would vanish like smoke before a man of means. To this sure and certain
source of fortune he would provide safe and speedy conduct if on our part
we would with like frankness confide in him our secret.

Our lack of secret, was it not boldly writ on our faces? But it was fair
to assume an air of mystery. "Our secret," said we, "is more desirable
than gold, yea, than much fine gold. Yours, at the best, is but dross!"

The very worst that could happen would be the discovery on this spot of
anything more precious than an orchid. Gold, which would transform the
Isle into a desert, is therefore selfishly concealed, and the reason for
the concealment remains an incomprehensible enigma. Was it not the
pinnacle of folly to retire to an Island where gold was not to be gotten
either by the grace of God or by barter or strife with man? So bold a
foolishness was incredible. Yet we get more out of the life of incredible
folly than the wise who think of gold and little else but gold.

The singular perfection of our undertaking--"the rarity to run mad
without a cause, without the least constraint or necessity," the exercise
of that "refined and exquisite passion"--stamped me a disciple of Don
Quixote, and such I remain.

Some ancient said that the more folly a man puts into life the more he
lives--a precept in which I steadfastly believe, provided the folly is of
the wholesome kind and on a sufficient and calculated scale.

For several years prior to our descent no blacks had been resident on the
Island. After the blotting out of the great multitude, the visits of its
descendants had been irregular and brief. Therefore--and the assurance is
almost superfluous--most of the evidences of the characteristics of the