control the moon.'

The Rev. Timothy Harley, who has collected much moon-lore, suggests that
if the broom on which witches rode to the moon be a type of the wind,
'we may guess how the fancy grew up that the airy creation could control
those atmospheric vapours on which the light and humidity of the night
were supposed to depend.'

But the 'glamour' of the moon is not a mere poetic invention or a
lover's fancy. Mr. Moncure Conway reminds us that _glam_, in its
nominative form _glamir_, is a poetical name for the moon, to be found
in the Prose Edda. It is given in the Glossary as one of the old names
for the moon. Mr. Conway also says that there is a curious old Sanscrit
word, _glau_ or _glav_, which is explained in all the old lexicons as
meaning the moon. Hence 'the ghost or goblin Glam (of the old legend of
Grettir) seems evidently to have arisen from a personification of the
delusive and treacherous effects of moonlight on the benighted
traveller.'

Similar delusive effects are found referred to in old Hindoo writings,
as, for instance, in the following passages from Bhasa, a poet of the
seventh century:

'The cat laps the moonbeams in the bowl of water, thinking them to be
milk; the elephant thinks that the moonbeams threaded through the
intervals of the trees are the fibres of the lotus-stalk; the woman
snatches at the moonbeams as they lie on the bed, taking them for her
muslin garment. Oh, how the moon, intoxicated with radiance, bewilders
all the world!'

Again:

'The bewildered herdsmen place the pails under the cows, thinking that
the milk is flowing; the maidens also put the blue lotus-blossom in
their ears, thinking that it is the white; the mountaineer's wife
snatches up the jujube fruit, avaricious for pearls. Whose mind is not
led astray by the thickly-clustering moonbeams?'

Such was the 'glamour' of Glam (the moon) in ancient eyes, and still it
works on lovers' hearts. The fascination has been felt and expressed by
nearly all the poets, and by none better, perhaps, than by Sir Philip
Sidney:

'With what sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrow tries?
Sure if that long with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case.
I read it in thy looks--thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.'

Th