Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  As human suitors have had cause to weep —

  For what is Law, unless poor Dogs can get it Dog-cheap?

  EPIGRAM: THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY

  A Mechanic his labour will often discard

  If the rate of his pay he dislikes;

  But a clock — and its case is uncommonly hard —

  Will continue to work though it strikes.

  A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE

  One day — no matter for the month or year,

  A Calais packet, just come over,

  And safely moor’d within the pier,

  Began to land her passengers at Dover;

  All glad to end a voyage long and rough,

  And during which,

  Through roll and pitch,

  The Ocean-King had sickophants enough!

  Away as fast as they could walk or run,

  Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals,

  With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels,

  Away the passengers all went, but one,

  A female, who from some mysterious check,

  Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck,

  As if she did not care for land a tittle,

  For horizontal rooms) and cleanly victual —

  Or nervously afraid to put

  Her foot

  Into an Isle described as ‘tight and little.’

  In vain commissioner and touter,

  Porter and waiter throng’d about her;

  Boring, as such officials only bore —

  In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck,

  Of plank ànd ladder, there she stuck,

  She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.

  ‘But ma’am,’ the steward interfered,

  ‘The wessel must be cleared.

  You mustn’t stay aboard, ma’am, no one don’t!

  It’s quite agin the orders so to do —

  And all the passengers is gone but you.’

  Says she, ‘I cannot go ashore and won’t!’

  ‘You ought to! ‘

  ‘But I can’t!’

  ‘You must!’

  ‘I shan’t!’

  At last, attracted by the racket,

  ‘Twixt gown and jacket,

  The captain came himself, and cap in hand,

  Begg’d very civilly to understand

  Wherefore the lady could not leave the packet.

  ‘Why then,’ the lady whispered with a shiver,

  That made the accents quiver,

  ‘I’ve got some foreign silks about me pinn’d,

  In short so many things, all contraband,

  To tell the truth I am afraid to land,

  In such a searching wind!’

  PARTY SPIRIT

  Why did you not dine,’ said a Lord to a Wit,

  ‘With the Whigs, you political sinner? ‘

  ‘Why really I meant, but had doubts how the Pit

  Of my stomach would bear a Fox Dinner.’

  ETCHING MORALISED

  TO A NOBLE LADY

  ‘To point a moral.’ — Johnson.

  Fairest Lady and Noble, for once on a time,

  Condescend to accept, in the humblest of rhyme,

  And a style more of Gay than of Milton,

  A few opportune verses design’d to impart

  Some didactical hints in a Needlework Art,

  Not described by the Countess of Wilton.

  An Art not unknown to the delicate hand

  Of the fairest and first in this insular land,

  But in Patronage Royal delighting;

  And which now your own feminine fantasy wins,

  Tho’ it scarce seems a lady-like work that begins

  In a scratching and ends in a biting!

  Yet oh! that the dames of the Scandalous School

  Would but use the same acid, and sharp-pointed tool,

  That are plied in the said operations —

  Oh! would that our Candours on copper would sketch!

  For the first of all things in beginning to etch

  Are — good grounds for our representations.

  Those protective and delicate coatings of wax,

  Which are meant to resist the corrosive attacks —

  That would ruin the copper completely;

  Thin cerements which whoso remembers the Bee

  So applauded by Watts, the divine LL.D.,

  Will be careful to spread very neatly.

  For why? like some intricate deed of the law,

  Should the ground in the process be left with a flaw,

  Aquafortis is far from a joker;

  And attacking the part that no coating protects,

  Will turn out as distressing to all your effects

  As a landlord who puts in a broker.

  Then carefully spread the conservative stuff,

  Until all the bright metal is cover’d enough,

  To repel a destructive so active;

  For in Etching, as well as in Morals, pray note

  That a little raw spot, or a hole in a coat,

  Your ascetics find vastly attractive.

  Thus the ground being laid, very even and flat,

  And then smoked with a taper, till black as a hat,

  Still from future disasters to screen it,

  Just allow me, by way of precaution, to state,

  You must hinder the footman from changing your plate,

  Nor yet suffer the butler to clean it.

  Nay, the Housemaid, perchance, in her passion to scrub,

  May suppose the dull metal in want of a rub,

  Like the Shield which Swift’s readers remember —

  Not to mention the chance of some other mishaps,

  Such as having your copper made up into caps

  To be worn on the First of September.

  But aloof from all damage by Betty or John,

  You secure the veil’d surface, and trace thereupon

  The design you conceive the most proper:

  Yet gently, and not with a needle too keen,

  Lest it pierce to the wax through the paper between,

  And of course play Old Scratch with the copper.

  So in worldly affairs, the sharp-practising man

  Is not always the one who succeeds in his plan,

  Witness Shylock’s judicial exposure;

  Who, as keen as his knife, yet with agony found,

  That while urging his point he was losing his ground,

  And incurring a fatal disclosure.

  But, perhaps, without tracing at all, you may choose

  To indulge in some little extempore views,

  Like the older artistical people;

  For example, a Corydon playing his pipe,

  In a Low Country marsh, with a Cow after Cuyp,

  And a Goat skipping over a steeple.

  A wild Deer at a rivulet taking a sup,

  With a couple of Pillars put in to fill up,

  Like the columns of certain diurnals;

  Or a very brisk sea, in a very stiff gale,

  And a very Dutch boat, with a very big sail —

  Or a bevy of Retzsch’s Internals.

  Architectural study — or rich Arabesque —

  Allegorical dream — or a view picturesque,

  Near to Naples, or Venice, or Florence;

  Or ‘as harmless as lambs and as gentle as doves,’

  A sweet family cluster of plump little Loves,

  Like the Children by Reynolds or Lawrence.

  But whatever the subject, your exquisite taste

  Will ensure a design very charming and chaste,

  Like yourself, full of nature and beauty —

  Yet besides the good points you already reveal,

  You will need a few others — of well-temper’d steel,

  And especially form’d for the duty.

  For suppose that the tool be imperfectly set,

  Over many weak lengths in your line you will fret,

>   Like a pupil of Walton and Cotton,

  Who remains by the brink of the water, agape,

  While the jack, trout, or barbel, effects its escape

  Thro’ the gut or silk line being rotten.

  Therefore, let the steel point be set truly and round,

  That the finest of strokes may be even and sound,

  Flowing glibly where fancy would lead ‘em.

  But alas! for the needle that fetters the hand,

  And forbids even sketches of Liberty’s land

  To be drawn with the requisite freedom!

  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 labour 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 splendour.

  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 honour 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!

  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 labours!

  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 neighbours!

  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 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 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 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.

  A REFLECTION

  ON NEW YEAR’S EVE

  ‘Those Evening Bells — those Evening Bells!’

  How sweet they used to be, and dear!

  When full of all that Hope foretells,

  Their voice proclaim’d the new-born Year!

  But ah! much sadder now I feel,

  To hear that old melodious chime,

  Recalling only how a Peel

  Has tax’d the comings-in of Time!

  SPRING

  A NEW VERSION

  ‘Ham. The air bites shrewdly — it is very cold.

  Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.’ — Hamlet.

  ‘Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness come!’

  Oh! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,

  How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?

  There’s no such season.