He was a poet in the garb of a Diogenes.

Many of his theories were wrong, but all were striking.

Sometimes his sentences flashed like a scythe swinging in the sunshine.
Henry talked as he had never found occasion to talk before.

These men inspired him, and in acknowledgment of this he said: "We may for years carry in our minds a sort of mist that we cannot shape into an idea.
Suddenly we meet a man, and he speaks the word of life unto that mist, and instantly it becomes a thought." Other members joined the group, and the conversation broke and flew into sharp fragments.

McGlenn and Richmond began to wrangle.
"Your children may not read my books," said McGlenn, replying to some assertion that Richmond had made, "but your great-grandchildren will." "Oh, that's possible," Richmond rejoined.