Forester read Henry Campbell’s essay with all the avidity of friendship; he read it again and again—his generous soul was incapable of envy; and whilst he admired, he was convinced by the force of reason.
His master desired that he would set about the essay early in the morning; but his eagerness for his friend Henry’s fame was such, that he sat up above half the night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the next day at the business; and as all hands were employed on the essay, it was finished that evening.
Forester rubbed his hands with delight, when he had set the name of Henry Campbell in the title-page—but an instant afterwards he sighed bitterly.
“I am only a printer,” said he to himself. “These just arguments, these noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds of my fellow-creatures: no one will ever ask, ‘Who set the types?’”
His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Tom Random and two of his partisans: he was extremely displeased to find that the printers had not been going on with his pamphlet; his personal disappointments seemed to increase the acrimony of his zeal for the public good: he declaimed upon politics—upon the necessity for the immediate publication of his sentiments, for the salvation of the state. His action was suited to his words: violent and blind to consequences, with one sudden kick, designed to express his contempt for the opposite party, this political Alnaschar unfortunately overturned the form which contained the types for the newspaper of the next day, which was just going to the press—a newspaper in which he had written splendid paragraphs.
Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account which Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the patience with which he once bore a similar accident. The printers, with secret imprecations against oratory, or at least against those orators who think that action is every thing, set to work again to repair the mischief.
Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon having finished his hard day’s work, when a man from the shop came to inquire whether three hundred cards, which had been ordered the week before to be printed off, were finished. The man to whom the order was given had forgotten it, and he was going home: he decidedly answered, “No; the cards can’t be done till to-morrow: we have left work for this night, thank God.”
“The gentleman says he must have them,” expostulated the messenger.
“He must not, he cannot have them. I would not print a card for his majesty at this time of night,” replied the sullen workman, throwing his hat upon his head, in token of departure.
“What are these cards?” said Forester.