Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/177

 luxury of  his  furniture,  of  all  which  no  portion  shall  now  remain  to him  but  the  mournful  cloth  which  is  to  encircle  him  in  the  tomb; from that  air  of  opulence  in  the  midst  of  which  he  had  always  lived. All escape  from  him;  all  abandon  him;  and  he  begins  to  look  upon himself as  a  stranger  in  the  midst  of  his  palaces;  where,  indeed,  he ought  always  to  have  considered  himself  as  such;  as  an  unknown, who no  longer  possesses  any  thing  there;  as  an  unfortunate  wretch, whom they  are  on  the  point  of  stripping  before  his  eyes,  and  whom they only  allow  to  gratify  his  sight  with  the  spoils  for  a  little  while, in order  to  augment  his  regret  and  his  punishment.

Separation from  his  honours  and  offices,  which  he  leaves,  perhaps to  a  rival;  to  which  he  had  at  last  attained,  by  wading  through so many  dangers,  so  many  anxieties,  so  many  meannesses,  and which he  had  enjoyed  with  so  much  insolence  and  pride. He is already  on  the  bed  of  death,  stripped  of  all  the  marks  of  his  dignities, and  of  all  his  titles,  preserving  that  of  a  sinner  alone,  which he in  vain,  and  now  too  late,  bestows  upon  himself. Alas! in this last moment,  he  would  gladly  embrace  the  most  servile  condition; he would  accept,  as  a  favour,  the  most  obscure,  and  the  most  grovelling station,  could  but  his  days  be  prolonged  on  these  conditions;  he  envies  the  lot  of  his  slaves,  whom  he  leaves  behind  him; he rapidly  advances  toward  death,  and  turns  back  his  eyes  with  regret, to  take  a  lingering  look  of  life.

Separation from  his  body,  for  whose  gratification  he  had  always lived, and  with  which,  by  favouring  all  its  passions,  he  had  contracted such  lively  and  intimate  ties. He feels  that  the  house  of mud  is  crumbling  into  dust;  he  feels  the  approaches  of  death  in each  of  his  senses;  he  no  longer  holds  to  life,  but  by  a  carcass which moulders  away;  by  the  cruel  agonies  which  his  diseases make him  feel;  by  the  excess  of  his  love  for  it,  and  which  becomes more lively  in  proportion  as  he  advances  toward  the  moment  of separation:  from  his  relations,  from  his  friends,  whom  he  sees surrounding his  bed,  and  whose  tears  and  lamentations  wring  his heart, and  make  him  cruelly  feel  the  anguish  of  losing  them  for  ever.

Separation from  the  world,  where  he  had  enjoyed  so  many  distinguished offices;  where  he  had  established,  aggrandized,  and  arranged himself,  as  if  it  had  been  intended  for  the  place  of  his  eternal residence;  from  the  world,  in  whose  smiles  he  only  lived;  on whose  stage  he  had  ever  been  one  of  the  principal  actors;  in  whose transactions he  had  always  taken  such  an  active  part,  and  where  he had  figured  with  so  much  splendour,  and  so  many  talents,  to  render himself  conspicuous  in  it. His body  now  quits  it;  but  his heart and  all  his  affections  are  centred  in  it  still:  the  world  dies to him,  but  he  himself,  in  expiring,  dies  not  to  the  world.

Then it  is  that  the  Almighty  is  great  in  the  eyes  of  the  expiring sinner. It is  in  that  terrible  moment,  that  the  whole  world, crumbling, disappearing  from  his  sight,  he  sees  only  God  who  remaineth,  who  filleth  all,  who  alone  changeth  not,  and  passeth  not away. Formerly he  used  to  complain,  with  an  impious  and  ironical air, that  it  is  very  difficult  to  feel  any  fervent  emotions  for  a  God