Day and night, whenever he could spare an instant from his professed occupations, he devoted himself to the development of his great design. At night he could hardly sleep for thinking of it, and his hasty snatches of slumber were disturbed by agitating dreams. Tradition has preserved the story of one of these for us as he afterwards told it to his friends. He dreamt that, as he sat feasting his eyes upon the impression of his first page of type, he heard two voices whispering at his ear--the one soft and musical, the other harsh, dull, and bitter in its tones. The one bade him rejoice at the great work he had achieved; unveiled the future, and showed the men of different generations, the peoples of distant lands, holding high converse by means of his invention; and cheered him with the hope of an immortal fame. "Ay," put in the other voice, "immortal he might be, but at what a price! Man, more often perverse and wicked than wise and good, would profane the new faculty this art created, and the ages, instead of blessing, would have cause to curse the man who gave it to the world. Therefore let him regard his invention as a seductive but fatal dream, which, if fulfilled, would place in the hands of man, sinful and erring as he was, only another instrument of evil." Gutenberg, whom the first voice had thrown into an ecstasy of delight, now shuddered at the thought of the fearful power to corrupt and to debase his art would give to wicked men, and awoke in an agony of doubt. He seized his mallet, and had almost broken up his types and press, when he paused to reflect that, after all, God's gifts, although sometimes perilous and capable of abuse, were never evil in themselves, and that to give another means of utterance to the piety and reason of mankind was to promote the spread of virtue and intelligence, which were both divine. So he closed his ears to the suggestions of the tempter, and persisted in his work.