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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 107, September, 1866   By:

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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 107, September, 1866 is a collection of diverse essays, stories, and poems that offer readers a glimpse into the social and cultural landscape of the 19th century. The prose is well-crafted and thought-provoking, engaging readers with its intellectual depth and emotional resonance.

One standout piece in this volume is the essay on the American Civil War, which provides a fascinating analysis of the political and moral complexities of the conflict. The author's vivid descriptions and sharp insights create a compelling narrative that sheds light on the historical significance of this tumultuous period.

Additionally, the poetry featured in this volume showcases a range of styles and themes, from romantic verses to social commentary. Each poem is a gem in its own right, offering readers a glimpse into the human experience through the lens of talented poets.

Overall, The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 107, September, 1866 is a must-read for anyone interested in 19th-century literature and history. Its diverse content and rich prose make it a valuable addition to any library, offering readers both entertainment and enlightenment.

First Page:



A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics.


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.



The sickness of the nation not being unto death, we now begin to number its advantages. They will not all be numbered by this generation; and as for story tellers, essayists, letter writers, historians, and philosophers, if their "genius" flags in half a century with such material as hearts, homes, and battle fields beyond counting afford them, they deserve to be drummed out of their respective regiments, and banished into the dominion of silence and darkness, forever to sit on the borders of unfathomable ink pools, minus pen and paper, with fool's caps on their heads.

I know of a place which you may call Dalton, if it must have a name. At the beginning of our war, for which some true spirits thank Almighty God, a family as wretched as Satan wandering up and down the earth could wish to find lived there, close beside the borders of a lake which the Indians once called but why should not your fancy build the lowly cottage on whatsoever green and sloping bank it will? Fair as you please the outside world may be, waters pure as those of Lake St... Continue reading book >>

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