He chatters about love of "art,"
This actor's "method," that one's "school,"
And pits the stock against the star,
With Contrast as his favorite rule.
He freights the columns of the press
With praise and blame alike mephitic,
And names the burden a _critique_--
And that's the oyster-supper critic.

To-day he dines with _opera-bouffe_,
To-morrow breakfasts with burlesque,
And tights and tinsel, face to face,
Encounters, pink and picturesque.
Nor frown, if, in next week's review,
His gropings after the artistic
Should crop out into verse, and take
The form of some SWINBURNIAN distich.

At night he flits from box to box
Or stands and gossips in the lobby,
With jest and gesture fast and free,
And _tout-ensemble_ neat and nobby.
And whilst he eyes the _debutante_,
And first resolves to praise, then damn her,
New York no other critic boasts
So good at heart, so bad at grammar.

But should some fair friend grace the stage,
Of praise he is not too abstemious,