mind:—"When is Bowse coming over? Will you give him a letter to me? I continue to think his picture of Emerson the best portrait I know of anyone I know."
Sophia Thoreau's letter was written seven weeks after her brother's death,—the fresh wound still bleeding. Poor, stricken, lonely sister! Bereaved of such a brother, mourning for the 'irreparable loss,' yet prouder of her brother dead than of the countless carcases strutting in the sunlight and kept from stinking only by the cheap salt of civilization. Poor Sophia! she was quoting from her recollections of that beautiful spring day when Emerson spoke the eulogy over her brother's coffin. But, pardonably enough, she had misquoted. Emerson had said: "His soul was made for the noblest society; he
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