XXV. Thus it succeeds with the sinner, who, fugitive from vice, puts himself under the divine protection, which never fails those who solicit it; but to be uniform to what I proposed, it will now be necessary, to consider virtue in its natural state, and abstracted from the extraordinary aids, with which it is assisted by grace. SECT. VI. XXVI. The superlative Mount of Virtue is formed the reverse of all other mountains. In the material mountains, the skirts are pleasant, and the tops all asperity; therefore, in ascending them, the pleasant part diminishes, and the dreary part augments. On the contrary, the skirts of the Mount of Virtue are disgusting, and the eminence grateful. He who would arrive at it, must expect at first setting out, to meet with nothing but rocks, thorns, and thickets, but as he advances in his course, the asperity diminishes, and he begins to discover the pleasant part; and at length, on arriving at the top, he sees nothing but beautiful flowers, regaling plants, and crystal fountains. XXVII. The first passages, are excessively laborious and slippery: _per insidias iter est, formasque ferarum_; he is courted by the songs of the syrens, from the sea of the world; he is terrified in some parts of the mountain, by the roaring of lions. He casts a wishful look on the smooth surface of the valley, and he contemplates with dread the top of the mountain, to which he aspires. Freed from the prison of sin, still, in his passions he wears his fetters, the weight of which, together with the difficulty of the road, render his progress slow and toilsome. He hears just behind him, the soft murmurs of his criminal pleasures, which accost him as they did St. Austin, and say, is it possible that you can abandon us? _Dimittis de nos_: is it possible you can take your leave and absent yourself from us for ever? _Et a momento isto non erimus tecum ultra in æternum._ He however proceeds on, though a little dejected, and now and then meets a rub in the way, which causes him to stumble; but now he begins to find the path less difficult, and the clamours of earthly delights make less impression on him, because he hears them at a greater distance. Just so St. Austin experienced it: _Et audiebam eas jam longè minus quam dimidias, veluti a dorso musitantes._ Having gone a little further, he begins to discover the road plain and smooth, and although now and then the force of his antient habits causes him to think of the pleasures he has enjoyed, and the difficulty of forsaking them, the stroke is so feeble, that it makes no impression: _Cum diceret mihi consuetudo violenta, putasne sine istis poteris? sed jam tepidissimè hoc dicebat._