be
specially careful now. 'I did all I could to ascertain God's
Will,' he said, and he came to the conclusion that it was his
duty
to undertake the work. He did so, and after two numbers had
appeared, Dr. Ullathorne, the Bishop of Birmingham, called upon
him, and gently hinted that he had better leave the paper alone.
Its tone was not liked at Rome; it had contained an article
criticising St. Pius V, and, most serious of all, the orthodoxy
of
one of Newman's own essays had appeared to be doubtful. He
resigned, and in the anguish of his heart, determined never to
write again. One of his friends asked him why he was publishing
nothing. 'Hannibal's elephants,' he replied, 'never could learn
the goose-step.'

Newman was now an old man--he was sixty-three years of age. What
had he to look forward to? A few last years of insignificance and
silence. What had he to look back upon? A long chronicle of
wasted efforts, disappointed hopes, neglected possibilities,
unappreciated powers. And now all his labours had ended by his
being accused at Rome of lack of orthodoxy. He could no longer
restrain his indignation, and in a letter to one of his lady
penitents, he gave vent to the bitterness of his soul. When his
Rambler article had been complained of, he said, there had been
some talk of calling him to Rome. 'Call me to Rome,' he burst
out--'what does that mean? It means to sever an old man from his
home, to subject him to intercourse with persons whose
languages are strange to him-- to food and to fashions which are
almost starvation on the one hand, and involve restless days and