The late Mr. Charles Hardwick thought that the flitting boggart was of Scandinavian origin, and the evidence seemed strong enough, but there is evidence that he is known in Italy. In that charming book by Janet Ross, “The Land of Manfred,” there is this interesting bit of folk-lore:—“I observed that some of the flock the old shepherd was guarding looked tired and hung their heads wearily. I asked whether they were ill, and he answered, ‘No; but I must get rid of them, because the Laùro has taken an antipathy to them.’ On further inquiry, he told me that the Laùro was a little man, only thirty centimetres high, always dressed in velvet, and wearing a Calabrese hat with a feather stuck into it. The Laùro is most capricious: to some who ask him for money he gives a sackful of broken potsherds; to others who ask for sand he gives old coins. He took a particular dislike to a cousin of the old shepherd’s, sitting on her chest at night and giving her terrible dreams. At last she was so worried by the Laùro that she determined to leave her house. All the household goods and chattels were on the cart; nothing was left but an old broom, and when the goodwife went to fetch it the Laùro suddenly appeared, saying, ‘I’ll take that; let us be off to the new house.’ His antipathies or likings are unaccountable; he will steal the corn from one horse or mule to give it to another, twist up their manes and tails in a fantastic way, or shave them in queer patterns. The Laùro would not allow the sheep I had asked about to rest at night, and any animal he hated had to be sold.” It may, of course, be said that the flitting boggart went to Taranto with Guiscard’s Normans in the eleventh century, but it is equally probable that the Lancashire weaver and the Italian peasant have each inherited their belief from a common and an earlier source. The devil occupies a conspicuous place in folk-lore, but he is not the fallen angel, dark, gloomy, and majestic whom Milton drew, nor is he the accomplished Mephistophiles, the spirit that denies, whom Goethe has painted. The devil of folk-lore is malignant but stupid, and oftener the dupe of humanity than the slayer of souls. This is evident in the story of the devil’s task of making a rope of sand already named, and is equally clear in the story of the tailor who made a wager with the devil that he would beat him at a sewing match. He succeeded by giving the Evil One a needle with a thread in it so long that for every stitch the demon had to fly all round the room, whilst the tailor’s was only of the normal length. The devil of folk-lore is more like Pan and the satyrs, than he is like the Adversary who tempted Job. But _de mortuis nil nisi honum_, and _if_—there is much virtue in an _if_—if the devil is drowned let him rest in peace.