The Louisiana Democrat. [volume] (Alexandria, La.) 1845-1918, 1886-03-24
CHAPTER VI.


MIR. 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 reception of Mr..
Marsh's muse, though loud enough to
satisfy anybody, aroused the bitterest
scorn IN the poets heart. Such a
charica'S of chat, such Jovan roll
and peal of laughter arose from the
great reviewers, and was taken ND 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 whole column, the
Tiser branded him with one red-hot
paragraph, and from every point of the
compass the critics, big and little,
heayed the Goals Of fire of friendless
criticism at him by the shovelful.
But the poet, as Mr.. Tennyson had
already written. is at the moment OF
his birth lowered with the hate of
hate the scorn of scorn' Mr..
Marsh was not easily to be discounted.
He bought sombreros of a wider brm
than he had ever worn until then, he
vowed in his inmost heart that shears
of the barber should invade his rolling
locks no more. aad he ordered his
tailor to add an inch or two to the poet
ical cloak in which he commonly went
about London. The faithless few who
had worn his livery and gone about in
his likeness fled from their colors
They had their hair cut in the normal
way, and began to attire themselves in
the conventional garb of gentlemen.
When friends talked about the Leader
they made weak pretense of having
been in the secret all along, and tried
to make it appear that they had been
hugely tickled by the fustian which had
thrilled their simple souls. The Leader
had lost his following as most leaders
do when they lead to ridicule, but he
faced the world alone, and meditated
fresh poems with an undaunted heart.
He abandoned none of his old haunts.
but he found many of his old friends
pitiless. There are few men who need
sympathy more than the man whose
book is failure. Within it, tangible
and visible, lie the nerves of his soul,
II ne has one! He has put into it his
aentest discernment, his sweetest fan.
cies, his ioftiest thoughts his most cum
ming invention; he has glowed with
hope and gone cold with fear about it;
he has loved it tenderly and admirin civ,
as good wife loves her husband and
with a growth of joy in its strength and
beauty. rs a father loves his child.
Then comes the grim reviewer (born
surely with bowels of brass and heart
OF adamanD and Stays this darling of
the author 5 heart, scalps it, Sits it's dear
little nose and tender ears, wreaks on II
all his barbarous humor of wicked inyen.
ton, and throws its remains aside with
ont even the poor satisfaction of a
Christian burial. Who can need svm-
pathy more than an author in such a
caseP But there is no more mercy in
the world for him than there is milk in
a male tiger.
let In the conclave of ten, which
met in the cramped back parlor in the
strand the murdered poet found men
who had suffered aforetime, and had
known the joy of resurrection. The
man IN the corner tossed the light quill
let's OF the brain hither and thither but
ne aimed them not at the unsuccessful
de had himself tried to stay the tenn.
pest, and had written that the book
vas not so bad after all Had the poet
'noWn him ~ the dealer of that un.