“I know,” said Cosmo, “it is the hardest thing in the world to get in. Poor Chatterton, and Keats, and—”
“Just that,” said Mr. Todhunter. “It’s for the Keatses and the Chattertons of this day, sir, that I mean to interpose; and no lad of genius shall go to the grave with a pistol in his hand henceforward if I can help it. I admire your effusions very much, Mr. Livingstone—there’s real heart and talent in them, sir—in especial the one to Mary, which, I must say, gave me the impression of an older man.”
“I am pretty old in practice—I have been writing a great many years,” said Cosmo, with that delightful, ingenuous, single-minded, youthful vanity, which it did one’s heart good to see. Even Mr. Todhunter, over his paste and scissors, was somehow illumined by it, and looked up at the lad with the ghost of a smile upon his watery lips.
“And what do you mean to provide us for the opening of the feast?” said the bookseller, “which must be ready by the 15th, at the very latest, and be the very cream of your inspiration. It’s no small occasion, sir. Have you made up your mind what is to be your deboo?”
“It depends greatly upon what you think best,” said Cosmo, candid and impartial; “and as you know what articles you have secured already, I should be very glad of any hint from you.”
“A very sensible remark,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Well, I would say, a good narrative now, in fine, stirring, ballad verse—a narrative always pleases the public fancy—or a spirited dramatic sketch, or a historical tale, to be completed, say, in the next number. I should say, sir, any one of these would answer the Auld Reekie;—only be on your mettle. I consider there’s good stuff in you—real good stuff—but, at the same time, many prudent persons would tell me I was putting too much reliance on so young a man.”
“I will not disappoint you,” said Cosmo, with a little pride; “but, supposing this first beginning over, could it do any good to the magazine, do you think, to have a contributor—letters from abroad—I had some thoughts—I—I wished very much to know—”
“Were you thinking of going abroad?” said the bookseller, benignantly.
“I can scarcely say think—but, there was an opportunity,” said Cosmo, with a blush; “that is, if it did not stand in the way of—”
“Auld Reekie? Certainly not—on the contrary, I know nothing I would like better,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Some fine Italian legends, now, or a few stories from the Rhine, with a pleasant introduction, and a little romantic incident, to show how you heard them—capital! but I must see you at my house before you go. And as for the remuneration, we can scarcely fix on that, perhaps, till the periodical’s launched—but ye know my principle, and I may say, sir, with confidence, no man was left in the lurch that put reliance upon me. I’m a plain man, as you see me, but I appreciate the claims of genius, and young talent shall not want its platform in this city of Edinburgh; or, if it does, it shall be no fault of mine.”