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 _bonâ 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?"