Part 3

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.