to the things of the earth, by a sight which places before his eyes their insignificancy, and announces to him the same destiny soon. The death of our companions is not a more useful lesson to us: such a person leaves vacant an office which we hasten to obtain; another promotes us a step in the service; claims expire with this one, which might have greatly embarrassed us; that one now leaves us the undisputed favourite of our sovereign; another brings us a step nearer to a certain dignity, and opens the road to a rank which his death alone could render attainable 5 and, on these occasions, our spirits are invigorated; we adopt new measures, and form new projects; and, far from our eyes being opened, by the examples of those whom we see disappear, there issue, even from their ashes, fatal sparks, which inflame all our desires and attachments to the world; and death, that gloomy picture of our misery, reanimates more passions among men than even all the illusions of life. What, then, can detach us from this wretched world, since death itself seems only to knit more strongly the bonds, and strengthen us in the errors which bind us to it.
Here, my brethren, I require nothing from you but reason. What are the natural consequences which good sense alone ought to draw from the uncertainty of death?
First. The hour of death is uncertain: every year, every day, every moment, may be the last of our life. It is absurd, then, by attaching ourselves to what must pass away in an instant, to sacrifice the only riches which are eternal; every thing you do for the earth ought therefore to appear as lost, since you have no interest there; you can depend on nothing there, and can carry nothing from it, but what you shall have done for heaven. The kingdoms of the earth, and all their glory, ought not then for a moment to balance the interests of your eternal welfare, since the greatest fortune cannot assure you of a day more than the most humble; and, since the only consequence which can accrue from it is a more deep and bitter sorrow on the bed of death, when you shall be obliged for ever to part from them, every care, every movement, every desire, ought therefore to centre in establishing for yourselves a permanent and unchangeable fortune, an eternal happiness, which fadeth not away.
Secondly. The hour of your death is uncertain: you ought, then, to expect it every day; never to permit yourselves an action, in which you would wish not to be surprised; to consider all your proceedings as those of a dying man, who every moment expects his soul to be recalled; to act, in every thing, as though you were that instant to render account of your conduct; and, since you cannot answer for the time which is to come, in such a manner to regulate the present that you may have no occasion for the future to repair its errors.
Lastly. The hour of your death is uncertain: delay not then, your repentance. Time presses; hasten, then, your conversion to the Lord; you cannot assure yourselves of a day, and you defer it to a distant and uncertain period to come. Were you unfortunately
