knowing the world? Can thy yoke appear grievous, after quitting that of the passions? And the thorns of thy cross, are they not flowers, when compared to those which the ways of iniquity and the world have sown?
Thus every day we hear the worshippers of the world decry the world they serve; complain with the utmost dissatisfaction of their lot; utter the keenest invectives against its injustice and abuses; censure, condemn, and despise it: but find me, if you can, any truly pious souls, who send forth invectives against virtue; who condemn or despise it; and who detest their lot of being embarked in a voyage so full of chagrin and bitterness. The world itself continually envies the destiny of the virtuous, and acknowledges that none are happy but the upright; but find me a truly pious soul, who envies the destiny of the world; who publishes that none are happy but its partisans; who admires the wisdom of their choice, and regards his own condition as the most miserable and the most foolish: — what shall I say? We have frequently seen sinners, who, through despair and disgust at the world, have fled to opposite extremes; lose rest, health, reason, and life; fall into states of horror, and the blackest melancholy, and no longer regard life but as the greatest torment. But where are the righteous, whom the disgusts which accompany virtue have thrown into such dreadful extremities? They sometimes complain of their sorrows; but they still prefer them to the pleasures of the passions: virtue, it is true, may sometimes appear melancholy and unpleasing to them; but, with all her sadness, they love her much more than guilt: they would wish a few more sensible supports and consolations from the Father of mercies, but they detest those of the world: they suffer, but the same hand which proves, supports them, and they are not tempted beyond their strength: they feel what you call the weight of the yoke of Jesus Christ; but, in recalling the load of iniquity, under which they had so long groaned, they find their present lot happy, and the comparison calms and comforts them.
In effect, my brethren, in the first place, the violences which we do to ourselves, are much more agreeable than those which come from without, and happen in spite of us. Now, the violences of virtue are, at least, voluntary: these are crosses which we choose from reason, and impose upon ourselves from duty: they are often bitter, but we are consoled by the reflection of having chosen them. But the disgusts of the world are forced crosses, which come without our being consulted: it is a hateful yoke, which is imposed on us against our will: we wish it not; we detest it; yet, nevertheless, we must drink all the bitterness of the cup. In virtue, we only suffer, because it is our inclination to suffer: in the world, we suffer so much the more, in proportion as we wish it less, and as our inclinations are inimical to our sufferings.
Secondly. The disgusts accompanying virtue are a burden only to indolence and laziness; these are repugnances, bitter
