It was a common thing for the images of the gods to turn away their heads when displeased with the meats placed before them. This act filled a whole district with terror, and excited a desire in the people to do whatever the priests enjoined. When the Athenians were slow to desert their capital and take to their ships, the sacred wooden dragon of Minerva not only refused to eat his cakes, but rolled himself out of the temple and down into the sea, as though to indicate to the people the direction in which resided safety. As for the huge puppets used in religious processions, nothing now exists like them, save in some of the festival processions in Flemish towns. Our venerable city brethren, Gog and Magog, are the ancient freemen of that guild. In some of the smaller images our worthy friend Punch figures with his wonted _éclat_. M. Magnin holds that the French _Polichinelle_ is not a descendant of the puppet with the Phrygian bonnet, but an image caricaturing some old boasting cuirassed captain of Gascony. The breast protuberance he considers to be merely an exaggeration of the bowed cuirass,—an explanation which I am far from feeling bound to honour with acceptance. Puppets found favour at the hands of the early Fathers of the Church: perhaps for the reason that more decency was observed in the speeches of the shows than in those of the stage. The Fathers however were divided on the point. Some advocated the use of every and any means whereby religion could be furthered; others declared that nothing was lawful but what was in itself holy. The fashion nevertheless prevailed, and allegorical figures became common. The Fish, the Lamb, the Good Shepherd, and similar representations gladdened the hearts of simple people, till the Church planted her canons against them exclusively, and insisted upon the adoption of figures of the Saviour in his human form. The command was but slowly complied with. In the fourth century artists had not got beyond the bust of Jesus. By the end of the seventh century, we meet with the sacred figure in slight relief carved on the wooden cross. It required full another century before the reluctant or incapable artists achieved the complete anatomical figure hanging _from_ the cross. But when this was once accomplished, progress was soon made beyond it; and images of the Saviour and the Madonna, with movable limbs, set in motion by strings, became common throughout Europe. We hear of one gravely moving through Lucca on foot, and gravely blessing the people as he passed along: this was the counterpart of the Bacchus at Nysa. The Boxley Madonna was long the glory of Kent. It not only moved the head, but opened and closed the eyes; and I would tell its story here, as apt to the subject, but that I have already narrated it at some length in the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine.’