tter, that all was
over, went in to tell his wife, who was ill; while they were talking,
his wife became faint, and died two hours later. So that within a few
hours he lost the two human beings whom he most devotedly loved, and on
whom he most depended for sympathy and help.

But in all Sterling's sorrows and illnesses, he never seems to have
lost his interest in life and thought, in ideas, questions, and
problems. Again and again he came back to the surface, with an
irrepressible zest and freshness, and even gaiety, until at last all
hope of life was extinguished. He lay dying for many weeks, and it was
then that he wrote his last letter to Carlyle, which must be given in
full:--

HILLSIDE, VENTNOR,
10th August 1844.

MY DEAR CARLYLE,--For the first time for many months it seems possible
to send you a few words; merely, however, for Remembrance and Farewell.
On higher matters there is nothing to say. I tread the common road into
the great darkness, without any thought of fear, and with very much of
hope. Certainty indeed I have none. With regard to you and me I cannot
begin to write; having nothing for it but to keep shut the lid of those
secrets with all the iron weights that are in my power. Towards me it
is still more true than towards England that no man has been and done
like you. Heaven bless you! If I can lend a hand when THERE, that will
not be wanting. It is all very strange, but not one hundredth part so
sad as it seems to the standers-by.

Your Wife knows my mind towards her, and will believe it without
asseverations.--Yours to the last, JOHN STERLING.

That letter may speak for itself. In its dignity, its nobleness, its
fearlessness, it is one of the finest human documents I know. But let
it be remembered that it is not the letter of a mournful and
heart-broken man, turning his back on life in an ecstasy of despair;
but the letter of one who had taken a boundless delight in life, had
known upon equal terms most of the finest intellects of the day, and
had been frankly recognised by them as a chosen spirit. All Sterling's
designs for life and work had been slowly and surely thwarted by the
pressure of hopeless illness; yet he had never complained or fretted or
brooded, or indulged in any bitter recriminations against his destiny.
That seems to me a very heroic attitude; while the letter itself, in
its perfect frankness and courage, without a touch of solemnity or
affectation, or any trace of cra