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

[227] will find us a little older than when you left,—some of us no more in love with the world or life, and poor Cleveland ill indeed. It is thought he must go immediately on a long voyage, either to Rio Janeiro or the Mediterranean. He is thin and feeble. My heart bleeds; and I wish that I could lay down the burden of life, and endue him with my vigorous health. ‘Stop! sad heart, and cease repining.’ I do not repine. I often think of your various words of strength printed, written, and spoken. A few days ago, an old classmate, upon whom the world had not smiled, came to my office to prove some debts before me in bankruptcy. While writing the formal parts of the paper, I inquired about his reading, and the books which interested him now (I believe that he has been a great reader). He said that he read very little; that he hardly found any thing which was written from the heart, and was really true. ‘Have you read Longfellow's “Hyperion” ?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘and I admire it very much; I think it a very great book.’ He then added, in a very solemn manner: ‘I think I may say that Longfellow's “ Psalm of Life” saved me from suicide. I first found it on a scrap of newspaper, in the hands of two Irish women, soiled and worn; and I was at once touched by it.’ Think, my dear friend, of this soul, into which you have poured the waters of life. Such a tribute is higher than the words of Rogers, much as I value them.

The death of Dr. Channing is a great sorrow,—not so much for his friends as for truth, humanity, and benevolence. He died Oct. 2, at Bennington, and was buried at Mount Auburn. I passed last evening with his daughter, and conversed freely about her father and his last days. I love his memory very much. He had been for years a very kind friend of mine.

It is after midnight; so I will to bed, wishing you a thousand blessings.

Ever affectionately yours,

Charles Sumner.

To his brother George, he wrote, in October, 1842:—

You will see that Dr. Channing is dead. So passed away one of the purest, brightest, greatest minds of this age. He has been my friend, and, I may almost say, idol for nearly ten years. For this period I have enjoyed his confidence in no common way. Both his last treatises he read to me in manuscript, and asked my advice with regard to their publication, and my criticism. In him there was less pride of authorship than in any person I have ever known. When he had once written his thoughts, he dismissed them from his mind.¹

‘Longfellow² has returned; and we are all delighted to embrace him. He is well, and in capital spirits. On his voyage home, he wrote some fine lyrics against Slavery.’