The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the main _desiderata_, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland. REQUIESCAT! SANNTER, BELLA! Sannter, Bella!—Bliss the’, sannter, Th’u’ll be seun aneuf at heàm; Gā’n frae t’ chūrch at sec a cannter, Fwoke ’ll sweer th’u’s thinkin’ shām’— Shām’ ’at I sud woak aside the’! Does t’e, Bella, shām’ o’ me? Whey than, bide the’, dar it, bide the’!— Few’s sa leet o’ t’ feut as thee. Si’s t’e, Bella, nay but, si’s t’e, Hoo th’u’s makin’ t’ ne’bours laugh; Th’u’s a taistrel fair ’at is t’e, But I like thee weel——Hŭt, shaff!— Whoa can tell his stwory rūnnin?— Whoa can coort an’ win a reàce?— If th’u’s flay’t I’s foase, or fūnnin’, Stop, an’ leuk me fair i’ t’ feàce! Leuk, an’ see if I wad cheat the’— Leuk, I tell the’, glimes wont dee! Whativer wrang’t the’, I wad reet the’, Whoa-iver fails the’, trust i’ me. Wait! Nay, tak’ mair time, I pray the’— Shūttin’ frae yan like a dart— Nowte for nowte I’s axin’ frae the’— Nowte for nowte, but heart for heart. Sannter, than! Nay, Bella, sannter! I’ll nūt say ya wūrd ’at’s wrang, But th’u’s a wannter!—I’s a wannter! An’ nowder sud be wannters lang. Thoo kens what sec a heàm I’ve gitten— Ken’s o’ ’s reet, an’ straight, an’ square— Ken’s o’ wad fit the’ like a mitten; What the hangment wad t’e mair?