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.”