Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/550

 The second  is  love,  which  mitigates  to  the  just  all  the  rigours  of the  law,  and,  according  to  the  promise  of  Jesus  Christ,  changes  his yoke, so  insupportable  to  sinners,  into  a  sweet  and  consoling  yoke for them. For a  believing  soul  loves  his  God  still  more  fervently, more tenderly,  and  more  truly,  than  he  had  ever  loved  the  world. Every thing,  therefore,  even  the  most  rigorous,  that  he  undertakes for him,  is  either  no  longer  a  trial  to  his  heart,  or  becomes  its sweetest care. For the  attribute  of  the  holy  love,  when  master  of the  heart,  is  either  to  mitigate  the  sufferings  it  occasions,  or  to change  them  even  into  holy  pleasures. Thus a  soul  enamoured  of God,  if  I  may  dare  to  speak  in  this  manner,  pardons  with  joy,  suffers with  confidence,  mortifies  itself  with  pleasure,  flies  from  the world with  delight,  prays  with  consolation,  and  fulfils  every  duty with a  holy  satisfaction. The more  his  love  increases,  the  more does his  yoke  become  easy. The more  he  loves,  the  happier  he is:  for  it  is  the  height  of  happiness  to  love  what  is  become  essential and  necessary  to  us.

But the  sinner,  the  more  he  loves  the  world,  the  more  unhappy he is:  for  the  more  he  loves  the  world,  the  more  do  his  passions multiply, the  more  do  his  desires  inflame,  the  more  do  his  schemes get perplexed,  and  the  more  do  his  anxieties  become  sharpened. His love  is  the  cause  of  all  his  evils:  its  vivacity  is  the  source  of all  his  sufferings;  because  the  world,  which  is  the  cause  of  them, is incapable  of  furnishing  him  with  their  cure. The more  he  loves the world,  the  more  is  his  pride  stung  by  a  preference;  the  more does his  haughtiness  feel  an  injury,  the  more  does  he  sink  under  a disconcerted  project;  the  more  does  a  disappointed  desire  afflict him, the  more  does  an  unexpected  loss  weigh  him  down. The more he loves  the  world,  the  more  do  pleasures  become  necessary  to him;  and,  as  no  one  can  fill  the  immensity  of  his  heart,  the more insupportable  does  his  weariness  become:  for  weariness  is the  inseparable  attendant  of  every  pleasure;  and,  with  all  its amusements, the  world,  ever  since  it  was  a  world,  complains  of  its lassitude.

And think  not  that,  to  accredit  virtue,  I  here  affect  to  exaggerate the misery  of  worldly  souls. I know  that  the  world  seems  to  have its happiness;  and  that,  amid  all  that  whirlwind  of  cares,  motions, fears, anxieties,  a  small  number  of  fortunate  individuals  is  seen, whose happiness  is  envied,  and  who  seem,  in  appearance  to  enjoy a smiling  and  tranquil  lot. But investigate  these  vain  outsides  of happiness  and  gladness,  and  you  will  find  real  sorrows,  distracted hearts, and  agitated  consciences. Draw near  to  these  men  who,  in your  eyes,  appear  the  happy  of  the  earth,  and  you  will  be  surprised to find  them  gloomy,  anxious,  and  sinking  under  the  weight  of  a criminal  conscience. Hear them  in  those  serious  and  tranquil  moments, when  the  passions,  more  cooled,  allow  some  influence  to reason. They all  confess  that  they  are  any  thing  but  happy;  that the blaze  of  their  fortune  shines  only  at  a  distance,  and  appears worthy of  envy  only  to  those  who  know  it  not. They confess  that, amidst all  their  pleasures  and  prosperity,  they  have  never  been  able