I raised him, the peculiar sound in the throat came on, but it had no horror, no intensity about it, and did not to either of us convey the fact that he was about to go. After that the laboured breathing changed its character. Violetta was called away. I was quite alone with my love. I got on the bed behind him, the better to prop him in what seemed an easy sleep-the hands and feet still warm. His head passed gradually from the pillow to my breast, and there the cherished head rested firmly; the breathing grew gentler and gentler. Never shall I forget the great awe, the brooding presence, with which the room was filled. My heart leapt wildly with a new sensation, but it was not fear. Only it would have seemed profane to utter even my illimitable love, or to call upon his name. This must have lasted, Vi thinks, not more than ten minutes. The head very heavy; my arms were under him. grew quite quiet, and as the church clock ten, I caught a little, little sigh, such as a new-born infant might give in waking - not a tremor, not a thrill of the frame; and then Vi came back with Clara's nurse (who having a peculiar love and admiration for him I had said might come up). I told them he was gone, and I thanked God for the perfect peace in which he passed away."

grew damp and Then the sleep began to strike

He was buried in the Brighton Cemetery, in a spot at present still secluded, and over which the larks sing joyously. There a plain gray granite headstone rises "to his pure and cherished memory," with just his name and two dates, and this one line, long associated with him in my mind, and which all who knew him have felt to be appropriate

"His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart."

Only four went to his funeral - viz., Clara's husband, General Cotton, Mr. Carpenter (whom he had taken pleasure in introducing to each other as " two of the noblest men he knew "), and Dr. Allen, his kind friend of

years. There were no mourning trappings - peculiarly discordant with the idea of him- only the carriage with "the dear gray horses" followed, and in it hearts that valued him. A clergyman who had known him, not long but well, in our Borrowdale home, asked whether he might come and read the Service. This will show the feelings my husband inspired in those whose thoughts were not his. Indeed, I never knew a high moral nature that did not at once recognize the purity, righteousness, and holiness of his. In the case of all such the sense of differing opinions melted away under the influence of his character. To men of negative views, the possibility of a future life seemed to acquire a deeper interest now that he had passed away; to those whose faith in immortality was firmest, the conception of spiritual enjoyment became all the clearer for having known one so spirituallyminded, so purely searching after the truth. I might multiply testimonies to this effect, but they are not needed here. If, however, the appreciation of the cultivated and thoughtful seem a mere matter of course, it was yet not more marked or more unfailing than the love he, shy and silent towards them, won from all the simple and uneducated who were brought into frequent contact with him. Something in his courtesy elevated them, something in his brightness cheered. I do not think any person who ever spoke to him half-a-dozen times was quite indifferent to him. No man sought love less, or was less careful about the impression he made on others. But love unsought came largely to him, and during his last illness I think he discovered, with something of sweet and tender surprise, how very dear he was to many! It was, I dare to believe, a gentle, a cheerful last illness! Of him every memory is sweet and elevating; and I record here that a lifelong anguish such as defies words is yet not too high. a price to pay for the privilege of having loved him and belonged to him.

· These last pages were written, as I have said, more than a year ago, and there is nothing to add. I might indeed cite the testimony of relations and friends to some ineffable charm in his nature, ineffable tenderness in their regret ; but I prefer closing this brief memoir with words of his and the passage I am about to quote contains, I believe, the very secret of his pure life and the ground of his serenity in death:

"There comes a time when neither Fear nor Hope are necessary to the pious man; but he loves righteousness for righteousness' sake, and love is all in all. It is not joy at escape from future perdition that he now feels; nor is it hope for some untold happiness in the future: it is a present rapture of piety, and resignation, and love—a present that fills eternity. It asks nothing, it fears nothing; it loves and it has no petition to make. God takes back his little child unto Himself a little child that has no fear, and is all trust."

October, 1873.

(End of the Memoir.)

PART III.

Sometimes I could deem

I heard his voice, loved voice that guides me, say, "The earth we loved must never trivial seem

Although our joy has passed from earth away.

"Go down, at my behest,

The smallest, humblest, kindly task to do;
I see the thorn-prints; hide them from the rest;
Because thou lov'st me so, love others too."

Here we have to wait

Not so long neither! Could we by a wish
Have what we will and get the future now,
Would we wish aught done undone in the past?
So let him wait God's instant men call years;
Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,
Do out the duty! Through such souls alone
God stooping shows sufficient of his light
For us in the dark to rise by.

L. C. S.

ROBERT BROWNING.