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!