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.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
Vol. i. page 187.
I have often observed, in my intercourse with society, that the benevolent affections are not cherished exclusively by any class of its members, but glow in the breasts of all; yet they are usually most delicate when refined by the hallowed fire of devotional feeling. On some occasions we see in humble life the tributary tear paid to departed worth, even where religion has not instilled her sweetest influences; yet, in general, a degree of insensibility is manifested which may well excite astonishment. But we felt, on entering this cottage, that we were indeed in the house of mourning. The husband, just returned from his hard day's labour, sat in the window-seat, his mug of ale, and bread and cheese, untouched on the table beside him; his hand spanned his forehead, concealing his eyes, and his little boy stood near him, pensive and sad. No voice spoke, no noise was heard, nor did our entrance disturb the mourner in his musings. We felt a momentary tremor, under an apprehension that death had already borne off his captive.
At length Mrs. Stevens said, "Well, Robert, is your wife still in the body, or in glory?"
He started up, and, as the tear fell on his sun-burnt face, replied, "She is still with us; but she will soon be gone. She has been discoursing about you, Ma'am, all day; and she will be very glad to see you again before she enters into the joy of her Lord."