The accounts the Spaniards formerly gave us of Florida and its inhabitants, are written in the same romantic strain with those of Mexico. Ramusius tells us, that Alvaro Nunes and his company reported the Apalahchee Indians to be such a gigantic people, as to carry bows, thick as a man’s arm, and of eleven or twelve spans long, shooting with proportional force and direction. It seems they lived then a sober and temperate life, for Morgues says, one of their kings was three hundred years old; though Laudon reckons him only two hundred and fifty: and Morgues assures us, he saw this young Indian Methusalah’s father, who was fifty years older than his son, and that each of them was likely by the common course of nature to live thirty or forty years longer, although they had seen their fifth generation. Since that time they have so exceedingly degenerated, in height of body, largeness of {200} defensive arms, and ante-deluvian longevity, that I am afraid, these early and extraordinary writers would scarcely know the descendants of those Apalahche Anakim, if they now saw them. They are at present the same as their dwarfish red neighbours; sic transit gloria mundi. Nicholaus Challusius paints Florida full of winged serpents; he affirms he saw one there, and that the old natives were very careful to get its head, on account of some supposed superstition. Ferdinando Soto tells us, that when he entered Florida, he found a Spaniard, (J. Ortez) whom the natives had captivated during the space of twelve years, consequently he must have gained in that time, sufficient skill in their dialect to give a true interpretation and account—and he assures us, that Ucita, the Lord of the place, made that fellow, “Temple-keeper,” to prevent the night-wolves from carrying away the dead corpse; that the natives worshipped the devil, and sacrificed to him the life and blood of most of their captives;—who spoke with them face to face, and ordered them to bring those offerings to quench his burning thirst. And we are told by Benzo,[91] that when Soto died, the good-natured Cacique ordered two likely young Indians to be killed according to custom, to wait on him where he was gone.—But the Christian Spaniards denied his death, and assured them he was the son of God, and therefore could not die. If we except the last sentence, which bears a just analogy to the presumption and arrogance of the popish priests and historians, time and opportunity have fully convinced us, that all the rest is calumny and falshood. It must be confessed however, that none, even of the Spanish monks and friars, have gone so deep in the marvellous, as our own sagacious David Ingram—he assures us, “that he not only heard of very surprising animals in these parts of the world, but saw elephants, horses, and strange wild animals twice as big as our species of horses, formed like a grey-hound in their hinder parts; he saw likewise bulls with ears like hounds; and