"brother bard" it would be better to keep the article anonymous.

There was nothing coarse about Jewdwine's methods. Through all his
career he remained refined and fastidious, and his natural instincts
forbade him to give a stronger hint. Unfortunately, in this instance,
refinement had led him into a certain ambiguity of phrase!

On this ambiguity Rickman leapt, with a grin of diabolical delight. He
may have had some dim idea that it would be his shelter in the day of
rebuke; but all he could clearly think of as he held the boy's frail
palpitating volume in his hand, was that he had but that moment in
which to praise him. This was his unique and perfect opportunity, the
only sort of opportunity that he was not likely to let slip.

_Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat_; and it really looked as if
madness had come upon Rickman in the loneliness and intoxication of
his power. With those two volumes of poetry before him, a small one by
a rank outsider, unknown, unkempt and unprotected; a boy from whom no
more was to be expected, seeing that he was about to depart out of the
world where editors are powerful; and one, a large, considerable
volume by a person eminent already in that world and with many years
of poetry and influence before him, he gave (reckless of all
proportion) the two-page article to the slender volume and the
paragraph to the stout. That was what he did--he, the sub-editor.

Of the paragraph the less said the better. As for the article it was
such a song of jubilation as one poet sings over the genius of
another; and nothing that he had ever done for _Metropolis_ delighted
him so much as the making of it. He sent the proofs to Jewdwine as
usual with a note. "Here they are. I _think_ I've been discreet. I've
done what I could for Mr. Fulcher, but, as you'll see, I've dealt
nobly with young Paterson, as he deserves." As he heard nothing from
Jewdwine, he could only suppose that the chief was satisfied, and he
could not help reflecting with some complacency that no doubt old
Maddox would be satisfied too.

The next thing that happened was that he was cut by Maddox at the
Junior Journalists. (It was on a Saturday, and _Metropolis_, _the_
number, had appeared the night before). Cut unmistakably, with a
thrust from the blue eyes and an expressive turning of the enormous
shoulders. A number once issued from his hands Rickman never looked at
it again if he could help it, and he never troubled to look at it