The Confessions of a Beachcomber

Produced by Col Choat colc@gutenberg.org.au
The Confessions of a Beachcomber by E J Banfield
If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears. THOREAU
To the Honourable Robert Philp, M.L.A. Exact in his life, Extensive in his charity, Exemplary in everything he does, THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY ONE WHO OWES TO HIM MUCH OF HIS LOVE FOR TROPICAL QUEENSLAND.

Does the fact that a weak mortal sought an unprofaned sanctuary—an island removed from the haunts of men—and there dwelt in tranquillity, happiness and security, represent any just occasion for the relation of his experiences—experiences necessarily out of the common? To this proposition it will be for these pages to find answer.
Few men of their own free will seek seclusion, for does not man belong to the social vertebrates, and do not the instincts of the many rule? And when an individual is fain to acknowledge himself a variant from the type, and his characteristics or idiosyncrasies (as you will) to be so marked as to impel him to deem them sound and reasonable; when, after sedate and temperate ponderings upon all the aspects of voluntary exile as affecting his lifetime partner as well as himself, he deliberately puts himself out of communion with his fellows, does the experiment constitute him a messenger? Can there be aught of entertainment or instruction in the message he may fancy himself called upon to deliver? or, is the fancy merely another phase of the tyranny of temperament?
We cannot always trust in ourselves and in the boldest of our illusions. There must be trial. Then, if success be achieved and the illusion becomes real and transcendental, and other things and conditions merely innutritious phantoms, were it not wise, indeed essential, to tell of it all, so that mayhap the illusions of others may be put to the test?
Not that it is good or becoming that many should attempt the part of the Beachcomber. All cannot play it who would. Few can be indifferent to that which men commonly prize. All are not free to test touchy problems with the acid of experience. Besides, there are not enough thoughtful islands to go round. Only for the few are there ideal or even convenient scenes for those who, while perceiving some of the charms of solitude, are at the same time compelled by circumstances ever and anon to administer to their favourite theories resounding smacks, making them jump to the practical necessities of the case.