Death is a solemn subject of meditation; and it is one which presents stronger claims on our attention than any other, because we all _must die_. If to die were a mere cessation of being; if, when the mind ceases to think, and the passions cease to glow; if, when the active and the passive virtues cease to display their moral beauty and vigour, and when the mantle of mortality falls from off us, we live only in the recollection of surviving friends, we should forbear passing a heavy censure on the general indifference which is manifested towards death and dying. But we live, when dying; we outlive death, and live for ever. Yes, life and immortality are brought to light by the volume of inspiration. There we read that "the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear His voice, and shall come forth, they that have done good unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of damnation." Death spares neither age nor rank, talent nor piety. The king of terrors sways the sceptre of absolute authority over all the living; none can elude his grasp, nor resist his power. What a scene is presented where he has achieved a conquest! The sparkling eye become dim, the instructive lips sealed in perpetual silence; the ear deaf alike to the voice of friendship and the song of mirth; and the tabernacle of bliss changed into the house of mourning. The preparations necessary for the interment keep the mind in a state of constant agitation; but when these are all adjusted, and the ministers of death enter to bear away the dear departed to the distant tomb, then the sobs, and tears, and groans of agonized survivors, proclaim the greatness of the irreparable desolation. It was on a still summer evening, as we sat conversing together on the immortality of the soul, and on the blessedness of the righteous in the heavenly world, that we received intelligence of the approaching dissolution of Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Stevens expressed a desire to see her once more before her decease; and having accepted my offer to accompany her, we hastened to her lonely dwelling. [Illustration: THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. Vol. i. page 187.]