Chapter C: I. Cæcilii Hermiæ Signum (2)

But our wonder will cease when we remember what a different state of things then existed. Books were so scarce,--and this very scarcity increased their value,--then they were made with pen and ink alone, except by Gutenberg, who kept the secret of his block process. People took it for granted that the books he sold them were manuscripts, slowly written by hand; and marveled much at their exactness and similarity.

Still, with all the interest excited by his books, an edition of some fifty copies, sufficed to answer the demand. The mass of the people were too ignorant to aspire to the possession of a book. They could not read, and reasoned--if the subject came up--that books would be useless. To buy them, would be like purchasing a carriage when horses could not be had to draw it, or spectacles for a blind man, or shoes for one without feet.

As was his custom, whenever a new book was issued, the inventor visited the Cathedral with the “Ars Moriendi” to make sales. The visit was an event of moment to the firm, far more than a trade sale is to a publishing house of this day.

He first sought the Abbot in the library, whom he found sitting a little apart by a table, busily examining the work of the copyists.

“Good-morning, holy Father!” said Gutenberg.

“Good-morrow, my son: hast thou brought more of thy wonderful books?”

“That I have, Father,” replied Gutenberg; and as he began to remove the coverings, several monks gathered around him.

“What hast thou here?” asked Father Gottlieb, a gray-headed friar; “more of thy magical books?”

“I claim no powers of magic, Father; it is simply patience that has done it!” and opening an “Ars Memorandi,” he passed it to the critical monk. Then taking a copy of “Ars Moriendi” he courteously presented it to the Superior.

“Thank you, my son!” rejoined his Reverence graciously. “It is a pleasure to examine thy manuscript.”

“Curious book!” exclaimed Father Melchoir, a middle-aged monk, who had himself just finished a copy of the same work, by the slow process of the pen, with incredible pains and much time. “How came you to make so many books all alike? How did you do it? You have a great company of scribes, eh?”

Gutenberg did not explain. Meanwhile the monks continued to gather; for having seen some of the former issues of the lapidary, they were the more eager to examine the new one.

“Very good! wonderful!” said one, as he turned over the pages of a book.

“It is not like the work of our hands,” added another.

“But you have not answered my questions!” persisted Father Melchoir, piqued that Gutenberg made such a show of industry and careful penmanship.

“I can even tell thee that I have accomplished it by patience,” was the inventor’s reply.

“Why, we claim not to be wanting in that virtue,” said Father Melchoir, “but none of us can compete with your speed in writing. Every few weeks you bring us in twelve or more books, all carefully written out in half the time it takes our readiest scribe to make one copy!”

“Moreover,” added another, as he compared two copies, “the letters are so exact and regular; why, these two copies have just as many letters and words on a page, made precisely alike!”

“But, the books are unadorned!” broke in Father Melchoir. “And very plain and poverty-stricken they look to me after gazing on our illuminated books, with their beautiful pictures, rich bindings, silk embroidered with gold and silver thread, and their backs of ivory exquisitely carved, or embellished with filigree-work and pearls and precious stones. One would suppose that a lapidary might at least use ornaments that are in his line!”

“I am not ambitious of adornment,” answered Gutenberg. “I would greatly prefer to circulate twelve books in a neat plain dress than one in rich pictures and binding. My twelve books are made to be read; while an embellished copy is only fit to be locked up with clasps, and kept in a chest or cage, to be taken out on great occasions.”

The Superior meanwhile had been absorbed in the copy Gutenberg had presented him, and appeared not to notice the conversation. He now motioned the monks to withdraw; then, turning to Gutenberg, said,--

“I have a word to thee, my son!”

“I am ready to hear, holy Father!”

“Are these books made with the pen of the copyist?” and his keen eye fell on the lapidary with a searching glance.

Gutenberg was embarrassed for an answer.

“It is as I supposed,” continued the Superior. “They are made by engraved blocks, like the ‘St. Christopher’ and the ‘Biblia Pauperum.’”

Gutenberg saw that his secret was out; but his consternation was allayed when the Father added, “It may be that we can furnish you with a work to engrave and imprint. How would you like to undertake with the ‘Biblia Pauperum?’ The copy which belongs to our library is rudely executed, and I doubt not you would greatly improve upon it. It is so rough and uncouth that I sometimes think the original manuscript copy made by Ausgarius in the ninth century must have been a better specimen of art. Think the matter over, my son, and let me know your decision at an early day.”

Gutenberg took leave, and on reaching home consulted the rest of the company about imprinting a new issue of the “Biblia Pauperum.” It chanced that not one of the firm had seen the book, with the exception of Andreas Dritzhn, who once examined the copy in the Cathedral. He was in favor of engaging in the work, if the monks would take copies enough to pay them well for their labor. This was a point which Gutenberg was deputed to ascertain, that there might be no risk in devoting the requisite time to perfect the engraving,--an undertaking of no small magnitude.

Accordingly, shortly after, Gutenberg made another visit to the Cathedral to confer with the Superior. He met with a cordial greeting, and almost abruptly the Father began:--

“And what is thy decision, son Gutenberg; wilt thou prepare for us new copies of the ‘Biblia Pauperum?’”

“I shall rejoice to engage in the enterprise,” was the reply, “if I can do so without too much risk, but it will be a slow and toilsome undertaking, involving much expense”--

“Which you will be paid for when it is finished.”

“But who will buy the book?”

“A goodly number of priests will need copies,” replied the Father. “The forty curious pictures of which the book is composed, were designed to illustrate a series of skeleton sermons. They are of great use in stirring the preacher’s imagination, and storing his memory with excellent texts. The book, therefore, is mainly suited to the different religious orders, and will have sale chiefly among them. Still, as it is taken from the Bible, and called the ‘Bible for the Poor,’ others will buy it besides the priests, and it may have a wide circulation. Numbers will be needed to give the monks each a chance to examine it as often as is desirable, although the different copies will be chained in cages, or on tablets, that no person may appropriate one solely to his own use.”

This was an era in the affairs of Gutenberg. His art was acknowledged and patronized by the Superior, and he himself really promoted above the monks, who were prominent not only among the book-makers or book-sellers, but the literati of their day. Still Gutenberg, as he called to mind the jealousy of Father Melchoir, feared fully to rely on patronage from the friars; and it was only the assurance of the worthy Superior that induced him to engage in the expensive enterprise of bringing out a new “Biblia Pauperum.”

“Tarry a little,” said the Abbot, as the lapidary was leaving; “I will lend thee our ‘Biblia,’ for a copy.” Then going to the side of the room where the light streamed in from a lofty painted window, he unlocked a cage, and taking the valued book from a gilded bracket, unfastened the chain which confined it to the wall, and, carefully wrapping it in paper, gave it to Gutenberg, who hastened away, intent on the new project before him.

Dritzhn had become a skillful engraver, but it was necessary to secure the services of two other wood-engravers, residing in Strasbourg, to whom the subjects were carried,--cuts being taken from the “Biblia” and given to them, one by one, as they could execute them. In this way the pictures were finished in the course of a few months. Gutenberg, Riffe, and Hielman engraved the inscriptions explaining the cuts, of which those at the top and bottom of the page consisted of Scripture and Leonine verses, so called from Leo, the inventor, the end of each line rhyming with the middle, as for example:--

“Gloria _factorum_ temere conceditur _horum_.”

The engraving of this “Poor Man’s Bible” was a great work; and only the invincible energy, enthusiasm, and perseverance of those early artisans enabled them to accomplish it in so short a time. To form some idea of its magnitude, we must keep in mind that each page contained four busts, or figures of persons; the two upper ones represented the prophets, or others whose names were beneath them; the two lower figures are unknown, or can only be conjectured. In the middle of the pages, which are all marked by letters from the alphabet, were three historical pictures, one of which was from the New Testament.

A fac-simile of this curious and ancient work can be seen in the Public Library, Boston, and will richly repay the trouble of examination. This has, however, forty-eight engravings, which may indicate that the work, as first issued by Ausgarius in the ninth century, was comparatively meagre, and grew to its present proportions by successive issues and by the hand of different artists.

In due time the firm was busy in imprinting and binding the choice volume, delighted with the good prospect of remuneration for it; and as soon as one copy was completed, Gutenberg again betook him to the Cathedral to exhibit it to the Abbot, who was warm in his praise of the work.

“This is as I would have it,” said he, with a beaming face, “it is elegantly executed, and more in keeping with the themes which it illustrates. Our priests will now have no excuse for stupid sermons when they officiate in the chapel or cathedral. Thou hast done nobly, and thy labors will subserve the interests of the Church.”

He then bestowed on him a generous sum, as an earnest of the full amount, when the copies he had engaged, were delivered; and Gutenberg, with a happy heart, despite the glance he had of Father Melchoir’s frowning visage, returned to his cottage to rejoice with Anna.

“It is just as I anticipated,” she exclaimed. “I knew thou wouldst triumph. Only to think, a real ‘Biblia Pauperum’ made by my John Gutenberg! I am proud and happy; we shall yet see good days. Then it will so enliven us to have a copy in the house, for I have thy promise of one of each book thou mayst make.”

“Aye, my Anna, that is as little as I can do; when I get rich, I hope to add to thy wardrobe, as well as to our library;” and he glanced painfully at her plain russet gown, for through all his experiments she had practiced a rigid economy in dress.

“When thou art rich,” replied Anna, “I will not refuse the gifts thy kind heart inclines thee to give; but for the present, I am content.”

The “Biblia” sold better than any previous work, and Gutenberg and partners were much gratified. They did not, however, realize as much money as if they had kept to the lapidary and mirror business. The demand for books was so small, a market had to be created; and this required time and the slow progress of events.

But so much pleased were they with their endeavors, that, sanguine of still better success, they soon issued one of the books of the Bible entire. This was the Canticles, or Solomon’s Song, and, like the “Biblia Pauperum,” printed only on one side of the page from engraved wooden blocks. A copy of this work is carefully treasured among antiquities in the British Museum.

Such was the estimation in which it was held as a work of art, and such its sale, that Gutenberg was led to attempt greater things; he even conceived the idea of printing the entire Bible. Anna was greatly in favor of the undertaking.

“All thou wouldst have to do,” said she, vivaciously, “would be to make more blocks,--a block for a page; and it would be so much better than copying. For a monk, if he lives to a good old age, and is diligent with his pen, can only write out two Bibles; and printing from blocks is much greater speed than that.”

“True, Anna,” was the reply; “but hast thou an idea how long it would take to engrave the blocks for the entire Bible?”

“Nay; but thou art so expert that assuredly it would not take thee long,--a few months, I suppose, at farthest. I do hope that thou wilt commence on this work at once. It is so desirable to have the Bible issued by thy art.”

“But let us calculate a little, my dear Anna. There are seven hundred pages in the Bible. By close application, I cannot engrave carefully and suitably more than two pages a month; and I must be full three hundred and fifty months, or nearly thirty years, in engraving blocks enough for the Holy Book!”

“Why, that would be dreadful!” cried Anna in dismay. “Thou wouldst be an old man long before it was done; it would even take thy life-time!”

“Yes, Anna, and this process of engraving fine letters on blocks, when pursued closely, is dimming to the eyes; I should be blind before my work was half done.”

“But thou couldst divide thy labors with thy workmen, couldst thou not?”

“Aye, if I can persuade them to undertake so formidable an enterprise. But the men are getting weary of large works, and beg me to choose smaller ones; they assert that the new process is no better for a large book than copying. Perhaps, however, we can issue the Gospels gradually, by taking one book at a time.”

“Perhaps thou canst,” echoed Anna sadly.

Although Gutenberg was depressed when he thought of the immense labor involved in imprinting so large a work as the Bible, yet he was not wholly disheartened. This was the secret of his success; he would not give up; was not frightened by difficulties; what the faint-hearted would deem impossible, he feared not to attempt. The art of printing would have remained undiscovered until this day without this courageous perseverance.

Gutenberg said nothing to his associates about attempting the execution of the whole Bible; indeed, he dared not entertain the idea himself; but he proposed that they publish the Gospels. They thought this too large a work. He replied that they could imprint the Gospel of St. Matthew, and do as seemed best about the remainder; this was complete in itself, and would find a ready sale.

Accordingly they were soon hard at the task of engraving blocks for the Gospel of Matthew. Dritzhn demurred, as he mechanically toiled away, saying, “Unless prospects brighten, we shall never get back our money.”

Fault-finding is contagious; and Hielman and Riffe soon manifested a similar spirit. Those were gloomy days. Gutenberg meanwhile said little, but wrought at his block with renewed vigor. It was nearly completed; a few turns and gashes of the keen-pointed instrument, and it would be done; when by a slip of the hand the wood was split asunder!

Dritzhn looked up aghast, as much as to say, “How can we afford this great waste of time and labor?” Gutenberg’s quick eye interpreted the glance, and his ingenuity was put to the test of repairing the loss. He commenced fitting the block together in order to save some of the work at least. While thus engaged, the thought occurred to him, What if the carved block were broken up into separate letters, so that they might be put together in any words desired?

He seized his knife and split the wood into the letters carved on its surface. Thus he had wooden type, which he arranged in various words. The light of a great invention had dawned. Absorbed in thoughts of its advantages, he heeds not the curious eyes of his comrades, as they intently regard him, wondering at his apparently aimless performance.

He was a philosopher, and in his search after the natural and practical came to reason thus:--

“I want a system of impressing characters suited to the language. In Latin there are twenty-four letters, and the same letters are used over and over to spell many thousands of words. In a page of words I employ portions of the alphabet a number of times; and after I have done printing with the block, the carved letters are lost. If I could contrive a way of separating them, I could rearrange them without cutting new ones, and apply them to another page of different matter.

“I must, then, have my letters for printing, separate, like the letters of the alphabet, so that I can handle them as readily as I use letters to form words. I must carve the letters in wood with little handles to them, that I may take them up, and place them together as if I were spelling!”

Thus did the patient hero seize upon the idea of movable type,--the key-stone of the art of printing. He soon tried another experiment; splitting a block into strips, and working it down to the right size, he carved a letter on the end of it. This cost him care and labor, for it was more difficult than engraving on the solid block. Many bits of wood were carved before he succeeded in getting a letter to suit him. But after many trials he made one, then another, and another, taking pains to form the sticks of the right thickness, so that when they were placed together, the letters would not be too far apart.

When he had the alphabet carved, each letter on the end of a little wooden peg, he had twenty-four type letters,--quite a little pile,--which he regarded with pride and satisfaction, and called them _stucke_, or type. Like a child in his first efforts in reading, so he carefully spelt his way onward.

_Bonus homo_, “a good man,” were the words he first tried with his type. Taking the bits of wood with the letters _bonus_, he placed them one after the other as he spelt the word, and fastened them together with a string. But when he came to the next word, as he had only one _o_, he stopped and made two more before the word could be set up. As he tried other words, he found that he needed more letters; so, taking time, he cut out a large number of types for each letter in the alphabet. These he placed separately in little boxes to prevent them from being mixed. There was the box of A’s, the box of B’s, the box of C’s, and so on for all the letters. This was a font of movable type, the first ever made, and the great step of progress in his invention.

If you will try the experiment of cutting type out of wood, you will more readily perceive the difficulties attending it. It was the work of months to accomplish this, which we have noted in two or three pages.

As Gutenberg went on setting up _bonus_ in type, he found an obstacle in keeping the letters together, so that he could rub ink on them and print. Evening came, and he took them home to remedy the difficulty, and notched the edges of the two outside letters, the _b_, and the _s_, that he might tie them firmly with the linen thread he had provided. This fastening them together, that they might bear the impression of the solid block, was also a study; but he was not to be turned aside by obstacles. He had energy, courage, perseverance, and ingenuity; for Providence was inspiring him for his work.

IX.

Anna’s Disappointment.--Dritzhn’s Regrets.--Comfort for Anna.--
Gutenberg’s Progress described.--The Great Enlightener.--
Advantages of Movable Type.--Another Book.--Obstacles.--
Criticisms.--Invention.--A Press contrived.--New Cause of
Disquiet.

As for Anna, usually so hopeful, she was much disquieted when her husband told her that block-printing was only suited to small books, and that some other method must be sought out, or he could not issue large works. She had her heart on retrieving their affairs by the sale of books, and was bitterly disappointed that the new art could not at once, if ever, bring the hoped for prosperity.

Dritzhn’s life was embittered with vain regrets; each hour of the day was vocal with his murmurs and forebodings. Under these circumstances, Gutenberg did not feel free to take his rightful share of the small profits, and, in consequence, the allowance for family expenses was not sufficient to furnish his home with comforts and keep Want, the gaunt wolf, away. And so it came about that one day Anna sat sewing in her dwelling, the picture of grief, and bitterly reproaching herself for the advice she had given her husband to turn aside from the sure returns of the artisan to the uncertainties of invention. The garment she was making fell from her hands, and she exclaimed,--

“Alas! I am the foolish woman that plucketh her house down with her hands! I had not the wisdom to give my husband good counsel!” Thus she bewailed herself with bitter tears and reproaches till evening, when, hearing Gutenberg’s step as he returned from St. Arbogast, she quickly wiped away her tears, and strove to meet him with composure.

“Why, Anna!” he cried, as he beheld her woe-begone face, “art thou ill? Are our friends dead? Speak, and tell me!” And as she revealed the source of her disquiet, he said cheerily,--

“My Anna, thou must take a juster view of things. Brighter days are in store for us. Thou dost not know what I have discovered!”

“But I know too well what _I_ have discovered,” she rejoined; “it is that we are beggars. There is no food in the house, and I can go no more to the provision merchants until they are paid. It is dreadful to think how we have spent our money!” To such an extremity of speech was poor Anna brought in her trial.

“O Anna! Anna!” exclaimed Gutenberg, distressed for her, “dost thou see these bits of wood? I have cut a letter on the end of each. I fasten them together thus;” and he held up the type of the word _bonus_. “I ink them, and press them on paper thus. See how beautifully they print;” and he showed the word impressed in clear characters.

“But is it not presumption to trust longer to uncertainties?” cried Anna; “they cannot bring food into the house. We are poor.”

“My Anna,” soothingly said the kind husband, “dost thou forget that I have conceived a great invention, and that thou art really as rich as a queen?”

“O, the wild dream!” returned Anna, smiling through her tears, comforted by his sympathy, “I shall trust it when it pays our debts, and feeds and clothes us. We are verily poor, and I see not how vain imaginings can help us.”

“But, dear, my patrimony is not all gone. I have land still unsold at Mentz; and as I cannot realize money from these immediately, I promise thee that if this invention does not help our affairs in a month, I will relinquish it for the present, and return to polishing gems for a livelihood.”

It was a rough and thorny way that the inventor trod, reaching after that great gift which God held out to man, and no wonder that Anna, in this time of trial, pleaded with him to turn back, watering his path with her tears.

Gutenberg slept little the night of the revelation of movable type. He deemed the invention most important; and before his mind, stimulated to unusual action, some of the great changes which would ensue from his discovery, were dimly portrayed. Like the prophets who understood not the full import of their own utterances, but inquired diligently to know what the spirit which was in them did signify, so the discoverer of the wonderful art could only hope that it was the introduction of something glorious; and that hope was thenceforth his guiding star amid the darkness of his earthly lot. With the first ray of morning he was at his work, to test more fully the new types. Setting them up, he fastened them together, and printed the same words as before. _Bonus homo_ shone with the halo of _eureka_ to Gutenberg’s eye. “I have found it!” he exclaimed, and, starting off to market, brought home food for the day.

Gustav Nieritz, a German writer, thus describes Gutenberg’s progress:--

“He set to work with the utmost eagerness. Out of a piece of hard wood he sawed some thousand tiny blocks, a few inches long, and very narrow. At one end he cut a letter in relief, and bored a hole through the other. After having thus furnished himself with a considerable number of the letters of the alphabet, he placed whole words together, and arranged them in lines on a string, until they formed a page, when he bound them together with wire, and so prevented their falling asunder. He then blackened his wooden type with ink, and taking up the whole together, pressed upon it a sheet of paper. And now let us place ourselves in his position, and enter into his feelings as he beheld the first fruits of his long, unwearied labors.

“With a trembling hand he caught up the printed paper. It had succeeded beyond his expectation. Tears ran down his cheeks as he gazed on it with ecstacy. It was the Lord’s Prayer, with which he had made almost his first attempt at printing with types.

“Often had his lips uttered the words of prayer, whilst he was thinking only of his invention; now, however, their meaning came clearly upon his mind, and his grateful soul turned fervently to the Father of all light, from whom this light also had come, which would enlighten men as no other human invention could do. He fell upon his knees, holding the sheet of paper in both hands, and repeated the prayer it contained with his whole heart. O! it was not for the sake of worldly gain that he rejoiced in his discovery. It was that it freed him from the debt that he had long ago incurred. He might be called a dreamer and an idler: he neither heard nor regarded.

“‘Anna!’ he cried, throwing his arms round her, ‘here is the gold brocade cap, and all the rest besides which I promised you. I have succeeded, and our fortune is made.’ His wife shook her head incredulously, and said with a sigh:--

“‘I wish you would give up these fancies, and return to your work.’ Gutenberg smiled, but persevered.”

“My Anna!” said the inventor, some little time later, as he showed her other specimens of his work, “I trust that our poverty will soon be over. You shall yet ride in a coach, and dine like a queen. My invention is a certainty.”

“I only wish comforts and a competence,” returned Anna tearfully.

“We are sure of both,” replied he, “Let me tell thee, wife, nothing yet invented by man, ever made such inroads on ignorance as this will effect. Almost everything we know, we have acquired through the medium of either spoken or written language. The mass of the people are only acquainted with the former. Everybody will, by and by, learn to read and understand written language, and the knowledge locked up in cloisters will be freely poured out to the thirsty multitudes. It is through language that we become wiser and better; and if my discovery succeeds, as it must, the knowledge of the arts, sciences, and religion will be sooner or later spread abroad. Then, no more hoarding of libraries that kings, prelates, and priests alone may read; but the common people, too, will have their books.” Anna listened with pleased interest, and he went on: “God has bestowed great honor on books, as some of the devout authors say, in communicating with us through them; and if holy men of old who spoke as they were moved by the Holy Ghost had not written down what God taught them, where to-day would be our knowledge of our sacred things? And if it was important for God to record his will, may we not suppose that He will give wisdom so that a way may be devised to publish his Word with facility?”

“I must think so, my Anna,” he added, “and I cannot doubt that He has given me skill in what I have undertaken. It grieves me to think what you must have suffered through it, but I trust our days of mourning are ended;” and his happy smile lightened her heart like a sunbeam.

It was still quite early in the day when Gutenberg repaired to Dritzhn’s shop, to exhibit to his associates his invention of separate types. As he entered, he was struck with the settled gloom that rested on Dritzhn’s face. “My improvement has occurred in good time,” thought the inventor; “my partners are getting discouraged.”

“I have something new to show you,” said he to Dritzhn, who was busy engraving the first verses of the third chapter of Matthew.

“New things have nearly ruined us!” retorted Dritzhn, looking up moodily from his work.

“But this is a new method of imprinting, which will save much of our labor,” said Gutenberg, showing the specimens of _bonus homo_ and the “Lord’s Prayer.”

“How does this mode differ from ours?” asked Dritzhn. “You impress with the block, do you not?”

“Nay; I first make letters on bits of wood, tie them together to impress with, and, after using them, take them apart, and set them up for new words.”

“And this tying together and taking apart would consume time,” objected Dritzhn. “I see no advantage in this mode; in my opinion, it would involve us more deeply.”

“But let us try it,” interposed Hielman; “if it will save labor, it is a good thing.”

“Leave well enough alone! I think we shall do better to keep on as we have begun,” said Riffe, with the air of one who had settled the matter.

“Block-printing is by no means to be despised,” answered Gutenberg, “in books of a few pages; but in a large book of many pages, we waste time in cutting letters, as they are only of use for that book, and cannot be taken apart and used for another.”

“I am opposed to any change,” Dritzhn reiterated; “we are sufficiently involved without any new experiments. We cannot do better than keep on with the block books.”

Gutenberg had failed in convincing these men, but he was confident that the practical working of his separate types would yet be an argument they could not resist. He persevered in his experiments, and, in place of engraving on the block, busied himself in adjusting and readjusting his type for the “Lord’s Prayer,” as he found a difficulty in keeping them in place, when he took a second impression.

Dritzhn and Riffe, having little fellowship for this new way of “spending time,” were ready to criticise when the types slipped out of place, as Gutenberg tied them with thread or twine. But before the day was over, he had managed to take several good impressions of the “Lord’s Prayer.” This was well enough, Dritzhn said, but still insisted that he did not see how it was better than if taken with an engraved block, and was in no mood to investigate the matter with candor.

The partners had previously decided to publish the “Speculum Humanæ Salutis,” and they now commenced upon it. The “Speculum” suited both parties, as there were plenty of subjects requiring wood-engravings, and the movable type could also be used in the written portion of the book.

As Gutenberg wrought at his types, he had still to combat the difficulty of making them hold together with sufficient firmness. At first he used strings, then wires. These were easily displaced, and cost him many a hard job of repairing damages, which confirmed Dritzhn and Riffe in the opinion that it was useless to attempt to make them work. It was not reasonable, the former said, that such bits of wood could be made serviceable in book-making. There was some sense in a solid block, and his advice was to keep on in the old way, with which, however, he was often finding fault, for he had enlisted in the enterprise not so much for the love of the art as the love of money. Months of toil and large expenditures had brought comparatively small returns. Some of the firm even began to talk of returning to the old occupation of polishing stones. Riffe continued to echo Dritzhn’s criticisms and complaints.

“Why not keep on with block-printing?” asked the latter, as Gutenberg was busy cutting out his type, or _stucke_ as it was called. “I’ve just got my hand in, and do not wish to give up the trade for whittling sticks, of which I do not see the use.”

“Let me try once more to explain the use,” pleasantly replied Gutenberg. “Suppose the letters of the alphabet were tied together so that you could not separate them, how could you spell words? The letters on a block cannot be taken apart to form other words; but with the separate types it is very different;” and to illustrate his meaning he set up a word in type, printed with it, took the letters apart, or “distributed” them, and framed another word.

Although slow to be convinced, his associates finally acknowledged the necessity of movable type and began to acquire some degree of skill in making them.

An advance on the method by cords and wire, was Gutenberg’s invention of a frame with wedges to keep the types in place. This had the approbation of his partners. It was a great gain, and there was much congratulation when he succeeded in firmly adjusting the _stucke_ so that they had all the advantage of the solid block, with none of its disadvantages.

Taking impressions of the type on paper by friction was slow and unsatisfactory; and Gutenberg, after many experiments, contrived a press to imprint with, and employed a skillful mechanic to make it. This saved, besides other labor, the trouble of pasting the blank backs of the leaves together, as both sides of the paper were imprinted.

A distinguished writer, who assures us that he has had access to the archives of Strasbourg, thus vividly describes this discovery; “Months and years had been consumed--his fortune also and the funds of the association--in patient experiments, in successes, and in reverses. At length, having made a small model of a _press_ which appeared to him to combine all the conditions of printing as he then understood it, he hid the precious miniature under his cloak, and, entering the city, went to a skillful turner in wood and in metal, named Conrad Sachspach, who dwelt at Merchants’ Cross-roads, to ask him to make one of a large size. He left the secret in the machine, only telling him that it was a contrivance by which he proposed to accomplish some _chefs d’œuvre_ of art and mechanics of which a slower process was known. The artisan, taking, turning, and re-turning the model in his hands, with a smile of disdain at the rough sketch completed by Gutenberg, said to him, with a bantering air:--

“‘This is only a simple wine-press that you ask me to make, Master John!’

“‘Yes,’ replied Gutenberg in a serious and dignified tone, ‘it is a wine-press in effect, but it is a press from which shortly shall sprout forth floods of the most abundant and the most marvelous liquor that has ever flowed to quench the thirst of man. By it God shall spread his Word; from it shall flow a fountain-head of pure truth. As a new star, it shall dissipate the darkness of ignorance, and cause to shine on men a light hitherto unknown!’ He withdrew. The mechanic, who understood nothing of these words, executed the machine, and returned it to Gutenberg at the monastery of Arbogast. This was the first press.

“In giving it into the hands of Gutenberg, the workman began to suspect some mystery. ‘I see clearly, Master John,’ said he to Gutenberg, ‘that you are indeed in communication with celestial spirits; so hereafter I shall obey you as one of them--as a spirit!’”

This first press, contrived in the gloomy recesses of the old monastery, was set up in the printing rooms of Dritzhn’s dwelling, but was not at first fully appreciated.

Two years passed, the company cutting a supply of movable type. Some sales were effected, but financial affairs were not flattering.

Meanwhile a new cause of disturbance occurred to impede progress, and waken in Gutenberg’s partners doubts of his uniform infallibility in invention.

It was discovered that ink softened the type, and injured the shape of the letters.

Riffe, one of the first to notice it, became alarmed.

“It is my mind,” said he, “that the bubble has burst. We may as well give up, and engage in our old trade. These uncertainties will never bring grist to the mill.”

“The type does not print as well after it becomes softened by the ink?” said Dritzhn inquiringly to Gutenberg.

“We must expect difficulties,” was the reply, “and seek to overcome them. We must make more fresh type until we can contrive a way of hardening the wood.”

At this the firm murmured against him afresh; nor were they better satisfied as time went on, and “John Dunnius’ bill of one hundred florins was sent in for press-work.”

“Monstrous!” exclaimed Hielman; “we can never afford it.”

“It is all pay out in this business,” Dritzhn added, “and almost nothing coming in to balance the loss.”

“Wait a little,” was Gutenberg’s reply; “we are now sowing the seed; by and by we shall reap our harvests.” And he further appeased their agitation by calling attention to the satisfactory working of the press, and reminded them of the great service it was to them.

“Do you not see,” said he, “that our labor of making _stucke_ is nearly useless without the frame and press? We must either give up the art, and disband, or make the necessary improvements as they are called for.”

While feeling keenly the murmurings of his associates, most indomitable was the spirit that he cherished, having the indispensable attribute of the true inventor,--a passion for his calling, and confidence in ultimate success.

X.

A Partner at the Confessional.--His Death.--Consequences.--A
Lawsuit.--Thieves.--Dangerous Curiosity.--Destruction of
Gutenberg’s Type.--Curious Testimonies.--Value of the Legal
Document.--Proof that Gutenberg was the Real Inventor.--The
Magistrate’s Just Judgment.--Public Excitement.

Poor Dritzhn! he was sadly lacking in the spirit which upheld Gutenberg. He was a plain matter-of-fact man, with none of the originator,--content to plant in the spring and reap in the autumn, to work in time-worn paths; but dubious things that were years in maturing, were not suited to his nature. The possibility of failure poisoned his enjoyment, palsied his hand, and enfeebled his step. And this, in 1438, after the short space of two years of suspense in the firm.

Father Melchoir, his spiritual adviser, noticed the change.

“My son,” said he, “something troubles thee; confide the matter to me; perhaps I can help thee.”

“I am indeed in trouble,” replied he, glad of a confidant, for the secret and the doubt of success together wore on him. “I fear that I shall be ruined as to worldly prospects.”

“I trust not: how is it, my son? From what source is the danger?”

“Alas, Father, gladly would I tell thee, but I have bound myself with an oath not to reveal the secret.”

“But, my son, the Church does not recognize oaths in such a case. They are null and void for all purposes whatsoever, and thou art free to tell me all thy heart at the confessional: it is even thy solemn duty to do so.”

Dritzhn was only too easily persuaded, and, despite his sacred oath, told Father Melchoir of his connection with the firm.

“I have given hundreds of florins,” said he, “to bring out a hidden art of writing, with the hope long ere this of selling books and getting profits from my money. A few have been sold, but I have received no dividend. Besides, I have earned but little by my trade for these two long years; my time has been thrown away, and I am poorer than ever.”

“A very sad case!” said Father Melchoir, compassionately.

“This load is too heavy for me to bear,” lamented Dritzhn; “it will kill me! To think of throwing away hundreds of florins on a doubtful art, without in return getting back a single obolus![3] What can I do?”

[3] The very expression of Dritzhn at confessional.

“Get free from this secret league as soon as possible, and resume thy trade.”

“I wish it could be done, Father, but I fear it cannot. If I leave the firm, I shall lose all chance of getting back the money I have lent them. I am in doubt what to do.”

“Leave it by all means!” cried Father Melchoir; “be sure no good will come of their arts.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Dritzhn, and he rose to go. As he entered the shop, he found Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe busy setting new type for another work. It was a dictionary, called a “Catholicon.” They were all eager in their toil, and spoke warmly of the ready sale it would find, and the money it would bring in. Dritzhn, a little encouraged, resumed his work with them, nor did he breathe a word of his plan of leaving. It was too great a step to take hastily, although he wished himself safely out of the partnership.

There was so much repairing of type to do, and so many unlooked-for hinderances, that the book was delayed, and 1439 came round before it was finished, although Gutenberg was meanwhile steadily improving his art.

At this point of time, the autumn of 1439, just when they were about realizing their hopes in issuing the “Catholicon,” an event occurred which threw everything into confusion. This was the sudden death of Andreas Dritzhn. If ever the adversary hindered an enterprise, it was the art of printing; he had doubtless reasons of his own for multiplying obstacles.

Accordingly the death of Andreas was the pretext; and directly George and Nicholas, brothers of the deceased, two sturdy jogging Germans, who never harmed a fly, on arriving home from Andreas’s funeral, demanded of Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe to be admitted to the partnership!

“Very good,” said Gutenberg; “if we can find it in the contract, it shall be done.” Then, producing the document, he read:--

“ART. 2. If any one of the partners shall die during the copartnership, the survivors shall pay to his heirs the sum of one hundred florins, in consideration of which the effects shall become the property of the surviving partners.”

“Nay, gentlemen, you cannot become partners, but we will pay you what is due as the heirs of Andreas Dritzhn.” Then, looking over the accounts of the firm, he added, “Your brother is indebted to us in the sum of eighty-five florins; we will pay you the remaining fifteen, which will balance accounts.”

George and Nicholas rejected the offer with disdain, and, hastening away, conferred with each other as to what they should do. Two strong principles were at work in their hearts,--avarice and curiosity. From some few hints which Andreas had dropped while living, George and Nicholas were as much excited about the hidden arts of Gutenberg as we covetous moderns are with a chance at a rich vein in a gold mine; and they determined to try a suit at law, and if possible become members of the secret league.

This was in the autumn, and was peculiarly grievous to the inventor. The lawsuit consumed his time, thwarted his plans, and there was great danger that the secrets of his art would become public. The protection of the patent offices was then unknown. No inventor could put in a _caveat_ to hinder the encroachments of trespassers. The lawsuit had bruited abroad that Gutenberg & Co. had a secret art, which, like the philosopher’s stone, turned everything into gold; and curiosity, on tip-toe, used every device to get a peep at the wonder. Gutenberg’s work was at an end. It took all his time to attend the courts, and watch his shop, that no one might steal his art. It required double diligence to do the last, as the shop was in Andreas’s house. Despite his cautions to Hielman and Riffe, one day, in his absence, George and Nicholas managed to take from the shop a part of the printing apparatus. Gutenberg then gave orders to his servants to convey secretly to his house a printing-press and a quantity of letters cut in wood. The theft was a source of great anxiety to him, as he feared that the secret was out. The careful thieves, however, safely hid their booty, and lisped not a word.

At length it became evident to Gutenberg--such was the pitch to which curiosity had risen--that every vestige of the noble art must be destroyed. It was not safe even to hide it in his own house.

“Take the _stucke_ from the forms,” said he to his associates, “and break them up in my sight, that none of them may remain perfect.”

“What, all our labor?” cried Hielman; “here we’ve been at work these three years!”

“Never mind,” replied Gutenberg; “break them up, or some one will steal our art, and we shall be ruined!” and with that they set to work with their hammers and mallets, and the _stucke_ was soon demolished. His precious type lay in the dust, and still the lawsuit was lacerating his sensitive mind.

The following curious testimony was given during this trial:--

“Anna, the wife of John Schultheiss, an engraver on wood, deposed, that on one occasion Nicholas Beildeck came to her house to Nicholas Dritzhn, her relation, and said to him, ‘My Nicholas Dritzhn, Andreas Dritzhn, of happy memory, has placed four pages (_stucke_) in a press, which Gutenberg has desired that you will take away and separate, that no man may know what they are, for he is unwilling that any one should see them.’

“Also John Schultheiss says that Laurence Beildeck [Gutenberg’s servant] sometime came to his house to Nicholas Dritzhn, when Andreas Dritzhn his brother was dead, and that the said Laurence Beildeck thus spoke to said Nicholas Dritzhn: ‘Andreas Dritzhn, of happy memory, has placed four pages on a press, which John Gutenberg desires you to take therefrom, and break them from one another, so that no man may see what they are.’

“Also Conrad Sachspach deposed that sometime Andrew Hielman came to him upon the Street of Merchants, and said, ‘My Conrad, as Andreas Dritzhn is dead, and you made that press and know all about the matter, go hence and take the pieces from the press, and lay them separate from one another, so that no one may know what it is.’

“Laurence Beildeck says that he was sent by John Gutenberg to Nicholas Dritzhn, after the death of Andreas his brother, to say to him that he should show to no one the press that he had, and that he should see to it. He added that Gutenberg had moreover commanded him that he should go suddenly to the presses, and open that press [frame] which was furnished with two _screws_ or spindles (_cochleis_) that the pages should fall into pieces, and place those pieces within or upon the press, so that no one should see the matter, or understand what it was.

“The same witness also said that he knew well that Gutenberg, a little before the Feast of the Nativity [Christmas], had sent his servant to take away all forms, which were broken up in his sight, that none of them might be found perfect. Moreover, after the death of Andreas, the witness was not ignorant that many were desirous of seeing the presses, and that Gutenberg had commanded that some one should be sent who might hinder any one from seeing the presses, and that his servants were sent to break them up.

“Also John Dunnius, goldsmith, said that three years or thereabouts previous, he had received from Gutenberg about three hundred florins for materials relating to printing.”

All this affected the Strasbourgers, both priests and people, very differently from what it does ourselves. We prize it as a legal document, showing the existence of separate types, and also two presses, one of them made by Conrad Sachspach and the other by John Dunnius, to whom the firm paid three hundred florins for press-work done in December, 1436. These presses served very different purposes, as Gutenberg commanded his servant to “open that press which was furnished with two _screws_ or spindles.” Plainly one was the “chase” for type, and the other the upright frame with a screw, which moved down the platen to impress the paper placed upon the type. We learn also that the art was a secret at the time when Laurentius Costar lay at the point of death, and those mistake who give him the honor of inventing printing.

We can picture to ourselves the excitement which prevailed, when a man of Gutenberg’s firm character was led to make such utter destruction of his property after the disclosures of the lawsuit. He may have feared that a lawless mob would invade his shop, and scatter the proofs of his invention, and that some person of ingenuity would get a clew to the art, and rob him of his sacred rights. What hours, days and nights of solicitude he suffered! Those only, who in a good cause have met the scoffs and jeers of the rabble excited by unscrupulous leaders, can well imagine the inventor’s emotions.

Happily, Anna was equal to the emergency, and became a very heroine. She had no idea of being crushed, although for a little while she had given way to despondency, and her strong-hearted courage inspired her husband. His home was a little paradise of peace, the resort of flowers and birds and all beautiful things which she instinctively gathered around her. God’s gracious smile rested upon it, and in this sanctuary Gutenberg’s wounded spirit was soothed; here he gained strength, and girded on his armor anew for the battle of life. The fiercer the strife without, the more blessed the peace within this retreat.

The lawsuit dragged its slow length on until December 12th of that year, when the magistrates gave judgment relieving Gutenberg from “the unjust demand of George and Nicholas Dritzhn, upon the payment of the sum of fifteen florins, being the difference of the sum of one hundred florins due to Gutenberg by Andrew on the original contract.”

This was just what Gutenberg had proposed at first; and his adversaries had their trouble for their pains, without, perhaps, the consolation of knowing how much they had annoyed him. The lawsuit was over, but it had exposed the state of Gutenberg’s affairs, and people were curious to learn more. Rumor was busy with her thousand tongues. “He is not willing that any one should see!” “Something wrong!” and in the spirit of the superstition of the times, many cried out, “Mystery! Witchcraft!” The whole community was in a ferment. Time passed, and a little before the Feast of the Nativity, so faithfully had Gutenberg’s orders as to the destruction of the press and type been executed, that nothing remained of the wonderful art, which since the death of Dritzhn, had so much disturbed the good city of Strasbourg.

XI.

Benighted.--Minstrel of the Hearth.--The Black Art.--A Barefoot
Friar.--Popular Prejudice.--Hopes and Fears.--Gutenberg returns
to his Trade.--Dissolution of the Copartnership.

The country of the Rhine was visited by a wintry tempest from the North Sea. Benighted, Gutenberg, wrapped in his monk’s cloak, little heeded the roaring winds and cutting blasts, as, after destroying the work of years, he bade adieu to Dritzhn’s shop, and hurried homeward. The storm of life, the contest with his fellow-men, was more pitiless to him than the fierce raging of the elements.

It was quite dark when Anna, placing a light in the window, stirred the fire, and sat down to await his coming. The supper table was invitingly spread, and the covered dish of food placed by the fire to keep warm.