In the Dunske Folkesagen appear one or two circumstances relative to the freaks of a nis, the goblin of the Danish popular creed, similar to the pranks detailed in our Lancashire legend.  Fancy, however sportive and playful with materials already in her possession, is of a much less creative character than is generally supposed, even by those most susceptible to her influence.  It is surprising how few are the original conceptions that have sprung from the human mind.  Popular superstitions—­the great mass of them spread over an immense variety of surface, climate, manners, and opinions—­might be supposed to exhibit a corresponding difference in originality and invention.  But here 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.