Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/93

 you feel  not  the  secret  testimony  of  a  clear  conscience,  which soothes and  supports  the  fervent  Christian. You shun,  perhaps, certain occasions  of  pleasure,  where  innocence  is  sure  of  being shipwrecked; but  you  only  experience,  in  the  retreat  which  divides you from  them,  a  wearisomeness,  and  a  more  lively  desire  for the same  pleasures  from  which  you  have  forced  yourself  to  refrain. You pray,  but  prayer  is  no  longer  but  a  fatigue;  you  frequent the  society  of  virtuous  persons,  but  their  company  becomes so irksome  as  almost  to  disgust  you  with  virtue  itself. The slightest violence  you  do  upon  your  inclinations  for  the  sake  of heaven,  costs  you  such  efforts,  that  the  pleasures  and  amusements of the  world  must  be  applied  to,  to  refresh  and  invigorate  you after this  fatigue;  the  smallest  mortification  exhausts  your  body, casts uneasiness  and  chagrin  through  your  temper,  and  only  consoles you  by  an  immediate  determination  to  abandon  its  practice. You live  unhappy,  and  without  consolation,  because  you  deprive yourself of  a  world  you  love,  and  substitute  in  its  place  duties which you  love  not. Your whole  life  is  but  a  melancholy  fatigue, and a  perpetual  disgust  with  yourself. You resemble  the  Israelites in the  desert,  disgusted,  on  the  one  part,  with  the  manna  upon which the  Lord  had  ordered  them  to  subsist;  and,  on  the  other, not daring  to  return  to  the  food  of  the  Egyptians,  which  they  still loved, and  which  the  dread  alone  of  the  Almighty's  anger  induced them to  deny  themselves. Now, this  state  of  violence  cannot endure; we  soon  tire  of  any  remains  of  virtue  which  do  not quiet the  heart,  comfort  the  reason,  and  even  flatter  our  selflove;  we  soon  throw  off  the  remains  of  a  yoke  which  weighs us down,  and  which  we  no  longer  carry  through  love,  but  for decency's sake. It is  so  melancholy  to  be  nothing  at  all,  as  I may  say, — neither  just  nor  worldly,  attached  neither  to  the  world nor to  Jesus  Christ,  enjoying  neither  the  pleasures  of  the  senses, nor those  of  grace, — that  it  is  impossible  this  wearisome  situation of indifference  and  neutrality  can  be  durable. The heart,  and particularly those  of  a  certain  description,  requires  an  avowed object to  occupy  and  interest  it:  if  not  God,  it  will  soon  be  the world. A heart,  lively,  eager,  always  in  extremes,  and  such  as the  generality  of  men  possess,  cannot  be  fixed  but  by  the  feelings; and to  be  continually  disgusted  with  virtue,  shows  a  heart  already prepared to  yield  to  the  attractions  of  vice.

I know,  in  the  first  place,  that  there  are  lazy  and  indolent  souls, who seem  to  keep  themselves  in  this  state  of  equilibration  and  insensibility; who  offer  nothing  decided,  either  for  the  world  or virtue;  who  appear  equally  distant,  by  their  dispositions,  either from the  ardours  of  a  faithful  piety,  or  the  excesses  of  profane guilt; who  in  the  midst  of  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  preserve  a fund  of  retention  and  regularity  which  proves  the  existence  of  some remains of  virtue,  and,  in  the  midst  of  their  religious  duties,  a  fund of carelessness  and  laxity  which  still  breathes  the  air  and  maxims of the  world. These are  indolent  and  tranquil  hearts,  animated  in nothing,  in  whom  indolence  almost  supplies  the  place  of  virtue,