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453 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 1, 2014
One of the ironies of Luther's later criticism of indulgences was they were not only hugely popular, but an early mainstay of the printing industry. After several centuries of evolution the theology of indulgences reached its mature form in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In return for the performance of pious acts - participation in a pilgrimage, contribution to a Crusade or church building - the repentant Christian was offered the assurance of remission of sin. The practice was closely associated with the doctrine of purgatory, to the extent that the length of remission, often forty days, was precisely quantified. The contribution was acknowledged with a receipt or certificate: initially on parchment or paper, and handwritten.
It was swiftly recognised that the labour of transcribing such certificates would be greatly reduced if the terms and details of the gift could be printed, leaving gaps for insertion of the name of the recipient and the sum donated. Certificates of indulgence soon became a ubiquitous feature of publishing in Germany. For prints, this was the ideal commission. The work was short, a few simple lines of text, easily set up and executed. [...] For indulgences we know of orders for 5000, 20000, even in one case for 200000 copies. This was work so lucrative that printers would often interrupt or put aside other orders to fulfil these commissions, as frustrated authors frequently complained. Gutenberg was one of many printers who undertook work of this sort, alongside more ambitious projects.
The London Gazette would be edited from within the office of the Secretaries of State, its text chosen from incoming newsletters and foreign newspapers. The actual editorial work was performed by civil servants, quite junior members of the Secretary's staff. [...]
The Gazette, in this way, provided its readers with a very partial view of affairs, mostly confined to foreign news. Buts its sources of information were very good: text was abstracted from a range of continental newspapers and the manuscript news-books provided by continental newsmen as part of their exchange agreement. The Gazette was therefore reliable, and as informative as the government wished it to be. But apart from official communications, a reprinted proclamation or court circular, it said little or nothing about the pulsating politics of the day.
The Gazette, as a paper of record, resisted advertisements for six years, until in 1671 it started to accept personal ads. These were often, it must be admitted, of a rather superior nature. In the issue of 21 September 1671 the queen appealed for the return of a missing spaniel, with furry feet and liver-coloured spots. And who could imagine a grander lost property notice than that inserted in The Gazette of 4 May 1685 after the coronation of James II:
'Lost at their Majesties coronation the button [knob] of his Majesty's sceptre, set about with 24 small diamonds, three rubies and three emeralds; a pendant pearl from his Majesty's gown about 9 carets of 30 common grains, and about 16 great links of a gold chain. Whoever gives notice thereof to the officers of her [sic?] Majesty's Jewel-house, shall be well rewarded.
Periodicals, for all their eloquent advocacy of universal enfranchisement, still spoke in the voice of the educated elite. Marat's tirades of denunciation could be couched in a severely classical vocabulary. He made no attempt whatsoever to address the common people in their own patterns of speech; rather there was a conscious sense of distance. Several times a week his Ami du Peuple would conclude with an 'Address to the Citizenry', where in the exasperated tones of an Old Testament prophet he offered a foreboding vision of the future that would unfold should his readers ignore his injunctions.
