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 water 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.
"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing? Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing."
Of all old women hard of hearing,
The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing!
On her head, it is true,
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:
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