That which costs little is of little worth. This thought should make us tremble. In our self-examination we may experience at times a certain satisfaction in noticing the [pg 035] little virtues we may possess, above all, those that render us pleasing in the eyes of others.

For instance, we may like to pray at a certain place, with certain sentiments, and we think ourselves devout; we are gentle, polite, and smiling towards one person in particular; patient with those we fear, or in whose good opinion we would stand; we are devoted, charitable, generous, because the heart experiences an unspeakable pleasure in spending and being spent for others; we suffer willingly at the hands of some one we love, and then say we are patient; we are silent, because we have no inclination to speak; shunning society because we fail to shine there, and then fancy that we love retirement.

Take these virtues that give you such self-satisfaction, one by one, and ask yourself at what sacrifice, labor, or cost, above all, with what care you [pg 036] have managed to acquire them.... Alas! you will find that all that patience, affability, generosity, and piety are but as naught, springing from a heart puffed up with pride. It costs nothing, and it is worthless.

As self-sacrifice, says De Maistre, is the basis and essence of virtue, so those virtues are the most meritorious that have cost the greatest effort to attain.

Do not look with so much pride on this collection of virtues, but rather bring yourself to account for your faults. Take just one, the first that comes, impatience, sloth, gossip, uncharitableness, sulkiness, whatever it may be, and attack it bravely.

It will take at least a month, calculating upon three victories every day, not indeed to eradicate it,—a fault is not so short-lived,—but to prevent its attaining dominion over you.

That one subdued, then take [pg 037] another. It is the work of a lifetime; and truly to our faults may we apply the saying, "Quand il n'y en a plus, il y en a encore."

"Happy should I think myself," said S. Francis de Sales, "if I could rid myself of my imperfections but one-quarter of an hour previous to my death."