But at last The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine-- Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life, Skipping the pavement--I walked down Broadway, To ease the restlessness and cool the heat That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed A showy window, filled with costly books, My little girl exclaimed: "Oh, father! See! There is your name!" Straight all the bravery Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped, And I was limp as water; but I paused, And read the placard. It announced my book In characters of flame, with adjectives My daring publisher had filched, I think From an old circus broadside. "Well!" thought I-- Biting my lip--"I'm in the market now! How much--O! rattling, roaring multitude! O! selfish, cheating, lying multitude! O! hawking, trading, delving multitude!-- How much for one man's hope, for one man's life? What for his toil and pain?--his heart's red blood? What for his brains and breeding? Oh, how much For one who craves your praises with your pence, And dies with your denial?" I went in, And bought my book--not doubting I was first To give response to my apostrophe. The smug old clerk, who found his length of ear Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade, Wrapped my dear bantling well; and, as he dropped My dollar in his till, smiled languidly Upon my little girl, and said to me-- To cheer me in my purchase--that the book Was thought to be a deuced clever thing. He never read such books; he had no time; Indeed, he had no interest in them. Still, other people had, and it was well, For it helped trade along. It was for him-- A vulgar fraction of the integral We speak of as "the people," and "the world"-- I had been writing! Had he read my book, And given it his praise, I should have been Delighted, though I knew that his applause Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool Undoubtedly; yet I could understand, Better than e'er before, how separate The artist is from such a soul as his-- What need of teachers and interpreters To crumble in his pewter porringer The rounded loaf, whose crust was adamant To his weak fingers. The next morning's press Was purchased early, though I read in vain To find my reputation. But at night, My door-bell rang; and I received a note From one who edited an evening print, (I had dined with him at my publisher's), Inclosing a review, and venturing The hope that I should like it.