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Page:The private memoirs and confessions of a justified sinner (IA privatememoirsco00hoggrich).pdf/226

 his fate, and from that time forth I have had no faith in the justice of criminal trials. If once a man is prejudiced on one side, he will swear any thing in support of such prejudice. I tried to expostulate with my mysterious friend on the horrid injustice of suffering this young man to die for our act, but the prince exulted in it more than the other, and said the latter was the most dangerous man of the two.

The alarm in and about Glasgow was prodigious. The country being divided into two political parties, the court and the country party, the former held meetings, issued proclamations, and offered rewards, ascribing all to the violence of party spirit, and deprecating the infernal measures of their opponents. I did not understand their political differences; but it was easy to see that the true Gospel preachers joined all on one side, and the upholders of pure morality and a blameless life on the other, so that this division proved a test to us, and it was forthwith resolved, that we two should pick out some of the leading men of this unsaintly and heterodox cabal, and cut them off one by one, as occasion should suit.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
The Satchel's Secret

TOPPING at the curb before the entrance of the office building, Staler glanced inside, as though waiting for a friend. There was a vacant look in his face. His expression was that of a bored man. He yawned. He extracted a cigarette case from his pocket and took from it a cigarette. Returning the case, he took out a match, lighted the cigarette, and puffed lazily.

To an observer it would have appeared that Staler was killing time and was half asleep. In reality, he was alert. Through his half-closed eyes he saw the messenger come along the walk carrying the leather satchel. Staler knew all about that satchel. He had made it his business to know.

Every Saturday morning at a quarter after eleven o'clock, a messenger from the Great Stores Company entered the First National Bank on the next corner. He carried an empty leather satchel that was supplied with the very latest in locks.

Half an hour later, at a quarter of twelve precisely, the same messenger emerged from the bank and hurried down the street toward the Great Stores. Now the satchel was filled with bundles of currency and packages of coin. It was heavy, and the messenger carried it carefully. Staler knew that a fine chain connected the satchel with the messenger's wrist.

It was not always the same messenger. The Great Stores Company had two, and on some Saturdays a certain one made the trip, and on other Saturdays the other. But there was small difference in the messengers. Neither was much physically, when compared to Staler.

The heavy satchel, of course, contained the pay roll of the Great Stores which amounted to about twenty thousand dollars. It was made up by the bank from a working sheet prepared by the Great Stores' head bookkeeper. The messenger merely took the satchel to the bank, saw it filled and locked, and returned with it to the store. There the head bookkeeper unlocked it and prepared the money for distribution.

The messenger passed, and Staler glanced at him dreamily, yawned again, and drifted down the street in the same direction. For twelve Saturdays he had done this. Staler wanted to make certain that the messengers were creatures of habit. What he saw to-day convinced him.

The man with the satchel always left the bank at the same time and went to the Great Stores by the same route. He was methodical in all his movements. It always was the same satchel, and both messengers carried it in their left hands. Each messenger also carried an automatic pistol. Staler had ascertained that, also.

He remained some distance behind his man, but followed him until he turned into the Great Stores. Then Staler cut through a cross street and hurried to the little restaurant, and went to a table in the rear of the room, where another man was waiting. He sat down, greeted the other man, gave his order and got his food, then spoke.

“Well, Melk?” he asked.

“Everything as usual, Staler.”

“No use in comparing notes, then. As far as I could see, there wasn't a thing changed.”

“Not a thing. I timed the fellow. He passed that doorway exactly at five minutes of twelve.”

“Anybody around?”

“Not half a dozen persons. There never is at that hour. Ten minutes later a crowd pours out of the loft building.”

“Good enough!” Staler said. “Now you listen to me, Melk. We pull the thing next Saturday.”

“It's about time,” Melk declared. “We've wasted three months nosing around.”

“And we've made it safe. We can't lose now, unless old Mrs. Fate steps in and asks to be dealt cards in the game. Next Saturday it is! And somewhere in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars for each of us after it is over. Some haul!”

“Any change in the plans, Staler

“Not a change, Melk. Everything is perfect. We'll separate now, and you be on hand next Saturday. We don't want to be seen together again.”

“I getcha!” Melk whispered. “If there is any change, you know how to get me by telephone.”

“There won't be any change, Melk. The plan is perfect. Even old Mrs. Fate would have a hard time wrecking it. She'll play no joke on us this time, Melk. That's all. You'd better go out of here first.”

Staler was up at an early hour the following Saturday morning. He took a cold plunge, dressed carefully in inconspicuous clothing, ate breakfast at a little restaurant where he was not known, and then went to a cigar store and entered a sound-proof telephone booth. He called Melk.

A few words over the telephone wire assured Staler that Melk was feeling quite well and was ready to do the part assigned him. Staler returned to his room in the quiet little hotel in a side street. He removed his coat, sat down before a window, and began thinking.

Staler was a good general in a way. Though all his plans were complete, and perfect, he thought, yet he wished to review them before the campaign started. He concentrated his mind on the affair, thought of every detail, and finally smiled and arose, to stretch his arms above his head and then expel his breath in a single great gasp. Staler was ready!

He was satisfied that he had overlooked nothing. Every minor detail had received his careful consideration, The pay roll of the Great Stores Company was as good as in his hands, and without fear that he would be apprehended afterward.

Glancing at his watch he saw that it was ten o'clock. He looked around the room. He had packed all his things in a suit case and bag. It was time to start.

Staler descended to the office and paid his bill. He engaged a taxicab and journeyed to the nearest railway station, and checked bag and suit case at the parcel stand. There they would remain, to be sold later for charges, for Staler did not intend to reclaim them. And he flattered himself that there was nothing in them that would give a clew to his identity.

Leaving the station he walked slowly through the busy streets until he came to the corner where the bank was located. He had timed himself well, and so he did not have to loiter around and run the risk of being observed. As he reached the corner he saw the messenger of the Great Stores Company entering the bank with the empty leather satchel.

Staler hurried on down the street, taking the route the messenger would take later. He glanced at his watch again, for he had everything timed, and he did not care to make a mistake. Being late, or being ahead of time, would be a grave mistake.

In a cross street he came to the loft building. There were two entrances side by side. One led to a series of busy lofts that would disgorge a throng of employees at the noon hour. The other led to a vacant loft.

Staler darted into the latter and went noiselessly up the stairs. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door of the loft, and entered. A glance sufficed to tell him that the loft was empty, as he had expected.

On the other side of the big room was another door, and Staler unlocked that also and glanced into a tiny, half-dark hallway. He closed the door, recrossed the room, went into the front hall, closed that door, and walked down the stairs. Another glance at his watch showed him that it was ten minutes of noon.

Staler's observations had proved to him that the messenger generally passed that door at five minutes of twelve. So he had but five minutes to wait. Outwardly he was calm; inwardly his nerves were on edge.

He looked across the street. He saw Melk, on time to the second, walking along slowly. Melk stopped directly across from the door, stepped to the curb and lighted a cigar, glancing over his cupped hands to make sure that Staler was at his post.

“Everything lovely!” Staler told himself. “Couldn't be better! A quick haul and an easy one! Even old Mrs. Fate can't stop us now. It's as good as done!”

Staler looked down the street, and for an instant his heart almost ceased beating. For here came the messenger, a slave of habit, on time to the second also. He carried the leather satchel that meant so much to Staler and Melk. Staler's right hand slipped into his coat pocket and grasped a peculiar tool. The handle was of metal, heavy, and well-balanced. The other end was a pair of nippers that would cut strong metal swiftly and neatly.

He made sure that he could get this affair out of his pocket instantly, without having it catch on the side or the flap. Staler thought of everything! He glanced across the street at Melk again, and knew that Melk had seen the messenger. Melk stepped from the curb and started slowly across the thoroughfare as though to enter the loft building.

Staler almost grinned. This went to show what a man of brains could do if he was methodical and took time to gather information and plan correctly. Here would be a great haul and a swift and sure get-away. The police would be some puzzled and undoubtedly make many arrests and hold many persons for investigation. And while that was going on, Staler and Melk would be far away and still traveling, enjoying the proceeds of the daylight robbery.

Carelessly Staler stepped back a couple of feet or so. The messenger, looking straight ahead and walking swiftly along the face of the building, came toward the doorway. He came opposite it and started to pass.

Swiftly and silently Staler sprang forward. His arm flashed up and the heavy handle of the tool he had taken from his pocket crashed against the messenger's head in a tender spot behind the left ear. The messenger groaned once and toppled forward.

Staler whirled the tool in his hand, and with the other hand he grasped the leather satchel. The chain was there, as he had supposed it would be, connecting the satchel with the messenger's wrist. Staler snipped twice with the tool and the chain parted.

Melk got in his work now. He shrieked and ran forward. Men and women turned at the sound of his voice. They saw the body of the messenger stretched out on the walk. They saw a man disappearing into one of the doors. They saw Melk rushing forward to lift the victim.

Instantly a crowd had formed. A policeman thrust his way through it, and found Melk lifting the head of the stricken messenger.

“I saw it, officer!” Melk volunteered. “I was just coming across the street. This man was hurrying along, carrying a satchel. Another man darted from the doorway, seized the satchel, and smashed this man on the head. Robbery, I guess.”

“A Great Stores' messenger!” the policeman gasped. “Pay-roll robbery, I suppose.”

Melk made himself generally useful. Other policemen came and an ambulance was called. A detective put in his appearance. Melk was questioned again.

“He was a man of ordinary size,” Melk declared. “He had on a brown suit and a hard hat. He ran into that doorway.”

Melk pointed to the opening that led to the busy lofts. And at that moment there came streaming through it the horde of workers, going to take their noon hour. The policemen fought in vain to make a search.

Smiling broadly Melk crept slowly to the edge of the crowd, and then went rapidly down the street. He had done his part. He had directed the police to the wrong door. And, as a matter of fact, Staler was a large man, and wore a dark-gray suit and a soft hat.

Staler, carrying the satchel, took the stairs four at a bound. He threw open the door of the empty loft, closed it behind him and locked it, and darted quickly across the room.

Throwing open the other door, he darted into the little hallway. He ran the length of it noiselessly, alert. At the end was an open window. Six feet below the window was the roof of an adjoining building.

Staler dropped to the roof and ran across it for a distance of twenty feet, where the roof ended against a third building. Here was another open window, and Staler crept through it and lowered it quickly. He was in a room in another quiet hotel, where he had registered the week before, and where he had another suit case.

He did not waste seconds now. Two tugs at his waist, and the dark-gray trousers came from him. He drew off the coat and waistcoat. Beneath the thin gray suit was another suit of black.

Staler rolled the gray clothes into a bundle, hurried into the bathroom, and tossed the clothes down into the air shaft. The soft hat he had been wearing followed the clothes. He picked up a derby and put it on his head, opened the suit case and put the satchel in it beneath a bundle of shirts, and stepped to the hall door.

Locking the door of the room, Staler descended to the office and for the second time that day paid a hotel bill. He asked a boy to call a taxicab for him, tipped the bell hop for his service, and directed the chauffeur to take him to a railway station, but not the one where he had checked the other suit case and grip.

Staler was a bit nervous about it yet, but he did not show it in face, voice, or manner. To an ordinary observer he was a man catching a train and nothing more. When the station was reached, he glanced at the big clock on the wall, and then sat down in a corner of the waiting room and began looking through a newspaper.

Ten minutes later he saw Melk walk through the waiting room and toward the gate. Staler got up and followed. Melk showed his tickets and passed through; he had a lower berth for Chicago. Staler showed his and was passed also, Staler evidently was a man of affairs—he had a compartment all to himself.

Inside the compartment Staler tossed the suit case to a corner, took out a cigar, bit off the end, and began chewing it. The train slipped from the station and reached the open country. Presently the conductor came through. He found Staler going through a bundle of impressive-looking papers, still the picture of a man of large affairs.

The train roared on. Came a tap at the door, and Staler arose and opened it. Melk slipped inside.

“Everything all right?” Melk asked.

Staler grinned. “Everything is lovely, Melk,” he replied. “It goes to show what a man with brains can do. There wasn't a slip anywhere. And you must have done your part well.”

“According to orders,” Melk said.

“And now for the celebration, Melk. Open that window, so we can toss out the satchel after we empty it. I'll have to cut the blame thing open, but I'm prepared for that, too. Got a sharp knife all ready for the job.”

Melk tugged at the window and got it open. Staler locked the door, got the suit case, unlocked it, and took out the satchel.

“There we are, Melk,” he said. “About ten thousand each according to the dope. It pays to go slow and plan things well. Not a slip anywhere.”

Now he began using the knife. He made an incision in the tough leather after a time and cut a long slit.

“Get ready to give your eyes a feast, Melk,” he said. “Here we go to Easy Street for a few months. Brains does it. Even old Mrs. Fate couldn't step in and queer this deal. We had it planned too well. We”

Staler had been dumping the contents of the leather satchel on the floor. Now he cursed, then went down on hands and knees to investigate and to curse again.

“Old Mrs. Fate” he gasped, tugging at his collar with one hand, as though about to strangle.

The satchel contained canceled checks of the Great Stores Company—and nothing more!

Said Melk an hour later: “I thought something was wrong. Right after the messenger you sapped, the other came along with another satchel. I thought that was funny. He had the pay-roll coin, I suppose, and the bird you soaked had been to get these canceled checks.”

“Old Mrs. Fate will have her little joke,” Staler muttered disconsolately.

title: The Satchel's Secret


text: Talk:The Satchel's Secret

title: Talk:The Satchel's Secret


text:
The Smart Set/Volume 21/Issue 1/The Case on the Wall

ODFREY had asked me around that evening to talk over the still obscure Mercer disappearance, and had named eight o'clock; but the star reporter of a great daily makes his engagements subject to the whim of any one of several millions of people, so I was not surprised when eight o'clock came without bringing Godfrey with it. I filled my pipe, lighted it, and turned to the shelves which covered two of the walls, certain that I should find something there with which to pass an hour or two both agreeably and profitably.

For Godfrey possesses a rather remarkable library, of a sort—unique, indeed, in several of its items; as, for instance, in Professor Lampiere's exhaustive monograph on the shape of the eyebrow in its relation to criminal propensity—a monograph left in manuscript at the author's death and willed to Godfrey as a token of appreciation of his invaluable assistance in the astonishing affair of the Tregarthen birthmark. It is Godfrey's intention to add some notes to this monograph, to preface it with an account of Professor Lampiere's other contributions to criminal science, and to see the book through the press; but until he finds time to do this, it must remain peculiar to his collection.

I had gone over the books more than once, but as I passed from the first case to the second, my eye was caught by an object on the wall which I had never before noticed there. It was a case of polished wood, about five inches square and perhaps two inches deep, with a front of beveled glass. The reflection of the light on this glass for a moment obscured my view of what lay behind it, but as I moved to one side, I was astonished to see that the only thing the case contained was a half-smoked cigar. It was about two inches in length and occupied the very centre of the case, impaled on a pin.

I was still gazing at this singular object and wondering why it should be worthy of such a shrine, when the door opened and Godfrey himself came in.

“Ah, Lester,” he said, “sorry I kept you waiting. There was a case just at the last moment”

“Of course,” I said. “You were lucky to get here so soon. I've been fully occupied.”

“In looking at that little memento?” and his eyes followed mine to the case on the wall.

“Yes—and in wondering what it commemorates.”

“It commemorates my first victory, Lester,” and his face grew reminiscent as he looked at it. “I thought I had lost it, but I ran across it the other day while sorting over some rubbish and decided to have it properly mounted, for it's as dear to me as an author's first acceptance or a lawyer's first brief is to him—dearer, for a lawyer often loses his first case and the author's masterpiece may prove a failure; but that affair was one of my most unqualified successes!”

It was not just then that I heard the story, for with Godfrey business is always first; but afterward, when we drew up before the fire for a final smoke before I said good night, I got it out of him.

was in the Winter of '92 that Godfrey decided to try detective work, and he naturally chose New York as the best arena. But to get an appointment to the Metropolitan force was no easy matter, and it was not until the following June that this ambition was realized. Even then he found a wide difference between the dream and the reality, for he was at once assigned to duty “up-State,” as the district above the Harlem was facetiously called.

It was not an enviable post for a man burning to distinguish himself. The first week passed absolutely without incident, and to Godfrey it seemed a year. He virtually lived at headquarters; instead of becoming fat and somnolent after the manner of Harlem policemen, he grew gaunt and restless; but at last his reward came.

He had awakened rather earlier than usual that morning, and finding that he could not go to sleep again, he got up, dressed, and walked over to headquarters to report. He noticed that the hands of the sergeant's clock pointed to ten minutes of six, and just as he walked around to the desk to glance over the blotter, the telephone-bell rang.

The sergeant unhooked the receiver and placed it to his ear.

“Hello!” he called. Then, after a moment, “What for?”

But to this question he apparently received no answer, for he replaced the receiver with a jerk and swung around to Godfrey.

“They want an officer over at 838 West One Hundred and Twenty-third street, Jim,” he said. “Want one pretty bad, I guess. The old fellow who telephoned was about scared to death. Will you go?”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, and a moment later was hurrying down the street.

It was only a few blocks, and at the end of ten minutes he stopped before a square, old-fashioned house, standing back from the street in the midst of a little grove of trees. On either side of the place was an empty lot, which made the grounds seem larger than they really were. A porch ran across the front of the house and another, covered with vines, along the sides.

Godfrey opened the gate and entered. As he mounted the steps to the porch, the door opened a few inches and a face, distorted with grief and terror, peered out.

“Are you the officer?” asked a quavering voice.

“Yes,” answered Godfrey, and showed his shield.

“Then for God's sake come in!” and the door was swung back, disclosing an old man with family servant written in every line.

“What's the matter?” Godfrey demanded as he entered. “What has happened?”

For answer, the other beckoned with unsteady hand and led the way along the hall to the door of a room which was evidently the library.

“Look at that,” he said, and motioned within.

For an instant, in the semi-darkness, Godfrey saw nothing; then, with a sudden quickening of the pulse, he discerned a figure sitting in a chair facing the door. The head was bowed forward as though in sleep. He approached it and lifted the head with his hand, then let it fall with a little cry of horror at its stare of agony, its protruding eyes and tongue, its swollen lips.

But a moment served to give him back his self-control, and he lifted the head again. This time he perceived the livid band which encircled the neck. The man had been strangled.

“Who is he?” he asked of the servant, who, apparently on the verge of collapse, stood gasping on the threshold, as though not daring to enter the room.

“He's Professor Carew,” said the old man, with a sob.

Godfrey started again.

“Professor Carew!” he repeated incredulously, and turned back to the distorted face.

Could this really be the great physicist, honored throughout the world of science, member of a dozen learned societies, officer of the Legion of Honor, decorated by the German Emperor, by the Czar of Russia, by the King of Spain? Professor Carew—and foully murdered!

A great case! But would he be able to handle it? He gripped his hands together and put the doubt behind him.

“Who's the family doctor?” he asked.

“Dr. Sweetser, sir.”

“Call him up and ask him to come at once,” said Godfrey.

Then, as the servant disappeared, he turned to an inspection of the room.

was a large apartment, lined to the ceiling with books, crowded and crammed with them, until they overflowed upon the chairs and into the corners. A long library-table stood in the middle of the floor and it was in an easy-chair beside this table that Professor Carew was sitting at the time he met his death.

Besides the door into the hall, there was another leading to a rear room. This door stood half-open and a glance showed Godfrey that the room beyond was Professor Carew's laboratory. Opposite the hall door was a row of three windows, extending to the floor and opening upon the porch at the side of the house. The remaining wall was occupied by a mantel and open fireplace, flanked on either side by shelves.

He had just finished this tour of the room when he heard the front door shut heavily and a hasty step come down the hall. The next instant a man appeared in the doorway—a man whose virile face gave the lie to the gray hair above it. The little case in his hand bespoke the doctor.

“What's this?” he demanded in a voice not wholly steady. “Come, Carew, this won't do!” and he lifted his friend's head to drop it, as Godfrey had done, with a cry of horror.

“This is Dr. Sweetser, I suppose?” said Godfrey, coming forward.

“Yes, that's my name, sir,” answered the doctor, turning quickly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Godfrey, sir; I belong to the detective force.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“I am trying to bring a murderer to justice,” answered Godfrey quietly. “See here,” and he rolled the dead man's head to one side. “Professor Carew has been murdered.”

The doctor stared with starting eyes at the livid band upon the neck; then he dropped heavily into a chair, set his case upon the floor, and, with shaking hand, mopped the perspiration from his face.

“Wait a minute,” he said hoarsely. “I can't believe it! Carew murdered! Why, he hadn't an enemy on earth! Some robber, no doubt....”

“No,” said Godfrey. “His watch is still in his pocket, and see, here is his purse. The room is evidently undisturbed.”

“Wait!” said the doctor again, and rose to his feet and took a hasty turn up and down. “Now,” he added, after a moment, “go ahead, sir. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I'm sure you can,” Godfrey agreed, and glanced admiringly at the firm-set lips and gleaming eyes. “How long would you say Professor Carew had been dead?”

The doctor bent over the body for a moment.

“From six to eight hours,” he said.

“Then he was killed before midnight?”

“Yes—I should say an hour or so before midnight.”

“You will see,” Godfrey went on, pointing to the livid band, “that the murderer must have stolen up behind him, thrown a rope or something of the sort about his neck and twisted it tight. Here at the back are the marks of his knuckles.”

The doctor nodded assent.

“Since Professor Carew is facing the door,” Godfrey continued, “his assailant could not have entered unseen from that direction. He must, therefore, have come either from the laboratory or from the porch. I am inclined to think he came from the porch. The windows, you see, are closed, but the central one is unfastened.”

Again the doctor nodded.

Godfrey went to the central window, opened it and passed out upon the porch. The doctor followed him.

“No chance for a footprint,” said Godfrey, looking at the closely-clipped turf. “That would have been too fortunate. Ah, see there!” he added.

He was pointing to a half-smoked cigar which lay on a little ledge beside the window nearest the street. He picked it up, smelt it and examined it closely.

“Did Professor Carew smoke?” he asked, at last.

“No, never,” replied the doctor. “Nor would he permit smoking in his house. He abhorred the odor of tobacco.”

“Ah,” commented Godfrey; “then this cigar was left here by someone about to enter—someone who knew of this abhorrence. Suppose we call the servant—what is his name?”

“Browder,” answered the doctor. “He and his wife have been here for many years. They were the only servants. Professor Carew, you know, was a bachelor.”

Browder was still hovering on the threshold of the library and came forward quickly at the sound of his name.

“Browder,” began Godfrey, “I've just found this cigar lying here beside the window. Do you know who left it there?”

The old man gazed at it in astonishment.

“No, sir,” he said. “It must have been put there last night. I dusted off the porch yesterday afternoon and it wasn't there then.”

“You don't smoke, do you?”

“Me, sir!” cried Browder. “No, sir; not I!”

“Suppose you tell us what occurred last night,” suggested Godfrey, leading the way back into the library; “everything you can remember.”

“Well, sir,” began Browder, “my master had his dinner at seven o'clock, as usual.”

“Did he dine alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in his usual spirits?”

“Yes, sir; just as usual.”

“And with his usual appetite?”

“Yes, sir; so far as I could see. He never was what you would call a hearty eater. After dinner he sat out there on the porch a while, and then, about eight o'clock, the bell rang. I went to the door and found a foreign-looking man standing there.”

“What do you mean by foreign-looking?”

“Well, sir, not like an American. He was very dark, with a big, black mustache that stuck straight out on either side and the sharpest eyes I ever saw. He gave me his card and I took it in to my master. He looked at it, hesitated a moment, and then told me to show the gentleman in.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Godfrey. “Where is the card?”

Browder disappeared into the hall and came back with a little square of pasteboard in his hand. Godfrey took it and read:

“Ever hear of him, Dr. Sweetser?” he asked.

“No,” said the doctor, “I never did.”

Godfrey gazed at the card a moment longer, then placed it carefully in his pocket.

“Well, go ahead, Browder,” he said. “What happened then?”

“I had some work to do in the dining-room,” continued the man, “and didn't hear anything for maybe half an hour. Then my master rang for me, and as I went out into the hall I heard the foreigner talking away at the top of his voice like blazes.”

“What was he saying?”

“I don't know, sir. I judged he was using his native language. When I got to the door of the library I saw him walking up and down, waving his hands in the air and red in the face as a turkey-cock. But he calmed down all of a sudden when he saw me there.

“'Show the gentleman out, Browder,' said my master, and then said something quick-like to the foreigner, who answered in the same way, but I couldn't understand nothing but one word, 'regret.'

“When I came back I found my master setting at the table there, writing a letter.

“'Wait a minute, Browder,' he said. 'I want you to mail this for me.'

“So 1 waited, and pretty soon he directed and sealed it and gave it to me, and I took it to the box at the corner.”

“Did you read the address?” asked Godfrey.

“No, sir; I didn't,” Browder answered with offended dignity.

“I was sure you didn't,” said Godfrey, smiling. “What next?”

“Well, just as I got back I met one of the neighbors, Mr. Morrell, at the gate coming in and I brought him on into the library.”

“Who is Mr. Morrell?” asked Godfrey, turning to the doctor.

“He used to be the head of one of the largest wholesale drug houses in the city. He retired some years ago, and is reputed to be very wealthy.”

“Was he in the habit of calling on Professor Carew?” Godfrey continued, turning back to Browder.

“Yes, sir; he called quite often. He and my master were the trustees of the Lyons estate.”

“The Lyons estate?” Godfrey repeated.

“I can tell you about that,” broke in the doctor, “though I don't see that it is especially relevant. When Mark Lyons died, ten or twelve years ago, he named his two closest friends as trustees of his estate to manage it in the interest of the Lyons Maternity Hospital, which he had founded.”

“Was the estate a large one?”

“It was estimated at fifteen millions.”

“Not a small one, at least,” commented Godfrey. “How long did Mr. Morrell stay?”

“About two hours, I should say, sir. I'm not sure, for master let him out, as he often did. But about eleven o'clock, when I looked in the library, master was alone. He was setting there in that very chair reading some papers. When he heard me at the door he looked up and told me to lock up the house and go to bed; that he wouldn't need me any more.”

“Did you lock these windows?”

“Yes, sir; all of them.”

Godfrey examined the locks with knitted brow. It was plainly impossible to throw them from the outside without cutting away the sash, and the sashes showed no mark.

“Well, and what next?” he said, at last. “Did you go to bed?”

“Yes, sir; all of them.”

“And heard nothing unusual?”

“No, sir, not a thing. I woke up once in the night and came to the head of the stairs and looked down to see if master had left the lights burning, as he did sometimes, going to bed absent-minded like; but they were out, so I went back to bed and it wasn't till this morning when I came down that I found him”

A sob choked him.

“And you called the police at once?”

“Yes, sir; as soon as I could get my wits together. It was the only thing I could think of to do.”

“Where was your wife all this time?”

“She cleaned up the kitchen after dinner last night and then went to bed. She never comes in the front of the house and didn't know till I told her....”

Again his voice trailed off into a sob.

Godfrey glanced around the room, his eyes at last resting on the bowed figure by the table.

“You say your master was reading when you saw him last?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Papers, I think you said?”

“Yes, sir; there was a bundle of them on the table beside him.”

“It is a significant thing, Dr. Sweetser,” Godfrey pointed out, “that there are no papers there now. Yet it is possible that Professor Carew put them away and then sat down to think them over. You say he had no enemies?”

“Not an enemy on earth, sir. How could he have? Why, I never knew a man so universally beloved and honored.”

“And yet, he must have had one enemy,” and Godfrey pointed to the band of livid flesh.

“Yes,” agreed the doctor hoarsely. “But I can't believe it! Even here, looking at it, I can't believe it!”

Godfrey fell silent a moment, gazing down at the bowed head with its crown of white hair, at the delicate, sensitive hands, now clutching convulsively the arms of the chair.

“He had retired from active life, I understand?” he said at last.

“Yes; and yet his life was fuller of activity than most men's. He still kept up his experiments, and he was interested in many philanthropies—especially in the Lyons Hospital, which was very dear to him. I was head physician there some years ago, and in that way first got to know him. He was very enthusiastic over the work the hospital was doing—a work which had never adequately been done before. He was never weary of talking about it and planning for it. He intended, I think, to bequeath it his own estate.”

“Was Mr. Morrell equally enthusiastic?”

“Yes, in every way; he was a most painstaking and conscientious trustee. His knowledge of business made him especially valuable; he was able to invest the moneys belonging to the hospital to the best advantage and its income has always been very large so large, indeed, that an addition to the main building has been undertaken.”

“Do you happen to know just how large?”

“The statement last year showed the gross receipts to be something over $750,000.”

“That's five per cent. on fifteen millions—a remarkable showing, truly,” agreed Godfrey. “The hospital was evidently very fortunate in its trustees.”

He walked to one of the windows and stood for a moment tapping absently on the pane and staring out across the lawn. Then he picked up the half-smoked cigar, which he had placed carefully on the table, and contemplated it for a time in silence. It seemed to fill him with a strange perplexity.

“Dr. Sweetser,” he said at last, “I want you to examine this cigar closely, so that you can identify it hereafter, if need be. I want you to notice particularly these distinct, even depressions across the end which was in the smoker's mouth. Do you think you will know it again?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, after a moment; and Godfrey wrapped the cigar tenderly in a piece of paper and placed it in his pocket.

“I'll have to inform the coroner,” he said, with a little sigh, “and turn the case over to him. Where will I find the telephone?”

“This way, sir,” said Browder, and led the way to the instrument.

The message took but a moment, and Godfrey retraced his steps to the library. He was plainly worried. There was a deep line between his eyes and his lips were compressed and bloodless.

“I wouldn't take it too hard,” said Dr. Sweetser, soothingly, noticing his haggard countenance. “This won't be the first crime which has defied solution.”

“No,” agreed Godfrey. “Has any theory occurred to you, doctor?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor promptly, “and I'm sure it's the right one. Some madman, escaped from an asylum, perhaps, wandered into the grounds, attracted by the light pouring through those windows. He approached them and saw this old man sitting here alone. He raised the window gently, crept in and seized my poor friend by the throat....”

“You forget,” objected Godfrey, “that Browder says he fastened all the windows.”

“And yet the central one was found unfastened. Professor Carew may have opened the window himself, after Browder locked it, finding the room close or wishing for a breath of fresh air before he went to bed. Or perhaps Browder forgot to lock it. At any rate, it was through that window that the murderer made his entrance and escape.”

Godfrey nodded.

“I agree with you there,” he said.

“And, depend upon it, the murderer was a madman. Who else would seek to kill a quiet and inoffensive man? You have yourself pointed out that robbery was not the motive. I don't doubt we'll hear of an escaped lunatic in the course of the morning.”

“Perhaps we shall,' assented Godfrey. “You may be right, doctor—your theory is certainly plausible. I hope you will mention it to the coroner. You would better wait for him here and take charge of things.”

“I will,” agreed the doctor, “It is the least I can do for my old friend.”

task of finding M. André Lambesq proved disappointingly simple. He was registered at the Waldorf and had not yet arisen when Godfrey sent up his card. An inquiry of the clerk developed the fact that M. Lambesq had arrived the day before on one of the French line boats, and had come directly to the hotel.

Half an hour later Godfrey was admitted to M. Lambesq's presence. Amid exclamations of astonishment and horror, he related briefly the facts of Professor Carew's death. M. Lambesq was inconsolable. The world of science had lost its supreme leader, and in such a manner! He, himself, had come from Paris to lay before the great savant a new theory of light phenomena—a theory more comprehensive, more satisfactory, more subtle than either the corpuscular or the undulatory—a theory which, however, M. Carew had refused to credit....

For a moment Godfrey wondered if this might not be the madman; but a few questions settled all that. After leaving the Carew house M. Lambesq had driven direct to his hotel, where he had met some compatriots. He had been with them from nine o'clock until after midnight. He gave Godfrey their names. There could be no doubt of his entire innocence,

Godfrey left the hotel, walked across to Sixth avenue and took the Elevated downtown. He got off at Bleecker street and, after a short walk through a maze of dirty thoroughfares, entered a tall building, redolent with the odor of tobacco.

“I want to buy some cigars,” he said to the heavy-faced man behind the counter, “but before I do so, I would like to see your expert a moment.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the other, and touched a bell. “Show this gentleman to Mr. Jennings,” he said to the boy who answered it.

They mounted two flights and entered a little room lined with innumerable pigeon-holes. A tall, thin man sat at a table by the window, peering at something through a microscope. He looked up as the door opened.

Godfrey introduced himself and produced from his pocket a half-smoked cigar.

“I want to duplicate this cigar,” he said, as he unwrapped it, “and I don't know what it is.”

Jennings took it, looked at it, sniffed it.

“There can't be any doubt,” he said. “That cigar is distinctive—no wonder you liked it. It's the El Trinidad Imperiale. A box will cost you thirty dollars.”

“Thank you,” said Godfrey, and he stopped at the office downstairs and bought a box.

On the journey back to Harlem he saw nothing of the crowds jostling past him. So the murderer of Professor Carew smoked El Trinidad Imperiales! That seemed absurd. Perhaps he was on the wrong track, after all. The cigar might have been left there by someone else; there was nothing to connect it positively with the criminal. Yet it must have been placed there the night before by someone about to enter the library by the window—someone either familiar with Professor Carew's abhorrence of tobacco or else not wishing to be incommoded by a cigar in the desperate business he was about to undertake.

He left the train at his station and walked over to headquarters. The sergeant grinned when he saw him.

“That case is a little too big for you, ain't it, Jim?” he asked.

“It is pretty big,” agreed Godfrey.

“So the old man thought. He's detailed Simmonds and Growden from the Central Office to look after it.”

Godfrey flushed, but kept himself in hand.

“Has he?” he asked, with seeming carelessness. “What do they think about it?”

“They think it was done by a lunatic. They're out looking for him now.”

Godfrey's face remained impassive, but his eyes were strangely bright.

“I guess I'll go out and take a look around, too,” he said.

But instead of looking around, he mounted straight to his room and spent the remainder of the afternoon there, chewing and otherwise mutilating those splendid El Trinidad Imperiales in a manner too shameful to describe.

inquest was held next day, and the little court-room was crowded to the doors. The crime had stirred the city to its depths and a great clamor had arisen that the murderer be found and punished. Not only the three officers, but a veritable swarm of reporters were working on the case, and added to these was a host of amateur detectives, stirred to action by the reward of one hundred thousand dollars offered by Professor Carew's co-trustee, Mr. James Morrell. Other rewards were to follow as soon as various boards and deliberative bodies could take action, and scores of wild-eyed men were feverishly hunting down clues which led nowhere, and spinning theories which would have done credit to M. Lecoq, but which, unfortunately, there was no way of verifying.

Godfrey chose an inconspicuous seat and listened to the testimony with little apparent interest. Absolutely nothing new was developed. The only story he had not heard was that of Mr. Morrell, and it agreed in every particular with the story Browder had told. He had made merely a friendly call, had remained about an hour and Professor Carew himself had taken him to the door. He had not heard of the crime until Dr. Sweetser telephoned him, and he had hastened at once to the house. Professor Carew had been one of his dearest and closest friends, and he would gladly give half his fortune to bring his murderer to justice.

Indeed, it was evident that Mr. Morrell had not yet recovered from the shock of his friend's death. His lips trembled from time to time and his hands shook convulsively as he told of his close intimacy with the murdered man. He was suffering so keenly that the coroner had the mercy to dismiss him with the fewest possible questions. Once off the stand, he gradually recovered his self-control and was soon giving close attention to the testimony.

But none of it furnished a clue to the culprit, and the jury, without retiring, brought in the usual verdict of “death at the hands of a person unknown.” In the stir which followed the rising of the court Godfrey approached Dr. Sweetser.

“Doctor,” he said,“I wish you would introduce me to Mr. Morrell. There are one or two points which he may be able to clear up.”

“Certainly,” assented the doctor, and led him forward.

Mr. Morrell had withdrawn a little to one side and was talking earnestly with Simmonds and Growden. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with gray hair and a florid face. At the moment he was engaged in lighting a cigar.

“Hello, Sweetser,” he said, as the doctor approached. “It seems that your theory is likely to prove the right one.”

“I was sure it would,” replied the doctor. “I want to introduce Mr. Godfrey, who, as I have already told you, was first on the scene.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Godfrey,” said Mr. Morrell, and shook hands. “I think you'll agree with the doctor and your colleagues here that the crime could have been committed only by a lunatic.”

“I was rather inclined to think so at first,” said Godfrey slowly, “but I don't think so now.”

Growden laughed offensively.

“Maybe that theory ain't fancy enough for you,” he sneered.

Godfrey flushed.

“Well, I'll believe it when you find the lunatic,” he said.

“We have found him,” retorted Growden triumphantly. “He's locked up down below. He escaped from Hartman's sanatorium night before last. The sanatorium is only a block and a half from the Carew house, and this fellow is especially dangerous—homicidal mania. It's a clear case.”

Godfrey looked at him through half-closed eyes.

“You think so?” he asked negligently.

Growden's face turned a deep purple.

“See here,” he shouted, “don't you give me none of your impudence! I won't”

“Oh, come, Sam,” protested Simmonds, “what's the use of getting mad with a damned cub like him? Maybe he can save us any more trouble by producing the guilty party himself.”

Godfrey's face hardened; his eyes were shining strangely. He got out a cigar and bit off the end.

“Mr. Morrell, will you give me a light?” he asked. Then he paused, with Morrell's cigar in his fingers. “Yes, I believe I can,” he said, “and I'll produce him now. Gentlemen, you behold the murderer of Professor Carew in the person of Mr. James Morrell.”

For an instant the group regarded him in astonished silence. Then the detectives broke into a loud guffaw.

But Dr. Sweetser was white with anger.

“I must tell you, sir,” he burst out, “that I consider the joke in very bad taste.”

“It is not in the least a joke,” said Godfrey quietly. “Look at his face!”

They stared at the distorted, quivering countenance, Simmonds and Growden suddenly silent, the doctor visibly appalled. Then he shook his head and turned fiercely back to Godfrey.

“Monstrous!” he cried. “Absurd! Any man would be startled by such an accusation!”

“Shall I tell you how it happened, doctor?” continued Godfrey evenly. “I may err in one or two details”

“Monstrous!” broke in the doctor. “To make such an accusation without proof.”

“I have not made it without proof.”

“Where is your proof, then? Let us have it!”

A little crowd had gathered and was listening open-mouthed.

“My proof,” said Godfrey slowly, “is that the left lateral incisor in his upper jaw is missing. See—he has his mouth open.”

Dr. Sweetser glanced at Morrell and saw that the defect indeed existed; then he turned back to Godfrey, more wrathful than ever.

“Enough of this tomfoolery, sir!” he said sternly. “If every man who had lost a tooth were guilty of murder, there would be few of us at large. Come, Mr. Morrell, let us go. I will see that this affair is reported to the proper authorities.”

“Just a moment, Dr. Sweetser,” Godfrey interposed. “Will you look at this cigar? It is the one Mr. Morrell handed me a moment ago. It is an El Trinidad Imperiale. The one I found outside Professor Carew's library window was also of that make.”

“And what of it, sir? Thousands of men smoke them.”

“Not quite thousands, I fancy, since they retail at thirty dollars a box. But look at the cigar, Dr. Sweetser, at the end Mr. Morrell had in his mouth. Do you perceive the depressions across it?”

The doctor looked and turned suddenly livid.

“I wasted nearly a box of those cigars,” Godfrey went on, with a sigh, “before I hit upon the explanation of those depressions—before I discovered that the man who murdered Professor Carew had lost one of his front teeth and used the cavity as a sort of natural cigar-holder. Did you ever notice how Mr. Morrell smokes, doctor? Did you ever wonder why he never had that tooth replaced? He doesn't hold his cigar between his teeth—he shoves it into that cavity and keeps it there until the cigar is finished. Do you think one man in a million holds a cigar that way? Well, see here.”

He took from his pocket the other cigar, unwrapped it and laid it beside the first one in his open hand.

“Compare them,” he said. “You will find the marks identical. I think you must confess, doctor, that in this case a missing tooth is enough to hang a man.”

A little ripple of wonder and applause ran through the crowd. It was broken by a crash as Morrell pitched forward to the floor.

“ it was enough to hang him?” I asked, as Godfrey fell silent and gazed musingly into the fire.

“Oh, we got other evidence, of course, once we were started on the right track. Besides, Morrell confessed in the end. He had speculated secretly all his life, and as he grew older the mania increased and his judgment and self-control weakened. He ended by embezzling the hospital funds. Professor Carew had left their investment to him—for years he had been paying the interest out of the principal and making it so large that no one asked any questions. But he was caught in the wheat crash that Spring—he found himself at the end of the rope.

“He could carry on the farce no longer, so he went to Professor Carew that night intending to confess everything; but his courage failed him. Instead, he left behind him the regular falsified report which he had made up. But after he was out on the street again he realized that exposure was certain. He lighted a cigar and paced up and down, trying to decide what to do. At last, he resolved to go back. He knew the ways of the house and he went straight to the windows looking out over the lawn. As he mounted to the porch, he instinctively laid his cigar on the ledge below the window.

“The middle window was open—Professor Carew had no doubt opened it himself—and as Morrell gazed in at him, trying to nerve himself for the ordeal, he saw that he had not been heard. Carew's back was to the window, and a sudden fiendish thought flashed through the brain of the defaulter.

“He knew that Carew's estate had been willed to the hospital; he knew that he himself had been named as its administrator; with that at command, he could tide over the present crisis, perhaps regain all that he had lost! He would have time to rally; there would be no exposure....

“He whipped out his handkerchief, twisted it into a rope, crossed the room on tiptoe, and strangled his friend. Then he gathered up the papers, turned out the lights and went out as he had entered, closing the window behind him. He had nerve—he carried out the crime cleverly and coolly. But for one thing he would probably never have been suspected.”

“And that was?”

For answer Godfrey lifted his finger and pointed to the case on the wall.


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 saw in his arrest the vengeance of the Jews. Was not Maurice a notorious anti-Semite? Catholic youths went forth to hurl imprecations at Judge Salneuve under the windows of his residence in the Rue Guénégaud, opposite the Mint.

On the Boulevard du Palais a band of students presented Maurice with a branch of palm. Maurice made a charming reply.

Maurice was overcome with emotion when he beheld the old house in which his childhood had been spent, and fell weeping into his mother’s arms.

It was a great day, unhappily marred by one painful incident. Monsieur Sariette, who had lost his reason as a consequence of the shocking events that had taken place in the Rue de Courcelles, had suddenly become violent. He had shut himself up in the library, and there he had remained for twenty-four hours, uttering the most horrible cries, and, turning a deaf ear alike to threats and entreaties, refused to come out. He had spent the night in a condition of extreme restlessness, for all night long the lamp had been seen passing rapidly to and fro behind the curtains. In the morning, hearing Hippolyte shouting to him from the court below, he opened the window of the Hall of the Spheres and the Philosophers, and heaved two or three rather weighty tomes on to the old valet’s head. The whole of the domestic


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 staff—men, women, and boys—hurried to the spot, and the librarian proceeded to throw out books by the armful on to their heads. In view of the gravity of the situation, Monsieur René d’Esparvieu did not disdain to intervene. He appeared in night-cap and dressing-gown, and attempted to reason with the poor lunatic, whose only reply was to pour forth torrents of abuse on the man whom till then he had worshipped as his benefactor, and to endeavour to crush him beneath all the Bibles, all the Talmuds, all the sacred books of India and Persia, all the Greek Fathers, and all the Latin Fathers, Saint John Chrysostom, Saint Gregory Nazianzen, Saint Augustine, Saint Jerome, all the apologists, ay! and under the Histoire des Variations, annotated by Bossuet himself! Octavos, quartos, folios came crashing down, and lay in a sordid heap on the courtyard pavement. The letters of Gassendi, of Père Mersenne, of Pascal, were blown about hither and thither by the wind. The lady’s-maid who had stooped down to rescue some of the sheets from the gutter got a blow on the head from an enormous Dutch atlas. Madame René d’Esparvieu had been terrified by the ominous sounds, and appeared on the scene without waiting to apply the finishing touches of powder and paint. When he caught sight of her, old Sariette became more violent than ever. Down they came one after another as hard as he could pelt them;


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 the busts of the poets; philosophers, and historians of antiquity—Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Herodotus, Thucydides, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Cicero, Virgil, Horace, Seneca, Epictetus—all lay scattered on the ground. The celestial sphere and the terrestrial globe descended with a terrifying crash that was followed by a ghastly hush, broken only by the shrill laughter of little Léon, who was looking down on the scene from a window above. A locksmith having opened the library door, all the household hastened to enter, and found the aged Sariette entrenched behind piles of books, busily engaged in tearing and slashing away at the Lucretius of the Prior de Vendôme annotated in Voltaire’s own hand. They had to force a way through the barricade. But the maniac, perceiving that his stronghold was being invaded, fled away and escaped on to the roof. For two whole hours he gave vent to shouts and yells that were heard far and wide. In the Rue Garancière the crowd kept growing bigger and bigger. All had their eyes fixed on the unhappy creature, and whenever he stumbled on the slates, which cracked beneath him, they gave a shout of terror. In the midst of the crowd, the Abbé Patouille, who expected every moment to see him hurled into space, was reciting the prayers for the dying, and making ready to give him the absolution in extremis. There was a cordon of police round


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 the house keeping order. Someone summoned the fire-brigade, and the sound of their approach was soon heard. They placed a ladder against the wall of the house, and after a terrific struggle managed to secure the maniac, who in the course of his desperate resistance had one of the muscles of his arm torn out. He was immediately removed to an asylum.

Maurice dined at home, and there were smiles of tenderness and affection when Victor, the old butler, brought on the roast veal. Monsieur l’Abbé Patouille sat at the mght hand of the Christian mother, unctuously contemplating the family which Heaven had so plentifully blessed. Nevertheless, Madame d’Esparvieu was ill at ease. Every day she received anonymous letters of so insulting and coarse a nature that she thought at first they must come from a discharged footman. She now knew they were the handiwork of her youngest daughter, Berthe, a mere child! Little Léon, too, gave her pain and anxiety. He paid no attention to his lessons, and was given to bad habits. He showed a cruel disposition. He had plucked his sister’s canaries alive; he stuck innumerable pins into the chair on which Mademoiselle Caporal was accustomed to sit, and had stolen fourteen francs from the poor girl, who did nothing but cry and dab her eyes and nose from morning till night.

No sooner was dinner over than Maurice rushed


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 off to the little dwelling in the Rue de Rome, impatient to meet his angel again. Through the door he heard a loud sound of voices, and saw assembled in the room where the apparition had taken place, Arcade, Zita, the angelic musician, and the Kerûb, who was lying on the bed, smoking a huge pipe, carelessly scorching pillows, sheets, and coverlets. They embraced Maurice, and announced their departure. Their faces shone with happiness and courage. Alone, the inspired author of Aline, Queen of Golconda, shed tears and raised his terrified gaze to heaven. The Kerûb forced him into the party of rebellion by setting before him two alternatives: either to allow himself to be dragged from prison to prison on earth, or to carry fire and sword into the palace of Ialdabaoth.

Maurice perceived with sorrow that the earth had scarcely any hold over them. They were setting out filled with immense hope, which was quite justifiable. Doubtless they were but a few combatants to oppose the innumerable soldiers of the sultan of the heavens; but they counted on compensating for the inferiority of their numbers by the irresistible impetus of a sudden attack. They wete not ignorant of the fact that Ialdabaoth, who flatters himself on knowing all things, sometimes allows himself to be taken by surprise. And it certainly looked as if the first attack would have taken him unawares had it not been for the warning


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 of the archangel Michael. The celestial army had made no progress since its victory over the rebels before the beginning of Time.

As regards armaments and material it was as out of date as the army of the Moors. Its generals slumbered in sloth and ignorance. Loaded with honours and riches, they preferred the delights of the banquet to the fatigues of war. Michael, the commander-in-chief, ever loyal and brave, had lost, with the passing of centuries, his fire and enthusiasm. The conspirators of 1914, on the other hand, knew the very latest and the most delicate appliances of science for the art of destruction. At length all was ready and decided upon. The army of revolt, assembled by corps each a hundred thousand angels strong, on all the waste places of the earth—steppes, pampas, deserts, fields of ice and snow—was ready to launch itself against the sky. The angels, in modifying the rhythm of the atoms of which they are composed, are able to traverse the most varied mediums. Spirits that have descended on to the earth, being formed, since their incarnation, of too compact a substance, can no longer fly of themselves, and to rise into ethereal regions and then insensibly grow volatilized, have need of the assistance of their brothers, who, though revolutionaries like themselves, nevertheless, stayed behind in the Empyrean and remained, not immaterial (for all is matter in the Universe), but


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 gloriously untrammelled and diaphanous. Certes, it was not without painful anxiety that Arcade, Istar, and Zita prepared themselves to pass from the heavy atmosphere of the earth to the limpid depths of the heavens. To plunge into the ether there is need to expend such energy that the most intrepid hesitate to take flight. Their very substance, while penetrating this fine medium, must in itself grow fine-spun, become vaporised, and pass from human dimensions to the volume of the vastest clouds which have ever enveloped the earth. Soon they would surpass in grandeur the uttermost planets, whose orbits they, invisible and imponderable, would traverse without disturbing.

In this enterprise—the vastest that angels could undertake—their substance would be ultimately hotter than the fire and colder than the ice, and they would suffer pangs sharper than death.

Maurice read all the daring and the pain of the undertaking in the eyes of Arcade.

“You are going?” he said to him, weeping.

“We are going, with Nectaire, to seek the great archangel to lead us to victory.”

“Whom do you call thus?”

“The priests of the demiurge have made him known to you in their calumnies.”

“Unhappy being,” sighed Maurice.

Arcade embraced him, and Maurice felt the angel’s tears as they dropped upon his cheek.


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LIMBING the seven steep terraces which rise up from the bed of the Ganges to the temples muffled in creepers, the five angels reached, a by half-obliterated paths, the wild garden filled with perfumed clusters of grapes and chattering monkeys, and, at the far end thereof, they discovered him whom they had come to seek. The archangel lay with his elbow on black cushions embroidered with golden flames. At his feet crouched lions and gazelles. Twined in the trees, tame serpents turned on him their friendly gaze. At the sight of his angelic visitors his face grew melancholy. Long since, in the days when, with his brow crowned with grapes and his sceptre of vine-leaves in his hand, he had taught and comforted mankind, his heart had many times been heavy with sorrow; but never yet, since his glorious downfall, had his beautiful face expressed such pain and anguish.

Zita told him of the black standards assembled in crowds in all the waste places of the globe; of the


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l Court to a high-tide at Etzel’s: she has charged the messengers to say that she is happy, and to bring all Gunther’s champions with them. Her eye was on Hagen, but she could not single him from the rest. After seven days’ deliberation, Gunther answers that he will come. Hagen has loudly dissuaded the journey, but again been overruled. “It is his fate,” says a commentator, “like Cassandra’s, ever to foresee the evil, and ever to be disregarded. He himself shut his ear against the inward voice; and now his warnings are uttered to the deaf.” He argues long, but in vain: nay young Gernot hints at last that this aversion originates in personal fear:

Then spake Von Troneg Hagen: “Nowise is it through fear;

So you command it, Heroes, Then up, gird on your gear;

I ride with you the foremost Into King Etzel’s land.”

Since then full many a helm Was shivered by his hand.

Frau Ute’s dreams and omens are now unavailing with him; “whoso heedeth dreams,” said Hagen, “of the right story wotteth not:” he has computed the worst issue, and defied it.

Many a little touch of pathos, and even solemn beauty lies carelessly scattered in these rhymes, had we space to exhibit such here. As specimen of a strange, winding, diffuse, yet innocently graceful style of narrative, we had translated some considerable portion of this Twenty-fifth Aventiure, “How the Nibelungen marched (fared) to the Huns,” into verses as literal as might be; which now, alas, look mournfully different from the original; almost like Scriblerus’s shield when the barbarian housemaid had scoured it! Nevertheless, to do for the reader what we can, let somewhat of that modernized ware, such as it is, be set before him, The brave Nibelungen are on the eve of departure; and about ferrying over the Rhine: and here it may be noted that Worms, with our old Singer, lies not in its true position, but at


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 deliverance premeditated and prepared in the provinces of Heaven, where the first revolt had long ago been fomented.

“Prince,” she went on, “your army awaits you. Come, lead it on to victory.”

“Friends,” replied the great archangel, “I was aware of the object of your visit. Baskets of fruit and honeycombs await you under the shade of this mighty tree. The sun is about to descend into the roseate waters of the Sacred River. When you have eaten, you will slumber pleasantly in this garden, where the joys of the intellect and of the senses have reigned since the day when I drove hence the spirit of the old Demiurge. To-morrow I will give you my answer.”

Night hung its blue over the garden. Satan fell asleep. He had a dream, and in that dream, soaring over the earth, he saw it covered with angels in revolt, beautiful as gods, whose eyes darted lightning. And from pole to pole one single cry, formed of a myriad cries, mounted towards him, filled with hope and love. And Satan said:

“Let us go forth! Let us seek the ancient adversary in his high abode.” And he led the countless host of angels over the celestial plains. And Satan was cognizant of what took place in the heavenly citadel. When news of this second revolt came thither, the Father said to the Son:


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 “The irreconcilable foe is rising once again. Let us take heed to ourselves, and in this, our time of danger, look to our defences, lest we lose our high abode.”

And the Son, consubstantial with the Father, replied:

“We shall triumph under the sign that gave Constantine the victory.”

Indignation burst forth on the Mountain of God. At first the faithful Seraphim condemned the rebels to terrible torture, but afterwards decided on doing battle with them. The anger burning in the hearts of all inflamed each countenance. They did not doubt of victory, but treachery was feared, and eternal darkness had been at once decreed for spies and alarmists.

There was shouting and singing of ancient hymns and praise of the Almighty. They drank of the mystic wine. Courage, over-inflated, came near to giving way, and a secret anxiety stole into the inner depths of their souls. The archangel Michael took supreme command. He reassured their minds by his serenity. His countenance, wherein his soul was visible, expressed contempt for danger. By his orders, the chiefs of the thunderbolts, the Kerûbs, grown dull with the long interval of peace, paced with heavy steps the ramparts of the Holy Mountain, and, letting the gaze of their bovine eyes wander over the glittering clouds of their


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 The Greeks call Rule or Empire, as the Etymologists tell us, because it is , the Base or Fundament of the People: for as the Rump or Bum in the natural Body is called the Fundament, because it is the Foundation on which all the rest of the Members depend; so is the State and Government in the Body politic.

The Philosophers say, that a Man is a Tree inverted, and that his Head is the Root, by which he takes in his Nourishment, and his Arms and Legs the Branches—If that be true, it must follow that his Rump is the Head.

It is a Custom of the Eastern Kings to vail their Faces from public View, only to avoid prostituting the Majesty of their Persons to common Eyes; and what is that more than the universal Custom of all Nations and Ages hath always carefully observed to the Rump? And therefore, when the Philistines resolved to put the highest indignity upon David's Embassadors, they could not think of a way more ignominious than to cut their Garments above their Buttocks, and by that means to render those


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2 Charlotte." The congregation was large and fashionable— far more so than when only a heavenly sovereign was concerned—and so the courtyard was thronged with a string of Schnorrers (beggars), awaiting the exit of the audience, much as the vestibule of the opera-house is lined by footmen.

They were a motley crew, with tangled beards and long hair that fell in curls, if not the curls of the period; but the gaberdines of the German Ghettoes had been in most cases exchanged for the knee-breeches and many-buttoned jacket of the Londoner. When the clothes one has brought from the Continent wear out, one must needs adopt the attire of one's superiors, or be reduced to buying. Many bore staves, and had their loins girded up with coloured handkerchiefs, as though ready at any moment to return from the Captivity. Their woebegone air was achieved almost entirely by not washing—it owed little to nature, to adventitious aids in the shape of deformities. The merest sprinkling boasted of physical afflictions, and none exposed sores like the lazars of Italy or contortions like the cripples of Constantinople. Such crude methods are eschewed in the fine art of schnorring. A green shade might denote weakness of sight, but the stone-blind man bore no braggart placard—his infirmity was an old established concern well known to the public, and conferring upon the proprietor a definite status in the community. He was no anonymous atom, such as drifts blindly through Christendom, vagrant and apologetic. Rarest of all sights in this pageantry of Jewish pauperdom was the hollow trouser-leg or the empty sleeve, or the wooden limb fulfilling either and pushing out a proclamatory peg.

When the pack of Schnorrers caught sight of Joseph Grobstock, they fell upon him full-cry, blessing him. He,


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 Lord, strove to place the divine batteries in position. After inspecting the defences, they swore to the Most High that all was in readiness. They took counsel together as to the plan they should follow. Michael was for the offensive. He, as a consummate soldier, said it was the supreme law. Attack, or be attacked, was no middle course.

"Moreover," he added, "the offensive attitude is particularly suitable to the ardour of the Thrones and Dominations."

Beyond that, it was impossible to obtain a word from the valiant chief, and this silence seemed the mark of a genius sure of himself.

As soon as the approach of the enemy was announced, Michael sent forth three armies to meet them, commanded by the archangels Uriel, Raphael, and Gabriel. Standards, displaying all the colours of the Orient, were unfurled above the ethereal plains, and the thunders rolled over the starry floors. For three days and three nights was the lot of the terrible and adorable armies unknown on the Mountain of God. Towards dawn on the fourth day news came, but it was vague and confused. There were rumours of indecisive victories; of the triumph now of this side, now of that. There came reports of glorious deeds which were dissipated in a few hours.

The thunderbolts of Raphael, hurled against the


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 rebels, had, it was said, consumed entire squadrons. The troops commanded by the impure Zita were thought to have been swallowed up in the whirlwind of a tempest of fire. It was believed that the savage Istar had been flung headlong into the gulf of perdition so suddenly that the blasphemies begun in his mouth had been forced backwards with explosive results. It was popularly supposed that Satan, laden with chains of adamant, had been plunged once again into the abyss. Meanwhile, the commanders of the three armies had sent no messages. Mutterings and murmurs, mingling with the rumours of glory, gave rise to fears of an indecisive battle, a precipitate retreat. Insolent voices gave out that a spirit of the lowest category, a guardian angel, the insignificant Arcade, had checked and routed the dazzling host of the three great archangels.

There were also rumours of wholesale defection in the Seventh Heaven, where rebellion had broken out before the beginning of Time, and some had even seen black clouds of impious angels joining the armies of the rebels on Earth. But no one lent an ear to the odious rumours, and stress was laid on the news of victory which ran from lip to lip, each statement readily finding confirmation. The high places resounded with hymns of joy; the Seraphim celebrated on harp and psaltery Sabaoth, God of Thunder. The voices of the elect united


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 reverend Parts cheap and despicable in the Eyes of the Rabble.

Some are of Opinion, that Honour is seated in that Part only, chiefly at least: for it is observed, that a small Kick on that Part does more hurt and wound Honour, than a cut on the Head or Face, or a Stab or Shot of a Pistol on any other Part of the Body. And hence it is, that in all Combats all the rest of the Members are ready to expose themselves to any Danger to screen the Breech; as if the whole outward Man were but a Life-Guard to that Part: and he, that by turning his Back, exposes that to Danger, is ever after branded with the ignominious Name of a Coward.

The ancient Heroes were wont to wear Horse-Tails in their Helmets, as our young Gallants do Ostrich Tails in their Hats; from whence we may infer, that it hath been the Consent of all Ages, that the Head can receive no greater Ornament than that which is conferred on it by the Tail. And in all funeral Pomps and public Shews, he that hath the longest Tail to his Robe is understood to be the most honou-


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 with those of the angels in glorifying the Invisible and at the thought of the bloodshed that the ministers of holy wrath had caused among the rebels, sighs of relief and jubilation were wafted from the Heavenly Jerusalem towards the Most High. But the beatitude of the most blessed, having swelled to the utmost limit before due time, could increase no more, and the very excess of their felicity completely dulled their senses.

The songs had not yet ceased when the guards watching on the ramparts signalled the approach of the first fugitives of the divine army; Seraphim on tattered wing, flying in disorder, maimed Kerûbs going on three feet. With impassive gaze, Michael, prince of warriors, measured the extent of the disaster, and his keen intelligence penetrated its causes. The armies of the living God had taken the offensive, but by one of those fatalities in war which disconcert the plans of the greatest captains, the enemy had also taken the offensive, and the effect was evident. Scarcely were the gates of the citadel opened to receive the glorious but shattered remnants of the three armies, when a rain of fire fell on the Mountain of God. Satan’s army was not yet in sight, but the walls of topaz, the cupolas of emerald, the roofs of diamond, all fell in with an appalling crash under the discharge of the electrophores. The ancient thunderclouds essayed to reply, but the bolts fell


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 In the year 880, the Year of the Tiger (2061 BE), as His Divine Highness Ramathibodi [had] built Phra Si Sanphet [to mark his] assumption of kingship, [the writing of] the treatise Phichai Songkhram was commenced and the making of sarabanchi phra ratcha samrit was commenced in every town.

In the year 886, the Year of the Monkey (2067 BE), on that occasion, a tusk of the regal elephant Chaophaya Prap was seen cracking lengthwise on the right side. In addition, in the seventh month, someone posted anonymous letters. In that event, many officials were condemned unto death.

In the year 887, the Year of the Rooster (2068 BE), water was scarce, ruining the rice entirely. Moreover, the earth quaked in every town and ill omens took place in various forms. Once came the next year, the year 888, the Year of the Dog (2069 BE), rice was dear, being one fueang per thanan. [When reckoned at the rate of] one bia equal to eight hundred [fueang], a cartload cost one chang and six tamlueng. On that occasion, High Higness Nophutthangkun the Lord was instituted in the position of viceroy and was sent north to rule Phitsanulok Town.

In the year 891, the Year of the Ox (2072 BE), an aerial omen, like a bow of Indra, white in colour, was seen crossing the firmament from the southwest unto the northwest. On Sunday, the 8th waxing-moon day of the 12th month, His Divine Highness Ramathibodi the Lord went unto the Hall of Ho Phra. As night fell on that day, His Divine Highness Ramathibodi the Lord entered nirvana. Thus His Divine Highness Athit the Lord assumed kingship of the Divine City of Glorious Ayutthaya under the name of His Highness Borommaracha Nophutthangkun.

In the year 895, the Year of the Snake (2076 BE), His Divine Highness Borommaracha Nophutthangkun entered nirvana. Thus His Divine Highness the Royal Child was enabled to assume kingship.

In the year 896, the Year of the Horse (2077 BE), an incident happened unto that royal child. Thus kingship devolved upon His Divinity Chairachathirat the Lord.


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Author:William Smith Hamilton

Contributions to Transactions and Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute

 * On the General Principles of an Education Scheme for New Zealand (1869)
 * On the Gyration of the Wind in New Zealand, with its Characteristics in the various Quarters (1870)
 * On the Occurrence of Selenium and Tellurium in the Neighbourhood of Wellington (1873)

title: Author:William Smith Hamilton


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 short, and their thunders were lost in the deserted plains of the skies.

Smitten by an invisible foe, the faithful angels abandoned the ramparts. Michael went to announce to his God that the Holy Mountain would fall into the hands of the demon in twenty-four hours, and that nothing remained for the Master of the Heavens but to seek safety in flight. The Seraphim placed the jewels of the celestial crown in coffers. Michael offered his arm to the Queen of Heaven, and the Holy Family escaped from the palace by a subterranean passage of porphyry. A deluge of fire was falling on the citadel. Regaining his post once more, the glorious archangel declared that he would never capitulate, and straightway advanced the standards of the living God. That same evening the rebel host made its entry into the thrice-sacred city. On a fiery steed Satan led his demons. Behind him marched Arcade, Istar, and Zita. As in the ancient revels of Dionysus, old Nectaire bestrode his ass. Thereafter, floating out far behind, followed the black standards.

The garrison laid down their arms before Satan. Michael placed his flaming sword at the feet of the conquering archangel.

“Take back your sword, Michael,” said Satan. “It is Lucifer who yields it to you. Bear it in defence of peace and law.” Then letting his gaze


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Author:William Stewart Hamilton

Contributions to Transactions and Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute

 * On Orepuki Black-sand (1880)
 * On the Formation of the Quartz Pebbles of the Southland Plains (1882)
 * On the Physiology of Plants and Tree Life (1883)
 * On the Coal and Lignite Deposits of Southland (1883)
 * Notes on the Occurrence and Habits of some of our New Zealand Plants (1884)
 * On the Lignine Origin of the Quartz-pebble Beds of Southland (1884)
 * On Platinum Crystals in the Ironsands of Orepuki Goldfield (1885)
 * On the Geology of the Bluff District (1885)
 * Notes on the Geology of the Bluff District (1886)
 * On the Tarawera Eruption (1887)

title: Author:William Stewart Hamilton


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 fall on the leaders of the celestial cohorts, he cried in a ringing voice:

“Archangel Michael, and you, Powers, Thrones, and Dominations, swear all of you to be faithful to your God.”

“We swear it,” they replied with one voice.

And Satan said:

“Powers, Thrones, and Dominations, of all past wars, I wish but to remember the invincible courage that you displayed and the loyalty which you rendered to authority, for these assure me of the steadfastness of the fealty you have just sworn to me.”

The following day, on the ethereal plain, Satan commanded the black standards to be distributed to the troops, and the winged soldiers covered them with kisses and bedewed them with tears.

And Satan had himself crowned God. Thronging round the glittering walls of Heavenly Jerusalem, apostles, pontiffs, virgins, martyrs, confessors, the whole company of the elect, who during the fierce battle had enjoyed delightful tranquillity, tasted infinite joy in the spectacle of the coronation.

The elect saw with ravishment the Most High precipitated into Hell, and Satan seated on the throne of the Lord. In conformity with the will of God which had cut them off from sorrow they sang in the ancient fashion the praises of their new Master.


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 And Satan, piercing space with his keen glance, contemplated the little globe of earth and water where of old he had planted the vine and formed the first tragic chorus. And he fixed his gaze on that Rome where the fallen God had founded his empire on fraud and lie. Nevertheless, at that moment a saint ruled over the Church. Satan saw him praying and weeping. And he said to him:

“To thee I entrust my Spouse. Watch over her faithfully. In thee I confirm the right and power to decide matters of doctrine, to regulate the use of the sacraments, to make laws and to uphold purity of morals. And the faithful shall be under obligation to conform thereto. My Church is eternal, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Thou art infallible. Nothing is changed.”

And the successor of the apostles felt flooded with rapture. He prostrated himself, and with his forehead touching the floor, replied:

“O Lord, my God, I recognise Thy voice! Thy breath has been wafted like balm to my heart. Blessed be Thy name. Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

And Satan found pleasure in praise and in the exercise of his grace; he loved to hear his wisdom and his power belauded. He listened with joy to the canticles of the cherubim who celebrated


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 his good deeds, and he took no pleasure in listening to Nectaire's flute, because it celebrated nature's self, yielded to the insect and to the blade of grass their share of power and love, and counselled happiness and freedom. Satan, whose flesh had crept, in days gone by, at the idea that suffering prevailed in the world, now felt himself inaccessible to pity. He regarded suffering and death as the happy results of omnipotence and sovereign kindness. And the savour of the blood of victims rose upward towards him like sweet incense. He fell to condemning intelligence and to hating curiosity. He himself refused to learn anything more, for fear that in acquiring fresh knowledge he might let it be seen that he had not known everything at the very outset. He took pleasure in mystery, and believing that he would seem less great by being understood, he affected to be unintelligible. Dense fumes of Theology filled his brain. One day, following the example of his predecessor, he conceived the notion of proclaiming himself one god in three persons. Seeing Arcade smile as this proclamation was made, he drove him from his presence. Istar and Zita had long since returned to earth. Thus centuries passed like seconds. Now, one day, from the altitude of his throne, he plunged his gaze into the depths of the pit and saw Ialdabaoth in the Gehenna where he himself had long lain enchained. Amid the ever-


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 lasting gloom Ialdabaoth still retained his lofty mien. Blackened and shattered, terrible and sublime, he glanced upwards at the palace of the King of Heaven with a look of proud disdain, then turned away his head. And the new god, as he looked upon his foe, beheld the hight of intelligence and love pass across his sorrow-stricken countenance. And lo! Ialdabaoth was now contemplating the Earth and, seeing it sunk in wickedness and suffering, he began to foster thoughts of kindliness in his heart. On a sudden he rose up, and beating the ether with his mighty arms, as though with oars, he hastened thither to instruct and to console mankind. Already his vast shadow shed upon the unhappy planet a shade soft as a night of love.

And Satan awoke bathed in an icy sweat.

Nectaire, Istar, Arcade, and Zita were standing round him. The finches were singing.

“Comrades,” said the great archangel, “no—we will not conquer the heavens. Enough to have the power. War engenders war, and victory defeat.

“God, conquered, will become Satan; Satan, conquering, will become God. May the fates spare me this terrible lot; I love the Hell which formed my genius. I love the Earth where I have done some good, if it be possible to do any good in this fearful world where beings live but by rapine.


text: Letter to Mr. Kenichiro Yoshida from Senator Kevin Cramer


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 Now, thanks to us, the god of old is dispossessed of his terrestrial empire, and every thinking being on this globe disdains him or knows him not. But what matter that men should be no longer submissive to Ialdabaoth if the spirit of Ialdabaoth is still in them; if they, like him, are jealous, violent, quarrelsome, and greedy, and the foes of the arts and of beauty? What matter that they have rejected the ferocious Demiurge, if they do not hearken to the friendly demons who teach all truths; to Dionysus, Apollo, and the Muses? As to our selves, celestial spirits, sublime demons, we have destroyed Ialdabaoth, our Tyrant, if in ourselves we have destroyed Ignorance and Fear.”

And Satan, turning to the gardener, said:

“Nectaire, you fought with me before the birth of the world. We were conquered because we failed to understand that Victory is a Spirit, and that it is in ourselves and in ourselves alone that we must attack and destroy Ialdabaoth.”


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Rh nothing surprised, brushed pompously through the benedictions, though the twinkle in his eye became a roguish gleam. Outside the iron gates, where the throng was thickest, and where some elegant chariots that had brought worshippers from distant Hackney were preparing to start, he came to a standstill, surrounded by clamouring Schnorrers, and dipped his hand slowly and ceremoniously into the bag. There was

a moment of breathless expectation among the beggars, and Joseph Grobstock had a moment of exquisite consciousness of importance, as he stood there swelling in the sunshine. There was no middle class to speak of in the eighteenth-century Jewry; the world was divided into rich and poor, and the rich were very, very rich, and the poor very, very poor, so that everyone knew his station. Joseph Grobstock was satisfied with that in which it had pleased God to place


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x separated with a (·); the first figure marks ‘a part’ (þáttr), the second a chapter. Landnáma (Hb.) denotes the text of the vellum MS. Hauks-bók. Landnáma Mantissa means an appendix affixed to the book in the printed editions. Íslendinga-bók by Ari Frbóði, from the Ed. of 1843 (published along with Landnáma). Kristini Saga (Introduction to Christianity), cited from Biskupa Sögur, vide below. Sturlunga Saga or Íslendinga Saga hin mikla by Sturla Þórðarson, relates the history of Iceland, especially of the 13th century up to the union with Norway, cited from the Ed. of 1817-1820, in four volumes; the last volume however, containing the Arna biskups Saga, is quoted from the Biskupa Sögur below. The chief MS. of this work is in the British Museum, 11,127; the letter C after the figures denotes the vellum MS. Anna-Magn. 122, fasc. A.

 * II. referring to the Icelandic ‘Saga time’ i. e. the 10th century down to about A. D. 1030 or 1050, properly called Íslendinga Sögur.1. The Larger Sagas:—Njála or Njáls Saga, published at Copenhagen in 1772; the Latin translation of Johnsonius, Copenhagen 1826 with Icelandic various readings, is cited now and then; cp. Burnt Njal by Mr. Dasent. Laxdæla Saga, Copenhagen 1826; the later part of Laxdæla also exists in a better form in a vellum MS. Arna-Magn. 409, but is not as yet published. Egils Saga or Egla, Copenhagen 1809. Eyrbyggja Saga or Eyrbyggja, Ed. 1787, and Leipzig 1864, where the pages of the old Ed. are marked in the margin.2. The Smaller Sagas:—Ljósvetninga Saga, Valla-Ljóts Saga, Svarfdæla Saga, Víga-Glúms Saga, all five cited from the octavo volume called Íslendinga Sögur, 2nd vol., Copenhagen 1830: Harðar Saga (pp. 1-118), Hænsa-Þóris Saga (pp. 121-186), Gunnlaugs Saga (pp. 189-276), Heiðarvíga Saga (pp. 320-392), all four cited from the collection called Íslendinga Sögur, 2nd vol., Copenhagen 1847: Gísla Saga Súrssonar, Bjarnar Saga Hitdæla-kappa, Hrafnkel Saga, Droplaugar-Sona Saga, Vápnfirðinga Saga, Þorsteins Saga hvíta, Þorsteins-þáttr Stangar-höggs, all seven cited from the small editions, 1847, 1848; the chapter in Gísla Saga, when quoted, refer to the old edition, Hólum 1756: Kormaks Saga, edited separately, Copenhagen 1832: Vatnsdæla Saga (pp. 1-80), Flóamanna Saga (pp. 117-161), Hallfreðar Saga (pp. 83-115), all these three Sagas are published and cited from a collection called Forn-sögur, Leipzig 1860: Bandamanna Saga, Hávarðar Saga, Grettis Saga (an A after the figures denotes the vellum MS. Arna-Magn. 556 A), Ölkofra-þáttr, all these four Sagas are cited from the quarto volume Margfróðir Sögu-pættir, Hólum 1756 (of Grettis Saga a new edition appeared in Libr. Copenhagen, cited Band. (MS.), but is not published): Þorfinns Saga Karls-efnis, cited from Grönland’s Historiske Mindesmærker i. 352-442, a part is also published in Antiquitates Americanae: Þorsteins Saga Síðu-Hallssonar, cited from Analecta, by Möbius, Leipzig 1860, pp. 169-186: Gull-Þóris Saga by Maurer, Leipzig 1857, cited by the pages of the MS. which are marked in the margin of the Ed.: Fóstbræðra Saga, Ed. 1822, new Ed. 1852: Njarðvíkinga Saga or Gunnars-þáttr Þiðranda-bana, published at the end of Laxdæla, pp. 363-384: Þorvalds Saga Víðförla, published in Biskupa Sögur i. 33-50. Many of these Sagas are undoubtedly written in the 12th century, although preserved in later MSS.; some, although old, have been worked out into their present shape by historians of the 13th century (e. g. Eyrbyggja, Laxdæla, and Njála); some few of them have only reached us in the more modern and artificial style of the 13th or 14th century.

 * III. from A. D. 1056-1330, collected and edited under the title of Biskupa Sögur:—Vol. i, Copenhagen 1858, contains Kristni Saga, pp. 1-32, vide above; Hungr-vaka or Lives of the First Five Bishops of Skalholt, pp. 59-86; Þorláks Saga, pp. 89-124, 263-332; Jóns Saga, pp. 151-260; Páls Saga, pp. 127-148; Guðmundar Saga, pp. 407-618; Árna Saga, pp. 679-786 (bishop Arne died 1298); Laurentius Saga by Einar Hafliðason, the last Icelandic historian of the olden time, born 1307, died 1393, pp. 789-914 (bishop Laurentius died 1330); Rafns Saga and Arons Saga are printed as an appendix, vol. i, pp. 639-676, 619-638. Vol. ii, pp. 1-230, contains another recension of Guðmundar Saga, written by Abbot Arngrim, who died 1361: the following pages (ii. 230 sqq.) are lives of the bishops of the Reformation period.

 * IV. :—Íslenzkir Annálar or Annals of Iceland, containing Konungs-annáll or Ann. Regii, an important vellum in Gamle Kongl. Saml. 2087, 4to, published in Langebek’s Script. rerr. Dan. vol. iii; cp. also the Hauks-annáll, Hóla-annáll, Flateyjar-annáll, Lögmanns-annáll, etc. A collection of Annals embracing the time from the settlement of Iceland up to A. D. 1430 was published at Copenhagen in 1847, and is cited by years.

 * V. :—Bárðar Saga, from Ed. Hólum 1756, new Ed. 1860; Víglundar Saga, Ed. 1756, new Ed. 1860; Þórðar Saga hreðu, Ed. 1756, new Ed. 1848 and 1860 (partly); Kjalnesinga Saga, cited from Íslendinga Sögur, Ed. 1847; Króka-Refs Saga, Ed. 1756; Finnboga Saga, Ed. 1812, along with the old Ed. of Vatnsdæla: Þorsteins-þáttr uxafóts, Orms-þáttr Stórólfssonar, Þorleifs-þáttr Jarlaskálds, all three in Fb. i. and in Fms. iii: Brandkrossa-þáttr, Ed. 1847, Bolla-þáttr, published along with the Laxdæla: Stjörnu-Odda Draumr, Ed. 1780, new Ed. 1860.

E. KONUNGA SÖGUR OR LIVES OF KINGS, PRINCES, AND EARLS OF FOREIGN COUNTRIES, etc.

 * I., contained in a great collection published in twelve volumes, Copenhagen 1825-1837, under the title of Fornmanna Sögur:—Vols. i-v contain the lives of the kings of Norway from the end of the 9th century to A. D. 1030: vol. vi contains Magnús Saga Góða and Haraldar Saga Harðráða (died 1066): vol. vii goes down to A. D. 1176; the best text of both vols. vi and vii are contained in a great Icelandic MS. called Hulda (cited now and then): vol. viii contains the Sverris Saga by Karl Ábóti (Abbot Carle), who died 1213; the king Sverrir died 1202: vol. ix, pp. 229-535, and vol. x, pp. 1-154, contain Hákonar Saga by Sturla Þórðarson, king Hacon died 1263: vol. xi contains the lives of the kings of Denmark, viz. Jómsvíkinga Saga (pp. 1-162, a shorter recension of the Saga is preserved in an Icelandic MS. at Stockholm, and cited from the Ed. 1824); Knytlinga Saga (pp. 179-402) = lives of the Danish kings from king Canute down to the end of the 12th century: in the 10th vol. there are besides, Ágrip (pp. 377-421), a compendium of the lives of the kings of Norway; Ólafs Saga Tryggvasonar by Oddr Munkr, who lived in the 12th century (pp. 216-376), another recension of the same work is edited by Munch, Christiania 1853 (and here marked Ó.T.): vol. xii contains registers, etc. Heims-kringla, vols. i-iii, cited from the folio edition, Copenhagen 1777-1783, contains the lives of the kings of Norway in a text mostly identical with Fornmanna Sögur vols. i-vii, and is therefore sparingly cited; but the Heimskringla alone gives the Ynglinga Saga, vide C. II: a new edition by Unger has been published. Christiania 1868. Codex Frisianus, a vellum MS. of the Heimskringla, fasc. 1, Christiania 1869. Ólafs Saga Helga by Snorri Sturlson, who died 1241, cited Ó.H., Christiania 1853, is identical with Fornmanna Sögur vols. iv, v, and Heimskringla vol. ii, but contains the besttext of this Saga. Fagrskinna, Christiania 1847, contains a short history of the kings of Norway down to the end of the 12th century. Morkinskinna, an old vellum containing the lives of king Harald Harðráði and the following kings, by C. R. Unger, Christiania 1867. Ingvars Saga by Brocman, Stockholm 1762. Eymundar Saga, cited from Fb. ii. and Fms. v; the Saga is given in Antiquités Russes. Ólafs Saga Helga (O.H.L.), a legendary life of St. Olave, Christiania 1849. Flateyjar-bók, edited in three volumes, Christiania 1860-1868, contains the text of Fornmanna Sögur, besides many other things, and is often cited (Fb.) Here may also be mentioned Skálda-tal or Catalogue of Ancient Poets and Kings, published by Möbius in his Catalogus, Leipzig 1856; but again edited by Jón Sigurdsson in Edda iii. pp. 251-286 (still in the press).

 * II. referring to other countries:—Orkneyinga Saga, also called Jarla Saga, the Lives of the Earls of Orkney from the earliest time down to the end of the 12th century, cited from the new edition of Mr. Dasent, not yet issued, the old Ed. A.D. 1780; the whole Saga is given in the Flateyjar-bók. Magnús Saga Eyja-jarls, the Life of St. Magnus, Ed. 1780. Færeyinga Saga, the History of the Faro Islands, Copenhagen 1832, from the Flateyjar-bók. Grænlendinga-þáttr or Einars-þáttr


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Page:The Strand (Volume 73).pdf/473

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title: Page:The Strand (Volume 73).pdf/473