, Boston, May 28, 1884)⁠—And that solely for publishing it I have been the object of two or three pretty serious special official buffetings⁠—is all probably no more than I ought to have expected. I had my choice when I commenc’d. I bid neither for soft eulogies, big money returns, nor the approbation of existing schools and conventions. As fulfill’d or partially fulfill’d, the best comfort of the whole business (after a small band of the dearest friends and upholders ever vouchsafed to man or cause⁠—doubtless all the more faithful and uncompromising⁠—this little phalanx!⁠—for being so few) is that, unstopp’d and unwarp’d by any influence outside the soul within me, I have had my say entirely my own way, and put it unerringly on record⁠—the value thereof to be decided by time.

In calculating that decision, William O’Connor and Dr. Bucke are far more peremptory than I am. Behind all else that can be said, I consider Leaves of Grass and its theory experimental⁠—as, in the deepest sense, I consider our American republic itself to be, with its theory. (I think I have at least enough philosophy not to be too absolutely certain of anything, or any results.) In the second place, the volume is a sortie⁠—whether to prove triumphant, and conquer its field of aim and escape and construction, nothing less than a hundred years from now can fully answer. I consider the point that I have positively gain’d a hearing, to far more than make up for any and all other lacks and withholdings. Essentially, that was from the first, and has remain’d throughout, the main object. Now it seems to be achiev’d, I am certainly contented to waive any otherwise momentous drawbacks, as of little account. Candidly and dispassionately reviewing all my intentions, I feel that they were creditable⁠—and I accept the result, whatever it may be.