we find
the same paucity of incidents, varying only in character with the
climate which gave them birth; the leading features being evidently
common to each. The Scandinavian and the Hindoo, the European and the
Asiatic, construct their legends on the same basis; the same stories,
and even the same train of events, proving their common origin.

Mr Crofton Croker, a name familiar to all lovers of legendary lore, has
kindly communicated the following tale. In substituting this, in place
of what the author might have written on the subject, he feels convinced
that his readers will not feel displeased at the change, and assures
them it is with real gratification that he presents them with an article
from the pen of the writer of _The Fairy Legends_.

Not far from the little-snug smoky village of Blakeley, or Blackley,
there lies one of the most romantic of dells, rejoicing in a state of
singular seclusion, and in the oddest of Lancashire names, to wit, the
"Boggart-hole." Rich in every requisite for picturesque beauty and
poetical association, it is impossible for me (who am neither a painter
nor a poet) to describe this dell as it should be described; and I will
therefore only beg of thee, gentle reader, who peradventure mayst not
have lingered in this classical neighbourhood, to fancy a deep, deep
dell, its steep sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and fern and
thick undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest and
greenest sward in the world. You descend, clinging to the trees, and
scrambling as best you may,--and now you stand on haunted ground! Tread
softly, for this is the Boggart's clough; and see in yonder dark corner,
and beneath the projecting mossy stone, where that dusky sullen cave
yawns before us, like a bit of Salvator's best, there lurks the strange
elf, the sly and mischievous Boggart. Bounce! I see him coming; oh no,
it was only a hare bounding from her form; there it goes--there!

I will tell you of some of the pranks of this very Boggart, and how he
teased and tormented a good farmer's family in a house hard by, and I
assure you it was a very worthy old lady who told me the story. But
first, suppose we leave the Boggart's demesne, and pay a visit to the
theatre of his strange doings.

You see that old farm house about two fields distant, shaded by the
sycamore-tree: that was the spot which the Boggart or Bar-gaist selected
for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest Ge