ore work," said the spirits. "Yes, work,
endless work," shouted Scott. "Go," said he, "and make the sea-sand
into ropes." With a gloomy countenance the fiends departed, never to
return to molest the enchanter. For aught that is known, says the
legend, the spirits may still be endeavouring to perform the
impossible task of making ropes out of sea-sand. All parties are not
agreed as to how Sir Michael Scott died, nor where he was interred,
but the general belief as to where his remains rest is, that he was
buried, together with his magic books, at Melrose Abbey.

Assuming that the poems asserted to be those of Ossian are authentic,
we see there was in his time a general belief that ghosts and spirits
floated through the air, that the dead revisited the earth, that the
destiny of man was under the control of supernatural beings, and that
the astonishing power of witches was real, and not imaginary. This is
abundantly proved (always assuming the authenticity of the Ossianic
poems) by the work before us, from which we take the following
quotations:--

"Fingal advanced his steps wide through the bosom of
night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid squally
winds.... I beheld the dark moon descending behind thy
resounding woods. On thy top dwells the misty Loda,
the house of the spirits of men. I saw a deer at
Crona's stream; a mossy bank he seemed through the
gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round
his branching horns; the awful faces of other times
looked from the clouds of Crona. These are the signs
of Fingal's death. The king of shields is fallen, and
Caracul prevails. 'Rise, Comala, from thy rock;
daughter of Sarno, rise in tears. The youth of thy
love is low; his ghost is on our hills.'...

"Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mists rest on
the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree
stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering
Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and
strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here
the ghosts of the departed, when the musing hunter
alone stalks over the heath....

"The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he
beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie, O
Malvina! in the narrow plain of the rock.

"Often did I turn my ship, but