egend, too, which had nothing to do with Miles
Standish and his companions, or even with that less important personage,
Hendrik Hudson. There was--he could not deny it--a certain comparative
antiquity about this southern peninsula which had in it more richness of
color and a deeper perspective than that possessed by any of the rather
blank, near, little backgrounds of American history farther north. This
was a surprise to him. Like most New-Englanders, he had unconsciously
cherished the belief that all there was of historical importance, of
historical picturesqueness even, in the beginnings of the republic, was
associated with the Puritans from whom he was on his father's side
descended, was appended to their stately hats and ruffs, their wonderful
perseverance, their dignified orthography, the solemnities of their
speech and demeanor. And if, with liberality, he should stretch the
lines a little to include the old Dutch land-holders of Manhattan
Island, and the river up which the _Half-moon_ had sailed, that had
seemed to him all that could possibly be necessary; there was, indeed,
nothing else to include. But here was a life, an atmosphere, to whose
contemporary and even preceding existence on their own continent neither
Puritan nor Patroon had paid heed; and it was becoming evident that he,
their descendant, with all the aids of easy communication, and that
modern way of looking at the globe which has annihilated distance and
made a voyage round it but a small matter--even he, with all this help,
had not, respecting this beautiful peninsula of his own country,
developed perceptions more keen than those of these self-absorbed
ancestors--an appreciation more delicate than their obtuse one.
Winthrop's appreciation was good. But it had been turned, as regarded
historical and picturesque associations, principally towards the Old
World. He now went through a good deal of meditation upon this subject;
he was pleased, yet, on the whole, rather ashamed of himself. When
Raphael was putting into the backgrounds of his pictures those prim,
slenderly foliaged trees which he had seen from Perugino's windows in
his youth, the Spaniards were exploring this very Florida shore; yet
when he, Evert Winthrop, had discovered the same tall, thin trees (which
up to that time he had thought rather an affectation) from the
overhanging balcony of the little inn at Assisi--it had seemed to
overhang all Umbria--did he not think of Raphael's day as