C. Edwards Lester, Life and public services of Charles Sumner: Born Jan. 6, 1811. Died March 11, 1874.

‘ [515] came.’ He at once began to talk on European politics, which to him was an outspread map, and whose kaleidoscopic changes he viewed with absorbing interest. He spoke of Gladstone—his noble struggle in the cause of Liberalism, his success, his failure, and his fall; he gave a sketch of a breakfast with him, and summed up by expressions of his firm faith in the ultimate triumph of those principles which Gladstone so nobly championed. ‘A great man under the shadow of a defeat,’ said he, ‘is taught how precious are the uses of adversity, and as an oak tree's roots are strengthened by its shadow, so all defeats in a good cause are but resting-places on the road to victory at last.’ He spoke of the patchwork Empire of Germany, of Bismarck, and Della Marmora—of truth, stranger than fiction, viz., of the Italian statesman's assertion of Bismarck's offer to cede France a portion of German territory —of the impolicy of the annexation of Alsace and Lorraine—of the differences with the Catholic Church, the imprisonment of her prelates—and then, taking a volume of Milton, he read, in deep, rich tones of tender melody, his famous sonnet upon the persecution of the Waldenses during Cromwell's protectorate.

In closing, he added: ‘Thus history revenges herself.’ About this time his evening mail was brought; whenever he came to one interesting note or letter he would look it over and then hand it to me to read. * * * The next letter was from Philadelphia, an anonymous attack of the bitterest description, impugning his motives concerning his speech on the International Centenary Exposition, winding up with a threat of violence, which I forbear to transcribe. As he handed it to me he said, good-humoredly: ‘I am used to such letters.’ I read it, and, as I did so, consigned it to the blazing grate. The next letter was from Indiana, one of those good, whole-souled letters, full of sympathy and admiration, with an urgent, earnest invitation for him to visit the writer next summer, and an offer of generous and unstinted hospitality. ‘There,’ said he, ‘you have burned the bane, and here is the antidote.’ His next letter was from Boston, fill of hearty thankfulness for his restoration to health, and cheer for the future. It was closely written,