THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH. _A Reminiscence of Windermere._ (CHIEFLY IN THE DIALECT OF WESTMORLAND.) Green verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres, How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spell That bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d years And held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel. ’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills, And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail, And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,[8] Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel. And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long, A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,) Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong, Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame. Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray; The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere, And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay— The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere. And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest, Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone, And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast— The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone. And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day, And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky, By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay, We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I. Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong, And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride, As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long, He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide. “Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I, When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell; For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky, And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell. “And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long, Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time; The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song, So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.” Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim— For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade— And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim, He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.