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Egla might have heard of the gods' manes from some wandering Ionian. The Greeks attributed four distinct parts to man,—the body, which is resolved to dust; the soul, which, as they imagined, passed to Tartarus or the Elysian Fields, according to its merits; the image, which inhabited the infernal vestibule; and the shade, which wandered about the sepulchre. This last they were accustomed to invoke three times; and libations were poured but to this as well as to the gods' manes, who were the genii of the dead, and had the care of their sepulchres and wandering shades.—See Travels of Antenor.

The Jews, besides, at the time this scene is supposed to have transpired, began to be imbued with the Chaldaic superstitions or belief. “The modern Jews,” says Father Augustin Calmet, “hold the souls of men to be spiritual and immortal, but that they sometimes appear again, as well as good and evil demons; that the souls of the Hebrews are never visible either in hell or paradise, except their bodies are buried; that, even after they are buried, the soul makes frequent excursions from its destined residence to visit its former body, and inquire into its condition; that it wanders about for a full year after its first separation from the body; and that it was before the expiration of this year that the witch of Endor called up the soul of Samuel.”

Origen and Theophylact say also that the Jews and Heathens believed the soul to continue near the body for some time after the death of the person.—

Origen, in his second book against Celsus (continues the Reverend Father Dom Augustin Calmet), relates and subscribes to the opinion of Plato, who says “that the shadows and images of the dead, which are seen near sepulchres, are nothing but the soul disengaged from its gross body, but not yet entirely freed from matter.” From the same old book, which is probably read by few, I cannot forbear transcribing the following curious account, which, however impossible, appears to have been at one time generally believed:—

“If there is any truth in what we are told by the learned Digby, chancellor to Henrietta, Queen of England, by Father Kircher, a celebrated Jesuit, by Father Schott of the same order, and by Gafferell and Vallemont, concerning the wonderful mystery of the Palingenesis, or resurrection of plants, it will help to account for the shades and phantoms which many will confidently assert they have seen in churchyards.”

The account which these curious naturalists give of their performing the wonderful operation of the Palingenesis is as follows:—

“They take a flower, and burn it to ashes, from which, being collected with great care, they extract all the salts by calcination. These salts they put into a glass phial; and, having added to them a certain composition which has a property of putting the ashes in motion upon the application of heat, the whole becomes a fine dust of a bluish color. From this dust, when agitated by a gentle heat, there arise gradually a stalk, leaves, and then a flower; in short, there is seen the apparition of a plant rising out of the ashes. When the heat ceases the whole show disappears, and the dust falls into its former chaos at the bottom of the vessel. The return of heat always raises out of its ashes this vegetable phœnix, which derives its life from the presence of this genial warmth, and dies as soon as it is withdrawn.”

Then follows the manner in which Father Kircher endeavors to account for the wonderful phenomenon; and the author continues with an assertion that the members of the Royal Society at London had (as he was informed) made the same experiment upon a sparrow, and were then hoping to make it succeed upon men.

The Medes, as well as the Persians, were expert with the bow and javelin.

Many of the young men of Asia, and even those of Athens, used the same arts at their toilets as the women.

This description is from the life, and does not exceed in any particular the face of a Canadian lady of Swiss descent. She was called by the peasants of her neighborhood “l'ange des bois.”

The Christian fathers did not in the least doubt that many of the heroes of antiquity were really so produced. They, however, supposed that their fathers were some of the banished angels, who assumed at pleasure the forms of those gods under whose names they caused themselves to be adored.

Men of all countries and ages have put faith in these talismans. The Egyptians have left a great number: they wore them on the neck, in the form of little cylinders, ornamented with figures and hieroglyphics.

“Les Grecs faisaient aussi un grand usage des amulettes; ils attribuerent des propriétés surnaturelles au laurier, au saule, aux arbrisseaux épineux, au jaspe, à presque toutes les pierres précieuses.”—

“The Arabs,” says Shaw, “hang about their children's necks the figure of an open hand, which the Turks and Moors paint upon their ships and houses, as an antidote and counter-charm to an evil eye. Those who are grown up still carry about with them some paragraph or other of their Koran, which, as the Jews did their phylacteries, they place upon their breast, or sew under their caps, to prevent fascination and witchcraft, and to secure themselves from sickness and misfortune. The virtue of these charms and scrolls is supposed likewise to be so far universal, that they suspend them upon the necks of their cattle, horses, and other beasts of burden.”

The most wonderful properties were ascribed to precious stones: some detected the presence of poison; others made ineffectual the power of evil spirits and magicians.

“Giafar, the founder of the Barmecides, being obliged to fly from Persia, his native country, took refuge at Damascus, and implored the protection of the caliph Soliman. When he was presented to that prince, the caliph suddenly changed color, and commanded him to retire, suspecting he had poison about him. Soliman had discovered it by means of ten stones which he wore upon his arm. They were fastened there like a bracelet, and never failed to strike against each other, and make a slight noise, when any poison was near. Upon inquiry, it was found that Giafar carried poison in his ring, for the purpose of self-destruction in case he had been taken by his enemies.”—

Sir Walter Scott avails himself very beautifully of that power of detecting poison attributed to the opal.

Belief in the efficacy of amulets is too pleasing to be easily laid aside; and probably will, in some degree, exist as long as the pain of fear or the pleasure of security. I was shown last evening, in company with a young Greek of Athens, an amulet which had belonged to his deceased companion. It was a little square case of silver, suspended from a chain, in order to be worn about the neck in the manner of a miniature. On the outside were three small figures in relief,—the Saviour, Mary, and Martha; and the case contained a thin slip of light-colored wood, about an inch in breadth, and an inch and a half in length, delicately carved, and representing a figure on horseback. This wood was supposed, by its former possessor, to be a fragment of the real cross. The Greek youth in whose presence it was shown has been educated by a gentleman of the south of England, and now living at the foot of Skiddaw with his enchanting lady. The protectors are all generosity, the youth all gratitude; and nothing can be more interesting than their family circle. The latter recollected some of the airs of his native country, which were wild and sweet, and, accompanied by the piano-forte, had a fine effect; and it was difficult to forbear thinking of those lyres which once might possibly have thrilled to them.

This act was often resorted to as the most forcible manner of imploring protection. When the young prince Cyrus was brought before his brother Artaxerxes, whose throne he had attempted to usurp, Parysates, his mother, intwined him with her hair, and by tears and entreaties succeeded in saving him from death.

Zimmermann, in his admired work on Solitude, gives an instance of two Italian lovers, who, after having been separated, sprang into each other's embrace, and both died immediately. Joy is seldom perfect enough to kill; but, could it exist as free from the alloy of any other sensation as grief is sometimes felt, it would probably destroy life much sooner, from the circumstance of mortal nerves being far less accustomed to it. “Many,” said Dr. Goldsmith, “die of grief; but who was ever known to die of joy?” Instances of the latter, though rare, are sometimes found.

I was told by a lady, whose word there was not the least reason to doubt, of a person she had known who was passionately fond of music. She had heard him say, while listening to a concert of sacred compositions, “I shall certainly die if I hear many more of these strains.” A few years afterwards, the same person actually fell dead while assisting at a concert. This happened in a country where education and every custom tend rather to the annihilation than the culture of any deep or violent emotion.

Excessive joy, by preventing sleep (as it invariably does in a person capable of feeling it at all), very soon procures for itself a mitigation proceeding from corporeal uneasiness: were this not the case, it would soon terminate in death or madness, even though not felt in a very unusual degree.

Past joy is a thing so pleasant to speak upon, that raptures are generally exaggerated in the telling. When really intense, as they are sometimes described, their power to produce death can scarcely be doubted. Every one has heard of Chilo's death in the arms of his son, who returned victorious from the Olympic games.