Her name was much defaced, and I could not make out clearly whether she was called _Christiania_, after the Norwegian city, or _Christiana_, after the good woman, Christian's wife, in that old book the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' By her build she was a foreign ship, but I was not certain of her nationality.

She had been painted green, but the colour was faded and weathered, and the paint peeling off in strips.

The wreck of the mainmast lay alongside, half buried in sand.

She was a forlorn sight, indeed, and I could not look without emotion at the bits of rope that still hung about her, so often handled of yore by shouting seamen; or the little scuttle where they had passed up and down to their affairs; or that poor noseless angel of a figure-head that had dipped into so many running billows.
I do not know whether it came most from the ship or from the grave, but I fell into some melancholy scruples, as I stood there, leaning with one hand against the battered timbers.

The homelessness of men and even of inanimate vessels, cast away upon strange shores, came strongly in upon my mind.