in his most sesquipedalian phraseology.  I had no chance to say one word.  He had his own way of gaining magnetism; believed in associating with butchers.  Did you ever know one that was anaemic, especially at slaughtering time?  From them and the animals there and in stables, and the smell of the flowing blood, he felt that surely a radiant magnetism was gained.  Those he visited “thought he was real democratic and a pleasant spoken man.”  He told of an opportunity he once had for regular employment, riding on the stage-coach by the side of a farmer’s pretty daughter.  She suggested that he might like a milk route, and “perhaps father can get you one.”  So formal, dignified, and fastidious was he that this seems improbable, but I quote his own account.

Doctor Ordronaux visited at my uncle’s, a physician, when I was resting there from overwork.  After his departure, uncle received a letter from him which he handed to me saying, “Guess this is meant for you.”  I quote proudly: 

I rejoice to have been permitted to enjoy so much of Miss Sanborn’s society, and to discover what I never before fully appreciated, that beneath the scintillations of a brilliant intellect she hides a vigorous and analytic understanding, and when age shall have somewhat tempered her emotional susceptibilities she will shine with the steady light of a planet, reaching her perihelion and taking a permanent place in the firmament of letters.

Sounds something like a Johnsonian epitaph, but wasn’t it great?

I visited his adopted mother at Roslyn, Long Island, and they took me to a Sunday dinner with Bryant at “Cedarmere,” a fitting spot for a poet’s home.  The aged poet was in vigorous health, mind and body.  Going to his library he took down an early edition of his Thanatopsis, pointing out the nineteen lines written some time before the rest.  Mottoes hung on the wall such as “As thy days so shall thy strength be.”  I ventured to ask how he preserved such vitality, and he said, “I owe a great deal to daily air baths and the flesh brush, plenty of outdoor air and open fireplaces.”  What an impressive personality; erect, with white hair and long beard; his eyebrows looked as if snow had fallen on them.  His conversation was delightfully informal.  “What does your name mean?” he inquired, and I had to say, “I do not know, it has changed so often,” and asked, “What is the origin of yours?” “Briant—­brilliant, of course.”  He told the butler to close the door behind me lest I catch cold from a draught, quoting this couplet: 

          When the wind strikes you through a hole,
          Go make your will and mind your soul;