“Consider,” said the disinterested Syndic, “that you are no longer young; I wish to save you from all further risk of getting into trouble. Continue your work on my account, so that what you do, shall be mine by an equitable payment, but, on the other hand, let it be understood that I am likewise responsible for your losses; and above all, Master Gutenberg, beware of your old tricks!”
Gutenberg said gratefully Yes and Amen to all that was proposed to him, but his heart was broken. He neither asked nor wished for anything but to be allowed to cultivate his art, that well-beloved art, to which he had consecrated the earliest, the best days of his life. In the absence of children, which had been denied to his old age, he desired at least to play with his metallic characters, black to the outward eye, but full of the attractive force of affection to the printer. So it happened that Gutenberg took up his abode at the back of the Syndic’s house, working with his press as far removed as possible from the little windows, before which, as soon as it was dusk, he hastened to fasten the shutters. Reader, if you ask me a reason for this peculiarity, here is one which may account for it. From the windows of the house of the Syndic Humery you might see a little old smoky building, which, by a caprice of fortune, happened to be exactly the birthplace and cradle of the ancient race of the Gutenberg (_zum guten Berg_), a noble stock, of the existence of which the great typographer had been obliged to inform strangers, in the place where he invented the art of printing. Who can tell? Perhaps the eyes of the old man could not reconcile themselves to the sight of the balcony, where he had played as a child, from the table where he stood arranging his letters.
In the present day the proprietors of the Casino have pitched their tents in the yard of the building where Gutenberg lived, and, in default of other proofs, an inscription says, on the part of the natives of Maïence, that it was assuredly there that stood the house of their _immortal countryman_.
As for the very humane Dr. Humery, when he had looked over Gutenberg’s shoulder for about a minute, he said, with a jerk of his head, “It seems to me, worthy Master John, that during the last week your work has made very little progress.” Gutenberg made no answer, but a vivid colour, which I can only compare to the brightness of the setting sun on the glaciers, flushed the old man’s cheeks. Humery continued: “Under pretext that you could not agree with them, you have discharged two of your best workmen.” “That is true, gracious Doctor; they printed according to the modern fashion, without drawing a string at each line; in such a manner how was it possible to accomplish anything really good?” “But,” replied Humery, “you must have seen that the Bible which Fust has just edited is a magnificent piece of workmanship, and you must confess yourself that it much surpasses your _Katholicon_, the last and the only work which has issued from your press.”