“Being some time ago alarmed by the prospect of impending calamity, and clearly foreseeing the tempests which have now begun to rage with the utmost violence, I detailed my apprehensions in a letter which I intended, most reverend father, to have addressed to you. That letter, which the nature of its subject caused to be extended to an extraordinary length, I did not send to you, according to my original design—not through fear of exciting your displeasure (for I know you too well to entertain any apprehensions on that subject) but through dread of giving offence to others. For though I am conscious that I was prompted to write merely by a wish to promote the public good, I was apprehensive lest my motives should be misconstrued, and lest it should be thought that my letter was dictated by flattery. You, however, and many other respectable characters, can bear witness, that flattery is not by any means among the number of my failings, and that neither a love of reputation, nor a regard for my own interest, ever induces me to prostitute my opinions, or to approve in words, what I disapprove in my heart. On some occasions indeed I have been materially injured by the freedom with which I am accustomed to speak my sentiments. But sensible as I was, that the dissensions of the powerful are always dangerous, and that the dissensions of ecclesiastics are attended with peculiar peril, inasmuch as they involve the hazard of immortal souls; having also frequently read and heard, that trifling disagreements have been inflamed into the greatest animosity and strife, to the utter ruin of states and empires, I was afraid lest this new contention amongst the chiefs of the sacerdotal order, should involve the Christian world in difficulties, which neither you nor your associates, whatever might be your inclination, would be able to obviate. When we are called to the task of deliberation, we may forbear to act if we please. But when we have begun to act, fortune, the arbitress of human affairs, directs the event; and directs it rather according to the dictates of her caprice, as Sallust observes, than according to the principles of reason. When you have once put yourself in motion, you cannot stop when you please. In perilous seasons it is the duty of the wise to try to preserve the ship by retaining it in the harbour. When you have committed yourself to the winds, you are compelled to obey their impulse. In these circumstances the most skilful pilot may suffer shipwreck, or at least, despairing of making any effectual resistance against the fury of the gale, he may be carried into regions far distant from those to which it was his wish to steer his course. When I reflected on these topics, I was in a manner irresistibly impelled, by my affection for our common country, to acquaint you with my sentiments. After having resided for so many years in the Roman court, I was grieved to see our affairs reduced to such a state, that we had every thing to