The Archbishop held his court at Eltvil. That town must have been more thickly inhabited, and of more importance then than it is at present. The great castle of Eltvil had not yet been the victim of the flames of France, and the Archbishop Adolfe, not placing as yet entire confidence in the hearts and fidelity of the sheep of his flock, had hesitated to establish his residence in Maïence itself. It was then towards Eltvil that John Gutenberg directed his steps, supported by his faithful Claude, and accompanied by Lawrence Beildech. He was no longer a wandering Belisarius; but he was not the less a poor blind old man, whom the liberality of his prince had sought out too late, and whose existence could not be re-animated by the tardy favours of a court. Reader, spare me the recital of that scene where the sightless old man entered the archiepiscopal residence to render his thanks in person to his powerful patron. At the sight of that tall figure, so cruelly bent with age and infirmities, the prelates, full to repletion and florid with health, asked each other in low tones, “Is that then the man who teaches the art of printing?” We do not consider that these words convey any very lively or deep sympathy with the great discoverer of so immense a work on the part of the wearers of stoles and of armour. After so many trials and misfortunes, Heaven only granted a few short years to the old man, wherein to enjoy his modest competency. He appeared--forgive me, Reader, for the comparison, I allow it is somewhat stale--like the setting sun bursting through a veil of clouds before him, in order to disappear, a moment afterwards, in solitary grandeur and majesty behind the distant hills. Gutenberg could no longer see this fine sun rising and setting on the Rheingau, but now and then, nevertheless, he wandered, guided by his two faithful companions, to the banks of the great river, and sat down to listen to its gentle undulation as it flowed. Few words now escaped his lips; those lips, alas! which had been so steeped in bitterness that they could scarcely taste the honey of his latter days, and under the impression of great sorrow remained incessantly sealed. It was thus that the year 1466 passed away to our three friends, who still remained faithful to their retreat; the season of Spring had begun to revive the earth with its first warm breath. Gutenberg, then seventy years of age, was standing one morning at the window of the hut while his young companion trained the vine-branches which covered the wall of the humble abode like tapestry. Scraps of songs and ballads followed each other merrily from the lips of the lively Parisian. Gutenberg, probably, understood them but little; Claude’s clear voice, however, pleased him.