Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/163

 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