I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught; Tipping the tankard high, that I might see My features at the bottom, and regale My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed The paper to my wife, and bade her read. I watched her while she read, but failed to find The sympathy of pleasure in her face I had expected. Finishing at last, She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me, Said thoughtfully: "You like this, I suspect." "Well, truly!" I responded, "since it seems To be the first instalment of the wage Which you suggested might come grudgingly. Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails In nice discrimination,--that it slurs Defects which I perceive as well as you; But it is kind, and places in best light Such excellences as we both may find-- May claim, indeed." "And yet, it is a lie, Or what the editor would call 'a puff,' From first to last. The 'continence,' my dear, 'Of genius!' What of that? And what about The 'manly effort,' for whose exercise He thanked you on the world's behalf? And so Your nursing, chastening and developing Of power!--Pray what of these?" "Oh! wife!" I said, "Don't spoil it all! Be pitiful, my love! I am a baby--granted: so I need The touch of tender hands, and something sweet To keep me happy." "Babies take a bath, Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love Filches the chill, and you must have one dash," She answered me, "to close your complement. The weakest spot in all your book, he found With a quick instinct; and on that he spent His sharpest force and finest rhetoric, Shoring and bracing it on every side With bold assumptions and affirmatives, To blind the eyes of novices, and scare With fierce forestalment all the critic-quills Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps, The tickle of the taste, and that it bore Upon its glowing gold small food for life. He saw just there the point to be attacked; And there threw up his earth-works, and spread out His thorned abattis. He was very kind Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too; For well he knew that there are earnest souls In the broad world, who claim that highest art Is highest ministry to human need; And that the artist has no Christian right To prostitute his art to selfish ends, Or make it vehicle alone of plums For the world's pudding."