ficient to supply with bread so many miserable creatures who asked it, he wrote to the court in their favour ; and, by the strong and affecting picture he drew of their necessities, he obtained for them either donations, or a considerable diminution of their taxes. His letters on this interesting subject are said to be master-pieces of pathetic eloquence, superior to the most touching of his sermons.
The more sincerely he respected religion, the more he despised the superstitions which degrade it, and the more zealous he was to destroy them. He abolished, though not without difficulty, some very ancient and very indecent processions which the barbarism of the dark ages had established in his diocess, and which travestied the divine worship into a scandalous masquerade. The inhabitants of Clermont were used to run to these exhibitions in crowds, some through a stupid devotion, others to turn this religious farce into ridicule. The clergy of the city, through fear of the people, who were attached to these shows in proportion to their absurdity, dared not publish the mandate for their suppression. Massillon ascended the pulpit, published his own mandate, and caused himself to be heard by a tumultuous audience who would have insulted any other preacher : such was the fruit of his virtue and beneficence !
He died, as Fenelon died, and as every bishop ought to die, without money and without debts. It was on the 28th of September, 1742, that the church, eloquence, and humanity, sustained this irreparable loss.
A recent incident, well calculated to affect feeling hearts, affords a proof how dear the memory of Massillon is, not only to the indigent, whose tears he dried, but to all who have known him. Some years since, a traveller who happened to be at Clermont, wished to see the country-seat where the prelate was accustomed to pass great part of the year. He applied to an ancient grandvicar, who, since the bishop's death, had not had resolution to return to this country mansion, now deprived of its inhabitants. He consented, however, to satisfy the traveller's desire, notwithstanding the pain he expected from revisiting a spot so sadly dear to his remembrance. They went together, and the grand-vicar showed every thing to the stranger. " Here," said he, with tears in his eyes, "is the alley where this worthy prelate took his walks with us : here is the arbour under which he used to repose while he read: this is the garden which he cultivated with his own hands." They then entered the house, and when they came to the chamber in which Massillon had breathed his last, " This," said the grand-vicar, "is the place where we lost him ;" and as he spoke these words, he fainted away. The shade of Titus or Marcus Aurelius might have envied such a homage !
Massillon has been compared with Bourdaloue, as often as Cicero with Demosthenes, and Racine with Corneille. Parallels of this kind, fertile topics for antithesis, prove nothing more than the degree of ingenuity in him who makes them. We shall resign this common-place matter without regret, and confine ourselves to
