Soundings from the AtlanticTicknor and Fields, 1864 - 468 من الصفحات This volume is a compilation of articles, with the exception of the last, published originally in the Atlantic monthly. |
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مقاطع مشهورة
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 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 266 - Let him who wishes to know what war is look at this series of illustrations. These wrecks of manhood thrown together in careless heaps or ranged in ghastly rows for burial were alive but yesterday.
الصفحة 106 - The expected train came in so quietly that I was almost startled to see it on the track. Let us walk calmly through the cars, and look around us. In the first car, on the fourth seat to the right, I saw my Captain ; there saw I him, even my first-born, whom I had sought through many cities.
الصفحة 395 - ... of anything human, so much as the cracked voice of an old woman of ninety, or, in the lower parts, of Punch singing through a comb.
الصفحة 154 - I can almost see its down and the green aphis that sucks its juices. 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...