“Enough, enough!—They are quite tired; here are some halfpence!”
The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh spectators were yet to see the sight; and though the exhausted animals were but little inclined to perform their antic feats, their master twitched the rope, that was fastened round their necks, so violently, that they were compelled to renew their melancholy dance.
Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler’s hand, and began an expostulation, not one word of which was understood by the person to whom it was addressed. A stout lad, who was very impatient at this interruption of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently from words he proceeded to blows.
Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a boxer as his opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on both sides; but, at length, our young Quixote received what has no name in heroic language, but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, covered with blood and bruises, he was carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring house. It was a printer and bookseller’s shop. The bookseller treated him with humanity; and, after advising him not to be so hastily engaged to be the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he was, and whether he had any friends in Edinburgh, to whom he could send.
This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with a variety of people, was a good judge of the language of gentlemen; and, though there was nothing else in Forester’s manners which could have betrayed him, he spoke in such good language, that the bookseller was certain that he had received a liberal education.
Our hero declined telling his history; but the printer was so well pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to give him employment; and, as soon as he recovered from his bruises, Forester was eager to learn the art of printing.
“The art of printing,” said he, “has emancipated mankind, and printers ought to be considered as the most respectable benefactors of the human race.”
Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that struck his imagination, he was now persuaded that printers’ devils were angels, and that he should be supremely blessed in a printer’s office.
“What employment so noble!” said he, as he first took the composing-stick in his hand; “what employment so noble, as that of disseminating knowledge over the universe!”