Dr. Turner is in the forty-seventh year of his age, of the middle height, well made, and of a very agreeable and intelligent countenance. He is engaged in a lucrative and growing practice. Of a smooth and even temperament, the machinations of his adversaries are surveyed unmoved, and his aspect preserves its equanimity "calm as a summer morning" amid their most rancorous assaults.

"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

O THOU who whilom with unsparing jibe
And scorching satire, lashed the scribbling tribe,-
Thou who on Roman pimp and parasite
Didst pour the vials of thy righteous spite,
Imperial Horace! let thy task be mine-
Let truth and justice sanctify my line!
And thou, relentless Draco of the schools,

Whose laws were scored upon the backs of fools,-
Thou bi-tongued genius from whose magic lips
Poison for knaves-for good men honey drips-
Thou poet-Lacon, withering with a verb,
And reining folly with a figure's curb,-
Thou of the Dunciad! animate my strain,
For vain my task if 'tis not in thy vein!

As in some butcher's barricaded stall,

A thousand prisoned rats gnaw, squeak, and crawl,
While, at the entrance, held by stalwart hands,
A panting terrier strives to burst his bands,-
With eyes inflamed and glittering teeth displayed,
Half turns to bite the hand by which he's stayed,
So writhes and pants my terrier muse, to chase
The rats of letters from Creation's face.

Far scurvier vermin these-my biped game-
Rats gnaw but books-these gnaw the author's fame-
Holding Parnassus as a mammoth cheese,
Which, climbing not, they nibble as they please,
And plying tooth and claw so fast and well,
That the whole mount is like a hollow shell.

Pharoah was plagued with locusts for his crimes--
Happy was Pharoah to escape our times,
When myriad insects, plumed with pens of steel,
Buzz like some thrifty housewife's ceaseless wheel,
Buzz, but beyond the buzz, all likeness dwindles,
Save that their brains are warps-their legs the spindles.
Down, terrier, down! we'll drop the canine form,
And incarnate the buzzing insect swarm.
Let us invoke the BARDS!-as once in Wales
King Edward did--from mountains, swamps, and vales,

Convened them all--then broke each harp and head-
(Would that our bards had such a wise king Ned!)
Let us invoke them, and as up they spring,
Shoot them as boys shoot crows, upon the wing:
Then shall their death-songs poetize the blast-
Like dying swan-notes, sweet, because the last.

But whom to pounce on first--O, vengeful muse---
Faith! they're so near alike 'tis hard to choose;
A stereotyped and ancient form they bear,
Like sheepskin small-clothes of a century's wear-
Gray are they, yet chameleon-like, still green,
Blue oftentimes, but seldom re(a)d, I ween.
Jack Ketch, when felons are about to die,
Divides their garments, but so will not I-
Though rainbow hued, like Joseph's coat, their dress,
Should all exchange, could scarce fi: each one less;
Each eyes his fellow's garb with crafty glare,-
Some well-known patch he recognises there--
Some button stolen where he stole his own,
Some diamond brooch, with ostentation shown,
Which he will swear is paste, and in a trice,
Prove that he bought one like it, at half-price.
Motley and mean in truth these hangdogs be--
A scurvier set ne'er marched through Coventry;
And what inflames mine anger as I gaze,
His stolen shreds each knave with pride displays:
This one wears breeches that might make his shroud-
This in a child's caul his huge head would crowd;
This dabbles daintily with French fabrique,-
This wears a helmet o'er his visage sleek:
All stolen, all misused and brought to waste--
Gods! if they must thieve-why not thieve with taste?

Pause, gentle muse, and bend with muscles pliant
To our acknowledged Paixhan, Mister Bryant :
Bryant, the king of cis-atlantic gammon,
Apollo's proxy and chief clerk to Mammon!
My fingers tremble, and my pulse grows faint-
Awful the task a noonday sun to paint.
Fain would I praise this laureat of our nation,
Were not all praise but supererogation.

He is so fixed a fact-so constellated

Not for the debts thou owest a score or less

Like bankrupt's debts, he can't be overrated!

foreign wear Yankee dress;

His name's a sad sponsorial misnomer-
Had Nature spoke, he had been christened Homer.
What time our presidential politics

Count game much less by honors than by tricks,
When Rynders wields like Hercules his club,"
And social Greeley peeps from cynic tub-
Then Bryant-poet-laureat-Nature's boast-
Treads the old party rounds, from Post to Post;
New nibs his pen to brand each truth as scism,
And damns all isms, save conservatism.

Now, by my modesty! I like friend Bryant,
But as a man ;-I can't endure a giant:

I like his landscapes, mountains, woods, and copses
And freely own he's death on Thanatopsis;
But, with due reverence, I can see no justice

In making him a classical Procrustes;

And lopping hapless bards of heel and head,

To fit them for his gas-inflated bed:

I thank him kindly for his blankest verse

I've seen much better-but I've seen still worse

I bless him for his homopathic stanzas

His apothegma clear as Sancho Panza's-
I'll own, in fact, he's Brobdignagian--but
Just so was Gulliver-in Lilliput!

Yet I will grant that he a new Anteus is,
But, gracious, Max! no apotheosis.

Bozzaris is no more-and dead is Astor

I wish to heaven that HALLECK had no master!

Trade like Medusa turns the heart to stone,

And jarring sounds destroy the harp's sweet tone:
Figures our bard still hath, but tropes I doubt-
Invoices plenty, but no voice comes out-
Bozzaris died by steel-but gold can slay
The man by whom Bozzaris lives for ave
Astor is mightier than the dreaming "Turk".
Requiescat in pace-Astor's clerk!

China is all the world-her sons celestial--
Outside barbarians are no more than bestial:
So Boston is our Yankee land of hyson,
Counting all barbarous beyond her horizon;
Her Whipples out-Macauley Mac himself-
Her Brownsons lay Carlyle upon the shelf;
Her Emersons, her Everetts, and her Channings,
Are worth a score of Foxes, Pitts, and Cannings;
In short, her Lowells, Longfellows, and Tappans
Are good celestials as Chinese or Japans.
Cantab LONGFELLOW-belle-lettre professor-
Of Washington's head-quarters sole possessor:
Belov'd of booksellers, adored of "sophs"--
Lo! at thy name, my muse her bonnet doffs :
I'm but a "satyre"-thou "Hyperion" fair-
I'm "half seas over"-thou art Outre mer;"
Yet, in the mighty name of Low, I'll venture,
For debt thou owest the world, to make debenture.

DARLEY

Not for thy clipping of old rusty coins--
Thy head enriches what thy hand purloins;
Not for thy thought-webs cribbed from monkish looms-
They're better in thy tomes than in their tombs;
Thy alchemy has made much gold from lead-
So, "let the dead past bury" all "its dead :"
For ancient wounds let silence be the suture-
I ask a debt thou owest the awful future.

Art and position, Hal, make thee a poet-
If Nature lends her signet, pray let's know it:
Haply thy Harvard fame immortal seems-
Haply thy name and verse be synonyms.
Yet, if thou would'st thy proper glory reach,
I say to thee, as Lear said-"mend thy speech!"
Cast off thy dressing-gown and gird thy loins-
And learn what Deity on song enjoins:
Thou hast portrayed ideal wrongs and woes-
Now, by my harp! canst real wrongs disclose ?
Thou hast drawn tears for miseries long forgotten-
Canst thou find nothing in our time that's rotten?
O that the church-yard Past were ransacked less-
Those ghosts, the poets, then might mankind bless :
If the old catacombs were left to moulder,
Gold mines of song we'd find, ere Pan grew older!
Lowell! 'twere meet more meat were in thy verses-
There's pap enough to stock a host of nurses;
At times sententious thou-at seasons wordy-
Thy harp cremona half-half hurdy-gurdy:
Giant in thought-too oft in language puny-
A silver spoon makes poets ofttimes spoony.
Hadst thon been born, like Burns, to guide a plough,
Thy share had deeper been in souls than now:
Thy hand wants nerve-'tis soft, now, as thy heart-
Art lives for thee, but not for Art thou art:
The mettled soul rings not to yellow metal,
And golden nets too oft the muse will nettle!
Lo! well thou hast done, but thou canst do better-
If thou'lt win credit, make the world thy debtor!
Pour out thy soul-albeit with flaws and fractures-
Give us thyself-pure Lowell manufactures:
Then shall thy heart-beat vibrate through our pulse,
And all thy songs be milestones of results!

Hark! WHITTIER's sledge upon the hearts of men,
Beats its continual music-" ten-pound-ten!"

Who can so well detect the plagiary's flaw?
"Set thief to catch thief" is an ancient saw :
Who can so scourge a fool to shreds and slivers?
Promoted slaves oft make the best slave drivers!
Iambic Poe! of tyro bards the terror-
Ego is he-the world his pocket-mirror !

Poe's not the worst of bards, though bad he is;
Poor man! his worst of sins is synthesis !
Nor is he by great odds the worst of critics-
Only he runs stark mad on analytics:
Give him a dumpling, and he'll hatch a thesis-
Talk Choctaw to him-he'll choke with diaresis;
If he lives long enough, we'll find, per Hercie!
He'll print the cabula, and square the circle!
The mystic fates alone can tell how often he
Means to dress up old flame in new cacophony!

He's forty-one years old,-in good condition-
And, positively, he has gained position."
Gad! what a polish Upper ten-dom gives
This executioner of adjectives;

This man who strangles English, worse than Thuggists,
And turns "the Trade" to trunkmakers or druggists
Labors on tragic plays, which draw no tiers-
Writes under bridges, and tells tales of peers;
His subjects whey-his language sugared curds--
Gods! what a dose !-had he to eat his words!"
His Sacred Poems," like a rogue's confessions,
Gain him indulgence for his worst transgressions:
His "fugitive attempts" will doubtless live-
O that more works of his were fugitive!
Fate to his fame a ticklish place has given,

Like Mah'met's coffin, 'twixt the earth and heaven:

But, be it as it will--let come what may

Nat is a star-his works the milky way!

As the dark hours of midnight o'er me steal,

Wrapped in a continuity of gloom,
Whose sombre shades so sadly stamp their seal,
Like the forewarnings of an early tomb,
I bend my thoughts in retrospective view,
Where early hopes abroad their shadows threw.
Primeval sports of boyhood! How they pass
In glorious pageant as their memories rise,
A huge diurnal and nocturnal mass

Of infantile erratta-but the skies
Smile not less sweetly o'er me now, because
My youth revoked dull gravity's by-laws.

I do remember me that house of red,

Built, like an eagle's eyrie, on the rocks, Where morn, and noon, and night in vengeance sped On my devoted ears the doleful box, Which, like Pandora's, would, when touched, disclose A thousand times ten thousand earthly woes.

Within those walls I learned my A. B. C.'s,
And from them down to W.'s and Y.'s!
There, when not minding well my Q.'s and P.'s,
Kind Mr. M., indignant, blamed my eyes!
As Moses smote the rock and water found,
My eyes, 'neath Moses' rod, in tears were drowned.

That winding hill below the school-house base,
The surface capped with ever-welcome snow-
chase
The model sleigh which joined the merry

Of dears-not deer-how oft I scarcely know!
In anger once I cut the merry train,
But quick returning-" cut, to come again!"

Our old white church-a relic of past time-
Did in its towering height toward heaven aspire!
Sacred enigma! Fifty years thy chime,

Yet '48 beheld thy mournful pyre!
When half a century saw thy ways upright,
Vandalic hands removed thee! What a site!

Our Lyceum Hall! methinks my eyes behold

The shades of Knox, Copernicus and Clay,
Their favorite doctrines crushed to earthy mould,
Beneath a withering aye or scorching nay.
Dall Theory there was oft to Practice changed,
And Practice then to realms of Theory ranged.

What pleasant groves I do remember there,
Of cherry trees and plums, both black and blue ;
Of rare ripes rarely ripe, and many a pear,

Whose single pears we oftimes cut in two.
And yet the fruit which oftenest met my search,
Was that which grew upon the limbs of birch !
And then the store of drugs and paints-and dies,
And galling gallipots and pots of gall;
(One can't remember full names if he tries,
So extracts must suffice to name them all!)
The red bound books-alas! how seldom read,
The languages they spoke to me were dead.

Old 'lection day! within the sunlight clear,
I saw battallions weapons deftly wield;
And though few warriors found a bier, yet beer
Cast e'en field officers upon the field.
Though some were built upon the minor key,
The major part high privates seemed to be.

The glorious Fourth! what patriot gasconade
Burst from the tent where all were diners-out;
Forensic eloquence and lemonade

Did, o'er the whole assembly, freely spout.
That day transformed our soldiers, butchers, clerks,
To civic Sheridans and village Burkes.

That pond, too, where, when scarcely ten years old,
My steel shod feet their maiden effort made,
And, like most maiden efforts, quickly told
My course was on a somewhat downward grade!
The stars I saw that day eclipsed the shower
Of meteors, which o'er blest New Haven lower.
A happy time was our Thanksgiving Day,

With turkeys, pumpkin pies, and all the rest;
Young men then carved their calves and e'en would sleigh
The very girls they always loved the best.
What snow-bank notes upon my hearing fell,
As chimed the tongue of that delicious belle.
How often in the singing school I sat,

With voice just like a hurricane-quite blown ; 'Twas once pronounced by Mr. M. A flat,

Though other friends had called it Barre-tone.
But then to me it seemed an obvious case,
Its general tenor with a note was base.

Those spelling schools! their names I love to hear!
Decked gaily out with merry boys and girls;
Where words (at least the right ones) seemed as dear
And hard to buy as are Hyperion's curls.
Love-easy spelt-was not defined as well,
As over all that word would cast a spell.

And now,
while pacing up and down the Park,
Where Nature's small but very pretty face is,
Where singing birds half-yearly have a lark,
And sickly squirrels get up rotary races,

I can't but think that Life is like a crest,
First up-then down-then 'neath the billows breast.

Now that those hours of boyish sport and glee
Are safely sepulchred with days of yore,
Whene'er their memories live again with me,
Like little Oliver, I " cry for more."
Such glorious thoughts and pleasant fancies bring
The sweets of life without their bitter sting.
So when the midnight hours upon me steal,
Wrapped in a continuity of gloom,
Whose sombre shades so sadly stamp their seal,
Like the forewarnings of an early tomb,

I bend my thoughts in retrospective view,
Where early hopes abroad their shadows threw.