Before the plains of Europe, or even the peaks of Choumalarie, rose
above the primeval seas, the Continent of America emerged from the
watery waste that encircled the whole globe, and became the scene of
animate life. The so-called New World is in reality the Old, and bears
abundant proofs of hoary age. But at what period it became the abode of
man we are unable even to conjecture. Down to the close of the tenth
century of the Christian era it had no written history. Traces of a rude
civilization that suggest a high antiquity are by no means wanting.
Monuments and mounds remain that point to periods the contemplation of
which would cause Chronos himself to grow giddy; yet among all these
great and often impressive memorials there is no monument, inscription,
or sculptured frieze, that solves the mystery of their origin. Tradition
itself is dumb, and the theme chiefly kindles when brought within the
realm of imagination. We can only infer that age after age nations and
tribes continued to rise to greatness and then fall into decline, and
that barbarism and a rude culture held alternate sway.
Nevertheless, men have enjoyed no small degree of satisfaction in
conjuring up theories to explain the origin of the early races on the
Western Continent. What a charm lingers around the supposed
trans-Atlantic voyages of the hardy Phenician, the luxurious sailors of
Tyre, and, later, of the bold Basque. What stories might the lost
picture-records of Mexico and the chronicles of Dieppe tell. Now we are
presented with the splendid view of great fleets, the remnant of some
conquered race, bearing across the ocean to re-create in new and unknown
lands the cities and monuments they were forever leaving behind;[1] and
now it is simply the story of some storm-tossed mariner who blindly
drives across to the western strand, and lays the foundation of empire.
Again it is the devotee of mammon, in search of gainful traffic or
golden fleece. How romantic is the picture of his little solitary bark
setting out in the days of Roman greatness, or in the splendid age of
Charlemagne, sailing trustingly away between the Pillars of Hercules,
and tossing towards the Isles of the Blessed and the Fountains of
Eternal Youth. In time the _Ultima Thule_ of the known world is passed,
and favoring gales bear the merchant-sailor to new and wondrous lands.
We see him coasting the unknown shores passing from cape to cape, and
from bay to inlet, gazing upon the marvels of the New World, trafficing
with the bronzed Indian, bartering curious wares for barbaric gold; and
then shaping his course again for the markets of the distant East to
pour strange tales into incredulous ears. Still this may not be all
fancy.