CHAPTER VIII.
THEODORE WINTHROP'S WRITINGS.
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.
Pages:
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