PROFESSOR of Moral Philosophy in Harvard College, and late editor of the North American Review, was born in Charlestown, Massachusetts. He became a graduate at Cambridge in 1833, and from 1835 to 1839 was tutor in the institution in the department which he now occupies, of Philosophy and Political Economy. He subsequently occupied himself exclusively with literary pursuits, while he continued his residence at Cambridge. In 1842 he published Critical Essays on the History and Pesent Condition of Speculative Philosophy; and in the same year an edition of Virgil, for the use of schools and colleges. In January, 1843, he became editor of the North American Review, and discharged the duties of this position till the close of 1853, when the work passed into the hands of its next editor, Mr. A. P. Peabody. During the latter portion of his editorship of the Review, Mr. Bowen's articles on the Hungarian question attracted considerable attention by their opposition to the popular mode of looking upon the subject under the influences of the Kossuth agitation. In the winter of 1848 and 1849 Mr. Bowen delivered before the Lowell Institute in Boston a series of Lectures on the Application of Metaphysical and Ethical Science to the Evidences of Religion. Ten years later followed a course on the English Metaphysicians and Philosophers. Mr. Bowen is also the author of several volumes of American Biography in Mr. Sparks's series, including Lives of Sir William Phipps, Baron Steuben, James Otis, and General Benjamin Lincoln. In 1853 Mr. Bowen accepted the chair at Harvard, of Natural Theology, Moral Philosophy, and Political Economy which he still fills, (1873). **The later works of Prof. Bowen comprise: Documents of the Constitution of England and America, 1854; Principles of Political Economy Applied to the Conditions, Resources, and the Institutions of the American People, 1856;;A Treatise on Logic, or The Laws of Pure Thought; 1864; American Political Economy: including Remarks on the Management of the Currency, and the Finances, since the Outbreak of the War of the Great Rebellion, 1870. JOHN MILTON MACKIE, THE author of a life of Leibnitz and other works, was born in 1813, in Wareham, Plymouth county, Massachusetts. He was educated at Brown University, where he was graduated in 1832, and where he was subsequently a tutor from 1834 to 1838. His writings, in their scholarship, variety, and spirit, exhibit the accomplished man of letters. In 1845 he published a Life of Godfrey William Von Lebnitz, on the basis of the German work of Dr. G. E. Guhrauer. This was followed in 1848 by a contribution to American history in a volume of Mr. Sparks's series of biography, a Life of Samuel Gorton, one of the first settlers in Warwick, Rhode Island. J. Milton Muckin In 1855 Mr. Mackie published a volume of clever sketches, the result of a portion of a European tour, entitled Cosas de Espai a; or, Going to Madrid via Barcelona. It was a successful work in a field where several American travellers, as Irving, Mackenzie, Cushing, Wallis, and others, have gathered distinguished laurels. Mr. Mackie treats the objects of his tour with graphic, descriptive talent, and a happy vein of individual humor. Mr. Mackie has been a contributor to Putnam's Magazine, where, in December, 1854, he published a noticeable article entitled "Forty Days in a Western Hotel;" and also to the leading reviews. Mr. Mackie, in 1856, published, in Boston, a Life of Schamyl, and a Narrative of the Circassian War of Independence against Russia. The interest of this well-written volume of extensive research, clear in its statement and picturesque in its details, may be judged of from the brief preface of the writer. "The principal authors," he says, "who have recently written on Circassia, are Bodenstedt, Moritz Wagner, Marlinski, Dubois de Montpereux, Hommaire de Hell, Taillander, Marigny, Golovin, Bell, Longworth, Spencer, Knight, Cameron, Ditson; and from their pages chiefly has been filled the easel, with the colors of which I have endeavored to paint the following picture of a career of heroism nowise inferior to that of the most famous champions of classical antiquity, of a war of independence such as may not improperly be compared with the most glorious struggles recorded in the annals of liberty, and of a state of society perhaps the most romantic and the most nearly resembling that described in the songs of Homer which the progress of civilization has now left for the admiration of mankind." The following year, in 1856, Mr. Mackie was attracted by another hero, of a region farther to the East, whose somewhat shadowy career, uniting personal enthusiasm with a great national movement, offered a piquant subject for the imagination. A Life of Tai-Ping-Wang, Chief of the Chinese Insurrection, published by Messrs. Dix, Edwards & Co., in New York, was the result of this new study. The book was, of course, dependent upon such materials as were at hand at the time. These, which were diligently employed by the author, were the English journals published in China and the official Pekin Gazette; the letters of missionaries, Protestant and Roman Catholic; the correspondence of Mr. II. Marshall, Commissioner of the United States to China, published by Congress; and other incidental sources in foreign religious journals and other quarters. The result of all this reading was an attractive volume, marked by the interesting qualities of the author's style, a neatness of expression, and, where the topic admits of it, an undercurrent of quiet humor. In 1864, Mr. Mackie published a series of sketches of travel in the Southern portions of the United States and the West Indies, entitled, From Cape Cod to Dixie and the Tropics. The style is graphic, and loosely covering a vein of serious and profitable reflection. In his preface, the author says, in reference to the time of publication, the third year of the war of the rebellion, “It may not be ill-timed to give to the press an account of a pleasure journey, made, in part, through the Southern States; and a portion of which may serve as a memento of the happy days when there existed between the inhabitants of the Northern and Southern sections of the country a free interchange of services and hospitalities. It is, indeed, the great business of the nation, at the present crisis, to bring back to the Union, by force of arms, its erring, misguided members; but, while we of the North are intent on subduing them, there is a satisfaction in showing that we neither hate nor despise them; and I am happy to contribute my humble mite in proof that we cherish pleasant reminiscences of our former friendship, and shall be ready, on the restoration of peace, to give to the returning States every right and privilege consistent with the safety, dignity, and welfare of the united Republic." HOLIDAYS AT BARCELONA-FROM COSAS DE ESPAÑA. Spanish life is pretty well filled up with holidays. The country is under the protection of a better-filled calendar of saints than any in Christendom, Italy, perhaps, excepted. But these guardians do not keep watch and ward for naught: they have each their "solid day" annually set apart for them, or, at least, their afternoon, wherein to receive adoration and tribute money. The poor Spaniard is kept nearly half the year on his knees. His prayers cost him his pesetas, too; for, neither the saints will intercede nor the priests will absolve, except for cash. But his time spent in ceremonies, the Spaniard counts as nothing. The fewer days the laborer has to work, the happier is he. These are the dull prose of an existence essentially poetic. On holidays, on the contrary, the life of the lowest classes runs as smoothly as verses. If the poor man's porron only be well filled with wine, he can trust to luck and the saints he likes, three days in the week, to put on his best— for a roll of bread and a few onions. Free from care, more likely, his only bib-and-tucker-and go to mass, instead of field or wharf duty. He is well pleased at the gorgeous ceremonies of his venerable mother-church: at the sight of street processions, with crucifix and sacramental canopy, and priests in cloth of purple and of gold. The spectacle also of the gay promenading, the music, the parade and mimic show of war, the free theatres, the bull-fights, the streets hung with tapestry, and the town hall's front adorned with a flaming full length of Isabella the Second-these constitute the brilliant passages in the epic of his life. Taking no thought for the morand enjoys the golden hours as they fly. Indeed, he row after the holiday, he is wiser than a philosopher, can well afford to do so; for, in his sunny land of corn and wine, the common necessaries of life are procured with almost as little toil as in the breadfruit islands of the Pacific. It is in All the Spaniard's holidays are religious festivals. There is no Fourth of July in his year. His mirth, accordingly, is not independent and profane, like the Yankee's. Being more accustomed also to playtime, he is less tempted to fill it up with excesses. the order of his holiday to go, first of all, to church; and a certain air of religious decorum is carried along into all the succeeding amusements. Neither is his into all the succeeding amusements. the restless, capering enjoyment of the Frenchman, who begins and ends his holidays with dancing; nor the chattering hilarity of the Italian, who goes beside himself over a few roasted chestnuts and a monkey. The Spaniard wears a somewhat graver face. His happiness requires less muscular movement. To stand wrapped in his cloak, statue-like, in the public square; to sit on sunny bank, or beneath shady bower, is about as much activity as suits his dignity. Only the sound of castanets can draw him from his propriety; and the steps of the fandango work his brain up to intoxication. Spanish festaltuous days of the Indian summer, when the air is as time, accordingly, is like the hazy, dreamy, volupfull of calm as it is of splendor, and when the pulses of Nature beat full, but feverless. The holiday is easily filled up with pleasures. The peasant has no more to do than to throw back his head upon the turf, and tantalize his dissolving mouth by holding over it the purple clusters, torn from overhanging branches. The beggar lies down against a wall, and counts into the hand of his companion the pennies they have to spend together during the day-unconscious the while that the sand beauty twines roses is her hair, and looks out of the of half its hours has already run out. The villagewindow, happy to see the gay-jacketed youngsters go smirking and ogling by. The belles of the town lean over their flower balconies, chatting with neighbors, and raining glances on the throng of admirers who promenade below. Town and country wear their holiday attire with graceful, tranquil joy. Only from the cafés of the one, and the ventorillos of the other, may perchance be heard the sounds of revelry; where the guitar is thrummed with a gaiety not heard in serenades; where the violin leads youthful feet a round of pleasures, too fast for sureness of footing; and where the claque of the castanets rings out merrily above laugh and song, firing the heart with passions which comport not well with Castilian gravity. **THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI FROM CAPE COD TO DIXIE. The weather, after my departure from Mobile, became warmer, and, in fact, perfectly tropical. Sunshine perpetual, or effulgent moonlight, accompanied me all the way across the azure gulf; but on the bar of the Mississippi a fog came out of the north, with rain, and wind, and cold, and thunder and lightning. Climate and clothing, I made a change of both on this bar. I was let down out of heaven and stuck in the mud in one and the same moment. During the voyage, our steamer had managed to attain a speed of eight knots the hour; but here, with her keel three feet deep in the sand and slime of the river, she made only about eight inches. How, for half a day, her paddles made the yellow porridge of the Mississippi boil! The wonder was that she got through into deep water even at the end of that time. Doubtless there was a snail at her stern helping her. Charming sight it was to look upon the banks of black mud, barely rising above the level of the waters, and somewhat resembling huge leviathans lying at anchor, or alligators asleep on the surface. It would have reminded one who had been a passenger in Noah's ark of the appearance of the world the morning after the Deluge. Only, instead of doves bringing olive branches, there was but the flight of a few lazy sea gulls. Gradually, however, this primeval aspect of things gave place to that of the dry and solid earth. From mud islands, we came to others covered with reeds and rushes. Next succeeded the wild grasses. Blackbirds and buzzards shared the sky with the sea gulls. Then appeared the mammalia, wild hogs, half-tamed horses, cows browsing in pastures which lay a foot deep under water, and, finally, man that is to say, the fisherman, in a hut built on piles. Here, also, dwelt the lighthouse keeper, and, strange to say, the worker of the telegraph. The quarantine ground-I might almost say water came into view a little later, being wellnigh submerged, and looking like a pet nursery of fever and pestilence. I was strongly tempted to inquire of the doctor respecting the health of his own family, and express an affectionate hope that he himself had not an ague; for the man was thin in the cheeks, and sallow, and, in fact, looked quite ashamed of performing the duty of feeling anybody's pulse on board the steamer. I also wished to congratulate him on his boat; as, in case the river should rise still a little higher, it might be the saving of himself and his household. Every inhabitant of this part of the river, I afterward observed, was the owner of a similar boat, which he used for rowing himself about his small estate, and fishing for snappers in his fields, when the water was too deep to dig potatoes. The dwellings all had the appearance of being bathhouses; built, in the lower part of the river, of logs, and thatched; higher up the stream, shingled; and, higher still, slated. But near the mouth, I could hardly have believed it a Christian land we were entering, had we not pretty soon come to a fort. This was an unmistakable evidence of civilization, and the extensive orange plantations, which afterward began to peep out of the primeval forests skirting the river side, still more favored the idea that we were entering the gates of a great country. The quantity of driftwood in the stream was an indication, to be sure, of interminable forests higher up on its banks; but, on the other hand, the numerous floating casks, barrels, and bottles, proved that we were approaching some large emporium of commerce. Might it not also be the seat of a prodigal luxury, a city flowing not only with milk and honey, but with ready-made cobblers and cocktails? For the yellow, foaming river really seemed to be running with egg-nogg - and it certainly did not run straight. CHARLES F. BRIGGS. MR. BRIGGS is a native of Nantucket. He has been for many years a resident of the city of New York, and has been during the greater part of the period connected with the periodical press. In 1845 he commenced the Broadway Journal with the late Edgar A. Poe, by whom it was continued after Mr. Briggs's retirement. He has also been connected with the New York Times and the Evening Mirror. He published in this journal a series of letters, chiefly on the literary affectations of the day, written in a vein of humorous extravaganza, and purporting to be from the pen of Fernando Mendez Pinto. In 1839 he published a novel, The Adventures of Harry Franco, a Tale of the Great Panic. This was followed by The Haunted Merchant, 1843, and The Trippings of Tom Pepper, or the Results of Romancing, 1847. The scene of these novels is laid in the city of New York at the present day. They present a humorous picture of various phases of city life, and frequently display the satirical vein of the writer. Mr. Briggs is the author of a number of felicitous humorous tales and sketches, contributed to the Knickerbocker and other magazines. He has also written a few poetical pieces, several of which have appeared in Putnam's Monthly Magazine, with which he has been connected as editor. Others are published in a choice volume of selections, Seaweeds from the Shores of Nantucket. One of his most successful productions is a little story, published in pamphlet form, with the title, Working a Passage; or, Life in a Liner. It gives an account of a voyage to Liverpool in the literal vein of a description from the forecastle. In 1858 appeared his History of the Atlantic Telegraph Cable. AN INTERRUPTED BANQUET-FROM LIFE IN A LINER. As I Among the luxuries which the captain had provided for himself and passengers was a fine green turtle, which was not likely to suffer from exposure to salt water, so it was reserved, until all the pigs, and sheep, and poultry had been eaten. A few days before we arrived, it was determined to kill the turtle and have a feast the next day. Our cabin gentlemen had been long enough deprived of fresh meats to make them cast liquorish glances towards their hard-skinned friend, and there was a great smacking of lips the day before he was killed. walked aft occasionally I heard them congratulating themselves on their prospective turtle-soup and forcemeat balls; and one of them, to heighten the luxury of the feast, ate nothing but a dry biscuit for twentyfour hours, that he might be able to devour his fall share of the unctuous compound. It was to be a gala day with them; and though it was not champagne day, that falling on Saturday and this on Friday, they agreed to have champagne a day in advance, that nothing should be wanting to give a finish to their turtle. It happened to be a rougher day than usual when the turtle was cooked, but they had become too well used to the motion of the ship to mind that. It happened to be my turn at the wheel the hour before dinner, and I had the tantalizing misery of hearing them laughing and talking about their turtle, while I was hungry from want of dry bread and salt meat. I had resolutely kept my thoughts from the cabin during all the passage but once, and now I found my ideas clustering round a tureen of turtle in spite of all my philosophy. Confound them, if they had gone out of my hearing with their exulting smacks, I would not have envied their soup, but their hungry glee so excited my imagination that I could see nothing through the glazing of the binnacle but a white plate with a slice of lemon on the rim, a loaf of delicate bread, a silver spoon, a napkin, two or three wine glasses of different hues and shapes, and a water goblet clustering around it, and a stream of black, thick, and fragrant turtle pouring into the plate. By and by it was four bells; they dined at three. And all the gentlemen, with the captain at their head, darted below into the cabin, where their mirth increased when they caught sight of the soup plates. Hurry with the soup, steward," roared the captain. Coming, sir," replied the steward. The cook opened the door of his galley, and out came the delicious steam of the turtle, such as people often inhale, and step across the street of a hot afternoon to avoid, as they pass by Delmonico's in South William Street. Then came the steward with a large covered tureen in his hand, towards the cabin gangway. I forgot the ship for a moment in looking at this precious cargo, "the wheel slipped from my hands, the ship broached to with a sudden jerk, the steward had got only one foot upon the stairs, when this unexpected motion threw him off his balance and down he went by the run, the tureen slipped from his hands, and part of its contents flew into the lee scuppers, and the balance followed him in his fall. I laughed outright. I enjoyed the turtle a thousand times more than I should have done if I had eaten the whole of it. But I was forced to restrain my mirth, for the next moment the steward ran upon deck, followed by the captain in a furious rage, threatening if he caught him to throw him overboard. Not a spoonful of the soup had been left in the coppers, for the steward had taken it all away at once to keep it warm. In about an hour afterwards the passengers came upon deck, looking more sober than I had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham. SIASCONSET. Again to thee, O surf-encircled strand, And listen to thy waves' sonorous roar, Or watch old Pollock's back, all crested hoar, And ye whose names are linked with these, how oft COATUE. Seated where summer winds and bird and bee Tread with their gentle feet on opening flowers, The fairest spot in this fair world of ours, My thoughts, deserting bird and flower and tree, Have taken ship, and boldly steered to sea,. Where never yet were meads or bowers, To brighten in the sun, or summer's showers,To where the winds are salt, but wild and free: There, by my fancy's aid, I step once more, With naked limbs, all dripping wet with brine, And joyous leap, Coatue, upon thy shore, As oft I leaped in days a little yore. . O bleak Coatue! would that the lot were mine CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. C. P. CRANCH, a son of Chief Justice Cranch, was born at Alexandria, in the District of Columbia, March 8, 1813. After being graduated at the Columbian College, Washington, in 1881, he studied divinity at Cambridge University, and preached for six or seven years. In 1844 he published a volume of Poems at Philadelphia. It is marked by a quiet, thoughtful vein of spiritual meditation, and an artist's sense of beauty. His later poems are to be found in the leading magazines, chiefly Putnam's, the Galaxy, and the Atlantic. Mr. Cranch has for a number of years past devoted himself to landscape painting, and has secured a prominent position in that branch of art. **Mr. Cranch has written and illustrated, in later years, two imaginative tales for children: The Last of the Huggermuggers, 1856; and its sequel, Kobboltozo, 1857. His last work, however, is the one best fitted to perpetuate his reputation: The Eneid of Virgil Translated into English Blank Verse, 1872. This is a companion volume in that rare series of epic translations, by Longfellow, Bryant, and Bayard Taylor, to which may be added the Vita Nuova of Dante by Charles Eliot Norton, which constitute the past six years a memorable epoch in American literature. In this translation Mr. Cranch has aimed to make as literal and concise a version, in pure idiomatic English, as a metrical form would allow, and to make that version a poem, having the spirit of the original. In these high aims he has excelled his chief predecessors, Dryden and Prof. Conington, whose fidelity was weakened by the necessities of rhyme. A competent critic, who appreciates the subtle insight and grace of expression possessed by this translator as peculiarly adapted for rendering the tender imaginativeness of Virgil, declares: "His work is not only a splendid memorial of his own genius, but a worthy representation of the immortal Roman bard."* THE BOUQUET. She has brought me flowers to deck my room, What tenderer beauties in them dwell! *New York Weekly Tribune, January 8, 1873. A voice amid my lonesomeness, A shining star amid my night. The storm beats down upon the roof, But in this room glide summer hours, Since she, the fairest flower of all, Has garlanded my heart with flowers. EXTRACTS FROM THE NEID. THE TYRIAN BANQUET. As thus she spoke, She leads Æneas to the royal courts; And in the temples of the gods, commands A sacrifice. Meanwhile, with no less care, Down to the sea-shore twenty bulls she sends, A hundred bristly backs of full-grown swine, And of fat lambs a hundred, with their dams. Such were her gifts, for joyous feasts designed. But all the interior palace is arranged With splendor and with regal luxury, And banquets are prepared, and draperies Of purple dye, elaborately wrought; And on the tables massive silver shines, And records of ancestral deeds, engraved In gold, in a long series of events Traced step by step from ancient lineage down. His mind repose the swift Achates sends Gifts too, that from the wreck of Troy were snatched, He orders him to bring; a mantle stiff Eldest of Priam's daughters; - and with these Nor knows, unhappy one, how great the god Of her Sychæus, and with living love The rooms are filled with noise; the spacious halls The table a libation of the wine; And what was left touched lightly to her lips, And cattle, and of showers, and fires of heaven; And the two constellations of the Bears; Of slowly moving nights. The Tyrians shout, Double with gems and gold. Hastening for these, Redoubling their applause; the Trojans join. Achates to the ships pursued his way. * * * * And now Æneas, now the Trojan youths * Upon the embroidered couches. Much they admire Thus did the unhappy queen prolong the night Relate to us the Grecian stratagems, And all thy people's sad mishaps, and all DOOM OF LAOCOON AND TROY. I shudder as I tell from Tenedos |