I spent last evening in fighting for you, in reading you, and, in a feeble way, expounding you. I had a little company, comprising the membership of an intelligent reading club ignorant, however, for the most part, of your works—to whom I gave some account of your literary purposes, accompanied with readings from your works. The more melodious passages I had read by sweet-voiced women, and the robust passages by men with good strong voices; and some who came, perhaps, to snicker remained to listen with parted lips. Nevertheless, though the reading passed for a success, we had the stock questions to answer, and the stock objections, to interpose your own strong words against. One man said you had early had your head turned by excessive adulation! I told him that you had had at least enough of the other thing to bring up the balance, and that moreover, adulation would as soon turn the head of Moosilanke Moosilauke , my big mountain up north, as yours.
Well, all this is vain to you. Neither you nor the Leaves of Grass are on trial any more. But it occurred to me that you might be willing to know that reading clubs in Massachusetts are reading you and wrangling over you: and I desired to thank you for the word which you sent to us through your friend—I cannot now recall his name—to whom Rev. Mr. DeLong wrote, and who kindly replied. Your cheery "God help 'em!" gave us a breath of you. My friend Baxter sent us his copy of your big book with notes, one or two, from you, pasted in.
You do not know me, but your friends Baxter, Sloane Kennedy, Garland and Ernest Rhys are all very good friends of mine, and we have for a good while celebrated you here and elsewhere.
I send you my heartiest wishes for the prolongation of your noble life in content and in as great a measure of health as possibly can come to you.
Truly yours, J. E. Chamberlin.