On an accessible book-shelf in my library, stand side by side four volumes
whose contents I once knew by heart, and which, after the lapse of twenty
years, are yet tolerably distinct in my memory. These are stoutly bound in
purple muslin, with a stamp, of Persian design apparently, on the centre
of each cover. They are stained and worn, and the backs have faded to a
brownish hue, from exposure to the light, and a leaf in one of the volumes
has been torn across; but the paper and the sewing and the clear bold type
are still as serviceable as ever. The books seem to have been made to
last,--to stand a great deal of reading. Contrasted with the aesthetically
designed covers one sees nowadays, they would be considered inexcusably
ugly, and the least popular novelist of our time would protest against
having his lucubrations presented to the public in such plain attire.
Nevertheless, on turning to the title-pages, you may see imprinted, on the
first, "Fourteenth Edition"; on the second, "Twelfth Edition"; and on the
others, indications somewhat less magnificent, but still evidence of very
exceptional circulation. The date they bear is that of the first years of
our civil war; and the first published of them is prefaced by a
biographical memoir of the author, written by his friend George William
Curtis. This memoir was originally printed in the _Atlantic Monthly_, two
or three months after the death of its subject, Theodore Winthrop.

For these books,--three novels, and one volume of records of travel,--came
from his hand, though they did not see the light until after he had passed
beyond the sphere of authors and publishers. At that time, the country was
in an exalted and heroic mood, and the men who went to fight its battles
were regarded with a personal affection by no means restricted to their
personal acquaintances. Their names were on all lips, and those of them
who fell were mourned by multitudes instead of by individuals. Winthrop's
historic name, and the influential position of some of his nearest