Strange stories were told of this new world. Its northern shores were said to be infested by griffins, while two islands north of Newfoundland were known as the Isles of Demons, whose occupants were pictured with wings, horns, and tail. An early geographer wrote that he had heard from many who had voyaged that way that "they heard in the air, in the tops and about the masts, a great clamor of men's voices, confused and inarticulate, such as you may hear from the crowd at a fair or market-place, whereupon they well knew that the Isles of Demons was not far off."

By the first voyagers the natives were found to be simple, hospitable, and friendly. Soon, however, they learned to fear and distrust the strangers, who took every advantage of their ignorance and kindness. The different tribes were found to be widely scattered, many of them in a state of hostility to their neighbors.

Columbus and other early voyagers took some of the natives with them on their return to Europe. Three presented to Henry VII. by Sebastian Cabot, in 1502 were the first Indians seen in England. Those first taken to France were brought thither by Captain Aubert six years later.

From time to time others were kidnapped and sold into slavery, and conflicts between them and their European visitors became frequent. The frauds and injuries of which they were the victims were not forgotten by the natives, but were eventually returned by them with interest.

One of these acts of barbarity is thus related by Captain John Smith, with whom my readers will soon become better acquainted.

"One Thomas Hunt, the master of this ship, when I was gone, betrayed four-and-twenty of these poor salvages aboard his ship, and most dishonestly and inhumanly, for their kind usage of me and all our men, carried them with him to Malaga, and there, for a little private gain, sold these silly salvages. But this vile act kept him ever after from any more employment in those parts."

When we learn what the clergy of that day thought of the poor Indian, we can better understand the infamous conduct of these cruel man-stealers. "We may guess," says that eminent divine of New England, Rev. Cotton Mather, "that probably the devil decoyed these miserable salvages hither, in hopes that the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ would never come here to destroy or disturb his absolute empire over them."

Columbus says of the natives of the West Indies, "We found them timid, and full of fear, very simple and honest, and exceedingly liberal, none of them refusing anything he may possess when asked for it. Like idiots—they bartered cotton and gold for fragments of glasses, bottles, and jars, which I forbade as being unjust, and myself gave them many beautiful and acceptable articles which I had brought with me, taking nothing from them in return."

Upon his first arrival, Columbus took some of the natives by force, in order that they might learn the language of the Spaniards and communicate what they knew respecting the country; and they were soon able, either by gesture or by signs, to understand each other. They entertained the idea that the white men descended from heaven, and on their arrival at any new place, cried out immediately, with a loud voice, to the other Indians, "Come! come and look upon beings of a celestial race;" upon which both women and men, children and adults, young and old, when they got rid of their first fear, would come out in throngs, crowding the roads to see them, some bringing food, others drink, "with astonishing affection and kindness."

Gaspar Cortereal, a mariner in the service of the King of Portugal, ranged the newly-discovered coast for six hundred or seven hundred miles, as far as the fifteenth parallel, admiring the brilliant verdure and dense forests wherever he landed. He repaid the hospitality with which he was everywhere received by the natives, by taking with him on his return fifty-seven of them, whom he had treacherously enticed on board his ship, and selling them for slaves. From a second voyage he never returned, having been slain in a combat with some Indians whom he was trying to kidnap.

The earliest description of the Atlantic coast of the United States is found in the narrative of John Verrazzano, an Italian mariner, who had been sent on a voyage of discovery by Francis I. of France. He reached the coast in the latitude of Wilmington, N C., and is supposed to have visited the harbors of New York and Newport. He describes the natives as very courteous and gentle, and possessing prompt wit, but as mild and feeble, of mean stature, with delicate limbs and handsome visages.

Seeing many fires ashore, and the natives friendly, he sent his boat to them, but the surf was too violent to permit landing. One of the sailors offered to swim ashore with some presents; but, when he came near, his fears prevailed, and throwing out his presents he attempted to return to the ship, but the waves cast him on the sand half-dead and quite senseless. The Indians immediately ran to his assistance, carried him ashore, dried his clothes before a fire, and did everything to restore him. His alarm, however, was excessive. When they pulled off his clothes to dry them, he thought they meant to sacrifice him to the sun, which then shone brightly in the heavens. He trembled with fear. As soon as he was restored they gently led him to the shore, and then retired to a distance until the ship's boat had been sent for him and they saw him safely on board.

In requital for this kindness, the visitors robbed a mother of her child, and attempted to kidnap a young woman "of tall stature and very beautiful." Her outcries and her vigorous resistance saved her.

At one place, where he remained fifteen days, Verrazzano found the natives "the gentlest people" he had yet seen. They were liberal and friendly, yet so ignorant that, though instruments of steel and iron were often exhibited, they neither understood their use nor coveted their possession. The things they esteemed most were bells, crystals of azure color, and other toys to hang at their ears or about the neck. "When they beheld themselves in our mirrors they suddenly laughed and gave them us again." The women wore ornaments of wrought copper. Wood only was used in the construction of their wigwams, which were covered with coarse matting.

The natives of the more northerly regions visited, perhaps, those of the coast of Maine, having already learned to fear the Europeans, were hostile and jealous. They knew the value of iron, and demanded in trade fish-hooks, knives, and weapons of steel. "When we went on shore," says the narrator, "they shot at us with their bows, making great outcries, and afterwards fled into the woods. When we departed from them they showed all signs of discourtesy and disdain as was possible for any creature to invent."

They were clad in skins or furs, lived by hunting and fishing, and had no grain nor any kind of tillage. Their canoes were trunks of trees hollowed out by fire and with stone hatchets, and their arms were bows and arrows.

Pleased with Verrazzano's report, King Francis said, referring to the edict of the Pope of Rome, giving all America to the Spaniards, "he did not think God had created these new countries for the Castilians alone." His great rival, Charles V. of Spain, had laid claim to all the new discoveries on the ground of priority. "I should like," said the French king. "to see that article of Adam's will which gives him America!" The authenticity of Verrazzano's narrative is yet an unsettled question.

Ten years after Verrazzano's voyage, Jacques Cartier, an experienced navigator of Saint Maio, sailed from France to the region of the St. Lawrence. Landing in the Bay of Gaspé, a lofty cross was raised, bearing a shield with the lilies of France and an appropriate inscription. The country was thus taken possession of for the French king.

The natives, who were very friendly, gazed at this ceremony in wonder. They seemed to have guessed its meaning, for, by signs, they made known to Cartier that the country was theirs, and that no cross should be set up without their leave. Cartier did not scruple to deceive the natives, by telling them that it was only intended as a beacon-light for mariners entering their port. He seized two of these Indians and took then with him to France.

Cartier describes the natives as being "of an indifferent good stature and bigness, but wild and unruly. They wore their hair tied on the top, like a wreath of hay, and put a wooden pin within it instead of a nail, and with them they bind certain birds' feathers. They were clothed with beasts' skins, as well the men as the women, but that the women go somewhat straighter and closer in their garments than the men do, with their waists girded. They paint themselves with certain roan colors; their boats are made of the bark of birch-trees; in them they fish, and take great store of seals."

At their first interview the narrator tells us that "so soon as they saw us they began to flee, making signs that they came to traffic with us, us such skins as they clothed themselves withal, which are of small value. We likewise made signs unto them that we wished them no evil, and in sign thereof two of our men ventured to go on land to them, and carry them knives, with other iron wares, and a red hat to give unto their captain, which, when they saw, they also came on land and brought some of their skins, and so began to deal with us, seeming to be very glad to have our iron wares, still dancing, with many other ceremonies, as with their hands to east sea-water on their heads. They showed their friendship in this way, as also by rubbing their hands upon the arms of the European visitors, and lifting them up towards the heavens." From the intense heat here, Cartier named the inlet "Baie de Chaleur," a name it still bears.

The Indians about Gaspé Bay differed from the others both in nature and language, and in being abjectly poor. They were only partly clothed in old skins, and had no structures to protect them from the weather. "I think," said the old narrator, "all they had together, besides their boats and nets, was not worth five sous." They shaved their heads, with the exception of a tuft on the crown, sheltered themselves at night under their canvas, on the bare ground, and ate their food partially cooked. They were unacquainted with the use of salt, and ate nothing that had any taste of it.

In a second voyage, made in the following year, Cartier named the gulf, in honor of the day in which he entered it, the St. Lawrence, a name since extended to the noble river beyond. Sailing up to isle since called Orleans, he was hospitably received by the natives at their village of Stadacona, now Quebec; the two natives Cartier had carried off, and who had been kindly treated, acting as interpreters. He next ascended the river to the chief Indian settlement of Hochelaga, the modern Montreal, which takes its name from the neighboring elevation which they christened Mount Royal.

Every artifice had been made use of by the Indians to prevent their journey to this place. They were jealous lest some of the knives, looking-glasses, and other trinkets should fall into the hands of the rival chieftain and his people.

Three of them, dressed as devils, wrapped in huge skins, white and black, their faces besmeared and black as coals, and with horns on their heads more than a yard long, tried to frighten Cartier, and after holding a long powwow, declared to him that their god had spoken, and that there was so much ice and snow at Hochelaga that whoever went thither should die. The Frenchman only laughed at this trick, and told them that their god was a fool.

The Indian capital they found encompassed by a triple row of high palisades of heavy timber, and having only a single gate of entrance. Over this, and elsewhere on the walls, were platforms for its defenders, provided with ladders and with stones for its defence. It contained some fifty houses, each about fifty paces long, and twelve or fifteen broad, built of wood, and covered with bark, and skilfully joined together. These houses had many rooms, and in the midst of each was a large court, with a place in the centre for a fire. In a room at the top of their houses they stored their corn. Fishing and agriculture furnished them with food. Their chief, an old man, was borne to Cartier's presence on the shoulders of his men; around his forehead he wore a band of red-colored hedgehog skins, but in other respects was dressed no better than his people.

Viewing the white men as heavenly visitors, the Indians crowded around them to touch them, paying them every mark of reverence and respect. They brought to Cartier their lame, blind, diseased, and impotent, to be healed; and he gratified their desires, praying to God to open the hearts of these poor people that they might be converted. The interview closed with his giving them knives, beads, and toys. Before returning to France, in the following spring, Cartier took possession of the country for the king in the usual manner. When he was about to sail, he enticed the chief, Donnaconna, with nine others, on board his ship, seized and confined and, regardless of the cries and entreaties of their people, carried them to France. Four years later all these, excepting one little girl, were dead.

Although the country is so named on a Portuguese map of ten years earlier date than that of his voyage, Juan Ponce de Leon, a Spanish gentleman, claimed to be the discoverer of Florida. He had distinguished himself at home in the expulsion of the Moors from Granada, had accompanied Columbus in his second expedition, and had been governor of Porto Rico, where he had acquired wealth by oppressing the natives. One of the objects he had in view was the discovery of a fountain whose waters would, according to an ancient fable, impart perpetual youth to whosoever bathed in them. Landing near the point now called Fernandina, he claimed the territory for Spain. He found a delightful climate, charming scenery, and a fragrant atmosphere, but no gold or youth-restoring fountain. Everywhere the Indians displayed determined hostility.

Upon his return, De Leon was rewarded by the King of Spain with the government of Florida for his pretended discovery, but on the condition that he should colonize the country. When he attempted some years later to do so, his men were attacked with great fury by the natives. Many Spaniards were killed, the remainder returned to their ships, and De Leon himself was mortally wounded by an Indian arrow.

Other Spanish voyagers explored the North American coast and encountered the hostility of the natives. Lucas Vasquez D'Ayllon, after treacherously kidnapping a large number of natives of South Carolina, in a subsequent voyage attempted a settlement on the Combahee River. In retaliation for his treachery, his men were unexpectedly set upon by the Indians and nearly all killed. Vasquez, mortally wounded, escaped to his vessel; and thus ended the first attempt to plant a colony within the area of the United States.

The expedition of Pamphilio de Narvaez was disastrous in the extreme. It was this officer who had been sent by the governor of Cuba to take Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, prisoner, and who was himself easily defeated, and captured in the attempt. When brought before Cortez he said to him, with his usual arrogance, "Esteem it great good-fortune that you have taken me captive." Cortez replied, "It is the least of the things I have done in Mexico."

Landing near Tampa Bay, Florida, Narvaez struck into the interior. By his cruelty and want of judgment he provoked the hostility of the natives, who, to rid themselves of these unwelcome intruders, told them of a rich country, only nine days' march to the south. These Indians were of fine stature, great activity, and expert and accurate bowmen, who could hit their mark at the distance of two hundred yards. Instead of rich and populous towns, such as they had hoped to discover, the Spaniards found only clusters of wigwams, and were plundered and cut oil whenever opportunity offered.

After a fatiguing and fruitless six months' tramp, the wretched remnant of the party reached Pensacola Bay in a state of destitution. Narvaez was ill, his men were dispirited, and his horses were reduced to skeletons. Boats must be built, but how was this to be done without tools or materials?

In this exigency a soldier told Narvaez that he could make pipes of wood, and convert them into bellows by the aid of deerskins. The idea was instantly acted upon. A forge was constructed, and immediately stirrups, spurs, cross-bows, etc., were converted into nails, saws, and axes. The pines yielded pitch; a kind of oakum was obtained from the palmetto. Hair from the manes and tails of horses was twisted into ropes, and the shirts of the men supplied sails. The horses were killed and their flesh used for food. Oysters and maize completed their store of provisions. After sixteen days of hard work they had constructed five boats, each of which held fifty-six men.

In these frail vessels the remnant of that once gallant army embarked, and nearly all perished in a storm near the mouth of the Mississippi. Four survivors reached Mexico by land, after eight years of wandering and almost incredible hardships.

The story of these men, that Florida was the richest country in the world, was credited by many. Among them was Fernando de Soto, who had been the favorite companion of Pizarro in the conquest of Peru, where he had acquired both military renown and wealth. He believed that another Peru existed at the north, and aspiring to rival Cortez and Pizarro in fame and wealth, asked and received permission of the king to conquer Florida at his own cost. It must be remembered that the term Florida was at that time a vague expression, covering an immense territory—no less than the whole North American coast.

This was by far the most magnificent and well appointed of the numerous expeditions to this continent. Men of noble birth and good estates sold their lands to join in it. Portuguese soldiers were to be seen in the glittering array of burnished armor, and the Castilians, brilliant with hope, were "very gallant with silk upon silk." Front the numerous aspirants De Soto selected six hundred men—the flower of Spain; many persons of good account who had sold their estates were obliged to remain behind. Everything was provided that experience in former invasions could suggest, including chains for captives, and blood-hounds as auxiliaries against the wretched natives. As the latter were to be converted as well as plundered, twenty-four ecclesiastics accompanied the expedition. The fleet landed at Tampa Bay, on the western coast, the adventurers disembarked, and the memorable march began.

Soon after landing, a party of Spaniards attacked and put to flight a few Indians who were advancing towards them, making friendly signals. One of them had been knocked down, and was about to receive a deadly blow, when he uttered in excellent Spanish these words,

"Sir, I am a Christian! I am a Christian! Slay me not, nor these Indians, for they have saved my life."

The blow was withheld; and this man, whose name was Juan Ortiz, related his most extraordinary story. He was one of the survivors of Narvaez's company, and in a subsequent expedition had fallen into the hands of the natives, and was doomed to suffer death by torture.

Four stakes were set in the ground, to which four ropes were fastened. To these poles the captive, with his legs and arms extended, was bound, at such a distance from the ground that a fire made under him would be a long time in consuming him. Already had the fire been lighted, and the victim resigned himself to his terrible fate, when the daughter of Ucita, the chief, throwing herself at her father's feet, begged his life in these words:

"My kind father, why kill this poor stranger? he can do you nor none of us any injury, seeing he is but one and alone. It is better that you should keep him confined, for even in that condition he may some time be of great service to you."

The chief was silent a short time, but finally ordered his release. His wounds were dressed, and he was made tolerably comfortable. Possibly, this incident suggested to Captain John Smith the story he long afterwards wrote of his rescue from death by Pocahontas, the daughter of Powhatan.

At one end of Ucita's village stood a temple; over the door was the figure of a bird carved in wood, and with gilded eyes. As soon as the wounds of Ortiz were healed, he was stationed to guard the entrance of this temple, more especially from the inroads of wild beasts. As human victims were sacrificed here, wolves were frequent visitors. Death was the penalty for allowing a body to be removed.

One night he had a terrible scare. A young Indian had been killed, and his body was placed in the temple. Spite of all his efforts, a pack of hungry wolves effected an entrance and seized upon the body. As soon as he recovered from the fright of their first onset, he seized a heavy cudgel, drove them out, and pursued them some distance, dealing one of them a mortal blow.

When morning came, and it was seen that the body was gone, Ortiz was condemned to die; but before executing him Ucita sent a party in pursuit of the wolves, and, if possible, to recover the body. Contrary to all expectations, it was found, and near it the carcass of a huge wolf. The order for Ortiz's execution was revoked, and he was afterwards held in great esteem by the Indians.

Some time afterwards he was again selected for sacrifice, but was a second time saved from a terrible death by the chief's daughter, who aided him to escape to the country of Mocoso, a rival chief, by whom he was well treated, and with whom he remained three years. At the expiration of that time the fleet of De Soto arrived, and Mocoso, out of friendship for Ortiz, sent him to his countrymen, who, as we have seen, supposing him to be what he appeared—an Indian—came near killing him. Ortiz rendered important services to De Soto, as interpreter among the various Indian tribes.

For three years the Spaniards wandered through the country in search of gold, De Soto obstinately refusing to turn back. No gold was discovered; the only wealth of the natives was in their stores of corn; they were poor, but independent, hardy and brave. Everywhere he was met by the most determined hostility on the part of the natives, with whom he had a bloody battle at Mauvilla, or Mobile. For nine hours the Indians fought with desperation, and but for the flames, which consumed their light cabins, they would have repulsed the invaders. Thousands of them were slain. Though protected by their armor, many Spaniards were killed or wounded, and all their baggage was burned.

Mauvilla was a strongly-fortified village on the Coosa. It was surrounded by stout palisades, with loop-holes for arrows. Early in the morning the Indian war-cry was raised. De Soto led his amen to storm the fort. The entrance was narrow and well defended, and some of his best cavaliers were fatally pierced between the joints of their armor, and numbers of horses were killed. The Spaniards were obliged to withdraw. The Indians then sallied from the gates and rushed upon the foe, charging and retiring over the plain; but the advantage was finally with the Spaniards, and the Indians withdrew to their fort.

In a second assault the gate was broken down, when the assailants rushed in, and a furious conflict ensued. The Indians thronged the square; lance, club, and missile were wielded from every quarter. Even their young women snatched up the swords of the slaughtered Spaniards and mingled in the fray, being more reckless than the men. The struggle was so fierce and protracted, particularly from the roofs of the houses, that the soldiers set fire to their combustible dwellings, which were soon in flames. At length the Indians gave way and fled, pursued by the cavalry. They would neither give nor take quarter; not a man surrendered. These Indians were of the Creek, Choctaw, and Chickasaw tribes; among the slain was their famous chief, Tuscaloosa, the Black Warrior.

During the first winter De Soto encamped at the deserted Indian town of Chicaza, where for two months his men enjoyed comparative repose. At length the Chickasaws resolved to burn the encampment, which was constructed of inflammable materials.

A dark and windy night having been chosen, the camp was fired in several places, the savages at the same time uttering furious yells and making a desperate attack. A high wind fanned the flames into irresistible fury, and for a time the confusion was such as rendered it impossible to resist the impetuosity of the assailants. Discipline and courage, how-ever, regained the ascendancy, and the enemy was repulsed. But the camp was totally destroyed, together with all the arms, accoutrements, and provisions of the army. All that had been saved at the conflagration of Manilla was here annihilated. The droves of hogs, which had formed their main dependence for provisions, were burned in their pens. The temper of their swords had been impaired by the action of the fire, and almost every valuable article of equipage consumed.

De Soto more than once displayed great coolness and presence of mind. He had, at one time, pitched his camp near Costa, a town in Alabama, and, with a few of his followers, was conversing with the chief, when some of his troopers entered the town and plundered several of the houses. The justly-incensed Indians fell upon them with their clubs. Seeing himself surrounded by the natives, and in great personal danger, the general seized a cudgel and, with his usual presence of mind, commenced beating his own men. The savages, observing this, became pacified in a moment. In the mean time, taking the chief by the hand, he led him, with flattering words, towards his camp, where the was presently surrounded by a guard and held as a hostage. The Spaniards remained under arms all night. Fifteen hundred armed Indians surrounded them, frequently threatening them with attack, and uttering cries of insult and menace. Restraining his troops, De Soto, aided by a prominent Indian, who had followed him for some time, at length succeeded in restoring peace and in averting what seemed likely to prove a serious affair.

Upon one occasion De Soto tried to overawe the Natchez Indians, who worshipped the sun, by claiming a supernatural birth and demanding tribute.

"You say you are the child of the sun," replied the incredulous chief. "Dry up the river, and I will believe you. If you wish to see me, come to the town where I dwell. If you come in peace I will receive you with special good-will; if in war, I will not shrink one foot back."