and the dedication of Coornhert. There was even then in Haarlem a
strong prejudice against Mentz; there was a wavering belief among some
of the townsfolk that printing had been invented in Haarlem, and that
the pretension of [p329] Mentz was unfounded. Whether this prejudice
had been fostered by the obscure language of Zell, or whether it took
its rise in the conceit of the simple people of the town, who may have
thought that Ballaert, the first printer at Haarlem, was also the first
printer in the world, cannot now be ascertained. There was a prejudice,
and Van Zuren and Coornhert thought that it would be to their interest
as printers to propitiate it.
The publication of these mysterious allusions to an early printer
in Haarlem strengthened the belief of Hollanders in the legend. It
was imposed as veritable history on intelligent foreigners who were
unable to disprove it. Luigi Guicciardini, a Florentine nobleman, for
many years resident of Antwerp, and who there wrote and published, in
1567, a _Description of the Low Countries_, was the first author of
distinction who gave a world-wide publicity to the legend. In his book
he says:
According to the common tradition of the inhabitants and the
assertion of other natives of Holland, as well as the testimony of
certain authors and records, it appears that the art of printing and
stamping letters and characters on paper in the manner now used,
was first invented in this place [Haarlem]. But the author of the
invention happening to die before the art was brought to perfection
and had acquired repute, his servant, they say, went to reside at
Mentz, where, giving proofs of his knowledge in that science, he was
joyfully received, and where, having applied himself to the business
with unremitting diligence, it became at length generally known, and
was brought to entire perfection, in consequence of which the fame
afterward spread abroad and became general that the art and science of
printing originated in that city. What is really the truth I am not
able, nor will I take upon me to decide, it sufficing me to have said
these few words that I might not be guilty of injustice toward this
town and this country.[185]
The story is told as it had been heard, without comment, and without
hearty belief. It will be noticed that no really important fact has
been added to supplement the previous story. We are still in the
dark as to the name of the printer, the date of the invention, and
the titles of his books. The authors mentioned by Guicciardini were
probably Coornhert [p330] and Van Zuren; the inhabitants who gave him
information were probably the same men who had previously given it to
these printers. Guicciardini’s story differs from theirs in one point
only. His description of the translation of typography from Haarlem to
Mentz does not impute dishonesty to the workman who carried it thither.
The insinuated accusation of theft was not repeated by the scrupulous
Italian.
Guicciardini’s book, which was of marked merit, was published in an age
of credulity. It was translated and reprinted in many languages. This
legend of an unnamed inventor at Haarlem was taken up by other writers.
It was published as valid history by George Braunius of Cologne, in
his geography, dated 1570–88; by Michael Eytzinger of Cologne, in a
book on the Netherlands, dated 1584; by Matthew Quade of Cologne,
in a compend of history and geography dated 1600; by Noel Conti of
Venice, in a universal history, dated 1572. These authors have been
frequently quoted as men who had examined and confirmed the legend; but
it is obvious that they copied the statements of Guicciardini without
investigation. Their approval of the legend must be considered as an
exhibition of credulity rather than of knowledge.
The specification of the name of the alleged proto-typographer of
Haarlem was made for the first time in a book now known as _Batavia_,
which was published in 1588, and of which Hadrianus Junius or Adrien de
Jonghe was the author. The story of the invention, as here related, is
far from complete, but it is positive and definite: it gives the time,
the place, the book and the man. It can be fairly presented only in an
unabridged translation of the author’s words:
About one hundred and twenty-eight years ago, there dwelt in a house
of some magnificence (as may be verified by inspection, for it stands
intact to this day) in Haarlem, near to the market, and opposite the
royal palace, Laurentius Joannes, surnamed Æditus or Custos, by reason
of this lucrative and honorable office, which by hereditary right
appertained to the distinguished family of this name. To this man
should revert the wrested honor of the invention of the typographic
art, which has been wrongfully enjoyed by others. A just judgment
[p331] should give to him before all others, the laurel which he has
deserved as the most successful contestant.
When strolling in the woods near the city, as citizens who enjoyed
ease were accustomed to do after dinner and on holidays, it happened
that he undertook as an experiment to fashion the bark of a beech tree
in the form of letters. The letters so made he impressed the reverse
way, consecutively, upon a leaf of paper, in little lines of one
kind and another, and the kindness of his nature induced him to give
them, as a keepsake, to the grandchildren of his son-in-law [Thomas
Pieterzoon]. He had succeeded so happily in this that he aspired to
greater things, as became a man of cultivated and enlarged capacities.
By the aid of his son-in-law, Thomas Pieterzoon, to whom were left
four children, most of whom attained the dignity of burgomaster (I
say this that all the world may know that this art was invented in a
reputable and honorable family, and not among plebeians), he invented,
first of all, an ink thicker and more viscid than that of the scribes,
for he found that the common ink spread or blotted. Thereupon he made,
by the addition of letters, explanations for pictures engraved on wood.
Of this kind of printing I myself have seen some stamped block-books,
the first essays of the art, printed on one side only, with the
printed pages facing each other, and not upon both sides of the leaf.
Among them was a book in the vernacular, written by an unknown author,
bearing the title of _Spieghel onzer behoudenis_ [the edition in Dutch
of the _Speculum Salutis_]. This book was among the _a b c s_ of the
art—for an art is never perfected at its inception—and the blank sides
of the leaf were united by paste, to hide the uncouthness of the
unprinted pages. He subsequently changed the beech-wood letters for
those of lead, and these again for letters of tin, because tin was
a less flexible material, harder, and more durable. To this day may
be seen in the very house itself, looking over on the market-place
as I have said (inhabited afterward by his great-grandchild, Gerrit
Thomaszoon, who departed this life but a few years since, and whom I
mention only to honor), some very old wine flagons, which were made
from the melting down of the remnants of these very types.
The new invention met with favor from the public, as it deserved, and
the new merchandise, never before seen, attracted purchasers from
every direction, and produced abundant profit. As the admiration of
the art increased, the work increased. He added assistants to his
band of workmen; and here may be found the cause of his troubles.
Among these workmen was a certain John. Whether or not, as suspicion
alleges, he was Faust[186]—inauspicious name for one who was [p332]
equally unfortunate and unfaithful to his master—or whether he was
another of the same name, I shall not trouble myself to ascertain—for,
I am unwilling to disturb the _shades_ of the dead, inasmuch as
_they_[187] must have suffered from the reproaches of conscience
as long as _they_ lived. _This_ man, although bound by oath to
[preserving the secrets of] the typographic art, when he knew himself
to be perfectly skilled in the operations of type-setting, in the
knowledge of type-founding, and in every other detail appertaining
to the work, seized the first favorable opportunity—and he could not
have found a time more favorable, for it was on the night of the
anniversary of the nativity of Christ, when all, without distinction,
are accustomed to assist at divine service—and flew into the closet
of the types, and packed up the instruments used in making them that
belonged to his master, and which had been made with his own hands,
and immediately after slunk away from the house with the thief. He
went first to Amsterdam, thence to Cologne, and finally regained
Mentz, as it were to an altar of safety so it is said, and as if
beyond all possibility of a recapture, where, having opened his
office, he reaped an abundant reward from the fruits of his theft.
That is to say, within the space of a year, or about 1442, it is well
known that he published by the aid of the same types which Laurentius
had used in Haarlem, the _Doctrinal_ of Alexander Gallus, the most
popular grammar then in use, and also the _Treatises_ of Peter of
Spain, which were his first publications.
These are the facts. Nearly all of them are from old men worthy of
belief, who, each in turn, have accepted and transmitted them, as
they would pass a lighted torch from hand to hand. I knew these facts
long time ago, and have positive knowledge from other sources which
have attested and confirmed them. I remember that Nicholas Gallius,
the preceptor of my boyhood, a man of tenacious memory, and venerable
with gray hairs, narrated these circumstances to me. He, when a boy,
had more than once heard Cornelis, an old bookbinder and an under
workman in the same printing office, when not an octogenarian and
bowed down with years, recite all these details as he had received
them from his master, embracing the inception of the enterprise,
the growth and cultivation of the rude art, and other transactions
connected therewith. But as often as he made mention of the theft, he
involuntarily would burst into tears at the recollection of the infamy
of the sequel; and then the anger of the old man [p334] would flash
up, as he thought of the glory of the invention that had been stolen
with the other theft; and he wished, if his life had been spared,
that he might have been able to set forth the thief in irons, ready
to be pronounced a subject for the executioner; and then again he was
wont to consign his sacrilegious head to the direst punishment, and
to curse and execrate the nights which he had passed upon the same
bed for many months with that villain. These details do not disagree
with the words of Quirinius Talesius, burgomaster; for I acknowledge
that a long time ago I received nearly the same story from him as was
received from the mouth of the bookbinder.[188]
[Illustration: Scriverius’ Portrait of Coster.
[From Moxon.]]
The story of Junius is the real foundation of the modern legend of
Haarlem. All that had been written before is of little value; all that
has been written since is but in explanation of its obscurer features.
Before any criticism is given [p335] to this important document, the
capability and credibility of the learned author of _Batavia_ should be
considered.
The learning of Junius cannot be questioned; but Junius must be judged
not by his dead reputation, but by his living performance. _Batavia_,
although written in unexceptionable classical Latin, is not a valuable,
nor even a mediocre book. The author was not above the pedantry and
the bad taste of his age. His book is full of classical allusions,
lugged in, not to illustrate the subject, but to display the author’s
omnivorous reading;[189] his style is rhetorical, and his arrangement
of facts is bewildering. These faults would be overlooked, if we could
be sure of his so-called facts; but one cannot read many pages of
_Batavia_ without being convinced of the credulity of the author, and
of the thorough untrustworthiness of many of his [p336] descriptions.
His defenders must confess that the book would have been of higher
authority, if he had been more chary of rhetoric and more exact in
description.[190]
The fixing of the period in which the inventor lived seems to have
been made with a studied carelessness and intended obscurity. If
we deduct the 128 years from the year 1568, the year in which the
manuscript of _Batavia_ was completed, we have the date 1440. In this
year Coster lived. When he was born, when he died, and how long he had
been occupied with the practice of printing, is not related. If we
infer that Junius intended that this year 1440 should be considered as
the year of Coster’s death, the inference is purely conjectural. He
does not say so. It may be supposed, but it is not said, that Coster
printed with types before 1440. Whatever may have been the intention
of Junius, the year 1440 was at first accepted by the authorities of
Haarlem as the true date of the [p337] invention of typography.[191]
It was thought that the fixing of the invention within this year would
sufficiently establish the priority of Coster, for the year 1442 was
the date then assigned to the rival invention in Germany. The authority
of Junius for the year 1440 was, no doubt, a pedigree of the Coster
family, of which he makes no mention.
There are troublesome entanglements connected with this date of
1440. Subsequent defenders of the legend, who tried to supply the
deficiencies and correct the errors of Junius, made discoveries which
compelled them to acknowledge that Lourens Janszoon (supposed by them
to be Lourens Janszoon Coster) died in the year 1439. If he died in
1439, and if we believe that the invention was made in 1440, then
he did his typographic work in the year after his death.[192] The
absurdity of this date was clearly perceived when it was afterward
discovered that Gutenberg had been engaged as early as 1436 in
experiments with printing. To preserve the appearance of probability,
the date of the invention was removed to 1423, so as to allow Coster
time for experiment and for the perfection of his invention.
The name of the inventor is as uncertain as the date of the invention.
Junius names him Laurentius Johannes, surnamed Ædituus, or Custos. In
the pedigree, the name was [p338] written Lourens Janssoens Coster.
Surnames were not then in common use; the son was identified through
a name which described him in words as the son of his father. Lourens
Janssoen Coster is literally, Lourens, son of John, the keeper, or the
sexton.[193] He is most widely known in typographical literature by the
name of Coster.
By the record, it appears that Coster was both a printer and a
publisher. He cut blocks and made types, he mixed printing inks,
he printed books, he employed many workmen, he had an honorable
reputation as a printer, he reaped abundant profit from the sale of
his merchandise. These statements are inconsistent with the eulogy
which represents him as an idle man who experimented with types for
amusement.[194]
That Coster knew nothing whatever about printing when he took his
walk in the wood may be properly inferred from a careful reading of
the story. His experiments with bark seem to have surprised and amused
him as much as they did his [p339] grandchildren. There is nothing
unreasonable in this part of the legend, but faith fails us when
Junius says that Coster printed his book with types of wood.[195] The
statement must be put aside as entirely unworthy of belief, for it has
been shown that types of wood are impracticable, and that the types of
every known edition of the _Speculum_ were made of founded metal.
No part of Junius’s statement is more incredible than his description
of the ease with which Coster solved the problem of typography.
Coster knew nothing of printing; but having carved a few letters on
bark, and having cherished the idea that books could be printed from
single types, he undertook to make—not types, but wood-cuts. Eager to
realize his idea of typography, he began work with a formidable task
of engraving. Here is an absurdity. To design, engrave, and print the
illustrations of the _Speculum_ was a task almost as great as that
of making the types. If the engravings were not in the possession of
Coster before he made this experiment (and Junius does not authorize
this hypothesis), it is not possible that he could have added to his
task by attempting so many large wood-cuts. What follows is equally
incredible. He passed from the work of cutting letters and pictures to
that of making types without hesitation or experimentation; [p340] he
struck out the correct method of making the types at the outset. His
only mistake with types was in the selection of materials; wood was
laid aside for lead, and tin supplanted lead; his greatest difficulty
was encountered in the manufacture of the ink. If this story is true,
then typography was invented through inspiration, for its origin was
unlike that of all great mechanical inventions.
Junius describes this pretended invention of typography, not as he
knew it was done, but as he thought it should have been done. Ignorant
of the necessity for that strict accuracy of body, which is the vital
principle of typography, and which can be secured only by the most
ingenious mechanism, he thought, as thousands have thought, that the
merit of the invention consisted in the conception of the idea. The
construction of the mechanism he has skipped over as a little matter
of mechanical detail entirely unworthy of notice. He tells us nothing
about it. He shows the extent of his reading and the weakness of his
judgment, by treading in the footsteps of German authors who attempted
to describe the German invention of typography, not from positive
knowledge, but through the exercise of a lively imagination. He makes
Coster follow the road which they say was taken by Gutenberg: first,
the types of wood; then, engraved letters on blocks of wood; next,
types of lead; lastly, types of tin.[196]
The artful insinuation that John Fust was the false workman is
discreditable. Junius does not unequivocally say that Fust was the
thief, but his language authorizes the calumny. That John Fust of Mentz
could not have stolen the implements of Coster will be positively
established by records of [p341] the highest authority. The Dutch
historians of typography who defend the story of Junius, say that
Junius did not know the name of the real thief, but that the name of
Fust is properly inserted, because Fust was honored as the inventor of
typography in Mentz; that there was, probably, a complicity between
Fust and the false workman, and that Fust was, for that reason,
properly mentioned as the real offender.[197]
The determination of Junius to fasten this theft on Fust is shown in
his statement that the thief regained or returned to Mentz, as to “the
altar of safety.” At that time Paris, Rome and Venice had more schools
and scholars, more book-readers and buyers than Mentz, and offered
greater inducements for the founding of a printing office. These were
the cities to which printers from Mentz subsequently went, and to
which a thievish printer from Haarlem should have gone. But Junius
finds it necessary to send him to Mentz to explain the introduction of
typography in Germany.
The charge of theft is not corroborated by the discoveries of
bibliographers. The two books which Junius says were printed in Mentz
in 1442, with the types of Coster, cannot be traced to Mentz. Fragments
of a copy of the _Doctrinal_ of Alexander Gallus, the work of some
unknown printer, have been found, not in Mentz, but in the Netherlands.
The types [p342] of this book resemble those of the _Speculum_, but
they are sufficiently unlike to establish the fact that they could not
have been cast from the matrices used for the _Speculum_. This edition
of the _Doctrinal_ could not have been printed at Mentz.
The zealous indignation of Cornelis does not compensate us for his
mysterious concealment of the name of the thief.[198] His evidence is
extremely unsatisfactory. Cornelis, who was in the employ of Coster
when the theft was made, who knew the process, who bound the printed
work, who was an old resident of Haarlem, who had business relations
with every printer that succeeded Coster, of all men, should have been
the one most [p343] competent to describe the work of Coster. But
the information that he has furnished through Junius is ridiculously
trivial, scanty as to facts and dates, inconsistent, and, in some
points, entirely untrue.
Before we accept all that Junius has said about Cornelis, it will be
well to learn what we can about him from other sources. The first entry
in an account book of the cathedral of Haarlem for the year 1474 is to
this effect: “Item. . . . I have paid to Cornelis, the binder,[199] six
Rhine florins for binding books.” Similar items, describing Cornelis
as a bookbinder, are found in similar account books between the years
1485 and 1515. Payments were also recorded to Cornelis for coloring the
initial letters of the “bulls of the indulgences.” After the year 1515
his name appears no longer as a bookbinder; in 1517 another binder did
the work of the church. Seiz mentions an old book, printed by Jacob
Bellaert of Haarlem in 1485, on the last leaf of which was written:
“Bought at Haarlem in the Cruysstraet, of Cornelis the bookbinder,
in May, 1492.” The register for the year 1522 contains this entry:
“Cornelis the bookbinder was buried in the church. For the making
of his grave, twenty pence.” There can be no doubt that there was a
bookbinder Cornelis at Haarlem, and that the Cornelis of Junius is the
Cornelis of the church record. The dates in these records will enable
us to test the accuracy of one portion of the chronology of the legend.
Junius said that Cornelis told his story before he was an octogenarian.
Eighty years might properly be considered as the limit of his life,
which, according to the record, ended in 1522. If, to ascertain the
date of the birth of Cornelis, we deduct eighty years from 1522, the
result would show that he must have been born in 1442. But this was at
least one year, perhaps two years, after the alleged theft. If Cornelis
lived to the age of ninety years, the allowance of ten years more
would not reconcile the discrepancy. Cornelis would have [p344] been
a child of eight years of age; but the story of Junius requires, not a
child, nor even a boy, but a man, an under-workman, the associate and
room-mate of the false workman. To call it by the mildest name, here
is a grievous blunder. The blunder is not in the record of the church,
in which the chronology is consistent, for it represents Cornelis as
beginning to work for the church when he was about thirty-two years of
age. It would be a waste of time to show that the chronology of Junius
is impossible: it is enough to say that the first link in the attempted
chain is broken, and that Cornelis could not have been an eye-witness
of the facts.[200]
It is a suspicious circumstance that the testimony of Cornelis should
be recorded for the first time nearly half a century after his death.
Hasback, Andrieszoon and Bellaert, the early printers of Haarlem,
should have heard from Cornelis this story about Coster and his
invention. The people of Haarlem, we are told, were proud of Coster,
and envious of the honors conceded to Gutenberg. Why the printers and
the people of Haarlem allowed the important testimony of Cornelis to
remain unpublished for so long a time is a question that cannot be
answered.
At this late day, it is impossible to discover the kernel of truth
that may be concealed in the heart of so great a husk of fiction. It
may be that Cornelis, who seems to have been a simple-minded man,
and who appears as a binder in the church record about nine years
before Bellaert opened his printing office, imagined that this first
printing office in Haarlem was the first printing office on the globe.
There may have been a theft of types and of secrets from the office
of Jacob Bellaert at or about 1485. Cornelis blundered about dates,
and his inaccuracies have been exaggerated by the gossip of the next
generation. These are possible conjectures. [p345] But we must
remember that this story of Cornelis is not told by himself, but by
Junius.