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at the Springs than in my whole life before. I know not why it was, but I went under every advantage. Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, and they are such charming people and treated me with so much affection, it could not be otherwise! Among the many gentlemen I have become acquainted and who have been attentive, one I believe is serious. I know not, my dearest Mother, how to introduce this subject, yet as I fear you may hear it from others and feel anxious for my welfare, I consider it a duty to tell you all. At Albany, on our way to Ballston, we put up at the same house with a Mr. Bowne from New York; he went on to the Springs the same day we did, and from that time was particularly attentive to me; he was always of our parties to ride, went to Lake George in company with us, and came on to Lebanon when we did, for 4 weeks I saw him every day and probably had a better opportunity of knowing him than if I had seen him as a common acquaintance in town for years. I felt cautious of encouraging his attentions, tho' I did not wish to discourage it, there were so many New Yorkers at the Springs who knew him perfectly that I easily learnt his character and reputation; he is a man of business, uniform in his conduct and very much respected; all this we knew from report. Mr. and Mrs. Derby were very much pleased with him, but conducted towards me with peculiar delicacy, left me entirely to myself, as on a subject of so much importance they scarcely dared give an opinion. I felt myself in a situation truly embarrassing. At such a distance from all my friends,—my Father and Mother a perfect stranger to the person, and prepossessed in his favor as much as so short an acquaintance would sanction, his conduct was such as I shall ever reflect on with the greatest pleas- open, candid, generous, and delicate. He is a man in whom I could place the most unbounded confidence,

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No Disposition to Refuse

nothing rash or impetuous in his disposition, but weighs maturely every circumstance; he knew I was not at liberty to encourage his addresses without the approbation of my Parents, and appeared as solicitous that I should act with strict propriety as one of my most disinterested friends. He advised me like a friend and would not have suffered me to do anything improper. He only required I would not discourage his addresses till he had an opportunity of making known to my Parents his character and wishes — this I promised and went so far as to tell him I approved him as far as I knew him, but the decision must rest with my Parents, their wishes were my law. He insisted upon coming on immediately: that I absolutely refused to consent to. But all my persuasion to wait till winter had no effect; the first of October he will come. I could not prevent it without a positive refusal; this I felt no disposition to give. And now, my dearest Mother, I submit myself wholly to the wishes of my Father and you, convinced that my happiness is your warmest wish, and to promote it has ever been your study. That I feel deeply interested in Mr. Bowne I candidly acknowledge, and from the knowledge I have of his heart and character I think him better calculated to promote my happiness than any person I have yet seen; he is a firm, steady, serious man, nothing light or trifling in his character, and I have every reason to think he has well weighed his sentiments towards me, — nothing rash or premature. I have referred him wholly to you, and you, my dearest Parents, must decide. Octavia mentioned nothing about moving, but I am extremely anxious to know how soon we go into Portland and what house we shall have. Write me immediately on the subject, and let me know if you approve my conduct. Mr. Bowne wishes me to remain here until he comes on and then let him carry me home this I objected to, but will depend on your ad

vice. .

You cannot imagine how interested they [Mr. and Mrs. Derby] both are in the subject I have been writing you upon, my nearest friends cannot feel more, they have witnessed the whole progress, and if you knew them, would be convinced they would not have let me act improperly, they both approve my conduct. I wish my Father would write to Mr. Derby and know what he says of Mr. B.'s character. I don't know but 'tis a subject too delicate to give his opinion, but I can conceive that my Father might request it without impropriety. . . . I long to hear from home. My love to all my friends, and believe me, with every sentiment of duty and affection, your daughter ELIZA

Martha sent me a most elegant Indispensable, white lutestring spangled with silver, and a beautiful bracelet for the arm made of her hair; she is too good to love me as she says, more than ever.

In spite of ignorance, Mr. Longfellow admires Mr. Sumner's speech

January 27, 1870

NEVER having dealt with any other figures than

figures of speech; never having known the difference between a bank-note and a greenback; never having suspected that there was any difference between them, — you can imagine with what a dark-lantern I have read your speech on the Refunding and Consolidation of the

National Debt.

I am as capable of forming an idea of it as a gentleman was the other day of estimating a lovely little Albani's "Europa" which I showed him, when he said, "A chromolithograph, I presume."

However, I have faith in you; and faith is "the evi

Lacrymæ Rerum

dence of things unseen,"

though I think that before

having it, one must have seen something or other which inspires it. This is just my case. Having known you so wise and far-seeing in other matters, I believe you to be in this. . . .

"No time like the old time"

(Charles Sumner to Henry W. Longfellow)

AT YOUR HOME, Sunday, Aug. 8, 1847

DEARLY BELOVED HENRY, — I came here yes

terday morning, and am monarch of all I survey; my right there is none to dispute. I seize a moment in the lull of the grinding labor of committing my address to memory, to send you and Fanny a benediction. I wander through the open rooms of your house, and am touched by an indescribable feeling of tenderness at the sight of those two rooms where we have mused and mourned so often together. Joy has washed from your mind those memories, but they cling to me still. I looked at the place where stood the extempore cot bedstead. I hope that is preserved; if I ever have a home of my own, I shall claim it as an interesting memorial. Then the places where we have sat and communed, and that window-seat, — all seemed to speak to me with soft voices. Most sacred is that room to me, more so than any other haunt of my life. I remember all your books as they then looked upon me gently from the shelves. Have you forgotten the verses of Suckling which we once read together? I leave for Amherst on Tuesday, and shall be back on Friday. Let me have a note from you or Fanny. I wish I were not quite so sad as I am disposed to be. Felton says my address is very fine. Howe says it will astonish by its practical character. It is more plain, less ornate, than the

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others. Its title is "Fame and Glory." I have said nothing, however, which your "Psalm of Life" does not embody. One touch upon your harp sounds louder and longer than all I can do.

Ever and ever thine,

C. S.

"No friends like our old friends"

(James Russell Lowell to William Wetmore Story)

ELMWOOD, Sept. 25th, 1849

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MY

There is one of your

nay, seeming all the Yet for that buried

foreign experiences which I grudge you, only one which I envy, and that is the meeting with F. H. If he be still within reach of voice or letter, give him my love, fresh as ever after so many years' silence fresher, like a flower upon a grave. friendship I live in the faith of a joyful resurrection — and in the body. Here I sit alone this chilly September morning, with the rain just beginning to rattle on the roof, and the writing of his name has sent my heart back to the happy hopeful past when one was capable of everything because one had not yet tried anything. The years have taught me some sharp and some sweet lessons none wiser than this, to keep the old friends. Every year adds its value to a friendship as to a tree, with no effort and no merit of ours. The lichens upon the bark, which the dandyfiers of Nature would scrape away, even the dead limbs here and there, are dear and sacred to us. Every year adds its compound interest of association and enlarges the circle of shelter and of shade. It is good to plant them early, for we have not the faith to do it when we are old. I write it sadly and with tears in my eyes. Later friends drink our lees, but the old ones drank the clear wine at

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