up in bed, and yet he contrived, I know not how, both
to write and draw and etch on copper, managing the plaguy chemicals, and
even printing his own proofs. His bed was on wheels, on a sort of light
iron carriage, and he saw nature out-of-doors. All the gladness of
physical activity was completely blotted out of his existence, and in
that respect his prospects were without hope. And still he said that
"life was sweet." O marvel of all marvels, how _could_ that life be
sweet!

Aided by a beautiful patience and resignation the lamp of the mind
burned with a steady brightness, fed by his daily studies. In the
winters, however, the diseased limb gave him prolonged agony, and in the
autumn of 1872, to avoid the months of torture that lay before him, he
had himself put in the railway and sent off, in his bed, to Edinburgh,
sleeping in a waiting-room on the way. There was no one to attend him,
but he trusted, not vainly, to the humanity of strangers. Just about the
same time your lordship went northwards also, with many friends, to
enjoy the noble scenery, and the excitement of noble sport. My poor
cripple got to Edinburgh, got a glimpse of Scott's monument and the
Athenian pillars, and submitted himself to the surgeons. They rendered
him the best of services, for they ended his pains forever.

So I am to get no more of those wonderfully brave and cheerful letters
that were written from the little bed on wheels. I miss them for the
lessons they quite unconsciously conveyed. He fancied that he was the
learner, poor lad! and I the teacher, whereas it was altogether the
other way. He made me feel what a blessing it is, even from the purely
intellectual point of view, to be able to get out of bed after the
night's rest, and go from one room to another. He made me understand the
value of every liberty and every power whilst at the same time he taught
me to bear more patiently every limit, and inconvenience, and
restriction.

In comparing his letters with yours I have been struck by one reflection
predominantly, which is, the entire absence of class-sentiment in both
of you. Nobody, not in the secret, could guess that one set of letters
came from a palace and the other set from a poor miner's cottage; and
even to me, who do not see the habitations except by an effort of the
memory or imagination, there is nothing to recall the immensity of the
social distance that separated my two friendly and welcome
correspondents. It is clear