I quote the following account of the death of the great Raphael, in the form of a letter from Cardinal Bibbiena: "As I entered, he held in his hand a few spring flowers, which he let fall as I handed him the rosary. He pressed the cross to his lips and whispered, 'Maria.' His voice had a peculiar sound, clear but so low as to be scarcely audible. In the sick-room I found Count Castiglione, the good fathers Antonio and Domenico, the painter Giulio, and others. They had moved his couch to the window which stood wide open. Was it the effect of the softening light or of the approaching triumph? Raphael had never appeared more beautiful. His complexion was more roseate, and his thoughtful, brown artist-eyes larger and more luminous than usual. I told him what his holiness had requested me to say. "'And so, dear Raphael,' I concluded, 'may the sympathy which the highest as well as the lowest feels for you, have the power to keep you long with us!' "He smiled sadly. "'You will, you must!' broke in Castiglione. 'Think what a longing for art your attainments have awakened within us. Think of your favorite plan to rebuild classical Rome, with its marble palaces and temples, its triumphal arches and picture galleries!' "'Yes, I desired it,' replied he; 'and if God had granted me longer life, I should have succeeded.' "'Do you still speak,' said I reproachfully, 'as if you would never recover?' "'O father!' said he, 'the separation is not easy for me. If I could describe to you the longing which I have to retain the departing day! How my heart cherished the last ray of the sun that lingered on the hill! How beautiful is the world, how beautiful the faces of men! And now to take leave of them for ever--to sleep without hope of seeing the morrow!' "'Beloved,' said I, 'do not forget that to-day the Saviour died, that we might throw off this mortal life and put on immortality.' "'How should I forget Him from whom I have received every thing?' he answered softly. 'But even this mortal life was beautiful.' "There was a moment's silence. Castiglione had taken Raphael's hand. The latter was looking through the open window at the distant hills that were lit up with the soft glow of the setting sun. Then his glance wandered, evidently in the direction of his thoughts, to the blue heavens, where the evening star looked down quietly like a messenger from the other world. "'I shall see Dante,' said he suddenly.