My conscience gnaws me and shows me the secrets of my heart.

Avarice constrains me, concupiscence befouls me, gluttony disgraces me, anger torments me, inconstancy crushes me, indolence oppresses me, hypocrisy beguiles me....

and these, Lord, are the companions with whom I have spent my youth, these are the friends I have known, these are the masters I have served." And further on he exclaims, "Sin have I heaped upon sin, and the sins which I could not commit in very deed yet have I committed by evil desire." Durtal closed the volume, regretting that it should be so entirely unknown to Catholics.

They were all busy chewing the cud of the old hay left at the heading or end of the "Christian's Day" or "The Eucologia," or meditating on the pompous prayers elaborated in the ponderous phraseology of the seventeenth century, in which there is no accent of sincerity to be found--nothing, not an appeal that comes from the heart, not even a pious cry! How far were these rhapsodies all cast in the same mould from this penitent and simple language, from this easy and candid communion of the soul with God?
Then Durtal dipped again here and there, and read:-- "My God and my Mercy, I am ashamed to pray to Thee for very shame of my evil conscience; give a fountain of tears to my eyes, and my hands largess of alms and charity; give me a seemly faith, and hope, and abiding charity.

Lord, Thou holdest no man in horror save the fool that denies Thee.