of research, and are illustrated by different types of books. Such an arrangement differs not materially from a chronological adnumeration, and has many advantages of its own.
Greater difficulty has been experienced in fixing the proper limits of such an essay. East Florida itself has no defined boundaries. I have followed those laid down by the English in the Definitive Treaty of Peace of the 10th of February, 1763, when for the first time, East and West Florida were politically distinguished. The line of demarcation is here stated as “the Apalachicola or Chataouche river.” The Spaniards afterwards included all that region lying east of the Rio Perdido. I am aware that the bibliography of the Spanish settlement is incomplete, unless the many documents relating to Pensacola are included, but at present, this is not attempted. It has been deemed advisable to embrace not only those works specially devoted to this region, but also all others containing original matter appertaining thereto. Essays and reviews are mentioned only when of unusual excellence; and a number of exclusively political pamphlets of recent date have been designedly omitted.
As I have been obliged to confine my researches to the libraries of this country, it will be readily understood that a complete list can hardly be expected. Yet I do not think that many others of importance exist in Europe, even in manuscript; or if so, they have escaped the scrutiny of the laborious Gustav Haenel, whose Catalogi Librorum Manuscriptorum I have examined with special reference to this subject. It is proper to add that the critical remarks are founded on personal examination in all cases, except where the contrary is specified.
§ 1.—The Early Explorations. 1512–1562.
No distinct account remains of the two voyages (1512, 1521,) of the first discoverer and namer of Florida, Juan Ponce de Leon. What few particulars we have concerning them are included in the general histories of Herrera, Gomara, Peter Martyr, and of lesser writers. However much the historian may regret this, it has had one advantage—the romantic shadowing that hung over his aims and aspirations is undisturbed, and has given them as peculiar property to the poet and the novelist.
Of Pamphilo de Narvaez, on the contrary, a much inferior man, we have far more satisfactory relations. His Proclamation to the Indians[1] has been justly styled a curious monument of the spirit of the times. It was occasioned by a merciful(!) provision of the laws of the Indies forbidding war to be waged against the natives before they had been formally summoned to recognize the authority of the Pope and His Most Catholic Majesty. Should, however, the barbarians be so contumacious as to prefer their ancestral religion to that of their invaders, or their own chief to the Spanish king, then, says Narvaez, “With the aid of God and my own sword I shall march upon you; with all means and from all sides I shall war against you; I shall compel you to obey the Holy Church and his Majesty; I shall seize you, your wives and your children; I shall enslave you, shall sell you, or otherwise dispose of you as His Majesty may see fit; your property shall I take, and destroy, and every possible harm shall I work you as refractory subjects.” Thus did cruelty and avarice stalk abroad in the garb of religion, and an insatiable rapacity shield itself by the precepts of Christianity.
Among the officers appointed by the king to look after the royal interest in this expedition, holding the post of comptroller or factor (Tesorero), was a certain Alvar Nuñez, of the distinguished family of Cabeza de Vaca or the Cow’s Head; deriving their origin and unsonorous name from Martin Alhaja, a mountaineer of Castro Ferral, who, placing the bones of a cow’s head as a landmark, was instrumental in gaining for the Christians the decisive battle of Las Navas de Tolosa (1212), and was ennobled in consequence. When war, disease, and famine had reduced the force of Narvaez from three hundred to only half a dozen men, Alvar Nuñez was one of these, and after seven years wandering, replete with the wildest adventure, returned to Spain, there to receive the government of a fleet and the appointment of Adelantado to the unexplored regions around the Rio de la Plata. Years afterwards, when his rapacity and reckless tyranny had excited a mutiny among his soldiers and the animosity of his associates, or, as his defenders maintain, his success their envy and ill-will, he was arraigned before the council of the Indies in Spain. While the suit was pending, as a stroke of policy in order to exculpate his former life and set forth to the world his steadfast devotion to the interests of the king, in conjunction with his secretary Pedro Fernandez he wrote and published two works, one under his own supervision detailing his adventures in Florida,[2] the other his transactions in South America. Twenty-seven years had elapsed since the expedition of Narvaez, and probably of the few that escaped, he alone survived. When we consider this, and the end for which the book was written, what wonder that we find Alvar Nuñez always giving the best advice which Narvaez never follows, and always at hand though other men fail; nor, if we bear in mind the credulous spirit of the age and nation, is it marvellous that the astute statesman relates wondrous miracles, even to healing the sick and raising the dead, that he performed, proving that it was, as he himself says, “the visible hand of God” that protected him in his perilous roamings. Thus it happens that his work is “disfigured by bold exaggerations and the wildest fictions,” tasking even Spanish credulity to such an extent that Barcia prefaced his edition of it with an Examen Apologetico by the erudite Marquis of Sorito, who, marshalling together all miraculous deeds recorded, proves conclusively that Alvar Nuñez tells the truth as certainly as many venerable abbots and fathers of the Church. However much this detracts from its trustworthiness, it is invaluable for its ethnographical data, and as the only extant history of the expedition, the greatest miracle of all still remaining, that half a dozen unprotected men, ignorant of the languages of the natives and of their proper course, should have safely journeyed three thousand miles, from the bay of Apalache to Sonora in Mexico, through barbarous hordes continually engaged in internecine war. Of the many eventful lives that crowd the stormy opening of American history, I know of none more fraught with peril of every sort, none whose story is more absorbing, than that of Cabeza de Vaca.
The unfortunate termination of Narvaez’s undertaking had settled nothing. Tales of the fabulous wealth of Florida still found credence in Spain; and it was reserved for Hernando de Soto to disprove them at the cost of his life and fortune. There are extant five original documents pertaining to his expedition.
First of these in point of time is his commission from the emperor Charles V.[3]
The next is a letter written by himself to the Municipality of Santiago,[4] dated July 9, 1539, describing his voyage and disembarkation. Besides its historical value, which is considerable as fixing definitely the time and manner of his landing, it has additional interest as the only known letter of De Soto; short as it is, it reveals much of the true character of the man. The hopes that glowed in his breast amid the glittering throng on the quay of San Lucar de Barrameda are as bright as ever: “Glory be to God,” he exclaims, “every thing occurs according to His will; He seems to take an especial care of our expedition, which lives in Him alone, and Him I thank a thousand times.” The accounts from the interior were in the highest degree encouraging: “So many things do they tell me of its size and importance,” he says, speaking of the village of Ocala, “that I dare not repeat them.” Blissful ignorance of the old cavalier, over which coming misfortune cast no presageful shadow!
The position that Alvar Nuñez occupied under Narvaez was filled in this expedition by Luis Hernandez de Biedma, and like Nuñez, he was lucky enough to be among the few survivors. In 1544, shortly after his return, he presented the king a brief account of his adventures.[5] He dwells on no particulars, succinctly and intelligibly mentions their course and the principal provinces through which they passed, and throws in occasional notices of the natives. The whole has an air of honest truth, differs but little from the gentleman of Elvas except in omission, and where there is disagreement, Biedma is often more probable.
When the enthusiasm for the expedition was at its height, and the flower of Spanish chivalry was hieing
