MY CONVERSION.

The aversion which from this time I conceived for everything savouring of Romanism,—pope, cardinals, bishops, priests, and friars,—proceeded, no doubt, from the change which for several years had been working in my mind. I already was no longer a papist, for I had long ceased to believe in many doctrines which are matters of faith in the Romish Church. I will now state how this was brought about.

While holding the head professorship of theology, in the college of Santa Maria di Gradi, at Viterbo, and advocating and teaching, with great zeal, the Romish doctrine, a very nourishing school, not only of Dominican students, of which the college consisted, but likewise of other friars and priests, used daily to attend my lectures, and be present at our circolo, or "circle," as we call our meeting for scholastic exercise, when a theological proposition is given, and defended by a professor and a student, while other professors and students raise objections. The exercise is in Latin, and in the logical form of reasoning as held by Aristotle.

I had ordered that this exercise should take place three times a-week; the theological lectures were five in number during that period, and it sometimes fell to my turn to defend, while the others objected. One day I was defending the doctrine of transubstantiation; one of the best disciples in the school, whose name I feel a pleasure in mentioning—Father Baldassare Conti, a Roman, who afterwards filled the professor's chair of theology in the Minerva, at Rome, with much honour, was on my side.

The question was, "Whether the bread and wine in the sacrament of the Eucharist are, in virtue of the words of consecration, actually and substantially changed into the body and blood of Christ, together with his soul and his divinity." We maintained the affirmative, and three or four others, with fictitious earnestness, denied the proposition; advancing arguments which they had the precaution to assure us beforehand were all borrowed from the heretics. The contest went off, as it invariably did; we were, of course, right, and our opponents wrong. The reasoning of my good and clever Conti, and that which I contributed myself, were the ne plus ultra, for the school, and even elicited uproarious applause. The heretics were discomfited, the Roman Catholics triumphant. We were the two heroes who had gained the battle, the laurel crown alone was wanting. Who after our arguments could possibly have doubted a doctrine so boldly asserted, so powerfully demonstrated? Who would have dared to have sided with the heretics, viz. with those who denied transubstantiation? I believe not a shadow of doubt entered the mind of any one excepting myself. In the midst of this universal satisfaction, I alone remained unconvinced. To me, the answers to the objections appeared feeble and inadequate. I was disquieted within me. I asked the young Conti how he was pleased with the "circle?" whether any of our answers seemed to him to want weight?

"I am pleased with the arguments I brought forward," he replied, "and still more so with those that you yourself advanced. Indeed, I am not aware that more could possibly have been said. But after all, the matter is a mystery which cannot be explained by reasoning; faith must come to our aid. Henry Moore, a celebrated Englishman, has well observed, as Erasmus relates, Crede quod habes, et habes,—'Believe you receive, and you do receive.'"

Of course, it was not proper for me to infect the young student with my doubts; he was better pleased in having discovered, as he fancied, the mystery of that religious impossibility than an alchymist would have been in finding the philosopher's stone.

I had none in whom I could confide. My colleague and friend, Professor Borg, was a man who would rather have renounced his reason, or doubted of his very existence, than have denied a dogma of faith; besides which, he was of opinion that such points ought not to be too freely discussed.

"What did you think of our controversy?" said I.

"All went off well," he replied; "he is an excellent young man, that Conti. What he said pleased me very much; and very true is that famous verse of Salomone Fiorentino with which he concluded:

Vedi che in fronte ha scritto: adora e taci."

It would evidently have been useless to enter upon any discussion with such a man as my good friend Borg; I therefore came to the conclusion that I had better study the thing by myself, and endeavour to ascertain the real truth.

It is this important question which so many have racked their brains to understand in the Romish sense. The matter resolves itself simply into this: Are the words, "This is my body," "This is my blood," to be understood in a literal sense? Every one must see the absurdity of it. The least consideration will show that Christ said these words in the same sense as he said on another occasion, "I am the bread that came down from heaven," and no one ever supposed that He was actually bread, and subsequently changed, or transubstantiated. A little examination was sufficient to shake my belief in that doctrine which I had hitherto professed. Would Jesus Christ have told us things that were impossible to be? Now it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that what is bread should at one and the same time be His body; and that what is wine should be contemporaneously His blood. This cannot be, either simultaneously or successively. The Church of Rome saw the first to be an absurdity, and therefore held to the second. But how can the body of Christ become bread, and His blood wine, if such change be not in accordance with the laws of nature? Could Christ deceive us? Now it is not true that bread and wine, according to nature, have ceased to exist in the sacrament; for we see they do exist; that which we see, touch, and taste, is natural bread and wine. Can there be faith against nature? And yet that is against nature, which neither is nor can be: whatever is, must be according to nature's laws. There may be substances of a higher nature, and subject to superior laws than those with which we are acquainted; but they can never exist in contradiction to those laws, since nature herself, in that case, would be destroyed. Therefore, what is bread and wine cannot be not bread and wine; God, omnipotent as he is, cannot order it otherwise. But the sacrament, after consecration, remains natural bread and wine; therefore it is not the substance of the body and blood of Christ.

And what, I should like to know, would be the use of this pretended transubstantiation? Would it merely be that the faithful might, materially, eat the body and drink the blood of Christ? Now who does not see that this so-called eating and drinking of Christ is entirely metaphorical?

"The kingdom of God is not meat and drink,"[39] said St. Paul; "It is the Spirit that quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing."

"The words that I speak unto you, they are spirit, and they are life,"[40] said Christ.

The expressions, to eat and drink, signify to believe; to identify oneself with; as also to accept anything with pleasure. "Kill, and eat,"[41] said the Spirit to Peter; in the vision at Joppa, figuring under the unclean animals, the Gentiles. Now, all this Peter well understood, and never imagined he was to eat those animals, much less the Gentiles that he might fall in with; but to convert and receive them into the communion of the Christian faith.

Why, then, should we eat Christ? To believe in Him—to unite ourselves to Him? But this is entirely the work of the Spirit, and has nothing whatever to do with matter; on the contrary, everything material is repugnant to this union of faith. Corporeal substance may be a type, a figure of the spiritual, but nothing more. Baptismal water is the outward and visible sign of the spiritual and purifying grace, because, as the former cleanses the body from impurity, so does the latter wash away the stain of sin from the soul. In the same manner as bread and wine are the common daily food of the body, and as through them we receive nourishment and strength, so the body and blood of Christ, immolated and shed for us, are the continual aliment of our faith, which gives vigour to our souls, and is the substance of our spiritual life and salvation.

The words of Christ are truly divine; full of truth and wisdom. The interpretation of the Romanists is a grovelling human conception; full of error, falsehood, and absurdity. Christ could not better symbolise the effect of his passion and death; and we cannot more grossly abuse it, than by attributing to a sinful priest the virtue and power of the Saviour: with the additional enormity, that what Christ has been pleased to do once, a wretched priest pretends to be able to repeat as often as he chooses. The doctrine of transubstantiation, considered in relation to Christ himself, is a falsity and an absurdity; considered as regards so many thousands of wicked priests, it is an impiety and an abomination.

Thus did I reason with myself, and became fully convinced that such was not the meaning of Christ's words; that such was not the Christian faith; that such was not the belief of our fathers: and that thousands of Christian doctors, in all ages, have refuted this doctrine of transubstantiation, the author of which was Eutichus, a heretic, whose dogma was presented to the Church by Pope Innocent III. who had it confirmed by the Council of Lateran (1215).

In consequence of this reasoning, I already disbelieved in the virtue of the Mass; which can only be a propitiatory sacrifice, so far as it presents a true and living Christ, to be immolated each time it is celebrated. Take away the doctrine of transubstantiation, and the mass, in its grand essential, is nothing but a lie; a solemn imposture; an actual sacrilegious assault against Christ; who being now glorious, according to our faith, is also impassible; and as such, can neither be "broken" nor eaten by us. To eat Christ! the bare mention of such a thing is blasphemy. Far less was the crime of those who crucified the Lord; for they knew not that he was Christ. What should we have said to those, who, associated with Christ, and hearing from his own lips the words which we read in St. John vi. 53, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you," had straightway, from literal acceptation of them, begun actually to eat His body and drink His blood? Which of his disciples would not have exclaimed against such an act of barbarity? And yet they would not have been more guilty than the theologians of the Romish Church.

From this time, in saying mass I was no longer a Christophagus;[42] I had ceased to believe in what I did. What then, in reality, was the act I performed? I know not. I was like Luther, and many others, who no longer believed the mass, who had rejected its doctrine, and learnedly refuted its errors, but still continued to celebrate it. I said it, indeed, as seldom as possible; always with a bad grace, as if under compulsion, and frequently I could not restrain my sighs. I was, moreover, ashamed of saying it in the presence of sensible and intelligent persons; as if afraid of their censure for performing an act, in the efficacy or virtue of which I no longer believed. I contrived, too, to say it at those hours when there were the fewest persons in the church, and at the most secluded altars. I always refused solemn masses. In short, the mass, which for others was a delightful service, had become for me a very painful one. I endeavoured sometimes to regard it as a simple prayer, leaving out the idea of a sacrifice or sacrament; but this was impossible when what is termed the offertory was to take place, and still more so at the time of the consecration and elevation of the host and the chalice. Although I myself was no longer an adorer of the bread and wine, yet at my mass there never failed to be some who adored, believing in their transubstantiation, and therefore I could not help looking upon myself as the agent of that idolatry.

Thus, I consider that the dogma which constitutes the mass, with its double element of transubstantiation and propitiatory sacrifice, is the most fatal of Romish doctrines, the most detestable of all heresies, and the most abominable of all practices. Around this, as their sun, revolves all the rest of the papal system. The power which, according to this doctrine, the priest has of fabricating in a moment, not one, but as many Christs as he pleases, and of offering them to God, as victims of a sacrifice which in itself is enough to atone for the sins of all, and to take out of purgatory by them, as many souls as he pleases;—this pretended power, I say, is the occasion of so much pride in the priests, as to make them think themselves privileged persons, sacred and unapproachable; and to consider their head, the pope, holy, infallible, and having all authority in heaven and in earth.

In disbelieving the doctrine, I denied the power. To me friars, priests, and prelates all savoured of imposture; and the more I advanced in spiritual light, the more I felt myself adverse to such hypocrisy. The pope daily became more abominable in my eyes. In him, or rather in his ambition, I saw a Lucifer, who, after having seduced himself, had power to seduce others; thus causing the fall of myriads of shining stars from heaven to hell.

Many say, "I believe so, because the pope so believes; if the pope errs, I must err with him; if he were to call virtue vice, and vice virtue, I must be his echo, and in all and through all follow him." Such is the language of the Jesuits, from Bellarmine to Father Perrone. "O ye foolish ones, who hath bewitched you?"

As my creed changed, so did my conversation. Lenient to the laity, I was severe towards ecclesiastics; for the former I was full of compassion, for the latter I had only reproof: their vices were become insufferable to me; with their example continually before me, I endeavoured to be as opposite to them as possible. They for the most part were unoccupied and idle; I made it a rule to keep myself constantly employed: they were generally given to gluttony; I was habitually temperate: they were heedless, imprudent, dissipated; inquisitive after other people's affairs, and intriguers in private houses: I never interfered in what did not concern me, and was an enemy to the intrigues and cabals in which they took so much satisfaction.

"Why do you scarcely ever go to hear confessions?" asked one of those friars who delight in hearing them continually.

"Because you and your fraternity, not knowing how to employ your time better, pass the whole day in listening to the business of others," answered I. "There is no reason that I should follow your example; on the contrary, I do what you do not; I study to learn, that I may be able to teach others: in short, I endeavour to be useful to my fellow-creatures, in every way I can."

"Why do you so seldom attend choir?" was the inquiry of one of those Epicurean friars, who had he not had the exercise of chanting psalms, and singing at the top of his voice, would probably have had no means of digesting his dinner, and preparing his stomach for supper.

"Because," I replied, "I have so many other corporeal employments, that I am in no need of this."

"But prayer? that is a duty we all owe to the Almighty?"

"No doubt prayer pleases me when made in spirit and in truth. But to be in spirit it should be free; not attached of necessity to the Psalms of David. What have you said or done, by reciting three, six, nine, or a dozen psalms in Latin? What have you achieved? I am sure you do not know yourself. If you go to ask something from the superior of a convent, your first care is that your petition should be at any rate intelligible, and have a meaning. When you were in your own family, and had any favour to request of your father, I presume you asked simply for what you wanted. You certainly did not begin by reciting poetry, or singing in Latin. And is not God, our first, our true, real, and heavenly Father? Why then do we pray to Him in psalms? The most we can do is to sing them in his honour and praise; but prayer, real prayer, should be in our mother tongue; clear, expressive, and simple. My good brother, he who doth otherwise, erreth; following false traditions, and transgressing the commandments of the Lord. Remember what Christ says, 'But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.'[43] And observe the preceding verses. 'And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues, and in the corners of the streets; that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.'

"These are the reasons why I come to choir so seldom. I prefer offering my prayers unto the Lord, in the seclusion of my chamber. I fear that reproof of Jesus Christ:

"'Ye hypocrites, well did Esaias prophesy of you, saying, This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips: but their heart is far from me. But in vain do they worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.'"[44]

These, and similar lessons, did I give to my companions in profession, and as I perceived truths myself, so did I endeavour to impart them to others.

Towards the end of my residence at Viterbo, I was made superior of the monastery di Gradi, and also of two convents of Dominican Nuns. I had for some time seen things in a new light, with a view to reform; I saw not much, or clearly, as yet, but sufficient, nevertheless, to place me far out of the common sphere. In Lent, 1833, certain friars came to me to ask permission to eat meat, on account of slight indisposition; and I was very lenient with them. The nuns came with the same request, and I willingly granted them all they required. The rumour got abroad that I allowed everybody to eat meat. Amongst the monks was a good old man, the Padre maestro Linares, who moreover was the confessor to the nuns. One evening he came to my rooms, and said, that he ought to address me with every respect; but that, as the oldest of the house, a master of theology, and not to fail in his duty, he felt compelled to represent to me the complaints of certain religious monks and nuns, subject to my jurisdiction, which complaints were chiefly touching the numerous dispensations I had granted for eating meat that Lent. "At this rate," said the worthy father, "the precept of fasting would be rendered null and void, were liberty accorded to every one not to observe it;" (which was true enough.) "I think," added he, "that many of those to whom you have granted the dispensation to eat meat, might have abstained without much inconvenience."

"I think so too;" I replied, "but I wished to save them even this little inconvenience. In short, they asked for what they wished, and I granted it to them: I did not feel their pulse, or look at their tongue, like a physician; I supposed they wished to eat meat, and I gave the permission, precisely in the same manner as I should have wished it to be granted to me, had I asked it of my superiors."

"Ah! you must not be so indulgent. This is a question of an observance of a divine institution—Lent!"

"I think, on the contrary, I ought to be as indulgent on this point as possible, bearing in mind the words of our Lord, 'And he called the multitude, and said unto them, Hear, and understand: not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man.'[45]

"Strive as you can, my good Father, to prove that Lent is of divine institution, with all due deference, I cannot agree with you. I find no ordinance of the kind instituted by the Lord; of Him indeed it is written, that He fasted 'forty days and forty nights;' and it appears that He took nothing during that time; but He has not taught us to do it now. Our Lent is not therefore an imitation of Christ's fasting; with us it principally consists in abstaining from certain meats, and eating less of others. Both one and the other are human institutions in Christianity; they are precepts of the Church, and articles of tradition. To eat somewhat less at certain times, for us, who generally live quite well enough, I consider a very good sanitary principle, and as such I recommend it occasionally; but not so the abstaining from meat altogether; which is often prejudicial to health; and, moreover, what is substituted for it by the Roman regime is unwholesome, and to many very injurious."

"But we are commanded to keep Lent."

"Granted; and I am authorized to dispense with the keeping of it, by those who require it of me; and I do so with pleasure, and without much importunity."

In this manner I was frequently led into a discussion upon the various doctrines of the Church of Rome, which one by one glided from my belief in an incomprehensible manner; insomuch that my very disbelief seemed to be the effect of inspiration.

Frequently the decisions of my understanding were the promptings of my heart. I was called by an internal voice in my soul to that which I did contrary to the teaching of the Church. For instance, I became displeased with myself whenever I went to confession. I as yet knew nothing of the contrary doctrine, and yet I felt within me a conviction that the practice of confessing one's sins to a fellow-man, was not, neither ever could be, enough to form a positive command upon; particularly one of such rigour: I felt all this before I was well persuaded of its truth.

It is not possible, said I to myself, that this command should be of apostolic date. I had not yet fully examined the question, but had already decided it in my own breast. On this point, however, I ventured not to speak to others. In fact, I altogether left off confessing. I remember the last time that I related my offences to a priest, I felt as much repugnance in doing so as the most timid child could have experienced. My penitentiary was a certain Doctor Semeria, formerly a Dominican, but then living in Viterbo, as a simple priest: a man learned in many sciences, and one who had been professor of theology; but that which redounded to his credit in my eyes, was his goodness of character; his Christian simplicity, and his gravity of demeanour; which obtained for him universal love and esteem. My friend, while I was yet a child, was my confidant; he knew all my secrets when I chose him for confessor; I did nothing without consulting him. To such an one I had no difficulty in opening my heart, and disclosing all the operations of my mind; but I found that I could not do it truly and fully, unless in familiar conversation. The trust I had in him vanished in the formality of confession. More than once, in the course of it, I have been obliged to interrupt myself, and rise from my knees, because in that attitude I lost confidence in my friend, who, perceiving my embarrassment, would often kindly forestall me, and say, "Let us converse without restraint."

Confession had at length become so odious to me, that I could no longer bear it myself, nor endure the practice of it in others. People were continually wanting to confess to me, and I always found some pretext for not hearing them. From the earliest period of my ministry I had been obliged to apply myself to this branch of duty. I was not yet twenty-four, when I was sent, by the Bishop of Viterbo, to confess even nuns. In 1830 I was appointed by Cardinal Gazola, Bishop of Monte Fiascone, to officiate for a month as confessor and preacher in two of his monasteries. The good old man chose me for his own confessor likewise, (I shall have occasion to speak of him again;) Cardinal Gamberini would have me, afterwards, at Orvieto. This man, reputed a first-rate lawyer, was made prelate, then Bishop of Orvieto, afterwards cardinal, and lastly, Minister of the Interior in Rome. He had never been a theologian himself, nor was he much their friend, but a sworn enemy of the Casuists. The priests in the neighbourhood were all ignorant men; his own Theologian, for every bishop has to appoint one, was anything but what his title and office required.

"I wish to confess myself to you," the Cardinal said to me, one day; "I trust you will not deny me this favour."

"To say the truth, your Eminence, I do not like to confess any one who has nothing but his sins to communicate to me; I have so many of my own, that I hardly like to be burdened with those of other people. A confession of sins makes me melancholy, and I feel that I am not performing my proper duty in receiving it. Excuse the comparison, but I really feel like an actor reciting his part; and this is a part I know but imperfectly. If sometimes I am forced to play it, I do so as well as I can, but it is painful to me to listen to a catalogue of the failings and infirmities of other people."

"But I know that you do confess the common people, and even nuns; why then will you not confess a bishop?"

"It is true, I am more ready to confess the common people, and I have great patience also with the nuns; although I am so little interested about their sins, that when they recount them to me I never speak; letting them go on without interruption: and when they have finished, I make but few observations, directing them to ask pardon of God, who alone can absolve and pardon. I then dwell a little on the incidents of their life, good or bad as they may be, and especially on their peculiar habits; taking occasion to instil into them the moral precepts of the Gospel, correcting their faults, and exhorting them to walk in the way of virtue. Now, such schooling as this, of which both the people and nuns stand in need, and which I adopt in the confessional, your Eminence does not require."

"If everybody thought like you, we poor cardinals and bishops should find no one to shrive us."

"So much the better; you would then confess to God, who alone is able to remit sins. Does your Eminence imagine that the holy fathers ever dreamt of confessing? Bishop Fenelon says that he sought throughout the whole of their biography, and examined the minutest detail of their lives, and their pious and religious practices, and found not one single word about confession. 'We must therefore conclude,' he adds, 'that confession was not in use at that epoch.'"

"But those fathers were saints, and therefore did not require it."

"Saints, I agree, as far as holy life goes, far more so than we are; but your Eminence, I suppose, would not infer that they were without sin; for you must remember it is written, 'If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.'"[46]

"Well, St. John here says that we ought to confess our sins; and this is precisely what I wish to do."

"I consider that the Evangelist here speaks of confessing to God those sins committed against God; in the same manner as St. James speaks of confessing to men those sins especially committed against men, when he says, 'Confess your faults one to another.' Thus, for instance, if I should offend your Eminence, I know I am in duty bound to come and acknowledge my offence, and implore forgiveness; and your Eminence knows equally well what is written: 'If thy brother trespass against thee ... and if he repent, forgive him: and if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent, thou shalt forgive him.'[47] Such is the law of confession according to the Gospel; clear, and sufficiently easy for the comprehension of the meanest capacity. Now, we must not confound these laws with those of the Council of Lateran under Innocent III., and of the last Council of Trent. According to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, we are only obliged to confess our sins to God; according to the Canons and the Decretals we ought to reveal them also to a priest, called a confessor."

This conversation entered deeply into the mind of the Cardinal, and I believe produced a good effect; since, some years after, when I met with him in Rome, he said to me, "I remember well our conference at Orvieto, touching Confession; and the more I have reflected upon it, the more true I have found it." Certain it is, that from that time such were my sentiments; for which reason I desisted from Confession, and counselled others to do the same, so far as their sins alone were concerned. The case was widely different when I had to exercise my ministry; not as regarded authority, with which I did not consider myself invested, but for the sake of charity and friendship—then I fulfilled it most willingly. I was the friend of all those who came to confide their secrets to me, and to receive counsel and advice; and I exercised this duty with the greater pleasure the more I saw they were in want of it. I was particularly attentive to the instruction of the young men, but as to bigots, I drove them from my confessional.

During the time of my ministry in the Romish Church, I have confessed a vast number of persons—I should think many thousands, and of all classes. At first I did so, in the firm belief that in virtue of the power conferred upon me by the bishop, I really had authority to pardon sins; and subsequently, my persuasion was that Confession, made to a priest, as a sacrament, had the efficacy of obtaining pardon from God, and that the words of the Absolution were a declaration to that effect. In the first case, I acted, if not according to the doctrine of the Bible, at least in accordance with the tenets of the Roman Church. But in the second, I acted neither in agreement with the Bible, nor with the Church of Rome. Under this conviction, then, it was that I at last omitted the form of Absolution, as being unquestionably anti-scriptural, and limited myself to a prayer, muttered between the teeth, according to the usual mode of giving absolution; and in which I asked God to regard the faith of those penitent people, granting to them pardon of their sins, through the merits of Jesus Christ.

Yet even then I found occasion to accuse myself; since those who had made their confession to me, believed that they went away absolved, through the efficacy of my ministry. They were deceived, therefore, in consequence of my silence; yet, on the other hand, if I had spoken out, and explained my sentiments, they would have been scandalized and offended at my not conforming to the usual custom. I found, therefore, that the better way was to give up the so-called Confessional, wherein, as the people imagine, the priest becomes invested with the authority of a forgiver of sins; and to those who asked me to listen to them, I proposed any place, excepting the confessional, where we could both sit down, and have our conversation without any show of hypocrisy. This system I began in Rome, and followed also in Naples; confessing many persons, and even nuns, at the grating of the parlours; or rather, I held a conference with them on their moral and religious wants; terminating with a prayer to God, that He would pardon their sins, through the blood of our Lord.

This system, however, could not be continued without my coming under the notice of the Inquisition. In fact, when I was called to answer to the charges against me, I was accused of having acted with contempt towards religion—in spretum religionis—since I had not observed the laws and ordinances of the Church. At last I was tired of living in the midst of opposition. My conscience daily alienated me more and more from the practices of popery, whilst my soul expanded to the convictions of pure Christianity. I had taken an aversion to image worship, to the adoration of relics, the patronage of saints, and their whole catalogue of miracles. In Viterbo, I had often ridiculed the history of the monastery di Gradi, in which it is asserted, that in or about the year 1220, while St. Domenico di Guzman was on his way through those parts, staying in the house of Cardinal Capoccio, bishop of that city, Mary, the Mother of Jesus, one night appeared to both the cardinal and the saint, and conducted them in spirit to the site of the present church of the monastery di Gradi, where at that time stood a forest; and here, addressing the two holy men, she said, "It is my desire to have a convent established in this place for my dear brethren the Predicatori, [Preachers,] where I shall be honoured, and my rosary preached up by them." So saying, she burnt a circle in the wood with a lighted torch, marking out the boundary of the future building. Now, as the vision appeared to each of them, in the morning they compared notes, and setting out together to the wood, found there a circle actually marked out by fire. This history, which is entered in the chronicles of the monastery, is received by the monks as a fifth gospel. Was it possible that I should longer give credence to such a story?

There is also, in Viterbo, another monastery of Dominican monks, called La Madonna della Quercia; the history of which is, that an image painted on a tile, and placed in an oak-tree, in the midst of a wood, began performing miracles about the commencement of the fifteenth century. Devout supplicants thronged from all parts, and the graces that were bestowed, and the miracles that were performed, according to report, surpassed the most sanguine expectations. Thousands were said to have been healed of various infirmities; thousands to have received, in various ways, assistance from Providence; in dangers, in persecutions, in recovering lost property, and in retrieving their honour. But the greatest and most astounding miracles of all were those performed on persons who had been blind from their birth, and instantaneously recovered their sight, by the virtue of that same picture; and on others who eight days after death had returned to life.

These fables I had believed in, for a time, as true. Blind, like the rest, because born in the land of darkness, I also, at one time, used to go and pray to the image della Quercia (of the oak). One miracle, however, is certain, and that, too, the work of no other than this so-called "Madonna," (a horrible figure of a woman with a child in her arms,) namely, the enormous riches which rained down upon the Frati for more than three centuries in consequence of it.

The monastery is very large, with a magnificent church, in the Bramante style, and surrounded by houses inhabited by the servants and husbandmen, with their families, who cultivate the immense extent of land belonging to the fraternity, which brings in every year a considerable revenue.

There is a book upon these pretended miracles of the "Madonna della Quercia," printed more than a hundred years ago, which relates them with the utmost minuteness of detail. This book is sold to the devotees who are continually going to the monastery in order to pour their money into the treasury; and after I began to disbelieve the influence of its vaunted Madonna, I named it the Book of Industry. It is written in the worst possible style, and is full of grammatical errors.

"Why do you not correct it?" said Father Pastori, who was at that time the Superior of the monastery; "why do you not revise it, and render it more readable? If you were to arrange the stories in proper order, and dress them up in flowery language, it would be perused with pleasure, and would tend to increase the number of devout worshippers of our Madonna."

"Believe me, I should like very much to correct it as it ought to be; but I am afraid, in this case, it would be much less readable than at present."

"How so?"

"Because out of three hundred pages there would not remain one."

Upon this the old fellow began to grow angry. I will not here repeat how many threats he thundered out against me for daring, as he said, the displeasure of the Madonna della Quercia. Little evil, however, has as yet befallen me, that I can trace to this cause.

One day this same old man, who, to say the truth, after all had really a partiality for me, was holding a conversation with me and some others, among whom was Cardinal Velzi, who, as well as myself, belonged to that monastery, at least, to that section or family, though neither of us resided there.

"I have been thinking," said Father Pastori, "of some way of reviving the worship of our holy Madonna; it is very much on the decline; what do you think we should do to awaken the dormant devotion of the people in the neighbourhood? I remember when I was a young man, that all the province of Patrimonio and Umbria, as far as La Marca, used to send pilgrims, votive offerings, wax candles, money for masses, and quantities of other offerings. Now, there is scarcely anything brought, even at the two fairs, and all the rest of the year we receive nothing at all. It is evident that the people no longer think of us, and that their piety is becoming lukewarm. I wish, therefore, to rekindle their devotion to the Madonna, and I think the best way of doing so would be, to send about, through all the neighbourhood, the large picture of the Virgin, with all the miracles inscribed around it; but as the engraving is not a very good one, I have thought of ordering another upon the same plan. What do you say to my idea?"

The Cardinal shrugged his shoulders, and neither said yes nor no. I was silent also.

"Well, I say, what do you think of it? The present engraving was executed more than two hundred years ago, and was retouched about one hundred years since. It is now high time to have a new one, for it seems to have lost its efficacy."

"I know very well," said Cardinal Velzi, "that these things pass current among the people, as matters of pious belief; but the fact is, there are too many of them in Southern Italy. I proscribed many similar observances within my own jurisdiction, when I was master of the sacred palace; besides, these miracles are not sufficiently attested."

"Your Eminence will doubtless recollect," added I, "how both of us, two years ago, prohibited the image of the Madonna of the Augustines of Viterbo, which was surrounded with a legion of devils, crying out, 'To hell with Viterbo.' This story is said to have originated at the beginning of the fifteenth century, when one day a letter issued forth from the sacred image, commanding the devils to quit the precincts of the city, and to follow the said letter as far as it should go. Off went the letter, and away went the devils; the letter fell to the ground about a mile distant, and the devils all sank into the earth on the very same spot; in perpetual memory of which event, even to this day bubbles up a well of boiling sulphureous water, in the identical place, which is said to take its rise from hell.[48] This Madonna has ever since enjoyed the title of Liberatrix, or Deliverer. I had frequent disputes with the Prior of the Augustines on this head, and threatened to seize all his pictures, if he made a trade of selling them. The only defence he could make was, that the engraving was ancient, of the same epoch as that of the Madonna della Quercia; and I recollect answering that I did not approve of the image della Quercia either, and that, for my part, I should do everything I could to prevent the circulation of that also: what then do you think I should do if I saw the image della Quercia, with all its pretended miracles around it, restored? Oh! do not entertain any such idea, my dear Father Pastori. I shall be obliged to oppose it, and I am glad to see that our friend the cardinal is of the same opinion with myself. And now, since we are upon this topic, let me, as a son of the monastery, give you another piece of advice. This church of ours has latterly become so filthy and disgusting, with its wooden and papier machÉ statues, its exhibition of heads, arms, legs, and every other part of the body, presented as votive offerings for all kinds of pretended cures, that, what with them, and the miserably painted tablets, broken blunderbusses, rusty daggers, and other objects, which disfigure the walls from top to bottom, any person of good sense would be ready to rush out of the place at the mere sight of them. I should propose, therefore, to take down all these things, whitewash the walls, which is very much wanted, and put all these votive offerings, or monuments of brigandism and superstition, into two or three large rooms adjoining the Church, so as to form a kind of museum of curiosities, for such as may feel inclined to inspect it."

The good old man could here no longer contain himself; but broke out into violent indignation, exclaiming that I was an innovator, a man whose opinions were of the most dangerous description, &c. The Cardinal, however, interposed between us, and so the matter ended.

By this time the change in my manner of thinking began to be publicly talked about. I was represented as not being one of those bigoted Frati who give credence to every religious lie, under the cloak of "holy faith;" that I was no great votary of saints and relics, and disbelieved all their miracles. Many other circumstances occurred to establish this opinion of me, one or two of which I will briefly relate.

I was requested to write the religious life of Santa Rosa, the patron saint of Viterbo.[49] This, however, I declined, on the plea that Santa Rosa would not be over-well pleased with my work; upon which the task was separately undertaken by my friend Dr. Selli and my uncle Dr. Mencarini. The former produced a small treatise of little or no importance, and I allowed it to circulate; the latter set to work in good earnest, and forwarded a large volume to the "censor." Now, this uncle of mine had been a second father to me, and was a man whom, of all others, I loved and respected. He was versed in many sciences, a man of refined learning, and a professor of natural philosophy; he was, moreover, a man who shone in society, a sincere friend, a benefactor to his country, and was universally esteemed and beloved.

I was surprised to see so large a volume on so trivial a subject as the life of a poor baker's daughter; though she certainly showed a great deal of talent in the part she took in the political disputes between the Guelfs and Ghibellines, which occurred in her time; and as she was on the pope's side, that is, for the liberty of the "commune," (for popes were liberals in those days,) she joined in the cry against the Emperor Frederic II., she was consequently persecuted by the imperialists, and ran through all the country, declaiming against them. She died at the early age of eighteen; poor but honoured, and highly eulogized by her fellow-citizens. The ignorance of the times attributed to her the power of working miracles, and superstition "dubbed" her a saint. There is no doubt she was a very excellent young woman, and as such, and on no other account, do I honour her memory. I dare say my uncle thought much as I did on the matter; but he got so bewildered with the mass of materials which various earlier biographers had collected together, that he did little more than copy what he found in their works, without giving himself the trouble of investigating their authenticity.

There are not in the whole world such bon fide liars as the writers of the lives of saints; for "the glory of God"[50] they allow themselves every species of invention and exaggeration. Can a lie ever tend to promote the glory of God? It is a principle I have never acted upon in any case. My uncle was deceived by a parcel of old impostors, and it was for me to undeceive him.

"Now," said I to him one day, "do you believe all you have written?"

"No," he replied; "I was disgusted with a great many things; but I thought it my duty to write, or rather to repeat them, because, having been asserted so long ago, they are now known and believed by everybody."

"Now, my dear uncle, do not say by everybody, for there are ourselves in this very place, who believe nothing about them; and who knows how many others may not have the same good sense? Why should we, then, seek to deceive the ingenuous and simple-minded, particularly the young, who would no longer read the old trash about this said St. Rosa, unless it were dressed up in the pleasing garb of a good style, and written with a show of historical erudition? Is it not a pity—nay, a sin?"

"But if I were not to relate what has been already written and handed down, what would there be to make a life of?" "Little, I grant; my friend; little, but good. I should give the simple truth. This same Rosa was a very worthy creature, and a woman of spirit for the age in which she lived; full of courage, and loved her country as much as any one. The priests represent her as devoted to the pope; but I, on the contrary, maintain that she was devoted chiefly to politics, and only in a secondary degree to matters of religion. In fact, the people of Viterbo were almost all Patareni;[51] and yet, between the pope and the emperor, they held most to the pope, because he did not, like the Emperor, threaten the liberty of the commune, by imposing upon them any particular code of laws, but allowed the people to govern themselves by their own institutions. In short, to me the actions of St. Rosa appear so entirely mixed up with the political events of her time, that if I were writing her life, I should connect it with the history of that period, merely as an episode."

"And who would you get to read it?"

"Everybody, except a few bigots; but perhaps it is for them you are writing?"

These remarks appeared so far to influence my good uncle, that he began to correct his great volume, which soon became reduced to half its size, but gained double in value. Still, I regret to say, that some stories were left which would have been far better away. The truth of the matter is, that although I no longer believed in the miracles of Rome's catalogued saints myself, yet I had not as yet acquired sufficient courage to wage a war of extermination against them. I was more severe with another relation of mine, Dr. Nicola Grispigni, who had written the life of Lucia di Narni, a bigot, beatified by Rome. He was at that time Professor of Rhetoric in the college at Viterbo, and is now Bishop of Poggio Mirteto, in Sabina. He too had followed the old biographies, and without any selection, had dressed up their worn-out falsehoods in elegant modern phraseology. The manuscript was sent to Rome, and duly approved, with the nihil obstat from two theological censors, and the imprimatur from the master of the sacred palace; and, as a matter of course, was about to be printed, when by chance it fell under my notice. Never in my whole life had I seen such a tissue of gross falsehoods. I immediately stopped the printing of it, and referred it again to the master of the palace, and received his authority to make all the corrections I might think necessary previous to its publication.

"My dear Dr. Nicola," said I to him, "where on earth did you find all the nonsense that you have put together in this volume?"

"In the biographies of the Beatified[52] Lucia, and especially in that written by a very reverend Dominican, under the approbation of the master of the sacred palace."

"I am delighted to hear it, but these relations are all evidently untrue, and some of them are absolutely immoral. Such, for instance, is that which states that a wife, in consequence of some vow, refused conjugal duty to her husband,—a thing quite at variance with sound morality. Here now is a story invented by some one in the first instance, repeated by others, and now related again by yourself; and which, having once more escaped the eyes of the censor, would have been in print in a very short time. Had I not happened to have seen it, the religious world would again have been regaled with the same lies and the same imposture! And what is all this nonsense about angels descending from heaven to minister to your Beata! and all the saints, and the Madonna, the mother of Jesus, coming down to hold conversation with her! Away with all these fables; we have already too many of them; they disgust even the most simple-minded. Religion holds such falsehoods in abhorrence; they are called pious, whereas they ought rather to be termed impious beliefs. For it is highly impious to mix falsehood with truth in order to mislead the understanding and deprave the heart. You surely are not so simple as to believe everything that is printed con licenza dei Superiori, under which authority you have admitted all these foolish stories about Beata Lucia. At any rate I cannot allow the reprinting of them. Revise your book, purge it of such ridiculous matter, and I will then give it my approval."

My friend was easily guided, and having left out what he considered the most difficult to swallow, the work was finished; but after all I was too indulgent, and allowed much to remain which ought to have been expunged: the fact is, as I said before, although I saw what my duty was, I had not then the moral courage to act entirely up to it, a courage which is the particular gift of God's grace.

My reformation must have been the immediate work of God, and therefore from Him I felt myself destined to receive the perception and knowledge of the truth. St. Paul gloried in having received the Gospel not from men, but from God, through whose command he also received authority to preach it. His reform was instantaneous, as was his conversion, and they are wonderful in our eyes. A gradual conversion and a progressive reformation are not so astonishing. The lightning flash amid the darkness of night affects the senses in a far greater degree than the opening dawn that gradually brightens into day. I imagined I had already received the full day-light of truth, whereas it was only that of the morning star, the sweet harbinger of a brighter day. What shall I say then of my entire conversion? God alone knoweth. My understanding unquestionably began to be illuminated about that time, but the conversion of my heart took place at a much later period. I began to be aware that we are not saved by our own merits, but by the merits of Christ; I knew, moreover, that those merits are not imputed to us by the efficacy of the sacraments, but by virtue of faith. This, which I deem the only true system of salvation, I already taught in the schools, preached in the pulpit, and sustained in public, as well as in private conversation: therefore it was that I had incurred the hatred of the priesthood, and of the Jesuits of the Romish Church. But for all this I was not as yet converted at heart. So true it was, that I did not at that time even understand the difference between these two conversions. I was already a Protestant, but not yet sufficiently a Christian. My life had not undergone a formal and complete change, but only a partial amendment. My virtue arose from self-love, and not from faith. I had acquired some practice in the habit of well-doing, but was not yet guided by Divine inspiration. My heart had desires, but not affections. I spoke of Divine love, but did not yet experience it in my soul. Oh! what joy possessed me when I first began to feel its influence. Oh! how delightful is the life of a believer. He lives by faith. He may vacillate for a moment, but he soon returns to the principle that forms the system of his life. The believer, far from considering himself infallible or sinless, feels, on the contrary, the weakness of his nature, trembles for his safety, and incessantly humbles himself before God. True faith does not attribute to man strength that he does not possess. Peter was weak when he believed himself to be strong. Jesus Christ said to the Apostles, "All ye shall be offended, because of me this night."[53] And what was Peter's reply? "Although all shall be offended, yet will not I." And lo! Peter the believer, who esteemed himself stronger than all his brethren, and vaunted himself accordingly, met with the severest humiliation. Who would say with Cephas, "If I should die with thee, I will not deny thee in any wise?" To such a one the reply is ready: "Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice."[54]

So true it is that conversion is the work of faith, and this comes by grace. In me faith has been awakened after much experience, accompanied by conviction in the understanding, and affection in the heart. I thank the Lord, who has made me a believer through His grace; and so much the more do I thank Him, as He has given me this grace for the conversion of others. I felt the necessity of my giving up a system which I had found defective in so many points, and experienced a strong desire to assist others in getting out of the same mire. I could no longer hide the truths I had discovered. I seemed a traitor to myself, to my duty, and to the will of God, in concealing my enlightenment; while on the other hand, I saw the danger of publicly acknowledging it. The only way was, to communicate my principles in secret. But the Inquisition is a tremendous power, it possesses every possible means of discovering the most hidden secrets; and in that part of Italy where its laws are in vigour, nothing is concealed from its penetration.

I began my mission in the manner I have related, and the Inquisition soon commenced its proceedings against me. More than once did its officers try to circumvent me, and arrest my progress; but the beneficent hand of Providence was over me, and guided and protected me; so that I never feared anything. No one knew better than I did the artifices of that diabolical tribunal, and the means it employed to hunt out its object. And yet I was not afraid; I felt a certain secret assurance in my mind of my final success. I accordingly quietly pursued the path that Providence and the hand of the Lord had opened out to me, knowing not where my steps might lead me. I was like a man blindfolded, but led by a faithful friend; sure of His care and love, I willingly abandoned myself to His direction.

I will now state what happened to me on leaving Rome in 1835, as well as what took place after my departure from Italy, in 1842. All which will fully explain the complete history of my conversion; which, while it has been to me the most fortunate event of my whole life, will also, I hope, prove the commencement of an era in the history of Italy which my fellow-countrymen have been expecting and looking for during the last 300 years. I look upon this circumstance as the first link of a long chain, that is one day to be completed. My individual conversion and reformation will, it is to be hoped, be the means of effecting that of many others; how or in what manner, I am unable to judge; certainly not as calculated upon in the popish sanhedrin, but according to the secret arrangements of the Most High. I read in this conversion of mine a most extraordinary event: Rome did all she could to retain me as her defender, as a theologian qualified in every respect to serve her purposes; and I, on the contrary, against the inclination of the natural man, did all in my power to show how much I despised her service, and her flattering offers,—indifferent alike to her honours and her gifts; drawing down upon myself her eternal odium and vengeance. Still I must acknowledge, that it was not myself, but a secret spirit within me, that resisted; overruling my natural inclinations, and preventing my being led away by the proffered allurements of ambition and wealth. I began to look without apprehension on my position with respect to the Church, and my duties connected with it. The dormant idea of Hierarchy had faded from my mind, and that of Community occupied its place. I required not the assistance of the pope to understand the Bible; I looked to the Saviour alone to elevate my soul towards God. It had now become impossible for me to remain any longer under so vile a subjection. Higher aspirations came over me; I was led into other paths, through the adorable dispositions of that Providence by whom the destinies of all men are ordained; the same which, after having permitted for all-wise ends the abomination of popery to dominate during so many ages in Italy, seems now to will its destruction. So may it be. Amen.

[39] Rom. xiv. 17.