Poet in feeling as I thought him, I could hardly imagine a poem written by
my friend, and while I had little doubt that I could live through the
reading of a novel or short prose sketch from his pen, I was apprehensive
as to the effect of a possible bit of verse.
It seemed to me, in short, that a poem by Bragdon, while it might easily
show the poet's fancy, could not fail to show also the produce-broker's
clumsiness of touch. His charm was the spontaneity of his spoken words,
his enthusiastic personality disarming all criticism; what the labored
productions of his fancy might prove to be, I hardly dared think. It was
this dread that induced me, upon receipt of the box, appalling in its bulk
and unpleasantly suggestive of the departure to other worlds of the
original consignor, since it was long and deep like the outer oaken
covering of a casket, to delay opening it for some days; but finally I
nerved myself up to the duty that had devolved upon me, and opened the
box.
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