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The lips of my charmer are sweet, As a hogshead of maple molasses; And the ruby-red tint of her cheek The gill of a salmon surpasses.

No teeth like hers ever were seen,
Nor ever described in a novel;
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,

And shaped like a wooden-shod shovel.

Her fine little ears you would judge,

Were wings of a bat in perfection; A dollar I never should grudge

To put them in Peale's grand collection.

Description must fail in her chin;

At least till our language is richer; Much fairer than ladle of tin,

Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.

So pretty a neck, I'll be bound,

Never join'd head and body together, Like nice crook'd-neck'd squash on the ground, Long whiten'd by winter-like weather.

Should I set forth the rest of her charms,

I might, by some phrase that's improper, Give modesty's bosom alarms,

Which I wouldn't do for a copper.

Should I mention her gait or her air,

You might think I intended to banter; She moves with more grace you would swear, Than a founder'd horse forc'd to a canter.

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THE PAINT KING.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 1813.

FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young,
No damsel could with her compare;

Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,

And bards without number in ecstasies sung,
The beauties of Ellen the fair.

Yet cold was the maid; and though legions advanc'd,
All drill'd by Ovidean art,

And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danc'd, Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanc'd

From the hard polish'd ice of her heart.

Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;
Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore,
With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar
Of breakers high dashing around.

From object to object still, still would she veer,
Though nothing, alas, could she find;

Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear,

Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer The bright barren waste of her mind.

But rather than sit like a statue so still,

When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground.

One morn, as the maid from her casement inclin'd, Pass'd a youth, with a frame in his hand.

The casement she clos'd-not the eye of her mind; For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind; Still before her she saw the youth stand.

"Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid, "Ah, what with that frame can he do?"

And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets and pray'd, When the youth pass'd again, and again he display'd The frame and the picture to view.

"Oh, beautiful picture!" the fair Ellen cried, "I must see thee again or I die." Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied,

When the youth, looking back, met her eye.

"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while,) "This picture I see you admire:

Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow; (nay, pardon my smile,) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."

Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise,"
From the cunning young stripling receiv'd,
But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
When sparkling with rapture they gaz'd on her
prize-

Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceiv'd!

Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd,

And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd as tho' for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd;

"Ah, could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,

Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should unfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."

She said: when, behold, from the canvas arose
The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame:
With a furious transport his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen: and clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!

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She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms,
That work her to horror again.

She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo;
Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,

Black and white, red, and yellow, and blue.
On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied,
Sat the fiend, like the grim Giant Gog,
While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied,
Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried
As it looms through an easterly fog.

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She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing, "Oh, heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"

From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,

As frowning, he thunder'd "I am the PAINT-KING!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid like a blast;
And he sped through the air like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully

drift

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Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the Fiend, and he thundering knock'd

At the gates of a mountainous cave;

The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd,

And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen, In horrid festoons on the wall,

Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between, Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Bean,

By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.

"Ah me!" cried the Damsel, and fell at his feet, "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?" "Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,

"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet; Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"

Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil jug he plung'd her within.
Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of de-
spair,

Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,
All covered with oil to the chin.

On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;

With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone,

While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she

rock'd

Like an island of ice on the wave.

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NIGHT saw the crew, like peddlers with their packs, | And 'twere indelicate, although she might,
Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;
Walk crank along, with coffin on their backs,
While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

Swallow two whales, and yet the moon shine clear.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose,
That a brown buzzard-fly should steal, and wear
His white jean breeches, and black woollen hose,
But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, holy Father! what shall save the soul,

When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes?

Yet 'twere profuse, to see for pendant light,
A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear:

But what to me are woven clouds? or what,

If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms? If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the state, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
To eat one's mother, ere itself was born!
And gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
And scoop it out to be his drinking horn.

No more! no more! I'm sick, and dead, and gone;
Box'd in a coffin: stifled six feet deep;
Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

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Lo! how much grander for a human being,
When he would journey, never to demean him-
-Self with a horse or carriage, but to leg it
Free from all cumbrance.

Sure, 'tis a folly, humble degradation,
For a strong biped, muscular, and nervous,
Tied to a horse-tail, in a creaking coach to
Drag on dependent.

"But it is quicker-it is less fatiguing;"
True, these are reasons, when the knees are gouty,
Or, one would flee that bashful man the sheriff,
Or, from the small pox.

And, let a doctor, or a country parson,
Stride like dividers, spurring like a Sambo,
When one is qualmish with the pangs of nature,
Or, with a neck broke.

1815.

But for a tourist, sketching what his eyes see;
But for a scholar, musing as he mopes on;
Just as well, better, pleasanter and safer,
For them to foot it.

That we have two legs, evident to all 'tis,
Who are not maimed: and if any doubt it,
Let him his own count, and if he deny it,
Best learn to cipher.

Well then, these legs were given us to walk with;
Nothing more true is to a man of science;
For all the joints are fitted to this purpose,
Supple, and firm too.

Chariots and tandems-rather boots or shoes on.
Then never tell me more of fleetest horses,
Take up your staff, and free and philosophic,
Ride on your own feet.
Cease now, Miss Musey, spitting out your sapphicks:
Go, for I hate ye preaching 'bout your plodding;
Give me a coach, and dappled pair of geldings-
You may ride shank's mare.

ESSAY ON POSTURES.

BY DOCTOR SAMUEL GILMAN. 1817.

"Sedeant spectentque."-VIRG.

"In most strange postures we have seen him set himself."-SHAKSPERE.

of people, called scholars. We shall enumerate the several varieties of sitting postures, describing them as exactly as possible, and dwelling on the peculiar advantages which they possess with the quiet votaries of literature.

All

MR. EDITOR,-Among the many ingredients which | principally, so far as it respects the sedentary class go to form the complete scholar, all must allow posture to be quite pre-eminent. He would deserve a sneer for his pretensions, who affected the literary character whilst at the same time he was ignorant of the rare and difficult accomplishment of sitting with his feet against the wall at a higher level than his head, or leaning in due contemplative style upon his elbow. But the subject has unfortunately never been reduced to a science. How is it, sir, that the motions of the stars, for centuries to come, have been nicely adjusted to the fraction of a second, that metals, and alkalies, and gases, have been classed and systematized,—that the operations of the mind have been analyzed and developed,-that anatomy, even anatomy, that kindred department, has left almost no region of its own unexplored, whilst the far more domestic, human, useful, and every-day business of postures has remained unnoticed and forgotten? To remove this scandal to science is the object of the few humble pages following. The author will be satisfied if he but excite attention to the subject, and will gladly leave the consummation of his attempt to greater adepts in attitude than himself.

Posture, sir, in its most general sense, may be defined, a modification of the body and limbs, for the purpose either of ease or show. It may be divided into standing, kneeling, lying down, and sitting. The first belongs chiefly to the arts of dancing-masters and drill-sergeants; the second, to love and devotion; the third, to ladies of fashion and delicate valetudinarians; it is the fourth and last only which now claims our attention, and that,

First. The most universal, easy, and gentlemanlike is denominated the cross-kneed posture. ranks, classes, and ages of males, together with some individuals of the other sex, cultivate this attitude with very happy success. It is no uncommon thing to see as many as sixteen or seventeen in a company, who, throughout an entire evening, most patiently and heroically persevere in this inoffensive mode of arranging the nether limbs. The child of three years of age adopts it among the first imitative accomplishments which excite the joy and admiration of his parents. The aspiring school-boy, by piling one knee upon another, adds a year to his existence, and bodies forth the dignity of the future man. The youth who is just entering the world, who has a letter of introduction to Mr.

of Boston, or New York, or Philadelphia, would be put to infinite embarrassment if the privilege of crossing his knees were denied him. But without going through every age for the illustration of this division of our subject, I proceed to observe, that the cross-kneed posture is not to be adopted by all persons, at all times, and on all occasions. It is much too nice and trim for every-day use. I know many a respectable farmer who will never sit in this fashion except in his best suit, on a Sunday, or at a board of selectmen, or at the examination of a district school, or

when visiting an acquaintance in town. What, sit cross-kneed and erect in a plain frock and trousers, and on a common working-day! Why, sir, it would be as preposterous and uncommon, as to read the Bible on a Monday, or to fix one's thoughts and eyes during the offering up of prayers on a Sabbath.

But this part of our subject is susceptible of a few subdivisions. Of cross-kneed postures there are five kinds:-1. The natural, which consists in throwing one knee over the other, and thinking no more about it. This is by far the best, and ought to be recommended universally to your readers. 2. The broad-calfed, which is effected by turning the upper knee out in such a manner, as to present as large a face of the inner calf as possible. This was very much in fashion nineteen years ago, but has since that time gradually subsided, and is practised, I believe, at present, only by those who love the fashions of their youth, and a few country gentlemen in nankeen pantaloons. 3. The long-legged, so called, because this posture requires the foot of the upper leg to reach quite down to the floor. It was attempted to be brought into fashion about ten years ago, but it could not succeed, in consequence of the shortness of the limbs of some gentlemen in high ton at that time. It is nevertheless a graceful and elegant posture, and may be practised by your readers, for variety's sake, and with considerable ease, if they will but remember to draw the foot of the under leg in an oblique, retrograde direction, giving the upper an opportunity to descend and meet the floor. I have seen it employed with much execution at tea-parties and morning calls, but it is too much of a dress thing to be used on common occasions. 4. The awkward. This consists in bringing the upper leg round, and locking it behind the other. Persons of absent habits, or of indifferent breeding, use this posture in company. In private, it is employed when a man gets a little nervous, and is besides almost always assumed unconsciously, when one is engaged in a deep mathematical investigation. Hence, great mathematicians, with some splendid exceptions, are rarely exempt from

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the habit of sitting in this mode. Lastly. The bowsprit posture. This your fashionable, juvenile readers will recognize to be the one which is at present universally in vogue. It consists in extending out the leg as far and as high as the muscle can bear. Two or three years since, our boot-manufacturers(shoemakers is a word quite out of date)-very kindly assisted this posture by stiffening the instep of the boot, so that the style in question could be properly preserved without much painful tension. I am strongly inclined to believe, that the bowsprit posture was adopted in this country out of compliment to our gallant seamen. It is at present used by about one half of the gentlemen you meet; but so far as my observation extends, appears (probably in consequence of the peace) to be somewhat on the decline.

I would remark, by the way, that the cross-kneed posture is now almost out of use with the other sex. There was indeed an attempt, about five or six years since, to get up the fashion among ladies of adopting this posture, and at the same time of bending over the upper foot, so as to make it form a crescent. She whose foot could describe the most complete curve was envied and admired by all her competitors. But alas! Mr. Editor, there are but few persons whose feet are sufficiently flexible to enable them to shine in this accomplishment. And so it was dropped. Out of a company of twenty-five ladies whom a friend of mine reconnoitred the other evening at a tea-party, twenty-one sat with their feet parallel and together; two, a matron, somewhat advanced, and a maiden lady, whose old associations of gentility induced them so to sit, were found in the cross-kneed predicament; and the remaining two, being the youngest of the whole company, had drawn their feet under their chairs, and crossed them there.

But we have too long deferred the more immediate object of this essay, which is to show the connection between posture and literature. At what times, and on what occasions, shall the crosskneed posture be adopted by the decorous and conscientious scholar? In the first place, let him be

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