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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 108, October, 1866   By:

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"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 108, October, 1866" is a collection of diverse essays, poems, and stories that provide a snapshot of American intellectual life during the mid-19th century. The pieces cover a wide range of topics, from politics and philosophy to literature and science. Each contributor brings a unique perspective to their work, offering readers a glimpse into the rich tapestry of thought that characterized the era.

One standout feature of this volume is the quality of the writing. The authors display a mastery of language and a keen understanding of their subjects, making each piece a pleasure to read. Whether discussing the pressing social issues of the day or exploring the complexities of human emotion, the writers in this collection demonstrate a remarkable depth of insight that continues to resonate with readers today.

Additionally, the variety of genres and styles represented in this volume keeps the reading experience fresh and engaging. From the stirring prose of the political essays to the lyrical beauty of the poetry, there is something here to appeal to every taste. The editors have done an excellent job of curating a diverse and thought-provoking collection that will leave readers both entertained and enlightened.

Overall, "The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 108, October, 1866" is a valuable addition to any library, offering a fascinating window into the intellectual currents of its time. Readers interested in American history, literature, or philosophy will find much to enjoy in this volume, making it a worthwhile investment for anyone looking to deepen their understanding of this pivotal period in our nation's past.

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.


There is a rushing southwest wind. It murmurs overhead among the willows, and the little river waves lap and wash upon the point below; but not a breath lifts my hair, down here among the tree trunks, close to the water. Clear water ripples at my feet; and a mile and more away, across the great bay of the wide river, the old, compact brick red city lies silent in the sunshine. Silent, I say truly: to me, here, it is motionless and silent. But if I should walk up into State Street and say so, my truth, like many others, when uprooted from among their circumstances, would turn into a disagreeable lie. Sharp points rise above the irregular profile of the line of roofs. Some are church spires, and some are masts, mixed at the rate of about one church and a half to a schooner. I smell the clear earthy smell of the pure gray sand, and the fresh, cool smell of the pure water. Tiny bird tracks lie along the edge of the water, perhaps to delight the soul of some millennial ichnologist... Continue reading book >>

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