The Spiritual Confrerences of SFS

Against Private Judgment and the tenderness which we show to ourselves

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The first question[1] to be asked is, whether to be governed by one's own private opinion is absolutely contrary to perfection or not. To that I reply that to have one's own private opinions, or not to have them, is in itself neither good nor bad, since either state of things is perfectly natural. Every one indeed has, speaking generally, his own opinions; but provided that he does not love too fondly and cling too closely to them, that is no hindrance to perfection. It is the too close attachment to them which is the obstacle to our attainment to perfection, and, as I have often said, the love of our own private judgment, and the high esteem in which we hold it, is really the cause of there being so few perfect souls among us. There are many persons who renounce their own will, some on one ground, some on another; I do not say only in Religion, but among seculars, and even in the courts of princes. If a Prince commands a courtier to do anything, he will never refuse to obey; but to admit the wisdom of the command is a very rare occurrence. "I will do what you command me to do, and in the manner in which you tell me to do it," he will reply, "but" —and on this "but" they dwell with a long significant stress, which implies that they know very well the thing would be better if done differently, or not at all. No one can doubt, my dear daughters that this kind of thing is quite contrary to perfection, for it produces, generally speaking, anxiety of mind, disputes, murmurings — and to sum up all, it nourishes self-esteem; whereas our own opinions and our private judgment must be neither loved nor over esteemed.

I must, however, tell you that there are persons who are bound to form their own opinions, such as Bishops, Superiors who have the care of others, and all those whose duty it is to rule and govern. With the exception, however, of these persons, none should do so—unless, of course, obedience commands it— otherwise they are simply wasting the time they should employ in calm, restful union with God. And just as these latter persons would be considered very inattentive to the work of their own perfection, and as employing themselves in quite a useless manner, if they stopped to consider their own private opinions, so, on the other hand, Superiors must be considered wholly unfit for their duties if they do not form[2] their own opinions, and are not ready to act upon them with firmness and resolution, though without self-complacency or too close attach­ment to them, which would, of course, be contrary to their perfection.

The great St. Thomas, who had one of the loftiest minds possible, when he formed any opinion, supported it with the most weighty arguments that he could bring forward. Nevertheless, if he came in contact with any one who did not approve of what he had decided to be right, or had contradicted it, he neither disputed with him nor was offended by his action, but took all in good part. He thereby showed that he had no love for his own opinion, though he could not abandon it; he left the matter alone, to be approved or disapproved by others as they pleased. Having done his duty, he troubled himself no more about the subject. The Apostles were not attached to their own opinions—not even in things which concerned so important a matter as the government of the Holy Church. If, after they had determined a matter by the resolution which they had taken upon it, any one differed from them regarding it, they were by no means offended. If any refused to accept their opinion, however well founded it might be, they never sought to force it upon thorn by disputes and contests [Acts 15:7, 12, 13; 1 Cor. 11:16].

If, then, Superiors were willing to change their opinion at every turn, we should consider them feeble and imprudent in their mode of governing. But, at the same time, if those who are not in authority should cling with great pertinacity to their own opinions, determined not only to maintain them, but also to compel others to receive them, they would be considered obstinate.

It is, indeed, most certain that the love of one’s own opinion does degenerate into obstinacy, if it is not steadily mortified and restrained. We have an example of this even among the Apostles. It, is a matter worthy of our deepest wonder that Our Lord should have permitted many great and noble things done by the holy Apostles to remain unrecorded, and indeed to be buried in the most profound obscurity, while the imperfection of both the great St. Paul and St. Barnabas in their conduct towards each other is written down. Doubtless this is a special providence of Our Lord, Who has so willed it for our learning [Rom. 15:4].

The two Apostles were setting forth together to preach the holy Gospel, and were taking with them a young man named John Mark, who was related to St. Barnabas. On the way these two great Apostles disputed as to whether they should take him with them or not; and finding that they were of contrary opinion on the matter, and not being able to agree, they separated from one another [Acts. 15:37-40]. Ought we, then, to be disturbed and surprised at seeing such a fault as this among ourselves, when even the Apostles committed it?

There are some great minds — good, too, as well as great—who are nevertheless so absolutely slaves to their own opinions, and who hold them in such high esteem, that nothing will induce them to change. We must, indeed, be very careful not to ask their opinion, for afterwards it is almost impossible to get them to see and own that they were in the wrong. This is all the more so, be­cause they will have already involved themselves so deeply in endeavours to find reasons calculated to support what they have once declared to be right, that, unless they are striving after a most absolute perfection, it is almost impossible to make them retract what they have said. On the other hand, there are those who, although of lofty intellect and possessed of great mental and physical powers, are in no degree subject to this imperfection, but willingly yield their own opinion, excellent though it may be. They are not up in arms directly they are opposed or contradicted, though they may be entirely in the right, as we have seen in the case of the great St. Thomas. It is, then, natural to have an opinion of one's own.

Persons of a melancholy temperament are generally more firmly attached to their own opinion than those of a gay and lively one, for the latter are easily guided, and ready to believe whatever they are told. The great St. Paula was obstinate in the opinion she had formed of the necessity of practising great austerities, and would not submit to the advice of those who desired her to abstain from them[3]. And the same is true of many other saints, who believed that the body must be severely macerated in order to please God, refusing, therefore, to obey the physician and to do what was necessary for the preservation of this frail and mortal body. Now, although this was an imperfection, yet it did not prevent them from being great saints and very pleasing to God — a fact which teaches us not to be disquieted when we perceive in ourselves imperfections, or inclinations contrary to true virtue, provided that we do not allow ourselves to persevere obstinately in them. St. Paula and those other saints who were obstinate, even though it might be in matters of small account, were in that respect blamable. As for us, we must never so form our opinions as not to be ready, if necessary, willingly to give them up, whether we were forced to form them or not. It is, then, perfectly natural that we should hold our own judgment in esteem, and carefully seek reasons to support what we have once understood and judged to be right. But to be wholly swayed by and to cling pertinaciously to it, is a great im­perfection. Tell me, is it not a useless waste of time, especially for those who are not in authority, to trifle in this way?

You ask me: "What, then, must I do to mortify this tendency?” You must cut off its supply of food. If it occurs to you that some one was wrong in ordering a thing to be done in a particular way, and that you yourself could have planned and arranged it much better, reject the thought instantly, saying to yourself: " Ah! What have I to do with the matter, seeing that it was never entrusted to my care?" It is always much better to reject these thoughts at once quite simply, than to hunt about in our own mind for reasons to make us believe that we are in the wrong. For instead of doing this, our understanding, being preoccupied with its own private judgment, will mislead us, so that instead of dealing the death-blow to our own opinion, it will give us reasons for persisting in it and asserting it to be good. It is always better to despise it without looking at it, and to drive it away promptly, directly it becomes visible, before we have time to hear what it would say to us.

It is quite clear that we cannot prevent the first thrill of complacency which stirs us when our opinion is approved and followed, for that is inevitable. But we must not dwell on nor take pleasure in this complacency; we must thank God and then pass on with no more thought about it; just as, on the other hand, when our opinion is neither approved nor followed, we must not encourage the slight emotion of pain which is certain to stir within us. When we are compelled either by charity or obedience to offer our opinion on any subject, we must do so simply and with a calm indifference as to whether it will be taken or not. We must even sometimes say what we think about the opinions of others, and demonstrate the reasons on which we support our own; but this must always be done modestly and humbly, without despising the opinion of others, or contending for the adoption of our own.

You will ask, perhaps, if (when it is no longer a question of forming any resolution, what, is thought right to be done having been already determined upon) you are not feeding this imperfection by talking about it afterwards with those who have shown themselves to be of your opinion? Most certainly. And you would commit an imperfection; for it is the surest sign that we do not yield to the opinion of others, and always prefer our own Therefore, when the thing proposed has been determined on, there must be no more talking about it – no more thinking, even, about it — unless, indeed, it is a matter involving much evil; then, if by dwelling further on the matter we can prevent its being carried into execution, or apply some remedy to it, we may do so. But then it must be done with the greatest possible charity and delicacy, so as to dis­quiet no one, or cast any contempt upon what has seemed good in their eyes.

The one only remedy which can cure the evil of private judgment is, the firm rejection of its first suggestion, and the turning of our thoughts at once to something better. For if we were to allow ourselves to pay attention to all the various opinions brought before our minds, to all the difficulties and possibilities which might arise, what could possibly result but continual distractions and hindrances in those things which are most necessary for our perfection, which would render us weak and wholly incapable of devout and recollected prayer? For, having thus given our mind liberty to amuse itself with such deceits, it will become more and more deeply involved in them. It will produce thought after thought, opinion after opinion, and reason after reason, all of which will grievously disturb and hinder us in our devotions: for prayer is nothing else but the lifting of our whole mind, with all its faculties, to God. Now, when it is wearied and worn out by the pursuit of useless things, it becomes less and less fitted for the consideration of those mysteries on which we meditate in our prayer.

This, then, is what I had to say to you with regard to the first question. I would teach you that to have opinions is not contrary to perfection at all, but to love them and hold them in high esteem is. For if we do not esteem them we shall not be so much in love with them, and if we do not love them we shall not trouble ourselves at all as to whether they are approved or not, and shall not be so ready to say: "Others may believe what they please, but as for me," &c. Do you know what that "as for me" means? Simply this: "I will never submit, but will abide fixedly in my own opinion, resolved to hold to it." Yes, as I have told you many times, this is the last thing which we give up; and yet, to abandon and to renounce it is one of the most necessary steps towards the attainment of true perfection, for by no other means can we acquire holy humility, which forbids us to esteem ourselves or anything connected with ourselves in any degree. Moreover, if we do not practise this virtue very assiduously, we shall always be fancying ourselves something better than we are, and believing that others owe us much considera­tion. Now, we have said enough on this subject.

If you do not ask me anything more, we will pass on to the second question, which is, whether the tenderness which we bear to ourselves is a great hindrance to us on the road to perfection. In order to understand this subject better, I must remind you of what you know very well, namely, that we have within us two loves — affective love and effective love; and this, both as regards our love for God, and our love for our neighbour and ourselves. At present, however, we will only speak of that which we bear to our neighbour, and will return later on to ourselves.

Theologians are in the habit of explaining the difference between these two kinds of loves by making use of the comparison of a father who has two sons — the one still a dear, lovable little child, with all the graces of childhood; the other a grown man, brave and generous, perhaps a soldier, or practising some other noble profession. The father loves both these sons intensely, but with a very different kind of love for each. The child he regards with a tender and affective love, which he displays in every kind of fond caress, allowing the little darling in return to take all sorts of childish liberties with him. If the little one is stung by a bee, the father breathes softly and continuously upon the sore spot till the pain has abated; whereas, if his elder son were stung by a hundred bees, he would pay no heed, though at the same time he loves him with a most deep und enduring love. Now, I beg you to consider the difference between these two loves. You have seen the father's tenderness towards the little child, yet he intends as the years roll on to send him forth into the world, away from the paternal home, and to make him a Knight of Malta, because he will make his eldest son his heir and the inheritor of all his possessions. The love he bears to his eldest son is, therefore, an effective love; that which he bears to the little one is affective: both are loved, but differently. The love we have for ourselves is also of two kinds — affective and effective. Effective love is that which governs the great men of the world, those who aspire to honours and riches, who obtain for themselves as much property and as many possessions as they can, and are yet never satisfied, but always crave for more. Such people love themselves with an effective love. But there are others who rather love themselves with an affective love. They are the people who are very tender with themselves, and do nothing but complain, pamper, coddle, and take care of themselves. They are pitiably afraid of doing something which might injure their precious health. If they are at all ill, be it only the merest fingerache, no one, according to their own account, suffers so much as they do; they are so miserable! No evil, however great, is to be compared with what they are suffering, and they cannot find remedies enough; they fly from one cure to another, and in this way ruin the health they are so anxious to preserve. If other people are ill it matters not. No one, they think, is to be pitied but themselves. They shed tears of tender sympathy over their own sufferings, trying by that means to move those around them to compassion; they care not about being considered patient, if only they are believed to be sick and afflicted. This is an imperfection, certainly, peculiar to children, or (if I may venture to say so) to women, or to effeminate men deficient in courage; for among noble minds this fault is not met with. Well-balanced and generous souls are not impeded by these follies and this silly softness, which can only hinder our progress along the road of perfection. And then, again, not to be able to endure being considered tender is surely to be so in the highest degree!

I recollect a circumstance which was brought before my own observation—a true history—which bears upon the subject in question most forcibly, and which gave me more consolation at the time of its occurrence than all the virtues and excellencies of the many pious souls with whom I was then in contact. I had returned from Paris to a certain religious house in which there was at that time a young postulant, of a wonderfully sweet, tractable, submissive, and obedient disposition —in fact, she possessed all the qualities necessary for a true Religious of the Visitation. Unhappily, however, as time went on the sisters observed in her a physical infirmity, which made them doubtful whether they ought not to dismiss her. The Mother Superior loved her dearly, and grieved at the thought of doing so, but as the sisters were still troubled about the matter, it was referred to my decision. The poor girl, who was of good birth, being brought before me, threw herself on her knees, saying with the greatest humility: "Father, it is quite true that I have such an infirmity, and that it is a most humiliating one" (specifying it aloud with great simplicity). "I admit that our sisters have good reason to be unwilling to receive me, for indeed my company must be intolerable to them; but I entreat you to judge the matter in my favour, assuring you that if they will receive me, thus exercising their charity with regard to me, I will take the greatest care not to inconvenience them, cheerfully working in the garden, or employing myself in any offices whatever which will keep me at the greatest distance from them.[4]"

This young girl really touched me deeply. Not one atom of tenderness had she shown towards herself! I could not help saying that I would willingly have the same natural infirmity, if I could have, like her, the courage to own it before everybody with the same simplicity as she had owned it to me.

In her there was not that fear of being thought badly of, which so many have; she was not so tender over herself. She did not ask herself all sorts of idle, useless questions, such as: "What will the Superior say if I tell her this or that? If I ask her for any remedy, she will say or think that I am so tender." Well, if it is true, why should you not wish her to think it? "But when I tell her what I need, she looks at me so coldly that it seems as if she disapproved." Well, my dear daughter, it may be that the Superior's mind is so full of other things that she is not always able to smile and speak graciously when you are telling her of your ailments, and this, it appears, vexes you and makes you feel unable to speak to her with confidence about them.

My dear daughters! All this is mere childishness; you must act more simply. If the Superior or the Mistress of the Novices happened on one occasion not to have received you quite as pleasantly as you would like — if this has even been the case more than once — that is no reason why you should be annoyed and expect that they will always behave in the same way. Oh no! Our Lord will perhaps touch their hearts, and infuse into them His own spirit of sweetness, so that when you next approach them they may treat you much more kindly.

Then, again, we must not be so tender with ourselves as to be always wanting to talk about our trifling ailments, such as a slight headache or toothache, which may probably soon pass off, if only we will bear it for the love of God, instead of telling it to those about us in order to excite sympathy. Perhaps, however, you will not mention it to the Superior or to the Infirmarian, but only to the sisters, giving as your reason that you wish to suffer this for God. Oh, my dear daughter, if you were really willing to suffer this for the love of God, as you think, you would not mention the matter to others, who, as you know, will certainly feel bound to inform the Superior of it. By this means you will get in a roundabout and shifty way, the remedy or relief which it were better to have asked for simply and straightforwardly, from the person who could give you leave to take it. You know perfectly well that the sister to whom you complain of having a distracting headache, has no power to tell you that you may go to bed. The truth is, whatever you may think, that you have mentioned it in order to get a little pity from this sister, and that is good food for your self-love. Of course, it may be that the matter is accidentally mentioned. If, for instance, the sisters ask you how you are at that very moment, there is nothing wrong then in saying that you have a headache, provided that you speak simply, without exaggera­tion or foolish lamentations. But, excepting in such a case as this, you must only mention it to the Superior or to the Mistress of Novices[5]. This, too, you must do without being frightened, even though they may be somewhat severe in their correction of such a fault. As they have confidence enough in you to correct you, go and tell them your trouble with simplicity. I can easily believe that you would rather tell your ailment to the sister whose business it is not to make you take remedies, than to one whose business it is to do so; for while you are addressing yourself to the former, all are pitying you and racking their brains to suggest and provide remedies, whereas if you were to tell the sister who is in charge of you, you would be bound to submit to her prescriptions; and it is this very submission against which we so passionately rebel — self-love striving to gain entire dominion over us and to master our will.

"But," you reply, "if I tell the Superior that I am suffering from a headache she will tell me to go to bed." Well, what does that matter? If you are not really ill enough, it will cost you nothing to say: "Mother (or sister), it seems to me that 1 am not ill enough for that." If, however, in spite of your saying this she still insists, you will go quite simply, for always and in all things great simplicity must be observed. To walk with simplicity is the true path of the daughters of the Visitation; in this path they will be pleasing to God, and most secure from stumbling.

Should you, however, see some sister oppressed by trouble of mind, or by some physical infirmity, yet lacking the courage and confidence to come and tell you about it, and should you notice that this reticence is producing melancholy and dejection, ought you to try to draw her to you, or to leave her to come of herself? That depends upon circumstances; for sometimes you must condescend to her weakness by calling her to you and inquiring what is the matter; and sometimes you must mortify these little caprices by leaving her alone, as if you would say: "You will not condescend to ask for the proper remedy for your malady, endure it, then, as well as you can; you deserve it."

This softness and self-pity is far more intolerable when it has to do with mental troubles than when it relates to physical ones. Unfortunately, it is more practised and nourished by spiritual persons, who desire to be saints without its costing them anything — not even the sufferings caused by their lower nature, which resents all opposition. Still, willing or not, we must have the courage to suffer, and consequently to resist the efforts of this re­bellious nature, which will occasionally assert itself, unless we wish to be made bankrupts as regards that perfection which we are striving to attain. I have a great desire that you should always distinguish clearly between the workings of the higher part of your soul and those of the lower, and that you should never be surprised at the manifestations of the lower part, bad as they may be. They are wholly incapable of stopping us on our way, if only we hold firm to the higher part, always pressing on along the road to perfection, without indulging ourselves and wasting time in complaining that we are imperfect and much to be pitied, as if our whole duty consisted in bewailing our misery and misfortune in being so slow and stumbling so often before reaching our goal.

The young girl of whom I spoke just now, showed no emotion when telling me of her defect; on the contrary, she spoke with a courage and calmness which pleased me greatly. Many of us, on the contrary, delight in shedding tears over our deficiencies; that satisfies our self-love so thoroughly. My dear daughters, we must be more generous, and not in the least astonished at discovering ourselves to be liable to a thousand different kinds of imperfections. We must set ourselves to the task of overcoming our various inclinations, tempers, eccen­tricities, and emotions courageously; we must mortify each one of them as it starts up in its turn. If, in spite of our efforts, we fall from time to time into some fault, do not lot us dwell upon it, but, plucking up courage, let us be more faithful on the next occasion, and press on along the path which leads to God and to self-renunciation.

You ask me next how you ought to act if the Superior, seeing you sadder than usual, should ask you what is the matter; and you, having your mind full of vexations and thoughts that trouble you, feel quite unable to disentangle them, and to tell her what she asks. Well, in that case you must way perfectly simply how the matter stands, in words such as these: "My mind is full of things, but I know not what they are." But you say that you are afraid the Superior will think you have not, enough confidence in her to tell her about thorn. Now, what ought you to care whether she thinks so or not? Why should you trouble yourself, provided that you are doing your duty? What, will they say if I do this or that? Or what will the Superior think? These are considerations which cannot be dwelt upon without great detriment to your perfection. You must always remember, when I say this, that I am not talking of the doings of our lower nature, which I make no account of, but I am addressing myself to the higher nature, when I say that you must despise these thoughts of what others will say or think.

This thought suggests itself to you when you have given an account of yourself to your Superior, fearing that you have not sufficiently specified your faults, and imagining to yourself that she will say or think that you were unwilling to tell her everything. Well, remember that it is the same with this as with your confessions, both must be done with equal simplicity. Now tell me, would it be right to say: "If I confess such and such a thing, what will my confessor say or think of me?" By no means; he may think and say what he likes; provided he has given me absolution, and that I have done my duty, that is enough. After confession, is not the right time for examining ourselves as to whether we have told all that we have done amiss, but is rather a time when we should remain calm and recollected, close to Our Lord, to Whom we have just been reconciled, praising and thanking Him for His benefits, without any necessity to try and recall what we may have forgotten in our con­fession. In the same way with your manifestation of conscience, say simply what occurs to you, then think no more about the matter. At the same time, as we should not go to Confession well prepared if we were unwilling to examine ourselves, for fear of finding faults which must be confessed, so, also, we must not neglect self-introspection before making our manifestation, for fear of finding something which it would give us pain to tell.

Again, you must not be so soft and weak as to want to tell everything, hurrying off to your Superiors with an outcry at the slightest pain, which really may be gone in a quarter of an hour. You must learn to be courageous in your endurance of these little evils, for which no remedy is to be found. They are, generally speaking, the effects of our im­perfect nature; such, for instance, as fickle tempers, varying moods, wishes, and even longings which sometimes sadden us, sometimes impel us to speak, at other times make us halo the idea of doing so. To evils such as these all of us are, and shall continue to be, subject as long as we remain in this transitory and perishable life. As regards, however, the trouble which you say disturbs you, and makes you unable to keep yourself calm and recollected in the presence of God, unless you hasten to tell the Superior about it, I would bid you observe that this trouble does not perhaps prevent your being recollected in the presence of God, though it may deprive you of all sweetness in this recollection. Now, if this is all, if, as you say, you have the courage and the will to endure it, without seeking any relief, I tell you that, you do well in so enduring, even though the effort may cause you some disquietude, unless indeed you are so overwhelmed by it that you can no longer keep your soul near to God. In this case you must go and tell the Superior, not for your own relief, but to get back once again into the presence of God, although it would not be very wrong to do it for relief.

Again, our sisters must not so depend upon the outward tokens of the Superior's affection, that if she does not speak to them exactly as they like, they at once decide that it is because she does not love them.

No; our sisters must esteem humility and mortification too highly, to be made melancholy by a slight suspicion, probably entirely unfounded, that they are not regarded with as much affection as their self-love desires! "But," some one will say, "I have committed a fault against the Superior herself, and I am very much afraid that she will be displeased with me for it, and will think less well of me than she did." My dear sisters, all this trouble is stirred up within you at the command of a cer­tain spiritual father called "self-love," who says: "What! to have failed thus! What will our Mother think or say of me? Oh, there is no good to be expected of me! I am a poor, miserable creature; I can never do anything to please our Mother;" and such like lamentations. You do not say: Alas! I have offended God, I must have recourse to His goodness, and hope He will strengthen me. No, you say: Oh, I know that God is good, He will pardon my faithlessness. He knows too well how frail I am; but our Mother … We always go back to that same point and begin our lamentations over again.

Of course we must endeavour to please our Superiors, for the great Apostle St. Paul tells us so. Speaking to servants — and the exhortation may be well applied also to children — he says: Servants, obey in all things your masters[6]; meaning, take great care to please them. But he also says later: not serving your masters to the eye [Eph. 6:5-6; Col. 3:22], meaning that servants are to beware of doing more in their masters’ sight than they would do if they were absent; because the eye of God beholds them always. It is God Whom we should be most careful not to displease in any way, not tormenting ourselves with vain en­deavours to please men, a thing which is not always in our power. Let us indeed do our best not to vex or pain any one; but having done that, if through infirmity we should happen to cause some annoyance to our neighbours, let us always fall buck upon the doctrine I have so often preached to you, and which I desire to imprint so deeply on your hearts. Humble yourselves instantly before God, acknowledging your frailty and feebleness, then repair your fault, if it is a sufficiently grave one, by some act of humility with regard to the person whom you have vexed. Having done that, trouble no more about it, for our spiritual father[7], the love of God, forbids us to do so, teaching us, that after having made our act of humility, we should retire into ourselves, as it were, hugging to our breast the blessed humiliation of our sense of failure, and the thought of the welcome correction the Superior will give us.

We have two loves, two judgments, and two wills; therefore we must pay no heed whatever to anything that self-love, private judgment, or our own will may suggest. Our one aim must be to make the love of God reign supreme over self-love, and the judgment of Superiors, and even of equals and inferiors, over our own, trampling it under foot. We must not rest content with subjecting our will by doing all that is desired of us, but subject even our judgment, so as to believe that the thing we are commanded to do could not possibly be done in a better way, more fittingly, nor more reasonably. We shall thus be giving the lie absolutely to those reasons brought forward by our own judgment to support the contrary opinion. We may indeed just once simply state our reasons if they seem good to us; but, having done this, we must silently acquiesce in what we are told, and by that means deal the death-blow to our own judgment, which we esteem more wise and prudent than that of others.

Ah! Mother, our sisters are so resolved to love mortification, that it will soon be a delight to see them; consolations will be as nothing to them in comparison with sorrows, dryness, and repugnance, so desirous are they to grow in likeness to their Spouse. Help them then in their endeavours; mortify them thoroughly and boldly without sparing them in any way, for this is truly what they ask. They will no longer desire your caresses, since that is contrary to the generosity of their devotion. This will henceforward oblige them to cling only to the one desire of pleasing God, considering nothing else unless it may help them to the fulfilment of that desire. To be disturbed and shaken by every little contradiction that we meet with is the sign of a want of courage, and a feeble devotion. Never fear that these foolish melancholy tempers and peevish frettings will prevail among us; we have too firm a courage, thanks to God! Henceforth we will endeavour to do so much, that it will be a pleasure to see us. Only remember, my dear daughters, that we must strive for great purity of intention, so that doing all for God, for His honour and glory, we may look to Him only for our reward; His Love will be our guerdon in this life, and He Himself will Se our reward in Eternity.

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[1] First of all let us make the sign of the Cross, and then say a few words on these two questions, but very few, so as to leave the sisters time to ask me what they like. The first is, if to be governed, &c.

[2] form—some resolution with regard to questions proposed to them, and make use of considerations in support of their opinion. Indeed, it would be a very unsuitable thing to see them always irresolute in giving their opinion, though at the same time they must not love it nor cling too closely to it, &c.

[3] The last two paragraphs of Conference 9.

[4] This event took place in the Visitation Convent of Bourges. The postulant, whose family name was Tillier or Tellier, or perhaps Le Tellier, received in religion the name of Anne-Marie. A short time after the death of St. Francis de Sales, she was miraculously cured by his intercession of the infirmity which so nearly shut her out from the Cloister. (Unpublished History of the Foundation of the Convent of Bourges ; cf. Life of St. F. de Sales, by P. de la Riviere, Book IV. chap. Ixv.)

[5] or to the Mistress of Novices.—You reply that you are afraid of showing emotion if you tell the Superior about it. Well then, do not speak of the ailment at all — I mean, if it is not one of any importance. I highly approve of the custom of the Carmelite Sisters not to complain of their ailments or to mention them except to the Superior, and the Novices to their Mistress. (MS. and Coll.)

[6] These words are not to be found verbatim in the writings of St. Paul. Perhaps St. Francis de Sales is alluding to a passage in the Epistle to the Romans (12:17), in which the Greek word envpion may be construed in the sight - "doing good in the sight of men."

[7] for—another of our spiritual fathers.