The pious Joseph Hall--the English Seneca--after the "hard measure" meted out to him by Parliament, went to live in the hamlet of Heigham, just outside one of the gates of the old city, of which he had been Lord Bishop. There, in a rented house--now the little Elizabethan inn bearing the sign of the Dolphin[319]--he spent the remnant of his days in seclusion and poverty; suffering from strangury and stone; but bearing both his privations and his disease with the patience and magnanimity of Christian faith. His will, after bequeathing his soul to God, directed his body to be interred without any funeral pomp--with this "monition," that he did not hold God's house a meet repository for the bodies of the greatest saints: but his executors, whilst "admiring the lowly mind of the departed," buried him in the chancel of the little church; where the people of the hamlet still behold every Sunday his mural monument in black marble, bearing the figure of a gilt skeleton, which holds in its hand a scroll inscribed with the admonitory words, "_Debemus morti, nos, nostraque_." Morton, Bishop of Durham, a man of High Church views, had, in the height of the popular fury against Prelatists, been assailed, as he rode in his coach through the streets; and when some one remarked, "He is a good man," "No matter," the Polyphemus of the mob replied, "he is a Bishop." Eight hundred pounds a year was voted him by Parliament, which, however, as it is reported, was never paid; but he did receive the sum of one thousand pounds, with which he discharged his debts and purchased an annuity. He was turned out of his house in London just before the execution of Charles. Having lived awhile successively with old Royalist friends, including the Earl of Rutland, he travelled up one day to London, and was overtaken and joined on the road, in the friendly fashion of those times, by Sir Christopher Yelverton, who had some share in the humiliation of the Church. Ignorant of his travelling companion, the knight, as their horses ambled on side by side, asked the bishop who he was; the Bishop, having in this respect the advantage of the knight, replied, with a dash of brave Episcopal pride which rose above present humiliation, "I am that old man, the Bishop of Durham, notwithstanding all your votes." To the enquiry whither he went, he replied, "To London, to live a little while, and then die." The incident is worth relating, as a specimen of the kindly English feeling which in many an unknown case tempered party animosities. Sir Christopher entered into friendly discourse with the ejected Bishop, took him home to his seat in Northamptonshire, appointed him tutor to his son, and left his friendship as an heirloom to the pupil--who imbibed his tutor's love for Episcopacy, and in 1659 reverently closed the old man's eyes in his 95th year.[320] [Sidenote: _Other Bishops._]