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Two dreams have persistently haunted the imagination of man since dreams began. You find them in all mythologies, and, perhaps most dramatically, in the Arabian Nights: the dream of the Water of Immortality, and the dream of the Golden City. Within recent times—that is, during the sixteenth century—both were lifted out of the region of fairy lore, and men as far from “dreamers,” in the ordinary sense, as the “conquistador” Ponce de Leon and Sir Walter Raleigh raised them into the sphere of something like Elizabethan practical politics. Whether or not Ponce de Leon did actually discover the Fountain of Eternal Youth on the Bimini Islands concerns us but incidentally here. At all events, he seems to have died without drinking of it; as death on the scaffold was the penalty for Raleigh’s failure to discover El Dorado. So practically had the courts of Elizabeth and James regarded the dream of the Golden City, and so firm had been Raleigh’s own belief in it. Though Raleigh’s name is most conspicuously and tragically connected with it, of course it had been Spanish adventurers for several generations before—exploring that “Spanish Main” which they had already, and in romance forever, made their own—who had given that dream its local habitation and its name. Martinez had been the first to tell how, having drifted on the coast of Guiana, he had been taken inland to a city called Manoa, whose king was in alliance with the Incas. Manoa, said he, to opened mouths and wondering eyes, on his return to Spain, was literally built, walls and roofs, houses big and little, of silver and gold. His tale, garnished with many other mysterious matters, soon speeded expedition after expedition, dreaming across those

“perilous seas

In fairyland forlorn.”

All came back with marvels on their tongues. All had caught glimpses of the gilded domes of the city, but that was all. Gonzales Ximinez de Quesada from Santa Fé de Bogotá was “warmest,” perhaps; but he too failed. Many a daring sailor since has vainly gone on a like quest. Even in our prosaic times—in the true Elizabethan spirit, that, for all their romance, actually animated those enterprises of old time—when men sought real gold as now, not “faery-gold”—an enterprise, with a prospectus, shareholders, and those dreams now known as promised dividends, has made it its serious “incorporated” business to go in quest of El Dorado.

But, elaborate as all previous expeditions and enterprises have been, and dauntless as the courage of the individual explorer, one and all have failed—till now. Till now, I say—for at last El Dorado has been discovered, and it is my proud privilege to announce, for the first time, the name of its discoverer—Dr. Clifford Smyth.

Dr. Smyth has chosen the medium of fiction for the publication of his discovery, like other such eminent discoverers as the authors of Erewhon and Utopia, but that fact, I need hardly say, in nowise invalidates the authenticity and serious importance of his discovery. Though truth be stranger than fiction, it has but seldom its charm, and, to use the by-gone phrase, Dr. Smyth’s relation of happenings which we never doubt for a rapt moment did happen “reads as entertainingly as a fiction.” In fact, the present writer—who confesses to the idleness of keeping au courant with the good and even merely advertised fiction of the day, recalls no fiction in some years that has seemed to him comparable in imaginative quality with The Gilded Man, or has given him, in any like degree, the special kind of delight which Dr. Smyth’s narrative has given him. For any such thrill as the latter part of the book in particular holds, he finds that his memory must travel back, no difficult or lengthy journey, to Mr. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines—a book which one sees more and more taking its place as one of the classics of fantastic romance, the kind of romance which combines adventure with poetic strangeness; though, at its publication, “superior persons,” with the notable exception of that paradoxical most superior person, and man of genius, Andrew Lang, disdained it as a passing “thriller.”

Perhaps it is not indiscreet to say that one circumstance of Dr. Smyth’s life gave him exceptional opportunities for that dreaming on his special object which is found to be the invariable incubation, so to say, preceding all great discoveries. For some years Dr. Smyth was United States consul at Carthagena, that unspoiled haunted city of the Spanish Main, which, it may be recalled, furnishes a spirited chapter in the history of Roderick Random, Esquire, of His Majesty’s Navy. He was, therefore, seated by the very door to that land of enchantment, which, as we have been saying, had drawn so many adventurous spirits under roaring canvas across the seas, in the spacious days. He was but a short mule-back journey from that table-land raised high in the upper Andes where Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, is situated, the region around which all those “superstitions” retailed by Indians to those early adventurers centre. Descendants of the same Indians still tell the same stories, and still the average prosaic mind laughs at them as “superstitions.” El Dorado! as if any one could take it seriously nowadays! Has not the term long been a picturesque synonym for The City of Impossible Happiness, the Land of Heart’s Desire, the Paradise of Fools, and all such cities and realms and destinations and states of being, as the yearning heart of man, finding nowhere on the earth he knows, imagines in the sun-tipped cloudland of his dreams, and toward which he pathetically turns his eyes, and stretches out his arms to the end?

But what if El Dorado were no such mere figment of man’s aching fancy, after all; what if the El Dorado, so passionately believed in by those eminently practical Elizabethans, did all the time, as they surmised, exist upon this solid earth, and should still quite concretely exist there....

Is it not likely that such might be the musings of a man situated as was Dr. Smyth, in the very heart of the mystery, a man of affairs, touched with imagination, as all really capable men of affairs are; and, as he listened to the old Indian tales, and talked with miners, and all manner of folk acquainted with the terrain of the legend, what could he do but fall under the same spell that had laid its ghostly hand on the mighty heart of Raleigh centuries before, and follow its beckoning, as the other inspired madmen before him?

But, as we have seen, his doom was to be different. For so long generations of dead men had come crying, like those three old horsemen in Morris’s Glittering Plain: “Is this the Land? Is this the Land?” to turn broken-hearted away; but from him, of all men born, throughout the generations, was to be heard at last the joyous, ringing cry: “This is the Land! This is the Land!”

Pause for one moment more and think what El Dorado has meant to mankind, think with all your might; and then think what must have been the feelings of the man who stood looking upon it, and knew that he—that he—had found it. In such moments of transfiguring realization men often lose their reason, and, as we say, it is not a little surprising that Dr. Smyth is alive to tell the tale. The lovely knowledge might well have struck him as by lightning, and the secret once more have been buried in oblivion.

I have all along taken it for granted that Dr. Smyth’s The Gilded Man is a genuine narrative, the true story of a wonderful happening. If any one should come to me and tell me that I am simple-minded, that it is no such thing, and that, as the children say, Dr. Smyth “made it up all out of his own head,” I should still need a lot of convincing, and, were conviction at last forced upon me, I could only answer that Dr. Smyth must then possess a power of creating illusion such as few romancers have possessed. For there is a plausibility, a particularity, a concreteness about all the scenes and personages in The Gilded Man that make it impossible not to believe them true and actual, however removed from common experience they may seem. I should like very much to be more particular, but I cannot very well be so without betraying the story—or “true and veracious history,” whichever it may turn out to be. Still I can hint at one or two matters without betraying too much. The mysterious queen, Sajipona, for example, seems not only real, but she and her love-story make one of the loveliest idylls in what, for want of a better word, one may call “supernatural” romance that has ever been written. And all the dream-like happenings in the great cave, though of the veritable “stuff that dreams are made of,” are endowed with as near and moving a sense of reality as though they were enacted on Broadway.

Of the cave itself, which may be said to be the Presiding Personage of the book, it seems to me impossible to speak with too great admiration. It is, without exaggeration, an astonishing piece of invention; I refer not merely to the ingenuity of its mechanical devices, though I might well do that, for they are not merely devised with an exceeding cleverness, but the cleverness is of a kind that thrills one with a romantic dread, the kind of awe-inspiring devices that we shudder at when we try to picture the mysteries of the temples of Moloch. Dr. Smyth’s invention here is of no machine-made, puzzle-constructed order. We feel that he has not so much invented these devices, but dreamed them—seen them himself with a thrill of fear and wonder in a dream. And the great device of them all, that by which the cave is lighted so radiantly and yet so mystically, outsoars ingenuity, and is nothing short of a high poetic inspiration. But all these details, each in itself of a distinguished originality, gain an added value of impressiveness from the atmosphere of noble poetic imagination which enfolds them all, that atmosphere which always distinguishes a work of creation from one of mere invention. I do not wish to seem to speak in superlatives, but, in my opinion, Dr. Smyth’s cave of The Gilded Man belongs with the great caves of literature. I thought of Vathek as I read it, though it is not the least the same, except in that quality of imaginative atmosphere.

With the purely “human” interest of the book, the daylight scenes and doings, he is no less successful. His plot is constructed with great skill and is full of surprises. The manner in which he “winds” into it is particularly original. Then, too, his characters are immediately alive, and there is some good comedy naturally befallen. General Herran and Doctor Miranda are delightfully drawn South American characters, and the atmosphere of a little South American republic convincingly conveyed, evidently from sympathetic experience. Nor must the absurd Mrs. Quayle be forgotten, and particularly her jewels, which play such an eccentric part in the story—one of Dr. Smyth’s quaintest pieces of cleverness.

But it is time I ended my proud rôle of showman, and allowed the show to begin. So this and no more: If Dr. Smyth has, as I personally believe from the convincing manner of his book, discovered El Dorado, he is to be congratulated alike on the discovery and his striking method of publishing forth the news; but if he has merely dreamed it for our benefit, then I say that a man whom we have long respected as a wise and generous critic of other men’s books, should lose no time in writing more books of his own.

Richard Le Gallienne.

THE GILDED MAN