Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1

[115] sat for a while in her chamber. She gradually became weaker and weaker, sinking by degrees, imperceptible except in their aggregate; always contented and cheerful, and, till the last two days of her tarry here, able to sit up a good portion of the day. It was evident, though, a fortnight—perhaps a month—before she died, that she could not live. It is, I believe, the nature of consumption to deceive its unfortunate victim into the belief that health may yet be regained, or, at least, life retained. It is accompanied with no decided pain, and thus leaves the mind to its hopes and anticipations. That such was the state of my sister's mind, I do not know. I never ventured to introduce my fears to her, and she seemed as studiously to avoid allusion to that topic. My mother, but a few days before her death, introduced the subject, and found her to be perfectly conscious of her situation and resigned to that Will which is the governor of our lives. She sank into death ‘calmly as to a night's repose,’ the last words she uttered being those of gratitude to one of her young friends who was watching her wants and comforts. My father's distress was very great. More than once I saw tears steal from his eyes. My mother is still dejected and comfortless. . . .

You have referred to my health, &c. I never was better; in fact, I never was unwell. I've always been well. Who can have spoken to you of me such flattering words, as should imply that I was hurting my health with study? Contra, I reprove myself for lack of study. I am well-determined, though, that, if health is continued to me, lack of study shall not be laid to my charge. Study is the talisman.

Carter is trying to start a school in Boston. Browne is well. He does not love the law. He is a keen, direct, and close debater.

From your true friend,

Chas. Sumner.

To Charlemagne Tower.

Boston, Sunday, July 29, 1832.

my dear friend,—This is vacation,—if such time there can be to one who has doubled his twenty-first year, and is moderately aware of the duties of manhood,—and I am at home. I have not stirred within sight of the Boston boundary-line since I came into town, and probably shall not cross it during the whole six weeks, except perhaps to make a pilgrimage to Cambridge. I am grateful to you for your kind invitation to visit you and see your doings. The gratification of friendship aside, I should be much delighted to travel through your great and growing State, and look at and hear ‘Niagara's roar.’ But pockets not full, and an attention given to studies by which I must earn what of bread and credit may be my lot, prevent. . ..

I wrote a Bowdoin dissertation on the subject which I mentioned in my last to you as uppermost in my mind. I commenced one evening, and a fortnight after I wrote the last sentence,—some fifty pages. During all the while I attended closely to the exercises of the school. . . .

Your affectionate friend,

C. S.