A true mirror
it was of stupidity and injustice, presented by a sprite of owlish
wisdom, sporting, teasing and punishing[A] all about. It is a kind of
popular satire, with a strong personal element of a human Puck, or an
impish Robin Hood, with all the fairy restlessness, mocking at human rut
and empty custom.
[Footnote A: On leaving the scene of some special mischief, Till would
draw a chalk picture of an owl on the door, and write below, _Hic fuit_.
The edition of 1519 has a woodcut of an owl resting on a mirror, that
was carved in stone, the story goes, over Till's grave.]
It is perhaps in the multitude of the stories, paradoxical though it
seem, that lies the strength. In the number of them (ninety-two
"histories" there are) is an element of universality. It is like the
broom: one straw does not make, nor does the loss of one destroy it;
somewhere in the mass lies the quality of broom.
In a way Till is the Ulysses of German folk-lore, the hero of trickery,
a kind of _Reinecke Fuchs_ in real life. But he is of the soil as none
of the others. A satyr, in a double sense, is Till; only he is pure
Teuton, of the latter middle ages.
He is every sort of tradesman, from tailor to doctor. Many of the
stories, perhaps the best, are not stories at all, but merely clever
sayings. In most of the tricks there is a Roland for an Oliver. Till
stops at no estate; parsons are his favorite victims. He is, on the
whole, in favor with the people, though he played havoc with entire
villages.
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