There are a few phosphorescent fancies about the moon, like ignes fatui,
"Dancing in murky night o'er fen and lake,"
which we may dispose of in a section by themselves. Those of them that are mythical are too evanescent to become full-grown myths; and those which are religious are too volatile to remain in the solution or salt of any bottled creed. Like the wandering lights of the Russians, answering to our will-o'-the-wisp, they are the souls of still-born children.