Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/68

 with blessings,  to  be  entitled  to  exact  our  sufferance  of  a  fewslight  sorrows  for  his  sake? Does he  not  promise  us  still  more, sufficiently precious  to  sweeten  the  trifling  disgusts  attached  to the  fulfilment  of  his  ordinances? Must not  he  find  it  strange, that vile  creatures,  who  hold  all  from  him,  who  exist  only  through him, and  who  expect  all  from  him,  should  complain  of  dislike  to his  service? That worms  of  the  earth,  whose  only  boast  is  the honour of  belonging  to  him,  dare  complain  of  feeling  no  inclination for him,  and  that  it  is  both  melancholy  and  wearisome  to  serve  or to  be  faithful  to  him? Is he,  then,  a  master  like  us;  fanciful, intolerant, indolent,  entirely  occupied  with  himself,  and  who  seeks only to  render  himself  happy,  at  the  expense  of  the  peace  and  comfort of  those  who  serve  him? Unjust that  we  are! We dare  offer reproaches to  the  Almighty,  which  we  would  regard  as  outrages upon ourselves,  from  the  mouths  of  our  slaves  I

Second truth: — The  disgusts  which  accompany  virtue  are  not  so bitter  as  we  represent  them  to  ourselves.

Reflection III. — But even  were  they  so,  I  have  said,  in  the third place,  that  they  would  still  be  infinitely  less  than  those  of  the world. And it  is  here,  my  brethren,  that  the  testimony  of  the  world itself, and  the  self-experience  of  worldly  souls,  answer  every  purpose of  a  proof. For if  you  continue  in  the  ways  of  the  world  and of the  passions,  what  is  your  whole  life  but  a  continual  weariness, where, by  diversifying  your  pleasures,  you  only  diversify  your  disgusts and  uneasinesses? What is  it  but  an  eternal  void  where  you are a  burden  to  yourself? What is  it  but  a  pompous  circulation of duties,  attentions,  ceremonies,  amusements,  and  trifles,  which, incessantly revolving,  possess  one  single  advantage,  that  of  unpleasantly filling  up  moments  which  hang  heavy  upon  you,  and which you  know  not  otherwise  to  employ? What is  your  life  but a flux  and  reflux  of  desires,  hatreds,  chagrins,  jealousies,  and hopes, which  poison  all  your  pleasures,  and  are  the  cause  that, surrounded by  every  thing  which  ought  to  insure  your  happiness, you cannot  succeed  in  being  contented  with  yourselves?

What comparison  is  there  between  the  frenzies  of  the  passions, the chagrin  of  a  striking  neglect,  the  sensibility  of  a  bad  office,  and the slight  sorrows  of  virtue? What comparison  between  the  unlimited subjections  to  ambition;  the  fatigues  and  toils  of  pretensions and expectancies;  the  pains  to  insure  success;  the  exertions  and submissions necessary  to  please;  the  cares,  uneasinesses,  and  agitations, in  order  to  exalt  ourselves;  and  the  slight  violences  which assure to  us  the  kingdom  of  heaven? What comparison  between the frightful  remorses  of  the  conscience,  that  internal  worm,  which incessantly gnaws  us;  that  sadness  of  guilt,  which  undermines and brings  us  low  indeed;  that  weight  of  iniquity,  which  overwhelms us;  that  internal  sword  which  pierces  us  to  the  quick; which we  know  not  how  to  draw  forth,  and  carry  with  us wherever  we  go;  and  the  amiable  sorrow  of  that  penitence  which secures  salvation? My God! can we  complain  of   thee,  after