One of the most thoughtful and philosophic writers of our day, Mr. Carlyle, has a few noteworthy sentences regarding this strange book, which we shall do well to transfer to these pages:—
“Lastly, in a third class, we find in full play that spirit of broad drollery, of rough saturnine humour, which the Germans claim as a special characteristic; among these, we must not omit to mention the Schiltbürger correspondent to our own Wise Men of Gotham; still less the far-famed Tyll Eulenspiegel (Tyll Owlglass), whose rogueries and waggeries belong in the fullest sense to this era.
“This last is a true German work; for both the man, Tyll Eulenspiegel, and the book which is his history, were produced there. Nevertheless, Tyll’s fame has gone abroad into all lands; thus, the narrative of his exploits has been published in innumerable editions, even with all manner of learned glosses, and translated into Latin, English, French, Dutch, Polish; nay, in several languages, as in his own, an Eulenspiegelerei and Espiéglerie, or dog’s trick, so named after him, still by consent of lexicographers, keeps his memory alive. We may say, that to few mortals has it been granted to earn such a place in universal history as Tyll; for now, after five centuries, when Wallace’s birth-place is unknown even to the Scots; and the admirable Crichton still more rapidly is grown a shadow; and Edward Longshanks sleeps unregarded save by a few antiquarian English, Tyll’s native village is pointed out with pride to the traveller, and his tombstone, with a sculptured pun on his name,—namely, an Owl and a Glass,—still stands, or pretends to stand, at Möllen, near Lübeck, where, since 1350, his once nimble bones have been at rest. Tyll, in the calling he had chosen, naturally led a wandering life, as place after place became too hot for him; by which means he saw into many things with his own eyes; having been not only over all Westphalia and Saxony, but even in Poland, and as far as Rome. That in his old days, like other great men, he became an autobiographer, and in trustful winter evenings, not on paper, but on air, and to the laughter-lovers of Möllen, composed this work himself, is purely a hypothesis; certain only that it came forth originally in the dialect of this region, namely, the Platt-Deutsch; and was therefrom translated, probably about a century afterwards, into its present High German, as Lessing conjectures, by one Thomas Murner, who, on other grounds, is not unknown to antiquaries. For the rest, write it who might, the book is here, ‘abounding,’ as a wise critic remarks, ‘in inventive humour, in rough merriment, and broad drollery, not without a keen rugged shrewdness of insight; which properties must have made it irresistibly captivating to the popular sense; and with all its fantastic extravagancies, and roguish crotchets, in many points instructive.’”[[8]]
Mr. Carlyle then cites one adventure, that of the Easter Play, which has not been included in the present version; for although it illustrates well enough the interior of a parson’s household of the fourteenth century, there is a smack of profanity about it which it is well to avoid. And, indeed, it is due to the reader of this volume, to inform him, that our present chronicle differs in one material point from all former editions. While it has been my object everywhere to tell the story of Owlglass in a quaint and simple manner, modern good taste required a special duty at the chronicler’s hands: viz., that of purification and modification, for it may readily be believed that a book written of the fourteenth century, for the sixteenth century, would abound with homely wit, not quite consonant with the ideas of the nineteenth. Therefore several stories of a somewhat indelicate, and generally pointless, character have been omitted, and their place supplied with matter obtained by a collation of several editions in the German, French, and Flemish languages.
And another aim which I have had in view has been, where good taste and opportunity admitted, to apply, in a veiled manner, the axioms and quips of our knight-errant of roguery, to subjects and follies not banished from our own more polite age. The reader will thus be able to judge in how far this modern Owlglass differs from its predecessors. In no instance, however, have I permitted myself to lose sight of the object in view, which was to give as good a picture of the original as might be, and that in spirit rather than in letter. This spirit has been so justly estimated by M. Robin, a clever and dashing French critic, whose sad death may still be remembered by a few, that, at the risk of adding too much to this preface, I subjoin an epitome of his remarks:—
“It is quite true,” says he, “that glory is nothing but vanity. I have seen in the sepulchral silence of libraries, names quite unknown, on the backs of gigantic volumes, the librarians could tell me nothing of these, except that they were the authors of these books. I have seen, on the pavement of ancient churches, pompous epitaphs, and heraldic arms, and the nails of the peasant’s shoe tread them under foot. Be then in life a man of learning, knowing every language, be a noble of Spain, a Knight of the Golden Fleece, Viceroy of Mexico or Peru, say you have the right of keeping your hat on in the presence of the King, yet it will scarcely be known that you have lived, while a vaurien, a man who had neither hearth nor home, a practical joker, a drunkard, having the devil in his purse, living from hand to mouth, sleeping to-day in the streets, and to-morrow in the bed of his host, whom he never pays, and understanding too well the buffoonery of life ever to have thought of glory; as soon as this man is dead, and ignobly buried, he enters at once into immortality, bequeathing to the people a name which they will never forget, and, to the Attic language of the moderns, a word of which they stood much in need. Who can boast of having invented a word? Very few of the greatest writers can arrogate to themselves this most rare glory. But to leave one’s name to the most grave and self-sufficient language in Europe, to force it to say espiègle, because one’s name was Ulenspiegel; and to pass fifty years in practical joking and laughter; to be able to call oneself the father of the great family of Mystificators, surely this is no common fate, and doubtless the contemplator of it will cry out: ‘Where doth Immortality dwell? Poor author, it was well worth thy pains to wear out thy brain in writing folios! Unfortunate hidalgo, it was well worth the trouble of being puffed up with pride at a long name unpronounceable in a breath, that this name should be forgotten, and that the name of a boorish jester should be transmitted almost intact to the most distant posterity.”
The best test of the worth of a book, whether it be several centuries old, or, as it were, a production of our own day, is the proportion of times that it has been reproduced or imitated. Singularly enough, while, in most continental languages, such translations and imitations have been frequent, in two instances only has this celebrated folk-book appeared in an English dress; first, as has been already stated, in Black Letter, in 1528–1530, and again in a modified form in 1720. With a description of these two editions I will not trouble the reader here, as in the Appendix at the end an accurate account of them will be found; and I will merely add, in this place, that of the Black Letter translation only two copies are known to exist, both in the British Museum; and that of the second, a copy of which is now in my own possession, I have only been able to find one other, which is in the Douce Collection in the Bodleian.
It was originally in contemplation to reprint the scarce Black Letter edition; but, on a careful examination, I found this an impossibility, as the contents, for reasons already hinted at, would have shocked good taste; nor, in point of fact, would that edition have offered so great a variety as in this volume has been presented; which may be understood when it is explained, that of all kinds of stories, good and bad, the Black Letter gives but forty-eight; while in the present chronicle there are—such questionable adventures being omitted—no less than one hundred and eleven. Although the idea of such reprint was thus abandoned, there appeared no reason, however, why the old-fashioned form should not be adopted in the telling of the tale. For this and any other faults which the reader may detect I hold myself responsible; and I may mention, that so careful have I been to imitate the style of the time in which it is supposed to be written, that I have even followed the confusion between the use of the “thee” and “thou” and “you” and “ye” common in early books, especially at the transition era of the Stuarts.
The edition which I have adopted as a guide or clue-line, is the Low German original of 1519 in the excellent and exhaustive work of Dr. Lappenberg; and I need not here especially refer to any other, save that of M. Octave Delepierre, long time a zealous antiquary, who argues for a Flemish origin for our hero, an origin in which, giving every meed of praise to that gentleman for the singular ingenuity and complete localization which his book exhibits, I need scarcely say that I cannot coincide. Nay, it may even be suspected that he himself is but in jest with his argument.
I have also to draw the notice of the reader to the Appendices at the end of this volume, which enter into the bibliographical and other history of the book, and to mention that I am greatly indebted to the Rev. Dr. Bandinel, the venerable Librarian of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, and also to my friends, the Rev. Alfred Hackman, M.A., Precentor of Christ Church, and the Rev. John S. Sidebotham, M.A., Chaplain of New College, and Preacher at St. Martin’s, Carfax, Oxford, for much valuable assistance in searching for Eulenspiegel literature amidst the treasures contained in that valuable library.