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1 Charles Sedgwick was clerk of the courts of Berkshire. He died in 1856, at the age of sixty-four. His father, Judge Sedgwick, who died in 1813, had three other sons,—Theodore, of Stockbridge, who died in 1839; Robert, of New York, who died in 1841; and Henry D., of New York, who died in 1831; and also a daughter,—Catherine, the author,—who died in 1867. The Judge's son Theodore, whose widow was living at Stockbridge in 1844, was the father of Theodore Sedgwick, who was the friend and correspondent of Sumner, and the author of the ‘Law of Damages.’ Charles Sedgwick was remarkable for his friendliness and genial conversation. Among the many good things which he said was one of Sumner. The conversation turning upon the latter's want of humor, and habit of taking all he heard in ‘dead earnest,’ Mr. Sedgwick said: ‘What a capital editor of an American “Punch” Sumner would make!’
2 At this time he received a note from Mrs. Montagu, who wrote: ‘That we should think of you and speak of you almost daily, and yet not tell you so, is an apparent perverseness which nothing can account for or excuse, except severe and unpleasant occupation. . . . I cannot account for the strange sympathy by which in a moment my heart acknowledges a friend; but with the feeling always of having known him before, I seem to hear a voice not new to me, and to meet looks and expressions of countenance so dear to me, and so responded to by every fibre in my frame, that it is no stranger who stands before me, but a lost friend recovered. I do not attempt to solve this problem, or to say why I sat down with you at once, and could have said frankly any thing that I thought; and why, in the case of—,of the same country, and of the same extraordinary calibre of mind, I can never be more than a courteous hostess, without the smallest desire to be his friend: that is, a friend in my sense,—a heart friend. Coleridge was another instance. I knew him for years, admired his talent, was most confidentially entrusted by him with his inward thoughts, would have been his hostess for months or years, his nurse in illness, or his adviser in common things, where advice was needed; but his friend, after my fashion, never! I loved Robert Burns at once and for ever; and Edward Irving, with all the tenderness of a friend and mother. I dare not tell you of my antipathies, unless you would accept them as proof of corresponding affections.’
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