Dubious light That hovers ’twixt the day and night, Dazzling alternately and dim. When the Harringtons established themselves here the wolf and the wild boar roamed at large through the thick forests of Cartmel, and among the legends and scraps of family history that have floated down through successive generations is the story that on the eminence to the north of Wraysholme the last wild boar was hunted down; from which circumstance the hill has ever since borne the name of Boar Bank. It is said, too, that, far back in the mist of ages, it was from Wraysholme Tower a gallant company rode forth to hunt the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm;” and that, after a long and weary chase, the savage beast was tracked to its lair on the wooded heights of Humphrey Head, and there transfixed by the spear of a Harrington. Tradition has been well described as the nursing-mother of the Muses, and these bits of legendary lore, which have been deeply rooted in the memories, and for many a generation have delighted the firesides, of the Cartmel cottagers, have inspired the pen of a local poet, who has told the story of “The Last Wolf” in spirit-stirring verse. This interesting ballad, though varying considerably from the current tradition, is yet a valuable contribution to our Palatine anthology. Its great length—seventy-five verses—prevents our giving it entire, but the following passages will give an idea of the salient features of the story:— The sun hath set on Wraysholme’s Tower, And o’er broad Morecambe Bay; The moon from out her eastern bower Pursues the track of day. On Wraysholme’s grey and massive walls, On rocky Humphrey Head, On wood and field her silver falls, Her silent charms are shed. No sound through all yon sleeping plain Now breaks upon the ear, Save murmurs from the distant main, Or evening breezes near. * * * * * Within those walls may now be seen The festive board displayed, And round it many a knight, I ween, And many a comely maid. For know that on the morrow’s dawn, With all who list to ride, Sir Edgar Harrington hath sworn To hunt the country-side. A wolf, the last, as rumour saith, In England’s spacious realm, Is doomed that day to meet its death, And grace the conqueror’s helm. And he hath sworn an oath beside, Whoe’er that wolf shall quell Shall have his fair niece for a bride, And half his land as well. The “fair niece” is the orphan Lady Adela— For beauty famous far and wide, whose heart has previously been given to Sir Edgar’s son; but the course of true love has been characterised by the proverbial absence of smoothness, and the young knight, to escape his father’s wrath, has betaken himself to the wars in Eastern lands.