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.
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