of his work.

In the private relations of life Mr. Brann was as
extraordinary as in his public career; he presented that
combination that is so rare that even novelists do not attempt
to paint it, the combination of the lover and the husband,
and as a father, a friend, a lover of humanity, with a
broad mantle of charity for all, he had few equals.

While he wrote in prose, he was a poet, and of him
can be truly said:

"The thoughts that stir the poet's heart
Are not the thoughts that others feel,
From the world's creed they are all apart,
And oftener work his woe than weal.

They are born of high imaginings,
Kindled to life by passion's fire,
As o'er earth's dross his fancy flings
The golden dreams that wrap his lyre."

As a writer, Mr. Brann had his faults, but they were
the heritage of this God-given son of genius, and with
them he climbed the heights and died among the greatest,
both of the living and the dead. And had he lived ten
years longer, in all probability, the intellectual world
would have held him as the grandest writer that this
earth has ever known since the days when old Homer
painted the matchless beauty of the bride of Menelaus,