There remains no
choice between these two alternatives: you must either found your
conduct upon intelligence enlightened by faith, or abandon it, like a
rudderless ship, to the caprice of passion and pleasure.
The life of a worldly woman is a fictitious life: nature seems to
have no attractions for her; her soul has lost all taste for its
charms; she studiously endeavors to shut out its influences, and to
subvert as much as possible the order by which it is governed. This
estrangement, this disgust with nature, haunts her wherever she goes,
even in the making of her toilet, even in the employment of her time.
She converts day into night and night into day, giving to pleasure
the time destined for repose; she purloins from the industrious hours
of day the sleep and rest for which her wearied limbs and excited
imagination contend.
While she is sleeping, the humble daughter of St. Benedict or St.
Dominic leaves her cell to sing the praises of the Lord, and offer
Him the day with its duties consecrated without reserve to His glory.
When heavy curtains screen her restless slumber from the sun's
obtrusive light, the pious daughter of St.
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