Dolly alone was some comfort to him, some little vindication of true
insight; and he was surprised to find how quickly her intelligence
(which until now he had despised) had strengthened, deepened, and
enlarged itself. Still he wanted some one older, bigger, more capable of
shutting up the mouth, and nodding (instead of showing such a lot of red
tongue and white teeth), before he could be half as snug as a true
poet should be, upon the hobs of his own fire. And happily he found his
Anti-Zoilus ere long.
One day he was walking in a melancholy mood along the beach towards
Pebbleridge, doubting deeply in his honest mind whether he ever should
do any good, in versification, or anything else. He said to himself that
he had been too sanguine, eager, self-confident, ardent, impetuous, and,
if the nasty word must be faced, even too self-conceited. Only yesterday
he had tried, by delicate setting of little word-traps, to lead
Mr. Twemlow towards the subject, and obtain that kind-hearted man's
comforting opinion. But no; the gentle Rector would not be brought to
book, or at any rate not to that book; and the author had sense enough
to know without a wink that his volume had won volumes of dislike.
Parnassus could never have lived till now without two heads--one to
carry on with, while the other is being thumped to pieces. While the
critics demolish one peak, the poet withdraws to the other, and assures
himself that the general public, the larger voice of the nation, will
salute him there.
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