XIX. So certain and so general is the sentence, which wisdom puts in
the mouths of all wicked men, when they arrive at the region where
the delusion ceases: _Lassati sumus in via iniquitatis & perditionis,
& ambulavimus vias difficiles._ Oh! how have we fatigued ourselves
in the way of perdition! our relaxation was weariness, our pleasures
anguish; unhappy we, who have run the course of life, not through
delicious gardens, or pleasant forests, but through thorns and briars,
and intricate paths! This is the language of all the damned: _Talia
dixerunt in inferno hi, qui peccaverunt._ Of all? yes, they all say so,
and they speak the truth. All sinners have their little hell in this
world. They all travel through asperities, to arrive at the precipice.
They all drink the dregs of that cup, which according to David’s
description our Lord holds in his hand: _Calix in manu domini vini
meri plenus mixto: & inclinavit ex hoc in hoc, verumtamen fæx ejus non
est exinanita, bibent omnes peccatores terræ._ And it must be so, for
according to the sense and meaning of the text, the pure wine is for
the saints of the land, where the enjoyment is pure: the mixed, is for
the just of that country, where tribulation is mixed with happiness, so
that even in this life, there remains for sinners, only the bitter and
gross dregs; and these they all drink. All, yes all, without excepting
even those, on whom the good things of this world seem to be heaped up.
XX. For the more clear understanding this matter, and to enforce the
argument we are using, it will be necessary to premise, that in this
life, there is a heavy and mortal affliction, which is common to all
men; but with respect to sinners, it is peculiarly and most severely
felt by those who seem the most happy. This affliction, consists in
the reflection, that we must one day die. There is no doubt, but every
living creature feels horror, upon arriving at that fatal pass, and
is naturally sad, whenever it occurs to him, that he must unavoidably
go through it; but he will be more affected beyond comparison, who
after having culled all the regales of fortune, has placed his whole
happiness in the enjoyment of them. Let us contemplate a man, rich,
powerful, respected, and obeyed, and to whom nothing is wanting, either
for convenience or pleasure, and to whom, let his appetites be ever
so vague, fortune has denied nothing that may enable him to gratify
them. Such a man, whenever he thinks that he must die, which is a
thought that will sometimes occur to him, without his being able to
prevent it, cannot fail to be exceedingly afflicted. The thought of
death, to whoever does not employ it for the amendment of his life,
becomes a torturer. Let us admit, that he is a determined Atheist,
so blinded, as not to entertain the least idea of the immortality of
the soul, and consequently, has not the least apprehension of what
will befall him in the world to come; yet he will at least consider
death, as a merciless, and a savage tyrant, who will despoil him of
all that is most dear to him; of the property which he possesses, of
the banquet he regales himself at, of the chace which diverts him, of
the music which delights him, and of the concubine whom he adores; all
which will be lost at a stroke, never to be recovered any more. The
greater the pleasures are which he enjoys, the more miserable this
consideration will make him. The unhappy man, who is the outcast of
fortune, and even he who is placed in a middle station of life, feels
the light consolation, that death will relieve him from many vexations;
but what comfort can he receive, whom it will only rob of enjoyments?
Death strikes terror into all men, but to such a one, it is terrible in
extreme. Every man is intensely fond of his own particular happiness,
and in proportion to the ardour with which he loves it, will be his
grief at losing it. Such a man, when he thinks himself arrived at the
summit of felicity, and knows no other than that which he possesses,
with what anguish must he reflect, that the whole, without the least
reserve, will be one day lost!
XXI. This inevitable melancholy, as they advance in years, is much
augmented in all the favourites of fortune. Life, after a man is
arrived at his prime, may be from thenceforward, truly and properly,
compared to a chronic disease, which proceeds leading a man to death
by slow paces; or to speak more properly, it is death implanted in
our nature. Upon arriving at the period we have just mentioned, that
is, the prime of life, the powerful man, from thenceforward, in the
strength which he continues to lose, and in the diseases he proceeds
to gain, finds constant information, that by little and little, the
cottage of life goes on crushing and crumbling to nothing, by the
weight of the temple of fortune. At this stage, he revolves in his
mind, one by one, all the pleasures he enjoys, and all the objects of
his love, and each thought tears from his heart a sigh, especially when
he reflects, that the time approaches, when he must bid them all a
melancholy farewell. He proceeds to cast another glance at death, and
almost in the words of the unhappy King David oppressed with grief,
exclaims against her in a sentimental complaint, not so much for having
cut the thread of his life, as for having separated him by an eternal
absence from all he esteemed and adored. _Siccine separat amara mors._
O sinners! whom the world call happy, is this living? But let the
world be undeceived; for ye are the people, who burden yourselves with
whatever is most heavy, and hard to be borne, that is contained in the
stores of mortality; all your relaxation is fatigue, all your pleasure
is anxiety, all your nectar is poison.
XXII. For your comfort and advantage, although you cannot be a stranger
to it, listen at present, to that sweet and sonorous voice, which, by
the divine organ, was conveyed and dispersed over the whole face of
the earth. Attend, for to you it is addressed; hear and profit by it:
_Venite ad me omnes, qui laboratis, & onerati estis, & ego reficiam
vos._ Come unto me, all ye who labour, and are heavy laden with cares,
for I will lighten your burdens, and give you relaxation and ease.
These words, it is certain, are designed to reclaim sinners, and are
addressed as a call to those who are distant from Christ. These then
are they, who lead a wearisome life. Christ invites them to come nearer
him, that is, to embrace virtue; the virtuous then are those, who enjoy
relaxation and ease. Thus, you see, both the points I am attempting to
prove are supported by evangelical authority.