58 CONFESSIONS OF A BEACHCOMBER 



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 beach- 

 combing. 



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 mer- 

 chandise. But, after all, who am I that I should claim a 

 finer shade of morality than those, with their sturdy wide- 

 spread 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 oppor- 

 tunity 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 



