ought the afflicted to behave themselves, and not swear and stare, curse and rage, against such as they suspect to harm them, seeking to be revenged of them, plotting their deaths, and rejoicing that they have their wills, and so think all to be well: though their own ways be wicked, going on still without reformation, even to the pit.37

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Amidst Guide’s clear condemnations of witchcraft, here Bernard’s criticisms, including his warning of damnation, were strongest toward those who acted uncharitably toward witches. This is remarkable, and reflects his overriding concern with all sin as a rebellion against God. Stuart Clark has asserted that Bernard ‘was probably more perceptive than he intended’ in remarking ‘such as little dream of witches, and lightly regard them, are hardly any time or never troubled with them’: yet in context, there is no need to presume Bernard was unaware of the implications of this statement.38 It was directly tied to his point that wrongful fear led people to make wrongful accusations (see his description, quoted above, about the man fainting merely upon fear of being bewitched). Like earlier pastor-author George Gifford, whose ‘puritan practical divinity led him to active discouragement of witch hunts as spiritually detrimental for his flock’, Bernard too emphasised one’s own heart as the centre of true religion, and of shifting attention from phenomena outside one’s control to things that one could control: personal responses to sin, to affliction, and to God’s Word.39 Beyond this primary way to redirect attention from witchcraft accusations, Bernard also pointed out that many presumed instances of bewitchment had other explanations: natural phenomena, intentional deceit, and even demonic activity without involvement of a witch.40 Drawing on a range of examples of phenomena outside witchcraft, Bernard wanted doubtful cases referred to learned authorities, and afflicted parties not to jump to accusation. Bernard’s arguments in Book One emphasised God’s judgement upon all sinful humanity – not merely witches. When afflicted, or when aware of others’ affliction, the only reasonable course was to remind oneself of one’s own sin, repent, and turn to God. Bernard admonished those who blamed their afflictions upon witches, characterising them as ignorant, theologically misguided, and in spiritual danger: It is an evil too common amongst the ignorant vulgars, amongst the superstitious, the popishly-affected, amongst others of a vain conversation, which are protestants at large, neutrals and heart, sensual, without the power of religion, and amongst all the generations of vain people, to think presently, when any evil betideth them, that they, or theirs, or their cattle are bewitched, that some man or woman hath brought this evil upon them. From which irreligious and uncharitable thought so prejudicial to their souls’ safety, many reasons may withdraw them.41

All of this, again, was designed to lead directly to the practices of humble self-examination, confession, repentance, and love of God that were the hallmark of puritan godliness and, Bernard believed, the heart of true religion. In this way, Guide was directly in line with the aims not only of Isle, but of all Bernard’s works.

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Guide and Bernard’s specific pastoral goals for jurors Like Book One, Book Two focused on eradicating sin, but now turned its focus from individual hearts to eradicating it from society. It offered a paradigm for a godly society to address witchcraft from a legal and judicial standpoint. In part, this furthered Bernard’s self-defence, showing he did not oppose legal action against witches. Yet it also had broader implications for the creation of a godlier society in general (something that had eschatological connections to England’s ability to prevail against Catholic enemies, see Chapter 5). One implication of Book One was that individuals too inclined to prosecute witches were over-concerned with avoiding physical and temporal affliction. Rather than patiently enduring suffering as opportunity for selfexamination, some sought revenge upon suspected witches in hope this would relieve symptoms. Portions of Book Two took up the other side of this coin, censuring those whose over-concern to avoid suffering led them in the opposite direction: tolerating (or even encouraging) the work of ‘good’ witches. In contrast, Bernard emphasised prosecuting all manner of people who attempted witchcraft: Bad witches many prosecute with all eagerness; but magicians, necromancers (of whom his late Majesty giveth a deadly censure in his Daemonologie) and the curing witch, commonly called, the good witch, all sorts can let alone: and yet be these in many respects worse than the other. Would God my endeavors might so prevail with men bound by solemn oath, that they would make conscience to present unto you the ecclesiastical judges, both the witches themselves, as also all such as resort unto them.42

All types of witches were evil, threatening godly society; seeming-positive ends did not make evil means any less sinful in God’s eyes, nor any less damaging to the realm. Thus Bernard called those in positions of responsibility (including churchwardens, as this passage’s language was altered to specify in later editions), to report not only any witches, but anyone enabling their activities.43 Other portions of Book Two gave particular attention to those directly involved with trials and addressed concerns with the current state of witch trials, with particular attention to what evidence might be used. In contemporary legal procedures, justices of the peace (JPs) oversaw the first step in assessing evidence toward possible guilt and a potential trial; at least in theory, a JP’s judgement required a lesser level of evidence or persuasion than that of the grand and petty juries in later stages. At the next stage, a case went before grand jurors who could review a range of evidence and determine how a case would proceed. If matters went forward to trial, a

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judge would act as director of the prosecution, rather than as a neutral party. The petty jurors who sat to determine a verdict could be strongly influenced by the judge as well as the body of assembled prosecutorial evidence, which rarely saw interpretation by legal experts. These limitations on the petty jurors’ ability to weigh evidence were compounded by the speed at which each case during a session had to be decided, the number of cases to be decided at once, and the fact that they might be compelled on the spot to serve, without prior notice.44 Given all this, Bernard apparently decided that grand jurors would be the most effective target for his message. They had rather more time to gather and evaluate evidence, deciding which cases had enough proof to proceed, and upon what charges, if any, the accused would be indicted. Nevertheless, in cases like witchcraft, having ‘no direct evidence, the triers of fact had to rely on the next best thing – assumed facts – presumptions that were built on the foundation of circumstantial evidence’.45 This reality disturbed Bernard, and he hoped further instruction might help grand jurors better evaluate what evidence they were given. Book One’s call to attribute more supernatural power to God than to witches, and to realise that many assumed instances of bewitching were natural phenomena, was not merely a general direction to all who were fearful of witchcraft (though, as above, it certainly was that). But further, that principle’s prominence in a work so directly addressing grand jurors also pointed toward its relevance for judicial proceedings: legal authorities, especially, must not be quick to assume that witchcraft was causing any malady. Now, in Book Two, Bernard addressed more specifics, proceeding with strong language to instruct them regarding their determinations upon various evidence: unless the witchcraft be very clear, they may be much mistaken; and better it were, till the truth appear, to write an Ignoramus, than upon oath to set down Billa vera, and so thrust an intricate case upon a [petty] jury of simple men, who proceed too often upon relations of mere presumptions, and these sometimes very weak ones too, to take away men’s lives.46

Bernard was concerned that grand jurors, ‘none of them being read in any learned tractates touching the practices of witches’, must still make good judgements.47 Over several pages, Guide directed how ‘the gentlemen of the grand-jury, before they write Billa vera, are with all serious attention to look upon the seeming bewitched, and to ponder all the circumstances, lest they be deceived by a counterfeit’ by employing a programme of questioning and demanding evidence (as in several different lists he provided).48 Guide’s portable size, as well as a brief reference table at its conclusion (comparing God’s and Satan’s works), facilitated this purpose, potentially allowing even reference to his guidelines in the midst of proceedings.

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Along with these primary directions toward grand jurors, the second edition added three questions toward the conclusion as ‘A note to the petty jury’: ‘They in a case of witchery are ever to enquire three things. I. Whither the party accusing be bewitched? II. Whither the party accused be a witch? III. Whither this same hath bewitched the other. Without the consideration of these three, they cannot well give in their verdict.’49 Perhaps after first publishing, Bernard recognised a further need for petty jurors to have some guidance (possibly even to be given to them as verbal instruction at a trial) pointing them toward a correct analytical framework while recognising they would not have the same time for study or reflection as grand jurors. (The brevity of this added section may also be related to more practical concerns in regard to printing: keeping changes minimal so as to not require another round of examination for licensing.)

Conclusion Given the divergences in genre and audience between Guide and Isle, the correspondence of their aims is noteworthy. Isle intended a broad audience toward whom Bernard wanted to address pursuit of internal spirituality and eradication of internal evil (plus, in one instance, the external evil of Papistry). In part, this could impact readers’ personal responses to witchcraft, potentially reducing the number of witchcraft charges brought and creating more sympathy for accused individuals who, just like all readers, were dealing with inward sin. As it was unlikely Isle’s audiences would make the connection to witchcraft on their own, Bernard leveraged the prefatory material, as well as parts of the allegory itself, to suggest these connections. Meanwhile, Guide might attract audiences – especially those involved in the legal process – who were more overtly interested in witchcraft: yet here a reasonable amount of his guidance pointed to the need to attend to one’s own heart rather than trying to identify evil in external circumstances. In short, each publication had one primary focus – internal spirituality, or witchcraft – but each also featured strong gestures toward the other: a sort of mirror image of one another. By examining the content of these two markedly different publications against one another, and in their historical context, we can more fully understand each one’s theological content, relationship to other works in Bernard’s corpus, relationship to his overarching goals for the reformation of the national church and of the individuals within it, and relationship to the post-trial accusations about his orthodoxy. In short, this social, religious, and theological context allows us to see these two publications, which in some ways might appear to be outliers from the rest of Bernard’s corpus, as coherent parts of a pastoral-authorial career.

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Notes 1 On religious allegories see Green, Print and Protestantism, pp. 420–2. 2 On contemporary approaches toward the supernatural and dispossession see Tan, ‘Resisting the devil’; Tan, ‘Godly re-presentation’; Ellison, ‘Measure for Measure’; Elmer, Witchcraft, ch. 2; and Van Dijkhuizen, Devil Theatre. 3 Harsnett, Discouery, pp. 240, 243. The assertion that Bernard provided Somers with Greek words is not contextualised; Bernard is recorded as affirming that he did not hear Somers speak in scholarly languages: p. 254. 4 Darrell, Detection, pp. 114–15, 162–71; Walsh, English Exorcist, pp. 146, 150, 161. On Darrell see also Gibson, Possession, Puritanism; and Freeman, ‘Demons, deviance’. 5 Harsnett, Discouery, p. 262. 6 Stanly Gower, ‘The life of Master Richard Rothwel’, in Clarke, Generall Martyrologie, pp. 459–61; this John Fox is not the martyrologist. 7 Bernard, Guide, pp. 60, 137–8. 8 Pickering, Witches of Selwood Forest, pp. 3–5. 9 BL Additional MS 36674, fols 189r–192v. 10 Ibid.; Tan, ‘Resisting the devil’. 11 BL Additional MS 36674, fol. 192v. 12 Bernard, Guide, ‘To the right honorable judges’, sig. A3r. 13 Bernard, Guide, 2nd edn., p. 22. Italics retained from original. 14 Ibid., sig. A4v. 15 On this convention see Baker, ‘Criminal courts’, p. 42. 16 On witches possibly repenting see Guide, p. 117–18. 17 Bernard, Guide, sig. A3r–A4r; Bernard, Isle, ‘Authors earnest requests’, n.p. 18 Bernard, Isle, ‘Authors earnest requests’, n.p. On concern for prisoners’ spiritual well-being see e.g. Lake and Questier, ‘Prisons, priests, and people’. 19 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, p. 131; Bernard, Isle, passim. 20 Bernard, Isle, ‘Authors earnest requests’, n.p. 21 Ibid. On early modern prisons see Lake and Questier, ‘Prisons, priests, and people’, and Antichrist’s Lewd Hat, passim; Darr, Marks of an Absolute Witch, p. 73; Rushford, ‘Burnings and blessings’, p. 95n. 22 Bernard, Isle, sigs A2v–A3r. 23 Bernard, Isle, 4th edn., sigs A2v–A3r. 24 Bernard, Isle, p. 162, indicated he was 5,556 years old; this increased in certain later editions. 25 Arber (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 4, pp. 131, 142. 26 Bernard, Guide, sigs A3v–A4r. 27 Davies, ‘Reception of Reginald Scot’s Discovery’, quotation p. 389. 28 Bernard, Guide, p. 267. 29 Ibid., pp. 11–12. On contemporary views of witchcraft vis-à-vis various theological positions see Clark, Thinking with Demons, passim; and Wootton, ‘Reginald Scot/Abraham Fleming/The Family of Love’.

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30 Pettigrew, ‘Profitable unto the vulgar’, p. 122; Elmer, Witchcraft, pp. 63–4; Macdonald, Mystical Bedlam, pp. 207–9. 31 Macdonald, Mystical Bedlam, pp. 198–217; Darr, Marks of an Absolute Witch, p. 62. 32 Bernard, Guide, p. 74. On dispossession by prayer and fasting see Tan, ‘Resisting the devil’. 33 Bernard, Guide, pp. 68–71; Michaelis, Admirable History. 34 Bernard, Guide, p. 68. 35 Clark, Thinking with Demons, pp. 443–56, 502–8, 526–45. 36 Bernard, Guide, pp. 253–9. 37 Ibid., pp. 6–11, 258–61. 38 Clark, Thinking with Demons, pp. 448–50. 39 McGinnis, Gifford, pp. 112, 117. 40 See also Clark, Thinking with Demons, pp. 515–16. 41 Bernard, Guide, pp. 77–8. 42 Ibid., sigs A5v. ff. 43 On treatments of witchcraft in demonological treatises vis-à-vis legal proceedings see Mendez, ‘To accommodate the earthly kingdom’. 44 On trials see Baker, ‘Criminal courts’; and Barnes (ed.), Somerset Assize Orders, pp. xiii–xiv, xvii–xx, xxxiii–xxxiv, 54–55. More specifically regarding witchcraft trials, see Darr, Marks of an Absolute Witch, chs 1–2; and Rushford, ‘Burnings and blessings’, pp. 91–100. 45 Darr, Marks of an Absolute Witch, pp. 67–70. 46 Bernard, Guide, p. 25. See also Darr, Marks of an Absolute Witch, pp. 52–3. 47 Bernard, ‘Authors earnest requests’, Isle, n.p. 48 Bernard, Guide, pp. 39–53. 49 Bernard, Guide, 2nd edn., pp. 257–8.

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A puritan pastor-author in the 1630s: tailoring the presentation of theological content

By the 1630s, some of Bernard’s closest allies in the church hierarchy had died, including Arthur Lake (1626) and Tobie Matthew (1628). In their place, individuals less favourable toward puritan theological and pastoral leanings were gaining influence. William Piers’s 1632 translation to Bath and Wells, Laud’s 1633 appointment as Archbishop of Canterbury, and the King’s 1633 reissue of the Book of Sports further set Bernard’s diocese, and the national church broadly, on a trajectory to more firmly establish several ecclesiastical policies that went against puritans’ view of what was best, or (for some) what was even acceptable. The present chapter focuses upon the position and railing of communion tables, the approbation of certain Sabbath recreations, and attempts to enforce unity and conformity within the church. Yet it is important to keep in mind that these issues played out in the context of a larger, highly complex, set of initiatives, controversies, and disagreements; for example, later accusations against Piers included that he suppressed lectures and Sunday afternoon sermons throughout the diocese; prohibited explaining catechism questions or using catechisms other than the one in the Prayer Book; encouraged rites and wakes on the Sabbath; introduced ‘innovations in the rites and ceremonies of the church … tending to popery and superstition’; ‘vexed and molested in his ecclesiastical courts diverse of the clergy and laity of his diocese for trivial and small matters; excommunicated and vexed diverse churchwardens … vexed and persecuted … Mr. Bernard … and many other good and painful ministers’.1 The first portion of this chapter considers how Bernard – as a parish minister – responded to these theological shifts by conforming only as much as absolutely necessary, and simultaneously maintaining his sympathies with those who did not conform. Then, it turns to examine ways Bernard – as an author – dealt with the issue of the Sabbath using a somewhat similar strategy. By carefully crafting argumentation and presentation of ideas, he sought to make his puritan perspective appear to conform to the national church, and in so doing also sought to make it as likely as possible that his

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book would pass muster with a Laudian licenser. Yet A Threefold Treatise of the Sabbath would only see publication in 1641, amidst the breakdown of the Laudian licensing regime. Finally, the chapter turns to The Article of Christs Descension into Hell (1641), where similarities to the approach of Threefold Treatise also suggest an attempt to produce a harmony of ­puritan-yet-conformable-enough views. This provides a view of Bernard acting in similar ways in parish and in print during a fraught period: holding to godly theology, yet to a significant degree willing to massage that theology to avoid overtly crossing Laudian priorities. This is not to portray Bernard as irenic; rather, it suggests more of a pragmatism. In parish, he complied with ecclesiastical requirements just enough to remain in conformity under increasing pressure. In writing, he showed a good deal of creativity as he carefully crafted his content and argumentation in hopes of constructing theological views that held puritan theological priorities in tenuous balance with Laudian strictures. As circulated in manuscript, these might help other godly leaders negotiate the difficult times. If published – which there is some evidence he attempted to do in the 1630s, though unsuccessfully – he would have envisioned helping even broader audiences achieve this difficult balance.

Conflicts with the Laudian church in personal ministry c. 1633–34: a regional conference and an episcopal visitation The Declaration of Sports was re-issued on 18 October 1633, affirming a set of recreations as lawful for English subjects’ Sunday participation, to be made public in each parish.2 Puritans including Bernard were incensed, as they believed the Bible restricted the set of activities appropriate for the Lord’s Day to worship, meditation, singing, reading, laying aside money for the poor, and other activities that tended toward the increase of devotion to God.3 For Bernard (and others), Sabbath observance was a benchmark of godliness.4 On 31 January 1633/4, Bernard met with ministers of Dorset and asked them two sets of questions about the Sabbath and the Lord’s Day; local resident William Whiteway recorded Bernard’s questions.5 Ten addressed the Sabbath in regard to the implications and practice of the fourth commandment, including pointedly ‘Whether any sports were used on that day in Israel’. Six further questions addressed the Lord’s Day in regard to its relationship to the fourth commandment; its institution; its time of beginning, the nature of its being ‘set apart’; the recreations lawful on the day; and how it had been kept ‘from the beginning to this day in the church’. These were not answered in Whiteway’s notes, which stated ‘I desire answers with

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proofs for all these’: it is unclear whether this was Bernard’s exhortation or Whiteway’s response; in any event, Bernard would soon begin writing on these issues. Some months later, during the episcopal visitation of fall 1634, the Sabbath and the sacrament of communion were among a number of issues addressed in Batcombe (on several other issues, see Chapter 6).6 In regard to the Sabbath came a direction to remove a reference to ‘heathenish revellings’ from the wall of the chancel over former pastor Philip Bisse’s grave.7 Also to be removed from the church wall and replaced was the text of Isaiah 58:13–14, a passage which mentions activities fit and unfit for the Sabbath.8 William Prynne later recorded that Bishop Piers went so far as to call this passage ‘a Jewish place of scripture, not fit to stand or be suffered in the Church’.9 It is not clear how long the passage had been on the wall, but Bernard must have appreciated its reminder that Sabbath activities were to be exclusively God-focused; in contrast, Piers would not countenance the public display of texts that might be seen as promoting overly rigid, Sabbatarian practices.10 In addition, seats around the communion table were to be removed, and it was to be railed – changes underscoring the altar-like aspects of the table. All these issues were related to key points of emphasis within the Caroline/Laudian religious establishment.11 Among items addressed at the visitation, Bernard and the churchwardens were recalcitrant in regard to the Sabbath and the communion table; issues stretched into subsequent months and years. Churchwarden Edward Curle at one point specified that removing the Isaiah passage was ‘against his conscience’; and William Prynne later recorded that even on pain of excommunication, the churchwardens were so stubborn that Piers hired a plasterer to ensure that the wall was changed.12 And even after the table had finally been set altar-wise and railed, it was subsequently moved: when again questioned, Bernard insisted he had not been the one to move it. It was ordered to be returned to position sub pena contemptus.13 Throughout all this, Bernard maintained close ties with the puritan godly in the area of Somerset and Dorset; this was the more urgent as Bishops Piers and Curll (of Winchester) were among those most strongly enforcing the Book of Sports, and a significant number of ministers had been suspended.14 One piece of evidence for this appears in a letter seized from the study of John White of Dorcester. White was a longtime friend of Bernard, and it was in his parish not long before that Bernard had spoken to ministers about the Sabbath.15 On 8 September 1635, Nicholas Paull, curate of Upton Noble within Batcombe parish and a godly associate of Bernard’s, was attending to Bernard’s matters while he was away. Upon receiving a message from White to Bernard, Paull replied,

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I have sent you, I hope, those things which you expect, & Mr Bernard appointed. He is now from home, yet wisely prognosticating what might happen in his absence, he told me that you had a purpose to send over very shortly for a book, which he himself laid aside in his study for that purpose, and I have sent by your messenger. We are not forgetful of you at Dorcester, & we humbly desire you to remember us in your daily devotions … And I think I may very seasonably & pertinently use Saint Paul’s obsecration to the Thess[alonians]: Pray for us that the word of the Lord may have free course, & be glorified, even as it is with you, and that we may be delivered from absurd & unreasonable men.16

Tom Webster has observed the ‘cryptic’ nature of the note and the accounts written thereon.17 To this we should also add that while Paull mentioned only a book, he said he was sending ‘those things’ that White expected. Perhaps funds for ministers’ support were indeed tucked inside the volume Bernard set aside when ‘wisely prognosticating’ events.18 The tenor of the moment was evident in Paull’s reference to 2 Thessalonians 3 and its condemnation of ‘unreasonable’ men: yet interestingly, he wrote ‘absurd and unreasonable’ rather than ‘unreasonable and wicked’ or ‘unreasonable and evil’ (from the authorised and Geneva translations, respectively). This may reflect reluctance to judge the motives or souls of ‘absurd’ persecutors, or carefulness to avoid particularly incendiary statements. Further evidence of Bernard’s involvement with godly networks appeared through his use and distribution of Henry Burton’s anonymous 1636 publication A Divine Tragedie Lately Acted, which described instances of divine judgement on individuals breaking the Sabbath.19 Godly Somerset clothier John Ashe received 200 copies to sell for 8d each and distributed the work to a variety of individuals; Bernard was among those receiving a copy. He in turn lent it to Edmund Morgan, rector of Pill.20 With unlicensed, anonymous publication and with content directly controverting the position of the national church, the work unsurprisingly drew authorities’ attention. One ‘Judg now lately in open Assises boldly affirmed that all the Instances were eyther altogether or in part lyes, and bad any one in the Audience to say the contrary, if he could’.21 Yet not only the content, but also the distribution channels, were of interest to authorities: as Jason Peacey has observed, Laud was concerned about the strength and extent of a cooperative puritan network.22 The whole network was to be shut down; Ashe was bound ouer for it by his Bishop to the Assises, and about 20 more of ministers and others, and besides much spoken by the Judg vnto him and of this matter. He told him that he pittyed him, being one that did soe much good in his Countrey, as setting a 1000 poore people on worke, but he would be made an example to the whole kingdome.23

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Yet while authorities’ concern was largely with identifying collaboration within a puritan network, the theological content of Divine Tragedie was certainly preeminent for Bernard. He had already begun writing on the issue, and certain anecdotes from Divine Tragedie would feature significantly therein.

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An effort to conform – and print – in the 1630s: Threefold Treatise A note by diarist Samuel Hartlib from some time after 11 July 1634 (i.e. perhaps as little as six months after Bernard’s meeting with the Dorset ministers) recorded that Bernard had composed a manuscript treatise of the Sabbath.24 We don’t know the precise contents of that manuscript, but it anticipated the final version of Threefold Treatise. (The sections drawing on Divine Tragedie, see below, could not have been completed before 1636.) This early composition date helps contextualise what I argue is the primary aim of its contents: portraying a puritan approach to the Sabbath as fully conformist. In view of the range of positions emphasised at different times by different church authorities, Threefold Treatise attempted to harmonise a godly Sabbatarian position with official church stances. Such an endeavour would have been of particular importance – albeit particular difficulty – in this period wherein no overtly pro-Sabbatarian publications were authorised (though several would appear quickly in 1641), and both ‘censorship and the punishment of openly non-conformist clergy discouraged people from publishing’ works on the topic.25 We cannot be certain whether Bernard attempted license for his Sabbatarian manuscript in the 1630s; however, we know he sought license successfully for Ready Way (1635); and unsuccessfully c. 1639 for Thesaurus (see Chapter 9). Given the conforming overtones of Threefold Treatise, it is likely that Bernard attempted publishing this material in the 1630s but was rebuffed. His epistolary description of licensers rejecting Sabbatarian works may smack of personal experience: they have stopped the means of printing sound antidotes to their empoisoned propositions … bold to insult over godly orthodox divines, with too many words of insolency, scorn, and much contempt; which they [i.e. the divines] have borne with great patience, waiting the Lords leisure till he should … give liberty for the publishing of their learned labors, which have of long time lien by them.26

As finally published in 1641, Threefold Treatise put conformity on display, highlighting it in both general and specific ways. In doing so, Bernard stretched as far as possible to find a way to support official church activities

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while still following the godly practice of ensuring that there was Scriptural precedent for all activities. To do this, he went so far as to reference the book of Judith to support his conclusion; it was unusual for Bernard to quote from the Apocrypha, so his use of it here indicated a strong effort to find any possible evidence to support the position that the national church had essentially forced him to adopt.27 He also made a point to renounce the teachings of various individuals and groups – Anabaptists, Familists, Traskists, and others – whose theology fell outside that accepted by the national church. His mention of these groups was particularly significant because of his past connections with separatists, and briefly with Traske himself.28 Much selfdefinition in this period was done by emphasising the deviance or difference of others in order to suggest one’s own rightness or conformity; this is precisely what Bernard was doing here. As we will see, he came close to a fully conformist position. He could agree with the Laudian authorities on several points, and he did so whenever possible by citing religious texts, both Scriptural and ecclesiastical. Yet it was a peculiar version of conformity. Threefold Treatise encompassed three sections, examining in turn the ‘Patriarchal’, ‘Mosaical’, and ‘Christian’ Sabbaths. The primary thrust of the first two sections was to expound ideas related to the Sabbath as a moral duty bindingly instituted in Genesis 2, and to show the fourth commandment as moral rather than ceremonial (while acknowledging aspects of ceremonial observance in Israel). Both were issues he had raised in Dorset and were especially relevant in view of positions like Piers’s, that passages such as that on the Batcombe church wall addressed Jewish, and not Christian, observance.29 These sections set up the context of the third, lengthiest, section, which addressed details of Christian observance of a morally established Sabbath. To be clear, Bernard could not reconcile his own beliefs with the complete list of activities that the Caroline church permitted on the Sabbath as outlined in the Book of Sports. Yet when impasses arose, Threefold Treatise did not explicate any differences. Instead, Bernard provided an alternative version of what the church actually taught by selectively drawing from accepted authorities. He furthered his appearance of conformity by using ecclesiastical documents with which he agreed, piecing them together in ways that seemed to support his position. Believing that dancing was unlawful for the Sabbath, Bernard was silent on the Declaration of Sports’ allowance of it; he simply turned to emphasise the words of others who had condemned it.30 He was especially concerned to highlight monarchs’ support for his views; for example, King James, the learnedest king that ever this nation had, at the entrance of his reign, sent out his royal pleasure by proclamation, in which we may observe;

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First, that he calleth the day, again and again the Sabbath day: Secondly, the drift of the proclamation was both for the better observing of the day, and for the avoiding of all impious profanation of it: Thirdly, that he forbade bearbaitings, bull-baitings, interludes, common plays, and other like disordered or unlawful exercises or pastimes.

Here, he outlined some of the key points he had already addressed in the work: that the necessity of Sabbath observance existed, that it was appropriate to term it the ‘Sabbath’, and that it must not be profaned. Though he wanted to disallow more activities than James, he was certainly in agreement with what James named as forbidden. Moving on, Bernard ignored certain activities that James permitted and instead turned his attention to further support for his godly agenda: After this in the Conference at Hampton Court, when the great scholar Doctor Rainold desired a straighter course for the reformation of the abuse of the Sabbath; there was found a general unanimous consent thereto of the King, of the prelates, and of that honorable assembly met then in that place. Furthermore when the Parliament was held, and a convocation of the reverend clergy the same year, the pious canon before mentioned, agreeing almost verbatim with the Queen’s injunction, was then framed, for the keeping holy the Lord’s day with other holy days: Also in the selfsame year at the commencement in Cambridge, as before hath been noted, a doctor held this thesis, Dies Dominum nititur verbo Dei, and so determined by the Vice-Chancellor. Lastly, as before in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, so in King James his time, large treatises of celebrating the Lord’s day were published under authority licensing the same; among which was the Practice of Piety by a bishop, and Bishop Downham’s exposition upon the commandments; to mention no other of lower rank, though some of them learned and reverend divines.31

Of course this is remarkable, as it was James who initially issued the declaration which sat at the heart of much of this business. But no matter: Bernard continued his selective gloss. He gave as much evidence as possible that a Sabbatarian view was the view of recent authorities within the national church. Then, he turned to the present King: notable in particular because, as Alastair Dougall has argued, the reissue of the Book of Sports had been largely Charles’s initiative: King Charles, our now gracious sovereign, hath with the flower of this whole land, by act of parliament declared himself with them concerning the holy observation of this day: First, in giving it the title of the Lords day, Secondly, in affirming that in the keeping of the day holy, it is a principal part of the true service of God: Then undoubtedly, he highly pleaseth God, who keepeth wholy the whole day: For by the judgment of the King, and the whole state, such a one as keepeth it is performing a principal part of the true service of God: Thirdly, in prohibiting on this day all meetings, assemblies, or concourse

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of people, out of their own parishes, for any sports or pastimes whatever; all bear-baitings, bull-baitings, common plays, interludes, or any other unlawful exercises or pastimes. Also that no carrier, waggoner, wain-man, car-man, or drover, travel on the Lords day: or any butcher by himself, or any other, with his privity and consent, kill or sell any victual on that day. Hereto may I add our common law, by which as the sages in the law have resolved it, that the day is exempted from law-days, public sessions in courts of justice, and that no plea is to be holden, no writ of a scire facias, must bear date on a Sunday, for it do, it is an error: so a fine levied with proclamations, if the proclamations be made on this day, all of them are held erroneous acts: and all this was for the solemnity of the day, as also the intent that the people might apply themselves to prayer, and God’s public worship and service. Thus we see the honorableness of this day, and the high esteem thereof, as it hath been, and still ought to be in our kingdom amongst all faithful Christians.32

Here, Bernard associated Charles’s views with those he had just outlined of other past and present church leaders. As with James’s words, Bernard presented only those aspects of Charles’s programme with which he agreed. He also made a point to mention the legal status of the Sabbath (to take a more extreme reading, perhaps even hinting at leveraging arguments of legal precedent against royal policies that might contradict proper observance). Altogether, Bernard presented a mandate for the Sabbath from all parts of church, government, and commonwealth. Yet he still faced the problem that the Declaration of Sports was not in full agreement with the way he understood the Bible. Observing the Sabbath ‘still ought to be’ properly observed vaguely acknowledged this: but he did not dwell thereon. Rather, he moved to citing consular decisions. He did this circumspectly: coming off his near-critique of Charles, Bernard underscored councils advising monarchs, not subverting them. Yet he multiplied examples, mentioning no fewer than fifteen councils and synods that had restricted Sabbath activities.33 Moving on, the following chapter pointed to positions held by sources as diverse as popes, Catholic and Protestant luminaries, Albigensians and Waldensians, canon law, reformed confessions, and more.34 Dancing, wakes, and other activities the Declaration of Sports permitted continually came up in Bernard’s summaries. All this raised the stakes of the national church’s position on the Sabbath. Earlier, he had suggested its historical agreement with a more restrictive interpretation of the Sabbath. Now, he further suggested that a conservative interpretation of Sabbath activities was held by adherents of almost any version of Christian belief. He even, to a degree, turned the Laudian establishment on itself by citing Peter Heylyn, a defender of the permissive Sabbath, making him seem to support a conservative position. (Bernard perhaps knew of Heylyn’s own recent reworking of Prideaux’s position,

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making Prideaux seem to support a Caroline Sabbath; if so, this was a way to give Heylyn a taste of his own medicine.)35 Thus, amidst a clear effort to construct a conforming-but-godly view of the Sabbath, there sat a challenge to church leaders: take this position, or admit they had run outside any orthodox theological tradition. Lest this be too overt, Bernard soon returned to attempting to create a harmony. This was especially clear in chapters 24–26 of the third section, in the careful way in which he borrowed from Divine Tragedie. Since the latter enumerated specific examples of divine judgement on those profaning the fourth commandment, it was useful for developing arguments in favour of keeping the Sabbath. His uses of Divine Tragedie were not vague, minor references; rather, numerous passages were reproduced almost wholesale: [Divine Tragedie:] In Yorkshire at a wake, in the Parish of Otley at Baildon, on the Lords day, two of them sitting at drink, late in the night, fell out and being parted, the one a little after finding his fellow, sitting by the fire with his back towards him, comes behind him, and with a hatchet chines him down the back, so as his bowels fell out; the murderer flying immediately, and being hotly pursued, leapt into a river, and so drowned himself. O fearful fruits of carnal liberty!36 [Threefold Treatise:] At a wake on the Lords day, among others, two sitting and drinking, till late at night fell out, but at first they were parted a while, after commeth one of them in again, and seeing the other sitting by the fire, with his back towards him, commeth behind him, and with an hatchet chineth him down the back, so as his bowels fell out: the cruel murderer flying, and being hotly pursued, leaped into a river and drowned himself.37

Yet while Threefold Treatise unmistakably drew upon Divine Tragedie, Bernard never cited or made specific reference to it. This was certainly intentional, standing in sharp contrast to the careful and thorough citations elsewhere in Threefold Treatise, including other examples in these same chapters. And he did not merely omit citation: he also stripped identifying information, such as names and locations, from its accounts; perhaps he felt that a too-specific account would cause people to question his source. Regardless, the inclusion of un-cited material from Divine Tragedie demonstrated an active choice to retain content from the work while attempting to distance himself from the illicit publication itself. The examples from Divine Tragedie were concentrated in three chapters of Threefold Treatise, addressing ‘immediate’, ‘mediate’, and ‘casual’ judgements, respectively. The highest percentage of these appeared in chapter 25 on mediate judgements (perhaps because he had trouble finding this type of example elsewhere). Yet most notable for our purposes is that although

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Divine Tragedie included ample examples of individuals who encountered God’s judgment for Sabbath-breaking activities that were permitted by the Book of Sports, Bernard selected only examples in which Sabbath-breakers were going outside those bounds – even parenthetically clarifying where readers might not notice a distinction: A man on the Lords day though entreated to the contrary by his wife, would take his hatchet and shovel to make an end of his work left before undone: but he was suddenly struck dead in the ditch and so ended his work and life together. … Some on the Lords day would go to bowls (a forbidden game to the common sort) at which play two falling out, the one threw a bowl at the other, and struck him so on the head, as the blood issued out, of which blow he died shortly after. Certain youths (contrary to the order in the declaration) would go out of their own parish on the Lords day, into another to play at fives, the mother of one of these earnestly dissuaded him, but go he would, and returning homewards at night, with his companions, they fell first to justling, after to boxing, so as their blood being moved one of his fellows stabbed him in the left side, and so wounded him, as he died the next day at night. … A wanton maid hired on the Lords day, a fellow to go to the next parish to fetch thence a minstrel (not warranted by the declaration) that she, and others might dance; but that night was she gotten with child, which at the time of its birth, she murdered, and was put to death for the same, confessing the occasion of her ill hap, to be her profanation of the Lord’s day. … Fourteen youths adventuring to play at foot-ball upon the river of Trent on the Sabbath day, when it was, as they thought, hard frozen, meeting together in a shove, the ice brake, and they were all drowned.38

Here again, Bernard walked a close line between holding a godly view of the Sabbath and yet remaining unwilling to condemn certain teachings of the national church. Bernard’s treatment of these issues appeared near the end of the book. In fact, chapter 28 – the penultimate chapter – could easily have concluded the volume. It was entitled ‘Of the serious ponderation of these things’ and began with an appeal in the second person to the ‘Christian Reader’. It answered common objections to Sabbath-keeping and took a tone of pleading – a common feature at the end of early modern publications. And it concluded with a comment that could very well be a parting appeal to readers: ‘If any be desirous to answer these questions, let them first turn their thoughts to Christ, and hearken then what conscience will say, and thereafter make their answer.’39 In contrast, the final chapter took a more aggressive tone than the preceding chapters about behaviour on the Christian Sabbath and contains vehement condemnations of specific activities. Though still citing various

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authorities, Bernard now took a stronger personal voice: no longer merely a reporter collating various views but rather a proponent of a particular view. For example, a clear injection of his personal opinion – highlighted by a printed manicule in the margin – appeared thus: ‘all sports whatsoever in the Church or Church-yard forbidden by the Canons of our Church in those places; and here, methinks, the reason is good, if sports and plays pollute an holy place, then sports and pastimes pollute an holy time’.40 In short, the tone here is different enough from the rest of the work that one suspects it was composed apart from the bulk of the contents, being added as printing restrictions lessened, c. 1640–41.

Another effort to conform – and print: Article of Christs Descension We now turn to another Bernardian work with similarities to the theological approach of Threefold Treatise. We do not know whether Bernard may have also attempted to have this work licensed in the 1630s, but it appeared in 1641 amidst several other works. Entitled The Article of Christs Descension into Hell, it addressed a portion of the Creed that had seen significant controversy in the late Elizabethan and early Jacobean periods. Among a range of contemporary perspectives, Catholics, as well as many in the national church hierarchy, held that after the crucifixion, Christ’s soul descended to Hell, the place of torment. Quite opposite this view, others, including Calvin and many puritans, held that this descent was metaphorical. Another position held by some – and that presented in Article – was that Christ’s soul did go to a place of the dead, but not the place of torment: more on this below. The Thirty-Nine Articles had intentionally left the issue ambiguous, and following earlier periods of debate, the matter had been less commented about in print since the Hampton Court Conference and especially since ‘His Majesty’s Declaration’ of 1628 prohibited any printing or preaching on the Thirty-Nine Articles which might ‘draw the Article aside in any way’ and further prohibited putting one’s ‘own sense or comment to be the meaning of the Article’.41 To publish after 1628 on Christ’s descent was no small matter. Knowing this, Bernard took a particular approach to his content to make it potentially acceptable. Through moves reminiscent of Threefold Treatise, he portrayed his position as not at all innovative, not at all putting ‘his own sense or comment’ on the article: rather, he was opposing a correspondent too eager to insist upon a personal interpretation, and he was supporting positions of recognised church authorities. Yet, as we will see, he did all this while making a popularly accessible publication that supported a view different from the one held by many members of the ecclesiastical establishment.

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While the Declaration restricted public comment, it did not mean no one addressed the issue privately; Bernard took this as his opening to explain why he composed the treatise in the first place. Amidst penning a reply to a letter regarding Christ’s descent, a man from another parish arrived – unsummoned, Bernard clarified. After ‘some reasoning’ together, the visitor asked for the paper. Bernard declined, but being ‘importuned’ ultimately allowed him to copy the material. The visitor then brought this to another (presumably his minister), who sent a reply. Bernard reproached the latter for not contacting him personally before composing his answer: ‘you have framed my reasons, and given answer accordingly. Had you been pleased to have willed me to have taken pains with mine own, better had you contented me.’42 Bernard underscored that there was uncertainty about the meaning of Christ’s descent, and he offered two different senses in which one might take it: first that ‘He went into the grave or tomb the place of corruption’, and secondly that ‘His soul went to the place of souls, to wit, in the place of the souls of the elect’ (he highlighted the second sense as more likely). This was in contrast to his opponent, whom Bernard portrayed as wedded to only one interpretation. His opponent’s view – that ‘the soul of Christ did locally descend downward into Hell, that is, into the place of the damned, and of the devils’ – was in fact held by numerous members of the ecclesiastical establishment and previously voiced by, inter alia, Bishop Thomas Bilson.43 Yet Bernard emphasised that to insist upon a certain sense went beyond the church’s more inclusive approach: For the article it is agreed upon, but the controversy is in the sense, what is the true and undoubted meaning thereof. 1. Our church herein hath not in the articles to which we subscribe, declared absolutely her judgment, that your exposition should be so pressed, as the one only sense and none other. 2. The orthodox churches beyond the seas have not agreed of your only sense, for any thing I know, but do leave the sense free. 3. Very great clerks, reverend divines, singularly learned, furnished every way with excellent gifts, vary in their opinions, and differ in their expounding of the article, both in our church and in other countries.44

Echoing his self-portrayal as aligned with bodies that had not absolutely declared judgement, Bernard’s marginalia gave positive treatment to authors with diverse views. Both Andrew Willet and Bishop Bilson differed from Bernard’s view; yet he cited them in ways so as to highlight either agreement or at least potential concord. Bernard’s introductory section made the vaguest gesture toward disagreement with Bilson’s attention to Thaddeus, but the tone tended opposite, with Bilson a ‘reverend Prelate … excellently well

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learned’ who ‘could not be ignorant’ of this issue; later, several marginal statements underscored accord, or at least potential coherence, with Bilson’s perspective.45 In addition to emphasising his own openness and moderation in contrast to his opponent, Bernard’s second step was to underscore that his perspective was accepted by authority. Here his most overt and most significant debt was to James Ussher, whose Ansvvere to a Challenge Made by a Iesuite in Ireland included a lengthy discussion of Christ’s descent. Bernard’s dedicatory epistle clarified ‘I am led … by many strong reasons, and by the prevalent authority with me of the singularly learned Primate of Ireland.’46 Certain in-text comments along with frequent marginal citations kept this dependence visible throughout. This was especially the case on sticky issues; on the meaning and location of ‘Hades’, Bernard specified twenty-nine individual pages out of Ussher.47 This could further distance him from charges of offering private opinion. Of course, the irony was that by publishing, Bernard was doing much of what he portrayed himself as not doing: he was escalating controversy from private to public, and he was defending certain interpretations over and against others. To boot, Article’s content did not clearly target academics – as had Ussher and many earlier writers – which might have restricted the audience to a plausibly appropriate scholarly community. Rather, several features made Article comparatively accessible to a broad audience. It was shorter than many existing works, requiring less time to read and less capital necessary to purchase a copy. Citations to scholarly work were kept to brief comments or footnotes rather than lengthy engagement; and other than identifying key foreign-language terms, discussions were in English. Moreover, a table of the statements of the Creed with the biblical witnesses to each was clearly laid out, with brief enough wording and references that any interested Bible reader might easily follow the citations and understand Bernard’s point.48 To be sure, popularly targeted discussions of this article existed, such as those aiming to help those who learned the Creed as part of their catechism.49 But among works critically addressing interpretive issues with consideration of translation and engagement with scholarship, this was one of the most accessible: even a comparable work such as Richard Parkes’s – which at some fifty pages had a similar length, and advertised its origins as a letter to an opponent – made greater demands on audiences in terms of following complex argumentation, familiarity with ecclesiastical sources, and understanding languages.50 The reason for this broader appeal is suggested by the strong anti-Catholic undercurrent of the work. As early as the dedicatory epistle, Bernard observed that his interpretation gave ‘the true sense whereof I conceive to be cleared, and freed from the common Popish exposition’.51 And, in

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concluding a section of Article, he observed that his conclusions were not only ‘very probable’ but ‘very comfortable’ in allowing belief that souls go immediately to Heaven upon their death; and ‘a very strong confirmation of our faith in this truth against the feigned Limbus patrum, Limbus Infantium, and that Ignis fatuus, Purgatory’.52 He had in mind not only pastoral comfort, but specifically comfort for those who might have been confused by Catholic teachings. This emphasis was especially notable given his near-concurrent reintroduction of the anti-Catholic Epistle.53 The concerns that had led to his earlier period of explicit and vehement anti-Catholic writing had never disappeared, although the situation since the later 1620s had changed to make aspects of such anti-Catholic publishing less practicable (see Chapter 5). If Bernard did attempt to have Article licensed in the 1630s, as encouragement he might have considered his successful insertion of brief comments about the sacraments that did not align with the Prayer Book into Common Catechisme earlier that decade. And we know he was at work attempting licensing of some publications even late in the decade – likely with Threefold Treatise, and certainly with Thesaurus (see Chapter 9), which also featured attempts to present godly leaning content in ways that might be acceptable to the those within the institutional church. In any event, only in the 1640s would the circumstances for publication change dramatically. With, and perhaps because of, his remaining circumspect in his arguments, with careful couching of his content, Article gained John Hansley’s imprimatur in 1640.

Conclusion Drawing all this together, we observe that Bernard’s approach to conformity in his parish, in Threefold Treatise and in Article all point to a continued attempt to locate a compromise position, adhering to the policies of the national church yet without abandoning certain theological positions central to a godly version of Christian faith and practice. Whether out of desperation to retain his longstanding pastoral-authorial ministry, or out of genuine hopefulness to find a (different) sort of via media, Bernard in this period made simultaneous gestures of conformity to the national church, and of solidarity with the godly community, including those who had stepped out of conformity. This underscores the outstandingly difficult position of would-be conforming puritan pastor-authors (and others) in the later 1630s. Yet things began to turn upside down in the early 1640s. At that point, Bernard himself went to London, from whence he signed the epistle to Threefold Treatise in March 1641 amidst a flurry of his own, and other, godly publications coming off the presses.

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We can further observe this in the similar situation of puritan pastorauthor John Ley of Cheshire. In this same period, Ley too was considering the key issues of altar, Sabbath, and more: and would address them both in personal ministry and in writing.54 Like Bernard’s, Ley’s works were kept from print until 1641: including his Sunday a Sabbath, which as Richard Cust and Peter Lake have described, achieved ‘the enviable trick of presenting his own position both as a moderate via media located between opposing extremes and as the godly side of the basic binary opposition’ between truth and error.55 His work on the etcetera oath was set forth with a moderate tone. And Ley also looked in particular to the work of Ussher – in his case, on the issue of limited episcopacy. In short, we might take both Bernard and Ley as exemplars of a certain sort of bend-over-backward attempt to harmonise strongly held puritan theology with the church situation in which godly pastor-authors found themselves. But whereas Ley would look toward modified episcopacy as a way forward from the strife of the 1630s, we will see toward the end of the next chapter that Bernard may have been prepared to go a step further.

Notes 1 Parliament, Articles of Accusation, p. 7. See also John Conant, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Bernard, Thesaurus. 2 Ibid., pp. 191–202; Charles I, Kings  Maiesties  Declaration. See also Parker, English Sabbath; Davies, Caroline Captivity, pp. 180ff. 3 On Bernard’s previously published views of the Sabbath see e.g. Ready Way, pp. 221–6. 4 E.g. he included Sabbath practices in his summary of his parish’s spiritual state: BOD RL 89, fol. 28. 5 CUL MS Dd. xi. 73, Commonplace Book of W. Whiteway, pp. 87–8, ‘Certain questions propounded by Mr Bernard Minster of Batcombe unto the Divines of Dorsetshire’. 6 SRO D/D/CA 299, fols 57r–58r. On presentations related to catechism, physical disrepair, and particularisation, see Chapters 4 and 6. Also of interest, inter alia, were orders to repaint the church arches from colours ‘too light & wanton’; and to remove seats which had been added in the alley and near the south door (to accommodate sermon-gadding?). 7 Ibid. This may have been a general Sabbatarian comment, or a reference more specifically to churchales, which had recently seen controversy in Somerset: see Barnes, ‘County politics’. 8 SRO D/D/CA 299, fols 57r–58r; Parliament, Articles of Accusation, pp. 4–5. 9 Prynne, Unbishoping, p. 143. 10 Stieg, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 297.

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11 Inter alia see Fincham and Tyacke, Altars Restored; Fincham, ‘Restoration of altars’; Lake, ‘The Laudian style’; and Dougall, Devil’s Book, chs 5–6. 12 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fol. 76r; Prynne, Unbishoping, p. 143; Parliament, Articles of Accusation, p. 5. 13 SRO D/D/Ca 299, fols 75v, 81r; SRO D/D/Ca 309 f. 52r; Steig, Laud’s Laboratory, p. 297. 14 Dougall, Devil’s Book, pp. 129–30. 15 Bernard previously named White among his godly brethren: Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621). 16 N. Paull to John White, SP 16/297 fol. 177r–v. 17 Webster, Godly Clergy, pp. 266–7. 18 See Underdown, Fire from Heaven, pp. 174–5. 19 Anon. [Burton], Divine Tragedie. 20 Peacey, ‘Paranoid prelate’, pp. 121–6; Archives of the Marquess of Bath, Whitelocke Papers, vii, fols 85–92. 21 ‘-- -- to John Winthrop’, May 1637, in WP. 22 Peacey, ‘Paranoid prelate’, pp. 121, 126. 23 ‘-- -- to John Winthrop’, May 1637, in WP. 24 HP 29/2/35B–36A. 25 Dougall, Devil’s Book, p. 146; Milton, ‘Licensing, censorship’, pp. 641–2; Fincham, ‘Introduction’, pp. 15–16, 248n. See also Clegg, Press Censorship in Caroline England, ch. 4. 26 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, dedicatory epistle. 27 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, p. 102. 28 Como, Blown by the Spirit, p. 145. 29 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, pp. 1–104; CUL Dd.XI.73; Prynne, Unbishoping, p. 143. 30 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, p. 104. 31 Ibid., pp. 168–9. 32 Ibid., p. 169; Dougall, Devil’s Book, pp. 117–25. 33 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, pp. 170–1. 34 Ibid., pp. 172–5. 35 Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic, pp. 51–3; Dougall, Devil’s Book, pp. 141–2; Parker, English Sabbath, pp. 196–8. 36 Anon. [Burton], Divine Tragedie, p. 22. 37 Bernard, Threefold Treatise, p. 180. 38 Ibid., pp. 178–83. 39 Ibid., p. 224. 40 Ibid., p. 225. 41 ‘His Maiesties declaration’, in [Church of England], Articles. On the controversy see inter alia Bagchi, ‘Christ’s descent’; Wallace, ‘Puritan and Anglican’; and Romanelli, ‘Sacred heresies’, which discusses Bernard pp. 274–83. 42 Bernard, Article, p. 1. 43 Ibid., pp. 4, 18, 22. 44 Bernard, Article, p. 2.

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45 Ibid., pp. 4, 8, 23, 26, 30, margins. 46 Ibid., sig. A3v. 47 Ibid., p. 4. 48 Ibid., p. 7. 49 E.g. Gifford, Catechisme, n.p. 50 Parkes, Briefe Ansvvere. 51 Ibid., sig. A3v. 52 Ibid., p. 30. 53 Bernard, Epistle, title page. 54 Lake and Cust, Gentry Culture, pp. 236–67. 55 Ibid., p. 262. Italics theirs.

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‘That all the Lord’s people could prophesy’: innovating in the reference genre (and turning against episcopacy?) Bernard wrote, and submitted for license, the tripartite reference work Thesaurus Biblicus during the 1630s. Initially rejected, it was finally entered in the stationers’ register in April 1641 (published 1644, a delay that can be associated with printers’ concerns about competition for large volumes).1 In what follows, I address Bernard’s attempts to have Thesaurus licensed for printing, and the content of each of its three sections, in view of his intentions to make Thesaurus accessible to a broad audience that explicitly included lay users. With this in view, I argue that in Thesaurus Bernard leveraged the reference genre to support an approach – in certain senses radical, yet to some degree already in practice – of dealing with an institutional church largely out of step with godly priorities by equipping laypeople to do certain clerical activities: even preaching. Finally, as a sort of coda, I place this in conversation with an anonymous 1641 antiepiscopal pamphlet sometimes attributed to Bernard. I suggest that if one does make that attribution, any radical implications might be balanced by a different view of continued conformity – to parliamentary religious initiatives. Before proceeding, a bit of context about early modern reference publications is in order. As individuals sought to address a perceived overload of available information, the period saw not only a proliferation in number of reference works but also innovation in types and arrangements of content. Many resources, such as commonplace books, were created for personal use and remained in manuscript. Yet an increasing number of reference resources saw print publication. These encompassed a broad range of content under a variety of names (‘dictionary’, ‘concordance’, ‘commentary’, ‘table’, etc.), and often combined multiple types of material within a single volume. Several studies have addressed early modern information management, such as Ann Blair’s analysis of ways that print both shaped, and provided means to cope with, the early modern information explosion.2 While Blair’s attention is largely given to subjects outside religion, studies by Andrew Crome, Kathleen Curtin, Ian Green, Susan Hardman Moore, and

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Peter Stallybrass (inter alia) have suggested the significance of printed Bible reference works and have demonstrated the potential for further studies.3 A key feature of reference works was the facilitation of discontinuous use.4 With this as a benchmark, we observe that Thesaurus was not Bernard’s first reference publication. His commentaries Ruths Recompence and Key of Knowledge could have been read continuously, but also had clear benefit for discontinuous use (e.g. for sermon preparation). Likewise, Dauids Musick contained multiple arrangements of both narrative and tabular information that might be used in a range of discontinuous ways. Nevertheless, Thesaurus was by far Bernard’s most comprehensive effort toward publishing in the reference genre. As we will see, each section of this work was intended to facilitate discontinuous uses, toward a range of purposes, for a markedly wide audience.

To wish that all the Lord’s people could prophesy In 1634, diarist Samuel Hartlib recorded, ‘Mr. Bernard of Barkham [sic] is making a very profitable Concordance Alphabeticall. Mr. Byfield think’s hee is gone over halfe the Letters of the Alphabet.’ Shortly after this, he noted: ‘Topica Theologica may bee perfected by Mr Rich. Bernard or Hazard or Lovel.’5 We don’t know with certainty how long it took Bernard to complete Thesaurus; even drawing upon extensive notes amassed over a career of preaching and writing, such a volume was a monumental endeavour, as John Conant observed.6 Yet Bernard had completed it in or before 1639 (dated to Hartlib’s account of the work’s rejection).7 That Thesaurus fared poorly at the licenser’s desk is not surprising. While several English-language Bible dictionaries, concordances, and the like had seen print across the late Elizabethan and early Jacobean periods, recent years saw relatively fewer reference works licensed, and those that were – notably Clement Cotton’s and John Downame’s Bible concordances – contained only alphabetically arranged snippets of scripture rather than commentary or other interpretive apparatuses.8 In contrast, Bernard’s Thesaurus contained a range of interpretive information. Moreover, it featured a section explaining how to use the reference to facilitate doctrinal understanding: both Bernard and Hartlib would record that this section, which might enable all audiences to make interpretations and even act, in some regards, as preachers, was a primary reason it was rejected.9 Perhaps more surprising is that even the version licensed in the 1640s apparently still lacked this explanatory section. To be sure, there was some direction: Bernard suggested that the work itself taught one how ‘to make

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various uses of a concordance’, and his epistle to the reader highlighted numerous features of the text. Nevertheless, Bernard noted that he remained unable to ‘fully explain’ himself: By these [preceding examples] mayst thou, Reader, understand in part what use to make of this Thesaurus Biblicus, but much more when thou art thoroughly acquainted with the whole, to be able to apply the word to thy text, or to a doctrine drawn out of thy text, so be it, that the words of the doctrine be framed of such words, as are words in the scripture. This indeed is one of the principal uses of this book, in which I should here more fully explain myself, but that some who would not license this book heretofore, said, this were to make every man a preacher: and another, that it would mar their trade. These are enemies to knowledge, and have not the spirit of Moses, to wish that all the Lords people could prophesy.10

This passage connected the earlier rejection to the continuing absence of the explanatory section. These details are murky: why did it not now appear? There may have been practical reasons – perhaps the original censor had damaged or removed the explanatory section, and Bernard lacked leisure to reproduce it before sending the work along to the press, only adding a brief description of uses into the epistle. Yet conceivably, the explanatory section was – even in the context of the 1640s – still seen as insufficiently respecting the clerical-lay boundary.11 If so, we might read the disjuncture between Bernard’s above criticism of licensers ‘heretofore’ and the section’s present absence as a way of avoiding critique of the present licenser John Hansley, who was busily licensing a range of puritan works in this period, among them Threefold Treatise and Article.12 Whatever the reason, Bernard was clearly disappointed to have the section absent from the volume, yet remained hopeful that audiences might come to discover uses for themselves. As we will see, he structured each of Thesaurus’s three sections to facilitate just that.

A concordance-like resource as a way to help users toward ‘various uses’ The primary part of Thesaurus, Bernard explained, was not a proper concordance, but rather intended to teach ‘how to make various uses of a concordance, more then to help memory to find out a word, the common and almost only use made of a concordance heretofore’.13 (This was probably not an overstatement; introductory prefaces to other concordances suggested as much.14) Concordances and other resources already had potential to support other uses; yet Bernard wanted such alternative uses to be not only possible, but preeminent.

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As the epistle explained, entries had English headwords; associated Latin, Hebrew, or Greek terms to ‘discern the force of the word in the originals’ toward ‘matter of meditation for more full instruction’; associated English terms to ‘give more in understanding’; and a range of further content. Most content was in the form of a short phrase accompanied by a scripture reference; some featured brief prose explanations or, more rarely, lengthier interpretive discussions.15 Topics ranged widely: yet Bernard made no claims to exhaustivity, selecting what to include and the degree of explanatory comments. With this in mind, it is notable the degree to which Thesaurus remained understated regarding controversial issues, avoiding direct engagement in favour of subtle gestures. These did not spell out his position, but provided enough material – in the form of selecting which scripture references to include or exclude from his lists, and where to include explanatory comments – for attentive readers to reconstruct it. One particularly clear example of this was in the entry for ‘Sabbath’ (see Figure 9.1). It contained no mention of the recent controversies; however, the entries under that heading were clearly selected in a strategic manner, enumerating pious ways one might keep the Sabbath and ways one might fail to keep it. Among the latter were several entries (each with one or more scripture references) pregnant with meaning in light of contemporary debates. In particular, ‘doing of our own will and pleasures’ and ‘all sinful works, as revellings, Gal. 5.21. Rom. 13.13. 1 Pet. 4.3. and the like sinful practices’ gestured quietly but meaningfully to certain recreative activities countenanced by church authorities. Meanwhile, notably absent was any mention of the concept of lawful recreation for the Sabbath. By highlighting biblical passages that pointed toward a Sabbatarian doctrinal position (including a focus on limiting Sabbath activities, integrating Old and New Testament commands and restrictions, etc.), it equipped puritan-leaning readers, and perhaps even neutral readers, to develop a view aligned with a puritan perspective. Yet at the same time, it is also possible to see how Bernard retained plausible deniability that he was supporting views out of step with the national church; to the contrary, he was merely providing a reference work that pointed readers to relevant biblical passages. It was an interesting and potentially successful tactic. To take another example, Thesaurus had a marked lack of overt comment about Catholicism. Often, this is noticeable as silence about Catholicism under headings that might provide prime fodder for such discussion: for example, ‘Idol, idols’, ‘Idolatry’, ‘Image’, and even ‘Antichrist’ had no direct mention of Catholic faith or practices. While users with an existing awareness of Catholicism could consider the content of certain cited scriptures against various Catholic doctrines or practices, Thesaurus rarely made such connections. It also lacked subheads directly related to Catholic doctrine, practice, or terminology (e.g. Pope, Purgatory). Such terms had

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Figure 9.1  ‘Sabbath’ and surrounding entries in Bernard, Thesaurus Biblicus (1644).

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been included in some comparable Protestant Bible reference works – for example, Thomas Wilson’s 1612 Christian Dictionarie – but were markedly absent here. This cannot be explained simply on the grounds that Thesaurus addressed biblical (rather than post-apostolic) uses of terms, since other terms (e.g. ‘Indifferent’) were occasionally included and featured discussion of contemporary doctrinal understandings. In some cases, Thesaurus did make comments refuting certain Catholic teachings or practices, but phrased them in such a way as to avoid overt controversy. Thus, under ‘Sacrament’ appeared a subheading clarifying there were ‘two sorts’ of sacraments, and a brief comment that it was ‘usual to put is for signify’ (followed by several scripture references).16 The former implicitly countered the Catholic enumeration of sacraments, and the latter unmistakably intended to refute a principal defence of transubstantiation: yet neither were actually mentioned. Likewise, the entry for ‘Saint’ observed, ‘This word seldom is applied to the departed, but usual [sic] to believers on earth’; this was but the vaguest reference to Catholic veneration. In a rather different vein, a comment under the heading ‘Woman’ observed that term being ‘put’ for ‘the Romish Antichristian Synagogue, Revel. 17:3’. This harsh wording was much more reflective of Bernard’s longstanding anti-Catholic perspective, which he continued to hold into the 1640s (see Chapter 5 and his 1641 reprinting of Epistle). Here, however, its inclusion appears to be the exception that proves the rule: overall, Thesaurus was markedly understated on the topic of Catholicism. This approach to controversy makes sense in the context of the late 1630s: Bernard’s chances for publication were best (albeit ultimately unsuccessful) with content that did not directly challenge key positions of the national church nor appear intemperate in his criticism of Catholic doctrine (the latter had been yet another reason some works were censored in the 1630s).17 But although there was little explicit mention, there was plenty of implicit potential. Through a non-narrative yet content-rich format, Bernard was able to avoid making certain controversial statements outright, while still providing a curated set of scripture references (with just enough commentary) that would allow readers to piece together certain (i.e. puritan) theological positions on key topics. This strategy had similarities to Bernard’s approach in Threefold Treatise, where his content had remained in tune with godly priorities, but couched in ways that could appear conformist. In this case, his strategy was to avoid antagonistic positioning by leaving the theological conclusions to readers themselves. That is, he provided a reference work that equipped readers with tools and information to approach the Bible on their own: yet also with a degree of direction through his choices about which content and subheadings were included.

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The collation of biblical marginalia as a layperson’s translation resource Thesaurus’s second section featured an alphabetised collation of biblical marginal notes: one might look up a term and find alternative translations suggested in the margin of the authorised translation; e.g. for ‘Word’: ‘mouth, Num. 20.24. Deut. 21.15. message, 1 Kin. 10.12. preaching, 2 Cor. 1.18’. This selective resource featured only terms from passages that the translators thought worthy of a clarifying note: it was not a comprehensive catalogue of biblical words. Accordingly, its most obvious use, the one Bernard highlighted in his epistle to the reader, was for interpretation: ‘Here be very many words in the text interpreted by other words of the text, either in the same place, or fetched thither from some other scriptures. The use of this part is very helpful, either to give the true sense of a word, or to enlarge the meaning thereof without mistake’; he provided several examples of uses ‘giving’ and ‘enlarging’ the sense of words.18 Insofar as this was a resource for understanding meanings of biblical words, the remarkable thing was the audience. Those who knew scholarly languages, or could access dictionaries and concordances in those languages, would have no need for this less-efficient resource. Rather, it would be most helpful to those untrained in biblical languages or without access to scholarly volumes. It thus allowed laypeople (and less-resourced clerics) to interpret biblical words without engaging the original languages. In a certain view, this could appear a radical step toward having laypeople take on a significant clerical role: interpreting the words of scripture and giving their sense. Yet, by restricting the content entirely to marginal notes from the authorised version, Bernard offered no new content to laypeople: he merely rearranged what the church had already given them. Similar to his approaches in Threefold Treatise and Article, this leveraged previously approved material in the service of new aims.

A printed commonplace book as distillation of a pastoral library Thesaurus’s third section, The Bibles Abstract and Epitomie, contained a variety of content, as summarised on its separate title page: ‘The capital heads, examples, sentences and precepts of all the principal matters in theology. Collected together for the most part alphabetically, with the doctrine and uses compendiously explained, of all the chief points therein contained. Taken out of the best modern divines, both reverend and learned.’ The preface to the whole volume explained its inclusion: ‘My part in this, is only the causing of it to be transcribed out of a little copy into this large copy in folio,

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to be answerable to the other two parts wherewith it is to be printed.’19 Further, the attribution on the title page had, somewhat uncommonly, ‘pro Richardo Barnardo’, perhaps indicating ‘for’ rather than ‘by’. These could indicate that another individual either composed or transcribed the work (or both). Whoever its original author and whatever its path to printed folio, a look at form and content suggest that Abstract was a printed version of a pastoral commonplace book. Such books might encompass a broad variety of content; however, one practice was to compile headings on a range of topics addressed by scripture and, over time, add content under each: especially, but not exclusively, biblical quotations, summaries, and citations. In Faithfull Shepherd, Bernard had briefly suggested ministers construct such a book.20 To see similarities between Abstract and such manuscript references, we may take the example of the commonplace book of puritan pastor Abdias Ashton.21 As Peter Lake has argued, the extensive content of Ashton’s book was an ‘exercise in personal piety’ as well as a ‘source of material for the writing of sermons’. It encompassed a broad range of common topics addressed by preachers: indeed its contents reflected the ‘assumed omnicompetence of scripture as a guide to all aspects of human life’.22 The content and format of Ashton’s book and Abstract are markedly similar. Both included a large range of topics, from the highly controversial to the relatively mundane, as headings and as content in entries. Both featured summaries of the biblical content, biblical quotations or paraphrases, concatenated biblical references, and bracketed content indicating interrelationships of material. Their degree of extrabiblical content differed somewhat. Although Ashton included some extrabiblical content, Abstract featured a significant number of passages quoting, or closely paraphrasing, secondary sources.23 Nevertheless, the impression of both works was its primary dependence upon and cataloguing of biblical content. In Abstract this was accomplished especially by the right-hand margin on each page, which contained citations corresponding to content throughout each entry. In the majority of cases, even passages drawn nearly verbatim from secondary works had citations only to scripture. To be sure, users might want to identify biblical support for any claims; yet omitting most further attribution made for a quite different presentation of the content than if secondary sources were clarified.24 This lack of citation is in stark contrast to most of Bernard’s other works, and its purpose uncertain: assuming as this originated as a personal manuscript, the author might not have felt a need to note many sources; alternatively, it is possible that the applications of this material for sermons or sermon-like uses (on which more below) overrode the need for additional citations.

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An example will show something of the way Abstract compiled source materials and the diversity of their origins. The section entitled ‘{God’s justice} man’s heart {how hardened by God}’ opened with a description of the heart’s ‘three cells’ as related to the Trinity and the virtues of faith, hope, and charity.25 It then presented an acrostic describing the heart (Latin, ‘cor’) as ‘Camera Omnipotentis Regis’ – recounted with a degree of explanation appropriate for readers unfamiliar with Latin (and, perhaps, acrostics): {C} {Signifying Camera, a chamber. {O} {The first letter of Omnipotent. {R} {The first letter of Rex, a king. So that the anagram, as some would have it, importeth that the heart is the chamber of the omnipotent King of Heaven and Earth, and so the heart is the seat of sanctity.26

(Assuming Abstract began as a personal commonplace book, one suspects that the original had the content more briefly, with further explanation added for print.) This acrostic being somewhat commonly mentioned, it was perhaps not drawn from a single source; yet shortly thereafter on the same page were passages on hard-heartedness that were taken directly from secondary sources – and from authors as diverse as Robert Persons, Bernard of Clairvaux, and Francis White.27 Although Bernard of Clairvaux earned a rare marginal acknowledgement, the passages drawn from Persons and White appeared with only biblical citations. Moreover, all were treated, along with some added content, as if a single, seamless discussion. They were followed by a list of biblical examples of hardness of heart, some quotations of passages mentioning the topic, a ‘Use’ drawn from the Bible to ‘Exhort one another daily, while it is called today, lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin’; and a concluding string of scripture references. While the authors cited would certainly have been read by someone of Bernard’s interests, their content here appeared without assessment of their theological context and (for two) without admission of their contribution. This suggests an intention for Abstract’s use outside polemic, or even advanced theological, contexts: rather, it was most fit for pastoral and sermonic uses. This is also suggested by Abstract’s format, which heavily featured lists, often with bracketed divisions or connections. Some of these echoed Ramist logical structures; often, however, they served to highlight similarities in cited examples or in parallel content. For example, a section addressing God’s mercy and justice featured a set of several coupled sentences. Each had one sentence beginning ‘Mercy …’ and one beginning ‘Justice …’; brackets expanded and contracted as necessary to make two full sentences that, where possible, used overlapping content (see Figure 9.2). While such

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Figure 9.2  Detail from ‘{God’s Mercy} and {Justice} met together}’, in Bernard, Bibles Abstract and Epitomie (1642), p. 78.

statements could have been written out individually, the visual demonstration of their concurrences served to further underscore the doctrinal principle stated at the end: ‘Wheresoever the justice of God appeareth, there also he sheweth his mercy’.28 And if read aloud, such structures might prompt a sort of parallel rhythm to one’s phrasing: this in turn could make the content relatively easy for hearers to comprehend and even anticipate. Such spoken rhythms might translate effectively to sermon presentations in which (for

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example) one might want to impress hearers with the weight of numerous repeated examples of a doctrinal principle. Finally, we can view the inclusion of ‘uses’ in Abstract as a means to help readers turn the content toward spiritual outcomes.29 These ‘uses’, placed at most sections’ conclusions, ranged widely in length and content, but often summarised one or more key principles with some sort of exhortative phrase (e.g. ‘Seeing one sin begets another, let us take heed how we accustom our selves in sinning: for that sin which may be conquered of us when it is young, will easy conquer us when it is old … Turn back another way with the wise men’).30 The imperative mood of many of these ‘uses’, along with a separate subheading, denoted separation from the entry’s main content. As we saw in Chapter 3, ‘uses’ were a part of sermonic content that Bernard saw as critical (along with specific, affective ‘application’ to individual hearers). Whereas a practised pastor might not need any assistance making these connections to ‘uses’ (for example, Ashton’s book did not spell this out), this was precisely the sort of assistance that might be useful for less-experienced readers who might in fact be making sermons, or doing similar semi-pastoral work. Altogether, Abstract’s content almost summarised a career’s worth of sermon content, holding in kernel form a godly theological perspective, much research, illustrations of verbal parallelism by which disparate biblical examples could be combined to underscore key doctrinal concepts, and examples of how to formulate sermonic ‘uses’. The fact that Abstract so closely echoes Ashton’s commonplace book – which largely intended to assist his personal devotion and his preaching – it appears that Abstract intended use by readers who might be doing a similar sort of pastoral, sermon-making work but who lacked a degree of training, experience, or resources. It provided, essentially, a mini-library of extracts from key theological works; copious notes on which scripture passages were relevant to various topics; and – to boot – ‘uses’ that explicitly showed how to turn biblical content into exhortations for hearers.

With resources like these, who needs an institutional hierarchy? Altogether, we have a view of Thesaurus, both in its various parts and as a whole, as a flexible resource that might find use by both lay and clerical users for a range of purposes. Such flexibility was certainly part of the value Bernard saw in the work. However, insofar as each of the three sections was largely intended to equip users toward certain functions related to preaching, and insofar as Bernard explicitly mentioned lay audiences, we have a picture of intended use that – as the Laudian licenser understood – included equipping laypeople to act as preachers.

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Though radical in certain senses (to which we will return), this was not outside the realm of contemporary godly practice. As Ann Hughes has shown, the unlicensed preaching of schoolmaster Thomas Dugard was countenanced by members of the godly community.31 While Dugard had certain academic training and would later be ordained, we can observe an even more stark example of lay preaching in Cheshire puritan John Bruen, whose life was recorded by pastor-author William Hinde.32 Inter alia, Hinde emphasised Bruen’s exemplary ability and consistency in leading household religious activities. But particularly notable was that in addition to prayer, Bible reading, and repetition of sermon heads, Bruen’s exercises went some steps further: he ordinarily instructed and taught his family, out of that portion which he took in the chapter, read at that time unto them, propounding and applying some wholesome doctrine, profitable for their godly edification, as the tenor of the scripture best served, whether to convince any error, or to confirm the truth, to rebuke any sin, and to instruct in the way of righteousness, to comfort the heart (under hope) in doing well, and settle the soul by faith and patience in suffering ill.33

Here, Hinde had Bruen doing almost every function of preaching: finding doctrines within appropriate biblical contexts, noting and answering objections, identifying general uses for doctrines, and affectively applying that content to hearers (see Chapter 3). Aware what this amounted to, Hinde followed the above passage by noting contemporary criticism of Bruen as overstepping his role. What then made these private household preaching exercises a beacon of exemplary godliness rather than a harbinger of schism, separatism, or false teaching? For Hinde, the distinction lay in Bruen’s abilities and use of resources: Now because some may mistake both him and me, in this business, as imagining that, by his private expounding of the scriptures, he did usurp too much, and trench too near, upon the office of the ministry, and were transported with some private spirit of interpretation, above his pitch and place, and that all this were now justified by that which hath been said and done … For the pains which this gentleman took, in teaching and instructing of his family by the scriptures, were not raised, nor grounded upon his own private conceit or fancy, nor were they fruits of any vain and unwarrantable presumption, as some might imagine: but all that ever he brought unto them, he had either begged of God, or borrowed of good men, or obtained by serious study and meditation, gotten by reading of the scriptures, and good expositors, or by reviewing his notes also of such sermons, as he had heard upon such scriptures and texts as he had in hand, using all good and holy means, to fit and furnish himself, with all manner of spiritual provision for that service. The success whereof through the good hand of God that was upon him was very answerable to his desires.34

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Hinde elsewhere commended Bruen’s diligence in travelling, far and often, to preaching exercises and other opportunities for instruction in godliness, which Bruen recorded in writing for his own edification and sought to pass on to his children not only through his household exercises but by charging them to read through his many volumes of notes.35 But this was not merely a case of having a wider range of sermon notes to recount: as described in the passage quoted above, some of Bruen’s material was ‘begged of God’ or ‘obtained by serious study and meditation … of the scriptures’ alongside material drawn from expositors or sermon notes. Hinde had no problem with such study insofar as it involved sound interpretation rather than ‘private conceit or fancy’ or ‘vain and unwarrantable presumption’.36 What is more, Hinde praised Bruen’s exercises even when they included individuals outside his own household: in his evening exercise, he was so full of life and zeal, that besides his own family, many of his tenants and neighbors did much desire, and delight to hear him repeat the sermons, press the special points, urge the conscience, and pour out his prayers unto God, with so tender and sweet affections for them all, that the heat of his spirit did cause their hearts as it were, to melt within them.37

Bruen was doing many – perhaps nearly all – of the duties of a minister, other than administering the sacraments, not only for his own household but also for any others that might want to attend. In short, Hinde’s account suggested, laypeople might preach, so long as they did a good job of it. Hinde saw Bruen as exemplary – but not exceptional. This is perhaps clearest in his description of Bruen’s written defence of ‘his judgement and practice in thus teaching of his family’ based upon the Bible and other sources.38 Hinde had read this with admiration and considered including the text in his present account. But he decided not to – largely because he thought many readers would find it redundant from what they already understood about how to open the scriptures for one’s household: I could have been well contented to have set down these his collections and observations at large, concerning and instructing his family in the fear of God, and faith of Christ, and in opening and applying some portion of the scriptures to their minds and hearts, for that end: but that I much feared, lest my labour and pains herein, at this time, might be held not so needful, and less pertinent, seeing many godly men’s books are filled with the same, or the like instructions, since that time (justifying the same point and practice) and that the bulk and body of this little book, would swell too big.39

Hinde positioned Bruen’s practice as entirely within the realm of what was already approved and practised in (not all, but some) godly households across England. And in so doing, he gestured to precisely the same Mosaic

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exhortation in Numbers 11 that Bernard had used to defend Thesaurus (quoting a different portion of the verse):

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Now if in thus doing, any man or minister shall envy him, and complain of him, for preaching in his own house … I would have every godly minister to answer them, as Moses did him, Enviest thou for my sake? I would to God that all masters of families, were such ministers in their families.40

If Hinde’s – and Bernard’s – goal was to encourage more people to do as Bruen in ministering to their own households (plus interested neighbours), there was only one qualification: to ensure that one’s content was orthodox and godly rather than singular and fanciful. Again, Bruen had honed his theology in large part by recourse to resources: ‘with great diligence, care, and conscience, storing himself with their treasures, and lighting his candle at their torches, and so became both better furnished, and more enabled, to set forwards the building of the Lord’s house, himself in his own family, and other wheres also, as he had calling thereunto’.41 These ‘treasures’ Bruen stored up had come from sermon attendance and from study; it is no coincidence that the content of Thesaurus (English, Treasure) comprised just that: a treasury of material from an entire career of preaching and reading: the distillation of sermon heads; the illustration of how to draw doctrines, uses, and applications from texts; assistance with understanding difficult points of translation; the provision of essential passages out of a range of divines’ writings; and more. Samuel Hinde, who posthumously brought his father’s book to press in 1641, observed that it had been kept from print for over ten years.42 And even when it was finally able to be printed, the younger Hinde alluded to potential pushback on unspecified parts of the work: ‘If the zeal either of the author or subject, outgo thy expectation, or practice, blame them not, since as there is no aiming at any man’s person, so there is no favouring of any man’s sin, according to the rule of the poet.’43 The issue, of course, with Bruen’s household preaching, and with Bernard’s equipping all kinds of readers to do essentially the same, was that it all but sidestepped the need for the institutional church. To be clear, this was not separatism: to take but one critical point, none of these men was encouraging lay administration of the sacraments. Nevertheless, on a dayto-day basis, what Bernard, Bruen, and Hinde the elder were all encouraging was (as necessary, given local circumstances) lessening one’s dependence for godly teaching and discipleship upon the ministry of the institutional church, and instead placing much of that expectation upon godly, lay, household ministry. For those, like Bernard, whose desires in the 1630s were often hindered by a Laudian episcopate, or indeed for households in parishes without puritanically inclined incumbents, the Mosaic ideal of lay prophesying offered a way forward.

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Acting outside the episcopacy – or against it? As a coda to this chapter, I now turn briefly to certain more radical publications from this period which have been sometimes attributed to Bernard. To recall, since his early days under Archbishop Matthew, Bernard had pursued a godly-yet-conforming ministry: though he encountered increasing pressure to conform to Laudian and Caroline policies with which he had significant theological disagreement, he remained committed to the national church. In 1637, he was even defending policies of parish inclusiveness over and against the New Englanders’ covenanted congregations.44 Nevertheless, as we have seen in this and the prior chapter, several of his activities betrayed a deep dissatisfaction with policies of church leaders. His attempts to pave a way forward amidst this opposition included selectively choosing which authorities’ decisions to emphasise, and further equipping lay households as loci for godly preaching. This brings us to the question of whether Bernard authored an anonymous 1641 anti-episcopal publication; his name has been associated with both A Short Vievv of the Praelaticall Church of England and A VVorke for the Wisely Considerate. (Anatomie of the Service Book has also been attributed, but this is certainly mistaken.45) The issue of attribution is significant: given the radical anti-episcopal content of these works, how far outside his conformist posture might he have been prepared to go? How might a godlyyet-conforming pastor-author position himself toward the national church in the period following Laudian antagonism of godly priorities, and now of increasingly unclear theological boundaries? Praelaticall Church’s connection to Bernard came via a 1666 edition of the publication identifying the author as ‘John Bernard, sometime minister of Batcombe in Somerset’. This is problematic as much for the twenty years’ distance between initial publication and attribution as it is for the mistaken name. It has long been questioned.46 If Bernard did have a connection to Praelaticall Church, it may be drawn from his manuscript pamphlet against prelacy composed before he re-conformed under Matthew (see Chapter 2). If so, the 1641 version could have been taken to press by any holder of a manuscript copy: in which case even if Bernard was the author, it would not necessarily reflect his contemporary views. The evidence is more compelling (yet not certain) that he composed Wisely Considerate. Though the 1641 publication is anonymous, in 1644 its latter two sections were republished under a new title, Certaine Positions Seriously to bee Considered of, now naming Bernard as author.47 That edition contained the originally typeset pages (i.e. it begins with p. 17/sig. C2); given the perseverance of these materials, it is plausible that those responsible for reproduction in 1644 would have had access to information about the original author and thus correctly named Bernard.

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In favour of Bernardian authorship, one observes that Wisely Considerate’s content was consistent with several features of his work. Throughout his corpus, numerous publications took careful, academic approaches to subjects, citing specific sections of scripture and works by godly divines with comprehensiveness and attention to detail. He also frequently included multiple different types of material within a single publication. Not only, but especially, in the 1630s–40s, his works had demonstrated conformity with theological and political authorities through selective citation and by adapting the content of existing, licensed works for more contemporary arguments (see Chapter 8). Wisely Considerate echoed each of these features. One especially notes that its first two sections carefully and frequently cited scripture and recognised theological authorities, while the third section was a reconstruction of matter from an existing, licensed book. As such, all three sections focused not on making outright arguments about current events, but rather on carefully relating the contents of other sources in such a way that these sources became the polemicists, and the author’s own voice was only occasionally necessary to interpret. In terms of content, the first section of Wisely Considerate (omitted from Certaine Positions) addressed the lack of biblical support for bishops within the church. It argued against them, not polemically, but rather by using a careful exposition of biblical practices and only occasional commentary: notably similar to the second section of Threefold Treatise discussing Mosaic Sabbath practices. In arguing for elders rather than bishops, Wisely Considerate traced the history of church governors in the New Testament and countered arguments that might support other conclusions. Yet its tone was informative and moderate: while there were suggestions of what should or should not be done, explication was foremost. The second section (first in Certaine Positions) argued from scripture that ‘We may not do any necessary thing in and about the worship and service of God, which hath not some warrant from his written Word’ – i.e. a defence of the regulative principle in worship. This followed logically on the heels of the front section by implying that if bishops were not instituted by God then they should not be part of the church’s structure. Yet it looked more broadly to other aspects of worship, ceremony, and ‘things indifferent’. Using only scripture, Wisely Considerate argued through a progression of ten reasons God disallowed individuals from instituting any new forms of service to God. Within this, it outlined the biblical precedents for worship (including discussions of public prayer, reading, singing, and preaching). The following passage from this list, regarding preaching, is exemplary both of how Wisely Considerate collated scripture to address controversial issues in a positive rather than polemic way,

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and of how it adopted a more assertive tone at key junctures (as after point 7): 5. The manner is, by either expounding the words as they read it, Neh. 8.8. or reading a text, and so preaching upon it, as our Savior did, Luke 4. 17, 21. the Apostles usually took no text, but spake as occasion offered itself, as Peter, Act. 10.34. and Saint Paul, Act. 13.16, 17.   But in expounding and preaching it was with such plainness, as they caused the people to understand, Neh. 8.8. and spake with authority, Tit. 2. 15. and with command, 1 Tim. 4.11. in demonstration of the Spirit, and not with the enticing words of man’s wisdom, 1 Cor. 2.4. 6. The end, to work conversion and grace in the hearers, Jer. 23.22. Act. 26.18. I Cor. 14.26. to save themselves and those that hear them, 1 Tim. 4. 16. 7. When the sermon was ended we find that the apostle prayed, Act. 20.36. Lastly, this preaching was constant every Sabbath day, Act. 15.21. which text is abused to prove reading to be preaching, but the plain grammatical construction of the Greek text overthroweth the falsity thereof, and discovereth the truth of preaching, when the scriptures were read.48

Having provided arguments explaining the necessity of remaining within Scriptural guidelines for God’s worship and service, Wisely Considerate turned to the perennially problematic issue of adiaphora with a strong warning: ‘God is so far from giving man liberality in substantial things, or circumstantial necessaries, that he tieth us to certain rules in things of their own nature merely indifferent.’49 The section concluded with wishes that any false thing be removed from worship – no matter the sources, which inter alia included ‘counsel of state’, custom, ‘doctrine of great churchmen’, and ‘good intentions’.50 Wisely Considerate then turned to address the issue of separation in a section containing little of the author’s own voice. It comprised a collection of quotations and paraphrases from William Chillingworth’s 1638 publication, The Religion of Protestants – a feature clearly advertised at the beginning of the section: ‘Certain propositions gathered out of Master Ch. his book, approved by very learned divines, and printed by the allowance of authority.’ By doing this, the author of Wisely Considerate could distance himself from any problematic implications of this section (should the need arise), since it merely repeated claims that had been allowed by authority. Chillingworth had written to demonstrate reasons that Protestants had rightly separated from Catholics. Yet placed beside the two preceding sections which challenged positions of the national church, Chillingworth’s language now pointed toward a possible rationale for separating from other erring churches. Passages that condemned requiring ‘unnecessary and unlawful conditions’ or

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‘hypocritical profession’ of erroneous teachings in order to remain in communion with the church had clear relevance to present concerns. Yet there was one insertion of the author’s own voice, a brief section at the conclusion of the work: If in all these things this man [Chillingworth] hath delivered truths, it concerneth every man to seek for good satisfaction to his own soul concerning our churches’ worship, government, and manner of both. It is fearful to dally with God and a man’s own conscience; to be in judgment led captive by only fear of authority, is to fear man before God. To follow others going before us, without good reason, is brutish. I shall rest, as a man on sound reason, and as a Christian upon the divine word of truth, for this satisfies a peaceable spirit led with understanding, and not with imagination.51

This passage made it clear that the 1641 author’s intended application of the principles went beyond Chillingworth’s original context to address present concerns with the national church. (This application of Chillingworth was all the more notable – in a view, humorous – given Chillingworth’s history with Catholicism, strong ties to the church establishment, and indeed personal ties to Laud.52) Together, these three sections struck at the base of nearly the entire Laudian programme, attacking both episcopacy and extrabiblical ceremonies – and then implying that the English church had driven (or could drive) godly individuals to rightly separate from its schismatic, heretical activity. These were no light criticisms of the church, and we must be careful to presume that Bernard might be the author of such a work. The final section regarding separation is a particularly prickly issue in terms of Bernard, since his early career under Matthew had so centred on his decision not to separate and his ultimate conclusion that the Church of England was, indeed, a true church. Here, we must observe that whereas the tripartite Wisely Considerate was much more incendiary and thus reasonably appeared anonymously, the omission in Certaine Positions of the first section entirely changed the tenor of the work. Only the first section argued that the office of bishop was extrabiblical; only with its inclusion would assertions of the regulative principle and arguments for separating from a church that had false practices seem to so directly target the national church and the episcopacy. Although asserting the regulative principle and discussing separation certainly pointed to critique of certain practices, on their own these did not strike at the root of the tree in the same way. This alteration in content, coupled with a later publication date, made affixing names of author or publisher essentially unproblematic.

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Yet in its tripartite form of 1641, Wisely Considerate was a radical departure from Bernard’s longstanding trajectory. This presents us with the sticky question of whether Bernard, at the age of seventy-four, might turn from the conforming principles he had followed for nearly his entire career. Would the author of Christian Advertisements and Plaine Euidences look toward separation? To the positive we can add one more piece of evidence: Edmund Ludlow recorded a second-hand report that Bernard had made an unsuccessful attempt to persuade Ussher against episcopacy.53 If that report was correct, and if Bernard did indeed compose Wisely Considerate, we still lack enough information to reconstruct his full rationale for the shift: yet we can conceive how this might be possible by considering the broader ecclesiopolitical context of the time. Throughout his career, Bernard’s activities reflected a keen awareness of the tendencies and desires of those leading the national church as well as those who might influence the decision makers. With the Long Parliament came a return of several initiatives that had been squashed in the early years of James’s reign, including inter alia petitions and meetings against the ‘etcetera oath’ and a Petition and Remonstrance attacking the foundation of episcopacy (among whose supporters in the Commons was Bernard’s friend John White of Dorcester), and the Root and Branch petition and bill.54 These were not side projects; rather, the wholesale restructuring of key aspects of religion was a primary focus of Parliament from the outset.55 In this context, the main subjects of Wisely Considerate were not, in fact, pushing away from the national church as a whole. On the contrary, they were entirely in keeping with certain currents of reform within the national church. Unlike the separatism of individual communities (from which he had turned away decades prior), this sort of shift could fall well within Bernard’s definition of conformity. He was conforming to the new parliamentary leadership that was officially recognised and was headed to reset the previous religio-political status quo. Moreover, he was conforming to the leaders whose priorities he thought most closely matched those of God’s Word. In these senses, Worke could hardly have been more conformist.

Notes 1 Eyre, Transcript of the Registers, p. 18; Stationers’ Company (London, England), Humble Remonstrance; ‘June 1643: An ordinance for the regulating of printing’, in Firth and Rait (eds), Acts and Ordinances, pp. 184–6. 2 Blair, Too Much to Know, pp. 12–14, and passim.

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3 Curtin, ‘Jacobean congregations’; Crome, ‘Language and millennialism’; Green, Print and Protestantism, ch. 3; Moore, ‘Mind’s eye’; Stallybrass, ‘Books and scrolls’; and Tan, ‘Printed English-language Bible concordances’. 4 Stallybrass, ‘Books and scrolls’. 5 HP 29/2/6A–7A; see also HP 29/2/35B–36A. Transcriptions follow The Hartlib Papers online edition. 6 Conant, ‘To the Christian reader’, in Bernard, Thesaurus. 7 HP 30/4/17A. 8 Tan, ‘Printed English-language Bible concordances’. 9 HP 30/4/17A. I am grateful to Joel Harrington for assistance with Hartlib’s German. 10 Bernard, ‘To the reader’, in Thesaurus. 11 Tan, ‘Printed English-language Bible concordances’. 12 Eyre (ed.), Transcript of the Registers, vol. 1, pp. 12, 18, 19; On Hansley see Milton, Laudian and Royalist Polemic, p. 107. 13 Ibid. 14 Daniel Featley called aiding memory the ‘most usual’ use of concordances: ‘An advertisement to the Christian reader’, in Cotton, Complete Concordance; Downame, ‘To the reader’, in A Concordance. 15 For the latter see e.g. ‘Maranatha’. 16 Italics retained from original. 17 Milton, Catholic and Reformed, p. 66–7; Hunt, ‘Licensing and religious censorship’, pp. 139–43. 18 Bernard, ‘To the reader’, in Thesaurus. 19 Bernard, ‘To the reader’, in Thesaurus. The ‘little copy’ is apparently not extant. 20 Bernard, Faithfull Shepherd (1621), pp. 120–1. 21 Chetham’s Library Mun.A.2.78; I am grateful to Peter Lake for generously sharing his copy of the microfilm. Among other extant works in this sub-genre see e.g. CUL Dd. viii. 44. 22 Lake, Moderate Puritans, ch. 7, quotations pp. 118–19. 23 Chetham’s Library Mun.A.2.78: see, inter alia, p. 27 (Genevan marginalia) and p. 160. 24 There are a few marginal citations to secondary works, it is unclear why these are singled out; e.g. Perkins’s passage on miracles is unattributed, but later an anecdote is attributed to him: Bernard, Abstract, pp. 25, 123; Perkins, Galatians, p. 171. 25 Bernard, Abstract, pp. 93–4 (p. 93 paginated as 91). 26 Ibid., p. 93. 27 Ibid. For an example of the acrostic’s appearance see Stoughton, Heauenly Conuersation, p. 77. For origins of other content see Persons, Christian Directory, pp. 867–9; White, Orthodox Faith, pp. 226–7. Regarding the favourable use of Persons’s material, see Milton, ‘Qualified intolerance’. 28 Bernard, Abstract, p. 78. 29 Lake, Moderate Puritans, p. 118.

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30 Bernard, Abstract, p. 53. 31 Hughes, ‘Thomas Dugard’, pp. 780ff. 32 Hinde, Faithfull Remonstrance. On Bruen and Hinde see Cust and Lake, Gentry Culture, pp. 218–19. I am grateful to Lake for first pointing me to this connection. 33 Hinde, Faithfull Remonstrance, pp. 73–4. 34 Ibid., pp. 76–7. 35 Ibid., pp. 102–3. 36 Ibid., pp. 76–7. 37 Ibid., p. 212. 38 Ibid., p. 75 (incl. margin). 39 Ibid., pp. 75–6. 40 Ibid., p. 77. Italics indicating quotation retained from original. 41 Ibid., pp. 101–3. 42 Samuel Hinde, ‘The epistle to the reader’ in Hinde, Faithfull Remonstrance. 43 Ibid. 44 PHM CFM, John Cotton Papers. 45 The English Short-Title Catalogue notes ‘sometimes attributed’ to John Bernard or Richard Bernard; the nearest association I can locate is that a later edition of Anatomie was appended to the 1661 republication of Praelaticall Church. Smyth, Presbytery, p. 562, suggests Scottish origin. 46 See Dredge, Richard Bernard. 47 Bernard [Attr.], Certaine Positions. 48 Bernard, Wisely Considerate, p. 24. 49 Ibid., p. 26. 50 Ibid., pp. 27–9. 51 Ibid., p. 38. 52 Warren Chernaik, ‘Chillingworth, William (1602–1644)’, ODNB. 53 Ludlow, Memoirs, vol. 1, pp. 104–5. 54 Eales, ‘A road to revolution’, pp. 192, 203–9. 55 See Morrill, ‘Attack on the Church of England’.

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The paradigm of the ‘pastorauthor’ beyond Bernard

The preceding chapters have modelled a way of viewing pastor-authors’ publications as an integral part of their clerical career, towards particular religious goals such as aiding audience members’ growth in godliness and furthering the reformation of the national church as a whole. The detailed case study above has highlighted numerous convergences between pastoral ministry and authorship in the case of Richard Bernard: yet he is but one example of a broader phenomenon. I now turn to the careers of three additional pastor-authors: George Gifford, Thomas Wilson, and Samuel Hieron. Each fits squarely within the model of the pastor-author developed over preceding chapters: giving thoughtful attention to religious goals, audiences, and content while pursuing authorship in ways that complemented and extended parish ministry. Examining the different career contexts, theological emphases, and choices related to print that I highlight below will both broaden and nuance our view of potential avenues for pastoral-authorial engagement, and will demonstrate yet more connections between parish and print work. While it is useful in itself to identify these additional examples, the chapter also discusses one key aspect of each pastor-author’s work, showing ways the paradigm of the pastor-author can elucidate or clarify further aspects of clerical writing. Within each section I also interact with existing scholarship on that cleric, drawing from fields of history, literature, and historical theology. Each of these (admittedly, brief) engagements suggests additional outlines of ways the paradigm of the pastor-author might influence the trajectory of a wide range of scholarly studies.

George Gifford Elizabethan pastor-author George Gifford was active in publishing throughout his career, with many works gaining a significant audience. His works proved highly saleable, largely due to attentiveness to the needs, interests,

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and capacities of broad audiences, as well as engagement with key issues of the day – features Timothy Scott McGinnis and Antoinina Bevan Zlatar have highlighted in studies of Gifford’s pastoral emphasis and of polemical dialogues (respectively). Yet in structuring their analyses of Gifford’s writing by topic and genre, neither study fully addresses the connections between topically or generically distinct works that were produced chronologically quite close to one another, and sometimes with significant overlap in content. This by no means disputes the value of topical or generic approaches – indeed several chapters above use these divisions. Rather, I want to demonstrate how considering similarities and differences across a pastor-author’s corpus, within a certain period of time, can complement studies of particular topics and genres by suggesting new or different insights. Here, I address the coherence of Gifford’s corpus in the early and middle portions of his publishing career, c. 1581–91, with particular attention to his 1587 treatise A Discourse of the Subtill Practises of Deuilles by VVitches and Sorcerers.1 Considering genre, audience, and the broader context of Gifford’s career, I offer a new way to understand Gifford’s aims in this significant but often overlooked publication. Gifford’s initial foray into print was, not uncommonly, as a translator (of Fulke’s Praelections); but, shortly, his own works were seeing publication as well. The period 1581–84 saw a range of publications that began by targeting a sort of popular religion, but then largely shifted toward an antiCatholic emphasis. First came Four Sermons, then a sermon on the parable of the Sower, then the dialogic work Countrie Diuinitie (all published 1581, but entered into the stationers’ register on distinct dates).2 Each primarily targeted the popular ‘atheism’ of those who might claim to hold true (Protestant) faith but did not fully pursue it, understand it, or give outward evidence of true belief: and were thus in danger of finding themselves to have a false profession. All these contained some pointed comments, but no sustained and prominent emphasis, against Catholicism. Soon, however, another branch of emphasis turned more directly antiCatholic. A sermon on James 2 (entered in the stationers’ register in 1581/2, published 1582) emphasised a Protestant vision of the relationship of faith versus works and described itself as having two key targets: first, ‘carnal profession’, and secondly, the Catholic doctrine of justification by works. Gifford would further address the latter in 1582 with a second dialogic work in (at least partial) response to the Campion affair. It again targeted popular readers, now pitting a Papist and a Protestant on a number of key theological issues. In this, as with Countrie Diuinitie and other works, scholars have noted Gifford’s relatively realistic characters, including portrayal of unbelieving characters not immediately convicted or persuaded by Protestant arguments.3

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Gifford did return to his other branch of concern, those already within a Protestant frame who perhaps did not have a full understanding of theology, in a 1583 catechism. In many respects more like a dialogue than a traditional catechism, this addressed a range of questions and concerns that Protestants might have about difficult points of doctrine and again suggested that some might not find the provided answers immediately compelling.4 Yet just as he was establishing himself in the genres of sermons and dialogues, in 1584 Gifford not only resumed anti-Catholic writing, but also turned to the treatise genre, a format perhaps less familiar or appealing to the broad, lay audience he had been developing.5 Timothy Scott McGinnis has suggested that moving from a ‘more accessible dialogue format’ to a treatise responded to the pressing circumstances of Gifford’s 1584 deprivation from his vicarage: ‘he may have felt compelled to write against Rome in an effort to demonstrate his loyalty to Crown and bishop. Anti-Catholic polemic could serve as a tool both to support and critique the English church, but in the Briefe Treatise, Gifford’s interests tend more toward the former.’6 Below, we will return to the connection between Briefe Treatise and Gifford’s circumstances of deprivation from ministry. From 1584, Gifford underwent a period of travel and of frustrating effort to reach agreement with the church hierarchy.7 It is perhaps unsurprising that his print output also decreased: he authored but one publication in the next six years, a treatise on devils and witchcraft.8 Subtill Practises (1587) contained many resonances with Gifford’s earlier publications. It emphasised true faith, God’s chastisement of sin, and an audience including the ‘simpler sort’, whom he accommodated by arguing solely ‘from the doctrine of the Bible’ (similar to the approach of Brief Treatise).9 In terms of content, Subtill Practises provided an alternative to Reginald Scot’s sceptical 1584 publication (albeit without mentioning Scot specifically).10 In contrast to Scot’s primarily sceptical approach, Gifford explicated a view which underscored the reality and activity of supernatural forces within the world, yet criticised many popular anti-witchcraft and anti-demonic practices. Instead, Gifford outlined appropriate Christian responses to supernatural activity. He rejected all varieties of witchcraft, good and bad, not because witches themselves were particularly powerful, but because they sought association with the devil: ‘Some run unto the witch when any friend of theirs is bewitched, and threaten her … They should run only unto God by a lively faith, true repentance and hearty prayer, to have the devil removed; and they run unto the witch, & ascribe unto her that which doth belong only unto God.’11 Such passages directly challenged common attitudes and actions related to witchcraft, but from a more credulous viewpoint than Scot’s. Yet the timing and content of Subtill Practises suggest targets beyond Scot. Shortly preceding its publication were a series of 1586 Catholic exorcisms,

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reports of which had been noised about rather widely.12 Again Gifford did not name specific opponents or events, but Subtill Practises featured a reasonable amount anti-Catholic content. For example, he explicated ‘the blind opinion of a papist, who saith that the devil cannot abide the hearing of the name Jehovah … they ascribe a power to drive away devils unto words & syllables pronounced; is every wicked man able to drive away the devil?’13 And although he sometimes addressed Catholicism in general – for example describing ‘the fruits of popery’ as removing ‘light’ and ‘spiritual armor’ which resulted in people more likely to be ‘deluded by the devil’ – he also made references to more specific events: ‘There hath been mere cosenage in most of the popish miracles: (For if they had bene done as they report, they should have bene miracles in deed, and the devil is able to do no miracle, but to make a shew by illusion).’14 Again, the date of this publication coinciding with the uptick in Catholic exorcisms is significant; if those seeing or hearing about the exorcisms were not well informed, they might convert: something the likes of Gifford would find reprehensible. Moreover, about this same time were early puritan attempts at collective dispossession – such as the efforts of John Darrell with Katherine Wright in 1586.15 It would be some years until such practices gained broader notoriety, came under strict censure from leaders of the national church, and saw descriptions in print; nevertheless, by 1587 Gifford may well have heard reports of these or other efforts at dispossession by collective prayer and fasting, and it thus may be possible to read Subtill Practises as also responding to such activities. Notably, Subtill Practises gave clear attention to efforts of the afflicted individual to resist the devil himself or herself. For example, The sum of the whole is, that by faith in the Gospel of Jesus Christ we are armed with power of grace, with true knowledge and light, with sincere integrity of heart, and with a godly life, with zeal, with patience, and with all other heavenly virtues, so that the fiery darts of the devil, neither in tempting unto filthy sins, nor yet in damnable heresies and opinions, can fasten upon us … If men be ignorant in the word of God, they cannot have power to resist the devil: they have no sword to fight with him … as men are to be armed with the power of God, so are they continually to pray, for by faithful prayer they shall obtain a continual supply of grace, to overcome the new and fresh assaults of the devil.16

Of course there is prayer here: but as only one aspect of a full-orbed life of faith and education in the Word; moreover, at least by omission, this suggested an emphasis on individual prayer and godly actions rather than any extraordinary efforts of a gathered group. As I have argued elsewhere, individual resistance was a strategy toward dispossession that developed alongside, and at times was used as an alternative to, efforts at collective

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dispossession; notably, a 1615 dispossession account emphasising individual resistance began with a quotation from Subtill Practises.17 As far as we can tell, the approach of individual resistance avoided the same sort of censure from ecclesiastical authorities that collective approaches would receive. As such, we might take Gifford’s approach to be quite moderate on this emerging issue, emphasising practices that would ultimately prove acceptable to church authorities. Altogether, I suggest we view Gifford’s intentions in Subtill Practises as bipartite, with certain goals for lay readers and other goals for clerical readers, especially his superiors. In regard to the latter, he was explicit that drawing arguments solely from the Bible might allow readers with less theological training to follow his argumentation.18 Further, he echoed key emphases from his prior works – not succumbing to popular atheism, nor to the deceits of Rome – and applied these to the timely issues of witchcraft and demonic possession. But why not reach this broad audience via a genre more like his successful dialogues (as, indeed, he would in a 1593 dialogue on witchcraft)? Along with a concern for broad audiences, Gifford had another, concurrent audience in mind: authorities who would soon be evaluating a request for restoration to his ministry. For this latter audience, showing off his theological abilities made sense, as did his broader effort to position himself as a moderate even on contentious issues. Toward this, we see him not only writing in the rather more academic genre of a treatise and displaying his abilities with detailed textual analysis (e.g. devoting an entire chapter to distinctions between different Hebrew terms),19 but also presenting a relatively moderate approach to the problem of demonic possession. He did not encourage an over-belief in reported phenomena, yet he posited a view credulous about supernatural activity that clearly countered Scot. His position was certainly anti-Catholic, and yet it did not encourage responding with private religious exercises (which, again, were already being used by the likes of Darrell for dispossession and would come to typify one sort of puritan approach to dispossession). In short, Subtill Practises provided a balanced approach to witchcraft and demonic possession: and in doing so portrayed Gifford not as a puritanical radical rightly put out of his ministry, but as a moderate, biblically centred divine ready for restoration and willing to work within the structure of the national church, toward helping the common sort be good, moderate Protestants. And he put it out in 1587: amidst an otherwise dry spell in his publications, but roughly concurring with a March 1587/8 petition to Parliament from him and other Essex ministers for restoration to their ministries.20 It is well worth considering whether Gifford had this in mind as he crafted Subtill Practises to display both his ecclesiological positioning and his pastoral sensibilities.

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We can make one further connection to knit this up. Circa 1588, Gifford began writing against separatism – first privately, but soon in print with a treatise against separatism (1590) and related rejoinders (1590–91). A 1591 Paul’s Cross sermon on the topic of Christian unity, which occasionally addressed separatism explicitly, further underscored both his anti-separatist stance and his return to favour with the establishment. Meanwhile, by 1589 Gifford was once again town preacher in Maldon, and episcopal leaders rather conspicuously chose not to pursue him following the breakdown of the conference movement. More than one study has suggested that Gifford’s public anti-separatist stance was associated with his ultimate return to favour within the establishment.21 Recalling McGinnis’s likely suggestion that Gifford’s 1584 anti-Catholic treatise related to self-positioning before ecclesiastical authorities in view of his recent deprivation from ministry, and considering the relationship of his c. 1590–1 anti-separatist writing with his ultimate reinstatement to favour, I suggest we see Subtill Practises as a similar sort of move. This perspective makes sense of the choices Gifford made about genre throughout the period: turning to treatises and polemics, rather than more popular genres, when he wanted to make certain gestures before authorities. Moreover, it helps to explain why Subtill Practises made certain gestures not only regarding Scot and the range of popular anti-demonic practices, but also regarding timely issues of greater ecclesiastical resonance including the advances of Catholic priests in the countryside and, potentially, the uses of puritan conventicles for anti-demonic purposes. Although Subtill Practises has been often sidelined from discussions of Gifford’s corpus (largely falling in the shadow of his 1593 dialogue on witchcraft), this analysis suggests that reconsidering its timing and content could help us gain a more complete view of not only his corpus, but also how he leveraged print publications toward larger goals for ministry within the national church.

Thomas Wilson After proceeding BA (1584) and MA (1586) from Queen’s College, Oxford, Thomas Wilson served as rector of St George the Martyr, Canterbury, Kent, until his death in 1622. From 1597 he was also a Six Preacher of Canterbury Cathedral.22 His theological bent was godly, Calvinist, and vehemently anti-Catholic. In contrast to Bernard and Gifford, Wilson spent the first two decades of his ministry with apparently no effort toward print authorship, although we know he wrote a catechism on Romans to be shared in manuscript.23 Yet following his first publication, he maintained a relatively steady pattern of print authorship for the remainder of his career, and he

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demonstrated intentional consideration of religious goals, audience, genre, and the possibilities of religious print. While there are numerous ways to identify a pastor-author’s thinking about print and intentions for writing, with Wilson some of the clearest and most concentrated places to observe these are his dedicatory and prefatory epistles to various publications. Several describe particular purposes for the work or circumstances of its creation; and as we will see, even sections which seem perfunctory, almost boilerplate, can reveal much about his thinking: how print could complement his parish work, how different genres could be applied toward certain religious goals, his self-presentation before audiences, and where his works fit within the larger print market. In this section, I give particular attention to Wilson’s prefatory apologia, including examination of his uses of the humility topos and other defences for writing. I consider how his apologia suggest a careful attention to genre, lacunae in the current print market, and ways that his authorial work might be perceived. Then, to conclude, I suggest that Wilson’s close attention to these factors offers a different explanation for some observations about his corpus made by Leif Dixon. Wilson’s turn toward publication came upon a matter of no small moment. Certain accusations had arisen about his doctrine, which was ‘calumniated and charged by some to be erroneous, and by others to be humorous’.24 The incident was notable enough that William Swift summarised it in Wilson’s funeral sermon, describing his experiencing ‘the malice of’ several, especially one particular ‘Adversary’ later revealed to be a Catholic (probably Benjamin Carier).25 While we do not know details of the accusations against Wilson, they were apparently made publicly enough that Wilson decided to publish his defence.26 This came in 1609 as a catechetical work based upon a portion of Hebrews. The work comprised six sections each featuring a key theological principle that he had believed and taught. Altogether, Wilson asserted in his prefatory section, the work’s purpose was largely selfdefence; he wanted to publicly display his orthodoxy. This storm of accusations would abate, but with an initial print work under his belt Wilson pressed on with authorship, publishing several more times through 1620, after which deteriorating health prevented further work. As his other works would be composed in different contexts and for different reasons, Wilson’s prefatory apologia also took different forms. In 1610 appeared his sermon on 1 Samuel 13:19–20, a passage mentioning blacksmiths, originally preached to the corporation of blacksmiths in Canterbury. He dedicated it to William Smith, whose sermon on that passage, preached at Whitehall in 1606, was already published.27 In a print market that numerous writers described as glutted with religious publications including sermons, an existing work from an author of higher rank

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could have made Wilson’s printed sermon appear even more presumptuous than average. The dedicatory epistle suggests a keen awareness of this: Let it not offend you that I your son so far inferior to you in gravity, & sufficiency of knowledge, have thus presumed to follow you in the same steps, I mean, preaching upon the text, and publishing this my rude work … I spoke to a few mechanicans, you to a mighty monarch, and many worthy peers … I alas do look no higher than to your worshipful self (and have need of pardon for this presumption too) being moved to show myself by some private persons, who desired this birth should not die in the birth.28

There are several gestures here. Self-effacing language might deflect accusations of pride. Emphasising a low audience might underscore Wilson’s humble awareness of his own station while also suggesting a rationale for this new publication: the approach of addressing blacksmiths directly was sufficiently novel to warrant another printed exposition of the same passage. By expressing willingness to publish only upon encouragement of others he further underscored personal humility alongside a collective approbation of his work. The latter was a version of the humility topos commonly seen in a range of medieval and early modern works, both in print and manuscript. Especially in prefaces and dedications, ‘humility, or at least its performance, seems to be what enables a writer to go public’.29 This was especially relevant in religious writing where demonstrating humility went beyond demonstrating adherence to cultural or social norms, to being a marker of one’s spiritual state: in that sense, humility (or at least the outer display of it) was a prerequisite for authors who would write with authority on religious topics. Clerical publications often featured the humility topos in prefatory sections; these frequently involved a description of a reluctant author who had been importuned to publish by friends, along the lines of what Wilson used here.30 Although not exclusive to clerical use, this importuned-by-friends scenario was especially plausible for pastors, as they regularly composed and publicly presented content (e.g. sermons) not originally or necessarily intended for print. While we need not take all such claims at face value, we may assume that congregants of some preachers did in fact urge publication from time to time. Beyond clerical work making this type of humility claim more plausible, the ‘importuned by friends’ version of the humility topos also functioned to suggest collective approbation – in a sense even collective responsibility – for the work.31 Such collective approbation, alongside claims of personal non-intention to publish, underscored not only the author’s godly character (again, a qualification for religious authority), but also the work’s orthodoxy as assessed by a (presumably) Christian collective, and the content’s utility for audiences. As we will see, Wilson was especially strategic about the latter, balancing use of the importuned-by-friends

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topos in several publications with other types of evidence for his publications’ utility. Wilson’s next publication, Jacobs Ladder, came in 1611, with five components in one volume: it began with the volume-titular treatise about election, followed by ‘A dialogue about justification by faith’; ‘A receipt against heresy’ which defined, explained, and offered ways to resist heresy; a sermon on sanctification; and a sermon on spiritual combat. Within the various prefatory epistles throughout sections of the work, Wilson presented a clear view of himself as author. As he outlined in the initial epistle to the reader what one might learn therein and how to approach the contents, he made himself an active agent with phrases such as ‘I have laid here before thine eye’.32 And, as in several of his non-sermonic works, he emphasised the publication’s utility. For example, the prefatory materials to the second and third sections (which he noted as complementary) were bold in positively advertising the contents of the work, pointing out uniqueness in the market and spiritual necessity. They defended Wilson’s authority on the issues at hand because of much personal exertion, and they suggested his generosity in using publication to share what he had learned: ‘Good Reader, endeavor to profit by this book; it hath cost the author more than much pains, even great grief and trouble of mind, as well as of body; I would be loath every or any godly minister should buy the wrestling with erroneous spirits at such a rate, as I have done.’33 A table at the back referred to each section, even the sermons, as a ‘treatise’ and provided a similarly formatted summary of the main points of each. This suggested a unified purpose for the components of the volume, despite their employing different genres. This unity among diversity was further underscored by the sections’ similar topics, each emphasising a right understanding of the path of salvation, faith, and good works, especially vis-à-vis Catholic teachings. This suggests why, in comparison with Wilson’s other printed sermons, these sermons’ dedicatory epistles (though appropriately humble) were not particularly self-effacing and did not employ the humility topos. Within such a collection, it would hardly do to suggest that he had not intended their publication. Thus, the work’s apologia leant mainly upon Wilson’s rightful concern for the needs of audiences. His best-known publication, A Christian Dictionarie, appeared the following year. Its multi-section arrangement featured a main dictionary defining and explaining key terms from most books of the Bible, along with three separate dictionaries for more specific uses of terms in Revelation, Hebrews, and Song of Solomon. The volume was advertised both as a resource for ministers, to aid their facility in teaching and helping them effectively target messages to hearers’ capacities; and for the laity, to further their own Bible study and sermon comprehension for the purposes of spiritual growth.34 A

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good portion of the content, especially but not exclusively in the separate dictionary on Revelation, was explicitly anti-Catholic; moreover, its overall existence implicitly addressed Catholic criticisms of Protestant misuse of scripture. This reflected Wilson’s longstanding personal (e.g. Carier) and pastoral (e.g. of the sort in Jacobs Ladder) concerns with Catholicism; and indeed at the time of writing they remained a current issue for him, notably in his chaplaincy for later convert Lord Wotton, to whom he dedicated part of Christian Dictionarie.35 Christian Dictionarie featured an unusually large amount of prefatory material, in which Wilson and others explained the resource’s aims, provided commendations of its spiritual benefits, and described intended uses. Although the subgenre of English-language Bible reference works was by no means new, Wilson’s dictionary had several novel features, and one gets the sense that authors of the prefatory epistles were concerned that users might not know what to make of it. Thus, the prefatory remarks together formed a full-orbed primer to, and defence of, the volume. The defences were based upon its novelty and its utility for audiences. These also, again, served to underscore that Wilson’s choice to write and publish was not vainglorious, but was an outgrowth of his calling to provide spiritual help for those in need. Wilson even made this explicit, portraying the work as a whole as falling within the scope of his pastoral vocation: ‘not without some fruit (I hope) to the godly professors (for whose sake and good, chiefly, I meant it) I am sure, with much gain of knowledge, and increase of judgement to myself, I have at length (as I could) finished it’.36 He further contrasted his own industry with ‘the carping tongues of the envious, who neither will put forth their strength to do good, nor yet will bear with others, which desire to employ their talents’.37 Following this, Wilson’s subsequent preface to the reader further emphasised the novelty and importance of his work: no authors, ‘no not one (that I know) have ever attempted to provide our Christian scholar such a Christian dictionary of words … not any (as yet) have set too their hands, to interpret in our mother tongue (in alphabet order) the chief words of our science … this I have esteemed, as no small let to hinder the profiting in knowledge of holy scriptures amongst the vulgar’.38 He saw it as a ‘preservative against errors and heresy, which commonly arise upon the ignorance of things … Lastly, it will provoke Christians more willingly to read scriptures, when they have at hand a dictionary, to declare and expound such words as they understand not … it may prevent scruples, which may arise in some conscience, through ignorance.’ In addition, he suggested its utility for ministers, facilitating their teaching and preaching.39 These epistles were followed by Wilson’s ‘short advertisement, touching the commodities of this book, and the things performed in it’, which

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enumerated twelve ‘main and manifold uses’ for the book which ‘for thy better encouragement to bestow the cost in buying, and pains in reading, I have here distinctly and severally gathered the main and manifold uses’ of the book, followed by an explanation of differences between this and William Knight’s Axiomaticall Concordance.40 This, again, could help clarify the purpose of Dictionarie and show that it was in response to existing need in the market rather than any less noble purposes. And still there was more, beginning with several commendatory epistles. Effort to display any possible support toward the book is suggested by the inclusion of the first of these, a copy of a private letter from ‘R. C.’ which gives the appearance that its writer hardly imagined it would be printed (the first line noted that he had not had leisure to peruse the whole thing).41 More direct commendations came from Roger Fenton, Charles Evars, R. Raven, ‘L. S.’, and ‘I. B.’ Together, these epistles provided a suggestion of collective approbation for the publication (a result similar to one effect of the importuned-by-friends version of the humility topos discussed above). Then, again underscoring utility, the poetic ‘Epitome and anatomy of this book’ featured an initial section describing uses, and a second section containing an address from ‘the dictionary to the readers’ expressing hesitation that it would not be embraced because of its unfamiliarity, followed by an ‘author’s reply’ to the dictionary: ‘Fear not: Who loves the word of grace, / Thee lovingly he will embrace’. Marginal notes explained what might be found in the book, and the thankfulness, humility, and prayer ‘required unto right use of all’.42 This was followed by a commendatory page in Latin, including a poem explaining uses for educated readers by ‘T. W.’ (likely Wilson again) and two Latin couplets by ‘W. M.’ Finally, a preface – again by Wilson – explained the use of a prefatory table which delineated certain terms as ‘ecclesiastical’, ‘polemical’, and ‘fundamental’. The parting sentiment of the entire prefatory section requested the readers to cover any failings, ‘either amending them, or admonishing me of them: doing unto me, as in the like case thy self wouldst be done unto: ever remembering, that it is much easier to dislike, than to do the like’.43 Altogether, this content encompassed some two dozen pages: a multivalent defence of Wilson’s work. It included an emphasis on his own godliness and humility via descriptions of his faithful work within his own parish, his humility before superiors, and his hopes that the book would prove useful; numerous statements of the work’s novelty in the market, and therefore value for users; and a diverse variety of commendations from a range of writers. This remarkable assemblage of prefatory material deserves further examination; for now, one conclusion to be drawn is that, even more than his other works, Wilson was uncertain how Dictionarie would be received. This could be, in part, because it was his first publication to encompass such

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a grand scope of material. However, it is also possible that the dictionary format itself prompted the need for such an elaborate apologia. As Andrew Crome has observed, in Dictionarie ‘the separate definitions thus assumed a fixidity, that for all Wilson’s attempts at contextualization, presented definitions as certain in themselves, separate from the narrative of the biblical text’; this was in contrast to other genres which might offer more space for discussion of alternatives or defences for one’s conclusions.44 To provide succinct definitions for a wide public audience, referencing concepts from across the whole of scripture, with relatively limited explanations or qualifications, smacked of a certain boldness. It seems Wilson’s strategy for acceptance was to balance this seeming boldness with an extensive chorus of voices affirming the verity and solidity of what was taught, and to extensively clarify the rationale for its creation. The result was Dictionarie’s extraordinary prefatory section. Moving on, Wilson’s 1614 commentary on Romans used a combination of almost every sort of apologia we have seen so far. He appealed to collective approbation of the work as a defence for publishing, and he put forward his pastoral and experiential qualifications for publishing. But here was a somewhat different gesture toward collective approbation: he had circulated the manuscript in view of possible publication, but someone went ahead and brought it to the licenser before he had given the final ok – this, he suggested, was God’s providence. To one way of thinking, providence might be perhaps the strongest possible defence: yet Wilson went on. He pointed out his previous successes in publishing as evidence of audiences interested in his work. He made overt claims to novelty even within the familiar and crowded genre of the commentary: highlighting differences between his and other existing commentaries on Romans, such as his choice to organise the work into ‘interpretations, doctrines, reasons, and uses’, which were ‘a form wherein never any comment on this epistle was set before’ (insofar as these categories resembled sermon construction, this also underscored the relationship of his writing to his pastoral work). And he described how the work was styled for his own congregation’s needs, again showing that work as an author did not take away from his work with his own flock. He concluded this introduction to the commentary, as was relatively typical for him, stating awareness of his own ability to err and asking readers to bear with him and offer friendly correction: ‘What righter things thou know’st, impart; / Or what I bring thee, take in good part.’45 The same year also saw publication of a funeral sermon. Having returned to the genre of the printed sermon, Wilson again employed the humility topos in his apologia. But what is interesting here is that although he began with a version of the typical humility topos, both the situation described and his analysis of it moved to a rather new position. After emphasising that

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he had not initially envisioned publication, Wilson described people asking for copies – but apparently manuscript copies, which does not necessarily suggest a collective encouragement toward print. That, apparently, was Wilson’s own decision: ‘not only to copy it out and put it in paper, for the private use of some; but to commit it to the press, for the more public good of many, which were not present auditors’.46 He further asserted, ‘Every good thing being so much the better the more common it is; and writing being ordained of God to be a means of the teaching of his Church, as well as lively voice.’47 This was overt theological thinking about the nature of print itself. As Arnold Hunt has argued, by the 1620s many clerics ‘came round to a more favourable view’ of printed sermons; this would place Wilson’s claims here as not unprecedented, but certainly in the vanguard of this shift.48 Moreover, writing itself was ‘ordained’ by God to this end. To be clear, this does not suggest that Wilson had a low view of the Word preached, nor a different understanding of the Spirit’s movement among a preacher’s direct hearers. Yet this does suggest a forward-moving approbation of the utility of print within clerical ministry: as a God-ordained mode of communication that increased in benefit according to the broadness of its distribution. The following year saw the publication of the composite volume Theologicall Rules. Its first, volume-titular, subsection featured fifty-two rules to guide reading and study drawn from scripture, followed by nearly 200 ‘gathered out of ancient and modern authors’, plus a short section with thirteen rules from Luther. This was followed in the same volume by Ænigmata Sacra, which contained some 460 ‘holy riddles’ addressing wonder-inspiring, potentially confusing theological concepts, each with a clarifying resolution (he defended including the resolutions as an additional help for less-educated audiences). Wilson mentioned that he intended the volume to complement the Dictionarie ‘already by me published to the world, in the kind acceptance whereof and my other labours, I have tasted of thy courtesy’. He added these new efforts ‘as good helps and means to bring to light the hidden understanding of the scripture’ and intended reach a wide range of users, ‘all the Faithfull wheresoever throughout this land, dispersed’; and he concluded suggesting that anyone with concern about such work was not following in Moses’s and Paul’s desire that all should prophesy, and that they should otherwise ‘labour to do as much, or much more’ rather than merely disparaging Wilson. Later in the volume, he more specifically emphasised Ænigmatica Sacra’s utility, offering several reasons to ‘make it evident, that this course which I take is warrantable, and profitable’.49 It was some five years before Wilson’s next publication, Saints by Calling. By this time his health was in decline, and he observed that this would be his final print venture. It differed from his prior publications in several

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respects. In terms of genre, Saints represented only Wilson’s second time to use a dialogue between imagined characters.50 An earlier didactic dialogue had appeared within Jacobs Ladder, as one part of that publication’s primary emphasis on refuting Catholic teachings about salvation. Along with a pastor and one faithful Protestant learner, Jacobs Ladder featured several other characters of differing stripes: each of whom earned different spiritual treatment from the pastor-figure.51 In contrast, Saints was a standalone publication, and it included only two characters, both of whom were true believers. Its discourse featured a sustained, pastoral, and familiar treatment of topics including believers’ being called to salvation, graces given to them, true faith, and the fruits of faith in Christian behaviour. To be sure, much of Wilson’s corpus was pastoral and targeted popular audiences.52 Yet dialogues put special emphasis on not merely presenting doctrine, but interacting conversationally with popular ideas. The content of Saints was such: and accordingly, compared to his earlier publications, Wilson here gave increased attention to caveats about personal experience and concerns about personal emotion. In accord with these differences of genre and framing, Saints contained Wilson’s most extensive and direct treatment of the issue of the afflicted conscience, offered pastoral encouragements for doubters, and even made reference to William Perkins’s work: all different from his earlier pattern but entirely in concert with its pastorally focused, souldoctoring, intra-Protestant content.53 Also fittingly, Wilson employed a different defence of his publishing: it now rested primarily upon his age and experience. He played this up by personifying his books as children and describing himself as a more experienced parent ‘in the best strength of my mind’, despite being in ‘greatest infirmity of my body’ in writing this final ‘Benjamin’ of a volume.54 In a sense, this was again a claim of novelty: but the novelty stemmed primarily from his degree of pastoral experience and his perspective as one now infirm and facing death after a long career in the ministry – something unmatched in his own earlier books, and in many other available publications. Such an assertion would work most effectively if his life experience was closely related to the topic of the book: and so it was. Wilson had, both by pastoral office and career experience, existing qualifications to provide religious instruction to laypeople: these by extension served as qualifications for his publishing this lay-focused work. (Its intention for lay use was underscored not only by a dedication to a woman, the Countess of Leicester, but also clear statement: ‘I meant it … chiefly for the godly unlettered Christians, to further them in this knowledge, how to examine their own estate before God.’)55 Indeed, this experience was his primary defence; in comparison with his earlier publications, the prefatory material here made relatively few gestures towards humility or his own possibility to err.

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To summarise what we have seen so far, Wilson’s defences for publishing varied both in terms of how he expected audiences would view it, and in how he saw each book fitting within existing offerings within the market. Self-effacing rhetoric and uses of the humility topos appeared foremost in sermons and expositions: genres in which there was already a lot of competition, and in which it was plausible for a preacher to describe having composed the contents without publication in mind. On the other hand, explanations and descriptions of novelty and utility featured more heavily in other genres. When novelty was clear (as with Dictionarie), the focus on utility became all the more pronounced. Wilson’s example thus highlights several aspects of prefatory apologia that one might consider when encountering authorial self-descriptions, and also when considering contemporary perceptions of genre. In addition, all this shows Wilson as an engaged pastor-author who was self-aware, genre-aware, and audience-aware. Now, I turn to consider these conclusions vis-à-vis Leif Dixon’s discussion of Wilson’s theology of predestination and his approach to assurance of salvation. Dixon observes a difference of emphasis between Wilson and other predestinarian authors, and he characterises the pre-1620 Wilson as generally unable to understand struggles with assurance of salvation: ‘Wilson believed that saving faith was inherently assuring; he thought that crises over assurance were unnecessary; and he painted an image of the saint as a self-confident, ever-improving individual.’56 However, Dixon identifies a different approach in Saints; he explains this by suggesting that Wilson experienced, c. 1620, a perspective-changing discovery of ‘empathy’ which produced an attempt to accommodate his theology ‘to a set of pastoral realities which he had previously ignored’.57 While (as we saw above) there were certainly differences in the content and emphases of Saints vis-à-vis Wilson’s earlier books, we can account for these by taking seriously Wilson’s engagement with genre, intended audiences, and content. In his analysis, Dixon relies especially on the idea that pre-1620 Wilson had an ‘ego’ that kept him from ‘sensitivity when it came to the confusions, crises and dilemmas of others’ and indeed made him unable to understand concerns about assurance.58 But the primary piece of evidence Dixon offers to support this is a passage that, I argue, did not obviously describe Wilson at all. In Ænigmata Sacra, Wilson answers the riddle ‘If every man be a liar, how is not he a liar who spake and wrote this’ with ‘Not in speaking and writing, a liar, because he was inspired of God, and preserved from error in his doctrine, and writing, yet naturally a liar as other men be all without exception.’59 Dixon reads this as a third person self-assertion of Wilson’s inerrancy. If true, this would certainly smack of egotism (or worse). But such a reading depends on numerous problematic assumptions: that despite its immediate context in a section discussing the Bible, and in a work with

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no comparable third-person self-references, Wilson intended this comment to be self-referential; that he believed audiences would recognise such subtlety; that he would make this claim despite numerous places in this volume and elsewhere using plainer language to assert his ability to err in doctrine; and finally, that (if indeed contemporaries read this as a self-referential declaration of inerrancy) apparently no licensers or other authorities were bothered by it.60 We simply cannot accept this. Nevertheless, Wilson did describe himself in numerous passages, and Dixon finds further evidence for ‘egotism’ in this propensity to ‘advertise his abilities’, for example an assertion in a printed funeral sermon that the original was given from memory, without notes.61 As we have seen, such claims did have a significant place in Wilson’s apologia; however, they regularly sat alongside comments regarding his inability and humility, together offering a complex view of the author and his intentions (the funeral sermon passage Dixon cites is a prime example of this complexity, containing both self-humbling and self-exalting valences). In terms of self-presentation, both boldness to explain one’s qualifications and humility to explain one’s position before God and propensity to err were relevant for authorial selfdefence – as, again, putting works out for print was not universally accepted as fit use of pastoral effort. To be clear, I do not argue that Wilson was particularly humble. Dixon is fair to highlight Wilson’s disagreement with numerous theological authorities on certain textual interpretations. But conviction about theological points is not necessarily equivalent to the egotism of character, nor the inability to imagine others’ differences from him, that Dixon suggests. And in Wilson’s case, we do not have the evidence to make claims about his inward perceptions of self or of others. However, when we take into account Wilson’s awareness of genre, market competition, and audience expectations, we can more fully understand Wilson’s different approaches to assurance of salvation and weakness of faith. Dixon does not entirely ignore genre and audience – in fact, he negatively assesses Wilson’s awareness and abilities in that regard: ‘Wilson tried hard to present his arguments in a manner suitable to the genre in which he was writing and in a way which could be accessible to his readers. This is not to say that he succeeded.’62 But much of Dixon’s negative assessment is based upon his own use of an over-broad brush when considering genre and audience. For example, Dixon states that Dictionarie was ‘the first biblical concordance published in English’: simply incorrect, and against Wilson’s own insistence that Dictionarie was not a concordance.63 And he states that Aenigmatica Sacra and Theologicall Rules ‘used a catechistical format to communicate difficult and abstract ideas’: the former (arguably) fits that description, but conflating both obscures how the markedly different parts

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of the volume complemented one another.64 And whereas in Romanes, Wilson went to some pains to clarify its origin some seven years earlier as a set of ‘sermons or lectures’ which, subsequently, he turned into a catechism, and only later developed into a commentary, Dixon elides this to say the commentary was ‘written in 1607’ and ‘based on a set of sermon notes’.65 Yet here (as elsewhere) Wilson’s detail matters: this self-description served as a defence of his authorial work and a way to posture publishing a commentary, especially amidst the exalted company of other publications he discussed, as humbly flowing from his faithful parish work – and moreover, that he both developed and refined the content before conceiving of publication. In contrast, my analysis has suggested that nuanced attention to Wilson’s general religious goals and specific theological content, in concert with consideration of his intended audiences and his stated rationales for publishing, one can view Wilson’s employment of genre and awareness of audience as quite coherent and as potentially effective. Moreover, with Wilson we have a view of a pastor-author’s religious goals and intended audience informing not only large-scale choices about genre and overall theological trajectory, but also much more detailed choices: from how sympathetic and understanding a pastor-figure in the narrative might appear, to what sorts of prefatory apologia might be most fitting for particular publications. We find in Wilson (as with Bernard, Gifford, and as we will soon see, Hieron) a pastor-author acutely aware of how he was tailoring content to respond to potential audience needs and views of his work, and of how his output fitted among other currently available publications.

Samuel Hieron We turn finally to Samuel Hieron, whom we will treat most briefly of our three examples. Hieron’s path resembled Bernard’s in several ways: they studied at Cambridge concurrently, and later served in the southwest for periods that overlapped by a few years – Hieron in Devon until his death in 1617, and Bernard in Somerset from 1613 – sharing various mutual friends and associates. Hieron had a godly theological outlook featuring inter alia clear anti-Catholicism, commitment to the national church despite instances of nonconformity, and dedication to promoting skilled preaching. And he engaged thoughtfully with print authorship: in several passages he addressed lacunae among available printed books, perceptions of himself as a pastor-author, audience needs and expectations, and more.66 The majority of Hieron’s numerous publications were didactic or devotional, in a wide range of genres. Among these, a catechism, a collection of prayers,

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and a collection of sermons appear on Green’s list of ‘steady sellers’.67 Yet his works were not only pastoral; for example, following the Canons of 1604, he ventured into the realms of polemic and even of anonymous print in attempts to prompt changes within the church.68 There is much to say about Hieron’s wide-ranging corpus, and further scholarly consideration of his work is due. Yet for our present purposes I wish to focus upon just one publication: An Answere to a Popish Ryme (1604), a response to a Catholic verse that had gained some traction among audiences in Hieron’s area.69 Popish Ryme featured two main sections: the first reproduced the Catholic verse, but with a large margin on each page offering (often rhetorically barbed) criticisms of the content. The second section contained Hieron’s own answer-poem in a form echoing the offending work; it too had marginal comments, which offered further explanation and Scriptural references for support. The epistle pointed out the unusual coupling of Hieron’s pastoral vocation with attempts at poetry: You will wonder, I am sure (considering my profession, to see me become a poet. And indeed I do almost marvel at it myself, knowing myself to want the two principal furtherances of poetry: the one is nature’s instinct, which God in his holy providence hath denied me: the other is a certain retired freedom from all such business, which may breed distraction, which my public calling, besides private encumbrances, will not afford me. Yet notwithstanding, upon this present occasion, I have even forced myself to this straiter course of verse-making.70

Hieron employed a genre with which he certainly had less experience, claimed less competence (via a sort of humility rhetoric that also suggested the author’s godly character; see above with Wilson), and asserted he had found relatively little leisure to devote to it. But the choice was worthwhile because a matching verse might appeal to ‘simply-seduced’ individuals by making the ‘lettuce like the lips (as the proverb is) and to proportion myself to him in versing, to whom I am sure (without willful forsaking the plain truth of God, manifested in scripture) I shall never be like in believing’.71 Hieron’s response was an example of what Cathy Shrank has described as ‘“amateur” verse culture, in which clever wordplay or the desire to express urgent personal, religious, or political opinions are motivating factors’; it had roots in elite culture and academic disputation, yet it could also take forms that appealed to broader audiences.72 Here, we find the latter usage. Given the initial communication with which Hieron was concerned (a popularly accessible, memorable – indeed singable – and witty anti-Protestant message), Hieron assessed that to answer in kind was perhaps most effective. This was not unusual: given genre and potential audience, responding in kind was often ‘the most utilitarian defense available against abusive or subversive verses’.73 A prose retort to the offending pamphlet might have

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communicated Hieron’s ideas, but this poetic response had the additional feature of matching its opponent in memorability, accessibility, singability, and barbed wit. Though little remarked upon by literary scholars (for, perhaps, good reason) the poem receives brief attention in Molly Murray’s study of the poetics of conversion. Building from her observations, I suggest that an awareness of Hieron’s goals as a pastor-author can bring further understanding to both the literary and the religious-historical contexts of this work. Murray quotes two sections of Popish Ryme: first, a Catholic-convert speaker’s critique of his former faith, pointing out how ‘sundry sects’ in Protestantism obscure any possibility of truth; and secondly a Protestant speaker’s response which, rather than answering the objection, attacks in kind by pointing out the diversity of views within the Catholic Church. Murray uses this passage to illustrate how ‘polemical discussions of conversion could undermine on a stylistic and generic level the very boundary that they sought to underscore on the level of argument’ because ‘Catholics and Protestants maintained distinct theologies, but they also shared a repertoire of tropes and figures, allusions and rhetorical tactics’.74 This is certainly true, and it sets Murray up well for her subsequent analyses of conversion-centric poetry. Yet I want to suggest that Hieron was, in fact, acutely aware of the issue Murray raises about shared language, and that by adding extensive marginalia to both poems he worked to counterbalance any sense in which these similarities might ‘undermine’ his theological message. In verse, Hieron took advantage of shared cultural references, emotions, language, and rhetorical conventions. And he pointed out numerous foils of one religion in the other, in ways that would interest and engage readers. Yet, simultaneously – indeed side by side on nearly every page – he also highlighted differences, with marginalia actively deconstructing the Catholic position or buttressing the Protestant one. In a sense, therefore, Hieron both embraced the shared rhetoric and culture of Catholics and Protestants as a way to engage his audience’s interest, and simultaneously attacked any suggestion of fundamental similarities in the two religions by marginally clarifying key theological distinctions. To put it another way, by his answer-poem, Hieron provided a one-toone antithesis to the original. Yet by extensive use of marginalia, he went further by also making direct prose attacks on numerous passages, or clarifying why his own poem portrayed ideas correctly. These ranged widely, from snide comments to simple citations to extensive, discursive digressions on ecclesiastical history. Keeping in mind Hieron’s prefatory explanation of goals for this publication as being a way for hearers to defend their faith, we can see Popish Ryme as a pastorally minded, bipartite effort to help readers or hearers repel different sorts of attacks. By poetry, Hieron equipped

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his readers to respond to a certain type of rhetorical attack, with similar rhetoric that showed that Protestants could match or overmatch any barbed accusations. By prose marginalia, he equipped his readers to respond to doctrinal attacks with different sorts of weapons: content that would be more fit for polemical dispute, with direct citations to the Bible and references to key doctrinal principles. That the marginal notes were an integral part of the work is suggested not least of all by their extent: they provided large amounts of commentary on both poems, even to the degree that several pages had more notes than text, and one page entirely notes.75 In sum, Popish Ryme leveraged similarities between the two religions to make a point; yet because of the content and extensiveness of the marginalia, this did not undermine (as Murray suggests could sometimes be a danger), but rather underscored, their theological differences. Popish Ryme – to say nothing of Hieron’s entire body of work – might be the subject of a much longer analysis. For our present purposes it suffices to observe that this one publication featured several hallmarks of pastor-authorship: attention to audience tastes and spiritual needs, innovation with different genres (even mixing genres), and public engagement with timely issues in pursuit of strongly held religious goals.

Conclusion Print authorship was not for all pastors. Some found the idea of authorship inherently problematic and viewed print as a potentially self-aggrandising pursuit that could distract from one’s primary calling. Others countenanced a certain degree of participation in print – such as providing the texts of sermons to friends who wanted to distribute them – without themselves giving much attention to the endeavour. And even for those interested in pursuing authorial work more directly, not all had the time, funds, patrons, or industry connections that might enable them to see one or more works through publication. Yet for certain ministers, the ability to write and publish opened new options for ministry, offering new opportunities by which one might further their own, and others’, obedience to God and pursue religious goals. In taking up a degree of bi-vocationality, pastor-authors had to determine how writing would relate to the rest of their work: expanding, complementing, perhaps taking time away from, the ongoing concerns of parish ministry and other ecclesiastical responsibilities. In other words, they had to determine how, and to what degree, writing was to be part of a holistic agenda for their religious work. There were, perhaps, as many ways to negotiate the tension between a call to pastor and an intention to write for print (or indeed to pastor

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audiences via print) as there were individual pastor-authors. In the brief examples of Gifford, Wilson, and Hieron, the significantly longer example of Bernard, and the numerous other pastor-authors we have encountered throughout the book, we have observed a range of different approaches to such work. We have seen varied ways that parish and print, diocesan concerns and licensing concerns, congregants and print audiences, doctrinal commitments and desires to innovate, could work together – or could be pitted against one another. Throughout this, I hope it has become clear that attending to the increasing number of clerics who chose to seriously engage with print, and considering various influences upon and outcomes of such bi-vocational work, is as critical for a full understanding of early modern print as it is for a full understanding of early modern religion. The present study has served to introduce and explicate the paradigm of the pastorauthor, but it has only begun to suggest some of the avenues by which future scholarship might fruitfully employ the paradigm.

Notes 1 Modern analyses of Gifford’s work generally give this treatise less attention than his later dialogue on the same topic: e.g. see McGinnis, Gifford, ch. 5. 2 Arber, Transcript of the Registers, vol. 2, pp. 175v, 179, 180. Tobie Cook (or one of Cook’s associates) would publish all Gifford’s works. Because Sower and Countrie Divinitie were notated ‘tolerated to’ rather than the more common phrasing upon entrance in the stationers’ register, possibly Cook assumed some extra risk in undertaking certain early Giffordian publications. Whatever the risk, given their popularity and number of reprints, the investment clearly paid off. On ‘tolerated’ see Loewenstein, Ben Jonson, pp. 5–6; Collier, Extracts, vol. 2, p. 117. 3 Bevan Zlatar makes much of the non-conversion of the Catholic character, suggesting Gifford intended it to suggest the utter inconvertibility of those under Rome’s demonic thrall and thus the appropriateness of heavy-handed political response: Reformation Fictions, pp. 115, 123. Unfortunately, she does not discuss any difference she sees between Gifford’s unconverted Catholic character and the similarly unconverted atheist character from Countrie Diuinitie, which she discusses elsewhere in her book. 4 Gifford, Catechism; see McGinnis, Gifford, pp. 137–43; Bevan Zlatar, Reformation Fictions, pp. 185–8. 5 The treatise did not go into multiple editions – unlike his dialogues and several of his sermons. 6 McGinnis, Gifford, p. 81. 7 Ibid., pp. 37–51; Collinson, Craig, and Usher, Conferences, pp. 210–12. 8 Gifford, Subtill Practises. This has been under-discussed in scholarship, largely treated as a precursor to Dialogue Concerning Witches rather than studied

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in its own right: see McGinnis, Gifford, ch. 5; and Hitchcock, ‘Gifford and puritan witch beliefs’. Gifford also produced an unpublished manuscript in this period: Collinson, Craig, and Usher (eds), Conferences, pp. 212, 214n. 9 Gifford, Subtill Practises, sig. A2v. 10 Scot, Discouerie of Witchcraft; McGinnis, Gifford, pp. 122–7. 11 Gifford, Subtill Practises, sig. H3r. This was similar to Bernard’s later approach in Guide: see Chapter 7. 12 Oldridge, Supernatural, pp. 84–5. 13 Gifford, Subtill Practises, sigs E3v–4r. 14 Ibid., sig. H3v–H4r. 15 Collinson, Bancroft, p. 150ff. 16 Gifford, Subtill Practises, sigs I3v–4r. 17 Tan, ‘Resisting the devil’; Tan, ‘Alexander Nyndge’, pp. 1–2, 6–7. See also Gifford’s emphasis on resistance in Tvvo Sermons. 18 Gifford, dedicatory epistle in Subtill Practises. 19 Gifford, Subtill Practises, ch. 3. 20 ‘Supplication of the ministers suspended in Essex, offered to the parliament the 8th of March, 1587 [1587/8]’, in Peel (ed.), Second Parte of a Register, vol. 2, pp. 258–9; Collinson, Craig, and Usher, Conferences, p. 211. 21 McGinnis, Gifford, p. 48; Collinson, Craig, and Usher, Conferences, p. 212. It is tempting to view Gifford’s publication of eight sermons on Ecclesiastes (1589) as a public announcement of this return to favour, and perhaps even to read his explication at the beginning of its first sermon of ‘koheleth’ indicating Solomon’s reconciliation to the church as, in certain respects, echoing his own (this suggestion stems partly from a footnote in Heimos, ‘Not “to confound predicaments”’, p. 146–7n; the completion of the referenced thesis may provide further context). 22 Stephen Wright, ‘Wilson, Thomas (1562/3–1622)’, ODNB; Le Baigue, ‘Negotiating religious change’, pp. 97–102, 131–2, passim; ‘Thomas Wilson (CCEd Person ID 39147)’ and ‘Cathedral Office: Canterbury Cathedral, Six Preachers (Location ID 24161)’, CCEd. 23 Wilson, Romanes, sig. A2r. 24 Wilson, Exposition, sig. A3r. 25 Swift, Sermon, p. 17. 26 See Curtin, ‘Dictionary’, pp. 208–10; and Collinson, ‘Protestant cathedral’, p. 184. The passage quoted above includes the initials ‘D.C.’ in the margin; this may be a typographical error for ‘B.C.’. 27 W. S., Black-Smith. 28 Wilson, Black-smiths, sigs A2r–3r. 29 On the humility (modesty) topos see e.g. Pender, Women’s Writing, and on views of humility see Clement, Reading Humility, pp. 1–33 (quotation p. 1). Several studies, especially related to gender and to women’s writing, address early modern uses of the humility topos; however, there has been comparatively little attention to uses by clerics (although Clement does address John Donne). On dedicatory epistles’ public nature see Narramore, ‘Du Vergers

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humble reflections’. On prefaces and intent to shape readers see Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, ch. 3, especially p. 117. 30 I have found these so common as to approach ubiquity in contemporary sermon publications; they occur regularly, though less frequently, in other genres. For two sermon examples see Gifford, Foure Sermons and Sower; for uses elsewhere see e.g. Bernard’s letter to Ussher, BOD RL 89, fol. 29r; Hinde, ‘An advertisement to the reader’, in Path to Pietie. 31 Hunt, Art of Hearing, pp. 127–8. 32 Wilson, Jacobs Ladder, sig. A3r. 33 Ibid., sig. A5r. 34 Wilson, ‘The generall preface, to the Christian reader’, in Dictionarie (and see comments in other epistles in Dictionarie, passim); Curtin, ‘Jacobean congregations’, p. 198. 35 Curtin, ‘Jacobean congregations’, passim (on Wotton, pp. 207–8); Crome, ‘Language and millennialism’, pp. 315–17. 36 Wilson, ‘Epistle dedicatory’, in Dictionarie, sig. A4v. 37 Ibid. 38 Wilson, ‘Generall preface’, in Dictionarie, sig. A5v. 39 Ibid., A6r–v. 40 Wilson, ‘A short advertisement’ and ‘Differences betweene this booke’, in Dictionarie. 41 R. C., epistle in Wilson, Dictionarie. One suspects that this may have been included because of the academic qualification of doctor held by its author – something the other recommenders apparently lacked. 42 ‘The epitome and anatomy of this book, abridged and unbowelled’, in Wilson, Dictionarie. 43 Wilson, ‘A preface before the table’, in Dictionarie. 44 Crome, ‘Language and millennialism’, pp. 322–4. 45 Ibid., sigs A2r–A4r. 46 Wilson, Christs Farevvell, sigs A2r–v. 47 Ibid., sig. A2v. 48 Hunt, Art of Hearing, p. 119. 49 Wilson, Theologicall Rules, sigs A2v–A4v, K3r–K4r, and passim. Some rules are irregularly numbered. 50 Exposition was also a dialogue, but catechetical in form. 51 In the exchange with the willing Protestant learner, the pastor-figure addressed the idea of growing one’s weak and childlike faith. Whereas Dixon sees this as an aberrance, I view it as fitting within this situation: the pastor is specifically addressing a committed Protestant rather than the other characters. I further address such distinctions below. Wilson, Jacobs Ladder, p. 29; Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, p. 198. 52 Curtin, ‘Jacobean congregations’. 53 Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, pp. 198–202. 54 Wilson, Saints by Calling, sig. A2v. 55 Ibid., sig. A6r.

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56 Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, p. 176. Dixon observes some comments in Wilson’s pre-1620 corpus taking a more mainstream pastoral approach to assurance, but he sees these as aberrations; see my note 51 above. 57 Ibid., pp. 197, 205. 58 Ibid. 59 Wilson, Aenigmatia Sacra, in Theologicall Rules, p. 204 (note separate pagination). 60 Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, p. 197. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid., p. 177. 63 Ibid., p. 177; For an example of an earlier English Bible concordance see Merbecke, Concorda[n]ce; Wilson, ‘Differences betweene this booke’, in Dictionarie; and see Crome, ‘Language and millennialism’, 314–15. For a corrective to Dixon’s view of the purposes of Dictionarie see Curtin, ‘Congregations and controversies’, p. 197ff. 64 Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, p. 177. 65 Wilson, Romanes, sigs A2r–v; Dixon, Practical Predestinarians, pp. 176, 197. 66 In addition to the below, see e.g. Hieron, Preachers Plea, sigs A2r–v; and Hieron, ‘To the reader’, in All the Sermons. 67 Green, Print and Protestantism, Appendix 1. 68 Fincham and Lake, ‘Ecclesiastical policy’, p. 181n. 69 Indeed 1602 had already seen a published response: I. R., Romish Ryme. 70 Hieron, Popish Ryme, sig. A2r. Close parenthesis omitted in original. 71 Ibid., sigs A2r–v. 72 Shrank, ‘Answer poetry’, p. 386, Malcolmson, Heart-work, pp. 56–7; see also Marotti, Manuscript, Print, pp. 159–71. 73 Boswell, ‘Answer-poem’, p. 24. 74 Murray, Poetics, pp. 25–7. 75 Hieron, Popish Ryme, sig. E3r.

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Underdown, David, Fire from Heaven (New Haven, 1992). Van Dijkhuizen, Jan Frans, Devil Theatre (Woodbridge, 2007). Wadkins, Timothy H., ‘The Percy-“Fisher” controversies and the ecclesiastical politics of Jacobean anti-Catholicism, 1622–1625’, Church History, 57 (1988). __, ‘Theological Polemic and Religious Culture in Early Stuart England: Percy/“Fisher” Controversies, 1605–41’ (PhD dissertation, Graduate Theological Union, 1988). Wallace, D. D., ‘Puritan and Anglican: the interpretation of Christ’s descent into hell in Elizabethan theology’, Archiv fur Reformationsgeschichte, lxix (1978). Wallington, Nehemiah, The Notebooks of Nehemiah Wallington, 1618–1654, ed. David Booy (Burlington, VT, 2007). Walsh, Brendan, The English Exorcist: John Darrell and the Shaping of Early Modern English Protestant Demonology (New York, 2021). Walsham, Alexandra, Providence in Early Modern England (Oxford, 1999). Watt, Tessa, Cheap Print and Popular Piety, 1550–1640 (Cambridge, 1996). Webster, Tom, Godly Clergy in Early Stuart England: The Caroline Puritan Movement, c. 1620–1643 (Cambridge, 1997). White, Peter, Predestination, Policy and Polemic: Conflict and Consensus in the English Church from the Reformation to the Civil War (Cambridge, 1992). Willen, Diane, ‘Thomas Gataker and the use of print in the English godly community’, Huntingdon Library Quarterly, 70 (2007). Winship, Michael, Godly Republicanism (Cambridge, MA, 2012). ‘Winthrop family papers’, Winthrop Papers Digital Edition, Massachusetts Historical Society, www​.masshist​.org​/publications​/winthrop/. Winthrop, John, The Journal of John Winthrop, 1630–1649, ed. James Savage, Laetitia Yeandle, and Richard Dunn (Cambridge, MA, 1996). Wood, A. C., ‘A note on the synod of clergy at Southwell’, Transactions of the Thoroton Society of Nottinghamshire 1949, vol. 53 (Nottingham, 1950). Woodford, Robert, The Diary of Robert Woodford, 1637–1641, ed. John Fielding, Camden 4th ser., 42 (Cambridge, 2012). Wootton, David, ‘Reginald Scot/Abraham Fleming/The Family of Love’, in Stuart Clark (ed.), Languages of Witchcraft (Basingstoke, 2001). Wright, Stephen, The Early English Baptists (Woodbridge, 2006).

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italic refer to figures. adiaphora (things indifferent) 63–4, 71, 200, 210–11 affections/emotions 31–51 passim, 66–7, 81, 82, 90–1, 115, 152, 205, 207, 229, 230 see also meditation; sermons, components of, application Ainsworth, Henry 5, 67, 68, 70 allegory 10–11, 43–6, 136–7, 161–75 passim see also Isle of Man, The Alleine (Allen), Richard (rector of Ditcheat) 16, 81, 91, 117 Anabaptism, comparisons or references to 24n.10, 67, 70, 183 see also separatism/separatists Anatomie of the Service Book (Dwalphintramis [pseud.]) 209, 215n.45 Andrewes, John 22 anonymity (authors’) 12, 57, 181, 195, 209, 212, 233 Answere to a Popish Ryme, An (Hieron) 233–5 Antichrist, identification of Pope as 42, 123–40 passim, 198, 200 apologia (for writing or publishing) 12, 128, 222–32 passim see also humility topos; prefatory content apostacy 37, 133, 146, 147 application in catechisms see catechism, application in meditation (incl. ‘to the self’) 33, 34, 36, 38–9, 41–2, 45, 46, 66

in sermons see sermons, components of, application Article of Christs Descension into Hell, The (Bernard) 11, 14, 179, 188–92, 197, 201 Ashe (Aishe), James 15, 146, 148–50 Ashe (Aishe), John 15, 18, 181 Ashton, Abdias 202, 205 assizes 125, 181 allegorical 165–6 witch trial (Taunton, summer 1626) 10–11, 161–75 passim see also Guide to Grand-Iury Men, A; Isle of Man, The; judges; juries; justices of the peace; prisons/ prisoners; witchcraft/witches associative thought 32–3, 45, 47, 48, 155 see also meditation; metaphor atheism (lack of care about religion) 66, 124, 130, 217, 220, 236n.3 audience(s) (for print) 21, 57, 70, 75, 87, 113–14, 166, 171, 223, 230–2, 235–6 single books addressing multiple 10, 18, 63, 69, 88, 89, 122–40 passim, 145–6, 150–7 passim, 195–205 passim, 218–21, 224, 228 tailoring content for 5–12, 18, 21–2, 51, 54, 54, 69, 76, 86, 87, 91, 107, 114, 116, 139, 190, 195, 197–205, 210, 218, 224, 229, 230, 232, 233, and throughout book passim see also genre; print; reading autobiography see life writing

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Index

Ball, John 34, 36 Balsom, Robert 16 baptism 58, 59, 64, 69–70, 90, 109, 111–12, 200 Barrow, Henry 60–1, 65 Batcombe, Somerset (and surrounding area) 15–16, 58, 209 church property/appearance 146, 148–9, 152, 157n.20, 178, 180, 183, 192n.6 local disputes (1630s) 10–11, 15, 20, 140, 145–50, 151–3, 156–7 Upton Noble 16, 180–1 Westcombe 148–9 Bath and Wells (diocese) 9, 16, 102, 113, 125, 126, 136, 178 see also Somerset; individual clerics Bayly, Lewis 37 Bennett, Edward 16 Bernard, Cannanuel 14, 16, 120n.19, 128 Bernard, John (attr. author) 209, 215n.45 Bernard, John (father of Richard Bernard) 15, 25n.36 Bernard, John (of Downeside) 15, 25n.36 Bernard, John (of Winterborne Clenston) 26n.43 Bernard, Richard career overview 12–23 family of 13–15, 16, 25n.28, 25n.36, 94, 120n.19 Bevan Zlatar, Antoinina 2, 217, 236n.3 Bible-Battells, The (Bernard) 17, 22, 137–40 Bibles Abstract and Epitomie, The (Bernard) 27n.73, 94, 201–5 Bilson, Thomas 189–90 bishops see episcopacy; individual bishops Bisse family 15–16 Edward 149, 157n.20 James 149, 157n.20 Phillip 15, 149, 154, 156, 180 Book of Common Prayer 112 catechism 9, 54, 106–19 passim, 146, 178 Book of Sports see Sabbath, sports book sales, circulation, and costs 22, 91, 117, 171, 181, 216, 226 see also print, market; stationers, printers, and book production

Bowes, Isabel and William see Coventry conference; Wray family, Isabel Brownism see separatism/separatists Bruen, John 206–8 Burton, Henry see Divine Tragedie Calvin, John 78, 79, 108, 109, 188 Calvinism/Calvinists 6, 108–9, 110, 115, 118, 132–7 passim, 221 anti-Calvinism 10, 132–6 see also puritanism/puritans Cambridge, University of 12–13, 15, 55, 77, 184, 232 Canons of 1604 see Church of England, canons of catechism 9, 16, 76–81 passim, 85, 86, 89, 90, 93, 101–19, 133, 221, 232 application 105–6 printed catechetical material 9, 22, 70, 78, 79, 89, 90, 101–19 passim, 190, 218, 232 see also Book of Common Prayer, catechism; individual publication titles Catholicism/Catholics 55, 122–40 passim, 169–70, 173, 185, 188, 198, 200, 203, 211–12, 222, 233–4 anti-Catholicism 6, 9–10, 12, 13, 18, 40, 42, 43, 47, 61–2, 66, 74n.63, 93, 94, 121n.57, 122–40 passim, 143n.73, 167, 172, 175, 178, 190–1, 200, 217–35 passim recusants and ‘church-papists’ 125, 126, 131, 132, 140 see also Percy, John censorship see licensing; self-censorship Certaine Positions Seriously to bee Considered of (attr. Bernard) 209–13 charity 10, 47, 63, 64, 65, 107, 145, 149–57 passim, 171, 203 lack of 64, 65, 115, 131, 149–57 passim, 172 see also Ready Way to Good Works, The Charles I, King 17, 137–40 declarations, instructions 113, 178–89

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Index as Prince 93, 130 Chillingworth, William 211–12 Christian Advertisements and Counsels of Peace (Bernard) 22, 60–6, 73n.36, 131, 155, 213 Christian Dictionarie, A (Wilson) 3, 200, 224–7, 231 Christian See to Thy Conscience (Bernard) 82, 113–14 church building see Batcombe, Somerset, church property/appearance Church of England canons of 13, 55, 184, 188, 233 conformity 12, 24n.20, 57–9, 70–1, 102, 113–14, 118–19, 126, 142n.44, 178–92 passim, 195–213 passim displaying 9, 61–70 passim, 112, 117, 118, 124, 182–3, 188–91, 218–21 returns to 8, 13, 14, 20, 54, 57–9, 70–1, 221, 237 nonconformity 8, 13, 14, 54–7, 65, 70, 118, 178, 180–1, 209, 218 as a ‘true’ church 62, 64, 65, 68, 71, 212 see also Book of Common Prayer; Catholicism/Catholics, recusants and ‘church-papists’; controversies, religious; episcopacy; Laud, William; Laudianism; separatism/ separatists churchwardens 103, 148, 173, 178, 180 clerical manuals 76–7, 84, 95n.4 see also Faithfvll Shepheard, The clerical vocation see pastoral work Clifton, Richard 55, 56 combination lectures (preaching exercises) 16, 20, 88–9, 125, 207 Common Catechisme, The (Bernard) 105, 110–19 commonplace books 78, 85, 155, 195, 201–5 communion (Lord’s Supper) 11, 58, 64, 106–7, 111–12, 116, 117, 146, 178, 180, 200 Conant, John 16, 20, 101, 196 concordances see reference publications

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conscience 56, 62, 67, 82, 113–14, 147, 173, 180, 187, 207, 208, 212, 225, 229 see also Christian See to Thy Conscience Contemplative Pictures (Bernard) 31, 40, 66–7, 123–4 contemplative thought see meditation controversies, religious 8, 10, 11, 21, 32, 50, 57, 63, 67, 131 local 10, 146–54 passim, 165, 168 print and 4, 5, 8, 9, 10, 12, 42, 50, 60, 67, 70, 71, 78, 109–10, 128, 168, 178–92 passim, 198–202 passim, 210–11, 221 see also individual controversial issues Cotta, John 169–70 Cotton, John 17, 26n.49, 55 courts see assizes; privy council; quarter sessions covenanted groups 17, 22, 27n.69, 58–9, 62, 66, 72n.28, 209 see also New England Coventry conference (1606) 16, 55–6, 61 crime/criminals see assizes; prisons/ prisoners Crowley, Robert 5 Curll (Curle), Walter 9, 102, 112–14, 117, 180 dancing 183, 185, 187 Darcy, Isabel Lady see Wray family, Isabel Darrell, John 5, 13, 162, 219, 220 Dauids Musick (Bernard and R. A.) 22, 87, 91–2, 124, 196 David (King, ancient Israel) 49, 107, 130, 135–6, 146–7 Declaration of Sports see Sabbath, sports dedicatory epistles see prefatory content demonologies 161–2, 167–75, 217–21 see also devil; Guide to Grand-Iury Men, A descensus controversy see Article of Christs Descension into Hell, The

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262

Index

devil(s) 12, 66, 68, 111, 115, 123, 124, 127, 137, 162–5, 169–71, 189, 218–21 possession/dispossession 5, 162–5, 218–20 see also demonologies; witchcraft/ witches devotional publications 8, 10, 32, 39–51 passim, 167 see also individual publication titles devotional thought and practices 8, 31–51 passim, 106–7, 167, 172, 202, 205, 207 see also commonplace books; prayer; reading dialogues (printed) 41, 70, 90, 92, 104–5, 110, 128–9, 131, 163, 217–18, 220, 221, 224, 226, 229, 236n.3, 238n.51 dictionaries see reference publications Discourse of the Subtill Practises of Deuilles, A (Gifford) 217–21 Divine Tragedie (Burton) 17, 181–2, 186–7 Dixon, Leif 3, 222, 230–2 Dorset 16, 179–83 passim, 213 Double Catechisme, A (Bernard) 107–8, 117 doubt (religious) 60, 63–4, 133 see also pastoral work, addressing sins or concerns drama 43, 47, 163, 184, 185, 188 Dwalphintramis (pseud.) 215n.45 earth, age of 167 economics see financial concerns; gratitude; Ready Way to Good Works, The editions see reprints and revised editions election see predestination Elizabethan period, religious publishing during 2–7 passim, 162, 196, 216–21 see also Large Catechisme, A; Terence in English Elizabeth I, Queen 42, 131, 184 episcopacy influences on authorship 57–71 passim, 88, 102, 112–19, 125, 182–92 passim; 195–205 passim

influences on pastoral work 16, 58, 59, 69, 71, 88, 113, 146, 178–82, 208, 209, 221 limited 192 opposition to 12, 14, 56–7, 58, 60, 64, 69, 195, 208, 209–13 visitations 89, 112–17 passim, 145–50, 179–80 see also Church of England; individual archbishops/bishops Epistle Directed to All Iustices of Peace, An (Bernard) 12, 18, 140, 191, 200 Epworth, Lincolnshire 13, 54 eschatology 10, 47, 125–8, 130–2, 138–40, 173 exorcism see devil, possession/ dispossession Fabulous Foundation of the Popedom, The (Bernard) 128, 131 Faithfvll Shepheard, The/Faithfull Shepherd, The (Bernard) 8–9, 17, 18, 22, 24n.13, 31, 35, 57, 76–86, 102–3, 108, 147, 202 1607 edition 59, 76–82 1609 revision 66, 67, 82–4 see also Shepheards Practise, The 1621 revision 16, 18, 59, 84–6, 103, 130 Favour, John 58, 83 Featley, Daniel 96n.41, 132–3, 142n.57, 214n.14 financial concerns 14, 15, 24–5n.24, 50, 79–80, 89, 137, 138, 145–57 passim see also Batcombe, Somerset, local disputes (1630s) ‘Fisher’ (alias) see Percy, John Foljambe, Isabel see Wray family, Isabel Fulke, William 78, 217 Gainsborough, Lincolnshire 14, 54, 58 genre(s) innovations and developments in 8–12 passim, 43–4, 76, 90, 102, 119, 195–205, 225–7, 230–2, 236 pastor-authors using multiple 3, 4, 6, 8–12, 21–2, 40, 128, 155, 161, 175, 217–35 passim, and throughout book passim

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Index similar content across multiple 8, 31–2, 39, 46, 50, 51, 78, 86– 94, 102, 155, 161–75 passim, 220, 224, 234–5 see also individual genres Gifford, George 1–5 passim, 12, 60, 170, 172, 216–21, 236 Good Christian Looke to Thy Creede (Bernard) 9, 102, 114–19 Good Mans Grace, The (Bernard) 41–2, 130 grand jury see juries gratitude 13, 15, 17, 48, 69, 82, 107, 128, 154, 156, 226 Greek 88, 89, 93, 167, 176n.3, 198, 199, 201, 211 see also Hebrew; Latin Green, Ian 2, 9, 31–2, 50, 110, 118–19, 233 Greenham, Richard 34, 38 Guide to Grand-Iury Men, A (Bernard) 10–11, 137, 155, 161–75 Hall, Joseph 34, 36–8 Hall, Robert 33, 34 Hampton Court Conference (1604) 184, 188 see also Church of England, canons of Hansley, John 191, 197 Hartlib, Samuel 21, 117–18, 182, 196 Hebrew 14, 93, 198, 201, 220, 237n.21 see also Greek; Judaism/Jewish people; Latin Heigham, John 10, 134–6 Hell 11, 47, 66, 116, 124, 136, 179, 188–91 see also Article of Christs Descension into Hell, The; devil Heylyn, Peter 3, 185–6 Hieron, Samuel 1, 4–5, 12, 50, 109, 216, 232–6 Hildersham, Arthur 55, 56 Hill, Robert 1 Hinde, William 206–8 Hollar, Wenceslaus 19 Holy Spirit 36, 67, 75, 76, 80, 83, 85, 91, 109, 111, 150, 167, 211, 228 household religious exercises 12, 41–2, 92, 104–6, 110, 118, 206–9, 220

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see also catechism; prayer; preaching, lay; reading humility topos 84, 156, 222–33 passim, 237n.29 international affairs 42, 93, 124–40 passim, 143n.81 Iosuahs Godly Resolution/Iosuahs Resolution (Bernard) 70, 87, 90–2, 104, 110, 113, 117 Ireland/Irish people 14, 43, 58, 140, 190 see also Ussher, James Islam/Islamic peoples 130, 131 Isle of Man, The (Bernard) 10–11, 22, 31, 43–6, 53n.51, 136–7, 161–7, 171, 172, 175 Israel (ancient), comparisons to 42, 47, 49, 56, 68, 83, 129, 130, 135– 6, 146–7, 210, 229, 237n.21 James VI and I, King 125, 132, 173, 213, 223 proclamations, declarations, directions 116, 130–4 passim, 139, 183–5 Judaism/Jewish people 130, 131, 136, 180, 183 see also Hebrew judges 126, 161, 163–8 passim, 173–4, 181 see also assizes; quarter sessions juries (grand, petty) 165–6, 173–5 see also Guide to Grand-Iury Men, A justices of the peace 18, 126, 140, 173 Key of Knowledge, A (Bernard) 47, 94, 124, 125–33 passim, 139, 140, 196 Kingston (Kyngston), Felix 17–18, 26n.54, 117 Lake, Arthur 10, 113, 125–6, 178 Large Catechisme, A (Bernard) 42, 54, 106–7, 117, 122–3 Latin 13, 54, 77 in English books 18, 63, 69, 88, 89, 93, 113, 126, 167, 184, 198, 199, 203, 226 see also Greek; Hebrew; Terence in English

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Laud, William 113, 132, 136, 178, 181, 212 Laudianism 11, 18, 140, 145, 146, 178–92 passim, 195–212 passim lay religion see devotional thought and practices; preaching, lay; reading letters 4, 17, 20, 26n.48, 127, 180–1, 189, 190, 226 Bernard to James Ussher 15, 16–17, 26n.53, 48–9, 101, 116, 128, 145 in Revelation (Bible) 127, 131 see also prefatory content Ley, John 192 licensing (of books) 11–12, 18, 27n.69, 51, 63, 84, 112, 116, 133, 134, 140, 144n.89, 145, 150, 154, 166, 175–84 passim, 188, 191, 195–7, 205, 210–11, 227, 236 see also self-censorship life writing 10, 155–7 see also self-presentation Lincoln, diocese of 13, 16 Lincolnshire see Epworth, Lincolnshire; Gainsborough, Lincolnshire London 18–19, 113, 140, 191 Looke Beyond Luther (Bernard) 22, 132–4 Lord’s Supper see communion manuscripts, circulation of 17, 22, 26n.49, 51, 56–7, 60, 62, 69, 117–18, 128, 132, 179, 182, 209, 221, 223, 227, 228 see also letters marginalia manuscript 22–3, 26n.49, 27n.70, 27n.73, 95n.3, 134 printed 37, 43–4, 63, 64, 76, 82–92 passim, 117, 139, 154, 164, 167, 171, 188, 189–90, 201–3, 204, 214n.24, 234–5 Matthew, Tobie 13, 14, 16, 57–9, 66, 68, 69, 71, 83, 88, 89, 113, 118, 178, 209, 212 Mawe, Leonard 113 McGinnis, Timothy Scott 3, 217, 218, 221 meditation (divine) 8, 31–51, 155, 167, 179, 206–7

defining 32–9 mentioned/provided in publications 31–51 passim, 58, 67, 79, 86, 88, 106–7, 114–16 passim, 198, 199, 206–7 Merritt, Julia 1 metaphor 43, 45, 47, 188 military see international affairs Millward, James 146, 148–50 Millward (Millerd), Samuel 147–8 Montagu, James 13, 15, 16, 72, 113, 125, 153 Montagu, Richard 10, 134–6 Moses (ancient Israel), desire that all would prophesy 197, 207–8, 228 Murray, Molly 234–5 naming practices, puritan 14 Narveson, Kate 34, 38, 52n.23 New England 15, 17, 20–1, 22, 26n.49, 140, 209 nonconformity see Church of England, nonconformity Nottinghamshire 13, 14, 25n.25, 55, 58 see also Worksop, Nottinghamshire Oxford, University of 14, 18, 125, 128, 221 parish disputes see Batcombe, Somerset, local disputes; pastoral work parishioners, types and states of see pastoral work, awareness of parishioners Parliament 10, 12, 18, 137, 140, 184, 195, 213, 220 particularisation (in sermons) 146–50 pastoral work 15–16, 20, 32, 35–6, 46, 48, 50, 54, 59, 62, 66, 75–86 passim, 150, 178, 207, 221–32 passim, 235–6 addressing sins or concerns 46, 80–3, 86, 133, 189, 229 see also affections/emotions; conscience; doubt; sermons; Staffe of Comfort, A awareness of parishioners 80–1, 101, 102–4, 106, 146–50 catechising see catechism controversy and 57, 145–50

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Index episcopal influence on see episcopacy, influences on pastoral work instructions for see clerical manuals portrayals of 104, 229, 232, 238n.51 see also Church of England; financial concerns; prayer; preaching; reading; sermons pastor-author(s) 15, 32, 40, 51, 59, 71, 75, 110, 118, 122, 145–6, 153, 155, 167, 175, 191–2, 209, 216–36 passim, and throughout book passim examples of, beyond Bernard 1, 3, 4–5, 6, 12, 60, 78, 81, 107, 109, 117, 125, 162, 172, 192, 206, 216–36 explanation/description of term 4–8, 12, 216, 235–6 patronage 1, 13, 51, 59, 61, 71, 83, 153, 168, 235 see also prefatory content Paull, Nicholas 16, 146, 180–1 Percy, John (alias Fisher) 132–4 Perkins, William 34, 77, 88, 108, 170, 214n.24, 229 Piers, William 178–83 passim Plaine Euidences (Bernard) 47, 67–70, 155, 213 poetry 12, 41, 42, 46, 226, 227, 233–5 polemic 3, 43, 47, 50, 62, 67, 69, 70, 122, 134, 137, 162, 203, 210, 217–18, 221, 226, 233–5 possession (demonic) see devil Powell, Gabriel 63, 73n.47–8 prayer 20, 33–50 passim, 56, 64, 77–86 passim, 101, 107, 112, 124, 163, 185, 199, 210, 211, 218, 219, 226, 232–3 Lord’s prayer 41–2, 107, 108, 115, 117, 130, 133 see also Book of Common Prayer preaching 6, 9, 16, 20, 36, 56, 58, 64, 69, 75–94 passim, 102, 199, 201, 204–5, 210, 211, 221, 222–3, 225 lay 11–12, 195, 196–7, 205–9 see also clerical manuals; combination lectures; pastoral work; sermons predestination (election) 87, 106, 109–19 passim, 224, 230 see also providence

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prefatory content (in books) 1, 12, 15, 18, 22, 23, 40, 58, 61–2, 67, 69, 77, 88, 89, 90, 96n.42, 104–5, 110, 111, 113, 118, 120n.19, 125–33 passim, 138, 140, 150, 153, 156, 165, 166, 168, 175, 190, 191, 197, 201–2, 222–34 passim see also apologia; humility topos; self-presentation; women, dedicatory epistles to Prideaux, John 125, 128, 185–6 print market 22, 50, 110, 222, 224, 226, 230, 231, 232–3 nature of 7, 60–1, 75–6, 86–94 passim, 228, 236 see also audience; book sales, circulation, and costs; genre; reading; sermons, printed; sermons, publications based upon; stationers, printers, and book production prisons/prisoners 126, 151, 164–6 privy council 149 providence 15, 36, 42, 48, 227, 233 see also predestination Prynne, William 136, 180 psalms 35, 39, 42, 51n.4, 70, 91–2, 107, 124, 199 see also Dauids Musick; poetry publishers see book sales, circulation, and costs; stationers, printers, and book production puritanism/puritans (‘godly’) community/network 3, 11, 16, 17, 21, 33, 65, 115, 140, 181–2, 191, 206, 219, 221 defining 5–7, 24n.10 naming practices 14 see also Calvinism/Calvinists; catechism; Catholicism/ Catholics, anti-Catholicism; Church of England; devotional thought and practices; episcopacy; Laudianism; licensing; meditation; pastorauthor; preaching; reading; Sabbath; self-censorship quarter sessions 59, 149

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Ramism/Ramist organisation of ideas 44–6, 92, 203, 204 reading 50, 88, 179, 199, 210, 211, 225 libraries 17, 58, 78–9, 205 meditation and 32–49 passim study and 36, 78–98, 196, 197–205, 206–8, 225 Bernard’s recommendations for clerical 78–80, 108 see also audience; devotional thought and practices; marginalia; prefatory content Ready Way to Good Works, The (Bernard) 10, 16, 145, 149–57, 167, 182 reference publications 11–12, 79, 91–2, 195–205, 208, 224–7, 228, 239n.63 see also commonplace books; individual publication titles reprints and revised editions 13, 22, 43, 82–6, 94, 97n.66, 101–2, 105–19 passim, 127, 140, 164, 175, 209–13, 236n.5 Revelation (Bible) see eschatology; Key of Knowledge, A; letters, in Revelation; Seaven Golden Candlestickes, The revision see reprints and revised editions Rhemes Against Rome (Bernard) 10, 134–6 Rich, Frances, Countess of Warwick see Wray family, Frances Risley, James 15 Robinson, John 5, 55–70 passim, 72–3n.28 Rogers, Richard 34, 38 Royal Chaplain in Extraordinary 16, 17, 137 Ruths Recompence (Bernard) 23, 87, 92–4, 124, 128, 129–30, 137, 143n.73, 147, 196 Ryrie, Alec 2, 32, 50 Sabbath in Christian observance 6, 11, 44, 48, 101, 110, 154, 178–88, 191–2, 198, 199 in Israel 179, 183, 199, 210 sports 178–88 passim, 198

see also Threefold Treatise of the Sabbath, A sacraments see baptism; communion Saintpoll (St Poll), Frances see Wray family, Frances Satan see devil Scot, Reginald 164, 168–9, 170, 218–21 passim see also demonologies Scudder, Henry 37 Seaven Golden Candlestickes, The (Bernard) 47, 63, 128, 130–1, 133, 139 self-censorship 11, 140, 182 see also licensing self-presentation (authors’) 6–7, 10, 17, 60–1, 68–70, 72–3n.28, 91, 145–6, 150–7, 167–70, 173, 189, 220–32 passim see also apologia; humility topos; life writing separatism/separatists 5, 13, 17, 20, 47, 54–71 passim, 118, 126, 183, 206, 208, 211–13 passim anti-separatism 58–65, 67–70, 155, 221 see also Ainsworth, Henry; Robinson, John; Smyth, John ‘Separatists Schisme, The’ (Bernard) see Christian Advertisements sermons 36, 39, 45–6, 75–94 passim, 103, 125, 132, 139, 143n.81, 178, 196, 202–5 components of 36, 81–3, 90, 203–5, 206, 227 application 34, 36, 46, 75, 77, 82–92 passim, 110, 147, 205 particularisation in 146–50 printed 8–9, 75–6, 86–90, 103, 112, 217–28 passim, 237n.21 publications based upon 66, 75–6, 86–94, 103, 127, 129, 227, 232 repetition 101, 116 see also commonplace books; pastoral work; preaching; reading Sheffield family (Edmund Lord and Ursula Lady Sheffield) 40, 123–4 Shepheards Practise, The (Bernard) 83–90 passim

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Index Short Vievv of the Praelaticall Church, A (Anon., attr. Bernard) 57, 209, 215n.45 Sibbes, Richard 38 Sinners Safetie, The (Bernard) 66, 67, 87–90, 123 Skelton, Samuel 26n.49 Smyth, John 5, 13, 17, 24–5n.24, 55–9, 65–70, 153 Somerset 16, 18, 113, 125, 180–1, 192n.7, 232 see also Alleine, Richard; assizes, witch trial; Batcombe, Somerset; Bath and Wells Southwell Minster Segeston (Sacrista) prebend 16 synod 16, 89 spirit see devil; Holy Spirit sports see Sabbath, sports Staffe of Comfort, A (Bernard) 25n.36, 46, 70, 124–5 stationers, printers, and book production 17–18, 21, 74n.62, 74n.77, 82, 84, 117, 128, 195, 209, 236n.2 stationers’ register 52n.33, 93, 96n.41, 124, 136, 141, 144n.89, 165, 167, 195, 217, 236n.2 see also book sales, circulation, and costs; Kingston, Felix; licensing; reprints and revised editions Taunton, Somerset 113, 125 see also assizes, witch trial Terence in English (Bernard) 13, 22, 54, 74n.77 thanksgiving see gratitude Thesaurus Biblicus (Bernard) 11–12, 19, 20, 23, 27n.73, 31, 35–6, 40, 94, 101, 104, 182, 191, 195–205, 208 Threefold Treatise of the Sabbath, A (Bernard) 11, 18, 179, 182–8, 191, 197, 200, 201, 210 Traske, John 16, 183 Two Twinnes (Bernard) 70, 85, 87, 89–90, 103 Upton Noble, Somerset see Batcombe, Somerset Ursinus, Zacharias 79, 108–9

267

Ussher, James 14, 15, 190, 192, 213 Bernard’s letter to see letters, Bernard to James Ussher verse see poetry visitations, episcopal see episcopacy, visitations VVorke for the Wisely Considerate (attr. Bernard) 209–13 wakes 178, 185, 186 Wallington, Nehemiah 21, 49 warfare see international affairs Warwick, Frances, Countess of see Wray family, Frances Weekes Worke, A (Bernard) 22, 23, 40–1, 52n.33, 70, 94, 97n.66, 104, 124 Westcombe (Wescombe), Somerset see Batcombe, Somerset White, Francis 132, 203 White, John 180–1, 193n.15, 213 Whiteway, William 178–80 Williams, Mary (née Bernard) and Roger 14–15, 94 Wilson, Thomas 1, 3, 4–5, 12, 107, 200, 216, 221–32, 236 Winthrop, John 20, 21 witchcraft/witches 10–11, 43, 137, 155, 161–75, 218–21 ‘good’ witches 162, 170, 173, 218 see also assizes, witch trial; demonologies; devil; Guide to Grand-Iury Men, A women 14–15, 23, 94, 123–4, 129–30, 132, 148, 149, 150, 155, 156, 158n.27, 161, 163, 170, 172, 187, 237n.29, 200 allegorical 43, 136, 165 biblical 92–4, 127, 129–30, 147, 200 dedicatory epistles to 23, 58, 61, 67, 88, 90, 97n.66, 104–5, 123–4, 130, 133, 158n.39, 166, 229 see also Elizabeth I, Queen; Ruths Recompence; witchcraft/ witches; Wray family Woodford, Robert 49 Worksop, Nottinghamshire 13, 14, 54, 58, 71, 162 Bernard’s financial situation in 14, 58, 96n.56, 153, 154 see also financial concerns

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Wray family 61, 153, 156 Frances (Saintpoll; Rich, Countess of Warwick) 13, 61, 97n.66, 153 Isabel (Foljambe; Bowes; Darcy, Lady Darcy) 13, 16, 55–6, 61, 153, 154 John (Sir) 150, 153 writing letters see letters

as private religious activity see commonplace books; devotional thought and practices; life writing for publication see apologia; audience; self-presentation; individual genres and publication titles sermons see sermons