“At a certain stage of his progress the man fights, if he be of a sound body and mind.  At a certain high stage he makes no offensive demonstration, but is alert to repel injury, and of an unconquerable heart.  At a still higher stage he comes into the region of holiness; passion has passed away from him; his warlike nature is all converted into an active medicinal principle; he sacrifices himself, and accepts with alacrity wearisome tasks of denial and charity; but being attacked, he bears it, and turns the other cheek, as one engaged, throughout his being, no longer to the service of an individual, but to the common good of all men.”

In 1834 Emerson’s brother Edward died, as already mentioned, in the West India island where he had gone for his health.  In his letter to Carlyle, of November 12th of the same year, Emerson says:  “Your letter, which I received last week, made a bright light in a solitary and saddened place.  I had quite recently received the news of the death of a brother in the island of Porto Rico, whose loss to me will be a lifelong sorrow.”  It was of him that Emerson wrote the lines “In Memoriam,” in which he says,—­

  “There is no record left on earth
  Save on tablets of the heart,
  Of the rich, inherent worth,
  Of the grace that on him shone
  Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit;
  He could not frame a word unfit,
  An act unworthy to be done.”

Another bereavement was too soon to be recorded.  On the 7th of October, 1835, he says in a letter to Carlyle:—­

“I was very glad to hear of the brother you describe, for I have one too, and know what it is to have presence in two places.  Charles Chauncy Emerson is a lawyer now settled in this town, and, as I believe, no better Lord Hamlet was ever.  He is our Doctor on all questions of taste, manners, or action.  And one of the pure pleasures I promise myself in the months to come is to make you two gentlemen know each other.”

Alas for human hopes and prospects!  In less than a year from the date of that letter, on the 17th of September, 1836, he writes to Carlyle:—­

“Your last letter, dated in April, found me a mourner, as did your first.  I have lost out of this world my brother Charles, of whom I have spoken to you,—­the friend and companion of many years, the inmate of my house, a man of a beautiful genius, born to speak well, and whose conversation for these last years has treated every grave question of humanity, and has been my daily bread.  I have put so much dependence on his gifts, that we made but one man together; for I needed never to do what he could do by noble nature, much better than I. He was to have been married in this month, and at the time of his sickness and sudden death, I was adding apartments to my house for his permanent accommodation.  I wish that you could have known him.  At twenty-seven years the best life is only preparation.