At the Sign of the Golden Compass - A Tale of the Printing House of Christopher Plantin in Antwerp, 1576

COMPASS

A TREASONOUS LIBEL

MORNING that was blithe and red in the month of June, 1576, in the reign of our gracious lady, Elizabeth, Regina, came slanting across the City of London. The gray streets that curved and twisted amidst closely packed houses of crisscross patterns, with upper stories overhanging the cobblestones, were just awaking to the life of the day. Here and there against the walls of desolate churches and priories, scarcely out of reach of the passing cartwheels, lay the recumbent forms of sleeping beggars and late-night revelers, as yet undisturbed by parish officers. In front of the Grey Goose Tavern, over Blackfriars way, where the lane turns swiftly down from Ludgate to the Thames, a night watchman, in his long doublet and new pantaloons of the Spanish fashion, was dozing as he leaned against the shutters of the many-paned window of the tavern, his round hat fallen off and upside down on the stones, his pikestaff and still-burning lantern beside him.

All at once the heart of the city began to throb. Whence came the impulse that set life moving again through its arteries, none could surmise; but on the instant, it seemed, the quiet, brought by the night before, was broken. The bells in the church tower began their one-two-three; carts began to rumble over the cobbles as suddenly as if by magic. There was the sound of a trumpet from a company of soldiers encamped amidst the ruins of the old Dominican monastery, summoning them to exercise and to drill. Voices now began to be articulate—the admonitions of parents to sleep-dazed children; the shouting of masters to lazy apprentices who lay nursing broken heads from last night’s encounter with striplings of a rival craft, or dreaming of Dick Whittington or a marriage with the Master’s pretty daughter.

Louder and louder grew the morning tumult. The young men were banging doors and windows or taking down clattering shutters. The housemaids were dusting away the grime of the previous day from sills and ledges or sweeping down the steps that led to the fast-awakening street. Fires for the morning meal were being laid everywhere; the chimney pots were smoking, the kettles were bubbling. Carpenters took up their saws and began to work; blacksmiths began to pound upon their anvils the unfinished horseshoes they had left there the evening before. Everywhere about, the din of daily life and daily activity grew and increased and spread to the most remote corner of London City. Horses and carts were piling in, in ever-increasing number across the bridge from the Strand, down Watling Street, that old Roman highway, and up from the fish markets that lay down near Billings. Hawkers began to cry their wares, the handelmen demanded at the tops of their lungs that all the inhabitants of Blackfriars come immediately out of their houses and bargain with them for the sale of anything under the sun, old clothes, old pewter, broken pots, torn laces, ribbons, anything—just so they would bargain for something.

Disjointed as all these noises were at first, and echoing among peaceful houses like actors’ voices in an empty theater, they united very quickly into a chorus of singing and shouting and shrieking; and now with the bells and the crashing of carts, and the uproar from tradesmen’s shops where the early workers were taking it out on the later sleepers with the most unearthly banging of hammers and iron bars upon sheets of metal, the medley became a vociferous clamor, and the clamor became a roar. That roar was the voice of Elizabethan London.

As the morning light was still glowing red upon the not-distant tower of St. Paul’s, robbed of its steeple by lightning a few years before, a youth in the blue cape prescribed by the rules of the Stationers’ Company, descended the lane into Blackfriars close beside the City wall. That he was a printer’s apprentice the cape proclaimed; but he was well dressed for an apprentice, with an old-fashioned doublet with long straight sleeves, heavy blue trunks at the waist, rounded, not skirted as those of the previous generation, however, nor yet pantalooned in the fashion already adopted by men of the court and youths of wealth or family. Dark blue hose and soft leather sandal shoes completed the dress, with a round cotton hat over his dark curly hair. The cotton hat was also prescribed by law for all citizens receiving less than forty pounds a year income.

Down the lane he went until the wall swung off sharply to the right in the direction of the Fleet River, leaving the straight course to encircle the grounds where once stood the Dominican monastery, now a mere mass of ruins since its dismantling under Henry VIII. He was still a little sleepy, and rubbed his eyes from time to time as he walked; but the sleepiness was a perfectly healthy thing, as the red cheeks and bright eyes evidenced, and there was in his walk the brisk swing of a healthy youth of nineteen years.

In front of the tavern he stopped to smile and forget his drowsiness, as the slumbering watchman, suddenly awakening, seized up his hat, grasped his weapon of office, and hurried away with what dignity he could summon, though forgetting to put out the light in his lantern. The tavern door, opening suddenly, disclosed a neat, pretty servant girl who curtsied to the youth and bade him come in for a bite of breakfast. He declined, however, smilingly, though he stopped to exchange a few pleasantries, and hurried along a little farther down the lane, while the girl looked out after him with sparkling eyes.

At a little court, he crossed to the right and stopped in front of a plain, two-storied building, square and rather ungainly, recently and hurriedly built. To the huge oaken door of this he fitted a large brass key which he took from inside his doublet, and with a violent wrench threw back the bolt which held it locked. As he did this, he glanced up at the sign above the door, an anchor embossed upon a metal plate, the anchor supported by a hand issuing from clouds, with two sprigs of laurel forming an almost complete oval about the design, below which was a motto in red, Latin script—Anchora Spei, the Anchor of Hope. Above the engraving was the neatly printed name of the owner of the shop—THOMAS VAUTROLLIER—PRINTER, BINDER, BOOKSELLER—and beneath the name, the brass license plate of the Worshipfull Companye of Stationers, designating the occupant of the premises as a BROTHER.

No brother, nor yet yeoman, nor liveryman shall I be, thought the young man as he looked up, but Warden, when my name goes above the door, and with this ambitious thought prepared to enter.

But at that very moment a hand was laid upon his arm. Turning about quickly, he was confronted by a youth of his own age, or perhaps slightly older, also blue-caped, but much humbler in the clothes he wore beneath, a leather jerkin that fitted tight from shoulder to hips, trunks not puffed in the stylish fashion, but of a coarse, buff-colored weave, running tight from belt to knee, whence, ink-stained and grimy, they were bound with thongs to short hose, which seemed to creep by wrinkles into a pair of high, soft leather, much-patched boots.

The cotton hat covered a burst of thick, unkempt hair, the color of tow. The eyes beneath the straggling locks were almost yellow; narrow they were and contracted in the morning sun as in one who has not slept at night. The cheeks were curiously concave in one so young, and at the chin’s point was a comical ghost of rough-trimmed beard in the Philippian style. Yet he carried himself with an air of confidence and a little swagger.

I was watching by yon doorway for thee. Let me in, and pushing by the astonished door opener, he darted inside. The other was after him in a flash, with a command and a question on his lips.

Quick with the shutters, George Wykes, he commanded, and as he noticed the unkempt appearance called out, Where hast been?

To the meeting of my club, Master Ingram, Wykes retorted in a short, caustic fashion, emphasizing the word Master with a somewhat sharp bitterness. And as for shutters, has quick promotion as chief apprentice stiffened thy tongue already, so that thou speak always as master to man? Help with the shutters, thyself, if such please thee. As to where I have been, it is, belike, my own affair. However, since thou wouldst know, I have spent the night with men of my craft.

Ingram’s face clouded, as if the glory of the bright morning were gone. Of course I’ll help thee, George Wykes. But why so spiteful to me?

Wykes had taken down a wedge from a shelf with which to wrench the shutters free, but at the question he turned about and scowled. Who is spiteful to thee? Why flatter thyself so much? Who, but for the attention which Master Vautrollier bestows on thee, wouldst thou be in this company of men of craft? Scarce two years hast thou been in this shop, and yet must voice thy views and put on the airs of a man of the City. I’ll take down the shutters, but see to it that thou do thy part.

Ingram hung up his blue cape on a wooden peg. He slipped a leather apron over his neck, and fastened it slowly behind. Then without a word he went outside and took down the heavy wooden window covers on the front that protect all such shops in London, while Wykes, who had already raced to the smaller windows in the rear, was busying himself removing them in the little court that lay behind the shop.

The trouble with thee, George Wykes, Ingram exclaimed, bearing the wooden rampart inside and leaning it against the back wall beside the shutters taken down by his companion, is that thou art careless. That I am chief apprentice here, and thou still unadvanced, though thou hast been here six years, is because thou hast no heed for thy work. Master Vautrollier hath given thee every chance, he has talked and cautioned and admonished—and all in vain. The type thou washest still remains dirty. Thy presses are crusty with ink, and thou hatest to scrub a floor. Why, he went on, turning directly to Wykes, his flushed cheeks showing a little of the resentment he had thus far held in, thou hast not even learned to set types properly in all thy six years. Thou knowest not the top from the bottom of letters. Thy spaces are uneven, thy lines are easily pied, didst thou but carry a locked chase two feet. Thy quoins do not hold, and it takes another to clean up after thee whatever thou doest. . . . And keep a civil tongue in thy face, or I’ll make thee answer for it. . . . Now get to work, and quickly.

If a look could have killed, that which Wykes threw at the chief apprentice would have destroyed him instantly. Yet, strangely enough, he made no reply—just let his face relax in a malicious grin.

But Ingram did not notice him. His nostrils caught at just that moment a strong all-pervading scent that filled the little shop. By my faith, he exclaimed, there’s a mighty fresh smell of ink about this place! Has the Master been at work already?

Thou shouldst know. As head apprentice thou wert the last man in this shop last night and should have been the first in this morning.

And so I was. . . . Wykes—he suddenly stared at the other, his anger evaporating in a great astonishment—"there has been someone in the shop. It is not as I left it last night."

What care I for that?

Thou wilt care. . . . Here’s a burned-out candle on the small press. Here’s a form with locked type on the table. Here’s fresh-mixed ink and an unwashed roller. Master Vautrollier is the neatest printer in the City. He would leave no such mess. Someone has been working in this shop at night. I left here before Curfew and the place was empty. Where wast thou? he turned to the other with a new severe seriousness in his voice.

I told thee once. I’ll tell thee again. I was with the Royal Band of City Apprentices. We dined at the Grey Goose, and if thou wish, summon the landlord for proof, or mine own friends. . . . So, he went on in jubilant scorn, there is disorder, is there? Well, that will show the Master what sort of chief apprentice he hath appointed. In all other shops the chief apprentice sleeps in the shop. Thou art too high and mighty for all that, and must have lodgings of thine own, like a gentleman. What disorder hath happened here is no concern of mine. I be no chief apprentice.

Ingram’s mind was too stunned to take notice of the other’s insults. Instead, a feeling of dismay crept over him, and brought a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. This matter was serious. It might lead to anything. And he was responsible. The rules of the Stationers’ Company forbade any except those with printers’ licenses to set types or use presses. The penalties were very severe for any infractions, no matter how trifling. Vautrollier himself had been before the Magistrates for simply calling in a youth without articles of apprenticeship to help him wash type on a single afternoon. This petty violation had cost him a sizable fine. Printing was, in the sixteenth century, a most hazardous occupation, and one carefully supervised by officers of the Crown.

Indeed, Government and Church looked somewhat askance upon this new art of printing, the use of movable types having been in general use scarcely more than one hundred years, since it threatened to spread ideas, good and bad alike, among the minds of a populace for the most part ignorant and unthinking. The great prerogatives of royalty and class must be closely guarded, and it would never do to let privileged classes lose that monopoly of learning which had been their birthright. Severe penalties were visited upon printers for unauthorized printing, and the headsman’s ax, the gallows, prison, and even the stake had been the lot of some unfortunate craftsmen.

Let us see what has been printed here, he exclaimed, rushing to the press where the locked form of types still lay.

But a voice, suddenly raised, made him pause. He knew, without looking about, whose voice it was. Quickly he swung about to face the newcomer respectfully. It was Monsieur Vautrollier, the proprietor, who lived with his family in rooms adjacent to, but not directly above, the shop.

What means this talk?

Ingram realized at once that he and Wykes had spoken in high, excited tones, but far from feeling discomfiture at this rebuke welcomed it with all his heart, since it meant the presence of the master of the shop.

There hath been someone in the shop during the night, Master Vautrollier, he exclaimed.

Someone in the shop? A thief? asked the man. Monsieur Vautrollier was a scholar and had, as well, the appearance of one. He spoke in sharply distinct syllables, which showed that he had learned the English language and was not born in it. He was about forty-five years of age at this time, not tall—with dark hair and tuft of beard, and dancing, black eyes. Having heard the high-pitched voices he had left his bed betimes, thrown on a long cape which covered his night clothes and, still in his nightcap, come running in with temper a little ruffled.

Nay. There seems nothing stolen, replied Ingram. I fear, and his voice trembled, I fear he hath set type.

Monsieur Vautrollier forgot his anger in sudden concern. To Ingram he seemed to change color. Set type? And hath done printing? In God’s name find out what he hath printed.

Ingram and Wykes feverishly rubbed fresh ink over the type in the press. They inserted paper above it and then drove down the platen upon the