Of course it always has been, and forever will be, impossible for slavery, or any kind or form of injustice, to produce a great poet. There are hundreds of verse makers and writers on the side of wrong--enemies of progress--but they are not poets, they are not men of genius. At this time a young man--he to whom this testimonial is given--he upon whose head have fallen the snows of more than seventy winters--this man, born within the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book, "Leaves of Grass." This book was, and is, the true transcript of a soul. The man is unmasked. No drapery of hypocrisy, no pretence, no fear. The book was as original in form as in thought. All customs were forgotten or disregarded, all rules broken--nothing mechanical--no imitation--spontaneous, running and winding like a river, multitudinous in its thoughts as the waves of the sea--nothing mathematical or measured--in everything a touch of chaos; lacking what is called form, as clouds lack form, but not lacking the splendor of sunrise or the glory of sunset. It was a marvelous collection and aggregation of fragments, hints, suggestions, memories, and prophecies, weeds and flowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions and passions, waves, shadows and constellations. His book was received by many with disdain, with horror, with indignation and protest--by the few as a marvelous, almost miraculous, message to the world--full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music. In the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous. A great soul appears and fills the world with new and marvelous harmonies. In his words is the old Promethean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs in his line. The respectable prudes and pedagogues sound the alarm, and cry, or rather screech: "Is this a book for a young person?" A poem true to life as a Greek statue--candid as nature--fills these barren souls with fear. They forget that drapery about the perfect was suggested by immodesty. The provincial prudes, and others of like mold, pretend that love is a duty rather than a passion--a kind of self-denial--not an over-mastering joy. They preach the gospel of pretence and pantalettes, In the presence of sincerity, of truth, they cast down their eyes and endeavor to feel immodest. To them, the most beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a blush. They have no idea of an honest, pure passion, glorying in its strength--intense, intoxicated with the beautiful, giving even to inanimate things pulse and motion, and that transfigures, ennobles, and idealizes the object of its adoration. They do not walk the streets of the city of life--they explore the sewers; they stand in the gutters and cry "Unclean!" They pretend that beauty is a snare; that love is a Delilah; that the highway of joy is the broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume, leading to the city of eternal sorrow.