However, in the stranger came, And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, Threw her as knowing a nod as though He had known her fifty long years ago; And presto! before she could utter “Jack”-- Much less “Robinson”--open’d his pack-- And then from amongst his portable gear, With even more than a Pedlar’s tact,-- (Slick himself might have envied the act)-- Before she had time to be deaf, in fact-- Popp’d a Trumpet into her ear. “There, Ma’am! try it! You needn’t buy it-- The last New Patent--and nothing comes nigh it For affording the Deaf, at a little expense, The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense! A Real Blessing--and no mistake, Invented for poor Humanity’s sake; For what can be a greater privation Than playing Dummy to all creation, And only looking at conversation-- Great Philosophers talking like Platos, And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes! Not to name the mischievous quizzers, Sharp as knives, but double as scissors, Who get you to answer quite by guess Yes for No, and No for Yes.” (“That’s very true,” says Dame Eleanor S.) “Try it again! No harm in trying-- I’m sure you’ll find it worth your buying, A little practice--that is all-- And you’ll hear a whisper, however small, Through an Act of Parliament party-wall,-- Every syllable clear as day, And even what people are going to say-- I wouldn’t tell a lie, I wouldn’t, But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon’s couldn’t; And as for Scott he promises fine, But can he warrant his horns like mine Never to hear what a Lady shouldn’t-- Only a guinea--and can’t take less.” (“That’s very dear,” says Dame Eleanor S.) “Dear!--Oh dear, to call it dear! Why it isn’t a horn you buy, but an ear; Only think, and you’ll find on reflection You’re bargaining, Ma’am, for the Voice of Affection; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth: Not to mention the striking of clocks-- Cackle of hens--crowing of cocks-- Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox-- Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks-- Murmur of waterfall over the rocks-- Every sound that Echo mocks-- Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box-- And zounds! to call such a concert dear! But I mustn’t ‘swear with my horn in your ear.’ Why in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows At the Queen’s Levees or the Lord Mayor’s Shows, At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards’ key-bugles all the year round: Come--suppose we call it a pound!