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  Rud. Schmidt April 4, '74 My dear Walt Whitman,

Coming home from our "Athenaeum"—a great reading union with a large number of papers and periodicals from all countries of the earth—and having there with great pleasure read in the Norwegian "Aftenbladet" (Evening Paper) for April 1 the the first real criticism of your book, I found on my table your kind letter of March 19, in reply to which I immediately write these lines to let you know the fact.   The author is a young man in my years; his name is Kristian Elster, he is living at present in Throndhjeim (English: Drontheim). I received a letter from him this morning of March 28 announcing that he had written the criticism but expressing a great fear that the editor (in Christiania) would not print it. In the war, on the roaring sea the Norwegians are a people of heroes; but in their civil and literary life they are a race of cowards. Either the author or the editor will forward a copy of the number to you. I will beg you to let it be carefully translated to you. Elster speaks of a certain affinity between the author and his translator, others have made   the same remark.

In the whole I have sent you 1) Fædrelandet 2) Nær og fjern. 3) Dagbladet 4) Folkets Avis. The last paper (people's paper) is slang and the editor is the clown of the basest Copenhagen public.

All the other critics have been in the same case with you as during many years our critics have been with Grundtvig: when the objections against the books are exhausted, the man is standing there invulnerable against all the darted arrows and imposing the critic himself!

And therefore your adversaries here are at the bottom your friends. But your proper friends are among   the peasantry and the teachers of the village schools and the very few, to whom culture has been no poison (among these especially the women.)

I am very glad to hear that your brother and sister are with you in your lonesomeness.

I should be glad to know some thing about John Burroughs; his book has made his individuality dear to me.

Here follows a photography that gives a true idea of my stature;—the face is not good.

Yours— Rudolph Schmidt