him in this respect. As a bold genius, as an intellectual
giant, as a man armed and equipped with intellectual
fire, and as a man with a noble ambition to stand by
the right, he was a sworn foe of hypocrisy and fraud.
And when he took into his brave hands the pen, he made
fraud and hypocrisy quake and tremble. Burning words
came from his tongue, scorching and branding every fraud.
Men looked upon him then as a hard man, as a heartless
man because he told them the truth. But the other side
of this man's individuality, I, for one, have had the
opportunity to see. He could not only sow intellectually;
he was not only able to entertain the civilized world with
burning words, with thoughts that were winged and that
went like lightning, but he was a man of heart and of
honor, and a man of the warmest and most generous
love. He could go towards the skies intellectually, but
in his heart he lived close to nature. He loved nature.
He loved the very trees under whose shade he rested. He
loved the little birds that sang in the trees, the grass
upon which he walked, the flowers that bedecked the
forest. And he loved his fellow man. He had a warm,
generous heart and affection that went out to the poor
and those who were needy. W. C. Brann was never
known to attack a man who was a man. It was the strong
and the defiant that he branded, and not the weak and
the needy or the deserving. For these he was the friend.
I knew this man, not only as the editor of the ICONOCLAST,
not only as the utterer of grand and entertaining
sentences, but I knew him as a man whose palm was stretched
out to the man who was in need. Few men have been