hear mention of our departed friends; care is taken to remove our attention from the places in which they have dwelt, and from everything which, along with their idea, at the same time awakens that of death which has deprived us of them. We dread all melancholy recitals; in that respect we carry our terrors even to the most childish superstition; in every trifle our fancy sees fatal prognostications of death; in the wanderings of a dream, in the nightly sounds of a bird, in the casual number of a company, and in many other circumstances still more ridiculous; every where we imagine it before us; and, for that very reason, we endeavour to expel it from our thoughts.
Now, my brethren, these excessive terrors were pardonable in Pagans, to whom death was the greatest misfortune, seeing they had no expectation beyond the grave; and that, living without hope, they died without consolation. But, that death should be so terrible to Christians is a matter of astonishment; and that the dread of that image should even serve as a pretext to remove its idea from their minds, is still more so.
For, in the first place, I grant that you have reason to dread that last hour; but, as it is certain, I cannot conceive why the terrors of it should prevent your mind from dwelling upon, and endeavouring to anticipate its evils; on the contrary, it seems to me, that in proportion as the danger is great, to which you are exposed, you ought more constantly to keep it in view, and to use every precaution that it may not take you unawares. What! the more the danger alarms you, the more it should render you indolent and careless! The excessive and improper terrors of your imagination should cure you, even of that prudent dread which operates your salvation; and, because you dread too much, you should abandon every thought of it! But, where is the man whom a too lively sense of danger renders calm and intrepid? Were it necessary to march through a narrow and steep defile, surrounded on all sides by precipices, would you order your eyes to be bound, that you might not see your danger, and lest the depth of the gulf below should turn your head? Ah, my dear hearer, you see the grave open before you, and that spectacle alarms you; but, in place of taking all the precautions offered to you by religion, to prevent you falling headlong into the gulf, you cover your eyes that you may not see it; — you fly to dissipation, to chase its idea from your mind; and, like those unfortunate victims of Paganism, you run to the stake, your eyes covered, crowned with flowers, and surrounded by dancing and songs of joy, that you may not have leisure to reflect on the fatal term to which this pomp conducts, and lest you should see the altar, that is to say, the bed of death, where you are immediately to be sacrificed.
Besides, by repelling that thought, could you likewise repel death, your terrors would then at least have an excuse. But think, or think not on it, death always advances; every effort you make to exclude its remembrance brings you nearer to it; and at the appointed hour it will come. What, then, do you gain by turning
