Primitive man, who thought he could constrain the earth to be fertile by burying in it fertile objects, by ‘sympathetic magic,’ was sure to think he could in like fashion compel his fellow. Curse tablets deposited in graves and sanctuaries have come to light in thousands; but before man learnt to write his curse, to spell out the formulary καταδῶ, ‘I bind you down,’ he had a simpler and more certain plan. In a grave in Attica was found a little lead figure[353] which tells its own tale. It is too ugly for needless reproduction, but it takes us into the very heart of ancient malignant magic. The head of the figure has been wrenched off, both arms are tightly swathed behind the back, and the legs in like fashion; right through the centre of the body has been driven a great nail. Dr Wünsch[354], in publishing the figure, compares the story recorded of a certain St Theophilos[355] ‘who had his feet and hands bound by magic.’ The saint sought relief in vain, till he was told in a dream to go out fishing, and what the fishermen drew up would cure him of his malady. They let down the net and drew up a bronze figure, bound hand and foot and with a nail driven through the hand: they drew out the nail and the saint immediately recovered. The _locus classicus_ on ancient magic and spells is of course the second Idyll of Theocritus[356], on Simaetha the magician. Part of her incantation may be quoted here because a poet’s insight has divined the strange fierce loveliness that lurks in rites of ignorance and fear, rites stark and desperate and non-moral as the passion that prompts them. Delphis has forsaken her, and in the moonlight by the sea Simaetha makes ready her magic gear: ‘Lo! Now the barley smoulders in the flame. Thestylis, wretch! thy wits are woolgathering! Am I a laughing-stock to thee, a Shame? Scatter the grain, I say, the while we sing, “The bones of Delphis I am scattering.” _Bird[357], magic Bird, draw the man home to me._ Delphis sore troubled me. I, in my turn, This laurel against Delphis will I burn. It crackles loud, and sudden down doth die, So may the bones of Delphis liquefy. _Wheel, magic Wheel, draw the man home to me._ Next do I burn this wax, God helping me, So may the heart of Delphis melted be. This brazen wheel I whirl, so, as before Restless may he be whirled about my door. _Bird, magic Bird, draw the man home to me._ Next will I burn these husks. O Artemis, Hast power hell’s adamant to shatter down And every stubborn thing. Hark! Thestylis, Hecate’s hounds are baying up the town, The goddess at the crossways. Clash the gong. ... Lo, now the sea is still. The winds are still. The ache within my heart is never still.’