Oh! the botches I've seen by a tool of the sort, Rather hitching than etching, and making, in short, Such stiff, crabbed, and angular scratches, That the figures seem'd statues or mummies from tombs, While the trees were as rigid as bundles of brooms, And the herbage like bunches of matches!

The stiff clouds as if carefully iron'd and starch'd, While a cast-iron bridge, meant for wooden, o'er-arch'd Something more like a road than a river.

Prythee, who in such characteristics could see Any trace of the beautiful land of the free-- The Free-Mason--Free-Trader--Free-Liver!

But prepared by a hand that is skilful and nice, The fine point glides along like a skate on the ice, At the will of the Gentle Designer, Who impelling the needle just presses so much, That each line of her labor _the copper may touch_, As if done by a penny-a-liner.

And behold! how the fast-growing images gleam!

Like the sparkles of gold in a sunshiny stream, Till perplex'd by the glittering issue, You repine for a light of a tenderer kind-- And in choosing a substance for making a blind, Do not sneeze at the paper call'd _tissue_.

For, subdued by the sheet so transparent and white, Your design will appear in a soberer light, And reveal its defects on inspection, Just as Glory achieved, or political scheme, And some more of our dazzling performances seem, Not so bright on a _cooler reflection_.

So the juvenile Poet with ecstasy views His first verses, and dreams that the songs of his Muse Are as brilliant as Moore's and as tender-- Till some critical sheet scans the faulty design, And alas! _takes the shine out of every line_ That had form'd such a vision of splendor;

Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch, Which, design'd by a hand unaccustom'd to etch, With a luckless result may be branded; Wherefore add this particular rule to your code, Let all vehicles take the _wrong_ side of the road, And man, woman, and child, be _left-handed._

Yet regard not the awkward appearance with doubt, But remember how often mere blessings fall out, That at first seem'd no better than curses; So, till _things take a turn_, live in hope, and depend That whatever is wrong will come right in the end, And console you for all your _reverses_.

But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth, Of that Club (may all honor betide it!) Which, tho' dealing in copper, by genius and taste, Has accomplish'd _a service of plate_ not disgraced By the work of a Goldsmith beside it.[43]

So your sketch superficially drawn on the plate, It becomes you to fix in a permanent state, Which involves a precise operation, With a keen biting fluid, which _eating its way_-- As in other professions is common they say-- Has attain'd an artistical station.

And it's, oh! that some splenetic folks I could name If they _must_ deal in acids would use but the same, In such innocent graphical labors!

In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith-- Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith-- They keep biting the backs of their neighbors!

But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch, You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which You may pour the dilute aqua-fortis.

For if raw like a dram, it will shock you to trace Your design with a horrible froth on its face, Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure From the use of _strong waters_, without any pure, A vile practice, most sad and improper!

For, from painful examples, this warning is found, That the raw burning spirit will _take up the ground_, In the churchyard, as well as on copper!

But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites Only just where the visible metal invites, Like a nature inclined to meet troubles; And behold! as each slender and glittering line Effervesces, you trace the completed design In an elegant bead-work of bubbles!

And yet constantly secretly eating its way, The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey, Like some sorrow beyond inquisition, Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile, And the wit is in bright ebullition.

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff Has corroded and deepen'd some portions enough-- The pure sky, and the waters so placid-- And these tenderer tints to defend from attack, With some turpentine varnish and sooty lamp-black You must _stop out_ the ferreting acid.

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed, Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed From the other less innocent liquor-- After which, on whatever you want to protect, Put a _coat_ that will act to that very effect, Like the black one which hangs on the Vicar.

Then--the varnish well dried--urge the biting again, But how long at its meal the _eau forte_ may remain, Time and practice alone can determine: But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill, The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will, Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap, With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap, Is consider'd as rather Rembrandty; And that very black cattle and very black sheep, A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep, Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name, All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame, From our birth to our final adjourning-- Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!

What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch, While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich, More transparent than ebony shutters, Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say, Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away, As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax _at a heat_, Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti or sweet, For your hand a performance scarce proper-- So some careful professional person secure-- For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur-- To assist you in _cleaning the copper_.

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job, To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob-- Though as sure of an instant forgetting, When--as after the dark clearing-off of a storm-- The fair Landscape shines out in a lustre as warm As the glow of the sun, in its setting!

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint, That with certain assistance from paper and print, Which the proper Mechanic will settle, You may charm all your Friends--without any sad tale Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-- With _a fine India Proof of your Metal_.

[Footnote 43: "The Deserted Village." Illustrated by the Etching Club.]

A TALE OF A TRUMPET.

"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing?

Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing."

_Old Ballad._

Of all old women hard of hearing, The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing!

On her head, it is true, Two flaps there grew, That served for a pair of gold rings to go through, But for any purpose of ears in a parley, They heard no more than ears of barley.

No hint was needed from D.E.F.

You saw in her face that the woman was deaf; From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, Each queer feature asked a query; A look that said in a silent way, "Who? and What? and How? and Eh?

I'd give my ears to know what you say!"

And well she might! for each auricular Was deaf as a post--and that post in particular That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now, And never hears a word of a row!

Ears that might serve her now and then As extempore racks for an idle pen; Or to hang with hoops from jewellers' shops With coral, ruby, or garnet drops; Or, provided the owner so inclined, Ears to stick a blister behind; But as for hearing wisdom, or wit, Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit, Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt, Sermon, lecture, or musical bit, Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit, They might as well, for any such wish, Have been butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish!

She was deaf as a post,--as said before-- And as deaf as twenty similes more, Including the adder, that deafest of snakes, Which never hears the coil it makes.

She was deaf as a house--which modern tricks Of language would call as deaf as bricks-- For her all human kind were dumb, Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum, That none could get a sound to come, Unless the Devil who had Two Sticks!

She was deaf as a stone--say, one of the stones Demosthenes suck'd to improve his tones; And surely deafness no further could reach Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech!

She was deaf as a nut--for nuts, no doubt, Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out-- As deaf, alas! as the dead and forgotten-- (Gray has noticed the waste of breath, In addressing the "dull, cold ear of death"), Or the Felon's ear that was stuff'd with Cotton-- Or Charles the First _in statue quo_; Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud, With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax, That only stare whatever you "ax,"

For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax.

She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond, And wouldn't listen to Mrs. Bond,-- As deaf as any Frenchman appears, When he puts his shoulders into his ears: And--whatever the citizen tells his son-- As deaf as Gog and Magog at one!

Or, still to be a simile-seeker, As deaf as dogs'-ears to Enfield's Speaker!

She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy, Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy; Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics, Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics.

She was deaf as a nail--that you cannot hammer A meaning into for all your clamor-- There never _was_ such a deaf old Gammer!

So formed to worry Both Lindley and Murray, By having no ear for Music or Grammar!

Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings, Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings, Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle, Deaf to even the definite article-- No verbal message was worth a pin, Though you hired an earwig to carry it in!

In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke, Or all the Deafness in Yearsley's work, Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing, Boring, blasting, and pioneering, To give the dunny organ a clearing, Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing.

Of course the loss was a great privation, For one of her sex--whatever her station-- And none the less that the Dame had a turn For making all families one concern, And learning whatever there was to learn In the prattling, tattling village of Tringham-- As who wore silk? and who wore gingham?

And what the Atkins's shop might bring 'em?

How the Smiths contrived to live? and whether The fourteen Murphys all pigg'd together?

The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, And what they boil'd for their Sunday dinners?