Soundings from the Atlantic

الغلاف الأمامي
Ticknor and Fields, 1864 - 468 من الصفحات
Physician, poet, writer and lecturer, Oliver Wendell Holmes produced the Holmes stereograph. Two chapters in this book that cover photography include: The Stereograph and Stereoscope and Doings of the Sunbeam.

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الصفحة 226 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
الصفحة 377 - Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose like an exhalation, with the sound Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet.
الصفحة 175 - At the mouth of two witnesses, or three witnesses, shall he that is worthy of death be put to death; but at the mouth of one witness he shall not be put to death.
الصفحة 461 - I should advise persisting in our struggle for liberty, though it were revealed from heaven that nine hundred and ninety-nine were to perish, and only one of a thousand were to survive, and retain his liberty ! One such free man must possess more virtue, and enjoy more happiness, than a thousand slaves ; and let him propagate his like, and transmit to them what he hath so nobly preserved.
الصفحة 413 - Every master of slaves is born a petty tyrant. They bring the judgment of Heaven on a country. As nations cannot be rewarded or punished in the next world, they must be in this. By an inevitable chain of causes and effects, Providence punishes national sins by national calamities.
الصفحة 267 - It was so nearly like visiting the battlefield to look over these views, that all the emotions excited by the actual sight of the stained and sordid scene, strewed with rags and wrecks, came back to us, and we buried them in the recesses of our cabinet as we would have buried the mutilated remains of the dead they too vividly represented.
الصفحة 266 - Let him who wishes to know what war is look at this series of illustrations.
الصفحة 154 - I look into the eyes of the caged tiger, and on the scaly train of the crocodile, stretched on the sands of the river that has mirrored a hundred dynasties. I stroll through Rhenish vineyards, I sit under Roman arches, I walk the streets of once buried cities, I look into the chasms of Alpine glaciers, and on the rush of wasteful cataracts. I pass, in a moment, from the banks of the Charles to the ford of the Jordan, and leave my outward frame in the arm-chair at my table, while in spirit I am looking...

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