touch each other, that they only form, as I may say, one day: and that, from his mother's breast, he has made but one step towards the grave. Nor is this the bitterest pang which he experiences in the remembrance of his pleasures; they have vanished like a dream; but he, who formerly claimed an honour to himself from their gratification, is now covered with confusion and shame at their recollection: so many shameful excesses; such weakness and debauchery. He, who piqued himself upon reason, elevation of mind, and haughtiness toward man; O my God! he then finds himself the weakest, the most despicable of sinners! Apparently, perhaps, a life of prudence, yet sunk in all the infamy of the senses and the puerility of the passions! A life of glory in the eyes of men; but, in the sight of God, the most shameful, the most deserving of contempt and disgrace! A life which success, perhaps, had continually accompanied; yet, nevertheless, in private, the most absurd, the most trifling, the most destitute of reflection and wisdom!
Pleasures, in a word, which have been the source of all his chagrins; which have empoisoned every enjoyment of life; which have changed his happiest days into days of madness and lamentation.
Pleasures for which he has ever paid dear, and of which he has never experienced but the anxieties and the bitterness: such are the foundations of this frivolous happiness. His passions alone have rendered life miserable to him; and the only moments of tranquillity he has enjoyed in the whole course of his life, are those in which his heart has been sheltered from their influence. "The days of my pleasures are fled," says the sinner then to himself, but in a disposition of mind very different from that of Job: " Those days which have occasioned all the sorrows of my life, by which my rest has been broken, and the calm stillness of the night changed into the blackest thoughts and uneasinesses: yet, nevertheless, great God! thou wilt still punish the sorrows and distresses of my unfortunate life! All the bitterness of my passions is marked against me in the book of thy wrath; and thou preparest for me, in addition to gratifications which have always been the source of all my miseries, a misery without an end, and boundless."
Behold what the expiring sinner experiences in the remembrance of the past: crimes which shall endure for ever; the weaknesses of childhood; the dissipations of youth; the passions and the disorders of a more advanced period: what do I know, perhaps even the shameful excesses of a licentious old age. Ah! my brethren, whilst in health, we perceive only the surface of our conscience; we recall only a vague and confused remembrance of our life; we see only the passions which actually enchain us; a complete life, spent in the habits of iniquity, appears to us only a single crime: but, on the bed of death, the darkness spread over the conscience of the sinner is dissipated. The more he searches into his heart, the more does he discover new stains; the deeper he enters into that abyss, the more do new monsters of horror present themselves to his sight. He is lost in the chaos, and knows not how to proceed. To enlighten it, an entire new life would be necessary: alas! and
