Doubtless this ancestor of Mr. Newbigging’s read the story in one of the many editions of the “Gesta Romanorum,” which was for centuries a favourite story-book. The name of Guido clearly indicates the source. It is a striking instance of the passage of literature into legend. In fifty years from now Mr. Newbigging’s poem would be considered no light proof of the existence of a Lancashire variant of the story; yet, as we have just learned, it has no connection with Rossendale, but came from Scotland, and even then was a book tale, and not a genuine legend. This instance will not have been cited in vain if it warns any too enthusiastic student “folk-lorist” of the pitfalls that beset his path. We can only indicate the varied interest of Lancashire folk-lore by two or three examples. Let us take a phrase which may still be heard occasionally, “Aw’m coming too, like th’ Clegg Ho’ Boggart.” This is an allusion to a story told of more than one old house in the county. The inmates are perplexed and worried by the exploits of a tricksy spirit that upsets the furniture, makes strange noises, and generally renders everyone uncomfortable. They decide to remove, but when the furniture is on the cart, the “boggart” is heard to exclaim, “I’m going too,” whereupon they decide to remain and endure as best they may the unwelcome companionship of their household spirit. Now this story of the “flitting boggart” is a widespread one. When Professor Worsaae was in England, he surprised a Lancashire friend by narrating a Scandinavian legend which is practically identical. “_See i dag flitter vi_,” were the words of the Danish brownie. The version given by Mr. Roby appears to be merely a literary appropriation of a Yorkshire story, but the widespread character of the tale is undoubted. Tennyson is familiar with it, and has thus put it into verse:— “... his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay’d: The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, ‘What! You’re flitting!’ ‘Yes, we’re flitting,’ says the ghost (For they had pack’d the thing among the beds). ‘Oh well,’ says he, ‘you flitting with us too,— Jack, turn the horses’ heads, and home again.’”