In 1835 Miss Barrett made the acquaintance of Mary Russell Mitford, and a life-long friendship resulted.  Miss Mitford says:  “She was certainly one of the most interesting persons I had ever seen.  Everybody who then saw her said the same.  Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness, that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together to Cheswick, that the translatress of the Prometheus of Aeschylus, the authoress of the Essay on Mind, was old enough to be introduced into company, in technical language, was out.  We met so constantly and so familiarly that, in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened into friendship, and after my return into the country, we corresponded freely and frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to be,—­her own talk put upon paper.”

The next year Miss Barrett, never robust, broke a blood-vessel in the lungs.  For a year she was ill, and then with her eldest and favorite brother, was carried to Torquay to try the effect of a warmer climate.  After a year spent here, she greatly improved, and seemed likely to recover her usual health.

One beautiful summer morning she went on the balcony to watch her brother and two other young men who had gone out for a sail.  Having had much experience, and understanding the coast, they allowed the boatman to return to land.  Only a few minutes out, and in plain sight, as they were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and the three friends perished.  Their bodies even were never recovered.

The whole town was in mourning.  Posters were put upon every cliff and public place, offering large rewards “for linen cast ashore marked with the initials of the beloved dead; for it so chanced that all the three were of the dearest and the best:  one, an only son; the other, the son of a widow”; but the sea was forever silent.

The sister, who had seen her brother sink before her eyes, was utterly prostrated.  She blamed herself for his death, because he came to Torquay for her comfort.  All winter long she heard the sound of waves ringing in her ears like the moans of the dying.  From this time forward she never mentioned her brother’s name, and later, exacted from Mr. Browning a promise that the subject should never be broached between them.

The following year she was removed to London in an invalid carriage, journeying twenty miles a day.  And then for seven years, in a large darkened room, lying much of the time upon her couch, and seeing only a few most intimate friends, the frail woman lived and wrote.  Books more than ever became her solace and joy.  Miss Mitford says, “She read almost every book worth reading, in almost every language, and gave herself heart and soul to that poetry of which she seem born to be the priestess.”  When Dr. Barry urged that she read light books, she had a small edition of Plato bound so as to resemble a novel, and the good man was satisfied.  She understood her own needs better than he.