Magellan's voyage (1519-22) had proved indeed that by
rounding South America the way was open to the spice
islands of the east. But the route was infinitely long
and arduous. The hope of a shorter passage by the north
beckoned the explorer. Of this north country nothing but
its coast was known as yet. Cabot and the fishermen had
found a land of great forests, swept by the cold and
leaden seas of the Arctic, and holding its secret clasped
in the iron grip of the northern ice. The Corte-Reals,
Verrazano, and Gomez had looked upon the endless panorama
of the Atlantic coast of North America--the glorious
forests draped with tangled vines extending to the sanded
beaches of the sea--the wide inlets round the mouths of
mighty rivers moving silent and mysterious from the heart
of the unknown continent. Here and there a painted savage
showed the bright feathers of his headgear as he lurked
in the trees of the forest or stood, in fearless curiosity,
gazing from the shore at the white-winged ships of the
strange visitants from the sky. But for the most part
all, save the sounds of nature, was silence and mystery.
The waves thundered upon the sanded beach of Carolina
and lashed in foam about the rocks of the iron coasts of
New England and the New Found Land. The forest mingled
its murmurs with the waves, and, as the sun sank behind
the unknown hills, wafted its perfume to the anchored
ships that rode upon the placid bosom of the evening sea.
And beyond all this was mystery--the mystery of the
unknown East, the secret of the pathway that must lie
somewhere hidden in the bays and inlets of the continent
of silent beauty, and above all the mysterious sense of