[Footnote: After reaching Paris on
my first journey, the first place to which I made a pilgrimage, even
before the tombs of kings and emperors and the galleries of art, was this
gray-bastioned town of St. Malo.]
For a son of France was the first of Europeans, so far as we certainly
know, to penetrate beyond the tidewater of those confronting coasts, the
first to step over the threshold of the unguessed continent, north, at any
rate, of Mexico. Columbus claimed at most but an Asiatic peninsula, though
he knew that he had found only islands. The Cabots, in the service of
England, sailing along its mysterious shores, had touched but the fringe
of the wondrous garment. Ponce de Leon, a Spaniard, had floundered a few
leagues from the sea in Florida searching for the fountain of youth.
Narvaez had found the wretched village of Appalache but had been refused
admission by the turbid Mississippi and was carried out to an ocean grave
by its fierce current; Verrazano, an Italian in the employ of France,
living at Rouen, had entered the harbor of New York, had enjoyed the
primitive hospitality of what is now a most fashionable seaside resort
(Newport), had seen the peaks of the White Mountains from his deck, and,
as he supposed, had looked upon the Indian Ocean, or the Sea of Verrazano,
which has shrunk to the Chesapeake Bay on our modern maps and now reaches
not a fiftieth part of the way to the other shore.
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