CLEMENTINA RIND

I am Clementina Rind, and I am a printer and bookbinder in Colonial America. My husband William and I came to Williamsburg from Maryland. We came in order to have a free press, where we could print our Patriotic views.

Unfortunately, William passed away here in Williamsburg last year, followed by most sorrowful mourning on the part of myself and our family. After he passed, I found myself needing to run his printing shop in order to support our family. This was unheard of, as no woman in all of Virginia had ever run a printing shop before myself, but it was required of me to support my family by whatever means necessary. Although I know that I need to run this printing shop in order to support my dear family, I cannot help but be reminded of my husband through the shop. Every chair, brick, and bucket in this printing shop holds the shadow of my deceased husband, and memories of the days when he was here. His ghost stands in every dark corner, or in the light of each candle burning. I try to push through my deep sorrow and remorse in order to run a successful business, but I find myself constantly reminded of dear William through the printing shop where he once worked.

Although I only belong to the middling class, I do try my best to influence the thoughts of Colonial America through what I publish. At present, I am working for Thomas Jefferson in publishing A Summary View of the Rights of British America. I am quite busy, because I must also publish our weekly newspaper, The Virginia Gazette, and I was hoping to print an Almanack as well before this month is passed. This week, several people from the Government have ordered me to write an article for them in the newspaper. They’ve told me exactly what to write, and I am closely supervised as I print it. The government officials that were patrolling in my workshop all day yesterday made me really quite nervous. My printing shop is quite dark, as it is mostly lit by candlelight, making it most difficult to set the type. It is quite warm in the shop as well, as it has to be in order for the ink to sit well on the paper. One difficulty of being a printer is that one must use quite a large amount of paper, which is most expensive, as it is imported from Europe. Several tools that I often use in the shop are moveable type, ink pads, a composing stick and, of course, a printing press.

I stand and walk over to the table where a case of moveable type is stored. I still need to compose a notice, which was given to me this morning, to publish in The Virginia Gazette. The subscriber is Joshua Jones, who is advertising a reward for the return of a runaway slave. Mr. Jones farms tobacco for a living, and has countless slaves working on his plantation. I pick up the small scrap of paper where he has written what he would like to be printed. I skim the text, then prop up the paper against the case of type so it will be easier to see as I compose. I pick up a composing stick, then begin the process of placing tiny type letters in rows to form the words and sentences of Mr. Jones’ notice. As I transcribe the written words into blocks of letters, I make a few edits. Mr. Jones is a most horrendous speller! As my hands fly over the type letters, my eyes begin to ache. This aching is not an uncommon occurrence as I compose; it is due to the poor light in the shop. As I work, I hear the crackling of the fire as it pops and flickers, and the idle talk of colonists as they pass by my shop on their way to the market.

I hear quick footsteps approaching the door to my shop, and I look up. William? For a second, my heart stops beating, and I realize that I have forgotten how to breathe. Time has stopped.

“Mrs. Rind! I’ve got a surprise for you!” calls the voice of my apprentice from just outside the door.

I exhale slowly, turning back to the composing stick I am still holding. Tiny tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. William won’t come back, so stop thinking that he will. Just work hard so you can support your family.

I hear the loud squeaking of the door to my shop opening, and light footsteps on the wooden floor. I look up to see my apprentice, holding a large wooden crate. His name is Isaac Collins, and he is quite helpful around the shop. His term of service has barely started, but he learns quickly and I believe that someday he will become a great printer.

“What have you got there?” I ask, motioning to the crate.

“Its a new font of type. I bought it from the ship that just came in from London,” He smiled, “It’s called Caslon.”

Caslon. What a lovely name for a font! I had been waiting for a new style of type to print with ever since I moved to Williamsburg. Don’t get me wrong, the font that my fellow Thomas Jefferson gave to me is simply wonderful, but I have used it so much that it soon becomes a bore. It will be nice to print in another style of letters.