Emily C. Pearson

Gutenberg in Exile.—His Trade as Lapidary.—Curious Law.—Ancient Cuts.—Picture of a Saint.—Legend.—The Bible for the Poor.—A Secret discovered.—Gutenberg’s Experiment.

After his banishment, Gutenberg was not an idler. During his exile, we are told that he devoted time to travelling from city to city, studying monuments, and visiting men celebrated in art, science, or handicraft. For not only was he educated, but he cultivated a literary taste, and had chosen a trade, that of the lapidary, or polisher of precious stones. Then, in Germany, the artisan, or one trained to a trade, and the artist, held nearly the same rank; since the trades, scarcely discovered, were confounded with the arts. Indeed, when the humbler professions brought forth their first chefs-d’oeuvre, they were admired as prodigies, because new. The mechanic arts held an honorable place, only people of property being permitted to learn them; this matter being regulated by the statutes. Thus in England at that period it was decreed concerning persons whose income was less than twenty shillings by the year, “They shall be put to other labors, upon pain of one year’s imprisonment.” Hence artisans were a wealthy and influential class in society, and, in some cases, with their daily occupation cultivated a love of knowledge. And Gutenberg, by learning the lapidary’s trade, did not descend to the lowest social level, while at the same time he acquired that mechanical skill which was afterwards to turn to the benefit of the whole human race.

He is pictured as occupying the front room of his dwelling as a work-shop, where he plied his trade during the day, and men of standing sought the society of the cultivated artisan, “so high a popularity did he enjoy in Strasbourg for his character and scholarship.”

At this time, he seemed scarcely thirty, although six years older; a health-tinted face, high fair forehead, large blue expressive eyes, gave him a youthful look. The precise turn of his chin was hidden in a thick tawny beard. There was an air of grave thoughtfulness about him, as if he was influenced by some earnest purpose.

One evening, just after supper, the serving woman Elsie having cleared the table and swept the hearth, Gutenberg, always busy even in the cozy comfort of his fireside, became absorbed in examining a playing-card. The Lady Anna was seated beside him, and after a little time looked up from her work, and said in her own pleasant way,— “Prithee, John, what marvel dost thou find in that card? One would think it the face of a saint, so closely thou dost regard it.”

“Nay, little wife; but didst thou ever consider in what way this is made?”

“I suppose that it was drawn in outline, and then painted, like other pictures.”

“But there is a more excellent way,” said Gutenberg. “These lines, I find, were first marked on a wooden block, and then the wood was cut away, so that they were left raised; this portion was then smeared with ink and pressed on the paper. And this, my Anna, is shorter than by drawing and painting, because when once a block is engraved, it can be used to impress any number of cards.”

Playing-cards were at this period in common use. Of their origin, there is some doubt. Some have supposed they were invented to amuse Charles VI., King of France, as early as 1393. They are mentioned at nearly the same date in the laws of both England and Spain.

The first cards made were doubtless painted with a stencil; that is, a piece of pasteboard or thin metal plate perforated with holes in the shape of the figures desired. The stencil being placed over paper, the color is applied with a brush, leaving the shape of the figures underneath. As they were so common and so cheap, it has been thought that the outline must have been made by some rude form of wood-engraving. There is proof that cards were printed before the middle of the fifteenth century; for there is a petition extant from the Venetian painters to their magistracy, dated 1441, setting forth that the art and mystery of card-making and of printing figures, which was practiced in Venice, had fallen into decay, because of the large quantity of playing-cards and colored printed figures which were brought into the city. What foreigners brought them to Venice? Evidently the Germans; for they were the chief card-makers of the time. A wood-engraver is still called, in Germany, Formschneider, meaning figure-cutter; and this name is found in the town-books of Nuremburg as early as 1441.

As a specimen of the early cards,—which were very rude,—we have here the Knave of Bells.

Perhaps some may think Knave a good name for the article, in view of the characters who sometimes “play cards.” But this word had not always the same meaning. Originally, it signified a boy or young man, then a servant, and lastly a rogue.

“An unsightly figure,” said Anna, as she examined the one in her husband’s hand, “and not to be compared to our St. Christopher,”—glancing at the wall opposite, where hung a picture of the saint,—“which was made with a pen!”

“Nay, it was made from an engraved block, like the card,” said Gutenberg.

“Was our picture made in that manner?” eagerly asked the wife. “What an excellent art, since it keepeth before us the memory of the saints! The good St. Christopher!” she exclaimed, and with clasped hands for a moment gazed devoutly at the picture,—a curious wood-cut, representing the legendary saint in the act of carrying the infant Jesus across the sea; beneath, was the date, 1423. The art of engraving had doubtless existed long before, but this is the only positive proof that wood-engraving was used in devotional pictures at that early period. Some years after, the art made an onward and most important step,—an inscription being added to this picture; and the famous block books, complete with cuts and written explanations, appeared.

The picture Anna so earnestly regarded, was one of the later-date impressions, accompanied with a Latin legend. It was of folio size, and colored, like playing-cards. Beneath was the inscription, or legend:—

“We almost worshipped that picture in my father’s house,” said Anna; “but prithee tell me the meaning of the inscription; there was none upon ours.”

“It saith,” explained Gutenberg, “that one cannot be overtaken by evil, or die, on the day that he looks upon the face of this saint.”

“Since that is true, we do well to gaze upon the picture early and late,” remarked the wife. “I revere the saint,” returned Gutenberg, smiling, “but am free to confess that I do not see how there can be any power to shield one from harm in simply looking at his picture. The good saint himself had not so easy a path to prosperity.”

“Pray tell me of him,” said she; “I do not remember to have heard the story since, when a little child, I sat upon my father’s knee.”

“I will even tell it to thee,” answered Gutenberg, “as I heard it in my childhood.

“Offerus, as he was called, was a giant soldier; a heathen, who lived in the land of Canaan. He had a body twelve ells long. He did not like to obey, but to command. He did not care what harm he did to others, but lived a wild life, attacking and plundering all who came in his way. He only wished for one thing: to sell his services to the mightiest. And he first engaged in the service of the Emperor,—having heard in those days that he was the head of Christendom,—yet was not bound by any promise. Thereupon he went with the Emperor through all the land, and the Emperor was delighted with him. All the soldiers in the combat were miserable, helpless creatures compared with Offerus, with his Samson strength, giant chest, and mighty fists. Once, at even-tide, they pitched the tents near a forest, when the Emperor, in the midst of his eating and drinking and the singing of the minstrel, bade Offerus and his comrades beware of the wicked fiend who was said often to haunt the forest with great rage and fury, adding, ‘Let alone the chase in this forest; for in filling thy larder, thou mightest harm thy soul.’ Then Offerus said, ‘I will enter the service of this lord, who is mightier than you,’ and thereupon took his departure, and strode off cheerily into the thickest depths of the forest. There on a coal black horse he saw a pitch-black rider, who rode at him furiously, and sought to bind him with solemn promises. But Offerus said, ‘We shall see!’ However, one day, as they went together through the kingdoms of the world, along the high road three tall crosses stood before them. The middle cross so appalled Satan that he shrunk away, saying, ‘The Son of Mary, the Lord Christ, now exercises great power.’ Said Offerus, ‘Now will I seek further for the mightiest, whom only I will serve,’ and asking every traveller he met where he dwelt. But alas! few have Him in their hearts, and no one could tell, until he was sent by a pious old hermit to a good priest, who showed him plainly the path of faith, and told him he must fast and pray, as John the Baptist did of old in the wilderness. But that advice was not to the giant’s liking; wherefore the prior said, ‘Give yourself up heartily to achieve some good work. See, there flows a mighty river, which hinders pilgrims on their way to Rome; it has neither ford nor bridge: carry the faithful over on thy back.’ ‘Ah, I have strength for that!’ said Offerus. ‘If I can please the Saviour in that way, willingly will I carry the travellers to and fro.’ And thereupon he built a hut of reeds, and dwelt among the water-rats and beavers on the river’s brink, carrying pilgrims over the river cheerfully, like a camel or an elephant. But if any one offered him ferry-money, he said, ‘I labor for eternal life!’ And when now, after many years, Offerus’s hair had grown white, one stormy night a plaintive little voice called to him, ‘Dear, good, tall Offerus, carry me across.’ Offerus was tired and sleepy; but he thought faithfully of Jesus Christ, and with weary arms seizing the pine-trunk which was his staff when the floods swelled high, he waded through the water, but saw no pilgrim there; so he thought, ‘I was dreaming,’ and went back and lay down to sleep. Again came the little voice, plaintive and touching, ‘Offerus, good, dear, great, tall Offerus, carry me across.’ Patiently the old giant crossed the river again; but neither man nor mouse was to be seen; and he went back again, and fell asleep, when once more came the little voice, clear, and plaintive, and imploring, “Good, dear, giant Offerus, carry me across.” The third time he seized his pine-stem, and went through the cold river. This time he found a tender, fair little boy, with golden hair. In his left hand was the standard of the Lamb; in his right, the globe. He looked at the giant with eyes full of love and trust, and Offerus lifted him up with two fingers; but when he entered the river, the little child weighed on him like a ton. Heavier and heavier grew the weight, until the water almost reached his chin; great drops of sweat stood on his brow, and he had nearly sunk in the stream with the little one. However, he struggled through, and, tottering to the other side, set the child gently down on the bank, and said, ‘My little Lord, prithee, come not this way again, for scarcely have I escaped this time with life.’ But the fair child baptized Offerus on the spot, and said to him, ‘Know, all thy sins are forgiven; and, although thy limbs tottered, fear not, nor marvel, but rejoice; thou hast carried the Saviour of the world! For a token, plant thy pine-trunk, so long dead and leafless, in the earth; to-morrow it shall shoot out green twigs. And henceforth thou shalt not be called Offerus, but Christopher.’ Then Christopher folded his arms, and prayed, and said, ‘I feel my end draws nigh. My limbs tremble; my strength fails; and God has forgiven me all my sins.’ Thereupon the child vanished in light; and Christopher set his staff in the earth. And so, on the morrow, it shot out green leaves and red blossoms, like an almond. And three days afterwards the angels carried Christopher to Paradise.”

Anna’s eyes swam in tears as Gutenberg finished his graphic and touching rehearsal, and she said, “A most hopeful history. May you, my husband, worthily achieve some good work, like St. Christopher!”

“Aye, dear; and, God helping me I will do something: the world is full of useful labor, which calleth for willing hearts and hands. And the Lord Christ meeteth with his blessing the patient laborers who faint not.”

“I can never think,” said the wife, “of equaling St. Christopher or thee in good works, since I am neither strong nor wise; but I will even do what I can, and help thee bear thy burdens. But it may be the gentle Christ will freely give me eternal life, since I have no means to purchase it.”

“Aye, Anna, that would be so like Him: and to me also, for I am no saint, and dare not hope to be.”

“But I value the picture the more since your recital,” said Anna. “Even if it cannot, as you think, preserve us from evil, it can incite us to persevere in doing well.”

“Aye, dear,” rejoined Gutenberg, “and devotional pictures like this are much to be prized; they in some sort fill the place of books, which are so rare and costly. But valuable as this picture is, I found it surpassed in the Cathedral. Dost remember I carried thither the jewels which the Abbot employed me to polish? He took me into the library, and showed me books of engraved pictures, each far more excellent than our ‘St. Christopher.’ These books were the ‘Ars Memorandi,’ ‘Ars Moriendi,’ and ‘Biblia Pauperum,’ which last consists of forty pictures, with written explanations.”

“Truly a marvel,—a book of pictures! And what do they signify?”

“The ‘Biblia Pauperum,’ or ‘Bible for the Poor,’ is a history or series of sketches from the Old and New Testaments; it is sometimes so called instead of the name I first mentioned.”

“Aye, I remember to have heard of it, but would fain learn more about it.”

“Its forty pictures were made by impressing paper with engraved blocks, as in the ‘St. Christopher.’ The color is brown, the pictures are placed opposite each other, and the blank backs are pasted together into one strong leaf.”

“Pray, how large are the pictures?” and her interest growing with her husband’s recital, she quite forgot the work on which she was engaged, as he went on to say,—

“They are each ten inches high and seven or eight inches wide, and consist of three pictures which are separated by lines; and, moreover, there are four half-length figures of prophets, two above and two below the larger pictures. Latin inscriptions are on each side of the upper figures, also verses in rhyme on each side of the lower, and other sentences on labels at the bottom of the whole.”

“Wonderful truly! and what more?”

“The middle pictures are from the New Testament, the others from the Old; and the latter in some way allude to or explain the former.”

“But what interests me most in this book,” added Gutenberg, “is the fact that it is printed from blocks, like the ‘St. Christopher.’”

“Dost thou truly think so? Art thou well advised that it is not the handicraft of a skillful scribe?”

“Assuredly I am; it was not made with a pen, but with the engraved blocks, which are to be chosen rather than the slower mode of copying, since being once for all engraved, a number of books can be imprinted as easily as one.”

“Aye,” returned Anna, “and they will be cheaper than the works written out by the scribes, and still be so dear that whoever maketh them must become enriched by their sale. If thou art taken with this tide, it will lead thee on to fortune. Thou art ingenious; and canst thou not make a ‘Biblia Pauperum?’” “A ‘Biblia Pauperum!’ Little wife, thou must be dreaming.” And Gutenberg saw that she had penetrated his secret.

“But couldst thou not?” she persisted archly; “thou art so wise at devising things difficult to be accomplished.”

Gutenberg laughed, saying, “I will even bethink me of it when nothing of more service can be done.”

But although the suggestion of Anna had been treated as a new and impracticable idea, it was one, as she had divined, that Gutenberg was revolving; and seizing the first leisure hour, he commenced engraving a block, choosing for his subject as simplest and nearest at hand, one of the images of the playing cards.

Anna’s estimate of Gutenberg was just. He had a passion for mechanical studies; and history tells us that “he invented many wonderful arts,” some of which were connected with his occupation. Not content with following the beaten track, his mind was fertile in expedients for saving labor and perfecting his work. He devised ways to improve the process of polishing stones and mirrors; and these new methods were ranked by the observing among his “arts.” These “arts” were stepping-stones to something better and higher—to the crowning discovery of his life. The great art could only be reached by patiently ascending to it through many lower steps of toil and invention. “It seems,” says one, “that every advancement of humanity is purchased with tears, and that suffering is the fatal law of all great beginnings.”

But how eventful the path he trod, we shall see as we progress.