The poor people of Strasburg could not read, and could not have afforded to buy the books in any event, the nobility were hard to reach, and the clergy, who made up the reading class of the age, were used to copying such manuscripts as they needed. But this situation did not prevent Gutenberg from continuing with his work. He knew that the young men who were studying at the Cathedral had to copy out word for word the “Donatus,” or manual of grammar they were required to learn. So the firm set to work to cut blocks and print copies of this book. When they were finished they sold more readily than the History had done, and the edition of fifty copies was soon disposed of. But by that time all the scholars of the city were supplied, and it was very difficult to send the books to other cities. There were no newspapers, and no means of advertising, and the only practical method of sale was to show the book to possible purchasers, and point out its merits to them. So Gutenberg turned to two other books that were used by the monks, and printed them. One was called the “Ars Memorandi,” or “Art of Remembering,” and the other the “Ars Moriendi,” or “Art of Knowing How to Die.” Whenever he printed a new book Gutenberg took it to the Cathedral to show the priests. He carried the “Ars Moriendi” there, and found the Abbot in the library, looking over the manuscripts of several monks. “Good-morning, my son,” said the Abbot. “Hast thou brought us more of thy magical books?” “It is not magic, Father; it is simply patience that has done it,” said Gutenberg, handing the Abbot a copy of his latest book. “Thanks, my son. It is always a pleasure to examine thy manuscripts.” The monks gathered around the Abbot to look at the new volume. “It is strange,” said one of them, named Father Melchior. “How canst thou make so many books? Thou must have a great company of scribes.” Another was turning over the pages of the book. “It is not quite like the work of our hands,” said he. “It is certain that none of us can compete with thy speed in writing,” went on Father Melchior. “Every few weeks thou dost bring in twelve or more books, written in half the time it takes our quickest scribe to make a single copy.” “Moreover,” said another, “the letters are all so exact and regular. Thou hast brought two copies, and one has just as many letters and words on a page as the other, and all the letters are exactly alike.” The Abbot had been studying the book closely. Now he asked the monks to withdraw. When Gutenberg and he were alone, he said, “Are these books really made with a copyist’s pen?” He cast a searching glance at the lapidary. Gutenberg, much embarrassed, had no answer for him. “It is as I guessed,” said the Abbot. “They are made from blocks, like the St. Christopher.”