obnoxious to him on land were carried on board her, and compelled by fearful oaths to enrol themselves in her crew.
In 1835 an old man of the age of ninety-seven related to this writer that when a youth he had been so abducted, and after two year's service he had been ransomed by his friends with a large sum. "And all," said the old man, very simply, "because I happened to see one man kill another, and they thought I should mention it." The same author gives him a wonderfully fleet horse, which no one but Coppinger could master, and says that on its back he made more than one hairbreadth escape. He has also a marvellous account of his end, in which he disappears as he came, in a vessel which he boarded in a storm of thunder, lightning, and hail. As soon as he was in her "she was out of sight in a moment, like a spectre or a ghost." For this he quotes the following verse:—
"Will you hear of the cruel Coppinger?
He came from a foreign kind;
He was brought to us from the salt water,
He was carried away by the wind."
The one thing certain about him is, that at one time he amassed money enough by smuggling to buy a small freehold estate near the sea, the title-deeds of which, signed with his name, still exist. But in his old age, I have been told, he was reduced to poverty and subsisted on charity.
That in those bygone days smuggling was thought no sin every one knows. And who has not heard the oft-quoted apocryphal anecdote of the Cornish clergyman, who—when he was in the middle of his sermon and some one opened the church door and shouted in, "A wreck! a wreck!"—begged his parishioners to wait whilst he took off his gown that they might all start fair.
The following is, however, a genuine letter of the last century from a vicar in the eastern part of the county to a noted smuggler of that district:—
"Martin Rowe, you very well know,
That Cubert's vicar loves good liquor,
One bottle's all, upon my soul.
You'll do right to come to-night;
My wife's the banker, she'll pay for the anker."
