papa which is provided with legs, climbs some way up a or other water plant, which it grasps tightly, and then stretches and strains itself in every direction; presently the head bursts, and the antennæ and head of the fly protrude, also its two front legs. The The pupa holds on with its legs: the fly endeavours to extricate itself from the pupa with its own, and finally succeeds, leaving the lifeless husk on the plant which it ascended. But the sight of an apparent struggle between two animals possessing the same body is very unpleasant.' When free from its pupa, or corpse, the dragon-fly hovers over the pool of water with the same voracious propensities as it possessed when it occupied the body in the shape of a grub at the bottom of a pond. That the dead retain the same affection and interest in those that they loved on earth, each one, or most of us, at least, particularly those who have attended deathbeds, must be well aware of, from the frequency of the spirits of the departed coming round the death-beds of those they loved or liked. The following stories are instances in point of the truth of this assertion. King Amenemhat I, of Egypt, represents himself as "now being one of the happy dead, he has already begun prayers for the welfare of his son". Mr. Thomas Brevior relates the following story in the Psychological Review for April 1878. There were two companies of the 74th Highlanders at Shorapoor with Colonel Hughes's force. After the place was taken, one company was located, as I have before stated, in my house on the hill, the other remaining in camp below the town, till they should return to Bellary. One afternoonI have forgotten the date--Captain, the senior officer, was sitting in his tent, writing letters to England, as the mail letters had to be forwarded by that evening's post, and had had the side wall of his tent opened for light and air, when a young man of his company appeared suddenly before him in his hospital dress, without his cap, and without saluting him, said, "I wish, Sir, you would have my arrears of pay sent to mother, who lives at -, please take down the address". n-took down the address mechanically, and said, 1 The Unseen World. Masters, New Bond Street. "All right, my man, that will do"; and again making no salute, the man went away. A moment after, Captain remembered that the dress and appearance of the soldier, and his manner of coming in were highly irregular, and desired his orderly to send the sergeant to him directly. "Why did you allow to come to me in that irregular manner?" he asked, as soon as the sergeant came. The man was thunderstruck. "Sir," he exclaimed, "do you not remember he died yesterday in hospital, and was buried this morning? Are you sure, Sir, you saw him?" "Quite sure," was the reply; "and here is the memorandum I took down from him of his mother's address, to whom he wished his pay should be sent." "That is strange, Sir," said the sergeant; "his things were sold by auction to-day, and I could not find where the money should be sent, in the company's registry; but it may be with the general registry with the regiment. The books were searched; the address taken down was proved to be correct, and the circumstance made a profound impression upon all who knew the facts. The following occurrence is related in Burke's Tales of the Peerage. Gabriel Hamilton, of Westburn, in the county of Lanark, was the representative of an ancient and distinguished branch of the Duke of Hamilton's family, viz., Hamilton of Torrance, a cadet of the great house of Raploch, which was immediately sprung from the Lords of Cadzow, the ancestors of the Earls of Arran and Dukes of Hamilton. The grandmother of this Hamilton of Westburn was a daughter of Sir Walter Stuart of Allanton. And thus Westburn and Allanton were near kinsmen, at a time when relationship and intimacy were synonymous. The death of Westburn took place in 1757 or 1758, and Allanton had predeceased him several years. Their estates, moreover, were situated in the same county, and they were on the most affectionate and familiar terms with each other. Westburn, who was an elderly man, and not in very strong health, was in the habit of reposing during an hour after dinner; and his wife, the beautiful and estimable Agnes Dundas, heiress of Duddingston, usually sat by the side of the couch, reading to him, or conversing till he fell asleep. One day he slept longer, and apparently more soundly than usual, and at length he suddenly awoke, and said that he had been roused by the fluttering of the wings of doves. He then addressed his wife, and related to her the following remarkable dream : VOL. I. 15 "I was walking in the most lovely gardens and pleasuregrounds that I ever beheld, and so struck was I with their extraordinary extent and romantic beauty, and with the bright and glorious colours of the flowers which sprung up around me on every side, that I exclaimed, 'This can be no other place than Paradise! this must be the garden of the Lord!' I had hardly uttered these words, when a youth of radiant beauty and heavenly expression approached me, and smiling sweetly on me, he accosted me familiarly by name, giving me a cordial welcome to his happy home. I expressed my surprise at his friendly and familiar greeting, seeing that we were but strangers. 'And yet,' said I, there is that in your countenance which makes me feel as if you were my friend!' 'Seek not,' said he, to deny our old and intimate acquaintance. You are my near kinsman, and familiar neighbour and friend;' and observing that I looked astonished and incredulous, he said, 'Is it possible that you have forgotten me? Is it even with you, so soon, out of sight, out of mind? Do not you know me? I am your cousin, Stewart of Allanton.' Impossible,' said I; 'for my dear friend Allanton was old and plain-looking, whereas you are the most beautiful youth my eyes did ever behold.' Even so,' said the youth; all those who come here are made youthful and beautiful. There is here neither age nor plainness. I am no other than your dear cousin and old friend Allanton, and within twenty-four hours you will be here with me, and you will be young and beautiful like me.' Hereupon I heard the loud fluttering of the wings of doves, and I suddenly awoke." It may be imagined that Westburn's dream made a deep impression, not unmingled with awe, on his affectionate wife. She deemed it to be a warning that she must hold herself in readiness to resign him ere long, at the call of his heavenly Master and Father; and even so it came to pass. On the following morning Westburn was found dead in his bed. His spirit had departed during the night, and had gone to join his early friend and kinsman in the garden of Paradise. Plutarch relates that a certain man, named Thespesius, having fallen from a great height, was taken up apparently dead from the shock, although no external wound was to be discovered. On the third day after the accident, however, when they were about to bury him, he unexpectedly revived; and it was afterwards observed, to the surprise of all who knew him, that from being a vicious reprobate, he became one of the most virtuous of men. On being interrogated with respect to the cause of the change, he related that, during the period of his bodily insensibility, it appeared to him that he was dead, and that he had been first plunged into the depths of an ocean, out of which, however, he soon emerged, and then, at one view, the whole of space was disclosed to him. Everything appeared in a different aspect, and the dimensions of the planetary bodies, and the intervals betwixt them, were tremendous; whilst his spirit seemed to float in a sea of light, like a ship in calm waters. He also described many other things that he had seen: he said that the souls of the dead, on quitting the body, appeared like a bubble of light, out of which a human form was quickly evolved. That, of these, some shot away at once in a direct line, with great rapidity; whilst others, on the contrary, seemed unable to find their due course, and continued to hover about, going hither and thither, till at length they also darted away in one direction or another. He recognised few of these persons he saw, but those whom he did, and sought to address, appeared as if they were stunned and amazed, and avoided him with terror. Their voices were indistinct, and seemed to be uttering vague lamentings. There were others, also, who floated farther from the earth, who looked bright, and were gracious; these avoided the approach of the last. In short, the demeanour and appearance of these spirits manifested clearly their degrees of joy and grief. Thespesius was then informed by one of them that he was not dead, but that he had been permitted to come there by a Divino decree, and that his soul, which was yet attached to his body as by an anchor, would return to it. again. Thespesius then observed that he was different to the dead by whom he was surrounded; and this observation seemed to restore him to his recollection. They were transparent, and environed by a radiance, but he seemed to trail after him a dark ray or shadow. These spirits also presented very different aspects; some were entirely pervaded by a mild, clear radiance, like that of the full moon; through others there appeared faint streaks, that diminished this splendour; whilst others, on the contrary, were distinguished by spots, or stripes of black, or of a dark colour, like the marks on the skin of a viper. The White Lady of Comlongan.-A young Chief of tho Maxwell clan deeply loved a daughter of the House of Athol; but as there existed some misunderstanding between the families at that time, he forbore to press his suit till matters could be accommodated. In the interim, young Maxwell was 152 cruelly assassinated at Merklenburn, near Graitney, in the incursion of Douglas and Albany, where the beautiful funeral cross is erected over his remains. The lady, in a momentary fit of anguish for the untimely fate of her lover, threw herself into the draw-well of the castle, where she perished, and for many years afterwards the apparition of a "White Lady" was seen to wander through the groves surrounding the castle of Comlongan. By Solway's shores, how wildly ring The gull's loud shriek at opening morn; Is heard at solemn close of day. Oft linger round the haunted grove, Where shall the lover rest, From his true maiden's breast, |