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.

Here then I come to a point at which frankness is necessary. In these
pages there will be an endeavour to refrain from egotism, and yet how may
one who lives a lonesome life on an island and who presumes to write its
history evade that duty? My chief desire is to set down in plain language
the sobrieties of everyday occurrences--the unpretentious homilies of an
unpretentious man--one whose mental bent enabled him to take but a
superficial view of most of the large, heavy and important aspects of
life, but who has found light in things and subjects homely, slight and
casual; who perhaps has queer views on the pursuit of happiness, and who
above all has an inordinate passion for freedom and fresh air.

Moreover, these chronicles really have to do with the lives of two
people--not youthful enthusiasts, but beings who had arrived at an age