Feeling all these things of Mrs. Browning, it becomes the more painful to place on record an account of those last days that have brought with them so universal a sorrow.  Mrs. Browning’s illness was only of a week’s duration.  Having caught a severe cold of a more threatening nature than usual, medical skill was summoned; but, although anxiety in her behalf was necessarily felt, there was no whisper of great danger until the third or fourth night, when those who most loved her said they had never seen her so ill; on the following morning, however, she was better, and from that moment was thought to be improving in health.  She herself believed this; and all had such confidence in her wondrous vitality, and the hope was so strong that God would spare her for still greater good, that a dark veil was drawn over what might be.  It is often the case, where we are accustomed to associate constant suffering with dear friends, that we calmly look danger in the face without misgivings.  So little did Mrs. Browning realize her critical condition, that, until the last day, she did not consider herself sufficiently indisposed to remain in bed, and then the precaution was accidental.  So much encouraged did she feel with regard to herself, that, on this final evening, an intimate female friend was admitted to her bedside and found her in good spirits, ready at pleasantry and willing to converse on all the old loved subjects.  Her ruling passion had prompted her to glance at the “Athenaeum” and “Nazione”; and when this friend repeated the opinions she had heard expressed by an acquaintance of the new Italian Premier, Ricasoli, to the effect that his policy and Cavour’s were identical, Mrs. Browning “smiled like Italy,” and thankfully replied,—­“I am glad of it; I thought so.”  Even then her thoughts were not of self.  This near friend went away with no suspicion of what was soon to be a terrible reality.  Mrs. Browning’s own bright boy bade his mother goodnight, cheered by her oft-repeated, “I am better, dear, much better.”  Inquiring friends were made happy by these assurances.

One only watched her breathing through the night,—­he who for fifteen years had ministered to her with all the tenderness of a woman.  It was a night devoid of suffering to her.  As morning approached, and for two hours previous to the dread moment, she seemed to be in a partial ecstasy; and though not apparently conscious of the coming on of death, she gave her husband all those holy words of love, all the consolation of an oft-repeated blessing, whose value death has made priceless.  Such moments are too sacred for the common pen, which pauses as the woman-poet raises herself up to die in the arms of her poet-husband.  He knew not that death had robbed him of his treasure, until the drooping form grew chill and froze his heart’s blood.

At half-past four, on the morning of the 29th of June, Elizabeth Barrett Browning died of congestion of the lungs.  Her last words were, “It is beautiful!” God was merciful to the end, sparing her and hers the agony of a frenzied parting, giving proof to those who were left of the glory and happiness in store for her, by those few words, “It is beautiful!” The spirit could see its future mission even before shaking off the dust of the earth.