About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in Forester’s education. One evening his friend, Tom Random, who was printing a pamphlet, came, with a party of his companions, into Mr.——, the bookseller’s shop, enraged at the decision of a prize in a literary society to which they belonged.
All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly declared that he had been treated with the most flagrant injustice; and the author himself was too angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion.
“Would you believe it?” said he to Forester—“my essay has not been thought worthy of the prize! The medal has been given to the most wretched, tame, commonplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in this world is done by corruption, by party, by secret influence!”
At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and Forester sympathized in his feelings.
In the midst of the author’s exclamations, a messenger came with the manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of the society to have a certain number of copies printed off with all possible expedition.
Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury of criticism, began to read aloud some of the passages which he disliked.
Though it was marred in the reading, Forester could not agree with his angry friend in condemning the performance. It appeared to him excellent writing and excellent sense.
“Print it—print it then, as fast as you can—that is your business—that’s what you are paid for. Every one for himself,” cried Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at Forester; and, as he flung out of the shop with his companions, he added, with a contemptuous laugh, “A printer’s devil setting up for a critic! He may be a capital judge of pica and brevier, perhaps—but let not the compositor go beyond his stick.”
“Is this the man,” said Forester, “whom I have heard so eloquent in the praise of candour and liberality? Is this the man who talks of universal toleration and freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any one should differ from him in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who would have equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls a compositor a printer’s devil? Is this the man who cants about the pre-eminence of mind and the perfections of intellect, and yet now takes advantage of his rank, of his supporters, of the cry of his partisans, to bear down the voice of reason?—‘Let not the compositor go beyond his composing-stick!’—And why not? Why should not he be a judge of writing?” At this reflection, Forester eagerly took up the manuscript, which had been flung at his feet. All his indignant feelings instantly changed into delightful exultation—he saw the hand—he read the name of Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, “An Essay on the best Method of reforming Abuses.” This was the subject proposed by the society; and Henry had written upon the question with so much moderation, and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown himself the friend of rational liberty, that all the members of the society who were not borne away by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of this performance.
Random’s declamation only inflamed the minds of his own partisans. Good judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it, “This is all very fine; but what would this man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to support.”