Chapter C: I. Cæcilii Hermiæ Signum (1)

_Caii Julii Cæcilii Hermiæ Signum._

This seal of Hermias was intended for stamping parchment with ink, as is shown by the fact that the roughness of the surface below the letters unfits it for stamping any soft substance into which it would sink, as into wax. If rubbed with printer’s ink and pressed upon paper, it prints very well. Thus the seed of this noble art was among the Romans. With a block of wood covered with raised letters, they might have printed a page, as well as a single name. But they were suffered to grope their way from age to age blindfolded to the art of which they had the clew. They almost grasped the great discovery, unconscious of the prize.

Quintilian, speaking of the education of youth, says, “When the boy has begun to trace the forms of the letters, it will be useful for him to have the letters of the tablet engraved, that through them, as through furrows, he may draw his style. For thus he will neither make mistakes, being prevented by the edges on both sides, nor will he be able to go beyond the proper bound; and by tracing quickly and frequently certain forms, he will strengthen his joints, and will not need the assistance of some one to put his hand above his own, and guide it.” Here we find that the old Romans knew something of the art of stenciling.

The Emperor Justin, who lived in the sixth century, could not write, and, to avoid the shame of making only a mark for his name, caused holes to be bored through a tablet in the shape of the first four letters of his name. Through these holes he traced the letters in red ink. Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths, it is said, wrote his name through a gold plate, in the same manner.

Tablets, or little tables of wood, as well as of metal, came at length to take the place of stone tables. The thin wooden tables were sometimes covered with wax, which was written upon with a style, or ivory pencil. These were so much like tracing in the sand, as soon to be laid aside, and the smooth, inner bark of trees, called _liber_ in the Latin, was used instead; also the leaves of the palm-tree, cloths of cotton and linen, the intestines and skins of animals, and the backs of tortoises. We derive our name _book_ from the Danish _bog_, the beech-tree, since that was used to engrave on in Denmark, because of its abundance.

The Egyptians very early employed a broad-leafed rush growing on the banks of the Nile, as a material upon which to write. This was the _papyrus_, a word which has given its name to our modern paper. Large bundles of papyrus manuscripts, covered with hieroglyphics, have been found in the ancient tombs and temples of that country, some of which are capable of being deciphered at the present day.

Parchment, which is the prepared skins of animals, came into use B. C. 250. It was so called from Pergamus (_membrana pergamea_), whose king, Eumenes, seeking to collect a library which should vie with that of Alexandria, and being debarred a supply of papyrus by the jealousy of the Ptolemies, had recourse to this substitute. After the eighth century, parchment generally took the place of papyrus.

Ancient books were not commonly disposed in a square form, as with us, but were _rolled_ up. Hence the word _volume_, signifying a roll.

Paper from cotton and linen rags began, it is thought, to be made as early as the ninth century. For several centuries, however, the manufacture was so scanty as to increase very little the facilities for copying. Gradually, it became more plentiful, and writing material of small cost laid the foundation for that cheap and expeditious mode of copying which we call printing.

In the age when parchment was used, it was often difficult to be obtained; and it became common to erase the original writing from a manuscript and trace another upon it. A parchment thus used was called _palimpsest_, which means “twice prepared for writing.” Thus, many valuable works were destroyed to make way for newer, and, in some cases, less important ones. Happily we live in a time when we have no occasion to destroy one library to produce another.

It seems strange, too, that a transcriber familiar with the labor of copying would not be deterred by his love of learning from putting even one book out of existence. But necessity knew no law; and the writer, deeming his own work to possess greater utility, sacrificed another to make room for it,--to such straits were the scribes sometimes brought for the lack of writing material. Struggling to express thought, there was no room to put it down. Written language, scarcely second to spoken language, had almost perished; and had the art of printing been invented before paper was known, it would have been comparatively useless.

The writing and rewriting on parchment, as it was often done two or three times, has recently led learned men to make these ancient parchments a study; and they have thus deciphered or read the last writing, then, effacing that, have deciphered the second, and, effacing that, have read the first,--often the most valuable,--and in this way have brought to light lost works, and found out many important facts of history.

The books of those early days were written out by hand, _manuscripta_; and the profession of the copyist was one of the most numerous, honorable, and lucrative. Some booksellers employed great numbers of copyists, paying them salaries, and made their own livelihood on the profits of selling the works thus copied. There were in Rome, and in some of the great cities of Greece and of Asia, particular places where such works were sold. The rich also sometimes had slaves, prized more highly and treated more familiarly than other slaves, who were devoted by them to copying the works of antiquity and of their time, for their libraries. Government, too, employed a great many copyists for its edicts, and orators employed them in transcribing their discourses. Later, the eunuchs copied at Byzantium the chief works of Greek, Latin, and Hebrew antiquity. Finally, there were the monks, who, in the retirement of the monasteries, gave their time very much to the multiplication of books by the slow process of writing.

In every great religious house, or abbey, there was an apartment called the scriptorium, or writing-room, where boys and young men were employed from morning till night in copying the singing-books of the choir, and the less valuable books of the library. Only a few of the monks copied in this large apartment, enough to give directions, and keep order among the boys and novices. Most of the “Holy Fathers,” as they chose to be styled, spent their time in the cells, transcribing Bibles and other valuable works.

A monk copying. He has a cowl on his head, and wears the priest’s long gown with flowing sleeves. His waist is girt with a belt; and he sits bolt upright, or slightly leans forward in the most perpendicular of arm-chairs, which seems to be joined to the desk of his cell. How curiously he holds his quill and pointed ferule! His prior is cautious and methodical; for he has chained the manuscript from which the monk is copying to the wall, as if experience had taught him that he cannot overmuch trust the brothers.

An author of those times would make a similar appearance, save that there would be no book before him, unless for reference.

Richard de Bury, Bishop of Durham, in his “Philobiblion,” a treatise on the love of books, written by him in Latin in 1344, gives a good picture of the transcriber, or copyist of the monastery. He says: “As it is necessary for a State to provide military arms, and prepare plentiful stores of provisions for soldiers who are about to fight, so it is evidently worth the labor of the Church to fortify itself against the attacks of pagans and heretics with a multitude of sound books. But, because everything that is of use to mortals decays through lapse of time, it is necessary for volumes corroded by age to be restored by new successors, that books may not cease to exist. Hence it is that Ecclesiastes truly says, in the 12th chapter, ‘There is no end of making many books.’ For, as the bodies of books decay, so a remedy is found out by the prudence of clerks, by which a holy book paying the debt of nature [_i. e._, dying] may have one succeed it, and a seed may be raised up like to the most holy deceased, and that saying of Ecclesiastes, chapter thirtieth, be verified: ‘The father is dead, and as it were not dead, for he hath left behind him a son like unto himself.’”

Then he goes on to upbraid the priests for soiling books, giving us rather an unfavorable impression concerning the habits of the monks. One would suppose that they could command the leisure to keep clean. The Bishop just quoted deplores “the unwashed hands, the dirty nails, the greasy elbows leaning upon the volume, the munching of fruit and cheese over the open leaves, which were the marks of careless and idle readers,” and suggestive also, some would say, of lack of culture and refinement, and even that their religion was of a low type; else would it not, at least, have produced the virtue which is next to godliness?

Then follow sound and sensible directions how to use books. “Let there be a mature decorum in opening and closing of volumes, that they may neither be unclasped with precipitous haste, nor thrown aside after use without being duly closed.”

Says an English writer: “When a volume was at last produced in fair parchment, or vellum, after the arduous labor of years, it was covered with immensely thick lids of wood and leather, studded with large nails, and curiously clasped, and was studiously preserved from the common gaze on the shelves of the monastic library.

“The splendid volumes thus made, bore evidence, however, not only of persevering industry, but of great ingenuity; the letters at the beginning of each chapter or section being adorned with curious devices. Frequently, too, a painting called an illumination was introduced radiant with gold, crimson, and azure. But no vulgar or unpriestly eyes looked on their contents, unless, indeed, we except kings and princes; they were only unclasped on days of solemnity, by the abbot or the prior, and then restored, like the jewels of the priesthood, to their dusty cases.”

Montgomery says, “The readers of those days were rather gluttons than epicures in their taste for literature,” canonizing all books because they were books, as children eulogize their toys without noticing the quality. “To say all that could be said on any theme, whether in verse or prose, was the fashion of the times; and as few read but those who were devoted to reading by an irresistible passion or professional necessity, and few wrote but those who were equally impelled by an inveterate instinct, great books were the natural produce of the latter, who knew not how to make little ones; and great books only could appease the voracity of the former. Great books, therefore, were both the fruits and the proofs of the ignorance of the age. They were mostly composed in the gloom and torpor of the cloister, and it almost required a human life to read the works of an author of this description, because it was nearly as easy to compound as to digest such crudities.” These labors of the learned could not of course interest the common people, as they could neither understand nor buy them. These were books without meaning,--with so little logic and connection that the more one read, the deeper he got into the maze or tangled mass of words. “And the lucubrations through a thousand years, of many a noble, many a lovely mind, which only wanted better direction how to unfold its energies or display its graces to benefit or delight mankind, were but passing meteors, that made visible the darkness out of which they rose, and into which they sank again to be hid forever.”

Nevertheless, we owe it to the monks to say that there were many good and learned men among them, and for much that is valuable in our libraries we can not thank them enough. We can never consult a concordance of the Bible without calling to mind that they first conceived the idea of such a work, and numbers of them, jointly laboring long and incessantly, nobly laid its foundations, on which others who came after raised the structure and reaped the glory.

It will be readily inferred from what has been said that books in those times were scarce and costly. Only the rich could afford to have them, and they had but very few. The monasteries and universities had libraries, and occasionally one was found in the castles of the nobility. The Cathedral of Nôtre Dame, in Strasbourg, was famed for its splendid collection of five hundred volumes. The Countess of Anjou bought a book of Homilies, paying for it two hundred sheep, five quarters of wheat, and the same quantity of rye and millet. Henry V., King of England, borrowed a book from the Countess of Westmoreland; and not having returned it at his death, the Countess petitioned the Privy Council that it might be restored to her by an order under the privy seal, which was done with all formality.

Richard de Bury, whom we have already mentioned, had gathered in his life-time, by copying with his own hand and by purchase, a valuable library. In his will he bestowed a portion of it upon “a company of scholars residing in a hall at Oxford,” and one of his chapters is headed “A Provident Arrangement by which Books may be lent to Strangers,” meaning, by strangers, students of Oxford not belonging to that hall.

This library, from which a book could not be borrowed without giving ample security, was finally given to Durham, now Trinity College, and contained more books than all the bishops of England had then in their possession. For many years after they were received they were kept in chests, under the custody of several scholars chosen for that purpose. It was not till the reign of Henry IV. that a library was built in that college; and then the books were taken out of the old sepulchral chests, and “were put into pews or studies and chained to them.” In 1300, the library of Oxford consisted of a few tracts kept in a chest.

The statutes of St. Mary’s College, Oxford, in the reign of Henry VI., furnish striking proof of the obstacles to study caused by a scarcity of books. “Let no scholar occupy a book in the library above one hour, or two hours at most, so that others shall be hindered from the use of the same.” This reveals quite a famine of books, but not so great as at a still earlier period of the Church, when one book was given out by the librarian to each of a religious fraternity at the beginning of Lent, to be read diligently during the year, and to be returned the following Lent.

The old way of shutting up books in chests shows that they could not be often changed, for whenever one was wanted the whole pile must be disturbed. The next plan was to allow the books the privilege of light and air, but to chain them to desks and in cages, as if their keepers looked upon them literally as riches with wings ready to fly away.

The following passage, malediction of some grim friar perhaps, was often written on the first leaf of a book: “Cursed be he who shall steal or tear out the leaves, or in any way injure this book.”

A milder and more modern couplet, is--

“Steal not this book for fear of shame,
For here you see the owner’s name.”

Thus various were the devices from time to time to secure the possession of treasures more precious than gold.

How different the state of things at this day! Instead of being rare and expensive luxuries, books are abundant both in the homes of the rich and the poor.

IV.

An Important Step.--Engraving a Name.--Engraving Pictures.--
Superstitions.--Difficulties overcome.--An Improvement.--
Experiment and Progress.--A New Book.--Cheerful Thoughts.

One day, a few weeks after the events in our second chapter, Gutenberg surprised his wife as she sat sewing by the window, saying,--

“Behold some of my handicraft!” showing her a number of cards.

“Ah, and so you did not give up the project? and you have succeeded so well! One could not distinguish between these and the old ones, save that these are newer and fresher.”

“Nevertheless, this is but a step; it availeth me little till I can frame letters, and impress them on vellum in like manner. It remains that I try thy name, my Anna. I cannot fail to engrave that name on wood, which hath been so long traced on my heart!” And to his loving glance there beamed a happy light in her eyes, and her cheeks were aglow, as he betook him to writing her name on a small wooden tablet. Cutting away the wood, except the writing lines, he left the letters raised, or in relief, and thus formed a stamp of his wife’s name. Moistening it with ink, he placed a piece of paper over it, and, gently pressing it upon the letters, beheld, on lifting it, the word imprinted upon the paper.

We of this age of books and papers cannot enter into his emotions. But Anna could, and so the good man did not miss our sympathy.

“Famously done!” she exclaimed; “it is the likeness of writing.”

Does this seem to us a curious commendation of printing, that it resembled writing? But the manuscript letter was the only one known as yet, and it was natural to judge the result of the new experiment by its agreement with that letter.

“Aye, I think myself it is not a failure,” said Gutenberg; “and I fancy it would not be difficult for me to produce a copy of that picture of ‘St. Christopher,’ I mean by suitable patience and perseverance.”

“But was not that done with a pen?”

“Nay: it appears so, but on examination I find that it was made with an engraved block;” and taking the rude print from the wall, he showed upon the back of it the marks of the stylus, or burnisher by which it was rubbed upon the letters. “Rest assured from this that they were never produced by a pen, as in common writing.”

“Well,” returned the good wife, “it would truly be a pious act to multiply the picture of ‘St. Christopher,’ since a blessing will follow him who looketh upon it. I would fain have one in our sleeping-room, that my eyes may light upon it when I awake.”

Poor Anna! she had already forgotten Gutenberg’s sensible remark on a former occasion. Educated to attach a superstitious value to sacred pictures, she still relied on them. This perverted trust, however, shows that she felt her need of the protection and favor of a higher than human power.

Encouraged by the approbation of his wife, and nerved by that passion which urges the inventor onward in the pathway of discovery, Gutenberg undertook the task with alacrity. First he met the difficulty of finding wood suitable for engraving. Some kinds were too soft and porous, others liable to split. After many trials, he selected the wood of the apple-tree. This has a fine grain, is dense and compact, and sufficiently firm to bear the process of engraving. In modern times box-wood is almost exclusively used in this art, as superior to all other species in the qualities required. It is sawed in blocks crosswise of the grain, and these polished and whitened, present a surface almost as smooth as ivory, and capable of receiving the finest touches of the pencil and the graving tool.

Another difficulty in his course was the want of tools; his unfailing genius came to the rescue, and tool after tool was contrived, until his tool-box showed an array of knives, saws, chisels, and gravers of various patterns, each one in its turn having been duly admired by the pair of bright eyes that followed his progress.

At first Gutenberg drew the portrait of the saint and the inscriptions accompanying it on the same block; but in later experiments he hit upon the idea of having them on separate pieces, the different blocks being nicely fitted together in printing. This was an onward step, which he viewed with satisfaction.

“These movable blocks will be of service,” said he to Anna; “for I can complete the picture as well as the letters better in this way, and, when desirable, can embellish the writing with ink of another color.”

At length, when the “St. Christopher” appeared, printed from the improved block, Anna exclaimed that it was far better than the old one.

“Yes,” replied Gutenberg, “but I perceive that it is not perfect. No picture can be properly executed without thicker ink. This flows too readily, and with all my care I can scarcely avoid blotting.”

It required many experiments and much patience to surmount this difficulty of the ink. He found finally that a preparation of oil would best serve his purpose. The color might be varied according to the ingredients used. In the earliest works which have come down to us, it is of a darkish brown, and appears to have been made of umber. This was chosen probably in imitation of the old drawings which served as copies. A mixture of lamp-black with oil gives a black ink; and this is substantially the composition of printer’s ink at the present day.

As Gutenberg experimented, Anna watched his progress with excited interest. When he had succeeded in preparing an ink of suitable quality, she saw that he needed some means of spreading it evenly upon the block.

“Now indeed thou canst aid me,” said he; “stuff and sew this piece of sheep-skin, while I prepare the paper for the impressions.” The nimbly flying fingers soon completed the task; and when Gutenberg had added a handle to the ball, the first printer’s dabber was ready. “One more servant of my art,” Gutenberg pleasantly said as he dipped it in the ink which he had ground upon a slab, and applied it to a block. He then laid the paper upon it, and, with the polished handle of one of his graving tools, carefully smoothed and pressed it upon the raised portions of the block,--both picture and its letters. He then cautiously removed it, and both viewed the result with joyful emotions.

“The new ink works marvelously!” said the inventor.

“And this print even surpasses your first attempt!”

“Yes, and I value it the more for the labor and contrivance it has cost me.”

“Now I shall want a ‘St. Christopher’ in every room,” said Anna; “it will be like having more good people in the house, and our lives will be inspired by the memory of what they have done.”

“But what am I to do?” rejoined Gutenberg. “I cannot afford the time and money to occupy myself in making pictures, unless it can also be turned to some pecuniary advantage.”

“And is there no way of acquiring money from them?”

“Not at present. I have, however, made an improvement on the pictures; they will grace our humble home, and it may be that I can make them useful to others.”

“Yes, for whoever seeth them will want one.”

“And be willing to pay for it?”

“Aye, why not?”

“We shall see. Thou hast confidence in my experiments.”

“Ah, indeed have I; since I perceive that thou hast the power of devising wonderful arts!”

Thus cheerily did the lapidary’s wife encourage him, admiring his work, suggesting the bright side of affairs, then tripping out into the yard to console the pigeons with seeds, to water her flowers, and train the wild-growing climbers within bounds, her heart the meanwhile full of her husband’s enterprise; and she murmured to herself,--

“John will succeed, and we shall be delivered from our trouble.”

V.

Pecuniary Troubles.--An Expedient.--Disappointment.--The Jewels.--A
Sale.--Apprentices.--Visit to the Cathedral.--A New Enterprise.

Gutenberg’s gratifying success was not devoid of trial, as has been hinted. In his hasty flight from Mentz, he had little money with him, and years of embarrassment followed, despite his diligence in business and economy. His mother’s remittances had been carefully husbanded; but since engaging in block-printing, this store had wasted away.

How could he retrieve his losses, and gain means to bring out other discoveries? He revolved the matter while Anna slept, and, rising with early dawn, took impressions of the “St. Christopher.” At breakfast he told his wife of his purpose to sell them to his neighbors. She warmly approved, and offered to arrange them in the shop, greatly to the relief of Gutenberg, who answered with emotion,

“So thoughtful of thee, my Anna; and our necessity urgeth speedy sales.”

“Aye, they shall beautify the shop,” said the little lady as she arranged the cuts, placing one here, another there, and viewing the effect of the light, and hied her to the adjoining room, just when Mrs. Anna Schultheiss stepped into the shop on her way home from market. Her dowry jewels were being reset, and she was anxious to get them.

“My jewels not done yet!” she exclaimed, “All, indeed, master, and how can I go to the marriage-feast, wanting them?”

“Be content, mistress,” replied Gutenberg; “thou shall have them at sunset.”

“Thanks, good master; but what pictures are these?” glancing around the room as she spoke. As he passed one for her inspection, she cried: “Mirabile! the good saint! See him bearing the infant Jesus over the water. How could the child have forded the stream without him? Wrap the picture nicely, and I will take it home with me. My husband is a formschneider, and thou mayst need his aid.” Gutenberg crimsoned, but gave her the cut on her own terms, and she bore it away with delight.

When next a neighbor called, and after admiring the prints, purchased one, the inventor breathed more freely; and the lively sound of his graving tools soon indicated how greatly encouragement lightened his toil.

Others, however, calling to purchase gems, chose the pictures. At the evening meal Anna was radiant, and congratulated her husband that the pictures found a ready sale.

“Nevertheless, I have lost money to-day,” replied he, a little depressed.

“Ah! and how did it happen?”

“Those who purchased prints had purposed to buy gems, and a fair estimation makes me the loser. The pictures draw attention from my jewels and mirrors, and do not return an equivalent. I fear the two pursuits will so conflict as to prevent success with either!”

Anna was illy prepared for this intelligence, and urged, “But thou wilt do better when used to both labors. Moreover, I can aid thee. Did I not arrange the cuts? And when the wood-carrier admired my print, did I not sell him one, and allow him to bring wood in payment?”

“Thou hast well earned a benediction,” returned the husband, smiling.

“When dost thou go to Nôtre Dame Cathedral?” asked Anna.

“When I shall have finished the Father’s jewels. I must confess to thee, dear, as before, that in engraving blocks I have lost ground in my trade.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Anna, bent on dispelling his despondency, “it is a favorable omen that thy handicraft of pictures is of the saint that shieldeth from evil.”

By dint of close application, Gutenberg, having completed the Superior’s jewels by noon of the next day, returned to his engraved blocks, and before evening of the second day had given the finishing touch to several prints. Laden with jewels and pictures, he left the house, Anna wishing him Godspeed, and watching him till the mass of vines, shrubbery, and apple-trees hid him from sight. The cloistered Cathedral was not far distant, yet the winding way which led there was quickly lost in the luxuriant foliage.

On his arrival he was ushered into the library, which might be termed a scriptorium, or monks’ writing-room, so many copyists there plied the pen. Having delivered the jewels, he showed his pictures.

“Whose handicraft may this be?” quoth a gray-headed friar.

“The name of the artisan doth not appear,” was the reply.

“Where didst thou obtain them?” asked another.

“Suffer me to keep a little secret,” replied Gutenberg, “which would not benefit thee if told.”

“I will purchase the entire lot,” said the Abbot, after examining them. “They will grace the walls of the library, and tend to preserve us from evil.”

Anna came running to meet Gutenberg as he returned, and was well pleased to learn of the sale.

“And now,” said she, “thou art in a fair way to get rich!” But Gutenberg said, gravely,--

“We must not forget that the steady gains of a regular business are more to be relied on than occasional successes in other pursuits.” Yet Gutenberg was himself loath to take this view, and turned reluctantly to his trade.

Not long after, he was surprised one morning by the entrance of Andrew Dritzhn, an intelligent citizen of Strasbourg, stout and hale-looking, and about thirty-five years of age. Taking a seat, he wound through a long talk, and at last made known his errand, which was to ask that Gutenberg would allow him to come and learn his trade. The latter loved the quiet of his own thoughts too well to choose the presence of a workman in his shop.

But when he considered that if he once had a good artisan in his employ, the jewel and mirror business could go on, and himself have more time for his printing researches, he decided to engage Dritzhn. But no sooner was Dritzhn in favor with his new employer than he introduced his friends Hielman, whose brother was the first paper-maker in Strasbourg, and Riffe, who craved a like favor of being admitted to learn Gutenberg’s trade. The shop now presented a busy scene with three apprentices,--Dritzhn, careful, plodding, ingenious, and eager to learn; Riffe, mostly engaged on mirrors, complacently catching glimpses of his own round visage as his work waxed bright; and Hielman, polishing jewels and making himself generally useful. But what with the din of the wheel, saw, chisel, and polisher, the inventor had little time for thought. It was, “How shall I do this, Master Gutenberg?” “What next, master?” from morning till night; and he could not command time to pursue his engraved blocks, as he had hoped. Yet it was necessary, for the purpose of disguising from his associates for a longer time the real object of his secret enterprise, to devote himself with them to many curious and secondary industries. There was “the cutting and fashioning of precious stones; the polishing of Venetian glass to make mirrors; cutting the mirrors into facettes or diamonds; the encasing them in copper frames, which he enriched with figures of wood representing personages of fable and of the Bible.” These mirrors were sold at the fair of Aix-la-Chapelle, and helped the funds of the association, as well as Gutenberg in the secret expenses destined to accomplish and perfect his invention. To secure the needed seclusion, he fitted up a room, and spent his evenings on the hidden art in the presence of Anna, after the workmen had left the front shop.

For the purpose of selling “St. Christophers,” he again visited Nôtre Dame; and on his return, Anna’s glance at his face assured her that he brought good news.

“Ah,” said he, “but it is not because I have returned with much money, although I may have done as well.” And undoing a wrapper he produced the “Historia Sancti Johannis Evangelistæ,” or “History of St. John the Evangelist,” which he had obtained in exchange for cuts. “What think you of this?” said he. “See, it is written on vellum with illuminated initials,[2] and has sixty-three pages. And observe, it is copied with a pen: some patient monk has toiled over this many a weary day in his cell. But I have a plan which I think will be an improvement, which is to engrave it as I did the picture.”

[2] _Vellum._ A finer kind of parchment or skin, rendered clear
and white for writing. _Illuminated initials._ Capital
letters, commencing a chapter or paragraph were said to be
illuminated when made large and painted in colors; often
being ornamented with delicate devices of flowers, birds or
animals. The monks were skilled in this adornment of books.

“Engrave a book! It would be delightful to have one made by thine own skill!”

“Yes, and when once the blocks are engraved for the book,--a block for a page, sixty-three blocks, I can impress a score of books as well as one copy.”

“And thou canst sell books as well as the monks!” cried Anna joyfully. “Neither wilt thou be shut up in a cloister a year to copy one small book; but I wouldn’t wonder when the blocks are prepared, if thou couldst make a book in a day, even saving time and earning money!”

“A likely matter truly! but we must not build air-castles!” Sage advice for him to give who was himself a castle-builder, as are all enthusiastic people,--may they never be less; for what would be done in this work-a-day world without the healthful stimulus of the illusions of hope?

A small table in the sitting-room was at evening a work-bench. It was neatly covered in the daytime, and Anna’s work-box was on it. But the inventor found it necessary to seek entire seclusion for some of his processes, and secured, it is said, a fitting place in the ruins of the St. Arbogast Monastery, abandoned to the moles and the bats save the part which was inhabited by the poor people of the suburbs of Strasbourg; and there, in a forsaken cloister, he established his secret study and work-shop, whither he withdrew whenever his presence could be spared from the front shop. Not even to Anna did he divulge his hidden work. She was content, knowing that in good time she would know the result.

Evening came, and in the quiet home-room the inventor commenced engraving the first page of the “History of St. John,” carefully tracing the letters on the smooth surface of the block, and imitating the most approved copyist’s hand. As Anna watched him, she thought them perfect, and with good reason.

Toil on, busy worker! Glorious things will follow thy labor!

VI.

Unwelcome Visitors.--Unjust Demand.--A Compromise.--Secret Firm.--A
Removal.--Teaching the Workmen.--Block Printing.--Success.

Day after day Gutenberg busied himself with his associates in various labors, except at intervals, when he engraved blocks, enlivened by the sprightly presence of Anna, or pursued his experiments in the recesses of the monastery.

“How famously you get on!” said Anna, one evening, as she counted his pile of finished blocks while he wrought at his engraving.

There was a knock; and, in an instant, to the consternation of both, Dritzhn and Hielman opened the door, and, without ceremony, entered. Gutenberg was surprised with block and graving tools in hand, and the “Historia” open before him.

“Ah! what have we here?” asked Dritzhn, stepping up to him; “something new in mystery?”

“Excuse me,” replied the inventor, coloring, “if I waive an explanation for the present.”

“But,” said Hielman, drawing nearer and speaking in excited tones,--for he was a close man in money matters,--“thou didst engage to teach us thy arts, if we would pay thee.”

“It is true,” answered Gutenberg, “that I did covenant to show thee my arts of the lapidary and mirror business, but that agreement did not cover other arts which are only partly known to myself.”

“Be persuaded to do the fair thing, good master,” said Dritzhn.

“In paying thee,” added Hielman, “we understood that thou wouldst teach us all thy arts. We want our money’s worth.”

“I have found it necessary,” observed Gutenberg, not appearing to notice the remark, “to be favored with quiet and seclusion in pursuing any new branch of business, and I cannot succeed in this unless it be kept a profound secret. Still money is needed to carry it on.”

This only made Dritzhn more eager to learn the nature of the enterprise; and he answered, “If that be all, we can keep thy secret, furnish funds, and perhaps help thee in the work.”

Gutenberg, with many misgivings, finally decided to trust them, first obtaining from each a formal pledge of secrecy. Then producing his cards and cuts, he explained, step by step, the process of making them. His callers expressed great interest and admiration.

“I can be of service in executing the figures,” said Dritzhn, “as I am a draughtsman.”

“You could assist me in that direction,” said the inventor; “but I am now mostly engaged in engraving tablets for books.”

“Making books by engraving!” exclaimed Dritzhn. “When will the marvels cease?”

“I have invented a way of imprinting books by a process unknown to any others. Only block picture-books with inscriptions have approached the idea.” Gutenberg then showed the “Historia” on which he was working.

“Master,” cried Dritzhn in amazement, “a man of such genius will surely realize a fortune! Why, it would take the wages of a common artisan two years to buy such a work; and you have a large part of it done in a few weeks.” But Hielman, afraid of new projects, was less sanguine.

“This will succeed,” urged Dritzhn aside to him, “and we shall want a share in it. Since also we know the secret, and have bound ourselves by an oath, we cannot honorably turn back. It only remains to aid Master Gutenberg to the extent of our power.” Then turning to Gutenberg, he said,--

“But will not this art do away with copying?”

“Not at once,” replied Gutenberg. “But if the copyists should get a hint of what this invention can do, they might seek to crush it. Moreover, the art is only begun; I learn something new day by day; and I have confided my secret to you, that as a firm we may bring it to perfection.”

The sequel of the interview was that a written contract was drawn up by Gutenberg, who was a ready writer, and signed by them all, binding the parties for the term of five years on two conditions:--

First, that they pay Gutenberg the sum of two hundred and fifty florins; one hundred immediately, and the remainder at a certain fixed period. Second, that if any one of the partners should die during the time of the copartnership, the survivors should pay to his heirs the sum of one hundred florins, in consideration of which the effects should become the property of the surviving partners.

Other items followed; and, above all, the profoundest secrecy was enjoined.

Business, however, went on as usual through the day; and a customer chancing in Gutenberg’s work-shop would not have dreamed of the existence of the secret firm to prosecute the new art. Dritzhn wrought as if in deep thought; but if at times he seemed to loiter, he made out his quota of work ere the day’s decline. Hielman polished as usual on mirrors; and Riffe, although burdened with the secret, kept at work with his old cheerful whistle.

When evening came, a second conference was held at the home-room of Gutenberg’s house, when Riffe also took the oath of secrecy, and signed the contract. But Gutenberg was oppressed with foreboding. Since his hidden occupation of the engraved blocks had been discovered by Dritzhn and Hielman, he saw that others also might find it out. On mentioning his anxiety to the firm, Dritzhn at once replied that the business ought to be removed to a more retired place, and made offer of his own upper room. After examination, Gutenberg decided to make the change, and a part of the engraving apparatus was forthwith carried to that place. In order, however, to cover appearances, and also meet expenses, it was judged best for Hielman and Riffe to continue the lapidary and mirror department, as usual, in the front shop, while Gutenberg and Dritzhn were to spend a portion of their time in engraving blocks in the upper room of the latter, although some of the work was still done, as before, at the inventor’s cottage. This arrangement seemed necessary to make the twofold occupations thrive. Hielman and Riffe still needed much instruction in gem and mirror polishing, and they had also the advantage of regular lessons in engraving, to which they were entitled by the articles of agreement.

Gutenberg’s “Historia” was necessarily somewhat hindered, as his attention was much occupied with teaching Dritzhn in engraving blocks. As, however, the latter had skill in drafting, he very readily caught the ideas indispensable to the art,--accuracy in drawing the figure, and a careful management of the graver’s tool in cutting away the block so as to leave the lines raised. Dritzhn made good progress in figure-cutting on card-engraving, which was the first lesson Gutenberg gave him; but in attempting to engrave letters, he was not so skillful.

“That department of the art can only be acquired by patience and labor,” said Gutenberg to his pupil. “I therefore advise that you continue on the figures.”

Thus pleasantly they wrought together, Dritzhn on figures, and Gutenberg on letters, for he still pursued the “History of St. John.” Hielman and Riffe were quite awkward as pupils in the art. In the first place, neither had any idea of drawing, and Gutenberg was under the necessity of teaching them the elements of that science; then they could not read, and he must needs initiate them into the mysteries of the alphabet. Anna came to the rescue, or poor Gutenberg would have despaired of making them engravers. She taught one his letters, while her husband instructed the other in drawing straight and curved lines. Anna, after a time, hit upon a short route to accomplish both together, and required her pupil to draw a letter as soon as he had learned it. In this way, what with the efforts of Gutenberg, and the suggestions of Anna, they soon made perceptible progress, and in due time were familiar with the alphabet, and could draw it passably well. While occupying most of their time with the lapidary and mirror business, they still gave several hours each day and evening to the new art.

When Gutenberg advanced Riffe and Hielman to engraving the letters which he had drawn, they sadly blundered.

“What a world of patience you had, master, when you worked through all this alone!” said Hielman, showing his block, on which, after much painstaking, he had cut a Y in the shape of a well-sweep.

“It is a wonder to me, master, how thou didst discover this art, when it is such a labor for us to learn it!” exclaimed Riffe; and he held up a B which looked more like a camel.

“There’s nothing like trying,” said Gutenberg pleasantly, as he went through the process of drawing another letter for each. It was, however, a source of great annoyance to him to have so many blocks ruined by his workmen; and he bethought him of a way to prevent this waste, which was to give them small strips of wood of little value, on which to make their experiments in cutting letters, which may have led to the idea of movable type. Meanwhile, as he had time, he progressed with his book. By dint of patient plodding, Dritzhn finished the figures of the work, when Gutenberg had accomplished the more toilsome labor of graving letters, page by page.

The blocks of the “Historia” were completed, and great was the joy of all parties,--none being more enthusiastic than Anna, who thought doing the work so quickly, scarcely less than a miracle.

“Now is my time to help,” said she; “I can take the impressions!” Her husband smiled, and Dritzhn looked incredulous, which made her more eager to be of use in expediting the issue of the famous “History.” Gutenberg gladly accepted her proffer of aid, saying,--

“We welcome thy assistance, my dear, and we shall all be very busy. To-night we must fold and cut the paper into the right size for pages, and also grind the umber and make the ink, and to-morrow we will commence impressing the leaves.”

Thus they wrought as busy as bees, and it proved to be rare honey that they stored in those days of patient toil,--honey for the world, which will never be exhausted for all time, as our sequel will show.

Gutenberg and Dritzhn impressed the pages from the engraved blocks through the early part of the next day, while Riffe and Hielman, as usual, wrought in the front shop at the old trades. In the afternoon Dritzhn relieved the two workmen, while they with Anna assisted Gutenberg. After a little practice, she could take impressions as well as her husband; and when she wearied of this, she made a strong paste, and under his direction commenced pasting the blank sides of the leaves together, for they were printed only on one side. In a few days they had a number of “Histories” bound and ready for sale. There was great rejoicing among those early workers over the beautiful books which were the result of their toil!

Now came the question how to dispose of them. The firm finally concluded to exhibit them two or three at a time in the front shop, and try the effect on customers.

Gutenberg, remembering the experiment with pictures, said little. He was, however, hopeful that they could in some way make a market for the edition in the course of a few weeks. If so, he felt that it would be a triumph of block-printing over copying.

But he was doubtful of the project of exhibiting them in the way proposed, as the more books sold, the less jewelry and mirrors. At length Peter Schoeffer, a young man studying in Father Melchoir’s school in an ante-room of the Cathedral, was engaged to offer them for sale to the few learned people in the place; for few, comparatively, knew how to read.

As the books were valuable, and only small sales could be expected, he was permitted to take only one at a time. The first week he sold two copies; and as one also was sold from the shop, the firm took courage--it was a success! At this rate the edition would speedily be disposed of.

VII.

Small Receipts.--Printing the “Donatus.”--“Ars Memorandi.”--“Ars
Moriendi.”--An Interesting Fact.--Extract from “Ars Moriendi.”

As time passed, the firm occasionally sold a copy of the “History,” but receipts were smaller than had been anticipated. Few of the common people could read,--its circulation was therefore mostly confined to the priests and nobility. The former rarely needed to purchase it, as each one could, if he desired, secure one of the kind by copying; and trouble, expense, and time were involved in gaining access to the higher classes.

Gutenberg consoled himself by reasoning that his books would be called for gradually, and that he must as soon as possible issue another work suitable for a more accessible class. These were the youth in the Cathedral, studying for the priesthood, who were under the necessity of copying their “Donatuses,” or manuals of grammar. Why should he not prepare an edition for their use? He would be sure of some customers, and there would be no risk in trying his hand at a “Donatus.” The firm at once went to work upon the manual, which was one of the first school-books adapted to beginners. The children and youth of four hundred years ago had few aids in study, and few were educated. The voice of the living teacher, usually a priest, served to make passable the otherwise inaccessible paths of learning.

As the busy company wrought on the “Donatus,” the curiosity of certain neighbors was excited respecting the nature of their evening employment, and it was deemed advisable more fully to remove the hidden art to Dritzhn’s shop, from which printing-office the new manuals of grammar in due time were issued. They sold more readily than the “History,” and the edition of fifty copies was soon exhausted. Many of the scholars in the Cathedral school bought them; and for a time Gutenberg and his firm were busy in issuing and Peter Schoeffer in circulating the work. The lapidary and mirror arts were still pursued by turns, although very naturally the firm felt more interest in the fascinating occupation of imprinting. After a few weeks the demand for the “Donatus” almost ceased, the pupils in Strasbourg and vicinity having been supplied, and the means of communication with other places being infrequent. There were no newspapers, and none of the methods of advertising now in vogue with publishers. Still the company was not discouraged; the sale of one book was a greater event then than is now the sale of many thousands.

The call for the “Donatus” declining, the inventor turned his attention to a work of quite a different description, which was a great favorite with the more devout monks. This was the “Ars Memorandi,” or “Art of Remembering.” We have no means of ascertaining the size of this book; but it could not have been large, as almost in immediate connection with it were engraved the blocks of a religious and devotional work called “Ars Moriendi,” or the “Art of knowing how to Die.” The numerous engravings illustrating these books, Gutenberg seems to have omitted.

These were comparatively new works, the first book having only been written in 1420, followed by other copies in 1430. Gutenberg’s block edition was a great improvement on these, and soon became popular, being suited to the religious wants of the people.

It is an interesting fact that the second book, “Ars Moriendi,” continued to engage attention for many years. It is also probable that it was the identical work on which Caxton, the first English printer, was engaged the last day of his life, the 15th of June, 1490, when he was about eighty years of age. The work at that time bore the title “The Art and Craft to know well to Die.”

If so, we have the inventor of printing himself, when comparatively a young man, issuing this important work, and the first English printer crowning his life-labors in bringing it before the world. The thoughtful and religious tone of this book may be gathered from the following passage from the preface:--

“When it is so that what a man maketh or doeth, it is made to come to some end, and if the thing be good or well made, it must needs come to good end; then by better and greater reason every man ought to intend in such wise to live in this world, in keeping the commandments of God, that he may come to a good end. Then out of this world, full of wretchedness and tribulations, he may go to heaven unto God and his saints, unto joy ever durable.”

VIII.

Effect of Gutenberg’s Books.--His Times and Ours.--His Books
at the Cathedral.--Curiosity of the Monks.--Proposition of
the Abbot.--The “Bible for the Poor.”--A Great Work well
done.--A Good Sale.--The Canticles issued.--A Difficult
Undertaking.--Discontent.--An Accident.--Discovery of Separate
Types.--The First Font of Movable Type.--Difficulties
mastered.--The Great Helper.

It is an interesting fact in the history of printing that its discoverer was led to issue works of an excellent and devotional character. As time passed, numbers were disposed of to the nobility, and occasionally one to some favored tradesman who had conquered his alphabet. Those who had purchased the “History of St. John,” wished a copy; and families enriched with a “Donatus,” cast about them to devise ways and means to buy the newer works of Gutenberg.

But what changes these books effected in the households blessed with their presence! “A man is known by the company he keeps;” and books are most influential associates. People who had not dreamed of being able to buy a book, by the skill of Gutenberg suddenly found themselves enriched with the treasure. How the reader of the family dwelt on the magic page! for seldom it was that more than one member could read. How the little circle gathered round the fireside of an evening, listening to catch each word of the wonderful volume, which was read and re-read, discussed, approved, and mostly committed to memory. This eagerness of the more enlightened classes to own and read a book, may seem strange to us who all our lives long have been surrounded with books of all sizes, from the abstruse tome we pore over to understand, to the charming literary favorite that we read once and again with delight.