Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/304

 self? Would you  be  the  first  sinner  surprised  in  his  deplorable passions? Do not  almost  all  around  you  die  in  that  melancholy state? Do the  ministers,  called  in  to  the  assistance  of  the  dying, find many  sinners  on  the  bed  of  death,  who,  for  a  length  of  time, have quitted  their  former  habits  in  order  to  prepare  themselves  for that last  moment? What do  we  find  there  but  souls  still  bound with a  thousand  chains,  which  death  alone  shall  break  asunder; — but inexplicable  consciences,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  and  still enveloped in  the  chaos  of  a  life  wholly  dissolute? What indeed do we  expect  on  these  occasions,  but  unavailing  regrets  on  that dreadful surprisal,  and  vain  protestations  of  the  different  measures they would have  adopted  had  they  been  able  to  have  foreseen  it? What are the  usual  offices  of  our  ministry  in  these  last  moments? To enlighten consciences  which  ought  then  to  need  only  consolation; to assist  them  in  recalling  crimes  which  we  should  then  have  only to exhort  them  to  forget;  to  make  the  dying  sinner  sensible  of  his debaucheries, we  who  should  then  have  to  support  and  to  animate him with  the  remembrance  of  his  virtues;  in  a  word,  to  open  the dark concealments  of  his  heart,  we  who  should  then  have  to  open only the  bosom  of  Abraham,  and  the  treasures  of  an  immortal glory, for  the  soul  on  the  point  of  disengaging  itself  from  the  body. Such are  the  melancholy  offices  which  we  shall  one  day  perhaps have to  render  to  you;  you,  in  your  turn,  will  call  upon  us,  and,  in place  of  a  soothing  conversation  with  you  on  the  advantages  which a holy  death  promises  to  the  believer,  we  shall  then  be  solely  employed in  receiving  the  narration  of  the  crimes  of  your  life.

But, should  your  passions  not  extend  even  to  that  last  hour,  the more you  delay,  the  deeper  do  you  allow  the  roots  of  guilt  to become,  the  more  do  your  chains  form  new  folds  round  your  heart, the more  does  that  leaven  of  corruption  which  you  carry  within  you spread itself,  ferment,  and  corrupt  all  the  capacity  of  your  soul. Judge of  this  by  the  progress  which  the  passion  has  hitherto  made in your  heart. At first  it  was  only  timid  liberties,  and,  to  quiet yourself in  which,  you  still  sought  some  shadow  of  innocence;  afterward it  was  only  dubious  actions,  in  which  it  was  still  difficult to distinguish  guilt  from  a  venial  trespass;  licentiousness  closely followed, but  striking  excesses  were  still  rare;  you  reproached  yourself in  the  very  moment  of  commission;  you  were  unable  to  bear them long  upon  a  conscience  still  alarmed  at  its  state:  the  backslidings  are  insensibly  multiplied;  licentiousness  is  become  a  fixed and habitual  state;  conscience  has  no  longer  but  feebly  cried  out against the  empire  of  the  passion;  guilt  is  become  necessary  to  you; it has  no  longer  excited  remorse;  you  have  swallowed  it  like  water, which passes  unfelt,  and  without  tickling  the  palate  by  any  particular flavour. The more  you  advance,  the  more  does  the  venom gain; the  weaker  does  any  residue  of  strength,  which  modesty, reason, and  grace  had  placed  in  you,  become,  the  more  what  was yet wholesome  in  your  soul  becomes  infected  and  defiled. What folly, then,  to  allow  wounds  to  become  old  and  corrupted,  under pretence that  they  will  afterward  be  more  easily  cured! And what