Bridgeton pioneer., 1884-01-24
CHAPTER VI.

Mr.. Ronald Marsh gave his poems to the
world, and they made almost as much noise
as he had hoped. But when one goes forth
to make noise in the world, the character
OF the clamor which arises is as important
as the volume of it, and the public recep
tion of Mr.. Marshs muse, though loud
enough to satisfy anybody, aroused the bit.
terest scorn in the poets heart Such a
chartOari of chaff, such a Jovian roll and
peal of laughter arose from the great re-
viewers, and was taken up by the little ones,
as has rarely rung in any poets tingling
ears since reviewing came into fashion.
The Times set him down to roast at whols
column, the '1Eser branded him with one
red-hot paragraph, and from every point Of
the compass the critics, big and little,
heaved the Goals of fire of friendless criti.
clsm at him by the shovelful. But the poet
as Mr.. Tennyson had already written, is al
the moment of his birth 'dowered with the
hate of hate-the scorn of scorn n-and Mr..
Marsh was not easily to be discomfited He
bought Sombreros of a wider brim than he
had evefworn until then, he vowed in his
lnmost heart that the shears of the barber
should invade his rolling locks no more, and
he ordered his tailors to add an inch or two
to the poetical cloak in which he commonly
'SAA" Ss'Ouo IIOlieOL Ilc LdlU1lGSS lew WING
had worn his livery and gone about in his
likeness fled from their colors They had
their hair cut in the normal way. and be.
gan to attire themselves in the conventional
garb of gentlemen When friends talked
about the Leader they made a weak pre-.
tense OF having been in the secret all along.
and tried to make it appear that they had
oeen hugely tickled by the fustian which
mad thrilled their simple souls The Leader
mad lost his following, as most leaders dc
"hen they lead to ridicule, but he faced the
world alone, and meditated fresh poems
with an undaunted heart.
lie abandoned none of his old haunts. but
ne found many of his old friends pitiless.
1here are Few men who need sympathv
more than the man whose book is a failure.
Within it, tangible and visible, lie the
nerves of his soul, if he has one: he has mt
into it his acutest discernment. his sweetest
fancies, his loftiest thoughts, his most cun-
ming invention; he has glowed with hone
and gone cold with fear about it: he has
loved it tenderly and admiringlv, as a good
wife loves her husband, and with growth
OF joy in its strength and beauty, as a father
loves his child. Then comes the grim re-
viewer (born surely with bowels of brass
and heart of adainant) and slays this darling
OF the authors heart, scalps it, Sits it's dear
ilttle nose and tender ears, wreaks on it all
MS parbarous humor of wicked invention.
and throws its remains aside without even
the poor satisfaction of Christian burial.
Who can need sympathy more than an au-
thor in such case? But there is no more
mercy in the world for him than there is
milk in male tiger
Yet in the conclave of ten, which met in
the cramped back parlor in the Strand, the
murdered poet found men who had suffered
atoretime, and known the joy of resurrec-
tion. The man in the corner tossed the
light outlets of the brain hither and thitber.
but he aimed them not at the unsuccessful.
ne had himself tried to stay the tempest,
and had written that the book was NOT 60
bad after all. Had the poet known him as
the dealer of that unkindest cut of all, he
would have slain him in his corner before
the spectral nine. When he entered and
took his seat among them, they greeted him