The result of modern investigation has been to reduce the glory of Columbus considerably, and to raise questions and doubts concerning him which, if they cannot be answered satisfactorily, must carry the depreciating movement farther. The prior discovery of the Northmen has been taken out of the realm of fable and established as an historical fact. On the other hand, the visit of the Northmen did not lead to permanent settlement. They may have colonized a little. They may have had relations with some of the American Indians, and even have taught the aborigines some of the Norse sagas. But they did not stay in the new land. After a longer or shorter period they sailed away, and left it finally, and no emigration from Iceland to Vinland was incited by the tales they told on their return home.
The incident was ended so far as they were concerned, and it was not reopened. Now, in the case of Columbus, it may be said that the first step was quickly followed up, and that there was no solution of continuity in the development of the new world. Certainty and perfectly clear demonstration is not to be had in the matter, but Columbus has the advantage of tradition, of familiarity, of the facility with which an at least apparent connection is established between the man and what came after him.
The Cabots
On the 24th of June, 1497, John Cabot, a Venetian merchant, living in England, with his young son Sebastian, first saw, from the deck of a British vessel, “the dismal cliffs of Labrador,” through the early morning mist. This was nearly fourteen months before Columbus, on his third voyage, came in sight of the mainland of South America. Thenceforth the continent of North America belonged to England by right of discovery. Sailing along the coast many leagues without the sight of a human being, but observing that the country was inhabited, he landed and planted a large cross with the standard of England, and by its side the Venetian banner of St. Mark,—the one in loyalty to his king, Henry VII., the other in affection for Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic. From that hour the fortunes of this continent were to be swayed by the Anglo-Saxon race. The name of Cabot’s vessel—the first to touch our American shores—was Matteo (Matthew).
The Name America
Amalric was the name which compacted the old ideal of heroism and leadership common to all Germanic tribes, the ideal that stands out most clearly in the character of Beowulf—the Amal of Sweden, Denmark, and Saxon England. It meant what the North European hero stories described,—“The man who ruled because he labored for the benefit of all.”
In Norman France this name was softened to Amaury. Thus, a certain theologian who was born in the twelfth century at Bène, near Chartres, is called indifferently Amalric of Bène or Amaury of Chartres. England in the thirteenth century could show no more commanding figure than Simon of Montfort l’Amaury, Earl of Leicester, to whom King Henry once said, “If I fear the thunder, I fear you, Sir Earl, more than all the thunder in the world.” A Norman Amalric was that Earl Simon, creator of a new force, and in its outcome a democratic one, too, in English politics. J. R. Green says, “It was the writ issued by Earl Simon that first summoned the merchant and trader to sit beside the knight of the shire, the baron, and the bishop in the parliament of the realm.” In Italy, after the Gothic invasion, the northern name suffered comparatively slight euphonic changes, which can be easily traced. As borne by a bishop of Como in 865 it became Amelrico or Amelrigo. But the juxtaposition of the two consonants “l” and “r” presented a difficulty in pronunciation which the Italians avoided: they changed “lr,” first, to double “r,” and then to a single “r.” Nevertheless, six hundred years after Bishop Amelrigo died, the Florentine merchant, explorer, and author—third son of Anastasio Vespucius, notary of Florence—usually retained the double “r” in his own signature, writing “Amerrigo Vespucci,” and, by the way, accenting his Gothic name on the penultimate (Ameri´go, not Ame´rigo).
The orthography of Amelric was still in this transitional stage in Italy at the end of the fifteenth century. In Spain the name must have been rare, since it was often used alone to designate the Florentine during his residence in that country, the audit books in the archives of Seville containing entries in this form: “Ha de haber Amerigo.” There was, apparently, no other Amerigo or Amerrigo in the Spanish public service early in the sixteenth century.
We must look again toward the north for the scene of the next important change, and among the men of a northern race for its author. Martin Waldseemueller, a young German geographer at St. Dié, in the Vosgian Mountains, whose imagination had been stirred by reading, as news of the day, Amerigo’s account of his voyages to the New World, bestowed the name America upon the continental regions brought to light by the Florentine. It is not enough to say, with John Boyd Thacher (in his “Columbus,” Volume III.; compare also Thacher’s valuable “Continent of America”), that Waldseemueller “suggested” this designation. As editor of the Latin work, the “Cosmographiæ Introductio” (May 5, 1507), he stated most distinctly, with emphatic reiteration, his reasons for this name-giving; placed conspicuously in the margin the perfect geographical name, “America,” and at the end of the volume put Vespucci’s narrative. Further, on a large map of the world, separately published, he drew that fourth part of the earth “quarta orbis pars,” which was the “Introductio’s” novel feature, and marked it firmly “America.”
The contention of Professor von der Hagen (in his letter to Humboldt, published in 1835 in “Neues Jahrbuch der Berliner Gesellschaft für Deutsche Sprache,” Heft 1, pp. 13–17), that Waldseemueller was distinctly conscious of giving the new continent a name of Germanic origin, may appeal to enthusiastic Germanists, but the original text clearly opposes that conclusion. “Quia Americus invenit,” says the Introductio, “Americi terra sive America nuncupare licet.” But the case stands otherwise, when we ask why Europeans generally caught up the word, as a name appropriate to the new Terra Firma of vaguely intimated contours, but of defined and appalling difficulty—a vaster, untried field for the exercise of proved Amal ability. Its association with so many men before Vespucci certainly commended the name to northern taste.