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 formed such a vision of splendor.
Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch,
Which, designed by a hand unaccustomed 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 seemed 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, though dealing in copper, by genius and taste Has accomplished a service of plate not disgraced By the work of a Goldsmith beside it!*
The Deserted Village, illustrated by the Etching Club.
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 attained an artistical station.
And it's O! 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 aquafortis.
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 church-yard, as well as on copper!
But the Acid has duly been lowered, 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 deepened some portions enough
The pure sky, and the water so placid
And, these tenderer tints to defend from attack,
With some turpentine, varnish, and sooty lampblack,
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 that hangs on the Vicar.
Then the varnish well dried
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 considered 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 bėset Lady Sale
With a fine India Proof of your Metal.
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
АH me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky,
And turned our table-beer!
There I was birched there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!
Most fruitless leaves to me!
The summoned class! the awful bow!
I wonder who is master now,
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S** ?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet
Some favored two or three, -
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