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Three travellers were once sitting in the neighbourhood of the Dummburg. The night was far advanced; the moon peeped forth between the fleeting clouds, and all around was still. Suddenly a rushing noise was heard above their heads; they looked up, and a large screech-owl flew before them. "Oh!" exclaimed one of the travellers, "that is the Tut-Osel; then the wild huntsman Hackelnberg is not far off." "Let us run," said the second," in a tremulous tone, "before the spectre overtakes us." Escape we cannot," said the third; "but you have nothing to fear, if you do not provoke him; lie flat down, quite still, on your faces, while he passes over us; but you must not speak to him, or it may be with us as it was with that shepherd." The travellers laid themselves down in the underwood, and soon heard around them a great noise as of a pack of hounds forcing their way through the thicket, and above them a hollow sound as of game when pursued, intermingled with the wild huntsman's appalling Hu! hu!" Two of the travellers lay close to the ground, but the third could not resist his curiosity; he cast a sideward glance through the branches, and saw the shadow of a huntsman, who with his dogs hurried over them. Everything was again still around. The travellers raised themselves slowly, and timidly they gazed after Hackelnberg, but he was gone, and did not again appear.

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After a long pause, one of them asked: "Who or what is the Tut-Osel?" His companion answered: "In a remote convent in Thuringia there once lived a nun of the name of Ursel. In her lifetime she was wont to annoy the sisterhood with her howling voice, and frequently disturbed the singing, on which account they called her the Tut-Ursel. But it was much worse after her death; then every night, at eleven o'clock, she put her head through a hole in the tower that opened into the choir of the church, and screamed mournfully; and every morning at four o'clock she joined in the choral song.

For a day or two the sisters endured this with beating hearts and trembling knees; but on the fourth morning, when she joined in the chant, one of the sisters whispered in a tremulous voice to her neighbour: Oh, that is certainly Ursel!" The chanting was suddenly stopped, their

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hair stood on end, and all the nuns ran out of the church screaming: "Oh, the Tut-Ursel! Tut-Ursel!" and all the threats of punishment and penance were insufficient to induce them again to enter the sacred edifice, until Ursel had been exorcised from within the convent walls. The most famous exorcist of his time, who resided in a Capuchin convent on the banks of the Danube, was sent for, who by fasting and prayer banished Ursel, in the form of a screechowl, to the distant Dummburg.

Here she met with Hackelnberg, and found in his wild cry of "Hu! hu!" as much pleasure as he did in her "U! hu!" and now, united for ever, they go forth on their aërial hunt, he pleased at having found a being to his mind, she not less delighted at being no longer confined within the convent-walls listening to the echo of the nuns' chant.

Now we have heard the story of the Tut-Osel," said one of the travellers, "tell us what happened to the shepherd who spoke to Hackelnberg." "Listen to the wonderful tale," answered his companion. "A shepherd once heard the wild huntsman riding just over his pens, and set his dogs after him, calling out: 'Good luck, Hackelnberg!' Hackelnberg instantly turned, and cried with a hollow thundering voice: As thou hast helped me to hunt, thou shalt have some of the game.' The shepherd crouched down trembling; but Hackelnberg threw a putrid haunch of a horse down into his hutch*, so that he could neither move backwards nor forwards."

What probably gave rise to these traditions of the middle ages was a hunter, like Nimrod, of the noble house of Hakelberg or Hackelnberg. The last known hunter of this race was Hans von Hakelberg, in the sixteenth century, who died in a hospital on the road not far from the village of Wulperode, near to Hornburg, on the confines of Brunswick. In the churchyard there his ashes are covered by a

* The word thus rendered is Schäferkarren, which signifies a sort of cart or barrow on which there is a small sort of cabin, in which the shepherds can rest occasionally.

stone, on which is represented a knight in complete armour on a mule. Formerly, the traveller who passed through Wulperode was astonished at the heavy knightly armour to be seen hanging in the church, belonging to Hans of Hackelnberg. At the present time the helmet only is to be seen there; all the rest of the armour is-although one knows not why-in Deersheim. Of his singular death the following tradition is preserved.

Hans von Hackelnberg, chief huntsman to the duke of Brunswick, lived only for the chase. To gratify his passion, he either bought or farmed several hunting districts, and traversed, with his followers and his large pack of dogs, fields and forests, and the mountains of the Harz, year after year, by day and by night.

He once passed the night in Harzeburg, and there dreamed that he saw a formidable wild boar, which, after a long conflict, overpowered him. When he awoke, the frightful image was ever before his eyes, and no remonstrances could divert his thoughts from the monster, although he affected to laugh at his dream. Some days after, he actually met in the Harz with a powerful boar, exactly resembling the one he had seen in his dream, in colour, in the erecting of his bristles, in size, and in the great length of his tusks. With ferocity, courage, and strength, the strife began on both sides, and long continued doubtful. To his dexterity Hans von Hackelnberg was indebted for his victory, and he ultimately stretched his formidable enemy at his feet. When he saw him at length extended on the earth, he feasted his eyes for some time on the sight, and then struck with his foot against the animal's tusks, exclaiming: "Thou canst do nothing with them now!" But he struck with such force, that one of the sharp teeth penetrated his boot and wounded his foot.

At first he thought but little of the wound, and continued the chase till night, came on. On his return home, his foot was so swollen, that it was found necessary to cut off the boot. From want of proper bandages and care, the wound became so bad in a few days, that he was obliged to hasten to Wolfenbüttel to procure help. But every motion of the carriage was intolerable to him, and it was with great

difficulty he could reach the hospital of Wulperode, in which he soon after expired *.

HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY.

In the court of the castle of Grüningen on the Bode, sat, one fine summer evening, Henry, bishop of Halberstadt, and with him another bishop, who for some months had been his guest. Before them stood, in two capacious goblets, their evening potation. From ten o'clock in the morning, when they dined, until sunset, they had been sitting talking about a great wine-tun, which some bishop on the Rhine had had constructed, such as in their opinion every ecclesiastical prince, who was desirous of imparting a proper degree of splendour to his court, ought to have. The plan was at length settled, and only waited for execution; and the conversation was beginning to be very dull and monosyllabic, and interrupted by frequent gapings on both sides, when luckily Conrad the shepherd drove his beautiful white flock across the castle-yard, where every evening they were counted by Bishop Henry. "May God protect you, Lord Bishop," said the shepherd. "Good evening, Conrad," answered the prelate. But where is Harm ?" Conrad whistled, and a beautiful large ram sprang forth, first to the shepherd, and then to the bishop, who caressed it and fed it with pieces of bread which he had purposely reserved from the dinner-table. The bishop then spoke a few words to his shepherd, and jokingly asked him, when he was to be married? Conrad shrugged his shoulders and drove on his flock.

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The bishop now launched out in praise of the beautiful ram, which he would not lose for the world; then he commended his good Conrad, who, he said, was honesty itself. At this his guest laughed aloud; for much travelling and long residence at many princely courts had inspired him with mistrust towards all mankind. He maintained, that to find perfectly honest servants was a downright impossi

* For other traditions of Hackelnberg, see Northern Mythology,

iii. 91-95.

bility, at least in an ecclesiastical court; they all deceived and cheated their masters; all of them were rogues, only some more, others less. Bishop Henry contradicted him with warmth, praised the general good character of all who lived under the protection of his pastoral staff, but more particularly his shepherd, Conrad, who never told him an untruth, nor had ever deceived him. "Has Conrad then never lied? Has he never deceived others? Never wronged his master?" asked the bishop ironically. "No," answered Henry emphatically, "Conrad has never done so,

nor will he ever do so."

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Never?" repeated his guest. "What will you wager?" After many proposals, the bishops wagered a wine-cask that should contain a hundred and fifty hogsheads. And in three days Conrad, without his knowledge, was to be put to the proof. The bishops then parted for the night, rejoiced at having found for the next few days some new excitement, and each sure of the victory.

The stranger bishop, before he retired to rest, entered as usual into conference with his man Peter. This Peter was a servant in name only; and occasionally was also the court-fool; he was in fact the bishop's privy councillor more than many who bore titles and orders. In all spiritual and secular matters Peter was always the adviser and helper. He was accustomed to see, to hear, and often to think for his master, without letting it be perceived; and he had so done in the present instance.

But this evening Peter was in no very loquacious humour, for the epithet of rogue, which his master just before had allowed to escape him, vexed him at heart, and not until he was promised a new scarlet cloak, in the event of the wager being won, would he open his mouth. But after many sarcastic remarks on the cost of the wine-cask, that was to contain a hundred and fifty hogsheads, which would be more than the half of the yearly revenue yielded by the bishopric, he undertook to find out how this Conrad, the pattern, quintessence, and phoenix of honesty, as both master and man deridingly called him, was to be acted upon.

Peter by sunrise put the night's reflections into immediate practice, and already, before the hour of dinner, he

was enabled to inform his master that Conrad entertained a