We listened breathless, nodding exuberant approval. For weren't we
ourselves, each and all of us, mightily in love with art and with the
human scene? And hadn't we, listening thus breathlessly to our amazing
master, the enchanting assurance that we were on the track of a
masterpiece? Not impossibly a whole gallery of masterpieces, since
Heber Pogson had barely touched middle age as yet. For him there still
was time. Fiction, we gathered to be the selected medium. He not only
meant to write, but was actually now engaged in writing, a novel during
those withdrawn and sacred morning hours when we were denied admittance
to his presence. We previsaged something tremendous, poetic yet
fearlessly modern, fixed on the bedrock of realism, a drama and a
vision wide, high, deep, spectacular yet subtle as life itself. Let his
confreres, French and Russian--not to mention those merely British
born--look to their laurels, when Heber Pogson blossomed into print!
And--preciously inspiring thought--he was our Pogson. He inalienably
belonged to us; since hadn't we detected the quality of his genius when
the veil was still upon its face? Oh! we knew, bless you; we knew.
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