Again, a German barque, driven out of its course, found unexpectedly a detached portion of the Great Barrier Reef 200 miles away to the south.  When the south-easters came, they pounded away so vigorously with the heavy runs of the sea that in a brief space nothing was left of the big ship save some distorted fragments of iron jammed in among the nigger-heads of coral and the crevices of the rocks.  A few weeks after, portions of the wreck were deposited on Dunk Island, and the beach of the mainland for miles was strewn with timber.  That wreck was the greatest favour bestowed me in my profession of Beachcomber.  Long and heavy pieces of angle-iron came bolted to raft-like sections of the deck; various kinds of timber proved useful in a variety of ways.  What? was I to leave it all, unclaimed and unregarded—­in excess of morality and modesty—­on the beach, to be honey-combed by white ants or to rot? or to honestly own up to that sentiment which is the most human of all?  Without affectation or apology, I confess that I was overjoyed—­that my instincts, pregnant with original sin, received a most delightful fillip.  I wallowed for the time being in the luxury of beachcombing.

Upon sober reflection, I cannot say that I am of one mind with the pastor of the Shetland Isles who never omitted this petition from his long prayer—­“Lord, if it be Thy holy will to send shipwrecks, do not forget our island”; nor yet with the Breton fishermen, who to this day are of opinion that wreckage is the gift of God, and who therefore take everything that comes in a reverential spirit, as a Divine favour, whether casks of wine or bales of merchandise.  But, after all, who am I that I should claim a finer shade of morality than those, with their sturdy widespread hands and perpetual blessing?  My inherent powers of resistance to such temptations as the winds and tides of Providence put in their way have never been subject to proof.  Does virtue go by default where there is no opportunity to be otherwise than virtuous?  The very first pipe of port, or aum of Rhenish, or bale of silk, which comes rolling along may wrestle with my morality and so wrench and twist it as to incapacitate it for ordinary usage for months, or may even permanently disable it.  And must not I, venturing to regard myself as a truthful historian, frankly admit a sense allied to disappointment when the white blazing beaches are destitute of the most trivial of temptations?

No, the grating of the battered barque, upon which many a wet and weary steersman had stood, now fulfils placid duty as a front gate.  No more to be trampled and stamped upon with shifty, sloppy feet—­no more to be scrubbed and scored with sand and holystone; painted white, it creaks gratefully every time it swings—­the symbol of security, the first outward and visible sign of home, the guardian of the sacred rights of private property, the embodiment of the exclusive.  Better so than lying inert under foot on the deck of the barque thrashing through the cold grey seas of the Baltic, or scudding before the unscrupulous billows of Biscay.