comes within hail, as we go merrily on. It turns out to be the old "Lionesse," once the packet to Penzance, but now altered in her rig, and engaged in the foreign trade. She belongs to the port of St. Mary's, and we learn from her crew, as she passes us, that all is well on board. Such incidents are very frequent here, but the voyage home is not always so lucky. The wreck of a West Indiaman, the Mary Hay," is now in sight, on the shore of Bryher. And the "Renown," a ship of six hundred tons, from America to Liverpool, is lying alongside the new pier, waiting to be broken up. She took fire, from spontaneous combustion, beginning, I believe, among some cushew nuts, and her cargo of cotton and tobacco was almost entirely spoiled. The hulls of the two wrecks look but sadly amid the gay rigging and smart finish of the Scillonian vessels, which are remarkable for their symmetry and neatness. The glowing sunbeams seem out of place, upon those battered and disabled veterans.

The swell that sets in between the Garrison and the Gugh makes our boat, the Crim-scape (so called from being a waif, saved from a wreck on the Crim rock), dance and heel over to leeward, till she goes gunwale under, from the influence of the fresh breeze. We soon, however, are under shelter, and abreast of St. Warna's cove. The grim abode of the grim Saint, or rather of the sinner, deified by sinners like herself, frowns down upon us. We care little for her malign influence. Time was that we should have shuddered to pass her shrine without an offering, or, at least, a deprecatory prayer. Now, her memory dwells alone with its solitude, and her once dreaded name is mentioned only in

connection with a legend or a jest. As for the former of these two alternatives, she is fortunate in being associated with it. Considering that these islands are of a respectable antiquity, and have an historical pedigree of so many centuries, they are sadly unprovided with traditions. There is not, I believe, a satisfactory ghost in any one of them. And accordingly a good phantom, a warning spirit, or even a dream that is verified, are sought in vain. Pixies are among the things fit to be told to the marines. And lovers of the supernatural had better buy Mrs. Crowe's book, and find out an apparition for themselves, for none is seen nor mentioned here. But all this while we are gliding along towards Annet, with just motion enough to keep us alive, as we recline idly in the boat, and listen to the cry of the puffins from the rocks around.

Annet, or Agnette, little Agnes, has an extent of about fifty acres. It is entirely uninhabited. Sea birds frequent it in great numbers, and come here to breed. But it lies among the breakers treacherously and beautifully still. And when you look round it, you see desolation almost approaching savage grandeur. We go into our boat and sail on, but still we find rocks, and still lines of reef, and broken foam, and little points dotting the surface, and scarcely emerging from it. We tack and steer in a westerly direction. The Gilstone that was fatal to Sir Cloudesley Shovel, is pointed out to us. Everywhere evidences of a land submerged are spread around us, everywhere danger, everywhere death. We pass under those fine cliffs that form the western extremity both of the Gugh, and of Wingletang downs. The shadows are becoming longer as the day declines, and

lie, ominously dark, upon the bosom of the blue sea. We talk about the shoals, with which the coast is rife, and tales of destruction and of wreck are repeated in a sad low tone, for each speaker is more or less, in his own person, concerned in some of these. One of them excited a vivid interest, from the locality in which it occurred, and from the greatness of the disaster. So I will close my sketch of our little trip by relating it, as I heard it to-day.

At the beginning of the great French War, and about the close of the last century, the navy of France was more powerful, and bolder in its actions, than it became at a later period, when Nelson had confined the poor remnants left to it within their ports, and had bequeathed to his successors the inglorious task of watching and blockading them, as they rotted away in harbour. When the war first broke out, expeditions frequently sailed forth, and threatened the English coasts, and menaced even a descent.

One evening two large vessels were seen, from the heights of St. Agnes, boldly approaching the island. Their character was unknown. They came on as though they were friendly, or were sure of the skill of their pilot, making a glorious show, as the light fell upon their white sails, and newly painted hulls. They did not communicate with the shore, nor answer the signals shown. A crowd soon collected, composed of those inured to the sea, whose eyes were too practised and too keen to be deceived. Their opinion was formed at once. The strangers were a French ship of the line and a frigate. They evidently came with hostile intentions, to make an incursion at least, if not to seize the islands.

There was no force at hand to repel the attack, if seriously made. All was therefore terror and alarm. A boat was manned and sent across to St. Mary's, to give notice to the garrison of the coming foe. The best and ablest of the males prepared to follow them, hoping to be of some assistance in manning the batteries, and at least to do their duty, if they could effect no more. By the time it was dark, they were gone, and sad and sorrowful were the hearts of those that remained. They could offer no resistance whatever to the landing of an enemy. They could only suffer and be still, should they be doomed to behold, as was most likely, the rifling of their little homes, and perhaps to undergo worse violence at the hands of the ferocious republicans.

In such a manner, and with such anxious forebodings, passed that dreadful night. As soon as morning dawned, those, who had kept their painful watch through the darkness, hastened again to the cliffs. They looked over the broad sea, but they saw nothing. Far away in the distance gleamed a white speck, like a sea-bird's wing. Though already on the horizon, the old sailors pronounced it to be the smaller of the two French vessels. It was evidently alone. Where then was its consort? Where? At some few hundred yards from the western point of St. Agnes was an object that at last caught their attention. Not being able with the naked eye to make it out, they examined it with a glass, and discovered a tricoloured pennant, attached to what was like a flag-staff, and, seemingly, not more than a yard above water. A boat put off to the spot where it lay. When they reached it the mystery was unravelled, the disappearance of the hostile squadron cleared up. The line-of

battle ship had struck upon a sunken rock, and had gone down with all her crew. Her consort had fled in terror. All that was seen of the noble vessel was the pennant that had floated from her mainmast. That slight streamer of silk was the funeral pall of six hundred brave men, who had perished in silence, and in the darkness of the night, their efforts at escape unavailing, their cries for help unheard.

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A few bodies only were thrown up by the waves, and were buried in the church-yard of St. Agnes. The islanders point out their graves, covered simply with turf, for they are strangers who sleep below, and their names none can tell.

Amid the former misdeeds of the islanders, the manner in which the Church was built deserves to be remembered, as a set off. In 1685, a large sum, allotted to them for salvage, was voluntarily devoted, as a free-will offering on their part, to the erection of a house of prayer. Two others had stood, and fallen successively to ruin, near the same spot.