Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/549

 we would  heartily  wish  to  be  lawful  whatever  pleases  us;  but  it  is not  a  real  conviction. It is  a  sayings  for  it  appears  honourable  to be  above  all  vulgar  prejudices;  but  it  is  not  a  feeling. Thus, we always  carry  within  us  an  incorruptible  judge,  who  incessantly adopts the  cause  of  virtue  against  our  dearest  inclinations;  who blends with  our  most  headstrong  passions  the  troublesome  ideas  of duty;  and  who  renders  us  unhappy  even  amidst  all  our  pleasures and abundance.

Such is  the  state  of  an  impure  and  a  sullied  conscience. The sinner is  the  secret  and  constant  accuser  of  himself;  go  where  he will,  he  carries  a  torment  within  which  the  hand  of  man  cannot allay. Unhappy in  being  unable  to  conquer  his  lawless  tendencies: more unhappy  still  in  being  unable  to  stifle  his  incessant  remorses. Enticed by  his  weakness,  and  withheld  by  his  lights,  the  permission of  every  crime  is  a  conflict  with  himself:  he  reproaches  himself for  the  iniquitous  gratification,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  enjoyment. What shall  he  do? Shall he  combat  his  lights  in  order to appease  his  conscience? Shall he  suspect  his  faith  to  sin  in tranquillity? But unbelief  is  still  a  more  horrible  state  than  even guilt. To live  without  God,  without  worship,  without  principle, and without  hope! to believe  that  the  most  abominable  transgressions and  the  purest  virtues  are  merely  names! to consider  all  men as only  the  vile  and  fantastical  puppets  of  a  low  theatre,  and  merely intended for  the  amusement  of  the  spectators! to consider  himself as the  offspring  of  chance,  and  the  eternal  possession  of  nonentity! these thoughts  have  something,  I  know  not  what,  of  gloomy  and horrible, that  the  soul  cannot  look  upon  without  horror;  and  it  is true  that  unbelief  is  rather  the  despair  of  the  sinner  than  the  refuge of the  sin. What, then,  shall  he  do? Continually obliged  to  fly himself, lest  he  find  himself  alone  with  his  conscience,  he  ranges from object  to  object,  from  passion  to  passion,  from  precipice  to precipice. He thinks  to  compensate  the  emptiness  and  the  insufficiency of  pleasures  by  their  variety;  there  is  none  which  he  does not try. But, in  vain  is  his  heart  successively  offered  to  all  the created; all  the  objects  of  his  passions  reply  to  him,  says  St.  Augustine, (i  Deceive  not  thyself  in  loving  us;  we  are  not  that  happiness of  which  thou  art  in  search;  we  cannot  render  thee  happy: raise  thyself  above  the  created,  and,  mounting  to  heaven,  see  if  He who  hath  formed  us  be  not  greater  and  more  worthy  of  being  loved than  we."     Such  is  the  lot  of  the  sinner.

Not that  the  heart  of  the  just  enjoys  a  tranquillity  so  unalterable but that  they,  in  their  turn,  experience  troubles,  disgusts,  and  anxieties here  below. But these  are  passing  clouds,  which  shade,  as I  may  say,  only  the  surface  of  their  soul. A profound  calm  always reigns within, — that  serenity  of  conscience,  that  simplicity  of  heart, that equality  of  mind,  that  lively  confidence,  that  mild  resignation, that calm  of  the  passions,  that  universal  peace,  which  begins,  even from this  life,  the  felicity  of  innocent  souls. Vain creatures,  what control have  ye  over  a  heart  which  ye  have  not  made,  and  which  is not  made  for  you? — First consolation  of  grace,  namely,  peace  of  heart.