“I seldom flatter, but you are a young man of promise; and I predict that you will make your mark in the world! I suppose you think that is slight praise, for a practiced scribe ought to be able to write his name in gold letters,--making his mark is said of those who can only make a mark for their name;” and Faust laughed at his own wit. “But you know what I mean. In my opinion, you will yet come to distinction!” But how shall we describe the emotions of those first printers, those cool yet enthusiastic men, as they beheld the first printed page of the Bible! The press worked admirably; the type was uniform and elegant; and the expression given on the vellum, unequaled in beauty. At sight of it a glow of honest pride filled each heart; and how could the most undevout repress emotions of praise to God? We have a glimpse of the little company in the frontispiece, taken from an old painting. This was in the spring of 1450, a year memorable as commencing the issue of the famous Mazarine Bible. But with all the toil and diligence bestowed upon it, it was not completed until five years after, in 1455. [Illustration] [Illustration] XVI. Faust’s Discontent.--Conspiracy against Gutenberg.--A Secret kept.--The Lawsuit.--Gutenberg supplanted.--A New Firm.-- Gutenberg’s Sorrow. It was now in the early part of October, 1455; and of late, Faust, to whom history gives the title of Doctor, had become dissatisfied with Gutenberg, on the ground that returns did not come in fast enough for the money invested. The Bible had been issued, it is true; but as it had been at great expense, and its sale was small, his enthusiasm in regard to it declined; and although once so warm a friend and patron of Gutenberg, he grew cold-hearted and scheming. He was, however, increasingly cordial to Peter Schoeffer, and one day invited him to supper. Flattered by the attention, Peter appeared promptly at the rooms of the Doctor, his toilet made with unusual care. It was in the early evening, and a fire was being kindled in the large room into which Peter was ushered. Madam Faust, an invalid, sat in her arm-chair wrapped in a shawl, to shield her from the chilliness, as a driving rain was pelting without. Christiane, the daughter, a young lady of twenty-five,--and Peter thought he never saw her look more beautiful,--cordially greeted him, and placed a seat for him. “Good-evening, master!” said Faust urbanely, rising and shaking his hand. “Sit nearer the fire, master; the room will be warm soon.”