mark of wynkyn de worde.[13]
the chapel—the companions—increase of readers—books make readers—caxton's types—wynkyn's dream—the first paper-mill.
it was evensong time when, after a day of listlessness, the printers in the almonry at westminster prepared to close the doors of their workshop. this was a tolerably spacious room, with a carved oaken roof. the setting sun shone brightly into the chamber, and lighted up such furniture as no other room in london could then exhibit. between the columns which supported the roof stood two presses {154} —ponderous machines. a form of types lay unread upon the table of one of these presses; the other was empty. there were cases ranged between the opposite columns; but there was no copy suspended ready for the compositors to proceed with in the morning. no heap of wet paper was piled upon the floor. the balls, removed from the presses, were rotting in a corner. the ink-blocks were dusty, and a thin film had formed over the oily pigment. he who had set these machines in motion, and filled the whole space with the activity of mind, was dead. his daily work was ended.
three grave-looking men, decently clothed in black, were girding on their swords. their caps were in their hands. the door opened, and the chief of the workmen came in. it was wynkyn de worde. with short speech, but with looks of deep significance, he called a chapel—the printer's parliament—a conclave as solemn and as omnipotent as the saxons' witenagemot. wynkyn was the father of the chapel.
the four drew their high stools round the imposing-stone—those stools on which they had sat through many a day of quiet labour, steadily working to the distant end of some ponderous folio, without hurry or anxiety. upon the stone lay two uncorrected folio pages—a portion of the 'lives of the fathers.' the proof was not returned. he that they had followed a few days before to his grave in saint margaret's church had lifted it once back to his failing eyes,—and then they closed in night. {155}
"companions," said wynkyn—(surely that word "companions" tells of the antiquity of printing, and of the old love and fellowship that subsisted amongst its craft)—"companions, the good work will not stop."
"wynkyn," said richard pynson, "who is to carry on the work?"
"i am ready," answered wynkyn.
a faint expression of joy rose to the lips of these honest men, but it was damped by the remembrance of him they had lost.
"he died," said wynkyn, "as he lived. the lives of the holy fathers is finished, as far as the translator's labour. there is the rest of the copy. read the words of the last page, which i have written:—
"thus endeth the most virtuous history of the devout and right-renowned lives of holy fathers living in desert, worthy of remembrance to all well-disposed persons, which hath been translated out of french into english by william caxton, of westminster, late dead, and finished at the last day of his life."[14]
the tears were in all their eyes; and "god rest his soul!" was whispered around.
"companion," said william machlinia, "is not this a hazardous enterprise?"
"i have encouragement," replied wynkyn;—"the lady margaret, his highness' mother, gives me aid. so droop not, fear not. we will carry {156} on the work briskly in our good master's house.—so fill the case."[15]
a shout almost mounted to the roof.
"but why should we fear? you, machlinia, you, lettou, and you, dear richard pynson, if you choose not to abide with your old companion here, there is work for you all in these good towns of westminster, london, and southwark. you have money; you know where to buy types. printing must go forward."
"always full of heart," said pynson. "but you forget the statute of king richard; we cannot say 'god rest his soul,' for our old master scarcely ever forgave him putting lord rivers to death. you forget the statute. we ought to know it, for we printed it. i can turn to the file in a moment. it is the act touching the merchants of italy, which forbids them selling their wares in this realm. here it is: 'provided always that this act, or any part thereof, in no wise extend or be prejudicial of any let, hurt, or impediment to any artificer or merchant stranger, of what nation or country he be or shall be of, for bringing into this realm, or selling by retail or otherwise, of any manner of books written or imprinted.' can we stand up against that, if we have more presses than the old press of the abbey of westminster?"
"ay, truly, we can, good friend," briskly answered {157} wynkyn. "have we any books in our stores? could we ever print books fast enough? are there not readers rising up on all sides? do we depend upon the court? the mercers and the drapers, the grocers and the spicers of the city, crowd here for our books. the rude uplandish men even take our books; they that our good master rather vilipended. the tapsters and taverners have our books. the whole country-side cries out for our ballads and our robin hood stories; and, to say the truth, the citizen's wife is as much taken with our king arthurs and king blanchardines as the most noble knight that master caxton ever desired to look upon in his green days of jousts in burgundy. so fill the case."[16]
"but if foreigners bring books into england," said cautious william machlinia, "there will be more books than readers."
"books make readers," rejoined wynkyn. "do you remember how timidly even our bold master went on before he was safe in his sell? do you forget how he asked this lord to take a copy, and that knight to give him something in fee; and how he bargained for his summer venison and his winter venison, as an encouragement in his ventures? but he found a larger market than he ever counted upon, and so shall we all. go ye forth, my brave fellows. stay not to work for me, {158} if you can work better for yourselves. i fear no rivals."
"why, wynkyn," interposed pynson, "you talk as if printing were as necessary as air; books as food, or clothing, or fire."
"and so they will be some day. what is to stop the want of books? will one man have the command of books, and another desire them not? the time may come when every man shall require books."
"perhaps," said lettou, who had an eye to printing the statutes, "the time may come when every man shall want to read an act of parliament, instead of the few lawyers who buy our acts now."
"hardly so," grunted wynkyn.
"or perchance you think that, when our sovereign liege meets his peers and commons in parliament, it were well to print a book some month or two after, to tell what the said parliament said, as well as ordained?"
"nay, nay, you run me hard," said wynkyn.
"and if within a month, why not within a day? why shouldn't we print the words as fast as they are spoken? we only want fairy fingers to pick up our types, and presses that doctor faustus and his devils may some day make, to tell all london to-morrow morning what is done this morning in the palace at westminster."
"prithee, be serious," ejaculated wynkyn. "why do you talk such gallymaufry? i was {159} speaking of possible things; and i really think the day may come when one person in a thousand may read books and buy books, and we shall have a trade almost as good as that of armourers and fletchers."
"the bible!" exclaimed pynson; "o that we might print the bible! i know of a copy of wickliffe's bible. that were indeed a book to print!"
"i have no doubt, richard," replied wynkyn, "that the happy time may come when a bible shall be chained in every church, for every christian man to look upon. you remember when our brother hunte showed us the chained books in the library at oxford. so a century or two hence a bible may be found in every parish. twelve thousand parishes in england! we should want more paper in that good day, master richard."
"you had better fancy at once," said lettou, "that every housekeeper will want a bible! heaven save the mark, how some men's imaginations run away with them!"
"i cannot see," interposed machlinia, "how we can venture upon more presses in london. here are two. they have been worked well, since the day when they were shipped at cologne. here are five good founts of type, as much as a thousand weight—great primer, double pica, pica—a large and a small face, and long primer. they have well worked; they are pretty nigh worn out. what man would risk such an adventure, after our {161} good old master? he was a favourite at court and in cloister. he was well patronized. who is to patronize us?"
type
caxton's type.
"the people, i tell you," exclaimed wynkyn. "the babe in the cradle wants an absey-book; the maid at her distaff wants a ballad; the priest wants his pie; the young lover wants a romance of chivalry to read to his mistress; the lawyer wants his statutes; the scholar wants his virgil and cicero. they will all want more the more they are supplied. how many in england have a book at all, think you? let us make books cheaper by printing more of them at once. the churchwardens of st. margaret's asked me six-and-eightpence yesterday for the volume that our master left the parish;[17] for not a copy can i get, if we should want to print again. six-and-eightpence! that was exactly what he charged his customers for the volume. print five hundred instead of two hundred, and we could sell it for three-and-four-pence."
"and ruin ourselves," said machlinia. "master wynkyn, i shall fear to work for you if you go on so madly. what has turned your head?"
"hearken," said wynkyn. "the day our good master was buried i had no stomach for my home. i could not eat. i could scarcely look on the sunshine. there was a chill at my heart. i took the {162} key of our office, for you all were absent, and i came here in the deep twilight. i sat down in master caxton's chair. i sat till i fancied i saw him moving about, as he was wont to move, in his furred gown, explaining this copy to one of us, and shaking his head at that proof to the other. i fell asleep. then i dreamed a dream, a wild dream, but one that seems to have given me hope and courage. there i sat, in the old desk at the head of this room, straining my eyes at the old proofs. the room gradually expanded. the four frames went on multiplying, till they became innumerable. i saw case piled upon case; and form side by side with form. all was bustle, and yet quiet, in that room. readers passed to and fro; there was a glare of many lights; all seemed employed in producing one folio, an enormous folio. in an instant the room had changed. i heard a noise as of many wheels. i saw sheets of paper covered with ink as quickly as i pick up this type. sheet upon sheet, hundreds of sheets, thousands of sheets, came from forth the wheels—flowing in unstained, like corn from the hopper, and coming out printed, like flour to the sack. they flew abroad as if carried over the earth by the winds. again the scene changed. in a cottage, an artificer's cottage, though it had many things in it which belong to princes' palaces, i saw a man lay down his basket of tools and take up one of these sheets. he read it; he laughed, he looked angry; tears rose to his eyes; and then he read aloud to his wife and children. {163} i asked him to show me the sheet. it was wet; it contained as many types as our 'mirror of the world.' but it bore the date of 1844. i looked around, and i saw shelves of books against that cottage wall—large volumes and small volumes; and a boy opened one of the large volumes and showed me numberless block-cuts; and the artificer and his wife and his children gathered round me, all looking with glee towards their books, and the good man pointed to an inscription on his bookshelves, and i read these words,
my library a dukedom.
i woke in haste; and, whether awake or dreaming i know not, my master stood beside me, and smilingly exclaimed, 'this is my fruit.' i have encouragement in this dream."
"friend wynkyn," said pynson, "these are distempered visions. the press may go forward; i think it will go forward. but i am of the belief that the press will never work but for the great and the learned, to any purpose of profit to the printer. how can we ever hope to send our wares abroad? we may hawk our ballads and our merry jests through london; but the citizens are too busy to heed them, and the apprentices and serving men too poor to buy them. to the country we cannot send them. good lack, imagine the poor pedler tramping with a pack of books to bristol or winchester! before he could reach either city through our wild roads, he would have his throat {164} cut or be starved. master wynkyn, we shall always have a narrow market till the king mends his highways, and that will never be."
"i am rather for trying, master wynkyn," said lettou, "some good cutting jest against our friends in the abbey, such as dan chaucer expounded touching the friars. that would sell in these precincts."
"hush!" exclaimed wynkyn: "the good fathers are our friends; and though some murmur against them, we might have worse masters."
"i wish they would let us print the bible though," ejaculated pynson.
"the time will come, and that right soon," exclaimed the hopeful wynkyn.
"so be it," said they one and all.
"but what fair sheet of paper is that in your hand, good wynkyn?" said pynson.
"master richard, we are all moving onward. this is english-made paper. is it not better than the brown thick paper we have had from over the sea? how he would have rejoiced in this accomplishment of john tate's longing trials! ay, master richard, this fair sheet was made in the new mill at hertford; and well am i minded to use it in our bartholom?eus, which i shall straightly put in hand, when the formschneider is ready. i have thought anent it; i have resolved on it; and i have indited some rude verses touching the matter, simple person as i am:—
{165}
"for in this world to reckon every thing
pleasure to man, there is none comparable
as is to read and understanding
in books of wisdom—they ben so delectable,
which sound to virtue, and ben profitable;
and all that love such virtue ben full glad
books to renew, and cause them to be made.
and also of your charity call to remembrance
the soul of william caxton, first printer of this book
in latin tongue at cologne, himself to advance,
that every well-disposed man may thereon look:
and john tate the younger joy mote [may] he brook,
which hath late in england made this paper thin,
that now in our english this book is printed in."
"fairly rhymed, wynkyn," said lettou. "but john tate the younger is a bold fellow. of a surety england can never support a paper-mill of its own."
"come, to business," said william of mechlin.
