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-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 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,

fluid green

away,

Stop the biting, and pour the
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.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.

ONE day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank,

His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,)

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;

And he shot one through at once-for he knew
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,

And he gave a snore infernal;

Said Death," He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach
So slow, that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;

But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;

For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;

But he let them be-for he knew that the "fee'
Was a prelude to " faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he mark'd him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

O HAPPY time! Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd,
As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes-abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,
Sufficed for my design;

My sketchy, superficial hand,
Drew solids at a dash-and spann'd
A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical-my bent
Essay'd a higher walk;

I copied leaden eyes in lead-
Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet-in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days
Kept making faces-happy phrase,
For faces such as mine!
Accomplish'd in the details then,
I left the minor parts of men,
And drew the form divine.

Old Gods and Heroes-Trojan-Greek,
Figures-long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly fear'd;

Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas, that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan—very lame;

A Dian stuck about with stars,
With my right hand I murder'd Mars-
(One Williams did the same.)

But tired of this dry work at last,
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,

And gave my brush a drink?
Dipping" as when a painter dips
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"-
That is-in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows: What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penn❜d,