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. THE SEA OF DARKNESS.