expedition, which he left as soon as completed in the printer's hands, to depart on a third, the object of which was, the examination in detail of the Pacific coast, and the result, the acquisition of California by the United States. He took part in some of the events of the Mexican war, and at its close, owing to a difliculty with two American commanders, was deprived of his commission by a court-martial, and sent home a prisoner. His commission was restored on his arrival at Washington, by the President, and he soon after again started for California on a private exploration, to determine the best route to the Pacific. On the Sierra San Juan one third of his force of thirty-three men, with a number of mules, was frozen to death; and their brave leader, after great hardships, arrived at Santa Fe on foot, and destitute of everything. The expedition was refitted and reinforced, and Fremont started again, and in a hundred days, after penetrating through and sustaining conflicts with Indian tribes, reached the Sacramento. The judgment of the military court was reversed, the valuable property acquired during his former residence secured, and the State of California returned her pioneer explorer to Washington as her first senator in

1850.

Colonel Fremont married a daughter of the Hon. Thomas H. Benton. He has, during the recesses of Congress, continued his explorations at his private cost and toil, in search of the best railway route to the Pacific.

The Reports to Government of his expeditions have been the only publications of Col. Fremont; but these, from the exciting nature, public interest, and national importance of their contents, combined with the clear and animated mode of their presentation, have sufficed to give him a place as author as well as traveller.

JAMES NACK.

JAMES NACK holds a well nigh solitary position in literature, as one, who deprived from childhood of the faculties of hearing and speech, has yet been able not only to acquire by education a full enjoyment of the intellectual riches of the race, but to add his own contribution to the vast treasury. He was born in the city of New York, the son of a merchant, who by the loss of his fortune in business was unable to afford him many educational advantages. The want was, however, supplied by the care of a sister, who taught the child to read before he was four years old. The activity of his mind and ardent thirst for knowledge carried him rapidly forward from this point, until in his ninth year an accident entailed upon him a life-long misfortune.

As he was carrying a little playfellow in his arms down a flight of steps his foot slipped; to recover himself he caught hold of a heavy piece of furniture, which falling upon him injured his hend so severely, that he lay for several hours without sign of life, and for several weeks mentally unconscious. When he recovered it was found that the organs of sound were irrevocably destroyed. The loss of hearing was gradually followed by that of speech. He was placed as soon as possible in the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, where the interrupted course of his

mental training was soon resumed. He showed great aptitude for the acquirement of knowledge, and an especial facility in the mastery of foreign languages. After leaving the institution he continued, with the aid of the few books he possessed, a private course of study.

He had for some time before this written occasional poems, of one of which, The Blue Eyed Maid, he had given a copy to a friend, who handed it to his father, Mr. Abraham Asten. That gentleman was so much struck by its promise, that he sought other specimens of the author's skill. These confirining his favorable impressions, he introduced the young poet to several literary gentlemen of New York, under whose auspices a volume of his poems, written between his fourteenth and seventeenth years, was published. It was received with favor by critics and the public. Mr. Nack soon after became an assistant in the office of Mr. Asten, then clerk of the city and county. In 1838 he married, and in 1839 published his second volume, Earl Rupert and other Tales and Poems, with a memoir of the author, by Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore.

THE OLD CLOCK.

Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped at a tavern on their way,
Supped, frolicked. late retired to rest,
And woke to breakfast on the best.
The breakfast over, Tom and Will
Sent for the landlord and the bill;
Will looked it over; "Very right-
Bat hold! what wonder meets my sight!
Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!"-

"What wonder? where "-"The clock! the clock !"

Tom and the landlord in amaze

Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At lust the landlord silence broke-"You mean the clock that's ticking there! I see no wonder I declare; Though may be, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly-somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder's in it?" "Tom; don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink

Tom scratched his head and tried to think.

Sir, begging pardon for inquiring,". The landlord said, with grín admiring, "What wager was it?"

"You remember

It happened, Tom, in last December,
In sport I bet a Jersey Blue
That it was more than he could do,
To make his finger go and come
In keeping with the pendulum,
Repeating, till one hour should close,
Still, Here she goes—and there she goes➡
He lost the bet in half a minute."

"Well, if I would, the deuse is in it!"

Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet," "Agreed, but we will play some trick

To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!"

"Don't make us wait, Begin. The clock is striking eight.” He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows, With here she goes-and there she goes!" "Hold!" said the Yankee, “plank the ready!” The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table.

Tom, with the money let's be off!”

This made the landlord only scoff;

He heard them running down the stair,
But was not tempted from his chair;
Thought he, "the fools! I'll bite them ye.!
So poor a trick shan't win the bet."
And loud and load the chorus rose
Of, "here she goes—and there she goes!”
While right and left his finger swung,
In keeping to his clock and tongue.
His mother happened in, to see
Her daughter; "where is Mrs. D -?
When will she come, as you suppose?
Son!"

"Here she goes and there she goes !"
"Here?-where ?"--the lady in surprise
Ilis finger followed with her eyes;
"Son, why that steady gaze and sad?
Those words-that motion--are you mad?
But here's your wife—perhaps she knows
And"

"Here she goes-and there she goes!"
His wife surveyel him with alarm,
And rushed to him and seized his arm;
He shook her off, and to and fro

His fingers persevered to go,

While curled his very nose with ire,

That she against him should conspire,

And with more furious tone arose

The, "here she goes-and there she goes!"

"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl!"
Run down and bring the little girl;
She is his darling, and who knows
But"-

"Here she goes-and there she goes !”
"Lawks! he is mad! what made him thus?
Good Lord! what will become of us?
Run for a doctor-run-run-run-

For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun,

And Doctor Black, and Doctor White,
And Doctor Grey, with all your might."

The doctors came and looked and wondered,
And shook their heals, and paused and pondered,
Till one proposed he should be bled,

"No--leeched you mean"-the other said—

44

64

Clap on a blister," roared another,

No-cup him"-" no-trepan him, brother!" A sixth would recommend a purge,

The next would an emetic urge,

The eighth, just come from a dissection,
His verdict gave for an injection;
The last produced a box of pills,
A certain cure for earthly ills;

"I had a patient yesternight,"

Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight,
And as the only means to save her,
Three dozen patent pills I gave her,
And by to-morrow I
suppose

That"

“Here she goes—and there she goes l"

What means that smile! what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver,

And triumph brightens up his face

His finger yet shall win the race!
The clock is on the stroke of nine-

And up he starts Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?"

"I mean the fifty!
I never spent an hour so thrifty;
But you, who tried to make me lose,
Go, burst with envy, if you choose!
But how is this? where are they!"

"Who?"

PROFESSOR of Moral Philosophy in Harvard Col lege, 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 Es says on the History and Present 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 present 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 popu lar 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 Meta

physical and Ethical Science to the Evidences of Religion.

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.

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 Leibnitz, 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 España; or, Going to Madrid cia 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.

A number of select review articles indicate the author's line of studies, which, however, include a wider field of research. To the North American he has contributed papers on the Autobiography of Heinrich Steffens (vol. 57); Gervinus's History of German Literature (vol. 58); Professor Gammell's Life of Roger Williams (vol. 61). To the American Whig Review, The Life and Writings of Job Durfee (vol. 7); The Revolution in Germany in 1848 (vol. 8); and The Principles of the Administration of Washington (vol. 10). To vol. 8 of the Christian Review, an article on M. Guizot on European Civilization.

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."

BOLIDAYS AT BARCELONA-PROM 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 ceremonics, the Spaniard counts as no

as verses.

thing. 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 If the poor man's porron only be well filled with wine, he can trust to luck and the saints for a roll of bread and a few onions. Free from care, he likes, three days in the week, to put on his bestmore 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 mimie 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 mor row after the holiday, he is wiser than a philosopher, and enjoys the golden hours as they fly. Indeed, he 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.

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. It is in 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 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 festaltime, accordingly, is like the hazy, dreamy, voluptuous days of the Indian summer, when the air is as full 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 coinpanion the pennies they have to spend together du ring the day-unconscious the while that the sand of half its hours has already run out The villagebeauty twines roses in her hair, and looks out of the window, 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 rounds 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.

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.

Mr. Briggs has also been connected with 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 Romane ng, 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 poetioal 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.

AN INTERRUPTED BANQUET-FROM LIFE IN A LINER.

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. As I 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 full 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 be come 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 exult ing 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 passen gers came upon deck, looking more sober than I had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN,

My coachinan in the moonlight, there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do-but only more.
Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
And blows his aching fists in vain,
And wishes me a place more hot.
He sees me to the supper go,

A silken wonder by my side,
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.
He thinks how happy is my arm
'Nenth its white-gloved and jewelled loa·l,
And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.
Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
In golden quiets of the moon.
The winter wind is not so cold

As the bright smiles he sees me win,
Nor our host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble-watery-thin.
I envy him the ungyved prance
By which his freezing feet he warms,
And drag my lady's chains and dance
The galley slave of dreary forms.

O could he have my share of din
And I his quiet!-past a doubt
Twould still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.

CHRISTOPHER PEASE 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 1831, he studied divinity at Cambridge University, and was ordained. 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.

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.

THE BOUQUET.

She has brought me flowers to deck my room,
Of sweetest sense and brilliancy;
She knew not that she was the while
The fairest flower of all to me.

Since her soft eyes have looked on them,

What tenderer beauties in them dwell! Since her fair hands have placed them there, O how much sweeter do they smell! Beside my inkstand and my books

They bloom in perfume and in light.
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.

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

THE TUCKERMAN family is of English origin, and has existed more than four centuries in the county of Devon, as appears from the parish registers and monumental inscriptions.* By the mother's side, Mr. Tuckerman is of Irish descent. The name of the family is Keating. In Macaulay's recent history he thus speaks of one of her ancestors as opposing a military deputy of James II., in his persecution of the Protestant English in Ireland in 1686:—“ On all questions which arose in the Privy Council, Tyrconnel showed similar violence and partiality. John Keating, ChiefJustice of the Common Pleas, a man distinguished for ability, integrity, and loyalty, represented with great mildness, that perfect equality was all that the general could ask for his own church." The subject of this notice is a nephew of the late Rev. Dr. Joseph Tuckerman-a memoir of whom appeared in England within a few years, and who is known and honored as the originator of the ministry at large, in Boston, one of the most efficient of modern Protestant charities. mother was also related to and partly educated with another distinguished Unitarian clergyman, Joseph Stevens Buckminster.

llis

It is still represented there-the name belonging to seve ral of the gentry. In the seventeenth century the Tuckermans Intermarried with the Fortescue family, that of Sir Edward Harris, and that (now extinct) of "Giles of Bowden;" the former is now represented by the present Earl of Fortescue. Previous to this a branch of the Tuckermans emigrated to Germany. In a history of the county of Braunsel welg, by William Hanemann, published in Luneberg in 1827, allusion is made to one of this branch-Peter Tuckerman, who is mentioned as the last abbot of the monastery of Riddaghausen; he was chosen to the chapter in 1621, and, at the same time, held the appointment of court preacher at Wolfenbut tell. Some of his writings are extant, and his monument is an imposing and curious architectural relic.

Henry Theodore Tuckerman was born in Boston, Massachusetts, April 20, 1813. His early education was begun and completed in the excellent schools of that city and vicinity. In 1833, after preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to seek a milder climate. In September he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn in Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer, and then returned to the United States. He resumed his studies, and in the fall of 1837, embarked at Boston for Gibraltar, visited that fortress and afterwards Malta, then proceeded to Sicily, passed the winter in Palermo, and made the tour of the island; in the following summer driven from Sicily by the cholera, of the ravages of which he has given a minute account, he embarked at Messina for Leghorn, passed the ensuing winter (1838) chiefly at Florence, and early the next summer returned home; in 1845 he removed from Boston to New York, where he has since resided, except in the summer months, which he has passed chiefly at Newport, R. I. In 1850 he received from Harvard College the honorary degree of Master of Arts. In the winter of 1852 he visited London and Paris for a few weeks.

The writings of Mr. Tuckerman include poems, travels, biography, essay, and criticism. A characteristic of his books is that each represents some phase or era of experience or study. Though mainly composed of facts, or chapters which have in the first instance appeared in the periodical literature of the country, they have none of them an occasional or unfinished air. They are the studies of a scholar; of a man true to his convictions and the laws of art. His mind is essentially philosophical and historical; he per

• Mr. Tuckerman has been a contributor to all the best magazine literature of the day: in Walsh's Review, the North American Review, the Democratic, Graham's Magazine, the Literary World, the Southern Literary Messenger, Christian Examiner, &c. As his chief contributions have been col· lected, or are in process of collection, in his books, we nood not refer to particular articles.