The Young Emigrants; Madelaine Tube; The Boy and the Book; and by Susan Anne Livingston Ridley Sedgwick

S >> Susan Anne Livingston Ridley Sedgwick >> The Young Emigrants; Madelaine Tube; The Boy and the Book; and

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What brought Hans at this time very often to the monastery, was, that
his uncle, whose turn it was to be purveyor or provider for the convent,
had employed his mother to make what they called writing color or dye,
for the copyist. This was, of course, something the same as what we call
_ink_ and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of
a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown
with time, as that of many of the manuscripts. Every ten days or
fortnight, therefore, it was Hans' business to take to the convent a
small flask of the valuable fluid, which his mother had carefully
prepared, from certain mineral and vegetable substances, and it was no
fault of his, if he did not on each occasion, somehow or other, add to
his own stock of knowledge; getting at one time perhaps a verse or two
read by his uncle, which finished the history of Joseph, or puzzling out
for himself the difference between the shape of a C and a G, till he
could quite distinguish them; or being told by his uncle some wonderful
legend or history connected with the paintings and carvings on the walls
of the convent; so that it may be said that the education of little Hans
was slowly proceeding in those matters, which at that time was
considered learning and science. In the midst of all his other
employments which did not require thought, Hans' mind would be occupied
with this new knowledge; and as he worked in the garden, or weeded and
dressed the vines in their little vineyard, the remembrance of the
stories Uncle Gottlieb had read to him or told him, would come into his
mind, and the pictures he had shown him appear as it were before his
eyes. At night too, as he sat by his mother's spinning-wheel, he would
try to trace on the sanded floor the letters he had learned from the
books, or begging a drop of black dye, he made attempts with a pointed
stick to mark them on the wooden table. Wherever he was, in fact, and
whatever he was about, letters would dance before his eyes, and his
former hopes of being a famous hunter or warrior when he grew up were
all lost in the one great hope, which now filled his mind, of one day
becoming a learned copyist or scribe. Such was the change that had taken
place in the mind of little Hans, when, on visiting the convent one day,
he found to his great dismay that his good uncle had gone on a journey
to the city of Frankfort, which lay some thirty or forty miles off, upon
the banks of the same river Maine, which just by Mainz empties its
waters into the Rhine. It was the time of the great Frankfort Market or
Fair, and Father Gottlieb had gone there to purchase for the convent all
that was wanted for the next year. He had gone up the river in a boat
with a party of monks and merchants, and was not expected to return
until the next week, as he would wait to bring with him all the
merchandise he purchased. It was a great trial to Hans to have another
whole week to wait before he saw his dear uncle again, but then what a
pleasure had he in his next visit to the convent; not only Uncle
Gottlieb to see, but all the beautiful and wonderful things which he had
brought back from the Frankfort Fair, and his own present to receive
too, which the kind uncle had not forgotten amid all his bustle and
business. This was no less than a knife--the first that Hans had ever
possessed of his own. It had a pretty stag's-horn handle and a green
leather sheath, so that, stuck in his girdle, it looked quite like that
of a real woodsman or hunter, and made Hans not a little proud.

Then what wonderful things had not his uncle to relate of the large and
rich city of Frankfort. Of all the beautiful works in gold and silver
with which the shops were filled; of the grand old hall where the
Emperors were elected and the chapel in which they were crowned; and
then of the curious people called Jews, who live in such numbers in one
part of the city, who did not worship Christ or the virgin, and were the
same people whom he had heard about in the stories of Jacob and Joseph.
Long after his usual time did Hans stay listening to all these matters,
and it was nightfall ere he got back again to his mother's cottage with
his present to her of a piece of fine cloth for a new head coif, which
Father Gottlieb sent her.

For many days Hans could think of nothing but his new knife, and well
pleased was he to show it to his young companions, many of whom had
never before seen so polished a piece of iron. In his herb-gatherings
for his mother, too, how useful it was to him in cutting through the
tough stalks of some of the plants and in digging up the roots; and what
fine things it enabled him to cut and carve for his mother,--new comb
for her flax amongst other things, and a spoon to stir her pots of dye.

He grew very expert in using his knife, and cutting and carving with it
almost put out of his head his dearly beloved letters that he had taken
such pains to learn.

It happened, however, one day, that after having been some hours out on
the hills, behind his mother's cottage, collecting a quantity of acorns
and oak-galls, which his mother required to make her black dye or ink, a
very violent storm came on, which obliged him to take shelter under a
large spreading beech tree, behind whose trunk he crept while the wind
and hail beat fiercely down. The storm lasted long, and to amuse himself
Hans began to exercise his carving powers upon the smooth bark of the
beech tree which sheltered him.

He carved some letters upon it; cutting away the bark of the beech and
leaving the letters white. Some he cut deep into the wood in sharp
furrows like the letters on a seal. Then he tried cutting away the bark
and leaving the letters stand out _in relief_ as it is called, from
the tree, like the letters on the impression of a seal. This was the
prettiest way of all, and he began to carve the letters of his own name.
The word _Hans_ he could manage very well, for he knew well the
letters which formed it, and he got on very well with the rest of his
other name as far as _Gens_,--but here, alas! he was stopped, for
he did not know how to make an F. He had learned how his name was spelt,
but it had never occurred to him before to write it; but it did not
matter--he was going the very next day to the convent, and he would
learn how an F was made, and then too he could also make himself sure of
the C, which he had always a difficulty in distinguishing from G, as he
had never learnt the alphabet in proper order. The next day accordingly,
on visiting the convent, after delivering his flask of ink, he asked his
uncle to show him once more the different letters which he did not yet
know perfectly; and his uncle not only did this, but on a strip of old
parchment he kindly wrote down all the letters from A to Z, so that at
any time Hans could use it as a copy when he wanted to put letters
together so as to make words.

Hans was greatly delighted. It seemed to him now as if he had got
possession of a key which locked up a great deal of valuable knowledge,
for his alphabet would not only help him to write but to read also. He
could not rest that evening, even before he had taken the bowl of milk
and piece of black bread that his mother had left for his supper, till
he had climbed the hill to the great beech tree, and carved upon it the
other letters of his name. When finished, his name reached half round
the tree, and each letter was nicely formed and neatly cut. All the
lines were straight, and the little points were all sharp and clear.
Written in those (to us) old-fashioned letters it looked perhaps
something like this:--

[Illustration: hans gensfleisch]

Hans wished his mother could but see it!

"Do mother, I pray thee, come up the hill as far as the great beech
tree," said he one evening as he thought of his nice piece of writing;
"I want to show thee how strangely the elves have marked the bark." This
he said in jest, hoping to entice his mother to see the wonder.

"Nay, child," said she, "my old bones are too stiff for climbing
now-a-days, and nought that the elves can do can make me wonder, seeing,
as I do, all the strange new things that are coming every day into the
world." And it was In vain that Hans tried to persuade her.

Some days after this, however, Hans on paying a visit to the tree and
finding that the white wood of the beech, from which he had peeled away
the bark, was becoming brown, so that the letters no longer looked out
plain and distinct, the thought came into his head of cutting each of
these raised letters away from the tree and taking them home. He did
so--slicing them carefully off, so that they were not split or broken,
and he was thus able to carry home to his mother, as she would not come
to see them, this first specimen of his own writing.

We shall see how the carrying home of those letters was afterwards to
influence the fate of Hans Gensfleisch--and of the whole world!

Proud was Hans that evening, when after his frugal supper was over, he
swept away the crumbs from off their little table, and arranged side by
side the letters of his name before his astonished mother--so that when
she compared them with his name upon the slip of parchment which was the
register of his birth, she could see that it was really and truly her
son's name that the curious signs signified. She thought her Hans very
clever, and she was pleased. We are not sure that Hans did not think
himself very clever too!

Hans put his letters carefully away in an old leather pouch which had
once belonged to his father, and often after his day's work was done
would he pull them out and arrange them on the table or on the hearth
before the fire. He soon found out that besides making his own name, he
could put together several other words which he had learned to spell.
Out of the letters which formed Hans Gensfleisch, for instance, he could
make the word _fisch_ which is the German for fish--_lang_,
long--_schein_, shine; and it was a great delight to his mother as
well as to himself, when he found too that he could put together the
letters of her name, _Lischen,_ just as they were also written on
the parchment register of his birth.

But he had other discoveries still to make with regard to his letters;
for one evening it so happened that as his mother was busy over a
boiling of ink that he was to take the next day to Mainz, and had put
some of it out in a sort of saucer or bowl upon the table to cool, Hans
in playing with his letters let one of them fall into the black color,
and pulling it hastily out again he popped it on to the first thing that
lay near, which happened to be a piece of chamois leather which was
stretched out after being cleaned ready for dyeing.

Scarcely had the letter laid an instant on the white leather than Frau
Gensfleisch, turning round, saw with dismay the mischief that was
done;--a large =h= was marked upon the chamois skin!

"Ah Hanschen! Hanschen!" cried she, "what art thou about--thou hast
ruined thy poor mother. See, lackaday! the lady of Dolberg's beautiful
chamois skin that was to be dyed of a delicate green for her ladyship's
slippers. See the ugly black marks that thou hast made upon it! This
comes of all thy letter making and spelling of words and names. Away
with the useless--things! Thou canst do better with thy knife and thy
time than to be bringing thy mother thus into trouble." And in her anger
the Frau Gensfleisch swept the precious letters off the table and threw
them into the fire.

Hans started forward in dismay to save them but it was too late. One
=g= alone remained of his treasured letters, but it was enough. He
had his knife and he could make others--and more than that, there was
left with him a valuable thought. The impression left on the white
chamois skin by the blackened letter had caused a new idea to flash into
his mind--the idea of Printing. On that evening, and in that little
cottage, in fact, the _invention of Printing_ took place.

It was something to have a lucky thought come into one's mind, but it is
quite another thing to have patience and industry and perseverance
enough to put that thought into action as it were, and make it turn to
profit and use. Luckily for Hans and for the world, he had these good
qualities even when thus a little boy, and from that time he made it the
business of his life to turn the thought to good account. We do not say
that the little boy Hans Gensfleisch could at that time foresee any but
a very small part of the good which might arise out of the invention of
printing. He could not possibly tell before-hand, how through its means,
knowledge would be spread all over the face of the earth, nor that that
book which was then only to be found in convents and monasteries--locked
up and rarely opened--read by a few learned monks, and seldom or ever
read to the people;--that this book, or the Bible, would through the
invention of Printing, be distributed all over the world, and that rich
and poor, wise and simple, young and old, would be able to possess it,
and read it, and learn from it the Word of God:--he did not foresee
this; but he saw that there might be an easier and a quicker way of
making books, and this he felt would be a good and useful thing to bring
about, and he resolved that he would do it. He saw that instead of
spending so much time in shaping over and over again the same letters,
that it would be a great saving of trouble, if letters were to be carved
out of wood or any other hard substance, and then blackened with ink and
pressed or _imprinted_ on the parchment, for then the same letters
could be used many times in making different words in different books.

Hans saw this plainly. He was sure of it, and he was almost sure that no
one had ever thought of it before. With a very natural feeling, and
certainly not a wrong one, he determined that it should be himself who
should bring about this new method of writing. He would keep it secret
from every one until he could _prove_ that it was a great and
useful discovery.

In the meantime, however, he had much to do. First, he must learn to
read and spell, and then he must also be able to write well, so as to
shape all the letters correctly when he carved them. From that time Hans
lost no more time in play. His cross-bow was laid aside, and he seldom
or never joined the other boys of the village in their games of running
and wrestling, nor did he follow the hunters to the chase on the hills
as he had been accustomed to do, or spend time in loitering with his net
along the river side. Instead of all this, he would go on every possible
pretext into the town and to the monastery to visit his uncle and get
all the knowledge he could. And after some time he told his uncle of his
great wish to learn to read and to become a scribe, and begged him to
persuade his mother to let him follow out his wish.

Father Gottlieb was pleased with the boy's earnest desire. He was good
and pious, and when he saw how full of this high hope was the mind of
the young boy, he said, "It is the will of God. He makes the humblest of
us tools for the furtherance of his wise designs. His will be done!" And
he talked to the Frau Gensfleisch upon the matter, and though he did not
think it right to tell her that her son might one day become a great and
learned man, yet he persuaded her that it would be wrong to oppose the
earnest wishes of Hans who had always been a good, and dutiful, and
loving son; and so it was settled between them that henceforth a part of
the widow's savings were to pay for the labor which was required for the
field and garden, and that Hans was to come to the convent every day to
be taught by the monks to read and write.

Henceforward Hans was to be a scholar, and his joy indeed was great.

PART II.

THE BOOK.

We must pass quickly over several years of the time during which Hans
Gensfleisch was going through the tedious operation of learning to read
and write. We can all of us remember it to be tedious, but in those days
it was so even more than now; since there were no such things as
spelling books, and children's story books to help on the young scholar,
and the letters were not as plainly written, nor of such a simple form
as our English letters. Hans' reading and spelling book was, perhaps,
some musty old parchment manuscript, discolored by age; and he had to
pore over it whole hours and days, before he could make out the meaning
of a simple page. The monks who had to teach him, too, were not all of
them so patient and kind as Father Gottlieb, his uncle, whose duties in
the convent did not often allow him to be his young nephew's instructor;
and there were hours and days when Hans grew sadly wearied of the task
he had undertaken, and his resolution would waver and falter. Instead of
being shut up in that close cell in the convent, where the small and
high window allowed only a tiny piece of sky to be seen, and where fresh
air scarcely ever entered; how much pleasanter would it be, he often
thought, to be out and away on the hills with his bow, or armed with his
knife herb-gathering for his mother. His bright vision of being the one
who should make books in a new and quick method grew dim in his mind,
and other ways of living seemed better and happier. But then again, at
such times it would perhaps happen that his uncle would send for him to
his own cell, and would make him read to him that he might see his
improvement, and would praise him for his progress, and encourage him to
go on; so that Hans' very heart would glow within him, and fresh zeal
and courage come to him again, and he would go back to his work
refreshed, and pleased, and hopeful as before.

At times, too, it would happen that he had something given him to read
to the monks, which interested him very much; some portion of the
history of a saint, perhaps, or a curious legend, so that no trouble was
too great in deciphering the crabbed writing, provided that he could
only get to the end of it, and make out all the sense; and he would
carry home the story in his head, and entertain his mother with it over
their evening meal. Then all this time, too, was he busy carving with
his knife, out of the hardest wood he could find, a stock of letters,
with which, when an occasion offered, he meant to make trial of
_imprinting_ whole sentences with ink. He did this secretly. He
feared to vex his mother, and run the risk of his letters being burned
as before, and he feared, too, that some one might find out his plan,
and make use of it before he was ready prepared to show it as his own.

All this kept him silent and reserved, and he nourished within his mind
many thoughts and hopes that no one knew of or suspected. To his mother
he was ever kind and good, and as of old, he would in all his leisure
hours gladly help her in her little household affairs, and in the
preparation of her dye, and while doing the latter, he would also make
trial of different kinds of ink that might be better for his letter
imprinting than the thin ink used by the copyist. He saw that a thicker
and more sticky kind of ink would be wanting for this purpose, and he
endeavored to find some substance that would produce this stickiness and
thickness. And thus was he ever preparing himself for the time when he
could bring everything to bear on the great plan which he cherished in
his mind; and in the meanwhile he grew up to be a man.

No longer a boy, at the age of eighteen Hans had not only learned to
read and write well his native language, but had also learned the Latin
tongue, which it was at that time quite necessary for him to know,
seeing that many of the books then written were in that language. He
came to be looked upon as a most learned youth, and the monks who had
taught him, thinking that he would be a credit to their convent, were
anxious that he should join them and become a monk like themselves,
devoting the rest of his life to copying manuscripts and writing books.
But this would not have suited at all with the purpose of Hans, and he
knew that he could be much more useful when out in the world than shut
up all his life writing in the convent. It grieved him to disappoint his
good uncle, who had always hoped that he would become a monk, but he
knew that he was right in refusing, and this made him strong and firm.

Hans was not always faithful, however, at this time to his good
purposes, and we must confess the acquaintanceship of some gay young
companions led him into some difficulties and dangers. He had one very
favorite friend, who, like himself, had been a scholar in the convent,
and this Conrad, for so he was called, being the son of a rich burgher
in the town, Hans was led into companionship with many gay and
thoughtless youths, who spent much of their time in feasting and
pleasure taking, and who were not like Hans accustomed to labor from
morning till night, and live on simple fare. And not only did Hans,
through the means of his friend Conrad, fall in the way of pleasure
taking, as we have said, but was also brought into a good many quarrels
and disputes, which otherwise he would not have been exposed to. At this
time it happened that there was in most towns two classes of people, who
were more distinct from each other than they are now-a-days. These were
the nobles or gentlemen, and the burghers or trades-people. Instead of
living peacefully together, and serving one another, these people were
continually quarrelling; the nobles trying to oppress the burghers, and
the burghers in their turn ever trying to resent the oppressions of the
nobles. With the youths, especially in the town of Mainz, a continual
warfare was always going on. The sons of the rich nobles being proud,
and not liking to hold companionship with the sons of the burghers; and
seeking on every occasion to vex and annoy them; and the latter, since
they were rich, thinking that they had a right to the same pleasures and
privileges as those of nobler birth, and being determined to stand up
for them; so that their disputes would not unfrequently end in fighting
and bloodshed.

It would have been easy for Hans, who was only the son of a poor and
humbler cottager, to have kept out of the way of these noble youths, and
he was far from being of a quarrelsome disposition; but it so happened
that he was often mixed up in the quarrels of his friend Conrad, who
being very generous and kind to him, Hans thought himself obliged to
take his part and defend him when any strife arose.

All this turned out very unfortunately for Hans Gensfleisch, as it was
the occasion at last of his being obliged to leave his native city, and
be absent for many years from his poor mother.

One evening, it happened that a party of youths were entertaining
themselves in a place called the Tennis-court, where a particular game
of ball was played, which was a favorite amusement among the youths of
that time. The greater number of the players on this occasion were
burghers' sons, and among them Hans and Conrad, who were very expert at
the game. Presently a party of nobles came up, who were vexed to find
the place so occupied. They accordingly placed themselves so as to
observe the game, and amused themselves with making rude remarks on the
burgher youths and with laughing at their gestures and dress.

"See the fine gentlemen," said they, "how daintily they handle the ball!
Better for them to keep to measuring silk or dealing out spices in their
fathers' shops, than try their skill here." "And the learned scholars,
too," said another, "they ought to stick to their musty parchments and
books, and not amuse themselves with such idle games as these."

Then one of them, on observing Hans, exclaimed, "See, too, the dyer's
son, with his rusty black jerkin. 'Tis a pity he does not dip it in one
of his old mother's dye-pots, if he would have himself pass for a
gentleman."

Conrad overheard this last remark and was very angry. A scornful
allusion to his friend was almost more than he could bear. It was his
turn to throw the ball, and scarce knowing what he did, he threw it with
force in the direction of the group of young nobles, and it struck one
of them on the temple. The youth drew his sword, (for at that time it
was common for the sons of nobles to wear them as ornaments), and ran
fiercely at him. Hans sprang forward to defend his friend and placed
himself before him. He had no weapon but his knife, and in defending his
friend with this, it so happened that he wounded the youth severely in
the side.

[Illustration]

A cry arose of "To prison with the assassin!" and it was with difficulty
that Hans could make his escape from out of the crowd which ran up from
all sides to see what was passing and take part in the affray. He
succeeded, however, in getting to the house of his friend, which was
near at hand, and here he was soon followed by Conrad, who was in great
distress. He said that the wound of the young man being found to be
dangerous, the officers of justice were already in search of Hans. He
advised him to leave the town immediately and to make the best of his
way to Worms, which is a town also on the banks of the Rhine, south of
Mainz. Here lived friends of his father, who would, he said, be ready to
receive him, and he furnished him with money for the journey. It was
nightfall, and wrapped in a cloak which was lent to him by Conrad, Hans
crept through the darkest and most retired streets until he reached the
convent, in order that he might relate his unfortunate adventure to his
uncle and take leave of him.

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