“I do assure you, my dear Sumner,” he writes in 1846, “the sort of vulgar notoriety which follows any movement of this kind is a very great drawback to the pleasure of making it. To the voice of praise I am sensible, too sensible I know; but I do detest this newspaper puffing, and I have been put to the blush very often by it.” The following is his account of his reception by the peasants on the Isthmus of Corinth when he was recognized in 1844. “The whole village gathered about the house, and to make a long story short, I went away amid demonstrations of affectionate remembrance and continued attachment, so earnest and so obvious that they made one of my companions shed tears, though he understood not a word of the spoken language. But I must not enlarge on this now, for I have no time; perhaps I ought not to do so even had I ever so much time; but you will not, I know, suspect me of vanity in making any communications to you.” Charles Sumner is almost the only man to whom he unbosoms himself on such subjects: “It is quite too bad to keep people under such a delusion about me. One gentleman, an F. R. S., writes that he wants to see me more than any other man in Europe. He has published a little book, with physiological reflections on privation of senses, which he dedicates “To Dr. Howe, the ingenious and successful teacher of Laura Bridgman.” The man looks _up_ to me; yet it is evident, from reading his books, that he has himself tenfold more talent, acquirement, and merit than I have or ever shall have.”... To Horace Mann he writes in 1848, “It is absurd for me to reach up from my littleness to tender counsel to one so high as you; but my love for you is as great as though we stood face to face.” He thus questions Sumner as to whether he himself can learn to be an editor: “Tell me my best, my almost only friend, is there any reason to suppose that by any apprenticeship I could, without rashness, enter the editorial field.” This from a man who had only to touch any cause to make the world ring with it, is incredible. One cannot hope really to understand such a character: it reminds one of the meekness of Moses. There is a rose-leaf girlish quality about this modesty which makes it one of the most wonderful things in nature. Few of us have ever seen it; we have only read about it; for people are always writing about it, and it evokes literature. No sooner does one of these modest people appear than everyone praises him. I suppose people feel that praise cannot injure such a nature: there is nothing for praise to stick to. The bitter lips of malice break into eulogy before this quality, which shrinks from commendation as most people shrink from censure. In Dr. Howe’s case this modesty set off not only deeds of physical prowess, but intellectual accomplishments of a most dazzling kind. Hence the enormous number of somewhat tedious eulogies upon him. One is obliged to approach him through a stack of funeral wreaths.