366 THE WRECKERS OF ST. AGNES. 



" Hush ! hush !" said Thomas ; " collect yourself you don't know 

 what you're talking of." " Who says I murdered him ?" cried the 

 miserable being before us. " Who says I got his money ? He's a liar, 

 I say a liar. His money is sunk with him. Let 'em hang me I am 

 innocent. They cannot prove it." It became too distressing. Fortu- 

 nately for the feelings of all, the unhappy man, or rather maniac, re- 

 lapsed into insensibility, and in that state was conveyed home. 



It was not till then that we thought of the stranger. No trace of him 

 could be found. The money, ring, and watch, had disappeared. 



Strange were the rumours abroad the next day at St. Agnes. Some 

 men going very early to work, averred they saw a horseman flying over 

 the moors, crossing shafts and pits, without once staying to pick his 

 way. It could have been no human horseman, nor steed, that could 

 have sped on such a wild career. There was another report, which ac- 

 counted for the appearance and disappearance of the stranger in another 

 way. Some smugglers reported, that on that night they saw a beau- 

 tiful French smuggling lugger sheltering from the gale in a little un- 

 frequented bay along the coast. It might have been one of the crew, 

 who had made himself acquainted with the circumstances he mentioned, 

 and which was no secret, and made this bold dash for a prize : but this 

 version of the story was scouted, as quite unworthy of the slightest 

 credit. The former was the popular belief. 



If any one of the dramatis personce of the above sketch should happen 

 to cast his eye over it, which, by the way, is the most unlikely thing 

 possible, seeing the great probability that they have all been hanged 

 long since : but if by alibi, or any other convenient means, only one 

 should have escaped from justice, he will bear witness to the faithful- 

 ness of my narrative ; and acknowledge, with gratitude, the obligation 

 of immortality in the Monthly Magazine. 



' 



SONNET. 



HERB, in the shadow of this ancient wood ; 



Here may ye sit ye down, and meditate 



The simple beauty of the rustic state, 

 Campestral peace, and sylvan solitude. 



The bird shall teach ye, and the insect brood, 

 How Nature her own pleasure doth create, 

 In pleasing others ; and, remote from hate, 



Lives on, supreme in universal good. 



Here shall ye commune with such spirits blest, 



As speak through silence, utt'ring truths unknown ; 



How Love is sympathy, by deeds confest 

 How Love and Charity are link'd in one : 



Here may ye learn to live without a sigh, 



And turn thy thoughts above, and learn to die. 





