Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2

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I must close now, in great haste. Business calls. I charged one client yesterday, as part of my fee in a case, six hundred dollars. He had the grace to say that it was no more than he expected, and not so much as I deserved.

‘I do not think my sister Mary¹ is well, or in good spirits. A letter from you would have “healing on its wings.” ’

To Lord Morpeth, New York.

Boston, Dec. 28, 1841.

my dear Morpeth,²—I chide myself for my dumbness when I parted from you. I could not say then how much pleasure I had found in your society, and how much regret I felt in losing it. When the train had whistled out of sight, I walked, melancholy and slow, to Prescott, with whom I walked till long after dark, and talked about you. His heart was full of you, and I was delighted to find such sympathy for my own feelings. He can never fail to remember your visit with the keenest pleasure, and will join with me in watching your course in the clear upper sky. Believe me, everybody feels most kindly to you. All will take a deep interest in you, but there are some who have more than a common interest; they feel a warm affection. Pray do not forget Boston. I feel, my dear friend, how little claim I have to your friendship; but the heart speaks from its fulness, and I cannot withhold the expressions of my warm attachment.

After quitting Prescott, I went to the Anti-slavery Fair, where I talked with Mrs. Loring³ and Mrs. Chapman about you. Then I saw Hillard, and continued the theme; and so night came. I told Prescott I should write to you to-day, and he said, ‘Put in my kindest regards.’ Believe us, dear Morpeth, all mindful of you, and myself more than all.

Ever and ever sincerely yours,

Charles Sumner.

To Lord Morpeth, New York.

Boston, Dec. 30, 1841.

Thanks, my dear Morpeth, for thinking of me, and for writing so promptly. Thanks for the beautiful verses, which I shall preserve in memory of you. All have been pleased by your visit, and hope that you have carried away pleasing recollections of us. I hope that neither the frolics of New York, the staid hospitalities of Philadelphia, nor the hoarse politics of Washington will wean you from Boston.

In Philadelphia, send these letters, first, to Horace Binney, a retired lawyer